The Adventures of the Honey Badger

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The Adventures of the Honey Badger Page 5

by Nick Cummins


  The managers, Mick and Kim, treated us like old friends and were too keen to make sure all was spot-on. We sat down to a top feed from the award-winning cook, Troy, and his off-sider Luke – not that they had much competition in the area . . .

  After strapping on the feed bag, Mick drove us along the wide sandy beach to the Berkeley River. There, our six-metre centre console tinny was ready for action. Our captain and tour guide Bruce had packed all we could want – a five-star lunch, bait, refreshments, and heaps of rods and tackle.

  This boat had some clackers and pretty soon Bruce and his sidekick Matt had us on a spot. The tide was just starting to run in and we all cast towards the creek except for the old bloke. He cast into the deep on the other side. Then bang! This monster queenie leapt out of the water and took 150 metres of line off him in quick time. It wasn’t fair really, the old man’s not the quickest these days . . .

  He took his time and after an epic ten-minute battle he dragged in a 1.1-metre monster. We didn’t hear a peep from him either, which meant one of two things – he was either having a stroke after doing the most physical activity he’d done all year or thinking up something to say to make us suffer.

  Finally, he broke the silence and proclaimed: ‘Gentlemen, that’s how it’s done. Reckon I might have your job soon, Bruce.’ We caught heaps more that day but that queenie was the winner.

  One heli of a good time. I’ll blame this caption on the old man and his dad jokes.

  That night we enjoyed a few beers and some red when I noticed some lights about 800 metres away. These lights were moving at great speed at all different angles. I didn’t want to say much in case the wine had been the culprit. But when everyone else spotted these strange lights the theories came hot and strong. As did the relief I wasn’t imagining it.

  Most of the explanations were shot down – my brother Luke thought they were reflections from our watches, at night . . . Turned out, they’re an unsolved phenomenon known as the Min Min lights.

  Day two of Berkeley River was another buzz. Fishing along the beach, kilometres of unspoilt white sand, croc and turtle drag marks . . . it had everything. A quick dip in the Timor Sea – with lookouts of course – and then into the choppers for some rock pool swimming and high diving.

  Again, I can’t speak highly enough of the scenery. Mind-blowing stuff.

  After landing on this rock ledge we walked about 30 metres to this large clear rock pool. Luke and I climbed to the point above the pond, ready for a leap of faith. If I don’t have kids it will be down to the fact you need to keep your feet together when you leap from a 20-metre cliff face. Talk about a tackle stinger . . .

  I slept off the pain and we were up the next morning at 5am and into the Cruiser to get some fishing done down at the rivermouth. By the time we arrived, the lads had everything set up – chairs, rods and a small fire on the go. As Joe’s fish was first in, they were quick to gut it and threw her right on the fire.

  For the next hour we snacked on the first unlucky fish while we reeled in his cousins. The sun was on its way up, so we gave ourselves another half hour before we headed back for a second breakfast. Troy the super chef took off a little earlier as he had to prepare our tucker. He should wear a cape that bloke.

  After ripping into the top-class fodder we were given our instructions from the chef for dinner: ‘I want Mangrove Jack and only Mangrove Jack.’ Away we went.

  Bruce manoeuvred us up a small creek alive with Jack. You couldn’t miss. Neither could these bloody march flies. They were that big they looked like they had pilots.

  The final day was more of the same: fantastic fishing, scenery, food, wine and great service. Do yourself a favour and get there if you can.

  But our trip wasn’t over. We were back on the seaplane and headed for Lake Argyle.

  Lake Argyle

  Lake Argyle is WA’s largest freshwater reservoir. Its construction was part of the Ord River Scheme back in the late 1960s early ’70s.

  As our seaplane came into land on the Ord River we grasped some idea of the vastness of the waterway and the humongous effort associated with the Ord River Scheme. It must have been a bigger effort than tackling Jonah Lomu in his prime.

  Of course, our main man Scotty was there to pick us up and it wasn’t long before we were back in a boat and on the water.

  First stop was at a steep rock face, a good 15-metre leap if you were game. Seeing as though the berries had still yet to descend from our last jump, Luke and I decided it was on. Now, one of my fears is heights and I’ve tried to overcome it by meeting it head on. And I’d convinced myself that leaping off this bloody rock with my GoPro was going to help.

  Luke went first and survived, likewise Simon and now it was my turn. I dropped a rock to break the surface as I leapt into the wild blue yonder. Getting back to the surface was a mission, but the tackle was intact so all was cool.

  The fishing rods were out in no time and monster catfish were everywhere. So we took a couple back to our digs as a present for the chef.

  Thunderstorms were brewing and we were set to head back until two of my favourite words echoed the gorge – ‘Nude jump!’ We climbed to the top of the boat and several deformed humans leapt into the water. We made an instant impact – you could tell by the screams of horror from the crew.

  Then we went one better with several individual synchronised ‘dolphin eye’ routines.

  Our work here was done.

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  HE’S ALL ARSE:

  Lucky bastard all of the time

  DIED IN THE ARSE:

  1. Lost interest

  2. Faded away

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  WHEN IT’S DRY:

  ‘Dry as a dead dingo’s donger’ or ‘Dry as a Pommie’s towel’ or ‘Mate, it was that dry I saw two trees following a dog’

  BACK TO KUNUNURRA

  (Or barras beware!)

  I’m no stranger to climbing a rock face so I pulled out my trusty red electrical tape to secure my thongs and it was all go. Luke and Joe were to follow and then the old boy – still buggered from that queenie a few days earlier.

  Dad had never been abseiling before and likened it to drinking beer from a green can – in other words, hell. I knew he was rattled but he couldn’t be seen not having a go. The benefits of peer pressure!

  There are a few rules to abseiling, most important that as you make your way down a cliff face you must always call out if you dislodge a rock or stick so those below have some warning.

  This might look like we’re abseiling but it’s actually the rope Dad sets up on every camping trip between the tent and the esky – just in case it’s too dark at night to find a cold one.

  Well, the old fella called out as calm as you like – ‘Thong.’

  ‘Which one, big fella? You’ve got three,’ was the call from Bluey in the Channel 7 boat.

  By the time he reached the bottom, Dad was thong-less and relieved. I didn’t think he’d do it. We had to get moving because the storms were everywhere, it was getting dark and dinner was planned at the pub. Surprisingly, I wasn’t that hungry – I’d swallowed a heap of bugs on the trip. After some grub, it was a case of removing the matchsticks and letting the eyelids drop. We were hunting barra tomorrow!

  Barra hunting

  Kununurra Airport was preparing for our mission. Both choppers were ready and we were given the safety talk. That was no problem, I said, any dramas and I’d be first out!

  Our 45-minute journey passed pretty quickly because of the extraordinary scenery and our pilot Deb’s insight into the history of the area.

  We landed on a grassy area next to a large billabong. We were quick to learn that you have to be pretty careful near the edge because the crocs tend to lie in wait for cattle. I had no plans to be the next entrée, so I was pretty cautious and encouraged the old man to dip a toe.

  We had a feed, then spread out to clean up as many barra as the chopper could carry.
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br />   Now, fishing with the old man is like fishing with a toddler – he gets a bit impatient if he’s not dragging in a whale within ten minutes. And sure enough he dragged in four of the bastards, with two above 80 centimetres. Joe nailed a few and Luke got a couple. I don’t want to brag – mainly because I’ve got nothing to brag about. But my rod was faulty. Classic stitch-up.

  After an hour we roared off to another river and attacked again. The whole experience of fishing in remote locations where sometimes no one has fished before is amazing. It’s like being the only teenage bloke at an all-girls high school. Your chances just skyrocketed!

  We fished for a few more hours until we were given the wind-up. It was probably time to go but the old boy and his fishing guide, Black Jack, were getting on so well they never wanted to leave. I had to check their fingers for friendship rings!

  The chopper ride home was just as good as the way out. When we landed we were pretty buggered on account of asserting our dominance over nature’s best breed of fish and decided to clock up a few Zs before our last night in paradise.

  It’s not the confined space nor height that scares me about flying in small planes, but the lack of room for the esky. This is the motley crew en route to croc country from Kununurra Airport.

  Around 7pm at the tavern seemed a civil enough hour to strap on the feed bag, and the beef up there was outstanding. Mine in particular was cooked perfectly – remove the horns, show it the hot plate and smack it on the arse.

  The night was heating up – the beer and red wine were affecting judgments, statements and IQs. Who wants a game of pool?

  It’s funny how everyone is a champion pool player by 9.30pm at every hotel in Australia. The Kununurra Tavern is no different. Joe and the old man cleaned up the Channel 7 boys. Dad was pretty happy, but when he was reminded that he’d only sunk one ball he saw the need to change the subject.

  To finish the night, Luke and I challenged the Channel 7 boys to a final game – losers to run nude around the table. Now, this was getting interesting, as the tavern was still full!

  The usual tactic in a game of high stakes like this is to cheat and, if you get caught, lie. The pressure was on. Threats and outrageous statements littered the area around the table like blowflies around the BBQ.

  Cutting to the chase, we nailed the poor bastards and enforced the agreed penalty. Watching these two grown men doing the nude disabled-ostrich walk around a pool table in a pub brings a tear to my eye still and gave the patrons something to think about – there are scarier things up there than just crocs! I’m sure many were physically sick later.

  Early the next day I went down to the local school and had a run around with the kids. Funny and unstructured is how I would describe them – a great mob.

  Matter of fact, that’s how I’d describe the entire trip – a great place with great people.

  No jokes here, absolutely love this one of the old man in his prime – sun shining and a beauty of a barra.

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  DUMB:

  Not all the dogs are barking

  GOOD CHANCE:

  In like a fiddler’s elbow

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  UGLY:

  Head like a robber’s dog

  URINATING:

  1. To syphon the python

  2. Having a snake’s hiss

  3. A shot at the porcelain

  4. Talking to a man about a horse

  WESTERN FORCE: THE THREE BAGGER

  2014 was a big year for the Western Force. For the previous few years we’d had a go but couldn’t seem to put it together – not unlike my dating life in high school.

  We would be on top in a game and then at the last moment we knock it on, drop the ball, give away a penalty or just somehow balls it up. Again, not unlike my dating life in high school . . .

  Great players had made their way through the Force ranks. Guys like Matt Giteau, David Pocock, Nathan Sharpe, Drew Mitchell and a host of others, but still it didn’t happen for us. We were cursed.

  And 2014 started as usual. We lost the first two games and our supporters thought, ‘Here we go again.’ But something had changed, we’d had enough. Us players got together for some soul searching and nothing was off the table – and nothing was left on it by the time I was done. Monday morning was team meeting time and we all poured out our guts after the weekend’s narrow loss. It was like a group therapy session and a few of the boys weren’t scared to cry. I won’t name names, but his first name rhymes with screw and his last name with nitchell.

  Jokes aside, I would hate those meetings because the same old statements were trotted out each time. We talked about culture, respect, discipline and all the usual bloody things you see in the press – bigger, better, free steak knives etc.

  But after our second loss for the season and at this meeting, I’d had enough. I used to count sheep in the corner. But not at this one. I told the boys I was sick of it and that the only culture worth having was a winning culture: ‘Wins bring supporters and respect and no amount of bullshit words were going to turn things around.’

  I told anyone who would listen I was sick of losing. Because constant losing becomes a habit, just like winning. The boys were all in agreement. Yours truly for class captain.

  We all wanted to be winners and no one more so than our captain Matt Hodgson – he went harder than a bunny at the dogs.

  Suffice to say, training the next week was pretty full-on. People had a purpose. We won that weekend and we kept on winning.

  We were getting out of jail at the death or we were dominating like we hadn’t done before. Everyone had stepped up. Winning had become the habit. Our spectators, who are more loyal than military dogs, increased in numbers and noise. Some 15,000 Force supporters make the joint feel like the Colosseum and, for once, the Force were the lions.

  We had a big game against Queensland in Brisbane and got home on the back of a great game by our forwards and fullback Jayden Hayward. The Reds supporters were dirtier than secondhand thongs – more so at their own team, but they saved a bit for me.

  Normally I don’t react to the crowds because 99 per cent are really good people. If people do say something negative it’s usually a spur-of-the-moment thing; they’re just wound up.

  Well, this one bugger in the crowd, who had an IQ you could count on one hand, just kept serving it to me like I’d beaten him in the big ski race and stolen his girlfriend.

  I was fuming. And I was quick to remember a story about a league player who had copped it the whole match from a spectator and just jumped the fence and dropped the big-mouthed bastard before returning to the field and continuing on with the game.

  But that’s not the Badger’s style. So after we’d won I just walked to the sideline and said in front of all his mates – ‘Hey, mate. Please stop asking me for my autograph, it’s getting embarrassing.’ With that I signed a few things for the kids while he blew up and his mates carted him away. But he was right on one count – I wasn’t playing well.

  The following week we had the Waratahs at home. This was a big match and we were in a cat-like state of readiness. I needed a big game.

  NSW had a massive pack, chock-full of more internationals than a Bondi backpackers. And they were hot favourites. I heard later one of the commentators said it looked like men playing boys. It probably did, but these boys had some go in them!

  Early in the first half we had traded a few penalty goals – but the Tahs were all over us. They were attacking our line through their forwards and had a big overlap. Nick Phipps, a good bloke and top halfback, threw a wide ball. If they scored, it wouldn’t have been my fault but as my old man says, sometimes fortune favours the brave. So I went for it and by a stroke of luck the ball stuck – I’d taken the intercept near our line, now I just had 95 metres to go.

  There was black smoke coming from my personal exhaust as I hit the halfway mark. I knew Kurtley Beale was on my hammer so I just kept putting the big ones in.
Finally, a dive under the sticks and the job was done! I was more rooted than a gum tree. But I still found the gas to join a young lad in the crowd to celebrate. I was in the zone.

  Come the second half and the game was on. The Tahs had a try disallowed early in the second half and ten minutes later the rugby gods smiled on us again when halfback and former All Black Alby Mathewson took off from a ruck after a big run by Ben ‘Big Dog’ McCalman. Dog was a bloke I’d have in my team any day. He’s focused and has a heart like a horse, a bloody champion.

  Well, Alby saw his chance and he was away. There was a bit of traffic, so I had to position myself for the pass, which was spot on, and it was try number two, baby! NSW could not believe what was happening and neither could I. I hadn’t had that many pies since ‘dinner’ at the old man’s.

  The game see-sawed a bit but we were still on top. Then, with about 15 minutes to go, NSW were on the attack. The ball was shuffled out to the backline . . . but the last pass hit the deck. My turn to shine!

  I was on it like a blowfly on a steamer, but with 75 metres to go there were no guarantees. The crowd was deafening as they willed me to cross that line. Cam Crawford was gaining on me with 20 metres to go and I changed direction just as he dived. We both went arse over, but I wanted to finish the job. The pistons were pumping again so I staggered to my feet and, as fate would have it, Jono Lance hit me in another tackle, to knock me across the line for another try. You beauty! The crowd went wild, the players mounted me like ants on a dead bird. It was glorious. The moment was surreal. But with 15 minutes to go I didn’t want to think about it. We’d lost from these situations before and I just wanted to win.

 

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