It seemed almost magical. I finally had a way to coax Patrick into wanting to go on a random outback adventure, and it came in the form of a fisherman’s paradise.
At least that’s what the booklet said. “Menindee – Photographers and fishermen take note!” (or something along those lines).
It wasn’t a very long drive from Broken Hill, so Pat was floored. He went as far as researching the type of fish that can be found in the area, and even buying a new fishing rod (any excuse will do). Whenever he talked about Broken Hill, he always had to throw in Menindee and how much fishing he was about to do.
I must admit, I was excited, too. The pictures of the sunsets and the lakes were gorgeous, and the thought of lazing the days away with them in sight was too inviting.
We should have known something funny was up when we saw all the dried up creeks on the way to Broken Hill. Or, maybe when the bait freezers at the main shop in town were out of bait. Perhaps, when the owners of the shop looked at us in crazy disbelief when asked about said bait – we should have known. Or, just maybe, when the hotel owner hesitatingly marked the spots on the map where fishing could be done – we should have had a clue how bad it was.
See, Menindee has four massive lakes in its vicinity. But by some unlucky hand from nature, three of the four look a little something like this:
Yet, Pat was determined. We kept driving past all the dried up lakes until we hit the dam. There was a lake!
Pat was overjoyed and ran way ahead of me to get fishing right away. I was too concerned with the gazillion flies that were trying to land directly in my eyeballs. Seriously, outback flies! What is your freaking problem?!
By the time we made it to the lake, I was already bored, but I couldn’t ruin his moment. Yeah, I’m nice like that sometimes. He broke out his tackle and got to fishing.
Cast, reel, cast, reel, cast, reel… reel… reel…
The line got snagged; he needed to cut it in order to get it back.
Cast, reel, cast, reel, cast, reel… reel… reel…
Snagged again!
The problem here was that the lake had just as many trees in it as the dried up ones, so it was almost impossible to miss a snag. Pat reluctantly packed up, and we moved on from the lake in a silent drive back to Broken Hill.
Pat and I came to the conclusion that the lovely tourist guide that talked about Menindee as being a fisherman’s paradise was probably written by the devil. Only he would be so cruel as to create the unfishable lake and then dangle it in front of those that simply love fishing more than their girlfriends (pretty much).
