Back of Beyond

by Jenny Old

Once Rick’s business was complete, I looked forward to eating dinner with him, just the two of us, and catching up on the interminable time we’d been apart.

  We made our way to an attractive, modern hotel with several cosy bars and a nice restaurant. Rick inevitably bumped into some friends, and I tried to hide my impatience as I sipped a drink before we finally made our way into the dining room for our much-anticipated date—only to be informed it was too late and the kitchen was closed. It was 9 p.m. We visited every dining venue in Mount Isa, only to be told the same story.

  Our final attempt proved persistence does pay. The manager of a motel restaurant took pity on us. Seeing our crestfallen faces, he offered to serve us a beef and mushroom dish with a glass of wine. We accepted his hospitality gratefully.

  At this late hour we were the only diners. The beef and mushroom dish was served quickly and tasted delicious.

  ‘Would a Seppelt Moyston be suitable?’ the waiter politely inquired.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Rick replied. At this stage of the evening, anything would have been appreciated.

  The waiter disappeared behind a Chinese screen. Rick and I watched big puffs of smoke emerge over the top. As I’d recently spent time in Morocco, I recognised the smell of marijuana. No wonder our waiter seemed vague.

  He returned with a smile. ‘Which wine would you like, sir?’

  Rick requested the Seppelt Moyston.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The waiter disappeared behind the screen again. When more puffs appeared, we started to laugh. This was turning into quite a night—certainly a far cry from some of the beautiful restaurants I’d encountered on my travels and that Rick had been accustomed to in Sydney.

  Our first evening together became a complete farce when the waiter again appeared at Rick’s side to inquire apologetically, ‘The name of the wine again, please, sir?’

  Rick wrote it on a paper serviette to speed things up.

  With considerable bowing and smiling, and more puffs of smoke from behind the screen, our waiter appeared triumphantly with a bottle of Lindeman’s Bin 45.

  It was too much. Rick and I collapsed in a heap of laughter, then enjoyed the wine without the accompaniment of the delicious meal, which we’d finished long ago. Despite the ridiculous situation we found ourselves in, we toasted our happiness and love.

  ‘Would you like some sweets, sir?’

  ‘Oh…no, thank you,’ said Rick.

  We didn’t have the strength to cope with anything else.

  In our room back at the hotel, we chatted late into the night. I had so many questions about McAllister. I still couldn’t picture what was in store for me, so I decided to relax and enjoy my man.

  I had arrived in the Great North. Tomorrow, finally, I was to be introduced to McAllister.

  I’d heard so much about McAllister in Rick’s frequent letters to me in London. And as we set off that morning, I was full of excitement and anticipation.

  I knew little about this region of Australia, except that it was a far cry from the irrigated, lush green of my family home in the southern Riverina. But at no stage did I feel nervous or anxious about what lay ahead. I’d experienced some very unusual situations during my travels: camping in East Germany and Morocco, and crossing the Sahara, to mention a few. I didn’t know exactly what to expect—I knew I’d be living in a shed, though, which I was sure I could manage after camping in tents.

  We had a 415-kilometre journey ahead of us. First, 225 kilometres of bitumen known as the Beef Road, because massive road trains shipped cattle from the stations to the railhead in Cloncurry and other areas. Then we faced 190 of dirt road. On the bitumen, I saw where the old unsealed road wound its way up and over the hills, parallel to the present road. I was grateful for the newer road we were travelling on in the LandCruiser, loaded with supplies. I could only imagine how slow the journey would have been in earlier days, and how slow our journey would be when the bitumen ran out.

  The countryside was absolutely spectacular. The rugged, barren hills glowed with tinges of lilac and rose, real Albert Namatjira scenery. I could fully appreciate the rich mineral deposits this country was yielding and hiding.

  The trip to Cloncurry went relatively quickly, because of the exciting scenery and the delight of being back with my man. We had so much to catch up on; it was wonderful to have time alone together.

  We crossed the large Cloncurry River with its wondrous waterholes and large shady trees. The river wasn’t running, but I could see evidence of the wet season where the levels had been very high.

  I loved Cloncurry, a tiny town serving a vast rural area. It exuded a sense of pride and community spirit, highlighted by a lovely strip of trees, flowers and lawns in the middle of the street, a contrast to the bare hills we’d travelled through.

  Our first stop was at the local stock and station agency. Dalgety was one of several Australian agencies that provide a vital service to the agricultural community: they advise and represent farmers and graziers in transactions that involve livestock, wool, fertiliser, rural property, equipment and merchandise. Because I’m from the country, I understood everything Rick discussed with them—I also felt I was being checked out as ‘Rick’s girl’.

  Next stop, a frosty beer at the Post Office Hotel. I’m not normally a beer drinker, but this was a very welcome one and I enjoyed every drop.

  North from Cloncurry, with its majestic and colourful hills, the countryside gradually changed into a softer landscape of stunted trees on plains edged by distant blue hills. I saw a large number of cattle along the way and realised the roads were unfenced. We had to be vigilant watching for stock, kangaroos and pigs. The dust infiltrated everything, impairing our vision when we passed other vehicles; it was so fine, it resembled brown baby powder. There was no way I’d be arriving at our next destination, Melinda Downs, looking clean and fresh. I had, of course, changed from my smart travelling outfit to jeans and a shirt.

  I need not have worried, as the warm welcome we received at Melinda wiped any trace of concern from me.

  The station, situated 130 kilometres north of Cloncurry, was owned by two of Rick’s business partners, Judy and Rowan Hickson, a handsome couple in their early forties. We arrived in time for afternoon smoko: a much-needed cup of tea. I immediately loved the Hicksons and their children Pete, Marg, Daniel and Rob—otherwise known as ‘Peter Hickson’, ‘Blossom’, ‘Bood’ and ‘Slee Magee’.

  Rowan looked every bit a Queensland bushie with his battered, sweat-stained akubra, and certainly not the suave southern vet I’d been expecting. His twinkling blue eyes, wavy sweaty hair and wicked sense of humour—plus an endearing stutter, which he used to advantage to string out a story—totally won me over. Rowan would study people with such an intensity that one never knew what he was going to suggest next.

  Judy was petite and blonde with a tinkling and infectious laugh. She was artistic and gentle, a great contrast to her deep-thinking husband. A beautiful warm, loving mother and friend.

  I quickly felt as though I’d known this interesting family all my life and I knew this genuine couple would be very supportive and loyal partners for Rick—I could feel their sincerity and honesty.

  Rick and Rowan disappeared to discuss business, leaving Judy and me to enjoy time together. This gave me the opportunity to ask her about life in the Gulf. She and Rowan had arrived from Bathurst eighteen months previously.

  ‘I’m so excited,’ I told her. ‘I can’t wait to get to McAllister and explore the country.’

  ‘Mmm…it will be interesting,’ replied Judy with a slightly quizzical look.

  She invited us to stay the night. Having been brought up in the Riverina, where overnight stays were arranged by invitation weeks in advance, I declined.

  Big mistake!

  ‘That was stupid,’ said Rick as we waved goodbye to the Hickson family.

  ‘What…what do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘They expected us to stay the night—everyone
does up here.’

  ‘But I thought we were keen to get home? I didn’t realise…I hope I haven’t offended that lovely family. Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘You were so adamant, I didn’t want to show you up in front of them on your first day,’ was Rick’s unsatisfactory reply.

  We lapsed into silence. I mulled over what I’d done. I’d learnt a valuable lesson. Still, I’d secretly wanted to get to McAllister and have time with Rick alone.

  We drove…and drove…and drove.

  Darkness enveloped us. I had an eerie sense we were the only people on the planet. The headlights showed a thin panel of the outside world. There wasn’t a sign of human habitation. We drove for hours without any evidence of a house. I’d never experienced such isolation.

  When we finally turned off the Beef Road onto the dirt road to McAllister, I felt relief. Nearly there. Only forty kilometres to go. Easy…

  The first stage of dirt road was well graded, but Rick was on night watch for cattle, pigs and kangaroos, which appeared often. I didn’t detect them until it was too late, but Rick was able to pick out the movement or the flash of an eye caught in the headlights.

  After a while we came to the first gate, a wire contraption. I confidently climbed out to open it but had to give up, finding it Jenny-proof. I was pleased to return to the secure capsule of the LandCruiser and the throb of its engine. The night sounds were making me nervous—the hoot of an owl, the chilling call of the curlew and the incessant rustlings of other mysterious bush dwellers.

  ‘This is our boundary,’ announced Rick, breaking the silence between us.

  ‘Whoopee, nearly there!’ I shouted happily before I went out to the final gate, which I managed to open.

  The road turned into a goat track, with rocks, washouts, and sometimes no sign of a road at all. Rick put the LandCruiser into four-wheel drive on several occasions. At one stage I thought we were on top of a cliff—which we were!—and held my breath as we slipped and slid down the edge. Things were tense.

  At last we arrived at The Shed.

  ‘Is that it?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Yup, that’s home.’

  I stared at the flimsy-looking structure, illuminated by the headlights. In the Riverina, a shed is a substantial building with four walls and usually large sliding doors to allow weatherproofing and security. Not this little job. It was very small, with wings propped up on one side, and gauze around one corner.

  Rick left me in the pitch-dark while he drove over to the generator to give us some light. I stood in the doorway of the shed, waiting for his return. The generator wasn’t cooperating, so Rick gave up. Leaving the headlights on, he found a gas light and some candles. I was exhausted: I decided I’d investigate my new home in the morning. The three bunks in a row along one of the gauzed walls looked tempting.

  ‘Which bunk can I have?’ I asked.

  ‘That one on the end.’

  I collapsed onto it and was asleep in minutes.

  3

  Home Sweet Home

  I woke very early to the familiar calls of galahs and magpies. I rolled over and peered through the gauze wall. I was entranced by an incredible vista of rolling brown plains with waving, soft pink Flinders grass and lovely blue ironstone ridges in the background.

  Despite the beauty of the landscape, I felt the isolation. There was no sign of human habitation. It was as if we were encapsulated in a tiny bubble, in a shed, on a stony ridge in the middle of nowhere. I almost expected to see a smoke signal in the distance, connecting us to the outside world. There were certainly no telephones ringing.

  I looked around. The machinery shed was very much a bachelor pad: its living quarters were a corner that had been gauzed in. Large corrugated-iron walls swung up to create an overhang, allowing the breeze or, as I’d discover, gale-force winds and dust to flow through freely. Along one wall, beside the three bunks, was a wardrobe, a kitchen bench and an old, tiny kerosene fridge—the only refrigeration, it turned out. The dining area, with a table and chairs, was along the opposite gauzed wall. This was going to be interesting.

  I turned back to keep absorbing the panorama outside, a much better option in that moment. Enjoying the beautiful and breathtaking view, I fell in love with this wonderful country. I could hear Rick chopping wood and whistling. He was pleased to be home.

  ‘Good morning,’ he called brightly. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I sure did, Rick…Where’s the kitchen?’ I asked tentatively.

  He pointed with pride towards a half 44-gallon drum sitting on three legs outside the shed beside a stack of firewood and an axe.

  ‘That?’ I gasped in disbelief.

  ‘Yep, it works really well—with a splash of diesel to get it going, the gas is on!’

  I was nonplussed. ‘So…where’s the bathroom?’

  ‘The drop-through is over there,’ said Rick, pointing a hundred yards from the shed.

  My first adventure for the day was an inaugural visit to the loo. Rick and his co-manager Paul had dug a deep hole, propped a large tin on top and added a toilet seat. This convenience was far from convenient.

  ‘Just look out for redbacks on the seat, and snakes,’ Rick called as I hurried over.

  I paused in my tracks but nature called and I had to continue, albeit warily.

  I took a deep breath and reminded myself, Jen, you camped in Morocco with conditions more primitive and dangerous than this…You can do this…You can do this… In truth, Morocco was looking luxurious.

  The shower rose was hanging in a tree outside the shed under a bucket of cold water.

  ‘Do I have to shower there with no privacy?’ I asked Rick.

  ‘Just tell us when you’re having a shower and we won’t look,’ he replied. The ‘we’ included Paul, who was due back in a few days.

  Our hot water came from a ‘donkey’, in Queensland terminology: a fire lit under a drum of water. I knew I would long for a good hot shower at the end of the day to wash off the grime and dust and to ease aching muscles.

  Oh dear, this was going to be very different from my easy life with conveniences at my home in Deniliquin. Think Morocco, Jen, think Morocco…

  I was normally not a big breakfast eater, but that morning I enjoyed every morsel of sausages, tomatoes, toast and tea cooked by Rick on the ‘stove’. I learnt this was the feast before the famine because we had to eat the perishables quickly. The remainder of our food was tinned and dried. I’d have to become used to powdered milk; there was no alternative. Perhaps, I thought, my camping experience might come in handy after all. I washed up in an enamel bowl with hot water from the top of the drum stove.

  I watched Rick run the horses into the holding paddock, all seven of them being the entire ‘plant’: the team of working horses on a property. I was impressed with having seven, compared to the two recreational horses on my parents’ farm.

  I’d been too exhausted the night before to inquire about the day’s activities, though I knew it would be hard work given Rick had been away for several weeks and jobs had mounted up.

  How nice it would have been to enjoy a quiet day together, exploring McAllister and learning a little more about it.

  Rick wasn’t used to having to communicate his plans, so I had no idea what he expected of me in the days ahead. I got the feeling this was a test of endurance, which I was determined not to fail. I realised I needed to ask a lot of questions and hopefully get some answers.

  ‘What are we doing today?’ I asked hesitantly.

  ‘Several road trains of cattle are due to arrive. They’re the breeders I bought while I was away.’

  My heart sank with trepidation. I’d never worked with cattle in large numbers and there were only two of us. Obviously, Rick had imagined me playing a key role, and I was rather anxious about my ability to perform.

  ‘How big is the paddock I’ll be in?’ I asked.

  ‘About ten square miles.’

  ‘Ohhhh…’ I mumbled.


  I tried not to show my panic when I realised the holding paddock we were in was larger than my family property.

  Rick handed me the reins of my horse for the day. ‘He’s better than he looks,’ he assured me.

  I stared in disdain at my mount, who had the dubious name of Wongadonga. He was the longest horse I’d ever seen, with a dark brown coat, hairy legs, and a sad-looking face with moisture dripping from his eyes and down his cheeks. I mounted reluctantly and we rode off together.

  Wongadonga turned out to be the smartest stockhorse I have ever ridden. I renamed him Roger the Dodger, and we were to become the best of friends and a formidable team. Roger taught me so much about stock and campdrafting—and, more importantly, how to hang on to a horse while chasing a recalcitrant beast. Though at times I felt I was at risk, Roger always knew best. I learnt to trust him with my life.

  That first day, I heard the rumbling of the road trains long before I could see them. A speck of dust on the horizon warned me of their arrival, but over an hour went by before they appeared. They were quite a sight. The prime movers were huge and the three trailers gave sense to the name ‘road train’.

  The lead truck lumbered into position beside the temporary loading ramp and the doors opened to allow the cows to jump out one by one onto a built-up bank. We held our breath and hoped that none of them sustained broken legs.

  The cattle were anxious for water and feed. Rick and I ‘tailed’ them—held them together, but allowed them to walk—to the waterhole. Rick told me to hold them there while he returned to the shed to feed the drivers.

  The Queensland language was still a mystery to me, and when the truck drivers and Rick referred to ‘dogs’, I couldn’t understand where the animals were: I couldn’t see any. I soon learnt that ‘dogs’ were the trailers behind the prime mover, and that ‘monkeys’ were actually sheep. I still had so much to learn.

  Five hours later Rick returned to find me transformed into a bunch of nerves trying valiantly to keep the cattle in a tight mob for fear of losing them, unaccustomed to these vast spaces. I’d only really ever ridden behind a mob of well-behaved sheep with help close at hand.