A North-West Moment

*I'm afraid I don't feel confident enough with all the operations here at the station to give you concrete information on how and why we do everything. As I learn all the reasons for what we do I'll keep you updated but for now I hope you enjoy understanding why when I wake up in the morning there is a smile on my face; regardless of how long or hard the day ahead is.

The door slides back as my foot hits the mildly warm rippled decking. So used to the feeling of cold floorboards underfoot she wriggles her toes slightly. She breathes deeply and laughs to herself as the humidity provides her with a drink as well. Unlike home this is a place where warmth and moisture envelops you constantly. She smiles as it hugs her with warm arms instead of cold fingers clutching at her. She listens to the chirrups and twitters of the bird life around her. The world seems alive and thriving, the grass seems to sing beneath the dewy morning. The sky reigns with deep blue and twinkling stars in the west, and in the east it is lit from beneath. The fiery reds morph into brilliant honey yellows, the clouds mix the palette into sultry purples as the light ripples it's way through a rainbow of hues. Not a breath of wind stirs yet all the noises can be heard, as clear as a bell they reach into her soul and she smiles.

She may miss home, she may miss the cool of the mornings and the slight warmth at mid-day, but there is nothing she does not love about this place. Here she can run free in shorts and singlets, she can befriend the curious Brahman calf, she can drive for fifty kilometres and still be on the same property. This is a home of another variety, this is a home of red dirt, of green kooch grass sneaking it's way across soft white sand dunes. This is a place where the soul lightens with each sunset it sees, a place where strength is admired and ingenuity an essential tool. She can wake to hear the beach being pounded by surf, sweat in the heat all day long and come home to a cool drink and many a laugh.

Confirming My Suspicions

Agriculture and raising animals is a massive part of who I am. I was born into it and I was raised in the country. I lived and breathed mixed farming throughout my childhood. I still do. The difference is now I choose to do it of my own accord. I choose to rear animals into adulthood for human consumption. I choose to take responsibility for their well being and I choose to put their welfare above my own. 

When I'm on the farm I will put aside any squeamish feelings because I have to make sure the sheep have clean water in their dams. I'll check the dams with low water every day to make sure the animals I have responsibility for are safe and healthy. When the spring weather gets warm and wet I'll check the sheep regularly so I can treat any fly blown animals. When I'm marking lambs I'll pull out any animals that are not going to make it and put them down. This may sound harsh but it is kinder in the long run than letting them back out into the paddock for a fox or eagle to kill. 

When I'm on the station I put aside any exhaustion levels to chase water. If a tank is empty then the trough is not going to refill. Cattle require a lot more water than sheep and it's a whole lot hotter up here, so hydration is key. No matter if it's 8 at night or 4 in the morning, when the generator needs starting I start it. Whether I'm tired or pushed for time I make sure I clean troughs that require it. If the water is dirty, cattle aren't going to drink the fluids they require. When a cow is not healthy I do everything in my power to bring it back to health and if that isn't possible I will put the animal down instead of letting it suffer. 

How does this confirm my suspicions? Every single person on the farm feels exactly the same way as me. They all choose to take care of their animals. Every single person on the station has the same drive to keep their animals healthy and happy. Guess what? It's true! Those working in the ag industry CARE. Every second of every day we're on the ball making sure our stock have everything they need. 

Station or Farm? That Is The Question!

Station life and farm life are very similar yet so vastly different that I thought I'd try and put it into a bit of perspective for you. 

Both properties ensure their animals always have water, on the farm this means checking dams in summer time and ensuring the dams don't have years of mud in the bottom of them. On the station it means checking troughs are clean and not contaminating the water, checking tanks to make sure there's enough water for the cattle, checking bores and generators are functioning. This is pretty much an all year round job, the bore runs happen every two days or so.

Both properties handle their animals to mark the young and ensure animal health. On the farm this means a week of lamb marking plus drenching, shearing and crutching throughout the year. On the station this means a bit more than a month of mustering and handling all the cattle in the yards. The farm handles sheep throughout the year. The station does it in one chunk. Many stations muster for a lot longer than this one as well. 

Fencing is a must on both kinds of property. The farm has small paddocks and high stocking rates. The station has very large paddocks in comparison and far lower stocking rates. When fencing on the farm you use wooden strainers and huge cocky gates. When fencing on the station you use steel strainers and small gates. The station fences can run for kilometres at a time and in some areas there are no fences at all. That's the difference between rangeland farming and intensive mixed farming. 

Machinery upkeep happens on both varieties of property. The farm upkeep is seasonal with the different cropping jobs over the year. The station upkeep is far more important, if your ute breaks down 80 kms from the homestead with no way to contact anyone, you're in trouble. All vehicles are kept in good condition and checked before each days work. The station has to employ mechanics as there's no option to get a mechanic out to fix something ASAP, the bigger jobs maybe, but generally sending something to town is just too expensive. 

Cooking for the workers. That doesn't happen so much on the farm as we don't employ many people. The station can have anywhere up to 30 people to cook for at any one time, a full time cook is a must and they're run off their feet keeping up with everyone's needs. They're also hugely appreciated by the workers, having a good feed while you're out in the sweltering humidity makes the day far more bearable. 

There are many similarities but the vast difference in property sizes means the way each of the tasks are completed are very, very different!

The Song of the Shearing Shed

'Scwoomp' the farmers daughter slides the big door back to its stops. She stands with her hands on her hips assessing the dust and clutter that's built up on my raised board and cement floor over the year. She takes a deep breath, jumps up on the board and pushes through one of my six catching pen doors. 'Shhhhick' the bolts are pulled out of my metal windows, swung into the open position and locked that way by her well practiced hands. I breathe a sigh of relief as the breeze skims across my grating, the dust motes circling as she gets to work cleaning me out before shearing begins. 

'Snick' my lights are switched on over the board and the wool bay. 'Slap' the power cord hits my cement floor, a puff of dust rises as it makes an imprint. She plugs the blower vac into the cord and pushes the switch forward as I brace myself. The noise echoes off my walls, bounces off the roof, and absorbs into the cement only to repeat itself again and again. She doesn't relent, she grids back and forth, over and over until the dust is swept away on the easterly breeze outside. The silence envelops her as she contemplates my newly cleaned state. She walks along the board tap, tap, tap. Her boots echo in a way that never happens once shearing begins. 

'Clank, scrrrrr, bang, tap, tap, tap'. 'Clank, scrrrrr, bang, tap, tap, tap'. She undoes my chains and swings my gates back onto the wooden rails. She oils the hinges as she goes, removing the 'scrrrrr' altogether. The gates are set now for the sheep to 'tack, tack, tack' their way up over the grating, a little like a snare drum reverberating through me, and sit for the night before the rowdy shearers pull up in the morning. 

Dust begins to swirl in through my window, blanketing the shed in a light layer of sheep yards. She doesn't groan in frustration as you might expect, she grins and her feet take her toward the yards at a run. Once she leaves I settle myself in my foundations, grounding myself before they fill me with the smells of lanolin, deep heat, hot metal, oil and the toasted sandwiches of lunchtime. I listen as I hear her whoop of a war cry against the roar of the motorbike the farmer is on, then silence. The sheep are in. 'Wait!' She commands, the dogs are attempting to jump the gun, as always. 'Good dogs', I can see her patting them until the gates are shut and the sheep cannot escape. She releases them with a quiet 'go back'. I feel the dust billowing against my walls as the sheep march their way through the pens, enforced by the constant tracking of a black and white border collie and the strategic leaps of a red and tan kelpie x hunterway. 'Hey-up, hey-up' and silence. The sheep aren't moving into my cool shade, the change in footing and lighting always baulks them. 'You go,' she says laughingly to the farmer, 'I'll shepherd'. A rolling 'fffftfffftfffftfffft', reminiscent of a snakes hiss and a vehicles motor all at once, sends the woolly mammoths flying into me. The 'tack-tack-tack' of each sheep overlaying into a constant 'takatakatakataka'. It's now that I'm grateful (oh excuse my pun) that I have a grated floor. The sheep stand across the back third of me and of course they pee and poo everywhere, but it drops straight through to the ground below. 'Ssssss, clank'. The gates are shut so the sheep can't rush the railings and break anything through the night. The farmer and his daughter assess the wool press, the bays, the lunch station. It seems everything is in order as they set off back toward the house. I groan slightly in frustration as the wind blows my toilet door, 'BAM'. Blissfully the farmers daughter ducks back toward me and slides the rock in front of it. A quiet night of protecting their flock is all that lies ahead of me now.

'Rrrrrr-dooof', the van door rolls shut and the shearers shuffle across my cement floor, up the stairs and spread themselves around the board. Eskies thud onto me and groans are elicited as they stretch it out before a full day of shearing. Some of them rubbing the menthol scent of deep heat into their muscles. Some of them laughing and joking. All of them putting on moccasins and assembling their hand pieces with quick practiced hands. The farmer walks in, 'Morning!' an echo of murmured responses follows as he chats to the classer. She's the boss of the shed and needs to know who I've kept dry and cool overnight. I wait with baited breath for the first yank of the rope that brings the hand pieces buzzing into existence. There will be five hummingbird stations of activity all day, every day, for two weeks. A quiet 'thoomp-ggzzzzzzz' and each shearer looks at the clock. They're into it. 'Phwoah, phwoah, phwoah, phwoah, phwoah.' Five doors swing as the bass beat pumps out of the iPod hooked up to the amp they brought. Out they come dragging a sheep each. They slot a front leg between theirs and sit the sheep's head just below their crutch. The sheep supported, they reach for their respective hand pieces and 'thoomp-ggzzzzzzz, thoomp-ggzzzzzzz, thoomp-ggzzzzzzz, thoomp-ggzzzzzzz, thoomp-ggzzzzzzz.' Five athletes lean over a sheep each and cut their combs into the wool over the belly. Wool begins to fly, the bellies thrown out to one side. I sigh in joy as I feel the rousies feet dancing across my floor. One at the table and two on the board, they spin and move. They never miss a belly, always flick the wool from the back leg out so they can pick the fleece up when it's time. They always sweep the board clean while the shearer is selecting his next sheep. They throw the fleece out wide and it seems to hang for a second, unfurling like a sail before it lands on the table. The rousie and the classer chatting, singing and laughing as they skirt fleece after fleece. The shed is singing once again.

The fleeces pour off, across the floor and into the press. It whirrs into life at the presser's touch, armload upon armload of soft warm wool piles in. 'Errrrrrr-crunch' the ram comes down and the pins slide in, it keeps going until the presser pops the jam packed bale out the back and wheels it into my wool bay. Each bale resting easily on my smooth, cool floor.

The clocks hands keep spinning round and round the dial, the tick tock is inaudible but time is kept through the 'sheepo's'. Just like clockwork, the sheep is dragged across the board, the counter clicked and the yell sends the presser into overdrive. All you can hear is 'po' over the chorus of shearing heads, loud music, laughing and hand pieces. The kelpie is quick to action, pushing his way through my catching pen doors ahead of his master. The piercing whistles, get ups, and push em ups don't last long. The sheep are penned, and so it goes on, again and again. The rhythm is never ending, the melody changes pace occasionally but the song of shearing... That lasts until the quiet tshhh of a beer opening on cut out day.