Chapter 15: Wild Life up North - the Journey

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The changing face of the countryside was fascinating to us. Kanute and I had already adjusted our city eyes, and become accustomed to the view of acres and acres of crops, and paddocks filled with grazing sheep. Now, as we travelled further north, the soft grey-green gum trees were subtly changing from the familiar varieties in our area. Here they were shorter and sparser, huddled together in groups, conserving whatever moisture their combined shade could produce. As we left the cereal country behind, the natural grass growth changed as well-tussocks now, with increasingly wider, sandier spaces between. Trees and grassy clumps alike clung desperately together for sustenance, as if the warmth of their fellowship held the key to their survival. Abruptly my philosophical reveries were interrupted by Sam's urgent words.

"Kangas! Look! Over there by that fallen tree." Sam was pointing through the grimy front window of the truck, as we trundled steadily along. "See them? Far over there to the left." It took a few confused moments to focus, and actually catch sight of them. When one of them lifted his head, turning suddenly as he caught the alien rattling sound of our vehicle, we could suddenly see them-and the panic that spread swiftly through their numbers. Our approach had been from upwind, and we had caught the mob off guard.

A mob of kangaroos on the move is an incredible sight, witnessed by few people nowadays-or even back then. 'Poetry in motion'-as they took off, in a desperate attempt to escape. We watched in awe, as great back leg muscles bulged and bunched for massive leaps; limbs stretched to their fullest length; small front legs and paws tucked in tight against their ribs. The females of the great Red Kangaroo breed are actually grey, smaller than the male and called 'Blue Flyers'. How apt their name when seen in full flight, keeping abreast of their mates, despite their unmistakable size difference. The female inevitably carries an awkward passenger in her pouch, adding a new element to the sign, 'Baby on Board'.

Sam estimated this mob could number over a hundred-sailing along at full speed, parallel to us for a lengthy distance, not veering away even slightly. The excitement kept us chattering enthusiastically for the remainder of the trip, making our journey speed by-in our minds, at least. We continued to see the odd one or two 'roos as some crossed the dirt road ahead of us. There were just enough of these unpredictable encounters to keep us fully alert to the possibilities for disaster. Fortunately, only near-misses happened before we drove through the wide gateway to our destination. A massive set of ram horns were set high on the arch overhead. Finally we were on the home stretch; on the longest driveway we'd ever seen, leading to the station's homestead, far away in the distance.

- o0o -

"We're going to take a bit of a trip up north, and get ourselves some 'wild women'." Sam had said a week or so before. He laughed at the expression on my face. I couldn't help it, as my eyebrows disappeared beneath my fringe. "Relax Chris. It's absolutely NOT what you're thinking. Feral goats, is what I'm talking about. You know those attractive young 'ladies' called Does, and the mature 'mothers'-Nans, or Nannies."

"Ahh... just like our Nan, our 'roo saviour." Now I was smiling broadly. I'll always have a soft spot for goats, after we discovered that life-saving milk for our baby 'roos, from our Nan goat. Although it didn't exactly 'save' our lives, we did love that milk-and especially the cream.

Sam told us about his phone calls to an old mate, Henry, the owner of a sheep station some 200 miles distant. The feral goats posed an increasing threat to the countryside up there (and in many other places in Australia, too). This seemingly tough and harsh country was actually extremely fragile. In the shortest time, it could be brought to the brink of disaster. It only took extremities of the weather-in particular, lack of water-without the unwanted attention of feral raiders.

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