One for the Road by Tony Horwitz Read Free Book Online Page A

and princess are being finished at a boarding school in Toowoomba. But there is a feudal retainer on hand to escort us by motorcycle to a back paddock of the forty-eight-thousand-acre property. Forty-eight thousand acres. That’s bigger than my birthplace, Washington, D.C.—but with a population of five instead of seven hundred thousand.
    Not counting the animals, of which there seem to be several million. But for some reason our sheep don’t want to join this livestock ghetto. As soon as Paul opens the tailgate, the rams retreat into a rugby scrum at the back of the trailer. First in is the caretaker’s sheepdog. He barks and howls and emerges a moment later, butted and bruised. We prod at the animals from the sides of the trailer. Still nothing. Finally, Paul crawls in on hands and knees to drag a ram out by its horns. The others follow, as sheep are wont to do.
    “Bloody dumb beasts,” Paul mutters before catching himself and falling silent. Receipts are exchanged. One vassal nods to another. And atransaction worth several thousand dollars is done without the absentee owners missing a ray of sun on the Riviera. Some among the Lucky Countrymen have ridden far atop the merino’s back.
    From the “rolling down” country of the sheepocracy we drive into the dusty towns of the wool proletariat. Here the homes are modest, the men brawny from wrestling and shearing sheep. It is late in the day, though, and most are hoisting nothing weightier than a pot of beer. Paul has to keep moving stock, so I pile out at a town called Blackall and retire to the Bushman’s Hotel to wash down all that quiet.
    Over a tinnie of Fourex, served outback-style in a Styrofoam holder, I learn that a husky lad named Jackie Howe made shearing history near Blackall in 1892. He clipped 321 sheep in less than eight hours (almost one a minute), a feat that took fifty-eight years and mechanized shearing to surpass. The standard-issue singlet that shearers wear has been known ever since as the “Jackie Howe.”
    The crush of drinkers and the sweaty Jackie Howes give the Bushman Hotel all the jostle and stink of a woolshed. But then, after four days on the road, I’m no rose either. My shorts and khaki shirt are coated in dust. My hair is matted and much too long for soliciting rides, not to mention standing in the outback sun. What better place than Blackall to get the shearing done?
    The local hairdresser takes one look at my sweaty locks and decides she is closing early. So I hitch a ride with two shearers deeper into sheep country, deeper into sheep history. Barcaldine, an hour farther on, was the site of the “Great Shearers’ Strike” of 1891. When the shearers laid down their blades and manned a picket line, the stationmasters brought in scabs and the Queensland government sent troops. Eventually, the strike was broken and the union leaders arrested under an ancient statute barring “unlawful assemblage, riot and tumult.” But the strike spawned nationwide union meetings, and later, the creation of the Australian Labor Party.
    Northwest of Barcaldine, the land becomes flat and bare again. The map shows almost nothing for some distance after a place named Winton, so just before sunset I hop out at a turn-off to the plainly named town.
    If Blackall is the woolly shoulder of Queensland sheep country, Winton is its neglected dag end. Even at tea time the streets are so scorched and dusty that I feel like Lawrence of Arabia navigating from the highway to the business center. The first sign of impending civilization is the publictoilet, labeled “Rams” on the men’s door and “Ewes” on the women’s. I turn on the cold tap and feel my arms scoured by hot artesian water.
    Time to consult my tourist guide. Maybe there’s someplace more inviting a little farther along. There isn’t.
    Anyway, the tourist guide tells me that even wretched Winton has its claims to fame. A “large predator” chased some smaller dinosaurs near town 100