Life In The Bush – What A Day

We’ve been in severe, close to dire drought, for a few years.

We’ve not had one drop of rain for two months. The land is the colour of straw. Stock trucks are taking stock off the farms to other parts because dams are dry and feed is non-existent.

Our house water supplies are dwindling.

And a trio of sub-humans are breaking into unoccupied week-enders in our patch, trashing the houses and draining all the water out of the house water tanks and stealing the tanks. To be sold as highly desirable, second hand tanks.

There appears to be black market for everything.

The Rylstone police have door knocked our rural area to alert us to this skulduggery.

They know who it is. But have to catch them in the act.

So far, no luck.

Bushfires surround us.

Hot, heavy winds buffet us daily.

The temperatures are soaring. Some days are 43C – 45C.

This is not a good time to be in the bush.

But it’s home.

There is some good news.

The mailing of my yearly brochure has produced unprecedented responses. Within a week, we’re in profit and response is up significantly. There are so many orders to process, I’m starting at 4AM so I can work in the cool of the morning.

In 1992, we made a conscious decision not to air condition our home. We said we will rely on the 110 trees we planted around the house in our hectare of garden to mature – and cool our house in summer.

We made that decision when a hot day in our parts was 36C not 43C-45C.

We may have to rethink this decision.

Yesterday I drive into Kandos to post the first of the parcels and then on to Rylstone to pick up my order of felt underlay that’s always delivered by courier to Rylstone Ag Supplies. Couriers will not deliver to my remote property.

The day is hot. 42C. Gale force winds from the west are so fierce, I’m concerned that I might be driving in tornado like conditions on the way into Kandos/Rylstone. I drive through Clandulla State Forest to get to Kandos and Victor advises me to be on the look out for fallen trees blown over by the wind.

The drive there and back is uneventful.

Until I make my way up my tree lined, dirt lane that leads to my gate.

My bucolic, tree lined, dirt lane that leads to my gate

Half way up the road, there it is.

A huge tree completely blocking the road.

It’s from my neighbour’s property on the other side of the lane.

His trees have been falling like ripe fruit. But he’s nowhere in sight to remove them. He now lives in Queensland. His house has been for sale since May 2008. And we don’t know why his trees are falling over. But it’s our job to clear them off the road.

This is the third tree in a week to contend with.

And it’s a big one. It’s the entire top half of an aged Yellow Box.

I stop. Survey the damage. Ring Victor on my mobile and ask him to come down the lane with his chain saw.

I start clearing away the smaller branches.

Which I can do because we keep a pair of work gloves in the car so we can move dead kangaroos off the road. It’s a safety precaution to stop people from swerving to avoid them. That’s how many accidents happen out here. And it often kills people.

Yes. We’re now well educated, responsible country folk!

Victor arrives in a jiffy with his chain saw.

It’s brand new. Top of the range because we cut our own firewood for winter, so it needs to be a good one.

He pulls the cord. It doesn’t start. For several minutes he tries and, yes, it does not start.

He’s now thoroughly annoyed and asks me to walk home so he can be ‘pissed off’ in solitude.

I obey his wishes and trudge up the lane to our gate and go inside so I can’t hear him abuse his brand spanking new chain saw.

Several minutes later I hear him in the garage. I ask if I can help. No, I can’t. He’s going to have to tie the tree to the tow bar with a rope, drag it down the lane and then break it up with his axe.

He’ll be a while.

I wait.

At just the right moment, I walk down the lane with my work boots on and a pair of heavy gloves and arrive to help him move the tree branches off the lane.

But the bulk of the trunk is still intact. It’s far too big to chop with an axe.

It takes the two of us almost 20 minutes to push, shove, roll over, push and shove some more to get it off the lane.

Victor’s been at this job for 2 1/2 hours. A working chain saw would have demolished it in less than 30 minutes, without a sweat.

He’s exhausted.

We drive the car through the gate and go inside to have a cold drink.

In a flash, we’re engulfed in smoke. It’s pouring in the doors and windows from the back of the house.

In a panic, I ring our nearest neighbour, Jenny Nott, the Secretary of the Ilford/Running Stream CWA, who is a 20 minute drive away, and ask her if she knows there’s a fire in our back paddocks.

We’re wrong.

The smoke isn’t from a fire close by. It’s the smoke from the fire west of Bathurst, 85 kilometres away, that’s been burning for days. The sudden wind change brings the smoke to our back door.

Are you sure, Victor asks? Yes, says Jenny. I’m sure.

It’s almost 9PM and it’s been a challenging few hours.

Victor and I look at each other and decide we should really calm down and veg out for the rest of the evening.

The chain saw?

It’s packed in the car and on its way into Bathurst this morning to be returned to the retailer. Victor’s not in a good frame of mind. I feel sorry for the retailer if he doesn’t see Victor’s point of view.

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows only too well that life out this way is never boring.

Take care,

Carol