Quorn Dogs

“You on channel Miss Betty?”
The silence out of the radio is accompaniment for the empty horizon. “You on channel Miss Betty?”
Nothing. The microphone is dropped back into the console and we drive on, dust erupting and billowing behind us, saltbush blurring beside us.
This expedition started with a sit in the sun on the veranda lazy “what do you want to do today?” and became decisive and focused at the prospect of driving through ghost towns and exploring empty ruins – on the way to meet “Miss Betty.” Joy Betty in fact.
Run out on a straight dirt road for mile after mile leaving a Space Shuttle plume of dirt that will not settle in the still air. Bore down on a spectacular serrated, purple ridge, cut across it and be met with another flat plain with a cream slash of a road scored across it. Aim for the next serrated ridge on the horizon. Repeat often, until each flat and each rise takes you across the Adelaide/Sydney highway and into the stony ranges in which “Miss Betty” lives.
“You on channel Miss Betty?”
Silence. A burst of static and some clips of truckie conversation from the highway. Then more silence.
We continue on another twenty miles into the hills until we arrive in the courtyard of an immaculately kept sheep station. There is not a scrap of anything lying around. No weeds. Vehicles parked. Everything trimmed and proper. A farm-dog cross (with some kelpie in him somewhere) spins and barks at the backdoor of the farmhouse and badly wants a piece of us. The garden fence keeps him at bay.
“You on channel Miss Betty?”
“I’m up.”
“Just pulled into your yard.”
“OK, give me ten minutes.”
We disembark and the chill wind bites us. The sun is behind cloud and the warmth has gone out of the day. But we are not too distracted by the weather. Rather the pristine state of this place makes us wonder. Another dog makes us careful for a small moment – it races up the track from nowhere barking and challenging us. We watch it and it suddenly decides we are not able to be intimidated and flops down in front of one of the barns. With his back to us, broadcasting disdain and indifference. It makes me laugh.

As the yard darkens Joy appears in her truck, motorbike on the back and a tumble of dogs trying to keep balance in the tray. People say she is in her seventies so I guess I was expecting someone like Grandma Walton.
Laconic and as slow talking as all the others around here she alights from her truck with a cheery hello and a firm handshake. Her brown hair is cut into a fringe and bob which looks very stylish under her stetson. Her eyes sparkle as she engages in some banter with Frank and tells us how the slip of a dog at her feet is a “killer.” In her boots and jeans, with her hat setting of her bob, and with her ready laugh she charms us in an instant. We wonder how she does this sheep station in the middle of nowhere but love that she does. We have seen foxes, hardrunning emus, flighty sheep, sedentary cattle and bright parrots and galahs on our way. It all pales against meeting this remarkable farmer in the middle of the boondocks. The long haul was worth every bump of it.
The dog at the back door is still jumping around barking its head off but we ignore it until we have finished helping her with some chores. By the time we are ready to get back on the road it is dark and cold and we leap in our truck to clear out. As we do our headlights pick up Joy starting to stack firewood. We bundle out again and head over to give her a hand – which necessitates a quick traverse of the back yard.
“Oh, never mind him” she says of the dog that has been attempting to get our attention our whole visit. He is just itching to get out to the back barn – I’ve got a bitch on heat tied up in there.”
It’s a perfect picture.