Little Drover

It had been a long, cold and very dry winter. Our rosy cheeks were smoothed with lanolin every night after bath time. That icy westerly wind had shrivelled the landscape to a burnt sienna and yellow cadmium palette. Feed for the cattle was scarce. The only protein available was at the base of the tall, native grasses which grew on the Long Paddock. This Australian feature was preserved by the state government to ensure that drovers had a right of passage when bringing their huge herds from the Gulf to the saleyards near the large abbatoirs on the outskirts of Toowoomba, on the Darling Downs.

It was early September with a hint of spring blossoms in the air and the joy of new life. The breeze carried a promise of warmth, blowing from the south east. It was going to be one of those happy, mild days when the heat shimmers in the distance.

“What are you doing today, Miss?” My father’s voice addressed me from behind the newspaper.

As it was a Sunday, we usually played at whatever we wanted to do. I was not yet 13 and loved to read, read, read or bake biscuits on Sunday.

“Nothing much.”

“Well then, you can do a job for me. After breakfast, pack yourself and Col some lunch, catch the horses and take the breeders out for the day. Just move ‘em along slowly. Take all day. Better take a watch with you so that you’re back before sunset.”

I was not about to argue with my father who was god of all he surveyed. So, obediently, oh so disappointed about my book, I packed the traditional droving picnic food, took the billy with some tea and sugar and shoved it all down into the saddle bags. Then I went out to the rainwater tank and filled two canvas waterbags to use for boiling the billy during the day.

My younger brother, Col, aged seven at the time, was a smart little boy and good company for a day out droving the cattle. We were dressed alike in the same well-worn jodhpurs, long-sleeved cotton knit red shirt and, of course, wide-brimmed hat.

As we were leaving, my father called out: “If anyone asks you who you are or what you’re doing, you tell ‘em to talk to me. And don’t talk to anyone you don’t know.”

Everyone in the district knew who we were. Our great grandfather had taken the land in the early 1850s before Queensland had its own autonomous government. Everyone knew our family as pioneers of the district and held a certain respect. I held no fear that we would have any trouble except from a cow that decided to become recalcitrant and lie down in the shade at noon. We had to keep them moving along. That was the one law in the Long Paddock.

We set off very happily knowing that we had an adventure in front of us. We had to round up the cattle and herd them into the lane way that was fenced all the way to the back gate. As soon as we reached the gate, a particularly solid one constructed from iron pipes, I jumped down from my horse to unlock the chain and swung the gate open to let the herd through. We had to keep count. There were 63 cows, some of them in calf. Many of them had been born on the farm so we knew their names and called them as if they were pets. Actually, they were very docile animals which we loved. They carried our brand RRQ which had been registered by my grandfather George William. We were quite proud of that brand as it stood for Roseneath, the name of our property, and the second R was for our name, and the Q was for Queensland. These animals were very precious to us as they were valuable breeding stock.

As soon as the last of them went through the gate, Col climbed onto it, swung it closed and replaced the chained padlock. Then, taking his responsibility very seriously, he hid the key in our secret location. We had been drilled into the importance of gates, keeping them closed, that is. We would not return via that gate but another one to the west of our property which opened onto the Long Paddock. I liked that way best because it meant that we would not encounter any vehicles. Even on Sunday, there could be huge cattle trucks stirring the dust on a gravel road.

When we moved the herd out the back gate, we were on a public road, albeit one that led to the neighbouring farms. But we had been instructed to watch for dust, the sign that a car or some other motorised vehicle would be competing for space on the graded bush road. It was a rule that animals had right of way but some drivers were impatient and disturbed the herd with their horn-blowing, shouting and swearing. I knew all the words but held my tongue (as I had been instructed) and just rode along the edge of the herd to try to keep them off the narrow gravel road. As you may gather, this was not the first time I’d driven our cattle into the Long Paddock. Country kids were given adult jobs as soon as they could walk or ride.

It was with a sense of relief that we turned into the Long Paddock because that was when we could play. Col and I slid off our horses, hobbled them and tied up the reins. After the cows had moved on a bit, we decided to have our first camp of the day. It was always in some shade. Usually, our routine was to gather a few twigs and to light a fire on a clear space, usually on top of an ants’ nest. Cruel behaviour but we children had been schooled in the danger of an escaping fire. Then we boiled the billy as our grandfather had taught us. As soon as the water began to bubble, I threw in a handful of tea leaves. The next part meant that we had to find a sturdy, reliable stick to lift the billy off the fire. Col’s job was to dowse the fire using as little water as possible. We both kicked dirt all over it to make sure that it was completely dead.

Like two old drovers, we poured out the tea into two sugar- laden enamel mugs and sat on the ground sipping the sweet brew. Later, when I was older, I did the true bushman thing of throwing in a handful of gum leaves and twirling the billy in a circle. But, at my age, I dared not do that because the consequences of not twirling properly would have been agonisingly painful. Even though the billy had not been twirled, the tea tasted just as refreshing. Then we started on our tuckerbag filled with sandwiches. Firstly, we ate the cheese and honey ones. We threw crumbs to the ants who had hurriedly exited their previous home. Col, cruel little boy, gleefully stamped on those escaping refugees.

I kept checking the time and tried to use the sun’s shadows to gauge it before I looked at my wristwatch. The only measure I could use was the length of our shadows. It was so much fun to chase shadows. We spent ages jumping on each other’s until the sun told us it was noon. So, we gathered bits of dried twigs and leaves to start the fire and boil our billy again. That meant we had our second camp of the day. This time, we ate sandwiches with corned beef and pickle. Along with the tea, they tasted very good. We seemed to throw a lot of sandwich crusts to the ants, but who wants to eat dry crusts?

We moved along slowly, watching the horses, and picking up interesting bits of leaves and dried branches. As the winter rains had failed, there were no wild flowers. It was all brown and brown and brown. We filled in time making up games of Catch me if you can and What’s the time, Mr Wolf?

When I noticed the afternoon shadows coming in and could see the sun had moved into the western segment of that cobalt sky, I took the sweet biscuits from our tuckerbag and we gobbled them up like to starving brats! And then we washed them down with long swigs from the waterbag.

Col whistled up the horses and we started to move along more quickly as the sun slid towards the line of distant, blue hills.

It was with a sense of relief that we saw our gate come into view. It was sometimes difficult to get the timing right. If we got home too early, I’d be in trouble for moving the cows too fast. If we got home after dark, I’d be in trouble for staying out too long. These were the trials of a young drover.