At home on the dusty paddocks of her McCallum property in jeans and an Akubra, Robyn Verrall looks as much a part of the landscape as her dorper lambs.
But the former Adelaide nurse's conversion to farming could very easily have never happened.
She was first drawn to South Australia's upper south east, Bodaruwitj country, after a sunset joy ride in her now-husband Chris Bullen's ute in 2002.
Despite the likelihood of getting bogged — it was the middle of winter — Chris insisted on taking Robyn on a trip around the paddocks.
They did get bogged — up to the axle. By the time Chris had walked back to get the tractor and returned to Robyn, it was one o'clock in the morning.
"So God knows why I stayed after that," Robyn says.
The pair, who had reconnected at a 20-year high school reunion in Adelaide, married in 2007, and Robyn moved her life to the farm, near Bordertown, with Chris.
Since then, she has gone on to help reshape the second-generation farm, improve the distribution of their dorper lambs and Angus cattle, and better connect consumers with producers.
She has also embarked on her biggest challenge yet — tackling food insecurity in Australia.
While the overnight stranding in a paddock could have easily discouraged a city girl like Robyn, it instead convinced her that she would need to be hands on if she were to make a go of it on the farm.
"That was when I thought, 'I really need to learn how to drive all the tractors, drive the trucks and operate all the machinery'," Robyn says.
"Taking on the farm wasn't really a labour of love. It was the practical person in me being realistic and going, 'If I don't do it, then he's got to spend more time doing it or outsourcing'."
Getting things done
The instinct to jump in and improve a situation has been long-standing in Robyn. She cannot help it.
Growing up in a family of six, her parents — a kindergarten teacher and a computer programmer — always encouraged two things: community and fairness.
"If you identify a problem, try to be a part of a solution," she says.
"[And] if you don't have the money, give your time. And if not you, why not? If you can do it, why not?," Robyn says.
It was a message Robyn leant on as a single mum raising her daughter, Amy.
"When I didn't have money to give to the schools for all the things, my mother said, 'Well money's not always important. You'll find if you give more of your time, that's more valuable'," Robyn says.
After travelling around the country with her father's work, the family returned to South Australia, where Robyn went on to study nursing, which was a natural fit.
She later went into medical sales, where she worked with doctors to help develop craniofacial treatments for children and adults injured in farming accidents.
"I've always seen myself as a nurse. Perhaps it comes in my general living as the eyes, the ears, the voice for those that can't speak, hear, or touch," Robyn says.
"I think first responders, we jump in."
The prospect of leaving a medical career for a muddy ute and kelpies was a romantic one initially.
"You know, the TV version of what a farm is," Robyn says.
"To suddenly get here and [realise] … 'What do you mean we only get paid once a year?'
"Suddenly rainfall matters and the sun matters and the temperature matters.
"And all of those things make up a successful and non-successful business."
The one similarity between operating theatres and shearing sheds?
"The same sort of swearing goes on," Robyn says.
Improving farm operations
It didn't take long for Robyn to identify ways to improve operations at the farm, starting with exports.
After gaining her meat exporter qualifications in 2012, Robyn created Bully's Beef and began sending boxed beef into China, Singapore, Hong Kong and the Middle East in 2014.
When China halted beef imports in 2017 and "the political situation got too much", Robyn suspended all overseas supply.
"We'd been giving our meat to family and friends and I suddenly thought, 'Why aren't we selling this [direct]?'," she says.
Robyn redirected all their sales to the domestic market, and added an extra focus on lamb.
Looking for an opportunity to spend more time in Adelaide to see family, Robyn took on the home deliveries herself.
Chris gets the lambs to the slaughter, then Robyn ensures the lambs reach the butcher, who cuts them and then trucks them to Adelaide, where Robyn delivers the meat to the customers' front door.
Not long into the new supply chain, Robyn identified a puzzling conundrum.
They were missing out on selling lamb to the city's Indian community.
"Our Indian community, biggest eaters of meat, why don't they buy from me?" Robyn questioned.
Eager as always to find the crux of the problem, she rang the head of Adelaide's Indian community.
The answer was actually quite simple. They wouldn't buy from a company with "beef" in the name.
And so Bully's Beef was rebranded to Bully's Meats.
The proximity to customers also alerted Robyn to another issue with their meat — accessibility, even in the "nice suburbs".
"I don't understand food insecurity in this country. I don't understand how it's allowed, how it goes on," Robyn says.
"People have good jobs but are one pay packet away from having nothing."
Robyn's awareness of the issue deepened with a phone call in 2018.
Tackling food insecurity in remote Australia
Robyn's friend Jessica Wishart, a Bindjara woman, rang from Alice Springs with a desperate request.
Visiting the Northern Territory from Adelaide for sorry business, Jessica was looking to buy meat for her extended family when the prices floored her.
In Central Australia, four lamb chops were selling for $86, and 500g of mince cost $70.
"We got really stressed because we couldn't afford meat for our family that were out bush," Jessica says.
Thinking of Robyn, she rang to ask if she could send some meat.
"If she can get meat to China, we should be able to get meat to Central Australia," Jessica thought.
Robyn managed to get a truckload of meat for 30 people up to Alice Springs for the same price they could have fed three.
"How is it that a country as wealthy as ours can do this to people at the lowest point in their lives?" Robyn asks.
Jessica and her brother Jordan knew they had to do something.
"My brother came up with the idea of Kere to Country and getting bulk meat products to communities, trying to cut down all the overhead prices as much as possible," Jessica says.
"Kere" means "food from animals".
"I feel like if not now, when? Let's just give it a go," Jessica says.
"We took the idea to Robyn. She loved it, she backed us, and we went into business together."
Making things happen now
Robyn was an easy choice for a founding partner and director.
As well as her access to meat, she brought connections to the table.
"Unfortunately, in this day and age, an Aboriginal-owned-and-operated company still needs to have somebody else sitting behind it, to support it, to show that it's going to be a viable business," Robyn says.
Jessica says that's been the best thing about Robyn.
"She can reach people that we can't, and people will listen to her that won't listen to us simply because we're black," Jessica says.
"We can't do this alone. We're three per cent of the population. We need allies.
"An ally looks like someone saying, 'We want to help you. We're not going to tell you how it's done, but we're going to support you with the resources you need to get it done'."
Coming from educational backgrounds, Jessica and Jordan understand there are always those who are going to be sceptical of their ability to help in the food space.
"Especially, not knowing much about the industry or agriculture," Jessica says.
Determined to make a go of it, Jordan, Jessica and their families have relocated to Alice Springs from Adelaide to focus on the success of the project.
So far, Kere to Country has delivered more than 100 packs to families around Alice Springs through a lay-by-like pay plan.
A barbecue or family pack will cost families $200 to $400 and contains meat to feed 10 people for a week or two.
"They're getting all their steaks and their sausages and their rissoles and their mince and their diced steaks and their chops," Jessica said.
The meat is selected by Robyn and Chris in the south east, butchered in nearby Keith, and then trucked to Alice Springs.
Jessica and her team get to deliver the packs to families' doors, a highlight.
"They get to fill their fridges up and not stress about being able to feed their families for the next couple of weeks," Jessica says.
"Delivery day is pretty special.
"It means that people don't feel like they have to leave country just to go and get some food.
"Otherwise you're 500 kilometres from the main town and it's so frustrating. It's so disempowering."
Building a sustainable model
The decision to go slow — and do it properly — is intentional.
"At the moment, we're just servicing Alice Springs, but we're about to go to Tennant Creek and Warumungu," Jessica says.
"We're a bit hesitant to go too far because we want to make sure our supply chain and our model are sustainable.
"It's really important that our communities can trust that when we do something we do it properly."
A new cool van has recently arrived, allowing Jessica and Jordan to start taking the meat to remote communities.
"We need to cut the cost of freight, and the only way to do that is if we do it ourselves," Jordan says.
"It's lots of trial and error, lots of community consultation, asking people what they want and making sure that we're invited out to the communities that we service."
That link between Jessica and Jordan and these Aboriginal communities is something Robyn appreciates and hopes other producers will be encouraged by.
"One thing I've learned in this process is that [as] a white woman I'm not invited onto communities either," Robyn says.
"Jessica and her team that are up there can do that without any prejudice."
Looking ahead
Robyn says that while Jessica's phone call in 2018 was confronting, she's glad it happened.
"Meeting Jessica gave me a picture of a whole community of people, our people, that I didn't even think would have to be putting up with those sorts of things, just to survive on a daily basis," Robyn says.
"If you're worried about what you're eating every day, how can you be worrying about employment? How can you be worrying about changing your mental health and your physical health?
"Reducing that sort of outrageous pricing is just something that we all have to do. And I'm driven by it.
"We can't rely on government for everything, but we should be able to rely on people to help people."
She hopes other producers will consider how they can help struggling communities.
"We're going to pay you. We're not asking for you to give us anything for nothing. If you could, hey, we'll take it," Robyn says.
"And it's not always about getting the best dollar. It could be those animals that cannot be put into our circulation but still have a purpose … could make into mince," Robyn says.
Like any of her other projects, Robyn is keen to see Kere to Country through.
"It's been really heartwarming for me. I just think we should have done it years ago," Robyn says.
Despite the delayed start and mountain of work ahead, she's not daunted by the task.
"I'm a really good doer. I don't do the finesse well, though, so if someone wants me to stick a cowbell on or tie a ribbon, that's not me."
Giving up isn't Robyn, either, which is why the night stranded in a paddock 20 years ago didn't deter her.
"I've found my home here in farming."
