Night Shift

There is a massive bush fire prowling around the forests about 20 kilometres to the west of me. Every day, conditions change according to the wind direction or rain. Large tracts of karri, marri and jarrah country are in the conflagration and occasionally, while on tower, I'll see some black smoke go up, which usually means tea tree or some other kind of melaluca. I can smell the track of the fire in the smoke, as it moves through grass trees, karri forests and peat swamps. Fragrant, warm, dusty, acrid.

All roads into the area have been closed and Fire and Emergency Services have ordered traffic control people to block the roads with their cars.Traffic control do twelve hour shifts from 5 to 5, sitting in their cars all night or all day. The night before last, a traffic control crew were evacuated from the fire ground when the wind changed.

This whole experience has changed my thinking about traffic control: they are pretty much first responders but in a boring sense. Sitting in a car for twelve hours. No internet or phone range. Nothing to do but deter randoms from the fire ground.

This is a photo from one of those guys who saw the moon emerge from the clouds, with the lights from his truck illuminating the foreground.

Photo by Beer Garden Philosopher

 

 

The Night Heron

 In the massive old grandmother marri trees who loom over my house, a night heron roosts and feeds. They are shy birds and will often explode from the tree above my head as I walk underneath. The sensation can be alarming - like disturbing a colony of fruit bats in the far north - there is a mad flapping of wings and calls that sound like a child's shriek. 

Some years, I don't see them. But it's always weird to see a large water bird roosting in a tree, something surreal in the arboreal. They have feathers a distinct shade of cappuccino froth and a water bird's delicate, long, curved beak and this year there are many night herons.

Today I was wandering about and noticed the white bird droppings in the marri litter near the chopping block. And a flash of bright blue, some masticated shellfish. I looked up (didn't get a shit in the eye) and saw the night heron. The blue was the detritus of her meal. The claws and skulls of yabbies lay on the ground like a grotto graveyard. The leftovers from a day's feed, after spending the night hunting in the waters of the inlet.

 

Nope Ropes Are Woke. Who Knew?

 It is a fact universally acknowledged that a woman in receipt of tiger snakes will be in need of a quart of petrol to burn down her house just to spite them. These have been my thoughts over the years as every January and February, the tigers laid siege to my house. I'd shut all the doors and windows as two tigers (who were very much in love) roamed around the front and back verandahs, frolicking, deadly, obviously intent on murdering me and my loved ones.

It's an emotional and psychological event for me and I find myself in this state at this time of year - rustle-jumpy and only walking where my path is clear. Plus, the trek up to the fire tower every morning is often stalled by a basking tiger or dugite, powering up for the day on the sunny north face. Last year, the hound was trotting back from her jaunt down the beach, when a tiger extended from the wood pile like a slinky toy at her. Selkie just moved around the snake and kept going. For a consumate brawler, she picks her battles. But it was enough for me to ask my boss if I could do a snake handling course - demystify my fear and learn about these creatures.

So today a disparate group of wildlife workers and others (such as one terrified firetower lady) gathered at the Business Centre where we were taught venomous snake handling and relocation skills. It began with power point slides. It always begins with power point slides. Jurassic Park? Snakes on a Plane? Indiana Jones going into that snake pit? It all began with power point slides, I'll bet my bottom dollar on that.

Then we were encouraged to engage some super friendly pythons to crawl all over us. I could see where this was going. Feeling a python's muscles is just amazing, I mean they are all muscle, and their skin is soft like a child's. Pythons are a gateway drug to tiger snakes, I know that right. Then we went outside and played with some fake rubber snakes. Who even has fake rubber snakes. We learned about how to pick up a snake with a crook and put it in a willow bin or a bag or maybe even a bin fire (not really). 

Lunch break. I had a smoke out the back of the business centre with a spiritual healer who was doing readings there.

After lunch we were split into two groups, kind of like Squid Game. J let a tiger snake out her box and said, 'Who wants to go first?' She's called Lovely Lady, according to the label on the box, though she's probably a they as sexing snakes is quite difficult. Anyway, I was already shitting myself. As the beautiful animal slithered towards me her black and yellows flaring in the courtyard, the instructor gently 'raked' her away from me with his crook and focused on the catcher. I stepped back. But when it was my turn, the instructor lifted this snake into a bush. He seemed to like challenging me. 'What do I do now?' I asked. 'Drag it out?'

'Just wait,' he said. And so I did. The tiger worked her way down to the ground and I picked her up with the crook and put her into the willow bin where she nestled safely under a towel.

The next test - J let a king brown snake out. Oh my god this snake was the colour of the Pilbara, like pindan dirt, that beautiful mix of red and orange, a sunset. It came out of the box angry and twitchy. A woman in a red shirt walked through the courtyard, looking totally freaked out. She ran into the office, shut the sliding doors and stared at us through the glass.

The king brown was flattening like a cobra. It was probably one and a half metres long, bright orange and I was thinking 'yeah, nah. I'll pass this one'. But when it was my turn to bag this snake, something happened. The instructors' language was getting through to me. This is a timid creature. Sure it's not a wild creature. It's used for snake training after all. I put the tent-shaped bag in front of the snake. 'Trust,' said the instructor. 'Trust it will go in.' First, the king brown went past the bag and headed for my legs. Shelter apparently. And then it did. The snake slid into the bag. I held up the bag and felt the weight of this mighty snake slip to the bottom. Then I kind of froze. I looked at the instructor. 'I'm blanking!' I told him. I was sweating and quite stressed. 'What do I do next again?' and he reminded me how to close off the bag and then release the snake. Shake the bag, step back, shake the bag, step back and repeat.

The woman in the red shirt was still watching us from her office, eyes wide.

When we went indoors and learned how to deal with a snake inside a house, well that changed me. Food, water, shelter - what animal doesn't need that, including ourselves? As we chased the dugite under cupboards and around the room, I began to realise that snakes are vulnerable and they want to survive and they don't want to murder me. So basically, their whole life plan is to eat, live, grow babies and not murder Sarah. As I 'played' with this dugite with my new-found crooks and tong toys, I was feeling quite ashamed of the person I was. That child whose weapon was the snake chain (an axe handle with a long length of chain to kill snakes). That adult who squirts petrol and throws shovels at snakes. That person who says 'the only good snake is a dead one.'

Today has changed me. I'm still not really into tiger snakes around my house but I don't feel under siege anymore. Also, today I learned that tigers have facial recognition, much the same as magpies and ravens. So my crimes against the local tigers are probably on their Australia's Most Wanted database and I'm working to rectify that through earnest conversation with them.

 

 

200 years

 

Press Release * Press Release * Press Release * Press Release * Press Release

For immediate release 21/01/2026

From:

The Office of                                                                    

Sir Wilton Smee-Brough                                                                                  

Chief Protector: Arts                                                                                                

And Culture.                                                                                             

Province of Halcyon Spit

Bicentennial Celebrations Paused Until Further Notice

HALCYON SPIT, Australia. The Office of Arts and Culture wishes to advise that provincial organisation underway for the ‘First Peoples First’ Bicentenary Celebration of Colonisation is to be paused. Negotiations are currently being held with historians, community groups, artist collectives, private contractors and first nations people to decide the future of the Bicentennial.

“It’s been revealed that a small group of radical dissenters are influencing vulnerable communities to deny the fact that Colonisation of our beautiful province deserves any celebration or a public holiday to recognise the hard-working pioneers,” a spokesperson for Sir Wilton Smee-Brough (OAM) said.

The newly anointed Mayor of Halcyon Spit, the honourable Geoffory Strokes, added “This is why Mums and Dads can’t have nice things like a day off in our busy working lives. Our ancestors came here from over the seas, cleared land and worked hard. The Bicentennial is a time for celebration of these people. I hope that those woke lefties will somehow see some sense and recognise that our story is more relevant than their mid morning latte discussions.”

Lifelong Halcyon Spit resident and Rotary President Alan Spittles said, “Isn’t this all about the Referendum? Some folks are just feeling bitter about the outcome and they’re using it against us now. It’s just sad. It’s a real shame. I can’t have day off for the Bicentennial now.”

The Office of Arts and Culture has advised that Australians will not be entitled to a Public Holiday.

 

The Office of

Sir Wilton Smee-Brough

Chief Protector: Arts and Culture

Province of Halcyon Spit

E: WSmeeBrough@cpac.wa.gov.au

P: 0408896382

End Press Release ###

 

“So, the historians are revolting,” Sage said with a sideways twist of her head and a smirk when she read the press release.

“Yeah, they do that,” said Ben, understanding the subtext. “Difficult to contain that mob. Am I good to go ahead?”

Ben was the sub editor of the Halcyon Herald but he was also twenty years junior to Sage, a veteran local journalist and Alan Spittles’ niece. A newbie from the city, Ben’s job was to invent clever headlines and make sure the ipso factum text was replaced with actual news. He was supposed to report directly to Jason Edwards, the Herald’s editor. But he always consulted Sage first. Sage found this touching, a man the same age as her son coming to her for advice but there was also a strategic edge to him that spiked her gut. He wouldn’t be stuck in Halcyon Spit for long. Not with that face, the Da Vinci perfection of his proportions, and a nose for culture wars. Heading straight to the national broadsheet was Ben.

 

“Uncle Al’s retired.” Sage said. “He doesn’t even need a day off. Run it as is,” she instructed him. “Then watch this one play out. Whatever comes next will write itself.” She pointed her index finger at Ben. “This is gonna be a doozy.”

 

Winter Solstice

 

Jayden’s Mum had read him Beowulf, that Lady poem about shallots and the Narnia Chronicles and she knew what happened to the children of those men who’d abdicated responsibility and still she got arrested and locked up.

 

‘The swan roads,’ Jayden said, pointing to the lake. ‘That’s the swan roads.’

‘What, the lake?’ asked Matt.

‘Yes, that’s their roads to winter. They’ll go inland now, to the flooded paddocks. That’s where the swans will go to have their babies.’

 

They listened to the swans’ calls as the birds gossiped together on the lake, getting ready to leave for the winter. The reservoir began to glow bright with the moon. And there it was, there she was, this horned critter, like a moon but female, a Venus reflected in the lake. No, she was like Kali. Angry and beautiful.

 

‘Oh my god did you see that, Jay?’ Matt grabbed Jayden’s arm. He began to cry, again. He was trembling. Matt was weeping now and then lifting his face to the moon. Jayden remembered when Ratty and Mole had encountered The Piper. She’d read it to him, his mum. She’d said, ‘I’m quite sure Kenneth Graeme was off his nut when he wrote that chapter. But Damn! What a good yarn.’

 

 

 

Winter Solstice Part Four

 

Jayden put his arm around his friend’s shoulders. ‘Mum will really like these shrooms too,’ he said and then remembered that night out on the water poaching, when he felt scared and small and cold and his Mum was ranting about poetry or something and about the end of the world.

‘Parents, man,’ Jayden said, trying to sound understanding but he also knew what he was talking about and he tried to communicate this to Matt through his side hug.

Parents who didn’t think, who were so busy with their own dramas that they forgot to pick him and Matt up from footy training on that low, misty oval late at night. Parents who privileged their ancient vendettas against teachers over the yearly school camp. Parents who fought a landlord’s injustices in court and then ran some poor bastard down outside a BP service station. Fucking parents.

Jayden’s Mum had read him Beowulf, explained the Lady poem about rogue onions and the Narnia Chronicles and she knew what happened to the children of those men who’d abdicated responsibility and still she got arrested and locked up and left her kid alone to deal with the shit..

‘The swan roads,’ Jayden said, pointing to the lake. ‘That’s the swan roads, like in the poem..’

‘What, the lake?’ asked Matt.

The two of them stared at the pond and the birds. Jayden saw lights behind them but also lights gathering in the swans who squwarked and gossiped on the water.