While most of you are still deeply immersed in working out how wombats can produce square nuggets out of round bum holes, lend me your ears for what Warrigal of Fraser Island are capable of. Some decades ago, when everyone was still so young and adventurous, my brother and I with my 10 year son and his twinned similar aged sons decided to go to Fraser Island. My brother had been before and many times afterwards and while camping on the South coast, he would regale stories of phenomenal fishing expeditions, straight from the beach, he would always add, spreading his arms wide to indicate the sizes of fish. Fraser Island is to fishermen what Paris is to fashionistas.

I am not so keen on beaches and loath sitting in blinding sun surrounded by loose sand, am much more content in caves or under rocks with shade soaking up all light. Anyway, I succumbed and decided to visit Fraser Island with my brother and three sons. The Land rover was packed with an electric/gas/battery fridge and a nice frozen lamb curry. From bitter experience I had learnt not to venture away from inner cities and risk starvation or/and food poisoning. We had also packed tents, fishing rods and even a metal chain to haul in the ‘big one’.

During those South Coast camping trips, the fish always got bigger and the empty casks of Coolabah next morning outside the tents witness to more fishing stories than the whole of Iceland. We left Sydney during summer and drove to Tin Can Bay in Queensland where we took the ferry across to Fraser. It was sunny indeed and we set up camp somewhere on the beach near the dunes. Next morning we unpacked our fold out canvas camping chairs, oiled our fishing rods and spools, tied hooks and bait and threw in the lines on the edge of the sea.

Fraser Island is supposed to be the largest sand island in the world or Southern Hemisphere. Wherever we travel to, something is always the largest or biggest or best, isn’t it? The largest sand island did not appeal so much to me, and I was vindicated when I noticed enormous flies landing unnoticed on my legs and arms. Those flies had some kind of helicopter way of landing whereby you would only become aware after the biting and sucking. I asked another fisherman and was told they were horse flies. I then thought to wade into the sea hoping for relief from those large fly horses.

Please, all come now a little closer to your screen

Those flies stayed on the landed area of my body under water. Their grip was so strong, no wave would dislodge them. I lost all interest in fishing and life. Deeply depressed I went back and remained seated in my canvas chair whacking the flies after landing but before biting, they would end up dead or struggling around me on the sand. In no time an army of large ants came and started eating the carcasses which gave some satisfaction.

When I got back to the tent my toasted muesli had been broken into and trails of it lead back into the dunes. A warrigal had been and broken the packet before dragging it with him (or her) back to the rest of the family. I had heard that the Fraser Island dingo was still fairly pure and had not interbred with other dogs. I did not mind my muesli getting pinched; after all it is their territory. No fish was caught that day nor on any of the following days. My brother was deeply worried and could not understand it. The second last day he buried the rest of the bait in the sand near the high tide mark.

The next day I got up early, well before those fly horses, and noticed a straight trail of dingo prints from the dunes right up to where the bait had been buried. A neat little hole had been dug and the bait was gone.

So, the dingo made his way to the bait in a straight line. No dithering or sniffing left or right, zig zagging. Now, he either did this by having observed us burying it the previous day, or, their olfactory sense is so acute, even way back in the dunes, that no diversions needed to be made. He followed his nose in a line which was the shortest possible route. Still, I am amazed..

Was it you Warrigal?