The View From Connor's Hill (28 page)

I went back to the shed and got my mean machine — the Super Bantam. After a single, mighty pump kick, the Bantam roared into action. I did my Steve McQueen 360-degree spin, and headed down the paddock with Rover on the fuel tank as an observer. The cow stared at me in total horror and alarm while her calf took off. He had a look of fear in his eyes. I sizzled and weaved daringly between large lumps of dung. The calf's tail was in the air as he raced off to the far corner while his mother Sarah, the milker, bellowed in fright. Naturally, the calf was no match for the Bantam. Screwing the throttle tightly, I got beside him in no time. Rover let out a short, sharp bark and leapt off. Then I decided to do a 360 in front of the calf. Well, the skid didn't go quite to plan, and things got a bit hairy. The bike slid sideways, and I buried my head straight into the calf's flank — a sort of full-on head butt. The calf went down, and lay on the ground bellowing. I ended up beside it making loud groaning noises. The milker, her tongue out and frothing at the mouth, roared in my ear. The bike did several spins on its side while blowing blue smoke into the air and tearing the paint off the fuel tank. Bloody Rover, who always seemed to go unscathed through many a hair-raising prank with me, sounded off with the bark he had that I was sure was a laugh.

The calf was the first one up, and made a frenzied dash up the paddock. I got up gingerly, undamaged, but the bike was badly wounded: it had a broken throttle, a bent mirror, a twisted foot-brake, and dirt jammed in the engine. It was dark by the time I got everything finished, and the calf was still panting with fear. Thankfully, the boss came home late and had no idea of what a crazy day I'd had. I tried as hard as I could not to limp inside the house at teatime. They couldn't see the huge bruise on my left thigh, and I hoped they wouldn't comment on my shortened neck. However, the next morning the boss was suspicious, as the cow gave no milk.

Over the next year I became a skilled rider, but that's only my opinion. Winter was approaching, and the fun of riding a motorbike was fast fading. Heavy frosts, frozen puddles, and slicing, cold winds were the norm. Even the short ride from home to work made my hands ache, my ears ring, and my nose burn. Wearing gloves made little difference; mind you, they were only knitted ones, and didn't stop the biting wind. To combat the cold, I worked on two alternative approaches:

1.   I could ride slowly, but I would end up frozen to the bone. If I putted along at a sedate pace it meant that, once I arrived at work, it would take half an hour of hard physical work to thaw out.

Or

2.  I could go as close to flat out as possible, only slowing down for known ice spots or large puddles. This was more to my liking, but I had to put Rover in a sack. It was so bloody cold that, while riding, I would have just enough movement in my hands to apply the brake. As a result, I would arrive at work in no time, but my poor hands would be blue, and aching as if they had a severe burn. I would dismount like an old man of eighty. Then, holding my hands in front of me like a zombie sleepwalking, I would head for the nearest garden tap. Awkwardly, I would turn it on with my elbows and rinse my hands under the cold water; slowly, gradually, I could stretch and squeeze them into some form of movement. The thawing-out process would take fifteen minutes.

You might ask why I didn't go into the warm kitchen in the homestead. To be perfectly honest, I was so damn cold I couldn't have opened the kitchen door or even talked. Further, I knew the boss's wife would have scolded me for being such a bloody idiot.

When both modes of getting to work were analysed, method two was the winner — it was more fun. But I reckoned Rover preferred number one.

AS I'VE MENTIONED
several times, growing up in a remote area carried with it certain rituals and obligations. If you were male and could walk without the aid of a white cane, you played footy. If you owned sandshoes, you played cricket. Being able to write meant a stint on one or more committees that ran sporting clubs, and similar organisations. Without such institutionalised conventions, sporting clubs, fire brigades, and the like would not have survived. Becoming involved helped maintain a close-knit community. It was important in the country where I lived, but it appeared to be missing in cities from my experience in later years.

As a result of my obligations to various committees and working bees, the Bantam started to take us — yes, Rover was normally a constant companion — on longer trips. On Friday evenings after work, I would shower and change into my shorts and Scout uniform, and ride to the Scout Hall. Rover would sleep under the bike, or come inside if it was raining. The small, timber Scout Hall was just up the road from the Ensay pub. For most of the young boys in the district, Scouts was the only activity away from school. They came from everywhere, and their dads would deliver them to the hall and then retire to the pub. I was scoutmaster of the Ensay Troop, along with Big Pete Duggan, a local wool-presser-come-handyman-and-fuel-deliveryman. You have never seen a more unlikely pair. I was skinny, young, and a couple of years older than the Scouts. Big Pete was big, had a squeaky voice, and would have preferred this time on Friday spent in the pub. But, like me, he had a duty to perform. Mind you, the cunning blighter would tell his wife that we finished Scouts at 9.30 p.m. when in fact it was 8.30 p.m. This gave Big Pete an extra hour's drinking time, as we would adjourn with haste to the pub after honouring the Queen and lowering the flag.

On arrival at Cossie's bar, most of the dads would be suitably primed, and they usually inquired of their sons, ‘Wotdidya learn tonight?' The sons would reply, ‘Aw, heaps, like knots'n stuff, you know.' Funny, every Friday night there were the same questions — and the same answers.

Years later, I was well informed that the Scouts had also learnt how to swear, roll smokes, and swap gossip about girls — and I thought they would have at least learnt some bushcraft. Maybe I failed there. They were typical country larrikins, these young boys. Their main source of entertainment during Scouts was having fun with my damn motorbike. They hid it in a variety of places — behind trees, over the bank — and I believe Rover was party to these shenanigans. Rarely did the little beggars fool me. Most nights it took me only ten minutes or so to locate the bike. Any longer, and Rover would take over and stroll to the Bantam.

However, one night I had to take my hat off to them. Normally, the hideouts for the Bantam were behind the Scout Hall or down near the creek, just over the bank. This particular night, I couldn't find the damn thing. I'd just about given up when, for some reason, I was enticed to look upwards. Maybe it was Rover, turning in a circle, looking up and barking. Perhaps it was the creaking, groaning noise that the bike was making as it swung a good fifteen feet off the ground in the huge gum tree. We all had a laugh and lowered the rope. Two of the lads boasted that the feat had been achieved because of the new knot I'd taught them — the sheepshank. The little blighters.

The first time I rode the Bantam out to Dorrington's farm on Sheepstation Creek was a hoot. With its broken exhaust, the bike sounded like a low-flying jet as I sped through the bush. We arrived at the Five Acres in no time. I'd decided on the Bantam instead of Sandy Mac because, that day, I was on a mission to find our bunch of missing poddies, which hadn't been seen for several years. I think the last time I'd spotted Mary-Anne and her woolly mates was when I'd first ventured up to Mad Lucy's rock, and Skipper the dog had chased them away. The weekend before, I'd found some sheep droppings below the cabin, down near the creek.

On arrival at the Five Acres, I put the bike on its stand in the shade. Over-heating was always a problem on the Bantam — in rough terrain, if I stayed in a low gear for too long, the engine would get so hot that it almost burnt my legs. When I planned this venture, I reckoned I could ride it for roughly 25 minutes in the bush before I'd have to let it cool down, so I wasn't surprised that it was still quite hot from the trip out. Rover and I headed down to the cool of the willows for a drink.

The sheep dung, now a lot dryer, was still there. I showed the droppings to Rover. Now, I admit I had the highest regard for this dog; however, this was a big ask. He sniffed the droppings briefly, looked around for a bit, then had a swim in the small pool just below the Five Acre gate. I decided to cast him out there, somewhere.

‘Rover! Here, boy. Go way, away, away out.' I waved my arm in a big circle. He jumped, spun around, looked at me quizzically, and stood still. He didn't know where to go. Neither did I. I repeated the command. This time, he ran off. I sat in the shade and waited. Apart from trying to get Rover to find the poddies, my other plan was to ride around in the bush — that's if he came back without them. I waited.

The bike took my interest. Looking at it, I wondered if I could put a big cog on the back wheel. She could really climb then. But maybe … yeah, not enough air around and through the motor … she'd get really hot. I got up, and went for a walk.

Still no Rover and no poddies. I waited.

In fact, even before I'd headed out on this venture, Gator Lambourne had told me that you couldn't muster poddies. He reckoned they don't act like normal sheep; they just run off in all directions. They were only good for eating — stupid, bloody things. Perhaps the old bloke was right. Over half an hour had passed …

Then there was a bark in the distance. Walking back up the bank, I looked … nothing. Another low bark … and there he was, that beautiful, remarkable dog. He walked quietly towards me. I whistled, but he ignored it. As I went to whistle again, there, about 20 yards behind Rover, who was wandering slowly in my direction, were the poddies. Mary-Anne approached me warily. My God, what a sight. I didn't recognise her. She looked like a huge ball of matted wool with two eyes half-hidden under a large flap. After a pat, she walked down to the creek and had a drink, with the other four following her. Both Rover and I stared at these sheep for ages. They were huge. Apart from the tips of their noses and the bottoms of their feet, enormous bundles of fleece smothered their bodies. If I recall, Mary-Anne had never been shorn. She must have been six years old now. I had to take them home, to Doctors Flat. What was I to do now? I hadn't thought about that.

So, as had happened all that time ago, when I'd first brought Mary-Anne and her mates out to the Five Acres by walking in front and them following me, I walked back home, very slowly. It was like a circus: Rover at my heels, Mary-Anne and co. right behind him. We went back and got the Bantam later on.

It was a lot of trouble to shear them. Their wool was stained and dirty, and their skin was very soft and pink. Try as I did, they still ended up with quite a few cuts. I was worried they'd get sunburnt; but, no, they simply rested, and enjoyed the notoriety and affection as they lay quietly under the willows at Doctors Flat.

BY NOW
, I'd been riding the bike for over two years. I'd come off more times than I could remember but, thankfully, it was always on the farm. I admit that I drove flat out on the road, but the mainly sealed surface ensured much better traction, and I never looked like having a spill … until one particular night.

It was summer. After finishing Scouts and having some fun at Cossie's, I mounted the Bantam ready for the 20-minute trip home. The summers in the mountainous high country of far-eastern Victoria have long days, and it can be twilight until 10.00 p.m. Riding the bike at this time of the year was ecstasy. I often made loud whooping noises at the joy, exhilaration, and freedom that the motorbike seemed to offer. This night, I stopped at my work on the way home and picked up a happy Rover. He'd had a hard day, and wanted a good rest. Like me, my dog appeared to love the warm weather, the thrill of the bike, and my antics as well.

We were about halfway down Connor's Hill, and the bike was flat out when …
whack!
Someone had shot me with what felt like a twelve-gauge shotgun, front on. There were pellets in my forehead, up my nostrils, in my mouth, and in my neck and ears. My hair was matted with hard lumps of something, and a quick wipe of my face produced a handful of blood. Hell! I veered off the road and crunched to a stop in the dirt gutter. Rover leapt off in disgust, but he seemed to have kept out of the firing line. Badly wounded, I sat and inspected the extent of the damage.

First, though, a small point of clarification: it wasn't a shotgun; it was a swarm of Christmas beetles. These little golden bastards, each about the size of a Mintie, have an outer shell, or body, that is brilliantly coloured and hard — like a lump of steel. They'd been hovering just above the road in a swarm. I'd blasted into them and, in turn, they'd ripped into my body. The result? It looked like a deranged mountain cat had attacked me. On second thoughts, it was worse than that. Half the bloody beetles, still hooked in my body, were wriggling to get out. Covered in minute spurs, their little tough legs had penetrated my face, clothes, and so on. They weren't having much luck escaping. Most were well and truly implanted into my skin. Jesus — that was all I could say, or tried to say, as it dawned on me that I had about a dozen of the little beggars in my mouth. I spat and coughed most of them away, and hooked the rest out with a finger. Rover didn't have a single one on him, but he wasn't impressed with my forced landing.

Half an hour later, with most of the beetles plucked from my body, and with my sanity back, I mounted the Bantam. A very wary sheepdog clambered back onto the fuel tank. We rode at a sedate, sensible speed the remainder of the way home. I wandered into the lounge room still pitted and blood-splattered. Unbeknown to me, I still had some beetles in my hair and clinging to my back. My damn family thought I looked hilarious — it was a bad night all round, really.