Two — Goin’ Bush

Moments later I’m alone in the swampy atmosphere, watching the bus disappear towards the X/Y axis of road and horizon. The relentless heat stokes my worries; the scene is as bleak as everything else I’ve seen since leaving the coast.  My animate presence within only accentuates its barren vastness.

“Am I making a horrible mistake?” I wonder. It had all happened so quickly. After seven long years working my way through UCLA undergrad, I’d been desperate to discover what the world outside Los Angeles might offer. I bought a plane ticket to Australia, figuring that the smoothest introduction to international travel would be found in an English-speaking country. In Canberra I met someone who knew someone who was friends with a ranching family. Would I like to experience an authentic Outback cattle station?

Sure, I thought. Why not? Then, a phone call, a promise to work for my upkeep, a bus ticket, and here I find myself, standing at the head of a rutted track leading into a daunting unknown. The hills into which the dirt road leads are broken and dilapidated; an abandoned Bronx tenement whose defaced weariness holds no promise of better things within. What manner of squatters could inhabit such a place, scratching out a meager living within the domain of this miserly landlord?

From the base of the hills a dust cloud arises, then grows as it moves my way. Fifteen minutes later, a boxy red pickup truck with the timeworn look of a Pueblo elder draws up and is enveloped in its self-generated dust storm. Out bounds a sinewy young man in dusty boots, schoolboy shorts, a muscle shirt, and a stained and battered felt hat.

“How you going, mate?” he says with a broad smile as he strides towards me. “Me name’s Peter. Yours’d be Dave, I reckon?”

A firm raw hand seizes mine, releases it, then drops to my luggage and with an easy motion swings my bag into the back of the pickup.

“Hop in, mate. We’ve got a bit of a ride ahead of us,” he says, his cheerful voice tuned to the rising sound of the Australian Question Inflection. His demeanor suggests he thinks the ride ahead is a trifle. “Sorry I’m late,” he offers, “I stopped a few times to blow out a couple o’ dingoes.”

I nod vacantly.

“Been waitin’ long?” he asks.

“Not too long,” I say. Just long enough to contemplate sprinting down the road to catch the bus before it clears the horizon.

“Plenty hot, eh?” he says with the sparkle of a man who has just seen his firstborn child. Though I don’t know what to make of his demeanor, I’m glad he’s at least noticed the heat.

“You’d be glad you wadn’t here last week, mate. Hotter than a keen Sheila in woolen knickers, it was. Drive you to buggery to put up with it year-round, I reckon.”

He looks at me squarely, his white teeth flashing an honest welcome. Even with zero understanding of his utterance I find him likable. His entire demeanor lacks artifice, from his lank sun-bleached hair to his relaxed frame to his handsome face with its light powder of road rouge. Were he born on the other side of the world, he’d have qualified as All-American. I guess he’s around twenty-three years old, four years younger than I.

“You’re not from here then, either?” I ask.

“Naw, me family’s in Victoria.”

“Your parents are retired?” I assume, imagining old folks enjoying the rewards of a hard life on the land.

“No, mate, working there. Me dad teaches psychology at the University of Melbourne and me mum’s a music teacher at Melbourne Church of England Girl’s Grammar School.” Peter waggles his head and smiles as he puts some mustard on the high-falootin’ name.

I’m surprised; Peter is the child of educators? I’d noticed a subtle anti-intellectual bent in Australia; Aussies don’t like tall poppies, guys who think they’re better than their mates. Is this then what the offspring of the intelligentsia are reduced to, seeking forgotten corners in order to live lives unmolested by social censure?

“How is it you ended up here?” I ask with an exaggerated delicacy.

“Aw, I haven’t ended up anywhere just yet mate. But it’s a good hard life here. I like it.”

He leaves it at that, so I don’t pursue the matter. Besides, any answer of his to my question was likely to be no more sensible than any I might offer to explain my presence in that moment.

As we draw closer to the low hills, they reveal more details of their weathered face. Sedimentary layers are exposed in uneven array. Precarious piles of shattered rock stand balanced where the elements have stacked them. These ancient hills look as if they’ve been onboard Australia’s entire trip across the oceans from primeval Pangaea.

We rise upon the alluvial fan spreading out from the hills, curve to the right, and launch upon a steep grade. This is the rise into the Bullo River Valley, I’m soon to learn, the first of several impediments which shape life on the remote station.

“It’s a proper jump-up, this,” Peter says, grinning. “We’ll be getting the grader out here in a couple o’ days to give it a bit of a workout before the road trains have to come in.”

I am by now familiar with the three-trailered Australian semis; looking at the steep and narrow dirt incline, it’s difficult to imagine anything fifty yards long with sixty-eight wheels even contemplating such a proposition.

“You don’t mean they pull all three trailers up here at once?” I ask.

“One at a time, matey. They’ll pull one up, unhook it at the top, go back for the second, then the third. Takes a while.”

It remains difficult to imagine these mighty vehicles doing such a thing; even after reducing their load by two, they’d still be the size of the semis we’re used to seeing on American highways. I realize I’ve entered a whole new level of doing, and I’m pleased to notice that the prospect excites me.

An entirely different landscape reveals itself as we reach the top of the incline, several hundred feet above the austere plain I’d traversed via Greyhound. To the left and right the red cliffs snake away in gentle undulations. Ahead of us another vastness unfolds, this one garnished by the pale green of abundant feathery scrub trees. Great fields of yard-high spear grass add a darker hue. From the starkness below it’s impossible to know such relative verdure exists so nearby. Here above, the land is gently hilled, endless, unaltered by humans; I could have been Balboa standing above the Pacific Ocean, an astronaut on the steps of the lunar module. It is the kind of unexpected and inviting scene that inflames explorer’s passions—before it bleaches their bones.

My cheerful companion has stopped the truck. “Makes me think of home,” he says, just above a whisper.

“But it’s quite different from Victoria, isn’t it?”

“Aye. It sure is. Looking at this makes me realize just how far away Victoria is.”

He looks my way, and I nod empathically, mirroring his wistful smile.

 

Several minutes later we reach a homemade metal gate. Years before, Charlie Henderson, late scion of Bullo River Station, had spelled out the name of the property using narrow metal pipe welded to the gate frame. I hop out, swing open the gate, and we enter.

Six months would pass before I again set foot on land not owned by the Hendersons.

Within half an hour, the landscape again changes considerably. The road pitches and curls as we make our way over small hills and through dry creek beds. Stunted, gnarled trees appear. We round a wide curve and I see my first Boab tree.

These iconic landmarks live hundreds of years, reaching thirty or more feet in circumference. Unlike our Giant Sequoias, however, these Top End goliaths never grow very tall, perhaps forty feet or so. Their branches sprout solely from the tops where the trees narrow dramatically. This gives the trees a curvaceous shape similar to the glass containers from which they get their nickname—bottle trees. These quirky fixtures of the outback landscape are central features in aboriginal survival and folklore.

The terrain has become friendlier, with its occasional streams and voluptuous trees. Combined with Peter’s upbeat presence, I’m feeling better about my enterprise. The moment takes on the excitement of the first day at a new school; smells are exotic and varied, the foreign scenes rush upon me with subtle details of color and aspect. I hang my elbow out the window and open myself to the purples, yellows, greens, and — mostly — the broad views, rolling by in unfamiliar shape and combination.

The dirt track upon which we ride had been scratched out along the path of least resistance through the surrounding swells. We find ourselves for a moment in fine silt which then gives way to stretches of coarse stone or hardpan earth. Broken shelves of flat rock bounce us up hill and down.  We slow for dry creek beds, whose uneven amblings heave us sharply nonetheless. I begin to gain respect for our stout truck. Its utilitarian appearance—devoid of fancy options or stylish flourishes—matches its untroubled ability to roll us towards our destination.

I listen as Peter explains life at Bullo River.

“Dave,” — he pronounces it ‘Dive’—“Bullo is different from other stations I’ve worked on. It’s a hillbilly operation compared to most. I reckon that comes from being family run.” I read a combination of admiration and resignation in the cast of his eyes and twist of his mouth as he makes the point.

“Things may be changing, however. It’s now run by Charlie Ahlers, who’s married the eldest daughter, Marlee Henderson. Charlie’s a true bushman, a famous chopper pilot here in the Top End.”

“So there’s no fat management corporation about who can buy you fancy new tools when you need them or some bloody prize bull to improve your stock. For you and me, this means we’ve got to be clever often and do without even oftener.” Again, the fluorescent smile.

“Charlie runs the place. He’s a clever bastard all right, too. Listen and do what he says and you’ll be right as rain. Dick about and you’ll be history, mate. Marlee’s his wife, a boss in her own right, and her younger sister is Danielle. Sara Henderson is their mum’s name.”

“Marlee? That’s her name?”

“It’s short for Murray Lee. I reckon her Pop was settin’ up for a boy.  Didn’t miss the mark by much, though. Looks like a woman, sure, but she’s a tough ‘un, that bird.” Again, the wide grin.

“How many hands besides the two of us?” I ask.

“We’re it for now. Couple of Aboriginal stockmen will be along soon, though, I hear. Of course, there’s Uncle Dick and Stumpie, but they don’t work the yards.”

“Uncle Dick and Stumpie? What are they, family?”

“Aye, in a manner of speaking, mate. Dick’d be the mechanic, and Ol’ Stump’s the camp cook. We won’t see much of him until we set up stock camp. I reckon they’ve both been here a while. Dick’s right handy with the wrench, and Stump has a knack for handlin’ wildlife. His birdcage is a sight to see!”

“But they don’t do other duties, the things you and I’ll be doing?”

“Naw, matey. They’re part of the furniture of the place, to my eye. And ya don’t take your bed with you when you head out in the mornin’, now do ya?”

“So that’s it? Eight people on half a million acres?!” The idea confounds me. I realize I have no notion what station work involves. I’d imagined sizable crews of riders fanning out over great distances, each self-sufficient in food and equipment. Instead, I’ll be working with three women and four men on a half million acres.

“Doing what?”

“Mustering, mostly. Getting ready, processing the cattle, tearing down, then setting up again. Mustering itself is done these days with helicopters, typically. Our job will involve setting up portable yards at each yard site, then disassembling and moving it to the next yard site, after we’ve branded and castrated and shipped off the proper stock to the meat works. Physical work, all day.”

I’m realizing I’ve seen far too many John Wayne movies. “No horseback riding, no evenings around the campfire, singing and farting and telling lies?”

“Aye, Dave, there’ll be a bit of that. Especially the fartin’,” Peter laughs, enjoying a guffaw at the expense of the Yank, who by the look on his face was coming to realize this was to be no extended Marlboro commercial.

 

We fall quiet and my attention returns to the passing scenery. Several hundred yards away a large hill slopes upward, its sides home to the same low-level foliage which covers the rest of the scene. I’m scrutinizing its colony of termite mounds — and questioning my odd compulsion to kick them over — when one mound grows two powerful legs and springs into the bush.

“Look!” I hoot. “A kangaroo!” I scramble for my camera.

“Slow down, Dave. He’d be long gone by the time you unpack your gear. You’ll see plenty of ‘em around here, though. Besides, that wasn’t a proper roo. It was a wallaby.” Peter registers my disappointment. “Tell you what—I’ll see if I can’t snag the next one with the roo bars on the ute, give you a close-up look!” Peter laughs.

I glance at the blocky metal framework mounted on the front bumper of our truck. The idea of pulverizing an innocuous wisp of fur and feet with such an engine is absurd overkill.  I look at Peter with a comically mortified expression.

“Serve you a dinner of roo-bar steak. Make you a dinkum Aussie,” Peter laughs, delighted at the countenance his imagery has placed on my face.

I find myself laughing at his airy sadism, even as I remember how sickened I’d felt one night back home when I’d rolled over an innocent rabbit with a quadraphonic crunch.

An hour into our ride, we curve to our right and descend to the banks of a river. This is the Bullo River, the station’s namesake. It flows right to left, thirty wide yards wide. Overhanging trees grow thickly along its banks, shading the playful eddies which accompany the water downstream. Just that suddenly we’ve left behind the arid emptiness of the Tanami and come upon a place where Tom and Huck would’ve felt at home spending a day of lazy truancy.

An item absent from the scene makes me wonder how we are to avoid spending a stretch of time here ourselves. There’s no bridge to carry us across the waters. We pause on the near bank as Peter shifts into four-wheel-drive, then rolls directly into the flow. Over our wheels the waters rise, above the front bumper, over the fender. I lift my feet as water floods the cab’s floorboards. We’re in the middle of a wide river, though not in a boat, and I’m feeling as though I’m a passenger on an aquatic version of those preposterous early flying machines.

The comparison exists in my apprehension only, however. On his way out Peter had waded into the middle of the river to confirm its suitability for fording. The diesel engine and high carriage keep everything critical to the operation of the truck dry. So momentarily we leave the river riffling in our wake and, dripping like a sodden hound, putt humidly up the opposite bank.

Another hour’s drive finds us on the fringe of a second wide, flat valley. Lunch-bucket cattle, very unlike the plump and docile dairy daisies I’m accustomed to back home, appear more frequently. They’re standing in suspicious clutches of ten to twenty, their eyes fixed upon us as their jaws circle in metronomic bovinian cadence. After we pass, their heads again drop towards whatever sustenance the parsimonious earth offers, their tails rejoining the battle against winged hordes of flies.

We pass through a gate, then another, then a third, at which point we enter a magnificent stand of fifty and seventy-foot-tall Ghost Gum eucalyptus. Corymbia bella in their gleaming array are as evocative of Australia’s Top End as is the Parthenon redolent of Athenian majesty.  The evening light illuminates their smooth plaster-of-paris bark, stout sentinels reflecting the soft light with clarity and a brilliant economy.

For me, these trees prove to be guardians of a portal, not into a glorious past, but rather my unknown future. For just past this stand of gums lies one final gate, beyond which I am committed to this exotic antipodal enterprise. As I hop out to swing the homestead gate open for the first of a thousand times, I see a low building on the horizon, a humble home to whose occupants I’ve promised the entirety of my time and effort for the better part of the coming year.

What I can’t know on this innocent evening is the character of the experiences we are to share, moments which begin to swirl and coalesce from within the nebula of possibility as we roll the final mile to our destination.