Outback Family History

The Ghost of Goya River
by Jim O’Brien,

This series of reminiscences has been gathered in years of roamin’ around, and stowed deep down in my old memory box are scenes and sounds of other days. And, though life’s road grows rougher, so to speak, and the grades are steeper for many of us “old ‘uns” as the years go by, nevertheless many milestones, incidents, humorous and tragic, we still can visualise which came our way as we perambulated along life’s battle trails. I don’t aim to build up a romantic fiction thriller but to set out in verbiage easily understood by all those scattered around o’er an area-wide.

A quiet life

The incident which I am about to relate is a spooky episode true in every detail which befell my mate, Trooper Dan Rogan “Plash Dan” and myself away back in the years that are dead. Glory be! Strange but credible, it has been brought to my mind firstly by an article somewhat similar, appearing recently in the Western Mail under the pen of my old-time trooper cobber, “Economic”, whose memory is still young. Secondly, an inquiry that came by post, caused no doubt by my story “How Trails Have Crossed” in the issue of December 23. I take this opportunity to thank, with sincere appreciation, Mr Bailey, J.P., Kalgoorlie, for so kindly writing me of the passing, at that town eight years ago, of my old-time Queensland policeman mate, Oliver Page, a 6ft fine specimen of a man – R.I.P.

The inquiry I alluded to came from Sandstone, WA., signed P.P., asking whether I was ever in Springsure, Central Queensland, the writer also mentioned that his mate is expecting to hear me recount some of the humorous incidents, true and otherwise, mostly otherwise, credited to Tom Doyle, first Mayor of Kanowna. It’s a far cry from Tom Doyle’s old pub in Kanowna, or from his once rich leader, the Gentle Polly mine, to the rich blue-grass valleys surrounding Springsure, and though the oldest inland township in Central Queensland, it was a one horse place of straggling shacks when I was there as a dandy young copper, wearing the nose line cognomen of “Dandy Jim.”

Was it Smiler Hales or “Moondine Joe” who said: “Destiny is every life’s pilot.”

How true, don’t you think? When our minds wander back o’er vanished years to the tragic ending of many lives, and to the social and financial uplifts of others less deserving, we must recognise ‘Old Fates’ rulings.” In December 1885, ‘Flash Dan’ and I were on patrol and were making it across from Springsure to Policeman Creek, which became a rich sapphire field in later years. We camped the first night at Upper Springsure Crossing on the old road, which then connected Anakie sapphire field with the township of Springsure. Anakie is now practically abandoned, I understand. There were only about 18 inches of water at the Crossing, owing to the dry spell then prevailing in the southern districts of Central Queensland.

Projecting up above the water in a zigzag course were a number of boulders that served as stepping stones for any odd pedestrian who might chance that way, although I never encountered any hobo of the boot on that outback road. It was too far off the beaten track of the dingbat army of nosebag sundowners that in those days was in perpetual circulating motion in order to live. Now, thanks to the humane act of the old-age pensions, it is possible for the out beyond flotsam of over 65 to rest in some river-bend haven where fish are biting, rescued in their closing years from their continuous round to get the necessities of life.

Just across the creek at the Crossing, was a wayside groggery kept by an ex- shearer’s cook, appropriately labelled ‘Dirty Grady’s’. My mate Dan liked his drop at times, it was his one little failing, so while I made camp he went across the stepping stones as jaunty as a jumping bullfrog, but, he would step less true on his homeward way.

“I’ll have but the one,” Flash Dan had said.

as he combed out his bushy bright red whiskers, shining like a beacon light, prior to his departure for the old bush shanty light that lured him on. However, like Noah’s raven, when Dan got a taste he was in no hurry to return.

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