The Man From Up Tom Groggin

[the mad mare]

The Man From Up Tom Groggin
by Kym Eitel


Banjo Paterson’s poem “The Man From Snowy River” became famous in 1890 and immediately several horsemen claimed to be “the man” in question.  However, it is known for certain that Banjo had met a man called Jack Riley while camping in the mountains.  Jack lived at Tom Groggin, the only flat piece of land in the steep mountains around Mount Kosciusko.  Banjo spent the night at Jack’s hut, where Jack entertained him with stories of adventure in some of the roughest country in Australia.  There may always be dispute about whether the poem is about one single person, or a combination of several characters, however some remain convinced that Jack Riley was “The Man”.
   What would Jack Riley have thought about Banjo’s poem if he’d heard it before he passed away?


A man lay weak and dying in a rough-sawn timber shack
   where summer mountain pasture’s lush and sweet.
Beside Mount Kosciusko where the country’s high and sharp,
   the brumbies’ eyes are wary, hooves are fleet.
The man from up Tom Groggin way, Jack Riley was his name,
   had rarely left for almost two score years.
The mountains were his palace and his carpet was the grass,
   with trees for flags and stars for chandeliers.

But even bush men weary, so in Riley’s final hours
   a priest was called to make the alpine climb
and offer sacred blessings to the stockman as he lay,
   before he ‘rode the mountain one last time’.
So Father Patrick Hartigan and trusty Renault car
   began the rugged climb where few would go.
The track was steep and rocky as it hacked through scrub and bush,
   the river, just a silver thread below.

Last rites were then administered to ease the old man’s mind -
   to ‘clean the slate’ his ultimate desire.
A few had gathered quietly to show their last respects
   and Hartigan went out beside the fire.
They spoke of wild bush horses and of mist that swallowed camps,
   of outlaw men that rode the mountain track.
Then shyly Father Hartigan stood up and cleared his throat,
   and told them Banjo’s poem by that shack.

“The Man From Snowy River” came to life as Father spoke.
   The campfire cracked with coals of burning red.
His words cut through the chilly night as embers sparked and leapt,
   like flintstones flying high as horses fled.
The firelight flickered gold and red through cracks in Riley’s hut
   as Father’s Irish accent told the rhyme.
The poem cloned a chase that Riley’d ridden in his day.
   His mem’ry flicked through images in time:-
 
On Leatherbarrel Mountain where the colt from Old Regret
   escaped the stockman’s traps in frenzied haste,
he hurtled down a precipice that riders wouldn’t brave,
   through rolling rocks and clawing scrub he raced.
But Riley’s horse was spirited and took the bridle’s bit.
   Jack gave a yell and took a frantic breath.
They chased him down the mountain, prad and rider stride for stride,
   past wombat holes, where any slip was death.

Their eyes were blind from stinging wind, as down that cliff they sped.
   They slipped and slid the mountain’s length unchecked.
The men above watched nervously through clouds of swirling dust
   and boosted hundred-fold their awed respect.
The flint stones shot like arrows from the gelding’s flying hooves.
   From up above, they lost him through the trees.
They never saw his panic as he cleared the fallen logs -
   young Riley gripped on tight with shaking knees.

They heard the stock whip cracking and the echoes answered back
   but really it was branches as they snapped,
for Riley grasped the saddle as the branches whipped and broke.
   He’d lost his reins and empty stirrups flapped.
He rode to save his very life, his gelding’s hoofbeats flew.
   The avalanche of pebbles pulled them down.
The station horse ran blindly through the spear trap near the creek
   and news of Riley’s capture spread to town.

Inside the shack, the ailing man could hear the Father’s words,
   his spirit hovered t’ween this world and next.
He listened to the splendid verse that Paterson had penned.
   Had Riley been immortalised in text?
And then, on Riley’s death bed, as he heard the tale retold,
   (though somewhat more resplendent than the ride),
he rode again that plucky chase with courage at the fore
   and gladly Riley bore the badge of pride.

He’d never had a “Harrison” or “Clancy” for a friend,
   though knew poetic licence stretched the truth.
He heard his horse was “undersized”, “a slight and weedy beast” -
   his horse was well-proportioned for a youth!
That horse was true magnificence - no Timor runt in him!
   He galloped like the bravest off that drop.
That gelding kept his footing and he saved young Riley’s life.
   All Riley did was grip to stay on top!

And Jack was shocked that Banjo wrote the horse was blood from spur -
   the horse was ripped from vines of vicious thorn!
Awareness drifted in and out as mem’ry blurred with verse.
   From Jack’s wild ride, a legend had been born.
As Hartigan concluded, he did not receive applause,
   just silence, but for campfire’s peaceful crack.
“That rider is the old cove in the hut you came to see.
   The man in Banjo’s poem is old Jack.”

That dying man with feeble frame and weary aging bones,
   was once a young man striding in his prime -
now waiting like a fragile leaf upon the evening breeze
   the angels called his soul to make the climb.
Was it Riley in that poem?  Well, we’ll never really know,
   but Jack from up Tom Groggin passed away.
He joined the wild bush horses on a final mountain ride.
   Did the Man from Snowy River die that day?



The information for this poem was obtained from “Outback Heroes – Australia’s Greatest Bush Stories” by Evan McHugh (Penguin Books, Australia, 2004).  However, to be completely honest, I feel I must explain that Jack Riley did not die on the night he was visited by Father Patrick Hartigan (who was also a poet under the pen name of John O’Brien).  Hartigan visited in 1911 when Jack Riley “took a turn” which they thought would be the end of him, but Riley didn’t pass away until a couple of years later.  He was buried in the Corryong Cemetery, 16th July 1914.

[heyu]

Hi Kym
I love to read stories as you have told in your poem, it puts a whole new perspective on the originality of the poems we've learned.  Wish we could see into the past and identify who the real 'Man' was.  Your description is as close as I've seen.

When I was a brand new Copper living in Dee Why in Sydney, one of my neighbours was a Police Inspector by the name of Jack Riley, also known throughout The Force as "The Bulltosser", a renowned horseman and one of the hardest old coppers ( when old coppers were really hard ) that you would ever find.

The Bulltosser would probably have come into contact with 'Banjo' during his early police service, as Solicitors and coppers often worked 'hand-in glove' with each other and this relationship would have extended for almost twenty years ( 1920...1940 ).

The thick plottens dunnit?

heyu

[r. magnay]

That's not fair Kymie, I 'spose you loved it when you told your kids there was no Santa too!

Excellent writing............... as usual.

[manfredvijars]

... another great piece of writing Kimbo ... you going to Beauie or Bundie, or even Nth Pine this year ??

[the mad mare]

Hi Heyu,  Apparently, IF the story I read was accurate , Jack Riley was an Irishman who only arrived in Australia when he was 13.  He worked as a tailor with his sister until she married, and it was THEN he went bush.  Apparently he was bit of an alco and was only sociable when someone had a free drop to offer, all of which made me wonder, perhaps he wasn't such a fantastic rider at all, just a drunk telling grand stories ... but perhaps Australia isn't ready to hear an alternative version of one of their "heroes"?  Uh oh, I'm gunna get shot down in flames for this post, aren't I?

Hi Ross, Santa's not real??

Hi Manfred, Bundy's a possibility, the other places are too far.

Thanks fellas!

[Babe]

Well done Kim, a well told tale indeed.

Jack is the stuff of legends round here. His skills were mostly self proclaimed, but then, having seen the way men ride here, I'd not doubt his ability to ride well. Between Tom Groggin (High Country summering)and Greg Greg Station where he was employed, is some pretty rough country. He'd have been cutting stock out of the scrub in some fairly steep spots.

Jack was introduced to Mr Patterson, and entertained him in the High Country with a yarn or two around the campfire, and I'm quite sure he would have heard Banjo's poem and realised that the truth should never, ever be allowed to get in the way of a good yarn, good Irishman that he was.

I'm of the opinion that Banjo, being the good yarn spinner that he was, embelllished Jacks so called exploits, as well as using his own knowledge of station and outdoor life to create a worthy tribute to the skills of the High Country riders.


Babe

[the mad mare]

Hi Babe, I've heard about the MFSR festival and some of the horse riding comps there.  I'd LOVE to get there one day!  They tell me Guy McLean goes there too (he wrote the foreword for my book - great fellow, lovely family).  My parents visited the area around you there and took photos for me, but photos don't do it justice.  Pity some of the cabins were burned in recent fires.  Would love to go on one of those horse riding adventures one day.  One day ....

[Babe]

You'd love Riley's Ride Kym, but be warned...

It's already booked out for the next two years.

http://www.manfromsnowyriverbushfestival.com.au/index2.htm

And this write up is interesting...
http://www.abc.net.au/canberra/stories/s1849249.htm

Guy was there this year at the re-enactment. I was very impressed with his ability to recite THE poem whilst controlling his very excitable horse in front of a few thousand people. He ad-libbed very well too when "the mob" didn't quite go the direction rehearsed.


Babe

[Irene]

Kym - wonderful poem - who ever will know the truth of that ride now, eh?!?

I also would love to go over there for the festival, and to ride through the mountains!! There is so much magic about the high country, isn't there? Must have been the silver brumby books that did it!!!!   

Catchya
IRene

[Babe]

Elyne Mitchell wrote those lovely, delicate girly books, but she could have epitomised  Banjo's poem, because she was "hard and tough and wirey, just the sort that won't say die. There was courage in [her] quick impatient tread, and [she] bore the badge of gameness in [her] bright and firey eye and the proud and lofty carriage of [her] head." She was definately slight and weedy, and very fragile looking when I knew her.

I drove past her once, as she was standing by her vehicle. Thinking she had broken down, and being young and polite, I pulled up to see if I could offer assistance. She gave me a tongue lashing for blocking her view.

I must admit though, I don't blame her. I'm looking out the window at work now and the views are quite spectacular.


Babe