Farewell to a true blue bushman
Ken Cameron was a private bloke, a multi-millionaire bachelor who owned some top rung cattle stations in his time, but lived the simplest life you could imagine.
LAYING Ken Cameron to rest out on Moombidary Station near Hungerford today. Ken who? I can hear you say. Not many people would have heard of Ken. He was one of those people who skimmed across the pond of life so low, so silently, he was out of sight to all but a few. But for those who did know him, he was special. He was a private bloke, a bachelor who owned some top rung cattle stations in his time, but kept a profile so low he was almost invisible. He was a multi-millionaire but lived the simplest life you could imagine. Almost everyone who met Ken remembers some aspect about him that stuck in their mind.
I had my own experience back in the late 90s. A mate, Jimmy, and myself had left Ravenswood late at night and were driving over the dirt road through the Leichhardt Range to Dalbeg. We had one flat tyre along the way and then a second. We were stuck. It was around midnight. At daylight I set off walking back along the road for eight kilometres to the homestead built by the Coutts brothers when they owned Hillsborough Station. I got to it, but it was deserted. No furniture. An empty shell. I was hoping for a phone so that I could call the office and get someone to come out with a new tyre. There was no phone and of course no mobile service. I started climbing down the hill to some outbuildings down on the other side. When I got to the bottom I saw a bloke sitting on the steps of what looked to be an old-time cook’s quarters, just a small kitchen and a bunk in a second room. There was a young horse tied up and hobbled to a tree nearby. The man on the steps hadn’t seen me and not wanting to give him a fright, I called out. He looked up and waved. I walked over and met Ken Cameron, the then new owner of
Hillsborough. The first thing I noticed was his hair. He looked like he cut it himself with a pocket knife. I later learned that he did cut his own hair … not very well. He was a skinny bloke with a slow drawl. I explained my predicament. “We’ll take care of that,” he said. And then he asked if I’d had breakfast. I told him I hadn’t. He went to a cupboard and came back to the table with a tin of Hamper brand corned beef. He opened it, produced some bread and a bottle of tomato sauce and we both proceeded to have breakfast and a mug of tea.
He was salt of the earth and very humble. He liked everyone else to be comfortable, but never worried about himself.
The plan was we’d eat and then Ken would drive me back to the vehicle, pick up the punctured tyres and bring them back to Hillsborough where he would repair them in his shed. Here he was living in an old set of quarters when there was a near new, sprawling homestead with commanding views up on the hill with no one living in it. I was wondering why he wouldn’t be living in the big house.
“How come you don’t live up there in the big house?” I asked.
He just looked at me a and in that soft drawl, said “not married, ay”. No other explanation needed.
I nodded as if singledom was a perfectly justifiable reason to be living in a small cook’s cottage with no aircon or TV when there was a spacious homestead you owned with panoramic views up on top of the hill, sitting there empty. What I didn’t realise then was that not having things like aircon and TV wouldn’t worry Ken. He was a bloke who could do without.
He ran me back to the vehicle and collected the tyres and had them repaired in no time. He refused any payment. Soon after I learned more about the bloke who had so effortlessly saved Jimmy and me from a difficult situation out there that night on the ‘Hillsborough road’. One story I heard and I’ve heard it often since, was that Ken would spend two or three days at a time riding around his properties on horseback, living only on dried fruit and nuts he’d stuff into his pockets and saddle bag. At night he’d sleep sitting up against a tree, his horse hobbled nearby.
Retta Lynn knew him well and was his nearest neighbour when he lived on Routh Station near Georgetown in the Gulf Country. “He was a first rate dog trainer and they were his constant companions and workers. He would often be working by himself and would get the cattle together and the dogs would hold them while he would have lunch or go looking for more cattle. They were invaluable to Ken. He learned to train his dogs from reading books. He was old school. If you asked him to cut down a tree he would get the axe, not a chainsaw. He often did things the hard way. He was salt of the earth and very humble. He liked everyone else to be comfortable, but never worried about himself.
“Another time he was bitten by a snake, but never went for medical treatment, instead taking his chances and letting things fix themselves. Unfortunately through his reluctance to go to hospitals ... his cancer was well advanced when finally diagnosed. This ultimately caused his passing,” Ms Lynn said.
He was a unique individual and he’s gone, aged 91. RIP Ken Cameron. You were one of a kind.
A TOP BLOKE LIKE NO OTHER
HERE’S what some people said when news of Ken’s death was announced. Owen Wellington: “A good bushman, horseman, dog man and cattleman. RIP.” Sharon Jonsson:
“He would go out with uncooked rice and sultanas in his saddlebag for the day and go all day on that. One tough man.” Tom and Sandra Hartley were Ken’s neighbours on the last station he owned, Oakvale at Mitchell: “He lived rough, but that’s how he’d rather do it.”