“Donkeys,” I corrected. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to tell you how to manage horses.”
“Alright. Donkeys. How will you do it?”
“Very simply. I’ll lead each donkey along the corridor, up the ramp and into the truck and you walk behind.”
In a somewhat mocking tone, he checked, “It’ll be that simple, will it?”
“Yes. So simple that all you have to do is walk behind. Don’t touch them and no arm-waving or shouting or swearing at them.”
Donkeys are not just small horses with big ears and little feet. A horse’s reaction to fear is to run. A donkey’s natural response to fear is to stand still. This instinct is, I believe, the foundation for the donkey’s superior intelligence. By being on alert when standing still, they have developed the capacity to think and patiently wait until they know what’s expected and if it’s safe for them. You can push a horse and it will move out of the way. Push a donkey and it will stop to work out what the problem is. They need to know why you aren’t willing to wait until they’ve assessed the situation; and the harder you push, the more they dig their heels in, literally. But donkeys will move ahead quickly to get away from someone walking behind them.
“Even if it’s that easy we’d better get a move on,” urged Pete getting to his feet.
The truck was still parked with its loading ramp at the gate into the crush leading to the passageway between the animal stalls.
Pete opened the gate with one hand and saluted with the other, “Alright boss-lady. You’re in charge.”
I walked down the crush ahead of Pete and collected one of the leads we’d left hanging over the metal fence. Grace immediately left her stall to greet me, closely followed by Charley. I held out my hands to show them, sorry, no carrots and ushered them into the nearest empty stall where they would wait to load last.
For no particular reason, I decided to load the other donkeys in the same order as before. I clipped the lead to Lucky’s halter and reminded Pete, “I’ll lead. You just walk behind him. Keep your arms by your sides. Don’t touch him and even if he stops, don’t wave your arms or yell at him.”
“Yes boss.”
I led Lucky out of the stall and into the passageway with Pete walking behind. I stopped to open the gate into the loading crush and the donkey was impatient to move on. Truth was he didn’t like Pete.
Approaching the truck ramp I said quietly but firmly to Pete, “Keep walking but don’t do anything else.”
In a minute, the satisfying clunk, clunk sounded as Lucky’s hooves mounted the ramp. Up the ramp and in another moment or two we were on the truck. I led the donkey directly to the far left-hand corner and tethered him to the fixed lead on the truck wall. But his body was on the wrong angle, so Pete had to push with all his might to get the donkey around enough to close the panel. Getting Lucky on board had taken no more than two minutes but shutting the big door on him took about five. I knew how to do it next time.
Next donkey, “Okay, Marika, it’s your turn. You know what to do now Pete?”
“Yes. Only walk. Do nothing,” as if he felt ashamed.
In a minute or two we were on the truck with Marika tethered at the right angle to pull the leather panel around to create the travelling stall.
Pete expertly latched it in place exclaiming, “My goodness! You’re a natural.”
Eleven donkeys loaded easily. I looked at my watch, 25 minutes from go to whoa, a spectacular improvement on the 4-hour boarding debacle at Oberon.
We had a good run that day. When we pulled into the Taroom showground it was still daylight. The set-up was similar to Narrabri except that the truck could be reversed against a loading chute sitting up in the air. Pete distributed the feed and filled the water troughs while I led each donkey in turn down the chute and into undercover yards.
Next morning soon after daylight, the sun already shining bright and warm onto the picnic table, Pete and I were having breakfast.
“Same deal again?” asked Pete. “Only took 25 minutes yesterday. Wonder if we can beat that?”
“Well,” I replied, “Don’t give off that hurry-up energy to the donkeys will you? It will definitely not speed things up.”
Pete nodded slowly. Maybe he was beginning to comprehend that donkeys might be different from horses. I collected a lead from the fence and sought out Lucky to start loading in the same order. Pete walked behind the donkey along the passageway between the stalls and out the gate. I moved myself to get the donkey in the right position for tethering as Pete stepped back to bring the big leather door around. I could feel our energy synchronise. Pete and I smiled at each other in satisfaction of a job well done. Only then did we turn around. My goodness! Ten pairs of eyes were looking at us expectantly. While we had been getting one donkey on the truck, the rest had boarded themselves! All stood quietly waiting for the next instruction. I couldn’t stop laughing, not only at the donkeys but the look on Pete’s face: eyes, mouth, eyebrows, forehead all round and open wide in shocked surprise. The colour drained from his face, which then reddened as he spluttered about how to get them in their travelling stalls as the clever sideways arrangement on the truck could accommodate only one loose donkey at a time.
“Don’t worry. We’ll send them all off and bring them back one at a time.”
The idea of taking the donkeys off the truck when we needed them on was just too much for him. I took just a few minutes to get them off, and back on again one at a time, latching each one in because Pete was still too stunned to help.
As we jumped off the truck onto the ground, he declared, “Well, that was easy, wasn’t it?”
In my anxiety at Narrabri I too had underestimated donkeys’ intelligence. They soon worked out what was happening: that we were travelling, hopefully to somewhere interesting. Being on the truck was preferable to standing around in small showground yards and no-one wanted to be left behind.
The rest of the trip passed uneventfully, donkeys loaded easily, Pete and I got on well and had our routines down pat. We arrived in the little township of Herberton from where I rang my friend Joe Hamilton to let him know his donkeys were about to arrive. Very soon we stopped at a gateway where Joe, his partner Lyn and their ten and 12-year-old daughters were waiting, faces bright with anticipation. As soon as I got Charley and Grace off, the Hamiltons ran on in turn to lead a donkey off.
To give me a chance to acclimatise to North Queensland’s heat and humidity after the dry, cool autumn weather of southern NSW, the Hamiltons had invited to me stay for a couple of weeks. The relief on Grace and Charley’s faces at being on solid ground again was much more pronounced than at our overnight stops along the way. All the donkeys went off to explore their surroundings; none bothered to eat or drink straight away. They clearly knew the truck trip was over and that we’d arrived.
The humans were soon seated on the veranda around a big table laid for lunch.
Joe immediately addressed the driver, “So, how was it, Pete, travelling with donkeys?”
Pete looked down as if trying to find the right feeling.
It was a moment or two before he looked up again, slowly nodding, “Well … I’ve learned a lot,” and laughed at the irony.
Neither man even glanced in my direction, but I smiled inwardly.
Chapter 3: SETTLING IN
Cooktown to Wujal Wujal
I spent ten delightful days at Herberton, walking the donkeys daily to acclimatise them and keep the three of us fit. We were then floated to Cooktown by a neighbour of Joe and Lyn. I stayed three days