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The Flying Bushman by The Flying Bushman on Gibbon

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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. Use Gibbon to collect and share knowledge with your team or the whole world.

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The Flying Bushman is sharing knowledge on Gibbon Use Gibbon to collect and share knowledge with your team or the whole world.

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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 pasto...

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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. For more - http://www.theflyingbushman.com

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Greg Keynes (@theflyingbushman) - LockerDome

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Follow Greg Keynes on LockerDome, Greggie K is the author of well-known western Australian E Book and hard copy "The Flying Bushman". Born and raised in the ...

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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.

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Greggie K is the author of well-known western Australian E Book and hard copy "The Flying Bushman".

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Greggie K is the author of well-known western Australian E Book and hard copy "**[The Flying Bushman](http://www.theflyingbushman.com)**". Born and raised in the Murchison region of WA, as a pastoralist.

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Greggie K is the author of well-known western Australian E Book and hard copy “The Flying Bushman”.

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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.

Do you know of people like that?

But gee when he did, didn't he have the skill to blow your hat off. It was as if he used to save all the juice up for one big effort that would make you continue to employ him though all the very average efforts, but when he brought the team home, into the home straight, it was pretty to watch.

This is just such a story, about a very relaxed character, a very aggravated scrub bull, and a very special day in the cattle yards I will remember as a young man for the rest of my life.

We were all at Wheendong cattle yards in the early 70's,on the western side of Curbur about half a dozen of us, mostly Aboriginal stockman Dad and myself, when we ran this huge, wild, feral shorthorn bull into the receiving yard. He was rich dark red, and mean as hell ( see picture below) weighing 700kgs plus probably, with forward pointing horns longer than normal, and he was constantly eyeing off everybody in turn as if to say, "I'm watching you, your turn will come". Experienced stockmen are loathe to state the obvious on such occasions, but one of the boys said in a low respectful tone, "watch dat bulla" (which is Aboriginal slang for watch that fellow) to all within earshot. He didn't really have to say it, but he did in a nervous respectful sort of way!!

The thing was we had done the easy bit pushing the mob into the receiving yard, now we had to get him into the forcing yard, where in turn, they run up the raceway and into the head bail or crush to be earmarked and tail tagged or whatever, for trucking to market. Getting him and the rest of the mob from the 40 by 15 meter oblong receiving yard into a much smaller triangle shaped forcing yard, a tenth of the size, was the challenge. Not the physical challenge of doing the job -that was no problem, it was doing it with your life still intact at the end of it was the challenge. Dad as the Boss, put the emphasis on the yard building materials been sourced as cheap and handy as possible and although usually strong, were not always the most user friendly, when it came to requiring quick exit out, through, or over yards. Gee those depression years had an impact didn't they??

The yards were rock solid made of two inch pipe running horizontally around the top , supporting heavy duty mesh with railway iron uprights on the outer side of the mesh and rails.

It was fortunate the yards were built strongly like this in one way though, as soon as we had yarded this mob with this particular bull, he realized the net was closing in. With panic emblazoned in his big wide eyes, he trotted indignantly around the new barriers to his freedom. One can only try to imagine what it would be like for a three four, or five year old "mickey" feral bull, which had grazed the rangeland all his life to be in this strange, dangerous restricted yard for the first time in his life with all these little scary humans in his space. He's not a stud bull but one that has escaped muster for some time, very probably for good reason. Coming to terms with that and attempting to deal with it, in an animal's mind must be a like a bush kid going to boarding school for the first time.

One of the boys opened up the forcing yard gate for access and we skirted around the rear of the mob, everybody very, very conscious of where "the bull" was. There was some other smaller mickies in there too, in this mob of 120 or so head of cattle, which at the moment weren't causing any problem, but they could easily become "fizzie" to if pressured too much.

Steadiness is the key as every cattleman knows, however when a bull like this bloke "wants a go" there's not very much one can do. Even if you stay way back on the back fence and don't move, they'll come at you for no reason when they're hot. Just like a drunken raged fool who just wants to fight. "Crusin for a brusin", one might say - either you or he may get the "brusin" So there we were, the gates open and although we understand how this bull maybe feeling, we had a cattle truck to load and a dollar to make.

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The annual Ballythunna Bush Bash - The Flying Bushman

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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. Do you know of people like that? But gee when he did, didn't he have the skill to blow your hat off.

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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.

It had been a long day for a little bloke like me at five, as we had been out since first light and done the eastern side of the Curbur mill run, some call them a "bore run", which was at least a hundred kilometres and most of that was very slow because of creek crossings, gates, cleaning troughs and checking watering points for stock water. We had collected two woolly wethers tied up in the small back section of the jeep that we had picked up on the run earlier during the day, which had obviously escaped that year's shearing muster, and they would be dropped in the straggler paddock further down the road on the way home. There wasn't much room in the back of the Willy's soft-top, just enough for a dog, tool box and a few extras like an axe, fencing pliers and trough brush, and on this particular occasion the two woolly sheep took up any excess room available - hence Lady's far flung stance.

Not far from Tin Hut mill we swung onto the "main road", as we called it, because it was the main gravel road between Mullewa and Gascoyne Junction, and my old home Curbur Station just happened to be pretty much exactly halfway between the two outback towns. Well you could hardly call "The Junction" as we locals called it a town, because it was really only a few old corrugated iron sheds, in the 60's and the junction pub, nestled just off the banks of the huge Gascoyne River east of Carnarvon, with its gigantic white ghost gums along its banks.

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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.

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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.

Dad always hated the situation of animals suffering, because of mans actions, directly or indirectly. He used to say, we put the livestock in this position and it is our responsibility to make sure they're looked after. It was something I always respected about him, although we didn't always agree on everything. But you don't really have a say, do you when you're six or so, even if you figure you may happen to be right. As we got closer, the sheep in the distance that came into view were very perished and dehydrated to say the least, and four paddocks ran into corners at George's mill, with fair numbers in each.

It's hard to explain in words but the visual site is awful. The emancipated sheep are walking very slowly, almost painfully in thesearing heat and their normal running about is out of the question. Their flanks are hollow and their bare shorn skin seems to be drawn into their centre - like a magnet has sucked all the moisture from them and left just an empty shell of skin and bone, the hide just hanging off hip bones, like clothes off a scarecrow. Most camp in the shade out of the draining sun, but on this occasion some were hanging close to a pathetic little shade closer to the water trough, just made from a couple of lengths of inch and a half water pipe, running across the centre of the water trough to stop stock jumping from one paddock to the other, whilst drinking. They hung their heads close to the ground, and occasionally flicked their ears from the annoying flies, and that showed the only limited movement.

It was late in the afternoon and I was with Dad driving around the mill run in the...

Now Tony was the sort of guy who knew very well what he was meant to be doing,...

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The lovely rose garden - The Flying Bushman

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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.

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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!!!

Now 7 year old Janet had had enough of her brother's shenanigans recently, and was hell bent on bringing him back into line.

There he was screaming to her from the back toilet to bring him some paper -and well, she just thought it was her opportunity to give him a bit of his own medicine!!

She rushed out to the back garden where the large tomato bushes were growing, and grabbed the closest and largest leaf she could find. Running back toward the toilet she leaned around the corner, to hand her brother the pitiful excuse for toilet paper. She certainly made sure she wasn't getting too close - for quite obvious reasons.
"Use this" she instructed, casually leaving her younger sibling in a complete quandary, as to what he was meant to do with what she had given him!!!

Reluctantly, and with no other option, the young boy leant forward and did what a young man has to do, in such cases!!

Weelll - the repercussions were immediate and severe.

The spines on the tomato leaf shot into his bottom, and removed him from his seat in very quick time.
It was then that it dawned on him at this tender young age, that his older sister had tricked him -and his anger rose as he moved from the toilet, in no uncertain terms, towards his sister's bedroom without even pulling up his jocks or trousers. In fact he was starkers, as he was on his way to the shower previously, when nature had interrupted him.

Now his sister, obviously assumed something may be coming, and was organising her retreat via the front door, as Peanut rounded the corner toward her.

He nearly "got her" before she opened the front door, but was in hot pursuit and much closer by the front gate. Onto Mark Street footpath they went, completely unaware of the morning traffic.

Peanut Johnson with the tomato leaf still stuck firmly in position was in hot pursuit of his sister, and closing the gap.

Within 100 metres of the North West Coastal Highway such was Peanut Johnson's anger that he was minimising the distance on his sister, and even less aware of the slowing traffic amazed at what they were witnessing.
With the tomato leaf still well attached and within grasping distance of his sister's long blonde hair, his attention was instantly taken by the siren and flashing lights from the oncoming police car.

The local Sergeant jumped out and with a wry smile on the other side of his face said, "Righto what's going on here!!!!"

It was only then, that Peanut Johnson began to realise his awkward position.

Doing his very best to keep a straight face, especially with the fast growing car loads of raucous spectators, the sergeant suggested in his very strongest voice, "that both siblings get along home and report back to their mother", as he wisely guessed, that their lodgings would be close by.

Both children, turned quickly on their heel and returned to whence they had come, more aware now of the commotion they had caused, especially considering the "hooting" of passing car horns, and good hearted comments out the windows of passing traffic.

As Peanut Johnson was last seen entering the front door of his house, he was still muttering very angry comments to his sister; the tomato leaf was still vividly attached!!

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The RFDS were kindly in attendance all weekend - The Flying Bushman

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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!!! Now 7 year old Janet had had enough of her brother's shenanigans recently, and was hell bent on bringing him back into line.

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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.

I can't be sure, but perhaps a little of me died that day, certainly perhaps a fair amount of childhood naivety anyway.

After some time, I'm not sure how long without any watch I decided to get up and walk back towards where I believed the fence to be, in this slightly improved state of mind, because I gathered that know body else would help me if I didn't help myself - if I could get on that fence and mill run track that I would recognise (I hoped in my state) which way it was towards Tin Hut mill and water. The clouds were building and much darker now and that was at least providing some relief from the burning sunlight. To this day I'm not sure what gave me the strength or drive to lift myself up and again make an effort -an effort to survive I guess.

I was surprised at myself that I had lost interest in the sheep's' well being - as I knew they were so desperate for water too, as I now well and truly understood as we always looked after the animals first.

But I resigned myself that if I died it would be very serious - but if they died nobody would know. I also thought of the pain my Mum and Dad would have -Dad putting me in this position and Mum not knowing and finding out the hard way. I think that gave me some added step in my gentle walk toward what I thought should be the fence line direction.

I don't know what distance I travelled or how long it would have been, but eventually, although I hadn't reached the fence, I could hear the faint noise of the jeep - a long way in the distance. There was a desperate urge to run towards the noise, but common sense grabbed me and I started walking more slowly towards the vehicle noise, but with considerably more spring in my step.

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Wild brumbies at Brumby Springs - The Flying Bushman

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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.

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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!!

Looking backwards and up at the sheep, from the floor as it were, with legs tied, perched on their backsides quite comfortably in both driver's and passenger seats, they seemed as if they were in on the joke too. Both sheep were smiling and sitting back bolt upright, as you could have expected them to attempt to struggle, or at least kick in the new position.But it seemed to me they knew something was going down -and they were just going to enjoy themselves anyway. We had to hold them of course -just in case -but out of site to the oncoming vehicle
When we eventually got close and then passed the car load of incredulous tourists a few moments later, their facial expressions were priceless. It changed from been friendly tourist waving madly to the locals, with two board city kids in the back seat, on a lonelyoutback track. To anastonished "head flip", open mouthed at what they felt they had witnessed, as if to double check what they thought they had seen, first time.

In the event you don't, you may do your research to the unbalanced element. Along at the exact...

Just lately, in your think that container that is certainly on the world-wide-web, which is to say really...

In the event you don't, you may do your research to the unbalanced element. Along at the exact...

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How goats are transported - The Flying Bushman

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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!!

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

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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 Ballythunna Stations and my crashsitein1984
Note: locations are approximate

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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 Ballythunna Stations and my crashsitein1984 Note: locations are approximate

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"The bush is dead..." Greg Keynes talks about the "The Flying Bushman"

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The Flying Bushman is available on Xlibris.
Currently The Flying Bushman is best accessed via eBook download.
Copies of the eBook can be purchased from the following links:

Australian customers:
Non-Australian customers:

Please remember to include your reviews through the customer feedback section of Amazon.com

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The Flying Bushman is available on Xlibris. Currently The Flying Bushman is best accessed via eBook download. Copies of the eBook can be purchased from the following links: Australian customers: Non-Australian customers: Please remember to include your reviews through the customer feedback section of Amazon.com

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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/ chopper pilot/Shire Councilor in the early 80's gave him the unique opportunity of seeing only places that could be reached by helicopter so much of the Pilbara, Gascoyne and Murchison regions along with the world heritage listed Shark Bay and it amazing characters, whilst mustering thousands of cattle, sheep, goats and other livestock along with feral animals.

Having a deep love of the land author Greggie K whose books explore the wonders of the Australian bush that is difficult to really understand unless you have experienced it. But the author having the good fortune to have a good education at Hale School but with that red dust in his veins can describe even to the weekender the feel and touch of the bush through his firsthand accounts of true stories he experienced.

However his concern of the future for the regions and their ultimate demise partly due to climate change and or lack of Government interest, poor commodity prices and less people wishing to work in the bush in comparison to the bright lights, forget where Australia has come from and those that helped make it what it is today.

Mostly due to global warming and years of poor seasons the author moved to Perth after selling his station property in the late 90's and was involved in various business activities including Real Estate, Sales/Marketing, New Business Development, his own Mining /Pastoral/ consultancy and Auction House to name some.

As a single man he now still travels the regions of WA continuing to write and working in various roles and keeping in touch with his 3 children and 2 grandchildren since his divorce in 2004 after 20 years of marriage.

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Greggie K is the author of well-known western Australian E Book and hard copy "The Flying Bushman".

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Examination what you've been requested to manage on your own essay. They make up a proper, academic circumstances, but it really doesn't signify that you must be unexciting. Custom made...

July 16, 2018

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The Flying Bushman - Just another WordPress site

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Examination what you've been requested to manage on your own essay. They make up a proper, academic circumstances, but it really doesn't signify that you must be unexciting. Custom made... July 16, 2018