Back of Beyond

by Jenny Old

  The cattle had all had a drink and were becoming quite irritated with my overzealous attempts to keep them together when they wanted to wander off and graze. Roger had been helping me, and we’d had a busy time circling the mob diligently. I was exhausted and very grateful to Roger, my wise and willing newfound friend. Rick was amused that I didn’t know naturally to allow the cattle to wander and graze. He needed to realise I was a raw first-year jillaroo from the South, and my fear of losing cattle in a ten square-mile paddock was intense!

  With Rick riding in the lead of the mob and me on the tail, we herded the cattle into another paddock. Riding in the lead was another oddity for me, because in the Riverina we only rode on the tail.

  When we returned to the shed on dark, we faced the formidable chore of producing dinner on the 44-gallon drum stove. Rick disappeared over the ridge to attempt to start the small and very noisy generator so we could have some lights, but again it refused to oblige. Out came a few candles in stubbies, and in this dim light Rick asked me, ‘Are you frightened of the dark?’

  ‘No,’ I replied confidently, trying to think when I’d ever been left alone in the dark in my protected life.

  He was departing to Inverleigh, a station thirty kilometres away, to collect some meat: our generous neighbour Joe had agreed to supply us with beef until we could kill our own beast and repay him.

  ‘Can you get the fire in the drum going for dinner?’ asked Rick as he departed.

  I assured him I’d be fine and began the task of chopping wood with the axe.

  As the sound of the LandCruiser faded, I became aware of the silence and the fact I was in the middle of nowhere with only a flickering light. Suddenly the most doleful wailing sound I’d ever heard filled the darkness. I leapt onto a bunk, petrified, and decided I was frightened of the dark.

  This was far from the romantic picture I’d envisaged of our reunion. It was sheer hard work and deprivation of everything! Sore, hungry, thirsty, tired and frightened, I curled up on the bunk and listened to the dingoes howling.

  When Rick returned a couple of long hours later, I sheepishly admitted I’d become frightened. He understood and was good-natured about my shortcomings, proceeding to carry out the jobs I’d failed to do with me following closely behind.

  Where was the magic of us falling in love taking me?

  Much later, after a delicious dinner of barbecued thick, juicy steak, with flavour I’d never encountered before, jacket potatoes done in coals, surprise peas and carrots, I felt a new person—apart from a little stiffness setting in. Once again, I fell into bed and slept the sleep of the exhausted.

  When dawn broke much earlier than necessary, I thought to myself that it didn’t take long for a night to pass in the Gulf. However, the view from my bed was unforgettable. I was in love with this country. The soft undulating plains, scattered with silver-leaf boxes, whitewoods, corkwoods and spinifex, were tinted blue-purple and pink beneath the clear azure sky. A creek meandered around bends with a mass of trees revealing its course. The landscape made me think of Africa, and many guests over the following years were to comment on this similarity.

  My deep and peaceful contemplation ended abruptly when I tried to get out of bed. Every muscle in my body screamed—I was going to pay for those sixteen hours I’d spent in the saddle. I attempted nonchalance as I staggered to the outhouse, but had to give up and try for sympathy. I soon realised sympathy was hard to come by in this company.

  I couldn’t bring myself to ask Rick what the plan for the day was. I didn’t want to know. But after breakfast I was horrified to see him leading over a small, freckled, sleepy-looking grey gelding called Casper. I took an instant dislike to him—which is unusual, as I love horses—and when he looked at me with his large brown eyes, I could see my dislike was reciprocated.

  ‘It’s time you learn to mount the Queensland way, instead of the Riverina way,’ announced Rick.

  ‘Okay, what do I do?’ I responded meekly.

  ‘Lift yourself into the saddle using your stomach muscles, grab the monkey,’ not the sheep, confusingly, but the piece of leather near the pommel, ‘knee into the shoulder, left hand holding the mane behind the horse’s ear. Now put your back to the horse’s head, then one, two, three, and up in one fluid motion!’

  Rick demonstrated, making it look effortless. But as I lifted my tortured left leg to put my foot in the stirrup, then tried to use my tortured stomach muscles to lift my aching body, I found I couldn’t move; my muscles were protesting too loudly. With a groan I announced that my stomach muscles had been dormant for years, so today it would be the Riverina way of mounting or nothing at all. And I’d have to continue to mount my way until I’d been broken in and I could walk, sneeze and laugh in comfort again. I actually longed for a fence or drum I could stand on and then plop into the saddle as I’d done with my horse when I was little. I smiled at the thought: not appropriate in outback Queensland.

  The day was destined to be a disaster with the way Casper and I felt about each other. He made me appreciate Roger even more but with only seven horses in our plant we had to spell them. Casper and I continued on together for fourteen hours, and it was a great relief when we finally came to the end of the day and I was allowed to dismount in my own way.

  I found out later that Casper had a habit of kicking and biting the other six horses in the yard even though he was the smallest. I also witnessed him draping a big man over a barbed-wire fence after the man had accidentally kicked him in a vulnerable spot as he was mounting. Casper had brains and he chose when to use them to his advantage.

  In his defence, I also saw Rick do some amazing campdrafting in the paddock with him. However, thankfully I never rode Casper again.

  4

  Testing Times

  The Ridge, as we affectionately called where the shed stood, offered many challenges. I was living in a makeshift building, somewhere in the Gulf of far north Queensland, isolated and cut off from my family and friends. And it wasn’t as if Rick had dangled the carrot of marriage to entice me out of my comfortable world into this spartan existence.

  Looking back on my younger self, I’m astounded by my resilience. I was only twenty-two and had many things I wanted to do and experience. I lived in the moment and was innocently determined to enjoy every second and have a wonderful adventure.

  The next morning, Rick was out of bed at daylight, tripping through the shed in his Cuban-heeled riding boots. The noise echoed his cheery greeting to another new day. And he whistled—very loudly and cheerfully. He cooked breakfast while I tidied the shed, cleaned up, and handwashed the filthy clothes then hung them out to dry.

  To my relief, Rick told me we were having a horse-free day, though we would still be fencing. We set off in the LandCruiser, which he’d loaded with wire, pliers, posts, tie wires, sandwiches, a billy and water.

  The Cloncurry Shire was drought-declared but McAllister had plenty of feed, and Rick was expecting some sheep (‘monkeys’) to arrive on agistment for some much-needed income. An extra wire had to be added to the bottom of the fence of our largest paddock, the Bullock Paddock, in order to keep in the monkeys. I had no idea of the enormity of the task at hand, nor that I was to be an integral part of it. Only later was I told that the fence line around the paddock was more than sixty kilometres! And I was going to be walking most of that distance.

  Rick had made a wire spinner that sat on the back of the LandCruiser spooling out the wire as he drove slowly on. He then dropped me off at the first post with a huge pile of tie wires and drove away, leaving me to stumble along the rough terrain tying the bottom wire to the posts.

  In the cool early morning, I loved being out, hearing the birds, enjoying my surrounds and the serenity. I was happy, whistling on my way. However, as the sun rose higher, I began to wilt and became very thirsty. In the three hours we’d been out I’d spotted Rick in the distance once as he sailed along, spinning more and more wire for me to tie on. Every few kilometres there’d b
e another pile of tie wires left for me!

  Finally I came to a pile with a plastic bottle of water beside it. Even hot water out of a plastic bottle was welcome by this stage. I quickly removed the lid, but just as I was about to have a big swig, I smelt an unpleasant odour. On closer inspection, I discovered the water had turned to green slime. I have no idea how old it was or how long it had been sitting behind the car seat.

  Hot, thirsty and annoyed at the flies constantly buzzing under my hat, looking to share my bit of shade, I wondered if I was meant for this harsh land. I had blisters on my feet and hands, and I was fed up, wondering what the hell I was doing out there being used as free labour. Dear God, I was thirsty. Please someone, give me a bottle of water!

  In the heat and dust with the flies, while the never-ending line of posts shimmered in a haze in front of my eyes, waiting for me to attach the wire, I began to long for my nursing career. I’d loved theatre work and intensive care. At one point I decided I’d immediately apply for a job at North Shore Hospital in Sydney.

  After several hours Rick appeared, grinning happily, suggesting lunch and handing me some water. It was one o’clock and I’d been on that fence line since six in the morning.

  ‘Didn’t you realise that bottle of water you left for me had turned to green slime?’ I asked him between thirsty gulps.

  ‘Sorry, no…I didn’t,’ apparently unconcerned by my suffering.

  ‘How could anyone be expected to work out here in this dreadful heat without water?’ I asked angrily. ‘I could have died!’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘No thanks to you,’ I said, wanting to hit him.

  I devoured my hot sandwich, then lay down in the dry creek bed and slept, haughtily refusing to move until 2.30 p.m. To this day I think Rick is still slightly puzzled by my reaction. The creek was named Exhaustion Creek—it had a story to tell.

  To make amends, or possibly to fill in time, Rick hinted that roast bush turkey would be a welcome change for dinner and set off to shoot one of the many parading past. I thought they had to be the dumbest birds in the world, because they didn’t move on. My impression changed as I watched my man taking careful aim at the head of a slow-moving bird, almost at point-blank range, to be thwarted at every shot by the turkey shifting its head just in time to miss the bullet. It became comical to me and very annoying to Rick, who had represented his school at shooting.

  The turkey won. After many more shots it was still strutting along the bed of Exhaustion Creek, very much alive. Sadly, no turkey for dinner, but that bird deserved its freedom. And the incident lightened my mood.

  I did complete the day, insisting I had decent water left for me at regular intervals and gloves for my sore blistered hands. Rick actually stopped to make sure I was still a willing worker. He thought he’d compensate for my discomfort by making me a leather belt and pouch to put my tie wires in. I could think of more acceptable gifts and was not impressed.

  I wonder how much more of this fencing I’m going to have to do, I thought to myself, but I didn’t have the strength to ask the question.

  The night after my first huge day of fencing, I collapsed onto my bunk, every muscle aching, still grumpy with the love of my life, who showed zero empathy for me.

  Some time after falling into a deep sleep, I was woken by the honking of a car horn followed by a loud cheery voice outside the shed. ‘Wakey-wakey, where are you all?’

  I looked at the clock. It was 4 a.m., though I felt I’d only just closed my eyes. I rolled over, my muscles objecting. Another short night. Did anyone ever get a decent sleep here? Paul Williams, Rick’s business partner and co-manager, had arrived. He was accompanied by the Julia Creek mailman, who’d been charmed into detouring to drop Paul off. I had met Paul before, but I’d forgotten how handsome he was: tall, with thick wavy brown hair, twinkling eyes and an enormous grin that lit up his face.

  He was also accompanied by a tiny bundle of fluff—a miniature dachshund puppy, Sam. The little fellow was all ears and not much else. Paul and Sam were such an unlikely pair, the very tall bushie with his very small dog.

  Paul had brought another consignment of fencing materials. As the dreaded pile of wire and droppers was unloaded, I looked on with a sinking heart.

  We gave the mailman a meal before he departed to continue his normal run. Then the three of us sat chatting until it was light enough to resume work.

  Someone once asked me, ‘How did you live in that tiny shed with two men. What was going on?’ I suppose to the outside world our situation did appear strange; and indeed it was unlikely, in that the three of us cohabited very happily. It never occurred to me to ask Paul if he minded sharing with us. With my eternal optimism, I thought it was wonderful that he was there. Why wouldn’t I? He was handsome, witty, intelligent, very funny and great company. All my girlfriends were charmed by him.

  The idea my parents might not have been enthralled with the three of us living together at such close quarters didn’t enter my mind. I’d travelled overseas for months sharing a large army tent with both male and female companions, so I was very much at ease with the arrangement. The men were always totally considerate and respectful to me.

  I took great pride in our shed, with coloured blankets on the beds, and grass arrangements in stubbies in lieu of flowers. Too often we returned home to find the bottles shattered and my arrangements scattered over the floor by the wind.

  I did all the washing by hand in cement tubs, a big job with the heavy, grimy jeans. Then the clothes, towels and bedding dried in an instant with the ever-constant wind and sunshine.

  Our kerosene fridge was temperamental. When it became impossible to light it and get it going, Rick would load it onto the back of the LandCruiser and take it for a rough ride—then it would go like a top, until the next time.

  We cooked on a grid over the 44-gallon drum, hinged to allow it to be lifted so the fire could be lit underneath. The flames would burn down to coals, perfect for cooking our dinner.

  We decided very early on that Rick, being the morning person, would be the breakfast cook. The insistent clicketyclack of his Cuban-heeled boots on the concrete floor and his incessant whistling at daybreak earned him the nickname ‘Fred Astaire’. Paul and I shared the evening cooking, and I can thank his guidance for my expertise in the kitchen in the years to come, though I had no idea of the hardship I was taking on. He was a brilliant cook and teacher, and I soon became more proficient.

  We were always famished at the end of a long day, and having a stack of firewood, the axe and a tin of diesel—affectionately called ‘Boy Scout juice’—by the stove was essential for a speedy start to dinner. Our utensils consisted of blackened saucepans for the vegies and a blackened frying pan for the steak. From this primitive kitchen, Paul produced amazing meals. One of our favourites was rump steak stuffed with tinned smoked oysters. Rick and I were constantly surprised by his creations. We devoured every morsel. This was living!

  The 32-volt generator was our only source of power. Housed in a tin shed, like all our machinery, it had a mind of its own. We were grateful for the light it offered us in the evenings. There was something comforting in the chug-chug of the engine in the dark as we sat around the table discussing anything and everything.

  Insects were a constant challenge and annoyance. They were drawn to our outside light, swarming around our saucepans. Many a time we had to pick gidyea bugs from our peas; tiny annoying creatures, with the foulest smell and taste, they could crawl anywhere, especially down your back as you were trying to sleep. Once they were squashed, you were made to regret the murder—the smell was revolting. But Paul could turn even that discomfort into fun. At times when our life was difficult, it was wonderful to have such great company.

  Although Paul was extremely attractive, there was never any romance between us. We were just very good mates, really like brother and sister. Prior to my turning up, Paul’s girlfriend had visited McAllister but found i
t wasn’t for her. She disappeared, never to be seen by Paul again.

  What did that say about me? Was I foolhardy? Naive? Or just plain stupid?

  As for my dear Rick, as far as he was concerned the job at hand was the important thing. He was the serious one, and Paul and I often teased him as we rode behind him on the way to a muster: ‘Mr Old, I’m thirsty…I need to go to the toilet…I’m hungry…’ Rick chose to ignore us, but we thought we were very funny.

  I once asked Rick, ‘If I hadn’t been such a good worker, would you have married me?’

  ‘No,’ was the short answer. ‘What would have been the point?’ (Joking, I hoped.)

  Ah, true love! Silly question!

  The backbreaking work of fencing was at least made much easier with Paul’s six-foot-four frame, long legs, big smile and sense of humour. He suggested a system for the two of us to help keep up with the ‘Wire Maniac’ in the LandCruiser. We now had the welcome addition of a Honda CT90 motorbike: a very small vehicle but helpful nonetheless. I’d ride for about two hundred metres, then start tying, and when Paul caught up to the bike he would ride on for the next two hundred. So we continued to hop past each other all day. Having company made everything a lot more fun and I began to enjoy the work.

  Rick happily sailed along in the LandCruiser, spinning out wire and leaving piles of tie wires in case we ran out. One day, in a particularly rough area, Paul and I were doing our double hopping when the bottom wire tightened. With a rush, it was ten metres above our heads. We looked up in amazement. Rick, way ahead on higher ground, had forgotten we were in a much lower gully. We both climbed onto the little Honda to catch up with him and explain the impossibility of tying wire to a fence when it’s in the air.

  Our tuckerbox was prepared each morning. It included our staple diet of corned beef, tinned spaghetti, baked beans, melon-and-ginger jam, dry biscuits, stale bread and tea. I was still inexperienced but learning quickly how to pack the essentials for hot days without refrigeration. Our beef was in limited portions; when it ran out we resorted to tinned food. When bread ran out we ate Vita-Weat and Sao biscuits. It was an odd diet, but after all the hard physical work we’d done, anything tasted delicious as we sat around the campfire. And Paul could always create something out of nothing and make it into a treat—tinned spaghetti mixed with tinned pineapple…delicious!