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enjoyed unloading the bulky, canvas-covered load on the draught horse each night. I would put out the swags, the camp oven, and the cooking gear and frame that held the oven over the fire. It was my job to collect firewood, light a fire, and help prepare the food. However, first things first — I would put the billy on and make a brew. Our water was in waterbags, and at times I rode down to the river to fill them up. Other times, a local homestead provided the water. With the drovers all enjoying a cuppa, I would feed the dogs, and would finally join the men around an open fire and hoe into a glorious meal. It was a treat.
    The following year I became a drover with my own small mob. The first calf sales were always at Benambra. This year, the three of us — Rover, Swanee, and I — had arrived quite early at the yards. I brushed Swanee, and I gave Rover the large bone I’d hidden in the saddlebag. As the last pen went to auction, I mounted up, my freshly oiled stockwhip hanging over my right arm as we waited. Rover had dashed away for three nervous pees. Once the sale ended, the calves would be let out of the yards in no time, and then it was the drovers’ time. We couldn’t wait. Local talk had it that this year the Benambra area and the high plains had enjoyed a good spring and summer, particularly in the bush. It had been a good sale:the calves had sold for record prices, and they were in prime, sappy condition. It also meant they would be brisk, energetic, and harder to control.
    Picture these young calves — most of them not long separated from their mothers — calling out frantically, panting almost to the point of exhaustion in the eerie, noisy environment of the sale yards. The auctioneer and his minders would walk along the top rail of the yards after each pen was knocked down to the highest bidder. The auctioneer almost sang as if performing the lead role in a comic opera. Bids would be thrown in rapidly while the chorus or the auctioneer’s scouts called ‘yes!’ or ‘hep!’ in a loud voice. With a clap of the hands, the final bid was announced and everyone would move to the next pen. It was quite a performance. The first time I saw a sale, I thought they were all drunk. Imagine how the calves felt, with a strange voice bellowing weird noises overhead as dozens of people peered at them through rails or while perched on top.
    The Benambra sale finished early. With the last pen sold, these frightened young calves were drafted, organised, and counted. Some would only be travelling small distances to local farms; these would stay in the yards overnight. The remainder, the bulk of them, would be herded together in a large yard, and rushed through open gates without warning onto an open road, only to face strange horses and smart, sharp, loud dogs, cracking whips, and men giving orders. There would be several hundred calves, all about to start the long journey to Bairnsdale. You could sense the fear building in these young animals. They needed a strong hand, guidance, and compassion. Always, the drover’s first job was to settle them, circle them, talk to them, calm them, and avoid haste. If possible, this happened quickly, and the boss’s instructions were always to keep them in a tight pack. This not only required cool heads from the drovers; attentive dogs and watchful horses also played a part. It was like an event with an audience.
    The first fifteen minutes had the potential at any moment to erupt. Then it would be a true test. Word had it that this year these calves were bigger and livelier than usual. Even in the yards, the calves were anxious and wide-eyed, their flanks jerking up and down as they sucked in short breaths. As the wooden gates were about to be swung open to let the calves run onto the road, bystanders watched intently. Many locals were perched up on the yards waiting in anticipation, their legs hooked over the top rail, hats pushed back,