Open Writing

Of all the issues which mark the difference between the bushie and
the townie, gates would have to be top of the list.

Gates have long been a source of contention in Australia's large
landscapes. Outback dwellers know them to be an essential link in
the chain of management, but to the outsider, the tourist intruder,
they constitute a nuisance, an irritating impediment to his conquest
of distance.

After driving through a landscape empty to the horizon with not a living thing in sight, it seems a useless exercise to stop at an apparently unnecessary fence, climb out to open the gate, edge forward, then waste time shutting it again.

But to the pastoralist who happens along on a tour of inspection
perhaps days later, the resultant mayhem caused by an open gate is
enough to provoke World War Three. It can take days to redraft shorn
from unshorn, bullocks from heifers, or worse, contemplate a
disaster like rams let loose with next year's ewes.

Gates have to be accepted with fatalistic resignation.

Still within living memory, on the road between Gascoyne Junction
and Mullewa, there were forty-eight gates in some 400 kilometres. Trucks travelled in convoy, "leapfrogging", each to manage a
gate in turn.

Many road gates were in time replaced by the simple and ingenious
device of grids - iron bars placed horizontally over a ditch in the
road - not only confining stock, but jolting a weary driver into
wakefulness with their rattle and slam. It became usual to describe
a journey as a so-many grid drive.

In Western Australia, all paddocks bordering main highways are now
being fenced and grids removed in the interests of road safety, but
within properties, gates reign supreme, the dominating factor of daily movement.

Many a visitor, delighted by a generous offer to 'come for a ride'
is crestfallen to find this is not for the pleasure of his company.
The invitation translates into his usefulness as a gate-opener, a
learning experience for him about the fiendish ingenuity of gate
makers.

Each gate has its own characteristics, even a personality. Rusted
wire bed bases are a favourite component, but diversity of materials
is the pride of constructors, who sit behind the wheel watching with
grim delight the efforts of a novice passenger to disentangle the
mess of wire, sticks, baling twine and bent nails, leaning out after
a decent interval to shout, "Try the other side. That's the hinge."

Then there is the problem of which way to open it. In the taciturn
way of the outback, this is to be deduced by the distance the
vehicle pulls up from the gate. Those who have laughed at the gate-
opening sequence in the film "The Gods must be Crazy", should know
how close it is to the truth. Apart from the intrinsic humour, for
country people there is a deeper belly laugh on the been there, done
that level.

However, the ultimate art of untangling a custom-made gate is to
remember what you did. Only half the achievement is getting it open.
The masterstroke is to restore it as it was. When you have one foot
in the vehicle and the driver shifting into gear, the gate can
gently slip its moorings, hesitate, then swing open.

Upon which, the driver, with set face and the faintest suggestion of a
sigh, engages neutral, puts on the handbrake with a wrench that
speaks volumes, and wearily descends to repair the botch with a few
deft flicks of the wrist.It is a devastating way of reducing the
brash newcomer, eager to prove his worth, to the level of an
incompetent idiot.

Yet this complexity is not entirely devilish perversity. Animals
have their cunning too. Gates are made to outwit them. Some time ago, a type of prefabricated gate with slipover hinges was marketed. It was cheap, easy to assemble and easy to lift off for passage of large vehicles.

It coincided however, with the introduction of a new cattle breed notorious for battles amongst the males. With heads down, they hook horns in the folds of an opponent's neck skin, then heave upwards.
Milling beasts near a gate, butting and hooking, found they could
lift the gate and escape.

Remustering perhaps two hundred animals from a limitless horizon is not for the faint-hearted or those of limited vocabulary.

Horses love gates. Unlike humans, they are intelligent enough to
distinguish hinge from fastening, lift loops of wire, chew through
twine, or simply kick and buckle the latch. I worked on a station
where the sole ambition of an otherwise amenable horse was to get
onto the fenced lawn in front of the homestead. Despite the best of
human invention, every morning the gate was found ajar, the horse
triumphantly tearing up the grass by its roots, sharp hoofs digging
into the prized surface.

The gate had to be removed and 44-gallon drums placed across the gap.

The ultimate word on gates has to belong to a story once judged to
be the best Australian joke. It tells of a cockie who, driving through his paddocks one day, saw a swagman trudging along.

Now, considering the enmity which has always existed between
pastoralists and itinerant campers, the cockie spoke with great
civility.

"Would you like a lift, my man?"

To which the swaggie replied, "No. Open your own bloody gates."