What could be more simple?

The steamer was engaged to go up a billabong for a load of shearers
from a shed which was cutting out; and first it was necessary
to tie up in the river and discharge the greater portion of the cargo
in order that the boat might safely negotiate the shallow waters.
A local fisherman, who volunteered to act as pilot, was taken aboard,
and after he was outside about a pint of whisky he seemed to have
the greatest confidence in his ability to take us to hell, or anywhere else --
at least, he said so. A man was sent ashore with blankets and tucker
to mind the wool, and we crossed the river, butted into the anabranch,
and started out back. Only the Lord and the pilot know how we got there.
We travelled over the bush, through its branches sometimes,
and sometimes through grass and mud, and every now and then
we struck something that felt and sounded like a collision.
The boat slid down one hill, and "fetched" a stump at the bottom
with a force that made every mother's son bite his tongue or break a tooth.

The shearers came aboard next morning, with their swags
and two cartloads of boiled mutton, bread, "brownie", and tea and sugar.
They numbered about fifty, including the rouseabouts.
This load of sin sank the steamer deeper into the mud;
but the passengers crowded over to port, by request of the captain,
and the crew poked the bank away with long poles. When we began to move
the shearers gave a howl like the yell of a legion of lost souls
escaping from down below. They gave three cheers for the rouseabouts' cook,
who stayed behind; then they cursed the station with a mighty curse.
They cleared a space on deck, had a jig, and afterwards a fight
between the shearers' cook and his assistant. They gave a mighty bush whoop
for the Darling when the boat swung into that grand old gutter,