From Strength to Strength Page 15

You have to plan your muster to pass through the best areas for feed and water. This is not always easy, because the cattle walk an average of ten miles a day between their feed and water. You can pass right through a grazing area when the cattle are away drinking and not find one animal. Then, six hours later, there will be hundreds of cattle grazing in that very place. Knowledge of the area is invaluable.

  If the mob is restless, you can ride them over some rocky country to slow them down. They have to concentrate on walking over rocks and find it very difficult to break into a gallop. But you can’t keep them there too long or they get sore feet.

  If you walk cattle into the wind, they can smell what is ahead and they will be more settled. They do not like the wind behind them.

  Young colts have to be trained. They make the herd restless, prancing around, so in the mornings they are tied behind the mules and led, usually against their will. But by the afternoon, they are so happy to be free they are very quiet.

  If you have to walk the cattle a fair distance in one day, you cannot let them drink or they can’t walk for the rest of the day. You mustn’t talk or shout as it can make them restless and they could easily bolt. At the start of the day you must let them settle down into their own pace. If you push them too hard they will break. Likewise, later in the day, you must keep them in check at the pace you require. If they think they can get the upper hand you will have no end of trouble.

  Finally, if all goes according to plan, the mob reaches a size that is too big for the stockmen to handle and they head for the home yard.

  I sat silently, digesting all this information. It sounded very exciting.

  ‘Well, do you understand what a muster is all about now?’

  ‘Yes, I think I have a fair understanding, but I must learn myself.’

  ‘You will, you will.’ And he was right, I did. Years later when I finally did go on a muster it was a hundred times more exciting than just hearing about it.

  Meanwhile back at the ranch, Mary and the mechanic were having a free for all. While we were down by the river, the mechanic had tried to start the water pump. He was having trouble, and at the wrong moment Mary told him that the Missus was very good at starting the pump. After the yelling and screaming had died down, I dispatched Mary to the kitchen. I then explained to him what had happened when trying to start the pump. After much investigation, he ascertained that I had filled the pump with sump oil (his fault for putting it in a drum marked 30 oil) and Sylvester had filled the fuel container with high powered aviation fuel. No wonder the poor old pump was trying to fly.

  We had to be very careful with the water for the next few days while the mechanic stripped down and completely overhauled our poor ailing Pegasus pump.

  The next week was spent down in the yards drafting, dipping and branding the cattle the men had mustered. This all done, the stock camp had time off with extra grog. After they had recovered from the bender, they assembled ready for the next muster, and the whole procedure started again. However, this time, the campsite would be just across the river so Charles could come home every night. At least for the next week or so, the man of the house could handle the emergencies.

  There was the usual stampede of animals as they departed, and the rescue of the rum supply, but apart from that the week went off without a hitch and soon all the cattle were settled in their respective paddocks.

  With the muster over the children were ready for the next challenge—every minute had to be a non-stop adventure for them. I, on the other hand, saw danger everywhere and wanted to keep them safely locked up. One day they wore me down with their pleading so we ventured into the wilderness to go fishing. This entailed walking down the airstrip and through the trees onto the river bank, about three-quarters of a mile away.

  We started off down the airstrip, the children and dogs running and playing, mother in the crouched attack position, waiting for the enemy to approach. The enemy being wild cattle or any other weird creatures I was sure would explode out of the bush.

  The girls ran ahead and disappeared into the tree line along the river’s edge. I relaxed my grip on the branding iron I carried at all times and followed them.

  The scream that strikes fear into all mothers’ hearts came to me through the trees and I exploded into action. I broke out of the trees at a sprint.

  Marlee’s dog, Shad, was swimming for the shore. Marlee was calling frantically, Bonnie was crying. Behind Shad was a large crocodile closing in fast. Marlee was knee-deep in the water waiting to gather Shad into her arms with complete disregard for the eight-foot monster a few feet behind her dog.

  I charged down the riverbank, branding iron raised. Shad was swimming for her life, literally, into Marlee’s arms. The crocodile was getting closer to both of them every second. Marlee grabbed Shad’s front paws and heaved as the croc snapped at the dog’s back legs. I brought the branding iron down across the croc’s snout. Marlee heaved so hard, she fell over backwards and Shad was catapulted over her head to safety. This left Marlee sitting in the mud right under the crocodile’s nose. I had hit him so hard, I was on my knees and we were eyeball to eyeball. No one moved for a split second. Then I let out a spine-chilling karate yell and raised the branding iron again, but the crocodile had had enough—he submerged backwards and quickly disappeared.

  The girls were very disappointed I didn’t want to stay and fish. I was still shaking from the ordeal hours later. The next day Charles sent one of the stockmen down to the river to shoot the crocodile. He later reported back to Charles.

  ‘Better be nice to the missus, she broke that croc’s jaw!’ Charles told him not to be cheeky and walked away chuckling.

  CHAPTER 10

  1966

  Charles and the men were ready for the next muster, when we received a telegram. It told us that the film team would arrive in a few days. Charles decided to send the camp on ahead and get some work done before the film crew settled in. Unfortunately we were not highly paid actors, in fact we were not paid at all, so we had to carry on earning our living catching cattle.

  The crew arrived on time and set up camp on the large sandstone area which was to be part of the house, if ever the roof was finished. It looked rather like the ruins of Pompeii with all the posts silhouetted against the landscape—very beautiful by moonlight but a trifle hot by day.

  There were eight people in the film crew and with Charles supervising and the mechanic helping, they set up camp on the Pompeii terrace, a sort of indoor-outdoor deal. I retired to the kitchen.

  I was busy preparing lunch when the entire film crew went through the kitchen at forty miles an hour with the mechanic a good twenty yards in the lead. I didn’t have time to ponder this strange behaviour because Charles charged into the kitchen, hurled the two children at me and yelled, ‘Run!’

  One look at him told me enough not to ask questions. I went out the wall-less side of the kitchen with a child under each arm, just slightly under the speed of sound. I overtook the film crew in the middle of the airstrip. When we had all caught our breath I asked, ‘What happened?’

  They all started talking at once. It seemed the oxygen cylinder gauge arrow had been pointing to the word ‘danger’. I turned to ask Charles what was the . . . Charles! He had stayed behind! I let out a blood-curdling ‘Charles!’ and all eyes turned towards the house. There was silence.

  I left the children and headed for the shed. Charles appeared as I reached the corner. He had managed to release the malfunctioning safety valve and all was now clear.

  Everyone let out a deep sigh.

  ‘Welcome to the Outback!’ I said.

  With all the excitement over and the tents rigged, I escorted the secretary into the kitchen to show her around. She didn’t seem to get the point, so I made the point clearer.

  ‘You will be cooking for your group.’

  She looked at me in shock. What she expected out in the middle of nowhere, I have no idea—perhaps a Chinese cook. Whatever, she went out the door
with a will and was heading for Bill. She didn’t have to ask who had put her in.

  Bill appeared with hat in hand and I said a firm, ‘No! No way in the world I’m cooking for another eight people. I already have nine to cook for. No!’

  He explained to me that she couldn’t cook. He thought all women could cook. We came to a compromise—she would help prepare, I would cook, and she would organise everyone in the cleaning up after. They slipped a few times, but I would not start cooking till things were in order, so we settled down to a reasonable routine.

  The filming progressed but they had their problems. The heat was playing havoc with the film and the glare outside made inside shooting impossible without lights—the backgrounds were too different when spliced together. This last problem could be overcome with special lights but they had not brought them with them. So Bill wired his office down south asking for the special lights and shooting of all indoor scenes was put off until they arrived. This took place a few days later, by chartered plane. Bill got quite a shock when he opened the box.

  ‘They’re unusual lights,’ I said, peering into the box.

  ‘Damn, I forgot!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, when filming is not going as well as it should, I have my secretary send some champagne and after a night of relaxation, things usually get back on track. I always use the word “lights” as a code name for champagne.’

  The ‘lights’ certainly put everyone in a great mood, but without the real lights, no indoor work could be done so all this good effect was going to waste. Another telegram and finally the lights arrived.

  During the waiting period, Bill decided to shoot a bull-catching operation. One of the Toyotas was to be the platform for the camera so it could follow the chasing of the bull at close quarters. I went along as guide. We arrived at the campsite to find everyone busy. Cattle were being moved in all directions. Some of the ringers were further in the bush, bull-catching, so with the camera mounted on the back of the Toyota, we drove towards the billowing dust clouds in search of action.

  The art of bull-catching from a horse is now a dying art and, even in the sixties, I believe the North was the only place left in the world where wild bulls were still caught and thrown by the tail. It worked something like this: the ringer, riding a horse, chases the bull in a zig-zag or straight line, depending on the bull. After a fair chase and when the ringer decides that the bull is tired, he gallops up to the bull about level with its tail, and still at a fair gallop jumps off, grabbing the tail at the same time. He then has to hang on and run to keep up with the bull. His life literally depends on this, because if he lets go of the tail, the bull can immediately turn and gore him to death. As long as he keeps hold of the tail, whenever the bull turns to gore him, he swings wide of the attack with the force of the bull’s turn. Finally, the bull stops running and decides to really rid himself of the pest on his tail. The ringer, after regaining his wind, waits till the bull turns to gore him and then, just as he does, gives a sharp tug on the tail. The bull, being in an off-balance position, falls over. The other ringers then close in to help. Leather straps are quickly wrapped around the hind legs, front legs and horns and when the bull is trussed up like a chicken, he is then dehorned.

  After this the bull is allowed to sit for a while to calm down and regain his composure, before being released and pushed in with the quiet cattle, or coachers. If he stays in the mob and behaves, the job is over. If he charges out of the mob and heads for the bush, the ringers set off in mad pursuit and the whole procedure is repeated.

  As you can see, it is very demanding, takes a long time, and is very taxing on man, horse and bull. Some bulls are so stubborn that after many hours of this gruelling work, they have to be let go or they would die from exhaustion or overheating. On many properties the bush bulls were just shot. But being a small family operation, we couldn’t afford to shoot and ignore our bulls. We had to catch them and sell them for the income.

  On this particular day one of the ringers was in full pursuit of a very large wild bull. He kept appearing and disappearing in and out of the scrub with the thrower close behind on his horse. This old fellow was a smart scrub bull who knew his business. He spent his time running into the low scrub so the horse and ringer could not follow. Bill decided that all he would get on film from this distance was dust, so he gave the order for the Toyota to ‘follow that bull’! The soundman was driving, Bill was hanging on outside my door shouting light meter readings to the cameraman, and the cameraman was trying to stand up in the back of the Toyota with the camera. The soundman was a mad driver and we were soon abreast of the galloping ringer and bull.

  Every time we came to rough scrub, Bill would dive into the cabin, but being on the rather heavy side he would only make it up to the waist, so his behind took a hell of a beating. We were close on the hooves of the horse when the bull swerved sharply to the left and the horse and rider veered around the thick scrub to catch the bull on the other side. Our soundman was all for following the bull, but Bill, thinking of his rear end, called out, ‘No.’

  At this point, things started to happen rather quickly. The bull met the horse and ringer on the other side of the scrub and immediately turned to retrace his tracks. Bill and the driver were still debating the pros and cons of driving into the thick of it, when suddenly a mad bull charged straight for the Toyota. The soundman threw the gears into reverse, and stalled. The bull was now charging straight for Bill’s behind. I screamed a warning to him and he vaulted onto the cabin top just as two enormous horns embedded themselves in the door, right under my nose!

  Bill was beside himself with excitement and kept shouting instructions and meter readings to all within earshot. To him, this was a director’s dream. And all the while, he hung off the side of the Toyota, trying to keep his balance, like a crewman on an eighteen-footer. The ringer galloped up, leapt off his horse, tied a rope around the bull’s horns and ran the rope around the nearest tree. The bull wrenched himself free of the door and started running around, charging everything that moved or didn’t move. The ringer was behind the tree and every time the bull allowed the rope to develop slack, he would tighten it around the tree. Eventually, instead of racing around on sixty feet of rope, the bull found himself tied to a tree by the horns with only enough slack to sit comfortably. So he did.

  Bill was jumping up and down yelling to the cameraman, ‘Did you get it all, did you get it all?’ No answer. All eyes turned to the cameraman, or rather, where the cameraman used to be. No cameraman! The tripod and camera were bolted to the floor of the Toyota, but unfortunately the cameraman had no such fittings. We went back along the track and found him unconscious. No bones were broken and with no rocks handy, it was hoped no head injuries. Bill was concerned about the man but, being a true director, he was more interested in how much footage had been shot. When Bill found out none, we had two patients on our hands. He knew he would never get another chance at a bull sequence like the one we had just experienced.

  Having completely fouled up the day’s muster and with not one foot of film to show for it, we returned to the house a very dejected lot. To cheer us up Bill decided to bring out the champagne, and I cooked a special meal of sweet and sour fish with the big barra one of the stockmen had caught. Because the evening was hot we decided to eat dinner on Pompeii terrace under the full moon. The men picked up the table fully laden with food and everyone else followed with chairs and boxes and champagne.

  Just as the procession turned the corner, something moved on the ground. The lead guy let out one unearthly scream, shouted, ‘Snake’, and dropped his end of the table. The chap at the other end just froze, still holding his end. The result was that our entire dinner slid to the floor with a loud crash.

  All eyes turned to where the shaking finger pointed to see a shaky-paw lizard with his head on one side looking at us, shaking his paw. So we had cold roast beef sandwiches and champagne. The champagne didn’t help—no one could forget the s
weet and sour fish. We all retired early hoping the morning would bring a brighter day.

  Bill was still determined to have his bull-throwing scene and approached Charles for help. Bill’s idea was to shoot the bull with a tranquilliser gun, using just enough dope to make the bull manageable, but still have fight.

  We had experimented with a tranquilliser gun as a way to catch bulls, hoping to eliminate wear and tear on bull, horse, man and equipment. But the result was a lot of wear and tear. To tranquillise an animal at close quarters, caged or standing still, is a lot different from trying to tranquillise a wild bull at full gallop in the middle of the bush. The serum is dangerous: if too much is used it can be lethal; if too little, it has no effect at all. If the animal is too hot, the effect is this; if the animal is not hot, the effect is that. But our director wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, so off we went.

  We arrived at the camp, and after driving around found the ringers. They had five big to enormous bulls cornered in the rocky ravine. The plan was that one of the ringers would go after the bull, then a stockman would ride close by with the tranquilliser gun, fire a dose into the rump of the bull, and, after a few minutes, the camera would start filming the throwing. The overall effect would be very exciting, explained Bill.

  The first of many problems was that the bulls were all different weights, which meant they needed different doses of serum. The next problem was that the Toyota couldn’t follow the action—the country was too rough for fast driving. This problem was overcome by Bill himself riding a horse and taking the shots with a hand camera.

  So the scene was set. Five bulls faced the ringers, Charles had the tranquilliser gun, the director had the camera, and the Toyota followed behind with me in the back with details of the serum, and the serum in a cooler. Another small problem was the serum—over a certain temperature it was useless.

  The plan of action was to be as follows: the head ringer would pick out his bull, shout the estimated weight to Charles, who, in turn, would scream it to me. I would quickly look up the table for the amount of serum required, fill the capsule with the recommended dose, hand it to Charles, who would gallop back to the scene of action, and wham, shoot the bull in the rear. Why in a million years they thought it would work in practice when it sounded impossible in theory was beyond me. But they were sure they had everything under control.