The View From Connor's Hill (22 page)

Today, something was different; perhaps he was in a better mood. (If I could have read his mind at that moment, he would have been thinking,
Ha! How gullible, you raw fool, Barry.)
I was ready to mount up. Now, being very tender in the crotch area, this meant it was going to be a delicate manoeuvre. In fact, I knew from an inspection the night before that my private parts had not only changed colour, but the swelling was considerable. However, I also knew I would have to suffer in private. I'd considered visiting the bush nurse about the bruising, but it took raw courage to lower your pants in front of that woman. I didn't have the fortitude, or the ego, to handle the gossip that would have rushed around the district like a bushfire. It was a grin-and-bear-it matter.

Sorry … got waylaid. We were at the saddle shed; I slid the reins over his head, placed my foot in the stirrup, and took a deep breath. Like an old man of 80, I swung my leg up. Good, Swanee didn't move. But God Almighty, Mary of Magellan County, and Moses the well-known water-parter — the bloody saddle did. I felt like I'd been zapped in the crotch with a cattle prodder.

It slid and almost ended up under his belly. Shit! (My vocabulary was expanding rapidly during my time with this beast.) As usual, with most things I'd had to do with the ill-mannered horse, I ended up sprawled in the dirt.

I looked up. The girth was loose — but I'd tightened the damn thing. I staggered to my feet, and I could have sworn the brute smirked again. I had a flare of anger, but didn't react or do anything. A loose girth — and the saddle hanging upside-down underneath his belly? Not possible. Hang on … ah-ha! It took me a while to work it out. The cunning, sly bastard … it was so clever. When I went to tighten the girth after I'd put on the saddle, he must have taken in a very deep, slow breath, swelling his belly considerably. I hadn't noticed. At the time, naturally, I tightened the girth and shook the saddle, which is the habit of most horse riders. Meanwhile, Swanee, with the girth tightened, quietly breathed out. The result? A loose girth, then
crunch!
and me on my backside yet again.

After I'd brushed myself down, I grabbed the saddle and slid it around his stomach and back into place. Slowly, I pretended to tighten the girth. I waited and waited. I could see the ugly, flat-headed, evil fiend struggling as he tried to hold his breath for as long as he could. His eyes started to water — he must have been in agony, the dumb prat — then he started to let air out. Great … I heaved on the girth and did up the buckle. Swanee laid back his ears, rolled his eyes, and flicked his tail.

Suffer, you four-legged freak. One to me.

After that, the day went by almost without incident. I spent most of the time standing in the saddle to protect my you-know-whats. There were a couple of minor mishaps. The moron almost ripped my leg off as he cunningly cantered too close to a fence. Then the brute tried in vain to dislodge me under trees that had low branches. As well, the flamin' inborn brumby idiot flicked me with his tail whenever I dismounted. Then came the final insult — he chewed a hole in my hat, which I'd hung on a hook near him while I'd gone and had a cuppa.

Over the next few weeks, I rode Swanee regularly. He still appeared to have a sour demeanour and a mad stare about him. Every day and every time we headed off, there would be a new test for me. I was passing them almost bruise-free until one particular day.

It was early morning. I had to ride the crazy freak down to my boss's family farm. It was a pleasant, fifteen-minute canter to their property. Even though I hadn't warmed to this inbred, mad beast called a horse, it was a joy to be on his back as he gently rocked along in a perfect rhythm. I rode alongside the road. It was early — a glorious day. There were parrots arguing in the trees … they are always arguing, those birds. The magpies' burbles heralded good morning, and a wedge-tail soared on his breakfast run. There was frost still on the ground. It was the start of a beautiful, late-autumn day. Swanee's canter was silky smooth, almost rocking me to sleep, when suddenly —
thump!
I found myself flat on my back with a very sore shoulder. The sly bastard had bided his time. We'd ridden on this track many times in the last fortnight, yet he'd waited until I slipped into a daydream. Then, the swine, he'd lined me up with a support-wire or guy-wire, hadn't he? It ran from the top of a telephone pole to a concrete block in the ground. Luckily, it caught my shoulder and I was wearing a heavy coat.

Rarely do I get angry. However, this time, I got to my feet, walked over to Swanee, and punched him as hard as I could on the head. Hell, did that hurt. I clutched my fist into my stomach with agony. He didn't blink or show any indication I'd even thumped him. Me — I thought I'd maybe broken a few knuckles and strained my wrist. The pain was the only reason I didn't punch him again. So I surveyed the area, looking for a weapon … a decent log of wood. I might add that, by now, I was one of the walking wounded, and very angry. That's a bad combination for me. Let's face it: I had a suspected broken shoulder, crushed nuts, severe gravel-rash on my stomach, elongated arms, a lost sock, a chewed hat, a shattered hand, and a busted wrist. Why me, Lord? Then, as if to add insult to injury, the stupid nag gave me that smirk.

‘Bad move, mate.' I narrowed my eyes, intent on revenge. His wry smile quickly disappeared. I increased my hunt for a lump of wood with which to attack the cruel, ugly creep. I was looking for a really big piece. No luck — fortunately, for both of us. I quickly calmed down. The temptation was high, but I didn't hit him again.

Then something strange happened. He walked towards me, the reins dragging along the ground.

He was giving me permission to hop up on his back. His eyes were soft, his ears forward with concern. He was saying sorry. Yes, that was the day he let me graduate — the day I took a stand.

AFTER THAT
, I never had any trouble catching him in the bull paddock. He stopped trying to nip my bum, and he always hinted — after I took the saddle off — that it was a time for a long and vigorous brush. He loved the brush. Over the years, he proved to be an outstanding stock horse. He was brilliant with cattle, and he worked tirelessly. Staying on his back was all I had to do. He would sprint, spin this way then that, forcefully pushing stock with his legs and chest. I worked him in the yards, and drove cattle with him in the days before trucks took over. He was the ideal drover's horse, having boundless energy and being very intelligent. The first time Alan Taylor asked me to do some droving, I knew why. Was there a better team than Swanee and Rover? Once the calves were out in the open, Swanee was a master at controlling them. Rover was a bonus.

However, as I mentioned earlier, when droving there was more to the journey than just droving calves. From the very start, it was a most picturesque trip. Both of my special animals would feel excited every time we set off after that first sale through the high plains, with Lake Omeo on the right and the Benambra footy ground on the left, and then up and along past McMillan's lookout, admiring the view from the high ridge. You could see the picturesque area of the Great Divide with the high mountains of the Alps. Like a perfect oil painting, in the background was a beautiful vista: Mount Hotham, Dinner Plain, Feather Top with its sharp, distinctive ridge, and the bareness of those high, treeless peaks. Then down along the Livingston into Omeo — such a beautiful town. With the blink of an eye you could picture this same scene happening 50 years earlier … the Omeo yards, right on the edge of the town's main oval would draw a large crowd of locals adorned in big hats, jeans, and riding boots. The auctioneers were loud and colourful. There was always a competition to have the top pen sell for a higher price than the top price that had been paid at Benambra.

I always used Rover in the yards after the sale, while Swanee had a rest in the shade. With the mob now swelled, it would be time to head east, out to the other side of Omeo. Behind us, as we settled the newcomers, was the perfect backdrop: by turning and looking behind, you saw the rolling Omeo Valley. By now the Benambra calves would lead, sauntering along, quite content. In the middle, looking for security, would be the new ones. By the time Mount Stall, the Splitters, and the other far-off ranges came into view, the wide plains started to narrow. We would have time to relax a little before the scenery changed. Almost abruptly, the road went downhill. It was a sudden, steep decline called ‘the Gap'. From the top, down to the next flat road was over three miles. Then we were ‘below the Gap'.

Mind you, I wasn't sure all the drovers agreed with my description of ‘above the Gap'. I recall once, we'd just descended and we were at the bottom, heading towards the Tambo River, when Plugger, one of the drovers, said something like, ‘Bloody cold bugger of a place up there … bloody good to get away from, I reckon.'

From the bottom of the Gap, we would herd the calves into the Tambo Valley, along Sandy's Flats and past Holland's. This was the hilly, undulating sheep-and-cattle country around Tongio, Bald Hills Creek, and then Swifts Creek. High mountains and bush surrounded this lower country; and, already, after only a couple of days on the road, there would be a notable rise in temperature, as we'd dropped more than 1000 feet. Then we'd travel along the Tambo River, past Doctors Flat, and Sheepstation Creek, and then up Connor's Hill and yet another magnificent sight. There is something special about the view from Connor's Hill.

Then Ensay — which was another well-supported annual sale, with more beautiful, sappy calves. Rover and Swanee were home, for the moment at least. Cossie's Little River Pub would have its best weekend sales for the year as well.

After Ensay, we reached the rugged scrub that has always kept this entire area in isolation. In the early times, the bush from Bruthen to Ensay defied road builders; they declared it almost impassable. It's no wonder that the entire Benambra, Omeo, and Swifts Creek areas were settled from the north, down from New South Wales into Benambra, then slowly south and east. The road from Ensay through to Bruthen is very winding, and the drop to the river at times is steep and dangerous — if we lost a calf, the retrieval was like a scene from
The Man from Snowy River
. The bush is dirty, rock-strewn, and dry. Rocks would be dislodged from the high banks, particularly after rain. Many an unwary driver has driven around a corner, only to be faced with a road strewn with rocks. The calves would string slowly along the winding Omeo Highway, which follows the Tambo River for some way, and then we would turn towards the west, arriving at Double Bridges for the evening's camp. Early the next morning it would be up Walsh's cutting, down to the Goat Farm, across Ramrod Creek and then Evan's paddock near Bruthen.

Every evening, and again at dawn, Alan Taylor would count the calves. His reputation for doing this was legendary. Most sheep or cattle sold within the entire area relied on a final count from the man. I never saw a count disputed. He would count sheep in fives as they rushed from the yards to get out.

After Bruthen, it was the final stretch. At the top of the hill, just before the town, it was like opening a door — we would emerge out into the open, flat country. It was the same when we reached the top of Lucknow Hill, coming into Bairnsdale. Many people would venture out to watch the drovers during the last stage of the long trip. Normally, it took ten days to complete the journey. By the time the calves reached their final destination, they were quiet, docile, and easy to handle. This would make them excellent farm stock. All of this was very different to the abrupt journey provided nowadays in a rattling, rushing cattle truck. It's no wonder that calves charge down the ramp from a truck with wild eyes, panting as if they'd run the entire way.

As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,

For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

—from ‘Clancy of the Overflow' by Banjo Paterson,

The
Bulletin
, 21 December 1889

FOR SWANEE
, droving was the ultimate. He never tired. Other drovers often commented on his energy and speed. Wisely, I never asked a drover if he would like to have a go on Swanee. I honestly believe we had a special bond, a pact. Whatever it was, I grew to love him and to enjoy his larrikin behaviour. Somehow, we seemed meant for each other (surely I am not that pig-headed?), and he would nudge me with affection at times — admittedly, a little roughly so that he would almost knock me over. He became my mate, my horse and, when appropriate, he would do little favours for me. I would almost swear that he knew what was required of him — like a mind- reader.

For instance, one of the farmers who lived nearby, who often borrowed things or asked for help, never returned the favour. One day he asked to borrow a horse. At the time, we had four horses, including Swanee. The opportunity to have fun with the neighbour was one I couldn't resist. When he arrived I had Swanee saddled up, and slowly brushed his neck and sides. He loved the brush. I put my arm around his neck, gave him a warm hug, and said, ‘Do us a favour, mate? Frighten the crap outta this bloke if ya can.'

Swanee nodded, and I'm sure he winked at me. The neighbour came over, and I had a brief chat to him and then held the reins as I legged him into the saddle. Quietly patting Swanee on the neck, I offered some advice to our neighbour.

‘He's a bit lazy, this horse, mate. Let him know who's the boss,' I suggested, trying not to smile. Swanee glanced at me; again, I'm sure he winked.