I was travelling up the Western side of the Darling River late one afternoon, making my way from Wilcannia to Bourke. In the long afternoon shadows, I missed seeing a large washout in the road and hit it at about seventy miles per hour. The car bucked and bounced for a moment, but I carried on as usual. The smell of burning rubber soon made me concerned, so I stopped to check things out.

The altercation with the rut in the road had sheared off the centre-bolt between the rear springs and axle, allowing the wheel to slip back and rub on the housing. I was in the middle of nowhere and hadn't seen another vehicle all day, so decided to make temporary repairs. I managed to loosen the spring hanger nuts with a wheel brace, but couldn't budge the axle.

I thought about the problem for a while then had a great idea. Being a travelling salesman for a fencing company, I always carried a sample range of fencing tools. I broke open a set of wire strainers, the type with a grip at one end and a long chain at the other. With the chain wrapped around the axle housing and the grip locked onto the sub-frame, I worked the wire strainers along until the wheel returned to about the right place. After that, I re-tightened the hanger nuts and carefully continued on my way.

I knew it was still a long way to Bourke, so when I came to a crossroad, I turned towards the river. My decision paid off and I soon reached a bridge then the village of Louth. Some might not call it a village; there was a hotel and a racecourse and not much else. It looked good to me though and I stopped at the hotel called "Shindy's Inn".

The publican was very helpful and offered to ring the garage in Bourke and have a new centre-bolt sent down with the mailman. I seemed to recall being in a similar situation a year or so earlier, but accepted the kind offer and made arrangements to stay the night in Louth. It turned out to be an interesting experience and I enjoyed the friendship and hospitality of the local people.

The saying of 'when in Rome do as the Romans do', had a new meaning in Louth. There wasn't anything else to do! I sat at the bar like everyone else and joined in the chatter about whatever happened to be the topic of the moment. The conversation got around to my reason for being there and one of the local wags made a comment that I had come across the one tree plain.

I came in like the idiot I am and said I hadn't seen any trees on the plain. That opened the floodgates and the way for the storytellers to spin their local yarns.

"There was a tree there once," a fellow said casually as he winked at the others watching us. "All the galahs in the district used it to roost on until a stranger came along and wanted to catch them. He reckoned he could sell the Galahs in Sydney for five quid each," the fellow telling the story said.

"The problem was, every time the stranger went near the tree, the Galahs would take off and he couldn't catch them," the storyteller continued. "The local blacksmith felt sorry for the stranger and mixed up a brew of glue made from horse hooves and beer slops. Together they plastered the tree with the sticky goo then waited in a creek until the Galahs arrived. After the birds settled down, the stranger raced out with a fishing net and tried to catch a few," the story teller concluded and took a long drink from his glass of beer.

"So? What happened?" I asked expectantly.

"Oh. The five hundred Galahs all took off and carried the tree away with them. That's why there are no trees on the one tree plain," the storyteller replied and finished his beer.