Arachnid Engineers

Pretty...No?

 

Images like these tend to make most people feel a little squeamish; at the very least, a little uncomfortable. But if you can manage to distance yourself from your innate phobias, perhaps I have half a chance to convince you that these are truly remarkable creatures.

Let us focus on the gorgeous Mouse Spider you see pictured above. Now, before you get all squirmy and uncomfortable again, she is called a Mouse Spider due to the complexity of the burrows she builds. 

This species occupies the low lying alluvial flood plains of the central gold fields. Spectacular country side comprising towering Salmon Gums and smaller Gimlets over halophytic (salt-tolerant) shrubs, all perched on spectacularly read loamy soil. The soil seems so rich, pure and clean that often, when out I am out in the bush, I get these barely-controllable urges to roll in the dirt like a wildebeest. 

Myglamorph spiders have primitive book lungs which are hopeless for conserving water. This effectively sentences the animals to life in a burrow where the temperature is lower and the humidity is higher. Living for up to 25 years (yes, twenty five years) she has plenty of time to build herself a decent home and this is where the story gets even more interesting. 

If you are going to build your home in an area that is flood prone, then you are going to need to think very carefully about some flood mitigation. For the three quarters of the Queensland population that suffered immeasurable losses in the 2012 floods, do please get your pencil and note pad ready.

If you live in a hole in the ground then there is a fairly good chance that the water will find its way into your abode, making you and all of your furniture very soggy. The Mouse Spider engineers the perfect solution, building a side chamber with a protruding stem, around which the water will flow. The water may fill the vertical chamber, but the animal has ample time to retreat to the elevated horizontal chamber before it drowns. Thus, it avoids the flood without having to abandon it's home and expose itself to predators. 

Naturally, you may question what happens when the entire alluvial plain is flooded? Of course, all the chambers would flood as the water  fills the voids, flows through the burrow system and percolates through the soil. However, this is clearly not the case: so how does the burrow system work?

 

I need to extrapolate my explanation here as I have no scientific, peer-reviewed evidence to support this theory. I am only interpreting what I saw. What if the inner lining of the burrow was sealed with a thick mat of webbing that was impermeable to water, like.......errrrrr....THIS.

What you see in the photo is the very thick and robust lining found in the tunnel leading off to a side chamber. Note the flap between my thumb and fore-finger. This may essentially function as an internal trap-door blocking the retreat chamber off from the inside. 

 

In addition to the internal lining, if the entrance to the flood-retreat chamber was slightly deeper than the chamber itself, then the atmospheric pressure of the chamber would cause a pressure seal.

 

Therefore, no matter how flooded the external environment was, the spider would be safe from drowning. Fact or fiction - I don't know. Logical - yes. If it is so, then this little Mouse Spider is very clever indeed.  

Candle in the Wind

Only as large as a family-size Steggles, the rare and very threatened Malleefowl is capable of the most amazing feats of architecture, engineering and construction. The male rakes together a mass of stones, loamy soil and leaf litter to create a nest mound that rivals the great pyramid of Giza.

Photo: Victoria Museum

Permit me to imbue upon you a quick lesson on evolutionary biology, reproduction and behaviour: As a general rule the more fecund an animal is the less parental care that animal will invest into it's young. Put simply, the more babies one has the less effort one needs to put into rearing them, as at least one of them will survive to continue the genetic lineage of the parent. Conversely, those species that only give birth to one or two offspring must take very good care of their young to achieve that same end result.  

Female sea turtles lay well over one hundred eggs, but they do not bother to wait around to nurture the young. The babies hatch and make a beeline for the waters edge under constant ambush from birds, monitor lizards and feral fauna, such as wild dogs, foxes and cats. No matter their peril; at least one of them is sure to make it! As for the male? His parental investment does not extend beyond the few minutes of rumpy pumpy.

Parental investment of the male Emu into its chicks sits at the other end of the biological / behavioural spectrum. The male is solely responsible for incubation over the entire 8 weeks of the egg's development and then he follows that up with 18 months of 24/7 nurturing. This is enough to make the average male homosapian extremely embarrassed when he considers his own contribution to child rearing.

The Malleefowl is a very odd sod. Rather than producing dozens and dozens of eggs once per year and dumping those eggs into a hole in the ground for nature to incubate (like the turtle) the Malleefowl invests the most incredible effort into the construction of it's very own incubator, the temperature and moisture of which it constantly moderates through the action of scraping soil and detritus on and off the mound. 

Like the Emu, the male Malleefowl is incumbent with all of the parental care obligations: nest construction and, in effect, incubation. Unlike the Emu, however, neither the male nor the female invest a jot of energy in the young once they hatch. The eggs hatch, the young emerge and just run off into the bush. 

But any amount of parental care comes at a price to the care giver. Please consider my greying follicles or depleted bank account if you require any further affirmation of that fact. In the case of the Malleefowl, the price is very high: Death by feral predator. This bush chook spends weeks, if not months, working in the same area on the same mound. As each day passes the probability of falling victim to predation increases; the outcome is almost inevitable. 

The video (Candle in the Wind) is a little confronting and the music is not meant to be crass or obtuse. A candle in the wind is exactly what I thought of when I saw what I saw. Some of the greatest architects and engineers never lived to see their creations come to fruition; they never got to see the fruit of their labour. This is a truly sad reality.

Restored Faith in Human Nature

Recently I had a bunch of lads on my property to repair a massive erosion issue that has been worsening over time. The team was from Tasman Civil (http://www.tasmancivil.com.au/) , lead by a top young bloke by the name of Matt Peachy. The rest of the team comprised two Maori fellas, whose names I don't recall, and Rusty (pictured).

Now the work comprised shifting a mass of rocks on the spillway, re-structuring the channel, digging a sump....blah....blah........ All that is not important. 

Now, it was clearly a mistake on my part to point out to the New Zealand expats that I had recently observed a rather large sloughed (shed) snake skin among the rocks that we had to move. As a consequence, the rather fearless Rusty, Matt (who was the boss incidentally) and I were left the task of extricating the rocks, whilst Team New Zealand sat on the bench. This slowed down progress somewhat, but Matt was determined to adhere to Tasman Civil's environment policy (Environment Policy). Matt and Rusty both demonstrated their commitment to Policy Dot Point 3: Act with courage and integrity with respect to our Stakeholders (that's me) views and contributions. I had most clearly espoused, at the commencement of the job, that no snakes were to be harmed in the making of this drainage line!!

The outcome of all this? Extremely effective erosion mitigation achieved via a structurally sound and robust rock battering down a very steep gradient. As for the snake? Well Rusty did find her and she too was carefully extricated. At the completion of construction, she was released back into a fully refurbished east-facing rockery where she can enjoy the warm Spring sunshine when it finally arrives. 

She was not small, either! See for yourself: Going home

Human Nature = Humans vs. Nature

It happened to me again yesterday. It actually happens rather regularly, and every single time I find it deeply upsetting. It makes me question human nature.

Imagine that, in casual conversation, you espoused to me that you were especially fond of stamps and that you had spent the vast majority of your child hood rummaging through garage sales, fossicking through primary school nick-nak stalls and perusing antique shows all over the country side in pursuit of the 'holy grail' for your collection. Now, how do you think you might feel if I told you that I found it very amusing to purchase stamp collections en mass, pile them up in a little heap and set fire to them. I expect you would be rather upset.

Or consider how you might feel if you told me that you had, since you were a child, been most passionate about breeding the cutest kittens on the planet to voluntarily gift to other children less fortunate that yourself; that you derived so much joy knowing that you had passed on to someone else something that gave you so much joy. How would you feel if I whipped out my iPhone to show you a recent video of someone belting a kitten with a shovel. I expect you would be extremely distraught and want to: a) punch me in the face, or b) report me to the police.

Spare a thought for me then. On more occasions than I care to remember, whilst chatting to people (more often, but not always strangers) about my love for snakes these people are suddenly overcome with a perversely insatiable desire to tell me about how brutally they killed the last snake that they encountered. Even when I state, with all the fortitude and resilience I can muster, that I do not want to hear what they have to say, they insist on telling me!!! How is it that people see this as a reasonable conversation to engage in?

Are they just expressing themselves in an effort to relate to me; this being the only way? 

If a pilot was telling me a scary story of how he/she navigated through a Category 5 cyclone I may respond by recounting how terrified I was when, as a passenger on a light aircraft, I had to circle Perth airport in a thunderstorm for what seemed like hours. I am totally naive when it comes to aircraft and what they are capable of in the hands of a skilled pilot. My being a passenger is hardly comparable to the experiences of the pilot in same situation, but by virtue of  being in a conversation one must speak, the other must listen then recount or respond.

I wish it were that simple: if it were, then perhaps my faith in human nature could be restored somewhat. But I suspect that people's fear and loathing for snakes is so visceral and intrinsic in their nature that they honestly feel that killing snakes is fair, just and reasonable; and perhaps they feel it is equally appropriate to share their story with another person, whether that person wants to hear it or not. 

Once someone told me that they had managed to coerce a large Dugite (a venomous elapid snake distributed throughout the south-west of Western Australia and particularly common in urbanised areas) into a bin as they had encountered the snake in their house. Not knowing what to do with it, once captured and contained, they saw fit to pour boiling water on it until it was dead. Who is less highly evolved: the snake or the person that killed it?

How very sad to have to resign oneself to the conclusion that the vast majority of humans are possibly incapable of changing their attitude toward snakes.

If picture speaks a thousand words, a Tweet speaks an order of magnitude more!

Recently I gave a presentation at my daughters school. This is one of those new 'tech-based' high schools where every child has an iPad and they are encouraged to use it to communicate their ideas to each other through Twitter and various other forms of social media. I was a guest presenter volunteering my time to talk about mining and conservation. This is something I do quite often for schools, community groups and universities. 

Following my presentation (that was delivered with all the expression, enthusiasm and gusto akin to the late Steve Irwin) one of kids posted a photo of me with the caption: "This guy is really interesting........NOT!" 

Did it hurt? Maybe just a little, but I am old enough and ugly enough to get over it. In comparison to some of the comments from Trolls that have been directed at my "less-finer" moments on  nature documentaries, this young girls comment was was nary a blip on the Richter Scale!!

What is my point?

High school now starts in Year 7, so a great majority of the kids are entering this tumultuous environment a with far fewer life skills than perhaps we might have had (we being the +40s). 

It is clear to me that, by virtue of the need to 'tech up' our kids, our teachers are engaged in a never ending battle to educate the kids on the positive and negative consequences of the digital footprint they leave behind in their fervent scramble to express themselves online. As a result, sometimes kids post things that they perhaps should not, and once out there, they can't take those posts back.

So here is an interesting example of how your digital footprint can work against you.

About 2 years ago I was looking to employ a professional environmental consultant for a brilliant role in the Kimberley. The mine site was located in the picturesque Ragged Ranges, adjacent Lake Argyle. I was specifically searching for someone local to Kununurra, as employing locally would confer many bonuses to the mining company in terms of economy and positive public perception.

Against the odds, I found my candidate! He had several years of mine site experience, lived in Kununurra, was at the correct professional level for the role and he was available. After speaking with him it seemed all systems were ‘green light go’. As I often do, I decided to check his digital footprint. 

I was shocked and disturbed to see that his Facebook profile photo showed him standing on the edge of a billabong with a juvenile (1.2 m) fresh water crocodile hanging dead in his hand. On closer inspection it looked like the animal had been shot in the head. Worse still, my ‘ideal candidate’ had a smile on his face as if he were a hunter holding up his trophy kill.

I never spoke to  him again. I simply emailed to inform him he would not be considered further for the role.

Did he shoot the crocodile? I will never know. Would he have been brilliant in the role of Environmental Advisor? I will never know. 

The message about the permanency of one’s digital footprint must sound so draconian and, probably at times, nauseating to the kids that are hearing it every day. But if a picture speaks a thousand words, an internet post speaks an order of magnitude more for ever and all perpetuity.

Semi-matured

I think that I have finally discovered the truest indicator that one is over his mid-life crisis. When you are desperately trying to re-live the greatest moments of your youth and, whilst doing so, you are behaving like you are half your age, then you are in the middle of a mid-life crisis.

However, when you are trying to relive those moments and you are fully aware that you no longer bend and you take far longer to mend, then you have matured beyond your mid-life crisis. I think I am there.

When I was training hard and fighting, I felt like I was truly a part of the group of 20 somethings that comprised the Fight Team. Now I still train hard but I cant wait to get home and put my feet up. I admire the ability and fitness of the 20 somethings, but I no longer aspire to be like them. If I am sore in the morning I know I am keeping fit and I am happy with that.

Ironically, it is the BMX and the acrobatics that have aged me. Both of these sports I do with my kids. Both of these sports I did when I was a kid. Now I get to do them all over again, only this time I have evolved the dominant conservative chromosome that I lacked as a teenager. It stops me from stepping over the edge and into the abyss: It reminds me to back off when I have had my fun and not to push my luck. It ensures that I make it back home every night, where I can sit by the fire, next to my wife, with my feet up. I conclude that I have wasted enough nights in Emergency, waiting patiently for the Triage nurse to call me up. I am semi-matured.

If you want to see what BMX racing looks like from my point of view, then click away: Luke-warm Lap

Old Dog New Tricks

When I hit the ground I thought my life was over: I really did. I couldn't breath: I couldn't move: I couldn't speak or scream. But I am pretty sure I started to cry. I was really very scared.

For reasons that escape me now, and most certainly must have escaped me then, I had launched myself into a front somersault off the first floor (second storey) of an office block that was under construction out the back of my Grandma's house in Cottesloe. Though I had the best intentions of landing on my feet, I landed flat on my back. I was probably only 5 years old and I very nearly sentenced myself to life in a wheelchair. Did I learn anything from that? Obviously not.

By the age of 14 or 15 I was well renowned for my most favorite of all party tricks: roof-top lay-out back somersaults. Not landing on water, but landing the cold hard ground. Oddly enough, it was about that time that my short, yet accomplished, gymnastics career ended due to a lower back injury. Did I learn anything from that? Errrrr......still no.

At 40, during a hiatus from Muay Thai that had arisen by virtue of two dicky knees, I got more and more involved with my kids and their acrobatic dancing. Having spent many of my younger years coaching State level boys gymnastics, I put my hand up to help teach the Step Up Dance Academy (http://www.step-updanceacademy.com/) acrobatic dance classes. Because I firmly believe that one can only teach well what one knows well, this old dog needed to learn some new tricks, in addition to dusting off the old ones. Acrobatic dance is far more complex and more highly evolved than acrobatic gymnastics as it is completely unregulated.

Old dog learning new tricks

Once I had my confidence back, and I had re-learnt some old skills, I started to recall all of the old tools and techniques I needed to imbue those younger than me with the knowledge I once had, and thought I had long since forgotten.

I just hope that none of the kids I teach ever attempt to learn new tricks on a cold, wet and lonely building site out the back of their Grandma's house.

Draw me a picture Daddy.

I'm not really sure what the catalyst was? I sketched a little piccy one day, and the next day I bought some charcoals. Charcoals are the ultimate cheaters tool, as the final product is meant to look rough and ready. So if you make a mistake you can smudge it out and blend the resultant dog's breakfast back into your intended final result. I'm not sure I could paint; but who knows? I have never tried.

Anyway, I rather fancy the darker more sinister appearance of charcoal when the mood takes me, or the relaxed nature of this medium when one wants to just smash out a more light-hearted drawing. So here are a few......

Wouldn't you wear a helmet too?

I find it truly hard to believe that I have been doing this for 8 years. Until June 2006 I had never, ever tried any form of martial art. I used to race motorbikes; not super competitively, but fast enough to hold my own. Then I lost a good mate on the track and my best mate on the road.

I had two gorgeous kids and a beautiful wife and I needed to grow up fast. I needed to start acting more responsibly. I needed to start acting in the best interests of my family. I needed to wise up. So I stopped riding and started fighting. I am being a little facetious here; for dramatic effect. More appropriately, I started practicing the ancient art of Muay Thai. I immediately immersed myself into the sport and found myself in the ring doing full-contact fights within the first year. At 35, I was perhaps a little less sharp than my 20 something adversaries. A couple of years and three knock outs later I decided that I am not the best fighter. But that does not make me a poor student of the art of 8 limbs. On the contrary. I value my club and my club values me. I give a lot to my club and my club gives so much more back to me. Is it worth taking the hits: of course it is, because I am living with less fear and more self-confidence. I am fitter and stronger, in mind and body, than I ever was before I started Muay Thai. 

As I have said before; sometimes you have to stand a little closer to the edge to really see what is out there. 

Enjoy the video : ) Helmet Head