High Country Cattlemen by Melanie Faith Dove

HIGH COUNTRY CATTLEMEN

HIGH COUNTRY CATTLEMEN Celebrating the families and traditions of Australia’s alpine region

MELANIE FAITH DOVE

Echo Publishing 12 Northumberland Street, South Melbourne Victoria 3205 Australia echopublishing.com.au

Dedication

First published 2015 Part of the Bonnier Publishing Group www.bonnierpublishing.com Copyright © Melanie Faith Dove, 2015 Foreword © Geoff Burrowes, 2015 Introduction © Ian Stapleton, 2015 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Cover and page design by Philip Campbell Design Printed in China National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry (To come)

CONTENTS Foreword by Geoff Burrowes 6 Introduction by Ian Stapleton 9 A Proud Yet Threatened Tradition 13 Summer: The Legend Lives On 17 Autumn: High Country Homecoming 81 Winter: Wild Wonderland 139 Spring: The Cycle Begins Again 157 Loss Next Conversation 199

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Foreword And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.

AB (Banjo) Paterson The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, 1895

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anjo Paterson can only have been describing a young mountain cattleman when he wrote Australia’s most loved poem. The ‘lad’, the ‘stripling’ who became ‘the man from Snowy River’ was different from ‘all the tried and noted riders’ who ‘had mustered at the homestead overnight’. He was not from a station, whether near or far. He stood apart. Of all the bushmen ‘gathered to the fray’ he was the only one who was ‘mountain bred’. He was one of ‘the Snowy River riders…who on the mountains make their home’.

If there is one single cultural icon that most clearly personifies Australia’s post-1788 journey from penal colony to modern nation it is the pioneering bushman: the one ‘further out,’ as Banjo Paterson put it. Mythologised or not, the pioneer who ‘broke the road for the rest’ was our first national role model and endures to this day. We appropriated, for the values and aspirations we attributed to ourselves as a people, the bushman’s ascribed characteristics of mateship, courage, humour, initiative and self-reliance, of strength of character and unquenchable spirit.

In the 21st century there is only one surviving subset of these people still active in the vast and challenging Australian Alps. In all of Australia there is only one culture still extant that can trace its origins back to the earliest days of the pioneering bushman and which still pursues its purpose in essentially the same way as it did in the very beginning. The mountain cattlemen are recognised by most Australians, and a great many foreigners, as living exemplars of Australia’s pioneering heritage:

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A rider on high in the mid-distance, wearing a battered hat and long oilskin coat, silhouetted by the day’s dying light, balanced loosely in the stirrups astride a strong-boned horse, dog at foot, gazing out over plunging valleys and rearing mountains.

There aren’t many other images that identify ‘Australia’ as clearly as that.

Australia’s mountain country is achingly beautiful, profoundly challenging, spiritually uplifting. It exerts a powerful influence on those drawn into it, which does not dim but rather grows over time, ultimately becoming a life-defining characteristic.

Uniquely among all other modern bushmen, mountain cattlemen work a defined territory, their own ‘run’. They become strongly attached to that country in a deeply felt, even spiritual, way. They see themselves as responsible for the condition of the whole of the run, not just the grass and the cattle. They feel they are stewards of that part of the bush and have a grave responsibility to care for it and share it with all others. They believe themselves to be practical conservationists and take trouble to acquaint themselves with the animals, trees and plants of the area. Some have gone further, to the point of becoming renowned, even published, naturalists. They understand implicitly the rhythm of the seasons and the cycles of life. In short, the depth and breadth of their knowledge and experience of their own runs is exceptional. In fact, it is nonpareil.

Being a mountain cattleman is not a job. It is not a lifestyle. It is a whole-oflife commitment. It is a family-based undertaking, with the young ones blooded early in the bush and growing into their role. They learn from their older siblings and peers, from fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, grandfathers and grandmothers. They are granted freedom to operate on their own at the earliest opportunity, to profit from their successes and rue their mistakes.

Their bush knowledge is accumulated over a lifetime of fun and excitement

intermingled with unrelenting hard yakka, until it is ready to be passed on, part of a never-ending cycle. Over generations the culture has developed its own stories and legends, its own heroes and villains. All cattlemen share a common set of values, possess shared attributes that are unique to them. They have some unique linguistic expressions.

At the centre of the mountain cattleman culture are four bedrock commitments: respect for the bush and everything in it, respect for the stock, respect for heritage and respect for all other users of the bush. These values have been forged over 180 years and in the face of all manner of challenges. As they face what many would see as the end of the road, the mountain cattlemen draw on the spirit that has sustained them: ‘We’ve breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!’

Henry Lawson, ‘The Ballad Of The Drover’ In The Days When The World Was Wide, 1900

By Geoff Burrowes – Producer of The Man From Snowy River

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Introduction

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here seems to be no shortage of ‘experts’ these days, itching to tell anyone willing to listen that the old-style mountain cattlemen were nothing but a bunch of uncaring, opportunistic old ratbags who exploited the High Country for all they could, and whose unceremonious removal from the mountains was the best thing that could have ever happened.

I often wonder whether they could possibly be talking about the same fine old bushmen who helped me to get to know the mountains as a kid in the 1960s, and who, with their families, have been strongly supporting my work with young people in those same mountains ever since.

As an eager young teenager growing up in the city, just about the only thing that made any sense to me at school was the hiking program, which introduced me to the High Country and the families of the mountain cattlemen. Our suburban way of life seemed so pointless and contrived in comparison to theirs, which was so grounded and purposeful. They were tough little communities, working with the land and the seasons to grow food for themselves and others, doing daily battle with the elements whilst soaking up the natural beauty of our magnificent mountain country. The timetabled, resource-consuming ways of the city were quickly losing their appeal!

Fortunately for me, the teacher who oversaw the preparation for many of our hikes was a bit of a stickler for ‘doing things right,’ and would insist that we find out who owned every single hut along the way, and write to them seeking permission to stay in their hut if we needed. We looked upon this somewhat burdensome chore as a real pain in the bum – and so most likely, did all the weatherbeaten old mountain fellas who had to sit down and scratch out replies.

But they nearly all took the time, and although I didn’t realise it then, the process of sending off those letters to all those tantalisingly remote mountain addresses was actually the starting-point of many friendships that were to become a very important part of the rest of my life.

Well before the days of National Parks and professional rangers, these

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unlikely old bushmen were the best unofficial ‘rangers’ we could have ever asked for. Wonderful old characters like Wally Ryder, Charlie McNamara, Jack Roper, Jack Batty, Artie Dibbin, Eric Weston and many more, took us (and many others) under their wing, and soon became a pivotal part of our youthful adventures. Their storehouse of passed-down local knowledge was encyclopaedic, and their love and respect for the country was so bleedingly obvious. They kept a watchful eye on whatever we were up to as we sat by the fireplaces in their huts, gulping down thick black tea and eagerly sharing with them all our plans, hanging on every bit of advice they offered and listening wide-eyed to all their stories. They never had to come and get us out of trouble, but they helped us to avoid it on numerous occasions, and I reckon they kept a fair old handle on what we were up to most of the time. They were unpaid rangers, really, who, in collaboration with a small number of old-style forestry men (and armed with nothing but matches and rake-hoes), kept most of their vast mountain stronghold lightly burned and safe to visit in all but the very worst of fire seasons, for over a century. At no cost to the taxpayer at all!

In due course I embarked upon a career of my own, taking groups of young people into the mountains with rucksacks and hike tents, teaching them how to explore the High Country for themselves, and hopefully instilling into them a love of remote high places and a desire to look after them into the future. Six years with the Victorian Outward Bound School on the Bogong High Plains was followed by a long stint as ‘hiking master’ for Timbertop in the 1970s, and then twenty years were totally consumed by the building of two remote mountain youth projects – Mittagundi at Glen Valley, followed by Wollangarra near Licola. Both these latter projects involved teaching young people all about old bush skills and remote, simple pioneer lifestyles, and of course no-one was better qualified to help us with that sort of thing than the old mountain people and their descendants.

Families like the Klingsporns, Stoneys, Murphys, McCormacks and 9

can we cut 3 or 4 lines please? Phil

Lovicks at Merrijig; the Battys, McNamaras, Faithfulls and Kellys from Omeo; the Ropers, Ryders and Maddisons from the Kiewa Valley; the Westons & Dibbins from the Ovens Valley; the Treasures and Guys from Dargo; the Gilders, Sweetapples, Colemans and Higgins from Heyfield; and so many others, have encouraged and supported me and all my wild ideas in all sorts of unlikely and invaluable ways over many years. Without their help, there simply would be no Mittagundi or Wollangarra.

Sure, no system of mountain management is perfect, and of course there will always be problems, whoever is running the show. But all through the ‘70s and ‘80s we were fed a steady diet of vitriol, blaming the cattlemen for everything that had gone wrong. Every noxious weed that appeared, every fuel reduction burn that got out of hand, every track that got churned up, every alpine bog that got damaged, every hiker who got crook from drinking the water. Even the flies! It was all their fault, we were told. But all would be instantly fixed as soon as they were replaced with a National Park and a brand new system of bureaucratic management. Well, here we are a few decades later, and the words of the well-known song are already ringing so true; ‘Careful what ya wish for, cos ya just might get it.’

The National Park has come, and most of the cattlemen and their cattle have gone, to be replaced by thousands of tourists and almost as many feral deer.

The flies have not disappeared. The blackberries, broom and wort are worse than ever. The rabbits are staging a comeback. Giardia and other introduced parasites in the water are making far more people crook than cowshit ever did.

Most of the iconic bush huts have been destroyed by one out-of-control fire after another (often in what could only be described as benign fire conditions).

And the taxpayer-funded costs of fuel-reduction, fire-fighting, hut replacement, track maintenance, and search and rescue operations have each ballooned out of all proportion. The once peaceful and remote Bogong High Plains have been cut in half by a sealed tourist highway, and so many well-known places 10

are now dominated by picnic tables, pit dunnies, signposts and the ubiquitous ‘interpretive information boards.’

The old mountain people would be turning in their graves. So much of what they stood for has been thrown out the door. Unshackled by the modern addiction to endless, mindless economic growth that seems to afflict most other High Country operators these days, they were happy to let the mountains call the shots and set the limits. They didn’t want to clear the country, road it, develop it, or even fence it. They worked with the seasons, armed only with horses, hand tools, and the accumulated, hard-won wisdom of the generations.

Many of today’s professional rangers are good people, no doubt, committed to the task. But there’s no way around it – 130 years of accumulated wisdom is pretty hard to match, no matter how many training courses you’ve done.

How many times do we read the official history of one mountain area or another, overflowing with page after page of wonderful tales of bullocks, miners, shanty keepers and cattlemen of the past, only to have the last few decades summed up in a couple of brief final lines: ‘And then in 1989, the whole area was declared a National Park to be protected for ever.’

But protected from what? From the very people who had loved it and worked it and been a vital part of its story for generations? Take an honest look at some of the other activities that still go on in our mountains today – the ski resorts, the hydro schemes, the logging coups, the ever expanding network of tourist roads and jeep tracks, and all manner of other tourist developments.

And ask yourself just what the mountains have been protected from? Surely any damage done by a few head of cattle soon pales into insignificance when compared to all of this? The cattlemen managed the mountains their way for over 130 years, and their detractors would be well advised to let a good few years of bureaucratic management pass before rushing to judgment on anything.

Congratulations Mel, on this fabulous photographic portrayal of the lifestyle of the mountain families today, still hard at work in the country their forbears held so dear.

Ian Stapleton, December 2014

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A Proud Yet Threatened Tradition

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n 1890, long before the cattlemen and their high country home were celebrated on screen in the 1982 film The Man From Snowy River, famous bush poet Banjo Paterson penned his famous verse, immortalising the rugged and tough Australian cowboy. Their legendary status is often attributed to these artistic impressions but, as fifth generation mountain cattleman Charlie Lovick states, ‘If the cattlemen didn’t exist in the first place, neither the poem nor the movie would have ever been made.’

The term ‘Mountain Cattlemen’ is a gender-inclusive term for a subculture of farming families who hold coveted ‘snow’ leases in the Australian alpine regions*, on public (or ‘crown’) land. The leases were utilised for seasonal grazing over the summer and autumn months, when farmers would traditionally drove cattle from their freehold lands at the feet of the mountains into the upper reaches of the alpine plains. The walk could take several days, or even weeks, before the cattle would be left to roam free and forage for several months. Once the weather started to cool, the cattle, knowing the way home, would spontaneously head for lower ground. Later the stragglers were mustered and paddocked, and while snow settled on the highest peaks over winter they were carefully watched as they calved down.

The term ‘High Country’ traditionally refers to the Victorian section of the alpine region, and the migratory droving practice is heralded as one of the state’s oldest forms of agriculture. Graeme Stoney, a fourth-generation cattleman of the Mansfield region, recalls that ‘Around 1834, a James McFarlane from the Monaro crossed the remote and mighty Snowy River with a mob of cattle and established himself at what became known as McFarlane’s Flat. This was before the Henty’s settled near Portland, and McFarlane’s feat marked the beginning of the connection with the High Country in Victoria by the famous Mountain Cattlemen.’

Historically the practice sprawled across the alpine regions of Victoria, New South Wales, the Australian Capital Territory and Tasmania, largely

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before areas were proclaimed national parks. Cattle once roamed lands such as Kosziosko National Park, in the Snowy Mountains of NSW, the Alpine National Park in Victoria, Namadgi National Park in the ACT, and the Central Highlands of Tasmania. These regions’ lush matted tussocky grasslands, accompanied by fresh water fens, offered stock a constant and nutritious food and water supply.

In many alpine areas the first colonial settlers arrived as convict descendants, chasing gold into the hills, and as it dried up some decided to stick around and turn their hands to farming. Others were soldier-settlers, given a plot of land and adjoining lease runs. All have rich and colourful colonial histories, some blood relations of bushrangers, or cursed by the blight of cattle rustlers on the high plains. And today’s tough Australian bush identities are no less full-blooded characters than their vibrant ancestors.

‘Each family knew their own run better than anyone else,’ explains Graeme Stoney. ‘They knew the vagaries of the weather, where the cattle sheltered and which areas they preferred. The families regularly visited the secret waterfalls, ancient hidden snow gums and lovely snowgrass glades. They knew when rivers were too dangerous to cross and when the snows were coming. They regularly were called out to find lost people and did so willingly. Their huts were open for all to enjoy. They studied the land and worked in sympathy with its needs. When I was 10 I was allowed to go with my father with the cattle and that began a lifetime of learning about the bush and its secrets. Some of that precious information was passed down to me and in turn I passed it to my children,’ he says.

The rapid reduction of Victoria’s grazing rights began in the 1950s when the highest summits, including Mounts Bogong, Hotham, Loch and Feathertop, were lost. Since then the landslide has continued, with the biggest blow to the cattlemen hitting in 2005, when around 45 Victorian operators lost their leases within the Alpine National Park. In other states the situation is even 13

direr – NSW had totally ceased traditional alpine grazing by the 1970s, while in the ACT the legend was extinguished early last century, with the exception of Gudgenby Station which operated until 1989. In Tasmania grazing rights continue but are diminishing, with many remaining High Country runs within the alpine region now privately owned rather than lease holdings.

Reasons behind the termination of alpine grazing are controversial, with many claiming the cattle cause more detriment than benefit to the environment, causing degradation of sensitive soil, plant species, mountain wetlands and reservoirs. Concerned parties, including politicians, environmentalists, conservationists, scientists, general public, and of course the cattlemen, all weigh into the debate. While they all share an undeniable passion for the High Country, their views on how to best manage and maintain the health of the land differ immensely.

The remaining Victorian cattlemen families, dating back seven generations, cling to the leases which are still operating in State Parks on the periphery of the Alpine National Park, but a new, uncertain chapter is being written. Despite the obstacles, the next generation are committed to carrying on the fight to save Australia’s living colonial legends and to continue fulfilling the job they feel they were born to do. * Alpine terrain is classified as above 1200m above sea level on mainland Australia and above 900m in Tasmania. Sub-Alpine refers to the region between 600-1200m on the mainland and between 300-900m in Tasmania.

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SUMMER The Legend Lives On

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he campfire crackles as little Bryce, aged three, falls asleep on grandma Deb McCormack’s lap with an Akubra gently sloped over his face. Deb’s eldest daughter Rhonda McMillan (nee McCormack) is reflecting on the day, wondering what amazing stories her eldest son Jake, who at the age of seven has joined in on horseback for the first time, will share at school on Monday morning. It’s wise to expect the unexpected in the High Country.

It’s mid December and the day’s weather has brought thunder and lightening, with torrential rain followed by hail, before a blinding fog rolled in making it virtually impossible to track the whole mob and disorienting the group. There is an old saying that seems apt: ‘Cattlemen never get lost, they just sometimes don’t know where they are.’

Bruce McCormack’s family and close friends have gathered once again for the annual mob migration from their farm at Merrijig into the high country of Mansfield State Forest. Bruce’s great grandfather Eddie McCormack settled in the area in 1866, and the earliest record of his family participating in high country grazing is an entry in his grandmother’s diary from 1900, reading: ‘The men returned from Mt Howitt.’ As we climb higher into the mountains he stops and points, ‘See where that cloud snakes up the valley? That’s where we will be taking the cattle tomorrow. And see that mountain over there – that’s

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