our first camp — cattle stations — spear creek — flinders river — cloncurry

acting on reliable advice, we decided upon a track running parallel with the norman river. it was a desolate route, monotonous in the extreme, the only vegetation being quinine bushes (a tall slender tree, with a rough dark bark and glossy leaves), messmates (a medium-sized tree, with broad silvery grey leaves), the polyalthia, the leichardt, the moreton bay ash, and the bloodwood, the latter being one of the commonest scrub trees in northern queensland.

not desiring to tire our horses at the outset, but rather to let them gradually accustom themselves to the stages we should be compelled to ask of them, our first day’s distance was a short one, of only twelve miles. after passing through a typical roadside township, built on a small clearing, and consisting of a couple of grog shanties, a butcher’s and blacksmith’s shop, we cried a halt, turned loose, and fixed up camp, hobbling and belling our horses carefully. with considerable pride we reflected that twelve miles of our long journey was accomplished, and we prepared to mark the distance on the chart. gather our surprise when we discovered that the dot indicating our position hardly showed from the blotch which distinguished normanton, while, on the other hand, ahead of us stretched nearly a yard of map. for the first time since our decision, a real impression of the distance we had undertaken to travel came before us. our camp was comfortable and, had it not been for the mosquitoes, would have been enjoyable. as it was, within an hour of sundown it was forcibly borne in upon us that we ought to have added cheesecloth nets to our equipments, for these pests nearly eat us alive. they were particularly hard on mr. pickwick, alighting on his map of asia, and inducing him to keep up a continuous moaning all night long.

next morning, to our dismay, we discovered that our horses were nowhere to be found. we searched all round the camp, listening intently for their bells, but without success. the long’un, who had chosen the work of looking after the horses in preference to the cooking and tending camp, set off in search of them. when, some hours later, he returned, he brought the faithless beasts with him, and explained in figurative language that he had been obliged to walk no less than eight miles to recover them. he had found them making their way back to normanton; they had no desire to cross continents: there was no ambition about those horses.

saddling up, we proceeded on our way, the long’un and i riding side by side, the two pack horses, cyclops and polyphemus, running loose ahead. in the cool of the morning it was pleasant travelling. the country improved as we progressed, the view being picturesquely made up of light scrub lands alternating with small untimbered plains, where mobs of kangaroo might occasionally be seen. sometimes we chanced upon solitary travellers, equipped like ourselves, making for some of the large stations in the district, and now and again upon carrier’s teams. conveying stores to the same localities. but for the greater part of the distance we saw no one.

the bird life attracted our attention; such a variety of plumage we had seen nowhere before: painted or gulf finches, little bigger than wrens, with breasts coloured into bands of every known hue; tiny zebras (not the animal), little brown fellows with red beaks and spotted breasts; galas, a species of grey cockatoo with beautiful pink breasts; emus, kites, plain turkeys (a kind of bustard), a few grey ibis on the water-holes, and the inevitable black crow.

two nights later we camped at vena park cattle station, the property of a noted queensland pioneer. the house, a typical frontier building constructed of slabs, stands on a sand ridge above a large and inviting lagoon. the hospitality was rough, but the welcome given us was most cordial and sincere. the property, an exceedingly large one, we found to be worked with black boys, under a white manager, and head stockman. these boys are great institutions. when young they make excellent station hands, being wonderful riders and splendid fellows with stock; but when they reach the age of fifteen or sixteen years it is, as a rule, hopeless to attempt anything further with them, for they become lazy and objectionable past all endurance.

leaving vena park, we pushed on along the river towards ifley station, some thirty miles to the southward, the country opening out as we advanced to long rolling plains, sparsely wooded when timbered at all. here and there we encountered dense masses of pea bush, in some cases as many as seven feet high, growing thick as corn, but, though it was in appearance very inviting, our horses would not touch it, preferring the coarse bush grass, however scanty.

reaching ifley station, we bade ‘goodbye’ to the norman river, and struck down its offshoot, spear creek. near this station is a big lagoon full of crocodiles, which, however, are said to be harmless. lying in the muddy water with only their snouts protruding, they didn’t look inviting, so we took the assertion for granted, without testing it. as i have said before, we are very trusting in such matters. we asked mr. pickwick — of whom, by the way, we were growing exceedingly tired — if he would care to experiment, but he declined. he was a dog without any soul for scientific research, and for this and several other reasons, we decided to give him away on the first opportunity.

near ifley station a curious accident is recorded as happening a few years back. a bullock waggon, with dynamite on board, was crawling its weary way along the track, the driver, as was his usual custom, resting on his load. something happened — nobody will ever know what: but it is sufficient that there was an explosion, and neither driver, bullocks, waggon, nor dynamite, have ever been seen or heard of since. it must have surprised that bullocky, if anything could surprise him!

talking of bullock drivers, the driver himself is called the bullocky, while his mate or assistant is denominated the bullocky’s offsider. both are usually the roughest of the rough, and both are professional masters of the art of abuse. i had the honour of the acquaintance of one bullocky who could swear — so it was said, and he himself was too modest to deny it — for twenty-three minutes and eighteen seconds by the watch, without a break and without repeating himself. again, i once heard of a phonograph record of a bullocky straightening up his team; it lasted five minutes, and was found, on examination, to have blistered the copper cylinders. the experimenter said it was a good record, and i have reason to believe his audience agreed with him.

leaving ifley, the country becomes more open; rolling plain succeeds rolling plain, with hardly perceptible difference or anything to break the awful monotony of the view.

spear creek, like most of the australian rivers and creeks, is merely a succession of waterholes in the summer season, and even these latter are often many weary miles apart. when we had run it some fifty miles, we crossed to the saxby river at taldora, and headed direct for mount fort bowen, a point to the south-west. this mountain, if mountain it can be called, rises almost abruptly from a perfectly level plain, and owes its name to a fort built there in bygone days, to afford protection against the blacks. it is undoubtedly of volcanic origin, and presents an exceedingly picturesque appearance, being in pleasing contrast to the endless level of the surrounding country.

next day we struck the famous flinders river, of which we had heard so much. this river rises in the great dividing range, and penetrates a vast extent of country before it flows into the gulf of carpentaria, a little to the west of normanton.

like most of the other rivers, it proved but a succession of waterholes separated by long patches of sand. but here a peculiarity of a great many australian rivers manifested itself. though to all appearance the river bed was perfectly dry, yet on digging, perhaps less than two feet beneath the surface, we found a running stream of crystal water, a little brackish, but still quite drinkable. this everlasting supply is a great boon to squatters, who, in times of drought, have only it to depend upon. and the mention of this river brings to my mind a touching little incident encountered during our ride along its banks.

at a spot overlooking a lovely stretch of water, and half hidden in undergrowth and high grass, we chanced upon what was unmistakably a grave — a little mound beneath a spreading coolibar tree. whose resting place it was we could not discover, but on searching about we found, roughly cut on the tree, this single word, ‘unknown.’ oh! the pathos of that word. who shall over-estimate it? there, on that river bank in that desolate spot, where night winds sob and outlawed dingoes come to drink, is hidden away the finale of a life’s history. what reflections it conjures up! perhaps even to this day, in some peaceful english village, a grey-haired mother sits longing for news of her boy — always waiting, waiting, for the letter that will never come. he, poor fellow, was probably found dead, and now lies taking his last rest far from kith and kin, in that lonely wilderness beneath the southern cross; his name unguessed at, and his only epitaph the single word ‘unknown’! there are thousands of such graves on the face of this great continent, and every one of them has its own unhappy secret, not to be revealed until the last great judgment day.

bidding ‘goodbye’ to the flinders, we headed over more rolling plains to the cloncurry river, which, in its turn, we followed down to the small mining township of the same name. and such a township we found it — such a burnt out place of desolation! just a few rough buildings clustered together in the centre of an eye-aching plain, with less than nothing to commend it. night was falling as we clattered through the dust of ramsey street and pulled up at our hotel. here we intended to spell awhile. having completed a ride of about two hundred and sixty miles since leaving normanton, we felt entitled to a brief rest before pushing east as far as hughenden.

our hotel was a long, low, rambling wooden structure, built on short piles, and boasting a galvanised iron roof, a long narrow passage, off which the bedrooms lay, two dining rooms, one for the gentlefolk (save the mark), the other for the masses, and an anthropological collection marvellous to behold. a dance was the order of the evening, and excitement ran high. we chose our rooms and went to change our apparel. an enjoyment we had been promising ourselves all through that hot disagreeable day was a cold bath; judge our disappointment then, when we were informed that, owing to the scarcity of water in the township, baths had long since been put an end to. we argued, but in vain. not a drop of bathing water could we obtain for love or money. we began to think that there must be something in those stories of the drought after all.

the dance was an enormous success. all the elite and otherwise of the township were there: silver and coppertails, as they are variously denominated. the large dining room was turned into a ball room, an accordion supplied the music, and at least twenty couples took the floor. as everyone knew and danced with everybody, introductions were not needed. the usual method of soliciting the honour of a dance was to approach the fair one and say ‘going to ‘ave a go-in?’ to which she would probably reply ‘my colonial!’ and there you were!

with great enthusiasm the ball was kept rolling till nearly daylight, long after the accordion player was inebriated and the music had dropped to simple whistling. between the dances drinks were called for, and not unfrequently two gentlemen, having claimed the same lady, would retire privately to decide the matter outside, leaving the fair one to obtain another or await the return of the victor, as she pleased. it was a proud moment for her, and she invariably took advantage of it.

the population of cloncurry all told is 811, and of the district about 1,200. the place owes its origin partly to the large station properties in the neighbourhood, but more perhaps to its mineral wealth, which is undoubtedly great. last year 1,655 oz. of gold were procured, 1,276 oz. being alluvial, and the remaining 379 oz. extracted from 228 tons of quartz. copper, however, is the principal metal obtained. some few years ago one solid mass of virgin ore weighing nearly half a ton was discovered in one of the mines. it is principally, however, met with in combination with sulphur as copper pyrites, though sometimes it occurs as oxide and carbonate without sulphides. these deposits rival, if not surpass in extent and richness, the celebrated lake superior mines in america. while the whole district is very prolific, the principal mines lie in a western and north-western direction. and it is very much to be regretted that, partly owing to the severe drought, partly to the condition of the copper market, and partly to the expense of transit, the industry is at present at a complete standstill. it is, however, confidently expected that as soon as the railroad from cloncurry to normanton shall be completed, it will receive a fresh impetus.

after a stay of three days, during which time we saw everything that was to be seen, and heard everything that was to be heard, we remounted our trusty steeds, failed in our attempt to leave mr. pickwick behind us, and started along the well defined track towards hughenden, about three hundred miles distant across the plains.

the stations hereabouts are wonderful concerns, covering areas of many hundreds of square miles, and capable of carrying from 100,000 to 350,000 sheep, in a good season. at the time of our visit, however, owing to the drought, they were having a bad time of it, and the squatters informed us they would have all their work cut out to make both ends meet. passing neelia ponds station we left the coach track, and struck off on a line of our own across the great downs, vast timberless plains, stretching away as far as the eye can reach. the day following we reached maxwelton, and so on to richmond downs. this latter place is called after a station near at hand, and is a tiny township of only one street. nevertheless it boasts a police station and a court house, with two or three of the usual style grog shanties, all to its own cheek.

another short stage brought us to marathon, with its charming head station, courteous manager, and wonderful artesian bore. marathon carries 150,000 sheep, and shears by machinery (as, indeed, do most of these northern stations). next day we fetched telamon, and the night following were in hughenden, having completed a ride of five hundred and sixty miles from normanton, and roughly speaking, about nine hundred from charters towers.