HOLY CHIP and fish Batman.

In the beating heart of Melbourne you expect to pay a premium for what is good and you expect to wait a while for what is worth waiting for. Recommended by Tim and Jo Bennett, who regularly travel to Melbourne to race, we tried The Hardware Societe and, my god, it was good. The dish you see before you (pan-fried brioche topped with salted caramel honeycomb, blue berries and panna cotta) was only $18 AUS and left me feeling comfortably numb and in need of nothing more.

On the issue of queuing, The Societe crew are so very switched on and in tune with their customers. They warn you of the longest likely wait time. If it takes as long as they say it will, you are not the least bit frustrated as you chose to wait. If it takes less time you are pleasantly surprised. We were told 45 minutes and were seated in under 20 minutes. Strategically, this is very clever.

Based on my Societe experience, I immediately concluded that queues in Melbourne were a good thing. So off we trotted to Lunar Park on a sunny Sunday with a forecast top of 31 degrees Celsius. Just for context, you have more chance of winning the lotto than experiencing a sunny, 31 degree Sunday in Melbourne. 

You can only imagine how delighted I was to be met with dozens and dozens of queues upon our arrival at Lunar Park. "This place must be good" I surmised. We joined the queue for the Great Scenic Railway. The signs very clearly indicated that, at the exact spot we were standing, the wait time would be one hour. How spectacular must this ride be? It has been the premier attraction at Lunar Park for 103 years and people are still willing to queue up for it. Besides, based on Societe's calculations one hour actually means 22.666 minutes.

I soon discovered that Lunar Park runs on its own timezone and one hour means one hour with the added bonus of one heated exchange with a queue jumper. Ignoring the termite ridden wooden trusses that were supposed to be supporting the track, I was convinced this ride was going to be epic. And it was. Not epic in an 'extreme scary' kind of way, but epic in a 'I hope I survive this' kind of way. Which is exactly what you would expect from a 103 year old roller-coaster that has been battered by the southern ocean winds and spray for the term of it's natural life. 

Two for two on the queues and I was feeling very hip to the Melbourne scene.

Seeking a sunset and some fish and chips to cap off the day, we arrived at Beachcombers Cafe. I was beside myself upon the realisation that we would have the chance to, yet again, queue for our next meal. No less than 45 minutes later, after being given no indication of the seating wait time, we were ushered to a table. To be fair it was a good table from which we could watch the sun set and life meander buy. However, when I took account of the menu price my life  was sucked right out of me.

I am not so ignorant that I don't understand the concept of paying for location. I get that. But $138 for myself, my wife and my two tweenage girls? We were dining in St Kilda, not on the seventh sun of Saturn. I am no longer certain that queues equal quality. 

One thing of which I am certain is that, after trying so hard to eat my monies worth (the kids could not finish their meals), I will still be digesting tonight's meal tomorrow morning. So, in actual fact, we got a great sunset and I got two meals for the price of one!

The Rex Hunt Guide to Herping

Herptiles are reptiles and amphibians. Herping is the act of searching for herptiles and it is a lot like fishing. Actually, herping is not much like fishing at all. For a start, you don’t use a barbed hook to drag your quarry from its home by its mouth. There are some similarities. Like fishing, a bad day of herping is a day spent cold, wet, frustrated and bored beyond belief.

Flipping rocks, peeling bark, busting logs, up-rooting vegetation and digging burrows are some of the more common techniques employed to find herptiles. These techniques work very well and are very productive for young, fit and enthusiastic herpers that get all giggly when they un-earth a species of tiny, fossorial (litter dwelling) skink they have never seen before or a cute little geckonid with big beady eyes and a wee-small knob on the end of it's tail. 

But I am older, wiser and a little more jaded. I have spent more than 20 years flipping, digging, raking and peeling and, these days, my body demands that I take a much more refined and considered approach to herping. Thus I prefer to go ‘road cruising’. 

As the name suggests, road cruising facilitates the relaxation of both body and mind midst the comfort of a climate controlled vehicle  as it glides effortlessly along the black top where probability alone is the mandate that ensures that you will find the herptile you seek. More simply; if you drive along the road with your eyes open you will find stuff. 

As well as being a spectacularly relaxing way to pass the time, road cruising is can also be fun for the family, even if they are not at all biologically orientated. It is like 'I spy with my little eye' with the added bonus of a concussion every time the driver (that's me) sees something that excites him. It is with absolute certainty that I will slam on the brakes without warning and without looking to see if there are any cars behind me. Midst my excitement, I will also disembark from the vehicle with much vigour, leaving the vehicle in the middle of the highway without the handbrake engaged. Such is the excitement of seeing a new species or a great example of a species I have seen a dozen times before.

Even when the family is sick to death of playing 'I spy for Dad's little herp' I will continue to surreptitiously scan the roadside in a relentless search for reptiles. I am acutely aware that, whilst on a family holiday, I must not vanish into the wilderness to go herping whilst my family grows evermore impatient waiting in the car. I learnt this after our last vacation in Queensland. So road cruising is my only hope of finding my first ever Copperhead (Austrelaps superbus). 

Photo courtesy of Barry Goldsmith

I have traveled within the known distribution of this ridiculously common large elapid on many occasions, but I have never had the good fortune of finding one. With 14 days of driving around Tasmania ahead of me I am certain that this is my best chance to see one. And when I do? I shall giggle like a school child. I shall catch it, play with it, take a photo of it and let it go. But unlike, Rex Hunt, I won’t kiss it as that would just be weird.

When I return to Western Australia please don’t expect me to regale you with stories of the unsurpassed beauty of Tasmania’s wilderness for I will not recall a single mountain pass or turquoise bay. Like all good herpers I shall only be able to recount the colour and texture of the bitumen and the heterogeneity of the vegetation about three to four foot either side of the roadside. 

I swear: IT WAS THIIIIIIIS BIG.

Over many years, as a youngster, I voluntarily relocated nuisance snakes from people's properties. I made it my mission to help these poor unfortunate snakes with their people problems and, I guess, I helped a few very distressed people out along the way.

For a young, struggling herpetologist fascinated by venomous snakes, reptile relocation was a free pass to handling large venomous snakes on an almost daily basis. On more than one occasion, after particularly busy periods where I had enough time to catch but not enough time to release, my bedroom would be a seething, writhing mass of pillow cases full of some of the world's deadliest. I was like a kid in a candy shop; a candy shop no-one else really wanted to visit.

It was an amazing time for me. I might as well have worn my undies on the outside as I often felt like a super hero rescuing suburbanites from the insurgence of the serpent. I would arrive on my fully 'bombed' Ducati 900SS clad in a leather jacket and Doctor Martin boots. I would draw my snake hook from the back of my jacket with as much aplomb as Katniss Everdeen draws her arrows from her quiver. The Duc had the baffles drilled out of the exhaust so you can only imagine the symphony that marked my arrival.

Two things were consistent in all of the relocations I did: the messiest house in the street was the one that had the snake and the snake was always about half of the size that the panicked resident had estimated it to be. I can understand this. Fear and the fact that snakes are often on the move makes it very hard to estimate size. If they are not on the move they are typically coiled up half hidden, which makes estimating length even more difficult. 

However, if you have a shed snake skin in your hand it is much easier to assess the length of the serpent that left it behind. Or is it? I thought I would take five minutes out of my day to just to quickly demonstrate how something as definitive as a snake skin still does not give Joe Average a true indication of snake body size.

You see, the skin of the actual snake comprises the scales and the interstitial skin, between the scales. To aid in water conservation the scales over lap each other by about 1/4. The scales have low permeability which means a low rate of water loss. The skin is much more permeable and is vulnerable to water loss through evapo-transpiration; like ours.

When a snake sheds its skin, the skin is turned inside out and the scales are separated by the interstitial skin. This actually means the skin is about 1/4 longer and wider than the snake is. Factor in a bit of stretching during sloughing and there you have it: The 2m long skin that you find in your hay shed belongs to a snake that is probably only 1.5m long. Feel better?

That is Crystal and that is Crystal's most recent sloughed skin.

Don't Try This At Home Kids

Free-handling a Trials MX Bike
Free-handling a Chappell Island Tiger Snake

These are links to two totally different videos. Watch both and then ask yourself this question: Which one is truly irresponsible? Better yet, are either of them irresponsible?

The first one is a stunt executed on a motorbike in front of a big crowd. These are nice young lads from the Pathfinders Trials Motorcycle Club. Good, wholesome, local boys doing their thing. Try this at home and you will probably end up with a punctured lung and/or a broken neck.

The second clip was a grab from a filming day with Barry Goldsmith, one of Victoria's most recognised wildlife rescue personnel. As you can see, Barry has a penchant for one of Australia's 'less well loved' fauna groups; the venomous snakes.Try this at home and.........well, I am not really sure? It goes without saying that the impact of the venom on Barry's personnel health may be quite severe. But to be effected by venom you first have to be bitten and Barry has never been bitten.

Is free-handling venomous fauna dangerous? I guess it could be if it all goes to custard and you do get bitten. Anything to do with dangerous animals is always perceived to be that much more dangerous because animals have a mind of their own and can be unpredictable. But I am willing to wager that Barry has a pretty fair idea of what George (the Chappell Island Tiger Snake) is thinking and when an adverse action or reaction is imminent. Barry knows that the snake will not bite indiscriminately and without warning.

On the other hand, despite their meticulous preparation and a lifetime spent practicing, Lewis and Alex Nolan will not get any warning when their bikes will misfire and that misfire might very well come just at that critical moment when the bike launches off the ramp. This will cause the rider to fall short on the rotation and he will end up in a world of pain.

However, this is not a critique about the pros and cons of free-handling snakes and bikes; it is a critique of the reaction of the audience to actions of these individuals.

I am pretty certain that Lewis and Alex have never been 'trolled' for their amazing ability to handle their bikes. But I know that Barry has been subjected to an avalanche of vitriol for free-handling snakes and he is not alone. It seems that anyone who is willing to put themselves in (potentially) harms way to really connect with nature is destined to cop a flogging for their efforts, especially if they chose to share their moment on social media. But is what we do really any different from the crazy antics of the Nolan boys or others of their persuasion? I don't think it is, and therefore I really can't understand why what we do lures the trolls out from under the bridge.

2015: The Year of You

I have to make an admission! To anyone that knows me, this will come as no great surprise. I am a bit of a 'yes man'. If someone asks something of me I will usually say yes; whether I stand to gain something personally from it or not.

Metaphorically speaking, saying 'yes' feeds me. No, in fact it might be more appropriate to say that I feed off of it: I feed off of the positive affirmation from those I help. Helping people somehow validates my perception of myself and the hyper-critical role I play in my own little microcosm. Helping people makes me feel more important.

Unfortunately, that metaphorical supplement is somewhat addictive. Being a 'yes man' is akin to being a smoker or being on steroids. You feel the immediate benefits and give absolutely no consideration to the long-term deleterious impacts.

For example, tomorrow I will go and meet a young university graduate. He is the son of a former Client. He is a good kid and I know that because he volunteered to help on a biological survey with me nearly seven years ago when he was only 15. He worked really hard and showed great potential as a scientist. He has done well at university and I am sure that he will find a really good job; he can find his own way. Nevertheless, I will take two hours out of my working day which, as a Principal consultant in the mining industry, will equate to lots of dollars of lost revenue and a concomitant lost opportunity cost. Why will I do it? Because he asked me to and, just like a Marlborough Red used to in the old days, this little encounter will make me feel good. The work that I have on my plate, and the deadlines that are encroaching, can wait.

Another example. About two months ago an American production company offered to pay me $500 to handle their licencing and filming permission for an Australian documentary shoot. It should have taken 2-5 hours of actual work (emails, phone calls and filling in forms). So hungry for their affirmation was I that, at last count, I had sent and received more than 362 emails organising such menial things props, accommodation, vehicle hire and suggestions for story content, in addition to the licences I was paid to organise. Why? Because they asked nicely and I could not say no. I could only say yes, because that is how I roll.

I could go on and on waxing lyrical of whimsical instances of my altruistic behavior, but I wont: I will spare you the pain.

December 31st is fast approaching. As a timely reminder of the pending need for a New Year's Resolution one of my close friends suggested that mine should be to stay out of hospital in 2015. Via martial arts, motorbikes, acrobatics and handling venomous snakes I am prone to the odd visit to triage. As I am unlikely to give up any of my past times this is a resolution I am not willing to make. 

The resolution I AM willing to make is that 2015 is to be the Year of You. Confused? Don't be. 

In 2015 I resolve not to do random and unnecessary acts of kindness for distant friends and/or acquaintances and/or work colleagues just to feed my own ego. Instead, I resolve to first think long and hard about the key people in my life before I commit to doing anything for anyone else. If my altruism does not directly benefit these key people, then I will simply say 'NO'. I will leave you to surmise who those key people are. They know who they are and that is good enough for me. 

Welcome to Jurassic Park, Welcome to the Lost World

It would be fair to say that when I set out on my voyage to Chappell Island I had a pretty good idea of what I would find. I did my dissertation on island tiger snakes in Western Australia and I was very familiar with the scientific literature describing the Chappell tigers. Some morphometric work had been done in the in the late 1950's and more intensive studies on feeding and body size were published in 1988 by Schwaner and Sarre. 

I was also acutely aware of just how lucky I was to be granted permission to land on the beach. As you can imagine, the traditional owners are very protective of this mysterious island they call Hummocky. You can see it, way out in the distance (top left of frame).

In more recent times, a young, slightly cocky and politically incorrect scientist was denied access to the island after failing to acknowledge that Hummocky belongs to the aboriginal people! So he should have been denied access: Hummocky is a very special place indeed.

So what did I expect to see? To be honest, I expected to see an island full of very large and very black tiger snakes that look like they are not much enjoying life and that was exactly what I saw. Having not eaten for 10 months, they are merely long black sacks of bones being sucked dry by ticks from the outside and eaten from the inside out by internal parasitic worms. 

However, as I am such a sensitive new age scientist, I was able to look beyond their drab and beleaguered appearance and see their true beauty as it is reflected in the glint of their glassy black eyes. Never one to judge on looks alone, I fell in love with the tiger snakes of Hummocky. How can plain be so damn pretty?

The literature tells us that these tigers are big! In fact, they have been measured to be the biggest tiger snakes in all of Australia. We also know that they feed only once a year on hatchlings of the Mutton Bird or Wedge-tailed Shearwater. As adults, this annual feeding frenzy, that spans only a few weeks, is the primary driver for their incredibly large size. The phenomenon of Island Gigantism is commonly observed and documented in many studies of island ecology and demographics. We know from a very recent study by Aubret and Shine (2009) that these island tiger snakes are born bigger and grow quicker than any population of mainland tiger snakes.

But Hummocky (Chappell Island) is not unique in supporting a population of large tiger snakes. Many of the islands in the Furneaux Island group, including Flinders Island, support similar populations of tiger snakes and their mutton bird prey. So why are the Hummocky snakes so big? No body actually knows the answer to this question and until I have time to find out for certain I can only speculate.

In the first instance, Hummocky has no trees on it. At present, it is believed that the island never had trees on it. There has been a significant amount of historical clearing and agriculture, but trees have never been reported as growing on the island. Could this influence the snakes? I am not sure?

Secondly, Hummocky is very small. Fundamental to the concepts of island biodiversity, smaller islands are less species rich. This means there are no other competitors to the tiger snakes other than humans that harvested mutton bird chicks for decades. Could this influence the snakes? Again, I am not sure. Mutton bird harvesting has taken place on many, many islands in the Furneaux Group.

The topography of the island is very unique. Though many of the bigger islands, such as Cape Barron, have terribly steep hills across their length and breadth, Hummocky is essentially flat all over with the exception of a very large dome shaped granitic extrusion in the centre. This is very odd, to say the least.

Now, I am not a geologist, nor an archaeologist, nor a physical scientist but I believe there to be a number of factors at play here that are canalising the changes in this population. Based on my work on ecophysiology of island vs. mainland tiger snakes in Western Australia I believe the primary driver for gigantism is water availability. 

I believe that the Devonian granite dome is holding a permanent water source for the snakes that is available to them all year round. That, coupled with short and long term refuges (mutton bird burrows and boxthorn bushes) that enable the snakes to capitalise on energy conservation and a reduction of evaporative water loss, contribute favorably to mass and energy conservation throughout the year. This, in turn, allows these massive snakes to emerge from their 10 - 11 month fasting period in relatively good condition and ready to eat. 

From a scientific perspective, something unique is happening on Hummocky and I am keen to return to find out exactly what. 

Science aside, on an island with no natural predators a tiger snake's life is blissful; a symphony of eat, sleep, mate, repeat. Most scientists consider snakes to be primitive and poorly evolved? I would rather consider them as evolution honed to perfection. They are nothing they don't need to be. They've got it right; we have it wrong!

My sincere thanks to the traditional owners of Hummocky and the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre Inc. for making a life-long dream a reality.

Stand a Little Closer to the Edge Kids

Sometimes you have to stand a little closer to the edge to really see what is out there. If that is how you want to live your life as an adult, then that is your choice. But how far would you allow your children to go to experience first-hand what you got to experience when you were a kid?

We are not very liberal with our kids in terms of letting them take risks. At 13 my daughter has only recently been allowed to walk to school even though school is less than 300 meters down the street. After all, she has to walk past a park in which a pedophile may be lurking. She has to cross a road down which hooligans race at ridiculous speeds. She would walk the same way at the same time every day making her a prime candidate for some kerb-crawling rock spider.

Besides all of that, my kids injure themselves enough during dancing, so we do not need to voluntarily contribute to hospital emergency waiting times by letting them ride on any form of petrol powered device. 

For the term of their natural lives to date, they have never been allowed to own a quad, a dirt bike or a buggy. In fact, they are not even allowed to ride on/in them; a decision my wife made based on the number of injuries I have sustained on these mobile meat grinders.

As recently as only 4 weeks ago I jumped up and down in the kitchen like a three year old having a ‘tanty’, arguing with my wife about the safety features of dune buggies (i.e. they have a roll cage and a 5 point harness). I was adamant my 11 year old daughter should be able to step out of her comfort zone and into the cockpit. Less than 2 hours later I had rolled the buggy and crushed my arm under that roll cage. A long stint at hospital and painful recovery ensued.

But I am afraid I may have to re-contest the constraints we have placed on our kids on the use of all-terrain vehicles, because I have just enjoyed a most amazing tour with Flinders Island Quad Bike Tours. And now I want to take my family!

The first question that will be asked by my beautiful and loving wife will be: “Why can't we do the tour in the comfort and safety of a 4WD vehicle?”. Well, in fact we can; but why would we?

If I were to take the family in a car, the kids would not enjoy the scents of the rich diversity of trees and flowers.

They will not feel the icy cold, crystal waters nip against their feet, ankles and shins as we negotiate the many creek crossings.

Because of the roof above their heads, they would not get to see the sky vanish in mere seconds when it is eclipsed by a cloak of towering eucalypts.

They could not be teased by the briefest of glimpses of the most electric blue and turquoise water captured through impenetrable undergrowth.

And just as their frustration builds to crescendo and they are about to give up all hope of seeing the wild southern ocean, it will explode in front of their very eyes as they round that one last bend in the track.

Are quads dangerous? Yes they can be.

Could one roll over and crush either of my darling children? It is a possibility.

What if we get snagged on a rock or a log on the track? What will we do? How would our tour guide contend with such a stranding, as likely to happen in a car as on a quad? Who cares? Based on what I have witnessed, I am sure Justin can deal with it.

Is it worth my wife and I letting our kids take a measured, calculated and considered risk to enjoy what I enjoyed. Yes – most definitely. 

Insular Divergence in the Human, Homo sapien: Flinders Island as a Case Study.

I am currently flying at 11,582 meters ASL. It is -55 degrees Celsius outside and I am listening to Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op.85 Adagio. For astute air travelers you will be well aware that I am not in the plane featured in the above photo. The rest of you should also realise that I have actually already arrived home, as I simply can’t post a Blog mid-flight without upsetting the cabin crew and getting berated by the Captain. 

For the past week I have been chasing my beloved tiger snakes all over the most southern extents of this great southern land, from Mornington Peninsula into the Bass Strait. The focus of my expedition was to capture aspects of insular morphological divergence in populations of this truly amazing snake. More simply, I was looking for differences between populations of the same species of snake that have been isolated from each other over time.

Although I have seen things among the tiger snakes that I have never seen before, the greatest story to be told is of the insular divergence of human beings. The tiger snakes do demonstrate marked shifts in day to day behaviour, but so too do the locals on Flinders Island. And if we on the mainland don’t seriously check our behaviour and how we interact with each other, then we may well become the evolutionary back-water to this master race. 

The population of Homo sapiens on Flinders Island will simply dominate mainland Australians through their exquisite employ of co-dependence and their natural altruistic tendencies. In short, mainland Australia will implode midst a holocaust of crime, violence and greed, while Flinders Islanders will continue to survive by just being nice to each other.

If you think I am overstating their potential for inter-island dominance please consider the following examples:

As I departed the local super market I observed, on a table quite some distance from the nearest staff member, a raffle prize, a ticket book and a clear, plastic container full of notes and coins. Based on a very quick and subtle appraisal of the contents I estimated that it contained no less than $80. How long has it been since you have observed such trust among town-folk that they could leave that much cash there for the taking? I travel frequently through and among small towns and communities and I have not seen this degree of trust since I was a child.

On arrival at the Flinders Tavern (pictured) on the main street of Whitemark, the Karga7 crew disembarked from the minivan. I must have heard at least three of the crew insist that the doors be locked due to the fiscal value of the cameras, sound and assorted other computer hardware stowed in the van. So taken aback by the tranquility of the place, I stepped out of the kerb-side sliding door and wandered off. Yes - I left it wide open!! Wandering around on the mobile phone more than one hour later I looked at the minivan and realised what I had done. Was anything missing? No.

On the last night on Flinders Island, Kristy, the Manager of the Furneaux Tavern held our dinner (several pizzas) warm for us, kept the tavern open for more than one hour and then served our pizza up, not in boxes, but on plates when we arrived. This was despite us giving her virtually no notice that we were going to be very much later than we had expected. She had nothing to gain from this; it did not matter to her whether we were going to spend more money there that night. The dinner was paid for and she could well have simply dumped it in the garbage when we failed to show up at our designated time. But she didn’t.

On our last morning on the island the six Karga7 crew and I were crowding the counter of Freckle's Cafe during the morning rush. We had just lumped Jo (the owner) with a massive order of coffees and breakfast treats. All the while, another four or five locals were already awaiting delivery of their morning shot in the arm. For Flinders Island, this was not the morning rush: this was a morning avalanche of customers comparable only with the Boxing Day bargain hunters pounding down the doors of the major retail outlets.

A lovely lady squeezed passed us with a container of what, to me, did very much look like ice cream. She asked Jo to try her new recipe: Homemade Bacon Ice Cream. Yes – Bacon! We (the Karga7 crew and I) smiled at the lady and then smiled at Jo. Before we even had time to ask, Jo handed out half a dozen spoons and six hands dug in. I won’t forget that morning; a little gesture that made a lasting impression.

For the briefest time I felt like a Flinders Islander; now I am, again, just an anonymous passenger wedged into cattle class among 300 of my conspecifics. The effect of geographic separation on island populations of humans has me seriously questioning who has it right; us or them?

Can't Keep Up With My Own Life

Eight days ago I dared you all to come on a journey with me. 

Like an iron-fisted, battle-scarred big game hunting guide cutting his way through the Chobe National Park, I wanted to lead you across the treacherous Bass Strait to an extremely remote island; home to an incredibly dense population of the most amazing and potentially deadly species on earth. I wanted to take you to Chappell Island; the home of the giant Tiger Snakes.

I was willing to parlay all I was (scientist, researcher, adventurer) and all I will be for the chance to be at one with the snake that holds a special place in my heart and I wanted to bring that adventure to you as it happened. 

But, I am sorry, for I have failed!

We worked so hard each and everyday to capture the footage we really needed to bring the full and complete story to the small screen. As a consequence I passed out in my cabin each night, following a 13 hour shoot, arising only 8 hours later to eat breakfast, drink coffee and do it all over again. 

So forgive me and enjoy the journey as a reflection instead. After all, that is what this blog is all about; re-living the dream.

Come with me, I dare you!

In about two minutes I'm going to jump through the shower, kiss the sleeping family goodbye and shoot off to the airport. I don't really think it has sunk in; where I am going!

I am travelling from the south west corner of Western Australia to a tiny island just off the north east coast of Tasmania to immerse myself among the GIANT TIGER SNAKES OF CHAPPELL ISLAND.

This is the realisation of a dream for me. Something that, due to the remoteness and difficulty of access (not to mention prohibitive cost and inherent danger), I never thought I would ever have the opportunity to do.

Via a few days spent chasing tigers around Melbourne, we are on our way. Come with me!

No...Please, put it back how it was

When you are looking less than your best, you can do a pretty reasonable job of avoiding the camera. You can refrain from taking selfies and you can hide in the back row if you are forced to take part in the office annual Christmas Card shoot.

As for photos with the family? Well, they are family and no matter what you look like they shouldn't judge you: though they do, especially the kids, who are so brutally honest it hurts.

Conversely, when you are looking like a premium specimen, those of us on the extroverted side of the fence make no bones about jumping in front of a camera any chance we get: even if you have to hold the camera up yourself because no-one is interested in taking a photo of you...except you. If you are really self-absorbed you can even purchase a Selfie Stick to optimise your best angles.

Very soon I will be 'on camera', shooting an upcoming nature documentary and Karga7, an L.A. based production company, are expecting me to look like this:

Sorry guys! Not quite, though I do have a very similar shirt.

Unfortunately for them, I cannot grow facial hair and I definitely cannot credit myself with such a defined, chiseled cheek structure. I am almost certain I am unable to project that very sage, yet steely, soul-piercing stare.

Up until about two hours ago, I did have that full and robust head of thick, gnarled and richly textured hair. That was until I made the fatal error of going for a hair cut. Some say that the difference between a good and bad haircut is a week. But I don't have a week; we film on Friday.

I specifically asked the hairdresser for short on the sides (to rid me of the small battalion of grey follicles that emerge from the jungle of brown like Viet Cong emerging from the monsoonal rain forests of 'nam) and only a little off the top. Now I look like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane (with a little more stubble).

When the hairdresser asks me (and they do it every time) "How is that?" I wish I had the fortitude to say "I'm sorry, it is not very good, it is not what I asked for and, please, put it back the way it was."

"How is that?" from a hairdresser is epitomises the rhetorical question. It is a question you really don't need to answer in a situation that is essentially irreparable: the reality is, if you get a catastrophic haircut there is not a damn thing either your or the hairdresser can do about it.

The fact that I will be on camera in three days just adds insult to injury.

Wasted Opportunities

Two to three times per day individually, or 10 to 12 times a day collectively,  +Australia , @WestAustralia and @TourismAus tweet pictures and snippets of information to promote tourism in this fantastic country of ours. What a wonderful initiative. Most of the landscape shots are photo-shopped and colour enhanced, but so was Kim Kardashian's derriere and nobody complains about that.

So you would think that Tourism Western Australia, Tourism Australia and Tourism Victoria, together with their respective State and Territory Parks regulators, would all be very keen to see the wonders of our wilderness thrust into the living room of millions of Americans as the backdrop of a great Australian wildlife documentary. Not so.

There are ridiculous fees associated with filming in public places for commercial purposes and these fees stymy any desire that budget produces may have had to shoot them. Victoria is particularly bad. It was going to cost a small L.A. based production company between $800 and $2000 per day to film here at Wilsons Promontory.

Small production companies, like Karga7 who are currently on their way to Australia to film our magnificent tiger snakes, simply cannot afford to film 'on location' in National Parks, wildlife sanctuaries or anywhere that epitomises the natural beauty of Australia. As a consequence, the Global consumer that has a penchant for touring the wild destinations they see on screen will never know that such a place exists in real life. More's the pity for we here in Australia that miss out on the tourist dollars.

I am not that ignorant that I don't understand that the upkeep of National Parks and reserves costs a lot of money, but surely this approach to capitalising on commercial filming is a bit short-sighted? You can imagine my surprise, then, when I came across this article about a small Western Australian local council that had decided to waive all fees and charges for the making of films and documentaries in their shire. What a fantastic initiative! And, as a consequence, several productions of merit are underway in that very shire.

It's mine, mine, all mine!

A while back we purchased a little piece of paradise. Just a couple of acres in the Swan Valley with some shady trees, space to ride my bike and a place to go for a dip. It is crawling with snakes, foxes and field mice but I adore it and I spend countless hours down there contemplating the wonders of life. Like anyone, we are very protective of our little piece of paradise. Because we don't live there and we have previously had items stolen from it, we keep the gate locked and we keep an eye on it.

Recently, we struck a deal with a local business owner (a stalwart of the Swan Valley business community). To protect his identity and ensure no harm to his business or reputation we shall call him Mr X. Mr X organised and payed to have our property 'hay baled' in exchange for the hay: a good deal. Reluctantly, I handed over the key to the gate so he was able to come and collect the hay as he needed it. I very clearly espoused my feelings about trespassers and other unwelcome visitors. I expected that he had understood.

It did not take me long to regret my decision to allow strangers access to my utopia, but what happened yesterday was the last straw (pardon the pun).

Whilst mowing the fire breaks I started to pieced together smippets of evidence that suggested someone had been frequenting the property in my absence. Low and behold, a vehicle enters through the gate and approaches me. It was Mr X's son and his mate and his mates dog. What transpired was an awkward exchange.

Judging by their attire, the unseasonably warm weather and the fact that Little Mr X had the gate key in his lap it was quite clear that they had come down to the property for a swim. Midst our discussion, my recollection of the rubbish I had collected near the dam and vehicle tire marks all over the property it became immediately apparent that this was not their first visit.

With the tension palpable, Little Mr X had the audacity to inquire as to the possibility of him hosting a party for his mates on my block. Really? I am not sure what was more affronting; his asking or his reaction to my refusing. 

Little Mr X and his side-kick genuinely thought that they were entitled to take the key, that I had loaned his father to execute a mutually beneficial arrangement, and come onto my property whenever it suited him to do as he pleased. Moreover, Little Mr X genuinely believed I would welcome the prospect of he and all his buddies turning my utopia into a cesspit of drunken debortuary they would skulk away from at sunrise leaving me to deal with the aftermath.

The most amusing part: following my vehement refusal to accommodate his requests, he returned an hour later in the hope that I had packed up and departed. I have since changed the locks!

The Happy Gilmore Approach to Marketing

I grew up with the understanding that 18 holes of golf took about 12 - 14 hours to play. My father used to disappear quite early in the morning, returning in the late afternoon with barely enough time to prepare a decent meal for his two hungry boys. Preparing dinner was not his penance for a day spent on the golf course; he was a single dad. I so admired my dad for his commitment to his sport. I was certain that, if a game took that long, he must be very good at it. I had watched tennis on the TV and the most intense battles between top seeded players went on for hours. My dad must have been a 'pro'.

It is such a strange sport. Even with the grass cut so short it is impossible to find the hole and even harder to find your ball.

Naturally, I took an interest in golf and would hack up the local public golf course with a few of my mates on weekends when the weather was forecast to be particularly foul. Playing golf in the driving rain, enveloped in a seething mass of thunder and lightning, added a much needed extra dimension to what is traditionally regarded as an 'old man's' sport.

It wasn't long before I came to realisation that 18 holes of golf did not take 12 hours to play. I couldn't help but wonder what he was doing for all that time? After giving it some careful consideration I came to the conclusion that the 19th tee must have been where he was getting held up. But even that made no sense, as he never, ever came home drunk.

As a 41 year old business professional one would expect that I have seen my fair share of corporate golf days. Well, I haven't: I enjoyed my first only just the other day. 

For a very brief moment (very brief) I thought I would take it quite seriously. In fact, when I read the dress code for Lake Karrinyup Country Club, I really thought I had no other option: it is one of Western Australia's most prestigious golf courses. I was going to borrow dad's golf shoes, a pair of his gloves, buy some nice white knee high socks and wear some nice 'slacks'; whatever they are.

But common sense got the better of me and I thought "Hang on a minute - what have I to prove to anyone?" Instead, I wore my Billabong shorts, a Billabong hat, some fairly sedate Vans and a work polo. I did wear a belt and I did tuck my shirt in, which was particularly unusual. The other guys must have struggled getting organised too, as most of them forgot one of their gloves.

I felt very comfortable and, as a result, I had a really great day. Somehow I managed to hit several balls quite straight, one of which went about 220m and parked itself just shy of the green on a Par 4. That is golf speak for a "big hit" and I did not even have to take a run-up (Happy Gilmore style) to get it there. My team mates were suitably impressed. I heckled the opposition from the 6th green, whilst they were on the 7th tee. Again, my team mates were very impressed. I did not swear and I did not throw any clubs. My team mates were grateful for this. 

We all look very chuffed, not just because of how well we had just played. Cheech (front left) from Ignite Search gave a great presentation on marketing. 

It only takes about 4-5 hours to play 18 holes. But, midst the tranquillity of a world-class golf course that provides a refuge from the rat race surrounding it, it is easy to lose several hours building corporate bonds and expanding your professional network. Golf is a fantastic way to do business. 

Now How Does It Feel

One sheep, two sheep, red sheep, blue sheep. 

Woolly sheep, shorn sheep

I really need to get back to sleep.

It is 3:30 am and I have already been awake for over an hour. The cause of my insomnia is so very sad and ironic. I would like to say chronic, but that rhymes with ironic, and that would be just stupid. So, I will just say it is happening a lot lately.

What has changed in recent weeks? Why am I suddenly finding it hard to get to sleep and even harder to stay asleep. I have no doubt in my mind it is that I have gone back to training. And there in lies the irony: To stay fit and healthy I chose to give up one of life's most precious gifts.

It starts with restless leg, which is essentially the uncontrollable urge to move or jiggle your leg as the nerves fire incessant and unnecessary signals to your muscles causing them to contract, which in turn cause the most insane agitation and irritation. Doctor Google says it is genetic, age related, and exacerbated by medication, pregnancy or chronic disease. Sorry Doctor, but I am not pregnant, I have had it for about 8 years, I am not sick (other than sick of the autonomous twitching of my extremities), and it has nothing to do with medication. 

It comes and it goes, but it only goes when I am not training. Furthermore, when I am focused on kicking I get it in my legs and when I am working punch combos I get it in my arms. So I am going to get out the crayons and draw my own conclusions - it is related to over-stimulation of muscles; otherwise known as exercise.

To add insult to injury (pardon the pun), an injury at training dictates that the nights slumber will be severely disrupted on each and every occasion I chose to re-posture my person. Last night (tonight - whatever) I can't lie with my left arm under my head/pillow because one of my sparring buddies decided that a 'flying knee' was a good move to practice during a light sparring session. "Craig - I forgive you. Now where is your phone number so I can keep you awake to share my misery."

Guilty party on the right; not me on the left, but sums up how I feel at present

And the cream on the cake? When you finally drag your sorry self out of bed, the floor is a foot lower than it was last night when you went to bed and you fall into a miserable heap on the ground. Why? Because all of the muscles that you 'exercised' in your training session are staging a protest against any further body function for the day.

Like pregnancy, once the worst of it is over (around lunch time) you forget just how bad it was and pack your training gear that afternoon and go and do it all again that night. 

What you can teach vs. what cant be taught

Regular readers know well how I feel about....Hang on, do I actually have any regular readers?? It is remiss of me to be so very presumptuous.

Anyone willing to trawl through my 45 blogs will quickly conclude the following:
1) I like snakes
2) I do what I can to imbue respect for, and the conservation of venomous snakes
3) I get frustrated with the general public's indifference (or in most cases, malevolence) toward snakes.

It has worn me down; eroded my fortitude. It has fractured my solidarity with the serpent. My passion and my affinity with reptiles is still, as always, ever present, but my desire to imbue upon others my knowledge and ardor has long since left me.

Despite how I feel, it is unacceptable to give up; to quit. So I have set about a solution. I am going to train someone else to be the person I no longer have the energy to be. I am the master and now I have my apprentice.

I am quite certain that if I had have advertised on SEEK I would have been inundated with nutbags and fruitloops, heros and hooligans. I did not want to go there. So it was quite by chance that I met my prospective apprentice at a very low-key and casual herpetological sun-downer. Sun-downer is Australian for 'excuse to drink before the end of the work day'.

Amy Wild is a young and terribly enthusiastic herpetologist who has been handling venomous snakes for about one year: approximately 1/25 the amount of time I have been handling. She does not lack confidence, as is evident in the video.

As Uncle Ben said to Peter Parker "with great power comes great responsibility,". It wont be long before Amy has some of the worlds most venomous snakes laying at the foot of trainee venomous snake relocators on dozens of mine sites and work places around Western Australia. There is a certain intensity about being the only thing that separates the Trainee from the bite of a highly venomous snake. Can you teach someone to cope with that intensity? I doubt it.

Work'n hard or hardly work'n

When we toured Queensland, we arrived at the most picturesque of picnic spots: Lake Eacham on the Atherton Tablelands. APM, the office, the staff, the clients, bills, finances etc. etc. were among a long list of things that were so far from my thoughts at that moment in time.

Within five minutes of finding a lovely shady spot on the grass, I jumped to my feet and expressed my desire to whip around the lake and see if I could scare up a few local reptiles. Before my beloved was less than half way through the definition of a 'family holiday' I had vanished. I returned 2.5 hours later (NB: It was a big lake!).

I thought nothing of doing, in those 2.5 hours of leisure time, what I fundamentally get paid to do quite regularly at work. But when you are having as much fun as I was having, crawling through the tangles root masses and lianas of the giant figs chasing the sound of claws scratching on bark, it can hardly be considered work.

I am not the only one who constantly stumbles back and forth across the blurred line of work/leisure. After a whole year of teaching dance to 400 screaming kids, the teachers at Step-up Dance Academy decided they would spend another 15 hours filming this parody of Taylor Swift's Shake It Off just for the love of dance.

You Had Me at Hello

There is always one heckler in a crowd. There is always one guest who gets just a little too drunk at a wedding. There is always one testosterone fueled neanderthal at your favorite pub that wants to spoil your night out. On the flip side, there is always one club member that is the first to roll up their sleeves and put in the hard yards. Typically these people, who are the backbone of our social structure, are not the least bit narcissistic. They do what they do because it is inherent in their nature. They can't help but help. My dad is like that and, by default, so am I (it is coded in the genome, of that I am certain). 

My father played golf and became so heavily involved in the day to day of the club that he was nominated president. My father rode Supermoto and then found himself so wound up in marshaling, track preparation and co-ordination that his riding faded to grey. My father recently took up lawn bowls and within his first year he found himself taking over the grounds keeping because he felt so sorry for the old digger that was suffering the task in silence, but with unwavering solidarity.

One of the greatest rewards for such selflessness is the warm embrace of friendship. It is expressed in Zen Do Kai and Muay Thai with the offer of the Tomodachi Cross - it simply means 'friend'. By virtue of it being an 'award', it is a reward that one never expects, but it so honoured to receive. I have one given to me by my Sensei Ashley Hunt from Ellenbrook Martial Arts and I still remember how shocked and grateful I was when it was awarded to me.

A true Tomodachi does not actively seek gratitude or acknowledgement for their effort. Sometimes being showered in praise can actually make you feel a little awkward.

So, if "Thank you, we could not have done it without you" makes you squirm, what are the alternatives?

"Hello"............Hello binds us. It is welcome, are you OK, thank you for coming, thank you for your effort and your energy, thank you for your support and 'we appreciate you' all rolled into two tiny syllables. Hello has it's own energy. It marks a moment in time when two or more people come together to start something great.

Yesterday, in the cool of a beautiful afternoon, my wife, myself and our two kids came together with the matriarchs of Step-up Dance Academy, our surrogate family, midst the beautiful maple-lined path to the Lady Wardle Performance Centre,

The energy and excitement of the exchange of greetings captured the enthusiasm and anticipation of the performance that lay ahead and set the scene for the most amazing night. 

Just Another Day at the Office

Every year, as a representative of the environmental consulting company Animal Plant Mineral, I make a presentation to the third year students of Conservation Biology at UWA on career opportunities. Most of them are completely unaware of the opportunities that exist for field biological consultants.

They look at me all starry-eyed and dreamy as their young minds ebb and flow with romantic notions of field work in far flung places. And why wouldn't they? I have the best job in the world. 

For a start, the accommodation is always top shelf. There is nothing quite so grand as a hot shower and a warm, dry and comfortable bed after a long day of survey work in the drizzle.

  

Field work is physically demanding, so it is important to have good and wholesome gastronomic extravaganzas prepared fresh for your enjoyment at the end of the day. Meals are frequently consumed in the most wonderful of alfresco settings. Whole skin-on roast pumpkin, fresh out of the coals.

 

On any and all occasions, how much one enjoys one's lodging is very much aligned with how well the accommodation is integrated into the receiving environment. Nature retreats can hardly be considered retreats into nature if you eat, sleep and bath in a manner that is disconnected from the environment. I am not at all averse to sharing by quarters with the local wildlife. I find it the most visceral way to truly experience all that nature has to offer.

As far as the work is concerned, a biologist faces many challenges. Two of the greatest challenges are:

1) desperately trying to find highly cryptic fauna in very thick and impenetrable vegetation. Can you spot any animals in this photo?

2) trying to determine the taxonomy of individuals within a genus that has many, many morphological variants (i.e. individuals that look so radically different but could well be the same species based on genetics). Look at how dramatically variable these little froggies are, yet they are all the same species!!

We have a very important job, as biological consultants. In what is typically a very short space of time we have to get out bush, dig in our traps, catch as much as we can, pack up and get home. As hard as all that sounds, we are even expected to work within six figure budgets. This is all very demanding. However, the welfare of our animals is always our #1 priority. 

Clearly, judging by the size of this little guys testicles, he too is a very busy little man! I suspect we did him a favour, giving him a 'night off work' whilst he was safe and secure in one of the hundreds of aluminium box traps we deploy.

Everybody loves a holiday, but nobody loves to clean up and pack up. As a biological consultant working on the north-western edge of the Tanami desert, hundreds of kilometers from nowhere, sometimes you just can't be bothered driving home at the end of a long hard trip. So the solution is to just throw a tarpaulin over the vehicle and leave it behind. Then we just call in the helicopters and off we go. To easy!

As I have said countless times over the 20 years as a field biologist, the sun will always set on our survey and we will soon be fortunate enough to wake up in a new location, in a different ecological setting with a whole new suite of animals to pursue. Where we go next is at entirely up to our clients.