Alice’s favourite event of the year – the bush run – had come around.
When Sam was a boy the national park that backed on to Redstone had been Crown land. The land had since been preserved because of the patches of rare forest, the spectacular rock cliffs and gorges, and also because of the existence of several sacred and significant Aboriginal sites. But sixty years ago it was in the interest of the government to allow Sam’s father to release weaner cattle into the untamed region. The grazing kept the dense bush accessible and helped to control the enormous fire hazard that the area presented. Each year in late April a group of riders and packhorses would venture into the rugged terrain to collect the cattle again. George Day and his Aboriginal stockmen had built four rough huts and holding yards at strategic points throughout the area. The ‘bush run’ had become a treasured yearly ritual and the nights by the camp fire were filled with yarns and song.
Once the area was declared a national park, however, this all changed. The cattle were forbidden entry and the land grew a huge bulk of weeds and fuel. For ten years it was a constant worry to Sam, then a young farmer, and the firebreaks on the Redstone boundary had to be constantly maintained. Wild dogs, goats, brumbies and pigs also bred up in numbers and began to make their presence felt. Sam repeatedly sought permission to burn areas of the park near his boundary, but for reasons he couldn’t fathom it was never granted.
Eventually the bushfire that Sam had been dreading occurred. The national park, the plants and animals were cooked by a fire so fast and hot that it created its own whirling storms of flame. In spite of his firebreaks, Sam lost kilometres of fencing and the winter feed from a third of Redstone.
After this fire, Sam had demanded a meeting with the National Parks department. Another young ranger, higher up the ladder than the one Sam usually dealt with, came to Redstone. He was a practical and sensible man and had experience with fires, having grown up in the high country of New South Wales. He indicated to Sam that if some of his cattle were to ‘unofficially’ wander into the national park, as they had done in the past, he’d not be prosecuted. So the bush run was reborn, and had continued ever since. It was one of the things Alice had missed the most during her absence from Redstone. Stretch, Mushgang and Dan had done the bush run with Sam during that time, but it was hard on their ageing bodies and now they gladly handed over the honours to Jeremy and Alice. In preparation, Sam oiled the old military packsaddles and checked all the canvas bags and tarps. Alice packed all the provisions and ran in from the Brigalow paddock the two hairy ponies that they used as packhorses.
Alice could tell that the excitement she and her grandfather were feeling had even infected Jeremy, when, on a sunny morning in late April, they opened the gate in the boundary fence and headed into the national park. He was quieter than usual, and Alice wondered whether he was pondering the privilege of his inclusion in the long-held tradition.
The first day they made for the nearest watering points, and it wasn’t long before they had gathered a small mob of cattle. Each time they spotted more tracks and manure, Alice sent her dogs, who would swiftly disappear from sight. Once each bitch had found a little group of cattle, she’d begin to bark, holding the cattle there until Alice or Jeremy arrived to pick them up and drive them towards the main mob. Meanwhile, Sam and Ace stayed with the herd and the packhorses. Jeremy commented to Alice on her grandfather’s intricate knowledge of every rise and fall of the land, and his ability to predict where the cattle would be found. He was also impressed by the Bennet sisters and the way in which they performed their role as scouts.
The first night’s camp was up a deep gully. As they rode towards it, Alice looked with fondness at the familiar spot. There was no hut or yard here but they could push the cattle up to the head of the gorge where water seeped out of the hill most of the year. They set up camp below the cattle, effectively holding the mob in the enclosure made by the steep rock sides. Alice strung a rope high between two trees and tied Rita to a ring attached to it. This allowed her to walk freely along the length of the rope and reach just low enough to graze without getting tangled. Alice ‘nightlined’ one of the ponies in the same way, then turned the other horses loose. They wasted no time dropping their heads to crop the sweet untouched clumps of kangaroo grass.
Jeremy, who had built a fire and was collecting some bigger timber, stopped and looked at Rita on the nightline. ‘Did my nag draw the short straw?’ he asked Alice.
‘She’s the boss horse,’ Alice explained. ‘As long as she’s here the others won’t try to go anywhere.’
Sam looked up from where he was attempting to open a tin with a rusty tin opener and added, ‘Mares are a problem if brumbies are about. Stallions can lure them away. They have no use for geldings. Usually kill them.’
Jeremy nodded. ‘Dad lost one of his best mares that way when I was a kid. She was spelling in one of the back paddocks and she went off with some brumbies that’d broken the fence during the dry to get to water. He’s still looking for her.’ He poked Alice in the shoulder with a stick. ‘See, Ali, even lady horses like a bit of rough stuff.’ He trailed off to find more wood.
Sam shook his head in disgust and went back to his tin.
After a few nights, the smell of camp-fire smoke had permeated all their clothes and gear. Alice loved it. It was the special aroma of the bush run. As night came on, they sat around the fire and talked in soft voices. Alice had always noticed that her grandfather spoke more by the fire on the bush run than anywhere else.
On the first night, Jeremy had produced a flask of rum, swigged on it, sat back and sighed, ‘This is the life.’ But when no one would share it with him he’d put it away, complaining that it was no fun drinking alone.
On three of the nights they slept in the rustic log huts, herding the cattle into the rickety old holding yards. Alice spent some time alone in her favourite hut. It was a gum slab construction, with a tiny fireplace protruding from one end and a rusty tin roof. Carved into the walls and beams were old initials and words that she traced with her finger. Then she noticed to her surprise some brand-new carvings, and on inspection discovered Jeremy’s and her own initials, etched on either side of a love heart. Despite the silliness of the joke, Alice felt goose bumps rise on her skin at the sight of it.
The fourth hut and yards had burned down, so that night and the next, they took it in turns to watch the cattle.
They had mostly fine weather, warm by day and cool by evening. Alice loved listening to the noises of the night: the throbbing song of the crickets and the double hooting note of the mopoke owl, the whirring and screech of bats and the hurrying rustles of the tiny night creatures as they bustled on their way. She felt completely safe and satisfied with the companionship of all the life forces around her and the warmth of the dogs’ vibrant little bodies pressed against her. The ever-present munching of the horses in the dark was like a lullaby to Alice, and it was with this sound that she always gave herself up to sleep.
At dawn, the first bird call would slice through the darkness and chill of fallen dew. At this signal, Alice would get up and walk a little distance from the slumbering forms of Jeremy and Sam, and watch for a few minutes as the stars changed shift with the first glow of light in the east. Then she’d share in the exultation of all the singing feathered creatures as they exploded with the joy of the new day.
But then it would be a buzz of activity, rolling swags, stoking up the coals for breakfast tea, saddling the horses and loading up the ponies. By day the bush was full of life as well – they saw kangaroos, wallabies, shuffling echidnas and even the odd koala. Alice revelled in the smells and sounds around her as they travelled the familiar route. The bauhinias were covered in reddish-brown pods that contrasted with the bright splashes of white and pink made by the Major Mitchell cockatoos. Every now and then, one of the riders would intrude into the middle of an extended family of zebra finches gossiping in a patch of long grass.
One day, while she was answering Lydia’s summons, Alice witnessed the capture of a wallaby by an enormous wedge-tailed eagle. It swooped out of nowhere and pounded the small marsupial with the weight of its wings to stun it. Then it picked up the immobilised creature in its talons and lifted off again. The sound of the bird’s almighty wings beating reached Alice where she watched. On another occasion, her grandfather pointed out a kookaburra with a wriggling snake in its beak; they heard the thud, thud of the snake’s body as the bird belted it on a branch.
It was Sam’s ritual to read aloud of an evening from Henry Lawson or Banjo Paterson. His quiet voice took on a mellow expressive quality, rising and falling with the pattern of the words. Jeremy complained at first, but Sam told him to count himself lucky that it wasn’t Jane Austen.
One night when Sam had just finished reading ‘The Ballad of the Drover’ by Henry Lawson, Jeremy commented disparagingly, ‘Must have been a bit depressed, that fella – the stuff he writes.’ He added, ‘Needed a good drink, I reckon.’
‘He was an alcoholic,’ Alice said wryly. ‘That’s why he died so young.’
‘Well, let’s have some more of Banjo then. This stuff’s getting me down.’
Alice and her grandfather looked at him with amusement. ‘Pa, I do believe King Jed is requesting some poetry.’
‘It’s not as if there are many alternatives out here,’ Jeremy chuckled good-naturedly.
A few times, when Sam was really relaxed, he produced an old dented harmonica and played some tunes. Alice found herself becoming teary as she listened to him. Looking at her grandfather in the firelight gave her a sense of time slipping away and of the preciousness of the days that they had left together.
‘Normally Ali sings,’ Sam explained to Jeremy on one of these occasions. ‘Voice like a nightingale. Don’t think she will with you here, though. Bit shy.’
‘You guessed right,’ Alice said in confirmation.
‘I sing when I’m tanked,’ Jeremy revealed. ‘Not sure how good I am, though. Anything seems good when you’ve got a few rums under your belt.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t ruin your delusions by letting you hear yourself sober,’ Alice suggested. Sam spluttered on the tea he was sipping and Jeremy feigned disappointment.
On the second-last night, Sam groaned as he sat down near the fire. ‘I’m getting too old for this sleeping-on-the-ground caper.’
Alice looked at him with concern as she handed out some plates of tuna, rice and surprise peas. ‘I’ll give your back a rub after tea,’ she promised.
‘Alice and I might have to come on our own next year then, what do ya reckon, Ali?’ Jeremy said enthusiastically. ‘You’ve taught me about Henry Lawson. I might teach you a thing or two next time.’
Alice knew it was a harmless jest and didn’t rise to the bait. But then she noticed the look on her grandfather’s face.
‘You shut your smutty trap, boy!’ the old man growled, in a voice so unlike his own that Alice jumped in surprise. For the first time she could recall, Jeremy looked chastened.
Then, less aggressively, Sam added, ‘Sometimes you go too far with your rot, son.’
As usual, it was always with a sense of sadness that they returned to everyday life two days later. The days of the bush run always seemed somehow enchanted: for a little while the riders would step out of ordinary time and join with the scores of other bush travellers who had ever wandered the vastness and slept under the stars. The ordinary worries of everyday life seemed to fade to insignificance beside both the tiny and the immense rhythms of nature.