Salt pans, a really bizarre natural formation to see from the air and strange when you're walking across them.Â
In 2009 on the fringes of the Diamantina, I rode my horse for two days across the salt pans after mustering the bullocks from the furthest paddock of the property.Â
Bollocks. An English term for 'as if' or 'not true' and an Australian term for a male bovine that's had its testicals removed or in the words of a bushy, 'had its nuts cut out,' to encourage weight gain. These bullocks in particular looked like they were on steroids, and acted like a mob of unruly teenage boys.Â
They hadn't seen anyone in a long time while they were 'growing out,' which means putting on weight and they weren't happy to have been found by Skip and rounded up by all of us.Â
In fact it was the wildest mustering experience I've ever been on and I think we felt like real, old time ringers that day. We mustered them in, and put pressure on their shoulder to turn their heads inwards as they walked, so the lead cattle eventually start following the tail cattle which creates a ring like formation. Cattle like to follow the leader, they are no wiser that they are walking in a circle, not a line. It works to quieten them down as they simply follow the beast in front so they don't leave the mob.
This is where the term 'ringer' originates. It comes from the days before motorbikes and choppers, when stockmen had to coach muster cattle in from the furthest corners and fence lines of the paddock on horseback.Â
These bullocks were completely rogue. They had absolutely no manners. At first they tried their luck at simply running off, at full speed. It felt like cattle were flying everywhere, and we didn't know where to start, my horse included. If you have a 'cowy' horse, meaning they naturally anticipate the movement of the cattle, generally you can just hold on and the horse will do its job, but this day even the horses were a bit bewildered.
We managed to collect and calm a small mob together, which was in part, thanks to Skip singing to them. I hadn't heard anyone sing to cattle before but he assured us, it's what the old fullas use to do to calm the bullocks down. He was singing 'heyyyyy, bully bully bully, heyyyy bullocks' in a low tone and I was surprised to see many of them looking at him with their ears pricked as if to say, yes boss.
Just as I felt like we were getting a small mob together, the coach mob, being the first few we have control of and are quietening down so others eventually join quietly too, we walked out through a thick tree line, which seemed to act like a big gate for these rascal bulls. One animal would take off on the open, flat country in front of us at what felt like one hundred kilometres per hour. They had our horses beat, and we only had one motorbike that day.Â
Once they realised a few of their mates were getting away, the rest thought they might have a crack. I was on a smaller black mare and although she had plenty of guts about her, most of the bullocks were head high or bigger, standing at what we later weighed in between five hundred to eight hundred kilograms. They were big boys.Â
The mare and I attempted to chase one bullock back to the mob, but he decided that today he was prepared to protest his capture for his freedom. In fact he decided to get nasty. As we galloped across the flat, he slammed the breaks on and although we followed suit, he had the upper hand and pivoted quickly. Before we could get back on the move, he gave an unfriendly snort and started running straight at me and the mare. He rammed his big head into my leg in the stirrup and gave us an almighty shove.Â
It was pretty rough and we were a little rattled. The force of his hard head sent pain shooting down my leg.
To make matters worse, Sam and I returned from chasing these stray bullocks (unsuccessfully) and got a spray off Skip for doing so.Â
Everyone's adrenaline was pumping, and if you've ever been on a big muster you'd know that was the general theme. The stakes are high, it's essential to get the job done as efficiently as possibly as time was not only money, but stress on the cattle were kilograms of beef being lost. The goal is always quiet cattle. Quiet cattle don't loose as much weight being transported. It means everyone is highly strung and eager to get the job done without any major hold ups. A problem free muster however, is a rare one!
Skip gave us very loud, very firm instructions not to chase one rogue bullock and instead stay with the mob, as the strays would make their way back to the mob eventually. You have to learn to nod and keep going, no back chat. And don't take it personal when you're yelled at. No point holding a grudge when mustering because it will almost certainly happen again, probably the next day!
It was definitely a light bulb moment for both Sam and I, and I for one was happy to stay with the quieter mob that were moseying along as oppose to being beat up in the saddle. It was also important not to tire our horses too early in the piece as we only had two horses each, to get us fifty kilometres home over two days. It might not sound like far, but our horses were not only chasing cattle and carrying our weight, but doing so in hot conditions. Cattle can walk about twenty kilometres a day so we would be pushing our horses to get fifty kilometres done in two days and taking care of the horses is priority. Â
We had sent the horse truck further along the track (which had our supplies and swags for later that night) where we had hoped to stop for smoko. This was good in theory, thinking that we'd have a handle on the bullocks by mid morning. They were a handful, so we took turns trotting over to the truck for a quick drink and bite of something while the rest of us kept the coach mob together. It's important to keep the coach mob tight and not spread out to maintain control and also make sure any slow pokes keep up to the mob.Â
I remember jumping back on my horse after sculling a cup of cordial. Sweating as usual and with enough dust on my face to be mistaken for a coal miner, I looked around thinking I couldn't see Skip on his horse anywhere. He had traded it in for the Toyota after a cheeky bull got the better of him and his temper. He was driving like mad toward a creek bed chasing this badly behaved bullock, on the horn and yelling obscenities trying to move him back to the mob. He ran him around enough to knock him up and he conceded defeat and joined his mates. I could have sworn Skip had just told us to stay with the mob, but there wasn’t a chance in hell I was about to remind him. As most station managers say, 'just do as I say, don't do as I do.'
After smoko, it felt like we finally had a handle on the mob and started the long walk home.Â
When the dust settles, and the cattle quieten down, the day starts to drag out. The excitement and nerves of chasing the mob fades and the pain in your glutes fires up. The sun moves towards the middle of the sky and temperatures soar. You become more aware of your ailments; aching knees and hips. If you're lucky to be in the lead, or on the tail positions around the mob, you try to relieve the pain by walking along with your legs hanging out of the stirrups while keeping an eye on the cattle in case one decides to move out wide. While your knees feel relief, your body weight shifts to your bum in the saddle and if you ever wanted a bit more fat on your arse cheeks this is about the only time.Â
If your unlucky to be given the wing positions for the day, you can guarantee the sheer exhaustion come bed time. Those on the wing have to trot or canter their horses up and down the line of cattle for most of the day, to keep them in the mob. The person at the tail also has to sweep back and forth but not near as much. This is another reason a tight mob is important, so that the people on the wing don’t have to cover as much ground.Â
We came to a long stretch of salt pans. As we walked along, it was almost surreal as though we were on another planet. The sun glares off the white of the salt pan and it feels like your horse might get swallowed up, like quick sand. But instead, each time a hoof hits the ground a little puff of white smoke rises up and I suppose until the next rain or dust storm, that print could be there for a long time. It's how I imagine foot prints are left on the moon.Â
We walked across the salt pans for a couple hours before we hit the dirt and what little vegetation survives in the sand hills of the south west corner of Queensland.Â
We are walking cattle in the middle of nowhere, or so it seems, and up ahead appears an old bronco yard. It's a large, round arena and all the posts that make up the arena are timber. I was instantly transported back in time, as though I was the star of a John Wayne movie or the lyrics of a Slim Dusty song. Â
As we passed the big, but battered bronco yard, it had an eerie feel that I will always remember. If walls, or posts, could talk I’m sure they could tell a good yarn.
A bronco yard is where young cattle were branded before our current day yards, races, head bails or calf cradles were used. Â
The middle of the yard has timber posts set up so that calves could be roped and tied to the post while the ringers would lay them down to brand, dehorn and castrate them.Â
This would have been much harder going then pushing a calf up a race like we do these days and the old photos attest to the blood, sweat and tears that would cover the ringers and the cattle. Probably not too many tears because they were tough buggers, but you get the gist.Â
It would have been a wild old show bronco branding in those days and the yard, in such an isolated spot, felt like it could tell many a tale and I would have loved to hear some.Â
We made our way to camp that night which was on top of the rolling, red sandhills.Â
There was a 'humpy', or tin shed that had been set up for these musters. It had some running water from a tank and an area to roll the swags out under cover. It was basic but you only needed a wash, a feed and a bed. I think we even had stretchers to roll our swags on which was pretty flash.Â
With the bullocks locked up in the yards, and as our bodies started to wane, we ate dinner and collapsed into bed, a type of physical exhaustion I will never forget. When you’re that tired, the first light of another day seems only an hour away.
