I turned briskly back to my donkey, “Thanks Grace. Off we come. It’s not your turn yet. We’re just showing the others what to do.”
She gave me a slightly puzzled look before leaving the truck and Lucky watched her every move until we were well and truly back on solid ground.
“Give Lucky a go now, Simon!” I called, hinting that the donkey would be happier with someone he knows. Simon took hold of Lucky’s lead and walked on; I heard the clunk, clunk of two hooves hitting the ramp, then another clunk, and another. All four feet were on! As to be expected, the donkey hesitated. But for Pete the smooth surface meant there would be no more mucking around and catering to the whims of these strange horses. Pete pushed, yelled at Ariel to push too and they slid the baulking Lucky across the shiny ramp. There was a bit of a hitch at the truck floor but in another 3 or 4 minutes Lucky was tied up.
“Okay. Next!” cried Pete.
There was no way I could bring myself to be involved in pushing and shoving a donkey, so I suggested taking Grace on and off again before trying to get the next donkey Marika on board.
I added, “See how close you can get her with Grace still on.”
Marika did not take her eyes off Grace. “C’mon Marika,” I coaxed, “See? Grace knows it’s okay.”
Three hours later the first seven donkeys were finally on board. The two biggest, Mary and Ben, were still waiting. They were both more than 14 hands high; no way could they be lifted, pushed or shoved. The two men jumped in Simon’s car to find a couple of neighbours to help. I grabbed the opportunity to gently coax a donkey.
I asked Ariel to get some carrot pieces. While waiting I scratched Mary’s forehead and finger-massaged her spine. Armed with carrot treats in my pocket I tugged the big donkey in the direction of the ramp, loosening my grip the instant she took just one tiny step, for which she also got a treat. Another step, loosen grip, another piece of carrot. For the daunting step onto the ramp I was even gentler. I let the lead loose the instant she took the tiniest movement forward or even just relaxed. The great advantage of donkeys over horses is their caution; they won’t hurt themselves like frightened horses often do. But this also means that donkeys like to do things in their own time. I wanted Mary to know that when she was relaxed and willing, we would leave her alone to get on at her own pace. Once on the ramp she obligingly let me lead her to the tie-up position at the side of the truck where she enjoyed the last piece of carrot from my pocket.
As I walked back down the ramp Simon’s car returned, four doors opened and out jumped four men. I could see Ben’s eyes wide with terror. But Pete was determined to get the last donkey on fast. After fifteen minutes of wrestling, Ben was finally locked into his stall on the truck, Pete exhausted from the battle. He looked at his watch; four hours to load nine donkeys.
“Okay Lizzie,” commanded Pete, “Get your beasts on board as fast as you can. Then your gear and we’re on the road!”
Did I dare correct him again? Yes I did, loudly enough for him to hear, “I’m Liz. Not Lizzie.”
I tethered Grace while Pete started to bring around the big leather divider to create a single stall. Big horses could see each other through the divider ‘window’ but it was too high for most donkeys.
“Oh no!” I exclaimed. “They need a double-sized stall. Charley will be too frightened if she can’t see Grace.”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” he spluttered. “Get the other one on. Pronto!” adding, as if an afterthought, “Liz,” my name emphasised.
In another two minutes Charley was tethered on board alongside Grace. Pete closed them in with the wire gate, rapidly helped load my gear in front of it, pushed up the big ramp to close the truck and ran around to the cabin. He was sitting at the wheel, telling me to hurry up, as I said my goodbyes to Ariel and Simon. I reached up to toss my daypack onto the passenger’s seat, found I couldn’t even reach the floor and clambered up the steps clutching my belongings. The truck cabin was like the interior of a campervan with large, comfy seats, in front of a roomy storage space, behind which a full-scale bed was made up. My goodness, I thought as I looked down at the waving people far below, No wonder truck drivers think they own the road!
It had been so long since breakfast that as soon as we were under way I asked Pete if he’d like a cup of tea.
“We’re not stopping till Mudgee. It’ll be at least two hours before we break.”
I laughed, “No, I meant, do you want a cup of green tea from my thermos flask.”
“Never had green tea but I’ll give it a go. Thanks.”
We wound around mountain roads, but the ride was so smooth I could enjoy sipping my tea with ease. I was impressed at how conscious Pete was of his live load, taking great care around bends, preventing the truck pitching and unbalancing the animals. His driving was also evasive, well back from other vehicles, and he avoided sudden braking.
At Mudgee it was warm and sunny. I was looking forward to a change from sitting in the truck and noticed an inviting coffee shop, right opposite an almost empty gravel car park.
“Look. There’s room for the truck. We could have lunch at that nice place over the road.”
“Nope,” replied Pete, definitively. “I know where there’s shade for the animals while we eat.”
In a moment or two, we were parked under a large tree on the edge of masses of bitumen surrounding a truck-stop café.
We sat at a table with my mind geared for at least a 30-minute break, until Pete said to the waitress, “Can you make this quick? We’re travelling with horses in the truck. And can you fill this lady’s thermos flask?”
Although the surprise registering on my face was mainly at his thoughtfulness, Pete addressed the need for speed, “We only stop for as long as we need to. No time to linger over a cup of tea.”
In 20 minutes we were out of there and on the road again.
“Where do you reckon we’ll get to tonight?” I asked.
“Narrabri.”
“Where do we stay?”
“At the showground. There’s some good shelters to toss your swag under in case it rains.”
This was the first thought I’d given to loading the donkeys on our own every morning for five more days, and momentarily panicked.
I managed to speak slowly, “Right. And we have to load the donkeys on our own. I wonder how we’ll go?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Pete replied calmly. “There’s always people around at the showgrounds. Someone will give us a hand.”
I felt only slightly reassured, unhappy about more rough handling of the donkeys but, with nothing we could do right now, I kept my concerns to myself.
We pulled in at Narrabri showground after dark. Pete backed the truck against a loading crush leading to stalls where the donkeys would spend the night. We offloaded the donkeys one by one but rather than locking them into individual stalls, we just shut the main gate. Pete distributed 11 biscuits of hay, while Charley and Grace watched expectantly through the mesh as I offloaded my gear.
In the morning I dressed and packed quickly. A cup of tea would have gone down well but no time to unpack my stove when we hadn’t tested our capacity to load the donkeys on our own. Pete joined me for a quick breakfast at the picnic table.
“Not many people about,” he commented.
“What do you mean, not many?” I replied. “There’s none.”
“Mmm,” he said thoughtfully as if he should have realised this himself. “How are we going to do it?”
I hesitated before cautiously asking, “Want to try my way first?”
Pete frowned