John Carins – know as Dryblower Jack:-
John was born in Newcastle on Tyne, in Northumberland, England in 1890 and was educated in Rutherford College in that town. He was said to have come to Australia in 1913, he had a discharge certificate from the British services. As a young man he worked at various trades including sandalwood cutting. He married a widow with four children, but the marriage failed and he then moved to the Goldfields in search of gold.
Jack purchased a dry blower for £4 and it was said he was highly skilled in the art of dry blowing, so skilled in fact that the School of Mines would send students out to his camp for instruction.
He had a wonderful intellect and a great sense of humour and a love of children. He was also a gifted poet and would recite at the drop of a hat. He was essentially a hermit but by no means lonely. Each day he would ride on his bicycle and pedal around the bush looking for a likely prospect. He built himself a camp on the Three Mine Hill where Herald Resources pegged their claim in later years. It was made of corrugated iron and bush timber. He paved round his hut with old bricks and planted flowers everywhere. he called his camp ‘Belsen’.
John Carins Camp
Jack died on 1 Jul 1971 and is buried in the Coolgardie Cemetery, he was 81. He was injured accidentally by falling from his bike at the rail crossing just near Coolgardie on the way back to his camp. He was badly hurt and was taken to the Coolgardie Hospital. He couldn’t stand the bright electric light and the bustling nurses so he discharged himself and returned to his camp. There he composed a letter to his sister in England then went out in the bush and blew his head off with a stick of gelignite.
A PLEA FOR MERCY By John Carins
We watched the herds increasing, unchecked as years went by
Now their halcyon days are ended for the wild horse herds must die.
They have strayed upon the highways so the callous road hogs say
To remove this equine menace we must sweep the herds away.
So one and all must fall before the gunshots fiery blast
For the horses’ day is ended; his usefulness is past.
A band of eager hunters is gathered for the fray
For the old blood lust still lingers in the hearts of men today.
And they welcome this occasion to test their murderous skill
On the poor defenceless Brumbies which have never done them ill
The sires and dams and playful foals so innocent and free
Each one must fall the victim to the deadly three-o-three.
For the edict has been issued that the whole unbroken lot
Must be slain by hired assassins and their bodies left to rot.
They drank our loaming water and spoilt each cycle track
But we still forgave the Brumbies when we cast our memories back
To the days when men came questing, an avid human tide
To reap the golden harvest from fields new found and wide.
In those days we chased the rainbow’s end o’er many a desert track
And the hardy little Brumbies took us there and brought us back.
Well and faithfully they served us in cart and heavy dray
So we make our plea for mercy for the Brumby herds today.
We won’t long survive their passing; our race too is nearly run
And soon we’ll find our long last rest beyond the setting sun.
But still while one of us remains upon this earth below
It won’t be wise for one who shared this crime to let him know
Or he’ll hear his ancestry imputed by an old Australian word
Should he dare to boast about the time he shot the Brumby herd.
John’s camp still exists today although it suffered some severe damage in the recent storms. The camp is how he left it with some of his furniture still there. A few years ago it was said that his false teeth were still in a glass by his bed but have since disappeared. Just beside the camp is a native Eremophila tree which Jack fondly called his ‘Christmas Tree’. Each Christmas he would hang all sorts of bits an pieces from the tree which he found in the bush, he said they were ‘presents from god’, the kids loved it.
From notes by Jack Tree and West Australian Bush Poets
John Carins with his dryblower 1969
John Carins in his camp 1969
Jack Carins in his camp
Moya Sharp
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Sounds a wonderful guy with a heart of gold. Wonder if any of those beautiful horses have survived.
I would like to think they did barbara
I would like to think they did Barbara. (:
Thank you Moya for the wonderful story of dryblower Jack.As always look forward of reading your hostorical stories of the gold fields as i was born in Mt Magnet and visit goldfields area nearly every year Thanks Mario
So glad you like the stories, your kind words are much appreciated.
Jack was my Great Uncle and I remember as a kid, back in the 60’s, my Great Aunt Mary (his sister) showing us an article in a magazine about him. It could have been the National Geographical. I didn’t know an awful lot about him and was amazed to find out that he was a poet and someone who really cared about his adoptive country.
When I was a boy in the mid sixties, I lived at Kurrawang. On the weekends, we used to go on outings – a mob of boys travelling on the back of a truck. One afternoon we happened on Jack’s camp. He came out and greeted us warmly. He had a small garden watered from the pipeline that passed by. There was separate small ‘shed’ for his bike and half an upturned, rusted oil drum that protected the dwelling of his resident goanna. One room of his shack had a skull and crossbones on the door – it was his explosives store. His bedroom had a canvass tent suspended inside it. He pointed out his “Christmas Tree” – significantly decorated all year round with anything bright and interesting he had found in his wanderings. It’s as though it was always Christmas to Jack. Then with a twinkle in his eye, he sang to us in the local Wongi language, a song that was familiar to us; “Jesus muku muku ngayu nya” – Jesus loves me, this I know.
The next time I visited his camp was soon after he had died. Everything was there and in tact and we left it as we had found it; a solemn memorial to an extraordinary character.