Throughout the night the sounds of Lee Kerneghan echoed through paddock, punctuated by the sounds of stumbling revelers returning to their swag.  As the first light began to stir the horses and the bulls nervously shifted in the dust, the sounds of Johnny Cash came over the loud speaker waking those from their sleepy haze.  To one side of me two silhouettes pass in the dust filled light, arms around each other in either loving embrace, or to maintain balance, or more likely both.  As I roll over there is a large timber bed sitting amongst the brown dirt and grass and a half empty can of beer precariously balancing on the bed end. Protruding from one end the wisps of blond hair hiding the likely throbbing head below the bed covers.

Finally rising ourselves we walked past a graveyard of thousands of crushed XXXX cans and squashed plastic cups with their traces of bourbon and rum dripping on the edges. Luckily the smell was overshadowed by the hangover saving bacon, eggs and sausages sizzling on the large BBQ's the Quamby Sports Association had kindly prepared.

To me the Quamby Rodeo defines this country. And if it was not for the three young lasses on the service station I may have missed probably the most memorable part of the whole trip. I couldn't sum up the night any better than a train driver we met on the night who said: