The
stockman who refused to die / By Richard Sheats
“Alone in the outback, his leg
broken, Daniel Matthews had to rely on luck, guts and a sheer determination to
stay alive.”
The morning of Monday July 15, 1985, was mild and sunny,
as Daniel Matthews, a stock inspector with South Australia’s Department of
Agriculture, loaded his truck.
“ Get back by Friday,” his wife Rosalie reminded him as
he kissed her good-bye at their home in Port Augusta. “We’re booked for the
cabaret in town.”
One of five stock inspectors working in the department’s
northern region, 39-year-old Daniel was driving to Andamooka station, some 260
kilometres north-west, to check on an area declared cattle free under a
brucellosis and tuberculosis eradication programme. Concerned that infected
stock could jeopardize Australia’s valuable meat trade, the government had
decided in 1976 that diseased or suspect cattle must be destroyed. Some cattle,
born in the bush, ran wild. If Daniel found any of these animals, he had to
muster them for inspection—if he could—or shoot them.
At sunset, Daniel turned off the road to camp for the
night. He reflected on how much he enjoyed the bush and its silence, broken
perhaps by a dingo call, the thump of a kangaroo tail, a scurrying lizard or a
fleeing emu. His work was not so much a job as a way of life.
Playing safe.
Early
next morning, Daniel drove to the boundary fence built originally to keep
dingoes off Andamooka station and adjacent properties. He dragged his 250cc
motorcycle from the truck and headed out looking for signs of cattle inside the
fenced area. In sand hills alongside a dry swamp, he found new cattle tracks,
but his front tyre was punctured, and he rode back to the truck to mend it.
While he was there, he tried to radio his headquarters in
Port Augusta to say that he was on the station, but he failed to get a
response. He spoke to a stock inspector based at Marla, 680 kilometres
north-west of Port Augusta, and asked him to pass on the message to base. Then,
playing it doubly safe, he called David Coverdale, another stock inspector,
working along another route some 375 kilometres away. Daniel knew the problems
a lone man could run into in the outback, and if anything went wrong his
colleagues would know where to look for him.
Just before 2pm, Daniel drove the truck to the dry swamp,
setting up camp on its southern tip. Then, with a ten shot .30-30 rifle slung
across his back, he followed the tracks east on his motorbike. Daniel planned
to yard the cattle in a wire enclosure, 25 metres square, built near the swamp.
Ahead, he saw seven animals scampering away. For nearly an hour he herded them
until, suddenly, a wild cow, never handled by man, took off with her calf and a
young bull. Daniel cursed. That cow’s as
mad as a snake, he told himself.
Unable to control the other cattle, he shot them. Now,
dodging a succession of myall trees, he tracked the three wild runaways for
some 20 kilometres. As he killed the bull, Daniel dropped one of his long
leather gloves. But his attention was fixed on the cow and her calf. If he
failed to kill them, they would perhaps pass on disease to other stock. After a
two-kilometre chase, he shot them.
Out of control.
By now, Daniel’s petrol was running low, but the cold
wind of the Australian winter made him realize that he was missing his glove.
He found it quickly and, instead of taking a direct line west towards his
truck, he rode north to the boundary fence. Then if he ran out of petrol he
could follow a route through the sandhills to where he had set up camp.
As he rode along the fence in the gathering twilight, he
didn’t see the cluster of red stones until he was on them. The bike’s front
tyre ricocheted from one rock to another. Then Daniel felt the bike being
thrown from under him. He was out of control, falling, rolling, sliding. . . .
As he sat up his left shin felt strange. Blood was
seeping through the fabric of his jeans. He didn’t need a surgeon to tell him
that a broken shinbone had pierced the outer skin.
Daniel had taken a multitude of bumps and bruises in the
bush before and knew he must not panic. First he had to stop the bleeding. He
put a handkerchief pad over a seven-centimetre gash in his shin, and pulled his
army-style leather boot up as far as he could, lacing it tightly. Then he tied
the butt of his rifle to his leg, using its strap and the wide elastic kidney
belt he wore to lessen shock in motorcycling over rough ground.
Now he took stock. His situation was frightening. He’d
got a message to base, but John Heron, Port Augusta’s radio operator, was on
holiday. He couldn’t be sure relief staff would act if he failed to check in
each day. Rosalie wouldn’t expect him until Friday—three days away.
Daniel decided to make his way towards the swamp. By
keeping to the fence he was sure to strike water. Painfully, he dragged himself
to the fence and pulled himself to a standing position on one leg. He
considered trying to get on the bike, but it was agony when he put the injured
leg down. And only a madman would try to ride across such rough terrain with a
broken left leg—the one that operated the gears.
You’re going to
have to drag yourself there, Daniel told himself. And it’s one hell of a long way, mate.
Lifting,
thrusting, scraping.
He
pulled himself along on his stomach, digging his gloved hands into the soil and
stones, but the toes of his injured leg scraped the ground. Then he tried
sitting, palms flat on the stony ground. Lifting his backside, he levered
himself backwards. In 90 minutes, he moved only about half a kilometer and,
despite the evening cold, he sweated a little.
He reckoned that the swamp with water in its northern
region, was ten kilometers away—two or three days of lifting and thrusting and
scraping, at his present rate. But the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders
rebelled against their task, and occasional wrenching cramps locked his
forearms and fingers. Many times he stopped to doze, the cold waking him each
time. By daybreak, he had covered just four kilometers.
Daniel Matthews thought about his family. Rosalie would
soon be up to attend to their son, James three, and daughter Ellisa, two.
Breakfast would be cooking. How Daniel wished he were home!
As he dragged himself on, his rifle butt kept catching
the ground. So he untied the makeshift splint and scrapped the barrel against
his shin. He found some loose sticks of mulga wood and tried to use them as
crutches. Some pieces were too short. Others were too long, and he could not
break them. Near the fence Daniel saw a small brown beer bottle. He tucked it
into a pocket to use if he found water.
All that Wednesday he struggled on – thinking about
Rosalie, the kids…. Did his office know he was missing? Drag, rest, drag, rest
…. He found some parakeelya, a native succulent, and bit into the leaves to
suck the juice. Surprisingly, he was not very thirsty.
Fighting despair.
As
darkness fell, he had covered another three kilometers. A mob of kangaroos
bounced towards him on the other side of the fence. “You beauty!” he yelled,
sure they were scampering from a vehicle, a farm hand perhaps. But nothing
followed, and Daniel’s spirits sank.
To survive he had to fight despair. He challenged himself
to a test of will power and strength – to see how far he could go without
resting. Until now, his pattern had been to do ten lifts, then pause. “Twenty
lifts,” he said. “Come on – you can do it!” Gasping with pain, he succeeded.
Then he tried 50. His best efforts that cold dark night was 120.
Before dawn on Thursday, his body demanded rest. His arms
were losing their strength and his buttocks were sore from the incessant
thumping and scraping. Daniel blessed his tough-seated jeans. And thank God I went back for my glove
his hands would have been ripped to pieces in the first hundred metres.
At daybreak, Daniel found water contaminated with cow
dung. He was not thirsty, but forced himself to drink. He trickled water into
the beer bottle’s narrow lip, trying to keep out the cow muck. It tasted foul,
but he swallowed a few mouthfuls.
The day was hot – or did it just seem hot? – and his
efforts rapidly depleted his strength. Sweat poured down his face, and his
shirt clung to his body. From early morning until six that evening, he
travelled only half a kilometer. Now, his fingers curled inwards into his palms.
He trembled violently with cold. He tried to make a fire to warm himself by
rubbing two sticks together, but the effort was too much.
As Thursday night lengthened Daniel became thirsty for
the first time. He was almost to the swamp and knew that water was not far
away. He left the fence, thinking he had a good line on the stars. But after
dragging himself south he became disoriented and ended up going north until he
came to the fence again. He had travelled perhaps one and half kilometers for
nothing!
Life-restoring
drops.
Now despair overcame him. One part of his mind said: “You’ll never make it. You’ve dragged yourself along for three nights
and two days. Give up! But then Daniel’s fighting spirit took over: You’re nearly there mate! Keep going!
On
Friday morning, Daniel found water. Hardly deep
enough to drown a mosquito, he
told himself, but he sucked up some life restoring drops. As he rested he
thought about Rosalie. He pictured her watching for his return and getting
increasingly anxious. Now he had to get to the truck. If he couldn’t drive, he
could radio for help.
Dragging himself south-west through the middle of the
swamp, Daniel could hear trucks in the far distance going to and from Roxby
Downs uranium mines. Help was so near, yet for him a daunting distance away.
Exhausted, he pulled himself on to a narrow track running along the western
side of the swamp and dozed.
He woke to a chilling cold. It was dark and lights glowed
at the Roxby Downs uranium mines some 40 kilometers to the south. If he
followed them, he would find his truck. Then doubts troubled him.
Confused, he decided the lights came from the town of
Andamooka. If he followed those, he’d be going away from the truck. He dragged himself west, away from the lights
that should have guided him.
At dawn he found another pool of muddy water. He was
thirsty, and sucked up all he could. A dingo watched his frantic bid for
survival. Then Daniel saw the sun, and thought it was rising in the west! The Good Lord has sent the sun up on the
wrong side, he thought. Reason reasserted itself, and he knew he had been
heading away from the truck. The oozing wound in his left leg pounded with
pain. If he didn’t reach his truck soon, he knew he would die.
At the Matthews’s home in Port Augusta, Rosalie was
racked with worry. Daniel should have been home by now. She was accustomed to
him returning a night later than planned, but this time she sensed that something was wrong. Just another hour or
two, she thought, and she’d try to contact someone from the Department of
Agriculture.
Shortly after 11 am three men travelling to Andamooka in
a jeep saw strange tracks on the dusty road—two long tails with small
depressions on each side. “Looks like some weird kind of giant lizard,” one of
them joked.
They rounded a
bend—and jammed on the brakes. Daniel exhausted, heard someone ask, “You
got a broken leg, mate?”
The three men lifted him into their vehicle and covered
him with blankets.
An hour later, they carried Danny into the tiny Andamooka
Hospital, run by two nursing sisters—and left without giving their names. Soon
Dr Vincent O’ Brien, from Port Augusta’s Royal Flying Doctor Service base, was
flying to Andamooka to take Daniel to the hospital in Adelaide via Port
Augusta. When Daniel arrived at his home-town airstrip, Rosalie kissed his
forehead with relief. “From what they tell me, you’re a lucky man,” she said.
“I reckon I’m that, love,” Daniel murmured.
What did save Daniel Matthews’ life? “It was guts,” says
Dr O’Brien, “ a sheer determination to stay alive—and the luck that it happened
in winter.”
Daniel’s nightmare—he calculates that he levered himself
up and along at least 28,000 times in his five-day ordeal—has caused the
Department of Agriculture to tighten the safety rules. Never again will South
Australian stock inspectors go alone into the outback. Says Daniel, “We’re
learning to treat its vast and wonderful wildness with more respect.”
“You
can’t turn back the clock. But you can wind it up again” -Bonnie
Prudent
