I'll admit, I was kind of a dick to the lizard. The snake is the one I spoke of in the Buttabone post. The other video is an old one of the grape pruner in its horrific glory.
Thursday, 18 December 2014
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
Buttabone
The chronology here will jump around a lot. This little story comes from back in beginning of November. It goes as follows.
The first job I had on this harvest crew was to head north in NSW to the little town of Warren. Myself and two other men were dispatched to the Buttabone Station to assist in their wheat harvest. Buttabone had been hit hard by a drought and there was not a lot of wheat to cut. At our best we were cutting 450 acres a day with one combine. The combine was a 2013 7230 with a 40 foot MacDon. The wheat was beyond bone dry, 6.5-8% moisture. We couldn't drive fast enough to load that girl. It was pretty spectacular. Eventually we cut something around 3700 acres in ten days. We would have cut more if Smithy was anything more than useless. I offered to trade Smithy to the other crew. I asked for a box of rocks and a single apple in return. No compromise could be reached. Eventually I learned that Smithy was but a minor irritation and in hindsight I would happily have him back.
To call Buttabone rustic would be fair. In her heyday that property must have been something to behold. The original property owners clearly ran a massive mob of sheep. The shearing sheds were numerous and massive. It is impossible to describe an Australian shearing shed but I assure you, in a country with 45 million sheep, they have figured it out. The accommodations we stayed in were the old station hand, read sheep hand, quarters. There were provisions for over 50 people. Complete with a full kitchen and a myriad of showers. Sadly this grand building had long since fallen from grace. The ceilings sagged in multiple places, not a single fan worked, lightbulbs were few and far between, trustworthy electrical connections were rare, the carpet was more thistle than wool. It was rough, but for the better part of ten days we made it home.
Eventually the three of us settled into a shift pattern. One man worked from 6am-4pm, the other from 12pm-4am, the third man worked from 6-12, then 4-4. So I didn't really sleep for ten days. Which was fine by me. Buttabone is wild. Even though the country was beyond dry, it was still crawling with wildlife. The first beasts we encountered were the wedge tailed hawks. On any given day there were a minimum of 8 flying around the combines. Any one who has operated a combine in North America is probably familiar with the uncanny precision and fearless nature of our domestic birds. Those red tails back home can learn a thing or two from these beasts. In Buttabone there was not an abundance of mice, there are also no gophers to speak of. Then what were the hawks chasing? They were chasing locusts. Grasshoppers on steroids. I'm talking bugs the size of sparrows, bugs that actually can be easily spotted from the cab of a combine traveling at 13km/h. The hawks would hover above the cab, at times they would stack like fighter-bombers awaiting the forward observer. As you scythed down the rows of wheat towards the headland you would see an increasing number of locusts bobbing along just below the heads of wheat. The closer you drew towards the headland the more you would see. Then when you were just meters away from the end the locusts would scatter in all directions and the hawks would dive in pursuit. The larger and clearly older hawks could often catch two in one swoop. These hawks are no spring chickens, their wing span is easily more than six feet and those locusts would fill their talons. It was incredible and it happened every day.
The hawks were not the only birds at Buttabone. There were also emus. Emus everywhere. Hundreds, maybe. Thousands, possibly. There were so many emus that you became desensitized to them. "Yup, there goes another flock of 20 flightless birds the size of a grown man", "Oh look, yet another emu rooster trying to stare down this combine as I approach his clutch of chicks". Maybe Im jaded because I remember when Royce tried to use his ostriches to kill me but the emus quickly and effortlessly slid out of my memory.
What will never slip out of my memory is constant battle for bathroom supremacy. As I mentioned earlier, Buttabone has fallen into disrepair. Subsequently, the native flora and fauna has started to take over. Fauna that includes goannas. (GO-ahn-nah) What is a goanna? Imagine a komodo dragon, but smaller. The incident occurred on our third day at Buttabone. I had just returned from my morning shift when I ran into Dan. Dan is a new friend from Queensland, I would affectionately describe him as a bogan. Which roughly translates into hillbilly. Dan stopped me as I stepped outside towards the john,
"Im glad yer here, theres a mighty goanna in there and hes some kind of pissed"
Now please pardon my language but this story is best served filter free,
"The fuck is a goanna?" was my reply.
Dan swung the bathroom door open. Inside the two toilet bath room, under the pair of sinks, laying on the broken mirrors was a meter long lizard. Now Im not talking total lizard. Total lizard length was approaching two meters, but at no point did I stop to measure him or have any interest in doing so.
The lizard hissed and spit flew in our direction. Now here I stood, it was around 12:30pm, I had three hours to sleep, shit and eat. I looked at Dan and grabbed the broom.
The lizard fought valiantly. There was only one door to that bathroom and I still wonder if our approach was appropriate. Maybe we could have simply left the door open and he would have wandered out. What I suspect is more likely is that he would have stuck around trying to eat the frogs that were living in the broken toilet. Everything was trying to eat those frogs... I claimed that bathroom for my fellow man. Together Dan and I slayed a dragon, and by slayed I naturally mean we screamed at and hit a dragon with brooms.
But wait, there is more. A few days later, I really dont know when. After the second day at Buttabone things start to run together. I was once again walking towards the toilet. This time I didnt get to open the door before I found something wonderful. As I was walking between the buildings I spied with my little eye, a spider as big as a beer can. Now when you see a spider of that size there are many options available to you. You can run, you can kill it, you can kill it with fire, you can scream, or you can find a beer can for perspective and take a picture. So I took a picture. It was a cool spider. Now I immediately wanted to share this picture with my friends and family. It is Australia, Im probably sitting on something venomous right now. Unfortunately Buttabone was also on the edge of the civilized world. So I wandered away from the spider, I knew I wouldnt have to go far. The old tin roof of the shack combined with the lead paint acted as a poor mans faradays cage. As soon as I cleared the building, and no more than 8 feet away from Mr Spider I began to get a signal. Now I grew up watching people use bag phones, so maybe it is written into my DNA but for some reason when I want to get better service I hold my phone in the air, like a lightning rod. It was while I was holding my phone towards the heavens that I heard something. What was heard was the unmistakable sound of something moving through tinder dry grass. That soft cracking and rough sliding sound that broken, brown grass makes under your foot. My ears drew my eyes to the sound. There, roughly six feet away from me, just clearing the edge of the concrete bathroom wall was a happily fat and impressively long red bellied black snake. Once again, I did not stop to measure, but he or she was easily over one meter long. However, my reflexes overcame my impulses and I did freeze. The snake also stopped, well within my comfort zone. It did that thing that snakes do and it tasted the air. I had just worked for six hours in plus 40 heat, so Im certain that it regretted that decision. Thankfully this snake turned around. It slid off along the edge of the toilet. The next moments will forever be etched into my memory. The toilet was clad with corrugated tin. Corrugated tin has small gaps, often these gaps are filled with some sort of putty or silicon. These ones were not. The snake slithered up one of these gaps.
I left a note on the bathroom door. That bathroom belonged to the snake now.
The first job I had on this harvest crew was to head north in NSW to the little town of Warren. Myself and two other men were dispatched to the Buttabone Station to assist in their wheat harvest. Buttabone had been hit hard by a drought and there was not a lot of wheat to cut. At our best we were cutting 450 acres a day with one combine. The combine was a 2013 7230 with a 40 foot MacDon. The wheat was beyond bone dry, 6.5-8% moisture. We couldn't drive fast enough to load that girl. It was pretty spectacular. Eventually we cut something around 3700 acres in ten days. We would have cut more if Smithy was anything more than useless. I offered to trade Smithy to the other crew. I asked for a box of rocks and a single apple in return. No compromise could be reached. Eventually I learned that Smithy was but a minor irritation and in hindsight I would happily have him back.
To call Buttabone rustic would be fair. In her heyday that property must have been something to behold. The original property owners clearly ran a massive mob of sheep. The shearing sheds were numerous and massive. It is impossible to describe an Australian shearing shed but I assure you, in a country with 45 million sheep, they have figured it out. The accommodations we stayed in were the old station hand, read sheep hand, quarters. There were provisions for over 50 people. Complete with a full kitchen and a myriad of showers. Sadly this grand building had long since fallen from grace. The ceilings sagged in multiple places, not a single fan worked, lightbulbs were few and far between, trustworthy electrical connections were rare, the carpet was more thistle than wool. It was rough, but for the better part of ten days we made it home.
Eventually the three of us settled into a shift pattern. One man worked from 6am-4pm, the other from 12pm-4am, the third man worked from 6-12, then 4-4. So I didn't really sleep for ten days. Which was fine by me. Buttabone is wild. Even though the country was beyond dry, it was still crawling with wildlife. The first beasts we encountered were the wedge tailed hawks. On any given day there were a minimum of 8 flying around the combines. Any one who has operated a combine in North America is probably familiar with the uncanny precision and fearless nature of our domestic birds. Those red tails back home can learn a thing or two from these beasts. In Buttabone there was not an abundance of mice, there are also no gophers to speak of. Then what were the hawks chasing? They were chasing locusts. Grasshoppers on steroids. I'm talking bugs the size of sparrows, bugs that actually can be easily spotted from the cab of a combine traveling at 13km/h. The hawks would hover above the cab, at times they would stack like fighter-bombers awaiting the forward observer. As you scythed down the rows of wheat towards the headland you would see an increasing number of locusts bobbing along just below the heads of wheat. The closer you drew towards the headland the more you would see. Then when you were just meters away from the end the locusts would scatter in all directions and the hawks would dive in pursuit. The larger and clearly older hawks could often catch two in one swoop. These hawks are no spring chickens, their wing span is easily more than six feet and those locusts would fill their talons. It was incredible and it happened every day.
The hawks were not the only birds at Buttabone. There were also emus. Emus everywhere. Hundreds, maybe. Thousands, possibly. There were so many emus that you became desensitized to them. "Yup, there goes another flock of 20 flightless birds the size of a grown man", "Oh look, yet another emu rooster trying to stare down this combine as I approach his clutch of chicks". Maybe Im jaded because I remember when Royce tried to use his ostriches to kill me but the emus quickly and effortlessly slid out of my memory.
What will never slip out of my memory is constant battle for bathroom supremacy. As I mentioned earlier, Buttabone has fallen into disrepair. Subsequently, the native flora and fauna has started to take over. Fauna that includes goannas. (GO-ahn-nah) What is a goanna? Imagine a komodo dragon, but smaller. The incident occurred on our third day at Buttabone. I had just returned from my morning shift when I ran into Dan. Dan is a new friend from Queensland, I would affectionately describe him as a bogan. Which roughly translates into hillbilly. Dan stopped me as I stepped outside towards the john,
"Im glad yer here, theres a mighty goanna in there and hes some kind of pissed"
Now please pardon my language but this story is best served filter free,
"The fuck is a goanna?" was my reply.
Dan swung the bathroom door open. Inside the two toilet bath room, under the pair of sinks, laying on the broken mirrors was a meter long lizard. Now Im not talking total lizard. Total lizard length was approaching two meters, but at no point did I stop to measure him or have any interest in doing so.
The lizard hissed and spit flew in our direction. Now here I stood, it was around 12:30pm, I had three hours to sleep, shit and eat. I looked at Dan and grabbed the broom.
The lizard fought valiantly. There was only one door to that bathroom and I still wonder if our approach was appropriate. Maybe we could have simply left the door open and he would have wandered out. What I suspect is more likely is that he would have stuck around trying to eat the frogs that were living in the broken toilet. Everything was trying to eat those frogs... I claimed that bathroom for my fellow man. Together Dan and I slayed a dragon, and by slayed I naturally mean we screamed at and hit a dragon with brooms.
But wait, there is more. A few days later, I really dont know when. After the second day at Buttabone things start to run together. I was once again walking towards the toilet. This time I didnt get to open the door before I found something wonderful. As I was walking between the buildings I spied with my little eye, a spider as big as a beer can. Now when you see a spider of that size there are many options available to you. You can run, you can kill it, you can kill it with fire, you can scream, or you can find a beer can for perspective and take a picture. So I took a picture. It was a cool spider. Now I immediately wanted to share this picture with my friends and family. It is Australia, Im probably sitting on something venomous right now. Unfortunately Buttabone was also on the edge of the civilized world. So I wandered away from the spider, I knew I wouldnt have to go far. The old tin roof of the shack combined with the lead paint acted as a poor mans faradays cage. As soon as I cleared the building, and no more than 8 feet away from Mr Spider I began to get a signal. Now I grew up watching people use bag phones, so maybe it is written into my DNA but for some reason when I want to get better service I hold my phone in the air, like a lightning rod. It was while I was holding my phone towards the heavens that I heard something. What was heard was the unmistakable sound of something moving through tinder dry grass. That soft cracking and rough sliding sound that broken, brown grass makes under your foot. My ears drew my eyes to the sound. There, roughly six feet away from me, just clearing the edge of the concrete bathroom wall was a happily fat and impressively long red bellied black snake. Once again, I did not stop to measure, but he or she was easily over one meter long. However, my reflexes overcame my impulses and I did freeze. The snake also stopped, well within my comfort zone. It did that thing that snakes do and it tasted the air. I had just worked for six hours in plus 40 heat, so Im certain that it regretted that decision. Thankfully this snake turned around. It slid off along the edge of the toilet. The next moments will forever be etched into my memory. The toilet was clad with corrugated tin. Corrugated tin has small gaps, often these gaps are filled with some sort of putty or silicon. These ones were not. The snake slithered up one of these gaps.
I left a note on the bathroom door. That bathroom belonged to the snake now.
Short but sweet
Some times I just write things down that pop into my head, I don't share all of them with you guys. The editor up there desperately needs a raise. For example, one of my recent combine meditations is as follows, I will simply write what I scribbled down that day. I refuse to delve into this topic. I dont know where my mind was that day, clearly it was in a dark place.
Ugly people have better sex.
Yeah, lets just leave that there.
Ugly people have better sex.
Yeah, lets just leave that there.
The Down Under
The bar reeks of piss and vomit. The lights are almost non-existent and I strongly suspect that they are covered in long since banned smoke stains. The music has just started, it is that all too familiar blend of techno house and top ten pop. It assaults my ears, but I will admit that I am all about that bass. Tonight's drink special is ten dollar jugs of beer, the waitress doesn't even offer me a glass with my purchase. I do not complain. The booth we have selected looks into the bathroom door, there is a needle exchange beside the sink. This bar is not for the faint of heart. This bar is not a place for a first date. This bar is quickly becoming one of my favorites.
The first thing you'll notice at The Down Under, aside from the putrid smell, is the creative murals that decorate the walls. Spray paint frescoes from unknown and drunker Michelangelos. The art is beautiful but it really serves one purpose. The art covers up an unknown number of farewells and statements of love. People meet people when they travel. This may come as a surprise. Every square inch of that bar, the tables, the seats the walls, the rafters, anything that didn't have amazing graffiti, was covered in names. Paul and Jen 2010, Steve Matt and Nico rock on 2008, Sven Karl Ingrid (Gothic runes I cannot translate), you get the gist. This bar, this health inspectors nightmare, has seen countless relationships form and disband. I sat there staring in awe, the names and languages spanned the globe. How many lives were forever changed in that bar, how many lives can trace their roots there...
How many people remember that last night, those final goodbyes. I wonder what spirit they were received in. Did they try to tear the roof off in one final testament to the invincibility of youth? Did cooler, more somber heads prevail? I know this, they have painted over hundreds of names on those walls, but paint cant cover those memories. Paint cant hide what happened to so many people down here.
Fresh paint was also needed after we were there. Fun fact, Danishmen do not like being called German. They like it even less when they are called German by Germans. Do you remember how I said the booth overlooked the bathrooms. Imagine sitting there peacefully only to witness the mens room door swing open and you newly acquired, soon to leave the country danish friend is throwing a full beer into the face of a lippy kraut. I don't have to imagine it, I watched it. It was magic. The German stood there blinking like mad, he didn't know what to do. The Danishman just giggled and like so many before, since and will, he left that bar for the final time. Thankfully he left it with all his teeth and a killer story.
The first thing you'll notice at The Down Under, aside from the putrid smell, is the creative murals that decorate the walls. Spray paint frescoes from unknown and drunker Michelangelos. The art is beautiful but it really serves one purpose. The art covers up an unknown number of farewells and statements of love. People meet people when they travel. This may come as a surprise. Every square inch of that bar, the tables, the seats the walls, the rafters, anything that didn't have amazing graffiti, was covered in names. Paul and Jen 2010, Steve Matt and Nico rock on 2008, Sven Karl Ingrid (Gothic runes I cannot translate), you get the gist. This bar, this health inspectors nightmare, has seen countless relationships form and disband. I sat there staring in awe, the names and languages spanned the globe. How many lives were forever changed in that bar, how many lives can trace their roots there...
How many people remember that last night, those final goodbyes. I wonder what spirit they were received in. Did they try to tear the roof off in one final testament to the invincibility of youth? Did cooler, more somber heads prevail? I know this, they have painted over hundreds of names on those walls, but paint cant cover those memories. Paint cant hide what happened to so many people down here.
Fresh paint was also needed after we were there. Fun fact, Danishmen do not like being called German. They like it even less when they are called German by Germans. Do you remember how I said the booth overlooked the bathrooms. Imagine sitting there peacefully only to witness the mens room door swing open and you newly acquired, soon to leave the country danish friend is throwing a full beer into the face of a lippy kraut. I don't have to imagine it, I watched it. It was magic. The German stood there blinking like mad, he didn't know what to do. The Danishman just giggled and like so many before, since and will, he left that bar for the final time. Thankfully he left it with all his teeth and a killer story.
My sincerest apologies. It has been far too long since I have made the time for a little writing. I'm certain that you understand. Life, especially farm life, is really good at challenging anyone's ability to keep up. Dont fear, I have been constantly making short notes and little tags to remind myself of all the different things I need to discuss. I have articles half written discussing the tragic attack on parliment hill, the very recent events in downtown Sydney, a magical trip down the sunshine coast, a long story about a half mad danishman, an in depth look at a dive bar, and so much more.
To be honest, Im thankful that I have been too busy to write. My previous experience in Leeton has reminded me that I am at my happiest and healthiest if I stay occupied. Be it exploring, or working. This recent job was also quite the adventure and not always a happy one. For one thing, the people I worked with were and are world class. There is a young man in that companies employ who can do anything, and if you ask me, should be doing anything else. They also have an older gentleman, he clearly remembers a time when things were different and maybe more positive. You could clearly see him clinging to that memory and doing his very best to keep it alive in the public eye.
It takes a certain kind of person to be out here doing this sort of stuff. I realized that very soon after I landed in Oz. I also noticed that I like those kind of people. Risk takers, dreamers, idealists. There are also hippies, vagabonds, and runners. It takes all kinds. I have also noticed and I do not like structured elitist attitudes. I know why people around the world love Canadians. The answer is simply this, we value freedom and equality and give those things to everyone. Yeah we are polite, but we are also genuine. That genuine nature is what carries us. I was half way around the world when a foolish, misguided youth took the life of a Canadian hero on Parliament hill. Australia watched in wonder as our nation handled that issue and continues to heal. The world watched in wonder. The world watched us at our lowest and they watched us behave to our very best.
So Im going to try to edit a couple of these things and see how they go.
Take it easy.
To be honest, Im thankful that I have been too busy to write. My previous experience in Leeton has reminded me that I am at my happiest and healthiest if I stay occupied. Be it exploring, or working. This recent job was also quite the adventure and not always a happy one. For one thing, the people I worked with were and are world class. There is a young man in that companies employ who can do anything, and if you ask me, should be doing anything else. They also have an older gentleman, he clearly remembers a time when things were different and maybe more positive. You could clearly see him clinging to that memory and doing his very best to keep it alive in the public eye.
It takes a certain kind of person to be out here doing this sort of stuff. I realized that very soon after I landed in Oz. I also noticed that I like those kind of people. Risk takers, dreamers, idealists. There are also hippies, vagabonds, and runners. It takes all kinds. I have also noticed and I do not like structured elitist attitudes. I know why people around the world love Canadians. The answer is simply this, we value freedom and equality and give those things to everyone. Yeah we are polite, but we are also genuine. That genuine nature is what carries us. I was half way around the world when a foolish, misguided youth took the life of a Canadian hero on Parliament hill. Australia watched in wonder as our nation handled that issue and continues to heal. The world watched in wonder. The world watched us at our lowest and they watched us behave to our very best.
So Im going to try to edit a couple of these things and see how they go.
Take it easy.
Thursday, 16 October 2014
Day 1.2
Have you done any wind rowing?
Yes
Alright. We'll get you started on this block.
How big is it?
550 hectares.
Wtf is that?
That's one of a kind.
Day one in Young
Faith ran off to get a set of keys cut for me. She left me in charge of the office. I have already answered five phone calls and I think I sold a trailer. It's 9:30 am. This is going to be fun.
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