Miranda and the Mojo

They’ve been teasing me since September. They’d stand in that corner on occasion knowing that there’s not much I can do about it. Typical two year olds. The day I started they were there. I went to go open the gate but they ran off with their tails in the air. I attempted to look for them from the back of my bitch horse but that was unsuccessful as riding my horse was about as frustrating as when I finally remembered how big that paddock was. Then today, it all changed. I drove past them only a few days earlier. I’d lost the keys to my Landcruiser and there was not much chance I was willing to bash my precious Prado through the paddock to try and get those three strays in. Yes, today was different. I was in the Landcruiser. I opened the gate. They just looked at me. I drove around them gently and next thing I had them walking through the gate, across the road, up the driveway, straight through the yards and out the other side, down the laneway and into the paddock where I have been boxing up all the strays I’ve been finding. I didn’t expect these cattle to be easy. Their whole life they’ve been treated with high stress stock handling whether it be a quad bike up their arse out in the paddock or being sooled by some clown wielding a waddy who is only brave enough to be on the opposite side of the rails, stirring the cattle as they went. So for these particular young’uns to go as well as they did surprised me.

The whole way down the laneway I watched the storms. Rain falling on a mates place. Lightning making its mark. The sky darkening as more clouds moved in.

It was a month or so back that I found some other cattle. They too, despite their prior treatment, behaved quite well with a change of machine moving them to a new location. Across the back of the paddock, up the laneway, around the corner and into their new paddock. A cow and two sappy weaners. In with all the others. Once I’d got the bore going I sent the water down to the trough in their new paddock concerned that the dam might not hold out for long enough before the rain comes. As I sat in the headlights watching the trough fill, storms were on show all around me. Lightning took up the sky, it drizzled constantly, the sun did its best to set in a spectacular orange glow despite being restricted by the dark clouds.

Despite everything going on around me in my crazy, busy life, I was quite relaxed and contented with just waiting for the trough to fill. I was almost peaceful. I was tired from fencing all morning and cleaning four other troughs on top of the one I was filling but I didn’t care. I could have sat there all night. It was a lovely time to just sit and think. I reminded myself of my second favourite painting, “Miranda and the Tempest”. It’s of a woman sitting on a rock amid a raging storm. She’s just sitting there, her auburn hair blowing all around, just watching a ship on the ocean get smashed to pieces by the wild weather. I was Miranda, except without all that added maritime drama. I also realised that working a job that does not involve cattle had caused me to lose my mojo a little. I had my own cattle and some occasional weekend cattle work that I reluctantly took but it wasn’t filling the gap. I had been missing it without even realising it.

But now, Christmas is coming. There’s a list a mile long of things I must do, places I must check and kilometres I must travel. I’ve got six weeks of chaos ahead of me. I’m really not sure if I’m going to have time to notice that my mojo is probably not far off cracking it all together and packing its bags and leaving completely. No doubt by early February I will be making desperate pleas in my sleep “Come back Mojo! I promise I’ve changed!” Yet it shall remain unconvinced as I weep under an immature mango tree.

John William Waterhouse' "Miranda and the Tempset"

Kites

The kites I like aren't brightly coloured. They're more brown, cream and grey hues. They're not attached to a piece of string. They're free to go where they please. But they catch and glide on the updrafts just the same. They duck, dive and swoop in the air. The enjoy catching bugs and grasshoppers disturbed by the movements of the tractor. When a fire rages they collect the insects trying to escape the inferno. They pick up burning sticks and drop them on unburnt country to excite the insects some more. They prey on small animals like mice and frogs. I hate it when people call them "shit hawks". They have a name. A proper one of dignity. Whistling Kite.
I had one as a pet once. It had a broken wing. A coworker found it and together we helped it heal. We proudly carried it around perched on our arms. At one point we had to shift it to a cage outside but someone, and we've never been sure who but we had our theories, was traumatising it by kicking the cage everytime they went past. It went off it's food and water and our brave, little Nikita had to be put down. As the euthanasia kicked in I watched the light fade from his eyes while his heartbeat slowed then stopped with tears streaking down my cheeks. I rested him in a tuft of grass under a shady tree and said my goodbyes.
But his species still feast on carrion on the roadsides. Still daringly swoop in front of the tractor grasping arthropods as they go. They're the kites I like.

Happy Anniversary

This year marks 10 years for me in the Northern Territory. I've seen some good times. I've seen some bad. I've been knocked out by horses and cattle. I've broken my back. I think at one point I may have even broken my leg. I've been bogged in mud. I've been in a chopper doing a bit of cattle work. I've been from the edge of the Kimberleys to the edge of the Barkly Tablelands and everywhere in between. I end some days covered in blood. I end some days covered in dirt or mud. I end some days covered in oil and grease. I've swum in croc infested waterways. I've cut up countless cows and bullocks for beef. I've processed over 70,000 breeder cows across 12 different stations. I've raised approximately 80 poddy calves. I've chained srcub with a D9. I've kept a 700km square property ticking over. I've fought dozens of fires. And I learnt early on that there is a million different ways to skin a cat and that no one skins a cat the same way. There's not one part of me that ever regrets coming up here and hardly coming home. I've done it all and had a ball.
I've met some fantastic people along the way. I've met some I'd rather forget. But there are two people that stand out above the rest. I met them in Rio's, now known as Club 23 (at least I haven't been around long enough to have known it as Wings) and they have been there for through thick and thin ever since. When I saw them I thought "These are my type of people". I bet when they saw me they thought "What's this drunken, college tart up to?" But never-the-less, they tolerated my annoying presence.
Two years passed and we had lost touch. Till one (yet another) night on the turps at Daly Waters. I was greeted immediately by warm hugs and big smiles from Shorty and Stace.
Ever since they have been there in my life. Shorty providing me with a roof over my head and food in my belly whenever I have needed it and she's never been afraid of giving me a kick up the arse when I needed it either. And Stace is the best mate by my side here in the NT. Alcohol fuelled nights and lunches wherein I miss my plane and not to mention the countless rodeos.
So I raise my glass of my now non-alcoholic beverage to two special people: To Shorty and Stace. The Cowgirls Mama and the Rodeo Queen. Love yas!

Once a Jolly Swagwoman

My earlier blogs being longer and less refined, some parts of which may not be remembered by readers means I will quickly relate an excerpt from "Tigger the Reluctant Townie - The Last Supper (and the First Siren)".
I was in Darwin about a year ago visiting my best friend since infancy as it was to be her last weekend in the NT for some time. She said she had a bed available for me to sleep in at her apartment but I didn't want her to go to any trouble and told her I'll just roll my swag on the floor somewhere. Upon unclipping the swag straps it was discovered that my bed roll had been harbouring a plague of crickets which were now jumping about my friends 3rd floor apartment. The swag was banished to the balcony for the night and I belatedly accepted the offer of the spare bed... after squishing all the crickets.
The New Year rolls around and here we are in 2013.
Before the Christmas break I moved all my stuff in to my future residence and went on my merry way back to my mothers. Upon returning I found my swag, which I ever so intelligently left outside for the duration of four weeks, to be a little wet. I shrugged my shoulders, willed myself to get over it, the swag has seen worse days and besides, I have a proper bed to sleep in now.
I had spent the entirety of the previous year since leaving Providence Station in May living out of my swag. It was my bed every night with only a few random exceptions. And because almost every night was spent sleeping in it, it only got cleaned on occassion (gross I know). The first time it got cleaned was out of necessity for hygiene, the second was thanks to an infestation of fleas caused by Lacey running around underneath the floorboards of my accommodation. Little troublemaker she is!
But with a big weekend approaching it has dawned on me "I need to clean my swag" so I dragged its flooded weight under the lean-to in the hopes this will help it drain. Then came the scary bit... I unclipped it. And along with the usual crickets that seem to attracted to my bed there was mould. And lots of it. White mould, green mould, black mould. All growing from their little spores, drinking from the damp patches. I can't believe I let myself be so careless!
My workmate just laughed at the sight as I put blanket after blanket in the washing machine, carrying each like it was a petri dish of active gangrene bacteria. I guerneyed the canvas and hung it to dry over the rails of the cattle yards. The mattress got a few squirts of floor cleaner, a dumping of rain and a good hose down and left to dry in the shed on a stack of pallets.
Once all was relatively clean again I rolled it all up and threw it in the back of the ute and headed on up to Darwin. As the evening wore on and I was offered a sleep on the futon for the night I gladly accepted. After all, despite my efforts, my swag still smells of mould!

The Habits of Nocturnal Wildlife

Everyone has their little falling-asleep nuances. But none I have found more strange than the one that I am currently experiencing. Some people turn on night-lights (but they wouldn't willingly call it that). Some drink a warm beverage. Some people, like me, have a teeny-tiny background noise. I play a movie on my laptop but have the volume so low that it can only just be heard.
Helping a friend move into the home of a bachelor that works away saw me temporarily staying at the same residence as was offered by the man himself. It was quiet and peaceful and we went to sleep early so we may feel refreshed for work the next day. Then the bachelor went on his fortnightly break...
He cracked open cans early in the morning and got around all hours of the day or night in his vehicle or on his quad bike. He had sessions with the neighbour and fixed flat tyres at 7am. But at night, when he went to bed, he did what I thought was rude and strange. He turned the stereo up. And I don't just mean up a dash, I mean up alot. Whatever was on the radio be it ABC or Hot100, it was blaring out of the speakers at goodness knows what decibel! And here were my friend and I, lying in our beds, wondering 'what the hell, could this bloke be serious?'
I slept one night with the pillow wrapped around my head, window and door closed and I could still hear that racket. The following night I just bailed. I'd fallen asleep but around an hour later the bachelor cranked up the radio and hit the hay. I was wild. I felt like tearing out the radio from the shelf and throwing it in front of my car and running over it a few times. Instead I grabbed my swag and threw it in the tray of my toyota and drove out the gates to camp further down the road, away from the din, so I could get some sleep while being attacked by mozzies.
I returned the next morning to find I should have been a little more patient. At some point during the night the power had run out (the solar panels charge batteries which provide electricity for the house. If it's too overcast during the day or too much power is drawn then the batteries run out of power therefore so does the house). I should have waited out for the power outage. I would have got alot more sleep. Instead I camped up down the road to the sound of frogs and crickets and cattle in the scrub. When I woke in the morning everything was soaked in condensation. When I returned to the house, he didn't even know I had left until I arrived back.
But seriously, who does that kind of stuff? Who turns the radio up before going to bed rather than down or off like most normal people would? I know who. They don't have to work (they're on break or have no job). They drink when most people are at work. They come in at all hours and wake everyone up with their noisemaking and their cooking of strange concoctions they regard as dinner. They watch their movies loud or play their music loud and keep everyone else awake. Yeah, I know who. I've lived with a few and I am definitely more than over it!

Silly Skinny Funny Finny

Born to the floodplains south of Darwin, she took her name from a river that flowed nearby, the Finniss. Black and tan and full of bounce, but no brains, she found a home at weaning on a Sturt Plateau station with some friends. They did their best to get her to work cattle but the pup thought it was her job to ride and sleep on the rack of the quad bike. Eventually they gave up.
At odds at what to do with their non-productive dog I was keen to take her on. I didn't care that she wouldn't work, she's a happy, boisterous dog that would make good company for Lacey. So Finny became mine.
I didn't give up on her cattle-wise. When walking away some cattle on one place I have been working on, I asked if I could bring her along. She found her place on the back of the quad bike and once again fell asleep. I tried to convince her to get off the bike and walk with me behind the cattle but she just looked at me with that absent look of hers and went back to sleep. Another half a kilometre up the laneway I pushed her off the bike and sped off in the hopes that she would just stay on the ground and tail the cattle. Nope, she jumped straight back on. I tried over and over again. At one point I stuck my foot out just as she was about to jump back on and she rolled on the ground, got up and jumped up on the rack. I laughed and just gave up. There was nothing else I could do. She was just plain not interested.
The next place I worked on there wasn't a great lot of opportunity to take her anywhere. So she just spent her days playing with her new toys that I bought her, chewing on bones, chasing wallabies for hours on end and sleeping.
Advice from various friends and my Poppa were all consistent: "Don't give up on her, not until she's at least two". So, I haven't. I was determined that one day she would work, that one day she would show some interest. That day has finally come.
Three months after leaving the station she came from we were back for more work. The offer to bring Finny along mustering one day I saw as an opportunity to give her another chance.
With my friend and her working dogs out in the middle of the scrub somewhere on foot and my other friend also out in the scrub somewhere on the quad bike, I got out on foot along the fenceline and let Finny out of the cage. I jogged up behind stragglers and motioned for Finny to join me. I'd call Finny over, hold her by the collar, start jogging and she'd jog with me then I'd let her collar go and she'd jog along faster behind the cattle. At one point she chased a cheeky heifer then realised what she was making it do. I was ecstatic. She'd figured out that what she was doing made the cattle move off her. I made such a fuss over her for her brilliant effort. The light had switched on in her head. Finally.
We continued on the tail together, me occasionally stopping to go back and bring the toyota up. When my friend on foot caught up with us I let Finny stay with her. She had an old veteran dog called Stretch and Finny stuck by him like glue, going where he was going and doing what he was doing. Although when Finny got bored she started to lick his balls... which of course he quite enjoyed.
When the cattle took off into the tea-tree my friend sent her dogs off to bend them back and Finny headed out there too. A report came back from the tea-tree later that afternoon: My friend on the quad reckoned Finny was quite interested in what was going on and although hesitant, gave it a go. My friend on foot was more worried at that point that Finny was more interested on getting on that bloody quad bike than the cattle so we were both surprised to hear that she wasn't.
Another observation that was made that Finny worked her cattle wide when bending them back around. A trait her mother has that she has obviously passed on. I couldn't see what was going on out there for the density of the trees.
So after three months of seeing dear Finny cower behind her kennel when there are cattle grazing beside her or humbugging around the quad bike because the amount of cattle at a water trough is too overwhelming for her, I have hope.

Finny ready for her big day of work.

My Life In Boxes

From the age of 18 I have not stopped moving around. Nearly every year since leaving high school I have been living and working in a different place. I get a job, unpack my belongings and at the end of the mustering season or a year or so later, I'm packing and moving on again.

This year, though, has taken it all to a new level. The beginning of the year saw me leaving my job and life in town to only a few months later leaving the station me and my former partner in crime were on and since then I haven't stopped moving being anywhere from three days to two months on a property before heading to the next place living off of whatever I need and whatever can fit in my Landcruiser.

Most of my belongings are in a rented storage shed. Everytime I lift the roller door into it, there it is: Reality in a box. His stuff on the right wall, my stuff on the left.

There's that old saying about keeping the home-fires burning. At Dad's this rings very true. My bedroom has barely changed since I was 10 years old. In fact, I've actually moved more stuff in much to Dad's annoyance.

"You're supposed to be moving out, not moving more stuff in," he reckons. Yeah, not going to happen till I have my own house on KI to move it all into.

At Mother's it is a different story. My boxes and stuff is moved around to new locations across the motel according to convenience and necessity. Everytime I go back I am sleeping in a different bed, in a different building.

But I don't really want to keep this nomadic life. I would love to settle down. I would love to hang my dresses in a wardrobe, put my clothes in drawers, put all my books on a shelf and display my stuffed toys beside my bed. I'd like to establish a garden that doesn't get eaten by poddy calves, have a carport to park my toyota under, have a yard so my dog doesn't have to be tied up all day. But all that I hope for seems so faraway. So for the time being, my life is in boxes.