The High Country

Nine Twenty is one of three poems about that strange place up in the high country – two more make up the set – The Hut, and The Lantern.
Arthur and Charlie were two mates, who returned from service in France in WW1.

NINE TWENTY

There’s a clearing in the mountains, it’s been there a thousand years,
but some mountain men can tell you that it’s not what it appears.
A hut stands in this clearing, and it’s said by mountain men
that a man was killed and left there, away back in nineteen ten,

then someone burnt the hut down with the body still inside,
and whatever’s in that clearing has to do with he who died.
Three fellers came to camp there; each one worked in a bank.
All three were steady natured, not the type to play a prank.

They drove an old LandCruiser, which carried all their gear
and none had heard the story of the clearing, and it’s fear.
Five o’clock was showing as they turned in off the track
for a campsite in the clearing, where they started to unpack.

Their tent was quickly set up, then the Cruiser’s doors were shut.
They walked to do their cooking on the fireplace in the hut.
One got rather edgy, and spoke to the other pair
“This clearing’s getting chilly, and there’s not a breath of air.

My ears are playing tricks on me.  I haven’t heard a sound
and we’ve been here half an hour. I don’t like this bit of ground”.
Their conversation faltered, as the three men cooked the meal
and each one hid his feelings, but the chill was very real.

The silence crowded on them, as they walked back to their camp
and one said, “This chill is eerie, for the grass is dry, not damp”.
Back at their Toyota, it was like a single thought
as each man grabbed the weapon, and the ammo, that he’d brought.

Their mood was very sober, though none thought he’d be harmed.
As one explained his reason   “I feel safer if I’m armed”.
The sun dropped out, the chill increased, the silence hurt their ears
as the three men kept together, but that didn’t lessen fears.

The cabin of the Cruiser seemed the safest place to be.
Then one man spoke the other’s thoughts   “This silence frightens me”.
The headlights showed a clearing, with the dirt in patches raw,
and the hut, with it’s stone chimney, stunted grass, and nothing more,

yet the strangest chill and silence which had made the men’s hearts race
was more noticed than the features, in that mountain clearing space.
They drove around the clearing, each man watching with great care
till, on stopping at the tent site they agreed, “There’s nothing there”.

No one said a word then, but their actions were the same.
The tent was dropped and loaded, then they went the way they came.
With the safe beam of the headlights as they drove out down the track,
one said, “That’s a strange place.  I, for one, will not go back.

What’s the time?  It must be getting late, I reckon I’ve had plenty”.
They checked their watches.  All had stopped, and each one showed nine twenty.

THE HUT

Only those who’ve been there can properly decide,
and those whose minds are blinkered, only jeer and deride,
but hidden in those mountains, or in the desert sand
are mysteries and strange things we’ll never understand.

A day’s ride up from Dargo, on the track to Hotham Heights
a hut stands in a clearing, and on some lonely nights
the mountain men who use it have seen their cattle stare
at eyes, yet in the daylight, the tracks are never there.

In the early nineteen hundreds, the hut was burnt to ground.
No one knows what happened, but human bones were found.
The hut was re constructed as the chimney was alright
but peculiar things have happened in that clearing of a night.

Eleven riders camped there.  Every stockman felt the chill,
no clinking of the dog chains, their horses standing still.
A spotlight on the bullocks showed the gathered riders where
a different pair of eyes were, but there was nothing there.

No one moved a muscle, and the cattle didn’t move.
A rider grabbed a rifle, and fired a shot to prove
those eyes belonged to Nature.  The men all gave a shout
for the bullet hit the target, and both the eyes went out.

Tension slowly lessened, though their conversation died.
The dogs were still uneasy, so two went back outside,
but half a minute later, one whispered through a crack,
“Bring your rifle, hurry up, that pair of eyes are back”.

The men who ride the mountains face it’s dangers every day,
but not one man who saw those eyes could definitely say
their colour was a wombat, or a fox or feral cat.
In the still of indecision, the heavy rifle spat.

The wide beam of the spot light showed the cattle frozen still,
and every man among them hoped that shot had made a kill.
Bunched against the hut wall tight, not one rider stirred.
Each man’s heart was pounding hard, but not a sound was heard.

The spotlight probed the clearing space, but not a minute passed
till eyes were seen two hundred yards from where they saw them last.
Fifteen bullets thundered out to close those eerie eyes
and no man slept among that group, till daylight reached the skies.

Practised eyes then scanned the spots where bullets gouged the dirt,
but not a trace of track was found, nor blood to show a hurt.
The frightened dogs would not go near whatever those men saw
and even hungry horses stayed beside the old hut door.

The riders moved the cattle out in daylight fully bright,
and no one talks of what he saw a dozen times that night.
For only those who saw those eyes can properly decide,
yet those whose minds are blinkered, that eleven will deride.

THE LANTERN

Early in the twenties, work was starting to get thin.
No one passed a house or hut, without their calling in.
A hand out, in exchange for work, a cuppa or a smoke.
Men were forced to walk for jobs, as most of them were broke.

Trampers in the mountains, their possessions on their back,
about two days from Dargo, on a rough and narrow track
crossed a corner of a clearing.   It was just a half mile square
with a hut, about the middle, and strange things have happened there.

Just before the First World War, the hut was burnt to ground
and later on, inside the hut, some human bones were found.
Nothing then was proven, but the mountain men all say
that there’s something in that clearing, and they’d rather keep away.

One night, in ‘twenty seven, with the sun then almost gone,
camping in that clearing, hut fire lit and billy on,
Art and Charlie’s cattle stayed, kept in by just one dog.
Cold and chill, quiet, still, and beginnings of a fog.

Charlie saw a lantern, coming his way up the track
and shouted to the holder, “Billy’s on.  It’s getting black,
you’re welcome to a cuppa and some warm, this freezing night”.
Even as he spoke, he saw the tramper douse the light.

Calling out to Arthur, Charlie said, “That’s very strange.
I saw his lantern swinging there, and suddenly, this change.”
They walked across the clearing. Charlie hurried to the gap,
Art cut through the scrubby track, and called out to the chap.

The traveller came onwards, with a steady swinging pace,
then the form that was between them disappeared without a trace.
Charlie sooled his dog, which went a little way, then baulked.
As it came back, the light re lit, and something once more walked.

Each time they went toward it, there was nothing to be seen.
When they stood still, the light came back, against the darker green.
As Charlie walked behind the form, his dog kept hanging back.
Arthur, frozen, stood there watching, as the light came up the track.

The lantern still swung onward, yet no tracks could Charlie find.
Then the light went out, near Arthur, but came back again, behind.
As the two men stood in silence, it got smaller in the night
and it kept it’s steady swinging, till it disappeared from sight.

MICK’S PLACE–

more spooky history from up in the High Country

Down in mountain valleys, it gets still, and damp, and cold.
Survival in these mountains takes a man who’s tough and bold.
He took his wife to live there, when this Century was new.
It was pretty rugged going, but their toughness helped them through.

Children came, and workload eased, as time marched slowly on
till came the day which all must face, and husband Mick was gone.
Sixty years of marriage, and survival as a team,
yet it ended in a kind way, and she was left to dream.

Offers of assistance were accepted, but a “No”
was her answer to the funeral.  She didn’t need to go.
“We built this place together, as we shared a laugh or tear.
I’ve only lost his body, for his spirit will stay here”.

Her days were always busy, as she wasn’t one to slack,
and it seems nights weren’t lonely, as her husband Mick came back.
Friends from up the mountain came to visit her and see
if there were things she needed, and stopped with her for tea.

The kitchen was the main room, and she spent her time in there.
The house was like a warren, with rooms added anywhere,
and it only had one back door, but no key to turn the lock.
Still, the only thing of value was an old Grandfather clock.

The valley warmth was pleasant as they talked of things afar
and the people of the mountains, till the door, which was ajar
broke their conversation when it firmly shut, and locked.
None of them had touched it, and her visitors were shocked.

The warmth which had been present, with the valley calm and still,
was suddenly replaced by something frightening and chill.
The key was long since missing, and that door shut on its own.
Then she said, “Please don’t be frightened, but I’m never long alone.

Mick is back here with me, and it’s he who shut the door,
but perhaps you should be going, for it’s never locked before.”

BUSH MAIL

– a folk story from along the Great Ocean Road, long ago.

Cobb & Co. had coaches going down the Ocean Road,
with passengers and store supplies and mail their daily load.
Their driver, Tommy Baker, was a good one for a tale.
New passengers were always told the story of Bush Mail.

The track had cliffs on one side, on the other, open seas
and hazards on Tom’s run included falling rocks and trees.
Tracks cut in the timber led in through the valleys damp,
to wind their way in hairpins down into a Settler’s Camp.

The kangaroos had used the tracks to quickly move around,
so sitting at a Junction, kangaroos were often found.
Most of them would sit there till the Coach was very near,
then turn and hop back down the track, and quickly disappear.

When Tommy saw a ‘roo ahead that looked like it might stay
he told his passengers to look, before it hopped away.
“That one there’s named Blackie, and I see him every week,
belongs to Old Man Jackson, lives down by Apollo Creek.

I check if there is mail for him,” said Tommy with a grin,
“he opens up his pouch and I just stick his letters in.”
Tommy sorted through the mail, and hoped the ‘roo would stay,
then yelled out, “Go home Blackie, there’s none for you today.

Mind that you go straight home, and don’t you be too slow.
I’ll see you here next Thursday.  If there’s mail, I’ll let you know.”
The kangaroo hopped down the track, without the Jackson’s mail,
as passengers delighted in Old Tommy’s trained ‘roo tale.

CHAFFEY’S IRRIGATION

 The real history of Mildura, right back in the beginning.

chorus:

The Chaffey brothers vision saw what arid land might grow
The future for this dry red land was planned so long ago

When two men owned the riverland the workload was too great.
In forty years their land was sold to Chaffeys by the state.
In 1887 all together in the venture,
on 31st of May the parties signed on the indenture.

Along the Murray river land Mildura’d been declared.
Now Chaffeys and new settlers had a vision great they shared,
with schools and churches, streets and parks, a river on one side,
for irrigation channels spread across the red land wide.

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To lift the water till it ran they used the power of steam.
From plans and surveys mapped by hand they grew their mighty dream.
A hundred years and two world wars, the blockies held together;
their trees and crops  were water-fed against the harsh dry weather.

Where orange trees abounded and whatever planted grew.
this riverland had future wealth, the Chaffey brothers knew.
Now citrus, grapes and almonds, grains and food to feed our nation
are grown around Mildura’s lands, all due to  irrigation

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And still today their foresight shows all through the watered sand,
that skill and effort can grow food across this hard red land.
A hundred years and more have gone since water brought salvation.
Mildura’s grown, a city now, from Chaffey’s irrigation.

Our reputation formed because the right foundations laid,
now tourists come and follow in the footsteps Chaffeys made.
A pathway for the future growth, our city’s here to stay –
the focus of the riverland, Mildura leads the way.

 

CITROEN

– a true story about a little brumby from up near Swift’s Creek.

Citroen is a French car, and we all know that, of course,
but it also is the name of Barry’s little brumby horse.
How he came to get it is in many ways unique;
he’s the only French named brumby ever caught at Limestone Creek.

Barry saw the brumbies out from Omeo one day,
and in among the tailers as the mob all raced away
he saw this little brumby, so he figured he would trap
the mob, and then he’d break and keep the little black nosed chap.

Local riders built some yards just off Forlorn Hope Track,
so Barry built a longer wing, the next time he went back.
The mob was spotted on a plain, out in the edges far,
so Barry fired his horses up, a trusty Yamaha.

He zipped the mob from well down wind by going very hard,
and edged them in across the plain towards the hidden yard.
Frantic riding got them in, before they realised,
and mixed in was the black nosed colt which worn out Barry prized.

The longer wing had fooled them, though they knew the yard was there,
and Barry dropped the rails as horses scattered everywhere.
They settled, and he let some out, to madly gallop free
till just the colt remained, and Barry tied him to a tree.

He rode the Yamaha back out, down to a friendly farm,
then drove his Citroen in, to check his colt had met no harm.
He camped two days beside the yard, and got his colt quite tame,
happy that the colt was caught, and he’d achieved his aim.

To get Black Nose from yard to farm, some clever work took place.
He pulled out both his car’s back seats, to leave the right sized space.
The colt was fitted through a door with little sign of fear.
His head hung out one window, out the other was his rear.

Barry’s cargo seemed to like his careful trip to base,
and climbed out from the Citroen like he owned  his new found place.
He stayed there on agistment, as the farmer didn’t mind,
but they had to name him Citroen, for the marks he’d left behind.

COLLIE

Before he bought a tractor, Old Man Charlie used a team
of giant Clydesdales harnessed for his work,
and Charlie knew his horses, big and stupid as they seem,
were honest as the day, and wouldn’t shirk.

He loved that team of horses, so he couldn’t understand
why they stopped, with feed‑time nowhere due.
Charlie yelled and cursed them, for he had to plough his land.
They wouldn’t move, so nothing could he do.

He unhooked all the traces, and he let the horses go
then he checked his fob. It showed just after nine.
Coming down the paddock looking tired and walking slow,
a dog approached him with an anxious whine.

He recognised the collie, as it sidled up to him.
“That’s Arthur’s dog, I wonder why it’s here?”.
The collie was exhausted, and it’s eyes were glazed and dim,
then Charlie felt a sudden chill of fear.

Arthur was his brother, and the day before he’d gone
to check their cattle on a block they’d leased.
Perhaps he’d struck some trouble, and had sent the collie on?
Then he noticed Collie’s whine had ceased.

Filled with apprehension, Charlie ran back to the yard.
He left a note, and saddled up a horse,
but his breath was short in coming and his heart was pumping hard
as he prayed the collie dog could set the course.

He gave the dog some water, then he grabbed a coil of rope,
and slung a made‑up rucksack on his back.
The dog was getting anxious.  He was Arthur’s only hope,
so Charlie followed Collie out the track.

The horse he rode was Bushman, and they kept a rapid pace.
The collie would find Arthur, Charlie knew,
with hardly any bearings in that rough and rocky place
as Bushman, careful, followed Collie through.

They crossed the river upstream of the old Taranga Weir,
with Collie getting faster as he went.
Charlie’s heart was racing, and he knew with certain fear
that his brother Arthur had met with accident.

Charlie saw the mineshafts, and he cursed the Chinese men,
as Bushman followed Collie through the holes.
He’d heard of cattle falling in a digging now and then
as time and weather rotted timber poles.

Standing near a tailrace, Arthur’s horse the dog had found,
and Collie, barking madly, raced away.
Charlie tied up Bushman, then walked through that rotten ground.
He knew that in one mineshaft, Arthur lay.

Collie ran back panting, then he turned back in the scrub
which grew so thick and dense, the view was poor.
He stopped, and Charlie caught up, then he saw beside one shrub
some broken, rotted poles, and Charlie swore.

A voice called up to greet him, “Glad you made it, how’s my dog?
I knew that he would find you, I’d be right.
There’s cattle in here somewhere, but I found this rotten log
and broke my leg, so here I stayed the night”.

A splint was made from wattle, and Bushman dragged the rope
till, resting in the daylight, Arthur said,
“Animals are strange things, so I never gave up hope.
If it wasn’t for my Collie, I’d be dead”.

Slowly heading homewards, Charlie talked about how long
and when his team had propped and would not go,
and Arthur said, “Blame Collie, must have told them what was wrong.
Maybe, one day, we’ll know what they know”.

MORRISON’S BLACK MARE

When Arthur’s dog, the Collie, guided Charlie to the mine
where the rotten timber poles had given way,
it was Charlie’s horse, old Bushman that pulled Arthur from the dark
where, with badly broken leg, all night he lay.

Before the collie found him, Charlie’s clydesdales wouldn’t work
no matter how he cursed them, when they stopped.
He didn’t know his horses felt what Charlie couldn’t know,
about the mine in which his brother dropped.

It was five hours in the saddle, stopping often, going slow,
with Charlie propping Arthur as they rode ‑
twelve miles across the mountains with their horses side by side,
till Charlie lifted down that painful load.

He owned a mare, named Alice, small, with Arab in her lines,
but not yet tried in harness, and he knew
that there was no other option, time was critical to life.
From loss of blood, Art might not make it through

as his consciousness kept fading.  He had made it to the road.
It was up to Charlie now, his life or death.
The mare was down the paddock, but she came to Charlie’s call.
As he backed her in the gig, he held his breath.

She didn’t move a muscle, only shivered then, with fright.
When harnessed up, the little mare stood still.
Then Charlie asked his Maker, “Give us all a helping hand,
it’s nearly fifteen mile, and much up‑hill”.

From the clearing in the valley, where the river leaves the cliff
it was all up‑hill until they reached the lip,
then about six miles through timber, till the open came in sight,
and two more to the Doctor, on that trip.

Lifting Arthur in the seat, he urged the horse to move away.
She propped, a step or two, then felt the weight.
When she bolted through the gateway, he was taken by surprise
but she cleared the yards, and set a rapid rate.

On the flat, the mare was sweating, but she didn’t buck or prop
and Charlie didn’t touch her with the reins.
He just reached across to Arthur, said “You’re gonna make it through,
there’s a hundred years of honour in her veins”.

The climb out from Taranga, where it went along the face
was all cut by hand, and narrow, rough and steep.
He had to keep the mare down, or it threw the gig about.
At times, her speed was only just a creep.

It seemed to take forever till it flattened on the lip,
and she fought him all the time he kept her slow.
She was lathered from her struggle on the climb up to the top
yet still pulled to have her head.  He let her go.

Charlie’d tied a rug round Arthur, and had roped him in the gig.
He expected that the mare would give him hell
but her spirit had him beaten.  It was though his Alice knew,
and she never tried to lay back for a spell.

Through the timber to the open, Charlie’s mare kept up her speed
though her sides were heaving, sucking hard for air,
and she raced across the open, still not slowing as she went.
Charlie watched his brother, and his mare.

In the local weekly paper was the story of that horse,
and how she’d saved Art’s life was often told.
There were many made him offer, but old Morrison declared,
“The mare cannot be bought for all your gold.

I’ve lived my life with horses, always cared for those I’ve had
and they’ve repaid, by working till they bust.
I believe that for those two days they all knew of Arthur’s fall,
and gave us help, because of equal trust.

I’m sure that’s how that little mare, not broken in to gig,
could get us to the Doctor with such care.”
And later, folks who heard the tale, fast paid the asking price
for descendents of old Morrison’s black mare.

MOUNTAIN MEN

There is movement for the Alpine, turn the murmur to a roar,
or we’ll lose the mountain heritage and way.
There are issues of emotion, and the truth gets clouded out
by politics and grabbing greenies of today.

“Save the Alpine for your children, let it’s flowers grow again,
ban the cattle, and the mountain men as well”,
say the voices of the greenies, as they pressure their M.P.’s
for laws to help create a way to hell.

If they can close off the Alpine, then the trees create a risk
only greenies, walking through, would ever see,
but our history of uses proves the fires that devastate
are reduced by mountain cattle, grazing free.

The mountain men are helping in the fuel reduction need,
yet emotion cannot see the danger there.
It ignores that care and feeling, and experience of years
are essential for survival everywhere.

These men respect the mountains, and their knowledge is their life,
for who destroys, by choice, his life and plan?
There’s a balance must be measured, with a trade‑off in the cost
of Nature’s losing least, for gain to Man.

Those whose cattle graze the mountains are no different from the rest.
Their place and way of life is what they choose.
The Alpine lands protection means their way of life remains,
but they don’t put restrictions on our use.

Some have selfish, blinkered interests, and they only see one side.
Those mountains are enormous ‑ why not share?
Create some parks, for reference, and posterity to see ‑
Why change the rest ‑ the cattlemen, who care?

© JOHN BASHAM

THE OOLDEA RAILS.

The depression which came in the thirties affected the miners in Wales.
Joe Pickford came out to Australia, to work on the Ooldea rails.
He’d walked from one mine to another, but no work was there to be had.
At Quorn, where the rail men were living, conditions were equally bad.

On Boxing Day rain washed the line out, five inches in less than a day.
They needed some men at Willochra to fix up a big washaway.
Men worked in shoulder‑deep water from sun‑up and well into night
for the Railway must keep up to schedule, so the men battle all Nature’s might.

Three weeks it took to repair it, so pay‑day was greeted with cheers
and Joe took back home to his family more Pounds than they’d had in three years.
The money cut out in a short time, and the men to the dole queue went back,
but Joe won a job at Abminga, six hundred miles west on the track.

It was bloody hard country to work in, the gangers worked fourteen‑hour shifts
on the line from Loongana to Ooldea where men, not machines, did the lifts.
In the world, there is no section longer, or straighter in heavy rail tracks,
Kalgoorlie across Port Augusta, all built with the hammer and axe.

At the rail camp at Oodnadatta, Joe met the Reverend Flynn.
A plane, and the new pedal wireless, helped the great Flying Doctor begin.
Fresh meat was rare for the fettlers, for cows couldn’t live in the sand
so goats were brought up for their milking, and “desert‑lamb” kid tasted grand.

The Commonwealth Railways played Santa, complete with a red suit and sack
though the heat was a hundred and twenty, at Christmas, to kids of the Track.
The days of the Old Ghan are long gone, and at night now a super‑train wails,
but they opened the heart of Australia, those men of the Ooldea rails.

PADDLESTEAMERS

TUNE: Roddy McCorley

Cadell had a hundred-foot steamer built, in Sydney this steamer was made.
The Government had offered two thousand pounds to help push the river trade
for the first boat to get to the Wentworth bend where the Darling River ran.
But Randell had built his own little boat and he named her the Mary-Ann.

From Goolwa Cadell loaded passengers, and the barge towed behind didn’t worry
the Lady Augusta at six miles an hour heading up to the junction of the Murray.
It took just a week into New South Wales late each night with the help of light,
but Randell was chasing unknown to Cadell, Mary-Ann gave the big boat a fright.

Wentworth was reached on September the sixth, where Cadell took on wood for his steam,
then he tied up upriver at the Euston wharf, where the news took away his dream.
Just the day before Randell’s Mary-Ann, with a speed which they said was outstanding,
had raced up the Murray and blasted her whistle as she went past the Euston landing.

The race had begun and Cadell drove his boat all that night till he saw Mary-Ann
moving slowly ahead, then he turned on his lights, and flat-out on the river he ran.
In turn about these two paddle-boats fought, but the Lady Augusta’s great power
took her further ahead till she stopped at Swan Hill, where Cadell was the “Hero of the Hour”.

The example they set on their upriver duel showed that profits in shipping could be made
in people and sheep, and in wood to make steam, in transport and religion and trade.
Four thousand miles was the distance to go when the floods made the whole system full.
Paddle-steamers towed barges if water was deep, loaded hundreds of tight bales of wool.

Maybe thousands of boats carried settler’s goods, load and unload along river banks.
Their names are long gone but some old boats still remain, and famous amongst their ranks
The paddle-steamer Marion, now Mannum-based, was built in eighteen ninety-seven,
And the Renmark work-boat Industry cleared hazards back in nineteen-eleven.

The Rothbury, Melbourne, Etona, Hero, Adelaide and the P.B. Mundoo,
Pevensey and Pyap, and Canberra, P.S. Oscar and the slim Emmylou,
Alexander Arbuthnot, Success and many others to view –
It’s paddle-steamer history to celebrate – the Murray at Mildura, and you.

SHEEPWASH BLUES

In the early 1840’s, the wool and sheep price fell,
and owners, cutting wages, got the shearers mad as hell.
The squatters sold four million sheep,
the shearer’s anger surface‑deep,
as sheep were all boiled down for making candles.

Because of the depression, with the raw wool prices leaner,
the buyers owned the market, and paid much more for cleaner.
The squatters ordered washing sheep,
the squatters hoped that this would keep
their properties and them from going under.

Some tried washing sheep, sousing in a luke-warm tub,
and ordering the washers, with soap the sheep to scrub.
The squatters rinsed them in the creek.
The shearers found, within a week,
that cleaner wool allowed them better tallies.

On Weilmorangle Station eighteen people worked the scour,
with a boiler heating water, washed three hundred sheep an hour.
The squatters made the wash an art,
the squatter’s wool cost less to cart,
as wool weighed half as much without the sand.

Some washers stood in water which came up to their chin,
and even drownings happened, but cutting through the din,
the squatter’s voice was heard to shout,
the squatter, “Get that body out.
You there, in, and keep that washing going”.

The practice discontinued after only twenty years,
with progresses in farming, and the new belt‑driven shears.
The squatter ruled he had the right,
the shearer felt he had to fight
to prove his point.  Today the fight continues.

© JOHN BASHAM

THE FIZZER

In  our smog-polluted city where a phone call’s twenty cents
and our daily grind for living never ceases or relents,
compared with Fizzer Peckham, most have no idea of strife,
or the country south of Darwin, where the Fizzer lost his life.

He rode east from Katherine, a thousand miles with mail,
three very long dry stages, and a short one, on the trail.
The Government time-limit needed eight trips every year,
and with Fizzer’s life as forfeit, every article cost dear.

He rode one, and he led ten, but the dice of death was thrown,
yet Fizzer called the numbers seven years on his own.
At Eva Downs, the windlass rope he fixed with fencing wire
to lift the water ninety feet, that thirsty beasts require.

After twenty-three hours riding, and then watering for three,
it didn’t seem to bother Fizzer, for his solitude was free.
In sixteen days, five hundred miles in country rough and grim –
if he said, “On Tuesday, lunchtime”, you could set your clock by him.

Fizzer was expected, for he said that he was due,
and for seven years on schedule, mailman Fizzer made it through.
But the desert and the numbers and the heat will surely kill –
out from Anthony’s Lagoon, they broke the mailman Fizzer’s will.

For seven years the Stations on the inside got their mail,
for the mailman was the Fizzer, and the Fizzer didn’t fail.
But the Reaper beat the Fizzer, for the desert worked for him –
any man who tries the desert must accept the Reaper Grim.

SIXTEEN TON LOAD…

TUNE: Sixteen Tons

CH:

You load about two tons and go down to the creek,
your cattle are standing but they’re visibly weak.
The crows are just waiting where the cattle are ill.
If the drought doesn’t get them then the floodwaters will.

All your life you’ve been farming, it’s a tough living yet
you sell and buy assets, feed your stock and forget
the bank owns your mortgage, and what’s even more
you’re way behind on your payments at the local feed store.

When a B-double transport comes its load is round bales
by courtesy of farmers all across New South Wales
and other states have kicked in, for they know you’ve no feed.
Five years endless drought’s just what a farmer don’t need.

The barometer’s falling and the outlook is grim –
a rain-trough dumps water, fills your creek to the brim
till it runs to the floodplains where it reaches its peak,
but the rain chills the cattle, makes them even more weak.

So you pity your beasts as weather doesn’t make sense.
They die at flooded dams where skinny bodies lie dense.
Dry dirt can’t be eaten, but the rain spoils the hay.
Hope the forecast says tomorrow ought to be a better day.

© JOHN BASHAM APR 2019

THE GIRL AND THE GHOST-GREY MARE

[from the book of the same name by Rachael TREASURE]

He was lost in thick and grey smoke gusting up the timbered slope
and he knew the diesel hated smoke and could stop and kill his hope.
But there was a trail there somewhere, knew he’d lost his one safe course –
when the wind blew sharp and through the smoke saw a woman on a horse.

She was looking down the gully, then she saw his white Parks truck,
heard her call “I’m chasing cattle but I can’t believe your luck,
‘cos you can’t drive down that spur track, all the edge has broken way.
I will dink you to that clearing, you can make it out today.

I’ve a mob of cattle in here, but I’m beaten where they are.
Still, I’ll take you to that fence-line, but you’ll have to leave your car”.
He said, “Thanks, I’ll keep her going, and I’ll make it down the hill,
but I hope you find you cattle”, then she said “I’m sure I will”.

Through the smoke she cantered downhill on her big and ghost-grey mare.
In an instant he was moving; when he looked, she wasn’t there.
The smoke was even thicker, on a track he didn’t know,
where the washaways were wheel-deep and his diesel could not go.

He could hear the flames behind him, barely seen through smoke so dense;
knew to keep on going downhill where he’d find that border fence.
But he heard that timber crashing, from the smoke was almost blind
when he heard the blonde girl yelling, ”Come on, get up here behind.”

On the high side of the cutting was the girl and ghost-grey mare.
She slid down the bank towards him, they were quickly out of there.
He could feel the mare beneath him, held the woman up ahead
and he realised without them he would probably be dead.

Thick smoke stole the Ranger’s vision and the sheer noise took his will
but the ghost-grey mare had power and she kept on rushing till
the blonde called her to ease up, when they came to open land.
“Now you’re safe here, we’ll find our cattle”, and she offered him her hand.

Then she left him on a fence-line on a long-cleared grazing block
and he staggered blindly downhill past the tightly bunched-up stock.
Near a shed he saw a fire-truck with its roof-lights strobing red,
then some fireys ran towards him, they were sure they’d find him dead.

So he told them of his rescue by the blonde and ghost-grey mare,
how she’d brought him down the spur-line, how he’d left his stuck ute there.
And how she’d offered early when she was looking for her stock
but one firey’s face went ashen, he was shaking, white from shock.

“Ash Wednesday’s fires went through here and a big strong ghost-grey mare
with a pretty blonde-haired lady both went missing up in there.
We searched for weeks to find her, and the thing that hurt us most
was the thought we’d never find her – you’ve been rescued by her ghost!

©JOHN BASHAM – JULY 2020

THE MEN OF THE TOPS.

The history of Gippsland is tied up in the plains
along the Great Dividing Range, and steady winter rains
which sweep along the ridges down from Noojee to the east
provide the Alpine grasses to fatten every beast.

A hundred miles of grazing means five hundred miles to go
for men to bring the cattle down before the winter snow.
The Treasures and the Riders, the Dibbinses and Guys
are some historic families who’ve pack horsed in supplies.

In huts, the mountain cattlemen who ride along the tops
have overnight protection from the wind which rarely stops.
There’s names like old Cobungra, Hinnomunjie and Mount Skene,
Lankey’s Plain and Little Bogong, The Bluff and Seldom Seen

and hundreds more just like them, where the mountain cattle feed.
The stock, just like the brumbies, have become a rugged breed.
The mountain climbs and gullies and thick scrub mean that a horse
and rider must be expert, if they’re not to go off course.

The cattlemen tell stories of cattle lost, and ghosts
in mountain huts, and walkers who were saved because the posts
were seen above the snowfall. Winter weather closes in
so quick, the mountain people just survive, and never win.

The riders of the mountains all accept the endless battle
with weather, climbs and distances, just to run their cattle.
A man can see forever as he rides across the tops,
but he’s fighting for survival, and he loses if he stops.

© JOHN BASHAM