The past

The past is important as it shapes the person we are today. Names and other details may be changed only to protect the guilty, for the innocent have no need for such protection.

Varna

In 1985 Michelle and I bought Varna, a 50,000-acre block of hard red mulga country in western Queensland. This was sheep country, a starvation block in all but the best years, but it was ours, and we were young, naive and full of enthusiasm. This was where Michelle and I were to start our family and battle the relentless drought and the just as relentless bank manager.

Our home for four years

 I still remember the house as I first saw it standing alone in the mulga. It had once been a grand old house but the endless passing of time had left their mark. The house been abandoned to the elements more than thirty years ago and kangaroos had taken up residence. White ants were slowly, steadly devouring the structure; both ends of the house were drooped towards the ground.

The previous occupants had left sometime in the nineteen fifties and appeared to have just walked out, never to return. Cups, plates, saucepans and cutlery still filled the kitchen cupboards. Oil lamps, the oil long since evaporated still stood ready to illuminate the night. The pantry was a treasure trove of long forgotten items. Egg glass, carbide, preserving salts, ornate bottles of Rosella chutney, caster oil, strychnine and patent livestock medicines shared space with piles of 1940s newspapers. The shed still held a Ford Mainline ute, resting on perished whitewall tires, keys in the ignition, waiting for the driver that never returned.

A womans work is never done.

There was no sign of a bathroom in the old house. Our first bathroom was a sheet of corrugated iron on the ground under a mulga tree. We would heat a bucket of water up on the stove and hoist it into the tree. That worked very well until the first chills of winter hit. Nothing like ice on the ground and a southerly wind to make an inside bathroom became a priority.

Beside the house stood the engine room. This was home to a 1930s vintage Southern Cross YB diesel driving a 32volt generator. Four and a half feet high, three quarters of a ton of black greasy raw brute power, all of 4 horsepower. It hadn’t run for thirty years but it still had dregs of fuel and when I filled the hopper with water and swung on the crank handle, it fired back into life- we had power. For the next four years the steady reliable beat of that remarkable old engine became the heartbeat of Varna.

In 1985 wool prices were low, interest rates had started their remorseless climb towards 20% and cattle were the only bright spot on the rural landscape. The only problem was, we didn’t have any, and so we decided to remedy this deficiency using the time-honored traditions of the bush. We would just help ourselves.

Varna joined the Mariala reserve, crown land that has since been turned into a National Park. There were some small mobs of cleanskin cattle living on the creek flats; the need was imperative, the opportunity was clear, the temptation was great.

Technically I suppose they belonged to the crown, but the Queen had never show any great interest in her cattle and besides our need was greater. We set of in the Suzuki Four wheel drive, myself, Michelle, a couple of dogs and a rifle, just in case. This was never going to be easy, but given the right conditions, a bit of luck and some hard driving, we were in with a chance. 

A steam engine we found in Mariala while looking for cattle.

As we followed one of the creek flats we came upon a small mob of cattle, about a dozen head of cows, a few calves, couple of mickys and a scrub bull; all cleanskins. All out in the open, we just had to keep them out of the scrub, our luck was in! The roan bull was a magnificent specimen of a scrub bull- all shoulders and neck with thick stubby horns about a foot long. In stud livestock terms, all horns and balls, but as a scrub bull, perfectly adapted to his environment.

We quietly eased the Suzuki around the cattle to point their heads towards home. At first the cattle took little notice however as we edged in closer the cows and calves started to feed out in the right direction, but that old bull stood his ground and never moved from the shade of the mulga tree. Quietly, slowly we eased in closer, not quick enough to make him run, trying to giving him time to get used to us and move of with his herd.

Instead, he launched himself at the vehicle, and he caught us flat footed. There was no way the Suzuki could outpace him in the short distance and he rammed one of his horns through the back of the cab on the Michelle’s side. Immediate acceleration. Blood and snot everywhere. The window glass disintegrated and rained as small glass cubes through the front of the vehicle. Michelle tried to sit on the gearstick which made driving just a little bit more difficult. I said “shoot him, shoot him” but she seemed more inclined to stay as far away from that bulls head as possible. Fifty metres or so later, the bull freed from the vehicle, trotted of to regain his herd that had disappeared into the shelter of the scrub.

We decided the Queen could keep her bloody cattle!

To be continued ???