The weather girl
Everyone is waiting for the rains. The cows are waiting for the rains because they have bony arses, the wallabies are waiting because they have almost finished the lush green grass around the homestead, and the goanna is probably thirsty after eating all those chooken eggs. Adam and I are waiting because we would like to dive into the clear running creek, when it has some water in it.
Pat and Peter are waiting for the rains because the survival of their cattle station depends on it.
So everyone goes about their work with one eye on the sky.
And all of that makes me very very important, because I am… The Weather Girl!
My new station chore is to collect weather data and send reports into the Bureau of Meteorology.
At 8.45am every day I put my hat on, round up Pearl and a pen, and stroll out the front gate to the scientific weather instruments. I read thermometers, measure water levels in tanks, add up millimetres in jars, and wonder whether a northerly wind comes from the North, or is going to the North. I pull out my book of clouds and identify the ones that are in the sky, then I guess how much of the sky they are covering and how far above the ground they are. I’m hoping my guesses are more accurate than the ones I’ve been making on lotto numbers.
The Bureau may be scratching their heads at the speed the clouds have been travelling and the erratic wind directions at Mt Elizabeth, but I’m sure that will all settle down in time, as I get used to my new station chore.
Today, as always, there is not much to report at 8.45am. There is no weather up there. But as soon as I have sent my data to The Bureau, I come outside to a sky full of cumulous, around 3800 feet up, and a cool North Easterly is settling in.
Adam is doing his station chores too, although they are not nearly as important as the weather. He is feeding the horses, fixing plumbing, filling the water tanks, cutting the heads off the roosters, and other such blokey stuff. In the afternoon he cuts fresh meat off a killer. Small cubes go to the chickens, larger pieces to the butcher birds, and a big one for the crow with the broken leg. He cuts very large chunks for BBQing, and feeds those to the station dogs, Dozer and Gemma. He also washes out Dozer’s eye, as it is a bit crunchy and full of muck.
By the time he is done, I have baked two loaves of bread, turned a bucket of fresh tomatoes into two litres of tomato sauce and free ranged the remaining chooks. I notice two weather phenomena: thunder and lightning. I make a note of them because tomorrow I will have to report them to The Bureau.
Pearl has been following me and Adam around all day. She sticks closest to the person who is doing the most interesting chores, or ones that involve meat. She has taken to station life with the relish and ease of a real cattle dog. After a couple of good smacks, she has stopped chasing Chloe the Wallaby and she stays a good solid distance from the wandering bull. While she can get quite skittish when the chickens have their wings clipped, she is otherwise satisfied to follow them about with her eyes.
At the end of the day, after all the chores are done, Peter pulls the truck into the yard and the sky opens up. Dozer and Gemma run out to greet their master. Pearl runs out and joins the other dogs under the wheels of the truck as they bark their joy into the thundering sky. She is truly part of the pack now; the cattle dog pack. In honour of that we give her a station name. It is ‘Lightning.’
From now on, Lightning will also eat BBQ’d meat from the killer.
As the light fades, Adam and I sit on the verandah listening to the rain pound the corrugated roof while we relish our one rationed beer for the day. We fill up on Pat’s beef curry and are in bed by eight.
I make a note: thunder storm with lightning. Full tummies and tired bodies. The outlook is fine.