Category: Memoir

Story 6 LOCKING HORNS WITH EL TORO

During a possum-catching trip near Kakadu National Park with a team of blokes, I needed some time by myself to unwind and relax by the creek that flowed beyond our rough campsite. However, this tranquil sojourn ended up pumping my adrenaline to maximum.

It was mid morning, and warming up fast. I’d not long woken in my cozy canvas swag after catching Rock Ringtail possums (Petropseudes dahli) during the night. I was on a short working break from my research work for CSIRO in Canberra, to hunt down and catch wild possums for the Territory Wildlife Park in Northern Australia for a new public display. My role was to train their staff in my unique method for capturing possums. These possums shun traps so after trying an array of unsuccessful methods I had devised a new way to catch them. The adrenaline filled nights of stalking and running down possums were one aspect of this trip but I also had the stressful responsibility of the team’s safety. Abandoned mine shafts and getting lost were the main hazards. The nights were inky pitch black, this was country I didn’t know and unless I kept my wits and concentrated on my continuous landmark configurations of rocks, trees, bushes and logs as we walked through the bush, I could very easily cause us all to become dangerously lost. Late one night a few years before, in the remote Kimberley, after taking behavioral observations of Scaly-tailed possums (Wyulda squamicaudata) with my two volunteers, I was leading us back to our campsite and I became distracted with a conversation we were having and my concentration was lost for my marks. All of a sudden we were lost. We had been helicoptered into the site and the rugged dissected sandstone terrain stretched out for hundreds of kilometers in three directions and spanned about thirty clicks to the remote coast. The pilot wasn’t due to pick us up for over a week at that stage and the land was all roughly the same height with no knolls or mountains. Becoming lost out there could easily mean losing our lives. Luckily I had catastrophied just about everything beforehand and I had a plan for this very moment. When backtracking failed we halted and I pulled out of my backpack the heavy radio-tracking receiver I carried for this very occasion. We had radio-collars on six possums and I had located their various den sites during the day so we could wait on nearby rocks to observe them at night. Tuning in to a spare radio-collar I had stashed at camp, we then followed the blipping sounds until we alighted into familiar terrain.

Back amongst the dodgy mineshafts, I didn’t have a receiver. One particularly large sandstone rock outcrop a few acres across was one site that was a long way from the vehicles so I was cautious enough to tie some pink flagging tape to a tree. That marker actually saved my arse.  A fair while later when I was leading the men back, I felt that initial, small sharp knot of black panic. Were these rocks familiar or did I just imagine it? Just when I thought I’d really stuffed up and become disorientated, the bright pink strip materialized, boom, right in front of me.  My marker told me the point where I needed to turn left 90 degrees and head north from those rocks to get back to where the 4WDs sat in the scrub waiting.

The adrenaline during the night was fuelled from the point of finding multiple red spots of eye shine in trees away from the nearby rocks. The men stayed still and quiet so as not to spook the possums while I crept up silently, heart thumping, towards them, positioning myself between them and the nearby rocks. I’d leave enough space for them to make a run for it and wait. Then when they did, I’d run a bit faster and leap carefully onto them and swiftly maneuver them into a cloth bag. I really didn’t require more adrenaline peaks during the day after doing all this at night.

It was time for me to get a little space and solitude and find somewhere nice to have a wash and rid myself of the dirt and sweat. A brief hiatus from the nocturnal work was in order to re-energize. A wide bottomed, shallow creek flowed along one border of the campsite and out into the savanna woodland into no man’s land. Perfect. Padding away from the others with my favorite purple thongs (AKA flip-flops) on my feet towards the creek, I envisaged some quiet secluded pool I would soak in. Soak up the sun a bit and relax I thought. Lie back lazily on the sand somewhere. No one around to disturb me I thought……. Wrong.

So here I was after waking up in the morning, la de la de la, walking down the sandy creek bed, relaxing more and more by the minute, inhaling the damp earthy loam scent of the creek and enjoying the sun’s warmth through my shirt and on the back of my legs. The flat creek channel was around five meters across with steep dirt banks up to about three meters high. I rounded a bend and for a time kept walking, watching where I was placing my feet and zoning out rather than my usual thing of taking in everything around me as I went.

Looking up, my eyes instantly locked onto the enormous eyes of a very large and powerful looking young buffalo bull. Only about five meters directly in front of me, completely barring my path, he stood square and rigid. Attached to his head were two very large buffalo horns. His expression was a mixture of annoyance and fear. Me in that moment? Just terrified. Wild buffalo kill more humans in Africa than any other creature. This was not Africa but nonetheless this was a large wild feral buffalo. His eyes seemed enormous and we both stood still like matching marble statues facing each other. We had a standoff. I then ever so slowly turned my head to scope the banks for trees. All that was near was a spindly dead trunk all of about three meters high, and useless to me for escaping up.

I turned back to look at the beast and he grunted something to himself and started actually pawing the ground like he thought he was El bloody Toro straight out of Spain!

I remember thinking how odd it was that he used his left hoof to paw the ground, not his right leg and that he must be in that perhaps 7% rare cohort of buffalo that are left-handed. Not a particularly useful thought. Sensing that attempting a runner back up the creek bed would probably mean I’d lose this particular bout in a spectacularly painful way, I had to think quickly. Yelling might work but it was impossible to make myself look big. I dared not hold out my beach towel to look bigger or flap it at him to try and scare him in case he decided it is close enough to looking like the proverbial red rag, even though it wasn’t red, and charge at me. Thinking fast, I then remembered how hunters shot wild buffalo in the region and maybe the sound of a gunshot might scare him witless. Instantly I thought of my trusty old cheap purple thongs. Ever so slowly I let bag and towel slide down to rest at my feet while I simultaneously unhooked each thong from my toes. As I did this El Toro pawed again trying and succeeding in looking tough. He even lowered his monstrous head, eyes not wavering a millimeter from mine.

My eyes locked and loaded on his, I drew my arms slowly apart and slapped the rubber soles together hard and BANG! Wow! A sharp and loud gunshot sound came out!

Hesitation shuddered through El Toro and I mimicked the steady time frame between shots from a rifle and let fly with another loud shot. This was too much for ET and he turned and clambered up the bank away from me, his unappealing droopy ball sacks swaying from side to side before he turned around to look at me and bloody stare some more. I thought we were finished staring so I widened my stance, rose my torso and shoulders up and out, opened my eyes wide into a blaring angry glare and yelled loud and deep at him while letting rip another cartridge of thong slapping. He finally turned away from me and trotted off into the scrub. El Toro was not so brave after all. Bravo! I crept up the bank to make sure he kept going and watched him shrink into the distance.

So so relieved, I picked up my stuff and set off walking but back the other way. I was too shaken to keep venturing into unknown buffalo filled territory, so I backtracked to a less than ideal part of the creek with a section where I could bath. It had a nice long stretch so that I could scan for any more intruding bulls wanting their go at a stoush with me. My ‘gun’ thongs were within arm’s reach. After my bath, I lay back on the sand and reflected on how I had somehow survived three direct active threats on my life by three very different types of animal, a Great White Shark, an Eastern Brown Snake and now a wild buffalo bull. I thought about how one thing I am quite happy about is my ability to actually act under acute stress. Solve the puzzle and move.

I thought too how although I wouldn’t volunteer for these scary animal encounters, the floaty and overwhelming sensation of euphoria sparked from these life death events is enjoyable and that vivid base knowledge of really being alive in this world is with me until I die.

***     *****     ***

You can read more stories in my book now published on Amazon WILD – Life Death Encounters with Wild Animals

such as a Great White Shark, horses, snakes, whales, rock possums, bull buffalo and spiders

And you can read stories on how I Source Strength

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Feel free to let me know what your think of this post in the comment box below.

Story 1 How my ancestors gave me strength – Sourcing Strength 2 min read

Last month I knew I had to do something. May 1st was on its way. That day I would be doing something I truly feared. The fear is from not knowing if I am doing the right thing. I knew that if I went through with it then I alone would be responsible for the consequences.  If I choose this I would allow my body and brain to cop a heavy hit of cell-destroying drugs. These drugs have a low probability of working on my rare subtype of breast cancer but maybe, just maybe they will save my life. The drugs may have irreversible side effects including serious cognitive impairment. This scares me the most. I know that these drugs may prevent secondary cancer that I may not even have right now, or later on in the future.  I feel like there is nothing rogue left in me. No bad cells anywhere. Do I put my body through this and come out the other side a zombie? Or do I not go through with it and maybe regret my decision because I die young from a cancer that spread?  So this is the fear.

I cannot reconcile my fear in my head. Usually I am good at doing that but for this I can’t, not yet. I needed something additional to give me some strength. Already I have been overwhelmed by support from friends, family, acquaintances and strangers but I am greedy. I reached beyond the living to the dead. I gathered up strength from my ancestors to go through the third nasty infusion of chemotherapy drugs. Two weeks before the horrible day, I asked my mum for her father’s old Masonic ring. The next week she gave it me.

I never knew this man but everyone is strong in their way and that’s what I wanted from him, a little piece of his strength.

Same goes for my other ancestors. I wished to suck up some of their strength.

On May 1st 2018, I dressed and slipped onto my fingers, my grandfather’s ring from my mum’s side of the family and my grandmother’s ring from my dad’s side who, with her husband I never knew. I wore my wedding ring and gained my husband’s strength and I wore a ring from his grandmother who I was very close to. I also wore a ring I had made at school for myself to remind me not to forget my own inner strength. None of these rings are full of jewels and they are not valuable in terms of money but to me they are priceless. To touch and handle items my ancestors wore, particularly those I never met, helps makes these people real and tangible to me.

As I settled into the passenger seat of mum’s car to go to the hospital, mum presented me with her mother’s beautiful Dux award from school. She told me she would wear this around her neck with a piece of string during exams for good luck. This took me by surprise. It made me feel complete. I loved my Nan and now I had something from her. I thanked mum and told her I didn’t need to wear jewelry she had given me because I had what was better and that is the real thing, her, by my side. I now had all my families with me now and I felt ready to face my fears.

They all took a piece of that fear and dread away and they all gave me a piece of their strength.

I feel lucky to have strong ancestors.

***     *****     ***

Other stories in this series of Sourcing Strength are; The Summit Run and The Summit Run, Closing the Loop.

You can read more stories in my series about Encounters with Wild Animals such as a Great White Shark, horses, snakes, whales, rock possums, bull buffalo and spiders

If you’d like to have my next post sent directly to you, just pop your email address into the subscription box.

Feel free to let me know what your think of this post in the comment box below.

Story 3 RESPECT THE SNAKE – A series of memoir stories about My Encounters with Wild Animals 6 min read

Eastern Brown Snake Attacking

Snakes will not hesitate to hunt you down, chase you so they can bite you. That’s what I thought. I believed this so much that I only had to see a photo of one and then I’d dream of snakes all night. And these dreams were not fun. As a kid, I was often in the bush stepping across creeks, walking around swamps, over sunny logs, through the long grass. I wandered among all the favorite lairs snakes would be waiting and lurking. Mum always warned me of them, maybe a little too much. One particular snaky experience instilled the wretched phobic fear into me.

Walking around a dam on my parents’ remote 150 acre property, I looked at the dirty brown water. A bare soil patch extended up the hill from the water’s edge. Turning my head from the water, I sensed something to my left. Looking there, I saw a huge Brown snake with its head level with mine, opening and shutting its mouth.

Two thirds of its big body came at me through the air fast whilst only a foot or so of its tail anchored it to the soil.

I probably screamed but I know I ran. I ran past it fast.  That snake’s face said it was angry and it was going to bite me. A bite from that monster could have killed me because we were situated hours away from any hospital. Mum saw the whole thing and said the snake was taller than me. Because this snake aggressively chased me whilst rearing up impressively on its tail it looked extra tall. Because the ground where it launched from was higher than where I was, it looked even larger. This, coupled with my young and impressionable age, led me to believe that all snakes all did that. Later I discovered only male Eastern Brown snakes become more aggressive in spring when they are fighting other males; most snakes just try and avoid people. Other species will even pretend to bite you if you hurt them by accidently stepping on them. They might strike your leg but many do this with their mouth firmly shut; it serves as a warning.

One time I heard a tale from my older brother who I thought for a while must be some crazy man. He sat down by this little creek one summer with the cicadas blaring and fell asleep in some shade. In fact, he lay across the footpath or slither path of the snakes. They weirdly slid their way alongside the creek next to the water. A big venomous blacksnake mistook Peter’s lower legs as logs or general forest paraphernalia.  Gripping onto Pete’s skin with its multitude of little scales, it slithered up and over him tongue flicking and tasting the air as it went. My brother awoke, looked down, saw the snake and stayed as still as a tree trunk. Absorbed in its own rhythm of the moment, the snake meandered on along the creek and out of sight, apparently oblivious of the live legs it had encountered.  Over time I realized this is the personality of the snake. I had them all wrong.

The game changer for me was my gradual mental deconstruction that all snakes behaved like the Flying Big Brown and that some are quite exquisitely beautiful.

On a walk I discovered that Northern Green Tree snakes were iridescent with an electric blue covering their sleek body and fluorescent yellow highlighting their head. Handling the cool smooth bodies of the non venomous species made me realize that snakes are no different to all the other beautiful wildlife I am lucky to encounter. Snakes are not out to get me. One cranky Olive python did manage to sink its sharp teeth into my thigh one time. It even left a tooth in me and gave me four purple bruises. It wasn’t happy with me lifting it off a road where it could have been run over. For a wild snake, it would probably feel strange and scary to be picked up and held off the ground by a human.

Death Adder – Artist: Obed Wurrkidj

Death adders came into my life in a large way while I spent my nights in the tropical bush observing rock possums for my Doctoral studies. My main study site in Kakadu has a soft sandy substrate and heaps of leaf litter. As I walked between my possum groups through the bush, I had to be wary of every step I took. These adders are sit-and-wait predators so they usually would remain absolutely still in total contrast to the Flying Big Brown and many times I nearly stepped on their sausage bodies. One time I stepped out into the night in complete darkness barefoot. As my foot came down I somehow sensed something and managed to do an awkward stride. Looking back with a light, there was a big death adder lying inert on this concrete paver.. It was strikingly beautiful golden markings. The fangs on these snakes are very long, and their bite is deadly. Another time I heard a rustling on the path in front of me and it was an adder thrashing it’s body from side to side to let me know it was lying there and not to tread on it. Later, my boy friend started research on the floodplain type of Death adder. These are larger and duller patterned than my sandstone ones. For a while, all thirty of his study animals lived at home with us in purpose built snake boxes and when we moved house, so did all of the snakes. I do remember a few times at night when I’d seen the slithering dark form of a snake either on the bedroom floor, on the bed or hanging off the ceiling fan and I’d wake up Jonno and tell him ‘There’s a snake’. I’d be standing on the bed and somehow reach the light switch to find of course yes, zero snakes.

Death Adder painting – Artist: Abraham Dakgalawuy

A few more incidents happened more recently that signaled to me that I was over the worst of my illogical serpentine fear. One night I was walking and spotlighting around a beautiful limestone rock wall in the remote Kimberley region known as the Ningbins. This area is an important and significant indigenous burial place that I had accidently stumbled into.

As I turned a corner, a large Red Tree snake dropped from the sky, and landed in a large loop onto my neck before entwining me like a necklace.

As I stopped and stepped backwards, it flopped to earth and sidled away. Tree snakes are arboreal and it isn’t surprising that one above me in a tree or a rock ledge should drop down occasionally. That is the logical, rational thought, but instead of thinking that or feeling fear, I felt a calm understanding that that red tree snake was actively protecting a sacred site and that it was time to leave.

Yes, I respect the snake.

***     *****     ***

You can now read more stories in my series about Encounters with Wild Animals such as a Eaten Alive, El Toro and Cujo-The Attack in my new book WILD Life death encounters with wild animals.

And you can read stories on how I Source Strength