Knocked Down But Not Knocked Out

True or not, it really does not matter, but in March of 2010 I believe I must have been one of the very first people to bear witness to the Cane Toad literally crossing the border from the Northern Territory into Western Australia. I was out spot-lighting for nocturnal fauna on Border Creek road which is almost as far north along the border as anyone can drive. I took a GPS waypoint of the exact point where I saw the cankerous little four-legged virus and I truly nearly cried. The years of anxiety knowing they were coming instantly condensed and metamorphosed into a concentrate of vial loathing on the realisation of their arrival. Later that same year the ponds along the border and around Sorby Hills were loaded with tadpoles and metamorphs and by 2011 the streets of Kununurra was crawling with toads. I made a little doco called Border Crossing and more recently I uploaded My Tribute to the Fauna of the Kimberley in memory of the ecology that once was.

The wild living landscapes around Kununurra that had captured my imagination and etched their presence in my soul suddenly felt deserted. Like a safari park plagued by poachers, you felt that there had to be animals there but you could see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing and, sadly, feel nothing. My backyard full of epic herpetofauna was now devoid of life and I lost a great deal of my motivation to go there.

But there may be some hope. In ecology, history has a habit of repeating itself and if the herpetofauna in far north Queensland can rebound from the toad then so to can the herpetofauna of the Kimberley. On my most recent trip to a project area west of 700km due north of Mount Isa I felt a little fire in my belly. That little fire wasn’t from the tinned curry I had the night before. It was that urgency and anxiety to get out into the night to catch something big. That sense of purpose that drives you to endure 40 degree heat and 50% humidity as you desperately flip rocks and bust open hollow logs in the hope of scratching up something worth a photo, a video or a blog.

Yellow-sided Two-lined Dragon, Diporiphora magna

That joy that is so palpable when you are driving out of camp in the morning or back to camp of an evening and you see a snake that was once so common that you have not seen for so very long. Or you chase down a species of monitor (goanna) who's populations density has been smashed by the toads. I had all those feelings again and damn it felt good.

Gould's Monitor, Varanus gouldii

Black-headed Python, Aspidites melanocephalus

So, like Rachael Hunter said in the Pantene Shampoo commercial “It won’t happen over night, but it will happen”. The fauna of the Kimberley will bounce back. It will never be as epic as it was, but it will be a heck of a lot better than losing it all for good.

As for that cankerous little four-legged virus, I admire it as a species; as an example of evolution on the hop (pardon the pun). I even find them kind of cute. But I could live with out them, particularly as our native fauna will struggle to the end of days to live with them.  

8 Hours With Bloody Les Norton

Walford Creek isn't just down the road; well, not down the road from where I live. Last year I blogged Travel Is An Extreme Sport which annotated this journey diagonally across Australia, then 1/4 of the way back again, then straight up the guts of Queensland into the Gulf country. Though the destination was the same, this journey was very different indeed. When last I went to Walford Creek it was a pleasant 29 degrees and only 12% humidity at 3 in the afternoon. The exploration fly-camp was fully operational and we ate top shelf grub, drank icy cold beer and slept in air conditioned comfort.

This time we had no electricity, so meals came out of a tin and we slept outside under a blanket of mosquitoes and a layer of hot wet air that was thick enough to scrawl your initials into. The mercury hovered around 39 degrees during the day and the humidity was a saturating 52%. In the tropics this is called the Build-Up or the Silly Season. Forget tinsel and carols; this is the time when, in many very northern towns, people go a little nutty and get all aggressive and stupid. Bad things happen to good people during the Build-Up. The body struggles with the heat and humidity. Nobody can maintain their resolve and, therefore, nobody can put up with any crap from anyone else at any time of the scorching days or oppressive nights. In nearly every single one of these remote towns people seek relief from the heat by boozing on and the result is akin to pouring Avgas on an open fire.

It is not the temperature that kills your brain, but the humidity; you break a sweat just thinking. Everyday the thunder clouds offer hope of relief that only turns to disappointment when the rain just does not come. 

Does this sound like a place you want to be? Probably not. 

But a situation is not what it is, it is what you make of it. I am a field biologist and I am fortunate enough to say that, over the last seven years with Animal Plant Mineral, the tropical savannas of far northern Australia have become my home away from home.

So, here I am and I have just spent six days out in the scrub with my favorite client who has become, over the last 3 years, a very good friend. I tend not to name names in my blogs, so I shall just refer to him as Mr Ed. Mr Ed is younger than my dad but he is wise like a tribal elder. He is a (virtually) self-educated metalurgist and chemical scientist. Over the week he regaled me with story after story of his life spent discovering and developing mines all over the world; here in Australia, Iran and PNG. A truly remarkable man for whom I am very fortunate to call a friend. We worked together, sweated our innards out together, ate tinned surprises for breakfast lunch and dinner together but slept a good distance apart. Even under a blanket of saturated air I could hear him snoring from 50 yards away. 

In addition to collecting biological information, our primary purpose was to erect a weather station to record site-specific data. Not like the one you see below which stands in a park in Mareeba, Queensland. Ours was to be far more accurate.

Mr Ed achieved the build without the aid of any instructions. Imagine assembling the biggest of Ikeas flat packs in 40 degree heat, 50%+ humidity and no instructions; but we did it. I took this self(less)ie of me playing with the tower and Mr Ed downloading data whilst sheltered under the humpy I built for his comfort. 

For six days we never struggled for conversation. Only on the 8 hour no-time-to-stop drive home did silence drive us to distraction. Our solution was to put on an audio CD that we found in the glove box of our hire ute. Les Norton #16 Mystery Bay Blues. We managed to get to CD four of eight, so I guess I will never know what Les and Grace got up to during CD five, six, seven and eight. But I could have done without the sex scene (sound) of CD 4. The narrator of Robert G Barrett epic Aussie Super Hero saga was a virtuoso with all of the eloquence and expression you would expect from someone who's voice you have to endure for 8 hours (I am certain the same guy was doing all the male AND female character voices). But the narration and literacy of the sex scene was such an epic failure it had Mr Ed and I in stitches and red-faced embarrassment at the same time. Sweaty melons - really? Grumble in the Mumble - please, my ears, my ears. The sex scenes were narrated with the intensity you would expect of Les Hiddins discussing theories on global economics. Sitting next to my client in a single cab cruiser on a road to nowhere made the experience about as awkward as enduring a parents first chat about pubic hair and changes a boys body goes through when he becomes a man. I think both Mr Ed and I were more keen to jump out of a moving car than tolerate another second of it while we both fumbled for the 'skip track' button on the car audio system.

Whatever the case, it was yet another one of those trips that I will never forget. So hot, so horrible, so hard, yet so much fun. From the comfort of my air conditioned room less than 12 hours in out of the bush I already want to go back and do it all again.

Yes it can be hot as Hades up there and sometimes the work can be as dull as waiting in queue at your local Department of Transport, but when the heavens open up on a desperate country starved of rain then there is simply no place I would rather be.

Dunphied it again

Social media is the ultimate conduit that enables a nobody like me to become a 'somebody' on the literary scene. 

I have to be a little careful here, as the eyes of new readers may drift to the right margin of this blog page and see my Tag Line which states, in no uncertain terms, that I do not blog seeking validation from others (i.e. I don't care if people read it or if they don't). Moreover, I do not blog as a means to an end. I have a day job, I am not looking for a career change. God's hones truth - I blog because it is cathartic. Mine are simply the rantings of a manic expressive that just needs to type every thought that enters his (my) mind.

But as a general rule, many people write and publish with the intent to become famous and/or make a career out of it. Intuitively, social media is the ultimate platform to that end. So as an emergent writer, it is in your best interest to figure out just how social media works and how to make it work for you.

Me, on the other hand? I use social media just 'cause I can. I post stuff on Twitter and Facebook and I am, for the most part, unaware of its ramifications or reach. As I identified in my last blog, Dunphism, I am a Phil Dunphy dad. I think I am cool and all over social media, but clearly I am not. When I post a blog I share it individually to all my FB groups and a number of my Friends. I have only just realised that this just puts it on their timeline twice and my timeline about 16 times.

My grasp of Twitter clearly is no better than my grasp of Face Book, as was just pointed out by my eldest daughter, Thing #1 just yesterday. After posting Dunphism on Twitter I received a notification that Phil Dunphy favourited my Tweet and followed me. I was simply so excited that immediately I texted Thing #1 and the following sms exchange ensured with me in green and Thing #1 in blue

My talent as a writer recognised and endorsed by a lead actor in one of the most popular TV sitcoms of all time. It was too good to be true. I imagined myself  packed into the mortar barrel and about to be blasted out of obscurity and into the front row of next years Man Booker Prize presentation gala.

If I was less Dunphy and more savvy, I would have known immediately that my work had found favor among no-one more important that some spotty little cyber geek that started a fan page for the coolest dad on TV. But maybe that is my audience and, maybe, there ain't nothing wrong with that.

Dunphism

If you are not a fan of Modern Family then you probably don't have a pulse; therefore you are not reading this blog; therefore I do not need to impress upon you just how much Phil Dunphy epitomizes all that is and all that should be the modern progenitor/father/patriarch/procreator. Or should that be ".....just how much Phil Dunphy is the antithesis of.....". Whatever.

I am a Phil Dunphy kinda dad. I make lots of 'dad' jokes that are not really very funny. I act my kids age now matter how assertive my body is in reminding me that I am not my kids age. I think I dress cool? But, as I don't buy my own clothes, I can hardly take any credit for that. I gesture 'Wadsup' to my kid's friends when I recognise them out on the street, though they must not be particularly attentive as they never seem to recognise me?

If you too are a Phil Dunphy kinda dad, you will agree that certain situations are more likely to give rise to a Dunphism than others. Passing through airport security is such a situation.

BTW - A Dunphism is a new verb I have coined to describe the action of trying to be cool, hip and/or smooth and failing spectacularly. LOL

Typically, I arrive at the airport long before I am due. I usually have unusual items of baggage that attract the interest of the Check-In Customer Service Officers, Quarantine Officers, the sniffer dogs and the Federal Police. Venomous snake handling equipment tends to raise eyebrows and live native animals tend to send tails wagging (literally). So I anticipate the worst and hope for the best and with that attitude I believe that I carry more swagger through an airport departure terminal than Justin Derulo. I do it so often its just not a stress....I own it!

I was so saturated in swagger today that I did not even BOTHER to take off my new field boots when I went through security 'cause I knew I was packing kevlar toe caps! Boom!! Scan that with your little pulsating wand,,,,,errrr....thingy Mr/Mrs Security.

With two dozen of my hommies packin' up behind me like a herd of wildebeest fording a raging river (as I fumbled to extricate my laptop which was firmly wedged between my iPad and my Kindle and my copy of Australian Reptiles by Wilson and Swan {revised edition)) I sauntered through that scanning gate, boots and all, glowing with that smart-ass confidence security guards all love to hate. I saw them lookin' at my boots...watchin'....waitin...............

Immediately I felt that prickly sweat and the burning heat of embarrassment when the scanning gate lit up like a Christmas tree. The security guard just looked at my face, that was now as red as a male baboons butt in breeding season, and then looked down at my boots and shook her head with clear disdain. I sheepishly backed up, further compressing the herd that was corralled behind me, so I could feed my boots back through the x-ray machine.

And then it got worse.

"Excuse me Sir, did you not notice the signs about aerosol cans? Do you have one in your bag? Where in your bag is it Sir? This pocket? No? How about this pocket? No? Oh - in this main compartment that appears stuffed to capacity and ready to explode when I undo the zipper? Lets have a look, shall we Sir. My, my - Sir does have many many pairs of undies folded so neatly and packed so tightly that I best be careful or...........oooops! Sorry Sir. Its OK Sir. The floor is clean Sir. Let me just pop those right back in there. Thank you Sir, that will be all. Have a nice day Sir"

Yes it was a Dunphsim of epic proportions, but with child-like exuberance and the memory retention of a goldfish that moment in time will quickly be forgotten until the next time I get to thinking I am just a little bit cooler than I really am.  

Stuffed

Things get a little quiet in our industry over Christmas. The end point for all of our work is the government agencies that regulate/control/consider/approve the operation of existing mines and the commencement of new mines and one can only image how government agencies, such as the Department of Mines and Petroleum and the Office of the Environmental Protection Agency, must long for a break from the relentless harassment of current and perspective miners. 

Like Will Smith barricading himself in his New York apartment when the sun goes down in that zombie flick I Am Legend, the doors swing shut on Christmas eve and the miners are left scratching and tearing at the veneer for at least two weeks. Inside nothing can be heard above the sound of the crickets chirping.

There is nothing to do over the Christmas / New Year break and this is about the time I get a little antsy. As much as I enjoy home time with the family, I find myself with hours in the day that I don't normally have. This is usually from about 5am to 8am when the rest of the house is asleep and there is no reason to wake them. There is no school, there is no work, there is no rush.

It is during this period that I create 'stuff'. Stuff has no form or function. It does not need to be something three dimensional, nor does it need to be written, drawn or typed. Stuff is the foundation of things to come. However, stuff is more than just ideas or thoughts. Stuff is the framework for events or activities that will shape the coming weeks, months or years. When you create stuff you are making a statement to anyone who will listen that 'this is what I want to do'. 

But creating stuff can have repercussions, because while you are creating your own stuff the world is constantly creating more stuff to do: Chaos Theory. If you are not careful, you can soon end up with more stuff on your plate than you bargained for, none of which you can ignore and all of which you have to deal with. 

I am now in that space. A few weeks ago my work day comprised sitting in front of the computer clicking Send/Receive on my email. I turned off the automated update so I had something to do. On one occasion one of my colleagues sent me one email in two parts so I had twice as much to do: click send receive twice. Now my 'bottom is hanging out' and I have more on my plate than a bulimic at Sizzler's all you can eat buffet. 

Writing docos and blogs at the same time is is a marathon for the manic expressive

It is all good though. I shall just heed the advice of a colleague and very close friend who says, in such situations "Bite off more than you can chew and chew like mad!!"

Miss Foxy's Last Gasp

I am a biologist, not a conservationist. I am an environmental scientist, not an environmentalist. I am not what I am not only by virtue of my lack of free time. I have too little time to make a worthwhile contribution to the global good. That may sound selfish and to some extent it is. If everyone had that attitude the world would be a less than ordinary place to live. I do the best I can by promoting awareness and preservation of our venomous snake fauna; they are continually getting a bad wrap and need as many advocates as possible to push back the tide of disdain under which they are continuously suffocating. I also try to do the best job I can do as an environmental manager at Animal Plant Mineral to better manage the environmental impacts of mining.

As a biologist, more specifically a zoologist, I am very much aware of the damage feral fauna do to our native species. An adult Cane Toad will kill every single native animal within a ten mile radius before breakfast (metaphorically speaking). Feral cats have dispersed across every square inch of Australia, including offshore islands, and continue to plough through our small native birds, mammals and reptiles like the bulls of Pamplona.

And then there is the fox. In the image below Mr Fox has caught himself a lovely (what looks like) Eastern Barred Bandicoot, which typifies the small native mammal prey that suffer relentless predation from this wretched introduced vermin.

So, as a biologist, what do I do when I come across one of these vial creatures? A few years ago I was conducting a survey on the banks of the Collie River. I trapped a sub-adult fox in a cage trap in the riverside vegetation. This one was very easily dealt with!

Closer to home I have one (sorry-had one) on my property. Here she is, as bold as brass, killing native fauna in the broad light of day (top left corner of the screen). She has been around for as long as I have owned the property and long before that, according to the previous owner. We have seen her on a number of occassions when we have camped on the block and we have seen evidence of her snacking on the locals (e.g. feathers, tortoise carapaces, fish heads). But like any sly little feral predators she is extremely evasive. So you can only image my shock when, during an early morning walk, I spied her motionless in the grass. She was covered in blood and barely able to stand, let alone run away. What happened next should come as no great surprise. 

I bundled her up, took her home and cleaned up her wounds whilst waiting, impatiently, for the vet to open. She had lost a lot of blood from puncture wounds to her rump and around her throat. It was pretty clear that she had been mauled by a larger domestic dog. She was in a bad way. At 8 am I took her to the vet. The staff showed as much empathy for this little girl as they do for my cheeky little ShitChew, Angus. At 10 am I received a text saying that she had not made it, due to the severity of the puncture wounds around her chest and throat.

Yesterday was a good day for the native fauna on my property, but it was a sad day for me. I know she was not supposed to be there. But, in reality, she probably ate 100 feral mice to every one native bird, fish or turtle she dispatched. She added another dimension to my little semi-rural paradise that sits adjacent the urban sprawl. She was the top of the food chain; an elegant and athletic hunter.

As for the sub-adult from the Collie River survey? I believe he is still having a wonderful life at Caversham Wildlife Park.

Junior Box...Really?

When I started writing 75 blogs ago I made a promise to myself that if I wanted to write about something I would. You see, I am cursed with a not previously described  affliction that I have self-diagnosed and coined as Manic Expression. The symptoms are simply that if I see something interesting or funny, I must write about it. It does not matter to me whether or not it provokes the public discourse. If I see it, I'll blog it and that is that: the final word. 

So onto kids boxing!?! This blog has absolutely nothing to do with kids boxing. It is about young adults and their absolute inability to dress themselves. Recently I made admissions about my own lack of self-awareness with regard to grooming and deportment, but the other day I bore witness to self-unawareness that set the bar at a whole new level.

As a member of the Arachnid Fight Team for as long as it has existed (6+yrs?) I have watched many young kids grow into strong, fit and intelligent young men. I just want to be clear here that within the fight group are engineers, biologists, financial planners etc. The word kickboxing is not a synonym for thug or knuckle dragger. In the picture below the guy on the left has PhD and the guy on the right makes mega bucks as a financial planner and has a fancy pad in the south-west coastal retreat of Yallingup.

But no matter how fiercely competitive, physically and mentally strong these guys are, sometimes even they just need a helping hand to sort themselves out. Take 'old mate' (I wont name names) below as an example. He has been training on and off for years. In recent sessions, since the commencement of the 2015 training calendar, he had been struggling with the uncomfortable inconvenience of wearing a protective box during fight training. After much ado, Sensi Ashley Hunt, requested to inspect his box (we are all very close). Upon retrieving it from his nether regions the unexplained discomfort was immediately diagnosed. 

Over the Christmas break, 'old mates' training gear had gotten a little mixed up and he had been wearing his junior box that he used when he was only nine. Moreover, he had been wearing it upside down as he simply could not work out why his 'junk' would not fit. Needless to say, since the problem was diagnosed and rectified the fluency of his kicks have improved exponentially.

Fight the Seven Signs of Aging with ALL NEW Oil of O'lying

There are many signs of aging and Olay has made squillions of dollars pointing this out to us on TV, in glossy magazines and now on the world's worrying web. 

According to them, we should be grateful that there are actually only seven signs of aging. They are:

• The appearance of fine lines and wrinkles

• The appearance of blotches and dark spots

• Having dry and rough skin

• Having dark skin that should be visibly fairer (their words not mine?)

• Having surface dullness (I don't think they are talking about superficial dullness of interlect or personality, but who knows?)

• The appearance of pores the size of the Wolfe Creek Crater (my words not theirs)

• Skin that is not visibly firm which is a polite way of saying you have jowls like a bull mastiff

This is the number of wrinkles I have when I do push ups!

From day to day, and in the absence of a mirror, I think I do an OK job of masking my age. I have a full head of thick wavy hair, few enough grey hairs that each is assigned it's own name, rank and serial number, a reasonable complexion and my posture has not yet been compromised by arthritis or the like. As a general rule, I don't feel 42. 

People often suggest that I am a walking mid-life crisis because I like to do fun stuff like acrobatics (see Old Dog New Tricks), BMX (see Semi-matured), enduro motorcross (see Lite Relief) and Muay Thai (see Wouldn't you wear a helmet too?). But I honestly don't believe I am any less adjusted to middle age than anyone else and when I did this year's Augusta Adventure Race people many years older than me paddle rings around me.

Yes it is true that at the end of 50 sit ups or 25 push-ups my face is so very contorted that I am certain it represents the epitome of those 7 signs of aging detailed above, but I still don't feel old. However, when I go to register on line for something and I get given a drop down menu for my year of birth I suddenly feel very old indeed. 

I am not sure if it is a trick the computer programmers are playing on me, but I always seem to have to scroll and scroll and scroll through the annuals to get to 1973. From now on I am simply going to lie about my age to the likes of Facebook, Instagram, YouTube etc etc. If the tweenies (those under 13) can do it, I am sure I can too!

Self-un(die)awareness

Were it not for my most amazing wife I am fairly certain that I would leave the house a little on the unfinished side every single day of the week except Sundays. On Sundays we often leave the house as a family which takes about 15 times longer than getting ready to leave alone, giving me a far greater opportunity to sort my self out.

No matter how many times she reminds me to 'check myself' before I walk out the door of a morning, these are some of the common mistakes I can assure you I will make:

1) I won't be able to find my keys

2) I won't be able to find my wallet

3) I will find my lunch, but I won't remember to take it with me

4) My collar will be half up

5) My fly will be half down

6) My shirt tags will be hanging out

7) My shirt wont be tucked in (properly)

Self-awareness is an important personal attribute. Some people have it in limitless doses where others seem to have it severely limited. Self-awareness is not just about being aware of how you look, it is about being aware of how you act and how you act could be the difference between life and death. So that makes it an attribute well worth developing.

Cognitive thinkers are usually very self-aware as they pay attention, can apply logic and reason to act appropriately in any situation, they have a functional working memory capable of processing long and short term memories at a good speed and they have good visual and auditory processing power. 

How can any of this mean the difference between life and death you ask? On arriving in Paris from Australia, a self-aware person capable of cognitive thought will approach a busy street, look to their right, step out onto the road and nearly get run over by a bus: The will only do this once. Me on the other hand: well I am really not sure how I survived 5 months in France. Like a goldfish, I stepped out in front of cars on a regular basis.

I think that the reason why I am so self-un-aware is that my mind is simply too clogged by my own imagination. I'm an ideas man. When I was younger and at work I was always imagining new and interesting ways to do the most mundane of tasks. Through university there were so many creative opportunities in experimental research that every day was a winding road begging to be negotiated by creative and adaptive thinking. As a consultant with Animal Plant Mineral I am forever percolating novel ways to solve complex problems for my clients. I just simply do not have the brain space to process all that I need to process to be fully aware of myself and what I am doing. And this last Sunday morning was no different.

I rose early (before 5 as I do most everyday) and commenced writing. I am working on a killer story line for a documentary that I am hoping will a) get picked up by a network and b) will feature renowned wildlife photographer Shannon Wild. At 7 am I decided it was not too early to wake the kids so I proceeded to make quite a lot of noise in Thing 2's bedroom which were painting.

At about 8:30 my lovely wife came in with a cup of coffee. About 90 minutes after I had first scaled the step ladder to commence painting she pointed out that I was in my underpants. Not boxers but budgies, or tighty-whities or crime fighters; whatever you wan to call them.

Photo taken from waist height.
Yes, that is the neighbours living room and the blinds are open!

So I must apologise to my poor neighbours for my severe lack of self-awareness. This poor family are now visually scarred and emotionally damaged from what they had to endure for nearly 90 minutes. They must have felt as if they were trapped in the story line of Clock Work Orange. I promise that, in the future, I will be more self-aware; if not to save myself, then to reduce the emotional and mental impact I have on those around me..