Crashing in the wilderness - a day to remember.

It had to happen. I was so mesmerised by the warm conditions after a stormy start to spring that I missed the warning signs of the change. I could blame distractions: the wedge-tailed eagles that were sharing the elevator; the mobs of kangaroos and emus grazing in the wetland far below; or the wonderful view of the coast and the glittering blue southern ocean beyond. 

the little Fling in the dunes

But it was plain overconfidence that had me zooming low along the ridge to the left then flying way out into the void of the crater. I know trouble lurks there whenever the air has a touch of easterly in it.

The breeze puffed, then stopped; the lift just disappeared. I came out of my reverie with a sick feeling in my tummy and immediately threw the plane into a 180 turn heading back toward the slope, already losing height. I knew what was coming, and sure enough there was a puff from the southeast.

I turned away from the steep sides of the crater because an easterly breeze slides along the wall and produces downdrafts. Then another lull, so back into the ridge probing for any lift. The little Fling was well below eye level now and skimming the dense canopy of trees as I tried to make for a clearing below me. 

But the next puff was from the ESE and I knew all was lost.

Decision time. Stick it in the trees halfway up the slope and risk losing sight of it? Or land in the bottom of the caldera where I could watch it onto the ground. I decided on the latter and after a tense couple of minutes landed near a prominent yellow shrub in plain sight.

I kicked myself for not purchasing a lost plane alarm. I could see the Fling from my high vantage but knew it would be different down there; down there on the edge of a giant wetland that was prime snake country. Back to the car to grab my extraction kit: a walking staff; safety glasses; gaiters; a knife; and a bottle of water. This was going to be a tough retrieval and I knew it.

Don’t you just hate thoughts like that before you even set out?

Over the rim I went. I was soon battling through waist-high gorse, brambles, boxthorn and the huge indigenous nettles. The only way through was to follow wallaby and emu tracks. At times this required going headfirst on all fours at a down-angle of 45 degrees. I had to skirt the denser parts, hack my way across slope then find another animal track to follow down; down, down, for ever down. Near the bottom, the undergrowth got denser and higher; it was well over my head now. 

At last I reached the flat but was confronted by solid belts of brambles and towering clumps of rushes. It was like butting up against the outer defences of a fortress. And I could see nothing; well almost nothing. It was here I encountered my first snake [unidentified species].

As I worked around to the left I kept glimpsing out across the marsh, looking for that distinctive shrub with the yellow flowers. To my dismay, I discovered that this shrub was not unique. The place was littered with them. On I went, hacking, slipping and detouring; pausing to remove the leeches that seemed to get bigger and more numerous with every step.

another iron; BeEvolution on the slopes of Tarerer

I was wearing rugged clothing and the long staff was indispensable for clearing a path. But I was getting cut to pieces. My hands and face were bleeding and full of broken thorn tips. My whole body was ablaze from the potent nettles, which were as big as Triffids and stinging clear through the so called Hard Yakkas.

Next I encountered a large tiger snake lying inert across the track. I thumped the ground with my staff to alert it to my presence. It didn’t move a muscle. I tried to find a way around it, but all was dense chaos. Time to reassess . . . and give up the plane for lost.

So I backtracked, mentally adding up the cost of replacing the little Fling as I went. It seemed infinitely less costly than continuing this madness. I began to accept its loss and experienced a pang of melancholy as we'd had many good flights together. Now sweating profusely and feeling miserable, I decided to have one last scan from a vantage on the slope and was amazed to see a magenta wing poking out the side of that distinctive yellow shrub. I felt like I’d backed the winner of the Melbourne Cup.

Between me and the plane was a solid belt of brambles and nettles, twice as dense as anywhere yet encountered and over 2 meters high. The little Fling was so tantalisingly close yet so impossible to reach. I tried to get at it from the flanks and encountered my third snake, a copperhead lying atop some bracken. No worries here; they are shy and elusive creatures.

looks benign enough from a distance

I couldn’t get through anywhere, though I did come face-to-beak with an emu, which boomed its alarm call and ran off like a mad chook on steroids. So I decided on a frontal assault and started desperately cleaving my way through the prickly barrier with my staff. But it proved to be impenetrable and I split the staff.

“What would Bear Grylls do in a situation like this?” I wondered [apart from botting a fag and a Mars Bar from the filum crew, that is].

“He’d wield his frickin great knife, grab a whole lot of timber, lay it across the prickly barrier and walk over it to the yellow shrub,” I mused. What a loony idea! So that’s precisely what I did. 

My feet never touched the ground. I reckon I levitated across 25 meters of dense brambles before I was able to pluck the plane out of the shrub and start back. This was tricky while holding onto the delicate airframe in one hand, and I almost toppled headfirst into the hellish tangle on several occasions. But I wasn't letting go of the Fling.

When I made the side of the crater again I examined the plane. No damage. NO DAMAGE! I couldn’t believe it. But the Fling is a tough little doer that I have more than once landed in boxthorn without injury.

My elation soon evaporated as I began the long, sweatily painful scramble back to the top. I managed to give the plane some minor dings on the ascent, but this was soon repaired and we were back flying the following week.

Total time to recover aircraft: 185 minutes.

My arms, legs and face tingled for days from the nettle stings. Several wounds on my forearms and knees have left souvenir scars. This same slope has become my favourite place to fly in these months, but I’m watching that breeze like a hawk.

Tarerer at the end of a long long day

The plight of the hooded plover . . . and rotten apples in the barrel

After three weeks respite, the deranged nest vandal struck again at Killarney yesterday. He maliciously attacked two nesting sites of the rare hooded plover [Thinornis rubricollis].

This is a convenient juncture to review the season and see how the little birds are fairing from the perspective of a Coastcare and Birds Australia volunteer.

Adult hooded plover with fledgling
photo courtesy Birds Australia

It’s been a tough period for the birds since they started nesting in September. High tides and storms have swept the beaches, destroying nests, carrying away eggs and exposing chicks to the elements. So far, only two hatchlings have prevailed on the whole coast from Warrnambool to Port Fairy. 

It's been a bit wild and woolly for the volunteers, too. 

The beaches from the Killarney Basin to boat-ramp are my beat. It is one of the most heavily populated hooded plover territories on the Victorian coast. Last year it produced more fledged birds than anywhere else. But so far this year has been very different. The four resident breeding pairs have been unable to repeat their successes. No fledglings have been sighted despite intensive monitoring by volunteers. Only two chicks hatched then disappeared within days, leaving two disoriented parents to rally and try again.

Why is this? The causes are no doubt complex, but there are some obvious contributory factors.

Habitat is disappearing. To nest successfully, the birds need a strip of dry sand beyond the reach of high tides. After only three months monitoring the birds, I have noticed significant changes in the shapes of beaches. Sand loss and erosion of dune faces is aggressive. Spring tides are creeping ever higher. The strips and patches of dry sand are narrowing or disappearing

Hooded plovers on high alert bravely guard eggs
as riders keep horses to water's edge

Foxes are numerous and very active. Their footprints and scats are often seen at beach entrances and large dens are located through the dunes. Some measures have been taken to reduce this threat, but these are piecemeal and only partially effective.

There is no restriction on walking dogs off leash on the Killarney Basin to boat-ramp beaches during the birds' breeding season. Dog numbers are increasing as the weather warms and owners take advantage of the lack of regulations. On nearby beaches where human access is more frequent, dogs cannot be walked off leash. So owners take their dogs to the more remote unregulated coastal stretches. There, dogs are free to run, roam and forage where they like, disturbing breeding birds, destroying nests and killing chicks.

Same site as above, but no parent bird
can guard eggs against unleashed dogs

The Killarney beaches also attract increasing numbers of horses and riders, as these too are restricted on beaches in other areas. Professional strappers exercising thoroughbreds, weekend visitors with a horse or two in a float and organised beach rides all compete with the plovers for beach space. Land developers are even advertising unregulated beach access to promote property sales. 

Horse prints straddle a
pied oystercatcher nest
hidden behind the straw

On the weekend of 4-5 December, there was a pony club camp at Killarney Reserve. A group of over forty ponies and horses were ridden along miles of coast with little regard for beach nesting birds. The impact on nests was grave.

Attempts to educate riders about beach nesting birds are infrequent, uncoordinated, and largely ineffective.

Hooded plover eggs in typical nest
a simple scrape behind cover
1 December 2010

The same site with heavy horse and vehicle disturbance
3 eggs missing, 5 December 2010

Vehicles are regularly driven on these precious beaches, despite signs informing drivers that this is illegal. Breeches through dune faces, wheelie ruts and broken beer bottles speak volumes about the sort of behaviour associated with this activity. It's simply no holds barred.

But the strangest and most disturbing phenomenon of all is the deranged vandal. He breaks, burns and hides the fences, chick shelters and signs carefully placed by volunteers to help the birds. He has done this for more than two years. He continues to pose an unimpeded threat to the hooded plovers and volunteers.

The negative repercussions are insidious. The hooded plovers are not successfully breeding, and even the more robust oystercatchers are struggling with only one fledgling observed so far this year. Psychological stress, feelings of vulnerability, frustration and low morale undermine the performance of volunteers. Limited time and material resources are diverted to repair the damaged sites at a critical period in the hooded plovers' year.

Hooded plover and pied oystercatcher
high-density nesting

The weeks before summer solstice are likely to be their last chance to mate, lay clutches and raise chicks before the onslaught of visitors invade the beaches. In the busy Christmas to Easter period, few if any birds will manage to breed. Then, they must wait for the following season.

The trouble is, no one wants dogs off leashes, horses and vehicles on more populated beaches. The outcry would be deafening. Instead, these activities are displaced and permitted, even promoted, on the same remote beaches where the ever diminishing numbers of hooded plovers and other beach nesting birds have been exiled.

The solutions are simple; there is room for all. Direct the more damaging activities to specific areas where birds and other natural assets are less vulnerable. Restrict activities on beaches that monitoring has shown support breeding populations of beach nesting birds. Increase agency presence, enforcement and participation in education programs.  

But alas, there seems to be an official policy of turning a blind eye and a cynical lack of transparency in dealings with volunteers.

Environmental agencies and land managers who oversee this stretch of coast are failing to effectively support the hooded plover and the volunteers who dedicate so much time and effort. 

It is apparent from getting windburned eyelids and sand in the pants that hooded plover and volunteer alike are very much dependent upon their own resources in their quest to help the species survive.