FURTHER EXPERIENCES OF A MUSTERER

Press, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22319, 5 February 1938, Page 19

FURTHER EXPERIENCES OF A MUSTERER

WHEN we got back to the station from our week-end the other musterers had returned from their holiday, and we walked out once more to Cattle creek for the dipping muster. All our jobs seemed to start from there, but this time, of course, we were mustered in the opposite direction. The day on Virginia Spur was a bad one for me. The top, when we got there, was foggy, and I was left there to go down the spur. I waited, foodless, from early morning until 2 o’clock. I did not know that the fog extended for only a few hundred yards. All day the others sat in the sun cursing me, and I sat in the fog cursing it. At last it cleared, and we mustered off at 7 o’clock. No one had taken lunch, for the day is a short one, and we were all ravenous. The chap next to me took a plate of stewed dried apples, poured some condensed milk over them, and bolted the mess. He was

immediately sick, and I would have been also, but I had nothing to do it with. My leg was frequently pulled about sitting in my private little patch of fog for half a day, and I attempted only one excuse—that, technically, I had done the right thing. The choice of words was unfortunate, as for some time afterwards I was referred to as “the man who did the right thing.” Difficulties of Sheep-droving From Anderson’s creek we went on to Lochinvar, and when Nigger Hill was mustered we had all the sheep. The Mount White block was between us and the station, but no sheep had been put there after

(SPECIALLY WRITTEN" VOR THE PE ESS.)

(By Bruce Stronach)

shearing. So all we had to do was drive our sheep in. We had about 16,000, and to drive a mob of that size in open country is a job that requires a little care. The “road” from Lochinvar to the station is a series of hairpin bends, winding through birch bush and crossing many shingle slides. The sheep overflow on both sides of the road and keep spreading all the time. Two of us were in the lead, one on the top side and one on the bottom. The rest were strung along the sides !

of the, mob and at the rear. Our job, in the lead, was to keep the sheep from getting up hill or down hill top much, and. to hold them if the tail got too far behind. We never stopped them unless compelled to by yells from behind, because the way to make good time with a big mob is to keep them going steadily. Of course, if there are weak sheep in the rear, the lead must occasionally be stopped, or at least checked for a minute or two. Half way in, it began to rain hard, and the job became miserable. We never wore oilskins on the hill, because one cannot do much on foot muffled up in a heavy coat. The cold rain slowed the sheep down a bit, and it was late when we got

Waiting in the Fog: A Pig Swims Across a River

to Mount White. The gate into the paddock was narrow and the mob took a long time to go through. When the last one was in the paddock was full, and looked like a sea of sheep. It was a great sight—but not such a good sight to us—we had to put them all through the dip. In the morning we started drafting, and it took us all day to get the big mob through. The sheep ran well in the station yards, but 16,000 sheep passing one at a time through a drafting gate take some time.

However, drafting was easier than the dipping that followed. How we toiled in the narrow race, urging the old ewes on to the platform! How thankfully we tipped them in! Each ewe, knowing what was coming, dug her toes in properly, and we tore our finger-nails to pieces pushing them up the race. The lambs were easy, and a week of hard work finished the dipping. Crossing the Esk Such work is really strenuous, and taking the sheep out to their different blocks was easier. The ewes went mostly to Riversdale, and the lambs to Pakati —their winter block. Over the Esk from Lake Letitia Pakati is very steep. The face of

the range is sunny and snow does not lie long. There are English grasses there, and a better winter block for hoggets could not be imagined. But to get there we had to cross the Esk, and this was a stumbling block. The river was not deep —about as deep as the Avon, but much faster, and the lambs did not fancy it. As every small “cut” was forced into the water some were swept down stream, and we spent the entire day in forcing them in and racing down the river rendering first-aid to the drowning. When at last they were all across we followed them up the hill and rescued about 40 from lawyer bushes. When a lamb is wet and weak it falls an easy prey to anything at all, and lawyer bushes and pigs take their toll. Walking back to the station, very wet and tired, we had an adventure with a wild boar. He was wandering

about the shores of the lake, and when we saw him we at once charged, dogs and all. We were weaponless, but the pig did not know that, and he immediately took to the water. He swam right across the lake, which at this spot was a quarter of a mile wide, and walked out on the other side. I was annoyed to think that for many years I had believed that old tale about a pig “cutting his throat when he swims” just because someone had told me so. No one ever believes me when I tell this story, but I have six witnesses to prove that that pig swam 400 yards and left the water unharmed. (To be continued.)