life

Mountain symbols

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On my last day here on this mountain, nature is turning it all on for me. A little glimpse of the things that symbolise what I love most here.

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Wallabies and their joeys were all around, the camellias and bulbs were still in flower, and the bush beyond was glistening with sunshine and dew.

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The spring-fed primary perched swamp was full of water, even after the long dry spell, and the mighty ancient Angophora arched out over it as protectively as ever.

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Last week there was a light dusting of snow on the higher mountains opposite… very light, but still…

Next week I will be in my new mountainside home, with different wildlife and mountain views — and a creek! — to share with you all. I look forward to sharing my discoveries of its nature.

Life and death

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As my last week here begins with sunshine — for a change — I have been snapping the wallaby mums and joeys as they feed their way over the ‘lawn’. I shall miss them.

This very leggy young one (above) was unsteady out of the pouch, but nibbling along beside mum in beween ducking its head back into the pouch for a drink. It could barely fit under her; she ignored it when she wanted to move on. It just had to catch up and re-connect.

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But then I noticed that over near the Nashis another joey was still lying in the same position as an hour earlier. Its mum was just sitting nearby.

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The joey was clearly dead… and cold. No evident injury. Mum stayed near there for hours, even after the joey was removed. Normally she’d have moved further in her grazing. She looked sad — or was she unwell too?

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I wish I knew what they felt or thought…

Seeing beauty

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As I pack and move out 36 years’ worth of my magpie collection, the cabin is far emptier than ever since it was built. I am appreciating the texture of the more revealed expanse of mud walls, freshly emphasised with the repainting (with natural paints of course).

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I am admiring each treasure before I pack it away, and loving the flowers that winter here gives me for brightening indoors.

Sometimes I’m almost too late to catch a fleeting beauty on offer…

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…like the last low rays of the sunset through my front door leadlight…

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…or the coloured glass window in front of my desk.

Leaving the Mountain

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Failing knees (OK, old age) mean I can no longer manage here without help, so, regretfully, I am seeking a new carer for my Mountain and its creatures. Readers will know how much I love living here, but it’s time to make a move.

I need to relocate closer to family, to a more accessible small rural block. It’s best to do this while I still have some ability to re-establish as close to a self-sufficient lifestyle as I can manage.

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My 65.55 hectare property in Upper Hunter Shire, NSW, has been a dedicated Wildlife Refuge since 1980, and is now also under a Voluntary Conservation Agreement (VCA) with National Parks. The wallabies, kangaroos, echidnas, kookaburras and eagles really own the place, but they allow many other mammals, birds, reptiles, frogs and me to live here. They need to be able to trust the new humans who take over from me.

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This sanctuary for man and beast offers rare peace and privacy in a rich mountain forest world where the wildlife is unafraid and abundant, the sky is close, and the springs are permanently generous. I shall miss the privacy and the unlimited water; I can only hope for the peace, and at least visits from wildlife.

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The wildlife have it sorted naturally, but I’ve set up here for self-sufficient living for humans too, with stand alone solar power and springfed water supply. Its temperate climate, good rainfall and good soil mean the potential is enormous. 

For such human use, a 12.24 hectare area is excluded from the VCA, enclosing all the many improvements, like the dams, 92,000 litres tank storage, gravity-fed watering systems, my charming (yes, I do say so myself!) owner-built two-bedroom mudbrick cabin, large shed, carport, glasshouse, bunkhouse (sleeps 5-6), and a separate colorbond clad and insulated cabin.

There’s far too many advantages to list here, so if anyone is genuinely interested in becoming the new carer for my Mountain — as in considering buying it — please email me for full details, more photos, price and directions. No merely curious queries please!

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Photos of me and the cabin interior by G Beeche

Mothers’ morning — and mayhem

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Soaking up the morning sun in front of my solar power shed door was this wallaby mum and her helpful joey. In between de-fleaing mum and racing around the shed, he’d return for a drink.

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She left her pouch open to the sun’s warmth and his frequent suckling. Within the pale pink pleats, is that a long nipple I see?

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In fact there were three mums and their joeys of varying ages.

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Or there were, until a randy male burst in to check out the ladies, who all took off, scattering panicked joeys as they went.

It’s definitely spring. As I write, there’s a great deal of grunting, coughing and thumping as five ready males chase a female round and round my house, under the verandah and back out, in and out of the shed, around my ute, through the orchard, around the big shed, then the small shed, back round the house… they’re all panting, it’s been going for abut 10 minutes, and they’re moving way too fast for me to take a photo.

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Now one has her cornered under my verandah; they’ve gone quiet so I do get the camera. Three other agitated males are hanging about the steps.

The pair seem to be ignoring each other for a while, then the grunting starts again — and it’s the female. Clearly, she’s saying ‘No!’ Which the blokes accept, sort of; there’s no forcing, but they keep up the chase.

And they’re off again!

Winter warmth

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These last few winter weeks have been my ideal weather: warm, still days and cold nights, no bushfire or snake worries. Getting cosy at night with my wood fires, by day enjoying a sun that doesn’t try to fry my skin in an unguarded instant.

My wallaby mates love it, and the in-pouch joeys of all ages have the best situations, snug against the faint chilly edges, sunsoaking with Mum.

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I feel as rich as I ever wish to be when my solar batteries are on float and I have a full woodpile for the nights.

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All I need now is some free time to take my Gypsy camper away on a proper holiday – one not dictated by book talks. She’s waiting more patiently than I am. In fact, she’s been sitting there so long she’s growing a green tinge on her southern side.

Remote living

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Being independent of the electricity grid, as I have been for eighteen years, is great. Not that, remotely sited as my place is, there was any choice.

And my solar system, designed and installed by Dave Bartley of then-Sunrise Solar back in 1994, has been trouble-free.

Dave tells me that my BP batteries have lasted longer than any other he knows, but I have looked after them and been very careful not to run them lower than recommended.

However, on my return from Mudgee, although the regulator was on ‘Float’, so it reckoned the batteries were fully charged, the inverter kept shutting down. This meant no 240-volt AC power. On checking, one battery is lower in specific gravity than the others.

So the panels are still doing their job, but perhaps my batteries are feeling their age. Doctor Dave (now Somapower) will make the long trip to come and diagnose the problem this week. I fear the remedy will be expensive!

However, I have been saved from having to leave home in the interim by my Gypsy Camper’s two panels and my small travelling inverter.

It’s parked close by the house, so I use the laptop inside (where the mobile phone works) until the battery is nearly flat then put it to sleep and take it into the camper to recharge. Many of my computer accessories run off a USB plug to the laptop.

Fortunately I have a hand-operated juicer and a small transistor radio, and the house fridge and halogen lights are separately wired for 24 volts, and still working — but I could have gone to candles and used Gypsy’s fridge. No TV, iron, vacuum cleaner or music system, though… I think I’ll survive.

The reason I need to be near the mobile is that the satellite broadband appears to have been damaged by an electrical storm about a month ago and I can now only connect to the internet and email using my phone as a modem via my laptop. The phone only works if connected to the verandah or car aerial.

The delay in service is that you need a 4WD to get here and apparently even these remote satellite installations do not often require that. Luckily Dr Dave’s offsider has one.

So at present I am doubly penalised for living as and where I do. But doubly rewarded for having bought my Gypsy camper; in fact I am living here as if on the road!

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Ending on a high note

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With the recent news of an aunt’s sudden death, just five months after her husband’s, endings are on my mind. I now only have one aunt, and no uncles, left.

I was reminded of a short piece I wrote a few years ago, when a favourite uncle was terminally ill in hospital. I thought I’d share it with you.

A book in time

‘See that bloke in the end bed?’ says my uncle. ‘You ought to meet him, he’s written a book. And I think he’s related to the bloke who used to own your old house. Same odd name, anyway.’

‘That bloke’ is a perky fellow in his 70s, sitting on his bed in his dressing gown. In his mind he’s already left the sick and dying behind in this hospital; he hopes to be going home this afternoon. He’s escaped It this time.

I introduce myself. It turns out he is the uncle of the man I knew, but he’s nothing like his nephew, who was a coarse and ignorant fellow with hardly any teeth and a bitter outlook on life.

This Mr. N. is intelligent, amiable, neat. I ask about the book. He’s a bit embarrassed, but proud too. The printed copy only arrived in his hands today. ‘My grand-daughters have been at me for years to get it all down,’ he says. ‘The war, my squadron, lots of narrow escapes, you know. They always wanted to hear more stories… not that I ever told them the nasty stuff… but they liked the adventures, said listening to me it was as good as a book!’

I flick through it. The girls have had it printed for him, organised photos, layout, typed in the stories: they’ve done a good job. It looks inviting, interesting, humorous… like the writer, I think. I congratulate him on it, and the effort involved. ‘Lots of people apart from your family will enjoy this,’ I say. ‘It’s really important to get stories like yours down on paper. This is real history!’

He is pleased. My uncle has told him I am a writer… ‘But I haven’t got a book with my name on it,’ I smile. The doctor arrives just then for his discharge examination, and nurses begin to swish the curtains around the bed.

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Friend or foe

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These two young male Red-necked wallabies were dancing about like prizefighters, in a clinch, trying to land a punch — or a kick.

They careened along the fenceline, looking very serious in their aim to hurt each other, leaping up while balancing on their tails, or trying to.

But as one or other lost their balance, the tacit agreement seemed to be that they turn their backs on each other in feigned nonchalance, to recover their breath — or their pride. 

They’d scratch or preen themselves for a minute or two, then suddenly, and without any signal that I could see, they’d be at it again.

The pattern was repeated many times before they fell out of the open gateway in one of the fight sessions!

Travelling with Mum

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Older joeys, so big they are jack-knifed into their mum’s pouch to fit at all, still get to ride in comfort when they like.

In this cold weather, they like.

This Eastern Grey Kangaroo mum keeps feeding along, levering her large back feet forward as needed with no regard for the small feet and head that are often in the way. It’s clearly the joey’s responsibility to move.

She’s doing enough, just giving him a ride in her fur-lined carrier bag and eating to keep up the milk supply.

Front paws on the ground, walking with her, the joey takes a nibble of grass now and then, but mostly he’s too busy investigating the world of his Mum’s travels. Ears pricked like a puppy, he is curious about everything, in every direction.

The Wallaby, Kangaroo and Wallaroo groups that live here are endlessly fascinating. Here’s a relevant extract from my 2007 book, The Woman on the Mountain, from Chapter 4, ‘An introduction to society’.  

My society is more macropod than human…

As any mother will tell you, life’s a lot easier before the kids become mobile. As the pouch-bound joey grows, it’s not unusual to see mother and joey eating in tandem, the big-eyed baby ‘practice grazing’ on what it can reach from the safety of the pouch as the mother slowly levers her way across the grass. If she stops and sits erect to check me out, the baby might withdraw until all I can see poking out are its black nose and eyes, ears hidden inside the furry parka hood of its mother’s pouch.

Bigger joeys, spending more and more time out of the pouch, each try their mother’s patience by interrupting her grazing to demand a drink of milk. When she decides that the guzzler has had enough, she pushes it aside and resumes grazing. At other times I see a mother holding her wriggling joey still with one dainty black paw while searching for fleas in the soft baby fur with the other. The joey cringes exactly like a child does when you want to wipe its face or comb its hair. ‘Aw, Mu-um!’

When the alarm goes up for the group to take flight, which they do in a very helter-skelter, every-wallaby-for-itself kind of way, these toddlers often rush to get back into the safety of their respective pouches, but it’s a terrible headfirst scramble and squeeze, and usually the mother takes off with a tangle of tail and long black feet and paws still hanging out. Or else the joey doesn’t notice her leaving, and when it suddenly becomes aware that it’s alone, goes hurtling off in any direction. Pure panic — just like any three-year-old in a department store who looks around and can’t see Mum. 

As they’re allowed to remain in the pouch for about ten months, they’re quite big by the time the mothers evict them. Only then will the females give birth to the babies they had waiting in the wings, so to speak. Even with new ones in the pouch, they still suckle the expelled older joeys until they are well over a year old. New and old joey have a special teat each, from which they receive custom-designed milk. How clever is that? 

Baby days

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I am feeling rather nostalgic for the days when my adult children were babies.  This has been brought on by the fact that my first-born is turning 38 this month!

The serious little egghead, whom a friend always called Winston, reckoning he only needed the cigar to pass, is now a hefty six foot plus.

 His mother is no longer brunette, nor in possession of a single chin, and yes — those are flares! Well, it was 1973.

This nostalgia led me down the road of his and his sister’s childhood, and to my years as a kindergarten teacher. I still find small children fascinating. 

It also led me to consider sharing with you a short related piece I wrote, broadcast on ABC 1233 regional radio a few years ago. It was then called ‘Ten dollar sweetie’ but inflation takes its toll and I feel $20 is more reasonable now!

Twenty dollar sweetie

The train’s only just left Sydney. A young mother and her child are sharing one seat, right behind me.

Child is whinging, mother is surly. ‘Stop that or I’ll smack you!’ she keeps on saying.

The child is now crying half-heartedly. ‘Keep still or I’ll smack you!’

This goes on for an hour – I can’t concentrate, can’t work, can’t read. How to survive the ten hour trip to Melbourne? She’s obviously too young to be a mother; such impatience, such lack of understanding — why doesn’t she read the child a story or something?

Finally they both fall asleep.

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Tree shapes

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I have finally gotten around to cutting back the verandah’s vines of wisteria and ornamental grape. They have twisted around themselves and each other to form very strong and sculptural outstretching limbs.

This year I am experimenting with leaving more of their extremities, their claws, poised to shoot green fingers further than before perhaps.

Beyond them, against the always leafy eucalypt forest backdrop, the never-pruned birches form fine traceries that catch and hold the light.

As the cold windy weather kept me indoors more, and with an unresolved writing project requiring distraction from mounting anxiety about it, I dug out the craft paints bought long ago — for a rainy day project. They’d been on a sale table somewhere; some were metallic, and colours were limited.

My pantry doors are visible from the front door; they were blank, bland, boring plain. Now they bear a stylised tree with a gold vine twining up its improbable fruiting branches.

As always, I now wish could fix the mistakes evident from a distance but lost to me when it was under my nose, and I wish I’d made it more conical —  but I think I like my new winter tree, a compromise between bare shape and summer bearing.
 
And I can always paint over it if I decide I don’t.