Introduction
On the ancient, sun-drenched coastline of what is now northern New South Wales, the world was once a blank canvas—a place of shifting sands, sprawling forests, and boundless sky. Before humans left their footprints, the land pulsed with the breath of the Dreaming. Spirits moved across the earth, shaping rivers, raising mountains, and weaving intricate patterns that would become the lifeblood of the Bundjalung people. In this sacred time, every stone, tree, and waterway carried a story; every curve of the land was alive with memory. Among the most revered of these tales is the legend of the Dirawong and the Goanna—two powerful spiritual beings whose fateful meeting and epic struggle forever transformed the region. Their battle did not merely echo across the land; it cut deep, carving a winding river that would nourish generations. This is the story behind the Richmond River—a story of wisdom and will, of pursuit and protection, and of the ancient forces that sculpted the world into the familiar landscapes we see today. As smoke curled skyward from campfires and elders passed on knowledge under a wash of southern stars, this myth reminded listeners that the land itself is alive, shaped by both conflict and care. The legend is not just an origin story—it’s a profound lesson about respect for the natural world, the interwoven spirits of Country, and the enduring guardianship that binds people to place. To journey into the tale of the Dirawong and the Goanna is to journey into the heart of Bundjalung lore, where the river’s gentle flow speaks of ancient struggles, triumphs, and the sacred duty to remember.
The Dreaming and the Spirit Guardians
In the timeless expanse of the Dreaming, where boundaries between spirit and earth blurred, the land of the Bundjalung people was watched over by ancient guardians. Among them, the Dirawong was revered—a vast, serpent-like being imbued with wisdom, protector of law, healing, and the harmony of Country. Unlike ordinary animals, the Dirawong moved not only across the land but also within it, weaving through spirit and stone, teaching the first people the rhythms of seasons and the secrets of survival. Its shimmering scales mirrored the river at sunrise, its eyes glittered like stars scattered across the night sky. The Dirawong’s presence was both comfort and warning: it protected those who honored law and balance, but watched with keen attention for any sign of chaos.
In those ancient days, another force also prowled the land: the Goanna, a great spiritual lizard known as the cunning bringer of challenge. Where the Dirawong inspired unity, the Goanna was known for its ferocity and restlessness. The Goanna sought power and dominion, marking its passage with long, gouging trails and sharp, restless eyes. It was not evil, but it was unpredictable—a being whose ambitions sometimes threatened the delicate harmony of the Dreaming. The elders taught that both beings had their place, for without challenge, wisdom could not flourish; without protection, chaos would reign.
The land itself reflected this duality. Dense rainforests unfurled beside open woodlands. Rivers meandered gently, then surged with seasonal floods. Life pulsed in cycles—birth, death, renewal—each phase guided by the invisible hands of spiritual beings. The Bundjalung people listened to these rhythms, reading the signs in animal tracks, the song of birds at dawn, and the whisper of wind in tall grass. They understood that the stories of the Dreaming were not just tales but blueprints for living.
One fateful day, a shadow moved across the sun-dappled earth. News spread through the spirit realm and echoed in the hearts of every living creature: the Goanna was on the move, more restless than ever before. Driven by hunger or ambition—no one could say—the Goanna roamed the land, leaving destruction in its wake. Its claws tore through earth and root, scattering small creatures and sending a shiver through the trees. The elders felt it in their bones. The balance was tipping. The Dirawong, sensing the unease, emerged from its sanctuary on Goanna Headland, an ancient rise overlooking the great sea. It watched as the Goanna’s path grew bolder, cutting through sacred sites and threatening the harmony so carefully tended by generations.
The moment for intervention had come. But the Dirawong was not quick to anger. It watched, listened, and gathered knowledge. For wisdom, it knew, was as vital as strength. The Dirawong called upon other spirit allies—the eagle, whose sharp gaze pierced clouds; the turtle, whose patience rivaled the slow growth of forests; the cockatoo, whose cries warned of coming storms. Together, they prepared to confront the Goanna and restore order to the land. The wind shifted. The sea murmured in anticipation. Somewhere between hope and fear, a great story was poised to unfold.
The Epic Pursuit: Carving the Richmond River
At dawn’s first light, as dew clung to grass and the forest shimmered with mist, the Goanna slithered from the shadows of ancient trees. Its scales flashed with dark intent. Where it passed, the earth trembled, and small creatures scattered into burrows. The Dirawong, wise and patient, did not rush. It waited until the Goanna moved dangerously close to sacred sites—places where the boundaries between worlds thinned and the law of Country was strongest.
When the moment came, the Dirawong moved with startling speed, a silent ripple through earth and air. It positioned itself between the Goanna and the vulnerable heart of Bundjalung Country. The Goanna hesitated, surprised to find its path blocked by a being as old as the land itself. For a heartbeat, time held still. Then the chase began—a struggle that would echo through eternity.
The Goanna darted left, seeking escape toward the sea. The Dirawong gave chase, gliding over grass and stone. Where their bodies pressed against the land, deep furrows formed—channels gouged by ancient power. The pursuit grew fiercer as they neared the coast. The Goanna’s claws dug into earth, dragging up great heaps of soil and roots; the Dirawong’s sinuous form swept through bush and heath, flattening tall grass and carving hollows that filled with water.
As they raced, their paths twisted and tangled. Each time the Goanna tried to double back, the Dirawong cut it off, forcing the Goanna to curve away, deeper into the landscape. With each turn, the ground beneath them changed. What had been dry earth softened into muddy swales; what had been forest gave way to open wetlands. Their passage grew so powerful that water, drawn from the sea and sky, rushed into the furrows behind them. The Richmond River was being born—each bend, each meander a memory of their struggle.
At times, the Goanna tried to hide among rocks or beneath fallen logs. But the Dirawong’s wisdom made it relentless; it knew every trick, every hiding place. Sometimes, their conflict flared into open battle—tail against claw, scale against scale. Trees toppled, stones cracked, and the sky above flashed with storm clouds summoned by their fury. Birds fled in great flocks, filling the air with startled cries. The earth itself seemed to hold its breath.
As the chase pressed westward from the headland, their path passed through what would one day be called Woodburn and Coraki, curling and doubling back with every feint and counter-feint. The Goanna, desperate, tried to confuse its pursuer by looping through thick reed beds and splashing across shallow lagoons. But everywhere it went, the Dirawong followed, each twist becoming a new bend in the growing river. Fish slipped into the fresh waters, frogs sang their approval, and reeds grew tall along muddy banks. The Richmond River was taking shape—alive with memory and meaning, forever marked by the epic pursuit of two mighty spirits.
Sacred Sites and Lasting Lessons
As the struggle neared its climax, both spirits grew weary. The Goanna, sensing defeat, made a final desperate dash toward the coast, hoping to lose itself in the open sea. The Dirawong anticipated this move and surged ahead, blocking escape at the very edge of land—a place now known as Goanna Headland. Here, ancient rocks rise above crashing surf, their forms echoing the shapes of both combatants frozen in time.
Realizing it could not outrun its pursuer, the Goanna lashed out in one last furious attack. The sky darkened as clouds gathered, thunder rumbled across the water, and a bolt of lightning split the sky—illuminating the silhouettes of Dirawong and Goanna locked in final combat. The clash shook the land, sending tremors through stone and sand. In that moment of chaos, the Goanna’s tail struck the headland, gouging deep scars into the earth. The Dirawong responded with wisdom, not rage; it coiled protectively around the Goanna, restraining rather than destroying. For even in conflict, the Dirawong honored the law of balance.
Defeated but spared, the Goanna vanished into the rocks, its spirit lingering in the land it had helped shape. The Dirawong rested atop the headland, watching as the new river flowed steadily from forest to sea. The scarred earth bore witness to their struggle—reminders etched into stone so that none would forget how the world was made. For the Bundjalung people, these sites became sacred: places to gather, to remember, and to teach future generations about the responsibilities that come with living on Country.
From that day on, the Richmond River carried more than just water; it carried story, spirit, and law. Fish swam its bends, birds nested in reeds along its banks, and children played where the two spirits once raced. Elders pointed to the headland and spoke of Dirawong’s wisdom and restraint, reminding all who listened that strength should serve harmony—not destruction. The Goanna, meanwhile, became a symbol of challenge and cunning—necessary forces that keep wisdom sharp and communities strong.
The story of Dirawong and Goanna endures in songs, paintings, and ceremonies. Every curve of the Richmond River is a lesson: that creation is born from struggle, that law and chaos shape each other, and that all people share a duty to protect the living memory of Country. In every dawn mist over the river and every storm that sweeps across Goanna Headland, their legend lives on—woven into land, sky, and spirit.
Conclusion
The legend of the Dirawong and the Goanna is more than an explanation of how a river came to be; it’s a living reminder that the land and its stories are inseparable. For the Bundjalung people, every feature of Country holds memory—etched in stone, whispered by water, carried in the songs and ceremonies that keep culture alive. The Richmond River is not just a channel of water; it’s a testament to ancient wisdom, spiritual guardianship, and the enduring relationship between people and place. As sunlight flickers across its surface and wind rustles through reeds, those who listen closely can still hear echoes of that epic pursuit—reminding us all to walk gently on Country, to honor balance, and to recognize the sacred in every curve of the land. To remember this legend is to remember that we are all custodians of story and spirit, forever bound to the living heart of the earth.
