I don’t know that I have ever expounded on my great and varied harness driving experience. Back in the very early eighties (or maybe late seventies – who knows, recreational pharmaceuticals being what they were in my youth) I worked at a “dude ranch” setup, not a thousand miles from Melbourne. It was a nice establishment, quite well set up and managed for its day, and catering predominantly for school groups and holiday camps. I had been employed as an assistant manager – which meant that for a pittance and very good room and board I got to be relief cook, relief housekeeper, resident saddler, advertising copy writer, maintenance man, builder and relief trail boss. In addition I was able to split all the wood I liked to keep the boiler alight and devise activities to amuse the kiddies – a very very important role that last, amazing what mischief 30 odd kids can get up to if allowed to get bored. The guiding principles expressed by the boss that as long as the kids got home alive and with no pregnancies anything else could be managed. This robust approach to risk management has helped me greatly in management in later life, and is always a good starting point. One of the brilliant ideas I had whilst wearing my “activities director” hat (the same sweat stained Akubra I wore for all my other roles, but with more creativity) was overnight rides, with campout. We had the routes available, and everything else, even a chuck wagon (well an old milk cart actually) and the boss had acquired a small draught horse from somewhere to pull it. Monty was a very solid and feather creature of about 14 hands – in all directions. A very pleasant horse to ride if you weren’t in a hurry, and despite the lack of a saddle to fit him. I always found the best method was to point him in the direction I wished to go, recline upon his broad back, and have a little snooze. The Boss had bought a couple of sheds of harness and I wracked my brains for childhood memories of harnessing horses for plough and dray on the farm, when the tractor was broken down or bogged (as an aside here – may be worth considering again-) And with bibs and bobs and scraps and a side of leather to fabricate replacements for rotten, broken and missing bits, I cobbled together a set of harness, which while not beautiful, and somewhat patchwork in appearance, was functional. Fortunately there was a collar and hanes that was a reasonable fit, and after a good soak to wet and soften the collar, and a bit of log dragging round the paddock to shape it, I felt we were right to go. Now up till this time I had ridden Monty, and driven him from the ground. It probably would have made sense to put him in the cart a few times and iron out any kinks – but I was young and impatient (as opposed to now old and impatient) and I was sure all would be well. Came the day of the big ride, the intent was that the trailboss, kids and staff would lead out, and I would follow along, taking a short cut to arrive at the lunch stop first and have food waiting for the ravening horde. We set out with Monty doing his characteristic shuffle/plod and all went well for the first km or so to where our paths diverged, from whence we travelled another few hundred meters in splendid isolation and peace, with the scent of the bush and a lovely spring breeze. And the old bugger stopped. I didn’t have a whip, but whopped him with the reins and yelled - to no response. Cursed him and screamed – he flicked an ear, and possibly snored. I dismounted from the cart, walked around and led him a few strides – he moved freely and happily. Hopped back on and he refused to budge. This continued for quite some time, with precious minutes slipping away, until eventually I led the sod the 4 km or so to the rendezvous, and after lunch rode him back to the ranch, and returned with a tractor to pull the wagon for the rest of the trip. So I had experience. Fast forward a year or so, and for reasons that I will go into at another time I was riding down along the Murray and nearby areas, working where I got the chance. I got a couple of months work on a cropping farm between Echuca and Deniliquin, which was a great chance for me to get some dollars and for Zac, my horse, to regain some weight. At that stage all I owned was Zac, an Indian copy of a military saddle that I had cobbled together from scraps, one set of spare clothes and a home made swag. The farm I was working on was an old family concern, being run by two generations, the old man was a deeply religious gentleman who had always wanted to be a school teacher or a musician, but had ended up back on the farm, and his great joy was to sing in church – he had a magnificent tenor, that even I, tone deaf as I am , could recognise. In the shed were a couple of old derelict sulkies and some bits of harness., which I offered to buy – thinking that travelling by sulky would be a huge step up from being on horseback. Using the two sulkies I managed to cobble together one, replacing rotten shafts and collapsed bearings. I rolled it into a dam to swell the wood and tighten the spokes and freed the seat screw and the brake. The harness was beyond repair, but a hide of leather and many hours work using the old set as a pattern gave me a light breastplate rig that wasn’t bad at all. Now Zac was a rangy buckskin, about 15 hands, 6 or 7 years old, a great walking horse, very calm, but also quite nimble and agile. We had put up a lot of miles together and got on pretty well. I put the new harness on Zac, and we pulled a few logs around the place, worked on stop and go, and then finally – only in retrospect a week or two early – put him in the sulky. I led him round for a little, and then decided that it was fine and we could go for a test drive. Out the gate into a 50 acre paddock bisected by an irrigation ditch next door. Zac was always a free mover, and strode out beautifully, possibly a bit faster than I had led him previously. Which was fine- except the sulky kept pace, and he must have found it annoying, so he sped up. I tried to slow him, only to realise that whilst riding from the seat and giving cues and reassurance is very good, you can’t do it from the seat of the sulky – all you have is your voice and the reins. Both these options were proving ineffectual, and the pace was increasing. Fortunately, despite appearances, I have a strong sense of self preservation. This did not look like it was going to end well, so I calmly leapt over the back of the sulky and crashed to the ground in a heap. When I was able to sit up, it was to see Zac and the sulky accelerating to a full gallop across the billiard table flat paddock. It is possible if the irrigation ditch had not been there, he would have run himself out, or maybe something worse would have happened – as it was he was by no means panicked, and saw the ditch. I previously mentioned Zac was handy on his feet – he put the brakes on, dropped his rump and went to turn – only to be shoved up the bum by the breaching, which put him further off balance and knocked him over. By this time I was calculating where I could get a gun to shoot the poor beggar, as I couldn’t imagine him walking away unscathed. The sulky lifted a wheel and rolled over, and my shiny and strong new harness and traces were holding tight – fortunately the aged hickory shafts were not so elastic, and shattered. The body of the sulky landed in a crumpled mess in the ditch with one wheel spinning in the air and mud and dust everywhere. Zac scrambled to his feet, only to be jabbed in the flank repeatedly by a 2 foot long section of shaft that was still attached. He bucked and pigrooted around the paddock, and every buck jabbed him again harder. It took me an hour to get close enough to catch him and rescue him - and three weeks before I could easily catch him in the paddock again. SO there you have it – I know all about harness work, going to have another go at it one day.
Posted on: Sat, 15 Nov 2014 23:56:55 +0000
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