Wasn’t Scared, Just in a Hurry

In Wasn’t Scared, Just in a Hurry, Scott Farquhar follows a cattle truckie through a very long fifty-three metres of darkness to shut a lonely gate.

Set on a black Murranji night, it turns work lights, scrub shadows and one badly placed road train into a yarn about the gap between a truckie’s courage and his imagination.

Wasn’t Scared, Just in a Hurry

By Scott Farquhar

I’ll steer all night through Murranji,
black as the inside of a hat,
bullocks, scrub an wandering cattle,
yeah mate, I’m fine with that.
But make me get out an walk in the dark,
well courage disappears real quick,
cause fifty-three metres back to shut a gate
is a bloody long way when darkness starts playing its tricks.

An it’s always that one creepy gate,
way out the flaming back,
doesn’t matter how much light I throw,
I pull up short on the track.
Mirror lights on, work lights blazing,
you could nearly land a plane,
but somehow the back of them cattle crates
has missed the blooming gate again.

“Ahh she’ll be right, it’s not that far,”
I tell meself climbing down,
then look back towards that lonely gate
with not another soul around.
I take off walking fairly steady,
pretending I’m not scared,
about ten metres from the cab
I’m suddenly well aware.

Every shadow starts to move,
every tree becomes a threat,
I’m telling meself, “You’re a grown man,
there’s nothing out there yet.”
Then CRACK! — a stick goes to me left,
I nearly jump out of me skin,
“Just a roo… or a big Brahman bull…”
gee, I hope that’s all it bloody is.

Cause I’ll take a Brahman in the darkness,
I’ll take a scrub bull on the fight,
at least the bugger’s got a name
an I know what I’m scared of, right?
It’s the things that don’t make a noise,
just watch you from the trees,
that put some pace into your stride
an make ya weak around the knees.

Now walking’s turned to jogging,
an jogging’s turned to flight,
mirror lights are shining bright
but I’m not leaving their bloody sight.
Hair’s standing up along me neck,
heart’s trying to leave me chest,
I make it to the back trailer thinking,
“Thank goodness, I’ve passed the test.”

Then I look towards the gate…
“Ahh mate, surely not.”

Three feet short.

That’s all it is.

Three measly feet I’ve got.

Now I could walk back to the cab,
move forward nice an slow,
but something cracked behind me again —
RIGHTO, THAT’S IT, TIME TO GO.
I turn around an launch for home,
there’s no pretending now,
if something wants me in this darkness
it’s gonna have to catch me somehow.

Back up the steps, slam the door,
I’m breathing like I’ve run a race,
throw her into gear an creep ahead,
three feet should be the place.
Handbrake on, I check the mirror,
yep, perfect — job well done…
then realise to actually shut the blooming gate
I’ve gotta do another run.

“Ahh you’ve gotta be kidding…”

Back out again, but this time quicker,
there’s no casual evening stroll,
straight down fifty-three metres of darkness
with one very simple goal.
Shut the gate, throw the chain,
give the bastard one good shake,
then turn around an run like mad
before whatever’s out there wakes.

Back in the cab, door locked tight,
heart still punching through me chest,
I look back down at that creepy gate
an think, “Yep… I reckon I passed that test.”
But now the gate is shut behind me,
an I’m safely in the seat,
suddenly I’m a tough truckie again,
there’s nothing out there I can’t beat.

Wasn’t scared, I was just in a hurry,
that running was all part of the plan,
an that noise I made when the stick cracked?
Could’ve come from any man.
So straighten the hat, drop her in gear,
like nothing happened here tonight,
cause I’ll cart wild cattle across the Top End,
an I’ll steer all bloody night.
Scared of the dark? Nah, not me mate,
I reckon I handled that just right…

But if you want that blooming gate shut,
pull me up beside it next time.

Keeping The Verse Alive

Wasn’t Scared, Just in a Hurry is shared with permission from Scott Farquhar through Keeping The Verse Alive, Country Campfire’s bush poetry preservation project.

By preserving poems like this, we’re helping ensure the stories, humour and characters of country Australia continue to be enjoyed for generations to come.

Poems, recitals, photographs, stories and original works remain the property of their original creator and are shared by Country Campfire with permission.