�They were probably too drunk to aim straight�, he quips with a grin. �There's only so much credit you can give out in a pub and after a thirsty ringer has had a couple of weeks pickling his brain anything can happen�, he adds.

�I was down fixing the water pump down by the river one day and heard this ZING next to my ear. It was all to do with some bloke betting on a dogfight. It all got a bit out of hand and the dogs owner started waving a shot gun in my face�. Trevor shrugs philosophically. �We sorted it out in the end and the bloke came back a few weeks later and apologised�.

Christened after the feared Kalkadoon tribe the bougainvillea enshrouded pub -120kms north east of Mt. Isa- is a rough and ready establishment, a fact that be-whiskered Trevor and his missus Janet are proud of it. We haven't changed the pub much. Who wants to drink in a brick shithouse in the bush. It's pretty much in the same state as when it was knocked together back in 1928�.

The Kalkadoon Hotel is the focal point of what's left of Kajabbi, a once boisterous and busy cattle-trucking centre in the early part of the century. Trevor says that things have mellowed a lot since then. Twenty five kilometers of the Matilda Highway, down a bull dust track and across of the Leichhart River (not to be tried in a flood) travelers discover Kajabbi. The paint daubed bonnet from and old valiant inscribed with shaky capitals and perched against a tree says so.

A couple of nights at the Kalkadoon can still provide a unique outback experience reminiscent of its past glories. The little ripple iron pub � originally hauled to Kajabbi on the back of a train-still knows how to put on a uniquely Aussie nights' entertainment for tourists and international travellers in search of a taste of the real Australia. It doesn't take too many blow-ins to start a party that can last for days. There's no juke-box, pin-ball machine or one-arm bandits, (mechanical ones anyway). But there is Trevor and his assorted musical mates who, at the drop of a bush hat, turn the pub into the rockinest little joint in the west. Armed with his prized Stratocaster he and anyone who can hit, strum or sing anything rock the night away. Invigorated patrons dance on the bar or out on the tablecloth sized bitumen road. There's no room for tables. Out the back the pub provides a selection of 'drunks bunks' and for the more decorous a few comfy dongas. Otherwise you camp or doss down in your swag. An ancient iron frame stove acts as the barbie and the dunnies are out near the pig pen next to lean to wash house.

With-in the walls any flat surface including the ceiling has been autographed by countless embibers.

Mummified fish heads, along with old engine manifolds, flimsy underwear � aged y-fronts, battered hats, a giant copper yabby and innumerable other bits of junk and memorabilia decorate the cramped confines of the barroom. There is even a live yabbie in a tank 'in training' for the next Kajabbi Yabbie races. �We like partying out here�, declares Janet unnecessarily. �People who arrive out here just fit in. We try to run the pub with a relaxed atmosphere. We get people from down south who arrive here on their way up north. They get here strung out because they've been driving hard for days�.

In fact the historic old pub has worldwide reputation.

�We have an extended family out here�, explains Trevor from somewhere beneath his ever present hat and the lush foliage that is his beard. �We get cards and e-mails from all over the world from people who have wound up here and didn't want to leave�.

�There's dust on the floors and cobwebs on the walls, what more could you want?�, mumbles Trev from amoungst the dense foliage flourishing on his chin and easing up his 'Strat�.