The Flying Bushman

Greggie K is the author of well-known western Australian E Book and hard copy “The Flying Bushman”. Born and raised in the Murchison region of WA, as a pastoralist

Greggie K is the author of well-known western Australian E Book and hard copy “The Flying Bushman”. Born and raised in the Murchison region of WA, as a past

The Flying Bushman is available on Xlibris. Currently The Flying Bushman is best accessed via eBook download. Copies of the eBook can be purc

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The Land Down Under Australia: The state of Western Australia is on the far left. Closer view of the top half of Western Australia showing Curbur and Ballyt

The Flying Bushman Curbur Station Via Mullewa Western Australia Australia 6630 greg.auctions1@bigpond.com

I was approximately 200 kilometers North West of Meekatharra in 2000, completing a survey for PMH on Aboriginal Children’s Health, when an aboriginal woman that I was interviewing reached across the table and touching me on the arm said,

I also write about slightly different experiences that the bush gives us, like the strength of family, local community and particular bush characters.

I would have never guessed that when I took the kids to the Glendenning Road Skate Park, in Geraldton, that the two girls would have the most exciting experience of their life.

Now Janet wanted to get back at her younger 4 year old brother Peanut Johnson who happened to be sitting on the toilet this day when he realised – there was no paper left!!!

“A Mickey bull,” like the one above (I thank Miss Attica Grey above for her photo) who is a scrub bull who’s missed a few musters and the consequent castration that would normally apply. They are quick and fast and used to constant fighting between themselves, very quick on the forequarter to rip and hook violently with that head and horns. I have seen them open up a horses belly like a sardine can, with one quick flick of the head, and the horse had to be destroyed immediately. Let alone the damaging potential to a person.

It was pretty hot by the time we drove into Georges wind mill and it was near midday. Close to a century in the old temperature language, and as often at that time of the day in the heat the black crows were circling high in the air, on the thermals – especially if they have specific reason. The site was pretty awful as we drove in, and I could hear Dad’s swearing low under his breath, as experience in the bush gives you an inkling of what you may well expect to see.

We guessed what the problem was well in advance. Dad’s gut feeling had been substantiated and the words he was yelling are not up for print.

You see they didn’t have the same need as the others for water at Georges, but of course were still thirsty, and to avoid a break in the wool fleece they ideally required water also, but their endeavour for freedom was stronger than their need for water at that particular point in time.

Now many farmers had water trucks, or big tankers and pumps in the agricultural areas, but on the pastoral stations in those days nobody had much of that type equipment. With the regular checking and maintenance this situation should not have occurred – but shit happens, we just had to fix it now.

I couldn’t hear the jeep at all now, and hadn’t done so for some time!! Had he stopped or broken down or was he that far away I couldn’t hear him and what direction should I be listening for him anyway?

It was only when we were crouched low, in the foot space of the jeep, and out of sight, that Dad put the jeep into second gear and with forward motion started us driving off down the road towards the oncoming tourists with the caravan – that’s when the penny dropped!!

I didn’t even know how long ago I had my last drink at Georges with Dad, and some tears slipped out as I realised it may be the last drink I would have with him –then I stopped myself and said no it couldn’t be, and then reverted back to my previous light headed space of calm.

Now Janet wanted to get back at her younger 4 year old brother Peanut Johnson who happened to be sitting on the toilet this day when he realised – there was no paper left!!!

It was pretty hot by the time we drove into Georges wind mill and it was near midday. Close to a century in the old temperature language, and as often at that time of the day in the heat the black crows were circling high in the air, on the thermals – especially if they have specific reason. The site was pretty awful as we drove in, and I could hear Dad’s swearing low under his breath, as experience in the bush gives you an inkling of what you may well expect to see.

It was late in the afternoon and I was with Dad driving around the mill run in the old “Willy’s Jeep”. The soft canvas sides of the old green jeep flapping slightly in the breeze as we drove along. Lady, the old sheep dog was hanging much of her body out the side, to get a good breeze and any exciting scents ahead, dodging the regular bushes flashing past, doing their best to poke their head in to the cab on the way thru. Dad wasn’t saying much in his usual fashion, as driving was pretty much a full time job on those old mill run tracks, dodging stumps and sticks to avoid punctures.

Now Tony was the sort of guy who knew very well what he was meant to be doing, and how to do it, but only one time in ten would he apply himself.

The latest Tweets from Greg Keynes (@FlyingBushman). Greggie K is the author of well-known western Australian E Book & hard copy “The Flying Bushman”. Born & raised in the Murchison region of WA, as a pastoralist. Capel WA

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