The View From Connor's Hill

by Barry Heard

  Finally, the band would start playing again, and the adults would stroll even more slowly back into the hall. At a given signal, it was time for us kids. There would be dozens of us, and nothing — not a crumb or skerrick of food — remained on those tables when we finished. I have very fond memories of those suppers.

  The Swifts Creek Hall had many uses: it was the venue for movies, dances, badminton, plays, debutante balls, and amateur evenings that boasted some outstanding singers and musicians — and some pretty ordinary ones as well. There were school break-ups, community meetings, Country Women’s Association meetings, and special concerts like Slim Dusty’s. It was also the locale of a secret meeting.

  Held in the supper room once a month, Bob, my stepfather, used to attend them. It was the lodge meeting of the Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffalo: a very serious and secretive gathering that held mystical rituals and other unusual goings-on. At school, I had heard that those involved dressed strangely, muttered weird sayings, and regularly rode a billygoat. Word had it that the door to the supper room had a guard. Of course, when you waved that sort of information in front of your average country kids we became full of curiosity and simply had to see what was going on in there. With a plan devised, I somehow became the ringleader.

  One wall of the supper room had three windows. They were quite high up, well out of reach, so you couldn’t just peep in through them. Our plan involved not only a test of courage but also demanded strength. At the designated time, about eight of us turned up. The tall blokes — I was one of them — would stand with their backs to the wall, and hoick a mate up while the others pushed.

  The first kid to reach window level was Bloss Higgs. No sooner had he started to sneak a look at the mysteries of the Buffaloes than a noise erupted from inside, and all hell broke loose: someone had spotted Bloss. We took off like rabbits.

  The next day at school, Bloss gave us a very vivid description of what he’d briefly seen. There were two goats — one really big. One bloke wore armour and, Bloss reckoned, he wielded a sword or a spear or something. That was damn scary, I thought. However, when Bloss said they were about to behead an intruder — from ‘above the Gap’ — I lost interest. That was stretching the truth a bit, I reckoned. Still, I never dared ask the old man what went on in there.

  AFTER TONGIO, the move to Doctors Flat turned out to be a blessing. I had the river, a school bus, neighbours about half-a-mile away, and the bush. Sheepstation Creek was only 300 yards from our house. It ran into the Tambo River after a short but rapid journey down from the Angora Ranges, a long, high line of mountains to our west. From the mouth of Sheepstation Creek to the bush was a distance of just over two miles.

  During that first year, Robbie and I each got a horse. Fizz was Robbie’s horse, and mine was Sandy Mac. They were both docile animals, ideal for a first horse. It made me feel normal to get a horse. Every other farm kid in the area had one; the Reid boys even rode their horses to school.

  It seemed we had moved to the perfect location — it was like a permanent holiday site, with so much fun to be had up the river, down the river, climbing the high Weeping Willow trees. Then, early in the morning, by sneaking up to the river’s bank and peering quietly into the crystal-clear water, we discovered eels, sand trout, platypus, and large frogs. Mum had us cutting a funny-looking, green bushy plant that re-grew very quickly — asparagus — and we loved eating it.

  Across the river were paddocks that harboured countless rabbits, which meant that trapping would be easy. Betty and Goldie, our two milking cows, were free to roam the river, as there was no cow paddock. Fortunately, there was an abundance of grass, and they rarely wandered far from home. In fact, I enjoyed getting off the school bus and hunting for them. Although we lived only 100 yards off the Omeo Highway, it fascinates me now that, over the years, our milkers never strayed onto the road — particularly in the mornings after I had finished milking, when there were several timber trucks that used the road daily.

  After exploring many of the new places around Doctors Flat, it was Sheepstation Creek and those big mountains that intrigued me. I’m sure I was spurred on by recalling some of the wonderful yarns that Les had told me when we’d lived at Tongio.

  The first time I walked to Sheepstation Creek, I decided to explore the bridge. It was a small, wooden structure on the Omeo Highway. Underneath, I found a small grey eel in a rather large pool. It swam away rapidly, and headed upstream. I followed it, and found an old windmill spinning around and pumping water into a rusted water tank. Nearby was an old, small weatherboard house. An old man came out, and I realised that I knew him — it was Mr Dorrington. Mum had known him when she was a child, and he had called into our house at Doctors Flat several times. He wandered over and we talked: he spoke about Mum fondly, and he reminisced about his farm.

  That night, at home, I mentioned my visit to the old house and meeting Mr Dorrington. Then, to my surprise, Mum said that we were buying the property Mr Dorrington had talked about. This was exciting — it was a square mile of land up Sheepstation Creek somewhere, through a bush block and an old gate. Apparently, it had a small paddock, and a house or hut.

  Suddenly, I became very interested in exploring the bush. No sooner had my parents purchased the block than they named it ‘Dorrington’s’. Admittedly, it wasn’t a farm, as I’d first thought, but a bush property, located behind another timbered property we called ‘McCallum’s’, out on Sheepstation Creek. Both properties, only sparsely cleared, were on the eastern slopes of the Angora Ranges.

  The history of Dorrington’s went back to the late 1800s. Apart from a few cleared acres, it had no paddocks, no farm buildings, didn’t carry any stock, and was generally steep, grassless, stringy-bark bush. The first time I went out with Dad, we followed a narrow dirt road that led to the small paddock. We called it the ‘Five Acres’.

  There was a log cabin just up from the creek. Around the cabin were the remnants of a yard, a chook house, a garden, and a woodheap. This suggested that the cabin must have been a stopping-off place, or simply a small settlement, at some time in the past. There wasn’t enough cleared country to run stock. After our inspection, we could see that even the border fence at Dorrington’s had never been completed, and those few fences we found were beyond repair and needed replacing.

  Not deterred by this, our first sheep — five ex-poddy lambs — proudly marched out to the property, not long after the signing of certain papers. Well, not quite marched. I walked and they followed. That is exactly what they did at home. Poddies are different in personality from mob sheep. If I went to find the milkers, Mary-Anne and all the other poddy sheep would follow me dutifully. When I got off the school bus, they would run and greet me like a friendly dog would. To be honest, I was sorry to see them moved to Dorrington’s.

  For me, the acquisition of Dorrington’s was like getting a big birthday present. I couldn’t wait to go into the bush and explore it. When we lived at Tongio, there was some light bush just below our house; here, at Doctors Flat, it was only just over three miles to the real bush, with large mountains and many things to look for and learn about.

  By now I was almost twelve, and I was allowed to use Dad’s rifle — a 22 calibre. My first trip up into the bush was on my own, on horseback. A sling held the rifle across my back, and our dog, Darky, came along. It was a very short adventure, though. Sandy Mac, spooked by something, shied, and I ended up thumped against a tree, from where I slid to the ground. Sandy Mac took off. I found him at the first gate, caught him, and returned home.

  The next time I headed bush, I decided, I’d ride Sandy Mac to the last paddock, leave him there, and walk into the bush. The old log cabin (the one I called the ‘Five Acres’) was in that last paddock, and Sheepstation Creek ran right next to it. I would take rabbit traps, a camp oven, some blankets, the rifle, and some food — mainly potatoes and onions. Rabbits were very common throughout eastern Vic
toria, and I would either trap or shoot a rabbit. My parents were quite happy for me to be away for days at a time — something that seemed natural then, but is virtually unimaginable today.

  chapter five

  Exploring the bush

  DORRINGTON’S WAS THE PLACE FROM WHERE I WANTED TOstart my adventures. I had already planned that the log cabin was going to be my base. It had been there since the 1800s, and was possibly 60 to 80 years old. The roof, which was made of stringy-bark, had disintegrated and collapsed. Wombats had dug a huge hole in the floor. Oddly enough, there was a very old iron bed inside — with no mattress — and an open fire with a corrugated chimney at one end.

  I filled the hole, put some old canvas over the roof, and generally cleaned up the cabin. It took me several days to make it habitable.

  The first time I camped in the cabin was for one night only, on my own. I headed out late on a Friday afternoon, after finishing my yard chores. Sandy Mac wasn’t happy with the extra bags and gear I had lashed over his back and neck; his ears were laid back, and it took me several sharp kicks to entice him out the gate. We trotted into Wilson’s Paddock and up the Sheepstation Creek track towards the bush, through McCallum’s and out to the Five Acres. Darkie and Skipper, however, were beside themselves. Skipper was a black mongrel dog we’d had for a few months. I would use the camp oven to cook chops, along with spuds and onions, and some scraps for the dogs. For brekkie, I had brought along bread and eggs.

  That night I lit a big fire outside, and sat for ages poking at the flames, and creating formations of sparks that twirled and twisted to the heavens. There is something about a fire in the open — it always fascinates me, and I can spend hours just staring and fiddling with it as it burns.

  After a good night’s sleep on the iron bed, I rose early. My plan was to climb up the high mountain behind the log cabin until I reached Mad Lucy’s Rock — a very large granite rock near the top that was visible from many parts of the Tambo Valley. There were countless stories and mysteries about that huge rock.

  (Legend had it that a local lady, a recluse called Lucy, would wander over this way from Brookville occasionally. Due to her absolute insistence on privacy, she was the subject of many scary stories told to us kids. Some 30 years later, I saw her at her hut near Brookville on several occasions; she was very old, still very wary of passers-by, and she ran inside if a car appeared.)

  After a hearty breakfast, only interrupted by two begging dogs trying to give the impression that they were at the point of total starvation, I cleaned up. We started the steep climb to the rock very early — me with a World War II water bottle hanging off my shoulder, and with the staff that old Les had made for me. About halfway up, we startled a small mob of kangaroos. Shortly after that, Skipper fought a losing battle with a large echidna. I’d seen several before, but never in defensive mode. Within seconds of Skipper alerting the echidna, it dug furiously and sunk quickly into the hard, dry soil. Only its long, sharp spikes were showing, and when it rolled forward it presented a very formidable target. Skipper had no chance; he ended up with a bleeding nose.

  Then we had visitors — Mary-Anne and her four mates. I hadn’t seen them for months. It was exciting. Darkie and I were moving to greet them when Skipper intervened. He had never seen these sheep before and he charged them, barking savagely. Bewildered, the poor sheep, which had never before been confronted by an aggressive dog, turned tail and cleared. That was the last I saw of them for a long time.

  After a while, a panting Skipper returned and we continued up the hill. Finally, we reached the large boulder. To my disappointment, it was too tall: I needed something to climb the rock with, like a ladder or a rope. The only thing I had at the cabin was my good axe, so I went all the way back down, returned with the axe, and felled a stringy-bark sapling that was about 30 feet tall. With the fallen tree resting against the boulder, I was able to scale up the furry bark to the top. The view was spectacular. What made it more impressive was the rock. The huge granite rock reached out over the treetops — it was as if I was standing on a tall building, overlooking a city.

  After an hour of sitting, turning, and looking in every direction, I slid back down the tree and jogged through the bush back to the cabin. I was on a mission: I wanted to return and photograph a sunset from the rock. Slipping the bridle over Sandy Mac’s ears, I cantered bareback to home and grabbed my camera. Actually, it was Dad’s camera. He had only had it a few months. It was a Franka, with a Pronto lens and folding bellows — a very good camera. He couldn’t follow, or understand, the concept of shutter speeds and aperture settings, so he gave it to me in disgust. I read the book that came with it thoroughly, and had already taken one roll of film successfully.

  Armed with the camera in its smart leather case, I rode back to the Five Acres and headed up the mountain again. I struggled to the top of the giant rock and sat until sunset. While I was waiting, I carefully read the booklet that came with the film which recommended the camera settings that I should use to match the time of day. I took a whole roll of film. It was dark by the time I got back home.

  At school, I was keen to tell a few mates, and one of my teachers, of my adventures. Mr O’Brien was my science teacher. He was a good man and easy to talk to, even though he was a teacher. He was curious about my interest in the camera, and he was surprised that I understood quite a bit of its workings. He suggested I should try developing my film and printing my own photographs. I didn’t realise you could do such things yourself. He gave me a glass tray, and showed me with a strip of heavy, brown paper how I had to slide the film from side to side through the tray. He explained that this had to be in total darkness, for a given time and at a given temperature. Suddenly, I developed an interest in science — or, to be more specific, in chemicals, thermometers, timers, tongs, and the accurate measurement of liquids.

  At home that night, in the dark, I removed the film from the camera, rolled away the protective backing paper, hit the timer button, and proceeded to slide the film through the developer in the tray. After the timer sounded, I washed the film in water and then rolled it for four minutes in the fixer. By the final wash, I was beside myself, hoping it had worked out. When the time was up, I turned on the torch that normally lit my pushbike when I rode it in the dark, and there were my first- ever negatives in black and white. Admittedly, I wasn’t sure if they were good or even printable. I’d have to wait until I saw Mr O’Brien the next day.

  To my relief, he was very complimentary when he saw them. He said I’d done well, adding, ‘Only halfway there, Barry. Now you’ll have to print them.’

  He gave me a book on how to contact-print large negatives. I went home and read the book, and returned the next day eager to try my first prints. There was a catch, though: the process needed electric light, and the one place that had power in those days was the town of Swifts Creek — and even that was only because the local mill had a 240-volt plant that generated enough power to supply the town. Mr O’Brien solved the problem by organising a print-making night at the school, and several kids came along. Like me, they were very keen to see the process. We entered a room carrying a box that contained printing paper, chemicals, a frame to hold the papers, and negatives. He flicked a switch, which turned out the white light, and then he turned on a red safety light. We spent an intriguing night doing test strips in subdued red light, estimating exposure times, and then watching with excitement as an image appeared before our eyes as we rocked the paper to and fro in the chemicals. It was magical. I was hooked. Now, not only did I want to develop and print my own photographs, but I wanted to learn how to take good pictures.

  That meant I’d need equipment and books, which meant I needed more pocket money. So out came the traps; rabbits were still two and six a pair. Then I borrowed the good oilstone, sharpened my good knife, and off I went asparagus hunting. It was still in season, growing on the river banks, and the local store boug
ht the small, tied bunches. I also collected empty soft-drink bottles whenever we travelled — after the footy and at school — and then returned the bottles to our local store. They were worth threepence each.

  After three months, I had my own darkroom set up. By coincidence, at the same time, Dad put a twelve-volt lighting plant out the back of the house at Doctors Flat, which meant I’d be able to develop and print my film at home. It wasn’t really a darkroom; what I had was a kit, which I would set it up in the kitchen after everyone else had gone to bed. No, I didn’t have an enlarger; I didn’t know such a thing existed, and they required 240 volts. The negatives from the camera I used were so big that they produced a same-size contact print. In future, this meant that whenever I went on adventures I had two things to shoot with — my camera and my rifle.

  Over the years, I didn’t get to take all the photographs I had planned during my forays into the bush. My parents, as mentioned, had bought a bush block. Now they were looking at buying a farm at Tongio and another bush block adjoining the one out at Sheepstation Creek. This meant they would have three holdings. Like any country kid, particularly the oldest, I was always working. By the time I was fifteen I could drive a bulldozer, make tanks, roll tank iron, and put in fence posts and strain wire. I regularly killed sheep for meat, and could drive both the Land Rover and a truck. The only time I had a break was during the school holidays, as Dad continued to work in his plumbing business and had his own labourer. It was during these times that I made some memorable treks into the bush — sometimes alone on foot, or at other times with mates. During the long holidays I would take my brother and any relations who came up to camp on the river near our house.