A Bit more about tourists in the Outback

Having been in the Outback in a time when things were changing, I must confess I was not in the deep hardship times of times before my time, which I considered rather timely.  However, there came a time when there were folk that wanted to experience the Outback, or as the advertisers would have it, an Outback experience, as though experiencing the Outback was one singular feature, rather than a combination of features  that happened to be in the Outback.  Ifn' ya' know what I mean.

What happened is that the tourists, especially the "Grey Nomads" in their several hundred thousand dollar fuel guzzling, fully insect proof, fully air conditioned, fully fitted with showers, microwave ovens, and often foolishly driven where no RV was meant to go, arrived in numbers, wishing to have the Outback experience.  I mean! Did they open the fly screens...No!  Did they cook in a campfire in a camp oven in a sudden downpour, No!  Did they fore-go the latest TV drama, No! not on ya' life Nelly.  But, back home in the local bowlo',

 "We experienced the Outback experience."
"Oh,My goodness!  how brave of you...I could not stand the deprivation."
"Aw! It's all right, if you set your mind to it, like we did."

Now, again , being Fair Dinkum, the drovers of today have caravans, TV's, washing machines, and the like, and of course, they point the finger at a 'Fully,' as explained, RV, and say "Bloody tourists."

Me' I never worried about TV in the early 50s, maybe 'cause there weren't none in this country then.

I worried about the flies.  You have your horse whisperers, and dog whisperers and those old women that whisper over the back fence, but I was a professional fly worrier, I didn't worry them but they sure as all get out worried me.

I could sleep under the shade of a barb wire fence, if the need arose, and often did when I was too overcome with another Outback experience, call being  'pissed', and couldn't climb over the darn fence anyway.

So, the Outback doesn't change, people do and what they wish to whisper about, and what they want to experience is only relative to the amount of money and brains that one may have at any particular time.

The Dogger Dingo trapper-Hi-Tech days

The method of dingo, or now called wild dog, eradication in this  country has gone hi-tech.  Video tracking is the modern method now.

Scientists with the (CSIRO) Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization, has come up with a highly sophisticated, and as yet, expensive method of not only determining what animal is on their data, but which particular dog is on there data as well.

A landholder would be required to have at least three cameras strategically placed on known dog patrolled areas on their property, and dog sightings would be returned to the CSIRO via satellite with a positive ID.  These cameras cost around $600au each.

Wild dogs have a territory, or a hunting area that rarely changes, so it is not a case of having to have cameras all over the property.

Depending the stock losses, the landholder must determine the value of installing this system.  Of Course, the landholder that does install the system is helping his neighbour,  but will his neighbour assist with costs?  A big question in the economic state of our farmers.

Although Dingos have little variation between each dog, there is some and the CSIRO tracker can determine which dog is on the screen, where it is, which direction it is walking and if it is heading for stock or just leaving stock.

The Scientists can then ring the property owner and he can then take out his own follow up on that information, such as waiting to shoot the dog, laying a bait or trapping.

The wild dog problem in Australia is taking its toll of the land holder's already diminished profits, profits that have been affected by low market prices, oversees competition and  export prices, and of course, drought, which seems to be occurring in greater areas and numbers.

Darn Flies!!!!

The flies of the  Outback are probably the worst thing that one has to experience there.  You never get used to them, however there are some tricks that will give you a little respite.

One workable escape is during the heat of the day, if you can find some deep shade...Yes it is possible...It may be a Prickly Acacia tree in full leaf or even a shed of some kind, this is where the flies do not enter.  The bright sunlight to the shade confuses them and they stay on the fringes waiting to mob you when you come out.

The above is only useable when you are having a break, when the work is on so are the flies, especially around sheep or cattle yards, although cattle yards with the moving hooves, do tend to put up a nice manure smelling dust screen of sorts, so that then you do not have so many flies to worry about, only the meat ants crawling up your trouser legs looking for something that resembles the item you have just cut out of a bullock, ifn'  ya' know what I mean.

It is said that this is why men of the Outback are constantly checking their crotch.  It is a worry if you see hoards of ants snigging a large ova, meaty object back to their nest and you have recently felt some of these ants up your trouser legs, hence the crotch check, and apparently, if becomes a habit.

There are many expressions about the flies, here a few clean  ones:

Talking about the smart young Jackaroo, "There's no flies on him."  answer, "No, but you can see where they've been."

"Bloody flies, ya' kill one and fifty-thousand come to the funeral."

About a woman with morning sickness:"She's either pregnant or has just swallowed a fly."  Honestly, they both have the same effect on a girl. well sort of!!

It is the bane of the stockman, or anyone else for that matter, who is inclined to have their mouth open when the flies are about, to swallow a fly, or for a fly just to fly in and hit the tonsils and fly back out again...The inclination is that you  have definitely swallowed the critter, and it makes you gag.  It ain’t nice but it teaches you to talk like a ventriloquist.

The March Fly, those secret stealth bombers that swoop in on to the back of your neck, or any bare flesh, are the ones I really hate,  they sting, they leave an itchy spot, and they can cause a normally quiet horse to buck like mad.

The blue tailed fly, originally from Africa, are the worst.  This useless insects are responsible for more deaths in the sheep population in Australia than any other form of 'disease'.  Sheep have a high pain threshold, and the only way you can tell if they are in severe pain is by them lifting the top lip in an agonizing grimace.  The fly will lay maggots in the fleece, at the rear end of the sheep that has become dirty and wet  because of an  over growth of wool, and this laying will turn into a colony of thousands that will eat flesh, and infect the area that becomes moist with the early strike,  it is a horrible, sad sight to see, and a horrible sad job to treat the sheep.

I guess there is a place for all insects in the world, but flies, I'm buggered, if I can see what they are good for!!!!

All mod-cons

Learning the tricks of the trade as a young bloke, just arrived in the Outback, I soon devised a method  of clothes cleaning and supply.

All week I would wear RM williams' denim jeans, Undies, sox and a red or blue checked flannel shirt.  For  town clothes I had one drip dry shirt, and one pair of drip dry trousers, same sox, same undies, but washed, of course, adn one  pair of shorts fro wash day. I did have wet weather gear and a good coat for winter mornings, but that was about it.

I had seven of everything in the work clothes, but only the one set of town clothes. So, come Sunday it would be wash day, and it went like this.  we often worked all week, Sunday's too, and I would then have to do the wash late in the afternoon, or at night even.

I could usually get hold of a large galvanised tub, in which I would drop all the working gear, fill with water, a cup of powdered detergent and then 'switch on the washing machine'.  This consited of me, stamping in the tub of clothes, building up a nice sudsy foam.

As I tramped in the tub, wearing my shorts, I would be reading a Marchal Grover, Larry and Stretch western.

I remember one day, when the boss was passing my Sunday wash, he said "I'll bring you over some grapes."

Remember, I was still wet behind the ears, so I answered: "She's right, boss, I'll get some at lunch  time."

The boss couldn't be bothered explaining this, as was the case with a lot of comments that used to go over my ever filled head, that was always mulling over being a teenager and trying to be a man, and learning about the Outback all at the same time...I wasn't ready for grape jokes.

At the end of the middle of the book, sounds funny, at the end  of the middle, Oh! Well, I would close on a dog eared page and get the clothes out of the tub and hang them on the line, dripping suds and a dark brown water run off.  Pegging them out in order, seven pair of Jeans, Seven shirts, seven pair of undies and seven pair of sox.  If I wasn't going to town, I would wear Sunday's issue, so I often had a spare set of work clothes each week. The town stuff I did by hand, and in the Sunday afternoon's I wiould polish my RM Williams Sante Fe heel riding boots, so I was well organised, Hey? Considering that it wasn't that long ago that mum used to do all of this, only I don't think she read any Marshall Grover books.

After I got the stuff all hung out I would turn the hose on full blast, after starting up the petrol pump motor, and hose the suds, almost, all out of the washing.

After a few Sundays the laundry had made the clothes all the one colour, a dingy sort of grey, but at least they were matching outfits, but it always amused me that when I took the stuff off the line, dry in the summer sun, I could stand the jeans up against the wall, and there they would stand until they were crumpled into the washing pile at the end of a working day, I used to give the undies an extra rinse, as the suds made them stiff as well, and most uncomfortable  in places they shouldn't when you spent the day  in the saddle.  The once checked shirts were grey but a bit of a shake would soften them up enough to be comfortable.

Of course, one never washed wool blankets as it took a fair while to get enough dirt and body grease into them to be nice and warm, and to have it so that you didnlt need to carry a hulking big swag of clean balnkets with you.  These were the clever things I was learning in the Outback in those days.

There were some bad times

The way I usually speak about the Outback and the people that live there I tend to paint a picture of good times and nice people; however there were times that I was forced to take a different view of people, locals, graziers who  thought that any labour was to be considered equal to the first Afirican Americans that arrived in the deep south of the United States.

In my early days, working on properties, which was my favourite type of work, I was less than clued up on who were the good bosses and who should be avoided.

It was a situation that came upon me, I mean, I was not looking for work as I had not long finished a droving run and still had cash in my pocket, but the Grazier sounded so decent in his offers I succumbed and said I would try it out for a couple of weeks.

The property, out near Winton, was the typical sheep property of the day, and the homestead looked well looked after, so I was just a bit surprised when he said I could set up in the open fronted shed, next to the tractor and  the bales of hay that were stacked there.

"Don't you have any ringers quarters?" I asked.

"They got burned down a few days ago, and I haven't got around to rebuilding them, but that will come in time."

As I found  out, back in town, his ringers shed , not to be called quarters, was burned down by him for  some  insurance  money, almost five years ago.

At least there was a wire stretcher with a straw filled palliase on top,  which I flipped over and nearly choked on the dust rising.  On top of the hay bales I could see some indignant rats peering at me as though I was an unwelcome intruder.  'Well, ' I thought, ' If there are that many rats there can't be many snakes." some consolation, I  suppose.

"We have got enough time to exercise a couple of my thoroughbreds, " The boss said from behind me.

"A good time I suppose, at least the flies don't get around in the dark." I grumbled, I hadn't eaten since breakfast and was a tad hungry.

"We'll be right, the moon will be up in half an hour." he said.

"Look, Mr Bracken." he told me at the start he wanted to be called Mister at all times. " How about I have a bite to eat, and then we can spend a bit more time with the horses."

"Cooks already washed up, not much chance of getting a feed now."

"So you missed  out too?" I asked.

"Na! I had a bite when you were setting up your quarters...It won't be long and it will be breakfast time."  How thoughtful, I didn't think, what I did think was 'what time does the mail truck come through  in the morning...early I hoped, I could be back in Longreach by lunchtime.

The thouroughbred, Lemon Hart he called it, and as I found all his "Race Horses" were named after Rum brands.

Well, I can tell you, old Lemon lived up to her name in that fact that, like bad cars, she was definitley a lemon, put that with the fact that she was a rum horse in all aspects, I was not really looking forward to riding her on an empty stomach...Mine not hers.

MIster Bracken handed me a regulation jockey pad, a saddle about the  size of a postage stamp, with the following instruction.  "Don't get it damaged, it  cost me a mint in Brisbane..." and "Lemon Hart somethimes throws herself down, so hold her up so she wont roll on the  saddle."

I had never tried a horse in a jockey pad, so I reckoned, if nothing else it would be a new experience. So, I saddled her up, and she started to sweat the moment the pad, all four pounds of it, hit her back. A great stream of wet dung flew from her rear end and splashed down the back of the boss...."Good girl," I whispered.

Mister Bracken swore, and cursed, and swore some more, but would you know  it, the wet dung still clung to his back.

"Mount up, " He growled ,"and remember what I said  about the jockey pad."

Old Lemon was that full of oats, and working horse mix, without working, that she sprayed forth every fifty yards or so, and was so pent up that she could not walk, she had to jog, jog all the time.

"I  dont think this is gunna work, " Mister Bracken, I came out her with the idea of helping with the mustering."

"So you will be 'boy', an' this is what you'll be riding, her or one of the others, I need 'em rid ready for the Stonehenge picnic race day."

"Well, it's like this, I ain't no boy, and I aint no jockey, so I quit."

"Well now, Mr. tough bloke, if you ain't,  you ain't any use to me....Your sacked."

"I'll get me' gear and you can run me down to the mailbox."  The mail box was on the main road and I was hoping I could get a lift back to the 'Reach.

"Is that - bloody- so, I'll tell ya' what, get your gear and walk down to the bloody mail box, I'm finished with ya'."

There, hungry, alone, feeling sorry for my stupidity I sat for almost half the night when all of a sudden I saw the Lights on the Hill, which in the downs country, is a rare occurance.

Back in the pub, one  of the blokes asked where I had been, I had missed the darts game last night.

I took a job with Bracken, out near Winton.

After a half hour of putting up with their laughing and jibing, I got the  impression that Bracken was not a good bloke to work for  after all.

Have ya' ever dun' a mistake

There was a time in the Outback that it was suspicioned that I had actually made a mistake, I can not remember any such mistake that would bring the outburst of criticism that came from the boss, and in front of the rest of the blokes as well.  Had it been these days I woulda' had him up for bloke discrimination, 'cause I was a bloke and not much less smart than the other blokes, wot he didn't discriminate against, ifn' ya' know what I mean.

'Tanyrate, he started: "Ya' have no idea on what ya' doing, ifn' ya knew what ya' was doin' ya' wouldn't be doin' it like you is doin' it...Ifn' Ida' wanted a bloody bloke that didn't know what he was doing I woulda'  got a sheila to do what is supposed to be done.

"A sheila aint' a bloke, I sed.

"Anyone wot makes bloody mistakes like you,  wouldn't bloody know what a sheila is anyhow."

"So wot mistake did I make, then,  you reckon ya' bloody know everthin', wot bloody mistake did I make, then?"

"Wot bloody mistake did ya' make, bloody 'ell, you make a bloody mistake an' ya' don't even know wot the mistake was."

"Tell me go on, wot bloody mistake did I make then...Com'on, don't jist stand there with that dumb look on ya' face, wot mistake did I make, then." I was bigger and tougher than  him, an' he knew he was dumb, and looked it.

"I give up, bloody 'ell, I jist give up.  No one can edicate a bloke like you wot makes bloody mistakes all the time."

"Okay, boss, i'll try a bit 'arder next time."

"Bloody good, now get back to wot ya' was doin'."   So we all sat down and had another cup of tea and a bite of damper.

It can be hard in the Outback sometimes.

The Red Steer

Of all the devastating and frightening occurrences of the Outback, the worst would be the fire. Even on the plains, the “Red Steer” rampages across the land with no favour. It can jump fire breaks, water courses, main roads and any other barrier put in its way.

In full fury, the grass fires create their own wind. It rises in swirls of fierce heat that sends embers floating on to areas that were thought protected.

Fire, one of the greatest discoveries by man, can and will turn on him in a frenzy of destruction causing death, to stock and humans alike, to fences, homes, or any combustible matter that is in its path. Fire has no conscience.

In the coastal Tee Tree areas I have seen the blue haze of gas build up ahead of a fire, and then the tops of these trees just explode some hundred meters ahead of the flame.

Floods and drought are at natures whim but fires can, and sometimes are, in the hands of some arsonist, who after the death count is taken into consideration, in the more urban areas of cities, should be charged with murder with a lethal weapon, one single flick of a cigarette out the window of a moving vehicle. One flick of a cigarette lighter or match. And that is the usual emotional thoughts of those that have been the victim of a rampaging fire.

The grass fire of the plains country is, most times, easier to control if it is caught in time, or if properties had carried out fire prevention methods before the fire season arrived. The fire season is usually after good rains, strong grass growth and a hot dry summer has filled the earth with tussocks of grass and leafed up the few trees and scrubs. It is these times that one looks to the sky for the thunder storm, lightening being one arsonist that cannot be caught.

Glass is another fire lighter, the careless bottle or container left around yards, and along side roads, acts as a hot house underneath where it lays, when the time is right it will cause ignition and the “Red Steer” runs again.

Fire breaks are an expense but it was, in my time, only an expense calculated against what the expense was in losses. If it was felt that losing one or two paddocks to fire was not a big problem, then little or no fire prevention or protection took place.

One property where I worked, they had experienced a fire that ran for two weeks, and covered an eighty-mile front at one stage, this was out from Aramac in Queensland. The next year prevention or protection was applied vigorously.

The fire break, in the plains country, if given the full treatment, consists of two tracks around the fence line in a paddock. The tracks had the scarifier plough dragged over them maybe twice. The tracks would then be dragged with metal wagon tyres, tied together and weighted down with logs, or forty-four gallon drums with Gidgee stones in them.

The cleared tracks, which would be about eight feet apart have an strip of grass between them, which is burnt off if fire is threatening. There is no point in burning good grass when unnecessary.

This allows a twenty-four foot fire break from which to back burn from, in the face of an oncoming fire; however with the unpredictable wind created by the fire, even these fire breaks can be jumped by the grass fires.

Man has little control over floods, rain, or drought. He cannot even predict the heat of summer to come, but fires, being a tool of man is often used foolishly.

Sheep will run around in a circle if they are frightened, and fires frightens all beasts. If these poor dumb animals cannot escape, they will run into the fire and perish.

There are stories of men and women being off fighting fires on a neighbours property only the hear that their own home has been burnt to the ground.

Of all the harshness of the Outback, the “Red Steer” is the worst. In times gone by it was used as a threat by some disgruntled traveller or station worker, who would rattle a box of matches in the face of the one he was threatening. No word had to be said, the threat was well indicated.

Floods

I have spoken about the trials and tribulations of the Outback. My version of the unbroken horizon in the story Outback Awakening, and  in my blog article Silence is Golden. So I will continue on my impressions of the other encounters in the Outback, encounters that I have faced, along with everyone else in the area at the time.

If I had to define the worst, I would have a hard time selecting the “Red Steer” from the “Brown Death”, admittedly, neither sound very nice, and believe me they ain't.

I will deal with the floods: I was on a property bordering Cooper's Creek, which is one of the biggest water courses in the west.

It had not rained in the local area, which was a bit of a blessing in the fact that the ground was not saturated with rain, making the black soil a sodden, un-trafficable bog hole; however the rising waters stirred up the dreaded sand l flies. Creatures that seem to be able to lay dormant for a long time, to rise as the flood waters rose. They were not your 'biting midge, or the “no-see-em” of the coast, no Sir! These critters were like bush bees with football jumpers on, grey like the mossies with tiger type stripes on their abdomen.

Just through the sheer anxiety of the itch, and the pain of rubbing sore eyes against the bark of the Gidgee trees would kill a horse. The horses would go out on the dry clay pans and walk around and around in circles, head to swishing tail, trying to get some respite from these most miserable of afflictions. Hunger and pain would was not an easy life for a working horse, adn many suffered death, or ill thrift.

We would get fourty-four gallon drums and open up one end, make a fire and put cow manure on top of the flame to bury it to a strong, smouldering smoke. It is not too bad, really, I have smelt pipe tobacco with a greater stench, and the horses would come and stand with their heads in the smoke and stay there until it died down.

We had one little horse on a droving trip one time, that couldn't stand the sand flies any longer. During the night it came to the camp fire and rolled in the ashes, which disturbed the coals beneath,. We had to put the poor beast down because of the massive burns, and the horse's obvious pain .

So, you will stand there watching the brown water rise, and as it rose it would come to the cracks in the clay and trickle down these cracks for up to ten minutes before it rose and went on to the next crack. The cracking was like flag stone, and the cracks were deep.

In the wider channels, the sheep would try to go in to feed, but would find themselves with their leg down a crack and no way to push themselves out. They would die there, or if they didn't they would be too hard to get out once the clay backed hard like cement around the limb or limbs that were down the crack.

If rain was in your area, you were grounded as far as driving, riding or walking anywhere. Mud build up would soon stop a vehicle as the grass and mud made an adobe mixture that dragged the vehicle to a stop as the mixture clogged up to the mudguards. Horses would tire quickly with the same mud and grass build up on their hooves, and the poor bloody human that has to walk was overtaken with exhaustion after an hour struggling along. It made no difference if you took your boots off, the mud was that sticky it would cling to your skin like that stuff that sticks to a blanket.

Floods without rain is really testing, it causes a lot of anguish without much gain for the graziers stock or property. But that's the Outback Hey!!!!!

Pete sees his name on Amazon again

Another short story of Peter Rake has made its way to Amazon. Actually this one is in the 'Fair Dinkum Yarns From the Australian View' but if you're too cheap to fork over $2.99 for the collection you can sample this one for $0.99. It's about Arthur. Some fictional conception of Pete's mind.

Poor old Arthur laments his life every day at the bar and dances with death in a bitter comedy farce which ultimately changes the course of his life. This is an original great Australian yarn told by best selling Amazon author, Peter Rake - as you might have guessed, since this is his blog!

Word count: 2900
Themes: Outback Australia, right of passage, comedy
What to expect: A ripper of a yarn, straight out of a 1960s Outback Queensland pub.
Setting: Outback Queensland pub

Published: 21 July 2013

 

Silence is Golden

Have you ever been in places that become so quiet that you can hear yourself thinking?

The Outback is like that. You don't notice it much through the day when your eyes are taking in activity, and your brain is interpreting what you have seen, but when night falls, and you have finished with the chores of say, feeding yourself, hobbling out the horse, rolling out your swag and rolling your last cigarette for the night, then the silence descends upon you.

No matter how hard you listen, and I do not think that a man can listen hard or soft, regardless of what his wife may think. No matter what you do, you do not hear anything. It is confusing to say you hear nothing, as that means that you hear something, but I am telling you that you do not hear anything at all in the Outback, nuffin'.

This only happens in certain places. It won't happen near a busy highway, it won't happen near a river or a creek, it won't happen if a pocket of trees are near, and it won't happen if you have the 'trannie' turned on. It will only happen in the middle of a vast paddock that has nothing but a sparse covering of grass, and the black soil plains to try to catch your attention, and the catch is that if it catches your attention, you need some help.

The silence is such that you will be drawn to putting your finger in your ear to try to remove the “plug” that has stopped you from hearing. You will hear the squish, squish of the finger as you rattle it around in your lug, and that will only confuse you, as you now consider how you can hear the finger but nothing else.

Married men can understand this phenomenon, as they relate it to the “Silent Treatment” often encountered in the marital home; however that is a pleasant occurrence, whereas the silence of the plains is a little strange, or should I say, stranger.

This massive silence, if silence has size, will be the overriding thought of the night. You will see a shadow, you think, and then you will realise that to see a shadow you have to have light, so whilst you are discounting that one a light will appear, or seem to appear, on what you would consider the horizon, or seem to be the horizon.

“Ah! Company,” you will say and frighten the dickens out of your self at the loudness in this dead silence, so you whisper “ah! Comapny”

However, it is not company, you know what it is but you will not admit it to yourself, so your mind takes over and admits it for you, "It is the Min-Min my scary little friend.” Only your own mind can insult you like this and get away with it.

You open the secondary part of your mind, the contradictory side, some say the female side – why, I don't know, but this side says, "Don't be silly, I do not believe in the Min-Min."

"Well why is it getting closer?"

"I don't know, I don't believe in the Min-Min."

"Why is it getting bigger?"

"I told you, I don't know."

Another part of your mind says, no wonder they call it the female side, but has to admit that the light is getting bigger and coming closer.

Then the Min-Min is gone, and you do what any sensible, well controlled and well balanced male would do, you jump to your feet and let out a roar and go running up to catch the horse so the two of you can go and stick your heads in some noise.

“Silence is Golden,” some fool said. All I can say is that whoever that was never sat out on the black soil plains in the dark of night and listened to........

The wind of the outback

Of all the climatic influences of the Outback it was the winds that bothered me the most.  Being in areas where the flat plains allowed howling westerlies in the summer,  and the cold southerlies in winter to cross the land and gain force just before it hit you with a slap on the back that you would imaging came from the  hand of some malignantly minded giant mad man; these were the  times that most bothered me.

All the living quarters had gauze wire mesh around them to keep out the flies and mozzies, and the westerlies resented this intrusion on its dust billowing, debris distributing, swirling, willy willy making journey across the Outback plains.

The morbid howling of the gauze as it tried to restrain the winds to no avail, would constantly hold one note so depressing one had to be very strong so as not to cut the bloody gauze wire out of the frames.

It would catch you unprepared, the wind, every evening, around sundown, it would subside, slowly, until it became a whisper, and a cool  breeze that changed you mind on its terror of the senses.  Then, just as your fists unclenched, your toes relaxed and you mind started to think about dream time,  the beast would rise up and scream through the wire in a last ditch stand to unsettle you completely.

Loosing you hat just as you tried to light a cigarette in the day time westerlies would  be a common matter, and the following 'rodeo' as your horse shied away from the flying Akubra, and your tobacco tin emptied into he wind,  would undoubtedly give the most miserable  of work mates a great laugh, but then again the westerlies had the ability to make many miserable.

The willy willys that would spiral upwards for a hundred feet or more, would attract the Kite Hawks that  sailed in the  updrafts catching the grasshoppers that had been taken aloft.  The dust lifted from these willy willys always seemed to end up either in your pot of tea, in your eyes and ears or as you found out later, all  over the clothes and belongings in your quarters when you got in at night.

These things were a test of  one's resolve, a test of faithfulness to the Outback, and as I was mostly told, 'If ya' survive a year you will survive forever, young fella'.

And so the westerlies blow, the Southern wind gusts, and winter falls on the land like a heavy hand.

Animals of the Outback

It is probably difficult to think of animals as purely working machines like the tractor, ploughs, Chain saws and the like.

In the current age we have folk that breed various animals, but these animals are more likely to be known by name, in a sort of 'part of the family' situation.

I like horses, I like, and have a certain sympatico with most animals of trade, but, of course, unless you are from New Zealand, you cannot have a close relationship with a sheep, for instance.

I mean, if you are droving three and a half thousand sheep, how can you pick just one out to be your favourite without upsetting  the others.

In the 50s and 60s, an era that I know about in Queensland, animals were largely a part of the economy of the country, they were treated according to their suitability in the over-all working team needed to run a property with the  utmost profit return as against having a lot of useless mouths to feed for the sake of some sympathetic feeling for an animals welfare.

A horse was a horse, but more than that it was only considered as a working  horse.  Never was the working  horse of the Outback called "Old Billy, the kids pony."  The station horse had numbers, most times, and were given names by the stationhands for the time of the work needing these horses.

Horses were given a fair work out in the shearing musters, or musters for crutching, drenching, lambing and the Like.  Cattle properties had to select even better horses to work cattle in rough country, and at the camp when the branding work began.

All these horses were of the best quality that the station could afford, and many of the show type breed that are around today are from that stock.  The ASH societies, having bred 'pretty' Australian Stock Horses,and including some American Quarter horse lines, rarely use them for cattle mustering.  The ASH of today is judged a lot on looks, and conformation, where-as the Stock horse of old was judged on its ability to stop, turn, gallop off the  mark and be of general assistance to the cattle man.

The Waler, so called because of its breeding from New South Wales stock of some of the draught animals that pulled ploughs and mixed with English blood, developed into what was called a 'clumper' in the days of sheep droving.  This faithful, kind minded and gentle horse did just as its description suggested, it plodded along without fear or fright,  without shying at any little movement that the more warm blooded  horse of the cattle ranges  would dislodge the unwary with a side step that any Rugby League player would die for.

The horse is legendary in this country, from the Snowy Mountain horse to the the long distance horse of the Outback that could trot for half a day without any sign of weariness.

It goes without saying that with all the animals of the Outback, the horse was the most sought after         piece of working equipment that any property could acquire.  It was the most looked after animal as well for that same reason.

Coming after the horse was the good working dog, and animal that was only  fed on the days it worked, the rest of the time it was chained up near a half of a drum for a kennel.  These dogs only received food and a pat from the owners, and only when they have 'Dun good'.  A stranger was not welcome to pat someone Else's working dog.

This work and be fed regime might sound a bit harsh in these times, but imagine trying to work a dog all day long after it had been given a full belly of tucker, it would be looking for chloroform trees all day long to sleep under, not the tail end of a sheep to chase into a mob.

A good working dog was as good as two other men on a droving trip, or where mustering sheep for the many things sheep were mustered for.  In the yard they were far better at getting sheep up a drafting race than any frustrated station hand.

The rattling when shaken inventions of the stationhands, which consisted of sticks with tobacco tins nailed onto them, and the tin filled with things that would rattle were called "Tin Dogs" but never fully replaced the real thing. Of course, the Tin dog is seen as a musical instrument in many a bush band, and I must admit I have not seen a working dog used as a musical instrument.

Sheep: Well you will hear how dumb they are, and there appears to many reasons for this.  They will run in a circle as a mob if frightened, they will run into a grass fire, they will  lay down, head flat on the ground in a give up mode, then if you should leave them, as soon as you are past, it will jump to its feet and take off, usually back into the mob that it first departed.

Sheep do have a high pain tolerance, and will survive where other animals would die of the sheer shock of injury.  Not the 'bleater', I have seen sheep riddled with maggots still trying to get a feed.  The pain  in these circumstances must be horrific as the only indication that a sheep will give to pain is the twitching of the nose, then you know that the poor dumb animal is really suffering.

The Outback is not an office, there is no air conditioning, no cooling fans, no water cooler to stand around.  The Outback is harsh reality, and it has to be worked with the same harsh reality that it applies

Try to be soft in the Outback and  you will fade away like  your dreams of an easy life, succes in your endeavours and plenty of filthy lucre.

A free eBook from Pete this week

Grab your free copy here.

Really Fair Dinkum Stuff

Brucie Clermont Forterkew was a very spoilt and protected young bloke before he came to Boney Downs which was out from Aramac, which was out from Longreach as was the norm as most of these places in the Outback were out from somewhere or other.

Even the dunnies were outback in the Outback, thankfully, as it is not a real welcome to arrive at a place out from Winton, say, to find an outback dunny out front.

But I digress, which is rather a unusual matter in so far as story telling on my behalf, and as this story is not on my behalf, but on behalf of the story teller that told me the story - he often digresses.

Fer' instance, this bloke told me that Brucie was that spoilt his mother had a window put in her stomach so that Brucie could have a womb with a view. Of course, I thought that could very well be, as the advances in medical science had gone ahead in leaps and bounds, well, ever since they had been using kangaroos for guinea pigs to experiment with.

And talking about kangaroos, who can hold a new joey in the womb for a few months if a drought was on, or the brother or sister of the new little mite were still in occupation, this bloke told me that Brucie's mum was so frightened to let her babe out into the world, she held him up for several years, and only let him out when he was ready for high school. It was a bit tight, but Brucie wasn't any more than about five stone at that age, or seventy pound ifn' ya' still in the boonies.

When the doctor told her husband that he had to put in twenty-four stitches, he groaned, “Ya' gotta be joking, it only takes nine stitches to sew up a wheat bag.”

T'anyrate, Brucie ended up on Boney Downs, ready to become a big time manager or an overseer or summit. We reckoned that it would be summit that would win the day, as the overseer had to tie Brucie's shoes laces every morning, but, ya' know, I don't really believe that, I know for certain that the overseer couldn't even tie his own shoelaces and wore only riding boots that had no such things, and this was a good reason for thinking that Brucie would only learn summit, but not much, ifn' ya' know wot I mean.

We tried to get Brucie up onto a horse, but the ladder kept falling over, and it was only a Shetland pony anyway, finally, as it was up to the overseer to see that Brucie was properly trained,  he grabbed the lad by the scruff of the neck and flung him into his saddle bag, doing up the flap so the kid wouldn't fall out, and Brucie could tell his mummy, that night, that he had been out mustering with the men, all day. Stupid really, as you couldn't even put the kid down and get him to bark at the sheep.

I've got no reason to think that any of this is not Fair Dinkum, as I have told some stories that were like this, but in my case a lot more Fair Dinkum, that's why they all call me Truthful Pete, amongst other things.

I'm still in touch with this bloke, so if there are any more Fair Dinkum stories, I'll let ya' know, orrite?

[Want more Australian humor? Try Pete's short story, Notty: Targaroo's Disgrace Bar-fly, bludger and sneak-thief turned unlikely hero]

What would an Outback blog be without a story about a dunny?

Entertainment at an Outback property in the mid fifties was often concocted by the practical joker, or by some event that caused enough excitement to have a good laugh and then a greater laugh in the pub at the retelling, with embellishments attached to that retelling.
There was no television to supply comedy skits. There was the occasional traveling show that told the same old jokes and performed the same old party tricks—that would raise a bit of a snigger because of the money it cost to go to one of those shows.
Best of all though was the completely unrehearsed happening that would cause gales of laughter for many days—happenings that you could not write a script for, and a happening that no one could possibly predict. This is one of those happenings …

A hole for a drop dunny that is three feet square, a bit under a meter and ten feet deep (three meters in modern currency of measuring stuff) will last a family of four for ten years. This being so, new holes had to be dug from time to time to replenish the availability of the station 'Library'.
On one particular station I was extradited from the painting gang to the dunny digging gang, as the painting of the Ringer's quarters could wait but nature is relentless in its call.
This drop dunny required a hole twice the size of the depth of the one mentioned for a family of four, so it was a sizable hole to dig, but the digging in this downs country had one most favourable condition—never was there rock to dig through, just clay.
The outhouses had been constructed by other stockmen who had been seconded to the job as we were. For this exercise there would be two, side by side dunnies, on this one hole.
The digging kept the gang in close proximity to the cook house, so there were side benefits as we would have a lavish smoko, midday meal and afternoon smoko as well as the night meal, so there was no rush in progress on the hole.
The work was also a welcome break to the usual day to day work on the station, and its progress was followed closely by all and sundry. The cook was the main 'sideline overseer' and his comments and directions were taken with little or no interest. However the cook did have one promise for us diggers—he was going to be the first one to use this facility, which would put him in a position of a claim to fame in years to come as the dunnies reached capacity,
“I wuz the first one to use these dunnies,” he could say.

The big day arrived; we had reached ground zero, or more to the lingo of the time, we had dun the job proper and the establishing of the new, galvanised sided dunnies were to be placed in position.
Logs were supplied to sit the dunnies upon. Sheets of tin were used to cover the area around the outer perimeter of the dunnies, and over any exposed holes and the clay was then back-filled over the tin and, with a cursory patting of the dirt the job was completed, right on the midday meal time, announced by a ringing of the large triangle of iron hanging outside the meal room door.
Cookie was very excited about his claim to fame and asked us if we had used the dunny yet. We promised him we hadn't and saw the relief on his face and the extra dessert in our plates.

What followed was the unexpected, the unscripted, the impossible event to guess.

After lunch there was one of those sudden 'skuds', as they were called, the rain storm on a sunny day that would drop inches of rain in a few minutes, and in this case, two inches (50mm) in twenty minutes (twenty minutes metric as well).
The Jackaroos housekeeper asked us as the time neared for afternoon smoko, “Have you seen the cook?” and as always some smart Alec said, “Yeah! He is that bloke wot cooks our tucker.”
It appeared that the cook had not been seen from a little while after lunch by anyone on the property.
A search party was organised. This was considered urgent as it was getting towards afternoon smoko time and eventually we arrived in the near vicinity of the new dunnies.
All that could be seen of the new outhouses was the top few metric feet, the rest had dropped the drop of these drop dunnies after the 'skud' struck; washed away the clay over the tin allowing the logs to role out from under the new facilities to plunge to almost the bottom of the hole.
“Help! Help!” came the plaintive cry of our chief chef.
After removing the roof of one of the dunnies we extracted the cook from the depth of muddy water in which he was immersed in and sent him off tho the kitchen.
Men rolling on the muddy clay-pan of the Outback, holding onto ribs and bellies that were in a fit of bursting from ribald laughter is a very laugh-producing sight in itself and of course is how we got our laughs in those good old days when we made our own fun, or waited for circumstance to provide that fun.
On threat from the cook, a threat that no man would care to challenge, we promised not to tell anyone about his drama ... well not until we got into town and the pub, that is.

Love or terror, it is still the Outback

Talking of the Outback and its perils draws me back to an experience I had working on a property out from Winton in the Central West. The owners, for some reason, let the property run down. The stock were poor and the fences had not been touched for repair for several years. The first day I started on this place I felt an atmosphere of despair from the boss, and it wasn't until some years later that I heard that he and his wife were breaking up and the property became the argument in settlement.

Of course that was not my concern, even if I had known about it at the time, I was hired as a stationhand when they seemed to expect a miracle worker.

The first morning the boss said to me, “Go and ride the fences in as many paddocks you can get through before dark and take some paper and a pencil with you to write down the fence condition as you go." Nothing else; no indication of where I would be likely to find broken fences, but he was the boss so I did as I was told.

Before I went, I went over to the cook house to get some damper, maybe some cold mutton and a bit of tea and sugar to keep the “worms” away during the day.  More depression as the Cook took almost half an hour before he appeared out from his room.

“Waddya want?” he growled, a scrawny, stumpy little bloke with dirty clothes and an appearance that he had not washed himself or his clothes for a long time. I had been given what he considered breakfast an hour ago, and he had fed the boss and overseer in the house and gone back to bed, which accounted for his grumpiness with me.

“I will be out all day and I was wondering if I could get some tea, sugar and maybe some damper and cold mutton?”

“Bloody young blokes, all they can think of is belly and what hangs from it.”

I knew that I was not going to last long on this place.

“Well are ya' going to get me some stuff or not?”

The miserable old coot came back with two slices of high-top bread, two slices of fatty mutton, and in his hand he held a mix of sugar and tea leaves.

"Where's ya saddle bag?” he mumbled.

Luckily I had a couple of small flour bags in my saddle bag and I took these in to the kitchen to find the food and tea dumped on the table. The cook had gone back to bed. I managed to scrape enough of the tealeaves and sugar together to make at least one quart-pot of tea. I looked around the kitchen to see if I could get a bit more tucker but would you believe every cupboard, and the refrigerator, had a solid lock on the doors. Ah well I thought, I will do this one bit of work for this boss and then get the mail truck to town in the morning, and they could stick their miserable property where it will do the most good.

It took me more than a hour to pick out a horse that I reckoned would be capable of a bit of work, and was still looking when the overseer came over and wanted to know why I wasn't out on the fences. I spoke to him about the condition of the horses and the poor bloke agreed with a sigh that seemed as though his world was ending.

“Come over with me, there are a couple of good stock horses over in the  stables that have been fed up and worked, you can take a pick form one of those.”

I didn't ask him why these horses were here while the others were starving and riddled with worms, with one of them with a weeping gash on its foreleg that looked at least a month old. When I asked him if he wanted me to do some work on the poor animal, his answer was, funnily enough, half expected.

“Na! I'm gunna take him up the creek later and put a bullet in his brain, the Boss won't spend any money on animals.”

So, full of glee and happiness at my new job on this bright and cheerful property - Yeah right - I rode out the gate on a horse that had that much oats and lucerne in its gut that it didn't stop fertilising the paddock for twenty minutes. And the smell! Even the flies hung back, but he did have a bit of go in him and I let him canter at his own pace for a couple of miles.

I should have taken a whole book instead of one scrap of paper. The fence line, including that part of fence that was a boundary, was a mess. My boss and the neighbour had been going at it for a couple of years about the boundary with the neighbour doing all of any of the repairs needed, but as cheaply as he could. There were holes under the fence every mile, some a lot closer, and diggings that left a tunnel for the pigs, dingoes, wild goats and station sheep to wander around the paddocks unchecked.

The first paddock was about ten mile around, making it around 6500 acres, and I reckoned that the horse would not be in real good condition, even with his feeding, as his muscles would shudder with use each time I pulled him back from a canter. No doubt, with a week's light work this horse would be in pretty good condition, but it had been standing and eating and wandering around a yard for the last month, and was like a primed up fighter with muscular dystrophy. It had plenty in the engine room, but the tyres were all flat.

We had finished the first paddock and had gone through a gate into what looked like it might be in a bit better condition. I could see a big Prickly Acacia and under its boughs the green that indicated water, probably a bore drain, I thought. The horse drank, and tried to drink some more, but I pulled back because it was only trying to fill the stomach that had been made a little hollow with the expulsion of all that good tucker.

Against my best instincts I kept the horse at a walk and continued up the fence line. I only went about a mile up and reckoned that I should get off this animal and give it a bit of a rest. I did, but I walked it around slowly as one would do a race horse after a big run, so as to let it cool down slowly. This horse had a good eye and was looking at me with a sort of apologetic look on its face, so I brushed the flies out of its eyes and talked to the animal, trying to reassure it, at the same time, trying to reassure myself.

We had come along the longest part of the previous paddock, and a mile or so into this one, so we were about fourteen mile from the station. My thoughts were with the horse now, the old boss could stuff his fence, I wouldn't be here tomorrow, and good riddance I reckoned.

I led the horse up to a taller gidgee tree and tried to find a bit of good grass for it to eat as it was starving for its feed bin back at the stables. The bore drain was only a hundred yards away and I resolved to take it over there for a feed when I had had a cuppa myself.

“Bugga it, horse, I think we might head home. You aren't in any condition to do a full days work, and to tell you the truth, I ain't either, not for this lousy property and its angry old men.” 

The horse agreed and settled down in the shade to have a bit of a nap.

As the afternoon wore on I led the horse more that riding it as we headed back towards the homestead. I had no intention of staying out until dark but I also had no desire to spend my last hours in the company of the miserable crew on this property. I doubted that I would be fed if I said I was quitting, and I only wanted to have a bit of a feed, a sleep and get onto the mail truck early in the morning.

We must have been heading home as the horse picked up its spirits, probably with the thought of the big feed that would be waiting for him at the stables. So I climbed into the saddle and let the horse move into a trot. I was standing in the irons and the distance was being covered at an easy rate. We headed due west, straight into the afternoon sun, and I had my head down out of the glare of the big round lump of fire in the heavens.

When I came too from the whack on the back of my head I was laying on my back, my rear end in the air and one leg up the side of the dog fence boundary. Five feet off the ground my boot and foot were inside a loop of wire that someone had put there away from roaming stock, a good idea gone seriously bad, bad for me that is. I had no chance of reaching up, pulling my body weight up to reach the wire, and what could I do if I could? My fingers were not pliers. I had nothing to cut the wire with other than the pair of fencing pliers in the saddlebag on the horse that was about a mile down the fence line, and still trotting.

I lay back and considered the predicament, I was still about ten miles from the station and I reckoned no one would come to look for me until well after dark, if at all. My foot didn't have the blood cut off with the wire as my R.M. Williams boot was good leather and the stirrup iron was also wrapped up in the wire, but I was effectively held captive like a sheep carcase hung up, one legged, of a killing gamble.

What could happen? I began to take the matter seriously, hanging like I was it would not be long before the crows and the carrion hawks would gather to watch proceedings, as I was not posing  much of a threat to them at this particular time. I could struggle and jerk around like a dingo in a trap,  which I did for a little while to no effect, or I could just lay there and wait for help; this was not very sensible either as I had no trust in the help that may or may not come.

My hat was still on my head as I landed, and it only left when I hit the ground hard, which knocked me out, for a time undetermined. I reached back over my head and felt the Akubra and pulled it forward, using it as a shade over my eyes while I took deep breaths to settle my nerves. I must have dozed off because I felt the nuzzle of the horse examining me with its soft and curious snout.

“Mate, me old mate,” I was very happy at the horses return, “Mate you came back?”

The horse lifted its head and looked back down the fence line towards home and the feed, but the reins trailed over my arm and I quietly took a hold of them, and the horse quickly submitted to its training and stayed quietly until I decided what to do.

I tried to get the horse to stand side on, but it kept getting a bit nervous when I also tried to pull myself up to reach the pliers in the saddle bag.  He pulled away each time, although I got to the point where I was actually hanging onto the saddle bag and was about to reach in for the pliers before he did a small side step that had me slam onto my back again.

It is not unusual for a man to start swearing at this type of thing as though swearing will fix the problem, but I felt fear, cold fear as my predicament reached deeply into my hopelessness, and I could not think of one swear word to yell.

“Oh well!” I moaned in my misery “I have had a reasonable life, short but reasonable. I would have liked to get married and have kids, maybe a property myself one day, at least I wouldn't let it get as run down as this lousy hell hole.”

The horse blew soft snuffles in my face and I reckoned it was thanking me for my kindness, as well as saying, 'sorry mate' I can't help you.'

I was guessing, and more than scared as the sun started to go below the horizon, and already the evening star shone in a still blue/grey sky. A large carrion hawk landed on the fence above my trapped foot, and I screamed at it “Chew that bloody wire if you want something to chew at.” I threw a handful of dirt at the beady-eyed, hooked beak gleaner of all torn flesh and it took off in a flurry of feathers as high-pitched whistle like squeals, and this startled the horse, and he lunged back, with me hanging tight to the reins, not knowing why, just not wanting the horse to leave me.  He pulled against the reins and I hung tight so that my body came up off the ground, which had me in readiness for the horrible thud as the reins broke or I let go.

Thud...wooof! Down I went flat on my back, the horse running backwards, and to my surprise, was dragging me after it. I let the horse go and it trotted off and settled down enough to stand still as I looked at the stirrup iron and my boot hanging on the fence, still. I jumped to my feet, one sore ankle but little else wrong, and I want you to promise you wont make a meal of this, but I went to that horse, that wonderful kind horse, and I kissed it full on its lips.

I was seventeen years of age, but the tears of relief cascaded down my face as I cogitated on the prospect of being dead, but saved by the thing that opened this Outback country up to the settlers, the graziers that let their land run down and became miserable at the fruits of their own making, but here I was, alive and young and with a story to tell at least.

I tried to tell that story back at the homestead but no one was interested, the Boss only wanted a report on the fence, the Overseer only wanted the horse back in the stable and fed, and I wouldn't even bother with the cook, if that was his title.

Early the next morning I went to the stables and patted the horse in a quiet good-bye, and he even lifted his head out of the feed trough to give me a bit of a nod and a gentle whinnie! Luckily I ended up heading down to the Barcoo River and took up work as a stationhand on Isis Downs, but that is another story …

[Peter Rakes Romance Adventure novel, The Outback Story - The Loves and Adventures of 'Tiger' Williams, is available now on Amazon]

Why are romance and the Outback so entwined?

It is a good question as to why the Outback of Australia and the rugged areas of other places seem to draw themselves to romance.

Maybe it is the contrasts of harshness and soft love, opposites attract and soft love is not really a trait of nature when she hands out her lessons on life in the wide brown land.

I love a sunburned country
A land of sweeping plains
Of ragged mountain ranges
Of droughts and flooding rains
I love her far horizons
I love her Jewel-sea
Her beauty and her terror-
The wide brown land for me.

Dorothea  Mackella, in this second verse of her great Australian poem epitomised the love that one can feel for the Outback. It shows that the spirit of the land is not  only in the animals and the long born indigenous people, but can raise in the hearts of the settlers, the graziers, bushmen of all working codes, and it is soon felt in the hearts of the traveller if they let themselves be adopted by the Outback Mother, Nature herself.

In my own heart comes the feeling of wonder at nature's hand; how a land like ours can supply all that the rest of the world holds, and yet retain its own individuality.

I know that there is always the thought, when nature is good to you, that you could hug her, you could love her for her kindness, and that is how we develop true love for the women that gave us the opportunity to feel true love as was meant for man and woman.

I have been subject to some terror, things that I thought I would not come out of, and in the end, all the terror and fear had been washed away by a sweet girl, cotton wool soft, hair of golden strands and eyes so blue that I had ridden over my fears to accept the love, the surrounding place and the situation.

Having passed that test of returning from disaster, and being blessed with that beautiful angel, a bush girl, an Outback classy lass, I know why the Outback is an ideal platform for fair-dinkum, joyous love stories.

From photographer Tony Feder

I challenge you to seek the Outback , to sit at Emily's Gap, at the Alice, see the colours change against the rocks as nature practices her painting technique.  To fathom the Katherine Gorge. To stand on the Black Soil Plains and see an unbroken horizon in the full circle of land as though you are standing on a plate that could easily flip you off into the cathedral sky of the night. I challenge you to see these things and not feel a greater love for the person of your desire.

Believe, the Outback begs for love stories.

[Peter Rakes Romance Adventure novel, The Outback Story - The Loves and Adventures of 'Tiger' Williams, is available now on Amazon]

Freda, an exceptional dog

An excerpt from Peter Rake's debut novel, 'The Outback Story - The Loves and Adventures of 'Tiger' Williams' ...

The three were still sitting in the vehicle as Brady strolled over towards them.
"I've got a dog," Steve said, hastily adding, "She can stay in the vehicle if you want, but she doesn't run about - won't get into any mischief."
"She's alright. Baker told me about her. Reckons she is something special, not like an ordinary dog, he said."
Steve looked at Lindy who was just a curious at the thought that her father would bother to explain a working dog to anyone when he had rang Brady Sands to guarantee the purchase if it transpired. Neither had realised that Mr Baker had been watching Freda very closely, and had made up his mind that she was no ordinary dog.
"I believe that she's a bit of a hero, and you too, young fella, but I'd like to hear the true story if you feel like it."
Lindy went around the ute and stood with Steve as he did a proper introduction, and Freda 'asked' if she could get out as well.
"Yeah she's alright, let her out," Brady offered affably.
Freda jumped from the seat, went to the front of the ute and relieved herself, out of sight of the humans and came around to sit at Steve's feet.
"Do you want to go over to the house with my missus, Lindy?” Brady asked.
"I'd rather see the horses, if I may," Lindy replied.
"Yeah that's alright with me. Come over to the stable."
As they headed off towards the horses, Brady made a comment.
"The dog looks well trained Steve. You haven't said a word to her and she is behaving as though she is on lead."
"Her name's Freda. Freda knows what to do. She learnt her lessons from Ian McLennan's dog, over on Isis. But I reckon that she knew what was what before she could run, just needed a bit of explaining from another working dog, that's all," Steve said. He did not feel that he was boasting, just stating facts.

Have you ever had a dog, or another animal, in your life who is smarter than people expect?

The Book

I even get excited about the book, THE BOOK.  This is a novel that I started writing in 1988. After a few chapters I realised the the first person narrative did not suit the story - too many verticle pronouns. So, I went to another method, third person narrative and this seemed to suit my needs. I could then say things about what the characters were thinking, and things that they intended to do, without it seeming that I could see into the future.

Here we are 25 years down the track, and THE BOOK is about to be released. I had almost given up on having it published, mainly because I did not want to edit the story too much, and this is against the rules for writers. One must follow Mark Twain's suggestion and follow the three rules for writers: edit, edit and edit.

The story was put away at times, and after months, and in some cases, years, I would bring it out and edit a bit more.

It was not until the very loveable person known to me as Fiona Gatt, the publisher for MetaPlume, took the story on and showed me more confidence than I had myself in publishing this Adventurious Love story.

Fiona will give it a write up in her memorable style, so please keep your eye out so that I may be inspired to give out more of life in Australia, taken from the 75 years that I have been here.

Pete's Publishing News - Grab yourself a bargain

To celebrate the immenant launch of Peter Rake's debut novel, 'The Outback Story - The Adventures and Loves of 'Tiger' Williams', the price of Peter Rake's five short stories have been reduced to $0.99 apiece and the collection of six short stories and two poems to $2.99.

This is the perfect opportunity to sample Peter's work for less than the cost of a cup of coffee.

Choose from 'The Pup' - a comical tale set in droving country; 'Notty' - a suspense comedy full of wit and Aussie slang; 'On Swallow's Wings' - an urban tale of love and loss; 'The Awakening' - a coming of age story; and 'The Coachman' - to get swept into the past. All these fabulous short stories are now $0.99 each.

'Fair Dinkum Yarns From the Australian View' on the other hand is the complete collection, plus the comical but moving yarn about 'Arthur', the drunk sheep station hand who finds that it's harder to end it all than he first thought. The collection is now available for $2.99.

Find them all here.