March. April 75It’s another stunning sunset on the banks of the Darling
River. But one essential ingredient is missing. Water.
“I’ve never seen it this low,” says Barb Arnold of Bindara
Station, located midway between Menindee and Pooncarie in
western New South Wales, her home for the last four decades.
Low is an understatement. Upstream, but for a couple of
Murray cod floundering in fast-evaporating shallow pools, the
otherwise dusty riverbed is strewn with the desiccated shells of
dead mussels. Dow nst rea m it’s even more d ire. H istor ic w reck s
of paddle-steamers are exposed, their fragile wooden hulls pro-
truding eerily, like giant whale carcasses, out of the mud.
With no feed and no water, Barb, whose husband Bill passed
away six years ago, was forced last year to sell her remaining
cattle, a herd of Devon-based Shorthorn cross that the couple
had been breeding for 39 years. It was heartbreaking.
Unlike many other drought-stricken farmers, Barb has a
lifeline – a steady stream of weary travellers bunking down in
Bindara’s converted drovers’ and shearers’ quarters.
“Locals initially thought we were a bit strange when we
first set up the farmstay and the neighbours were worried some
guests might steal a sheep or cow and take it back to the city,”
Barb says while busily preparing our camp dinner. “However,
without it, I’d be stuffed now. I’d be relying on handouts and
how demoralising would that be?”
Overnight visitors are enamoured of Barb’s legendary hos-
pitality, and her property’s absolute river frontage entices most to
paddle or fish. Without water, you’d think Barb would be at her
wit’s end. But with that matter-of-fact ‘she’ll-be-right’ optimism
that seems to abound west of the Great Dividing Range, she has
viewed the current water crisis as an opportunity rather than a crisis.
I guess she’s had little choice.
“Years ago when I visited Uluru it was raining cats and dogs,
and at first I was upset. But then I realised ‘Wow, how often
does it flood at Uluru, hardly ever, this is quite special,’” she
recalls. “Similarly, now you can experience the Darling [river]
dried up. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience too.”
In a way, she’s right. Exploring the dry riverbed is a (hope-
fully) rare opportunity to fossick through a priceless treasure
chest of natural and cultural history.
“The Burke and Wills entourage camped near here in 1860,
drying beef before attempting their epic journey north,” Barb
explains the next morning, as we scramble down the steep,
sandy riverbank, and traipse along its parched bed.T
HE SHADOWS of giant 400-year-old
gum trees lengthen, backed by a fading
burnt-orange sky. A flock of raucous
red-tailed black-cockatoos squabble over roosts.
And Australia’s second longest river meanders
into the distance.
Barb Arnold of Bindara Station holds
the skull of a Murray cod, one of many
she has found along the dry Darling River.
A combination of drought and water
allocation has turned the Darling River
at Bindara Station, downstream
of Menindee, into a series of shallow
water holes (below left). One small
bonus is that record low water levels
have exposed historical treasures from
the paddle-steamer era including the
1874 wreck of PS Rodney (below).