The Wash Pool
The elaborate washing plant was now almost completed. The engine stood in a neat weatherboard house by itself apart from the other buildings. A sluice and well was excavated for the pump to work in. At the rear is a large receiving yard capable of holding a flock of sheep, then a race in the shape of bugle leading to a tip where about 20 sheep are penned and then tumbled into a long tank, in which they are well soaked and made to swim to the sweating shed which is covered in with felt and heated by steam.
The Start
At daylight a string of horses left the stables and yards for the course. Samuel Jones, the drover was on “Turk”, I had three going and there were may others. A timekeeper stood under a tree. The fourth Duke of Portland used to say “that a horse should never go onto a racecourse till it would fare anything”. What would his Grace have said if he had seen our crowd desporting themselves over the plains?
The Shearers Ball
We were all expressly happy, when McTavish who had been drinking, suddenly appeared and began to amble around by himself, jostling everybody in his wake. He bumped against me and insulted my partner, who happened to be the wife of an overseer, and a comely young woman too. As quick as a postman’s knock, I hit McTavish on his bunker and he lay on his back on the floor, them the crowd came in and hustled him out. He was disposed to get up a row and we were enemies ever after.
The Scrub Bull
The Stockmen had taken up positions at the edge of the scrub waiting for the wild cattle to come out and it was long past midnight when we heard a faint distant roaring that gradually grew louder. It was the bellowing of a mob coming along to water which ours answered.

Suddenly there was a cloud of dust and a wild rushing to and fro as the wild ones joined the coaches, the former only kept from breaking away by continually riding round them. One or two wild bulls with thick necks ran out and charged us as we endeavoured to turn them.
The Picnic Race
On Boxing Day scratch races were held at Ellangowan on the flat near the river, a dangerous course studded with trees.  A donkey race when one rides another’s horse, and the last is the winner caused some fun.

Last but not least was the Hack Race, such a field, all sizes, styles and colours.  The rules for costumes, boots were strictly adhered to.  Those who could not sport silk wore print, and some of the top boots were very eccentric in fit.    I rode a strange hack in this event, the ruck was enveloped in clouds of dust, and cods of earth struck us on our faces as this squad of equines thundered along.  “Ladybird” a yellow bay filly, only carrying 6 stone was proclaimed the winner.
I then rode up Spring Creek as I had to cross one or the other, and this proved as bad as the river.  So I eat my cake sitting on a log, and tethered my horse with the length of rein, and waited till the stars were fading  out of the sky – Crossing both creek and river I made up for lost time and at last arrived at “Bogarella”.
Shepherding its old world signification is suggestive of green soft pastures, clear rippling brooks, and a small flock of fat contented sheep, but shepherding 3000 weaners in long dry grass, although on horseback, driving 2 miles to water at the creek, continually rounding up, ejaculating and mimicking the yelp of a sheep dog, rattling your quart pot, and at the same time acting under instructions to allow the monkeys to spread is a delightful occupation.

I found George  in a fidget, he wished me to go back to “Burenda” and overland to Melbourne with sheep.  I had already spent a lot of money in travelling, my horses and saddles had been sent home and I firmly refused to abandon my trip south.

Oscar de Satge appeared on the scene the next day, and persuaded me to stand by the old man, he being George’s brother in law, I listened patiently to all he had to say.  After talking over everything through the night, I agreed to retrace my steps.  George came as far as Dalby with me, a fresh horse met me at Roma from “Coogoon”, and in a few days I was bustling about preparing for a 9 month journey with 30000 sheep
We travelled by easy stages towards home, our ration being finished.  Stuart went on ahead, promising to bring us some, but never returned, and we had nothing to eat for three days, all the stations being off the track.  We were both staving, and while the cattle were camping at midday, we killed three iguanas and roasted their tails on the ashes.  They proved superior in flavour to any chicken I had ever tasted.
Crossing the Maranoa
The weather was clearing when we reached the Maranoa which at the Forest Vale Crossing was wide and shallow, but still running strong. Our pet wethers were taken over on the opposite side and tied to tress, and after a great deal of persuasion the whole 10000 swam across.
Chucking Off
My turn came next, riding “Steyne”, a new horse purchased out of a travelling mob and guaranteed to be quiet, he suddenly went to market, pitched me over his head and disappeared in the scrub, being away for two days with the saddle on before he was found.  I rode this animal for some months, he was never to be trusted and would often buck sideways.
Carnarvon Muster
Weir and I rode our flat country horses which were quite unused to the tablelands. …. we rode towards Nardoo which we viewed from the range.  Here were Zamias growing, these have long bare trunks from 15 to 20 feet in length, tufted at the top with palm-like leaves. Slowly we made the descent to a gorge where there was a mob of cattle.  The country was now so broken that we dismounted, and securing our horses, chased the cattle on foot to the top of the range where they remained until we returned with the horses.