Vale Dr Fred McConnel 1940-2025 (85 years, Katherine N.T.)

Fred McConnel was only a kid when he first started visiting Glenhaughton on his school holidays to earn some money working as a ringer in 1957.  My dad (Lex Smith) was there, with Nugget Roser, Bob Lambert and our late mate Bronc. Dad was 19, Fred was 17.  They all remembered him fondly as a gangly young bloke, very likeable, and willing to have a go at anything.

I have only known Fred for a few years. I’d just started recording these Glenhaughton Ringer yarns and before I knew it, I was tracking down others they’d lost touch with over the years, almost 70 years ago. Fred was one of the first mentioned, with a nostalgic longing to know what had become of the young man who was studying to become a doctor when they last saw him. They recalled, “All Fred wanted to be, was a Glenhaughton Ringer, but his mother had other ideas.” It was months later when I finally made contact with Fred, and he told me those years were right up there with the highlight of his life.

Glenhaughton Station was a big holding (in these parts) and was well known around Australia. It was 900 square miles of rough, gorgy country in the Expedition Ranges, (outside Taroom in Central Queensland), and there were a lot of cleanskins to be caught. Packhorses were still used to cart supplies to mustering camps. I’ve heard repeatedly that anyone who had worked on Glenhaughton could get a job anywhere in Australia.

I was honoured to get to know Fred and to share some of his great stories at his farewell that you might enjoy hearing about:

He was expected to stay with the family at the big house, but Fred much preferred the basic ringer’s accommodation. Ordered back to the homestead, he would defiantly drag his swag down to his mates on the creek where all the fun was had.

Fred would laugh about how “wet behind the ears” he was in those days, and he knew he had a bit to learn before he could keep up with the experienced young blokes. Jimmy McGuire was a larrikin ringer, before he became famous as “The Ironman of Rodeo” (5 times all-round champion cowboy).  He could ride anything, and he loved a horse that bucked. (No doubt 15 year old Bronc Bradshaw learnt a lot from Jimmy.)

Fred asked for a quiet horse to get started on, so Jimmy saddled up Fritz. He assured Fred that he’d be right, neglecting to mention that Fritz was known to buck EVERY TIME he was mounted, even at the end of a long day’s work. Oblivious, Fred got on. His bum hit the saddle, and Fritz dropped his head, throwing poor Fred as far as he could. Fred dusted himself off saying, “I thought you said he wouldn’t buck!” Jimmy laughed and told him, “He only bucked because you hit him in the flank when you dragged your leg over. Get on again.” So, he did. Same result. Different excuse from Jimmy. This happened 3 or 4 times before word came from the boss Duncan McConnel, Fred’s much older cousin, who had been watching from the homestead verandah. The note to Jimmy read, “Cut it out before Fred gets hurt. He’s going to be a doctor one day, and his father has spent a lot of money on him!”

In the many conversations we shared, the Blitz truck and station Land Rovers were often mentioned – legendary vehicles that could go anywhere. The Land Rover was low geared and suited the rough terrain and lack of roads. Fred remembered crawling out of a very steep and rocky creek crossing, thinking at any minute they’d tip over backwards… so the ringers would all climb out of the back tray and sit on the bonnet to stop it rearing over. (Dad told me if they were on their own, they had to REVERSE up the steep bank instead!)  The old Blitz had a place in history according to Fred. It was designed for the war with a top opening turret on the passenger side, so soldiers could stand up and shoot out through the roof.  It had been in the wars (literally), and brakes were a thing of the past. Nugget Roser was driving, Fred in the passenger seat, heading down a steep jump up through the timber. Nugget was new to driving and he was struggling with the gears. He missed the change and the big old truck got away from him, gathering pace as it freewheeled down the hill with no brakes. Fred was hanging on for dear life. A big, fallen tree pulled them up. The Blitz stopped dead, and the turret roof popped open. Fred shot STRAIGHT UP, through the open roof, and landed sitting upright in his seat, still smiling.

He told me he was either too naïve, or like so many other times at Glenhaughton, he was just having too much fun to see the seriousness of the situation. “I had no idea about self-protection,” he said.  Out mustering one day, he was chasing a stubborn old cleanskin cow, and she took him into thick wattle. He jumped off to throw her in a clearing – a bit too soon – and she turned on him. There were no trees to get behind and Fred told me that he just froze. When the cow got to him, he grabbed her horns like handlebars and slowly twisted her to the ground and somehow got a strap on her. He was exhausted, but alive, and he thought he was alone, when he heard a voice from a ridge up above.  It was Duncan (his boss), on his horse, having seen the whole struggle. “Don’t ever let me see you do something like that again,” he told Fred. “You could have been killed, and the responsibility would be mine!” And not another word was spoken about it.  Fred said he didn’t tell a soul. A report about this muster surfaced recently, validating everything the men had told me. Duncan described the incident exactly as Fred did – he really thought the cow would kill Fred that day. He also wrote about the men that they were “a good bunch, who often attempt dangerous things that endanger their lives.”

Fred would message me when he remembered stories from those early days. I loved getting his messages. There was a story he told me from when he was living in Kununarra, and he was an official member of the race club. He was “President at one stage, and always the official medical officer.” He told me he had a close relationship with the station owners and managers, who provided the racehorses, and the amateur jockeys who rode them.

After the races one day, he was at the pub, having his tuppence-worth in the conversation about horses and cattle, as you do. A stranger to Fred, who was listening in, said, “What the hell would YOU know about cattle? You’re only a doctor!” It was an invitation for a fight, but Fred didn’t know that. One of the managers of Argyle Downs Station, who was a Queenslander and a good mate by the name of Graham Bell, turned to this bloke in Fred’s defence and said, “Look mate, if you had worked cattle where he’s worked cattle, you’d keep your bloody trap shut!” Such was the reputation of Glenhaughton.  Fred told me it was STILL the proudest moment of his life.

Just like the other men I’ve spoken to, it wasn’t work for Fred out there, but one big adventure. “I was just a boy when I went there,” he told me, “But Glenhaughton is where I became a man. Not many people can say they have ridden through the bush at Glenhaughton keeping up with Jimmy McGuire,” he laughed, and then added, “I really wasn’t much of a rider – especially in comparison to the others, but Jimmy said ‘just follow me’ – so I did. I let my horse have its’ head and I just hung on!”

Fred returned to Brisbane and continued his medical studies. He enjoyed the Jazz scene in Brisbane, where he played the trombone and piano. He met his beloved wife Robin at this time, a beautiful and strong minded young teacher from New Zealand who played guitar and lived life to the full. They were married in 1963, he graduated in 1965. Fred often lamented to me the “wrong turn” he was forced to make into medicine (at his mother’s insistence), away from a life on the land. After completing his grad year at the Mater Hospital, he decided to make the most of where he had found himself, and they headed to Kununurra. If he had to be a doctor, he was going to do it in the bush!

A full and good life followed. Four children were born and raised in Kununurra – David (Red); Jordan (Jock); Duncan; and Morag (Maggie). Fred insisted they all grow up riding horses, learning lost skills such as building and driving sulky’s, and generally living a unique lifestyle that not many doctors kids (nor others of the same vintage) could attest to. Amongst many things, he taught them the value of hard work, and to appreciate the freedom and beauty of the bush, and its’ people. No doubt this is one of the reasons we enjoyed their company so much, each of them very different in the paths they chose to follow. A bush upbringing is a solid foundation for a good life.

Tributes continue to flow for Doctor Fred. They tell of a man much loved in the Kimberly and Katherine communities he worked in, and the many lives he delivered, saved, and nurtured in his lifetime.

Dad and I loved hearing from Fred. In the last year Fred’s communications took a positive turn, with less regrets and more acceptance of a life well lived. Our last correspondence was long, reflecting on life and his love of family. He spoke of Robin, the light of his life, and the Willie Nelson songs they enjoyed together. He was sitting in front of a cheery fire, with his old dog Buster by his side, listening to a compilation “Willie for Robin”, with a photo of Robin on his chest. “Life could be a lot worse,” he told me.

I am glad that he was able to find joy in the resurrected memories of his early days at Glenhaughton, and that he thought it was nice to be remembered for the important things. “Not that the rest of my life wasn’t important,” he told me, “But this part is a little secret – now shared.”

He made quite an impression on me, and the Glenhaughton men he worked with, and we will never forget him.

I hope when Fred arrived at the last big mustering camp in the sky, that Jimmy had Fritz saddled and waiting, and he had the ride of his life!

Rest easy Fred, thanks for the stories – and the Willie Nelson recommendations!