by Matt Wright
But the worst is yet to come. You unhook from the chopper, and your heart is racing as you know you’ve landed in croc country. The problem is, there is no croc to be seen. With one hand holding the crate for the eggs, you poke and prod the surrounding water with a six-foot pole for reassurance that it’s safe to take another step forward. As you approach the croc nest, your senses are heightened. You’re about to come face to face with the animal kingdom’s number one predator – the saltwater crocodile.
I’ve been egg collecting for 15 years. Every nest has a different set of challenges. But if there’s one constant challenge, it’s definitely the crocodile that guards the nest. A crocodile – with its battery of senses, 180-degree field of vision, superior hunting ability, explosive speed and the strongest bite force of any animal on the planet – is not an animal to be treated lightly. You never know how big or aggressive the croc is going to be. All you can do is hope like hell that a big male isn’t on guard of the nest. If you get caught napping, your little crate will be crunched like a Tic Tac and your pole will be used as a toothpick to clean up your remains.
Milton was all in favour of egg collecting. Not only was it a great way to keep the croc population on his station under control, there was also a financial incentive. I also got the feeling Milton enjoyed the job. After a lifetime spent working on cattle stations, Milton has probably seen it all. But collecting croc eggs is never boring. There are always different challenges and obstacles, because no nest is ever the same.
To begin with, there are lots of different areas that a croc will make a nest. There are nests built on floating grass, hidden in cane grass patches, nestling along rivers or billabong edges, situated on springs in the middle of salt flats and concealed in swamps. The only constant is that a female will build her nest in the vicinity of fresh water. Before laying her eggs, she will rake vegetation and leaf matter onto upturned logs or raised areas above the water line. Otherwise, she will build her nest in outcrops of cane and reeds. Water and reeds provide natural barriers around the nest and are also excellent places for the crocodile to stalk animals stupid or unfortunate enough to venture onto the nest.
When it came to mentors, I had some of the best. Milton would often bring along Bluey. Bluey was Milton’s next-door neighbour. He was the owner of the Coolibah Crocodile Farm and knew all there was to know about crocs. I was learning from the best. Bluey showed me how to find the crocodile wallows – those burrowed-out depressions where crocs cooled off and waited in stealth. He would usually know the spot where the croc is most likely to attack from.
‘Stay alert,’ Bluey would say. ‘Keep your eyes on the water.’
We’d leap onto the nest and start prodding the water around the nest with our poles. Once we’d established that the croc was nowhere to be seen, Bluey would set about collecting the eggs.
‘Make sure you don’t turn the eggs,’ he said, carefully marking the egg with a pencil before gently placing it in the crate.
For an animal that grows into something so indestructible, a croc begins life as something very vulnerable. If you turn a crocodile egg on its axis, the yoke will crush and suffocate the embryo within. For that reason, they have to be packed in the crate in the upright position.
‘If the eggs are packed properly,’ Bluey would say. ‘They’ll survive.’
With all the manpower involved in collecting eggs plus the cost of running choppers all day, collecting eggs can be an expensive task. It’s only viable if the collector returns with a good complement of eggs at the end of each day. A female lays anywhere between 30 and 80 eggs per season. A group of egg collectors will try to clear between 20 and 40 nests a day.
My first time collecting with Milton and Bluey is something I’ll never forget. I was literally thrown into the deep end. Milton had just put Bluey on a nest and came back to pick me up. I jumped in the chopper and was ready with my stick and crate, quietly shitting myself. Being cramped in alongside Milton – who wasn’t exactly a small lad – in an R22 was a reasonably uncomfortable experience. I was pretty eager to get out.
We flew into the jungle to an area called the ‘vegie patch’. The ferns are about six feet tall, growing through a freshwater spring. Milton showed me the nest from the air and told me it was an easy one to get started on. He then zipped down and dropped me off. As he flew away, he told me to make sure I followed my same footsteps back out. Crocs move around beneath you through small channels. For this reason, it was important to jump from one fern bed to the next.
It was no easy task, but I felt I had everything under control. I was young, fit and raring to go. I bounced from one fern to the next until I reached the nest. I gave the nest a quick inspection and there was no croc to be found – happy days! I got all the eggs into the crate and headed back to the drop zone the best I could. Luckily, I managed to navigate back to the general area and in came Milton with the chopper. He hovered down next to me and I put the crate of eggs in a basket on the side of the chopper.
Just as I placed the crate of eggs I took one more step and lost my footing, disappearing down a hole into the water channel. Luckily my common sense prevailed and I didn’t grab onto the chopper skid in panic. The R22 is a very light helicopter. Had I reached out for the skid, the chopper and Milton would have tipped over and rolled into the swamp with me. I had no choice but to let myself fall into the water.
I slipped under the ferns and was there for what felt like ages. I tried to grab hold of firm ground, expecting a crocodile to take hold of my leg and pull me under. Eventually, I managed to claw myself back out and into the chopper. Milton assured me if there was a croc in that hole we would have known about it. It would have opened its mouth the moment he landed. Nevertheless, that mishap certainly got the blood rushing.
* * *
One of the great dangers of egg collectors doesn’t come from the crocodiles. It comes from the searing heat. This was a lesson I learnt the hard way. Milton had dropped me off at the top of hill, high above a group of nests built on the banks of a river that snaked along the valley floor. I was given a set period of time to fill up the crate before I’d meet the chopper at a designated spot. I took off into the valley with a couple of water bottles and a crate for the eggs. It was piping hot. By mid-morning, the temperature was above 40 degrees and the humidity was high.
Compounding my discomfort was the location of the nests. They were burrowed deep in the cane grass. Crocs like building their nests in the cane grass because the tall, hard fronds provide excellent protection from predators. They grow up to three metres high and are nearly impossible to walk through. You have to push the grass over and crawl across it, which is incredibly taxing work. A lack of experience and youthful excitement resulted in me pushing myself too hard. Sure enough, after successfully clearing a couple of nests, I started to feel dizzy. Instead of taking it easy, I gulped down a bottle of water and shrugged it off. I was keen to get the job done before I met up with the chopper.
Less than an hour later I was spewing up my guts and shitting uncontrollably. Every time I tried to load up on water it came up before reaching my stomach. It felt like the inside of my body was on fire. I was suffering heat stroke and I still had a couple of hours before the chopper came back.
I found some shade and sat down, but it was no use. I needed to immerse myself in water. There were plenty of lagoons and lakes around, but none that you would want to enter. A dip in the croc-infested waters of the Northern Territory is suicide. The only other cool places I could think of were the crocodile wallows.
I’d seen an empty wallow near a nest I’d cleared earlier in the day. I backtracked along the bank of a lagoon, working hard to keep my balance. I could feel the energy seeping out of my body. I had to fight every instinct to sit down. When I finally came to the wallow, the owner had returned. She was dark in colour and about nine feet long. She was about to get very angry.
A crocodile, particularly a female during the nesting season, is fiercely territori
al. In normal circumstances I would have kept my distance. The way I saw it, I had no choice. If I did nothing, I’d pass out and die. I was absolutely cooking and I still had a few more hours before the chopper was due to come and get me.
Cooling off in a wallow next to a croc might seem just as crazy as jumping into a croc-infested river. This was my rationale – if a crocodile bites you on land, bones will be crushed and lots of blood will be spilt; you may even lose a limb. But provided a major artery isn’t severed or your head isn’t ripped off, you stand a good chance of surviving. On the other hand, if a crocodile takes you into the water, there is no survival. You will be held under and violently rolled around until you drown. Find yourself in that scenario and your best outcome is a quick death.
I set my crate down in the shade of a tree and then, with pole in hand, walked over to the wallow. The croc kept utterly still. Flies buzzed around her head. She looked as if she was fast asleep. By now I’d been around crocodiles long enough to know better. She was completely aware of my presence. She was patiently waiting for me to walk into her strike zone before she’d leap at me, jaws snapping.
I took a wide berth around the wallow and approached from behind, remaining in the crocodile’s blind spot. Once I was within striking distance, I took a deep breath, and gave her a big prod behind the back legs. She snapped around, ripping the pole from my grip and settled back into the pond. I now had no pole and no crate. Feeling as if I were about to faint at any moment, I went looking for another stick to cut down. I pulled my knife out and started hacking down a tree branch. Once I’d cut down the branch I was ready to go.
The battle resumed the moment I was back at the wallow. This time I went in with a little more determination. She tried yanking the stick from my hand again, but I managed to keep it out of her jaws. I moved her away from the wallow and then backed her up about 10 metres. Once she’d settled down, I returned to the wallow. Lowering myself into that cool water was an immense relief but it presented a new problem. With my body temperature lowering, I felt intensely fatigued. There was no way I could fall asleep. The crocodile never ventured more than 10 metres from that wallow. Every few minutes, she’d creep in too close for comfort. I would have to leap to my feet and move her again.
An hour or so had passed. I hauled myself out of the wallow, picked up my crate of eggs and plodded off down the valley to meet up with the chopper. Thankfully, the chopper arrived on time. After that I was bedridden for three days. My muscles screamed and I could barely hold down any food. Some of the boys thought I should have been sent to hospital and placed on a drip. I was in a bad way. Had it not been for that wallow, things might have ended up much worse.
11
The Big Cull
Before I became a mustering pilot, I first had to prove myself on the ground. That meant assisting the pilots on the bikes, horses and bull catchers. The country was tough to muster, especially around Roper River where Moroak was situated. A lot of the time we were chasing wild cattle, bulls and buffalo over huge distances. Often we would wait out on a flat area to help the mustering pilots as they pushed the herd into open country. Some of these paddocks were the size of capital cities, over 180 square kilometres of open country. They were long days. It was always a hard and fast round-up, but absolutely vital in terms of learning how to muster with the chopper. Milton said it best: ‘To become a good mustering pilot, you’ve first got to understand cattle.’
After a couple of months, I started having a go on the dual controls with one of John Logan’s veteran mustering pilots. Most of those blokes were happy to take me up. Sitting alongside a mustering pilot as he tossed his machine around ranks as one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. The pilot would spear the chopper in towards the ground, bringing the skids and blades within inches of cattle in order to herd them towards the yard or a bull catcher. Countless times I thought we were going to collide with a tree or a gully or an animal. I’d be bracing for impact before the pilot would duck or weave away from trouble at the last moment. These guys were doing things with a helicopter that we’d been taught were impossible at flight school. The skill level was incredible. I couldn’t wait to get started.
I had to wait most of the mustering season before I got my check flight with John. The check flight is the equivalent of a practical exam in which aspiring mustering pilots are set the relatively simple task of herding a mob of cattle into the house yard under the watchful gaze of an instructor. We were about two minutes into the muster when John shouted at me to put the chopper down. I was flying like a lunatic.
The rip-tear-bust attitude of the veteran pilots might be great to get a wild bull out of the jungle into the arm of a bull catcher, but putting a station owner’s prize herd of cattle into the house yard required a gentler touch. He decided to move me down to our other base at Mount Isa, where I would muster on the Barkly Tableland. That way he could keep a closer eye on me.
John was a great mentor for junior pilots. He had over 15 000 hours’ experience mustering cattle. But benefiting from the knowledge of one of the best in the business didn’t make the task easy.
Helicopter mustering is one of the most demanding jobs in the aviation industry. Flying choppers is hard enough. But when you throw a couple of thousand head of cattle in the mix and the task of having to push them from one side of a paddock to the other in burning heat it becomes mentally taxing and physically fatiguing.
Most of the time you’ve got to stay high and fly slowly so the noise of the chopper moves the cattle along without causing stress. Then there are times when you have to get the chopper close to the ground and move fast. For good reason, pilots call this flying in the dead-man zone. This is where things tend to go wrong.
When you’re flying fast near the ground or around trees you have to maintain peak concentration to avoid a collision. While concentrating on not crashing, you also have to make sure the cattle are heading where you want them to go. John taught me that the mustering pilots to respect are those who fly without ego. Blokes who see themselves as cowboys of the sky are far more likely to end up dead. The job is about limiting risk, only pushing hard when absolutely necessary and always remembering that a human life is more important than a cow.
After a year under John’s watch, I established a reputation as a reliable line pilot. I started getting moved around from station to station mustering cattle, buffalo and wild bulls. It was a great life. I had my own little R22 to look after with a rifle and swag on the passenger seat. This was why I got my chopper licence – it meant total freedom.
I’d fly from dawn to dusk to get the cattle to the yards and move on to the next station. If I ran out of daylight, I’d find a nice water hole where I’d roll out the swag near a fire and dream up my next adventure. Just like those days driving road trains through the emptiness of the Australian outback, I loved the nonconformity and being away from it all. There were, however, jobs I didn’t like. Top of the list was culling feral animals, including pigs, water buffalo, wild horses, donkeys, camels, goats, and deer. But nothing was worse than culling brumbies.
Mobs of brumbies or wild horses have been roaming the Australian countryside since the beginning of European settlement. At present, there are approximately 400 000 brumbies in the Australian wild. Traditionally located in the Australian Alps of Victoria and New South Wales, large numbers can be found in the Northern Territory and Queensland. They comprise a variety of breeds, including Timor ponies, draught horses, Arabians, thoroughbreds and ‘capers’ from South Africa. Escaped farm horses and discarded army horses often join a mob, adding to the diversity of breeds. With their hard hooves horses erode soil, trample vegetation, and damage bog and waterhole habitats. They chew bark off trunks resulting in widespread destruction of native tree species and also spread invasive weeds.
Brumbies are also a nightmare for farmers. They destroy farm infrastructure, such as fences, pipes and water troughs. They dig up grazing ground for cattle. Although not n
early as damaging to the ecosystem as other introduced species like rabbits, cane toads, wild pigs and foxes, brumbies have been listed as a pest by government officials and environmentalists for decades. They need to be dealt with, which is easier said than done.
Anyone who has had to shoot a wild horse will tell you that it’s a heartbreaking job. Most ringers and stockmen grew up on farms. They have been around horses all their lives and developed a special affinity for this beautiful animal. Blokes who have taken part in big brumby culls will admit to suffering nightmares for months. I’ve even seen grown men break down and cry after shooting a horse. Watching brumbies run free across the outback is among the most beautiful things you will see in the wild. No matter the justification, shooting them feels immoral. I had always managed to avoid jobs that involved horse culls until a station owner tasked me with a job that would change my life forever.
It happened on a station in far north Queensland. The station manager wanted my help in dealing with a dingo problem. Packs of dingoes were attacking the station’s young cattle. Calves would get their ears ripped off, their soft underbellies torn open or backs eaten out. A cheap way of managing this problem in the Top End is dropping from a helicopter or plane a haunch of meat doused in 1080 – a cheap pesticide that in large doses brings about a metabolic poisoning in dingoes. The station was enormous, over a million acres. That meant a lot of meat was needed. By the time I arrived, the station manager had come up with a tidy solution.
‘What I’ll get you to do,’ he said, ‘is fly me out and I’ll shoot some horses.’
My heart sank. The station manager went on to explain that his property was overrun with brumbies. Reducing their numbers while providing the meat needed for the dingo problem was a good way of killing two birds with one stone.
‘Are you a good shot?’ I asked.
