“Donkeys?! The last time I saw a donkey was back in England—donkey rides for kids on the beach but,” he quickly added, “I’ve been loading and moving horses for twenty years and there’s no animal I can’t manage and I have the best truck in the business.”
“What makes it so good?” I asked.
“Horses travel sideways so they aren’t so stressed. Thick rubber floor covered with sawdust that I change every day. Horses separated by heavy leather panels so there’s nothing rigid for them to hit up against. Y’know, when some stupid jerk in front brakes suddenly and the poor animals get thrown around.”
I remembered how hard it was to float the donkeys smoothly through the city while Pete continued, “And I designed it so that the leather panels open flat against the side of the truck and you close each one as the horse goes in. The horses can even see each other because the leather panels only come up as high as their shoulder. They travel better because they know they’ve got company.”
Despite having no clue how a regular horse transport was designed, I exclaimed, “Wow! That sounds fantastic. So can you do it?”
“Sure, but depends on when.”
“Early April.”
“Ah. That’s a month away. That’ll be fine.”
“Good,” I said, “What’s your price?”
“What’s your lowest quote so far?”
“$14,000,” I lied.
“Eleven horses. That’s nearly a full load for me, I’ll do it for $11,000.”
“That’s excellent. Now I have one more question. Only two of the donkeys are mine. The other nine belong to a friend who lives at Herberton. I’m starting a long-distance trek up that way. Would you be able to take me and my gear as well?”
“How much gear?”
“Four fairly bulky saddle bags, two pack saddles, a rolled up sleeping mat, a smallish backpack and two heavy duty plastic storage boxes.”
“God! How do you carry big plastic boxes on the donkeys?”
“I don’t. They’re to keep my foodstuff dry and vermin-proof until I start my trek a couple of weeks after I get to Herberton. The food will then be carried in the saddle bags.”
“Yes. I reckon we can fit your gear on the truck. And I’d be happy to have company for a few days.”
I couldn’t believe my luck but, rather than risk a subsequent change of heart, I ventured to ask, “What about your insurance? Will they let you?”
“None of their business. I’m an owner-driver. I can carry a passenger whenever I like.”
“You’re on!”
I left Gurrewee on the 4th April 2004. Grace, Charley and I walked as far as the main road before loading into the float for the 7-hour drive to Oberon. Walking with my donkeys along the dirt road was an ordinary thing to be doing on this fresh, sunny, autumn morning. It was also the most extraordinary thing I’d ever done: embarking on a 3,000-kilometre journey on foot to start a new life. Lloyd caught up with us in the ute just as we arrived at the end of our road.
We had a good run. The donkeys had floated well for four and a half hours when we stopped at Cowra for takeaway lunch to eat at the picnic ground. Still so ordinary: the donkeys grazing nearby; my husband and I drinking cups of tea out of the thermos flask I always carried on long car drives. It all looked like the start of one of our many outdoor adventures together. I felt my husband’s pain and did not try to hide my compassion; sipping my tea, the tears that welled were for him, not for me. Our relationship had failed the test of time from glorious romantic love to enduring companionship, but perhaps I had finished grieving. I felt strong and excited.
When we reached our Oberon destination Lloyd took the donkeys to their paddock; he wanted to say goodbye to them on his own. He seemed numb when we hugged goodbye. I kissed him on the cheek and waved as my husband seated himself behind the wheel for the long drive back to Bungendore towing the empty float.
Next morning was Good Friday. At exactly 6.30am the big horse-truck lumbered into Ariel and Simon’s driveway. A short, stocky man with a ready smile, Pete O’Brien soon had the conversation going smoothly and easily. Ariel warmed her hands around her tea cup and confessed she was a bit nervous about this. They loved having their friend’s donkeys but had done nothing more than give them treats. Pete reassured them in his Manchester accent that he’d been handling horses all his life and getting them on and off trucks for 20 years.
He turned to me, “Got y’r gear ready to load, Liz?”
“Yep. It’s all packed and waiting down the end of the veranda.”
“We’ll get your donkeys on board first. You go and get them while the rest of us move the others ready at the back of the truck.”
Pete’s resolute tone suggested he was not used to anyone disagreeing with him, at least about loading his truck.
I replied gently but assertively, “Sorry Pete, but I’d rather my donkeys board last because they’ll be easy. In case the others are slow to load, I don’t want Grace and Charley standing in the truck for ages before we leave.”
“Well. That’s not very positive of you, Liz,” he chided, looking at his watch and getting to his feet. “Okay folks, it’s seven o’clock. Time to load up! Let’s go.”
I pointed to my gear at the end of the veranda and asked, “Do you want my stuff to go on now?”
“No, it’ll go on last,” replied Pete, “but move it all over near the truck so we can move off pronto once the horses are on board.”
I only mentally corrected him. They’re donkeys, not horses. One difference of opinion from me was probably enough for the day.
Simon directed Pete to a ledge where the back door of the truck could be let down to make a flat loading ramp. It took five trips to carry my mostly heavy pieces of gear from the veranda to the truck, while Ariel got eight donkeys tethered to trees nearby. Pete and Simon tried in vain to get the smallest donkey Lucky to put one little hoof on the ramp.
Placing the last of my gear down I could hear our driver’s voice get louder, “C’mon, let’s stop pussyfooting around. There’s just two ways to get a difficult horse onto a truck. You give them a good push which they don’t like, so they run on ahead of you. Or y’trick them by leading them well away from the truck, then turn about and give them a fun-run; and they’re still running when they hit the truck.”
Hmm, I thought, for a second time, they’re donkeys not horses.
I went to fetch Charley and Grace to tether them at trees not too far from the truck and returned to find Pete, Simon and Ariel gathered at Lucky’s rump. All three were shoving, huffing and panting. Pushed from behind, a donkey reasons that what’s in front must be pretty scary. Lucky had baulked as only donkeys and mules can: heels and bum down with front legs jammed straight. Pete was calling him all sorts of dreadful names intermingled with puffed remarks about how a small beast could be so strong. And they’re smart, too, I thought. I didn’t ask if they’d tried the ‘running trick’ as I knew what had happened: at the point where the ground stopped and the truck ramp started, the donkey came to a screeching halt… which is why they’d resorted to pushing.
“Come on Liz! Come and give us a hand,” yelled Pete.
Tethering Charley to a tree with edible vegetation within reach I called back, “Relax for a minute while I walk Grace on to show Lucky it’s not so scary.”
Grace and I walked past Lucky and the three flushed people, onto the ramp, into the truck and all the way to the front where we turned around to face them.
“There you go, Lucky,” I said. “See?