Some time ago, a memory came to mind of droving cattle to a railhead in Central Queensland. I was aged fifteen at the time. The farmer I worked for told me to saddle up and help drive a herd of cattle miles into the town of Biloela. No drama occurred along the way, which was good because I’ve had some experiences with horses that are all but forgotten.
One is of a horse that did its best to buck me off but couldn’t because I refused to let it. But staying in the saddle left me with friction sores on knees that had clung to the saddle. Another is of clinging to a mate’s horse that bolted for a kilometer or so down suburban streets and then stopped and propped — leaving me to keep going over its lowered head. Somehow, I landed in a crouch while still holding the reins! It had bolted to the door of my mate’s home and having arrived and dislodged me it was as quiet as it had been when I first mounted it and possibly satisfied. It was a one-man horse and I was not that man.
A boss in Monto once took me to a buckjump show (nowaday called a rodeo) and tried to talk me into riding a wild horse named Dynamite. “It’s never been ridden,” he said, “but you’ll only have to stay on for eight seconds to get the money.”
I took one look at Dynamite and declined. It wasn’t being thrown that worried me but flying hooves. (The memory of a boy in primary school who bore the mark of a horseshoe on his forehead from a flying hoof had a lot to do with it.) I have a scar in one finger where a horse jerked my hand onto a barbed-wire fence. (What is it with some horses?)
Anyhow, when I mentioned my one and only cattle droving experience to Lorraine, she remarked: “You’ve never mentioned that before!” Well, it was a long time ago, and now that I’m 85 maybe more memories from long ago will arise from where they’ve been sleeping. Not bad memories associated with people though, because having long been forgiven they are not sleeping but are dead and buried.
As dead as the once-dangerous Dynamite.