September 26, 2017

Introduction to New Nature Writing

I strayed from the path of traditional, or pastoral, nature writing years ago when I discovered not only urban landscapes rich in wildlife, but anthropomorphism, irony, and bottles of red wine and bourbon with birds on their labels. As a young reporter, I had been impressed by the New Journalism of the 1960s which took reporting into the realm of the novel and short-story and a few decades on I found what were termed New Nature Writers breaking with tradition and exploring similar territory.
Although I still treasure the book that was my introduction to words about nature, Gilbert White’s The Natural History of Selbourne published in 1788, I now find inspiration in one of the new journalists, Hunter S Thompson. Thompson might not have written of nature as such but his words “I write with rage and ink” have an irresistible resonance that carries far beyond the suburbs to the wooded hills of the horizon.
Like the Don Bentley Chronicles, the works in this category have largely appeared on the Tasmaniantimes website.

A silent prayer for a tree  

Don Bentley and his silver birch had much in common. It had not become apparent at first but over the years Bentley had discovered a symmetry between their lives. They were soul-mates. Bentley had happened on the tree walking to work one morning. At the start of spring he always took a detour through St David’s Park in the heart of Hobart. He found the dappled glades in spring sunshine, and the songs of the birds, calming before the turmoil of the working day.

The park represented an arboretum of European tree species, in the tradition of the Victorian colonial park from the time it was designed, constructed and planted. English-born Bentley had lived in Australia for a decade but he was still drawn to European flora, its changing spring and autumn foliage, its austerity in winter, which gave shape to the seasons.

There was only one native tree in St David’s Park, a blue gum, and on spring days when Bentley’s heart was pulled towards England he thought that was just about right.

And that silver birch. Bentley was from Surrey, the county of the birch and pine which thrived on the sandy soils dumped there by glaciers in pre-history. Bentley recognised the tree immediately, of course, as being from his home county. He thought its situation, standing on its own well away from the other trees, was appropriate because it allowed the features of the tree  – its drooping aspect, silver bark and small, triangular leaves in various shades of green – to stand out among the richer and fuller-leafed foliage of the other deciduous species.

You could say the specimen in St David’s Park was solitary, lonely, in its spacious situation but Bentley would say independent. Much like himself.

When the sun shone strong and hard at the start of the day Don Bentley would set out for work early, to give himself 10 minutes or so to sit in the park. He chose the same seat on these mornings, a wooden, slatted bench that faced south so the early-morning sun cut through the park from the east and set a yellow light on trunks and branches, the full grandeur of the trees rising from their night slumber. On these days the rising sun gave the bark of the birch a pastel-yellow hue, and darkened the clusters of leaves so they looked the bottle green of the bottles of Bentley’s favourite brew, Boag’s.

The great trees of the world – the biggest oaks, elms, chestnuts and, in Australia, eucalypts among them – have been described as nature’s cathedrals. Indeed, the sweeping boughs of the elm are thought to have inspired the Gothic style of architecture. Bentley, though, looked more to fine art. Trees, he would say, set out a stunning array of shapes and colour and beauty on a canvas that was forever changing.

On days when Bentley’s spirits soared to the upper branches of his works of art, trees became not merely decorative art, they were nature’s installations, reaching out to the viewer. They were tactile and asked to be caressed and hugged. They interacted with those that came within their embrace.

Bentley would say his life had a symmetry with the birch but they were also symbiotic. Their lives intertwined on those mornings when he stopped to admire the tree, and took a breath of the cool, scented air that enveloped it. And Bentley would approach the park keepers, to urge them to give his tree extra water on dry days, and a little extra mulch to keep the sun from drying out the moisture around the roots.

The park keepers took more than a casual interest in Bentley, paying him close attention, even at a distance. Who was this man who stood for 10 minutes or so to admire a single tree, talking to it sometimes and wishing it goodbye when he left? In smart suit and tie, Bentley didn’t look like the usual oddballs who sometimes made the park their home, and talked to the trees. He was harmless enough.

Some days, if he had time, Bentley would touch the park’s trees, responding to their invitation to engage them, as he did sometimes at installation art events at Hobart art galleries, if exhibits and artists demanded it. The flaky bark of the birch, curling at the ends, like the hair of a curly-haired child; the beech’s smooth, grey bark like that of  tough, rutted elephant skin; the oak and elm, their soft bark the pliable cork of a  good bottle of Shiraz.

If Bentley had been born a tree he would have liked to have been a silver birch. Bentley had noted in his youth, when flower power and eastern mysticism were all the rage in the 1960s, that some faiths believed humans came back as animals when they died. Bentley didn’t believe it, of course, but if it was true he would specify his ticket back to earth was changed from his favourite animal, the badger, to that of a tree, the birch.

It was a thought that made him smile some mornings, standing there admiring his tree, once to the disquiet of a female jogger hurrying to complete her run before the beginning of the working day.

Eccentric. That was the term the park rangers finally ascribed to Bentley, the man who loved trees, or a tree, with such passion it made him late for work each day. Bentley was well aware of the way the world, or the microcosm of the world contained within the confines of St David’s Park, viewed him. Thirty years previously, when he had worked at the heart of the British newspaper industry, Fleet Street, he had known an Australian who spent his rest days in the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew “touching base”, as the Australian journalist put it, with his homeland through its native trees.

The colleague took Bentley there once to admire wattles and gums, sheoaks and paperbark. The Australian had a favourite, a giant blue gum, and, like Bentley with his birch in St David’s Park, he would stand before it for sometimes 30 minutes or more, as if in prayer.

The Australian might not have known it but he was engaged in a ritual that spanned the history of mankind, and all its peoples. Two African tribes, the Hereros and the Ovambos of Namibia regarded the the leadwood tree (Combretum imberbe Wawra) as the great ancestor of all animals and people and they never walked past it without paying it respect.

Bentley often thought of the Australian when he viewed the lone blue gum in St David’s Park, the tree alone among the “Poms”. The gum could even be a metaphor for the Australian’s transplanted existence in London, as the silver birch was for Bentley’s life in Tasmania. Why was it that humans out of their home environment, the comfortable habitat they knew, found it was trees that drew them home in thought? Trees not only shaped a specific environment but called to something ancient in humans, plumbed the sap of their primordial roots.

In ancient mythology trees were said to link the Earth to the sky. Did ancient people know that trees produced the very air that we breathe? What was obviously known was that trees, along with lesser plants, provided food for not only humans, but the animals humans hunted. Trees had nourished and nurtured the rise of mankind, providing fuel, food, shelter and hiding places.

Bentley was gratified the world was waking up to the importance of trees and forests, or so it seemed from what he read in the press and saw on the television news. Trees were now deemed precious, not just for their beauty, and their capacity to produce oxygen, but their role as carbon sinks in a climate of global warming.

He was pleased to note, too, that a movement had started in his native Britain to compile a list of truly ancient trees. One, the Fontingall yew in Scotland, had been found to be between 3000 and 5000 years of age.

Ancient trees had been recorded in Tasmania, too. A swamp gum in the Florentine Valley in the state’s south-west – an area being logged – had been carbon-dated by researchers to starting its life when Henry VIII was on the throne in England.

It wasn’t that Bentley did not like Australian trees. They had their own beauty. They might not assume striking autumnal plumage before dropping their leaves each winter but the gum and wattle leaves changed in colour during the year when new growth – often in shades of deep reds and maroon, the colour of autumn in Europe and North America – replaced old and worn foliage. And the bark of eucalypt and wattles was as interesting and varied as anything found on European trees. On his rambles in the woodland on the fringe of Hobart, Bentley could see that some bark was shaggy and flaking, some bare and streaked in yellows and pinks, colours that changed when the trunks were washed with rain.

Bentley had always looked to the shape and form of trees, and not their age. The British ancient tree register confirmed that oaks and elms were truly ancient, but Bentley, when he read it, was interested to learn that his silver birch merely had a lifespan of 70 years, the biblical three score and ten of a human. It was another reason to warm to the birch, to find symmetry and symbiosis with it.

Bentley had never aspired to be an oak or elm, the leader of the forest, which put other trees in the shade. Bentley had never considered himself  a leader of men. He had worked as a journalist for 40-odd years, as a reporter and sub-editor, but he had never aspired to the top job, that of editor. He left that to others and was happy to operate just under the canopy, to be a lesser tree in the forest, or the human jungle, of journalism.

Yes, Bentley was a birch. Workman-like and vital without pretension. The birch was the tree to reclaim recently disturbed land and make its contribution before standing aside for others. In its relatively short life it would provide leaf litter and bark debris to nourish the soil. When dead, its rotting core attracted jays looking to hide acorns and provided shade and shelter for oak seeds forgotten by the birds to grow.

Sitting on his park bench some mornings, Bentley often thought that if he was Australian born, and had developed a love for Australian trees as he had done for British ones in his youth, he would have looked to the silver wattle for its inspiration, or the blackwood, or in the rainforest, myrtle and sassafras.

Bentley, on trips to wild, native forest beyond the Hobart suburbs would look up at the towering swamp gums, admire them and acknowledge they were the tallest flowering trees on the planet.  Bentley, though, would still be happy to stand with the sassafras in the shadows.

The eucalypts of the forest might pre-date European history in Australia but Bentley’s birch had a history of its own. A modern history. It was a baby boomer tree, born after World War II when European trees in Australia still had a currency, a value, that they were not given in the 21st century. What Bentley termed the “tree police” would not allow a non-native tree to be planted today for its own sake.

And what had the birch seen out there on Davey Street, adjoining the park, and in the park itself? Joyous crowds celebrating the end of war and new-found freedoms, especially for the post-war generation. Rock-and-rollers taking over the bandstand in the centre of the park, hippies with love-ins in the flowerbeds, flower power and pot among the glades. Soldiers marching off to the Korean and Vietnam wars, protest over dams and then forests. Bentley’s birch was a repository of modern history, as vital as Bentley’s recollection of it.

Yes, a babyboomer tree, a hippy tree, Bentley would say to himself some days, in quiet contemplation of the birch. He and the birch were rooted in place and time on the planet. He could not connect in the same way to the oaks and elms, beeches and poplars which had their own place in time, a place that pre-dated the birch and Bentley.

It so happened in St David’s Park that the elms and oaks were grouped together so their true, sweeping beauty could not be fully appreciated. The park had replaced a pioneer cemetery in the early 1900s and the trees had been planted to line and frame avenues. Conversely, it was the silver birch that stood alone, finding its own space, revealing its own elegance and beauty, so often overlooked in its natural habitat.

The tree over the years remained rich in symbolism for Bentley and each day it seemed that he developed a new connection with it. One morning, Bentley saw the birch as a metaphor for his life in Australia, a country he had made his home after marrying a Tasmanian whom he had met in London. Bentley had grown to love Australia, and the wide horizons stretching from earth to sky that were impossible to contemplate in over-crowded southern England; a place, geographically and socially, Bentley increasingly found to be flat and boring.

Bentley had worked worldwide as a foreign correspondent at various times in his career and his wife’s desire to raise their only child in Australia had given him the chance for one last adventure at the tail-end of his career, at the tail-end of the world.

He still stood alone, however, even after a decade in Australia. He was an Australian citizen all right, meshed with his colleagues in pub talk of footy and cricket (even if during Ashes test he remained the “Pommie bastard”) , and drank their brew, but it was the environment beyond the office, beyond the city, in which Bentley so often felt adrift. It was in woods and forests that he sometimes longed for a birch or elm and the familiar birds and animals that made them their home. And even on city streets some days he could not escape this feeling of homesickness, the song of the blackbird – lusty, rich and vibrant – taking him back to twilight nights in England, or a dewy dawn where spider webs were painted with translucent cool mist.

Sometimes Bentley believed he didn’t belong. It troubled him and on these mornings he sought solace in his communion with his birch.

The birch, if he listened to the tree police, did not belong either but Bentley, after studying it for several years, could argue that it did. The birch might not be native but it made its own contribution to the ecology of the city, a false and distorted one anyway because it relied so much on imported flora and fauna.

The birch, although not as majestic as the hardwoods, still towered a good 20 metres over nearby flowerbeds of rhododendrons, camellias and azaleas and provided a perch some mornings for a hunting grey goshawk. Its layers of leaves were home to insects and in turn attracted grey fantails which danced in its shadow. Catkins brushed with pollen lured new holland and crescent honeyeaters in spring and in autumn dangling lambs’ tail seedpods, the seeds tiny like flakes of ground pepper, provided food for both eastern and green rosellas. The eastern rosellas were a joy to watch and some mornings, when flocks of six or seven birds festooned the tree, the tree itself went unnoticed.

Bentley was approaching his mid-60s, approaching retirement age, and if the birch could speak it would tell him it was also moving from the autumn to the winter of its life.

When Bentley had first learned of the birch’s limited three score and ten longevity, he had looked closely at the tree. The birch showed signs of its age. The trunk appeared sturdy and strong but the boughs were cracked and frayed. In winds, they swayed and creaked and in deep winter, leafless, the birch looked exposed and vulnerable and in pain. Did a birch feel that chill wind, did its boughs ache in an icy blast as Bentley’s bones and joints did? He believed so. The birch’s upper reaches were no longer full and rounded when in leaf in spring and summer. Dead boughs and twigs protruded through the canopy. Its crown was thinning.

Bentley feared for his precious tree when strong spring winds buffeted the city. After one particularly heavy pounding one night, Bentley hurried to the park next morning. Close to his home a poplar had crashed to the ground, broken and tangled and bringing powerlines down with it.

Bentley’s pace quickened. A feeling of dread, of impending loss, stalked him down Davey Street on his route to the park. Hollow. Gut-wrenching. He braced for the worst when he saw a tree-surgeon’s truck inside the park.

And there was the silver birch, spread out before him across the grass. It had come down in the night and the tree cutters had already dissected its trunk. The outer branches lie like roadkill, a plover or raven spread-eagled across the grass, two sections of canopy forming a blanket of wings.
A breeze whipped up a spray of silver bark flakes and yellow sawdust and Bentley, too, felt the murmur of death, its chill breath rustling his leaves.

 

Wings from the past

I heard it first before its giant shadow fell across me. Not the whoosh of wings you’d think an eagle would make, as it strikes for the kill, dagger talons outstretched. This was more a rustle of feathers, like the whisper of a gentle breeze brushing the grass of a paddock, or the canopy of the rainforest. With slow, deliberate flaps of its wings, the eagle bent its head to observe my every move, not more than 10 metres above me. Its eyes were firmly fixed on mine.

I felt that I could reach out and touch it.

Two metres of wingspan and a ferocious beak just above my head: I was unnerved. I ducked and felt the urge to run, but I stood my ground, gazing up at this giant bird, a combination of fear and awe rooting me to the spot.

As the eagle passed above me I expected it to merely fly on but, rising slightly, it splayed its wings, the outer long, delicate feathers trembling in the wind. It had angled into the breeze coming in off the Southern Ocean to the west; hovering above me, seemingly motionless, swaying and pitching to keep in balance.

A few days earlier I had headed to Tasmania’s wild north-west to get up close and personal to nature, but this was a little too close, and a little too personal. It was one of those moments when, despite a shelf-load of birding field guides back home, you realise that at heart you are an urban animal. Your habitat is the cosiness of the suburb.

It was lonely out there. I was three kilometres from the nearest road and at least 10 from the nearest human home but I had felt someone, something, watching me. I scanned the spiky, untidy coastal heathland for eyes, or ears. A wallaby, perhaps, or possum or pademelon.

All the while, high above and hidden in the glare of the sun, a wedge-tailed eagle followed. The male eagle had picked me out, stalked me and now snuck up behind me, from the direction I had come.

A bird from the past.

The sighting of an eagle had not entered my thoughts when I set out to walk the trail south from Marrawah towards the Arthur River. Tasmanian devils had been my focus and I was in the north-west to spend time on a farm where it is possible to watch devils at war and peace at night.

Something planned and expected, though, is not the same as something coming, literally, out of the blue. Not that “wedgies’’ are new to me, a new bird for my checklist of birds spotted. I see them frequently crossing the Hobart suburb where I live. There I gaze in wonder without a tinge of nervousness. On broad wings they cross the sky between the two valleys framing my home, untroubled by angry forest ravens that rise to send them on their way.

The wedgie brings that place we call “the wild’’ to our suburb. The eagle is the lush-green pasture in spring, the snow-capped peak in winter, the mountain scree coated with early-morning frost. The eagle is the swaying swamp gum, a tumbling stream in the rainforest. The eagle is a winged wonder that lifts our spirits, urges us to fly with it, it distracts us on our way to the office, to tell us that life exists beyond the computer screen, beyond the pressures that rule the human daily life.

Today the eagle may be symbolic of that world beyond the picket fence, the hedgerow and car port but in other ages it has carried a different kind of symbolism on its broad wings.

When Aborigines and eagles shared these lands, the silhouette of the eagle was etched into every horizon. In some Aboriginal cultures, the eagle was written into the night sky, the stars of the Southern Cross depicting a talon or the eagle itself.

The Aborigines who walked this track before me had known the eagle. It would have followed them, too, casting them in its shadow. It had been a witness to Aboriginal history for more than 40,000 years; fraternity and unity in a hard place by the sea. It would have followed them on their journeys south to trade for the hard rock to make their tools and weapons, and their migration inland when the fish weren’t running, or seals to be hunted had not come.

Before the eagle appeared on my walk I had seen evidence of Aboriginal settlement all around me. There were deep depressions in banks of sea-polished stones where Aboriginal hunters had lain in wait to ambush seals. There were hut hollows on raised ground just above the beach where the first Australians anchored shelters of bent tea-tree branches and kangaroo hides. The vantage point gave them a sweeping view of rock pool and beach, so they could watch over their children playing in the ocean, or watch for enemies.

The eagle witnessed modern human history, too; the arrival of the first European explorers, and pioneers and settlers. George Augustus Robinson, charged with rounding up the last of the Aborigines for transhipment to islands in Bass Strait, passed this way, as did his fellow traveller, Truganini, believed to be the last full-blood Tasmanian Aborigine.

I had spent a restless night at Kings Run near Marrawah, a former cattle property that is now a tourism venture operated by Geoff King who introduces visitors to not only the world of the endangered Tasmanian devil but the wider, beautiful environment in which they live in this part of the world.

The 214ha property of coastal heathland, tussock grass and sedge is washed on one side by wild ocean and after watching devils most of the night, and then being kept awake by their fighting under the hut in which I was sleeping, I had risen at dawn to go in search of birds.

I had in mind white-fronted chats combing the seashore for food, sooty oystercatchers on the rocks and, in the coastal heath, tawny-crowned honeyeaters. An eagle was not on my radar.

The wedgie had stayed with me for 20 minutes, before appearing to lose interest. At last it allowed the sea breeze to lift it higher, the eagle veering out over the wild ocean, then banking to come around in a wide sweep, a silhouette against the sun, and in a blink it was gone.

The thought occurred to me that Geoff King feeds roadkill to eagles, as he does devils on the nights be operates his Kings Run devil viewing spectacle, and a little later when he came to pick me up in his ute I mentioned the eagle sighting, still excited by it.

He doesn’t feed eagles and described his own encounters with them when he drove cattle on horseback. They would follow him for hours. No doubt the rumble of hundreds of cattle on the move, the pounding of horse shoes in the dry earth, would have flushed wallabies and pademelons, and smaller marsupials for the eagles to swoop on.

The King family who settled these lands in the late 19th century introduced cattle, and later drove the herds 300 kilometres south to the booming mining settlement of Queenstown. Geoff King remembers the cattle runs in their later stages, when the distances were not so vast, trains taking the cattle to the miners from railheads in the north. As if drawn back to these times, by talk of eagles and horses, he tells me to “mount up’’ when it’s time to climb into his ute to leave.

Before the cattle runs, Aboriginal hunters would have also disturbed and flushed animals and provided an added bonus for the eagles: discarded carcasses of skin and bone for the eagles to scavenge. Certainly Geoff King has encountered problems with eagles stealing the roadkill he has put aside for the devil “restaurant “ at night.

I wanted to believe the eagle encounter was spiritual, we were fellow travellers meeting on a mysterious, magical journey. It was something of a letdown to discover I was merely a meal ticket. There was a bond, though; a fraternity. The meeting of eagle and man had started 40,000 years ago and over the millennia the knowledge that man could provide food directly and indirectly had been planted and locked in the eagle’s DNA. In that time the eagle had learned humans were not a threat, they were not to be feared.

A bond that had survived for eons, that had pre-dated the last ice age, had been broken in the past 200 years when settlers from Europe came to these lands. Suddenly the eagle was seen as an enemy and paid the price. It was hunted mercilessly, and killed in its thousands, across the entire continent.

The eagle had gotten a bad press and a price was on its head in bounty payments for the harm it did, supposedly, to the sheep industry.

Tales of eagle slaughter and carnage are commonplace, and horrific. I remember seeing an ABC documentary on sheep barons in Queensland, lamenting the break-up of their vast properties on government directive. The footage had scenes of the graziers enjoying the good times in the 1950s, barbeques and country horse race meetings. It also showed an eagle cull: farmers beating eagles to death with baseball bats. The eagles had been ensnared in foot traps as carcass bait. In Tasmania poisoning was the preferred method of eagle control. The latter method was also used to kill Tasmanian devils.

Many farmers maintain to this day that eagles take live lambs in great number, although research does not bear this out. The fact that eagles are frequently seen on sheep carcasses does not prove they were the actual instruments of death for these farm animals. Because there are no vultures on the Australian continent, the wedge-tail eagle, together with being a skilful and powerful hunter, fills the niche of scavenger.

The Tasmanian sub-species of wedge-tailed eagle is Australia’s biggest with a wingspan that can reach 2.5 metres but it is endangered, with only between 200 and 230 breeding pairs left in the wild. At present the mortality rate from accidents is outstripping the reproduction rate, putting the eagles in peril in the near term.

Eagles bring out the best and worst in people, especially so in the modern Australia.

Tasmanian eagles meeting turbulence in man’s world, either maimed on farms or on roads, once found themselves receiving a little tender, loving care at Risdon Prison from some of the state’s most hardened criminals.

An irresistible metaphor took flight when the Parks and Wildlife Service set up a raptor rehabilitation centre within the grounds of the prison: the raptors behind bars longing for the open skies, to fly free without restriction. Release for rehabilitated eagles came much quicker for the raptors than for most of their carers.

When the prison aviary was closed a few years back, to allow redevelopment and expansion of the jail, an individual who loves birds of prey provided the eagles with a new home, building a set of the biggest aviaries in the southern hemisphere with discarded fish-farm nets, to give injured eagles a fighting chance.

Rehabilitated wedge-tailed and sea eagles are now released, with the aid of a band of volunteers, at the rate of about six a year.

Today in a more enlightened age the eagle is not so misunderstood and maligned. More people now want to see it crossing their skies than see it killed.

Evidence of shooting and poisoning, and acts of vandalism to nests, are becoming less frequent but as one threat dies another emerges. Eagles fall victim to increasing traffic on Tasmanian roads, and die flying into powerlines. The emergence of wind-farms poses a new threat, with eagles increasingly coming to grief in the wind-farm turbines.
* * * * *

On the drive back to Hobart from Marrawah I notice a sign I didn’t see on the outward journey, a plea to drivers to watch out for eagles feeding on roadkill along a stretch of road near Smithton.  And as soon as I have parked the car in the car port of my home, I look for eagles in the sky. In the garden I establish a lesser connection with the wild, lesser in size if not significance. As I walk, scattering leaves that have fallen on the lawn, a grey fantail seeks me out and follows me. He hunts the insects disturbed by my plodding feet, his long, fanned tail in a shuttlecock. Then a male fairy-wren flits in to join the fantail in a merry dance as they scamper across the lawn in chase of insects, rising and swooping in a theatrical dive on gnats and mosquitos. In the sunlight filtered through the overhanging wattles, it is a glorious sight.

My thoughts, however, remain in Marrawah. They are with the lone eagle and my fleeting, symbiotic connection with it, a connection that I still believe is not of science and circumstance but of the soul. I recall in fine detail each of the precious minutes the eagle stayed with me, before it drifted to the east, rising higher, until it was suddenly gone.

It had come from the past and was, hopefully, flying into the future.

 

Emotion and the orange-bellied parrot

Dawn breaks over Bathurst Harbour as if it’s being sketched in charcoal by the hand of an artist. Distant mountains etched in fine strokes from a sharpened pencil, smudged here and there to portray mist. Hills between mountain and shore in darker shades and rainforest hugging the waters’ edge drawn vertically in a rougher, heavier hand.

It’s barely light as I lie in my bunk bed with a view over the stern of the luxury tourist vessel, the Odalisque, moored in a sheltered spot at Clayton’s Corner mid-way along a body of water three times the size of Sydney Harbour.

Too early for the black currawongs to utter their trumpet call, or the sooty oystercatchers to pipe in the new day, but as the birds finally start up Mother Nature mixes the colours of the morning on her palette. Buttongrass glows mossy now, peppermint gum along the shores are transformed into shades of green and tranquil waters first seen at dawn as uneven sheets of tinfoil reflect the dazzling blue of the sky.

I’m lying in my bunk bed aboard the Odalisque trying not to get emotional, even if the day before, as a bird-watching tragic, I had realised a life-long ambition to see an orange-bellied parrot in its natural habitat, nine kilometres to the south at Melaleuca. Emotion would be a bad look to present to the rugged skipper and owner of the Odalisque, Pieter van der Woude, and the equally rugged tour guide, Peter Marmion, to say nothing of my fellow passengers, a party of travel journalists.

I’m overwhelmed, though, by the beauty of it all. I feel a little foolish now that my interest in this pristine part of the world, a place where wilderness is spelt with a capital W, had been centred just on one species of bird. I’d never looked to the broader horizon, never known that the Port Davey Marine Reserve, which embraces Bathurst Harbour, is so vast, untrammelled and mountainous.

How do you describe it, portray it in all its glory and uniqueness? I look at the photographs I have taken and they are not enough. Only an artist can bring this area to life. To write my story about the Odalisque and the window it opens on this precious part of the world I look for art-world metaphors.

A voyage through the channels, inlets and bays of Bathurst Harbour is in fact like a visit to an art gallery, with each picture, in each room opening up a fresh image. It’s the Louvre, or the Tate, or even the Museum of Old and New Art (Mona) in Hobart, if the region’s natural beauty combined with human eccentricities are taken into account. The legend of tin miner, naturalist and painter Deny King is here, along with tales of Win and Clyde Clayton eking out a living from a fishing boat moored close to their hand-built wooden home, which is now a museum. And there’s the story of Critchley Parker, who in an effort to impress his Jewish lover trekked into the area shortly after World War II with a dream of establishing a Jewish homeland there, “a new Jerusalem”. When he vanished from view searchers found his body in his tent pitched among the buttongrass and sprengelia. He had starved to death.

Although the Odalisque, operated by Tasmanian Boat Charters, is at the high-end of tourist travel with chefs on board borrowed from the best restaurants in Hobart – in our case Zac Matthews – to provide five-star cuisine, the ethos of Peter van der Woude is to provide a floating base for a genuine wilderness experience.

This is not wilderness in the abstract, viewed from a helicopter or a plane, or luxury hotel room. During this experience the wild can be heard, smelled and touched. The Odalisque does not provide a cruise around Bathhurst Harbour as such. There is no set itinerary. Guests are free to choose what they want to do – whether viewing the pioneer cultural and historical sites around Melaleuca, Aboriginal walks to explore the history of the ancient Needwonnee people of the south-west through rock paintings and ochre mines, or taking the many hiking trails up hill and mountain – “getting your feet wet,’’ as Pieter van der Woude puts it. Specific interests – perhaps botany or bird-watching – can be catered for by the hand-picked guides with years of experience in the area.

A trip on the Odalisque also provides an escape from an increasingly fast-paced world.

“This is a digital detox,” says van der Woude. “You can put your smart phone away – we are out of range anyway – and tell people you will be totally out of touch for a few days.”

The Tasmanian Liberal government is setting in motion plans to open up the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area to increased levels of tourism, and various proposals are under discussion. There are fears that some ideas might compromise the definition of wilderness. The Odalisque is never in danger of doing this. Guests, for instance, are ferried to shore in dinghies so not even jetties – I only saw one beyond the pontoon at Melaleuca – intrude.

The Odalisque also takes out what it brings in, and so its footprint is merely a gentle wake in still waters.

Although my orange-bellied parrot experience proved to be a personal highlight, I soon came to put it in a broader context of emotion. Within a few hours of seeing the critically-endangered parrot after arriving on a Par-Avion flight from Hobart, we were ferried by dinghy along the Melaleuca Inlet to board the Odalisque itself. After lunch we were climbing the 276-metre Mt Beattie with its stunning view of Bathurst Harbour stretching south. It was one of several walks during the trip, including a hike to discover Critchley Parker’s resting place, his grave and marble plaque marked out by the quartzite of the surrounding mountains.

On the last night we moored close to where the harbour meets the Southern Ocean, screened by a range of islands appropriately named The Breakwaters.

Glasses of champagne in hand, we watched the sun set between two rocky islands to the west. Vistas during the day, bathed in soft sunshine, could have been painted by John Glover and now a stabbing orange light from the setting sun brought the wild hand of Brett Whiteley into play. We toasted the sunset and lingered until a crescent moon and stars appeared. Another room in nature’s gallery opened, and the Southern Cross called to us as strongly as Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night.

Parrot demise no laughing matter

Although it’s only a little, swift-flying bird – barely 25 centimetres in length from the tip of its beak to the end of its long tail – it has the ability to steal hearts and minds. And the means to deny Tasmania the global certification for its timber industry the state so desperately needs.

The swift parrot flies through our consciousness like no other Tasmanian bird. It has a certain cache in wildlife terms and when it comes to talking endangered species, it leaves others like the forty-spotted pardalote and the orange-bellied parrot in its slipstream.

Unwittingly, this small bundle of bone and feathers has become the poster child of wildlife conservation and the subject of what promises to be an even more acrimonious chapter in the forest wars.

Most Tasmanians might never see this summer visitor which makes the longest migratory journey of any parrot, from breeding grounds in south-eastern Tasmania to the ironbark forests of Victoria and southern New South Wales. The parrot’s swerving, low flight makes it difficult to identify, especially as it can be confused with the much more common musk lorikeet. Its streamline shape and shimmering iridescent emerald-green plumage, mixing flashes of crimson, marks it out.

Often it only becomes apparent when it flies into windows, or is seen spread-eagled on suburban streets as roadkill. It constantly flies through the headlines, though, in both the local and national press, and this spring has seen more space than ever devoted to the darting parrot, with some good and bad news.

Shortly after it had crossed Bass Strait in September those trying to save the parrot were rocked by the news that a moratorium on logging 400,000 hectares of reserved forests including those with swift parrot habit was to be lifted by the state government. The forests targeted include an old-growth coupe on Bruny Island which has proven a mecca for national and international birdwatchers wanting to view swift parrots nesting there.

The parrot conflict is brewing again and once more conflict looks likely to spread beyond the actual bird to the whole question of the sustainably of the state’s forest practices, and whether these are acceptable to the outside world. Already there is every sign that whatever happens to just one species will have a disproportionate effect on whether or not Forest Stewardship Certification (FSC) is attained.

Forestry Tasmania’s quest to obtain certification has been stymied so far by the Forest Stewardship Council, an international not-for-profit organisation founded in 1993 to oversee “responsible forest management”. It has ruled the Tasmanian industry does not meet sufficient criteria needed for certification.

Although Forestry Tasmania says on its website it has met 91 per cent of the criteria, it accepts 10 key issues remain.  These include managing critical habitat for the swift parrot and Forestry Tasmania says it aims to meet these concerns.

The swift parrot once flew in its hundreds of thousands through the blue gum forests of south-eastern and eastern Tasmania but recent surveys suggest it is down to a mere 2000 birds at best. Last year it was listed as critically endangered.

The sublime beauty of the parrot only becomes apparent when you spend a day in the bush with those trying to save the bird, as I did recently on north Bruny Island. In scattered blue and white gum woodland nest boxes had been erected – part of a crowd-funding plan to install an initial 300 across the twin islands – and in a notable first these had been taken up by breeding parrots.

The researcher heading the swift parrot conservation program, Dejan Stojanovic, of Australian National University, is ecstatic over this development but knows it is only the first step.

“This is a Band-Aid solution and a desperate attempt to buy time for these birds by giving them a reprieve for their habitat loss,” Dr Stojanovic says. “But what we need to do long-term is preserve mature Tasmanian forest.”

Although swift parrots largely rely on blue gums for pollen and nectar food and nesting hollows during the breeding season, flowering from area to area is not consistent each year.  So nest boxes proving a success one season might remain unused the next if trees in the area are not in flower. This year researchers were able to predict a good flowering season on Bruny – prompting a concentrated nest box program there –  but there is no guarantee the birds will return to Bruny next year.

This is particularly worrying because Bruny is free of what in recent years has emerged as the most serious threat to the parrots beyond forest clearance. This is the sugar glider – an introduced species to Tasmania – which has been found to raid swift parrot nests and consume young.

“The sugar gliders take 80 per cent of chicks in forests where parrot and glider breeding overlap,” said Dr Stojanovic, adding strategies were being devised to counter the menace of the gliders.

A major achievement in parrot conservation, however, has seen not only the parrots using nest boxes for the first time but the creation of artificial nest sites.

Recently a group of volunteer arborists from the Victoria Tree Industry Organisation visited Bruny bringing their chainsaws with them, to climb trees and carve out hollows.

There is some irony in using chainsaws, the traditional enemy of the parrot, to help plot their survival but irony seems to fly on the wings of not just the “swifties”, but all parrot species. Perhaps because they mimic humans in voice, and sometimes behaviour, the parrot is an ideal vehicle for both satire and black humour. Most famously it featured in the humour of Monty Python, the subject of its dead parrot sketch, in which a dead “norwegian blue” is sold to an unsuspecting customer in a pet shop.

This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! ‘E’s expired and gone to meet ‘is maker! ….. you assured me that its total lack of movement was due to it bein’ tired and shagged out following a prolonged squawk.

I used a few lines from the sketch in my “On the Wing” column seven years ago when perhaps the grimmest of parrot news rolled off the presses.

The then Labor environment minister David Llewellyn had caused consternation by stating the swift parrot was “virtually doomed” and “unlikely to be viable in the long term”.

Mr Llewellyn and others might have written off the parrot but events in the woodland of north Bruny prove that Lathamus disclor is refusing to lie down like the Python parrot.

And if it does succumb, it will take any hopes of reviving the Tasmanian forestry industry with it.

Wildwords, a history of “new nature” writing

 

Writers have been among the most astute observers of the natural world and the human place within it.

The first wildlife writers – or writers of “nature notes” as they were more likely to be called in earlier centuries – found their inspiration embraced by forest, mountain and stream. Nature writers today, however, are more likely to be found in suburb and city. Like many of the animals, birds and butterflies they capture in word, they have migrated to an environment increasingly shaped by man.

This approach to nature writing, often reflected in a style that carries the hard edge of the city with it, is not to say nature writers have abrogated their responsibility to record the beauty of landscape and the creatures within it. They have not sold out, but embraced a new reality. The nature writers of the city also carry the message of conservation in their work, the message that if the man-made environment is to dominate, we must save something of nature within it, and find beauty and fascination there.

I strayed from the path of traditional, or pastoral, nature writing years ago when I discovered not only urban landscapes rich in wildlife, but anthropomorphism, irony, and bottles of red wine and bourbon with birds on their labels. As a young reporter, I had been impressed by the New Journalism of the 1960s which took reporting into the realm of the novel and short-story, and a few decades on I discovered what were termed New Nature Writers breaking with tradition and exploring similar territory.

Although I still treasured the book that was my introduction to words about nature, Gilbert White’s The Natural History of Selbourne published in 1788, I now found inspiration in one of the new journalists, Hunter S Thompson.

Thompson did not write of nature as such but his words “I write with rage and ink” had an irresistible resonance and power that fuelled my own writing.

When I moved to New York City in the early 1980s my interest in the new journalism – mainly an American creation – really took hold. This time, though, I had become a fanatical birdwatcher and I found at the time the writings about American wildlife strangely dated, out of step with what had happened in journalism.

I had set out to study the birds of Central Park and was surprised to discover that there was not a book covering such a magical place, with a surprising array of birds. So I decided to write one myself. I couldn’t make it an expert field guide, simply because I was not an expert, so I decided on another approach: I’d make it a diary, although as I have said this was a style somewhat out of fashion. But like the new journalists, I would try something different. I was a journalist after all and I approached the subject as such: in a calendar year I would record everything that happened in Central Park, not just the seasonal arrival and departure of birds on America’s Great Eastern Flyway.

This was not just about birds, but about the people who watched them, the people who used the park, about how the park featured in the news with murders and muggings, and the politics of city hall when it came to how the park was being managed.

I didn’t know it at the time but I was developing my own style of nature writing, a style being embraced by others in the 1980s.

Nature writing had been a long established genre, but this different approach created a context in which people were more than a backdrop, in which nature in the city was a subject, and in which the writer immersed himself to such a degree that he or she became part of the story. Truman Capote did it with In Cold Blood, and I did it in The Falconer of Central Park.

Unlike new journalism, recognition of a new nature genre has been a long time coming. However, a few years back I was delighted to discover that Granta, the magazine of new writing in Britain, had devoted a whole edition to the subject.

The editor’s letter said many of the stories in the issue were studies in the local or the parochial: they are about the discovery of the exotic in the familiar, the extraordinary in the ordinary.

It’s not just nature writers who have discovered wildlife in the cities, of course. Legendary wildlife documentary-maker David Attenborough was once asked what was his favourite bird out of all the thousands of species he had seen on his travels worldwide.

He did not have to cup his hand to his chin in classic pose to think about it. He had an instant answer, all the while looking wistfully out of the window of his suburban London home, to the garden beyond.

The bird wasn’t the wandering albatross that circumnavigates the globe on wings with a span 3.5 metres, the longest of any bird. It wasn’t the world’s heaviest flying bird, the great bustard, or the world’s smallest, the bee hummingbird of Cuba.

The bird Attenborough chose as his favourite was the humble redpoll, a nondescript finch that he often saw feeding on the seeds of silver birch trees in his garden in Kew. Attenborough said he loved to see the redpolls in his garden because it made him feel connected to nature,  made him realise he was part of “the bigger picture”, as he put it.

It’s a simple philosophy but one that I share when I look out of my own window and see the new holland honeyeaters going about their daily business. Like Attenborough and his redpolls, I have a special affinity with the new holland honeyeaters. I watch them throughout the seasons and sympathise with them when they are fluffing up their feathers in the cold of  mid-winter or panting with beaks wide open in the heat of January.

I feel their anguish when the brown goshawk comes to call. Summoned by their alarm calls, I dash into the garden and break all the conventions of birdwatching to chase the goshawk off.

I gave up being a twitcher – those who chase rare birds merely for a life-list or annual record of birds spotted – long ago when I discovered the simple pleasure of owning a garden and creating an environment for birds of many species.

That’s not to say I eschew wild, exciting and romantic places and their wildlife in favour of the suburban, urban idyll. I have ambitions to see Kakadu, the outback at Alice Springs and the tropical rainforest of Cooktown. Also, I spent many years in Africa and have plans to revisit some of my old haunts in the not-too-distant future.

However, the problem with the Serengeti in Tanzania, the Okavango Swamps in Botswana and even Kakadu, you are always a tourist and an outsider. You do not establish a bond with the creatures you see there, you do not share their environment on a daily basis. With birds, you don’t see the courting rituals, followed by nest building, and then delight in seeing a new batch of fledglings being fed by their parents.

They could be members of your own family, and indeed in a sense they are – because the families of birds and animals and humans that share a specific environment, like a garden in Hobart’s Waterworks Valley, cut across the zoological division of class and order.

They represent a clan, a mob, in which, say, the forest raven is just as integral a part as a bennett’s wallaby, a barred bandicoot and a journalist who has the power to record the trials and tribulations of this remarkable community.

The lives of all entwine. We all share the relentless march of the clock which determines parts of the day when we are busier and more frantic than others, we travel on both long and short journeys to gain the things that sustain us, we share the rhythm of the seasons.

In early summer we find a sunny spot in the garden to replenish our strength after winter, and in winter itself we huddle in a sheltered place out of the icy winds.

There is a convention in zoology that frowns on anthropomorphism. In the same way I intervene when the goshawk calls, and feed garden birds when I’m told I shouldn’t, I see my garden birds as people and I give them people names. There’s Reg the forest raven, Billy the butcherbird and a green rosella I call Grace. Beyond my own family, the residents of my garden may comprise birds and animals, and frogs and skinks, but they display the same individual traits that make human life so complex, diverse and exciting.

So I see birds and mammals, from my observations in the garden, as individuals not merely members of a species. Giving them an individual name reinforces this process and the only names I know happen to be human ones.

I often wonder, in their calls, if birds have individual names for each other. We all know about the gentle cooing of doves in love but do garden birds also have insults for each other. Is the problem neighbour, the one in an adjoining territory who has designs on your own, a jackass. That’s a name humans in Tasmania have given to the butcherbird, but I could hear the word being spat out by a butcherbird that for a brief spell made my garden his home and repelled a butcherbird neighbour. It was an acrimonious boundary dispute that would have done justice to a sitting of the Hobart City Council’s planning committee.

And then there’s music, the songs of birds that so often mirror those of humans in their phrasing and tone.

Song, were told in the bird books, is merely a device to proclaim territory, to advertise for a mate, and to give warning of danger.

I’m convinced that a blackbird singing lustily is deriving as much pleasure from the sheer act of singing, as I am when I dance around the living room with my air guitar listening to Eric Clapton. It’s not just about territory and broadcasting for a mate.

As is the case with science, in environmental writing there remains a trend outside the United States and Britain to discourage anything that’s anthropomorphic. No Beatrice Potter here.

I’m not supposed to refer to Reg the raven in the column I write on bird-watching for the Mercury. So I won’t mention Reg or his mate Reggie are frequently my dinner guests on the balcony.  And I won’t mention my conversations with Reg when I ask him to confirm my suspicions that he compares my behaviour with that of the tear-away juvenile ravens closer to town. What’s raven speak, those familiar caws of different length and pitch, for ageing rocker who never grew up?

I love my garden and sometimes, especially in spring, I think there is no place I would rather be. As with anthropomorphism, the suburban environment itself is frowned on in some quarters. Many birdwatchers are cynical about garden birdwatching, describing our urban and semi-urban spaces as a false and harmful environment for wildlife. But I see the potential there for giving the people of the towns and cities a unique connection with animals and birds. A garden might be a man-made environment but all species can share it all the same, as I have said.

That is why these little patches of greenery that we see dotted about the suburbs, in and out of formal designated gardens and parks, are so important.

I live along the Sandy Bay Rivulet, this precious ribbon of greenery that snakes from the slopes of Mt Wellington.  On a map it’s not much to look at really. It’s not the Serengeti that is crossed by millions of wildebeest on migration each year and it’s not Antarctica where hundreds of thousands of penguins huddle together. But I believe, as a microcosm of what has been, is and could be, it is just as important.

I’ve seen about 60 bird species in or above my garden. Bennett’s wallabies chew my lawn by night, and a barred bandicoot or two dig holes in it.  My garden is important.

The first naturalists looked to gardens for their inspiration. Many of the early nature lovers were English clergymen and they studied wildlife in the village churchyard, a habitat so important for the study of British birds to this day that a book has been written about it.

My own hero is the Reverend Gilbert White, who spent virtually his whole life studying the wildlife of the village of Selbourne in Hampshire, not so far from where I spent my childhood in neighbouring Surrey.

The opinion at the time, the mid to late 1700s, said swallows hibernated in mud during the winter but Gilbert White had his doubts. He instructed his gardener to dig up the banks of a muddy stream near his home to look for them. He, of course, drew a blank. With no evidence of hibernation, White went out into the fields at the end of summer to study swallows travelling south. Where did they go? he asked himself.

Studying another Selbourne species, White questioned the notion a warbler that made a liquid descending call was the same as the one that went “chiffchaff’”. White cut a footpath through a beech wood at the end of his garden so he could study the warbler more closely. He separated what was to become known as the chiffchaff from the willow warbler, which is virtually identical in appearance. The breakthrough came by way of simple observation on his home turf, an observation that comes from sharing your environment, and life, with the creatures of the neighbourhood.

The naturalists of the backyard are too numerous to mention. But their published observations, like Gilbert White’s Natural History of Selbourne, are the backbone of environmental writing and environmental science.

What would the evolving environment movement in the United States have been without David Henry Thoreau and his Walden Pond. From an earlier time, I might even mention William Shakespeare who no doubt learned in his Stratford Upon Avon garden that “Thrice sings the thrush“ (the song thrush has three notes that it repeats after a brief pause).

The roots of natural history go back to Aristotle and other ancient philosophers who set out to give the natural world a biological classification.

The ancient Greeks’ classification evolved in medieval times into the scala naturae, the scale of nature or Great Chain of Being, the central concept tying together the various domains of natural history, which arranged minerals, vegetables, more primitive or “lower’’ forms of animals, and more advanced or “higher’’ forms of life on a linear scale of increasing “perfection”. This culminated in our species, and ultimately God. Then came Carolus Linnaeus who in the 18th century produced the scientific classification of nature we know today.

I like the term chain of being, though, and I have another, more modern definition:  it’s a chain that links everything that moves in my garden. Including me.

I’m proud to be among a growing band of writers in the 21st century who are just as likely to be found in the ubiquitous Central Park in New York as sitting on the banks of Walden Pond. We are not replacing, though, wild words from wilder places, and the New Nature writer is just as likely to venture into the pristine and untrammelled. We’re all part of the mix, making wildlife literature stronger and more pertinent than ever.

I’ve concentrated on essays but we must not forget the authors of lengthier works.

Perhaps reflecting a growing interest in birdwatching, more and more novels are being written with birdwatchers and bird lovers as their protagonists.

A recent one is Snapper by American Brian Kimberling.  It tells of a student who, by chance, gets a holiday job helping a bird researcher monitor nesting birds in the forests of Indiana one summer.

The student gets caught in a tornado, and this is how the narrative runs in the first person:

That tornado left a six-mile swathe of houses in splinters and twenty-nine dead after touching down four miles away from where I cowered in the mud.  As if God had driven his Camaro through there with a bottle of bourdon in one hand and a rented blonde on the other, AC/DC loud on the stereo. I don’t know how you can look at an occurrence like that without concluding that God is white trash, but you don’t say that kind of thing in Indiana.

Whether it be new nature writing, or the traditional pastoral approach, in prose or in verse, on land or at sea, words of the wild increasingly hold a growing place in the vast pantheon of literature.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Falconer of Central Park

The Falconer of Central Park by Donald KnowlerAlthough written more than 30 years ago, The Falconer of Central Park has remained popular ever since, with one of its chapters included in Central Park: an anthology published by Bloomsbury America in 2012.

The success of that book has prompted Donald Knowler to republish The Falconer of Central Park as an ebook, with an updated introduction.

For an entire year, in 1982, Knowler visited Central Park daily to record not only its wildlife but the fascinating variety of people who lived, visited, or worked in America’s most urbanised environment.

“Not since Robert Nathan, 50 years ago, wrote his charming novel One More Spring has a book caught so affectionately as Donald Knowler’s the strange spell of Central Park in New York” – The New York Times Book Review, 1984.

“It is a marvellous story of birds and other wildlife of several varieties of the human species.” – Publishers Weekly, 1984.

Order your copy of The Falconer of Central Park.

Caught in the headlights

The tiger snake gave me an unsympathetic stare. Forget ophidiophobia – the fear of snakes – I was afflicted by something far more frightening. Feelings of panic, a knot in the stomach, a rising nausea…. I had glossophobia, the fear of public speaking and the tiger snake, rising to near its full one and a half metres in length to view me through the glass of its pen, didn’t seem to care.

My encounter with the snake and a near 300-strong audience came during the 2014 Australian Wildlife Rehabilitation Conference at the Grand Chancellor Hotel in Hobart and about an hour before a speech I was scheduled to make, I was thinking I had made a mistake in being persuaded to put my name down as a speaker.

Fear of pubic speaking is after all in the Top 10 of phobias, if not at the top. Worse. I was in a predicament that came from another symptom of phobia: the primitive fight or flee choice when confronted by fear and anguish.

The “flee” option seemed a good idea for a fleeting moment before rational thought took hold.

To begin at the beginning, two years before falling under the gaze of both a tiger and a copperhead snake a wildlife carer friend had mentioned that the biennial rehabilitation conference was coming to Hobart for the first time in its 12-year history. At the time, I said I would try to get it some publicity in the Mercury nearer the date.

Last year I was contacted by my friend to ask if I had anything interesting to say in a paper. My only contact with the wildlife carer movement I had come by way of a book I was researching on roadkill but I had knowledge of the media and thought it would be a good idea to set out some rules that would make contact with newspapers, television, radio and social media easier for carer groups looking for publicity.

My speech was duly written, sent off and accepted for the conference, and I didn’t give it further thought until about a month before the conference when the program for the proceedings arrived, with the time and date for me to speak.

Taking a bus to the reception at Government House on the eve of the conference, it suddenly dawned on me what I had let myself in for. Here was a crew – I sat next to a retired vet from Western Australia who specialised in rehabilitating birds – the members of which were clearly experts in their respective fields. I felt like a fish out of water, a bird out of the nest.

I looked again at the program: Mange management in wombats; Pasture management for growing kangaroos; Reptiles and euthanasia; Filling in the cracks, turtle shell repair. What would the delegates from all over Australia, and Britain and the United States, to say nothing about one from Pakistan, make of my contribution: Stop the presses! I want to get on?

Next day I attended the opening by the Governor of Tasmania. And there was the full realisation of what lie ahead.

This was not one of my casual talks about birds, before about 30 participants at the Waterworks Reserve, who read my On the Wing column in the Mercury. I had found addressing bigger audiences in the past too daunting, and always declined invitations, and now I was about to take centre stage at a national conference, in a conference hall, with a podium looking out over a sea of tables with jugs of water on them and pads and specially issued red ballpoint pens.

People with an aversion to public speaking experience a range of emotions related to self-doubt: they fear they will sound boring or even dumb. In my case, it’s the fear of freezing, of losing my place, of literally being lost for words. And ultimately, making a fool of myself in public.

I was due to speak the next afternoon, and hurriedly drove home to have another look at my speech, fine-tuning it, excising what I considered the silly bits and reading it, time and again.

I arrived early the next afternoon and found a seat hard to find. I was forced to take one at the end of a row, near the two tanks holding the snakes, spillovers from an exhibition of art and animals and the paraphernalia of the carer business, like specially-designed blankets for joeys.

As the first speaker of the afternoon session came to the dais I was in panic. Eric Woehler of Birdlife Tasmania gave a polished account of the Status and trends of shorebirds in Tasmania. How could I match that?

As the speeches went on, I read the opening lines of my contribution to myself. I couldn’t concentrate, my mouth was dry. I was overwhelmed by nerves.

To my horror, the cockney accent I lost in my youth seemed to return. Instead of reading “with” I said “wiv” and “whether” came out “wevver” . I wouldn’t even attempt the “anthropomorphism” in my script. Would anyone understand me?

I looked about me to see if anyone was looking, but thankfully the audience was looking towards the next speaker, Meg Good of the Barristers’ Animal Welfare Panel. The only eyes on me where those of the tiger and copperhead snakes just a few metres away, perhaps attracted to my nervous fidgeting.

At that point I seriously considered making a dash for it, going to the organiser of the conference in the break before I was due to speak and saying I was feeling unwell, and didn’t think I could go on.

In truth I was feeling unwell, but what the hell. I had come this far and I decided that there was absolutely no return. I had to go on and if I forgot my lines, was sick on the rostrum or worse that would be too bad. I owed it to all those present.

During a short break before I was due to speak. I took a stroll. Getting myself a drink of water, I bumped into the animal carer who initially suggested I should make a contribution – he was acting as a marshal in bright orange tunic – and he asked if I was okay.

“No,” I said, “I’m feeling terribly nervous.”

“Well you just follow me,” he replied, “I got someone, an expert on this, you have to talk to.”

At the information desk was a former nurse with training and experience in stress management and meditation. With just 10 minutes to go, she took me into a room calm me down.

“Now where are you from originally?” she asked.

“London,” I replied.

“No I mean what part of London?” She had clearly heard my accent.

“Sowth Lundun,” I said, a strong accent emerging as it always does when I get stressed, or drunk.

“Well I’m from the Eeest,” she said, “Eeest Lundun, but a long time ago.”

“I didn’t hear a Lundun accen’ at first,” I said.

“Na,” she replied. “It’s tawking to you which did it.”

The former nurse gave me tips on breathing, telling me to pause between each paragraph, compose myself before I went on.

“They ain’t going to notice,” she reassured me.

Within minutes it was time to be off. In my eagerness to confront my demons, I missed the entrance to the ballroom and walked into the kitchens, before realising my mistake.

As I finally entered the hall, I was being introduced. I mounted the podium and was straight into my speech. I didn’t miss a beat, and even found time to pause to not only take a breath, but to pour myself a glass of water. I built in confidence and mental strength. All of a sudden what I was trying to say made sense, and I suddenly felt I was making a worthy contribution. I had been told not to look at the audience, but I could now see people nodding in agreement when I made a point.

And that knot in the stomach had vanished, I didn’t feel sick anymore and my mouth did not feel it was as dry as a kangaroo’s pouch.

Before I knew it, my speech was over, and there was applause.

And during the following question and answer session, I felt confident and at ease enough to crack a joke.

“In my nervousness I walked into the kitchens,” I told the audience. “Instead of making a speech, I nearly did the dishes.”

 

Riding the Devil’s Highway

knowler_cover_webTasmania might be known internationally as the home of the Hollywood cartoon character, Taz, based on the real-life Tasmanian devil, but the island state has another claim to fame. It is also the roadkill capital of the world, with one animal killed every two minutes on the bitumen, among them the endangered Tasmanian devil. With so much roadkill on view, Tasmanians joke ironically that perhaps a glass-bottomed bus tour should be added to the tourist itinerary and Donald Knowler takes up this theme to compile a field guide to what lies flattened on the bitumen.

Riding the Devil’s Highway is the result of a 10-year odyssey to explore the Tasmanian roadkill phenomenon, which during this time has seen Tasmanian devils not only dying in increasing numbers on the highways, but afflicted by a fearful contagious cancer that has decimated numbers by 90 per cent in some areas. The devil is the largest surviving marsupial carnivore and the author argues if measures already proven by researchers to be practical and cost-effective are not taken to reduce the roadkill toll, the devil may well follow the same road to extinction as the Tasmanian tiger.

Now available on Amazon, buy here.

Felled by swallows

There is was, stubbie in hand, gazing over the water towards BrunyIsland with high hopes of seeing a sea eagle. It’s the kind of bird-watching I enjoy most: comfortable surroundings with alcohol on tap, great company and the expectation of seeing something if not rare, at least unusual. 

Perhaps the music blaring out over the extensive gardens of the Oyster Cove Inn at Kettering south of Hobart might not have been totally conducive to the task at hand but the green rosellas flitting through grevilleas didn’t seem to mind. 

To be honest, bird-watching had not been the motive for this trip down the Channel Highway. I’d been invited to the Eagle Rock fund-raiser for the Raptor and Wildlife Refuge of Tasmania at Kettering, with the promise not only of lager but 1950s rock ’n’ roll. As the Hobart Mercury’s bird-watch columnist, I felt it imperative I attend. 

When I outlined my plans to my wife, she suggested that perhaps participating in BirdLife Tasmania’s annual gull count on southern rubbish tips might make better use of my bird-watching talents. The count was on the same day but I was able to justify this excursion, beyond giving support to raptor rehabilitation, by telling my wife that species spotted from the deck of the Oyster Cove Inn would aid my own study of urban birds and their place in man’s world. Already I had pointed out a pied oystercatcher on Kettering Oval and a pelican in the bay.

The raptor and wildlife refuge, run by eagle authority Craig Webb, had at that time been in existence for only a few years but he had released many injured  wedge-tailed and sea eagles into the wild in conjunction with the state wildlife authorities. One of these, a young sea eagle, had been released from a trawler off Kettering earlier in the year and it was this bird that I told my wife (somewhat optimistically) we would have a good chance of seeing.

It came as no surprise to her that the eagle did not appear and as we moved from the gardens into the dancehall she wondered aloud what members of BirdLife Tasmania would be doing at that very moment: would they be at the Glenorchy tip in Hobart’s north or the one in South Hobart on their mission to take a census of the state’s silver, kelp  and pacific gull species?

By now I had switched my focus to observing humans instead of birds and there was plenty of interesting human behaviour on the dance floor. It was fuelled by the music from five bands during the evening , even if two of the more modern ones – is it called grunge? – were not to my taste.

During the evening, it occurred to me bird-watchers are an eclectic bunch – or should I say bird lovers – because the people giving Webb support could not be classed as bird-watchers as such. However, I did see one face from BirdLife Tasmania meetings, a retiree from the Bahamas who has made Tasmania his home, and a couple from Cygnet who have been active in bird conservation campaigns.

After a few more stubbies – and a tequila slammer slipped into my hand – I realised you don’t need to own binoculars to be a bird-watcher or bird enthusiast. Most of the people at the Eagle Rock concert would not be seen dead in a bird-hide – except, perhaps, to shoot ducks – but they were enthusiastic about saving Tasmania’s eagles and other birdlife. There was a solicitor from South Hobart, a forestry worker from Dover in a bright-red-checked shirt, a car mechanic from Huonville and a fisherman from Franklin. There was also a man in a T-shirt that read: “I’m a schizophrenic and so am I”, which seemed to sum up my condition after another tequila slammer.

Next morning, as I nursed an eagle of a hangover, I thought a day counting gulls might not have been such a bad idea after all . . .

The theatre of screams

I am lying in a bunk bed, a Tasmanian devil gnawing on a pademelon carcass under the floorboards, and I am trying to think of a song. Only I can’t remember how it goes. I’m sure it’s something to do with a star. I try to hum the tune in the hope that words will reveal its title, and I don’t care if the devil hears. 

I’m trying to think of this song to stay awake; to ward off nervousness and apprehension. I’m a city animal and I am out here in the environment of the devil, as wild as it gets, and I am not going to deny it’s an uncomfortable habitat for me. Uncomfortable is an understatement. I am scared. 

How long has it been since I have been alone, truly alone, lying in a bunk bed at least 10 kilometres from the nearest human being, from the nearest man-made source of light? I’m thinking about light because at this moment I am looking at a flickering candle and wondering how long does a candle burn? It’s my last one and when it dies in a thin whisper of smoke I’ll know I am truly on my own, isolated without even the yellow glow of light for reassurance, a friend in the night. 

Out here in the wilds of  North-West  Tasmania, with only devils and a marauding spotted-tailed quoll for company – if the world’s largest marsupial carnivores can be described as company – I’m thinking that a flickering candle can take on a new meaning, come to represent something entirely different to what it is, a flickering candle. Out here in the wilds of North-West Tasmania the candle is a comfort, a safety blanket, a sanity blanket. I’m thinking these things and it’s only my first night out in the wild. 

Within a few hours of bedding down in the shack that serves as a devil-viewing centre at Kings Run near the coastal town of Marrawah I realised just how disconnected and isolated from nature I had become. In truth, I realised I had never been that connected with nature at all. 

My window on the wild has always opened from the city and suburbia. There are certainties there, it’s a cosy cocoon, routine, predictable and safe, a cushion against the whims and sometimes destructive forces of nature.  We hear the alarm calls of birds in our gardens, smug in the knowledge that the marauding goshawk will not disrupt our lives, tear our family apart. The daily battle for survival is for other, lesser creatures even if we marvel at their beauty, or are amused by their antics. We forget, though, that all living things are travelling on the same remarkable journey of life and death as we are, a garden bird’s pain is ultimately our pain, and its joy, ours. 

It was not the birds singing in my garden that brought this realisation, however. It was the sight of a rainbow one day, arcing across the Derwent. We curse tempest, complain of rain but all the same stand transfixed by a rainbow arcing across the Derwent. We only want nature on our terms. 

I’ve been a wildlife enthusiast all my life and engaged in countless birding trips and safaris to the wilds of four continents, but could I honestly say that I was ‘‘at one with nature’’, as a London taxi driver had once put it, describing his lunch breaks in London’s Hyde Park? It occurred to me in the discomfort of the shack at Kings Run that my previous wildlife experience in a truly wild environment had been sanitised, behind the windows of a national park lodge or tourist vehicle. 

North-West Tasmania is as wild as it can get. There is no back up, no serum for snake bite, no helicopter rescue if I fall off a cliff. I don’t even have my mobile phone.

But coming here was not just about connecting with wild places and the birds and animals that inhabit them. It was largely prompted by my concern that the devil might not be around much longer, to be studied and observed in the wild. 

The Tasmanian devil has been inflicted in recent years by a terrible contagious cancer, Devil Facial Tumour Disease, cutting its numbers to about 20 per cent of what they were a decade ago. There are still pockets of healthy animals, one of them being around Marrawah. It is here that local farmer Geoff King has turned part of his property holding over to devils and the tourists who want to view them in their natural setting. At Kings Run, the farmer stakes out roadkill, and more often than not the devils come to call. 

So I found myself under Geoff King’s tutelage one autumnal evening, lighting a fire in the shack and connecting a battery-powered spotlight that is trained on an area just beyond the windows, a stage of sorts amid buttongrass and cutting reed in which the devils perform after dark. 

Hours earlier I’d raced along the Lyell Highway from Hobart, going too fast I know but trying to make the outskirts of Marrawah before dark. At the wheel, I was thinking that when it comes to mammals at least, my contact point is the highways of Tasmania and the roadkill I see. Before visiting Kings Run I had only seen a single live devil and that was crossing a road. It also occurred to me that I had only viewed some of the top tourist scenic attractions of Tasmania from behind the steering wheel, through the windscreen. The scenery along the Lyell Highway, cutting through the mountains forming Tasmania’s spine, is a case in point. It is magnificent, dominated by the frequently snow-coated Frenchman’s Cap, but I’ve never stopped to take it in; always in too much of a hurry. 

I’m disconnected from wild places, and wild animals and birds, as most of us are. But my experience at Kings Run will confirm what I so often read in wildlife literature: that humans need wild places and the diversity of wildlife that inhabits them.

Unlike myself, Geoff King is a man for all seasons, a man for wild places. Several generations of his family have farmed properties in the Marrawah area since the late 1880s, originally driving cattle 200 kilometres to the mining camps at Queenstown to the south. After the great cattle runs ended with the coming of the railways and sealed roads, the Kings continued to drive cattle between their rich inland pastures and a vast expanse of coastal heathland on the Southern Ocean that now forms the Kings Run tourist park. 

Although cattle were only grazed on the property during the winter months, Geoff King grew increasingly concerned about the damage they might be doing to the fragile coastal environment. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw them pulling up and eating heathland plants that were an important food source for migrating orange-bellied parrots. At the same time, King was monitoring an increase in devil roadkill on a recently sealed road from Marrawah to the mouth of the Arthur River, going south. It was then that he decided to protect the property for the devils and their lovers. 

My lack of bush craft – my insensitivity to the workings of the wild – revealed itself within a half-hour of my arrival in Marrawah. I had foolishly emptied a water bottle, my scent on the last of its drops, upwind of the devil feeding station. Who gives a second thought to a splash of water in the human world, even if care is taken to dispose of the plastic bottle itself? Who thinks about an animal picking up their scent? But this is devil and quoll territory. Scent is everything – invisible and vital.

Shortly after arriving at the hut, with the fire lit and the kettle on the boil, King suggested that if I wanted to go to the toilet I should head off a little way to the north, to the other side of the devil feeding station, to avoid the devil picking up my scent.

‘‘The wind’s in the south-east, we should be okay,’’  King told me after demonstrating his bush craft by pointing out devil prints, as well as those of wombats and an echidna on tracks near the hut. 

I was too embarrassed to confess my guilty secret of already leaving my scent right upwind of the devils. I felt a fool – a real townie – and I wondered if King would understand. I was convinced I had spoilt our chances of seeing devils that night and that I was wasting King’s time, who stayed with me late into the evening. I reconciled myself to not seeing devils that night, and started to practise my look of disappointment. 

After a few slugs of bourbon I felt a little better and prepared to settle for King’s conversation and his tales of devils and cattle runs on horseback. He had much to tell a city boy. And I would tell him my tales of urban birdwatching; the white goshawk that comes to my garden on the outskirts ofHobart, sending the forest ravens into a panic. But it would hardly be compensation for ruining an evening with the devil. 

My concern, however, was misplaced. As I poured myself another bourbon, King announced we had a visitor and immediately switched off the internal battery-powered light. The devil on the carcass, tearing away at the flesh, appeared to be a young male, with the square jaw and head that sets males apart from the more delicately proportioned females, with their pointed head and chin. A beautiful animal, flashing white teeth, was bathed in the yellow light of the spotlight. We were lucky to see one so quickly after we had hunkered down in the hut, and the last light over the ocean had barely vanished, following the setting sun. 

The devil had only been on the carcass for about 20 minutes before it stopped suddenly, lifted its head and gazed into the night. He made a grunting, almost coughing sound, and Geoff King said this was a warning: part alarm call, part threat. Another devil was about, and the devil on the carcass had caught its scent. Suddenly a larger devil rushed into the light beam and attacked the devil on the carcass in a cacophony of grunts and screams. 

In a moment, the stage had become a theatre of screams. 

The first devil retreated, pausing briefly as if to rush back, before deciding on retreat. The second devil was enormous, with a square head that was a mass of flesh-coloured scars. The skin on its lower jaw had been ripped open in an earlier fight and hung like dried wax from a candle. King recognised it as Scarface; he had seen it on the carcass before. The mangled face, which I thought was evidence of the devil facial tumour, is common among these fighting animals, though this one was perhaps a little worse for wear. 

Scarface fed frantically, even though his stomach appeared bulbous and he was obviously well fed. ‘‘He’s full. Now he’s just topping up,’’ King whispered. ‘‘A devil never knows when he or she will feed next and so they gorge themselves whenever the opportunity presents itself.’’ 

An hour and a half later, Scarface finally retreated into the darkness. Geoff King soon joined him, leaving me alone. I watched the lights of his ute cut through the night. It was now raining, the wind blowing off the sea forcing the raindrops into diagonal stripes of light. 

King had told me to turn off the spotlight when I went to bed, to save battery life for the next night. This involved leaving the comfort of the main room of the shack to enter a passageway outside where the spotlight was connected by a metal clamp. As I opened the door a cold draught swept across the hut’s room and the candle flickered maniacally. I didn’t want it to blow out. I placed a box of matches strategically close by, where I could feel for them if the candle went out, and then braved the cold to unplug the spotlight. 

I needed a pee and ventured outside into the darkness. The rain, now fine like mist, glistened on my jumper in the light of my torch. The wind murmured among the rocks. I could just make out the boulders in the near darkness, against a backdrop of the roaring, crashing ocean. 

Back inside the hut, I stoked the fire and checked the length of the candle still to burn. I felt bereft and lonesome for the first time. The initial shock of realising I was on my own, after seeing King’s ute lights vanish, slowly subsided and I urged myself to get a grip. I was determined to enjoy this experience, an experience of my own making. After another slug of bourbon, I retired to bed where I lay thinking of devils and thinking of the night. 

Pulling my head out of my sleeping bag, I hear a pucker and an exhausted whoosh and the candle flickers, leaving behind a red glow for just a few seconds. 

Darkness, solitude, a sense of fear that gives me a dry mouth. A slug of bourbon comes to hand. I lay on my back searching through the window for sources of light. Nothing but glimpses of a lonely distant star through mist being swept across the sky. I reach for the torch and make my way into the main room and in the silence I can hear a crunching sound coming from outside, where the devil theatre is situated. I pull the curtains back and peer outside, shining the torch beam on the theatre of screams. And there is another devil, a small one this time, with the beautiful white markings on the chest and sides that appeared to be absent in the other animals I had seen. The light causes the animal to blink and rear its head. It backs off and retreats into the sedge out of sight, so I switch off the torch and wait a while. The devil returns and I point the beam away from it, slowly moving it in the devil’s direction and this somehow reassures it and does not prompt it to flee. 

I watch the devil for a further 10 minutes before it backs off and retreats into the darkness. Back in bed, focusing on that distant star, I finally drift off into sleep.

When I awake the star has vanished and the window is filled with a soft light, not yet bright enough to illuminate the hut. It is dawn and I get up to look through the window. The sea is a pale grey and I can see hints of blue sky above it. 

A sooty oystercatcher is piping from the rocks and a forest raven calls from above, the familiar wake-up call I have at home in the suburbs of Hobart. I feel relieved that the night is gone and the familiar call of the raven is at hand. Only one more night to go and I will be able to hear the raven caw from my own bed. 

Out on the beach, I clamber among the rocks looking for birds. A small party of white-fronted chats searches for invertebrates in a carpet of kelp and, in inlets between the rocks, rafts of chestnut teals ride the ocean. 

Last night Geoff King reminded me that this coastline is rich in Aboriginal sites, and he told me what to look for on walks south and north of the hut. I head south, for no other reason than the sun is rising from the south-east. I am feeling the chill and the sun’s rays will give me warmth. 

I head for two specific locations about a kilometre from the hut. King has told me of a wide expanse of white rounded rocks at the seashore, in which there are clearly defined depressions. This is where Aboriginal hunters would lie in wait for seals coming out of the water to sunbathe on the rocky beach. The Aborigines would have covered themselves in kelp, and when the seals were close enough, they would have leapt up to club them. King tells of local folklore that suggested Aboriginal women actually laid down with the seals, the seals oblivious to the dangers. 

I wander across the first expanse of rocks I come to and see depressions clearly created by something other than the tide. And close to the depressions are the thick grooves of the tyres of a four-wheel drive vehicle, which has deviated from the track I am walking on and onto the stone beach. 

I press further on, looking for raised areas close to shore in which King says there is evidence of Aboriginal hut hollows. Again, without King pointing them out as he planned to do later in the day, I find them and marvel at how such a relic, even if it is only a hollow in the ground, has survived for so long. Where land had met sea, just above the high-tide mark, the Aborigines dug out an area about a metre deep and three metres wide so they could anchor a hut of bent tea-tree branches and wallaby  hides. The location offered a view of the surrounding rocks and ocean from where the Aborigines could watch their children at play, and watch for enemies. Close by I find a midden and flint tools and a Boag’s draught beer can. 

The Aborigines, thlyacine and devils trod the same lonely path along this coast, the Aborigines and Tasmanian tiger to a rapid extinction once the white settlers had arrived. Another vital thread to the fabric of this corner of the planet, the wedge-tailed eagle, hangs on like the devil,  defying brutal winds of change as over the eons it has learned to defy storm and hurricane blowing in off the Southern Ocean.  As I continued south along the coastal track, towards the mouth of theArthurRiverin the far distance, I was soon  joined by an eagle companion on my early-morning adventure. I turned after watching sooty oystercatchers on russet, lichen-covered rocks to see the  wedge-tailed eagle appear as if from nowhere. 

I had not seen it in the sky, or on the horizon and suddenly there it was, heading straight for me with slow, deliberate flaps of the wings, its eyes firmly fixed on mine. I expected it to merely fly by, rising high over my head, but as it reached me it splayed out its wings, the outer feathers like long, delicate fingers trembling in the wind. 

The eagle, coming from the direction of the rising, weak and mellow sun, cast its shadow over me. Two metres of wingspan and a ferocious beak just above my head.

When I see eagles passing over my home inHobartthey are always escorted by angry ravens, trying to send them on their way. Although there were ravens on the beach this morning, they were clearly giving the eagle a wide berth. They knew that this was an eagle that meant business; a mean, hungry killing-machine, and I knew it too. The eagle appeared motionless, save for a slight correction of wing pitch, quivering outer feathers and the blink of an eye. It caught the wind rising off the ocean and rode the gusts of salty air. It was now only about 10 metres above my head, bending its neck to view my every move. Not that I was moving. I was still rooted to sand and shingle.

King explained later, when I asked him if he fed eagles, that this magnificent creature of the winds was using me to flush wallabies and pademelons from the undergrowth so it could pounce. 

I was looking for connections and here I was connected in time and place to a wedge-tailed eagle, symbolic of wild places. It was not just the sight of the eagle but the setting, a vista that would not have changed in tens of thousands of years. 

One thing was missing, though: the ancient Aboriginal hunters. And instead of following them, the eagle now chose me, drawing on a knowledge implanted in its consciousness over a period of 40,000 years; that tramping, running, hunting humans can represent a meal, even if indirectly. So the feeling there was a connection, a bond between us was not misplaced. 

With no evidence of humans, save for a discarded beer can and four-wheel drive tracks, I sit on a rock and watch the eagle riding the wind coming off the seas, and listen to the chattering of white-fronted chats and the piping of the oystercatcher beyond the rocks. 

The Aboriginal people hunting these shores would have heard the same bird sounds and been familiar with them. Did the twittering of the welcome swallow tell them that spring had arrived? That there would be fresh grass for the wallabies to feed on, and new hunting grounds? Did the monotonous chiming of the striated pardalote also signal spring for the Aborigines, as it did for farmer Geoff King and his forebears? 

Birdsong is our immediate link with the past. The melodies, the chimes, the tweets, the clucks, the coos, the caws and screeches; they echo through history. These calls predate the Aborigines, the Dutch and French explorers, the settlers from theBritish Empire, men and women who drove cattle, men who came in search of minerals to mine, and now a visitor looking for his connection to the wild. Not only have we lost our connection with wild places, we have lost our connection with our past. 

Humans need wild places. From the time humans first stood up and learned to walk on two legs, the distant horizon has challenged our mobility, urged us to go forward to explore what lies over the hill. We look to mountains and want to climb them, look to forests and jungles and want to know what secrets they conceal. We cast our eyes across great oceans and want to cross them, to set foot on the other side. 

At first nature had to be tamed, mountains conquered, oceans charted. We have moved on from that, and now we look at forests and mountains and sweeping vistas for what they are: Mother Nature’s handiwork; beautiful, restorative, calming. Wild places tell us from where we have come and where we are going. Wild animals and their habitants tell us that we are animals ourselves, just one species out of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions if all life forms are taken into account. 

But still the mantra ‘‘If it moves, shoot it; if it grows, cut it down,’’ prevails. For many, wildlife has lost its value because we’ve lost our connection with wild places and the animals and birds that live there. We and nature are symbiotic, although it is one-sided in nature’s favour. We can’t live without all the other species that inhabit the earth. We need them more than they need us. 

Devils, an eagle and now another player from nature’s A-list of stars – the tiger snake – was to  take its place in the theatre of screams, if only in an unseen, supporting role. 

When I return to the hut, I tidy up the detritus and debris from the previous evening, washing glasses, cups and binning empty cans. Clearing molten and congealed candle wax from the mantelpiece over the fire, I see a large glass jar with a rolled-up snake skin in it. 

When King arrives I ask him about the skin. He tells me that a guest one summer had seen a large tiger snake leaving the back of the hut, by way of a water tank that collects water off the roof. King checked the ceiling and discovered the skin shed by the snake. Clearly the snake lived in the cavity between ceiling and roof that summer, explaining perhaps why possums had steered clear of the roof. 

‘‘Don’t worry,’’ King said, sensing my agitation that there might be a snake above my head. ‘‘It’s coming into Winter and all the snakes will be hibernating.’’ 

As if loneliness and disconnection had not been enough to feed my anxiety the previous evening, now my mind was focused on snakes. I kept my fear of snakes to myself as King and I set up the spotlight for another night’s devil spotting. As we shared another bourbon, I listened intently for a continuous slow movement, not the scurrying of a rodent, that King said indicated there was a snake about. 

Scarface was back just after sunset. He gorged himself again but there was a surprise. Instead of another devil arriving to challenge him on the roadkill, it was a spotted-tailed quoll. The quoll, a big male, approached the devil, eyed him off, and no doubt encouraged him to flee, but the quoll had picked on the wrong animal. The devil grunted and showed the quoll a set of ferocious teeth. The devil stood his ground and the quoll was soon on its way. 

After Scarface left, replete, another devil turned up. It was raining again and the spots of rain fell on its black coat, sparkling like diamonds sprinkled in the night. The second devil, another male, possibly the same one Scarface had chased off last night, was next to settle on the rapidly diminishing carcass. 

After I put out the spotlight a third devil arrived, a small female this time. The carcass had been staked into the ground so it could not be pulled away form the light, but she managed to pull it free. Instead of pulling the remaining carcass, just skin and bone and tail, into the darkness, the devil pulled it towards the hut and through a hole in the side of the building. Its path was clearly defined. For the rest of the evening I could hear it crunching on the bones, letting out growls and shrieks when other devils, smelling the carcass, tried to come under the hut. 

Lying in bed on the second night I’m feeling a little easier and confident now. King brought me some extra candles to keep the dark at bay. It’s nearly winter, so there won’t be snakes in the ceiling. 

In this context, the crunching of devil on pademelon bones has become strangely reassuring. I venture outside the hut and the rain and mist of the past few days has cleared and there is a magnificent sky, the Milky Way weaving through it like a giant star-spangled snake. A shooting star streaks across the sky, falling to the north and I when I get back to the hut the candle has blown out. I don’t bother to light it. The sky and one particular distant star is providing plenty of light to ease the darkness.

And I’ve finally remembered that song. It’s called ‘‘Lonestar’’.

*This article first appeared in the spring, 2012,  edition of Island magazine, Island 130.