There’s a peacefulness of mind that I find at work. A clarity that overcomes me as I appreciate the beauty of what I do. The dust, the heat that seems omnipotent in its oppressiveness and the danger. There’s no glamour or prestige. Simple work that keeps the country rolling. But there is a beauty to it. The sweat stinging your eyes, the sunburn and the hot air scorching your throat leads to an understanding of your place in the world. I do a job that very few people would be willing to do. The sacrifices made to earn a pitiful wage. The long thankless hours that build the bosses bank account. It leaves most dumbfounded. More than a few question my sanity. A job for the uneducated and unintelligent, a job for those unsuitable for anything. Perhaps they’re right; am I unsuitable for anything else?

I tell people I came north because I read a book as a child, Hell West, and Crooked, and got sick of saying ‘I’d love to do that one day.’ Sometimes that’s the truth. But I’m beginning to feel as if that was a convenient lie. If I was able to be completely honest with those around me I’d admit that I was running away. Away from the drinking. From the embarrassment of past misdeeds. From my lack of understanding. From the fact that I can be a terrible person, a cruel and petty child in a man's body.

I don’t know the truth exactly. I’m not ready to confront my past. But I am ready to find out who I am. Whatever my reason for leaving, I know why I stay.

The bloodied arms after a long day putting up a fence. Torn skin and sunburnt arms. It leaves a man exhausted, yes, but with the knowledge that for the next decade that fence will stand for all to see. A monument to my hard work, dedication, and skill. The creation of a new reputation.

It’s the feeling I get when I slow the death rate of cattle during a severe drought. Hours spent cutting mulga trees for the cattle to eat. The sweet stench of a rotting carcass 20 meters to my left. The pity that drives me beyond exhaustion. The beauty of suffering for an animal so that it may survive only to be sold to the meat works.

Or the sadness that strikes as I pause, a tire lever raised above my head as I take aim. Resolved to offer mercy by bludgeoning a calf to death. It’s never one hit. Hardened as I may be, it’s painful when the boss asks about the blood splatters on my face. 7 hours after the numbness in my hands has resolved. A product of the repeated blows to the thick-skulled young calf. The raw sadness experienced in a moment of merciful death.

The long days and the confronting nature of the work are relieved by the adrenaline. There’s something beautiful I’ve come to recognize about death. Not the starved beast that finally drops dead, nor the young beasts I kill with metal or rock or wood. But my own. Wakening to the fact that today you are one mistake from death.

Chasing after a scrub bull. Wild eyes rolling in its head, snot dripping from the nose. The fight or flight reflex coursing through every fiber of its being. Flight first, the bull charges through the bush and I follow. Oblivious to the dangers as I race past trees and through the long grass. Passing mere inches from hidden logs and ants nests. Luck serves much better than caution.

Then the bull slows, chest heaving as it draws ragged breaths; he no longer has the wind or the energy to keep running. The fight. That’s the moment to hit it. To slam the four-wheeler into the right spot, tipping the bull over and riding up onto the bull. Park on the wrong spot and the bull will tip the bike over. Quickly taking the bull straps and tying the legs. Fear. It gives me the will to live. I’ve made many mistakes doing this, but I know the next mistake I make could be my last.

More dangerous, yet infinitely more beautiful, is tipping a bull by hand. It requires two people. The perfectness of trust is something I’ve found nowhere else. Stepping off of a bike or horse, a mate a step behind, waiting for the bull to charge one of us. A dance between three, one of us has to make the first mistake. Teasing it, aggravating it, the bull charges. Hundreds of kilograms of muscle, horn and killer intent focused on one task. Taking out that which angers him.

There’s an internal silence which I’ve never been able to find. I either step around the bull or die. I catch its tail and tip it or my mate dies. I’m too selfish to be a soldier, but I imagine the feeling of brotherhood is similar. Perhaps instead of running away from who I was, I’m running toward this.

It’s a world apart. What I have done doesn’t matter. Who I was is of no consequence. Here, a man who holds his own is good enough.