Vanhellsink
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- Oct 19, 2012
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<div><br /><br /> It started to rain heavily in the middle afternoon with a gusty westerly blowing hard into my face, and with my arms generating no more power offered to me than the river’s current, I decided to guide my kayak toward a sandy river bank, I would have to be content with forty kilometers paddled today as it was just plain silliness to stay out on the water in the mess that was brewing, the day-long head winds had finally worn me down. The thought of crawling into my tent, making a hot pot of coffee then pasta, welcomed me like the promise of an old lover such was their reward on days like this. I was cold wet and hungry but reveling in the very nature of nature.</div><div> </div><div>Dragging my fully loaded five and a half meter kayak up higher than I needed to on the river’s bank I looked around quickly to see that I was alone, then began popping one of the kayak’s large water-tight sealed compartments that contained my camping gear and cooker, the weather deteriorating as I did so That’s when I heard a voice, or what I thought was a voice, wavering on the wind. Looking to search for the source of the sound I was drawn to the tree line on the upper bank of the river where I saw a figure in a rain coat waving me up. I thought this person was a land owner who wanted to tell me to keep going. </div><div> </div><div>Approaching the small figure on the top of the river bank all that could be seen from under his dirty, over sized rain coat was a long thick grey beard , a pair of fixed blue eyes and a big nose that was gnarled like an old tree root, it had more twists and turns than a down hill ski race. And behind this curious raggedy man in a clearing among the gum trees, sat a van.</div><div> </div><div>Bill introduced himself and invited me out of the wind and rain to share a pot of coffee. He had come out to get some fire wood for the small stove that he had set up in the annex attached to his van when he saw me making my way in off the river. Looking around the camp site as we headed towards Bill’s van I noticed a small wood house made from scrap iron, a roughly put together lean-to with two wood slats that offered a seat sitting above hole which I took to be a toilet, a water tank, a small aluminum boat and fishing poles, and of course the van with its attached heavy canvas room.</div><div> </div><div>Entering Bills home immediately took the chill out of the air as the small stove worked against the early winter outside. It was a simple space with a table against one wall covered with food and cooking gear, a home made coffee table sat alongside an old recliner chair, and fishing tackle, rope and a couple of knives hung in the far corner of the room above fuel containers and a generator. The compacted earth floor was not completely covered by old carpet. There wasn’t a lot of room for the two of us, but it would have been cozy for one. The van itself was an old Bedford and it acted simply as the bedroom with clothes, books and magazines lying about.. </div><div> </div><div>Bill was happy to have company and happy to answer the many questions I had for him as he busied himself with making a brew for the two of us. He had left suburbia nearly twenty years ago after being fed up with increasing bills, neighbors, traffic, noise and a marriage that had left him emotionally and financially destitute. In the earlier years he had steered his van through all parts of Australia but always found himself returning to the Murray river region. He had three simple bush camps he moved between on the river depending on the season, his mood and the intrusion from “pesky tourists” as he referred to them. As tracks led into two of the camps he lived in, he could never be sure if someone else would be there when he arrived, and as they were built on crown land he wasn’t the rightful owner and could do little about intruders. The camp we sat in now however was built on private land and he had been given sole permission to live there. He thought he would be spending more and more time here in the future as more and more people began to find there way into his other camps, over fishing parts of the river and generally making a mess of the place as they escaped the growing number of surrounding towns and cities on their annual holidays. </div><div> </div><div>He enjoyed his hermit-like existence reading, doing crosswords and trapping the odd rabbit. But most of all he lived to fish. When Bill started talking about the big Murray Cod or Yellow Bellies he had caught, his eyes would dance about in their sockets and his hand would stroke his crooked nose, this action seeming to me to be an embarrassed reflex at not being able to hide his boy-like joy at the prospect of getting a biggun. The river had changed though, and the real bigguns weren’t caught much anymore. “Too many damn pesky tourists” Bill would say in a grumble. “Only one or two spots left now where you can be sure to get dinner.”</div><div> </div><div>I’m not sure of the year of his old Bedford van but this was also a concern for Bill. It had become over years quite unreliable and costly for him as he survived only on a small pension. There was no way he could afford a new van and it seemed most of his spare cash went into maintaining it leaving only enough for simple provisions and fuel But Bill wouldn’t trade his lot for the world. He had found his place in life and that was more than what most could say.</div><div> </div><div>Eventually it was time to leave Bill as it was getting later in the day and although invited to spend the night in Bills camp, I declined. I was on my own adventure and part of that experience would include eating and sleeping in my little tent during messy weather down on the river. I also didn’t feel comfortable being under the trees in such weather as I had seen, but more so heard, large tree limbs crashing to the ground in past weeks which had taught me to stay in the open at these times.</div><div> </div><div>I completed my one thousand kilometer paddle down part of Australia’s longest river. But what I got from that journey was more than a memory. After meeting Bill I would never be the same, and although it is some years since my river experience, the dye had been set and it was just a matter of ticking a couple more boxes for me until I settled into hopefully the rest of my life in a van.. Through Bill I had discovered the perfect way in which a lifetime wanderer like myself should live - free, debt free, roaming the countryside. I call it the Goldie Locks effect - not too big, not to small, van living is just right. </div><div> </div><div>Vanhellsink</div><div> </div>
