The Russians are coming!

We can learn much from the heavy metal and concrete fortifications at Portland, Port Fairy and Warrnambool. The story behind their construction informs Australian identity and our perceived place in the world. As the song reminds us, History Repeats . . . 

Part 2

defences with a view;
Warrnambool battery commands
the anchorage and approaches to Lady Bay

Own worst enemy

Being in the British Empire had its benefits, but it also had its drawbacks. If her Britannic Majesty the Queen had an enemy, so by default did the Colony of Victoria. In this the colonists had no say.

At the same time, it wasn’t clear just how reliable the Royal Navy was in times of international danger. Naval resources were stretched across the whole globe and communications were slow. In the 1850s, it took about three months to get word to London.

The trouble was, whenever a military incident involving Britain flared up, British troops and naval vessels on station around Australia were withdrawn to participate at the hot spot, usually far away in the Northwestern Hemisphere. 

To make matters worse, requests for aid and assistance were often viewed with disdain at the Colonial Office back in London. The attitude was that the increasingly wealthy colonists had the motive and the means to look after themselves. As a result, relations with the mother country were periodically strained.

And there was a growing feeling within Victoria that it should be able to look after its own interests. In fact, some viewed military self-sufficiency as the very expression of independence. The Attorney-General George Higinbotham declared: ‘No one could deny that the abstract principles of self-government and self-defence should go together’.

Ironically, the British precipitated the most critical crisis themselves.

In 1882, the Royal Navy bombarded Alexandria in Egypt to suppress a revolt. This rattled complex alliances involving France, Germany, Austria and Russia. The British were unsupported and left alone to commit large forces to the ensuing campaign. Manpower was stripped from the colonies leaving them isolated and unprotected. Many saw a major European war in the offing.

The Age attacked the British accusing them of militarism and violence. Debate raged in the Legislative Council: ‘There are nearly 14 million soldiers available in Europe at the present moment. All Europe is arming’ and Russia has ‘two almost impregnable fortifications in the North Pacific’.

The Premier informed the Legislative Council that the news triggered ‘a run on the banks, a stoppage of business, and many other evils’.

But the crisis passed. 

 Second Industrial Revolution rivets and ironwork;
80 pdr rifled muzzle loader
Warrnambool Battery

Then in 1888, a novel was published with the non-too subtle title: The Battle of Mordialloc or How we lost Australia. In this, a combined force of Russian and Chinese troops landed in Western Port Bay, advanced inland then assaulted Melbourne.

Many had questioned the likelihood of this scenario all along. After all, the remote location of Victoria made landing any sizable force a very difficult proposition. The necessary logistics were mind-boggling. But sense and reason don’t seem to prevail when deep-seated insecurities are triggered.

During this period, a fearsome naval vessel was developed that added to the feelings of vulnerability and urgency; the armoured cruiser.

Infernal machines

The golden glow from the Colony of Victoria came at a time of new and wondrous technological advances. Scientists and engineers were enjoying their own golden age. The machinery of international trade and war was changing.

For centuries, gunpowder had propelled crude solid balls from smooth-bore muskets and cannon. Now barrels were rifled and projectiles streamlined. Hollow shells filled with explosives became standard ordanance.

In 1867, Alfred Nobel patented dynamite. Nobel had mining and quarrying in mind when he made nitro glycerine safe to handle. But arms manufacturers saw darker applications - propellants and explosives for more powerful guns. Dynamite transformed artillery into the first weapon of mass destruction.

Combined with advances in metallurgy and the science of ballistics, the range, accuracy and destructive power of artillery soon increased many fold. For the first time, big guns could lob shells as far as a general or admiral could see. The explosives in the shell wrought ever more destruction on the target. Now whole cities could be bombarded and flattened.

At the same time, steam began to replace sail as the motive power in ships. This meant an increase in speed and manoeuvrability. Now a warship could cover vast distances quickly, operate almost independent of the weather and confidently navigate confined waters like coasts and ports with ease.

Hulls were made of iron and steel, which permitted them to be larger and stronger. Armour was developed that made it very difficult to inflict serious damage on vital parts of the ship.

So a new class of warship was developed called the protected cruiser. These were immensely powerful ships that were impervious to conventional artillery and twice as fast as any sailing ship.

Now the hideous prospect of a hostile raider appearing without warning off the Victorian coast to sow violent mischief seemed a real and imminent threat.

rusty relic hidden atop the sand dunes;
80 pdr rifled muzzle loader
Port Fairy Battery

To make matters worse, Russian warships were active in Victorian waters. The frigate Svetlana visited in 1862, neglecting to fire a customary salute when she departed Port Melbourne. This was seized upon by the press and reported as proof of aggressive intentions. When another Russian warship visited the following year, it saluted but this time the shore battery didn’t respond. The Argus claimed this was because there wasn’t enough ammunition for the guns and; ‘for several hours the Bogatyr had the shipping in the anchorage at her mercy.’ The papers reported uproar in the Legislative Council.

In 1865 an American Civil War commerce raider the CSASS Shenandoah berthed at Williamstown during a war cruise. The Captain organised repairs and took 40 new recruits aboard. Although contravening naval convention, Victorian authorities argued they had no choice because they were at the mercy of the powerful guns of the Shenandoah. The raider left Port Phillip and played havoc among the Union fishing fleet. After the war, an international court awarded the United States a large sum in damages for this incident.

The Argus sounded the alarm and pointed a finger at the apparent vulnerability of Victoria: ‘The different colonial governments scarcely seem fully awake to the danger.’ Something had to be done.

all that remains of a later generation of artillery;
mounting ring for a 5 inch breech-loader

None shall pass

So Victoria invested in its own navy and built fixed defences. Eventually, Port Phillip became the most heavily fortified harbour in the British Empire south of the equator. But it didn’t happen overnight. Great expertise was required in this age of technological marvels.

Two British soldiers from the Royal Corps of Engineers travelled the world to the far-flung outposts of the Empire. Captain Peter Scratchley was a respected sapper and experienced soldier. Colonel William Jervois was a distinguished officer who later governed New Zealand. These two were military architects and fortress engineers. The distinctive brick facades of their designs can be seen from Plymouth to Auckland and from Malta to Cape Town.

Both recognised the strategic importance of Warrnambool, Port Fairy and Portland as active ports. They also noted that the southwest coast of Victoria offered some the best beaches to attempt a large-scale amphibious landing. Denying these ports to an invading enemy was vital.

In the 1860s, earthworks were begun so that large cannon could be emplaced in protected positions. The sites were on hills and cliffs that gave a panoramic view of harbours, beaches and seaward approaches. This is typical of coastal forts. As can be seen by visiting them today, their dark purpose commands beautiful vistas.

These early guns had smooth-bore barrels mounted on wooden carriages that fired heavy spherical balls. They were slow to load and difficult to handle, requiring the muscles and sweat of a big crew to haul on ropes, blocks and tackle. Some of the oldest guns were made of brass for the Napoleonic wars. As was often the case with coastal defences, aging equipment was all that was available.

But technological advances soon rendered these guns useless. Ships were faster and more heavily armoured. The old iron cannon balls simply bounced off. So the guns got bigger, more powerful and quicker to load and shoot. This in turn required stronger more complex coastal forts.

In 1887, work began on a new generation of brick and concrete structures with deep underground passages to make them bombproof. The new guns fired a shell from a rifled barrel that had greater range and accuracy, and could penetrate armour plate then explode inside the ship. The carriages were no longer wood, but iron and incorporated pneumatic cylinders to absorb the shock of firing, then after loading, quickly and accurately return the gun to the parapet for the next shot.

These are the forts to be found today with guns still emplaced over a hundred years after they were installed. The guns are rare, for few batteries of this vintage have survived intact. Most have been recycled and the installations upgraded with more modern weapons. The batteries along the southwest coast were left largely undeveloped as defence thinking changed and the perceived threats to this part of the coast diminished. The works were abandoned by 1910.

perhaps similar to the missing ordanance
at Warrnambool and Portland;
8 inch breech loader on
Elswick hydro-pneumatic disappearing carriage
Fort Queescliff

You would be forgiven for thinking these strange looking structures are mere follies and a waste of time and effort. After all, Victoria was never invaded or seriously threatened by hostile forces. But other forts along the Victorian coast have proved their worth in times of war. A battery at Point Nepean is credited with firing the first allied shot of WWI that lead to the capture of a German merchant ship. The same battery has a claim to the first shot of WWII.

And as any fortress strategist will tell you, forts are fixed defences that enable limited numbers of defenders to punch above their weight to deter more powerful attackers. Neither the Russians nor any other aggressor chanced their luck. In these terms, the forts of the southwest can be considered a success, even though they never fired a shot in anger. Well almost never . . .

An odd angry shot

Firing a big gun was still part black art and part science until the end of the 19th century. Smooth-bore cannon were aimed using open sights, usually nicks in the breech and muzzle of the gun. The barrel had to be pointed at a guesstimated spot some distance ahead of a moving target, because the projectile took time to arrive as the target shifted position. A wooden quadrant, plumb line and wooden wedge were used to set the elevation of the barrel. As artillery developed, aiming instruments were incorporated in the carriage to aid the gunners. Elevation and training were achieved using mechanical mechanisms. Test firing established the range of guns. Marker buoys were placed at known distances and elevations were recorded on charts and tables. All this complexity required highly trained gunners with great experience to achieve results that ballistic computers still struggle to achieve today. So a full time professional force was maintained in the Permanent Artillery Corps.

But boys will be boys and the responsibility of being a professional artilleryman was apparently too much on occasion. Mischief induced by boredom from long periods of inactivity characterised garrison duty in forts.

One wintery night in the late 1800s, a gunner misbehaved in the old Killarney pub and was thrown out. The gunner took great exception to this treatment and swore vengeance. He managed to reach Port Fairy where he staggered up to the battery, primed one of the guns, swung it around to face Killarney, and loosed off a shot that woke the whole town. The shell fell harmlessly in a paddock where it made a big hole. The gunner incurred the ire of authorities but the respect of comrades. Apparently the round was dead on line with the pub . . . or so the story goes.

Perhaps fortunately, the maximum range of the gun was 5,000 yards. The pub was and still is 10,000 yards from the Port Fairy Battery.

The Russians are coming!

We can learn much from the heavy metal and concrete fortifications at Portland, Port Fairy and Warrnambool. The story behind their construction informs Australian identity and our perceived place in the world. As the song reminds us, History Repeats . . .

Part 1

The sun blazes white hot in an azure sky. A sea breeze puffs over the grassy reserve behind the dunes and ruffles reeds in the saltmarsh. A man launches a rainbow kite and his son zooms it high to join a dozen others in colourful overcast. A camel train with children swaying on humps makes stately progress around the fence. Grownups gather in chattering packs around picnic feasts spread on the grass, while kids ignore calls to eat. A pelican spirals up lazily from the wetland on a buoyant bubble of air. What an idyllic way to spend a New Year’s Day.

Suddenly a deep rumbling boom breaks the spell. Birds screech into flight. Barking dogs scatter. Toddlers grasp parents’ hands. The boy’s kite crashes with a thump as heads turn to look for the source of this thunderous intrusion. What on earth was that?

Soon the background babble of holidaymakers resumes, the interruption forgotten. But the boy wants to know more and sits down with his granddad. He’ll know. He always does.

‘What was that, Pop?'

A smile unfolds across the old man’s face. ‘It’s the historical society firing the midday gun. In the old days they did it every day so that you could set your watch by it. The old guns are up on Battery Hill. Let’s go and explore.’

So the three generations set off across the river, past the boatyard, slip and piers til they reach the hill. It is a steep climb and as they look up, two huge guns loom above them. Stout barrels point out to sea, as though ready for action. The acrid smell of gunpowder catches in their nostrils. As they approach, the group is swallowed behind the concrete and brick structure carved deep into the hillside. Rusty iron hatches shield entrances to dark mysterious passages.

‘It’s a fort,’ exclaims the boy. ‘What’s it doing here?’

Pop sits in an alcove marked Cartridge Recess and looks at his grandson through mischievous crinkly eyes. The boy’s dad chuckles at the prospect of yet another tale.

‘The Russians are coming,’ says the old man, adding more crinkles.

"they shall not pass"
successful fixed defences deter attacks
so did Portland Battery fulfill its prime directive?

Gold! Gold! Gold!

Arguably the single most significant episode to shape the Australia we know today occurred in Victoria in the 1850s.

The first successful European community in the region was established at Portland in the early 1830s. But it wasn’t until 1851 that Victoria became a name and place in its own right, when it was declared a separate colony from New South Wales. The timing was auspicious because events soon had the name Victoria on everyone’s lips. A precious yellow metal was discovered at Clunes and Bendigo. Soon, it was turning up all over the place. Gold fever erupted.

The newly declared Colony of Victoria blazed bright in newspaper headlines all over the world. From royal courts and foreign offices to the lowliest labourers in the workhouses, everyone talked about this strange land at the bottom of the world.

One of the biggest gold rushes in history was on. A huge influx of people arrived on these shores seeking their fortunes. At the beginning of 1850, only 76,000 people lived in Victoria. By 1860 there had been a sevenfold increase to 540,000.

Fortunes were made and fortunes were lost. The diggers left their indelible mark on the maps: Hundredweight Hill and Nuggetty Flat; Poverty Run and Three Speck Gully; the Berlin Diggings and the Caledonia Goldfield.

relic of the Nepoleonic wars;
training piece of the Victorian Volunteer Artillery
32 pdr smooth-bore muzzle loader on garrison carriage
Carron Iron Works Scotland 1811

In those 10 years, Victoria produced 20 million ounces, the weight of 31 W-class trams representing one third of the world’s output of gold. By the turn of the century, two percent of the gold mined in the history of civilisation came out of the Victorian landscape.

In the Western District, large deposits were found at Ballarat, Beaufort, Ararat, Moyston and Stawell. The miners flooded in.

But how to transport all the people, plant, equipment and supplies that were necessary to exploit this windfall? Distances to Melbourne were often considerable. The network of roads was poor and their condition crude. Railways were still a dream.

The harbours of Warrnambool, Port Fairy and Portland became vital transport hubs. It was easier to move things by sea than overland, especially big bulky industrial plant. People, supplies and equipment came in, gold and agricultural produce went out. Each town became the centre of a radiating network of roads serving the inland areas to the north. Breakwaters, docks, cranes, warehouses and slipways were built.

Great wealth soon accumulated. Across the colony, thriving communities sprang up. Towns were built to house the new population. Melbourne, Geelong, Ballarat and Bendigo became showpieces of 19th century town planning and displayed civic architecture on a grand scale. Great engineering works were undertaken, like the railway network and Melbourne’s aqueducts. All kinds of intelligentsia, from academics to artists, were attracted to this marvellous place in the southern hemisphere.

Unfortunately, with fame and fortune came fear. As soon as the security and comfort of material wealth was established, so the associated insecurities seemed to fester and multiply. It is perhaps human nature to think: ‘Now we’ve got something valuable, someone is bound to try to take it from us.’

But who or what posed a threat to the Colony of Victoria?

Was war likely in the most powerful empire the world had ever seen?

Would the new and glittering prizes lure marauding raiders to this out-of-the-way place?

first wave of southwest coastal fortification 1867
68 pdr smooth-bore muzzle loader
on traversing wooden fortress platform
Lowmoor Iron Works England 1861

The horror

On 29 June 1888, the telegraph cable between Darwin and Java was cut. The immediate conclusion was that a hostile power had severed communications and an attack was imminent. An alert was issued throughout Victoria. Warships were dispatched. Forts were garrisoned and sealed off. All was in place to repel the invader.

Twelve days later, the maintenance ship SS Recorder tentatively surveyed the cable that ran along the seabed. Several breaks were found and repaired. The chief engineer reported that the damage was not caused by mechanical means but the result of seismic shock from a volcano on Java.

Soldiers and sailors across the colony sighed in relief and went home to their families.

This was a typical manifestation of the siege mentality that reigned in certain quarters. You might think that distance was viewed as a welcome buffer to aggressive machinations half a world away in Europe. But it wasn’t. For some, the remoteness of the Victorian coast was perceived as an open invitation for hostile powers to do as they wished out of the sight and ken of other nations. As imperial rivalries ebbed and flowed across continents, oceans and peoples, so invasion scares echoed in the halls of the Victorian government.

Looking back, it is difficult to determine the extent of the scares. The written record certainly implicates the press, politicians, administrators and to some extent professional military views. But the voracity of these scares has to be questioned. Then as today, the press claimed to represent public opinion. But the mid nineteenth century saw journalism develop further into the Fourth Estate and rely more and more on sensational perspectives and hysterical criticism. Much of the tone of insecurity and outrage may well be editorial construct.

The Argus 6 April 1853:

‘The world knows well that in this poor city there are immense piles of treasure . . . Here in Melbourne, quite unguarded, lie the sinews of war in abundance.’

Then on 20 January 1854:

‘. . . the colonists naturally feel rather uneasy about their own safety. We are not so much “out of the world” as we used to be, and our golden treasures certainly offer some temptation to an invading power.’

the arms race gains momentum;
80 pdr rifled muzzle loader on traversing iron platform
with hydro-pneumatic recuperator 
Royal Gun Foundry England 1866

The villains

For a long time it was the French who were seen as the bogeymen. There was a long tradition of colonial and military rivalry between Britain and France. The Napoleonic Wars were still within living memory and the French sailed in Australian waters.

Frenchmen had taken an active part in exploring Australia’s southeast coast, attracting the nervous attention of the early colonists. Jean-Francois de Galaup, Compte de La Pérouse entered Botany Bay the day after Arthur Phillip’s First Fleet arrived. The forgotten French explorer Nicolas Thomas Baudin is widely acknowledged as the first European to survey the coast between Cape Otway and Portland. The land we know as Australia could have easily been named Terre Napoleon.

In the 1850s, there was renewed mistrust of Louis Napoleon, President of the Second Republic and nephew to Napoleon Bonaparte. He boasted grandiose imperial ambitions as his naval architects developed the world’s first ironclad warship, La Gloire. His navy was active in the nearby Pacific, establishing colonies and bases in New Caledonia, French Polynesia and the New Hebrides. With warships so close, many believed it would be straightforward to attack Victoria.

But it is the Russians who are best remembered as the source of scares. There had long been a deep-seated fear and awe of the vast size of the Russian Empire. Cultural differences fomented mistrust, and the cruel despotic rule of the Tsar alienated British sensibilities.

deadly symmetry or expensive folly?
in fact this artillery was long obsolete
before emplacement in 1887

Russian advances into Afghanistan from the 1830s were seen to threaten the jewel of the British Empire, India. The two disastrous Anglo-Afghani wars that resulted are etched deeply in British military history.

Old enemies kissed and made up when joint interests were threatened by a common foe. The bloody Crimean War erupted in 1853 between Russia and a new British–French alliance of convenience. It was this conflict that stimulated the completion of the iconic Fort Dennison in Sydney Harbour. By 1860, the British were digging in all over the globe. A massive wave of fortification building across the British Empire was instigated under the premiership of Lord Palmerston.

The shadow of the bear next fell on Istanbul in the Russo-Turkish war of 1877. Shipping access to the Mediterranean for trade and strategic purposes was the motive.

In the Far East, Russia advanced into Manchuria and was threatening the Korean Peninsular to secure ports on the Pacific Rim that were free of ice in winter.

Back in Victoria, the press debated why the Russian Bear continued to seek access to the oceans of the world for her warships when she had no colonies to protect. Surely it was an aggressive move, a prelude to seizing new territory in the Pacific.

Read the exciting conclusion; Part 2 coming soon!

Imagine . . .

It rained a beautiful warm rain at dusk last night. Many thousands of frogs responded and got mobile, spreading out from Tower Hill Lake in all directions to populate the district. But to escape the confines of the volcano, they had to hop across a black strip of death that wraps around the rim; the highway and the Koroit road. The carnage was horrific. 

pobblebonk Limnodynastes dumerili

People in cars don’t like stopping for anything, let alone squishable little amphibians hopping across the road. I pulled over and contemplated this state of affairs as cars raced past in plumes of spray, drivers either oblivious or uncaring of the lives being taken. People on the way home from work; people going shopping for grog or chocolates; people on their way to the pub or picking up the kids from footy and netball practice . . . the human imperative.

It’s not just frogs. Earlier I picked up what remained of a New Holland honey eater impressed into the tarmac of the lane in front of my home; crushed tangle of feathers, blood and bone; beautiful creature turned macabre monster with protruding eyes. Robins, wagtails, finches, magpies, galas, ibis and blue tongues all suffer similar fates on my quiet little country lane as people speed headlong about their business.

I regularly find snakes on a nearby track, their heads ground into the dirt by tons of recreational vehicle. Often, you can see from the tyre marks that the driver swerved to kill the snake in some misguided act of self-righteous execution. What is it with people’s attitude to serpents?

striped marsh frog Limnodynastes peroni

Several years ago I spent a week camping and living with koalas in Budj Bim, aka Mount Eccles National Park. I’d not experienced so many koalas at close quarters before and got to know their behaviour and habits quite well.

Early on the morning that I left and headed west for the sinkholes of South Australia, I had a nasty experience on the road that changed the tone of my holiday and saw me turn for home a few hours later.

From my journal Dog’s Holiday 2007:

As I cruised down the Heywood – Tyrendarra road, I came across a tragic sight. A koala lay dead in the middle of the road. A jet black raven rose from the grey and white carcass as I approached, then settled in the trees and watched.

I drove around the body, my idyllic mood rent with upset and anger . . . my world seemed to implode. I coasted down the road, deciding if I had the stomach to stop and move the mangled remains. A look in the mirror as the raven returned to its meal. Then I spied another forlorn heap up ahead. I confirmed yet another dead koala. Two in less than a kilometre. This was too much. I had to get them off the road at least.

So I pulled up next to the second body and went over, keeping a wary eye up and down the road for oncoming vehicles, tension in my gut as I prepared for the gore.

The body was intact, peaceful and still, outstretched limbs reaching for the other side of the road, face down in a pool of blood. I grasped the still supple hands and took it to the verge, where I examined it more closely through welling tears of frustration and loss. A car came swooshing by, the driver glancing curiously at me as she passed.

It was a juvenile female, small and light, with perfect fur. Not a mark on her apart from signs of head trauma; dislocated jaw, smashed teeth and bloodied tongue hanging out of the corner of her mouth . . . and lifeless black button eyes. Her body was still warm. I checked the pouch and was relieved to find it empty.

I looked around for a manna gum, found one close by and laid her gently at its base for the carrion to do their work away from the dangers of the road, the cursed road. I collected myself and returned to the first koala.

As I walked up the verge, a truck came barrelling down the road headed straight at the grey heap. I braced for the impact but it manoeuvred and passed the body between its wheels. The drivers eyes met my steely stare as he went by.

This koala was much heavier and older, clearly a male, with head injuries like the female but less blood . . . just a little trickle from the white tufty ears. The raven had already taken one eye; the other was half closed behind furry lids. I noticed the big pads on his feet and hands, long strong claws and muscular limbs. His fur was white and well worn around his rump. As I put him down against another manna, he expelled a last breath and I was alarmed that the poor creature could be suffering. But no. He was quite cold and there were no more signs of life.

Judging by the animals’ injuries and the behaviour of the truck driver, I suspect the koalas had been making their way across the road in that funny stiff gait. They are used to being curled up around branches; stretching backs and limbs to walk must be quite an effort. An oncoming vehicle would have made them pause and look up, as I had seem them do in Budj Bim. The axles and differential of the speeding truck would have collected their heads.  

After spending some quiet moments with the dead male it was time to leave them both for the raven and others that would return their flesh to the land.

I felt like I had been slapped in the face by the cruel realities of the human condition. Feverish thoughts niggled as I drifted west without conviction. Damned trucks were out everywhere, rushing about on the roads to stock supermarkets with endless supplies. Truck drivers aren't to blame, made to keep to tight schedules by cost conscious supervisors or trying to run their own businesses. There are few rail links left to carry a share. Consume, consume, consume, that's all we seem to be good for; all of us enslaved by market forces in a huge treadmill called The Economy. But the market is a construct and fatally flawed. All the costs are not accounted for. What was the death of these two creatures worth, members of a species struggling to survive in disappearing habitats? What lesson was this for our kids? Sure! Koalas are endearing, important to some, but only to a point. When they get in our way it's just bad luck! The human imperative overrules all.

comprehensive animal rights?
Australia doesn't even have
legally binding human rights

I’m not religious but have always respected some of Buddha's teachings. If I may quote The Venerable K Sri Dhammananda Maha Thera:

'The Buddha's advice is that it is not right for us to take away the life of any living being since every living being has a right to exist . . . We should not misuse our intelligence and strength to destroy animals even though they may sometimes be a nuisance to us . . . Every living being is contributing something to maintain this world. It is unfair for us to deprive their living rights. 

Man's cruelty towards animals is another expression of his uncontrolled greed . . . Our environment is threatened and if we do not take stern measures for the survival of other creatures, our own existence on this earth may not be guaranteed . . . We never consider that humans are the greatest threat to every living being on this earth and in the air . . . '

Imagine if we slowed down and listened to this kind of wisdom? Imagine if we heeded the teachings of our own indigenous culture and adopted an attitude of guardianship towards our country and people? Imagine if we respected all the creatures and plants that share this place with us? Imagine if it were an offence under the law to go about our business regardless of the cost to other life? Imagine if we had robust beliefs and enacted ethical standards that upheld the sanctity of all life. Imagine . . . 

Ewing's tree frog Litoria ewingi

Duckheads, wetlands and shooting culture; a dispatch from the war zone

It’s pretty grim out here in the wetlands as the annual slaughter of ducks by sporting shooters continues, and its not just the wildlife that is suffering.

Conservation activist Julia Symons was shot in the face on the first weekend of the season. Whether or not she should have been there is irrelevant. Apart from the obvious questions of intent, due care and responsible shooting, why is a so called sporting shooter discharging a shotgun aimed so low that she was in his firing line? Ducks are supposed to be taken on the wing, not the ground or water. That’s what the alleged sporting bit is there to signify.

calm before the storm; what will the new day bring?
[photo © Kirsa Veal]

Kirsa Veal is another conservationist out in the front lines with a passion for birds. Braver and more active than most, she's dedicated to getting her message across at these critical flash points, putting herself in harm's way to do so. She regularly confronts gross behaviour by shooters: sexism; racism; intimidation; abuse; assault and even implied rape. Coming from groups of blokes wielding guns, this is dangerous anti-social bullying at best.

It seems that some of these weekend Rambos are not very sporting at all; there are reports of them ganging up on lone male protesters and targeting women. The shooters demonstrably dismember ducks in front of protesters; wounded ducks are purposely left to bleed and flail when they fall nearby; and women are pelted with bird heads and entrails. Kirsa was abused by a shooter who screamed at her; ‘You Aussie piece of meat’ and darkly threatened ‘what he and the rest of them would do to me’.

Problems with this kind of shooting are many, but some obvious ones are:

• the sorts of behaviour and culture it promotes

• the difficulty of monitoring hunters and hunting sites; and this is necessary - for example live wounded birds have been found in shooters' bags when inspected

• identifying which birds are OK to shoot and which aren’t; there is a steady toll on rare and endangered species, and waterfowl other than ducks

• promoting cruelty and inhumane practices; many birds are only wounded and are left to die slowly; chicks are orphaned and die of starvation. 

body count; those left behind to suffer and die a slow death -
note the little chicks [photo © Kirsa Veal]

A big issue this season is the drought-breaking wet, cool weather. You’ve noticed it and I’ve noticed it. But apparently those who make critical decisions about hunting policy have not. Many waterfowl have taken advantage of the conditions after years of drought and degraded habitat. They’ve bred late into the autumn. So there are many fledglings still in care of parent birds. Shooting the adult birds is resulting in many orphaned chicks unable to fend for themselves.

The new Victorian State Government in its wisdom extended the hunting season this year. So you’d think it would have been viable to postpone the opening of the season to give the ducklings a few more weeks to learn their survival skills. This would have ensured a healthy population of ducks for next hunting season if nothing else.

Unfortunately, it seems that decisions by authorities that control hunting are not based on this kind of logic. In addition to an apparent unwillingness to enact conservation rhetoric proclaimed on their websites, they are probably not even aware of many grass-roots environmental issues. The agencies are notoriously poor at gathering information about what’s happening out here in the real world. They simply don’t have the people on the ground and they don’t listen to volunteers or others with highly developed local knowledge and relevant skills. Anyway, office-bound decision-makers and advisers are committed to dates in calendars insensitive to the cycle of life and seasonal variation in our wetlands.

looking the part; dressed to kill [photo © Kirsa Veal]

Kirsa provides insight into how ineffective and misdirected the agencies are when they do manage to put personnel in the field. ‘[The agency] spent more time fining protesters’ than monitoring shooters who were ‘inflicting cruelty on the birds’. She was also informed that; ‘If we tried to rescue ducklings, many only a few days old, we would be charged with “interfering with wildlife under the Wildlife Act.”’

In July 2009, the Department of Sustainability and Environment published a document responding to the Flora and Fauna Guarantee Act of 1988. In it they listed twenty-nine processes that are considered a threat to the environment. Some examples:

• loss of hollow-bearing trees from Victorian native forests

• loss of terrestrial climatic habitat caused by anthropogenic emissions of greenhouse gases

• predation of native wildlife by the cat, Felis catus.

The only process that is claimed to be repealed is:

• use of lead shot in cartridges for the hunting of waterfowl.

collateral damage; the plumed whistling duck  
Dendrocygna eytoni is a protected species
[photo © Kirsa Veal]

In other words, sporting shooters have to use steel shot as they blaze away at the ducks to reduce the amount of toxic lead being blasted into the landscape. It beggars belief that this is even presented as an achievement; it would be laughable if it wasn't so delusional. Like so many conventional bureaucratic attempts to define and manage human interaction with OUR shared habitat, it misses the point entirely. Is it any wonder that those of us with a connection to this land and a concern for country are disenchanted with the inaction and downright avoidance of issues by governments and their agencies?

cultural complexity; old ways die hard
[photo © Kirsa Veal]

So what can we do? Here's a call to arms from Kirsa: 

‘So get angry people and fire up about this. Do something! We have 13 weeks of this. Keep all eyes and ears out in your local areas. Always take your camera with you. Look for evidence of shooting; spent cartridges, feathers, remains. Take photos! Get active! Writing letters, emails and phone calls all helps. DO NOT approach shooters on your own. Leave that up to bloody lunatics like myself. Ten ducks a day bag limit and I cannot just sit there and let it happen.’

For more information visit:

Coalition Against Duck Shooting website

Animals Australia - duck shooting fact sheet

Birds Australia article: Victoria’s Wetlands Become the Killing Fields … Yet Again 

stalemate; a shooter cradles his gun
while an activist is in the line of fire

[photo © Kirsa Veal]

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.