11/14/10

The Pilbara 1963-1966

   After we had been in the caravan park at Kwinana about two months, and the two youngest children, Philip and Margaret, were well into their correspondence lessons, the take over date for Pardoo Station arrived. Franklin, Murray, and I, loaded up the International Scout and trailer, then set off on the greatest adventure of our lives. Joan and the two younger ones were to follow, after we had taken possession. She would wait for me to come back to drive the Mercedes up with the younger ones and the Governess. It took the boys and me about three days travelling; camping by the roadside each night. There was little sealed road after Northampton, so the going was rough and dusty. Travelling North was quite an adventure then. The distance to Pardoo was about two thousand kilometres from Perth.

The two boys thought it was a great adventure. They were both straight out of school, and the prospect of starting work on an out back station with Mum and Dad was an exciting event. Franklin, the eldest was fresh out of Narrogin Agricultural High School, and Murray wished to skip secondary education to get straight onto the Station with us, an understandable wish. Pardoo was about one hundred and twenty thousand hectares in area, situated one hundred and thirty kilometres East North East of Port Hedland. It stretched about seventy kilometres along the coastline, with many tidal mangrove creeks, rocky capes and thirty kilometres of the uninterrupted wide sandy beach. There are coastal sand hills, great stretches of Buffel grassed coastal plains, and scrubby spinifex, slightly undulating, red sandy inland plains. Pardoo is on the western edge of the Great Sandy Desert where it touches the coast, and the sand hills began on the inland boundaries of the station. The sand hills were not really sand hills at all. They were long sandy ridges about thirty metres high. They ran in parallel lines from a few hundred metres to a couple of kilometres apart.

Much of northern West Australia is covered by these remarkable ridges reputed to be many millions of years old. They appear where ever there are no ranges. They tend to roughly run from east to west over the whole area, and were the curse of the motorist until surfaced roads were constructed. The Pardoo sands were a dreaded and notable example because there the sand hills touched the coastal marshes and plains. The tracks had to pass over them in places. The early tracks followed the coastal plains, which are a hard whitish clay, that becomes impassable in wet conditions. Because of the poor roads almost all the supplies for the towns and stations were brought in by the State Shipping Service to the nearest port, from where they were distributed by the local carriers.

The trucks would come out about once a month. A twice monthly air service would, in our time, land on the station air strip bringing mail and perishable foods. The perishables were subsidised by the State Government for freight. The planes used were DC3s, who always had to buzz the strip before attempting to land to check for horses, sheep and brolgas. We would usually have cleared the strip already but the brolgas would sometimes fly back until the plane indicated it was going to land.

VH-MMF (Fortescue) landing at Pardoo in 1963. Pardoo Creek is in the background.

I often wonder when I think back what the experienced people on Pardoo thought of us when we rolled up. Two raw young lads with no experience on stations at all, and a confident forty year old father also without station experience. With their isolated, regular, casual pastoral existence, they had no idea of the rough, tough, competitive, and hard working school I had been through.

The old Manager who stayed until dismissed, was heard to say critically, 'He thinks he'll be able to run the place with only the two boys and the blacks.' A neighbouring station Manager, when he later saw how I worked out on the run with the blacks, declared in my hearing that a good manager should run the station from the homestead verandah.

The usual manager would always be dressed in clean khaki shirt and trousers, and merely instruct the usual overseer, or jackaroo, to work the black staff, or any white stockmen. Frequently there was even a bookkeeper-storeman.

The shearing was still in progress when we arrived there, so we were afforded an insight into the established procedures. It was an eye opener to see the smooth well proven system, that had evolved, with everyone knowing what to expect, according to long traditional customs. Even the sheep knew the procedures. When the time came to muster for the shearing, and the mustering team arrived with their horses to start moving the sheep towards the shearing holding paddocks, they knew that shearing time had arrived. They would eagerly move towards the homestead shearing shed. The procedure was to start the muster at the farthest point from the shed, pushing the sheep forward one paddock a day. Each day that next paddock would be mustered and sheep pushed into the next and so on. The mob would get bigger and bigger each day, but the sheep enjoyed the changes to new paddocks every day, and were usually waiting near the next paddock gate. Even stragglers would tend to follow the flock down the run. The sheep, when they arrived at the homestead holding paddocks, would be ready for the daily shearing muster. The holding paddocks were left unstocked all the year so that there would be feed available for the huge mob while shearing was in progress. They knew of the procedures, as they lived to be ten to fifteen years old. The old ones died on the place as there was no possibility of marketing them from up there.

When shearing began, all the gates back up the run would be opened, so the shorn sheep would immediately move back to the paddocks they came from. Every few days a stockman would have to check that sheep would not get caught in dry corners and perish for water. They were so intent on getting back to their accustomed paddocks they would head there in as straight a line as possible. For a couple of weeks after shearing was over the paddock boundary water points would have to be checked for concentrations of sheep more than the carrying capacity of that particular paddock. If so, some would simply be put through to the next paddock the other side of the fence. The majority of the wind mills and tanks were on the boundaries of two paddocks or at the intersection of four paddocks; with a solid trough with a large ball tap in each paddock. The water points were usually about three kilometres apart so the sheep did not have to walk too far each day.

Sheep in those tropic areas drank water each day through-out the year. Not like the southern sheep that do not water at all in the cool green winter and spring in the south of this State. The sheep up there sometimes have five kilometres to walk to water, and when the country gets eaten out around the mills, forcing them to go farther for feed, they drink an enormous quantity of water at one time. Their bellies fill out like great balloons, enabling them to stay out two days before coming back again. I estimate that some sheep can drink two gallons of water at one time, when necessary. A common cause of death in dry seasons and for old sheep, is drinking more than they can carry in their weak condition. They stagger from the trough, fall over and cannot get up again. As sheep seem to have difficulty urinating while lying down they simply just die there unless a stockman happens to see them and gives them a lift up on to their feet. If held up and walked for a while they immediately get rid of some of the water and away they go, to the great satisfaction of the helper.

The boys and I were fortunate in being able to observe that shearing, as it equipped us to handle the next shearing on our own, with just the natives who lived and worked on the Station. The natives were an invaluable source of information in teaching us the proper proven procedures when all the white staff had gone. I have invariably found, that taking over old white staff with a new enterprise results in them holding you in a certain amount of contempt for your ignorance of the local procedures. This becomes intolerable after a while, and must result in the replacement of the staff if any new procedures are to be introduced. A very experienced old stockman once told me in anger, that if he didn't know any more about sheep than I did he would cut his throat. I simply replied that, 'if that was so why are you working for me and not me for you.'

The fact was in that conservative industry a lot of the management had become fossilised with time, and had not changed with the modern times. Whereas things had changed little in a hundred years before this, the modern world was beginning to catch up with even the remote Stations. The fact that many of the old pastoral families were beginning to sell out, was an indication that the changing conditions were beyond their capacity to adapt. All their staff were trained in the same school and were most resistant to change also. The old methods had to be updated with operations being streamlined, to eliminate much of the staff considered indispensable previously. With the rise in aboriginal wages the operations were rapidly becoming unprofitable, so many just gave up, and the stations fell into the hands of working owners who mechanised much of the operations, eliminating much of the previous staff.

The aboriginals on the other hand were much more cooperative and welcomed the excitement of variation or change. Their very nature seems to require changing activities and scenes. Boring routine appears to me to be an impossible life style for them to endure, particularly for the true full blood aboriginal. I had come to understand the aboriginals of Australia a little in the past; as I first employed them at Bruce Rock, then at Albany, and finally at Gnowangerup on a considerable scale. The prospect of living with them on the Station did not daunt me in the least. They have a kind of sixth sense that can divine your thoughts about them. If you do not like them as people, they will know, and be uncooperative with you. If you feel friendly and sympathetic towards them, particularly feeling respect for their dignity as people, they will be wonderfully loyal to you and yours.

Moving the Family to Pardoo

When the shearing was over, I left the boys at Pardoo and caught the plane back to Perth. The whole experience excited me immensely. I became quite certain that I had done the right thing. I felt a little uneasy but no regrets about separating from the lifelong fellowship and the people who were my friends for all of my previous years. We would be alone with our own devices and decisions from here on. It is surprising how dependent ones thinking is on others when they are ever present in one's life.

We had arranged for our personal effects and furniture, which we had wished to retain, to be brought up by furniture van when a load for Port Hedland was available. Some enterprising van owners were risking trips north even though the roads were not conducive to furniture carrying. In those days the sealed road had not reached Carnarvon. The rest was rough and dusty. The bull dust, as it was called, would rise like a great cloud, and when passing another vehicle total blindness resulted for a time, unless there was a wind. The dust is so fine it will penetrate anything not hermetically sealed or pressurised. The dust is full of iron oxide that gives it the red colour that stains clothing and cannot be washed out. This red colour is the dominant feature of the North West. It is the result of the erosion over millions of years of the great Hamersley iron ore deposits, which are about in the centre of the red soil region.

At that time the road followed the coast more closely than now, going through the historic port of Onslow. We stayed in the old hotel there, but did not get any early sleep that night as there was a wild noisy party going till very late. The civil behavior of the South seemed to have been discarded this far north, so you could either join them or move on. To complain would be regarded as an affront and likely to provoke a fight. So, tired as we were, we did neither. It was a little frightening for the Governess and the two children in a room by themselves with people blundering up and down the passages most of the night.

The next day we travelled on up through Mardie Station to Roebourne then on to Port Hedland and on out to Pardoo Station, which now had to become our new home. All investment ties with the South had been cut and all our eggs were now in one basket. With a family of four children growing up, their future was also being decided.

We arrived late in the afternoon to a rather chilly reception from the lady of the homestead who was being displaced against her will. My wife and the lady never became friends, and as Joan was at least ten years older, her capable grasp of the essentials of house management, was a little disappointing. This deprived the younger of the opportunity to demonstrate some superiority.

Joan just moved in and quickly took control. The two boys felt very pleased that we had arrived as they felt that they had been treated as ignorant Jackaroos, which of course they were. However they had picked up a lot of knowledge while there for a few weeks without me, and had made friends with the blacks. The aboriginals on this station at the time were always referred to as the "blacks" and all others as whites. The blacks had a very great affection for the Thompsons who treated them very well. Pardoo was the only station that retained native labour when the notorious Macleod called them all out on strike, leaving most of the stations in the Pilbara with only a few white men to run them. They left briefly but soon came back to their home, which was what Pardoo was to them. Many of the stations never employed native labour again, but Pardoo had a permanent resident population of over forty aboriginals. These included pensioners and even a tiny child. Some of them had come out of the Great Sandy Desert when they were young, living there ever since.

The following poem tell of what happened to their way of life

       THE OLD ABORIGINE

The old man sits beside the embers 

By his camp of bush and battered tin.

Tears dim his eyes as he remembers.

A tremble comes to his once proud chin.

He scrapes with sharpened stone upon a spear,

That once he hurled, with such deadly aim,

That caused his quarry to flee in panic fear.

All that is gone - nothing is the same.

He remembers when in corroboree,

Fearsome in his white and yellow clay

He danced and stomped, shouting with glee,

Singing and feasting 'til break of day.

He remembers his alert and bright eyed sons

Who listened to what he had to say.

His lithesome smiling soft eyed daughters

Who stole many young men's hearts away.

He remembers how his youngest woman

Would come softly to his sleeping place.

Gently laid her head across his thighs,

Caressed his body, breathing gentle sighs.

The quiescent blood within his veins

Stirred again in reawakened fire.

He remembered then his vibrant youth

And the fierceness of his strong desire.

But now he's old and his women gone,

Except for one, - whose old withered body

Now no longer needs - nor has the fire

To stir to rapture his own wasted body.

Gone are his children; all far away.

They live and drink in the white man's town.

They've never learned of the old man's way

Nor were aware of their tribe's renown.

He seems doomed to perish by the ashes.

Almost forgotten are his once proud race.

Memory comes in regretful flashes,

But gone forever is his time and place.

                 **********

The Aboriginals

Macleod was a political activist of the radical kind who, with all the good intentions in the world, began the break up of a symbiotic relationship between the blacks and the pastoralists. This relationship had developed, over about seventy five years, in response to the displacement of the Aboriginals from their traditional hunting grounds and regular occupational sites. The introduction of sheep, with the consequent destruction of the vegetation and game around the ancient water holes and springs, made it impossible to continue the old tribal way of existence.

Barring some futile resistance in isolated places, the blacks generally welcomed the security of the station life, and readily succumbed to the benefits of regular food without hunting. They settled in camps near the newly establishing station homesteads, continuing to construct their bush and spinifex shelters near the station's permanent water supplies. The men, and sometimes the younger women, would shepherd and muster the stock on foot as required, in return for being fed and clothed. These people had not at the time of the coming of the white man, possessed any metal or glass. The acquisition of knives, axes and digging tools, was to them a major advance in technology and in itself would bring about an irreversible change in lifestyle.

Another irreversible change was brought about by sheep becoming the dominant animal creature. The surplus old sheep had to be eaten or they just died on the place. Culling had to be carried out to prevent over stocking, so there was an abundance of meat available for the whole family group that belonged in that particular area. The early clashes were generally the result of, the probably ignorant assumption, that any sheep that was available was there to be eaten when required. The concept of animal husbandry was unknown to them in the white man's sense. Hence the instances of spearing and shooting that occurred in the very early days of the settlement of any new area, resulting from misunderstandings over spearing of valuable breeding stock. Then the revenge killings that we hear about these days in history probably occurred.

They had survived in Australia, for perhaps more than forty thousand years, by knowing how to exploit the available resources in a harsh inhospitable land. So, when abundant meat, flour, sugar, tea, and tobacco became available close to the camp, it must have been too good to be true. Both parties benefited immensely by the symbiotic, mutually interdependent relationship that developed, once the rules were understood. Generally a very close loyal affectionate family type of relationship developed with the white family, particularly when white women and children arrived. For two or three generations this quite happy state of affairs existed, to the benefit of all concerned. After the second world war the communist social doctrine began to be foisted on them by starry eyed ignorant would-be Messiahs. These promised another far greater Utopia, where all would be equal and have equal possessions. This is a misleading doctrine, while perhaps correct in the philosophy of all being born equal it does not take into account Christ's parable of the sower. All the same seed but the returns from nothing to a hundred fold, depending on circumstance or diligence.

The unsophisticated natives were strongly influenced by these promised reforms and were persuaded to go out on strike, and leave their homes on the stations to move into camps on Crown land. The result was pitiful starvation, disease, and hardship. They were promised bread and were given a stone. Eventually most drifted back to their ancestral grounds on the stations much sadder and wiser for the experience. Many stations learned to operate with much reduced white staff and never again re-employed the natives. This permanently deprived them of their tribal grounds, hence the more recent compulsive desire to acquire land rights and get back to where they were in the first place. Also the old men of the tribe would like to restore their lost power and dominance. This desire to maintain the power of the ancient laws of survival was probably the cause of most of the native's resistance of the early days. Just as the conservative politicians of today will battle to maintain outdated laws that preserve their power.

Management Issues

After a couple of days, in which we were shown the routine of the station, Mr. Thompson's daughter Heather, and her twin daughters, left. The resident Jackaroo left also, but the old Manager remained. Also the out camp stockman, step-son, and wife, remained to man the out-camp. Of course the blacks all remained. I found the Station routine to be pleasant and easy. Gone were the pressures of the constant fight against nature, the continual preoccupation with the weather, and the everlasting tyre trouble with the machinery on the mallee farm we had left.

I have always been one to have more on my plate that I can handle easily, so had developed a system of allocating priorities to the tasks. Those tasks with the highest priorities, were performed first in the order of their importance. The least important were in that way relegated to last, and if never done, did not affect the economics of the operation. The most important thing on a sheep station is water. Therefore the troughs must be full at all times, for if water runs out the sheep will, after one day, go looking for the next water several kilometres away, arriving famished with irrecoverable condition lost. All through the dry season the sheep gradually lose weight, and if not evenly dispersed around the water points, will overgraze the immediate area around the waters where they concentrate, adding starvation to their survival problems.

The absolutely vital task was to keep the troughs clean and the tanks full. The forty four wind mills on Pardoo had to be visited three times a week. Once round entailed a two hundred kilometre trip. Every broken mill or pump had to be fixed immediately before the tank ran dry. The worst problem was the float tap sticking open letting all the water out of the tank. Sometimes the huge water beetles, about two inches long, would swim into the pipe as it was running and get jammed in the shut off valve, letting all the water out of the tank. It was a good idea to have holes in the ground near the trough to catch the overflow, so the water was not all lost. This would keep the sheep going until we came around again.

The second most important thing is to see the stock are kept evenly distributed according to feed available. In good seasons, when there is plenty of fresh grass available, they can be bunched into the best paddocks. The wool clip will be much heavier if the stock are permitted to graze in the best feed areas, which are the annual and perennial grasses. The scrub and spinifex are poor maintenance feed only. Most of the wool is grown while the grasses are fresh. The sheep fleeces average about three kilograms per head in those northern areas. The hot climate has a restricting effect on the wool growth. Better growth is obtained in the areas where the climate varies from very hot to very cold. Those conditions exist only in the Stations farther south and inland. Apart from fence and water point maintenance, there is little to do on the station except at lamb tailing time and the shearing, which takes up only about three months of the year. The work after that is then elective maintenance.

Fishing

The fishing at Pardoo was fabulous, with the Pardoo Creek only two kilometres away, where thread-fin salmon up to four kilograms in weight, were to be had at the suitable tides. On the mill runs, every second or third day, a lunch was taken because it would take up to eight hours to complete. We developed a custom of having lunch at the nearest fishing creek; as most of the run is close to the coast. Other times we would scour the great beaches for the shells that would wash up. A harvest of rare and beautiful shells could be gathered after stormy weather. Franklin and Murray were most interested in the shell collecting, while I preferred the fishing.

A common practice of the native women was to catch salmon with a three metre length of net as the tide bore would come rushing up the Pardoo Creek. One would stand in the water as deep as possible with another on the edge holding the net between them. The salmon would come swimming up with the rush of water and hit the net, which would be quickly raised to retain the fish. I have personally helped catch a three bushel bag full of these beautiful white fleshed tropical water fish in half an hour. By then the tide was too big and deep. The tide range was up to eight metres on that coast. It came and went twice a day and the rise and fall varied from about one and a half metres to eight metres between high and low.

Netting for salmon in Pardoo Creek on the incoming tide 1963

Almost every Sunday the family, governess, and any visitors, would go exploring the various mangrove creeks, reefs, and beaches. We would take a picnic hamper and cook the fresh caught fish on the rocks beside a fire. They were absolutely delicious barbecued that way. The almost invisible midges would nearly drive us crazy until we became immune to their frightful itch, but we soon learned to protect ourselves from them.

 What a life! We had never known anything like it before, even on a holiday. A whole world to ourselves to explore at will, while still the wool grew, even while we slept. With a world too big to have any hope of changing, or even wanting to, we learned to live with it and to enjoy what it offered, doing without what was not there. Even little Margaret, who was only six years old, would struggle valiantly to haul in a fish almost as long as herself because everyone else was too busy hooking one of their own. We had the immense advantage of the advice and information from the world's most expert food gathers to educate us in the secrets of a land they knew so well, and centuries of fish catching lore to draw on.

Aboriginals at Pardoo

Our children were fascinated with the survival and food finding technique displayed by the aboriginals, particularly the women. The younger children would much prefer to follow the food gatherers, on their foraging walks around the Station, than learn their correspondence lessons. It is such a pity that the ancient skills of survival accumulated by these people no longer are necessary, nor applicable in our culture.

I have no quarrel with the true aboriginals claims for land in their own tribal region, but why should we provide them with pensions, housing, and vehicles in the areas ceded back. Let them live as their ancestors lived, if the old culture is so attractive. The hunter gatherer culture is almost gone and is now sometimes confined to stealing cattle for meat from neighbouring holdings.

I am aware of the declining population of full-bloods in the tropical North, and the disappearing full-bloods of the South. In living amongst them I became surprised at the low birth rate of the young aboriginal women on the stations. I came to the conclusion that the low fertility was perhaps due to the wearing of tight hot trousers by their stockman husbands. As a stock owner observing sheep in those hot climates, it became a well-known fact that rams heavily woolled around the reproductive organs were generally less fertile, due to excessive temperature destroying the sperm. Perhaps there is a parallel with humans of early cultures and clothing customs.

When first exposed to their remaining culture in both the Pilbara and Kimberley I formed the opinion that it would take at least two hundred years for them to genetically adjust to our materialistic society. Sadly we have occupied their lands, offering them the benefits of our "superior" civilisation, including food, clothing and alcohol. This leaves them as bewildered, dispossessed, lost drifters. Their old anchoring tribal lands and culture lost forever. We are the witnesses to the destruction of the oldest surviving culture in the world, and there is little that can be done about it other than make the passing less painful.

There is an instant compatibility between the aboriginal and children. It is difficult to keep them apart; if that is seen as desirable. However I am glad of the influence that they exerted in the development of my children's' minds in their formative years. The influence was only for good. They all have happy memories of their time spent in close daily contact with these gentle, sharing respectful happy people. For myself they were a welcome relief from the harsh judgmental society that I left behind. Most certainly, I became more civilised, my view of people changed and their deeper hidden dignity becoming apparent to me. I learned to look beneath the ragged unwashed clothing, and the bush shelters, of these happy people who were truly nature's children. All the old station families who lived with them have very fond and affectionate memories of them.

Living At Pardoo

As Pardoo is so near the sea, there is almost never any cold weather, so everyone tends to sleep under the wide verandas, waking at the crack of dawn. With all the large shady trees about the homestead many birds tended to congregate there, and begin to call or sing noisily in the first light. The most notable songster is the Northwest black and white Butcher Bird. At Pardoo they would perch on the top of the high radio aerial at day break, and begin to warble in pure and beautiful tones. Philip and Margaret would sometimes try to answer back with variations, causing the poor bird to sing its heart out in reply. They seem to be rather proud of their song and will vary it with scales and trills if offered a little amateur competition. They have by far the most beautiful voice of any bird I have ever encountered. They can be readily started singing with a little imitation. They became so quiet that we would put small pieces of meat on the verandah rails for them and they would feed within two metres of us.

In the winter, which is the dry season, the early mornings would sometimes be so clear, that at sunrise the mirage would show up a mountain range that was actually out of sight right over the horizon. An extraordinary spectacle I have not seen elsewhere. The range is quite real, existing somewhere in the flat desert perhaps a hundred kilometres away.

In the summer the humidity would get so high that ordinary matches could not be lit. We had to buy water proof green head matches. Even the dry spinifex would not burn in the mornings. In summer, or wet season, the heat and moisture in the air in the mornings were so high, that clothing became wet through and one almost suffocated in the still air. Fortunately by ten o'clock the land heated sufficiently to cause the thermal sea breeze to come up from the cooler sea nearby, giving a little welcome relief. The main work being mostly driving around to the mills the movement of the vehicle made it a little more bearable, enabling some useful work to be done.

The Manager we inherited with the place was a moderately experienced man in the old tradition, but became a little put out when I began to change the procedures a little. Shortly after we arrived on the station an exceedingly heavy rain swept across the country, entirely changing the feed situation. It was the practice to run all the ewes on the coastal Buffel grass plains, the wethers out in the spinifex and scrub paddocks. The ewe wool cut used to be about four kilograms per head while grazing on the plains. The wethers out in the spinifex would cut only three kilograms, because of the lower protein level of the spinifex, compared with the buffel grass.

The heavy rains brought on a terrific growth of fresh grass, so I wondered why should not the wethers share some of this bounty. I opened all the gates into the coastal paddocks to enable the wethers to move in from the scrub. The Manager was opposed to this on management grounds but I went ahead and did it just the same. This seemed to be an unpardonable breach of confidence and managerial protocol. He soon became disillusioned with his position that was not going according to his expectations. This was his first manager's appointment, but his health and experience were not up to it, also he began to drink heavily. In two weeks he had consumed twelve large bottles of whisky, plus having a weekend bender in Port Hedland. He was a war veteran with poor health, so we gave him a long holiday, letting him have the Station car very cheaply to go. Before he could come back we wrote and told him that we were managing alright without him, so he could retire. That got a sensitive issue out of the way leaving only the critical old out-camp stockman to deal with.

He remained until the next shearing was over then left, so we closed the unnecessary out camp down, reducing the expenses considerably. Also I did the three times weekly mill runs myself, so we knew what was going on all the time. The wool cut at that shearing was the heaviest for years, boosted by the wethers cutting about four kilograms, because of the better nutrition in the ewe paddocks. Contrary to predictions we did not get into trouble or go broke, but made a lot of money. The net profit from the first wool clip was larger than the previous gross income from the farm we sold. This from the same invested funds. We used the surplus income funds to acquire the Monument Buildings, a block of twenty two small shops at Albany. The rental paid them off in the following years.

The first young Governess left during that first year, finding no dashing young station Lotharios to sweep her off her feet. She was replaced by another very fine more mature girl called Phyllis Gower from Sydney. We became very fond of her and she of us. We have remained friends to this day, having visited her and her husband in Sydney recently.

Some surprising people would sometimes arrive on the door step. One day a Main Roads foreman from the camp about a hundred kilometres up the road, where they were constructing a permanent road over the sand patches, arrived with a young lady in her twenties. This lass had turned up in the camp as a hitch hiker. It was a male only camp so she became the unwanted responsibility of the Supervisor. The only safe place for her to sleep was to lock her into the surveyor's caravan at night. He got rid of her by making the journey down to the station and unloading her on to us.

She was, as was the custom, duly installed in the guest quarters and joined the family at the homestead table. She was a school teacher from Canada on a world tour, hitch hiking. After a few days she decided to be off again, so leaving us her aboriginal artefacts and camera, with instructions to forward them to an address in Melbourne, she set off down the road. The Pardoo Creek, six kilometres down the road, was in full flood, with a team of shearers camped on the other side waiting for the water to go down.

She arrived there and called across for assistance to cross. A couple of eager young Knights swam across with a rope to rescue this distressed damsel; so guided by the rope she waded across. Any white damsel, in that lonely country in those days, seemed beautiful, so the dilemma was passed on to the Boss of the shearing team. He, much to the disappointment of the gentlemen Knights, loaded her on the vehicle and took her down to the De  Grey Station, fifty kilometres farther down towards Hedland.

She became a problem for the manager there, who took her to Port Hedland and dumped her. According to the airline pilots' story she attempted to get a lift down to Perth with them, but that seemed to be impossible, so she somehow managed to acquire sufficient funds for a ticket. There is a mystery sequel to this story. The valuable possessions she left with us were duly dispatched to the given address, but were returned to us some weeks later as the person was unknown there. There was no further word from her. I wonder if she ever made it back home to Canada?

Another time a young lad walked up the track from the road with just a small pack on his back. I asked him what in the world was he doing up here, where he had come from and where he was going. He informed me that he was walking because the vehicle he was hitching a ride in had overturned about forty kilometres back near the De Grey river, so he just kept walking. When I asked how old he was, he said fourteen, that he lived in Adelaide South Australia, and couldn't get on with his Mum, so he just cleared out.

 I asked, "Why up here."

He said, "I want to see the Great Sandy desert."

I just laughed, telling him that he was in it. He looked rather disappointed, it seems he was expecting great rolling sand hills like the Sahara. This is the surprising thing about the Australian deserts; they are all covered in scrub and spinifex. There are plenty of sand hills alright, but all covered with vegetation. The only rolling sand hills I have seen, in all my extensive travels throughout Australia, are confined to the coastal sand hills and they are most conspicuous in the south west region of W.A. between Perth and Geraldton. The lad stayed a few days then packed his bag and walked out on to the road and disappeared.

Aboriginal "Buckley Boys"

Other events of great interest were the annual Aboriginal initiation ceremonies. They called the initiates "Buckley Boys." Why, was not known to anyone I asked. This event was very serious "business" for them. It required much planning and consultation with the various station managers on the route of the pilgrimage. They would start at Jigalong calling at all the Stations that had aboriginals living on them. The cavalcade would start with whatever Initiates they could get hold of at Jigalong, away out in the desert, then pick up others along the way, if they didn't clear out first. They were very scared young lads, so they were guarded very carefully. I see a connection in the fact that they had, in our modern vernacular, 'Buckley's chance' of getting away.

At each stopping point, there were great preparations for a feast and goodbye ceremonies. This is where the Boss (or "Numbarli" as they called me), had to be consulted about extra supplies of meat, flour, tea, sugar, etc. We would sit down together in a circle on the sand away from all women or children, just we Elders gravely discussing the most important event of the year. Of course they never disclosed any of their secrets, but certain things had to be discussed, such as when the shearing would be finished, or cattle muster planned, so as not to leave the Station without labour at a busy time.

Strangely, for all my Christian fundamentalist upbringing and beliefs these, dirty, ragged, Animists somehow impressed me with their dignity, authority, and beliefs that transcended their outward appearance. To see a lazy indolent unwashed old black suddenly transformed into an old man of authority in the tribe, and keeper of ancient laws and traditions was an eye-opener.

The Station "Boys" in an impromptu corroboree just behind the old laundry in 1964

Their ancient rituals and practices temporarily changed my role from the supreme "Numbarli" or Boss on the Station, to a somehow humbled observer. Lazy cunning old Kangaroo Jack, who had three wives, one on each Station in his tribal area, would suddenly become transformed into a gravely serious responsible Elder and keeper of the most ancient rituals in the entire world. I felt an instant respect for his important role, and forgot the lazy old black that he was by our standards. He was also a living example that one does not have to be good looking to get a wife. He was one of the ugliest men I have ever seen.

Once the logistics and timetables were arranged, their preparations began. The whole ritualistic process once begun, took some weeks to complete. Our first contact was when one truck load of men turned up and stopped some distance away from the camp. They made camp there to prepare them selves with the traditional body painting and all the dressage appropriate to this important occasion. No females or children were in sight.

These people are the original male chauvinists, an ancient practice from which I take comfort when I sometimes stand accused. This ritual is of course, as in our society, balanced out by the women's own rituals, which entirely exclude the males and pass on the priceless knowledge of how to keep the males hunting, fishing, protecting the families and coming home at night.

Primitive man, even more so than his modern descendant, needs the illusion of some secret independence from which the essentially dominant females are excluded. Without these compensations to the male ego, he would feel no more than the hunter-gatherer, protector and stud that he was designed by nature to be. This natural male society secretive superiority, termed chauvinism, is much more marked in the ancient surviving cultures, particularly with the Aborigines. Hence the absolute exclusion of women and children from all important ceremonies to do with initiation of new men into the secret society of the males. These societies are not unknown in our own cultures, notably the Freemasons and the Priesthood.

While on this subject I am reminded of the forbidden areas on Pardoo, now called "sacred sites," which was a term unknown to the aboriginals at that time. One of these sites was a short distance away from the shearing shed in the sheep holding paddock. The stockmen would not permit our two boys to muster there. An Elder said that they kept their Tjuringa boards there.  They had asked me for waste oil to protect the boards from the white ants. I saw the pile of boards, kept covered by old sheets of corrugated iron. These boards were about fifteen centimetres wide and about one metre long with rounded ends, about twenty millimetres thick. They were covered all over the face with fine carved patterns of typical aboriginal art.

From memory these particular boards were carved in vertical and horizontal lines similar to the carvings on their shields. When I inquired the significance of the boards, I was told that every initiated male of the tribe had to carve a board and lodge it with the keepers, to be included in the collection. It struck me at once that this was simply a register of full tribal members, who were permitted to attend all secret ceremonies applicable to their age group. Some of the boards I saw were very old and no doubt the owners were long since dead. Of course, as the names of the dead were never uttered, any inquiry would be impolite. Each board is the unique signature of that particular individual, and no two are the same, perhaps the earliest form of writing, and a voters Roll.

I can recall only one other site on Pardoo that was forbidden to our boys, or women and children. This was in the coastal limestone ridges that had small caves in them. My young sons would not be permitted to muster the horses in that area or drive to the ridges. One day the curious lads decided to find out what it was all about and came up behind the ridge to fossick about. They came upon a shallow cave filled with a mass of these Tjuringa boards of very ancient origin. I suppose they are still there as most of the aboriginals are dead and gone from there now. (Editors Note: There is no trace of any of these artifacts when visited in 2008). There was nothing sacred or religious about any of the sites that were reserved by the natives, simply protection of records, or reminders of past histories.

The entire country is identified in some way by a story of a happening, a feature, or a fantasy, to enable the present and future inhabitants to find their way about the country. In other words a lot of the sites, from my observations, are recognition guides or mental maps. Physical features of the land are ascribed descriptive and imaginative stories about a giant kangaroo digging out water holes, or a giant snake wriggling through a range and creating a winding river course resembling a snake track.

Our own culture does much the same, but being able to write records all places named by explorers on permanent maps. In an illiterate society all places must be memorised with the aid of stories, to be remembered more easily. Their stories are most entertaining and imaginative, however implausible. I think the inventors of some of these mythical stories had a great sense of the ridiculous, differing in no way from the fairy tale fantasies that we foster on our own small children. Father Christmas being a notable example. Personally, I believe that all these Dreamtime stories of mythical Dreamtime happenings and creatures, are no different or any more significant than the multitude of religious stories and myths and fables we ask our children to believe. There seems to me nothing supernatural, mystical, or magical, about the aborigines that is not equally applicable to our own race. I have in the past indulged in the dreaming of a Utopian world in which Christ reigned as a King in peace and righteousness, and we have our dreaming of the Garden of Eden and the great flood of Noahs time. Other races all have their myths, notably the Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans, of past epochs, none of which are taken entirely seriously these days. I believe the aboriginal culture deserves no more emphasis than our own ancient cultures, which we are outgrowing, together with our superstitions in this scientific age.

Returning once more to the "Buckley Boy" party whom we left dressing up for their arrival at the Pardoo camp. All the men formed up into a group and began to advance on the camp. No weapons were to be seen as this was a peaceful visit by another group who did not belong there. They advanced in a foot pounding sort of jogging trot, grunting in unison as they came. This presumably to indicate they were not sliding concealed spears along the ground with their toes. They would stamp their feet in time while moving, then suddenly stop with a loud yell and wave both empty arms and hands in the air, then wait for a reaction from the camp. In a little while they would repeat the performance; getting closer to the camp all the time. Every time they stopped they would throw their arms above their heads and shout. The whole purpose was to acquaint the camp that they came unarmed and in peace.

When within about one hundred metres of the camp, in open ground, several old women came out of the camp brandishing bundles of green leaves in each hand and shaking them vigorously each side of their buttocks. These women danced around the men in a crouching manner obviously inspecting the group for weapons. The group then advanced closer, and stopped altogether about fifty metres from the camp. Out of the group then emerged the "Buckley Boys" (Initiates) who were led forward, by their teacher minders, towards the camp while all the other men waited. They were then introduced to the camp women arousing great wailing, crying and lamenting. They were engulfed with hugs and caresses by the women, almost as if they were going to their doom. As soon as they had entered the camp the men broke up and moved into the camp to greet each other to talk, laugh, and prepare for the feast and corroboree to follow.

When I asked why the women were all lamenting so much, I was told that this was the last time that any female relatives would be permitted to talk to, or even look at, the lads now being initiated into manhood. This in accordance with their ancient strict laws relating to incest, genetics and totem groups. Recognising the frailty of humans to discipline themselves, they had devised strict taboos, enforced by tribal law, with spearing in the thighs, banishment, or even death, as punishment for transgressions. No marriage was permitted unless approved by the old men, who traced the relationships, totems, and possibly internal politics before deciding. I doubt any marriages were made for love alone, which on the evidence of our present day experience has not proved to be the most successful custom. I have not seen or heard of any formal marriage ceremonies in the tribal state. It also seemed to me, certain benefits had to accrue to the owners of the woman in question to conclude a union.

For all the romantic fantasising about the freedom of the wandering, unfettered, simple children of Nature, who have had their utopian life style destroyed by the rapacious white invaders, the realities of tribal life were quite different. They were so bound up with draconian laws, that freedom of choice did not exist in our sense of the word. Every single thing that happened was according to ancient ritual; and no doubt, the result of survival requirements learned over tens of thousands of years. This is the problem with all old institutions or cultures. They do not easily evolve in changing conditions, to adapt to different influences. They are doomed, because of their inflexibility, and succumb to a less ritualised opportunistic invader, who will react according to necessity or needs of the moment. I am sure the tribal aboriginal of our era had no idea what all his laws were about. They were embedded in him; as religious beliefs are embedded in us. They were no doubt relevant at one time, but are outliving their usefulness in our present civilisation.

The feasting and corroboree went on until late that night and in the next day or so they went off to Wallal station. The destination was La Grange where there was a Catholic Mission with a large population of natives. The final ceremonies were performed there. Strangely in the very seat of our society's endeavor to supplant or graft our later philosophies on to their much more ancient culture.

 By the time they had all climbed onto the old truck, on the bonnet, on the mudguards, on the roof, there were so many that not even another blanket could have been loaded. It was 'Pinkeye time,' as they called their holidays, and everyone was having fun. No one could tell me then why a holiday was a pinkeye; usually it was called 'walk-about' in other areas. One theory expressed to me suggested that the eye infection, conjunctivitis, or commonly called pinkeye by stock owners, which was often caught by the blacks, enforced a holiday. Subsequently all holidays were called Pinkeye, at least in the Northwest coastal regions. Before the 'mob' (as they usually referred to themselves) moved on, they staged a corroboree for our family, in which they staged a cattle muster complete with threatening bulls. Also imitations of kangaroos, emus, and other bush creatures. It was very entertaining and flattering to be honored thus.

While at Pardoo, the ability of the more primitive natives, who had come out of the desert after adulthood, to communicate over great distances telepathically, was made convincingly clear. Old Annie, a rather tall woman for a native, who had come out of the Great Sandy Desert to Pardoo about thirty or forty years earlier, was tribally married to an old man known by the name of Butcher. He actually was the man who did all the killing for meat and took care of the killer mob of sheep.

Butcher had been taken to Port Hedland Hospital for treatment for some complaint. When we got up for breakfast one morning, Annie was wailing and banging her head on the verandah post, hitting herself on the head with a jagged tin, making the blood flow and generally acting as though grief stricken. Joan got hold of her, asking what was the matter, and she wailed out that Butcher was dead, then carried on with her paroxysm of grief. Absolutely no one had been through the Station for days, the telephone had not rung and the Flying Doctor radio had not yet been switched on for the day. Later in the morning when our radio call came up, there was a message from the hospital saying that Butcher had died early that morning. Annie had been telepathically informed.

This telepathic ability is not at all uncommon in our own society either, but we are suspicious of it and mostly disregard it. No doubt the iniquitous, merciless persecutions, of any who displayed signs of these kinds of gifts, by the Middle Ages Christian Church, destroyed the willingness to believe these signals. In the past, hundreds of thousands of these gifted people throughout Europe were burned as witches. Our civilisation is the poorer for the loss of their perceptions. The aboriginals, for all their seeming primitive state, had accepted these abilities as completely normal. It is interesting that even our domestic cats and dogs still retain the telepathic capabilities, while people displaying any signs of it are still regarded as abnormal.

Annie immediately went on "Tadji," a self imposed vow to abstain from favourite foods to demonstrate that one was 'properly sorry.' Along with the refusal to ever utter the name of the dead person, who might consider it disrespectful, this "Tadji" was the usual way of demonstrating grief and warding off the spirit of the dead, who might want to catch you out for not being 'properly sorry.' Once on "Tadji" they could not take themselves off, but slowly starved. In the case of Annie, she denied herself meat and fish, so in a few weeks was thin and weak. Daisy, our very _practical part Afghan cook became very concerned over Annie's deteriorating health so she approached me to do something about it. I asked why didn't the others take her off Tadji, and was told that she watched out for any attempts to trick her into eating the self forbidden foods. She would have to be physically forced to eat the meat by forcing it into her mouth. The aborigines have a marked reluctance to handle, or force each other to do anything, and to submit without a fight would be a breach of proper grief. So begged me to try to force her to eat some meat, She would not suspect "Numbarli" of such behavioural breach of personal dignity.

Reluctantly I walked into the kitchen, where she was working, with a piece of meat hidden in my hand. As I passed her I suddenly grabbed her around the shoulders, pinning her arms, then rubbed the meat on her mouth so she could not avoid tasting it. Annie, taken totally by surprise, burst into a paroxysm of tears and took off for the camp. The others assured me that she would be all right now. The next time I went past the kitchen Annie was happy and laughing, eating as usual. Of course she did not really miss old Butcher much at all, but ancient laws and appearances must be conformed with.

Fishing

During the winter dry season, when the weather was perfect, the visitors would come up from the South. Many of our close relatives, and some friends, came to stay at intervals. We would invariably take them fishing, or shell gathering, or swimming in the tidal pools. The closest place to fish was only a couple of kilometres from the homestead, where the Pardoo Creek ran into the sea. The tide would come up the creek about five kilometres when really full, but the best fishing was when it was about three quarter high. We could stand along the bank and fish with heavy lines in the cloudy water. The mullet would swim with their heads out of the water to see where they were going. They could be shot with a .22 rifle. Cissy, the smart lady of the tribe taught us how to catch the large salmon with a short net, on the edge of the water as they swam past. However the most fun was to be had by hooking the fish with hand lines. Many people caught the largest fish of their lives at that creek.

Fish played an important part in our diet on Pardoo, as the only alternative was old mutton. The lambing percentage was so low there that if young sheep were slaughtered at the rate of consumption on the station, it would upset the balance of the flock. There were at least fifty people to feed and the fish were a welcome variation. On our first trip to Perth we acquired a fishing net, to string across the Pardoo Creek, which would ensure the fish supply on a regular basis in the least amount of time.

With the aid of the very accurate tide book we were able to fish at exactly the right tide level, so in two hours we would have sufficient fish for our needs. A large mesh net was used so any fish smaller than two kilograms in weight would pass through. Fish up to six kilograms would be caught regularly, while still larger would break through as the net would be strung at slack tide and as it ran out the net would be very tight. I would swim across the creek, about thirty metres wide and four metres deep, with a rope to pull the net across, then tie it to a mangrove. The other side would also be tied, so when the tide began to run out, and the fish would head for the sea in a hurry, the net would stop them. The rush of water was very strong, like a river in flood. I would swim back and forth across the upstream side of the net to grab the biggest fish as they hit the net and throw them on to the bank before they broke through. I was only forty years old and still very fit. Climbing down and back up a fifteen metre deep well on the water pipe only was not then beyond me.

Net Fishing Pardoo Creek  1963

Another favourite place to fish was on the Beningara reef and Mount Blaze. There was a lighthouse on the mount, which is actually an island connected by the reef, which could be traversed on foot at low tide. To get to the reef, which was surrounded by water at the highest tides, the tide book had to be consulted carefully. The area cut off from the mainland was about one by three kilometres in size and had rocky cliffs, mangrove creeks and islands at high tides.

In the season of the king tides, when they fell up to a metre below the usual lowest level, we could wade on the seaward side of the islands and reefs and gather huge live Gold Lipped pearl shell. Some of these would measure up to twenty five centimetres in diameter. Bags full of these shells were gathered by us and the natives, but were of little value as the pearl shell trade was dead at the time. All were opened to see if they contained a pearl. Only one pearl of a decent size was ever found but it was flawed on one side. Numerous small ones were found also and many large blisters of surprising beauty were attached to the inside of shells.

These and the shells are now quite valuable, but unfortunately most were discarded in the course of our many shifts. Numerous trochus shells were also seen on the reefs at low tides, plus fairly large live clams and many Beche-de-mere. However the living coral just beneath the lowest tide was the most beautiful and diverse that I have ever seen. It far surpasses the coral I saw in my subsequent Queensland trips. In fact I was surprised and disappointed with the Great Barrier reef, expecting something better than the unheralded Beningara reef coral beds.

Pearling during spring tides at Cape Keraudren 1965. Quite a number of natural pearls were collected. The site of this photo is now a registered aboriginal heritage area. L-R Annie, Cissy Taylor, Dad

The nearby Cape Keraudren has now been stripped and fished out, first by the Mount Goldsworthy mine people then by tourists. The Beningara reef is still pristine as hardly anyone has access to it. First the station owner's permission must be obtained, then there must be enough time for the mud flats to dry before a vehicle can cross safely. A four wheel drive is essential, as the mud is the greasiest I have ever encountered. The fishing on that island reef is the best I have ever found.

Mount Blaze Lighthouse at Benigarra in 1965

On one trip with the Packards, my sister and her husband, we spent the day on Mount Blaze, crossing when the tide was low then returning when it became low again. The light house was in use then, but has since been removed. I had seen a huge hammerhead shark on a recent earlier visit so decided to try for it that day. I had prepared a long nylon rope of twelve millimetres diameter with a large shark hook, with swivels from a set of horse hobble chains on each end. On the way over to the island I fished around in all the mangrove crab holes I could find and caught a huge crab for bait. Also a shoulder of mutton was brought for the other hook. Both ends of the rope were baited and thrown out off the low cliffs with the tide on the rise. The middle of the rope was tied to a rock, while we went on fishing with the lighter lines, usually about two hundred pounds breaking strain.

After a while I noticed that the rope had changed position so I gave it a tug, but it seemed to be snagged. Later I noticed it had moved again so gave it a heave that moved a little. Continuing to pull strongly on the rope caused a huge fish to surface briefly. I yelled for Walter to come and help, and together we dragged this huge North West cod to the cliff face. I had the foresight to bring a pistol with me, just in case, so shot the creature several times in the head to slow it down a bit. Together we dragged the fish up the low cliff edge using a strong gaff I had prepared, and landed the largest edible fish I had ever encountered. I did not get my shark, but sixty kilograms, when dressed out, of edible fish had to be dragged over the reef and home. I was very glad of Walter's help and arrived home with my best fish story and the fish to prove it.

Beningara Reef.

The Beningara reef island area would make a fabulous resort. There is abundant water in a great artesian fed spring, a permanent pool about sixty metres long. At the turn of the century it was a great pearling lugger haven with up to eighty luggers watering and sheltering there when necessary. Mr. Thompson told me that in a bad cyclone that struck the fleet unexpectedly most of the luggers were wrecked on that coast. About three hundred bodies were found washed up and were buried in the sand hills. There are two deep mangrove lined creeks with steep sides, one is called Firewood Creek and the other called Beningara Creek. Obviously the big pool was the source of their water.

There are also springs out on the marshes that became covered at the higher tides. These had bulrushes growing around them and were accessible when the tides were low. The springs are on the edge of the artesian basin that extended far inland and up the coast. There are several of these springs on Pardoo, making it a desirable area for the ancient tribal aboriginals. The springs attracted the kangaroos and other game, while the sea provided much fish, oysters, and other shell fish.

The rock oysters crusted the rocks in a three metre band between the twice daily tide levels. With a metal tool, a sugar bag full could be gathered in a half hour. Thrown on the coals of a fire they were absolutely delicious when cooked until they opened. I have eaten them raw off the rocks, but prefer them slightly cooked.

The whole Beningara area is a privileged visitors paradise. Fortunately the present owners make the area inaccessible, discouraging tourists. The resident aboriginals taught us how and when to get there and what to look for. Never have I, in all my travels, found such a pristine place that had not been destroyed by too many visitors. I believe it should be made an A class reserve with limited access for research purposes only. I only hope it is not too late.

Picnic lunch under the lighthouse at Mount Blaze at high tide while fishing. I have since camped on the pad that remains.

During the time of the Macleod initiated strike, camps were set up along the Pardoo coast on the spring sites for the aboriginals who engaged in dry shelling. This is the practise of gathering pearl shell at low tides. They of course did not get any worthwhile return and, apart from fish, almost starved.

I recall one occasion when our family, Daisy, our part Afghan cook, and her friend, went on an early morning low tide shell gathering expedition. We took a picnic breakfast to eat, after the rising tide drove us back to shore. Daisy and her friend had packed their own food, with the choice of the kitchen, but when she produced it for breakfast it was a kangaroo head complete with only the hair singed off in the ashes. She said it was much better than mutton. My boys and I made a practise of bringing home to the camp, plentiful supplies of freshly shot kangaroos. These were so numerous that the Government Vermin Control Inspectors would supply us with free ammunition and compel us to destroy them. The kangaroos could be seen in mobs on the buffel grass plains.

Near the ancient artesian springs, in the low sand dunes, old aboriginal burial grounds could be found. The present blacks had no knowledge of these old burial sites except that they were there. They were not regarded as sacred and must have been from a long extinct tribe. The wind had exposed many skeletons and the place was littered with old artifacts, shell containers, and bits and pieces.

One interesting small shaped stone, with a serrated cutting edge, puzzled me, so I showed it to Kangaroo Jack, the old elder. He almost snatched it out of my hand in consternation. When I asked him what it was he said, 'It's a make 'im man cutting stone. Give 'im me.' I refused to part with it so he allowed me to keep it on the condition that I would not show it to the women or children. I have kept it hidden ever since; so well that I cannot recall where it is now. It was the ceremonial circumcision operating knife.

The Birth Of Iron Ore Exports

In the early sixties the Commonwealth Government, under pressure, decided to permit the mining and export of Iron ore from W.A. There was a deposit in Mount Goldsworthy, a small range on Pardoo, which had been assessed at thirty million tons of high grade ore. Mr. Thompson, the previous owner of Pardoo, and some associates had held a mineral claim over this deposit for some years, but could not get permission to export it. They were told that, due to the scarcity of iron ore, no export licences could be issued. At that time the only known proven deposits were Koolan Island and Cockatoo Island off the Kimberley coast, and Iron Knob in South Australia.

Mount Goldsworthy from the Exploration Hut Christmas 1963

However rumours of large deposits in the Hamersley, that were being kept secret because of the export bans, made the Commonwealth aware that they were suppressing a huge industry. Just how big an industry it would be was not even vaguely foreseen at that time. The official estimate of the Goldsworthy deposit had been only three million tons, but turned out to be sixty five million tons. As soon as the original mineral lease holders had been persuaded to drop their claims, the State Government reserved the deposit for itself, then called for tenders to develop and mine for export. After extensive drilling Mt. Goldsworthy Iron Associates was formed to mine and export the ore. The area of the station where the deposit lay, was resumed by a mineral claim being registered over it and development commenced.

The knob on the top of Mount Goldsworthy 1963

When the matter of compensation for the loss of several water points and a huge paddock was raised with the Company I was referred to the Government. When raised with the Government I was referred to the mining Company. Other Pastoralists were also angry at the arbitrary way that their fences were cut and roads pushed through their properties as the surveyors surveyed out a route for the rail line to Port Hedland, the chosen port site.

When the official function was held to announce the decision to proceed with the construction of the mine, railway line and port, all the Pastoralists involved were of course invited to share the good news. However from our point of view all that would happen was that our labour force would disappear or become more expensive and people would be roaming all over the place without regard to stock or fences.

Mr Charles Court, (later Sir Charles) was the senior Government Minister present; along with the heavy weight executives from the mining Companies involved. After many mutually congratulatory speeches, the people of Port Hedland were asked if they had any questions not yet answered. There was little response, so after a little while I thought, 'here we have them all together, what better time to let the Pastoralists voices be heard.'

I rose to my feet and mentioned that nothing had been said of the inconvenience caused to the Pastoralists who had been given scant consideration in all the excitement of this exciting new industry that had come to Port Hedland. They, who had taken up this land, and produced the only wealth or production it had ever known, were being arbitrarily overrun by latter day exploiters, without compensation, or even mention. I pointed out that the pioneers of this land, who at great deprivation to them selves, had maintained by their continuous occupation of this harsh land, a viable base town for this new development. Surely the disruption and discourtesy suffered by them was worth a little consultation and compensation.

The brother Pastoralists, in particular Peter Hardy, immediately vigorously endorsed my complaint and the way it had been expressed. Peter is a member of one of the oldest and most respected pastoral families. For them to complain publicly would have been a little 'infra-dig'. No such inhibitions hampered me, the brash young newcomer from the wheat belt peasantry. There was a tradition of gentlemanly understatement among those wonderful North-West station people and the nearest approach to Aristocracy that I have encountered in W.A. Not at all like the 'nouveau-riche' that arose in the coming mineral boom.

The outcome of the complaint was a public acknowledgment by the Government Minister, Mr. Charles Court, that something would be done to come to terms with the problem. The Chief Executive of the mining company was a little embarrassed by the lack of courtesy displayed by them to the Pastoralists concerned, and invited us to discuss our problems in his office at our earliest convenience. The matters were all settled to our mutual satisfaction, with compensation paid where required; after later negotiations.

This was the very point at which Western Australia's gigantic iron ore industry began. The Mount Goldsworthy Iron & Associates project was the very first off the ground, and the first deposit mined for export was on our Pastoral Lease. It was in a range of hills and was exposed on the top of a round hill like a nipple on a woman's breast. It was almost pure dark haematite and could be seen for miles around. It is now a huge deep hole gouged out to below the surface partly filled with water.

On our mill inspection runs we would sometimes visit the mining camp where the men had been testing and assessing the deposit. Some of the geologists became our friends, visiting us at the homestead and sometimes going fishing with us. One of their top Executives from America visited us and we took him fishing out to Beningara Reef. The sight of me reeling in leaping Long Toms almost a metre long, the mass of rock oysters, mangrove crabs, shells and coral was almost too much for him to believe. I am sure that somewhere in America there is a man who is wondering if it was all a dream. I have a lasting memento of this man's visit in the form of a couple of genuine old American silver dollars that he thoughtfully gave us.

What an experience this must have been for a city executive, to be confronted with such an extraordinary wilderness experience in one of the remotest regions in the whole world. Later I received a parcel from him containing a fine fishing rod and reel and wishing me many hours of exciting fishing.

Another famous entrepreneur, Mr. Lang Hancock of Mulga Downs and Hamersley stations in the Pilbara, flew in with his own aeroplane carrying a representative of an enormously rich American entrepreneur, Mr. Ludwig. They were interested in finding a port site deep enough to take the giant bulk carriers Ludwig owned.

Mr. Hancock had located a number of iron ore deposits inland from that part of the coast that interested Mr. Ludwig. We examined the Cape Keraudren area for a possible site from the air. This was one of the first times I had flown in a light plane, never dreaming that I would have owned six by the time of retirement. Mr. Hancock had also discovered the enormous Hamersley Iron deposits from which he receives royalties, much to the government of the day's embarrassment. This has made him one of Australia's richest men, with perhaps the most reliable income. While there, he took my family for a flight over the station so they could see how it looked from the air. The great ore shipping ports were subsequently built at Port Hedland, Cape Lambert and Dampier.

The Governor and the Cook

While at Pardoo a significant social event occurred, which proved we had been accepted in that rather conservative pastoral society. We received an official letter from Government House informing us that His Excellency Sir Douglas Kendrew would be travelling down by road from Wyndham, calling at all the towns on the way. He planned to spend the night at Mandora station with DePledges and desired to visit and have lunch at Pardoo with us, on his way through. The letter was of course written by his Secretary, with details of the number in the party. There was to be His Excellency Sir Douglas, Lady Kendrew, the Aide de Camp, a Lady in waiting and the Chauffeur. There were suggestions as to protocol, but little in the way to guide us in this our first exposure to Vice Regal patronage.

Joan was of course thrilled and delighted, and set about acquiring additional silver ware, a quality dinner set, expensive table linen, and what ever women need for these notable occasions. Coincidentally we had employed an English widow as a cook, as Daisy the part Aboriginal Afghan cook had gone "pinkeye" and would not be back for some time.

 The cook lady, with all the respect of the English working class for Royalty and their representatives, was a great help to Joan in planning for the most important lunch guests of our lives. The coming visit we were to be honoured with, was proof to us of the distance we had come from a simple farmers boy and a dairy maid beginning. Strangely, for all my feelings about the equality of man and democracy I still seem to be royalist at heart. I suppose the scriptural injunction to honour those who have the rule over us was still valid. Reading about the extraordinary respect my forebears had for their rulers showed me that even my own very ancient religious family believed that injunction.

The Governor's progress was monitored by the station radio transmitter, so we were kept informed of the progress of the party, when the time arrived. We all dressed up with white shirts, shorts, long socks and tie. Joan, in some becoming suitable frock, that only women know about, looked beautiful and I was proud of her and the way she had set up the table for lunch. It was fit for the Queen. We had prepared a large baked fish, a roast leg of the traditional mutton, roast chicken and salads, plus all the trimmings.

When our blue heeler dog announced that the "historic moment" had arrived, we were all on hand to greet our distinguished guests. No sooner had the cars pulled up His Excellency jumped out without waiting for any assistance to open the door, and advanced with outstretched hand to greet us. He was informally dressed in shorts, long socks and open necked shirt. After the initial greetings were over I quickly removed my tie and was once more comfortably dressed in like manner.

Their Excellencies proved a delightful couple who quickly made us feel at ease, and soon we began to enjoy ourselves. Sir Douglas was enthusiastic about his trip, truly enjoying it and marveling at the magnificence of the Kimberley scenery that no one had bothered to describe to him previously.

Our lunch turned out to be a great success, with compliments to the cook, who we introduced to them. She, with her English heritage of respect for aristocrats was absolutely thrilled to be noticed by the Governor. Actually she was not a very good cook at all by our standards, but Joan carefully supervised and helped prepare the rather sumptuous lunch. Joan was a recognized good cook by all our friends, and deserved the credit. I was very proud of her that day; the table setting was magnificent.

This visit by their Excellencies set the seal of approval on our social status; as being newcomers to the scene from the wheat belt, we felt we were looked on with a little askance. Thereafter we were invited annually to a Government House garden party each summer. Later when the Queen Mother visited the State we received an invitation to the official Garden Party at Government House.

The English cook was not in our employ for long as she was totally unsuited to the out back. She had a rather myopic daughter of eleven years old with limited ability who the poor Governess had to teach, along with our two younger ones. She appeared to be somewhat difficult to teach, nearly driving the poor Governess to despair, but was not backward in wanting to try out everything our kids did. Her mother consoled herself for the lack of intellectual excellence by saying she was pretty so would probably marry early.

We had recently purchased a lovely Welsh Mountain pony from a broken up rodeo show. The owner was travelling on up to the Kimberley and was reluctant to expose it to the Walkabout disease that attacked horses there. This pretty red and white pony arrived, riding on the back of a utility truck, and just hopped off like a dog when invited down. I marveled at this so the owner ordered the horse to hop up again, which it did without hesitation. It was a pony that tolerated children so we bought it on the spot.

The kids loved it, riding it all over the place. It was a tricky little pest around the homestead garden, but it kept the lawn grass down. When the kids tried to catch it they had to corner it, and threaten it with a whip, before it would grudgingly stand for the bridle to be put on. When the cook lady saw Philip give the horse a crack with a little whip to make him behave, as he had been trained to do by his previous owner, she grabbed the whip to hit Philip. The lad of course resisted, wresting the whip back. I then received an official complaint from the good lady for what she thought was cruelty to animals.

The pony turned out to be a cunning, mischievous little pet. The cook lady's daughter insisted on riding it one day and the pony misbehaved and dumped her, spraining an arm. We had warned the girl that the creature was not to be trusted without discipline, but still the lady threatened to sue us for keeping an unsafe animal. The pony became very useful for getting the mustering horses in from the big paddocks, riding on the back of the truck like a dog and jumping on and off when necessary.

On another occasion when the native stockmen were breaking in some of the fiery blood horses the station bred, the good lady decided to investigate. When she saw how these willful young creatures fought the discipline they had to be taught, throwing themselves down and half strangling themselves, she nearly had a fit. She ordered the blacks to stop immediately and threatened to report to the RSPCA. By this time we had more than a bellyful, not just of her cooking, so we agreed to part company and get Daisy back.

Our industry's perfectly stable mutually satisfactory arrangement with the native inhabitants of those isolated lands and animal management was beginning to be threatened. By what an old hand referred to uncharitably as, 'Starry eyed Pommy reformers,' infiltrating through the welfare system. As a result of ignorant ill informed reformers' interference, a perfectly stable native welfare system that was practiced by all the old station families, who took care of the whole tribe, was broken up. I will have more to say on this subject later on.

Talgarno Rocket Base

In those days of nineteen sixty four Port Hedland was a small town with only wool, some cattle and manganese being shipped out of the little port. The big day was when a few of the Pastoralists came to town. This was usually on a Friday. The custom with them was to pass their store orders in to Elders or Dalgety's stores, then converge on one of the two local hotels. They would all sit around a large table telling stories or discussing the weather, or whatever. Each would buy a round of drinks for all, but as the group would sometimes grow to about ten, I would have to resort to little strategy. I would roll in and immediately insist on buying the next round. That way I could refuse another, having bought myself a whisky that I could hold over. When I had had enough I could leave with the excuse of urgent business and protocol had been observed. The stores would work frantically right through the midday lunch break to get the orders out by closing time.

Being for stations, the orders were usually fairly large. It is certainly quite different now. If all the remaining Pastoralists in the district appeared on one day, almost no one would notice the difference. Other industry has high jacked the town and hardly any of the residents would even recognise a single Pastoralist. This reminds me of a Bible quotation,  'How are the mighty fallen.'

In those days I used to say, as we crossed the Station boundary to go to town, or for holidays, 'now I am just an ordinary man again,' and when crossing the boundary on the way back, I would say, 'now I am a King.' This was not arrogance but a realisation of the responsibility for a large number of people and animals and a province sized holding. I was the official Coast Watcher for a crucial area of that coastline extending a straight line distance of forty five miles on our own property only. This position required national security clearance and character references. What a turn around this was from the rankling war time days of being considered a threat to national security.

I must make mention here of a significant development that had taken place several years before, that had involved the North West coast. Britain was testing the Atomic Bomb in the fifties at Woomera and Maralinga in South Australia. The rocket testing range extended across the Great Sandy Desert, over the eighty mile beach out into the Indian Ocean. A large establishment was being created on Anna Plains Station near the coast to monitor the Blue Streak Ballistic missile. It was called Talgarno, and many millions of British pounds were spent there.

When it was almost completed, work was suddenly stopped without warning. A political decision had made it redundant, so the work stopped without any attempt to recover anything. All materials were simply piled inside the partially completed buildings and abandoned. The contractors pulled all their gear out and later received compensation. One man was left there as caretaker with a four wheel drive diesel Mercedes Unimog.

In nineteen sixty three the British decided the whole project was redundant, deciding to sell everything on the site by auction. The sale would be a three day affair with camping for potential buyers allocated in the numerous accommodation huts already built. Hundreds of people rolled up from all over the state, bringing plenty of grog with them. My sister and brother-in-law, Doreen and Walter Packard, were up for a winter holiday from Katanning, so we all went up for the fun and bargains. Talgarno was situated not far from the Anna Plains cattle station homestead, about half way between Broome and Port Hedland.

We were allocated a hut divided into two sections, with another party in the next section. We were unlucky as the party were known drinking hell-raisers from Stations near Marble Bar, a renowned heavy drinking community of hard cases. Marble Bar is a place that holds the high temperature record for the state, having sustained an unbroken record of over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit (37c) for one hundred and sixty seven consecutive days.

The neighbours promptly began to enjoy themselves noisily until towards midnight one of the giggling ladies declared she was cold. When the obvious solution was rejected by her, the Lotharios decided to build a fire in the room. Smoke began to seep into our place in choking amounts causing us some further discomfort on top of the noise. The smoke was not unnoticed by the lady, who declared the fire too smoky to breathe, as the branches brought in were too green to burn properly. By this time Wally and I were getting a little mad at the goings on.

Then one bright spark in the other room suggested that he had some petrol in his truck and went out to get it to put on the fire. The dangerous potential of this totally irresponsible intention, stirred Wally and me into angry action. We went roaring into their room shouting at their irresponsible behaviour and threw the fire out the door, while berating them all the while for the noise that had kept us awake. There was little noise after that for the rest of the night.

As a sequel to this story, the following night we were sitting around a fire with some tough cattlemen from the Kimberley, when several of the last night's revelers, re-primed for a little more fun turned up, intent on recovering some lost face. They approached from behind me, with a rope lasso and the obvious intention of roping me. The whole group froze into readiness for a rather dangerous confrontation. I began to laugh, saying that it would take more than a bunch of sheep men to rope a wild bull and they would probably be gored to death in the attempt. Everybody laughed at this and the tension, or intention, melted away and they drifted off.

I purchased quite a lot of very cheap items at the sale, amongst them a D8 Caterpillar bulldozer, the Mercedes Unimog four wheel drive, and the thirty six unit solar absorber hot water system. When Joan heard the auctioneer knock down the bulldozer to me she angrily exclaimed.

 'What in the hell are you going to do with that?'

 An old acquaintance from a Marble Bar gold mining lease, Buster Powell, of Bruce Rock prewar charcoal gas producer invention fame, tapped me on the shoulder and said,

'I heard what your wife said, do you really want the 'dozer?'

I indicated that perhaps I did not have any option now. He said he would take it over if that was the case. I agreed to this if he would transport my other purchases down to Pardoo free. He agreed so I got off the hook at a profit.

I erected most of the solar units at the Pardoo homestead, twenty four units together with a two thousand litre tank to store the hot water. The blacks all showered after that, even in the winter. This eliminated the need for lighting the hot water drum systems previously used. There was so much hot water available that we piped it to most of the buildings.

One, part aboriginal part Afghan, old character living on Pardoo I must mention before I leave the Pardoo story, is Jimmy Monagan. He was still alive in nineteen eighty nine, reputed to be well over one hundred years old. He told of living in Condon in the eighteen nineties. He told us that he was reared by the Tiffanys, who were pearlers and pearl buyers. When they went back to America to set up in New York as jewellers they offered him the opportunity to go with them. He told us that he refused as he was scared to leave his own people and friends.

Condon was a landing place for supplies and shipping out. The boats lay on the sand when the tide went out and wagons would go out to load or unload. Many pearl luggers would use the Condon Creek and there is a cape that protected them from the cyclones. Quite a town was developed there, until Port Hedland was developed as a low water, along side jetty, port. Of course roads had to be made and when motor trucks arrived on the scene Condon died and is gone almost without a trace. Condon was just off the lower boundary of Pardoo, About sixteen kilometres from the Homestead.

Jimmy Monagan lived all his life on the surrounding stations and was trained as a cook by some master of the art. He was the prized cook on Pardoo for many years before we came there, but he continued to live there all the time we owned the place. Whenever we were without a cook, dear old Jimmy would get out his spotless white apron and cap and once again rule the kitchen; standing no nonsense from the kitchen gins. He could make better bread than anyone else in all our station experience. He claimed to be over eighty years old then, in nineteen sixty five. He was featured in a newspaper article in about nineteen eighty six.

He had outlived a forgotten number of wives and currently was husbanding a quite young full blood girl, who had a coal black son of about three years old. Jimmy claimed parentage but we had our doubts, as he had none of Jimmy's yellow colour. This girl was our table setter and waitress, and when she used to make mistakes Jimmy would excuse her by saying, "He's not very bright you know." Age had confused the genders in his speech.

Probably some eager young stockmen were willing to be of some assistance, but it pleased the old fellow's pride to claim the capability of parentage. I can still hear in my mind, Jimmy's cackling and chuckling when he told of a funny tale of long ago. Old Jimmy Monagan was a fine old gentleman and one of the memories of special people that linger in my mind.