I have mentioned before that wallaby mothers carry their joeys long after they really don’t seem to fit in the pram or pouch any more.
They also keep allowing them to drink their specially tailored mother’s milk from their allotted nipple for a very long time.
This was brought home to me the other day when I spotted this well-grown joey indulging in a suckling session.
But nevertheless, when it had drunk its fill, and straightened up next to Mum, I was surprised by just how well-grown! Yes, it’s on the uphill side, but still…
At least it didn’t try to get back into her pouch.
This other wallaby mum has chosen a spot up near my outdoor loo for her morning naps and I have watched her calmly allow her joey to clamber in and out, in its typical mildly panicked way. Sunsoaking, she’s almost asleep, but her joey stays on full alert, ready to dive into its furry shelter.
Seeing it now, you’d wouldn’t think it could fit, or that she could carry it and still hop as she does. And makes it look easy.
It had rained for days, and when it wasn’t raining it was damp and grey and cold. Miserable, in fact. The hillsides were oozing and the track was a running stream.
But just as dry firewood was becoming a concern, this day threw a final heavy shower at the mountain and then the sun came out.
The wallabies had clearly been even worse off than I was, out there in the long wet tussocks. This isn’t cave country to offer dry shelters, so I expect they must just endure such weather.
Their fur is thick but the top layer at least was looking very bedraggled as they sat about, drying off and dozing in the warmth.
While this mother (left) dried off, she was busy cleaning up her joey, who’d been kept safely cosy and dry in the best place for a joey to be — mum’s pouch.
The wallabies took very little time to adjust to my moving back in to their domain. There are lots of mothers carrying young in pouches. Some of the joeys are very small and pink, and some, like this one, are really too big.
It is so cramped in that low-hanging pouch that you can see that its hind foot is protruding, but it stayed inside where it was warm. After all, it could reach grass and milk from there, so why not?
The mothers seem most trusting of me. Some of the others look at me quite imperiously, ears pricked, as if to say, ‘ So who are you, and what is your business here?!’
I have no idea why they haven’t eaten these self sown greens — as they hop in and eat the parsley in this old tank that I need to fill to be a raised bed for root vegies. Unfortunately, since it’s really a compost heap at this stage, a red-bellied black snake moved in at the end of last summer.
But if I can overcome my disappointment in the wide range of my once-treasured garden plants they are eating, they are a treat to have around to watch.
Only… I just noticed that they have started on the citrus trees! Now that’s going too far.
Home on the mountain at last, I was greeted by a heavily pruned garden ruled by wallabies.
Of course it was lovely to see the wallabies, but… they have been eating plants I had never expected to appeal to their taste buds. Strongly aromatic plants like rosemary and lavender have been stripped, and are regularly re-stripped. I had struck lots of lavender cuttings, thinking that I’d at least be able to have those in this new wallaby world.
They are not eating the bulbs, the jonquils or snowflakes — yet — and they can’t reach the wattles, so I do have some flowers. But they are now attacking my camellias, all of which are low enough to be totally munched into nothing but stems.
I had accepted that roses are no longer anything but sticks, except for the very tops of the taller shrub roses.
However, in one of these, the defoliation has revealed two nests, one small lichened cup and one large grassy tunnel. They are old ones, I assume, but I wonder if any tenants will return, now they are so exposed to predators?
Travelling home after two months on the road, for once I chose to be kind to myself, to unwind slowly and not to let time pressures make me rush past all the interesting turnoffs — as usually happened.
Gippsland’s Wilderness Coast is somewhere I definitely want to return to, in another winter, with weeks to spend on its many inlets, points and headlands, beaches and rivers, and in its forests. Extraordinarily diverse, mostly unpopulated, it is full of the wilderness edges I like so much, and protected by National Parks like Cape Conran and Croajingolong, and Marine Parks like Point Hicks and Cape Howe.
Its pristine Tasman Sea beaches were empty, and faced across Bass Strait to Tasmania, a thought that appealed to me, even though I couldn’t see that now-favourite state.
The rocks were different at every stop, but I was particularly taken by these stranded clusters of yearning dolphin-like rocks.
Inland, heading towards Cann River, spectacular and informative Rainforest Walks were signposted and accessed just off the Princes Highway — temptingly too easy to pass by. Suspended bridges crossed the creeks and the timber walkways were still slippery with ice at 11am.
Climbing Genoa Peak was not be missed, my brochure said. Only 1.5 kilometres — but straight up! The climb was mostly through casuarina and angophora forests, with twisted ti-trees higher up. The paths were soft casuarina needle carpets, with bright correa (Native Fuchsia) blooming their sides.
The bush was very still and silent, with nary a bird call or rustle. Suddenly a whole series of calls rang out; it had to be a lyrebird! As it was, but a very quick lyrebird, so I only managed a glimpse of his gorgeous tail as he ran away.
The view from Genoa Peak was impressive. I must confess I didn’t make it to the very top, as the steel ladder to that was so steep that they had a cage around it so one didn’t fall backwards! The previous two steel ladders had been bad enough for height-challenged me.
I did see my destination for that night — Mallacoota Inlet, whence the Genoa River entered the sea, after curving between forest-cushioned shores through the Croajingolong National Park. Maybe I’d do some bushwalking there.
But by the time I was back at the car park at the base of the climb — two hours in total — my calves were screaming:’ Climb no more, you silly old woman! Give us a break.’ Going downhill had been far worse.
