Chapter Five
The Phoenix
After several years of good old-fashioned hard work, we managed to save our farm from the credit vultures; it was a brutal lesson on the vagrancies of rural investment. My father's health was in tatters and my belief in centralised political systems was nearing rock bottom. Little by little, we restored some of our financial losses, livestock and rural commodity prices rose marginally and we all worked extraordinarily hard to re-float our sinking ship. We worked on our farm, as well as the farm I managed and for other organisations in the district, often long into the night. We rebuilt our stock numbers after the crippling drought and the rural recession. We introduced bloodlines and management techniques that were highly profitable. We took no holidays, very few weekends off and battled bushfire, floods and disease.
Through these hard times, I met so many wonderful people. They were real, loving, caring people who would literally give you the shirt off their back. They were the exact opposite of the cold-hearted people I was beginning to find populating the bureaucracy and financial institutions. I also met some extraordinary characters that seemed to frequent rural environments and all I had to do was listen to their stories.
Stopping for a talk in rural Australia is a foreign concept to most city dwellers. Large numbers of city people won't converse with their neighbour, let alone a perfect stranger, but in the vast rural areas of Australia, you can be engrossed in conversation with anyone at any time. The remote country areas leave most people hungering for social interaction and even in the middle of the most hectic schedule, a farmer can squeeze in a quick conversation.
That's how we first met Stan, right in the middle of putting sheep in a shed for shearing. In the heat, dust and flies, Stan walked up and introduced himself as the local fencing contractor. Small and powerful in build, with an engaging smile, the first thing you noticed, was the way he waved his sun tanned arms when talking. It was like talking to a windmill and at times, it was difficult to concentrate on what he was saying with all the hand waving. No doubt, he was excited at telling a story to a prospective customer and he was out to make a good impression. We spent a few minutes finding out what Stan was doing and we put his waving arms to good use when he offered to help us get the mob of sheep in the shearing shed. Stan never shut up and we figured he must have driven the fence posts crazy with all his talking.
After penning the sheep safely and comfortably in the shed, we walked to the outer perimeter of the yards to listen to more of Stan's adventures. We discovered he was working with a team of Australian natives about twelve kilometres east of us. They had a massive contract to fence off ten thousand acres of newly developed farmland into small, fifty-acre lots for a group of east coast developers. Stan, his family and his team had set up in a tiny caravan complete with dogs, cats and a goat for milk. They were virtually self-sufficient and with plenty of kangaroos, emus and rabbits wandering past their bush camp, they knew they would never starve. Stan talked and we listened and as his stories developed, Stan's theatrics entered a new phase, he started physically acting out the tales he was telling.
One story he told, involved the demise of his old rogue goat, who had become the 'Houdini' of the Bovid family. Stan would tether his goat near his van and in the morning would walk out to milk the goat, but nearly every morning the goat would find creative ways to break free and Stan would scour the surrounding forest searching for his wayward animal and milk for his coffee. Eventually Stan decided, running through the bush for hours, chasing his escaped goat, just to get some fresh milk was getting ridiculous and in a fit of rage, he reached for his gun and stalked off to shoot the goat. Even if we were stone deaf, we would have understood what Stan was telling us, because he dramatically put a pretend rifle to his shoulder and pointed it towards an imaginary goat.
Stan was a master storyteller, when he pulled the ‘trigger;’ he clasped his forehead and staggered to the ground. There in front of us, rolling around in a cloud of dust and dung, Stan acted out the last moments of the old goat. He staggered back to his feet, only to clasp his forehead again, fall to the ground and grovel in the dry sheep dung until he came to rest on his back with arms outstretched. We were completely flabbergasted by Stan's performance, but nowhere near as amazed as the stock agent who had called at the farmhouse about three hundred metres away. The agent's first glimpse of the scene, as he stepped out of his car, was to see Stan clasping his forehead and falling to the ground and from his view on the hill above the shearing shed, the scene looked decidedly dodgy. The stock agent never did stop for a talk that day; he discreetly pushed his business card under the back door of the farmhouse and slipped quietly away.
In another episode, I met someone from the city who killed a kangaroo with his bare hands. He wasn't even a country bloke, he hardly knew what a kangaroo was, let alone how to catch or kill one. He couldn't saddle a horse and it was no surprise that he couldn't ride one either, but he still remains a legend of the bush because he did what few men have ever done. The locals called him Earp, Wyatt Earp, as a sarcastic reference to his lack of rural knowledge. To his credit, Earp was full of bravado and to hear him talk, you'd think he had lived in rural Australia all his life. He was what the locals called a 'know it all,' the sort of person that quiet rural people loath. He probably would have found himself tarred and feathered, had he not married one of the local farmer's daughters and gained protection from the family. Earp was over six foot tall, solidly built with a receding hair ‘comb over’ and an aloof nature that made him a bit of a loner. His ability to talk waffle about any subject made him the butt of many rural jokes and once again, his loud mouth had led him into another sticky situation.
Two of the local farmer's sons had listened to Earp's bogus stories of bush craft and they decided to take him on a kangaroo hunting expedition the following morning. The two local boys were experienced horsemen and were keen to see how Earp performed in the saddle. Next morning, the sun majestically lifted itself over the ancient forest trees in its blood red ritual and the two lads and Earp saddled their steeds, turned their backs on the glowing sunrise and galloped westwards towards the distant boundary of the property. The two boys were as one with their horses, their rifles slung jauntily over their shoulders, laughing and joking as their steeds tore at the soft, wet earth beneath them. Glancing back at Earp, they noticed he seemed to be experiencing some discomfort as he clung to his horse like a terrified circus monkey.
Eventually his horse slowed and he started to ease himself clear of the saddle by using the pommel as a brace. They even noticed a grimace of pain escape Earp's stoic face and once again, there was a cloud of doubt hanging over his story of horsemanship. The boys slowed their horses to allow the obviously hurting Earp to catch up and decided to travel at walking speed to save Earp further embarrassment. This gave the group an opportunity to refine their plans of bringing home some kangaroo meat for the farm dogs.
The boys had decided that issuing Earp with a rifle was a recipe for disaster, so he was designated 'beater' and would herd the startled kangaroos towards the boys on a distant boundary fence. They would safely tether their horses, stand back to back and fire away from each other and only fire down the fence-line, never into the surrounding bush land. This hunting strategy dated back to prehistoric times and as they neared the dense bush on the farm's western boundary, Earp could feel a tingle of excitement.
As the hunters moved closer to the boundary fence, the flat green pasture abruptly retreated in the face of massive Tea-tree clumps and huge circles of razor edged 'cutting grass.' The horses strained against their bridles as they tried to peer through the tall bush, their ears upright and their nostrils flared. Soft squishy mud was now squelching under their hooves and the boys tried to manoeuvre them through the less dense patches of bush. Earp tagged along behind, he was glad the heavy bushland had slowed their progress and he was especially glad the boys knew where they were going. He managed to drift away in reverie as he listened to the jingling of the horse's bridles and the rhythmic, comforting sound of their hooves.
He was snapped back to reality as the boys said, "O.K. Earp, give us fifteen minutes head start to let us get to our position.” The boys continued, "Then, head away from the sun until you hit the western boundary fence. We'll catch up with you there and don't forget to make plenty of noise to scare the kangaroos toward us." Earp used his fifteen-minute break to dismount from his horse and massage his pants. He was so glad to get off the uncomfortable contraption that he didn't even notice his feet were getting wet in the soft black mud. "Times up." he mused to himself, glancing at his wristwatch and he dragged himself back on his steed and started to yell and shout at the bushes around him.
It wasn't long before he heard the crashing of branches and saw a kangaroo dash towards the distant fence line, its bounding feet leaving huge sprays of water as it raced through the cold, shallow swamp. The further Earp travelled, the more kangaroos he flushed from the bush and suddenly the deathly crack of a rifle split the silence and Earp knew his mission was nearly completed.
He started to relax and another volley of shots echoed through the bush. He was just coming to grips with the rifle fire, when the bushes in front of him exploded and a terrified kangaroo blasted straight towards him. Earp was rooted to the spot; the kangaroo did not change course and with one almighty bound, it attempted to leap over the startled horse and rider. Instinctively Earp threw up his arm to protect himself and the now airborne kangaroo connected with his forearm and crashed unconscious to the ground. Earp reefed on his reigns in an effort to regain control of his panicked horse and eventually the frightened animal calmed and Earp blinked in amazement at the unconscious 'roo lying on the soggy ground below him.
Earp only had to travel a short distance to catch up with the boys, who dejectedly reported that they had failed to bring down any kangaroos. "No worries boys,” said a glowing Earp, "I've got one over there for you." as he motioned towards the bushland to the east of them. The two boys looked at each other in disbelief. How could Earp kill a kangaroo if he didn't have a rifle? They wondered if his mouth hadn't run away from his brain again, but dutifully followed Earp back to the scene and there it was, a half grown kangaroo stretched out before them. Back at the farmhouse, Earp basked in the glory of his achievements. He had achieved celebrity status in the bush. He came, he saw and he conquered. Maybe life in remote, rural Australia wasn't as tough as he first thought.
I met numerous ‘larger than life’ characters in various rural activities and many ultimately achieved success through sheer hard work and practical endeavour. Unlike Earp, most of them were in tune with their environment and many deeply caring and supportive neighbours surrounded us. One of our neighbours was experiencing even more financial difficulty than we were. They had purchased a large tract of virgin bushland and set about quietly developing it. The rural recession that engulfed most of Australia was especially severe for them, as they had only just bought their property and had no chance to build stock numbers and establish a cash flow.
They had built their house from whatever they could find – old packing crates, used timber, rusty corrugated iron and timber they had cut from the bushland near them. Their water heater was a forty-four gallon fuel drum, ingeniously tipped on its side with a fire pit underneath. Crude piping from the heater led to the house and the drum filled slowly from a nearby water tank, fed from water collected off the roof. The whole family had worked incredibly hard to build their amazing eclectic cabin in a patch of secluded bushland. Our neighbours had constructed the obligatory fowl shed with fine gauge netting as a fox barrier, as well as a pigsty that housed one of the largest, meanest, boar pigs I had ever seen.
A beautiful tree lined, sandy track, interlaced with strident green native bracken fern and delicate native grasses, wound its way from the main ‘road’ to their creative masterpiece of a house. In the springtime the trees, overhanging the track would cover themselves in colourful, scented yellow blossom attracting hordes of gaudy, noisy, nectar eating birds. Driving and particularly walking along the bright sandy track to their farmhouse, accompanied by a chorus of glorious bird song and beautiful small lizards scampering to safety was a magical experience.
The view from their rickety balcony was spectacular. Our neighbours were on the side of a beautiful, tree-studded hill, overlooking a glorious expanse of shallow water, fringed with the most impressive gum trees I had ever seen. The trees were colossal and towered into the sky with muscular, curved branches and masses of slender, dark green leaves. The ancient trees had survived countless forest fires and seemed to defy gravity as they thrust their way into the blue above. The frequent summer bush fires left dark, black scars on the massive trunks of the magnificent trees, but the intense heat of the fire failed to kill them. They had been guardians of the lake for hundreds of years and provided nesting sites for the huge wedge tailed eagles that circled the sky constantly. The eagle's nest was around two metres wide and one metre high, built from a vast collection of large sticks. The majestic eagles would raise their young, teach them the art of hunting, sometimes returning to the nest, and use it as a feeding platform.
The silver grey trunks of the swamp gums were gigantic and close examination revealed a myriad of insects travelling to and from the distant canopy. The beautiful trees imposingly mirrored themselves in the clear, shallow water that lapped near their base and an amazing array of colourful waterfowl navigated their way through the slender, green and brown reeds that dotted the lake. Regal black swans, with their brilliant red beaks and long curved necks, glided effortlessly through the slender grasses with their broods of cygnets following closely behind. Small, stilted waders spent their time probing the shallow water with their long bills searching for food and noisy water hens called to each other from the safety of thick beds of reeds.
The whole scene was breathtaking and the sound of thousands of birds and frogs echoed through the gently rolling hills that hugged the edge of the huge watercourse. At night, when the full moon lit the clouds and glided mystically over the ancient, placid water, the scene was a fairyland of pure beauty. Everything seemed natural and a whole blend of 'oneness.' It was easy to see why our neighbours fell in love with their property.
When we visited our neighbour's house, they treated us like royalty. The neighbour's wife Nellie, would make everyone feel at home, it was like a cocoon of love. She would cook the most amazing meals from virtually nothing, ply us with lovingly brewed tea and cool drinks and tell us wonderful stories of her family and youth. Nellie's expertise was human relations and she was able to probe the inner sanctums of those around her. I can remember her observations and predictions, as a small child and as the years unfolded, her predictions about people I knew were unerringly correct. She was a keen observer of individuals around her and as a child, I remember her saying, “I know Ron is single, but he is always so content in himself. There must be a very special lady in his life somewhere.” At the time, I had no idea of the substance of her observations, but as usual, many years later, I discovered our neighbour Ron, did indeed have a very special friend that I was privileged to meet.
Nellie would always bring out her best china and highly polished silver cutlery for her guests and as a child, I could remember she would bake special biscuits if she knew I was coming. She would always find interesting books and toys for me to play with while the adults talked or played cards around a small folding table. A grimy, asthmatic, oil caked petrol/kerosene fuelled engine and generator attempted to provide dim 32 volt lighting, but more often than not the engine failed to start, the acrid smelling banks of batteries invariably were flat and evening lighting was courtesy of ornate lamps and candles.
Nellie's kitchen was a small galley containing the indispensable wood stove, packing crate shelves and a small kitchen table. The view from the kitchen window was bland compared to the views from the rest of the house and looked over the drum water heater into a collection of tired, old farm machinery. Despite the kitchen's small size, it was sparkling clean and like our kitchen, the wood-fired stove hosted a collection of lovingly polished pots and pans. During our visits, laughter would flow and the men talked freely as the beer left the small, curved, kerosene fuelled fridge.
Our neighbours were finally lucky enough to sell their property to a developer and move out of the district. The beautiful property lay untouched for many years. The amazing house slowly crumbled to ruin and the neighbours' belongings, left in their hasty departure dissolved before our eyes as the bushland quietly reclaimed the area.
Sadly, the developer’s bulldozer eventually ravaged the whole property; the shallow lake succumbed to drains and monotonous pasture for sheep and cattle to graze replaced the beautiful, ancient waterway. I wondered about the mentality of a person who could reduce such beauty to bland nothingness and not leave one tiny part of that magnificence intact.
There were many other properties to suffer the same fate, as wealthy eastern seaboard industrialists poured money into the area, fuelled by government tax incentives and depressed market prices. I watched as the bulldozer blade ravaged thousands and thousands of acres of beautiful pristine forest. The massacred trees silently sagged when crawler tractors pushed them into huge lines of mutilated branches and tortured roots. They perished mutely and dehydrated quietly for several months before a final act of savagery cremated them. I watched, as the few remaining native animals of the ravaged forest streaked in terror from a wall of advancing flames. Most of the native fauna never made it to safety, as the dry, decimated forest was torched quickly from every direction and farmers later shot the majority of those few animals who miraculously managed to escape.
Smoke from the devastated forest would rear into the sky in gigantic columns of choking, white and grey clouds that were visible for at least one hundred kilometres. Occasionally, despite carefully constructed 'fire breaks' and careful planning, the forest burns would leap into nearby farms and destroy precious farm pasture and fencing. The local farmers would spring into action with their collection of fire fighting equipment, ploughs and bulldozers and quickly extinguish the errant flames.
'Capital investment' replaced farm values and I was surprised the industrialists bothered with producing food in their quest for profits on their investments. They literally raped the land for dollars. Their massive crawler tractors with glistening blades, huge metal balls and brutal anchor chains, made quick work of totally subordinating the ancient forest. The sound of the heavy machinery, roaring like prehistoric reptiles in the valleys and the sickening sound of splintering timber is still far too vivid in my memory. They tore down thousands and thousands of acres of magnificent natural forest and reduced it to soot and ash. Areas of the land they ravaged were so incredibly beautiful and isolated, it is strange to think the only memory of its existence is locked in the recollections of a handful of surviving people. I could understand the desire of the investors to clear the bushland for pasture and add capital growth, but I couldn't reconcile their ability to destroy every single square millimetre of the beautiful native forest and never leave any tiny part of that beauty intact. It was like some voracity that blinded them to beauty. They would walk around their properties and see what I saw, but it meant absolutely nothing to them. They may as well have been blind.
During this period, we worked hard on putting our farm for sale. We sowed new pasture, repaired fences and gates, upgraded yards and made sure the now renovated farmhouse looked magnificent. We upgraded the area around the farmhouse with gleaming white post and rail fences, planted out fresh garden beds, repaired all the stockyards and even repainted the farm implements. My father's incredible strength was evaporating and we had all endured enough of the isolation and hardship over the years. It took several years to make a sale and just days before signing the sale contract, a huge summer bushfire swept through our immaculate farm and destroyed two thirds of the total area. Livestock were crippled or burnt to death by the blaze, the fences we had toiled over to build were totally obliterated and the whole scene was heart wrenching. Our neighbours rallied to our aid and risking their own lives, managed to save our house, vehicles and some of our sheds. We had to shoot many of the farm animals, too badly injured by the intense heat of the fire to recover.
As the beautiful farm lay smouldering, we faced the horrifying prospect of no farm sale, seriously reduced stock numbers, no pasture, depressed market prices and a total farm rebuild. My father negotiated with the recalcitrant insurance company, the prospective buyer and accountants and skilfully orchestrated a solution. The farm sale contract was signed and the new owners set about rebuilding and restocking. Green shoots shyly followed the new owners’ plough after the autumn rains, young Banksia trees revelled in the scorched earth and the ancient gum trees coated themselves in brilliant, fresh green foliage. Like the mythical Phoenix, the farm rose again from the ashes.