By 5.30, the next morning mustering and penning was underway. Station hands shouted from their motorbikes, dogs yapped, frightened sheep brayed. Everywhere was the smell of dust and wool.
I came out of my van to a sea of sheep, kelpies keeping them together, chasing strays, leaping on to woolly backs, jumping from one back to another. The heat was thick in my face as I walked to the kitchen.
The familiar routine began—light the grill, start the urn, line up the sausages and bacon, boil eggs, toast bread. Sleepy-eyed, the team came in one by one, Trevor standing at the door doling out the hand sanitiser.
‘Three snags please, Alice.’
‘Goin" to be a hot one. What else is new?’
‘Two googies please, love.’
‘Not this muck again!’ Len complained about the hand sanitiser.
‘Use the friggin’
