Back in April 1988 I was involved in the Great Camel Race, which was a fundraising event for the Royal Flying Doctor Service. A big ado it was, too. It took two years of planning and involved almost a hundred locally bred camels and a couple of hundred people, some from all parts of the world. To take part each competitor and their support crew had to be totally self-contained food-wise, drink-wise, medical wise and otherwise, in the race on camel-back from Uluru through the desert and over to the Gold Coast. The total distance of the journey was 3329 kilometres.
There were seven of us in our team from Coonawarra in south-east South Australia, comprising the competitor and his six support crew. Originally, I went as the first-aider but before long I landed the job of truck driver as well.
Pretty organised we were too. We even took along four White Leghorn chooks—May, Colleen, Penny and Sally—who helped us out egg-wise. On our trip up to Uluru to meet with the other competitors, after we’d set up camp each night we let the chooks out to stretch their legs and have a scratch around. To start with we used to tie string onto their little ankles which, in turn, was tied to our folding chairs so that they wouldn’t get away. And they were fine with that. Friendly little things, they were. They really fitted in.
Then on one particular night, I forget where we were exactly, but there was this one-eyed dog from the caravan park where we were staying. And while we were having tea we could see this dog under the truck, slinking along on his belly, eyeing the chooks off with his one eye, thinking that here was an easy feed in the offing.
‘Someone’s gonna have to keep a close eye on those chooks,’ the cook said, half as a play on words and half seriously because, as I said, the dog only had one eye. Do you get it?
So I guess that’s when it was decided that my responsibilities as first-aider and truck driver were to be expanded to include the all-important job of—Chief Chook Minder.
This added responsibility was something I didn’t mind at all. As I said, the chooks were friendly little things and we’d sort of hit it off right away. What’s more, as it turned out, being Chief Chook Minder fitted in well with my other jobs. See, I had a fair amount of time on my hands, because being the truck driver, what I did was to drive ahead down the track for about ten kilometres, then wait for our competitor, Chatter Box the camel, and the remainder of the support crew to catch up.
So each time I stopped, I’d let the chooks out of their cage which was on the back of the truck and they’d wander around and have a bit of freedom, like. Still I felt sorry for the poor things, being attached to something solid, so over time I weaned them off the camp chair by tying a wee rock on the end of the string so that they couldn’t run too far. Then when it looked like they were comfortable with that, I got brave and took off the rocks, which meant that they just had the strings attached to their legs. Then finally I got very brave and pissed the strings off and they were fine. They’d stick close by me, no problems at all.
As I said, I had a fair amount of time up my sleeve so, after I’d sorted out the chooks and got them settled, I’d sit back and read a book or something until everyone arrived. Then, by the time the competitor got off Chatter Box I’d have his chair ready and he’d sit down and I’d change his socks and give him something to drink. After I made sure that he was okay, he’d walk for a while because with Chatter Box being the smallest camel in the race we’d worked out that if the poor thing was to last the distance our competitor had to walk at least two-thirds of the total journey.
After everyone had left, I’d pack things up and call out, ‘Hey, Penny, Colleen, May, Sally,’ and the chooks would come scampering over and I’d pick them up, put them back in their cage, and off we’d go again.
They became more than animals, more than pets even. They were more like companions really because they got very attached to me, Sally in particular. At night, when we were sitting round the camp fire, if she was looking for somewhere to roost she’d perch herself on my head. That’d cause Penny, Colleen and May to get jealous and they’d come over and snuggle in beside me, a bit like the way that little children do. Thinking about it now, they kept me sane in many ways. Chooks are very faithful animals, you know, those ones especially.
Anyway, one time the chooks and I were sitting in the truck up in the channel country, about 250 kilometres out of Boulia, waiting for our rider to catch up. Boulia, if you don’t know, is about 300 kilometres south of Mount Isa, on the Burke River. There I was, deeply engrossed in my book. I should’ve known that something was wrong because the chooks weren’t keen on scratching around outside that time. Instead, they’d gone real quiet and were snuggling into me like they wanted protection. So there we were, sitting in the truck, and all of a sudden a massive drop of rain hit the windscreen.
‘Wow,’ I said.
I was so excited. But the chooks weren’t. They started cackling and carrying on. The next thing I heard was a yell from behind the truck and when I turned around there was our rider in a real panic. He hopped off Chatter Box, ran over, and jumped into the truck with me and the chooks.
What happened next was unbelievable. I’ve never seen rain like it. It just poured and poured, and it continued pouring and pouring for a couple of days, non-stop, until we were stuck, true and proper. The mud was so deep that it was up to the top of the wheels of the trail bike we’d brought along with us. We couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back. We were stuck, with the rain still pelting down. And believe it or not, that’s the only time the chooks went off the lay. Right up until the rain came they each produced an egg a day like they knew that they had an important job to do as well.
But the rain upset them. It upset the rest of us too, mind you. I got ill. The race was called off for a while due to the conditions. Yet, true to form, after the wet, those hens took up laying again.
When we finally got to the Gold Coast there was a rumour going around that they were going to knock the chooks on the head and kill them, like. But I wasn’t going to be in that, no way.
‘Over my dead body,’ I said.
So in the end Penny, Colleen, May and Sally were taken back to their old farm in Coonawarra where they had lots of space to scratch around in. That’s where they spent their well-earned retirement, no doubt telling their chickens and their grand-chickens all about their epic journey from Uluru to the Gold Coast, and the big rain that came and caused them to stop laying. And I also hope that they mentioned me in passing too, just like I do them when I tell the story, because it’s amazing just how attached you can get to chooks, those ones in particular. I still miss them. They had such loving personalities.