The View From Connor's Hill

by Barry Heard

  My first long adventure into the bush was on foot, alone, except for the two dogs, Darkie and Skipper. My plan was to set up camp in the log cabin at the Five Acres and to explore the headwaters of Sheepstation Creek. By now I had a haversack, a World War I canvas sleeping bag I used out in the open, and some dixies (square, metal cooking-trays from World War II) for cooking. The cabin was really well set up with a Coolgardie cooler or safe, cupboards, a table and chair, and a Tilley lamp.

  It took about two hours to reach the Five Acres. That first night at the cabin, I managed to shoot a small kangaroo. I dressed the two hind legs, which I put in the safe. It made a good meal, cooked in the camp oven. The dogs gorged themselves on the innards and the remainder, and they retired early.

  Early the next morning, I packed my haversack and strode off with my trusty staff along the banks of the creek. I left the two dogs tied up — I believed I would see a lot more of the wildlife without them. It was heavy going and steep, and a lot of dogwood and low scrub made getting close to the creek difficult. I tried to walk in the creek itself, but the pools were too deep and the rocks too slippery. I turned and headed up the hill slightly away from the creek, and walked parallel to the stream. Being just above the creek gave me a good view, even though it was heavy bush; the trees were high and some distance apart.

  As the sides of the hills became steeper, I used the staff to prop myself up as I shuffled along. About an hour from the cabin, I came across a large tree that had fallen and lodged itself into the fork of another tree further down the steep hill. It was almost horizontal, and it protruded out over the creek. It looked like a long bridge suspended over the water below. I jumped up and crawled along on all fours. Above the gurgle of the creek, I could hear the burble of what could have been a magpie or a mudlark. I knew both calls, but wasn’t surprised they would be together. Back at home, two magpie families had adopted us, and I knew they were cheeky birds. They seemed to tolerate mudlarks. I crawled a little further along the grey box tree, and was intrigued when the sound of a rosella pierced the air, shortly followed by that of a bronze-winged pigeon. Stopping, I looked around. Something was different, strange. Then I saw it — below me, about 20 feet away, was a lyrebird. I still recall my first thought: I’d left the damn camera in the haversack, thinking it was too good to bring in case I fell over and damaged it. It was a very expensive camera; Dad reminded me of this many times.

  No matter, this was a treat — a very special treat. The bird was plain brown, with no distinguishing features. It continued to mimic other birds, including the whipbird, which would have been difficult as its song is a combination of two birds from the same species. During this performance, the lyrebird bobbed up and down on a crude mound of sticks and leaves. It was about the size of our big leghorn rooster at home. After a time, it strutted in circles around the mound and made a variety of bird calls like those I have mentioned. Suddenly, with its head arched back, it spread its harp-like tail, strutted with stiff, high-legged kicks, and jerked its head as if in time to music. It changed from a dull brown, chook-like bird to a beautiful, elegant bush bird. With its beak wide open, the perfect sound of a kookaburra laugh throbbed from its mouth. I closed my eyes. It was a perfect imitation. Like a rap dancer, its head jerked and twitched in a rhythmic motion as if it was performing a sophisticated street dance in a ghetto. Glancing around the immediate area, I was hoping I would see a hen — let’s face it, this was a command performance. I turned slightly to look around the other side, when a lump of bark dislodged and fell. The bird scampered away, and there was a long silence.

  What a privilege. Even at my age, I knew I’d witnessed something unique. I swung my legs over the tree, as if I was sitting on a horse, and sat for ages. Slowly, I turned and crawled back along the fallen tree, and returned to ground level. I was elated and wanted to tell someone, so I threw on my pack and headed back to the cabin. In a straight line, it was only a 40-minute hike. Letting both the dogs off the chain, I explained to them with excitement what I had just witnessed — well, I had to tell someone. After a steak sandwich, cooked to perfection, it was time to head off again. This was great fun. In a moment of weakness, I took both dogs and headed straight back towards the fallen tree by cutting over a ridge and heading down a spur. The lyrebird’s mound was there, but it was missing. Again, I told the dogs what happened and where — I thought they were interested.

  Turning, I headed slightly up the hill again and proceeded to follow the creek towards its headwaters. After a time, I could hear the sound of rushing water. As it got louder, I headed back down towards the creek and decided to bash my way along the bank. As if I had opened a secret door, a beautiful waterfall suddenly appeared. It was probably 40 feet high, and it had a big pool at the bottom. A large goanna was having a drink, and was quite surprised when I appeared — it stood and stared at me for ages. The waterfall was a sheer drop over a giant slab of granite. There was quite a volume of water cascading over the lip and then dropping into the wide pool.

  This time, I had the camera. I took several photographs, and named the waterfall the ‘First Waterfall’ as it was the first large one I had ever seen. As I slowly moved around the pool, carefully looking for trout or other water life, I heard a splash and thought I saw the end of a platypus tail disappear into the water. I went and inspected the bank and, sure enough, there were tiny webbed imprints in the mud — definitely a platypus’s.

  Quietly, I walked back into the low scrub and sat, waiting. It would only have been a matter of time before I’d see more creatures but, to my disappointment, Darkie decided just then to have a swim. Great — thanks, mate! This meant that any wildlife were certain to quickly hide under rocks, banks, and the like. Whose damn stupid idea was it to bring those dogs along?

  I climbed to the top of the fall, and admired the orange and brown stains caused by the water. There was moss and lichen all over the huge rocks, and several well-worn tracks that wound down around the waterfall towards the pool. On inspection, I could see that lots of footprints had been left by wombats, emus, kangaroos, and goannas. Then there were occasional prints of a fox, a dog, or a dingo. Obviously, it was a favourite watering hole, although I was surprised to find no rabbit prints. Years later, I learnt that rabbits obtain most of their water needs from dew.

  By mid-afternoon I was quite high up in the mountains. After a time I again headed upstream, this time walking along the creek. It was now quite narrow, and I found it easy to jump from rock to rock. About 300 yards up from the waterfall, the land around the creek was open and flat and looked partially cleared, as if it had been a camp many years ago. Venturing to my left and slightly up a ridge, I found a track — a heavily rutted narrow track that hadn’t been used for a long time. It went almost straight up the ridge, and turned to the right towards the top of the Angora Range. It was narrow — about six feet across. Just before the track reached the top of the main ridge, I found a very old fence. It had almost fallen down. Most of the wires were broken and twisted, and the posts were covered in moss.

  What had I found? Surely it wasn’t a vehicle track; it was too steep and narrow for that. I doubted it was even a stagecoach road, for the same reasons. I backtracked to the creek, and discovered that an area had been partly cleared for something to cross the creek. I noticed that several large boulders had been pushed to one side — a long time ago, as they were covered in lichen and moss. It was one of the few flat areas along the stream. As I moved out from the creek, across the other side, I began to guess that it had been a camp site at some time in the past.

  I discovered a flat, semi-cleared area, which was now overgrown, dug into the hill. The track continued on from this clearing. It went steeply up a small ridge, along the spur, and came out at the back of the mountain, overlooking Brookville.

  It was late afternoon when I decided to head back to the log cabin. Although the dogs had had a wonderful time exploring and barking at thi
ngs in the distance that I couldn’t see, I decided I wouldn’t take them exploring in future.

  That night, I sat for ages thinking about the waterfall and the track. I decided that I had to find out its history when I got home. The following morning, between the sounds of the dogs, the kookaburras, and the cockatoos, I was awake by 5.00 a.m.

  After a hearty breakfast of toast and vegemite, I grabbed my sharpening stone and honed up my good axe. Today was an entirely different challenge. Old Gator Lambourne had told me how to repair the roof on the log cabin by using stringy-bark. Several days before, I’d already earmarked a couple of suitable trees. The first tree had a girth of about ten feet. I lent a small ladder against the tree, and climbed up about ten feet. At that height, I cut a ring completely around the tree. At the bottom, I repeated the same process. Then I cut a vertical line straight down the tree, joining the two rings. Slowly, with the axe and a couple of sticks, I prised the bark away from the tree. At the start, it was difficult peeling the tight, thick bark away. Then, with a crack, like an apple snapping in half, the bark popped off the tree. I rolled the length of bark along, and then up on to, two strong saplings I’d laid on the ground. Lifting up each pole one at a time, I managed to slide several large rocks underneath. Finally, with the roll of stringy-bark about eighteen inches off the ground, it was ready for the next stage. Using dry leaves and small twigs, I lit a wide, low fire underneath the bark. Then, with the white, sappy side of the bark facing the fire, the large slab of stringy-bark started to spread — just as old Gator said it would. An hour later, I had a perfectly flat piece of bark ready to nail on top of the log cabin. I doused the fire and left everything to cool down. I had to leave the bark there until next time, when I’d return with some help — it was too heavy for me to lift on my own. Four trees later, I’d prepared enough bark to cover the log-cabin roof.

  On the last day, I spent most of the time blocking the cracks between the logs of the cabin. I did this by soaking some newspaper in the creek, and jamming it between the draughty gaps. I finished that night. It only needed a door to complete the cabin.

  The next morning, I packed up and tramped back through the bush out into the open country, following the creek until I reached the bridge with the sign ‘Sheepstation Creek’. That was where old Charlie Dorrington lived. Turning left, I headed for home.

  At school, a week later, several of our neighbours’ kids were curious about my discovery of the falls. I showed them the photographs I’d developed, and we decided that during the next holiday break we would venture out to the cabin camp and find the First Waterfall, and maybe do some more exploring … and they would help me put up the roof.

  Some time later, when I told old Gator Lambourne about the steep, rutted track I’d found that crossed the creek and continued on to Brookville, he spoke at length about it. It was an old bullock-wagon track, he reckoned, used to haul farming produce to Port Albert in bygone times; he added that, at other times, mine machinery and other engineering equipment was lugged through the bush on large wagons hauled by dozens of bullocks. Since the bullocks travelled so slowly, Gator wasn’t surprised that I’d found what I thought was a camp site. He reckoned there was one about every ten or twelve miles. Good. I slotted that comment away, and planned for an expedition to find more camp sites … and who knew what else?

  chapter six

  ‘You’re disgusting, Heard.’

  BY NOW, I HAD SPENT TWO YEARS IN SECONDARY SCHOOL. The teachers rotated for each subject, which was quite different from primary school. I had no interest in English, History, Geography, French, Art, and Religious Studies — the latter, drilled into us by the local minister, was received with fear and trepidation. I could list on one hand the books I’d read at school — under duress from teachers — and, being a slow reader, I would continually lose track of the story. But give me numbers, and I was happy.

  Subjects like Arithmetic, Geometry, and Algebra were straightforward and logical, compared to the written word. I found it a delight to do equations and long division, or to decipher a difficult algebraic problem. Science I enjoyed, mainly because of Mr O’Brien — he was a good teacher. Yes, I was an ‘odd bod’, which is what Miss Foster, my Art teacher said one day. Most times, when riding my horse or bike, or even walking, I would calculate the best way to multiply 37 by fifty-eight. To be honest, apart from sport or the odd game like marbles, or the subjects I mentioned, school was boring. Away from that place, there were many other adventures awaiting me as a young teenager.

  The year 1959 was my second-last year at school, and it was the first year I noticed the opposite sex. Some enterprising teachers and one of the parents had set up dancing classes at the local Church of England hall. I desperately wanted to go, as most of the kids in my class at school went and constantly talked about the fun they were having. I begged my parents to take me, but it was a no-go. I arranged to stay at a mate’s place — again, a no-go. I did extra chores at home and helped wherever I could — still a no-go. I was getting quite desperate, because my parents offered no explanations or reasons as to why I couldn’t attend. The dances were chaperoned, they ended at 10.00 p.m., and only cordial and sandwiches were served. Now, what was wrong with that?

  On one particular Saturday night — dance night — Dad, who’d played footy that day for Swifts Creek, was visiting a mate’s place in the town of Swifts Creek, with Mum and us kids in tow. His team had won and he was in good spirits. Again, I asked if I could go, as the dance was on just up the road; once more, it was a no-go. Did I spit the dummy? No, I said nothing; I just walked outside, planning the hour-long walk home. I was going to pack my bags and leave … for somewhere.

  Outside, it was freezing cold, with a razor-like wind slicing the air. Pausing, about to trudge home, I abruptly changed my mind. Damn going home, I thought. The devil in me decided to go to the dance instead. But I had one big problem — no money. It was sixpence to get in. I also had no suitable clothes. I never wore good clothes to the footy because we would always have a kick at half-time and I would get my clothes dirty. So that ruled out the dance. I wasn’t happy. I wanted to get back at my oldies somehow.

  Next plan: I would hide on the floor, behind the front seat of the new Holden. No one would find me, and this would get right up my parents’ noses, as dinner was about to be served.

  Come teatime, there were calls in and around the house, but I remained put. Then, with everyone outside spreading out and still no sign of Barry, Dad lost the plot completely. This led to name-calling and threats, followed by panic — mother became worried. After half an hour of shouting, I decided to make an appearance. This wasn’t a good move. Dad threatened to impose the death penalty when I emerged all guilty from the floor of the Holden.

  However, my misdemeanour soon faded into the background. The adults started arguing about when a kid should be allowed go out, at what age, and what about hooligans, etcetera. Mum won. She took me home, where I put on a fresh set of our shared good clothes. I didn’t have a bath, though — we only had them on a Friday. Then I was taken to the dance.

  It was very late, and it only had about half an hour to run. So I just stood in the corner and looked at the girls — with no eye contact. Apparently, that was what you were supposed to do.

  Quite pleased, I walked home afterwards. During the crisp stroll, an owl hooted, and rabbits scurried under bushes. Other night birds called their mates, and several horses came up to the fence out of curiosity, snorting a wary welcome. In all, for my part it was a good night, although admittedly I snuck into bed when I finally got home.

  My pathetic, rebellious behaviour at least had one good outcome, if not two: I attended these dances most Saturday nights and, over time, learnt how to ballroom dance. I enjoyed using this skill for years.

  Another benefit from going to the dances was the lessons I learned about the opposite sex. They stirred up something inside me that I
enjoyed. The opposite sex: what a curious subject. They were definitely from Venus.

  For me, there was no question that Miss O’Farrell was my first love. She was a dark-haired, attractive female with a soft, kind smile and a perfect manner; at the time, I was besotted. She was my Grade Three teacher at Ringwood Primary School. Her affection towards me was affirmed by remarks she uttered for my benefit alone. She said that I sat up straight, tried hard, was a nice boy, and always had clean fingernails. The fact that she said this to the other 40 students at different times was irrelevant. I was her favourite. The twinkle in her eye gave it away. It enabled me to realise that I had a rare attribute: I had a way of both charming and winning over the opposite sex. I didn’t flout this gift like a Casanova or womaniser; I remained humble and unassuming, and only plied my skills when needed, with absolute care and aplomb.

  Armed with this self-confidence, and having forgotten all about Miss O’Farrell, I asked Curls for my first date when I was almost fourteen. We both went to the school at Swifts Creek. There were seven boys and only four females my age at the school, and competition for the hand of one of these mountain maids was an endless battle — as Roy, one of the older boys, was heard to say, ‘And we like mount’n women.’