cowley plains — bechel creek — river swimming — black soil — cunamulla — the warrego — barringun

if we have in our constitutions any gratitude for benefits received, some of that store must be expended on the kind folk of cowley plains. for their kindnesses equalled any we had vet received in queensland.

out there in that lonely wilderness the owner, a warm-hearted, hospitable highlander, has built himself a home which, for comfort, equals anything to be found in adelaide, melbourne, or sydney. cowley plains is not a big station, but it is very complete. the size of the run is only three hundred square miles, and yet it carries, on an average, about three thousand head of shorthorn cattle, as well as five hundred well-bred horses. horses are mr. macdonald’s particular hobby, and he has good reason to be proud of his stud. but even with its completeness, cowley

plains is a lonely spot. the nearest township of any size is charleville, a hundred miles distant; and the journey between the two places is not a thing to be lightly undertaken.

for a fortnight we enjoyed the hospitality of this charming station, then reprovisioning ourselves, and with sincere expressions of our thanks, bade the owner, his wife and children farewell, and returned to our weary journey.

when we arrived at the station we had intended to bestow our friend mr. pickwick upon its occupants, but after their kindness to us we relinquished that idea. it would have been a poor return for all they had done for us. however, we were resolved to leave him behind on the first opportunity. it should not have been a difficult matter, for in some ways he was not a bad looking animal. his back was his one weak point. as soon as dog-fanciers saw that map of asia, they relinquished all desire to become his possessors, and became unanimous in their wishes never to see his face, or rather his back, again.

as we left cowley plains a slight shower fell, which increased to a vigorous downpour as we entered the scrub beyond the horse paddock. harder and harder it pelted down, rendering the soft earth softer every minute. the thick black soil made it very heavy pulling for our horses; the wheels sank deeper and deeper every yard, and at length, after continual diggings out, and troubles of a similar kind, we were perforce compelled to camp in the middle of the afternoon, our stage but half done. we were a miserable couple; our blankets were wet, our clothes were soaked through and through, and as we couldn’t light a fire, there was no means of drying them. it was a damp camp with a vengeance.

next morning we struck bechel creek, and followed it down to fairlight station, where we camped in order to carry out some necessary repairs to the buggy: all the next forenoon the rain continued; towards midday, however, it cleared off, and we started again, but hardly had we proceeded three miles before it recommenced, and by evening we were the most miserable objects imaginable. drowned rats would have had to look to their laurels while we were about. it was my honourable position to tramp ahead pioneering the track; the long’un drove, while mr. pickwick ran alongside, whining and shivering incessantly. so wretched did the weather eventually become, that on reaching bechel head station (a rough hut of two rooms) we resolved to accept the manager’s hospitality, and camp there for a day or two, in order to see how it would turn out.

the evening before we left, a bullocky put in an appearance, and bewailed the loss of a favourite dog. we were quick to show our sympathy, and offered to make him a present of mr. pickwick. he seemed doubtful, but when we described him as an excellent companion, a clever cattle dog, an enthusiastic sportsman, and a sagacious animal generally, he was more than grateful, and led him away to his camp, howling pitifully, at the end of a string. we could have wept tears of thankfulness at his departure, but it was a cruel trick to play on a confiding bullocky. and so farewell to travelled mr. pickwick!

when we resumed our march, it was via humeburn to the paroo river. one thing at least was certain, in this district the drought had completely broken up; on every hand grass was growing plentifully. indeed, so quickly does herbage grow after rain in these parts, that one can almost believe one sees it rise out of the ground. sorghum is nothing to it, and jack the giant-killer’s beanstalk hardly a circumstance!

the paroo river, which rises in the paroo range, and is reinforced by the quilberry and gumbardo creeks, is, in the wet season, a fine stream, draining a large area of country. when we crossed it below humeburn station, it was running about five feet deep and eighty yards wide, a swift, treacherous current. how to cross it with our buggy and horses was a puzzle. so far, you see, we had only been accustomed to crossing droughts. floods were altogether a new experience. at last we hit upon a plan. cutting two thick logs, we drove the horses into the water up to their shoulders, and then, by means of green hide ropes, lashed them (the logs) to the wheels, thus making a sort of raft. these secured, we started the horses swimming, and eventually landed, safe and sound, on the opposite bank about a quarter of a mile below where we had entered the water.

the next creek — and we crossed thirteen of them that day — was not so deep, but it pleased our contrary animals to stick us up in the middle of it; in order, i suppose, to give us an opportunity of wading with all our goods and chattels to the opposite bank before we could move them. they, like ourselves, were not accustomed to running water.

following the river down, we reach tilburroo head station, and here we camped the night, prior to heading for cunamulla on the warrego river. a district rabbit inspector was also a guest at the station, and from him we learnt something of the depredations of these pests. his report was not encouraging. but more of the rabbits later.

during our stay at tilburroo we heard of the death of two men who had endeavoured to reach that station across country from the west. by some slip they had got bushed in the ranges, and when found were both dead, several miles from each other. one, it was discovered, had killed his horse and existed for a little while on the animal’s flesh and blood. the other had lost his horse, and his life too. we couldn’t help thinking of our own narrow escapes; but nothing seemed to be thought of this tale of horror by the station folk themselves, so callous do dwellers in the wilderness become.

bidding ‘goodbye’ to tilburroo we proceeded to sheep station creek. here we saw the first sign of the rabbit in queensland, several burrows existing within forty yards of our night’s camp; and yet this is fully seventy miles on the other side of what is called ‘the rabbit-proof border fence.’

leaving the higher land and opening out on to the plains again, we had another experience of the heavy black soil. it was awful travelling, for the reason that it clogged our wheels at every turn, necessitating everlasting diggings out, and, what was worse, obliged us to plough our own way through it barefooted, beside the horses, sinking in past our ankles at every step. added to this we were both of us very far from well. at length after two days’ constant toiling, we camped, wearied to death, within a couple of miles of cunamulla.

for weeks we had looked forward to our arrival in cunamulla. here we expected to find sufficient money awaiting us to enable us to refit, and complete our journey in comparative comfort. about ten o’clock next morning we started to overcome the last two miles. as we tramped along we busily engaged ourselves considering in what manner we might lay our money out to the best advantage.. our disappointment may therefore be judged, when on reaching the river which separated us from the town, we found it to be in big flood, eighty yards in width and sixty or seventy feet in depth; moreover it was running so swift that the punt keeper, whose duty it is to transport vehicles across to the town, absolutely refused to work. we argued the point with him; he said he wouldn’t risk it for fifty buggies. we pointed out to him that ours was only half a buggy, or three-quarters at most. but it was in vain. lie was a scotchman, and wouldn’t budge. this being so, there was nothing for it but for one of us to cross to the township to obtain supplies, calling at the bank first for the necessary money. the long’un volunteered, and was pulled across in a small dinghy.

after an hour he returned, terribly cast down, to report that not only were there no letters for us, but that the bank people knew nothing of any drafts. it turned out later, that by some mistake they had all been sent to thargomindah, more than a hundred miles away.

it was a bitter disappointment: the more so because we had but sixpence to our names, and both of us stood in need not only of raiment but of medical necessaries. leaving the long’un to look after the horses, i in my turn started across, and went about matters in a new way. the upshot of it all was that when i returned to the boat i was accompanied by the mayor and the chief police officer. they soon got the punt in working order, and ourselves, horses, and buggy transported to the other side. what was more to the point, i had induced an absolute stranger to lend us the wherewithal to obtain the medicines we stood in need of. when, a week later, we repaid him, we said, ‘it was a good sign of a good man, and may you never want a friend in the hour of need!’ and we meant it!

just previous to our arrival, cunamulla had been partially wrecked by a cyclone, and, judging from the appearance of the weather, there was every probability of another.

that night we were the guests of the manager of burrumbilla station, eight miles out, and, as it proved, we only reached it just in time, for continuous rains fell for two days after, and, had we been camped out, we should have been obliged to remain right where we were; travelling would have been impossible.

while the guests of this station we were permitted an opportunity of seeing two artesian bores lately put down at the back of the run, and wonderful and mysterious productions they avere. as i have said elsewhere — and it does no harm to repeat it — what they mean, in a country like queensland, only those who have had experience of its dryness can hope to understand.

from burrumbilla we passed along the warrego to the border of queensland and new south wales, crossing it at barringun on november 11 at 10.30 a.m.

from barringun to bourke the track is bleak and uninteresting; sandhills and black soil flats follow sandhills and black soil flats in endless succession. rabbits in great numbers infest the entire district, and bitter is the warfare between them and the squatter.

leaving belalie station, our first camping place on the new south wales side, we passed through engonia township, if by such a name a few scattered habitations may be called, and headed, in pouring rain, past native dog bore (one of the largest artesian bores in australia, 471 feet deep, and yielding a supply of 2,000,000 gallons per diem) for the grass hut. our camp that night, twelve miles past the bore, was a dreary one. our blankets were wet through, our roof was the dripping mulga scrub, it was too wet to light a fire, and we had little horse feed and no water. for although a considerable quantity of rain had fallen, the ground was so parched that it soaked in immediately it touched the earth.

two stages later we sighted the long looked-for darling river, a few miles above bourke. what a happy camp that was, and how merrily next morning we rattled over the fine bridge into the town itself!

it was indeed a proud moment in our lives, when we pulled up at the door of our hotel; for more than half our long journey across the continent was accomplished. cyclops and polyphemus had brought us through like the rat-tailed, banana-stumped heroes they were! bravo, cyclops! well done, polyphemus!! you’re a pair of equine trumps, and here’s my best respects to you!!!