That Paddock’s Got a Heap of Water Running Through It (Somewhere north of the range, Australia)

Whereas my emotional gears can range in a blink from sleepy to “just saw a spider”, our Aussie friend Kate keeps an even keel. She’s infectiously funny (though she doesn’t give any clues that she’s being funny), and she has the same tone of voice when she talks about her farm as she does when she’s telling me I’m stepping into grass that could house a brown snake.

Me: How’s their bite?
Kate (no inflection): Yeah, it’ll kill ya.

Our day was to start at 7 a.m. with Kate picking us up at our hotel, but Kate’s car was vandalized the night before. So we met her instead at her hotel while she was “working on repairs.”

Kate was very proud of her repairs but annoyed that she’d had to tear up a cardboard beer carton that she uses in presentations to cover the rear passenger window.

We set off toward the Great Dividing Range, with our ultimate destination being Kate’s farm—“north of the range,” we are taught to say. I couldn’t hear much with the cardboard window flapping at highway speed but from time to time, conversation between The Husband (Soybeans) and Kate (Corn) would drift back to me:

“…headers…
flex front…
70 bushels to the acre…”

When the car slowed enough that I could hear, I asked, “Did I just see a dead kangaroo with an orange X painted on it?” and Kate responded, “Yeah, you would have,” then pointed us to a field of canola.

We first met Dr. Kate last year on a golf tour. We learned then that she earned her PhD from the University of Melbourne and wrote her thesis on plant breeding and agronomy. She writes books and lectures on farm succession plans. The Husband rode a tractor as a child, so they are basically twins separated at birth.

When asked which of her books she’s most proud of, she says, “Well, the first was like colonic irrigation for me. I just needed to get some things out…”

When asked about her preferred drink, she answers, “I’m ecumenical when it comes to alcohol.”

We see the wide and muddy Murray River as we fly along dirt roads at 90 kph. We drive by Kate’s family farm near Elmore and then make our way to her farm near Torrumbarry. She and The Husband get out to examine the wheat. They forget that I exist.

As we zoom along again, I catch more bits:

“You’re going to ask me about bushels, and I’m going to have to do the hectare conversion.”

“It’s currently magpie swooping season.”

“You know where I showed you the place where I stole the sign?…”

“That whole paddock’s got a heap of water running through it.”

While The Husband initially bonded with Kate over farming, Kate and I bonded over our large families. She’s the youngest of six: four boys, two girls. And I’m the youngest of eleven. She calls one of her brothers “Francis, the bearded Jesus.” When she asks me to teach her again the names of my siblings—

DavidJudyBobbyMarshaMerryRichardJoanTrishRebekahDorothyAlison—

I couldn’t love her more.

Thanks, Dr. Kate, for our amazing day north of the range.