I didn’t venture out again on my walks after encountering the snake until Wednesday, but that was not because of fear. I waited until the wind and sun had dried the effect of the rain, and was glad that I had done so. The ground was still soft and the black mud still hung heavy on the sole of my shoes.
I’d spent the day before holed up inside the caravan which was on reflection a silly thing to do. There was a cold wind blowing despite the sun and I spent the day alternating between radio listening and computer emersion. One could become quite depressed making a habit of that; one needs to air the mind even in the freshness of the wind.
I came upon hoof tracks and rooting on the side of the track, and had my suspicions confirmed when Chris told me that Shannon, the mechanic and Dog’s rightful mate, is currently carrying a gun around with a view to potting wild pork if he gets the chance. So wild pigs now can be added to my list of wildlife I have either come upon or seen real evidence of. I have since heard that hunting feral pigs or wild boar is quite dangerous without dogs, so I just hope that if I am faced by such a one, I can spear it with my walking stick.
The following day was the fourth day since the last wash, so I headed off to the laundry shed, such as it is, with great bags of dirty linen and clothes, to find that the rumours about the washing machine heard some days previously, were in fact correct. The machine was stuffed. So I pulled out all but the linen and stood over the kitchen sink scrubbing away, wishing I had “lifted” a wash board from one of the many heritage museums we have passed through in our travels. I left the worst of the clothes soaking while I set off on an abbreviated walk, just an hour, returning to find that the “hungry enzymes” that are supposed to gobble up the grease and dirt, as per the television advertising we have been subjected to for years, are in fact just a myth. Chris had to be satisfied that his socks and work clothes had been freshened up rather than laundered.
That day, as so many others, I watched three spoonbills soaring around in wide circles high above me searching for fish in the river and a flock of swifts swoop in smaller circles just above the river surface gathering smaller buggier meals. It never ceases to amaze me that the spoonbills and cormorants can see their prey through the murk of the river water.
Equally amazing is the condition of the McIntyre River
One day I wandered off the track toward the river halfway between the Boonangar Crossing and the pump, through a big patch of casuarinas, hoping to reach the river there. I came upon a roo sunning himself, who once startled, bounded away, but not the river. Turning back, I followed the direction of the sun in the absence of any path or tracks I had left and found myself well west of my entry. Note to myself, leave markings when next going bush.
On Wednesday the guys finished with Field No 3, and all moved to Field No. 50, a small area of only 123.3 acres (49.9 hectares). They traveled in a long convoy, the tractors pulling the module builders, the utes transporting the men and pulling the fuel and water tanks (the latter for fire extinguishing), the harvesters and other bits and pieces; a distance of fifteen to twenty kilometres across and south of the Gnou Gnou Creek. The distance is confusingly one or the other; we decided it must depend on whether one traveled via the more formal farm roads, or cut through a way that was not suitable for the convoy. Apparently the soil there is not the black of most of the farm or of these plains famed for the same, but more red. The crop is more dense with cotton and the harvesters struggled initially before they had their bits adjusted to cope with the different yield. While much of the day was spent standing around for everything to get set up once again, it became incredibly busy and even more demanding as the cold wind strengthened during the day.
That night over dinner Chris told me that one of the harvester drivers had told him he thought there was only another two weeks left of this particular work. This differs greatly from that advised by Labour Solutions. Chris was quite disappointed with the thought that the work may not last even to the end of May, however I suggested he speak with his supervisor, Greg, or Darryl, rather than listen to the mumblings of fellow workers. The rumors and gossip that come home at night, need some sifting through to make true sense of. As regards the possibility of a shorter stretch here? While Chris swears he is coping fine with it all, and I have seen no evidence to suggest otherwise, we are supposed to be enjoying a more relaxed phase of our lives.
Since discovering that we can receive the ABC National radio, I spend much of my day listening to that. It is broadcasted as the regional North West New England station, but does switch over to the national program for much of the day. And being a regional radio in such an agricultural area, there is great emphasis put on rural news.
One morning we learned that cotton is currently selling for $1.50 a pound. (I was mystified as to why it would be sold in imperial measures, however that may have something to do with the fact that the USA
Thinking about this fact, and working with rough figures only:
- One module is normally about 12 tonnes
- Daryl originally told us that one module is worth about $18,000, but that would be the un-ginned (unrefined) cotton.
- 2,000 lb is about 1 tonne.
- Therefore if you put the refined cotton back into a module size crate weighing that 12 tonnes, it would be worth about $24,000.
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| Cotton harvest machinery passing in front of our drive: harvester, followed by tractor pulling module maker. |
This year the crop is excellent and of course the Australian dollar is through the roof, so all in all it is a good year, with expectations for the 2012 year to be even better.
Another morning on the radio, someone rang in to talk about the thousands of corellas that had ruined the showgrounds at Narrabri. That is where we stayed about three weeks ago and we were delighted by the massive flocks of these birds, which were nesting in trees away from the open camp area, but made their presence known to us particularly just before sunset, when they would fly across the grounds in great flocks, hundreds of them, calling and screeching quite wonderfully.
Well, it seems that these wonderful birds have wrecked havoc on the lights and speakers quite recently repaired and restored, torn up the nearby cricket pitch and are doing their best to do the same with the tennis courts. The caller estimated that they have done over a half a million dollars worth of damage. He invited ideas to get rid of them aside from shooting the lot of them which wasn’t really an option in a built up area.
I headed off for my walk soon after hearing this story so missed the suggestions that would have surely been offered.
Another feature that fascinates me about this radio station, which reflects the special character of rural Australia
Yesterday dawned clear and cold, after an equally cold night. Chris went off to work in trousers rather than shorts, with his beanie fitted snugly under his work hat. No sooner had he left than a station wagon arrived, full of bleary eyed youths. The driver was less so, however his two passengers eventually crawled out of the vehicle looking like they had had a hard night on the booze. An older man who had arrived late the preceding afternoon greeted them, had them back up in the comer of our carpark / camp, fortunately well away from us, where eventually they started to unpack rolls of foam (mattresses) and tent poles. They started to erect a tent, and were still doing so when I headed off for my walk, making sure everything was locked up tight before I headed away. When I returned two hours later, there had been no further progress on the tent. They are strongly built young men, who if motivated, could be awesome workers, however they do have the look of reluctant PD workers.
Last night when Chris came home, I asked him what he knew about them. He had noticed some sort of canvas arrangement in the dark, and had also heard that contractors with four more harvesting machines were about to arrive with their contingent of workers. Maybe these were some of them?
This morning I saw them head for the kitchen, moving in that “watcha-looking-at?” and “who’s- the-man?” swaggering manner that hip-hop rapper South Aucklanders (and quite possibly those from Logan City
Since the move to the other side of the farm, Chris has been later than ever getting home. We have not eaten much before nine o’clock the past couple of nights, which may seem normal for some, but for us who normally dine between 5.30 and 7 pm, this is extreme.
Yesterday they moved on to yet another small field, No 51 which is very slightly bigger than the last at 125.77 acres (50.9 hectares). I did ask him last night what defines a field and he told me that it was the irrigation canals. While engaged in my ambulant thinking this morning, I wondered why then that a 125 acre field needed to be surrounded by irrigation canals, when some fields of two to three times that size could cope with the same number of canals (one surrounding it). I will have to ask him.
Chris says that the longer route home offers more entertainment; there are quite a few rabbits about, not seen on this side of the creek because of the unwelcome nature of the ground, a surprising number of emus and scores of kangaroos. I just hope they don’t hit one, especially if the driver is one of the hoony backpackers who drive with abandon along the top of the levees.
And speaking of road kill, I did note this morning on my walk, that there was a roo carcass on the farm road adjacent to my farm track, being feasted upon by a dozen or so crows. Obviously they are carrion creatures, as are vultures and New Zealand
This morning when Chris and I were attending to the disposal of our black waste, and I more particularly to fetching water in a bucket from the laundry shed, I noted that the washing machine seemed in a state of readiness. Baskets of unwashed laundry, and piles of soggy washing lifted from the un-drained machine, had all disappeared, so I risked our own with success after most of the men had gone off to the fields. Joy, great joy! How little it takes to excite me these days!
There is hardly a day that goes by when I do not see or hear something new on my walks. This morning I saw parrots of the most brilliant green, almost fluorescent in colour, and small wren-like birds with patches of cobalt-blue on their heads. Perhaps the latter were Little Friarbirds, but again, as stated before, it is so hard to identify them exactly. They flit and fly about so actively, and my bird bible is stored safely back in the caravan library.
Today is windy but as clear as yesterday. The windmill was spinning furiously as I reached the pump at the river, and the jet trails in the sky were clear but soon dissipated by the winds even higher up. Suddenly on my path, I saw a turtle making its way across from the channel that I had originally considered to be the reservoir, to the river. I watched it silently as it plodded on, the size of a side plate, then moved on to the iron grill platform above the river from where I could watch it and any other creatures of interest. It saw me and froze, just before a small ditch filled with dry sticks. I edged up closer to it, but it tucked its head, at the end of such a long snake like neck, back under its shell, which was covered in mud and green algae. I wondered whether I could give it a helping hand and lift it over the ditch setting it on the top of the muddy bank to the river, however reaching down to do so, had second thoughts. What if it could dart its head out the side of its shell and bite me? And I was at least half an hour from help, and then, what help? I stepped back, to let nature take its course, but after another ten minutes of waiting, conceded that it had more patience than I and I should leave it in peace. I turned back for home.
When I got back, I hopped in to the Cruiser and drove the 18 kilometres north to Talwood. The storekeepers’ young daughters were cleaning the shop front windows, and father was on the roof. Inside I gathered together my meager purchases (two newspapers, a cauliflower and a loaf of bread) and spent a few minutes chatting to the lady of the shop. I asked about the road works, that I had again had to negotiate, and she told me that the road is being widened and to be sealed.
“Fantastic!” I said, “however it may not be finished until we are gone.”
“Well”, she said, “you will just have to come back next year.”
And well we might.
The wind is playing havoc with our awning however I have checked the guy ropes, and the weighty contents of the caravan should preclude it from swinging up into the air like a kite. More than I can say for the tent erected at the other end of this camp. The boys do have a nice family style tent at their disposal, but I doubt they have ever erected one before. The sides are sloppy and the whole structure invites catastrophe, if not from the wind, the old and gnarled tree standing sentinel over it.
Today has been a good one so far; the washing machine restored to use, a tortoise, the birth of a new grand-niece called Daisy (I do love Facebook) and more promising news of a tenant for our house. Hopefully Chris will also have had a good day despite the wind tossing the harvested cotton from one side of the field to the other. I will endeavour to cook him a meal he will enjoy to make up for last night. Macaroni cheese, even with delicious chunks of tasty bacon, should not be done in a crock pot unless you are exactly following a recipe offering exact measures and exact slow-cooking times. Otherwise it tends to come out like porridge, which is never a good thing, but particularly so for one who eats pasta to humour his wife.
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