My alarm sounds at 4.30am, though it feels like midnight. I reach for my phone in the dark, squinting as I grunt and press snooze. Never a good idea. At 4.40am I get a second chance. I hit the phone again and drop one leg out of the covers onto the floor, knowing if I don't move now, I'll be in a world of pain when I'm late to saddle a horse on an empty stomach.
I flick my bedroom light on with my arm over my forehead to block the bright light until my eyes adjust. I drag my jeans on over my purple, bruised legs and wince. We had been shoeing our horses the last couple of days. My back aches, my eyelids feel like they have lead weights hanging off them. I pull a stained, pink work shirt on over my head. It sits skewiff as I walk to the bathroom in the dark, hoping I don't cross paths with anyone. By now the boys know its important to ignore me until after breakfast, when there is atleast a glimpse of sunlight on the horizon.
I walk off the deck that borders our U-shape arrangement of dongas, down the two steps to a concrete slab where our outdoor dining table and kitchen are set up. A plethora of bugs have decended over night and I'm once again questioning whose idea it was to have an outdoor kitchen in the scrubby, southern reaches of the Kimberley.
My jeans scrap across the floor as I'm too tired to pick my feet up. I pull my favourite mug down from the shelf and heap three or four teaspoons of milo in. As I open the fridge door for the milk, Matty flicks the jug on to make a coffee. Ugh. Blend 45. We say a forced 'mornin' while I yawn and cross my arms and shudder. Despite the midday heat of the north west, sunrise is always the coolest part of the day and as the wet season turns to the dry the morning temperatures start to decline.
Milo and Vegemite on toast is all I can stomach at that time of day, so I collect biscuits and a piece of fruit to take as a pre smoko, smoko. These snacks will go in my saddle bag, though they won't last long.
I pull my belt through my jeans while simultaneously brushing my teeth. I'm on auto pilot but slowly the nervous excitement starts to build in my gut as I think about the day ahead. We are mustering the front paddock. It is our biggest paddock, with about two thousand head of cattle and who knows how many mickey bulls.
Because we work on an out-station, there haven't been a lot of improvements (with the exception of the fancy outdoor dinning area of course.)
The front paddock is so large because it is yet to be fenced into a number of smaller paddocks, so we know its going to be a challenge. We will have three R22 helicopters pushing cattle in from the scrub to the bore as oppose to the usual solo chopper.
Cattle know their way to a bore in a paddock as their source of water. The water is is pumped from an underground bore, often kilometres below the surface and up into a tank or turkeys nest, and gravity fed into a trough. You can see many cattle 'pads' or tracks that lead to a bore in any paddock, as the cattle move out to graze pasture and come back in for water.
When the chopper pilots fly over and put pressure on the cattle to move, they head towards the watering point where we wait on horses. As each beast or small mob comes in out of the scrub full of spinifex and ant mounds, we gallop a wide cast around them and point them towards each other so they start to 'mob up.' This is when things start to get interesting as the rogue cattle will often try to escape.
I walk into the loungeroom which is a basic set up of two old navy blue lounges, a TV and a small table with a landline phone connected to the wall. I flick the TV on knowing I have a few minutes to listen to Rage and psych myself up. Ra Ra Rage. I resentfully sip on a cup of blend 45 knowing it's my only choice. No milk, just black and strong.
Its 5.15am and time to walk down to the yards. I sit on the step pulling my boots on and buckling my leather chest plate that holds my two-way radio. I tie my neck scarf on and notice the sun really starting to glow as the day breaks. Any minute now I will hear the roar of the rotator blades fire up on the chopper. The loud, whirring sound makes you excited and anxious all at once.
The pilots aren't allowed to take off until sunrise, which is our cue to be catching and saddling our horses while they inhale a 'nose bag.' A piece of bailing twine slips over their ears and rests on their head, tied to a bag of pellets as it hangs just below their mouth. We have to feed the horses before and after a muster as they cover many kilometres throughout the dry season and need to be kept in good condition.
Three choppers take off one by one and fly over head as though we are in an action movie. I'm trying to keep my adrenalin at bay so my horse doesn't become antsy.
We are each allocated four to six horses for mustering during the dry season. We have to ride, shoe, feed and educate these horses, depending on their age and ability. It is always daunting taking a younger horse mustering as they can be unpredictable around helicopters, motorbikes and wild cattle. Some mornings you're just genuinely hoping for the best, hoping you survive the day.
I'm feeling a bit nervous about my young, pretty black mare. She is a beauty, but she has an attitude problem which on reflection, sounds strikingly similar to the way my dad may have described me at times.
I had ridden the mare a few times throughout the season and I knew for certain she could buck. I was practising some barrel racing on her in the yards in the lead up to Derby rodeo and as she tucked in around the second barrel she put her head down and reared her back legs off the ground. It took me by surprise and I did what I could to bend her neck and growled at her to 'get out of it!' She seemed to acknowledge my tone so I touched her belly with my spurs to ask her to keep moving forward. I could tell she was only giving me a taste of what she could really do. I instructed her to do a few more laps of the barrels to remind her who was boss.
This morning, before I get on her, I lunge her around the round yard by moving my body to put pressure on her inside shoulder and clicking my tongue, asking her to move forward into a canter.
After a few laps each way I ask her to 'face up' to me, by taking a step back. This signals to her to stop cantering and walk towards me in the middle of the yard. This asserts my position as the one in charge, however there are no gaurentees she will play nicely in the big paddock.
She licks her lips, takes a deep breath and gently snorts as a sign she has relaxed. I tighten the girth and check its not pinching her as I know this could make her buck.
I feel like I have warmed her up enough and put my foot in the stirrup and sit myself in the saddle. She feels calm enough and I sigh in relief. Nothing a bit of a sweat-up won't fix.
We trot out the gate at the front of the homestead which sits next to a cattle grid. A cattle grid allows vehicles to drive between paddocks without having to open gates while at the same time, keeps cattle in their designated paddocks.
We have to trot all the way to the front paddock and make our way to the bore to start rounding up the cattle that the chopper pilots are pushing in. Trotting conserves more of the horses energy than cantering, making it more sustainable for a long days work.
All seven of us in the stock camp were on horses that day, unlike most musters when we have one or two motorbikes as back up for any rogue cattle, or long distances to pick up water bottles or supplies.
That time of day has a distinct smell and colour way. The air has a crisp, botanical smell from the vegetation and because of the Pindan, the red dirt that runs through the Kimberley, it feels dusty at the same time. The purple hue of the horizon to the west, meets the red sand as the sun starts to rise from the east.
As I reach the bore with the others, the pilots have already pushed a few small mobs of cattle out of the srubby perimeter toward the bore. We trot our horses around the outside of the smaller mobs, weaving through the Boab trees and watching for others to make their way in.
Like usual, there are a few rogue animals trying to make a getaway. We take turns getting around each beast by steering our horses to their outside flank, challenging them to turn back into the mob.
Its my turn. A handful of cattle start to make a getaway. I click my black mare up, signalling her to gather speed by squeezing my legs and holding my reins in a forward motion while I sit deeply in the saddle preparing myself for a gallop. She understands and finds another gear.
As I focus on bending the small mob in front, the mare drops her head in a not so subtle defiance. It takes just milliseconds for my brain to catch up, realising she is about to resist, and my body tenses. This is the opposite of what I should do, but we are moving so fast there is no time to get a handle on her.
At what feels like lightning speed across the hard, red dirt flat around the bore, the mare starts to buck. One. And I am still on, as I try to frantically gather my reins and my train of thought. Two. I am still on, though I can feel the distance between my saddle and my butt get bigger while begging the powers at be to steady this horse. Three. I am still on but have lost any grip and any hope that she would retreat. By the fourth buck, all four hooves off the ground like a buckjumper at the Calgary Stampede, I am finally launched.
I feel myself sailing over her wither, her mane and finally her ears in what feels like a nightmarish slow mo scene. I start to fall in front of her, and finally I hit the ground on my left shoulder.
Completely winded, I'm certain there was a cloud of red dust above me and a crater below me as I struggle to move and realising the wind has been knocked out of me.
My mind is on the pain, and the fear of being in front of a mob of cattle. I am trying to catch my breath and get to my feet before I get run over by hundreds of hot Brahman cows, or worse horned by a scrub bull.
I am wincing and crying out in pain as one of the fellas rides towards me, ordering me to get up in a bit of a panic. With cattle everywhere and my riderless horse by now on the other side of the mob, I need to get out of there fast.
As I try to jog around the mob, holding my left arm in a brace position with my right, I am feeling light headed and limp. I make it to the holding yard where I can use the fence to hold myself up.
The mare in standing steady at the rails, looking like she is tied up and didn't just nearly kill me.
My pain turns to rage, and I use my limp left arm to hold the reins at her bridle while I whip her with the end of the reins with my right arm. I growl at her to 'stand up'. I have her full attention, ears pricked, eyes wide.
With the adrenaline pumping through every vein, I attempt to climb back on. As I put my foot in the stirrup, everything is working except my left shoulder which I use to hold the pummel of the saddle and drag myself on.
No dice. I have lost all strength in my left arm.
I tell one of the boys to give me a leg up. Baydo hesitates, and tells me it's not a good idea because I'm obviously injured and the mare is full of spook. I ignore his advice and demand he gives me a leg on.
I am in the saddle and for a second, feeling a sense of pride. Usually it would take more courage to get back on the horse but today I have triumphed.
This feeling lasted all of 20 seconds before I realised Baydo was right. The mare unleashes again and this time with nothing left in the tank, I am thrown into the cable fence after just two humps.
I give up. I catch the mare and tie her to the fence, walk to the Toyota and sit down in the seat where reality finally hits. The pain is excruciating, I am physically shaken and feel like I might throw up.
As I stare groggily through the windscreen at the remaining six members of stock camp fly across the flat in all directions and the mob slowly expanding, I gather myself enough to pick up the two way.
'Yeh copy' says Mick from the homestead. I briefly explain the state I am in and my manager replies exasperated 'for fuck sake, not again.'
He asks if I could manage to drive myself back to the homestead where he will call the RFDS for the third time this season. Yes, a hat trick for me.
I agree, wondering how I will change gears but too scared to say no.
I slowly putt along in the Toyota until I reach Mick's house at the end of the compound.
He is on the phone, and as usual the RFDS doesn't have a plane available that is suitable for our airstrip. So the wait begins. I will have to wait until the pilots are finished mustering, so someone can fly me to Derby hospital, where I am now on a first name basis.
Its some time after lunch, with a bag of frozen peas resting on my shoulder as we fly the fifty minute journey to Derby in the chopper. I usually love a chopper ride, but as I look down at the rocky red escarpments that snake around the different river systems of the West Kimberleys, all I'm focused on is not vomiting.
We land in Derby and a friendly bloke greets us from one of the hangars to drive me to the hospital.
I am a familiar face in the waiting room, after already breaking my wrist in the yards, and spraining my neck off a motorbike earlier in the season.
They take me in for a scan and results show I have torn one of three ligaments off my shoulder cuff. Another sling for me and another night writhing around in pain in Derby hospital as I wait for a lift back to the station the following day.
Another few weeks of light duties. Eye roll.
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