-When the tractor engine isn’t working so well, I get out a can of “Start ya bastard”. Seriously, that’s what it’s called, come have a look.
We follow Len back into the shed, and lo and behold, he shows us the very literally-named can of ether.
-It’s called that because that’s what you say!
***
One of my favourite parts about travel is the eccentric road trips you end up on. The more thrown-together the company, the more entertaining. Today was a mix of two John Flynn medical students, one speech pathologist, our community contact and his neighbour. As it turns out, the latter two have been friends for as long as I’ve been alive.
The day starts with some casual chit-chat about colonoscopies, as you do; before transitioning into local politics, council corruption and housing prices. Old dirt roads that become mysteriously smooth bitumen for 200 metres approaching the property of a councillor. Passing through quaint rural towns, Len reminisces about copping rough words from a local cop after picking up hitch-hikers. As legend goes, this notorious cop was so ruthless he even fined his own wife!
The terrain changes from dry plains to cattle-growing bushland, from grass paddocks to rolling hillsides cut by rivers and creeks. We pull over at waterholes, watching baby frogs scamper over rocks. Len’s neighbour Bernie is our tour guide, with a personalised historical commentary having grown up in the timber towns around the valley. We stop off at an old flying fox that was used for transport when floods blocked up the old roads. Here I was imagining people swinging over from bank to bank. Hung from a metal wire, resting halfway across the river, is a red steel box about the size of a phonebooth that could be filled with food supplies and pulleyed across to the other side.
Len’s cows run to greet us at the gate as we drive into his farm. They moo and carry on like excited children, waiting eagerly at the fence as we explore the little cottage and have a cuppa. Opening the gate, Len leads them down the path for their morning tea, a comical sight of fifteen or twenty cows following tamely behind him. Brahman cows, with their characteristic hump rising off hides of creamy white, brown and black. Each has been affectionately, or at least entertainingly named – the big bull is Franco, after Pope Francis.
The journey continues into the valley and through the mountain ranges. The narrow bitumen the car snakes down was once a dirt road. Bernie talks of the days where girls would pack their dresses into a hessian sack, hang it from the saddle and ride a horse to the neighbouring town for the races. Occasionally we pass remains of an old train line connecting Kalpow and other towns to Gladstone, relics from an era of communities thriving from the timber industry before two mills closed down and everyone moved on. We drive through towns virtually abandoned except for a few faces peeking between old-fashioned curtains, cars rusting in overgrown gardens and rundown shacks, skeletons of a school, a general store, a butcher’s shop. It’s eerie, yet incredibly nostalgic as we hear snippets of memories. Dance halls where men and women would gather for a memorable night of music and fun, hosted on consecutive weeks by each of the four bigger towns.
The Many Peaks Grand Hotel: Present (where we stopped for lunch) and back in the day
