Jumping Jack Pinache

Jumping Jack Panache

The powdery bulldust billowing from the dried clay potholes in this particularly bumpy bush track stalled at treetop height before drifting slowly earthward and coating everything in a ghostly grey/white pre-dried lacquer.

Through the dust cloud, I spied an open sandbar about 30 metres long and 10 metres at its widest, framed by steep mud banks held together precariously yet intricately by masses of river gum tree roots. A washaway at the west end of the bar provided relatively safe access to what I thought would be a relaxing and hopefully productive riverine experience.

Straddling the bank, an arched half-buried log about a foot in diameter and 2 metres long, doing a very poor Sydney Harbour Bridge impersonation, positioned itself as the ideal casting site from which to advance my angling aptitude.

As I misstepped on the edge of an inch-wide crack in the deck, I realised my secluded sand bar was actually a clay bar. Same colour as sand when viewed from a distance through a veil of ashen dust, but a lot harder and not as much fun to play sandcastles with if you’re that way inclined.

No damage done, so I mounted the seasoned gangway and eased my bony backside onto what I had convinced myself would be a luxuriously comfortable nook.

“Looking good.”

No traffic, no campers, no deadlines until tomorrow, just me, a punnet of worms and a chilled six-pack of Victoria Bitter.

The hypnotic languid passage of this 50 metre wide bend in the mighty Murray River meandered just feet away, beckoning me to try my luck, if I dare.

“This’ll do me.”

Not a lot of conversation from the worms, the sulphur-crested cockatoos screeched obscenities as they cruised in menacing gangs from bank to bank, and the ancient river gum branches groaned in anticipation of their impending commitment to providing sanctuary for the creatures coursing vulnerably in the waters below.

“Hey, fish, how’s this for a delicious epicurean delight? Tender Red Wrigglers layered with robust Tasmanian scrub worms. That’s gotta be irresistible!”

No response. The rod tip was not motivated.

A little skink lizard caught my wandering eye as it darted across the battle-scarred log I was perched on, just a metre from the bank.

“G’day, little mate.”

It paused and winked at me before disappearing into a cool hollow, probably wondering if the heat had affected my brain since I was sitting on a gnarly log in the full sun, apparently talking to myself.

I checked the line tension to ensure it wasn’t snagged, made sure the worms were safely in the shade of the tackle bag, and grabbed a cold can of beer from my faithful six-pack cooler. An optimistic jiggle on the rod and, “Well, it’s your loss!” directed at the schools of perch and cod, no doubt scoffing at my offering with zero appreciation of fine dining.

Looking around, I marvelled at the etchings in the dried mud created by countless wading birds, professionals who could sustain families with their infinite patience and lethal beak-spearing accuracy. No worms and expensive tackle for these guys.

I spied a distinct track left by a marauding goanna who had ventured down from his arboreal manor to scavenge a washed-up fish carcass or slurp the cool, flowing river water. I looked back to the high bank behind, lined with majestic river red gums and wondered which commanding canopy it had claimed title to.

A single trail of small human footprints led along the bank, obviously from a young child venturing closer to the water’s edge than their parents would have approved, eventually heading inland to escape the warned terrors of the murky depths.

Intrigued by the myriad of mysteries awaiting mapping, I decided to leave my angling activities to their own devices long enough for a stroll along nature’s dance floor. I clipped a bell on the end of my rod and headed off on my quirky quest.

At first, the child’s footprints were unremarkable, even the straggly silken veil spanning the heel imprint of one of the treads. Was this a spider’s web, scantily decorating an exposed indentation in a sunbathed clay bank subject to periodic flooding?

“What the hell kind of spider would make such a fragile home in such an exposed spot?”

Bending over to examine this pathetic attempt at arachnid asylum, I was startled when a tiny hirsute 8-legged lurker no bigger than my little fingernail hopped to the shallow edge of the indentation. I squinted to focus on the diminutive devil, endowed with powerful front shoulders and legs, and a disproportionately large head necessary to support a line of four discus eyes and a head dress shield to make a Moulin Rouge chorus dancer envious.

It looked up at me, nodded its ornate head and waved its raised third set of legs as if to send the fear of death through my soul.

“G’day there, little bloke, what’s happening?”

“What does it look like, numbat? I’m defending my territory!”

“Am I supposed to be scared?”

“Of course you are. I’m fearless, aggressive, and I have moves you have to see to believe.”

“Go on, show me.”

In the blink of an eye, this amazing arachnid acrobat jumped clean out of his hollow shelter onto a dried twig half-buried in the dry mud, a whopping 3 inches away!

“Wow, that is impressive.”

“What do you think of my regalia?”

“You’re a damn handsome specimen, I must say. I assume handsome is the appropriate gender reference?”

“I’m irresistible, man. Just yesterday, I wooed the hottest babe with eight legs that went all the way up to her carapace. Whooo, what a session we had. Do you want to hear the lewd details?”

“Hell yeah! But first I need to grab another beer. Back in three shakes of a possum’s tail.”

On the way to my trusty cooler, I thought how silly that expression must have sounded. On the way back to the spider’s lair, I realised it could have come across as quite wise, especially to a ground-dwelling spider.

“You’re drinking VB, I see. Brewed by Carlton United, in Abbotsford.”

“OK, this is getting a bit freaky. How do you know that?”

“For a start, I have awesome eyesight. Unlike visually challenged humans, my four eyes give me crisp focus and true 3D depth perception. I could read your can label as you pulled it from the cooler, and trust me, that’s not the first VB can I’ve seen rolling around this stretch of river this summer.”

“You were going to tell me about your hot date.”

“Hot! It was scorching! I had to work my hairy butt off just to get to first base.”

“What do you call first base?”

“Let me first say, ‘This babe is a killer!’ I watched her literally eat two of my mates because their courting behaviour didn’t meet her lofty standards.”

“Sounds a bit scary.”

“Yeah, but it was worth it. She is a goddess, and I wasn’t leaving without getting the job done.”

“First base?”

“No bullshit, man, I had to dance like Fred Astaire could only fantasise about. I thought if she doesn’t eat me, I’m going to die of exhaustion or a broken heart anyway. I couldn’t believe my luck when she reached out and wrapped her front legs around my neck and didn’t chow down on my adorable blue head!”

“Your head’s not blue.”

“Not today, but I got so excited I turned every colour of the rainbow during the most passionate 15 seconds of lovemaking in the history of spiderdom – on that sandstone pebble just over there.”

“So, where is your loving bride now?”

“Loving?! She’s a cold, hard bitch! When she was satisfied, she booted me off our boudoir boulder and told me if she ever saw me again, she’d feed me to her babies.”

“Charming.”

“Well, that’s how it is in spider world. We’re here for a good time, not a long time.”

“Are you going to go around again?”

“No way. That was a once-in-a-lifetime affair, and I’m sworn off females forever.”

“I was going to ask you why you chose this particular footprint as your home?”

“Why not? It’s a perfectly shaped chamber with a shallow end for stalking prey and checking out the goings on in the hood. And the deep end is nice and cool, so I can rest and dine in privacy.”

“What about when it rains?”

“Didn’t you see that gum leaf hanging over the edge of the den? It took me three days to drag it over here and stitch it into position with my Superspider silk. It keeps the sun and the rain off my pretty little head and even hides me from critters who harbour ill intent towards me.”

“How do you protect yourself from predators?”

“Geez, mate, you’ve got a short memory. You saw me jump earlier, didn’t you? I can leap up to 15 times my own length with an acceleration of 127 m/s squared and a G-force of 13g! That’s really cool for hunting and bloody handy for escaping danger.”

“You seem quite exposed. What would happen if your little hovel got stepped on?”

“Hey! A bit of respect, please!”

“Sorry.”

“For a start, the only foot that could fit snuggly enough inside this basin to crush me while I’m hiding near the edge is a human's size 3 Nike cross-trainer.”

“Don’t tell me. You know that because you read the imprint on the floor?”

“Correct. You’re finally catching on.”

“And this structure is made of sun-dried river clay. It’s more solid than a brick house. My adobe abode is virtually impregnable.”

“Aren’t you afraid of being flooded?”

“Hasn’t happened this summer, so I’m not worried.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“All my adult life, about 4 months now. I spent my spiderling youth learning how to hunt around that log you were sitting on before spotting this great opportunity: a two-level freehold with immediate vacant possession!

The neighbours are a bit rough, especially that smelly old goanna who likes to sniff everything and stick his tongue in places it doesn’t belong. One day, a large yabby was aimlessly wading in the shallow water near that mud bank behind you, and the old goanna thought it might make a good meal. So, he strolled over and launched his forked lasso in the direction of the carefree crustacean.

I didn’t know yabbies had such good reflexes, but this bloke sat on its tail and latched onto the goanna’s elongated organ with both claws. Not sure if the goanna leapt in terror or the cool clawed crusty was a judo master, but the goanna flew into the drink, landing feet up in a frothy mass of scales, water and humiliation. Needless to say, the yab got away, and the old goanna had a long overdue bath.”

“Is this like your forever home?”

“I reckon I’ll see my time out here, I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

“You spin a good yarn, my bristly little friend. Any fishing tales that might inspire me?”

“Nah, no fish.”

“That’s it, there are no fish here, or you don’t have any stories to tell?”

“Both, I guess. I haven’t seen anyone catch any fish here except that ill-mannered pelican hiding behind the reeds on the opposite bank.”

“What pelican?”

“See her head craning over the top of the bullrushes next to the snag that looks like some sort of lake monster?”

“Oh yeah, I see her. How do you know it’s a she?”

“I told you I have brilliant eyesight.

She just scoops them up and shakes them down. They flip and flop on their way down her gullet, but there’s no fight. They never get away, so no fishing epics here, sorry.”

“They say that great things come in small packages, and you’re the epitome of this.”

“Don’t make me blush.”

“I spotted that rosy flush. I just thought you were feeling horny again.”

“Piss off.”

“Seriously, I have really enjoyed our chat, and I’d love to share your wisdom and humour with my family and friends, but….”

“To put things into perspective, can I tell you my favourite joke?”

“Sure.”

“There were two retired racehorses chomping on hay in a barn, and one of them boasted, ‘I had 15 starts for 5 wins, 2 seconds and 3 thirds.’

The second horse replied, ‘That’s pretty good, but I had 25 starts for 9 wins, 7 seconds and 4 thirds.’

With that, a retired greyhound who had been dozing in the corner stood up, shook off the straw from his brindle hide and declared, ‘I had 40 starts for 20 wins, 15 seconds and 5 thirds!’

The first horse gasped, ‘Did you hear that?’

The second horse exclaimed, ‘Wow! That’s absolutely amazing, a talking dog!’”

“I’ll drink to that! Mind if I grab another can?”

“Go for it, mate. You know, we’ve been chatting for nearly an hour now.”

“How do you know how long we’ve been talking?”

“Of course, I don’t have a watch or a mobile phone, but I have exceptional vision, and I’m very observant.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I’ve noticed that the average fisherman around here, at this time of year, takes around half an hour to drink a beer, and you’ve just finished your second.”

“But how do you work that out without a clock?”

“Dumbass! The biggest timepiece in the solar system is whirring very slowly above your head. It’s just a matter of measuring its progress and breaking that down into 24-hour segments.”

“Fair enough. I would have thought you were full of it, but knowing what I do about beer drinking, I can’t argue with your conclusion.”

“I’ve shared so much of myself with you, and you haven’t asked my name.”

“I’m sorry for being rude. I’m just so fascinated by your life and your insights that I keep wanting to find out more about you. Of course, by now we should be on a first-name basis.”

“My scientific name is Maratus Volans, I’m a Peacock Spider. You can call me Jack”

My new friend’s voice was growing weak as he slowly retreated to the shaded rim of his pedal palace.

“Google me.”