CHAPTER 1 The Goats that Got Away from Shaughnessy’s Pool Ron Rogers from Cary Downs Station southeast of Carnarvon in Western Australia (WA), was a hard-working bush bloke who had been given little and didn’t expect something for nothing. He had been a shearer, and, along with his wife Margaret, raised their children on a tough block of dirt that didn’t give you much in return, but you had to admire their work ethic. It’s just that some properties are better than others, with better grazing rangeland type and higher livestock carrying capacities, leading to higher incomes. Others aren’t so lucky. When he rang me one night and said, ‘Greg, I was wondering if you would like to have a go at trapping those goats over at Shaughnessy’s Pool just off the Wooramel River’, I became suspicious. Not in the wrong way, Ron was a good man. It was just that I knew he wasn’t able to give much away and figured there must have been a catch somewhere. I wouldn’t have expected him to give a few grand of goats away if he could have got them himself. He said, ‘I put a bloody trap up out there, and the bastards keep on getting out on me and I can’t quite work out how.’ I thought this might well be an exciting bush challenge requiring lots of sweat and effort. I didn’t give the challenge enough credit. THE FLYING BUSHMAN 10 Now I knew Shaughnessy’s to be a rock pool in an isolated rough, rocky area on the north side of the Wooramel River and, although I hadn’t been there, I knew roughly where it was and had heard about it from old Frank Shaughnessy himself years beforehand. Frank was an old Aboriginal stockman who was on the cover of my first book with me way back in 2016. He was a marvellous old Yamatji man, and I’m not sure how the pool managed to be named after him, but I was aware of it and where it was. I thought I might first take a run-up on the motorbike and look at the situation for myself, before making any commitments. After we completed some jobs on Ballythunna Station, my adjoining property, I said to Steve, my Kiwi jackeroo, let’s go and look at this Shaughnessy’s Pool that Ron is talking about and see why his trap hasn’t worked for the intended goat collection. It was some 20 kilometres away from where we were, so we made tracks, and when we got close, I said to Steve, let’s shut the bikes off and walk in without disturbing anything to ascertain the situation. We walked in the last kilometre or so, and the first thing I noted was some billy goats coming out from the pool with bellies full of water, indicating they were getting out somewhere and escaping after having a drink. We tried to avoid these escaping goats seeing us in order not to spook them and quietly made our way towards the pool where we could poke our heads over the hill without being seen to survey the situation. A fault develops in the rock in these type of pools in the centre of a rocky hill or breakaway where the water has broken through the surface of the hill and eroded away the rock over thousands of years. Here, the waterfall drops into what could be referred to as a natural amphitheatre below, some 30 or 40 metres in diameter. A waterfall used to run into this eroded area, surrounded by cliffs some 6 or 8 metres high at its highest point, and down onto a section of sand area below. From here it would have overflowed into a creek system which eventually ran into the Wooramel River. Where this water from the waterfall hit the sand at the bottom of its 6- or 8-metre fall was THE GOATS THAT GOT AWAY FROM SHAUGHNESSY’S POOL 11 a spring-fed little pool, only a few metres wide and perhaps a metre deep, which was where all the goats were watering. There was a secondary waterfall, which was like an overflow or bypass when there was heavy rain. It ran around to the side of the main waterfall and had another exit some 5 metres away from the first and onto the sand below. I mention this specifically because, as you’ll see, it’s very relevant to the story. This whole area was very rocky and extremely inaccessible except by motorbike, foot or horse, which helped me understand why Ron had freely given away this opportunity. Although an old 4WD could possibly make the journey very carefully – just. Not only was it a matter of successfully trapping the goats, with good yards and equipment that first needed to be shipped to the site, but then the goats had to be successfully loaded from a very THE FLYING BUSHMAN 12 inaccessible and isolated place and transported many kilometres to trucking yards. Like a piece of cake – yeah right! And the few bits of old weldmesh that Ron was presently using to restrict and trap his prey were not working very successfully, hence his frustrated phone call. To his credit, he did say I could have any goats I caught, but it was dawning on me there was a legitimate reason they were being given away. Nevertheless, as my father always used to say, ‘You can’t look a gift horse in the mouth’. Little did I know, I would have been better to dispense with the horse and walk away! But he also used to say, ‘Faint heart never wins fair lady’, so I figured I better try and find this fair lady. What I needed to see for myself was exactly how and where these goats were escaping from the trap that Ron had set up. I respected the fact he was not a fool and had plenty of experience with livestock so understood what was needed to block their escape, and on the surface of it the trap looked to be doing at least part of the job, because there were some goats still inside the trap, however we needed to find out the escape route they were using. As we peered our heads over the top of rocks, we could see 150 goats down in the natural yard below. Over two-thirds of the yard was enclosed by the sheer cliffs of the breakaway the waterfall had eroded into, and the small section of the sandy floor running into the overflow exit to the creek Ron had closed off with weldmesh over a metre high, and some of the goats were trapped and unable to escape from there, at the minute anyway. But close inspection was needed and given our prior knowledge that especially big billy goats were escaping from this enclosure, we watched more closely to learn more. We could see the weldmesh trap gates that Ron had been using, which was a section of weldmesh a metre by a metre made into a V shape, so the thirsty goats could push in and open it enough to get past and not be able to come out the same way. And that seemed to be working quite effectively and the goats were not escaping back THE GOATS THAT GOT AWAY FROM SHAUGHNESSY’S POOL 13 through there. And then I realised what was happening and their means of escape. And it was quite an amazing revelation to me, or to anybody for that matter. These goats, mainly billy goats (large males) were lining up like kids in a playground, one behind the other, and taking turns getting a run up along the sand for the longest possible distance, probably 20 metres. Then, using one section of a small side of the cliff wall that wasn’t completely vertical (perhaps a 40-degree angled ledge a few metres long), but still at least two metres from the top of the cliff face, they bounced from there up to the waterfall or the recess above that to their escape. This ledge was under a shoulder of the cliff face, so they could not jump from that shoulder to the cliff face directly above to escape, but only across to the worn indentation in the rock the water had made at the second waterfall. They were using their forward momentum to get that run up because, as some proved while we were watching, if they didn’t have enough speed and momentum, they couldn’t make the height of the final ledge at a 45-degree jump around 3 metres above and away. Seriously, it was nearly an unbelievable feat that they were physically achieving. Even after working with goats all my life and having great respect for their self-preservation, I was astounded. And unless I had seen it with my own eyes, I would have never believed it was even possible to achieve. I am sure they had learnt this lesson some years previously, possibly over generations, when they had been trapped in this yard. Because, I was sure, this was a learning that had happened over a long period, certainly not in five minutes. Maybe hours and days in this yard had given them time to work on these escape routes, and once some had seen it done and achieved, others would try and try again, until successful. And some of the goats didn’t make it on earlier attempts either, with many going back and back until they were successful, and then some still didn’t make it from our hour or two of watching. Talk about survival of the fittest. That was it right there. But I certainly would have liked to see the first goat, who not only THE FLYING BUSHMAN 14 thought up the escape plan but managed to execute it successfully. It was an amazing feat to see, even after many years handling all sorts of livestock, the intelligence required was unbelievable. So, all buoyed with excitement that I now knew their escape route, from our brilliant watching in concealment, I told Steve we would go home and later return with what was required to combat their escape, and imagined a considerable number of trapped goats in the yard, after a few days of non-escape and complete capture. On the tracks, there were many goats watering at this pool, and it was the only water for miles around. So we returned the next day with several goat panels and other required equipment to complete the job. We installed one particular panel which blocked the exit on the second worn section of the second waterfall in the stone. I didn’t have a chance to see goats attempt to get past this escape block we had activated, but it would have been impossible, even for them, to bypass it successfully. And we tidied up the weldmesh trap entrance down on the sand to make it a bit stronger and more effective, making some other reinforcements using our common sense as to what else was needed with these smart so and so’s. The pool and trap site was only accessible very slowly in a 4WD in low along the creek (as per the diagram included on P5) with a tray top without even being able to pull a trailer because until you try it in that situation, you don’t know for sure. But I could drag my cattle-loading race on wheels behind the vehicle over the very rough terrain. A cattle-loading race is often used in these circumstances because it is entirely mobile, and, because it is much broader and applicable to loading cattle, it means billy goats don’t get their horns entangled and hence makes easier loading. Well, that’s the theory anyway. Because I was unable to get the trailer very close to the trap site, I was planning to ferry the goats, once loaded, a few kilometres to the trailer ten or fifteen at a time and then, once the trailer was loaded, on to trucking facilities some 30 kilometres away. All was in readiness for the big mob to be nicely entrapped in my THE GOATS THAT GOT AWAY FROM SHAUGHNESSY’S POOL 15 yard on my return in a few days. They were being trapped onto water which had been working successfully, so they wouldn’t be perishing until my return. A few days later and all excited, I duly travelled back to Shaughnessy’s Pool to see if we had been able to outsmart our goats. For some reason, Steve was unavailable so there were just the three of us to do the job, me, myself and I. They’re very good as they don’t pinch your beer in the camp, but on the downside, they usually leave all the work to me. I was pleased to see that, still some distance away from the trap yard, I hadn’t seen any goats around full of water which was a good sign. In fact, I didn’t see any goats at all, which hopefully meant most were caught in the trap and unable to escape. To my pleasant surprise, when I stopped the 4WD some few hundred metres away from the yard and walked in, I could see 300 to 400 goats in there and very few outside. We had found out their escape trick and blocked it successfully, it seemed, and I was delighted at what we had managed to achieve. It was not just the potential financial bonus, which was great, but we had outsmarted them at their own game with some pretty good bush ingenuity. But I was concerned about getting the large mob into a smaller yard first from the natural amphitheatre yard, and then, with more difficulty, getting them onto the Toyota tray top at only twelve or fifteen at a time. I had my mobile cattle loading race, but I needed to be able to get it close enough to the yarded goats over and around huge boulders to be useful. After gentle shepherding and patience, I managed to yard the whole mob off. I calculated well over 300 goats in a tight yard of goat panels that I had specially designed and built years before, which were higher, to avoid goats jumping out, as they can readily do, and with horizontal rails closer together to prevent kid goats escaping. And because this yard is not pegged to the ground and is flexible to mould into any shape, its strength comes from its end-to-end connection of panels remaining vertical, strong and upright. With this number of goats, it was probably around 10 to 12 metres in diameter and THE FLYING BUSHMAN 16 contained a large number of older billy goats that had been in these rocks for many years and had also managed to keep the dingoes at bay and survive. So, they were wild and feral without any please or thankyous; tough nuts at around 100 kilos plus each, and some with horns a metre across. These also took extra room in the small yard, their horns knocking against each other whilst jostling to get further away from me on the far side of the yard, which was already stretching and groaning under these powerful animals’ considerable pressure and strength. But I was confident it would hold up as it had done before. Because I had all the goats contained and encircled now in the large hexagonal panel yard, I needed to remove Ron’s weldmesh that was restricting the goats from running towards the creek, the way the water would flow after rain. I needed to get my loading race and 4WD closer to the yarded goats for loading. This also meant I was effectively relying totally on my panel yard now to hold and contain the goats, as I had removed Ron’s weldmesh as the second barrier, which I was confident about after doing it many times before in similar situations. Especially with all that help from my friends, me, myself and I. I removed all the mesh and steelie uprights to get my mobile loading race closer to where it was needed and again noted the portable yard flexing as the big goats were trying to move away, pushing through the mob, away from the encroaching vehicle noise. I’m sure most of them had never experienced vehicle noise in their lifetime. This was a very rough, secluded and isolated block of country with very few roads even close, so this would be a frightening and restrictive experience for them. But the yard held fast as I had hoped and expected. But to get the yard into a funnel-type shape, ready to connect up my loading race and then load onto the crated tray top vehicle, I needed first to erect a small separate forcing yard, running from the yard the goats were now in, to receive just enough goats for the load – approximately twelve to fifteen, depending on size. I was thinking about the thirty or thirty-five trips the three of us THE GOATS THAT GOT AWAY FROM SHAUGHNESSY’S POOL 17 had to do, back up to the better road and level ground to the trailer to offload, then onto the trucking yards. It was just as well those billies were worth at least fifty bucks a head, I figured, as it seemed to make the enormous potential task a little easier to consider. But perhaps I should not have gotten too far ahead of myself. The holding yard buckled and groaned as it twisted its shape somewhat from the considerable pressure these extra-large billies applied from inside, pushing and forcing each other and trying to get further away from me. Some of them jumped on top of others to get further away, even though I was walking around as quietly as possible so as not to startle them more. I realised my close pressure was affecting them but had no other option but to try and get them loaded to lighten the yard off, and it was getting hotter – above 40 degrees centigrade now, around 10 am and it was only getting worse the longer I left it. So as usual, time was of the essence. If I could at least get one load away, that would lighten off the number in the yard and let them have time to settle down in their new environment of the panelled yard. That was the plan. With the last few remaining panels I had, I gently started to build my very small forcing yard between their yard and the loading race, and, in so doing, had to lift some of the panels in the air to get across to the other side of the holding yard from where I had been working up to that stage. That was enough. That’s all it took to hit the fan. Some of the goats that were closest to me rushed away from the raised panel I held above my head and jumped on top of the goats already tightly bunched on the opposite side of the yard from me. Now, although the panels stood 1.2 metres tall, which was usually enough even to stop jumping goats, when a few of them fleeing my presence were actually on top of other tightly packed goats, it meant they were able to look over the top of the panels to freedom. Well, you don’t need to tell a goat twice. And so a few started to jump over the yard panels and away from the backs of their mates, still squeezed up against the furthest side THE FLYING BUSHMAN 18 of the yard from me. I could only watch in that instant as quite a few had seen what was working for their mates and were keen to join in, getting a running jump off their mates and making off out into the bush. However, before I could run around to block them and attempt to scare them back from jumping, the complete panel yard started lifting off the ground right in front of me because of the extra applied force of the goats in the yard wanting to follow their fleeing mates. More of them collectively were applying pressure to the top of the panels on the other side of the yard instead of the usual base and centre. And hence their force was lifting this large hexagon-shaped yard well into the air. I tried, of course, to take the lesser of two evils and hold down the yard on my side to the ground, hoping the jumping and escapes would minimise and cease in time, but the reverse occurred as more goats saw more escaping and wanted to join the lead and continued their flight. By this time, the pressure and force from the fleeing mob was so great that I found myself hanging onto the base of the panels more than a metre in the air, in furious disbelief, and losing ground progressively. I knew if I let go of the panels on my side to run around to the other side of the yard, the complete yard would entirely flip over, which would not apply any restriction to them from fleeing at all. By this stage, over half the yard had escaped, and the rest were extremely keen to follow their mates to freedom. And by now, they only had a 45-degree panel 1.2 metres high to jump over. The panels had stood firm end to end and were not broken, but it was just that that collective force from the whole mob against one side of the yard at around one metre level in height just meant the entire yard rolled over. When those goats saw their mates disappearing over those panels, they didn’t need to be asked twice. Watching their mates escape and following their example had worked well in the past for them, so why wouldn’t you? I may have said a rude word, you never know, even a few, as I was THE GOATS THAT GOT AWAY FROM SHAUGHNESSY’S POOL 19 hanging like a circus clown, suspended in the air with everything bar the big clown boots on, watching all my goats run off into the distance. In disgust, I let go of the yard panel I was holding and it proceeded to flick further into the air, allowing the side of the escaping goats to let even the last few to freedom, bar the few left that were squeezed in the crush and were getting their breath back like me, before following their fleeing mates. If someone else had been there, one of us could have run around to help stop the flow and scare the animals back, but what can you do by yourself? I went over to my waterbag in the vehicle and, as I drank, wondered what the hell had just happened. Five minutes ago, I was looking at a win by completing a hard and challenging job to make some serious money, perhaps 4 or 5 K, remembering that the average price per head would have been closer to $20 per head, although the billies may have been $50. As they say in the classics, you can never count your chickens until they hatch. I was so disappointed and disillusioned after all the set-up and effort required to achieve the goal. Then to watch the goats all escape meant I had accomplished nothing. I had used all my bush skills to watch them, block their escape route in Ron’s original trap and had them in the yard, with few outside. So, the hard part should have been done. Anyway … After some hours at 40-plus degrees, I packed up my yards and gear and went home. I should have stopped and boiled a billy can, but I just wanted to get out of there. Those other two didn’t help much either, and they’re a sulky pair of b–
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A highly readable book that takes you deep into the heart of the Australian bush. Brimming with beauty, wonder, and rapier wit. Delightful!
Greg Keynes – The Flying Bushman, Stories from the Heart
The subtitle says it all: these stories come straight from the heart of a man who loves his native country, fellow Australians, and his life as a bushman/stockman. They are accounts of humanity in a harsh environment, difficulties overcome, and humour in any situation.
This book of 16 chapters of non-fiction raw Australian outback stories has been built on a lifetime of experiences in that environment, deep in the actual bush of Western Australia
The author takes you with him on his shoulder in typical Ausie fashion, realistic, factual, and honest, but able to poke fun at himself and the situations he describes. He draws the reader along effortlessly with his clean, straightforward, and easy-to-read extensive experiences in daily encounters in this environment, describing conditions, places, and examples from another life most people have never experienced or would need to consider. One of the author’s passions is to share with the reader the environment he knows so well.
Expect to laugh out loud and cry at some of the everyday challenges confronted. You never know what the bush has in store
The Flying Bushman by Greg Keynes is a warm and rich read that takes you deep into the back country of “The Land Down Under.” Skillfully written and expertly paced, this eminently enjoyable read reels you in from chapter one and won’t let go until the last page.
Vibrant prose and skillful pacing take you on a journey of discovery into the “magic” of the Australian bush and outback. You can almost hear the mulga sticks crackle in the campfire. Or the late-night howl of a wild dingo. Taste fresh creek water on a hot summer day. Feel the warmth of a campfire at sundown. Watch an eagle in flight. Listen to campfire chatter and the growth of legends. Suck in huge chunks of fresh outback air.
This compilation of first-hand experiences and gathered stories includes how “the three of us” – me, myself, and I - corral goats in an isolated rock pool. How “the bush” has moved into the 21st century (sort of). A “boss horse” named Sergeant. An old cattle horse named “Swagman.” And a little chestnut mare named “Bess.” It’s lavishly illustrated with beautiful color photos.
There’s also cooling down cattle to keep them from getting “hot and silly.” A sweet little border collie who winds up a victim of a local feud. (Bring tissue.) The perseverance and resilience of a thirsty old bull. An old stockman, his sheep, and his faithful working dog. Nappies. “Ya can’t miss it, mate.” Jackaroos and Jillaroos. Merino ewes. “As green as grass.” How “nature, animals and the environment all have a way of teaching us the most valuable life lessons.” And, “However, it is up to us if we want to understand them or not.” The “taxi grapevine” in Perth. An old blue heeler and a guy named Tony. Tea leaves. A horrible helicopter crash and a near death experience “to the other side and back again.”
Told in the first person with a twinkle, The Flying Bushman includes a Glossary of Terms so you don’t get lost in bush slang. Each chapter glides easily into the next, forming a smooth and seamless narrative that's both engaging and entertaining. The writing style is fresh and crisp. The rapier-sharp wit is lively and sometimes laugh-out-loud. (Kindly note that some chapters contain content warnings.)
This book is less than two hundred pages. But its sixteen chapters pack a wallop. Indeed, The Flying Bushman will surprise you. Just about the time you think you know where it’s headed, it pulls a sudden U-turn and you wind up in terra incognita. But wherever you wind up, count on one thing: It’ll brim with power and pathos. Be saturated in rich, feral beauty. And include writing that will make you want to catch the next flight to the Land Down Under as soon as possible. Like, tomorrow.
A remarkable book that you’ll want to reach for again and again. This one’s a keeper!
Reviewed by
Lifelong bibliophile. Library Board Member. Select book reviews featured on my blog and Goodreads, etc. I'm a frank but fair reviewer, averaging 400+ books/year in a wide variety of genres on multiple platforms. Over 1,500 published reviews. Still going strong!
Greg Keynes – The Flying Bushman, Stories from the Heart
The subtitle says it all: these stories come straight from the heart of a man who loves his native country, fellow Australians, and his life as a bushman/stockman. They are accounts of humanity in a harsh environment, difficulties overcome, and humour in any situation.
This book of 16 chapters of non-fiction raw Australian outback stories has been built on a lifetime of experiences in that environment, deep in the actual bush of Western Australia
The author takes you with him on his shoulder in typical Ausie fashion, realistic, factual, and honest, but able to poke fun at himself and the situations he describes. He draws the reader along effortlessly with his clean, straightforward, and easy-to-read extensive experiences in daily encounters in this environment, describing conditions, places, and examples from another life most people have never experienced or would need to consider. One of the author’s passions is to share with the reader the environment he knows so well.
Expect to laugh out loud and cry at some of the everyday challenges confronted. You never know what the bush has in store
About the author
Growing up on the family property, Curbur Station, in outback Murchison country Western Australia,Greg Keynes is a true bushman,a chopper pilot, storyteller and an authentic voice for the bush people, that is seldom experinced today. Greg has a strong relationship with local indigenous people, view profile
Published on January 17, 2023
50000 words
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Genre: Biographies & Memoirs
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