Chapter 29 - BogLife - Part One

Full to the brim!

Who would ever complain about too much rain on the Granite Belt?

After years and years of ground-cracking, heartbreaking drought – praise be Zeus – down came the rain! The excitement and relief were profound. In Stanthorpe town people greeted each other with a skip in their step, wide smiles and the ubiquitous question: How much you get? Those rain gauges that had sat dusty for so long or lying on their side in surrender were now the subject of daily competitive conversation.

‘I got 35 at mine.’ (Quietly confident.)

‘I hear Tracey* got 36 over in Liston.’ (Spoken in a tone of voice usually reserved for infidelity.)

‘Is that so? Well Dick* said he got 142 down at Glen Aplin.’ (Showoff.)

We had our own rain gauge – somewhere. We eventually found it in Smash’s garage, under a pile of hail netting that Smash got for free from the tip – who would throw that out!? We set the gauge up next to the firepit (then moved it somewhere less melty) and added our own two cents to the conversation. If we were in Brisbane at the time of rain, there would be a flurry of texts between us and the resident Nundubbermerians – lots of smiley faces with hearts popping out of their heads, low-res videos of rain falling on the ground (possibly more amazing in real life) and discussions on whether or not to buy more tanks. The sound of a tank overflowing is a bittersweet melody and while there is some comfort in knowing that the overland flow will moisten the landscape and eventually make its way to the parched river systems, it is also very, very tempting to catch it while you can. For who knows how long it will last?

Our dam filled. Our big, new dam, dug very deep by the contractor as he searched for clay to line the walls, actually filled. We’d stood in that dam after it was made and laughed at its depth and size, saying, ‘It’ll never fill!’ in a hopeful, daring way. Our neighbour, Jim came over to take a look and in his usual minimalist style said, ‘Big dam, Kate’ while rubbing his chin, perhaps thinking where his sheep might end up in the event of another long drought.

After four solid downpours the dam overflowed. It is still overflowing now – a bubbling brook that winds its way across the field between our shed and the granite, through a culvert under Nundubbermere Road and off to join the Severn River. One very still, bright night, the overflow sounded so loud – more Niagara than bubbling brook and I panicked, thinking the dam wall had collapsed. I jumped out of bed and went outside. One hundred metres away, I could see the stream shining in the moonlight, wiggling its way down the gentle slope, no bigger than during the daytime, just noisier due to the stillness of the night. A lovely sound – much easier to listen to than tanks overflowing.

The spillway

Then it kept raining. Water poured into our valley from north, west and east, escaping south. The field turned into a wetland. At night we heard frogs croaking contentedly, so many frogs they drowned out the sound of the brook. Then it rained some more. Brilliant! Fantastic! ‘Let’s get gumboots,’ we cried, as if this was something eccentric and fun. No amount of rain could dampen our spirits. As it got colder the rain drumming on the shed roof added an extra level of bucolic charm. We turned the volume up on the music, fired up the wood heater and slow cooked casseroles. We took longer showers and washed-up dishes with gay disregard for water usage. Jackson and Erin, living in Stanthorpe town and still on water restrictions, brought out 25 litre water containers and filled them from our overflowing tanks. ‘Take more! We’ve got plenty!’ (Smug as can be.)

One night, when Jack and Erin came for dinner – with all their pets, as is their wont –  they arrived in Jack’s long-suffering Commodore instead of the four-wheel-drive work ute. I expressed surprise that they’d made it along our driveway without getting bogged.

‘Whaddya mean?’ Jack asked, bristling. (He’s very protective of his Commodore and has faith in its capabilities that stretch far beyond reality.)

‘It’s just quite boggy down there. If it keeps raining like this, you’ll have to be careful on your way out,’ I said, immediately realising my mistake.

From birth, Jackson has taken the phrase, ‘Be careful’ as a challenge. His eyes narrow, lips purse. You can almost hear his brain formulating the best way to extract the largest amount of negligence out of the situation in question. Like the time I mentioned he needed a four-wheel-drive to get up our hill and he boldly drove his Commodore up – the only two-wheel-drive vehicle to have done so, and the only two-wheel-drive vehicle to have its gear box pop up through the console after hitting a large rock. Didn’t faze him. He cable-tied it together and drove without stopping back to a Brisbane mechanic – no drama. We were panicking about nothing.

So with this in mind, after dinner and a movie, as Jack and Erin collected up their cats, dog and coats, I decided to keep quiet about the boggy driveway. Smash gave a few pointers on how best to get through that Jack pretended to listen to while peeling the last of the cheese topping off the cauliflower gratin. Erin looked a little concerned – possibly the thought of getting stuck in the Commodore in a bog, in the dark, with two flighty cats, a notoriously farty dog and Jackson (also no slouch when it comes to flatulence) was troubling her. I had a quiet word with her, told her to beep the horn three times if they got stuck and we’d come down with the tractor.

Off they went. Back into the warmth of the shed we went. After four minutes of no horn beeps, I figured they’d made it through, so I started getting ready for bed. Smash decided he’s stay up to do the washing-up – code phrase for, fall asleep on the couch in front of another movie. As I was cleaning my teeth, through the drumming of rain on the roof came three long horn blasts. I wondered briefly how much damage Jackson had done to our driveway trying to get out of the bog without calling for assistance and had a vision of Erin’s pale, lovely face through the windscreen, swaying from side to side in the fishtailing car.

I sighed and said, ‘You’d better get the tractor.’

Smash tried to hide his excitement. He huffed and puffed about what a pain it was, how he’d told Jacko what to do, how it was pitch black out there. I told him I’d get the big torch and handed him his raincoat. He grumbled about how he’d just cleaned his Blundstones, but there was no mistaking the sparkle in his eye. At last, a legitimate cause for firing the old girl up, and a rescue mission to boot!

I walked down while Smash got the tractor. In the wide, bright beam of torchlight, the Commodore – wallowing on a 45 degree angle to the road – glowed white, with zebra stripes of black mud flaring out along the side. It looked like a crime scene, which gave the occasion a sense of importance that made up for the disappointment in seeing our mangled driveway, now twice as wide as before.

Jack, of course, was unrepentant. What fun he’d had trying to blast his way through at top speed. She’d nearly made it, and would’ve, if he’d just gone a bit faster instead of listening to Erin’s words of caution.

The tractor pulled them out easily, and off the Commodore went, this time weighing twice as much as before due to the cargo of clods attached to the undercarriage and mud flaps. Erin sent a text when they got home. ‘Made it! Think we’ll bring the ute next time!’

I sent back one saying, ‘Good idea’ thinking, not if Jackson has any say in it. Without a doubt, he’ll be determined to make a big Commodore Comeback.

Our new driveway.

*Names may have been changed.