Cowley Plains — Bechel Creek — River Swimming — Black Soil — Cunamulla — The Warrego — Barringun
IF we have in our constitutions any gratitude for benefits received, some of that store must be expended on the kind folk of Cowley Plains. For their kindnesses equalled any we had vet received in Queensland.
Out there in that lonely wilderness the owner, a warm-hearted, hospitable Highlander, has built himself a home which, for comfort, equals anything to be found in Adelaide, Melbourne, or Sydney. Cowley Plains is not a big station, but it is very complete. The size of the run is only three hundred square miles, and yet it carries, on an average, about three thousand head of shorthorn cattle, as well as five hundred well-bred horses. Horses are Mr. Macdonald’s particular hobby, and he has good reason to be proud of his stud. But even with its completeness, Cowley
Plains is a lonely spot. The nearest township of any size is Charleville, a hundred miles distant; and the journey between the two places is not a thing to be lightly undertaken.
For a fortnight we enjoyed the hospitality of this charming station, then reprovisioning ourselves, and with sincere expressions of our thanks, bade the owner, his wife and children farewell, and returned to our weary journey.
When we arrived at the station we had intended to bestow our friend Mr. Pickwick upon its occupants, but after their kindness to us we relinquished that idea. It would have been a poor return for all they had done for us. However, we were resolved to leave him behind on the first opportunity. It should not have been a difficult matter, for in some ways he was not a bad looking animal. His back was his one weak point. As soon as dog-fanciers saw that map of Asia, they relinquished all desire to become his possessors, and became unanimous in their wishes never to see his face, or rather his back, again.
As we left Cowley Plains a slight shower fell, which increased to a vigorous downpour as we entered the scrub beyond the horse paddock. Harder and harder it pelted down, rendering the soft earth softer every minute. The thick black soil made it very heavy pulling for our horses; the wheels sank deeper and deeper every yard, and at length, after continual diggings out, and troubles of a similar kind, we were perforce compelled to camp in the middle of the afternoon, our stage but half done. We were a miserable couple; our blankets were wet, our clothes were soaked through and through, and as we couldn’t light a fire, there was no means of drying them. It was a damp camp with a vengeance.
Next morning we struck Bechel Creek, and followed it down to Fairlight Station, where we camped in order to carry out some necessary repairs to the buggy: All the next forenoon the rain continued; towards midday, however, it cleared off, and we started again, but hardly had we proceeded three miles before it recommenced, and by evening we were the most miserable objects imaginable. Drowned rats would have had to look to their laurels while we were about. It was my honourable position to tramp ahead pioneering the track; the Long’un drove, while Mr. Pickwick ran alongside, whining and shivering incessantly. So wretched did the weather eventually become, that on reaching Bechel Head Station (a rough hut of two rooms) we resolved to accept the manager’s hospitality, and camp there for a day or two, in order to see how it would turn out.
The evening before we left, a bullocky put in an appearance, and bewailed the loss of a favourite dog. We were quick to show our sympathy, and offered to make him a present of Mr. Pickwick. He seemed doubtful, but when we described him as an excellent companion, a clever cattle dog, an enthusiastic sportsman, and a sagacious animal generally, he was more than grateful, and led him away to his camp, howling pitifully, at the end of a string. We could have wept tears of thankfulness at his departure, but it was a cruel trick to play on a confiding bullocky. And so farewell to travelled Mr. Pickwick!
When we resumed our march, it was via Humeburn to the Paroo River. One thing at least was certain, in this district the drought had completely broken up; on every hand grass was growing plentifully. Indeed, so quickly does herbage grow after rain in these parts, that one can almost believe one sees it rise out of the ground. Sorghum is nothing to it, and Jack the Giant-killer’s beanstalk hardly a circumstance!
The Paroo River, which rises in the Paroo Range, and is reinforced by the Quilberry and Gumbardo Creeks, is, in the wet season, a fine stream, draining a large area of country. When we crossed it below Humeburn Station, it was running about five feet deep and eighty yards wide, a swift, treacherous current. How to cross it with our buggy and horses was a puzzle. So far, you see, we had only been accustomed to crossing droughts. Floods were altogether a new experience. At last we hit upon a plan. Cutting two thick logs, we drove the horses into the water up to their shoulders, and then, by means of green hide ropes, lashed them (the logs) to the wheels, thus making a sort of raft. These secured, we started the horses swimming, and eventually landed, safe and sound, on the opposite bank about a quarter of a mile below where we had entered the water.
The next creek — and we crossed thirteen of them that day — was not so deep, but it pleased our contrary animals to stick us up in the middle of it; in order, I suppose, to give us an opportunity of wading with all our goods and chattels to the opposite bank before we could move them. They, like ourselves, were not accustomed to running water.
Following the river down, we reach Tilburroo Head Station, and here we camped the night, prior to heading for Cunamulla on the Warrego River. A district rabbit inspector was also a guest at the station, and from him we learnt something of the depredations of these pests. His report was not encouraging. But more of the rabbits later.
During our stay at Tilburroo we heard of the death of two men who had endeavoured to reach that station across country from t............