We stopped in Ivanhoe, a bustling outback town of about fifty residents. We actually didn't intend to stop there on our way to Broken Hill but just fill up with diesel. Or so we thought.

It turned out that Ivanhoe's electricity was down that morning, so we couldn't get any fuel for three hours. We headed for the local pub at the Ivanhoe Hotel, always the epicenter of town, and had a beer. We weren't in a hurry.

In Aussie pubs, you never know who or what you will encounter. A short, lanky fellow with a wooly red beard sat quietly at the bar while John, the owner, poured our draft. We got talking, of course. The bearded fellow told us that his name was Rodney Draper. Rodney said he'd retired from the railroad and was now just living off the land in Ivanhoe where life was simpler. He seems to spend a great deal of time just sitting at the bar.

Nicole got up and read the bulletin board, always a source of inspiration. Ivanhoe would have a sheep shearing and sheep dog competition over the Easter weekend, she said. Pity. We would be far away by then.

How we would love to find a sheep station somewhere to photograph the shearing process we moaned. "No worries, I can set you right" John said and voila! He rang up his friend, Tom Mulgrew, owner of the nearby Coolaminyah Station. Tom said 'Sure, come on out, mates, we're heavy into shearing today.' "We'll be there as soon as we get diesel," we promised. And Rodney volunteered to show us the way in his truck. We weaved for a while through a maze of dusty tracks, getting further and further from the main road. Nicole clicked on the GPS, "Rodney won't be here to help us find our way out, better get a bearing now so we can track back."

And such fun we had. We spent that afternoon documenting the sheep shearing process from beginning to end. First the sheep dogs crowd the sheep into large pens, biting at their heels, jumping on their backs. The stocky Merino ewes seemed remarkably docile, seldom making a mad dash to freedom.

Then, once jammed into the smaller pens in the long shearing shed, the sheep wait to be dragged out one by one by the shearer. These guys are strong and quick. They grab a sheep by the front legs and flip it on its back and drag it out of the pen. The sheep lies motionless, in a trance. With a powerful set of electric shears in hand -- Zip! Zip! -- great wads of gray wool start peeling off in sheets and the body shape, pearly white, begins to appear. A few more passes of the shears and the now naked sheep is pushed unceremoniously out a small trap door into an outside holding pen, none the worse for the experience.

The shearers stand one behind the other, each intent on his task. The work is done in silent concentration except for an oath or two when the sheep wiggles a bit. It is dusty, smelly and steamy hot inside the shearing shed. Each man is a professional working with remarkable economy of movement, a task repeated and refined over the years.

We watched the wool graders then throw each pelt onto a long table where they grope it briefly and toss it into separate grading bins. They make an instant decision just by feel. From there the wool will be compressed into nylon holding bags and trucked to the nearest wool selling facility. The men will then pick up their tools, dogs and expertise and move on to the next station with sheep to shear.

The sheep keep a watchful eye on the Australian sheep dog who is coaxing them ever closer to the shearing shed

Their eyes are riveted on the dog

A sea of faces looks out…

The dog in action. He sometimes grabs hold of the wool on the hindquarters, bringing it down to control its erratic movements. The sheep is not hurt in the process.

The dust really kicks up when the herd is being funneled through the gates

Rodney helps separate the boys from the girls as the sheep pass through gates which funnel into holding pens

This is what I look like with my warm, wooly coat

This is what I look like without my coat