When the Dust Settles

by Cook, R

  They just didn’t do it

  I’ll skip to the middle and

  Go straight to the ending

  When I fell for a girl

  Who’s named Sarah Canning

  She’s cute and sweet

  With a smile so petite

  With brown locks of hair

  I can’t help but to stare

  I’m telling you this

  So you understand

  That I really want to

  Be your Man

  Robby Cook, 1998

  After many more letters and brief chats on the phone, Sarah made the decision to come and visit me in the June/July school holidays. She caught a bus from Miles to Alice Springs, before jumping on the next available flight to the Tanami mine, where I met her. It was a great feeling to finally be able to show her what I could only describe in our letters. I took her riding and showed her the many waterholes. Every day, regardless of how hard we worked, it was like a holiday when Sarah was with me. I struggled with the isolation once she returned to Queensland, as I longed to be in her company again. When Sarah graduated from school at the end of 1999, she ventured back out to Suplejack to stay for the festive season. But Sarah didn’t remain at the station long, instead electing to work as a casual at the gold mine. She began as an administration assistant and then moved into the laboratory testing rocks and soil samples in search of gold traces, working two weeks on and having one week off with me at home. Lilly was also still working at the mine with a similar shift, while Sonia had moved to Alice Springs. Both Lilly and Sonia had begun dating two blokes from the mine, who by coincidence, happened to be close mates living together in Darwin. Shane Pugh made his move on Lilly, while Hans Wochnik later befriended Sonia. They would all go on to marry, have children and come and go from the station over the next ten years.

  Whether it was for the money, the flexible shiftwork or just the chance to be closer to Sarah, I also went to find work at the mine. I landed a job in the exploration camp, about eight kilometres from the main site, so I was separated from Sarah and the rest of the miners. The only time I could see her was at the bar after hours, but that was rare, so we didn’t end up seeing a great deal of each other. I was recruited as a ‘fieldy’ for my local knowledge of the area. The company also used me to gain easier access to the Suplejack surrounds and I was always given any work that was needed in the area. A strong relationship between the station and the mine already existed, but it made it easier for everyone if I was the one explaining to Dad or Grandad where we, the company, wanted to explore. I would work twelve-hour day shifts, two weeks on, one week off. The roster suited me perfectly, with the chance to drive back to the station and work there for the week. Other mine workers generally flew interstate for their rest week. Sometimes I also went to Darwin or Alice Springs, but during the nine months I worked there, I spent most time off at home.

  The work varied somewhat, but once management discovered I could weld, they stuck me in the workshop. Before, I spent most of the time sorting core rock samples through to mapping thousands of samples in the field. A couple of us would drive out to the middle of the desert, over which an aerial survey had previously flown. Following direction from a navigation system, we would collect surface samples for the geologists. A computer on the dashboard would alert us to the coordinate where we needed to scoop up some dirt or rock. Sometimes the points were fifty metres apart, sometimes only five metres apart (which generally meant the area held more promise). Often we’d drive for days collecting those samples and stacking them in bags and boxes. It was a monotonous task, but we had a good crew to work with, mostly New Zealanders. Once the geologists had decided where they wanted the drill rig to operate, we would be there to collect the core rock samples, keep them in order and mark at what depth they were taken. Sometimes I would trade my fieldy position for the more physical role as an ‘offsider’ on the actual drill rig, helping shift rods and operating parts of the machine – which was much more enjoyable. The regular staff meetings at the mine were the biggest killer for me. A message of workplace health and safety was constant, and while necessary, it was too much for me. The atmosphere was like being at school, with every minute of every day scheduled and regimented.

  Sarah finished up at the mine before I did, returning to Queensland in March 2000 to begin her enrolled nursing course, studying externally at Dulacca. In September, I also left but not before the job had taken its toll on my health, as I weighed in at a massive 99.5 kilograms. I told myself a lot of the weight was muscle, but the truth was the majority was fat, so it was obvious that I needed to get back out to the stock camp to work it all off. I had been doing weights in the gym but not enough cardio, so while I wasn’t sloppily fat, I was indeed round. Another reason I wanted to return home full time was that two of my best mates had taken jobs as ringers on the station during the year: my cousin Tony Allwood, the son of Dad’s sister Pauline, and Ian ‘Talby’ Talbot, the son of Dad’s good mate Bruce Talbot. Although they were a couple of years older than me, we had grown up together at Clermont and beyond. They were on a road trip around Australia, much like my Dad had done forty years earlier, and were looking for work to pay their way. It was great having such good friends on the station helping with the work.

  Like most Top End cattle stations, each year we had two rounds of mustering, the first of which began soon after the wet season. Weaner calves were removed from the cows and saleable cattle were drafted out, and in those early years there were a lot of bullocks and mickey bulls (uncastrated young males). Young heifers were held on the station as replacement cows. Our biggest challenge was getting on top of the number of cleanskin (unbranded) cattle and more importantly the mickey bulls, so we could introduce better performing Brahman bulls into our breeding herd. As a result of our efforts, the station began to generate some lovely Shorthorn-cross cattle which were suitable for the live export market in the Middle East and Indonesia as well as the domestic southern and eastern markets. Breeding an even line of crossbred cattle was what we were aiming for in those days, although that line of thought had to change in the years ahead. The second round muster, several months later, would be mostly for branding the newborn calves, and we would use trap gates around watering points to muster the cattle. Because there was less surface water on the property later in the year, mustering was easier as we could predict stock movements around bores and troughs. So while there were busier times on the station during the mustering rounds and less busy times when fencing and maintenance were required, there was always something to do, which is the main attraction of working on the land.

  Depending on how hard we worked, Dad would occasionally give the crew a rest every so often for four or five days. If he was willing to offer time off, then we wouldn’t say no to the idea. Whether it was skiing on one of the station lakes behind a Toyota or chasing crocodiles up at Kununurra, there was always a way to make the most of the down time. The Top Springs Hotel, 400 kilometres north-east of the station, also became a regular hangout for the Suplejack crew. The pub and roadhouse stand on the corner of the Buntine and Buchanan highways, but there are no other shops or houses, other than accommodation for staff and tourists. It wasn’t a place to chase women, swim in a pool or get into fights; it was simply a place where we could drink as much rum as our bodies could handle. The publican was Elaine Beswick, a lovely white-haired lady who all the visitors respected. Arriving for our first stay, Talby, Tony, brother-in-law Shane and I booked two rooms between us. It was basic accommodation but fancy compared to our usual single men’s quarters at home. There was a shopfront to serve motorists and then a small bar area at the rear of the building, which opened onto a patio and grassed area. We spent the next four days drinking about eight litres of rum, like it was going out of fashion. Visitors would come and go, but most of the time it was just the four of us arriving when the pub opened and stumbling back to our room once it had closed at night. There were no Bloody Marys or other hangover cures; it was jus
t rum and I suppose the idea was to see how much rum we could take before we actually did die.

  Elaine was a great host and the more we made her laugh, the more she was happy to have us there. We became good mates with the entire crew at Top Springs. On subsequent visits, if they were short staffed, we would be asked to man the cash register at the bar or even help cook the meals in the kitchen and clean the bar area. We knew if we ever turned up back at work at the station looking worse for wear, then Dad wouldn’t let us go again, so we made sure we worked hard no matter how hung over we were. Top Springs became our favourite watering hole, just a cool five hours drive up the road.

  Keeping the dream alive

  Just a little story to turn your head

  It all started in winter, before we went to bed

  Round the old bush donkey we sat

  Thinking of places we’d rather be at

  Was peace and quiet when Rob hit hard at his knee

  And yelled ‘Top Springs is where we should be’

  But first we had to convince old Billy Boy

  So we put our heads together to agree on a ploy

  We’ll work flat out and soften the boss down

  Then hit him with the question ‘Can we go to town?’

  So the very next day we headed to the Green Swamp

  Two truckloads of panels is what we want

  You have never seen yards thrown together so quick

  All that rum on our minds sure did the trick

  At the end of the day all that hard work was done

  So we asked Billy Boy can we go have some fun

  To our disbelief the answer was yes

  So we promised our behaviour would be at its best

  Early next morning we jumped in the car

  All four of us like yams in a jar

  There was Dingo, Rob, Tony and Ian

  Out destination was the ‘Wanda Inn’

  T’was only five hours of travelling straight

  To our arrival at the Top Springs front gate

  And to greet us there was the owner Elaine

  Her gentle witty mind had brought her fame

  We drank most of the rum eight litres to toe

  But our friend Elaine had much more to go

  She fed us and housed us and the fee was free

  We only left the bar if we needed to pee

  Then like all good times it came to an end

  It was homebound to Suplejack once again

  Instead of the five hours this time it took seven

  As we bound the rough roads back into heaven

  Robby Cook, 2001

  At the end of the cattle season I decided to join Talby and Tony for a few weeks as they resumed their trip, heading off to Kununurra, Katherine and Darwin. We had a wild old time, stopping in at every pub along the way, including Top Springs, of course. Drinking rum and eating meat pies was mandatory. While at Kununurra we stayed with Big Gordy, who had left the station the year before, and he put us up in his shed for a week. He had a great big tomato plant in the garden and we devoured as many tomatoes as we could in an attempt to detox our bodies (but of course we had a rum can in the other hand at the same time). Apparently one day, we told him we were off to a rodeo in town and it was three days later when we pulled up in a taxi back outside his place, full of rum and wearing the same clothes as when we left. I’m not entirely sure what we got up to, but needless to say we would’ve had a good time.

  8

  DAY IN THE SUN

  By October 2000, I was a bit of a fat mess. Nine months eating miners’ tucker and three weeks drinking myself silly with my mates had left me very overweight and unfit. The last thing I felt like doing was going back to work. I needed a holiday from my holiday, but Dad had called and asked if I could help him with a fencing contract he had taken on for cattleman Gary Dann, near Alice Springs. It only took half an hour on the first day before I felt like I was going to die from exhaustion. Working at the Dad’s pace, I was stuffed in no time and busted my hump to carry on. The contract was for 33.5 kilometres of fence, with four-barbed wires and steel posts every twenty paces with a galvanised dropper between them. Gary had already cleared the line on his Milton Park property, with several creek crossings, gateways and corners.

  It was a massive effort for me, Dad and Brad, who was still a young teenager. We began with Brad driving the ute carrying the posts and Dad stepping them out and sighting the line, while I followed with the rammer, belting the steelies into the ground. The rammer was just a metal pipe, enclosed in one end, with handles on either side. By lifting the open end onto the top of the post, you could then slide it up and down with force to ram the post into the ground. Even early in the morning, the heat was stifling and after just a couple of posts, sweat was pouring off me. It was like I had just had a swim fully clothed. I knew the day was only going to get hotter, and the slower I went, the longer the job would take. So I was going hell for leather right up until I broke the handle off the rammer, leaving it virtually useless. Dad and Brad were now about three kilometres ahead of me and there was no way of telling them to bring back another rammer. But in the wisdom of my youth I knew if I sat under a tree and Dad returned, he would go off his brain at me for being a bludger. I also didn’t want to leave the rammer on the ground in case Dad wanted to take it to be fixed, so I threw it on my shoulder and started jogging up the fence line. Eventually, I caught up to them, grabbed a drink and went to grab the other rammer from the back of the ute. I thought my initiative would have won Dad over, but it didn’t have the desired effect.

  ‘It’s fucking forty degrees and you’re running around in the heat of the day,’ he started to rant. ‘You should’ve sat under a tree.’

  ‘She’s right,’ I said, throwing the working rammer on my shoulder.

  ‘No, get back in the car and we’ll drive you down there,’ he said.

  So he drove me back to where I was up to, and as I was getting another drink, patted me on the head. It was enough recognition to spur a young fella on for having a go – I had made the right decision. With renewed confidence, having been able to impress Dad, off I went again ramming in more posts. But still my body continued to struggle keeping up to the pace. We were staying at the Milton Park homestead and on the second night the exhaustion really hit me. After another beautiful dinner, complete with dessert, I couldn’t sleep. It was hot and late at night when I sat forward in my bed and power-spewed all over myself. Luckily Brad was there to drag me out of the bed, as I could hardly walk, and hosed me down on the lawn. I later managed to feel somewhat better and caught a few hours sleep before dawn. In the morning I noticed the work shirt that I had taken off the night before was rock solid from sweat. It was as stiff as a piece of cardboard.

  The fence line only took us eight days to complete, including creek crossings and the gates all swung. It was a testament to Dad’s work ethic to have finished 33.5 kilometres of fencing in just over a week. If I’d only known how rewarding fencing was, things might have been different the first time around. We celebrated our achievement with a few drinks on Melbourne Cup Day at the Alice Springs races. It was also the start of a great friendship between my father and me; with a gutful of rum we got up to all sorts of antics. It was a good day that I will always remember.

  I earned a few thousand dollars working on that job, somewhat more than I would have earned at Suplejack. Being a ringer never pays much money; most people say the exciting lifestyle and what you can learn about yourself are worth so much more. During the mustering season we would travel out to the farthest parts of the station and set up camp, where we would spend days, if not weeks, processing cattle from that area. It’s a carefree feeling when the stock work begins, riding for days through such beautiful country without a worry for what’s happening elsewhere in the world. Waking in darkness and setting out on the horses not long before the sunlight cracks across plains. The cool morning air gradually lost to the hot sun and a strong smell of cow manure, dust and
horse sweat. It’s where I belonged. As a small family-owned and run business, we never had the luxury of running a big stock camp. Instead we nearly always operated with a skeleton crew of family members and friends, always relying on the women and kids to pick up the slack. Other larger company-run stations took on many more workers for the entire year. I guess the real attraction and the beauty of working in the bush is that no two days are ever the same – something always happens to keep the stock camp buzzing. For the first few seasons after my family arrived, it was generally me and my horse that kept everyone entertained. Comet, better known as Launchya, was now well known for putting on a good bucking show. I remember one muster when Mum and I were out the front of a mob of cattle trying to steady the lead when I had to jump off quickly to tighten my girth. I knew it would be a challenge to get back on but I had no choice.

  ‘Do you want me to lug him down for you,’ asked Mum as I prepared to get back on. ‘I can twist his ear.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. I’ve got this,’ I said confidently.

  I pulled the inside rein short so the horse would only move in a circle with a bent neck. Putting my foot in the stirrup, I moved in as close as I could before hoisting myself up onto his back. But immediately Launchya started bucking and threw me off his rump and into the grass behind, before bolting down the paddock, dragging the reins. So Mum went and caught him for me and brought him back. I prepared for round two.

  ‘Now get ready when I say go,’ said Mum, leading the horse’s head into the fork of a tree so he couldn’t buck forward.

  With me holding only the inside rein this time, Mum pulled the other rein towards the tree and up I went, this time successfully. It was a mounting technique we were to find very useful in the future. Of course, Launchya found other times when it was necessary to buck. Even the squelch noise on my hand-held UHF radio was enough to set him off. I had never seen a horse buck up a rocky hill, but he managed to, and spat both me and the UHF off together. Towards the end of my term riding Launchya, an unfortunate accident put an end to his incessant bucking. It was a few years after I first began riding him and we were down in the house yards getting ready to tail a mob of weaners. I was more confident to get on in the house yard before setting out. As usual he opened up trying to throw me and I gave him a little spurring action to help him along, before he bucked blindly, straight into the back of the Toyota parked near the round yard. His head hit the metal tray in the middle of his forehead, stunning him and making him rear straight up in the air. Thinking he was going to fall over on top of me, I jumped off but kept hold of the reins. I climbed straight back on and cantered him around the yard, working up a sweat. Launchya never bucked again after that hit to the head. Perhaps, as they say, it had knocked some sense into him.