Bright red sunset burning beyond the distant hills points the way; way out there, across hills and rich plains of Gamilaroi land. This is also the land of my father and his father, and the great grandfather killed during harvest. To think that a heavily packed four bushel bag of wheat: the object of the exercise of growing the stuff , could actually kill you. Across that small range, in line with Somerton Gap, is the place of my youth. There are many memories here. I am back in the city of my birth tonight.
