Writer:- Laura Bairstow
Queensland
RITE OF PASSAGE
The man swings the saddle on my back and he cinches up my girth,
With breastplate firm, I drop my head to take the bit.
And along the winding mountain track my hooves beat upon the earth
Between tall gums and saplings we just fit.
Then I feel a pull behind me, and I look over to my right,
Where this young breaker follows at the man’s bent thigh.
Now his feet are firmly planted and his jaw is clenched and tight
And there is a strong look of defiance in his eye.
The packsaddles all about him, are thrown from here to there
and the man that sits above me starts to tense.
I can feel annoyance and anger as it builds in the cold air,
And I brace and wait in anxious, quiet suspense.
The man says a few choice words about the ‘stubborn bloody mule’
I hear him mention that he ‘should have stayed at home’.
Then he picks up a rein and steers me, trying to distract the bloody fool
All the while threatening to leave him out here on his own.
I watch in fascination as he stands and tries to fight
I dip my head and say a silent plea.
Because I know we have a way to go, in the now fast fading light
And if he doesn’t budge it will all be up to me.
I don’t envy the big saddles, or the bulk of this man’s bed
Perched precariously upon his sturdy back.
But to fight man makes life harder, and there is a long track up ahead,
And I am worried I’ll be lumped with man and pack.
I implore him to get moving and just drop his head and go
Enjoy the dusk and kookaburra’s call,
Because with packs the journey’s straining and can often be quite slow,
And you need to keep your head so you don't fall.
It’s an equine right of passage, up here in the scrubby bush
To follow with the billy and the swag,
So I throw my weight and ram him with a not-so-subtle push
And finally his feet begin to drag.
I’ve upgraded to a saddle, breastplate and a rider up above
But I too well remember heavy packs that were piled tall,
I can recollect the old horse that gave my stubborn self a shove
When I too decided I would not move at all.
We are the transport of the mountains, stock and packhorse side by side
And we are tough and brave and find it hard to quit.
For hours we roam the mountains on our long and tiring rides,
guided by the stockman where he sits.
We have now been swapped for choppers and for the two-wheelers’ high pitched whir
It’s said a horse and dog just take too long to use.
But I know that it’s the transport many mountain men prefer
Up among the snowy gums and sloping views.
So we’ll continue to roam the mountains, and convince young stubborn ones to go
When they take it in their heads to try to fight,
I trudge on with my head held high, as it’s the best kind of life I know
And we adventure forth and make camp for the night.