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The Southern Man
That morning I’d started work at 4am so we could get to the sheep sale on time. These on-farm sales up in the high country are always worth the trip. Whether we walk away with another few hundred head of sheep or if all we got out of it was a hot pie, I like to ride along regardless.
The thing about these high-country stations is they attract a certain type of character. Up in the Four Peaks it is no exception. There is often a young bloke who has managed to outlast the season. Bursting out of both his boots, hat chewed by more than the sun, and a body that is becoming conditioned to the terrain. He’s hardened enough to stick around.
This is not true of them all. Many young men are caught up on some romanticized ideal of what it means to be a shepherd in these parts. Few come to try their hand and fewer stay. This guy was one of those rare few.
Here he stood back from the crowd of cockies and agents. His work had been done, and not being part of the operating family, he had little business in the sale. He was just here because that’s where the sheep were. In truth he’d be much more comfortable loading the trucks in a few hours and heading back out with his beat-up ute and team of dogs. But for now, he just waited for the dust to settle and bidding to cease.
The molding of the kiwi southern man has always intrigued me. Those hardened 75-year-old men, too stubborn to retire, had to have been 19 at some point. I think the fascination lies in that we never idealize the southern boy. It takes long years, in a thankless profession, where the rewards are a buggered body and a fucked old truck, slaving away on less than minimum wage to create such character. The upside is they can spend their days with their dogs in these vast and spectacular ranges. A choice tradeoff, but only for a self-select few.
Anyway, that’s all I took away for the sheep sale, character observation.
We didn’t buy any sheep, they were too expensive, all we purchased was a steak and cheese on the way back through town.