Brought up on Planet Downs cattle station near Burketown in the Gulf Country of North Queensland, Rusty has a fascinating family history and even more incredible stories from his time as a ringer and helicopter mustering pilot.
From mustering feral cattle with just 43 hours of helicopter experience to surviving a horrific crash after 16,000 flying hours, Rusty’s life has been anything but ordinary.
Rusty is now 66 and, although his health is not as good as it once was, he is taking things a little easier. He has replaced the cyclic stick with a pen and semi-retired in Proserpine, surrounded by friends and a supportive community.
I’m currently reading his book Rusty’s Tale, and it’s a cracking yarn with more highs and lows than an R22.
Here is an excerpt from Rusty’s story. Let me tell you, though, there are plenty more mustering tales and other extraordinary yarns in the book.
For the record, I don’t receive a brass razoo from promoting Rusty’s books. They’re one hell of a read, and I’m only too happy to help share his yarns.
Take it away, Rusty...
In 1985 I met a girl while I was working at Lawn Hill Station. She was staying with her aunt and uncle, who were old friends of mine. They operated a Cessna aircraft on local charter operations north of Lawn Hill.
This girl had a little six-month-old son with her. Cupid’s arrow struck deep for me anyway, and I was sorely smitten. We set up house together and were married in October 1986.
“I loved her so very much.”
I actually don’t have all that much education, as I wasn’t even able to achieve a Junior Pass and left the world of academia behind not long after my 15th birthday.
Life ain’t easy for a boy named Sue, as Mr Cash maintains, and I struggled with my identity and place in the scheme of things as I worked back at Planet Downs, Queensland, for my domineering and, at times, abusive father and uncle.
“This potpourri of life was a powder keg of emotion and highly volatile.”
Time moved on and the property was sold.
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I had always had an interest in aviation and was working towards a helicopter pilot’s licence.
I had been training in fixed-wing aircraft as I could afford it and had progressed from Student Pilot to Restricted and Unrestricted levels of a Fixed-Wing Private Pilot Licence.
As Planet Downs had been sold, I took a job at Gregory Downs, the neighbouring property, as a grader operator.
Gregory Downs is near Burketown in the Gulf Country of North Queensland and is now owned by Paraway Pastoral Company.
The manager of Lawn Hill Station at the time offered me the pilot’s job flying their Hughes 300 helicopter for the 1985 season.
I still have my logbook from then and find that what they entrusted me with was phenomenal.
I have had a long and not very successful career in aviation, being the Chief Pilot of four operations at different times, Operations Manager of a large outfit with 46 machines, and the HAAMC, as well as carrying out low-level check and training, mustering training and checking, SAR controller duties and God knows what else.
There is no chance that I would let a pilot of my tender experience loose like they did, but thanks to Terry McCosker and Aramis Patti Maia, I was away.
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Over the following wet season, I trained for a Private Helicopter Pilot Licence in Melbourne.
I went solo at nine hours and received my licence at 41 hours total helicopter time before returning to Lawn Hill.
By the time I had logged just 43 hours total helicopter time, I was mustering and putting feral cattle into portable yards.
How I never crashed in those early days, I do not know.
I had my first emergency at 247 hours total time when the helicopter engine failed as I yarded cattle into a portable yard.
A successful autorotation was carried out, with the added bonus of the cattle I was working still going into the yard.
I guess it was actually due to good training and a good attitude.
“I was not a mug lair, and flamboyant flying has never impressed me.”
I worked very hard for them and had, I think, one day off in nine months. The result of all this was that I was treated with a lot of respect, and the road to my future was a little clearer.
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Unfortunately for my wife and growing family, my heart kept drawing me back towards Planet and the Gregory district.
I lugged them all over northern Australia, trying to find a spot where I could feel settled.
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Selected photographs by PJ Knight and Scott Bridle.
We had some happy years at Gregory Downs and Riversleigh Station.
This came to a savage end when I crashed my helicopter and was severely injured.
I had flown for 16,000 hours by then and, apart from one other minor accident, had never damaged an aircraft, so I sure blotted my copybook.
It was a comedy of errors, like most accidents.
Previous to this, my oldest son had been involved in a motorbike accident while visiting a school friend. He had been knocked into a coma, had to learn to walk again and was still recovering in Townsville General Hospital.
My wife was still by his side.
I had stayed with them in Townsville for a while and then returned to Riversleigh to keep the business going alone. I was very worried about him, and the factors relating to this all contributed to my weariness and state of mind.
“I was mustering on 18 August 2000 at Gregory Downs, ironically on the Planet Downs half of the station.”
I reversed into a tree and the tail rotor struck a small branch, dislodging the plug of weight in the end of the blade and causing a massive and instantaneous vibration.
This caused the tail casting to crack through and fall off almost instantly.
The helicopter then flipped inverted and struck the ground while rotating at speed.
My memory of these events is hazy, to say the least, but I recall regaining consciousness and struggling to escape from the wreck as I hung badly injured over the seatbelt.
I had to cut the seatbelt with my knife and passed out again as I slumped to the ground.
I came to after a while and was able to drag myself out of the wreck using my forearms, as my legs would not work. I had broken my pelvis.
Unfortunately, I managed to spear myself in the back of my right hand with the knife, but that was minuscule in the big scheme of things.
I guess I was at the wreck site for a couple of hours before help arrived.
I can mostly only recount my rescuers’ stories now, as it was around four weeks before I was properly conscious again.
As I said earlier, I had broken my pelvis, with consequent internal bleeding.
The old heart was still working pretty well and was pumping all my blood into my abdomen, crushing my lungs and anything else that was in the way.
I do remember really needing to pee or poop but was terribly embarrassed by it and could not bring myself to let go while surrounded by my rescuers.
I remember being very worried about the work bookings I had and went to some trouble to make sure the clients were advised and alternatives suggested.
I believe it took about five hours before the Royal Flying Doctor Service could get to me and take me for my second flight with the Flying Doctor.
They had to open my abdomen to release the pressure and, I believe, getting me to Townsville required 36 units of blood.
They kept me in an induced coma for three weeks.
The doctors had to cut my healthy leg bone and draw the leg away with a large weight to give them enough room to get inside and repair my pelvis.
Unfortunately, I caught Golden Staph and that leg bone had to be cut again, as the doctors had to go back into me three times in total and remove all the metal to get rid of the infection.
They taught me to walk again, but it wasn’t easy.
I came out of hospital needing a crutch to help me walk.
The loss of the sciatic nerve in my left leg, caused by damage from the broken pelvis, meant I needed a foot-drop splint to assist with walking, as well as a compression stocking.
“I cannot say enough good words about the nursing staff at Townsville General Hospital and the lifesaving care I received there.”
Thank you so much, Malcolm McKinnon, and all of your wonderful offsiders.
I learnt a lot of humility in hospital.
If I got to feeling a bit sorry for myself, I did not have to look very far to find someone worse off.
“The love and care from my wife, family and many friends got me through it.”
It’s all a long time ago now. Things have changed, and my mind is not as clear as it once was.
I crashed on 18 August 2000. I spent around six months in hospital and, by July 2001, I had regained my full commercial licence.
I returned to Lawn Hill alone and completed the 2001 second round of mustering.
As I have said earlier, I do not have a lot of education. I had four children in boarding school and needed a substantial income to keep things happening.
The only way I could see for that to happen was for me to keep flying.
“So I continued to fly for another 5,000 hours.”
Life as a working pilot during those years was extremely hard for me. The physical difficulties were immense, and I also struggled with the decreasing love and affection from my wife.
On 26 January 2006, my world fell apart when I discovered my wife’s unfaithfulness.
No doubt the years of following me around and suffering through my recovery had taken their toll on her as well, and she had made her own arrangements.
But like any cuckolded husband, I was devastated.
It turned out that her lover was the biological father of my oldest son, the little boy she had when I first met her.
“I believe my relationship with my son, indeed with all my children, is still as strong as it ever was and that we are strong together.”
I left her then and moved to another state and a different type of job and lifestyle.
They say in life that when one door closes, another one opens, and that’s basically what happened to me.
I moved into a position as the Operations Manager for a large and complicated company.
I filled many roles at this company, being at various times, either independently or together, the Chief Pilot, Operations Manager and HAAMC.
I felt an enormous responsibility for the 40-odd pilots under my care and treated them like they were my own children.
I guess the pressure of my life eventually took its toll, and I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.
I took the opportunity to take things easy for a while, and I have now semi-retired.
The copyright for this story is held by Russell Carrington, the author.
You can read the complete story in Rusty’s book. At $18.90, it’s a worthy yarn!
Rusty’s other book combines his story with the autobiography of his mother, Pat Carrington.
Again, I don’t get a brass razoo from promoting Rusty’s books. They’re one hell of a read, and I’m only too happy to help share his yarns.
Rusty and friends!
© Russell Carrington. Copyright is held by Russell Carrington, the author of this story. This excerpt is reproduced with the author’s permission.
