The View From Connor's Hill

by Barry Heard

  Rarely do I get angry. However, this time, I got to my feet, walked over to Swanee, and punched him as hard as I could on the head. Hell, did that hurt. I clutched my fist into my stomach with agony. He didn’t blink or show any indication I’d even thumped him. Me — I thought I’d maybe broken a few knuckles and strained my wrist. The pain was the only reason I didn’t punch him again. So I surveyed the area, looking for a weapon … a decent log of wood. I might add that, by now, I was one of the walking wounded, and very angry. That’s a bad combination for me. Let’s face it: I had a suspected broken shoulder, crushed nuts, severe gravel-rash on my stomach, elongated arms, a lost sock, a chewed hat, a shattered hand, and a busted wrist. Why me, Lord? Then, as if to add insult to injury, the stupid nag gave me that smirk.

  ‘Bad move, mate.’ I narrowed my eyes, intent on revenge. His wry smile quickly disappeared. I increased my hunt for a lump of wood with which to attack the cruel, ugly creep. I was looking for a really big piece. No luck — fortunately, for both of us. I quickly calmed down. The temptation was high, but I didn’t hit him again.

  Then something strange happened. He walked towards me, the reins dragging along the ground.

  He was giving me permission to hop up on his back. His eyes were soft, his ears forward with concern. He was saying sorry. Yes, that was the day he let me graduate — the day I took a stand.

  AFTER THAT, I never had any trouble catching him in the bull paddock. He stopped trying to nip my bum, and he always hinted — after I took the saddle off — that it was a time for a long and vigorous brush. He loved the brush. Over the years, he proved to be an outstanding stock horse. He was brilliant with cattle, and he worked tirelessly. Staying on his back was all I had to do. He would sprint, spin this way then that, forcefully pushing stock with his legs and chest. I worked him in the yards, and drove cattle with him in the days before trucks took over. He was the ideal drover’s horse, having boundless energy and being very intelligent. The first time Alan Taylor asked me to do some droving, I knew why. Was there a better team than Swanee and Rover? Once the calves were out in the open, Swanee was a master at controlling them. Rover was a bonus.

  However, as I mentioned earlier, when droving there was more to the journey than just droving calves. From the very start, it was a most picturesque trip. Both of my special animals would feel excited every time we set off after that first sale through the high plains, with Lake Omeo on the right and the Benambra footy ground on the left, and then up and along past McMillan’s lookout, admiring the view from the high ridge. You could see the picturesque area of the Great Divide with the high mountains of the Alps. Like a perfect oil painting, in the background was a beautiful vista: Mount Hotham, Dinner Plain, Feather Top with its sharp, distinctive ridge, and the bareness of those high, treeless peaks. Then down along the Livingston into Omeo — such a beautiful town. With the blink of an eye you could picture this same scene happening 50 years earlier … the Omeo yards, right on the edge of the town’s main oval would draw a large crowd of locals adorned in big hats, jeans, and riding boots. The auctioneers were loud and colourful. There was always a competition to have the top pen sell for a higher price than the top price that had been paid at Benambra.

  I always used Rover in the yards after the sale, while Swanee had a rest in the shade. With the mob now swelled, it would be time to head east, out to the other side of Omeo. Behind us, as we settled the newcomers, was the perfect backdrop: by turning and looking behind, you saw the rolling Omeo Valley. By now the Benambra calves would lead, sauntering along, quite content. In the middle, looking for security, would be the new ones. By the time Mount Stall, the Splitters, and the other far-off ranges came into view, the wide plains started to narrow. We would have time to relax a little before the scenery changed. Almost abruptly, the road went downhill. It was a sudden, steep decline called ‘the Gap’. From the top, down to the next flat road was over three miles. Then we were ‘below the Gap’.

  Mind you, I wasn’t sure all the drovers agreed with my description of ‘above the Gap’. I recall once, we’d just descended and we were at the bottom, heading towards the Tambo River, when Plugger, one of the drovers, said something like, ‘Bloody cold bugger of a place up there … bloody good to get away from, I reckon.’

  From the bottom of the Gap, we would herd the calves into the Tambo Valley, along Sandy’s Flats and past Holland’s. This was the hilly, undulating sheep-and-cattle country around Tongio, Bald Hills Creek, and then Swifts Creek. High mountains and bush surrounded this lower country; and, already, after only a couple of days on the road, there would be a notable rise in temperature, as we’d dropped more than 1000 feet. Then we’d travel along the Tambo River, past Doctors Flat, and Sheepstation Creek, and then up Connor’s Hill and yet another magnificent sight. There is something special about the view from Connor’s Hill.

  Then Ensay — which was another well-supported annual sale, with more beautiful, sappy calves. Rover and Swanee were home, for the moment at least. Cossie’s Little River Pub would have its best weekend sales for the year as well.

  After Ensay, we reached the rugged scrub that has always kept this entire area in isolation. In the early times, the bush from Bruthen to Ensay defied road builders; they declared it almost impassable. It’s no wonder that the entire Benambra, Omeo, and Swifts Creek areas were settled from the north, down from New South Wales into Benambra, then slowly south and east. The road from Ensay through to Bruthen is very winding, and the drop to the river at times is steep and dangerous — if we lost a calf, the retrieval was like a scene from The Man from Snowy River. The bush is dirty, rock-strewn, and dry. Rocks would be dislodged from the high banks, particularly after rain. Many an unwary driver has driven around a corner, only to be faced with a road strewn with rocks. The calves would string slowly along the winding Omeo Highway, which follows the Tambo River for some way, and then we would turn towards the west, arriving at Double Bridges for the evening’s camp. Early the next morning it would be up Walsh’s cutting, down to the Goat Farm, across Ramrod Creek and then Evan’s paddock near Bruthen.

  Every evening, and again at dawn, Alan Taylor would count the calves. His reputation for doing this was legendary. Most sheep or cattle sold within the entire area relied on a final count from the man. I never saw a count disputed. He would count sheep in fives as they rushed from the yards to get out.

  After Bruthen, it was the final stretch. At the top of the hill, just before the town, it was like opening a door — we would emerge out into the open, flat country. It was the same when we reached the top of Lucknow Hill, coming into Bairnsdale. Many people would venture out to watch the drovers during the last stage of the long trip. Normally, it took ten days to complete the journey. By the time the calves reached their final destination, they were quiet, docile, and easy to handle. This would make them excellent farm stock. All of this was very different to the abrupt journey provided nowadays in a rattling, rushing cattle truck. It’s no wonder that calves charge down the ramp from a truck with wild eyes, panting as if they’d run the entire way.

  As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,

  For the drover’s life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

  —from ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ by Banjo Paterson,

  The Bulletin, 21 December 1889

  FOR SWANEE, droving was the ultimate. He never tired. Other drovers often commented on his energy and speed. Wisely, I never asked a drover if he would like to have a go on Swanee. I honestly believe we had a special bond, a pact. Whatever it was, I grew to love him and to enjoy his larrikin behaviour. Somehow, we seemed meant for each other (surely I am not that pig-headed?), and he would nudge me with affection at times — admittedly, a little roughly so that he would almost knock me over. He became my mate, my horse and, when appropriate, he would do little favours for me. I would almost swear that he knew what was required of him �
�� like a mind- reader.

  For instance, one of the farmers who lived nearby, who often borrowed things or asked for help, never returned the favour. One day he asked to borrow a horse. At the time, we had four horses, including Swanee. The opportunity to have fun with the neighbour was one I couldn’t resist. When he arrived I had Swanee saddled up, and slowly brushed his neck and sides. He loved the brush. I put my arm around his neck, gave him a warm hug, and said, ‘Do us a favour, mate? Frighten the crap outta this bloke if ya can.’

  Swanee nodded, and I’m sure he winked at me. The neighbour came over, and I had a brief chat to him and then held the reins as I legged him into the saddle. Quietly patting Swanee on the neck, I offered some advice to our neighbour.

  ‘He’s a bit lazy, this horse, mate. Let him know who’s the boss,’ I suggested, trying not to smile. Swanee glanced at me; again, I’m sure he winked.

  Rip … The neighbour tugged the reins, seesawing poor Swanee’s mouth and then spinning him tightly. He then kicked him savagely in the ribs. Jesus! I cringed with fear. I could just picture what was about to happen in Swanee’s head — sure enough, bloody Swanee arrived at the first gate at blistering speed. It was like a car at a drag race. Our neighbour had his arms wrapped around the horse’s neck, muttering obscenities. Closing the gate, he reefed the reins again and — believe me — he kicked Swanee again, even harder. There was a noise like a mini sonic boom, followed by a large cloud of dust, and the sort of high-pitched wail one hears in a Dracula film. The neighbour’s hat flew off as he grasped at Swanee’s mane, saddle, and neck. They disappeared down the dirt track like a fighter jet on take-off.

  Our neighbour returned an hour later, walking backwards, leading Swanee very slowly. The poor bloke looked like he’d had some pommel treatment — maybe his gonads had changed colour. His legs were very bowed. His face looked like it had spent an hour in the school dentist’s chair. Swanee? He had a smirk on his face. I loved that smirk, then that cunning wink … I loved him dearly at times, the bloody rogue.

  Naturally, I asked the neighbour if he’d prefer one of the other horses, one with a bit more life, or sting, in it. He mumbled something, something you wouldn’t hear in church, gave me a new pedigree, and left. I took the saddle off Swanee and gave him an extra long brush. He loved it. He’d done well. The neighbour never came back looking to borrow a horse.

  FEAR WAS SOMETHING I thought Swanee would never display. However, one day I found him standing, shuddering, with fear in his eyes. Caught up in some loose wire, he was extremely distressed and standing still like a statue. No way was he moving. I have seen other horses in similar situations — if they panic, particularly if they bolt, they end up not only entangled completely, but also the wire tears into the skin and results in terrible wounds. A smart horse will stand still, and Swanee was rigid, like concrete.

  Slowly I unthreaded the wire from around his legs, crawling under his belly and hindquarters. I had some wire cutters, but the loud ‘click’ as I cut the wire really frightened him. It took ages, but Swanee remained frozen to the spot. After I finished, he was wet with sweat and looked exhausted. I left him standing there, walked to the saddle shed, and returned with a currycomb. After a long brush, I talked to him quietly, patted him for quite a while, and then led him by the mane back to his paddock, away from the wire. He stood there solemnly after I let him go, then he turned and gave me a quiet and friendly nudge. We were mates.

  chapter twelve

  ‘What’s that horrible smell, Barry?’

  DURING THOSE EARLY MONTHS AT MY NEW JOB, THERE WERE quite a few changes at home. We now had a new water tank on a high stand, which enabled Mum to change the way she did many of her domestic duties. A pump, located on the Tambo River, filled the tank. This led to a hot-water service being put in, as well as a shower in the bathroom, and a flushing toilet at the back of the house that replaced the long drop found over the bank.

  The long drop had a proud history; I was sad to see it pulled down. Dad had erected it in 1956, and it was a vast improvement on the dunny we’d had at Tongio. The other added luxury in the new toilet was proper paper. However, the toilet was in for a shock. In 1959 the Tambo River experienced a major flood. The river rose rapidly and levelled off just two inches below the floorboards of the house at Doctors Flat.

  The two things I remember vividly involved Mum and the outside lavatory. At the time of the flood, Mum was heavily pregnant with my youngest brother, Peter. On the night that the river peaked, I recall lying in bed and listening to the roar, and the snapping and crashing of the large trees and debris that were charging down the swift-flowing river. The dogs barked all night. We got up at dawn and couldn’t believe our eyes: the river was at the back door. It was several hundred yards across, and moving speedily, with small, swirling eddies and whirlpools in the brown, murky water.

  Next thing, we could hear voices calling out and car horns tooting. We went out onto the front veranda and, to our surprise, there was a group of people with a boat, organising to rescue us — well, to have Mum and the younger kids rescued, really, as the water around the house was only, at the most, three feet deep, and we were able to move around if we were careful. The small outboard motorboat was moored to the veranda post, and Mum got in and carefully sat in the middle. It putted back to the Omeo Highway, about 100 yards away, and she waved to us, indicating that everything was okay. Then my smaller brothers were also ferried away.

  That left Dad; Darky and Skipper, the dogs; and me. Meanwhile, back at the house, we were quickly working out what had washed away and what needed saving. Would you believe, the first job given to me was to swim out to the outside lavatory? Then I had to lash a rope around it. Finally, I followed Dad’s shouted orders, anchoring it to the sizable, old, dead tree nearby. It must have been in part of Dad’s plumbing training manual — save the dunny first. Having completed that, Dad seemed to breathe easier. Then we let the horses and cows out of their paddocks, and moved them onto the road, as it was the highest ground available. The chooks, whose pen was two feet deep in water, simply sat on their roost as if it was bedtime. The river, which was lapping under the veranda and sloshing up against the stumps and bearers under the house, stayed at the same level for the rest of the day.

  That night, we waited. It stayed the same. Slowly, the following morning, it subsided. Call it luck or whatever you want but, the following day, it continued to go down. When it finally returned to its original course, mud covered most of the fences, paddocks, and yards. It was six inches deep in some places. The water had also caused a lot of damage.

  At the time, another two inches and it would have entered the house; another two feet, and who knows what would have happened? Noticing the size of some of the huge trees floating down the river, we had no doubt that this large volume of water had had a tremendous force. The outside lavatory did survive — although it ended up at an unusual angle. If Dad had his way, that leaning lavatory would still be there to this day.

  Over the next couple of years, the house was modernised with a gas fridge, a gas stove, a hand basin in the bathroom to replace the outside trough, and a shower. And then, most importantly of all, Mum bought a new — and her first-ever — washing machine. It had a two-stroke engine that operated the water pump, the agitator, and a wringer on top of the machine. To get it operating required a kick-start like a motorbike. Few people in the district had one. For once, Mum was able to get ahead with her washing. Between a new baby daughter, five boys, and Dad there was always a mountain of washing to do. The new washing machine was a hit.

  After several trial runs during that first week, Mum had it mastered … until one unfortunate day. She got up early, put on a load, and was inside attending to breakfast. The machine, when it had finished the washing cycle, would automatically stop and turn itself off. To do the wringing, it had to be re-started. It was a Saturday. Most of the family were inside when we heard a
blast from the .410 shotgun, right at the back door. We all rushed out, and there was Mum, standing with a proud smirk. She had just shot a sizable tiger snake that had wrapped itself around the warm engine of the washing machine. Let’s face it — it was winter, probably between one and three degrees. Was there a warmer place for a snake to snuggle up in than a washing machine that had cooled slightly? The result: one very mutilated snake, and one wrecked washing machine. I can’t imagine what Mum was thinking. Our local mechanic told Dad that the machine was beyond repair, so Mum went back to the scrubbing board and the hand-wringer until electricity arrived in 1967.

  THERE WAS another incident around the same time that I’ll reluctantly share with you. Not long after I’d started the farm job, the boss invited a niece up to the farm to stay for school holidays. It was quite a thrill to learn that she was my age, a city girl, and that she was really looking forward to living on the farm for the holidays.

  What with my new good clothes, my newly acquired table manners, and my riding abilities, I wasn’t only keen to meet her, but I also thought that, if she fitted the bill, I’d attempt to impress her. Sadly, this didn’t run to plan. Let’s just say that my next sortie into the female fold taught me something I’ve never attempted again: do not wear gumboots when attempting to impress the fairer sex.