A Muddy Trip to Tibooburra along
The Silver City Highway

By the time we reached the burned-out pub at Yanco Glen, it was raining steadily. We stopped beside the ruins and made our way across to the new bar which had been set up in the pub garage.

Originally there was a pub similar to Yanco Glen on each of the main roads leading out of Broken Hill. Mt Gipps and Stephens Creek were two of them. They were far enough out of town so that any thirsty miner making the trip to them would qualify as a “traveller”, and as such could be served after hours and on Sundays. Yanco Glen was on the Silver City Highway further out than the Stephens Creek pub.

When longer opening hours and .05 driving rules were introduced in New South Wales, the roadside pub business dropped off.

Mysteriously, most of the pubs then burnt down.

A few people told us that the licences were then sold at a good price, and transferred to a new fancy wine bar or new flash pub in Sydney. This subject of discussion was one of the few that got me into a bit of hot water in my early days of travelling.

I was playing Didgeridoo with a “new mate on guitar” and entertaining a few tourists in the Innamincka pub one night.

My “new mate on guitar” happened to mention he had come from a small town in Central New South Wales.

I, amazed at the coincidence, said without thinking,

“Oh, my brother lives there. He used to drink at the pub, but he reckons the publican burnt it down to sell the licence.”

The “new friend on guitar” was silent for a moment. Then he burst out:

“I WAS the bloody publican, and I didn’t burn it down!” I, apologised profusely, and shifted down to the other end of the bar. I couldn’t help thinking:

“The Outback looks like a big place, but it gets really small if you’re not careful about opening your mouth.

Anyway back to Yanco Glen, the pub on the Silver City Highway…..

After the introductory couple of beers I asked about the road to Tibooburra.

“Good as gold.” the barman replied,

“This bloke’s a fencer.” he said, pointing to a bloke beside me, “He’s just come down from Packsaddle.”

We then headed for Packsaddle. But the rain got heavier and the road got wetter. By this time the ute was struggling a bit for power in the heavy mud. I was pleased to see the pub still open at Packsaddle and decided to spend a couple of days there. At least until the rain stopped, and the road dried out a bit.

Then the pub ran out of good beer. The grandly named Silver City Highway from Broken Hill Road had been closed. The beer truck couldn’t get through the mud and there had been a big run on the supplies. Every jackeroo from miles around took advantage of the rain to take a few days off and catch up on their drinking.

When we eventually left, everyone was either drinking spirits or the “Green Death”, beer in a green labelled bottle, which required a special palette. This was possibly cultured by drinking methylated spirits while in a “dry” stock camp.

It was during our stay at Packsaddle that I had another illustration of how small the Outback can be.

A few months before, I was working on the grape vines at Menindie, about 300km away. We were having a couple of quiet drinks at Maidens pub with another couple. It turned out the other couple were actually undercover cops.

They had just finished an investigation into missing morphine phials that had been stolen from emergency Flying Doctor medicine chests at station Homesteads.

After a few more quiet drinks they told us the story of the “Grave Digger”. Apparently, this young bloke shared my interest in outback graves. There were several very old graves in the station cemetery where he was working. Curiosity eventually got the better of him and one day he decided to dig one up.

He evidently found a few bones and a beautiful brass belt buckle. Next trip to Broken Hill he took in the freshly polished buckle and had a new belt fitted to it. The cop Dave was talking to had the unfortunate job of charging the young bloke after the story of the new belt got out.

After forcing down my share of the “Green Death” I started telling the publican the story. I should have noticed the unusual expression on the publican’s face but I was looking around at one of the jackeroos as he walked out and slammed the door behind him.

“You bloody idiot,” the publican said quietly to me, “That was the “Grave Digger who just walked out! He was sitting beside you!”

This time I headed right out of the bar, rejoined the muddy Silver City Highway and headed off through the mud to Tibooburra.

Roadside repairs at the end of the Silver City Highway