maryatkinsonwildonline: Do you want Wintry Showers or Waterholes in the Sun?

DO YOU WANT WINTRY SHOWERS OR WATERHOLES IN THE SUN?

For Jill in Tazmania

My friend Jill, visiting us from Australia said ruefully ‘I’d forgotten how BLACK it is in England.’ We’d worked together at a St Ivel creamery in Somerset when we were young. She emigrated with her husband and young family under the £10 Pom emigration scheme in the early 60s and we have kept in touch ever since, exchanging visits, letters and, these days, frequent e-mails and a Christmas Zoom.

She had come from the limpid light of an Australian summer to a gloomy English Winter. And yes, when I think of it, to look around on a wet, overcast winter’s day it does look black. The hedges are pared back to bare black twigs. Passing traffic has flung mud up onto the banks covering the vegetation with a coating of dark muck, BUT my Ozzie friend! Look closer, and in the depths of the hedge you can discern a few bright green new leaves unfolding; a pale Primrose, unblemished, gazes upwards.

However, this time it’s been a toss-up whether I think of ‘Wintry Showers’ or ‘Waterholes in the Sun’ and I opt for the latter. If only to forget the chore of dressing with all those layers on a winter morning compared with slipping on T-shirt and shorts in warm Australia!

In a hot arid climate like Australia’s, water in any form draws wildlife and people like a magnet. My most warming memory of aboriginal children (No! We must call them indigenous these days) was when we drove along a dusty track in the north, apparently miles from anywhere, and came across a group of perhaps eight kids diving and larking about in a pool close to the track. They were laughing and splashing and having a whale of a time as we crept past not wanting to throw up too much dust. What a contrast to the frequent signs we had witnessed in townships elsewhere, of dysfunctional indigenous youngsters solvent sniffing, truanting and petty-thieving.

Water comes in many shapes and sizes in Australia, and from extreme drought to tremendous floods; from sweet quality to brackish, mineralized until it’s unfit to drink, and even salty.

Leaking bore at Burketown in the Gulf country.

From our log: “ We reached Burketown before lunch. The sign said ‘Inhabitants 325. Height above sea level 15m. Founded 1889 ‘ The road was metalled as it ran along the main street lined with a garage, pubs, a liquor store and the Shire office. The lady in the office told us the (dirt)road between here and Gregory Downs would be OK for conventional vehicles while it was dry. Just outside town what we first thought was a fountain turned out to be a leaking bore, the steaming water trickling down over a great incrustation discoloured with streaks of grey, black and bright rust chemicals evaporating out of the water. A couple of Brolgas and an Ibis were foraging around in the marshy ground all around.’ This was an artesian bore drilled in 1887 and had been hoped to facilitate the development of a meat-works but the venture failed.

Kim's drawing of a Straw-necked Ibis(on a different occasion.)

There are great numbers of salt lakes in the interior. From our log on our way from Ayers Rock back to the Stuart Highway “We stopped to look. The ground was dry and sparkling white. A salty trickle was running into it at one place and the crust near the water broke under our feet showing a moist greyish sludge . Harsh twiggy plants studded the surface and on top of one, not far away was a small bird perching stonechat-like, but it had a bright red breast and belly and a bright white patch under its chin. It was a Scarlet Chat, a ‘first’ for us. The grey foliage and yellow and white daisies of Poached Egg plant straggled at the crispy margins. The dazzling whiteness made the blazing sun seem even hotter.”

The salt makes a thin white crust. It can break and reveal a sticky grey sludge underneath.

Salt Lake on the way to Ayers Rock.

Crimson Chat.

The rocky scarps within the tropical rainforests create waterfalls plunging into cool shady pools, overhung with creepers, making romantic swimming pools.

Waterfall and plunge pool in the Hammersley Ranges, Western Australia.

Pandoriana vine.

The arid interior depends on natural wells and deep artesian water tapped by wind-pumps.

The familiar sight of a clanking wind pump.

Sometimes the highly mineralized bore water although given to cattle, is really unfit to drink and it makes a terrible cup of tea, tasting of iodine.

The highways authorities dig scrapes known as tanks to collect rainwater for use in road construction and maintenance. Seasonal rains can be collected in shallow ‘dams’ All of these sources of water attract wildlife and of course any stock being run on the grasslands and ranges

.From our log: “ Thursday Aug 17th’95. We have pulled off now for an early stop at Cumberland Dam. There is a strong but not cold, wind blowing, keeping the flies away.This was once a gold town but now the only remains are a red brick chimney built by Cornish miners and a few rusty iron machinery relics among a sparse scrub.

There are a couple of shallow dams here and where there is water there will be birds. The Bauhinia trees were flowering and were full of Woodswallows and Honeyeater. We sat quietly in the shelter of a bush near the water as a big flock of budgies flew down to the waterside. Like green jewels flashing in the sun, they landed in bunches momentarily before whirring up again and others came down to sip for seconds before flying up again in a rush of wings. They were very flighty. Were we too close or were they always this watchful?

A pair of Pardalotes were carrying food to young in a hole in the bank. Crested Pigeons, loads of finches, parrots and an extended family of Apostlebirds came down to drink while we sat there.

Later in the afternoon a mob of cattle came to drink. The pushier ones slithered down the bank and into the water, to slowly wade up to their withers, grazing on the wrecked remains of a clump of waterlilies. They’d obviously done this before so we were able to discard our plans of how to rescue a bogged cow!”

The cow enjoying a drink, a cooling dip and a mouthful of water lily.

White-breasted Woodswallows.The Woodswallows aren't related to our swallows.

Apostlebirds. These engaging extended families always seem to stay together. They are between a blackbird and a jackdaw in size.

Often the only sign of water remaining in the creeks of the interior are the waterholes of varying sizes, from a rapidly drying puddle to a length of perhaps a kilometre of stagnant water stained green, brown, red, due to the algal growth and suspended solids. The shrinking edges marked by hexagonal cracks in the crust, broken into by the deep footmarks of cattle, the two toes and tail drag marks of kangaroos, the light pitter-patter of birds’ feet, all making their way to drink. Knowledge of the whereabouts of these natural waterholes and their seasonal appearances has passed on from generation to generation by the indigenous peoples, enabling them to navigate in their nomadic travels throughout this vast country.

Cattle taking advantage of sparse shade in grazed-out country round a waterhole.

Grazed-out pasture land.

Melaleuca or Paperbark in flower near a waterhole.

The fringe of river gums, coolibahs and paperbarks vary according to location and terrain, and all bear the marks of past inundations – a rusty tidemark, exposed roots and debris of twigs and leaves draped up against the tree trunks. The water is always a focus of birdlife especially early and late in the day when Corellas, finches, parrots of all kinds will come from the outlying bush to wash and drink, while the specialist water-side birds never stray far from a more-or-less permanent waterhole with a sizeable population of fish -- Pelicans, Spoonbills Herons.

Other areas of water shrink daily in the heat of the dry season, making a precarious balance between water and grazing within daily reach of the cattle. The distance between the two vital supports increases all the time; the area around the water becomes pounded into a silky dust The surrounding grazed-out area punctuated by a radiating fan of narrow tracks trodden into the bare earth gets ever greater until the youngest and weakest stock cannot manage the distance. They cannot forsake the water and stand forlornly, perhaps listlessly chewing a twig, waiting....

Caranbirini, Gulf Country From our log.Sep.8th ’95 about 50kms south of Borraloola.

The tall sandstone stacks tower above the waterhole at Caranbirini.

“The waterhole lies between a range topped by eroded domes and spires of red sandstone, and a low rocky hill. The water’s edge is lined by flowering river gums and shrubs hung with vines. There is dense cane grass behind. The surface is covered by water lilies, the crinkle-margined leaves and the dark mirror of water between them makes a foil for the mauve lily flowers standing a foot above the water on sturdy straight stems. A pair of Restless Flycatchers flit from stem to stem as they catch insects just above the water. Their pristine white under parts are in sharp contrast to the shining black back and head. Now and then a plop and a ripple -- sometimes a fish, sometimes the brief plunge of a honeyeater. Seven species of honeyeaters throng these gums -- Barred, Banded, Brown, Yellow, White-throated, White-gaped, Rufous-throated -- all feeding on the flowers and among the leaves. At intervals they bathe and drink, joined by a little flurry of Double-barred Finches from the nearby bush. Diamond Doves step delicately down to sip; a whirr of wings and a party of Bar-shouldered Doves appears; a trumpet call and two Brolga Cranes are circling ever higher overhead. Had they come, seen us and were climbing away to the next waterhole, or had they been here all along, beyond the bend, and now were leaving anyway? A high trill from the cane-grass, and there! His blue tail fanned over his brown back, black eye-stripe making a firm line below his lilac crown, an iridescent copy of the lily flowers, the Fairy Wren hops neatly down a fallen branch and cautiously sips at the water’s edge. The nearby trees are the midday lookout posts for a loose party of Black Cockatoos. Their harsh and lugubrious calls echo from time to time as they fly slowly and laboriously to another tree. They look around with crests erect, but I haven’t seen them come down to drink. They look as though they might be associated with tales of death. Then, un-noticed among the lilies, two couples of tiny Pygmy Geese appear. Their beautiful black and white-scaled underparts, electric green wings carried erect over their backs like a Mandarin Duck, they become uneasy at my movement of interest. They flick their tiny sails urgently as if in warning and then quietly move away a little, picking their way among the lily leaves. Brolga Cranes flying high, trumpeting. Skeins of Ibis in wavering lines flying to roost. Evening gathers and all falls silent. The moon will be full tomorrow night. Her silver lights the water to our left. To the right, the molten bars from the subsiding sun are lighting the bushland trees in a filigree of black and gold and the rock of the sandstone spires still glow warm and red. A zephyr of wind stirs the paddles of the lily leaves, and a mosquito sounds his warning in my ear. Time to go and make smoke at the fire.”