Thirsty Snakes

Walking to the river I catch a sideways glimpse of stripes in the grass. A 1.5 metre Carpet Python is lying slightly curled on the edge of the nature strip. It is dead. A victim of what I imagine is road kill. Last week it was a smallish brown tree snake that lay dead on the roadside verge.

Some time ago I read a deeply moving story by the wonderful Barry Lopez about how he was on his way to visit a friend by car. He stopped so often to bury the dead animals he found lying on the road that he arrived at his destination very very late. All day, as he drove, his journey was interupted by roadkill. He would stop the car, carefully lift the animals off the road and bury them with an apology which signifies, he says, 'an act of respect, a technique of awareness' (Lopez, 1998:114).

In an interview about his writing Lopez is asked about why he does this. Here is part of the conversation about his story 'Apologia' in his exquisite book About this Life (1998).

'You call it an act of respect or awareness. ... I've had the habit for so long I don't know where it started. It bothered me to have animals lying out there on the road and being hit repeatedly by automobile traffic. I wrote the piece that you refer to because it involves a moral dilemma. How have we gotten ourselves into this position is on my mind often, and what we can do about it. When that piece appeared, I probably got more mail about it than any other piece I ever published in Harper's. Much of the mail was from people who said, "I'm bothered by this too, and I too take animals off the road, and I'm glad to know that there's someone who does this." One reason for including that piece in the collection was the amount of passion I felt in the letters I got when it first appeared.'

Because of the drought many creatures are coming into the city and into people's gardens looking for water. The snakes may have been visiting garden ponds and other water features or are just out on the prowl as the weather has warmed substantially. On one hand I love it that there are wild creatures still living in the heart of the city, on the other I am sad that living in the city presents dangers not found in the wild. As Barry Lopez comments: 'We're an anesthetized culture. We have gotten ourselves into a situation where we're able to live with comfort around carnage.'

Lopez's words shimmer with deep understanding of the kinship between human and nature and the struggle to deal with the paradoxes embedded in this world.

The river is calling.

Reference
An Interview with Barry Lopez, 1998, KUSP, May 25, Capitola Book Cafe, http://www.capitolabookcafe.com/andrea/lopez.html
Lopez B, 1998, 'Apologia,' in About this Life: Journeys on the Threshold of Memory, New York, Random House.

Jewels on the River

Just as I step onto the trail, right there under my feet, is a tiny exquisite feather. Not quite a centimetre long, the feather is lustrous. At the quill end it's a fluffy pale grey which turns into a deep tangerine, pales into a rich orangey-yellow, bleeds into a light olive greeny-yellow and then, in miniature tufts, is transformed into a bright emerald green. A very small and precious gift from the Rainbow Lorikeet - the colours of the feather imitating its name.

Early in the day in the warmer months, the river valley is often slightly foggy. But as the sun breaks through and the light dances on the water, the river's colours begin to sparkle. Gradually the river takes on the quality and colour of its surroundings. It shifts from a dark khaki to a browny-olive then spreads to a honey earthy brown, even to delicious shades of darkish green. But when the fog lifts and the sky changes from misty greys to an intense bright blue, the river's colour changes again and reflects the beauty of blueness.

Above me, in the quiet of the river's stillness, the white Cockatoos are scruffling raucously. They seem perturbed, agitated somehow and are shrieking and screeching, intent on one particular tree. It is a narrow eucalypt about five to six metres tall, full of hollows. The Cockatoos peer closely into the openings, then they fly up and back and look deeply into the hollows again, all the while vocalising. What is in the tree hollows? And why are the birds screeching so loudly?

From White Cockatoos to glossy blueblack Ravens, the colours of the birds seem to blur among the bushes and grasses. Black and white Butcher Birds, Magpies, Mudlarks and Wagtails, silvery grey Cuckoo Skreiks, intensely coloured Pardalotes and Kingfishers, blue Wrens, red Wrens, pink and grey Galahs, multi-coloured Rosellas in intoxicating hues. And many LBBs, the little brown birds which sing so sweetly.

Then right there, sitting on a blade of bright green grass, is a beetle the colour of dazzling lapis lazuli. It's a day to relish these jewels of the river.

Spoonbills on the Tide

On the trail we meet one of the regular river walkers with her black and white dog. 'Have you seen anything exciting today?' she asks. And I tell her of the wonderful bird we saw at the mouth of Sandy Creek.

The tide is out. Only a little water is flowing in the Creek - but right at its mouth a Royal Spoonbill is working the mud from side to side. It's the first I've seen along this stretch of the river. Wading among the mangroves, the Spoonbill is searching for small fish and crustaceans. The bird books says that these gorgeous birds are nomadic and fly in formation similar to Ibis. And while I have seen flocks of Ibis fly across the city, I have not yet seen a formation of Spoonbill.

Ibis can often be seen fossicking around the river. But today I spy them in what seems like quite an unusual place. Not far from the river we pass by a swimming pool where many of the locals are lined up to go for a swim. Several Ibis and Black Ducks are already sitting on the water, while others wait at the edge of the pool. No humans are in sight. It looks like the birds have taken over and they're having one gigantic water party.

Being on the river is so uplifting. Each day there is so much to see. The Brush Turkeys are guarding their mammoth mound, the Lorikeets and Rosellas are flying from one honey tree to the next, the Corellas and White Cockatoos are screeching through the treetops, Noisy Mynahs are annoying the Currawongs, while the beautiful song of the Coucal and Butcher Bird ring out across the water - this place is a haven for human as well as bird.

In the 1890s the remarkable William James noted that when we are attentive we can change the way we think about things and the way we feel. Restoration researcher Stephen Kaplan has used this theory of attention to show how our experiences in the natural world lead to improved attention and mental restoration including a reduction in feelings of fatigue and stress. These changes are affected by the type and quality of the environment (wild, bushy, green), the involvement we have with the environment, our familiarity with the place as well as the amount of time we spend there (Kaplan, 1995; 2001).

The lesson from his research? Spend time in beautiful places in nature. Be immersed in birdsong and the generous movement of the tides.

References
James W, 1890, 1983, The Principles of Psychology, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press.
Kaplan S, 1995, 'The Restorative Benefits of Nature: Toward an Integrative Framework,' Journal of Environmental Psychology, 15, 169-182.
Kaplan S, 2001, 'Meditation, Restoration and the Management of Mental Fatigue,' Environment and Behavior, 33, 480-506.

Spirit Longing

The river holds a deep and symbolic resonance amongst people who live in this river city.

There is something touching about being close the river. In an ABCTV interview with Lance O'Connell, a deckhand on the CityCat river ferry, O'Connell says how much he enjoys being on the river: 'I've always loved the river so I guess I'm lucky to have a job that allows me to spend my days surrounded by it. Can sure think of worse things I could be doing.'

There is something new to see and experience every day, he adds, like the time a whale swam up the river right into the heart of the city: 'We've even had, well, dolphins as far up as here and also once, just once, we had a whale that went up to the Story Bridge, turned around and went back out the river.' A whale in the river?

Over the weekend I joined many whale watchers on a fund raising trip for the inspirational environmental organisation Sea Shepherd. Three boats loaded with passengers went out to sea to greet the Humpbacks as they travel to Antarctica on their annual migration. We encountered two pods and watched them frolicking, rolling and jutting their heads out of the water or 'spyhopping'. And then they swam off.

Seeing them on their annual migration to the southern ocean was heart-wrenching. On one hand we relished seeing them; the size of these Humpbacks is awesome and experiencing them, up close, was very moving. The expression on the faces of the passengers was testament to the power of these creatures to move people. Many shouted with joy and excitement as soon as the whales appeared or had tears in their eyes.

To know that they will be going down south to face being slaughtered by the Japanese industrial factory ships is too much to fathom. This year will be the first year that the International Whaling Commission has allowed Humpbacks to be killed along with Minke and Fin Whales. The IWC website states, 'the Government of Japan has authorised a new special permit programme in the Antarctic, JARPA II, in which the take of minke whales has been more than doubled, and fin whales and humpback whales have been added to the list of targeted species.'

The song of the male Humpbacks sits with me as I write this, as does the superb footage of Humpback ballet from Cousteau divers and the evocative poem from Mary Oliver 'Humpbacks' which ends with:

'Listen, whatever it is you try
to do with your life, nothing will ever dazzle you
like the dreams of your body,

its spirit
longing to fly while the dead-weight bones

toss their dark mane and hurry
back into the fields of glittering fire

where everything,
even the great whale,
throbs with song.'

Coucals and Cockatoos

Wooom, Ooom, Wooom Ooom, Wooom Ooom. The sound echoes back and forth across the trail. Two native pheasants or Coucals are signalling. They seem shy but their song is insistent. When I read the bird book I learn such interesting things about them, especially about how they fly (clumsily) and how construct their nests (painstakingly).

'The male and female climb high in trees, break off small leafy branchlets and let them drop to the ground. Then they drag the branchlets across the ground through the undergrowth to the nest site.' (Frith, 1976:301). They reach the top of the trees by going backwards and forwards from one tree to another, slowly gaining height. Then they glide back down. Back on earth they construct their nest from the pile of leaves and twigs they've collected, and when that's done, they grab some more leaves and branches from the surrounding vegetation, pulling them down to form a roof over their new home. The birdbook also tells me that: 'Newly hatched pheasant coucals are a startling sight.' I will keep a look out.

Not far from the booming voice of the Coucals I spy Willie Wagtail on a low eucalypt branch overlooking the river. He is chattering urgently, warningly. Higher up in the tree canopy there is a family of small raptors. It's too far away to make out which kind - falcon, hawk, kite? But the fledglings are learning to fly or so it seems. Wings flapping. Launch off the branch, a little circle, a short glide, then back to the safety of the branch.

A few days ago the parent hawk was gliding above the river, watching. Flying right beside it, shrieking loudly, was one lone cockatoo. As they passed me, a treeload of white cockatoos, also screeching, rose up out of the canopy of a nearby eucalypt. The hawk paid them no attention and flew slowly on.

I often share these bird stories with the other river walkers I meet along the trail. We stop to chat about the many birds we've seen. Today it's Wrens, Pardalotes, Willie wagtails. Cockatoos. Kingfisher. Brush Turkeys. Butcher birds. Magpies. Ravens. Currawongs. Kookaburras. And now the Coucals.

As we talk about how lovely it is here, the riverwalker remarks about the plethora of birds she sees. I agree, but tell her the story I heard last week from another of the regular visitors to this place, a local historian. She told me that she knows a couple of locals, elderly women probably in their mid to late nineties. They remember when there were just a few houses here. And in commenting on the river, they remarked how prolific the bird life used to be.

To me and the other river walkers I meet, this is a real sanctuary, with plenty of birdlife. Outside this special place we've become so used to the impact of development and tree cutting that we don't notice when the birds, bats and possums disappear.

But by visiting this precious pocket of bushland, we notice what seems to us to be an abundance of birdlife. We notice the difference. Knowing that years ago there were far more birds is important. Gathering stories from the elders, hearing about their memories of the river, brings a new perspective to the local ecology and a nostalgia for an often forgotten past.

Reference
Frith HJ, 1976, Reader's Digest Complete Book of Australian Birds, Surry Hills, NSW, Reader's Digest Services Pty Ltd.

Mystifying Place

Solastalgia is the concept created by Glenn Albrecht from Newcastle University to explain the feelings of distress associated with loss of place. Solace + Nostalgia = Solastalgia.

In his cleverly titled blog (http://healthearth.blogspot.com), Albrecht explains that ‘solastalgia’ describes 'the pain or sickness caused by the loss of, or inability to derive, solace connected to the present state of one’s home environment'. He defines it as 'the ‘lived experience’ of loss ... manifest in a feeling of dislocation', or a sense of homsickness even when you are at home. When a place is irrevocably changed, when the environment is damaged through human activity or natural disaster (flood, fire, earthquake), the result can be solastalgia and also grief, pain and trauma.

But sometimes the changes to local city environments are so small initially that we may not notice the changes, or pay attention to them until it is too late. One tree here, one old house there, and suddenly the place is filled with high rise concrete walls along the river, polluted air, roads clogged with traffic and no place to walk and restore (human and nature).

Randy Haluza-Delay (1997) says we need to remystify the cityscape. To do this 'is to reawaken a sense of wonder and to alert ourselves to the marvels of familar things...the first step is to look around...explore...make the unfamiliar familiar...expand awareness...and envision the type of world you want to live in'.

So find beauty. Seek spendour. And take care. Elizabeth Halpenny (2005), in her overview of research into the relationship between pro-environment behaviours and place attachment, has summarised several studies which indicate a connection between place attachment, place satisfaction and environmental care. You may be attached to a place but be critical of its environmental quality. She concludes, citing a study of lakeside residents in Wisconsin (Stedman, 2002), that those attached to special, local and even city-places but dissatisfied with them were more likely to get involved in actions to protect their local environment.

So being attached to a place like the river on an emotional, functional and cognitive level encourages environmentally-responsible behaviour. Connecting to place and caring for it then are crucial practices to ward off the pain of Albrecht's solastalgia.

References cited:
Halpenny E, 2005, Pro-Environment Intentions: Examining the Affect of Place Attachment, Environmental Attitudes, Place Satisfaction and Attitudes towards Pro-environmental Behaviour, paper presented to the Eleventh Canadian Congress of Leisure Research, Nanaimo, BC, http://nrs.fs.fed.us/pubs/gtr/gtr_nrs-p-14/9-halpenny-p-14.pdf
Haluza-Delay R, 1997, 'Remystifying the City: Reawakening the Sense of Wonder in Our Own Backyards', Green Teacher, 52, Summer.
Stedman RC, 2002, 'Toward a Social Psychology of Place: Predicting Behavior from Place-based Cognitions, Attitude and Identity,' Environment and Behavior, 34, 5, 561-581.

The Visitor

The giant sniffs the air. 'Fi Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of an earthly man,' he chants rubbing his hands together with glee. It was the story of Jack and the Beanstalk that came to mind when the visitor came curling down the bamboo at the bottom of the garden. The 2.5 metre python, glorious in its tiger-like stripes, was on the hunt for something warm to consume. The only trouble was it snaked its way into the garden and came face to face with another creature. Neither expected to see the other.

Carpet Pythons used to be abundant along river bank. But with the drought, the decline in small mammals, housing development, removal of bushland, and kidnapping (or should that be snake-napping) to sell to petshops, these beautiful reptiles seem to have vanished from their riverbank home. But happily not all.

The big orange cat had gone to sit in the courtyard to watch the dark and listen to the night air. Then I heard an urgent scrabble as his paws scuffled though the stones. I found him cowering in the corner, his eyes wide, and his tail plumped with fur on edge. We watched as the carpet snake went spiralling lanquidly back up the bamboo and off through the leafy canopy.

From all accounts this was a rare event. The night holds mystery. This one was a wonderful surprise - and a real privilege to see such a magnificent creature still patrolling its haunts on the look out for morsels to eat. The EPA says that Carpet Pythons have the ability to detect temperature changes of less than one-thirtieth of a degree through their heat sensors called 'pits' located along the lower jaw. Using these heat sensing pits, the python smells out warm blooded animals like possums, rats, mice and on this occasion, a big orange cat by the name of Hamish.