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Madame Duck

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madame-1My erstwhile Wood Duck mother has found herself a special place for her daily beauty ritual.

Not far from my morning coffee spot window there is a large rock, unearthed when building years ago and too big to be easily moved. It awaits inspiration — and energy.

Now each morning Madame Duck comes and stands on it, facing the newly risen sun, and well above the damp grass and its long seed spikes.

She has the ability to turn her head completely back to front – and she does, poking and scouring quite fiercely with her beak under each wing and down her back, fluffing up her feathers and shaking herself to dislodge any small loose feathers.
madame-2Then she adds a deposit to the small black and white pile on the rock. She turns and looks me in the eye — ‘Can’t a girl get any privacy round here?’

No fear — not when you pick an ablutions rock in such easy view.

The Cattleman’s Daughter

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rachael-coverI have just read Tasmanian writer Rachael Treasure’s new book, The Cattleman’s Daughter. To my mind it’s her best book yet, with clear signs of the maturing writer as well as woman.

Like all Rachael’s very popular books, it has a central developing love story and lots of horses, but of equal importance here is the surrounding drama — the forced ending of traditional grazing in the Victorian high country. Rachael knows the High Plains and these people well and draws a sympathetic and vividly realistic portrait of the country, their history there and love of it, and their ways and attitudes.

She is not so kind to the bureaucrats who make such decisions without any connection to that land, or consultation with those who do have it, regarding the solution to a perceived problem. She puts clearly the graziers’ concern for who then cares for such land regarding fire hazard reduction and weed control, when the new ‘owners’, the government, provide little or no extra funding for staff to replace them.

At first, as both a farmer’s daughter and an environmentalist, I worried that the two sides would be stereoptyped into goodies and baddies, as I met extremists like the inner-city greenie, Cassie, and the ignorant and power-drunk bureaucrat, Kelvin. But Rachael also gives us Bob, a reluctant cattleman who does not care for his land at all. In between we have the commonsense types like the heroine Emily and her love interest, Luke, who has just taken a job with the opposing side, a government department with a very long name, but equivalent to what used to be in charge of national parks.

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The last duckling

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last-duckling-1When I first saw the Maned Wood Duck family down near the dam there were five ducklings. The next sighting wasn’t until a week later; they were waddling up the track towards the other dam, so on open ground — and I could only see three babies.

But now the parents have brought the family into the house yard — and there is only one little duckling left. Late last summer, when the pair first ventured into my yard, they had a young duck, a teenager, with them. Maybe it was one of a larger brood to begin with too.

Now the trio are hanging about my cabin, feeding, seeking shade, not moving away when I go up and down the steps to the verandah. In fact, they are using the steps as well, judging from the deposits left behind.
last-duckling-2The duckling is as fluffy and cute as a duckling can be, with quaint antics like standing on one leg, stretching the other out behind and shaking it as if part of a dance routine

They also like sitting under the massive fountain of my banksia rose which sweeps to the ground and makes a dim cool cubby for a duck family with one precious child to protect. I wish them luck.

P.S. Since I wrote this, the parents have been in the yard several times — unaccompanied. I am afraid my good wishes were not enough to save the last duckling from its fate.

Cockatoo carry-on

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blkack-cockatoo-1A bit of wet weather — and all hell broke loose in the forest around me.

My most raucous neighbours swooped in, a whole pack of them, loud and restless.
black-cockatoo-2There were perhaps eight Yellow-tailed Black Cockatoos, swapping trees, snapping twigs, screeching across the clearing at full unmusical volume.

As they barely stayed still for a minute and they like the uppermost branches, they were hard to locate, let alone snap, with the zoomed camera lens.

When they take off they look awkward, stiff-winged flapping like a kid in a superman cape, but they fly unerringly between the dense tree canopy.

I never know why they come and for such short times, nor what they are saying so loudly and incessantly in their rusty voices. But their sudden appearance is always a drama — a grand entrance and exit around a brief but impressive one-act performance.

Shy wallaby gategirls

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gategirls When you live in the country it’s always a boon to have a passenger  to act as as gategirl or gateboy, to open the many gates so you don’t have to yank on the hand brake and get out to do it yourself.

I couldn’t wait until my very smart granddaughter Jess was old enough to take on that role, in being tall enough to reach.

City folk may not realise that every gate is an I.Q. test; they are all different. Even if they are using the same basic mechanism for once, the swing of the gate and the distance of gate from post will require a whole new set of possible solutions to the problem.

Worst of all, the driver is watching and waiting while the gategirl or gateboy wrestles with the chain, the gate and the embarrassment. Much mime play generally goes on while the gate’s idiosyncrasies are attempted to be explained through the windscreen.

However, last  week, early one morning, these two shy girls were sitting so calmly and for so long outside my house yard gate that I felt they were waiting to be let in. Too small to be expected to do the job themselves, gloved hands meekly crossed like the best-brought-up convent girls, naught but an ear twitched as they patiently propped there.

They gave up eventually, but thankfully not before I took their photo.

Duck morning

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wood-ducks-1A pair of wood ducks have installed themselves in my yard, which they like because it has a small dam close by. I come across the couple in odd places and at odd times.

The other morning they were dozing in the warming rays of early sunlight; the female remained with her head under her wing for some time but the male assumed a vigilant pose at the first camera click.
wood-ducks-2As he patrolled around her, she awoke and began to groom herself up for the day, fluffing her elegant feathers and ferretting amongst them.

They both have beautifully marked plumage, with secret flashes of colour only fully revealed when they fly. His dark ‘mane’ is not always as prominent as here.
wood-ducks-3Finally, satisfied with her apearance, she gives him a coy look — ‘Ready, dear.’ — they begin the day’s grazing. Incidentally, they also fertilise the yard, as I am constantly treading in it!

A walk on the wild side

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Having shown you the civilised side of The Old Brush reserve, we now walk just beyond the mown edges and into the forest, where owner Robert maintains and marks kilometres of narrow paths.

wildside-1They tempt you to walk into the wild side, but with safety, and to experience the greatly varied vegetation of the surrounding bush.

wildside-3Robert has chosen the paths to take you through hillside forests and gully jungles, past luminous blue gums and thriving cabbage tree palms, the oldest, wartiest paperbark tree I have ever seen…

wildside-2…and battle-scarred eucalypts so tall I can hardly see their tops.

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They show the mighty but they also pass near such richness of detail that I keep stopping to marvel — like this tree trunk parcel, its bark so trussed in its vine that it can’t escape.

Or the coachwood (I think) whose roots resemble the claws of a strange bird, feathered at the ankle with moss and protectively clutching its green egg.
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 When the narrow tracks reach the valley again, give way to the broader mown and mossy expanses, and the statuary begins to reappear, I know I am leaving the wild behind.

It’s been an easy walk, even for my knees, and my rustic cabin by the billabong is just across the creek.

A glass of red awaits me, to aid my reflections on what a wonderful juxtaposition of worlds this place offers.

Wet Warrumbungles

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bungles-1aMy first day camping in the Warrumbungle National Park ended with showers and a stunning misty sunset, complete with rainbow.

I hadn’t lowered and zipped shut  the front ‘verandah’ flap of my tent, so a little water had entered.

My cousins erected a separate ‘fly’ tarpaulin over their whole tent in case of further rain.

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It grew cold and damp; a young male Eastern Grey kangaroo insisted on sharing our fire’s warmth. No feeding of animals is allowed here, but they are unafraid of humans.

Next morning was persistently wet; water had seeped into my tent at the bottom edges, My bedding was dry, but It felt like an island, so I pegged out the ‘blinds’ to stretch the tent sides more.

This worked. However, I intend to buy a tarpaulin to make my own fly over the top for next time.

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We donned wet weather gear and went for a gentle valley walk, where this shaggy group of ancient grass trees caught my eye.

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As we packed up wet gear under dripping trees, a group of emus wandered into camp — different shaggy creatures, but equally weird.

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The rain had caused these fungi to erupt though the leaf litter like small daisies. They are ‘Earth stars’ I think (Geastrum triplex) and I’d only ever seen them in books before.

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As I drove out, the mist was rising and the wet lichened rockfaces mimicked snow. I’ll come back in fine weather for more walks in the Warrumbungles — but with a tent fly ready in case!

Macropod harmony

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It’s been cold and windy, and in my clearing we’re all glad of my protective tree belt below.  I can see the treeline on the western front turned thin and see-through as the trees are battered about; I can hear the fury on the ridgetop above me. But I am only mildly affected here.

My neighbours like the calm sunny spots too. Glancing through my kitchen window, I spotted four of my hoppy friends taking their ease just outside the house fence. Not unusual.

But it was rather unusual that the two on the left were Eastern Grey Kangaroos and the two on the right were Eastern Red-necked Wallabies. Not that there’s ever any animosity between the various macropod species here, but they don’t often share such a small space, or not in such a relaxed way. To pass in grazing, yes.

macropod-2

The male kangaroo stood to see what I was doing at the window; none of the others bothered to interrupt their scratching or sleeping or general contemplation of life.

 What I loved best was that shortly after I’d taken this photo and he’d gone back to grazing at least, his sleepy female partner was so sure of my good intentions that she turned her back on me to settle into a more comfortable pose — and went to sleep.

From the back porch…

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owner-builder As many of you know, I regularly contribute articles and photos to The Owner Builder magazine. They also stock my books in their online bookshop.

Their last page is for readers to send in their musings, from the back porch, so to speak. In fact it was one such gratis contribution, over 10 years ago, that led the then Editor, sadly now the late Russell Andrews, to commission me to write professionally for the magazine.

In their current issue (153) editor Lynda Wilson has used the Back Porch page for an extract she chose from my new book, Mountain Tails, and for her kind review:—

I am very familiar with Sharyn’s style of writing, having edited her articles for The Owner Builder over the past five years and listened to her short pieces on ABC Radio National’s Bush Telegraph.

I was less familiar with her home life — that was until I read her first book, The Woman on the Mountain. Sharyn’s wonderfully descriptive language brings the whole mountain to life, along with the joys and sorrows of her mostly solitary life.

In her latest book, Mountain Tails, Sharyn shares the lives, loves and losses of her animal neighbours with us.

With rich descriptions and personal humour, from ‘A quoll in the kitchen’ through ‘Jacky dragon’ and on to ‘Petrified birds,’ you will feel yourself standing right alongside Sharyn, sharing her wonder and amazement of the natural world around her.

The Owner Builder has a special offer: you can buy both The Woman on the Mountain and Mountain Tails for $50 plus postage. The offer runs until September 30.

Visit The Owner Builder’s website.

Teen magpie comes of age

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maggies-chick1
The last time I tossed some bird seed into the feeder, which was a few weeks ago, the teenage magpie kept his distance.

He stayed well past the post until the two older birds — much more smartly dressed — had eaten their fill and flown off.
maggies-chick2
But this week he seemed to have been granted more privileges. Perhaps he’s turned the maggie equivalent of 18? Not quite 21, but considered semi-adult, his plumage still greyish-brown and less dapper, but he’s learning.

The two older birds took turns at eating and keeping watch, then remained on guard while the youngster hopped in with them and pecked at the leftovers.

When they decided he’d had enough, they took off. He only pecked on for a brief time before he followed — but perhaps they hadn’t left much!

Day tripper possum

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Brushtail possums are my regular and annoying nocturnal visitors: they climb up where the roof slopes low, just above my bedroom, then either along the bracing timber under the extended eaves, or, more noisily, over the roof. Then they investigate the verandah, often knocking things over.

If I appear they always scurry off, back along the route.
day-possum1
But after lunch today I looked up from the computer to see a round furry back and a bedraggled brushy tail – in the bird feeder. A possum visiting in daylight?

I had put a small scoop of birdseed there this morning, for the first time in about three weeks.

I tiptoed to the door and opened it very quietly, but this possum didn’t seem to notice. Was it deaf?  I took some photos and the clicking was ignored.  I spoke to it; no response. I moved further round to its side, to be visible.
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It did turn and face me but made no move to run. I wasn’t sure how well it could see in daylight anyway. 

Was this deafness, blindness, illness –  or opportunistic boldness? It seemed unharmed and healthy enough.

And it clearly wanted to feed on, despite the light drizzle and its exposed position – to me and the weather. I left it to it.

A crimson rosella made the mistake of flying over to check out the feeder. Squawks and a scuffle and an aerial about-turn by the rosella.

The day possum regained its footing and continued its lunch.
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When it had scoffed the lot, it turned around, jumped onto the oak table, and peed!