2 Crazy Sheilas

            I think this trip is starting to make my mind slip as time, days, and where I was previously is all becoming a bit blurred.  On the 16^th Claire and I hopped on the OzBus where we were greeted by our tour guide who reminded me of a creepy Ned Flanders from the Simpsons, using terms like “okaly dokaly.”  It was a long drive to the Kroombit cattle station, finally arriving there as the sun was setting.  The lazy Brahman cows greeted us as we entered the long drive and reached our sleeping cabins.  After getting settled into our tiny rustic rooms we went to dinner first taste testing a mystery meat that made me feel brave for trying. 

            Once dinner was finished we hung out for a bit around the bar.  The bar was not technically a bar, though there was an ancient white fridge that stocked beer.  The bar was actually an old wagon complete with wheels and a tawny chicken with it’s red crested head nestled in it’s wings in a deep sleep.  The bartender (and manager of the station) was a white haired man sitting on a recliner next to the fridge and within an arm’s reach of the counter.  His name was Big Al and a wooden sign posted on the wagon that read Boss gave a strong connection to Dukes of Hazard.  This man, no matter how old, looked like someone who’s orders were taken seriously.  As he talked about the cattle station his wrinkled and spotted hands ran over a leather whip.

Big Al turned out to be excellent at teaching us all how to crack a whip.  I must say I was pretty good and took a second turn which I later regretted as I could barely move my shoulder.  After we all took our turns standing on boxes, using goggles for protection, and occasionally snapping ourselves in the back or arm, it was time for the real excitement . . . mechanical bull riding!  Claire and I foolishly put our names down first.  Claire put on her white helmet and climbed into the maroon, inflated ring.  She jumped onto the fur covered machine and the three girls operating the bull gave a countdown.  It seemed before the girls had finished with one Claire hat shot off like a cork from a bottle of champagne.  Her second time was slightly better but once again her little, helmeted body went flying.   I couldn’t stop laughing hysterically (neither could the others), that is until it was my turn next.  I nervously put on my helmet and had to get one of the three girls to hoist me up onto the machine.  My stomach lurched as they began their frightening countdown.  I may be bigger than Claire but I flew just as far.

The next morning we woke up early to grab some grub.  Originally Claire and I were not going to enter the country festivities like horseback riding  or shooting guns but soon we were in the spirit and I’m glad we went.  We waited as the wranglers put saddles on the horses.  Mine was Grace, tan with a  bright blue bridle.  Our task on the horses was to muster or herd goats into a pen which took awhile as we each adjusted to our horses.  Tons of goats were slowly  penned, the babies crying the whole time noisily.  After that job was done we headed back and got off of our horses, walking away a bit bowlegged. 

After horses and goats we went to shoot some clay pigeons (you heard me).  It’s funny how everything is either made in China or Taiwan but the bullets for our shot gun . . . “Made in the U.S.A.”  The boys went first and then it was the ladies turn.  Surprisingly I shot 3 of the 5 clay pigeons and everyone joked that “The Americans were definitely here.” 

We had penned all of the goats earlier and we soon learned why.  We were going to be in a goat rodeo!  Divided into groups of three, Claire, I, and an older man from Las Vegas teamed up as Team America.  We laughed and watched as the teams before us chased the goats, grabbing them by the horns, and branded them with a fake brander.  Once again I laughed until it was my turn.  The wrangler, a hillbilly in a blazing orange shirt covered with holes (probably from goat wrestling),  brought out a large goat who gave us the stink eye until Claire grabbed him by the horns, the older man brought him to the ground, and I poked his bum with a metal rod. 

Before leaving the station we played a game where we all joined hands in a circle and spun a bottle.  I know what you’re thinking but I didn’t end up kissing some country boy.  The light green bottle paused, pointing between the guy next to me and the person on his other side (thank God).  What this meant is that this is where the two people would be zapped by a cattle prod, sending the electricity to each of us in turn.  The moment the electricity hit everyone in the circle jumped simultaneously.  That was the end of our stop in Kroombit.  Goat mustering on horseback, shooting clay pigeons, wrestling goats, riding mechanical bulls, and cracking whips all in a couple day’s work.  Oh and the meat we had for dinner the night before . . . goat :S

Miranda