Our First Camp — Cattle Stations — Spear Creek — Flinders River — Cloncurry
Acting on reliable advice, we decided upon a track running parallel with the Norman River. It was a desolate route, monotonous in the extreme, the only vegetation being Quinine bushes (a tall slender tree, with a rough dark bark and glossy leaves), Messmates (a medium-sized tree, with broad silvery grey leaves), the Polyalthia, the Leichardt, the Moreton Bay ash, and the Bloodwood, the latter being one of the commonest scrub trees in Northern Queensland.
Not desiring to tire our horses at the outset, but rather to let them gradually accustom themselves to the stages we should be compelled to ask of them, our first day’s distance was a short one, of only twelve miles. After passing through a typical roadside township, built on a small clearing, and consisting of a couple of grog shanties, a butcher’s and blacksmith’s shop, we cried a halt, turned loose, and fixed up camp, hobbling and belling our horses carefully. With considerable pride we reflected that twelve miles of our long journey was accomplished, and we prepared to mark the distance on the chart. Gather our surprise when we discovered that the dot indicating our position hardly showed from the blotch which distinguished Normanton, while, on the other hand, ahead of us stretched nearly a yard of map. For the first time since our decision, a real impression of the distance we had undertaken to travel came before us. Our camp was comfortable and, had it not been for the mosquitoes, would have been enjoyable. As it was, within an hour of sundown it was forcibly borne in upon us that we ought to have added cheesecloth nets to our equipments, for these pests nearly eat us alive. They were particularly hard on Mr. Pickwick, alighting on his map of Asia, and inducing him to keep up a continuous moaning all night long.
Next morning, to our dismay, we discovered that our horses were nowhere to be found. We searched all round the camp, listening intently for their bells, but without success. The Long’un, who had chosen the work of looking after the horses in preference to the cooking and tending camp, set off in search of them. When, some hours later, he returned, he brought the faithless beasts with him, and explained in figurative language that he had been obliged to walk no less than eight miles to recover them. He had found them making their way back to Normanton; they had no desire to cross continents: there was no ambition about those horses.
Saddling up, we proceeded on our way, the Long’un and I riding side by side, the two pack horses, Cyclops and Polyphemus, running loose ahead. In the cool of the morning it was pleasant travelling. The country improved as we progressed, the view being picturesquely made up of light scrub lands alternating with small untimbered plains, where mobs of kangaroo might occasionally be seen. Sometimes we chanced upon solitary travellers, equipped like ourselves, making for some of the large stations in the district, and now and again upon carrier’s teams. conveying stores to the same localities. But for the greater part of the distance we saw no one.
The bird life attracted our attention; such a variety of plumage we had seen nowhere before: painted or Gulf finches, little bigger than wrens, with breasts coloured into bands of every known hue; tiny zebras (not the animal), little brown fellows with red beaks and spotted breasts; galas, a species of grey cockatoo with beautiful pink breasts; emus, kites, plain turkeys (a kind of bustard), a few grey ibis on the water-holes, and the inevitable black crow.
Two nights later we camped at Vena Park Cattle Station, the property of a noted Queensland pioneer. The house, a typical frontier building constructed of slabs, stands on a sand ridge above a large and inviting lagoon. The hospitality was rough, but the welcome given us was most cordial and sincere. The property, an exceedingly large one, we found to be worked with black boys, under a white manager, and head stockman. These boys are great institutions. When young they make excellent station hands, being wonderful riders and splendid fellows with stock; but when they reach the age of fifteen or sixteen years it is, as a rule, hopeless to attempt anything further with them, for they become lazy and objectionable past all endurance.
Leaving Vena Park, we pushed on along the river towards Ifley Station, some thirty miles to the southward, the country opening out as we advanced to long rolling plains, sparsely wooded when timbered at all. Here and there we encountered dense masses of pea bush, in some cases as many as seven feet high, growing thick as corn, but, though it was in appearance very inviting, our horses would not touch it, preferring the coarse bush grass, however scanty.
Reaching Ifley Station, we bade ‘goodbye’ to the Norman River, and struck down its offshoot, Spear Creek. Near this station is a big lagoon full of crocodiles, which, however, are said to be harmless. Lying in the muddy water with only their snouts protruding, they didn’t look inviting, so we took the assertion for granted, without testing it. As I have said before, we are very trusting in such matters. We asked Mr. Pickwick — of whom, by the way, we were growing exceedingly tired — if he would care to experiment, but he declined. He was a dog without any soul for scientific research, and for this and several other reasons, we decided to give him away on the first opportunity.
Near Ifley Station a curious accident is recorded as happening a few years back. A bullock waggon, with dynamite on board, was crawling its weary way along the track, the driver, as was his usual custom, resting on his load. Something happened — nobody will ever know what: but it is sufficient that there was an explosion, and neither driver, bullocks, waggon, nor dynamite, have ever been seen or heard of since. It must have surprised that bullocky, if anything could surprise him!
Talking of bullock drivers, the driver himself is called the bullocky, while his mate or assistant is denominated the bullocky’s offsider. Both are usually the roughest of the rough, and both are professional masters of the art of abuse. I had the honour of the acquaintance of one bullocky who could swear — so it was said, and he himself was too modest to deny it — for twenty-three minutes and eighteen seconds by the watch, without a break and without repeating himself. Again, I once heard of a phonograph record of a bullocky straightening up his team; it lasted five minutes, and was found, on examination, to have blistered the copper cylinders. The experimenter said it was a good record, and I have reason to believe his audience agreed with him.
Leaving Ifley, the country becomes more open; rolling plain succeeds rolling plain, with hardly perceptible difference or anything to break the awful monotony of the view.
Spear Creek, like most of the Australian rivers and creeks, is merely a succession of waterholes in the summer season, and even these latter are often many weary miles apart. When we had run it some fifty miles, we crossed to the Saxby River at Taldora, and headed direct for Mount Fort Bowen, a point to the south-west. This mountain, if mountain it can be called, rises almost abruptly from a perfectly level plain, and owes its name to a fort built there in bygone days, to afford protection against the blacks. It is undoubtedly of volcanic origin, and presents an exceedi............