BACK IN THE DAY
I grew up in the Hunter Valley as my father did and his father before him. My family has been in this area for at least 150 years. My early years were spent listening to the stories my dad, Wal, and his brother-in-law would tell about catching Brumbies with their mates, the Murrell brothers from Girvan. In those days you had to ride to where you were going and return home the same day. Dad was an excellent horseman and I take my hat off to him. Even when he got on in years, it would still take a good man to keep up with him and his horse Radish in the bush. Any man could ride for days out there and not see one Brumby, but my dad could always pick where they were, depending on the day and season.
Dad taught me how to ride from the day I could walk. My first pony was a Brumby he had caught named Tiny. I was about three years old and too young to remember much of Tiny except the day she tested a young fella’s strength by taking me for a good run! Tiny had a few foals and I soon outgrew her and graduated to one of her fillies—Trinket. Trinket was a great little pony and every spare minute I had we were off on adventures, usually over the river to visit my grandparents. Dad would always warn me when the river was up and the best spots to cross, but Trinket would always get me out of trouble because she was sure-footed and knew where to go.
By my mid teens I had grown too tall for Trinket and she was sold to a family in Stroud for £60. That was big money for a horse back then. Not long after she was sold, a big horse sports day was announced in town and there was some prize money and ribbons up for grabs. I knew if any pony could do it, it was Trinket. I asked her new family if I could borrow her for the day to compete and they happily agreed. I cantered her the few miles to town and won every event that day! Trinket’s new family got to keep all of her ribbons and I was able to keep the couple of pounds prize money.
As I grew older, Dad continued to teach me how to ride in the bush, usually on a young horse, but Dad was always happy to swap with me so I could ride Radish when we spotted some Brumbies. Radish was a great old horse and quite a character. If he didn’t want to be caught that day he would just keep leaping fences from a standstill until you got the message that it wasn’t a good day for riding. Old Radish was a great horse for my dad and me, and he eventually taught my own kids how to ride. He was also sensible in the bush. Radish wasn’t a Brumby but he was just as smart and could scent them out. When we got alongside them, he would nudge them back for us so we could get a rope on them.
Back in my dad’s day, and mine, we didn’t have the luxury of fancy yards, radio collars and cameras. It was all done with good horses and good men. Catching Brumbies back then wasn’t for the faint-hearted; you had to ride hard and smart. Your horse had to have a good temperament, good balance and good bush sense. Those that were too high-spirited would get hurt. Chasing Brumbies back in those days wasn’t about the thrill of the chase like it is now, with all kinds of people going out there for no reason and not caring how they do it or what happens to the horses. Sure there was the sense of adventure, but we understood even then that the horses had to be managed and there were some good horses out there too that we could make a home for.
One day I was on old Radish when my good mate Doug and I caught a beautiful chestnut Brumby mare. When we got home Dad said, ‘Take that horse back where you got her from. Someone will be looking for her!’ She was so nice that Dad thought we had rustled her from someone’s paddock! Doug and I would avoid the mares with little foals in tow as they could easily become separated and orphaned without their mothers. One found itself away from its mum accidentally so I took the little foal home and my mum was happy to ‘poddy’ it until it was able to be weaned.
The Brumbies lived in good scrub and it was best to find them on the flats below the mountains. They were as sure-footed as mountain goats in that country. Doug and I certainly had some funny days out there in the bush. Once, a mare had been caught in one of the yards and had been there for a couple of days in the pouring rain. We had no choice but to get her home. It was raining buckets and we had tried for a long time to load her on the float. The rubber floor had become soaked and slippery and maybe that mare just knew it was too dangerous and wouldn’t go in. We couldn’t just leave her so Doug gave her one slap on the rear and she leapt forward, slipped and came sliding straight through the front access door of the float! She got to her feet okay and we had to start all over again.
By the 1970s I was working on a property called Nerong Park and they decided something had to be done about the Brumbies on Mackays Island. The population had got too big and they wanted them gone. The island is named after the Mackay family and used to be a pastoral company back in the day. The island is a few thousand acres and surrounded by a lake on one side and a creek on the other. It was cut off from the mainland by a bog of quicksand that was so quick it would kill a stricken cow in seconds. A causeway was constructed to allow the logging trucks in for the timber and cattle and horses to be removed.
Image 3: Local men of Booral and Girvan pose for a photograph before riding out to catch some Brumbies.
Contractors had been called in to remove the Brumbies but they were unable to muster ten clever horses. Dad and I helped out a mate who took over the job and we had those Brumbies on the move pretty quickly and found ourselves chasing an old grey mare that had separated from the herd. She came out into a clearing where she spotted and met the rest of the mob, smashing into them head on. It was a tragic accident and sadly she broke her neck on impact. We had to put her down but thankfully we were able to safely remove the remainder of the Brumbies off the island. An old stallion tested our patience too, but we were able to get him roped and into the float. All of the Mackays Island horses were taken to the saleyard, and after all that trouble the stallion sold for just $5. There were a few good horses in that mob and they no doubt made fine riding horses too.
Around the same time, the Pacific Highway became a popular road for holidaymakers to the north coast. It was cut right through Brumby country but the government, National Parks and Wildlife Service, and the Department of Main Roads didn’t want to pay for expensive fences to keep the Brumbies off the roads to prevent collisions with the cars. On Christmas Eve one year, the boss sent me home early to start enjoying the festive season. Well, I got on my horse and headed out across the Pacific Highway with my old red dog and caught a young Brumby. The little horse was taught to lead off the saddle easily enough, but by the time we made it back to the highway the holiday traffic was bumper to bumper. We finally got a small break in traffic and started to cross when suddenly, halfway across the busy highway, the young Brumby laid down in the middle of the road! Before long the traffic was at a standstill and banked up for kilometres. Everyone was standing around waiting but I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her. Eventually she got to her feet and we made the journey home.
Over the years I came to know a lot of Brumbies. Being from the bush and living with them, I never wanted to see them get hurt. If you got them right and treated them right, then you never had a problem with them. It’s too bad the land the Brumbies live on keeps being sold off and subdivided. The couple of hundred Brumbies that were around have got down to only a few handfuls now. I live on what used to be my grandparents’ property and my young grandson, who is a good hand around the farm, is keen to know Brumby country. If I ever get to take him for a ride out there, it will bring back a lot of memories and maybe give him some too.
Image 4: A mob of Brumbies run for their lives across floodplains in the Northern Territory.
Image 5: Rescued from a muster in the Northern Territory with five other foals, Cobar now lives in Tasmania at a loving home.