Goliath

We first spotted Goliath out in the bush on a cruisy, mid-week muster, just as the sun had reached its peak in the sky. Obviously, we didn’t know his real name. The sheer size of this scrub bull, trying desperately to hide his 7ft high frame and incredibly burly physique behind a measly saltbush, was enough to warrant the title. Goliath. For he truly was the biggest bull we’d seen yet.

His hide was an easy 5 or 6 shades darker than the other cattle around him, for they belonged to Kooline Cattle Station. Kooline was situated in the middle of the Pilbara region, Western Australia. A location primarily known for its high levels of mining and prospecting; its dry, outback lands spanned for thousands upon thousands of miles of rugged terrain, unrelenting heat and natural beauty. The region was home to a multitude of fantastic Australian critters; kangaroo, wallaby, lizard, snake, spider, dingo, eagle, bush turkey, wild horse and, of course, Kooline Station’s award winning Droughtmaster cattle. Droughtmaster. They did what they said on the tin; experts at flourishing in Northern Australia’s fiercely challenging conditions. All 10,000+ of them. Spanning over a modest 650,000 acres.

Goliath was not one of Kooline’s 10,000 cattle. He was a scrub bull. A bull who had managed to escape muster and castration as a calf, he’d then perhaps fled from a neighbouring station, and proceeded to spend his adult years with a rightfully stolen sack full of testosterone, venturing through the bush as a lone-wolf, in search of just two things: heifers and foliage.

As mentioned before, he was darker in colour. Such a dark hazelnut hide, when the sun caught it just right it shimmered black. He was also an easy 3ft taller than the other cattle in the freshly mustered mob. More carthorse than cow, he stood out like a sore thumb in contrast to the rust-red dirt and measly ‘normal’ sized cattle. No saltbush in the world would be able to hide that magnificent beast.

We edged the old 69 Series Landcruisers closer to him. His lack of fear or worry over the situation was apparent. With his dark chocolate eyes locked onto us, and his authority very much present, it’s in the very heart of these moments that you realise just how weak and pathetic the human body is. Goliath’s muscles bulged, his power radiating from his being. Suddenly, with a loud exhale, he miraculously decided not to fight, for now, and casually trotted over to join the back of the mob.

That's when the four of us Stationhands, each in our own ute, began the slow, arduous process of herding the cattle through the paddock, back towards the yard. A mob of cattle seldom moves very fast. They are quite docile creatures, and as if they knew what we were trying to achieve, when mustered, they preferred more of a snail's pace. A big, slow ‘fuck you’.

Luckily for us, the route to the yard was not too far, and a couple of hours into the late arvo, we would set eyes upon our destination.The gate to the yard loomed up ahead of the mob, as we rounded the final corner of the paddock and into the home straight. About the size of 4 soccer pitches, it split into various size paddocks to house the cattle once they’d been funneled through the entrance. It's within the confinements of these large timber walls and tough steel gates, that the real work would begin.

As the mob enters the large, open gated mouth, the inevitable dust cloud starts to rise up from the shuffled hooves of uncertainty. The dust was painfully dry, and it would easily find its way into the hardest to reach places, like under your socks or deep into the seam of your pockets.

Once the mob were in, we evacuated the vehicles and progressed the remaining hours of the day on foot. The early evening sun was still just able to beat down onto the backs of our sweaty, tanned necks as we climbed in to join our four-legged friends. Averaging half a tonne each, confused and scared shitless, it was imperative that you kept your wits about you. Cattle don’t like humans. With their eyes on the side of their head, and ours at the front of ours, it clearly indicates who plays the role of prey, and who plays predator. They know it. We know it.

Once in the paddock, the cattle sprint to the opposite corner. They would do anything to be as far away from us as possible, and by using this fear, we can dictate where we want them to go. That’s the basics of how to control cattle. Except bulls of course.

The one golden rule with bulls? Never. I repeat. Never. Turn your back on one. A steer or a heifer might knock you down on its way to get away from you, but a bull will knock you down in an attempt to try to take your life. Their fight or flight is somewhat, a little unbalanced.

Which brings me back to our new friend, Goliath. He stood over at the rear of paddock #3. Enjoying one of the hay bails we’d dumped in front of every few cattle, he was tall enough to be the only one in the yard enjoying the last of the sun's warming rays, the light still reflecting from his glossy, coal coloured hide, giving it a wet, shimmery look. His muscles were pumped and vascular from the day’s walk, protruding in all different directions, and each perfectly rounded giving a bodybuilder type aesthetic. He looked like a God amongst mere mortals. As if the Ancient Greeks themselves had painted him onto an old, clay vase.

It wasn’t just how he looked though. His stance was different. He was upright, like a soldier, and he emulated the pride and strength of a great king. As we sat on the fenceline, drinking a Carlton Draught and watching the amber glowing sun finally make way for the cool night, we watched him. It was impossible not to. For tomorrow we all knew that we had to meet him in battle. We knew that we had to manage him, control him, and get him to go and do what we wanted him to. Apprehension was in the air.

…

We awoke at the crack of dawn, as usual. Working hours were always from sunrise to sunset. After a quick breakfast and a cup of Necafe’s Blend 43 finest, we hopped into the tray of the boss’s primary Landcruiser, enjoying the final minutes of relaxation on the bumpy, early morning ride back out to the yard.

We spotted him first. Maybe because we were all looking for him. I’m not sure. I know I was.

He was still there. Still giving off his usual aura. We unloaded and set up the chase and the crush. The plan was to weigh the cattle first, starting with Goliath’s paddock.

Explanation:

Chase: Long alleyway that forces cattle into single file.

Crush: Large padded steel bars that hold one of the cattle at a time in place, in order for inspections, castration, dehorning, tagging and weighing to take place.

The boss decided, and rightly s0, that Goliath was too high a potential threat for one of the workers to get in the prison-like 6ft high, timber walled pen with him. He insisted that it should be his job. So, we watched on as he smooth as silk gate-vaulted over the fence, slipped his hands into his pockets and casually leant his weight onto one leg, where he waited and felt out the situation. Instantly the cattle flooded to the opposite corner. As the boss moved forward, the cattle spread around him, passing him and the flooding into the gap behind him. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, they avoided him at all costs.

Suddenly, from directly ahead, Goliath darted out. He had been crouching, hiding, down below the other cattle, for he had disappeared from our radars, and had patiently waited for the opportune moment to strike. His nostrils flared and hooves galloped as he charged full tilt towards the boss. Quick as a flash, the nonchalant attitude evaporated from the boss’s demeanour and he ran for his life. He just managed to scale the entire height of the fence, before Goliath reached him. The boss laughed chaotically and gave a swift boot to the head of the mighty bull. Steam seemed to emit from his nostrils. His eyes turned bloodshot red. I had never and may never see another animal so unmercifully furious in all my life. There was no doubt about it, he wanted to kill.

By some grace of God, once the boss hopped back down into the paddock, Goliath took the opportunity to follow the herd through the open gate and into the chase. His monstrous shoulders barely fit down the narrow alleyway of reinforced steel. He was first down the line and he was going to be the first into the crush to be weighed.

The bull rounded the final corner of the chase. From here he could see straight through the next 10 metres of steel ahead, and out beyond that... freedom. He took larger strides, picking up the pace, keen to free himself from the strange confinements of the yard. 5 metres. 3 metres. 1 metre... WHAM! The pads of the crush came down onto him with tenacious force, locking him into position.

He bucked like a bronco, ramming his hefty hooves into the weighing scales beneath him as he jumped, leaped and wriggled with all his might to try to release himself from the incessant grasp of the crush. The sound of hooves upon steel, smashing into more steel, which rattled and banged into even more steel, created a deafening ringing through the warm, crisp morning air.

“He’s gonna break the bloody thing!” screamed the boss in disbelief, “Cut him loose! I can see the welds cracking!”

With an almighty push down on the lever, the crush opened its huge padded jaws to release the beast.

There was just one problem. In the morning's haste and excitement to interact with Goliath, the final gate had, unfortunately, failed to be opened. It sat there fully locked, blocking the bulls’ escape. This left the 800kg, raging inferno of pure muscle and testosterone packed adrenaline with only one option; to swiftly turn around and spot us 4 workers, knees shaking and hearts racing, as we blocked his final chance of escape.

Without a second’s thought, the Herculean bull lowered his mighty, thick head and tore straight towards us.

“Get out of the way!” yelled the boss through a voice full of fear and panic, not only for his own safety, but also that of his workers. With an almighty leap to each side, somehow we all managed to evade the stampede of certain injury, if not death, that charged our way. We heard the heavy sound of Goliath’s hooves graze past our heads as he bolted for freedom, and as we lifted our heads from the dusty cowpats and rust-red outback dirt, we just caught a glimpse of his swishing tail as he ventured back into the bush, evading capture once more.