25 January 1934

THE BREAK FOR THE SALT PAN 

Droving Feud Of The Early Days

Reading more like fiction than a life story, this account of a drover, his predicament, and the ruse of an enemy, gives an insight into some of the difficulties which beset the sheep men in the arid North. The only thing not true about the story are the names. These have been altered for obvious reasons.

This is a true story of the North, of droving, and the instinct of two dogs. Very few who have seen a painting in the Art Gallery, depicting a mob of sheep bolting towards a salt pan, realise that such an occurrence is not without equal in the history of the North. 

Sam Terrin was an experienced drover, but an absolute stranger in the Chirripana district. His was no easy task droving three thousand sheep through a run where feed and water were scarce, and strangers decidedly unwelcome. 

His trek from Simon's Bore, near the Queensland border, down to Whippa Whippa head station, had been one of continuous disaster. The wells on the route were either dry or very low in most places. His horses had given him trouble, and his rations were running short. 

So, as he entered Chirripana, he travelled long hours to get to his destination as quickly as possible. It would take him four days to get through Chirripana, and the riders from that station kept close watch to see that he didn't stray off the half-mile track. 

His first well and troughs were dry, when he struck them on a Tuesday morning. Chirripana steers had just had their fill, and were leaving as he appeared. The next water, being some miles away, he decided to wait until the present spring gave sufficient to give each sheep a mouthful. Towards evening he camped. 

On the Wednesday morning, pushing off early, he hoped to strike another well or dam. In the early afternoon he hit the next waterhole. Dry as a bone! Chirripana had watered thousands of sheep just before his arrival. The tracks around the hole and in the damp mud proved this. 

Chirripana and Whippa Whippa were dead enemies, and this was their chance for a score, and they took it. According to arrangements, a rider from the head station was to have met and assisted Sam long before this. Sam was getting miserable. The sheep were bleating from thirst, and the dogs were getting done. 

Suddenly a horseman appeared. 'That you, Sam Terrin?' 'Yep!' 'Well. I'm from Whippa Whippa,' replied the stranger, 'and, as I can see, the sheep are dry. You'd better let me show you to the next soak, about a mile or two further on.' 

'O.K. Matey,' yelled Sam, and, shooing and hooing away his hardest, he and his dogs pushed the thirsty mob slowly forward. 'Very queer, that,' thought Sam. Two soaks so close to one another.' 

His assistant kept well to the front, and did more than his share of the work. After an hour's slow and painful going, the soak was sighted. The sheep bolted for it in one mad rush. Now both men were on foot, their horses behind the cart, and, to Sam's astonishment, his two dogs, Lupe and Tex, tore around the sheep and headed them off, away from the soak. 

Sam swore and immediately rushed for his horse, his assistant being well on the other side of the flock. Sam was wild. What was biting the dogs to go tearing ahead like that? As he reached his horse he turned and saw a terrific battle going on—the sheep trying to get to the soak and the dogs frantically trying to keep them away. 

Just as Sam was about to swing into the saddle he glanced at the stranger's horse, and on the rump he saw the familiar broken circle brand of Chirripana. Like a flash the truth struck him. This was a deadly trap, and his sheep were nearly in it. 

Mugga Salt Pan. He'd heard of it. Sam looked around. The stranger was racing towards him, aiming to get his horse and nick off. But Sam was quick. He grasped the rein of his enemy's horse and galloped off, leading it beside his own. He raced around and gave the dogs a hand. 

Just as he reached the danger point a voice hailed him. Glancing around he beheld another stranger; but his horse had the Whippa Whippa brand. Sam only gave him a brusque order, 'Keep 'em away from the salt pan,' and turning his horse he rode off round the flock to where the Chirripana man was about to make off with the cart-horse. Sam didn't give him a chance. He simply flew at his enemy, and in a few minutes reduced him to a bedraggled heap of aches, pains, and bruises. 

Then Sam turned his attentions to the sheep and soon had them off on to the right track with the help of his genuine assistant. Between the two of them they finally rolled the Chirrapana man in the muck of the salt pan, tied him to the saddle, put the reins in his teeth, and started the horse towards the station. 

Needless to say, Sam and his mate had no further trouble from their enemies on the remainder of the journey. But who can explain the instinct that urged the dogs to keep the sheep away from the salt pan, when neither of them had ever been that way before? 

The names have all been altered in this story for very obvious reasons. — ''Camp-fire Comrade," Ngapala. 

How The Kangaroo Got Its Name 

Probably there are few people who are aware how the name 'kangaroo' came to be bestowed upon one of Australia's most remarkable animals. 

According to early records, the origin of the name is as follows: — Shortly after Captain Cook discovered Australia he noticed a party of aborigines on the shore carrying a dead animal. As he required fresh meat he sent several members of the crew ashore to barter for the animal. 

They succeeded in making a deal, and, on their return, Cook found that the animal was some thing quite out of the ordinary and of a type which he had never seen before. Being desirous of learning the native name of the animal he sent the boatswain to enquire what it was. On reaching the shore the boatswain approached one of the aborigines and asked:— 'What do you call this 'ere animal?' 

Not comprehending his meaning the native replied, 'Kan-ga-roo,' which, in the native lingo, meant 'I don't understand.' On his return to the vessel the boatswain addressed the captain, and said, 'Please, sir, the black party says it's a kangaroo.' 

Everyone was satisfied. Kangaroo it has been ever since.— 'A.H.B.,' Halton Gardens. 

Note: This widely held belief is untrue. According to Wikipedia: The word Kangaroo comes from the Guugu Yimithirr language which is spoken in far north Queensland. The word is also one of the first Aboriginal words ever recorded by British explorers. When spelling the word with traditional pronunciation, the word would be spelled as “gangurru”. 

Captain Berry 

Looking over an old 'Chronicle' the other day I came across Mr. Edward Goode's description of Captain Johnston taking the first boat through the Murray mouth. This recalled to my mind another staunch old seafarer, Captain Berry, who later gave up the sea to become a missionary. He used to preach at the old theatre in the Gilles Arcade, Currie street, and afterwards at the City Mission Hall in Light square as soon as it was built. 

Perhaps Mr. Goode knew Captain Berry, who was a close friend of Captain Johnston. The pair were introduced to one another in England at the home of a mutual friend when Johnston went to England to bring out a steamer specially built for the Murray trade. Berry, who at this time had given up the sea, and was preaching, remarked jocularly, 'You had better give me the job of taking her out,' to which Johnston replied, 'Very well, you can.' 

I forget the name of the boat, but from Mr. Goode's description I should think it was the same one. Berry was employed by Johnston in the river trade for some time, but it did not appeal to him, and he gave it up to return to his preaching. 

Berry began life in a sailer when he was 20, running to Nova Scotia for timber. His father was also a sailor who was drowned before his son's eyes when his vessel struck a breakwater in a fearful storm, and foundered. 

Berry was one of the grand old type of men. The family used to live Gilberton way, but I do not know if there are any of them here now. He was very earnest in his missionary work, and used to throw all his weight into the singing of the old hymns. We don't hear many of them today. One of his favorites was 'Pass me not, O, gentle Saviour.' — W. J. Harris, Elbow Hill. 

Surprise Catch 

Many and varied are the problems which confronted settlers in the Upper North when the country was thrown open for selection in the late seventies. 

Railheads were far away, doctors still farther, and water for domestic purposes and for stock had to be carted long distances. 

I was only five years old when my father, for health reasons, decided to make a new home in the new country. Our problems were accentuated when he died four years after, leaving the family to face a long and unequal struggle against droughts and difficulties. This leads up to the incident I am about to relate, which occurred two years after. 

Our nearest supply of stock water was eight miles away, in what was then known as Brennan's paddock, near the Willochra Creek. The water was in shallow wells, and rose to within three or four feet of the surface. Waggons had to be backed as near as possible to the hole, and the water was drawn in a bucket and tipped into the tank while standing on the suspended tailboard of the waggon. 

Visualise, then, two young boys —my brother, aged 13, and myself, 11— carting 600 gallons twice a week over that distance and under those conditions. Boys of those ages would today be still going to school, but we had to face life as we found it, and the going was not easy. 

It was on one of our water-carting trips that we conceived the idea of setting a spring rabbit trap on the road, amongst the bluebush, thinking that perhaps we might find a crow on our homeward journey. 

Imagine our surprise when, on coming within sight of the place where the trap had been set, we saw a large wild turkey doing a wild dance, with the trap dangling from its beak. It was evident that the weight of the trap was too great to permit the bird to rise on the wing. It was a lucky catch for us, as living in those days was hard, and an 18 lb. turkey provided a welcome change of diet from salt junk. Having succeeded once by chance, we tried more than once with intent, but were never similarly rewarded. 'EKWAH.' 

Not Robbery Under Arms 

Not long ago the bank manager of a South Australian town in the lower South-East was carrying in his car a large sum of money to a neighboring town. 

Suddenly a man armed with a gun ran out of the scrub which bordered the road and signalled for him to stop. As the banker had on a previous occasion experienced a hold-up, he thought discretion the better part of valor, and stepped on the gas. 

Imagine his consternation when, on rounding the next corner, four more armed men rushed onto the roadway and called upon him to stop. Crouching as low as possible in the seat, the bank manager made a dash for it. 

Shortly after he returned with the police. The bandits were found near the same spot. 

On being questioned they proved to be a party of shooters. One had become separated from his companions, and had hailed the bank manager to enquire whether he had passed any of them. As it happened, the other members of the party were just around the next corner, and had tried to stop the motorist to ask if he had seen the missing man.— 'A.H.B.,' Halton Gardens. 

Another Beviss 'Miracle' 

Mention of John Beviss and the 'miracles' he performed in a recent issue of 'The Chronicle' brings to mind another. This time the hero was Mr. Beviss's brother. Some people were sinking a well and had reached a hard layer of rock, which they could not penetrate. Mr. Beviss happened on the scene. 

As he knew something of well-sinking he requested to be allowed to try his hand. So with action suitable to his words he descended the cavity with a crowbar. Lustily he smote the determined 'bed,' which shook beneath his blows, fell into pieces, and let through a swift rush of water. 

So strong was the flow that the man, hopeless though his position seemed in such a predicament, was actually saved by the strength of the flow, for the column of water shot above the top of the well in such force that man, crowbar, and bucket were carried to the top as though by a lift, and actually deposited on land.— 'Lone Star.'