My Droving Days: Life on the Long Paddock

By Peter Moore and Shirley Moore

Peter Moore left the city behind in 1952 to become part of a dying breed—a long distance drover. In My Droving Days we follow his progress through the 1950s as he rubs shoulders with the larger-than-life characters—and their dogs and horses—who trekked along the outback stock routes of western Queensland and New South Wales. Meet the world's worst cattle dog and the station hand, Charlie, who blows a laden outside toilet (and its contents) sky high; thrill to the high drama of a night rush (stampede); catch a poddy dodger in the act and live to tell the tale; literally get caught by a beast's horns; take on a brown snake while collecting wild duck eggs; or shoot a few kangaroos to feed the 27 dogs in the team. My Droving Days captures the real taste of the outback and the vanishing world of the overlanders, bulldust and all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Unwin
• Release date: Aug 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781742699998

Peter Moore

Peter Moore is an English writer, historian and lecturer. He is the author of Endeavour (2018) and The Weather Experiment (2015), which were both Sunday Times bestsellers in the United Kingdom. The Weather Experiment was also chosen as one of the New York Times 100 Notable Books of 2015. He teaches at the University of Oxford, has lectured internationally on eighteenth century history, and hosts a history podcast called Travels Through Time.

Book preview

MY

DROVING

DAYS

MY

DROVING

DAYS

Life on the long paddock

PETER MOORE

& SHIRLEY MOORE

First published in 2012

Copyright © Peter Moore and Shirley Moore 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

from the National Library of Australia

www.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 74237 987 6

Maps by Darian Causby

Set in 11/15 pt Bembo by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Contents

Prologue

1. Heading for the bush

2. No hard feelings, mate!

3. Camped on the Barwon River

4. Charlie

5. Pig attack

6. Food poisoning

7. Horse-tailing

8. First time droving cattle

9. Accidents happen

10. The drover’s wife

11. Slim’s fight

12. Lost

13. Red dog for sale

14. Another day on the road

15. Colourful characters

16. Clay-pigeon shoot

17. A mob spooked

18. Fencing at Weilmoringle

19. New rodeo yards

20. Kangaroo chaos

21. Bourke rodeo

22. Bore water scourers

23. Cutting, branding, mustering, then back on the road

24. Droving sheep for the first time

25. Lamb chops

26. A favourite dog dies

27. Killer dog

28. Treasure in a tin

29. Leaving Mud-Map and meeting Mighty Mouse

30. Harry Bradley—sheep drover

31. Back droving cattle

32. A hospital stay

33. My first dust storm

Epilogue

Prologue

I was born in 1931 in the Sydney suburb of Balgowlah, on the northern beaches, the third of four children. I left school at fifteen, and to please my mother I signed up for a five-year apprenticeship as a pastycook and decorator, working at Jasper’s Cake Shop at No. 1, The Corso, Manly.

At eighteen I got my motorbike licence and bought my first bike—a Norton ES2 500 cc with telescopic forks. My brother had a maroon Triumph Speed Twin, and between them, my other mates—Alan, Laurie, Alva, Ken, Don, Viney and Morrie—had a Norton Dominator Twin, HRD 1300 cc, Matchless, AJS, Hunter Aereal and 1012 Harley Davison. Our favourite meeting place was at the end of the Corso at North Steyne. We all wore leather jackets and thought we were the bee’s knees. Being young and fearless we all loved to race from Seaforth along Wakehurst Parkway to the ‘blinking light intersection’.

Despite this occasional excitement I needed a change from the daily routine of city life. I worked a six-day week, starting every day at 5.30 a.m. and working for eight hours. I could never go out with my mates on a Friday night because that night I also started work at 11.30 p.m. and worked all night. It was hard to sleep when I wasn’t working, which had led to rows in the family.Working in a cake shop around Easter time could be up to 60 or 70 hours a week. I never got paid overtime.

After six years working in the cake shop I’d had enough and told my parents I was going bush, to get away from the rat-race. My mother cried and my father said, ‘Don’t come back here saying you haven’t got a job. You made your bed, then you can lie in it.’

‘Right Dad. I’ll prove you wrong.’

I gave the boss notice and left my life as I knew it behind, determined to make a new start for myself.

At twenty-one I headed towards the town of Brewarrina. It was 1952 and two of my schoolmates, Kevin and Brian, who were cousins, were working on Hastings Station as station hands. Leaving the beaches and my old life behind, I rode along the tarred highway. After Dubbo most of the road was red gravel. I’d made up my mind to get a job as soon as I could on the way to Queensland. I knew next to nothing about riding horses, except the ones my mate Addin Brady and I had ridden bareback on the Brady family dairy in Balgowlah. I knew even less about the real bush—all I knew was I wanted to experience a drover’s life. I spent the next five years in outback New South Wales and Queensland, first as a rouseabout in a shearing shed, then as a station hand, labourer, fencer, and finally as a drover, droving cattle and sheep.

I had a taste of working with cattle in the company of a great bloke who had been a drover all his life and was a legend in his own lifetime. Martin Jack was only about twelve months older than me but knew everything about the bush, whereas I was a green kid from Sydney who had to learn everything from scratch. Eventually I did learn, and Martin became a good mate.

I’m eighty-one now but the memories of my droving days are as clear to me now as they would be if they were only yesterday. I know I was fortunate to have had that experience in my younger life, and I have never regretted going bush because I met so many great country characters and larrikins.

When I at last came back to the city in 1956 because the droving work had dried up, and because I’d had an accident on my bike that had landed me in hospital for quite a while, I met my wife, Shirley, and together we had a family.

We used to spend our holidays camping with our children out on the Darling River and many of the places where I’d spent time droving.When there were just the two of us sitting around the camp fire at night I would tell Shirley about my droving experiences and she would tape them. She started writing them down, and this book is the result. I hope others get as much enjoyment from the stories of my experiences when I was droving as I did living them.

1

Heading for the bush

It was 1952, and a glorious January morning, when I left the family home at Hope Street, Balgowlah, a northern beaches suburb of Sydney. I strapped my gear onto my bike, a Norton 500. My father was nowhere to be seen now that I was ready to leave. I’d had enough of rowing with my father over speeding fines and other silly things. I was off to the bush.

I kissed and hugged my mum and my two sisters, Robin who is three years younger than me and Mary who is four years older. I told them to cheer up and that I’d write as soon as I could. My baby sister Robin cried as she hugged me. I knew I’d miss all the good times we’d had when I took her for a burl on my bike.Wal, my brother, who was seven years older than me, wished me well, saying, ‘Stay out of trouble.’

With a quick wave I rode away from the only home I’d known for the past twenty-one years. In one way I felt sad—but also as excited as a cat with two tails. I hoped my new life would be full of adventure, like the characters I had so often read about in stories by Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson.

I didn’t really know what I was in for.

Taking things slowly, I kept to the speed limit, knowing I couldn’t afford any more speeding fines that caused trouble with the police. Two of my mates, cousins Kevin Pearce and Brian Kelly, had recently moved up to Brewarrina, to Hastings Station, where Brian now worked. They didn’t know I was coming. The three of us had all grown up on the same street in Balgowlah, so I decided to look them up before doing anything else. Brian Kelly would be able to advise me where to go and what to do. My immediate plan was to head for Brewarrina, Bourke and Cunnamulla, then up into Central Queensland—or else to ride until I ran out of money for petrol.

After leaving the northern beaches and the suburbs behind I headed over the Blue Mountains, riding though small towns until I finally reached Bathurst, where I pulled up on the side of the road and rolled a smoke. I remembered the many times I’d come here to go to the Bathurst races with my brother Wal and mate Laurie Evans. It was always exciting watching different bikes tear around the track. I only watched and had never raced in a race—I only raced where I wasn’t supposed to. The last time I’d been to Bathurst was also the last time I’d got booked for speeding. It’s still as fresh as if it happened yesterday.

I had pulled my balaclava over my sandy hair and had slid my hands into a pair of leather gloves. Over the din of the idling bikes I had yelled out, ‘I’ll take the lead.’ Wal followed on his Triumph Speed Twin and so did Laurie on a Norton Dominator.

Leaving Bathurst I had slowed to the restricted speed, doing everything to the book. Once past the unrestricted sign I immediately opened up, gaining speed, faster and faster still. The speedometer climbed to over 140 kilometres per hour along the straight. My adrenaline pumped; there was nothing in front of me except the wind roaring past, and only my goggles kept my eyes from watering. Suddenly I heard a Speed Twin’s motor coming up behind me, purring, gaining ground. I felt a surge of excitement—my brother was going to race me. With the Triumph breathing down my neck and closing in fast I watched the needle shoot up to over 160 kilometres per hour, knowing full well I’d only be able to hold the lead for a few minutes. I floored the Norton.

The noise of the bikes almost drowned out the sound of the siren. I throttled back quickly, almost losing control of my bike as the Speed Twin drew level. The bludger waved his arm and mouthed the words ‘Pull over.’ Jesus Christ, I cursed to myself, I’m in shit-street again.

It took me nearly half a kilometre to come to a complete stop beside the highway. I stayed seated on my bike and watched the copper’s approach on his Triumph. The sight of a pig always made me boil. The uniformed constable slowly removed his gloves before pompously strutting towards me. The only thing missing is the bloody swastika, I thought.

‘May I see your licence, Sir?’ he said when he arrived next to me.

‘What’s the trouble Constable? I’ve done nothing wrong, I’m in a unrestricted area.’

‘You came through a built-up area at a speed of over thirty miles an hour.’

‘Fuckin’ bullshit! I didn’t.’

‘Are you disputing what I saw, Sir?’ he said as he skimmed his eyes across my licence.

‘Yes I am.’

‘Well, prove otherwise.’

‘No worries.You can verify things with my brother; he’ll be along in a minute.’

‘It won’t make a scrape of difference because it’s my word against yours in a court of law. I’ll beat you anytime.’ Then he handed me a ticket. I exploded. ‘You’re a typical fuckin’ copper. You’d arrest your own mother.’

‘I wouldn’t go any further, Sir,’ he cautioned, then added, ‘On your way.’

When my brother and Laurie arrived they asked, ‘Didn’t you see him hiding off the road near the signpost?’

‘No, Wal, I thought it was you wanting to race.’

‘Too late to worry now, Pete.’ Laurie had grinned. ‘Your father is going to hit the bloody roof.’ And he had been right. The row resulting from that day was one of the reasons I had decided to go bush. I finished my smoke and my moment of reminiscence and got back on the road.

On the road to Orange a couple of other bikers overtook me. Later on I caught up with them in the local and ended up drinking too much beer. That night I found a spot not far from the pub and went to sleep beside my bike.

I woke early the next day and continued my journey.The closer I got to Hastings Station, the flatter the landscape became. After travelling more than 600 kilometres, I finally arrived at Hastings. There wasn’t a cloud in sight overhead, nothing but blue skies. It felt to me like it was well over 38°C as I rode my Norton up to the homestead. My mate Brian, who was a station hand, introduced me to Ted Pearce, Kevin’s father, who was the manager of the property. He had lived there since divorcing Kevin’s mum who lived with her sister, Brian’s mum. Later, over a few beers, I filled them in on the goings on in Sydney since Brian had left twelve months before. I was also keen to learn more about what Brian was doing on Hastings Station.

‘How many sheep do you run, Ted?’

‘About 164 000 head—or two sheep to the acre.’

‘That’s a lot of sheep. Must be a large station.’

‘You could say that, Pete. The property’s 33 000 hectares.’

Finally we all turned in for the night. I bunked down on the verandah, where the mosquitoes had a field day, peppering me all night.

Next morning, I ate the biggest breakfast I’d eaten for a long time, and Brian explained that I should get in touch with the stock and station agent in Brewarrina about securing a job as they didn’t have anything for me at Hastings. I thanked Ted for his hospitality, shook his calloused hand and kicked over my bike.

‘One piece of advice, Peter—just make sure you keep to the middle of the track and don’t go off where the water is shallow, or you won’t get out. The floodwaters from the Bogan River are still receding, and even though in some places beside the roadway it’s only twelve inches deep . . . it’s deadly!’

I waved to Brian and left, roaring off down the drive.

Things all happened about fifteen minutes after leaving him. The track snaked around the watercourse leftover from the floodwaters and at one point I could see the road reappear, only about 15 metres away. ‘The water looks pretty shallow,’ I muttered to myself. ‘She’ll be okay. I’ll get through that, no trouble, and I’ll save time.’ I carefully eased the bike off the rough track into the shallows, but without warning the front wheel sank, bogged up to the telescopic forks. ‘Bloody hell.’ I cursed, particularly when I didn’t fare any better as I slipped off, sinking immediately up to my knees in pure black mud. ‘Damn!’

Heaving and pulling I tried to drag the Norton free. Several times I stopped, panting and gasping for breath. The mud clung to the frame, not wanting to part with its prize. The bike wouldn’t budge. Defeated and exhausted, I just stood there covered in mud like a battered fish, shivering with the cold. How could I have been so thickheaded? Why hadn’t I listened? Now, even before I reached town I was in strife. Christ, what a bloody fool I was. What was I going to do? Then, as I stood wrestling with the problem, I heard a vehicle approaching from the direction of the homestead. And when I realised it was Brian and Ted it added further to my embarrassment. They both had grins like split watermelons.

‘Didn’t I warn you not to leave the track? I just knew you’d do this—I just knew it. You know-all city pricks are all the bloody same,’ chuckled Ted. To both of them it was hilarious. Foolish as I felt, I tried to laugh it off. ‘She’ll be right!’

With Brian’s help we attached a heavy rope to the bike’s frame, tying the other end to the bumper of the 3-ton Bedford truck. Reversing gradually, Ted slowly hauled the Norton from the mud’s clutches. After managing to scrape the majority of the mud from the bike, I was able to kick the motor into life. Grateful, I thanked them again. This time I slowly inched my way down the black-soil track. Several times the motor coughed and sputtered, but it kept going. Well, I thought, I’ve learned my first lesson: always do what a bushman tells you!

•

Brewarrina was about 50 kilometres away from Hastings Station. It reminded me of a sleepy little town from an old movie as I cruised up the main drag like a tourist. There was no hustle and bustle of a large city. Here people walked at a normal pace without rushing, which was so different even from the Sydney of 1950s. There was a hospital, a police station, a post office and three pubs. That was all; not what I was used to! My first priority was to find somewhere to stop the night. I rode past the Barwon, then the Middle Pub, stopping outside the one at the end, the Royal, which looked okay and Brian had recommended. I ambled into the public bar.

‘What’ll it be?’ the redheaded publican asked. I noticed a large poster on the wall that advertised Tooheys Country Special New. I pointed. ‘I’ll have one of those,’ I said, dropping a ten-shilling note onto the bar.

‘Just passing through or stopping, mate?’

‘Not sure yet.’

The publican introduced himself as Blue and offered his hand. I reciprocated. The first creamy middy of beer hardly touched the sides of my dry throat. I ordered another. The pub was cool and the beer terrific. What more could a bloke want? I thought. I helped myself to some peanuts that were on the bar for the patrons. The pub’s atmosphere was enhanced by the many curiosities adorning the walls.There were old marble bottles, whips, kerosene lamps and old tattered posters advertising beers that Blue had collected over the years.The plaited bullwhip caught my eye. I ordered another drink. ‘Is the whip for sale?’

‘Nope.A drover from up Queensland way left it in lieu of his bill, said he’d be back for it.’ One day, I thought, I’m going to have one just like it.

With the afternoon came the sweltering heat, which soon saw a few of the locals arriving to down a few ales. After observing that most of them drank from smaller glasses I asked Blue the reason. ‘Well, mate, if you want your beer to stay cold longer it’s best to have a smaller glass.’

‘Right then, I’ll do that, thanks Blue.’

Some blokes allowed their dogs to follow them inside the pub, where the animals casually stretched out on the concrete floor. The dogs knew the coolest spot to sleep. With interest, I watched as most of the patrons simply stepped over the sleeping canines. One old bloke, however, who was well primed, caught his foot on the blue heeler nearest the door and fell heavily onto the poor unsuspecting dog. It was a toss up who caused the most commotion, between the cranky drunk shouting abuse and the startled dog tearing out of the pub. The heeler’s owner left hurriedly to retrieve his dog. One of the locals helped the old man to his feet. He continued to curse everyone before he staggered over to a chair, collapsing like a sack of potatoes. His head began to droop and his arms sagged forward, causing his body to slump onto the table, corpsed. He was out like a light.The show was over, so I finished my beer before the six o’clock closing time. ‘Any chance I could get a room for the night?’

‘Sure, mate, I’ll get the wife to fix you up.’ Blue gave her a yell.

She emerged from the kitchen and fluttered like a butterfly up to the bar. For a plump woman who measured two pick-handles across the backside, she was rather light on her feet. My