For three months we had been trekking on bush tracks and quiet dirt roads. Now I could see cars speeding along both sides of the white line. I felt on edge as I approached the wide bitumen road. We were starting afresh after a seven-day break at Mingela’s tiny, ancient hotel, where the proprietor served tasty dishes with fresh fruit and vegetables, relished by my trek-hardened body surviving on dried food. My long-eared companions had hardly seen a blade of anything green for six weeks. They gorged their way through a big roll of meadow hay. None of us wanted to leave and we were slow getting away. It was late morning and hot. To follow a highway for 40 kilometres to the next town of Ravenswood was daunting enough, but then another 60 kilometres of pavement to Burdekin Dam. After that, it would be 120 kilometres on gravel roads through drought-stricken country apparently not fit for man or beast.
That wasn’t all. Stupidly, I had agreed to meet my husband in Ravenswood. I imagined the raised eyebrows of close professional colleagues, with whom I had been engrossed for three years in an exciting project, reforming family law. They knew as well as I did that this trek was to mark my transition from 40 years of marriage to being single. I could have found a place on my own to continue working in Canberra and spend my free time bushwalking in the mountains of southern New South Wales: remote, pristine, native forests or alpine meadows. Instead, here I was, 50 kilometres from Charters Towers in North Queensland, west of the Great Divide, trudging alongside the busy Bruce Highway in desolate, drought afflicted country.
And for the life of me, I could not get the donkeys to walk at anything more than a stroll. Maybe they were hoping that if they walked slowly enough I would give up and return to Mingela because, try as I might, they ambled as if we were going nowhere in particular. As we dawdled along the wide verge, alongside cars and trucks racing along the bitumen, my agitation reached a crescendo, while the donkeys carried my burden of fear, as well as my load.
Who knows whether the donkeys picked up their speed or my perception changed? For the rest of the day, there was no holding them back; almost as if, I wryly mused, they knew that in two days they would be seeing Lloyd again. They liked him and may not have understood that starting this trek marked the end of our life with him (or maybe they did know and were excited to be seeing him after all).
My husband and I shared a passion for overnight bushwalking, far from facilities and other people. My 60-year-old body started to protest at having to carry 20 kilos on its back at around the same time I discovered donkeys. Lloyd and I had left Sydney and were living on 40 acres of undulating, dry, sclerophyll forest on the NSW Southern Tablelands near Bungendore. The only cleared area was a five-acre paddock on the eastern boundary. In 1998, after a couple of years of good rainfall, weeds and grass were growing out of control. A neighbour suggested donkeys because they would eat both thistles and grass. He added that donkeys could also be used to work on the property, or carry my load if I wanted to go bushwalking. Carry my load?! The idea of offloading my backpack onto donkeys was nothing short of breathtaking; and I could walk longer distances. That was it! I could see myself doing a long-distance journey with two donkeys—didn’t know where, didn’t know when, but somewhere inside of me, I knew it would happen.
It was my way to learn as much as I could before embarking on the actual experience, and visited many donkeys until I found the one for me. This was Grace. She had unusual colouring, greyish white piebald with patches of various shades of grey. Her markings and stocky build indicated an Irish donkey. Of all the donkeys I had seen, she had the prettiest face; eight years old, 11½ hands high, well-handled, she was ready for trekking straight away. But I wasn’t. I needed time to build my confidence.
Grace and I got to know each other by going on long walks together along local dirt roads through farms and bushland. For four-legged companionship, until I was ready to handle two donkeys, Grace had the horses next door. And Lloyd built a rugged, timber stable to protect her from the severe winter cold in Bungendore.
Every morning I carried my tea in an insulated cup, down the track through the orchard and the bush to the stable to enjoy the quiet companionship of my donkey. While I sat on an upturned milk crate sipping my tea, Grace would stand quiet and still where I could lean against her warm body if I wanted. She was entirely confident and secure within herself, but generally kept her distance from others unless I actually asked her to ‘say hello’ and let them touch her. It was not that my donkey was in any way fearful or timid. She was simply self-contained. The longer she was with me, the less I took her trust and affection for granted. I felt privileged to be her friend.
I still smile in amazement at our first meeting. She was for sale at Bathurst and I fell in love driving past her paddock. She was the most beautiful donkey I had seen!
Although previously well-handled, Grace had been in the paddock for nine months without human interaction. “She’s probably going to be hard to catch,” the owner warned. “But you can have a go if you like. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
I had no experience of what hard-to-catch can really mean and approached slowly, but unhesitatingly, toward the left side of this gorgeous donkey watching my every move. I kept my hands by my side until my body almost touched hers (but not quite), raised my right hand and rested it on her neck. With the other hand I placed the halter near her nose, then gently but firmly slid it into position and secured the buckle.
When the now ex-owner saw Grace walking quietly on the lead beside me, the woman exclaimed, “My god! That donkey really does belong to you, doesn’t she?!”
Six months after Grace arrived I went away for my annual 10-day meditation retreat. My husband looked after her while I was gone. Because she put on weight easily, her feed at night was limited to straw, which donkeys enjoy, but regarded by most other herbivorous domestic animals as good only for bedding. Lloyd brought Grace in at night, kept her yard clean and prepared her morning mix of chaff and supplements.
On my return, Lloyd was in the carport to greet me.
He knew what was in my mind, “Everything’s been fine with your donkey. She’s well and happy.”
“Oh, I’m so glad! But I hope she missed me a little bit.”
At that moment, a loud, raucous donkey call floated up the hill from the paddock.
“There you go,” said Lloyd. “That’s the first and only time she’s called out since you left.”
The day after I got back, I had to return to my work at the Attorney-General’s Department where a deadline was looming. In the morning I was too rushed to tarry in the donkey yard with my usual cup of tea. Next morning was the same as I resigned myself to long hours at the office until the report was finished. On the third morning as I hurried my chores in the yard, Grace behaved quite strangely. She picked up one of the milk crates in her mouth and carried it around for a minute or so before putting it down and picking up a second crate and doing the same. As soon as she got her chaff she settled down to eat happily as usual. Oh, maybe she was particularly hungry and anxious for her chaff this morning.
The fourth morning Grace repeated her strange behaviour of carrying milk crates and putting them down in random places.
“C’mon Grace!” I said crossly, “I’ll be as quick as I can. Stop being so impatient.”
Hastily I prepared her feed and placed the bucket in its customary place, but she continued moving the milk crates around until I’d finished cleaning up. Only after I left the yard and headed up the hill did Grace start eating from her chaff bucket. I was totally bemused. Then the penny dropped: Of course! She wants me to sit and have my cup of tea with her!
The following morning was Saturday so I didn’t have to rush. I carried my cup of tea down to the yard and deposited it, as usual, on a milk crate. Grace stood still beside the crate for the whole time it took for me