May 2007

The month started well, with a kind generous soul who lives further upriver coming to our rescue with one of his tractors, very slowly dragging the old burnt tank down from the hillside site that 12 years ago he had bulldozed level for us.

It had been quite hair-raising when the tank was first delivered, since they come on their sides on the truck, towering 15 foot above you, and you only get one chance at positioning it correctly as it rolls off the truck.
So it was sad to have to remove the tank that had so happily landed well.
It now sits uselessly on grass near the barn, strapped down in a token effort against gales.

Next came the exhausting task of picking up two trailer loads of crusher dust from the local quarry, made more difficult by having no room on the tank site to safely turn a vehicle plus trailer.

So the grit had to be shovelled out of the trailer, the trailer disconnected, the car turned, and the trailer re-connected each time. Funny how a tonne of grit doesn’t look much but sure takes a lot of muscle power to move.

With the site finally levelled we returned the next week for the day of delivery of the replacement tank.
The day was fine and sunny.
We were scheduled for a midday delivery.
Sadly the truck did not arrive until 6pm, right on dark.
After many manoeuverings in the dark, involving merrily driving over my septic trench at one stage, the driver prepared to back the trailer carrying the tank up the steep driveway.
The truck tyres just spun on dewy grass (and after each failure the truck almost hurtled out of control back down the hill). I was relieved when he gave up and dumped the tank beside the drive.

When the truck had left we stood long in the dark, contemplating the remote prospects of ever getting the tank to its intended site. But perhaps there is purposeful good in all adversity, for by the light of the next day my daughter noted that the replacement tank was not the right size.





The insurance assessor and the tank company had all failed to arrive at the correct order code when given my measured dimensions of 8ft tall and 15ft diameter. What we received was more like 14ft diameter. Such a small difference means 7,500 instead of 10,000 gallons capacity however.

So now a 6 week wait for a bigger tank to be made and delivered, and all sorts of nightmarish possibilities in store for a new delivery day...




Meanwhile, the fencing contractor, busily over two days, transformed the burnt fence from derelict to livestock-proof. The lower 250 metres is a bit of a mish-mash of old and new posts, but thankfully sturdy.





But we were stunned when he finished work at the half way mark, before the steep rise up towards the rainforest.
It turned out that his original quote, which had been open-ended with an hourly rate because there was no way of knowing how many hours it would take to haul materials up the full 500 metres, had not been acceptable to the insurance company. Without consulting me, they between them came up with a fixed quote for what could be quoted for – only the first 250m of fence.
After much pleading and pointing out that insurance should not unfairly wriggle out of paying for repair to the full 500 metres, and myself supplying 40 new starposts, the next two days saw the rest of the fence repaired.
Or I should say, most of the rest of the fence, for they quit where it got ‘too hard’ (30m before the rainforest edge).





One morning a wild bluetongue lizard graced us with its company. Or I should say I accidentally slid it out of its hiding place in a short length of polypipe.




A delightful feature of our local bluetongues is their mild temperament. That, and my son’s patience holding it comfortably for almost an hour, finally rewarded us with a photo of the blue tongue.





More exasperating was the visit by a honeyeater. We have learned to be so careful to keep doors shut against birds entering the house. I swear I sat down for only a minute to enjoy breakfast with the autumn sun pouring through the front door, and there was the unmistakable woosh of a visitor.






Hours later we were still trying to chase it out the door. So many times it came close to freedom, perched on a rafter just above the doorway. But they never have the sense to fly down and out. It had to be neat timing of a net and hat together to facilitate it’s relocation to where it belongs.









All too soon the bright colours of autumn will be gone.
The rich lingering camellias, and resplendent persimmon foliage.

April 2007

After Easter (when I have the good sense to stay off the roads leading out of Sydney) I took off to the farm with my daughter with no plans to do anything taxing our strength, but just spend time in the countryside driving around with an eye out for all things photoworthy.

Primary mission was to empty, onto our garden, water from the burnt fibreglass tank on the top of our hill, and figure out a way of strapping the empty tank down in case of a gale. Then we had to organise some way of moving the old tank to make way for a replacement (covered by insurance) to be delivered in May.

The tank company man had been highly amused when, told it was my responsibility to remove the old tank and I would need 4 men to assist the delivery driver to place the new tank, I sort of freaked out. I can’t find four men! What are you ugly or something? Yes! And old! I retorted.

So, with that problem safely stashed away in the future, we decided to take one little step at a time and bought the largest strap we could find (9 metres for $99), gave parts of the overgrown back garden a 12 hour soak, and devised a way to secure the strap by thumping crossed star posts into the ground.

The property has been mercifully free of neighbours’ cattle, but trees have scarcely recovered from being burned.
People in the district seem to know who lit the fire, but of course they’re not telling. I just get cryptic comments that the young fellow didn’t really know what we had up here (meaning a house, barn and a decade of establishing fruit trees).

The latest casualty -- fire-hollowed, declining and finally snapped off by wind.

But down at the river, where trees were spared from the fire, there is ferny serenity.

One day we set out on an excursion to Wilson River Reserve, only a short flight by crow from our farm but a more arduous drive north west out of Wauchope on gravel roads. It made me more appreciative of having only one kilometre of gravel at the end the 34km of tar from Wauchope to our farm.

I felt kind of silly when we got there around 3.30 pm to find most of the rainforest on either side of the river in deepest shade, only the water and riverbanks catching enough afternoon light for decent photography.

Half a year later.

Many thanks to those compassionate souls who threw me lifebuoys of ‘virtual hugs’. I have been clinging to them for months.

Every last friend in real life has cast me adrift. It would seem that if I’m not the one keeping in touch and doing things for others then I am of no value. I crave emails, but spend my time in a daily chore of deleting spam, (my Hobbling username at optusnet.com.au is how to contact me) though answering emails is not something that is easy for me.

I have made so many comments to people’s blogposts in my mind. I really really need a futuristic high-tech machine that can freeze-frame thoughts to computer before they drain through the memory sieve.
I enjoy still feeling connected with people online by being able to read their blogs, though some have deleted their blogs and swept all tracks clean.

So finally I have pushed myself to unscramble the neurones that lead thoughts to become written words.
My blog needs an update. Events have reached a climax, of sorts.
The stress and shock have tipped me into a black hole healthwise.

I will tell the story backwards.

Each trip to our farm lately has been heavy with dread of what new damage we would find.
This caps the lot.

Our neighbour disregarded my letter requesting she discontinue her fencing at the rainforest edge until my fencing contractor could return with his own choice of materials.
When we had seen, a week earlier, the bulldozed and hacked down trees and the line of starposts diverting away from the north-south boundary (shown by red arrow)



directly towards our treasured giant figtree,



we assumed it was intended to wrap wire around the trunk. I was not happy about that, but at least it could be undone.

But the neighbour’s method was far more ‘clever’. Just chainsaw a metre deep slot in the buttress roots and position a starpost behind with the wires running through. Save the effort of digging an end-stay post hole!





Of course it won’t be long before the cows find out how to push further uphill and around the figtree.
Then, as has happened for the past 5 months, the same 16 cows with calves will pour through the rainforest down to their familiar encampment around our house and barn where over and over they yank off the downpipes on tanks and buildings to create slush after rain.

And why the sudden action (last week) by the neighbour after 5 whole months of cows in my garden

[you do not want to see those photos]

grazing new growth on fruit trees and leaving copious cowpats?

It was not concern for thirsty cows, or damaged wallaby fences around young orchards (which have otherwise happily withstood wallabies for many years).

It was because my son and I recently built a ‘holding yard’ in the bottom corner of our property (within sight of the neighbour’s house) so we could more easily herd the cows down along the fire-damaged fenceline and avoid getting ourselves in any trouble from putting cows out on the road.

Cows were very promptly retrieved from this yard. Can’t possibly have cows being confined!

It was the sound of starposts being thumped for this holding yard that got the neighbour to vist me for the first time ever (in 15 years). Must have guessed what I was planning.

I assured them that my fire insurance would cover the whole fence, but I could do with assistance in finding a good fencing contractor.

The memorable reply was "I don’t do that sh - -". The confrontation was to ask me to supply materials and pay for their labour. I naturally declined (since their past examples of scrub fences have involved barbed wire strung from tree to tree, so that trees up along the rainforest edge have rusty wire embedded in calloused trunks) in favour of using a fencing contractor who would comply with the terms of the fire insurance.

If only months ago I had had the energy to haul fencing material up the steep hill and build my own boundary fence where a few trees killed by the fire a year ago had finally fallen across the wires, opening easy passage to cows through our rainforest.
But I have been trying over and over to get around five fencing contractors to come out to look over the job (550 metres of fence repair/replacement), and only one so far has provided a written quote (for insurance requirements).
Most just don’t want the work.

The immediate cow problem has been resolved, although at our extreme cost.
I am still waiting for a fencer to make secure the whole fenceline.
But no fencer is going to continue the fence that last 200 metres through the scrub to our top corner -- somehow I will have to do that. We have gotten ourselves lost a few times trying to find the ancient barbed wire strands up the hill. It’s hard using a compass when rainforest trees block all view of the fenceline further downhill. We believe we have found the top corner (a tree with wire embedded in a right angle around its trunk), but I’m thinking of buying a handheld GPS of some sort if it will help me track a straight south – north line down through the forest to meet up with the existing fence.

More than a handful

While that title well describes the healthy growth of our pink-tongued lizard family, well-fed on captured snails growing just as rapidly on a frequent supply of lettuce, it also defines my life at present.

To aquaintances I have fallen off the face of the earth. They must just assume I have lost interest in their activities. No-one ever contacts me to check if anything is amiss, am I coping, can I do with help.

The fact is I am not coping.
Without a partner to share burdens I am simply not coping. I have withdrawn into my shell, licking wounds, whatever metaphor describes being intensely alone. I have been reluctant to put into print the words 'not coping' in case that should entrench that reality. Yet I am aware that stating a problem is often the start to finding a way to manage the problem.