The grazier wanted me to get 800L. The sales attendant questioned the weight and possible trouble this could pose. I took 700L.
I’m doing the lick run today, on our Stuart River country in the South Burnett region. I’ll travel to two different paddocks each side of the river and empty out lick into feed drums in two locations in each paddock. So four lick tubs.
It’s a slow, thoughtful cruise to the paddock. I play a podcast for inspiration. My first stop is the local depot to get the lick.
Dusty’s in the back, peering first through the cab window. Then he moves from one side of the tray to the other, trying to find the best spot to smell the air as it wisps past his nose. He’s tied to a chain closest to the middle of the cab. On a previous trip I tied him to the chain on the drivers side and he fell out. He lunged too far over the ute tray at a passing truck, then hung from his collar spinning and scratching for dear life. He likes trucks, or doesn’t! If he could just grasp one in his bite grip the game would be all over.
Roughly three hours into our trip and we are at the first paddock. It’s quiet. We are far up an isolated dirt track. I know there are houses around, but I can only see one from the gate. It’s opposite our gate entrance, one hundred metres or so up their drive. It is silent too.
I enter the dry creek bed. I can feel the thick sand sponge underneath as I quickly change from second to first gear. Then I struggle the steep climb up the other side with its deep burrows, remnants of past heavy rain deposits. I can hear husbands irritation that I approached it in second gear, “you should be in first“. Maybe I should have went to the other paddock first.
I have developed a fear of things that may happen. I don’t know if it’s maturity, experience or just damn menopause as the cause, but it can hover. And the fear of being far from friends and family, with a flat tyre or broken down, with a dog, in the heat, with no reception, a load of lick and in an area infrequently habited by others is top of the fear list for me.
So getting from one lick tub to the next is a great accomplishment in my psyche.
All good.
The girls are looking good considering the season.
The girls I refer to are the cows in this mob, heifers in other mobs. The females of the bovine species. While I can’t pat them like I would a pet, they are still living beings and are regarded with respect and fondness as I would a pet.
It’s stark, scorched and silent. One cow looks at me in despair. I can only help her if there is more lick available next week to deliver here.
We’re lucky, we’re towards the top of the depot’s list of customers requiring lick.
The calves don’t even play.
This is the saddest paddock I’ve ever witnessed. There is 26 cows and about 11 calves. A dismal pregnancy rate. Cows are missing and there is a prolapse. More problems!
Drought is a devastating natural disaster.
The trees gently rustle with the breeze. At least it’s a cool breeze. It’s quiet. The landscape is dusted and grey. I find two black covered objects floating in the tub. I haul them out.
I unlatch the tray side, climb the tray, undo the tank lid, unhitch the pipe and hold it over the tub, then open the ball valve. The only sound now is the splash of the thick black liquid meeting the bottom of the nearly empty tub.
I need to gauge how much I can unload here. I still have three more tubs to check. It’s a juggle between the young and the old to keep alive and the dry and the wet to help survive. Today the girls wait for me to finish. I turn off the valve, drain the hose, then hook it up, climb the tray and return the lid to its position. I call Dusty while latching the side of the tray.
The girls approach the tub with caution. I take my seat in the cab and we slowly manoeuvre away down to the second tub.
This second tub will provide lick for 38 heifers. They are a mob of our two year old replacement heifers and have recently been moved into this paddock. They look strong.
I disembark from the ute and begin the ritual of putting out the lick. These girls gather round. They are inquisitive but calm.
I finish up and drive a short distance to sit in the shade cast by an old iron bark tree. I relax with my coffee and observe the jostle for the lick. Dusty is busy in his own pursuit of smells.
It will be another hour from this possy to the next tub, travelling through paddocks, opening and shutting gates and along country bitumen and dirt roads. Once I finish at the second paddock I’ll sit for a sandwich.
With todays load much lighter, I lock the gate of the first paddock pleased with my progress so far. Half the job done and half the lick remains. The next paddock road is steeper and slower with all the wayboys to contend with.
As I drive away from this paddock I look into the side mirrors to check Dusty. He stands still and proud. The only movement is the white cloud of dust trailing me.
I am glad I only took 700L and pleased with the trip so far.
The Grazier's Woman 