Rugged Luxury

Betty

Having finished the shows along the Great Dividing Range and moved further west I feel more relaxed knowing there will be few hills of any consequence until I return via Qld, NT and WA to Stanthorpe next January. Back out on the Western Plains not only the landscape changes but more noticeable the people, they seem to be more relaxed sorts of characters and regardless of being townsfolk or from stations they are keen to have a yarn and tell their story.

Betty Bunyan is one of those people.

I met Betty last year and again this year at the Dirranbandi show/rodeo and camp draft. She lives at the Ridge but the Dirran show is one event she rarely misses and is always dressed for the occasion. Whilst chatting to her this year another elderly lady stopped and joined the conversation. She said she remembers quite clearly the day Betty was born. She was seven years old and playing in the front yard when Mr Bunyan came past their home with his horse team and stopped to tell them, he just had a baby girl born and called her Betty. I worked that out to be around 1930.

Betty, riding and watching her fathers team

For the first thirty years Betty lived in bush camps with her father and home was where ever the work was, be it delving bore drains, sinking dams or carting wool to the railhead by wagon. After a short unhappy marriage Betty moved on and began managing stations futher out west. Finally after many years she moved to Lightning Ridge where she still lives today. Betty is one of those wonderful characters you meet out this way and could be genuinely be described as, a women of the west.

After Dirranbandi I headed for Nindigully to cool my heels for a few days prior to the next show.Established in 1864 this place is steeped in History any many pics you see adorn the walls of this grand old pub.

It’s a free camp spot on the Moonie River however, at 4.30 sharp each afternoon a chap emerges from the hotel ringing a huge bell and bellows, HAPPY HOUR. People from the river bank camps obey the call and make their way across the flat to the pub for cool drinks and to listen to the live entertainment which is part of the deal. This is where the free site fees are paid by way of trading volumes of alcohol.

My closest camp neighbour was an older bloke with a very long grey beard.His name was Pete, he’d been a chippy in NZ for many years and in 2003 returned to bury his mum. As it happens, mum hung in there and is still alive today so Pete has been on the road ever since living off the land pretty much and  enjoying the simple life. He explained that his slight limp and stiffness in his back resulted from several falls from scaffolding, one of which was over two stories down through a manhole flat on his back onto a rubble pile. No compo or work cover then of course, the same fall today would see him a millionaire.

At the bar one night Pete introduced me to a mate of his called Rowan Murphy. I liked this bloke right from the start; a good strong eye and a hand shake to match is always a fair indication the bloke has had a fair go at life regardless of his success. We yarned about all sorts of stuff that happens in the bush and among other things writing was one we had in common. The dust cover of his book was pinned on the notice board behind the bar so I purchased a copy and then slipped him a couple of books I’d read recently that I reckoned he’d enjoy and with that we parted company.

Right now, I’ve got the drop on him as having read his book I know a fair bit about his life and the book proves he measures up in all departments and then some whereas Rowan will have to wait until mine goes to print, whenever that may be.

The book is called “Dusty Paddocks”, if you see it, buy it, a truly wonderful story about life in the bush packed full of interesting yarns and bush humour.

Meanwhile, at the Ridge where I spent Easter, visitors were flocking into town and the van parks were bulging at the seams. I set up in the main street again on the vacant block between the Chemist and the Church.Many locals dropped in to welcome me back and fill me in on events as they happened through the year.

Lunatic Hill open cut

As I expected, floods gave them more grief than anything else and there were still families camped in town unable to reach their homesteads and many parts of their stations were still under water or roads cut so they couldn’t check stock.

Circumstances as such are no longer newsworthy, only the towns are mentioned at the height of the flood whereas the people in the bush suffer for months on end and this was their third flood this past year. You may well say, oh, but they were given flood relief by the Government, but wait, there’s a catch. Firstly, the money is only available for a short period of time. Then, one needs to photograph the damage and spend the money, if they have it. Then the invoice has to be sent with the application for flood relief money. Sadly, none of this can happen as they can’t even reach their properties.

Looking towards the brighter side, they are happier with blue sky floods that arrive from up-country than drought but right now I reckon they could do with a dry spell.

Loading opal dirt for the wash

Pick work

Old style windlas

No longer mined

The township of Lightning Ridge continues to thrive in its own way and they are proud of their achievements over the years.Before leaving this year I went on a tour bus run that my friend Peter operates. He is pretty handy with a whip and does a few repairs to saddlery and harness from time to time so we have a few things in common. Apart from that he’s the genuine Australian larrikin and spinns a pretty good yarn for the tourists, all of which are true of course but the manner in which they are delivered is priceless. They are far to numerous to mention however, we did pull up on the track at one stage with a view to our left of a certain quantity of roofing iron, some vertical, some at other angles and with even a small amount of imagination you could tell this was a dwelling, they all look much the same. In the area outside the dwelling a vintage car was jacked up at various angles quietly rusting away.Peter announced, see that shadow under the car, well that’s a red cattle dog who sleeps with one eye open and it has a pretty good reputation of keeping people away. Those who made it passed him on the odd occasion copped a hell of a mauling as they made their retreat and the bloke who owns this place is away a lot so the old red dog has done a bloody good job and had plenty of victories. After a few more gruesome stories of people being attacked one tourist finally said oh goodness, I wonder who owns this place. Peter  said, I do.

Make an effort to visit the Ridge some time, it really is a special place.

Until next time.

Steve and Sass

At the end of another years prowling around the Australian backcountry attending shows, field days and racemeetings and having camped at all sorts of interesting places, most with out water views, it was relaxing to finally camp within spitting distance of the mighty Darling River at Wentworth for six wonderful weeks in the lead up to Christmas.

This spot is also one favoured by Sass, she spent many hours playing in the water during the heat of the day and had ample time to burry bones which would then be left for time enough so they acquired that special vintage aroma then re-serve them at the time of her choosing. Initially, there was an issue as to where these re-birthed meals could be eaten, her choice was beside my chair, mine, no closer than kicking distance and that wasn’t wearing double pluggers either.

After a week off I opened a shop in Darling Street in an old stock and station agents building. There were lots of rooms and the building had tons of character which lent itself to creating an interesting display. My old mate Kevin Murphy who also does the show run with Australian made goods shared the shop with me. He has coats and jackets by Burke and Wills, camp ovens by Southern Metal Spinners, leather care products by Oakwood and the Didgeridoona range. With these products along with our leather luggage range, brief cases, handbags, wallets, whips and all sorts of station gear the display looked impressive to say the least, we had something for everybody.

To advertise that we were back in town I put together an A4 flyer and sent a thousand out via the Post Office to the locals, the stations up as far as Menindee and to those  on the Anabranch. The support was terrific and the locals welcomed us back seeking assurance that we’d visit again the following year.

Sharing a shop has unique benefits regarding work hours, mine were Monday, Wednesday and Friday and Kev worked Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning. Generally at shows we only work two days a week so the extra work load took some getting used too. On several occasions I felt a twinge of guilt knowing that the boys at our factory at Byron were punching out huge volumes of product and had been working extremely long hours for months and still had the order book full for January and February. I used to be part of that before I embarked on the “no fixed address tour” marketing our products Australia wide.

So with time on my hands camped the banks of the Darling River I caught river life as it passed by through the lens of my camera.

From dawn to dusk, life of some sort was using the river either as habitat or for the simple pleasures of living, then, as the sunset the mozzies took over although they weren’t as savage this year which was surprising given that the river had been in flood for so long.

With a high river, houseboats were constant companions and willingly giving those land-locked a friendly wave as they cruised past. Fisherman, in their choise of tinnies were the early birds to the water each day setting off to their favorite spots to snare a yellow-belly or two. I think the dreaded carp took most of their bait but a few were successful in bagging a feed.

Twice a week the rowing club practised their sprints and starts passed my camp, it was good to hear the familiar noise of the rollicks as they hit the catch. A much different noise came from the skiers in their powerful flash looking boats as they burbled along in the restricted 4 mile an hour zone on their way to the Murray where they cut loose with all the power they possessed.

Evening riverboat party cruises were popular at this time of year and the punters far more jolly on their return after an hour or two of loosening their lips with ice cold tinnies and a variety of wines and spirits and of course a barby on the deck.

The Darling River becomes a reality not far from Bourke as rivers such as the Barwon, the Bokkara, the Culgoa and the Bogan become one waterway, however, each of those rivers were in turn fed by so many other well known rivers in the Darling Basin. Down stream of Bourke more water hits the Darling from The Warrego and further still after passing Louth and Tilpa the Paroo River joins but its waters rarely reach this far but did so recently one of the few times in our history. From Wilcannia down to Menindee, then Pooncarie and finally to Wentworth the Darling River waters have flowed 1475 kilometres through remote station country to finally join the Murray.

Plan a trip out this way sometime, it’s wonderful country and the tiny towns I’ve mentioned along the Darling below Bourke are almost living history and  you will meet some the the most interesting people there.

Until next time.

Steve and Sass

It was four years ago now and I was happily playing in the yard at a Goondiwindi station with my brother and sister puppies (all red cattle dogs) when a ute pulled up at the homestead. The bloke from the ute chattered with the lady who owned the station then suddenly she grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and handed me to him, the bloke gave me a few pats then we jumped into his vehicle and off we went.

This was the start of my new life with a fellow named Steve, a friendly sort of bloke who gave me plenty of food which I didn’t even have to fight for. I soon had a collar fitted around my neck and a rope attached, this stopped me running around collecting stuff and digging holes everywhere.

Steve decided to call me Sass, I liked that name,it sounded pretty flash. We went everywhere together and I soon realised it was my job to stay with Steve all the time and as well guard the ute when he disappeared into shops to pick up our food supplies. At this stage I was about three months old and had really sharp puppy teeth and needed to chew on things so when Steve left me in the ute alone I’d get to work and chew up anything laying about, especially phone  chargers. The stormy looks directed my way when he returned were a bit frightening and the words far from friendly. When this happened I moved right over near the door in case all this ill feeling turned into something more aggressive and sit there quietly and put my best ‘no body loves me look’. Steve would soon give me a pat and all would be well again. I worked out this is called ‘man management’, something to learn early in life if your going to survive.

Guarding the ute was fun and people passing by often stopped and looked in the window saying, look at the puppy, isn’t she cute. Firstly I thought this was sort of nice but soon became sick of it so I’d pretend to be friendly and wait until they were really close to the window then suddenly launch an attack snapping and snarling showing them my sharp little teeth. The looks on their faces was priceless, silly grins vanished to be replaced by looks of shock and dismay as they hurried off, I loved doing that. Puppy days were pretty good fun but unfortunately the learning curve was fairly steep.

Having realised I had to stick around and not stroll off following all the wonderful ground smells I spent less time on the rope, or chain now as the ropes were to easy to chew through. When Steve said ‘stay there’ and then disappear I used to worry something would happen to him and I’d never be fed again. Trying to be patient sitting there watching the spot I saw him last without becoming distracted was difficult. The boundary at that stage seemed to be the ropes going from the ground to the tent fly. On one occasion to fill in time while he was away I chewed through a couple of ropes then suddenly the house fell over. Just then Steve came around the corner so I rushed out to meet him wagging my tail as hard as I could go. Then he saw the damage I’d caused, dear oh dear the look on his face and the bad language, and wicked remarks directed at me was too much so I headed for the ute and took cover behind the front wheel and peeped out.

Soon the house was up again and the dark looks had softened slightly so I crawled over to him and nudged his leg with my nose looking up trying to catch his eye and putting on my best friendly grin. He looked down mumbling something about red pups and never ever again then finally everything was back to normal again.

Life at this stage seemed to broken into three phases, the fun times playing with Steve and prowling along river banks together, blissful sleeps in the sun and thirdly the major stuff-ups, such as when I launched myself at a lady passing by and latched onto her sarong which became stuck in my teeth and caused all sorts of embarrassing moments for Steve trying to get me untangled from the screaming semi-naked person. Another time was when I left the camp and tracked Steve down through the park to a toilet block and snuck in the door only to be yelled and and threatened to be severely kicked by some old codger but I couldn’t get out because the door had clicked shut. Luckily Steve appeared from the shower coming to my defence telling the old bloke that if he kicked the pup he would get a thorough kicking as well. Next thing Steve slipped his fingers beneath my collar and I was marched home to the camp with my back legs peddling but only getting a toe hold every couple of yards, then on the chain I went with severe threats regarding my life if I didn’t stay at the camp when told to.

I remember one day I was nearly put in the nick, it all started after a long road trip and Steve pulled up in town outside the store with the big W to gather more food. As always, the doors wern’t locked and the windows were left down and I was in charge. The trouble was that I was busting for a wee so I hoped out the window and found a nice spot then went back to jump in again but I couldn’t leap high enough and each time fell down flat on my back. I thought, I could be in a spot of bother here, I can’t get back in the ute to guard it so I’d better find Steve so he knows I’m not doing my job.

I took off and crossed the road and was tooted and yelled at by cars going way to fast but made it to the front doors. Looking through the doors I could see the building was huge with row after row of yummy food stacked from the floor to the ceiling. I had no idea where to go so I followed the best smelling lane where the meat and the bones were stacked on shelf after shelf just waiting to be eaten. Lots of people were pointing at me and laughing saying, look at the dog. I searched for Steve everywhere and turned down the second lane but there was no sign of him. By now everybody had stopped shopping and I was the main attraction then two people dressed in blue started to chase me. I legged it as fast as I could down the next lane running smack bang into a lady with a pram who started to scream. I looked ahead and one of the blue people was blocking my path but I easily swerved past them and turned down the next lane but loosing it on the corner and skidded straight into a stack of tins that fell on me and all over the place. This was getting pretty scary and for Gods sake I thought where the hell was Steve hiding. The blue people made another grab at me and some of the children had joined the chase as well. This was getting really dangerous and as I turned the last corner people were blocking my way but there was a small gap next to where the butter was kept so I dived through there and went flat strap towards the front of the shop. I put my claws out for extra grip to take the corner and lost it skidding straight into a pile of empty boxes. I couldn’t work out why some people were laughing and having fun while others chased me down yelling abuse at me. Finally I made it to the doors and escaped, I shot over the road heading for the ute still going flat out and made an almighty leap at the window just managing to get my paws over the edge. I peddled like made with my back legs and finally made it. Safe at last as I looked back to see if they were still chasing me but they must have given up. Then I spotted Steve coming out of the door where the beer and wine was kept, hell, why didn’t I look in there.

Soon he was loading gear in the back and I was still panting after all the running about and he gave me a drink saying what a good little red dog I’d been. I put my best grin on and gave him a lick thinking, if he really knew what I’d been up to the friendly pat would have turned into a good scruffing.

Life on the road attending shows was fun as we only worked two days a week, generally Friday and Saturday, the rest of the time we just played around until it was show time again.

By now we were in the NT at Alice Springs, this is where I was attacked by a pack of dogs that suddenly appeared from a dry river bed called the Fink. The dogs looked really skinny and had patches of hair missing and torn ears, two of them had stumpy tails the same as my mother. They were the biggest mongrel looking dogs in Australia barking like mad and heading straight towards me so I bolted towards a big old river gum growing straight out from the bank of the river and ran up the trunk and turned to face them so I’d only have to fight one at a time. Luckily they stopped at the base and Steve came over laughing at me and yelling at the mongrels to shoot through, with lots of rude words mixed in of course. When the coast was clear I climbed down and we went back to our camp on the show ground which was close by the dog competition arena. The dogs hear are very posh and always have their hair done properly and are walked about on leads and even have their poo picked up in plastic bags. Steve said red cattle dogs from stations don’t need that sort of special attention, especially the last bit.

The nights at Alice were freezing and below zero then we headed north and two days later arrived at Kununurra where the temperature doesn’t fall below twenty five, all my hair started to fall out so I could keep cool and it went everywhere. You should have seen inside the ute, Steve wasn’t very happy but he got used to it after a while. It was even hotter in Darwin and by then most of my winter coat was spread out across the top end of Australia. Next thing we headed back down to Harts Range near Alice, one of the coldest places in central Australia and there I was dressed in my summer uniform, I nearly died so spent most of the time in a chair beside the fire. Shortly after that we headed north again to Derby and Broome, thank goodness for that.

One second later, I got him.

Frosty nights in central Australia.

Could be trouble here.

Bluey, a mate from Glen Innes

I think we’ve been on the road about four years now; we get to visit all sorts of interesting places such as Coopers Creek, Birdsville, and the Daly River, all of WA, Borroloola and Bing Bong in the Gulf, Arltunga east of Alice, Lightening Ridge, Cameron Corner and so many more. I reckon I have enough bones burried around Australia to last me a couple of years and Steve promised as soon as I get a few more friends I can go on face book as I have nearly mastered Word Press.

Until next time.

Sass   (Steve said to say G’day to you all).

Many of the town and district events I visit in the far outback are pretty much in house affairs whereas at Winton, a small western Queensland town is quite the opposite, it specialises in entertaining thousands of travellers most of whom come from the coast or nearby inside country. Winton is best known for three major events in history, firstly being the birth place of Quantas, secondly the place where our unofficial national anthem Waltzing Matilda was first recited and written of course by none other than “The Banjo” (A.B Patterson) whilst visiting Dagworth Station, and thirdly the Dinosaur stampede. This was discovered by a local station manager who first noticed strange marks in the soil which were later excavated and proved to be preserved tracks of Dinosaurs hunting some 95 million years ago.This is a huge draw card for visitors throughout the year who now play a big part in the towns survival.

Once of course, the shearers would have been the main stay being traditionally a wool growing area where in such a town you would expect to find at least six to eight shearing contractors who in turn would each employ twenty or more men many of whome had families. The demise of the wool industry put many small country towns on the brink of disaster, barely surviving in fact and losing most facilities we take for granted. The number of old hotel buildings in a main street is a fair indication a town was once suported by a thriving wool industry. Winton still has four fabulous old pubs operating and Barcaldine, a simular sized town 280 k’s east has six pubs and almost side by side.

A web of channels forming the Western River skirts the southern end of town which eventually flows into the Diamantina River. From whichever direction you travel to Winton first you must spend several hours driving across vast open plains of mitchell and flinders grass dotted with small breaks of gidgee, boree and beefwood trees. I’m sure the visitors experience the real sense of being outback by the time they reach their destination. The locals on the other hand think the outback starts well west of Winton, in fact over 360 k’s away somewhere out near Boulia.

The Winton Outback Festival is well known and publicised and has been successfully run for many years now. There are so many challenging events to compete in during the week but without doubt the iron man event is recognised as the main feature. This is run in three sections, mens, ladies and kids and as well entries may be as individuals or as a team. The feature of this race is the swim leg held out at Long Waterhole which is two k’s from town out the Jundah road.  Competitors were faced with a swim/wade through a murky muddy watercourse, then up over an island and back through the slush to where the race started. I would have loved to taken pics of this event but having our leather goods on display meant I had to remain in town serving customers. The bike leg got under way in town and that was the last I saw of them however the run leg was held in the main drag and with temperatures reaching 38 degrees each day many red faces could be seen as they crossed the finish line.

There were so many events for the visitors to take part in and each of the four days saw the streets packed with competitors and spectators. Some of these were cow turd throwing, egg throwing and catching, broom tossing then whip cracking, bands, dunny races, tug of war, truck pulling, strong man events,street parades and so on, there seemed no end to it. All sorts of stalls and food vans lined the street and the pubs did a roaring trade well into the night.

This is the ultimate family outback experience and for a small western town to pull together running the event so successfully ensured everybody felt that special bush hospitality.

Stormy skies.

Percussion band.

Having to operate my business as all these activities took place didn’t give me the opportunity to cover the event as I would have liked and the time available to take pics was limited to pre dawn and dusk. The shots I missed such as the brolgas or native companions strutting down the street out side the Matilda Center as the huge red sun rose distorted by the smoky skies is one for the memory so unavailable to share. With so much smoke on the horizon and evening storm clouds gathering the most amazing skies resulted which were almost spooky.

My shop in the main street was set up opposite some particularly clever work in the form of sculpture relating to the pride of the town being the famous verse of Waltzing Matilda.

"He camped and he watched and he waited till his billy boiled"

"Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee"

"Down came a trooper mounted on his thoroughbred"

The buildings in town show their age with still most in use, the residents take pride in dressing their front yards with all sorts of interesting objects from the past or creations built from bits and pieces found locally. As you pass various locations you will notice dummies dressed as old timers placed on rooftops, in shop windows, up trees or tied to a fence, this helps create a special image unique to the Winton township.

Views west at dusk.

Finally the week at Winton was over, no more warm sunny days as I headed towards South Australia to experience the unpleasant  rainy days where the bitterly cold winds prevail as they sweep in from the southern ocean and make life miserable. Oh how I wish the shows continued in the north until the end of the year.

Bra bunting.

Passing through Wyandra between Charleville and Cunnamulla I noticed some strange bunting along a fence line. Closer inspection revealed the nature of the items and the story is that the locals have been raising money for breast cancer and to draw attention to their efforts they lined the fences with thousands of bras. What a good idea.

Another day over.

I hope this finds you lazing about in the sunshine enjoying life.

Until next time.

Steve and Sass

Armed with a Mrs Mac pepper steak pie and a carton of iced coffee Sass and I left the Heartbreak Hotel and headed south down across the vast open plains to camp the night at the Barkly Homestead. The previous extended wet season left this country in good shape with plenty of feed so the stock were in forward to fat condition. Even the odd few water holes that exist along the track remained full enough to hold a variety of birdlife that would normally moved on well before this.

Eventually we arrived at the Barkly Homestead and I pulled in beside another gooseneck horse trailer where the bigger riggs camp.The bloke who owned the rigg was keen for a yarn and being close to beer time it seemed like a good idea. As it turned out we both knew many of the same people from the bush from all over Australia but for some reason we’d never crossed paths. His name is Bob Holder from down around Cootamundra way, he’s managed stations, been a drover,a horse breaker, a live stock dealer and is now a real-estate agent for Elders. Bob is probably best known as a rodeo competitor and has travelled far and wide across Australia attending these events.Even now at the age of 81 he has just competed at the Darwin Rodeo in the team roping event, a fantastic effort and a great Australian character as well. Bob slipped away to feed up and on his way back picked up a bag from a nearby hanger, inside we discovered a Jeppeson Airways manual; it covered a trip from London to Sydney via twenty other countries. Some weeks ago on his way to Darwin Bob stayed here and met a bloke in a wheel chair who had flown an Ultra Light plane from London on his way to Sydney to raise money for the Royal Flying Doctor Service. I still have the manual and have been trying to track him down but to this point, no luck.

Back on the road again next day we headed east across the Barkly to Camooweal for the drovers festival. I was surprised to see so many dingoes prowling about, the report is that their numbers are now out of control over much of Australia and giving the station owners plenty of grief. If I ever give up marketing our leather goods I think I’ll become a wild dog stiffener.

Back in the days before the road trains Camooweal was the starting point where drovers assembled with their men and plant to wait on word via telegrame for orders from the big stations in the top end and the Kimberelys to pick up mobs that would then be walked over to Queensland many via the the famous Murranji track to Newcaste Waters, from there across the Barkly to Camooweal and down to Dajarra to the then new rail head or on down further south to the channel country or to the Birdsville track and on to Adelaide.

The last of the boss drovers living today gather at Camooweal each year for a weekend where the public and guests can meet these men and listen to the stories of the epic journeys they made over the years.

We all know the stories about droving have been romanticised in verse and song but I can assure you it was nothing other than a bloody  tough and hard lonely life. Sleeping in a swag on the ground for months on end, eating boiled beef and damper seven days a week, riding from daylight till dusk then doing several hours at night riding night watch can hardly be described as an easy and romantic life style. Conditions were always tough, lack of feed and water for the cattle, long hot dry dusty periods or weeks of rain with flooded rivers to cross and worst of all when the mob rushed off camp sometime during the night were all part of the drovers life. With over a thousand head in hand the boss drovers life had few pleasures and a massive responsibility in delivering the entire mob in good condition.

The other activities during the weekend included bronco branding, country music, poetry renditions, an art exhibition of paintings drawings and photography, an evening ball, the Camooweal street parade and an evening at the local pub with entertainment.

Our leather good were on display and Noel Giles the blacksmith from Mackay turned up with an impressive display of product he’d made on the forge. I think Gilesy could be better described as an artist, but one who uses a forge, anvil and hammer  rather than a brush and canvas, a great bloke and extremely talented.

A few other blokes I caught up with were Ian Michaels, my old boss when I worked on Victoria River Downs and Stumpy Adams who was a ringer there at the same time. Scott Bloxsome, was of Australia’s past rodeo champions called in and finally I met Ian McBean, a bloke I was meant to work for and wished I had. He has lived an extraordinary life in the top end, a wonderful character.

Once again it was time to pack up and move on to the next event. I had 875 k’s to knock over that day so I left before the sun rose heading south to Mount Isa, on to Dajarra, then to Boulia then Bedourie and finally drove into Birdsville as the sun was setting over the sand hills. Exceptional rains over the past three years have resulted in far west Queensland looking the best it has been at any point in time since the area was first discovered and again the stock tell the story. Lakes now stretch to the horizon where once scalded clay-pans existed and the wild life is everywhere.

The Birdsville races are the focal point of the race round in the far west, the week prior being Betoota and the week after, Bedourie.To add further entertainment to a trip out this far Bouila put on camel races and Winton, an out back festival which I will attend. Although the dirt roads out here are well prepared prior to the onslaught of traffic they soon deteriorate as the would be bushys geared up with 4WD’s and campers drive flat out passing everything in sight spraying stones and dust over those driving according to road conditions.Regardless, everyone enjoys the week at Birdsville as they wander from the pub to the retail displays, over the the museum and the bakery, then Brophys boxing tent and back to the pub then finally stagger back to their camps on the banks of the Diamantina River. Friday and Saturday sees the town much quieter as the mob moves out to the race track for more drinks and dust then of course back to the pub and the boxing to indulge in various forms of social interaction.

With Birdsville over for another year we headed off to Windorah to Camp on Coopers Creek for a couple of days away from the crowds and the dust. I was travelling with Kevin Murphy, a mate selling Australian made camping and clothing gear. Not far out of Birdsville I blew a tyre so lost contact with him. Hours later and about 150 k out of Windorah I spotted his truck beside the road so I pulled over thinking he’d stopped to boil the billy. Kev didn’t look all that relaxed as the truck had cut out and pumped out the engine oil so things looked pretty grim. He jumped in with me and we headed into town hoping to find someone who could help us. A bloke at the servo reckoned Merv and his son could fix anything and lived just down the street. Windorah is not a really big town so it didn’t take long to find them, they were loading half a dozen four wheelers getting ready for a five o’clock start the next morning to do some spraying about 400 k’s out to the north west. Even so they were keen to help so gathered up some tools and oil and headed off.

I went out to Coopers Creek to camp the night and returned to Windorah next morning. To my surprise Kevs truck was sitting there in town, they had found the problem, fixed it and got back by ten that evening.

When it came time to settle the account Merv wouldn’t accept more than $150 as saying he was glad to be able to help so Kev gave them a camp oven as well to try and square up.

The breakdown could easly have been an $8000 recovery exercise including a new motor, towing costs and several weeks off the road.

Merv and his son offered the best bush hospitatily and proffecional workmanship you could ever wish for going well out of their way to help and charging a fraction of what the job was worth.

Another fantastic Australian family from the bush, that’s whyI love being out here.

Until next time.

Steve and Sass.

On the map Borroloola appears to be somewhat isolated sitting way up in the Gulf but it’s only a 7 hour drive to Katherine or about 10 hours to Mount Isa. Most of the every day items required to stay alive can be purchased locally, the quality and choice may be laking especially in fruit and veg but you soon get used to that. The hard part is getting used to the prices they charge, especially for beer and the winter temperature sitting on 35 degrees tends to make one consume more beer than ever.

Just north of Borroloola towards Bing Bong there is a turn of to the popular fishing retreat called the King Ash Bay Resort on the banks of the McAuthor River, another barra mecca that draws fisherman from the deep south each winter. Here you find areas reserved for fishing clubs as far away as Tennant Creek and Alice Springs and further along the river is a pub or club of sorts that serves ice cold beer to its members who sign up during their stay. It’s also a meeting place where the days catch can grow longer and heavier by the hour.

Having a weekend spare prior the Camooweal Drovers Reunion I cut across from the Highway Inn on the Stuart Highway to Cape Crawford, better known as the Heartbreak Hotel then on up to Borroloola for their camp draft and rodeo. This is well supported by the locals of which ninety percent are Aboriginal. They pretty much own and run all the businesses in town. Also people from surrounding stations in the Gulf and from the Barkly load up their trucks, trailers and road trains and arrive for the three days of competition ensuring the weekend is a roaring success. I met people from Seven Emus Station, Brunette Downs, Walhallow and McAuthor River stations; although events in the top end are mostly a thousand k’s apart many make the effort to attend and support each other.

The judge, Mick Ward was imported from around Dubbo to oversee the weekends events. I can remember Mick at camp drafts down south thirty years ago; he was one of the top drafters then and apparently still is.

There was one event that didn’t require a judge. This is where they tape $50 notes to a cows horns then cut her loose in the arena. Anybody between the age of eleven and twenty-one may enter and try their luck removing the notes as the cow gallops around. It’s probably a bit on the dangerous side for the competitors and fortunately no one was badly injured and the money remained fixed so I think the cow won. To see something like this you need to find a road less travelled, target an isolated spot where people from the bush have gathered for a weekend of fun and join them, you’ll never regret it or forget it.

The Aboriginal community really look forward to their rodeo, extended families arrive and set up camp then the kids take off running and playing all over the place. Nearly all the kids are dressed as cowboys having no regard for what size boots they wore, those  who didn’t arrive with the full kit were soon decked out by Steve and Bernise Arney of Circle B; being their ninth year at this rodeo they knew exactly what stock was needed for the kids and adult competitors.

I asked the Mallapunyah kids where they came from and excitedly they announced, oh just down the road. Maybe not far to them but still 147 k’s and not the best track on which to travel I can assure you.

Stumpy Adams, an old territory mate turned up for the weekend, he competed at this rodeo back in the late 60′s as a jockey and in buckjump events. Why I ever left the territory and chose to work on stations down south I’ll never know. It’s a decision I’ve regretted all my life and being back up here each year for the last four years makes me ask the question over and over again.

Until next time my friends.

Steve and Sass.

The Northern Territory, our last frontier with deserts to tropical wetlands offers endless pleasures to those who visit here.

Having moved on from the Daly my next venue was Harts Range race weekend 1365 k’s south. Just short of Alice Springs I turned left down the Plenty Highway and an hour and a half later turned right down a sandy track to where the racecourse is nestled in beside the rugged foothills of Harts Range.

The annual event held here is run by the surrounding stations and the last place you can witness unique bush sporting events run as they have been since its inception in 1936 and not a re-enactment by some try-hard that you see elsewhere.  The P.A system is the only technology on hand; no phone or TV signals reach this area so people aren’t preoccupied with private communications and the open friendliness between those gathered here is obvious, and blissfully refreshing.

The owner of Ambalindum Station works hard on the microphone for two afternoons at the rodeo keeping the crowd entertained and events rolling along but as the sun rose an early start saw young mounted competitors out there competing to win money in the gymkhana. Lots of bush kids having a fantastic time at their own sporting weekend and the only one for the year. Unlike the Aboriginal kids who live in one area and have a school the station kids being so isolated do distance education so still see each other on screen each day and as well gather once a term  for a school camp in Alice. The general run of schools have the opposite, a week long school camp somewhere in the bush. The Harts Range neighbourhood stretches 150 k’s north, south, east and west and after chatting to the kids asking where they come from the next job is to look on the map to find where their station is situated. These little diggers are great to have a yarn with, such old heads on very young shoulders. Out here almost all the stations are family owned and run so many of these children will someday be the owners of stations well in excess of 500 square miles.

Entertainment in the closer settled areas is taken for granted, but out here a trip to town shopping is a two day affair once a month for the lady of the house whereas the men folk may not leave the station more than half a dozen times a year. Mick Jackson who runs a bullock depot down on the border country reckoned it was time for a break, he had a fourteen hour round trip to attend the races for a yarn and a drink with his mates. The last time I saw him was at the Isisford sheep show in western Queensland.

Another bloke I hadn’t seen since 1973 was Jock McPherson; he now owns a stock agents business in Alice and had sponsored events here at the races and was also the race commentator.It was a great pleasure to catch up with him after so many years and all that time ago we were young stock agents who spent far to much time at the local drinking and playing up. He has offered to include me on some of his station visits next year prior to the Alice show, that’s something I’m really looking forward to.

From a near by station.

The quality of the rodeo stock was excellent, not many riders made time so the action was fast and furious. Between events they had pannel climbing, whip cracking, lizard races, pogo stick riding and yard building comps. The pannel climbing proved to be extremely difficult as trying to climb up one of a free standing steel cattle fence pannel and down the other without coming to grief was impossible for most contestants but finally one nimble character picked up the purse of $500 without breaking his neck.

On day two the events started far to early for the seasoned drinkers to enjoy and kicks off with foot races, three legged and sack races and truck wheel rolling races for the various age groups. Eventually they get to the mile race or one lap around the racetrack, there are two events in this, under sixteen and open It surprised me how well some of the younger kids finished and that’s not counting the ones who cut across the track through the bindies.

By this stage of proceedings the rum drinkers emerge for the cow tail tossing and the tug of war. Cow tail tossing, a ladies event saw people ducking for cover as the tails seemed to have a mind of their own as to where they would land, silence prevailed as each contestant stepped to the line and the audience prepared to duck for cover, a most enjoyable event and the only place I have ever seen it run.

The final afternoon of the rodeo got underway and again extra entertainment between events included wild cow milking  and steer scruffing comps. One of the last rides was the performed by the clown, he rode a steer backwards and made time as well, fantastic effort.

The clown rides a steer backwards.

Cow tail throwing comp.

Evening light over the rugged rocky landscape.

At last, a cold beer.

Picking just a few pics for the blog from so many taken is always difficult. I’ll have to find another site somewhere to include the others.

Until next time.

Steve and Sass

For years I have browsed the second hand book shelves and collected stories about Australian history, individuals life experiences in the bush and classic stories about those who chose to record their sometimes brief stay in this wonderful country, a country which offers endless opportunities for out of the way places to work, to explore or simply live in.

The Daly River visit resulted from a novel I read years ago , written in the late 50′s by a young lady with an exceptional education who chose to go bush to the Daly River with her new husband, an American soldier.

Their problems were unimaginable, young children, no doctors, crocodiles cruising past their frount porch, isolation and then a flood that exceeded all others completely inundating their shack. Rescued by the mission boat, then capsized by a massive log, a child lost overboard that somehow survived with the help of local Aboriginals all made for a particularly interesting novel to read.

Young Jabiru.

So with a week off I headed for the Daly River and found the shrine where the author and her American husband lay and also the place where the once lost overboard child now lives.

Apparently nothing much has changed on the Daly as this year another record flood swept all before it down the river. The evidence is plainly visible; banks savagely eroded causing dangerous sand bars, submerged trees and debris hidden beneath cloudy or rippled waters just waiting for a unwary barra fisherman to pass over in a tinny.

A mate of mine who sells tanks in the NT gave me a tip of the best place to stay when I reached the Daly however, as I arrived at the special Barra Resort I was attacked by three aggressive dogs who lept up trying to bite myself and Sass. They were called off and I selected a shady spot to camp beneath two huge mango trees. I unhooked the gooseneck and set up camp, then as I expected along came the dogs so I grabbed the whip to defend the camp using all the skills I’d learnt over the years on stations. The dogs took off but then the owner arrived and after some interesting debate on how to control dogs I was asked to leave.

Half a mile down the track was another resort called Sinclaires, assuming the bloke that hunted me would have phoned the next place I was reluctant to call in but did so anyway.

Harold who owned and ran Sinclaires had been there since the 70′s, a great bloke, dogs wern’t a problem, fire wood was free and the residents were hard-core barra fishermen and so for the second time that day in a matter of hours I set up camp.

Daly River crossing.

Daly River shop, slightly elevated due to floods.

By that stage of the day it was beer time and still about 35 degrees. Now completely relaxed sitting in the shade of huge African mahogany trees I wondered if life could get any better. Most of the locals in the camp wandered over for a yarn and no doubt to get the measure of the new bloke who turned up with a gooseneck horse trailer and Rugged Luxury stamped on his ute doors.

They were keen to find out if I’d been barra fishing before and hearing this was my first go took the opportunity to offer some interesting and helpful advise.

Next morning early I took of in the ute to follow the track down river to Browns creek where it entered the Daly, just short of this was a public boat ramp and a bloke and his family were just leaving the water  so I dropped over for a yarn. He had recently sold his property at Balranald down on the Murray and bought into some country on the Daly. After talking shop about cattle markets and the export trade for a while it was time to go and as he left he handed me a barra. I tried to refuse on the grounds that I wanted to catch one myself but he wouldn’t hear of it so there I was , the proud owner of a 60 cm barra with instructions to return to camp to clean and fillet it as soon as possible as it was drying out.

Now for the hard part which was walking through the camp to the cleaning table just twenty minuets after leaving but now with a barra in hand. Just as I expected they poked their heads out offering congratulations and well-done etc. and not being able to tell a lie I explained it was a gift from the next door neighbour.

Fair warning.

Croc trap on the Daly

Next morning I headed off early to Browns creek again with my lightweight fishing gear.Here the river was wide with plenty of sand bars. Also lots of logs were visible from a distance or that what I thought they were. Getting closer to the action I realised they were crocs and there were more than a dozen and I began to realize fishing from the bank wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought, bloody down right dangerous in fact as I came across a 7 meter salty hiding in the grass where I thought was a good spot to fish from.

From a distance I thought they were logs.

Crocs everywhere.

7 meter salty

Over the next fews days I tried every way possible to catch a barra, then at last I hooked one on a lure. The bloody fish nearly pulled me off the bank into the water. I had no idea how aggressively they took the bait. Unfortunately the moment of glory didn’t last long as I felt the line go slack realising my gear was far to light for such big fish. So home I went again with out the much sought after prize.

The rules applying to your catch are fairly tight, three barra per person be it in the boat or fridge. The skin must be left on so the beast can be identified by the dreaded inspectors and those who are caught out have their fishing gear, boat, vehicle and anything else in your possession at the time confiscated and held by the department of fisheries for an unreasonable length of time even after paying a hefty fine.

This is why the odd barra is given away as the fisherman get nervous  so they play by the rules pretty well and once again I was given a barra. Sitting back beneath the magnificent mahogany trees licking my wounds but at the same time enjoying lots of cold beer a friendly neighbour arrived and asked if I’d like to go out with him in his boat to catch a barra. John and his wife travel Australia spending as much time as they can keeping their lines wet and as well have a window tinting business which is very successful too I might add.

Luckily I had upgraded my line to 30 pound, most use 50 with an 80 pound leader. John soon had my gear rearranged and the lure was discarded in preference to a monster hook to which we added live bait which was cheeriban, a yabbie type thing found up this way .

We finally got underway and I sort of hoped the boat was going to be bigger than the 3.5 meter tinny we stepped into. Most crocs I’d seen were much longer and other boats larger, but not all. I consoled myself with the fact that at least my demise would be newsworthy if that’s the way things turned out.

We headed down river dodging snags and sand bars but something was lurking beneath the water and we hit it, and bloody hard too. The boat lurched and swung about and for a moment I thought my time had come however, John got things under control again but then the motor kept stopping. John found a way around this and eventually we arrived at the secret barra hole and tied up to a snag.

I’d given up counting crocs; they were everywhere and big ones as well.

Soon we had our lines in the water and the nibbles started. John caught a few small barra and catfish which he released then I had a monster of a bight  and I hooked him, then the barra lept out of the water and spat out the hook and bait.

Not long after another huge pull on my line and John could see it was a big one so talked me through what I should be doing and at the same time got the net ready. Several times the fished dived and I managed to turn him and reel the monster a bit closer. At last he rose beside the boat and John skillfully swooped it into the net. I couldn’t believe it, my first barra and 82cm, that’s considered a good size, I think the smallest you can keep is 55cm.

We did the photo shoot to record the special moment, one I’ll never forget and will remain forever grateful to John for taking me fishing on the Daly.

My first Barra, 82cm.

Waiting for dinner

Cruising near our boat.

At this point it would be a fitting place to finish the story, but wait, there’s more.

The barra went off the bite as the tide turned and we talked about heading home but an old mate of Johns pulled up close to us and cast

his line straight accross ours, sat back for a few moments then said, don’t you hate bastards that do that.

It wasn’t just us who were bemused by his actions but half a dozen other boats that moved close to us when the saw the fish we hauled in. Scruffy has long grey locks and a full very long grey beard to match, a real top end character.

After loosing more gear on snags we called it a day. The motor gave us more grief and finally chucked it in altogether. Luckily Scruffy came along and offered to tow us home to Sinclaires, thank god for Scruffy.

Barra hunters on the Daly.

Jabiru, resting position

Dancing Jabiru

A crocs favorite dinner.

Daly River crossing by Steve Vroom using photo shop

The last shot is by a good friend of mine, Steve Vroom who called in for a couple of days. He’s very skillful with a camera and photoshop as you can see.

Well that’s it from the Daly.

Until next time.

Steve and Sass

Wyndham is where WA’s most northerly port is situated, just over 3040 k’s from Perth. During the dry season it’s a scene of bustling activity as huge livestock road trains deliver cattle to the export facility and even longer road trains deliver iron ore to a dump for loading onto barges.

Unfortunately the livestock  activity has grounded to a halt due to the knee jerk reaction by our Government and remains that way even though the ban has been lifted. What they haven’t told the public is that no further export is allowed until the regulators have had their day of glory.

Thankfully most of the first round muster have been shipped before the shit hit the fan.

Wyndham is only 100 k’s from Kununurra where my camp was set up for the next show, one of the best in the country too I might add. The trip to Wyndham for the day is always enjoyable as it is rich in history, almost like a vintage village in fact.

A must do, in Wyndham is to drop into see Pixie in her shed where she has all sorts of things for sale. She is a real character and sits back in her chair with legs crossed and resting on the counter as she rolls a smoke answering questions about her tiny towns history.

As I turned down onto a side track to the Prison Tree it was obvious many had visited the site before and chose to leave their mark, what a pity. I tried to get Sass to jump into the tree but no ammount of encouragement would entice her to do so, not that I blame her, the tree made an eerie sound and a fowl smell came out of the hole.

Prison tree

Station country near Wyndham

Wyndham race track.

I’ll bet there has been some wild turn outs held at this race track over the years.

Next year I’ll try to follow the Ord River down from Lake Argyle down toward where it flows into the sea.

Until next time.

Steve and Sass.

My run up through Queensland is over with the last show which is always a good one at the Curry (Cloncurry) . The next show at Alice Springs, a mere 1300 k’s away via Camooweal, Three ways, and Tennant Creek is where I finally feel some space and enjoy the uninterrupted views to the horizon.

Winter in central Australia can be severe, this year temperatures drop to zero at night however the days were perfect, around 20 and a bit more at times.

Having a week to myself I stopped at Gemtree for a few days and from there followed tracks through the ranges over to Arltunga. This is where gold was first discovered at a spot called Paddys Rock Holes, soon after, a rush started and men travelled over some of Australia’s harshest country to peg their claim. So little surface water exists out here even after one of the best seasons in our history it amazes me they were able to complete the trip without perishing. As well, the rocky undulating ground surface must have been a nightmare to travel over.

For the first ten years very little development took place and at the most there were 41 miners working the goldfields. Soon after, gold was discovered at nearby White Range. The SA Government installed a battery to crush the rock and it wasn’t long before numbers on the fields passed 400.

The Town of Arltunga was now established.

Whatever items were needed on the goldfields came from Adelaide, firstly on rail to Oodnadatta and from there by camel or horse teams for a further 600 kilometers over unforgiving country that deteriorated the further north they travelled.

Arltunga is now in a fenced reserve and looked after by Jim and Jan (not their actual names) who act as rangers protecting the historic site. Actually they had mine leases in the area and were soon to retire and asked to take the job on as  Government rangers kept leaving the post due to the isolation factor. The pair do a wonderful job explaining and showing how gold was won to the many tourists that visit the area on day trips from Alice.

An area is set aside for gold heads like me to try their luck detecting, unfortunately all I found was was small pieces of metal rubbish left over from the mining ventures all those years ago, but I’ll be back to try again sometime down the track.

Most of the stations around Alice Springs have been held by the same families for generations, unlike the top end where the majority are owned by companies. The cattle in the south of the N.T are predominately british bred, herefords and shorthorns and those in the north, brahmans. Generally the weaners are sent south to sale yards, feedlots or meat works rather than north to the live export trade and this year for the forth year a shorthorn beast won the hoof and hook competition at the Alice show.

The pictures above display a different image of central Australia than most would have in mind and without the Mac Donnell  Ranges in the background dominating the scenery and the plains country covered with an abundance of herbage so barely any red dirt is visible one could be easily convinced  the shots were taken elsewhere and not east of Alice out towards the Simpson Desert.

Until next time.

Steve and Sass