Consequently, Clancy’s unfavourable opinion of the colonies.
My mate and I sat down on our swags against the fence to talk things over. One of us was very deaf. Presently a black tracker went past and looked at us, and returned to the pub. Then a trooper in Queensland uniform came along and asked us what the trouble was about, and where we came from and were going, and where we camped. We said we were discussing private business, and he explained that he thought it was a row, and came over to see. Then he left us, and later on we saw him sitting with the rest of the population on a bench under the hotel veranda. Next morning we rolled up our swags and left Hungerford to the north-west.
THE STARS FOR A LANTERN
‘Whalers’ or swagmen were a common sight on bush tracks and stations well into the twentieth century. They arrived at sunset anticipating the handout of provisions and accommodation that was in those days expected—and usually given—under the code of bush hospitality. Their wanderings usually followed a well-worn track between stations and along rivers such as the Darling. Usually characters with a dry sense of humour, and sometimes well-educated and widely read, many finished their wandering in lonely graves along the tracks they travelled.
In the 1930s, an unknown writer reminisced about the ‘hardened old sundowners’ he met many years before at Weintenigi Station, a couple of hundred kilometres out of Broken Hill.
All through the shearing they had been camped at the ‘Bagman’s Hut’, at one time a regular feature of Darling River stations, but which is now practically a thing of the past. On the day of the cut-out all these old bagmen marched up to the cook’s head-quarters to get their final hand-outs. With the typical free-handedness of his class, who are generous, more so when they do not have to foot the bill, the cook loaded them well up. The next morning they started off up the river to the next shed.
One old chap particularly drew my eye. He must have been all of 65 years of age, and yet the load he was lumping would have caused a pack mule to roll its eyes. His swag was a neat roll complete with canvas sheet. From its straps dangled billycan and frying pan, and out of the top the inevitable fishing-line showed. This latter is a regular tool of the river whalers, for there are plenty of Murray cod to be had in the waters of the Darling and its tributary rivers.
On each shoulder, swinging by the necks were two sugar bags. They were well and truly full. The old chap stopped at the store, and asked me ‘how were the chances for a bit o’ terbaccer’. I gave him a plug—I was allowed so many pounds per annum for that purpose—and remarked upon his swag.
The sundowner replied:
‘I’ve carried more than that from some stations. That lousy cook only gave me 25 pounds of flour and a bit of tea, sugar and butter.’ Further inquiries showed two tins of jam, one of honey, two of baking powder, half a leg of mutton, and innumerable odds and ends of his own. Together with his ‘knot’, the whole must have weighed a full 80 pounds.
When asked how far he planned to trek that day, the whaler replied:
I’ve been on the river now for seventeen years, and I never do more than my six miles a day. I go up as far as Bourke, and then work my way back down the other bank. I ought to get to Wentworth again in time for a bit of fruit picking.
I was still curious, and asked him if he didn’t get tired of that kind of life. His answer, more expressive than polite, conveyed the impression that there wasn’t any better life going. Plenty of grub, nothing to do, and all your life to do it in!
The swaggie humped his heavy load onto his back, thanked his benefactor for the tobacco and ‘set out up the river bank to do his six miles per day for the rest of his life. Who knows what stories may lie behind some of those figures as they tramp their beats up and down the great river, with the sky for a roof and the stars for a lantern.’
HARDSHIPS OF THE TRACK
In the depths of the Great Depression an older generation of swagmen met with a new generation doing what they had begun thirty or more years before. Times were tough, but in many places they always had been and the old hands were not necessarily sympathetic to the new battlers hopping ‘rattlers’ and smoking cigarettes instead of the pipes favoured in an earlier era. One unnamed bloke had such a poor impression of the youth of 1933 that he was moved to share his thoughts:
He drifted along to my place the other afternoon with a sugar-bag over his shoulder, and said carrying the swag was a cow of a game.
‘Look here, mate,’ he went on, as he tackled the supper the wife gave him, ‘I struck the border, and it was a terrible experience, I managed to get tucker, but my feet ached something awful.’
The old timer said nothing to the whingeing young man, but he wrote plenty in his letter to the newspaper, recalling his time carrying a swag—or a ‘curse’, as he called it—from Broken Hill.
Rolled in the ‘curse’ was a 6 x 8 tent, fly, two blankets, a couple of pairs of trousers, and the same number of flannels. I left Broken Hill with 3/6 in my pocket, and headed for Menindee, which was 76 miles [120 kilometres] away. I tramped 36 miles [57 kilometres] with only a spell of 15 minutes, and struck a wretched shanty at 9 p.m. Here I had a drink of a miserable decoction called beer, slept in a hard bed, and breakfasted on goats’ chops and damper, washed down with a black stewed substance. Those back-blockers lived hard in those days.
The country he passed through was ‘one vast desert’ with not enough wood to boil a billy and no water to put in it anyway. It was hot, dry and desolate with only one shanty that was not deserted and looked ‘like a battered pelican in a wilderness’. In all that distance he passed no other travellers.
Nine miles [15 kilometres] further on I struck a station, where I entered the hut and found the men at dinner. There was no friendly greeting, only a crushed and heartbroken, grunt and the remark, ‘Help yourself’. There was stewed mutton, damper, brownie, and tea in a bucket, into which I dipped my pannikin. The men had a sour, worn, depressed look, and the meal finished in perfect silence.
After another 6 miles (10 kilometres) he encountered a plague of caterpillars coming down from the Darling. Later he passed through country where ‘they must have had the hearts of lions and insides of emus’ to survive.
Seventeen miles (28 kilometres) further on I came to Menindee. I was glad to see it. I could tell you a lot more about the rest of that journey to the Queensland border, but what’s the use? Now do you wonder why I smile when I hear some of these modern train jumping ‘tourists’, with their cigarette and sugar-bag swags, talking about the hardships of the track?
And that’s how tough it was in the bad old days!
BACK OF THE MILKY WAY
The author of this anonymous poem manages to give the harsh realities of the track an unusual appeal. Like all good yarns this one finishes with a flourish that brings it back down to earth. The places visited stretch across much of the continent and the incidents mentioned are a mixture of historical, commonplace and sometimes obscure. The overall effect is a poetic nutshell of the great unending track of the Australian imaginary.
A few translations: the ‘Myall track’ probably means to travel through rough country; ‘the great Byno’ is probably a reference to Bynoe Harbour in the Northern Territory; the ‘cup’ mentioned in verse 5 is not the Melbourne Cup as no horse or jockey named ‘Bowman’ is recorded winning that race; Bathurst is known as ‘the city of the plains’; the shearer’s strike took place in the 1890s (see ‘Razing the Rodney’ on page 200) and ‘flying stakes’ is a form of open horse race. To ‘hump your drum’ is to carry a swag.
I humped my drum from Kingdom Come
To the back of the Milky Way,
I boiled my quart on the Cape of York,
And I starved last Christmas Day.
I cast a line on the Condamine
And one on the Nebine Creek,
I’ve driven through bog, so help me bob,
Up Mungindi’s main street.
I crossed the Murray and drank in Cloncurry
&n
bsp; Where they charged a bob a nip.
I worked in the Gulf where the cattle they duff,
And the squatters let them rip.
I worked from morn in the fields of corn
Till the sun was out of sight,
I’ve cause to know the Great Byno,
And the Great Australian Bight.
I danced with Kit when the lamps were lit,
And Doll as the dance broke up;
I flung my hat on the Myall track
When Bowman won the Cup.
I courted Flo in Jericho,
And Jane at old Blackall,
I said farewell to the Sydney belle
At the doors of the Eulo hall.
I laughed aloud in the merry crowd
In the city of the plains;
I sweated too on Ondooroo
While bogged in the big bore-drains.
I pushed my bike from the shearers’ strike
Not wanting a funeral shroud;
I made the weights for the Flying Stakes
And I dodged the lynching crowd.
I’ve seen and heard upon my word,
Some strange things on my way,
But spare my days, I was knocked sideways
When I landed here today.
KIANDRA TO KOSCIUSZKO
Even as late as the 1930s parts of the country were little travelled, particularly the snowfields between Victoria and New South Wales. In the summer of 1934, a party of six led by Colin Gilder of the Millions Club, an association of businessmen fostering a population of one million for Sydney through British immigration, set out to walk from Kiandra to Kosciuszko. The keen skiers took three days to cover about 100 kilometres, mostly at an altitude of over 1800 metres. The group wanted to correct the recorded locations of the huts vital to the survival of walkers and skiers.
The going was not too rough. They encountered fog at the top of Happy Jack Valley and slept their first night in an improvised gunyah.
They spent their second night at Mawson’s Hut, named for the famous Antarctic explorer, where it was 72 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. But within fifteen minutes it dropped to 57 degrees Fahrenheit on the back of a southerly. ‘You could almost see the mercury dropping in the thermometer,’ Gill said.
At Mawson’s Hut they met Dave Williamson who had 3500 sheep ‘summering’ in the high country. Dave had been bringing flocks up from the low country each summer for 30 years.
When the fog cleared they were able to see a valley of snow-covered downs and everlasting daisies. Colin Gilder described it as the most extensive view he had ever seen.
There was water everywhere, and on the tops of some of the dividing ranges it was almost possible, by stretching both arms out to touch with the one hand the waters that, flowing ultimately to the west. Joined the great Murray River system, and with the other those which flowed into the Pacific Ocean.
They had a magnificent view from Gungartan. They could see as far north as the mountains around Yarrangobilly Caves, they could see the hills that surround Canberra, they could see Table Top Mountain at Kiandra; in another direction they could look over Dalgety; they saw the whole of the New South Wales main range; and they were able to look into Victoria as far as Mount Feathertop.
The intriguingly named Millions Club was especially active in the 1930s and included politicians as well as businessmen among its membership. At its 60th anniversary in 1962 the Millions Club changed its name to the Sydney Club. It is now part of the Union, University & Schools Club. Gilder and his companions pursued their skiing passion through the Millions Club but later formed the Sydney Ski Club in 1937.
A FORGOTTEN WAY
Older than the pyramids or the Silk Road, the Bundian Way is a path through what is mostly still wilderness, complete with spiders, snakes and native flora and fauna. It travels through Aboriginal country rich in traditional camping sites, artefacts and spiritual significance. It has also become part of the pioneer heritage of settlement and an early example of Aboriginal people helping newcomers move safely through the bush between the coast and the high country.
People have travelled this track for thousands of years. Running for over 360 kilometres from Targangal (Mount Kosciuszko) to Bilgalera (Fisheries Beach in Twofold Bay), the Bundian Way allowed people of the Yuin, Ngarigo, Bidhawal and Monaro communities to move efficiently between their traditional grounds into the high country and down to the coast. In summer the track led them to the swarming Bogong moths, good eating when barbecued. In winter, people could access and enjoy the seafood riches of Twofold Bay, including whale meat. These travels also allowed for trading and for social and ceremonial gatherings.
Snaking by the towns of Thredbo and Delegate, the track was later used by settlers in the region to move stock. But over time the memory of the track faded and it was only due to the efforts and knowledge of the local Yuin–Monaro people, a naturalist bushwalker and a bit of luck that it was found again.
As John Blay tells it, he spent many years walking in the area, coming to appreciate its environmental diversity and uniqueness. He had heard of a mysterious path from the mountains to the sea and began searching for it in 2001. But after a couple of frustrating years he was no closer to finding the elusive way.
Then he had a bit of luck: he came across a Bombala dingo trapper named Harold Farrell. Farrell was in his eighties and knew the track from his younger years when he had followed it himself. Even better, he was able to point John to where it lay. The next day, Blay found the track exactly where Farrell had told him it would run.
Since then, and together with the Eden Local Aboriginal Council and elder Uncle Ossie Cruse, Blay has walked and surveyed the route of the Bundian Way. Their research has confirmed the course and extent of the elusive track and they aim to have it all open for walking as funds and resources become available. In 2016 the first stage in opening the track to walkers was initiated with a 12-kilometre stretch along Twofold Bay.
Many of those who have walked all or part of the track have found their journey to be inspirational, even healing. Uncle Ossie and John Blay hope that the cultural and historical significance of the ancient pathway will one day be fully available to anyone who wishes to connect with the spirit of the land.
8
WORKING WAYS
She has undertaken all kinds of work, from waiting in cafes to milking on [a] dairy farm . . .
Of Shirley Howard, riding from Sydney to Darwin, 1939
HURDY-GURDY GIRLS
The story goes that the hurdy-gurdy girls originated in the German state of Hessen, then an independent country, in the early nineteenth century. Hessian farmers made brooms during the winter to sell the next summer. This cottage industry grew very quickly, especially when the farmers discovered that sex sells: pretty young ladies dancing to the loud and piercing sound of a hurdy-gurdy attracted customers for their brooms like nothing else. The idea quickly spread and before long hurdy-gurdy girls, also known as hessian broom girls, were becoming a nuisance on the city streets of Europe, America and Australia.
It wasn’t just the lovely ladies attracting attention: the ‘hurdies’ were extraordinarily discordant instruments. The hurdy-gurdy is a medieval instrument played by turning a rosined wheel that rubs along a number of strings, including drones, in imitation of a fiddle bow. There is a basic keyboard along the outer edge. The instrument is very loud and penetrating, ideal for street music and attracting attention to whatever wares might be on sale.
From at least the 1850s, descriptions of hurdy-gurdy girls began to appear in the Australian press. By the time they reached Australia, hurdy-gurdy girls were often playing the less audibly confronting and easier to manage concertina or, according to some accounts, were dancing to street organs. They were in Melbourne in 1857 and Cowra in 1861. In 1860, they were in Bathurst: ‘Those ubiquitous German girls with cracked voices and broken-winded instruments parade the streets from daylight till dark, and become a pest to anyone who has once been soft enough
to reward their excruciating melodies.’
It was much the same story wherever there was a gold rush. The early years of Forbes were busy and bustling. Miners, shepherds and the occasional bushranger came and went, day and night. The town was filled with theatres, and concert and dancing halls. Shoe-blacks, buskers and the hurdy-gurdy girls all did a roaring trade along the thronging streets. They also entertained in the dance halls and saloons.
By now though, the originally innocent hurdy-gurdy-girl business had long since fallen prey to the sex trade. Unscrupulous agents would convince their parents to allow the girls to travel with them in return for a share of their earnings. But these earnings were from prostitution, not advertising. Increasingly, the hurdy-gurdy girls were deemed to be of low moral character, though men visiting dance halls considered it a great honour to win a dance with one of these musical damsels. Fatal brawls between men keen to dance with a hurdy-gurdy girl were not unknown.
As the wilder gold rushes ended, Australian society aspired to a more settled and respectable character. The colourful but elusive hurdy-gurdy girls faded away with the saloons and dance halls that had provided them with a living of sorts.
COBB & CO TO MELBOURNE
English comic opera singer Emily Soldene was not deterred by much, it seems. In 1877, she was part of a visiting troupe performing in Sydney and Melbourne. They had a successful season at Sydney’s Theatre Royal, though the condition of the theatre and the takings compared unfavourably with their recent tour of the United States. Soldene was a hit with the crowds and the season finished with a benefit concert in her name. The governor and his lady were present along with the local elite. She was presented with a jewel casket in the form of an emu egg decorated with Australian silver.
Great Australian Journeys Page 19