Greed Comes Before a Fall

The second time Farmdoc and I walked Tasmania's World Heritage Overland Track, we decided to start at Lake St Clair, so that watching Cradle Mountain loom larger would be the culmination of our journey. Most through-walkers begin at Cradle Mountain, and in fact in-season these days it’s mandatory, but we’d walked it in that direction the first time, and we thought it’d be fun to do it in reverse.

We planned to take five days and to camp if the huts were full, so our packs were heavy. I carried the scroggin, a generous bag of dried fruit and nuts, in a separate compartment my rucksack has at the very top. I wanted to be able to reach it whenever I felt peckish.

On the first day, within the first hour in fact, I tripped on an exposed tree root that had snaked across the path. I was unbalanced, carrying that big pack, and I fell. I put out my hands and caught myself, but just when I was sure I was done falling, the pouch at the top of my pack punched me in the back of the head, forcing my face down onto the track and smacking my nose into the ground. It seemed to happen in slow motion, as though to underline how out of my control it was.

I wasn’t hurt, except for my pride and a cut on my nose. I laughed at myself, Farmdoc helped me up, and we kept walking.

We were walking against the flow of hikers so we were meeting new people all the time, and whenever we stopped someone would ask me how I'd acquired that fresh wound on my face. If they didn’t speak English they’d just point. Sometimes they’d say, ‘Leech?’ and point. I’d shake my head and tell them the story – or mime it.

The last day of our walk was cold and rainy, Cradle Mountain shrouded in mist. Instead of seeing the mountain as we approached, we passed without even knowing it was there. Besides, it was so cold we feared hypothermia if we stopped too long to look.

We walked out of the park, my nose just about healed of its mark of shame, and took a bus back to civilization.

I’m not sure why I feel the need to tell this story now. But I can’t get the memory out of my mind. That day at the beginning of the Overland Track we were alongside Lake St Clair, the water glinting at us through the trees. The air was cold and crisp and sweet with unseen plants and with the promise of the five-day walk ahead through button grass plains and myrtle forests. And then I was pushed into the mud, face down, felled by my own backpack.

I don’t know when I’ve felt more fully human.

Bye Bye Wombat Ben

There was a farewell here at Onemilebridge yesterday. One we approached happily and, might I say, with relief.

Wombat Ben has been released into the bush. His stay in the Wombat Hilton was a short one — possibly a record.

When he arrived he was already a good size — about 15 kg — so the only tasks he had to achieve were to separate from his human carers and to allow his natural tendencies to come to the fore.

Well, he accomplished both those lickety split. He fled from us any time we approached; he preferred to eat the native grasses we picked for him rather than the oats and horse mix in his food bowl; and he rearranged his environment as assiduously as a backyard blitz team with a backhoe and an open cheque book. I reckon if he'd stayed any longer he'd have tunnelled or broken his way out anyway. You can see daylight through the gateposts now!

There was wombat poo outside the gate too, and evidence of a wombat trying to get into the enclosure. Maybe a groupie for what my commenter Judith calls our rockstar wombat.

                                        

We tied up the 'wombat flap' in the gate so Ben could find it easily. In the coming days we'll untie it but leave it unlatched so he can come and go if he wishes. We'll leave food in the bowl, but my guess is that possums will get that.

 I think we've seen the last of Wombat Ben. We wish him a long, happy life in the bush.

Wombat Ben The Builder

Personally, I reckon Ben is going to be out of the Wombat Hilton and into the wild in record time. 

His renovations would put Grand Designs to shame! Though at least he can afford to complete his - and without a crippling mortgage too!

He's moved all the logs from one side of the top of the burrow to the other. It's hard to know if he's dug any new chambers down below, though I suspect he hasn't installed a dance floor and DJ booth. Not yet anyway!

The entrance now faces in the opposite direction, away from the gate into the enclosure, so perhaps he feels better protected from us. He still runs into the burrow the moment he senses our approach.

But his poo is firm and plentiful, showing that he is stress-free and confident. 

 He's continued to excavate under the hollow log too.

With all that energy, I imagine he'll do well when he's released.  I wonder what the other wombats will think of him.

What Wombat Ben Did Next

It's interesting to watch Wombat Ben adjust to his new circumstances and to see his natural instincts come to the fore. While he lived with his previous carers he regarded them as members of his family. Even when they transferred him to an outdoor enclosure he used to perch on a log each morning, waiting for them to arrive with his food. When they turned up he'd follow them around, nipping their legs when he could. When they tried to collect his poo he'd often sit on it to protect it.

Since he's been here at Onemilebridge he's been mostly nocturnal. Certainly, as soon as he's sensed our presence he's hidden in his burrow. This is a step forward as he learns not to bond with humans in his progression towards returning to the wild.

Gradually, though, he's begun coming out early in the day to eat.

And he's been up to some serious renovation. He's pulled a long piece of wood across to the mouth of his burrow and stuck it in place with a mortar of mud.

We think this is to protect the burrow from rain as its entrance had become quite open.

He's also been digging in other places, including under the hollow log.

He's certainly leaving his mark on the Wombat Hilton! It'll never be the same again.

Wombat Ben Settles In

Sleeping by day, emerging late afternoon. 

Serious renovations by night. 

Shy of these new humans.

Not eating much yet, very little poo on show. Early days yet. Just settling in.

Wombat Ben's First Day

Ben was not to be seen this morning, but there was plenty of evidence of his presence:

Some  loose poo, though that's to be expected from the stress of the move.

Some serious renovation of the main burrow. The Poa that was there yesterday looks like it's been demolished. And the hay has disappeared too.

Some evidence of digging beneath the hollow log.

This is a huge move for Ben, away from what is probably the only home he can remember, but so far it looks like he's about on track. We left some food in the container in the kennel and we'll return periodically to check if he's eaten it. Normally we'd remove his poo every morning, but for the moment we'll leave it where it is so he can begin to feel at home.

It's nice to have a wombat back in the Wombat Hilton. I know it's stressful for Ben right now but I'm sure in a couple of days he'll be settled in and ready to begin his transition back into the wild where he belongs.

Hello Wombat Ben

This morning Wombat Ben arrived at Onemilebridge. His carers, Iris and James, brought him and transferred him into the pen that we call the Wombat Hilton where he will stay for about a month or six weeks.

I wrote about Ben first a year ago, when we visited him at home with Iris and James. At that time he was only about eight months old and still quite a baby. He lived inside their house, was bottle fed and slept in a sleeping bag.

We visited Ben again last December. He was much bigger then and had moved into his own outdoor pen. He was probably large enough to come to us already but he still had some psychological issues to work out, and it was felt best to delay release until he was ready. 

Today was that day. Yay!!

Ben was brought in a carrier and carried into the pen. Iris walked around to give him plenty of familiar smells to make him feel a little at home, and put straw around in various places. James decanted him at the mouth of a burrow that earlier wombats had dug and renovated.

When Ben was an infant his mother was killed by a car on the West Coast Cradle Mountain Road. He was found and placed with a carer. When he proved difficult to care for he was passed on to Iris and James who have had years of experience with caring for orphaned animals.

The Wombat Hilton contains a hollow log, a kennel, a corrugated iron shelter with a food bowl, and a water container. Within a minute, Ben was out and about inspecting this new place, smelling all the funny smells and trying to work out the lay of the land.

He found the water container and had himself a big drink, still unsure but beginning already to settle.

Ben comes to us with a printed history and a list of instructions.

Diet: horse mix, rolled oats, grass and hay. (prefers horse mix to oats.)

Comments: Don’t think he will want to stay very long. He is chomping at the bit to be out in the bush.

Appetite: Very good, eats a lot, prefers to be fed during the day before the possums are about.

Behaviour: Gets very agro and agitated very easily, has lots of jaw judders and lip smacks to let you know he is not happy. Always wear gumboots as he likes to zap you from behind.

Very lovable but DO NOT TRUST HIM!

Uh oh, sounds quite the handful. But we're excited to have a new occupant for the Wombat Hilton and look forward to caring for him until he's ready to be out in the wild, meeting all the other wombats that have made their home here at Onemilebridge.

Fiction as truth

This evening I watched Australian Story, about Richard Flanagan, the Tasmanian novelist. As a writer, as a person and as a Tasmanian, I found it very inspiring.

It seems funny in a way that a fiction writer is such a steadfast truth teller, but I think telling the truth is what good fiction does.

Flanagan is a brave man who has written some of the best journalism I’ve read. He has spoken without hysteria against a corrupt and vindictive government and its allies in big business. You might think that’s no big deal, but sadly, in Tasmania, it is.