Has this summer’s bleaching killed many corals on the Barrier Reef – or will they recover? The answer is – we don’t know yet. The latest Australian Institute of Marine Science coral cover report, released today, reports coral cover has increased slightly in all three regions, reaching regional high points in two of them.

Related: A beautiful disaster

How can that be? The answer is simple: lag time. Between 2018 and 2022, large areas of the Great Barrier Reef had a reprieve. Marine heatwaves and bleaching still occurred, but the damage was not too extreme. Coral began to recover and regrow.

Over the 2023–24 summer, the heat returned with a vengeance, triggering widespread coral bleaching. But bleached coral isn’t dead yet – it’s very stressed. The summer’s bleaching is only just winding up now, in August. We won’t know how much coral actually died until we complete our next round of surveys. We’ll be back in the water from September to find out.

How can we reconcile high coral cover and intense shocks?

Bleached coral is very stressed, but it’s still alive.

Corals respond to intense heat by expelling their tiny symbiotic algae, or zooxanthellae. In the process, they lose their colours and become bone-white. If the heat eases, the zooxanthellae can sometimes return, and the corals can bounce back.

But if temperatures stay high, corals die. A dead coral is not bone-white – it’s covered in light green fuzz, a sign of colonisation by filamentous algae.

What this means is it takes time to say a coral is truly dead.

For almost four decades, AIMS scientists have monitored the Great Barrier Reef. It’s no easy task to monitor a reef system the size of Italy.

To do it, our team spends 120 days at sea between September and June, across six separate trips.

The two trips we did during the peak of the mass bleaching event in February and March recorded bleached coral as live coral cover – because they were alive when we did the surveys.

So while our new report provides an update on the state of the reef, we cannot use it to describe the full impacts of this summer’s bleaching. It’s a reference point.

Surveys found the average hard coral cover in the year to June 2024 was:

• 39.5 per cent in the northern region (north of Cooktown), up from 35.8 per cent last year.
• 34 per cent in the central region (Cooktown to Proserpine), up from 30.7 per cent.
• 39.1 per cent in the southern region (south of Proserpine), up from 34 per cent.

This year’s coral cover averages are higher than the last few years, but not by much. Statistically speaking, they’re within the margin of error.

By contrast, the reef recovered much more strongly during the less stressful years from 2018 to 2022. In the northern region, coral cover increased by 22.9 per cent.

If we were living in ordinary times, corals would grow back over a decade or two, giving rise to more diverse reefs.

But as the world heats up, the reprieve from heatwaves and extreme weather is getting shorter and shorter. In recent decades, both size and frequency of events causing severe damage to the reef have increased.

How bad was this year’s bleaching?

This year’s marine heatwaves peaked in February and March, when researchers from AIMS and the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Authority conducted additional surveys from the air and underwater.

What this showed was the 2024 mass bleaching event was one of the most serious and widespread so far. It took place against the fourth recorded global bleaching event.

Heat stress is cumulative – it gets worse the longer corals have to endure warmer water.

Related: Another summer, another mass coral bleaching event hits GBR

Some of the southern reefs were exposed to up to 15 degree heating weeks, a measure of the accumulated heat stress. Such high levels have never been recorded on the reef before.

Our aerial surveys detected extreme levels of bleaching – affecting over 90 per cent of corals on a reef – across all three regions of the reef, though not equally. Extreme bleaching was widespread in the southern region of the reef, but less so in the northern and central regions.

Reports of coral death on bleached reefs are beginning to arrive, but it’s too early to draw broad conclusions about the full impact of this event.

What will happen next?

During the cooler months, bleached corals can recover, but it’s not guaranteed. Bleaching makes it harder for corals to grow and reproduce, and leaves them more susceptible to disease. If their symbiotic algae return, some corals will recover, but many corals will not make it. We won’t know the death toll until after we do our next roundDaniela Ceccarelli, David Wachenfeld and Mike Emslie of surveys.

While coral cover has increased and decreased over time, the variability has become much more erratic. Over the last 15 years, coral cover has had its highest highs and lowest lows on record.

Related: World first: trials begin to seed the threatened Great Barrier Reef with thousands of healthy baby corals

What we should take from this is the reef – the world’s largest living structure – is currently still able to recover from repeated shocks. But these shocks are getting worse and arriving more often, and future recovery is not guaranteed.

This is the rollercoaster ride the reef faces at just 1.1°C of warming. The pattern of disturbance and recovery is shifting – and not in the Reef’s favour.

Daniela Ceccarelli is a Reef Fish Ecologist at the Australian Institute of Marine Science.

David Wachenfeld is the Research Program Director of Reef Ecology and Monitoring at the Australian Institute of Marine Science.

Mike Emslie is a Senior Research Scientist in Reef Ecology at the Australian Institute of Marine Science.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post How the Great Barrier Reef shows record growth AND intense bleaching appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The results are sobering confirmation that global warming – caused by human activities – will continue to damage the Great Barrier Reef.

All hope is not lost. But we must face a confronting truth: if humanity does not divert from its current course, our generation will likely witness the demise of one of Earth’s great natural wonders.

One-of-a-kind ecosystem

The Great Barrier Reef is the most extensive coral reef system on Earth. It is home to a phenomenal array of biodiversity, including more than 400 types of coral, 1,500 species of fish and 4,000 types of molluscs, as well as endangered turtles and dugongs.

However, mass coral bleaching over the past three decades has had serious impacts on the reef. Bleaching occurs when corals become so heat-stressed they eject the tiny organisms living inside their tissues. These organisms give coral some of its colour and help power its metabolism.

In mild bleaching events, corals can recover. But in the most recent events, many corals died.

The Great Barrier Reef has suffered five mass bleaching events in the past nine summers. Is this an anomaly, or within the natural variability the reef has experienced in previous centuries? Our research set out to answer this question.

A 400-year-old story

Coral itself can tell us what happened in the past.

As corals grow, the chemistry of their skeleton reflects the ocean conditions at the time – including its temperature. In particular, large boulder-shaped corals, known as Porites, can live for centuries and are excellent recorders of the past.

Our study sought to understand how surface temperatures in the Coral Sea, which includes the reef, have varied over the past four centuries. We focused on the January–March period – the warmest three months on the reef.

First, we collated a network of high-quality, continuous coral records from the region. These records were analysed by coral climate scientists and consist of thousands of measurements of Porites corals from across the Western tropical Pacific.

From these records, we could reconstruct average surface temperatures for the Coral Sea from the year 1618 to 1995, and calibrate this to modern temperature records from 1900 to 2024. The overall result was alarming.

From 1960 to 2024, we observed annual average summer warming of 0.12°C per decade.

And average sea surface temperatures in 2016, 2017, 2020, 2022 and 2024 were five of the six warmest the region has experienced in four centuries.

Humans are undoubtedly to blame

The next step was to examine the extent to which increased temperatures in the Coral Sea can be attributed to human influence.

To do this, we used published computer model simulations of the Earth’s climate – both with and without human influence, including greenhouse gases from the burning of fossil fuels.

So what did we find? Without human influence, Coral Sea surface temperatures during January–March remain relatively constant since 1900. Add in the human impacts, and the region warms steadily in the early 1900s, then rapidly after the 1960s.

In short: without human-caused global warming, the very high sea temperatures of recent years would be virtually impossible, based on our analysis using the world’s top climate models.

Related: Australian scientist urges world to “slam the brakes” as report reveals climate change tipping point now closer

There is worse news. Recent climate projections put us on a path to intensified warming, even when accounting for international commitments to reduce emissions. This places the reef at risk of coral bleaching on a near-annual basis.

Back-to-back bleaching is likely to be catastrophic for the Great Barrier Reef, because it thwarts the chances of corals recovering between bleaching events.

Even if global warming is kept under the Paris Agreement goal of 1.5°C above pre-industrial temperatures, 70 to 90 per cent of corals across the world could be lost.

We must stay focused

The Australian government has a crucial role to play in managing threats to the Great Barrier Reef. The devastation is in their backyard, on their watch.

But what’s happening on the Great Barrier Reef should also be an international wake-up call. The fourth global mass coral bleaching event occurred this year; the Great Barrier Reef is not the only one at risk.

Every fraction of a degree of warming we avoid gives more hope for coral reefs. That’s why the world must stay focused on ambitious action to reduce greenhouse gas emissions.

Emissions reduction targets must be met, at the very least. The solutions are available and our leaders must implement them.

Our research equips society with the scientific evidence for what’s at stake if we don’t act.

The future of one of Earth’s most remarkable ecosystems depends on all of us.

Related: A beautiful disaster

The authors of this piece gratefully acknowledge the contributions of Andrew King, Ariella Arzey, David Karoly, Janice Lough, Tom DeCarlo and Brad Linsley and the producers of the coral data which made this study possible.

Ben Henley is a Lecturer at the School of Agriculture, Food and Ecosystem Sciences at The University of Melbourne.

Helen McGregor is a Professor of Environmental Futures & Securing Antarctica’s Environmental Future at the School of Earth, Atmospheric and Life Sciences at the University of Wollongong.

Ove Hoegh-Guldberg is a Professor at the School of the Environment at The University of Queensland.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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The alleged victim was not feeding crocodiles; he was reportedly just walking along a path when the river bank gave way, and he fell into the river. His wife had tried to save him but the doctor let go of her arm, with the woman quoted as saying:

He saved me – his last act was to not pull me in with him.

The doctor was reportedly taken by the crocodile within seconds.

Since the tragic attack, which occurred at the Annan River south of Cooktown, videos have surfaced appearing to show people feeding a large crocodile in that area.

This has prompted Queensland’s Department of Environment, Science and Innovation to post a media release stating, among other things, that the penalty for illegally feeding wild crocodiles is AU$6,452.

I have been researching human-crocodile conflict for years. If it’s true crocodiles in this area had been fed in the past, that is extremely concerning.

Illegal feeding linked to human-crocodile conflict

There have been concerns in the past over the illegal feeding of crocodiles in Queensland. Media outlets reported on people feeding crocodiles in the Prosperine and Russell rivers in 2022.

Outside of Australia, illegal feeding has long been associated with increased human-crocodile conflict.

At a bridge over the Tarcoles River in Costa Rica, a group of large American crocodiles (Crocodylus acutus) have been illegally fed by people for years.

Despite being less aggressive and responsible for far fewer deaths (typically only between one and three annually) than the saltwater crocodile, this feeding appears to have resulted in changes to the behaviour to these crocodiles. Normally wild crocodiles avoid humans but these crocodiles, who may have come to associate humans with food, appear to have grown bolder about approaching humans.

In 2013 a man was attacked and consumed by these crocodiles shortly after entering the waterway below the bridge.

The year prior, a photographer narrowly avoided being attacked while on shore.

Illegal feeding has also been implicated in conflict involving the American alligator (Alligator mississippiensis) in the United States.

What effect does feeding wild crocodiles have on risk?

When crocodiles are fed by people they tend to lose their typically timid behaviour regarding humans. They may even begin to seek people out in anticipation of being fed.

If crocodiles are consistently fed in the same location, they are likely to remain at or near the same spot awaiting the next feeding.

In the town of La Manzanilla, Mexico, for example, media reports detail how another group of large, wild American crocodiles are fed from the mangrove boardwalk on a daily basis and rarely leave the spot.

Related: Learning to live with a carnivore

As the Department of Environment, Science and Innovation put it in their statement released this week:

Feeding of crocodiles at riverbanks or boat ramps encourages them to hang around, waiting for their next meal. This can place future visitors to the area at a much greater risk of attack if they approach or enter the water.

Even in areas with extremely high numbers of saltwater crocodiles, people frequently do irresponsible things such as wading into water. Yet no attacks have occurred (so far) in this area.

This is likely due to a number of factors, including the abundance of natural prey. However, the fact these crocodiles aren’t fed by people (as far as we know) means they’re less likely to be waiting around seeking humans out.

How can we stop illegal feeding?

Harsher punishments, such as significantly increased and consistently enforced fines or jail time, might help.

After all, illegal feeding is linked to higher risk for both human and crocodile lives – a common refrain in my field is that a “fed croc is a dead croc”.

Targeting known trouble spots and consistently prosecuting offenders could also help reduce offending.

In this age of social media influencers, irresponsible and dangerous behaviour around crocodiles is sadly all too common.

Authorities could increase efforts to monitor social media sites (particularly Instagram), so they know where and who to target for investigation and, ultimately, prosecution.

Brandon Michael Sideleau is a PhD student studying human-saltwater crocodile conflict at Charles Darwin University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post How crocodile feeding is increasing fatalities appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The femur, ankle and nine toe bones were fully articulated – lying connected in the same position as when the animal died.

Finding an articulation like this is rare at Alcoota, where bones usually lie scattered in a random jumble.

Rich fossil field

The Alcoota site is about 150km northeast of Alice Springs and is the size of two football fields.

Concentrated inside its fossil beds are tens of thousands of bones, from thousands of individual animals, that died some 8 million years ago.

Widely regarded as Australia’s richest terrestrial vertebrate fossil site from the late Miocene, Alcoota has been excavated on-and-off since the 1960s and continues to deliver surprises.

“It seems no matter how much we dig there, there’s more to come,” Dr Adam Yates, senior curator of earth sciences at the Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory (MAGNT) told Australian Geographic.

“This is the thing about Alcoota: once you start excavating one thing and start clearing around it, you find more things. It’s like a game of pick-up sticks in some ways.”

The extraordinary new articulation was found in a pit known as ‘Classy Corner’, which was opened at the beginning of MAGNT’s 2024 dig.

Lying close to the articulation is a shoulder joint and vertebra belonging to the same species.

“There could be a skeleton that belongs to one individual,” Adam said. “That’s really significant because there’s more than one [Ilbandornis] species and associating particular bone types with each particular species can be quite tricky.”

Ancient family of huge birds

The birds known as thunder birds or demon ducks belong to the now-extinct family Dromornithidae.

Many examples of this ancient group have now been excavated at Alcoota, including Dromornis, which weighed an estimated 600kg and stood 2–3m tall, making it the largest bird species to ever roam Earth. 

This family of huge flightless birds first appeared in the fossil record about 55 million years ago, until their extinction some 50,000 years ago.

More than 30 mammal, bird and reptile species are represented at Alcoota, including marsupial “rhinos” (diprotodontids), short-faced kangaroos, crocodilians and fearsome marsupial lions the size of a leopard.

Related: 100-million-year-old fossil find reveals huge flying reptile that patrolled Australia’s inland sea

These animals are the evolutionary ancestors of the Pleistocene megafauna that lived alongside the First Australians.

Paleontologists once thought the Alcoota fossils were the remains of animals that gathered around a surviving waterhole during a years-long drought.

But recent evidence that the animals were in breeding condition when they died has cast doubt on that hypothesis.

Now, Adam speculates they were killed in a flood.

“[After drowning], their carcasses drifted downstream and banked up at one spot, maybe a bend in the river or something like that. And that’s what we’re digging through, it’s just a giant pile of carcasses that piled up after a flood,” he said.

Read more about searching for Aussie dinosaurs in the next issue of Australian Geographic, available on newsstands and online from September 2024.

The post Stunning specimen of rare ‘demon duck’ fossil unearthed in Australian dig appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Hosted by the Yothu Yindi Foundation, the festival showcases traditional miny’tji (art), manikay (song), bunggul (dance) and storytelling. It is also an important meeting point for the regions’ clans and families.

This year, the festival’s theme was ‘fire, strength, renewal’ – a response to the rejection of the Voice by the Australian people on 14 October 2023, says Yothu Yindi Foundation Chairman, Djawa Yunupiŋu.

“Gurtha (Fire) is at the centre of the Yolŋu world; it is the foundation of life that gives strength, energy, and power. Gurtha is in the people and is of the land. Worrk (Renewal) is in the life of the land and the people. It is the goodness that rises in the country after fire has burnt the land and cleansing rains have come.”

Garma Festival also plays host to the Key Forum policy conference, which has become Australia’s premier platform for the discussion and debate of issues affecting Indigenous people. Although the conference agenda changes each year to reflect the Garma theme, topics such as land rights, health, education, economic development and government funding are regularly discussed.

(Clockwise from top left) The theme for this year’s Garma was ‘Gurtha-Wuma Worrk-gu’ – Fire, Strength and Renewal – which focused on the next generation of young Yolŋu. Image credits : Leicolhn McKellar/Yothu Yindi Foundation; Garma is an important meeting place for the families of Arnhem Land, drawing in clans from across the region. Image credit: Nina Franova/Yothu Yindi Foundation; All aboard: Garma road trip 2024. Image credit: Teagan Glenane/Yothu Yindi Foundation; Malati Yunupingu from the Diamond Dogs band – music has been a mainstay of Garma since its inception. Image credit: Teagan Glenane/Yothu Yindi Foundation; The Gumatj clan are the Traditional Owners of the Gulkula site where Garma is held. Image credit: Peter Eve/Yothu Yindi Foundation; Prime Minister Anthony Albanese is escorted to the dance grounds by Gumatj leader Djawa Yunupingu and Red Flag dancers during the opening ceremony. It was the first Garma Festival since the failed referendum on a First Nations Voice to Parliament. Image credit: Melanie Faith Dove/Yothu Yindi Foundation

Bunggul

The call of the yidaki (didgeridoo), the rhythm of the bilma (clapsticks) ring out and the voices of the Yolŋu song-men rang out across the Festival site each sunset, summoning all to the dance grounds. Here, the people of the different clan groups took turns performing traditional dances, sharing stories and songlines that stretch back millennia.

Around the grounds

Throughout the festival, attendees engaged in traditional Yolŋu experiences such as fireside chats, poetry readings, astronomy tours, and women’s healing sessions. Works from local and regional galleries were exhibited among a grove of stringy-bark trees in the open-air Gapan Gallery. Each night, as the sun went down over Gulkula, a cinema under the stars presented a series of films produced by First Nations people from Arnhem Land, Australia and the world.

Cultural workshops

A chance to practice different aspects of Yolŋu life, cultural workshops are hosted by senior Yolŋu knowledge-holders throughout the festival to teach skills such as weaving, spear-making and learning on country during a bush walk, as well as language and kinship lessons and Yidaki classes.

The information and photographs in this article have been collated with thanks to the Yothu Yindi Foundation.

The post In photographs: Garma Festival 2024 appeared first on Australian Geographic.

But how does it work? Normally, your body converts carbohydrates into CO₂, water and lots of energy. But the fungus Saccharomyces cerevisiae does something very different: it turns carbohydrates into CO₂, alcohol and other stuff. We have used this fungus to brew beer for at least 7000 years. 

The auto-brewery syndrome occurs when this fungus (or a few other fungi and bacteria) multiplies to huge numbers and takes over the normal microbiome, or flora, in the gut.

Your normal flora are some 40 trillion cells (mostly bacteria) that invaded you shortly after birth. They are much smaller than your regular cells – around 37 trillion cells that came from your parents. You need these several hundred grams of healthy bacteria, and the like. Without them, you would eat twice as much, be about two-thirds of your current weight and be sickly. 

Related: Dr Karl explains the ‘Wobbling Scale’ of animal drunkenness

One case of auto-brewery syndrome developed in a 44-year-old male after a rather nasty infection, which was successfully treated with the antibiotics clavulanic acid and amoxicillin. 

The antibiotics did their job, but unfortunately killed much of his “regular” healthy microbiome, allowing his gut to be taken over by Saccharomyces cerevisiae and Candida albicans. Suddenly he had astronomically high blood-alcohol levels, without drinking any alcohol at all. 

Besides antibiotics, these fungi (and bacteria) can rise to abnormal levels as a result of poor nutrition or an unbalanced diet; metabolic or medical conditions such as Crohn’s disease or diabetes; genetic variations; liver enzymes not working correctly; short bowel syndrome – which occasionally results from part of the small intestine being surgically removed – and other causes. Auto-brewery syndrome can sometimes be treated with a change in diet, different antibiotics and antifungal drugs. 

So apparently it’s possible to get drunk from the inside.

The post Drunk from the inside: Dr Karl explains rare auto-brewery syndrome appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Born in England, Wragge was dynamic and unconventional and, in 1881, he established a weather observatory on Britain’s highest peak, Ben Nevis, on behalf of the Scottish Meteorological Society. He also established a comparative sea-level station at Fort William nearby. The principle of this work was that forecasts could be aided by making and comparing ‘upper’ atmosphere studies (through simultaneous readings of instruments) with the findings of the sea-level station. British scientists welcomed the results and Wragge was awarded a gold medal by the Society.

Wragge then came to Australia and, in 1887, he became Queensland’s Government Meteorologist, establishing a network of weather stations and publishing Australia-wide forecasts. He furthered the study of tropical cyclones and began the practice of naming them, as we do today. 

Wragge wasn’t a typical Victorian-era man. Vegetarian, interested in eastern religions, with green environmental views, he stood out from a 19th-century crowd. This lack of orthodoxy, plus his outspokenness and lack of tact, often put him at odds with his intercolonial peers. 

Wragge got to work on high-level/sea-level observatories in South Australia and Tasmania and then announced his intent to build a station on Mt Kosciuszko. In the context of his times, many decades before weather balloons or satellites, his ideas were sensible. He was well regarded by overseas peers but was criticised by his intercolonial contemporaries. Wragge’s Mt Kosciuszko project required the summit station, plus a coastal station at Merimbula, and was privately sponsored.

In December 1897 Wragge set out for Mt Kosciuszko, taking tents and instruments. With him was Charles Kerry, a well-known Sydney photographer and Snowy Mountains publicist who’d led the first winter ascent of Mt Kosciuszko only four months before – his Kiandra ski photos are famous. Mountain stockman James Spencer acted as their guide. 

Mad place to live

Despite it being summer, the expeditioners arrived at the summit in freezing conditions. One of the Queenslanders went to bed one night wearing no less than 29 items of clothing!

By 10 December the tent-based weather station was up and running and an assortment of weather instruments was operating from atop Mt Kosciuszko to take regular readings of air pressure, temperature, humidity, wind, cloud mass, precipitation and surface ozone. The next day, Wragge left the summit for Merimbula, and for the next five years he directed both stations from Queensland. At Mt Kosciuszko the observatory was run by his team (at times including Wragge’s sons) who pursued their science in one of Australia’s harshest and most isolated environments. 

Related: Unearthing Australia’s climate history

The tent observatory stood for only two months. In February 1898 a terrible storm hit Mt Kosciuszko and 160km/h winds shredded the tents. The three observers abandoned the summit and retreated to Jindabyne, lucky to survive. Clearly, if the observatory was to continue, the NSW government would have to fund a permanent building. Premier George Reid obliged and Wragge was elated.

By April 1898 a hut had been constructed. Built by two Cooma builders, brothers Arthur and Herb Mawson, and their partner, D. McArthur, the simple weatherboard structure had a number of adaptations for the severe summit weather, including 2.5cm-thick storm glass in the windows. Outside, boulders were piled against the walls to prevent the hut being blown away. 

Despite the fears of locals who thought it madness to try to live on Mt Kosciuszko in winter (one local wit presented Newth with a coffin catalogue!), observers Newth, Bernard Ingleby and Harald Ingemann Jensen saw out the season. 

That experience led the men to adapt the building. The hut’s door was often snowed under, so they built an enclosed stairway with a hatch at the top, providing roof-level access. Although no sign of the observatory exists today, this form of access can still be seen at Cootapatamba Hut, built for the Snowy Mountains Hydro-electric Scheme in the 1950s. 

Wragge ordered a 24-hour schedule of instrument readings that dictated the routine of the observers. The schedule was no easy task, particularly during night-time blizzards. An evocative description of a midnight winter reading was documented by one of Wragge’s sons, Clement Lionel ‘Egerton’ Wragge. 

The rostered observer, wrote Egerton, was woken by an alarm clock. He left his sleeping bag, dressed and placed a lamp near the window to guide him back to the hut through the dense cloud outside. He then climbed the stairway and opened the hatch, “…which is no easy matter under the circumstances. Waiting for a slight lull in the fury of the tempest, he exerts all his strength to force it open, while the wind is trying to force it down on his head… As the fury of the blast strikes him, he is seen to stagger, and is almost blown to the ground… Breathing is difficult, and it is necessary to place the hand over the mouth in order to do so. Snow and sleet driving across the mountain at a furious rate almost blinds him, and cuts his face. The light from the lamp at the window is thrown in a great yellow streak out against the fog bank.”

Related: The emu: nature’s weatherman

The rostered observer reaches the thermometer screen and reads the instruments. All the while he’s trying to ignore the fine snow “that has found its way down his neck and over his gum boots”. The observer hastens back to the hut: “As he goes, the light from the lantern perhaps flashes on a [ski-] brake-pole stuck in the snow, now covered with long white icicles, standing like some ghastly spectre against the fog. The sudden sight of this chills his blood, and floods the mind with a dread of the supernatural, and he makes a bound for the hatch. In his hurry to get into the hut he slips on the steps covered with ice, and goes tumbling to the bottom, cursing meteorology and meteorological instruments in general. This performance must be repeated again at 4am, and although unpleasant at the time, is extremely fascinating.” 

Given that it was hard even for drays to get to Mt Kosciuszko in summer, and wheeled transport anywhere into the mountains west of Jindabyne was difficult, the observers were living in a very isolated part of the country.

Amazingly they maintained the winter link to Jindabyne. Every few weeks they skied over the alpine plateau, descended to the Thredbo River valley, rode to Jindabyne, posted data to Wragge and purchased provisions. 

Newth, a Candelo clergyman’s son, was the first to make this winter journey solo and is a hero of the Wragge story. In 1899 Newth and Rupert Wragge saved the life of Rupert’s 19-year-old brother, Egerton, when he became hopelessly lost during a trip from the town, surviving hypothermia.

A place of natural beauty

Nature’s wonder and beauty, however, made up for the privations. Ingleby wrote of a fine winter’s day: “Away to the north-east and south-west…were mountains rising tier upon tier, clad from base to apex in a mantle of purest white.” 

Natural phenomena were legion. They witnessed St Elmo’s Fire – natural luminous electrical discharges – with Jensen recalling how Newth took a crosscut saw outside and “each tooth of it became a living flame”. They also experienced a Brocken spectre, in which the men’s shadows were projected onto cloud and surrounded by prismatic colours.

Much of the men’s winter leisure time was spent on skis (known as snow-shoes at the time). Jensen wrote that as soon as a fine day arrived, “We donned our snow-glasses, fur caps and snow-shoes and raced wildly down the mountain side like dogs let loose from the chain. Sometimes, when the moon was bright, we would indulge in this sport by night.” 

The observers raced to Lake Cootapatamba, and built ski jumps. They made the first ski trips to mainland Australia’s second-highest peak, Mt Townsend, and to Blue Lake, with the station’s two dogs, Zoroaster and Buddha, trailing through the snow. The observers mounted a sail on the station’s sled. Their winter activities were captured by intrepid Wagga photographer Donald McRae, who climbed Mt Kosciuszko in 1899 carrying his heavy glass-plate camera. 

Related: Short on trees, big on story

But with funding short and little published data, scepticism increased. Some of the observatory information was supplied to British and German Antarctic expeditions, though with no telegraph or telephone link between Mt Kosciuszko and Merimbula and no speedy transmission of data, any forecasting ability was crippled. 

In June 1902 the NSW government cut its support for Wragge’s observatory and demanded the instruments and stores be removed. It was midwinter. Egerton Wragge and two other observers struggled to get the gear down. 

Remembering Wragge’s men

Only 13 years later, Egerton, serving in the 2nd Light Horse Regiment, was killed at Gallipoli and buried at sea. His name is on the Lone Pine Memorial, signifying he has no known grave. He was 34 years old. 

Basil de Burgh Newth, meanwhile, had a happier career. By 1904 he’d become maths and science master at The Scots College, Sydney. He died in 1959, aged 83. 

Bernard Ingleby went on to work in Sydney advertising, and associated with leaders of the Bohemian set, including Henry Lawson and the Lindsay art family. He died in 1941, aged 63. 

In 1902 Clement Wragge failed in a Queensland rainmaking attempt, damaging his reputation. After the Commonwealth government assumed responsibility for monitoring weather, Queensland closed its bureau and Wragge left Australia in 1903,  settling in New Zealand, where he died in 1922 at the age of 70. 

Wragge’s Mt Kosciuszko project, though unsuccessful, was part of the long scientific thrust into the High Country that began in 1834 with naturalist Dr John Lhotsky – the first European to bring the Snowy River to the attention of the public. Through focusing attention on the summit area, the weather station helped open the peaks to tourism, and the Kosciuszko Road and the Hotel Kosciusko were opened by the NSW government not long after the weather station closed. There’s no memorial on the summit today, though Wragges Creek is near Smiggin Holes. The story of Wragge’s men deserves to be remembered.

The post Our early weathermen appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The breathtaking spectacle was recorded by passengers onboard Le Commandant Charcot, a state-of-the-art commercial icebreaker vessel, operated by French expedition cruise company Ponant. Captain Patrick Marchesseau was at the bridge of the vessel when the watchmen sighted the first polar bear. As he recounts, “suddenly it was not just one bear, it was ten, and then through the mist we could see there were bears everywhere. Soon we realised why – a bowhead whale carcass was providing a feast. There were 68 bears officially counted. The sight was absolutely superb — a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

Captain Marchesseau remarks the unfamiliarity of such a large gathering even impressed two Inuit guides on board, who had never seen so many bears in one place at one time. “Like us they were astounded. To see so many polar bears in the one instance was deeply surprising even for them”.  

On-scene photographer’s account

Renowned photographer Nick Rains, a long-time collaborator with Australian Geographic, was on board during the incredible event. “Everywhere you looked there was a sleeping bear just passed out in the snow after like an orgy of eating as they were digesting their blubber”.

Over several hours of observation under the midnight sun, the bears’ behaviour provided endless fascination for those on board the ship, that remained stationary and silent to avoid disturbing the animals.

To witness such a chance encounter in the remote Arctic wilderness and capture it on film was truly humbling for the Australian photographer. “I was able to watch their interactions from the safe vantage point on the deck of Le Commandant Charcot and photograph bears swimming, playing. Mothers with two, even three cubs had turned up for the feast. So we had the whole bear experience all encapsulated in this period of time as we watched the scene unfold”. 

‘A rare bonanza’

The event is even more remarkable considering polar bears are known for their solitary nature. They traverse vast icy expanses, sometimes covering thousands of kilometres, in search of food. Polar bears can smell seals up to 32 kilometres away, so with a dead whale carcass, it’s likely to have drawn the carnivores from up to a hundred kilometres.

A whale carcass can provide a bounty of rich, fat-laden nutrition necessary for polar bears to sustain themselves in such an unforgiving environment. “An accessible whale carcass is a rare bonanza for bears and other wildlife” remarks Lisa LaPointe, a naturalist aboard the ship. “A single whale carcass can nourish multiple bears for weeks, months, or more depending on conditions. This intake can mean the difference between surviving and thriving during a lean summer. It can be the deciding factor in whether a female bear is able to produce cubs the following spring.” 

It’s not known how the bowhead whale died, but it’s believed an attack by a pod of orcas could be possible. Orcas are fond of killing bowhead whales to eat only their tongue, leaving the rest of the carcass, which, in this case, left an incredible buffet for the polar bears. 

“What was most striking was how little conflict we observed, even among bears actively feeding at the carcass. With appetites sated, each was largely accommodating the others. Even mothers with cubs were partaking in the abundance, the cubs feeding next to adults,” recalls Lisa.

The naturalist reflects, “To record and photograph such a happening across such a fleeting event in the expanse of the Arctic left passengers and crew with such gratitude for our unusual experience.”

Editor’s note: The Le Commandant Charcot crew and guests remained at a distance to ensure that the bears didn’t experience any stress or pressure and that their natural activities were not impacted throughout the encounter.

The post Exclusive photos: extraordinary polar bear ‘picnic’ captured by Australian photographer appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Some meteor showers are better than others. The faster the debris is travelling, or the more debris there is, the more meteors you will see. But generally, these showers are annual events – recurring whenever Earth returns to the same place in its orbit.

The end of July is one such time, with Earth going through several swathes of our Solar System’s debris at once.

Two of those showers reach their peak around July 31. While neither ranks among the very best showers of the year, taken together the two can put on a lovely show in the depths of our cold winter nights.

The Southern Delta Aquariids: the fast ones

The first, and most active, of the two showers is the Southern Delta Aquariids. For stargazers in Australia and New Zealand, they are the third-strongest meteor shower of the year after the amazing Geminids, in December, and the Eta Aquariids, which peak in early May.

The Southern Delta Aquariids are dust from comet 96P/Machholz – a dirty snowball that moves on a highly elongated and tilted orbit within the inner Solar System. 96P/Machholz is the largest object in a broad stream of debris which produces several meteor showers throughout the year.

The Southern Delta Aquariids are active for around six weeks, from mid-July to late August, and reach their peak on July 31. In a typical year, the shower is at its best for around 48 hours. During the peak, observers under perfect conditions can see up to 20–25 meteors per hour.

While many meteors from this shower are relatively faint (and so become harder to see if the Moon is above the horizon, or if you’re observing from a light-polluted site), the shower is known for producing some brighter meteors, particularly around their peak.

In addition, the Southern Delta Aquariids have produced at least two unexpected outbursts in the past, with enhanced rates observed in 1977 and 2003 – a reminder that meteor showers can sometimes throw up nice surprises!

The Alpha Capricornids: slow, with occasional fireballs

The Alpha Capricornids is a significantly weaker shower than the Southern Delta Aquariids – it produces fewer meteors per hour. Even at their best, on the nights of July 30 and 31, it is rare for observers to see more than four or five meteors from the shower in any given hour.

But where the Southern Delta Aquariids are plentiful, fast and often faint, the Alpha Capricornids are slow, and often bright. Indeed, the shower has a reputation for producing spectacular bright meteors and fireballs. Its meteors, infrequent as they are, are often the highlight of a winter night’s observing.

In 2010, two of the world’s leading meteor scientists identified the parent of the Alpha Capricornid meteor shower – a dim comet called 169P/NEAT. They suggest it’s just a small piece of a larger object which fragmented between 4,500 and 5,000 years ago.

Currently, Earth only passes through the very outer layers of a vast debris stream laid down by that ancient fragmentation. The scientists who identified it predict that in just 200–300 years we will instead move through the very centre of the stream.

If that comes to pass, the Alpha Capricornids will one day become by far the best meteor shower of the year.

Where and when should I look?

This year, the peak of both meteor showers falls mid-week, on Wednesday July 31. However, both showers have relatively broad peaks and will produce respectable numbers of meteors for a few days.

If you’re planning a camping trip on the weekend of July 27–28 or August 3–4, you might still get a decent show, particularly in the early morning hours after midnight.

But for the best rates you should head out on the nights of Tuesday July 30 and Wednesday July 31.

From across Australia and New Zealand, you can start observing from 9pm or 10pm, when the radiants for both showers – the place in the sky from which meteors appear to radiate – rise in the east. At first, rates from the showers will be low, but the higher in the sky the radiants rise, the more meteors will be visible.

The bright stars Altair and Fomalhaut are useful guides. As a bonus, the planet Saturn can be found in the same part of the sky, shining as bright as the brightest stars.

The longer you’re willing to stay out, the better your chance of seeing meteors. As the night progresses, the radiants will move across the sky, climbing higher until they culminate in the north after midnight. The best rates will be visible when the radiants are highest: between around 11pm and 3am.

Head out somewhere well away from city lights. Our eyes take a significant amount of time to adjust to the darkness, so it’s best to watch for at least half an hour, if not longer – particularly since meteors are not equally spaced out. You can wait 20 minutes and see nothing, then spot several in just a minute or two!

If you’re fortunate enough to find a site where the sky is dark in all directions, you should look to the northeast in the evening, to the north in the hours around midnight, and then northwest in the pre-dawn hours.

The darker the sky, the more you’ll see. By the peak of the two showers, the Moon will be all but out of the way, rising only a couple of hours before dawn.

As a result, this year is the ideal time to head out and watch an annual winter spectacle. And who knows, you might just get lucky and see a spectacular fireball caused by the debris shed by a dying comet 5,000 years ago.

Jonti Horner is a Professor of Astrophysics at the University of Southern Queensland.

Tanya Hill is an Honorary Fellow at the University of Melbourne and a Senior Curator of Astronomy at the Museums Victoria Research Institute.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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While much of the rest of Australia has dried out, the Wet Tropics have stayed wet. It’s here you find green-eyed treefrogs, wompoo fruit-doves and striped possums with elongated fourth digits, for digging out grubs. It’s a particular hotspot of endemic and unique plant species too, including the colourfully named idiotfruit tree (Idiospermum australiense).

Why is the region so distinctive? It has many different niches for species, from cool mountaintops down to hot and humid lowland rainforest. As a result of its unique evolutionary history, the Wet Tropics are a biodiversity hotspot, hosting an array of species found nowhere else on Earth.

Like many ecosystems, it is under serious threat from land clearing, invasive species and climate change. And these threats could be worse than we think due to the indirect, and often hidden ways they can affect the whole environment.

New research explores how species in these rainforests interact to forecast how rising temperatures and other environmental changes can lead not just to extinctions of individual species, but to the possibility of cascading extinctions as the loss of important species ripples through the web of life.

How does this ecosystem function?

These rainforests cover just 0.1 per cent of Australia’s landmass but harbour an exceptionally large share of the country’s biodiversity, where you can find about 45 per cent of the nation’s vertebrate species. It’s not just the largest tropical rainforest in Australia, but also one of the oldest in the world, holding immense indigenous cultural value.

Australia’s heaviest bird, the southern cassowary (Casuarius casuarius johnsoni), plays an essential role in Queensland’s ancient tropical rainforests. It gobbles down the large, bright blue and toxic fruit of the cassowary plum tree, whose seeds can only start to grow when they have passed through the bird’s digestive system.

This symbiotic relationship is essential for the regeneration of these trees, which in turn support countless other lifeforms. Without the cassowary, the cassowary plum would struggle to survive, and the forest structure would change.

This region is also home to the giant petaltail, one of the world’s largest dragonflies, flourishing along the pristine streams of the rainforest. It also boasts Boyd’s forest dragon (Gonocephalus liogaster), a tree-climbing master of camouflage, and the Victoria’s riflebird (Ptiloris victoriae) from the Bird of Paradise family, whose dazzling courtship dances captivate onlookers. The white-lipped tree frog also contributes to the rainforest’s nocturnal chorus. The Lumholtz tree kangaroo (Dendrolagus lumholtzi), an elusive arboreal marsupial, navigates the high canopies.

These tropical rainforests form a complex web. When one species suffers, it can affect other species. This can start a chain reaction that might harm more species or even lead to their extinction. This phenomenon is known as co-extinction, a domino effect that can decimate entire communities of species.

For smaller scale ecosystems on land such as the Wet Tropics, co-extinction is a largely overlooked threat. As a result, we’ve probably underestimated how vulnerable these communities are to threats such as climate change in the future.

Tackling threats

The Wet Tropics is World Heritage Listed. It’s one of the most effectively regulated and managed protected areas in the world, ranking in the top 0.1 per cent of the most important protected areas globally. Even so, it still faces many threats, including habitat loss and fragmentation as well as ongoing residential development, invasive species, and even changes in fire and water regimes, to name a few.

Only in the last few years, introduced virulent pathogens have been implicated in the extinction of the sharp snouted day frog and the mountain mist frog in this region.

Climate change is the region’s biggest threat. Extinction rates are forecast to soar if temperatures rise above 2°C.

Recent research suggests co-extinctions will cause up to 34 per cent more biodiversity loss by 2100 than that predicted from the direct effects of threats such as climate change.

The Wet Tropics are a landscape of ancient beauty, threatened by contemporary dangers. Protecting this primeval region is about maintaining the ecological processes sustaining life itself.

Queensland’s Wet Tropics are recognised as one of the most irreplaceable natural World Heritage Areas in the world, considered by the UN as a region of ‘Outstanding Universal Value’ – the same status given to other iconic biodiversity hotspots such as Ecuador’s Galápagos Islands and India’s Western Ghats.

To safeguard the future of the Wet Tropics and other regions like it, we must deepen our understanding of the ecological challenges it faces and develop strategies to address them.

Seamus Doherty is a PhD Candidate of the Global Ecology Laboratory at Flinders University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Two days later, the vessel disappeared in the night beneath ten-metre waves, lashed by a violent storm. Tragically, only five of the 26 crew would be rescued during one of the largest searches for survivors in post-war Australian maritime history. As for the MV Noongah, its resting place would remain a mystery – until now.

While on a research voyage to study submarine canyons off the New South Wales coast, a team aboard the CSIRO research vessel RV Investigator became the first to set eyes on MV Noongah in nearly 55 years. This discovery was no accident. It was part of a collaborative project and a targeted investigation to help identify a mysterious shipwreck.

It’s also no coincidence there have been several shipwreck discoveries in the news recently. Australia’s national science ship has developed an impressive record as a shipwreck sleuth.

What is RV Investigator?

RV Investigator is part of the Marine National Facility – a national research infrastructure operated by CSIRO, Australia’s national science agency.

All Australian researchers and their international collaborators can access the capabilities of RV Investigator. This makes it a collaboration hub for marine research. And it’s been an important factor in many of the recent shipwreck discoveries.

Over the past ten years of operation, more than 150 institutions have collaborated to deliver science on voyages. Usefully, RV Investigator can accommodate multiple projects on each voyage. The research has ranged from fisheries’ surveys and seafloor mapping to atmospheric studies and, of course, maritime heritage surveys.

RV Investigator is equipped with a suite of advanced acoustic systems. It also has three seafloor mapping systems, called multibeam echosounders. These allow for high-resolution measurements (bathymetry, literally meaning “deep measurement”) of the seafloor, from shallow coasts to full ocean depth.

These systems map the seafloor everywhere the vessel goes, both through data collection while underway, and through targeted surveys.

Both the distance RV Investigator travels during its annual research program and the volume of bathymetric data it collects are immense. This greatly increases the likelihood of making seafloor discoveries.

Over the past ten years, RV Investigator has travelled more than 500,000km and mapped more than 3 million sq.km of Australia’s marine estate. It has circumnavigated the continent several times.

All this has provided an opportunity to investigate many suspected shipwreck sites. These are often “piggyback” projects – ones that are added to the voyage but use no additional resources.

The power of collaboration

Shipwreck discoveries are impossible without collaboration. The maritime community, heritage agencies, research agencies and members of the public have all contributed to the recent shipwreck finds.

It is not uncommon for searches to be targeted by local knowledge from fishing communities, volunteer shipwreck hunters and even historians who have pieced together clues on the potential location of shipwrecks.

Related: 21 historic shipwrecks around Australia

Outreach to those affected by the findings is also invaluable. This includes the survivors of these tragedies and the families of those lost at sea, to keep them informed throughout the process.

Shipwreck discoveries can literally change lives – like the reunion of two siblings who spent their lives apart as orphans after their father died onboard SS Iron Crown in 1942.

‘Eyes’ in the depths

RV Investigator also has specialised drop cameras that can provide a view of the seafloor at depths up to 5000m. The visuals provided by these have been essential for identifying shipwrecks once found.

In 2023, a CSIRO team used this camera system to help identify the wreck of SS Nemesis, a steamship that was lost in 1904 off the coast of New South Wales. Also in 2023, an unidentified wreck off the southwest coast of Tasmania gained a name – it was the coastal freighter MV Blythe Star which capsized and sank in 1973.

The large areas of seafloor mapped by RV Investigator have also led to unexpected discoveries. The wreck of the 1890s iron barque Carlisle in Bass Strait in 2017 was a “chance encounter” for the vessel.

Why hunt for shipwrecks?

These discoveries are important for several reasons. Finding and analysing a shipwreck can help us understand the circumstances that led to these tragedies. It can also help provide closure to affected communities whose loved ones were lost at sea.

Knowing the current state of the shipwreck is important for heritage professionals and agencies who manage and protect the sites. Some shipwrecks are at risk of creating environmental damage such as fuel or oil leaks, so having data on them is vital for managing those risks.

RV Investigator is currently scheduled for a series of scientific upgrades, including its acoustic systems. With 8000 shipwrecks scattered around Australia’s coastline, and more than half of those undiscovered, there are many more maritime mysteries to solve.

Toni Moate is Chair of the National Marine Science Committee and Director of National Collections and Marine Infrastructure at CSIRO.

Emily Jateff is an Adjunct lecturer in archaeology at Flinders University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Related: Delivered from the deep

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Kaija is on what she calls “quokka watch”. It’s key to catch the creatures before they strike. With their cat-sized bodies, wild eyes, and permanently fixed smiles, quokkas are widely regarded as “cute”. And yet this innocent facade belies a life of crime. 

“We have to keep the quokkas out of the backyard because we’re trying to grow vegies,” Kajia says. “The second something green pops out of the ground, they nail it. So we’re on quokka watch. But a big one slips in every night. It jumps over a five-foot-high fence to have a munch.” 

There are currently nine quokkas wandering around her front yard. “Where we are, with plenty of natural habitat, they’re healthy: gorgeous and fluffy,” Kaija says.

“How crazy good are they?!” says Steve, Kaija’s partner, as a quokka advances towards us. Is this the mastermind behind the vegie patch raids? 

Related: Quokkas: why we need to look beyond the smile

Peak swells

Wadjemup is the Noongar name for Rottnest Island,  a 19sq.km patch sitting 33km west of Perth in Western Australia. In 1696 Dutch explorer Willem de Vlamingh mistook the quokkas for giant rats and named the island ’t Eylandt ’t Rottenest, which translates to “Rats’ Nest Island”. 

In late 2022, Irish vlogger Allan Dixon – who calls himself the “animal whisperer” – jokingly referred to quokkas as “rats” in a viral video, much to the chagrin of a few West Australians. Due to several celebrity #quokkaselfies, the marsupials have struck internet gold. So Rottnest Island, known affectionately as “Rotto”, has become one of WA’s top tourist destinations. The island’s pristine beaches are an asset all on their own. 

During peak season the small population swells. “There are about 100 permanent residents here, but in terms of seasonal hospitality workers, the population might balloon out to 400,” Kaija says. “During summer or school holidays, we get long-term visitors who stay on boats or on the island. The numbers are extreme. But in winter and the off-season, it’s very quiet.” 

In the cottage where Kaija lives, she rarely sees a soul. Unlike some island communities around Australia, Rottnest Island embodies the isolation and solitude typically associated with living in a place surrounded by the sea. “Where we live in the middle of the island, there’s no-one around. Plus, it’s bushland without any facilities or water. It’s a solid 20-minute bike ride into town, so it’s remote,” Kaija says. 

The island is home to a variety of self-contained cottages, a hostel, camping ground, a handful of cafes, pubs, restaurants and a small primary school with about a dozen students. 

“Pretty much everyone lives in the town, except for us,” Kaija says. “It makes a difference because out here you can switch off. Still, the island’s town is tiny and isolated compared with most places on the mainland.” 

The cottage’s remote setting gives Kaija unrestricted access to the nearby beaches, where she spends her days boating, surfing, fishing and snorkelling. And it shows; her long, blond hair gleams with the touch of sun and sea. 

The island is home to 63 beaches – a mixture of tidal plunge pools, small sandy bays and an exposed limestone reef. “You can’t even imagine the bays. Some days, you can’t stop looking at them. It’s the most beautiful coastline I’ve ever seen,” Kaija says. 

The clarity of the water provides ample opportunity to spot vibrant populations of tropical fish both inside and outside the marine sanctuary zones. Inland, the island has 12 salt lakes, where salt-tolerant plant species such as coastal bonefruit, grey saltbush, and beaded samphire thrive. In summer, several lakes dry up, leaving behind a patchwork of pink and white hues.

Kaija and Steve enjoy the company of a close-knit group of local friends, gathering on the beach for barbecues. However, the ebb and flow of seasonal tourism makes establishing a consistent sense of community a challenge. 

“There can be lots of temporary staff who are here for a good time, here to work hard,” Kaija says. “Plus, we get inundated with visitors. So it’s quite a mix; we don’t really have all the elements of a community here.” 

Like other islands around Australia, Rottnest Island attracts those in search of solitude. “It can be a funny vibe here. You can get some happy, sea-loving people, but it is a typical small town in many ways,” Kaija says. “There are reclusive people, quiet souls. They’re hiding out here.”

Isolation without loneliness

Despite living in the most isolated part of the island, Kaija rarely feels alone. She has Steve and a lively cohort of vegetable-loving quokkas right by her side. Then there are the sounds of the night. “The house dates back to the late 1800s, so we get a lot of strange noises at night,” Kaija says. “It’s the old lighthouse-keeper’s cottage. I think until about 60 years ago, keepers were living here. I’m yet to spend a night here alone, but it would be a little weird.” 

Kaija’s work phone rings, interrupting the conversation. She moves away to answer the call and Steve steps in. He says he works in construction, handling various projects on the island. When off duty, he soaks up all that comes with their unique way of life. “We live sustainably here,” Steve says.

“We catch a lot of our food from the sea, getting crayfish and squid. We’ve got our boat and so we get to travel around. We mix it up. We’re salty!” The couple’s water supply comes from the island’s desalination plant. While their shower tanks are refilled for them, they need to be “tight” with the drinking water. When they run out, they refill the tank in town and cart it all the way up to the cottage. Fortunately, the thrill of reeling in their evening meal offsets the tedium of hauling back their water. 

“We eat fish every three days, but we could eat it every night if we didn’t get sick of it,” Steve says. “The crays here are out of control – the cray pots are always full. We’re getting squid and full-sized fish. Our freezer looks good. We have three.” 

During her phone call, Kaija playfully sings out to the person on the other end. She says their name five times as the reception wavers. The mobile phone tower is under repair, so the signal hasn’t been great recently. 

Kaija returns to me and apologises. “We had a yacht all wrapped up in ropes today, so we were just checking in,” she explains. 

During winter, she and three other rangers handle wildlife care and environmental maintenance. During summer, when a few more rangers are rostered on, the work revolves around answering visitors’ calls. More often than not, they require marine rescue.

“The other day we got called to a yacht that was sinking, and I went down into the galley of the boat and was up to my knees in water. I got flashes of Titanic,” Kaija says. Using a petrol pump, she extracted the water from the yacht. It was then towed out by a rescue boat.

Rescues occur up to three times a week during most of the year, but in summer it’s almost every day.
“It’s something I didn’t know how to do before I came here, but it’s been fun to learn!” Kaija says. “A real hit of adrenaline.” 

Related: Rottnest Island: Knowing the good life

A healthy environment

During her first few weeks as a Rottnest Island resident, Kaija attached herself to several wildlife projects she’d long been passionate about – nurturing seal colonies, rescuing sea snakes (and the occasional penguin) and monitoring the local marine ecosystem. Recently, she worked with a team to install 160 underwater cameras. When Kaija watched the first round of footage, she was astonished. She saw large numbers of tiger sharks, stingrays, squid, octopus and jewfish stopping by to inspect the new tech. 

These visuals – proof of a thriving, healthy environment – were a great comfort to Kaija.  

While Rottnest Island doesn’t restrict visitor numbers, there are a range of strategies employed to manage and minimise visitor impact.

 For Kaija, her role is more than a livelihood. It’s also a way to serve as a guardian of this unique environment, while enjoying it too. “Talking to you about the island makes me realise what I love about living here,” she says. “It can be hard work, but I get to appreciate it and get excited all over again.” 

ISLAND LIFE

Less than 1 per cent of Australia’s population lives on the small islands dotted around our continent. This number is growing as more people head across the water after the onset of COVID, rejecting costly city living and office-based work. But is “island paradise” a myth, fuelled by a desperate search for escapism? Or have these far-flung residents truly found the key to happiness? This is the
second instalment in a series exploring the realities of island life.

Also in this series:

Related: Coochiemudlo Island: Beyond the emerald fringe

Related: French Island: Life in trees, surrounded by water

The post Rottnest Island: More than quokkas appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The trio from the University of Melbourne’s Grimwade Centre for Cultural Materials Conservation were heading to the municipality of Kabayan, Benguet to meet with local community members to request access to the area’s ancient rock shelters.

Tucked away within these secluded shelters are ‘meking’ or ‘fire mummies’ – the preserved ancestors of the Ibaloi people, one of the distinct ethnolinguistic groups of the mountainous Cordillera Benguet region.

Coming together

Fen, Camille and Sarah first met while studying the Master of Cultural Materials Conservation program at the University of Melbourne. In their shared class, Respect, the trio partnered to write a mock grant proposal.

They decided to investigate the Kabayan mummies – a topic especially close to home for Fen, an Ibaloi descendant.

“Growing up, I was very aware of my great-grandmother and her identity as an Ibaloi woman,” Fen says. “When she passed in 2021, I was starting this course and wanted to connect to her and her heritage.

“That led to this research pathway and learning about the mummies and my cultural heritage. As I was learning more, my grandmother flagged that we had somebody in our family within living memory who was, they say, ‘half-mummified’.

“They began the [mummification] process on her for a few weeks, but her children, who were Catholic, stopped the process and gave her a traditional burial. Her name was Kong, and she passed away in the 1920s.”

Camille also had a close connection with the project. Working on projects related to the mummies for several years, her expertise offered a unique insight. This led Fen, Camille and Sarah to learn about the mummies’ current deterioration and write their mock grant proposal on potential research into how they could work with the Kabayan community to conserve them.

However, the grant proposal didn’t stay in the classroom: “We realised we had this completed grant proposal with all the structural components,” Fen says. “We’ve got the budget, we’ve got the aims, we’ve got the significance; why don’t we actually submit it and see what happens?

“It was October when we submitted the grant, and we sort of forgot about it, especially with the holiday period. Then, in March of the next year, we got an email saying the grant was approved.”

The making of  ‘meking’

Most of the secrets of the Kabayan mummification process have been lost over time. The methodology was passed down solely through oral storytelling and anecdotes dating back to as early as 200 BCE.

According to Fen, the process involved drying and dehydrating human remains using heat and smoke from a fire – hence the term ‘fire mummy’.

“The actual process of mummification would take several weeks to do, and they would sit the body by a fire and have the chemical aspects of the smoke and heat dry it out over time,” Fen says. “Once that was done, they would enter the body into a wooden coffin, and that would be placed in a rock shelter or cave in the mountainside.

“If successful, the mummification was so effective it preserved tattoos and hair still visible today.”

Preserving an ancient people

While many of the rock shelters that house these ancient remains have been forgotten or remain purposefully hidden, around ten Kabayan sites are well known.

For hundreds of years, the cooler climate of the mountains helped preserve these mummies, but due to progressive environmental changes, the mummies are slowly deteriorating.

According to Sarah, the deterioration of the Kabayan mummies started increasing significantly in the 1970s due to climate change, growing industrialisation and a rise in tourism in the area.

These factors have led to environmental changes within the burial caves, causing the skin of some mummies to become brittle, and enabling mould growth and insect activity.

“Our project decided to use technology to monitor the environments that the mummies reside in and assess and monitor the agents of deterioration so that we can better understand why they are deteriorating,” Sarah says.

“We hope that by getting a better understanding of the temperature and the relative humidities of the rock shelters in which the mummies are housed, we can then figure out what we need to do so we can conserve the mummies and so they can remain in situ.”

To do this monitoring, Fen, Camille and Sarah would need to install data loggers in the caves where the mummies reside, which required permission from the locals.

“We wanted to make sure everything we were doing was going to be approved by the community and that we didn’t do anything that they would be even slightly uncomfortable with,” Sarah says.

“It was completely up to them whether or not they wanted us to come in and do this project. Even though it would be helping conserve like their ancestors, it was completely up to them whether they wanted outsiders to participate in the conservation.”

Fen adds that it was stressful making the long journey without knowing whether they would be allowed to conduct their research.

“It was a little bit scary having to face these Elders who are wary, and rightfully so,” she says. “There’s been a history of bad experiences with other research teams that have come to that community, so I think it was essential for us to make a good impression and to do right by them.

“At the end of our time in the community, there was a physical show of hands, like, stand up if you agree with the project,” Fen says. “It was almost like a moment from a movie – all the Elders stood up. It was unanimously agreed upon in terms of support.”

Connecting with culture

Fen, Camille and Sarah got to know the Kabayan locals and learned about their culture first-hand to ensure they showed respect to the ancestors whenever they conducted their research.

When meeting with the community, the team joined a Kabayan tradition known as ‘Cañao’, in which they danced and offered a pig to ask the gods for permission to do their research and as a blessing.

They also needed to be respectful of the mummies whenever they entered the caves.

“It’s really important to be respectful of the ancestors and the spirits of the mummies that are housed within the rock shelters, and before you can enter or even look into one of the rock shelters, you’re supposed to explain exactly what you’re going to be doing and then ask for permission,” Sarah explains.

The team would say hello and introduce themselves, explain what they were doing and why, and apologise for disturbing their rest. They would work with local spiritual guides to make offerings to the ancestors, providing them with items such as cigarettes, tobacco and gin.

The team believes the most essential part of their project was respecting and understanding the Kabayan culture so they could equip them with new skills and knowledge to continue caring for their ancestors.

Finding answers

The team partnered with the National Museum of the Philippines to continue the research and has now installed data monitors in seven separate sites.

These data loggers are specifically designed for outdoor temperature and environmental readings.

They will provide data on temperature and humidity at 30-minute intervals for ten months, allowing the team to understand the environment and recognise how it changes over seasons and times.

The loggers have Bluetooth functionality, so the caves don’t need to be disturbed to collect data. Each month, a team member in the Philippines visits the cave sites and downloads the data by remotely connecting to the loggers from within a 30m radius before sending the information back to Melbourne.

Fen says that this data will allow the team to best predict how environmental changes are impacting the mummies and provide insight on how to find practical solutions for their care and preservation in the future.

“At this point, it’s a bit too early to say exactly what those conservation actions will be, but we know that this information will provide a really good basis for us to start to understand why the mummies are deteriorating.”

The post Conserving the Kabayan mummies: from an Australian classroom to the Philippines mountains appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Loveday Internment Camp was not a single camp, but several. The internees – men aged 16 years and older – were divided into camps based on their ‘nationality’. However, many of these so-called enemy aliens had been born in Australia. Others were naturalised citizens who had lived in the country for decades. The camp also received internees rounded up in the territories of overseas allies, including Britain, Palestine, Iran, the Dutch East Indies, New Caledonia and New Zealand. 

Facilities in the camps included bunk houses for sleeping, kitchens, mess huts, recreation halls and a hospital. The 1929 Geneva Convention on Prisoners of War stipulated that enemy civilians receive the same rations as Australian troops and could not be subjected to forced labour. But many chose to work to overcome boredom, and they were paid one shilling per day. Some internees worked as woodcutters – a job that allowed them to leave the barbed-wire perimeter for several hours each day – and others in the poultry farms or the piggery, whose meat fed soldiers on the frontlines. Poppies and pyrethrum daisies – raw materials used to manufacture morphine and insect repellent, respectively – were cultivated in the lands around Loveday. 

According to local historian Rosemary Gowers, popular pastimes included woodwork, sculpting, making jewellery and musical instruments, and holding concerts. The Germans even built a nine-hole golf course. 

Italian-born (and naturalised Australian citizen) Fernand Charles Bentivoglio – described by Loveday’s senior medical officer as “one of the cheeriest men in the Compound” – had been a languages professor at the NSW Conservatorium of Music and spent his internment teaching English to Italian internees. 

Loveday’s facilities were reasonable, but camp life proved monotonous. Internees’ mental health often suffered from boredom, social isolation and separation from their community, wives and families. Others were indignant at being labelled an enemy alien by the country they were born in. In the Japanese camp, military personnel observed a distinct social divide between internees born in Australia and those born in Japan. Patrick Yoshio Ahmat, born in 1916 in Onslow, Western Australia, was interned at Loveday from 1942 to 1946. An officer noticed he only mingled with other Australian-born Japanese, “none of whom have much in common with the Japanese Internees…”

Loveday’s German and Italian internees were transferred to Tatura Internment Camp in Victoria before VE Day. When Japan surrendered in September 1945, most Japanese civilians were repatriated to Japan – including some who had been born in Australia. The last Japanese internees left the camp on 28 February 1946. 

The post Looking back at Loveday: Australia’s largest WWII internment camp appeared first on Australian Geographic.

But in 2021, something fundamental changed. As the world grappled with COVID lockdowns and economic chaos, the birds of the world were encountering a new strain, known formally as Highly Pathogenic Avian Influenza (HPAI) H5N1 2.3.4.4.b. It spread easily and was capable of causing disease and death in a far wider number of bird species than previously seen before.

Related: Australian bird flu cases: the potential impact on humans and native wildlife

So far, it has triggered the culling of half a billion farmed birds and killed millions of wild birds. (This is a different strain to the HPAI H7 strains which have infected poultry farms in Australia).

If this new strain gets to Australia, carried on a migratory wild bird, it could pose similar risks to our unique wildlife. But we haven’t been sitting still. Australian researchers, governments, veterinarians and wildlife rehabilitators have been urgently preparing for its arrival.

Why is this strain so bad?

This strain has now made it to every part of the world bar Australia, New Zealand and Pacific nations. The virus killed many birds in the northern hemisphere before crossing to the Americas. In South America it proved particularly lethal, infecting and killing massive numbers of birds and marine mammals such as sea lions.

Many strains of bird flu are “low pathogenicity”, meaning they tend not to cause severe disease. But these strains can evolve into highly pathogenic strains if they spill over from wild birds into poultry, as we’re seeing with the current outbreaks in poultry farms in Victoria, New South Wales and the ACT.

Prior to 2024, Australia had experienced eight previous outbreaks of H7 HPAI in poultry, all of which were eradicated by culling poultry and isolating farms.

This new H5N1 2.3.4.4.b strain is much more worrying for our wildlife, because it transmits very easily between wild birds. It has proven it can kill mammals, including marine mammals, predators and scavenger species that eat birds.

It also poses a real threat to our poultry industries. If H5N1 2.3.4.4b were to enter Australia, we could see more outbreaks in domestic poultry, which in turn could affect the supply of chicken and eggs – both very popular sources of animal protein in Australia.

Given the virus is present worldwide, including in Antarctica, you might wonder why it hasn’t made it to Australia yet.

Related: ‘We’re going to see some haunting images’: Bird flu has reached Antarctica

Avian influenza travels most easily in waterfowl such as ducks. Australia’s waterfowl are not migratory and only travel short distances between Australia and countries to the north.

But Australia is on the path of several flyways from Asia, along which millions of shorebirds migrate every year in spring. Some seabirds also migrate from the Atlantic.

How are we preparing?

The devastation the virus has caused overseas has given Australia time to prepare.

We can’t stop wild birds from migrating here. But we can slow the spread and protect at-risk wildlife from other threats such as invasive predators, giving them the best chance to survive the virus if it arrives.

Around Australia and on our sub-Antarctic islands, a network of veterinarians, researchers, government officials, rangers and wildlife rehabilitators is on alert looking for sick birds with signs, such as respiratory illness.

If a bird showing these signs is spotted, they will call the Emergency Animal Disease Hotline (1800 675 888). Members of the public are also encouraged to report sightings.

Other plans for the virus include:

• restricting human movements in and out of virus-affected areas, where appropriate
• surveillance to see how the virus is moving with wildlife
• triage and clinical responses to the virus, including euthanasia for dying birds.

We have created information toolboxes to help wildlife managers and carers to manage risk and reduce transmission if the virus is confirmed here. These include improving baseline biosecurity, clearing away carcasses, restricting human movement to reduce spread, and euthanasing dying birds.

For threatened species, we can explore the merits of vaccination trials for captive birds. New Zealand authorities are trialling this method.

But such vaccination must ultimately serve the welfare interests of wildlife. There are many complexities to consider.

Globally, vaccination of free-ranging wild birds has occurred for just one species – the endangered Californian condor, considered particularly at risk because of its low numbers.

Black swan event?

Overseas, waterfowl, shorebirds and seabirds have proven especially susceptible to the virus. Avian predators are also at risk if they eat sick birds or their carcasses.

Specific data on Australian species are limited, but at least one local species, the black swan, has been found to be highly vulnerable to the virus because they lack some protective genes.

The sheer variation of our ecosystems might offer some protection. We have many transient bodies of water, such as Kati Thanda-Lake Eyre. If the virus arrived during a period of drought, it could have a different impact than if it arrived during flooding rains, which fill lakes and encourage movement of wild waterfowl.

Related: Black swan: the impossible bird

Because this strain is very new, we don’t know yet what the long term outcome will be.

It’s possible birds which survive an infection will become immune and survive to breed. But some species and populations may not be able to survive this first assault.

This threat is new territory for Australia. Many of the other animal diseases we worry about and prepare for only attack one species, such as African swine fever, or only affect non-native wildlife (such as foot and mouth disease). But this strain of bird flu has attacked over 500 bird species and is infecting a growing number of mammal species.

What can you do? Keep an eye out for any sick or dead birds – and call the Emergency Animal Disease Hotline if you do.

Tiggy Grillo is Chief Operating Officer of Wildlife Health Australia and an Adjunct Lecturer at Charles Sturt University.

Simone Vitali is Wildlife Health Australia’s Program Manager (Emergencies) and an Adjunct Senior Lecturer at Murdoch University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Is Australia prepared for Avian Influenza H5N1? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Invasive alien species become much harder and more expensive to manage as they establish and spread through the landscape. So preventing their arrival is vital.

But which species will arrive next?

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure

To help manage the invasive species threat, national authorities compile official warning lists that identify species not yet within a country’s borders, but which may become a big problem if they do arrive.

The most important criteria for adding a species to the list is whether they have already invaded other parts of the world.

Authorities also consider if a species could feasibly be brought into the country by humans either deliberately, such as on the case of exotic pets, or accidentally, for example if they hitchhike on fresh produce, luggage or vehicles.

Authorities also consider if a species can survive and reproduce in the country (which precludes, say, a polar bear being added to the warning list in a tropical area).

Related: Australia’s least wanted – 8 alien species and diseases we must keep out of our island home

These warning lists can be effective. For example, the United Kingdom’s list was published in 2013; within two years, seven of their top-listed alien species had arrived in the country, including the notoriously invasive quagga mussel.

However, the lists are not foolproof. Most crucially, the emphasis on whether a species has invaded other parts of the world will not identify species that have not yet become invasive anywhere, but might in future.

In fact, a study in 2020 predicted the number of new alien species globally will increase by 36 per cent by 2050.

New research set out to address this blind spot in warning list systems.

Who’s arriving next?

The tool developed assesses a species’ invasion risk based on whether humans are likely to accidentally bring the species to a certain country, and if the species will become invasive beyond their natural range.

First, researchers collected data on attributes of species worldwide, such as their size, number of offspring, lifestyle, diet, preferred habitats, natural range, how often they are encountered, and their tolerance to humans.

Second, the researchers programmed the tool to analyse patterns in the attributes of species that have become invasive in different parts of the world. This means the tool identifies species that haven’t yet invaded new areas globally, but share attributes with species that have become invasive.

Those attributes include:

• a tendency to climb as opposed to staying on the ground, which means they are more likely to hitchhike into a country on produce and in luggage and vehicles

• being commonly encountered in a wide range of habitats, especially where humans live.

The tool was tested on about 16,000 (or 76 per cent) of all known amphibians and reptiles worldwide, with no invasion history. Of these, we identified 160 species that might pose an invasion risk to Australia and other countries.

What Australia should watch out for

The species the tool identified as a possible invasion concern to Australia, and which border officials should be monitoring for, included:

• Common European viper (Vivipera berus), a venomous snake widespread in Europe and northern Asia. It grows to a maximum length of about 85 centimetres. Other venomous snake species are native to Australia, but no viper species are currently known to exist here. Viper venom affects blood clotting and destroys tissues.

• Graceful chameleon (Chamaeleo gracilis), a lizard common in sub-Saharan Africa. While the species is commonly exploited by the pet trade, our tool indicates it can also be accidentally brought to Australia by humans. Chameleons can change their colour to either camouflage themselves and evade predators, or to intimidate them.

• American toad (Anaxyrus americanus), from eastern North America. They have a wart-like gland behind each eye. The toad is poisonous like the cane toad, which is already a problem in northern Australia. However, the American toad can live in temperate climates and could threaten southern Australia’s wildlife.

Next steps

Around the time the tool finished development last year, one of the predicted invaders – the Caspian Bent-toed Gecko (Tenuidactylus caspius) – began invading the Eastern European nation of Georgia.

This demonstrates the tool’s potential to identify future invaders and improve current warning systems.

But further work is needed before including the species identified on national warning lists. For example, research is needed to determine where each species can survive and reproduce.

And so far, researchers have applied the tool only to amphibians and reptiles, particularly those that can be accidentally transported by humans. In future, the tool will hopefully be applied to other animal groups and plants to identify invaders looming on our horizons.

Arman Pili is a Research affiliate at Monash University.

David Chapple is a Professor in Evolutionary and Conservation Ecology at Monash University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Alien invasion: which foreign species might enter Australia next? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The TCZ is based on decades of research including cane toad migration modelling. The project aims to stop cane toads spreading between the Kimberley and Pilbara regions of north-west WA by removing their access to artificial water sources in a narrow coastal corridor.

Past failures

The wet-dry tropics have provided ideal conditions for these toxic pests to proliferate and spread, and previous attempts to stop the advance of cane toads across northern Australia have been unsuccessful.

But cane toads have now come to a bottleneck where the Great Sandy Desert meets the ocean between Broome and Port Headland, and swift action using the TCZ might be able to halt their progress.

“Toads will move into this landscape every single wet season, but if they don’t have access to surface water in the late dry season, when it’s really hot and dry, they perish very rapidly”, explained one of the TCZ project’s scientific advisors, Professor Ben Phillips from WA’s Curtin University.

To ensure the toads “perish” the project will be removing access to water at more than 150 sites by fixing agricultural water leaks.

“What we’re proposing is essentially a plumbing project,” Ben said. “We’re working with pastoralists and horticulturalists to upgrade their infrastructure such that water isn’t accessible to toads in the late dry season. If we do that, the science says the toad invasion should stop.”

Novel collaborative project

The TCZ is unlike any project that’s been attempted in the past, and Ben is optimistic about its chance of success.

“Previous efforts have attempted to find and kill every toad in the landscape [and] that is a difficult proposition,” Ben explained. “This [new] strategy is basically letting the landscape kill the toads, and it does that very effectively.”

The TCZ is a collaborative effort between Curtin University, Deakin University, Rangelands NRM, Nyangumarta Warrarn Aboriginal Corporation and Karajarri Traditional Lands Association.

Since it began, the TCZ project has been guided and informed by Traditional Owners, and Ben believes the development of new partnerships is one of the project’s greatest strengths.

The crest-tailed mulgara (Dasycercus cristicauda) (left), Perentie (Varanus giganteus) (top, right), northern quoll (Dasyurus hallucatus) (centre, right) and yellow-spotted monitor (Varanus panoptes) (below, right) are just some of the native animals at risk of decline if cane toads cross into northern Australia. Image credit: Judy Dunlop

“We’ve been talking with Nyangumarta and Karajarri about this project for seven or eight years now. They are absolutely driving it forward at this point,” Ben said.

“One of the exciting things about this project is that it’s growing a partnership between the Indigenous landowners and the pastoral landholders. Those two groups will be able to work together, not only to affect local cane toad control that protects Nyangumarta and Karajarri Country, but also to deliver a nationally significant conservation action.”

Related: Cane toads have adapted to our climate

The TCZ will prevent cane toads from harming fragile ecosystems and threatened species across 27 million hectares of Pilbara habitat.

“The potential win here is absolutely huge, and there are no other similar opportunities of this magnitude,” Ben said.

The post Stopping cane toads from advancing across northern Australia appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Lancelin transforms each summer as its population of about 800 is tripled during the Christmas-New Year holiday season. In recent years Lancelin has seen a building boom, with lots of modern holiday homes replacing its old fibro weekender shacks. The town actively promotes itself as one of Australia’s premier sandboarding destinations, as well as a windsurfing and kitesurfing paradise. 

In spring, Lancelin’s beautiful beaches are rivalled by the nearby magnificent wildflowers. Lesueur National Park, 90 minutes drive north of the town, is one of the best places to see the blooms, which are at their prime in September. 

Nambung National Park – home of the Pinnacles – is about 50 minutes north of the town by road. This unusual series of limestone formations is rightly regarded as one of Australia’s natural wonders. This spectacular scenery looks as though it was snatched from the set of a sci-fi film, with thousands of limestone pillars bursting from the yellow sand to create an otherworldly landscape.

Things to do

1. Surf’s up

Back Beach – widely considered to be the area’s go-to surfing destination – is situated just south of the town. This surfing hotspot is ideal for both experienced and amateur surfers, as well as bodysurfers, bodyboarders, kitesurfers and swimmers. Book a private or group surfing lesson at Lancelin Surf School.

2. Sandboarding

Lancelin’s dunes are among the town’s major drawcards, attracting thousands of visitors each year. According to Tourism Western Australia, these are the state’s largest dunes, at more than 40m tall. Sandboarding is the most popular activity, but these spectacular dunes can also be explored on a quad-bike tour or by four-wheel-drive.
More details on tour operators

3. Explore the Pinnacles

Nambung National Park lies about 80km north of Lancelin, near Cervantes. Pinnacles Desert Discovery has displays, soundscapes, videos and images that explain the geology of the area and how the pinnacles were formed. Don’t miss the Pinnacles Desert Lookout and Drive Trail. Visitors can get up close to these strange and mysterious formations on the Desert View Walk Trail, an easy 1.6km loop from the Desert Discovery car park. 

4. Stroll along the beach

There’s a delightful 5.4km walk along the beach at Lancelin Bay from North Point to South Point. The round trip takes about an hour and is an ideal way to experience the beauty and peacefulness of this section of the coast. The best time of year to complete this track is March–June and October–November, when winds are lighter.

5. Soak up sunsets

Like so many places along WA’s coast –particularly north of Perth – Lancelin is known for its dramatic and spectacular sunsets across the Indian Ocean. The best sunset spots in and around Lancelin include the top of the dunes, the jetty and Nilgen Lookout (a 15-minute drive north of the town). 

6. Sample local seafood

Lancelin is famous for its rock-lobster (crayfish) industry, which began in the 1940s. Today, tourists can go down to the jetty at Lancelin Beach and buy fresh lobsters direct from the fleet. For those wanting to have a crack at fishing, the jetty is also a popular spot to catch herring, whiting, squid, flathead, samson fish and more. 

Related: A complete guide to Aussie towns

The post A complete guide to Lancelin, WA appeared first on Australian Geographic.

That was when an intact carcass of a male of the species was found on a beach in Otago, New Zealand.

It was discovered by beachgoers who notified New Zealand’s Department of Conservation (DOC), which didn’t realise the significance of the discovery until its staff arrived and saw the 5m-long beaked whale.

After closer inspection and consultation with marine mammal experts the team soon concluded the carcass was that of the extremely rare species.

To appreciate the magnitude of this find, let’s rewind the clock back to the early 1870s. At this time, no one knew the whale existed.

Then, in 1872, an unusual lower jawbone and two tusk teeth were collected from New Zealand’s Pitt Island by naturalist Henry Travers, explains DOC marine mammal expert Anton van Helden.

Two years later, Scottish geologist James Hector used these skeletal remains to describe the species as a strap-toothed whale (Mesoplodon layardii). But in 1874 British zoologist John Gray studied Hector’s description and “decided that it should be a new species and gave it the species name traversii, after Henry Travers,” says Anton.

It wasn’t until 1950 that any evidence of the species surfaced again, when a partial skull was found, again in New Zealand, on White Island. Decades passed until, in 1986, another partial skull was discovered, this time on Chile’s Robinson Crusoe Island. In 2002 a scientific paper was published, confirming “based on comparing the morphology of the skulls, and the DNA of all three known specimens, that they were all the same species,” Anton says.  

Still, no one had seen any more of the animal than a few skeletal remains, so nobody knew what it looked like and it might have already gone extinct. 

In 2010 not one but two of the animals were finally seen in the flesh – albeit dead with parts missing by the time they were found – when a mother and calf stranded in New Zealand’s Bay of Plenty. 

At the time, however, the find was considered unremarkable. Whale strandings are common in New Zealand and it was assumed the whales were Gray’s beaked whales (Mesoplodon grayi), the most common strandees. 

As per national protocol, however, photographs, body measurements and tissue samples were taken before the carcasses were buried on the beach where they were found. DNA sequencing soon matched the mother and calf to the existing samples of spade-toothed whale skeleton in the database. 

Finally, the spade-toothed whale’s physical appearance could begin to be documented. 

“This was the first time the species had been seen with flesh on,” says Anton, “and from which the first tentative description of the colour pattern and external morphology was done.”

After the DNA revealed the significance of the two whale bodies they were exhumed from the sand and are now preserved at Te Papa Tongarewa (Museum of New Zealand). 

In 2017 another partial body washed ashore, in New Zealand’s Gisborne. Again, it was at first mistaken for a Gray’s beaked whale, identified later as a spade-toothed whale using photographs. 

Anton says this specimen – also now in Te Papa Tongarewa’s collection – gave scientists the “first really good idea of what the colour pattern of the animal was and other key external features.”

Fast forward to two weeks ago – July 4 – when the latest spade-toothed whale was found – only the sixth recorded specimen, the third including body tissue, and the first fully intact.  

DOC Coastal Otago operations manager Gabe Davies summarises the magnitude of the find: “Spade-toothed whales are one of the most poorly known large mammalian species of modern times. Since the 1800s, only six samples have ever been documented worldwide, and all but one of these was from New Zealand.”

What do we know about spade-toothed whales?

Everything science currently knows about the spade-toothed whale (Mesoplodon traversii) comes from two partial skulls, a jawbone, a few teeth, and three specimens washed up dead on beaches. 

It’s one of 21 species of beaked whale (family Ziphiidae) and there are only subtle differences – in size, teeth, beaks, and colour – between them all.

It’s thought they spend most of their time at extreme ocean depths, explaining why they are so rarely seen by humans. Another possible reason why they are scantily seen is that there are simply so few of them.

New Zealand seems to be a hotspot for the family with 13 species of beaked whales recorded in waters surrounding the island nation.

Spade-toothed whales are classified as ‘data deficient’ in the New Zealand Threat Classification System.

Next steps

Genetic samples already taken from the body will be processed by the team at University of Auckland’s New Zealand Cetacean Tissue Archive. This DNA will provide official confirmation that the species is indeed a spade-toothed whale.

The whale’s body has since been removed from the beach where it was found and is being preserved in cold storage while the next steps are discussed. 

A body this fresh offers the first opportunity in history for a spade-toothed whale specimen to be dissected.

“From a scientific and conservation point of view, this is huge,” Gabe says. 

But there are many stakeholders to consider. 

DOC is working in partnership with Te Rūnanga ō Ōtākou (the organisation representing the local Mauri peoples of the land on which the whale was found) to make decisions involving the whale’s remains. 

“It is important to ensure appropriate respect for this taoka [sacred/treasured animal] is shown through the shared journey of learning, applying mātauraka Māori [Maori knowledge] as we discover more about this rare species,” says Te Rūnanga ō Ōtakou chair, Nadia Wesley-Smith.

The post The world’s rarest whale has captivated scientists since the 1800s appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Many cobras have tissue-damaging venoms that can’t be treated with current antivenoms. Research has discovered that cheap, readily available blood-thinning medications can be repurposed as antidotes for these venoms.

Using CRISPR gene-editing technology, researchers learned more about how these venoms attack our cells, and found out that a common class of drugs called heparinoids can protect tissue from the venom.

Snakebites are a serious problem

Snake venoms are made up of many different compounds. Generally, they target the heart, nervous system or tissue at the exposure site such as the skin and muscle.

Much snakebite research understandably focuses on the most deadly venoms. As a result, venoms that are less deadly but still cause long-term problems – such as cobra venoms – have received less attention.

In the regions where cobras live, serious snakebites can have devastating effects, such as amputation, leading to life-changing injuries and a loss of livelihood. The World Health Organization has declared snakebite a “Category A” neglected tropical disease and hopes to reduce the burden of snakebites by half by 2030.

Related: Turning toxins to therapies: the wild world of researching venom

The only current treatments for snakebites are antivenoms, which are made by exposing non-human animals to small amounts of the venom and harvesting the antibodies they produce in response.

Antivenoms save lives, but they have several drawbacks. Each one is specific to one or more species of snake, they are prohibitively expensive (when they are available at all), they need cold storage and they must be administered via injection in a hospital.

What’s more, antivenoms can’t prevent local tissue damage. This is mainly because the antibodies that make up antivenoms are too large to reach peripheral tissue, such as a limb.

How cobra venom kills cells

A team from the University of Sydney in Australia, the Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine in the United Kingdom and Instituto Clodomiro Picado in Costa Rica set out to look for other options to treat snakebites.

First, researchers wanted to try to understand how these venoms worked, starting with cobras which are found across Africa and South Asia.

They took venom from the African spitting cobra, which is known to cause tissue damage, and performed what is called a whole genome CRISPR screen.

They took a large mixture of human cells and used CRISPR gene-editing technology to disable a different gene from across the whole human genome in each cell. CRISPR technology uses a special enzyme to remove or change specific parts of the DNA in a cell.

Then they exposed all the cells to the cobra venom and looked at which ones survived and which ones died.

Cells that survived must have been missing whatever it is that the venom needs to hurt us, so researchers could quickly identify what these features were.

They found various cobra venoms need particular enzymes to kill human cells. These enzymes are responsible for making long sugar molecules called heparan and heparin sulfate.

Heparan sulfate is found on the surface of human and animal cells. Heparin sulfate is released from our cells when our immune systems respond to a threat.

The importance of these molecules intuitively made sense. Snake venoms have evolved alongside their targets, and heparan and heparin have changed very little throughout evolution. The venoms have therefore hijacked something common to animal physiology to cause damage.

How heparin decoys reduce tissue damage

Heparin has been used as a blood-thinning medication for almost 100 years.

The drug was tested on human cells to see if flooding the system with free heparin could be used as a decoy target for the venom. Remarkably, this worked and the venoms no longer caused cell death, even when the heparin was added to cells after the venom.

Researchers also tested heparin against venoms from distantly related Asian cobras and it had the same protective effect. Injecting a smaller synthetic version of heparin called tinzaparin could reduce tissue damage in mice with an artificial “snakebite”.

To figure out how heparin was blocking the venom, the researchers separated the venom into its major components. They found that heparin inhibits “cytotoxic three-finger toxins”, which are a major cause of tissue injury. Until now there were no drugs known to work against these toxins.

The next step will be to test the effects of heparin in people.

Cheaper, more accessible snakebite treatment

The goal is to make a snakebite treatment device containing heparin-like drugs called heparinoids, which would be similar to the EpiPen adrenaline injectors often carried by people at risk of severe allergic reactions. These devices could be distributed to people who face a high risk of cobra bites.

Heparinoids are already inexpensive essential medicines used to prevent blood clots. The US Food and Drug Administration has approved them for self-administration in humans which may reduce the time required for the lengthy process of getting a drug to market. Heparinoids are also stable at room temperature, meaning the drugs can be more accessible in remote regions and delivered faster in the field.

Related: Australia’s 10 most dangerous snakes

Other studies have also confirmed the usefulness of repurposing drugs for treating snakebites. These drug combinations could herald a new age for snake venom treatment that doesn’t solely rely on costly antivenoms.

CRISPR screening has been previously used to investigate box jellyfish venom and researchers on this study are currently looking at other venoms closer to home from bluebottles to black snakes. The screening technique lets the team uncover a wealth of information about a venom.

It’s early days, but they are finding many venoms rely on overlapping targets to attach to our cells. This research all feeds into the more lofty goal of making universal and broad-acting venom antidotes.

Tian Du is a PhD candidate in venom genomics at the University of Sydney.

Greg Neely is a Professor of functional genomics at the University of Sydney.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Amber acts like a time capsule, capturing tiny animals, plants and even microorganisms from millions of years ago. These fossils – also known as inclusions – can appear astonishingly fresh, preserved just as they were when they died trapped in sticky tree resin.

Australian amber is now helping to understand the biological diversity of ancient Gondwanan environments from 42 million years ago and their connections to today’s Australian forests. From it, we can learn yet more reasons for why we must protect today’s forests.

The unique value of Australian amber

Unlike typical, squashed fossil rock shapes, palaeontologists value amber for its remarkable ability to preserve inclusions in full three dimensions. This means we can study fossil organisms that would otherwise not have been recorded in such detail.

This is especially important considering that around 85 per cent of modern biodiversity comes from arthropods – spiders, flies, beetles, bees and the like. Only 0.3 per cent is represented by the “bony” mammals more commonly found as fossils in rocks.

Overall, only a tiny fraction of all life throughout geologic time has been fossilised. This means we work with a biased fossil record that may not accurately represent past diversity.

Amber provides a unique opportunity to find less common specimens. It helps to reveal the diversity of past ecosystems and to reduce these biases in our understanding of ancient life.

Related: Rare local amber findings offer insight into ancient terrestrial ecosystems

Most amber discoveries come from the Northern Hemisphere in places such as the Baltic region, Spain, China and Myanmar. Australia is one of the rare places in the Southern Hemisphere where scientists can also study organisms trapped in amber.

The most promising site for finding these preserved organisms is a former coal mining area in Victoria. The amber and fossils from this site are estimated to be 42–40 million years old, dating back to the Eocene epoch.

At that time, Australia and Antarctica were still connected as part of the slowly fragmenting supercontinent called Gondwana. Australia had a warm and moist climate, and forests teeming with insects, arachnids and other creatures.

Living fossils

The amber we’re working with has been studied by researchers since 2014. Findings described in 2020 include biting midges, baby spiders, and even a pair of mating flies.

Our latest work reveals more details on the species. We’ve learnt not only where these organisms lived in the past, but also the surprising fact that many of them still exist in Australia’s forests today, albeit in greatly reduced geographic ranges.

This means creatures from ancient Gondwana have persisted for more than 40 million years. Their survival for so long gives even more reason to protect them into the future.

One major breakthrough in our research is based on new advancements at ANSTO’s Australian Synchrotron research facility in Melbourne. Improved resolution and the capability to scan smaller samples with X-rays have greatly improved how we can produce images of organisms trapped in amber. This allows us to create detailed 3D reconstructions, and we can identify the species more easily.

The synchrotron has also made it possible to finally detect inclusions within large, opaque pieces of amber that were hard to examine previously with traditional microscopes.

What have we found in Australian amber?

Some of the new major findings have been a “non-biting” or “feather” midge from the Podonominae insect subfamily. It’s the first fossil record of the genus Austrochlus in the Southern Hemisphere. Even though it was widely distributed globally in the past, it is now restricted to Australia.

With the synchrotron, we revealed not only the specimen’s sex and position in its family tree, but also internal structures of what are potentially wing muscles. Even in amber fossils, that’s a rarity.

A true biting midge that’s still around today known as Austroconops was also found. It’s the first fossil of its kind dating back to the Cenozoic, spanning the last 66 million years. Once widespread, today this midge is only found in Western Australia, again restricted just to our continent.

A wasp from the family Embolemidae, recognised today from all around the world to be a parasite on planthopper nymphs, is another highlight from Australian amber. This group has quite a scarce fossil record, and this is only the second time one has been found in the Southern Hemisphere.

All of these insect fossils are the first of their kind found in Australia. And we’ve only scratched the surface – there are many more yet to be described.

Remarkably, these insects are still around in Australian forests today, tracing their lineage back in time to ancient Gondwana. Without realising it, we exist among living fossils.

Related: Feathered dinosaur tail found in amber

While we know these species were widely distributed in the past, today most of them are found only on this continent. They now face new challenges which threaten their habitats. The threats include climate change, deforestation and urban sprawl.

Protecting these ancient “living fossils” and their environments is essential for the health of our native ecosystems.

Maria Blake is a PhD student at Monash University.

Jeffrey Stilwell is an Associate Professor of Palaeontology of the School of Earth, Atmosphere and Environment at Monash University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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The biobank is like a “frozen zoo” within the Melbourne Museum that is cryogenically freezing live animal cells in a bid to preserve the genetic diversity of Australia’s unique wildlife. Scientists hope to one day reintroduce this genetic material back into wild populations through cloned lab-grown cells, to help boost a population’s genetic diversity – or even bring a species back from extinction. 

“The idea behind this [the biobank] is being able to preserve cells from all of our endangered species in a living format,” says project lead Professor Andrew Pask, an epigeneticist from The University of Melbourne. “Far down the track…if we have a horrendous bushfire that wipes out a particular species, or so many animals from that population that they’re unhealthy, you could use these cells to bring back the [genetic] variation that occurred in that particular region and rewild those animals once the bush is regenerated.” 

The biobank began collecting genetic material in January 2024, following a $500,000 grant from the Australian Research Council Linkage in 2023. At the time of going to press, they had gathered DNA from upwards of 20 species, including the fat-tailed dunnart, brolga, smoky mouse, malleefowl and dusky antechinus. “We’re kind of opportunistically collecting everything we can,” Andrew says. The biobank aims to cryopreserve the genetic material of more than 100 species over the next three years.

Most of the cells collected are skin cells, which were scraped from an animal’s ear or foot during population surveys or donated from zoos and breeding programs. “At the moment we are doing things with people already out monitoring and catching animals,” Andrew says. “We supply them with tubes, so that when they’ve got the animal, they just do these little skin scrapings or clippings and then drop them into the vial that comes back to the museum.” 

Remarkably, the scientists at the living biobank can culture cells from animals up to a week after an animal has died. Cells extracted from a loggerhead turtle and common dolphin made their way into the collection after washing up dead on a beach, while other cells were sourced from roadkill. 

At the lab, geneticists establish cell lines – a population of cloned cells – from these skin scrapings. Andrew says skin cells are ideal for cloning because of its high cellular turnover. “Because our skin is constantly replacing itself, it grows really fast so it’s a really good way to get…millions of cells that we can then freeze to make sure we never lose that DNA, that uniqueness, from that population again,” he says. The cells are frozen in liquid nitrogen and stored at –196°C. This sub-zero temperature puts the cells’ biological processes “on pause” and allows the genetic material to be preserved indefinitely.

Andrew is also the head of the Thylacine Integrated Genomic Restoration Research Laboratory (TIGRR Lab) at The University of Melbourne and is arguably best known for his work on the “de-extinction” of the thylacine. Without access to any living genetic material from a thylacine, Andrew says the bulk of his work at the TIGRR Lab involves engineering cells back into existence. “For the thylacine we never had this foresight – or the technology – to save cells down,” he says. “It’s a very long, slow process [that’s] going to take us years and years and years.” But the frozen biobank means that, should a species become extinct, scientists will have access to a frozen repository of cell lines. “You already have that living cell, you’ve got that intact nucleus, and so it’s just a matter of turning those cells back into an animal,” Andrew says. 

Some skin cells are reprogrammed into stem cells that, in turn, can be differentiated into gametes – sperm and egg cells – and used to create a living animal. But animals can be cloned without this stem cell technology. “You can take just the nucleus from that cell line – so these are just skin cells – and put it into an embryo that you’ve taken the DNA out of, and then you can create a whole other animal from that,” Andrew says, explaining that this was the method used to clone Dolly the sheep in 1997. 

The genetic material preserved in the biobank is an insurance policy against diversity loss at a time when an entire species might be wiped out in an extreme weather event. A single flood or bushfire could render an entire species locally extinct – or shrink a population to such a degree that they’re put on the fast-track to extinction. 

The smoky mouse is one such species. This critically endangered rodent is scattered across south-eastern Australia but is mostly concentrated around the Victoria–New South Wales border. Urbanisation and bushfires have fragmented populations and prompted a major collapse of genetic diversity within the species. “[Smoky mouse populations] were heavily impacted by the 2019–20 Black Summer bushfires in NSW, and the smoke may have been the cause of deaths in the captive breeding program in Canberra,” says Dr Kevin Rowe, Senior Curator of Mammals at Museums Victoria. “In Victoria the populations were mostly spared. There’s a major smoky mouse population in Grampians (Gariwerd) National Park in western Victoria that didn’t suffer from the fire, but they suffered from the fire [in February 2024].” Faced with an uncertain future, the biobank has cryopreserved DNA donated by the University of Canberra’s smoky mouse captive breeding program.  

The biobank also holds genetic material extracted from two broad-toothed rats, which were trapped and released back into the wild after an ear biopsy. These endangered rodents dwell in Australia’s alpine and subalpine regions – and this was the first species to have its cells cryopreserved in Museums Victoria’s collection. “Broad-toothed rats were heavily impacted by the [Black Summer] bushfires, particularly in their northern habitat in the alpine regions,” Kevin says. “In the eastern alpine region we had quite a few sites that were completely scorched earth where they were present.” 

As well as preserving the genetic material of animals teetering on extinction, the biobank holds material from animals seemingly back from the dead. The grassland earless dragon was believed extinct from the 1960s until a small population was discovered during a building survey last winter. Melbourne Zoo has now established a captive breeding program to ensure the future of this species, and has donated cells to the biobank. 

At the time of going to press, 18 of the species preserved in the biobank are native to Australia. Two are non-native but endangered – the Asian elephant and Bornean orangutan – and there’s even one invasive species, the black rat. 

“One of the interesting things about cells is we can use them to preserve genetic diversity in a living form in species, but we can also use it as a tool to potentially control invasive species,” Kevin says. “Our colleagues in the TIGRR Lab are working on growing those cells and making stem cells from them, ultimately to come up with methods for controlling their populations in the wild.”

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Exploring the Ross River

Flying into Townsville, I was immediately struck by the mountainous surrounds to the city. In addition to the domineering figure of Castle Hill in the centre of the city, your eye is drawn to the distant Paluma Ranges and across the ocean to the hills of Magnetic Island. 

The hills, however, would have to wait for another day as our first morning began early, at 7.00am, as we met our guide, Julia. The cycle tour runs during the dry season, from May to October, and as we were getting a pre-season preview of the tour our days would be starting earlier than usual to beat the worst of the lingering summer heat. After a short walk through Queens Park, we arrived at tour headquarters to collect our metal steeds in the form of electric bicycles, equipped with pannier bags for carrying our gear. 

After a quick lesson in e-bike use, we mounted up and traversed across town to the impressive new Queensland Country Bank Stadium and the start of our Ross River ride. From here on out the ride was 90% bike path, which made for a very pleasant and quiet time. The electric assistance also allowed our small group to comfortably ride and chat throughout the morning, taking the pressure off ‘keeping up’ with each other. The Ross River meanders south-west from the city, bringing the views of Mount Stuart ever closer. We saw plenty of wildlife along the riverside, with curlews, rainbow bee-eaters, egrets, wallabies and river turtles being the most frequent.

By mid-morning, we were ready for breakfast (second breakfast for some) so we stopped at the Palmetum, which holds the largest collection of palms in the southern hemisphere. Walking through the cooling shades of the palms was a welcome break from the morning heat and we followed our stroll with food and coffee at the historic Tumbetin Lodge Cafe. Refuelled, we continued along the river, before crossing over and returning to the city on the other side. 

Today had been a relatively cruisy pedal up and down the river, but it was a great way to introduce us to our group, to the bikes, and to the week ahead. We arrived back to our waterfront hotel around lunchtime with a free afternoon ahead of us. 

High on the misty mountain

Another early heat-beating start saw us loading up the tour truck with our bikes and driving about 90 minutes out of Townsville and into Paluma Range National Park. Called ‘Munan Gumburu’ by the indigenous Nywaigi people, which means misty mountain, it’s immediately apparent how the area got its name as we ascend the ranges into the cool and cloudy embrace.

Seventeen kilometres of winding mountain road brings us to the top, where we unload our bikes at the small settlement of Paluma Village. Today’s ride is vastly different to yesterday, as we navigate quiet roads through the forest. The route is also considerably more undulating and I’m not ashamed to say that I kicked my bike into high gear to help with some of the sections – the power’s there to be used, right! 

We stopped to enjoy the sweeping views across Star Valley before continuing on to check out a huge example of a strangler fig (banyan) in action. According to our guide, there are many walking trails around Paluma, but they aren’t particularly well signposted, to say the least, so we were relying on his local knowledge as we locked our bikes to a tree and entered a narrow footpad into the trees. We were following a trail to Ethel Creek Falls, and while hiking the misty mountain air turned to proper rain, the weather was clearly keen to show us that we’d entered the cusp of the wet tropics.

Despite being advertised as a cycle tour, I was relishing the opportunity for the hike as it got us off the road and into the forest. As we reached Ethel Creek, we were met with a bit of rock hopping and a rope assisted descent down the side of a waterfall to the base of the falls. This was a beautiful spot, despite the drizzling rain and felt like a proper tropical oasis in the forest. Never one to pass up a wild swim, a couple of us took the opportunity for a refreshing dip, while our guide unpacked an excellent morning tea of scones, cream, jam and hot coffee! 

Refreshed, we ascended back up the side of the waterfall, collected our bikes and returned to base. Another free afternoon was spent exploring The Strand (Townsville’s waterfront), swimming in the rock pool and checking out the local night market.

Townsville’s Town Common

All too soon we’d reached our final morning in Townsville, but don’t feel sorry for us as we were heading out for a morning ride before catching the ferry across to Magnetic Island for the next part of our tour. With our bags packed and collected by one of our guides, we cycled away from our hotel and up The Strand heading for an area known as the Town Common, aka, the Pallarenda wetlands. 

As we made our way along the coastline, we got to see another aspect of Townsville as we passed many sandy beaches, although being the end of ‘stinger season’ the beaches weren’t as busy as they will be once the ocean is reopened for swimming. Nearing the wetlands, I couldn’t help but think back to my taxi ride after landing in Townsville. The taxi driver was a born and bred Townsvillian and she had confidently assured me that there are always crocodiles in the wetland area! Although I think she enjoys giving out these warnings to holiday makers as one of the other tour members had been treated to this crocodile story and many more.

Regardless, it was with some trepidation that I found myself pedalling into the Town Common as it certainly had a croccy feel to it; marshy wetlands that looked like prime stomping grounds for a croc or two. As we pedalled, I was acutely aware that my eyes were constantly scanning the undergrowth, while also watching for bumps on the dirt trail and again looking in the trees for wildlife. Not the easiest of rides.

After calming down a little, I began to enjoy the area, which apparently was a lot more overgrown than usual, with many more reeds and greenery in the usually open wetlands. We stopped for another morning tea of homemade snacks and coffee, before exiting the wetlands and cycled to Cape Palleranda Conservation Park. Here we visited an old World War II command and observation post, with sweeping views back towards Townsville city, Castle Hill and across to Magnetic Island.

We cycled back to the city, with time for lunch and another swim in the rock pool, before collecting our luggage and catching the ferry the short distance across to Magnetic Island. 

Maggie Island and West Point

Switching location mid-tour helped make our time on Magnetic Island feel like a holiday within a holiday and I found myself getting swept up in the holiday spirit of the island. Waterfront restaurants, backpackers and open-topped ‘Barbie’ cars certainly added to the tropical island feel to the place.

Magnetic Island is 75 per cent national park and home to around 1000 koalas. So as we began our cycle tour to West Point my eyes were no longer worriedly searching the undergrowth for crocodiles, but scanning the tree tops for a glimpse of grey fur. After a short pedal along the road from the harbour, we quickly passed by three of Magnetic Islands 23 beaches, Nelly Bay, Picnic Bay, and Rocky Bay, before detouring to Cockle Bay. Here you can look back towards Townsville, watch the large birds of prey circling and look across to the S.S City of Adelaide – a famous shipwreck lying in the bay. Best enjoyed on a boat or kayak tour, is was still cool to catch a glimpse of the shipwreck from the beach.

The road from Cockle Bay to West Point was a quiet stretch of dirt road, that tourists aren’t allowed to bring hire cars down, so we mostly had the track to ourselves. The road wound along the coastline, with plenty of shade on offer by the lush forest. We didn’t see any koalas, but there were several creek crossings to navigate, adding an extra splash of fun to the ride. After a brief stop, we returned to Picnic Bay to explore the jetty and the beach; it was a little windy otherwise we’d also have enjoyed a swim within the stinger net. Meanwhile our guide was preparing our final morning tea as this was the last bike ride for the week. 

Coffee fuelled and e-bikes turned on to full power, we sped back to the harbour to wave goodbye to our guide, already making plans for our next day and a half of ‘leisure’ on Magnetic Island.

The Forts Walk

With a free afternoon ahead of me, I decided to head out to tackle the Forts Walk, having heard from several friends that it was an absolute must-do on the Island. There’s only one major road on Maggie Island and the receptionist at Island Leisure Resort had advised us against cycling to the Forts Walk as you’re competing for space on the roads with the local bus and tourists. Instead, I further embraced the holiday spirit and for about $50 hired a scooter to get me around the island. 

With a big smile on my face, I set out towards the Forts Walk, detouring to Geoffrey Bay along the way to see the local rock wallabies that congregate on the headland. After spotting a couple of wallabies, which wasn’t difficult as there were plenty of tourists enticing them out of the rocks with carrots in hand – people are advised against feeding the wallabies, but carrots are among the food recommended for those that can’t resist the ‘need to feed’.

Seeing the wallabies was fun, but it was the koalas I was truly excited about, so I hopped back on the scooter and motored to the top of the hill and the start of the Forts Walk. The trail is a 4km round trip that trends upwards to a high point of the mountain where there are remains of World War II forts, constructed as early warning from the threat of Japanese bombers. After slowly scanning every tree I passed on the first section of the track, I then asked a friendly fellow tourist on their way down whether they’d spotted any koalas. Happily, they had, and they directed me another kilometre up the trail where they assured me I’d see an arrow marker made of sticks on the path, directing me to their koala sighting. 

Despite the helpful arrow to narrow down my search, it still took me a while of tree gazing to spot the koala, a sleepy adult and baby up the tree were the reward for my endeavours. Koala spotting satisfied, I continued the walk up the hill, enjoying wide reaching views across the island and down to the many bays visible from the summit. This was probably one of the high points, quite literally, of the entire trip and I was glad to have had the opportunity to check it out. 

Too windy to snorkel, so sailing it is

The next day, our final one of the tour, we were scheduled to spend the day with Aquascene on a snorkelling tour of the island. As Maggie sits within the Great Barrier Reef, this was due to be a magical experience, but unfortunately the winds were too high to make snorkeling an enjoyable and viable experience. However, Australian Cycle Tours were able to arrange an evening sailing trip instead, so I whiled away the day finally relaxing as the resort sign suggested and reading my book by the pool.

By evening, the winds had died down a little and we were collected from Horseshoe Bay by Pilgrim Sailing. They took us aboard their impressive sailing boat for a very memorable evening. We began with drinks in the bay before the captain dropped the sail and took us out towards the open water. As soon as we cleared the headland we were met by strong winds and the boat was soon zipping along, splashing water up the sides and giving us all a wild ride. With the sun setting behind the clouds, my hike along the Forts Walk was being heavily challenged for its title as most memorable part of the trip.

Nothing to do and all day to do it

As we caught the ferry back to Townsville the next day, ready to fly home, I reflected once more on the week gone by. I’d come to Townsville to enjoy a cycling holiday in a part of Australia that I hadn’t visited before, but it turned out to be so much more than a cycling holiday. If anything, it was a multi-sport adventure, coupled with a relaxing resort holiday all wrapped up in a beautiful tropical location. And I will be coming back.

The writer was a guest of Australian Cycle Tours. For more info on this tropical adventure, click here.

The post Gone troppo: Hike and bike Townsville and Magnetic Island appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Walks in Nature

As a Coastie, I’m spoiled for choice when it comes to stretching my legs in the great outdoors. I could wax lyrical for weeks about our national parks – beautiful swathes of Aussie bush that run to meet the water’s edge – and the walking tracks that wend through forests of stately angophora, scribbly gum, grass trees, old man banksia and much more besides.

In truth, you can almost walk the entire length of the Central Coast – combining bush tracks and beach walking with little interludes in coastal hamlets and buzzing suburbs en route.

Whether you’re escaping for a mini break or a week-long sojourn, here are my picks of the best nature-based walks.

1. Bouddi National Park

There’s no end to the bushwalking you can do in this sublime slice of the Central Coast. Located on the peninsula (on the southern end of the Coast), Bouddi National Park stretches from Killcare to Macmasters Beach (Macs) and spans coastal cliffs, wildflower-infused heathland and specky views of the shimmering Brisbane Water.

At the southernmost tip is Box Head Lookout, which is a 30-minute bush stroll south from the carpark that provides you with knockout panoramas across Broken Bay to West Head Lookout, Palm Beach Lighthouse and Sydney beyond. Heading back towards the carpark you can turn left and venture through a forest of dramatic gums and down to Lobster Beach. Only accessible on foot, it’s a private oasis where you can enjoy a dip, a picnic or throw in a line. Across the water is the yellow-sand arc of Umina Beach.

My very favourite walk on the entire Coast starts at Putty Beach and finishes at Macs. Known as the Bouddi Coastal Walk, it meanders for 8.5km along slivers of sand, up and down ocean cliffs, through banksia forests and stops at dramatic lookouts where you can catch your breath. Highlights are Maitland Bay, the perfect spot for a swim in all seasons – try the protected northern end where you’ll also find a riot of rockpools for sea-creature spotting; Gerrin Point Lookout and the passing parade of migrating whales (in season); the Bombi Moor, where waratahs bloom, banksia men play and there are three lookouts to explore; and Little Beach, the perfect spot to stop, bury your feet in the sand and watch the waves (and keen surfers) frolic. Your end point, Macmasters Beach, has a spectacular headland covered in flannel flowers and home to a pair of majestic sea eagles that drift on the wind, a gorgeous ocean pool for cooling off and a great café for refuelling – try the BLT or fish tacos (both are mouth-watering).

Maitland Bay off the coast of Bouddi National Park, NSW. Image credit: Destination Central Coast

You can, of course, turn around at any point on the walk, doubling back the way you came and finishing at Putty Beach. While you’re there, look for the dolphins. I’m hesitant to say they’re residents there, but I can only recall and handful of times I’ve not seen the pod ranging up and down the coastline (and I’m a frequent flyer along this stretch of sand). The beach is also dog-friendly (although both the southern, Killcare, and northern, national park, reaches are no-go zones).

If you don’t feel like doing it alone, why not join the 4-day Signature Bouddi Trek.

2. Wyrrabalong National Park

I adore this slice of coastal bushland for its easy walking and stunning scenery. Starting at Wyrrabalong Lookout (the end of Cromarty Hill Road, Foresters Beach), the Coast Track follows the cliffs north to Crackneck Point – the perfect spot for whale-watching and water-spout spotting. You can turn around here (making it a 6km round trip), but I’d suggest continuing on (it’s all downhill) to Bateau Bay, Blue Bay and then Shelly Beach. Swimming at all is lovely, but for calm-water lovers, try Toowoon Bay (it has Mediterranean vibes), a little further north. For the keen, you can continue along the coastline (no longer in the national park, and mostly along beaches and over rock platforms) all the way to The Entrance.

Bateau Bay, Central Coast; Blue Bay, Central Coast NSW. Image credits: Destination Central Coast

3. Munmorah State Conservation Area

At the northern reach of the Central Coast sit the dramatic ocean caves of Snapper Point. You can drive to them, but that’s the cheat’s way, so instead, park your car at the end of Wybung Head Road, and tackle the short walk to a headland with stunning views across the Pacific and up and down the coast. Then head back up the road a few hundred metres and take the right turn onto a sandy bush track that will take you north through coastal heath before dropping downhill towards Frazer Beach, over rock platforms and uphill to the caves. Worn down by wave action and wind over millennia, they’re a potent reminder of the power of Mother Nature.

Wildlife Encounters

While you’re out walking be sure to stop and watch the native wildlife as it goes about its daily routine.

Birds abound in each of these parks, including the ever-entertaining and chatty sulphur-crested cockatoo, lorikeets, king parrots and kookaburras. Birds of prey, including osprey, sea-eagles, kites and goshawks are also ones to watch for on ocean headlands as they soar on thermals and hunt for their next meal (watch out little ground-dwelling marsupials!).

Here, too, is the spot for whale watching (the Coast has around 60km of coastline). Try your luck in June –July and again in September– November – it’s a veritable humpback highway out there! We also get southern right whales and minkes, but you’d have to be very lucky to spot either. You can book a whale-watching tour from Terrigal or head to one of these headlands with your binoculars:

• The Skillion, Terrigal
• Gerrin Point Lookout, Bouddi National Park
• Marie Byles Lookout, Bouddi National Park
• Captain Cook Lookout, Copacabana
• Crackneck Point, Wyrrabalong National Park
• Norah Head Lighthouse, Norah Head.

Copacabana, Central Coast; Norah Head Lighthouse, Norah Head, Central Coast NSW. Image credits: Destination Central Coast.

For a more structured animal encounter, you can’t go past the Australian Reptile Park at Somersby (take the Gosford turnoff on the M1 and follow the signs). From meeting Elvis, a 5m-long saltwater croc (and arguably the zoo’s most famous resident), to zookeeper and behind-the-scenes experiences, kids and gown-ups alike will revel in the animals and the natural surroundings. You can even tour the koala yard and give them a pat – all in the name of conservation (you’ll learn about the challenges they’re facing in the wild and what the zoo is doing to ensure we don’t lose this Aussie icon). For the not so faint of heart, you can also enter the venom room, where snakes and spiders are milked! And lastly, you can meet septuagenarian Hugo, a Galapagos tortoise weighing in at 183kg. According to zoo staff he’s in the prime of his life – members of his species live, on average, to 150 years.

Clockwise from left: A koala at the Australian Reptile Park; A keeper with a crocodile at a live show at the Australian Reptile Park; the entrance to the Australian Wildlife Park. Image credits: Destination Central Coast.

Action Jacksons

For the adventure seekers, time spent on the Coast is a true treat. Along with kilometres of bushwalking tracks, there are single track and fire trails for mountain bikers to explore.

The Strom Loop in Bouddi National Park combines both (5km of fire and single) and you can add on the option of a spin out to a granite lookout along the North-West Ridge Trail. While you’re here, check out Rocky Point trail, a one-way trail that has panoramic views from Allen Strom lookout over Hardys Bay. The trail is part of a 10km loop called the Bouddi Ridge explorer, which links several trails throughout the park. Make sure you stop pedalling long enough to enjoy the ocean lookouts and beautiful forested tracks.

Hardy Bay, Central Coast NSW. Image credit: Destination Central Coast.

While you’re in Munmorah State Conservation Area, jump on your bike for a 12.6km return track that takes you on a beautiful ride through open roads. An intermediate-level track, with hills to tackle, it starts and finishes at Matt’s Diner in Lake Munmorah, so you can tuck into a burger and chips after you’re done. The pinnacle of the ride is Wybung Head, where you can stop for a while and revel in the vast Pacific Ocean.

And for the dedicated mountain bikers, steer yourself straight over to Central Coast Mountain Bike Park at Ourimbah. Funded entirely by the community and free to use, the park has more than 18km of trails to explore, from a family loop for those just getting started to the XC and gravity trails that are used in competition events. It’s open seven days a week.

Last but not least, if you feel more comfortable in the trees than scooting around them, make a bee-line to Treetops Adventure Park. Eco-certified and nestled among the giant eucalypts of Ourimbah State Forest, the park invites you to hang around all day long. It includes obstacle courses in the tree canopy that will have all the family on a natural high – swinging, leaping, climbing and flying through the forest. There’s also tree ropes courses (from 1–20m off the ground) and a 500m long zipcoaster, or you can take it easy with Networld, bouncing around on a maze of net-like trampolines.

Exploring exciting and challenging obstacle courses high up in the tree canopy at Treetops Adventure Park, Central Coast NSW. Image credits: Destination Central Coast

Clearly, there are thousands of reasons to love the NSW Central Coast. Come find yours this winter.

Visit www.lovecentralcoast.com to plan your next trip.

This article is brought to you by Destination Central Coast.

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Nestled off Queensland’s coast, K’gari (formerly Fraser Island) stretches for 123km and measures 23km at its widest point, offering more than 1200km of sandy tracks perfect for four-wheel driving, whale-watching, sightseeing, camping, fishing and hiking. Part of the ancestral lands of the Butchulla people, European settlers renamed it Fraser Island in 1847 after Captain James Fraser, who tragically perished there in 1836. However, its true name, K’gari (the word comes from the creation stories of the Butchulla people and means ‘paradise’) was restored by the Queensland government on June 7, 2023.

Despite a devastating bushfire in October 2020 that scorched more than half of its vegetation, K’gari has shown remarkable resilience. The landscape has since regained its past splendour, save for a few charred tree trunks, scars amid the thriving foliage. The revitalisation of K’gari’s varied ecosystems was also unexpectedly bolstered by the COVID-19 pandemic, giving plants and wildlife the chance to thrive undisturbed. The reduction in human activity allowed nature to recover and flourish at a more natural rate. Consideration is now being given to imposing visitor caps at key tourist hotspots to further safeguard the island’s precious ecosystems.

Today, visitors can witness K’gari’s diverse environments and participate in a range of experiences that highlight its status as a paradise restored – a testament to both natural resilience and ongoing conservation efforts.

Rainforest

Flourishing in the centre of K’gari lies an enchanting Garden of Eden, a rare phenomenon where tall ancient rainforests thrive on dunes elevated more than 200m above sea level. It’s like nowhere else on earth, full of eucalypts, red gums, bloodwoods and the illustrious K’gari satinay tree (Fraser Island turpentine). The satinay is the real showstopper – some are estimated to have been around for 1000 years and tower up to 50m. Fun fact: These water-resilient giants even helped rebuild London’s docks post-World War II and had a hand in shaping the Suez Canal.

In the heart of this green wonderland, you’ll witness the silence of Wanggoolba Creek, where the king fern reigns supreme as a living fossil from 200 million years ago – picture fronds as long as 8m. The lush canopy is a mix of kauri pines, hoop pines, strangler figs and blackbutts, and pouring forth is a symphony of bird calls from king parrots, yellow-tailed black-cockatoos, and sulphur-crested cockatoos. Beneath the leafy canopy wander dingoes, frogs, possums, gliders and flying-foxes.

How to experience

Central Station, previously a forestry camp, features a brief boardwalk alongside Wanggoolba Creek and meanders through the fertile rainforest. It also serves as the starting point for various trails, including the Basin Lake Walk (5.6km). Hike into the Valley of the Giants camp, where you can set up your tent amid enormous ancient trees, some estimated to be more than 1200 years old, with trunks exceeding 4m in diameter.

Wallum Forest

Between the dunes and the rainforests, K’gari’s wallum forests unveil yet another biodiverse zone, a blend of heathland, shrubland and swamp bursting with native flora and fauna, adapted over millennia to thrive in the acidic, sandy soils. Dominated by fire-resistant species such as eucalypts, banksias, acacias and grass trees, the wallum forests stand as a testament to nature’s tenacity, a treasure trove of diverse flowering plants providing food for nectar-seeking mammals, birds and insects and a haven for frogs and lizards.

How to experience

Drive on sandy tracks that snake through the wallum environment, open your windows, and keep your ears tuned for the elusive ground parrot, its distinctive call reverberating through the heath. Keep an eye out for swamp wallabies and echidnas.

Freshwater lakes and creeks

Settled amidst K’gari’s ancient dunes and forests are its hidden gems – the sparkling freshwater lakes and creeks that embellish the landscape like sapphires. Fuelled by underground aquifers and rainwater, these pristine oases offer a reprieve from the island’s warmth. While sand plays a crucial role in K’gari’s formation, it’s the water that truly sets it apart. The island’s expansive natural aquifer filters rainwater that fell 60–100 years ago. Remarkably, over half of the world’s perched (dune) lakes are found here, with K’gari boasting 42. The water in these tranquil lakes and streams is so pure that it supports only a sparse array of plants and animals – typically just two or three fish species and three types of turtles.

How to experience

Dive into the cool, emerald waters of Lake McKenzie, where powdery white sands and azure depths rival the beauty of any tropical paradise. Float down Eli Creek, where clear waters wend their way through jungle-like vegetation. Incredibly, Eli Creek pumps 4.1 million litres of water per hour into the ocean – enough to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool in 23 minutes! Hike to the secluded shores of Lake Wabby, a peaceful oasis nestled amidst towering sand dunes. For contrasting colours, check out Lake Boomanjin, believed to be the largest perched lake in the world. The lake is renowned for its reddish-brown pigment, resulting from decaying organic matter including tannins from the tea trees shooting up in its surrounding catchment.

Sand dunes

Like a colossal sandcastle, K’gari reigns supreme as the world’s largest sand island. Amidst the towering dunes, you’ll discover the intriguing phenomenon of sand blows –spots where the sand seems to have been reshuffled and designed by Mother Nature herself. These natural masterpieces not only add to the island’s allure but also give a peek into the mighty forces shaping K’gari’s ever-evolving landscape.

The eerie unearthly landscapes of desert-like sands and corrugated dunes resemble a strange cosmic moonscape – perfect for any sci-fi movie! Shrubs and grasses play a crucial role in stabilising the dunes, creating a habitat well-suited to the challenging environment. These salt-tolerant plants adjust to the shifting sands, helping to maintain the health and structure of the complex dune systems.

How to experience

Hike into one of the accessible sand blows – Kirrar (1.9km, via Rainbow Gorge), Hammerstone (4.1km, next to Lake Wabby), or Wun’gul (5.5km).

Coastal communities

K’gari lays claim to more than 250 kilometres of pristine sandy beaches, featuring expansive stretches of oceanfront and over 40 kilometres of vividly-coloured sand cliffs, alongside impressive sand blowouts. On the western side of K’gari, visitors can explore intricate mangrove forests and long stretches of white sandy beaches.

Between July and October, Platypus Bay hosts thousands of humpback whales during their migration from the Antarctic. The bay provides a safe environment for the whales to take a break and teach their calves essential skills before continuing their journey south. The famous Tailor Run attracts fishing fanatics from July to November who camp along the beach to catch fish spawning in the surf. But don’t swim in the ocean, the currents are strong, sharks are aplenty and there are no lifeguards.

How to experience

Cruise along the 75 Mile Beach highway where you’ll most certainly see many dingoes scavenging along the shore. Grab your camera to capture the famed Maheno Shipwreck and stop to admire The Pinnacles’ coloured sands with vast dunes and natural sculptures. Continue north to the spectacular Champagne Pools with their fizzy spray that collects into the glistening rock pools. Climb the cliffs at Indian Head to witness 360-degree views.

Where to stay

Discover relaxation and adventure at Kingfisher Bay Resort and K’gari Beach Resort.

On the island’s calm western side, Kingfisher Bay Resort is K’gari’s premier eco-friendly retreat, offering diverse accommodations from hotel rooms to spacious villas and houses. Guests enjoy complimentary ranger-guided walks and talks, whale-watching cruises (July to October), and full-day 4WD tours exploring the island’s highlights. The Bush Tucker Talk & Taste experience provides a cultural immersion.

Recently upgraded, K’gari Beach Resort – formerly Eurong Beach Resort.– is now a modern four-star getaway featuring renovated hotel rooms, apartments and a beach house. Accessible only by 4WD, it provides direct access to K’gari’s World Heritage-listed landscapes, perfect for anglers and sightseers eager to roam the 75 Mile Beach highway. The resort contains essential facilities including a petrol station, general store, bakery and underbody car wash.

Related: Meet the flock stars of K’gari (Fraser Island)

The post K’gari paradise: five ecosystems, one island appeared first on Australian Geographic.

I can’t dwell on this marvel; I’m clinging for dear life as five Alaskan huskies drag me across a frozen Arctic lake on what looks like a body bag strapped to a makeshift billycart on flimsy skis. Everything’s fine on the flat, but we’re approaching a forest, and threading a sled through dense spruce trees is an expert-level activity best left to experienced Arctic adventurers, not myself, on day two of my newfound mushing career. We speed towards the trees, and my anxiety spikes and I recall our lead musher’s golden rule: “Whatever you do, never let go. You’ll be left behind.”

As we whip past branches, I practice my ‘bum-wiggle’ manoeuvre to steer my sled. The craft, loaded with gear, refuses to budge. My dogs turn left, and so does my sled, but there’s a solid-looking trunk between me and them. I wiggle again, pressing my outside foot on the brake. The runners shift, but not enough. At the last second, I throw my weight into a desperate ‘twerk’ that would make Miley Cyrus proud and brush past the tree. I grin, imagining myself as the smoothest dad on the dance floor. My smugness doesn’t last long when I realise I can only twerk to the right, and the next tree demands a ‘lefty’. I do the only thing I’ve been instructed to do when all else fails – I hold on tight. I clip the tree, and then my face hits the snow, but importantly,  I take the sled with me. We slide to a halt, and my panting husky team look back at me with apparent disdain. I suspect their barking translates to, “What is a middle-aged, twerking, Aussie doing in our Swedish Lapland home?” And my canine friends have a point.

Extreme inspiration

In truth, it’s all the fault of a pair of khaki trousers and a global pandemic. During the 2020 lockdown, my adventures were put on hold. Stuck at home, I wrote gear reviews for brands I couldn’t pronounce and gear I couldn’t use outside of my bubble. That’s when I discovered Fjällräven. Established in 1960, the Swedish brand still promotes waxing their apparel with paraffin and beeswax to increase wind and water resistance and durability; my Fjällräven Vidda-Pro trousers (read the review, here) became my go-to for everything. I also accidentally became ‘hip’. I noticed that royals and celebrities were sporting the same Arctic fox logo as my trousers, and Fjällräven Kånken backpacks adorned nearly every hipster south of the North Pole. I wondered if there might be more to the Arctic fox beyond just cool gear.

Fast forward, and I find myself only a stone’s throw (albeit a rather long hurl) north of the Arctic Circle for a taste of the Fjällräven Polar Challenge, a brainchild of Fjällräven’s founder Åke Nordin. Starting as a gruelling dog-sled race in 1997, the Polar Challenge evolved into a blend of social experiment and Arctic expedition. Fjällräven aims to inspire people to enjoy nature by demonstrating that anybody can become an Arctic adventurer with the right knowledge, equipment and support. In 2024, 20 people from over 31,000 applicants were selected for a five-day, 300km dog-sledding expedition across the Scandinavian Arctic. Participants endured brutal minus 30-degree temperatures but were rewarded with the Aurora Borealis dancing above tents at night.

Intrigued by the idea of an apparel brand throwing novices into the Arctic, I eagerly accepted an invitation for a compressed three-day version of the Fjällräven Polar Challenge. 

A new member of the team

I arrive in Kiruna, Sweden’s northernmost city, expecting frostbite, but instead, spring has sprung, and the frigid temperatures have given way to an almost balmy zero degrees Celsius. Thankfully, the waterways are still frozen, and it is with a mix of relief and trepidation that I layer up in thermals and waterproof gear at Fjellborg Kennels, ready to mush a team of excited huskies into the Arctic wilds.

Musher-instructor Melanie Sommerfeldt, a 2019 Polar Challenge participant, shows me the ropes, literally. She explains the essentials: gang lines, tug lines, and the all-important snow hook to prevent eager huskies from taking off without their musher – me.

My five-dog team, bred for endurance, can run 40km/h and cover up to 80km a day. Some wear booties to protect their feet; others have an ointment to keep their pads supple. “A musher must be in tune with the dogs,” Melanie tells me before we launch into our three-day journey. Soon enough, I am face planting snowdrifts and playing pine tree pinball 200km north of the Arctic Circle. It seems that whatever instrument I’m playing, I am out of tune. 

Our first night is spent camping in the snow and eating army rations of dehydrated spaghetti bolognese. Despite the short distance covered throughout the day, it was a good training ground. The weather is milder than expected, and our sleeping bags are warm.

Day two is the real deal, with 50km of mixed trail offering ample opportunity to test my newfound twerking skills. Importantly, I am becoming a real musher. I check my dogs before myself, all before breakfast, and I am beginning to understand my team’s individual personalities. Each morning, they yelp and jump with excitement and given the chance, ‘Cosmos’ will lick me to death.

Amid the cacophony of other sled teams preparing to depart, I struggle to harness my team. But once we hit the trail, all grows quiet.

Close to poetry in motion

My lead dogs, Enya and Edith, are the smallest of my team, but they are intelligent and nimble and confidently lead the gang line. They regularly glance back to check in and ensure I’m still there. My point dog is the ever-loving Cosmos, who loves to cuddle but tends to straddle the gang line, causing no end of grief, whilst my burly wheel dogs are Cooper and Enzo. Coops is strong, and has a great rhythm, but I rename Enzo ‘Sidewinder’ for his slight crabbing stride.

On the move, the dogs settle into a rhythm. I watch over them, occasionally offering encouragement that they seem to appreciate with a quick glance back. They regulate their body temperature by panting and, every so often, scooping up snow with their tongues to rehydrate and cool. Together, my motley sled crew offer immense ‘poodle power’ and happily hauls my kit and my 90kg frame across an Arctic landscape.

Soon, I skirt pine, spruce and willow with the best of them. Throughout my entire journey I only hit the ground once and I swear Enya and Edith’s disdainful look slowly evolves into that of understanding and even acceptance by day’s end.

A long 50km day sees us loop back to Lake Väkkärä for our second night, swapping tents for the warmth of Väkkärä Lodge’s wood-fired sauna and log cabins. The luxury comes with a catch: an invigorating ice plunge in near-freezing lake water. A hole is cut in the solid ice, and expecting the worst, I am pleasantly surprised when the revitalising dip reignites childhood memories of surfing Australia’s south coast in winter with only a leaky wetsuit and second-hand surfboard.

A short time but a lifelong memory

Our final evening sees us feast on high-calorie dinners. For the dogs, it is raw meat, fat and kibble; I settle on sautéed reindeer and freshly caught Arctic char accompanied by potatoes and lingonberries. 

My Norwegian dogsledding counterpart, Anton, sleeps under the stars, hoping for the Northern Lights. I spend an hour on the lake ice, searching the sky, but the Aurora remains elusive. I retreat to the warmth of our cabin to sleep soundly until the barking of dogs wakes me.

Harnessing up for my final day is bittersweet. I marvel at the bond formed between my dogs and myself in only a few short days and feel sad to leave as we are just hitting our stride. Back at the kennels that same afternoon, I say goodbye to my new furry friends, accepting their affectionate licks. There is no doubt we have learned from one another. I taught them that an Aussie always carries board shorts for those unexpected dips, and they taught me to twerk like a pro. I never mastered the ice-skating poo-on-the-move, but maybe that’s a good thing. It’s not quite as appreciated among humans as in the sled dog world.

The post Fast dogs and a frozen land: The Fjällräven Polar Challenge appeared first on Australian Geographic.

But the magnificent tree frog recently discovered by Australian Wildlife Conservancy (AWC) ecologists is anything but normal!

The bright blue individual is living within AWC’s Charnley River-Artesian Range Wildlife Sanctuary, on Wilinggin Country. Incredibly, it was first spotted within just metres of the team’s research station. 

“I was out there at the time and I got a message with a photo of the blue frog from another member of our team, asking what the cool frog was,” says AWC field ecologist Jake Barker. “As soon as I saw the picture, I was pretty excited – it was rare, so I ran down with my own camera.”

“Magnificent tree frogs are already spectacular, they’re very pretty frogs to begin with when they’re green… So to see a blue one rates pretty highly on the list of cool things I’ve seen on this job.

“And we were able to find it a second time, about a week later,” says Jake. “No one’s really looked for it since then, so there’s a decent chance it’s still hanging around the vicinity.”

Why is the frog blue?

The frog’s blue-coloured skin is due to a rare genetic mutation called ‘axanthism’.

“Essentially, green frogs have both blue and yellow pigments in their skin. The pigments combine and that’s why green frogs are green,” Jake explains.

“This mutation basically inhibits the yellow pigments so only the blue ones come through.”

Is this a first?

AWC ecologists believe this may be the first recorded instance of axanthism mutation in a magnificent tree frog. 

Amphibian expert Dr Jodi Rowley adds that axanthism is an extremely rare occurrence in any frog species.

“I’ve seen tens of thousands of frogs over the years, but I’ve only seen one blue frog – and it was nowhere near as spectacular as this magnificent tree frog,” Jodi says.

Related: Why would a green frog be blue?

The post Mutant blue frog excites ecologists appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Most of the time T CrB, which is 3,000 light years away, is much too faint to be seen. But once every 80 years or so, it brightly erupts.

A brand new star suddenly seems to appear, although not for long. Just a few nights later it will have rapidly faded, disappearing back into the darkness.

A burst of life

During the prime of their lives, stars are powered by nuclear fusion reactions deep inside their cores. Most commonly, hydrogen is turned into helium creating enough energy to keep the star stable and shining for billions of years.

But T CrB is well past its prime and is now a stellar remnant known as a white dwarf. Its internal nuclear fire has been quenched, allowing gravity to dramatically compress the dead star.

T CrB also has a stellar companion – a red giant that has puffed up as it enters old age. The white dwarf mops up the swollen red giant’s gas, and this forms what’s known as an accretion disc around the dead star.

The matter keeps piling up on a star that’s already compressed to its limit, forcing a continual rise in pressure and temperature. Conditions become so extreme, they mimic what once would’ve been found inside the star’s core. Its surface ignites in a runaway thermonuclear reaction.

When this happens, the energy released makes T CrB shine 1,500 times brighter than usual. Here on Earth, it briefly appears in the night sky. With this dramatic reset, the star has then expelled the gas and the cycle can begin all over again.

How do we know it’s due?

T CrB is the brightest of a rare class of recurrent novae that repeat within a hundred years – a time scale that allows astronomers to detect their recurrent nature.

Only ten recurrent novae are currently known, although more novae may be recurrent – just on much greater timescales that aren’t as easily tracked.

The earliest known date of T CrB erupting is from the year 1217, based on observations recorded in a medieval monastic chronicle. It’s remarkable that astronomers can now predict its eruptions so precisely as long as the nova follows its usual pattern.

The star’s two most recent eruptions – in 1866 and 1946 – showed the exact same features. About ten years prior to the eruption, T CrB’s brightness increased a little (known as a high state) followed by a short fading or dip about a year out from the explosion.

T CrB entered its high state in 2015 and the pre-eruption dip was spotted in March 2023, setting astronomers on alert. What causes these phenomena are just some of the current mysteries surrounding T CrB.

How you can see it

Start stargazing now! It’s a good idea to get used to seeing Corona Borealis as it is now, so that you get the full impact of the “new” star.

Corona Borealis currently reaches its best observing position (known as a meridian transit) around 8:30pm to 9pm local time across Australia and Aotearoa. The farther north you are located, the higher the constellation will be in the sky.

The nova is expected to be a reasonable brightness (magnitude 2.5): about as bright as Imai (Delta Crucis), the fourth brightest star in the Southern Cross. So it will be easy to see even from a city location, if you know where to look.

There’s not long to observe

We won’t have long once it goes off. The maximum brightness will only last a few hours; within a week T CrB will have faded and you’ll need binoculars to see it.

It almost certainly will be an amateur astronomer that alerts the professional community to the moment when T CrB outbursts.

These dedicated and knowledgeable people routinely monitor stars from their backyards on the chance of “what if” and therefore fill an important gap in night sky observations.

The American Association of Variable Star Observing (AAVSO) has a log of over 270,000 submitted observations on T CrB alone. Amateur astronomers are collaborating here and around the world to continually monitor T CrB for the first signs of eruption.

Hopefully the nova will erupt as expected sometime before October, because after that Corona Borealis leaves our evening sky in the Southern Hemisphere.

Tanya Hill is a Senior Curator in Astronomy at Museums Victoria and Honorary Fellow at University of Melbourne’s Museums Victoria Research Institute.

Amanda Karakas is an Associate Professor at the School of Physics and Astronomy at Monash University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Look up: A once-in-a-lifetime explosion is about to create a ‘new’ star in the sky appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Design

There is little doubt the Nemo Tensor Trail Ultralight Insulated sleeping pad is aimed fair and square at the weight-weenies amongst us, and the crew at Nemo Equipment have hit the nail on the head in that regard. Weighing in at a featherweight 369 grams (g), the Tensor Trail Ultralight Insulated fits the bill for the gram-shavers and packs down to a respectable 25.5cm x 9.5cm. Nemo tech boffins have snuck in an internal layer of metallised Thermal Mirror film to help reflect body heat, in turn delivering an R-value of 2.5, perfect for warm weather wanderings.

Inflating to 182cm x 51cm (regular mummy), the Tensor Trail Ultralight uses a Spaceframe baffle design of fabric trusses to distribute weight evenly, offering side sleepers a generous 8.9cm thick cushy platform. The bluesign-approved 20-denier (D)nylon (top) and 40D nylon (base) balance weight-saving with durability, and the micro-adjustable Laylow valve allows rapid inflation and deflation. The Nemo Tensor Trail Ultralight Insulated is delivered in four sizes: the 183cm long regular (395g), regular wide (491g) and regular-mummy (369g) and for the six-footers amongst us, a 193cm long-wide (520g). All pads come packaged with a compression strap, Vortex pump sack, and stuff sack that boosts the trail weight an extra 80 odd grams, but kudos to the Nemo team for publishing a 451g ‘trail weight’ in addition to the 369g ‘sleeping pad’ only weight. 

In the field

In evaluating sleeping pads here at AGA, we tend to consider six key elements: size, weight, warmth, noise, comfort, and cost. The Nemo Tensor Trail Ultralight Insulated sleeping pad excels in most of these areas, with a highlight being the 8.9 cm thickness delivered in a 450-ish gram package. We say ‘450-ish’ because… 

When we rolled our 369g regular mummy with the Vortex pump sack, compression strap and stuff sack, our scales weighed it in at 455g. Still, this pad can happily be considered exceptionally lightweight, making it ideal for backpackers focused on minimising their load. The compressed pad is comparable in size with other similarly specced ultra-light sleeping pads, but with an asking price of $299, it happily falls in the more budget-friendly segment of the market. 

The Vortex pump sack works exactly as it should, and the micro-adjustable Laylow valve is a real highlight. It sits flush with the pad when not in use but easily inflates it, offering rapid deflation via a simple tab pull. One of the key features of the Nemo Tensor Trail Ultralight is its quiet construction. Unlike many inflatable pads that like to rustle like a koala convention in a pile of eucalypt leaves, the Tensor Trail Ultralight sleeps quieter than some other ultralight pads we’ve tested. With an R-value of 2.5, the Tensor Trail Ultralight is most certainly best suited for mild to moderate three-season use, so certainly not alpine expeditions, but it was warm enough for our outings on mild winter nights on the NSW coast.

The final word on the Nemo Tensor Trail Ultralight Insulated

The Nemo Tensor Trail Ultralight Insulated is best suited for activities where weight and packability are crucial and conditions do not demand the highest level of insulation. It offers a great combination of light weight, compact packed size, comfort, and adequate insulation for three-season use, making it a versatile choice for hikers, backpackers, and campers in temperate climes, especially those who might want to sneak in a crafty brew or two… 

RRP: $299 See Nemo Equipment for more info on its complete sleeping pad range.

The post Nemo Equipment Tensor Trail Ultralight sleeping pad: Tested appeared first on Australian Geographic.

“They [the old people] have been looking after all these tjakura for a long time,” says Cedric Thompson, a Mutitjulu Community Mala Ranger (Anangu rangers who care for Country in Uluru-Kata Tjuta NP). “That’s why it’s for us mob to look after them now.” 

Tjakura is a striking desert reptile species that’s of widespread cultural significance for First Nations people. Belonging to the same family as the better known blue-tongue lizards, tjakura is a skink with a solid body. It reaches 45cm in length and has smooth scales coloured orange-red on its upper body, fading to bright yellow on its under-belly – perfect camouflage against the red desert sands. In some places they can also be grey in colour.

Tjakura is the species’ name in the languages of the Pitjantjatjara, Yankunytjatjara and Ngaanyatjarra peoples. In other areas, it’s known as mulyamiji, tjalapa, warrana or nampu. In English, the great desert skink is its common name. 

Celebrated in art, dance and song, tjakura is an important Tjukurrpa (Creation) animal, and was once a food source, said to taste like fish. But because its numbers have been declining, Traditional Owners are now opting to protect the lizard. Occurring almost exclusively on Aboriginal land, tjakura is endemic to Australia, with a natural distribution across a large part of Western Australia and the Northern Territory, and into the north-western corner of South Australia.

It’s a crepuscular species, meaning it’s most active during dusk and dawn. Termites make up the bulk of its diet, but the lizard is also partial to nibbling on beetles, spiders, centipedes and other invertebrates, as well as parts of plants, including bush tomatoes and paper daisies. Tjakura are least active in the middle of the day when the sun beats down on the desert sand.

To escape the heat, it lives underground in extensive communal burrows. It’s also one of few reptiles worldwide that cares for its young. One burrow is home to a family unit, with up to 10 individuals nestled in – a male, female and their young from multiple breeding seasons.

The small above-ground entrances belie the large, cosy home below. Tjakura burrows are more than 1m deep and up to 10m in diameter, with multiple entrances. On the surface is a communal latrine where all the family deposit their faecal pellets – known as scats. If you want to picture the latrine, imagine that someone has spilt a packet of old chocolate bullets on the desert sand.  It’s these scats – also known as kuna in many desert languages – that are helping us to understand more about tjakura. Tjakura have disappeared from many areas, and their population is in decline. 

The key threats to the skink are feral animals and unmanaged bushfires. Feral cats are a menace across Australia’s deserts. “When we look at cat kuna, we find a lot of tjakura scales. You can see them; the skin is still orange,” says Dr Rachel Paltridge, an arid-zone ecologist with the Indigenous Desert Alliance, an Indigenous-led organisation strengthening desert ranger teams to keep Country healthy. 

“Tjakura is endangered, and we have to monitor them because [there are] a lot of cats and foxes here. When you do a dissection of a cat’s stomach you see all the lizards, skinks and dragons, the whole lot, in a cat’s stomach,” explains Leroy Lester, a senior Anangu Traditional Owner and Parks Australia Anangu Engagement Officer.

Unmanaged bushfires also pose a major threat to tjakura. In the past, Traditional Owners carried out regular burns with fine-scale fire mosaics – they burnt small patches of the landscape and left other patches unburnt where animals could seek refuge. But since European colonisation, there are more hot, unmanaged fires – sometimes started by lightning – that sweep across large swathes of the landscape and raze everything in their path. 

When bushfires and ferals combine, tjakura fight a losing battle. Unmanaged bushfires remove the protective cover of plants such as spinifex from around tjakura burrows. Although skinks usually survive the fire, they become easy prey for feral cats and foxes.  

Vital Indigenous knowledge

Tjakura are now confined to a small number of locations. The species is nationally classified as vulnerable to extinction. “This means,” as the skink’s National Recovery Plan explains, “that it is at risk of going extinct in the wild (in the next 100 years) if nothing is done to manage threats.” 

This is where Indigenous rangers are vital. Yes, tjakura are threatened. But the species is also thriving where Indigenous rangers are looking after Country – controlling feral cats and re-establishing traditional fire regimes.

But part of the puzzle is still missing. We don’t have a solid understanding of tjakura numbers, and whether the population is increasing or declining.

And that’s why I’m here, with a wonderfully diverse team made up of Anangu Traditional Owners, Mutitjulu Community Mala Rangers, Indigenous rangers from nearby areas, scientists, Parks Australia Rangers, and school kids from near and far. 

We’re camping in the heart of World Heritage-listed Uluru-Kata Tjuta NP, and each morning we’ll be up before sunrise. It’s already warm at 6.30 and the mercury will rise daily to 41°C for the rest of the week. To say the location is stunning is an understatement. We’re flanked by two of Australia’s most iconic sites: to the east lies Uluru, the sandstone monolith in all its glory, and to the west is Kata Tjuta, with its domes glowing in the morning sun. 

About 30 of us are camping out, and on the first morning, as everyone begins to stir, heads emerge from tents and tarps pitched under a small patch of mulga trees. 

We make cups of tea and coffee and load up on breakfast before we embark on five long days of surveys. From dawn to dusk, we’ll work together to look for tjakura burrows and their latrines, recording important scientific information. We want to know if there are more or fewer active burrows, compared with what the surveys found in 2023.

This extraordinary monitoring program is called Mulyamiji March. Mulyamiji is the Martu name for the skink. And March is the designated month for ranger groups to march across the desert doing their surveys. It’s the largest collaborative threatened-species monitoring program in Australia’s deserts. The ranger groups are spread across 500,000sq.km – seven times the size of Tasmania.

The driving force behind Mulyamiji March is Rachel Paltridge, who is funded by the National Environmental Science Program’s Resilient Landscapes Hub (known as the hub). 

“The exciting thing about this project is that we’re developing a scientifically robust monitoring method that’s based on expert tracking skills,” Rachel says. “With so many rangers involved, all using a consistent method to collect the same information from nearly 100 sites across the desert, we can pool the data to create a really powerful dataset to monitor trends in the national population.”

Understanding the size of the population and how it’s trending over the next 10 years is also a key strategy under the  ‘Indigenous Desert Alliance (2022), Looking after Tjakura, Tjalapa, Mulyamiji, Warrarna, Nampu. A National Recovery Plan for the Great Desert Skink (Liopholis kintorei)’. This is the first Indigenous-led recovery plan in Australia. The Australian government has listed tjakura as a priority species under the 2022–2032 Threatened Species Action Plan, and is supporting ongoing monitoring and recovery efforts.

The Resilient Landscapes Hub provides scientific advice to support work under the recovery plan. For example, it created standardised monitoring methods and a power analysis so information can be accurately compared about tjakura across its range. The first Mulyamiji March was launched here in 2023, involving 13 Indigenous ranger teams from the NT, WA and SA. Together with Traditional Owners, scientists, and land managers, they surveyed 90 sites and found 541 active tjakura burrows.

Reading the signs

So here we are in 2024 and the second year of Mulyamiji March surveys is underway at Uluru-Kata Tjuta NP, a stronghold for the species. After waking up in the desert, we join a convoy of four-wheel-drive troopies to the first survey site, each of which is a 10ha rectangle. We split into a group of men and a group of women, walking up and down the monitoring sites. Tracking skills are needed to find the burrows, and the Indigenous rangers’ expertise is key to the success of this project.

“It’s amazing how much detail people can read in the tracks: the size of animals, what they are doing, which predators are hunting around their burrows,” Rachel says. 

And how do you know who is living underground when you find a burrow? The clue is in the poo. If a latrine has fresh, dark-brown scats, it indicates there are tjakura in the burrow below and the burrow is considered active. The size of the scats also reveals who is below – large scats suggest adults, for example. The rangers enter all of this information, plus photos and other details, into a tablet. This data will be used to monitor how the tjakura population is changing year to year. 

Mulyamiji March is not just about science. It’s also about culture. To celebrate the monitoring program, artists from Walkatjara Art, an Anangu-owned not-for-profit art centre, have made large sculptures and several paintings of tjakura. Other ranger teams visit sacred Creation sites for tjakura to conduct increase ceremonies for this culturally significant species.

The project is also about sharing knowledge. The Tjuwanpa Women Rangers from nearby Hermannsburg (Ntaria) are joining the Mutitjulu Community Mala Rangers this week to learn how to do their own lizard surveys. They are led by senior ranger Sonya Braybon.

“The Uluru and Mala rangers invited us,” Sonya says. “We feel really happy to join them and do some surveys on their sites here. We’ve learnt a lot. It was great to see a live desert skink, the tjakura, and nice to meet the scientist people as well.” 

Mulyamiji March is also about passing knowledge on to the next generation. Troops of school kids and recent school-leavers join us for surveys during the week: some students are from the local Nyangatjatjara College, outside Yulara; other students drive all the way from Warakurna in WA, a 330km journey. 

At first the kids laugh at the idea of measuring kuna, but in no time they’re scouring the spinifex for tjakura burrows and latrines and helping enter data into the tablet.

Importantly, Mulyamiji March is also about having fun. In 2024, there are several competitions between the participating ranger groups. Which group will cover the largest number of survey sites? Which group has the best school participation? Who can capture the best photograph of a tjakura? The stakes are high: the legendary television reporter Barranbinya man Tony Armstrong will present the awards, including the coveted Most Burrows trophy. 

The team effort continues

It’s a full week of monitoring tjakura at Uluru-Kata Tjuta. Each night we drive back to the camp, sharing food and stories, and getting ready for the next day of surveys. In total, we cover 34 sites in the 41°C heat. 

Then, with the Mulyamiji March surveys done at Uluru, the rangers set to work, doing the cat-control activities and mosaic burning that give these skinks a fighting chance. Rachel hits the road, driving to the next monitoring sites, supporting the next team of Indigenous rangers and expert trackers as they march across the desert, searching for tjakuraa. 

With this team effort, along with First Nations knowledge and western science, we’re hoping these skinks will continue to appear at their burrow entrances, warming themselves in the early morning sun for generations to come.

Kate Cranney is the Communications Manager for the National Environmental Science Program’s Resilient Landscapes Hub, which partners with the Indigenous Desert Alliance for Mulyamiji March. Through the hub, researchers ensure that the science behind the survey is robust, so that the data collected can accurately indicate if the tjakura population is increasing or decreasing across the country.

Keeping the desert connected

Brought to you by Indigenous Desert Alliance

The Indigenous Desert Alliance (IDA) is an Indigenous-led organisation strengthening desert ranger teams who work together at landscape-scale to keep Country healthy. Together with its members, including 65 Indigenous ranger teams, the IDA facilitates the largest Indigenous-led and culturally connected conservation network on Earth.

The IDA works to enable a strong and united voice for Indigenous desert rangers, to support strong and sustainable ranger teams, and to ensure the future health of Australia’s precious living deserts.

Learn more about how you can support the IDA’s vital work.

Looking After Tjakuṟa

Rangers across the Australian desert have joined forces to protect the iconic great desert skink ­­– or Tjakuṟa – also known by different Aboriginal language groups as Tjalapa, Mulyamiji, Warrarna, and Nampu.

The great desert skink is a species of cultural significance for Indigenous people, both as an important Tjukurrpa (Dreaming) species and, historically, a favoured food resource. It occurs almost exclusively on Aboriginal land.

Threatened by the combined impacts of unmanaged wildfire and feral cat predation, these iconic lizards have disappeared from many sites where they were formerly known. But they continue to thrive in areas where Indigenous Rangers conduct traditional burning and/or cat management.

The IDA is coordinating the implementation of priority actions in the Great Desert Skink Recovery Plan with support from the Australian Government’s Saving Native Species Program and the National Environmental Science Program’s Resilient Landscapes Hub.

Ranger Teams are supported to record cultural knowledge, conduct surveys, establish monitoring programs, and manage fire and cats around great desert skink sites. A collaborative, simultaneous, tri-state monitoring event called ‘Mulyamiji March’ is conducted annually.

Learn more about the program on the IDA’s website

The post Looking for Tjakuṟa appeared first on Australian Geographic.

He had a typical lower-middle-class suburban upbringing; his father was a teacher, mum a librarian. “My Indigenous culture wasn’t a huge part of my life,” he says. “For instance, if I was filling out a form and there was a box to tick if you were Aboriginal, I didn’t, because I didn’t think those details should matter. It’s one of those weird things, I suppose; it’s only recently that I’ve had a chance to re-embrace my cultural heritage, particularly as a composer.”

The son of Ken Wyatt AM, Australia’s first Indigenous federal minister (appointed to the health portfolio in 2015), Aaron also has several firsts attached to his name. Notably, he’s the first Indigenous person to conduct an orchestra in Australia. Like his father (one of 10 children, and one of the Stolen Generations), he too started from humble beginnings and has worked his way up the octaves.

“Music has always had a special place in my life,” Aaron recalls. “Fooling around with the piano at a family friend’s house and listening to my parents’ eclectic record collection – my mum didn’t care about the Beatles; it was all classical music to her – gave way to more formal studies at age five when I picked up the violin.” 

Aaron admits he was “no child prodigy”, but he was headstrong and opinionated about how best to navigate the instrument. “It’s a huge credit to my teacher that I didn’t end up with more self-imposed technical issues to fix in my teenage years,” he says.

With a burning curiosity about the natural world, he didn’t throw himself “too deeply into practice” and, like many children, he went through phases. “I had dreams of becoming a palaeontologist, an astronomer – what kid doesn’t like dinosaurs and space? – a chemist, a geologist, before finally settling on studying biomedical science and electronic engineering at uni.” But music was always a constant refrain in the background.

Aaron credits this sustained love affair to having grown up through the youth orchestra system in his home town of Perth. “Although there were times where it felt like it was as much a social activity for me as a musical one,” he says, “it was the sounds of orchestral music that I always found myself particularly drawn to.” As his first year of university was ending, he realised there’d be a world he would miss in a few years time when he’d be too old to be considered “youth”.

There were community orchestras, but the standard wasn’t quite the same. “I’d only just recently switched to the viola as well and found that the oddball reputation of my new instrument was one that seemed to fit me perfectly,” he says. “On top of that, I’d managed to pretty much cruise my way through high school with very little effort, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that that approach wasn’t going to cut it for too much longer.”

Related: These artists use music to advocate for conservation

Faced with the choice of study or practice, he picked the latter. “Walking away from the offer of an engineering scholarship to pursue a career in music is a choice I’ve never regretted,” he says. Graduating with a Bachelor of Music from The University of Western Australia, Aaron spent years as a regular casual playing symphonic repertoire with the West Australian Symphony Orchestra (WASO).

During this time he also took on the musical director role with Perth’s youngest community orchestra, South Side Symphony Orchestra, was a regular conductor of the city’s Allegri Chamber Orchestra, and performed in a number of acclaimed fringe and festival shows. These included the award-winning City of Shadows, a musical performance of stories inspired by Sydney crime scene mug shots from the early 1900s.

Created and directed by Rachael Dease, it (and Aaron) went on to perform seasons in New York and Melbourne. He also played a lead role in Perth-based Barking Gecko Theatre’s critically acclaimed adaptation of Wolf Erlbruch’s Duck, Death and the Tulip – a heart-warming story about a duck that strikes up an unlikely friendship with Death. 

Aaron further supplemented his income by giving private music lessons and, for fun, he sang bass with the eclectic choir Spooky Men of the West (“we all had to wear black and a hat, and sing in Georgian style – not the state, the country – but polyphonic”) and played violin with an Indian/jazz fusion group.

In 2020, a year after he was nominated for a Helpmann Award for his role as musical director of Speechless – a wordless opera composed by Cat Hope intended as a response to the plight of refugees worldwide – Aaron relocated to Melbourne, taking up a lecturing position at the Sir Zelman Cowen School of Music and Performance at Monash University. He continues to teach there and is working on his PhD, focused on animated graphic notation – the representation of music through the use of visual symbols outside the realm of traditional music notation.

In 2012 Aaron released the first iteration of this work, called the Decibel ScorePlayer – an iPad app that allows graphic, synchronised playback of non-traditional musical scores. He shares an example: Across the screen move images of jewellery and overlaying this are sounds of jewellery being swished, jingled, rattled and shaken. 

Aaron moved to Melbourne to further work opportunities and for the financial stability a permanent job provides, for him, his partner, Cathrin Sumfleth, and their busy 12-month-old son, Noah, only to be stymied by COVID. “Isn’t it always the way?” he says. “Melbourne had the most prolonged and stringent lockdowns so performing in front of live audiences was non-existent, whereas in WA life largely went on as normal [due to a hard close on the border]. People were still going out to performances, orchestras were still playing…but life has worked out as it has meant to.” Since restrictions lifted, Aaron has made hay. 

In 2022 he became the first First Nations person to conduct a state symphony orchestra in concert. It was with the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra (MSO) performing Long Time Living Here, a musical Acknowledgement of Country penned by another history-maker, MSO First Nations creative chair and composer Deborah Cheetham Fraillon AO.

“It was such an amazing opportunity and represented such a huge step forward, both for me as an individual and for Indigenous representation in Australian classical music,” Aaron says. “Of course it was good being the first, but also it wasn’t…because it was 2022 when it happened. It seems crazy it’s taken that long. Obviously there are socioeconomic reasons why there aren’t more Indigenous people in classical music. But it’s still a shame it has taken that long.”

He’s since had engagements with the Melbourne, Adelaide and Sydney symphony orchestras, and in early 2024 he conducted the premiere of Noongar opera Wundig wer Wilura, composed by Gina Williams AM and Guy Ghouse.

Sung entirely in language, it’s an ancient tale of a forbidden love, desperate desire and feuding families. As a composer, Aaron has written for new and groundbreaking groups such as Ensemble Dutala, Australia’s first Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander chamber ensemble, currently consisting of nine Australian musicians and providing scholarships to promising young students.

I ask Aaron why it’s important to specifically champion First Nations artists and his answer is emphatic: “We’re not at the point where we’re in a colour-blind society, and if you try to ignore colour at all you’re just entrenching the status quo, so we do have to speak up and make a point about these sorts of issues. Representation matters.”

This was boldly on show in March when Aaron conducted his own work, The Coming Dawn, to open WASO’s 2024 season at Perth Concert Hall. Originally written for a string quartet, vibraphone and yidaki (didgeridoo), it was expanded by Aaron to include brass, percussion and timpani, and is a masterful marriage of Western and Indigenous instrumentation.

Written during the hopeful crescendo of the 2023 Voice referendum, The Coming Dawn was, Aaron says, imbued with even more meaning after the No vote prevailed. “It wasn’t created for that specific purpose, to herald in a new age, but I think it speaks to the fact that the union of Western and First Nations cultures has never been more important,” he says.

The powerful piece flags a full-circle moment for the boy who refrained from ticking the Aboriginal box in high school. It also reaches back a generation, for his father, who as a WA Liberal MP in 2012 was referred to by then PM Tony Abbott as an “urban Aboriginal”, not an “authentic” Indigenous representative. 

“A lot of Indigenous Australians remain stuck between a rock and a hard place, with a broken connection to culture,” Aaron says. “But if music – if my music, if our music – can help broker greater bonds…then cue the music.”

Related: Soundtrack to a new life

The post Cue the music appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Under the guidance of GunaiKurnai Elders, archaeologists from the GunaiKurnai Land and Waters Aboriginal Corporation and Monash University excavated at Cloggs Cave near Buchan, in the foothills of the high country near the Snowy River in East Gippsland, Victoria.

What they found was extraordinary. Under the low, subdued light in the depth of the cave, buried under layers of ash and silt, two unusual fireplaces were revealed by the tip of the trowel. They each contained a single trimmed stick associated with a tiny patch of ash.

A sequence of 69 radiocarbon dates, including on wood filaments from the sticks, date one of the fireplaces to 11,000 years ago, and the deeper of the two to 12,000 years ago, at the very end of the last Ice Age.

Matching the observed physical characteristics of the fireplaces with GunaiKurnai ethnographic records from the 19th century shows this type of fireplace has been in continuous use for at least 12,000 years.

Enigmatic sticks smeared with fat

These were no ordinary fireplaces: the upper one was the size of the palm of a human hand.

Sticking out from the middle of it was a stick, one slightly burned end still stuck into the middle of the ashes of the fire. The fire had not burned for long, nor did it reach any significant heat. No food remains were associated with the fireplace.

Two small twigs that once grew from the stick had been trimmed off, so the stem was now straight and smooth.

Microscopic and biochemical analyses were performed on the stick, showing it had come into contact with animal fat. Parts of the stick were covered with lipids – fatty acids that cannot dissolve in water and can therefore remain on objects for vast lengths of time.

The trimmings and layout of the stick, tiny size of the fire, absence of food remains, and presence of smeared fat on the stick suggest the fireplace was used for something other than cooking.

The stick had come from a Casuarina tree, a she-oak. The branch had been broken and cut when green. We know this because of the splayed fibres at the broken end. The stick was never removed from the fire during its use; we found it where it was placed.

A second miniature fireplace slightly deeper down in the excavation also had a single branch emanating from it, this one with an angled-back end like on a throwing stick, and with five small twigs trimmed flush with the stem. It had keratin-like faunal tissue fragments on its surface; it too had come into contact with fat.

The role of these fireplaces in ritual

Local 19th-century ethnography has good descriptions of such fireplaces, so we know they were made for ritual practices performed by mulla-mullung, powerful GunaiKurnai medicine men and women.

Alfred Howitt, government geologist and pioneer ethnographer, wrote in 1887:

The Kurnai practice is to fasten the article [something that belonged to the victim] to the end of a throwing stick, together with some eaglehawk feathers, and some human or kangaroo fat. The throwing stick is then stuck slanting in the ground before a fire, and it is of course placed in such a position that by-and-by it falls down. The wizard has during this time been singing his charm; as it is usually expressed, he ‘sings the man’s name,’ and when the stick falls the charm is complete. The practice still exists.

Howitt noted that such ritual sticks were made from Casuarina wood. Sometimes the stick mimicked a throwing stick, with a hooked end. No such miniature fireplace with a single trimmed Casuarina stem smeared with fat had ever been found archaeologically before.

Related: Aboriginal inventions: 10 enduring innovations

500 generations

The miniature fireplaces are the remarkably preserved remains of two ritual events dating back 500 generations.

Nowhere else on Earth have archaeological expressions of a very specific cultural practice known from ethnography, yet traceable so far back, previously been found.

GunaiKurnai ancestors had transmitted on Country a very detailed, very particular cultural knowledge and practice for some 500 generations.

GunaiKurnai Elder Uncle Russell Mullett was on site when the fireplaces were excavated. As the first one was revealed, he was astounded:

For it to survive is just amazing. It’s telling us a story. It’s been waiting here all this time for us to learn from it. Reminding us that we are a living culture still connected to our ancient past. It’s a unique opportunity to be able to read the memoirs of our Ancestors and share that with our community.

What does it mean to be one of the oldest living cultures in the world? It means despite millennia of cultural innovations, the Old Ancestors also continued to pass down cultural knowledge and know-how, generation after generation, and have done so since the last Ice Age and beyond.

Related: Awakening a sleeping language

The authors are just six of the 17 authors of the journal article, including Birgitta Stephenson, who undertook the residue analyses.

Russell Mullett is a Traditional Custodian — Kurnai, Indigenous Knowledge; Ashleigh Rogers is a Lecturer in Archaeology at Monash University; Bruno David is a Professor at the Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for Australian Biodiversity and Heritage at Monash University; Carney D. Matheson is an Associate Professor at Griffith University; Fiona Petchey is an Associate Professor and Director of the Radiocarbon Dating Laboratory at the Te Aka Mātuatua – School of Science at the University of Waikato, and Nathan Wright is a Lecturer in Archaeology (UNE) and Senior Research Archaeologist of the Everick Foundation at the University of New England.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Discovering what it means to be the oldest living culture in the world appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Almost 25 years ago, the lure of playing professional football took Jason Ramsamy from northern Queensland to the Northern Hemisphere. But it was the call of Country, and an inherent connection to Australia’s greatest natural wonder, the Great Barrier Reef (GBR), that brought him home.

A leading sports commentator once described Jason as “incredibly versatile”. A professional career that started in a Cairns welding workshop and culminated in the upper echelons of Australian sport, spanning three continents and twice as many job titles, suggests this may be something of an understatement.

Tradesman. Athlete. Coach. Counsellor. Manager. Director. Jason’s jack-of-all-trades resumé is testament not only to mercurial talent, but opportunities taken and a professional life lived well. He’s long since laid down the tools, and despite being a self-confessed late bloomer, his rugby days are also behind him. Today Jason’s professional passion is irrevocably tied to his Indigenous cultural heritage, as he helps the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Authority (GBRMPA) work to further integrate modern marine park management with traditional knowledge borne from the world’s oldest continuous living culture.

Image credits: Reef Authority; Braden Smith

“I grew up around the Cairns and Mossman areas in North Queensland where two World Heritage areas meet – Land and Sea Country,” Jason says. “It’s in my blood.” And with ancestral ties to the Eastern Kuku Yalanji people (Jalunji clan) on his maternal side, and paternal connections to Boigu Island (Malu Kiwai) in the top western cluster group of the Torres Strait Islands, Jason’s role as Director of Traditional Use of Marine Resources Agreements (TUMRAs) seems less a vocation than a natural fit.

TUMRAs are legislated, community-based plans for the management of traditional resources, and are vital to the successful co-management of the GBR. “Essentially, in my role, we help facilitate how GBR Traditional Owner (TO) groups work in partnership with the Australian and Queensland governments to manage traditional-use activities and their Sea Country aspirations,” Jason says.

“I’m a hunter and a fisher, but my Country is further north,” he explains. “So for me to exercise my traditional rights and interests here on Gimuy Walaburra Yidinji and Yirrganydji peoples’ Country and the area where I now live, I would seek prior permission from the rightful TOs as a sign of respect.”

Image credits: Reef Authority; Braden Smith

It’s a custom as time honoured as the GBR itself. There are approximately 70 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Traditional Owner groups spread across the GBRMP. All of them share a unique cultural and spiritual affiliation with the GBR, and have done so since time immemorial, caring for their Sea Country through the sustainable use of its resources.

Traditional Owner knowledge is critical to helping preserve and protect Australia’s greatest natural wonder.

“In some of the more remote areas, a lot of the groups still rely heavily on the GBR, be it through fishing and hunting, to provide for their families in a very traditional way,” Jason says. “But there is also a lot more education and awareness around the GBR now, and a lot more opportunity for Traditional Owners, some of whom may have been displaced and dislocated from their Sea Country over time, and have now returned home.

“The beauty of the TUMRA program is we help facilitate that reconnection to Country. I know as a kid we used to hear stories about trading routes, songlines, shell middens and where our ancestors used to hunt and gather, but at the time, I took the Indigenous values and the historical context of it all for granted.

“Today, I see firsthand how important it is to really embrace our history and protect our Indigenous heritage values.”

Image credit: Reef Authority

Thanks to the work of Jason and his predecessors over the past 20 years since the program’s inception, there are now 10 long-term accredited TUMRAs in place, as well as an Indigenous Land Use Agreement, which are helping to preserve Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander culture, and inform the future management of the GBRMP.

Each Traditional Owner-led TUMRA employs a TUMRA coordinator and has its own committee to represent its respective language group/s and Sea Country area to collectively manage and implement the agreement and traditional use of marine resources.

Management of traditional-use values and Sea Country values is based on both cultural lore and contemporary science, and is also utilised where relevant for broader Sea Country planning and policy development.

Image credits: Reef Authority; Braden Smith

Despite these agreements covering more than 43 per cent of the Marine Park coastline, Jason says it’s not about the metrics, so much as laying the foundation for mobs (TOs) to have a seat at the table with local, state and Commonwealth government agencies. “We also have six Sea Country Planning Agreements in place with new and emerging TO groups, and that’s the most pleasing aspect – that other groups are now expressing their interest in working with the GBRMPA, not only through TUMRAs, but on Sea Country management actions, policy and planning programs,” he says.

And with another mass bleaching currently affecting the GBR (the fifth in just eight years) Jason knows, holistically, that TO knowledge is critical to helping preserve and protect Australia’s greatest natural wonder – now and for future generations.

Image credits: Reef Authority

“The GBR is part of our identity, but it’s under increasing pressure from climate change and other impacts,” he says. “We all have a role to play to ensure the GBR remains in great hands. Ours, and yours.”

This article is brought to you by Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Authority.

The post Ancient know-how meets a modern challenge appeared first on Australian Geographic.

By Ashley’s own admission, he is only one person in a colony of committed conservationists who have, for decades, been fighting for the koalas of the Mid North Coast of New South Wales. 

“Local conservationists were campaigning to protect koala habitat back in the 1970s,” Ashley says. “But it’s taken 50 years of hard graft, and a recent change in classification of the koala – from vulnerable to endangered – to finally protect the most important koala habitat in the world.” In February 2022, under the Environment Protection and Biodiversity Conservation Act 1999, the iconic marsupial was classified as endangered on Australia’s east coast, with reports revealing up to 62 per cent of NSW’s population had been lost since 2001. Queensland’s population crashed by an estimated 50 per cent over the same period. 

At the time of the classification, conservationists and scientists declared the endangered listing as an imperative turning point for koalas. 

“Koalas have gone from no listing, to being listed as vulnerable, then endangered, within a decade,” said WWF-Australia conservation scientist Dr Stuart Blanch. “That is a shockingly fast decline. The decision [to list koalas as an endangered species] is welcome, but it won’t stop them from sliding towards extinction unless it’s accompanied by stronger laws and landholder incentives to protect their forest homes. Koala numbers have halved in the past 20 years… We must turn this trend around and instead double the number of east-coast koalas by 2050.” On the heels of this change in classification, and perhaps emboldened by it, NSW Labor campaigned for the GKNP in the lead-up to the March 2023 election, which they won. Shortly afterwards, the new government committed $80 million in funding over four years to support the park’s development. 

“I don’t accept that one of our most loved and iconic native species could become extinct here,” said Premier Chris Minns. “By protecting the places these koalas live, and by working closely with all stakeholders, we can ensure we bring these incredible creatures back from the brink.”

By June the government was being urged to fast-track the GKNP, with MPs and environmentalists alike saying state-owned logging operations continue to kill the endangered marsupials across land set down for the park. By September logging was stopped in 106 koala hubs – areas of important habitat identified by the NSW environment department in 2017. The hubs cover just 5 per cent of the state forest that the government is now assessing for potential protection. The reviews are expected to be complete by the final quarter of 2024.

While this was a much-welcomed first step, many believed it didn’t go nearly far enough and called for the government to impose a logging suspension across the entire area of the proposed park. “We need to stop logging the hubs and the compartments that surround them,” said National Parks Association NSW president Dr Grahame Douglas. “We need to stop logging all native forests within the GKNP.”

Ashley concurs. “Koalas don’t just live in isolated hubs. They move. They travel. We know that from the extensive survey work we’ve done. If you protect a hub, but decimate the surrounding forest compartment, you destroy the corridors that koalas, and a raft of native species, use to access other habitat and feed trees.”

As it stands today, the proposed park will include 1760sq.km of state forest and 1400sq.km of existing national parks across five LGAs – Clarence Valley, Coffs Harbour, Bellingen Shire, Nambucca Valley and Kempsey Shire. It will also be a world first – a dedicated koala national park – and will protect about 20 per cent of the state’s wild koala population, 44 per cent of its identified koala hubs and, according to Ashley, it is the best koala habitat in the world, bar none.

Koala land custodians

For years, Uncle Micklo Jarrett has been a fixture in the idyllic country town of Bellingen, a 35km drive south-west of Coffs Harbour. 

With his long, dark dreadlocks and easy smile, he’s hard to miss, and his exuberant welcome sets him apart. “Giinagay. Yaam ngaya Gumbaynggirr ngulungginyay. Yaam nganyundi wajaarr,” he says. “That means welcome. I am a Gumbaynggirr Elder and this is my Country.”

Surrounded by state forest, national park and private landholdings, Bellingen is nestled in the heart of the GKNP. As a Traditional Owner and Elder, Uncle Micklo is keen to be part of the dialogue about the park. “The concept of a GKNP has been around for decades and I come to it as a custodian of the land to support it through my language and storylines, and thousands of generations of Dreaming,” he says. “It’s my job, it’s all Gumbaynggirr mob’s job, to let people know how important it is. Ngiambandi wajaarrbin yarrang jaagi gurraygu – our homelands are sacred to everyone.” 

Uncle Micklo is particularly set on conserving koalas. “Dunggiirr [koalas] are sacred to my people and the landscape of the Gumbaynggirr Nation. They’re vital to our Creation stories, laws and customs, and the Gumbaynggirr identity.”

As well as this, dunggiirr are a widjir (totem) animal for Uncle Micklo. “When dunggiirr are dying it’s like part of my family is dying, you know. We need to help people understand that. We need to help people realise that looking after Country, protecting it, is everyone’s purpose and it will make us all strong.”

Related: New genetic data reveals five distinct koala groups

His point is reiterated by ecologist and tireless eco-warrior Mark Graham when I meet him at Clouds Creek State Forest, 90 minutes drive north-west of Bellingen, the following day. “It’s all Gumbaynggirr Country,” he says, as we gaze over the heavily wooded hills and gullies that roll east to the sea. “And it’s all a place of plenty, on a continental scale.”

Mark explains: “Australia is a place of waxing and waning resource availability, drought to flood, and Gumbaynggirr Country was traditionally seen as a place of last resort – where other nations’ people could come to survive. That’s because the mountains come right to the coast, so there’s always water and an abundance of food, from the forest through to the sea. 

Our mission now is to protect, restore and expand the fabric of life here, to keep the rivers flowing, the rain falling, the forests intact and the animals thriving.” 

Mark’s words hold great resonance because of what has been – bushfires ravaged the region from September to Christmas Eve in 2019 – and what is to come: the state-sanctioned logging of great swathes of Clouds Creek State Forest, home to a host of ancient Gondwana plant species, native hardwoods and endangered animals, including the koala, southern greater glider and glossy black-cockatoo.

A dedicated band of locals beat back the fires, and today this incredibly resilient community is standing together once more to fight a “scourge we deem to be just as destructive, the Forestry Corporation of NSW”. 

Related: Koala sperm banks could future-proof populations

I meet Barry Hunt and Rhona Verrall at the Clouds Creek blockade site, along the Armidale to Grafton road and aptly named Glider Reviver, where you can stop for a chat about the cause as well as a cuppa, a slice of cake, a bunch of freshly picked flowers and even some home-grown vegies. Since January 2024 the duo have turned up at 4am sharp to prevent loggers from entering the native forest and to protect endangered species. Despite the early starts, both are determined to hold strong. 

“We’ve lived here for more than 20 years and over that time have seen logging practices change dramatically,” Barry says. “It used to be a small crew with chainsaws selectively logging, but now it’s massive machinery that rips and tears at the forest and decimates wildlife habitat. It’s apocalyptic and we can’t have it.” 

As if on cue, a logging truck rolls past, hauling a huge, bright-yellow feller buncher – a heavy-duty vehicle with tracks that rotate like an excavator, allowing it to move through the forest while dropping and gathering trees. 

Barry explains: “It has an arm with a chainsaw attachment. The arm grabs hold of the tree around the base, cuts it, then puts it in a pile. The number it can log in a day depends on the slope of the terrain and the density [of trees], but it’s in the hundreds.”

This is not the first time Clouds Creek has been blockaded. According to local activist Meredith Stanton, logging contractors came calling in the late 2000s, despite detailed reports highlighting the decline of koalas in the area during a 10-year period from 1998. “Then, as now, the harvest plans failed to provide adequate protection for koala habitat, so we must [provide it],” Meredith says, resolute. Clouds Creek, which sits within the boundary of the GKNP, is one of many government-owned native forests that are currently available to be harvested for hardwood. Vigilant locals continue to protest logging operations in other state forests within the proposed park and the NSW Environmental Protection Agency has been charged with ensuring that there is no increase in logging in the permitted areas to compensate for the halt to logging within the hubs.

“It’s profoundly distressing to me, to the Gumbaynggirr people, to our community, to realise that the government’s intention is to let loggers in and at some point down the track, maybe a year or 18 months from now, make some form of GKNP after these globally significant habitats have been gutted,” Mark says. “The koala is endangered and in steep decline. The reality is that all industrial logging needs to stop across the GKNP immediately.” 

Related: Unbearable loss: our koalas are endangered

Forest for conservation

Dean Kearney is for the trees. He’s worked for the Forestry Corporation of NSW for more than 25 years, developing a deep understanding of the canopy and the life that lives beneath it. 

As we stand in a slice of state forest north of Coffs Harbour, Dean explains the principles of multi-use forests, where sustainable timber production is just one objective. 

“More than 80 per cent of the NSW public forest estate is permanently dedicated to conservation,” the Manager of Environment and Sustainability says. “And in state forests where timber harvesting is permitted, we also look after hundreds of public recreational areas, are charged with fire management, maintaining roads, tracks and trails, and we support local organisations with recreational and tourism businesses and forest regen[eration] projects. Our harvesting program involves just 1 per cent of state forests each year.”

While there is no dispute over the management of Forestry’s 20,000sq.km of ‘recreational’ forest when it comes to the GKNP, there is over its continued logging of native hardwoods within the proposed park. Dean won’t be drawn on this matter – “That’s a government policy issue so I can’t comment” – but is happy to walk me through the planning that precedes a harvest operation.

“We have an overarching strategic plan, which sets out our sustainable yield limits for the next 100 years, and tactical plans for the next 5–10 years. And on the ground, in a hardwood forest like this, we develop a detailed site plan that will take us anywhere up to one or two years to complete. It includes ecological and cultural surveys, as well as plans for where roads will be maintained and detailed maps of the area.”

I’m particularly interested in the survey work, which, Dean explains, include broad-area habitat searches, acoustic wildlife monitoring and, most recently, thermal drone imaging to help better understand how wildlife populations respond to timber harvesting in state forests over time. 

Whipping out an iPad, he pulls up a topographic map of the forest in which we stand. It’s overlaid with a confusing confection of colours, shapes, symbols and letters that, when zoomed in on and deciphered, show areas set down for tree felling and the survey work accompanying it. The map also includes areas where felling is excluded and individual trees have been identified to be retained, listed by type: “giant”, “dead standing”, “hollow bearing”, “glossy black-cockatoo feed”, “nectar”, “koala browse” and others. 

“This iPad-based electronic mapping is crucial,” Dean says. “We have people out in the field for weeks at a time, undertaking surveys, gathering data on wildlife, identifying habitat trees and assessing forest use. It’s all recorded and used to inform our operations. When our contractors come into the forest to fell trees, they are required to use the same system and data so we can be sure they’re only taking trees that are suitable to be felled for timber and not those that are to be protected,” Dean says. “We conduct regular compliance checks to ensure it’s all being adhered to.” 

According to the Environmental Defenders Office, however, “in the past three years alone, Forestry Corporation has been fined 12 times for illegal logging activities. There are 21 investigations still pending,” a spokesperson says. 

“Forestry Corporation operates under bilateral agreements with the federal government, called ‘regional forest agreements’ (RFAs), which allow logging to bypass normal federal environmental scrutiny. No other industry benefits from such an allowance. Under the current system of RFAs, threatened species such as the koala, greater glider and gang-gang cockatoo are being driven to extinction and the ecosystems and landscapes that we depend on are being destroyed at an astounding rate.”

Iconic koala habitat

Data recording on an iPad may not feature in John Pile and Anne Coyle’s forest surveys, but they’re exhaustive nonetheless. 

Many moons ago the couple bought an over-worked patch of land in Valery, just south of Coffs Harbour, and have spent the ensuing years regenerating it. Today, it’s a green haven where frogs, birds, possums, pademelons, koalas and all manner of other native wildlife find refuge. 

Beyond its boundary lies Pine Creek State Forest. Earmarked for inclusion in the GKNP, it is widely recognised as the most iconic coastal koala habitat in the world. 

As I wander among old-growth tallowwood, brushbox, pink bloodwood, ringwood and flooded gum with a barefoot John on a mizzly Monday, John talks about the logging that has occurred here in the past 30 years. 

“Integrated logging began in the early 1990s,” he says. “It’s the tool used to turn the last of these diverse, moist coastal forests into simple plantation forests [blackbutt]. It reduces biodiversity, dries out the forest and creates a young, even-aged forest that poses an incredible fire risk. Despite our protest to Forestry Corporation NSW at the time, it continued. And we weren’t alone in our protests, with some saw loggers siding with us, stating, ‘Until the conservationists strengthened their attack, there seemed no way of protecting other species.’”

Thanks in no small part to John and Anne’s tireless work to protect the forest, Pine Creek has also been the focus of three major independent scientific studies on koalas over the same three decades. 

The latest, published by renowned wildlife ecologist and environmental scientist Dr Andrew Smith in December 2023, and co-authored by John, says: “The area supports a mosaic of  wet and dry sclerophyll forest and rainforest on undulating topography across a network of moist drainage lines, which provides a high level of protection against intense fire and drought, enabling this region to support one of the largest and most stable koala populations in NSW.

“These findings indicate that the continuation and expansion of high-intensity logging across the remaining parts of the Pine Creek State Forest available for wood production has the potential to eliminate koalas from logged areas, destroy corridor links between remnant koala habitat in Bongil Bongil National Park and nearby upland conservation areas, and reduce the quality and integrity of koala habitat in the surrounding region including the proposed Great Koala National Park.”

Pine Creek is also a critical fire refuge. It escaped the Black Summer bushfires of 2019–20, unlike great swathes of state forest, national park and private landholdings to the north, west and south of it. More than 10,000 koalas across NSW perished during the fires and hundreds of thousands of hectares of prime koala habitat was burnt. It affected more than a third of the proposed park, and killed many hundreds – possibly thousands – of koalas within it. “Everyone loves koalas,” says Anne, “but won’t do what they need – protect their habitat from logging.”

Fighting fire with forest

Nurseryman Barry Hicks knows a thing or two about the 2019–20 fires. He lost everything. Well, almost. Incredibly, his sanity remained intact…and his caravan. “We called it an act of God,” he says, blue eyes twinkling. “It ate up everything in its path but left my van. Ran a circle around it. Can’t make any sense of how or why.”

The septuagenarian lives at Billys Creek on the western Dorrigo Plateau, surrounded by rainforest and native bush. He fought the fires for four months alongside his brother, whose shack is a stone’s throw to the north, and the locals of nearby Dundurrabin village. “I remember seeing a trail of smoke across the valley and thought, ‘Oh no, here we go.’ It didn’t ease up until Christmas Eve, when we finally had good rain. It was the first full night’s sleep we’d had since September.” 

The devastation the fires wrought is writ large across the landscape – charred bones of homes and burnt-out banksia trunks – and in the battle scars the survivors have band-aided with nonstop recovery work. That work includes the nurture of thousands of rainforest and koala feed-tree seedlings in greenhouse tunnels at Barry’s now-rebuilt Blue Rock Nursery. 

“I collect the seeds down in the gully,” he says. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but the rainforest down there pulled up the fires.”

Barry and I sit in his rebuilt shed (sans walls) chatting about this phenomenon with ecologist Mark Graham. “There’s been a huge body of work done into how and why rainforest retards fire,” Mark says. “The naturally high levels of moisture that give rainforests their name result in rapid breakdown of leaves once they fall from the canopy, so that these areas have much lower fuel loads and are moister than other forests.”

But surface fuels aren’t the whole story – there are shrubs and grasses that also contribute to fire behaviour. “The vegetation is quite dense, but much of the foliage often holds moisture, making them less likely to burn,” Mark continues.

Logging of adjacent native forest, however, creates greater fuel loads, which in turn pushes fire into these protected wet zones and attacks it. According to research by the Bushfire Recovery Project – a joint endeavour between Griffith University and the Australian National University in response to the 2019–20 fires – native forest logging increases the severity at which forests burn, beginning about
10 years after logging and continuing at elevated levels for 30-plus years. The project also found that the likelihood of “crown burn” (when the canopy is burnt) is about 10 per cent in old-growth forest versus 70 per cent in forest logged 15 years ago. 

This drops steeply as the forest continues to age, but remains elevated for decades. This is because logging removes the canopy, resulting in increased drying of the young plants and soil by the sun and wind, and greater wind speeds on days with extreme fire danger. After logging, the young trees that begin to grow create an increased fuel load in the forest; many of those trees will die, becoming dry and highly flammable. 

World-leading forest ecology expert Professor David Lindenmayer AO stated in the bushfire recovery report that the link between fire severity and logging had been found in global studies, such as in the USA and Patagonia, as well as locally in Australia. 

“Logging typically takes only the trunk of the tree; the branches, the bark and the top of the tree are left dead in the forest. While some logging operations (mostly in Victoria) burn the forest after logging, up to 50 per cent of woody fuel can remain after the burn-off.”

Barry’s work with saplings, then, is fundamental to the recovery of the fire-ravished forests across the western plateau, as is his cultivation of koala feed trees, of which hundreds of thousands of acres were decimated (along with their inhabitants) during those darkest of months. “My life’s work is to regenerate the rainforest,” Barry says. “Like a wet blanket, it protects our forests and animals, the koala included, that call the bush around here home.”

Mapping koala hubs

When I meet Jack Nesbitt in the blue gum forest behind his family home in Brierfield, roughly 10km south of Bellingen, his English springer spaniel, Max, is running drills. 

While thunderheads storm across the sky and industrial-sized mosquitoes make quick work of the thin layer of cotton protecting my legs, Max puts his nose to the ground, hunting for scats.

“He’s trained in koalas as well as two species of endangered antechinus: the silver-headed and black-tailed dusky,” Jack says, as the dog tracks left, then right, across the forest floor, back and forth, before pulling up at the base of a towering tree. He steps back and waits. “See how he’s not digging or pawing at the ground?” Jack says. “We don’t want him disturbing the site. We need the scats intact so we can send them to the lab for testing.”

Max is a conservation detection dog and a vital member of Canines for Wildlife, run by Jack, his father Brad Nesbitt and mother Lynn Baker, who are both long-time ecologists.

“We have four scent-detection dogs working on threatened species research, survey and management, as well as invasive species detection and control,” Brad says. “We work all the way up the coast and into south-east Queensland, and inland to New England.”

While Max waits, Jack collects a scat buried beneath leaf litter at the base of the eucalypt. “If this was a live hunt, we’d mark the position using GPS, note the time and date, take photos of the scat and any other identifiable koala signs [such as scratchings on the tree trunk], take it back to the office, label it and put it in the freezer [–20°C or below to slow degradation]. Then we’d send it off for analysis.”

At the lab, an array of testing is undertaken: DNA is extracted, which helps identify individual animals and their sex, and pathogen sampling for Chlamydia pecorum and koala retrovirus. It also provides insight into the overall population health and interrelatedness of groups of koalas.

This information, and Max’s work, Jack says, has been instrumental in helping map koala populations in hubs identified for inclusion in the GKNP. “Genetic analyses can be used to monitor populations over time and provide data on size, structure, diversity and health,” he says. “It also helps investigate movement. For instance, we collected scats from two small patches of remnant bushland in Toormina [a heavily urbanised area just south of Coffs Harbour] and found it was from the same koala.

Looking at the map, you have to wonder how it got from one patch to the other – it’s a bit of a mystery, did it hitch a ride in a car boot? – but goes to show how important backyard trees and wildlife corridors are. While they’re mostly sedentary and stay in one spot, when they need to, these guys can travel.”

Related: Pap not poop: The ‘gift’ a mother koala gives her joey

Meet Mr Koala Head

It’s a steamy Sunday afternoon in Bellingen as the rally gets underway. Posters pasted around town have invited people to join a march across Lavenders Bridge in support of the GKNP. It’s the first of two for March, with more planned for the months beyond. The mood is upbeat as I walk alongside a tall, lean fellow wearing an oversized koala head. We stop for a group photo – handmade banners, gum leaves and toy koalas raised on high – before making our way to a grassy spot on the northern side. Seeking respite from the heat, kids stream in and out of the Bellinger River while others swing from a rope thrown over a tree branch.

Mr Koala Head steps up to the microphone, removes his ‘hat’ and introduces himself. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Dr Tim Cadman. I live within the footprint of the proposed park and I, like all of you, have had enough of the carnage.” A respected environmental researcher and academic at Queensland’s Griffith University, Tim is referring to the current clear-fell plantation logging in Tuckers Nob State Forest. A few clicks north of town, it’s also set down for inclusion in the GKNP. “It’s a visionary idea, a national park for koalas,” he continues. “But logging and koalas do not mix. In fact, clear-felling is like a nuclear bomb for wildlife – nothing survives.”

I’d driven past the site on my way into Bellingen today and was confronted by the scene. Where once stood a thriving forest now lies a ravaged landscape. Broken limbs, exposed earth, burnt trees. 

“If the proposed park is to live up to the ‘Great’ in its name, it has to be as big and as well connected as possible. The government has to end its take within the proposed GKNP area. It needs to stop the killing fields.” 

They’re potent words, and as I look around, I see everyone nodding in agreement. They remind me of something the park’s founding father, Ashley Love, told me a week ago: “We have the best koala habitat in the world right here, on our doorstep. We must do everything we can to protect it. The time is now.”

Amen, Ashley. Amen.

The post Clear-cutting koala country appeared first on Australian Geographic.

We’ve also got Mt Great Groaner in New South Wales, the Great Swamp in Victoria, the Great Basalt Wall in Queensland and the Great Dragon Reef in Tasmania. Across Australia there are more than 200 placenames that contain the descriptor.

Emeritus Professor Roly Sussex, from University of Queensland’s School of Languages and Culture, explains the etymology:

“The word is Old English, spelt the same, and has been around for more than 1000 years. It is related to the German ‘gross’, meaning large,” he says. “Use of the prefix ‘great’ is a British pattern. If you search the Gazetteer of British Place Names you will find hundreds of them.”

Actually, you will find thousands. Of the 280,000 names listed with the Gazetteer of British Place Names, 2106 contain great, representing about 0.75 per cent. With colonisation the descriptor travelled, meaning Australia’s fascination with the term is not unique. For example, the United States and Canada also have 0.05–0.07 per cent of total placenames including the word.

New Zealand bucks the trend with a mere 11 placenames – it’s home, for example, to the Great Unknown and its cousin the Little Unknown, both peaks in the Southern Alps.

David Blair is the editor of Placenames Australia, the newsletter of the Australian National Placenames Survey.

“You’ll notice that, unlike Britain, almost all [Australian greats] are natural, rather than habitation, features,” David says.

In Australia, great has been used to preface water features (including waterfalls, swamps and anabranches), topographical features (including mountains, ranges and cliffs), marine features (including sand bars, beaches and shipping channels) and, to a lesser extent, man-made features such as roads, localities and walks.

The Dutch named our big island Terra Australis, or Great Southern Land, while in A Voyage to Terra Australis Matthew Flinders describes the reefs off northern New South Wales (as Queensland was known in 1802) as the Barrier Reefs. On finding a dry sand bank in the Coral Sea (now known as Cato Reef, east of present-day Gladstone), he writes: “Some apprehensions were excited for the following night by meeting with this bank but as it was more than two degrees to the eastward of the great Barrier Reefs, we thought it unconnected with any other.”

Ernest Giles was one of many explorers who ventured overland in search of the mythical inland sea, and in his record of his travels Australia Twice Traversed he reflects on his 1875 discovery of a spring, in what we now know as Western Australia.

“Geographical features have been terribly scarce upon this expedition and this peculiar spring is the first permanent water I have found. I have ventured to dedicate it to our most gracious Queen. The desert in which I found it, and which will most probably extend to the west as far as it does to the east, I have also honoured with Her Majesty’s mighty name, calling it the Great Victoria Desert,” Giles wrote.

The Great (Australian) Bight is referenced in the 1792 journals of explorer Joseph-Antoine Raymond Bruni D’Entrecasteaux, while the Great Dividing Range was named by those at Sydney Cove who felt hemmed by the mountains to their west.

David concurs with Roly that the use of the word harks back to our English ancestry. “The Brits couldn’t believe how big everything was here when they first struck our natural phenomena,” David says. So it is the early days of European exploration that are mostly responsible for many of our greats.

The Victorian Department of Transport has gone one further and says: “The current naming rules for places in Victoria do not permit prefixes, including the word ‘great’. Geographic placenames are required to be succinct and it is expected that a unique name be applied to a place which has a strong connection to place and shared cultural history.”

So while great may continue to lose its significance as Australia moves to change many placenames back to their Indigenous origins, the term will serve to mark a place in our history.

Related: The A–Z of Aussie slang

The post What’s behind our fascination for naming places ‘great’? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The chuditch (Dasyurus geoffroii)– also know as the western quoll – is another of those small-to-medium-sized mammals that only occurs in Australia, but has been almost completely wiped out during the past 200 years. Their natural distribution has been reduced by more than 90 per cent since European settlement and its last remaining natural strongholds are a handful of isolated populations south of Perth. 

A few limited translocations earlier this century saw the chuditch reintroduced to South Australia, although it remains endangered there. And the species continues to be either extinct or presumed extinct in the Northern Territory, New South Wales, Queensland and Victoria.

After a decade of planning, in 2023 Australian Wildlife Conservancy (AWC) carried out the first of five planned translocations to Mt Gibson Wildlife Sanctuary, 350km north-east of Perth, of animals caught from remnant wild chuditch populations near Perth. It was the start of an ambitious plan that might one day lead to the species being re-established across much of its former range.

Related: A guide to all six species of quoll

‘A huge program’

Mammal reintroductions have been a key feature of management for the Mt Gibson sanctuary and crucial to this has been the property’s large predator-free enclosure. Almost 8000ha of the property’s most intact habitat has been protected within a 43km x 1.82m specially designed feral-proof fence.

In 2015 AWC began reintroducing to the property 10 mammal species that had been extinct in the area for many years, including nine species that are also threatened at the national level. It started with the greater bilby in 2016, and has since seen populations of numbat, woylie, Shark Bay bandicoot, red-tailed phascogale, greater stick-nest rat, banded hare-wallaby and the WA subspecies of the brushtail possum become established within the safety of Mt Gibson’s feral predator–free enclosure. 

“It’s been a huge program. But it’s been worth it,” says Isabel ‘Issie’ Connell, a field ecologist and senior guide at the Mt Gibson sanctuary. “This is the first place in the world to reintroduce so many species into one area.” 

Not only have these reintroduced populations begun to flourish safely away from the foxes and cats that have decimated their numbers, but the environment has also begun to visibly respond positively to the presence of the animals. 

“Something that many people may not be aware of is how important these animals are in the ecosystem and in the landscape,” Issie says. She points out that, as a result, the condition of the soil inside the fence is remarkably better than it is outside. “That’s because of the work done by the animals we’ve reintroduced there,” she says.

The extensive scratching and digging – while looking for food and making burrows – by the mammal species so far introduced behind the fence turns over huge quantities of soil every day. “The reason this is so important,” Issie says, “is that every time a little dig is done, it’s breaking up the topsoil and pulling down nutrients. When it rains the water doesn’t just run off, it actually penetrates the ground, and this can really have quite a quick effect on the quality of the habitat.”

The return of the chuditch to Mt Gibson began in 2023 with the same sort of intensive planning that had been undertaken for the other species, but with one important difference: The other mammals are mostly herbivorous, but the chuditch is a carnivore that eats large invertebrates, reptiles and small mammals. For now it has been decided to establish the translocated chuditch populations outside the predator-proof fence, to give the protected herbivores within more time to become established before being exposed to another native predator. (Natural populations of goannas, snakes and birds of prey all presently hunt for food behind the fence.) 

The other issue facing chuditch is that, being a carnivore, the species requires a much larger home range than other herbivores – a male chuditch can range across at least 1500ha and females need up to 400ha for hunting prey and searching for mates. 

As a result, an intensive effort went into making a huge area outside the fence as free of feral predators as possible for the chuditch translocations. “To be able to release outside the fence, we had to get cats and foxes down to a reasonable level,” says Georgie Anderson, who was until recently the senior field ecologist at Mt Gibson. Foxes are now rarely seen on the sanctuary or the surrounding area, but feral cats are an ongoing problem. 

“Cats are a big thing for us and incredibly difficult to manage, because different approaches work for different cats,” Georgie says. “So we do a whole suite of different controls.” Feral cat suppression is an ongoing part of management right across the property, and it was stepped up about 18 months before the first chuditch translocation, in the area where they were being released. 

“Across Mt Gibson we trap for cats. We also aerial- and ground-bait with Eradicat® [a commercial product that uses 1080 poison]. But we’ve also been trialling the Felixer grooming trap for the past year.” A Felixer is a device that uses a camera-based artificial intelligence system to attract feral cats, recognise them and spray them with 1080, which they then ingest when they groom.

Related: “A diabolical problem needing radical answers”: when cats are not so cute

Breeding underway

The fifth and final translocation of wild chuditch went ahead at Mt Gibson in May 2024, releasing 18 animals caught at Dryandra Woodland National Park, 180km south-east of Perth. In the 12 months prior to the release, more than 20 feral cats were removed from the area using a combination of Felixers and traps. As with the other releases, a mix of male and female chuditch were chosen and released at selected locations outside the fence, after first resting up for vet checks and a good feed at Perth’s Chuditch Hotel, a purpose-built facility operated by Native Animal Rescue.

Some of the released animals were fitted with radio-tracking collars, and data from these revealed some animals dispersed far and wide shortly after release, even as far as neighbouring properties. These data, along with field sightings, trapping of the translocated animals and evidence from camera traps, demonstrated that the program overall has so far been successful in establishing a chuditch population back at Mt Gibson.

“We’ve shown that we’ve got really high survivorship, with a couple of mortalities from predation. But some of those predation events have been by native animals, including by a bird of prey,” Georgie says. “There were a couple of mortalities that were likely to be cat or fox. But it was low enough that we think the majority are doing okay.”

Perhaps, however, the best indicators of the population’s health are signs of breeding and there has been clear evidence of that, with six new individuals detected either in traps or on camera in recent months.

Please help save the chuditch

You can help Australian Wildlife Conservancy continue its chuditch translocation program, vital to the ongoing survival of the species, by contributing funds to Australian Geographic Society’s Australia’s Most Endangered campaign.

Donate here.

The post Rescuing the chuditch appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Design

The Reserve 30SL wheelset (available in 29-inch size only) should not be viewed as simply a ‘lighter version’ of the Reserve 30HD (skewed more toward aggressive riders/enduro bikes).

The 30SL wheelset is of asymmetrical design and features a wider and lower rim profile (with 3mm less cross-sectional depth compared to the 30HD), with the aim of adding strength and lateral rigidity to the wheels (further enhanced by the unique ‘over-built’ reinforced spoke holes – a clever way of countering the force that part of the wheel cops when riding). The new rim profile is claimed to improve vertical compliance for comfort and increase traction levels. That new rim shape is also designed to make fitment of tyres easier, with a tighter bead/rim connection. 

The 29-inch wheelset on test here features 28 spokes front and rear and is fitted with an Industry Nine Hydra hub (XD, six-bolt only). You can option the Reserve 30SL with a DT350 hub as well, for both XD (six-bolt) and Shimano Microspline (six-bolt). The Hydra hub option for Shimano Microspline is CentreLock-only.

The 30SL wheels also feature the nifty Reserve Fillmore valves. These nifty items claim three times the air input compared to the standard Presta valve, are designed to eliminated sealant clogging, and include a cool micro-adjust feature: a light push down on the top of the valve allows small amounts of air to escape to set optimum tyre pressure. 

Overall weight for this Hydra hub-equipped wheelset is just 1750 grams (including valves and rim tape). More impressive, though, is the fact there is no rider weight limit (this tester rejoices!) and the wheelset comes with a lifetime warranty.

In the field

As a (very) long-time mountain biker, I can still remember the first carbon MTB wheelsets, and more specifically, how stiff they were. Today’s carbon hoops are far removed from those earlier incarnations and the Reserve 30SL wheelset is an excellent example of how much more testing and thought has gone into its design. 

The trails ridden during testing have been primarily around the Sydney MTB haven of the Northern Beaches; sandstone-laden, rocky and rooty, and often with loose dirt/sand over the harder under-surface. In other words, near-ideal test ground for MTB wheels. The much-mentioned designers’ attention to vertical compliance has paid off big-time with the Reserve 30SL: the wheels provide great damping over rougher, vibration-inducing surfaces, and offer good stability and traction. Bigger hits have been absorbed well, too, with no notable deflection when hitting obstacles at an unfavourable angle. With all this talk of damping, it’s worth noting that there is not too much; the rider’s ‘feel’ of the wheels is retained, and it’s easy to keep the wheels (and bike) pointed in the right direction.

One big mis-jump brought an awfully loud thump from the rear end, but close inspection saw no discernible damage (except to this rider’s ego). The spokes have stayed in alignment to date, the Fillmore valves have become more appreciated than expected, and that Industry Nine Hydra hub just keeps spinning fast and free (but yeah, with that not-so-quiet buzz!). The only thing we haven’t tested yet is tyre fitment, but that will be reported in our final review of the Tallboy. In short, the Reserve 30SL wheelset has simply done its job, but it has done it notably well, to the point where this former alloy-wheel-only believer has seen how a well-designed and engineered carbon wheelset can improve your ride quality and efficiency. 

The final word on the Reserve 30SL wheels

Upgrading your MTB’s wheelset is probably one of the biggest (and most beneficial, in terms of bang for bucks) things you can do for an improved ride on the trails, but it ain’t cheap. The Reserve 30SL wheelset shows exactly why this is the case; a well-damped ride that does not sacrifice accurate and fast directional input, an impressively light weight, and what seems like bombproof construction, are all positives of the Reserve 30SL wheelset. For those downcountry XC/trail riders, who sometimes tackle trails more in the enduro spectrum, the 30SL is more than up for it. 

Yes, they will put a sizeable hole in your wallet (although they sit mid-range in price compared to other equivalent carbon hoops on the market, and we reckon the DT350-equipped 30SL looks a great buy), but with all of those aforementioned positives – and that lifetime warranty – we’d have to say that, for riders looking to get more out of their bike on the trails most of us ride, the Reserve 30SL carbon wheelset is an investment worth contemplating.

RRP: $3399 (Industry Nine Hydra 110 hub six-bolt XD, as tested; Shimano Microspline CentreLock);
$2299 (DT350 110 hub six-bolt XD; six-bolt Microspline)

See Reserve Wheels for more info on its full model range. Reserve wheels are sold at Cervelo and Santa Cruz dealers across Australia.

The post Reserve 30SL wheels: Tested appeared first on Australian Geographic.

A tiny animal – with a very tiny brain – goes busily back and forth, carrying branches, feathers, grass and sometimes fur with a very specific plan in mind – a design for a nest.

Birds’ nests can come in all shapes and sizes – from the traditional cup nests to those that hang like pendulums from the branches of trees.

Building a nest can take hours, days, sometimes even weeks. But each design has been refined over millions of years of evolution and is specific to each species.

Nests are the key to the survival of birds, quite literally holding the future of their populations within them.

But how did nest designs become so very different? And will they change as the planet does?

Our research has been looking into these questions using over 700 museum specimens.

The answers will help us understand how future climatic challenges might affect species’ designs and how bird nests, and their occupants, will cope in a changing world.

Domes, pendants and cups

When we think of nests, the first image that usually comes to mind is a cup, a simple structure that works like a vessel to hold eggs and chicks. But with a plethora of designs in the bird world, this vessel can take many shapes.

Some species build enclosed nests, domed structures with a side entrance and a roof.

These nests are rarer than open cups but many perching birds build them, including Australian species like lyrebirds, thornbills, gerygones and fairy-wrens. Building a roof may be a tool to help protect young from higher levels of solar radiation.

Researchers are only just starting to understand the reasons behind the great variation in nest designs. There are broad architectural differences but, as with human houses, there is also variation in many other features.

Some nests have incredibly thick walls, while others you can see right through. Some nests are pendant shaped and elongated, while other nests are wide and flat.

Our team, along with others across the world, are studying why species build nests the specific ways they do, and how we ended up with such a huge variety of nest designs.

To do this, we looked to museums as an incredible, but often overlooked resource, that not only contain collections of animal specimens, but what they build.

Museums across the world, including Australia, have large collections of preserved nests, with some collected centuries ago. In cases where species have disappeared, all we have left are the structures they built.

By taking detailed measurements across collections in the United Kingdom and Germany, we characterised the type of nest built by different species.

For one study, we explored more than 700 nests from 55 perching bird species, and another paper looked at 49 species of tanagers – perching birds from Central and Southern America.

We connected nest diameter, wall thickness, cup depth and opening size with climatic information from the locations where the nests were found.

This allowed us to draw interesting links between certain climatic conditions and specific nest features.

For example, we found that nests constructed in locations with high levels of rain had thinner walls, while nests with thicker walls tended to be from drier environments.

Our findings supported at broad scale what had been reported in a few species – that thinner walls in wet environments would allow nests to dry much faster, so puddles don’t form inside.

Thicker walls on the other hand, might be able to capture and hold humidity better in dry environments, which is especially important to help eggs hatch.

Wind also seems to be an important force driving the evolution of certain nest features, specifically in open-cup nests. Here, we found nests had deeper cups if they were built in environments with higher wind speeds.

This makes sense, because if nests don’t have a roof, then strong winds can dislodge eggs and nestlings.

The higher walls in these nests would also protect eggs from cooling down too quickly – eggs need consistently high temperatures of around 37 °C to develop.

Other studies have also shown that the size of the nest and the amount of lining material also varies depending on the local temperature, with colder conditions favouring nests with more lining that may help keep their contents warm.

Our results support the idea that the link between environment and nest design is more refined than we previously suspected, and that the structures we see now are made for the local conditions where the birds are breeding.

The insights from our study come from very closely related species of birds called tanagers, which suggests that these design alterations could have evolved relatively recently or could even be the product of experience and learning.

A strict design or a general set of instructions?

Our research shows that closely related species can have a large range of variations in their nests, but we also wanted to know what happens within species and populations.

Do all individual birds from the same species use the exact same recipe for construction?

Looking at museum specimens, we found the individuals of some species build very uniform nests; for example, the width of the cup or height of the dome varies by less than two per cent.

But there are some species that show extreme variation in the shape of nests they build, with some building both open-cup and enclosed domed nests within the same species. 

Because similar levels of variation were found in closely related species, this nest building flexibility may be genetically determined, which could mean some groups of species may respond more effectively to global climate change.

It’s interesting to note that flexibility in food foraging behaviour did not appear to correlate with flexibility in nest construction.

Our study was a proof-of-concept that we could find this kind of information from museum nest collections, but we need more research to understand why some species are much more flexible in their designs. 

Avian architects of the future

Nest builders are deeply connected to their environment and their constructions tend to match their local climatic conditions.

We found this was the case across millions of years of evolution, but the obvious question is, what happens if we suddenly change the environments where birds are building their nests?

What happens if the temperatures where they breed become much warmer? And if the materials they build their nests with are not available anymore?

While we don’t yet have these answers and more research is needed, it’s clear that these environmental changes could have dramatic consequences for bird populations.

For example, recent research has already told us that temperatures inside nests are rising and this is leading to a decline in some bird populations.

There is almost no information about if and how quickly birds can adjust their designs. Nor about how effective those changes would be in protecting their offspring.

Our work suggests that not all birds will be able to adjust their designs within the tight time frames that might protect them from a warming climate, so some species might have to respond in ways that don’t involve architectural solutions, like shifting their ranges or breeding at a different time.

Other species might be able to adjust specific design features to decrease temperatures inside their nests or use different types of materials that can offer better insulation.

Next spring, spare some time to appreciate the wonder of nest building if you are lucky enough to see it happening.

The designs that have evolved over millions of years may not stay the same, needing adjustments to cope with the challenges imposed by humanity.

This article was first published on Pursuit. Read the original article.

The post Birds are the ultimate architects, designing their nests for every climate appeared first on Australian Geographic.

This catastrophic and ongoing biodiversity loss surpasses the devastation wrought by other notorious invasive species such as cats, rats and even cane toads. Short of removing species from the wild and treating them in captivity, few strategies exist to deal with the chytrid threat.

Related: Impact of fungus on world frog populations revealed

New research, published in the journal Nature, offers a promising option.

Outbreaks of chytrid (pronounced “KY-trid”) are more common in cold winter months – just like seasonal human flu. We found a way to combat these winter outbreaks using heat. Our purpose-built “frog saunas” allow affected amphibians to warm up and bake off their infections. They are so simple you can build a frog sauna using supplies from the hardware store.

Why should we care about frogs?

If frogs’ good looks are not enough for you to care about their welfare, perhaps learning how they contribute to the environment or human health will pique your interest.

Frogs eat insects that carry and spread human diseases. Their skin is also a rich source of new medicines that could help us combat antibiotic-resistant “superbugs” or curb the startling increase in opioid addiction. The frogs themselves are food for many predators, including humans.

Often starting life as a tadpole eating algae, before morphing into a carnivorous adult, frogs carry energy from aquatic ecosystems onto land – where it can be transferred throughout the food web. So losing a single frog species can have serious flow-on effects.

The origin and spread of chytrid

It’s likely the chytrid fungus originated in Asia, where the pathogen seems to coexist with native amphibians. But chytrid is deadly elsewhere, possibly because other frogs have no natural defences.

Chytrid harms frogs by disrupting the integrity of their skin, depleting electrolytes needed for heart function. Infected frogs can die of cardiac arrest.

Chytrid has spread worldwide through the trade of amphibians, becoming a seemingly permanent part of ecosystems. As eradicating chytrid from the wild is not possible, we need a way to help frogs battle infection.

Introducing frog saunas

Research has shown chytrid is worse in winter. My colleagues and I wondered whether, if frogs had access to warmth during winter, could they fight off infection?

The fungus can’t tolerate high temperatures, so if we gave frogs a place to stay warm – even for a few hours a day – perhaps they could survive and recover.

We tested this idea, both in the laboratory and in outdoor experiments.

First we established that endangered green and golden bell frogs will select temperatures that reduce or eliminate chytrid infections, when given the opportunity.

Then we conducted experiments in the lab, with 66 infected frogs. The group given the option of choosing the temperature they liked best rapidly cleared their infection. The group placed in a set, warm temperature also cleared their infection, but it took longer. The low-temperature control group remained infected.

Next, we wanted to see what would happen if frogs that cured infections with heat would still get sick. Or were they immune? The group of 23 heat-cured frogs were 22 times more likely to survive the second infection than the 23 frogs that were heat-treated but not previously infected. So frogs cured with heat acquire resistance to future infections.

Related: How to make your backyard frog-friendly

Finally, we wanted to see if this could work in a natural setting. We ran outdoor experiments with 239 frogs. Half were infected with chytrid one week before the experiment began. Then they were placed in enclosures with artificial structures that heat up in the sun, called “frog saunas”. But the frogs could choose from shaded and unshaded areas, with or without saunas.

We found frogs flocked to the sunny saunas, heated up their little bodies, and quickly fought off infection. Think of frog saunas as little factories that pump out healthy, chytrid-resistant frogs.

The frog saunas could be used on a wider scale. We believe they would be best suited to supporting populations of Australian green and golden bell frogs, but they could be useful for other species too.

The saunas are made of inexpensive materials that can be found at your local hardware store, making them accessible to the general public and wildlife managers alike.

We are already building shelters at Sydney Olympic Park, working with Macquarie University and the Sydney Olympic Park Authority. The park is home to one of the largest remaining populations of green and golden bell frogs.

Want to get involved?

You can become a citizen scientist and help save frogs from extinction. Start by downloading the FrogID app to learn how frogs are faring. Record frog calls with the app for scientists to identify them. This helps provide valuable data for frog conservation.

You can also build a frog sauna for your backyard, to help keep them healthy through winter.

It’s essentially a brick-filled greenhouse, warmed by sunlight. All you need is some common clay ten-hole masonry bricks, black paint and cable ties – and a little greenhouse to put the sauna inside.

Changing the fate of frogs

Since the discovery of chytrid more than 25 years ago, the pathogen has been a seemingly insurmountable challenge to endangered frog conservation. Now, we have developed a promising, inexpensive and widely applicable strategy to combat chytrid.

Amphibians are such a diverse group that no single approach will be suitable for all species. So this is no silver bullet. But a useful tool for even one threatened or endangered species is cause for optimism.

The concept could also be applied to other wildlife diseases, where differences between the physiology of the host and pathogen can be exploited.

Related: Hot frog bodies fight deadly infection

Anthony Waddle is a Schmidt Science Fellow in Conservation Biology at Macquarie University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post How soaking in saunas could save our frogs appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Steph has been here since late March following up on research she began in 2023, looking at bacterial diversity in the sand around corals. Although it’s not yet clear what role these life forms might play, they could be critical to coral-reef health, just like healthy gut biomes are known to be important to human wellbeing. When Steph first arrived here this season, she couldn’t wait to show her colleagues Raphael Burkart-Radtke and Ana Olmos-Pin the beauty in the famously untouched waters around OTI. As one of only two “orange” research zones closed to the public within the massive 344,000sq.km marine park that protects much of the GBR, the OTI environment is as close to pristine as you can get. It’s off-limits to tourists, only low-impact research is allowed and there’s virtually no run-off of any sort from operations here. 

Showers are limited to one bucket of fresh water a day per person, collected from rainwater tanks; only reef-friendly sunscreens and soaps are allowed, and toilet facilities are the sustainable long-drop pit variety. Heinrich Breuer, who manages the island with partner Ruby Holmes, even refuses to use potentially polluting antifouling chemicals on the research vessels that service the island. He opts instead to treat them by periodically hauling them out of the water so they can be exposed to natural UV light from the sun, which helps kill any algae growing on the bottom of the boats. 

All this has meant that underwater life around OTI in the 21st century has been flourishing unlike any other study location along the GBR, as it has done for millennia, with very little external influence. The reef here survives as it’s meant to, and has been well studied as it does so for more than 50 years. Even the notorious coral-munching sea star species known as crown-of-thorns (COTS), which is endemic to the GBR but can periodically reach plague proportions, seems to have been naturally kept in check at OTI, without any culling or other extraneous measures. USyd PhD student Matt Clements has been studying the COTS population around the island for the past four years, coming here up to four times a year to do so. “The interesting thing about One Tree is that the COTS population here has been stable and low density for 10-plus years,” Matt explains. “And there’s never been a documented [population] outbreak here, ever, which is interesting.” 

Even when Steph heard from other researchers that seawater temperatures last summer had been the highest recorded at OTI in 50 years, she was hopeful the pristine cay might have been able to hold its own against the bleaching crisis playing out elsewhere on the reef. It couldn’t.

On her first dive on the island this year, Steph was met with widespread signs of death and destruction. “I broke down three times that day,” she recalls. “I was physically hurt seeing what it had done to the reef, seeing the corals like that, some already bleached and white, others fluorescing [a sign of stress in coral]. “It just killed me,” she says. “We do this [research] work because we love the reef and it’s usually beautiful here. This just felt so wrong.” 

Related: The storytellers of the Great Barrier Reef

Widespread devastation

This most recent mass bleaching on the World Heritage- listed GBR, that occurred in 2023–24, is the fifth since 2016. Previous events have hit the northern sections of the reef hard, but sometimes spared southern GBR locations, such as Heron Island, about 20km west of OTI, and Lady Elliot Island, 90km south of OTI, from the worst impacts. This time the impact has been felt right along the GBR’s entire 2300km length. A report released in April by the GBR Marine Park Authority (GBRMPA) and the Australian Institute of Marine Science estimated that up to three-quarters of the 3000 individual reefs in that massive area have been affected to some extent.

Associate Professor Chris Roelfsema, academic director of The University of Queensland’s Heron Island Research Station, has been coming to Heron annually since 1998 and surveying coral cover here using field photographs and satellite imagery since the early 2000s. From 2008 right up until early 2024 he’d actually documented increasing coral cover around the island, which is an 80km ferry ride east of the coal port of Gladstone. Chris had never seen a major bleaching event in the area but knew it was only a matter of time.

“For the last five or six years, every time I left the island I’d wonder what it would look like when I returned,” he says. When higher-than-normal ocean temperatures hit the reef for extended periods from December 2023, he advised Heron researchers to be on high alert, ready to ramp up and expand their usual research projects to gather as much information as possible about the bleaching event that the conditions warned was coming. Still, no-one expected what was to unfold in the waters around Heron last summer.

Heron is not as protected as OTI. But it’s a beautiful island that’s relatively easy to reach and well known for capturing the heart of famed naturalist Sir David Attenborough, who filmed here in 2009.

Dr Caitlin Alinya Lawson, a scientific officer at the research station who’s been coming to Heron since she was an undergraduate, little more than a decade ago, is devastated by what’s happened on the island. 

“There’s no sugar-coating the fact that this is by far the worst that Heron has ever bleached in recorded history, as far as we know, which is terrifying to see and hear about,” she says. “So, yes, there’s no denying that it’s been bad. But reports that refer to Heron as a ‘graveyard’ and that it ‘looks like a bomb went off’, are not true.” And neither are reports claiming the situation is not recoverable. 

“Yes, it was sad, so sad,” Chris agrees with resignation as he recalls the scenes he saw beneath the water on his first day back at the island in 2024. “But I saw more live coral than expected and that means there is hope.” 

Because many corals are “broadcast spawners”, meaning they reproduce externally by sending massive numbers of eggs and sperm into the water column to mix with each other, dead reefs can become reinvigorated and reseeded by the fertilised eggs that float past on currents from surviving coral colonies. That means any glimmer of life on a dead or dying reef is a sign of hope for a future recovery. In fact, research indicates that in good conditions – when temperatures remain at consistently average levels – a reef destroyed by a bleaching event can be making a good comeback within a decade or so.

Chris points out places like Heron are not only crucial as research centres offering clues to how reefs might survive in a warming world, but they’re also important for tourism and education. “People ask me often if I think tourism should stop and I say absolutely not, because tourism is an important way to get ordinary people to truly experience the reef,” Chris says. “You want people to know what’s going on – to see live corals, dead corals and corals in ‘intensive care’. And you want them to see that there are still turtles and manta rays and lots of fish swimming around – that there is still
beauty there.”

Related: A quick guide to help you understand coral bleaching

Signs of stress

To appreciate what happens when a reef bleaches, it’s necessary to first understand that most corals are interconnected networks of tiny animals called polyps. Importantly, the survival of these relies on a complex symbiotic relationship they have with tiny plant-like single-celled algae called zooxanthellae. In hard corals, polyps excrete protective external cup-like skeletons of calcium carbonate in which their soft bodies sit. It’s these “homes” that can survive for millennia – long after the soft-bodied animals that construct them have died – and ultimately build the foundations of massive living reefs, like the GBR. 

Polyps gain a small portion of the nutrition they need to fuel their reef-building capacity by eating tiny animals drifting past in the water, snaring them with stinging cells called nematocysts. But the main source of food for coral polyps is carbohydrates, produced by the zooxanthellae living within their tissues. 

These tiny plants get a safe place to live, and the corals benefit from the relationship by having a steady source of food, which is produced by the zooxanthellae via the process of photosynthesis (as it is in most plants). And photosynthesis, of course, needs sunlight, which is why coral reefs exist mostly in clear shallow waters through which sunlight can penetrate. 

It’s the breakdown in this coral–zooxanthellae relationship that’s at the heart of bleaching events. When seawater temperature rises higher than corals are accustomed to, they become stressed and that brings about a series of tell-tale responses that ultimately see them expelling their zooxanthellae. Perhaps the earliest sign this is likely to occur is an increase in mucus in the water. Corals naturally produce mucus that usually sloughs off as part of a normal process. “When the coral is really stressed, it can produce more mucus,” Steph says, explaining that the water around a heat-stressed reef can be filled with sticky, snot-like material with an unpleasant smell. 

Another sign corals have been stressed by elevated water temperature is that they’ll fluoresce, hence descriptions of coral bleaching sometimes being a deceptively attractive process. “I call it the most beautiful disaster,” Chris says, explaining that fluorescing is a sign that corals are in need of “intensive care”.

If the water temperature continues rising, corals eventually end up expelling their zooxanthellae permanently and that leads to another bizarrely stunning stage of coral ill-health – a bleached reef. But a bleached reef isn’t necessarily a dead reef: if temperatures return to normal, zooxanthellae can re-enter coral tissue and corals can bounce back.

Unfortunately, the temperatures recorded around OTI and elsewhere along the GBR during this most recent event have been so high and persisted for such extended periods of time that there has not only been much bleaching, but also widespread coral death. After they die, reefs quickly become covered in filamentous algae – devoid of the little fish and other life forms that usually live over, under and throughout them – and they can soon begin to look like lifeless wastelands.

Saving what we can

The rigorous long-term management of the GBR as a marine park will be crucial to how well it can bounce back from the recent disaster, and it’s GBRMPA that’s responsible for overseeing that. “I think the challenging part is to be able to see the reef for the coral,” says the authority’s chief scientist, Dr Roger Beeden, alluding to the fact that the reef will survive, even though individual patches of coral might be lost or transformed. “Even when we have these really substantial impacts, we have to look past and see how the reef is faring overall, and I think that’s where there’s some realistic hope.” 

Of course, it’s now undeniable that the world’s reefs – including the GBR – are taking a pounding from climate change. “The IPCC [Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change] reports that, because of their sensitivity to temperature and ocean acidification and the increasing frequency of severe storms, the world’s coral reefs will not fare well as we increasingly go down the path of a changing climate. The impacts we’re seeing now are the steps along the path towards that prognosis,” Roger says. “But I think it’s important to recognise that there is actually a lot of action going on in terms of the mitigation space. Is it as much as many of us would like? Probably not. But at the same time, there is action happening.”

Ultimately, in the long term, saving the GBR comes down to fighting for what we can but living with what we save, because the GBR is already showing signs of transitioning. “I think that’s unquestionable,” Roger says. “But what exactly will that look like over time? There are 450 species of hard corals that build the reef framework, and there’s an inherent adaptability within many of those species.” 

In coming decades it’s likely there’ll be changes in species composition, and changes in the ranges where species occur. Already these sorts of things have begun to play out. Recovery data from previous bleaching events are showing that early recovery on reefs is being driven by fast-growing, often short-lived, species in the genus Acropora – like the opportunistic weedy plant species that are the first to move into a disturbed terrestrial site.

“It’s a bit like early regrowth after bushfires,” Roger says. “And it’s not that those species are in any way better or worse than others, it’s just that we’ll get more of them because we’re having these more frequent disturbances. The future looks quite different from what it has been in the last few decades.”

The approach underpinning GBRMPA’s management of the reef is to keep it as healthy and vibrant as it can be, while the world continues to work at bringing down the atmospheric emissions driving climate change. It’s the same mentality that pervades the many research organisations and non-government conservation bodies working along the reef, and the tourism sector that so often operates beside them.

“There are some very tangible reasons why we have realistic hope,” Roger says. “For example, we’re very fortunate in Australia that we have a strong Protected Area Network [on the GBR]. A third of the marine park has full protection from any kind of extractive use like fishing. And we know that’s deeply important because even though the [GBR] is 3000 individual reefs, they are all connected, and that Finding Nemo story is real in terms of the water-based connections.

“Understanding those connections has also enabled us to target major new coral protection interventions like COTS control that directly supports recovery of reefs following other impacts such as severe tropical cyclones and increasingly frequent coral-bleaching events.” 

Related: What it will take to rescue the Great Barrier Reef

Australia’s stewardship

USyd marine ecologist Dr John Turnbull has been surveying reef communities and structure for more than a decade. The information he’s gathering now will ultimately help show how coral ecosystems respond to the recent bleaching event and that should assist in the management of heat-affected coral habitats in the future. But John is also heavily interested in the concept of stewardship and its influence on the sustainability of marine and coastal ecosystems. It’s clear there’s a lot of institutional stewardship at work to protect the reef, through GBRMPA and the many research organisations committing massive numbers of people and infrastructure to reef research. 

However, John feels that it’s ultimately the stewardship that individual Australians feel for the reef that will be vital to how it survives into the future. “I don’t think people realise how much trouble the reef is in,” John says. “Some probably feel that it’s being overexaggerated. But the people experiencing it firsthand don’t feel that. None of us feel that it’s being overblown. In fact, we’re shocked at what we’re seeing.”

It’s important, he believes, that the wider Australian population understands this, that the perilous impact climate change is having on the GBR is very real and that it’s not just the coral that is being affected, but also the other organisms that rely on coral structures for food or shelter. “The flow-on effects for the wider marine community are massive,” John notes. “And I don’t think people have made that connection yet.”

As a researcher, he and his colleagues are refusing to give up on the GBR and they hope that message will inspire the wider Australian – even global – community. Scientists, for example, each spend weeks at a time on reef-based research stations, away from friends and family, often conducting fieldwork for more than eight hours a day and then processing results well into each night. And many hundreds of them are doing that, up and down the GBR.

“To me, part of the real positive story here is we [researchers] get up every day and, even though we know we’re going to go out there and see horrible things, we still go out and do it, because we’re trying to lay down a record of what’s happening,” John says. 

He explains that it’s not just a record for the sake of being a record, but to help understand what’s happening so that it can inform managerial actions. John is optimistic that the same sense of commitment and positivity can be embraced by the broader population and that Australians come to appreciate this is a problem that is country-wide – a case of national decline. “I think in terms of our identity; we Australians see ourselves as outdoor people – as coastal, or beach, or bush people,” he says, explaining that the future of the reef is personal for a lot of Australians. “Even though the vast majority of us live in cities, we still feel part of us is the bush and the reef and the beach. I think – unlike other things where we might say, ‘Well, that’s not my problem’ – we do feel like this is our problem. We do feel like we have a sense of ownership and responsibility for it. And while I’m studying the pure ecological side now, I always try to have a social ear to what’s happening, and I see people suddenly waking up to the fact that the reef is in peril.

“So, yes, we do feel the need to not lose it on our watch. It’s the same with other remote places, like Antarctica. People really care about it. They’d hate to think that it all melted on our watch and would see that as a personal failure, even though they may never actually go there.” 

And that, John says, is how he believes most Australians feel about the GBR.

Related: Little lives lost

The post A beautiful disaster appeared first on Australian Geographic.

But in 1967 Donald Forbes, Secretary of the Cairns District Cane Growers’ Executive, applied for a lease to mine coral on Ellison Reef, south-east of Innisfail, for agricultural lime, claiming Ellison’s corals were “dead” after a cyclone. Concerned the application might set a precedent for future mining on the reef, John Büsst and poet Judith Wright of the WPSQ, together with the QLS, successfully opposed the mining proposal through the Innisfail Mining Warden’s Court. 

However, the conservation societies didn’t have the resources to fight every mining application in court, so, soon after their Innisfail success, they launched a state-wide Save the Reef campaign, calling on the federal government to take control of the area and declare it a marine park. 

During this time, the Queensland government, under the leadership of Joh Bjelke-Petersen, was determined to establish an offshore petroleum industry and in 1968 opened up the state’s entire coastline to oil exploration. Within two years, six exploration holes had been drilled by different companies along the GBR. 

The turning point for conservationists came when an Australian–Japanese joint venture, Japex Ltd, announced it would begin drilling in February 1970 at Repulse Bay, south of the Whitsunday Passage. The Queensland Trades and Labor Council threw its support behind a wider reef conservation campaign by black-banning all reef mining and drilling activities, preventing trade unionists from providing goods or services necessary for the Whitsunday drilling project to continue. Public opinion against mining on the reef intensified after a series of international disasters involving oil tankers from 1967 to 1970. 

In January 1969 the Queensland and federal governments launched a joint inquiry to look at the “possibility” of oil drilling causing damage to the reef, leading to the establishment of a royal commission the following year. The then prime minister, John Gorton, supported a mining moratorium, but a lack of clarity about state–federal jurisdiction over offshore resources meant he was reluctant to override the petroleum exploration leases issued by the Queensland government. Gough Whitlam, who was leader of the Opposition at the time, believed the federal government already had the constitutional right to protect the reef. When Whitlam’s Labor government was elected on 5 December 1972, it moved quickly to enact the Sea and Submerged Lands Act 1973. This legislation provided the federal government sovereignty over territorial seas and resources to the extent of the continental shelf.

In November 1974 Whitlam announced the Australian Government would create a marine park to protect the reef from oil drilling, leading to the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Act 1975. The first area of the marine park – the Capricornia Section – was proclaimed in 1979 and covered 12,000sq.km. Today, the marine park has an area of 344,400sq.km. and coral reefs make up about 7 per cent of the area. The park’s other ecosystems include shallow seagrass, mangroves, sand, and algal and sponge gardens. Areas within the park are zoned for certain activities and some are open to general use.

In 1981 the GBR was inscribed on the World Heritage List as “one of the richest and most complex complex natural ecosystems on earth” and an area of “superlative natural beauty”.

‘Protecting the Great Barrier Reef’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

The post Defining Moments in Australian History: Protecting the Great Barrier Reef appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Building the three big R’s – roads, railways and runways around Australia – was great nation-building work at the time. A flight around Australia would not only “prove it could be done”, but be reconnaissance to investigate areas for airfield construction. It was the early days of air travel and public confidence was buoyed by intrepid flights. The adventure captured the nation’s attention, was spread across newspaper front pages and was followed by families listening to the wireless in their sitting rooms. 

Wing Commander Stanley ‘Jimmy’ Goble and Flight Lieutenant Ivor McIntyre (G&M) of the RAAF had been tasked to undertake the mission, following the coast, and chose to use a Fairey Mk III Seaplane because there weren’t enough runways to cater for a conventional aeroplane. This caused all sorts of complications – fuel drums were delivered to about 50 rivers, lakes and beaches over several months by sea and land, so they could land on water and refuel. They often slept by the plane.

Five years of planning

In 2019 I was preparing to fly from England to Australia in Southern Sun, retracing the original flight by Keith and Ross Smith to commemorate that centenary, when I received an email from businessman and entrepreneur Dick Smith, who founded this magazine, suggesting I start planning for the centenary of the first flight around Australia in 2024. Dick has been one of my inspirational heroes since I was a teenager, so of course I said yes. That was only the first step in five years of planning and research that led to this endeavour. I was assisted enormously by Tom Lockley from the New South Wales branch of the Aircraft Historical Society of Australia, who researched and wrote a short book, First Flight Around Australia. It became my bible for the trip, guiding me to towns, bodies of water and even the dates and times to land.

A faithful reconstruction

On the original journey there were many delays – the month they’d planned for extended to six weeks. I decided I would follow their route and dates as closely as possible, but would have to make some changes due to the passage of time, modern practicalities and even for personal satisfaction. I’d embark in Southern Sun, a twin engine amphibian, able to land on water or land. I also decided to follow the Gulf of Carpentaria coast all the way around (see map below) rather than flying directly across the top like G&M had done. 

Apart from those two major changes, I planned to follow the same dates for the 44 days and choose the same landing spots, cities or towns. If G&M had been stuck somewhere for a few days, I’d wait those same days. I’d touch down on the water where they did, but then head to the closest local airport to refuel and park the plane overnight. For me to see the coast up close I’d hug the beach all the way at a height of 500ft, while filming using a standard and a 360-degree digital camera.

RAAF Base Point Cook was a land-and water-based airfield in the 1920s, with a large boat ramp and jetty for seaplane operations. G&M set off from Point Cook on Saturday 6 April 1924, a day later than planned due to rough seas. They made great progress on the first day, reaching Eden, on the far South Coast of NSW, for refuelling, then on to Rose Bay on Sydney Harbour for their first night’s stop. 

My departure on Saturday 6 April 2024 was late morning, after a send-off by RAAF personnel, family and friends, leaving plenty of time and daylight to reach Rose Bay. The first stop after following the rugged coast around Wilsons Promontory was a water landing on Corner Inlet, where G&M had put down to repair a leaking fuel tank. 

After a “splash’n’dash” (SnD) (as opposed to the “touch’n’go” performed by land planes), I noticed a lot of low cloud and scud rain rolling through, so diverted to Yarram airfield in southern Victoria to sit out the weather. Visibility wasn’t good for flying, but I could do something not possible 100 years earlier – open my iPad and study the radar display of weather moving through via the Bureau of Meteorology app. This has been one of the greatest safety advances for aviators and would be used many times throughout my trip. When the weather improved, I departed, tracking east along Ninety Mile Beach, but soon it became clear there was still more low cloud ahead. I headed to Bairnsdale, near Lakes Entrance, for the night, accepting that already, on Day 1, I was already behind! Disappointing, but safety must be the first consideration.

Next morning, a blue enough sky welcomed me back to the airfield and I continued. An SnD at Eden, where G&M refuelled, then on to Rose Bay for a never-gets-old flight over Sydney Harbour with a view of the Bridge and the Opera House, followed by an SnD at Rose Bay. It was early enough for me to recover lost time and continue on to Myall River, putting me back on schedule by the end of the day. G&M left Rose Bay at lunchtime, having waited the morning for rain to clear. 

But heading north along the coast, they encountered more weather and couldn’t get more than 100ft above the water without entering cloud. North of Newcastle they abandoned plans and headed into Port Stephens, looking for shelter. They alighted on the Myall River and stayed the night. I put down on Myall Lakes and was met by local friends. We had dinner cooked over an open fire and I slept in the plane. This was one of my favourite nights of the whole trip and reset my mind from manic departure mode into adventure mode; Day 2, and I was now in the groove. 

Things progressed well up the coast: clear weather, no delays, and stops in hospitable Southport and Gladstone in Queensland. 

My arrival in Townsville needs special mention. A couple of weeks before the trip I was contacted by the RAAF 6 Squadron, based at Amberley, near Gladstone. They confirmed the RAAF would commemorate the centenary with a circumnavigation of Australia by a pair of EA-18G Growler aircraft, taking seven days, and they’d time their departure to rendezvous with me in the air over Townsville, then we’d park together overnight at the air base: very exciting and not something private pilots ever experience! 

Beyond Townsville I continued up the increasingly undeveloped coast. G&M had three nights in Cooktown to repair a compass, so I stayed for three nights. Just as well – both days there it rained relentlessly and I couldn’t have flown anyway.

Related: Around the nation in 44 days

Awe-inspiring Kimberley

I was looking forward to Cape York, where G&M spent seven days on Thursday Island because of weather and for maintenance. After a splash on the protected water to the north-west of the island, I flew into Horn Island, which has full airport facilities and even commercial flights from the south. I was keen to see some of the Torres Strait islands from the air, before visiting by boat on a few spare days ahead. My wife flew in with Qantas, and we spent a few days exploring Horn, Prince of Wales, Thursday and Friday islands. From beautiful beaches to a fort, a historic cemetery to a pearl farm, a local art gallery to discovering a scrumptious crayfish toastie for lunch – it was a wonderful, if brief, taste of the area.

Rather than wait a week, on the fourth day I ventured south along the coast to follow the shoreline of the Gulf of Carpentaria for a few days, including dropping in to see my brother and his family who live on Vanderlin Island, about halfway along the Gulf, north of Borroloola. I then had a night on Elcho Island before arriving in Darwin for a few nights, then on to two highly anticipated days in Western Australia’s Kimberley – my first time. The further from Darwin and closer to Napier Broome Bay I flew, the more spectacular the scenery became, but it was next day, en route to Broome, that the Kimberley’s full allure was revealed. All the awe-inspiring beauty that’s made it one of the world’s bucket-list destinations lay before me. The Horizontal Falls, my single most anticipated destination, did not disappoint. At the time of my arrival mine was the only aircraft in the area, so I had complete access, allowing me to explore over and around the falls. Gobsmacking indeed…if two days of this coast had been a perfect degustation of visual treats, then this was the cherry on top. 

Arriving in Broome on a high, I was greeted warmly by the ground crew and air-traffic controllers. The Horizontal Falls air-tour operators even put Southern Sun up in their hangar for my stay. My two nights there let me catch up with some other seaplane pilots who were on a clockwise flight around Australia and also visit one of my favourite places – Sun Pictures, the oldest outdoor cinema in Australia. It’s a real Broome institution. On to Port Hedland, where I spoke to School of the Air kids on an excursion and showed them over the plane. Next, Carnarvon, where everything was about to come to a grinding halt.

G&M arrived in Carnarvon on the Facine, the sheltered stretch of water in front of the town that today has a lovely boardwalk and provides safe anchorage. When they tried to depart the next day, they were unable to attain full power on the engine. The engineer tried but failed to remedy the problem, leading to an unplanned 10-day delay. Luckily, they had a spare Rolls Royce engine in Perth, just in case it was needed. Today, it’s a 10-hour drive to Carnarvon on a sealed highway, but back then it took seven days, on a train then a truck on a difficult track. Once the engine arrived, it was exchanged and tested successfully in a single day, all the more amazing because there was no crane available and they were working in shallow water on the beach where the plane was resting. 

I made good use of the 10-day Carnarvon stop, meeting locals, visiting the excellent Space and Technology Museum and speaking at schools. I carried out maintenance on my plane in the Coral Coast Helicopters hangar and caught up on work and some writing. On 11 May 1924, Day 36, G&M restarted their journey southbound, as did Southern Sun in 2024, with a brief splash in Geraldton then on to Perth, where they alighted on the Swan River at 4.15pm for an overnight stop. I was excited to land on the Swan, at Elizabeth Quay, parallel to Langley Park just south of the CBD, a spectacular location, and was determined to land 100 years to the minute after G&M. With the help of Perth’s Air Traffic Control, Swan River Seaplanes and a few minutes of orbits overhead, I successfully splashed down right on 4.15pm – huzzah! 

The next few days saw stops along a coastline visually the equal of the Kimberley – the Margaret River region, Albany, Esperance and onto Israelite Bay – for one of the more memorable nights of the journey. G&M stopped on the semi-protected waters of Israelite Bay, in the Great Australian Bight, at the Telegraph Station. Today, that building is abandoned, the roof and other features long removed by the passage of time and weather. But striking ruins remain, with no-one in sight. I was able to land on a sandy strip beside a dry lake and spend the night, camping in the plane. I took a long walk around the area to the beach and through the ruins, finishing with a slightly sad tin of tuna. However, thanks to clear skies and a carpet of stars, it was both surreal yet splendid.

The most spectacular day

Thee longest flight of the trip was next, across the Bight to Ceduna in South Australia. There was simply nowhere suitable for water landings across this famously rugged coastline. I thought a lot about the several people who have circumnavigated Australia by kayak…this would be one tough stretch to conquer. The cliffs along this coast are 60–120m high. On a most spectacular flying day, sitting 500ft above the ocean, I was awarded an incredible view back to the cliffs, at times seeing the Nullarbor Highway and people parked by the cliffs’ edge. I found myself pondering the images we see of huge chunks of Antarctic ice falling into the sea each season, and wondered whether my video camera might chance upon a rock version of it during these couple of days. Alas, all remained intact (for now).

The next leg, from Ceduna to Port Lincoln, would be judged, by me, to be winner of the Southern Sun Award for the most spectacular day of the entire Australian coastline. It was so varied, with dramatic cliffs faces in colours from rich red, brown and off-white, along with vast dunes, white sandy beaches, azure blue water and intricate bays. It was a smorgasbord of nearly everything I’d seen over six weeks. That night, to top it all off, I enjoyed fresh Coffin Bay oysters from the waters I’d flown over only hours earlier.

On reflection, the Kimberley came a close second. That region really does deserve the accolades and sense of awe in our collective psyche.

The joy of followers

With only two days to go, a mixed sense of relief of nearly being home and sadness that it was nearly over, yet trepidation that anything could still go wrong, kept me alert. Here I flew the longest over-water stretches of the journey as I crossed the Spencer Gulf and Gulf of St Vincent, past Kangaroo Island, to reconnect with the coast at Cape Jarvis. Then along the almost mythical sandy stretches of the Coorong (thanks to a childhood instilled love of Storm Boy), towards Beachport. Alas, on Day 43 of the trip, it was too rough to alight. This was a shame because quite a crowd of locals were there to meet Southern Sun, so I performed a few orbits over the Beachport town and foreshore and continued on to the closest local airport at Millicent. There, as with many of the airfields en route, I was greeted by locals who had been following the flight. This is one of the joys of all travel, meeting people along the way, connecting with communities, albeit quickly. There is often a cuppa, a chat and a lift into town on offer. 

Sunday 19 May, Day 44 – the final leg. A pretty tough day of flying, frankly, with a lot of weather to fly around along the coast, passing the Apostles, through the heads and up Port Phillip, to an orbit over St Kilda then back to overhead Point Cook at exactly 2.10pm, 100 years to the minute that G&M arrived. 

A splendid afternoon of welcome-home celebrations followed. I was a tad elated to find a crowd, an RAAF flight display, two pairs of fire trucks forming a water arch to taxi through and even the Air Force Band, which played at the return of the original flight 100 years ago. A huge thanks to the RAAF.

Reflecting on the original flight, while looking at what has changed in 100 years – without a doubt, planes are more reliable today. G&M navigated with a compass, a speedometer and a watch. Today, GPS tells us exactly where we are, reducing both workload and stress levels! They often spent hours fuelling the plane, transferring small tins while wading through the water to the plane to make up the 400 litres needed. Today there are hundreds of airports around the country equipped with fuel bowsers, making it generally as easy as filling a car. G&M didn’t have a radio and could go days without being in touch with the outside world, with people worried for their safety, whereas today we have access to aviation radio, satellite tracking and Internet, and mobile phones working on about 80 per cent of the coast. They didn’t take a camera, while I had a digital camera and two video cameras running, even live-streaming at times.

But what I did find that was remarkably the same was the weather – G&M were delayed in certain areas, mainly the east coast, Cape York and the Gulf of Carpentaria. At the same time of year I also faced the same problematic weather – so it seems 100 years later, autumn low cloud and heavy rain are still a challenge for small planes. I went four weeks straight without a drop of rain after the Gulf of Carpentaria, until crossing the border from SA into Victoria on the last day. Of course it rained – welcome to Melbourne!

Another thing that thankfully hasn’t changed is the generosity of strangers and how communities come together to help each other. In 1924 they always found the locals would help them to refuel, beach the aircraft or help lift it off when the tide went out further than expected, be fed and bedded when needed. Similarly, I had people always willing to give me a lift, offer a bed or put on a barbecue dinner for locals interested in the flight, wanting to chat and learn more. Especially in the regions, hospitality and helpfulness is alive and well.

Finally, as I flew past the many towns of the east coast of Australia, I reflected on the changes to infrastructure and cities along the way, what we would typically call the “progress of civilisation”. But once I passed Cooktown to the north, signs of humankind became a rare sight, and for the next month, most of the time I didn’t even see buildings, let alone cities; the vastness of uninhabited Australia prevailed. It really sank in that, for the vast majority of this country, 100 years is a mere blip in time. For so much of the myriad of stunning, rugged and gorgeous coastline, nothing much has changed over 10,000 years. 

This centenary is also an RAAF celebration, while I am proud to be sponsored by Australian Geographic to retrace this journey and share the story. I carried commemorative airmail, an AG flag and an RAAF Ensign (flag) throughout the trip. The latter has now been donated to the RAAF Museum at Point Cook, and will form part of a display. It’s been a wonderful experience, which I look forward to sharing more of. But for now I’m getting back to work until the next big idea comes along!

To see more, visit southernsun.voyage/aroundoz100 or the SouthernSunTV YouTube page, where there are multiple videos of scenery covering the journey. There simply aren’t enough adjectives to adequately describe the beauty of our coastline. 

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From February 2023 to April 2024, significant coral bleaching occurred in at least 53 countries. In 2022, bleaching affected 90 per cent of coral reefs assessed at Australia’s Great Barrier Reef, one of the world’s largest coral reef ecosystems.

Despite bleaching events and rising sea temperatures causing widespread decline, a glimmer of hope emerges from an unexpected source — the remote Kimberley coast of Western Australia.

The Kimberley region is known for its landscapes, gorges and waterfalls. These reefs located along the vast 12,000km Kimberley coastline contain a hidden treasure: a network of pristine intertidal reefs, teeming with life including dugongs, sharks, stingrays and seabirds.

It is home to the Montgomery Reef, the world’s largest inshore reef with a total area of 400 square kilometres, which rises from the ocean floor at low tide, creating cascading waterfalls and revealing a vibrant underwater ecosystem.

Coral cover at the Kimberley region averages about 23 per cent, similar to what is recorded on the Great Barrier Reef.

More than 225 species of coral have been documented — other intertidal reefs around the world usually have just a handful.

Taxonomic studies have revealed many species recorded in the Kimberley are known only from Indonesia and they do not occur anywhere else in Australia, hinting that the corals that now live in northwest Australia may be closely related to corals in Indonesia, although this remains to be tested with population genetic studies.

What is most remarkable about these corals is their resilience.

Taking on a harsh climate

Unlike reefs elsewhere, Kimberley corals thrive under harsh conditions. The reefs endure hours of exposure at low tide to scorching sun and intense UV light. Even a major global mass bleaching in 2016 failed to trigger mass mortality, while neighbouring reefs suffered devastating losses.

Scientists believe the answer lies in the corals’ unique genetic makeup.

Recent studies have identified genes in Kimberley corals that are under evolutionary pressure, suggesting an adaptation process. These naturally resilient corals may hold the key to understanding how coral reefs can survive a changing climate.

An examination of the whole genomes of Kimberley corals has found genes under recent selective pressure providing evidence that the corals are actively evolving in response to changes in the environment. While the exact function of these genes is not known, it is likely their increased prevalence helps corals survive extreme environmental conditions.

Researchers discovered that less tolerant corals have historically been eliminated from the Kimberley coast, resulting in a collection of locally adapted corals with the genetic make-up to withstand current climate stress.

Coral of the future

Further research is required to understand how Kimberley corals have developed higher thermal thresholds. However, these corals offer significant opportunities to enhance our knowledge of coral adaptation.

Despite their potential, the vast diversity of naturally thermally tolerant Kimberley corals has been largely overlooked in the coral adaptation narrative.

Related: Tough Aussie corals thrive under pressure

These corals serve as a natural laboratory to study how diverse corals have adapted to climate change and to uncover the nature of these beneficial adaptations.

Integrating Kimberley corals into the broader coral adaptation discourse is essential, as they offer evidence that corals can adapt to environmental pressures.

Associate Professor Zoe Richards is a coral taxonomist at Curtin University, Australia whose research revolves around coral biodiversity and how best to monitor and protect it. Working in the areas of systematics, phylogenetics, population genetics, ecology and conservation biology, she has conducted research on coral reefs across the globe for over 25 years. She is also curator of marine invertebrate zoology at the Western Australian Museum.

This article was originally published under Creative Commons by 360info™.

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The island’s unique name, Coochiemudlo – or, as the locals say, “Coochie” – originates from the Traditional Owners, the Quandamooka people, who named it kutchi (red) and mudlo (stone) in the Jagera language, after its small but distinctive red cliffs. The 410ha island is located north of MacLeay Island and west of North Stradbroke Island. During her 14-plus years on Coochie, Rachel has enjoyed a lifestyle she couldn’t find in the suburbs: a supportive, artistic community, affordable housing and daily ocean swims. “It’s the only place I’ve lived where I have a personal relationship with the landscape, as if it’s a person,” she says. “You understand its seasons, its tides, and the smell of it. I sound like a romantic, but it’s a place that’s got under my skin in a way that no other place has.”

Following the island’s rhythm

Coochie has an “emerald fringe” – a reserve that is locally heritage-listed and development-free – meaning the sea is equally accessible to everyone. It’s Queensland’s only inhabitated island with an intact esplanade. Many locals, including Rachel, are in tune with the tidal changes. Some head to the beach every day to do yoga, swim laps, or enjoy a glass of wine at sunset. “It’s how I structure my life – around the tides,” Rachel says. Enter the water at low tide and your legs get muddy. But when the water rises and the calm sea draws closer, you have what she describes as a “multi-millionaire’s plunge pool”. At high tide, the sea folds over the path, so all you have to do is walk to the end of the street and hop in. 

This attention to the island’s natural rhythm allows Rachel to avoid being overly locked into her daily work routine. The presence of the sea frees her from her busy mind. “When I was running a business, and more recently as an employee working from home, I can get tense working all day, with my shoulders up to here,” she says. “I love that I can walk down the road and experience nature, lie under the trees, feel the sea lapping at my feet, and see the sun dappled through the leaves.” Being the former publisher of the independent island newspaper, Coochie Island News, she knows the stories of this captivating place – and most people know hers. 

The island has seen Rachel through many seasons of her life, including the dissolution of her marriage. As a newly single woman, she formed close, supportive friendships on the island, but when she was ready to wade into the waters of modern dating, she wasn’t spared the judgement. “Just as it is in other parts of Australia and the world, there is scrutiny of single women of a certain age. There’s gossip,” she says. “One night I had a friend over to my house and we had a couple of wines, so they left their car at mine and walked home. The next day, I was on the ferry heading to work, and a local gossip said, ‘Had a sleepover, did we?!’ because she’d driven past and seen the car.” 

Don’t get Rachel started on the necessary evil that is dating apps. “If you get on Tinder, you see everyone else who is single on the island,” she says. Coochie is home to about 700 people, so opportunities to meet someone on the island are low, while the chances of awkward run-ins are high. “If you find someone off the island, and you’re all dressed up at 5.30pm heading to the ferry, all your island friends coming home from work spot you. They whistle and they scream, ‘Rachel’s got a date!’” she says with a laugh. “It’s hardly worth it.” This lack of privacy has taken getting used to, but Rachel knows that living in close proximity to others bestows a sense of connectedness that is priceless.

Island connections

Coochiemudlo Island is home to a number of social clubs. There are groups for poetry, meditation, writing, lifesaving, indoor bowls, food appreciation, card playing, Christian fellowship, outrigger canoeing and turtle rescue. Facilities include BMX tracks, tennis courts, an art gallery, a library and a golf course. There’s also a thriving Men’s Shed and an active creative community. For musicians, there are music nights, hosted in alternating houses, and a larger “jam-a-long” each month, where everyone is welcome. There was a succesfull music festival held in 2021 that was, of course, referred to as “Coochella”. For the artists – most of whom have studios attached to their homes – there’s a collective that runs a gallery above the local cafe. 

Because many of these groups and events are easily accessible, the island attracts a lot of seniors. “It’s like a moated retirement village,” Rachel says. “There’s so much going on that is accessible and age-friendly. My friend, who’s 80, just joined a new ukulele group and they had their first performance a few weeks ago in this grassed amphitheatre, with beautiful gums behind it and kookaburras. Everybody was having a go.” When Rachel lived in Sydney and Brisbane, most of her friends were of a similar age. She stuck to “her kind”. But over the past decade on Coochiemudlo, Rachel since embraced a more expansive kind of socialisation, farewelling the previous limitations. 

Her divorce was a pivotal part of that change. She instinctively turned to other women in their 40s but found they were busy with their partners and their children. What could have been an isolating experience became one of enlightenment; she made plenty of friends – only they were two, maybe three, decades older. “On the island, you bond with people because of who they are and what you have in common,” Rachel says. “Not because of your age. Some of my best mates are 70. We go swimming together, we have dinner parties. It’s a joy. Because my family lives interstate, it’s like I have a new bunch of aunts, uncles, mums and dads. We look after each other.” This element of care means older, child-free people can thrive within the island’s extended family.

Like nearly one-quarter of Australian women, Rachel doesn’t have children. As she approaches her 60s, she wonders how she’ll cope with the inevitable health issues that come with age. From her experiences on the island, she feels reassured. “I will have a better old age here on the island than if I was anonymous in a suburb,” she says. A few years ago, Rachel looked after one of her older friends on the island who underwent cataract surgery, cooking for him and staying overnight to care for him. When she recently had an operation, he did the same for her. In a time where some people dread the social interaction that comes with accidentally wheeling out the bin when the person next door does, these expressions of neighbourly care might seem like a thing of the past. A study by the Italian Università degli Studi di Cagliari on the Sardinian Blue Zone – a region with a high prevalence of centenarians – found that living in a socially connected community, where people looked out for older members, improved the ageing population’s physical and mental health. Like these Mediterranean islands, Coochiemudlo’s older residents are able to lead healthy and fulfilling lives in a community where kindness and care are core values.

A caring spirit

This caring spirit extends beyond looking after neighbours. Coochiemudlo Island Coastcare, a local volunteer group, works to protect the island’s coastal ecosystem by reprofiling dunes in response to shoreline erosion, replanting coastal grass, collecting litter and monitoring wildlife. Several pythons call the island home (“What I don’t see I don’t need to worry about,” Rachel says) as well as a community of birds, including brahminy kites, rosellas, bush stone-curlews and sea eagles. 

A few years ago, Coochiemudlo locals banded together to defend a pair of local eagles. “The eagles liked to nest on the tallest tree on the island, so when a new radio tower was set up on the island, they built a nest up there. When Telstra wanted to switch the island from 4G to 5G, the community was in uproar, saying the eagles were there. So Telstra built a contraption for the nest. It’s not ideal that the eagles are up there at all – just imagine the radiation – but the fact that the community and Telstra worked together to save the nest is pretty special,” Rachel says. 

The island also used to be home to a thriving peacock population, but these birds didn’t receive the same kind of community support. They were classed as pests and moved off the island – except for one. Kevin – the “bachelor peacock” – is rumoured to have hidden when the others were removed. “I wish I could bring him a peahen. I feel so sad seeing him just sauntering about on his own,” Rachel says.

The island has no medical facilities, but there are several people trained by the Queensland Ambulance Service who triage patients before further assistance arrives. In emergencies, a rescue helicopter can collect patients on the island and transport them to hospital, which takes only 10 minutes. “I had vertigo once and got taken by the ambulance on the ferry, at peak hour, surrounded by the island community. They were taking my medical history on the ferry in the middle of everyone. It was awkward,” Rachel says. “There are things like that that happen here and you just need to suck it up.”

Unlike some of Australia’s other small island communities, Coochiemudlo has roads. Some people drive on the island, especially those who live far from the jetty, and parents with young children. But Rachel prefers to walk. There’s a vehicular barge that can transport people and their cars to the mainland, as well as a regular ferry service for people and their dogs. But many of the islanders zip around in their tinnies. It’s a short ride to the mainland (which the locals refer to as “overseas”) and an hour to the middle of Brisbane. “You can commute to work and then at the end of the day you can come home and live on an island,” Rachel says. Despite its proximity to the big city, the island can feel like worlds – even decades – away from urban life. “It still has the seaside hamlet holiday vibe – people riding around on bikes, boats piled onto utes, lots of people just cruising around being Australians,” says Rachel. 

People are catching on. The island’s new-found popularity has already encroached on one of Rachel’s favourite activities. “[The island] is spectacular, but it’s been a sleeping secret for a while,” she says. “It’s definitely been discovered now. I used to be able to go to the beach every morning and swim nude if I wanted to. But now there are too many people!” Coochiemudlo has experienced a surge in house prices since the pandemic and the shift to home-based working, attracting unprecedented levels of interest. “Now people can work where they love, and not where they have to. We’re in the middle of a property boom; our properties on the island have gone up in value – which is nice. But the downside is, it used to be that anyone who wanted to live here pretty much could. But even now, lovely working families are having to move off the island,” Rachel says. 

Since March 2020, house prices on Coochiemudlo Island have increased steadily. Thanks to the local newspaper and a podcast Rachel hosted in 2020, people from all over Australia have written to her to discuss the possibility of moving to the island, with one Victorian even asking her to inspect a property for them via a video call. She hopes that despite this popularity, the island will retain its mystique, of being a home for people from all walks of life, even the eagles on the radio tower. 

“You can be yourself here. It’s not the Gold Coast; it’s not Noosa. People aren’t going around in sandals and white linen. It doesn’t have the glamour,” Rachel says. “There are ‘salt of the earth’ people, but also professionals. It’s a microcosm of Australian society. There are good people here.” 

ISLAND LIFE

Less than 1 per cent of Australia’s population lives on the small islands dotted around our continent. This number is growing as more people head across the water after the onset of COVID, rejecting costly city living and office-based work. But is “island paradise” a myth, fuelled by a desperate search for escapism? Or have these far-flung residents truly found the key to happiness? This is the
second instalment in a series exploring the realities of island life.

Also in this series:

Related: Rottnest Island: More than quokkas

Related: French Island: Life in trees, surrounded by water

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“The first time I met the ANU Solar Racing team was on a cold, wet Friday night in a Canberra campus shed, about six months before the race, and I was instantly blown away,” Thomas told us. “It looked like a scene from the TV series Thunderbirds. Everybody had a notepad, or a computer. There were whiteboards and all sorts of equipment, and there was a flurry of activity around the partially disassembled solar car.

“Next thing I was on the side of the Stuart Highway somewhere south of Alice Springs, it was well past curfew and the Japanese team was whispering. The lid of their solar car was open and facing the red ball of the sun that was hanging in a thick smoke haze just above the western horizon. To me it seemed futile, but to them every last scrap of light mattered. It felt wrong to have my shutter clicking – like I was interrupting. But it had to be done. They were so absorbed in sucking every last bit of energy before dark that the flies didn’t bother them and neither did I. Happy to get away with a few shots, I got a sense of how serious this event was.

“Next morning the Dutch team had their cells pointed eastwards well before sun-up. The only sound was the Barrow Creek generator – the irony was palpable. I was hissed at when I walked across the front of their car as my shadow briefly glided over their solar panels. It was moments like these that made you aware that, for the teams, every single photon counted – and I loved witnessing that obsession. It’s precisely those times that make my job so rewarding.”

Read the story featuring Thomas’ photographs:

Related: Chasing the Sun

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If just one species can shift the equivalent mass of the Great Sphinx of Giza each year – as was recently discovered by a study conducted by the University of Newcastle – then the scale of impact that these species are having collectively is nearly unfathomable.

The study focused on the estuary stingray (Hemitrygon fluviorum), which is well known as providing important ecosystem services to the estuaries it inhabits, but the study lead, PhD student Molly Grew, and her team wanted to know just how much of an effect the rays were having.

“When rays are feeding, they use their pectoral fins to push the sand in and out so they can excavate their food,” explains Molly.

“They’re also moving sand when they’re resting – they kind of shimmy down and hide themselves in the sand. We know that this turning over of the sediment helps with nutrient cycling, oxygen penetration and other ecosystem services, but we wanted to put a number on it.”

Molly’s team used drone imagery to survey a 1400sq.m area of the Brisbane Water estuary, near Gosford on the NSW coast, over the period of a week to look at the impacts of this ray behaviour.

They then extrapolated the data using high-resolution aerial imagery of the estuary to identify other ray feeding areas, which covered a 69,000sq.m area.

“We used special software to analyse the drone images, which gave us the mass of sand removed from ray feeding pits. Then, by using the aerial images, we could work out the mass of sand being moved per day, week and year in the identified ray feeding areas within the estuary,” Molly says.

What the team found was…monumental.

“Over a year, we found that they turned over more than 21,000 tonnes of sand, which is actually a greater mass than the Great Sphinx of Giza! It’s an insane amount,” says Molly.

“It’s so important that we’re managing how we interact with these species, and what we do around different estuaries and ecosystems. We need to be protecting those individuals and protecting their environment.”

Ecosystem engineers

Ecologists often refer to environment-sculpting species as ‘ecosystem engineers’. Though many species help to maintain, and ensure balance, in their ecosystem, it’s startling how much influence a single species can sometimes have on their surroundings. The rays in Brisbane Water ‘engineer’ an environment where other species can thrive, and without their machination, that delicate system could fall apart.

“When you lose ecosystem engineers, you’re also losing their ecosystem services. If the sand’s not getting turned over, the sediments become anoxic and the small animals living in the sand die out. That’s a bigger problem up the food chain because important fish species eat those little creatures,” says Molly.

Unfortunately, this loss is exactly what Molly is concerned might happen in Brisbane Water.

Estuary stingrays are often caught as bycatch in commercial fishing, but the main threat to many coastal ray species comes from coastal developments and commercial infrastructure that often destroy critical stingray habitat.

Pressed on all sides, the numbers of estuary stingrays have been steadily declining for decades, and they’re now classified as near threatened.

“When you lose important habitats like mangroves or seagrasses, you also lose the fish living in those habitats. As suitable spaces are getting smaller and smaller, there aren’t as many individuals that can live in them,” says Molly.

Threatened with extinction

As it stands, 30 per cent of all ray species are near threatened with extinction, and 19.9 per cent are listed in a threatened IUCN red-list category. Efforts are being made to help conserve stingray populations, but their numbers have continued to decline all over the world. Often, conservation endeavours are stymied by a simple lack of information.

Related: World first: evidence of stingrays making sounds

“We hardly know anything about any estuarine elasmobranch [sharks and rays]. Unless they’re one of the big, charismatic species, very little research has been done”, says Molly.

“We need to find out so much more about them – where they hang out, what they eat, where they go. If we can provide more information to estuary managers, that would go a long way to help conserve stingray numbers.”

One species can make all the difference to the health and wellbeing of an environment, but we first need to act and ensure those ecosystems builders are still around to do so.

The post Estuary stingrays shift ‘insane amount’ of sand appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Images sent to WWF-Australia from a landholder in Murrays Run in the Lower Hunter Valley region of New South Wales clearly show a wombat sharing its burrow with a fox and cub. 

The landholder – who wishes to remain anonymous to the public – sent the images to WWF-Australia after they saw the organisation sharing research showing that wombat burrows provide critical shelter for numerous species following severe bushfires.

The camera trap recorded not just one, but a series of comings and goings on the same night, indicating that the wombat, the fox, and the cub were using the burrow at the same time. This behaviour continued for the four days the camera was in place.

This is the first time a wombat has been found to be sharing its burrow with a predator. 

But don’t wombats crush fox skulls with their bottoms?!

What makes this discovery even more remarkable is that some experts believe wombats actually kill foxes.

The bodies of deceased foxes, dingos and wild dogs are often found at the entrance to burrows. It is believed wombats kill these animals by crushing their skulls between their robust bottoms and the roof of their burrows.

Adding fuel to this theory was a Facebook post that went viral in 2020, showing a photo of a dead fox beside a wombat in a burrow entrance, accompanied by the words “We think the furry feral was outfoxed and crushed to death by a grumpy wombat”:

Katja Gutwein, from Mange Management, a group of volunteers in Victoria who treat mange in wombats in the wild, says a landholder she works with witnessed an “epic battle of wills” between a wombat and a fox.

“The fox tried to take over the wombat’s burrow and each day it would carry vegetation in to create bedding. Each night the indignant wombat would turf out the fox’s bedding. This went on for days until, in the end, the fox gave up,” says Katja. 

Wildlife rescuer and carer Narelle Thompson says she’s also heard similar reports over the years, particularly about female wombats with joeys.

“I was told the female wombat lays flat in the entrance, giving the fox a false sense of assurance that it’s okay to climb over her back. Once the fox is in place, she stands up and crushes the fox between her hard armoured butt and the roof of the burrow,” Narelle says.

“That’s why I find it extremely unusual for a wombat to be sharing its home with a fox. But stranger things have happened!”

Related: Wombat burrows provide refuge from fires

The post An unlikely alliance: Wombat and fox family become housemates  appeared first on Australian Geographic.

North East Rail Trail

Distance: 26km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Gravel/MTB

Tasmania’s premier rail trail is just a whisker from Derby – you can almost smell the overheating brake pads from here – but is entirely different in pace and tone. The trail, which sees less bike traffic than most other rail trails, runs between the north-east forestry town of Scottsdale and Billycock Hill (a rise in the Tasman Hwy 15km west of Derby), following the course of the former Launceston–Branxholm railway. Its gradients are gentle, and the track is wide enough for two bikes to ride side by side along its entire length. 

From the old railway station in Scottsdale, the trail coasts downhill for 15km, ascending just as gradually over the remaining 11km to Billycock Hill. For the first 9km, the ride stays close to the Tasman Hwy, crossing it twice, but spending much of its time inside a cushioning strip of bush. After the second highway crossing near Tonganah, the trail drifts away from the highway, passing through farmland and beginning to feel surprisingly remote as it disappears into forest and tunnels through an impressive railway cutting blasted 10m into the earth.

The forest is tall and, at times, dense with ferns as the ride wraps through a deep gully, passing the former Trewalla railway station. About here, it begins the ascent towards Billycock Hill, where the trail ends at its highest point, around 120m higher than Scottsdale. There are campaigns to extend the rail trail from Scottsdale to Lilydale Falls, around 40km to the west of Scottsdale, and eventually through to Launceston, so watch this space.

Clarence Foreshore Trail

Distance: 14.5km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

This trail follows Hobart’s picturesque Derwent River, kicking off at Geilston Bay and finishing at Howrah, and is one of Hobart’s most popular family bike rides. Consisting of mostly flat footpaths, with the odd gravel section, a few roadside connections and a couple of hills, the trail is accessible for all abilities and skill levels, with plenty of entry and exit points. A highlight for families? Playgrounds galore for those inevitable refuel and rest stops. For those riders with little legs, a shorter version sees you set off from Geilston Bay and finish at Bellerive Park, with its playground and – yes! – the chance to indulge in fish and chips by the beach.

The ride encompasses magical views, from yachts bobbing on their moorings, to willow trees dangling over the trail. Passing under Hobart’s famous Tasman Bridge is a highlight, especially for the youngest cyclists, with the chance to test the echoes bouncing off the huge concrete pylons.

At Kangaroo Bay, about 9km from the start, you may time it right for local market stalls. The beach here is beautiful, plus the aforementioned fish and chips are available nearby.  The final leg around a headland leads Bellerive Beach and then on to Howrah Beach.

Kaoota Tramway Track

Distance: 6km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Gravel/MTB

This short rail trail, traversing the hilltops above Margate and Sandfly, is just 30km south of Hobart, and yet feels utterly removed. Following part of an abandoned tramway, built in 1905 to transport coal 20km from Kaoota to the wharf in Margate, it’s not as groomed as most rail trails – it’s rockier and bumpier – but it shares their gentle gradients.

From just outside of Kaoota, the trail sets out into tall forest on a track – sometimes as wide as fire trail, sometimes singletrack – benched into the slopes. The bush is mostly dry, but there are pockets of forest and ferns as it swings through The Gorge, where it crosses a small wooden bridge and doubles back across the slopes. Little pedalling is needed as the trail gradually heads downhill, passing through open forest that provides glimpses of kunanyi/Mt Wellington. The track crosses another wooden bridge over Platypus Creek, from where it widens and smooths, making for a quick finish to Lawless Rd.

A good addition, though only for intermediate or advanced riders, is to follow Lawless Rd for 1.5km down the slopes and turn onto the Nierinna Creek Track, which runs for 3km to the edge of Margate.

Blue Derby

Distance: 125km +  Grade: Easy to Advanced  Bike: MTB

Since launching its network of mountain bike trails in 2015, the once-forlorn tin-mining town of Derby has become a byword for mountain biking. Its huge network of trails instantly generated such fanfare and attention that it almost single-handedly inspired the burst of trail openings across Australia in the subsequent years.

The key to Derby’s appeal is the flowing nature of its trails, which begin high in the Blue Tier mountains, with a compact cluster of trails around Derby itself. For those looking for family bike rides, there is a large pump track on the bank of the Ringarooma River keeps crowds of kids happy, while the riding can begin as leisurely as a lap around Lake Derby, across the river from town. For families with younger/new riders, this is a must-ride.

For more confident family members, some trails to check out include Blue Tier, which hurries down rainforest-covered slopes of its namesake mountain range to Weldborough; and Atlas, which continues the journey from near Weldborough down into Derby. Shuttle services out of Derby make it possible to ride both in a full, 30km day if you clan is up to it, descending from sub-alpine clearings at the top of the Blue Tier through magnificent rainforest to the dry sclerophyll forests around Derby.

Shuttles aren’t always necessary, though, with another family favourite the gentle Axehead looping out from town to connect with a host of other green- and blue-graded trails. The best thing about Derby is the sheer number of choices when it comes to trails. If you have older kids that are more confident, the blue (and black) trails will keep them well entertained, while the little’uns or less confident can still enjoy exploring a spectacular part of Tassie on their bikes. Win, win, we say…

Pipeline Track

Distance: 24km return  Grade: Easy  Bike: Gravel/MTB

Most mountain trails demand mountains of effort, but not Hobart’s Pipeline Track. Following the course of the city’s water-supply system – hence the ‘pipeline’ in the name – the gently sloping track wraps around the flank of kunanyi/Mt Wellington and is one of Hobart’s most popular family bike rides.

The wide, family-friendly track begins in Fern Tree, passing beneath the water pipeline. Though the track parallels Huon Rd all the way to Neika, there’s little indication of it as the track burrows through the thick bush. There are views over the River Derwent to Turrakana/Tasman Peninsula on a short, exposed section of the track before it turns onto a vehicle track (used by park and water authorities) and enters Wellington Park. It’s here the most spectacular sight of the ride – the sharp-tipped Cathedral Rock – muscles into the view, where it remains for the rest of the outward ride.

The Pipeline Track finishes seemingly in the middle of nowhere – close by a landslip – but there’s a turnaround point 1km before its end, at the start of the Wellington Falls walking track. Lock your bike to the racks here and check it out before returning to Fern Tree.

For more bike rides, check out our favourite family bike rides in Victoria, New South Wales and the ACT, and Queensland.

The post The best family bike rides in Tasmania appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Basically, it’s a ball of rock enveloped in water, which is in the form of ice unless it’s within the “habitable zone” of its parent star – in which case it becomes liquid water.

Earth holds that privileged position in our solar system, but further out, ice predominates, with the subtle twist that internal heating from beneath the rocky surface can melt the lower levels of the ice mantle to create a sub-ice ocean. 

Perhaps the best-known examples of this structure are Jupiter’s moon Europa and Saturn’s moon Enceladus. 

Europa, with a diameter of 3122km, is six times the size of Enceladus, but they both have smooth, icy surfaces with prominent fractures and few craters. Their surfaces are kept fresh by fountains of ice crystals erupting from the fractures.

In the case of Enceladus, the ice-plumes have been sampled directly by the extraordinarily productive Cassini spacecraft, which orbited Saturn from 2004 to 2017.

Now that cohort of ocean worlds may have been joined by an unexpected newcomer.

With a heavily cratered surface, Saturn’s small moon Mimas could hardly appear more different from a conventional ice-world.

One very large crater, Herschel, gives rise to Mimas’s nickname – “Death Star”– because it resembles the fictional space station in Star Wars.

But it’s the subtleties of Mimas’s orbit and rotation that led an international team of astronomers based at the Paris Observatory to conclude that a large volume of liquid water exists some 20–30km beneath the icy surface. 

If that’s the case, why hasn’t the pressure of the ice forced water through cracks to erupt as ice geysers, as in the case of Enceladus and Europa?

Further analysis of Mimas’s orbit led researchers to conclude that its ocean is young, perhaps less than 25 million years old.

Moreover, it’s still growing upwards, with the likelihood it will eventually crack the surface ice and allow geysers to erupt through.

This will coat it with a fresh layer of ice and smooth its pockmarked surface to look more like Enceladus or Europa. 

The post What is an ‘ocean world’? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Marine biologist Jennah Tucker has an infectious passion for whales – the result, she says, of a curious childhood spent steeped in the azure waters of Broome, north-west Western Australia.

Now all grown, Jennah, like the whales she studies, migrates south each year to the tiny town of Bremer Bay, on the state’s southern coastline. Here she plies the ocean, which bubbles with marine life attracted by dramatic submarine canyons, some reaching more than 4500m in depth.

“Seasonal upwellings, which occur in the Bremer and adjacent canyons, transport nutrients to the surface [0–200m depth],” Jennah says. “This supports the growth of phytoplankton, which in turn supports zooplankton and a diversity of pelagic species including sea birds, cetaceans, sharks, squid and fishes. This provides a dense and predictable occurrence of prey for our apex predators, the orcas, which seasonally aggregate in the area to feed, mate and socialise.”

Jennah is an integral member of the family-owned Naturaliste Charters team, which operates full-day killer whale expeditions between December and April.

“We see a whole host of different wildlife while we’re out there – killer whales, long-finned pilot whales, feeding on squid and fish,” says Naturaliste Charters owner, Paul Cross. “Only a few years ago we saw our first blue whale.”

Image credits: Tourism Australia; Naturaliste Charters

“One of the things that really blows me away about Bremer Bay is witnessing a beaked whale predation. Orcas need to eat 5 per cent of their body weight each day, and seeing them in full stealth mode, they’re listening, they can hear the whales coming through the canyon systems and then they’ll spread out, five or six animals in a row, 50–60m apart, picking up the acoustics and then the hunt is on. And then there’s all the birds, eyes in the sky, on top of the whale. It’s not for everyone, seeing a pod of killer whales hunt… but it is life, it’s how they survive.”

The business’s state-of-the-art 23m catamaran, Alison Maree, also travels west to Augusta and Cape Leewuin for the northern migration season (May–August) of 35,000 humpback whales.

“What’s unique is how close they come to the coast, 50–100m off land,” Paul says. “We’re also seeing increasing number of pygmy and blue whales – in groups of up to 10. We’re not aware that it happens anywhere else on the globe.”

Image credits: Naturaliste Charters

Bubbles, rosettes and poo

A huge part of Naturaliste’s charter is research, which is where Jennah comes into her own.

In March this year, for example, the team and guests witnessed a group of orcas partake in a peculiar predation event.

“We spent most of the day observing orcas from three different groups from a distance as they embarked on long dives, lasting up to 8 minutes at a time, which is consistent with foraging behaviour,” Jennah says. “We were only capturing short glimpses of the orcas while they took a few short breaths at the surface before disappearing on another long dive.”

And then, with a huge splash on the horizon, the mood changed. The orcas took off, surging for more than 6 nautical miles and climbing from a depth of about 800m to 80m.

Image credit: Tourism Australia

“They slowed and everything went quiet on the surface for a minute. We expected to see a beaked whale surface, because they’re the most common prey targets for this population of orcas. Instead, the large tail flukes of a sperm whale emerged, and we approached to find five sperm whales, including one juvenile and four adults. The group appeared distressed and exhausted. They were huddled in a tight group, frequently respirating and raising their heads from the water.

The orcas swam tight circles around the sperm whales, who in turn formed a circle, referred to as a ‘rosette’, with their heads facing inwards and their tails oriented outwards, toward the orcas. In addition to this ‘rosette’ formation, we observed a large dark cloud that rose to the surface of the water among the sperm whales. We initially thought it was blood but on closer inspection, it turned out to be faeces.

“Shortly after this, one of the orcas began tail slapping and the other orcas moved off from the sperm whales. The orcas remained in the area for some time but kept their distance from the sperm whales, who stayed tightly huddled at the surface for over an hour.”

Image credit: Tourism Australia

Jennah says she and the team searched the area for scraps of animal tissue or an oil slick, which are generally present in the aftermath of a successful mammal predation, but couldn’t find any signs that they had successfully hunted one of the sperm whales.

Whether this attack by the orcas on the sperm whales was an attempted predation or perhaps harassment behaviour related to prey stealing or some other driver is unknown. “There are a range of strategies sperm whales have been observed using when under perceived threat, the rosette formation being a known defensive technique. Defecation in sperm whales has previously been observed in association with behaviours indicative of distress, however it is not known whether, for example, this is a stress response or an offensive technique to deter threats, such as predators.”

One for the twitchers

The Bremer Canyon is also renowned for the amazing variety and abundance of sea birds, with large numbers of shearwaters, petrels, storm-petrels and albatrosses feeding across the canyon system and along the nearby shelf edge.

“Many of these seabirds are likely attracted by the rich fish and squid stocks in the area,” Jennah says. “Squid, in particular, form a large part of many albatross and petrel diets and are often caught at night by seabirds when the squid move upwards into the surface waters. These rich, clean and protected oceanic waters attract two-thirds of the world’s albatross species regularly, including the magnificent wandering albatrosses, along with the elegant light-mantled albatrosses, and the Amsterdam albatross, one of the rarest birds on the planet!”

It is these high-prey volumes that also attract the high diversity of cetaceans including beaked whales, which make up an important part of the orca’s diet. It’s during these impressive predation events that large oily slicks, rich in nutrients and whale flesh, form on the sea surface for the seabirds to scavenge. “Watching hundreds, sometimes thousands, of shearwaters and petrels and dozens of albatrosses feeding amongst the orca on the northern flanks of the Southern Ocean is surely one of the more amazing

Image credits: Naturaliste Charters

Naturaliste Charters’ 2024 pelagic birdwatching tours, led by four expert onboard birdwatching guides, depart from Augusta (two in July and two in August) and Bremer Bay (four in December).wildlife spectacles in Australia!”

“Our seabird excursions head straight out to the deeper waters of the Bremer Canyon in hopes of finding any seabird congregations from recent orca feeding events,” Jennah says. “And while we concentrate on spotting rarer seabirds and manoeuvre the boat so eager photographers can capture those classic albatross flight shots, we’re always on the lookout for nearby cetaceans including orcas, pilot whales and sperm whales.”

Image credit: Tourism Australia

Common summer seabirds seen in large numbers include flesh-footed shearwaters, great-winged petrels and white-faced storm-petrels. These seabirds all breed on offshore islands along Australia’s southern coast, and the Bremer Canyon represents a critical feeding area for them. But the rich resources also attract wide-ranging seabirds from all points of the compass — yellow-nosed albatrosses from the southern limits of the Indian Ocean, shy albatrosses from Tasmania, black-browed albatrosses from New Zealand’s subantarctic islands, and even more sub-tropical species such as white-necked, Kermadec and Bulwer’s petrels from the warmer climes in the mid-Pacific and Indian oceans. Finally, the seabird jewel in the Bremer Canyon crown is the Barau’s petrel. “This is the only area in Australia to regularly attract this species all the way from Reunion Island, off Madagascar,” Jennah says.

Brimming with research

While guests are treated to extraordinary wildlife encounters on each voyage, Naturaliste Charters also contributes to scientific research and supports long-term conservation efforts.

Throughout the season it runs an internship program for early career marine scientists, as well as collecting photographic data that helps to identify individual orcas, their prey and other species of interest.

Image credits: Tourism Australia

“This has also allowed us to maintain an up-to-date catalogue which includes more than 150 individual orcas that have been recorded in the area to date and to improve our understanding of the group dynamics, social structure and size of this population,” Jennah says.

“Given the countless species and behaviours that we encounter on a daily basis in this remote and difficult-to-access environment, this data is also passed on to various researchers, institutions and organisations, both locally and internationally.”

When water speaks

“Over the years we’ve been able to answer a number of questions about the Bremer Canyon ecosystem, however, this has given rise to so many new questions,” Jennah says. “Probably one of the most significant involves the diet of not only the orcas but other species that aggregate in the area to hunt, including sperm whales and pilot whales.

“Given we only capture glimpses of a story as it unfolds on the surface, what happens below is speculative, meaning our days often end with a myriad of unanswered questions. While sometimes we are lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the prey species, more often we only see remnants like chunks of flesh, or oil and blood in the water. So, it seems like the natural next step to work towards gaining a better understanding of who’s eating what out there – this could better help us to understand the behaviours we are witnessing, and most importantly inform the conservation and management of these species.

Image credit: Tourism Australia

“All animals leave traces of their genetic material as they move through their environment, which can originate from skin and hair cells, mucous or faeces. This material is known as ‘environmental DNA’ (eDNA) and can tell us a lot about what is going on in a particular area. For example, water samples can be collected in the area of a predation event and processed to identify which species are present. These samples can be stored onboard and then sent off for analysis, making this a great non-invasive method that will complement our current observational data recording really nicely. It’s something that onboard passengers can also be a part of! While we still have some work ahead of us, applying for the relevant permits and developing protocols around this, we are very excited to kickstart this program and to learn more about this incredible marine ecosystem.”

Image credits: Naturaliste Charters; Tourism Australia

Naturaliste Charters is part of the Australian Wildlife Journeys collective. Find out more here.

This article is brought to you by Australian Wildlife Journeys.

The post Natural-born killers appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Australian Geographic’s involvement with this competition is part of our mission to encourage photography of our region’s landscapes and wildlife. Our region offers so much for any would-be photographer, and not just in our wild and remote areas, but in our urban landscape and even our backyards. Photography encourages you to look carefully at the world around you. It increases knowledge and understanding, and raises awareness. Nature photographers are active conservationists, and that is the real power of this competition. The wildlife conservation movement relies heavily on the impact of strong imagery to move people to care enough to advocate, donate funds or become involved in practical ways. So, while some of us will be looking carefully at the f-stop number or the lens type, for most, it’s a chance to be inspired by the beauty of nature.

We commend all of the 422 photographers who entered and extend our gratitude to this year’s judges – Andrew Meares, Petra Leary and Chrissie Goldrick – who faced the enormous task of evaluating more than 1500 entries.

This year added a fresh challenge for those entering, with a new category attracting outstanding overhead images – aerial.

“The competition has grown and evolved over the past two decades and this year we introduced the well-received aerial category capturing never before seen moments from above,” says Director of the South Australian Museum, Dr David Gaimster.

Australian Geographic Society Chair and 2024 judge, Chrissie Goldrick, says, “The competition has evolved significantly. The categories have changed. The rules are constantly reviewed to keep pace with rapid technological advances in areas like generative intelligence, but also to reflect growing ethical sensitivities.”

Although the competition and photographs have evolved, Chrissie says one thing hasn’t changed – the judging process.

“It’s as challenging now as it ever was. It’s a highly subjective process and each judge brings something different to the table based on their own experience, knowledge and preferences. Judges are well versed in accepted standards of compositional and technical excellence, but winning images need an ‘X-factor’. It’s here the most lively of debates dwell, and the final results can be hard to adequately articulate when it’s an emotional response to the vision before you. Whether you agree with the final choices or not, you can rest assured the process that gets us there is rigorous and hard fought.”

The awards are a partnership between Australian Geographic and the South Australian Museum, who produce the competition and accompanying exhibition. The museum will announce the overall winner, category winners, runners-up and the Portfolio Prize on Thursday 29 August.

Until then, here’s a look at the shortlisted images:

Animals in Nature

Aerial

Astrophotography

Macro

Landscape

Threatened Species

Monochrome

Our Impact

Junior

See last year’s winners:

Related: Winners: 2023 Australian Geographic Nature Photographer of the Year

The post Shortlist: 2024 Australian Geographic Nature Photographer of the Year appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Uluru Circuit

Distance: 10.6km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

This full loop of the world’s most famous monolith is a must-do for any visitors to the Northern Territory’s Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. It is a very easy, very flat ride that you could, if you were, for some odd reason, in a rush, complete in less than an hour, but please don’t. ‘The Rock’ as Uluru is also known, hides some incredibly scenic and spiritual secrets that you must experience for yourself.

The ‘official’ loop starts from the Mala car park, but if you’re hiring a bike (Outback Cycling offers hires), you will start from 2km west, at the Uluru-Kata Tjuta Cultural Centre car park and take the bike path to Mala. From here, it is an anti-clockwise journey on predominantly hard dirt, with a little bit of sand to negotiate from Mala to Mutitjulu waterhole. This part of the loop brings you close to Uluru itself before a must-stop at Mutitjulu waterhole, where you can park your bike at the bike rack and take the short walk into the gorge itself. 

The track then continues around Uluru, moving further away from the rock, before you ride parallel to its more heavily eroded northern face. After that, though, you’re back closer and ready for more exploration at Kantju Gorge and its pretty waterhole. From there, the loop continues to curve around and, before you know it, you’re back at Mala and ride’s end, far richer for the memories of experiencing this ageless icon up close.  

Simpsons Gap Bike Path

Distance: 17km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

Running umbilically between Alice Springs and Simpsons Gap, the nearest of the West MacDonnell Ranges’ multitude of narrow gorges to the city, this fully sealed bike path is a desert delight.

Beginning beside the boulder-topped grave of John Flynn, founder of the Royal Flying Doctor Service, the path rolls gently through the Alice Valley, pinched between the rust-red mountains of the West MacDonnells and the Heavitree Range. For all but the first kilometre, the ride is inside Tjorita/West MacDonnell National Park, winding between low hills but making few climbs of its own. The open landscape is brightened by ghost gums, desert bloodwoods and the lavender-like flowers of the mulla mulla.

There are two picnic tables (with bike racks) tucked into the shade of ghost gums along the path, and a 1.8km walking trail to Cassia Hill (named for the cassia shrubs that cover it) that starts from the path’s edge as it makes its final turn towards Simpsons Gap. The last 700m of the ride is on a roadside bike lane (where it also crosses the Larapinta Trail), ending in the Simpsons Gap car park, from where it’s a 400m stroll along the sandy creek bed to the Gap. This break in the mountains creates a spectacular scene – in full sun, the orange cliffs seem to glow like coals above the permanent pool (swimming is banned) inside the gorge. Black-footed rock wallabies are commonly seen among the rocks that litter the slopes outside its mouth. With average summer temperatures reaching 36 °C, this is a path best pedalled in the cooler winter months.

Nitmiluk

Distance: 19km  Grade: Easy to Intermediate  Bike: MTB

Nitmiluk National Park has always been a highlight for visitors to the Northern Territory, with its spectacular gorge system previously only able to be admired from the water or on foot. With thirteen gorges to visit, most visitors never get past the first couple, but with the introduction of mountain bikes into the national park, it is now possible to ride to some stunning locations. 

The climate here dictates the ride. The green Jalkwarak loop is under 6km and is a wise warm-up. Being close to the road and the ranger station, you can ensure that everything is in order before you push deeper into the park. The network is around 19km and is mainly shared use, although being up on the plateau you won’t see many other users on the network. The newly built MTB-specific sections of trail – Jalkwarak (Easy Grade) and Jatete (Intermediate) – are fantastic with Jatete offering brilliant views over the pristine Katherine River. The more adventurous family members can push further east on shared-use trails to Pat’s Lookout or descend Bamjon for a cooling dip. 

If you want a ride and swim, the nearby town of Katherine has a town loop and lovely natural spa that’s easy to get to. Just remember crocodiles live at Nitmiluk. The harmless freshwater crocs are year-round inhabitants, but the deadly salties slip in during the wet season, so only get in the water after the all-clear has been given by the national park rangers. Crocodiles, stunning views and remote trails – you won’t forget the family bike rides here!

Alice Springs Mountain Bike Trails

Distance: 105km (combined total, all trails)  Grade: Easy to Expert  Bike: MTB

Hugged tightly against Alice Springs is an extensive mountain bike trail network, radiating from the town’s very edges. The ever-expanding network is divided into two sections, Westside and Eastside, with more than 100km of trails between them. The central trailhead is at the Alice Springs Telegraph Station, north of town, from where trails spiral out across the desert sands. The Telegraph Station also makes a great picnic/lunch stop for families with young riders. 

Three-quarters of the trails are graded Blue (Intermediate), with a couple of Black (Expert) runs and a smattering of Greens (Easy). There’s a beautifully natural feel to the design of the network, with trails rolling over slabs of rock, dipping through dry creek beds and ascending the low hills that dot the desert.

The Eastside trails stay close to Alice, wriggling out past the town’s north-eastern side, and contain some of the network’s more technical features. The Westside trails begin across the Stuart Highway, crossing open country towards John Flynn’s Grave and the Tjoritja/West MacDonnell Ranges.

For a full day out, making the network’s longest loop, set out from the Telegraph Station on Arrwe, linking up to Apwelantye and Road Train on the Eastside trails. Beside the Ghan railway, Road Train meets Hell Line, part of the Westside trails. The longest trail in the network, Hell Line loops out west along low hills with big views of the West MacDonnnells and Heavitree Gap, before crossing the Larapinta Trail as it turns back east to meet Bus or Locomotive trails on its return to Alice’s western edge. A 3km section of the Larapinta Trail, between Apwelantye and the Stuart Highway, can also be cycled, and is one of the region’s most enjoyable short family bike rides.

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Garnet is rare in beach sand, as it is destroyed by prolonged exposure to the waves and currents of the ocean. If we find large amounts of garnet in beach sand, it means there must be a local source of garnet-bearing rock. But where is this rock?

The hunt for the source of South Australia’s pink sand took us thousands of kilometres and half a billion years back in time, to a previously undiscovered mountain range we believe is now buried deep beneath the Antarctic ice sheet.

A local source?

Geologists get excited when we find garnet in beach sand or other sediments, because these minerals grow deep in Earth’s crust, in the same kind of conditions in which diamonds are formed.

One way diamonds or garnets can reach the surface is via carrot-shaped volcanic structures called kimberlite pipes. There are kimberlites (and diamonds) to be found in South Australia – at Eurelia, for example. However, these deposits are far from the coast, are not very abundant, and are only around 170-190 million years old – so they are unlikely to be the source of our beach garnets.

Another way garnet can reach the surface is via prolonged erosion.

Garnet typically forms in greater volumes in places where the crust is thick, such as under mountains. As the mountains erode, the garnet may be revealed as a record of the former mountain belt.

So another possible origin for the beach garnets is the erosion of the Adelaide Fold Belt. This mountain belt, which stretched north from Adelaide for hundreds of kilometres, developed between 514-490 million years ago.

A third possible source is the Gawler Craton, a huge slab of ancient rock beneath South Australia with outcrops in the Adelaide Fold Belt. The Gawler Craton contains plenty of garnet, which formed in several episodes between 3.3-1.4 billion years ago.

To find the source of our beach sand garnets, we set out to find their ages. Very old garnets could be from the Gawler Craton, while younger ones would have the Adelaide Fold Belt as a more likely origin.

A timing mismatch

We analysed several hundred grains of coastal garnet, and found the majority of them formed around 590 million years ago. Far from answering our questions, this result only raised more.

The beach sand garnets were far too young to have come from the Gawler Craton, but too old to have come from the eroding Adelaide Fold Belt. In fact, this time around 590 million years ago is thought to have been a tectonically quiet period in the region, where we would not expect garnet to grow.

Our dating results effectively ruled out a local source for the garnets. So what was left?

Long-distance travellers

If the garnets did not come from a local source, we can say two things about them. First, they must have travelled in a way that would not grind them to smithereens. Second, they must have been stored locally in a protected environment before finding their way onto the beaches.

A possible solution that meets both these criteria can be found at Hallet Cove Conservation Park, located on the South Australian coast around 20km south of Adelaide.

Here we find exposed sedimentary rocks that were formed around 280 million years ago, during a very icy phase of Earth’s history. The ice is important, because glaciers and icebergs can transport large volumes of rock over long distances without damaging their internal structure.

Furthermore, garnets found in glacial sediments on Kangaroo Island, which were deposited around the same time as the Hallet Cove sediments, were dated to around 590 million years as well. The garnets were not born in these deposits, but were transported into them by ice flow.

A former land bridge

So, if the beach garnets were stored in sedimentary glacial deposits along the South Australian coast since the Late Palaeozoic Ice Age, before being washed onto the shore, where did they come from originally?

During the Late Palaeozoic Ice Age around 280 million years ago, Australia was connected to Antarctica in a large landmass called Gondwana, covered by a massive ice sheet.

Reconstructions of ice flow at this time suggest glaciers would have brought ice northwest from what are now the Transantarctic Mountains in East Antarctica.

The Transantarctic Mountains are the expression of an older mountain belt, the Ross Orogen, which started developing around 550 million years ago but was not experiencing any peak garnet-forming conditions until around 520 million years ago – 60 million years after the garnet in the pink sands. So we are getting warmer, but the Transantarctic Mountains are not a suitable source either.

Related: How an Australian lake turned bubble-gum pink

A hidden treasure

There is one outcrop of rock in East Antarctica where garnets of the right age have been found, near the Skelton Glacier in Southern Victoria Land. However, such a small outcrop could not have produced the large volume of garnet we see on Australian shores.

This outcrop sits at the edge of a colossal area of some 2 million sq.km buried beneath a thick ice sheet. We postulate that this area contains abundant garnet that grew in an unknown mountain belt around 590 million years ago.

It is currently not possible to sample the rock under this ice sheet to confirm our theory. But it is conceivable that millions of years of ice transport eroded the bedrock beneath, and transported the ground-up rock – including garnets – northeastwards towards the area that has now split into the coastlines of Antarctica and Australia.

The transported rock was then delivered to the South Australian coast some 280 million years ago and stored in sedimentary deposits such as Hallet Cove. Here it sat undisturbed until erosion eventually released the garnets into the sea – and then, finally, onto South Australia’s beaches.

Stijn Glorie is an Associate Professor of Geology at the University of Adelaide; Jack Mulder is a Lecturer in Geology at the University of Adelaide, and Sharmaine Verhaert is a PhD Candidate in Geology at the University of Adelaide.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Thousands of animals have met their end after tumbling into the caves’ concealed entrances and becoming trapped. Unable to climb out, they perished and their skeletons have mingled with those of cave-dwelling animals dead from natural causes, and bones picked clean by predators and scavengers. 

“The caves at Naracoorte have been accumulating animal remains for the best part of the last 500,000 years, more or less continually, so you’ve got a record for vertebrate life within one place that spans the last half-million years,” says palaeontologist Professor Gavin Prideaux from SA’s Flinders University. “A lot of really significant climatic changes occurred over that time: there were the glacial–interglacial cycles, which are the comings and goings of ice ages, so you can see how a really diverse fauna responded to that glacial–interglacial cycling…and what the environment was like at all these successive time periods.”

About 120 animal species are represented in Naracoorte’s fossil and bone deposits, including wallabies, possums, bats, lace monitors, quolls, bettongs, owls, mice and more. “When you look at the Naracoorte fossil assemblages, most of the species that are preserved there are still around now,” Gavin says. “But there’s a whole bunch…[of] larger species – what we’d call megafauna – that aren’t.”

Related: Marsupial lions, enormous kangaroos and giant monitor lizards: treasures of the Naracoorte Caves

These megafauna fossils are the crown jewels of Naracoorte, and a major drawcard for tourists. They include: Thylacoleo carnifex, the leopard-sized “marsupial lion” that was the largest-known mammalian carnivore to ever prowl Australian ecosystems; Procoptodon goliah, a flat-faced kangaroo that stood 2m tall; modern wombats’ evolutionary relative, Zygomaturus, a hippopotamus-like marsupial herbivore that weighed 500kg; and a 5m-long constrictor snake, Wonambi naracoortensis. Thylacine and Tasmanian devil remains have also been found inside the caves. Collectively, these fossils provide a perspective on the diversity of extinct animal forms known as megafauna. 

This ancient and mostly oversized assemblage became extinct 60,000–40,000 years ago. Whatever caused this extinction event remains a hot topic in scientific circles; many researchers are hardline advocates that humans overhunted these animals to extinction, while others blame climate. It was possibly a mix of the two. 

“It’s really hard to pull apart what’s likely to be a human-influenced change versus a climatically influenced change, because we know [both] of those factors can drive biotic change,” Gavin explains. “That record prior to 65,000 years ago is super critical. It gives us a baseline that shows how fauna and vegetation respond to climatic change when there are no humans on the scene. Once humans are on the scene and we see evidence of change in the record, we’re better able to decipher what’s likely a human impact versus a climate impact.”

The megafaunal extinction debate looms disproportionately large among scientists; Gavin says it’s “sucking up so much oxygen out of a whole area of research”. Instead, he is more fascinated by the animals themselves. He wants to understand how Australian ecosystems were structured before the arrival of humans 65,000 years ago, and piece together the evolutionary record of these mammals that were biologically distinct from the rest of the world.

“Australia is a unique experiment in mammal evolution because we have all these mammals here that evolved in isolation for 30 million years,” he says. “It’s like this independent experiment; some of them evolved into niches that were somewhat similar to placental mammals elsewhere, whereas others were just doing their own thing.” 

There’s still a lot we don’t know about Australia’s megafauna: their diets, population sizes, distribution and ecological roles – alongside the tantalising certainty there are more species out there, waiting to be discovered. “We can get the data [to] work out how big they were, what they ate, how they moved and how far they roamed across the landscape. All that information is attainable – but we don’t have it. So I’ve become sort of more interested in that, rather than the bloody extinction debate,” Gavin says.

“Believe it or not, the current tally is about 73 species of megafauna in the Pleistocene that aren’t any longer here. It’s like going to Africa now and imagining that, suddenly, all the wildebeest, all the zebras, all the elephants and all the giraffes, everything, just disappeared. Their loss from the ecosystem would have a massive environmental impact.”

Modern relevance in a warming world

Naracoorte’s animal fossils and bone deposits allow palaeontologists to peel back layers of time and glimpse into prehistoric environments. Its plant fossils are equally revealing. Scientists can analyse pollen and charcoal deposits stored inside the cave to figure out the types of plants that have grown in the area since the Pleistocene. “Different types of plants have differently shaped pollen, so by studying fossil pollen you can reconstruct the vegetation,” Gavin says. “When you’ve got that, along with animal remains, you get a much better sense of the structure of ecosystems at particular slices of time.” 

Scientists can pair this with other geochemical records, such as stalagmites and stalactites, to understand past climate change. Researchers from The University of Melbourne and The University of Adelaide recently examined rainwater stored inside the caves’ 350,000-year-old stalagmites and stalactites, using uranium–lead dating to determine their age. Their findings, published in the journal Nature in February, revealed that Australia’s ice ages received more rainfall than previously thought, suggesting the continent’s glacial periods were more hospitable for plants and animals compared with those in the Northern Hemisphere.

At a time of global warming, these prehistoric climate data have modern relevance. Naracoorte’s ancient fossils and geochemical records provide insights into the ways animals and plants have responded to past climate change – and that might offer clues for the future.

“If we’re trying to make inferences about current global climate change and how that will affect our faunas, we can’t reliably extrapolate [ecological data] from five years or 10 years or 20 years or 50 years ago because it’s not long enough to make a decent inference,” Gavin says. “But that’s where records like those of the Naracoorte caves are really important for understanding what’s likely to happen if the temperature keeps increasing, and what’s going to happen in 100 years, or 500 years, or 1000 years.” 

For now, excavations continue inside the caves. Only four of Naracoorte Caves National Park’s 28 known caves are open; the rest are put aside for scientific research. “It’s pretty exciting because we’re discovering new things all the time, whether that’s in the lab or in the museum, or in the field. And it captures people’s attention,” Gavin says. “People are interested in palaentology because it expands their perspective on things and makes them realise that there’s a big picture out there. We certainly get so focused on our own little part of the world, sometimes it’s nice to take a step back and think about the bigger picture.”

The post The chronicles of Naracoorte appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Members of Aboriginal communities are warned that this story may contain images and names of deceased people.

The Eora people of the area now called Sydney faced profound change when the First Fleet arrived in 1788 carrying nearly 1500 people, limited food supplies, a cargo of foreign animals, sophisticated firearms and a firm belief in their superiority. Within two years, Bidjigal (Bidgigal) man Pemulwuy had mounted strong resistance to the incursion of white settlers onto his people’s traditional lands. Governor Phillip initially maintained cordial relations with the local people, having been instructed to treat the “Indians” well, and “conciliate their affections…[and] maintain friendly relations”. Conflict, however, was inevitable. 

The Eora had a complex system of laws that governed social relations, behaviour and resource use. The European invaders had no appreciation of this, and considered the Eora to be savages. A 1789 outbreak of smallpox, introduced by the Europeans, significantly reduced the Indigenous population and temporarily delayed open conflict.

On 10 December 1790, Pemulwuy was involved in the mortal wounding of John McIntyre, who’d been appointed Phillip’s gamekeeper, one of three convicts armed and sent out to hunt game to add to the colony’s dwindling food supply. The Australian Dictionary of Biography notes that McIntyre was “feared and hated by the Eora people”, and surmises that the attack was retribution for his breaking of Indigenous laws and his violence towards the local people.

Phillip called for a punitive raid, sending 50 soldiers and two surgeons equipped with head bags. That party failed to return with corpses, so they were sent out again. In response to this and the growing attacks on his people’s rights, Pemulwuy led a series of raids from 1792 on farming settlements on Bidjigal lands, burning huts, stealing maize and attacking travellers. 

By April 1794 the violence was frequent and extensive. In the Battle of Toongabbie, the European reprisal party severed the head of a slain warrior and took it back to Sydney as evidence. In the most substantial confrontation, Pemulwuy led 100 warriors into Parramatta, threatening to spear anyone who tried to stop them. Soldiers opened fire, at least five Indigenous men were killed, and Pemulwuy was wounded. But he survived and escaped a few days later, enhancing his already impressive reputation.

On 1 May 1801, Governor King issued a government and general order that “Aborigines” near Parramatta, Georges River and Prospect could be shot on sight. In November, a proclamation outlawed Pemulwuy and offered a sliding scale of rewards for his death or capture: “To a prisoner for life or 14 years, a conditional emancipation. To a person already conditionally emancipated, a free pardon and a recommendation for a free passage to England. To a settler, the labour of a prisoner for 12 months. To any other descriptions of persons, 20 gallons of spirits and two suits of slops [cheap ready-made clothing].” 

On about 2 June 1802, Pemulwuy was shot dead and his head was cut off and sent to Sir Joseph Banks in England for his collection. Soon after, a dispatch arrived from Lord Hobart to Governor King lamenting the settlers’ treatment of the Aboriginal population: “Be it clearly understood that on future occasions, any instance of injustice of wanton cruelty towards the natives will be punished with the utmost severity of the law.” 

Who shot Pemulwuy remains a mystery. Research by historian Dr Keith Vincent Smith pointed to Henry Hacking, quartermaster on the First Fleet’s HMS Sirius. 

Later research by writer Doug Kohlhoff suggested instead that settlers were far more likely to have been the killers. However, Kohlhoff asks whether it really matters who killed Pemulwuy. At one level, it would matter greatly to his people, but on another, he says: “Knowing who fired the fatal shot does not affect Pemulwuy’s place in history. Pemulwuy was, as [Governor] King recognised, ‘a brave and independent character’. He inspired others, fought hard and died for his land and his people. For that, we can all admire him.”

‘Pemulwuy fights back’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

The post Defining Moments in Australian History: Pemulwuy fights back appeared first on Australian Geographic.

In our recent research, my colleagues and I observed Norfolk Island green parrots applying chewed pepper tree bark and shoots to their feathers and skin during preening. We believe this is a rare example of a bird using plant matter to rid themselves of parasites. But there may be more to it. These birds do seem to be enjoying themselves.

For more than a century, scientists have puzzled over the purpose of anting. When birds engage in this behaviour, they either actively spread ants or simply allow ants to move through their feathers. In defence, the ants release formic acid. Could birds be getting high on the fumes?

Maybe pepper tree bark has more than medicinal effects too. It’s highly likely such self-medicating is stimulating.

Stimulating substances

Both formic acid and piperine (from pepper trees) are pungent chemicals with proven medicinal, antimicrobial and insect-repelling qualities.

Our green parrots appeared extra animated while they busily snipped, chewed and rubbed the pungent pepper tree bark and foliage through their plumage.

Almost a century ago, in 1931, Prussian naturalist Alfred Troschütz noted of anting “the formic acid must have an especially agreeable effect”.

Then, in 1957, US ornithologist Lovie Whitaker concluded the bird she was studying “appeared to derive sensual pleasure, possibly including sexual stimulation” from anting. Her views were quickly dismissed and anting declared “strictly functional”. But is it?

The apparent ecstatic state reached by some anting birds is well known. People often come across Australian magpies with their feathers fluffed, body contorted, perhaps staggering and seemingly unable to respond normally — that is, to flee.

In humans, piperine (the key ingredient in pepper) is mildly stimulating. And several potentially hallucinogenic or mind-altering substances, notably formic acid, have been isolated from ant toxins.

Formic acid has been used to tone the muscles, increase muscular energy and ease the sense of fatigue. In 17th-century Europe, it was the “secret” ingredient in a popular tonic believed to improve wellbeing, calm digestion and increase sexual appetite.

Indigenous groups across southern California used red harvester ants for medicinal purposes as well as religious rituals. The ants were ingested alive, in massive quantities, to induce prolonged catatonic states punctuated by hallucinogenic visions.

Flying under the influence

Many birds become intoxicated after eating fermented fruits and berries. Their drunken state is often detected when they collide with windows or cars, get caught by cats while in a stupor, or suffer from alcohol poisoning.

In 2021, about half a dozen drunk red-winged parrots were handed in to Broome Veterinary Hospital in Western Australia after feasting on overripe mangoes. Many more never made it to the clinic.

The drunken reputation of the Kereru saw it voted in as New Zealand’s Bird of the Year in 2018. This pigeon is known for occasionally becoming tipsy, even falling out of trees.

All of these pissed parrots and pigeons lend themselves to jokes about party animals, but there is a deeper evolutionary context to such behaviour.

As fruit ripens it becomes sweeter and more nutritious. As it overripens, the sugar begins to ferment and the alcohol concentration increases.

Volatile compounds (alcohols) produced during fermentation can be carried in the air, helping birds locate the rich food source. Ethanol is also a source of energy in its own right and stimulates the appetite.

Fruit eaters including birds, our human ancestors and other animals may have come to associate the presence of ethanol with a sugar hit and mild pleasure. In turn, the fruit eaters reward the fruit or nectar producing plants by dispersing seeds, or facilitating cross-pollination.

This evolutionary explanation for an attraction to alcohol is sometimes referred to as The Drunken Monkey Hypothesis, first suggested by US biologist Robert Dudley.

Related: Drunk birds: inebriation in the wild

Eat, drink and be merry

While some birds are inclined to imbibe, it seems most can handle their liquor. Like humans, their central nervous system may well reward moderate alcohol consumption, making them feel less fatigued, more relaxed and sociable.

Such pleasure-seeking may seem like an evolutionary dead end, but nature generally contrives to limit availability to alcohol. Stimulation is mild and cases of drunken excess are the exception. The latter often occur in situations where the fleshy fruits are in abundance, other food is scarce or conditions have produced unusually high sugar content, which yields an extra potent brew when it ferments. Often, the boozy casualties are young birds. Sound familiar? Just as well smart birds haven’t figured out how to distil alcohol.

Likening green parrots rubbing aromatic vegetation through their plumage to inebriated pigeons falling from trees may seem a stretch. But nature rewards behaviour that offers evolutionary advantage, often, it seems by tapping into animals’ pleasure centres. The pursuit of pleasure is an important, usually overlooked, aspect of animal behaviour, worthy of attention and further research.

Penny Olsen is an Honorary Professor in Ecology and Evolution at Australian National University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Like-minded souls

There’s a cluster of women milling around in the sun at Cowan Train Station, wearing daypacks, hats and sensible footwear. We’re not catching the train to Brooklyn but walking there, crossing the tracks and heading down towards the stunning Jerusalem Bay. 

This Saturday stroll is a trip run by Women Want Adventure (WWA), a Sydney-based company that aims to impact women’s lives by taking them on incredible adventures. Alice is guiding our group of ten – half are solo, with nine WWA first-timers – ranging from 30+ to 60-odd. The initial nerves disperse as we settle into a rhythm of walking and talking, made easier (and possibly more annoying) by my endless questions. The reasons for coming are variations on the same themes: an easy way to get out and explore new areas; fitness; confidence; outdoor mates. 

All the reasons why

This 13-kilometre jaunt answers all of these. The walking is lovely, following Cowan Creek down past sandstone overhangs until Jerusalem Bay appears suddenly, a narrow finger of water contained by sandstone cliffs and steep slopes lined with gum trees, a lone palm tree in the perfect frame. It’s easy, too: we were told where to meet and what to bring, and the rest of the logistics – food, route, car shuttles, companions – was arranged for us. It’s perfect walking for developing both fitness and confidence: there are steep sections up and down ridges and little rock steps, and the last section is on a wide access track. It’s challenging enough for a great day trip, but very doable.

Being in a women-only group feels good: safe and supportive, encouraging rather than competitive. Despite the diversity in age and ability, there isn’t any posturing for position, mansplaining or hierarchy. The day feels tantalisingly like the start of something bigger, for some of the women at least. Because the other thing linking these women is that they’re all yearning to get out more, but missing a piece that makes it makes it feel easy and possible. The reasons are varied: some people have just moved to Sydney and lack a network; others have lost their crew as they navigate motherhood, careers and life; age has made their companions too frail (or cranky!) to walk with. I don’t know whether lasting connections were made that day, but I’m sure it sparked other adventures. (The average WWA walker goes on four trips, with the record being 22!)

A connection that counts

Women Want Adventure is part of the growing market for women-only experiences in the outdoors: female surf schools, sailing trips around the Whitsundays, climbing groups, trekking companies and way more. So, what’s driving this explosion?

For Monique Farmer, starting WWA was a way to connect with others and herself, feel ‘a sense of belonging to community, and then to help other women find that too’. Adventure was always part of her lifestyle – she grew up canoeing to school, was very active in the outdoors, then studied outdoor education at university. After moving to the country, she felt lonely and disconnected. In 2016, she founded WWA and led her first trip.

Farmer uses the word ‘connection’ a lot, because she believes that’s what we’re missing: connection to nature, to ourselves and what we want, to a like-minded community, and to physical challenges. Her company arranges everything from social nights – a fun, non-scary way to get people to jump in – to kayaking trips to WA’s Ningaloo Reef, to ten-day trekking trips in Nepal. Each trip is designed to be comfortable and accessible: the food is good, there’s time for tea, lots of effort is spent ensuring people feel safe and supported. And the goal? To build confidence, empower women with information, insight and self-belief. She wants women to have a lightning bolt moment – ‘I forgot how much I love this’ – so that they take the next step to getting more adventure in their lives.

Lost, then found

Farmer isn’t working alone. In 2018 Nell Gow finally went climbing again, five years after she had her first child. That night at the climbing wall she felt amazing – it was her ‘lightning bolt moment’. Six months later she started Mum’s Gone Climbing (MGC), which has evolved into ‘a community that supports and inspires mothers to find balance in parenthood through climbing, and outdoor adventure’. It’s a varied thing: there are articles and a documentary, a fabulous podcast, and it’s the springboard for meetups around the country, and the world.

Gow has the zeal of someone who’s lost their thing and found it again and wants to help others do the same. (Or better yet, stop them from losing it in the first place.) So, what exactly is it that climbing gives, and why do mums need it? Gow’s answer to the first question can be summarised in a list: community, connection and support; physical fitness; confidence in your body and yourself; a break from the minutia of parenting; permission to prioritise your own needs.

Mums need a like-minded climbing community for the same reason we all need adventure groups, but more specific and concentrated: to gain skills, knowledge and competence; to find companions and support that fit around life (in this case, naps, school, mothering; pregnancy, babies, bored kids), and allow adventure to be part of their life. And, Gow emphasises, for what it teaches our kids: ‘That we still make time for ourselves to do the things that fill our cup. It’s teaching them the importance of these outdoor spaces, and how wonderful they are for our mental health and wellbeing.’

It’s a girl thing, and an inspirational one at that

You will find it’s not just on the tracks, cliffs, waves and mountains where women are becoming more visible, but also on our screens. In 2016, after years producing the iconic Banff Mountain Film Festival, Jemima Robinson decided there were enough women adventurers – and filmmakers – to launch the Gutsy Girls Adventure Film Tour. As well as entertainment, the tour’s main aim is to build a community of supportive adventurous women, to bridge the gap between the people in the audience and those in the films. The 2023 program showcased everything from hard-climbing young Australian Angie Scarth-Johnson to a horde of nude skiers, and ultrarunner Erika Lori doing the fastest known time on WA’s 1000km Bibbulmun Track. As Robinson says, ‘the films normalise and showcase a woman’s experience, women’s bodies, and the female experience of being outdoors’.

According to Robinson, the biggest barrier preventing women getting into the outdoors is taking that first step. The explosion in female-centred experiences, and communities, films and organisations, is making it easier for women to gain companions and confidence, inspiration and skills so they don’t miss out on the joy, connections and perspective that outdoor adventures bring.

The post Girl power: why more women than ever are seeking adventure appeared first on Australian Geographic.

A flock of yellow-tailed black-cockatoos glides lazily overhead, screaming their pterodactyl calls as a brown goshawk drifts across the cloudy sky. From somewhere in the dense wet sclerophyll forest nearby comes the whip-crack shriek of a lyrebird. 

And yes, his surname hints to a profound legacy. His great-great-grandfather was Charles Darwin, the British naturalist who, in 1831 while in his early 20s, set sail aboard HMS Beagle on its mission to chart South America’s coastline. On the voyage Charles collected a dazzling array of fossils, specimens, data and thoughts about how the extraordinary diversity of life he saw on his travels fitted together. 

The result of his analysis was a theory that evolution by natural selection – survival of the “fittest” – was the driving force behind the diversity of life on Earth, from bivalve molluscs to finches, and that all this wonderfully rich, vibrant diversity stemmed from a single common ancestor. It was such a profound scientific theory, backed by the reams of evidence he’d collected, that it made him one of the most famous scientists in history. His remains are interred in Westminster Abbey, alongside those of Isaac Newton.

The move to Sydney

Back in the bushy urban fringe of Sydney, Chris wrestles with a particularly stubborn weed, but takes care to preserve the native seedling just next to it – a sort of unnatural selection in which the weed’s superior fitness is no match for a determined gardener.

It’s a long way from the manicured grounds of the Georgian manor in Kent, south of London, where his ancestor Charles lived out his days with his wife, Emma, and their children. Chris did grow up in London but showed far more affinity for the creative arts than scientific pursuits, famously failing a biology exam (much to everyone’s shock). 

He began his working life as a photographer but found it a lonely profession. On someone’s suggestion, he got into advertising, and he loved it. “It was creative and kooky, lots of action and difficulty and storytelling,” Chris recalls. It brought him to Australia through pure serendipity – the need for a hot location to shoot an advertisement during the middle of a British winter. He was sent here to scout it out and report back, and simply never left.

His career and life in Sydney were going well until fate threw him a curve ball, and Chris fell apart. He had, he says, a “resilience problem”. “Nothing had ever really gone badly wrong in my life,” he says, “then something pretty minor went wrong and I had a nervous breakdown.” Chris spiralled into depression, which led to a suicide attempt.

While in that dark, dark place, he found a psychologist who challenged him to think about his values and purpose in life, to find a philosophy and reason for existing. “We ended up, long story short, with the values of ‘love myself, others and the planet’,” Chris says. 

And his purpose? To stop the mass extinction of species by stopping habitat destruction.

“If you’re going to solve something, you might as well solve something big,” Chris reflects. His goal is to stop habitat destruction by 2040 – a deadline he picked so he would have a chance of being alive to see it happen.

Ambitious? For sure. Achievable? Chris is less sure, but he’s giving it all he’s got, and he’s bringing both his advertising nous and famous surname to help solve the problem. 

Step one was for him to be the change he wanted to see in the world. “I discovered my ecological footprint was six planets, so that means that if everybody lived like me, we would have to tether six planets together,” he says. The global average is 1.75 planets, the Australian average is 4.5 planets, and the USA’s average is 5.1. “There I was, trying to be an environmentalist, and I was actually the problem.” So he set about transforming his lifestyle to achieve an ecological footprint of less than one planet. Recognising that meat and dairy are a major cause of habitat destruction, he became vegan, and also now eschews sugar and alcohol. He doesn’t fly, and drives an electric car. He buys second-hand goods as much as possible, and his house is powered by renewable energy. “I’m now down at 0.8 of a planet [the equivalent of India’s average],” he says. “I’ve been there for seven years now.”

At the beginning, he thought it would make him miserable. Instead, it’s had the opposite effect. “It turned out that not only did I feel good about it, but actually I’m happier,” Chris says, “because suddenly I’m aligning what I say, what I do and what I think.”

Step two was to encourage others to undertake a similar, if less radical, transformation. Along with communications consultant Plamena Slavcheva, Chris co-founded the Darwin Challenge charity, with the aim of raising awareness of the massive impact that consumption of meat and dairy has on deforestation rates, and hopefully inspiring others to reduce their impact through dietary change. 

Chris is realistic about the enormous psychological barriers he’s trying to overcome – in particular, our deep-seated aversion to loss. “One of the things about behavioural change is that you’ve got to allow people to have small changes and huge celebration instantly – short-term reward,” he notes. He’s not trying to inspire people to go vegetarian or vegan – although that would be the ideal. His goal is to achieve “peak meat and dairy” – the long-term decline in meat and dairy consumption following their extended period of growth.

But given humanity’s recalcitrance when it comes to acting swiftly on the existential threat of climate change, Chris also has what he calls a “rear-guard strategy”. In partnership with not-for-profit Bush Heritage Australia (BHA), he and Jacqueline donated funds to buy 68,000ha of a former grazing property north-east of Perth, Western Australia, on the traditional lands of the Badimaya people, to restore it as a biodiversity hotspot. 

“When we went there originally, it just looked unbelievably awful because it had been trashed by a combination of overgrazing, fire and drought,” Chris recalls. 

Twenty years later, it’s the Charles Darwin Reserve and home to flourishing woodlands that nurture mallee fowl, pink cockatoos, dunnarts, skinks and numerous rare insect species, including a pseudoscorpion – a scorpion-like arachnid – named after him: Synsphyronus christopherdarwini. “As long as you give nature half a chance, she will come back,” he says. Chris is now working on BHA plans to help purchase an even larger tract of land in South Australia. “You’ve got to buy big,” he says. “You’ve got to buy very big.” 

The moral path

While he may not have followed professionally in the footsteps of his great-great-grandfather Charles, Chris has certainly done so in the spiritual and moral sense. “Late in life, he [Charles] said, ‘I feel no remorse for having committed any great sin, but I have often regretted that I haven’t done more for our fellow creatures’,” Chris says. “Even 150 years ago, he could see the natural world was in trouble.”

Chris has also inherited a deep appreciation for the importance of data and his ancestor’s unique method of thinking through a problem by using relevant facts. “It’s like a big machine; you pour facts in the front of this thinking system, and you get results at the far end,” he says. 

That hunger for data and knowledge and understanding permeates his life, and imbues him with a sense of restless energy, as if there aren’t enough hours in the day or years in a life to achieve what he wants to achieve. 

He knows it’s a race against time, against deforestation, against greenhouse gas emissions, against human fallibility, but it’s a race we can’t afford to lose. “I’m not going to stand still, I’m not going to rest, I’m just going to keep going,” he says. “This is my life purpose.”

The post In the name of the great-great-grandfather appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The only caveat the university imposed was that he had to achieve at least credits in all subjects. No problem. “I’m an enthusiastic person,” Trevor explains. It’s an understatement that’s clearly evident after only an hour’s conversation with the lifelong resident of Broken Hill. 

That trademark enthusiasm did waver slightly, however, at the beginning of the course, when he had to introduce himself to his fellow students from around the world. “There was a guy in the USA and he commissioned nuclear submarines for the US Navy, and there was a guy in the UK who was an ex-British Airways captain; he’d flown the Concorde,” Trevor recalls. “And I said, ‘Well, I’m Trev, and I’m an ex-miner from Broken Hill.’”

Trevor frequently describes himself as such. It’s as if he’s reminding himself that, even though he receives international astronomy accolades and personal invitations to visit NASA, has had multiple co-authorships of papers in the most prestigious scientific journals, and is on a first-name basis with some of Australia’s – and the world’s – leading astronomers, he’s still also Trevor Barry, a fitter/machinist from the mines of outback New South Wales.

From mineworker to stargazer

Traditionally, a story like this would tell of a child captivated by the stars from an early age, and for whom fate had other ideas. But that’s not how Trevor tells it. 

“I wasn’t interested in astronomy at all,” he says. “Most of the population doesn’t look up.” The child of a mining father – a former Rat of Tobruk – and a housewife mother grew up in Broken Hill, but left high school after four years to become an apprentice machinist in a zinc mine, because “that’s what young people in Broken Hill did”.

For the next 34 years, he worked in the mines, making good use of the diversity of skills he’d learnt as an apprentice on rotation around the mine’s power station, engineering design office, and maintenance departments on the surface, underground and in the mills. The career taught him to be resourceful. 

“Often when something broke down, we wouldn’t have the specific necessary spare parts, but that machine had to work,” Trevor says. “There’s always a solution to just about any problem, but you have to think outside the square.”

One day, an apprentice in Trevor’s department asked him to take a look at a telescope he’d built from scratch. Trevor took some persuading – “why would I want to look at or through a telescope?” – but eventually, one cold winter night, he made his way to the apprentice’s house. The 1.5m long, 8″/203mm-aperture Newtonian telescope, set on a German equatorial mount, was on the back lawn. 

“He pointed out this nondescript star-like point of light, and said, ‘That’s what we’re going to look at’,” Trevor recalls. He looked through the telescope, and saw Saturn, its ring system and atmospheric banding, in full splendour. It was love at first sight, both with the planet and the idea that a homemade telescope could bring this celestial wonder into sharp focus. “I had to do something about that,” Trevor says. 

Armed with a book from Broken Hill City Library on how to build Newtonian telescopes, Trevor constructed a 10″/254mm-aperture telescope, with an equatorial mount – complete with counterweights – anchored to three concrete-filled holes in the back lawn carefully maintained by his wife, Cheryl (“I got in a bother with the missus over that,” he admits). 

A pair of lawnmower wheels enabled him to move and store the mount under the back veranda, while the telescope itself was deposited in a spare bedroom. That was all fine until one day, while extracting the mount from under the verandah, Trevor lifted one of the mount’s legs too high and, in accordance with the laws of physics, the counterweights did the rest. “Pulled me straight over the top and landed me in the ‘gorgeous-and -adorable’s’ rose garden,” he says.

With nothing seriously wounded except his pride, he set about building a permanent observatory and bigger telescope made from – among other items – a water tank, washing machine parts and a wire from Trevor’s catamaran. 

Taking on university study

When economics and a back injury brought his career in the mines to a close, Trevor was finally able to focus entirely on astronomy. He signed up for the Swinburne course, with encouragement from luminaries Fred Watson, AG’s longtime space writer, and British/Australian astronomer David Malin, who’d visited Trevor’s outback observatory a year or so earlier. 

Much to Trevor’s own surprise, he not only graduated from the course with straight high distinctions, but was awarded the prize for top student in the year. He’d loved the study, absorbing every bit of information “like a sponge”. So when a strange white spot appeared travelling across the vast swirling face of Saturn, Trevor recognised it from one of his textbooks as a rare electrical storm. 

At the time, NASA’s Cassini probe was orbiting Saturn, sharing the wonders of the ringed planet and its family of icy moons. However the probe had only limited ability to photograph and track the storm. 

With help from Watson and Malin, Trevor managed to get his telescope image in front of Georg Fischer, part of the radio- and plasma-wave science team with the Cassini mission…and thereby launched his second career as an astronomer.

Joining a worldwide network

Trevor is now an integral part of a global network of amateur-run observatories that regularly supply visual information to the world’s space agencies to help guide their missions and observations. 

His personal beat is Saturn, which was particularly handy for the Cassini team. “Whenever his [Georg Fischer’s] RPWS instrument detected [what] he called SEDs – Saturn Electrostatic Discharges – he’d contact our team, sending an email with the challenge to hunt down the optical counterpart to his radio source,” Trevor says. 

Since the planned demise of the Cassini probe in September 2017 – an event Trevor also managed to capture with his telescope – the outback starman has continued his observations of the ringed gas giant, working with astrophysicist Agustín Sánchez-Lavega, who heads up the planetary science and applied physics groups at at the University of the Basque Country
in Spain. 

“Whenever I think I’ve found something new, I fire right up and I harass the crap out of Agustín,” Trevor says. Agustín is the settling influence to Trevor’s excitable enthusiasm, right up until Trevor discovers something new, “then look out when you’ve got an excited Spanish astronomer”.

One of four scientific papers that Trevor has co-authored with Agustín describes an enduring storm in Saturn’s incredibly turbulent equatorial zone (see    nature.com/articles/ncomms13262), which Trevor first imaged as an odd white spot and brought to Agustín’s attention. It was so unusual that both the Calar Alto Observatory in Spain and the Hubble Space Telescope were used to take a closer look. The findings resulted in one of Trevor and Agustin’s co-authored Nature papers, coincidentally published on Trevor’s birthday. 

Another project used Trevor’s 3115 Earth-days-long study of Saturn’s ‘hexagon’ – the spinning six-sided jet-stream phenomenon around the planet’s north pole – and suggested the rotation rate of the hexagon might be connected to Saturn’s interior rotation.

Trevor’s extraordinary contributions were recognised in 2022 with the Astronomical Society of Australia’s Berenice and Arthur Page Medal for excellence in amateur astronomy), for which he was a joint award winner, then internationally in 2023 with the Walter H. Haas Observer’s Award from the Association of Lunar and Planetary Observers. “How was that?” Trevor exclaims. “A mineworker from Broken Hill!”

Despite being in his 70s, Trevor shows no signs of slowing down in his new career. He’s feeding images of Jupiter to NASA’s Juno mission, helping the team to decide at where to point the spacecraft’s imaging equipment each time it does a flyby of the planet. He has also directed his telescopes at Mars and Venus.

When not tending to the grounds at his local lawn bowls club – Trevor is also an award-winning lawn bowler – he’s revisiting his fitter/machinist roots, and tweaking his telescopic set-up to improve its function and capture regime. “I’ve always been a tinkerer, but I took that to another level with astronomy,” he says. “I do nothing in half-measures.”

The post Outback starman appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Moreton Bay Cycleway

Distance: 11km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

While the city of Brisbane boasts a cycleway along its river, Moreton Bay can be proud of the 11km cycleway that skirts this bay near Redcliffe. Sea breezes, the smell of the ocean, a promise of fish and chips, and the wind in your hair – sounds ideal, right?

There’s room to park at Scarborough Beach before pointing south (keep the ocean on your left) and heading towards Ted Smout Memorial Bridge. If you need to earn your fish and chips, keep the legs moving and you’ll have no problems on the uninterrupted route, making for a neat 22km return, but be sure not to miss some of the more scenic places to stop off and enjoy the views, and perhaps a coffee, along the way.

Settlement Cove Lagoon is a place to pause, with amenities if the need arises. Once you’re back in the saddle, keep your eyes peeled for Gayundah Wreck below the cliffs at Woody Point. The shipwreck occurred in the 19th century, and the resting place for this Navy ship is popular with photographers. Crockatt Park is past the wreck, and a worthy bargaining chip for young legs that may be tiring – the park has a long flying fox. Otherwise, Pelican Park is just before Ted Smout Memorial Bridge, and the ride’s turn-around point, and is named appropriately! Time to turn back north and stop wherever the fish and chips smells best!

Brisbane Valley Rail Trail

Australia’s longest rail trail begins its journey in rural Yarraman and finishes in Wulkuraka, at the suburban edge of Ipswich, less than an hour’s drive from Brisbane’s city centre. 

Traffic-free along its length, the trail descends through the Brisbane Valley as the river flows towards Brisbane, though the views are so faithfully rural that the presence of a city feels like a myth. It is a long ride but one that is broken up by several small towns along the way, making it ideal for the cycle touring family who can choose how long (one day, two or more) they wish to spend exploring this trail.

From Yarraman, the trail sets out through bush and cattle country, beginning its biggest descent (the trail drops approximately 350m between Yarraman and Wulkuraka) in Benarkin. This descent ends 18km later in Linville, a likely stopping point for the first night.

The Brisbane River is first sighted beyond Linville, and not seen again until Lowood, around 85km later, leaving farmland and dry bush to dominate the views throughout. The old railway’s greatest legacy, beside the gentle gradients, is the Yimbun Tunnel, which bores through the hills for 100m just beyond Harlin.

The unsealed trail is lined with old railway trestle bridges that once spanned the many deep gullies that furrow the land, though the ride typically drops into the gullies, creating a series of short, steep descents and climbs that have many cyclists dismounting to push their bikes. The ride is lined with small towns – Blackbutt, Linville, Moore, Harlin, Toogoolawah, Esk, Coominya, Lowood, Fernvale – making it easy to structure days and find food, rest stops, pick-up points and accommodation along the way. The greatest distance between towns is 24km. A private shuttle service, run by Out There Cycling, operates along the length of the trail.

Tewantin Mountain Bike Trails

Distance: 10km +  Grade: Easy to Intermediate  Bike: MTB

Imagine a place you could combine a beach-based holiday with some fantastic easy to intermediate mountain biking. Noosa is known for its beautiful beaches, posh restaurants and for being an uber trendy place to hang out and be seen. But sitting just behind Noosa are some sweet MTB trails you and the family can slip out onto for some fun laps while the others are waking up and getting ready for a yoga class on stand-up paddleboards (yes, it’s a thing). If that isn’t good enough, what about a beautifully bituminised road to casually roll up the hill on – one actually closed to cars! (It’s a car race track, so it’s closed to cars most of the time, at least.) 

Parking at the base, you ride up this gently climbing road with trails branching off various corners – all the trails are numbered, so are very easy to navigate, i.e., climb until you reach Turn 10 where the Quoll trail starts. Bloodwood is a great flowing singletrack trail and Milkmaid is deeper into the network and worth exploring for intermediate riders. 

The whole area is easily accessible for holiday riders and easy to navigate. There are other trails nearby, making the family’s mountain bikes logical things to pack on a Noosa holiday – along with the sunscreen, of course. 

Mackay Bluewater Trail

Distance: 20km    Grade: Easy    Bike: Any

If you set out to create a multi-use trail that epitomised a choose-your-own adventure book and one of the country’s most enjoyable family bike rides – you’d end up with something very much like Mackay’s Bluewater Trail. The trail is a near-perfect loop of the centre of Mackay, connecting parklands, views, art installations and outdoor recreation venues to suit cyclists young and old. The surface is a mix of sealed surfaces and boardwalk, which you’ll share with pedestrians.

Start the ride at the Mackay Regional Botanic Gardens, which overlook a pretty lagoon, before circling clockwise to the Pioneer River and along the foreshore. Then, continue along the Catherine Freeman Walk towards the mouth of the Pioneer River. 

Kids young and old will want to stop at the Bluewater Lagoon. It’s a three-tiered artificial lagoon that is free to enter. Carrying on after a dip, you will approach the Bluewater Trail public art display, which features six installations. 

From here, ride on the Sandfly Creek Environment Walk, home to a wide variety of migratory birds throughout the year. The final stretch takes you past Iluka Park, a play area with open access for children. You can cruise back past Paradise Street for a coffee or meal, and then you are moments from where you started at the Botanic Gardens.

Caboolture to Wamuran Rail Trail

Distance: 10.5km (one-way)  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

Rail trails can be anything from transport infrastructure through to adventure travel itineraries, and the short Caboolture to Wamuran Rail Trail is more of the former, while still being a component of the latter for some. The rail trail is concrete from end to end, so you can tackle it on any bike with air in its tyres. This is the first part of the Caboolture to Kilcoy rail line, which previously took timber from the hinterland as well as goods to market.

The access is easy from Caboolture station, and there is a small parking lot with information boards, covered seating, a bike pump and water right off Margaret Street in Caboolture. The same facilities are also found at the other end in Wamuran. 

The signage is clear and easy to read, and there is plenty of information about the history of the rail line and its communities. Ride out of Caboolture and you’re soon riding past farmland, with the rise of the D’Aguilar Range and Mount Mee to your left.

There are several options to hop on or hop off the rail trail as you go, with public toilets along the route. While the gradient and surface mean almost anyone can ride it, the route doesn’t offer a lot of shade, and there are road crossings, so be aware of those factors if you’re considering taking younger riders on this route. A couple of the old stations do offer an area to sit and take a look around to enjoy this corner of southeast Queensland on one of the state’s best family bike rides.

For more of Australia’s best family bike rides, click here.

The post The best family bike rides in Queensland appeared first on Australian Geographic.

It was a serendipitous moment that ultimately fuelled a revolutionary new Melbourne-based program now helping to save some of Australia’s most endangered creatures from extinction, by applying the scientific discipline of wildlife endocrinology. At the program’s helm are two reproductive biologists who were on that original team: Dr Marissa Parrott, Senior Conservation Biologist in the Wildlife Conservation and Science team at Zoos Victoria, and Dr Kerry Fanson, who leads the Wildlife Conservation and Reproductive Endocrinology Lab (WiCRE) at Melbourne’s La Trobe University.

Wildlife endocrinology is simply the study of hormones in wild animals, and during the past two decades it has successfully underpinned breeding programs for many exotic species – from tigers and elephants to pandas – in zoos around the world. But until now, it’s rarely been used in Australia to help recover declining populations of native species, and its potential is huge. 

To understand this, it’s necessary to appreciate the role played by hormones, which are chemical messages produced inside all animals and detectable in biofluids such as saliva and urine, and in faeces. “They underlie every part of animal health, behaviour and reproduction,” Marissa says. “Knowing what healthy baseline levels of hormones are allows us to identify [physiological] problems and look for solutions, which is important in endangered and critically endangered species.” 

That’s because when a species’ population falls to desperately low levels it usually means a captive breeding program is needed to save it, but this is unfortunately often viewed as a last resort. “But by the time a species is brought in to start a captive breeding program, it usually has low genetic diversity because its populations are so reduced, and that often leads to health and hormone issues that cause low fertility and low fecundity,” Marissa says. 

And that’s exactly what’s happened with a key population of the mountain pygmy-possum.

Pygmy-possum breeding success

With fewer than 2000 of the critically endangered possums now estimated to survive in the wild, inbreeding – which leads to a loss of genetic diversity – is a major issue. The species has a complex life history. The mountain pygmy-possum’s natural distribution range is limited to Australia’s alpine areas and it is the only Australian marsupial that hibernates for around six months a year beneath a thick layer of snow. Its survival is also closely tied to the life cycle of its major food source – the migratory bogong moth, which is also endangered.

When Zoos Victoria began its mountain pygmy-possum breeding program almost two decades ago, wild-caught females were brought in to mate with wild-caught males from a different population. The males were genetically robust and had already proven to be successful in the breeding stakes. But the new females came from an extremely small inbred wild population and some weren’t becoming pregnant.

“We looked at hormone levels in our breeding females that had successfully raised young and compared them with the females that hadn’t bred,” Marissa says.

Kerry elaborates: “We found that successfully breeding females had really nice clear cycles, whereas the unsuccessful breeders didn’t have any progesterone cycles – they didn’t seem to be ovulating when they should have been.” 

In response, the team refined the care and management of the possums, including their diet and social system. When further wild-caught females from genetically healthy populations were introduced to the breeding program, all of them successfully bred and raised young.

The zoo’s breeding success rate for mountain pygmy-possums is now up to 100 per cent. 

Building a database

Leadbeater’s possum is another critically endangered species that’s now having its hormones scrutinised and documented by the team. It has a vastly different reproductive strategy from the pygmy-possum. But there also appear to be treatable hormone imbalances in animals that have been failing to reproduce, and the team was able to breed the first Leadbeater’s babies in the new conservation breeding program last year. 

“At the moment we’re looking at what’s happening with females that are reproducing versus those not reproducing, as we did in the pygmy-possums,” Marissa says, explaining that for female Leadbeater’s the current focus is on the hormone progesterone. One of the major challenges is recognising and understanding individual differences in animals’ physiology –not all females are the same. “We found that female Leadbeater’s in this population have seasonal changes in reproduction. For some females, the window of reproductive activity is quite long, whereas other females have a restricted window of breeding opportunity. But our next step is working with male samples and looking at testosterone.” 

The Tasmanian devil is another endangered marsupial species that’s so far been a focus for the project, and the New Holland mouse, also known as the pookila, a native mouse that’s now extinct from large parts of its former range, is another. 

The project is still in its early stages. Currently it’s focused mainly on building a database of what are normal and abnormal hormone levels for some endangered and critically endangered species – mostly mammals, although some work has begun on frogs that, as a group globally, have suffered significant declines.

This work alone is of massive interest simply because it’s never been done before. It will help flesh out what makes our native animals function and inform conservation breeding programs. But what makes this project particularly exciting are the ways in which this vast bank of knowledge will ultimately be used in the field.

Non-invasive approach

Unlike a lot of animal research that requires live specimens to be captured and handled, endocrinology can be a non-invasive science. Hormone levels can be detected from biofluids, hair, feathers and scales, so urine and gland secretions used to scent-mark territories, and faeces left at regular latrine sites – like those used by devils – can be sampled in the field without even needing to see an animal. 

“Non-invasive hormone monitoring has a couple of unique benefits for understanding the physiology and behaviour of Australia’s unique endangered wildlife,” Kerry says. She explains that for mountain pygmy-possums, urine – which is easy to collect in captive populations – has so far been the preferred sample type for the project.“ But for Leadbeater’s possums, Tassie devils and pookila, we’re largely using faeces because it’s so much easier to collect without even seeing the animals.”

To collect hormone samples as non-invasively as possible in frogs, the team is developing special capabilities that involve placing a small patch of filter paper onto the frog’s back to pick up skin secretions without hurting it. “Yes, you would have to first find the frogs to do that,” Kerry says. “But for all these species, we’re currently using captive-based populations to establish a critical foundation of knowledge about what their normal reproductive physiology is, and from that we’ll be able to develop biomarkers.”

The sorts of physiological conditions for which researchers are hoping to develop biomarkers include, for example, reproductive health, pregnancy and lactation. Having this sort of capability would allow researchers to identify situations such as whether or not a wild population of an endangered animal was successfully breeding. This could be done without exposing animals, or mothers and offspring, to a potentially stressful experience. 

Taking this sort of application even further: Zoos Victoria already has a team of highly trained wildlife-detection dogs that can detect the presence (or absence) of particular species without the need for trapping or tagging. The dogs have also been trained to detect scents associated with reproductive status and cycling in Tasmanian devil faecal samples. It’s a world first using detection dogs to track reproductive cycles in a conservation breeding program and may be adaptable to wild populations. 

“It’s an exciting time in the field of wildlife endocrinology. Much of the groundwork has been laid, so now we can start applying these methods to generate meaningful insights for wildlife conservation,” Kerry says. “It’s revolutionising what we can do. That’s why this new partnership between my lab and Zoos Victoria is so important, because they are on the ground with the animals, either for captive breeding or in the field, and we are able to turn those samples they collect into meaningful insights about reproductive biology, how healthy a population is and how the animals perceive their environment.” 

Relevance to human reproduction

Perhaps, however, the most remarkable aspect of Kerry and Marissa’s work is how it’s informing our understanding of human reproduction and potential infertility issues. Their work together – first in mountain pygmy-possums, but now also in devils and Leadbeater’s – has, for example, revealed a new role for the group of hormones called glucocorticoids. These have widely and traditionally been thought of as stress hormones.

“But they’re not!” Kerry says. “They do so many different things to the body.” When Kerry and Marissa were studying mountain pygmy-possums, they found that cortisol, a type of glucocorticoid, consistently increased before ovulation. At first, this was counter-intuitive, because everyone thought that elevated glucocorticoid levels should inhibit reproduction.

“But we’ve been looking a lot more closely at reproduction and glucocorticoids in other species and found that they increase during important reproductive events: when females become reproductively mature, before they ovulate and throughout pregnancy,” Kerry says. These insights have come from the endocrinology studies done by her and Marissa.

“If glucocorticoids increase at all these critical stages in female reproduction and promote successful outcomes, we need to change our thinking about how glucocorticoids affect reproduction. We are really driving this paradigm change together,” Kerry says. “We found that in mountain pygmy-possums, cortisol [one of the glucocorticoids] increases just before the female ovulates and that it’s followed by an increase in progesterone. That will be really useful for giving us another tool to first diagnose and then potentially treat reproductive failure.”

And that is likely to not just be limited to these three mammal species, but to all mammals.

Not surprisingly, researchers in the areas of fertility and IVF have begun looking at how this might be relevant to treating infertility in humans.

The post Sex, stress and fertility in Australian wildlife appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The timing of its arrival provides a big clue: during World War II, RAAF pilots were stationed along the NSW South Coast, on the lookout for Japanese submarines. A dive into our Defence archives comes up with two documented cases, in 1942 and 1945, of whales being mistaken for, you guessed it, enemy submarines. 

The first account is outlined in John Lever’s obscure booklet, No.6 OTU, Base Torpedo Unit, and
R.A.A.F. Beaufort Torpedo Operations. According to Lever, the crew of a Beaufort A9-20, captained by Flying Officer Schlank, spotted the US Liberty ship SS William Dawes on fire near Tathra, south of Batemans Bay. Schlank’s men dropped messages to the sinking ship’s crew to tell them help was on the way, then remained to overwatch. Lever writes that, during this time, a “submarine was spotted and attacked with depth charges”. The crew saw oil come to the surface. However, as Lever details, “The next day two Navy Intelligence Officers interviewed the crew…The verdict was that a whale had been mistaken for a submarine.” 

This doomed whale’s carcass didn’t wash up on Long Beach – but three years later, another whale, which had met a similarly untimely end, did. “Two businessmen fishing on [Long] Beach saw a whale washed up dead with a large gaping hole in its side,” reported the Wagga Wagga Daily Advertiser on
17 March 1945. “Air force men who inspected the body gave an opinion that the whale had been killed by a bomb from the air, well out to sea… Perhaps it had been mistaken for a submarine.”

Curiously, not all wartime whale deaths were cases of mistaken identity. On 9 July 1941 the Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate reported, “The headless carcass of a 50ft whale drifting along the coast near Grafton has attracted hundreds of sharks. It is believed that an RAAF bomber scored a direct hit on the whale during practise.” 

Related: ‘The law of the tongue’: Humans and orcas once worked together to hunt whales

As for the whalebone bench, it’s been missing for years. The Long Beach Community Association has been leading the charge to locate other bones from the same whale, taken by locals to decorate their yards. Now, if you’re thinking that around 80 years is a long time for a whalebone to survive intact, think again. According to David Stemmer, Collection Manager, Mammals at the South Australian Museum, just how long a whalebone could last depends on its exposure to the elements and the age of the whale at death. “The jawbone of a younger animal would be less ossified and break down faster,” he says. “If it was exposed in full sunlight for most of each day, it would also break down a lot faster than being shaded or partially shaded. An adult jawbone that was only partially exposed could potentially survive for 80 years.”

The post A tale of mistaken identity and whalebone picnics appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The forested outskirts of the sea were home to dinosaurs and the skies above were filled with birds. But all of them would have been shaded by the largest flying creatures of the age – the pterosaurs.

In November 2021, an avocado farmer turned museum curator named Kevin Petersen discovered a fossilised skeleton near Richmond in Queensland. The previously unknown species turned out to be the most complete pterosaur fossil found in Australia. It comprises around 22 per cent of the skeleton of an animal with a wingspan of some 4.6m.

My colleagues and I have now described the fossil in the journal Scientific Reports. It represents a new species of pterosaur, and we’ve named it Haliskia peterseni, meaning Petersen’s sea phantom.

Pterosaur fossils are rare

Pterosaur fossils have been found on every continent. However, they are far less common than fossils of dinosaurs or ancient marine reptiles.

Pterosaurs had hollow, thin-walled bones. This was a great evolutionary adaptation for life in the air, but the lightweight skeletons are not easily fossilised.

Few complete pterosaur skeletons are known worldwide, and most come from a handful of sites with unusually excellent conditions for fossil preservation. When pterosaur bones have been found at other sites, they are often crushed and distorted.

As a result, many pterosaur fossils are the only one of their kind. This includes the oldest flying reptile fossils ever found in Australia.

Related: Australian fossil findings result in deep dive of whale evolution

What the skeleton tells us about how Haliskia lived

The newly described fossil is only the second partial pterosaur skeleton ever found in Australia. It preserves twice as many bones as Ferrodraco lentoni.

Haliskia preserves a complete lower jaw, the tip of the upper jaw, 43 teeth, vertebrae, ribs, bones from both wings, and a partial leg. Also preserved are delicate, spaghetti-thin hyoid bones which would have helped support a strong muscular tongue.

We can tell Haliskia was fully grown when it died because its shoulder bones, and others in the skeleton, have fused.

Almost all pterosaur fossils described from Australia (including Haliskia’s contemporaries Mythunga camara, Aussiedraco molnari and Thapunngaka shawi) have been placed in the same family. These species, collectively known as Anhangueria, have long been viewed as fish-eaters.

Although fish fossils are often found in rocks laid down in the Eromanga Sea, squid-like cephalopods called belemnites are even more common. Based on Haliskia‘s long hyoid bones and conical, interlocking teeth, it would have eaten a diet of fish and squid.

Related: Is the “echidnapus” the Rosetta Stone of early mammal evolution?

A labour of love

The Haliskia specimen was prepared by fossil enthusiast Kevin Petersen using a combination of pneumatic tools, the paleontological equivalent to a dentist’s drill, and a hand-wielded metal pin. The pterosaur bones are flattened, and although one surface has been exposed, they remain encased in rock to provide stability and support to the fossil.

Kevin spent many hours preparing the pterosaur fossil. However, when we asked if he would like to join the team of researchers studying this specimen, he politely declined, stating he was happy to simply be acknowledged for his efforts.

Without Kevin, this specimen wouldn’t be on public display or known to science. It seemed only fitting that this new species Haliskia peterseni be named in honour of its discoverer.

More fossils to be found

This was not the first pterosaur fossil Kevin had found. He uncovered his first flying reptile fossil a few years earlier, when he visited Richmond in Queensland as a tourist.

Since the discovery of the Haliskia specimen in 2021, even more pterosaur fossils have been found at the public dig pits outside Richmond.

Kevin is proof you do not need a degree to make significant contributions to science and the field of palaeontology. It takes dedication and determination – and it helps to be in the right spot at the right time.

Related: Near-complete 50,000-year-old kangaroo skeleton retrieved from underground cave

It requires some imagination to visualise pterosaurs at sea, hunting fish and squid-like creatures alongside massive marine reptiles millions of years ago, in what is now the dry Australian outback. But the process is made easier with the fossils in front of you.

Haliskia provides a tantalising glimpse into an ancient ecosystem, and provides hope we might find more complete skeletons of these winged reptiles.

Adele Pentland is a PhD candidate at Curtin University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post 100-million-year-old fossil find reveals huge flying reptile that patrolled Australia’s inland sea appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Rediscovering Atiu’s ancient brew and island traditions

If you ever find yourself on a remote Pacific island, I might suggest that getting to know the locals is essential, and on Atiu, in the Cook Islands, one of the best ways to do so is at a tumunu. A tumunu is a traditional drinking circle where locals gather to share stories and solve problems, and it delves into Atiu’s past when islanders fermented fruit in hollowed-out coconut tree trunks to avoid prohibition by overbearing missionaries in the early 19th century. And so, on my arrival in Atiu with my travel partner Loz, I readily accepted an invite to a tumunu. 

However, as I hold a half coconut filled with a sweet, slightly sour brew of naturally fermented forest fruits, from what resembles an old paint bucket, I wonder if this is such a good idea after all. It appears I am being auctioned off as marriage material to some islander ladies, and the island police chief, sitting next to me, suggests Loz will make a great wife to a tribal elder, and bear him many children. As flattering as the offers are, they are not ideal, as Loz happens to be my betrothed. 

I self-affirm that this is all part of my research just as a communal cup of bush beer is passed my way. I gulp down the contents with only a slight grimace. The liquor is growing on me. Fortunately, as the night progresses, Loz and I quietly retreat to our comfortable, eco-friendly lodgings at Atiu Villas before we are married off. In doing so, we avoid the inevitable tumunu hangover and can better enjoy exploring the ‘land of the birds’ over the following days.

The ancient ‘land of the birds’

Atiu, known as Enuamanu, or ‘land of the birds’, beckons travellers off the beaten path in the remote Nga-Pu-Toru atolls of the South Pacific and is the first stop on our Cook Islands exploration. Landing on the compacted coral runway is like stepping into a picture-perfect Pacific paradise, where less than a stone’s throw away, coconut palms sway over white sandy beaches and breakers crash over brilliant coral reefs. It might not have the flashy, glamorous lagoons like neighbouring atolls, but with an eight-million-year-old limestone landscape, the island provides a unique playground for adventurers seeking an authentic Cook Islands experience. With only one paved road and five tiny villages melding into a central hub, the island’s blend of pre-colonial tribal heritage and post-colonial Christianity is clear.

Originally settled by Polynesians around 900–1000 CE, Atiu thrived on agriculture, fishing, and inter-island trade, with a well-organised society based on clan leadership (mataiapo) and governed by chiefs (ariki). Islanders had a strong mythological connection to the land through ‘akua’ spirits that embodied the spiritual essence of their environment. Then, Captain James Cook arrived in 1777, bringing European influence, and later, in 1823, Christianity swooped in and shook things up big-time. Missionaries from the London Missionary Society started swapping out ancient akua idols for Bible teachings, while ship rats, pigs, and noxious weeds, followed by Indian mynas, wreaked havoc on the local flora and fauna.

Fast-forward to today, and the environment is bouncing back, thanks to conservation efforts by the locals. The remaining islander population of 400 residents has found a balance between ancient Polynesian culture mixed with a dash of Christianity. With the departure of missionaries, bush-beer is no longer ‘the devil’s drink,’ and so a tumunu offers a chance to meet the who’s who of islanders, all keen to show off their patch of paradise.

Birdman George

Less than twelve hours after Loz and my tumunu immersion, everyone on the island seems to know of our presence, and so we embark on an eco-adventure with Birdman George. Despite lacking the breadth of aquatic life of neighbouring islands’ extensive lagoons, Atiu boasts rejuvenated avian fauna thanks to conservation efforts led by environmental advocate George Mateariki, affectionately known as Birdman George. Over two decades, he, along with fellow islanders, has eradicated invasive species, reintroduced native bird populations, and now offers informative eco-tours on Atiu. George explains how the Cook Islands’ once-thriving bird populations suffered due to invasive species introduced by European mariners. Kakerori, Atiu swamphen, Cook Islands fruit dove, Rimatara lorikeet, and cave-dwelling kopeka (Atiu swiftlet) colonies were decimated. Some species were driven to near extinction. Thankfully, passionate advocates like George have preserved Atiu’s ecological treasures.

As we tour his island home, we spy the elusive Cook Islands fruit dove as well as the once-believed extinct Rimatara lorikeet. Later, under the watchful gaze of a chattering kingfisher, Uncle George (a term of respect on Atiu) shares local traditions as he weaves a basket of palm fronds and lays out a feast of banana and papaya drizzled with fresh lime and freshly shaved coconut. We spot tern, tropicbird, and noddy as we eat, highlighting the now flourishing seabird colonies. As we marvel at the island’s resilience and the impact of conservation efforts on its natural heritage, we are lulled into “island-time”. That is, until Birdman George jumps up. “We have to get you to Tai,” he explains. “Or you’ll miss out on the kopeka.”

A journey into Anatakitaki Cave

A quick handover sees Birdman George pass Loz and I to local guide Tai for a jungle adventure to Anatakitaki Cave. The cave’s ancient stalactites and stalagmites are home to the rare kopeka, and Tai promises a bonus surprise that will make the sweaty jungle trek worthwhile. We traverse rutted jungle singletrack on a borrowed motor-scooter before navigating a 45-minute trek over razor-sharp fossilised coral, eventually arriving at the cave’s nondescript entrance.

Head torches affixed, we descend into a sinkhole and are quickly enveloped by immense limestone caverns, where rare cave-dwelling kopeka dart above our heads. Tai regales childhood stories of hunting coconut crab in the caves to the clicking sounds of the kopeka. He explains how this unique swiftlet uses echolocation to navigate in the pitch black and briefly shines a light to reveal them roosting on the cave roof.

Exploring further, Tai squeezes through a narrow gap. Loz and I follow. Descending an old rope, Tai grins back as we reach his ‘surprise’, a crystal-clear subterranean freshwater pool. Lighting candles throughout the cavern, the hidden grotto takes on the appearance of a secret oasis untouched by time. Sweaty from hours in the jungle, we plunge into the cool water to glide through the dark depths. Surrounded by ancient silence, a profound sense of tranquility washes over us, offering a fleeting moment of serenity and escape from the outside world. It is one of many moments that make Atiu a special place. Sadly, we must leave the next day.

Coffee, beaches, and unexpected catch-ups

As our final day dawns on Atiu, we embrace the opportunity for spontaneous exploration. With a desire to experience the island beyond guided tours, I venture to meet Auntie Mata Arie, the dedicated proprietor of Atiu Island Coffee. Amidst the challenges of processing wild-growing Arabica coffee plants, introduced by early missionaries, Auntie Mata and her team craft a truly unique coffee from this remote corner of the Pacific. We grab some beans to return home with and scoot off for a quick swim and snorkel at Matai Beach. En route, we run into Tai and then stop for a chat with Birdman George. Choosing the scenic route via the Harbour and Cooks Landing, we cross paths with an ‘Uncle’ we’d shared stories with at the tumunu.

In just a few days, the island has begun to feel like home. Mindful of our next adventure, however, we hastily make our way past deserted beaches to the only strip of flat ground on the island, where a tiny twin-prop 18-seat Air Rarotonga plane sits waiting to depart for Rarotonga. We wave our new friends goodbye with a promise to return, but there’s no time for hugs – we have a date with green sea turtles in Rarotonga that cannot wait.

Sea scooters and surprise encounters

Arriving in Rarotonga from Atiu feels akin to emerging from the subway into ‘The Big Smoke’, except this ‘metropolis’ is a tropical island where hire-cars come with a note: “Please do not park under coconut trees”. Finding a palm-free spot, Loz and I meet Ariki Adventures for a Turtle Sea Scooter Safari.

Sea scootering is like cheating at snorkelling, but these lightweight propulsion devices allow users to navigate deepwater channels like Avaavaroa Passage, usually off-limits for recreational snorkelling. These passages are havens for vibrant tropical fish, graceful eagle rays, and the relaxed green sea turtle. With our scooters set to ‘Cruise’, Loz and I glide among these majestic creatures. Known for their inquisitive nature and calm demeanour, there is no need to dive deep in search of individuals, and patience is rewarded with turtles gliding up from the depths to snag some air and check out us humans. The experience can be crowded with plenty of bobbing tourists, but the gentle curiosity of the green sea turtles makes for a truly special close-up experience.

As with all animal encounters, surprises are possible. For us, it is a critically endangered hawksbill turtle joining our party. Biologists estimate the hawksbill population has declined up to 80 percent in the last century, so this encounter leaves us hopeful that global conservation efforts might be slowly turning the tide. Inevitably for us, the tide has turned, and so with scooter switched to level 3, we fight the current back to shore just in time to check into Ikurangi Eco Retreat.

Glamping and dining Rarotonga-style

Ikurangi Eco Retreat offers a unique glamping experience in Rarotonga, blending luxury with sustainability. Nestled in lush gardens, the retreat features spacious safari tents and tropical garden villas, all equipped with comfortable beds, ensuite bathrooms, and eco-friendly amenities. It is a perfect base for our Rarotonga exploration. Our hosts, Alan and Vicki, emphasise sustainability through solar power, rainwater harvesting, and a commitment to reducing waste, including a composting toilet in our private open-air bathroom. Yoga is on offer, and complimentary bicycles, and of course we spend plenty of time in the refreshing pool. The retreat’s serene atmosphere and attentive service make it an ideal getaway for those looking to reconnect with nature without sacrificing comfort. The only comfort not included is lunch and evening meals, but that’s where Muri Night Markets come into play.

The Muri Night Markets are a vibrant food market held four nights a week from 5pm. The markets offer an array of local and international food trucks and stalls, serving everything from fresh seafood and traditional Polynesian dishes to desserts and vegetarian options. The markets provide a great opportunity to mingle with locals and other travellers while enjoying delicious, affordable food. Just remember to bring cash as many vendors don’t accept cards. Filled with noodle, fish and churros, Loz and I waddle home to our tent; we have an early start the next morning with Pacific Divers.

What lies beneath

With more than 70 types of coral and hundreds of reef fish species, Rarotonga’s clear waters and volcanic topography are perfect for SCUBA lovers, and the island offers more than 35 spectacular and easily accessible dive sites. Vibrant underwater landscapes vary from coral gardens and deep drop-offs to caves and wrecks, with dives for both novice and expert. With water visibility more than 30 meters and water temperatures in the mid-twenties, I’m eager to get back in the water, so I partner up with Pacific Divers to explore the hard coral reefs and rich marine life just offshore.

Edna’s Anchor is a dive site steeped in history and natural beauty. The anchor, believed to be from the Edna schooner of the late 19th century, rests just shy of 25 metres deep, surrounded by a stunning array of hard coral formations. Pue Coral Gardens, on the other hand, offers a seemingly endless hard coral reef between 10-28 metres, with brilliant tropical aquatic life, including a friendly sea turtle that pops in to say hello.

With my oxygen management improving I am keen for more dive time, but I have a snorkelling date with Loz, and the butterflyfish, triggerfish, sunset wrasse, and even an elusive white mouth moray eel in the shallower waters of Aroa Lagoon Marine Reserve. While my SCUBA experience reignites a passion for underwater exploration, snorkelling once again proves that some of the most vibrant aquatic life is right under our nose and accessible only metres from shore. The Rarotonga bonus being a beachside bar for sunset vibes is never far away.

Across the island

Having waterlogged our bodies and brains, we dedicate our final day to the land-based adventure of the Cross Island Hike. This steep and rugged three- to five-hour, 7.6km trek climbs from sea level to 400m and can be completed unguided. However, for a deeper understanding of Cook Islands’ natural history, I recommend joining Bruce from Pa’s Cross Island Hike. Bruce, the nephew of the renowned naturalist Pa Teuruaa, brings invaluable insight to the journey.

The trail winds from the north to the south, passing through lush rainforest where Bruce points out native flora and fauna, such as the Rarotonga tree skinks scurrying in the undergrowth or the kōpī ‘enua (wild ginger) plant, known for its cosmetic and medicinal properties. Midway through the hike, we reach the impressive 80m spire of Te Rua Manga (The Needle), which offers breathtaking views of the island.

Te Rua Manga is revered by locals as a place of great spiritual energy, crucial for maintaining harmony in the natural and spiritual worlds. At its base are buried the remains of a 900-year-old Buddhist master, following the Dalai Lama’s recognition of the site as one of the world’s last energy centres. From the high point, we wind downhill, descending to the coast, where a refreshing dip at Wigmore Falls provides a fitting end to our Cook Island activities.

A culinary conclusion

Back in the hustle and bustle of coastal life, and having built up an appetite trekking the island, we zoom past our favourite morning haunt at Cook Island Coffee Company and beeline our way to the iconic Mooring Fish Cafe. It might not look like much, but it’s where the locals claim we’ll find the best fish sandwiches on the island. I can’t decide between the crumbed mahi-mahi or Cajun seared tuna sandwich. Fortunately, Loz settles my quandary by ordering both. With the sight of the sun sinking toward Te Rua Manga, and with freshly opened coconuts in hand, we reflect on our whirlwind tour of a Pacific paradise.

Our journey through the Cook Islands has been extraordinary. From the cultural richness and natural beauty of Atiu to the underwater wonders of Rarotonga, every experience has deepened our appreciation for this Polynesian paradise. Whether sipping bush beer in a tumunu, exploring vibrant coral reefs with Pacific Divers, or hiking to the spiritual heights of Te Rua Manga, the Cook Islands offer an adventure for every traveler.

The warmth of the locals, stunning landscapes, and the unique blend of tradition and modernity make the Cook Islands a destination that stays with you long after you leave. It was seven years between visits for me, but somehow, I suspect it won’t be another seven until Loz and I once again find ourselves at a tumunu, but it might be wise to play the honeymooning couple, or else we might wake to find ourselves, literally, married to the Islands.

The Essentials

Getting there: Jetstar offers direct flights from Sydney to Rarotonga. For travel between mid-July to mid-August 2024, customers can see fares from as low as $329 online (available until sold out and subject to change). Jetstar’s direct service from Sydney to Rarotonga now operates four times a week on a Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. The flight time to Rarotonga is approx. 5.5 hours direct. Jetstar operates an Airbus A321neoLR aircraft departing Sydney at 9.30pm, arriving in Rarotonga at 7.00am the same day. The return flights leave Rarotonga at 9.00am arriving in Sydney at 12.30pm the following day, with connections available to all Australian domestic airports. Travelling with Jetstar also means you can tailor your flight inclusions (i.e. meals, seat selection and baggage) so that you only pay for what you want/need.

Inter-island travel: Air Rarotonga is your best option for travel between the islands.

Getting around: There are plenty of scooters, motorcycles and cars for hire on Rarotonga. We used Polynesian Rentals. You’ll need to rely on locals or most likely loan/hire a car/bike or scooter from your accommodation provider or general store on the outer islands.

Where to stay: Whilst there are plenty of options on Rarotonga, there are less so on Atiu. We stayed at Ikurangi Eco Retreat on Rarotonga and Atiu Villas on Atiu.

Where to eat: Rarotonga has endless options for eating from food trucks by the road to markets to fine dining restaurants. We recommend Muri Night Markets, Tamarind House, Mooring Fish Cafe, Cook Island Coffee Company, Sandals, and Silver Sands.

Communications: For mobile phone and data plans your best bet is to collect a prepaid Vodafone Cook Islands card at the airport. There are towers and boosters offering mobile data all over Rarotonga. There is limited mobile data on Atiu but if you find yourself on Atiu I suggest you turn your phone off and enjoy where you are!

The writer was a guest of Cook Islands and Jetstar.

The post In the heart of the sea: Exploring the Cook Islands appeared first on Australian Geographic.

These relationships have been captured in people’s homes, such as with Molly the magpie and Peggy the dog, in zoos, such as with Baloo the bear, Leo the lion and Shere Khan the tiger, and even in the wild, such as one case of a fox and cat living together in Turkey.

A plethora of research on primates, birds, kangaroos, dolphins, horses, cats and dogs has shown many non-human animals can develop deep social bonds with their own kind.

And while inter-species bonding hasn’t been studied to the same extent, videos like those mentioned above show animals from different species displaying the same affection to each other as they would to their own, such as through cuddling, playing and grooming.

Why do we, as people, find these stories so enjoyable? Answering this question requires us to consider some of the nicer aspects of our own nature.

When animals reflect us

Witnessing animals get along well together isn’t just cute, it can also make us feel like we have things in common with other species, and feel more connected with the other life on the planet. Decades of research reveals how feeling connected to nature fosters happiness in humans.

While the mechanisms behind inter-species bonding are not fully understood, one 2022 research review suggests the mechanisms that operate in other animals’ brains during social interactions with their own are similar to those that operate in human brains.

The researchers suggest that, due to the evolution of common brain mechanisms, animals engaged in social interaction may experience similar emotions to humans who engage with their own friends or loved ones.

So while it’s very hard to know what this subjective social experience is like for other animals – after all, they can’t report it on a questionnaire – there’s no reason to think it isn’t similar to our own.

Humans like co-operation and pleasant surprises

Humans have evolved to enjoy co-operation, which might also help explain why we enjoy seeing co-operation between different animal species. Some scholars suggest the human instinct for co-operation is even stronger than our instinct for competition.

Another reason we may be drawn to unlikely animal friendships is that they are, in fact, so unlikely. These interactions are surprising, and research shows humans enjoy being surprised.

Our brain has evolved to be incredibly efficient at categorising, solving problems and learning. Part of the reason we’re so efficient is because we are motivated to seek new knowledge and question what we think we know. In other words, we’re motivated to be curious.

Inter-species friendships are indeed a very curious thing. They contradict the more common assumption and observation that different species stick with their own kind. We might think “cats eat birds, so they must not like each other”. So when we see a cat and a bird getting along like old pals, this challenges our concept of how the natural world works.

Neuroscientists have documented that, when surprised, humans experience a release of brain chemicals responsible for making us more alert and sensitive to reward. It is this neurochemical reaction that produces the “pleasantness” in the feeling of being pleasantly surprised.

A desire for peace and harmony

Perhaps another explanation for why humans are so intrigued by inter-species friendships is because they feed a human desire for peace and harmony.

These connections may be symbolic of what many people yearn for: a world where differences can be put aside in favour of a peaceful co-existence. These friendships might even prompt us to imagine, consciously or subconsciously, a future in which we become more enlightened as a species.

One could argue a key reason behind the success of the TV series Star Trek is its optimistic take on the future of humanity. Inter-species co-operation is a central theme of the show.

Inter-species friendships may serve as a concrete example of breaking free of the “natural” way of being for a more peaceful way of being. And while it might only be a dream, it’s nice to watch cute animal videos that help us feel like this dream might be possible.

Shane Rogers is a Lecturer in Psychology at Edith Cowan University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Unlikely animal friendships appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Mont’s Helium range aims to maximise the warmth to weight ratio of your sleeping bag, which makes it an ideal place to start your search for a warm and lightweight winter sleeping bag. As most of my winter camping takes place around Canberra and nearby Kosciuszko National Park, I opted for the warmest bag in the range, the Mont Helium 680.

Design

The Helium 680 is a lightweight sleeping bag filled with 800+ loft premium RDS white duck down. It has a lower temperature rating of -6 to -12 degrees Celsius, making it ideal for winter campouts. Prioritising packability, the sleeping bag packs down to a relatively small 16x33cm (smaller if really cinched into the stuff sack) and weighs around 1.1kg.

While the bags are a mummy shape, the internal shoulder room is a generous 160cm circumference, tapering down to 115.5cm circumference in the foot box (in the standard size bag). Further warmth and comfort inducing features include the box foot area at the bottom of the bag, a contoured hood, vertical baffles on the torso and a down filled 3D draft tube along the zipper, to name a few. 

In the field

Having previously tested out the Mont Zero Superlight sleeping bag, I was already familiar with the quality to be found in Mont sleeping bags and the 680 was no exception. The first thing I noticed on unpacking the 680 was how much larger it is than the Zero. It still packs away into a small enough package to fit in a saddlebag, or at the bottom of a hiking pack, but once released from the stuff sack, it lofts and expands into a reassuringly puffy sleeping bag.

As mentioned above, the ample shoulder room and foot box give the sleeping bag a roomy, comfortable feel – even when wearing extra layers – and it doesn’t feel as restrictive as other mummy bags. The hood really was warm, and I found that I used the elasticated cinch to shrink the opening smaller and help trap in all that hot air my body was generating.  

The Mont compression sack that’s included with the sleeping bag does a great job at compressing the bag, but if you’re planning on using this bag on winter bikepacking adventures, you might want to find a compression bag that creates a longer narrower package as the wider diameter of the included stuff sack makes it an unsuitable shape for a bikepacking saddlebag. However, I did find that I was able to squish the bag into the saddle bag using a normal dry bag and the compression of the saddlebag itself. This is, of course, not a problem when taking the Helium 680 hiking as it easily fits inside a hiking pack.

The final word on the Mont Helium 680

Mont is renowned for producing high quality camping gear and I have been super impressed with my experiences with the Helium range. With the Helium 680 the company has struck a terrific balance between lightweight packability, and a seriously warm sleeping bag and it’s been reassuring to know that I’ve got a warm night ahead of me no matter what the Australian winter throws at me.

RRP: $999.95 See Mont for more info on the entire Helium sleeping bag range.

The post Mont Helium 680 sleeping bag: Tested appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The latest iteration of the roadshow series will see Dr Geoff Wilson AM and Tom Robinson take to the stage at The Homestead Event Centre at Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary on Thursday 1 August from 6.30pm–8.30pm to discuss their awe-inspiring adventures.

A living legend

Dr Geoff Wilson AM is a living legend. One of the world’s leading polar explorers while also meeting the demands of life as veterinary surgeon, entrepreneur and dedicated family man, Geoff squeezes every drop out of life. He’s developed a staggering level of resilience through a lifetime of pushing his mind and body through the harshest of wild places. His steel-trap mindset has equipped him with the fervour to pursue audacious challenges all over the globe, inspiring others along the way to find their own adventures. Geoff’s bold spirit, combined with his commitment to pushing the limits of human endurance, has earned him admiration and respect from adventurers and enthusiasts around the world.

Come along and hear from Geoff he recounts tales from the first stage of Project Zero, his latest adventure which aims to show that epic adventure can be sustainable. Geoff and his team, which includes his son Kitale, are currently exploring some of the world’s most isolated and vulnerable regions on a zero emissions quest to document the impact of climate change. He’s back in Australia for a short time before heading off again in late August so don’t miss this rare chance to encounter Geoff in person close to his home near Currumbin on Queensland’s Gold Coast.

From the headlines

Tom Robinson made headlines in September last year when he was rescued by a cruise ship after he capsized off Vanuatu. Dubbed “the naked rower” by the media, Tom had traversed the Pacific Ocean in his hand built wooden rowboat Maiwar from Peru to the Cooks Islands, solo, nonstop and unassisted. He then island-hopped his way through small Pacific island nations until the journey ended just off Vanuatu. AG Society-supported-Tom has been recognised by the Guinness Book of World Records as the youngest person ever to row solo across the Pacific which he achieved the record at the age of 23 years and 128 days when he set out.

Come and hear Tom’s remarkable tale of survival on the high seas, what inspired his epic ocean rowing feat and his passion for traditional wooden boats.

Where: The Homestead Event Centre, Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary, 28 Tomewin St, Currumbin QLD 4223

When: Thursday 1 August 2024, 6.30pm–8.30pm

Cost: $30pp

Tickets are available now!

The post Australian Geographic Society Awards Roadshow: Making Adventure Count appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Charming and irreverent as they were, The Beatles themselves were only part of the reason the tour was so memorable.

It was the hordes of screaming fans who followed their every move that astonished onlookers.

The rise of Beatlemania

By 1964, Australian teenagers had access to a global youth culture. As the feminist author Anne Summers, then an Adelaide teenager, recalled in her memoir Ducks on the Pond:

It was rare for world-famous pop stars to come to Adelaide and unheard of for a group at the height of their celebrity.

That Australian teenagers had the opportunity to see The Beatles in person in 1964 was due to a stroke of luck for tour promoter Kenn Brodziak. In late 1963, Brodziak secured the then up-and-coming Beatles for a three-week tour of Australia at a bargain rate.

By the time the tour took place, The Beatles was the biggest band in the world.

Their popularity had skyrocketed throughout 1964. I Want To Hold Your Hand went to number one on the Australian charts in mid-January and the top six singles that year were all by The Beatles.

So when the band arrived here, Beatlemania was the predictable result: crowds of surging, screaming young people, who turned out in massive numbers wherever The Beatles appeared.

While the earliest rock ‘n’ roll fans (and even performers) in the late 1950s were often labelled juvenile delinquents, there were too many teenagers swept up in Beatlemania for them to be dismissed in the same way. The crowds became a spectacle in themselves.

‘A chanting mass of humanity’

Beatlemaniacs were loud and unruly. The Daily Telegraph reported:

50,000 screaming, chanting, struggling teenagers crowded outside Melbourne’s Southern Cross Hotel this afternoon to give The Beatles the wildest reception of their careers.

It was a similar story in Adelaide. The Advertiser described:

police, their arms locked together and forming a tight circle around the car carrying the Beatles, had to force a path through the surging, screaming crowd […] Police said they had never seen anything like it.

The crowds overwhelmed observers with their sheer size – a “solid, swaying, chanting mass of humanity”, according to The Age – and noise. The Daily Telegraph consulted an acoustics expert to conclude “Beatles fans scream like [a] jet in flight”.

Beatlemania was visible (and noisy) evidence of a growing teenage consumer market and the assimilation of rock music, dancing and youth culture into the leisure practices of middle-class youth. It was proof (if anyone still needed it) the youth market was highly developed and extremely lucrative.

The speed with which companies found a ready audience for Beatles merchandise (wigs, souvenirs, magazines) demonstrated the relative affluence of the youthful consumer in mid-1960s Australia. This market would continue to grow throughout the decade.

A new idea of youth

Perhaps the most remarkable characteristic of Beatlemania was its femaleness. While not all Beatles fans were girls, it was the crying, screaming girls who attracted the most media comment.

The Daily Telegraph described them this way:

It was the girls, the nymphets of 1964 in their uniform of black slacks and duffle coats and purple sweaters – who showed the orgiastic devotion due to the young men from the damp and foggy dead end of England […] the girls wept, screamed, grimaced, fainted, fell over, threw things, stamped, jumped and shouted […] [The Beatles] were the high priests of pop culture, taking due homage from a captive, hypnotised hysterical congregation.

The references to “nymphets” with their “orgiastic devotion” tells us many Australians thought these young women were transgressing the norms expected for their era. Young women in the early 1960s were still expected to be demure and responsible. Beatles fans were breaking these rules, and helping to rewrite the meanings of youth and gender in 1960s Australia.

Beatlemania was an expression of female desire. The Beatles were powerful objects of fantasy for many fans in a world where sexual mores were slowly changing but where women were still expected to police male desire, stopping young men from “going too far”. A fantasy relationship with a Beatle became a way for young women to dream about their ideal relationship.

Screaming, chasing a Beatle down the street: these were acts of rebellion and joy that prefigured the rise of women’s liberation, with its embrace of rebellious femininity.

Beatlemania reminds us that, even if women were not always behind the microphone or playing the guitar, they have been important to the history of rock ‘n’ roll music as fans and audience members.

Beatlemania marked the ascendancy of a new idea of youth: these young people weren’t mere replicas of their parents, but they were not juvenile delinquents, either. The Beatles tour drew young Australians more closely into a transnational youth culture, fostering the development of a distinctively Australian variant here.

Beatlemania also demonstrated the massed power of youth. By the end of the 1960s, many Australian teenagers were gathering on the streets to protest, rather than celebrate, and to make political demands, rather than to scream.

Michelle Arrow is a Professor of History at Macquarie University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Upon exiting the aircraft, I experienced a blast of cold air that — despite having lived and worked in chilly Alaska — was somehow profoundly different.

The temperature was a brisk -53.6°C with a windchill of -75.5°C and a wind speed of 9 knots. The physiological altitude was equivalent to being 3370 metres above sea level. We were constantly warned to take it easy upon arrival to avoid experiencing any of the symptoms of high-altitude sickness, such as pulmonary edemas.

This is one of the highest, driest, and coldest places on Earth where humans have a permanent presence.

Only the Russian Vostok Station is higher in altitude further up the polar plateau, and therefore colder, with the lowest ever ground temperature of −89.2°C recorded in the southern winter of 1983.

Related: Antarctica: a continent in crisis

The physical and mental challenges

Living in such conditions comes at a price that people pondering an ice change may not be prepared to pay — both physically and mentally.

Antarctic stations must bring in all supplies from the outside and the costs of keeping the stations running and their crews fed and housed are as extreme as the environment itself. Supplies are brought in by plane and sometimes by tractor traverse — or across the ice. The South Pole station is 1353km by air and 1601km by tractor traverse from McMurdo Station on the coast.

Energy has been traditionally provided by diesel generators burning AN8, a jet fuel mixture suited for the cold temperatures of Antarctica. Approximately 1.7 million litres are used at the station each year and in 2012 it was estimated that fuel cost between USD$9.25 to $10.60 a litre by the time it travelled from the beginning to the end of the supply chain. The cost has likely increased since.

So, not only is Antarctica high, dry, and cold, it is costly for humans to be there on a permanent basis.

Although coastal Antarctic conditions are not as extreme as the middle of the continent, it is still cold, windy, subject to storms, and extremely isolated from any human population centres. The sustainability of a permanent settlement with little to no outside support would be fraught with problems.

For example, the ability to grow food is problematic. Greenhouses could potentially work, however, during the long dark winters, grow lights would be needed. Grow lights consume energy and energy, in the form of fossil fuels, must be brought in from the outside.

There is potential for other renewable sources of energy involving wind and solar. Whereas the South Pole is a good candidate for solar during the southern summer, given it has many cloudless days and 24 hours of sunlight, the coast of Antarctica is much more subject to cloudy conditions.

Wind may be a reasonable alternative on the coast, but the extreme cold temperatures are very hard on equipment, thereby making wind generators challenging to maintain.

Early Antarctic expeditions, such as Roald Amundsen’s South Pole expedition, took advantage of marine mammal and bird resources for food during their winter-over periods. However, the Protocol on Environmental Protection to the Antarctic Treaty today prohibits any molestation of the flora and fauna.

Why anyone would want to live in Antarctica permanently?

Antarctic research stations are crewed by adults that are a mix of scientists and support personnel, for example mechanics and electricians. They are there for the sole purpose of scientific research.

Winter-over crews rotate through on a mostly yearly basis. Social and psychological research has documented a wide variety of psycho-social and physiological stresses experienced by winter-over crew members.

Long periods of isolation and confinement can lead to increases in tension, anxiety, fatigue and depression. Research has also found that people’s abilities to adapt to these conditions and seek social support over time can be influenced by their cultural background.

Indians at Maitri Station reported the highest levels of depression, the Chinese at Great Wall Station reported the highest levels of confusion, whereas the Russians at Vostok Station reported the highest levels of anxiety in contrast to the Americans at South Pole Station who reported the lowest.

However, it is important to note the important role of group dynamics: some winter-over groups do better than others in terms of group cohesion and this impacts overall levels of depression, confusion and anxiety experienced by crew members. We can only imagine how these psychological and physiological stressors would play out if people lived permanently on the continent.

I have worked with the Iñupiaq Alaskan Natives in northwestern Alaska, and they have a culture that has specifically adapted to the isolation and extreme environmental conditions. Permanent settlements would equally require the emergence of an adaptive culture, and all that it entails, in order to survive and flourish.

Antarctica is isolated and hard to get to. Family and friends cannot just hop on a plane and visit. On the other hand, there are stations in Antarctica that do have whole family units living, working, and going to school at the station.

Both Chile and Argentina have stations that include families in moderate numbers. These stations are on the Antarctic Peninsula where conditions are less extreme, and the bases are nearer geographically to both Argentina and Chile. They are the closest thing to a ‘normal’ community on the continent.

Nevertheless, the stations still need significant outside support for supplies, families still miss out on important life events back home, and residents rotate through on a periodic basis so in essence their stay there is not permanent.

Reasons to stay

There have been permanent settlements that have existed historically in other extreme and isolated areas — such as South Georgia Island, a British Overseas Territory in the southern Atlantic Ocean. The island has an important historical connection to Antarctica.

As a part of Ernest Shackelton’s failed Transantarctic Expedition, he sailed 1253km from Elephant Island off the Antarctic Peninsula to South Georgia Island in a small lifeboat to save his crew after the ship Endurance was caught in the ice and crushed in the Weddell Sea, east of the Antarctic Peninsula.

Shackelton, one of the greatest Antarctic explorers, is buried on South Georgia Island.

There were seven whaling stations on the island from 1904 to 1965. The island had a community of workers and government officials, some with families. There was a Norwegian Lutheran Church and a meteorology station.

Despite being isolated, a community emerged on the island to service the whaling industry for well over 60 years, a company town of sorts. The island was eventually abandoned following the decline of whaling.

Related: Echoes of Shackleton

Antarctica has a variety of precious minerals and other unexploited natural resources. The mining and extraction of these resources would have the potential for more ‘company towns’ to emerge, not unlike what happened on South Georgia Island.

Economics is a powerful incentive and, without constraints, the emergence of mining settlements in Antarctica would not be beyond the realm of possibility.

Under current treaty agreements this is not permissible.

Professor Jeffrey C. Johnson is a Professor of Anthropology at the University of Florida. He has conducted extensive long-term research supported by the National Science Foundation comparing group dynamics of over-wintering crews at the American South Pole Station, with those at the Polish, Russian, Chinese, and Indian Antarctic Stations. He has also done research funded by the National Science Foundation on Iñupiaq Alaskan Natives traditional ecological Knowledge of sea ice and climate change.

Originally published under Creative Commons by 360info™.

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In many ways, it’s surprising the country hasn’t reached this milestone sooner. Australia was once a major player in the early days of the Space Race, partnering with the USA to build radio telescopes and tracking stations to support NASA’s Apollo programs during the Cold War. Australia was also only the third country to build and launch a satellite from its own soil. 

But by the early 1970s Australia’s space activities began to lose steam; rocket testing at the Woomera Prohibited Area in South Australia dwindled and there was little economic incentive to contribute to NASA’s post-Apollo missions. Australia’s political ties with the USA, Europe and Asia granted it access to foreign-owned space technology without any need to develop its own national space program. 

Government funding in space became sporadic; short-lived initiatives – such as the Australian Space Office – were bankrolled by one federal government and dissolved by the next. In 2023 the federal government terminated its $1.2 billion Australian satellite program and withdrew funding from three more space projects, including one to bankroll spaceports and launch sites across Australia. 

Jeremy Hallett, Executive Chair of the Space Industry Association of Australia (SIAA), says that the government’s lukewarm interest in funding its space sector – be it at a federal, state or territory level – makes Australia a bit of an international outlier. “When you compare [Australia] with the rest of the G20, for example, the other 19 countries are significantly increasing their investment into their space capability domestically, and Australia’s has been dropping, so it’s kind of counter to the international trend,” he says. 

The SIAA is Australia’s peak body for space. Its members represent all branches of the Aussie space sector, from fledgling 10-person startups to government departments, law firms, academia and manufacturers from every cog in the supply chain. These entities are forging Australia’s reputation in space and helping put Australia on the map. Next year the SIAA will host the International Astronautical Congress in Sydney. The annual conference, which Jeremy describes as “the Olympics of space”, is expected to receive 6000 delegates from overseas. 

Despite these achievements, Australia has yet to achieve sovereign space capability. It’s the reason why Australia is regarded as an “emerging spacefaring nation” by the European Space Policy Institute, despite its Cold War space heritage. “A lot of the measure of the success of a space sector is the ability to put objects on orbit, which Australia can’t do alone yet,” Jeremy says. “Of course, the traditional space powers – the USA, Russia, China, Japan and Europe, through the European Space Agency – have led the charge there, which is unsurprising. But I don’t think we’re far behind. Australia’s capability to manufacture and launch spacecraft is still in the early stages of development, and that’s being solely driven, at this point, by commercial enterprise.”

Gilmour Space Technologies is no exception. Australia’s foremost rocket company is headed by civilians and funded by venture capitalists, not government. Adam Gilmour, CEO of Gilmour Space, founded the company in 2012 with his brother James after a 20-year career in banking. The self-taught rocket scientist had spent several years monitoring the emerging commercial space market before hanging up his gloves in the corporate world and pursuing his lifelong passion for space. 

Gilmour Space began building rockets in 2015 – three years before Australia even had a space agency. “You have to transition from ‘every single person you met just thought you were crazy’, to moving beyond ‘crazy’ to ‘impossible’,” Adam says. “We had to get so many different approvals to do what we’re doing, and you have to walk so many different people through the technology – what’s going on, what are the risks.” Today, Gilmour Space has 180 employees and is valued at more than $605 million.

Adam says the past several years have been an ongoing process of learning, building and rebuilding, with many hurdles thrown in along the way. In 2019 Gilmour Space’s first rocket – One Vision – failed its test launch after a pressure regulator in the oxidiser tank malfunctioned. But Adam was not deterred; to date, only one private space company has successfully launched a rocket on its first attempt. “Because we haven’t had a rocket business in the country, I can’t go and just poach people from other companies to start mine like you can in Europe, Japan, India and the USA,” Adam says. “We’ve had to build a lot of our knowledge from scratch.”

It’s never been more important to develop Australia’s sovereign capability in space. The meteoric rise of smartphone technology and on-demand internet means we rely on satellite technology more than ever before. “Space technology is an enabling technology; it’s one of those technologies that you use every day, every hour, every minute, but you can’t see it – so you don’t realise it,” Adam says. “But what people don’t know is we [Australia] pretty much 100 per cent rely on foreign companies in other countries for all of our space technology – communications, Earth observations, GPS – you name it, everything is foreign-owned. And I think it makes us very vulnerable to rely on other countries, because if they have a political clash or a regime change, or they don’t want to help anymore, you’re suddenly cut off.” 

Whether the Eris rocket launch proves successful or another learning curve, Adam says this is just the beginning for Gilmour Space. “The majority of the revenue is in low-Earth orbit, but we think the business is going to start expanding into lunar activities and we want to participate in that,” he says. He has his sights set on longer-range targets, too; one day he wants Gilmour Space to enter the human spaceflight market. “We want to develop a crew capsule and then build a rocket big enough to take people up into space,” he says.

Remote medicine supports life in space

This decade will see astronauts return to the Moon for the first time in 50 years, as part of NASA’s Artemis program. The Artemis mission intends to establish the first long-term human presence on the Moon and, ultimately, prepare for the first crewed missions to Mars. Australians will be helping every step of the way. 

Dr John Cherry is a rural doctor and Antarctic medical practitioner who specialises in providing healthcare to some of the most isolated people in the world – including astronauts. “Space medicine means supporting the healthcare of astronauts who are in an isolated condition, currently aboard the space station but soon to be in longer-duration flights as we look to go back to the Moon and onwards towards Mars,” John says. “Space medicine is narrow in a way, because it’s focused on space, but it’s also really broad because it covers all the different areas of medicine.”

John is a director of the Australasian Society of Aerospace Medicine. He’s worked with space agencies across the globe to provide medical training to astronauts and improve remote healthcare systems. He helped redesign the European Space Agency’s medical training curriculum and is currently prepping NASA astronauts for their return to the Moon. 

“Across Australia as a field, we’re looking at ways that we can support astronauts who are going to be further from Earth than we’ve been for more than 50 years,” he says. “That means the astronaut crews are further from medical assistance [so] they require an increased level of autonomy to deal with medical events that occur.” Astronauts on the International Space Station (ISS) can evacuate and return to Earth within 24 hours or less in the case of a medical emergency. But NASA’s Artemis mission has kicked things up a notch. “When we go to the Moon, the medical evacuation time could be a couple of weeks; when we go to Mars it might be nine months or more, depending on where we are at in the journey,” John says.

The isolation experienced by astronauts is one reason Australia is considered a world leader in space medicine. Our strengths lie in our unique remote medicine and telemedicine capabilities, alongside a long history of providing support to Antarctic expeditioners. “We have this huge body of knowledge when it comes to supporting communities and individuals living and working in really remote and extreme environments, be that outback Australia, the bush, supporting military deployments or teams in remote settings like Antarctica,” John says. “So, much like Antarctic expeditioners who are isolated for extended periods of time over the Antarctic winter, those are the same conditions that astronauts will soon experience in terms of isolation in these longer-duration space flight missions. That means the medical care, and the medical training they receive, needs to be adapted to suit those models.”

Innovations from space have a number of trickle-down technologies that could improve medical models here in Australia. “Rural and remote communities within Australia often struggle with the tyranny of distance, and have a worse healthcare disparity than our metropolitan colleagues,” John says. “Many of the medical solutions we’re developing are not only applicable to astronauts in a spacecraft many hundreds of thousands of kilometres away, but also rural and remote communities in Australia, be it advanced telemedicine developments, remote imaging, or remote monitoring of physiological markers by using wearable biosensors. All of these things can benefit rural and remote Australia and help breach that rural–metropolitan healthcare divide.”

Related: Back to the Moon: Australia’s mining expertise at forefront of new era of space exploration

Outback plants to feed astronauts

Australian plant scientists are also looking to support astronaut health by improving their diets with space-grown plants.Several groups across the world have successfully grown plants on the ISS under various mock conditions. But Lunaria One, a Victoria-based startup, will take this one step further and attempt to grow plants on the Moon’s surface. “Keeping astronauts healthy is really challenging,” says Professor Caitlin Byrt, a plant biologist at the Australian National University and science adviser to Lunaria One. “[An astronaut’s] diet affects their wellbeing, not just from a nutritional perspective, but also from a psychological perspective. Humans tend to be happier when they’re eating nice fresh food.” 

As for space biology, Caitlin says the research generated by the startup will have spin-off applications that will benefit Earth, especially at a time when food security is threatened by climate change. 

“Understanding how to support plant life in some of the most extreme kinds of conditions that you can imagine is useful for a range of reasons,” she says. “Being able to understand how to build systems that support rapid propagation of fresh foods can help in situations such as natural disasters here on Earth.”

Data collected from previous missions means scientists have a pretty good understanding of the Moon’s environmental conditions, from its fluctuating temperature extremes, radiation levels and day lengths. Lunaria Oneis using this data to design sealed growth chambers that will create a buffer against the harsh lunar environment and – hopefully – allow plants to thrive. 

Lunaria One is interested in “resurrection species” – plants that have evolved and adapted to survive in desert environments by entering a dormant state when water is scarce. Found in deserts across Australia, resurrection species, include five-minute grass (Tripogon loliiformis),which Lunaria One is experimenting with. “Some [resurrection species] have this ability to dry down to 10 per cent of their normal water content,” Caitlin says. “They have the capability to go into stasis – like putting their biology on pause – and then regrow again when water is resupplied.” 

This dormancy period can last for months, or even years, making them ideal for long-term space travel. “We’re wanting our plants to be in a little bit of a stasis for the journey,” Caitlin explains. “We have to control the moisture very closely, because moisture is a trigger for the plant to regrow. Applying humidity at the right time can kick off [plant growth] and will let those plants have a shot at growing on the Moon.”

Related: Aussie bush tucker could nourish NASA astronauts in space

Tracking space debris

The shift from government-funded national space programs to the private sector signifies a new era, popularly called NewSpace or Space 2.0. Each year a record number of satellites are put into orbit as the technology reduces in size and becomes cheaper to manufacture and launch. 

There are currently about 8300 satellites zipping around Earth. Nearly half of these are Starlink satellites, launched by Elon Musk’s SpaceX in 2019. SpaceX plans to eventually put 42,000 satellites into orbit. Its competitors also have their own “mega constellations” in the works, including Amazon’s Project Kuiper and China’s Hongyan constellation, which are forecast to reach 3200 units and 13,000 units respectively. 

Associate Professor Alice Gorman, a Flinders University space archaeologist, says Earth might see as many as 100,000 new satellites launched in the coming decade. “The density of stuff – in low-Earth orbit particularly – is increasing exponentially,” she says. “We have more launches happening, so that means more rocket stages that are discarded will be falling back to Earth. It will mostly fall over the ocean, just because there’s a lot of it, and it will fall over unpopulated areas or low-population areas, because there’s more of that than densely populated areas, but the risk something might end up falling on a town or on someone’s house is going to increase.” 

As a space archaeologist, Alice studies material culture in space, from planetary landing sites to space junk. Space junk (also called orbital debris) is any human-made object in or from space that serves no purpose. It ranges from nuts and bolts to defunct satellites and discarded rocket stages. As more satellites are put into orbit, Alice says that falling space junk is likely to become a more regular occurrence. 

In 1979 debris from NASA’s first space station, Skylab, rained down over southern Western Australia. But there have been a few recent cases, too. On 9 July 2022 a farmer in the Snowy Mountains discovered a shard of space junk in his paddock, standing upright like a plinth. In the following weeks more pieces were found, later identified as fragments from a SpaceX rocket stage. 

Less than a year later, a mysterious, acorn-shaped metal cylinder washed ashore at Green Head Beach in WA and made international headlines. The ASA identified the mysterious object as debris from an Indian rocket involved in a satellite launch. 

Alice says Australia will be disproportionately impacted by falling space junk compared with the USA, Europe or Asia. She cites a study, published in 2022 by The University of British Columbia, Canada, that suggested the Southern Hemisphere is at greater risk of casualties from rocket body re-entries than the Northern Hemisphere. Atmospheric scientists are also worried about potential environmental impacts; trace metals from spacecraft, such as aluminium, copper and lithium, have been discovered in the stratosphere and might degrade the ozone layer. These satellites are also creating light pollution, blotting out starry skies and even interfering with astronomy observations and equipment. 

This doesn’t necessarily mean that Earth would be completely cut off from space, merely that certain regions of orbit would become unusable. “The debate is, how close are we to this event?” Alice says. “Some people say Kessler Syndrome will happen in 20 years; others say it’s hundreds of years off – there’s no consensus.”

Equally concerning is the risk of Kessler Syndrome – in which the debris from colliding space objects triggers a chain reaction of collisions. “When Kessler Syndrome is reached, you don’t have to launch anything new into orbit; the collisions would be a self-sustaining thing that would make the risk of launching incredibly great. You wouldn’t be able to stop it,” Alice explains. “Even if we put nothing else into orbit, Kessler Syndrome would still happen.” 

Vacuuming up space junk

It’s been nearly 50 years since astrophysicists Donald Kessler (USA) and Burton Cour-Palais (Britain) penned their seminal paper about the risks of Kessler Syndrome, and to date there’s been no successful removal of a piece of orbital debris. But startups have cropped up around the world looking to tackle this problem – including Adelaide-based startup Paladin Space. Paladin Space has engineered a satellite payload that can “hoover up” multiple fragments of small space junk in a single mission. 

Harrison Box, the creator and CEO of Paladin Space, likens the technology to Wall-E, the titular character in Pixar’s 2008 sci-fi film. “In the movie, Wall-E compacts all the trash into a block and ejects it – it honestly is very similar,” Harrison says. “[The re-usable debris removal satellite] ingests the debris, compresses it, and then we eject the container. We then re-slot the satellite bus with a new empty container and continue the mission. The differentiator of our technology is that it can capture multiple items in a single mission, including small items like fragments.” 

Space junk is generally divided into three size classes. The most numerous are the small pieces (anything less than 1mm in size). The medium-size class includes anything between 1mm and 10cm, and anything greater than 10cm is considered large. Paladin Space is going after the small fragments, some of which are too tiny to be tracked and monitored by radio telescopes such as the Space Surveillance Telescope in Exmouth, WA. Regardless of their size, these fragments are zooming above Earth at speeds of 7.5–8km per second, 10 times faster than a bullet. Even the tiniest piece of space junk can cause significant damage. In 2016, for example, a paint fleck famously cracked a window on the International Space Station. 

This problem is only going to grow as mega constellations launch more objects into orbit.“There’s about 9000t of [space junk] already in orbit, but in 5–10 years it could be double or triple that,” Harrison says. “We’re trying to get there and solve the problem, or remediate the problem, before Kessler Syndrome kicks in.” Harrison’s technology has yet to be deployed on its first mission, but he hopes it will be launched into orbit by 2026. “This is a very immature field,” he says. “It’s worth noting that nobody yet has actually removed a piece of debris from orbit. It’s never happened. There’s been a mission that’s gone up in the last couple of weeks from one of our competitors. They might capture [a piece of debris], and they might not, but that’s the sort of state we’re in at the moment. It’s really very unexplored.” 

Harrison is confident of the technology, but says securing funding is the biggest hurdle. “At the moment one of the challenges is raising enough money and convincing investors and government officials to get on board with the project,” he says. “Funding is tough, because Australia is emerging into the space market. We don’t have that heritage yet of multiple launches, multiple satellites for investors to fall back on and say, ‘Well, we’ve invested in that technology; it’s worked really well.’ 

“The Australian space industry focuses a lot at the moment on Earth observation, climate control technology, stuff that they can enable and use very quickly for commercial gain. And I think that’s probably partly the reason why we struggle to secure funding, because this is a global problem we’re solving, not just one for Australia.” 

Related: Top 10 Aussie space milestones

The post Australia’s space race: From red dirt to the stars appeared first on Australian Geographic.

River Torrens Linear Park Trail

Distance: 35km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

Meandering beside Adelaide’s major waterway for the length of its journey across the Adelaide Plain, the River Torrens Linear Trail slices through the city and suburbs while feeling all but removed from them.

With trails running along both sides of the river most of the way across the plain, the ride is as much a commuting corridor as a scenic trail, a journey from the Adelaide Hills to the sea that also showcases many of the city’s major cultural attractions. Bridges are plentiful, making it easy to switch from bank to bank as you please.

In the east, the fully sealed trail begins at the mouth of a gorge, where the River Torrens pours out of the hills (and where the Mawson Trail begins its journey in the opposite direction). The sealed paths descend around 100 vertical metres to the river mouth at Henley Beach. Most of the descent comes in the early kilometres, where the river still resembles a creek, and the trail passes beneath magnificent river red gums. The grassy banks provide endless opportunities to pause and picnic.

Through the city, the ride becomes an Adelaide highlights reel, with the now-busy trail passing the zoo, the Festival Centre and Adelaide Oval, all set to the backdrop of the city skyline. From the city centre, it’s around 13km to the coast. A good option for a return ride is to set out from the city and pedal to Henley Beach along one riverbank, returning along the other. This is also the flattest stretch of the linear park.

Coast to Vines Rail Trail

Distance: 37km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

This descriptively named ride does exactly what its title suggests, connecting Adelaide’s southern coastline to the McLaren Vale wine region, following a disused railway and adding to South Australia’s rich collection of wine-themed bike trails.

Setting out from the train station at Marino Rocks, the ride burrows through Adelaide’s southern suburbs, weaving through parkland and crossing over the Southern Expressway and, more peacefully, the Onkaparinga River. It utilises a combination of wide bike paths and roadside paths, with a dividing line painted down its centre like a road.

There’s a distinct moment where the ride slips out of the suburbs, pressing through a last line of houses in Seaford Rise and setting out above Pedlar Creek towards McLaren Vale. Vineyards quickly appear below the trail, and 6km after leaving Seaford Rise, the trail rolls into the town of McLaren Vale.

Crossing Main Rd, the ride heads briefly up Caffrey St before returning to the trail, which, between here and Willunga (8km away), is also known as the Shiraz Trail. The ride continues to squeezes between vineyards, offering plenty of chances to stop and sip, with tall eucalypts forming a scenic corridor as the trail climbs gradually towards Willunga. 

The trail ends beside the old Willunga railway station (which doubles as the start of the Kidman Trail), but it’s worth pedalling on through High St to the Old Bush Inn for another cycling classic – a marker beside the pub notes the start of Old Willunga Hill, the most famous climb in the annual Tour Down Under pro cycling race.

Encounter Bikeway

Distance: 31km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

Showing off one of South Australia’s favourite holiday coasts, this seaside cycle stretches along the southern edge of the Fleurieu Peninsula, taking in the likes of Victor Harbor, Port Elliot and Middleton Beach as it journeys from The Bluff to Goolwa.

From a car park on the slopes of The Bluff (it’s worth walking to the top of the 97m-high headland for a view over Encounter Bay and much of the ride ahead), the bikeway drops to the shores of Encounter Bay, following a foreshore path into Victor Harbor. As Victor’s causeway stretches across the water to Granite Island, the ride turns with the coast, continuing to run pinched between the sand and the town.

Crossing under a railway bridge and over the Hindmarsh River, the ride becomes a combination of bike paths and streets, but it always stays close to the coast – if you’re riding between May and September, keep a watch on the sea, especially along Boomer and Basham beaches, where southern right whales are regularly sighted.

The ride stays with the coast to Middleton, where it cuts briefly inland to Goolwa, the town sitting on the final bend in the Murray River’s long journey – the river mouth is just 10km away from here. The bikeway heads upstream from Goolwa, finishing abruptly and anticlimactically at Laffin Point. A more fitting finish is at the Goolwa Wharf (3.5km before Laffin Point), beside the Hindmarsh Island Bridge. It’s home to a distillery, eateries and a cellar door/craft brewer. Time the ride right and you (and your bike) can return to Victor Harbor on the Cockle Train, riding Australia’s oldest steel-railed railway.

Barossa Trail

Distance: 40km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

Cutting a line through one of Australia’s premier wine regions, this ride is a Barossa Valley highlights reel, and must qualify as one of the country’s (not just SA’s) best family bike rides. It begins at the edge of Gawler (at Gawler’s eastern edge, though it’s a 5km ride to the start from the Gawler Central railway station at the northern end of Adelaide’s train network) and makes it way north through Lyndoch, Tanunda, Nuriootpa and Angaston.

The ride is a mix of roadside bike paths and rail trail, running beside the busy Barossa Valley Way from Gawler to Rowland Flat, where it turns away from the road and into the most interesting, scenic and challenging of the trail’s sections.

Following the North Para River, this section has several steep (but short) pinches and some tight switchbacks, the effort of which is relieved by the vineyard views and the presence of a trio of cellar doors: Jacob’s Creek, St Hugo and St Hallett. Just past St Hallett, the trail returns to the edge of the Barossa Valley Way, following it through Tanunda and out to Nuriootpa. The trail here is ruler straight and steamroller flat, with vineyards stretching away either side.

Weaving through the side streets of Nuriootpa, the ride turns east towards Angaston, a town as famous for its dried fruit and horses as its wines. Following the course of the old Barossa Valley railway line, the ride ascends 100m between ‘Nuri’ and Angaston, finishing at the Barossa Adventure Station, which features a 1km MTB loop if you fancy a bit more riding.

Melrose

Distance: 230m-6.6km  Grade: Easy to Advanced  Bike: MTB

Scratched into the slopes of Mt Remarkable, the tallest peak in the southern Flinders Ranges, the Melrose trail network covers around 100km, split into three sections: Melrose Town Trails, Bartagunyah and Willowie Forest.

The Melrose Town Trails form the heart of the network. Leaving from the very centre of town, they set off in all directions across and up the slopes of the mountain. The signature trails are arguably Weaving Camels and Dodging Bullets. The former is a 1km blue (intermediate) trail that rolls along the banks of Willochra Creek, set beautifully among large river red gums and functioning as an access trail to the southern end of the network. Here, the blue Big Rhua and a selection of black trails coil up the slopes to Wilburs Watch, offering the accomplished young shredders of your family the chance to ride to a ridge-top building with extensive views over Melrose and the flat earth well beyond.

Willowie Forest, 8km north of town, has good offerings for novice riders, especially on the flowing Twisted Sisters, which is one of the region’s best family bike rides. Bartagunyah, on a private property 5km south of town, is a more unmaintained, rough-and-ready collection of trails.

The post The best family bike rides in South Australia appeared first on Australian Geographic.

As a result, the exploiter can diverge from its original population and ultimately become a new species. Charles Darwin proposed this process more than 160 years ago, but it has been difficult to observe in practice.

In new research published in Science, we show how this process drives the creation of new species of cuckoos. These birds lay their eggs in the nests of other species, and their chicks mimic the appearance of their host’s chicks to avoid detection.

An escalating arms race

The deceptive behaviour of bronze-cuckoos imposes heavy costs on their hosts. They lay their eggs in the nests of small songbirds, such as fairy wrens and gerygones, and abandon their young to the care of the host.

Soon after hatching, the cuckoo evicts the host eggs or chicks from the nest to become the sole occupant. The host parents not only lose all their own offspring, but also invest several weeks rearing the cuckoo, which eventually grows to around twice the size of its foster parents.

Not surprisingly, given these high costs, hosts have evolved the ability to recognise and reject odd-looking chicks from their nests.

Only the cuckoo chicks that most closely resemble the host’s chicks will evade detection, and so with each generation, the cuckoo chicks become a closer and closer match to the host chicks. This is why the chicks of each species of bronze-cuckoo look almost identical to their hosts’ chicks.

Divergence between populations that exploit different hosts

This exquisite mimicry has evolved to an even more fine-tuned level. Within a single species of bronze-cuckoo that exploits several different hosts, the appearance of the chicks tracks that of their hosts.

In response to chick rejection by hosts, both the little bronze-cuckoo and the shining bronze-cuckoo have diverged into several separate subspecies. Each subspecies exploits a different host and produces a chick that matches that of the host.

This divergence can happen even when two hosts live in the same geographic area. In northern Queensland, the little bronze-cuckoo exploits both the large-billed gerygone and the fairy gerygone. The cuckoos have undergone selection to match the chicks of their respective hosts, leading to genetic divergence into two separate subspecies.

This shows the split into subspecies cannot be explained by geographic separation.

A higher cost for hosts leads to more new species

It was difficult to find out exactly what was happening with these birds, because we couldn’t easily find cuckoo chicks in host nests in the wild. So we developed a non-destructive method for extracting DNA from the shells of tiny cuckoo eggs (2.5cm long), which allowed us to sample museum egg specimens that have been collected over many decades.

Our results also suggest that the evolution of cuckoos and their hosts is most likely to drive the creation of new species when the cuckoos impose a high cost on their hosts – such as by killing off all the host’s own offspring. This leads to an “evolutionary arms race” between the host’s defences and the cuckoo’s counter-adaptations.

This finding was supported by our broad analysis using evolutionary modelling across all cuckoo species. We found lineages that are most costly to their hosts split into new species more often than less costly cuckoo species (those that live alongside their host’s chicks) and their non-parasitic relatives.

Interactions between exploiters and their victims may be one of the main drivers of biodiversity. The process of speciation we described, in which the exploiter shows very specialised adaptations to their victim, may occur in other parasites and hosts, and in predators and prey. These tightly coupled interactions might even explain why there are millions, rather than thousands, of uniquely specialised species across the globe.

Related: The channel-billed cuckoo is a magpie’s worst nightmare

Naomi Langmore, Professor, Australian National University; Alicia Grealy, Research Projects Officer, CSIRO; Clare Holleley, Senior Research Scientist, Australian National Wildlife Collection, CSIRO, and Iliana Medina, Lecturer in Ecology, The University of Melbourne.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post What’s that in my nest? How parasitic relationships create new species appeared first on Australian Geographic.

It’s not every day you meet a marine biologist with fascinating insights about Migaloo, the world’s legendary all-white humpback whale.

“The first photograph of Migaloo was taken through a telescope from a distance of over 5km away on 28 June 1991 [off Byron Bay],” says Jens Currie, Chief Scientist and Research Director of Pacific Whale Foundation. “It was blurry and unclear if he was all white.

“Then in 1993, our researchers encountered Migaloo in Hervey Bay, where they confirmed the whale was all white – an exceptionally rare and remarkable individual for scientific study. In 1998, we recorded the whale singing, a trait distinct to male humpback whales.”

Step aboard the purpose-built whale-watching vessel, Ocean Defender, for a three-hour whale-watching experience with Pacific Whale Foundation Eco-Adventures Australia, and you’ll be inspired by the knowledge shared with you.

Image credit: Tourism Australia

The only organisation in Hervey Bay to have been researching humpback whales for more than 40 years, Pacific Whale Foundation Australia and its scientists are responsible for a slew of firsts in the cetacean world. Pacific Whale Foundation Eco Adventure’s guides delight in sharing this knowledge with you while you watch majestic humpbacks breach, fluke slap and spin their magic in the waters of the Great Sandy Strait, nestled between the largest sand island in the world – K’gari (meaning paradise in the local Butchulla language), formerly Fraser Island – and the Fraser Coast.

Their groundbreaking research includes one of the South Pacific’s longest-running photo identification projects and the largest curated database of humpback whales in Eastern Australia, having detailed the life histories of 8000-plus individual humpbacks.

“We gather information about the population’s biology, abundance, migratory trends, recruitment rates and age-related distribution patterns,” Jens says. “Our initial work off the East Australian coast involved the collection of both fluke IDs and whale song recordings. Although we no longer gather recordings of humpback whale songs, these initial recordings were some of the first that were compared to Hawaii’s whales in an attempt to understand the global significance of songs for humpback whales.”

The foundation has also played a key role in developing whale watch tourism – of which you become a part when you join a tour; you’ll be invited to submit any photos you take for ID purposes and log sightings using their Whale and Dolphin Tracker app.

Image credits: Pacific Whale Foundation Eco-Adventures

Why migration and movement matters

While the Foundation’s research in Australia is primarily conducted in Hervey Bay, a crucial habitat for humpback whales on their annual migration to Antarctica and the world’s first Whale Heritage Site, it also examines movement and connectivity among areas in various East Australian coastal locations.

Dedicated research surveys, along with donated photos from whale watch operators, have enabled the Foundation to analyse the movement of humpback whales along their migration route.

“We’ve collected data at different locations on the migration route, for example off North Stradbroke Island in QLD and Eden, NSW, and from within the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park – the presumed breeding area for the East Australian humpback whales,” says Dr Barry McGovern, Research Associate with Pacific Whale Foundation Australia.

Image credit: Pacific Whale Foundation Eco-Adventures

“We take photographs for identification purposes and record information regarding group size and composition as well as the behaviour of the whales. Having this information from different locations allows us to document the movement of the whales and the timing of their migration but also lets us assess how the whales are using the different areas. For example, using residency patterns from repeat observations of the same individuals, Hervey Bay was recognised as a key resting area for the whales on their southerly migration, particularly the mothers and calves. One mother-calf pair we recorded in 2023 stayed in the bay for at least 20 days.”

Feeding behaviour: a moveable feast

Pacific Whale Foundation researchers were also among the first to document feeding behaviour along the migration route. Between 1995 and 2010 it reported the results of long-term observations of opportunistic humpback whale feeding behaviour off Eden.

“This area is on the migration route and humpback whales are typically thought not to feed while migrating,” says Barry. “However, there are reports from elsewhere on the East Australian migration route and around the world of humpback whales opportunistically feeding while migrating. What sets the information from Eden apart is that it appears to be the area where feeding behaviour while migrating is most prevalent. While these types of observations are interesting in their own right, they also have important implications for the management of species. If certain areas are recognised as being important for other reasons beyond being migration routes (e.g. Hervey Bay a resting area, Eden a feeding area) they may require different management strategies to ensure the conservation of the whales using the areas.”

Population hopping and globe trotting

Through photo identification, the Foundation has also documented migratory movements of individual animals across multiple populations.

“We reported on the inter-ocean movement of a humpback whale between the Pacific Ocean, east Australia, and the Indian Ocean, west Australia; which was confirmed by photo ID,” Barry says. “This report is the first and only paper that demonstrates a whale moving between these two populations; which are otherwise thought to be separate.

Image credit: Tourism Australia

“Further to this, our humpback whale photo identification catalogues have been used to highlight movements of whales across the globe. Our data has contributed to identifying the movement of different populations such as the East Australian humpback whales, those off South America and the whales that breed and give birth in Hawaii.

“This information has helped paint a clearer picture of humpback whale migration globally and has also contributed to the management of different populations. In Ecuador, for example, we were the first to document the movements of humpback whales between Ecuador and the South Sandwich Islands (heading south along South America’s coast towards Antarctica). This information was key in redefining what was known about the movement patterns of that population, which had major implications for its management.”

Piecing together the climate change puzzle

While aboard Ocean Defender, you’ll also learn about the Foundation’s research into the effects of warming oceans on humpback whales.

“Climate change is arguably the biggest issue facing all animal populations today,” Barry says. “While it is extremely difficult to assess its direct impacts on animals, our long-term photo identification data is an important resource to monitor changes in the population and this can help to highlight the impacts of climate change.

“As such, the continued population monitoring that we carry out coupled with our collaborative research on the health of the humpback whales can contribute to the growing knowledge of the impacts of climate change. The key is that researchers from different backgrounds and institutes must use the available information to try to piece the climate change puzzle together. The more information there is available, the clearer the picture will start to become of the impacts of climate change.”

Image credits: Tourism Australia

All aboard for education by appreciation

A sparkling day with whales is a gift in and of itself (and how!), guests are invited to join Pacific Whale Foundation Eco Adventures Australia’s Hervey Bay’s Ultimate Whale Watch, from 1 July to late October, with guaranteed sightings from 15 July to 9 October. “After a three-hour, small group tour on board the Ocean Defender, a 12m RIB vessel which was purpose-built for whale watching, guests return feeling inspired, energised and passionate about the importance of healthy oceans!” says Janelle Horrigan, Eco Tours Manager.

Guests are also invited to join the newly minted Hervey Bay Nature Cruise. Available from December to June, it’s a leisurely two-hour tour of the water wonderland that is the Great Sandy Strait, showcasing dolphins, dugongs, turtles and seabirds.

“Our aim is that when our guests disembark from our tours that they’ll have had a transformative experience – we call it education by appreciation,” explains Janelle.

“Information shared by our expert marine biologist guides inspires and empowers our guests to understand how impactful we can be and the ways that we, as individuals, can make a difference to help protect our marine life and contribute to healthy oceans.

“Being at water-level means the whales take centre stage with their incredible behaviours and exciting activity. And our guides are just as thrilled as our guests with every interaction. It’s a remarkable thing to share, and I guarantee you’ll be talking about it for years to come.”

Pacific Whale Foundation Eco-Adventures Australia is an Australian, wholly-owned social enterprise company. Proceeds from its eco tours support Pacific Whale Foundation Australia’s research, education and conservation projects.

Pacific Whale Foundation Eco-Adventures Australia is part of the Australian Wildlife Journeys collective. Find out more here.

This article is brought to you by Australian Wildlife Journeys.

The post Give me sun, give me sea, give me cetaceans appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Related: Awakening a sleeping language

Indigenous communities have disproportionate occurrences of many serious diseases and it’s hoped that, by exploring and understanding the uniqueness and diversity of Indigenous genetics, researchers can better address these health concerns.

“We have so many people now living with conditions like end-stage kidney disease, cardiovascular disease and diabetes, and we’ve got lots of people dying from cancers that are coming out of nowhere,” says NCIG’s Deputy Director, Associate Professor Azure Hermes, a Gimuy Walubara Yidinji woman from Cairns in far north Queensland (FNQ), and one of the lead researchers on the study.

NCIG Director, and another lead on the study, medical researcher Professor Alex Brown is a member of the Yuin Nation of the New South Wales South Coast, with family connections to Nowra, Wreck Bay and Wallaga Lake. “I think the critical bit from what’s been found in the genomics is that our diversity, our uniqueness, is very strong,” Alex says. “It is similar to the linguistic, cultural and geographical diversity that we see in Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities.”

The project faced significant challenges before it could commence due to the mistrust that years of cultural ignorance had created between medical science and First Nations people, which extended back to the first days of colonisation.

Overcoming mistrust

The strong bonds Traditional Owners developed with their surroundings during thousands of years have been constantly undermined since European colonisation. Early British colonisers, for example, identified Indigenous Australians as living in a state of “savagery”, as opposed to “civilisation”, leading to the assertion of terra nullius, that the continent was unoccupied. If the continent’s Indigenous inhabitants lived a largely nomadic existence, they couldn’t be regarded as having possession of the land they occupied. And if no-one owned it, it was free for the taking.

“Science, division and separatism have been used as a whitewash for the lie of terra nullius,” Alex says. “That historical context bleeds over into the way that science is viewed, trusted and accepted by Indigenous peoples even today…we’ve got to try to build trust in an environment where science has actually been used, not just poorly, but actively against Aboriginal people.”

Painful examples of medical mistreatment remain fresh in the hearts of many Indigenous communities. Before beginning its study, the NCIG team was given access to a historical collection of 7000 genetic samples collected from 35 different Indigenous communities throughout the 1960s and ’70s. That might seem like a boon for a research group looking at Indigenous DNA, but serious issues emerged regarding how the samples had been obtained.

“We don’t have any documentation to say that informed consent was given for [the collection of] those samples,” Azure says, explaining that without knowledge of the ethics of the collection process, NCIG couldn’t use the historical samples. “You’re starting on the back foot when you’re going to a community and saying, ‘Hey, I’ve got your dad’s sample that was collected from him back in the ’60s; he’s passed away, now I’d really like to talk to you about what to do next.’

“The first general question [asked] is ‘Did you ask permission?’ And then when we say, ‘I don’t know’, it’s: ‘Well, why are you keeping it?’; ‘What have you used it for?’; ‘How long have you had it?’; ‘Can I have it back?’; and ‘What are you doing here now?’”

The mistrust is understandable. Samples taken from the Yarrabah community, east of Cairns in FNQ, for example, were collected by researchers who would lie in wait on a corner and round up children as they walked home from school. “There were no parents [present], there was no consent, and there was no-one in the room to say, ‘No’,” Azure says.

Her team spent eight years working through the trauma of the past with these communities, allowing people to express their anger and grief, and decide if they were willing to put their trust in the NCIG study. The journey of rebuilding trust has been long and arduous, but Azure wouldn’t have it any other way. “I don’t want it to be easier,” she says. “I want to have those conversations because that’s the process. I think people need to feel those things, to be angry and to be upset, and to ask hard questions – and [they need] us to be accountable for what happened all those years ago.”

Azure’s work has allowed the study to happen in a way that fosters empowerment, inclusion and equity for the communities she’s dealing with. By consulting with participants at every stage, and ensuring informed consent was given, the project has empowered Indigenous people to actively take part in research that could benefit their health and wellbeing.

Improving First Nations health

Data gathered from the NCIG study could make an enormous difference to understanding how the genetics of First Nations people influence health. As well as highlighting that there is a great variance in the genetics across the cultures and communities of Indigenous Australians, it’s also clear that much of the variance is found nowhere else.

“It depends on how we measure it, but up to 25 per cent of the genetic variance is unique to Indigenous Australians,” Dr Hardip Patel, the Bioinformatics Lead at NCIG, says. “It’s well known that genomic databases are biased towards Europeans. There is pretty much no information that exists for Indigenous Australians, and that creates a blind spot in our understanding of genomics.”

If the wrong templates are used to build medicines, it runs the risk of driving inequality even further, because medical practices that are not suitable are applied to First Nations people. The NCIG research group viewed it as their job to make sure that what has happened in the past doesn’t occur again. “We started with very a simple goal. We have to create reference genomic databases so that we can start understanding health and clinical implications for Indigenous Australians,” Hardip says.

Related: Stories told by Aboriginal Tasmanians could be oldest recorded in the world

The Indigenous communities involved are passionate about and committed to providing a meaningful benefit for future generations, but the question still remains: Will this genomic research actually provide meaningful health outcomes? In short, we don’t know.

“Genomics analysis is a hard problem,” Hardip says. With the diversity demonstrated by a study of just four Indigenous communities, it’s very possible that genomic research will need to include many more communities across Australia before any comprehensive health benefits can be found.

For now, a major outcome of the study has been to demonstrate how research with Indigenous communities can be conducted in a more collaborative and respectful way. “We’ve managed to bring together a good group of collaborators who are working hard to say that this is now the standard that we should be expecting when we do research with Indigenous communities,” Azure says.

Perhaps even more importantly, the study represents a growing empowerment of Indigenous Australians. “The greatest shift has been [with] Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in positions of authority enabling communities to make their own decisions as autonomous agents in their future,” Alex says.

Curiosity, science and research have been integral to how Indigenous Australians have been interacting with their environment for tens of thousands of years, but that has been taken away during the past two centuries. Now there’s a strong move to restore that in a way that not only benefits their health and culture, but also the whole of Australian society.

The post Understanding Indigenous DNA appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Going at the speed I am, there’s very little chance of seeing the famous furball; everything is a blur, and my fellow riders and I are hooting and hollering so loudly that even if it was nearby, Bigfoot would have either scarpered, or hunkered down with its fingers in its ears until these noisy two-wheeled trespassers had gone by.  Oregon will do that to you; make you lose inhibitions as you immerse yourself in the colossal amount of adventure the state has to offer. For me, that deep dive meant trying to jam in as much of said adventure as I could over one week. Pressure? Well, maybe there was some, but this ride sure wasn’t a bad way of coping with that. And it was just, really, the beginning…

Best laid plans of bikes and men

My first memories of Oregon are from my early childhood and revolve around the legend of Bigfoot (also known as ‘Sasquatch’ in the Halkomelem First Nations language) and that elusive creature’s presence in this spectacular part of the Pacific Northwest region of North America. Even as a kid, growing up in small-town coastal Australia, I never lost that fascination with Oregon; not with Bigfoot itself, nor the land in which it resided. Big mountains, big rivers, a bloody big ocean and big adventure all seemed to define Oregon. I just had to wait a few decades to confirm that image in my young mind.

My master plan hadn’t started well that previous day; a flight delay from Vancouver to Portland meant my plan of a day-early start to my Oregon road trip had already been stymied. Instead of a day poodling around Portland, checking out this magic city’s craft breweries – as well as its hand-made bicycle scene – I arrived eight hours later, in the full throes of jetlag, only staying alert enough to remember to keep on the opposite side of the road that I was used to as I drove to the hotel. My grand plan seemed in tatters until my subdued spirits copped a small uplift just after I grabbed my room key. Off to the side of the hotel foyer was a room – only a small room – but one that hinted at big promises: a miniature bike-building workshop, where visitors could re-assemble their bikes after arrival, ready for a day of riding. I didn’t have a bike (yet), but just the fact a city hotel had this facility was enough for me to think I was in the right place. I just needed a little more confirmation…

The knobby tyre centre of excellence

“It’s called Dead Mountain Trail,” Marcello Ojerio, of TransCascadia Excursions, says to me, with a big grin. I am up near the top of said mountain with Marcello and his partner, Heidi, just outside the small town of Oakridge, nestled in the middle of the Cascade Mountains. It’d been a two-hour drive from Portland to my Oakridge Lodge & Guest House digs and only an hour after that before Marcello had dragged me away from the siren call of the bed in my room to this lofty viewpoint. 

Oakridge may be ‘small’ in terms of population, but it casts an absolutely massive shadow, thanks to its title of International Mountain Biking Association (IMBA) Gold Ride Centre, of which there are currently only six in the world. You see, even though the town has a population of ‘just’ 3500-ish people, in the mountainous country surrounding it there are more than 450 kilometres of MTB trails. And yeah, I thought it was the perfect population to trails ratio as well. As we drove to the trailhead earlier Marcello had explained the evolution of Oakridge as a MTB destination in more detail.

“Mountain biking for Oakridge is still growing and has become an established part of its identity,” he said. “The area’s legacy trails have been explored by mountain bikers for decades – some are old trade routes established by Native Americans, others were constructed for access to fire lookouts. 

“As the sport has grown in popularity and Oakridge has become a known riding destination; people from all over the USA have started to purchase properties as residences or holiday rentals. When I first bought my house here in the early 2000s, the mountain bikers were regarded by locals as a curious bunch of adrenalin junkies, slightly mad for spending all day riding bikes in the woods.  I think the perception has changed over time; locals now have a real sense of pride that their town of Oakridge has become known internationally for its MTB excellence.  Visitors used to spend a day or two riding in the area just a few years ago.  Now we are seeing first-time visitors and return riders spending three days to a week.”

Before we descended Marcello led us on a short five-minute ride to a spectacular lookout point that offered views over the Cascade Mountains and the valleys below. This also gave me some idea of just how much trail there must be out in those mountains and valleys – and just how much time I would need to ride them all. The Dead Mountain Trail is, at just under 10km in length, a tiny portion of that immense trail network. Marcello explained that this first section of Dead Mountain Trail’s 1000-metre descent was a machine-built flow trail that would then lead into the second section, which was more ‘natural’ (read: narrower singletrack, rocks, roots, etc.). 

The trail itself was simply awesome. That Bigfoot-blurring speed mentioned earlier was interspersed with plenty of tyres-off-the-ground moments as we jumped off/over numerous kickers and rollers, hooking into the perfectly constructed berms at what seemed like death-wish speed, only to be flung out the other side moving even faster. The upper flow trail was a total hoot, while the lower, more ‘natural’ Flat Creek section was the perfect complement, with its narrow bumpy surface keeping you focused as small obstacles came up at speed to be negotiated. Sadly, it was over all too soon, although not before Marcello and Heidi revealed one more– and perfect – surprise.

To say the water running down from the surrounding mountains is a tad chilly (for us warm-water loving Aussies, anyway) is a slight understatement. However, it is amazing how little that chilly touch affects you when there’s a colder beer in hand, and you’re floating in a small pool just below a set of rapids in the North Fork of the Middle Fork of the Willamette River (Marcello laughed “we just call it The North Fork”). For Marcello and Heidi it gets better, with the TransCascadia Excursions office just across the road from this spot. Getting to ride some of the best trails in the world for work, then finish the day with a swim and cold beer must be a real struggle… 

Bend it, like…

I was in love. I had just arrived in Bend, Oregon’s famous adventure town and, even just driving through the streets I was already smitten with the vibe of the place. Everywhere I looked there were wagons and utes loaded up with bikes (mountain and road), kayaks, canoes, climbing and camping gear – all of which looked well loved and, more impressively, well used. It was a brilliant visual reinforcement of Bend’s reputation as a hub for adventurous types who aren’t interested in image, but the gritty, fun reality of an outdoor life. 

In fact, that affirmation that I had landed in adventure heaven had already been imprinted on my mind a few hours earlier when I had bypassed Bend on the way to nearby Terrebonne and Smith Rock State Park, the location of Smith Rock itself, one of the world’s premier rock-climbing destinations. To say it was a dream turned reality is to lean too heavily on that cliché, but it was pretty much what it felt like to see, up close, the vertical red rock walls that sprouted from the Crooked River Canyon that had defined so many US climbing legends.  

Besides the climbing there is plenty of walking and hiking here, from a leisurely, level stroll around the front ‘face’ of Smith Rock, where you can watch climbers, through to a zig-zagging track, amusingly dubbed the Misery Ridge Loop Trail, that climbs up high for some great views over the park. That had been the first highlight of me reaching the Bend region, and along with seeing all those adventure vehicles trundling around town, and the sheer variety of restaurants and breweries, plus the numerous bike shops and outdoor stores and outfitters (guides), made for a fantastic welcome to Central Oregon. The party, though, had only just started.

Ride to the clouds

I couldn’t see. Well, only just, and not due to any accident; just my serious lack of fitness that, coinciding with a more serious request for physical exertion, had led to my cycling glasses fogging up. I was grinding up a narrow dirt track on a mountain bike, fully laden with bikepacking gear (tent, sleeping gear, food, camera, one can of beer). I was following in the tyre tracks of Cog Wild Guide, Skyler Kenner, and had been since we left the trailhead at Tumalo Falls, winding our way up Northfork Trail on the first day of our overnight bikepacking trip.

I had spent the previous afternoon with Cog Wild owner Lev Stryker, chatting to him about the huge MTB scene in Bend – and its correspondingly immense trail network – before sourcing a bike from the team at Crow’s Feet Commons, a Bend bike store, that had been organised by Kristine. Lev had suggested the ride up along Northfork as it was one of the most picturesque rides near Bend. He wasn’t wrong; even though it was hard yards up Northfork Trail (we estimated our bikes to weigh around 22kg), the trail itself ran beside the North Fork of Tumalo Creek, and there were plenty of ride-stopping waterfalls along the way. In short, it was bloody beautiful. 

The 1000-metre ascent was never too steep in any one place, either, rather a gradual climb (with plenty of those waterfall stops) up to a junction at Happy Valley where the thick forest separated before a wide clearing, complete with babbling brook running through it. It made the slightly thinner air (around 1800 meters – a long way up for this sea-level dweller) I had to breathe worth it to be able to sit beside the running water and scoff lunch. 

We continued ascending, joining a couple of fire-roads (the 382 and then the 370) that entailed a few creek crossings (and a traverse of some snow) before finding the near-perfect campsite beside Broken Top Crater Creek. Surrounding us were a number of mountains, including Broken Top itself, along with Mt Bachelor and the Three Sisters (North, Middle and South). It was awesome country and, after that hard graft, was worthy of a small celebration that we’d allowed for when we packed our one beer can each. The beer was only topped by the evening sitting beside a warm campfire, before retiring to our tents – or, in Skyler’s case, his sleeping bag beside the fire. Sipping the beer with flames dancing in my eyes, I thought, how can it get any better? I should have thought harder.

Down to the river

Mountain biking is all about the downs and the return journey from our lofty camp was just that: an awesome 28km-long descent. I had to leave Bend by midday, so it was an early start. After re-tracing our route along part of the 370 fire-road, we tackled a short section of Metolius-Windigo Trail, before joining the 18km-long Mrazek. To say this would be the best trail I have ever ridden is no lie; with its combo of flowy, winding singletrack, interspersed with occasional small technical sections, and the continual descent, I wanted it go on forever. It was a sad moment when we eventually arrived back at Shevlin Park, for our pick-up and return to the Cog Wild office. Even sadder was the fact that, once I was showered and downed some lunch back in town, I had to scoot again. This time, south.

From the high mountains of Bend it’s only a couple of hours’ drive toward southern Oregon and another state wonder: Crater Lake National Park. The crater itself is the result of a massive volcanic eruption around 7500 years ago that resulted in a crater – and subsequent lake – that is 660 metres in depth. It’s an amazing sight. 

From the lake, my destination was the pretty Steamboat Inn, on the even more picturesque North Umpqua River. This was a great example of getting there being half the fun; the final hour of driving through the densely forested valleys of the Umpqua National Forest, was beautiful – and enticing, knowing that the famous North Umpqua Trail – an IMBA certified Gold Trail – shadows the highway. I added it to my already overflowing return trip itinerary. Matching the beauty of the surrounding landscape was the location of the inn itself, right on a bend of the North Umpqua River, and smack-bang in the middle of the 50km fly-fishing only section of the river. Here, anglers quest for the feisty ‘steelhead’ – a sea-going trout that can weigh between eight to 15 pounds – and practice catch and release. The inner angler in me itched to give it a crack but time was ticking and I had different waters to explore so, after a magic dinner and sleep in a cabin above the roaring river, it was back in the car the next morning .The coast was calling.

Southern comfort

I grew up on the far south coast of NSW – a region filled with fishing, farming and timber towns that offered a growing child the best natural playground you could ask for. Arriving in Bandon, on the Oregon south coast, after travelling along the oh-so-perfectly named Highway of Waterfalls, it felt just like home – in every good way possible. The town itself is nestled right on coast, abutting the Pacific Ocean. Surrounding it is a mix of hikes – including the excellent Oregon Coast Trail – and a number of mountain biking experiences, such as the Whiskey Run Mountain Bike Trail. This ‘trail’ actually comprises a network of nine trails, suited to riders from beginner through to advanced. How good are they? You’d have to ask the family I met at the trailhead who were from Colorado (itself a mountain biking icon). For them, it was the best trail network they’d ridden. ’Nuff said…

Besides the on-ground adventure, the south coast is, as you’d expect, packed with water-based activities, whether you prefer flatwater canoeing or ocean kayaking. Myself and Katera Woodbrige, Sales and Marketing for the Oregon Coast Visitors Association, had met up the day before, with Katera showing me some of the coastal walking on offer here. The beaches south of Bandon are vast and wide, with rugged rock formations, akin to castle turrets, dotting the water offshore. We also scored – randomly – a magical sunset boat cruise with Brian Kraynik of Coos Boat Tours, followed the next morning by a half-day kayak tour with Dave Lacey of South Coast Tours.

Exploring by kayak is one of the best ways to get close to both the coastline and also wild marine life, and this morning’s paddle out of Port Orford became proof of that. This part of the coast is dotted with small coves and broken off cliffs that now stand remote from the mainland, being slowly worn down by the power of the Pacific.

We’d not long got past the small breakers when Dave called out that he had spotted what he thought looked like a grey whale feeding – and it was, only about 100 metres from us. The luck with wildlife continued once we rounded Orford Heads with groups of harbour seals lounging around on rocks, and a number of sea birds flying over us. The picture-perfect morning had transformed into a day of the same ilk and it was with much regret that we turned around for home. And speaking of home, this was my last full day in Oregon, although there was still time – just – for a final sign-off.

The end. For now…

The streets were barricaded off, the band was getting louder and, in tandem, the crowd’s mood was becoming more buoyant, with smiles growing bigger by the minute. Oh, and my stomach was getting fuller which, yeah, I can explain. 

I was in a restaurant in Florence, another beautiful coastal town a couple of hours north of Bandon. I was enjoying the sweetest crab-meat patties I had ever eaten, tired but exhilarated after a full last day, and trying to recount every detail of my fast-blast Oregon road trip to a patient Meg Trendler, Tourism Sales Manager for Eugene, Cascades & Coast. And it wasn’t easy; I had so much to tell Meg about, from my unfortunate delayed-flight start, through the epic that was Oakridge, then onto Bend and the sublime south coast. Even the final road leg from Port Orford to Florence was filled with a veritable conga-line of adventure opportunities, with everything from dune buggy driving and horse riding tours, to more mountain biking and hiking.

Every time I recounted something memorable, Meg would add “there’s also this…” and my mental Oregon bucket list would expand, as would the shaking of my head as I tried to figure out how I thought a week in this state would be anywhere near enough. Still, between the two of us, our stories and ideas, I did come to realise the other reason the people outside were smiling so much: they live here – in Oregon – and can, if they wish, tackle a new adventure every single day. Not a bad place to live the life…

The author was a guest of Travel Oregon.

The post This could be heaven: Seven days of adventure in Oregon, USA appeared first on Australian Geographic.

They belong to the Pteropus genus and are Australia’s largest flying mammals.

All flying-foxes are social animals that roost in large, noisy camps.

They can travel up to 500km in a 48-hour period in search of food, including introduced fruits – pollinating flowering plants and dispersing seeds.

Since European settlement, Australia’s flying-fox species have been subjected to dispersal attempts, demonisation, and acts of cruelty.

Habitat loss and animal-control actions labelled as “pest management” have contributed to a heavy decline in populations. Climate change and extreme heat events are other significant factors affecting their ongoing survival.

Related: Saving our bat babies

Australia’s five flying-fox species:

Spectacled flying-fox (Pteropus conspicillatus)

Spectacled flying-foxes occur on Cape York Peninsula’s eastern coast in northern Queensland. The name comes from the distinctive markings around their eyes.

These flying-foxes are endangered under the Environment Protection and Biodiversity Conservation Act 1999 (EPBC Act). Their diet consists of rainforest fruits and the nectar and pollen of eucalypt blossoms.

Christmas Island flying-fox (Pteropus natalis)

Christmas Island flying-foxes are believed to be the last native mammal found on Christmas Island (not shown on above map), an Australian territory west of the mainland.

This bat has been heavily impacted by feral species, notably cats and yellow crazy ants, and is listed as critically endangered under the EPBC Act. The population has been reduced to two main camps.

Unusually, this species is sometimes active in the day and can forage for food in the mid-afternoon due to a lack of predators.

Related: The Christmas Island flying fox is a rare sun-seeker

Grey-headed flying-fox (Pteropus poliocephalus)

Grey-headed flying-foxes are typically found close to Australia’s south-eastern coastline, from central Queensland down to Adelaide. The species is listed as vulnerable under the EPBC Act and is found across a number of habitats, including forests, woodlands, intertidal mangroves and urban areas. Grey-headed flying-foxes eat the nectar and pollen of flowering native trees, including banksia, melaleuca and eucalypts.

Related: ‘They’re in trouble’: photograph reveals struggle of Australia’s flying foxes

Little red flying-fox (Pteropus scapulatus)

Little red flying-foxes have the widest distribution of all Australia’s flying-fox species, being found across all mainland states except SA. It also travels the furthest, notably across central Queensland and NSW.

The little red flying-fox is Australia’s smallest flying-fox species, with adults weighing 300–600g.

Nectar and pollen from eucalypt and melaleuca blossoms make up the bulk of the species’ diet, but these bats have been known to eat from orchards when food is limited. It’s not listed under the EPBC Act. 

Black flying-fox (Pteropus alecto)

Black flying-foxes live in woodlands and tropical and subtropical forests across Australia’s northern and eastern coastline.

The species’ distribution stretches from Shark Bay in WA to Booyong, near Lismore in northern NSW and as far south as the ACT, and it’s also found in New Guinea and Indonesia.

The black flying-fox is not listed under the EPBC Act. 

The post A guide to the flying-foxes of Australia appeared first on Australian Geographic.

In a paper published in Publications of the Astronomical Society of Australia, the researchers demonstrate the Huntsman’s ability to accurately measure stars, satellites and other targets when the Sun is high overhead, despite astronomers traditionally only observing at night.

“People have tried observing stars and satellites in optical wavelengths during the day for centuries, but it has been very difficult to do. Our tests show the Huntsman can achieve remarkable results in daylight hours,” says lead author and astrophysics PhD candidate Sarah Caddy, who helped design and build the Huntsman Telescope.

Ms Caddy worked with a team of PhD students and staff at Macquarie to deploy the Huntsman, which celebrated its official opening at Siding Springs Observatory in Coonabarabran last year.

The telescope combines an astronomy camera and astro-mechanical focusing equipment with an array of 10 highly sensitive 400mm Canon lenses, oriented to cover the same patch of sky.

Because the sun floods out most light from other celestial objects, astronomers rarely observe during the day, but Ms Caddy and her colleagues trialled special ‘broadband’ filters on a test version of the Huntsman telescope to block most daylight while still allowing specific wavelengths from celestial objects to pass through.

This test version, a mini-Huntsman single-lens pathfinder telescope installed at the University’s observatory, allowed the research team to assess various settings in a controlled environment without affecting the Huntsman telescope.

Supernova approaching

The Huntsman’s daytime capability allows continual monitoring of certain bright stars that can be unobservable at night for months at a time because they are too close to the Sun.

One example is the red supergiant Betelgeuse, a nearby star around 650 light-years away in the Orion constellation in our Milky Way galaxy.

Betelgeuse is of great interest to astronomers since the star dimmed substantially from late 2019 through 2020, likely due to a major ejection of gas and dust.

“Without this daytime mode, we’d have no idea if one of the brightest stars in the sky has gone supernova until a few months after its explosive light reached Earth,” says co-author Associate Professor Lee Spitler, Head of Space Projects at Macquarie’s Australian Astronomical Optics (AAO).

“We know Betelgeuse will blow up ‘soon’ [in astronomical terms this means anytime between now and millions of years into the future], but not exactly when it will happen.

“For about four months of the year, it’s only observable during the daytime because the Sun gets between Betelgeuse and the Earth at this time.”

Calibrating with Betelgeuse

The study confirmed the Huntsman’s daytime photometry data for Betelgeuse tallies with observations from observatories around the world, and even with space telescopes.

“This breakthrough paves the way for uninterrupted, long-term studies of stars like Betelgeuse as they undergo powerful eruptions near their end of life, expelling massive amounts of stellar material in the final stages of the cosmic cycle of rebirth,” says Associate Professor Spitler.

“Astronomers love when stars in the Milky Way go supernova because it can tell us so much about how elements are created in the universe.”

Unfortunately, he adds, supernova in the Milky Way are relatively rare – the last time it happened was in 1604.

“But when a supernova went off in a mini-galaxy next to our Milky Way galaxy in 1987, this was so useful for astronomers that they still observe the expanding supernova explosion almost 40 years later.”

Preventing collisions

Mastering daytime observation also delivers a big advantage in the rapidly expanding field of space situational awareness (SSA), which is the close monitoring of an ever-growing population of satellites, space debris and other artificial objects orbiting Earth.

More satellites will be launched in the next 10 years than in the entire history of human space exploration.

“With around 10,000 active satellites already circulating the planet and plans to launch a further 50,000 low Earth orbit satellites in the next decade, there’s a clear need for dedicated day and night telescope networks to continually detect and track satellites,” says Ms Caddy.

Potential satellite collisions have grave implications for communications, GPS, weather monitoring and other critical infrastructure.

Satellite photometry – an astronomy technique using optical telescopes to study changes in the brightness of celestial objects – can reveal valuable information, including the composition, age and condition of orbiting objects.

“Opening up to daytime observation of satellites allows us to monitor not just where they are, but also their orientation, and adds to the information we get from radar and other monitoring methods, protecting against potential collisions,” Ms Caddy says.

Astro treats

Ms Caddy’s team demonstrated the Huntsman’s potential for other astronomy observations requiring day and night coverage, including monitoring satellites.

The team used the mini-Huntsman to refine techniques over many months, systematically investigating such factors as optimal exposure times, observation timing and precise tracking of targets even through atmospheric turbulence.

“Daytime astronomy is an exciting field, and with advances in camera sensors, filters and other technologies, we saw dramatic improvements in the sensitivity and precision achievable under bright-sky conditions,” says Ms Caddy.

Adds Associate Professor Spitler: “We’ve refined a methodology for daytime observing and demonstrated it can be done on affordable, high-end equipment like the Canon lenses.”

The Huntsman has been constructed so the 10 lenses work in parallel, feeding 10 ultra-fast CMOS camera sensors that together can take thousands of short-exposure images per second.

The attached camera can process images and manage very large data streams in an instant, using robotic control to track and capture fast-moving objects, and delivering continuous 24-hour monitoring of objects.

“Being able to do accurate, round-the-clock observations shatters longstanding restrictions on when astronomers can scan the heavens,” says Associate Professor Spitler.

“Daytime astronomy will be increasingly critical as we enter the next Space Age.”

Associate Professor Lee Spitler is from the Australian Astronomical Optics and Astrophysics and Space Technologies Research Centre.

This article was first published on The Lighthouse – Macquarie University’s multi-media publishing platform – and republished here with permission.

Related: Spider eyes on the skies: Australia’s Huntsman Telescope

The post Stargazing in broad daylight appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Members of Aboriginal communities are warned that this story may contain images and names of deceased people.

Thomas Watson had an “awesome childhood” growing up in Katherine, in the Northern Territory, but being away from his ancestral home in Queensland, he always longed to connect with his family’s culture. “I always knew I was Aboriginal and have been proud of it, but there was missing knowledge and a hole that I felt I needed to fill.”

Born in Melbourne, Thomas spent most of his childhood in the NT because his grandmother moved there in her twenties.

“At two-and-a-half-months old, my grandmother and her twin sister were moved to St Joseph’s Home, Neerkol, because their mother was unable to support them. Their mother was a domestic servant, and their father was a stockman, so they were incredibly poor. They were able to see their parents on occasion, but my grandmother has very little memory of her mother, which is really sad,” Thomas said.

“Because of all the policies, restrictions and general treatment of Aboriginal people and our culture and languages at that time, my nan was never taught anything about our culture, and therefore neither were we. My grandmother couldn’t even remember the name of our mobs.”

It wasn’t until he started university that Thomas caught a proper glimpse of his ancestry.

At the start of his Bachelor of Health Science and Bachelor of Applied Science (Osteopathy) at RMIT University, Thomas participated in Gama-dji, an orientation week for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students. He took a seat at random, and during an icebreaker activity, the students started talking about their families. Thomas met someone whose last name was White – his grandmother’s maiden name.

“We found out that her great-grandfather is my great-grandfather’s brother,” Thomas said. “And so that is how I discovered that my family is Gangulu. I finally had a mob that I could say I belonged to, which was very special. I had a bit of a cry over that.”

Armed with this new information, Thomas – then 21 years old – prepared for a family reunion, purchasing a GoPro and a notebook to record everything he could learn about his culture when he returned to Country. However, upon arrival, Thomas discovered he couldn’t learn his language as nobody spoke it anymore.

“That experience lit the fire in my belly because I didn’t want to accept that my language wasn’t there anymore,” Thomas said. “I was so excited to learn it, and then it no longer being there didn’t sit right with me.”

Rediscovering what was once lost

At the time of European colonisation, about 250 distinct First Nations languages were spoken across Australia. Approximately 150 languages are still actively spoken, with only 14 considered strong. Around 110 languages are considered severely or critically endangered, according to the National Indigenous Australians Agency.

Languages that no longer have native speakers – that is, no one who learned it as a child – are often described as being “extinct”. Thomas, however, prefers the term “sleeping language”, which has an important distinction – a sleeping language can be reawakened.

Refusing to give up on his language, Thomas started his research where every young adult does – with a Google search on his phone.

“I started by searching for the name of my mob on the internet,” Thomas said. “I clicked on every link and tried to work my way through the menus of all these different websites and resources until I came across a word list or a book.

“Initially, I was trying to find anything, but as I began learning more, I could search for more specific things.”

Related: Speaking up

Throughout his investigation, Thomas repeatedly came across references to the book Linguistic Survey of South-Eastern Queensland. It was written by a Swedish linguist named Nils Holmer, who conducted fieldwork on languages from Queensland, northern New South Wales and the Torres Strait during the 1960s–70s.

Many other linguists critiqued Holmer’s publication, believing it did not provide sufficient evidence to support his observations. “They were effectively saying that they didn’t trust his publication, but this could be solved with the original notes, or what they call a ‘corpus’,” Thomas said. “So, that got me thinking, ‘Where is this guy’s corpus?’”

At this time, Thomas was working with linguist Andrew Tanner from Living Languages, an organisation supporting Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in their efforts to preserve and grow their languages. The pair would meet each week to do language revitalisation work, their efforts now set on finding Holmer’s corpus.

One day, while researching, the pair emailed Claire Bowern, an Australian linguist currently working at Yale Linguistics, who knows Nils Holmer’s son, Arthur, a linguistics professor at Lund University in Sweden.

“They had a conversation 20 years ago, and she recalled that he said he had a collection of his father’s work sitting in his attic, but he’d never looked at it before. We thought that maybe if he had all this stuff he had never looked at, the corpus we were after could be there.”

The only problem was this collection was halfway around the world. Thomas and Andrew contacted Arthur and asked if he knew anything about the corpus they sought.

Initially, Arthur said no, but after a week, Thomas received an email with 12 scanned notebooks of Holmer’s original works. A week later, 14 more notebooks and six audio tapes appeared in Thomas’ inbox.

“Each of the 26 manuscripts – the field notebooks – are handwritten, and they contain languages from northern New South Wales, all of Queensland and up to Torres Strait,” Thomas said. “Seven of them were significant to me and my work in my language.”

Each notebook had around 160 handwritten pages on First Nations languages, meaning Thomas now had around 2660 pages worth of content to sift through.

Putting the pieces together

Thomas shifted from his career as a health professional and applied to become an Industry Fellow for Indigenous Language at the University of Melbourne, where he currently works part time on a grant for his language studies.

He is working for a platform called Nyingarn, an online database that makes manuscript sources of Australian Indigenous languages available as searchable and reusable text documents to support language revitalisation.

Thomas transcribed all seven Holmer notebooks about the Gangulu language.

“Now, using all the information I have collected over the years, me and a small team are writing the first Gangulu dictionary and learners guide,” Thomas said. “My greater goal is to bring back Gangulu, my language, and I want to speak it fluently.”

The awakened language will inevitably differ slightly from the original one, as Thomas and his team make judgements to the best of their knowledge and take inspiration from other local languages that are part of the same language family as Gangulu.

Because the language stopped being spoken around the 1970s, some words must be ‘invented’ to fill the dictionary with modern phrases. The primary ways of introducing new words to the dictionary is by adapting English words using the Gangulu phonetic system, or using the same process that other languages in Australia use to make words in their own languages that don’t draw any inspiration from English.

“A common one we already use is the word for car,” Thomas said. We say ‘murraga’, which is a phonetic take on ‘motor car’. When said in a sentence, you hardly even realise that it is technically an English word.”

Another word Thomas and his team have created is ‘dibi’ which means television, and is a phonetic play on ‘TV’.

Related: Mapping Indigenous language across Australia

Speaking to the future

Having his language back is extraordinarily special for Thomas, and he hopes that when he has finished the key work on Gangulu, he can start looking into other sleeping languages documented in Nils Holmer’s further 19 notebooks.

“Once this learners’ guide dictionary is complete, we’ll move straight onto making a new, updated version because we’re still coming across and trying to figure out the language as we go,” Thomas said. “Then, when we bring back Gangulu, we can use that to revive other languages from around us.

“When you start to come across language materials and word lists, you realise all the puzzle pieces are here. We just need to put them back together again.”

Thomas also emphasises the need for the current generation to take the initiative to learn about their Indigenous culture before it is too late.

“We are at a critical point where we must be passionate about and willing to uncover this stuff because otherwise when our Elders pass away, that knowledge will be gone forever.”

There is much hope for reawakening sleeping First Nations languages, and Thomas has proven that it is possible.

“I can now string together sentences off the top of my head, and although my grandmother can’t speak the language and doesn’t necessarily understand what I’m saying, I can see that she’s so excited when I talk to her in our language.

“It will take a little while, probably a couple of generations, but hopefully, by the time I have grandkids, they will be speaking Gangulu, too.”

The post Awakening a sleeping language appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Indeed, many people assume Earth is closer to the Sun in summer than in winter. As it happens, this is true during summer in the southern hemisphere, but it can’t also be true for summer in the northern hemisphere.

Related: Running rings around galaxies

In the southern hemisphere, Earth is five million kilometres closer to the Sun in summer than in winter, but it’s the reverse in the northern hemisphere. The average Earth–Sun distance is 150 million kilometres, and the main reason for the seasons is Earth is tilted so each pole is sometimes pointing more toward the Sun and sometimes more away from it.

So Earth’s orbit only has a relatively tiny deviation from perfect circularity. But why is it so often shown as practically an egg shape? And how can we visualise the real situation?

Consider the bike wheel

In order to try to understand myself how circular the orbit of the Earth was and other planets, I decided to compare the shape of Earth’s orbit to an ordinary 26-inch bike wheel by scaling down the real dimensions to fit – and consulting my local bike shop about what the deviations would mean for a real wheel. I was very surprised at the result.

The orbit was far closer to a perfect circle than I had previously thought. If the orbit were a 26-inch (660.4mm) bicycle wheel the deviation from a perfect circle would be less than 0.1mm. That’s comparable to a thin coat of paint – essentially indistinguishable from a perfect circle to the naked eye.

I looked at the other planets, too. The orbits of Venus and Neptune are even closer to perfect circles, with the orbit of Venus deviating only 14μm (a μm or micrometre is a millionth of a metre) and Neptune 31μm.

The planets with the least circular orbits are Mars and Mercury. If the orbit of Mars were a 26-inch bike wheel it would be out by just less than 3mm – hardly noticeable if you were riding a bike with a wheel out of true by this amount.

Mercury has the least circular of the orbits, with a deviation of 14mm, although this is still only 2 per cent.

If you have a bike, chances are its wheels are not even as circular as Mars’s orbit. If you’ve had a decent collision with a curb or rock, your front wheel might even be less circular than the orbit of Mercury.

A tiny deviation

Mathematically minded readers might have a question after reading the above: if Earth is on average 150 million kilometres from the Sun, and this distance varies by five million kilometres over the course of a year, shouldn’t the deviation in its orbit be a little over 3 per cent?

The answer to this question is the Sun is not at the centre of the ellipse but offset to one side as a point called the focus. If during formation, a planet travelled at just the right speed to counteract gravity it would travel in a circle.

However, in the real universe planets rarely go at just the right speed for a circle. Sometimes they travel a bit faster and sometimes slower, which can only be achieved with an elliptical orbit.

Coming full circle

Thousands of years ago, the ancient Greeks believed all celestial objects orbited around the Earth, travelling in perfect circles.

This idea held sway for about 1,500 years, until Polish astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus (1473 –1543) realised the planets (including Earth) actually orbited around the Sun.

Copernicus thought the orbits were circular. Later, German astronomer and mathematician Johannes Kepler (1571–1630) realised he was wrong and came up with the three laws of planetary motion.

Related: What is a solar eclipse?

The first law is the orbits of the planets are elliptical and not circular. The third law links the size of a planet’s orbit to the amount of time it takes in a way that’s a bit too complicated for us to get into here.

The second law is that, if you draw line from the Sun to any given planet, the line will sweep out equal areas in equal amounts of time as the planet moves. Think of pizza – a narrow wedge of a large pizza can have the same area as a wide wedge of a small pizza. This happens because planets move faster when they are closer to the Sun.

The main reason why orbits are drawn as ellipses in textbooks is to demonstrate Kepler’s second law. If the orbit of the Earth was drawn as shown in the correctly scaled diagram it would be impossible to see any difference in the wedges.

However, this can give the impression the orbit of the Earth is far more elliptical than it actually is. Such diagrams are not actually wrong – they are an exaggeration, a kind of mathematical caricature that emphasises an important feature.

Although the ancient Greeks were wrong about the Earth being at the centre of the solar system they were not far wrong about the orbits of the planets. So, if you’ll excuse the pun, we have come full circle.

Stephen Hughes, Honorary Senior Lecturer, School of Mathematics and Physics & UQ College, The University of Queensland

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post What your school textbook didn’t tell you about the Earth’s orbit appeared first on Australian Geographic.

If you were wading ashore in Australia in 1788 and walked into the forest, what would this forest have looked like? Would it have been an easy stroll because the forest was open and park-like with widely spaced trees and grassy ground cover? Or would the forest have been characterised by closely spaced tall trees and a dense, wet understorey of tree ferns and other mesic plants?

There has been much debate about the state of tall, wet forests when the British first arrived in Australia. This matters for several reasons.

First, the condition of forests 236 years ago is linked to how they were managed by First Nations people. An open and park-like forest would develop if it was subject to repeated, low-intensity cultural burns and “farmed” by First Nations people. Conversely, in the absence of repeated fire and farming, the forest would be dense and wet with many large trees.

Second, understanding what forests were like when the British first arrived provides crucial insights into how best to repair these ecosystems to their “natural state” and conserve the species dependent upon them.

My research team assembled different kinds of evidence to determine what tall, wet forests dominated by mountain ash – the world’s tallest flowering plant – were like 236 years ago.

We checked diaries of early British expeditioners such as Paul Edmund de Strzelecki, Hamilton Hume and William Hovell, and examined early paintings, photographs and the testimonies of First Nations Elders. We also compiled evidence from carbon dating, dendrochronology (the study of tree rings) and pollen cores taken from swamps and wetlands.

Finally, we assembled information on the basic biology and ecology of mountain ash and the other plants and animals found in these tall, wet forests. Our particular focus was on the mountain ash forests of Victoria’s Central Highlands, but our findings are highly likely to be relevant to other kinds of tall, wet forests elsewhere in eastern Australia.

The diaries, testimonies, paintings, photographs and ecological information all contained consistent evidence that tall, wet mountain ash forests were not open and park-like at the time of colonisation. These forests were not subjected to repeated and widespread cultural burning, nor was there any indication they were farmed by First Nations people.

Rather, the dense, wet condition of these forests is the natural state of mountain ash ecosystems. Bushfires did occur in mountain ash forests but were rare. Aboriginal people ventured into the forests to collect lyrebird feathers, harvest the pith of tree ferns and gather roots and leaves of key plants.

The forests also featured a number of sites of great cultural significance and contained pathways to helped facilitate journeys to the High Country to feast on bogong moths, for example.

Because the natural state of mountain ash forest is dense and wet, management activities such as repeated fires are inappropriate.

Thinning these forests could make them more fire-prone, generate more greenhouse gas emissions and destroy habitat for wildlife, including the critically endangered Leadbeater’s possum.

The management for mountain ash forests is to leave them alone. Let them mature and recover from the almost 120 years of logging that has dreadfully degraded them.

The post OPINION: The real natural history of our tall, wet forests appeared first on Australian Geographic.

BirdLife Australia’s Migratory Shorebird Conservation Action Plan identifies lack of awareness as a major threat to migratory shorebirds during their time in Australia. One of the biggest obstacles faced by shorebird conservation is that of capturing the attention of people long enough to effectively communicate why shorebirds and their habitats are worth protecting.

In 2016, Amellia came up with the idea for Wing Threads: Flight Around Oz to directly address this lack of awareness. “I could see that pursuing a flying adventure as a science educator had the potential to engage an audience unfamiliar with shorebirds and provide a platform from which to target educators and schools to incorporate shorebirds in their curriculum. While not everyone cares about shorebirds, most people are excited by stories of people pursuing their dreams of adventure,” says Amellia.

 Image credits: courtesy Amellia Formby

It took six years of flight training before Amellia was ready to embark on her journey. She left from White Gum Farm near Perth in June 2022. By flying a microlight, Amelia wanted to experience what it’s like to be a bird for herself and by sharing that bird’s eye view, spark empathy for the birds among those following her adventure.

“My aircraft has an open cockpit and is exposed to the elements just like a bird. It’s physical to fly, just like flapping your wings would be, and travels at a cruise speed of about 55 knots – not much faster than what shorebirds fly on migration,” says Amelia.  “As part of the trip, I visited 105 primary schools and spoke to 6550 students in urban, regional and remote parts of the country to promote stewardship of migratory shorebirds and their wetland habitats in collaboration with BirdLife Australia.”

The entire flight was 14,000km completed in 160 hours over 59 flight legs, which Amelia did over 12 months with ground crew support in the form of volunteers all around the country. Each flight leg covered 90-200 nautical miles, taking between 2-3.5 hours.

“In the end, it took 12 months to do what a bar-tailed godwit can do flying non-stop from Alaska to New Zealand in just 9 days!” she says. “It’s given me new appreciation for what these incredible birds do, the challenges they face and their vulnerability with ever-growing encroachment on the places they live. Many thanks to all the generous donors and sponsors, including the Australian Geographic Society, who contributed to make this journey possible.”

Related: Australian Geographic Adventurer of the Year Awards 2024: Nominations now open!

The post AG Society update: Wingthreads mission complete appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The work was published this week in the journal Alcheringa.

The weird new species, dubbed the “echidnapus” (Opalios splendens), is just one of several remarkable creatures identified from a batch of previously overlooked fossils found in the Australian Museum in Sydney.

Also of note is evidence of a 100-million-year-old platypus that’s almost identical to the modern platypus, a species that was previously thought to have only arisen some 50 million years ago. It’s been assigned the new genus name of Dharragarra, which means platypus in the Gamilaraay, Yuwaalaraay and Yuwaalayaay languages of the First Nations people from the Lightning Ridge area of north-western New South Wales.

“There are a number of big takeaways from this work,” Tim told Australian Geographic. “One is that we hadn’t really suspected before that there was a period in Australia’s history where there was a great diversity of monotremes, [at a time] when there were no other mammals living on the continent.

“Today, Australia is known as a land of marsupials, but discovering these new fossils is the first indication that Australia was previously home to a diversity of monotremes. It’s like discovering a whole new civilisation.”

Monotremes are egg-laying mammals, and are only represented today by the echidna and the platypus. Most modern mammals, such as humans, are in the placental mammal group. Marsupials, which survive mostly in Australia and nearby islands, make up the third group of mammals.

Related: Discovery identifies Australia as birthplace of all modern mammals

This new work has now identified six monotreme genera surviving some 100 million years ago (mya), all roaming across the landmass that would ultimately become Australia.

The fossils have come from Lightning Ridge, which is well-known for its fish and reptile fossils.

“Lightning Ridge was then [100mya] at 60 degrees south, so it was a very polar environment,” Tim said. “The earliest monotremes we’ve got – which look like they are the beginning of the group – are about 126 million years old and are from southern Victoria.”

The “echidnapus” is just one of six remarkable monotremes identified to have been roaming 100 million years ago across the landmass that would ultimately become Australia.
Illustration credits: Peter Shouten

This new work shows that within 26 million years of when monotremes were thought to have arisen, the group was rapidly evolving.

“By 100mya the group had really started to diversify. We’ve got pig-sized species, rat-sized species, and everything in between – some terrestrial, some aquatic. There’s quite a diversity of types,” Tim explains.

It means that Australia experienced a kind of “Age of Monotremes” during the first part of the late Cretaceous, when dinosaurs ruled the Earth and placental mammals were lurking around in the form of tiny, shrew-like creatures. 

It’s a period referred to as the “Cenomanian” – the earliest age of the Late Cretaceous Epoch.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime discovery,” Tim said. “In all the time that people have been looking at fossils from Lightning Ridge, previously they’ve only found four jawbones of mammals, and here we have five new jawbones – so, more than double the number of specimens, which is hugely enlightening.”

“[These fossils] came to the museum and were then somehow lost – no-one took much notice of them or realised how important they were. Then between lockdowns there was a period when the museum was open and I went in and accessed a particular drawer and there were these amazing fossils – they were kind of like a Rosetta Stone to understanding the past.”

The Rosetta Stone is considered one of the British Museum’s most important objects because it holds the key to understanding Egyptian hieroglyphs.

The prestigious team, led by Tim, which has been crucial to unlocking the meaning of the recent Australian Museum find, includes Dr Tom Rich, Senior Curator of Vertebrate Palaeontology at Museums Victoria Research Institute; Professor Kris Helgen, the Australian Museum’s Chief Scientist and Director; Professor Patricia Vickers-Rich, Honorary Researcher at Museums Victoria Research Institute; Dr Matthew McCurry, a vertebrate palaeontologist and functional morphologist and palaeontologist; and Dr Elizabeth Smith, a palaeontologist, author and artist.

Related: Stunning breakthrough: the platypus and echidnas came from the South Pole

The post Is the “echidnapus” the Rosetta Stone of early mammal evolution? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Design

The Terrain Vista 3L Pro may seem like a ‘standard’ outer shell in appearance, but it includes a number of clever design cues underneath the 100-percent recycled body fabric’s Desert Rust exterior (other options are Black and Smoked Pearl – a grey). The Terrain Vista 3L Pro utilises TNF’s high-end DryVent 3L technology in a 70-denier (D) weight for optimum breathability, durability, and protection from the elements. DryVent differs from a membrane-based waterproof setup, instead using multi-layered fabric to stop water ingress, while adding a DWR (Durable Water Repellency) treatment to the outer side. 

The jacket is a standard fit and includes an adjustable hem (with internal cinch-cord and cord-lock), along with an adjustable, three-piece hood. This hood includes a bonded brim – anyone who has worn a jacket without a ‘stiff’ brim will know what we are talking about; there’s nothing worse than rainwater slamming your unprotected eyes when you’re trying to see where you’re going. The front zip is a wide, water-repellent VISLON® (injection-moulded plastic) jobbie, while the jacket ups the ‘tech’ a bit with pit-zips that assist ventilation. The two secure-zip hand pockets are bellowed, to allow for more stowage space, while the cuff tabs are adjustable. 

In the field with the Terrain Vista 3L Pro

We have now had the Terrain Vista 3L Pro for around five months and, after its initial testing during a wild, wet, and humid February, it’s been the go-to outer shell for other outdoor adventures through til June. In use, it has, simply, done the job it has been designed for, with minimal fuss. The aforementioned humidity saw the pit-zips called in to action early on in testing and we’ve utilised them quite often since then, as well. The ability to tweak ventilation easily is a big plus; the pit-zips are easy to reach and use (i.e., they are not too small for large hands to grab) when you need to do it quickly. Hood adjustments are another quick fix as/when necessary.

We found the outer fabric to be more than up to rough treatment (one tester, who will remain nameless, accidentally trod on the jacket on a track at one point and then dragged it with their foot a couple of steps – don’t ask…) and the amount of interior room has been welcome, too. Even with cooler conditions that have meant adding a mid-weight layer underneath, there is still plenty of ‘wiggle-room’, with the jacket never feeling too tight or restrictive.

One negative is the length of the jacket when combined with a lack of articulation – it is quite short for those with a longer torso. By this we mean that, when you’re reaching above your shoulders, arms raised, the jacket rides up quite high, leaving your lower back exposed to the conditions. I will add the caveat that two of our testers are longer torso types, and this is by no means a deal-breaker; it is just something for those who lean more toward that type of body-shape to be aware of.  

The final word on The North Face Terrain Vista 3L Pro Jacket

Outer shell jackets are a huge part of the outdoor retail scene. The North Face Terrain Vista 3L Pro Jacket is not the cheapest option, but its mix of essentials and extra features, along with the high quality of its manufacture, do make it a worthwhile purchase. 

The standout through our five months of testing has been the jacket’s breathability and robustness. The DryVent 3L tech is TNF’s high-end offering in regard to breathable fabric and having this available on a not-uber-expensive outer shell, is a big win in our eyes. Plus, we really like that colour. Check it out if you’re in the market. 

RRP: $450 See The North Face for more info on this and all other TNF apparel.

The post The North Face Terrain Vista 3L Pro Jacket: Tested appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Using the waterways as your trail allows for the luxury of carrying slightly more gear than backpacking – provided you pack smartly, with an eye on factors like balance. At the same time, the unforgiving nature of water also demands vigilance in keeping everything dry. 

With that in mind, here are 10 tips to help you get the most out of your next kayak camping adventure.

1. Pack smart, not large

Opt for multiple smaller waterproof bags instead of a few large ones. Small bags can be tucked into the nooks and crannies of your kayak, optimising space and keeping essentials within easy reach.

2. Balancing act: Distribute weight evenly

Equal weight distribution is crucial for maintaining the kayak’s stability and manoeuvrability. Pack heavier items like water and food in the centre of the kayak, close to your seat, and distribute the weight evenly from side to side. This balance is vital, especially when navigating through rougher waters or strong currents.

3. Waterproof everything

Water is a constant in kayak camping, so ensure that all items – especially clothing, bedding, and electronic devices – are stored in waterproof bags. Double-bag particularly vulnerable items to guard against water ingress, which can happen even with the best preparations.

4. Choose a compact tent

Space is at a premium in kayak camping. Choose a compact, lightweight tent specifically designed for backpacking. These tents are easier to pack and set up, and they usually come with a waterproof rating suitable for a wide range of weather conditions.

5. Get your sleep system right

A good night’s sleep can make or break any adventure. Invest in a good-quality, lightweight sleeping bag and a compact but comfortable sleeping mat. Consider the climate of your destination: a sleeping bag rated for the correct temperature and a mat that insulates you from the ground will make nights more comfortable and set you up for energetic days on the water.

6. Plan meals wisely

Pre-plan your meals to be filling, nutritious and easy to cook. Dehydrated packaged meals are excellent for saving space and reducing weight, but you can also consider simple, high-energy foods that require minimal preparation. You’ll likely want a small, reliable stove for heating up food and water. And keep in mind ways to minimise the waste you’ll generate (and must carry out with you!).

7. Water, water everywhere, but…

Always pack more water than you think you’ll need. Depending on where you’re paddling, water purification methods, such as tablets or a small filter, can reduce the amount of water you need to carry, allowing you to replenish from clean sources en route if available.

8. Keep safety gear within easy reach

Keep your safety gear, like your first aid kit, emergency communication device, head torch, knife, and waterproof matches, stowed in an easily accessible place. It’s also wise to have a float plan with someone back home, detailing your route and expected return.

9. Lighting and power

Pack a reliable head torch and, depending on the length and destination of your trip, consider a lightweight solar charger to keep electronic devices powered. These items are essential for navigation and emergency situations, especially when camping in remote areas.

10. Leave no trace

Adventuring in nature means being mindful of your environment, keeping wildlife undisturbed, and taking all your rubbish back with you. Your goal should be to leave your campsite as pristine as you found it, preserving the natural beauty for those who follow.

Bonus tip! go with the flow when kayak camping

When doing multi-day camping trips in remote locations, remember to allow the weather to dictate your itinerary to maximise comfort and safety. Be sure to plan your campsites ahead of time and consider back-up camping sites and exit plans in case of deteriorating weather conditions. Being flexible with your paddling itinerary ensures you will maximise your comfort, safety and experience.

Kayak camping is an adventure that rewards the prepared. With these tips, you’ll not only manage the practicalities of packing and paddling but also make the most of your adventure, taking you to unique places only accessible by water.

Toby Story is the Managing Director and Lead Guide at Southern Sea Ventures, which offers guided sea kayaking adventures around the globe, including many that are camping-based.

The post Paddle Pulse: Top 10 tips for kayak camping appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Daisy, a seven-year-old Italian water-dog from Zoos Victoria’s Wildlife Detection Dog Squad, was put to the test in a recent study comparing her ability to locate critically endangered tea-tree fingers (TTF) to that of highly skilled human surveyors.

The study, published in iScience in April 2024, revealed Daisy outperformed humans by detecting more TTF specimens in a shorter amount of time, while producing fewer false negatives in the process.

It’s the first time wildlife detection dogs have been used in fungi conservation.

Related: Bizarre mushrooms give Australian forests an otherworldly vibe

The fungus

Tea-tree fingers (Hypocreopsis amplectens) is a unique-looking fungus that resembles dark, chubby fingers clutching a piece of wood. The critically endangered species has been sighted in just six known locations in Victoria in the past decade, with populations varying from a single specimen to dozens.

Lead author Dr Michael Amor, from RGBV, describes TTF as a “very specialised species” that needs a precise recipe of environmental conditions in order to occur. This is partly because TTF is most likely a mycoparasite – a fungus that parasitises other fungi species.

“TTF obtains its food from another fungus,” Michael says. “That means the right plants have to be abundant to suit the wood-rotting host fungus.”

Host plants for TTF include flowering shrubs common in the region, such as prickly tea-tree (Leptospermum continentale), silky tea-tree (Leptospermum myrsinoides), prickly broom heath (Monotoca scoparia) and Yarra burgan (Kunzea leptospermoides), as well as other less-common species.

Michael says the presence of TTF in an area indicates the health of an environment. “TTF’s rarity speaks quite loudly about the degraded state of the entire east coastal ecosystem that we have in Victoria,” Michael says. “That means it’s incredibly vulnerable to the impacts that humans are having on the environment.”

It’s no coincidence that the largest-known population of TTF is found inside French Island National Park, about 60km south-east of Melbourne. It’s the only TTF population inside a national park, and the populations are healthier and more abundant compared to those seen on the mainland. 

“That’s a direct reflection of the habitat protection that are in place and the general health of the environment on French Island within that national park, compared to the relatively under-protected sites on the mainland,” Michael says.

Threats to TTF include urbanisation and habitat loss, sand mining and climate change. TTF’s small population size means a single extreme weather event such as a fire could wipe out an entire population.

“We also haven’t seen TTF anywhere there’s been fire in the past two decades,” Michael says. “So post-fire colonisation is very slow. That’s another thing to add to the list of what makes TTF so picky and potentially so rare.”

The fungus’s scarcity makes researching it a challenge – TTF remains a bit of an enigma to scientists. Researchers know certain types of moth larvae eat the fungus, for example, but are still speculating about the other animals that may feed on it.

“Things are eating it, potentially as a primary food source…but we don’t know if that’s helping or harming [the fungus],” Michael says. “It could be harmful if it’s removing the entire reproductive potential of that specimen, but it may be helping in that by doing that it’s ingesting all the fleshy material and helping to disperse the spores as it moves along. That’s a critical bit of information that would be very helpful for us to know.”

Related: Stinkhorns: the fungi that smell like rotting flesh on purpose

Call in the hounds

And that’s where wildlife detection dogs, like Daisy, come in. Italian water-dogs (also known as Lagotto Romagnolo) have historically been used to find truffles. Instead, Daisy was trained to detect TTF by her handler, Dr Nick Rutter, Zoos Victoria Wildlife Detection Dog Officer.

“All of Zoos Victoria’s wildlife detection dogs are trained to detect their target species using positive reinforcement, pairing the smell of the species with a reward,” Nick says. For some dogs, this might be a tennis ball or a tug toy, but Daisy is mostly motivated by praise, engagement and play. “During initial training, Daisy learnt that sniffing the unique odour of tea-tree fingers was exciting because it meant that she received lots of snacks, pats and cuddles from me.”

But sniffing out a mycoparasite is no easy feat; TTF’s sporing body is partially made from the tissue of its host, creating an “in-built scent contamination for Daisy to contend with,” says Michael. But Daisy proved capable of ignoring this host fungus.

“You can usually tell when Daisy has caught a whiff of TTF because she starts to get excited. Her happy tail wags, then her whole bum wiggles and her sniffing rate increases as she works to pinpoint the exact location of the fungus,” says Nick. “Once she’s confident she has found it, Daisy alerts by sitting and looking at me with a big grin on her face to let me know she’s found the special fungus and that it’s time for me to come over and have a party with her.”

Daisy’s skills extend beyond her nose. She’s able to move easily through fragile habitats and crawl through small gaps in vegetation without damaging the surrounding plants. “Daisy is a great TTF detection dog because she naturally moves carefully through fragile environments, she can search for a long time without giving up and she isn’t distracted by wildlife that we might come across while searching,” Nick says.

Related: Puff go the spores: this is what happens when you poke earthstar fungi

The post On the nose: wildlife detection dog successfully trained to find rare ‘finger’ fungus appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Bass Coast Rail Trail

Distance: 17km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

Victoria’s only coastal rail trail is a 90-minute drive from Melbourne and combines mild and wild coastal views with one of the country’s most spectacular trestle bridges and the ghosts of the coal-mining days that spawned the railway and the towns along it.

The ride connects Wonthaggi to the bus interchange at Anderson (there are plans to extend the trail to Woolamai) and can be cycled in either direction – most cyclists will end up riding it both ways, returning to their car, making a half-day of it; this ride is one of many family bike rides with potential for a packed picnic lunch along the way. At the Anderson end, it threads through the old Kilcunda coal-mining area – said to be among the oldest coal mines in Victoria – before reaching the coast at Kilcunda. It stays on the shores only briefly, but spectacularly. 

Standing high above Bourne Creek, as it flows out onto Kilcunda Surf Beach, is a 91m-long trestle bridge that is one of the most striking structures along any of Victoria’s rail trails. To get perspective on the bridge, park your bike and head down onto the beach.

The trail veers inland again beyond the bridge, passing behind the coastal dunes and the six turbines of the Wonthaggi Wind Farm. A corridor of bush encloses the trail as it cuts through farmland and crosses another small trestle bridge, before passing the abandoned McBride tunnel entrance, another reminder of the area’s mining past. It’s just a few metres off the trail, and worth a look.

The trail – hard-rolled earth until now – turns sealed as it makes the final approach into Wonthaggi, finishing beside the old railway station, built in 1912 and now reconfigured as the town museum.

Main Yarra Trail

Distance: 22km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

Here’s proof you don’t need to pack your bike up and travel hours into the countryside to get in some off-road riding. Melbourne’s Main Yarra Trail starts – or finishes depending on your perspective – at Southbank in the CBD and meanders alongside the river it is named after, through the Victorian capital’s north-eastern suburbs.

The other end of the trail is widely judged to be Westerfolds Park in Eltham, partially because it is a logical place to park a car. But it is possible to ride further east toward Warrandyte. The surface can vary from gravel singletrack to concrete walkway and the level of traffic on foot and two wheels can reflect the fact it navigates through the heart of one of our greatest cities.

Despite its urban location, it is certainly possible to feel you’re far from the madding crowd on the Yarra Trail. On an isolated section, I once disturbed a large snake that then surfed away over the surrounding bushes to escape me – not that I wanted to chase it! There is another section where you meander through trees on singletrack immediately below the Eastern Freeway. For all that, the good news is that being so close to civilisation means coffee and a feed is never far away!

Falls Creek Gravel

Distance: Varies  Grade: Easy to Intermediate  Bike: Gravel

This iconic Victorian ski resort is now equally famous for its bike riding, with not only its lauded mountain bike trail network to keep riders occupied but also plenty of gravel riding routes, along the many multi-use trails branching out from and surrounding the village.

For instance, the Pretty Valley Lake Return is a 19km round trip on gravel roads perfectly suited to families and beginners. It will take around about 90 minutes unless you choose to stop for a picnic – and why wouldn’t you! 

From there, the challenges escalate, with the famous Tour of the Top worth a day’s ride, whether you’re a gravel beginner or more serious touring rider. At ‘only’ 16.1km it still tests your climbing legs as you grind your way up from the village centre to the turn-around (and highest) point of the ride, Mt McKay, at 1833m. Here, you are rewarded with memorable views across valleys to other mountains and alpine ridgelines. Then, you have the fun of the return leg, which is primarily downhill, back to the village start point. It’s a great way to get your bearings if you’re staying in the village and an even greater way to get those legs and lungs warmed up for more trails. 

Lilydale to Warburton Rail Trail

Distance: 39km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Any

Skimming the edge of the Yarra Valley wine region and setting out from the eastern terminus of Melbourne’s suburban train network, this popular rail trail is a gentle journey from the city to the fringe of the High Country. The trail’s climbs are few, and the primary one is at the beginning as the trail departs Lilydale, ascending without any ferocity to Mt Evelyn, 130 vertical metres above Lilydale.

The scenery is rural rather than Riesling – the Yarra Valley’s vineyards are all but out of sight – and there are towns every few kilometres along the trail past Wandin North, though only Yarra Junction sits directly on its path (Seville, Seville East and Woori Yallock are reached on short detours), creating an unexpected sense of removal and space so near to Australia’s second-largest city.

The approach into Warburton, as the trail skirts the High Country foothills, is like a date with the valley’s creator. Here, the Yarra River flows beside the trail, looking like anything but the wide brown waterway of Melbourne lore as it pushes out of the hills.

East Gippsland Rail Trail

Distance: 97km  Grade: Easy  Bike: Gravel/MTB

Gippsland is the patriarch of rail trails in Australia, with almost a dozen of these converted railways zipping across the lush region. Prime among them is this ride between Bairnsdale and Orbost, following a century-old railway line through the forests and farmland that define this eastern end of Victoria. The railway remains a true presence along the ride, with a number of historic trestle bridges keeping the trail company.

From Howitt Park, on the bank of the Mitchell River at Bairnsdale’s edge, the trail (colloquially known as the Easy Gippy Rail Trail) sets out across the floodplain, running sealed to Nicholson (and unsealed for the rest of the trail beyond), with occasional views south to the Gippsland Lakes.

Leaving Nicholson across the old railway bridge over the Nicholson River, the East Gippsland Rail Trail takes a sudden turn north, heading into Bruthen. Thirty kilometres from Bairnsdale, Bruthen makes the perfect lunch stop.

Another railway bridge leads over the Tambo River, where the trail begins climbing towards its highest point (129m above sea level) at Colquhoun. Just before reaching the apex, there’s a junction with the Gippsland Lakes Discovery Trail, a secondary rail trail that detours 25km south into Lakes Entrance – if you want to add the lakes to the Gippsland cycling experience, head away here.

The descent from Colquhoun bottoms out at Stony Creek, beside the trail’s signature feature – the 276m-long, 19m-high Stony Creek Trestle Bridge. With its 27 spans, it’s the longest bridge of its type to be found in Victoria. There are more trestle bridges ahead, including the curved O’Grady’s Bridge at Wairewa (which was badly burned in bushfires in 2020).

Related: The best family bike rides in NSW and the ACT

The post The best family bike rides in Victoria appeared first on Australian Geographic.

A series of critical events relating to Indigenous rights, respect and recognition followed throughout the 1990s. In 1992 one of the most momentous was the handing down by the High Court of Australia of the Mabo decision, which ruled that, when Britain made its claim to this continent in 1770, Australia was not terra nullius – a land belonging to nobody. Indigenous peoples, the decision acknowledged, had lived in Australia for thousands of years and had rights to the land under their own laws and customs.

Within 12 months the Native Title Act 1993 was passed, paving the way for First Nations people to claim legal ownership of traditional lands. The Wik decision followed in 1996, confirming that native title rights and pastoral and leasehold tenures could coexist and, perhaps even more significantly, that native title could not be extinguished by pastoral leases.

At about the same time, in 1995, Australia’s Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission, under the request of the federal government, conducted The National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from their Families. The inquiry tabled its findings in Federal Parliament in 1997, in the landmark Bringing Them Home report, which addressed the institutionalised forced removal of First Nations children from their families throughout the 20th century, right up to the 1970s.

It was the first time this disturbing part of modern Australian history had been documented in a formal way, and the extent and nature of the practices it highlighted shocked many non-indigenous Australians.
The report made 54 recommendations aimed at redressing the impacts of the removal polices and the ongoing intergenerational trauma they’d caused. Among the recommendations was a national apology.

A year after the Bringing Them Home report was tabled, the first National Sorry Day was held on 26 May 1998, recalling the Stolen Generations as one of the most tragic and deeply emotional events in recent Australian history. It’s a day that’s been marked annually ever since, acknowledging the deep trauma suffered by generations of First Nations people who were forcibly removed from their families and communities under the sanction of misguided government-endorsed policies.

The Walk for Reconciliation came two years after the first Sorry Day, while the National Apology to Australia’s Indigenous peoples was formally offered in Federal Parliament on 13 February 2008, by prime minister Kevin Rudd, on behalf of the nation.

Related: Listening to the voices

The post Looking back at Australia’s largest political demonstration appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The strain was detected after an investigation into unexpected poultry deaths on the farm.

Agriculture Victoria released a statement saying the property has been placed into quarantine with a reported 400,000 birds being “depopulated”, and that staff are on the ground to support the business and investigate further.

“Movement controls are now in place to prevent any spread of avian influenza. This includes a Restricted Area covering a five-kilometre radius around the affected property and a broader Control Area buffer zone covering a zone off [sic] 20 kilometres around the affected property.

“The Control Area Order requires permits for the movement of poultry, poultry products and equipment on or off the properties in these areas. Penalties apply for those who do not follow these restrictions.”

What is bird flu?

Avian influenza is a viral infection most prevalent in birds. There are a variety of subtypes and strains, with strains classified as ‘low pathogenicity’ (LPAI) and ‘high pathogenicity’ (HPAI) in relation to poultry.

Professor Raina MacIntyre, Head of the Biosecurity Program at the Kirby Institute at the University of NSW, says the virus is typically spread by wild birds flying long distances on migratory routes. “It’s the waterfowl – which are ducks, swans and geese – that normally spread a highly pathogenic avian influenza. However, the waterfowl that originate in Asia, their flyways bypass Australia, which is why we’ve been spared some of the really bad outbreaks that other countries have had.”

Although an outbreak of an HPAI virus has never been detected among Australia’s wild birds, LPAI viruses are “part of the natural virus community of wild birds worldwide, including in Australia,” according to Wildlife Health Australia (WHA). The independent coordinating body reports almost all LPAI subtypes (H1-16, excluding H14) have been detected in Australian wild birds. LPAI viruses tend to be carried by wild birds with no apparent symptoms, and fatality from the virus has not been reported in Australia.

However, there are concerns native wildlife could be devastated if an HPAI virus outbreak were to occur in Australia, and with no way to prevent migratory birds from entering the continent, some researchers believe it will only be a matter of time before an outbreak will occur.

How concerning is H7N3?

Professor MacIntyre says the strain of bird flu detected in Victoria is highly infectious. “It’s highly pathogenic, which causes the birds to be very sick.”

“It’s a cause for concern because, obviously, any avian influenza outbreak in farmed poultry has an economic impact. Generally, you’ve got to cull the birds to control the outbreak, so there are significant losses for farmers, and of course, you don’t want it to spread,” says Professor MacIntyre.

“However, in the past, we’ve had about nine H7 outbreaks in poultry in Australia, and they’ve all been brought under control fairly quickly, usually through the culling of the birds.

“If it has got to the poultry, then yes, our native wildlife probably has been exposed to H7N3. There would have been exposure, but it hasn’t been apparent in the way that the H5N12.3.4.4B has been in the US and Europe. They’ve noticed wild animals dying.”

Past cases of HPAI virus in Australia