MY FAITHFUL FRIEND
The year was 1942. Japan had just dropped its first load of bombs on Darwin, and my mother decided that her very spoilt ten-year-old daughter should be sent as far away from the foreshores of Sydney as possible. A distant aunt who lived in a town called Oberon offered to have me. This is how I was introduced to the mountain ponies, or Brumbies as they are called today.
Unlike the beautiful sleek racehorses in my father’s stables, these horses were hardy working horses able to travel from dawn to dusk over rugged terrain and mountainous country. During the cattle muster they seemed to know where a stray cow and her calf would be hiding and, with very little effort from the rider, would bring them back to the herd.
To this day I remember my first introduction to the Brumby that was to become my faithful friend during my stay on the property. I stood and waited while the owner’s son brought up a shaggy pony. I felt insulted as this horse had never seen a grooming brush and, with head hanging, looked as though he would go to sleep on his feet. As I took the reins and put my foot in the stirrup I felt his body tense, which gave me a warning to expect anything from him. As my leg went over his back and my foot slipped into the other stirrup his head came up—and so did the rest of his body to an almost vertical position. I slid down his back and landed in the dirt below. I could hear the laughter coming from the mustering crew who had gathered to see the fun. Apparently, as I later learnt, this particular pony liked to try out this act on new unsuspecting riders.
But neither the mustering crew nor the pony was going to get the better of me. The pony was standing not far off, once again looking docile—but he didn’t fool me this time. I picked myself up, walked over to him, took the reins firmly in my hand and mounted him, this time making sure he was on a tight rein. Success! He trotted around the enclosure and we became firm friends. I learnt that his name was Trigger. I did not know then that I would thank this horse for saving my life a couple of times in the days that followed on the muster. On one occasion, Trigger taught me the hard way never to shelter under a tree during a thunderstorm. He dumped me unceremoniously onto the ground, just as lightning hit the big gum tree I had tried to shelter under!
These days, each time I drive to town I pass a property with a large display board. The message on it in reads: ‘Save the Brumbies’. It always makes me wonder why anyone would want to destroy these beautiful animals whose only crime is that modern technology has replaced them. Now that today’s cattlemen have helicopters and all the other ways available to muster, the bush pony has lost his usefulness and man has decided that they have to go because of damage to the environment. Why this is suddenly happening when to my knowledge they have lived in their surrounds for a hundred years, I will never understand. Just think, the great poet Banjo Paterson would never have written The Man from Snowy River if there had been no bush horses.
Image 16: A young Brumby struts his stuff.
Image 17: Karen and Boomer—from the bush to show ring champion.