Murchison Reminiscences

LIFE ON THE GOLDFIELDS
A Few Murchison Reminiscences
by D T Morgan

If the man who battled for the precious metal 0n the Murchison five or six years ago dropped down there again and expected to find things as they were, he would be sadly disappointed. True, a few of the old associations remain, but for the most part, the conditions that existed then have gone,

” like the touch of a vanished hand, or the sound of a voice that is still.”

The Murchison has taken a big step down the ladder towards stolidity. Seven or eight years ago, or even less, men tumbled into the Murchison towns loaded with gold, which was speedily reduced to the minted stuff, and just as quickly converted into something drinkable, with a hearty “Join me mates; have one yourself and fill ’em up again.”  The lucky prospector’s affairs were soon in ” liquidation.” When the cheques were “cut out” they packed up and trudged out back in search of more. Those davs have passed, because most claims have reached water level, and the free and easy prospector has been elbowed out to make room for the deep sinking miner.

Now and again, of course, a lucky man drops on something good in alluvial, and following the traditions of the fraternity he “plays it up”. The wild ones of the legion are now few and far between, they are being weeded out through the giving in of an exhausted nature. We have none now like ‘Tom the Rager’, his followers are only in name, or rather they follow his example only in mild form. The wild, roaring days of Nanine, Cue, Day Dawn and Mount Magnet are a dream of the past.

It must not be thought for a moment, however, that the present miners are greedy, grasping or penurious. They are the reverse. But business enters into their engagement just as it does into their toil. Hard-working, thrifty, but charitable to a degree, they are a sterling portion of the Westralian population. “Trust to luck”  is no longer their motto, and shiftlessness has no place in their creed. Instead, they toil to get an ounce to the ton and jump for joy for two ounces, where their predecessors would not be bothered with such a show, and with their earnings, they support organisations for their betterment, nobly assist charities, build halls and institutes, and generally contribute generously towards schemes which will ultimately build up Kalgoorlie’s and Boulder’s. A fine crowd, the successors of worthy pioneers.

How much do we owe the hardy pioneer? How many men will fraternise this Christmastide 0n the footpaths in the various Murchison towns, and over a social glass discuss the early days? The privations of the pioneers, their exploits, tramps, finds, pranks, and their jamborees when they dropped on something good and painted the old canvas town red have many a time been chronicled. And as the reminiscences flow their voices will lower in reverence to one they all knew;

Who has his only lonely grave half hidden-
Where the Mulga droops above.

(to plagiarise Ogilvie) A life full of pages of strange paradoxes, in which greed, anger, charity and good nature all have a chapter, and the epilogue is a grave on the barren ridge and the memory left to his old mates who shared his waterbag, his tinned dog and the luxury of a spree when he struck it. The cemeteries are full of such men. But many who remain to recount their worth will tell you that through the hardest battles, these men’s doctrines was—reckless it may be called –

If I had my life to live over again would I live the same?
Would I? Of Course I would!
What glorious days they were,
It sometimes seems the dream of a dream
That life could have been so fair-

May the rocks in the lonely mulga scrub rest lightly on them, they fought a good fight in the legion that never listed. No, the Murchison is short of celebrities of the ‘Tom the Rager’ kind now. Probably because they would feel as much out of place there as a knight in armour at the Boer war. Now and again, of course, an oddity pops up. The most recent was a teamster, who is popularly dubbed “Paddy the Pig.” This loud-voiced son of Erin put up the record for W.A.

He went on a journey of 300 miles without having a wash, fought a man who insulted him and beat him and returned the 300 miles with the dried blood on his face. Six solid weeks without a wash. A challenge to somebody! The mention of a railway always draws a yarn from the old hand of the coaching days from Mullewa. The writer has reason to remember every letter of the name. The other morning at daylight the train made a bold dash to mount the hill towards Geraldton.

The engine panted and puffed like an alderman running a hundred yards after dinner, and had to give it up before the top was reached. Anxious passengers watched every inch of the struggle and were chagrined when the engine ran downhill again to gather fresh energy. A second attempt likewise failed, although two fellows perspired freely shovelling sand on the rails, Then they ran back and shunted off a carriage and a baled one or two of passengers and their luggage. Another dash for freedom succeeded in getting near the brow of the hill. Then the excited travellers began to count the inches and dispute as to whether they had passed this or that bush last lug, there was a spell every six inches. After a terrific struggle, during which not a passenger drew breath, the top was reached, and in a few seconds we were speeding away past mulga at the terrific rate of about three miles an hour. Later, we learned that the trouble was caused by ants — whether they were white ants or not we did not hear.