Earthrise Diary 1008



Don Diespecker


‘Hodgkinson named the main river the “Billingen”—an aboriginal word meaning “clear water”. The smaller of the two rivers he called the “Odalberrie” (Kalang)’
Maree Blewitt. The Bellinger Valley: A Window in Time (1997).

‘Nature writing is precisely about the emotional charge of the encounter,
the deep fulfilment that flows from our engagement with our fellow creatures. It is an intimacy that has been at the heart of our experience as humans for the last four million years. I believe that nature writing appeals to and draws upon some of the same impulse that created those magical Late Palaeolithic cave paintings at Lascaux or Altamira. I feel sure that it is the fundamental satisfaction we find in nature that explains the popularity of nature writing irrespective of the value, or the lack of it, which some critics may attach to it.’
Mark Cocker. A Tiger in the Sand (2006).

The sighting of a tiger’s full body imprint made in sand (that gave MC his title) has some resonance here: I’ve seen quite large wriggly impressions in the grasses and ground covers here, one of them adjacent to the house, another in the lawn/jungle near where I like to watch the river. These large impressions suggest either a very big python (or ‘carpet snake’ as locals usually call them), or a sizeable goanna. My neighbour, Doug, across the river, reports two recent sightings of big pythons sunning themselves on the riverbank (seen from the cockpit of his kayak). ‘Ten feet’ or about 3-m is big enough for me and I’m reminded of my past experiences of prodding these chaps with a long bamboo pole when they’d attached themselves to my house. Annoyed pythons would then transfer to the end of the pole and wind toward the pole-holder…and I would gallop through the open door and race through the gardens to deposit the snaked pole as far away as possible.
There are Aussie pythons big enough to crush and swallow small wallabies, but not, so far as I’m aware, in this part of the world. Touch wood.
Sept 29 ’08. At breakfast time, the sun beginning to bounce light off the river’s surface, I see clouds of flying ants swirling above the water, catching the light and seeming almost like a snow flurry.
There’s so much colour in the Valley from so many different trees and plants that it seems impossible to note or to remember them. The colours at Earthrise always manifest later than in the open Valley: Bauhinia (the orchid tree) and bottlebrush, the big pink azalea near the gate (now flowering profusely), pink new red cedar leaves (although trees along Darkwood Road are now fully leafed and densely green). Along the road: Tecoma stans (yellow Elder, ex Mexico) and magnificently full Virgilia capensis (the South African keurboom and yes, named for the Roman poet), the flowers a pale mauve-pink.
Oct 3 ’08. There were more flying creatures over the river at breakfast time yesterday and again this morning; seen through the binoculars the air between here and the next downstream bend is crowded with springtime fliers racing about in a lively cloud. And early this morning the reflected light of the rising sun danced from the rapids on to the back kitchen wall—all over the pine wall boards like the moving colours in a festival light show. (I’ve necessarily been working outside having recently acquired a fiendish little ‘Hand Lawn Mower’ that necessitates my sitting down very frequently; more of this testing experience later). Also, this morning: frequent ‘showers’ of dead-looking eucalypt leaves being discarded, possibly because the day is warm early and the temperature has quickly reached 28˚ by noon. I see that the old (lilly pilly) cheese tree close to the river has shed all of its winter leaves and is now festooned with bright green spring leaves.
There are more spangled drongos in the riverside trees than there were last year (most of the gang is further back in the high brush box trees) and similarly so further down the road where the birds gather long grass strands from the paddock fence to take to nests in the riverside trees. Perhaps this indicates their wanting to be closer to the water because the season seems likely to be hot. And, (Slater writes in A field guide to Australian birds), ‘Most of their food consists of flying insects, taken in flight.’ I was catching my breath (between mowing circuits) about 4-m from the birdbath when I saw that I had company: a flycatcher taking a very long bath; he wasn’t in the least troubled by me. And the water dragons are back on their beat too (I chased one out of the birdbath early this morning; perhaps it’s a cooling and safe place for dragons). There are at least three, each a different size; only one looks familiar, the medium-sized one (they pretend to rush off in a panic when I approach), but quickly return to drape themselves along the ramparts of the belvedere or they take vantage points on top of my cylindrical stone ‘table’ (the skinks will have moved out of the table’s crannies in disgust or have been eaten). The water dragons reappeared on Sunday (Sept 29) possibly because I’d mowed their hunting ground; they must otherwise tunnel or safari their ways through grass and groundcovers and in order to see any distance must crane upwards or bound up to a vantage point (like my stone table) or have a swing on my boot; any increased altitude is a benefit.
For the first time at Earthrise I see first one and then a second cat in the garden above the road; the one first seen is on the way out; the second is strolling nonchalantly in the same direction. Cats are not often seen in these parts; dogs, yes, but cats are rare. To see two cats is amazing (at least, for me). Cats hunt or playfully kill many birds in the area; they aren’t popular. (NOVEL: ‘Archie? Is that you, Archy? What brings you here, of all places?’ ‘Ah, Mehitabel, m’dear. Well, you know, I’ve always been a lawn chap, something of a flaneur, and Old Whatsisname has been scrupulously mowing after years of abstinence. How are the little kits?’ ‘They’re just fine and always a paw-full. Oh, Archie, you can’t fool me. It’s been so awfully hard struggling through all that darn grass and groundcover stuff; I just love a nice lawn where you can see for miles.’ ‘Ah, quite so, quite so, m’dear; it’s been so jolly unruly, the grass, that a chap has to strain to see over the top. This will make hunting a pleasure again—I say, I know a nice spot above the river where we can lie and smell the white flowering privet and watch the afternoon colours changing. The October-flowering privet reminds one of catnip. Care to join me?’ ‘Oh, Archie! I thought you’d never ask!’).
For those of you who wondered: ‘Wandering Jew, the Tradescantia pallida or Setcreasea purpurea is an evergreen perennial plant with elongated pointy leaves and small three-petaled pink flowers with yellow stamens. The leaves are most often purple, though another common variety has green [green at Earthrise] and purple leaves; rarer varieties are green and white or variegated. The plant thrives in sun or light shade in subtropical areas, grows to about a foot tall, and is typically used as an ornamental in gardens and borders. The plant is also used as a ground cover or hanging plant. The plant is native to America and is found from the southern United States through South America; in many areas it is considered an invasive weed. The green plant with white flowers is a common and invasive weed in Australia.
‘It is an invasive weed in native bush areas and is considered a noxious weed or pest plant that landowners are responsible for eradicating because Tradescantia is distinctive in its ability to colonize low light areas. It can form a dense mat under forest, which smothers low-growing plants and prevents the natural regeneration of taller native species. If left unchecked it can lead to the destruction of native forests.
‘The botanical name is derived from John Tradescant. Two John Tradescants, father and son, were among the earliest English botanists and plantsmen, travelers and collectors. John Tradescant the elder (ca 1570s 15/16 April 1638) was an English naturalist, gardener, collector and traveler, probably born in, [?] giving Tradescantia for the genus.’ [sic]
This information is from the Internet. Henceforth I shall call this little colonizer Trad Pal and add that, ‘At Earthrise, Upper Thora, NSW, Trad Pal sometimes subdues and then buries 90% of Big Lawn and reaches to the knees. Botanists wishing to study this prolific grower will find no better specimens anywhere on Earth. Gardeners wishing to remove Trad Pal and grass clippings for mulch are always welcome. The only way to defeat the Earthrise version of Trad Pal is to mow it. Moisture content is phenomenally high. The mown version makes good mulch and is non-toxic and that explains why feral deer in this area graze it. I wouldn’t be surprised if wine could be made from it.’
Oct 11 ’08, Saturday. So far I’ve found a decorative gecko (either leaf-tailed or possibly fishtailed) in the house and one of the house bronze skinks. The gecko is easily scooped into a plastic bucket and returned to the forest; the skink likes to rustle around the kitchen where there are noisy plastic bags (he makes noises that sound like a wildcat in a paper bag); he comes and goes as he pleases because he can climb up the structural poles (and past floor gaps) or walk under the front door (he tolerates me stroking his tale sometimes). There has been a large brush turkey that regularly comes up the front steps to see what I might have for him and also a small wallaby, perplexed, I think, (no bigger than a turkey) who sits looking at the house, but not for long. There are birds everywhere, non-stop and singing at all hours. There is the reek of flowering privet on the riverbank and along the road. There have been several sudden visits from five black cormorants (I call them the Gang of Five) who arrive like a squadron of jet fighters, making fast descending circuits that end in a joyous splash-down in the pool or across the mainstream running out of the pool. They immediately begin swimming, diving and fishing operations. Fishing is a busy hunting aside and every few minutes they stop feeding to hop up into deadwood branches near the opposite shore and sometimes roost there, presumably to prevent foxes hunting them. Of all the birds that live and work in this area, the Gang of Five seem always to combine work with pleasure. These marvelous swimmers are also able to rev up to take-off speed while in the water and to then lift off and fly, something we’ve not yet learned how to do. They’re a team of expert aviators and supreme swimmers. Dare I say they’re good examples of at-one-ment (Yom Kippur was on Oct 8; yom=day; kippur=atonement).
After much motor mowing yesterday arvo I was admiring my handiwork from an upstairs window at sunset when I saw the tail end of a python on the ridge roofing iron, the top half having already gone into that tight space immediately above the sloping peak of the roof over the lower floor lounge room where (beneath the ridge) are J’s stained glass windows. It occurred to me that this, ha ha, wriggler on the roof, all of 2-m or so, perhaps wanted to lie there looking blissfully down at Big Lawn, just as I was (from the top floor). He or she would have a splendidly safe view of Big Lawn, the magnificent great trees…and be entertained at dusk by the lawn fireflies.
And the other afternoon, looking back to the brightness of Big Lawn from the belvedere area I saw a peculiar and frenzied glittering and flashing near the roses. Slowly I walked closer. There were two or three small light brown and dark-brown-spotted butterflies hurling themselves about at speed—and there was also (almost as a spectator) a much larger blue/black butterfly. Neither of the two types were ‘attacking’ or pursuing the other. The brown fliers, I thought, may have been dancing or wooing or doing something of a very fast ritualistic nature. I mention this because I was astonished at the velocity and spectacular changes of direction of the small butterflies. They were so fast and in such close formation that my eyes weren’t quick enough to discriminate their perhaps identical speeds and individually varied directional changes (after two lens replacements, i.e., cataracts surgery, I can see superbly well and even read without glasses AND see spider web filaments floating in the sunlight over the river 50+m away). The speed and maneuverability of these tiny fliers reminds me of Welcome Swallows doing much the same thing. Perhaps it’s our big human brains that stop us from flying.
My visitors this month included old teaching colleagues, John Morris and Ronald Francis. It was a great pleasure to be sitting again in the garden with them.
Oct 22 ’08. Yesterday, following several days of cloudless blue sky, there was ten-tenths cloud. I cleverly thought I’d be quick and fire off two completed emails before the obvious storm arrived. Alas, one email was intent on arriving before I could yank the two out of draft form; this one announced itself as being ‘photos’. I’m perhaps the only person in Oz without broadband. Too late! The storm arrived. Lightning! Thunder! Normally I’d switch off and shut down the computer and disconnect the phone but the downloading process had begun. I hoped that there was nothing (particularly of me) that might attract lightning because not only would the computer and the phones be fried—I’d probably be toast, as well. The pics took 53 minutes to present themselves (that’s how it is with Dial-Up). I felt older. Sigh.
I’ve had necessarily to present at the hospital early each day to have a wound dressed, so my schedule is topsy-turvy. The early morning drivers of the single-lane Darkwood Road take their lives in their hands the moment we exit our gates. Everybody is driven by a self-organizing system (keep to the same speed and there’s a good chance of survival, but slow down or go too fast and everybody becomes a Hell Driver). To pass or be passed, at least one vehicle must drift to the one of the verges. The verges are either rutted and canyon-deep, or have recently been ‘repaired’ with rocks and soil that turns sticky when wet. Stones fly; windscreens are shattered; strong language is vented; there are slides and skids…
The day otherwise began beautifully. By the time I returned home a couple of hours later I was ready for bed. Nonetheless, I attempted to resume my schedule: I had a meal, listened to The Book-show, had a short walk and hurried home because the southern sky had turned black and a strong wind had sprung up. I got home in time to rush down to the roses with my secateurs and save two blooms: one Shocking Blue and one Just Joey. The storm began with hail and ended with rain (it’s usually the other way around here). I was charmed to see what looked like spring snow in places on Big Lawn and the ‘beach’ across the river looked snow-covered. Determined to have my lunchtime read in the sun I made some tea and sauntered down with my Literary Review and Quadrant and old newspaper for the wet chairs (one chair for me; another for the equipage). The hail was marble-sized and there were also thousands of small white cedar flowers in the grass. The hail had shredded many plants and leaves and knocked down countless five-petaled cedar flowers as well as small fine twigs holding a dozen or so of these tiny flowers. I managed to read the first few words of a sentence once I settled, but then another shower started falling and I hurried off, collecting twigs of flowers and filling my tea mug with them. They’re small and delicate flowers, white to mauve in colour; the centres are elongated and almost sepia-red. The SCENT is terrific, but you need a mug-full, at least. (I plan to launch Earthrise, a subtle white cedar scent that will take the fashion centres of the world by storm, ha ha; a possible name: Earthrise Storm). Nobody on Earth would want to launch Earthrise Privet Blossom as a scent
Oct 28 ’08. I pick a large hybrid tea rose: the season’s first Oklahoma is 140-mm across and has a great scent.
Several nights ago and listening to the night sounds I decide to switch on the outside light and immediately see an odd sight: one brush-tailed possum carrying Junior on her back. Mum is carefully moving along the suspended 1.5-in dia black poly-pipe that transports river water through the trees to my storage tank (when I pump). The little one stands on Mum’s back like a circus acrobat standing on a horse’s back. You might think that the diameter of the pipe would cause the bigger animal to lose her grip, to whirl, to rotate—but she manages beautifully.
A few days ago a long and quite heavy branch fell from the old bloodwood tree next to the house and all but wrecked the TV antenna on the roof. I climbed out onto the roof, teetering and hunched over, protective of my back wound, and did some delicate metal bending and straightening. Most channels are OK although half of the antenna is no longer straight and level (rather, it now looks like a ski-run). I lurch around like Quasimodo, remembering the 1939 movie in which Charles Laughton played The hunchback of Notre Dame.
The Chinese Toy, as I rudely call the little hand mower, recently purchased, does cut grass (sort of), but is thoroughly defeated by twigs of match-stick thickness (it’s perfectly suitable, being light and easy to carry around in the garden, for light trims that will benefit the Dragon Hunting Grounds or fiddly bits around the bird bath and is otherwise not worth the effort. Having persevered (over about a week) for 12 hours I estimate that I will easily cut the entire Big Lawn with The Toy in approximately 237 years.
There is nothing so impressive as good empirical data. I travel to Coffs Harbour where I purchase the aptly named Lawnmaker (a new Victa motor mower). I assemble and then begin to sculpt and chop up those parts of Big Lawn that have long been buried beneath Trad Pal jungles. The machine accomplishes in 20 minutes or so what had taken The Toy 12 hours to achieve. Parts of the garden, buried by flood loam in the 2001 Big Flood, re-emerge. The old Ariadne garden reappears. The wonderfully scented Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow flowering shrub is released from vine-bondage. My spirits soar. I’m on an archeological lawn-sculpting mission. Big Lawn is again beautiful.
Oct 31 ’08. Carl and I sit outside near the belvedere on a sultry day. The dragons appear and potter about in the new-mown short-cut grass. The word will have been passed to all dragons in the immediate vicinity to trust humans. Soon, one of them comes closer, one eye on us the other eye tracking stinging fly targets. Carl’s leg (enclosed in jeans) being immediately available and being also a temporary landing place for a stinger, the dragon leaps up to hang by his elegant claws from Carl’s jeans (he misses the stinger but stays there for a while in order to track new targets from this vantage point). The dragon later hops on to my boot, is given a swing or two, and then moves away again. We humans are mere stalking horses. There are three water dragons that seem much the same size; we count the stripes between fore- and back legs, trying to distinguish them (one is almost yellow in colouring). The three are all new this season. Later, two bigger dragons (Enforcer Tough Guys) arrive and (although wary of us), muscle in on the Three Amigos, chasing them away from the best positions on the ramparts of the belvedere. We discuss the peculiar antics of the dragons: the repeated head jerking, some tail twitching and even their raised leg waving (very strange behaviour, at least to us).
Carl spots a snake falling off the roof of the house. We stroll up to have a look. It’s a dark, almost black, python about 2-m long (with the typical yellowish carpet-like patterning contrasting with the black). He or she had surely been between the steel roofing and the ceiling (where it will have been very hot). He or she heads for the lantana-covered slopes, but slowly. A few minutes later and back in the house, Carl calls me over to the eastern deck: below is a second python, very much like the first. This one heads in a different direction, also slowly. I suspect both are rock pythons.


Nov 1 ’08. The dawn morning is grey and completely clouded. Carl has to leave early so I have an early walk. As I walk along the road the Usher’s pull up to say hello. They advise that there’s a big hatching of flying ants at Bishop’s Creek; the birds have been gorging. When I reach Richardson’s Bridge all of the heavy beam balusters on both sides of the bridge decking are alive with emerging flying ants (synchronicity, perhaps?). What do these little creatures know that we do not know, or is this merely a weather or seasonal phenomenon? Along the road and also at Earthrise, most of the white privet blossom is browning. The long Happenstance paddock is emerald green and there ‘s a touch of blue in the jacarandas. Once home again I see the first blue jacaranda among blossom among the native violets on Big Lawn. In the second half of October the jacarandas along Darkwood Road, Waterfall Way and in Bellingen are in full bloom, beautifully blue.

Vale. John Keats, who died earlier this year, was the Foundation Professor of Psychology in The University of Newcastle (NSW) (1965) and a distinguished psychometrician. He used to tell his students that if we wanted to learn about something we ought to try teaching that something. Enno Endt (1923-2007) was a Netherlands writer and scholar. I first met Enno in 1950 when we were passengers on the old Gerusalemme (bound from Durban to Venice).

Some References:
One of the books I’ve enjoyed reading this month is Marc Weingarten’s, Who’s afraid of Tom Wolfe? How New Journalism rewrote the world. London: Aurum, 2005. (Truman Capote, Tom Wolfe, Hunter S Thompson, Michael Herr, Joan Didion, Norman Mailer, Jimmy Breslin and others). It’s an excellent and informative read. (New Journalism: a form of news reporting developed in the 1960s that incorporated some of the features associated with fiction, lending an imaginative, literary character to the traditional, fact-based report. Among these features was an emphasis on the distinctive style and personality of the authors (Collins Dictionary of Literary Terms). Mark Cocker’s A tiger in the sand. Selected writings on Nature. London: Jonathan Cape (2006). Maree Blewitt. The Bellinger Valley: a window in time. Privately printed in Bellingen (Bellinger Shire Courier Sun, 1997).


This Diary is No. 11 in the New Series (previously 1107, 108, 208, 308, 408, 508, 608, 708, 808, 908; this is 1008). DDD November 1 2008.