THE LAST OF THE TOOLOOM SCRUB DROVERS *In memory of my mates Les Hynes

I was marking tests when the office phone,

Drowned the sound of the campus drone.

'Les can't muster, 'Mrs. Hynes she said,

'Real sick he is in a hospital bed.'

Les Hynes I know for twenty-five years,

Since first we met over a schooner beer,

I remember it well, 'twas a hot summer day,

I'd gone looking to buy up Tabulum way.

The Bunijah block seemed a nice piece of land,

'Can't fatten 'ere,' waved Les with his hand,

'Down on the Cataract, the cows do well,

On grass up here, the steers can spell.'

I bought the block on the Cataract,

Mountains and gorges for me attract.

The air was sweet, no dust or smoke,

A holiday place for a city bloke.

Les he said, 'I'll help you lad,

Some shed we'll clad and fences add.

When back you come at the Easter break,

Timber yards by the house we'll make.'

Up came we, the wife and me,

Dog, cat and kids now three.

Les he came by the very next day,

With a horse called Tom, a twitchy bay.

'It's time,' Les said, 'we mustered the Spanker,

You take the gully and I'll ride flanker.'

At the mention of Spanker, Tom danced awhile,

The mountain you see was rocky and wild.

Though from the city, I can ride quite a bit,

Tom eyed the Spanker and thought he would quit.

'Lazy bugger ain'tcha,' said Les on the trot,

Then showing whip, Tom was off like a shot.

Down the creek, old Tom and me dashed,

Dogs chasing fast, across water we splashed.

White-eyed and wild the gully we sped,

Les he just laughed, 'give 'im 'is 'ed.'

The gully was steep, Tom slowed to a walk,

The dogs ran ahead, the cattle to stalk.

'Push up, push up,' came the sound from afar,

The cattle Les found, I'd swear he had radar.

Back in the yards now crowded with steers,

We sprayed for lice and tagged their ears.

Les he pointed to the milling mob,

'You done real well, a bloody good job.'

Les at the time was ironbark hard,

A man all held in high regard.

At the Tabulum pub they call him Wingee,

The reason they do, you soon will see.

I'm on the road and half-way north,

And thoughts of yore they just spill forth.

Of chasing steers by Spanker's way,

With Les my mate, on that first day.

Still and grey like his dog he lie,

It was plain to see that death was nigh.

His missus was present with me by his side,

'Twas Wingee's last ride, for that day he died.

Twenty-five years gone in the blink of an eye,

The memories came flooding of years gone by.

Of stories they told in the old Tabulum pub,

About the last of the drovers from the Tooloom scrub.

They say he was like an iron-bark sapling,

Way back in the time of cattle rustling.

When cap in hand men joined the line,

Their hopes on hold, the year twenty-nine.

He lived with drovers from ten years old,

With prospectors on Sundays he'd search for gold.

In country unknown and still undefiled,

Wingee roamed the border scrub wild.

For years he camped in the Tooloom scrub,

To Bonalbo he'd come each month for grub.

Along the tracks with horse and dog,

No human he'd meet to dialogue.

So if you came upon his camp,

Down by Tooloom creek's log ramp.

And stayed awhile to share a meal,

You'd meet a man of great appeal.

He'd eyes of blue in a sun brown face,

Stockwhip curled and dogs for the chase.

Tall and wiry with a springy step,

At tackling cattle he was most adept.

Words were precious as ting gold nugget,

Fold about said, 'it's probably the climate.'

No schooling he had, no schools there were,

But tales he'd tell like a true raconteur.

They say round the pubs of the border up north,

That Wingee's the smartest that ever came forth.

No name could he read, nor could he writ,

But clever was he with a rapier wit.

All called him Wingee, they reason they said,

Because of the bulls down the Rocky's wet bed.

South by Drake, the land's hellish steep,

If down you go, be advised to creep.

The tracks were clear, the bulls were there,

Wingee mounted his young black mare.

She was swift and strong and sure of traction,

Then he wheeled about in one smooth action.

On mountain above, the river below,

He starts off slow, then the speed it grows.

Across the mountain the mare did glide,

Dodging logs, to his dogs, 'round side, round side.'

Down and down he rode in haste,

His stockwhip cracked, the bulls he chased.

The bulls ran scared, the mare she strode,

Against the mountain's side he rode.

Southward down the Rocky wild,

On rode Wingee, the Scrub's own child.

A dog round back and one each side,

The dogs they nipped, the bulls to guide.

The blue overhead went without trace,

The weather he knew he'd have to race.

The clouds now grey, pushed down white mist,

More speed from the mare he'd have to enlist.

Light drizzle at first, then rain perverse,

Fell sheets of wet, the struggle made worse.

In creeks and gullies across narrow tracks,

The mud if flowed, where walked native tracks.

Wingee dug spurs, the mare sped fast,

The whip it snapped, the bulls turned last.

The rain it stopped on the mountain's flat-top,

As Wingee walked home the bulls non-stop.

Some hours later in his old stockyard,

A bull it charged and Wingee fell hard.

The mare moved between, the peace to restore,

Wingee just swore, but his wrist hung sore.

'Now listen to me,' the doctor said slow,

Your wrist has taken a very bad blow.

Wrap please in leather to ride again,'

The reason for 'Wingee', should now be plain.

Now those that know about Wingee's ride,

Claim the country down by Kosciusko's side.

Is neither as wild and spooky steep,

Nor was the Man from Snowy River's leap!

Now back in town by the office phone,

No sound disturbs the campus drone.

I sit and think as though I'm there,

And on the wall at which I stare.

Those mountains wild and green appear,

And Wingee by me, still seems near.

That way has gone, it seems a pity,

I'm trapped again in this grey city.