Byrock 2007 – A Boys Weekend Away
Byrock NSW, on the Mitchell highway, between Nyngan and Bourke will always hold a special place in my heart. Twenty years ago, back when I was 20, the brother Al and I stumbled upon the little town quite by accident, on a hunting trip. It was actually a nightmare trip, with a whole load of car trouble and empty wallets, but the people we met on that trip were inspirational.
We went back with a few mates the following October long weekend and after becoming lost and spending a torturously thirsty night in the bush, we headed to the pub to check out the ‘Bogeye Races’, which we’d read about the previous day at the Coolabah hotel.
As we were to discover, a Bogeye is in fact a Shingleback Lizard – they’re very lazy and slow moving and their ‘races’ would scarcely challenge even a stuttering race-caller. But they had bookies and live music and two or three hundred bush folk from all directions, had converged on the pub. The subsequent cloud of bulldust was washed from the throat with copious amounts of beer and we had one of the best times of our lives.
So every October long weekend, for the next 13 years, a bunch of us would make the 9hr trip out to The Rock. The roster of the gang would shift around a bit from year to year, but there were about 5 hardcore participants who’d make it every time – including myself, Mark and Dean. We’d begin the countdown to each event, on the long trip home from the previous.
Unfortunately, after about 10 years, the greenies and do-gooders of the world got a whiff that a few people in a remote community were actually having a bit of fun and enjoying natures gifts, so quite obviously, this had to be stopped! First off, they declared our camping spot, The Rockhole, an aboriginal sacred site and banned all camping by whitefellas. Though I am still yet to see an aborigine within 200 metres of this spot, we always held it in our hearts as the most sacred spot in the country, and treated it and the surrounding area, with all the respect due such a place!
Then some propeller-headed knob, declared that Shingleback lizards mate for life and can no longer be caught and released. I dispute this claim and fancy that any bogeye’s that manage to run into each other out in the gidgee scrub, will have a sneaky poke, though they may indeed keep this secret from their spouse. I think Dr Propeller-head is as naïve about the sexual habits of reptiles, as he is about how to have fun in life. Regardless, he got his way, and probably his PhD and had the races shutdown for eternity. Wanker!
We persisted for a few more years, throwing in a stopover at Nevertire pub on the way home, for a bit more variety, but eventually we went our own ways and the annual migration out west came to a disappointing end.
Last year, however, Mark tried to revive the trip and took a handful of his copper mates, and a few bikies, with him on the pilgrimage and they all seemed to have a good time. I gave the prospect of going along very little consideration – now living in Darwin and all, but a few messages and calls to the boys as they headed west, churned my guts somewhere way down deep and I started to toss around the idea of a return the following year.
I think it was around July this year that I made a call from the car park at Humpty Doo pub, I left a message on Mark’s mobile – in a voice that started slow and reached a crescendo with the declaration that “I’ll be there with shit in me hair! Bring on Byrock Brother!”
I was most excited and counting down the weeks – Dean had promised Mark earlier that he’d go if I went (feeling content that there was nil chance of this occurring!). So now he was tied in as well, with Pauly Biscoe uttering encouraging signs for another old boy’s presence! It was shaping up pretty good from my perspective. Mark had a list of some 16 or so prospective pilgrims, including Scotty Lasker and a crew of his mates, a few cops and some in-law family members!
I expected at least half to drop out, because this is simply what happens. However, much to my surprise, come the day, there were still 14 starters. Mark and his brother Craig, his mate Dave, the father-and-brother-in-law, along with a few other Navy mates, all left Cessnock. Scotty Lasker and three mates left Sydney and I was in Dean’s car with him and Pauly, as we departed West Hoxton.
Mark had to pick up his country detective mate Scott, from Dubbo and Lasker pulled in to Bathurst for his mate to re-acquaint himself with an old lady friend.
We left late, around 9:30, and headed straight west, over the Blue Mountains.
The plan was for all to meet up at Trangie pub, the big one on the corner, and then head to Nevertire for the night.
Myself, Boney and Bis (Dean n Pauly), had a good catch-up chat, sang a few country songs and shared a few laughs but found we were getting a bit peckish as we approached Orange. We agreed to hit a pub for a counter lunch and a beer – I was fairly tounguing for a schooner by then! Unfortunately, we couldn’t find a parking spot within 200 yards of a decent pub in Orange and thus found ourselves out the other side of town and still starving!
Molong was next in line and I was beginning to get a bit edgy about the vicinity of a beer and feed should this place not measure up. Luckily, the pub on the corner seemed open for business – the Café Pub or some such thing. We parked across the road and found our way in, via the rear entry somehow. It seemed like the place had only just re-opened after renovations. It was apparently being run by a bunch of ladies and, after observing the trouble with pouring a beer and taking our lunch order, I suggested McLeod’s Daughters had finally left Drover’s Run and taken up residence in Molong’s Café Hotel!
Trouble and fumbling aside, the piping hot chicken schnitzel, chips and gravy along with a couple of cold schooners of Resch’s , really hit the spot! Next stop Trangie.
Mark had made some stupid suggestion that everyone should grow some kind of facial hair for the weekend. As we pulled up outside of Trangie pub, an old baldy looking bloke with a grey, Ivan Milat moustache wondered across to greet us – it was Mark! He stuck out his hand in the normal challenge of finger-strength and I think I got the better of him in the hand-crushing stakes on this occasion. We entered the pub to be confronted by a ring of faces I didn’t recognise and they were all glaring at us. I didn’t know if they were locals, travellers or mates of Mark – until he began with the introductions. Some had facial hair, some not – so the blokes I had actually met before, who were now wearing fancy beards, I didn’t recognise either. After hearing a list of names as long as your arm, I could only recall one – Bruce. He was a long, lanky young buck from the navy. I had known the Bruvver Craig for years and noted he was looking well – clean, sober and clear of eye! The brother-in-law at times looked frighteningly like Mark’s girlfriend, and his own sister, Heidi, it made me shudder, ‘cause she’s a pretty girl. The oldman I knew, as he’d once driven us to Cessnock races. It took a while before I sorted the remaining blokes out, including Dave, the old neighbour, who I’d met more than a few times over the years.
Lasker and his boys were hours behind – and they’d left the Lady-killer back in Bathurst, ‘catching up’ with the old flame, so he was destined to be real late.
We had two beers, a round of catch-up and piss-take, and left for Nevertire.
He was known as ‘Skin’, or so boasted his too-tight staff polo shirt. He was an unlikely looking fellow who loomed large behind the Nevertire bar.
“Where are you boys headed then?”
Our trusty pal, Constable Care, currently sporting the serial killer whiskers, had organised tonight’s accommodation months in advance, with the resident publican – who was now AWOL. He had booked three rooms which we were obviously relying upon to sleep in – however, this little detail came as a newsflash to Skin!
Mark also advised the Skinned One that he was contracted to cook us a big breakfast in the morning, after our fine night’s kipper in the aforementioned rooms! This also struck the big boy as a surprise but to his credit, he agreed and began organising everything in earnest.
We were in full swing when Lasker and his crew bowled through the door – all except The Pants-Man, who’d been further delayed in Bathurst. We were all getting to know each other over beers – Scotty Lasker was Dean’s brother-in-law – a fun-loving, cheeky little bastard, built like a skinned rabbit. I’d known Scott for ages – once went to see him make his comeback as an amateur boxer. He’s the coolest bloke I’ve ever met but goes like the clappers when the bell rings – he won the bout with very little trouble.
He’d brought with him an old mate Shannon I’d seen before but didn’t at first recognise, and another couple of guys I’d not met.
Mark’s bush detective mate, another Scotty, revealed himself to be a true character! He is an entertaining bloke, both funny and vocally talented – with a penchant for acting the fool. That being said, I suspect the same bloke could be pretty intimidating as a cop under different circumstances. There were a couple of “Troy’s” in the mix and possibly a few others, whose names momentarily escape me.
It was a good night, drinking and chatting and laughing and stirring. The guitars made an appearance at one stage and most of us Mark-Knopfler wannabe’s, were proven a little large on the confidence but short on the skill – and eventually all marvelled at the Bruvver Craig’s genuine talent with the six-string.
It was fairly late in the night when The Pants-Man finally joined the fray – apparently the price you pay for sowing wild oats round Bathurst way, is a hefty speeding fine and 6 points off your license! Though granted, the grin on his face hinted he’d found it a fair deal.
At one stage, there was a little bit of argie-bargie between Lasker and the Heidi-Clone – who, much to his credit, finally heeded his brother-in-law’s advice and let the issue slip. He was the bigger lad but his pugilistic talents were unknown among the bystanders – while there were few present who had any doubts regarding Lasker’s abilities
We were booted out at around midnight, when the pub shut and Dean, Pauly and myself retired to our lovely rooms. The other blokes either crashed on the pub veranda or in hastily chosen swag-spots, scattered around the back yard.
Surprisingly, everyone woke up feeling fine – except for Sugar Ray Rettig, the middleweight brother-in-law, who took several times, to heaving up his innards! The poor fella – this feeling was to last him most of the day. We’d all been there before and he had everyone’s sympathy, but not so’s you’d notice.
A game of cricket, a shower, juice and a big feed of bacon and eggs, and we were all ready to head for Byrock. All except for poor old Sugar Ray – he just had the swaggy’s breakfast – a scratch of the balls and a look around.
I had long feared that with 14 blokes, largely unknown to each other, there would have to be a few wankers among them – but once again, I was gladly proven wrong – they were good blokes, each and every one of them.
Coolabah pub, the next town before Byrock and the young barmaid looked familiar – she was in her early twenties and had recently taken over the hotel. She was pretty chirpy and claimed to have been a Byrock local years before, which would have made her a kid when we were there. I’m sure I have her in an old video and will check that out one day – if ever I get around to reliving the grand old days of magic and hope!
A few of us had a couple of schooners at Coolabah, while shooting the shit with said barmaid. Pauly, initially resistant to partake of the brewer’s juice so early in the day, had a sudden epiphany and knocked down two schooners of ‘Old’ in quick succession. Dean ‘The Boneman’ Mitchell on the other hand, has never been a beer drinker – his poison comes in a clear bottle and is usually mixed with some kind of soft drink additive. Boney is somewhat of an enigma when it comes to bush trips – he has rarely found himself at one with nature, yet to his credit, he backs up time and time again, to join these journeys. I recall many years ago when a bunch of us went camping on a property at Carcoar – the rain belted down relentlessly all weekend. Some of us were equipped with Drizabone’s and Akubra’s, along with thick canvas swags – we stood around the fire in the rain drinking and dancing and generally whooping it up. Dean however, had erected a little nylon 3 man tent for himself and his wife, which quickly became waterlogged and flooded. He sat in his fancy car and slammed the door in disgust and only got worse when his missus joined in the rain dance! Strangely, he doesn’t swear either – though I bet he wished he did that day – he was filthy on the world! At the end of the weekend, he packed up his gear and headed home.
Amazingly, and much to his credit, he joined us again at the same spot about 4 months later – he went to erect the same tent, unrolled it and the top half blew away up the hill with the wind. It literally had disintegrated and disappeared – after being put away wet. Once again the tenacious little bastard stuck out the weekend – sleeping in the rear of my Landcruiser.
He’s a man who really does enjoy his comforts and luxuries yet still compromises these things for a wild weekend – except that, as long as I’ve known him, he has avoided the ‘Bush-Crapper’! He will happily drive 20 minutes to town if he can avoid the lonely dunny-roll march into the scrub – and has done so on countless occasions. Keeping in mind that this in itself, is a mighty compromise to his preference, for he loathes to use the public porcelain at any time.
So it is with amusement that I recall the following observation. On the way from Nevertire to Coolabah, we had to pass through Nyngan – so with Dean driving, he says – ‘I’ll tell what, well pull over in Nyngan and I’ll shout you a big chocky-milk!’
‘Beauty’
He pulls over and kills the engine, directly across the road from the park, in the main street. I look over and see the public toilet block and it dawns on me what he’s really up to. He bought the chocky milks and then declares “I’m gonna go for a crap”
And so he heads off for the park. Since it’s the first time we had mobile phone coverage for some time, I sent my brother Al an SMS saying “We’re just stopped in Nyngan – Boney’s having a crap”
Al replied “Wot dickhead stopped for him?!’ – Ahh, he’s always been a mongrel, that brother of mine.
So we’re having beers in Coolabah, only an hour or so later, and Dean’s in the dunny again. Like I said – he feels very uncomfortable and vulnerable in such circumstances – so I said to the boys out in the bar “Watch this – I’ll go and hammer on his door and he’ll shit himself”
So I quietly walked in and bashed on the cubicle door with the back of my hand – and he did. Then I said “You just about ready to go Stinky? – they’re all getting ready to leave!”
“Yeah – I’ll be there in a minute!”
I walked out sniggering to myself, as a few of the boys started heading for Byrock.
Dean didn’t take too long and we were back up to a hundred and cruising along sweetly – I was even nodding off. Then all of a sudden, with about 10ks to go before Byrock, the brakes slammed on and we swerved into the table drain, as Dean reached for the glove box.
“I need a bush-crap!” he said as he dissolved into the mulga, dunny roll in hand, half hunched over, legs pumping and buttocks clamped!
All I can say is that he must have been within seconds of dumping some unholy mess right there in the driver’s chair, for such a man to act like he did on that occasion.
He returned not only relieved but quite proud he’d finally lost his bush-crapper virginity after all these years of abstinence!
Pete, the new publican at the Mulga Creek Hotel, thought he recognised me – he may well have, ‘cause I’ve met a lot of people over the years – but I didn’t recall him. We had a few beers then Dean suggested we should go set up our tents. As soon as we exited the car at our likely looking camping spot, the little bush-flies buzzed into action! There were thousands of the little bastards, buzzing round your face, up your nose and in your ears – enough to drive a man insane. The three of us, Pauly, Dean and myself, set up our tents – a courteous 50 metres apart – in case someone snored. Dean swallowed a fly and we blew up our air-mattresses (of which I have never been a fan) and threw in our pillows and blanket gear. We headed back to the pub, to get away from the damn flies!
The Aussie Rules grand final was on – Port Adelaide and someone – and a few of the boys had a slight interest, though it was all over by quarter time and we moved outside – apparently with the intent of ganging up and taking the mickey out of my good self for an hour or so. Something about me being a Cranky Bastard, was the main theme, though it was water off a duck’s back and I laughed as much as anyone. We drank all afternoon and had a few good feeds throughout the day, from the kitchen. At one stage Mark and Det Scotty were having the lasagne and I told them it wasn’t beef – it was actually made with wild goat mustered from the surrounding stations. They looked at it, shrugged their shoulders and recommenced spooning it into their mouths – they reckoned it tasted every bit as good as beef anyway. In fact, Mark was intending to let the publican know how much he enjoyed the goat-lasagne – which would have been amusing, because I’d just made that shit up – it was beef!
They had some new cabins out in the bush at Byrock – kind of demountable things with beds and tellys etc – they were looking real good to us blokes who’d just wrestled with our tents and the myriad of flies. Months before though, Mark had kicked up a huge stink about staying ‘in-doors’ on a camping trip and how only a certain minority section of the populous would even consider such a thing – and those blokes would have their big day dancing on a float, in some kind of parade down William Street in The Cross, in a few months time! Not that there’s anything wrong with that – but I agreed with him and was genuinely keen on sitting round the fire under the billion stars and enjoying the wonders of nature. Until the flies.
Anyway, Pauly declared he was gonna try for a cabin – and Dean and I backed him up and said we’d join him if there was one available.
So Pauly approached the barmaid Belinda, and said – just as all the noise died down ‘Excuse me – are there any cabins available?’
I was standing behind him and Mark appeared next to me – as she replied that all the cabins were booked. Mark burst out laughing, as he felt this had been a personal assault on him, after he had organised the camping and all.
Pauly spun round, a bit embarrassed by the whole scene, so I immediately turned on him “Were you gonna get a cabin, you big poof?!”
I thought this pretty hilarious – absolutely a disgraceful abandonment of a friend under pressure, but hilarious just the same.
He didn’t think so – in fact, I don’t think he has forgiven me to this day about that one.
/Publican Pete took the Saturday afternoon off and was busily trying to drum up business for the Karaoke night they were gonna run that evening. So that left two workers behind the bar – Belinda, the young chippie and about the only woman in town, and Leroy, a big hairy bloke with a generous sense of humour. The laws of natural attraction most often led one to order from Belinda – however, I worked something out pretty quickly – and that was the fact that she charged more for drinks than did Leroy!
Or should I say Five Buck Leroy? ‘Cause whatever you order from The Baddest Man in the Whole Damn Town, costs you five bucks.
‘A can of JD and coke thanks Leroy’
‘That’ll be five bucks mate’
‘A seven ounce glass of Bundy and Coke please mate’
‘Yep – five bucks’
‘A can of Jimmy thanks mate’
‘Comin up. That’s a fiver’
The young girlie would charge anything between 6 and 8 bucks, depending upon what you ordered. I stuck with my man Leroy.
Mark started the Karaoke and pretty much took to being volunteer master of ceremonies for the night. There were scarcely three other people in the pub, besides our mob, and a few of the blokes sang a few songs with varying degrees of ability. I was keen for a go but hadn’t quite reached the intoxicated peak I need to scale before I sing through amplification devices. I was close, and suggested we get a shot of sambucca each – Mark suggested we chuck in 20 bucks each and get 16 shots! One would have done it for me, four would have killed me at that stage. The show went on.
At about 10:30 I made a second suggestion regarding sambucca shots – but realised, when I could no longer actually pronounce sambucca, that it was probably not a good idea to commence drinking it.
Soon after, the Boner-Mobile was heading back to the tents, so Biscoe and I bummed a ride.
I usually sleep in a swag when out in the bush – but that was still up in Darwin – it’s an almighty, big, thick mother, that I designed and Pauly made for me about 15 years ago – it’s a beauty.
Not so, these little 3 man dome tents, with blow-up mattresses.
I unzipped him, bent down and fell through the door, rolling onto my back on the 8 inch think surf mat. Through lack of experience, I don’t think I pumped it up enough, but my back, when I laid out flat, was off the ground – so I dragged all my sheets and blankets over the top of me. Now let me tell you – it’s a real bitch to roll over on them things, and keep all your coverings in tact.
Which is something I really needed to do because it was freezing that night – I think it was coming up through the ground and getting in through my back. Nothing I could do seemed to make it any warmer, so I just tried to ignore the discomfort and sleep.
I can’t be sure of the hour, but it was before 3, when a drunken and fired up Lasker did the rounds, with his mate in tow. They wanted some company round their fire and when they found no takers, he decided he’d like to hop in someone’s tent and spoon them. They found this request unequalled in hilarity and proceeded from tent to tent, insisting we could have a good time, if only we would get up out of bed. We, on the other hand, found these midnight jokers to be a pain in the freezing arse! After a lot of bellowed swearing, they eventually slinked back off into the night, to enjoy their fire.
Now that I’d been awoken, I realised I needed to take a wizz – lucky they woke me up! I got up on all fours and crawled out of the tent – straight into a pile of burrs sitting in the bulldust. I had my wiz and tumbled back into my lair. I had burrs in my hands and a few between my toes. I was rolling round on my back, sunken into this half inflated bag of wind, trying to reach my toes, to remove the offending burrs. I was like a flipped-up turtle, I had four seemingly uncoordinated limbs waving in the air and my neck stretching out to find some purchase from my pillow to provide an anchor. I was a hopeless case and in the end, tried rubbing my feet on the blanket, which removed most of the more painful beasties, but held them fast in the wool to harass me throughout the night.
I believe it was at this point – tired, freezing, uncomfortable and burr infested, that I agreed with Dean, as he yelled the proposal about getting the hell out of Dodge the next day and staying in a pub room, with a comfy bed somewhere! Pauly confirmed it as a plan of substance when he boomed his approval from his silvery dome in the far bush.
In the morning, I went to crawl out of my arctic burrow, respectful of the burrs and, due to the air displacement within my mattress, my knees were hitting the ground, yet my feet were flipped and supported as I began my exit. Unfortunately, my right calf muscle is not a fan of this pointed-toe position and swiftly knotted-up into a wicked cramp, forcing me to dive back inside and try to crank my foot back up to a normal standing position and thus stretch the rebellious muscle out of its painful spasm.
I went for a shower and passed the mob of Mark’s mates – they warned me that the showers were like ice and they wouldn’t advise diving under one. I took this on board and waved to them as I continued toward the ablutions.
I dumped my wastage and then entered a shower cubicle. I’m a Byrock veteran with many years experience, so the first thing I did, was turn on the hot tap, before I put my gear down and began to disrobe. See – the hot water system is 300 yards away, at the pub – the water is hot as Hades, but not the stuff that’s been in the freezing pipes all night!
It was the first time I’d been warm for hours and when I was done, I felt like a new man. I headed back to enjoy a superb breakfast, complements of the Father-in-law and his expertise on the camp stove with the bacon, eggs and savoury mince!
I walked back to our tents and was chatting with the Boneman – we were discussing the prospect of leaving today or waiting till tomorrow with the rest of the boys, when Pauly woke up. He got out of his tent and Dean called over with the same question – ‘Hey Pauly – are you still keen to leave today?’
He turned around, looked at us with that expression you see on huge Cape Buffalo in Africa just before they charge, and, blowing flies off his face, proceeded to pull down his tent!
Right. That was it then. Us three were gonna head to Blayney and stay in the pub that night. We were all content with that thought – but there was an ominous task lying just ahead, that no one was keen to approach.
Letting the other blokes know that we were leaving.
We packed the car and headed to the ‘Breakfast Camp’ where the boys had been milling about, playing with guitars and cricket bats. We told those present of our intentions and they seemed a little disappointed but understood. Next, Scotty Lasker showed up and we let him know we were off – he wasn’t happy but didn’t say much. I felt like a dog.
Mark, Det Scotty and another bloke had disappeared into the scrub like Ludwig Leichhardt, gone looking for the old Rockhole and bush cemetery. They’d been gone for over an hour – so we drove around looking for them, to no avail. We came back to camp and waited – there’s no way we could leave without saying farewell. It was getting later and the time we wasted sitting around, was beginning to eat into the time we could spend at the other end, watching the Footy grand final. We took one more drive around and came upon the boys, on the dirt road to Cobar.
Our declaration was met at first with disbelief from Mark, then bitter disappointment. We tried to explain the reasons, but he’d have none of it and just offered a farewell hand. No one tried for the power play this time – and this may have subconsciously added to the emotion of the moment – I felt like I’d killed his puppy. We all said see ya and hopped back into the car. No one spoke for a few minutes, but then we began to cheer up a bit and discuss the previous days. Having been on the grog for a few days, with great company and not having a lot of sleep, seemed to bring on “The Sillies”. And so us three deserters began to find extreme humour in everything. There were several occasions we had tears in our eyes and were cackling like little school girls, such was the fun we were having.
We finally rolled into the car park of the big old Blayney pub in time to see the second half of Parramatta vs The Bears in reserve grade, before the big Manly-Storm game. We were downing beers at a rate of knots, after the late hour of Beer O’clock this day and we had some take away tucker from the milk bar across the road. The pub is run by an old bloke and his missus – pushing their late 70’s, I would imagine, and working far too hard for their age.
The beds and room furniture pre-date the publicans, from what I’ve learnt on the Antiques Road Show, by decades. The bed was low to the ground, extremely soft and excessively springy – but my word, when I finally laid down to crash that night, it was the most comfortable place in the world.
Just before I nodded off, I got an SMS from Boney in the room across the hall – he’d sent a picture of him laying in bed, with the silliest of all grins on his face and it simply said – ‘I love bed sleepin…….’