The Stockman's Shadow

Why hasn’t anyone bottled petrichor?
Or is that what makes it so exotic, the fact it’s untouchable?
It’s that elusive, heady scent we stop and take a moment to acknowledge- for its purity and its desirability.
Whether you live in a high rise apartment overlooking a metropolitan freeway or on a million acres in the middle of everywhere, you know it when you sense it because there is no sweeter smell than raindrops meeting the earth.
Nothing more natural, more needed, more nuanced.
Rain means different things to everyone depending on the context in which your life unfolds.
When I was 10, it meant the potential of a day off school unless Dad felt compelled to cart us to the school bus in the tractor.
When I was at boarding school, rain stirred homesickness, as I yearned to lie in bed and memorise the crescendo on my iron bedroom roof, rather than on the pavement of Toowoomba’s city streets.
On beach holidays, rain was unwelcome. Full stop.
Present me wishes for rain even while it’s falling, knowing another dry spell isn’t too far away.
As a protein consumer and producer in 2023, I am focussed on what I can control guided solely through an intimate understanding of what I can’t.
I cannot control the weather.
But I can control the decisions I make with the cards the weather man deals.
It has been said we are grass farmers before beef farmers, but I would extrapolate and say we are soil farmers first.
It is not our birth right to be custodians of agricultural land, but rather our responsibility to manage it in a way that honours the past, present and future of farming.
How we exit one wet season and enter the next dry is always a precursor for our capacity to recover, and the best bit is that we always get the chance to saddle up again. 🌧️
Petrichor is intoxicating, a bit like farming itself.
On reflection, maybe it’s better to leave it beyond our reach.
That’s enough to keep my fire burning!

A montage of our outside girl- our reason for everything 💚

There is something about the west. A lava tunnel of electricity burning an undercurrent between each man and woman who calls that land home.
Parts of western Queensland, Longreach particularly, received their first drought breaking rain one year ago today.
For 10 years, these salt of the earth people endured, battled, consoled, raged, wept, questioned, begged, prayed, bargained and bled, their souls rubbed raw without rain to soothe the wounds drought inflicts.
But one year on, memories fresh yet hope abounding, graziers like Rob (in blue) are buzzing with what ifs.
Their proverbial glasses are half full with possibilities!
They are proud of their land’s tenacity, as sure as the earth they walk on the recovery process is only just beginning.
The grasses are returning, Mitchell and Flinders and Buffel.
Herbages are peeking, Lamb’s Tongue hiding beneath Gidgee Burr, all uniquely palatable, protein rich food sources perfect for growing the protein we humans need to survive. My God we’ve got it good.

It does us good to wander beyond our own patch every now and again. Perspective is invaluable.
Hearing the twitch in Rob’s tone when he told us his son’s observation on his way back to boarding school after the Easter break ~ “Dad, I’ve never seen grass growing at home…” ~ spurred a lump in my own throat.
Asked what kept him going, Rob said he trusted the tide would turn, he wanted to teach his kids about the land and he loved breeding beef cattle.
Amen to that my friend.

I think we owe the west’s custodians a thank you.
Thank you for staying. Thank you for believing in yourselves, your land and your profession.
And may the seasons be plentiful for a long time to come.

Seasons of change;
And so another summer comes and goes, pushed aside by a rising sun on a brand new autumn morning.
If it weren’t for the date, I wouldn’t have realised, but with March 1 comes a certain nostalgia and a small dose of longing for days gone by.

And oh how quickly the days surpass us. At risk of broken record status.. how fast is this year going? 😉
All the time in the world doesn’t prepare you for the day time’s up.
So we reflect, we reminisce.
For me, summer was always symbolic of branding calves at Christmas time. Dawn cracking at 4.30am and humidity rising with a kookaburra’s call.
Trayback stubbies resting on grimy, denim clad legs, Akubras downed with tools at knockoff.
Wet saddle cloths, aching muscles, heavy sleep all to rise, rinse and repeat.

Summer looks different now. In this life season, I daydream about those little intricacies that make this life one I yearn to share with her. My little … one of many yet one in a million. 💚

Let’s go!:

I love the new year period, it’s fascinating. The silly season regresses into a state of flux and a concoction of big dreams, plans and goals take centre stage. What will the new year bring? New activewear is bought in support of brand new and certainly more committed fitness goals. Diaries are filled out in ultimate detail with the knowledge habits take three weeks (is that it?) to become fail safe routines.

And then, by January 20, we realise the things that annoyed us last year haven’t miraculously exited with the outgoing 12 months. We still crave chocolate after dinner. Getting up at 4.30am to exercise is still as unattractive as the green smoothie we promised ourselves we’d learn to love. 🙋🏼‍♀️
And this is why new year resolutions are so bloody ridiculous. We don’t roll out of bed on January 1 reborn.
This brings me to my actual bug bear- why do we wait until a certain date to start something? What’s special about January 1?
I am deeply familiar with the phrase “patience is a virtue.”
“Good things come to those who wait.”
But imagine, in all this waiting, opportunities were sailing by and we missed creating an extraordinary life while distracted by all the what ifs?

The future is ours tomorrow, not next week, next month, next year.
There is no bigger supplier of opportunity than agriculture and it is ripe for the picking.
So grab the low hanging fruit, the tangible, in your face open doors that light your fire and keep you wanting more.
Otherwise, who knows, you might be wanting forever.


📸:

I love this life we live. It is good, honest and pure. The sun rises and sets, each day different from the last but cloned of our intention. We exist here to grow food. We sustain people. We keep the human race fed, and warm. Farmers give life. Roll those words around on your tongue. How do they feel? Awe-inspiring ✅ awakening ✅ invigorating ✅

If you ate breakfast today, a farmer is a part of your life. If you had a coffee today, a farmer is a part of your life. If you got dressed today, a farmer is a part of your life. If you slept under a sheet last night, a farmer is a part of your life. The idea that farmers are replaceable is intangible. Impossible to grasp.
Farmers: here for the long haul. 💚

Once upon a time, a farming father prayed for a firstborn son. A leader, a champion for the family, an heir. Sons signified the continuation of legacy, practices and principles handed down for hundreds of years only to be strengthened by the brawn and backbone of men, generation after generation.
I appreciate the value in some traditional farming ideologies, but this is not one of them. Thankfully, the majority of today’s farming community think so too.

I asked my husband how he truly felt when Heidi was born a female. He replied- “her gender was irrelevant to me.”
How’s that for a modern day man?
Bryce and I often talk of our dreams to hand our farming business on to the next generation.

In our short time in business we’ve realised good skills in communication, networking and a firm understanding of business has become as important as the ability to wield a crow bar.
And even then, I’ve dug a hole or two, just quietly.
I don’t identify as a feminist but as a progressivist. Change happened slowly between generations prior to ours, but now we’re seeing real world advancement yearly not once a decade or more. Our parents and grandparents had more time to adapt, to get used to ideas. Nowadays time is a luxury and opportunities are easily missed if we adopt the flamingo-esque practice of burying our heads in the sand.
Time to wake up, if you haven’t already. Females are charging ahead in agriculture, as strong, determined, fearless champions for food and fibre.
Just look at … what a force. Why raise strong women on the land if we don’t open doors for them to take the reins when their heart is set?
The way Heidi is going, Bryce and I will be sitting on the backseat before she’s on her P plates. Bursting with pride. 💚

A mirage:

As a young girl, I used to think rainbows were where fairies danced, a realm just out of reach to mortal humans but set there to keep the dream alive. The pot of gold narrative is just a fairytale… or is it? Maybe it’s just that no one has found the treasure yet.
I got to wondering about dreams, goals and deep desires. How far are we willing to go to reach our pots of gold? What keeps the dream alive.. what keeps the shovel hitting the earth in defiance of blisters, rules and righteousness?
I preach a lot about passion in agriculture, but I come back to it time and time again as the be all and end all in this line of work.
I’ve said it before- we wouldn’t do it if we didn’t love it.

Unfortunately for our industry, there are plenty of naysayers. Those who resist change, new ideas and ways of thinking. Those who fear the discomfort of unfamiliarity. There is a great saying I try to employ in my daily life- “you can’t steer a parked car.”
In other words, the only way out of a situation is movement.
I’m excited to be part of the next generation of agricultural professionals. We are reaching, far beyond what many would call our limits, to be better. To protect and preserve the heroic work done before us and grow it into something twice as good. Where our forefathers had grit and tenacity, we possess ideas and innovation to bring the past into the present and beyond.
Growth- isn’t that the starting line of agriculture? Be it beef, wool or cereal, we’re here to produce.
Truthfully, I don’t think anyone will ever find the pot of gold, because that would mean the work was done. For ag, the wheel just keeps on turning and be damned if we aren’t along for the ride. 💚

A little bush baby:

With another international rural women’s day coming and going, I can say this one was more personally significant than normal.
Here I am, a rural woman, not unlike any other, but this year with a mini bush girl in tow.
Will she grow to be a woman of the land? I don’t know. But as her mother I will raise her to appreciate the natural environment for its generosity, its complexity, its wildness and its beauty. I hope to show her how to work with the land, to cherish it and to know how lucky she is to have farmers in her life. Rural women are go getters, change makers and visionaries. Heidi may become a doctor or an accountant and know the city like the back of her hand. Wherever she ends up, I know the inner strength, desire, wisdom and steadfastness she possesses will have blossomed within her as a little baby of the bush. Dirty fingernails, grazed knees and wild hair- rural life is a schoolroom all of its very own. 💚

The mourning:
Everyone talks about the morning. Standing at the window, rocking, patting, shushing, swaying, willing the faintest fleck of orange to appear in the east to signal the end of another perpetual night. Parenthood is incomparable. There is nothing that prepares you for the onslaught of emotions brought on in the creation of another human. The intense love, the quickening frustration, the weight of exhaustion, the excitement of a first smile, first giggle. And no one tells you about the period of mourning that simmers beneath it all. As a rural mum, I feel this intensely. I am crushed by the loss of my old life. The balance on the see-saw always weighs in my daughter’s favour, as if I need to confirm that at all, but with that comes a sacrifice. Mothers should be encouraged to feel safe admitting it. Mum guilt tells us to be grateful, to smile, to enjoy this time. Some days I say, to hell with that. I wouldn’t mind savouring a meal rather than inhaling it in anticipation of the inevitable cry. I wouldn’t mind a fully functioning brain unclouded by a concoction of sleeplessness, anxiety and other intoxicating emotions. I miss the luxury of time. I’d love to throw my boots on and run out the door without ticking off the subconscious mental list of carrier, nappies, wipes, mozzie nets, pram, shade, blankets etc etc etc. And I have help on hand..what about mothers living in even more isolated areas? I think of you.

Yesterday, my baby girl rolled over and I felt like the world’s biggest soccer mum. I had more hypothetical pom poms and war cries than the Super Bowl. I love her more than life, as every mother does their own children. This isn’t a pity post, this is me allowing myself a little freedom through words, to feel. I truly believe rural women keep the wheels of life turning. This is a virtual nod to all rural mums doing the hard yards, the long nights, the lunchboxes, the part pickups, the washing, the follow up calls, the weaner tailing, the washing up, the giving, always giving. Take a little back when you hold your baby, smile and say, I really really love you, today was hard. It’s really ok to feel both. 💚

In the shadows:
The passing of rugby league legend Paul Green last month really shook me.
I didn’t know Paul personally, but as a casual follower of the NRL I was accustomed to seeing his face on telly and the news of his su***de floored me.
For a person in Paul’s position, working among some of the leading health professionals in the country, to fall through the cracks tells me mens’ mental health is far from the spotlight.
This then lead me to thinking about our rural men.
If Paul Green felt unable to reach out for help when it was likely at his fingertips, where does that leave our husbands? Our fathers? Our brothers?

I watched Jonathan Thurston’s devastation over his good friend’s death overflow on national television.
One of the toughest men to take hold of a football openly sharing his emotion, declaring “it won’t be right, mate.”
I think he hit the nail on the head.
We Aussies have lived by this old colloquialism for centuries.
It signified putting on a brave face, plastering a smile on your dial and soldiering on.
“She’ll be right” brushes things under the rug.
Who are we to decide the worth of another’s concerns?
I have no doubt the term was coined in good jest, and Australians are a typically resilient, tough bunch.
What we need to remember is that it’s great to be tough, and it’s great to know when tough won’t cut it and you need a hand up.

This point of view is preached far and wide but maybe it isn’t reaching home.
‘Call Lifeline’ ads on TV aren’t enough.
Would your hard working husband who leaves for work in the dark and gets in on dusk stop for long enough during the day to make the call?
As hard as this may be to acknowledge, I think we women need to face the fact we’re likely the leaning post for our men.
We are likely the first port of call and with many rural women working on properties alongside the men, we are as in-tune to the pressures of life on the land as anyone else.
I don’t mean to suggest the responsibility should rest in women’s hands- of course not.
Simply that our men should be encouraged to feel as strong in their vulnerability as they do wielding a chainsaw providing wood for the winter.
In my view, even stronger. 💚

I am reminded daily how lucky I am to live the life I do.
Not by the people around me- they don’t get a chance to.
I’m reminded by a crisp fog highlighting the edges of a mandarin sunrise.
I’m reminded by the simple fact I wake up every day living the life I dreamt of.
Alongside this, I can admit this life can be damn heartbreaking. It can burn all your edges raw and leave you searching the furthest corners of your mind for answers at midnight.
And I know agriculture is not unique in its challenges at the core of what that word actually represents.
If I were a baker, I would complain about staff shortages and the price of flour. If I were in finance I would curse my inability to predict the future. If I were a landscape artist I would scratch my head at the popularity of abstract blobs on a canvas.
In all of these examples, I could change my direction… No one Chinese burning me into submission.

In agriculture, we are the first to complain when times are tough, and wonder why our doors aren’t being bashed down by people looking for farm jobs. Did you know, we are allowed to say “jeez that was a bastard of a day” but it should be accompanied with “but I love it too much to do anything else” otherwise we earn ourselves the label of the whinging cocky.

Especially now when the fruits of our labour in ag are as good as we’ve ever known. Why don’t we call Chanel 7 news and tell them we cracked $2000 for weaners for the first time EVER? Or is it an unspoken secret… keep them thinking it’s hard going 24/7, 365, in order to uphold the hardworking farmer image.
Well let me tell you, that mentality is a sure fire way to burn every bridge we’ve ever built.

We should stand shoulder to shoulder, the way we do when markets crumble and droughts rage, and say “LOOK AT US- WE EARNED THIS, and it was worth it. We bloody love it.” 💚

Motherhood {so far}:

In the lead up to becoming a mother, I spent many hours imagining all the things I would teach my little girl.
I would teach her how to ride a pony, to read a book, to love a pet, to say please and thank you.
I would show her how the colours of a sunset are never the same two days in a row.
I would help her understand the magic of life when she watched her first baby calf born, and show her the difference between seasons as they changed throughout the year.
I spent plenty of time thinking about what I would teach her, but I’ve quickly learned her tiny little heart and mind has far more to teach me.

I’ve always been an organised, fast paced person. I like routine and I like to be busy. I thrive on ticking boxes and getting things done. Lists are my life!
In seven short weeks, the person I was has been bushed to the back paddock.
Becoming a mother has forced me to live more in the moment rather than anticipate what’s coming next. I’ve had to slow down and relax in the knowledge that no job is more important than nurturing this tiny human.

Even writing this, I’m sitting on the couch with Heidi asleep on my chest, because that’s what she needed from me today. I’ve had to let go of my own deeply ingrained desire to achieve things and realise that my biggest achievement is a 4.5kg perfect combination of her Dad, and me.

Maybe there’s a message in this for everyone, not just new parents.
I look back at a time not so long ago when some of my favourite times of the day were kicking my boots off for an afternoon beer. Or letting the last mouthful of tea linger before heading out the door in the morning.
Those slow moments when we press pause on life to really be present and appreciate the life we have.

Oh, but we still plan to buy Heidi a pony. Hey Dad? 😉💚

Australians have been lucky only a small puddle of water separates us from the aqua islands of Indonesia.
A short flight will deliver you from dusty stockyards into a realm of postcard perfect villas, cheap cocktails and hunky dory Mi Goreng.

Yes, we’ve been lucky, until now. Foot and Mouth Disease (FMD) is spreading rapidly throughout Indonesia, and our proximity to the region now gives me Bali belly from afar.

If FMD breaches our Australian shoreline, the cost will be difficult to measure. The risk has been described as a $100 billion time bomb for Australia. The flow on cost to everyday Aussies will be insurmountable, with our export trade compromised for years to come.

But what about the mental and emotional cost to farmers who face the very real fear of destroying herds and flocks that have been in their families for generations?

Friends in the United Kingdom have described their 2001 FMD outbreak as gut wrenching.. the scent of hundreds of thousands of burning cattle, sheep and pigs imprinted for life.
There have been plenty of posts describing the financial implications of FMD for Australia, and they are frightening.
What sits heavy in my stomach though is the thought of destroying my life’s work, and that of every other grazier, because of one dirty pair of boots.

Unlike droughts, fires and floods, we CAN do things to protect our livestock from an inevitably gruesome fate.
We can declare our travel history on arriving home to Aus. We can be vigilant while in Indonesia and avoid areas where livestock are housed to the best of our knowledge. We can educate ourselves about transmission and take appropriate, responsible steps to stop the spread.
We can leave our boots in Bali.

I’ve always preached the emotional side of agriculture because for me, it’s what keeps me in the game. I stand by my belief that love for the industry is what keeps farmers climbing back when the chips are down.
Halting Foot and Mouth Disease before it reaches Australia may be a mammoth task, but it’s one we as Australians should prioritise.
If you’ve ever wanted to give back to Aussie farmers, here is your opportunity on a golden platter. 💚

I was at the doctors today and got chatting to a woman in the waiting room. Her grandmother turned 104 this week and while her body, as expected, had become a limiting factor, her mind was still as sharp and bright as ever.
I asked the woman if her Gran had let on about her secrets to aging so gracefully, almost unnoticeably.

Other than advising me to accompany honey with bread as opposed to the reverse, she said keeping a positive outlook on life had served her grandmother well.
It was uncanny, as I had only just finished listening to a podcast on toxic positivity on my drive into town. So how do we navigate this rather muddy mud map?

I think it’s about focusing on what could go right more than what could go wrong. Asking ourselves why we do what we do.. does it truly make us feel good, grounded and grateful? I don’t think it’s possible or natural to walk around with a smile painted from ear to ear- that’s not happiness.
Happiness is having one reason to laugh every day, even better if it’s at ourselves. Stuff doesn’t bring happiness, moments do.

Moments like taking your first step off the verandah into a new day with the feeling of ultimate opportunity on the air. Moments like watching the sun set over your slice of paradise as colours that aren’t even named explode for mere seconds, then vanish. More often than not, happiness flourishes in the mundane. Like running waters, travelling paddock tracks imprinted in your mind’s eye and noticing how serene the view is in that fleck of time, different to every piece of time before.

Indulging in little things that make the heart sing- the key to a long and lovely life. 💚

I’ve been to forums and listened to mentors preaching “take the emotion out of agriculture- it’s a business, not a picnic.”
Try as I might, I’ve never been converted and my argument is this:
I would hedge my bets that 99 per cent of those working on the land do so because they have an emotional connection to the work.
Many agriculturalists grew up in tractors and stockyards, nurturing feelings of love, pride, passion and commitment. Love for the poddy calves they nursed back to health, pride in a hard day’s work, passion for showcasing their product and commitment to leaving a legacy for their children. And so the pattern continues.

Sure, we’re all running a farming business and at the end of the day we have a primal need to remain profitable. But isn’t emotion at the core of that? What drives our need for money? Survival. What is key to our survival? Food, shelter, connection. Looking back on the history of weather extremes in this country in the previous 10 years alone- I can promise you it took more than a business mind to service those needs of survival through droughts, fires and floods. A purely business focussed brain would have stonewalled farming as a viable business through those catastrophic events. If it were “just a business,” farm owners would have sold up and moved to the coast to develop real estate in booming areas.

But they didn’t. They’re still out there. Why? Because emotion kept them going. Feelings of love, pride, passion and commitment. I doubt even the most steadfast agricultural businessman or woman could refute that.

I don’t get out of bed each day excited about running a business. I rise and shine excited about the prospect of making a difference on my land, in my industry, for my children and for the greater population. I realise this won’t make me the next Gina Reinhardt, and I’m not mad about it.
Some years are good, some years are bad. I have a tertiary education, Bryce has a high paying trade qualification. We could earn a consistent wage and budget accurately year after year, forecasting our retirement almost to the day and time.
But we don’t do that and we won’t do that, because our hearts are on the land. We are, loudly and proudly, emotionally invested in our ag business. 💚

There is something quite remarkable about consuming your own product. Emotions of pride, satisfaction, and a sense of deep reward for doing what you set out to do. The only thing better is feeling others experience those same things.

I’ve witnessed vegetarian friends become born again carnivores. I’ve seen light re-enter their eyes, their complexions brightened by the first hit of nature’s most precious protein: beef. I’ve watched desire take over after that first mouthful, when the realisation that this was here all along finally dawns.
It is a miraculous reintroduction of man to meat, a trade existing well before humans understood time.

I’ve never pressured non meat eaters to “just try a steak, or at least a chicken kebab.”
I’ve waited for curiosity to creep in and temptation to prompt the question: “is that one you grew yourself?”

The question has never been asked as a prelude for accusations and guilty verdicts.
Instead for reassurance, knowledge and good faith.

Knowledge is power, and when humans know where their food comes from the appreciation for its creation is so much more palpable.
“We do not trust what we do not know,”~ Roxi Beck, Centre for Food Integrity.

How much more comforting is it knowing your wool coat began on a multi generational sheep farm in western New South Wales?
Or knowing the eight-year-old son of a fourth generation Territory fisherman caught your baked Barrumundi?
Or knowing the delicate rib fillet in a sumptuous mushroom sauce ordered from your favourite 5-star Brisbane City restaurant actually spent its best days in a Buffel paddock at Taroom?

The truth is, we can give our consumers knowledge. We are so advanced in paddock to plate technology and lifetime traceability we have the answers at our fingertips.
We shouldn’t laugh off those who source protein from plants, but rather share our lives to spread understanding.
We are so fortunate to live in Australia, where a Thai beef salad actually contains beef. We trust ourselves, we trust the path we’re on and our consumers have nothing to fear in trusting us to fulfil our promise to bring them the cleanest, greenest, most ethically sourced produce on the planet. 💚

It’s not all ponies and sunshine.

I don’t sugarcoat, but I do paint a pretty picture of life on the land. It’s not exaggerated, it is often pretty and lovely and warm and fuzzy.
And sometimes it isn’t.

The days when you take two steps forward only to take three steps back. When you envisage a long list of achievements for the day and don’t tick off a single one.
There’s always something more to do.
Monday’s priorities become Tuesday’s maybes and Wednesday’s ‘we’ll see how we go.’

Shooting your best stud heifer when she suffers an extreme prolapse calving really blows.
So do water pump issues on Christmas Eve and missing birthday dinners and family gatherings because if you don’t feed the cattle they won’t eat.

It’s hard being away from friends, often declining weekends away because the distance can’t be justified. Accessing healthcare is an effort, often tied in with haircuts and part pickups to make the 700km trip worth it.

It’s not unusual to lose power for days when summer storms rock and roll across the landscape.
Sometimes we consider going back to dial-up because the NBN is as hit and miss as the BOM.

Good dogs die of snakebite with emergency vet care out of reach.
We rely on rainfall to make a living. Name another profession that floats on the wind like that, completely void of human control at its core.

So no, it ain’t all sunshine and ponies. Stripped back, this life is not for the faint hearted. It takes guts and grit and perseverance and a very strong will to see it out the other side. It can take so much energy, drain you until you feel you have nothing left to spare.
But then a newborn calf bounces on early morning rays of light and the first green leaves of summer unfurl and you just know, you’d go through it all time after time to feel THAT feeling once more. 💚