Before the Kimberley, before the goldfields, before the hard miles and harder men, Paul 'Woody' Allen was just a young bloke with a restless streak.
School never really grabbed him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it. It was more that his mind was somewhere else entirely. While others thought about classrooms and careers, Woody thought about horses, saddles, dogs, paddocks and the sort of life where a man earned his keep outdoors.
Every spare minute was spent chasing that feeling.
He wanted open country. He wanted responsibility. He wanted to test himself.
Like many young Australians before him, he felt the pull of something bigger than suburban routine.
He just didn’t know how it would begin...
“Ever since I can remember he's wanted to go to the hottest part of Australia and chase cows on a horse.”
My Mother was pointing out that regardless of the decision reached around the dining table this evening, eventually I was going to go.
I was sixteen years old, and sitting around the table was my Mum and Dad, an elderly gentleman Geoff Jolly and his wife Dorothy. Probably my four favourite people in the world, I looked up to them all for different reasons.
Since I was very young, like a lot of boys I wanted to be a cowboy. But it was more than that, it wasn't the gunfight in the main street or the circling of wagons fending off an Indian attack that attracted me. It was a romantic notion of long cattle drives, spending all day in the saddle then sleeping under the stars. The heat of the day and the cool of the night. A rotating night watch, quietly soothing the herd, just me and my horse. I was drawn deeply to horses, and would learn that I had an affinity with them that I now think stemmed from empathy, being able to view what was happening from their point of view. But some hard lessons were ahead, this youngster had a lot to learn.
Close to my fourteenth birthday my Father, ever supportive of his children's interests, bought me a horse. A young three year old filly, she was tall, black with a white star on her forehead, and two opposite white socks. He had bought her from a local stock horse breeder. To me she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. However, not knowing much about horses, he had bought me an unbroken three year old filly. This posed a problem, but surely not one that couldn't be overcome. When I told my father he simply turned up the next day with a book he had picked up on his way home from work, it outlined step by step how to break in a horse. A combination of optimism, ignorance and naivety gave me confidence I'd be riding the filly through the mountain range that backed onto our place soon.
The family property had about ten acres of usable pasture, roughly fenced. The rest was rugged foothills leading into the ranges. Growing up I had covered every inch of it and beyond with my dog Beau, he was a black Labrador Cross that my father had found up in the range tied to a tree, and left to starve. We became best of friends.
There were steep gorges, an eighty foot cliff, caves, an old mine shaft, and a central creek that only flowed after heavy spring rains. Wattle trees lined the start of the hills, giving way to taller Messmates and Iron Barks populating the slopes. 'Black Boy' Grass trees grew up near the top in pockets, with heavy kangaroo tail flowers that sometimes reached twenty-five feet up into the sky. Snakes and kangaroos were plenty, but rabbits were scarce which is what Beau and I were typically hunting with bow and arrow, or air rifle.
My Mother was terrified of me having a gun, but the one thing that terrified her more was snakes around the house. There weren't any non-venomous snakes where we lived and our parents had instilled a healthy fear of them into all us kids; my older brother, younger sister and me. As far as we were concerned they were all killers, and we might even die if one of them looked at us from close range!
So to bolster my request on my 12th birthday for an air rifle I suggested I might be able to shoot any snakes that came around the house.
Beau and I would hunt all day through the hills with my new rifle, usually only to regale my parents with stories at evening dinner of 'the one we nearly got' or 'just missed'. But bright and early we'd be up and head off again the next day.
I had seen hunters on TV walking with their shot guns broken and hanging in the crook of their arm, when their quarry appeared they would close it, aim, and fire in one smooth motion. My air rifle broke in the same fashion but I would have to pull it down hard against a strong internal spring until it clicked, then it would hang limp and the pressure would be coiled inside ready to launch the pellet down the barrel once it was closed again.
So I would carry it the same as the TV hunters, hanging broken in the crook of my arm. I practised closing, aiming and firing. Trying to get smooth, and fast, and I reckoned I was getting pretty good. Until one day I was climbing through a fence and my jacket got caught on the trigger, the barrel flew up, catapulted by the coiled spring and hit me in the face, fucken near broke my nose! That's when I learned that air rifles are not like shotguns.
Then it happened; on a hot summers afternoon my mother hastily corralled all us kids inside with stern instructions of “Do not go outside!”. A prospect we didn't relish as the kitchen had a wood combustion stove that ran all day and all night, to cook on and heat the water for the house, as a consequence it was usually hotter inside than outside. But we knew by the tone in her voice that this was no time to debate the issue. She left us in the lounge room and headed to the back of the house, I found her looking out through the floor to ceiling windows with a worried expression on her face. My mother was a keen gardener and she had terraced the steep slope behind our house that had been cut into the hill. There were several levels of garden beds and she had built each step up with rocks from the creek.
“Whats wrong Mum?” I asked.
“Snake” she replied without turning her head, she was scanning the rock garden beds.
With that one word I got a hollow feeling in my stomach and I felt my heart start to beat a little harder. I swallowed hard then looked up at her, “I could shoot it Mum?”
Her eyes stopped and she turned to look at me, put both hands on my shoulders and said,”Do you think you could?”
She was asking me straight out, no time for bullshit, but I lied anyway, “Yep” I replied holding her gaze.
“Go and get your gun” she said.
I scampered off to my room and returned with my rifle in hand and a box of pellets.
“I'm coming out with you,” she said, “and if I tell you to get back inside you do what I say quickly, OK?”
“OK Mum,” I said as I cocked my rifle and loaded a pellet.
She opened the back door and we gingerly moved out onto the back verandah, eyes darting left and right looking for the killer serpent. Mum was holding onto my sleeve ready to pull or shove me in any direction. My heart was pounding now and I tried to control my hands so she wouldn't see them shaking. All sorts of things were racing through my mind, my rifle was single shot, so once I'd fired it I had to break it, re-cock the mechanism, load another pellet then close it before I could shoot again. What if I missed with the first shot and the angry snake charged and killed us both before I could reload? And I'd lied about all those near misses over evenings dinners, I'd missed by a mile, I was a terrible shot!
Then suddenly we saw it, jet black, moving with silent ease through the rocks, it was an adult, six foot long with a small evil head and a tongue flicking in and out tasting the air. Quietly we moved a step to the right to give me a better angle, Mum tugging at my sleeve. I had to hit it in the head, a pellet in the body would only make it angry, but I had to wait for the perfect time, when it's head was showing between the rocks. As I raised my rifle and took aim the snake sensed we were there and starting moving quicker. Was it coming towards us? I couldn't tell, and I could feel Mum tighten her grip on my sleeve. Then it's head appeared between two rocks and it seemed to pause, looking at us. I took aim and pulled the trigger just as it's head disappeared behind the rocks again, but I'd shot high, somehow the snake stuck his head up out of the rocks again as I fired....right in front of my pellet! It went straight through his head and the snake fell limp down over the rocks.
“You got it!” Mum exclaimed clapping her hands together in disbelief.
I couldn't say anything, I just stood there. 'How can that be?' I thought to myself, 'I can't even hit a tin can and I just shot a moving snake through the head!'
“Yep!” I said sticking my chest out.
I was so proud and privately embarrassed when Mum told my Dad that night about his crack shot son.
I don't think I ever again hit what I was aiming at with my air rifle, or anything else for that matter, in fact years later I completely missed a Brown snake from ten feet away with a twelve gauge shotgun. But it didn't matter, I lived off that one shot for years!
Dad would happily tell anyone who would listen about my feat of marksmanship, and every time he told the story the distance of the shot got longer. The legend grew and it wasn't long before I was invited to join two local lads on a night of spotlighting for rabbits, where a good hand with a gun was always needed. But an air-rifle wasn't the right weapon for spotlighting, so through a friend of a friend my father (keen to nurture his sons new found talent) procured a twelve gauge, full choke, single shot shotgun and a few boxes of shells. It was the biggest gun I had ever seen and just holding it made me nervous. Beau and I set off into the hills rabbit hunting in preparation for the spotlighting. The shotgun kicked like a mule and first time I fired it (at a tree), it nearly dislocated my shoulder, it was so loud Beau took off with his tail between his legs and ran home, I didn't see him again for the rest of the day. But, I could walk with it hanging broken in the crook of my arm like the T.V. hunters.
The night arrived. Tim and Paul were cousins, born and bred farm boys. The sons of two brothers who were big landholders in the area, and like all big properties were locked in a constant battle to keep the rabbit population under control. Weekend nights were often spent spotlighting, but more than just a part of running the family property it was also a form of recreation for them, they enjoyed it and were very good at it. They had a dedicated ute for shooting, with a gun rack in the back and a bar wrapped in foam for resting your gun on while you aimed. A spotlight was mounted on the roof that could be controlled from inside the cab. I shook hands with them and we loaded our gear into the ute. They had 'under and over' shotguns that had two barrels, one on top of the other, and enough shells to fight a small war. Tim explained that there would be one of us driving, one controlling the spotlight and one shooting. They knew both properties well and where the rabbits would be, the idea was that we would drive to certain spots and stop, the spotlight would be turned on and the shooter would hit the rabbits that the spotlight could find. Then we'd drive a bit further to the next spot and the procedure was repeated.
I tried to look like I knew what I was doing and spent the early part of the evening on the spotlight. It was decided that as I didn't really know the property it was easier if the two of them drove because they knew where the fence lines and boundaries ran and where the gates were to get from one paddock to the next. So I stayed on the light as the two of them swapped between shooting and driving. Then it was my turn to shoot. I climbed into the back of the ute and loaded my twelve gauge. Paul got out to open a gate and Tim called through his window up to me explaining that there was a creek running down the south side of this paddock full of box-thorn that the rabbits made their warrens under, but they would come out at night across into the paddock for the sweet pasture. If they got back into the creek they were gone, so we were going to drive down along side the creek with the lights off to get in between the rabbits and the creek. Then we'd stop and turn the light on and pick off as many rabbits as we could before they made it to the sanctuary of the box-thorn. It was a dark night, only a slither of moon was in the sky, the lights of the ute went off and we were away. In the darkness the ute started bouncing along the alleged track, we were going faster now than we had before. I was almost getting bounced out and I struggled to stay on my feet, I was holding onto the bar with one hand and my heavy shotgun with the other. Still the old ute got faster, the cold air started to make my eyes water and I couldn't see a thing. Another bump launched me up into the air and I abandoned the idea of holding my gun and cradled it in my arms so I could hold on with both hands!
“Fuck me!” I spluttered, cold air tears streaming down my cheeks now.
With one final bounce the ute skidded to a halt, all the lights came on revealing a cloud of dust and rabbits darting across in front of us making a B-line for the creek, as my feet landed back down on the floor the gun went off in my arms scaring the shit out of me, and one poor rabbit in the far reaches of the spot light making a final leap into the creek was bowled over in mid stride by my wayward shot, tumbling him end over end dead.
The dust settled and the boys emerged from the cab excitedly.
“That was one of the best shots I've ever seen!” exclaimed Tim, “we were still moving!”
“Must have been eighty metres!” said Paul.
They were hoping to get more than just one rabbit from the dash down the creek but the assumed quality of the shot seemed to make up for the disappointment in numbers. I stayed on the back for a while with less than miraculous results, then suggested they shoot some more and I'd go back to the light.
My father relayed the story of the eighty meter shot bowling a rabbit in full flight to a friend who was a shooter.
“You'd better come duck shooting with us one morning,” said Gordon, “we can always use someone who can shoot!”
“Ok” I said feigning a smile, “that'd be great.”
At 2:30 am the three of us climbed into the station wagon, Gordon, his son Tod who was a few years older than me, and me. Loaded with shotguns, shells, waders, and plastic ducks we drove an hour and a half to the swamp. Gordon explained that the plastic ducks were decoys and placed out on the water in an attempt to convince ducks flying over that it was a safe place to come in to land. He told me that good duck shooters worked together, firing at specific times to keep the ducks over the swamp, bouncing them from one side to the other like a pin-ball. picking them off until the whole flock had been shot. 'Poor ducks I thought' but kept it to myself, good shooters don't think like that. When we got to the swamp there were other cars already parked sporadically around the place, we weren't aloud to use torches or make any noise. In the darkness we quietly put on our waders, mine were far too big for me and nearly came up to my armpits, I had to hold them up by squeezing my arms down on them or they'd fall down. We grabbed our guns and decoys and headed off into the swamp. Single file we followed Gordon into the reeds. The mud and water was freezing, my toes were going numb and I tried to stop my teeth from chattering for fear of making too much noise. After twenty minutes Gordon was happy with a spot and we were told to stay put while he went another fifteen meters and placed the decoys out on the water where they could be seen, then returned to us in the reeds. All we could do now was wait for daylight. It was only half an hour till daybreak but it seemed to take an eternity standing in the freezing knee deep water.
Unbeknown to us a middle aged Italian man, obviously an experienced hunter had moved with great stealth and taken up a position not far from us in the reeds. There was ten minutes of twilight, not dark but not yet light, and deathly quiet, then the first rays of sun shone through. With a blood curdling yell the Italian man leapt out of the reeds scaring the shit out of us, and in a fury of bullets from his pump action shotgun opened fire on our decoys. There were little pieces of plastic floating everywhere and Gordon launched into a tirade of abuse. The two were screaming at each other, Gordon in English and the man in Italian, but there seemed to be some common words like “Fucken Arsehole!” I thought they were going to shoot each other when suddenly they both stopped as some shadows crossed overhead, “Ducks! Shoot!” and they both started shooting up into the morning sky.
I looked up to see a flock of about twelve ducks heading straight for us.
“Paul shoot!” repeated Gordon.
I quickly stood up straight and with my feet square, a shoulder with apart, raised my twelve gauge up towards the sky, the ducks were almost directly overhead now and as I lifted my arms my waders promptly fell down, I aimed and pulled the trigger, the recoil knocked me clean off my feet and I fell backwards into the knee deep water. Instantly my waders filled with water and acted like a sea anchor holding me down, my head was under the water and I had my arms outstretched trying to keep my gun out of the water but I couldn't get up and I thought I was going to drown! Oblivious to my predicament the others in front of me were still shooting. In a last ditch effort and pure survival instinct, I thought 'Fuck it!' and stuck the barrel of my shotgun into the ground, packing it full of black mud and used it like a crutch to push myself up out of the water. Now on my knees, soaked from head to toe and covered in swamp mud, my gun was still stuck barrel first in the mud and I was gasping for air. Gordon had turned around having noticed I wasn't shooting and was staring at me with a confused look on his face, “What the fuck happened?” he said reloading his gun.
“I slipped over” I lied, embarrassed but happy to be alive.
“Well you can't fucken use that now” he said gesturing to my gun, “the barrel will be full of mud! You'll just have to wait and we'll shoot the next flock.”
For another hour we waited but no more ducks flew over, maybe the little pieces of plastic duck floating around on the water made them think twice about coming anywhere near us.
I waited for the hour in my waders, up to my armpits full of water like a fucken ice-block in a glass, and decided there and then that this would be the end of my shooting career. 'Good thing too' I thought 'I had started to believe my own bullshit, that I could actually shoot.'
Time to concentrate on my filly.
The book said I needed a yard to break in my filly, a round yard, and our property didn't have one. But we had trees up on the hills, and I had an axe. I stuck a peg in the ground in the middle of the valley, tied a rope to it and estimated the length I needed to reach from the centre of my round yard to the outside. Holding it taut I walked in a circle counting my steps, and scuffing my feet as I went, marking a circle on the ground. I then divided the total steps by ten which gave me equal length sides to my pentagon and I put a rock on the ground where each post would go. By my calculations I needed ten posts, and three rails for each gap which made forty. That was a lot of trees, I was gonna need some help!
I recruited my mate 'Skip' who lived nearby, and armed with a rope and an axe each we headed off up into the hills with Beau at our heels.
The straightest trees were up near the top, once we'd selected the tree we wanted we tag-teamed with our axes until we got it to fall over. We had trees falling into nearby trees getting hung up on precarious angles, and some falling the wrong way sending us scampering for our lives. Others would split right up the centre as they fell, and shoot backwards like a freight train. But we learned; we learned how to scarf a tree in relation to the canopy bias, to get it to fall the way we wanted. We learned to leave a hinge that would hold and give it the direction we wanted, but then snap as the scarf closed so it wouldn't split. After our first few attempts, sweat, and swinging until we couldn't feel our arms, we also learned the value of a sharp axe.
Once we had a tree on the ground we would cut the branches off and cut it into lengths to give us the posts. With a rope tied to a post each we then dragged them down the hill like mules into the valley below. At the yard site we then used the blunt end of our axes to knock the bark off. We were exhausted, we had the first two posts down at the yard site and we were spent. The drag was killing us, the posts were heavy, the bark was rough which was creating a lot of friction and digging into the ground, and we were trying to carry our axes with us so we wouldn't have to walk all the way up again to get them. There had to be an easier way. We tried making a harness for Beau who seemed to have limitless energy and get him to drag them down for us, but he wasn't having any of it and would just sit and look at us with a dumb expression on his face. We got in front and called him, patting our knees encouraging him to pull, eagerly he'd start towards us until he felt the lead pull tight against the log, “C'mon boy!” I encouraged. He looked back at the post and then at me as if to say “I can't I'm tied to this fucken log dumb-arse!” So we gave up on that.
Then we noticed as we knocked the bark off, the sap and moisture under the bark made them quite slippery.
We decided the next two we'd bark up on the hill, and then drag them down, might be easier and we wouldn't have to carry our axes with us!
It took some trial and error but we worked out a knot that wouldn't pull off the slippery posts, then we were ready. I was hoping the freshly barked logs would be noticeably easier to drag, otherwise I was going to have a hard time convincing Skip to hang around.
Once again with a log each we gave them a heave. They slid easily on the hard ground and took off down the hill gathering speed like a battering ram. In seconds we had tossed our ropes and were running for our lives ahead of the speeding logs. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beau joyfully bounding down the hill with us, tongue hanging out, oblivious to our impending doom. I looked across and saw Skip dive to the side as his log went crashing past him through the undergrowth. My legs were carrying me as fast as I dared on the steep downhill slope, awkwardly leaping over shrubs and fallen branches, gravity had taken over and it was all I could do to stay on my feet! My post was gaining on me and it was only that it crashed into the base of a tree that brought it to an abrupt halt and saved me from getting knocked arse over head!
Out of breath I struggled back up to Skip who was still lying on the ground gasping for air with a shocked look on his face, “Fuck me!” he exclaimed, and we both burst into laughter rolling around on the ground with Beau climbing all over us.
We had solved the problem of the arduous drag, so much so that we even attempted two logs each, and started all four careening down the hill, running the gauntlet trying to stay ahead of them to the valley below. But after some near misses decided one each was enough to tangle with.
At night we built a fire in the middle of the yard, and stayed up late drinking billy tea, smoking tree bark cigarettes and telling lies about girls. We slept in sleeping bags beside the fire, the night was really cold, but we didn't care, we were comfortably exhausted and slept like Roos on a hot day.
Skip helped for a few days, then a friend from Yarrawonga took his place. I had known Cam since I was very young, our parents were good friends and I'd occasionally spend school holidays at his place, or vice-versa. He was a country boy, and could ride pretty good. He had a buckskin pony named Sonny that he let me ride when I stayed. I think Sonny could tell I didn't know how to ride and would just carry me wherever Cam's horse would go. But to me, I was riding, the feeling was indescribable, and fuelled my yearning.
By the end of the week we had forty logs down in the valley, and traded our axes for a crow bar and shovel. The posts needed to be four foot in and eight foot out. The ground was hard, compacted, dry clay. To this day I curse the concrete clay on the family property, and every time I dig a post hole I swear it will be the last one I ever dig by hand!
One on the crowbar and the other emptying the loose dirt out of the hole with the shovel, we chiselled away half an inch at a time. Until finally we had reached our depth, one down nine to go. Two holes a day was all we could manage, and again spent nights around the fire laughing. Cam left me with ten holes four foot deep, vowing to return when I was to ride my filly.
The holidays were over and school then got in the way for a while. I'd spend my nights reading the book, over and over, trying to understand it. The man in the book used a kerosene tin as a step to get up onto the horse for the first time. Did I need to get one of them? We never used kerosene!
I figured I'd do without it. There were other things I'd have to make do without too, like a saddle. I didn't have one, and they were expensive.
The book talked about 'rough breaking', and 'conventional methods', and 'new approaches'. There was discussion on the psychology of horses, and quotes from horse trainers dating back 2000 years.
All of this was like Japanese to me as I had no experience or understanding of horse breaking and training, I didn't know what was conventional or what wasn't. I didn't even know how to ride! I wanted desperately to understand it and be able to absorb it. I assumed that something in book form undoubtedly contained some hard earned wisdom, or deep and elusive understanding of the subject, and that by nature the author must be an authority. But my eyes and my mind would glaze over as I read, I found myself confused and overwhelmed by the words, but drawn to the photos in the middle of the book. They were of a man handling an unbroken horse with a rope, touching it all over, then hanging over its back. I studied them, the horses position in relation to his handler, his stance and body language, I felt I could see what the horse was doing and why. His intent, and whether he was reacting or responding, or just tolerating. They fascinated me.
Over the coming weekends I put all the posts in the ground and rammed the earth tight around each one. I was excited to see my yard starting to take form. My father gave me an old brace and bit drill, and after burying the bit into the first post so deep it took me two hours to get it out, I learned to drill a little at a time. I drilled sixty holes, six in each post, my arms were ready to fall off. Then my father showed me how to hitch the rails on with fencing wire. For the last three I made loops with the wire and left them hanging from the posts on either side, so the rails could slip in and out. Finally it was done, “we've got ourselves a yard!” I said to Beau, he cocked his head to the side and wagged his tail at me.
My filly looked uneasy in the yard, defiant. She paced around, sniffing at the rails and the ground. There was a flat spot on one of the rails where I could balance my book, I wanted to have it on hand.
Step 1. I had to handle her all over, and teach her to lead.
I stepped in with my rope and managed to get it around her neck, I was as nervous as she was. I pulled and tugged at her just like the book said. But instead of facing up to me, then progressing to a step forward, she'd turn tail and drag me around my new yard (usually face first) when she got scared. As confused as each other, we battled on. Frequently I would stop to check if I'd missed something in the book, she wasn't doing anything she was supposed to! The filly would be on the far side of the yard catching her breath, head up high, sweat shining on her neck, ready for the next round.
What allegedly should have taken an hour and a half took the whole weekend, but eventually somehow we became friends. She let me approach her and realised I wasn't going to hurt her. I guess she figured it was a lot easier to stand and let me pat her, than dragging me for another lap.
Step 2. Mouthing.
The book said it was time to 'mouth her'. To do this I needed a long set of driving reins. Dad had an old set of harness in the shed that I dug out and pinched the reins off. They weren't ideal, a little shorter than they were supposed to be, but they would do the job.
Once I had the bridle on her I hooked the long reins onto the bit. The idea being I would walk behind her holding the reins and steer her in different directions as she walked, teaching her how to respond to the bit. Seemed simple enough, and looked fairly sedate in the book compared to our previous lesson, which appealed to me. But because the reins were short I was close behind her, and instead of walking she would take fright when she couldn't see me and lurch forward. When the reins touched her rump or hind legs she would kick out at them, and I'd duck and weave like a boxer as her hooves whizzed past my head. I couldn't get far enough away to stay out of reach.
I had spent the previous weekend getting her to face me and stand still, and now I was expecting her to walk away from me with me behind her. Even I could understand how confusing this must have been for her. But as before, together we eventually managed to work out our own version of the long reining, and she learned to give to the pressure on the bit and turn in the general direction I wanted her to.
Step 3. The first ride.
My filly was now quiet (ish), and mouthed (kinda). It wasn't what I had learned from my book, or an uncanny knack I had with horses, but more likely just the fact that we had spent so much time together over the weeks, and gotten to know each other working out our differences that forged a respect and bond between us. Horses are herd animals, they don't like to be alone, and now I had become part of her herd, we were friends. In our own way we had developed a vocabulary. A communication mix of sounds, hand and body gestures, and in some instances just a knowing that had developed through repetition.
It was time to ride my filly, and true to his word Cam had come down to offer support and words of encouragement.
We were up early and the Autumn morning was crisp and fresh. We yarded the filly, a routine she was familiar with now and I got in with her as Cam climbed up onto the top rail to sit and watch. After moving her around the yard she was eager to walk up to me and say hello. I touched her all over and hung over her back without any protest or fear from her, she was quiet and calm. She took the bridle without any fuss now and I hooked on the long reins. Awkwardly and being careful not to touch her hind legs, the two of us waltzed around the yard changing direction, walking small circles and figure eights. She didn't kick out anymore but would swish her tail across my face if I lagged behind or flapped the reins against her rump.
Cam was suitably impressed with our progress, and I was proud of my filly when he commented on it.
Giving her a pat, I took the long reins off and attached the riding reins, I knew how she liked to be patted now and her enjoyment and reassurance was almost palpable. I handed the reins to Cam and climbed out of the yard.
“Where are you going?” he asked a bit dumbfounded.
“Nervous piss” I replied walking over to a nearby tree.
The adrenaline was pumping in my veins and I had butterflies in my stomach as I climbed back into the yard and took the reins. I was hoping like hell she didn't buck!
“Ok girl” I said looping the reins over her head, “Here we go.”
I jumped up and hung over her back as I had done many times, instinctively she widened her stance with her front legs so I wouldn't knock her off balance, but remained calm, and I dropped back down to the ground again. I repeated this a few times and she didn't bat an eyelid.
'This time,' I thought to myself, and jumped up again. Instead of dropping down I slowly slid my right leg over her rump and down the other side. “Easy girl” I said stroking her neck with one hand as I gradually sat up straight. I was on her now, she raised her head, her ears rotated back towards me and I could see her watching me out of the corner of her left eye. Her muscles tensed beneath me, she was very much awake now, this was new ground! Fleetingly I was surprised at how high up I felt. I sat still, stroking her neck again, reassuring her, then just as gradually slid my leg back over her rump and dropped to the ground once more.
“Good girl!” I said patting her again, and we both seemed to exhale the breath we'd been holding.
This was good, she had taken me up on her back, and she hadn't exploded.
“she didn't jump away” Cam said, “she was watching you but she didn't panic, I reckon she's gonna be fine.”
“I reckon too!” I said smiling.
Many times I got up on her for short periods and then stepped off, until she was comfortable with me being there and her apprehension seemed to pass. It didn't take long before she hardly paid attention each time. The adrenaline had subsided, pride and excitement had taken its place. Together we'd be riding through the ranges in no time, jumping fallen trees and chasing kangaroos!
“ I'll just get her to walk around the yard a bit today for me, and that'll do her I reckon.” I said to Cam as I jumped up onto her again.
I sat up straight, gathered the reins, and squeezed her gently with my legs urging her forward. She raised her head again and looked back with her ears, acknowledging something different was happening, but she didn't move. I squeezed a little harder, but still she didn't move.
“Give her a kick.” Cam said.
So lightly. I kicked her with both heels. She made a 'Huff' sound as my heels hit her ribs forcing the air out of her lungs, and her head rose even higher, but her hooves were firmly planted on the ground, and still she didn't move!
I was a bit perplexed, I wasn't expecting this! I knew this section of the book by heart, it only said, 'walk around the yard to begin with, changing directions', Nothing about how to actually get her walking!
Bravely I kicked her harder “C'mon girl, lets go!”, but she just 'Huffed' again.
Soon I was flapping my legs and arms around like an idiot trying anything to get her to move. Cam was starting to giggle up on the top rail. My tall, black filly remained motionless, except for flicking her tail in protest, or turning her head to nip at my heels that were digging into her ribs. This was getting embarrassing!
“Give her a smack on the arse with your reins!” Cam suggested watching me flapping my legs.
So I grabbed the tail of the reins and flicked them around my hip hitting her on the rump. Like a spring she leapt forward with all four legs, catching me off guard and I slid backwards losing my seat. Her head disappeared and she pushed it down between her front legs, pulling me forward by the reins with it! As she hunched her back she leapt straight up into the air, her hooves were four foot off the ground and I was two foot higher than her back. By the time I was coming down she was coming back up again and hit me hard, launching me up into to air! I went sailing through the air and came down with a 'Thud' on top of one of the yard posts, hanging over it like a limp doll groaning. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cam hit the ground on the outside of the yard knocking his head on the bottom rail as he fell. I thought my filly must have bucked into the rails knocking him off, but turns out he was laughing so hard at my rough riding performance he had lost his balance and fallen backwards off his perch!
Painfully I peeled myself off the post still winded, and Cam sat up rubbing his head, my filly was standing quietly in the yard looking at us, the reins hanging down.
“You should have seen how high you were!” he said starting to laugh again.
“I know how fucken high I was, I was up there!” I snapped.
He was laughing hard again now and holding his stomach as he replayed it in his mind.
“Why the fuck did she do that?” I asked thinking out loud, that wasn't supposed to happen!
We had both been around horse men enough to know the golden rule, 'what's the first thing you do when a horse bucks you off...you get straight back on!'
The idea didn't appeal to me at all and I took a minute to refer to my book. then discarded it in disgust, “Fucken book” I grumbled.
Reluctantly I climbed through the ropes back into the ring. She was nervous as I approached her, but she lowered her head into my chest when I put my hand gently on her forehead. I didn't want it to be a fight between her and I, and I got the feeling neither did she. I didn't like the confrontation, and knew her bucking was born out of fear and desperation.
“ What was that all about girl?” I said, “Got that out of your system? We both know you can buck better than I can ride, so do me a favour, let's not do that again huh?”
I gathered the reins and lay over her back again, I could feel her apprehension, so took some time to get on and off a few times until she relaxed. Then once more I slid my leg over, and sat up straight. The adrenaline was causing my hands to shake, I tried to calm them and squeezed with my legs hoping she would just walk forward. But as before, she remained still, like a statue. I kicked with my heels to no avail. Back on his vantage point Cam raised his eyebrows at me without saying anything. I grabbed a fistful of her mane with one hand and flicked the reins hitting her on the butt with the other.
She leapt into a flurry of bucking, again dropping her head down between her knees. Better prepared this time I gripped with my thighs and hung on to her mane. She was bucking straight forward, jarring me on her withers as she hit the ground, but I kept my seat and wrestled to pull her head up with the reins. Then she sucked out from under me changing direction sharply to the left, and I found myself once again struggling to stay with her. One more buck and I was sailing head first into the dirt.
Spitting out dust I sat up swearing, she was standing over me puffing, looking down at me.
Cam was laughing again, “At least you lasted a bit longer this time!”
I was angry now and stood up, there wouldn't be a reassuring pat from me, I wasn't going to reward her for pole-driving me head first into the ground! I jumped back on her, grabbed a fistful of mane, smacked her on the arse, and we were into it again. Left and right, and higher than before. She was snorting as she bucked now.....this time I landed on my arse!
“I think she's getting better at it!” Cam offered, struggling to talk, there were tears running down his cheeks he was laughing so hard now.
He was right, I was teaching her how to buck and she was learning quickly. Time for a re-think. Despondent, I let her out into her paddock figuring I'd done enough damage for one day.
The weekend was over and Cam returned home. After dinner I ventured down into the valley with a torch to find my book, hearing a noise in the darkness I scanned with the torch and two eyes reflected back at me from the fence. My filly had spotted me and made her way over to be with her herd. Pensively I stayed with her for an hour, hoping she might miraculously gain the power of speech, and confide in me all the horse secrets that had eluded enthusiastic boys for centuries. But she was content to just stand quietly with me, her eyes slowly closing. There was dry sweat on her neck and I felt guilty that I hadn't hosed her down.
“I'll not do that again” I promised interrupting the silence, and her eyes opened quickly but then slowly closed again.
Beau would be waiting for me at the edge of the paddock when I got off the school bus, and together we would run back to the house. After changing my clothes and downing a glass of Milo we'd head down to the valley. With Beau watching on, I spent the evenings handling my filly, long reining and brushing her, but I hadn't tried to ride her again. I needed to work it out in my head, I thought I must be causing the problem and didn't want to wreck her. Or was she just a problem horse? I didn't know.
“Why don't you speak to that old gentleman down the road?” My mother suggested one night, “Mr Jolly is his name, he might be able to help.”
I knew who she was referring to, the school bus passed his place before I got off, there were horses in the paddocks, stables and yards. I'd see a younger man from there riding along the roadside in a western saddle from time to time, and I watched in awe. But I was a shy kid and was reluctant to talk to a stranger.
“I'll drive you down there after school tomorrow.” she said.
The Drive-way was well kept, the entire property was noticeably neat. Lawns mowed, fences well painted, and rocks bordering the circle garden bed in the centre. We pulled up and got out of the car. An elderly man approached us from the stables with a Blue Heeler dog close behind. He was wearing a long sleeved striped shirt, and an Open Road hat. Not a big man but he stood tall, his gait was a little awkward from a knee or hip injury, but he moved with a quiet confidence.
“Good afternoon.” He said with a smile.
“Hello Mr Jolly” my mother replied, “I'm Peggy from just down the road.”
“Pleasure to meet you Peggy, please call me Geoff” he said tipping his hat in an old fashioned way, “What can I do for you?”
“This is my son Paul, he'd like to ask for some advice about his horse.”
“Is that right...?” he said turning his attention to me.
I was looking down avoiding his gaze.
“So you've got yourself a horse?” he asked.
“Yep” I said looking up, “she's a three year old Arab cross filly” I blurted out.
“Oh!” he said trying to hide a grin, “and what seems to be the problem with your filly?”
More confident now I stepped forward out of Mum's shadow, “I'm breakin' her in, I've handled her, and mouthed her, and I can get on her back but when I ask her to move she starts buckin'!”
He pushed his hat back on his head as if deep in thought, “Hmm... that is a problem” he agreed.
“Have you got a yard?” he asked
“Yep, got a good one.” I replied proudly.
“Well how about you put her in the yard on Saturday morning, I'll come down and we'll see what we can do with her?”
“That'd be great!” I said smiling.
I thanked him and shook his hand as firmly as I could, he gave Mum a knowing smile with a wink, then we drove out.
Saturday couldn't come quick enough, I was up at sparrow-fart and down in the valley. I had my filly in the yard giving her a good brush and working the knots out of her unruly mane and tail.
She was looking a picture by the time the red ute drove in. Mr jolly walked up to the yard and I shook his hand through the rails.
“She's a fine looking filly!” he remarked, and I smiled with pride.
“No saddle?” he asked looking around.
“I haven't got one” I said hoping it wasn't going to be a deal breaker.
“Well, why don't you move her around a bit and then climb on.” he said
She behaved well as he watched us, doing everything I asked on the ground, and then I climbed onto her back.
“Ok” he said stepping through the rails, “now you just sit there.”
He moved to the centre of the yard, I felt my filly get a little uneasy under me and she followed him with her ears.
“I'll move her, you just sit there”
“Righto” I said and grabbed a handful of mane ready for another pole-driving.
He took his right hand out of his pocket, pointed it behind her and made a clicking sound with his mouth. Her head went up and I could feel her about to explode, instinctively as soon as she moved I wanted to pull on the reins before she started to buck. But I could hear his voice in my head..'you just sit there', so I left the reins loose. She jumped into a trot, then after a few steps slowed to a walk.
All her attention was on Mr Jolly in the centre of the yard, she had forgotten about me. He moved her around the yard, one way and then the other, walking and trotting, always giving her something to think about. I was just a passenger. Under his instruction I then gradually took over, turning her when he told me to, stopping her and letting her stand for a minute. When we moved off again he got me to squeeze with my legs as he clicked, and she started to associate the two.
After fifteen minutes he left the yard and instructed me from outside, adding that I needed to lower my hands, give her more rein, or change my seat and body weight at different times. I was beaming, and trying to take it all in. I was riding her, and she was listening to me....We were riding!
“That'll do her for today” he said.
I jumped off and rubbed her forehead.
“Ride her in here again tomorrow, then take her out the next day, keep her mind busy, you'll be right.” he said with a smile and headed back to his ute.
Thanking him profusely I promised to do as he suggested, then he stopped and looked back as he opened the ute door, “What's her name?” he asked.
I paused for a minute thinking, then replied “Skye”.
Skye got a well deserved hose down and a good feed.
That evening I drove the family mad practising, 'clicking' like a cicada!
The rest of the year was spent riding and exploring. My father got me a Saturday job on a local harness racing stud where I earned twenty-five dollars a day, and I saved enough money to buy myself a stock saddle. Dad was a Jazz musician, piano player his whole life, and now had a music shop and school. I had fond childhood memories of Christmas mornings with the family and a compilation of carols playing in the background, performed by noted Jazz artists. He would drop me off at the stud on his way to work and pick me up late in the afternoon.
It wasn't all smooth sailing, Skye had given up on the idea of becoming a buck-jumper thank Christ, but issues cropped up in the course of our education, and although we disagreed initially, we worked them out between us. We rode for longer periods and further afield as we gained confidence, she started to get foot sore and I realised she needed shoes.
There was a farrier not far from us so I booked her in. He was an hour late, then started to prepare her hooves for shoeing. I could tell straight away Skye didn't like him, she was fidgety and unsettled, he gave her a whack in the ribs with his hammer, “Stand up!” he growled.
“Hey” I said holding her lead rope, “It's the first time she's been shod”.
“Well she needs to fucken learn.” he said, “I've dealt with her kind before.”
Not only was it her first time but I had never had a horse shod before so I had nothing to compare the situation to.
Skye had never given me any trouble handling her feet, and I routinely cleaned them out before and after each ride. But after he whacked her she became more uneasy which made him even angrier and it all spiralled from there. She got to the point where she didn't want him to even touch her, let alone stand for him to shoe her. Before long he had a 'Twitcher' screwed around her top lip. I had never seen one before but would later learn that they were used purely to cause pain, with the idea that the horse is in so much pain they are afraid to move a muscle. He also produced a big needle of tranquilliser and jabbed it into her vein, then tied up her legs and tipped her over. He hammered the shoes on with her on the ground, wheezing. He assured me that this is how it was done with young horses and that she needed to be taught a lesson. I hated the whole experience and felt sick watching my filly, who was clearly distressed and appeared to me to be afraid for her life. I was so happy when he left, if she had to endure this each time then I would work out another way so she didn't need shoes, she was my friend.
Eventually we wore out her shoes and reluctantly I resigned to the fact that if I wanted to continue riding her, she would need shoeing regularly. I decided I would try a different farrier.
Chris Hart was a mountain of a man, 'Shit, he's probably stronger than most horses!' I thought to myself as he approached the yard. He introduced himself and we shook hands, then he stepped in through the rails. If Skye got worked up again I was prepared to pay him in full, but ask him not to continue, I wouldn't have a repeat of the last time.
Before he started I explained my concerns and recounted her last shoeing, he only asked me one question.
“Was his name Peter?
I nodded and he rolled his eyes.
Turning to Skye he put his hand on her forehead, then quietly rubbed her neck, then down her leg and picked up her front foot. She was a different horse, he had a manner and confidence that relaxed her. The couple of times that she did start to pull her foot away he just held her calmly and she relaxed again. Forty-five minutes later she was dozing as she stood, wearing four brand new, well fitted shoes. I was so happy.
It was a hot day and I insisted he come inside for a cold drink before heading to his next job. He quenched his thirst appreciatively and I told him I was grateful for the way he treated my filly.
He explained that every horse he shod was treated the same way, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Then informed me that I was a bit far for him to come and he didn't usually travel this distance to a job. Concerned he might not agree to shoe her again I offered to pay him extra for the travelling time and would be happy to do so.
“No” he said, “How about this? The next few times I come out I'll teach you how to do it, then you can shoe her yourself, how does that sound?'
“I'd like that!” I replied with a smile.
We shook hands in agreement and he left for his next client.
By the end of the year he would only come out to supervise me hammering the nails in. Skye never again had to endure the kind of cruelty she was dealt from Peter, and I learned that no horse needed to. I will always be grateful to Chis Hart.
Skye also shied frequently; she would suddenly dart sideways as if avoiding something dangerous instead of travelling in a straight line. Any information I read said it was not uncommon for young horses, and suggested riding her out with an older more experienced horse to reassure her. This wasn't an option for me so I looked for other alternatives and found that harness and race horses were sometimes worked with blinkers on to combat the problem. Blinkers are a cupped piece of leather that attaches to the bridle near the horses eyes and limits his peripheral vision, instead focusing the horses attention straight ahead. I decided to give it a go and it worked to a degree but brought another problem into play, the ranges were heavily timbered and the blinkers limited Skye's ability to judge passing trees and I received a few good whacks to the kneecaps when she hadn't left enough room for me to fit. Not keen on the idea of having my leg broken I taught her to give to the pressure of my legs when I pushed on her, not to turn her, more of a sideways movement which enabled us to navigate through the trees a lot better. But the blinkers were still hindering her so I abandoned them and looked for another remedy.
We would ride a long way now and sometimes find ourselves returning home after sunset. I noticed that her shying was greatly reduced in the dark as she had to concentrate more on where she was going, and not looking around. So after dinner I would sneak out at night and ride by the moonlight, her shying all but disappeared. But everything looked different in the dark and I couldn't see landmarks that I hadn't realised I relied on; valleys, ridges, kangaroo tracks, specific trees. I was easily lost and at times had no idea which way was home. After blundering around in the dark for several hours one night, I resigned to the fact that we would have to wait for daylight to have any hope of finding our way out, I drooped the reins over Skye's neck and steeled myself for a cold six hours. After a few minutes she turned and started to walk calmly but purposefully, like she knew where she was going. She had had enough of my blundering and decided it was time to go home, to her waiting feed bin. I sat and let her have her head, certain at times that we were going completely in the wrong direction, then suddenly after an hour and a half of walking I recognised a tree that had been hit by lightning on top of the hill near our valley. I couldn't believe it, on a dark foggy night she had walked straight home, right to the gate of her yard, from somewhere she had never been before. It was then I realised that no matter how far we went I would never be lost. If I was unsure I would just drop the reins and let her take us home.
I continued to work weekends at the horse stud. Philip was the trainer, a lean scruffy Kiwi with dark curly hair and a mild stutter, he knew how to train trotters and pacers. Daniel was the foreman, heavy set, he was a bit younger than Philip and grew up under his fathers hand also training trotters. Daniel's sister Sharon was married to Don, who was the owner. Then there was Michael; Mid twenties, totally deaf and communicated by sign language and some odd noises that he made as he signed. He was a strong worker who did whatever needed to be done for Daniel or Philip.
They were a rough crowd, but I preferred rough as apposed to pompous, and I was comfortable working with and learning from these men. I knew nothing of the harness racing industry or Standard Bred horses and learned a lot about nutrition, getting a horse fit through a training regime, and breeding mares with a stud stallion. Polaris was the stallion, he was the biggest and most powerful horse I had ever seen. Bay in colour with well defined muscles and a long mane and tail, he was very imposing and commanded respect. His yard was the biggest on the stud and had an eight foot high electric fence right around.
My day would start with feeding the horses, each horse had a different feed depending on their stage of training, age, or mares in foal, and so on. I learned quickly how to make up the different feeds and would take them to the stabled horses in training first, and then the horses in day yards outside. Some were visiting mares for Polaris and others were two year olds being broken in to start their racing life (if they made the grade). Polaris wouldn't wait at his gate like the others, he was too proud for that. I had to enter his yard, then walk to his single stable known as a loose box, where he would be standing waiting. He intimidated me and made me feel like a servant. He would wait outside his box as I entered with his twenty litre bucket of feed, when he heard the bucket tap on the edge of his feed bin as I tipped it in he would stride inside without even acknowledging I was there, open his mouth wider than I had ever seen a horse, and take one massive bight into his feed as if he was breaking it's neck before he ate it. I made sure I was well out of his way by this time and gave him a wide birth on my way out. We developed an understanding; I stayed out of his way, and he didn't kill me.
Once the feeding was done it was time to muck out the stables and replenish the wood shavings or straw on the floor. The boys would be out on the town on a Friday night and often wouldn't return until mid morning on Saturday, still drunk. After I learned how to harness and drive a horse Philip would leave me instructions as to which horses needed work and for how long. I enjoyed these mornings on my own with the horses, despite the bitter cold of winter and my hands going numb trying to hold the reins. When they got on the track some of these horses just loved to work and it took all my strength at times to hold them at the pace Philip had instructed.
Other times I would be told to use the 'Jogger', this was a large steel frame on wheels with various tie points around it. I'd tie six or eight horses around it and tow it around the track exercising them all at once. The horses had specific positions where they liked to be on the jogger and if I got it wrong one would be kicking at another and invariably one or more would break their head collar and gallop away across the paddocks. It was a steep learning curve and I spent many mornings frantically trying to catch the escapees before the boys got back from town.
Training and breaking the Standard Breds was unforgiving, if a horse was required to carry his head lower, it was tied down. If it needed to be higher, it was tied up from the top of his head back to the harness. If a horse was lazy he was hit with a whip to make him go faster. Horses were taught to pace, which is an unnatural gait for horses (where the two left legs stride then the two right legs, like a camel) using hobbles, tying the legs together. If they didn't pace they would fall over. A standard and accepted practice throughout the industry. Even when we served mares, she would be tied to a rail and her back legs would be hobbled so she couldn't kick. Polaris was then brought in to have his way with her way, she had no choice.
It sat uneasy with me, the only experience I had was with Sky, these men had trained hundreds of horses. I wanted to be competent, more than that I wanted to be good with horses, so I learned. It was easy to get caught up in the escalation of force, if a horse was reluctant to turn one way someone would be on the reins pulling him around, and another up at the horses head directing him, then trying to startle him in the right direction, then scare him, before he knew it he was being hit across the side of the head with a length of poly pipe. Then he would turn, if he didn't he was discarded as not having the right temperament, and if the same mare produced a second offspring with a similar temperament then she would be discarded too.
I enjoyed race nights, loading a horse on the float and travelling to the meet. The pre-race excitement and then the thunder of the horses racing. We didn't race often, but when we did Daniel and Philip had picked the race carefully and we would usually win. The boys would always bet big, and so would Don. I even started to put twenty dollars on our horse sometimes.
I started to wonder how the stud made it's money. The horses in training were all bred on the place, so there were no training fees bringing money in. The mares we served were predominantly our mares too so stud fees weren't generating much either. Trying not to overstep my bounds I asked Daniel one day and he told me that Don was a professional gambler and funded the stud. This made sense and explained why I rarely saw him, and when I did it was usually in the afternoons and he would typically still be in his dressing gown.
Some interesting characters would visit and stay, sometimes for weeks. It wasn't uncommon for a couple of Bikers to be around either which perplexed me as they didn't seem to have anything to do with the horses. But this was not only a Stud but home for quite a few peoples as well, and I figured that most of us have friends outside our work place.
I got along well with Michael and even learned enough sign language to be able to joke with him as we worked, unloading horse feed, fencing or working horses side by side.
Philip had also worked as a contract fencer in New Zealand, which was handy because after the Ash Wednesday fires a lot of the yards had been destroyed and needed to be replaced. The horses were all safe but most of the fencing had gone. From the stables I saw a red ute drive in one Saturday and Mr jolly stepped out in his Open Road hat, Sharon emerged from the house to greet him, always suspicious of strangers. They talked for a few minutes then Mr Jolly tipped his hat politely and they said goodbye. Later that afternoon I overheard Sharon telling Daniel that an old man had come and offered some free paddocks for the horses until the burnt fences could be replaced. She declined explaining that arrangements had already been made for the horses and thanked him for the gesture.
Truck loads of posts and wire were delivered. The call went out and friends gathered for a working bee, most of them wearing black leather and riding Harley Davidson bikes, with colourful names like 'Maggot' and 'Blue'. Within a week the old posts and burnt wire were gone, and the boundary and paddock fences were replaced under Philip's direction with tight, straight lines of new fence. Only the day yards remained to be done, and the boys and I worked through them over the coming weekends.
The yards were post and wire with a hot (electric) wire running on the inside. Short runs of fence were hard to get right, the corner post assemblies had to be good, if they moved even the slightest when the wires were strained the whole fence would go loose. The fencer needed to know his stuff. Philip worked us with a critical eye as we built the corner assemblies, we installed stays and braces on specific angles, and even a foot placed strategically four foot under the ground on some.
I asked Philip where he learned how to build them.
“Back in New Zealand” he said, “sometimes we would be fencing through swamps where you could just push the corner post down into the mud with your hands. The ground wouldn't hold them in so we had to learn how to brace them using stays and feet with the right angles.”
“Wow!” I thought to myself, how hard that must have been, to be able to push a post into the mud then brace it so it didn't move when the force of the tensioned wire was applied. I was impressed.
All the posts for the first yard were in and we started to strain the wires, with the hot wire there only needed to be four wires on the top half of the post. One by one we strained them tight, you could play a tune on them they were so tight. Then as the tension was being put on the final wire, like synchronised swimmers all the corner posts popped up out of the ground in a graceful ballet. Philip looked on in disbelief and Michael started making loud 'Booping' noises which was his way of swearing profusely.
'Must be sticky mud in New Zealand!' I thought, but wisely kept it to myself.
Skye was a handy horse now, reliable and sure footed. She would carry me up and down slopes I would struggle to climb myself, jump fallen logs and I could even crack a whip on her. We were good friends and even Beau had come to accept her as one us, but was still reluctant to join us on our rides, he would wait at the fence for our return.
As I was putting her away on a Saturday evening a familiar red ute drove in, and Mr Jolly stepped out.
“Hows your filly going?” he asked, walking over and shook my hand.
“She's pretty handy now Mr Jolly, thank you” I replied with a smile.
He looked her over, up and down, “Who does your shoeing?”
“I do it myself now” I explained, hoping he didn't look to close at my work.
“Good for you.” he said.
“I've got a few young-ins I'm breaking in now, if you'd like to come down and ride 'em I'll teach you how to break?” he offered.
“Sure!” I said, but then memories of Skye driving me into the dirt came flooding back.
“But I'm not very good at staying on when they buck.” I added.
“I've seen you ride” He said with a wink, “you'll be right.”
At the dinner table that night I told my parents of the opportunity I had to ride for him.
My Mother wanted some clarification about the arrangement. Was it a job he offered me or just riding a young horse every now and then? I didn't have the answers for her as I wasn't entirely sure.
But I had already thought about leaving school, I was finding it increasingly harder to apply myself. School wasn't particularly difficult for me but I struggled to see any relevance in my studies. I wasn't learning anything I was actually interested in, or anything that my young mind could see would benefit me in the direction I wanted to take when I left.
“Well” she said, “You had better find out what it is that you are agreeing to before you do!”
So bright and early the next morning I saddled Skye and we headed down the road. It was about a forty-five minute ride if we trotted and cantered most of the way. He must have heard the hoof beats coming up the drive because he opened the front door as I was stepping off Skye.
“Good morning Mr Jolly, I was just wondering...did you mean like a full time job riding for you when we spoke yesterday?”
His expression softened like I hadn't seen before, “I'm not in the position to be able to offer you a full time job” he said, “I wish I was, I'll pay you when I can but I'll also teach you, and I would appreciate the help, I'm too fucken old to get on the young ones now.”
Trying not to let my disappointment show, I agreed that would be fine, and we arranged for me to get off the school bus at his corner during the week, and he would drive me home later.
“Now, let me see you get on that filly.” he said.
I gathered the reins, put my foot in the stirrup and swung my leg over as he watched, then sat up tall.
“Not bad”, he commented, “it's a good starting point.”
This outcome seemed to appealed to my parents as I think they wanted to keep me in school as long as they could. But I was fifteen now and I was chomping at the bit to get out into the world and on with life.
Mr Jolly had four two year old's that he had handled and had done all the ground work with, they were in great condition, fat and shiny and well behaved.
“Never fall asleep around a young horse”, he told me, “no matter how quiet you think they are, that's when you'll get hurt.”
I learned that he had been a contract horse breaker across Stations in the outback. With one off-sider he would break three hundred horses a year. The number staggered me, and they were rough station horses, not two year olds that had been handled as foals.
He maintained, that done right a horse shouldn't buck, but the odd one was going to no matter what, so you needed to be able to 'hang up' (stay on) when it happened.
Dorothy Jolly was a lovely lady, a real Country Lady and all that it implied; quiet, polite, always well presented, hard working, openly loving towards her children and animals, but nobody's fool, and fiercely protective of those she cared about.
After the war when Geoff returned, like many others, he was given a soldiers settlement. A block of land to help them move on with their lives. But the country was hard and many found it difficult to make enough money off their block to live and raise a family. A young family with three young boys, Geoff took on contract Roo shooting at night to supplement their income. Once the boys were put to bed the couple would head out, one would drive and the other would shoot.
“I'll tell you something...” He confided in me one day, “I always drove and she would shoot, she's a much better shot than me, but don't you fucken tell anyone!”
She showed me a newspaper clipping over a cup of tea one day when Mr Jolly was out. The article was a letter written in to the paper from a gentlemen who had been reading the papers ongoing series of articles about the best buck-jump riders in the country, Rodeo legends.
He wanted to add a name to the list and recounted a story that he witnessed.
The Rodeo was in town, and all the rough riders and rodeo hands were at the pub downing a few. As the night wore on the story telling grew bigger and more incredible until a young man sitting quietly at the end of the bar with his off-sider pulled them up on a few of the tall tales.
One thing led to another and before long, in a heated debate the off-sider claimed that his friend could, “ride better than any of them, and could hang up on any horse they had in the bucking string, as a matter of fact, EVERY horse they had in the bucking string.”
The gauntlet had been thrown, so in the middle of the night the whole pub migrated to the rodeo grounds and one by one every bronc was saddled and the young man bucked them out. Not just for ten seconds as required by rodeo rules to be counted, but until they stopped bucking. The young man was a horse breaker by the name of Geoff Jolly.
I asked Mr Jolly about it one day, and never one for boasting he dismissed it saying that newspapers always exaggerate, buck-jumpers aren't that hard to ride, and gave me a wink.
The four two year old's were ready to ride, they were all Quarter Horses bred for cutting. Mr Jolly's son Greg was passionate about cutting and had bred or bought them for future training. Greg was in the U.S.A. working with and learning from arguably one of the best trainers in the world at the time, Buster Welch.
Before I got on the young horses Mr Jolly warned me what each one would be like;
“This one will be fine, pretty quiet, but don't go to sleep. Watch this one she might try and stand up on you (rear). We'll take this one slow or he might dog it (sit down). And this one” he said referring to a smart chestnut gelding with a white face, “you'll need to hang up on I reckon, he's got some things he needs to get out of his system,” He had nicknamed the chestnut 'Killer'.
Over the week, when I rode the two year old's his predictions came true in varying degrees. On his first ride, 'Killer' threw me off....twice!
I listened to everything I was told, eager to learn. Horse breaking was a sought after position in his day, and held in high regard and pay. Consequently breakers were secretive as to their methods to try and maintain an edge over a competitor to secure the next contract. Some of the methods and techniques we employed with the young horses I was sworn to secrecy over, and I took the confidence seriously. Whilst still in the vein of 'Horses need to be shown who is boss, you need to be the leader of the herd', contrary to the harness racing industry, the way Mr Jolly handled them varied immensely depending on the horses individual temperament and personality. What worked for one would not necessarily work for the next, there was a real skill in being able to identify and recognise how a horse would respond to different approaches.
Mr Jolly had made a living out of horses early but his love was for dogs, working dogs.
On his property there were around thirty dogs tied up at kennels and in sheds. Most of them were Border Collies or Collie crosses, and there was one Kelpie, 'Josh'. He also had a few Heelers, blue and red, a Stag-hound, a Whippet, and a Hunt-away. In the house yard Mrs Jolly had a miniature Dachshund 'Trudy' who followed her everywhere.
He had also done a lot of droving, predominantly sheep, along stock routes when feed got short on the property. Each dog had a purpose, the Stag-hound would protect the sheep and lambs at night, snap a foxes neck with one bite. The Collies and Kelpies would work the sheep, and the Hunt-away would drive them out of thick undergrowth with his 'whooping' bark when needed. The Heelers would protect and guard the gear and camp, and the Whippet...
“He'll catch your dinner for you when things get tough” Mr Jolly explained.
I often stayed for dinner which was always meat with vegetables and soup to start with, Mrs Jolly was an excellent cook and a gracious hostess. She always made me feel welcome. After dinner Mr Jolly and I would retire to the T.V. room where he would promptly fall asleep in his arm chair and I would spend every moment watching videos of horse cutting or working dog trials.
I mostly liked the three sheep trials, one dog moving three sheep through a course of obstacles with only vocal or whistle commands from the handler. The focus and concentration of these Collies was intense, I watched, captivated. They were as agile as a cat and I saw similarities between them and the cutting horses, the horses moved like a sheepdog as they tried to keep the cow out of the herd. Both had to be at a level of training so that when competing there was little influence from the handler or rider. Cutting horses were penalised if the rider influenced the horse with the reins, and the dog handlers had to stand at a given point and let the dog do the work. Both cutting horses and trial dogs had to understand what was expected of them, the trainer had to build a vocabulary to a level so that the animal could understand the goal.
I learned that Mr Jolly had been one of the most successful dog trialers that the country had ever seen. Had won everything there was to be won, even the National Championship a staggering six times. He had travelled to the U.K. to compete in international trials, and was presented to the Queen of England.
He might take ten to twenty dogs to a trial, they would calmly sit in a line and wait to be called for their turn to work, then return to the line and wait quietly for the next dogs turn.
I wondered why he didn't trial or train dogs anymore, although occasionally if I walked up the drive quietly after getting off the bus I would find and watch him working with a dog before he knew I was there. His passion for them was still obvious to me, and his dogs loved him.
He told me a story of the last trial he entered, he would typically camp at the trial grounds with his dogs for the three days of the trial. After feeding and watering his dogs he went into town to have some dinner, when he returned some of his dogs were dead, they had been poisoned.
He vowed he would never trial again, and never did.
“I'll teach you how to break in a dog one day” he said putting a hand on my shoulder.
Mr Jolly took me under his wing, “I've crossed a few dry gullies” he'd say, meaning he had been around a bit and learned some things to pass on. He taught me about horses and gave me the odd snippet of wisdom about dogs. But more than that he believed firmly that a young man should be equipped with the skills to handle any situation, and maintained that a lot of these skills were not hard to learn and would be invaluable at the right time. I learned which cutlery to use for which course when fine dining, to fill my soup spoon away from me, and my desert spoon towards me. He encouraged me to learn to dance so that I would be able to move a woman around the dance floor confidently when the occasion called for it.
“You'll drink many a cup of tea that you didn't really want,” he said, “get used to it, it doesn't cost much to be polite, and giving people a few minutes of your time.”
I soaked it all in.
In later years at a dance I saw his son Greg gracefully moving his partner around the floor when others were struggling with the 'Tea-pot dance'.
There was a lovely Blue Heeler bitch that was never tied up and roamed the yard freely.
“She's got a few brains” Mr Jolly told me, she wasn't aggressive like 'Mona' and 'Boof', the two Heeler's that lived on either side of the entrance to the saddle shed, they would tear the face off anything that came in reach, but she was protective when she needed to be.
Many times I had fed Mona, helping Mr jolly feed the dogs, and I was a familiar face working with the horses, but still I had no hope of getting near her or into the saddle shed, I would just leave the saddles outside and Mr Jolly would put them away. The only other person who could get near her was Mrs Jolly, if she came out to the sheds for some reason Mona would roll onto her back sweeping the ground with her tail madly, begging for a pat.
The yard Heeler had a litter of pups, then got sick with milk poisoning. Despite Mrs Jolly's best efforts and care she died when the pups were only a week old. The little pups were unlikely to survive.
“Pick one,” Mr Jolly said to me standing over them, “look after it and it will be devoted to you for the rest of its life.”
I looked at the little pups, all white, barely with their eyes open. There were two that were noticeably bigger than the others, they looked strong and healthy and would likely survive. But one was smaller, a female on it's own, not curled up sharing warmth with the rest. As I squatted there looking at them the little female opened her eyes, maybe for the first time, to have a look at the world. She gazed around, then I saw her eyes focus, and she looked at me, just looked.
“This one.” I said scooping her up. “Thank you!”
I cared for the tiny pup, taking her everywhere with me, she would ride in the pocket of my 'Dryz-abone' coat with her little head hanging out, bobbing up and down as I rode Skye through the hills. Beau welcomed her into the pack, and when her colour came through she was speckled red with a patch in the middle of her back and another over one eye, I named her 'Kelly' and the two of us started our adventures together.
I still worked at the Stud on the weekends, and with Mr Jolly during the week after school. I could tell he didn't like me working at the Stud but wouldn't presume to tell me not to. He knew I needed to make my own money, and decisions. But he had a mantra he repeated to me on more than one occasion; “Associate with mugs and you become a mug.”
But I liked the guys at the stud, they had always been fair to me, and I had grown wiser and wasn't that naive to be convinced by the 'professional gambler' explanation anymore. I noticed that any conversations Don had with visiting friends were always had whilst strolling around the property, never indoors. Talk with Daniel was never specific, reference was made to 'that thing we were talking about before'.
But I was there for the horses and wasn't susceptible or interested in being drawn into anything else.
'Whatever else was going on was their business', I thought, as long as they didn't try to involve me.
That was respected, and in fairness they never really tried.
There was another young guy, a year younger than me on the school bus 'Druce', he lived not far from me and got off at the stop before mine. There was a grey mare in their paddock and she was a good type. When I asked him about her he explained that his father had bought her a couple of years earlier on the advice of a local horse friend, Joe Khan, who coincidentally was the man who bred Skye. Druce's father had ambitions of riding her but they never eventuated and the mare now lived a solitary life in the paddock.
My inquiry about the mare sparked Druce's curiosity, and my enthusiasm for horses was infectious. Before long he was riding her and he quickly became quite a good rider. Our friendship grew and we spent many days riding the hills together.
He even started to help at the Stud when an extra pair of hands were needed.
Joe Khan had taken in a man from up north who was down for a couple of weeks. He was a Station Manager from the Northern Territory, near Timber Creek. Druce and I would sit for hours, galvanised by his stories of station horses, cattle musters and wild bulls. Eventually, explaining that young men who were handy with a horse were always in short supply up north, he offered us both a job on his Station, and that his Head Stockman 'Sparrow' would teach us about Station work. He even named the Station horses that he would give us each to use, and described their personalities and attributes. We were so excited, this was the real deal!
His ute would seat three and offered to give us a ride back with him when he returned in a week. All we needed was our saddles and some clothes, he would set us up with anything else we needed when we got there, even agreeing to let me bring Kel.
Finally I was heading in the direction I dreamed about, the Outback.
My parents were uneasy about me leaving. There had recently been a case in the media regarding two young boys, who in desperation took a station vehicle in an attempt to leave poor working conditions and exploitation on an Outback Station. Inexperienced, they drove into the desert and both perished. The resulting public outcry sparked an inquiry into the way Stations treated young workers.
During the week Druce and I both left school, excited about heading to an Outback Station.
Druce's parents were very supportive, prior to his interest in horses they had concerns about what direction he would take after school. School was difficult for him so further studies were unlikely, his enthusiasm and recently uncovered natural ability with horses gave them hope of a bright future for their son, doing something he loved.
By the end of the week we were packed and ready to leave early the next morning.
Reluctant to let their son leave with someone they had only known for a week my parents decided to do some checking. Mum was not comfortable with us going when neither of us had our licence yet, wherever we ended up we would be stuck, unable to leave even if we wanted to.
My father negotiated the radio-phone network in the Territory in an attempt to contact the Station to confirm the mans claims. Outback communication was very limited in those days and he was unable to get through but did manage to contact the Timber Creek Police Station.
Explaining he was a concerned parent trying to confirm that his son and friend were gaining legitimate employment on a nearby Station, he recounted the situation ending each sentence with 'Over'.
The Policeman confirmed that yes the man did work at the Station until recently, but was a stockman and had never been the Manager. He had recently been sacked amidst some controversy and the Police were keen to learn his whereabouts and question him over the circumstances.
Mum and Dad were horrified. What was this man planning to do with two young boys?
It was late now, Dad phoned Druce's father, John, and relayed what he had learned. John was furious that his son had been mislead and could be in real danger. Ignoring the hour, he drove to Joe's place to confront the man, and waking Joe discovered that the man had left earlier in the night and taken some items that weren't his with him.
We never heard of him again or if the police ever caught up with him, but as disappointed as we were, it opened our eyes, and I often shudder at what might have happened if my parents hadn't heeded their instincts.
At the Stud Michael had been conspicuously absent of late, and I asked Daniel where he was. Rolling his eyes he informed me that Michael had been recruited into a small deaf community that was organised and controlled by a hearing man, who convinced them to rob houses for him.
I found it hard to believe, although rough around the edges Michael was good hearted, and generally no ones fool. Daniel explained that there was also the allure of a young lady in the community, and I knew by now that a man being led around by his hormones was blinded to other concerns. Inevitably the team of burglars were caught which didn't surprise me, I imagined what it would have been like; a young deaf crew stumbling around in the dark trying to be stealthy, unaware of the noise they were making, 'booping' at each other because it was too dark to sign. If ever there was a business plan flawed from the get go, this was it!
I was sorry that Michael had allowed himself to be led down a dead end path and would miss his sense of humour and optimism at the Stud.
Work went on as usual without Michael. No longer at school I was working more than just weekends now and I was confident with the harness horses. Philip and Daniel would often leave me with the days work and go out.
One morning Daniel met me at the stables and told me that everyone was going out today so I would be on my own for the day. I didn't pay too much attention as it wasn't uncommon for me to be the only one there, then he handed me a pair of binoculars, “If anyone drives in today stay here in the stables,” he said, “look through these, if part of his ears are cut off don't go out, just fucken run.”
I stood there looking at him, “What the fuck?” I asked.
“I'm serious,” he replied, “If he's got no fucken ears don't go out, just run, hide in the bottom dam down near the track!” then he left with everyone else.
I didn't like the sound of this, these boys weren't scared of anyone but obviously were expecting a visit from someone who rattled them enough to make themselves scarce.
I wasn't getting much work done, I fed the horses with one eye on the front gate, and had started mucking out the stables when I heard a vehicle drive in. Normally if everyone was out I would emerge from the stables and politely tell any visitors to come back later, but not today. I peered through the crack of the big sliding door with my binoculars. It was a Mercedes sedan with only a driver, he stepped out of the car and walked towards the front door of the house, glancing towards the stables as he moved. I strained my eyes, did he have ears? I couldn't tell, his hair was covering where his ears should be!
“If he's got no fucken ears!” I grumbled to myself, mimicking Daniels voice, “How the fuck am I supposed to see if he's got ears or not!” I protested.
Realising the house was empty the man was returning to his car when one of the horses I had tied outside his stable in the breeze-way got impatient and kicked the wooden wall, making a loud 'Bang!'
The man stopped mid-stride and looked down towards the stables, then changed direction and made a bee line for where the noise had come from.
“Fuck!” I said out loud, ducking to one side out of the door crack. I suddenly had an image of me running through the paddocks towards the dam as fast as I could with this long haired lunatic chasing me, the wind blowing his hair up revealing holes in the side of his head where his fucken ears should have been!
'What good was jumping in the dam gonna do me anyway?' I thought to myself, 'maybe it was common knowledge that earless men couldn't swim!'
I decided that even if this was the case he would just wait at the waters edge until I got tired and drowned anyway, so preferred my chances in the stables, at least there I had a pitch fork.
Seconds later he stepped through the doorway and stopped when he saw me, he just looked at me silently and expressionless. Trying to be casual I looked up from the important work of shovelling horse shit, “G'day bud, what can I do for you?” I stammered.
He didn't reply for what was a very uncomfortable five seconds, in which time I had multiple scenarios go through my head resulting in either him or I being skewered by the pitch fork.
“I'm looking for Don.” he finally replied.
“Oh” I said “He's not here, he's out.”
“When will he be back?” he persisted.
“I don't know” I offered, I wanted to add more like 'I'm just the dumb-arse who naively believes this is only a horse stud', but the words didn't come out.
Again he looked at me silently, then said “Ok thanks” and turned and walked back towards the Mercedes.
My legs just about buckled under me and I sighed with relief, suddenly I was gripped by a strong urge to call out to him, I wanted to know, 'Hey Mate, have you got fucken ears?!' but I didn't.
I later learned that the expected impromptu visitor was a man named Mark “Chopper” Read, the gentleman I spoke to was just a friend of Don's with poor people skills.
To help me make money and gain experience Mr Jolly arranged for me to work for short periods with different property owners and horse handlers. He maintained it was good for me to be exposed to a wide range of methods and ideas, to take bits of each style that I liked, discard what I didn't and then add my own ideas.
He encouraged me to have an open mind, “Some of the most valuable knowledge can come from the most unlikely places”, he would say, “But you have to be open to it.”
I worked for a time on a sheep property in the Western District for an old acquaintance of Mr Jolly's from years earlier. Athol Daffy was a true country gentleman and a successful sheep farmer. He was more than happy to give me work, and told me that as a young man he had struggled with his sheep purely because he didn't have a decent dog to move them around, or yard them when they needed drenching or shearing. He approached a man in the district who was reputed to be handy with dogs, and after meeting Athol the man trained a Border Collie for him. The dog did everything that Athol needed, paddock work, yard work, would back sheep into a race but would also work ewes and lambs quietly when he needed.
Mr Jolly rarely trained for others, dog trainers had been known to send people to him to buy a dog purely to get hold of his winning bloodlines, but from meeting Athol he decided that there was something very genuine about him.
Athol never forgot the good turn and they remained friends.
I enjoyed working on the sheep property and although dogs were used they travelled largely as passengers on the back of motorbikes. The country was gradually undulating which meant it was more efficient to move sheep and traverse the property using bikes, no horses were used, a sign of the times. I was beginning to think I had been born in the wrong era.
I worked honestly for Mr Daffy, wanting fulfil the confidence my mentor had placed in me, and thanked him for the opportunity. But inside I knew it wasn't something I could see myself doing long term.
In between my work at the Stud and riding for Mr Jolly, my next experience was working for a man by the name of Stuart Lear, at the Royal Melbourne show for ten days. Stuart had earned a reputation travelling the show circuit as Australia's best trick rider. He had learned from a Russian Cossack and would perform tricks on his horse galloping around the arena. Amongst other death defying stunts he would climb down under the horse's belly, up the other side and back into the saddle. Over the years he had diversified his act and also put on various clown performances in the main arena. He had a modified 'T' Model Ford that would mono around the track on it's back wheels, During the act he would get out of the Ford for some reason and the vehicle would appear to take on a mind of it's own and chase him around the arena. Controlled of course by an assistant hidden down on the floor using a second set of controls. It was very entertaining and at times the T Model came closer to running him over than was intended, as the assistant had only limited vision through a tiny peep hole and poor control of the vehicle, but he always maintained it was part of the performance. There was also a Morris Minor the clowns would drive around in that would break in half with a loud explosion, the two halves would tare off and drive around madly like a dog dragging its butt across the carpet.
He had a variety of animals that would do different tricks, one of which was a Border Collie that had been trained to work ducks through an obstacle course wearing a miniature Western saddle that a monkey would sit on. To those watching it appeared that the monkey, on his trusted Collie mount, was rounding up the ducks. Mr Jolly had trained the dog for him, and had decided it would be good for me to experience Stuart's style of horse training. When Stuart spoke to Mr Jolly about two identical steeds he wanted to break and train for trick riding, Mr Jolly recommended a young fellow who would be up to the task of riding the young horses.
So I rolled my swag and Kel and I headed into the city.
Stuart had a large shed in the show grounds and inside was his caravan and all the equipment for his acts. There were yards of different sizes constructed from temporary yard panels to house his animals and a bigger one about six or seven meters square. This yard, I was to learn was the breaking yard, and the whole lot was on a concrete floor.
My duties included feeding and caring for all the animals (my first experience with monkeys), saddling and preparing horses for their time in the arena, helping down at the pony rides that also belonged to Stuart, and working with the two young horses when there was time. The days were long, from sun up till well after dark most days, but I didn't mind I was wide eyed at the life some people live and enjoyed the variety in the work. Whatever I was doing Kel would tag along with me, if I had to go the the arena or down to the pony rides I would tell her to 'Wait' and she would stay faithfully beside my swag, growling at anyone who approached. I slept in my swag with Kel at my feet on the concrete floor and lived for ten days on hot sugar jam donuts that I bought from a nearby vendor.
Most nights I didn't get much sleep as Stuart would have a different female companion nearly every night and the old caravan would squeak and rattle well into the night.
He was a big man and bad tempered, he ruled his workers and his animals with a heavy hand. Quick to debate with his fists rather than reasoning. One night as he was taking his Ford onto the arena for the evening performance, he pushed his way arrogantly through the previous act who were coming off at the same time. They were a marching band who also had manicured horses that paraded around with them. Pushing his way into the middle of the exiting crowd the T Model Ford backfired loudly, as was part of the act, and the horses spooked tearing off into the crowd knocking band members and instruments in all directions. Many of the members irately voiced their protest and Stuart promptly told them to 'Shut the fuck up!' and to come and see him after the show if they wanted to take it further.
The members of the Victoria Police Marching Band definitely did want to take it further and were waiting for him in numbers when he came off, a free-for-all brawl ensued. Band members still in Police uniform were swinging punches and flying in all directions, a mad clown with big floppy shoes in the centre of the commotion. I was trying to hold onto two horses in the middle of it hoping they wouldn't stand on any of the bodies that were tumbling under their hooves as they pranced and reared. By the time it was over the bitumen entrance to the arena was stained with blood and everyone seemed to just disperse licking their wounds with no real conclusion to the ruckus, and nothing much was said about it. They were a different crowd these 'Showies'.
Riding the identical horses for the first time was the most nerve racking I had experienced to date. The handling leading up to their first ride was rough and rushed, not what I was used to, and apart from my unheeded opinion that they weren't ready to be ridden, it was going to take place in the yard with the concrete floor. Young horses can be initially unbalanced with a rider on their back for the first time and startled easily, often darting in unexpected directions and could slip over. If a horse bucked he could potentially throw himself over injuring himself and the rider. For this reason most sane handlers used a yard or small arena for a first ride with heavy sand on the floor, the horses hooves would dig into the sand giving them a stable footing and in the worst case scenario, a soft landing for both horse and rider. It was also hard work to run in heavy sand so would quickly sap a horses energy which could be beneficial at times.
My experience with young horses had taught me that my main objective in the first few rides was to merely get the horse moving freely,and relaxed. I was not initially concerned about HOW the horse moved, whether he held his head high or low, if he tucked his head collecting his legs under him or stuck his nose out getting long on the ground. It wasn't important at this stage if he turned using his back or front quarters, or if he stopped by propping his front legs or tucking his back end. I just wanted to get them moving freely through their body and mind. If we were walking I wanted a brisk relaxed walk, not hesitant or unsure, trotting and cantering should be fluent and unhindered, allowing him to move naturally using his body to achieve this however he needed to. This meant that as I rider I had to give the young horse a lot of latitude and freedom to promote what I wanted, but also meant that in doing so he had the opportunity to move in some undesirable ways if he chose, like bucking or bolting. I had to be confident of the horses handling and preparation prior to getting on his back to give me the confidence to ride the way I needed to.
I didn't have that confidence with these twins and deliberately changed my entire approach, there was a real danger that if either of them took fright or bucked we would slip over on the concrete floor. If I miraculously escaped injury but the young horse was injured I was sure Stuart would break my legs anyway for damaging his horse. So I decided there was no way I was going to allow these two to buck and would sacrifice their free flowing movement to achieve it.
The time had come, and with Stuart on the outside of the yard barking directions I saddled the first horse. I would usually begin by putting my foot in the stirrup and standing up into it, allowing the horse to feel my weight on him and also see me up high which would sometimes spook a young horse the first time. This also had the advantage of being able to just calmly step back down if the horse took fright, he would quickly settle for me to start again. with no harm done.
As I went through this procedure the horse was skittish and unsettled, poised for anything, seeing me up high he jumped sideways and I stepped back to the floor and reassured him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Stuart snapped, “Don't stop half way, if you're going over you're going over!”
“Ok” I replied reluctantly, with a deep breath I gathered the reins tight, put my foot in the stirrup and swung up onto his back. His whole body tensed and I felt his panic underneath me, but I had him bound up so tight he hadn't worked out how to move yet. Every time I felt his energy heading in one direction I counteracted it by bending his body the opposite way or changing my body weight so it was awkward for him to lift the hoof he needed to initiate the movement. It gave me valuable time to calm his mind slightly and then allow him to gradually move feeling the change in his body with me on top. Bit by bit I gave him more freedom allowing him to gradually lengthen his stride, but always ready to gather him up again when I needed. The ride was not good. Movements were abrupt, stifled and unbalanced, and the young horse was confused most of the time, but after thirty minutes Stuart was satisfied that the horse had been ridden and to my surprise was very happy with the ride and even a little impressed. I knew it could have been done so much better.
The second horse went much the same and I was relieved to step down and have them both ridden.
To my horror, the two young horses had only three short rides in the concrete yard and then Stuart had me lead them down to the pony rides, he said that it was the best way to quieten them down. The stress of watching unaware parents lift their children up onto the two uneducated horses nearly gave me a breakdown.
Luckily the monotony of being lead around in a small circle following the tail of the horse in front had a hypnotic affect on the horses, almost putting them into a trance. But it was misleading, they weren't quiet, and as soon as they were taken out of the 'pony ride' environment or if something startled them jolting them into awareness, their inexperience and unpredictability would show through.
My time at the Melbourne Show came to an end and I shook hands with Stuart and thanked him for the work, quietly glad I was heading home. He unquestionably was a very accomplished rider, but I learned that being a good rider didn't necessarily make a good horseman, and that the level that people considered good horsemanship varied greatly depending on someone's perspective and experience to base their comparisons on.
If you didn't know what was out there, how could you know if what was in front of you was of a high or low standard? It was good to keep an open mind.
The episode with the Station Manager impostor hadn't dampened my enthusiasm to work further North. Having left school, Druce felt the same and he had applied for a position and started working on a N.S.W. property that ran cattle but also trained Camp Draft Horses. He had been gone for a month and I hoped my friend was doing well.
I had made noises about applying for positions that were advertised regularly in a rural newspaper, the Weekly Times. Seeing my restlessness my parents decided it was time to have a family meeting, and recognising Mr Jolly's experience with Stations invited him and Dorothy to dinner one night, welcoming their input.
“Ever since I can remember he's wanted to go to the hottest part of Australia and chase cows on a horse.” My Mother was pointing out that regardless of the decision reached around the dining table this evening, eventually I was going to go.
The discussion and debate was kinda irrelevant, in the end Mum's motion was upheld and it was decided that I wouldn't go away until I at least had my drivers license. I was disappointed but not surprised, Mum had a way of justifying her views that made it hard to argue against and they usually made good sense.
The following year seemed to go slow but it wasn't without incident. The Stud got raided, newspapers reported a twenty-five million dollar drug distribution operation.
“Fuckers were only paying me twenty-five dollars a day!” I thought to myself.
I got a couple more horses, and ten Shetland ponies that I broke in and started doing pony rides for kids on the weekends at a local tourist attraction. It was going well until the owners wife realised we were making more money than the fun park and so gave us our marching orders.
Mr Jolly had given me a contact that he said could pull a few strings and get me a start on a Station up north. But I was uncomfortable about it and decided I would rather do it under my own steam.
So I wrote a letter to a cattle station in the Kimberly north of Halls Creek, 'Moola Bulla', stating my inexperience but enthusiasm to work on a station and ability to stay on a horse. I finished by asking if there were any positions available in the stock camp for the upcoming mustering season I would be grateful for the opportunity.
A few weeks later I got a reply, I was thanked for my letter and offered a position in the stock camp for the following season, it read ' we look forward to meeting you if I'd like to arrive in March sometime', and signed 'Dick Northcote – Manager'.
Directions on how to find the Station were included.
And that was it, I was going, I had a job and a starting date now all I had to do was get there.
I didn't have a car of my own and so made contact with a young guy from New South Wales who was returning to Moola Bulla for a second season, Alex agreed to let me ride with him in exchange for fuel money.
Mr Jolly was happy for me but I could sense he was disappointed and he later admitted he wished he had the money to offer me full time work to keep me around. But he knew I had to go.
It wasn't going to be forever and I looked forward to sitting down with him when I returned and tell him stories of cattle musters and wild horses.
He generously took my parents and I out for dinner a couple of days before I was to leave and gave me a swag as a parting gift. It was a real one, made by the RM Williams outfitters, much more than I could afford. He took me aside before the night was over and put his hands on my shoulders...
“Remember me when you're lying in your swag looking up at the stars.” He said.
I didn't have any words other than 'thank you' and just looked at him and nodded.
My sister gave me a first aid kit that she had put together, it was in a wooden box that my Mum had made, with a leather handle and two straps with buckles to hold it firmly closed. It was quite comprehensive. Amongst burn cream, bandages, eye washes, and all the usual contents there was a brown paper bag that she pulled out.
“A nurse at the hospital got this for me” she explained
She opened it to reveal surgical needles, thread and a topical anaesthetic cream.
“If you rub this on it will numb the area so you can stitch” she said rubbing her finger in a circular motion on the back of her hand demonstrating... “ok?”
“Got it, thanks Siss” I replied nodding seriously.
The mustering season was about eight months long, the stock camps shut down over the wet season.
I had sold the Shetland ponies so my horses would be fine through the winter with the feed in the paddock. My sister had started to ride Skye so would keep her looked after, and I had cut a stockpile of firewood for Mum to get her through.
Dad was driving me to a property just over the border in N.S.W where I was to meet up with Alex.
The morning we were to leave I went down into the valley to say goodbye to my horses, Kel at my heels.
I put my hand on Skye's forehead and she lent into me.
“Look after Siss for me” I said, “She's not as confident as she makes out.”
Kel barked once and a familiar red ute drove in and Mr Jolly stepped out. He walked over to me and smiled.
“Got all your gear packed” he asked tipping his hat back on his head.
“I think so” I replied.
There was a pause and we stood there silently, only the horses shuffling their feet in the dusty yard filled the moment.
“Do something for me?” he said. “I've seen a lot of good men ruined by grog, stay away from it ok?”
“ok” I agreed, “I will”
“I won't be here when you get back, so remember what I've taught you” He had a look on his face I hadn't seen before and it took me back a step. I got a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew what he wasn't saying.
“Don't say that”, I replied, “you're as tough as nails.” and I honestly believed it.
“Good luck Son” he outstretched his hand and there was a tear in his eye.
I shook his hand without saying a word and he held it for and extended few seconds, then turned away, got back in his ute and drove out.
Dad had put my gear in the car, there wasn't much just my swag and one bag that had clothes and the first aid kit. I hugged my family and opened the passenger door. Kel looked up at me with her brown eyes not sure of what was happening. She sensed something.
“C'mon Girl!” I said, it never entered my head that she wasn't coming with me, and she sprung up into the car.
The five hour drive into NSW was quiet, we didn't talk a lot, we didn't need to. We arrived after lunch and met with Alex. He was a typical young rural guy, educated, articulate when he wanted to be, muscular with a big frame, and as I was to learn enjoyed drinking. He wasn't impressed about Kel tagging along for the ride but soon realised there wasn't much point arguing the point.
He had a yellow WB Holden ute, 4 speed manual with a 253 V8. Kel would ride in the back with our gear. After a short greeting it was time for us to leave, my father shook my hand lent in close and spoke quietly;
'I've put some extra money in the pocket of your bag just in case.' gave my hand a squeeze then stepped back.
'Thanks Dad' I replied with an appreciative smile, 'I'll see you in a year.'
We climbed into the ute, the V8 engine rumbled to life and we headed off in a cloud of dust with Kel hanging her head out the side, her tongue flapping in the wind.
Our route would take us West into South Australia, across the Nullabor Plain into Western Australia then up the West coast and a stop at Manilya where Alex wanted to visit an old school friend who was now managing a sheep station.
It was late summer and the weather was hot, hotter than either Kel or I had experienced for a prolonged period. There was no air conditioning in the ute but I was worried about Kel in the back not able to get out of the sun. Every time we stopped for fuel I would get her some water to drink and she would lap it up. At night when Alex was tired we would stop at a truck parking area and roll out our swags, he had made it clear he didn't want me to do any of the driving, we were passengers.
The night air was cool and Kel slept quietly on the foot of my swag as she did at home on my bed, I was accustomed to the feel of her being there and it gave me a reassurance that everything was how it was supposed to be. By the third afternoon I had rigged a small cover in a corner of the ute tube so Kel could get some reprieve from the relentless sun and she seemed much happier.
The expanse of the Nullabor took me by surprise and started to open my eyes to the shear size of the country we lived in. So hot and harsh but somehow intimate and compelling. Salt bush as far as the eye could see for hour upon hour, then teasing glimpses of spectacular views off high cliffs to the ocean as we passed the bite. Alex was reluctant to stop, he was travelling to get somewhere not site seeing along the way. Quietly I promised Kel we would drive it ourselves one day and stop wherever we wanted.
There wasn't much conversation, I got the distinct impression that Alex was just tolerating us to help with the fuel cost. But I didn't mind, I was wide eyed at the country we were travelling through and occupied with my own thoughts.
One section of the highway was still dirt yet to be tarred and I learned that once it was completed for the first time travellers would be able to drive right around the country on bitumen.
I began to realise just how hot and desolate some areas were and of the scarcity and ultimate value that was placed on water. At some of the roadhouses I couldn't even get water for Kel. There was no bottled water sold in those days and offering to pay for a bowl or cup full of tap water for Kel made no difference, I was flatly denied. So I would buy her a bottle of cold lemonade wanting to make sure she got some fluids into her and she drank eagerly, it was wet and cold.
Continuously I was making mental notes that I would draw on later. I would make sure that when we got our own vehicle she wouldn't go without water.
Before long our night stops had changed, we were now stopping at places that had a pub or even just a bar and Alex would drink until he was drunk and pass out. I sat quietly and watched as Alex and local drinkers in varying numbers got progressively more intoxicated and inevitably a fight would break out over some stupid drunken argument that no one could remember.
I was uncomfortable around drunk people, I found them unpredictable and remembered something Mr Jolly had told me, 'never argue with a drunk or a fanatic', and I realised why and learned how to patronise them to stay out of trouble. Some nights I didn't have the energy to put up with their drunken dribble so would stay outside with Kel.
I much preferred the quiet of the truck parking areas with only the occasional road-train passing to break up the night sounds and remind me there were others out here too. That was another mental note.
From Simon Cheatham (Founder RFTTE) - Paul 'Woody' Allen was my Head Stockman at Carlton Hill in the East Kimberley, WA in 1992. A fantastic bloke/ gentlemen, excellent horseman, talented story teller, band member, arborist, leather worker, all round cracking bloke etc etc... who now runs his own small business making just about everything you need for a dog, near Geelong, Victoria
