Camooweal to Borroloola (Alan)
Camping along the river at Camooweal was right up there.
There are so many sites available we never even saw them all, it just kept on
going. I got on my bike and tried to ride to the end, but after getting waylaid
chatting to other Kedroner’s, I ran out of time and never made it to the end,
but it obviously just went for ages.
The lunch at the pub was most enjoyable and a very easy
ride on our bikes. My torn adductor longus is allowing me to ride my bike, as
long as I lay the bike over 90⁰ to get on and off it. It looks a bit strange I
admit, but hey it works! It’s actually getting better, only letting me know it’s
a problem a few times when I forget about it. I have to wear a “groin strap” to
allow it to heal.
Brunette Downs Races
Brunette Downs Station is a cattle property in the NT on
the Barkly Tableland, nowhere near anywhere, unless you’re somewhere near
Tennant Creek or Camooweal. It’s 12,212
sq kms (3 million acres) of beef fattening Mitchell grass, and employs over 50
staff.
We decided to pick up some firewood before we got there and
cut down 2 small dead trees from the side of the road with our trusty chainsaw.
Lucky we did, because before long every tree disappeared and the next 100
km to Brunette was a treeless plain with golden Mitchell grass blowing in the
breeze.
We turned off the main road, and 10 kms of dirt track later
we pulled in to the event area.
There were 3 rows of caravans camped on top of each other, with acres and acres
of empty land around them. We
surveyed the scene and found a nice spot away from everyone else, and soon met
our nearest neighbours, Cheryl and Bob.
By the look of Cheryl’s deep wrinkles, she’d had a hard life. They didn’t
really qualify as “grey nomads” because they were away from the main pack just
like us. They live at Culburra
Beach, near Nowra. She’s a very
rough diamond, and warned us before we’d settled in, that “They had camped way
over here to get away from all the friggin generators”.
We sheepishly admitted we had a generator, but promised we’d only use it
in the morning for a cappuccino.
Grey Nomad Camping Heaven
We set up camp, and wandered down to the dusty racetrack,
just in time for Race 6.
We scaled a fence right at the winning post, so had a
bird’s eye view of the horses as they rounded the corner and down the straight.
The race was tight, but Broken Thong was in front of the pack, and then
disaster unfolded in front of our eyes.
The horse stumbled and fell, and Broken Thong and his rider tumbled, the
other riders trying to avoid colliding into them.
Karen the jockey lay on the ground beside Broken Thong,
neither of them moving. The race
caller yelled out “Get an ambulance, get a vet, get the police!
Somebody get a gun! I’m not
sure about Karen, but the horse is stuffed”.
After what seemed a life time, Karen stumbled to her feet, but to our
horror when the horse tried to get up his front leg waved around, completely
snapped and he collapsed to the ground.
People tore onto the racetrack, some towards Karen and Broken Thong, and
others running to get help.
We watched on in stunned silence, and soon a single gunshot
rang out. A bulldozer was brought
in to scoop up Broken Thong and take him away so the track was clear and the
races could continue. We walked
away feeling very downhearted, not really interested in any more races.
According to the locals though, as long as the rider is okay, everything
else was just a normal day at the track.
Once everyone’s nerves had settled down, the next race was underway.
Karen had dusted herself off and was ready to race again!
They build them tough out here.
Sergeant Baker is the local cop from Camooweal
and it’s been his lifelong ambition to
be a jockey, but he’s 6’2” and weighs 86 kg, so had to lose 20 kg to qualify for
the minimum weight. It certainly
explains why he looked like a skeleton when we saw him.
He was coming a close second to Karen, and we overheard him say that
Broken Thong stumbled in a divot on the track.
We were completely out of our element with our choice of
clothes – we didn’t have any RM Williams boots or jeans, nor Wrangers.
We certainly didn’t have this year’s
fashion of a long sleeved paisley shirt.
If you’re not into paisley, then the traditional checks or stripes were
still okay. Always a hat, either an
Akubra or Wrangler, and if you’re a girl a belt covered in diamantes.
Waiting to compete in the Campdrafting - all decked out in paisley and checks
Other than horses and jockeys, there is no similarity
between a bush race meeting and a day out at the track in the city.
There’s the dust to start with.
Okay if you’re in the front, but not so much fun if you’re at the back of
the pack. The horses could be
trained for racing, or be station horses, and the riders are station owners or
workers - or the local Camooweal constabulary.
The day’s events started at each spectacular sunrise with
the campdrafting and we spent hours watching horses and riders show off their
incredible skills.
The
aim of the competition is for horse and rider to cut a beast from a small mob in
the camp, moving their horse among the cattle quietly and bring the chosen beast
to a gate at the other end of the camp.
Once
in the arena, the competitor is working against the clock (forty seconds) to
guide the beast around two pegs in a figure of eight pattern, and then drive the
beast between a final two pegs known as the gate.
The ability of the horses, combined with breathtaking horsemanship, makes
campdrafting a sport for both competitors and spectators.
As well as the races and campdrafting, there’s a rodeo,
ladies lunch, bush poetry, kids gymkhana and lots of XXXX and Bundy & Cokes the
bar in the tin shed.
Most competitors come from neighbouring properties towing
large horse floats, although some come from the other states, and even NZ.
The poor bloke was the victim of a barrage of jokes about sheep and their
sex life every time he competed in an event.
We loved seeing Mums, Dads and kids riding around together,
some of them almost babies in the saddle.
Anyone who wasn’t a tourist camped way away from us, but we were right
next to their line to get from their camp to the arena, so horses were galloping
past us all day long.
Cheryl came for a visit next morning and told us she had
diarrhoea, but before we had a chance to ask if it was something she ate, she
elaborated and told us it was verbal diarrhoea and continued gabbing on about
anything and everything for the next hour.
On Friday night we decided to eat out at the Corrugated
Canteen, a tin shed with a dirt floor outdoor seating area next to the bar.
The main generator kept konking out, so the poor guys preparing meals
were using headlamps and lanterns.
We ate in the dark until the lights came back on, went off, and on again.
We were only trying to eat, but the competitors at the rodeo were having
a tougher time than us with no lights.
The rodeo was fantastic, and we stood just in front of a
truckload of Aboriginal kids and their mums & dads from Corella Creek Community.
They’re an important part of station life up here, and it was great to
see everyone talking with their workmates, and not segregated like we’ve noticed
before. The kids in the truck went
absolutely nuts during the rodeo when their 14 year old brother competed in the
buck jumping event, and managed to stay on his beast longer than anyone else.
Alan - This group of
aborigine kids were piled into the back of a ute. They started to cheer when one
rider was just about to be released from his chute. I asked them who this was.
The girl on the right in black said “Dats my brudder. He’s fourteen year old!”
These kids were from Corella Creek 20 odd kms north of Brunette Downs.
On Saturday morning the “Barkly Breeze” got up - gale force
winds which blew dust everywhere, so we trudged all the way back to our van,
cleaned the dirt out of our eyes, and had lunch.
The wind had got to Cheryl and Bob so they came over to say goodbye and
left.
Saturday was the big race day and fashions on the field.
Dirty work boots were replaced with clean RM’s for the men, and the girls
traded their boots in for beautiful dresses and high heeled shoes, which didn’t
really work in the dirt, with their heels sinking at each step.
Everyone looks forward to dusting off and getting the good gear on.
The fashion stakes were high, with prizes for best dressed
fillies, brood mares (women who had children), stallions and the kids.
The winning filly looked stunning in a multi-coloured dress and hat.
All the kids got a prize, but the cutest was one of the little Aboriginal
boys we’d seen at the rodeo, with his Wrangler jeans, checked shirt, huge belt
buckle and Akubra.
Entrants for the Fillies - the winner in yellow and pink
All the sexy Stallions
Brood Mare Contestants
Day 4 – Our Last Day at the Races
We were awake to watch another spectacular sunrise– but not
as early as the competitors who were galloping past our caravan while we were
still in bed, ready for the final day of campdrafting.
The ”Barcoo Breeze” kept the day icy cold.
We rugged up with all our winter clothes, and braved the seating in the
stand, trying to hide next to somebody who was catching the wind, and the dust
before it got to us. We could hardly see out of our sunglasses with a thick film
of dust coating inside and outside of the lenses. With 200 competitors in the
first challenge and 4 more competitions to go, we figured we’d be there until
night time so decided to call it a day and left.
We shook the dust out of our clothes, picked as much dirt out of our eyes
as we could, and said goodbye to Brunette Downs.
The races were a small event that is really for the
surrounding cattle stations where they can test their riding skills against each
other. It was well organised and
absolutely brilliant. Visitor
numbers were about 700. We reckon
about 200 were tourists, and 500 competitors, some who doubled as volunteer
staff. We reckon there were about
700-800, but this is a conservative figure.
As far as the cattle count went, we watched enthralled as
triple, double decker road trains loaded and unloaded beasts all day long.
They’d come from neighbouring properties to use in the competitions, each
truck carrying 180 beasts. Keep
your eye out at the restaurant for 1890 Beef.
And to top off an amazing stay – we saw the Southern Cross,
sparkling alone in a black night sky.
After we left Brunette Races we planned to stop for the night at the next rest area, about 120kms north. We pulled in and I could hear this almighty screeching. I immediately thought it was our new expensive caravan brakes squealing again, and as it was so loud I was quite concerned. The noise continued even after we had stopped. I'm thinking what the? It turned out to be the windmill that powered the water bore at the rest point. It was so noisy we couldn’t even hear ourselves think while we had our afternoon tea! We’ve heard noisy windmills before, but nothing like this. It was enough to wake the dead. So we had our tea and headed off further up the road to the next rest spot which was 120kms away. Jayne drove all of this
and we ended up at “Little River” which is 10kms west of
Cape Crawford. This rest area was amazing, right alongside a river that wasn’t
that little. Some of the other caravaners were obviously here for many nights.
We’re now in Borroloola for a couple of nights before
hitting the dirt on the Savannah Way and going into Seven Emu Station.
www.sevenemustation.com.au. This
is where the adventure really starts. We will then head to Manangoora Station,
where the camping is closest to the Gulf that you can get
www.manangoora.com.au
