The Prospector of Granite Creek - part 4

The morning after Wally’s humiliating retreat from Boomerang, Silas was back at Granite Creek, dipping his pan with the weary motions of a man who knew futility well. He had barely found enough colour to dust a flea. Meanwhile, Kevin, perched high on a dead snow gum, was performing a particularly energetic and mocking laugh-a-thon, his head thrown back with theatrical glee, all pointed directly toward Wally’s hidden burrow entrance.

Silas, after months of bad luck, finally saw the pattern. Kevin was not laughing at the creek or the sky; he was laughing at something near the base of that tree—the same place where Silas had lost his nugget collection months ago. The old prospector’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the sturdy, unmarked ground, then back at the hysterically cackling bird. Silas did not believe in fairies, but he did believe in stubborn, clever animals.

He hiked back to Boomerang, not to pan, but to visit the General Store. Silas, operating on a hunch bordering on madness, purchased the gold sovereign coin from the display case—the very coin Wally had coveted. It cost him half his savings, but he had a theory to test.

Silas returned to Wally’s patch of creek. He waited until the sun dipped low, painting the granite pink. Kevin was already settled in the gum tree, silent now, but watching with intense, beady eyes. Silas approached the burrow entrance, knelt slowly, and held the gleaming coin out on his open palm, catching the last of the light.

“Alright, you stubborn little dust-eater,” Silas murmured to the earth. “I know you are in there. You have been panning my claims and stealing my finds, and you are better at it than I am. But I need a break. I want a tip. I want to know where to pan next. And you want this.”

Wally, already tense after his night out, slowly pushed the compacted clay from his escape tunnel. He peered out, his eyes fixing instantly on the magnificent, polished sovereign. It was perfect. It was everything he had dreamed of. He looked from the coin to Silas’s earnest, tired face, then up at Kevin, who, for the first time, was absolutely silent, watching the transaction unfold with uncanny focus.

The wombat gave a low grunt—a sound of supreme calculation. He cautiously shuffled forward, took the coin with a swift paw, and tucked it into his cheek pouch. He then turned and, using his nose, nudged a small, insignificant seam of milky quartz that ran down toward a shallow, overlooked bend in Granite Creek, far from his own chamber.

The tip was not the monster nugget, but it was honest.

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Silas smiled, a genuine, weary smile. He had paid his fee and gotten his tip from the world's most unlikely prospector. He stood up, gave a slight nod to the wombat, and walked away. Kevin, still perched above, finally let out a single, sharp, satisfied chuckle—a laugh of acceptance, perhaps, rather than mockery. From that day on, an unlikely, silent agreement settled over Granite Creek: Silas had his small, steady claim thanks to the wombat, Wally had his perfect coin, and Kevin was the silent, cackling keeper of the secret, ensuring the new, peculiar gold rush of the High Country remained strictly a three-party affair.

-The end-

An ABC Radio interview with Silas is linked

The book dust cover is linked

Reviews are linked.

Shalom,

Ozhamada

The Prospector of Granite Creek - part 3

Wally, for all his burrow-based arrogance, was not immune to temptation. His treasure chamber, already rich with purloined nuggets, felt somehow incomplete. The missing piece, he decided, was not a nugget, but a coin—a perfect, historical gold sovereign that he had seen glinting through the dusty window of the Boomerang General Store. It was secured in a display case of local relics, placed right next to a moth-eaten photograph of the original gold rush days. Wally viewed it as an insult: true High Country gold deserved a better guardian than dusty glass.

The decision to travel was fraught with risk. The journey down Granite Creek was long, requiring him to cross open sheep paddocks and patches of unforgiving, exposed asphalt—terrain utterly hostile to a creature built for defence in tight, rocky tunnels. Wally waited until the moon was just a sliver of white and the air was chilled with the night’s first frost. He marched, low and fast, his heart a nervous drum against his thick ribs, his senses overwhelmed by the smells of diesel and old timber.

He arrived in Boomerang shortly before midnight. The town was silent save for the rhythmic rattling of the wind against the corrugated iron roofs. Wally skirted the back of Silas’s cottage, pausing to listen to the slow, deep snoring within, before leveraging his massive shoulders under the low, rotting floorboards of the General Store porch. He pushed upward, creating a slight, grating scrape that sounded like thunder to his ears.

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He spotted the display case easily. It was tucked against the wall beneath the old post office window, bathed in the pale, eerie glow of a distant streetlamp. The coin was beautiful, stamped with the head of an ancient, human monarch and radiating an unnatural, polished shine—far superior to the rough surface of his own monster nugget.

Wally extended a muddy paw, calculating the leverage needed to topple the heavy wooden display stand. He began to grunt, pushing with the full might of his subterranean strength. The display creaked, the glass vibrating ominously. Success was inches away when the massive, rusty clock tower of the abandoned bank in the town centre suddenly began to stir.

The first chime of midnight was a deafening, metallic gong that echoed through the empty street, freezing Wally in place. Before the sound could fully die away, the noise was answered by a truly horrible, familiar sound: Kevin, the kookaburra. Kevin, who had been sleeping in the old gum tree by the Hotel, was startled by the clock and, spotting Wally silhouetted perfectly against the faint lamplight, let loose the most tremendous, mocking, screeching laugh of his life.

The sound shattered Wally’s nerves. He abandoned the coin, the display case, and all pretence of stealth. Forgetting the path he had come, he simply turned and bolted, scrambling over the asphalt road and into the nearest, darkest scrub. He did not stop until he was deep beneath his own patch of snow gum, safe, panting, and empty-pawed. He had learned a hard, cold lesson: the treasures of the High Country were best acquired beneath the ground, where the darkness was a comfortable blanket and the only judge was the patient earth, not a cackling bird with a cruel sense of timing.

Part 3 of the story is linked

An ABC Radio interview with Silas is linked

The book dust cover is linked

Reviews are linked.

Shalom,

Ozhamada

The Prospector of Granite Creek - part 2

Further down Granite Creek, where the flow broadened and the icy water finally had room to slow its pace, sat the township of Boomerang. It was less a town now and more an enduring collection of iron, timber, and stubborn hope, all etched into the harsh landscape of the NSW High Country.

Boomerang had earned its name not from the returning flight of the Aboriginal hunting tool, but from the fickle nature of the gold itself. Early prospectors, convinced the mother lode was just over the next ridge, would leave for weeks, only to find themselves circling back, drawn by the creek’s siren call and the occasional, glittering promise of a forgotten seam. The town, like the gold, always brought them back.

In its roaring prime, from 1860 to 1890, Boomerang was a chaotic hub. There were fifteen hotels, each with a reputation worse than the last, two banks that seemed to change hands monthly, and a single, perpetually overcrowded Post Office. The creek banks were scarred by sluices and tailings, and the air was thick with the scent of wet wool, cheap whiskey, and woodsmoke. Stories from that era, still faintly painted on the walls of the old general store, spoke of nuggets the size of walnuts, of claims staked by moonlight, and of fortunes lost in a single, drunken afternoon.

Now, only the solid bones of the old town remained. The main street, now paved with cracked asphalt, hosted just four active businesses: the Granite Creek Hotel (which mostly sold cold beer to tourists in summer), a tiny repair garage, the Post Office (which doubled as the local library), and the Boomerang General Store.

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Silas, the bearded man whose pan Wally had pilfered, lived in a small, corrugated iron cottage just outside the town’s main cluster. He was one of the ‘Keepers of the Hope’—a handful of old-timers who still carried a folding pan in their truck and could differentiate the sound of glacial quartz from promising slate with a single hammer tap. Silas represented the spirit of Boomerang’s past, a man perpetually searching for the wealth that had seemingly dried up generations ago, utterly unaware that the richest vein currently lay buried not in the creek bed, but in a hidden chamber under the root system of a nearby snow gum, guarded by a very wide, very grumpy wombat.

Boomerang was a ghost of its former self, yet it maintained a stoic dignity. The old mining dredge, abandoned on the river flats, rusted beautifully under the clear, high-altitude sun, a monument to a time when men, like the wombat Wally, were driven by the sheer, magnificent glitter of gold.

 

 

Part 3 of the story is linked

An ABC Radio interview with Silas is linked

The book dust cover is linked

Reviews are linked.

Shalom,

Ozhamada

The Prospector of Granite Creek - part 1

Wally was, by all accounts, a perfectly normal Wombat of the New South Wales High Country. He was built like a furry, four-legged safe, had a penchant for soft root vegetables, and slept roughly twenty-two hours a day. Yet, deep beneath the granite and thick-trunked snow gums of the Monaro Plains, Wally harboured a magnificent, secret obsession: gold.

Not just any gold, mind you. Wally was a connoisseur of nuggets—heavy, lumpy, river-polished chunks of pure ochre shine. He’d first stumbled upon his prize collection when expanding his burrow system near Granite Creek, where the icy waters flowed, and old prospectors occasionally set up camp, drawn by the same glittering promise.

Wally was not interested in the prospectors' tools or supplies; only their finds.

His mischief was subtle, yet infuriatingly effective. One day, a hopeful bearded man named Silas had spent six back-breaking hours panning a gravel bar. He finally spotted a bean-sized piece of gold shimmering in his tray. He left the pan on a stump to fetch a flask of tea. In that momentary lapse, Wally, utilizing his incredibly low profile and surprising speed, zipped out of a hidden side-tunnel. He deftly nudged the pan, sending Silas’s hard-won nugget—and three others—rolling into a waiting, dirt-crusted paw. He replaced them with four dull, river-smoothed pebbles before melting back into the undergrowth.

Silas returned, stared at the pathetic pebbles, and decided the high-country light must be playing tricks on his eyes, never suspecting the culprit was a creature who subsisted primarily on grass roots.

Wally’s primary method of acquisition, however, was geological. His deep-digging ability, combined with a wombat’s natural inclination to excavate rock and soil, made him the most efficient prospector the High Country had ever seen. While digging a new escape route from a particularly annoying patch of stinging nettle, his nose bumped against something impossibly dense. It was not a root.

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He dug around it with frenzied purpose, using his powerful shoulders to lever the dirt away. The object was the size of his own head, pocked and heavy, with a crystalline seam of quartz running through the brilliant yellow metal. A monster nugget.

Wally spent the rest of the week consolidating his assets. He dragged the monstrous nugget, along with his smaller, purloined treasures, into a newly hollowed chamber, lined with soft, dry grass and sealed off with a false ceiling of compacted clay.

Wally’s only worry was not human prospectors, but the sky-high menace of Kevin, a particularly loud and observant kookaburra. Kevin, Wally suspected, knew too much. Every time Wally emerged with a dusty paw or scooted back underground with unusual haste, Kevin would swoop down onto the nearest snow gum branch and let out an enormous, mocking, cackling laugh. It was a sound that seemed to hold both amusement and accusation, always pointed directly at the mouth of Wally’s burrow. Wally would glare up, his thick neck muscles twitching with annoyance, certain that Kevin was plotting to expose the location of his shiny, secret hoard.

Resting on his mountain of wealth, Wally did not think of the high market value or the history of his collection. He simply enjoyed the weight of it, the cold, smooth feel of the metal against his rough fur, and the deep satisfaction of knowing that, here, far beneath the chilly peaks and starry skies of the NSW High Country, he was the richest, and most mischievous, wombat in the world.

 

 

Part 2 of the story is linked

An ABC Radio interview with Silas is linked

The book dust cover is linked

Reviews are linked.

 

Shalom,

Ozhamada

The Prospector of Granite Creek - Early Reviews

Review 1: The Australian Bookworm

"A Sparkling Gem of a Bushland Caper!"

This short novel is an absolute delight. Wally the wombat is the most charmingly determined anti-hero I've encountered in years. The author perfectly captures the quiet, gritty beauty of the NSW High Country, making the town of Boomerang feel like a faded photograph come to life. The slow-burn rivalry between the gold-hoarding wombat, the weary prospector Silas, and the infuriatingly astute kookaburra Kevin is pure comedy gold. The climax, involving a perfect gold sovereign and a grudging exchange, is surprisingly moving. A witty, warm tale that proves the best treasures aren't always found with a pan, but sometimes with a paw and a bit of wildlife espionage. Perfect for all ages. Highly recommended!

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Review 2: Nature's Narratives Magazine

"The Ultimate Territorial Dispute"

The Prospector of Granite Creek is a surprisingly sophisticated study of resource allocation in the Australian bush. The book masterfully uses the natural traits of its animal characters—Wally’s incredible digging power, Kevin’s aerial vantage point, and Silas’s stubborn human persistence—to drive the narrative. The writing elevates the humble wombat from a simple grazer to a subterranean geological expert. More than just a whimsical story, this is a beautiful homage to the Monaro Plains, illustrating that even in the vast quiet of the high country, the pursuit of riches leads to extraordinary drama.

Review 3: A Reflection by King Charles IV

"A Delightful Nostalgic Echo from the Bush"

One rarely expects to find one’s own youthful memories stirred by the plight of a determined wombat, yet here we are. Having spent time in the Australian bush—which, I assure you, is an education unto itself—I can attest to the sheer, magnificent cheek of its wildlife. The descriptions of the granite, the snow gums, and the biting cold of the High Country brought me right back to my school days in Victoria.

The story of Wally, the gold-obsessed wombat, and his feud with Kevin, the kookaburra, is truly splendid. That signature, mocking cackle is a sound one never forgets. One can’t help but root for the tenacious Silas, whose weary dignity perfectly encapsulates the enduring spirit of the original prospectors. This book is a wonderful reminder that beneath the quiet surface of the Australian landscape, the most thrilling, and sometimes the most profitable, mischief is constantly afoot. A lovely, utterly Australian read.

The Prospector of Granite Creek - Book dust cover

The Prospector of Granite Creek

Wally is not your average wombat. Built like a furry tank, he should be content with a diet of roots and an impressive twenty-two hours of sleep. Instead, Wally harbors a magnificent, dirty secret: he is the richest, most mischievous gold-hoarder in the entire New South Wales High Country. Beneath the snow gums, his burrow hides a fortune of purloined nuggets, including one chunk the size of his own head.

Wally's subterranean empire is threatened by two rivals:

First, there is Silas, a persistent, weary prospector from the faded gold-rush town of Boomerang, whose dwindling pan Wally occasionally pilfers.

Second, and far more annoying, is Kevin, an impossibly observant kookaburra whose mocking, screeching laughter seems to know exactly where the gold is hidden.

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The rivalry comes to a head when Wally attempts a daring raid on a perfect gold sovereign coin displayed in Boomerang, only to be exposed by Kevin’s cruel sense of timing. But when Silas finally deduces the bizarre truth—that a wombat is a better prospector than he is—a fragile, silent agreement is struck.

Can an old prospector, a territorial wombat, and a cackling bird find a way to work together?

Dive into this charming Australian caper about greed, paranoia, and the unexpected alliance forged over a single, polished coin.

The Prospector of Granite Creek - ABC Radio interview

ABC High Country: "The Prospector and the Wombat"

Program: ABC Rural Hour Host: Eliza Byrne (EB) Guest: Silas, Prospector from Boomerang

(Sound of gentle stream running, distant kookaburra chuckle)

EB: Welcome back to Rural Hour. For generations, prospectors have searched the goldfields of the Monaro Plains. But our next guest, Silas from the almost-ghost town of Boomerang, recently made a discovery unlike any other—one involving a very stubborn, four-legged rival. Silas, welcome.

Silas: Good day, Eliza.

EB: Silas, you have been panning Granite Creek for decades. Can you describe the moment you realised your bad luck was not due to poor geology, but to a wombat?

Silas: (Chuckles, a dry sound) Well, it started with the missing nuggets. Just tiny ones, you know. You would leave your pan for a minute, and when you came back, all the colour was gone, replaced by little river pebbles. I thought I was losing my mind, or perhaps it was the light. But then, there was Kevin.

EB: The kookaburra. Wally’s aerial nemesis, as we have learned.

Silas: Exactly. Kevin sits in the same old snow gum, and every time I came near a certain burrow entrance, that bird would just laugh—not a happy laugh, mind you, but a mocking, judgmental sound. And the burrow? It was immaculate. No dirt kicked out, no tracks. But after that bird exposed my failure in Boomerang, it clicked: that wombat, Wally, was a master thief and, more importantly, a master digger.

EB: So, you went to the General Store and bought a gold sovereign—a coin Wally had failed to steal the night before—as a kind of ransom?

Silas: (Sighs) A ridiculous notion, isn’t it? But I was desperate. I felt he was holding the key to the creek. I held that coin out, right in front of his door, and I said, "You've been panning my claims and you're better at it. You want this? Give me a tip."

EB: And he responded?

Silas: He did. Slowly, he pushed out the dirt plug. He looked at me, looked at the coin, and then, while Kevin was watching like a beak-driven accountant, he shuffled forward, took the sovereign, and tucked it into his cheek—just like a little money bag! Then, he used his nose to nudge a tiny seam of milky quartz running towards a bend I’d always ignored.

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EB: And did you find gold there?

Silas: Enough. Not the monster nugget Wally’s sitting on, mind you, but enough to make the effort worthwhile. Enough to keep the heart in Boomerang for another year.

EB: So now you have a symbiotic relationship: The prospector and the wombat.

Silas: We have a truce. He has his perfect coin, I have a decent claim, and Kevin has a fascinating, lifelong secret to keep. We don’t chat much, but every now and then, I leave a particularly good pumpkin near the entrance. It's a professional courtesy, you might say.

EB: That truly is remarkable, Silas. Now, before we let you go, you mentioned Boomerang. For our listeners who might not be familiar with that part of the Monaro, can you tell us a bit about the town's past? It sounds like it’s certainly seen better days.

Silas: It has. Boomerang—well, she's an old girl. The name comes from how the gold was: fickle. Men would leave, convinced the lode was over the next ridge, but they’d always loop back. Our prime was between 1860 and 1890, when it was absolute chaos. Fifteen hotels, two banks! Now, it's quiet, but the bones are still there. The granite and the iron just won't let it fade completely.

EB: And speaking of the bones of the town, what about the General Store? That must be a relic in itself if it still has the display case with the sovereign. How long has that store been operating?

Silas: The store is a survivor, that’s for sure. It’s been standing since the mid-1870s, I reckon. It’s changed hands so many times, but it’s always been the heart of the place. It used to sell shovels and dynamite; now it sells milk and postage stamps. It even doubles as our library now. It’s one of the few things, aside from the Granite Creek Hotel, that has always kept the door open. You could say the store is just as stubborn as Wally, really.

EB: A town held together by stubbornness and a shared secret about a gold-hoarding wombat. What a picture. Silas, thank you for sharing this remarkable story from the High Country.

(Sound of gentle stream running fades)