But to a Jackaroo, Australia's nickname for a cowboy, shearin's just an afternoon chore. At Avalanche Homestead, a working sheep- and cattle-station, all manner of city folk come to join the Biddle family in the daily adventure of running the ranch. Here in the blue-misted Tinderry Mountains of Australia, reliving the cowboy myth reads like "Crocodile Dundee" meets "City Slickers."

Frank Biddle, the homestead's owner, retrieved me from Canberra airport one clear November morning. He cleaved the sea of businessmen, a twinkle-eyed rancher of 52 sun-kissed years. Dressed in khaki dungarees, dusty boots and a traditional Australian stockman's hat, Frank shook my hand with a leathery palm. He smiled, amusedly, at my clean dress and shoes, and offered the essential "Fair dinkum!" before levitating my bag and leading me outside.

Frank's mighty "ute" made light work of the winding, backroad ascent to Avalanche Homestead, 2,000 feet above the emerald city of Canberra. As we climbed, Frank wove stories of the area's flora, fauna and Aboriginal beginnings into the conversation. Like many Australians, the Biddles know their land and country intimately. Australians would call Frank a bit of a "Dag." His dry wit mingles with the lore he offers, reminiscent of an old, seasoned cowboy of the American west.

Days linger long in this big-sky country, where one can spend days or weeks rusticating in the Australian bush, bordering an 80,000-acre nature reserve. One of the most important ingredients of this island continent is that it is one of the least populated places on earth. Getting "far and away" is an Australian specialty, a land commandeered by European expats and transplanted British convicts in the 1700's. The few escapees climbed up into these mountains, expecting to make it to China.

I stepped from the four-wheel drive to consume the ranch's palatial view. Avalanche is perched near the crest of one of the heavily forested mountains that enfold the Queanbeyan River Valley. Queanbeyan means "Clear Water" in Aboriginal tongue. The thick woods appear smoky blue as sunlight refracts through the mist of the eucalyptus trees.

My first morning at the station, the other guests and I met for a hearty, stockman's breakfast: thick slices of fresh smoked bacon, eggs cooked to order and brambleberry jam on nine-grain toast. Later, we met Frank at the tack room and saddled up our mounts for the morning's mustering. One of the cattle had a bad eye and our mission was to draft him out of the herd and treat him.

Mustering is both a game of wits and a steady, intricate dance on horseback. Fortunately, the horses at Avalanche are loyal and good-natured. As Frank led us through mustering techniques, he described the solitary life of the Jackaroo, or Australian stockman, who migrates with the seasons, seeking work and unfurling his "swag" each night. Whisky, one of the station's sheepdogs, followed each of Frank's many commands instinctively and, after a few heart-thumping attempts, we drove the cow up out of a gully and along barbed wire fences to a small paddock with a treatment chute. We wrangled the rest of the mob up into another paddock, the entire process claiming three hours.

Making our way back through the forest, we rode into a shaded clearing where Frank's wife, Faye, had left simmering a can of "billy tea" and an iron panful of "damper" over a campfire. "Boiling the billy" constitutes a ubiquitous Jackaroo tradition - midmorning eucalyptus tea with scone-like damper. Frank swung the tea can through the air in a giant circle to settle the tea leaves before pouring. Freddie, the Biddle's intrepid Jack Russell terrier, materialized just as we pulled the damper off the fire, having run several miles through the woods. "Freddie's greatest joy in life is chasing kangaroos," Frank explained.

As we arrived back at the stables, a plaintive wail wafted up from the tack room nearby. Frank reached into a crate full of hay to pluck out Beautiful, a tiny lamb just days old. The animal snuggled down into my arms, like a kitten, as I lifted him. Beautiful is a regular member of the family at present, wandering through the house and into the kitchen every few hours for a bottle feeding.

Sustenance of orphaned animals and ranch guests alike is provided in grand fashion by Faye Biddle, Frank's wife and co-owner of the station. A hardy woman of 40-odd years, Faye has a habit of appearing out of nowhere whenever any mustering goes on at the ranch. She opens the gates between the paddocks and herds the cattle through by hollering at them and waving her arms.

But Faye is a true gem in the rough, having held a top government job in Melbourne before meeting her husband. Like Frank, she sports a worldliness that reveals itself each evening when hosts join guests for semi-formal, candle-graced dining. After a full day of riding, wrangling and shearing, one can recount the day's adventures over Australian wine and a three- or four-course feast with all the trimmings.

We'd had a first day chock full of adventure. We supped heartily on grilled lamb, fresh asparagus and chocolate-dipped fruit, and did in the last of the "lunatic soup" (red wine). I had promised my weary bones one last, hot shower before falling into my featherbed with the latest Australian bestseller. My body, accordingly, shifted down into a mellow idle, married soundly with my high-backed chair at the dining table.

I levered myself up to follow the other guests as Frank took us outside, beneath the grand, starry night sky. I had forgotten how the night sky performs when unencumbered by city lights. The southern hemispheric perspective offers a living planetarium that stirs the soul. Frank showed us the Southern Cross, the small, elegant constellation that guided early European explorers. The stars lit the deep, green slopes of the ranch, painting a sparkle into the woolly coats of the sheep.

Frank had us don our warmest clothes. By Avalanche standards, the night was young. He geared the ute with a spotlight, and we set out for a late night safari, Australia style. The ranch abounds with nocturnal creatures. Passing through the various paddocks, we scanned the hills for life signs. Australia's fauna is very distinct, as its land mass has been isolated and fairly free from climatic upheaval for more than 50 million years. Most of the country's surviving indigenous animals are marsupials - mammals that raise their offspring inside a pouch. Kangaroos, nicknamed "Kanga's" or "Roo's," arrive each night with the shadows, like clans of fat-bottomed, little brown people. They are teeming and shy, although one can draw fairly near on horseback.

The following morning, I clung to the saddle of a wild, Australian mountain horse named Cabe. Cabe and I ran "flat out like a lizard drinking" through the bush - up a steep ridge, through scrub and meadow, then into a thick grove of eucalypts and straight for an enormous branch that loomed across the only pathway in sight.

"If your horse can make it through, you can too," I had heard. A nice idea in theory, but the approaching bough may as well have been a brick wall if things didn't go my way. Taking matters into my own hands, I pitched myself towards the nearest patch of green and rolled.

My bones lay in a heap on the ground. I sat up to find Cabe waiting at my side, his caramely coat hot and glistening. Back in the saddle climbed I, before I could think twice. Such maneuvers aren't an integral part of the Jackaroo lifestyle, but when I came to Avalanche, I came prepared to "tuck in" all the way. We rode on, amidst the cackle of the elusive Kookaburra.

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