22.10.2009
I was asked to write a blog about my recent bush trip, so I will. I recognise that the content is not strictly CMC related, so I’ll post what I’ve done so far and if there are no objections regarding the subject matter, I’ll add more as I finish it. Otherwise, I’ll work something else out. Cheers, Whirly.
I did the Harry Holt from the car park at work at about 5:15am, Tuesday 22nd September 2009. This was a long time coming (and a couple of hours earlier than the roster would have anyone believe). I had completed the first ten of a twelve hour nightshift, fired up the beast and headed West – singing Springsteen as I went. I had two weeks of holidays to go and I was feeling pretty damn good, despite the lack of sleep. My intent was to make it to Goondiwindi before the deadly drowsiness of post-nightshift driving kicked in.
Though my recent tendency has been to listen to country music (and I did mostly), I still associate The Boss’s ‘No Surrender’ with cutting loose the ties and heading for freedom. The’ Born In The USA’ album was released in Australia in 1984, the year I finished High School – and I maintain it is still the greatest rock album of all time! I still LOVE the booming start to that song…..
“Well we busted outta class, had to get away from those fools,
We learned more from a three-minute record Baby, than we ever learned in school.
Tonight I hear the neighbourhood drummer sound, I feel my heart begin to pound,
You say you’re tired and you just wanna close your eyes, and follow your dreams down……..
Well we made a promise, swore we’d always remember,
No retreat Baby, No surrender……………”
I barrelled into Warwick at around seven and was still feeling clear of mind and fine of voice, so I pressed on. At a roadworks stop just outside of town, I noticed an unusual colour in the sky further on – it appeared to be some kind of dust-storm. I took a few happy-snaps, because city folk never get to experience such impressive bush phenomenon – wait till they see my photos!
Twenty K’s up the highway and visibility was down to about fifty metres and I had all lights blazing on the Land Cruiser.
Little did I know, I had stumbled into the worst dust-storm in living memory – and as it turned out, the cities copped their fair share after all. I got on the UHF truckies channel 40 and asked if anyone knew if the dust storm stretched all the way to Gundi? One helpful soul advised me that she stretched all the freakin way to West Wyalong.
Lovely.
I was glad to roll down Gundi’s main street, after much concentrated driving through the dust. I booked into a motel and grabbed a bacon & egg roll and chocky milk from Batesy’s bakery. The cold milk was beautiful going down a dusty throat. I unpacked my guns and Guitar, locking them in the room, had a shower and headed to the pub. The Queensland Hotel. Surprisingly, I was the only patron in there so early in the morning – and in fact, had to holler for the barmaid for some service.
I chatted to Kathy for a while – apparently just after she had evicted a local lad from the accommodations, by gathering his belongings and dumping them on the veranda while he was occupied elsewhere. I had hoped to be around for the ensuing confrontation upon his return but weariness got the better of me. I returned to my room, had a few Southerns , watched the telly and enjoyed a mixed-grill for tea before crashing for about fourteen hours of glorious sleep.
If you’ve never tried it, I recommend staying up all night (sober) and drinking a few the next day – you find yourself in some kind of fantasy land, where the smallest of things is hilariously amusing and you have a unique and fascinating outlook on life. It’s an interesting perspective – I believe it is primarily the tiredness that gives you the sillies. I’m not sure if the drink gives you anything except a reason to stay awake?
Incidentally, I noted a peculiar thing in my travels – that being that I had not laid eyes on an Asian face since I left Brisbane. Perhaps they don’t fancy the area, or maybe find the local populous not especially to their liking? But then the natural beauty of the region may have escaped the Asian eye til this point – who knows? Anyway, in this day of ‘multiculturalism’ they were just conspicuous by their general absence.
By the time I got up the next day, the dust had all but cleared from both the atmosphere and my mind – a nice hot shower, fresh clothes and I was away – ears pinned back and headed for Byrock!
Gundi is only just over the Qld-NSW border and Boggabilla just a good spit on a strong windy day from there. Then Moree, Collarenebri , Walgett and on to Brewarrina, where I filled up with Diesel, bought some ice and gas, had a wiz, mixed a special little Southo in a 600ml coke bottle (as none of my beer was cold yet). I asked the kind lady in the garage how I would find the dirt road to Byrock – she said “Oh – yeah, you just go through Gongolgon and you’ll see a turnoff with a sign”
I said “Beauty. Where is that?”
‘Oh, yeah -it’s just down here and turn left at the second street’.
And with that and a contented grin, I headed off. I began to suspect she’d bum-steered me as I’d expected the dirt to start much closer to town, but no sooner had I expressed my reservations, than I stumbled upon the promised sign and dusty red road. Periodically swigging my (much too strong) Southo (which I’d purchased on special from the Gundi pub – whilst in that delirious condition the day before), I thundered down the final stretch!
After about sixty K’s of dirt track, I burst forth onto the Mitchell Highway and caught sight of the Mulga Creek Hotel, for the first time in a couple of years. Ahhh – she’s a beauty.
I did a bit of audible ‘Yip, Yip, Yippeee!!! Woooohoooo!!! Brrrrrrrr-yip-yip-yip!!!!’ work, as I crossed the extensive car-parking area, and while this is clearly a childish cry of excitement, it’s always seemed an appropriate way to celebrate our arrival after the weeks of anticipation and the long drive – and I didn’t come out here to be a serious grown-up anyway.
I parked the car, grabbed my hat and strode through the doors – only to be greeted by a surprisingly beautiful and welcoming face.
“Hullow”
Wow!
‘G’day – a schooner of New thanks’
The barmaid was quite a stunning vision, with crystal-clear blue eyes, blonde hair and a smile that lit up the room! She turned out to be Jani (pronounced Yarnee) – a strapping young girl of German descent.
Having been in Australia for around 12 months, and knocked round some of the more remote areas, including Territory stations and some down-time in Darwin, Jani had a pretty thorough grasp of Australianisms used in our local speech, though she still had the remnants of her Fatherland accent.
This mainly manifested itself in words with “O”, like hello, smoke or righteo – which Jani pronounces as hullow, smowke and righteow. In the same way you might say “Ow” when you jam a finger (not as in “Our”).
Anyway, I loved listening to her speak (almost as much as I enjoyed admiring her looks).
I wasn’t alone there – I heard Jani turn down several proposals of marriage during the time I spent in the bar. I reckon she would be a pretty good catch in anyone’s books – open, friendly and beautiful.
Jani asked where I was headed and I replied “I’m here”.
“Owkay”
Then Pete the publican entered the fray. I hadn’t seen Pete for two years and he also asked where I was headed – “I’m here”.
He then somehow seemed to fancy that he’d seen my face before and asked if this were the case. I told him that I was the front runner of a bunch of blokes heading up here next week, from down south. He remembered the mob and we had a chat.
Pete is a very savvy businessman – he understands the importance in a small business such as his, of the personal touch. Several times over the next few weeks, he asked me certain people’s names (behind their backs), so he could address them as mates, rather than blow-in customers. He’s a friendly bloke and will always stop for a chat, and though you’d think his job would be pretty limited out there, the bloke is always on the run – with a hammer, a drill, a sign, horse feed, a broom, firewood or a bottle of hydraulic fluid in his hand.
Pete’s wife Gloria is every bit as busy and as friendly – I’m not sure of all the things she does behind the scenes, but I suspect that if she were not there for an extended period, the place may well collapse.
Pete had lost some weight since the last time I saw him – he’d apparently had a disagreement with a horse over some minor issue and come off second best. He’d have mounted right back up again but for the smashed hip and pelvis. He can’t bend right over now and he has a little hitch in his getalong, but it all adds to his character and he’s not one to complain.
The second barmaid drove up in the hotel ute – Wow!
I immediately sent the boys an SMS ‘HOT Barmaids!!!! Ooo Yeah J’.
Andra was a little hottie of nineteen summers, also from Germany. She had longish brown hair, blue eyes, perfect skin, and soft-looking young lips. She exuded innocence, though I suspect a more dangerous side lurked just below the surface. Her grasp of Australianisms was not what it might have been and though she tried hard to understand and please, she still has a bit to learn. Andra was good fun all round, with a terrific sense of humour – often laughing at herself (which I think is a great Australian trait) – maybe there is true hope for Andra-the-Aussie yet. She too had to fight the young bucks (and a few old bulls) off with a stick.
Peter’s old mate Mick is the quintessential Aussie bushman. He is at all times topped by a battered and stained old Woomera style Akubra hat, he sports a standard button-up country shirt and he wears faded jeans, very low on the waist – strung there by the old horse-hobble bushies belt, complete with horizontal pocket knife. (True Aussie bushmen seem to prefer the horizontal belt-knife, as opposed to the vertical gun-slinger style preferred by the Americans). The metal rings and knife make such belts too bulky for the average jeans belt hooks, so Mick simply strung it over his jeans, about halfway up his bony seat. This left the crotch hanging closer to the ground than the fashion designer had probably intended, and also gives the impression that the wearer has an extended torso and shorter legs. A pair of well-worn and dusty boots complete Mick’s authentic bush ensemble.
Funnily enough, Mick’s brand spanking new Akubra had arrived at the Mulga Creek Pub this very day and Pete brought it out of the bag, pristine. He gets a good deal on Akubra’s if anyone is interested.
Mick picked up the hat, examined the milliner’s expert handiwork, and then commenced to rip out the apricot-coloured inner satin lining – “Get rid of that cr@p – it makes your head too sweaty”.
He then retrieved his knife from it’s handy spot on his belt and cut out the inner leather hat band – physically ripped it off and dumped it with the lining on the bar stool – “Ya don’t want that…and p1ss this blo0dy feather thing off too”.
He threw that on the ground.
He re-examined it and said “Yeah – that’s better. I won’t be wearing it to town though, till I take it home and have the dogs p1ss all over it and kick it around a bit”.
Then he put his old one back on.
Mick was an old mate of Stan Coster, who penned many hit songs for Slim Dusty. In fact, Mick has released several CD’s himself, along the same lines and in the bush-ballad style. He laughs easily, jokes continuously (the same way he drinks his rum and milk), and is friendly to all. Mick has a history, as far as I know, of running Leather goods shops, hotels, several stations and now manages a camel station. I suspect he may have been quite the fearsome fighter in his younger day – no one becomes that lippy without offending people every now and then, and laughter and charm only get you so far.
Mick is a born entertainer, it comes as naturally to him as breathing and it was he who ‘compered ‘ the donkey and camel races, as well as the Rooster, pig and goat chases on the Muster Day.
Mick also had a few old mates with him – I’m not sure of there names but I’d say between the two of them, they’d be lucky to own four teeth. So while their smiles may win them no prizes, their scarred and gnarled hands stood testament to a lifetime of hard and skilled work among rugged animals and tough men. It was fascinating to listen to banter and thorough knowledge of all things country among these old boys – three blokes who would likely have less formal education between them than I had in my first twenty years of life. Yet they all strike me as men you’d want on your side should things go bad – I also get the feeling that they’d be as loyal as the day is long.
Bugsy is a local lad born and bred. I remember seeing him riding round on a little red motorbike as a young teenager. Like me, becoming a jockey was never given serious consideration by Bugs – our frames are not naturally conducive to such pursuits. He’s always been a larger lad, with a fondness for small ag-bikes and a penchant for wearing Flanno shirts. The only difference today, is that he now shaves his facial whiskers when the fancy strikes him, which is apparently all too irregular.
Bugs spends great swathes of time at the Mulga Creek Hotel, drinking some concoction involving Green Ginger Wine and softdrink. He appears to be at all times flush with cash, yet I understand he earns a quid by trapping goats on occasion and gambling. He seems to be quite content to continue in this vein but sometimes supplements his entertainment by taking the mickey out of visiting travellers. He’s a harmless young fella and a permanent fixture is old Bugsy.
Sonya is a part time barmaid at the establishment – she’s as Aussie as they come. Straight up and down, though even at her young age she seems to have had enough of the drinkers lip, attempted charm, flirtatious repartee and general banter. Sonya does her job efficiently, with a minimum of fuss – her partner is a lanky young bloke with a tendency of getting himself into strife. At this particular time, he’d done himself some mischief involving a leg – he was unsure as to the cause of the pain, or the actual problem itself but it gave him grief just the same. He had however, decided to determine the root cause in his own time and leave the doctors and other assorted medical professionals to their own devices.
I had a pretty early night that Thursday – headed back about 9:30, past the normal camping ground behind the pub, and went about 500 metres into the bush. I laid out my new ground sheet (to provide me with a few square feet of burr-free, barefoot stomping ground should nature call through the night), and then laid my swag down upon it. The wind was still howling – in fact had barely let up since the dust storm. I climbed into bed, which was surprisingly comfortable and admired the millions of stars, just before I drifted off to a pleasant night’s sleep.
I got up the next morning, sat in the car and listened to the news on ABC radio, then played a few country CD’s as I set up my two-burner gas stove and cooked up some steak and snags in the only pot I brought with me. I had my trusty camp oven but wouldn’t risk the gidgee coals blasting all angles of the territory in the howling wind, should I start a fire.
My generous brother-in-law Johnny had given me his superseded family tent and I’d planned to set myself up a real comfy camp – with soft wide bed, warm blankets, pillows and plenty of room for all the stuff currently filling my car.
So I laid the canvas out on the bulldust – wow, she’s a big one – and commenced joining the poles together and placing them where I deduced they would be best suited (who said that those four years spent studying engineering at Uni were wasted?).
All looked rather promising – until I began the search for the illusive pegs and ropes that are apparently so very crucial in providing stability to these big, comfy family tents!
Okay, I accept partial blame due to my inherent laziness by not erecting the structure in my backyard before I headed for the bush, but I like to pride myself on my self-perceived bush skills and resourceful nature.
There I stood examining my potential haven – no ropes, no pegs, a howling wind and a very frustrated ‘bushman’ finally accepting the obvious fact that this luxurious abode will not be welcoming tenants anytime soon. I re-bagged all the poles, rolled the tent back up, apparently in an unaccustomed fashion, as I struck great difficulty in re-inserting the offending abomination back into it’s protective bag. It resembled a snake swallowing a wild pig at one stage, but with great commitment, persistence and some jumping about, squashing down and squeezing in, I managed to get the thing back into its sack.
Lucky I like my swag, anyway.
I had a quiet day on Friday due to the promise of the Muster madness I’d anticipated the following day.
As I lay in my swag that night, I once again marvelled at the billions of stars twinkling above – however, about twenty minutes later they were all obscured by a second dust storm. The wind dust-blasted my face for a few hours of intermittent sleep, until I decided to lay the big canvas flap right over the top of my head. This ploy worked a treat, except that every now and then the flap would lift up and whip me in the head like a fluttering flag.
I got up Saturday morning, cooked some tucker and played a bit of guitar around my camp.
My mates were not expected until at least Wednesday. Then they would be arriving in dribs and drabs until Friday – but today was the Byrock Mulga Creek Hotel Muster Day!
I had a shower (they are fantastic showers at Byrock!) and donned my good gear – Blundstone boots, Fui Fui jocks (named so after a photo of Fui Fui Moi Moi appeared in the paper as he prepared to dive into the pool – they have a slightly longer leg and are totally unsuitable as a standalone garment in public!), Jeans, new RM Williams blue, pink and white button up shirt, which was a striped affair and of course my trusty Akubra (Colly style originally but altered to suit – named after the town of Collarenebri). I headed to the pub at about 11 and the crowd was already gathering. I explained to several people that I was striving to hangout till at least midday before trying a beer – but what can one do under that kind of pressure? I felt like Michael Corleone from the Godfather ‘Every time I try to get out, they drag me back in…..’
So I had my first beer a tad prior to midday.
Pete, Mick and the boys had built an oval race track at the northern end of the car park, probably about forty by twenty metres, constructed of the same mobile gate structures they use for temporary rodeo arenas etc. The centre of the track had comfy and neat animal accommodations, from where curious and contented camels and dopey-looking long-eared donkeys gazed about nonchalantly. If I’d have built the structure, I’d have left it as a permanent monument to my construction skills such was my admiration for their ability with such things. But they pulled the thing down several days later so’s you’d never have known it had been there at all.
The bar girls were in full swing, including a few imports, the beer flowed, the wind blew, the crowd grew and Mick warmed to the occasion with the microphone and MC duties occupying his attention.
He got all the little kids on the track and let loose a flighty rooster for them to catch. Mick makes great claims as he calls the session to order, things such as “This Rooster here, he’s got spurs like a cut-throat razor – he’s already done in two of my favourite pig dogs – and that was while he covered the hens! He out-ran the ute on the way to the pub today and he’s bitten more fingers than a rusty rabbit-trap. Come on kids – chase him up and let’s see who can catch him!”
The kids take off in a cloud of dust – hardly game to go near the bird, it was left to the smallest kid of all to catch him when he flew into his chest.
“Okay young fella –good one. Now take your rooster over to your mother and put him in the car – you’ve won yourself a lovely rooster there Champ, well done”.
They did the same with a few goats and pigs and though the kids appeared keen, I got the feeling that several were afraid of the animals, some not game and then a few others frightened. It was all good clean fun – but none of the parents seemed too enthusiastic about taking home their prizes.
I’m sure the kids would have loved to, but in the end, Mick took them all back in good humour to his property, from which they had originated.
It was great to see Aussie kids having some active country fun, not to mention hilariously entertaining at the same moment. A good time was had by all.
The local Vet, Lochy McLachlan was there to keep a keen eye on the welfare of all animals and raised no concerns about their treatment. Most country folk have a solid and ingrained respect for their stock and animals in general, so you seldom find such folk abusing any beast or causing unwarranted distress.
They auctioned off several small horses and donkeys etc, to be runners in the up-coming races. My new mate Ken, who regularly does odd jobs about the pub, and still sporting battle scars from a sulky-spill the previous day, enthusiastically entered a bid – after mistakenly hearing the call of ‘one hundred and TEN dollars’ for simply ‘TEN dollars’. Nobody would better his large bid, so the beast was now declared the property of Ken.
Unfortunately Ken had to call in a few markers and seek an early payment of yet to be earned wages from the Publican to cover his impulsive purchase. But honour it he did and he won the race too – he received one hundred and twenty dollars for his one hundred and ten put at risk! He’s a nice bloke with a keen sense of humour and I dare say he’ll laugh about his investment for many years to come.
Of course Mick was there yelling encouragement to potential owners “Oh – you can see this man is a keen judge of fine horse-flesh. This horse here, he jumped my twelve foot fence and ran all the way to Bourke before I could catch him in the ute – and then he raced me back. Beat me too. Yep his thoroughbred bloodlines run far and deep this fella”
He was describing a furry backed little Shetland Pony at the time.
I was doing a lot of talking and drinking and generally having a ball. I heard second hand that the ladies had a sack race and one of the local lasses fell over and dropped both her sack and her jeans – revealing what I heard was a toned and shapely G-string clad country derriere. They tell me it was quite the spectacle of the afternoon.
They got a bit serious after that, with donkey races – I believe most of the riders were a gang of fit young bucks from Dubbo, up there for a pig hunting stint. For the most part, the donkeys ran in the right direction – but there were plenty of casualties among the jockeys, leaving skin and bark strewn along the gravelly track, and now sporting deep red, bloody grazes on elbows and hips primarily.
I was chatting to a big bloke throughout the morning – he boasted a remarkable resemblance to Mark Brandon ‘Chopper’ Read, though he appeared to lack that threatening hair-trigger to immediate and violent recourse. He seemed a happy enough fellow, though game as Ned Kelly. He was a big man in stature with a bristling handle-bar type moustache and shaven head (for the most part hidden under a western style hat). He also displayed plenty of tattoos over his body. Now I’m not one to speculate but I think it is safe to assume that the artists who applied his ink-work were not trained at the Royal Australian Academy Of Tattoo Artists – I suspect that they learned their trade at a somewhat different school. Nor am I one to judge a book by it’s cover – and this bloke seemed alright to me – he never referred to himself in the third person, like ‘Go and buy Uncle Chop-Chop a beer’, which I found encouraging as well.
Anyway, my big mate rode one of the donkeys and did a fair job – but his real go was the camels. Somehow they mustered up enough riders from amongst the throng, to cover all starters. My big mate was partnered by the biggest camel of the lot – it seemed a fair match.
Tension was thick in the air as the handlers tried to encourage the camels to kneel down so they could be mounted. Apparently these camels took exception to this plan and mainly stood their ground roaring defiantly. Granted, there were no saddles or other such apparatus to make staying on a little easier, and the camels were thus probably not fully aware of exactly what was expected of them – but roar they did. They were all filthy teeth and bad attitude in my eyes – my big mate was also a little wary of the toothy roaring beast swinging his carnivorous looking head this way and that. He backed off a few times – much to my delight, but eventually he was up there – riding high, perched just behind his hump. One athletic little darkish fella mounted a smallish near-black camel from the standing position – looked like he’d been doing it all his life.
In the end they declared the race was on, though confusion still reigned supreme, both upon rider and camel faces alike. Eventually all beasts appeared to be travelling in the Melbourne manner of racing, that is, anti-clockwise. My big mate rounded the near corner in a patch of traffic and dust but managed to lose grip on his ride at a critical point. He came down hard, planting his baldy head into the gravelly track surface. He lay flat out on his back as camels dodged around him (I snapped a timely and amusing picture). It was some time before someone snapped out of their perceived humour and attended to the big-fella’s first aid. They sat him up when he regained consciousness, and examined the cut in his pate. He was alright – he didn’t betray his tattoos either – he was indeed a pretty tough hombre. I saw him later in the night and promised to send him the photos if he gave me an email address. He returned from the bar with a piece of paper with his address and a fresh schooner for me. He told me he had travelled all the way from Melbourne to ride that blo0dy camel and though he ended up in the dust, he had no regrets. I gladly shook his hand and congratulated him on a fine effort of riding but mainly for his spirit of adventure and guts to put himself up in such a vulnerable position in the first place – all for the fun of it.
I believe the bloke on the near-black camel was declared the actual winner of the race – and that was only through someone’s bragging that he had judged the bloke a natural camel jockey before the race commenced.
My mate Mark sent me an SMS advising me that his brother-in-law Robert and his oldman Bear were already at the pub – had turned up several days early. I’d never met these blokes but had been assured they were nice guys, and as they were part of our mob, I went looking for them. I saw two fresh looking blokes sitting at a table in the corner, drinking schooners. I approached and said ‘G’day fellas – would you be Robert and Bear?”
A surprised ‘Yes’ was the answer so I introduced myself and we shook hands all round. We had a chat and I declared that I was heading into the car park for a sausage sandwich. I wasn’t out the door before I was raked over to the Tug-o-war rope – ‘Here yar Bigfella, you’re on our side!’
I’m not sure what happened next – we lost one round, that I thought we’d win, we then won one that I thought we had no chance in and then someone else walked away with the little gold trophy. I wiped my hands, picked up my beer and headed for the sausage stand. Behind me the girls were taking up the slack in the thick rope – heels dug into the gravel of the carpark and laying on the weight – totally barefoot! Too tough for me baby.
I had a nice chat to a pretty young girl in a pink hat, whose boyfriend had been reluctantly thrown onto a donkey with the overwhelming support from those of us milling about the general area. Unfortunately he became the first casualty of that race and emerged for the far end of the track (the first turn) covered in dust and blood and featuring a curious new limp for his troubles. He fel t brave and bragged about the experience soon after the pain wore off though.
Pinky invited me back to her camp for a chat and drink later in the night should I feel the urge.
The band struck up out front of the pub (actually, it was just one woman playing music, singing and encouraging the occasional karaoke star), but it sounded great at the time. I was in and out of the pub, chatting to all and sundry and having myself a thoroughly marvellous time. On one trip out of the doors, destination who-knows-where, my arm was seized by a lady who wanted to dance. My natural reaction of late has been to thank them and shake it off – when this type of thing occasionally happened to me. However, after several recent parties, my seventeen year old niece, (who obviously doesn’t drink) commented to me that I don’t change at all when I get drunk – unlike her mother (my sister) and our brother – who both seem inclined to sing and dance after a few sherbies. I had decided that I had been too serious for far too long (since moving to the Gold Coast from Darwin), and made a conscious plan to get a little crazy.
So I said ‘What the hell – yeah, let’s dance’.
She (I don’t know her name, though we introduced ourselves earlier in the day), encourages me by saying ‘See you can dance’ – I immediately thought of the old Leo Sayer song, ‘Long Tall Glasses’, (You know – ‘I can dance, you know I can dance….’), but I didn’t feel quite steady enough to ‘do a two-step, quick-step and a Bossanova , a little Victor Sylvester and a Rudy Valentino…’, so I just said ‘Yeah – I’ve always been a sh1t-hot dancer’, belying my total uncoordinated lumber that I usually pass off as dancing. Incidentally, I learned my entire dancing repertoire from Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Dancing In The Dark’ film clip – though as yet I’ve not come across my Courtney Cox in the crowd.
My dancing queen tells me she likes big blokes such as myself and confides she once had a twenty-nine stone husband. I find out that she lives in a neighbouring town and that I am welcome to visit any time. I’m feeling pretty proud and happy with myself by this stage and dance up a storm – she was a lovely lady and I had a great time but I wasn’t done socialising yet.
Things get a bit hazy after that – I do however recall once again emerging from the pub and watching the entertainment – I think it was karaoke, but the vocalists seemed unfamiliar with the Billy Joel lyrics…..so I stepped up to lend a hand. I think by the end of the song I was flying solo with ‘You may be right, I may be crazy – ohhh, but it just may be a lunatic you’re looking for ….!!!!’
I have a vague recollection of being asked to stick around and sing a Bryan Adams song – unfortunately it wasn’t the ‘Summer of Sixty-Nine’, which is the only one I’m familiar with, so I left them wanting more (actually my singing ability comes in a long way behind my non-existent dancing credits – so there was no great loss and it was probably a relief to all when Stevie left the building).
Last thing I remember is emerging from the bar again to discover some dirty grub had stolen the cover off one of my new Lightforce driving lights. I bought the special crystal blue lenses as they disperse the light in my favoured pattern. Though they are only twenty-two bucks each, I was really p1ssed at the thought of some snake simply taking my property as a souvenir of their good time in the bush. At that point I went off my nut and told Pete about it – apparently some dog had also stolen from him – a hand made ashtray his kid gave him and the top off one of his stools. Scum. Unfortunately you find them everywhere.
On that note, I decided to call it a night and I jumped in the cruiser and drove her back (on private property) to my camping spot………
“Ahhh – the burning sun – can someone turn that sun down?…. GOOD GOD – WHERE AM I? Who inflicted this terrible bodily harm upon my person last night?”
I felt like I’d been trampled by a mob of brumbies.
I slowly opened my eyes and sat up in my swag – “Jesus Christ, what have I done?”
I looked around, not believing how bright the sun was – already I couldn’t wait for the sun to go back down, so I could go back to sleep.
Okay, let’s examine the evidence…….ah yes, the pub, camels, beers, dancing, singing….oh god….
Righteo – I did this to myself – now it’s time to face the music.
So I stood up, had a wiz and started looking around.
It seems that I cooked myself a steak sandwich after I got back last night – wow, that’s pretty clear thinking, considering the state I was in. Hmmm – I also washed that down with a camp mug full of bourbon and coke……..whilst listening to Trisha Yearwood’s Greatest Hits (which I’d won from CMC last year).
I’d bought a fishing rod about a month previous and for an extra dollar, you got a head-mounted light – like a miner’s lamp. I thought it might come in handy in an emergency situation in my car – so I stuck in there. For some reason I had the greatest of difficulty trying to insert the batteries last night – couldn’t get it going for love or money. This morning, I dropped the batteries in and clicked the cap back on – good as gold. And some people actually drive the public streets in that condition – insanely dangerous.
I also blew a thong – till this day I know not how – but the inside rear plug was clean broken on my right foot. I don’t even recall wearing thongs that day.
I felt bloated, my head was throbbing, my eyes still blurry and the gravitational pull seemed to have increased tenfold overnight – I felt an unyielding compulsion to lie down and close my eyes. I knew I had to fight it, so I decided to head for the ablutions for some personal business and a reviving shower.
Click, click………”YOU ROTTEN…………”
It seems I left some light on in my car last night, somewhere – the battery was dead.
Now I really did not feel like walking half a kilometre through the hot bush in this condition – so I sat there considering my options. They were very limited. But I sat there just the same – it would be an extra three hundred metres to the pub, where someone might have jumper leads and a helpful disposition…..
Unbelievable……….here comes a little black car, along my camp track! I’ll not let this rooster get past without hitting them up for a hand. (In that savagely hungover state, you tend to get tunnel vision and all I could think of was fixing my battery).
I leapt out of my drivers seat (in actual fact, swung my legs over and slid out), and began to head round to flag this sucker down. My broken thong kept swinging sideways under my foot and added to the already difficult task of walking.
The car saw me coming and stopped. I couldn’t see the driver due to the sun on the windscreen (or the sleepy eye-snot that still fouled my peepers), so I continued my approach. Then I see the door open and a big black hat emerge – the driver had a familiar grin and a video camera in his hand.
“G’day Mate”.
“How ya goin? Have you got any blo0dy jumper leads? My battery is f…………”
It was my mate Mark. He’d turned up three days early. He wanted to get my surprised look on video – all he got was a expletive filled monologue complaining about a flat battery and some mongrel that stole my light-cover the previous night.
It took a while to realise what was going on – then he says “You wanna beer?”
“NO!”
Mark drove to the pub and borrowed some jumper leads – when he picked up the bag, the handles came off – ‘Sorry mate’, when he got to my car, the bags zipper came off in his hand. We jumped my car and he said I had to return the leads in their broken bag to the owner. I cringed.
Mark decided to erect his tent closer to the amenities, so I agreed to move my stuff too (ground sheet, stove, esky and water barrel).
I took off to recharge my battery – headed for the airstrip and did a few runs up and down the runway. I thought it best that I continue to avoid public roads at this stage, even given the limited traffic around these parts. The airstrip is a red dirt affair which is still in pretty good nick considering its limited use over the previous few years.
I collected my gear and headed towards Mark’s chosen spot – my camp was set back up in about four minutes and I wandered over to where Mark was listening to a bit of Chuck Wicks on his car stereo……..and swearing profusely whilst shaking and shuffling his recently unfurled brand spanking new, four-man nylon dome tent.
“Whatcha doing Mate?”
The reply would curl your hair and I doubt I could even spell some of those words, even if I were inclined to write them. Apparently Big W had sold him a tent which requires three special flexi-poles.
The two longer ones criss-cross over the tent’s apex and the shorter one supports a nifty little igloo-style entry passage. Simple.
………Well, it would have been simple had they not decided to retain one of the longer poles in their retail storeroom. This left Mark very frustrated, with one long pole and one short one……and me with a wicked grin on my now recovering phiz. The springy linked flexi poles kept coming apart – it was like a see-saw – you fix one side and the other falls apart, move around and the first side comes to grief.
He tried all manner of ropes and knots and various fixtures to no avail. Ultimately, I pulled out a roll of sportsman Elastoplast sticky tape stuff, used to support injured joints and limbs. Some may wonder why I would carry such stuff, though by now, you’ll probably be starting to understand. If not, you’re welcome to come camping with us one day….
So we wrapped that around the bottom of the poles, tent, peg-hook etc binding it all together and finally got the thing to stand on its own. We agreed that if the wind blew too hard, there was little chance of this thing remaining erect (and that was to be the case a few days later). But for the mean time, Mark threw his swag into the tent, along with his bag and various other personal items.
After a shower Mark convinced me to head to the pub with him. Click….click….. Mark’s battery was flat. I gave him a jump start and handed him back the leads, in their ruined keeper-bag. ‘Here mate – you better return these leads to their owner eh, hehehe’.
I entered the pub feeling pretty sheepish after my antics the night before – to be greeted by a bright and friendly ‘Hullow Steve’…..Jani.
I drank a couple of ice-cold orangey Mirinda/Fanta things, while my mate had beers and caught up with Pete.
I thanked Mark for his early arrival and apologised to him for my poor greeting and lack of animation at his surprise appearance. I shudder to think of how I’ll come across as he introduces me on his video commentary. A stumbling, foul-mouthed, bleary-eyed bear of a man – with a blustering list of complaints and a threatening disposition.
Surprise!
I asked if they sold thongs at the pub and Gloria advised me that they didn’t, however, they were given promotional thongs every now and then and she’d go and check for a size 12 for me.
Beauty. Gloria returned with a pair of VB green size sevens, which I jammed onto my trotters.
My heel hung over the rear by about an inch and a half – which is asking for trouble in this burr infested territory. I ended up pulling the green Y-shaped plug piece out of the smaller thongs and inserting them into the base plate of my larger blue thongs. This saved my heel but made it damned tight across the toes – and while it was bearable, it was really not a long term solution to my footwear problem.
I’ve known Mark since he was about fourteen years old – our initial acquaintance occurred in about 1982 when I opened my parent’s front door, to discover a red-eyed young fella with a bum-fluff moustache, inquiring about my sister. I was very protective of my little sister back then (still am) – so I didn’t much like this bloke. Apparently he didn’t much care.
Somehow, after a few years we were great mates. Back in ’92, I was on the rock’n’roll and Mark quit his job as the Terrigal Hotel’s best barman, to move up to Darwin for a spell. When we left, I believe he had about eighty-five bucks in his wallet and I had a hundred and forty – his Nissan Bluebird ran out of rego in about a week’s time and was packed to the gunwales with camping gear.
Ironically, we spent the first night at Byrock pub………where we proceeded to blow all our cash. We then spent a week bobbing round the pool at Longreach, waiting for my dole check to arrive for petrol. Similar story at Katherine and Tennant Creek. We sold the car at Darwin about three and half weeks after leaving home – eight-hundred and fifty bucks – we had a slap-up Chinese feed and headed straight to the casino for a few cold ales and a bet. We drank as much as we could and then flew home the next day. I’d gained a great suntan and lost about three-stone, having not been able to afford anything to eat. It wasn’t a great success as trips go but it was a truly grand experience.
Mark worked in the TAB when he left school, then a pub, then as Bowling Club manager, then he ran Bateau Bay pub for a while (the pub in Adam Harvey’s clip – ‘God Made Beer”). He used to organise country artists such as Beccy Cole, Adam Brand, Kasey Chambers and Darren Coggan to play out in the beer garden on Sunday afternoons. Now he’s a cop – and a great mate of mine.
I ended up recovering well enough to have a few beers with Mark that night, but we still had an early one.
Monday saw Mark with another flat battery, so we drove to Bourke (80kms) to buy a new one – and for me to buy myself a set of jumper leads. Turned out that there was nothing wrong with the battery and there was not a set of jumper leads for sale in the entire town of Bourke! I also needed a new pair of thongs, which I finally scored at some huge clothing outlet in the main street.
We went to the Bowling club to check things out, had a couple of beers and lost a hundred bucks or so in the pokies, then drove home. Had a few drinks at the Mulga Creek and then went outback to the beer garden to play a little bit of guitar. Mark was showing me a few things – ‘Raining On The Rock’, ‘Heart Of Gold’, a Rob Thomas number and was just running through a couple of Taylor Swift songs when Jani came out collecting glasses.
I shot Mark a quick glance – stop mate, that’ll do! Stop. Stop.
Jani was looking over as Mark was singing to me:
“Hey Stephen, boy you might have me believin’ I don’t always have to be alone
Cause I can’t help it if you look like an angel Can’t help it if I wanna kiss you in the rain so………”
Now, being German, I’m not so sure how familiar Jani is with Taylor Swift lyrics – but I certainly don’t wanna be giving off any misleading signs – and that scene would look g@y in anyone’s eyes!
I feel pretty special when I pretend Taylor is directing her ‘Hey Stephen’ song at me – the thought of Mark directing the same sentiments at me makes me physically ill.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
We retired to the camp and sat around the fire – cooking a chicken and veges in the camp oven.
I usually pride myself on my camp cooking, but we dragged it out of the coals and the chicken was not quite done. Twenty minutes later the whole song and dance act was charcoal. We ate it anyway.
Mark’s mate Scotty was due to arrive on Tuesday afternoon – they met at the Goulburn Academy. We were also expecting another Scotty, so I’ll refer to this first bloke as Detective Ex-Butcher, because he was a butcher before he became a cop. The other bloke, I’ll call The Boxer – ‘cause he’s a boxer.
Det Ex-Butcher is a really funny bloke – not in the sense that tells lots of jokes, but he is a naturally observant chap and witty and he sometimes provides humorous running commentary to real time events. Simple things like the type of ball he’s about to bowl in cricket and the batsman’s reaction and general ramifications. He doesn’t attempt to emulate Richie Benaud and the like – he just does it in his own voice. He gave a great rundown on the confusing data and stats rattled out on Sky channel in regards to winners, places, special dividends, quaddies, margins, sectional times and everything else that goes with it. Very funny but topical and timely and you have to be there.
There’s something about Det Ex-Butcher that makes you wanna be his friend – I can’t put my finger on it – maybe it’s charisma, or maybe it’s his six-foot-four frame and the knowledge that he can lock you up? Whatever it is, I enjoy the bloke’s company.
Mark and I decided to run down to Coolabah (50kms) to meet Det Ex-Butcher on his way up – and also to charge my battery again. So we took off down the Mitchell Highway singing along and generally enjoying the region. The only thing in Coolabah is – you guessed it – a pub.
Apparently the publican was troubled by some uncooperative beer-lines, so we were forced to drink it from the bottle. Three Tooheys Extra Dry’s and a couple of hundred bucks in the three pokies and we were done. We sent Det Ex-Butcher an updated SMS – We’ll see ya at Byrock.
So back we went.
While we were gone, Mark’s brother-in-law Robert and his dad Bear had returned to Byrock – they’d been out shooting. We’d hoped they’d bring back a young goat for the pot, as they did last year (along with a pot full of yabbies). No such luck – they had a single rabbit and a couple of meaty drumsticks from a feathered beast.
Regarding Bear, he’s seventy three years old, I never once saw him sh1t in the woods and he’s not a large burly-shouldered hairy man, so from a personal point of view, modesty forbade me from asking the obvious question. I figured it best to leave the root of his moniker a well kept secret, to avoid embarrassment all round.
We spent a little more time round the camp as more people arrived – kicking the footy, playing cricket and bocce etc, though I am personally more your song and dance man these days, than midday sun sportsman. We sat around the fire, Det Ex-Butcher cooked up a few pretty decent meals in the camp ovens and Mark and Tristan played a few decent tunes on their guitars, with Tristan even throwing in bit of harmonica on Heart of Gold.
Tristan is a work mate of Mark’s and a friendly but quiet sort of bloke. He had a great rig set up in his Prado and seemed to keep things in fine order – which is at odds with his penchant for drinking rum.
The brother of Mark’s girlfriend goes by the name of Adam and he too lobbed among us on the Wednesday, rolling up in a finely turned out Landcruiser ute, complete with a ‘Murdoch-green-canvas canopy’ on the back and satisfied looking dog, Chevy in the passenger’s seat.
Adam is ex-Navy and he’s a nuggetty and interesting bloke to talk to – he’s a very independent hombre and I like his style. He tends to approach things in a very different manner to the way I see them.
We took another trip to Bourke Bowling Club on Wednesday, had a few bets on the horses and played the pokies again. This time Mark, Tristan, Det Ex-Butcher and myself threw in fifty bucks each and dragged out six hundred. We scored a pie each from the bakery and headed home again.
Next to turn up is a bloke I’ll call Beardy, mainly because that’s what I called him then, and I’m not sure that I ever heard his actual name. Beardy was older than the other blokes and a career policeman – but you’d never have picked that, in his Parramatta footy jumper and near constant laughter. Both of which stand testament to a good sense of humour.
Mark kept playing country music in his car while around camp, with great enthusiasm – I loved it but the others were not quite so fond, though Brad Paisley seemed to strike a chord. At one stage, while Mark showered, Det Ex-Butcher seized the opportunity and put on the Kings of Leon, or some such nonsense – Mark came roaring back and ripped the offending CD from his dash – “No! This is not Byrock music. Byrock music is country music, now who’s is this?”
He’s a passionate man if nothing else.
The Friday dawned with great expectations for me – a few of my long time, very good mates were due to arrive.
Remarkably, when they arrived, we were in the pub!
Dean drove up from Sydney with our old mate Dave, who’d flown in from Adelaide for the trip, and they arrived first.
I’ve been mates with Dean since we were both teenagers – he used to date my sister – they broke up but Dean and I didn’t – sure we’ve had our lean times over the years but we’re still the best of friends. Dean grew up directly across the road from Mark and the two have been best mates since they could walk. Dean used to sell toilets and has never liked beer or smoked – he drinks bourbon, gin and Malibu, and doesn’t swear. About ten years ago he married my favourite girl, which inspired me to move to Darwin. They now have two great boys and she looks after him a treat- and we’re still the very best of mates.
Dave was brought up in an adjacent suburb to myself, Dean, Mark and Lloydy (who showed up later that day), and we all went to Busby High School (or Busby Jail, as they called it in those days – now James Busby High, Ha!). Dave lost his father as a young bloke and lost direction for a short while because of it. He left school early and drifted for a while. He remains to this day about the most knowledgeable bloke I know – he is extremely well read with an infinite diversity of interests. In fact, he discussed the German soccer league with Andra (the young barmaid) for an hour or so – naming teams and individual players, as well as great German players of the past and the drafting process of specific third-grade teams. The bloke’s general knowledge is astounding! He was doing some youth work about a decade ago and fell in love with a nice chick from Adelaide, moved there and now they have three kids.
Our old mate Lloydy was the next arrival – he is sometimes known as the Spaz, based upon his individual idiosyncrasies. I had only spoken to Lloydy once in the last three or four years – he lobbed at the pub and we picked up where we’d left off. It’s a great comfort to have mates like that – no bitching about regular calls and visits etc – just good mates who enjoy each other’s company when circumstances permit. He’s a great fun bloke the old Spaz and we have a million laughs – generally taking the micky out of each other, or whoever else happens to be around at the time. He’s a great footy and cricket fan and follows them religiously, yet he has absolutely no idea about either!
Mark’s mate Dave also showed up as a late starter – but he’s a Souths supporter, so the less said about him, the better.
We were sitting out the front of the pub, some drinking, some reading the paper and some smoking – Mark was in a big steel chair with his back to the car park, when a landcruiser ute pulls in, runs right up to us and tips Mark’s chair with the bullbar – The Boxer had arrived!
He’s a cheeky b@stard The Boxer, and is married to Dean’s sister. He leaps out with a fun-filled mischievous grin plastered across his face. ‘How ya goin’ Boys?’
He’s built like a skinned rabbit and is game as Ned Kelly and a sh!t-stirrer from way back. I went away shooting with The Boxer and his dad once, down at Cathcart, where his Nan lives – as we prepared to depart, he noticed that his mum had hard-boiled a few eggs for her salad work-lunch the next day – Boxer swapped them for raw-ones before we left.
The Boxer brought a mate with him – a floppy looking bloke in a silly looking, faded ‘Australia’ bucket hat and shorts.
‘G’day – I’m Puddles’
My initial impression of Puddles was that he was like a large puppy, with too-big paws and gangly legs – barrelling all round the territory, sniffing and p1issing and likely at any time, to come up behind you and cannon into the back of your knees, bringing you both down, then licking your face, with a friendly grin on his snout.
In fact, I don’t think my opinion has changed too much – he’s a fun fella to have around, but I think if you give him too much lead, he’ll have you in playful strife before you know what’s happened.
The last few days tend to run into one another, with different splinter groups heading off and doing their own thing. Ex-Butcher and I played a long round of darts for a while and Andra, the young barmaid joined us, at the encouragement of Pete, her boss. At one early stage, Pete sold me a twenty-five dollar souvenir singlet for ten bucks, he also distributed souvenir pens, stickers and keyrings among the boys totally free of charge. I told you – he’s a savvy guy this bloke. Free advertising for his establishment, far and wide! (But a genuine, dinky di good bloke as well – he gets nothing out of shouting us the odd beer – that’s just his nature)
I spoke to nearly everyone who entered the pub over a week and a half – but a fella can’t remember all the fellas that he meets. So I’m sure the trainer of champion dishlickers from Coolabah, and the freshly groomed ex-long-haired, frill bearded local bloke, as well as the solid fella perched at the bar’s end, would take no offence that I don’t recall the names of all the chaps I chanced to meet during that period, and will not hold this against me when next I visit.
The pub had a four wheel drive ‘bash’ come through on Friday night – all camping at the grounds behind the pub. I got back to find that some knob had parked his truck right up next to my gear. I stopped, then parked right next t o him and proceeded to spread my gear back out in front of his car, as his family in their big tent adjacent all stood and watched. I then took a beer and headed over to our fire, where all the boys were sitting. Someone asked me if I was gonna move my camp – I said ‘Nah – F… ‘em – apparently they don’t mind snoring over there’ (I’m told I snore when I sleep, but I think this is all just foul gossip and slander).
‘But the bloke’s parked right on top of you’
I said again ‘F*** him – I’ll give him something to think about for a while’
Then one of the blokes sitting round our fire said ‘Sorry mate – that was me who parked on top of you. I thought it was abandoned’
I thought it was just us around the fire – I had no idea they were there!
He says jokingly “Don’t worry, I won’t pack up your stuff and take it with me in the morning”
I felt like lecturing him on the subject of things that don’t belong to you. If you didn’t buy it, if you didn’t put it there, then don’t frigging presume somebody left it there for you to take! If it doesn’t strictly belong to you – leave the blo0dy thing alone! I know a bloke who found a crystal-blue driving light cover the same way, just the other day.
I moved my stuff closer to the other boys anyway – like I was gonna do all along.
Some of these young blokes, like Boxer and Puddles (and Det Ex-Butcher on his Fourex Golds) start their drinking at about 7am – way too early for me.
On Saturday we all took another trip to Bourke and the Bowlo – for bets on the Epsom (which half the blokes cleaned up on, simply because the winner had ‘Rock’ in his name, like ByROCK!)
Eight of the guys went out and played lawn bowls, drinking in the sun for four hours, some stayed inside and backed horses and some played the pokies. I got a second, third and then fourth on the horses, then went and gave the pokies a rattle with Ex-Butcher. We threw in fifty each and took out two-hundred a piece.
Dean’s cheap boss insists he drives a gas-only car – for budget reasons – and it was low on fuel, so Dean decided to drive his car to Bourke to fill him up. All that achieved was getting Dean breath-tested by the local cops and we discovered that there was no gas for sale in Bourke on weekends. If there was no gas at Nyngan on Monday (a public holiday) Dean and Dave were in for a tow.
On the way back from Bourke, the sun was setting and Boxer and Puddles were sleeping in the back seat, with Lloydy in between. I was keeping a keen eye out for roos, because Dean is half blind but refuses to wear the glasses he has been prescribed. We’re doing a hundred and ten down the Mitchell, heading south and I ring the warning bell about ten miles from Byrock – ‘Loogout mate, up here on the right’
There was a buck roo standing tall – as we got closer he took off across the road, Dean dived on the stoppers, but not too hard and Roo-Boy looked over his shoulder, turned, did a Jarryd Hayne, a pirouette, stepped the other way, then turned again and ultimately shot off in the direction from whence he came. We’d all but stopped dead by then, and Puddles woke with a start, due to the inertia – Boxer continued to snore. He’s like a camp-dog that bloke, he’ll sleep anywhere!
Things got a bit messy at the Mulga Creek that night – Dave made friends with some bloke in the same state as he – very drunk, not South Australia. They were drinking something called a Cranky Monkey or something, later referred to as Spank-The-Monkey – made from Kaluah, Banana Vok and milk – tastes just like a banana smoothy. They went to the toilet together, deep in conversation and Dave, finishing first and continuing to explain his point, stepped down from the trough, stumbled and reached for the locked cubicle door for support. The door wasn’t locked, it flew open, Dave flew in and smashed his eyebrow on the porcelain receptacle. His eye was swollen and the lid split open and bleeding profusely.
It needed stitching but we were eighty kilometres from the nearest hospital and no one could drive, so Gloria, being an ex-nurse, patched him up the best she could – and it was a fine job too. Dave was more concerned about telling the missus than bearing any long lasting scars. I told him I envied him such a battle scar – and he sheepishly pointed out that there was no heroics in falling off the p!ss-trough and into the sh!tter – he’s a very funny man under all circumstances.
In the end his missus was just glad he was alright and had a good time. After the weekend, he SMS’ed me apologising for acting the fool, said he thought he’d grown out of it (he’d done similar things in his youth). I said ‘Mate – no apologies required – that’s what these weekends are all about – cutting loose, relaxing, doing whatever you want and not caring about the repercussions for a change. You did good’
A week later he messaged ‘Well, it only took one lawn-mowing to fall back off the wagon. Oh well, se la vie’
Late Saturday night Mark had a twinge of loneliness, guilt and missing his missus and kids, whipped up his gear and did a runner – this news spread among the boys with great regret and disappointment but a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. (Of course we all displayed the required amount of sympathy for the poor wretch…)
Sunday was NRL Grand Final day and before he left, apparently Mark had put his brother-in-law Adam in for an early morning trip to Bourke, to pick up a new wide-screen TV to put up in the beer garden. Lucky mongrel got to spend a few hours of quality time, alone with Jani, who tagged along with him.
We all arrived at the pub at about eleven and mainly sat out the back beer garden, playing bocce and chatting, while Pete and Ken proceeded to mount the new widescreen on top of the external hotwater service. There were huge reflection problems until they secured a shade-cloth cover and then a huge umbrella contraption to work in unison.
Eighty people from another car bash turned up as expected, organised by the Dubbo cops, and created a great atmosphere for the GF.
Most of us were disappointed that the Eels eventually went down, but delighted in the rampaging game played by big Fui Fui!
After we retreated to the campfire once more, Tristan and Det Ex-Butcher finally made the most of Mark’s absence and blasted heavy metal music for all to hear. The only song I remember is by some stunted little, mentally challenged lad yelping that ‘You want it all, but you can’t have it…..’
It had been a long couple of weeks and most of us were in bed by about nine thirty that night.
I slept like a log in my swag that last night – except when I woke up – thinking it was five am and I had to get out of bed and go to work – I opened my eyes to see the full moon and stars and realised it was only eleven thirty and I still had two days of holidays left. How great is that?
A little before seven am, Boxer and Puddles pulled up next to my swag, we shook hands and said goodbye – then disappeared in a plume of dust, heading south. I got up, packed my gear and said goodbye to Adam – the other blokes had already left, besides Dean, Dave and Lloydy.
We all shook hands, gave a bit of a muck-around hug and a chuckle (to cover the true emotion of the moment), then I strapped on the seat belt and headed for the dirt track to Bree.
Twenty metres in and I saw a roo heading for the bush – I needed to be vigilant. There were plenty more roos and a myriad of birdlife but only one had a close call. He came spearing out of the gidgee scrub on my right hand side, I applied the anchors but he kept coming, realised his predicament and tried to change directions at the last second. I think he went down on his hip, but those big back thumping legs were still going a hundred to the dozen, trying to get a toe-hold in the dirt. He eventually did, avoided my back wheels and shot off back into the bush. Ahh – you’ve gotta love Australia.
I filled up for the last time at Brewarrina and headed for Goondiwindi. I really enjoyed the experience as I cruised along between Walgett and Moree, listening to Kenny Chesney’s ‘The Road and The Radio’ CD. I had to stop several times due to loss of concentration and fatigue. At one stage, while I was looking for a place to pull over safely, it appeared to me that someone else had their hand on the steering wheel. It was a combination of a fresh suntanned hand, covered in bulldust, with the sunshine directly above shining upon it – as well as being tired. Blo0dy dangerous and scary just the same. I pulled over directly and slept for ten minutes then got out and walked around for a while before resuming the drive.
The shower at Goondiwindi was superbly appreciated, I then bought some Red Rooster from the drive through, watched some telly, slept like an angel and drove home the next day.
Not much time to reflect on the weeks before, my oldies were waiting at my place, visiting from Sydney and I had to get up at five the next morning and go to work…..