Garryowen by Jim Pettenon

Written by Jim Pettenon, J-1 Exchange Student

Alarm blares out in the predawn. Reaching, grasping, knocking. Fumbling around on the floor to shut the bastard thing up. Senses calibrating to the tangible. Pupils expanding; details revealing themselves from the shadows. The distant rush of the nearby highway. A synapse connects. The M39. Goulburn Valley Highway. Road trains barreling down the tarmac at 110km/h. Coarse thread count of  denim in the hands. The dull clang of brass-on-brass as the belt comes over the thighs. Cold air circulates through the window, ajar. Brisk. Stepping out onto the verandah, slash of orange light effervescent on the horizon to the east. Breathing in the cool, crisp, country air. Soft thud of socked  feet on aged timber. Into the main house. Up the stairs. Click as the light splutters awake above the  stove. Coffee in the mochapot. Sawing of the bread knife through three-day-old sourdough. A  moment. Still acclimatising to the new day. Soft hissing as the top chamber is filled. Spring released in  the toaster as the time clocks two minutes. Chink of ceramic on marble benchtop. Slather some jam.  A couple bites, seated. Grab the mug and the second slice of toast and head back out into the early light of dawn. 

Pull on the leather boots. Couple more layers for the cold morning. Through the lush garden. Birds singing their daybreak harmonies. Creaking of the small iron gate. Care to close it. Mechanical  clanking as the roller door opens. Keys in the ignition. Scent of gasoline thick in the air. In neutral, rolling from concrete onto gravel. Right leg over the saddle, approach the incline, coasting down the  hill. Gravel crunching underneath rubber. Centripetal force pulling as the machine takes the bend. Pull  up next to the old brick structure. Shearers quarters. Rundown, but standing. Structurally sound. Used as a tool shed, for the moment. Dim light inside from the morning sun creeping through the high windows. A few essentials waiting on the bench. Rummage around for some other bits & pieces.  Back on the quad, manoeuvre under the feed silo. Sun creeping over the rise enough to begin lighting  up the small valley. Open the hatch, feed pellets ping off the metal trailer. Soft rushing as the silo  drains. Two-stroke engine purring patiently

Wind blows casually through the topmost branches. Eucalyptus scent wafts through the air, mixed with the dank smell of livestock. Sheep turn their heads, alert to the approach. Cautious, but not  afraid. Have come know what to expect. Collectively advancing, crowding the trailer. Bleating, pleading for their morning feed. Grab, with one gloved hand, the rope opening the feeder. Slowly edge  the ATV forward with the other hand. Behind, pellets rain onto the compact earth. Thud of 400 pairs of  hooves following. Keep it moving, slowly. Slack in the rope, trailer empty. Sheep grazing contentedly.  Tall in the saddle, eyeing the flock. Watching for any defections. Content, after a moment. Cut through  the overgrown meadow, blades of grass whipping at denim and leather. 

Swap the keys, slide into the timeworn single-cab Nissan. Towel off the mirrors. Run the motor for a couple minutes. Bucket and shovel join tools in the utility tray. 

A top the crest of the Northern paddock, parked under the shade of a lone tree. Eastern grey kangaroos grazing on dry grass observe curiously. Golden light of the sun illuminating the countryside  in a comforting warmth. The valley lights up in a patchwork of greens, the leaves of the trees flickering in the breeze. Nourishes the soul. A calm interrupted by only the occasional rush from the motorway.  Taking a moment to sit in that peace. Attentively watching the roos. Feeding, interacting. Infant joeys  bouncing together in small groups. Growing confidence to stray from mothers, who, between  mouthfuls of native grasses perform the role of dutiful sentinel. Gilded light licks their grey fur. This feels like home. Southeast, across the highway, the tail end of the Great Dividing Range slashes  across the horizon line. 

Clutch down, locate the sticking point, slip into first. Slowly cruising along the fenceline. One eye on  the fence; the other on the terrain. Kangaroos scatter, vibrations of the mechanical beast scattering  across the plains. Small dam in the top paddock. Water source when the livestock rotate through. Wet ground lined with the imprint of tire tracks from previous mornings. Above, a cockatoo shrieks, a  prehistoric cry echoes across the dewy pasture.  

Windmill stands proud in the midst of the paddock. Rust corrodes its blades. A dysfunctional ornament of a previous iteration of Garryowen. Westward, gurgling of the Goulburn as it sweeps through the land, cool waters a tempting delight for what is sure to be a hot day. Crawling along the  cutroad, arm out the door. Eyeing for weeds. Invasive and aggressive, toxic for the livestock. Eradicate  at all costs.  

Stomach cries for nourishment. 0930. Time for a second meal. Smokey bacon and a couple fried eggs on toast. 10 minutes to read flick through the two-day-old newspaper. Second cup of joe before  getting into the meat of the day’s tasks. Slow sips, observing the tiered garden out the window. Small birds flitter amongst the gardenbed. A stack of firewood near the back door. 

Hours pass. Muscles cramp. Slight ache from standing all day. Sun sinking lower in the pale blue.  Watch says 1800. Twelve-hour workday. Give or take. Fleeting moments of warmth. Up to the house,  quick. Clean towel. Throw it over the back of the Kawasaki. Ignition sparks, kickstand up. Into first for the descent, road twisting around the orchid. Past the first gate, second. Into windmill paddock now,  needle spikes, quickly shift into second, third, twist the throttle. Rubber spins against earth and  throws dust wildly into the atmosphere. Ahead, tree felled by flood obstructs the throughfare. Beyond, a small, pebbled beach appears. Hit the brakes, kickstand down on the high embankment. Strip down  to the boxers, slowly stroll to the water’s edge. Cool water of the Goulburn laps at tired feet, a soothing cool that relaxes the body and alerts the mind. Wade deeper into the murky water, stained ochre with the tannins of leaves that float from the mountain winds down into the river. Slowly dive forward into  the centre of the flow out of the eddy currents. The current grips at the body, firmly yet gently guiding downstream. Water numbs the sensation of the day’s yakka. Lying back, angelic sensation of  weightlessness. Roots twist out of the water into the damp earth of the riverbank. Jutting out, soaring  high above. Foliage frames the view. Blissful. Serene. 

Every day could be like this.