The View From Connor's Hill

Introduction

IT WAS TEN YEARS AGO THAT THE BREAKTHROUGH HAPPENED
. I had woken up not looking forward to my day, as usual. After lunch I found myself having a face-to-face discussion with my psychologist, which was never much fun. I was about to finish the session when she issued me with a straightforward, plain instruction: ‘Write down how you feel, Baz.'

Sue, the psychologist, was having trouble getting me to talk. At that time I rarely wrote anything down, and certainly nothing private or personal. However, for some reason I took her advice. I returned to my room in the psychiatric ward and, for the first time, wrote about how I saw myself … it was something we were continually being asked to do in group therapy.

‘How do you see yourself? How do you feel?'

To my surprise, my timid initial jottings quickly became a habit. Mind you, I didn't share this little secret with anyone. A bloke writing — what a cop-out!

After several weeks, I found myself starting to write about painful scenes and incidents that I had witnessed as a young man, but I laboured to describe or explain the events: my shoulders would tense up, my forehead would jam with a rigid frown, and I would hold the pen so tightly that it would almost snap. Then, one day, as I was writing my journal, something remarkable happened. Putting down the pen, I closed my eyes and pictured what I had been writing about. I saw a skinny young man in the jungle in Vietnam. He was very stressed, tired, concentrating, and looking quickly this way and that. Suddenly, a message squawked into his handset. He squeezed the receiver button and acknowledged the pilot.

‘One, green smoke, Roger, out.'

The dust-off chopper came in.

His mate Kards was choppered out.

The young man now had the battalion radio in his hands … and he was almost shaking with stress.

The scene was very clear in my head. Suddenly, like someone turning on a light, my own feeling of being stressed changed to something quite unfamiliar to me. I felt sadness. I wanted to enter that scene and comfort that young man, to offer him support and compassion. I wanted to explain to him that this bloody mess of a war was simply crazy. I wanted to tell him that he was okay, and that he was doing okay.

I was talking to myself … some 30 years earlier.

Again, I picked up the pen. Now, though, my writing changed: I wrote with emotion. From anger to sadness and in between, I would sway and sometimes dash — always from my new vantage-point that enabled me to see this frightened young man, along with his mates, suffer through an appalling ordeal. Little did I realise at the time that I was purging my soul. Within a month I had written several hundred pages. Admittedly, I didn't show anyone my jottings for almost three years. It was too private for that.

However, it worked.

Today, that period of writing is gone, finished. In fact, I believe that after the first 12 months I had flushed out most of my demons. Sure, I was still fragile, and I showed all the outward signs of a tired, worn-out old man. But, inside, my spirit was starting to grow. Like a campfire that has struggled to start due to the pouring rain, I was on my way. In time, this fire could cook several dampers and boil a billy.

Today, for me, writing is like recalling a treasure, a unique incident, or a story. It leads me to explore my memory, my opinion, my feelings, and my life. My only regret is that I didn't hit upon this activity decades ago. Almost every day now, my pen hits the paper running. Come — let me share some of these precious recollections with you.

MANY PEOPLE
contacted me after reading my first book,
Well Done, Those Men
. There were sections of the book that had appealed to them, such as its beginning, which described life in the country devoid of television and takeaways. Most people who corresponded wanted to read more about that era and the district out from Connor's Hill. As mentioned, over the last decade I had written at length about this period. Mainly, these were short pieces that I wrote for my own satisfaction. For me, and for many locals, returning to that period in written form has been a delight. I always felt proud to show them a story I had written. Sadly, that era has all but disappeared.

To produce this book, I put those pieces together. For authenticity, or to verify some of the yarns, I did many trips back to the high country, made numerous phone calls, and had a wonderful time. It was like turning back the clock — sitting around a table, having a cuppa, a scone, and simply talking. Many were surprised at my recall. That is a benefit of writing: delving into my mind for information invariably results in a totally forgotten memory coming to the surface.

I believe I grew up in a unique district, and that it had a profound effect on me. As a young person in the Omeo area, I always felt I was under a subtle form of scrutiny, a cultural check maybe, to ensure that I wasn't stepping out of line — not that I minded. Perhaps a good example was the time when I recall getting a tongue-lashing from my parents and being banned from driving their car for a month. I had been dobbed in by a local farmer. The night before, I had driven down Connor's Hill in my parent's car at a speed that now makes me shudder. I passed an old farmer in his Vauxhall Velox. With a lurch, I lost control of Mum's car. It went off the road, slewed on over a small hump, and then became airborne for some 20 feet before landing back on the bitumen. Fortunately, it corrected and we continued. There were five of us in the car. Death was but a stroke of luck away. The farmer reported me to my parents and, boy, did I cop it.

Living in the Omeo Shire was almost like having an extended family. Nowadays, most Australians grow up in cities; apart from immediate family, neighbours, work, or schoolmates, many have little idea of the diversity of the people who surround them. For me, during my youth, the high country was rich in characters and flushed with gossip, and the community was very close. From Glen Wills to Tambo Crossing, I knew every family in some way.

In normal day-to-day living, there were peculiarities such as people being typecast based on whether they lived above or below the Gap, as it was called. ‘Above the Gap' referred to the higher, colder areas around Omeo and Benambra, where the inhabitants experienced snow and bitter, cold winds, and their stock did it tough in the winter. The area is famous for its fine wool and hardy Hereford cattle that have been reared on the open plains of the high country. People as far back as Banjo Paterson have been entranced by this beautiful, unique country. ‘Below the Gap', where I grew up, was the Tambo Valley, consisting of Swifts Creek and Ensay, and many tiny locations such Tongio and Tambo Crossing. It was rare to have snow there, and our winters were milder, but our summers were much hotter. Yet it was only a five-mile drive from the lower to the higher open plains. The road that connected the two districts was called the Gap. It's where my parents' farm was located.

From early settlement, rivalry thrived between the two separate areas, particularly in sport. Other distinctive sub-cultures could be found throughout the entire shire. Farmers or graziers were the elite, while the majority of workers were employed in the many timber mills found in every town in the shire. Most farms also had labourers. Religion was a major influence, and subtle forces could be seen at play when it came to marriages and courting, religious instruction at school, and even funerals.

Mind you, I didn't realise that such things existed until I left to go into the army. But — and this is a big but — if this community was put under pressure, or if it had to cope with a disaster, it was as one. The peculiar quirks that superficially divided the areas disappeared, and the problem was met head-on — whether it was a death, a bushfire, a tragic accident, a house burnt down, or havoc caused by a freak flood. People were always there for each other.

Consequently, when I started writing for pleasure, particularly about those early times, I began to realise the benefit of having experienced that era, and I felt an inner satisfaction. I often smile as I relive a cherished period on paper. Countless times as a youngster, I remember enjoying a meal on the farm, or at home, when the table would come to life. There would be talking, laughter and, sometimes, a pack of cards. People had reputations as storytellers, and I always looked forward to their company. I never sat in a lounge room, as so many people do today, fixated on a box, staring at a beam of electrons in a vacuum.

There's no question that I spent my youth in a beautiful area that boasted many wonderful scenes and views. The film
The Man from Snowy River
was made just over the hills from where I grew up. The young man who did all the spectacular riding in that film, Ken Connelly, comes from Benambra, just up the road. And Connor's Hill, mentioned so vividly in my first book, is not the most spectacular landmark when compared to the rest of the shire I lived in. However, for me it offered something special: it was the gateway to home. Many times, when returning from a trip away from the area, I always felt I was home once we reached the crest of Connor's Hill. People have told me of their similar feelings when they arrive at a railway station, or turn into a street, or spot a tower or a spire or the like that identifies their town. That, for me, was Connor's Hill. There were times when I just stopped and admired the awesome view. As a young lad, often while returning home after work, I would comment to my friends about the sunset or the low-hanging clouds. My friends at the time, Rover the dog or Swanee the horse, never answered me, but I'm sure they enjoyed the view as well. Much later in my life, this view returned to me in a fleeting moment that allowed me to return home. At the time, I was thousands of miles away and believed I was going to die. That, however, is another story altogether.