tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86495079736264114982024-03-18T11:03:40.943+08:00A WineDark SeaRipping yarns, beautiful lies and a few home truths.sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.comBlogger1163125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-49323893345491288882024-03-03T20:34:00.013+08:002024-03-04T19:20:40.597+08:00Aghh!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi72Gp1K6u6oV16kmVWA6RDd74wTJTCZ_B9v796WhwaKIpId8oHh5nB_nQZXw6rNPAGothv2ujjIJPdRrAPznlU58ooj04LrVfExT2X5fedc-QJnC8lz8ydSgt5VpK4DPNiksNYo5JVXhmNmK_qZIHerqJEAWPx_Z37TuKNAhJ22eK6nWnveEXomzA4KFw/s1637/IMG_7818.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1637" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi72Gp1K6u6oV16kmVWA6RDd74wTJTCZ_B9v796WhwaKIpId8oHh5nB_nQZXw6rNPAGothv2ujjIJPdRrAPznlU58ooj04LrVfExT2X5fedc-QJnC8lz8ydSgt5VpK4DPNiksNYo5JVXhmNmK_qZIHerqJEAWPx_Z37TuKNAhJ22eK6nWnveEXomzA4KFw/w592-h640/IMG_7818.jpg" width="592" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For those (two) of you who are interested in the outcomes of my investigation into the Youngs Siding white ant signs, here is an update.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">No it wasn't sign posts to a bush doof. Apparently it's about a long standing feud between tow boat operators on the inlet and this is the latest iteration in a thirty year war. It's odd that this battle erupted at such a quiet inlet but there you go. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The Broke Inlet Towing Company has long held the rights to towing all broken boats to shore. That's Yowie CEO. He's the guy. He'll save you <i>and </i>salvage your boat. Unfortunately, Yowie was not present recently when a boatsman in distress asked another party to tow him into shore. Yowie reflected that he felt undercut and <b>white-anted </b>by this rogue towing company called the Youngs Siding White Ant Recovery and Salvage..</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This problem all started with the Black Pig Racing Club in the 1990s and an annual race that should've been on January 1st but usually ended up being contested somewhere in September, as no one could get their shit together before then. Are you still with me? Good. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In 1998, the Blacker family bought a 50 horsepower jet boat (Holden red motor, go the Blackers! Fuck I love that sound) but everyone else thought this was rather bad form because they were racing against the Blackers in dinghies with 25 or 15HP two strokes that sounded suspiciously like lawn mowers. That's the moment when the bad blood came in. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So ... the Blackers towing a boat out of the inlet and Yowie from the Broke Inlet Towing Company's feelings about that particular incident have rejuvenated the old war over the last few weeks. Those white ant signs are a bold move from the Blackers, and a raised middle finger to the status towing quo.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">How are we going here? When I tried to explain the saga to my son, Stormboy replied, 'I'm not sure how to respond to that one but someone has dedicated a lot of time to those signs.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Yes, there has been some effort and thought put in. I find the whole episode quite beautiful.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8H1CnJX1ZYt918xa3phaJ1nCzcFwLNsmsG0dY8JK2cCE8wJ3r9KZsJlV_nsluHLwZeAmqaDiHaM2_I1l4gHkjVmSVy2YJ94xKen2HM3VtoHhNedRnlfzRCqRGXCVH1ZBS4-faUADjiGu8hZ3wmOJrqlNCqoGSMkH3NVGNZGJgELU6n6SJspth2H1XqXI/s2016/IMG_7821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8H1CnJX1ZYt918xa3phaJ1nCzcFwLNsmsG0dY8JK2cCE8wJ3r9KZsJlV_nsluHLwZeAmqaDiHaM2_I1l4gHkjVmSVy2YJ94xKen2HM3VtoHhNedRnlfzRCqRGXCVH1ZBS4-faUADjiGu8hZ3wmOJrqlNCqoGSMkH3NVGNZGJgELU6n6SJspth2H1XqXI/w640-h480/IMG_7821.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /> <br /></span><p></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-90048528821480889352024-03-02T20:06:00.005+08:002024-03-02T20:11:32.552+08:00'Knows a cool vet'<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Today I was driving home and all along the Inlet gravel track were these signs.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYj0m_9xPcQTYDCbH7xzOKlre3KM64yENJz0JM4n7vj8tWF5sgb8qlCRiNu9qg8m-PfC-J94p7fszhp3SxPcQeNcCkogL_I00L4VT6oRDwg8B_zaW9fjihPophaLwY76gnBWcwDpXiADcTX_6SWkiQ0QqtJLnklMsSLy4sE7XSyZB8CwAkUAZArBrqsDY/s2016/IMG_7816.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYj0m_9xPcQTYDCbH7xzOKlre3KM64yENJz0JM4n7vj8tWF5sgb8qlCRiNu9qg8m-PfC-J94p7fszhp3SxPcQeNcCkogL_I00L4VT6oRDwg8B_zaW9fjihPophaLwY76gnBWcwDpXiADcTX_6SWkiQ0QqtJLnklMsSLy4sE7XSyZB8CwAkUAZArBrqsDY/w400-h300/IMG_7816.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Some were sticky-taped to trees and others were attached to signs and flapping in the late afternoon wind. They all were made on A4 paper and somebody had obviously made quite a lovely stencil of a white ant and then sprayed the white paper with blue spray paint. Road directions to a bush doof perchance?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Bush doofs happen out this way occasionally and the spotter pilot mentioned today that there were a lot of cars around the area. But then I was nearly home and saw this sign outside Yowie's hut.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIo44mc075UAABecxrxIT_9vcwi1VsOCWktmu71kLWR2E8_ux5BTmt9eVWhPcTCEBgutuT6t_Oc3d0esWyNZy9mqC2BZCFU4sLE7VqDfuYmRx3cuTR6R_8G2jQs10cXdaMmYBI9qAtqi9BkKN3YzFS3POoi9nC18uiyiHDouiDDb4t6TLtWGTk87Lu03s/s2016/IMG_7817.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIo44mc075UAABecxrxIT_9vcwi1VsOCWktmu71kLWR2E8_ux5BTmt9eVWhPcTCEBgutuT6t_Oc3d0esWyNZy9mqC2BZCFU4sLE7VqDfuYmRx3cuTR6R_8G2jQs10cXdaMmYBI9qAtqi9BkKN3YzFS3POoi9nC18uiyiHDouiDDb4t6TLtWGTk87Lu03s/w640-h480/IMG_7817.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I sent a message to my son Stormboy, who used to live at Youngs Siding (apologies to the apostrophe police), about two hundred kilometres away. 'Do you know anything about this?'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">'He's wearing his heart on his sleeve. I like him. Knows a cool vet ha ha.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So many questions like ... how do tissues solve white ant issues?<br /> </span> <br /></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-23542763887738495832024-02-09T20:24:00.001+08:002024-02-09T20:24:15.594+08:00'Objects can appear closer than they are': a week in diary<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;">Feb 2. Tower. Time 1507 called in another inlet fire eastern end this time thanks to spotter S. No lightning for two weeks. Weird. Ground crews out and dozer tender. Listened to all radio channels. Crew found an unaccompanied vehicle on the track in to the fire. "Details please". Bombers reported someone sitting on granite at fire's tail. So ... an investigation then. Rangers shut Bib track and huts. Cops involved,</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> found marron nets, chook pellets and a charred cooker with the man.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Feb 3.Tower. No visibility 4s and 5s all round. COLD. Max 18. No smoke in Fire 4. Crew out by 1300. Contained and under control. Fire 4 investigation on Monday.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Feb 4.Tower. No smokes in Fire 4. Met a nice German couple. They both had big teeth and amazing skin. We talked about sharks and bears</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Feb 5. Tower. Smokes from Fire 4. Had phone chat with the nearest tower to me. Told him I tried to visit last season but no one was there and that was fine because his tower is freaking terrifying. He agreed which made me wonder why he climbs it everyday. Told him I even brought a thermos of tea and custard pies that day.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Feb 6. Day off. Food shop. Post office. Appt w Silver Chain nurse. Remote area nurse FIFO. Told him my eyeballs were fried from work. He is amazed firetowers still exist. Why not hotspots and AI? I can see smoke an hour or so before it turns up as a hotspot. Early detection. And AI still needs human interpreters ... so far. Bailed on lunch with A. Spider bite making me feel mumpsy and fried eyes. Tired body. Pharmacy on way home for eyedrops.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Feb 7. Tower. Called in fire at Greenrange 150 km away. Thought it was 50 km, then maybe 80. Wildest smoke I've ever seen. Talked to MP. He said that high pressure can even flatten out your retinas (!!!) which makes objects appear closer than they are. Like an eagle. Wild optical illusion. Met tower mouse so not a mardo or honey possum.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Feb 8. Tower. HOT 35 degrees 27% RH. Winds SE 30kph. Smoke coming over from Greenrange fire. Heading along the coast and then inland with sea breeze. Fried eyeballs again. Horizon glare and smoke. Spoke to Y on phone about a writers workshop we are doing. March flies after weeks of none. They still smell sweet like marri flowers on my palm when squashed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Feb 9. Office. HOT. ML rang, just shooting the breeze. What son even does that? asked S. Read Fire 4 investigation. Sister J got into town for event, doing lightshow. We had ginger beers @ pub after work. Talked about Juliette, death, livers and the Moodjar tree where newly dead go to rest before leaving forever. That moment when they truly leave us like an elastic band snapping. Publican gave us party pies and tomato sauce. A man sitting nearby was wearing satin Christmas themed boxer shorts. Shire worker told me I'd made a friend of the grader driver after I gave him a pear from my lunchbox and a thank you card for grading my road to work.<br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-1515828609085776312024-01-21T20:42:00.006+08:002024-01-21T22:03:02.859+08:00Unwelcome nope ropes<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">There's been two tiger snakes hanging around the house recently. I throw things at them sometimes, trying to persuade them that this is a terrible place to hang out. Like raw prawns left under the couch cushions, they've become rather unwelcome guests.who will.not.leave.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">'It's mating season,' a friend informed me. 'So you've got to get rid of one to lose the other one.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">'Agh!' I squeaked. 'So now they are gonna have lots of tiny tiger babies on my veranda too?'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">'That's what your baby kookaburras are for,' he grinned.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">A clutch of kookaburra chicks have been hanging around here too. The normal dusk chorus of the laughing birds is instead a series of desperate squawks as these fluffy boofheads try to emulate their millennial ancestors, like preschoolers forced to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the recorder. Kookaburras are voracious carnivorous ferals in Western Australia. Just seeing them beat a native fairy wren to death against a log incites a unique kind of sandgroper <a href="https://earth.org/what-is-ecofascism/">eco-fascism</a>. But they are really bloody good at killing tiger snake hatchlings. I saw a kookaburra perched on the shed a few years ago, watching the ground intently and ambushing a nest of baby tigers. All day long. Bang.Bang.Bang.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Tonight, Selkie was trotting back from her evening beach visit, grinning, tongue lolling. As she passed the chopping block with its axe handle perched atop like a dancer's leg, she leapt sideways and I saw a black hose streak towards her and then retreat, like one of those slinky toys. 'Selks! Selkie!' I yelled at her and she ran to me, still grinning. She rubbed her head against my jeans and I patted her flank. My heart was racing. It felt hard to breathe. I checked her feet, her legs and couldn't find any bite marks. The snake curled itself back into the wood heap.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">I'm watching her closely tonight and she seems okay. But bloody hell, I just want these mum and dad snakes gone, let alone their little hell-babies.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiek2t23faQkIp5eofohKHc_jVzP3k79ZvFdvflTdPbzn3_AtHZZ2ujYNFPCRHauBQf-IoybB1NSrSOqhzH-7nWU-Wqo82lQkasBJ6DMn4rCjtPI7Vcg9kdFEBHeTLrW7k2dcFlZgIX_8KOL7LWV-4nkDFXXZA2CqI-w3BH15vNI9uioUbwBKcSXtBzJoQ/s4032/IMG_7731.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiek2t23faQkIp5eofohKHc_jVzP3k79ZvFdvflTdPbzn3_AtHZZ2ujYNFPCRHauBQf-IoybB1NSrSOqhzH-7nWU-Wqo82lQkasBJ6DMn4rCjtPI7Vcg9kdFEBHeTLrW7k2dcFlZgIX_8KOL7LWV-4nkDFXXZA2CqI-w3BH15vNI9uioUbwBKcSXtBzJoQ/w640-h480/IMG_7731.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Here is a photo I took from the tower on Wednesday. It was the storm that sent me scuttling down the mountain. Lightning was forking all around this system and the steel ladders on the way down were not terribly inviting. Re my previous post 'It was lightning dickhead', it's the same storm that started the bushfire out near my place.<br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-72321405168099868122024-01-19T20:52:00.009+08:002024-01-21T20:52:33.986+08:00It was lightning, dickhead<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Yesterday's tower day began with me driving my new 'tractor' with Southern Cross tattoos to the carpark early. I'd been expecting some drama after a night of lightning strikes in the area. I always take the bush roads in as a short cut that involve crossing the Weld River bridge (more about that later) so I was suitably dusty on arrival.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">A kangaroo watched me as I walked up the trail. Can you see her? She has a joey in her pouch.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJx7AStqb3CVrK4akbWbOaMb7N3fNOwsWk2Its189I2k_z_OK18OivHuhyphenhyphen8P2JWk5NQrb73z3LQDFBCNDqbxF-Vfq0ATuPoHyNb1RFYiBvy5aq6zkR8ZpFKDikZqPWijeDx-jFImSYINWw892lz74qEsaVdJpL08Yas3euYbpsluyq1_HnA2qZy655P2k/s3024/IMG_7710.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2830" data-original-width="3024" height="598" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJx7AStqb3CVrK4akbWbOaMb7N3fNOwsWk2Its189I2k_z_OK18OivHuhyphenhyphen8P2JWk5NQrb73z3LQDFBCNDqbxF-Vfq0ATuPoHyNb1RFYiBvy5aq6zkR8ZpFKDikZqPWijeDx-jFImSYINWw892lz74qEsaVdJpL08Yas3euYbpsluyq1_HnA2qZy655P2k/w640-h598/IMG_7710.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Later in a quiet moment in the tower, I was on the phone to a man from the Shire about the condition of the road I drive every day. 'I'm in tears halfway along the track,' I said. 'The corrugations are so bad now, they are getting dangerous.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">He was one of those people who make you feel like a confidant. An Olympic version of a public servant on the phone to some random woman complaining about roads. His voice was calm and friendly. He promised to have it fixed 'by Wednesday next week.' </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Not long after that, with a trashy thriller audio book thrumming from my phone, I looked over to the west and spotted a tiny white smoke that looked like a cloud on the horizon. Except that it didn't quite look like a cloud. Sometimes clouds over that way stand up like smokes, depending on atmospheric pressure. This one was different. I thought about the lightning strikes, the ones that had sent me scuttling down from the tower the afternoon before, and then I started plotting it on the map.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">By 1215, I'd radioed in a Bravo Two One Two (medium density, columnar, white) and given the coordinates. It was kinda freaky, moving around the map table and trying to work out exactly where it was. As the wind increased, the smoke began to change. The wind turned suddenly from a mild north westerly to westerly and quickened. I rang the duty officer. 'Smoke description is now a two three three.' (Medium, billowing, brown) They knew exactly what I was talking about. This fire was taking off.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">On the radio channels, I could hear the DO calling all trucks in the area to head out there and summoning the spotter pilot from Manjimup to give us the exact coordinates of the fire. First and Second crews from our district have been away at other fires in the north, so it was a harried response of gathering up returning fire crew and managing fatigue levels to assess who could go to this new fire.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">After all the excitement, I rattled home along the corrugated track to see water bombers flying overhead and smoke touching the karri canopies. There were two Coulson water tankers dropping water at the fire, plus the nimble bombers and crew, who I knew were working all night on foot.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">This is why a facebook post from someone who should know better sparked my interest. He is part of a group that thinks we shouldn't mitigate fire, only respond to fire. Apparently, yesterday's response to the fire I've talked about so far was not up to his expectations:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpw9LITEu-YqfMw4P2iJeCEhMsmDJz1AHdyBWcQdZGZqpin5f_UajS18FE-pErgpu_m94P04af18KDgy5bk93ALD8S5qrYx61O4BXnW5zDLZl-4wVkeFm_ulFdIL29Cy-jxjAkoScGUoS94U3tsGOqDooLdSxGy_2E21tDqY3MD5KBIkqC6kBx7Eb6A5Q/s1334/IMG_7740.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpw9LITEu-YqfMw4P2iJeCEhMsmDJz1AHdyBWcQdZGZqpin5f_UajS18FE-pErgpu_m94P04af18KDgy5bk93ALD8S5qrYx61O4BXnW5zDLZl-4wVkeFm_ulFdIL29Cy-jxjAkoScGUoS94U3tsGOqDooLdSxGy_2E21tDqY3MD5KBIkqC6kBx7Eb6A5Q/w225-h400/IMG_7740.PNG" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">His 'summary' is problematic. The date is wrong for a start. It was the 18th. I called the fire in at 1215 not 1245. The decision of it being a Donnelly fire was a collaborative one, being a border country fire. Frankland district trucks were first responders anyway. Everyone worked together after that and today there are fire fighters from Albany, Manjimup and Walpole.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Old mate's post served his MO of early detection, early suppression. (Yes,that is my job and I did my job well on Thursday.) We are working to contain a wild fire in difficult country and that's why they put so many fire bombers onto it, because it's hard to get trucks in there. That's why we are are back burning. It's a big-ass fire, caused by a lightning strike. It's in country where there are no roads, so they can't just drive up to the fire and put it out.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">This afternoon I was ready to leave my other job in the office when an email came through.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">'Yep. Always a 4pm on Friday,' The DO sighed. 'Main roads have decided the Weld River bridge on Beardmore road is unsafe to the public. They've told us to shut the road immediately.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">'But that's my bush road short-cut to the tower,' I said, shaking my fingers with anxiety. I always drive this road to work. It goes through jarrah, marri and karri country. This is <i>my track.<br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Pete looked at me. 'Unless you're planning on river fordings, you're a highway woman now,' he said.</span> <br /></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-15442724470609326932024-01-11T20:25:00.007+08:002024-01-11T20:28:25.698+08:00Tourist towers<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;">So we are now full swing into fire season and up at the fire tower, people are taking selfies. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAvqaHYvgew-8dGSoG3nA30CE1sRn6AVL7o0sw_8PTgQs9SFYCfJ9Zeh5sVS4ZxSDNnTymGIv-nBvvy7xY5DLfBEjaM3QYyAfYR7P-uKwTNHYKtoWVcjZDJ2UIseYmIoy4p3Mo3GtyaYNeVNIidn7PpN-uBpxoHAzq9dsJ4FrY_nq0HyKqN627cyUbLiY/s640/IMG_7701.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="438" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAvqaHYvgew-8dGSoG3nA30CE1sRn6AVL7o0sw_8PTgQs9SFYCfJ9Zeh5sVS4ZxSDNnTymGIv-nBvvy7xY5DLfBEjaM3QYyAfYR7P-uKwTNHYKtoWVcjZDJ2UIseYmIoy4p3Mo3GtyaYNeVNIidn7PpN-uBpxoHAzq9dsJ4FrY_nq0HyKqN627cyUbLiY/w274-h400/IMG_7701.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It's a <i>thing</i> for some, a compulsion for many. Climb a mountain and it must be documented, at best livestreamed or at least facetimed.Two years ago, the thing was to get naked and take a selfie at the top of a mountain. It was an Insta moment apparently and no I'm not sharing. Thankfully for me, this craze has slowed down, since I spend most of summer at the top of a mountain. I felt like a creep every time I picked up my binoculars to look for smoke.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Today in the tower I could see the Stirling Ranges, which meant I could see clearly for about 150 kilometres. I called in a smoke 60 kilometres away. 'Plus or minus' I said on the radio. 'Maybe dust.' I was calling in dust because a fire that far away ...it could be someone working a paddock, sending plumes of dust into the air. And it turns out that it was just that, a farmer, not a bushfire. The spotter pilot went overhead, let me know and I went back to the tourists taking selfies and my weather recordings.<br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-8804186061839382132024-01-05T21:03:00.010+08:002024-01-05T22:07:16.910+08:00Southern Cross neck tattoos<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;">So ... after numerous mechanics I know giving me *that look* about the oil light and the inevitable bang bang bang demise of Queen Ben, I began to feel like I was in the docks for manslaughter. Please see the previous post if you need some context.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Tonight I went to Brownie's bush camp with some corned beef wrapped in alfoil. *That look* has been banished to the dark days of New Years Eve for him because I'm now the proud owner of a Toyota land bruiser and apparently, these old utes excite young nostalgists, old rev heads and pragmatic farmers alike.<br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVVmWSSbkzFsQXaOddLCvY3V830Pomud__JNlaV6dNZrGpzgKAYDbBSN9EWGCZz5IvBahuGNno_CBIMjB_5QnR2MxkaZBe1isS6tlIZUvklnYq_u8T4Swhsqqn54XbP4lE4V-7UL9IfyuoIAirbnlAjbII7y6Qo4wc_XEqEr8GnoSxkKyAbBVPCcbJo8w/s640/IMG_7694.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="640" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVVmWSSbkzFsQXaOddLCvY3V830Pomud__JNlaV6dNZrGpzgKAYDbBSN9EWGCZz5IvBahuGNno_CBIMjB_5QnR2MxkaZBe1isS6tlIZUvklnYq_u8T4Swhsqqn54XbP4lE4V-7UL9IfyuoIAirbnlAjbII7y6Qo4wc_XEqEr8GnoSxkKyAbBVPCcbJo8w/s320/IMG_7694.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And this is where my post takes a sideways lurch. I drove the tractor beast home and was walking around my new car, checking out the decals that previous owners had stuck on the ducco. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">'This one's gotta go,' I said to my sister.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-8dug5BpAlKemxKSKB0xgyHosxDqjJtobHko0MTSOw9ZAP3yxT3DNjCzttisNm_aAjxNvExB_3nbsYLeoY76_mq4g5eQB4Jmu09phwI0dm0BzcO3psnVNesX17I2zVzcv_t1KMnEhg3IcLrjcYJuxDu3ReDJi1BeeB550upcNlWyq6F0nL8a29utxYNc/s248/IMG_7694.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="143" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-8dug5BpAlKemxKSKB0xgyHosxDqjJtobHko0MTSOw9ZAP3yxT3DNjCzttisNm_aAjxNvExB_3nbsYLeoY76_mq4g5eQB4Jmu09phwI0dm0BzcO3psnVNesX17I2zVzcv_t1KMnEhg3IcLrjcYJuxDu3ReDJi1BeeB550upcNlWyq6F0nL8a29utxYNc/w369-h640/IMG_7694.jpg" width="369" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">'Oh, just put a swastika in the middle of it and she'll be right,' she said, laughing.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Her words burned. It's something I've been thinking about for years. When did the Southern Cross become an emblem for white nationalists and racism in Australia? It's always been an abstract thing for me until I bought this car, with Southern Cross decals on both sides of the rear pillars like some kind of statement.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The Southern Cross in our southern hemisphere skies makes up the head of the dark emu and further stars outline the body of the emu. Her body is literally delineated by stars. Once you've seen it in the night skies, you can never unsee the dark emu. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So now, I've bought a car with this emblem stickered all over it, but it is meaning something quite different to a wonder of old knowledge and seasonal change. It's meaning 'Fuck Off We're Full' and 'White Power'. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Maybe it began with Cronulla, maybe it began with the internet, I have no idea. The appropriation of the Southern Cross by right wing organisations in Australia is something I'm curious about.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In the meantime, I've just murdered Queen Ben and perhaps that is more pressing. She's sitting where I towed her a few days ago, waiting to be resurrected or wrecked, piece by piece.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">* And Selkie! She's still on three legs but recovering after her encounter with that boar at Pig Bay.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-82730934020938296462023-12-31T21:52:00.005+08:002023-12-31T22:57:06.496+08:00Oil Light and the Bay of Pigs<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">I was on the phone to my sister when Brownie and Doogs arrived from the bush camp, their dingo-looking hound Flex in tow. 'So yes, I've found a $1500 shitbox with no windscreen wipers or muffler.' I said to my sister, waving for the men to take a seat, 'It drives great and looks like sin apparently ... and Queen Ben is probably bound for the wreckers. What a fucking day.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">'It's about to get even better,' said Brownie after I'd ended the call. 'Have you heard about the Bay of Pigs?' </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">'Drives great, look like sin.' Doogs nodded. 'Sounds like me.'<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">The oil light in Queen Ben came on yesterday on my way home to the inlet and then flickered out. This morning, with my dog Selkie still not home from her pre-dawn date with Flex, I headed out for another tower day, and the oil light came on again. In the mistaken belief that the oil light works like a fuel light, giving me a few more kilometres, I continued for another two or three hundred metres. (Yes I know, shut up. I've been self flagellating all day okay?) A terrible knocking sound. I stopped. Under the bonnet and off with the oil cap. Smoke curled out of the sump.I poured in some oil and heard it sizzling against the heat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Queen Ben turned twenty last year. The five years that I've had her have been about replacement and good husbandry. A new head, replacing the turbo, ironing out dented panels, gearbox issues, idler arms and wheel alignments. My philosophy is that a diesel four wheel drive can last forever if you treat her right. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Yes, I'm a terrible husband.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">I walked for a while until I came into range and texted my boss that I couldn't make it to the firetower today, with some brief details of my poor car's demise. Cicadas chanted in the forest and parrots flitted around me, colours of karri leaves and bottle-brush flowers. Then I turned and walked home, patting Queen Ben's bonnet as I passed. It was surreal, walking through the forest that I drive through every day. Walking is when you notice things.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Smoky red dust rose up on the gravel as a car approached and I found a welcome ride home. Selkie was back, soaking wet, smelling of the inlet and limping badly. 'So that was quite the excursion,' I said to her. She looked at me in that way dogs look when they've done some bad things. I turned on the wifi. 'Oh no! Are you okay, do you need a lift?' My boss had replied. I told him I was okay and then I rang my sister.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">I managed to borrow a car for the day and make it to the firetower eventually. I'll leave out the bits about the missing firetower key, the long drive to retrieve it, the firetower nerd I met up there today who was really cool, and that snake. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">But I have to have a car and the Queen
Ben is dead. So I got busy on my phone, bought a car ('drives fine, looks like sin'). I live 35 kilometres from the nearest town and the
firetower is an 78 kilometre round trip. There's no public transport and getting on a bicycle is a bullshit option, dammit.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">I made it home close to dark and asked a mate to help me tow Queen Ben home from her unhappy perch on the gravel shoulder.. My reasoning was that the RAC will be badly stretched over the next few days of New Year's Eve chaos in our little seaside holiday town. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">I was just having a self-congratulatory glass of wine on the back veranda and updating my sister on the phone about the new car I was buying, when Brownie and Doogs turned up. They growled at Flex as he dawdled innocently towards Selkie's food bowl. Selkie looked up and didn't even complain or harry Flex. She was still limping. She looked very, very sore. 'So, the Bay of Pigs,' said Brownie.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Flex and Selkie took off before dawn this morning. They often do this when Brownie and Flex are staying in the bush camp. Selkie and Flex go off for hours and I never know where they go. Sometimes they'll come back streaked with charcoal and I'll know they've been into the firegrounds. Sometimes, while looking for them, I've followed their tracks along the beach for miles. Selkie always comes home exhausted and she's sore for days. There are few roads and no fences around here. It's dog heaven but I always worry about them taking baits.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">This morning, Doogs went down to the boat ramp and heard the two dogs barking. It was an early easterly and so he could hear them, their voices calling along the inlet shore. I was mourning the knocking piston death of Queen Ben and beginning my dejected walk home, by the time Brownie and Doogs walked east along the beaches and rocky outcrops to find Selkie and Flex bailing up a huge black boar. Apparently, the pig was standing in the water facing off the two dogs. He was in the inlet, water around his shoulders and nose to nose with Selkie and Flex. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">'This pig was huge, Sarah!' Doogs said. I put my head into my arms. Oh. My God. 'Much bigger than these two,' he motioned to Flex and Selkie. 'They were crying and barking like babies though.'<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">'What a fucking day.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">'We're calling that place Pig Bay,' Brownie nodded over his beer. 'It's something that's happened here and that place needs a name. Never seen that before. Never. A pig facing down some dogs in the water. Never seen it.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">So Pig Bay it is.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">This stuff all happened here on New Year's Eve 2023. It's been another mad year yes? Happy New Year Bloggers xxx <br /></span></p><p> <br /></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-61895172070904863622023-12-24T15:28:00.001+08:002023-12-24T15:28:38.618+08:00A Very Towery Christmas<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GeNw-nEFR4jGJpYKmlotNARcTsoASVOSviTkifvzuAER1F6wa0oPyss6IgjDn7yU9Knm-Wq54BO2yHyZU7GHI5Dh2TxQ-JNUtk8E12D-CGYnpHx3Rlefn9p2v3Yg2T8N8roDZqxh6_osREl1BFqqDYld9ULeuEZbdpmx550eiHmVtBRBKecmLB6IA0g/s640/IMG_7675.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GeNw-nEFR4jGJpYKmlotNARcTsoASVOSviTkifvzuAER1F6wa0oPyss6IgjDn7yU9Knm-Wq54BO2yHyZU7GHI5Dh2TxQ-JNUtk8E12D-CGYnpHx3Rlefn9p2v3Yg2T8N8roDZqxh6_osREl1BFqqDYld9ULeuEZbdpmx550eiHmVtBRBKecmLB6IA0g/w480-h640/IMG_7675.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On Thursday it rained and at the top of the mountain little pools filled with water. This is my favourite, obviously!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Below is a more treasured local than the reptile in my previous post (eek!). We call these little dinosaurs bobtails or blue tongues. In the eastern states they are called shinglebacks. All appropriate descriptors, really. There are a few babies hanging around as well. Too cute.</span><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnPyMCa5X-8xo4AiBlE3vWKEGdzTP38Pgo6Eb71iz-1HfjOElXu_P2y9hI5HA4XqA99OdnKpPLM_HVPxPIcYefwVHINMoQc57_Ricn0yUh6doq_pUjqubnbnZltUeWywYeG-rHFwYUZp41Zsdln0co4ECM703V9clipdLtzPWIZA7ZrOg3vSkGCrP78A4/s640/IMG_7660.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnPyMCa5X-8xo4AiBlE3vWKEGdzTP38Pgo6Eb71iz-1HfjOElXu_P2y9hI5HA4XqA99OdnKpPLM_HVPxPIcYefwVHINMoQc57_Ricn0yUh6doq_pUjqubnbnZltUeWywYeG-rHFwYUZp41Zsdln0co4ECM703V9clipdLtzPWIZA7ZrOg3vSkGCrP78A4/s320/IMG_7660.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> <p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Below is of a bushfire sixty five kilometres away. This was a particularly nasty one, only a few kilometres away from a town that suffered a terrible wildfire a decade ago. It was started by a machinery fire in a paddock and roared straight into the forest.</span><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinG5w1SAxgdaIzLlv3CNQcLpnXFF8NEtQTog0apsfUyGY5yAXX-seN6mzbNhzvWXndww67dK5n3oK_N6Y14HsbdPGhgeGXhg2NPWlCZ5AZC2pamd8J_6u3A2yj-_M_7DqKqzNGlKA1FSwsA1iXJt9XktKU-SjcTVguyNOAsU8u6uh_3upKmg7rlJDKjYM/s640/IMG_7671.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinG5w1SAxgdaIzLlv3CNQcLpnXFF8NEtQTog0apsfUyGY5yAXX-seN6mzbNhzvWXndww67dK5n3oK_N6Y14HsbdPGhgeGXhg2NPWlCZ5AZC2pamd8J_6u3A2yj-_M_7DqKqzNGlKA1FSwsA1iXJt9XktKU-SjcTVguyNOAsU8u6uh_3upKmg7rlJDKjYM/w480-h640/IMG_7671.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Gunsight, reflection, binocs, map and my very cool little weather station - the red gadget is called a Kestrel and takes recordings of wind speed, humidity, temperature etc. Around me the real kestrels whirl and shriek. They have the most acrobatic aerial courtship ever, tumbling over each other in the sky, using the updrafts to race around and around the tower.<br /></span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZkPJO30U2tqR5-RpBIbryVoYYverhhpM-fEesxhxRgnYFc9mkNZx3J9aNo01f-r485HijYYvxJJ4aBkOfdcJ_Eh0p20JHxW_wj099jurSP8qEVNyzQyt9lxq9RpVMDFw552IPweLp5RLINyTTtVUMX9hu7QcubwRngvXBYNa3DdlELjAH8hT4jDq3i3U/s640/IMG_7673.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZkPJO30U2tqR5-RpBIbryVoYYverhhpM-fEesxhxRgnYFc9mkNZx3J9aNo01f-r485HijYYvxJJ4aBkOfdcJ_Eh0p20JHxW_wj099jurSP8qEVNyzQyt9lxq9RpVMDFw552IPweLp5RLINyTTtVUMX9hu7QcubwRngvXBYNa3DdlELjAH8hT4jDq3i3U/s320/IMG_7673.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-24495422859264287522023-12-23T18:53:00.002+08:002023-12-23T18:53:59.213+08:00Danger noodles and nope ropes<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This morning I was on my way to work at the fire tower. Stepping out the front door. I quite like these sliding glass doors because I can see what is outside. This morning it was a tiger snake, just hanging out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">'It's such a magnificent creature!' I said to my sister, as the snake slid away into the thicket of cummock.. 'But fuck! Can they just fuck off from my doorstep?'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The last time a tiger hung out at my front door was a month ago. My front door is north facing and has brick paving... so tiger friendly territory. I squirted the snake with a tomato sauce bottle full of petrol and freaked the poor critter out. Then I went next door and asked the resident snake handler for help. He was into the respectful and kind relocation of reptiles. I just wanted him to kill this one. There was an impasse of communication between the two of us. 'Here's the shovel,' I said, handing him the shovel and then we both said prayers as he took a life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So this morning, seeing another tiger snake on the path between my front door and the car, I was thinking of my dog and me, and the times when I stumble along that path at night to get something out of the car, headlamp on. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Some people are fine with resident tigers. I'm absolutely not.<br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-42400618587920407672023-12-16T22:23:00.000+08:002023-12-16T22:23:19.810+08:00Voting yes and then saying no<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I've spent the last few weeks in a funk of emotions. There are several clouds of issues going on in my head and I've been trying to separate them into spheres or boxes or ... something. This morning I woke up with: "okay Sarah, there is this and then this and then there is this."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It was like my brain finally cleared. People say that when the amygdala is stimulated the frontal cortex goes offline and I've probably experienced this before but not totally cogged it. This time around it was like 'fuck, what is going on?'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Anyway, a few weeks after the nation voted against a voice to parliament, I gradually unscrambled. Someone asked me to sign a petition against inner city social housing because ... I dunno, nimbyism? No, I wrote back. Not gonna sign that one. An institution asked me to maintain my contract on a chapter about colonial experiences. No, I wrote back. I'll return that advance payment. (Damn, damn my conscience!)<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I began writing this post back in October when I voted Yes to an Indigenous voice to parliament, so it's been sitting here for a while. But I'm still playing in my same brain sandpit, flicking up sand into the circle of eyes. I'm not willing to play this game anymore. I voted yes and now I'm saying no. I'm entering the Crone Zone with a kind of delicious fury. Care to join?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><br /></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-79301792221264289862023-12-08T16:48:00.004+08:002023-12-08T16:49:06.205+08:00Past tense<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Years ago I wrote a story on A WineDark Sea called 'Can't kill him with an axe'. It was an account of the times I'd nearly killed Old Salt on his fishing boat. He'd previously had heart surgery ('they put a bit of pig in me!'), licked asbestos as a kid because he liked the tingling feeling on his tongue, had an affinity for battery acid and thought electrocution was a fine remedy for Ross River Virus.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Bill died on Monday. It's a weird feeling. When a close friend is dying, people ask if I want to visit them but I'm already there, somehow. Several hundreds of kilometres apart and I'm with them. I don't really know how to explain this. Despite this feeling, when Nga told me on Sunday that he was now on morphine, I'd said, 'Yeah, I'll ring him in the morning.' He sounded fine on Friday when he took of his oxygen mask to chat. Fine.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">He was my mentor and teacher. He taught me everything about what it is to be on a boat, how to follow the channel markers home to port in the middle of the night. That was one of his first lessons as we motored home from Michaelmas Island. He taught me about family, about how fish think and how to tie knots (still terrible at that).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">He seemed incombustible, unkillable. An incorrigible white man with a stout sense of right and wrong, a strong interest in his family's history of fishing the Great Southern inlets. He never gave up. So Bill, the star of Salt Story is gone. Bizarrely and so bloody banal for someone who always sailed too close to the wind, he copped covid at a funeral a few weeks ago. On Monday, we'll go to his.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrqVo2iH23qsIA4MKswfSr2SHymbYxUOA4pwhJlPnBfkjGPdKr2M6XE9X5kjGqX_M2XCTSoRzLs54NlJd-4toYIGnV8Yhc3T4j3b869rQfjuvBuFDvse-7nAVe3mT3Gi-C6K-nrTMTXbYpvKSMbX8nvU6YrfhKFklT3PSe9VaHhA1xQeoAHEPW27fewbE/s400/Bill1.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrqVo2iH23qsIA4MKswfSr2SHymbYxUOA4pwhJlPnBfkjGPdKr2M6XE9X5kjGqX_M2XCTSoRzLs54NlJd-4toYIGnV8Yhc3T4j3b869rQfjuvBuFDvse-7nAVe3mT3Gi-C6K-nrTMTXbYpvKSMbX8nvU6YrfhKFklT3PSe9VaHhA1xQeoAHEPW27fewbE/w640-h480/Bill1.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoeTKANhCD4NsuK_CNQmIuLLDc2Ez2fApRx31rnOUcHfkakNgeaVA-R8D2mp0oi1-FTOYDGs5EABWJZWLDVVktmAlfOyUApmmKLq2sxbRJc8wcaA2iqE77YWfe8DRYOVyD5RJTr_DExMU98HHE9kChBfI-MwzrUm7EvfltNkksL8oxJo5tn9elGiJpM8A/s400/irwins2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoeTKANhCD4NsuK_CNQmIuLLDc2Ez2fApRx31rnOUcHfkakNgeaVA-R8D2mp0oi1-FTOYDGs5EABWJZWLDVVktmAlfOyUApmmKLq2sxbRJc8wcaA2iqE77YWfe8DRYOVyD5RJTr_DExMU98HHE9kChBfI-MwzrUm7EvfltNkksL8oxJo5tn9elGiJpM8A/w480-h640/irwins2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxiq1anqKodMIXtblcmG8Nzcj6hd3oPX1KaJSi3YEyvfcX7TBTy0UcWMbV5TlaWgDSov1mXTg0IyyUUNTWhi3MCo0kQVTKnF3uum_8LwBrUiVXql9GuqLXqEnv2m_wMK0xOya7B6MsUQ8Aen1bEtwxpKcm4wvzZkYbZK7IQk-Tga6EjQWpSsJwTl-l-w/s640/r1194516_15401270.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxiq1anqKodMIXtblcmG8Nzcj6hd3oPX1KaJSi3YEyvfcX7TBTy0UcWMbV5TlaWgDSov1mXTg0IyyUUNTWhi3MCo0kQVTKnF3uum_8LwBrUiVXql9GuqLXqEnv2m_wMK0xOya7B6MsUQ8Aen1bEtwxpKcm4wvzZkYbZK7IQk-Tga6EjQWpSsJwTl-l-w/w400-h225/r1194516_15401270.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLsSgomGyT2E7cSGt_wKlki9VbUZXJhXWjPPk_0lu9fPB0R8XWaD6eND3Pog2VDepU3ASzh-vY8Fb08hX5Rp1Zl4Kctg2btCZlkGu6rKwsoaZcIhw8hfIuMGx715ispCbtvmta9ZRnyyH9etACZ91eA7nrZQe178eqCtRXTHHymNBacr8DcM1QmG3Dqc/s640/P5300063.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLsSgomGyT2E7cSGt_wKlki9VbUZXJhXWjPPk_0lu9fPB0R8XWaD6eND3Pog2VDepU3ASzh-vY8Fb08hX5Rp1Zl4Kctg2btCZlkGu6rKwsoaZcIhw8hfIuMGx715ispCbtvmta9ZRnyyH9etACZ91eA7nrZQe178eqCtRXTHHymNBacr8DcM1QmG3Dqc/w640-h480/P5300063.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-80915266084674952622023-08-07T19:09:00.006+08:002023-08-07T19:09:48.789+08:00Psychogeography of the inlet<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;">Psychogeography is a term that emerged in the 1950s and its practice is great for landscape writers and artists: "the effect of a geographical location on the behaviour and emotions of individuals." Until a few years ago, I was completely unaware of the word but had been thinking about the concept for decades. Writing about people of the sea and islands will do that.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"Unfold a map of London, place a glass rim down, anywhere on the map, and draw around its edge. Pick up the map, go out into the city, and walk the circle keeping as close as you can to the curve. Record the experience as you go ... footage as footage." Robert MacFarlane, A Road of One's Own.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In an urban context, this exercise forces a re estimation of our surroundings - what is accessible and what is off limits: fences, the concept of private property, the absoluteness of a stoic brick wall, drains and public thoroughfares. Really, it's a form of re-mapping or even anti-mapping. It breaks us out of the unaware carpark and footpath thinking that we have when heading down to the shops.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The reason why this is coming up for me right now is that the inlet broke its sand bar out to the sea last night. Here is a photo from today and you can check out photos from yesterday in my previous posts.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmm0SIHskwFp-bMywGil73eTE_mmPNfxNKxNIQ16yLla_XZhjqMhfLHBEEeAa9IUTMkNHPyCLxMMSa9PkZGr-pvrUxFzPD8DMpNQ_UkUvoYn0Ll3cWOn2AXE_jA0s_dmq7BUtyDRSeo54hgF9xdekaryrC1__oZ5ns_PvnDc4tHhelPdUGTBVyn7uJn3w/s2016/IMG_7605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmm0SIHskwFp-bMywGil73eTE_mmPNfxNKxNIQ16yLla_XZhjqMhfLHBEEeAa9IUTMkNHPyCLxMMSa9PkZGr-pvrUxFzPD8DMpNQ_UkUvoYn0Ll3cWOn2AXE_jA0s_dmq7BUtyDRSeo54hgF9xdekaryrC1__oZ5ns_PvnDc4tHhelPdUGTBVyn7uJn3w/w640-h480/IMG_7605.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You can see the footprints from where Selkie was wading out to catch a stick that I'd thrown for her last night, those trees then a pretty reflection on the glassed-off water. We have a beach again!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For the last month, we haven't had a beach. As the inlet filled with river water threading through a system of thousands of square kilometres, places to walk became scarce. We are in the bush here: there are few tracks or roads. The inundation began to feel oppressive. On land, ancient marri trees leaned over us, blocking out the sun and keeping us cold and the solar panels failed us. The bush became more dark and damp. I grew up in sand dune, coastal heath country. We always had an horizon, a big sky. Living in the forest takes some getting used to.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">From a person unwittingly writing about the psychogeography of islands, I became a person writing about the psychogeography of inlets and how they are kinda negative images of each other. An inlet is a body of water surrounded by land after all. My feelings come back to the original definition of psychogeography: </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"the effect of a geographical location on the behaviour and emotions of individuals."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Now this is cool. Last night, I strapped the camera trap to a tree at water level to capture the water as it receded. There were only three night time infra red photos. It was glassed off so the waves didn't trigger the motion sensor. What triggered it was the water rat, a marsupial better known as a Rakali, or in the Noongar language a Ngurju.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3n2AuMibaSqvUlTCTN8Gm47aIxMUijrGZKBM2ghh2EkKytACPGsh0ImXEGaFvCt9N5Yojk57e2vQ2oVks8Zmon1vuQAcvgB9oDcj1jx9EXeVbexRfBJcsotFzuR-gOGIN51spxp41eaUG4Sar_k0S6Xx0RrI5hQNpR2ekFrTy8ka3q6WqPvYVEkMA84/s2688/PICT0480%20(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3n2AuMibaSqvUlTCTN8Gm47aIxMUijrGZKBM2ghh2EkKytACPGsh0ImXEGaFvCt9N5Yojk57e2vQ2oVks8Zmon1vuQAcvgB9oDcj1jx9EXeVbexRfBJcsotFzuR-gOGIN51spxp41eaUG4Sar_k0S6Xx0RrI5hQNpR2ekFrTy8ka3q6WqPvYVEkMA84/w400-h225/PICT0480%20(4).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0yBN2LB2_AyLQ1cjw0Bk7f_3KyFwfdQ7GuwaUNVwxOMJtsbnExLiEIVcE5tJVDfRhjyvF2t6Fu-ubtLUiuYALrCEVd-6KvWV2wZRJDTor4YDmYsHYc5IkF5USLY5CJCSJHDQ1nPijQRB28tWvFc-6eVYS5OCCsmeC0VrLAw7ZFZk6S6fV03K5qrx-kmg/s2688/PICT0481%20(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0yBN2LB2_AyLQ1cjw0Bk7f_3KyFwfdQ7GuwaUNVwxOMJtsbnExLiEIVcE5tJVDfRhjyvF2t6Fu-ubtLUiuYALrCEVd-6KvWV2wZRJDTor4YDmYsHYc5IkF5USLY5CJCSJHDQ1nPijQRB28tWvFc-6eVYS5OCCsmeC0VrLAw7ZFZk6S6fV03K5qrx-kmg/w400-h225/PICT0481%20(4).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu305YhVfLxBXasp93AveQ_gEqNlJu2Q03WFAPkkR0V4gZ6E5UKoLZnRlLBlMfHkvvZTeFpK2btb_5uiIympZIMdFuneZxfamA0gwd_8fSsfuTMRUwlMb5GKGLc2Ftrwo-m6BROaT6xeMS4D4zwOGW6BtEMumj4WfKyGxTEff92mQPIIVLlIm8hXa88gk/s2688/PICT0482%20(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu305YhVfLxBXasp93AveQ_gEqNlJu2Q03WFAPkkR0V4gZ6E5UKoLZnRlLBlMfHkvvZTeFpK2btb_5uiIympZIMdFuneZxfamA0gwd_8fSsfuTMRUwlMb5GKGLc2Ftrwo-m6BROaT6xeMS4D4zwOGW6BtEMumj4WfKyGxTEff92mQPIIVLlIm8hXa88gk/w400-h225/PICT0482%20(4).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-37950957454079649622023-08-06T18:32:00.001+08:002023-08-06T18:32:09.723+08:00Today and Tomorrow<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsJ55nk5BZOQyowVM0R3VB52H-n2PCW_5bNnbxItvT2oF2PEtJ9PWg8eJGqRhavOSd9YqzKEYKcftYSDOi3-J_5OA0hGzoosTRXZKT0btYFShONp-F_YBYqZXw_MZAqtwFhX30iTBorfnRfdj6A57pJacTBdBzpT60pgYm8bK0mYtEjQxFN58xgmZrkLg/s640/IMG_7591.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsJ55nk5BZOQyowVM0R3VB52H-n2PCW_5bNnbxItvT2oF2PEtJ9PWg8eJGqRhavOSd9YqzKEYKcftYSDOi3-J_5OA0hGzoosTRXZKT0btYFShONp-F_YBYqZXw_MZAqtwFhX30iTBorfnRfdj6A57pJacTBdBzpT60pgYm8bK0mYtEjQxFN58xgmZrkLg/w480-h640/IMG_7591.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBBIyD3UWHyVAhmsAAs-uPOk8rOKLp1OI0Xd6iVKeKbDAp-_GmxbUnEaQgCP982INL9SBTLvUnRISUgldQuoe83B-83bdjas_-skOmgx1X2zoUbn6bya0sWTx06LU3E4HkeonBvYP6-g1J3hzld54PpARDOaNqAri-oIj5sPJGZYxOTr6QuB5JW3C16JU/s640/IMG_7592.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBBIyD3UWHyVAhmsAAs-uPOk8rOKLp1OI0Xd6iVKeKbDAp-_GmxbUnEaQgCP982INL9SBTLvUnRISUgldQuoe83B-83bdjas_-skOmgx1X2zoUbn6bya0sWTx06LU3E4HkeonBvYP6-g1J3hzld54PpARDOaNqAri-oIj5sPJGZYxOTr6QuB5JW3C16JU/w480-h640/IMG_7592.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPLN7jpEMeZt6ulLmSRW9C5Ys7672Zq08VX-Ek20thriFsvtdoduiOpyW4zAjzq7EzGcRsZwMzPPB-JDaoH_Q4fEf-lY4ahUOqRkUeG23D3HzNVUfRZkVx5lBabhAs8oXH6H-KUz2LUYy-fJPoBZujFv8vIaAU0JbpwaEFgYgLjtM0y5NT0tcdsnP6-Y/s640/IMG_7595.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPLN7jpEMeZt6ulLmSRW9C5Ys7672Zq08VX-Ek20thriFsvtdoduiOpyW4zAjzq7EzGcRsZwMzPPB-JDaoH_Q4fEf-lY4ahUOqRkUeG23D3HzNVUfRZkVx5lBabhAs8oXH6H-KUz2LUYy-fJPoBZujFv8vIaAU0JbpwaEFgYgLjtM0y5NT0tcdsnP6-Y/w640-h480/IMG_7595.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsyB08j-_PHIwxLknb28VpRVTD_dojsFR-xUppUAfzpPN6GQcK4x1Ot_jX3f8oiR2llVfXgd-LMecGJxU7_8s_7KqFIcKZ1KCI9eOzCM5JMqKUvVK6tWUN9-oR0yPMBlIO8UmvBosXBKrTRrc9PX-Qp41P8P0qAB6JhcWBd7QeKje3ZgWir0_jQKg68c/s640/IMG_7597.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsyB08j-_PHIwxLknb28VpRVTD_dojsFR-xUppUAfzpPN6GQcK4x1Ot_jX3f8oiR2llVfXgd-LMecGJxU7_8s_7KqFIcKZ1KCI9eOzCM5JMqKUvVK6tWUN9-oR0yPMBlIO8UmvBosXBKrTRrc9PX-Qp41P8P0qAB6JhcWBd7QeKje3ZgWir0_jQKg68c/w480-h640/IMG_7597.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-69715743566525325202023-08-04T17:59:00.000+08:002023-08-04T17:59:00.245+08:00She will break<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQYgrI9Llab4sSuEoCRHzCrpDncSKSB2vwdlkDJSmr1cmCvvYN9JTt4F4e9l5VLyYrLsVegKz4Wy3zYvrnCQlb_5cu4zeV7vBGQ_3TXrGwjLVk8iku1TsgtvN50Gn-z_G08AG9ldTcIM5jGcPte8fNOZMbPMRjNgV5LqLqMT_evU05cHf9HH8sKfQfjg/s4032/IMG_7588.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQYgrI9Llab4sSuEoCRHzCrpDncSKSB2vwdlkDJSmr1cmCvvYN9JTt4F4e9l5VLyYrLsVegKz4Wy3zYvrnCQlb_5cu4zeV7vBGQ_3TXrGwjLVk8iku1TsgtvN50Gn-z_G08AG9ldTcIM5jGcPte8fNOZMbPMRjNgV5LqLqMT_evU05cHf9HH8sKfQfjg/w640-h480/IMG_7588.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The inlet is about to open after all these rains. Here are some 'before' photos that I took today. I'll post the 'after' photos once the sand bar is broken and we have a beach again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQ1D4A8WMqA43vMFPEPH-Z_c-I9PDvx6nV0YieMMRDEOFFrCMJ1L3ijRvTa9kOI1yqKksFY1pBc6X6TYXPm3nckY63LCyiWdxCW6vCrYKM5UMz_hzDuc1t0Or_CebKX2lopU0PAJALpo25ybgSM0BQtwoL2HxjLGlX9CbX7-pSGT-sM91J4oR0kZpcCQ/s4032/IMG_7583.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQ1D4A8WMqA43vMFPEPH-Z_c-I9PDvx6nV0YieMMRDEOFFrCMJ1L3ijRvTa9kOI1yqKksFY1pBc6X6TYXPm3nckY63LCyiWdxCW6vCrYKM5UMz_hzDuc1t0Or_CebKX2lopU0PAJALpo25ybgSM0BQtwoL2HxjLGlX9CbX7-pSGT-sM91J4oR0kZpcCQ/w640-h480/IMG_7583.HEIC" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYAzttmecthchILev4-err2DdeusyU3z0GPYfjlSDwW3AT2bvDlewJHUnyoJAx5Az9cU6VYsolvC-NiEXTG6JmB9nRsA-Agcm5ocYzLguScDBNblsYmBEBLRa5i4lr9f7xLbcqRq3havV-BZw2Z52jwAuqasaKTAc6fM1yw3Ik8EwtHlhCyS94muDGTMA/s4032/IMG_7585.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYAzttmecthchILev4-err2DdeusyU3z0GPYfjlSDwW3AT2bvDlewJHUnyoJAx5Az9cU6VYsolvC-NiEXTG6JmB9nRsA-Agcm5ocYzLguScDBNblsYmBEBLRa5i4lr9f7xLbcqRq3havV-BZw2Z52jwAuqasaKTAc6fM1yw3Ik8EwtHlhCyS94muDGTMA/w480-h640/IMG_7585.HEIC" width="480" /></a></div><br /></span><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAp2HiWxVpbkaaGlHXemOdKq-eOiFQy9Zu4536gLMBhaezKWbQ2p3K5hGkyBOMee2Ua-rKz_rhZ4L0qUeCsgv6IwaRvIE9dsthxAXX7FRFAqIhc9S7-QCL3uzMvzGFFKcYnmREQQQWUwZey6u-u6iUkIu268KLJk9jTYiYDt3fz6wH3efNwudhf5Egndo/s4032/IMG_7586.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAp2HiWxVpbkaaGlHXemOdKq-eOiFQy9Zu4536gLMBhaezKWbQ2p3K5hGkyBOMee2Ua-rKz_rhZ4L0qUeCsgv6IwaRvIE9dsthxAXX7FRFAqIhc9S7-QCL3uzMvzGFFKcYnmREQQQWUwZey6u-u6iUkIu268KLJk9jTYiYDt3fz6wH3efNwudhf5Egndo/w640-h480/IMG_7586.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br />sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-81386270882313345822023-07-25T20:46:00.005+08:002023-07-25T21:18:16.247+08:00Raven Report<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">I set up the trail camera at pretty much waterline, facing out into the inlet. She's swelling fast now and I was hoping for shots of waterbirds. When I picked out the SD card after 48 hours and plugged it into my computer, it came up with over 1600 images.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Of course. The waves. That meleluca tree swaying in the wind, constantly setting off the motion sensor. I wondered whether or not to download the whole lot. Surely a waste - of what? - time? of digital space? Anyway, I did download the lot and what I have now is a stop motion film of the inlet over 48 hours, with the water photographed every moment it moved, each surge and return, every flicker of that tree in the wind. The resolution and clarity of the photos is ... pretty good.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">It's the most amazing, utterly beautiful sequence of images I've ever seen and they were taken entirely by accident. I mean, I'd set up the camera looking for critters to move into the frame and here is the whole inlet, speaking to me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9gbjHR364GCXJlXnfTgAqfatKToL2bHGbCFCVCKzK9Xw3a6-rdjJdvn8t1LTB3TmUO-6pfvOC3tVBCuG_bWzRLIsPnnk0lKfS5IwcZvn3bdE3fB_vBcAle4HfL4ibJ0sl-rSp4JbPmECUmd1CQspSfLqECz819s7JFoc_aczG8qAyYl_i8QnZapkpuOw/s2688/PICT0020%20(3).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9gbjHR364GCXJlXnfTgAqfatKToL2bHGbCFCVCKzK9Xw3a6-rdjJdvn8t1LTB3TmUO-6pfvOC3tVBCuG_bWzRLIsPnnk0lKfS5IwcZvn3bdE3fB_vBcAle4HfL4ibJ0sl-rSp4JbPmECUmd1CQspSfLqECz819s7JFoc_aczG8qAyYl_i8QnZapkpuOw/w640-h360/PICT0020%20(3).JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Speaking of critters, the first image of an animal I found was of this raven. Within a few hours of setting up the camera, she'd come in to have a look.<br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Kg52P32bFc1O-_pl-i-t1i2mUGjyKtZ9fKcsZycEBn9gYfjHLC-jR0OAXZM9T7XG5BLIhDsNZf4fQ0dQLF0pL2v0rrgg_U8tAOvq3cIDWMkTsJXaWaUh3GZ6yl7vY_y48Vrd94gYJ90WjSwC9wodadiLIoPoFPbcr2BRhWLuLp-k8NxRjpTI45FZMWk/s2688/PICT0312.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Kg52P32bFc1O-_pl-i-t1i2mUGjyKtZ9fKcsZycEBn9gYfjHLC-jR0OAXZM9T7XG5BLIhDsNZf4fQ0dQLF0pL2v0rrgg_U8tAOvq3cIDWMkTsJXaWaUh3GZ6yl7vY_y48Vrd94gYJ90WjSwC9wodadiLIoPoFPbcr2BRhWLuLp-k8NxRjpTI45FZMWk/w640-h360/PICT0312.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Yesterday I noticed a lot of raven activity around that spot, as I watched from my writing desk. They were flying down to the beach and then taking off with lots of calls to each other. I'd forgotten all about the camera. I was getting ready for teaching semester two at uni and thinking about writing and history. So I kinda nodded away my raven observation and went back to my computer. The hound looked interested. As it turns out, when I retrieved the SD card today, one raven had found the camera and was calling others in to investigate. This camera was <i>an event </i>for the ravens. How bloody cool is that?<i><br /></i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNt0T_yd5dq0W4JrbL_oNAs-AW_boPoq7-qQ0agSTkTBm0NWkcpaPaHfHj5v1BUOPOpbLRD7-OjxboTLf4qEraAq1fFSmEpsZOoxa2FHRZSgAdYgAoLt_MaPvvut4rsS7iAtmknEGltTj4pDHjMWeMlZkExYbVDrm49ZNdiHdIkVti_RzhnXmOOYNqzaQ/s2688/PICT0486%20(1).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNt0T_yd5dq0W4JrbL_oNAs-AW_boPoq7-qQ0agSTkTBm0NWkcpaPaHfHj5v1BUOPOpbLRD7-OjxboTLf4qEraAq1fFSmEpsZOoxa2FHRZSgAdYgAoLt_MaPvvut4rsS7iAtmknEGltTj4pDHjMWeMlZkExYbVDrm49ZNdiHdIkVti_RzhnXmOOYNqzaQ/w640-h360/PICT0486%20(1).JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"><br /></span><p></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-19234095756083440262023-07-21T16:27:00.000+08:002023-07-21T16:27:10.892+08:00More camera trap pics<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmCV5l70hb7kWayPO6RN0GevNA8sTTALYzHckNWbX3iEhkpXXNwM80I_7ApwK_FPLYj1f6IQ5OImPMp8raKnNRBPMoFfEnW44HfvHwmc-4wy15-ImHyYvwlxXZsnIPO7BobXDmY5TR5Vtqv6krFnHjHtalMJ-PLoqhDpKFFVAbgVYsuMFYwBrCZCykYs/s2688/PICT0251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmCV5l70hb7kWayPO6RN0GevNA8sTTALYzHckNWbX3iEhkpXXNwM80I_7ApwK_FPLYj1f6IQ5OImPMp8raKnNRBPMoFfEnW44HfvHwmc-4wy15-ImHyYvwlxXZsnIPO7BobXDmY5TR5Vtqv6krFnHjHtalMJ-PLoqhDpKFFVAbgVYsuMFYwBrCZCykYs/w640-h360/PICT0251.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>So this is a terrible photo but here is your little ginger pig! Her ginger stripe is on the right side of the frame. It's the only image I've been able to get of her so far. Scattered all around are the remains of her foragings: the crimson shells of bloodroot bulbs and kangaroo bones from the roadside. A few months ago, in the summer, someone hit a roo on the track. In the weeks after, the carcass was dismantled piece by piece and, by the looks of this little pig's grotto, this is where it ended up.</p><p>When I first moved to the inlet in the midst of winter, I met some pig hunters on the track. Two car loads of young men with cages on the back of their utes, filled with enormous dogs - whiskery lurchers and brindle mastiffs. 'Gidday love,' the first driver said. </p><p>This is wild and woolly country. Marshes, peat bogs, soaring karris and ancient marri trees. 'Seen any pigs around here?' My dog leaned over my shoulder and growled at the caged dogs. All hell broke loose. I hadn't seen any pigs but thought I could send two carloads of slightly pinned men and their dogs somewhere that was not near my place. 'Yeah, saw one yesterday. About 30 Ks up Chesapeake road!' <br /></p><p>On a happier note, here are some camera trap photos of some real live kangaroos. I love the infra red ones for their glowing night eyes and larking about. The last one is taken back at the ginger pig grotto. Composition, yes?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbsgy6tufHkdejDCW6gk5bGNEEYhuG6TJe-b1M7k0xiFYR63gsFxLD6dos3cUUg8TLt8uG0plx4_HnbZdVSMRGpWGjbGmQN2_mZdBZPysGyVZuVfqPjWsiS6NpdOCz94nsvND0_k43yZ69QP7EQIMJFtLPwmsEy5PtYNa-scTGuTdvUtZ8Xcbj_9SnKU8/s2688/PICT0194.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbsgy6tufHkdejDCW6gk5bGNEEYhuG6TJe-b1M7k0xiFYR63gsFxLD6dos3cUUg8TLt8uG0plx4_HnbZdVSMRGpWGjbGmQN2_mZdBZPysGyVZuVfqPjWsiS6NpdOCz94nsvND0_k43yZ69QP7EQIMJFtLPwmsEy5PtYNa-scTGuTdvUtZ8Xcbj_9SnKU8/w640-h360/PICT0194.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTtCft_zHNa4no8c6UsZLqa3jQxM0LyGVLoxwmrnKLxrSwA8EjyB2j9b0BpZHW45R7IN7ura-Wi3q2SWYEMunVNHb2eFdc9ST0tHfvpXq0-gW4qxTmQVtOn7eVCiwVj8eyrtvACmzLEbQEND-Gt3Iifcygl18MurQjsK-ahvwS41sQqCKiq8_ibNqQBHE/s2688/PICT0197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTtCft_zHNa4no8c6UsZLqa3jQxM0LyGVLoxwmrnKLxrSwA8EjyB2j9b0BpZHW45R7IN7ura-Wi3q2SWYEMunVNHb2eFdc9ST0tHfvpXq0-gW4qxTmQVtOn7eVCiwVj8eyrtvACmzLEbQEND-Gt3Iifcygl18MurQjsK-ahvwS41sQqCKiq8_ibNqQBHE/w640-h360/PICT0197.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO4RXwc3OOVpIwwyI4i_LJSqzp_0gHlDW8aRTVZL0XSVi8SZxg5XrnbhMvmYh-pR6n-5Qa6txgCpP_2yXrLyuJ9pZSuBpEylr0NFIGPgDaNUNb63fE5AdsKCG7SyAVPqz3qChlRY_XEtZNozmF9C1L2bE4uybluBZo7uOT9w_SABXm-nKp7W-xvBaekp0/s2688/PICT0271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO4RXwc3OOVpIwwyI4i_LJSqzp_0gHlDW8aRTVZL0XSVi8SZxg5XrnbhMvmYh-pR6n-5Qa6txgCpP_2yXrLyuJ9pZSuBpEylr0NFIGPgDaNUNb63fE5AdsKCG7SyAVPqz3qChlRY_XEtZNozmF9C1L2bE4uybluBZo7uOT9w_SABXm-nKp7W-xvBaekp0/w640-h360/PICT0271.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-57535615638642665082023-07-08T16:24:00.003+08:002023-07-08T16:24:33.661+08:00Dealing with a dog who rolls in a fish kill<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">About two weeks ago it was raining hard. We had about 60 ml in a week. The inlet swelled with river-brown water from the massive system fed by three rivers. I was running out of firewood. This time of year always presents me with a sense of lack: crouching over a fire that will not thrive, like an animal trying to stay warm. Not enough sun to power the internet and my single lamp for more than an hour per day. As a casual worker, I'm out of a job for most of June and July, so when the income runs out, gas bottle runs out, my gas fridge stops and so does the hot water.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">It sounds grim but it's a reality of living off grid in a remote location. 'I should organise myself for this time of year,' I think every year. This year I lined up a few writing jobs which are tiding me over for the moment. Anyway, with the fresh water pouring into the inlet over the last few weeks, regular visitors have noticed an anomaly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">The sudden influx created a mass fish kill event. At least I'm better off than your average herring. Brownie and Co were filletting mullet on an ironing board down on the beach. They'd set nets the previous night and not caught a single herring. 'They're all dead,' Brownie said, pointing to the dead fish lining the beach.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">I walked along the beach for a few hundred metres and found 30 or 40 more dead herring. Shit. Later, other boaters told me there were dead fish on every beach on the inlet, stinking up the reed beds and the sandbars. I could only find herring on the beach, large, almost bull herring. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">So I reported the fish kill to the authorities and warned Brownie to put his nets away. For the next 24 hours I stressed about Fisheries coming out to inspect our nets and hanging about the place. The main thing was that I thought it needed to be flagged. Water authorities got back to me to say it was a fresh water deoxygenation event.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">So my issue now is my dog. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">On the first day, I washed her in warm soapy water after she'd rolled in rotting fish, rubbed her dry with an old towel. She immediately went down to the beach and had another roll. I washed her with warm soapy water again. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Next time, she's getting the hose. <br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-50540989602775039242023-07-07T18:22:00.009+08:002023-07-07T18:55:59.275+08:00Ginger Sow<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">I've just installed the trail camera at a spot on the track where I've seen the cutest feral pig three times over the last week. She is a black pig with a ginger stripe going right around her middle and a row of suckling teats on her underside.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">At about the same time I saw her, Jimmy turned up at my house. He's a handsome young man with a disorganised gait. 'Hi Sarah,' Jimmy threw out his hand. 'Look, my car ran out of petrol halfway along the track. Could you give me a lift back there? I have some fuel in the shed.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">The last time I saw Jimmy, he sought my help after he'd bogged his Dad's tractor out in the middle of the inlet. Yes, you read that right. <i>Bogged his Dad's tractor in the middle of the inlet. </i>'What were you doing?' I asked him back then. 'I was setting nets but then the tractor fell in a swan hole.' 'Setting net from a fucking tractor? Have you not heard of a boat?' I decided to give it a red hot hot go anyway to break the monotony. Jimmy and I got down to the shore, after sourcing several hundred metres of snap straps and rope. The tractor sat out in the inlet like a kinda sad, defeated island.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">The operation was an abject failure with me skidding all over the beach on the end of a tow rope, threatening to tear the chassis out of my car at sunset. The next day a few more 4WDs turned up and towed the tractor out. Jimmy was instructed by his family to never use the tractor again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">So when Jimmy turned up the other day, I was grateful for this lesser chassis-destroying request. We drove up the track to deliver petrol to his car. At the point where the track turns into white, slidey clay during rain, I said, 'I've seen a pig around this spot, every other day for the last week.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Jimmy nodded and said, 'Yeah, last night as I was walking in, I smelt something, like an animal was living around here.' When we got to his car, standing in the middle of the road, he hauled his fuel cans off the back of my ute and got busy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">As I drove home behind Jimmy, I kept thinking of this mother pig, of where she had stashed her piglets, and also of Jimmy's midnight walk along the track. So today, I put a camera trap in the spot where the track get slidey and made of white clay. I'd love to see what goes on there at night.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-66605431704659236712023-07-06T20:03:00.007+08:002023-07-06T20:10:48.316+08:00The Company<p> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">She was standing on the driveway. She was
wearing gumboots and a pair of blue crocheted undies. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Andy wasn’t expecting this. As one of TeleNode’s
lawyers, he’d spoken to Mrs Agnes Campbell on the phone a few days ago about
her husband’s estate. She had sounded like a society wife, grieving maybe, but
capably in charge of the behemoth that was her late husband’s sprawling, messy
financial affairs. And here she was. Mrs Campbell, topless, holding a shovel in
one hand and a chisel in the other.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">‘It’s the plumbing,’ she said when she saw his
glance at the shovel. ‘Toilet’s backed up.’ Then, ‘It’s easier to shower than
wash all my clothes. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so early.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">A green hose snaked from the house to a white
pipe and piles of black dirt where Agnes had obviously dug around to find the
evidence of the blockage. The air was rank with the smell of raw sewerage. Her undress
was definitely not about trying to seduce a lawyer.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Plumber?’ Andy asked.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">‘They won’t come out here,’ she replied. ‘There
are the bills. Robbie hasn’t paid them. I’m sure they’d come out, knowing
what’s happened but … you know … it’s pride. It’s ridiculous.’</span></p>
<span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">He stared at her face
to stop his gaze hitting her breasts, her pale stomach and legs. ‘The Company could
pay.’ </span><p></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-7564990661731861222023-05-29T19:11:00.006+08:002023-05-29T22:46:11.832+08:00Tank? Empty<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">The state premier of Western Australia has just resigned, citing exhaustion. He said his portfolio as premier and treasurer will finish by the end of this week. To paraphrase the words of Aotearoa's (New Zealand's) former Prime Minister Jacinda Adern, his tank is empty. He's done. He's out. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">State Premier Mark McGowan closed off the state from the rest of the country in the early days of the Covid pandemic and it afforded us about 18 months of relative normaility. This sounds weird, I know. But we didn't have to endure many local lockdowns - because the state was also shut off from the world. It was really cool. There was no Covid here. We could move around as much as we wanted to. Nobody got sick from Covid in the early days because it just simply didn't exist here. He did that.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">When the federal election happened last year, Labor won on a landslide, mainly on the back of various Labor politicians such as McGowan, who'd fought so hard for public health. His decisions were often unpopular. He'd declared opening borders by a certain date and then abruptly closed the borders again. We in Western Australia were called the 'hermit kingdom' and 'cave dwellers' by right wing pollies and journalists in the Eastern states, merely for being anti Covid. Our geographical advantage was obvs.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">So the Premier gave a press conference today, stating his resignation. He didn't cry. His wife looked stoked (Oh boy I can only imagine) and he then bowed out with not a Royal Commission or ICAC review ahead of him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Good job Mark and I thank you for your service.</span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-17218688008230624102023-05-10T18:19:00.006+08:002023-05-10T18:25:58.343+08:00Camera Trap<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Lately I've been trying to work out how to set up camera traps. This is not a creepy thing ... I live in the forest and would like to see what other critters are getting around at night around my place. A while ago, I strapped a camera trap to a tree close to my house. Tonight I put the SD card from the camera into my computer. Here's what came up.<br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrPvo7YI63Lv0ewRsOzoOKVz1CbYtPR0tT0bKafFTOZkGthjC6I-10JQVXkTAkBukNIjEXyRBHG3tHu7R_qjD-GXsK-4xrMn-gCMQtB43zjoX3FjbRRygfw2Ijv5vcBr6IhKbG_K_eUyGkRCyK5xI9LmCu1PiETj2Qy2Gzn4EuoMwfeojOtwPmXeke/s2688/me%20checking%20out%20if%20light%20works.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrPvo7YI63Lv0ewRsOzoOKVz1CbYtPR0tT0bKafFTOZkGthjC6I-10JQVXkTAkBukNIjEXyRBHG3tHu7R_qjD-GXsK-4xrMn-gCMQtB43zjoX3FjbRRygfw2Ijv5vcBr6IhKbG_K_eUyGkRCyK5xI9LmCu1PiETj2Qy2Gzn4EuoMwfeojOtwPmXeke/w640-h360/me%20checking%20out%20if%20light%20works.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The cameras are set up with motion sensors to take a picture. This night on the 29th, I walked around the camera to see if it would set off a flash, but it didn't. I walked away, wondering if it worked or if I'd set it up incorrectly. Turns out, I misunderstood infra red capabilities! Derr, Sarah.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Here are some rabbits:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsPODj2whvTnOJVuLJTk0SzbVd8hKNJeUbWUNp97bG9_eD5f5KuSdXS-xfrXPErKinHIvhogArhFncB3Yl5CD9mHaOCN7qIGyFC236dCzOUYR0oR0Vtv5lelWlhptFXsoMH6svAVCCxVc7cqFpj3LFZQvNz09_uzy9Xo6rSg2udA5V22imbp3-R6RA/s2688/PICT0019.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsPODj2whvTnOJVuLJTk0SzbVd8hKNJeUbWUNp97bG9_eD5f5KuSdXS-xfrXPErKinHIvhogArhFncB3Yl5CD9mHaOCN7qIGyFC236dCzOUYR0oR0Vtv5lelWlhptFXsoMH6svAVCCxVc7cqFpj3LFZQvNz09_uzy9Xo6rSg2udA5V22imbp3-R6RA/w640-h360/PICT0019.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiwxI2QUFPyX2rd0b-I3Hid11W7W4aZKhs7Mh67YtQ0c_sCYAZ-ZEseFJct8P1JdU52aW-a9W2TYQ8VWni5Hjk1aPdO9hnhU9VKs0NYT38i31qvQpnkzu2KECwf-vnr5SOReogMJWPi27L8zKo1FPqqgLg7J2NFUeCZ_VMi6r6mvDfB6FgRaCg10Zj/s2688/rabbit.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiwxI2QUFPyX2rd0b-I3Hid11W7W4aZKhs7Mh67YtQ0c_sCYAZ-ZEseFJct8P1JdU52aW-a9W2TYQ8VWni5Hjk1aPdO9hnhU9VKs0NYT38i31qvQpnkzu2KECwf-vnr5SOReogMJWPi27L8zKo1FPqqgLg7J2NFUeCZ_VMi6r6mvDfB6FgRaCg10Zj/w640-h360/rabbit.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">And then, there is me in my ugg boots, today, going in to check the camera trap.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8IU-RwYTllUd4VdCWbAJmKzWrEI1agWDasu6E57XQdOgKh1tZTmALgxjcJSEZEfJVnaTIwWytqsbMhoXNvxVvJWsNto9cNVf-vcngbi2_gg0ZwKhkHtNtdBeD-pT3g0BVrTz3PfjZIDXx7dEnPsvGOWEE9ito4me34X5sHoKzoz-Dh0b3KxdD9dA/s2688/picking%20up%20trap%20ha.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8IU-RwYTllUd4VdCWbAJmKzWrEI1agWDasu6E57XQdOgKh1tZTmALgxjcJSEZEfJVnaTIwWytqsbMhoXNvxVvJWsNto9cNVf-vcngbi2_gg0ZwKhkHtNtdBeD-pT3g0BVrTz3PfjZIDXx7dEnPsvGOWEE9ito4me34X5sHoKzoz-Dh0b3KxdD9dA/w640-h360/picking%20up%20trap%20ha.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">So all we got on camera was a few rabbits and my Ugg boots. But it was a pretty cool experiment. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Onwards!<br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-44369038881925567612023-05-04T17:59:00.001+08:002023-05-04T17:59:08.087+08:00Vale<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9vST6hVRj2A" width="320" youtube-src-id="9vST6hVRj2A"></iframe></div><br /> <p></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-62901158979045116752023-04-30T20:23:00.002+08:002023-04-30T20:34:10.310+08:00Pistols at Noon<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There's a hut in the bush close to my place. It's called Old Smoky because the fireplace doesn't work that well. Old Smoky is on the same property as mine. It's clad in blue asbestos and corrugated iron and the floorboards are made of jarrah timbers. The windows are not glass but plastic blinds. There is no toilet and only the remains of a gas shower.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The whole while I've lived here, a man by the name of Wally stays in Old Smoky on occasion. He always comes over to say hi and let me know that he's in the vicinity. After that, we leave each other alone. He walks out a mullet net in the evenings and sometimes brings me some fillets. He'll bring a load of split jarrah for firewood and stash it in the old rainwater tank, set sideways, like another hut or shelter but to keep warmth and cooking fuel dry, not people..</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The commercial fishermen came one year and moved into Old Smoky. Chicky and Brownie found Old Smoky a welcome refuge from camping on beaches in tents. The hut is on private property but they just moved in anyway. I go visit them and sometimes partake in their moonshine. It's rough liquor and the air in the hut is always smoky and close. Brownie chainsmokes tailormades and Chicky is the one who makes the liquor. Chicky and Brownie sleep on swags laid across iron bedstands.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Last year, another man came to stay in Old Smoky. He was confused and alone, a dislocated product of divorce, a lack of meds and the pandemic. I know he'll hate me for saying this, but that is what I saw. He gave me some soap and incense which was a nice gist and told me he was moving into the hut.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So while I was used to Wally and his respectful ways around Old smoky and while I was used to the fishermen turning up when the inlet opened for netting seaon, this Bear Grylls character was a new one. He was trying to do a Broke Inlet version of the TV series Alone except that it also involved asking me to charge his mobile phone on my solar system's inverter and lend him twenty bucks when he ran out of wine.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So. That was a bit weird and I expressed as much to Wally next time he turned up. He was kind of incensed. Not about me having an odd neighbour but that someone was moving into his hut. It's not Wally's hut but Wally was still pissed. After three weeks Bear Grylls gave up on his plan of living off the land and moved back to Albany. On my trips to the city I still occasionally see him walking up the main street in his camo gear and DriZaBone..<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Then the fishermen moved in again. They burnt all of Wally's split jarrah, that load of wood Wally had so covetously collected and stashed. They burnt it in the dodgey fireplace Old Smoky is famous for, over the whole netting season. Wally came back in the spring to find all his firewood gone. So now was he doubly pissed. Not only have people been using his hut (which he does not own) but they've taken all of his fucking firewood! (Fair call)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Wally fortifies the door and puts a padlock on Old Smoky. He plants some tomatos, chillies and a lemon tree over the mullet frames he's buried. This is a territorial war,verified by vegetables. I know I've gone from past tense to present tense but shit is getting real now folks. Bear with me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Today, the fishermen returned and Wally was waiting for them. He knew they'd be here on the first of May and he moved his whole famility into Old Smoky for two weeks. Brownie and Chicky came up from the beach to see me, after they'd launched the boat and moored it in the inlet. 'Wally's in Old Smoky?' Chicky asked me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">'Yes,' I said. 'Would you like to borrow my tent?'<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8649507973626411498.post-57875422100274851792023-04-19T20:14:00.003+08:002023-04-19T20:15:27.856+08:00The automaton and the writer child<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;">Re my last post, this is interesting: I love this video <br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OehTO9l1Hp8" width="320" youtube-src-id="OehTO9l1Hp8"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p>sarah toahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12412812914705725798noreply@blogger.com6