

### Robin's Double Life

### Island to Outback Australia

### Robin Stewart

Published by Robin Stewart at Smashwords

Copyright: May 2011 Robin Stewart

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

I acknowledge the traditional owners of this land, past and present.

Contents

Prelude

Chapter 1 Migrate to the Bering Sea

Chapter 2 Settling In

Chapter 3 July in the Outback

Chapter 4 August was Spring

Chapter 5 The Mighty Maranoa

Chapter 6 Oolines in October

Chapter 7 Bonus Downs

Chapter 8 Abundance in all Things

Chapter 9 Drought-breaking Rains

Chapter 10 Saying Goodbye

Chapter 11 Migrating South

Chapter 12 Island in the Sun

Chapter 13 Muttonbird Gales

Chapter 14 Postscript: Missing

' _With patience, the mulberry leaf becomes a silken robe.'_

Old Chinese proverb

Prelude

It's a simple painting: a mulberry leaf on canvas. Acrylic blues and greens on a background of muted white.

But it takes me back, is symbolic of the richness of my outback home. Of a community, a river, a bridge and a deep sense of belonging.

Mitchell: in outback Queensland, Australia.

Chapter 1

Migrate to the Bering Sea

Never before had I seen such carnage; a narrow ribbon of bitumen littered with roadkills.

A wedge-tailed eagle rose from a freshly killed kangaroo, hovered momentarily as our vehicle passed, and then descended once more only to be bullied aside by a couple of motley-coloured feral pigs. The drought-stricken landscape lured these survivors to the verge, there to feast on carcasses or to nibble the occasional weed or blade of grass growing beside the road that snaked its way across outback Queensland.

Nature is harsh, I thought, twisting around in my seat to glance again at the dead 'roo. Only the fittest survive. This is Darwin's theory played out in a desperate landscape.

There was no turning back..

After a journey that had taken me and my husband, Doug, across the interior of Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland we were nearly there: Euroa, Albury, West Wyalong, Gilgandra, Lightning Ridge, St George, Mitchell. Six days of watching the land slip by had ensured I had plenty of time to ponder the pros and cons of our lifestyle choice. The road seemed hypnotic, never-ending.

***

Ever since Doug and I lived on King Island in Bass Strait in the early 1980s, I'd felt the urge to migrate north in the autumn, just like the short-tailed shearwaters – the muttonbirds – that lived in the vast rookeries on our sheep property on the south-west corner of the island. Their synchronised breeding and migration flight were seasonal events that had woven themselves deep into my soul. I felt the birds' collective restlessness, their surge of excitement and anticipation at the prospect of their flight to the Bering Sea, near Alaska. But with the responsibility of a sheep property and a menagerie of pets we couldn't 'take flight'. Left behind, I always had the sense that I should have gone too. I knew I would never be truly content without a connection to the birds.

After selling our King Island property and living a short time on the mainland, the pull of an island lifestyle drew us back; this time to Phillip Island, a two hour drive south-east of Melbourne in Western Port Bay. The island is well known for its motorcycle Grand Prix, magnificent beaches and its wildlife: penguins, fur seals, koalas – and muttonbirds. We chose the position of our home carefully. It was within 100 metres of a muttonbird rookery, and had windows that overlooked the bay and the rookery towards the western sky. For how else could we monitor their movements, see them against the golden glow of sunset; fully appreciate their enchantment?

Within three to four years of moving to Phillip Island, however, I noticed a change in how I responded to exercise, especially when it was cold and windy. I felt breathless walking up the gentle incline from the beach to our house. My left shoulder and my neck ached – but wasn't that just because Opal, our Great Dane, pulled on the lead and I always held the lead in my left hand? When my chest began aching as well, I went to the doctor.

To cut a long story short I went through a battery of cardiac-related investigations, several hospitalisations and an angiogram that revealed no blockages of my main coronary arteries but a problem with the smaller blood vessels. When I exercised in a cold wind these blood vessels narrowed and went into spasm, causing angina.

The link between body and mind is a close one, and after several years I was feeling a bit 'delicate'. With medication I improved but not to the extent of being able to walk when it was cold – especially in wind. So here I was on Phillip Island where cold winds were the norm in winter and spring.

Walking our dogs has always been an important part of my daily routine, a type of meditation, so to have it connected to chest pain and feelings of overall ill health had a negative effect on my mind. An exercise bike did not solve the problem; I needed to be outside and walking. Even pegging clothes on the line in a wind caused angina. In spite of the spectacular view from our house, I began feeling trapped.

I had a heart problem that probably wouldn't kill me but had the capacity to make life very unpleasant. Acceptance wasn't easy, but it was necessary. What I didn't have to accept, though, was staying in a place that made my condition worse. From experience gained on trips in northern Australia, I knew that my health improved the further north I travelled, and that in the dry heat of inland Queensland I felt better than anywhere else.

What I needed was a break from the cold winds that were the norm on Phillip Island for at least nine months of the year.

***

For a few years a solution of sorts was achieved by heading north in our caravan for the worst of winter. Although we enjoy visiting new places and meeting new people, living within the confines of a caravan wears a bit thin after a couple of weeks. Basically we prefer living in a house doing our normal day-to-day things: me writing books and Doug restoring old motorcycles in his shed.

On our trips up north we established that somewhere between the New South Wales–Queensland border and the Tropic of Capricorn produces the best winter weather – and inland, as neither of us likes humidity. Playfully we talked about buying a house in an outback town. But wouldn't that be incredibly impractical and extravagant?

***

Plenty of light and sunshine have always been important to my feeling of wellbeing. Therefore, when our neighbours on Phillip Island decided to add a second storey to their house, I was dismayed to find that the sunroom and back verandah Doug had built specifically to capture winter sun were now shrouded in deep shade.

With this development as well as the island's cold winds, the death of three of our dogs and the death of our elderly neighbour and close friend, Eric Juckert, it seemed 2006 wasn't panning out very well. We did have the opportunity, however, to welcome Eric's German shepherd, Gus into our care and in June we headed towards the gemfields of Queensland for four weeks with Gus and our two Siamese cats on board. On our way back, though, my feelings of unease grew stronger and stronger. We had to do something to solve the problem of our disappearing sun.

At St George I impulsively initiated a game of 'What if we lived here? And if we did, where would we buy?' that quickly turned serious. Within ten minutes or so we narrowed it down to the road running along the edge of the weir – a waterfront position with only a bitumen road and well-kept parkland between the houses and weir. But there wasn't much for sale, only a house that had no north-facing windows, and a vacant block of land. The house was out of the question but the land looked sound and the price was reasonable. We put in an offer.

After giving the estate agent a deposit and contact details we left St George the following day. It was a weekend and we had to be back in Victoria the following week.

On our way out of town we drove past the St George airport and were alarmed to see fifteen or so crop-duster aircraft lined up and ready for action. Warning bells started to clang. Further on we passed massive irrigation channels and Cubbie Station with its enormous dams. Irrigated cotton and rice crops extended in all directions. What had we let ourselves in for? It was becoming clear that in St George, the risk of exposure to pesticide drift had to be significant, and with my history ...

In the autumn of 1983, I had been sharing a picnic lunch with my mother in the Stony Rises, in south-west Victoria. It was a still, sunny day and all seemed idyllic. I heard a plane fly overhead, but didn't take much notice until a strange smell attracted my attention. It was on the second pass that I looked up and saw a cloud of spray drifting down: herbicide as wet as heavy mist, a powerful chemical released to kill bracken and thistles.

We left immediately, but stopped ten minutes down the Princes Highway to dispose of the remains of our lunch and have a wash. At this stage our throats and chests were feeling uncomfortable; later I developed headaches and nausea.

This event marked the beginning for me of life-threatening weight loss over a two-year period, plus severe gastrointestinal spasm that affected my ability to absorb food. Mum didn't suffer any long-term effects, but I had experienced food intolerances and allergy problems since childhood, so I only needed a trigger of some sort to place my body into crisis mode. Being soused in agricultural spray was the trigger.

During those critical two years my weight dropped from 60 to 42 kilograms, and I had three lengthy hospital stays under the supervision of a top Melbourne gastroenterologist. I pulled through, but it was a long, hard haul.

In an effort to get well, I tried a wide range of traditional and alternative therapies and always Doug was incredibly supportive and caring. One of the avenues I explored was the link between my ill health and chemical intolerances. At Bethesda Hospital I was found to have severe food and chemical sensitivity. The food intolerance was no surprise, but the chemical intolerance came as a big shock.

A major alteration to my home environment was recommended, and since both my husband and I wanted to at least halt the downward spiral, we set to the task with determination and optimism.

At this stage we were living on King Island with the cleanest air on Earth. Our sheep property had 8 kilometres of spectacular ocean frontage, in the full blast of the Roaring Forties. In those days, though, there was no reticulated power so we had a diesel generator and gas appliances – all with associated fumes. Our home was surrounded by cypress trees and, with high levels of humidity, mould was also an issue.

We reversed the trailer up to the back door and out went all the plastics, perfumed products, chemical cleaners, mothballs and insect sprays. Next to go were the gas appliances, vinyl flooring and rubber-backed curtains. Newspapers went out to the verandah, along with my indoor plants; then I moved on to my wardrobe and out went anything synthetic. I was ruthless, for my life depended upon the creation of a home environment as free of chemicals as possible.

It was at this stage that I began to learn how to clean our home using mainly vinegar and bicarb soda. I also discovered strategies to minimise the growth of mould. Experimentation and research took up much of my time, and gradually a new lifestyle evolved. Our changed way of living had many pluses. As well as being healthy, it was easy, environmentally friendly and very economical.

We rejoiced that frogs chose to live where our waste water flowed out into the paddock. We aimed to have the air within the house as pure as that outside. And slowly but surely I began to put on weight.

In 1986 we left King Island and returned to the mainland where, after a couple of moves, we bought Greenslopes, a rural property at Longwood in sunny central Victoria. Our property was in an area where there was no cropping or aerial spraying, and was north of the Great Dividing Range, ensuring a warm dry climate. Electricity was connected to the house and there were no cypresses or pines in the vicinity.

From our modest home on top of an ironstone hill we enjoyed views of the nearby Strathbogie Ranges, and stunning sunsets. There was a sense of peace and tranquillity, and I felt wonderfully centred.

While at Greenslopes we bred stud Angus cattle and both worked part time; Doug as the facilitator of the local Landcare group, while I did some teaching in the field of adult literacy.

My interest in writing began on King Island. Inspired by the unspoiled beauty of the island and its people, and the penguins and muttonbirds that nested along our coastline, I wrote a work of fiction for children aged between eight and twelve years. I called the book _Moonbird_ and it was published in 1993. After writing for eight years with nothing but rejection letters, I had a book accepted. What an incredible thrill!

_The Clean House Effect_ was the next to be published, and was written on the kitchen table while we were living at Greenslopes. I felt a compulsion to share my ideas and help people improve their health by reducing their use of chemicals in the home. And it has sold remarkably well over the years, with people keen to take control of their home environment at least, in the interests of health, economy and the environment. If we all make small changes in our routines, and reduce our use of chemicals, it will make a big difference overall.

_The Clean House Effect_ expanded into _Chemical Free Home_ , published by Black Inc in Melbourne. The book has become a bestseller. The reason is simple: everyone is affected by chemicals to some degree; everyone benefits by reducing their use.

In the meantime I've had fifteen other books published (about equal numbers for children and adults, and mainly non-fiction), with the highlight being the publication of a book about alternative pets for children. Called _New Faces_ , this book won the Children's Book Council of Australia Book of the Year Award in 1995. I'm fortunate to be able to say that I enjoy the challenge of my new occupation more than anything else I have ever done. In many ways, writing is a natural progression from teaching, which was my former career.

In 1996 we sold our cattle property in central Victoria and moved to Phillip Island, choosing our position on the foreshore alongside the muttonbird rookery. Here the aroma of herbage, salt spray and seagrass hangs sweet in the air.

Seven years of living on King Island in the 1980s prepared me for the wind that lashed Phillip Island over the winter months in particular. I knew about wind, felt exhilarated after walking with and against its raw energy. I loved the feeling of freedom. I loved breathing in great gulps of air fresh from the Antarctic. I imagined the biting air cleaning out every tiny portion of my body and mind, and I always returned to the house invigorated – until my heart started to malfunction.

***

But back to St George. With my ongoing chemical sensitivity, I couldn't risk going down that track again. The realisation that we'd walked into a trap shocked us to the core. Uncharacteristically we'd failed to do our research. We'd been careless. I couldn't believe that we of all people had made a mistake such as this.

Our return trip to Phillip Island was not a happy one, but thankfully we could withdraw our offer and we did. I have to admit it was a huge disappointment on my part.

Back on the island, I came down to earth with a thud. We were back to square one, with the problem of no winter sun, and almost constant wind. It would have been easy to give up and say, 'Too hard, too risky, let's stay put on the island with trips away for the worst of the winter.' That's what Doug wanted to do, but I wasn't convinced.

Meanwhile we tossed ideas and options around till my head spun. We could purchase a house in another part of Queensland. We could add a second storey to our existing small home, but we didn't think stairs were a good idea for people in their sixties and also we didn't want to block the view of the house behind. We could extend our house towards the road, but on the same level, which would partly solve the problem. We got plans drawn up and approached a builder for a quote. At least we were doing something.

One of the few pleasures of that winter was the shortlisting by the Children's Book Council of my book _Charles Darwin's Big Idea_. This book was one of the most important in my career as a writer. As a result of the research I did on Charles Darwin I came to understand more fully the way life had evolved on Earth. Respect and admiration for the man behind the theory was also a revelation. This book changed the way I looked at my surroundings, made me appreciate Nature in all its complexities. It was a thrill and an honour to be shortlisted and a huge highlight in a year that had its problems.

By now it was midwinter and as I watched the movement of sun and shade across the area of the proposed building I grew more and more uneasy. There were still large chunks of time when we'd be in the shadow of next-door's bulky presence.

Indecision is not something either of us is familiar with; nor costly mistakes. Already there'd been a penalty cost for the withdrawal of our St George land offer. More recently we'd outlaid money for plans to be drawn up for the extension to our Phillip Island house. Now I was unsure. I yearned for warmth, sun and no angina.

Gale force winds lashed the island. After a week of particularly bleak wintry weather in late August, when I'd been forced to remain indoors, my feelings rose to overwhelm me. I came to the conclusion that the extension was not a solution; however, Doug was not so easily persuaded and we ended up having the worst disagreement in our marriage of thirty-nine years.

'It's all very well for you,' I snapped angrily. 'You can go for walks; you can go outside to your shed. But I'm stuck inside without any sun. I need to be further north. I'm not spending another winter here and that's final.'

Sitting in the sunroom with next-door's shadow completely blocking my sun, and wind and rain assaulting the windows I felt incredibly housebound, restless, resentful and ready for action.

For days we stepped warily around the issue, with painful silences. Doug avoided me, choosing instead to work on his motorcycle out in his shed; banging, grinding, sawing. The minute he stepped indoors we were back to the question that divided us.

Never before had I ventured into this territory – never had I gone against Doug's wishes and it tore me apart to see the extent of the gulf that separated us. Usually we agreed. Usually we were best friends and got along exceptionally well.

***

Throughout my life I've suffered a variety of medical conditions that have made life difficult. Whenever I'm asked, 'How are you?' I seldom give an honest answer because I don't like to be boring and I don't like to complain. The fact is though, that I struggle every day with nausea, stomach and bowel pain caused by a partial paralysis of my gastrointestinal tract. This condition is made much worse by exposure to chemicals. My diet needs to be low fat and free of gluten and milk, with puréed food in the main.

A pituitary tumour (causing bad headaches and fatigue) is something else I have to accept. It's stable and has been for about six years. But angina was something else altogether. I was tired of living life on the edge, never knowing when there would be another 000 call, ambulance transfer to Melbourne and hospitalisation. I knew my condition could be controlled by location, so I just had to work out a way of making it happen – and before next winter.

This time around I did my research. Using maps, weather statistics and real estate sites on the Internet I narrowed it down. Further north of St George so it was a bit warmer; south of the Tropical of Capricorn so it wasn't too hot; west of Roma to avoid humidity; a community of around 700 people – not a mining town, no cropping land because of pesticide drift, reliable water supply, a larger service town within an hour's drive, public transport, a hospital and good medical services.

More and more my mind lingered on Mitchell, a small outback town located 561 kilometres west of Brisbane, between Roma and Charleville. It ticked most of the boxes and real estate was affordable. For a similar financial outlay we could buy a house on three-quarters of an acre in Mitchell, or build an extension to our Phillip Island house, or buy a four-wheel drive and larger caravan or a motor home. To me, Mitchell was the answer but Doug remained unconvinced and stuck stubbornly to the planned renovation.

After a week though, and probably as a result of my uncharacteristic outburst, Doug began to come around to my way of thinking. Secretly he began looking at weather statistics and maps. I noticed, but chose to remain silent.

'We need to look further north of St George,' Doug said one day, quite out of the blue. I agreed, of course, and within a couple of days we were packed and ready to leave, with Gus and the two cats on board.

***

Our arrival at the West Wyalong Caravan Park on Monday 4 September 2006 was memorable. The minute our van was in place and we'd stepped out onto the gravel, an elderly man rushed over in a great state of anxiety to tell us unbelievable news. 'Did you hear Steve Irwin died today?' the man burst out. 'He was killed by a stingray.'

The news of this freak accident hadn't reached us and we felt as shocked as our fellow traveller. Steve Irwin was everyone's mate.

In researching and writing _Charles Darwin's Big Idea_ and another book for children, _Darwin's Tortoise_ , I had also got to know a lot about Steve Irwin and Harriet the Galapagos giant tortoise. Harriet – believed to have once been Charles Darwin's tortoise – was also Steve Irwin's tortoise. Doug and I had been privileged to be part of Harriet's 175th birthday celebrations. I had stroked her long wrinkly neck, fed her a pink hibiscus flower and had her autograph (with a bite) one of the copies of _Darwin's Tortoise_. Consequently, I felt a close connection to Harriet and Steve Irwin's Australia Zoo.

Everywhere we stopped on our route through outback New South Wales and Queensland, people were talking about Steve Irwin the Crocodile Hunter. I was surprised by the outpouring of emotion and the depth of feeling expressed: from old and young, rich and poor.

On arrival in Mitchell, we booked into the Major Mitchell Caravan Park and set up our camp. Because the caravan park is located on the eastern banks of the Maranoa River, and the town on the western side, we walked between the two at least once every day. The pathway went down to the river, across the water via a footbridge, past a mulberry tree growing near the bridge, then up the other side, past the artesian spa and into the main shopping area of Mitchell.

When we passed the mulberry tree, we always paused to feast from branches laden with lush black fruit. We weren't the only ones to stop and eat; every other traveller did likewise, along with every bird. But there was plenty for everyone. Every day the mulberry tree produced more ripe fruit. I was amazed by its abundance.

After a week we'd looked at most of the houses for sale and decided that we wanted to live as close as possible to the Maranoa River. Therefore, the street running alongside the river was the position of choice and fortunately three houses had For Sale notices out front. The house we liked the most overlooked the river and its river red gums, and was the best in relation to winter sun. It was for private sale through an agent and hadn't been on the market for long, so we made an offer and waited.

One hot afternoon during that week we joined millions of other viewers around the world to watch the Steve Irwin memorial service. We didn't have a television, so accepted the invitation of some travellers from New South Wales to watch the service on their TV. It was an extremely moving ceremony and one I will never forget.

Meanwhile we explored the town and immediate area, liking what we saw, sensing a tightly knit yet friendly community.

With our offer accepted we returned to Phillip Island. By now it was October and the worst of the winter was behind me. It amused me that the idea to buy a house in Mitchell was now a joint decision. I let it slide. It was unimportant. The main thing was that next winter I had a home to go to, a place where I wouldn't suffer angina every time I stepped outdoors.

***

In May of the following year, after the muttonbirds had given us the same signals on the same dates, we could go – we did go – on a migration flight away from winter. This time around our only responsibilities were a young German shepherd, Del (Gus had died in February, a couple of weeks after we'd purchased eight-week-old Del), two Siamese cats and a pet stumpy-tailed lizard.

A Ford ute – with a canopy specifically designed and modified for safe, well-ventilated transport for our dog – and small caravan were our chosen form of transport. Tightly packed cardboard boxes took up part of Del's space in the back of the vehicle, but with a deep mattress and woollen rug to lie on, she was comfortable. On the third day of travel, however, our young shepherd unpacked one of the boxes – fortunately only pliers, secateurs and some screwdrivers. I gave her a few more toys; a squeaky toadfish and a well-mouthed red and white ball.

Being indoor cats, our Siamese adapted well to life in a small caravan, and while travelling slept snug on a sheepskin on our bed. Stego, my pet stumpy-tailed lizard, rested secure in a special carry-box lined with a thick layer of soft dry grasses.

This 35-year-old lizard of mine had perfected the art of dormancy. How blissful, I thought, to be able to slip peacefully into a blank vacuum, there to float and dream until the warmth of Mitchell awakened his senses. Living on sunshine, bananas and garden snails, Stego was easy to please.

After almost one week on the road, suddenly the journey seemed to be ending too quickly. Radio signals had long-since dropped out, we hadn't seen houses or shops for hours, and yet the arid drought-stricken landscape held me in its mesmerising spell. This was red-dirt country, where space yawned in abundance; a place of silence and solitude.

Research was one thing, reality another. Even though the services in Mitchell are more than adequate, a new life in a new town where we knew no one offered challenges. Admittedly we had a house to move into, but it was unfurnished.

With our caravan, a fully loaded roof rack and our menagerie on board, we turned off the main road and into the back blocks of Mitchell. As we'd made our way north, layer after layer of clothing had been shed – jackets, sweaters, windcheaters, tights and socks. Now, under a cloudless outback sky, I felt like a lizard that had recently shed its skin: warm, liberated; open to a new life where biting cold winds would no longer be the norm.

The majority of homes in the town are modest and most gardens small, due to drought and respect for the local artesian water supply. However, the drought-baked blocks of land are large (usually three-quarters of an acre) and the streets wide and empty except for bottle trees and palms. A battered four-wheel drive passed and its occupants saluted with a wave and friendly smile. An elderly man tending petunias in his garden did likewise. Such is outback Queensland.

A surge of anticipation swept over me. We were nearly there: plunged into the depths of one of the worst-ever droughts, yet hopeful of an experience that would give us greater empathy with the Australia we loved.

When we turned into Louisa Street and began driving alongside the river – the mighty Maranoa – I felt a wave of excitement. This ancient watercourse is one of the most northerly rivers of the Murray–Darling system. It is full of mystery and promise: of droughts and flooding rains. When in full flood the Maranoa is the fastest-flowing river in Queensland, described as having 'majestic force' and 'roaring like a giant'. Usually though, it's a tranquil waterway, well known for its deep waterholes and weir, well stocked with fish.

Now, in the grip of a seven-year drought, the riverbed was lined with coarse golden sand traced with bird footprints and snake and lizard tracks – and every now and then a waterhole containing yabbies and other small crustaceans. Although Mitchell is 590 kilometres from the coast, this land was once an inland sea. Occasional clusters of fossilised seashells and pieces of petrified wood provide proof of this fact.

River red gums and the other vegetation lining the waterway pulsed with a surprising diversity of life. How could abundance exist in the face of such a devastating drought?

Driving slowly, eyes wide with expectation, we approached the house. There was no gate and no boundary fence, simply a short but incomplete length of home-built stone fence, with a brick gateway – minus a gate. Doug turned in to the gravel driveway and parked alongside the low, single-storey building with its iron roof and long bull-nosed verandah. With pleasure I noticed there were more trees than I remembered: bottle trees and eucalypts, callistemons, sheoaks, one enormous silky oak – and two lemon trees laden with golden fruit.

We looked at one another and smiled deep into each other's eyes. The magnitude of our lifestyle change seemed insignificant compared to the thrill of exploring our new house and surrounds. We walked the short distance to the front door, an unusual nautical-style timber door with three porthole windows. Doug put the 1950s-style key into the lock, turned it easily and then opened the door. As simple as that. A reflection of the town and its people: our home for the next six months and beyond.

It was the end of May. Would the climate in Mitchell improve the functioning of my heart over the colder months? With better health could I achieve greater harmony of mind? Would the Mitchell experience prove any more or any less than I hoped?

Chapter 2

Settling In

The house had a good feel.

Walking through the empty rooms I felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards Daphne who'd come the day before and vacuumed, dusted, cleaned the windows and cut the grass. Daphne and Wilf were well known in town as reliable, hardworking and absolutely honest.

'I'd rather wear out than rust away,' is one of Daphne's favourite sayings. Not so young anymore, their work was hard going at times but they stuck with it and always completed the job. We'd organised for Daphne to caretake in our absence, and to water and mow a small area of grass around the house. We'd told her not to worry about the rest of the garden. Only the toughest, easy care plants were suitable for the lifestyle we intended.

As I wandered around the house I decided there were some things I could live with and some I could not. Before long all the curtains were down and out, and a highly decorated toilet seat removed. Next I flung open all the windows, Venetian blinds and doors to let in light and fresh air; let in our view of the Maranoa River with its white-trunked river gums.

With windows full of sunshine and rooms wide with space I began to relax into the green of the kitchen and the 1950s-style timber walls of the eating area. Not my taste, but with our things around I decided I could adjust and feel comfortable.

Within half an hour of our arrival, Daphne arrived to welcome us then, as she drove off, Sandra Cornish pulled in and greeted us, offering to help. I wondered how Sandra would feel about us moving into what had been her parents' home only two doors up. Would reminders of the pain of her parents' untimely death cause a holding back in our relationship with her? I hoped not.

'There are heaps of oranges and lemons,' she said, pointing towards a group of citrus trees growing behind the carport and shed. The fruit, glowing golden in the afternoon sunshine, was bountiful and more than enough to share.

Back in the house I wandered around some more in a dreamy, inefficient manner, touching things, looking in drawers, opening cupboards. I found myself absent-mindedly wiping over the already clean vanity basin, and then unwrapping a bar of soft creamy-white soap and putting out fresh towels.

Our new home was solid, simple and well built using locally milled cypress pine. With two bedrooms, a sunroom and plenty of built-in cupboards it was a modest, comfortable home: a nest to tidy up and make our own. The few items of furniture we'd bought from the deceased estate included double and single beds with mattresses.

Since there wasn't enough time that night to unpack sheets and Doonas, sleeping another night in the caravan seemed sensible. But we would cook, eat and shower indoors. Finding myself at the back of the house, I examined the laundry, Hills Hoist clothesline, rainwater tank and overgrown garden down the side.

Most of the plants in the garden looked more dead than alive; stunted plants with tortured flower heads, like bonsai. With the ground sucked dry of almost every last trace of moisture, succulents and geraniums were some of the few survivors. Wallaby dung lay on the parched ground like tiny chocolate Easter eggs, and Del, recognising them as such, gobbled them up eagerly. As she was sniffing about for more, a Jack Russell terrier suddenly appeared in the oleanders that separated us from next-door. With hackles slightly raised, Del walked stiffly around the terrier then waved her tail and licked the terrier's face.

Meanwhile a willie wagtail swooped down and swirled and flitted around my feet, chasing invisible insects, lifting my spirits as my eyes followed its every move. It's a sign, I thought dreamily; every place I love has wagtails.

'Hello and welcome to Mitchell,' a female voice called.

'Thank you,' I replied, looking towards an elderly woman who stood in a dry garden bed close to where our property boundary would be. 'You've got a lovely dog,' I added. 'What's her name?'

'Oh, Sally's not mine,' she laughed. 'She lives one door up. Sally's a free spirit and you often see her heading off down the river. She's seen all over town as well. The other day she was up at the bakery. They gave her a bread roll and a lift home.

'Other times she hangs around the post office. Her owners can't keep her in. Sally digs out and squeezes through the best of fences. But I'm Marg Noon and it's good to know you've arrived safely.'

After saying goodbye I moved indoors; the air was cooling rapidly and I wanted to avoid the risk of angina. With the hot water service already operational, I decided to have a shower in the newly built ensuite. The water was hot and silky smooth, with just the slightest hint of mineral odour. I relaxed into its texture and warmth, appreciative of Nature's most precious gift, the lifeblood of Mitchell. Without the artesian bore there would be no Mitchell. It was as simple as that. Accessed from the Great Artesian Basin – one of the world's largest underground aquifers – this 'fossil' water fell as rain millions of years ago on Queensland's Great Dividing Range, soaking deep into the ground, absorbing salts and minerals. This plentiful supply of high quality artesian water gives the town its sense of abundance.

The Great Artesian Basin extends from the tip of Cape York, through inland Queensland, and into the northern parts of New South Wales, the Northern Territory and South Australia: underlying over 20 per cent of the Australian continent. It is a vital water reserve to outback Australia. The precious water I was receiving through the shower head was soft, untreated and delivered to our home via the water tower and one of two town bores. Both artesian bores were approximately 1 kilometre deep; one located alongside the water tower, the other out towards the airport.

I let the hot mineral water soak into my skin, feeling revived and basking in the warmth of our welcome to this outback town. Even Del had found a new friend in Sally the Jack Russell terrier.

Sitting at 337 metres above sea level, and located well inland, Mitchell cools down quickly at dusk, in June, and this our first night was no exception. Thankfully the air-conditioner hummed, delivering welcome warmth as we ate our evening meal sitting on camp chairs in the empty shell of our house.

A list seemed a good idea, of all the big and little things we needed to buy the following day: a washing machine, refrigerator and freezer, microwave, vacuum cleaner, iron, radiators, brooms, mops, food ... As we composed the list, we sipped our first cup of tea made with Mitchell artesian water. With its distinctive taste and smell I had predicted the water would not make good tea and coffee. I was in for a pleasant surprise though, as it tasted excellent. The boiling process eliminated the smell, and the taste seemed to blend in with tea and coffee to a degree that was not noticeable.

Buying locally was a priority, with Roma (an hour's drive to our east) reserved for those things we couldn't purchase in Mitchell, like blinds, furniture and a trailer. With my head buzzing with the list we headed for the caravan and bed, where the cats waited patiently. Tomorrow we'd move permanently into the house and introduce the cats to their new home.

The light overnight frost and crisp morning didn't stop us sitting outside in the sun to eat breakfast. The thermometer read only 9°C, but the small front verandah captured the winter sunshine and held it, as if in a capsule. Only 10 metres from the road, and overlooking the Maranoa River and its river gums, we enjoyed our new view and the opportunity to return the friendly waves of passing motorists, curious to see the newly arrived Mitchell residents.

Soon a white one-tonne tray ute loaded with assorted electrical gear stopped out the front. 'G'day,' said a bloke dressed in the typical tradesman uniform of heavy cotton. Extending his hand warmly as he approached, he continued, 'I'm Rob Cornish, Sandra's better half. How are you settling in?'

Good-looking in a rugged sort of way, Rob soon turned the talk to cattle and drought, and I could see that the Cornish cattle properties featured higher on Rob's priorities than his dusty vehicle or work as the local electrician and refrigeration technician. There was talk about bores, windmills, tanks and stock watering troughs, about the capping of bores and the replacement of bore drains with piping and troughs.

Rob and Sandra have a son and daughter who are both keen on the land. Future generations will need this precious water resource as much as, or more than we depend on it today.

Our first port of call that morning was the Mitchell Post Office and there was a stack of mail waiting for us, along with a card asking us to go inside to pick up additional items. 'Oh, so you're number 163 mailbox!' the woman behind the counter said, with a warm smile.

Pulling out a large postbag she continued, 'Welcome to Mitchell. We've been wondering when you'd arrive.' The postbag was addressed to: _Robin and Doug Stewart, New Residents, Mitchell._ It was from Brenda, our friend from Phillip Island.

Rob Cornish Electrical, fronting the Warrego Highway, was our next port of call. Here Sandra helped us select a washing machine and refrigerator. Slim, with short black hair, Sandra came to Mitchell as a nurse, met Rob, married, had two children and now manages the family business, as well as studying to upgrade her nursing qualification, helping on their various cattle properties and running a home.

Next was Mitchell Home Hardware. I'd never seen so much variety in such a small area: plants out on the pavement, every conceivable household item, garden equipment, camping and fishing supplies, building and agricultural supplies – they had it all.

Wandering around I picked up brooms, toilet brushes, dusters, a dishwashing brush, clothes basket and trolley, carpet sweeper and two brush and pan sets. Then I stopped and ticked them off my list. Naturally there were things I'd forgotten, so I collected these and went to the counter where I was served by Helen and her daughter Bernadette. Our purchases made it very obvious that we were newcomers to the town, also that we were setting up house and had brought very little with us.

'Where are you from?' asked Bernadette. 'How are you settling in?' asked her mother, helping me load our purchases into the ute. 'I hear you've bought Sandra's mother's place.'

Next was one of the three supermarkets. The smooth running of the shop lay in Deb and Jemma's capable hands. Deb, a fourth-generation Mitchellite, chattered about landscape painting and restoring her century-old Queenslander home. 'Nothing is square,' she complained, 'nothing fits.' Jemma spoke of her interest in photography and teaching.

Letting my eyes wander down the main street with its bottle trees and heritage pubs, it wasn't difficult to slip back in time; to see the spacious street as it was at its peak in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Along this road would have rumbled teams of oxen pulling enormous drays loaded with bales of wool, bound for markets in Brisbane. Bullock wagons, horse teams, camel trains, horse and buggies, and Cobb and Co coaches would have travelled this road.

Along the main street – Cambridge Street – art and history combine in the form of over 200 colourful mosaics: the creation of Jude Roberts. Dotting the pavements and created from hand-cut ceramic tiles, these mosaics illustrate local insects, fish, frogs, birds and animals, as well as historical and pastoral scenes, delightful signposts to Mitchell's past, present and future.

In keeping with the artistic tone, several elegant life-sized kangaroo statues recline on the pavement outside the café, while pebbles set into the concrete footpath create an image of the Maranoa River as it loops and meanders. All these creations and more were designed and put together by local artists and community members ranging in age between six and ninety-six years.

Further down were Lawson's Butchery, Dobbo's Store, the fruit and vegetable shop, pharmacy, baker, newsagent ... Walking past the newsagent I saw the Greyhound coach picking up passengers. This twice-daily service – between Brisbane and Mount Isa – stops off at Charleville, Mitchell, Roma, Toowoomba and many other places along the way.

Shortly after explorer and surveyor Major Thomas Mitchell's optimistic report of the Maranoa region became the talk of squatters and pioneers in Sydney, a steady flow of pastoralists took up the country in and around Mitchell. By the mid-1860s, over 1500 settlers were living on stations in the region. By 1891 the wool industry was well established, with an estimated stockholding of close to 2 million sheep.

While wool prices remained high, graziers were able to withstand the inevitable floods and droughts, dingoes and rabbits, burr and prickly pear. Some farmers tried to grow wheat, but mouse plagues and unreliable rainfall soon put an end to their endeavours. Some switched back to sheep but most moved on to cattle in an attempt to reduce rising costs. These graziers, by reducing labour costs in particular, stood a better chance of remaining viable in a changing world.

Mitchell was a wealthy town with a hotel on almost every corner catering to the needs of stockmen and drovers. There was a blacksmith's shop, boot maker, billiard saloon, watchmaker and barber – even an aerated water and cordial factory making lemonade and ginger beer. Although Mitchell has lost many of these businesses and is nowhere near as crowded as it was in its heyday, the present-day streetscape looks comfortably busy with no vacant shops, and there is a gentle hum of activity around the shopping centre and Mitchell's Great Artesian Spa.

A Turkish bath established in Mitchell in 1873 paved the way for the Artesian Bore Baths of 1918, the Bore Baths for Ladies in 1924, and finally The Great Artesian Spa in 1998 that utilises piped water from the artesian bore. This is one of Australia's largest open-air spas and the centrepiece of the town's tourist facilities.

We visited most of the shops on that first morning, and returned home with the ute fully loaded, satisfied that Mitchell had done well to provide us with the essentials we needed. For the first time in my life, shopping for basics had proved a pleasurable experience. We spoke to generous-hearted, warm people, who told their truth quietly and honestly. Some joked a lot, yet were as straight as they come. We heard about the drought, but also about the local community and its institutions, like the School of Dance and the Mitchell Band. The shopkeepers gave the impression that the exchange of money was of minor importance.

The deliveries began after lunch. First came Rob to deliver and install our washing machine and small two-door fridge and freezer, then another Rob from the hardware, with a wheelbarrow and the netting, wire and gates needed for the building of a secure yard for Del. This was a high priority job, as Sally was intent on taking Del off along the river and all over the neighbourhood.

Until Doug built himself a workbench and shelving in the shed, the spare room became his workshop. A bright blue tarp protected the carpet and on this Doug set out his tools in a maze-like way. I was surprised by the quantity of tools he'd managed to fit in the ute. Even so, he often wanted what was back on Phillip Island.

Able to turn his hand to build or fix anything, Doug always takes pride in his tools, arranging them methodically and keeping them clean, well oiled and greased. Pulling apart and rebuilding old British motorcycles is one of his favourite occupations.

***

I first met Doug when I was a twenty-year-old newly qualified primary schoolteacher with my first teaching appointment in Windsor, inner Melbourne. Doug was just eighteen years old and a first-year electrical engineering student at Melbourne Technical College.

We fell in love at a week-long combined Guide and Scout camp, where we were both leaders. When we met for the first time, at a pre-camp meeting, a spark of incredible intensity flew between us, and I felt an empathy I'd never before experienced. It was love at first sight. We shared a passion for animals (dogs in particular), and the environment, and liked nothing better than hiking in natural surroundings. The fact that Doug was handsome with lots of curly black hair and intense blue eyes was secondary.

When Doug arrived to meet my parents and four young brothers, wearing leathers and riding a noisy black AJS motorcycle that leaked oil, my brothers were impressed but not my parents.

Three years later we married and moved to the Latrobe Valley where Doug worked as an electrical engineer. But Doug was not happy in his career. A year later we bought an old VW van and travelled around Australia for twelve months. It was during this time that we decided we would like to live and work on the land. This way we could work together with animals as well as improve the land in our care by planting trees and controlling erosion.

So began a slow process of buying run-down properties (the first one only 13 acres) in Western Victoria, doing them up, reselling and moving up a step. Meanwhile we learned how to manage properties and livestock, while at the same time both earning an income from teaching – Doug taught secondary school maths and science, and I taught primary school, kindergarten and secondary school literacy.

Our first viable property was on King Island where we owned 2000 acres and ran a commercial sheep flock – also stud Perendale and Poll Dorset sheep. Here, for the first time neither of us needed to work off the property in order to survive financially. It was also here on the island that Doug learned to fly, which was another of his life ambitions. We bought our first aircraft, a Cessna 172, and crossed Bass Strait over one hundred times.

Doug has been incredibly supportive through all the ups and downs of our forty years together. He is my closest friend as well as my husband and lover.

***

As Doug began the construction of Del's yard, I started creating a home from our new purchases and the contents of the boxes Doug unloaded from the ute and caravan.

Sunshine poured through the north-facing windows, of which there were plenty. This is an unusual feature for a Queensland house, but one that attracted me in particular. Here I have sunshine and light in abundance. The kitchen, eating area and lounge and the sunroom all have large north-facing windows – now minus covers, since I'd removed all the curtains. I'll replace them with blinds, I thought, but for the present it doesn't matter.

In the early afternoon of that first day, we carried the cats from the caravan and introduced them to their new home. Siamese cats tend to be more adaptable than moggies and we expected this transition to go smoothly. Nevertheless, we carried them around the house, showing them their litter tray in the store room, their food and water bowls on the kitchen bench, our freshly made-up bed, and lastly a spot reserved especially for them; a place I believed they would love.

Trim set off on his own, stalking about the bare rooms, giving the occasional wail. Katie, on the other hand, licked my neck then settled comfortably on the sheepskin I'd arranged in a small window-box bay window built to hold plants, but much more suited to cats: especially those from Siam. Designed to capture sunshine, this place was heaven to Katie and she purred loudly. A collection of familiar toys completed this window-box setting, with its view over the road to the red gums and river.

That night we slept in our bed for the first time; we meaning Doug, me and the cats. With the night frosty, it was cosy beneath the Doona. Our Siamese are indoor cats, so we call them 'envirocats'. They never go outside. They are birdwatchers not bird killers. Utterly indulged and loved, they are playful and content; a source of comfort and joy. Although the smallest, Katie is 'top dog' in our family, a position she holds firmly and with some pride, it is Trim I consult whenever I need to talk over a problem. I admire his simple wisdom and good cheer.

Over the non-existent fence the next morning I invited neighbour Marg in for a cup of tea. She came that same day, a sprightly, bright-eyed woman.

'I'm a bit nervous with dogs I don't know,' she said, forcing herself to pat our six-month-old German shepherd. 'I need to get to know Del before she gets too big.'

Marg has integrity in abundance and is the backbone of her extended family, the Mitchell Bowling Club and Meals on Wheels. Very soon though, her concern about her two sons and their families came to the fore. Both sons own property south of Mitchell and the current drought was biting hard.

'If they get even one drop of rain, they're on the phone straight away,' said Marg, as a magpie warbled overhead. 'Fortunately that's not the only reason they ring me, because there hasn't been any rain at all for forty-nine days in a row.'

After school, Glen, Sandra and Rob's young son, hopped off his bike at the gate and came in to say hello. Sally, who'd decided we provided more interest than anyone else in Louisa Street, escorted him in as if she owned us and our place. With her cheery affectionate manner this wire-haired Jack Russell terrier was starting to burrow into my heart. But she was a nuisance with Del, who was only too happy to follow her new friend over the road and down to the river to chase wallabies and emus. Until the dog fence and kennel were built, Del was therefore confined to the ute and the house, with regular toilet outings and two long walks every day: along the river and to the showgrounds.

Del was still very much a puppy and loved to run up and down the hall of our new house at high speed, often chasing Trim, who then chased her back. The carpet gave Del good grip but it was a game with an edge: Trim a bit scared of being chased until he dived under our bed, and then Del feeling a little vulnerable and with hackles raised as Trim grabbed hold of her tail, smacking at and nipping her ankles as he chased her back. Del never dared chase Katie. Instead she gave Katie great slurping kisses, which Katie hated.

Toys are a source of great pleasure to Del – and therefore to us. She has a cardboard box full of them, and occasionally even puts them away. Squeaky toys, balls, teddy bears, ropes, old shoes – she has lots, but her favourites are usually things normally discarded, like plastic bottles.

***

The local tip is a goldmine to many, a place where blokes can scrounge scrap metal, lengths of timber, old motors, bits of plumbing and even, in Doug's case, a green enamel vanity basin that he planned to plumb in next to the toilet that currently stood in solitary splendour alongside but not connected to his workshop. This addition would complete the renovations Doug planned for his 'throne'. He needed, he argued, to collect a bank of recycled building materials so he could build benches and shelves in his workshop.

Planting trees and growing vegetables is one of Doug's keen interests. Therefore, on our journey to Mitchell, the floor of the caravan was covered with native trees in pots that Doug had grown from seed – also broccoli, cabbage, spinach and lettuce seedlings ready to plant within the first week of our arrival.

Ever since travelling in Greece and Italy, I've loved olive trees – especially those that are hundreds of years old with their silvery-grey foliage and gnarled trunks and branches. Consequently, I purchased an olive tree from Mitchell Hardware within the first week. After planting, I pruned it carefully, aiming to have a well-shaped specimen tree, a symbol of peace and happiness. The planting of several jade cuttings – taken from my Phillip Island plant – was another of my touches.

According to the ancient Chinese practice of feng shui, the placement of a jade plant at the entrance to a home creates harmony and the flow of good energy. For this reason jade is considered a symbol of good luck, prosperity and friendship. Native to Asia, jade is an easy plant to share because it grows easily from cuttings. Consequently it's often called the friendship plant.

The piece of jade I was planting now, in Mitchell, dates back forty years to cuttings given to me by a special friend. Whenever we've moved, a piece of this jade has come too, so continuing its line. With its small, oval-shaped succulent leaves it's a hardy plant. It had been able to withstand the salt-laden winds of King Island and Phillip Island and I felt sure it would survive in Mitchell and continue creating its flow of harmony and good energy in and around our home.

Sunshine streamed like a spotlight onto the orange and lemon trees, illuminating their bright green foliage and abundant fruit. Taking two buckets from the laundry, I walked across our small piece of green grass and then onto arid earth, crisp underfoot with the short desiccated grasses and weeds that Largey, the Cornishes' horse on agistment in our paddock, was yet to vacuum up.

Once beneath the trees, I snipped the glowing fruit from the branches, using secateurs bought that day from the hardware shop. Never a day went by when we didn't need something from that shop. The buckets filled quickly and were surprisingly heavy. One for the Cornishes and one for us: Marg had trees of her own.

Back at the house I arranged the fruit in four large bowls bought from the op shop. Spread around the bare rooms they tempted the palate, added a touch of colour and freshness, and suggested a place of plenty. A clean citrus aroma soon replaced the smells of a locked-up empty house.

Our back paddock was, however, definitely not a place of plenty. Consequently, Sandra and her dog Kaiser, a blue heeler, came twice daily to feed a slab of hay and some horse ration to Largey, top up his water and put on a rug to protect him against the frost. The Cornishes' hens, also resident in the paddock, were fed mixed grain, given water, and locked up for the night in case of foxes. Sandra kept us supplied with fresh brown eggs, their yolks a rich orange due to the hens' access to fruit and vegetable scraps from two households and the green grass Doug picked and tossed over the fence.

Del learned not to chase chooks; not to be provoked by their flapping wings. But it was a difficult lesson. Kaiser considered Del an intruder. After all, this had been Sandra's parents' property, had been Kaiser's territory alone. Fortunately Del let Kaiser be top dog, but when Sally was around three bitches became one too many.

'They'll work it out,' said Sandra philosophically.

In view of Sally's extreme interest in our stumpy-tailed lizard, and her terrier instinct to kill, a raised pen that was completely Sally-proof became a priority. Using bits and pieces salvaged from the tip, Doug began work and within ten days had produced a new Stego house. I was the interior decorator: a layer of sand, some flat rocks for basking, a bowl of water, a hollow log and a nest of soft dry grasses placed beneath the timber roof of his sleeping quarters. We chose a position for the pen beneath the bull-nosed verandah facing the morning sun, protected and secure against predators.

One morning after an unexpected minus 6°C frost Doug came indoors carrying Stego, his face distraught as he said, 'I think he's dead.'

Our stumpy-tailed lizard was stiff and icy cold – his eyes closed. Using both my hands to hold him I cradled his body, thinking of the twenty years he'd been my friend. Previously Stego lived at a fauna park in central Victoria where he was used to educate children about the habits and care of lizards. Morning sun streamed through the windows, so I sat there bathed in sunshine for ten minutes or so, while sadness and memories overlapped.

'If I hadn't moved him from Phillip Island this wouldn't have happened,' I said. 'He was probably too old to stand the shock of outback frosts, especially after living for so long in a place with no frosts at all.'

Awareness dawned slowly. I felt a faint flutter from his underside then a slight movement, a gradual lifting of eyelids – my Stego had come back to life! Overjoyed, I kept nursing him for about an hour, letting warmth flow from my hands into his body until his circulation and respiration appeared in working order. From that night onwards and all through the winter months, Stego came indoors at night, only returning to his house on the verandah when the sun was shining.

Two doors up Louisa Street live the Small family – Sally's family. One of their four children, Caleb, became a regular visitor to our house, often with the aim of collecting Sally, other times stopping by to play with Del and Stego. Caleb has a sweet innocence combined with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Caleb's mother, Sonia, works as a nurse at the Mitchell Hospital. On an afternoon shift four years previously, Sonia had noticed a lot of scratches on one of her patient's wrists. 'What happened to you?' she asked, thinking of a gardening injury. Lainie Morris lives on an outback cattle property and she laughed as she replied, 'I've got a litter of Jack Russell terrier pups at home and they've got sharp little claws.'

'Mum and Dad piled me and my brothers into the car,' said Caleb, 'but they wouldn't tell us where we were going. When we arrived at the property there were these little puppies, and Mum said we could choose one. They were climbing all over us but one in particular was asking us to choose her – and that's how we got Sally.

'But she's always out chasing things, especially along the river,' Caleb confessed, his face sad, 'and she often brings home rabbit and 'roo legs to eat on the doormat. Mum doesn't like Sally bringing home bits of dead animals! One day Sally chased a big black boar, but after a while it turned around and chased her back, nearly to our house.'

On our afternoon walks we never caught sight of feral pigs, but occasionally we saw where they had rooted about in leaf litter. Our favourite walk was along the riverbank, over the old crossing, up the hill, and through the original Aboriginal reserve known as the Yumba, where we followed an interpretive walking trail lined with coloured stones and often stamped with kangaroo, goanna and echidna prints. In 1968, the Yumba was 'unceremoniously bulldozed' by the Council, ostensibly to improve health outcomes. This forced the Aboriginal residents to move into the township of Mitchell. Many tears were shed. To their credit, Aboriginal people took these events in their stride and were assisted in the purchase of homes and jobs.

Bimble box trees grow along the trail, distinctive with their shiny round leaves. Wind in the bimble box bounces off the foliage in a particular way: a shiny, round, leathery sound. It's as if the leaves are talking to one another; an animated conversation I would love to join in with.

The brightly painted stones are the work of local schoolchildren and are part of the Pathways Together Project. The Mitchell Yumba interpretive trail was created to preserve the culture and history of the Yumba site and surrounds, and to connect the Yumba to the township of Mitchell. The aim is to unit the two cultures, to heal social hurts and move forward together. The Yumba is today a place where Aboriginal people meet for smoking ceremonies, funerals, weddings and other gatherings of cultural and social significance – it is also a place of learning.

Next we walked through the Major Mitchell Caravan Park, where we'd stayed the previous year, and then down the riverbank to the bridge. Reflected firelight flickered in a deep pool, crimson and gold in the dying light of day. Almost invisible in their blackness, a couple of Aboriginal men sat alongside their fire, fishing: quiet, reflective. In the velvety stillness of dusk this was their special place – this river, this waterhole, this sand bar, this campfire.

Walking across the footbridge we said hello to Snow White the egret, who reigns in white splendour in the waters around the bridge, a symbol of the river and its calm. Graceful in body and reflection, this elegant bird stalked amongst rushes turned gold by the dying sun.

The sudden roar of a road train crossing the bridge broke the silence and Snow White took flight. Swooping low, she sailed under the bridge, through the open-air gallery of murals painted on the bridge pylons. A light wind rustled through the feathery heads of rushes, like a faint percussion band. Crazed mud, curled and cracked, looked like a mosaic of black tiles.

I thought of the explorer Major Mitchell who camped here in June 1846 and whose name the town now bears. A butcherbird's song rang out across the riverbed like the notes of a flute. A flock of white cockatoos hovered overhead, and then flapped their wings, cried out raucously and disappeared into the setting sun.

Once across the Maranoa River – only a sad trickle between stagnant pools – we walked up the other side. A warm wind fanned the leaves, stroking the ground as it collected its trophy: bull dust as fine as powder.

But wait. Where was the mulberry tree from last year, the one growing beside the bridge, the one laden with fruit? A dead-looking trunk, with old flood debris caught high in its naked branches was our answer. Saddened by yet another casualty of the prolonged drought, we returned home.

***

A Sunday morning 'water and stock check run' with Rob Cornish gave Doug a taste of outback cattle properties and the countryside in general. With the Cornish stock horses in our back paddock and all their associated snorting, neighing, horsey smells and galloping hooves, we felt a connection to the cattle properties that surround Mitchell.

Rob holds a wealth of local knowledge and experience and is generous in sharing it. The Cornish family own four properties within 40 kilometres of Mitchell – in four different directions. The largest is about 4000 acres. They also have cows and calves on agistment near Roma, grazing sorghum stubble. Consequently, a lot of time is spent on the road, usually in one of a series of battered one-tonne tray utes driven until they are beyond repair.

Always there is hay on the ute, along with Kaiser the heeler. The hay acts as a lure to gather the cattle up close for inspection. Then there are dams, bores and windmills to be checked. Nothing is left to chance.

***

In view of our walks along the river and various gardening activities, a tick search became part of our nightly ritual.

The previous year, while at Mitchell purchasing our house I discovered a tick on my leg, removed it with tweezers and thought nothing further of the incident. After all, it was just a harmless 'roo tick. Three weeks later, however, I developed a rickettsia infection – transmitted by the tick – with a nasty rash, fever, aching joints and dangerously low blood pressure. I'd been in hospital for five days while the bacterial infection was brought under control. Consequently, we were both a bit touchy about ticks and Queensland tick typhus in particular.

One day, after Doug had been cutting back shrubs that had overgrown a path, he felt an irritation on his back, just above the waistline. I had a look and sure enough, in the centre of inflamed marks was a tick.

'Don't scratch anymore,' I ordered, rummaging through the first-aid kit for tweezers. Doug squirmed and winced uncomfortably as I levered the tick out. It had embedded itself deep in his flesh. On the advice of neighbours, I dabbed on antiseptic and gave him an antihistamine tablet.

Although bacteria are the most successful and abundant kingdom of creatures on Earth, ticks rarely carry the bacteria that causes Queensland tick typhus. Nevertheless we watched his bite anxiously for three weeks. It was a relief that nothing happened.

None of the locals seemed to attract and collect ticks like us, and certainly not John 'The Horse Whisperer', a popular town identity who we met most afternoons with his seventeen-year-old horse, named Honey.

John is a small, wiry man who looks like he was born on a horse. Possessing a gift with horses, he's taught Honey all manner of tricks: to lie down on command, roll over, step up onto stumps, let John lie along her back and so on. He rides bareback with a loose rope around Honey's neck. Honey prances proud and muscular, ever attentive to John's voice and hand signals. John never uses a saddle or bridle, and mounts using a tree stump or embankment.

Even though in his late seventies, John drives bulldozers and graders by day – blade ploughing semi-developed grazing country and forming tracks for landholders. At the present time, strict rules apply to the clearing of land in Queensland.

One afternoon we found John lying on the grassy riverbank, with Honey close by cropping the grass. Sunshine captured her coppery sheen. Riverside grazing in the afternoon and grazing vacant house blocks for the rest of the day provides Honey with most of her nutritional requirements. Usually there's a willie wagtail flitting about: landing on her back, pecking in her mane, and hovering over her head in pursuit of tiny insects disturbed by the horse's mouth.

Sucking on a stalk of grass, John murmured, 'One time that wagtail nearly disappeared up one of her nostrils.'

The relationship between horse and man is a finely balanced one: between control and maintaining her free spirit. Honey comes when called in a stern voice, but if John is talking to us, for instance, she only comes if she thinks there is something in it for her, like Doug having a confectionery banana in his pocket – her favourite treat. If she is given sweets too frequently, however, she becomes pushy.

With Del on a lead, we continued our pup's education with horses. Honey merely snorted at her, and shook her long head and ginger mane, indicating in no uncertain terms that she was the boss. Del accepted this, and John stroked our shepherd pup, his eyes warm and kind.

One afternoon John told us of the koalas that used to live in the river red gums along the river. 'The drought has thinned them out. I don't know if there are any left,' he said sadly, and then went on to talk about the many wallabies and emus that haunted the town, desperate for anything green.

Calm and gentle, Honey stood beside John, her long chestnut face resting against his, her velvety muzzle quivering, her breath sweet and musky. This man and horse sing the same tune, think the same thoughts.

With our boundary touching John's at a back corner, Honey is close enough to allow us a view of her climbing up the three back steps of John's house and knocking on the back door with her hoof. On opening the door John gives her an afternoon tea treat of some bread, a carrot or lolly and then says, 'Now be off with you, go back home to your paddock.'

Without halter, bridle or lead, Honey walks with John around the streets of Mitchell – even crossing Cambridge Street on a busy Saturday morning – under perfect voice control. Man and horse are one. But their usual haunt is the Maranoa River. This majestic river encircles the town, holding it together – an island of human activity in the centre of a vast expanse of arid grazing country.

***

Living within a loop of the Maranoa River was like living in the protection of a moat, and I found myself feeling increasingly snug and secure. The feel of an island has always been special to me.

In Mitchell, people don't compete or feel the need to keep up with the Joneses. Perhaps the spacious blocks and wide road easements mean they feel free to do their own thing without interference from neighbours. People mow their grass when they feel like it. There are no mansions here. We are far away from the glitz and high-rise of the coast.

Every day proved yet again that our neighbours are the sort of people who care for and watch out for one another, mingle without being intrusive, yet are helpful and kind. We have four generations living in our street, people who share their lives with dogs and cats, horses, chooks, ducks and turkeys, guinea pigs and pet pythons.

Bottle trees and tall palms stamp the town as 'Outback Australia'. Some of the bottle trees around Mitchell are enormous, but Roma holds the record with one tree measuring 8.9 metres at the girth. With a fibrous trunk, the timber is of no commercial or woodturning value whatsoever. Termites are known to hollow out bottle trees, and in the process create perfect cubby houses for children.

Kangaroos know that to huddle close to bottle trees on a cold winter's night provides welcome warmth. Early pioneers also knew this simple truth, especially seeking those trees hollowed out by termites. The sun shines brightly throughout winter in outback Queensland, the warmth of which penetrates the large bulbous trunks of bottle trees, there to be stored in the fibrous material that contains pockets of air and water. This massive store of solar heat radiates back out of the bottle tree trunk during nights when the temperature frequently drops below zero.

***

All age groups – from young children to the frail and elderly – flock to Mitchell's Great Artesian Spa, with the winter in particular a busy time. Most travellers stay at the Major Mitchell Caravan Park located on the eastern bank of the Maranoa River. Nightly campfires with bush poetry and singing are offered, along with pancake breakfasts and camp-oven dinners. Time-rich travellers often stay longer, use the spa and help support and nourish the economy and vibrancy of the town. Visitors are attracted by the spa, but also by the constant stream of winter sunshine that bathes the town.

Mitchell casts a spell on those who come, especially travellers from cities down south. Large crowded communities tend to blunt people's senses, whereas this spa in this outback town opens up long-lost emotions and sensations. Travellers come out of hibernation, soothed by the spa. The blue sunny days revive spirits, and at night couples rug up and snuggle in.

Piped artesian water spouts into the spa pool; splashing, bubbling, aerating and massaging the backs of tourists as they soak and chat, their conversation like an aviary of parrots.

'Got rid of all me sins,' said a bloke emerging red-faced from the pool. And for some this is exactly how the spa makes them feel. It's a type of baptism.

Aboriginal people have known the value of mineral springs for tens of thousands of years, calling them 'special waters' and appreciating the pools for their healing powers.

The present-day spa complex is designed for easy access by all people, regardless of age or physical ability. These landscaped, billabong-like pools (one hot, the other cool) melt away aches and pains and soothe the soul. Mitchell's artesian water is rich in minerals (especially bicarbonate, sodium, chloride, potassium and magnesium) absorbed from deep within the Earth's core.

Naturally heated to a temperature of 36 to 38°C, this ancient water helps relieve rheumatism, arthritis, muscle spasm, nerve problems, gout, sciatica, spinal problems and insomnia. People suffering these types of problems are encouraged to soak twice daily and drink plenty of artesian water; water filtered through countless layers of sedimentary rocks over many hundreds of thousands of years.

In between soakings, with faces flushed and a lightness of step, travellers stroll along the Maranoa River. Tension melts away, muscles relax, and joints are soothed. So great is the sense of wellbeing that people find it hard to leave. When they do leave though, sunshine lights their smile and stars shine in their eyes.

Most mornings we went to the spa complex to absorb an experience that combined artesian water, freshly brewed coffee and conversation, for this is a place where talk flows freely. Since teenage years (as a child I was very shy) I've always enjoyed talking with strangers – on trains, buses, trams, in shops, doctors' waiting rooms. Wonderful connections and conversations often occur.

Kathy and Michelle help in the Information Centre, souvenir shop and café, and also assist people using the spa pools. Both women are Aboriginal, with warm dark eyes and smiles that light up their faces. The council offers traineeships in a range of trades and some employment opportunities.

Living in Mitchell offered me the opportunity to meet Aboriginal people for the first time in my life, and I welcomed the chance to learn more about their culture, art and traditional practices. Generally speaking, Mitchell is a racially tolerant town where Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal children grow up together and treat one another with respect. Perhaps this originates in the sandy riverbed of the Maranoa, where in the 1800s Aboriginals and Europeans shared the same waterholes. Ours is a shared history; nevertheless, it is one that has also included dispossession and destruction.

My attention swung back to the spa, to the water glittering in the morning sunshine. A little puff of steam rose gently and hovered as a cloud over the bobbing heads of the bathers. The scene was tranquil and so was I.

But all was not sunshine and warmth. Overnight temperatures plummeted and frosts were regular and heavy. One morning in June, the frost was so severe it froze solid the socks hanging on the clothesline. Doug brought them into the house as trophies, yet our German shepherd pup was lying on the white frosted grass chewing a bone. That morning the temperature measured minus 6°C beneath our verandah, but by 10 a.m. the heaters were off, along with sweaters and jackets, and I could walk without angina.

Like a candle in the icy dawn, the topmost fronds of Marg's palm tree were the first to capture rays of early morning sunshine from a cloudless sky. These first rays of sunshine warmed my soul, made me realise that this was where I wanted to be. During winter the days are dry, sunny and still; in marked contrast to Phillip Island's gale force winds and rain squalls. There is no rust in Mitchell and no mould. It is far too dry.

Only 3 inches of rain had fallen in Mitchell over the past twelve months, instead of the more usual 26 inches. A sprinkle of rain – on two occasions in June – scarcely reached the ground. All the trees, shrubs and grasses seemed to be in the process of either dying, or at best hanging on in a stunted and desiccated form. Even watered grass was kept neatly 'cut' – as if by scissors – by repeated heavy frosts.

Some gardeners draped old sheets, quilts, bubble wrap and newspapers over precious plants but most gritted their teeth and hoped for the best.

When we first visited Mitchell in September 2006, we had considered buying a vacant block of land next to a large corner property. While we were inspecting it, an elderly man, Don, wandered over, chatted a while and then invited us in to his large rambling weatherboard home for a cup of tea.

Helen, his wife, welcomed us with a broad smile and soon we were talking about their three sons, and Don's half foot. 'I was out cutting mulga for cattle feed and a trunk fell across my foot, chopping it in half,' said Don matter-of-factly. 'But that's not why I limp,' he continued. 'I've got a crook hip too.'

Now, ten days after arriving in Mitchell, there was a knock on our door. We recognised them immediately: Helen with her mass of white hair and effervescent personality, and Don tall and wiry, and with a limp.

'Welcome to Mitchell! How are you settling in?' asked Helen, giving me a hug as I ushered them in.

Soon we were sharing tea and biscuits and Helen's round happy face was beaming as she said, 'I can't believe it. Your mother is good friends with my cousin Eleanor, who lives in Melbourne. Apparently they walk their dogs in the same park. It was Eleanor who told me you'd arrived!'

Talk drifted to their 77,000-acre family property, south of Mitchell – and the worsening drought. The property has been in Helen's family since 1906 and she was brought up there. Abbieglassie is dear to her heart.

Days later we were pulled over by the police in the main street. It turned quite a few heads, including Don's. My initial reaction, I confess, was one of confused guilt. What had we done? But when a woman in uniform stepped out and came towards us, smiling widely, I relaxed. We'd met Deb the previous year, while standing in a queue to see the vet. Negotiations on our property had been in progress and we had a sick Siamese cat.

In Mitchell you don't make an appointment to see the vet, instead you wait your turn. There was a girl with a horse, an elderly woman with a budgie in a cage, us with a cat, a stockman with a blue heeler, and Deb cradling a four-week old orphaned lamb with a sore leg. Naturally we got talking. It's not every day you have the opportunity to talk to a policewoman nursing a pet lamb, especially someone as vivacious and friendly as Deb.

Friendships with doctors and police can be tricky, especially in small isolated communities. Nevertheless they can also be rich and open up areas previously unexplored. In befriending the local doctor, you have to decide if you can be a friend on one hand, and then have a medical procedure with that same person. To be friends with police you need a clear conscience. Also, you can't be overly sensitive about what people think or say if they see a police car in your driveway, or notice you talking to police in the street.

These factors can and do put some people off being on more than a nodding acquaintance with country doctors and police. They can also leave country police and doctors without friends.

After telling us about the recovery of her lamb, Deb said, 'You'll never guess what I've got now!' Leading us towards the front of the police vehicle, she opened the passenger door, and there, strapped in a seatbelt was a kangaroo joey, cosily tucked up in a woolly bag. 'Tinkerbell's her name,' said Deb softly, fondling the joey's ears. 'She goes everywhere with me, to Amby, Roma ... '

***

Our nearest service town is Roma, a booming mine town with a population of about 7000, located 87 kilometres east of Mitchell. Qantaslink flights connect Roma to the outside world with daily flights to Brisbane.

During our second and third weeks in Mitchell, we made the trip four times in order to purchase things not available locally. It is a car journey of about one hour in an easterly direction, along the Warrego Highway – towards Brisbane and the coast.

On the first shopping spree, our list included a trailer, table and chairs, lounge chairs, office desks and chairs, CD player, large bar heaters, tools and so on. We'd never bought so much stuff in such a short period of time. But it was fun creating a new home from scratch, reminiscent of the days when we set up our first home together. This time though, we had the luxury of more disposable income.

A childhood memory popped into my mind: of home-making when I was a primary school student at Mont Albert Central in Melbourne, where I grew up and was educated. The cypress trees were large and old with canopies so dense that not a single droplet of rain reached beneath their wide spreading branches. By some arrangement I 'owned' an area beneath a tree about the size of a very large caravan. I marked it out into rooms, hallways and a front door using neat piles of cypress needles.

Every playtime I'd run to my house and sweep the dry earth clean of dust and needles, using a branch. So absorbed was I in my nest-building that l avoided more confrontational-type play with my peers. At kinder and primary school I was a shy, self-conscious girl – and a dreamer. I remember picking bunches of golden dandelions and arranging them in pretend vases, much like the platters of lemons I placed around our new home in Mitchell.

In secondary school I graduated to a tree house in a cypress hedge, but I was less shy then and shared it with friends. It was a 'nest', nonetheless, and gave feelings of intimacy and security. At Burwood Teachers College I'd grown beyond tree houses and city life and yearned to live in the country. Unfortunately though, I was given city positions for the first two years following graduation. Finally I achieved my aim, however, and was appointed to a two-teacher school at Buln Buln, in country Victoria, where I boarded on a dairy farm and taught Prep, Grade 1 and Grade 2.

How much is enough? was the question I asked myself frequently throughout those days in Roma. Consciously wanting to live simply with less _stuff_ and less gadgets was a thought pattern I tried to maintain through that day in particular. Nevertheless we seemed to end up with more _stuff_ than intended.

Blessed with the most pedestrian-friendly roads I've ever experienced, walking around Roma is a pleasure. The traffic moves slowly through the town centre and every crossroad gives pedestrians right of way. You only have to look as if you want to cross and the cars and trucks stop; courteous and patient. What a contrast to the traffic conditions experienced along the coastal rim of Australia. Relaxed busyness is the norm in Roma.

After a lot of running around we obtained most of the big items on our list, finally escaping from Woolworths and the Plaza Shopping Centre to Chapters of Roma. Owned and managed by a woman who loves books and good coffee, this is a place to relax.

On leaving, I asked her, 'Is there a shop in Roma where I'll find odds and ends like blinds, coasters, table mats, a teapot and a tea strainer?'

'The Overflow,' she declared, 'that's where you need to go.' After giving me directions she added, 'But please come back and tell me what you think of it.'

'Why, what's special about The Overflow?'

'You just go there and find out for yourself.'

Full of curiosity I walked towards McDowell St and Ace Drapers No. 1 – commonly called The Overflow. It's a corner shop that any intending browser or purchaser enters through a tunnel of cardboard boxes stacked six high, the contents threatening to spill out onto the pavement. The inside of the large building appears to be solid boxes; however, as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, long narrow corridors and shelves appeared. Everything imaginable is packed and stacked within this Aladdin's cave of merchandise.

Following the second corridor on impulse, I almost fell over the shadow of a man stacking yet another layer of smaller boxes. 'Excuse me,' I said, 'do you sell coasters?'

'Sure do. Follow me.' And with those brief words the man disappeared into the maze of narrow pathways. I had to run to keep up with his striding pace.

Bolts of materials spilled colours so bright I blinked in surprise. China teapots, all the colours of the rainbow; stacks of bamboo and roller blinds; cane baskets from miniature to enormous; wooden spoons; check tea towels; frilly laces; rolls and rolls of ribbon, the colours of Derwent pencils; dainty cup and saucer sets with fussy floral designs; millions of pins; thousands of zips; balls of knitting wool reaching right up to the ceiling; rolling pins; tablecloths; patchwork; crochet cottons; buttons by the million; tapestry and embroidery kits – he has them all!

My eyes paused for a rest as I continued my race after the shop owner. Suddenly the man dropped to the floor and began rummaging through boxes. My mind swam with boxes. Finally the man stood erect and exclaimed enthusiastically, 'Here they are. All different styles and designs. Take your time. Take your pick.'

'Thanks,' I replied, pausing for a moment as my eyes scanned the ceiling-high columns of boxes and stacks of materials. 'How do you know where everything is?' I asked him, somewhat in awe. 'What would you do if I wanted that material right at the top?'

'To answer your first question, it's all up here,' replied the man, pointing to his head, 'my own personal computer. To answer your second question, I'd go out the back and get another identical roll. There's plenty more out there.'

After half an hour or so, I made my way back to the makeshift till, where the man added up my many and varied items.

'Be seeing you then,' he said with a smile so bright it lit up the dimness of the shop.

Stepping out onto the pavement, I felt momentarily dazed. I shook myself mentally, rearranged my multitude of bags and backtracked to Chapters as promised to provide enthusiastic feedback, and then across the road to the Woolies car park.

A bright blue Ford ute with roof rack and pod stands out, so it wasn't hard to find Doug. He, meanwhile, had bought a trailer, welder, pipe fittings and lots of other odds and ends I couldn't name. It wasn't long before we were driving slowly down Wyndham Street, with its heritage-listed avenue of bottle trees.

Looking at their broad bulging trunks and quaint shapes, I sighed. Dedicated to the locals who lost their lives in World War I, each bottle tree has a melancholy connection to the grim reality and tragedy of war.

Roma, like so many other country towns across Australia, lost the bulk of its young men. A total of 138 lives lost. The tragedy is still palpable today. Lest We Forget. The squat bottle-shaped trees appear almost humanlike – are living monuments – with the Heroes Avenue consisting of ninety-three narrow-leafed bottle trees ( _Brachychiton rupestre)_ planted from 1918 to the present day.

The narrow-leafed bottle tree is used as cattle feed, especially in times of drought. The leaves, short spindly branches and pithy centre of the trunk are all chopped up and utilised. Bottle tree seeds and the starchy tissue found in stems and roots are traditional foods for Aboriginal people. The roots also yield useful quantities of drinking water. The lacy inner bark can be used as a fibre to make twine, dilly bags and fishing nets.

After three-quarters of an hour on the road, heading towards Mitchell, Doug needed a break, so we stopped for a cup of tea at the tiny town of Amby. An elderly man wandered over clutching an armful of home-grown silverbeet. We got talking and he offered us some. It was the most colourful silverbeet I'd ever seen: bright red stalks and deep green glossy leaves, so fresh the juice was still running. Humbly we accepted his gift and then continued on our way, spirits sky-high.

Sally welcomed us home like long-lost friends: smiling widely and wagging her tail and bottom in apparent ecstasy.

'She's been waiting all day for you to come home,' Marg told us from over the fence.

With a sweetness of soul and gratitude for any little kindness, Sally the free spirit was about as cute and imploring as could be. Increasingly, she spent the days with us, even when her family was at home. But we didn't want a second dog and certainly didn't encourage her.

I refused, though, to be unkind and drew the line at shouting at her to go home. Mostly I tried to ignore her, hoping she would return to her family. Yet she always seemed to be hanging around our place.

A pattern was developing: our place during the day and to her owners for dinner and the night. We could live with that, we decided, and in any case were powerless to stop her. She could get through any and every fence. Sally had become part of life in Mitchell.

After lunch one day, Doug noticed Sally limping up our concrete path. Naturally we went straight out to see what was wrong. She didn't appear to have any broken limbs, but had many cuts and abrasions, clearly felt unwell and was in pain.

We carried her back to her own home, but everyone was out, either at work or at school. So we brought her back to our place, spread a blanket on the path in the sun, and as the sun moved throughout the afternoon, moved the blanket. There was no breeze and it was midwinter, so lying in the sun was where Sally wanted to be. We also offered her small quantities of food and water and as soon as the Small family arrived home, took her back.

'She fell off the back of the trailer when we were going out to collect firewood,' said one of the boys. 'Dad said she'll be okay.'

It took Sally one week to recover her former bounce and energy, with us looking after her throughout the day and her family at night. Every time I did even the smallest thing for her, she looked deep into my eyes with thanks. Never before have I witnessed such gratitude from an animal in need. I felt humbled by the experience.

This event was memorable in that it sealed forever the bond we felt for this very special Jack Russell terrier. Sally expressed emotion in a way I'd never experienced before. Her eyes truly were the mirror of her soul.

It was Caleb who usually came to collect Sally at the end of the day, and it was Caleb who also shared a special bond with Stego. Early one morning a knock at our door revealed our ten-year-old neighbour with a huge grin. Thrusting a large yoghurt container at me, Caleb said, 'I caught them for your lizard. There were lots. After the heavy dew last night.'

Thanking him, I took the container and then looked inside. A squirming mass of snails met my eyes, along with a lot of slime. 'It's too early in the day and too cold to feed Stego now,' I said, 'so I'll put them in the fridge until the day warms up a bit.'

'The fridge?'

'Yes, that'll keep them fresh, cool and calm. Sort of hibernated.'

My young neighbour nodded his head in understanding, conversant with the habits of the lizards and snakes that live in and around Mitchell. Then he was gone, skipping up the road and into his house – Sally's house. Presents come in all shapes and sizes, I thought, amused and touched by Caleb's gift.

Almost every child who visited us wanted to see and then touch Stego. To hold, touch and stroke created a connection between child and reptile, even a touch of tenderness in some of the children. All were astonished to see the cellophane bag I kept in a drawer containing his shed skin, and wanted to feel the scaly skin. Most adults, however, were reluctant to stroke Stego's glistening scales.

Usually I fed Stego by hand. He showed remarkable awareness of the difference between a snail, a piece of banana and my fingers and had only miscalculated on a couple of occasions early in our relationship. When he grabbed food, his jaw was large and powerful in its impact. To be accidentally bitten hurt.

If Stego fed unattended he was like a messy child, ending up with food all over his face and belly. Consequently I had to wash him in the laundry trough, a process he tolerated with reasonably good humour. Stego hates having a sticky face and tummy.

Although the laundry trough was in regular use (for washing clothes as well as Stego), the bath in our main bathroom was seldom used. Consequently, we decided to use it to store a dozen or so organic pumpkins, bought from a local property with water rights from the river. In flavour and texture they were the most delicious pumpkins I'd ever tasted, especially when baked. Every time I went into the bathroom, however, I was startled by the image of the pumpkins sitting in the bath.

I was reminded of the 1985 movie _Cocoon_ , where a group of seniors stumble across alien pods in a swimming pool and are instantly transformed into more youthful beings. The thought came to me that I'd be prepared to sit in a bath containing pumpkins if they would bestow on me a long, healthy and happy life.

***

Affectionately known as happy jacks or squarkers, apostlebirds cheerfully share food, protect one another from harm and care for chicks – as an extended family, in close-knit family groups. One particular family lived in and around our home and we watched them forage, preen, roost and huddle in their communal groups. They were good company, their harsh chattering voices a welcome and happy sound.

Apostlebirds are highly sociable, charming extroverts. These plain-looking grey-brown birds travel in groups of about twelve and for this reason are named after the Biblical apostles – the twelve followers of Jesus Christ.

I watched with pleasure as the birds played childlike games around a palm tree that grew between us and the Cornish family home. This palm wore a long silver skirt that almost touched the ground, while its canopy reached 20 metres into the clear blue sky. The apostlebirds and Sally were similar in many ways: in your face and irresistibly likeable.

Birds teach me to look, listen and find happiness in simple natural things. They tell me a lot about my place in the environment. And in Mitchell, my place was feeling more and more like home.

Chapter 3

July in the Outback

We felt we'd gone back in time. In part, this was due to our decision not to have the phone or Internet connected, not to have a TV, and not to buy national newspapers. Both of us wanted to experience Mitchell with few distractions from outside.

ABC local radio, Radio National, letters, local newspapers and select magazines were our lifeline to the outside world, with a mobile phone for limited use only.

Long winter evenings without television were conducive to reading books, playing Scrabble, letter writing and the riddle of piecing together the flat-pack furniture we'd purchased in Roma. With missing screws and bolts, and with instructions failing to match materials, this process proved a mind-teaser. Eventually though, two office desks and chairs, two swivel lounge chairs, three glass-topped tables, two stools, two bedside tables and one coffee table were assembled – and roller blinds installed on the windows.

With the laptop out of its carry case and sitting resplendent on my desk, my books unpacked and printer and desk lamp plugged in, I felt ready to resume work on my _Cataraqui_ manuscript. Four hundred people died when the emigrant ship _Cataraqui_ was torn apart by jagged rocks on King Island in 1845. My connection to the tragedy was that the location of the wreck was on part of the sheep property we owned in the early 1980s.

I was happy to have my writing place organised in sunny Queensland. Our house was already a home. All it needed was a name.

Soon after arriving in Mitchell, we met Brian, a timber connoisseur and craftsman with a shed stacked with timber in various stages of curing; a treasure trove of timbers. Brian goes bush often, always with the purpose of collecting timber suitable for wood turning. Mulga, gidyea, desert oak, ironwood, brigalow, white cypress pine, bloodwood, sandalwood, leopard wood, coolibah, beefwood, ghost gum – Brian is an expert on the timbers of this arid region. He lives and breathes the desert timbers of outback Queensland. Brian knows timber with the tang of sap still speaking of trees.

I hadn't heard of burls before, but I saw them now, recognising them as the large wart-like growths found on tree trunks. Their unique grain is formed by excretions from the tree trunk, usually as a result of injury. Within Brian's immaculate workshop I saw a burl's transformation into decorative clock faces, pen blanks and small carved signs.

Beautiful as they were, a burl would be too small for the house sign we had in mind. Instead we selected a slab of beefwood: a hard, dense desert timber of the region with an attractive grain and colour. I was surprised to learn that the tree was of the _Grevillea_ genus _(Grevillea striata)._ Doug gave Brian a piece of paper on which was printed the words and layout we envisaged:

Welcome To

The Bering Sea

Two days later Brian arrived at our doorstep with the piece of engraved beefwood. A position beside the front door was chosen, and the sign duly hung. It blended in with the nautical-style portholes of the front door, and looked great; but still Brian didn't ask the question, why the name?

I'd begun to notice two things in particular about the people of Mitchell. They didn't ask many questions and they rarely spoke ill of anyone. But that didn't mean they lacked curiosity, so I volunteered, 'We live next door to a muttonbird rookery at Phillip Island and every year the muttonbirds leave at the end of April and fly to the Bering Sea, near Alaska. They return to the island in late September. We migrate for the winter too. Mitchell is our Bering Sea.'

This was the first of many explanations. Some people understood; others did not. Everyone, however, understood the word 'Welcome'.

An outlet for Brian's creations – as well as those of his wife and many other people in Mitchell and the district – is Maranoa Arts Gateway. This is a community outlet where people display and sell their arts and crafts, on a commission basis. The shop is staffed by volunteers.

Having a go is very much part of Maranoa Arts Gateway. Located in a single shop front on Cambridge Street, MAG is ideally positioned for people to drop in – and they do. With a seven-year drought haunting this arid region, every opportunity to escape into laughter and creativity needed to be cultivated.

***

The arts are alive and well in Mitchell, but the most astonishing thing about the Queensland Arts Council's production of _Me and Jezebel_ was the way the women of Mitchell dressed for the occasion. Poppy's Boutique, displays a generous stock of slinky evening wear, fashionable jewellery and high-heeled shoes. When I first gazed through the boutique's window, I thought that Mitchell didn't look like the sort of place where this type of clothing would sell. How wrong I was.

Now, looking at the women attending the show, I saw daring evening gowns, stilettos, exotic jewellery, painted nails and hair styled by our local hairdresser. Young and not so young, they all looked radiant, with partners neat and casually dressed. Many of the people living here are tertiary educated and financially well off; they just don't feel the need to display it – except for this particular night where dressing up seemed a sport.

The multi-layered performance – centred on an amusing incident in the Hollywood actress Bette Davis's life – stimulated talk throughout the supper break and beyond as the crowd dispersed from the spacious hall. Some families from cattle properties had travelled more than three hours along rough dirt roads to enjoy the comedy, and share supper and conversation centred on the performing arts.

***

In July, no rain fell, and there were twelve frosts in a row. El Niño's dry air, dry soil and frost sequences were in full force. Needing a warm jacket, I went to Samios Trading, a store located next to the café. The owner, Kent, is a generous man in every sense. He has a keen, enquiring mind.

'I sell anything and everything that no one else in Mitchell stocks,' said Kent, with a big grin. 'From bullets to ballet shoes, from stockings to steel.'

One of Kent's many duties around town is to act as a Justice of the Peace. Another is to measure the height of the river at the bridge whenever it rises over 1 metre. But with the current drought there was, of course, nothing to record. Located on one of the bridge pylons, the scale goes to 8 metres at bridge level.

Kent has a way with teenagers in particular – especially those experiencing difficulties – and his value as a mentor and friend are obvious the minute you step into his shop and wander over to sit on one of the chairs he offers. This particular week was school holidays, and rather than see kids at a loose end, Kent offered anyone willing and able the opportunity to help in his store. A couple of students took up his offer.

Wandering around the store I saw horse riding gear, shooter's equipment, work and school clothing, beds and mattresses, dance costumes – and a navy and red jacket that fitted perfectly.

***

As time went by, and we got to know more locals and property owners, having coffee at the café in Cambridge Street on the Warrego Highway became more and more enjoyable. The café is the place to meet local people, have conversations and learn what goes on in Mitchell: warts and all. Meanwhile on the highway a steady stream of traffic passes by, linking Darwin and Mount Isa to Brisbane.

Smiling, slim and attractive with a warm sunny personality Janelle welcomes each and every person to the café, as if into her own home. She has that knack. Consequently, many people choose the café as a place in which to celebrate their special occasions. Janelle offers extras such as fresh flowers on the tables and serves her guests with warmth and grace.

With the global resources boom in full swing, a lot of mining traffic is heading out west. But there is also a labour and skills drain from local communities like Mitchell. As convoys of mining trucks rumbled past, loaded with equipment, conversation inevitably turned to the plight of local tradespeople who needed apprentices yet were unable to match the hefty pay packets offered by mining companies in the south-west corner of the state. Driving a big rig was more appealing to young blokes than being an apprentice plumber.

From Roma, mining companies fly men out to the oil rigs where they work two weeks on, one week off. Drilling and exploration for coal, oil and gas has a seductive lure to young workers looking for a bit of adventure as well as highly paid jobs.

When Major Thomas Mitchell camped beside the Maranoa River in June 1846 during his epic trek to find and map an overload route between Sydney and Darwin, you certainly couldn't buy a skinny cappuccino in Mitchell. Over 160 years later, though, I found myself at the café sipping coffee on a sparkling winter's morning, soaking up the balmy warmth spilling from a cloudless sky. Today you _can_ buy that skinny cappuccino, as well as one of Janelle's delicious home-made pies or sausage rolls.

Sometimes, as I sat at the café, I let my mind wander back to the late 1800s, to a time before road trains and the railway. In my reverie I heard the sound of cracking whips, saw bullock teams hauling timber and stone through town, saw wagons laden with provisions for the new settlers. It was usually the roar of a road train, however, that jerked me back to the present.

Rumours that a group of surveyors was staying in Mitchell for a pipeline survey brought forth all manner of speculation about coal gas and future development. What type of pipeline would be laid and where? Was it for coal gas or oil?

People are in and out of the café all the time: police, shopkeepers, teenagers, ambulance officers, kids, council workers, parents and older people, buying home-made pies and sausage rolls, scones, cakes and coffee. Going for coffee at the café guarantees a succession of unique encounters – almost like a lucky dip – lively conversation and plenty of laughter.

The café is also the place to meet adventurous, colourful travellers, such as The Ferret; ex-truckie turned bush poet and writer. We shared a table with this stocky, suntanned man out in the sunshine, sitting alongside life-sized kangaroo statues. To a backdrop of pink petunias, The Ferret entertained us with his verses, readings and dramatic hand gestures.

At one point he paused, mid-sentence, as a road train passed, vibrating the pavement. Loaded with Brahman cattle it thundered by, heading towards the Roma saleyards. A hush fell over our table. The air hung heavy with the smell of dung, a reminder of the days when Doug and I bred cattle. I shook my head. Smells trigger powerful memories and emotions. My eyes caught flashes of sleek, creamy hides, long Brahman ears and eyes peering through cracks; anxious, fearful. When the trucks were heading west towards the Channel Country, where millions of acres of grassland were waiting to be grazed, I didn't feel this bad. But I did now.

Yet I eat meat, I thought, and we were once part of the industry; former breeders of prime lambs, vealers and steers. 'That's life,' The Ferret said philosophically, adjusting his well-worn cloth hat before bursting into another story.

Indoors in the café, Janelle has two large aquariums. One contains fish and the other yabbies so relaxed they breed successfully. There are budgies in a cage, chattering cheerfully, and many flourishing indoor plants. Janelle's golden cocker spaniel, Mitch, behaves like a true gentleman, never putting one paw in the kitchen area.

Blended into this modern café are reminders of a past world: a painted tin rocking horse and a 1926 Singer treadle sewing machine, faded bread crocks and kerosene lanterns, ornate crockery and old bottles, a Brownie box camera, cut-throat razor, shearing combs and cutters, flat irons and even a wind-up gramophone.

An old wood stove throws out bone-warming heat from logs of red gum glowing red within the firebox. The handcrafted Queensland beefwood cubicles and tables were built by Dennis, Janelle's partner.

Out the back, Janelle showed me her garden created in and around a magnificent old deciduous tree, while Dennis showed Doug his workshop. This gave Doug extra incentive to move his tools from the spare room to his own workshop and shed complex, which now included racks to store his growing collection of timber and steel. Doug is a determined advocate of the recycle and reuse philosophy.

***

I have to confess I held no great expectations of the Mitchell Library. I assumed the service would be inferior in outback Queensland compared to 'down south'. I was in for a pleasant surprise. Glenda, the librarian, has created a space where people love to be.

The children's corner is a place where kids can sit quietly with a book and think, feel and as a result see the world a little differently. Maybe even laugh. The main library has spacious bookshelves and a surprising diversity of books. In another cosy corner, there's an inviting place for adults to sit and read the newspapers.

Before long, Glenda became a regular guest to our home, her stimulating conversation about books, writing and art a delight. As the weeks slipped by and she became aware of our interests – as well as my research needs – I found her 'feeding' me a veritable feast of books and articles. Glenda knows the tastes and interests of her community so intimately that she orders in books for individuals, presenting them as surprise gifts of the mind. I realised that this collection of books and information was proving to be the best I'd ever used, thanks to Glenda and her expertise, as well as the Queensland library system.

Notable too, was my observation that 'problem' children were coming to the library of their own free will. Glenda creates a non-threatening environment for these children, and gives them tasks that improve their self-esteem and skills. With a team of volunteers to help, the children's area in particular is full of interest and colour.

As babies seem to be fashionable in and around this small outback town – with 244 children under the age of five – every volunteer is welcome to participate in early childhood development. Monthly storytelling mornings for the under-fives are a feature of the library with original and favourite stories also offering opportunities for art and craft activities. Glenda and her volunteer helper, Barb make each of these mornings a memorable experience with puppets a fun addition. A Border collie puppet named Collette (worked by Doug) contributes to the storytelling mornings. Collette has a wicked sense of humour.

Previously the Mitchell Picture Theatre, the building itself is old and large with an unusual sense of light and space. The front part is the library, with the back dedicated as the Maranoa Gallery, movie projection room and an outdoor artists' workplace and sculpture garden. The library hums with that special energy which accumulates around collections of books, art and places of learning. It is a vibrant place, and for me, the heart of town; like a hive storing honey, a rich repository of knowledge and creativity.

Situated alongside the library, the Nalingu Contemporary Indigenous Art Gallery houses a valuable collection of art works and memories. In 2008, an Indigenous art exhibition was held at the Maranoa Gallery in the library building. This exhibition displayed contemporary and traditional forms of artistic expression using mixed media. It was dramatic and moving, especially as it marked a special celebration – _Coming Home to the Yumba: 1968–2008 –_ a cultural weekend of dancing, music, singing, bush tucker and street marching. The Yumba was brought back to life.

***

Due to repeated heavy frosts and prolonged drought, colour in people's gardens was a rare sight, so when I noticed a fabulous display of rose blooms three doors up from our place I was surprised. It wasn't until I met Carol, however, that I realised both her deception and her keen sense of humour. Riding by on her electric bicycle one day, she stopped to introduce herself. It was then that I discovered she belonged to the plastic roses, and that she and Rod had just returned home after travelling for several months in their motor home.

Carol and Rod live with their two little dogs: Wally the Wonder Dog, an elderly white Chihuahua, and Katie, a white Maltese terrier. A mutual love of dogs was our first topic of conversation, and from that point we found we had lots of differences, but also a lot in common. Carol is an active volunteer in the local op shop, and is happiest when cooking, caring for her poultry, and when involved in her various arts and crafts. She is also a born actress and great company.

Rod's pride and joy is a grey Ford Zephyr ute in immaculate condition, which he drives around town. He is also an enthusiast of early 1950s vintage cars, grows vegetables and works to improve their property. Leatherwork is another of Rod's skills, with one of his regular customers a retired drover everyone calls Cowboy Frank. Wearing fancy leather boots and hat, and carrying a bucket of hides and cow bells, Cowboy Frank frequently drops off work for Rod.

On arrival in Mitchell I bought a sugar bowl from the op shop, filled it with white sugar, put in a spoon and there it remained in the pantry, untouched, for well over a month. No one who'd come to our home had taken sugar in their tea or coffee. The first of many cups of tea we shared with Carol and Rod was at our place and Carol was the first to take sugar. Concentrating on what she was saying, she clasped her fingers around the spoon and lifted. The whole sugar bowl rose into the air.

'Is this a joke or something?' she asked, as we all burst out laughing. 'Have you glued it in?' In fact, the air was so dry that the sugar had set solid around the spoon. A screw-top jar was a better idea for seldom-used white sugar, so that's what I did.

Perhaps the dryness of the air lures people into the soft artesian water of the spa. Whatever the reason, people find the experience irresistible and there are usually ten or so people in the spa. Magically all social, racial and educational barriers melt away: into the bubbles and froth, into the surrounds of tropical greenery. Conversation and laughter rise and fall like gently lapping waves. Emerging from the water, faces look serene.

Later that week we drove to Fishermen's Rest for a barbecue lunch. This particular section of the Maranoa River – a few kilometres west of Mitchell – is banked up due to the construction of the Neil Turner Weir. Its charm reminds me of how the Murray River used to be, with majestic river red gums in a natural park-like setting.

Pelicans glided by, appetites as satisfied as ours. A cormorant emerged from the river so waterlogged it couldn't fly. Looking very much like a relative of the prehistoric archaeopteryx, it waved its sodden wings then clumsily flapped its way up a river gum branch into the sunshine. As it made its ascent, it appeared all beak, bone and claws: so reptilian, so ancient.

Close by, I saw bark scribbled with the artistic creations of termites and borers. Large black butterflies fluttered by, their white markings lit by sunshine; a red dragonfly hovered; blue wrens busied themselves in the rustling reeds; a wispy curl of smoke from our campfire drifted beyond the treetops. All was calm and still.

'Can you believe it,' said Doug, grabbing the binoculars, 'those emus are swimming across the river.' And sure enough, they were. Not only did they swim across, the whole flock of about fifteen birds swam back an hour or so later. Why did they swim to the other side, I wondered, only to return later on?

The words of Aboriginal elder Lynette Nixon came to mind. She told me about her totem, the emu and then said, 'I have many aunties, uncles, cousins, grandfathers, grandmothers, sisters, brothers and many mothers and fathers and all belong to one family but also belong to an animal given to us in the Dreaming.'

Lynette explained how it is their duty to look after that animal. 'We must protect it. The law says we must not eat our animal. If we see anyone else eating our animal we must not look and we must cry when it dies. We should learn all the dances, stories and songs that belong to the animal.'

Before we left, I walked up the river a little way and found a mystery bag (like a hanging basket) suspended at shoulder height from a spindly mulga branch. Woven from spinifex grasses, it looked like a cocoon. In several places the bag had burst to reveal a packing of small dry sawdust-like balls. Later I discovered the hanging basket was a caterpillar's nest.

***

On the last Sunday in July, Doug took up Don and Helen's invitation to have a look around their family property, Abbieglassie, located about 110 kilometres down the Bollon Road south of Mitchell.

In the afternoon I took Del for a solitary walk along the river to see Snow White the egret, and have a look at the two bridges. Before leaving I glanced at the washing on the line and decided against bringing it in. Gradually, my southern pattern of thinking – in relation to weather and washing – was changing. I'd stopped looking at the sky, expecting rain. I'd stopped thinking the washing would be damp at 3.30 p.m. and need to be finished off inside. I'd stopped wondering which day would be the best for washing. Every day was fine and dry. Doug had even stopped expecting things to grow mould and rust.

It wasn't cold, nor was it windy. On doctor's orders I carried heart medication whenever I left the house, but now I was living in Mitchell I rarely needed it. I did continue to carry it though, and also to take a daily dose of slow-release, anti-angina medication.

A willie wagtail escorted me to the river, swooping about cheekily until we reached the riverbank, where it departed. Parrots sidled along branches, chattering and whistling: watching me sideways, ever cautious. Sulphur-crested cockatoos took over the watch, raising their sunny crests in slight alarm when they saw Del. A raucous shriek and they were off. A wallaby looked around nervously and then leapt away in an erratic fashion – but Del was safely on a lead. Through speckled light and shade I wandered.

Without human company, I tend to swing between being totally absorbed in the environment around me, and thinking deep and sometimes painful thoughts. Every now and then I pull myself up, letting my mind float in the moment, but thoughts tend to intrude, especially on subjects like kangaroos.

In a cloud of dust a white one-tonne four-wheel drive tray truck, skirted with ochre dust, passed by. It was easily recognisable as a 'roo shooters' outfit by its hefty bull bar, stainless steel tray and hanger for up to fifty carcasses. I saw rifle racks and two large rangy dogs on the back. Returning the men's wave, I was aware that theirs would be a grizzly task as they worked through the night.

The carcasses would be gutted and tagged, minus the animals' heads and with their legs cut off at the knees. Licences and strict quotas control the culling of kangaroos for commercial harvesting, and with more than 1200 professional kangaroo harvesters working in the Maranoa region, the kangaroo meat industry is an important one.

Of course, there are land management and conservation issues – as well as animal welfare concerns – to take into consideration. Commercial kangaroo shooters almost always shoot a bullet that guarantees the animal instant death: in the head or the top of the neck. Nevertheless, the industry is one that is targeted by animal rights activists, and also has to address hygiene and sustainability issues.

Game chillers (which look like white shipping containers on metal legs) are dotted around the outskirts of Mitchell. I was astonished to learn that Australia exports kangaroo meat to forty-eight countries, with Russia our largest customer. Without antibiotics, hormones or pesticides, free-range game meats have keen local and international demand, especially as kangaroo meat and smallgoods are naturally low in fat and cholesterol.

The number of 'roos killed by cars and trucks on the road, and the huge numbers dying of starvation and thirst upset me greatly. In my mind, a bullet was preferable to being hit on the road or suffering a slow lingering death due to starvation. Therefore, I reasoned, the sustainable harvesting of kangaroos for meat and leather seemed acceptable; particularly if I took emotion out of the subject.

Many argue – and I agree – that the sustainable harvesting of free-ranging kangaroos for meat and skins is often preferable to the way in which sheep and cattle are managed, with mustering, yarding, road transport and abattoir stresses causing significant animal rights issues. Hard-hoofed animals like sheep and cattle cause erosion in the fragile semi-arid and arid regions of Australia, whereas kangaroos have softer feet with less impact.

I sighed deeply, thinking of the irony of me (and countless other wildlife carers) rearing orphaned joeys when hundreds of thousands were culled. I had loved and nurtured those joeys, I thought sadly, as I continued my way up the river. There was no simple black-and-white answer to the problem of too many kangaroos in certain areas.

Always on my walks I said hello to Snow White the egret because always I found her at this particular place on the river. Sometimes I imagined that she waited for my daily visit, and that she greeted me as warmly as I greeted her. More and more I was feeling an affinity with this elegant yet solitary bird of the river.

Standing on a river snag, she arched her neck and stretched her long bill to full-length before diving. In a flash of white and silver she emerged with a writhing fish. Flying low over the muddy water, with the silver fish wedged in her bill she reached the other side and landed gracefully on a sand bar. There she manoeuvred the fish so that it slipped down her long neck, bulging its way down to her stomach. Satisfied, she performed a ballet stretch, flapped her wings lazily and then took off, landing just a little downstream.

Pausing beneath the road bridge, I admired the ten murals sprayed on the thick concrete pylons holding up the bridge. One particular mural grabbed my attention: a Major Mitchell cockatoo with its pink and white body and large crest of red and yellow bands. Named the Sir Thomas Mitchell Bridge, this was the first road bridge to cross the Maranoa. It opened for traffic in 1957. Transport between Roma and Charleville would no longer be held up by the floodwaters of the Maranoa.

A road train passed overhead, thundering, its vibration felt in every cell of my body. Some road trains are up to 53 metres long. They carry all manner of things: timber, fuel, cars, house removal trailers, big machinery and livestock. Smelling an aroma of animal dung, I wondered whether this road train was carrying cattle, sheep, goats, camels or pigs. Del was as unaffected by the assaults of noise, smell and sensation as she was by thunder and lightning – and for this I thanked her breeder.

Midway along the footbridge I paused. The river spread out in front of me, tranquil with river red gums mirrored on its surface. I gazed up the river, letting my mind slip into neutral: aware, yet drifting and floating. I felt at peace in the calm; felt the pulse of the river, and the rhythm of life around me.

After a few minutes I continued on up the river to the railway bridge, a three-span construction that extends almost 210 metres with concrete piers and timber approaches. This was the first bridge to cross the Maranoa River and opened for passenger rail travel in January 1885.

The coming of the railway to Mitchell revolutionised the transport of livestock, water, wool, animal fodder, general freight, coal, passengers and the mail. Until 1960, steam locomotives serviced the line, with Mitchell an important rail head for passengers and produce. This brought prosperity to the town and district.

Nowadays, Queensland Rail's _Westlander_ (a diesel train) offers a twice-weekly service, linking Charleville to Brisbane, stopping off at Mitchell. You can catch a train in Mitchell in the late evening and arrive in Brisbane the next morning, with a sleeper making the 560-kilometre journey a pleasant form of travel. Another fun experience is to catch the train to Charleville for the day, and check out the base for the Royal Flying Doctor Service and the School of the Air.

My walk had taken some time, especially since I'd lingered in so many places. With Del tugging on the lead, I turned in the growing darkness and headed for home. But it was a gentle darkness, almost without fear.

The path was overhung with the heavy branches of river red gums. A thump nearby, and Del strained on her lead, ears pricked, nostrils twitching. Sensing a dog, the wallaby moved towards the sandy riverbed. Overhead an owl hooted. Tiny bats swooped about in the treetops seeking nectar and insects.

I hoped there were no death adders lying amongst the leaf litter on the pathway, and was glad of my jeans and sturdy sneakers. The bush, the river: it could be a scary combination but it wasn't. Instead I felt my senses heightened and a delicious surge of independence and aloneness. Up ahead I saw the glow of street lights and made my way towards Louisa Street and home. Sally was waiting for us.

Heavily coated in the red dust of the land, and streaked with lines of sweat, Doug returned home well after dark. Subdued, he recounted his experiences of the day. On the gravel section of the Bollon Road, Don and Helen's four-wheel drive had hit and killed a 'roo, but its joey had floundered into the scrub with a badly broken hind leg. Doug put it out of its misery with a length of metal pipe kept for this purpose behind the back seat. The incident upset everyone in the vehicle.

Doug described Abbieglassie, with its picturesque homestead and lawns, large shady trees and nearby creek. The kitchen area of the homestead features thick mud brick walls and small windows. An adjoining building, connected by a walkway, opens up into a living area and bedrooms.

A gnarled jasmine (planted by Helen's grandmother in 1906) clings to the trellised verandah, along with cat's claw creeper. Shaded by these vines, the large outside eating area offers a pleasant retreat when the temperature soars. Don and Helen's son and his family took over the property many years ago, but Doug could tell that Don and Helen's hearts were still here at Abbieglassie.

'See the koalas?' said Helen, pointing up into some large eucalypts, 'and look, here are the pets coming to greet us!' Several full-grown merino sheep ambled over to be patted. Helen bent over to stroke their long fine fleeces, her own mass of smooth white hair falling about her face.

'I spent all my childhood here, until I went to boarding school,' she told Doug. 'I've ridden my horse over every one of these 77,000 acres. I love the place, but I hate seeing it looking like this. Just look at those poor kangaroos.'

Between the homestead and the creek was an open plain almost completely devoid of anything edible. Dirt and the occasional eaten-down stump of grass was all that Doug could see: except for several hundred emaciated 'roos trying desperately to get a feed. The mob of grey kangaroos had congregated in this area because of a deep waterhole in the creek that has only once in the history of the property gone dry. It is here at the waterhole that a bunyip is said to live, a scary story aimed to keep young children away and safe from drowning.

'When we had a run of good seasons,' said Don, 'this property ran up to 20,000 sheep.'

'Now,' continued Helen, 'there's only 1000 sheep and 60 cattle left, and you have to wonder for how long. Look, that's where the tennis court used to be – and those wide-branching pepperinas. Goodness knows how old they are.'

Brahman-cross heifers grazed what was left of the scrub. A flock of young merino ewes, on the other hand, were fed cottonseed. Reasonably priced and readily available in Queensland, this by-product of the cotton industry is high in protein. It looks like dirty cotton wool.

Driving past the station hand's cottage, Doug saw a large modern shearing shed, extensive sheep yards and large steel cattle yards. Numerous waterholes dotted the property; deep, with catchments aimed to trap any and every drop of rain that fell.

In spite of the drought, the dams retained a remarkable amount of water; however, they were steep-sided and muddy at the water line. On several occasions throughout that day, Doug helped pull dead and near-dead sheep and cattle out of waterholes. The animals had sunk down in the mud and couldn't lift up their feet because they were so weak. The waterholes became a death trap. Pulling them out was a grisly task.

Doug had been chief gate-opener, and there had been many. But at least it let him stretch his limbs after bouncing and bumping around on rough tracks in a four-wheel drive for hours on end. Rough heavily timbered country, bone-dry creek beds, silver-grey mulga stripped of its bark and leaves, and denuded plains – the drought was not a pretty sight. On the other hand, Doug heard about the 1933 flood when Abbieglassie was surrounded by water and over one hundred cattle were swept away.

And then there were the anecdotes about Vance Palmer – one of Australia's best-known literary figures from the 1920s to the 1950s – who was employed at Abbieglassie in 1909 and 1910, firstly as a children's tutor and then later as manager and bookkeeper.

An Aboriginal population of about eighty people lived in and around the cattle station and Vance, keen to learn about their spiritual connection to the land, their unique lifestyle, art and culture, was invited to listen to and watch many of their corroborees. It was here at Abbieglassie that Vance developed a love of the outback, and a deeper understanding of black–white relations.

As a writer, this authentic bush experience was, of course, an important source of inspiration for his future novels, short stories, articles and other works. _Cronulla_ , his first literary novel, is a story of station life based loosely on Abbieglassie.

Although Vance had lived and worked in Brisbane, Melbourne and London, he wrote in a letter to Nettie Higgins (his future wife), 'I never was in an environment where I know so many people.' One hundred years later his statement rings true to me. Since living in Mitchell I too have never known so many people.

For Vance, life 'west of the sun' in the 'back of beyond' was an almost continual round of social occasions such as the annual picnic race meeting and ball held at Abbieglassie where the 'dining-room made a splendid ballroom' and a large marquee was erected in the grounds for the occasion.

Several recently restored graves at Abbieglassie record a grim side to the history of the area. They are well fenced, with plaques recording details. A stockman, a drover and other unknown people: all perished here and were buried in this arid place.

'The only things surviving out there are blowflies and ants,' said Doug, 'and a few eagles, crows and goannas. Surprisingly, the wattles have produced masses of seed, so the cockatoos are feasting. Perhaps the trees sense they're dying and are making one last massive effort to reproduce and so save their genes.'

Vance Palmer, in contrast, experienced the Maranoa region after flooding rains. 'Incredible,' I said, my mind slipping back one hundred years, 'that when Vance visited Abbieglassie the grass was so high you could tie it above the horse's shoulders.'

We stayed up late that night, talking over the events of the day.

'I felt sorry for Don and Helen,' said Doug. 'They hadn't been to the property for quite a while, so it was a shock for them to see how bad the drought had become. They kept saying, "You'll have to come and see Abbieglassie when the drought breaks." '

'If it breaks,' I added.

***

After Doug's experience, we looked with new eyes at the parched, denuded countryside and wondered if it would rain – in significant amounts – ever again. Was this part of the world destined to remain in the cruel grip of perpetual drought, through the effects of global warming and climate change?

But drought wasn't the only subject of conversation. Council amalgamation and the caravan park were hot topics too. The small meeting hall was bursting at the seams: with bodies and outrage. Anger had galvanised into action.

It was 6.30 p.m., the night bitterly cold and the meeting organised with only one day's notice. The organisers (Booringa Action Group: BAG) knew they'd tapped into the passion and anger of the town, but failed to realise the number of people who cared enough to attend. Residents aged from their teens to their eighties came from far and wide, and tourists from the caravan park came as well.

Arriving ten minutes early didn't guarantee us a seat. Doug stood at the back, while many others crowded around the sides – some even spilling out through the door. Teenagers sat or squatted on the timber floor.

The meeting was chaired by the vice-president, Rob Cornish, who handled the crowd and its outbursts as skilfully as he mustered mobs of outback cattle: allowing the expression of feelings then reining them in after they'd had a run. The first item on the agenda was the Major Mitchell Caravan Park. A crisis situation had developed at the park because of a disagreement between the managers – Jeanette and David – and the council.

The Major Mitchell Caravan Park is known all over Australia as a brilliantly managed, friendly park where warmth and generosity of spirit shines strong and bright. It sets the tone for the town, welcoming visitors from all over the world.

'We can't let Jeanette and David go like this,' said a big man up the back, 'they're a huge asset to the town. We need people of their integrity and skill.'

Travellers from the caravan park expressed in emotional terms their appreciation of David's campfires where he sang bush ballads, played the guitar and recited bush poetry, also of the couple's contribution to local charities, through events such as pancake breakfasts. The meeting appointed two people to talk over the matter with the council, and two others to view the situation from David and Jeanette's point of view.

'If we find there's room to negotiate,' said Rob, 'we could ask our policewoman Deb to mediate between the two parties and hopefully resolve the issue.' It seemed this was the best the meeting could achieve.

The next item on the agenda was amalgamation.

Only days before, we'd heard the announcement that the State Labor Government would force small councils across Queensland to amalgamate with neighbouring councils, to form supercouncils. A sense of outrage had spread like wildfire throughout Queensland.

'It's not about numbers,' people said, 'it's about communities and knowing people and their needs.'

The depth of concern was palpable as comments, statements, ideas, accusations, concerns, arguments and suggestions flowed loud and clear around the packed meeting room – fuelled by sparks of emotion.

'We've been walked over by the Beattie Government,' said one man. 'They talked about consultation then took no notice of what we said. Mitchell will be swallowed up by Roma. What about our council jobs? We'll be milked of our assets and services. We'll end up a cash cow for Roma. Mitchell will lose its identity. We don't want to be part of Roma; we're separate and complete in ourselves.'

'It's no use whingeing,' said another, 'it's just a bloody waste of energy.'

'The amalgamation's a reality,' said a small woman leaning against the door. 'We can't change it. We've got to work together to get the best possible deal for Mitchell.'

'Build on what we're good at, like the accounts department and the works depot.'

'I suggest we form a committee,' said a young man who looked as if he was from a property, 'to voice our concerns to the mayor, CEO and members of the council.'

As names and telephone numbers shot back and forth, a young man grinned when asked for his phone number and replied, 'Just ring Telstra and ask for God.' Only later did I learn that this man was the local identity Pop, of Pop's Smash Repairs.

'We must build community strength and make positive plans,' said a woman with short dark hair. 'Perhaps we could organise a dinner with a motivational guest speaker, and hold a workshop the following day? Formulate a way forward for Mitchell and district. Help motivate the community towards creating its own future.'

Focused and galvanised into a plan of action, the meeting disbursed into the near-freezing night air.

Amalgamation issues were not new to us. We'd seen it happen in 1994 when Premier Jeff Kennett forced small councils across Victoria to amalgamate with neighbouring councils. Phillip Island – forced to merge with the mainland to form Bass Coast Council – still smouldered with strong feelings of resentment and loss. But we believed that Mitchell was different: that Mitchell, being a stronger community, could rise above the current amalgamation difficulties to become anything it chose to be. Such was our faith in the people of this unique outback region.

After the meeting and in spite of the drought, the magic of our second full moon at Mitchell cast a spell over me. Looking across the Maranoa River, I watched as a large golden disc appeared through the trees and rose into the night sky. Before long the slender eucalypts were bathed in moonlight.

Like a lantern, the moon sailed across the night sky, casting shadows into the night.

At eleven o'clock roosters started crowing, but strangely there was not another sound. Shortly after midnight, however, something triggered the town dogs into a frenzy of barking and mournful howling and this, when combined with shouting, swearing men, accelerated the hysteria of the dogs. It seemed that ancient wolf-like instincts were alive and well in Mitchell.

A lot of the dogs were large kangaroo and pig dogs (Irish wolfhounds crossed with Great Danes and other hunting dogs), mostly kept on chains or in pens. The majority were 'entire'. You wouldn't want to be sensitive about barking dogs, I thought, feeling a surprising surge of tolerance. Fortunately Del did not respond to other dogs barking, or to the full moon, but she was a vigilant watchdog if she thought anyone or anything was lurking around our property. Sally was nowhere to be seen or heard.

In the early hours of the morning, cats joined in the chorus, wailing and fornicating in the shrubbery. Rowdy young footballers on a pub crawl attracted the attention of police who picked up several troublemakers and issued warnings and curfews. We were seeing and hearing a different side to Mitchell.

It was the end of July. Stars hung in the sky, timeless. The land waited. Waited for what, I wondered. Was it rain or something else altogether?

Chapter 4

August was Spring

Research suggests that the ideal community is one where everyone lives within easy walking distance of basic services and recreational opportunities, where people feel a sense of belonging, and feel safe. Also, that from the town centre there is reliable public transport to a larger regional centre. In this situation, a car becomes a luxury rather than a necessity.

Of course, hundreds of country towns scattered throughout Australia fit this model. Mitchell is but one. Nevertheless Mitchell does fall into this category, with regular rail and bus services to Charleville in the west, and Roma, Toowoomba and Brisbane to the east.

Gradually, as we settled into life in Mitchell, I began picking up on some of the ongoing issues and undercurrents that exist in any community. Main characters emerged from the woodwork, some good, some not so good. Disagreements erupted within local organisations with rumours, accusations, petty power struggles and personality clashes threatening to accelerate out of all proportion, and then just as quickly disappearing as if in a puff of steam.

However, the fact that people were continually coming and going, seeking refuge or returning after years of absence made Mitchell a strong, vibrant community where something was always happening. Living in Mitchell was similar to reading a novel, I thought. This quirky place was burrowing its way beneath my skin. What would happen next?

The Tree of Knowledge was next, and quite by chance.

Stepping out of the library, Doug looked up Cambridge Street and saw a large truck travelling in the direction of Brisbane. It was carrying a strange load: the skeletal remains of a tree.

'It's the Tree of Knowledge,' said a small wiry man with a camera aimed at the approaching truck.

I let my mind backtrack to 1968. We'd been married one year and were travelling around Australia in an old VW campervan. While in Queensland, we visited Barcaldine, located 1080 kilometres north-west of Brisbane. It was here we saw this celebrated tree growing in front of the railway station; a tree that marked the birthplace of the Australian Labor Party. I remember its gnarled branches and scarred whitish-coloured bark, flaking around the lower trunk. Commonly known as a ghost gum, this tree is a symbol of outback Queensland.

In 2006 we saw the tree again, but this time it was dying. Mindless vandals had poisoned the tree with a lethal dose of weedicide. As I stood looking into the small branches bearing the last live leaves, I wondered at the mentality of anyone who would do such a thing. The tree was dying from the top down. There was evidence of termite damage and a tree surgeon's work, with limbs cut off and dressed. But it looked a hopeless case.

Meanwhile though, scientists had cultivated seedlings containing genetic material from this, the original heritage-listed Tree of Knowledge.

Now – in the first week of August, 2007 – we watched history pass by. The corpse of the tree looked a sorry sight lying flat on the back of the tray truck, with special metal brackets to support its roots and trunk, and padding to protect its remaining limbs and more delicate root structure. The remains were heading to Brisbane where the government planned to preserve it.

When the work was complete, the chemically preserved ghost gum would be transported back to Barcaldine to be positioned beside a plaque telling its history, well clear of the ground to prevent termite damage. This site, one of only seventy National Heritage listed sites in Australia, will continue to display this important national icon; a shrine for working men and women, a monument to the Labor Party – and a major tourist attraction. About $5.1 million would be spent on the tree and its memorial setting.

I thought of its history and folklore dating back to the shearers' strike in 1891; of the days when Australia rode on the sheep's back. I imagined a gathering of irate shearers standing hot and dusty beneath its twisted branches, angry about their low pay and poor working conditions, deciding to strike against their employers. _This_ event beneath _this_ tree marked the birth of the union movement and the Australian Labor Party.

One day later we were back standing at the entrance to the library, but this time we walked through to the Maranoa Gallery, the cultural hub of Mitchell. The focus was the opening of the annual Landmark Art Show. Across the gallery and up on the stage spotlights shone on paintings and sculptures that took my breath away.

This was a vibrant cultural gathering, bursting with energy – an exhibition to be remembered. Exhibits came from talented locals and others from as far away as Canberra. There were impressive hand-printed scarves, exotic pieces of jewellery, brilliant photography, works in charcoal, collage, portraits, etchings, watercolours and dramatic oils – to name just a few of the categories and creativity on display. Contemporary, abstract and realism artworks proudly displayed a wealth of talent.

Strong in spirit, these people of the outback respond sensitively to the arts and culture with pictures that capture the space and light of this vast, drought-stricken landscape. Its mystery and spiritual truths emerge on canvas via brushes laden with cobalt blue, titanium white and chrome yellow.

Elegance and sophistication – with a dash of flamboyance – marked the appearance of the opening-night crowd. Many of the women had 'frocked up' for the occasion, once again wearing glamorous outfits from Poppy's Boutique.

Taking me on a grand tour of close to a dozen works of art created by his extended family, ten-year-old Finlay Noon was justly proud of his Auntie Kim, cousins and sister, most living on cattle properties scattered south of Mitchell. In fact, many of these families had travelled to the exhibition from properties located several hours away.

Many local extended families showed amazing artistic talent and creativity, with the Douglas family exhibiting pieces with visual impact, emotion and talent. Exploring art to the edges, the paintings of Laura Douglas, a local graphic designer are bold, adventurous and thought-provoking.

The work that created the most controversy was one of Laura's. Deceptively simple in form and colour, the painting suggested a human skull with a partly formed brain. The image could be interpreted in many ways; one young woman saw Laura's creation as an embryo's developing brain: pure and beautiful. She bought it. Others saw it as portraying a brain injury, dementia, or any number of other horrendous abnormalities. This painting disturbed sensibilities, took risks. As a result, it created much comment, criticism and conversation. But isn't that what art sets out to do?

No piece of art means the same thing to two people, and nor should it. Art is all about triggering emotions and coaxing conversation between interested parties, and as such, Laura's painting succeeded admirably.

In another work, old farm junk – including bits off a plough, chains, bolts, worn-out engine parts, weathered galvanised iron and so on – were welded up to create the sculpture of a dog with big ears and a cheeky grin. Andy Hughes, a council worker with a young family and a passion for roses was one of the main contributors and the winner of this section that turned trash into treasure. Andy's beer keg giraffe, spiky echidna and peacock made of recycled materials created a lot of comment as well as commissions for new works.

'I'll see a piece that looks like a bird's beak and just start building from there,' he said. Andy and his wife Stacey have created a large, beautiful garden that is also an art gallery of sculptures; raw and rustic. Andy's creations are comical and ironic, using agricultural cast-offs to create art that makes you smile first and then reflect.

Andy is always searching for that perfect piece to make that perfect creation to sit amid his perfect roses – and his family are eager to participate in the search for particular pieces to complete a sculpture. Looking for a tail for a goanna, he discovers a length of bicycle chain; to create a sheep he uses weathered galvanised iron. These works of art demonstrate what a trip to the dump – along with a welding torch and a keen imagination – can produce.

People with cameras created artworks and images that included bottle trees, swollen inland rivers, rugged cattlemen, windmills, stock horses and that elusive light dancing on the horizon – while the children's section displayed charming naive impressions of the outback.

Ooline platters and carvings attracted my attention, and I had to resist the temptation to stroke the finely grained surface, my mind in a small pocket of remnant rainforest about 30 kilometres west of Mitchell. Here the Gondwanan species commonly known as ooline grows in hard stony country.

Not many people have heard of ooline trees and even Google's search engine has a problem with the words. _Did you mean online trees?_ the message reads. Adding the botanical name – _Cadellia pentastylis_ – produces better results. Oolines – originally described in 1860 by pioneering botanist Ferdinand von Mueller – are a protected species growing only in isolated pockets on hills in north-west New South Wales and south-west Queensland. They are listed as vulnerable, because of land clearing and their limited range.

After the show we counted the people we knew by name. Even though we'd lived in Mitchell for such a short time we'd enjoyed conversations with about a third of the crowd of 120 or so. Never before had I met so many friendly and interesting people in such a short time, or enjoyed an occasion to this extent.

Over the years I've enjoyed art galleries, ballet, opera, film, plays and photographic and art exhibitions. I travelled overseas in my late teens and visited most of the major art and cultural centres – to the point of saturation. In regard to the arts and culture, I've had a privileged upbringing. Before my outback experience, however, I'd never before experienced or participated in grass roots arts and culture.

There was no time to be bored in Mitchell, no time to feel lonely. Every day I could join in something new, or choose to stay at home and write.

'I wouldn't even think of visiting – let alone live – somewhere like Mitchell,' one of our not-so-diplomatic Melbourne friends told me on the phone. 'There's no art or culture out there. It's far too remote.'

With every hackle raised I managed a controlled reply, but I knew he was wrong.

It is true that some visitors to Mitchell see no further than daily soaks in the relaxing and therapeutic waters of the Great Artesian Spa, and an escape from winter 'down south'. Such narrow vision is unfortunate. Life is full in the wide open spaces of the outback, with part of the credit due to the Queensland Arts Council, which provides a yearly Ontour Onstage program specifically designed for remote communities. Approximately twenty productions cover around 150,000 kilometres, reaching over 40,000 people state-wide.

Performing arts such as comedy, animation, cabaret, ballet, orchestral concerts, opera, dance, plays and circus acts are programmed, as well as, for example, _Earth Machine Music_ created by charismatic Finnish accordion virtuoso Kimmo Pohjonen. Described as 'an electrifying live musical performance' this production was held at the historic Mount Abundance Homestead, near Roma.

As a consequence of a mouse plague that was in full force during August, one of the original jazz music and drama performances held in Mitchell had an amusing sideshow that took place directly in front of the stage. A group of five mice danced, played and chased one another, darting beneath chairs seating a group of three unsuspecting elderly ladies. Over coffee, cheeses and cake, I told 'the seductive Melissa and her cunning accompanist' that Mitchell was in the midst of a mouse plague.

'If we laughed in the wrong places,' I said, 'it was because of the antics of the mice.' Fortunately Melissa and her partner had a keen sense of humour.

***

I love to see the effect Mitchell has on travellers, especially those from cities and from down south. It seems to trigger emotions and thoughts that turn into memorable conversations, often about country life.

'We used to have chooks,' a traveller from Penguin in Tasmania told me. 'One day I lifted up a clucky hen to find her sitting on a litter of new-born kittens.'

With our German shepherd on a lead, we also found that conversations about shepherds were inevitable and enlightening. We heard of one that learned to surf on a board, with help to get on, while being cheered from the shore. Of another that swam 2 kilometres after a boat, of yet another that killed twenty-one feral cats that were slaughtering penguins at a rookery in Tasmania. And then there was the shepherd that played cricket so skilfully it was always chosen first in team selections, catching balls and retrieving them with great skill.

It was the variety of people we came across that made our conversations so rich. We talked to travellers from all over Australia and throughout the world, as well as to outback families and people living in Mitchell. That's why I loved our walks and having coffee at the café and spa. You never knew who you'd meet or what conversation would follow.

Most tourists wear T-shirts, often purchased in Mitchell. One of my favourites has the logo: _Where the hell is Mitchell? Between Mungallala and Muckadilla._

It's as if Mitchell casts a spell on those who come: baby boomers in their expensive rigs; older travellers on the pension, with less sophisticated vehicles and caravans; and younger people with kids. They park their vehicles outside the Great Artesian Spa and 'take the waters'.

***

I'd been invited to speak to a group of writers at Roma, and although reluctant to accept, I did. My reluctance had nothing to do with speaking or my fellow writers, but rather my fear of hitting a kangaroo on our way home.

We travelled to Roma in the late afternoon and partway there Doug's keen eyes noticed a group of brolgas. They were feeding on a cropping paddock beside the highway, so Doug pulled over and parked the car well off the bitumen. While he turned on the hazard lights, I grabbed the binoculars and watched entranced as sixteen long-legged birds danced with their slender legs appearing almost disconnected from the earth, and their bodies.

Leaping gracefully, with bows and high steps towards one another, they danced with wings outstretched. For about twenty minutes we watched their courtship dance; utterly absorbed in the joy and the elegance of their movements drifting towards us from a sunlit stage. It was a mystical experience and something we'd never seen before: a priceless gift.

As we continued our journey I thought of the pair of brolgas that flew over our house every evening at sunset, necks outstretched, long legs folded back – from east to west, across the river. Occasionally their whooping trumpet-like croaking calls echoed through the velvety stillness. It was a mournful sound that caused a tingle down my spine.

Returning to Mitchell at 10 p.m. was not a good idea as the road seemed literally hopping with wallabies and kangaroos. With the drought in full force, the green pick beside the road, even though meagre, was the only food around. Doug managed to pull in behind a road train that was travelling at about 80 kilometres an hour. We stayed behind, hoping the kangaroos would be frightened away by the road train, and all went well for half an hour or so. Suddenly though, a wallaby flew out of nowhere and was beneath the car with a dull thud before we could even think, wallaby. It was killed outright.

We travelled on in silence, each feeling desperately sorry for the wallaby and guilty that we'd caused its death. I began thinking about cause and effect: positive and negative. Did this death cancel out anything positive I may have done or given to the Roma Writers Group? I wasn't at all sure I knew the answer. But then I remembered the brolgas.

On our arrival home, I gazed up into the night sky, black yet ablaze with galaxies far, far away. The depth and sense of infinity is intense in outback Queensland. With an absence of city lights and pollution the air is clear and pure. Are we alone? I asked myself, imagining that I sensed the murmur of other life, way, way out in space. I thought of the Parkes radio telescope scanning distant galaxies. I wasn't the only one to wonder.

***

It was a balmy 26°C, and as the band began tuning their instruments I settled back in a canvas chair, letting my eyes drift around the caravan park. Rigs of all shapes and sizes; small eucalypts dotting the spongy green lawn; a campfire pit with glowing coals; a crowd of tourists and locals sitting on camp chairs wearing sun hats, shorts and thongs, and sipping drinks: the Mitchell Combined Schools Band was giving a free concert.

Some of the younger musicians needed help to tune their instruments, their first efforts sounding flat and out of tune. But with Naden Gray's expertise as teacher and conductor, noise began turning into music. The Brindley family made up a significant part of the band with grandparents playing baritone saxophone and bass clarinet; cousins with trumpets; mother with bass clarinet; sister with clarinet; and eleven-year-old Kaitlyn with a large tuba-like instrument I was not familiar with – a euphonium.

Flutes, trumpets, flugelhorns and trombones added to the band, along with boys on drums, tambourines and xylophones. Mostly they got it right. Every now and then one of the younger children missed a beat or struck a wrong note. But it didn't matter. There was music in the park.

Harmonious melodies floated down the slope to the riverbed and settled there like mist – with just a touch of melancholy. Perhaps the spirit of Major Mitchell lingered still? Moments later, though, when the band struck up a jaunty tune, a group of magpies began warbling in a nearby tree.

Dressed in blue polo shirts with Mitchell Music emblazoned on the back, black pants, shoes and socks, and blue bucket hats, the band created music pleasing to the ear. Clapping and cheering enthusiastically, the crowd of travellers and locals clearly enjoyed the performance given by the Mitchell music-makers. Funded by a special Queensland Government Music Program which allows Naden to visit the town on a weekly basis, children and adults are given the opportunity to learn woodwind, brass and percussion instruments. An energetic team of volunteers coordinate an extraordinary range of musical activities throughout the year.

Some families have three generations playing in the local bands that tour the countryside performing at the Major Mitchell Caravan Park and on market days, as well as at music festivals and workshops, camps and carnivals held throughout Queensland. With an enrolment of about 700 musicians throughout the south-west region of Queensland, making music is a serious commitment of time, talent and creativity.

At the conclusion of the concert I went up to congratulate the drummer, a young boy with a keen sense of rhythm. 'You did a great job on the drums.'

'I made mistakes.'

'Yes, but it doesn't have to be perfect. In fact, perfect isn't always best.'

'If perfect isn't best then there's no point in practising.'

'Yes there is. Practice lets you do the very best you can.'

Music, reading and writing, pottery and art take me away from the dreary and often complex conflicts of life and lift me into a space where my mind can float in harmony with the universe.

Nevertheless, imperfections continued to reveal themselves. Countless dead 'roos lay splattered on most of the roads leading out of town; dogs barked more than was normally acceptable; and every single thing not sealed in a cupboard was covered in a layer of gritty dust.

Bushrangers and cattle 'duffers' were the main problems when the Mitchell Police Station was established in 1871. At the present time, vehicle and gun licences, permits and registrations need to be issued and policed; and there are travellers to advise on road directions and conditions. Then there is the occasional lost tourist, bogged or broken-down vehicle, flood, fire, storm, ambulance emergency or illegal shooter to deal with. Placing curfews on hooning teenagers is a strategy that works well in this town, but it too has to be policed.

A road train overturned on the highway, loaded with cattle bound for the Roma saleyards. Sirens shrilled and all the emergency services were involved. Twenty to thirty Brahmans were shot, but the truck driver escaped injury. Through all such adversities, however, people's strength and resilience shone through. There was compassion, constructive help shown to those in need, and acceptance of difference.

Still the drought continued: cruel and relentless, along with a worsening mouse plague. Landholders in dusty four-wheel drives came to town, faces lined and haggard, hands calloused after seven years of drought. Yet their hope never seemed to dry up. I felt for these people, watching them cling so fiercely to optimism. Rain would come, they reasoned – eventually.

Drought – because it happens in slow motion – is a natural disaster in which the victims are often forgotten. Landholders expect drought and plan for it; adjusting, diversifying and making do. But you can only tighten your belt so much. Was it intelligent to hope though, when climate change was now an accepted scientific reality? I began to wonder if this area would ever return to the days of being viable cattle grazing country.

Many outlying property owners had placed their best breeding stock on agistment – out west in the Channel Country or up north – costing them between four and five dollars a head, per week. Some cattle had been away for eighteen months to two years; others even longer. For one year it was likely to cost about $300,000 for 500 breeders. Therefore, as time went on, the worry accelerated. Trucking there and back cost a fortune too.

To buy in feed was another alternative, but with drought affecting most parts of eastern Australia, grain and hay prices were sky-high. For instance, it cost $25 for one small square bale of lucerne hay. One cow would need at least three bales of lucerne per week. Other bought-in feed included cottonseed, grain, licks and molasses.

Mulga offered another option. This high calorie, drought-resistant fodder tree grows up to 8 metres tall and has a life span of 100 to 200 years. It can be lopped or pushed over with a bulldozer, after which it usually regrows. Mulga ( _Acacia aneura_ ) has extremely hard timber, carbon-storage potential and the added advantage of being able to fix nitrogen in the soil by way of root nodules containing _Rhizobium_ bacteria. But in times of drought, mulga's main value is as fodder for sheep and cattle.

To sell halfway through a drought – with cattle and sheep in poor condition – didn't offer a good return. But it was infinitely better than leaving livestock to starve to death, or shooting them in the paddock because they were too weak to truck. The major worry seemed to be when to pull out and cut your losses, and when to stick with it; persist, hang on.

If and when it did rain, and property owners needed to restock, they'd have to pay $1000 to $1200 for good quality pregnancy-tested, in-calf breeders. Consequently, to buy 500 cows after the drought was likely to cost at least $500,000. And that didn't count the cost of trucking.

For many, survival depended on wives or partners getting a job in town. For instance, many women took cleaning jobs at the motel, office and reception work at the council, school teaching, nursing or shop assistant work. For others, there was the prospect of giving up the dream of sending their children to good boarding schools.

Not only were property owners worried, local businesses were suffering too. Money was tight. With their savings used up, people were not spending. Weather forecasts failed to predict the longed-for rain. This arid country bred resilient people. There were, however, murmurings of skin cancers, depression, anxiety and the occasional tragic suicide – all casualties of the prolonged drought that continued its insidious eating away of the environment and its people.

With the river dry, permanent water in our garden ensured we enjoyed a wide range of bird species. The bird bath and the bird drinking bowl were in almost continual use. With over 250 bird species living in and around Mitchell, we took delight in welcoming any new bird that came to enjoy our hospitality. Blue wrens, wagtails, finches and honeyeaters – they learned that the water located in the shrubbery outside our kitchen window was permanent as well as fresh.

Before long, however, we began to worry. What would happen when we left in December, when there was no one to fill the bowls? But then Doug had an idea and soon it was installed. For a while the birds shunned the small fibreglass water trough. Connected to a rainwater tank, a float valve kept the trough full of water. The worst that could happen, we reasoned – in the event of damage to the float valve – would be an empty tank. But that was highly unlikely.

The first bird to brave the new bird waterer was our wagtail. Cheeky and full of courage he showed the other birds that this grey thing that hissed water didn't bite, nor did it grab birds and eat them. Before long the wrens joined the wagtail, and then there was a queue. Birds were coming and going all day.

***

Likewise, there was a steady stream of people coming to and from the Mungallala Police Station and residence.

Located 45 kilometres west of Mitchell on the road to Charleville, Mungallala has a population of 130 people and is the site of an original Cobb and Co changing station. Nowadays it has a railway station, and an old pub, cypress mill, one-teacher school and one-officer police station manned by Deb's husband Glen – a young man with broad shoulders and keenly tuned muscles, who thrives on action.

As we pulled up alongside the old Queenslander house on stilts, with its steeply sloping iron roof, I remembered our meeting with Deb the year before, with her lamb; and again recently, with Tinkerbell the joey. Deb's invitation to afternoon tea had been a generous offer of hospitality and one we'd gladly accepted.

Now, here she was, welcoming us to her home: an attractive, well-groomed woman in her thirties, with glossy black hair. Out ran her young daughter followed by two little goat kids, two dogs, a tabby cat, a pet sheep (the lamb of the year before) and a whole lot of guinea pigs. I bent down to pat one of the guinea pigs which had unusual markings and cute ruffs.

'They live free-range under the house and in the shed,' said Deb, matter-of-factly.

'Doesn't your cat kill them?'

'No. She plays with the guinea pigs and Tinkerbell and never attempts to harm them.'

The garden was bare earth with large shade trees and a lock-up converted into a guest room. There were bars on the windows and the door was solid with a heavy lock.

Out strode Glen, and as he offered his hand he joked, 'If guests get troublesome we lock them in.'

The paddock beside the lock-up held little in the way of feed, but the calves and miniature horses were plump with hay and concentrates. The land sloped down to a dry creek bed on one side, and the one-teacher school on the other. It looked very much the picture-postcard image of outback Queensland.

After climbing over the barricades built to stop the animals coming up the steep stairs, we went up and into the old police residence. Built to cope with harsh Queensland summers, the ceilings were high, the floorboards polished and every room had its own air-conditioner. Tastefully decorated, the rooms reflected the family's extensive travels.

The wide airy verandah out the front was perfect for indulging in freshly baked muffins and tea, while nearby Tinkerbell enjoyed her afternoon bottle from the comfort of her pouch before going back to the serious task of sucking her toe. With the police station rooms situated beside the verandah, Glen could maintain his twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week vigil, while at the same time enjoying afternoon tea with us. His two small rooms are full of maps, radios, and office and rescue equipment. Glen's 'beat' stretches hundreds of kilometres to the north and south, and west to Morven and east to Mitchell.

Keeping track of people is a major part of Glen's work as he navigates the police four-wheel drive along the rough dusty roads of his beat, always on the lookout for unusual or suspicious characters or activities. Removing problem snakes is another one of his duties, along with shooting rogue dingoes and wild dogs.

And all the while there were phones ringing, two-way radios crackling in and out, and people coming and going. One bloke, who came to notify Glen of a rogue dingo, picked up his Queensland heeler and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The dog hung there, quite comfortable and happy as the man strode back to his truck. The dog slid from the man's shoulder into the cab – through the open window – then sat up in the front passenger seat, smiling widely.

Established in 1915, this police outpost is a busy place. But it's not always just about law enforcement. There's a close-knit engagement with the community. For instance, not so long ago a truck loaded with pumpkins careered off the bitumen and turned over on the Mitchell to St George Road, leaving a trail of pumpkins, smashed and whole, along the roadside. The police, after recording the incident, collected together some of the pumpkins and brought them back to town. Glen sliced them, added honey and butter, and then wrapped the pumpkin in foil and baked it on a campfire. Together with barbecued meats it was a feast for a large gathering, with many jokes about stolen pumpkins.

***

It took a month or so to work out ways in which we could contribute to this community who'd welcomed us so warmly. Neither of us are committee types, nor do I excel at baking and sewing for charity stalls or manning raffle tables. As an ex-engineer, teacher and Scout leader, Doug chose to involve himself with the Emergency Services Cadet group, help with the Booringa Blokes Group, assist at charity camp oven dinners at the caravan park, and also help at the library.

With experience as a teacher and published author I decided to approach the state school – which has about 150 students from Prep to Year 10 – and volunteer my time to teach a couple of small groups of teenage girls. I offered to motivate and extend them in writing skills and journalism – to be a mentor – and create a book about Mitchell in the process. Eagerly the principal took up my offer and soon I was immersed in the lives and writings of 'my' eight young teenagers.

In my experience, a town can have a police station, post office, church, café and even a vibrant tourist enterprise, but having a school gives the community a sense of hope. Here the past and future form a seamless whole.

My first session was with the four girls from Years 5, 6 and 7. Kaitlyn, the girl who played the euphonium in the park, was there and smiling, along with three other equally lovely, bright-eyed girls.

'I want you to write down on a sheet of paper what you love most about Mitchell,' I said, 'and I'll give you ten minutes.'

Working individually and with heads down in concentration they compiled their lists, each filling an entire page. When the ten minutes were up we compared notes. With no discussion whatsoever, or copying, each girl's list began with the people, then went on to include the extra activities that the council youth officer organised during school holidays and weekends, the artesian spa, the birds and animals, the river and bridges, the shops, the bottle trees and life on a grazing property.

Holding up the current Mitchell Information book and flicking through the pages I asked, 'Would you like to write a book about Mitchell?'

'Could we?' they asked, wide-eyed.

'Of course,' I replied, 'we'll work together to write an even better book than this one. A book that tells travellers a lot more about our town.'

'Can we do photos and drawings?'

'And maps?'

'Will it be a proper book?'

'As proper as this,' I said, showing the current Mitchell book, 'but we'll have to work hard to get it finished before Christmas. Are you prepared to do that?'

'Can we have our photos of the back cover,' said one of the girls, 'like a real book, with you in the middle of the photo?'

The group of older girls from Years 8, 9 and 10 were also excited at the prospect of participating in the creation of a book. The first part – to be written by the younger group – would concentrate on Mitchell at the present time. The second part – to be written by the older girls – would show a vision for Mitchell in the year 2017.

Many of these girls live on remote cattle properties where hazards like falling off horses and motorbikes are commonplace. One of the girls has twice been bitten by venomous snakes. The children make their own fun – with the freedom to make mistakes. These are down-to-earth girls well versed in the realities of life and death, hardship and mateship.

They are also slim, attractive and feminine, with sparkling eyes and warm smiles. Sensitive and caring too, in the way they nurture orphaned and injured wildlife, lambs and calves; the way they create graves decorated with flowers in garden beds for birds killed by drought or through crashing into windows. These are lovely country girls with integrity and sensitivity, who live in a safe, laid-back place where generosity of spirit is alive and well.

Soon, driving between home and school along streets lined with cedar, pepperina and bottle trees became second nature for me. In Mitchell, the streets running north–south were given the names of surveyors' favourite ladies: Louisa, Mary, Alice, Ann and Alexandra. Those going east–west were named after English public schools and universities: Eton, Harrow, Winchester, Rugby, Oxford, Cambridge, Dublin and Edinburgh.

My route to school went up Edinburgh, crossing over Mary and Alice streets. Sometimes, as I crossed Alice, a very old man in a battered Toyota took forever to decide whether or not to turn left or right, or go straight ahead. I slowed right down. Sometimes I stopped. There was no hurry, no road rage in Mitchell. One day I too would be old.

Reaching a T-intersection, I turned right into Ann Street, passed the hospital and then turned left into Cambridge Street. At this point I often caught sight of one of the town's few remaining goats, almost certainly descended from the herd that roamed free through the town in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

Back then, pigs, horses, cattle and stray dogs tagged along with the goats. There were, of course, numerous complaints and feuds between neighbours and from irate gardeners and publicans who objected to inquisitive goat kids leaping in and out of hotel bars and tea rooms at will. But these same creatures were valued for the milk and meat they provided and were, on the whole, tolerated.

Next I turned right into the school car park. It wasn't far and possibly I should have walked, but it seemed I was always loaded up with books.

As a society, I believe there is a tendency to underestimate and undervalue the intelligence and feelings of both children and animals. And I am, at times, guilty too. For this reason, I found myself astonished yet delighted at the level of appreciation these girls had for the people that make up the friendly, caring community they call home. They recognise that above all else it is the people who make Mitchell special.

One of the sessions revolved around the statement 'In Mitchell we don't have ... ' and then an example to get the discussion going: _Scary animals like –_

Unpleasant city things like – Temptations like –

The discussion about temptations proved enlightening. They didn't want McDonald's, Hungry Jack's, KFC and Red Rooster outlets in Mitchell, because the girls thought they made you fat and they didn't want to be fat. Also, because it would not be good for the smaller shops like the café and the BP service station.

To ensure the safety of the children in my care, I needed a Blue Card. This required an ID and police check. The Blue Card gave me official clearance to engage in child-related activities. Although necessary, the paperwork of the Blue Card application and the mantra 'Stranger Danger' seemed foreign in Mitchell. One of the advantages of living in a small town is that everyone is a known quantity: good and bad. Consequently, it is accepted that there are certain individuals living in the community who are to be avoided. But these are known people, not strangers.

Most parents don't drum into their children the perils of talking to strangers. In fact, they encourage friendly talk with people in the street, stranger or not. Cambridge Street is a safe place. The very nature of the street means that everyone looks out for kids.

To me, one of the greatest simple pleasures in life is talking to strangers; finding connections, sharing experiences. Suspicion, I believe, stunts the mind, but suspicion is rare in Mitchell. In its place is openness and trust. Yet the girls are not naive. They have an awareness of, and an ability to recognise predatory male behaviour, and know how to avoid contact with people of this type.

When it came to writing about the people of Mitchell, the girls' points of view were refreshing and gave me a thrill of hope for the future. To live in a town where fear of harm, and expectation of violence is absent, is astonishing in this day and age. A town without fear – how could this be?

Without fear almost anything is possible, as their writing suggests.

The people are the most important part of Mitchell. They are very friendly and kind. When you walk down town they say, 'Hello. How are you?' and have a little talk. There are a lot of people in Mitchell that you can talk to as long as you respect them.

The shopkeepers serve you in a nice way and are awesome. Even if you are new you can still talk to them, and that's sometimes a hard thing to do if you're a stranger in town. If you say hello to someone that walks by, I'm sure you will get a hello back, with a little smile. You will always walk out of the shops – and away from Mitchell – with a smile on your face!

When you walk down the street the tourists are kind and they smile and will give you a wave, and you might chat to someone you've never met before: make a friend with someone who was a stranger seconds ago. You will not want to leave Mitchell.

The police are very friendly. If you get pulled up by the police they take it easy on you. When circling the school to keep kids safe, they give you a wave. When you're in Mitchell you'll always feel welcome and safe. As you learn about our town and our people, you'll also learn a lot about yourself.

As I drove between home and school, I wondered about the reasons for this absence of fear. Why in the streets of Mitchell do people meet your eye and smile, when in the city people tend towards blank faces and privacy, walking past as if you're invisible? Is it the size of the population: 900 people? Does isolation give rise to a more trusting community? Does the highly visual presence of excellent role models – especially those connected to the emergency and youth services – play a role? Or is the feeling of safety a result of police presence? The people working in businesses around town certainly contribute to this feeling of caring and safety.

Through observation and involvement I have come to believe that the outback gives children a better than average start in life and this is a good thing because Mitchell is most certainly not a community in decline.

Mitchell State School has developed a strong partnership with the Nalingu Aboriginal Corporation. At least five different Aboriginal groups attend the school along with the mainly European population of children. The Gunggari people live in the Maranoa region and the Gunggari language has been taught to all students at the school since 2003, with the language recorded digitally as well as on paper.

A series of eight books titled the _The Tiger Snake_ (and other stories) from the Gunggari people was published in 1999 with some Gunggari language included. The books share Aboriginal stories with young children. Most were told by elders Lynette Nixon and Irene Ryder and all were illustrated by Dell Mailman.

Irene Ryder is one of Mitchell's respected Aboriginal elders and is responsible for teaching the Gunggari language and cultural practices to children at the Mitchell State School. Aunty Irene makes bags from special grasses and reeds that grow beside the river; weaves hats using shiny, round bimble box leaves and twigs; and tells stories rich in Aboriginal tradition.

***

Mitchell Hardware was the place where we met Bernadette, firstly on a daily basis because our home lacked so many basic essentials, and then at least once weekly as Doug worked on improving our property. Always Bernadette was there to offer advice and help with our purchases, even carrying them out to the ute.

Bernadette Stanton was born and raised in Mitchell. For as long as she can remember, Bernadette's been fishing in the weir and deep waterholes of the Maranoa, along with many others – her mum and dad, brothers and sisters, and friends. As a child, Bernadette's favourite fishing spots were only minutes from home.

'Every Sunday we took the little tinny down to the river, to one of our favourite waterholes,' said Bernadette. 'Yellowbellies are pretty much our main fish and are definitely the best tasting fish around here. They've got firm, white flesh and no muddy taint.'

Mitchell's Great Artesian Spa offered Bernadette her first experience in the workplace. As a trainee she learned to work with tourists at the Information Centre and spa, and then moved on to cook at the café, finally becoming food and beverage coordinator.

'We got heaps of tourists coming in asking about fishing gear and where to throw in a line. Because my family has always fished I helped them out, told them how to get to the best waterholes and advised on what tackle to use. But after a while I felt like I needed a break.'

So Bernadette, her husband Josh and bull mastiff Sara packed up their house in Mitchell and left for Toowoomba. Here Bernadette worked in the Water Skiers Warehouse selling boat accessories. 'We thought we'd never come back to Mitchell, but we did,' said Bernadette. 'After a couple of years I missed my family and the fishing.'

Since her return from 'away', Bernadette has worked at Mitchell Hardware, owned and managed by her parents. Bernadette is responsible for ordering and selling the camping and fishing gear, and pet accessories. Her generosity of spirit makes her a popular person around town and with visitors to the area.

But much more than hardware and money are exchanged. Mitchell Hardware is a vital part of the community that offers friendly service, home deliveries and advice on all matters. When they ask, 'How are you?' or 'How are the fish biting?' they really want to know. It's a place where you never know who you might bump into or what conversation might evolve.

One day while I was in the store a couple of tourists strolled in and said to us, 'We've heard that Bernadette's the expert on fishing. Do you know who she is?'

'That's me,' said Bernadette, a little embarrassed by her reputation. 'How can I help you?'

It seemed that these people from down south wanted to do a spot of fishing in the Maranoa. Bernadette was in her element as she advised them on reels, lures, line and other fishing tackle. And what of secret fishing places? Are these closely guarded secrets?

'Not at all,' said Bernadette, 'everyone is welcome to have a go. I have no secrets. I'm a pretty open girl.'

Bernadette told them about a deep waterhole below the weir that has never _ever_ been dry, a place where you can usually catch a yellowbelly or two. 'It's a permanent hole, even in the worst drought.'

Thinking like a fish is one of Bernadette's strategies and she's only too happy to share her observations with others. 'I say to myself, "If I was a yella, I'd live under that log." Some days you go out and you can't do a thing wrong and you get them. Other days you have to think really hard and try different gear and places. You have to take into consideration the weather too. Fish like shade on a hot day, and during winter in particular, fish seek out warmer water, especially weed-beds lying in the sun.'

At the front counter the travellers paid for a camp oven, an assortment of fishing tackle and a yabby trap. Bernadette carried their purchases to the four-wheel drive parked in Cambridge Street and said a friendly, 'Good luck and goodbye.'

Fishing is a shared passion for Bernadette and Josh – and their large extended family. Every holiday is a fishing holiday, and every spare moment they are down at the river – fishing.

And why go fishing? 'It's a way of life,' said Bernadette. 'Relaxation is a big part of it – also the smell of a campfire, the feel of sun on my back, being with family and friends, and of course, the thrill of catching fish and eating them.

'We've got a big family. All of us love to get out in the bush by the river and catch fish. Anything we catch that's legal size we eat – except for the really big ones. We let them go. If they're too big they get fatty and muddy. Up around 8 pounds or more are too big in my opinion.

'I love eating fresh fish. But my cat is very fussy,' said Bernadette, with a laugh. 'She'll only eat the most expensive canned cat food. Never fresh fish.'

***

The dry weather continued through August with escalating warmth and heartache. With temperatures in the high twenties, stagnant pools breathed out an odour of decomposition. Everything was dying.

One afternoon, with windows and doors wide open to catch a gentle breeze, a sudden swirling dust storm caught me unawares. Within seconds every surface in the house was covered with fine particles of grit and I was rushing around frantically closing windows and doors. But it was too late.

From the parched interior, the hot wind whisked and whirled a pea soup of soil particles, bacteria, fungi, pollen and leaf fragments high into the air, and then forced its load through and into every crevice and cavity of human habitation. After five minutes or so the great clouds of suffocating dust moved on, heading to the coast and leaving Mitchell to clean up in its wake.

In future, I'll keep a much closer watch on the weather, I promised myself as I cleaned up the mess.

Dust storms occur two or three times a year, on average. When floods occur in the Channel Country, in south-west Queensland, huge quantities of fine silt are deposited. When the silt dries, all that's needed is a strong wind to whip it into clouds of choking dust.

Weather-watching became a habit. Consequently, when the first drops of rain fell in mid-August – after an absence of rain for fifty-one days in a row – I watched mesmerised as the droplets hit the window pane and trickled down, creating intricate patterns on the dusty glass. Fifty-eight millimetres (over 2 inches) of rain in the middle of August gave rise to hope. Was this the start of something big: the breaking of the seven-year drought?

The parched earth soaked up the rain greedily, seeds germinated, dead-looking grass tussocks sprouted bright green shoots, blue wrens began building nests – and the dust settled.

The land turned into a sea of brilliant green. Many of the grasses and weeds that clothed the ground I'd never seen before, but I did recognise several nasty burr species. The level of water in the river remained the same though; stagnant pools here and there and lots of sand.

The drought had not broken; nevertheless the rain was welcome and gave people cause to smile again.

***

Although formal dinners and workshops are not our thing, a weekend think-tank sounded a way forward in terms of tackling the issues of amalgamation and the future of our town. We wanted to be involved, wanted to help lift Mitchell out of the grip of uncertainty and a sense of powerlessness. Falling wool and beef prices, drought and floods were beyond this group's control, but there were issues that could be successfully tackled. This was an action group, with local people involved in local issues.

Held at Berkley Lodge Motel and Restaurant – two doors down Cambridge Street from the café – the dinner attracted a crowd of about one hundred people. Along with Janelle and Denis from the café we were invited to join the police table, and as I sat down next to Deb I sensed that our inclusion was noted by part of the crowd. Some people, I realised, were not comfortable about being seen with figures of authority, but we were not some of those people.

Vivacious and sociable, Deb engaged the table in animated conversation and laughter, introducing us to Craig, the new police sergeant and Officer in Charge at Mitchell.

Craig Shepherd is a man to be respected, with a gym-toughened body and big build. Greeted with his warm, generous smile, I liked him immediately. I recognised that he could be tough when required, while at the same time being able and willing to foster friendly relations with the people of the town. Craig, his wife and four young children had arrived from Mount Isa only two days previously and this dinner provided the ideal opportunity for introductions and welcomes. The dinner enabled us to greet those we knew and meet new people too.

A motivational speaker from Brisbane spoke of a way forward for Mitchell and gave an amusing demonstration of the power of positive and negative energy, using Glen as guinea pig. Unknown to her, Glen is a police constable with iron-clad willpower, so to be able to manipulate him went down well with the crowd.

As impressive as the guest speaker, however, was a local woman who spoke about setting up a new business in Mitchell. Vicki spoke about seeing an opportunity (making 5000-litre poly tanks), setting up a business (Artesian Poly Products), and making the best use of a State Government Rebate. The price of a tank to a customer was $1100, the Queensland Government Rebate was $1000, consequently the customer paid only $100.

Vicki and Bruce, a young couple with vision and newly acquired expertise had created a successful business in Mitchell. The dinner crowd responded to Vicki's excellent presentation with warm applause.

Listening to the flow of conversation around our table, I noted the level of cooperation between the police stationed at Mitchell, Mungallala and Roma. Up and down the highway and into the arid interior, the Queensland Police Service officers know their communities; know the troublemakers. Respect for authority is widespread, with most people willing and able to report illegal or suspicious incidents without fear of ridicule or backlash. Hooning and drink-driving are not tolerated in Mitchell. There is a keen sense of neighbourhood watch, and the monthly Police Beat report in the council _Bulletin_ magazine is read widely.

It is common to see the police, ambulance officers, and Jay the youth coordinator in the café, Artesian Spa Complex, school, or on the street chatting to people. All provided excellent role models for the young people of the town. Regular Blue Light disco events – held at the spa complex – provided dancing, games and great prizes throughout an evening packed full of fun.

The Sunday workshop, held at the Artesian Spa hall, was not so well attended. But those who came were a wide mix of people who showed genuine interest in the future of Mitchell: beyond amalgamation.

Rain hammered steadily on the high iron roof throughout that Sunday. In fact, 25 millimetres (1 inch) fell. Everything outside was wet and slippery: the footpaths, the roads, and the bridges taking on the hues of a watercolour painting. People got wet running to their cars, but they were happy.

Jumping a puddle to get into the ute, my mind played around with visions of floodwaters, then turned back to the future of Mitchell and my students at the school. I felt a surge of passion for them to be included in the planning. What population size did they envisage? What changes would they like to see in the main street? Did they want an increase in tourist numbers? What steps would they take to protect the wildlife in and around Mitchell?

These young people were the future. Their ideas mattered.

Into all the talk of amalgamation, future directions and hope that this rain would break the drought came a tragedy that hit the community like a bombshell. It centred on a camel and a sixtieth birthday present.

Camels, thought to be the earliest animals domesticated by humans, were introduced into Australia in 1840. For over seventy years camels were the road trains of the outback, used by Afghani and Indian cameleers, outback police, explorers and pioneers to open up and settle vast tracts of the arid interior.

In the late 1800s, strings of camel trains passed through the fast-growing township of Mitchell, guided by skilful Afghan handlers and carting enormous bales of wool. Today they provide meat, wool and hides to a growing export market. Camel trekking, racing and riding have also proven popular with tourists, and camels can make good pets.

A local woman on a sheep and cattle property south of Mitchell was given a four-month-old camel calf as a sixtieth birthday present from her family. With a passion for animals – having reared goat kids, kangaroo joeys, emu chicks, calves and many other animals in need of care – this gift seemed perfect for her. Caring for animals was second nature and she revelled for a whole six months in the joy of hand-feeding her pet camel with milk from a bottle.

On Saturday 18 August, at about 6.30 p.m., the woman's husband found her dead body in a paddock near their home, the camel standing beside her. No one could have anticipated the horror of such a discovery.

Her tragic death raised questions. Was she knocked down, trodden on and then smothered by her camel? Or did she suffer a heart attack and fall to the ground, where perhaps the camel attempted to revive her with his hoofs and body?

'She had signs of being trodden on by the pet camel,' said local police Sergeant Greg Wheeler. 'He rolled on her while she was on the ground.'

Nevertheless it remained unclear if the camel was responsible or not for the woman's death. Only a post-mortem would reveal the true nature of the tragedy, and perhaps even then there would be unanswered questions.

The number of people killed by camels in Australia over the past 160 years can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Most of these deaths were caused by mature bull camels during the rutting season, when the mating urge causes uncontrollable aggression. Some people, though, believe that camels are never domesticated, even if you hand-rear them from birth.

But this camel was young: only ten months old. And this was the twenty-first century. The camel was male, admittedly, and he did have a history of pushy behaviour in relation to a pet goat. He was not considered vicious though; rather, he was known as a spirited young animal that adored his human 'mother'.

Our neighbours Marg Noon and the Cornishes were stunned by the news and deeply saddened. Marg invited me into her home to see flowers sent from Roma for the funeral. It was hot and the flowers, although beautiful, looked a little limp, even though sitting in troughs of cool water. I helped Marg pack the flowers into the boot of her car and listened to a flow of talk about the tragedy and the catering arrangements for the funeral. Sandra arrived to commiserate and I left them talking about the family involved, whom they both knew well.

Blunted by the tragedy, Marg and Sandra were no longer joyous about the rain. Nevertheless it continued to fall, along with their tears. With the community so interconnected, the news sent shockwaves through the town and surrounding area. This accident reflected just one of the many harsh realities of life in the bush.

Back home, I wandered aimlessly down the hall and into the sunroom. Picking up Katie, I stroked her silky chocolate-and-cream fur. She began purring. Lemons glowed golden in a sudden shaft of sunshine. I ran my hand over their skins then lifted my fingers to my nostrils. The smell of citrus: a strange suggestion of sweetness, yet bitter too.

Although shocked by the tragedy and deeply sympathetic, I was aware that we were not and could not be part of the communal grieving process. We didn't know the family.

Childhood memories surfaced in a surge, like an ocean wave. I was being cared for by a neighbour's family while my mother delivered her third baby. As a nine-year-old, awareness dawned that although my neighbours were looking after me, I did not belong. I was an outsider.

Now, everyone seemed to be going to the funeral – except us. The tragic death of a local woman had brought home an uncomfortable truth. Although we'd made our home among them and had tried to participate in and contribute to the community, we were not yet part of it. That would take time and patience.

A memorial service was held at the Mitchell Anglican Church. More than 300 people congregated to mourn the loss of this well-known, greatly respected and much-loved woman. United in grief, the community poured out its sympathy and support.

Later in the day, when Doug came in from the shed, I burst out, 'I feel like we're living on the other side of the bridge.'

'You're expecting too much too soon,' he replied, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Acceptance into a community was a slow process, I knew that. But I wanted to feel my roots thrust deep into the river loam of Mitchell; feel cocooned within the loop of the mighty Maranoa. Feel part of this outback town, born of and moulded by drought, dust and flooding rains.

Working as a volunteer at the local school was helping this process of assimilation and acceptance and we joined in with most activities. In conjunction with Book Week, Mitchell State School organised an annual event called Paint the Town Read. A colourfully dressed Reading Bug hatched from an egg (with the help of our local GP), and was delivered by ambulance to the school. Then all the teachers and students walked down the main street where they were joined by people from the community.

Everyone was encouraged to wear at least one piece of red clothing, carry a red balloon and participate in the event. We stood with a group of people outside the café. Red balloons, streamers and shopfront displays decorated the street. Soon we were joined by a group of Year 4 students eager to hear a story about a motorcycle gang. Coincidentally two motorcycle riders roared into town and pulled up at the café to buy lunch. This touch of authenticity was eagerly built on, much to the amusement of the young blokes from 'away'.

After a story had been read to each grade at a selection of the town's major shops, the students and many people from the community gathered together at the library for a shadow puppet play; an Aboriginal Dreamtime story created and read by Auntie Irene; and singing. The celebration of books and reading concluded with the cutting of an enormous cake cooked at the local bakery.

A tourist standing next to me, impressed by the festive atmosphere, commented, 'Have you guys had a win with your footy team?'

***

Two days later I took a walk along the river, wondering about the word 'transformation'. Without the daily challenge of angina, would my mind move into a more peaceful phase? Was I ready for change?

When change stared me in the face on that sunny afternoon, recognition dawned slowly. Every branch of my mulberry tree by the bridge, the tree that I had thought was dead, had burst into bud and was alive with the promise of things to come. Captured in rays of sunshine the tiny mulberry buds looked like stars. In Mitchell, August was spring and my mulberry tree bore evidence of magical transformation.

Rain plus warmth brings life: it quickens the pulse. That is the reality. Also a reality is the fact that, even though aware of the deciduous nature of mulberry trees, I'd been deceived by the tree's bare, dead-looking branches. It hadn't looked in hibernation mode, I thought, feeling humbled by my mistake. It looked so lifeless, but now ...

Growing with its 'feet' deep in the rich river loam, the mulberry tree spread its naked branches wide and weeping over the riverbank. Pausing on the concrete pathway, I looked towards the bridge and the murals. The tree was about 6 metres high with its uppermost branches level with the top of the murals. My eyes wandered to the stagnant pool where Snow White the egret was pretending to be a statue: so still, so serene.

From the tree to the water was 4 metres, with a drop of about 1 metre. Consequently, it was more than likely the mulberry tree's roots had access to the water in the pool. I thought of the flood markers on the Warrego Highway and the bridge; way, way above the topmost branches of the tree.

Native to Iran, my mulberry tree had survived a seven-year drought, as well as many inundations of rapidly flowing flood waters. It was a survivor.

The black mulberry ( _Morus nigra_ ) is capable of bearing fruit for hundreds of years. I wondered about this tree's age and origins. Had a flood-borne branch from an upstream town lodged in the riverbank, sprouted and grown into this tree? Or had someone, in the early days of settlement, deliberately planted a cutting on the riverbank?

Positioned so that its branches almost caressed the arms of passing walkers as they trod the route between the Major Mitchell Caravan Park and the Great Artesian Spa, this tree had witnessed the passing of thousands of travellers. Stepping off the path and onto newly sprouted grass I ran my fingers down one of the branches, and then along a sturdy twig, feeling the tiny swollen buds covered with their waterproof scales. Snow White stirred, stretched an elegant leg then took flight down the river. A faint breeze moved through the rushes and a dragonfly rose lazily into the air.

With my fingers lingering on a particularly plump bud, my mind slipped back fifty-five years, to my childhood in Melbourne.

I'm taking a jar of silkworm eggs from the refrigerator, because I've noticed that our neighbour's mulberry tree has burst into bud. I have a shoebox with a muslin covering. I spread butcher's paper over the bottom of the box, and empty the tiny oval eggs onto the paper. They are pale yellow and have been laid in neat little rows. I know that by the time my silkworm eggs hatch, the tree will have burst into leaf, providing plenty of heart-shaped leaves for my silkworms to feast upon.

Mulberry trees invariably bring to mind stories from childhood: of climbing ancient trees with lacy skirts, thick gnarled branches and knobbly bark; of feasting on luscious fruits until fingers and lips are stained a deep purple; of collecting large, rough leaves to feed to silk worms.

The grassy bank around the mulberry tree was a frequent haunt of John and his horse, Honey. The horse kept the grass well grazed; the grass kept Honey in good condition. This afternoon routine was, however, to undergo a drastic change.

An outbreak of equine influenza was confirmed by the New South Wales Department of Primary Industries on 24 August 2007. Also known as horse flu, this virus is highly contagious and by 27 August, the virus had spread from New South Wales to Queensland. With its first cases confirmed, Queensland imposed immediate strict quarantine regulations.

Horseracing and all other horse events were cancelled, and breeding programs ground to a halt. It became illegal to move horses and donkeys: anywhere, anytime. No longer could Honey graze along the river or walk through town. Confined to John's property, she would need to be fed hay and concentrates until the ban was lifted.

Our neighbours, the Cornishes, had more pressing problems. A mob of cows and calves grazing sorghum stubble had run out of feed. The calves needed to be drafted off and sold and their mothers trucked to another paddock before they started losing condition. Unfortunately their stock horses were on another property. Cornish cattle were used to being mustered using horses and dogs, not motorbikes.

As a result of the equine influenza ban on the movement of horses, the Cornishes could no longer truck or float their horses, or ride them between properties. Although horse people through and through, they were forced to borrow motorbikes to do the job.

Largey the horse could not be moved from our place. Pony club events were cancelled. Children and teenagers couldn't ride their horses around town, in the showgrounds or along the river. A whole way of life was at a standstill.

On the same day that all horse movements throughout Queensland were banned, Del had to be moved in a hurry. Suddenly she could neither sit nor urinate, and upon examining her rear end, we discovered a hugely swollen vulva. Suspecting an ant bite, we drove to the vet at Roma, thankful it was only a one-hour trip.

Being a strong, young man with expertise in immobilising large dogs, in a matter of seconds the vet had lifted Del onto the table and dropped her onto her side, saying to Doug, 'You hold this front paw and back leg, and lock her neck with your elbow.'

In a flash, the vet was examining her vulva with his free hand, while holding her top back leg with his other hand. Locked in position and stunned by the speed of the process, Del didn't utter a sound, nor did she struggle. Meanwhile I stroked her head and talked soothingly to her.

After antihistamine and antibiotic injections, and armed with more follow-up medicines, we left for home. But Del didn't suffer in silence, nor did she forget the pain of her vulva being examined. We couldn't get anywhere near the swollen tissue without her yelping and refusing to let either of us anywhere near her rear end.

Consequently, the following weeks involved a slow and steady process of desensitisation. Several times a day – when she was relaxed on her bed – I sat next to her stroking her fur, while murmuring reassurances and praise. Every session I got closer and closer to her very touchy private parts, stopping just before she reacted. At the end of every desensitisation session I gave her a food reward.

But I didn't need patience when it came to my mulberry tree. Even though no rain fell during the last eight days of August, my tree unfurled its leaves. Every day I made a pilgrimage to the tree and watched as the tight buds burst open to reveal tiny leaf shoots.

The 26°C warmth transformed the mulberry tree into something resembling a Christmas tree covered with pale but bright green lights. The leaves seemed to grow ever bigger and brighter as I gazed. Limp and delicate at first – like newly emerged butterflies – over the days the leaves expanded rapidly to full size and became rigid, exposing their large green surfaces to the energy-giving rays of the sun.

Cradling one of the large heart-shaped leaves in my hand, I traced its veins with the tips of my fingers, feeling the waterproof skin. I let my eyes wander from the topmost branches of the tree to the base of the trunk. It's like a wick, I thought, drawing water from the riverbed through the roots, trunk, branches and finally the leaves, there to lose water vapour: part of the water cycle, carbon dioxide in, water out.

Absent-mindedly I broke off the large leaf and watched the stem bleed its sap. How careless, I thought, feeling a rush of guilt. I held the leaf in my hand, feeling the rough texture of its upper surface and the soft, fine hairs of its underside. I felt its thickness and its blunt-toothed edges. What a remarkable transformation: bud to full-blown leaf. Carefully I rolled it up and put in my pocket, planning to press it on my return home. But the odour, released by the leaf in the rolling process, triggered another flood of childhood memories.

Every day I pick fresh mulberry leaves from a neighbour's tree to feed my silkworms, which have voracious appetites and never stop eating. With jaws like scissors, they cut and slice their way through the leaves, their heads moving up and down along the edges of the mulberry leaves, while hanging tenaciously onto the leaves with their sticky little feet.

A faint smell of mulberry leaves filled my nostrils, along with the memory of my caterpillars bursting out of their old skins, at regular intervals, like young children growing out of their clothes.

Silkworms were just one in a line of alternative pets I experienced through childhood. I wasn't allowed to have a dog until the youngest child was three years of age, and since my mother kept on having babies, it wasn't until teenage years that my dream to have a dog became a reality. Therefore, birds, crickets, yabbies, silkworms, frogs, lizards and so on filled my days and dreams. But most of all, I wanted a dog.

***

Within weeks of our arrival, Sally had begun guarding our place and hunting for rodents, trying to prove she was indispensable. She and Del played rough. Del, only six months old, carried Sally around by the loose skin on the back of her neck and put her into holes they'd dug together. One of the holes was full of water. Del would make Sally stay in the hole for a minute or so, and then Sally would leap out and chase Del until Del dropped with exhaustion.

Our backyard looked like a mine site with holes and mounds of earth overriding what was left of the grassed area. Although Sally was top dog, she allowed Del to roll her over and over on the ground, revelling in the rough play. Any cat that strayed onto our property was chased away by the dogs. This suited us as we were trying to attract and protect native birds by planting bird-friendly trees.

Being useful was in Sally's genes and she went to great lengths to show Doug what an excellent mouser she was in and around the sheds. Bred to hunt foxes, rabbits, hares and rodents, Sally was alert and obsessed with her work.

Sally taught Del to catch mice, which was something Del would never have thought of doing herself. When Del caught her first mouse, she didn't know what to do with it, so she let it go, whereupon Sally dived on it, gave it a quick crunch and it was dead. She seemed to say, 'That's how you do it!'

From that point onwards Del did as she was told and whenever she caught a mouse, she killed it – but she never ate mice, and neither did Sally. They worked as a team, with Sally at one end of a woodpile or pipe, and Del at the other. The unspoken communication between the dogs was plain to see.

Frequently Sally presented us with a dead mouse as a good-morning present, dropping it on the doormat, or at my feet. Licking her lips and smiling, she looked ever so pleased with herself and life in general.

But there was also a soft sooky side to this Jack Russell terrier. She desperately wanted to come inside but we didn't let her. So she made herself comfortable in a flower box by the front door, as close as possible to us and Del.

Every now and then I weakened and put one of my old woollen sweaters over the leaf litter and broken jade stems. Gratitude shone all over her scruffy little face. She wrapped herself up in the wool to keep out the frost. But why, I wondered, hadn't she gone home to her heated home and her family?

Walking with us in the late afternoons was something we didn't allow Sally to participate in. On the few occasions she did come, she chased wallabies and Del strained so hard on the lead that it was impossible to enjoy our walk. So we made her go home – the saddest spectacle ever.

But if I went on my own with Del, Sally sneaked along too; mostly out of sight. Every now and then she'd meet up with us and pretend she was surprised to see us, popping out of the undergrowth along the riverbed like a Jack-in-the-box.

One afternoon I was relaxing dreamily on the riverbank. I don't know how long I sat there or when it was that I first felt something brush my foot. Not hard, just a little weight: almost nothing. When I opened my eyes I thought I was dreaming. I was looking down at a little brown and white face and it was Sally, wagging her tail, her paw resting on my foot. Returning home, Sally sniffed in the long grass, tail swishing back and forth with excitement at all the different scents, tongue lolling.

Sally was a complex canine with attitude, incredible intelligence, high spirits and a rugged constitution – and I loved her to bits.

Another afternoon while enjoying a cup of tea with a group of neighbours on Carol and Rod's front verandah I felt something warm press against my leg. I looked down, and there of course was Sally! Gazing into my eyes her expression said clearly, 'I love you and I want everyone here to know you belong to me.'

'She's welcome to stay,' said Carol. 'She gets along well with our dogs, but she certainly has a shine for you two, which is strange behaviour for a dog that has good owners.'

'She's the sort of dog that wants company all the time,' I said, 'and her family are often away at work and school.'

'It's more than that,' said Carol.

***

On the night of a lunar eclipse – 28 August 2007 – Doug and I watched from our front verandah as the moon rose, dramatic – a huge golden disc – over the Maranoa River and the slender white-trunked river gums. Del sat beside us, strangely quiet.

A hush fell as the land slid gently into nighttime. It was absolutely still and perfectly clear. Like sapphires, the first pale stars shimmered and pulsed through the velvety darkness. Slowly the moon climbed higher and higher in the sky, flooding the land in a mysterious silvery light, ringed with a luminous pearliness. In the distance, Dave's bush ballads and guitar strumming echoed down the riverbed, from the campfire at the caravan park.

From cosy hollows in the old river gums, tiny bats emerged and flitted about catching the moths, beetles, mosquitoes and bugs attracted in their thousands to the street light and the rays of the full moon. What a feast. What magic.

Triggered by the eerie rays of moonlight flooding the town a wagtail trilled and a rooster crowed, but the dogs and cats were strangely silent. Instead, an ambulance siren wailed in the night air, followed by the fire siren. Whatever was happening out there? I wondered. But soon my thoughts turned back to the eclipse.

We watched as the moon moved into the earth's shadow. Through binoculars I witnessed the total lunar eclipse, with the moon and earth lined up so that the whole of the moon was in shadow for a while. For me, the moon looked like a luminous pearl at one point, and at another, like an embryo hanging in the eastern sky.

With my eyes fixed on the glowing lunar surface, I felt my awareness hovering on the edge of infinity, beyond understanding. I gazed at the mystical beauty of the eclipse. That much I could understand.

The day following the eclipse was my birthday – my sixty-fourth – and I chose to celebrate with a picnic lunch at the junction of the Maranoa River and Womalilla Creek, a drive of about half an hour south of Mitchell.

In a clearing carpeted with dead eucalypt leaves and surrounded by ancient river gums we parked the car and began unpacking our picnic. The 58 millimetres of rain that had fallen in Mitchell in mid-August had missed this area. The ground was bone dry and a little puff of dust stirred with every step.

It would take months of steady, soaking rain to even start repairing the damage of this prolonged drought, and years for the country to recover properly. Adaptation to climate change would be the key to survival. But would it ever rain again in the quantities needed for recovery? I wondered.

Looking up the ragged trunks and limbs of the river gums we discovered dark hollows and loose bark hideaways for possums, parrots, bats, bees, bugs and beetles. Below our picnic spot, the wide sandy bed of the Maranoa River stretched out in both directions, the giant claw-like root systems of the river gums exposed in its eroded banks.

It was another smiling blue day, with a playful wind that caressed the narrow eucalypt leaves and then gathered together a column of choking dust, and swirled it around: careless and free.

Within five minutes we had scraped bare a large area of ground and collected sufficient fallen twigs and branches from the leaf litter on the forest floor to light a small fire. Squatting down, I struck a match against a few dry, brittle gum leaves and then watched as the leaves and twigs burst into leaping flames. Smoke drifted up into the clear blue sky.

Our blackened billy took only minutes to boil, such was the heat stored in the red gum branches. Doug lifted the lid of the billy with a stick and tossed in a handful of tea, along with a twig from a river gum. Then he swung the billy over his head without spilling a single drop or dislocating his shoulder. As if in acknowledgement of his act, a butcherbird warbled from the treetops, its flute-like song hanging in the air like praise. We drank the tea, enjoying its unique flavour.

Halfway through lunch, we began noticing a steady stream of birds visiting a nearby section of Womalilla Creek: swallows, honeyeaters, wrens, finches, parrots, cockatoos, hawks and crows. On looking closer, we saw butterflies and a small brown waterhole. It was a shrunken waterhole with an obvious day-by-day lowering of the water level.

The corpse of a wallaby lay stuck in rapidly drying mud, but overhanging the scene of death and decay hung a branch of golden wattle, its blossoms like tiny balls of sunshine. In the Australian bush, those that adapt survive; the weak fall over and die. That is the harsh reality.

I looked up into the rustling leaves of a particularly ancient-looking red gum. Was this tree aware of my presence? How much could this tree feel? I wondered. These rustling, whispering leaves talked a language of their own. They created their own music.

Some people look at a tree and see only timber, chainsaws and profit. Others look with wonder at the rich diversity of life both within and around each single tree. We sat around the campfire gazing into the coals until nothing remained except a few smouldering ashes, which we doused with water.

Afterwards we crunched through the dry scrub to the river, clambered down the steep side to the riverbed and then walked several kilometres downstream. Unfortunately it was necessary for Del to be attached to a long lead, as we knew we couldn't trust her, at this age, not to chase after bounding kangaroos and wallabies. An emu stood and stared, uttered a throaty boom and then strode away downriver, its feathery skirt flapping. A grey kangaroo thumped through the scrub.

The sand was deep and yellow, and heavy underfoot. Peeling off my sneakers and socks, I stood barefoot. My feet looked white and vulnerable. I took a few wary steps, and was jabbed in the heel by something sharp enough to make me gasp. When I looked I saw it was only a tiny piece of twig. I bent down and scooped up a handful of the coarse hot grains and let them trickle from my hand, then looked around.

Footprints were etched sharply in the sand, detailing the movements and identity of every creature that had visited the dry riverbed. We felt like detectives as we examined the tracks of a centipede with its multiple feet forming a trail over the bare sand; the slithery marks of a snake's journey; the delicate, five-toed prints of a gecko; and a skink's thin-tailed track that slid into the scrub.

The distinctive meandering prints of a goanna caught Doug's attention. The marks made by its great clawed feet, thick tail and the length of its stride suggested a reptile close to 2 metres long. Then there were the numerous footprints of wallabies, kangaroos, emus and all sorts of birds. A complex and detailed story was written in the sand.

Throughout our walk, we'd seen no sign of surface water. As we retraced our steps, I took the opportunity to test the river's resources and my own ability to discern them: I'd brought my divining rods with me and now I used them. I continued my line of thought about the absence of visible water, while at the same time holding my divining rods in front of me as I scanned the riverbed for underground water. Exploring this other dimension was a fun activity that gave me a real buzz.

I'd been introduced to the mysterious art of water and mineral divining the year before, while camping at The Willows, one of four small towns sitting in the middle of one of the world's richest sapphire fields. The towns of Anakie, Rubyvale, Sapphire and The Willows combine to form the heart of the Central Queensland gemfields.

My introduction to divining came by way of a retired engineer who spent his winters at The Willows, digging for sapphires. Wearing a battered hat, khaki work shirt and shorts, and dusty boots, he took a short length of aluminium wire in each hand (as divining rods) and held them about 25 centimetres apart. Small sapphires super-glued to the end of each rod, and a sapphire under his tongue were said to aid the process. He began walking slowly around the bottom of his large hole, face dusty but eyes bright with concentration. The wires began to cross.

'This saves a lot of back-breaking work,' he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. 'I use the rods to decide where to dig next and also whether or not to bother sieving, washing and hand-sorting the buckets of gravel I dig out. I'm not keen on pick and shovel work. I don't know how the rods work, but they do work and they save me a lot of sweat and trouble. It's probably got something to do with magnetism.'

Invited to have a go, I agreed enthusiastically, and it worked for me too. I felt exhilarated and highly charged. And so, from that point onwards, I always travel with my own rods and use them, find they work and, like my teacher, don't know how or why.

There seems to be no single, simple explanation for the fact that the divining rods work for some people. There are many theories: electromagnetic disturbances, changes in magnetic fields, magnetism, the power of conviction, radiant energy, certain psychic faculties, perhaps even an earth force.

One common factor seems to be that people who produce a lot of static electricity are more likely to respond positively to divining rods. This certainly applies to me; I am always getting electric shocks from car doors, metal gates – and even certain people.

Of course there are sceptics, the disbelievers who think divining for water and minerals is just a lot of mumbo-jumbo. But I don't care; the rods work for me, and most of the fossickers at The Willows ask Brian to check out their digging sites prior to serious digging.

Now in the riverbed, I found only one place where the rods crossed, but they did cross strongly.

'If I had a spade,' said Doug, 'I'd be tempted to dig and see if there is water here. But I bet there is, knowing you.'

This statement, made from my science-trained, sceptical husband was enlightening – at least to me.

For dinner that night we enjoyed steamed home-grown greens and baked pumpkin with juicy, tender eye fillet steak from our local butcher. Meat from this arid region is the best I've tasted. I'd had the best ever birthday.

***

During August the Cornish family needed to go away for ten days, so Doug offered to care for their animals at home. We saw quite a bit of the Cornishes. Not formally, just five minutes here and ten minutes there, in a relaxed ripening of friendship and trust.

Horsemanship is not something Doug has had experience in. Nevertheless his offer included Largey, and this put Doug on a steep learning curve. Fortunately Largey is a quiet horse and quite forgiving when Doug made mistakes fumbling with the straps, buckles and clips of the heavy wool-lined canvas rug. The rug needed to be thrown over his very tall back every evening, and taken off in the morning, and mostly Largey stood patiently, accepting Doug's inexperience as well as his stroking hands and kind words.

Every now and then though, Largey got impatient for his food and tossed his head, snorted and butted Doug's elbow – especially if Sally was around, dancing between Largey's feet. A biscuit of hay and a container of grain and horse mix was Largey's reward for the completion of the horse rug procedure.

The five hens had a morning routine of being let out and fed vegetable scraps, then put back in their shed at night and fed mixed grain. In addition, there were eggs to collect, large brown ones; although the hens were getting old, and the eggs fewer. We'd had ducks, chooks and geese ourselves on various properties. On King Island in particular we'd enjoyed the experience, due largely to the absence of foxes, which meant our poultry could live free.

The two caged budgies came to live on our front verandah and cheered us with their chatter. At night we moved them to the laundry. Their lively, happy personalities reminded me of our last budgie, Shamrock, who was finger-tame and lived free in our home, with her cage her bedroom and feeding station. She was a delight.

Finally there were the two cattle dogs, Kaiser and Roxy, the new pup. Kaiser lives to work cattle, thrilling in the task of stalking, rounding up, darting forward, and moving rapidly from left to right. She controls the cattle with her eyes, shrill barks and, as a last resort, quick sharp nips on the heels of uncooperative cattle.

Both dogs look happiest when on the back of Rob's truck, their ears pricked and tails wagging. But they were also used to spending large amounts of time on their chains, so that's where they stayed for the ten days, with Doug giving them a couple of runs every day, as well as dry food and bones.

So great was the feeling of contentment within our home on this last day of August 2007 that Trim stopped sucking his tail. This revolting habit had begun when he was a kitten, as a result of being so thoroughly rejected by Katie. Traumatised by her hissing and spitting, he sucked his tail for comfort. After four months, Katie accepted his presence and we tried everything we could think of to stop Trim's tail sucking habit, but nothing had worked – until now.

Mitchell magic had worked its spell.

Chapter 5

The Mighty Maranoa

In contrast to autumn, which usually lingers, spring whizzed into summer. It was only September yet suddenly the removal of flannelette sheets from our bed was top priority.

Meeting people from away is one of the many riches of living in Mitchell: it gives a sense of connection to the outside world. During the week prior to, and the week following the first weekend of September, the traffic that passed through Mitchell was heavy. There were increased numbers of sedans, four-wheel drives towing caravans, and busloads of people from Brisbane, most making stopovers in Mitchell on their way to and from the Birdsville Races.

For the first time in its 125-year history, the horseracing at Birdsville was cancelled, due to the equine influenza outbreak and the ban on all horse movements. The event itself, however, was not cancelled: the Birdsville Races would be an historic horse-free event.

I'd never been to this south-west corner of Queensland, much less to the Birdsville Races, yet felt caught up in the excitement of this famous annual race meeting where the tiny Queensland town of Birdsville swells from about 120 people to 6000. It reminded me of our Phillip Island population of 7000 expanding to about 80,000 during the peak of the summer holidays and for the motorcycle Grand Prix.

Many of these travellers stopped at Mitchell for the night at the caravan park or motel, and had a spa. For others it was a lunchtime or coffee stopover.

The Mitchell café was perfect for Jeff and Harry who roared in on their off-road motorcycles, loaded up with swags and other camping gear. After stripping off their helmets, gloves and leather jackets they sat down next to us, out in the sunshine and surrounded by pink petunias and kangaroo statues.

Jeff had ridden from Melbourne to Brisbane to meet up with Harry. The two friends – both in their mid-twenties and sporting challenging tattoos – were riding the 1587-kilometre stretch between Brisbane and Birdsville as if it were no distance at all. Conversation flowed between our two tables about motorcycles, the Phillip Island Grand Prix and the Birdsville Races.

'There'll be plenty of grog and betting and fun out there,' said Harry, biting into a monstrous steak sandwich. 'We'll have a great time, horses or not.'

From another table, a young man sporting a new Akubra hat said to everyone in general, 'G'day folks. I've heard there's a yabby race, somewhere between here and Birdsville. Does anyone know which town it's in?'

'Windorah,' chipped in someone from another table, 'on Wednesday night.'

Like Mitchell, Birdsville owes its existence to an artesian bore. There is a difference though, in that the near-boiling artesian water at Birdsville drives a hydro-electric turbine to produce electricity, whereas at Mitchell the artesian water feeds into the spa complex.

The spa continued to be a favourite haunt of ours, with its bubbling artesian water and pools. On most occasions though, I was more than content to enjoy coffee out on the deck, relaxing in a pool of sunshine. On another bright morning in the lead-up to the races a couple in their fifties, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, sat at an adjoining table. They were from Brisbane.

'When we get to Birdsville, I'll go to the pub and have a beer with the locals,' said the man, 'and find out the best places to go fishing.'

'And birdwatching,' added his wife, her fingers resting on an expensive set of binoculars perched on the top of a green canvas bag.

I kept my mouth shut, thinking the man would be lucky to catch sight of a local, and even luckier if that local told him the whereabouts of the best waterholes. These were usually closely guarded secrets and inquiries were met with a glazed expression, _except_ in Mitchell where Bernadette at the hardware was generous in her advice to fishermen and campers.

Water, birds and fish; usually they go together, but somehow they seem an unlikely trio in this far south-west corner of Queensland. Yet the name Birdsville came about because of the many birds attracted to the waterholes and fish along the Diamantina River.

What a great blend of interests, I thought; fishing and birdwatching. Both recreational fishing, and observing and identifying different types of birds revolve around bodies of water: the ocean, estuaries, lakes and inland waterways. Yes, this couple would travel well, with purpose, mental stimulation and enjoyment along the way.

Two days later, while we were walking Del up Cambridge Street, a smartly dressed couple in their sixties stopped to stroke our dog.

'We've got a German shepherd too,' the woman said, 'but he's old and we've left him in Melbourne with our daughter. I'm missing him dreadfully – '

A new Land Rover, hooked up to an equally new off-road van was parked nearby. 'We're on our way to the Birdsville Races,' the man said, smoothing his neatly trimmed moustache, 'then we'll continue on down the Birdsville Track to Marree.'

It was a dream he'd held onto for years, partly for the challenge of driving the 517-kilometre track, and partly because of its history as one of Australia's first and major stock routes servicing Queensland's Channel Country and skirting the vast Simpson Desert.

In the late 1800s, the Birdsville Track was a rough and hazardous route suited only to outback drovers and camel trains. Over the years, however, the track has been upgraded to take trucks and sturdy vehicles, including the four-wheel drive of this couple standing chatting to us at the kerbside.

'I hope the drought doesn't decide to break while we're on the track,' said the woman, fiddling with a cluster of diamond rings.

'It's not likely,' I said, watching a flicker of nervousness pass over her face as she considered this, their first adventure into outback Australia. These outback trips put stress on many women and I guessed she had other concerns as well, such as missing her daughter and grandchildren – and her German shepherd.

On the first weekend in September – the peak of the Birdsville festivities – we received an invitation to Mel and Adam's home. Mel and Adam McEvoy are relative newcomers to Mitchell. Five years ago, Adam heard of a business for sale in Mitchell, and after talking it over with Mel, the couple decided to pack up their home in Brisbane and head for the outback.

'For us, the timing was ideal,' said Mel, 'considering our family was just beginning. I like to think Mitchell chose us rather than the usual way you find yourself in a place and time.'

Today, Mel and Adam's children – Ronan and Lily – enjoy their dogs, hens, ducks, cubby houses, flowers, vegetable garden and orchard, spacious lawns, and large spreading trees, perfect for climbing.

'Mitchell was my introduction to life in a small outback town,' said Mel, 'and I couldn't ask for better.'

Adam and Mel's home looks deceptively humble from the street. Mel's creative flair and gentle artistic ways are obvious, however, the minute you step from the large deck into the spacious, modern living room with its polished timber floors and white walls decorated tastefully with paintings and artwork. Mel's art and pottery room suggest talent and commitment.

Adam is a tall, dark young man who owns and manages his own business in town, manufacturing and selling agricultural stock feed supplements from a factory in the industrial estate. Quietly spoken and passionate about Mitchell, Adam is one of the key people involved in the Action Group.

Ronan and Lily escorted us to their brightly painted bedrooms decorated with their favourite books and toys, and then whizzed us outside onto the large deck and then down into the garden to meet their bouncy dog.

Mel is a full-time mother with a warm, welcoming charm, and by the end of the evening l felt our friendship had begun to deepen.

***

Often I would pause in my walk at the old crossing and imagine the gravel road as a simple bush track crossing the river by means of a natural rock ledge. The old crossing was – in the dry – a relatively easy means of crossing the Maranoa River. When the river flooded, though, it was a different story. This, the fastest-flowing river in Queensland, became a raging torrent. It was very dangerous to attempt a crossing when the river was in flood, and lives had been lost in consequence.

Described in the mid-1800s to the mid-1900s as 'the only stoppage between Darwin and Brisbane', the old crossing was a busy place with horse and buggy outfits, drovers' wagons and camel trains following one another across the causeway.

In the early twentieth century several concrete crossings were built so the road could be re-opened quickly once the floodwaters subsided. In the 1920s and 1930s, as motor cars and trucks began taking the place of horses, bullocks and camels, there was more pressure to build proper roads and a bridge.

***

The 4th annual Eisteddfod was held at the Roma Cultural Centre in September. Open to all solo instruments, small and large ensembles, singing, dance, speech and drama, local talent in the fine arts was on display. There were many entrants from Mitchell, including the two bands.

Sitting beside Kaitlyn's mother, grandmother and sister, I shared their growing anxiety as the moment approached for eleven-year-old Kaitlyn to walk alone up onto that vast stage, carrying her large euphonium. How wonderful, I thought, to be here watching one of my star writing pupils perform. Once on stage, Kaitlyn had us transfixed as she played a haunting rendition of 'Land of Hope and Glory' with a piano accompaniment. Technically near-perfect and loaded with emotion, the melody sent shivers down my spine, touching my soul.

Kaitlyn won her class, Brass/Percussion Solo – Primary, receiving a gold medallion, certificate and report for excellence and effort. What a great opportunity to perform to an audience and to be commented on by an adjudicator. With tears in my eyes I gave her a hug.

As a nine-year-old I learned to play the recorder at school, and then went on to have private piano lessons. My only experience on stage was playing piano duets with my brother at Sunday School concerts held at the Box Hill Town Hall, in Melbourne. I was too young to feel unduly anxious. I also sang in school choirs.

My interest in classical music was due largely to my grandfather who introduced me to piano and organ recitals in the city. As a teenage pianist Beethoven's 'Für Elise' was my favourite piece to play. At the present time though, James Galway's flute music and John Williamson are my preferred music. But it's likely to be something different next year.

Music, reading and writing, pottery and art take me away from the dreary and often complex conflicts of life, lifting me into a space where my mind floats in harmony with the universe. Inevitably, though, it's not long before I'm brought back to the reality of life in a town where something always seems to be happening and opportunities for new friendships keep coming forward: young and old.

***

Lockie's backyard in Mitchell needs to be kept neatly mown because it is mostly used as a fishing ground. This six-year-old is the sort of kid who stands on the patio with his fishing rod, practice-casting into the backyard – all afternoon.

Gone are the days when Lockie had to sit for hours on end untangling a badly knotted fishing line. Ending up with a 'bird's nest' reel is rare these days. The distance of his casts and accuracy are impressive.

'There's a lure in nearly every branch of every tree in our backyard,' said his mother, laughing. 'Plastic fish, lizards, snakes and any other small thing he can find.'

Lockie lives close to the Maranoa River. His grandparents (Robin and Helen) own and run Mitchell Hardware, with Lockie's mother Leanne and Aunt Bernadette, important employees. And just like the rest of Lockie's extended family, his every spare moment is taken up with fishing.

The track into the waterhole was still a bit muddy after the 75 millimetres of rain that had fallen the previous week. Three vehicles parked on a dry bank and everyone piled out – kids, brothers, sisters, aunties, fiancés, friends and two large dogs. It was only a short walk to the water's edge.

Late-afternoon sunshine flooded the river. Rushes grew tall and green on the sandy bank. The water shimmered a silvery blue-brown, stretching downstream to the weir wall and upstream to Fisherman's Rest and the setting sun. The air was breathless with anticipation.

Everyone (except us) threw in a ground line baited with a yabby, and then the serious casting began. Fishing is most definitely 'in the blood' and it's easy to see why this family chooses to live in Mitchell.

'I've got a T-shirt that says _Barra Expert_ ,' said Lockie, after a faultless cast, 'and I'm learning to spell barramundi.'

This is true. In Grade 1, whenever Lockie is asked to write something, he always writes about fishing. Over and over he practises the names, determined to learn all the spellings.

Lockie is better at knots than most of the adults lined up on the bank and often gets the job of tying on lures. No one was catching anything. But lures worth up to $30 each were getting caught up in water weed and snags. One of the blokes stripped off, dived into the water and swam out to retrieve some. There are no crocodiles, sharks, stingrays or marine stingers here, but there are king browns that swim – and fast.

Sara the bull mastiff and Polly the Great Dane stepped carefully over rods, line and tackle; stayed close and did not bark or venture into the water. Mostly Sara sat at Bernadette's feet. When the dog thought someone had caught a fish, her floppy lips quivered and her broad chest heaved but she remained like a statue beside Bernadette, never putting a foot wrong. This is one very sensitive and sooky bull mastiff. It's easy to see the empathy flowing between the young woman and her dog, and her nephew, Lockie.

A pelican flapped lazily downstream, while galahs squabbled in the topmost branches of the red gums lining the bank. The smell of eucalyptus hung in the air. The sun set in the western sky. As the full moon rose – beaming its silvery light across the water – a full-throated frog orchestra boomed into action. Still nobody landed a fish.

It was at times like this that the original inhabitants of this land came to mind. According to local Aboriginal people, Mundagutta the serpent spirit protects all waterholes of the Maranoa and keeps kids safe from drowning. Aboriginal people are often seen down at the river fishing for yellowbellies, and yabby-catching is a favourite pastime for the children. Expeditions to collect bush tucker are also popular with delicacies such as wild lemons, native cherries, wild oranges, emu apples, bush passionfruits, sandpaper figs and black currants there for the picking.

'The bush is our supermarket,' said elder Lynette Nixon, 'it's all out there.'

Often on a Sunday morning, a small group of Aboriginal women head out into the bush with Aunty Irene to learn about and record details of native plants and their uses for bush medicine and bush tucker. For over 50,000 years Aboriginal people have hunted and gathered and looked after country along rivers such as the Maranoa.

Lockie cast out 20 metres, towards the steeply sloping far bank. He aimed his fluorescent lure at a snag where a fish could be resting. Perhaps the mix of movement, colour and flash would attract a yellowbelly. Fallen red gum trunks and branches make valuable resting and breeding places for the freshwater fish living in this river system. Fringe weed beds and the muddy nature of the water help protect the fish from birds of prey. When hunting for food, these inland fish rely on sound and vibrations as well as sight.

Lockie willed the fish to make a strike. All of a sudden he jerked his reel and exclaimed, 'I've got one!'

'Steady, mate,' warned his uncle. 'Take it nice and slow. Don't let it get behind the log. Remember that seven-pounder landed here only a couple of days ago.'

The water shimmered with a silvery sheen, and there breaking the surface was a yellowbelly, and a good-sized one too, putting up quite a fight. Lockie reeled in the fish like an expert. On the grassy bank everyone clapped and cheered. Cameras flashed. Lockie is one formidable fisherman in the making.

'Good on you, mate!' said his uncle. 'That's a good strong fish, at least a four-pounder.'

***

During the week following the Birdsville Races hundreds of people again passed through Mitchell on their return journeys. The breakdown of a tourist bus added to the numbers, with passengers ferried the short distance to Mitchell where accommodation was arranged. By the time everyone was placed there wasn't a bed left in town. The pubs, café and roadhouses worked flat-out to feed the extra people who spilled into the main street, continuing the party atmosphere of Birdsville.

'There were no horses or donkeys or camels,' said a man, 'no thundering of hooves around the dirt track. And not much dust either. But about 4000 people showed up, and there was a boxing tent and stacks of sideshows and stalls.'

'We spent a lot of time sitting around campfires and talking,' said his partner, a large-boned woman with a round face. 'But there were other things to see like hobby-horse and toy-horse races, and wheelie-bin racing too. They were pretty funny.'

'There was a Fashions in the Field display,' added a younger woman, 'and a band, country singing and a DJ at the hotel. But there wasn't a ball this year.'

She looked wistful. 'But we'll come again next year. Hopefully this equine flu business will be over by then and the horseraces will be back.'

After the people and buzz of the Birdsville Races, Mitchell settled back into its own pace and our routines returned to normal. Twice every week I drove to Mitchell State School and took my special writing groups, and once a fortnight Doug volunteered with the Mitchell Emergency Services Cadet group.

Mitchell Cadets give the youth of Mitchell the opportunity to learn skills that will help them serve their community. First aid, search and rescue, firefighting and flood rescue work are the main skills taught to this group of about a dozen boys and girls aged thirteen years plus. This is a Queensland Government program, under the umbrella of the Department of Emergency Services.

Impressed by the program and the dedication of the leaders, Doug offered to assist. With a background in scouting and as a secondary school teacher, Doug felt he could contribute to the program, and in this way help teenagers make their community a safer place.

The paperwork required for Doug to be a volunteer was considerable. First there was the blue card with a police check, then two character references, a career history and medical details. This information had to be approved and signed by various authorities.

Every two weeks the cadets meet at the council meeting rooms and some aspect of emergency training is demonstrated and practised. Doug participates in the first-aid training, which includes CPR using training manikins and learning the procedures for dealing with broken bones and strains, shock, snake and spider bites, bleeding and poisoning. Although the larger aims of the group are serious, the meetings are often filled with laughter, especially when the cadets bandaged Doug's balding head and splinted his leg.

Search and rescue exercises are popular, especially since they combine nighttime work, first aid and radio communications. The cadets learned to do a line search, eventually discovering a strategically placed manikin 'stuck' under a pile of wood.

Two of the girls I taught at school were in the cadet program; one wanted to be a nurse, the other a vet. Both girls had a great appreciation of the emergency services within the town, and the hard work the leaders put into the program.

The older cadets are protective of the younger ones, walking them home after the meeting, laughing and chatting along the way. The very fact that it is safe to walk home at 8.15 p.m. is a feature of Mitchell. As was the ever-present drought, it seemed.

It would be easy, I thought, for a city person to drive through Mitchell, see the haze of green and believe that the drought had broken. But it was a _green_ drought, with the subsoil bone-dry. The great dry continued, with crows and other carrion-feeders the only obvious winners.

Thirty minutes' drive south of Mitchell revealed an even starker picture: bleached, brittle paddocks with no green at all, parched leaves and shrivelled shrubs, with a layer of fine orange dust choking everything. Like a mass poisoning, dead trees scarred the landscape, while despairing talk sapped the hopes and dreams of struggling property owners.

In the riverbed, the pools were shrinking into ugly brown puddles, with sticks and rubbish poking through the surface scum. I wondered how long Snow White the egret would stay.

Noticing that Stego's skin looked dry, I began the routine of giving him a bath in the laundry trough every three days or so. I let him soak in the cool shallow water and lap with his large fleshy blue tongue for as long as he wanted, before returning him – refreshed – to his enclosure and hand-feeding him snails and banana.

Usually Stego eats five or six snails in a row, followed by four pieces of ripe banana. Each snail is crunched to remove the shell, then the shell spat out and the flesh swallowed. The banana he licks first, and then takes from my hand, gives a few chews and then swallows. Every now and then I feel his tongue touch my finger, a sensation so soft I can scarcely feel it; in contrast to his mouth which is rock-hard.

Three or four times every year Stego sheds his skin, emerging even more handsome. I noticed that following each moult he looked to be a little larger and most definitely younger. In fact, over the twenty years Stego has been in our care, he's never looked better. In reality though, he's an extremely old lizard, aged over 35 years. I find myself wondering how much longer he can live, and what is the record lifespan of a stumpy-tailed lizard?

***

One afternoon in September, my walk along the river revealed a transformation that filled me with delight: my mulberry tree was covered with flowers. Each short, green pendulous catkin would, when pollinated, swell, change colour and texture, and then become succulent, fat and full of juice.

Taking hold of a branch I looked closely, seeing how each flower sat neatly in the junction of a leaf stalk and stem, on the upper side. The tree promised abundance.

***

Listening is a skill I've learned over the years, and so I absorbed the stories and troubles of people caught up in this devastating drought. The Warren Point Poll Hereford Bull Sale, located on the eastern banks of the Maranoa River – just a little downstream from us and over the other side – brought home to me just how desperate was the plight of cattle producers.

It had been a struggle to present a team of top quality stud bulls, but the Lethbridge family had achieved their goal, in spite of the drought. Founded in 1938, Warren Point Poll Herefords are a blend of the best blood lines. Disappointingly though, buyers for the bulls were few and far between. If you didn't have feed you didn't put bulls out with your cows; and in any case, the number of breeding cows in the district was at an all-time low.

Having been breeders of stud Poll Herefords and stud Angus cattle, we understood the expertise and work involved in putting forward top quality bulls for sale. This magnificent property was on its knees, along with every other property in the district.

Many of the smaller properties had cashed in all their assets and investments, just to survive. They had rounded up feral goats and sold them to help put food on the table; they had shot kangaroos and feral pigs as an alternative way of earning a living from their land – just to keep them afloat. Crops had long since withered and died.

The women were hardworking, resourceful and watched every cent, growing as much of their own food as possible. Yet they were generous too, giving away home-grown vegetables and eggs, and volunteering their precious time and energy to community groups like schools, sporting organisations and the local hospital.

The spirit of mateship was stronger than ever. It didn't matter how battered the hat, calloused the hands, wrinkled the face, or desperate the mortgage; men and women stuck together with fierce optimism, wanting a fair go, willing the rain to come.

Some even prayed.

With drought so much on everyone's mind, weather forecasts and reports were of vital importance. Much to the frustration of the locals, though, Mitchell was often left out of weather forecasts and reports. It was almost as if we didn't exist.

Our efficient and friendly post office – established in 1893 – is, however, proof of our existence. Every day of the year, at 9 a.m. and 3 p.m., Lynette and Steve Hancock record the temperature, rainfall, wind speed and rate of evaporation for Mitchell, and send the information to the Bureau of Meteorology. Perhaps with no prospect of rain the weather bureau had given up on Mitchell. Yet, in 1890, the Queensland Government chose Mitchell as the site of one in a chain of meteorological stations. This was one of the earliest weather recording and predicting systems in the world.

The Mitchell Post Office is a place where people stand around and talk, a place where you inevitably bump into someone and strike up a conversation. For some, this is their only social event for the day. Lynette and her staff know all their customers by name, offer personal service, a friendly face and a ready smile. The small room, packed full of Mitchell souvenirs and postal merchandise, is frequently filled with conversation and laughter. No postal challenge is ever too great and all manner of queries are attended to with good humour.

We collected our mail from a bank of private boxes, and paid various accounts, organised insurance and did banking if required. A noticeboard located alongside the private mailboxes contains a wealth of local information and is always worth a look. Times have certainly changed with the advent of the Internet and mobile phones, but these inventions will never replace mail and the all-important post office. Letters are still important to many people.

After living and farming on King Island in Bass Strait for seven years we know what it's like to live in a remote community, especially one that is frequently left off maps. In spite of King Island's famous cream and crayfish, as well as its cheeses, beef and kelp, maps of Australia often fail to include the island, much to the dismay of the locals.

Mitchell too is left off many maps, even though it's located right on the Warrego Highway between Roma and Charleville. The fact that it sits on the main route between Brisbane, Mount Isa and Darwin, and has landscaped artesian pools means it _should_ be on maps.

Mail runs from the Mitchell Post Office deliver mail to hundreds of remote, outlying properties. Always eager for new experiences, Doug accepted the offer to go as passenger on a mail run to Mount Owen one day, and Mount Moffat the next.

The one-tonne four-wheel drive ute is well able to handle the 400-kilometre return run over dirt roads, rough gravel, potholes and sand. As well as delivering mailbags, newspapers and parcels, and picking up mail, the truck delivers orders from the supermarket, pharmacy, hardware, baker, and various other businesses in Mitchell. Also on board are bags of stock feed, boxes of parts, soil testing and water testing kits, drums of oil and tyres.

Due to the extreme dry weather, the demand for stock licks was huge. These licks, manufactured by our new friend Adam, provide essential minerals and vitamins, urea and molasses to make dry grass more digestible and nutritious.

A running commentary on who lived where, and what they did proved fascinating for Doug, who had never travelled in this country before. Wildlife seen from the road included numerous sand goannas, snakes, dragons, a stumpy-tailed lizard, emus with chicks, kangaroos, eagles and hawks – along with associated roadkill.

In the old days, Cobb and Co coaches clattered over rough tracks carrying the all-important mail from Roma via many stations and small towns to Charleville – a mail service that began in 1876.

With eighteen deliveries and pick-ups on the Mount Owen run and twenty-five on the Mount Moffat run, Doug was in and out of the vehicle, and loading and unloading much of the time. He arrived home full of admiration for the people who live and work in such remote and difficult conditions, yet make the most of it, remaining cheerful and strong.

I continued to watch and listen as the community tightened its belt one more notch. In spite of the drought these resilient people were determined to socialise and have fun. Events such as school fetes, garden days, football and golf distracted attention away from the harsh reality of the prolonged drought, as well as strengthening community ties and friendships. It wasn't all bad, by any means.

For me, the highlight of the school fete was the spontaneous delight and friendliness shown to me by the girls I taught. As I wandered around the stalls that were selling cakes, biscuits and slices, free-range eggs and home-grown vegetables, jams and pickles, second-hand books, succulents and cacti, native trees, and arts and crafts, there were friends and neighbours smiling, saying 'Hello', and stopping to chat.

Everywhere there was colour, happy faces, fun things to see and do, and people to meet – including Mel, Adam and their two young children who were enjoying sausages wrapped in bread, from the sausage sizzle. A new bouncing castle for the kids, supervised by the council youth officer and Rotary volunteers, was a huge success. How easy it is, I thought, to please these children of the outback.

Music was provided by the Mitchell Band who played to an appreciative audience on green grass in front of the school, surrounded by stalls, flower beds and trees. Two of my students were part of the band and I found myself experiencing an intense sense of loyalty and pride in their performance.

On the afternoon of the same day, the Mitchell Mud Rats organised one of their three-times yearly events: a Mud Derby and Burnout held at the Mitchell RSL Complex at a course designed specifically for the event. The circuit contains six or so large hollows that are filled with water a few days beforehand to create mud.

Once again, there was the thrill of knowing some of the competitors: Deb, the policewoman, and Katie, the doctor's wife were driving a snazzy purple car called _Moo_ ; a young woman who worked at the pharmacy drove a modified VW called _The Lil Bug_ ; the butcher had a ute for burnouts; one of my students was a co-driver with her father; and Jayden from the café had a bright yellow mud buggy called _Lady Muck_.

In an arid region suffering the grips of prolonged drought, roaring around in mud sounded good psychology, and it was.

Teams of enthusiasts had rebuilt old, rusted or smashed-up cars into fierce-looking mud buggies. There were certain rules and regulations, buggy inspections, and insurance and entry fees. But apart from that, it was a casual event that drew a moderate-sized crowd.

Painted bright colours and given names such as _The Hearse, Angry, Mud Monster_ and _Brutal,_ one buggy at a time – at the signal of a chequered flag – did a timed circuit around the track and through deep pools of mud. A front-end loader pulled the buggies out of bogs, while sprays of rust-coloured mud flew high in the air.

It was an afternoon of sunshine, sunglasses and sun hats; of roaring hotted-up engines, and clouds of petrol fumes, dust and pollen. We sat on folding canvas chairs in the wind, drinking Coke and talking to Lynette from the post office, Glen and many of the others gathered around. Young girls with ponytails and face piercings hosed down their buggies between circuits, mud-splattered and beaming.

Towards the end of the afternoon, competitive burnouts on a concrete pad wound up the event. There was plenty of water and foam, squealing of tyres, smoke and the smell of burnt rubber. Then a BANG as a tyre blew out and the crowd burst into applause. Volunteers swept up the rubber from the concrete pad and proudly held up their trophies – long strips of rubber tyre.

Prizes were given out at the conclusion of the event, but it was the adrenalin-pumping buzz of the racing itself that was the true reward, pulling together this crowd from all walks of life, including the emergency services. Little kids capped off the event by stripping themselves of all clothes and running races through the mud.

From the Mud Derby, I drove back into Mitchell past a group of teenagers skateboarding at the skate park. It seemed a day of thrills and spills. But I was on my way to the writers' group meeting, where we planned to discuss our favourite picture storybooks. Talk progressed to stories and photographs of the Maranoa River in flood.

It roared when in full flow and you could hear it from several streets away, everyone said. This river was getting under my skin and already most of our friends and neighbours knew of my wish to see the river flow and roar before our departure in December. I wanted to hear the river coming, get the feel of its flow. Perhaps if I wished hard enough the drought might break.

Meanwhile, Doug went home from the Mud Derby to continue work on his shed. Recycled building materials (collected from the town rubbish tip) were used to construct his workbench, on which he mounted a drill. On another small portable bench he set up a metal cut-off saw. There were power tools – including a chainsaw, air compressor and an electric welder – stored on shelves beneath the bench, and a grinder mounted on a bracket on the wall, all within a simple corrugated iron and timber structure built in the 1950s.

On return from my writers' meeting I found Doug bent over his workbench concentrating on repairing an oil pump from his 1950 Norton motorcycle using my grandfather's ninety-year-old dental tools, originally used to clean scale and scum from between teeth in his Camberwell dental practice in Melbourne. Now the tools were being used for the very fine cleaning away of scum and scale from a sixty-year-old Norton oil pump. It seems that teeth and oil pumps have similar problems.

White pegboard lined the freshly painted walls. Hammers, spanners, fencing pliers, saws, clamps and so on hung neatly on the walls, like pictures. Gardening tools, nuts and bolts, and nails, shone with a sheen seldom seen down south. Rust – the trademark of the salty winds and gales that lash Phillip Island – is absent here.

I noticed another small part of Doug's Norton motorcycle that was held securely in a vice. Gazing into its intricacies I watched as he inserted a tiny screw.

Doug is a man who knows how to make machines work, who can turn his hand to anything mechanical and practical. With an ability to fix things and a desire to be forever busy, Doug's shed complex is an ever-expanding structure – his kingdom. Collect together a few of his friends, and there is talk of clutches and carburettors as they bend over disembowelled motorcycle engines.

There had been a lot of banging, sawing and clanging in the shed for some weeks, but the latest project was nearing completion. Doug was on the lookout for a metal lathe and some more old motorcycles to rebuild. He was putting out feelers here and there, and getting a few leads. I was aware of a simple fact: every man needs a shed, a place in which to solve problems in an atmosphere of peace and solitude – away from the house.

My husband is happiest when wearing the uniform of the outback: work boots, long-sleeved shirt and jeans with soiled knees (because he is always dropping to his knees to fix something or other), along with a weather-beaten Akubra hat located close at hand. Usually Del and Sally were by his side, with Sally sniffing amongst boxes, looking for mice – forever useful.

The following afternoon I took Del for a walk along the river and stopped, of course, at my mulberry tree. Standing on the concrete path, I looked into its untidy tangled mass of growth. This tree had never been pruned. With lots of branches too high and difficult to reach, there would be plenty of fruit for the birds. But that was good.

Looking closely at one of the branches, I saw that the flowers had transformed into small green berries. Soon they'd begin to plump and redden and then turn black, dripping with juice.

Sunshine streamed down onto the lush canopy of heart-shaped leaves. The tree's roots sucked goodness from the deep river loam, while at the same time tapping into the underground water lying beneath the dry riverbed. Lying hidden in the leaves, like treasure, were thousands of tiny mulberries.

***

With no shortage of offstage drama occurring in Mitchell, it came as no surprise that _Dust_ _,_ the musical – written and directed by local high school teacher Leeton Shepherd – was embraced by the community. In addition, it received the 2009 Australia Day Cultural Award.

This musical is a modern-day outback take on the world-famous musical _Grease_. Mitchell State School students from Years 8, 9 and 10 gave performances over two nights, with audiences of over 150 enthusiastic locals each night. Students were also involved in the creation of the sets, lighting and sound. This production was entertaining and great fun, providing students with the opportunity to explore the performing arts and to deliver public performances.

Five of my students held key roles, which made the musical especially significant for me. I felt a glow of pride as I watched their performance – noticed them noticing me.

***

Ever since arriving in Mitchell we'd borrowed a lot of books from the library, especially books about the area. The history relating to Sir Thomas Mitchell's fourth expedition to map an overland route from Sydney to Port Essington (Darwin) was of particular interest. Major Mitchell hoped that the Maranoa River would prove to be part of a river system linking inland New South Wales and Queensland to the Gulf of Carpentaria. He called his imaginary river system the great Kindur River.

In 1846 Major Mitchell established a base camp beside the Maranoa River, 35 kilometres north of Mitchell. We decided to spend the day exploring the area. Mitchell noted in his diary the discovery of extensive downs watered by a fine river. These were evident as we travelled up the Forest Vale Road, although minus the abundant grasses that had covered the area in 1846. A faint haze of green had appeared though, after the rain in mid-August. But it was a green drought. The trees and large shrubs looked desiccated.

Only weeks beforehand, on another excursion, we had stumbled upon a cliff studded with fossilised seashells. These cliffs rise about 20 metres from the sandy bed of the Maranoa River at a place called Sladdies, located less than 1 kilometre from Mitchell.

At one stage I split open a rock about the size of my clenched hand and there, right in front of my eyes was an exquisite seashell. In awe I thought, I'm the first person to see this fossil, this seashell which has been preserved for millions of years and was once living and breathing in a vast inland sea.

These primitive fossilised seashells are estimated to be about 120 million years old. Intensely curious and looking closely, I rummaged through a pile of fallen stones, splitting some more with my hammer. Reminded of Charles Darwin and his fascination with fossils, I'd fossicked for hours, finally forced home by the fading light and the hum of mosquitoes.

It was difficult to imagine the plains surrounding Mitchell as the bed of an inland sea, especially in view of the distance to the coast – over 600 kilometres. Nevertheless I tried as we continued on towards our destination, the actual site of Mitchell's base camp. I visualised a shallow sea teeming with marine plants, shellfish, lungfish, turtles, crocodiles and other marine reptiles, then fast-forwarded my imagination to 1846. Major Mitchell would have seen these same plains clothed in a mighty sea of grasses. With global warming and climate change, I wondered if we would ever again receive sufficient rainfall to transform these drought-stricken plains back into a place of plenty.

The road was dead straight as far as the eye could see; a ribbon of black bitumen bordered by red earth, sharp lines drawn across a dull green cypress and mulga landscape. Stands of white cypress pine ( _Callitris glaucophylla)_ grew in areas of infertile soil, their aromatic, needle-like leaves forming small shapely trees. The bark was rough and dark brown. Cypress pines are survivors.

Currently, some property owners were pulling mulga to feed drought-starved cattle and sheep. Others were feeding them cottonseed. The problem of dingoes and packs of wild dogs attacking, mauling and killing livestock was sometimes the straw that broke the camel's back. As we approached the Dingo Barrier Fence, Doug slowed down, but I tensed as the ute clunked over the cattle grid, relaxing only when we came to a standstill on the other side of the fence – the dingo side.

Stepping out onto the gritty dust of the roadside, well off the bitumen, I looked along the fence 'wings' leading towards the grid. A box containing a high-frequency solar-powered buzzer was positioned inside a small cage beside the grid.

In theory, this is sufficient deterrent to stop dingoes crossing from the north to the south and into sheep country; however, time will tell how effective this trial proves as a deterrent. I thought of Del, of how we'd trained her as a puppy to walk along metal walkways, jetties and up slatted metal steps. She would need the combination of grid and an ear-piercing whistle to deter her, I decided.

This country abounds in horrendous stories of vast numbers of sheep and calves slaughtered by dingoes: of shooters and dingo scalps; of 1080 poisoning; of steel-jawed traps laced with strychnine; and men going bankrupt (and crazy) with the losses and stress of the slaughter.

There is little sympathy for the dingo.

The Dog (Dingo) Fence, in theory, keeps dingoes out of the south-east corner of Australia where sheep grazing is most intensive. It is a continuous barrier and one of the longest man-made structures on Earth, beginning at the cliffs of the Great Australian Bight in South Australia, west of Ceduna, and ending up in at Jimbour in south-east Queensland, near the coast. The Dog Fence crosses five deserts and two states, is 5414 kilometres in length, and protects 26.5 million hectares of sheep and cattle grazing country.

Separating the wild from the semi-tame, the fence snaked away to my left and right, like a backbone. Galvanised steel and heavy timber posts and strainers support rabbit netting at the base then larger netting; with a single strand of barbed wire at the top. The fence stands about 2 metres tall. The sandy orange-coloured earth, heaped against the rabbit netting (which is buried) prevents dingoes digging underneath.

Looking at the shoulder-high posts slung with wire netting I recalled the horror of wild dog attacks on our sheep on King Island, where we'd lost over 300 sheep in appalling circumstances. I adore dogs, but not those that kill and maim livestock and wildlife.

The rough dry scrub – consisting of cypress pine with the occasional eucalypt, skinny mulga and termite mound – is cleared on both sides of the fence to a width of 5 metres to allow weekly checking. Some sections are patrolled every forty-eight hours. The patroller's job involves checking the fence, replacing rotten fence posts and rusted wire, and patching up holes made by 'roos, feral pigs, or emus crashing into the barrier.

Floods also damage the fence, along with fallen trees. A high metal gate allows livestock to be herded from one side of the Dingo Fence to the other. Without this fence, the prime lamb and wool producers of south-eastern Australia would be down on their knees.

A couple of gangly emus emerged from the scrub and ran with an extraordinary burst of speed down the fence and into the distance – on the north side of the fence, the dingo side, the cattle side. I wondered how long they would stick to the fence before branching off into the scrub. Subdued, we continued on our way. Wild dogs and the slaughter of sheep were too close to the bone for comfort.

Shortly after crossing a dry creek bed – 22 Mile Creek – we turned left down a bone-rattling gravel road and drove for a little over 2 kilometres to Major Mitchell's campsite. There was one gate to be opened and shut and, to the amusement of Doug, I managed to receive three shocks in the process: from the car door and the gate. The air was dry and I seemed super-charged. A 1080 poison notice nailed to the red gum post warned dog owners of the laying of baits. Aware of this baiting program, we'd left Del at home.

The site of Major Mitchell's 1846 camp is now a recreation area, with a shelter and barbecue, self-composting toilet and a monument with a plaque to Mitchell, all the work of the local Rotary Club.

At this base camp beside the Maranoa River, Mitchell had left a team of 30 men, 80 bullocks (that pulled 8 drays), 17 horses (some pulled light carts, others were ridden) and a store of food. He also left instructions to plant a vegetable garden and build adequate shelters. Mitchell was away from the camp for five months, returning in October.

We walked the short distance to the banks of the Maranoa River and looked down into the wide sandy riverbed. It was completely dry. In Mitchell's time there must have been plenty of water, I thought, to provide for the men, bullocks and horses, and the vegetable garden. There had even been enough water for the men to launch the two boats and go fishing. The rainfall in 1846 must have been generous compared to the present drought-stricken years.

Lighting a small fire in the fireplace provided, we boiled a billy for tea and ate lunch. The ground was clothed in a sparse covering of grasses, weeds and flowers, and scattered with twists and curls of gum bark and desiccated leaves. This part of the country, like Mitchell, had been fortunate to receive the mid-August rain. Standing beside the monument and reading the inscription, I found it easy to imagine the voices of Major Mitchell and his men, to picture the carts and drays, the bullocks and horses, to visualise convict footprints on the track leading down to the river.

At dusk in Mitchell's original camp, all fires were extinguished, the bullocks and horses rounded up and contained within a post-and-rail fence, and a man positioned to guard the provisions, which were sufficient to keep thirty men for one year. These strategies were used in case Aborigines caused trouble, which they did not.

As elder Lynette Nixon told me, 'When Major Mitchell came we [Aboriginal people] were helpful and nice because we thought he was just passing through. It wasn't until the squatters arrived that we realised we had a problem, that they were taking our land.'

Wearing boots, long-sleeved shirts and jeans, and carrying water and a first-aid kit, we felt prepared to explore the riverbed and beyond. In addition, I carried my divining rods and the special rosewood fossicking stick crafted for me by Les, our truckie friend from The Willows.

I felt like an explorer.

A wedge-tailed eagle soared in the thermals overhead, on the lookout for carrion or prey such as rabbits or small kangaroos. Its mighty wings glowed a deep chestnut brown as it glided high above the riverbed.

After scrambling down the 20-metre bank we strolled across a floodplain green with grasses and weeds and alive with recently hatched grasshoppers. A rough track led us about 400 metres to a bar of rock that straddled the dry riverbed.

Downstream – towards the town of Mitchell – the riverbed was a 25 metre wide sweeping ribbon of sand; upstream it narrowed and I saw multicoloured pebbles, sandbars, twists and turns, and river red gums. As we set off upstream I felt a surge of excitement. Out in the middle of nowhere, with no sign of humankind whatsoever, we were exploring the mighty Maranoa, carved through country incredibly fragile even though it looked on the surface to be so tough and rugged. And I could walk all day in this balmy temperature without even the slightest hint of angina to curb my progress.

Within ten minutes we found a shallow pool, the only one along this stretch of river. It was about the size of a kitchen table; a drought-shrunken waterhole with its muddy edge trodden into by kangaroos and wallabies. Their distinctive tracks broke through the grey crusty layer in many places. Further out from the pool the crust crazed, cracked and curled like an exotic mosaic.

Lured by the moisture, a couple of dragonflies and around thirty butterflies skimmed the surface or landed on tiny feet in the oozing mud – to sip the moisture. With delicate wings fluttering, they took off up into the treetops, there to feast on the nectar and heady scent of creamy eucalypt blossoms.

Hard bands of rock crossed the riverbed at various angles, like mini-weirs. In many places gravel was banked against these 'walls'; alluvial deposits that could contain precious gems at their base. I thought of the work involved in digging and sieving the sand, gravel and pebbles and quickly decided I didn't want sapphires or rubies that badly.

Scattered amongst these bands of rock with their alluvial deposits were beds of smooth grey-green clay studded with boulders the size of footballs. 'They look a bit like raisins in ice-cream,' said Doug.

I looked at the boulders, 'To me, they look like clutches of dinosaur eggs. Just imagine if we took one, cracked it open and found a dinosaur embryo.'

'Like your Port Jackson shark,' said Doug.

On Phillip Island I'd found a screw-shaped egg case on the beach that was unusually heavy and still intact. Back at the house, at the kitchen sink, I cut open the tough case and discovered a developing Port Jackson shark embryo attached to an egg yolk. It was dead but not decayed, so I preserved it in alcohol. I named my 12.5 centimetre shark pup Samuel and attached a label to the bottle for posterity. It had turned out to be a rare find.

Positioning my divining rods in front of me, I continued walking up the riverbed. The rods crossed immediately, time and time again, in spite of there being no visible water. I'd heard the theory that they were one and the same; that the rods or a forked stick reacted to fault lines, and wherever there were fault lines you were likely to find water and/or sapphires.

'Maybe it was here that the river banked up in 1846,' I said, 'and watered all those bullocks, the vegetable garden and the men.'

Scanning the structure of the riverbed Doug agreed this was likely and then added, 'And there are probably pools lying beneath the surface at the present time, as your rods suggest.'

A large bleached bone, stuck between a twisted river gum root and a deposit of coarse sand, caught my attention. Levering it out, I recognised part of a rib bone. What if it was a dinosaur bone? I wondered, my mind reeling at the prospect.

I had read that dinosaur bones had a similar appearance to those of recently deceased animals, such as cattle. But there was a difference: they weighed at least double that of more recent bones. Holding the piece of bone I saw the effects of sun-bleaching and river erosion – but it was disappointingly light and almost certainly belonged to a cow or bullock. I tossed it away.

Nevertheless I felt elation from the knowledge that I was standing in an ancient landscape that was part of Queensland's Dinosaur Triangle, a place that was once home to a diverse range of dinosaurs, including the massive sauropods.

All of a sudden an object appeared in my line of vision that looked entirely out of place, and it was. Sprawled on a sandbank was the largest feral cat I had ever seen: dead. It was a tabby with no sign of bullet wounds. We guessed, therefore, that it was probably a victim of the 1080 baiting program we'd read about on the notice nailed to the post by the entrance gate.

Noticing that the ground around the corpse had been violently kicked, I felt a rush of sympathy for the cat. It was obvious it had suffered. It wasn't this cat's fault it was a feral living on the wrong continent! On the other hand, I know feral cats kill vulnerable native birds and animals like bettongs, and have no place in the Australian bush. I'd heard 'roo shooters speaking with pride about freeing the bush of feral pigs, cats and foxes. It was work that had to be done.

The baiting of dingoes, wild dogs and foxes is a fact of life in this drought-hardened country of outback Queensland. Other animals are, of course, killed by the baits, including cats. Some baits are laid by hand, but blanket poisoning from the air is also practised. Usually signs nailed to posts warn the public whenever 1080 poison has been laid in a particular area.

Although my eyesight isn't nearly as sharp as Doug's, I am often the one who notices unusual things such as cowries on the beach and sapphires in the gemfields. Instinctively my eyes scanned the riverbed, automatically looking for differences. Totally absorbed, time ceased to exist: I was in a wonderland of water-worn rocks and pebbles, time and space.

Suddenly my eyes locked onto something with the appearance of wood. Poking at it with my fossicking stick, my interest quickened, so I bent down to pick it up; quite a sizeable and heavy lump of stone, but with a difference. It was a piece of preserved tree trunk, heavy due to its conversion to stone: petrified wood.

Spellbound, I gazed into its mineral-laden layers, seeing different shades and colours, seeing rings of life compressed by time. Wood replaced by silica, probably over a period of millions of years. Running my fingers over its smooth dense surface I felt a thrill of discovery. It's possible, I thought, that dinosaurs nibbled the leaves of this tree.

Surrounded by a sea of water-worn pebbles I looked up the riverbed and thought of the river's origins at Mount Moffat, in the Carnarvon Ranges to the north. Here rugged mountains and towering sandstone cliffs capture rain and send it gushing down gorges and canyons – through lush pockets of ferns, palms and rainforest – then over rolling hills and vast arid plains. The Maranoa River, destined to become part of the mighty Murray–Darling river system, has as its birthplace a mountain where craggy cliff faces reach up into a sun-bleached sky.

Progress was slow as we fossicked about in the riverbed, picking up anything that looked different. A dark glitter: was it a sapphire? A flash of red: was it a ruby? An attractive conglomerate, like a plum pudding; water-tumbled pebbles of all shapes, sizes and colours including crystals of amethyst, pebbles of quartz with a blush of rose (when held up to the light), and translucent orange coloured chalcedony. Another piece of petrified wood, this time with a honeycomb-like structure and a corner that looked opalised.

Back at the Major Mitchell campsite later in the afternoon, I noticed a capsule concreted in place behind the shelter. This time capsule was laid on 18 May 1996 as part of the 150-year celebrations to commemorate the 4th Expedition of Sir Thomas Livingston Mitchell. Sealed in a steel capsule are items recording the heritage and history of life in Mitchell in 1996.

As we drove back down the Forest Vale Road to Mitchell, I was content to sit quietly thinking of the richness of the day. Past, present and future merged as one. Understanding dawned. Everything is connected. It is magical moments like these when I feel this ancient land wrapping its arms around my soul.

Back home I arranged the pieces of petrified wood, quartz, chalcedony and other gems we couldn't identify on several large platters I had bought at the Mitchell op shop, and placed them where I'd see them often.

These stones on my platters are reminders. They will keep my mind focused on the riches both around and within me.

***

In the course of conversation with Deb and Glen, it transpired they had recently moved from Brisbane and neither had ever tasted billy tea. We decided to remedy this gap in their experience with a morning smoko.

The morning was mild and sunny, perfect for morning tea on the verandah, with a campfire nearby. Doug collected an armful of red gum branches from along the riverbank, and then dug a fire pit which he surrounded with stones.

Soon the fire burned brightly, with the billy close to the boil. Uncharacteristically, Doug had turned chef, with ambitious plans for scones and a fruitcake to be baked in our camp oven. A scone recipe that included as its ingredients self-raising flour, cream and lemonade was chosen.

'Simple,' said Doug, tossing the ingredients into a stainless-steel bowl.

And I thought, Well, you've never done it before so the probability of them turning out okay is unlikely. But Deb and Glen are not fussy and we do have some tasty biscuits in the cupboard.

Meanwhile Deb and Glen's teenage son joined in the scone-making, but he had no experience either, so the area of flour steadily increased, spreading out across the sink to the benches beyond, and spilling onto the tiled floor. The kitchen began looking like a snowfield, but both males were laughing and joking so I didn't care.

As a child and a teenager it was my job to clean up, tidy and set the table as my mother cooked for our large family of seven. Consequently I tend to slip into this role quite easily and happily. After all, a clean, tidy kitchen and well-set table are vital parts of any meal.

Surprisingly quickly, Doug declared the scones made and placed them in the camp oven to cook.

I'd given up on baking scones. Over the years I'd tried, but they never came out right, and cakes weren't my strong point either. Maybe I tried too hard or maybe my heart just wasn't in it because scones and cakes always gave me such a bad stomach ache. Years later, thirty in fact, it was found I had gluten intolerance. But I couldn't work up any enthusiasm for gluten-free recipes either, preferring instead to buy what I needed.

When Doug opened the camp oven to examine the first batch he exclaimed, 'They're burnt, they're no good. I left them in too long, and the oven's way too hot.' So he poked at the coals, moved some of the pieces of burning wood to one side and had another go. This time he kept a sharp eye on his watch.

The second batch, I saw with surprise, looked perfect. On breaking them open they were soft, light and fluffy inside and delicious, everyone declared, especially when spread with berry jam and cream. Meanwhile, this ambitious husband of mine was whipping up fruitcake with directions from the same outback recipe book. Blending together mixed fruit, condensed milk and self-raising flour, he beamed with the challenge and success of his baking. In no time at all the fruitcake was in the camp oven and cooking.

Doug had already done the eucalypt twig in the boiling water trick, added a handful of Dilmah tea and swung the blackened billy around over his head several times. Now, with scones on the table and billy tea poured I relaxed back in my chair, watching with amusement as neighbours drove past, nearly going off the road in their attempt to see why a police car was parked in our driveway.

Observed by Del, who always enjoyed visitors, and of course Sally, who didn't want to miss out on anything that happened at our place, our police friends tasted the billy tea and voted it excellent, along with the scones and the fruitcake. But it was their friendship that we enjoyed the most, and their relaxed and stimulating conversation.

It was Deb's turn (there were three other officers at Mitchell) to be on call that Saturday night, so she planned to sleep the night at the barracks. Tinkerbell the joey slept over too, especially when young and needing nightly feeds. Deb – in the police car with her joey – was a common and heart-warming sight around Mitchell that did a lot to promote a positive police image.

***

Noticing things and fixing things are two of Doug's strongest skills. One Saturday morning he went to a clearing sale to buy a lawn mower and ended up with four mowers for just $30. The first was supposed to be going but didn't, the second one did go, and the other two were for spare parts.

On his way home he saw a couple of butcherbirds attacking a bird on the ground. It was a sacred kingfisher, he realised, a stunning blue and green bird with a pale cream breast and strong bill. But it was in trouble, making a harsh, 'Kee-kee-kee-kee' call as it flapped along the ground, unable to escape the sharp pecks from the butcherbirds.

It seemed too weak to fly, so Doug caught it, wrapped it in his coat and took it to our local wildlife carer, Judy, who has converted her home into a rescue centre for injured and orphaned wildlife. Judy met Doug at the back door, along with three kangaroo joeys.

'I'll put him in a cage, feed him some mealworms and maggots, and try to feed him up a bit,' said Judy, 'and when he's strong enough I'll take him back to where you found him and release him there.'

But the kingfisher was frantic to escape from the cage.

'I wonder if it has young in a nest somewhere?' said Doug.

Meanwhile, beneath the bridge, hundreds of fairy martins congregated to rest and nest in colonies of bottle-shaped mud nests, totally oblivious to the road trains that thundered overhead. These gregarious red-headed birds twitter and chirrup as they swoop between the concrete pylons. While in nest-building mode their beaks are crammed full of mud from the riverbank; and then with chicks to feed in September, it is insects that fill their bills: thousands of insects.

Sitting among the women of our Monday night pottery group at the Maranoa Arts Gateway, I was reminded of these gregarious birds. Six women of varying ages were gathered around a long rectangular table, each working their lump of soft damp clay. Some rolled it out like pastry, in preparation for making hand-built sculptures or more practical things such as bowls, plates and planters. Others kneaded their lump of clay, feeling the strength yet plasticity beneath their fingers – pushing clay beneath rings and fingernails – and then moving on to make simple pinch pots, or rolling clay into coils, ready to fashion it into sugar bowls. Birds sculpting nests out of mud; women creating bowls from clay; yes I could see similarities.

A type of magic floated around the pottery table. As fingers pressed clay, the rise and fall of the soft gossiping voices of women filled the small room: supportive, sympathetic and good-humoured. A casual remark might spark a conversation that took off like wildfire, eventually extinguished as absorption in the clay took over.

Another comfortable silence fell over the group. Six heads down, six sets of fingers rolling, smoothing, pressing in textures – utterly absorbed. Five minutes elapsed.

Immersed in my clay alongside these women I felt I was floating in a bubble of utter contentment. The smell of clay reminded me of the smell of the river when I sat beside the footbridge, hugging my knees; of fish and reed beds, of Snow White the egret, of mud.

Playing in mud is one of my earliest memories; chocolate-coloured mud as a liquid slurry that slipped through my fingers like velvet. Magically it coated my arms and legs and I watched fascinated as the sun dried the mud into a mosaic-like pattern on my skin. I felt the drying, cracking and curling, as if my skin was moulting: like a caterpillar, like a lizard. My father nicknamed me Grub, a term he used affectionately until he died in his eighties.

This wasn't the first time I'd played with clay. On King Island I had my own wheel and kiln and produced pottery for sale. I specialised in pottery with a King Island theme.

As we were packing up at 10 p.m. I discovered that one of the women was the grandmother of two of my students. It was not unusual to be connected to someone in Mitchell, and this was a lesson newcomers were wise to learn, and quickly. To make a critical comment about someone almost always backfired as you were inevitably speaking to that person's distant cousin – or sister. This revelation was followed by a cascade of laughter as someone told a joke, followed by squeals of delight as Carol told another version.

Walking back through the shop I was struck by its neatness, lack of dust and cobwebs, and the pleasant smell of leather and pot-pourri. A few of the 'girls' had made a variety of foodstuffs that week. I picked up a bottle of marmalade and read the ingredients label then noticed the lemon butter, which was also for sale and freshly made. Lemon butter for Doug, and marmalade for me sounded like a good idea, so I rummaged in my bag for money and paid Carol at the counter.

The well-stocked shelves held jams, pickles, fudge, coconut ice, chocolates, shortbread, marshmallows, and Turkish delight. There was jewellery, patchwork, doilies, finely knitted baby's clothes and booties, cross-stitched or lace-and-ribbon trimmed towels, elaborately dressed dolls, teddies, and homemade soaps. Everything was hand-made by people living in Mitchell and the surrounding area.

Pottery nights in Mitchell expand boundaries, both within the field of pottery and beyond to relationships and understanding between women of all walks of life. I learned though, that Mitchell is also a town of undercurrents where almost everything is interconnected and known. And what's _not_ known is frequently made up. Therefore, I found it wise policy to tell my own truth sooner rather than later.

Behind the scenes and independent of community-based organisations there are individuals and groups of people who take on responsibility for those less fortunate than themselves. Often humbled by these acts of kindness, I saw a community generous enough to give unconditionally to those in need.

***

My contact lenses were playing up, and I needed a contact lens specialist. This was one service that was not available locally. We would have to go to Brisbane. I baulked at the distance; however, I realised that most of the locals consider an eight to twelve-hour drive of no consequence whatsoever.

Our trip to Brisbane was timed for the two weeks of the school holidays, mainly because I didn't want to miss any lessons with my students. Progress on the book was slower than expected; in fact I was beginning to be seriously concerned it wouldn't be finished in time. I couldn't push my students as hard, I realised, as I could push myself.

'There are people living in this town who never venture further than the bridge,' said one of the teachers at the school. 'The big bad world is over the bridge and they don't want any part of it.'

Apart from going to Roma to buy furniture and other necessities for the house, we hadn't ventured much over the bridge, hadn't stepped into the outside world for quite some time. Consequently, when we hitched up the caravan at the end of September and drove over the bridge I felt we were entering another world. But it was a world I entered reluctantly.

After hours and hours of outback scenery, the traffic from Toowoomba onwards, through Ipswich and into the city of Brisbane was a shock. The constant roar of traffic, wail of police and ambulance sirens, smog and heavy traffic with fast, erratic drivers was an unpleasant contrast to our life in Mitchell where everything seemed so much more civilised. The shopping malls reminded me of aviaries, the chattering voices of brightly clothed shoppers rising up into the air like a chorus. The people here seemed dislocated from one another; in too much of a hurry for spontaneous friendliness to occur.

Vast seas of houses and people en masse added to a feeling of being swallowed alive. It was 30°C and very humid. Sweat trickled down my spine (an unusual sensation for Mitchellites used to dry air) and my nostrils smarted from the haze of petrol fumes and dust that enveloped the city. But I needed to have my contact lens checked; that was the reality.

***

Leaving and returning; there is always a bridge to cross, a bridge over the mighty Maranoa. This river crossing puts distance between the hustle and bustle of the coast and the small outback town of Mitchell. The bridge marks the entrance to a more serene place, protected within a loop of the river and surrounded by a sea of semi-arid country.

Our arrival home was joyous, especially our reunion with Sally. Her owners had been away too, and still were, but a friend was living in the house to look after Sally. Unfortunately though, Sally spent most of the two weeks sitting at the front of our place, waiting for us to come home. I felt terrible, thinking she would feel that we'd deserted her. She squirmed with delight, however, nearly wagging off her little tail and then leaping into our arms. I'd tried hard not to worry about Sally, but for most of the two weeks the thought of her had been gnawing away in my mind.

'I've never seen a dog look so sad,' said Sandra when we caught up with her. 'Every day – all day – she sat in that garden bed over there waiting for you to come home.'

Soaking up the warmth and tranquillity of our home town, the smog and grime, frenetic pace, traffic jams and queues of Brisbane faded into the distance. We'd escaped the urban rat race. Within days of our return I heard of a local teenage boy – labelled by some as a delinquent – who'd been taken under the wing of several of the local businesses and given meaningful jobs and praise, keeping him happily occupied and off the street. Only in Mitchell, I thought to myself, warmed by this story.

While we'd been in Brisbane, Marg from next-door had had knee surgery in Toowoomba. We arrived home within a day of each other, which was convenient as we could help her over the first couple of post-operative weeks.

Popping in and out of Marg's place meant that we enjoyed a wander through her garden and saw more of her extended family, who live on grazing properties located south of Mitchell. Marg has lived in Mitchell for over twenty years, when one of her sons took over the family property. This bright-eyed country woman is the backbone of her family and of many clubs and services within the town.

Drought continued to bite deeply into Marg's family.

They'd missed out on the rain that had fallen in mid-August. Consequently their properties were still bone-dry and without the short green haze of weeds and grasses that clothed the area around Mitchell. Mike arrived in his truck, tired and dusty after driving about 100 kilometres to collect bags of feed, stock licks and supplements – as well as to visit his mother.

On other days, his wife, Ann, climbed down from the high truck cab to check on her mother-in-law. Ann is a tall, slim, beautifully spoken and mannered young woman with a son at primary school and a daughter at boarding school in Toowoomba. An ex-nurse, she can turn her hand to anything, including cutting mulga for cattle feed, but her greatest gift is her compassion and warm, caring personality.

Marg's other son, Don, and his wife Kim live on another large grazing property south of Mitchell. Also in the grip of drought, Don and Kim sent about 500 head of cattle away on agistment to Hughenden, further north in central Queensland. The cattle had been away for about eighteen months, with the cost per head escalating by the week. It was a worrying time for both families but particularly for Marg, who was so keenly tuned to the land and her family.

Resilience is a feature of these people, however; that and a strong commitment to family, friends and community.

Throughout the last weeks of September, a pair of koels taunted our immediate neighbourhood with their striking 'Koo-well' song. Known locally as rain birds, and with glossy black feathers, long tails and red eyes, they called from the tops of the river red gums, as if willing it to rain.

Chapter 6

Oolines in October

In early October the flies were in full force: bush flies, houseflies and blowflies. We learned to live with them; nevertheless I was grateful for the fly screens that protected our windows and doors. Likewise, ants scurried around as if they owned the place. And sometimes they bit, and bit hard.

Burr plants that looked so innocent in their immature stages flowered, set seed and dried out almost immediately, millions of them. Del's paws were vulnerable and at first, burrs tended to monopolise our walks. She stood motionless with one paw raised until we removed the offending barb. Soon, however, she learned how to pull out her own prickles and burrs, which was good because when we got them out for her, the barbs simply transferred into our fingers. And they hurt.

Her feet hardened up too, and she learned to walk only on green grass, bitumen, concrete or well-worn sandy tracks – never on dry grass. Del had become a Queenslander.

The season progressed at a galloping rate, bursting with fertility and abundance. Grasses, shrubs and trees flowered profusely in a desperate attempt to set seed in the escalating drought. Still it hadn't rained; in fact there'd scarcely been a drop for over one month. It was hot, dry and still, with the daily maximum between 30° and 36° C for eighteen days in a row.

***

The Mt Lonsdale Spring Garden Day seemed like an act of defiance. It was as if the people of Mitchell and district had said, 'Well, drought or no drought, we're going to celebrate springtime anyway.'

On our way to the Garden Day we stopped off at Ooline Park. We'd driven along the Warrego Highway in the direction of Charleville, and turned off just before the small town of Mungallala. The park wasn't far off the highway, but the track looked as ancient as the trees. Brittle beauty lay at our feet: crisp, beech-like leaves, desiccated by drought. Shuffling my feet through the leaves, stones and grit, I watched as an eddy of red dust swirled on a gust, taking its fragments up the wooded hill in a sudden upward draught.

Outback people are said to have an iron spirit, frequently reflected in their faces. Likewise, this stand of ooline trees projects an image of timeless endurance.

This is hard stony country and hilly. It's tough out here at Ooline Park. In stark contrast to the present drought conditions, this small piece of remnant rainforest dates back to a time when Australia was much wetter than today, when it was part of the super-continent Gondwana, connected to Antarctica and South America. As the super-continent drifted northwards and broke up, the Australian portion grew hotter and drier, forcing the rainforest plants and animals to retreat into hidden pockets of remnant vegetation.

Intrigued, I wandered around the grove of ooline trees ( _Cadellia pentastylis)_. Occurring only in isolated pockets in south-west Queensland and north-west New South Wales, the trees grow up to 10 metres tall. They look quite different to the surrounding trees and shrubs.

Simple, small and glossy green on their upper surface, the ooline leaves clung to slender branches, quite different to gum leaves and with no smell whatsoever. My mind slipped back to my late teens when I bushwalked in the Tasmanian highlands amongst moss-draped Antarctic beech ( _Nothofagus cunninghamii)_. I remember treading softly through these ancient forests with their delicate understorey of ferns, lichens, mosses and fungi.

But what a contrast: so moist, lush and cool in Tasmania; so dry, arid and hot in central Queensland. Yet both environments have pockets of ancient rainforest vegetation. The leaves are similar, yet the environments so different. These classic Gondwanan genera date back tens of millions of years and have relatives in South America, New Zealand, New Caledonia and New Guinea.

A hush fell over this ancient place with its rare stand of trees, refugees from a rainforest dating back before the Age of Dinosaurs. Also called scrub myrtle, this tree once grew abundantly wherever bottle trees occurred, especially throughout central Queensland. Apart from bottle trees, its neighbours are cypress pine, eucalypts, acacias and other small bushes. We left the park feeling the need to learn more.

While driving through the small town of Mungallala we noticed Deb, our police officer friend, emerging from the fire station dressed in overalls and looking unusually dirty and dishevelled.

'What are you two doing here?' she asked, with a weary smile.

After being called out three times during the night and early morning to attend a fire at the Mungallala cypress mill, Deb was keen to go home, shower and dress in her more usual style.

'Please call in on your way back,' said Deb, 'and have a cuppa with us. I've got something to show you.'

'What is it?'

'I'm not telling. It's a secret. Just wait and see this afternoon.'

Waving goodbye, we set off for Mt Lonsdale station, located north of Mungallala in attractive rolling hill country. Although very dry and arid to look at, pockets of feed were evident in the valleys, and the garden surrounding the homestead appeared an oasis of green. Bill Douglas, a tall well-built man met us at the gate with a firm handshake and warm greeting.

Major Mitchell named the hill Mt Lonsdale on the twenty-seventh of May 1846, admiring its scenic outlook. Nowadays Bill, Cecily and their son Rowan (along with his wife Laura and two young children) own and work Mt Lonsdale station, a large and conservatively stocked cattle property that has been in their family for over sixty years. Bill has lived in the same house for all of his life. The bond Bill feels – for both his home and the land – must be strong, very strong.

Mt Lonsdale station is clothed with vegetation that varies from extensive natural grasslands, to arid hills, to remnant pockets that include exotic grass trees, woody pears, desert limes, lemon-scented gums, smooth-barked apple gums (with stunning creamy-pink bark), bottle trees, brigalow and rare ground orchids.

The Douglas family had managed to keep their best breeding cattle at home and in reasonable condition throughout the drought. Like the earth beneath his feet, Bill is dependable and rich with the talents needed for a man on the land, but drought was foremost on his mind. Rain was what he needed: for his family, for his property, for his very being.

Aside from her garden, one of Cecily's passions is sculpture. As I watched Cecily move around, always warm and gracious in her welcome of the guests who'd travelled vast distances to enjoy the day, I observed that she was as tall, graceful and sharply defined as the sculptures that were placed so tastefully throughout her garden.

The old low-set Queensland homestead has wide verandahs, a swimming pool and tennis court, and a huge garden designed in cool green curves. Beyond is arid country.

Over one hundred people – from young babies to the very elderly – had gathered here to celebrate the Garden Day, organised by the Mitchell Garden Club and the local Anglican Church. A hat competition encouraged the women in particular to wear their most elegant and colourful hats and there were young women wearing stylish outfits to match. Others were in jeans and T-shirts – with many barefooted. It didn't matter what you wore, no one stood on ceremony at Mt Lonsdale.

Raffles, stalls, plants for sale, a kids' corner, a demonstration and talk about growing native plants, a bar selling beer and soft drinks, the Garden Club's annual prize-giving, and a fun tennis competition – all these and more gave people plenty to do and see. We were thrilled to hear that Janelle's tiny garden behind the café, created around a magnificent old elm tree and rich with petunias, cacti and geraniums, had received an award.

I looked around the garden, dreamily absorbing the murmur of conversation with its snatches of laughter, the giggles and squeals of children at play, and the distinctive thump of tennis balls against cat-gut rackets. It could have been a scene from a historical novel. Plenty of chairs set out beneath dense shady trees provided a place for people to eat a lunch of freshly made salad rolls, home-made slices, tea and coffee. Teenagers and kids sprawled on the green lawns enjoying the lush carpet of grass.

There were plenty of people we knew, so we wandered around this little Eden, moving from group to group. At one stage we talked to some of the people I'd met at school, and I mentioned we'd been to Ooline Park.

'I've got a friend who's grown a little grove of ooline trees,' said one of the teachers. 'She lives on a property near the park.'

My interest surged and I thought, Here is someone I would love to meet, and a grove of trees I'd be very interested to see.

The kitchen garden included a henhouse, vegetable, asparagus and herb gardens and compost bins. Red-stalked silverbeet exploded from well-composted soil with a vitality that took me by surprise. Parked alongside the silverbeet was a wheelbarrow containing manure and a spade. Nearby, parsley burst from unlikely cracks in paving, and I couldn't resist picking a little and crushing it between my fingers – and then breathing in its fragrance.

Metal and sandstone sculptures are placed artistically throughout the garden, mostly creations of the Douglas family. At the conclusion of the tennis competition, a trophy was awarded to the winner. It was a sculpture: three tennis rackets mounted on a stand, made from farm junk.

Noticing a toadstool sculpture beneath a canopy of trees, I found it easy to imagine elves and fairies dancing and flitting around the garden, perhaps at the crack of dawn when dew would lie heavy on the greenery.

Snatches of talk hung in the still, hot air. Conversations about babies, nannies, governesses and boarding school; mustering, dingo scalps and drought; art, sculpture and gardens connected me to the intricate network of people who inhabit this land.

The Douglas family is well known as a pioneering family in south-east Queensland, with various branches excelling in the arts, as well as running enterprising agricultural businesses. I heard about Jock and Mina Douglas, who live near Roma, 479 kilometres west of Brisbane. They have turned a clump of native desert limes ( _Citrus glauca)_ growing wild in their paddocks into an international success story that quickly over took their cattle operation.

Jock – a fourth-generation cattleman – and his wife Mina now create unique sauces, jams, chutneys, glazes and cordials from their desert limes. The large clumps of wild limes have been carefully selected and bred to produce superior trees yielding quality fruit of commercial value. The Douglas family supply European customers as well as delicatessens and fine food outlets throughout Australia. Another branch of this enterprising family grows dates at Eulo, west of Cunnamulla.

Life is different out here; slower and more reflective than life in the city. There is time and space to think and create. To feel the texture of sweet smother grass between bare toes; smell pink petunias with sunshine bathing their petals; taste the dry heat; hear the chatter of happy people. There is time to absorb the beauty and harshness of life in the outback. This oasis of vegetation creates its own micro-climate; a refreshing coolness in a barren land.

As I stood chatting to a group of women in the shade of a mulberry tree conversation turned to a subject of vital importance to parents in the outback: boarding school.

'Our kids need to go to boarding school,' said a young woman, dressed in a denim skirt and stylish top. 'They need to meet young people from away and bring back well-educated and qualified partners to carry on the work involved on our properties, businesses in town and within the community.'

'We need that infusion of new blood,' said another mother, arms wrapped protectively around her three-year-old son, 'along with the return of our sons and daughters.'

'Sounds like you're talking about livestock breeding,' laughed someone else. 'Only last week we went to a sale in Brisbane and bought a stud bull for our heifers.'

'And when this drought breaks – if it ever does – everyone will be out there trying to buy top breeding cows and bulls from away.'

The scent of lavender caught my attention, a scent that wafted sweetly through an open window and into the house. Colours competed with patterns under the skill of Cecily's artistic hands.

'Sounds elitist to me,' chipped in someone, 'comparing stud stock to people.'

Memories of livestock breeding sprang to my mind: selecting top dogs to mate with our Irish setter bitches; inspecting line-ups of stud Angus bulls and heifers for sale; visiting the Royal Melbourne Show with the intention of purchasing a Poll Dorset ram to take back to King Island. With experience across a wide range of livestock breeding enterprises, we realised the importance of genetics and its effect on the excellence or otherwise of future generations.

Our species _Homo sapiens_ is no different, I thought, and as I looked around this gathering of people I saw the value of sending outback children away, especially in their teenage years. New blood and a wide variety of skills were being 'fed' back into this community, keeping it sustainable and vibrant.

The three-year-old held so protectively in his mother's arms broke loose and ran off into the depths of the garden: a child's paradise. Mysterious nooks and crannies, succulents and cacti, creeping vines, secret winding pathways, cubby houses high up in gnarled branches, massive trunks to hug, branches to climb amongst, old bird aviaries, rocks, pebbles and sand, birds singing in the treetops, red geraniums, crinkly bark, smooth bark – it is all here at Mt Lonsdale.

By mid-afternoon – with the temperature above 35°C – the mood of the gathering began to soften. Voices slowed, movements reduced. It was as if a dusting of sedative had been sprinkled over the people gathered together in the shade of the dense leafy trees.

All of a sudden a swirling dust storm whipped through the garden oasis, blowing light papery things up and away, knocking over chairs, blowing off hats, filling mouths, eyes, nostrils and ears with gritty suffocating dust. Instinctively I covered my eyes, attempting to protect my contact lenses. Dust beneath a lens causes extreme discomfort.

After a few minutes the dust storm disappeared. I looked around: most people had scarcely blinked an eye. Talking and laughing continued as if nothing had happened. It didn't matter that grit covered every surface; what mattered was that these people had gathered together to enjoy each other's company amongst the trees and flowers surrounding the Douglas homestead.

Later in the afternoon 8 millimetres of heavy rain fell at Mt Lonsdale. Strangely, not a single drop fell at Mungallala or on the road back to Mitchell. Nobody minded getting wet; especially the children who stripped off their clothes to their undies, and then danced and played in the rain and the slippery red mud. What extraordinary extremes in one day: from dry and hot, to a dust storm, to torrential rain. On our arrival at Mt Lonsdale, a four-wheel drive had followed us in, eating our dust, leaving behind an orange cloud floating above the road. On departure, the vehicles had slipped and skidded along the wet road; a road transformed into a mud slide.

On our way home from the Garden Day we called in to see Deb, Glen and family as promised. Deb greeted us freshly showered and dressed, looking her usual smart self.

'Come and see what I've got,' she said, leading us towards a big tub on the verandah. Opening the lid I saw muddy water and then a squirming mass of yabbies. But they were the bluest and most beautiful yabbies I'd ever seen.

'We caught them in a yabby trap in a neighbour's dam,' said Deb, putting one of her fingers close to a particularly formidable set of pincers. 'Glen thinks we're going to eat them, but I want to keep them as pets. What do you think?'

'Perhaps you could pick out the best ones to keep and eat the rest,' said Doug, diplomatically.

Absorbed in the iridescent blues, greens and purples of their bodies, their muscular tails, many legs, powerful pincers and sensitive feelers, I had sympathy for Deb. These Australian freshwater crayfish _(Cherax destructor)_ are unique creatures.

I remembered the yabby expeditions of my youth where we'd tie a piece of well-matured meat on the end of a piece of string and drop it into a dam. We'd wait until the string twitched and then draw the string slowly out, finally whipping a net beneath the yabby. But we had to watch out for our fingers!

I'd watched other kids sticking their bare toes into the dam, letting a yabby catch them. I remember looking for yabby burrows in amongst the reeds around the edge of the dam, and seeing sun-bleached claws on the water's edge. At that stage, keeping these crustaceans as pets hadn't occurred to me, and so we had lit a fire, boiled the billy and my brothers cooked the yabbies in the same way my parents cooked crayfish. I didn't like the taste, and I certainly didn't like putting live yabbies into boiling water.

As an adult though, I'd kept a yabby as a pet as part of my research for the book I was writing for kids about alternative pets. My yabby's name was Yowie and I kept him in a large fish tank on the kitchen table. He was blue, but not as brilliantly coloured as these Queensland yabbies.

Yowie clear-felled his forest of living water plants; bulldozed piles of pebbles, gravel and sand; moved quite large rocks; and worked out that if he turned a slice of carrot on its side like a wheel, he could roll it through the narrow entrance of his cave. After studying him for about six months I released him back into the dam where I'd caught him.

'I'll keep three or four,' said Deb, carrying out a tray containing a pot of tea and mugs, and putting them on the table on the front verandah. 'Have you seen Janelle's yabbies at the café? She has males, females and all stages of young. You should see them carrying their eggs and young. They're awesome.'

Always on duty, Glen had to keep one ear alert to the sounds coming from his nearby office. Nevertheless he found time to share a cup of tea with us while Deb fed Tinkerbell her bottle. As the joey sucked the long teat, her eyes took in the fact there were strangers at the table. But she had seen so many people since living with Deb and Glen that this did not cause her any anxiety. She lay back in Deb's arms, within the woolly pouch, as if this was the most natural thing in the whole world. And it was for her. Deb was her mother, it was as simple as that.

'Tinkerbell's off to daycare tomorrow at Judy's,' said Deb, just as we were about to drive away. 'I'm leaving her for the first time.'

Judy and her husband Bob live in an ordinary weatherboard house in an ordinary street in Mitchell – much like everyone else in town. But there is one big difference. As the main wildlife carer in Mitchell, Judy's home literally abounds with joey kangaroos and wallabies. Her every moment is taken up with four-hourly feeds, washing woolly pouches and cleaning up after her animal family.

Judy is the sort of woman whose mothering and nurturing skills know no bounds. Consequently it came as no surprise to hear that she'd offered to look after Tinkerbell for Deb.

Doug decided to capture this occasion on film; therefore we arranged to meet Deb at Judy's place at 9 a.m. the next morning to photograph Tinkerbell being dropped off at Joey daycare. Our cars arrived within minutes of one another; a blue Ford ute and a Toyota dual cab with police signage.

'It's a big day for her,' said Deb, lifting a child's sleeping bag from the back seat, 'and I think she's a bit nervous.'

'And what about you?' I asked, catching a glimpse of one of Tinkerbell's long back legs poking out and then a head that seemed all ears.

Dressed in her neat uniform of navy slacks, a short-sleeved pale blue shirt and black boots, Deb replied, 'I'm going to miss her dreadfully because I'm so used to having her with me all the time. But she's getting too big and wants to jump around.'

Deb held the joey close to her and went on, 'She's such a cutie and I love her to bits. I hope she'll be okay.'

Tinkerbell looked around the front garden, twitching her ears nervously. She saw what I saw: green grass and shrubs, trees with their trunks protected by guards and a secure boundary fence.

'You can see what's going on in her mind,' I said, reaching forward to stroke the soft grey fur. 'She's thinking, I don't want to go to daycare, Mum. I'll just stay here in my pouch and go to work with you.'

Squatting down, Deb lowered the pouch onto the path and opened up the bag. But Tinkerbell didn't want to leave the security of her pouch. Slowly and very gently Deb upturned the bag and the joey tumbled out in a heap, a reluctant tangle of legs, ears and tail. Looking a little alarmed, Tinkerbell scrambled unsteadily to her feet and stood erect on gangly back legs, balancing on her tail. Then, as the joey hopped around us in high, quick bounds like a rubber ball, Deb hid the pouch high up on the verandah rail. Meanwhile Judy arrived on the scene with a couple more joeys hopping at her heel. She looked a bit like the Pied Piper.

'Here are some friends of about her own age,' Judy said. 'Tinkerbell's got to learn she's a kangaroo, not a human. Got to learn to recognise and interact with other 'roos.'

But Tinkerbell didn't agree and hung onto Deb's legs, wanting the security of her mum and her pouch. Then, transferring the grip of her monkeylike hands, she clung tightly to Deb's fingers and gazed up into her eyes.

Torn apart by the joey's reluctance to be left, Deb murmured encouragements to Tinkerbell before handing Judy a spare pouch, as well as the joey's bottle, teat and milk formula. 'I've been feeding her four-hourly. She had her last feed at eight o'clock this morning.'

Another eastern grey called Nigel hopped over and sniffed Tinkerbell's nose. Taken by surprise, she coughed and hissed at this strange leaping creature that seemed all legs and ears, then backed into the protection of Deb's legs and clung even tighter. This was a bit too much too soon for Tinkerbell. She looked around in panic, frantic for her pouch.

'It's okay, baby,' crooned Deb, forever the protective mother.

Gradually Tinkerbell relaxed with Nigel, relaxed into Judy's garden; even took a quick nibble of a tender shoot of grass. Slowly Deb backed away, easing her way out of the garden. At the gate she turned to have one last look at Tinkerbell, then walked briskly to the police vehicle and drove away.

There were tears in her eyes. There were tears in my eyes too.

'Would you like to see my new babies?' asked Judy, breaking into my thoughts of joeys I'd reared in past years; of joy and heartache.

'That would be great.'

'These three,' said Judy, pointing to a group of older joeys, 'are nearly ready to release into the wild.'

'How old do they need to be?'

'It depends on the animal, but somewhere between eighteen to twenty-six months.'

Thinking of all the time, energy and cost of rearing a joey – to say nothing of the emotional price – once again I had to wonder at the logic of it, especially when tens of thousands of kangaroos were legally shot every year. On the other hand, who could resist a sick, injured or orphaned joey? Certainly I could not.

Scooping Tinkerbell up in one arm and tucking her into a hip, Judy took us into her home, a home given over to the animals in her care. Kangaroos, wallabies, wallaroos, a baby cockatoo, possums, bats, a kingfisher, a three-legged dragon with large ear holes and a spiny back; anything that needed tender loving care received it in full at Judy's place.

Guiding us into a spare room, Judy took us over to a child's cot.

'This is where I keep my babies,' she said softly, lifting a blanket to reveal four woolly pouches hanging against the sides of the cot. Four 'roo faces peeped out; huge rotating ears, bright intelligent eyes.

'The electric blanket around the side keeps them warm,' she said, 'and the cot rails keep them safe.' She laughed, 'But this little fellow – a western grey – keeps escaping and heads straight for our bed – where he usually does a wee. He's a bit of a handful and a bit of a bully too. Here, have a smell of his neck.'

'Curry!' I exclaimed in surprise.

'That's the only way to tell a western grey from an eastern grey.'

Judy's old dog padded around after us as we went from room to room, finally ending up in the kitchen to prepare yet another batch of bottles. Always something to do: sterilising bottles and teats, mixing special milk formula, topping up a basket of hay, filling a bowl of water, wiping up a puddle of urine, sweeping up droppings. There was never an idle moment. With Tinkerbell still in the crook of her arm, Judy lowered the joey gently onto the kitchen floor.

'There you go Tink,' she said, 'You might like to have a nibble on some of this hay while I fix up bottles for the babies.'

Joining a young wallaby at the hay basket, Tinkerbell selected a strand of clover and began chewing. Tentatively, the wallaby held out an arm and touched Tinkerbell's neck, whereupon she recoiled for a moment but then reached out and clasped his shoulder fur in return, in a slightly provocative way. The ice was broken.

Joey daycare gave Tinkerbell the opportunity to socialise with others of her kind, in a secure caring environment. This was good preparation, I thought, for her eventual release into the wild.

Tinkerbell's story ignited a spark in my mind, an idea for a picture storybook for young children about a policewoman taking her joey to daycare. It would have parallels, I hoped, with the emotions felt by parents leaving their young children at childcare.

Tinkerbell had captured my heart and imagination. Fifteen drafts later I had a manuscript.

***

As the months slipped by, we found ourselves entertaining more and more at home. Scarcely a day went by without me taking the white china teapot from the pantry, rinsing it with hot water, measuring out a couple of teaspoons of tea, pouring in the steaming water and then leaving it to steep for a few minutes before pouring. Tea making is a ritual I've always found relaxing and 'in the moment'.

People of all ages sat around our table – honest, down-to-earth people with a sense of humour and a love of life. Conversation between neighbours and friends tends to flow more easily around a circular table, I've found, especially with a large pot of tea in the centre. And it's usually during that second cup that the most meaningful exchange of opinions, information and feelings takes place. In Mitchell, our teapot was seldom cold and around it we discovered the true spirit of the outback.

Meanwhile we wrote lots of letters to family and friends all around Australia and overseas. Letters add another dimension to friendships. Somehow – when writing – people tend to say different things, explore different subjects, and reveal more intimate thoughts and feelings. Consequently, the morning routine of collecting the mail from the post office was a pleasurable activity.

A postcard of the penguins at Phillip Island had the message: _The penguins miss you and so do we._ Another asked: _When are you returning to your nest?_ A week later our answering machine told us: _We walked past your place yesterday and it looks lonely without you._ _Please come home soon._

A card from our friend Erika, who'd just returned from Germany, said: _I'm so happy to be home. So are the muttonbirds. They got back on 26 September, as usual. Seems we have a lot more this year. The evening sky is nearly black with all the birds. Wouldn't you like to see them? Phillip Island and everyone I talk to misses you._

Another letter from a friend with a holiday home on the island was brimming with news: _Our quiet little piece of the world has been shattered by two pieces of news. The other week a body part was washed up onto the beach. I'm glad I wasn't the one to find it! Also, a yacht washed up on our beach. Apparently its captain was well and truly inebriated. Anyway it's still there and is likely remain till you get back._

Did you hear about the tsunami warning as a result of an underwater quake in New Zealand? I was glad I had gone back to Melbourne as my fertile imagination would have run amok. Eventually the warning was cancelled. Other news from the island includes many sightings this year of humpback whales and there was even a pod of orcas that swam up the channel. One humpback surfaced within a metre of the jetty. I have missed our chats. Please come home soon.

The muttonbirds had returned to their home: an epic 32,000-kilometre migration flight north across the Pacific Ocean to Alaska and the Bering Sea, then back south again in September.

My mind swung back to the island. I saw a golden sunset filled with thousands of flapping wings and chuckling cries as a huge flock of graceful dark-grey birds swooped and glided over our house and the rookery alongside. The dark bodies hurtled through the air towards the rookery, like moths attracted to a light. They tumbled out of the sky and crash-landed on the sand, pausing momentarily to determine their location, then waddling clumsily towards their burrows and their mates.

The rookery throbbed with the rich throaty coos and chuckles of thousands of muttonbirds as they greeted one another in a noisy courtship display. Before long though, the birds would transfer their attention to digging out their burrows: and then they'd mate in the moonlight. At dawn they would leave on a honeymoon lasting until 25 November, when they'd return to lay their large single egg. Muttonbirds usually mate for life and return to the same burrow year after year. Some birds live for thirty-five years or more.

The muttonbirds had returned but we had not. Strangely, this knowledge did not disturb me: in fact I knew with a deep certainty that I was not ready to return. The experience of making the outback our home was rich beyond expectation and I was eager for more – reluctant to leave.

***

When we fed Del her morning bone, Sally had a small one too; after all, how impolite it would be not to offer a guest to partake in food. Sonia, however, continued to feed Sally her evening meal at 'home'.

Every morning, when Doug gave the dogs their bones, greedy Sally wanted both so she tricked Del by pretending that someone was coming to our house – by barking loudly and running to the gate. Del dropped her bone and ran to see what Sally was barking at. Sally ran back, stole Del's bone and then ran home, where she buried both bones. Del fell for the trick because she was only six months old and Sally was much older and smarter.

Whenever there was thunder and lightning (an increasingly common occurrence as the weather warmed up), Sally bolted for our place and had a sleepover with Del. This proved exhausting for us and for Del as Sally wanted to 'talk' and play all night. Although annoying at times and an escape artist extraordinaire, Sally was, however, burrowing – like a true terrier – deep into my soul.

On Sunday evenings at about five o'clock, Caleb's father wheeled the family's large dark green rubbish bin out of the house yard – through a small gate – and then down the driveway to the edge of the bitumen road. Manoeuvring the heavy bin through the small gate was difficult, therefore offered Sally a window of opportunity for escape. She positioned herself behind the bin as it went through the gate and then sneaked out, scampering at full speed through Marg's garden and then into our place. Free: deaf to threats and calls.

As cunning as a fox, and not the slightest bit deterred by a newly laid barrier of concrete around the boundary fence of her legal home, Sally noticed that the chook shed had not been included in the concreting. Within days she'd dug an escape route and was out playing with Del at our place. So hidden was her hole behind the chook shed that it took a while for her family to work out where she was getting out, and by that stage they were at the point of giving up.

'We can't keep Sally in our place,' concluded Caleb sadly, 'and you can't keep Sally out. If we chain her up she barks non-stop until we let her off. And then she just runs to your place.'

***

Doug's vegetable garden was now producing all our greens, with lettuces, baby squash and spinach, silverbeet, cabbage, rocket, parsley, broccoli and carrots. Almost all his vegetables were caged to protect them from dogs and birds. With warm sunny days, plenty of water, river loam soil, and abundant horse and poultry manure, we had perfect growing conditions and sufficient vegetables to give away to neighbours and our librarian friend Glenda.

One starry night we drove Glenda to the Mitchell railway station to catch the Friday-night _Westlander_ bound for Brisbane.

On arrival at the station, located on the western edge of town, we found ourselves the only vehicle in the large car park. With ten minutes to spare we strolled up the ramp and onto the long deserted platform where we waited, talking quietly so as not to disturb the tranquillity of the night.

The plaintive bleat of a goat caught my attention, and there standing tall and regal on top of a pile of railway sleepers, bathed in moonlight, was Mitchell's railway goat. Silhouetted against the sky, this large brown goat which normally grazed the areas of grass around the railway yards was on night duty as guard.

Goat numbers are currently high on properties in and around Mitchell. Left to their own devices, goats do exceedingly well browsing native bush and pastures. A single roundup can yield up to 900 feral goats, which represents good income. In the old days, however, it was more common to associate the bleat of goats with teams of four to six goats pulling wagons loaded with wood, or water or milk cans, their load rattling as they approached Mitchell from the bush.

From the goat on top of the pile of sleepers, I found my eyes drawn down the tracks to the east – towards Brisbane. This was not the direction in which the train would approach, yet right at the end of the track and sitting on the horizon, was the rising moon. Full and golden, it was like the massive headlight of a train. As it rose above the gleaming silvery tracks, it seemed we too were lifted, as if in a balloon of glowing light.

A distant hum, followed by the clanging of warning bells and the mournful single blast of a horn alerted us to the coming of the train as it crossed the Warrego Highway. The _Westlander_ approached Mitchell from the west, from Charleville, and because the track swept west in a vast curve, our first sight of the oncoming train was a long graceful curve of well-lit carriages. As it slid into the station and came to a halt, sleek and silver, we said our goodbyes and Glenda stepped aboard, carrying her small case.

Standing on the deserted concrete platform I gazed into the brightly lit carriages, returning the waves of a number of smiling people. With a jolt and clunk the train began to move. We watched as the train departed, gathering momentum as it sped along the silvery rails, travelling further and further in an easterly direction, until the last carriage was a mere speck in the distance.

With the tracks leading directly towards the moon rising on the horizon, it seemed Glenda was travelling to the Moon, rather than to Brisbane – taking off on a flight through space and time.

Transporting sheep and cattle by rail – to saleyards and abattoirs, or to better pastures – seems a more humane form of transport than by road train.

Early one morning, Doug decided to photograph one of the very long cattle trains travelling through Mitchell en route between Quilpie and Brisbane. Accordingly, he positioned the ute at the first crossing – just west of Mitchell – where he had a good view of the railway track. A wailing train whistle alerted him to the coming of the cattle train. With its two engines and forty-four carriages loaded with over 900 head of cattle, the train was an impressive sight as it rattled past. Exchanging waves with the two drivers was a bonus.

These cattle had been fattened on pastures without parasites, hormones or chemicals. They were ready for slaughter in Brisbane, fresh from the Channel Country where floodwaters produced grasses and herbage of such excellent quality and bulk that this beef would be sold with the organic tag. These floodplains of the Cooper and Diamantina have an area about the size of Victoria.

From Quilpie to Brisbane took twenty-six hours: one full day and two part-nights. The cattle were fed and rested prior to departure, and given an electrolyte supplement in their water to help them handle the long trip. The train stopped four times to check the cattle and attend to any problems. Anything 'down' or unfit to go on was unloaded and attended to.

'What were you doing parked by the railway track?' was a question asked by several friends and acquaintances the following day. We were learning that you can't do anything in this town without someone seeing you.

***

When I met Marion Moore it was as if I'd known her forever. The occasion was a one-day workshop that combined drawing, woodcuts, printing and collage, following the Landmark Art Show. Twelve of us attended, with three generations in one family group. Marion told me of her home on a remote cattle property called The Peaks, where she lives alone.

When she invited us to join her for morning tea, I anticipated something special. Marion met us at the gate, an agile elderly woman of medium build, with eyes bright and welcoming. Indicating a flap in the netting fence that surrounds her garden, she said, 'That's so the echidnas can come and go as they please.'

Set on the easterly side of a series of spectacular rocky peaks and surrounded by bone-dry paddocks as far as the eye can see, Marion's garden is an oasis in an arid landscape, a riot of colour. Accompanied by her seven-year-old female red kangaroo and tabby cat, we wandered through areas of native trees and shrubs; saw colourful pansies, iris, petunias, geraniums and succulents spilling over rocks; felt the textured bark of bottle trees; and smelt the nectar from a cluster of West Australian eucalypts and emu bushes ( _Eremophilas_ ) alive with bees and butterflies. Honeyeaters and parrots feasted on blossoms in the treetops. Marion's olive, citrus, mulberry and fig trees, along with her vegetable garden were rich patches of greenery.

Leading us towards a shady fernery with chairs and interesting piles of local petrified wood and fossilised seashells, Marion invited us to sit in the dappled shade with blue wrens hopping about cheekily. Marion's son Peter joined us for morning tea and there was talk of Brahman cattle, drought and, of course, the family of blue wrens who have been joining Marion for morning tea every morning for years, sharing her biscuit. They sit on her shoulders, hands, knees and feet, exquisite and utterly charming, even waking her in the morning by sitting on the bedhead and twittering.

The large timber home is peaceful and airy, with wide verandahs shaded by vines. Made largely of cypress pine, it is naturally termite resistant; however, a family of echidnas make sure that every last ant and termite is eaten up, and fast. Marion used to have her house sprayed regularly for termites, but with her family of echidnas, she now has natural pest control.

Echidnas wander into her kitchen; displaying particular interest in one of her cupboards (perhaps this would make a useful and cosy cave?). The floorboards are old and knotted and it's not unusual for Marion to see an echidna's beak poking up through a crack in the floor.

During the winter months Marion often sees an echidna 'train' moving along the meandering pathways that are a feature of her garden – males following a female in season, forming a 'train' of up to five males.

One warm afternoon Marion heard the sounds of an animal lapping water from her fish pond so went to look and there was an echidna standing in the water to get cool. On other days she's found them sitting in large ice-cream containers of water left out for this purpose. Marion used to have water for them indoors, but stopped because frogs were attracted and therefore snakes too.

'Whenever I hear a frog screaming,' said Marion, 'I know it's being eaten by either a snake or a kookaburra. It's an awful sound, full of terror.'

The house creaks with age, and because there are no screens on the windows or doors, Marion's kangaroo and cat, echidnas, bats, lizards, snakes, rodents, flies and other insects are free to come and go as they please. Yet her walls are hung tastefully with original artworks and family photographs, and her books and furnishings look pleasing.

As I took it all in, I wondered. Could I live in a home like this where everything natural was free to come and go? Considering my city upbringing, I had to admit the thought of a king brown snake slithering past my lounge room chair was too much. But I am full of admiration for this gentle, kind yet immensely strong woman who can live here alone – aged in her late seventies – creating beautiful watercolour paintings of native trees and landscapes.

A 410 shotgun propped up in the corner of Marion's sitting room suggests she's well able to defend herself. Only the previous week Marion shot a long brown snake that slithered past her chair one evening while she was reading. Holes in a carpet square show evidence of her feat.

'The birds usually alert me to a snake's whereabouts,' said Marion matter-of-factly.

I was reminded of conversations with Kent of Samios Trading regarding snakes. Kent sells ammunition and is therefore knowledgeable regarding people's requirements for bullets and guns – 'roo and pig shooters are frequently in his shop, also landholders needing ammunition to protect their gardens and houses from snakes.

'Mum uses bird shot so that it kills the snake without doing too much damage indoors,' said Kent. 'One summer she shot fourteen king browns in her house and garden. Since then we've had the garden fence fitted with fine netting and that stops most of the snakes getting through. Mum used to be a top rifle shooter at the local gun club and won lots of trophies, and she's still a crack shot.' I'd met Kent's mum, Lainey, who's a woman about my own age. Here was yet another woman with strength of character and natural warmth.

On this rocky hillside, with a spacious outlook to the north and east, and free-flowing air within her home, Marion lives her life without thinking of the usual _inside_ and _outside._ It's a lifestyle I envy in many ways, particularly Marion's ability to live in harmony and peace with all that surrounds her.

***

There was scarcely a day when there wasn't some social occasion on offer in Mitchell. October was especially busy with school fetes (the St Pat's fete attracted an enviable collection of vintage cars and motorcycles, Doug's included), Mitchell Band performances, pony club competitions, yabby races, open garden days, camel races, writers' meetings, book group meetings, public speaking forums, school concerts, art exhibitions, storytelling at the library, market days – and more. And there always seemed to be someone dropping in for a cuppa and chat.

Often butterflies and birds were the subject of conversation. Butterflies have always captured my imagination. So when clouds of them appeared in October it was as if a magic descended. Never before had we seen so many different colours or patterns or seen butterflies in such large numbers. Perhaps this is a sign of a healthy environment, relatively free of pesticides and pollution.

Although my students had a good general knowledge, when I talked about pesticides they thought I meant foxes and feral pigs. This was a telling mistake because generally speaking, people didn't use pesticides in and around Mitchell, as there was limited cropping. The fact that it was an arid region with winter temperatures falling to minus 6° combined with extreme dryness meant there were few pests.

I stood beneath a prickly-leafed tea tree ( _Melaleuca styphelioides)_ in Marg's garden, admiring its slender trunk, sharp pointed leaves and woody capsules clustered along its branches. But it was the creamy-white blossoms that particularly focused my attention. The air was still and thick with the heady aroma of nectar, an irresistible magnet to the clouds of striped and spotted butterflies that wheeled, soared and drifted lazily amid the blossoms. Eventually they landed on the flower heads, jostling one another to reach the sweetest nectar.

There were also jewel beetles, their bright metallic sheen resembling clusters of emeralds. As nectar-feeding beetles, they were busily indulging themselves too.

Outside our kitchen and dining room windows in Mitchell is a dense hedge of geisha girl bushes. These plants, although frost tender, produce abundant purple flowers that attract at least four different species of butterfly. As I gazed out the window I was reminded of a sentence Charles Darwin wrote in his notebook after walking into a South American rainforest for the first time. In awe of nature's amazing abundance and variety, he looked around then wrote: _My mind is a chaos of delight._

Squinting in the sun's glare, I concentrated to focus the binoculars and watched individual butterflies sipping the sweet nectar from blossoms. Butterflies are valuable pollinators because as they move from plant to plant feeding on nectar they transfer pollen from one plant to the next. That same day I found a caper white butterfly, its moist, crumpled wings and fat body evidence of it being newly emerged from its chrysalis. I touched the butterfly's wing. It was so soft it felt like nothing at all.

Much to my amazement, a dramatic black, red and white butterfly (a female common eggfly) landed on my arm, its touch so light I could scarcely feel it. Moments passed as I gazed into the tiny coloured scales of its wings – overlapping like shingles on a roof – illuminated by a stream of afternoon sunshine. Here was an insect with no biting jaws or stings; instead there was a delicate velvety look that absorbed me into its beauty.

Carefully and very slowly I eased the butterfly's spindly legs from my arm to a nearby twig, taking care not to move too suddenly or to cast my shadow over the butterfly. I watched as it clasped its tiny feet to the branch and then spread its delicate wings and took off for the treetops.

Butterflies, blossoms and sunshine: a fairyland where butterflies dance, so light, so soft – warmed by the sun. Perhaps, I thought, fairies are no more or no less than an imaginative recreation of butterflies.

With the blossoms fluttering with at least eight different species of butterfly, we borrowed a book from the library and began identifying them: caper white, common brown, scarlet jezebel, common eggfly, meadow argus, Australian painted lady, lemon migrant, common crow, orchard swallowtail, spotted jezebel, tailed emperor, pale imperial blue – the names were as romantic as the butterflies.

My brother Rowan, as a six-year-old, had a passion for butterflies. Armed with a long-handled butterfly net Rowan crept around our Melbourne garden for hours on end, stalking butterflies. This brother of mine was _not_ the sort of boy who pulled wings off butterflies. Rather he delighted in their fluttering brightly coloured wings. The image I hold in my mind is of a golden-haired boy, his face open and smiling; long, hot summer days, masses of flowering plants and fluttering butterflies.

That was in the late 1950s. Today, in that same Melbourne garden there are blossoms and sunshine but no butterflies, nor any small birds. Pollution and the widespread use of pesticides are to blame, I believe.

***

The Mitchell cypress mill, located in the industrial estate, has a labour force of workers that produce high-quality building timber, most of which is exported to Japan and the United States. Road trains deliver logs to the mill, where they are manoeuvred onto skids before being cut into manageable lengths. When the circular saw rips into the logs, the scent of pine wood rises from the freshly sawn planks – like incense to the nostrils, sharp and pungent. It is a skilled job to cut the cypress logs into planks without splitting them.

Naturally resistant to termites and the hardest of all softwoods, cypress is a highly sought-after timber for items like floorboards, framing, roof and floor trusses, decking and verandah posts. Most of the older houses in Mitchell have cypress frames, flooring, weatherboards and stumps: ours included. This gives excellent protection against termites. Interestingly, the Phillip Island Nature Park uses cypress pine from the Maranoa region for boardwalks and steps – our beach ramp and steps included.

This unique Australian cypress pine ( _Callitris glaucophylla)_ is a relic of a wetter pre-history, with seeds only germinating after exceptionally heavy rains. This means that the forests are usually made up of trees of the same age and are therefore even-sized, making them ideal for milling.

These natural forests, located west of the Great Dividing Range and extending from central Queensland into south-western New South Wales, are sustainable and operate under strict regulations. The thinning of the groves of rough-barked, symmetrical trees prevents the forests becoming too dense and fire prone, the industry argues.

There are few birds singing in the cypress pines, simply the sound of wind in the needles. Where they grow thickly, the sweet scent of pine rises from the shadowy branches spotted with sunshine.

In October I wasn't the only one to suffer when the pines released their vast clouds of copper-coloured pollen. The pollen drifted like smoke from the groves of native pine causing all those prone to allergies to reach for antihistamines, handkerchiefs and tissues. I thought back to an occasion when we'd been camping in the Flinders Ranges in a grove of stately cypress pine. It looked perfect until the cypress pines decided to explode with pollen. My hay fever was so bad we had to leave.

Thinking of blossoms and hay fever reminded me of the oolines and how I wanted to see them flowering and learn more about this unique Gondwanan rainforest species. Heather Bowen's name and telephone number was given to me by a mutual friend, so I phoned. Enthusiastic and willing to share her knowledge, Heather told me she'd let me know when the oolines began flowering, and we'd make arrangements to come out to their property.

Only days later – after returning from shopping in Mitchell – I found a large bunch of ooline flowers on our front verandah table, along with a dense twisted piece of ooline wood. What a wonderful way to tell me the oolines were in flower!

As I arranged the branches in a green bucket filled with water I marvelled at the delicate five-petalled flowers. That same day we'd had coffee at the café, sitting outside in the shade of a large bulbous bottle tree. Caught in a light breeze, hundreds of tiny bottle tree flowers drifted down.

Light and fairy-like, with sunshine on their petals, they landed on our table, on our bare arms, and in our hair. Like the ooline, the bottle tree flowers are tiny, creamy-pink in colour and have five petals. I wonder why the number five? As soon as the ooline flowers were arranged in water I rang Heather to thank her. She invited us to visit their property the following day.

South-west Queensland is home to pockets of Gondwana rainforest dating back beyond the Age of Dinosaurs. Here, only half an hour west of Mitchell, oolines and orchids flourish despite hot, arid conditions.

'It's too far for you to walk,' said Heather's husband, Bob, as he greeted us with a smile and firm handshake, 'so I jumped onto the bulldozer and built a road up into the hills where the best stand of oolines are flowering. Simple, no problem at all.'

Never before or since has a road been constructed especially for me.

Heather was full of excitement. She had a present for me but wouldn't tell me what it was. 'It's half dead and half alive,' was all she would tell me. Up the steep, bone-dry incline we drove in their four-wheel drive, past bottle trees and through dusty bushland to a place high up on the hillside commanding an extensive view over arid country. Leading me by the arm, Heather took me to a small but dead ooline tree about twice my height.

Under the glare of the Queensland sun, Heather paused then gazed up and said, 'Look, two clumps of orchids. We can get the boys to chainsaw the tree, load it into the back of the truck and take it to your place, where you can put it in a hole in your garden. Then you'll have your own bush orchids growing in an ooline trunk – plus a perfect bird perch at the top!'

My eyes wandered up the silvery trunk, coming to rest on a spray of cream, reddish-speckled orchids ( _Cymbidium canaliculatum_ ). Together we looked at the orchid blooms while breathing in their faint scent.

As I thought of suitable places for my half-dead, half-alive present we collected some firewood and soon Bob had a small fire burning, the billy on, and a grid ready for steak and sausages. The wood was so dense there was scarcely any smoke – but there was a lot of heat. Everything was so basic, so simple; so utterly delightful.

The sight of a small brown frog hiding in a piece of fallen timber turned the conversation around to frogs. Recently Bob relocated a large green tree frog from their toilet to a dam on the other side of the highway because Heather doesn't like frogs in the toilet. Within twenty-four hours the frog was back, but battle-scarred with gravel and burrs embedded in its skin. It had left a large dam studded with reeds, crossed the Warrego Highway and jumped over one kilometre to get back to its home on their back verandah.

In 1984, when Heather and Bob purchased their 3300-hectare cattle property, their land was largely unimproved. Their property included dry stony hills covered with unusual trees; oolines, complete with orchids perched on their branches. So began a love affair with this ancient vegetation.

'I noticed the oolines as soon as I stepped onto our land,' said Heather. 'I'd never seen anything like them. I was so excited. These special trees were growing on _our_ land.'

The oolines growing around the outer edge of the hills were covered with small flowers. Against the glossy dark green leaves, pale buds unfurled to reveal blossoms buzzing with bees.

Nearby, an ooline re-sprouted from root stock, and another formed a coppice from a stump. In this country oolines seem to grow more easily from root stock than from seed, with bushfire the main trigger for seed germination. Consequently, oolines may wait hundreds of years for an opportunity to regenerate from seed.

Pointing towards a tree covered with yellow blossom Heather said, 'That's where I collected seed. I spread plastic under the tree and held it down with logs, then waited until the flowers fell. I scooped up the fallen flowers into bags and took them home. I didn't sort out dry flower petals from seed. I just let it dry for about a week, planted the whole lot in sand and then covered the seed trays with plastic.

'You've got to have a go, don't you? I put the rest in paper bags in the fridge. I'd never propagated trees before, but I thought, I'm going to try, seeing they're so special.'

Heather's efforts were rewarded. Within the space of two to three days she had a strike. 'They came up like hairs on a cat's back,' she said, 'hundreds of them.'

There were casualties of course. With daytime temperatures in the high thirties it was difficult to keep the sand moist – even in a shade house – so she lost a lot of seedlings. 'I pricked out about a hundred plants, though, and put them in pots, but a heap more died.'

Heather kept the strongest twenty-four (she gave the rest away) to plant near the homestead. Bob lightly ripped the earth, and then together, Heather and Bob installed a watering system and planted the young trees, each with a bag around them, but no stake or fertiliser. Today, five years later, twenty-three trees survive to tell the tale.

Walking in the dry stony hills is one of Heather's greatest pleasures. Here she feels at one with the trees, birds and animals that call this wild semi-arid landscape their home. Living in the ooline hills are red and grey kangaroos, wallabies, wallaroos, echidnas, large brown snakes, skinks, goannas, emus, butterflies and other insect life. As guardians of this unique ecosystem, Heather and her husband feel responsibility for its continued care and protection.

Heather charts and records the birds she sees – when they come, when they go, what they eat and where they nest. Considering the arid nature of the rolling hills, the number of species is amazing. Robins (southern yellow, red-capped and hooded), wrens (variegated, superb blue, splendid and white-winged fairy wren), parrots (red-wings, blue-bonnets, mallee ringnecks and pale-headed rosellas), Major Mitchell cockatoos, rainbow birds, double-barred finches, plum-headed finches, rufous whistlers, speckled warblers and spotted nightjars – all these and more evolved to live in the unique habitat of the oolines that clothe the hills comprising about 14 per cent of the Bowen property.

Rarely is Heather without binoculars, a digital camera and notebook. Without formal training in this field she is learning fast and possesses a remarkable bank of knowledge and understanding. In her favourite ooline forest, Heather showed us some of the other trees that share this habitat: bottle trees, bendee, belah, brigalow and wild orange.

'Last year we lost a lot of old red gums down by the creek,' Heather said. 'They just up and died. But never the oolines. When everything else looked terrible, they looked healthy. Hardly any died. They're like the wollemi pine. True survivors.'

Being ancient 'rainforest' trees, oolines evolved to adapt to a hotter, drier climate – over a very long period of time. Consequently, their survival ability seems superior to other more recently evolved native vegetation. Perhaps climate change will prove less of a problem for the oolines?

Gazing back over the paddocks towards the homestead, Heather said, 'Producing good quality cattle and caring for our land is always foremost in our minds. We also love native birds and animals – and the trees. Especially the oolines.'

With Heather's gift to me cut down and draped across the back of the truck, and its precious clumps of orchids carefully supported, we left the rocky hills and headed for home. On the way I visualised our garden in Mitchell, trying to decide where to put the orchids. Finally I decided on a position near the kitchen window.

Now, every time I stand by the kitchen sink I see the orchids. Every spring I'll see them flower then grow their plump green pods. From the kitchen window I'll see the first bird to perch on the top-most branch of the dead ooline. What species will it be? Will it be a willie wagtail, a magpie, or a boldly marked butcherbird singing its flute-like song? Every year this unique present will bring me interest and joy.

Several years ago, Chris O'Donnell from the University of Queensland heard of Heather's passion for oolines. He asked if she could gather seed to include in a collection of rare seeds for the Millennium Seed Bank Project. The trees were not flowering; however, Heather had plenty of ooline seed in her fridge, so she packaged it carefully and sent it by mail to Brisbane.

The Millennium Seed Bank Project is an ambitious global conservation project that aims to collect and bank seeds from 10 per cent of the world's wild flowering plant species by 2010, and 25 per cent by 2020.

Based in West Sussex, in England, the seed bank has the capacity to store samples of up to half of all the wild plant species in the world. This conservation project offers an insurance policy for the future of the planet's vegetation. Sometimes described as a Noah's Ark for plants, the Millennium Seed Bank Project aims to save species from extinction. Seeds have been collected in every state of Australia, and from all around the world. It is believed that the seeds will last for hundreds of years.

Precious _Cadellia pentastylis_ seeds now sit safely in the vault of the Millennium Seed Bank in the UK – thanks to Heather Bowen and the many other people involved in the collection, processing, transport and storage of the ooline seed.

Chapter 7

Bonus Downs

Closing my eyes for sleep is one thing. Stilling my mind is quite another.

Instead of drifting in the calm darkness preceding sleep, the dome of my sky was clustered with millions of five-pointed stars – ooline flowers. I'd just spent the day at Bonus Downs (46 kilometres from Mitchell, 630 kilometres west of Brisbane) and the oolines were flowering there too.

Bonus Downs is a cattle property of 13,380 hectares that runs a tourism enterprise as well. Madonna and Lyle Connolly offer guests the opportunity to see how early pioneers lived and worked. In addition, they share their stand of rare ooline trees: about 80 hectares grow at Bonus Downs _._

From the homestead we bumped along a meandering dirt track through the bush – towards the hills and the oolines. On the way Lyle pointed towards a sandalwood tree where, beneath its canopy, a spotted bowerbird had built an elaborate bower using twigs and grasses. Generously decorated with pieces of green glass, bits of plastic, bottle tops, fruits, bones and pebbles, the bower was sure to attract a female – especially when the male raised his iridescent lilac-pink plume.

Reaching the hills we entered the grove on the edge of the forest. Here the oolines have thick trunks and spacious canopies covered with clusters of flowers. The trees growing further up the hill are, however, tall and spindly and grow close together on dry stony ground almost completely devoid of other vegetation.

In this magical place I relaxed on a timber seat and leaned my elbows on the smooth ooline planks of the table. This hardwood timber is sought-after for wood turning and furniture making but is scarce due to the tree's protected and vulnerable status. Power tools and a considerable amount of elbow grease are needed to reveal the wood's unique colour and grain.

My fingers rested a moment in a crack between two planks, and Madonna said, 'After dark, little brown frogs poke their heads out between the cracks. They match the colour of the timber.'

On the bumpy drive back to the homestead, oolines merged into brigalow, belah, bimble box, ironbark and mulga. The stately old homestead came into view, surrounded by lawns, colourful garden beds and large established trees.

'I completely lost the garden in the 2004 drought,' said Madonna, gazing across the thick buffalo grass lawn. 'All the dams went dry and I couldn't keep the 'roos out. I ended up with fourteen poddy calves living in the dust around the homestead.'

Built in 1911 by innovative pastoralist and philanthropist Sir Samuel McCaughey and designed for coolness, comfort and elegance, the homestead of 60 squares is a fine example of Queensland architecture. Restoring the homestead to its original condition was a labour of love for the Connellys. When Lyle and Madonna and their two young children purchased Bonus Downs _,_ in 1990, it was run-down and neglected with peeling paint, rotting stumps and weatherboards, and an overgrown garden. Since then, they have restored the homestead, outbuildings and tennis court and added a pool.

Madonna and Lyle open their hearts and home to travellers. Bonus Downs offers farm-stay accommodation in the jackaroo's cottage and shearing shed. This is not a five-star resort, but the rooms and bed linen are clean, the communal kitchen fully equipped (Madonna is happy to provide breakfasts and evening meals) and the dining hall spacious and decorated with interesting historical photographs, bits and pieces from the past, and natural heritage posters.

Madonna offers guests a tour of the homestead with its long hallway, fourteen rooms and wide verandahs. As I trod the polished cypress floors, admiring the tasteful furnishings, antiques and memorabilia – most of which were handed down from Lyle's grandmother – I felt transported to a past era.

Madonna is a wealth of knowledge about the homestead, the property which was selected in 1860, and its history. Her energy, sense of humour and natural charm make her a true hostess. The traditional 'smoko' country morning tea feast with the Connollys – either at the homestead or in the oolines – is a special treat. Like everything else she does, Madonna does morning smoko to perfection.

Flicking through jottings in the Bonus Downs guest book I was struck by the sincere gratitude expressed by people from all around Australia, New Zealand, Europe, the USA and many other places. Happy travellers wrote about a journey back in time, about warm hospitality, a memorable outback experience – and the rare ooline trees.

'We arrived as strangers, we are leaving as friends,' wrote one grateful couple from Germany.

***

As we prepared to leave Bonus Downs, Madonna presented me with a spray of bush orchids picked from a clump growing on an ooline trunk. Back home, gazing at their intricate beauty I decided to draw them, and in the process discovered something else altogether. Using pencil, pen and watercolour pencils I recorded forty-four buds on the one spike, all in different stages of unfurling – from fully open to small tight buds. This was an incredibly difficult subject to attempt by someone who is not naturally good at drawing; however, I persisted, and as I focused felt myself go deep into the heart of the orchid itself and there drift in a calm, meditative state.

The meditation process can be achieved in many ways, from the most conventional to the most unusual. I discovered that the process of drawing plants puts me into a very focused yet calm state of mind, – and that, after all, is what meditation is all about.

***

Recently I'd noticed the trunks of the river red gums had changed from winter white (due to bleaching by frost) to salmon and green. Likewise the bark of the tree growing at the entrance to our driveway; a species we were keen to identify. We'd asked around and got all sorts of names. Finally Doug decided to send away some leaves and seed cases to the Queensland Herbarium for correct identification.

Back came a letter in double-quick time, with all the botanical details. The specimen was a _Corymbia torelliana_ , commonly known as a cadaghi. Previously known as _Eucalyptus_ _torelliana,_ this tree is a native of the wet tropics of northern Queensland but is grown widely in southern and western Queensland as a shade tree _._ On the lower part of its trunk the bark is rough, while the bark above is a smooth creamy-cream colour.

It belongs to the same family as lemon-scented gums, red-flowering gums, yellow and red bloodwoods, spotted gums and ghost gums. This meant, I realised, that our cadaghi belonged to the same family as the famous Tree of Knowledge at Barcaldine _._ I love finding these connections; life is a complex, interconnecting web.

In 1995, Doug and I wrote a book about growing Australian shrubs and trees from seed. It is called _From Seeds To Leaves_ and has sold steadily over the years. First published in 1995, this book was due to be re-released in 2008. After a long association with growing Australian plants from seed – both as farmers and through the Landcare movement – we felt we had something to contribute.

The conservation of native fauna and flora and the planting of vegetation to restore degraded land has also been a keen interest over many years. Our publisher, Black Inc in Melbourne, intended doing another edition, this time with a fresh cover. They asked me to write a new introduction talking about climate change. As a bonus, a glowing endorsement from TV gardening guru Jamie Durie would adorn the front cover.

During the afternoons I took my writing out onto our bull-nosed verandah where it was cooler. Strangely, there were no flies. I liked sitting out on the verandah where there was the opportunity to respond to the friendly toots and waves of passing motorists in an assortment of utes, cars, trucks and bicycles. I felt part of the world out there. These distractions were, however, difficult at times because the new introduction was proving hard.

How to cover the challenges of climate change and global warming in relation to growing Australian plants from seed was the question. How deep could I go within the confines of six pages? I researched and wrote, revised, redrafted and finally came up with something I felt satisfied with.

In the course of my research I found that many indigenous tree species were dying as a result of the prolonged drought. But there were surprises, especially with trees such as the cadaghi.

This tree has survived in Mitchell without surface watering or special care to produce a pleasant shade tree that blossoms profusely in November. Honeyeaters, butterflies, bats and bees feast on its blossoms. Its only disadvantage is its tendency to lose limbs. This tree is an example of a successful migrant, a species able to adapt and thrive in a changing climate.

Looking similar to a eucalypt, our cadaghi marks one side of the driveway; while on the other side grows a bottle tree and a few mallee-type gums. The effect is balanced and pleasing.

The white cedar ( _Melia azedarach)_ was another native tree that had survived the drought. This medium-sized deciduous tree has a dense bushy crown, toothed leaves and fragrant lilac flowers. But what attracted me to it in the first place was the sight of its yellowish-brown berries during the winter months when the tree was leafless. The clusters of mustard berries had a distinctive look that had me curious as to the tree's identity. As with the cadaghi, I found it relatively difficult to find out its true name, but I persisted. I like knowing what I'm looking at, especially species that shine out as survivors.

It was a case of the survival of the fittest. As I observed the living things around me, Darwin's theory of natural selection and his words often came to mind: _It is a truly wonderful fact – the wonder of which we are apt to overlook from familiarity – that all animals and all plants throughout all time and space should be related to each other._

***

Bailey the calf was a survivor, too. Sandra and Rob Cornish found her curled up next to her dead mother, an old cow that had died the day before, down by the river. The calf was terrified, so bolted, but eventually Rob caught her, loaded her onto the truck and brought her back to Mitchell to live in the paddock at the back of our block.

This cute little calf with large dark eyes and long eyelashes had a moist black nose and a creamy-grey coat. Her moo intrigued Del, but even more enticing were the frothy white bubbles that spilled from her mouth as she sucked up her milk through a teat. With twice-daily feeds, Bailey provided interest in our back paddock, especially since Largey the horse now lived on the river block.

Attending calf-feeding times became a ritual for Del and Sally. They licked the milky froth from around the calf's lips while Bailey was drinking, then licked clean the bucket. Finally, Del gave the calf tongue kisses through the fence. After her milk, Bailey often kicked her feet in the air and galloped at full speed around the mulberry, bottle and palm trees, bellowing loudly.

When a calf is orphaned by drought it poses a dilemma in terms of the economic value of rearing that animal. It takes effort and money to hand-rear a calf. Each calf needs two bags of milk at $90 per bag, plus hay and calf pellets. Therefore the cost of rearing a calf to the stage of independence is approximately $250. In two years' time, however, this same calf may be worth $700 plus. So it depends on how you value your labour and time as to whether or not it's worth rearing an orphaned calf.

Sandra and Rob Cornish believe it is worth the time, effort and cost, and so do we.

***

The boundary between our place and Marg Noon's was not clearly defined; consequently it took time to establish whether or not we owned the row of twenty or so red-flowering oleanders ( _Nerium oleander_ ). It turned out we didn't. Nevertheless, interspersed with bottle trees and clearly seen from our kitchen and dining room windows, the oleanders provided pleasant greenery and privacy screening.

All parts of the plant are poisonous, from their milky sap, to their leaves, to their flowers and fruits. From our farming days, I tend to associate this plant with dead and dying goats and sheep. Now that we no longer own sheep or Anglo Nubian goats, I look on oleanders more kindly. But humans can be affected too, with children poisoned from eating flowers, and adults in the old days made ill when oleander twigs were used for skewers or spits during cooking, or from stirring porridge using an oleander twig.

Native to the Mediterranean region, the oleander is a fast-growing, hardy, evergreen plant that survives drought. What I hadn't realised was that the oleanders are home to hundreds of common crow butterflies ( _Euploea core_ ). Also called oleander butterflies, these black butterflies have white spots and blotches along their wing margins and blend into the background, especially when resting with their wings held together over their backs, so that only the dull undersides show. Their pale yellow eggs can be found glued to the underside of young leaves and flowers.

The oleanders provide soft new growth for the caterpillars, and shelter, nectar and plenty of sunny spots for the butterflies. By eating the poisonous leaves the orange, black and white striped caterpillars are poisonous too, and this toxicity carries through to the chrysalis and the butterfly stages as well. Birds keep well clear of this species!

To warn predators of its toxic nature, the chrysalis stage of the oleander butterfly is eye-catching. The 2-centimetre-long silver or gold chrysalis has a metallic mirror finish. It hangs from the underside of stiff narrow pointed oleander leaves or twigs, catching rays of sunlight like golden coins.

In Mitchell, an entire life cycle of the oleander butterfly can be completed in twenty-six days.

In spite of the continuing drought in and around Mitchell, October continued to bring forth an explosion of blossoms, honeyeaters, flying foxes and butterflies.

***

The word metamorphosis always seemed too complex until I studied its Greek origins: _meta_ (change) and _morphe_ (form). The word took me back to primary school days where I remember drawing the life cycle of an emperor gum moth. I even remember where I was sitting in the classroom. I was in Grade 3 and proud of that drawing, but even more exciting was the realisation of the miracle of the life cycle: from tiny egg, to leaf-munching caterpillar, to chrysalis, to the emergence of a magnificent moth.

From this young age I went on to keep emperor gum moths myself, and every year watched their transformation, never tiring of this miracle of nature. From pupa to moth was my favourite stage. I would watch for an hour or more as the chrysalis broke open and the moth emerged, limp and soft with its wings crumpled. I'd see the wings miraculously harden and expand, then the moth take flight.

As a child I enjoyed reading _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ by Lewis Carroll, especially the part where Alice complains to the Caterpillar that she's bewildered by the changes in size she has undergone. The Caterpillar is not puzzled at all.

' _Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; 'but when you have to turn into a chrysalis – you will some day, you know – and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?'_

' _Not a bit', said the Caterpillar._

' _Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice; 'all I know is, it would feel very queer to me.'_

' _You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. 'Who are you?'_

Humans have always been intrigued by the strange growth and development of insects; however, it wasn't until last century that the complex life history of insects was clearly understood. Even the Greek philosopher Aristotle got it wrong.

Perhaps the journey of a person through life can be compared to the metamorphosis of butterflies and moths: the transformation from egg (embryo), to caterpillar (childhood), chrysalis (adulthood), to butterfly (true wellbeing). Watching the butterflies fluttering in the blossoms I wondered if living in Mitchell was offering me the opportunity to transform myself. Was I breaking free of my cocoon?

It had been safe living as a pupa within the protection of the silken chrysalis I'd spun around myself and hung in the tree of my own choosing. Now that angina no longer dominated my life, I could break free, could open myself up to the warmth and light of the universe: could experience harmony and true wellbeing.

What would it be like to be free, reaching new heights, other realities? Freeing up a part of my mind previously unexplored? Would I dare break loose? Was I already breaking loose? What was this new reality?

***

The delivery and installation of a 5000-litre rainwater tank marked a fairly ordinary beginning to what turned out to be an extraordinary day.

Although artesian water is plentiful and of excellent quality, we decided it was prudent to have an emergency water supply. After all, the town supply is dependent on a pump and pumps have been known to fail. In any case, we could use rainwater on the vegetable garden.

With the poly tank installed, Vicki and Bruce came inside for a cool drink before heading off on another job.

'Mozzies are a huge problem in this part of the world,' said Vicki, 'especially when they breed in rainwater tanks. That's why we've fitted inlet and overflow screens to our tanks.'

Their poly tank business was going well, and we were pleased for this enterprising and hardworking young couple who'd thought outside the square. With two rainwater tanks, one hooked up to the house and the other to the sheds, our water supply should be secure – once it rained.

After eighteen days in a row of temperatures exceeding 30°C and afternoon thunder, it was beginning to feel like the tropics – except that little or no rain fell, in spite of the heavy black clouds that gathered on the horizon every evening.

After a particularly blustery afternoon, the wind worked itself into a fury that night. Nevertheless we prepared for bed as usual and settled down to sleep; after all, seven years on King Island should have prepared us for anything and everything to do with wind.

'At least we're a long way from the coast,' I said, my mind flooding with images of mountainous seas pounding jagged reefs, and horrendous shipwrecks.

A sudden swirling gust flexed the bedroom wall and memories flowed like an ocean current: of Doug blown off his motorcycle while mustering sheep; of our Border collie dog whipped off her feet and rolled over and over across the paddock; of our rotary clothesline turned inside out like an umbrella, complete with sheets, jeans and socks.

A rumble of thunder in the distance and a thud in Del's kennel (located outside our bedroom window) heralded the arrival of Sally.

'Bloody Sally,' said Doug, 'that's all we need.'

'Poor little thing's terrified of thunder,' I said, preparing myself for a disturbed night.

In spite of the wind, thunder, thumps and bumps we drifted into a sleep of sorts. I imagined myself rocking gently in the water, safe and secure on a houseboat on the Murray River. Drifting; floating in the calm –

There have been moments in my life when time has stood still, when every detail has become magnified, when all my senses have been keyed to their most acute. An earthquake experience in Assisi, Italy had that effect on me. Like a heart attack and electric shock combined, it was a sensation never to be forgotten.

Now something shattered my dreams, waking me with such a shock that I sat up dazed, sheet and blanket flung aside. 'What happened?' I asked, the force of the initial impact still thudding in my head.

It was as if a road train had hit the back wall of the house. The noise was deafening. A trickle of fear ran down my spine. A clap of thunder rolled ominously through the night.

The storm reared up in the darkness and lightning forked, like a venomous snake. My eyes registered the face of the illuminated bedside clock. It was 11 p.m. Already Doug was at the window with the Venetian blinds parted, his pyjama-clad body illuminated by a spectacular bolt of lightning.

'The power's off,' I said, stumbling towards him while lightning cracked and the sky lit up again, like a Christmas tree.

Dwarfed by the immensity of the assault we stood by the window peering out into the darkness. The wind raged and howled like nothing we'd ever heard before. For six long minutes it seemed all hell had broken loose.

'We haven't got any candles in the house,' I said, raising my voice as a sudden burst of driving rain struck the iron roof. 'Do you know where the torch is?'

'In the caravan, out in the shed.'

Fighting back a rush of fear, confusion and guilt at our lack of foresight, I felt Doug take my hand in his and guide me down the hall and into the lounge room. Usually we were well prepared for emergencies.

'Look! The rubbish bin's taken off,' exclaimed Doug, watching our large wheelie bin scoot the full length of the bull-nosed verandah and smash into Del's new fence.

'And the table,' I added, hearing the smashing of glass, along with many other strange crashes, bangs and booms.

The corrugated iron on the roof of the verandah popped and flexed, but beneath its protection all was silent in the kennel – until Doug opened the front door. In a flash, Sally was in, down the hall and under our bed, with Del close behind. But Del wasn't scared, bold German shepherd that she was. She wasn't staying outside, however, while everyone else was indoors.

After the initial assault, the power flickered a few times and then came back on. We inspected the inside of the house for damage. Everything was intact and dry except for the ensuite located against the western wall, which had copped the full brunt of the wind. Although tightly sealed, rainwater, shredded leaves, twigs and butterflies had blasted through invisible door and window cracks and into the bathroom.

It was an eerie sight to see butterflies stuck to the walls by the sheer force of wind and water. It was extraordinary to see the mess yet be unable to see how the rain and debris had penetrated seemingly non-existent cracks. Using towels we cleaned up most of the water, leaving the leaves and butterflies till the morning.

After a quick look outside Doug burst back indoors, saying, 'The roof looks okay, and Marg's too, but it's so wild and dark – '

'And dangerous,' I added, 'with things flying around. I'm glad you're back inside.'

With the worst of the storm over and unable to do anything further, we went back to bed. The storm raged on, but with less intensity than before. Every now and then though, the din increased to a screeching crescendo. Feeling tense, wide awake and with heart pounding, I reached over and took Doug's hand in mine, reassured by his presence and the softness of the two Siamese snuggled between us.

What if the house isn't strong enough to withstand the storm? I wondered, listening to the wind trying to rip the iron off the roof, thinking of sheets of iron flying through the night. But all I could do was lie there and hope the storm would blow itself out. Strange thumps, crashes, sirens and the roar of trucks kept us from sleep; kept us alert to danger; kept us wondering what was going on in the rest of the town.

At first light we gave up all attempts of sleep and got up, anxious to see what the early morning would reveal. Doug did a quick look around and came back inside saying, 'Marg's place looks like a bomb site with trees down everywhere, branches strewn all over the ground and lots of dead birds. Sparrows, wrens, doves and some honeyeaters. But Cecil and Marlene are already there with their truck and chainsaws. I'm going back to help them.'

Salt-of-the-earth people, Cecil and Marlene live in a house on the block adjoining our back boundary. They are always the first to help anyone in need, to pass a carton of eggs or a plant cutting over the back fence.

Smiling and dressed in shorts, T-shirt and lace-up work boots, Marlene stands solid on the arid ground she calls home. Never afraid of hard work, Marlene has a manual job at the local piggery as well as assisting Cecil with his various tasks on local grazing properties. Together they cut mulga scrub for cattle feed, using chainsaws; mend fences; feed out hay; fill large tubs with molasses to help cattle digest poor quality paddock feed; and check bores as well as water in dams and troughs.

I remembered the posy of flowers stuck in a jam jar of water and placed on our doorstep, on our arrival in Mitchell. There was also a card welcoming us. With blue eyes, blonde hair, an unlined face and generosity of spirit, Marlene is likeable and friendly and a force to be reckoned with.

Ten cats call Marlene's home their own, with one in particular – a large dark tabby – following her around. Others can be seen sitting on the top of the steep-sided iron roof of their home. Marlene is a sucker for strays, a collector of pot plants, and a rescuer of birds hit on the road. Cecil breeds peach-faced parrots in a large aviary and, in Doug's words, has a scrap metal heap 'to die for'.

'I heard on the news that our little storm was actually a mini tornado,' said Cecil, 'that the wind gusts topped 200 kilometres an hour.' Of solid build, and with sweat glistening on his brow Cecil pulled a large branch off Marg's rotary clothesline which was lying smashed on the ground.

Picking up the branch and throwing it onto the back of his truck as if it was a matchstick, Cecil continued, 'We've been prayin' for rain, prayin' for a miracle to break this bloody drought, but a tornado wasn't what we needed.'

No longer in tumult, the sky was blue and the day already hot. The battle was over. A frog boomed loud from a clump of greenery, glad of the brief rain. Despite the devastation, everyone was cheerful and eager to help, picking up sheets of iron and rubbish that had been airborne during the storm; tossing everything into trailers or onto the backs of trucks or utes.

Marg's laundry was like our ensuite. Wind had squeezed through every minute crack and hole, forcing through water, butterflies, shredded leaves and other insects. The outside walls were mud-stained, with a mosaic of shredded leaves stuck to the weatherboards. I went inside to share morning tea with everyone around the kitchen table. Mike, Marg's son, and his wife Ann had arrived to find Marg's place alive with helpers, but there was still plenty left to do.

'The rain won't even settle the dust, let alone feed starving cattle,' said Marlene, biting into a fruit slice.

'It's lucky none of this fell on your roof, Marg,' said one of the council workers, waving his arm to indicate the fallen trees and branches outside.

'One of the women at the bowling club told me that the wind blew in a neighbour's glass window,' said Marg, passing around a plate of biscuits, 'and embedded a fragment of glass in a wall.'

'It's cut a path straight through town, about 200 metres wide,' said Cecil, 'but only on this side of the railway line. Weird, eh.'

The town looked a wreck, with trees ripped out by their roots; branches scattered everywhere; smashed outdoor furniture; roofs ripped off houses and other buildings; light poles blown over and broken in two; and large metal signs at the western entrance to the town twisted, mangled and knocked to the ground.

Was this extreme weather condition due to climate change? I wondered. If so, we could expect more of these events in the future.

The sports complex and golf club were hit the worst. The emergency services cadets helped clean up the mess, filling bins with rubbish and taking seven trailer loads of branches to the tip. Meanwhile, the council workers were out with their trucks and front-end loaders pushing trees off roads, felling dangerous limbs and generally cleaning up. The Fire Brigade, police and SES put tarps over roofs, and lifted away a large tree that had fallen over a carport, damaging several vehicles.

Discovering live powerlines on the ground, two doors up, Doug rang the power authority and stood guard until the truck arrived to fix it. This fault caused a surge back through our air-conditioner that resulted in 'fatal' damage.

Waiting for a replacement air-conditioner tested both my patience and endurance. It was well over 35°C, and despite my love of the warmer weather I was not yet acclimatised to the extremes of Queensland heat. I had to accept though, that this was the outback, where things happen slowly.

***

Five days after the mini tornado, an explosion of sound and colour in the treetops alerted me to the presence of silky oak blossoms and a flock of noisy friarbirds, as well as some pale-headed rosellas and blue-faced honeyeaters. How lovely to stand with my eyes closed and listen to all the bird calls: from cockatoos to apostlebirds, from friarbirds to wrens, to butcherbirds to mudlarks, to magpies and crested pigeons.

Although familiar with the 40-metre tall silky oak ( _Grevillea robusta_ ) in our garden, with its fern-like leaves, the noisy friarbirds were new to us. The term grey nomad is a well-used phrase, but these blossom nomads, the noisy friarbirds, are less well known.

'I can't imagine how the flower buds survived the tornado,' I said, gazing up into the mass of vivid orange-yellow flowers that had not only burst into bloom but were oozing nectar.

Looking through binoculars, and with beads of sweat gathering above his eyes, Doug said, 'I can see a friarbird probing a flower with its bill and can even see grains of pollen sticking to the knob on its forehead, ready to transfer to another flower. Here, have a turn.'

Elated, I watched as the friarbirds chattered and shrieked from the crown of the tree that glowed golden as the sun. Their voices rose raucous as they jostled for space, debating ownership of the flowers, sipping nectar with their curved bills; feasting.

'I wonder if there will be flying foxes as well,' I said, my eyes focused on the black head of a friarbird, on the distinctive casque on its forehead.

Ablaze with golden blooms, the tree seemed a magnet to the sunshine that fell so generously from the clear blue sky. Sometimes squabbles broke out as the honeyeaters noisily defended their right to a particular blossom. But mainly the birds flitted exuberantly from blossom to blossom, from one little sugar factory to the next. Within months, these blossoms would transform into winged seeds nestled within elegant dark brown pods.

Dragging my eyes and attention away from the antics of the friarbirds for a few minutes, I noticed there were also buzzing bees, wasps, ladybirds, flies, ants and beetles attracted to this feast of nectar. The jewel beetles ( _Calodema regalis_ ) were a real treat. Their lustrous brilliantly coloured backs reflected sunlight like gems in the treetops.

Charles Darwin wrote: _In social animals [nature] will adapt the structure of each individual for the benefit of the community, if each in consequence profits by the selected change._

Later in the afternoon, with the heat at its most intense, I wandered outside and found myself absorbed once again in the silky oak blooms bursting with fertility and abundance. In Mitchell nothing happens in moderation.

The flock of friarbirds were chattering noisily and swinging upside down in the treetops. Their energy-rich meal of pollen and nectar – as well as giving them protein and carbohydrates – had been sun-warmed to the degree that it'd made them tipsy.

Beginning their raucous chatter at first light and feeding in the treetops until darkness fell (at dusk the birds left to roost in other trees), the friarbirds stamped October with their presence. With many hundreds feeding in the numerous silky oaks growing around town, I was reminded of the sound of thousands of chattering, chuckling muttonbirds and my island home. Each represented the laughter of spring.

For the space of several weeks – in the middle of October – Mitchell is the nectar kingdom of the world. Then almost as suddenly as they appeared, the friarbirds left and I remained, wondering where they had gone – probably to blossoms further south, I guessed.

As sleep descended on that balmy night, the thought to came to me that there was nowhere in the world I would rather be.

Only days later, the river red gums and cadaghis burst into flower and hundreds of flying foxes swooped in from the orange glow of sunset to feast on the nectar-rich blossoms. Dots against the sunset gradually became larger and larger as they approached Mitchell from the west, heading for the river and the eucalypts that lined its meandering course, and also the many cadaghis growing in gardens around town.

With their sharp, intelligent faces, brown eyes and fox-like ears, flying foxes spilled into a neighbour's cadaghi (our tree didn't flower, for some unknown reason), causing the top-most branches to sway and even break with their weight. A distinctive scent hung heavy around the tree, suggestive of blossoms, bat pheromones, droppings and the hush of evening after a hot, dry day in inland Australia. Beneath the tree the following morning lay a carpet of blossom and broken branches, evidence of a successful night's foraging. During the day the bats hung like leathery black fruits in a forested area to the west of Mitchell – squabbling like greedy children, in spite of abundance.

Unfortunately, flying foxes suffer an image problem. This is due largely to the damage they cause in orchards and their connection with the Hendra virus that is transferable to horses and humans. But here in Mitchell, I choose to admire them for what they are: delightful creatures that are vital tree pollinations and seeders, essential to the ecological health and sustainability of our forests.

Despite the continuing drought, the mulberry tree growing beside the river joined in the celebration of abundance, by producing a tree full of ripening fruit. Every evening we walked past the tree and stopped to pick a handful of the lush black berries. Parting the heart-shaped leaves – each as large as my hand – I found countless berries in the process of ripening.

We weren't the only ones enjoying this seasonal harvest. Every traveller and local who walked along the river or between the caravan park, the spa and the town passed by the laden tree, and most stopped to pick and feast on the plump berries, usually leaving with purple-stained fingers and lips. Except if they were headed for the pub for a meal.

'We're off to the Courthouse for dinner,' one freshly showered couple told us as they paused yet refrained from touching the fruit. 'We don't want to arrive at the counter stained purple.'

No matter how many people passed that way to pluck and eat the berries, or how many birds joined in the feast, the following day offered a fresh crop of juice-laden berries. Every day there was plenty for everyone. The berries were best eaten straight from the hand and that's what people mostly did, although occasionally they brought a container. On this particular afternoon I was standing in a pool of sunshine beside the tree, watching Snow White the egret scoop up a fish and swallow its flapping form, when I was joined by a traveller from Tasmania.

'We'll have them for dessert,' said the woman, filling her small dish, 'along with ice cream. I love the taste of mulberries.'

This woman loved food and cooking, so the talk drifted to mulberry pies, tarts, purées, jams, jellies and wine. As we chattered my gaze shifted to the fallen fruit trodden into the concrete of the pathway, and then stamped by thongs and sneakers up the hill. Purple-stained bird droppings dotted the pathway and fell amongst the leaf litter. Everyone was enjoying the fruit. For me, this tree offered a lesson in sustainable abundance, with its fruit ripening over an extended period of time. Everyone shared. It was a time of plenty, with people feasting and celebrating the bounty of Nature.

Our neighbour Sandra Cornish confirmed the origin of the mulberry trees growing on our place. 'Your young trees came from the tree by the river, 'she said. 'Mum got cuttings and just stuck them in.' Our two mulberry trees – each only a couple of metres tall – had been given a hard time by Largey the horse, but Doug now had them contained within tree guards.

I was still discovering the many facets of this place, its climate and its water. The cold artesian water was now hot enough to use as hot water straight from the tap. In fact, on some evenings the cold water was now too hot for showering. Apparently in a month or so, people turned off their hot water services, used the cold water as hot, and the hot water as cold. This was a novel idea.

In the garden, watering with hot artesian water posed difficulties and had to be done carefully. How everyone longed for rain, which would transform the gardens like magic.

Some nights, insects congregated outside, making barbecuing almost impossible. Other nights we found we needed to keep our windows and doors shut because tiny insects invaded the house, attracted by the lights and our blood – in spite of fly screens.

During October our Monday evening art group embarked on something few of us had attempted before: painting a canvas.

'It doesn't matter how it turns out,' said our teacher. 'All that matters is that you have a go and it's fun.'

Spread throughout three rooms we did our individual art, chatting comfortably with the door wide open onto the street. This town: it felt so safe. This room: I felt its hum of gentle artistic energy.

Part of my fascination with the outback lies in its capacity to unlock in me subconscious creative inhibitions I've held onto since childhood. Although good at encouraging children to draw, I was not so good at applying this to myself.

With a knack for getting people involved and organised in the best possible way, our teacher got me in front of a canvas with a brush in hand.

'But I can't draw.'

'You don't have to draw, just paint whatever comes into your head.'

So I did just that, and before long found myself immersed in a vision of an ocean and headland at sunset: Phillip Island, with muttonbirds swooping and flapping as they circled the rookery alongside our home. Surprisingly, it looked okay and I felt a thrill of achievement. It wasn't finished but I'd captured a little of what I felt about the muttonbirds and their island home.

At school the following day progress continued on our book about Mitchell. The girls decided illustrations would liven up the book but some lacked confidence.

'I can't draw frogs,' said Kaitlyn, pencil poised over her paper.

'Yes you can,' I said. 'I know you love green tree frogs so just draw one the way you see it in your mind.'

Leaning her elbow on the table and resting her chin in the palm of her hand she began drawing. Within minutes a large green tree frog had leapt from the page, with bright orange eyes, a wide smiling mouth and cute sucker feet.

I was reminded of a frog story I'd heard recently. Our friends had a nephew in Brisbane who was passionate about frogs, so John collected an Esky full of green tree frogs – probably twenty or so – from the various toilets and bathrooms on their property. He packed them carefully between layers of grass and moist kitchen paper, so the journey would not be too uncomfortable for the frogs.

Between Toowoomba and Brisbane a sudden shower of rain hit the roof of the four-wheel drive. At that precise moment all the frogs burst into booming song, so much so that our friend pulled over to the side of the road and stopped, thinking the frogs had escaped the Esky. They hadn't, and were duly delivered to our friend's nephew who'd created a frog palace for his new pets.

Meanwhile Hannah was drawing a blue-tongued lizard, a dramatic one too. Discovering they could draw frogs and lizards left the girls with good feelings as they said goodbye and left the room.

My first green tree frog gave me a buzz. I found him sitting on the doorstep at about ten o'clock one night, a brilliant splash of green on the smooth concrete. Without any fuss at all he let me pick him up and cup him gently in my hand, where he settled down comfortably; perfectly relaxed. Was he enjoying my warmth? I wondered. Or was he just incredibly placid?

The colour was so vivid that it looked artificial, and his size was so large he completely filled the palm of my hand. Like a living jewel he charmed me with his presence.

Another time I found a skinny, dehydrated frog. It looked dead. Gently I picked it up and put it in the laundry trough with a little water and gradually it came to life, exquisite with droplets of water covering its body. I placed it in the vegetable garden beneath moist leaf mulch.

An eastern banjo frog was my next discovery, a frog that gave a very loud musical _bonk_ sound, which probably accounts for its common name of 'pobblebonk'.

Within days we saw our first blue-tongue lizard, a magnificent reptile that came to an unfortunate end when Sally cornered it and bit deeply into its back. I admit I got very angry, striking out at Sally and yelling at her to, 'Go home!'

Never before had I treated Sally like this, so she scooted off, ears back and tail between her legs. When I calmed down though, I had to admit she was only following instincts buried deep within her. After all she was a terrier, and she probably thought she was defending me against a dangerous reptile. I began feeling remorse, but only after Doug had finished off the lizard, which was too badly injured to have any chance of recovery. As one of the world's largest skinks, this blue-tongue was of impressive size and had bold markings.

About half an hour later Sally peeped around the corner of the house, met my gaze, gave her tail a tentative wave and then came towards me, slowly at first then bounding in the joy of forgiveness. This Jack Russell terrier was unquashable and I adored her.

The next day though, when we saw our first stumpy-tailed lizard in the garden outside the kitchen window we went out quickly and picked up the squat, chunky reptile. I saw a flickering pulse beat in its neck and its dark eyes watching me; so like Stego, our pet. Holding this wild stumpy-tailed lizard so it couldn't bite, Doug took it down to the river where it would be safer. We would have preferred to have it living free in the garden, but with Sally around no lizard was safe, except Stego who lived within his enclosure.

Living beneath the huge outback sky and with temperatures hovering around 35°C, I felt very uncomfortable without our air-conditioner, but our Siamese were blissfully relaxed in the heat. It was too hot for us to walk comfortably, but we did.

Every day the air-conditioner was supposed to be installed, but wasn't. Carol and Rod offered to lend us their evaporative cooler, which we accepted gratefully. While it was being installed I said to Carol, 'I think at last I'm a Queenslander because I feel cold if it drops below 26 degrees.'

As quick as a flash she replied, 'Not yet. You have to say, "Eh" at the end of every sentence to be a true Queenslander.'

***

With an ancestry going back to Maori origins, artistic skill and generosity of spirit come naturally to Mel. Her mother Sandi taught Mel the Maori way of giving away the first of anything: the first jar of home-made jam, the first zucchini of the season, the first weaving, or the first daffodil bloom. Only weeks after meeting Mel, she arrived at our home and held out two baby squash, still with yellow flowers attached.

'These are for you,' she said, 'the first from my garden. The first squash of the season.'

Chatting over a cup of tea on the verandah, and lulled by the warmth of the sun, conversation meandered to include the highs and lows of Mel's life and work in London and Brisbane – before the couple's move to Mitchell. Mel worked in customer service and secretarial positions, while Adam's career was in marketing and accountancy.

From there, talk moved on to Mel's favourite subjects – her children, gardening and art. Mel's interest in art and design has been lifelong, but it had only been over the past eighteen months that she'd put paint to canvas. Dancing, pottery, weaving and sculpture are additional interests. Drawing the conversation back to the giving away of the first of anything, I playfully asked, 'Does the same rule apply to your first-born child?'

'In the old days this sometimes did happen,' said Mel, her arm tightening around her daughter Lily's waist. 'Usually, though, it was the grandparents who cared for the child – who received the gift.'

Interestingly, giving away the first of anything you've made or grown is more difficult than it sounds, with the norm being to give away only those things surplus to your needs. _Not_ to eat that first longed-for serving of sugar peas, for instance, can be hard – yet to persist is strangely satisfying. Giving and receiving cements feelings of belonging.

Mitchell's artesian spa, business centre, river and surrounding agricultural region provide the town with its sustenance, but it is people like Mel who give this outback community its heart.

***

The track into Fisherman's Rest (4 kilometres from Mitchell, on the banks of the Maranoa River) is a bit rough, but okay for two-wheel drive vehicles. With its barbecue facilities and deep pit composting toilet, Fisherman's Rest is a popular picnic and bush camping area, especially throughout the winter months. Now, in the month of October, there were only two groups of people camped near the water's edge.

Couples dressed in shorts and thongs lounged in camp chairs, books and fishing lines discarded. They gave a lazy wave then turned their gaze back to the glittering water. We piled out of two vehicles – brother and sister, husbands and wives, neighbours, friends. It was only six steps to the water's edge. Late afternoon sunshine flooded the river. Rushes grew tall and green along the sandy bank. Shimmering with a silvery blue-brown sheen, the Maranoa River stretched downstream towards the weir wall and upstream into the setting sun.

The launching of a new inflatable canoe was planned, with everyone keen to have a go. Bait and tackle, and the thought of throwing in a line were secondary considerations as the long slender boat was eased from the roof of the four-wheel drive. Of course, catching some yellowbellies would be a bonus, everyone agreed. And a meal of yabbies would be welcome. Fishing has always been a way of life for families living in and around the Maranoa.

Grabbing sunglasses and hats, everyone wandered to the water's edge. Although you risk being bitten by mosquitoes between sunset and dawn, they're not a problem throughout the day.

Silting above the weir and numerous snags along the waterway means that boats are not a common sight on the Maranoa. On the other hand, fallen red gum trunks and branches make valuable resting and breeding places for the freshwater fish living in this river system.

Getting a small boat into the water is a dream on these inland waters. You can wade in without any fear of crocs. The canoe was remarkably stable, and the water calm. There was no current. Even the most reluctant were tempted to have a go. Conditions were perfect for easing yourself gradually into the boat and onto the water.

Until we got the hang of the rudder and worked in rhythm with the oars, our craft tended to weave a jagged line. But with all the time in the world and the water so wide and empty, there was room to make any number of mistakes. And we did. With our backsides only centimetres from the water, getting a wet bottom and legs seemed inevitable. Not that it mattered with the temperature in the mid-thirties.

'I noticed we were going round in circles, time and time again and I thought, where the hell are we going?' said our neighbour Rod, on our return to the bank, 'then I realised my foot was jammed hard on the rudder.'

Two pelicans flew upstream, towards the river's headwaters in the sandstone peaks and gorges of the Carnarvon Ranges. Four cormorants perched on a snag, drying their wings, while sulphur-crested cockatoos screeched in the topmost branches of the red gums lining the bank. Plumed whistling ducks, wood ducks, chestnut teals and black ducks dabbled in the shallows.

Nobody landed a fish, but the canoe was voted a success, especially for exploring sheltered waterways and enjoying the wildlife and serenity of this inland river. Paddling a canoe allows the mind to slip into a meditative state. There are no noisy, polluting motors or crowds out here.

Sleek like a dolphin, the canoe rested on the riverbank. No wonder it glided so effortlessly through the water: no wonder it was so easily lifted to and from the roof of the vehicle. We felt privileged to be spending the evening here amongst the river gums. A campfire was lit and food unpacked, and soon the smell of barbecued steak and wood smoke drew us closer to the fire.

The sun slipped below the horizon. A full moon rose, beaming its silvery light across the water. A full-throated frog orchestra boomed into action.

***

Returning a week later to Heather and Bob Bowen's property, I saw fallen ooline flowers scattering the ground. I was learning that out in this semi-arid zone, plants and animals reproduce at a very fast rate. Some flowers were shrivelled and dry, like the stony ground on which they fell, others were quite fresh. Ants were busily collecting them, stockpiling the petals and seeds beside and within their nests.

The orchids had finished blooming. Long green pods (divided lengthways into six segments) had grown behind a few of the spent flowers. Over the next few weeks, these would swell into brown pods full of billions of very fine seed. Upon maturity, the pods would split lengthways into three segments, liberating the seed. From high up in the oolines the seeds would drift like smoke, lodging in the forks or crevices of other oolines.

From secure positions in the rough bark, some of the tiny orchid seeds would sprout roots that would penetrate into the bark or decayed wood of a dead branch, feeding off the slow breakdown of the wood. Gradually the roots would penetrate the heartwood, finding both moisture and protection from extremes of temperature. Grey-green leaves would grow; rigid, grooved, pointed leaves designed like guttering to collect water. The orchid's swollen bulb-like stems would mature, providing extra water storage for the plant. Such is their magic.

The black orchid, Bob told us, survives drought by sending its great mass of roots deep into the cool hollows of the tree, sometimes reaching a length of 10 metres or so. Within these fibrous roots the orchid stores water to sustain it throughout long dry periods.

The roots are a bit like a bath sponge in the way they hold water. If cut through with a knife, a quantity of water trickles out. I found myself wondering if the oolines benefit from having that amount of moisture stored within their trunks. The orchids living in live oolines appear to survive better than those living on dead trees. Perhaps living trees are better able to insulate the orchid roots in this arid climate. All this aside, there seems little doubt that oolines and orchids are true survivors.

As one, we looked up at an orchid clumped in the fork of an ooline, three slender green pods hanging gracefully from a spray of spent flowers. 'This tree,' said Heather quietly, 'is probably hundreds of years old.'

Heather and Bob's passion for the oolines and their orchids was catching, but more importantly, our friendship was developing into something special. There was always so much to talk about, so much to share.

***

The weather was, of course, a perennial topic of conversation.

I'd never heard hail like it, especially as it came so suddenly; completely out of the blue. It was as if someone was throwing gravel onto the roof, and when I looked outside, the hailstones were the size of marbles. The hail was followed by rain so heavy, so solid, that I dared to think that perhaps the wet had come. The temperature dropped to 24 degrees and I found myself feeling cold and reaching for a jacket. How ridiculous, I thought, needing extra warmth. But my body seemed unable to adapt to the sudden fall of temperature.

A few days later, tennis-ball sized hailstones left a 2-kilometre-wide trail of devastation out the Forest Vale Road, north of Mitchell. The worst affected area was around 22 Mile Creek, so we decided to drive out there to have a look. Even though we'd been told what to expect, the impact was incredible.

'It looks like a nuclear explosion has gone off,' said Doug, looking at the ground, a carpet of shattered leaves, strips of bark and smashed branches.

'There's not a leaf left,' I said, looking up into the denuded trees which stood like skeletons. 'The hail has even stripped off the bark.'

'Or a bushfire has swept through, minus the charcoal.'

Kangaroos and calves had been killed. There was no sign of any bird; dead or alive. I saw no insects at all. Would there be sufficient rain over the summer period to allow regeneration of this vast tract of forest? I wondered.

Chapter 8

Abundance in all Things

In this society we tend to be programmed to think in twelve-month intervals. Living for six months in one place and six months in another was, I realised, a problem in terms of my perception of time. How could I squash an expectation of twelve months into each place? Would I be forever running out of time?

The ooline seed was ready for collection and so we organised to meet Heather and Bob. Up in the ooline hills and beneath two of Heather's favourite trees – a red flowering tree and a creamy-yellow flowering tree – Bob unloaded two large sheets of black plastic from the back of the truck. Heather placed the plastic sheeting onto the ground beneath the trees.

'Provided it doesn't rain or blow too hard,' she said, 'the flowers will fall onto the plastic, ready for collection in a few days' time.'

The tiny ooline fruits remain attached to the flowers, which swell following pollination and seed development. The petals help the seeds disperse, giving them buoyancy in the air. When they fall from the tree, the flowers (with seeds attached) rotate like the rotor blades of a helicopter.

'Last year when I collected seed,' said Heather, 'I went back to pick up the seed a few days later, and as I squatted on the ground to scoop it up into a bag, I had a strange feeling I was being watched. So I turned around slowly and there were three emus having a good look at what I was doing. Two of the younger ones were really close, just an arm's length away.

'They were incredibly inquisitive,' she continued, 'then the older one started stamping his feet and booming. I think he was telling the younger ones not to get so close. I stood up slowly but they ran up the hill and out of sight.'

Five days later we were back at Heather and Bob's property, scooping up handfuls of dried flowers and seed, putting them into paper bags and labelling them with the date, place of collection and the name _Cadellia pentastylis._

'What are we going to do with all the young oolines?' I asked no one in particular.

'I'll plant another ooline grove,' said Heather in a flash, 'increase the number of trees on our property.'

'And I'll plant a stand of oolines at the back of our block,' said Doug, 'along with some bottle trees. We can give the rest away to people who value them.'

Back home, we scattered the seed in light sandy soil and waited for germination. Would the seed be fertile? How difficult would it be to grow the young trees to planting-out stage?

Within four days Doug had a strike of tiny ooline seedlings. Immediately he was on the phone, telling Heather the news. Heather's seed germinated a day later, and between Heather and Doug there began a friendly competition as to whose oolines were growing the best, the fastest.

Doug nurtured his seedlings with utmost care, transplanting them into small tubes six weeks later. The satisfaction and thrill of growing these rare trees was intense. There was no way Doug would forget to water his oolines, no way he would forget to protect them against intense heat, or accidental damage by dogs.

Next year our own grove of oolines would be planted, grown from seed we collected ourselves. The site was chosen. In my mind I saw the trees in ten years' time, in one hundred years' time.

***

At ten o'clock one evening after a day of blistering heat Del began barking at the front door, peering intently through the bottom porthole window. Fortunately Del was the type of shepherd that barked only when she felt there was a real problem, with her tone indicating the type of threat.

With a snake, her bark was sharp, urgent and demanding of our immediate attention. She kept well back and made no attempt to attack. Since I was barefooted and wearing shorts, I looked first before stepping out. A long thin brown snake was curled up on the doorstep, soaking up warmth from the concrete.

With visions of a shovel, blood and a writhing snake chopped into many pieces I pulled back and yelled out to Doug, 'There's a snake.' Together we peered through the window, Del growling softly beside us.

'Perhaps it will go if we give it a bit of time,' I said hopefully.

'Suits me,' said Doug, 'I don't want to kill it.' And it did go, and we never saw it again.

Our first snake for the season brought to mind conversations we'd heard at the spa that same week. It seemed everyone was seeing snakes and talking about them. One man recounted an incident about a friend camping in the outback. Because he was very tall he was unable to stretch full-length in his tent, so he slept with one leg out.

During the night he was woken by a painful bite. Yes, it was from a snake: a large dangerously venomous king brown. The story went on about a dramatic rescue by the Royal Flying Doctor and a stay in hospital in Cairns. Fortunately the man didn't die.

'Our neighbour had a fourteen-year-old golden retriever who carried home a brown snake in his mouth,' said a woman who came from central New South Wales. 'The snake was huge and thrashing about, repeatedly striking the dog's head. Our neighbour killed the snake and then brought the retriever inside and gave the dog its favourite biscuit. Within ten minutes the dog went into massive spasm and died.'

Then there was the maintenance bloke who sat down on an outside toilet, felt something soft touch the skin between his legs, and then looked down into the eyes of a king brown snake. He shot up with his pants down, raced outside, grabbed a pick from the tool shed, and then rushed back to kill the snake – at the same time smashing the toilet bowl to smithereens.

The snake had been attracted to the toilet by frogs: also by water to drink, and water to moisten its skin prior to shedding. Once moistened, this particular snake wrapped itself beneath the seat, in coils.

From now on, I thought, I'm going to lift the seat of every toilet I use before I sit down – to check for a snake coiled beneath the seat.

There seems no end to the horror snake stories that circulate in the outback, of browns, red-bellied blacks and death adders lying motionless in leaf litter and then moving with the speed of lightning. The ambulance station in Mitchell receives at least three snake-bite calls every summer. With dramatic snake encounters from our time living on King Island flashing through my mind, I restrained myself and didn't contribute to the conversation. A lot of these people were camping and I could see alarm stamped on the faces of many of the women. They didn't need to be unnecessarily frightened by more stories.

***

In early November two frogs moved into our bathroom, their favourite hideaways being the toilet cistern and under the toilet seat lid. The day I lifted the lid to find a frog swimming in the toilet bowl I stopped using that toilet – fortunately we had another toilet in the ensuite. The thought of urinating (or worse) on top of the frog was unimaginable.

Friends laughed at us and said, 'Just fish the frog out or else flush the toilet and it'll go up a pipe, or somewhere else.'

We did the flush trick and the frog lived to tell the tale. It croaked from deep within the plumbing, its booming voice echoing up through the bath and basin plugholes, like a loud trumpet. My preconceived ideas of cleanliness and frogs were turned on their head, especially as I watched my green frog swimming about in the toilet bowl.

'One year I had twelve in my toilet, 'said my friend Elizabeth, 'so I built them a specially designed frog pond in the garden, with hollow logs, water plants, shade, the lot. I caught all twelve, carried them out and duly put them into their pond. In two days flat they were back inside, in their toilet again.

'I did that three times, and then gave up.'

For a while Cadellia (yes, this was the pet name we gave our frog, the botanical name for oolines) had the toilet to herself.

'But that's silly,' said Mel, laughing, 'our frog doesn't mind. And he gets four people's worth. In fact he thrives living in the toilet.'

We began using the toilet again. Cadellia continued to sing, continued to look plump, glistening and gorgeous.

Tell-tail frog excrement told of Cadellia's nighttime wanderings, and Doug, concerned that she had insufficient food, left a light on for several hours in the evening in order to attract insects for our frog's supper. She obliged by gobbling up every cockroach, mosquito and other insect pest that dared show its face in our bathroom.

One night while sitting on the toilet, dreaming, I felt something land on my leg. Looking down, I saw Cadellia gazing up at me, her eyes like drops of dew. Another time she landed on my lap. With her webbed toes glistening, green skin and gulping throat, she sat watching me with large bulbous eyes – placid in unspoken communication.

***

The night following our first snake revealed another first. Doug got up at 2 a.m. to go to the toilet and the biggest cockroach we'd ever seen whipped full-speed through the ensuite, into our bedroom and under the bed. Grabbing my sandal, Doug frightened it out then chased it down the hall.

All I could hear was, _thump, thump, thump_ , as Doug followed in hot pursuit. Eventually he killed it; a shiny red-brown, flat-bodied insect with a leathery appearance and long antennae. Mentioning our cockroach experience to Carol the next morning, she said matter-of-factly, 'It was probably just one of those common American cockies, or maybe a German,' and I got the feeling she thought we'd overreacted.

Cockroaches have been on Earth for about 250 million years, about 150 million years before the first dinosaurs appeared. As the most ancient living insects on this planet they've evolved to survive anything and everything – including plagues and radiation – even surviving whatever it was that killed the dinosaurs.

Worldwide eradication is impossible and, in the long term, not to our benefit. Cockroaches are an essential part of a balanced environment, especially in terms of scavenging and recycling plant and animal matter.

The chemical solution of a knockout insecticide spray combined with a long-lasting residual poison is not an option as far as we're concerned. Why fill our house with toxic vapours when the cockroaches will breed up again anyway, also becoming resistant to the chemicals used to kill them?

It seems that sensible control is a more intelligent approach to the problem. To avoid a kitchen nightmare, we chose to seal crevices, clean up around cracks and corners, use fly-wire screens on windows and doors, store food in airtight containers and keep the kitchen as clean as possible. As deterrents we use eucalyptus oil, or borax powder sprinkled into cracks, crevices, corners and dark places.

Simple chemical-free baits (such as icing sugar mixed with borax) and traps (like a piece of banana in a large jar with the rim well lubricated with cooking oil) are also effective. Keeping a green tree frog in the kitchen specifically to gobble up cockroaches is also an excellent idea!

Sally made it her business to catch each and every cockroach she could find in and around the sheds. Whenever Doug lifted up a piece of corrugated iron or timber, as quick as a flash Sally pounced on the cockroaches, crunched them dead then spat them out; disgusted by the taste. You could hear the crack as she pierced the shell.

Later that week, the discovery of a cockroach under my pillow in our newly changed bed gave me the horrors. Contrary to preconceived beliefs, I was learning that clean beds and hospitals are not excluded from a cockroach's territory. While sitting in the doctor's waiting room in the hospital one afternoon, I saw the automatic door open to allow a man entry. Forever opportunists, a large, dark-brown shiny cockroach whizzed through and disappeared at high speed beneath a chair. A few people jumped up and peered about, disgust and revulsion written across their faces. A teenage boy whipped off a thong to use as a weapon, but no one could find the cockroach.

The teenager returned the thong to his foot and the waiting room went back to normal, everyone accepting the fact that cockroaches are part of life in northern Australia, even in a modern, immaculately clean hospital.

'Oh well,' said the woman next to me, 'at least it wasn't a snake.'

Another afternoon, after a short sharp shower of rain, frogs began croaking from within the hospital plumbing, causing everyone in the waiting room to break into laughter and conversation – rejoicing with the frogs about the coming of rain.

***

Mitchell Memorial Hospital is a lot more than the bricks and mortar of a modern, air-conditioned medical facility. It is a reassuring presence surrounded by pleasant gardens and green lawns; a symbol of community pride, not only for Mitchell but for the entire surrounding area. This busy teaching hospital also has a dedicated team of volunteers who have worked hard for many decades to raise funds for medical equipment.

Offering a twenty-four hour, seven days a week service, the private medical practice and twenty-two-bed hospital (including nursing home beds) has saved many lives and is the nucleus of the community: at times a place of tragedy, grief and suffering but more often of reassurance, healing and recovery – of happiness too.

Various health professionals visit the hospital on a regular basis: a physiotherapist, optometrist, psychologist, dietician, dentist and other visiting specialists. There is X-ray equipment and a pathology section. Asthma, broken limbs, snake-bite, tonsillitis, septic spider bites, gastroenteritis, pneumonia and all the other illnesses and accidents afflicting the very young to the frail and very old – nothing is considered too difficult for this dedicated team of doctors, nurses and auxiliary staff.

The medical system in Mitchell is the best we have experienced anywhere, any time. Much of the credit is due to the expertise of Dr Martin Byrne, who is highly competent and hugely respected. The fact that Mitchell is a training hospital means that it attracts extra staff and funding. Dr Martin has blended a private bulk-billing practice located within the hospital with a public training hospital – taking full advantage of our status as a declared remote area.

Two full-time doctors attend to the needs of the people of Mitchell and district, along with visiting locums, a couple of receptionists, a team of nurses and all the other people involved in running a busy medical practice and hospital. The medical staff listen attentively to what people say and most go out of their way to help anyone in need.

Mitchell is a busy medical practice with 3600 people on its books; yet an appointment is always available for anyone in need. The receptionists greet everyone by name and always with a smile. The waiting room usually hums with conversation, and is a place where people make eye contact, smile and pass the time of day. How different I thought, to a city clinic where the tendency is to avoid personal interaction.

A fully staffed, two-vehicle ambulance station; Blue Care (a community service located in the main street that organises educational programs with the emphasis on preventative medicine); Meals on Wheels; Breast Care; and the Mitchell Aboriginal Health Service all add extra health services to Mitchell and the surrounding district.

An all-weather airstrip with night lights and fencing to keep out the kangaroos gives the Royal Flying Doctor a safe place to land and pick up patients who need to be transferred to other hospitals for further treatment – usually to Toowoomba or Brisbane. Often I paused as the distinctive low roar of a Beechcraft KingAir's engines alerted my senses. The Royal Flying Doctor Service was in town.

Who within our tight-knit community had been injured or was critically ill? I wondered. Inside the aircraft was someone who needed specialist expertise, as well as all the compassionate thoughts I could muster. Possibly it was someone we knew. On standby twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, the Royal Flying Doctor plane provides emergency medical care and evacuations to and from our small outback town – sometimes two or three times weekly. Based at Charleville, the plane services an area almost the size of the UK.

***

It was my doctor who introduced me to Saraeva Mitchell, a warm, friendly young Aboriginal woman; one of Lynette Nixon's daughters. The fact that we both write non-fiction books and share an interest in native plants meant we had plenty to talk about.

Researching, recording, photographing and helping to preserve native plants is Saraeva's passion and her book, _Guide to Bush Medicine and Bush Tucker on Gunggari Country_ , achieves all her aims and more.

Nineteen indigenous plants are covered, each with a description, photographs and details of their uses as bush tucker and bush medicine. For instance, beefwood ( _Grevillea striata_ ) is used for treating burns and minor wounds. Saraeva says, 'A red brown exudate oozes from areas of the trunk which have been damaged by insects or deliberately cut. Collected when dry and hard, the gum is ground into a fine powder and dusted over burns and weeping sores to dry up the lesion and promote clean healing.'

The sandy track leading from the Warrego Highway to the Yumba is lined with bimble box and bluebells. Once a month, on Mondays, All Us Bush Women meet to learn traditional skills such as soap making. Sandalwood with its leathery, dull green leaves; an emu bush with long, thin leaves; wild orange with stiff, oval, dark green leaves; wait-a-while with narrow green leaves arranged along zigzag stems; and gumbi gumbi with shiny dark green leaves with pale undersides – all these were finely chopped as we sat around a long table chatting easily. Each bush medicine was added to a hot beeswax and soap base and then poured into plastic moulds where it was left to set. When cool, the individual soaps dropped out easily and were wrapped in clear cellophane and tied with a ribbon; a different colour for each bush medicine. The oils from these indigenous plants are known to cure a wide variety of skin complaints.

***

After losing her job at the piggery (it closed down, due to cheap pork imports) Marlene worked at cleaning, gardening and caretaking jobs before winning the tender to clean all the seats, tables and public toilets around town – forty toilets in all, including those at the showgrounds, Fisherman's Rest and the weir.

She was ecstatic when she rang me. 'I got it,' she exclaimed, 'and start Monday. It's a three-year contract and you're one of the first to know.'

Humbled, I congratulated her. 'And I know you'll keep everything spotless and give our town a good name. I'm so pleased to hear your good news.'

'I'll make them the cleanest toilets in Queensland and keep the toilet paper up to them too,' she replied enthusiastically. 'I want visitors to feel welcome in Mitchell.'

***

There was none of the usual nesting activity in the hollows of the river red gums growing alongside the Maranoa River. Due to the drought, the cockatoos and parrots had either gone elsewhere or decided not to breed at all.

Like a bright promise for the future, however, a pair of dollarbirds gave us an aerial floor show high up on a bare limb of a river red gum. With their noisy cackles and diving, their rolling display flights and acrobatic manoeuvres, they courted, and then mated, choosing a high tree hollow to raise their family. Likewise, willie wagtails and blue wrens decided to take a chance and breed in our vicinity. The wrens hatched out a clutch of three chicks and reared them to maturity. We watched in the sheer joy of the moment as these exquisite youngsters danced among the butterflies.

The pair of wagtails built a nest high up in Marg's climbing rose, next to her roof guttering.

'Look,' said Marg, her eyes bright with pleasure, 'there are four babies.'

Overnight a cat raided the nest and emptied its bulging contents. Sadly we watched the wagtails choose another site on a cadaghi branch in Marg's backyard, and then begin all over again. Would a butcherbird raid the nest this time around?

The following day Marg arrived on our doorstep carrying a mud nest that resembled a primitive pottery bowl. Holding it out, she said, 'I think it's a peewee's nest. What do you think? It fell 10 metres and look, there's not one single crack.'

Over morning tea we examined the intricate woven interior of the nest, marvelling at the birds' patience and talent, wondering how many young had been raised in the nest.

No birds nested in the branches of my mulberry tree by the river, so when all the mulberries within reach of the path were picked, I thought, Well, that's it. But I was wrong.

One evening I came across a wonderful sight. A dozen or so Aboriginal kids, who had built a cubby house beneath the drooping branches, were standing in the tall green grass growing on the river side of the tree, reaching high up into the leafy canopy. Laughing and unafraid of the snakes and ticks that kept others away, they plucked the luscious black berries, eating voraciously. Their bare feet, legs and arms were of no consequence to them whatsoever: neither were the stains that tinted their hands and lips.

Small dark faces peeped out from the glossy foliage, and because their legs were hidden in the tall green grass, it looked as if the children were perched on the branches like brightly coloured birds.

With white teeth flashing in a brilliant smile, one of the girls ran over to me, held out a grubby handful of berries and said, 'Would you like some?'

Some of the berries had been squeezed so hard they'd collapsed their juice into her hand; others were, however, fat and black. Touched by her generosity I accepted.

***

A particular noise can remain engraved in the memory, especially one that sounds as if a bird is being strangled. Naturally I investigated. In the bathroom I found our Siamese eyeballing a large green tree frog clinging to the hand basin cabinet. I had never heard a frog make such a bird-like call of terror, of alarm and fear.

Perhaps this too is natural selection at work: the frog that screams the loudest (when threatened by a kookaburra, snake or cat) sometimes survives, because it stops the predator in its attack. Certainly the scream would stop me in my tracks!

After lifting Katie from the room, I partly filled the hand basin with water because the frog looked dry. The frog wasn't Cadellia, but without uttering a sound she let me pick her up, hold her in the palm of my hand and gaze at her. Obviously she recognised that I was a friend and Katie was not. I left the frog to make its own way back to the toilet.

A few days later, when Doug plugged in his electric shaver and turned it on, the sound triggered an explosion of croaks from the frogs living in the toilet plumbing. As Doug rinsed his hands, a tiny desert tree frog popped his head up through the holes in the drainage pipe of the hand basin to say, 'Hello.'

***

With my volunteer work at the school drawing to a close, suddenly there was enormous pressure to get the girls' book about Mitchell and district published and into their eager hands. Doug came to the rescue by offering to take photographs of the girls and the town. This would add human interest and colour to the book.

The younger girls – two Kaitlyns, Hannah and Paige – wrote Part 1: Mitchell at the Present Time. They explored topics such as the people, spa, native animals and birds, Maranoa River and its bridges, Cambridge Street, schools, Mitchell Music Band, bottle and ooline trees, Major Mitchell Campsite, grazing properties and the drought. A _Mitchell at a Glance_ chart provided information in an easy-to-access form.

Samantha, Nicole and Jessica wrote Part 2: Mitchell in Ten Years' Time. These older girls (Years 8 to 10) wrote about the town, hospital, emergency services, several natural disasters, wildlife and the Mud Derby, finishing with a short story.

These girls didn't want to tear down the old pubs and replace them with five-star hotels and resort-style developments. More tourists? _'Yes. As long as the town stays friendly and safe.'_ Nicole hoped that when the current people operating the emergency services retired, _'We'll get people as generous as the ones we have now.'_

The girls realised that in order to preserve wildlife, we needed to plan carefully, and to work hard to keep a balance between human desires and the unique wildlife living in and around Mitchell. Bright-eyed and confident, they sketched the last illustrations, coloured in the maps of Mitchell and Queensland, The Great Artesian Basin and the course of the Maranoa River from Mount Moffat in the Carnarvon Ranges to Goolwa in South Australia.

Towards the end I needed to apply more pressure than before, but the girls came good and met their deadlines. It was now up to me to bring all their writing, maps and illustrations together into a book. What a responsibility, I thought, feeling humbled by the task and a bit apprehensive. Time was running out fast and I was unsure of how much support I'd get from the school in relation to the scanning, design and printing of the book.

Arriving home after spending my last session with the girls, I went straight to my desk and computer. Photographs, books, illustrations and the girls' written work cluttered every available space. The book dominated my thinking and time but I enjoyed working at home with windows overlooking the river red gums and the Maranoa River.

A willie wagtail momentarily grabbed my attention, flitting about catching insects, and talking to me in animated chirrups.

Gunggari people call the willie wagtail _dirjidi_ , and consider it an important spiritual messenger. 'If a wagtail talks to you from outside your fence,' said elder Lynette Nixon, 'something will happen to someone outside your family. If it's chattering inside your fence something will happen to someone in your family. And if a willie wagtail chatters right in your face or pecks at your window, something either very bad or very good will happen to you.'

Wherever I live there is always a willie wagtail to greet me in the morning, and their cheerful chatter lifts my spirits. Even on Phillip Island they follow me along the beach, swooping around as the dogs bound along the sand, through clumps of seaweed and into the waves. On moonlit nights a wagtail's trill of 'Sweet Pretty Creature' alerts my senses, gives me a surge of pleasure. So perhaps willie wagtails are giving me important messages too.

As work progressed I couldn't believe how my eyes could scan something as perfect, only to find on the next reading a glaring spelling mistake or a missing word. With no television or telephone to break my concentration, there seemed no excuse for my failure to see the occasional mistake.

Capturing the girls' voices was a challenge as I edited their work and transferred it to my computer. Apart from correcting countless pieces of writing throughout my teaching career, editing someone else's book was a new experience for me.

As a writer of fifteen published books, I had become used to my work being edited. With the position reversed, I recognised the importance of maintaining the charm and voice of my students, while at the same time correcting spelling and grammatical mistakes, checking facts, avoiding repetition and seeing that every word counted.

Pushing through the various layers of the editing process was painstaking and I thought, many times, how much I preferred my chosen career as a writer to that of an editor. But then I would come across writing that charmed me; writing that suggested the tone of this town and its unique young people.

' _If you want money, go to the bank.'_

' _You might go walking down Cambridge Street and you might make a friend with someone who was a stranger seconds ago and you will not feel lonely. You will not want to leave Mitchell.'_

' _Mr Gray gets cranky when you don't wear your proper uniform and says he will spray-paint any skin between pants and shoes.'_

' _I think bottle trees are really big compared to how small I am.'_

' _It has a compost toilet which stinks if the lid is left up.'_

' _The drought is terrible. What we need is a bit of rain. I mean, is that so much to ask?'_

Right up to the last minute I was making changes and adding new entries. Early the next day, however, with the text, photos and illustrations finalised, I took the CD and folder of illustrative material to the school and handed them over to the principal, Sandra Perrett.

The job was out of my hands for the time being. It was now a matter of scanning the illustrations, purchasing paper, designing the layout and a few final hours of advanced computer work. I must admit to feelings of apprehension. How would Sandra fit this into her already busy end-of-year schedule? Would it be published on time? Before we left Mitchell, before the end of the school year?

***

The girls wanted us to come, so we did. This evening – the Mitchell State School Celebration Night – was a celebration of achievement and we felt honoured to be asked to join in.

Dressed neatly in their school uniform of blue, with red, white and gold trim, over one hundred smiling boys and girls – along with their parents and relatives – crowded into the Mitchell Shire Hall to mark the successful conclusion of yet another school year. The mood was casual yet carefully controlled.

Prior to the presentations, the audience was entertained with music played by the Mitchell Band. Dressed in long-sleeved white shirts, bow ties, black pants, and black socks and shoes the band played 'Advance Australia Fair' to enthusiastic applause.

The children of this town show resilience and have a keen appreciation of the value of family and community. On the whole, these students are encouraged to take responsibility for their actions, and to have a sense of purpose beyond that of television and computer games.

Afterwards, as we mingled with teachers and parents, and congratulated kids clutching certificates and trophies. On leaving the hall though, we began hearing snatches of disturbing news. Like wildfire, word spread through the people spilling from the hall.

'Did you hear there was violent bag-snatch and assault in the main street?'

'This afternoon, in broad daylight.'

'Just a teenager, the boy was, and riding a bike.'

'Outside the beauty salon, near the Maranoa Arts Gateway.'

'They found the woman's bag on the riverbank. Of course it was empty of cash.'

'Where were the police?'

'On the road between here and Roma.'

'Carol leapt on her bike and rode after him, full speed – '

'Did anyone recognise him?'

'Yes. And the stupid kid thumped one of the policemen in the eye. Gave him a bruiser all right.'

'They arrested and charged him and he's locked up now.'

'Was the victim a local?'

'Yes, an elderly woman who lives nearby. Apparently she was dreadfully worried about losing medication that was in her handbag.'

'The woman had her shoulder wrenched and was pretty shaken up, so Carol took her inside for a cuppa and settled her down.'

After saying goodnight to a few people we walked the short distance between the hall and our ute. It seemed unbelievable that in the middle of the afternoon in the main street of Mitchell a violent robbery and assault had taken place.

Why had this happened in our wonderfully safe town?

As we drove home, the celebratory atmosphere of the night was overtaken by a sense of profound sadness. Would the feelings of friendliness, safety and trust so openly and vividly expressed by my students be damaged by this robbery and assault? Would fear creep down the main street, sinister and lasting?

I saw Carol the following day. Downplaying her role in the drama she said matter-of-factly, 'I just did what anyone would do.'

Usually I believed what Carol said, but not on this point.

In the next council _Bulletin_ magazine the police officially thanked the community members who came to the aid of the elderly woman. Craig Shepherd, Officer in Charge said:

The information and assistance received from the community allowed police to apprehend the person involved in a short period of time and I thank you all for your speedy calls to the police station and the subsequent witness accounts you were able to supply of the incident.

No one likes to see such incidents occurring in the community and I am pleased to say that here in Mitchell such incidents are thankfully very rare and isolated occurrences. I believe that a big reason for that is the great community spirit you all display and should be very proud of.

***

A week later, Ian and Helen Brindley hosted a farmecology afternoon and evening at their grazing property, Glenapp, located up the Forest Vale Road, north of Mitchell – south of the dingo fence and the Major Mitchell campsite.

The beginning of November had been exceptionally hot with temperatures of 35°C; consequently it was a relief that the day, organised by Landcare, and including a farm walk and biodiversity talk, was a pleasant 26°C. With talks on erosion, feral animal and weed control also on the agenda, it promised to be a stimulating event.

Only a few days previously I had heard of a property north of Glenapp (north of the Dingo Fence) that was guarded by twenty-five Maremma sheepdogs – one dog per paddock, with self-feeders for the dogs. This system was proving very successful in guarding calves, sheep and lambs from dingo attack.

As we turned off the main road and onto a dirt track marked with the sign _Glenapp_ , I saw my students Kaitlyn and Hannah up ahead, balancing precariously on bikes at the gateway to the house, which was hidden from the road.

'There she is!' Hannah exclaimed, pointing towards our ute.

'I told you she'd come,' continued Hannah, as we slowed down to greet the girls.

A career on the land is arguably the greatest gamble Australia can offer – especially in the outback – nevertheless a crowd of fifty or more people attended this event, eager to learn more about native grasses, contemporary land management issues and the benefits of biodiversity on their properties. We parked the car and joined the group of people gathered in the garden beneath the shade of a cluster of trees; a bulbous bottle tree, palms, silky oaks, eucalypts, melaleucas and others I couldn't put a name to.

The property is located in a harsh, arid landscape. The large garden surrounding the modest timber home is, however, lush and green and focused towards biodiversity. There are frog ponds complete with rushes, iris, lilies, logs and algae; bird baths; native grasses; shrubs, succulents and cacti; emu bushes; hens sitting on eggs; citrus and nut trees and a vegetable garden with lettuces growing in a hollowed-out red gum log.

An absence of pesticides means that butterflies and moths, crickets and all manner of other insects flourish, along with frogs, geckoes, skinks, pythons, the occasional poisonous snake, and a huge range of bird species.

A family of echidnas live beneath the house, busy gobbling up any ant or termite that dares show itself. Every evening they rearrange the rocks bordering the garden beds, searching for ants. They leave behind little beak marks in the soil where they probe, and droppings shaped like Twisties. In the winter, seven or eight form a 'train' or else pile up in a mating frenzy.

'Often we hear scratching from under the house when we're in bed,' said Sarah. 'Usually we blame the dog but mostly it's the echidnas.'

The Glenapp garden is a busy place. Busy with children too on this farmecology day as they joined in the activities. These outback kids are different; more innocent in some ways, yet resilient and free-spirited. They run barefooted around the garden and beyond, unafraid. They have time and space to dream. Fishing and yabbying in waterholes and creeks, mustering goats on horses and motorbikes, doing the stock-lick run in an old ute, climbing peppercorn trees, building tree houses, going for bush picnics on their bikes, getting covered in mud, roaming paddocks, hunting rabbits, swimming in dams and sleeping on the verandah gives these outback children a resilience that is sometimes lacking in city kids.

An outback property seems a great place for kids to grow up, especially when generous serves of love and attention are part of the mix. These children have responsibilities too: feeding dogs, chooks and calves, washing dishes, preparing meals and cleaning their rooms. And they bravely face up to the daily dangers of spiders and snakes and other rural mishaps.

Yet they are sensitive too. Under Kaitlyn's bedroom window is a carefully marked grave for a bee-eater that crashed into a window pane and died. Decorated with stones and flowers it demonstrates her touching compassion.

Despite the ups and downs of rural life – or perhaps because of it – these bush kids are strong, independent and spirited. They are not focused on material possessions. Certainly they lack things: the cinema, McDonald's, the bright lights. But is this a disadvantage when they lead such full and active lives?

Rather than relying on larger-than-life Hollywood-style dramas on television, these children are close to Nature in all its harsh yet beautiful reality, with real-life experiences and adventures.

My thoughts wandered to my own upbringing. Family camping trips, a holiday house by the beach and Girl Guides (which included a lot of bushwalking and camping) gave me opportunities. Looking back, I realise I merely existed in the city, only coming alive when out in the country or by the coast. Immersing myself in nature allowed me to be myself, to grow. Consequently I applied for a country teaching position as soon as I could after qualifying and, after marriage, Doug and I lived most of our life on grazing properties.

Meanwhile, at Glenapp, young children and adults piled into vehicles and drove several kilometres to look at some natural grasslands. The older kids rode their bikes, laughing and shouting to one another as they skidded through patches of slippery mud, the result of welcome soft rain. As we bumped along the rough dirt track I was grateful I'd been offered a seat in the front. The rain didn't last. The drought-stricken landscape with its shrivelled plants, dying trees and parched earth was all too plain to see.

'But when the seasons and prices are right,' said the bloke next to me, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of a leathery hand, 'there's no better lifestyle on this Earth.'

We stopped beside a gully where soil erosion was a problem and discussed strategies for correcting the damage. A lone prickly pear caught the attention of a local Landcare officer and, pointing it out, he said, 'Death adders and bees were the only creatures to thrive in the pear. The bees produced excellent quality honey from the nectar of the dark red flowers, and death adders thrived in the tangled thickets, feeding on the lizards which fed on the cactoblastis grubs that tunnelled into the cactus pads; eating them from the inside out. When the pear plants collapsed and died, so did the lizards – and thankfully the death adders as well.'

Introduced from South America by Governor Arthur Phillip (to establish a cochineal dye industry from the scale insect that lives on the pear), prickly pear was often used as homestead hedges before barbed wire became available. By the 1870s it was fast becoming a pest. By the 1920s, an area larger than Victoria had been taken over.

Twenty-six million hectares were severely infested, with station homesteads and farmhouses literally walled in by the plant. Many properties became an impenetrable jungle. Vast areas of land in the Maranoa region were so heavily infested that families were forced to walk off and abandon their properties and homes. The situation seemed utterly hopeless.

It was said that the pear 'grew on air', so minimal were its requirements for rain and soil. Native fauna and flora disappeared. Cattle and sheep suffered dreadfully, their mouths a festering mass of prickles and infection. Shearing was a nightmare and the wool practically worthless. No matter how hard the pear clearing gangs worked – cutting, burning and poisoning – the job proved depressing and defeating.

In 1925 an enterprising entomologist went to Argentina and collected 3000 eggs from the tiny cactoblastis moth: _Cactoblastis cactorum_. By October 1927 he had multiplied that first shipment into 1700 million eggs and distributed them to landholders throughout the areas infested with this noxious cactus weed. In the space of only a few years, the orange-striped caterpillars ate their way through most of the fleshy cactus.

Ferocious-looking pear plants collapsed, reduced to rotting debris. By 1933, 80 per cent of the pear in Queensland had been destroyed by the caterpillars. To the present day, this miracle insect continues its good work on any rogue cactus, never touching any other plant.

The control of this major weed pest by cactoblastis larvae is considered one of the most spectacular examples of biological control anywhere in the world; perhaps the first time in history that entire communities, such as Mitchell, have been saved by an insect.

Continuing on, we drove over a small rise clothed with a cluster of gnarled cypress pines, and then on to an area of unimproved native pasture.

To find out what was happening in this habitat, the wildlife officers had set up a long pitfall trap. This consisted of 20-litre plastic buckets buried at 6-metre intervals along a 45-centimetre-high plastic mesh fence. The aim was to catch lizards, small mammals and insects that encountered the fence, and then ran along it and fell into the buckets. The buckets were checked early every morning and whenever anyone passed the site.

This fauna tracking and monitoring gave the biodiversity experts from Roma and Toowoomba the opportunity to show us the role that wildlife plays in sustainable farming practice. Apart from some interesting beetles, a skink and one marsupial mouse there was nothing of much consequence in the buckets. Disappointingly, the traps did not bring to light a rufous bettong, the largest of the rat kangaroos.

'They come every night and eat the dog's food,' said Kaitlyn, matter-of-factly, referring to these small pouched marsupials.

Bettongs represent an early stage in kangaroo evolution and have features that trace back to distant times. For instance, the flexible tail is a link to their tree-dwelling past, but is now used to carry bundles of grasses that have been collected in its forepaws for the purpose of nest building.

'The drought is probably responsible for this lack of diversity,' said one of the experts, running his hand over the trunk of a bottle tree, with its gnarled and crinkly bark.

As we walked alongside the pitfall trap I had the opportunity to talk to Gigi, a neighbour of the Brindleys who lives at a nearby property, Westwood. She shares my passion for animals and is a keen and talented photographer.

'I'm rearing a plains turkey chick,' said Gigi, her eyes lighting up as she spoke.

'What happened to its mother?'

'She was killed on the road.'

The Australian bustard (also known as a plains or bush turkey) is an elegant, stately bird that can weigh up to 12 kilograms and stands 1 metre tall. It is Australia's largest flying bird and is fortunate in that it benefits from land clearing. Not so fortunate though, in terms of roadkill.

'It's as wild today as when I caught it,' said Gigi sadly, 'yet I suppose that's good in a way, because when it's released it should be okay.

'On the other hand,' she continued, 'my family of orphaned 'roos tend to stay tame and return regularly to the house, for years after their release.'

Reminded of two orphaned hawk chicks I reared as a teenager I related to her conflict of feelings. My hawks, in spite of three to four times daily handling and feeding, had grown progressively more and more aggressive, lashing out with their talons and beaks – to the degree that the quicks of all my fingernails had been slashed.

When they began killing the sparrows that squeezed their way into the pigeon cage where we kept the hawks, we released them back where we found them, on the Mornington Peninsula at Sorrento. They had flown swiftly away without a backward glance.

Back at the house, dusk wrapped itself loosely around the group gathered beneath the trees. The air drifted with the scent of roses, petunias, honeysuckle, evening primrose and herbs. Cool drinks and a barbecue dinner followed with a lot of laughter, sharing of ideas about sustainable farming and biodiversity, and local gossip.

After dark, geckoes emerged from their daytime hiding places behind picture frames and bookshelves to stalk unsuspecting insects. Defying gravity, the geckoes ( _Gehyra dubia_ ) padded across ceilings, and up and down walls and windowpanes, their bodies semi-transparent against the indoor lights.

'Geckoes have always lived in this house,' said Helen, looking into the large unblinking eyes of a gecko on the windowpane. 'They gobble up all the insects. They're very welcome.

'If we get too many though, the kids catch a heap, take them to an old abandoned house and let them go there.'

'What a great example of chemical-free pest control,' I commented, watching the gecko pad across the glass, its enlarged toes acting like suction pads. These highly evolved toes allow the gecko to grip smooth surfaces, climb vertically and even run upside down.

'More interesting than TV,' added Helen, as the gecko gobbled up a cockroach.

Utterly absorbed in the small velvety-skinned geckoes, we watched one size up its prey – a spider – and prepare to leap across the doorway. With impressive agility it caught the spider, swallowed it whole and then moved on to a position beneath the porch light where multitudes of moths and cockroaches fluttered and crawled.

'Hello, frogs,' said Helen, peering under a mop bucket and then under a tank. 'We've identified seven species here. I often come out and say hello to them.'

During the evening I happened to be talking to a couple about the growing of indigenous trees from seed and the creation of wildlife corridors. In the course of conversation they mentioned they'd recently moved from a property at Springsure. 'Perhaps you know my relative Tom Wills,' I commented.

'Of course,' replied Jennifer, 'our property Lexington adjoined Tom's. Everyone knows Tom Wills and his famous namesake the cricketer and sporting celebrity.'

'And the founder of Australian Rules football,' continued her husband Malcolm, 'who tragically suicided in 1880. How are you related?'

'Distantly,' I replied, 'the present-day Tom is a great-great-grandson of Horatio Spencer Wills, and I'm a great-great-granddaughter.'

Horatio Spencer Wills was an early pioneer who left his property, wife and eight children in Geelong, Victoria to travel to Queensland in search of greener pastures. The year was 1860. In the central highlands of Queensland the property Cullin-la-Ringo – made up of attractive rolling downs country growing an abundance of native grasses – captured his adventurous, ambitious spirit. With an area of 200 square miles (50,000 hectares), this property became the catalyst for the most triumphant and tragic period of his life.

During his epic eight-month overland trek from Brisbane to Cullin-la-Ringo, Horatio was accompanied by his son Tom (the sporting hero), and a group of stockmen, drovers, shepherds, bullock drivers and other general hands including some wives and children – as well as 10,000 sheep, cattle, horses, dogs and bullocks, and numerous drays. They were an impressive sight. Horatio led them a distance of 1050 kilometres.

Only two weeks after their arrival at the station, Aboriginal people massacred Horatio and his party of nineteen, as well as looting their camp. Horatio had a history of kindness to Aboriginal people and even spoke the local language. It's likely that they mistook him for somebody else. This was the largest massacre of whites by Aboriginals in Australian history. Horatio's son, Tom Wills, was spared. The pursuit and counter-massacre of between 300 to 600 Aborigines was the largest single retribution against Aborigines in Australian history.

'Most of the original Cullin-la-Ringo station is gone,' said Malcolm. 'Fairbairn Dam and the coalmine have swallowed it up. We also sold our property to the mining company, but only after a lot of heartache. When coal was discovered in the 1990s it caused a huge drama in the district.

'No one wanted the large open-cut mine: everyone was worried about damage to vital underground water supplies. The drought, court cases and family battles go on. We decided to get out, buy another property and start again. The country around here is good healthy ground and we're happy with our move. I just wish it would rain.'

'Our neighbour at Muckadilla is a Wills descendant too,' said Jennifer standing beside me in the shadows. 'She wears the engagement ring given by Horatio to his wife Elizabeth. I've seen it. If I remember rightly, it's a green emerald.'

Although aware that I had many relatives scattered throughout inland Queensland, I hadn't heard of this descendant of Horatio, nor had I heard of the ring. Caught by surprise at this web of connections and coincidences I could do little except feel amazement. I was never quite sure whether being a descendant of Horatio Spencer Wills was an honour or something for which I should feel a degree of shame. Neither were comfortable emotions.

***

As December approached, the Mitchell branch of the Queensland CWA held a market day in the grounds of the Anglican Church. Stallholders came from far and wide: Jessica (one of my students) with her jewellery creations; a couple of young boys selling free-range eggs and silky oak trees in pots; Gigi with her photographic greeting cards and succulents; Ruby with her craftwork; Brian with his clocks and woodturning; and the usual cakes, jams and chutneys.

A Christmas cake took Doug's fancy. I browsed for a while then decided that one of Jessica's necklaces would make a good present, along with some of Gigi's cards featuring photographs of local places and wildlife. Attracted to the Mitchell Band stall by a burst of music from drums and a saxophone, I began talking to Kay, the grandmother of my student Kaitlyn.

'I can see you playing the clarinet,' said Kay out of the blue, looking me straight in the eye.

Taken aback, I mumbled something about loving the sound and having once played the recorder.

In a flashback I saw myself at primary school – out the front – playing 'God Save The Queen' on my recorder for a school assembly. Less distant memories of teachers college brought to mind giggling sessions as I attempted to play recorder duets with my friends. We discovered it was impossible to laugh and play the recorder at the same time; however, playing recorder duets was a compulsory part of the course. As a teenager I also played the piano, and now dabbled on an electronic keyboard.

Yes, playing the clarinet was something I'd like to try, I thought, my mind lighting up. Maybe I could. Maybe I would! There was a generosity of spirit here at Mitchell that loosened the ties of possibility. Here, anyone could do anything: paint a picture, play a clarinet.

***

If I had to take just one book to a desert island, what book would I take? This was the topic for discussion when our writing group met on Saturday afternoon 10 November. _Carpentaria_ by Alexis Wright was my choice. Every time I picked up this book new insights and layers of meaning opened up before my eyes. Other choices included books of spiritual reflections, a daring whodunit and a chunky romance.

Heavy black clouds in the western sky suggested rain, but we were so accustomed to broken promises that few of us expected any to fall over Mitchell. Throughout our discussion I heard the clouds rumbling and grumbling in the distance but took little notice – until suddenly the heavens cracked open. erupting with such force the air seemed as tight as a clenched fist.

At about three o'clock, the sound of torrential rain on the corrugated-iron roof was so deafening it made conversation impossible. Wow, I thought, feeling elated by the sound of rain drumming on the roof, pounding the ground. It seemed the weather had turned itself inside out.

Only minutes before, Elizabeth had voiced her concern about getting home to her property located about two hours north of Mitchell. She was hoping she wouldn't have to walk the last 6 kilometres, due to the dirt road becoming impassable – even with a four-wheel drive vehicle. Should she leave now, or was it already too late? Would the downpour force her to stay in town? Who would feed Jacky Bird, her orphaned galah?

Deciding to abandon our meeting we walked out onto the street.

Previously dry and dusty, Cambridge Street was awash. Every piece of spouting and downpipe was overflowing, and the guttering on either side of the road was full to the brim and flowing across the road. It looked like someone was throwing buckets of water out of the sky. There was no wind at all.

More huge black clouds rolled in from the west, with the light taking on an eerie, bruised look. A blinding flash of lightning cracked the air, and then more rain hurtled down with a drenching ferocity. Thunder rumbled nearby. The clouds dumped 26 millimetres of rain in just thirty minutes. How long would it last, we wondered. Would we dare hope for a miracle?

What a liberating feeling, I thought, to be warm, barefoot and paddling in puddles on the pavement – with everyone around me jubilant it was raining. All the traffic had stopped. Cambridge Street – the Warrego Highway – was a river.

I breathed in the fresh, rich, earthy smell that comes from rain pounding warm dusty ground and bitumen. I felt a very strong sense of place and hoped beyond all reason that this would turn out to be drought-breaking rain. Turning to Elizabeth I said, 'Maybe my dream will come true and I'll see the river flow.'

'Maybe you will,' she replied, giving me a certain knowing look. 'One good downpour doesn't end a drought. But at least it should be cooler for sleeping tonight.'

I drove home slowly through the rain and sheets of water and was met by a wet, bedraggled-looking Sally. But her face was smiling and her tail wagging. This Jack Russell terrier was irresistible. Her determination to bore deep into my heart was astounding. Squelching through the mud and water between the carport and the house I saw Del emerge dry from her kennel, happy I was home.

'Let's go out to the weir,' I suggested to Doug as I stepped indoors, leaving my muddy shoes on the doorstep. 'Apparently there's been heavy rain in the Carnarvon Ranges and the weir's expected to overflow.'

The Neil Turner Weir, located upstream and a few kilometres out of town has a concrete wall about 100 metres in length. On the downstream side is a series of stepped terraces designed to break the flow of floodwater. Unfortunately the weir has filled with sand, a sore point around town because in the past boating, swimming, waterskiing and cruises down the Maranoa River had been popular tourist and local attractions. With the build-up of sand all these fun leisure activities ceased. People were angry that locals had not been consulted or taken notice of in the planning stages. Old-timers had warned this would happen.

On arrival the roar of muddy water met our ears and eyes. The weir was overflowing for the first time in years, carrying debris and a distinct smell.

'I wonder if there will be enough flow to reach our part of the river?' I said hopefully, watching three little kids playing and splashing about on the steps.

'It'll take a lot more than this,' said Doug, 'but it's a good start.'

My desire to see the drought break and the river flow before we departed was growing stronger by the minute. If I wished hard enough – if the Carnarvon Ranges received more rain ...

Part of the backbone of eastern Australia, the Great Dividing Range, the Carnarvon Ranges are the birthplace of many important rivers such as the Maranoa and Warrego. In 1987 we flew over the Carnarvon Ranges and I was astonished at the amount of exposed rock I saw. Bulky basalt plateaus and tablelands and craggy outcrops, towering sandstone cliffs and eroded gorges: the overall impression was of an ancient arid sculpted landscape. I'd been entranced, feeling a spiritual connection to this wild, rugged place.

Similar to the roof of a gigantic shed, almost every drop of rain that falls within this catchment makes its way into a river system, with minimal absorption into the rocky ground. The Maranoa River owes its existence to this vast and magnificent range of mountains located in the central Queensland sandstone belt.

Mesmerised by the muddy water pouring over the weir wall, I promised myself that one day I'd travel to the source of the Maranoa, dip my toes into the trickle and absorb the diversity of life in and around its birthplace.

This river, the Maranoa, was beginning to feel like a major artery within my own body.

Chapter 9

Drought-breaking Rain

A full-blown frog orchestra at 11 p.m. alerted us to the possibility that water was flowing along our part of the river. Armed with torches, we stepped outside into the darkness and there sitting on the path was a brown speckled frog, all puffed up and glistening with moisture.

Further down the path a green tree frog leapt out in front of us. I bent down and picked up the frog, letting it nestle into the cup of my hand; a glistening, pulsing jewel. As I gazed into its luminous eyes it quivered slightly.

A mosquito whined overhead and then landed on my arm, ready to bite. The frog, protected by a secretion that acts as a natural repellent, sat unaffected. I brushed the mosquito away, overwhelmed with the wonder of this thoroughly wild creature sitting placidly in the palm of my hand. Another frog began calling from the shrubbery; a loud jagged croak, a deep throbbing crawk. A different species trilled a mating call from beneath the oleanders.

Frogs are more ancient than dinosaurs. Frogs have survived ice ages and whatever it was that killed off the dinosaurs and other prehistoric creatures. For about 250 million years frogs have lived in and around every bacterium on Earth. A frog's skin is bathed with its own inbuilt antibiotics that give it powerful protection against harmful bacteria. Perhaps this explains their ability to live in toilet bowls.

In evolutionary terms, the use of pesticides and chemical fertilisers within the environment is recent, and frogs with their highly absorbent skins are extremely sensitive to the presence of such potentially lethal substances. So much so that frogs are considered living indicators of an ecosystem's health. They are like the canaries of old placed in mine shafts to test the air for the presence of toxic fumes. Around the globe, alarming levels of tadpole deformities are occurring in ponds polluted with pesticides, chemical fertilisers, zinc, lead and other contaminants.

Looking into the golden eyes of my green tree frog I felt amazement that such a delicate-looking creature eats live mice and cockroaches, and climbs vertical sheets of glass. Adapted to coexist with people, this species is commonly found living in rainwater tanks, letterboxes, down pipes, and bathrooms and toilets.

Like a fist-sized emerald glowing green in my hand, I felt its skin soft and smooth as satin. I couldn't imagine anything more beautiful. Returning my frog gently to the path I watched it hop away into the grass, its long leaps almost a flight.

Was the river flowing, we wondered as we stood in the garden in the middle of that night, or was this explosion of croaking simply the result of the rain and perhaps wet sand in the riverbed? First light revealed an exciting truth: the Maranoa River was flowing! I felt as excited as the frogs.

Sometime between midnight and dawn, while everyone was safely tucked in their beds, water had flowed beneath the two bridges, over the old crossing and past our home. The land and the river were singing. Suddenly everything looked soft and I forgot how hot and dry it had been.

Meanwhile other frogs began to re-hydrate, absorbing the rising ground moisture, emerging from underground refuges to squat in pools of water. Triggered by the spectacular explosion of insect life, feeding became the frogs' top priority, followed by the search for a mate.

After a quick breakfast we walked to the old crossing, a low, cracked concrete causeway that had been constructed over a natural rock shelf within the riverbed. Mesmerised, we stood on the riverbank as broad sheets of muddy water rushed and swirled over the crossing, heading towards the Murray–Darling system, the longest watercourse in Australia. Swollen by rain that had fallen at Mount Moffat in the Carnarvon Ranges, and stirred into action by thousands of nameless creeks spilling into its broad watercourse, the river carried a heavy load of silt as well as water.

The fact that it was carrying run-off from cattle and sheep grazing pastures meant _E. coli_ bacteria levels were likely to be high, the result of animal faeces washed into the river. Certainly the river had a distinctive smell. When combined with the cleansing smell of eucalyptus, however, the odour was not unpleasant.

We had walked over the old crossing nearly every evening since coming to Mitchell, but we couldn't today. I watched as part of the riverbank crumbled and fell into the water, and then watched the current slip between stones, slide around tree trunks, churning with chocolate-brown water in a hurry to reach the sea.

The transformation overnight was remarkable. The glaring harshness of the drought had gone. In its place was the promise of new life and vibrant colour. Washed clean by the rain, everything seemed magnified. Looking down I saw the tiny shoots of a second crop of burrs and other weeds germinating in the warm soil. The frogs and crickets were not the only opportunist breeders: every insect and weed in the area was bursting into life.

While the earth gently steamed, crickets chirped, the vegetation dripped with moisture, sacred kingfishers dived into their nesting hollows and butterflies and Christmas beetles fluttered and crawled about in the blossoms. All of a sudden a couple of kookaburras laughed out loud, capturing the joy of the moment. The air felt heavy with humidity yet light with optimism.

Caught high in the branches of river red gums, clumps of sticks, leaves and grasses were a reminder of past floods and the enormous quantity of water that roars down the Maranoa River. Some clumps were elegant: fringes of bleached grasses hanging from branches, as if created by an artist.

With lumps of sticky clay glueing our sneakers to the track, we watched three ibis foraging for insect larvae and frogs, and several spoonbills sieving the soupy water for tiny freshwater crustaceans and molluscs. Food was abundant and the word had got around.

Everyone in Mitchell seemed to be gathered together in groups at the river: at the two bridges, the old crossing or the weir, standing in brown ooze and gazing in awe at the swollen river, while their kids splashed about in the muddy water.

'It's like chocolate cake,' I heard a kid say, as he squatted beside one of the many puddles on the bank and began stirring mud with a stick.

The river cast a spell on those who came. Everyone was smiling. The mood in Mitchell had changed overnight. Suddenly people had choices. The rains had come. That was the important thing.

We're all connected to the Maranoa, I thought, as I stood in the dappled shade of an ancient red gum talking to a couple of young women. The river was hypnotic, gentle and strong in spirit. It was part of me.

In places the river was smooth and shiny brown like a snake sunning itself, its surface broken only when it swirled past an island of vegetation, a tree, snag or rocky outcrop. Propelled by the current, logs, broken branches, strips of bark, sticks, sand and gravel raced downstream. Plastic bags and drink bottles sailed like yachts in patches of smooth water. Occasionally the sticks and branches jostled and snagged on one another to form a large clumps of debris. And always the river flowed on, following its prehistoric meanderings, looping around, as brown as an outback track.

The memory of dry cracked clay, of a dry sandy riverbed with a few isolated waterholes seemed distant now.

Returning to the house, I was amazed to see a filmy tinge of greenness over what I had thought was a dead river sheoak. This tree was fully grown but had suffered so badly during the drought that it'd nearly been cut down several times. Now I could imagine this casuarina returned to life with its blue-grey drooping foliage whispering gently in the breeze. The transformation was miraculous.

Later that afternoon, I wandered along the river, enjoying the sound of frogs in their multitudes and searching the reed beds for evidence of floating spawn. But I couldn't find spawn anywhere. Maybe it's too early, I thought, maybe they mated last night and will lay their eggs over the next few days. There was no doubt though, about the reproductive explosion triggered by the rain. Frogs were opportunistic breeders and they were taking full advantage of the deluge.

From my youngest days I've been passionate about frogs, feeling wonder and delight in their transformation from eggs to tadpoles to baby frogs. Every year I collected frog spawn, put the frothy masses in large glass jars and buckets and watched the life cycle progress, finally releasing my frogs into the garden. My grandfather loved frogs too, breeding them in a lily pond in his backyard until he died in his mid-eighties.

On one of my frog-spawn hunting trips we went to Fisherman's Rest. Although the frogs were in full chorus and I looked carefully amongst the reeds and grasses, still I could find none. Walking back along the track I remembered the two echidnas we'd seen in August, and how we'd stood for half an hour or so watching them. Normally echidnas are solitary, except in August when they mate.

The two echidnas had scratched about in the river sand, using their strong rounded claws to dig for termites. Finding nothing, they waddled on – tortoise-like – towards the decaying stump of a red river gum. Here they fossicked about with their snouts in the crumbly soil until they came across a nest of tasty termites. After a while though, the male's interest in his mate's rear end got the better of him. Using his sensitive beak, he sniffed cautiously, avoiding the female's spiny backside. Soon she would be ready to mate.

Three months on, I wondered how developed the young echidna would be now. Its spines would probably be sprouting and the mother would need to transfer her baby from her pouch to a nursery burrow but she would continue feeding it milk. The echidna is a monotreme; a curious mix of mammal and reptile in that the female lays an egg, incubates the egg in a pouch and then suckles her young.

I never did find any frog spawn and it was only several weeks later – while reading a book about the life cycle of the green tree frog – that I discovered I'd been looking in the wrong places. Apparently each female lays up to three thousand eggs in spawn that usually sinks to the bottom of the pond. Sometimes though, eggs are caught in loose masses on the stems of grasses and other vegetation. I'd been looking on the surface for floating frothy foam dotted with eggs.

Next year I'd look in the right places. Next year I would raise green tree frogs and delight in watching the tadpoles slowly lose their tails and develop legs, a process occurring in the space of about thirty-eight days. Their bright green bodies, webbed fingers, suction toes, bulbous eyes, gulping throats and deep 'crawks' make frogs irresistible: at least to me.

That night, frogs and crickets filled the air with their rich booming song, serenading the full moon, while a stick insect the size of Doug's hand landed in the shrubbery outside the kitchen window, determined to catch our attention.

***

The girls' book about Mitchell had sat on the principal's desk for over one week and I was getting edgy. We were supposed to be leaving Mitchell in late November, and the school year finished during the first week of December. Time was ticking by: fast. The girls expected their book to be completed before school broke up for the summer holidays and I couldn't contemplate the possibility of disappointing them. They had worked so hard and so well.

With the book in that awkward in-between stage where I'd given control to somebody else, I made an appointment to see the principal. Sandra suggested that the information technology teacher, Robyn Utschink, become involved and I was in full agreement, realising my limitations and Sandra's lack of time.

On the morning I was to meet with Robyn, I asked my students how I would recognise her.

'She's the best-dressed teacher at our school,' said one girl.

'She mixes and matches her outfits so she never wears the same thing twice.'

'She's modern, even though she's not young,' piped in another voice.

'Kids don't muck around in her classes and she doesn't get mad at you,' said another.

A picture was beginning to form in my mind. 'Tall or short?' I asked.

'Just average,' they said, finding it hard to be more specific about her physical appearance.

When I met Robyn I recognised her immediately, inwardly giving my girls a tick for description. In spite of her already heavy workload, she offered to bring together the text CD, illustrations and photos.

'Give me a week,' she said, flicking through the folder, 'and then come and see me again.'

Leaving my 'baby' in her hands I walked back through the rambling school buildings and across the gravel car park to our ute that stood bright blue in the sunshine. As I unlocked the door I felt a flicker of unease. What if the folder got lost in the piles of paperwork on Robyn's desk?

I experienced similar feelings when I handed over manuscripts to publishers. All that work, finished. It was like a bereavement of sorts. But as I tossed my bag onto the passenger seat I shook myself mentally and thought gratefully, Yes, I can work with this teacher. She seems well organised and I think she can work to a deadline.

Time would tell, but it was out of my hands and that wasn't an entirely comfortable feeling.

As the day progressed and the sun climbed high in its arc across the sky, my bare feet registered pleasurable warmth from the kitchen floor tiles. The ceiling fan stirred the air, pushing gentle currents into the furthermost corners, giving me a feeling of comfort, even though the mercury nudged 33°C.

As the scorched blue sky slid into nightfall, our first gecko house guest emerged from a crack to feast on insects congregating around the ceiling light. Nothing was required of me except to witness this miracle of suction toes and bulging eyes, as the gecko walked across the ceiling. Still glowing and warm right through, I came to the realisation that my body and mind seemed to tick over most efficiently when the temperature was above 26°C, needing a jacket when the mercury fell any lower.

I loved the feeling of never being cold. How would I survive in southern Victoria, I wondered, after this period of prolonged warmth and feeling of wellbeing?

***

Mud and puddles – the result of the deluge – brought to Doug's notice the need for gravel on driveways and paths within our property so he ordered some gravel to be delivered and spread in two loads by a council tip truck. The fine gravel (called quarry dust) originated from a road metal quarry at Amby, located between Mitchell and Roma. Dumped in several piles, it was to be spread later in the day by Mick Sharp, using his Bobcat.

As I watched from the house, my mind slid back to a childhood memory of my four brothers playing in the sandpit in our backyard. There were trucks and bulldozers, and vast amounts of sand were moved to create the roads, freeways and bridges of their boyhood dreams.

After the rain, nature was abundant and smiling. A spider living on our front verandah joined in the frenzy of reproduction by laying her eggs in a silken purse attached to her web hanging beside the wall of the house. One morning, as the first rays of sunshine captured her web, I saw hundreds of tiny spider hatchlings scampering around the filmy threads of silk. There was plenty of food for the hatchlings, and they in turn would provide plenty of food for something else. I didn't think our house was about to be overrun by hundreds of spiders. With two spindly daddy-longlegs in residence in our ensuite, gobbling up unsuspecting insect pests, our home was relatively spider friendly. But I drew the line at large huntsmen spiders; also at a spider population out of balance.

***

Letters and phone calls caused a curious surge of emotions as the time drew closer to our departure.

'When are you coming home?' asked my ninety-year-old mother.

My reaction was unexpectedly defensive and strong. Mitchell is home, my emotions told me; this is much more than a winter holiday. This is where I belong. But I didn't articulate this to my mother, who clearly wanted me living closer to Melbourne.

With only a few weeks left, I put a couple of boxes and cases in the spare room and began putting in the occasional item. But I kept the door closed. I didn't want to be reminded that I was packing and moving back down south.

During the last weeks of spring lizards, grasshoppers and trees were busily shedding old skins, opening up the possibility of follow-up rain. Reptile-like, our cadaghi tree split its old bark to reveal a smooth creamy-fawn inner skin, a growth spurt triggered, I guessed, by warmth and moisture. Beneath its slender eucalypt-like branches a newly moulted grasshopper leapt from a clump of grass. Good food for a magpie, I thought, listening to melodious warbling from a nearby tree.

A cluster of sunflowers in the caravan park caught Doug's attention one afternoon. With their cheerful faces turned towards the sun – and us – Doug noticed a bearded eastern dragon ( _Pogona barbata_ ) in their midst, eating the petals. It was one of those moments when you wished you had a camera to capture the beard-like pouch on the dragon's throat moving up and down as it chewed the golden petals.

Perched on top of the sunflower stalk, the heavily built dragon froze momentarily, inflated its body a little and then began systematically eating the petals again.

With no follow-up rain for ten days in a row, I began to fear that the drought had not broken after all. Maybe that initial burst of rain had done little more than clean out the river, give a temporary spurt of growth to vegetation, and allow a quick cycle of reproduction to occur. Maybe it would have no long-term beneficial effect.

November 25 is a significant date on my Phillip Island calendar as it marks the return of the muttonbirds from their honeymoon. Tonight they would dig out their burrows and lay their large single eggs. The rookery would pulse and throb with the excited chuckles and coos of thousands of birds – and I was still in Mitchell.

A letter from my friend Val reinforced this fact:

We were surprised to hear that you are still up north. There we were imagining you were back on Phillip Island digging out your burrow for the summer season.

In my life there've been moments when my soul is uplifted by a vision, something so precious that everything around me dissolves and only the vision remains: pure, untainted. These moments often relate to the return of the muttonbirds: first on King Island, then Phillip Island. The sight is breathtaking as thousands of birds flap and glide, swoop and soar, silhouetted against the golden glow of sunset. My awe of their astonishing migration flight and life cycle increases steadily over the years.

Momentarily torn between two places I felt a flash of dislocation. Within minutes though, the feeling disappeared as I relaxed back into the warmth and wellbeing that had enveloped me in recent times. Mitchell was where I wanted to be.

'Come quick,' yelled Doug from outside. 'I want to show you something. But leave Del inside.'

Grabbing my hat and sunglasses, and slipping my feet into sandals, I stepped out into the scorching midday sun, into dry heat and hard light. The contrast between inside and out nearly took my breath away but with senses on high alert I followed Doug as he disappeared through the oleanders. As I parted the branches and stepped out onto Marg's driveway, I caught sight of a prehistoric-looking creature striding purposefully down the gravel.

It was one of Australia's largest lizards, a Gould's monitor ( _Varanus gouldii_ ). Patterned like a roll of fine Persian carpet in tones of silvery greys, yellows, browns and blacks, I saw how perfectly it would be camouflaged in the leaf litter on the floor of a red gum forest.

Seeing us, the reptile (also called a sand goanna) stood up on powerfully muscled hind legs, cocked its small head to one side and peered at us intently. Then, with neck outstretched he flicked his long forked tongue in and out. I let my eyes wander the length of his body, resting finally on his long yellow-tipped tail. Close to 2 metres in length, this was an impressive monitor.

'It's a pity Marg's not at home,' I whispered, 'but good that Sally's not around.'

In the dappled sun and shade of Marg's garden and driveway, a shaft of sunshine fell on the tip of his tail: golden sunshine on a golden tail.

With the ability to run at high speed, teeth capable of inflicting a painful bite and extremely sharp claws, this was one formidable reptile, well able to defend itself. Monitors have been known to lunge aggressively and bite, thrash with their tail, and horror of all horrors, run up the body of an onlooker as if they were a tree. A goanna bite is particularly nasty because of the risk of infection due to their habit of feeding on rotting carcasses laden with every bacterium under the sun. Yet I felt no fear.

With no desire to disturb or threaten this wild creature, we stood absolutely still, quietly observing. And the goanna, recognising this fact, went about the serious business of looking for food: searching for anything that moved and quite a few things that didn't, like roadkill, flowers and fruits. Not satisfied with Marg's backyard, he pushed his way into Del's yard.

Our Hills hoist – planted in a concrete slab and connected to the concrete that surrounded the house – gave the goanna something to circle. After the washing line he paced the boundary fence, unable to force his way through the netting to the other side. I thought how weird he looked; it was as if we had a pet goanna instead of a dog. After fifteen minutes or so he marched back through Marg's place. We never saw him again. I was, however, reassured by his presence, knowing that in theory if you have a goanna living in your area, you are less likely to have snakes.

Not exactly cute or cuddly; nevertheless this monitor was truly striking and prehistoric and I felt privileged to have had him as a guest in our garden. The reality, though, is that it is we who are guests in his territory.

Doug had done a substantial amount of work improving our property and had plans to do a lot more the following year, especially fencing, planting native trees and establishing a bigger vegetable garden. He bought a trailer load of organic lucerne hay to mulch the vegetable garden, in preparation for next year's planting.

Doug's workshop now looked a well-functioning and complete place, and he had fixed up and painted the outside dunny. New citrus trees were planted and mulched, with pumpkins planted around their bases. A rickety old picket fence had been pulled down. Our property was looking established and well cared for.

Rod (our neighbour two doors up) and Doug got along well, so they helped one another with heavy or difficult jobs. Doug helped Rod build a shed for his motor home and also helped with some fencing.

Vegetable growing was one of Rod's strong points and he grew a wide variety of plants in a large vegetable patch behind their home. Rod was generous by nature, giving away organically grown vegetables to anyone and everyone. We were often the recipients of fresh squash, silverbeet, beans and sugar peas.

In this land of extremes, repeated frosts and long periods of dryness eliminated most pests. Pollination of Rod's crops came by courtesy of the beehive located over the road, high up in a river red gum. Here a colony of feral honeybees had established themselves in a deep hollow within the gnarled trunk. The hive hummed with busyness as the bees flew between the hive and Rod's garden or the rich creamy eucalypt blossoms overhead.

Bees keep our planet in food. European honeybees ( _Apis mellifera_ ) are responsible for pollinating most of the developed world's fruit, flower, vegetable and nut crops. This free service tends to be undervalued and unappreciated. But Rod was an exception. He knew that the bees humming around his sun-warmed sugar pea flowers were pollinating his plants, with the bees collecting nectar and pollen as well.

***

Hours, days, weeks; they slid by and still it didn't rain. But then, in late November rain began falling again and it was as if it forgot how to stop. Roads were flooded, vehicles got bogged, properties were cut off by washed-away bridges, cattle and sheep drowned in swirling floodwaters, roofs leaked like sieves – and there was mud everywhere. But no one complained. Nobody would _dare_ complain!

A pattern emerged. Every afternoon clouds built up and then, amid bolts of lightning and great crashes of thunder, rain fell upon the land.

Rain fell throughout a large area of inland Queensland, over country that had forgotten about mud. Water was finding its way along courses, new and old, spreading and branching, ever-widening. It was pouring into dams and creeks: mysteriously unpredictable.

What effect would it have on the Maranoa River? I wondered, as we sat on the front verandah eating breakfast and enjoying the sound of light rain on the iron roof.

Rob Cornish's truck slowed down in front of our place and he called out, 'Heavy rain's falling in the Carnarvons with more on the way.'

'When do you think it'll get here?' I asked.

'A couple of days should do it.'

'I saw blokes from the council pulling apart the footbridge and stacking it high up on the riverbank,' said Doug, throwing an old shoe down the length of the verandah for Del to retrieve, 'so they must be expecting a flood in the next few days.'

'Looks like you'll get your wish,' said Rob, 'and get to hear the river roar.' With that, he gave a cheery salute and drove off in the direction of town.

I looked towards the slender cadaghi growing beside our driveway. Rain had painted the smooth curves of its heavy branches a bright shiny tan, creamy green and salmon. Caught in rays of sunshine against a leaden sky, the trunk seemed to ignite with colour. Beyond were river red gums and the river.

Crows paddled in puddles, their feathers so sodden the birds were scarcely able to fly. Galahs celebrated the rain with harsh noisy chatter, while a splash of vibrant blue alerted me to the presence of a family of wrens bathing in pools of water lying beside the road. There was mud and talk of bogged trucks. Green pastures seemed suddenly possible.

Like a strong pulsing artery, the Maranoa River collected water from the heart of the Carnarvon Ranges and delivered its precious load into a network of arteries and veins that fed into the Murray–Darling system.

***

Alert to the subtle rhythms around me I stood beside the mulberry tree gazing down at the river, absorbing the generous flow of muddy water and seeing within the lushness of vegetation a rich diversity of life.

With the mulberries finished, the tree seemed to give a sigh and settle back into itself. With its roots thrust deeply into an underground water supply, the current drought had been almost irrelevant to this tree. Reaching out, I took one of the rough leaves in my hand, feeling the different textures of the two sides of the leaf, breathing in the aroma of mulberries, letting a rush of silkworm memories overtake me.

My caterpillars have stopped eating and are waving about restlessly, looking for a place to spin their cocoons. Within days, they've spun fat, creamy-white cocoons of silken thread. I put them in a drawer in my bedroom, waiting for the pupa to develop, waiting for the emergence of wet bedraggled creatures that would swell into pearly-white moths with feathery feelers. I watch this miraculous transformation, and then watch again as they mate. Then I collect their eggs and put them back into my drawer for the following year's cycle. Unwinding silk from my cocoons during one particularly long hot summer, I make a plait of creamy gold silk and place it carefully in my jewellery box.

***

Our manner of shopping in Mitchell was leisurely because we seemed to know everyone in the street. 'Everyone has a story to tell,' said Doug, and it was true.

From the post office we collected our mail and a parcel; to the library where Glenda gave me an armful of books and directed us towards an art exhibition, the work of the Laser Beak Man, an autistic young man whose sense of bold colour and playful imagery was stunning; to the spa to check our emails.

To the pharmacy to hand in some scripts; to the butcher to place a large order for fillet steaks to take back down south; to the op shop where Doug bought a couple of cotton shirts with teasing help from Carol; to the supermarket where Deb talked of art and her Queenslander house renovations – and then carried our groceries out to the ute; past Kent's where everything from bullets to ballet slippers was offered for sale.

'It's lucky we started our shopping early,' I said to Doug, looking at my watch and suggesting a coffee break at the café. I thought of the warm and interesting conversations we'd had with at least twelve people during the shopping process, including Craig the policeman and Tony the ambulance officer. My sense of belonging was growing stronger by the day. How I wished we didn't have to leave. But we did because I needed an MRI to check my pituitary, and appointments with my neurologist, cardiologist and gastroenterologist in Melbourne. Then there were business matters to attend to, and family and friends to catch up with.

At the café, while we waited for our drinks, we talked to a local woman in her eighties. 'I've got bad arthritis,' she said, 'but they look after me here. The supermarket delivers my groceries and even puts the perishables in the freezer and fridge.

'The other day I ran out of money,' she continued with a laugh, 'so I just rang up the bank and a very nice young woman delivered money to my door, and then offered to pay some of my bills on her way back to work.'

Where else except Mitchell? I wondered, watching the elderly woman hobble out of the café.

Our coffee and hot chocolate arrived, but within minutes we heard an urgent exclamation out the back and realised other events were about to take over.

Janelle's son Jayden was the centre of the crisis, with severe bleeding from a cut hand. The ambulance was called and Tony arrived two minutes later; calm, friendly and as competent as ever. Still clear in my mind was the conversation we'd had with Tony only thirty minutes beforehand, out on the street. 'I've lived here for fourteen years,' he told us as he cleaned and polished the windscreen of the ambulance. 'Mitchell's been a great place to bring up our four boys.'

Tony had the bleeding under control in no time at all, but the cut needed attention by a doctor, and stitching, so Jayden was taken by ambulance to the hospital.

'Something always seems to be happening in Mitchell,' I said, sipping the last of my coffee.

'In such a small community when anything happens everyone knows about it,' Doug continued. 'This gives the impression that a lot more happens here than in the outside, more densely populated world. In larger towns and cities people usually don't know one another and so they don't hear about what's happening in their neighbourhood. They think that nothing much happens. They feel disconnected from their community.'

'Every time I think I understand how Mitchell ticks another layer of complexity is revealed,' I observed. 'Everything and everyone is so interconnected and I keep getting surprises. Good and bad.'

When we eventually got home I sat down with a cup of tea and read the mail. There was a letter and card from my friend Marion in South Australia, and on the card she'd printed the following poem.

' _Hence, in a season of calm weather_

Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither

Can in a moment travel thither

And see the children sport upon the shore

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.'

W. Wordsworth

Travel safely back to your island home by the sea.

Love Marion

I felt a tug of emotion, felt the pull of the muttonbirds and my island home.

***

It seemed that every day grew longer and lighter and that was good because more and more needed to be done. By unspoken agreement, packing up and leaving were subjects rarely discussed. Each of us simply did our own thing in our own time, without drawing attention to the inevitability of our departure.

The spare room began filling with cases and boxes; the washing machine and clothesline were in regular use; and in case of floodwaters, I began moving everything out of bottom shelves and drawers and putting them higher up, thinking it a good insurance policy. Dust storms were likely to occur over the summer period, so I bought a pile of sheets at the op shop with the intention of using them to cover our furniture – not that there was much.

Meanwhile Doug mowed grass, whipper-snipped, pruned and mulched trees, spread black plastic over his new vegetable patch to kill the kikuyu, serviced the ute and caravan, and moved his tools from the floor and lower shelves of his workshop in case the river flooded.

Our neighbour's Jack Russell terrier continued to gnaw at my heart. How would Sally react to our departure? Would she fret? Would she feel that we'd left her behind because we didn't care for her anymore?

I tried not to pat her so much, not to talk to her so lovingly.

In response this spunky little terrier tried to prove her worth by being an even more expert rodent, reptile and cockroach hunter, an occupation of limited interest to our German shepherd, who preferred to guard and play.

The planter box beside the front door had been Sally's resting place for six months. I decided it was time to move her back to her own home, two doors up. After all, I rationalised, she was well fed, had a kennel and a bed indoors, and a young family for company.

If I planted more jade and studded the remaining earth with rocks, I reasoned, perhaps that would give Sally the message and ease the shock of us leaving: help move her from us, more gently. With the jade and rocks in place the planter looked ever so much more attractive than before – until I met Sally's soulful eyes. Through gently falling rain and tear-filled eyes, I watched Sally inspect the newly planted garden and then walk purposefully around to the garden bed below the kitchen window, find a place with the deepest mulch and greatest overhead cover, dig a hole and curl up in a ball – her scruffy head between front paws, eyes locked onto the kitchen window where I stood.

Turning towards Doug I said, 'I wish we could take her back with us.'

'Well, we can't,' said Doug emphatically. 'She doesn't belong to us and her owners want to keep her. In any case she'd be a nightmare on the island. She's impossible to keep in and with the muttonbird rookery alongside us – '

'Yes, I know. You don't have to say any more,' I mumbled, my mind flashing with images of carnage, 'but it's going to be so hard to leave her. The problem is she seems to prefer living with us.'

Brief showers of rain and bursts of sunshine chased one another across the sky, the weather unable to decide whether to break the drought or not. It seemed that some malicious god was playing games with the hearts and minds of all those connected to the land: humans, animals and plants.

***

'My' seven girls never doubted that the book would be finished by 30 November – and be perfect in every way. As the final week approached, this humbling faith and optimism put enormous pressure on me.

With the final copy of the book now in my hands I drove home and, sitting on the verandah began the task of reading and checking with a critical eye. I was reminded of the occasion – several months previously – when I had taken an example of my own writing to school to show the girls how a 'real' writer worked on a book.

There were eight drafts of a four-page section of my book about the wreck of the sailing ship _Cataraqui_ on King Island in 1845. Taken by surprise, the girls looked intently at the eight drafts slashed with red pen marks to correct, delete, improve and add to the text. From that point onwards they were more willing to rewrite their own pieces. After all, if a 'real' writer needed to do eight or more drafts perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea for them to do likewise.

The piercing bite of a mosquito interrupted my musings. Swatting at my leg I thought of Ross River fever and of the vast numbers of wrigglers I'd seen in puddles along the river. I'd have to take more care, I decided, cover up more diligently and avoid being outside at dusk.

Squadrons of almost invisible sandflies were even more of a problem, crawling up the hollow of my back, between my breasts and up my pants. There was no distinctive whine to warn of their presence and for some people – including me – the bites rose into craters with an itch that nearly drove you insane.

Gathering up my pens, papers and the proofs, I stepped inside, aware of a delicious sizzling smell of meat carried on a warm breeze. Yes, it was dinnertime, and thankfully the final proofreading of the book showed no errors in the text – at least none that I could see. Tomorrow was the big day: to print out and collate the thirty-six books ready for the book launch the following day.

The school's entire computer system was updated that week and a new laser colour printer had been installed the previous day. That should have caused alarm bells to ring and it did in a way. At 9 a.m. Doug and I met Sandra in her office, ready and willing to spend the rest of the day achieving our aim.

'Let's start with the cover,' said Sandra, unpacking a ream of special cover paper she'd bought in Roma. Taking it to the printer located over the hallway in the school office, Sandra fiddled with the controls, put in the paper and started up the machine. With bated breath we watched as the first cover came through. But the shiny paper skidded and the cover image – one of the most colourful murals painted beneath the bridge – came out blurred. We had another try and the same thing happened again.

'I think the paper's too thick,' concluded Sandra, 'and we haven't got anything else that's thick enough for the cover.'

'How about I go over to the council and see if they've got something we could use?' offered Doug. So off he went returning ten minutes later with two thicknesses of cover quality paper to try. The first lot produced the best copy, so we ran off thirty-six covers. So far, so good!

For the forty-four middle pages, Sandra planned to use standard A4 paper; however, the printing of the colour images was not good enough, so Doug went back to the council to ask if the school could purchase 400 pages of better-grade A4 paper.

'They were incredibly helpful,' said Doug, on this his second return from the council, 'and they offered to donate the paper.'

As school principal, Sandra demonstrated a remarkable ability to multi-skill as she manned the new laser printer (which threw up challenges at regular intervals, at one stage refusing to print on both sides of the paper), comforted a vomiting seven-year-old, attended to several cases of bad behaviour, answered parent queries, sorted out staffing problems, and responded to her phone. And all with good humour yet firm control. Sandra had her eyes, ears and other senses on full alert throughout the entire day. Nothing escaped her attention, yet she appeared as fresh and alert at 5.30 p.m. as she was when we arrived at 8.30 a.m.

The printing was a slow process, but the time taken didn't matter to us. As the pages came through, Doug, Robyn and I took them to the staff room where we folded each with a neat seam and arranged them in piles. Gradually the piles grew. As teachers came in and out of the staff room, various people helped, and there were many onlookers and talkers as well, full of news about Arrest Creek flooding and cutting off the St George Road to light vehicles.

With everything printed, the largest school stapler was produced and Doug attempted to staple the first book. But the stapler was too light for the task, breaking under the strain. Back to the council went Doug; for the third time. Arriving back with a heavier stapler and staples – and a cheerful grin – Doug tried again and this time with success. By 5.30 p.m. we had thirty-six copies of the book ready for the launch the following day. I was thrilled with the result.

My mind wandered to memories of past books I'd had published: of the anxiety felt when that last lot of corrections were sent off to an editor; of the moment when I received my first copies of the book and quickly flicked through the pages, checking. What a mixture of emotions. Elation, as well as concern about possible mistakes in a print run of at least 3000 copies: my reputation at stake, as well as that of my publisher.

It was hard to believe, but the book 'my' girls had written about Mitchell was complete: and it was raining. Large steady drops of water were falling out of the sky.

Caught in the moment, Doug and I decided to drive straight from the school to Arrest Creek to check out the floodwaters for ourselves. Located 7 kilometres south of Mitchell on the St George Road, Arrest Creek marks the place where the bushranger brothers Patrick and James Kenniff were arrested in 1902. Statues at the site reminded me of their capture; however, cattle wearing enormous mud shoes and floodwater rushing over the thirsty flats were what caught my interest and attention.

The creek had burst its banks and spilled silt-laden water across the low-lying creek flats, soaking and nourishing the soil, filling swamps, billabongs and wetlands. Every unsealed road was like a sponge cake. When a vehicle slithered into the 'cake', however, it left deep gouging ruts.

Spread out over the landscape, and covering fences, the swirling brown water flowed over the bitumen road for a distance of about 300 metres. Flood level indicators showed that the water was running at a depth of about 1 metre. Stopping the car and putting on our hazard lights, we listened to the hammering of rain on the roof, the swishing windscreen wipers and the roar of muddy water. I felt a surge of excitement: our first outback flood.

My gaze drifted downstream where sticks and logs were piled up against half-wrecked fences. I thought of water evaporating, seeds germinating and cattle eating – of a land transformed to an oasis of rippling grasses.

A sign stating _Water Over Road_ looked amusing, considering the extent of the floodwaters. On the other hand, during the hours of darkness the depth of the water would be much less obvious, I realised.

Other cars turned around and headed back to Mitchell, but we stayed to watch a cattle truck and road train brave the fast-flowing torrent, with the water rising almost to the top of their wheels. Slightly unnerved by the sight we drove back towards Mitchell through a mosaic of wetlands.

'Let's go to the weir and check it out too,' I suggested as we approached the outskirts of Mitchell.

'We should go to the old crossing as well,' said Doug, using a cloth to wipe the fogged-up windows. It was still a warm 27 degrees with the humidity high. Overhead, the sky hung with ominous black clouds swollen with rain.

At the weir the sight was dramatic with swirling muddy water sweeping over the wall: rushing, roaring, laden with logs, sticks and other debris. This wall of water made me appreciate the forces unleashed by a big flood. It taught me caution and respect, made me think. All this water: the best rain for almost a decade. I had to wonder, however, how much of it (if any) would reach the Murray–Darling Basin, Australia's most important food-growing area producing three-quarters of the country's irrigated crops and pastures.

Would this large volume of water simply disappear into irrigated rice and cotton crops in Queensland and northern New South Wales, leaving little or none for irrigators downstream, or environmental flow to save river red gum forests and the Coorong in South Australia?

But, argued the northern irrigators, if we don't use it, the water will be wasted through seepage and evaporation. It won't reach the Murray, let alone the Coorong.

People living along this inland river system feel an intense connection to _their_ river, _their_ water – no matter whether living in Mitchell, St George, Bourke, Menindee, Mildura, Renmark, Murray Bridge or Goolwa at the Murray's mouth. The river is the reason for each town; its life support in a dry inland environment, no matter how large or small the community. Allocation of water rights for irrigators versus those for towns and the environment is a complex and controversial issue, especially when combined with the reality of climate change.

The rain was still heavy when we reached the old crossing, located only 100 metres from our home. Again we stopped, put on the hazard lights, left the windscreen wipers going and gazed in awe at the crossing, drowned by the swollen river. The river was rising by the minute. And as the river rose, so too did my excitement.

Carrying a load of sticks and logs, the water roared and swirled over the crossing. I opened my fogged-up window. A sudden warm pungent odour hit my nostrils and I almost pulled back, such was the impact.

'Look, can you see the blue thong bobbing about in the froth over there?' said Doug, breaking into my sensory overload. 'There's quite a bit of rubbish being washed downstream.'

Swirling around the exposed claw-like root structures of river red gums, the water looked frantic as it tore impatiently at loose snags, sweeping the riverbed clean.

'Just think of all the frog spawn, tadpoles, fish and mosquito larvae that are being carried, high-speed, to who knows where,' I said, looking at the raging torrent, the dripping red gums and the grasses now wearing vibrant green shoots.

'Taking their genetic material to new ecosystems,' said Doug. 'Look, can you see the frog?'

Surrounded by blades of tall green grass and clinging to a rock was the largest green tree frog I'd ever seen. Clearly it was in ecstasy. Inflating its vocal sac, it boomed out a mating call, a distinctive deep rasping 'Crawk' – calling all females of his species; celebrating the coming of rain.

***

Listening to the 7 a.m. news on the radio on this the last day of November we heard that drought-breaking rain had fallen at Muckadilla, a small town between Mitchell and Roma. Also, that a man had had to row across the flooded Maranoa to reach his home, and that with El Niña weather patterns now in place, more rain was likely. At least, that's what ABC local radio told us that bright sunny morning.

In view of our plans to hold the book launch and concert out of doors, and to deliver books to various places throughout the town in the afternoon, the fine weather was a relief. Today was the day. Everything was organised: the books, the event.

A large sign stood facing the Warrego Highway declaring details of the book launch. It read in bold illuminated lettering: _Mitchell State School. Welcome To Our Book Launch at 11:30 a.m. Friday 30 November._ I imagined the girls' faces when they saw the sign and felt, too, their thrill of excitement.

By arrangement, Doug and I arrived at Sandra's office at 11 a.m. to meet a very special visitor. Reaching down towards a cat cage positioned in a quiet corner of her office, Sandra unlatched the door and lifted out one of the most exquisite creatures I'd ever seen: a joey koala. The baby koala clung to Sandra's shirt, snuggling between her breasts.

'Koalas give the best hugs and cuddles,' said Sandra softly, her eyes glowing with love, 'and Lulu's no exception. She's due to be fed, so if you'd like to stay, please do. But I don't let other people touch her because of the risk of infection.'

The special milk formula came via a bottle with a long teat, and when the last drop was sucked, Lulu gave a wide yawn and scratched her tummy.

'She's ready for a sleep,' said Sandra, reaching down into the cage and bringing out a teddy. The joey held out her arms, grabbed the teddy and hugged it tightly. 'Her mother was killed on the road. She climbs up my leg like I'm a tree trunk,' Sandra laughed, 'that's why I need to wear jeans most of the time. Her claws are like needles.'

On the floor of the cage I saw soft bedding and standing in one corner, a couple of branches of freshly picked gum leaves. An aroma of crushed eucalypt leaves met my nostrils as well as Lulu's, who scrambled on all fours into the cage, sniffed at the tender gum shoots then decided she was too full of milk to bother about leaves. Yawning again, she settled herself into a corner – still hugging her teddy – and fell fast asleep.

'Just imagine,' I murmured, 'when she was born she would've been no bigger than a jelly bean.'

Putting away his camera Doug said to Sandra, 'I'll send you some photos when I get them developed.'

As we were leaving Sandra's office I gave her a copy of my children's book _Koala_ and thanked her for bringing Lulu to school.

The whole school assembled beneath a huge concreted and roofed open-air area at 11.30 a.m. sharp – along with teachers and parents. Sandra began by saying, ' _Uwalla_ ' which is 'Hello' in Gunggari language and spoke about the writing project and my involvement as a volunteer teacher and writer for children. Then she read a chapter of my book _Koala,_ and asked me to come up onto the stage.

As I stood on the stage with the principal and 'my' seven girls, I thought what a pleasure and privilege it had been to work with the students and staff at Mitchell State School. The girls had written that the best thing about Mitchell was the people. We'd only lived in Mitchell for six months but already I shared the passion these girls had for their town and community.

After saying a few words, I presented three books to each of the seven girls, shook their hands and congratulated them. Their eyes were shining and their smiles wide as the audience of students, teachers and parents clapped enthusiastically.

Two of the girls presented me with gifts; a bunch of cream gladioli picked from the school garden, and a Mitchell State School T-shirt and school Biro. When I opened the wrapping paper and found the T-shirt, I felt a profound sense of belonging. This school and these students had accepted me as one of them. I would wear this T-shirt proudly.

Following the book launch, a group of Year 10 business study students created and organised every last detail of a special concert they called the Magpies Mock Rock. This concert involved the whole school, with groups of students dressed up, dancing and performing to their favourite songs.

A panel of four student judges displayed cards after each performance, rating them between one and five. Cheering and clapping followed every act; from fellow students, parents and teachers. This was the last day of school for the Year 10 students, yet there was no silliness. Just good fun, slinky sparkly clothes, makeup and green hair spray. On the whole, I thought, looking around me, the students at Mitchell State School were an active and healthy bunch of kids.

And then, as suddenly as they began, the book launch and concert were over.

Gathering the girls around me we found a spare table and I handed out some pens. 'It's book signing time,' I said, turning to the back of the book and showing them the blank page headed: Autographs.

'What will I write?'

'This pen doesn't work.'

'Where do I sign?' asked 'my' bright-eyed girls, as questions and comments flew around the table.

All of us had something to smile about: seven girls with their own special book delivered on time and launched in style in front of the whole school, their teachers and parents. Success was sweet. This small book about their home town and community celebrated an achievement. A wave of emotion washed over me as I listened to their chattering and exclamations of delight.

'Wow! Look at my frog.'

'Cool!'

'It looks like a proper book.'

This was a moment to remember, I thought, watching their bright happy faces as they flicked through the books, checking out their individual contributions. A few parents hovered nearby. I invited them to move closer; encouraged them to share in their daughters' writing achievements and delight.

'We'll give a copy to each lot of grandparents,' said one of the mothers, 'and keep the other one for ourselves.'

When I met Donna and four of the girls at the school office at 2 p.m. on that same day, the sun shone brightly. All went smoothly as we walked and talked our way around Mitchell, giving away copies of the book to key places: the doctor's rooms; the council; the ambulance station; Janelle at the café; Glenda at the library; Deb at the police station; and Chris at the spa.

Each girl had a turn at presenting a book, along with a little speech, and most of the recipients (especially Glenda at the library) responded with a grateful and appreciative speech of their own. Walking around town made me aware of the fact that there were no vacant shops or houses in Mitchell, and very few _For Sale_ signs.

Requests poured in: 'Can we have copies to put in the shop?' 'Can we sell some at the spa?' 'Can we have more books for the waiting room?'

Without warning, sudden dark clouds obscured the sun and down came the rain. Abruptly I stopped thinking about books and concentrated hard on shepherding the girls back towards the shelter of the police station. Giggling and highly excited by the rain and the prospect of getting drenched, the girls crowded beneath the narrow verandah.

I couldn't believe the intensity of the rain storm; couldn't believe how wet we'd became in such a short period of time. Within seconds we were soaked through. Being rain-soaked and yet warm was a new experience for me, and not unpleasant. Down south, rain was usually associated with being cold.

After ten minutes or so the rain eased and Donna suggested, 'Let's make a run for the old bank building. I know the accountant there.'

Wasting no time, we made a dash towards the old bank but halfway across the road huge raindrops began falling, then another heavy deluge of rain. It fairly bucketed down. Running through the torrential rain, splashing through puddles and sheets of water, we laughed in the exhilaration and sheer joy of knowing that it was raining in Mitchell. Puffing and dripping wet we entered the old bank building to a warm welcome.

'There's an old bank vault over here,' said the accountant. 'I'll open up the door if you'd like to have a look inside.'

Some of the girls were reluctant to enter the small brick-lined room, but they followed as soon as I went in. Built in 1900, the vault is as solid today as it was all those years ago.

'Where does the air get in?' asked one of the girls anxiously.

'There's an air-hole here,' said the accountant, pointing to a space beside the door. But I could tell my pupil wasn't entirely convinced.

'What if the door locks and we can't get out?' said another.

'Was this room really full to the brim with money?' someone else asked, wide-eyed.

Out on the wide verandah of the attached residence, we felt more relaxed, even though thunder rumbled, thudded and clapped overhead, and lightning cracked and forked across the darkened sky. The rain continued to bucket down. Gutters overflowed. Rain hammered noisily on the old corrugated-iron roof, while rusted spouting spilled torrents of water down the side of the building. Fortunately we had finished our delivery and the girls didn't mind getting a bit wetter as they walked back to school.

***

Back at home, I found Sally in the kennel and Del roaming around in the rain. An explosive clap of thunder crashed over the house and Sally tore towards me and the front door, flinging herself against the wire screen and then scratching frantically at the flywire with her claws.

Doug emerged from inside, scooped Sally up in his arms and marched off in the pouring rain, calling back over his shoulder, 'I'm taking her home. She's terrified, poor little thing. She needs to be inside.'

The night before, Sally had sheltered in Del's kennel, wrapped up in one of my old jumpers – for security rather than warmth. And the day before that, Sally had chased the ute to the post office, so desperate was she to have Doug's company. Of course, Doug let her ride home in the car.

The following day, while we sat on the front verandah having a cup of tea, Sally jumped up onto Doug's knee for the first time, cocked her head on one side, and was all smiles and happy laughing eyes.

***

Would the flooding escalate from minor to major, I wondered, remembering stories of floods of the past: 1861, 1864, 1877, 1880, 1906, 1933, 1950, 1956 and 1990. The dates rolled through the centuries with widespread damage to property and the tragic drowning of many people as well as thousands of sheep and cattle. With our home located on the banks of the river, we were well aware of the risk of flooding. But it was a risk I felt able to live with.

I thought of the poet Dorothea Mackellar's memorable words about Australia as the land of 'droughts and flooding rains', and then of student Paige Tully's writing about the drought: _The drought is terrible. What we need is a bit of rain. I mean, is that so much to ask_ _?_ Tonight, a portion of the Tullys' property was underwater, including kilometres of fencing.

ABC local radio informed us that 50 millimetres of rain had fallen 30 kilometres south of Mitchell; 80 millimetres at Muckadilla; 75 millimetres at Charleville and Quilpie; and a whopping 177 millimetres at Tambo and Augathella. Over a period of two days, 17.6 millimetres had fallen in Mitchell.

The Bureau of Meteorology warned that several roads were cut by rising floodwaters: Mitchell to St George; Mitchell to Muckadilla; Mitchell to Mungallala; and Charleville to Quilpie. People were stranded. Others were cut off by rising floodwaters. Motorists were forced to turn back; cattle needed to be herded to higher ground.

'Mitchell's trying to keep us here,' I said to Doug as we washed the dinner dishes. 'All the roads leading east, west and south are cut by floodwaters. We couldn't go even if we wanted to.'

'And seeing that we don't want to go, it doesn't matter,' said Doug, seeing my smile and smiling himself.

That night, I opened the shower screen door to find a large creamy-brown frog crouched on the inside of the shower recess. I decided to shower regardless. All went well for the first few minutes, and then all of a sudden I felt something heavy land on my back, sticking to my skin with its suction feet. I admit I got a fright, even knowing what it was. For the next few days I relocated the frog prior to my shower.

After that though, I felt comfortable having a shower with my frog, which I identified as a desert tree frog ( _Litoria rubella)_. Robust and with large discs on the tips of her fingers and toes, she clung to the shower recess wall, about head-height, her translucent skin dusted with gold and glistening with moisture: completely unafraid. Having a shower with my frog became a pleasant nightly ritual; however, I was careful not to splash her with soapy water.

Talking on the phone proved interesting at times as friends in Melbourne expressed astonishment at the loudness of the frog calls that travelled up the line. The fact that we had frogs was amazing enough; the fact that they could be heard booming over the telephone was astounding.

It was when the 50-year-old plumbing of our bathroom transformed into a musical instrument of wondrous proportions that I truly knew I was blessed. A haunting solo – telling of journeys, arrivals and departures – drifted from every plughole. The music belonged to Cadellia.

Round and round in my mind the melody throbbed, floated and twirled, better than any symphony orchestra. Standing motionless in the doorway, I felt the music tremble through every nerve of my body. But I couldn't see my frog.

My heart ached in recognition of the deep barking lyrics 'Don't go! Don't go! Don't go!' – ending with a mighty boom. My mind whispered in return. 'But I must go. My island beckons. The crash of waves, the eerie cry of oystercatchers, the chuckling cries of thousands of graceful dark grey birds swooping and gliding over the rookery, soaring in the pale golden light of sundown. The muttonbirds call me; back to my island.'

Suddenly, from an outside garden bed another species croaked a different song. It boomed 'Go! Go! Go! Go!' in a series of sharp, rapid commands.

Torn between two worlds I listened and wondered, and then turned slowly and closed the bathroom door. There used to be frog song on our part of Phillip Island. Tragically, the widespread use of pesticides has reduced their numbers significantly.

Late the following evening we stepped outside onto the verandah, into air heavy with the aroma of wet earth, greenery and muddy water. I'd never seen so many insects attracted to a light. They were there in their thousands: moths, flies, mosquitoes, beetles, crickets, cockroaches and many others in a flurry of tiny wings.

'Look,' said Doug, pointing towards the path, 'that must be the smallest frog I've ever seen.'

With its moonstone eyes locked onto a minute fluttering moth the 'toddler' frog leapt – a flash of glistening green and gulping throat – and swallowed the insect in one mouthful.

'It's been twenty days since the first rain,' I said, gazing at the froglet's cute webbed toes, 'so I suppose it's transformed from frog spawn through to tadpole to frog in that time.'

The chorus of frog song seemed to rise even louder than before; a mighty orchestra of trilling, whirring, whistling, chirping, barking, grating, croaking, booming drum-like sounds. Every frog from every puddle, pond, swamp, dam, billabong, creek and river competed for the night air, marking the end of a memorable day – the last day of November.

Chapter 10

Saying Goodbye

Mitchell: warts and all I loved the community and the sense of belonging; I loved the river, the space and the warmth. Saying goodbye was going to be hard – very hard. I didn't want to leave. It was as simple as that.

I was running out of time. There were going to be too many goodbyes and tears as well. 'When are you leaving?' was now a loaded question. With five days to go before our departure, the countdown began. Would the floodwaters subside in time to allow us to travel south as planned?

With the days hot, Sally and Del played in a large container of water in the backyard, jumping in, splashing, putting their heads under and then tearing around the yard at high speed. We called it 'scrabbling', and on the command, 'Scrabble,' both dogs jumped into the water bowl. One of their favourite tricks was to drop a broken tennis ball into the water, let it sink to the bottom, and then plunge in their heads to retrieve the ball.

That first week in December was a week of closures, with Bailey part of the process. The creamy-grey poddy calf had spent the past four months living in our back paddock and was in for a shock. The large bag of powdered milk purchased for her rearing contained only one more feed. Bailey was to be weaned the following day.

Sandra, suffering a nasty head cold, had willingly accepted Doug's offer to feed Bailey for the last six weeks of her rearing. Doug enjoyed the challenge of gaining the calf's trust, quietening her down and the routine of feeding her twice daily. Watching Doug whisk together the last of the milk powder with warm water, and then carry the bucket from the laundry to the back paddock, I could see his sadness, even though accompanied by Del and Sally, who were leaping and wagging around him.

With froth dribbling from her lips, Bailey sucked noisily on the teat while Del and Sally licked up the milky bubbles and then thoroughly cleaned the calf's lips. A man, two dogs and a calf: their last time together. In a few hours' time Sandra and Rob would load Bailey into a small trailer and take her out to their river block where there were other cattle and the grass was the best they'd seen for seven years. Parched bare earth was a thing of the past.

'We'll lock her in the yards for a few days,' said Sandra, sensing Doug's concern, 'and feed her hay. That way she'll learn where to come for water and get used to the other cattle.'

The paddock seemed empty without Bailey. No more calf bellowing at 8 a.m. and 5 p.m.; no more kicking up of hooves as she galloped around the paddock.

***

Seven days before our departure, a newcomer from the Gold Coast moved into our street, three doors up.

Richard, a young man with long curly black hair, a wide smile and a mighty laugh, cares for fifteen pet pythons and a bullmastiff-cross dog called Ooboo, drives a Toyota four-wheel drive tray ute, and has no television. He told us he was keen to establish a vegetable garden and keep chooks.

Vibrant, passionate and inspired about painting and sculpture, Richard has a promising career as a modern sculptor. 'With most of my pieces I look at the wood and ask what it wants, where it wants to go and what it wants to become,' he told me in the course of describing a piece I found exquisite in its simplicity.

Richard is a truly joyous person and I liked him immediately.

After a demanding career in community services on the Gold Coast, Richard was looking for a lifestyle change. The house he purchased in Louisa Street was old and in need of significant repair but he was energetic, capable and motivated, so the task ahead wasn't too daunting. With four bedrooms, his allocation of one room for his pythons seemed reasonable. Out the back he set up one of the sheds for his 'stable' of breeding rats that produced young to feed his pythons.

Along with Carol and Rod (his immediate neighbours) we managed to get together three times during our last week, and the talk was lively, challenging and filled with hilarity.

Eager to fit into the community and genuine in his desire to help people, as well as protect snakes, Richard the Snake Man offered his services – gleefully and free of charge – to any household who wanted a troublesome snake captured and then released in bushland. This is a seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day service. Such is Richard's passion for reptiles.

The community welcomed Richard's contribution, recognising his warmth, sincerity and robust spirit. With a surge of feeling, I realised that in Mitchell I too was now someone; recognised, accepted. I wasn't just a face in the crowd.

A bank rich with friendships awaited our return the following year, friends who would last a lifetime. There were other people who'd expressed a desire for friendship and I looked forward to exploring these relationships too.

Camping in the Carnarvon Ranges and tracing the source of the Maranoa River at Mount Moffat was a challenge in store. Learning to recognise, name and sketch the vegetation of this semi-arid region was another skill I was keen to pursue. Attending local events such as the Maranoa Diggers Races, Mitchell Agricultural Show and various music festivals sounded fun. Heading west 176 kilometres to Charleville and visiting the Royal Flying Doctor Service and School of the Air would give us greater understanding of the outback. We could even go there by train.

So many other places; so many other people; so many other experiences; so much to give back to this community that had welcomed us so warmly.

***

During those last few days I found myself washing everything in sight, figuring that to leave anything even slightly soiled would invite insect or mould attack, especially if the summer proved hot and wet.

For the first time, and over a period of two or three days, we ran the air-conditioner twenty-four hours a day; such was the intensity of the heat. Most nights cooled down though, with the mornings quite pleasant. But by 3 p.m. dark storm clouds built up, heavy rain fell and the temperature and humidity soared. So I lived in and around a pattern, throwing myself into domestic tasks in the late afternoons, with the air-conditioner running.

In the midst of one of these cleaning sessions, Sandra and Jane Cornish called in to invite us for a meal. I welcomed the chance for a sit down and a cup of tea. Half an hour later, Helen from Abbieglassie arrived and the conversation shifted to Glennie, one of Toowoomba's top private schools for girls.

This school celebrated its 100th year in 2008, but what particularly interested me was that sitting around the table were two Glennie 'girls'. Helen, now in her eightieth year, had once been a boarder at Glennie, and Jane as a thirteen-year-old was a current boarder. With Helen reminiscing and Jane full of enthusiasm and stories of the present time, it was a fascinating conversation, especially since both were passionate about outback life, cattle and horses, and had found it difficult to settle into boarding school in a large town.

As Helen rose to leave she said to Jane, 'Sometimes you have to leave a place to really appreciate it.'

Glancing across at Helen's knowing face – framed by thick white hair – and then looking across to Jane – only just a teenager, slim and with a blonde ponytail – I knew Helen was right. But that didn't make it any easier for Jane, or for us.

Meanwhile Doug was busy with the lawnmower, whipper-snipper and spade. His large circular garden bed was now under black plastic, held down by rocks and red gum planks. The process of soil solarisation – to kill the kikuyu and other weeds – was under way. Early next May, Doug would plant vegetables in the rich river loam he'd fertilised generously with horse and chook manure.

Fruit fly was a potential problem over the summer period, so Doug stirred up a fruit fly brew of sugar, Vegemite and hot water, poured it into plastic drink bottles and hung the bottles in our citrus trees. Theoretically, the sweet, yeasty brew lured the fruit flies; they then crawled in through holes in the top and sides, were unable to get out and drowned in the liquid. Poor fruit flies.

While arranging the bottles in the trees and doing some pruning, Doug found three large pumpkins and fifty or so smaller ones – also countless burrs in all stages of development. Germinating after summer rain, these burrs are the nasties of the local plant world. Two plants in particular are a problem.

Cat head burrs ( _Tribulus terrestris)_ , called goat head burrs in Mitchell, are vicious, with deceptively pretty fern-like leaves that creep along the ground. The burrs hide beneath the leaves and harden to cause severe pain and damage to human and dog feet – also to those of other animals. With a strong tap root, they've evolved to survive.

Flea burrs are a soft succulent creeping plant, without a taproot. Instead, the plant roots along its branches, covering a large area. The burrs grow on stem junctions and have tiny spines that pierce the skin like arrows and won't come out. They irritate and sometimes infect the skin. Everyone in Mitchell talks about flea burrs and how much trouble they cause over summer, when bare feet are the norm.

But Mitchell kids seem immune to burrs, much like the local dogs, including Sally. We watched kids ride their bikes, barefooted along the rough track beside the river, their smiles cheeky and their clothes colourful and scanty.

Everyone was talking about the river. It was the heart of Mitchell: its pulse, its ups and downs remembered and linked with other momentous events never to be forgotten.

The river ran deep with water and stories.

***

Gathered around a long timber dining room table in the Cornishes' home, while sharing a meal of tasty roast beef and vegetables, it was natural that our conversation centred on the river and the rain.

'A lot more rain's fallen upstream,' said Rob. 'It should reach us in the next few days.'

'I heard that the weather bureau's predicting more rain,' said Doug, 'especially in the Carnarvon Ranges.'

'All this water lying around will bring out the mozzies and sand flies in their millions,' said Sandra.

'No one cares about mozzies,' said Rob carelessly, 'or the road closures, mud, bogged vehicles or washed-away fences. None of that matters.

'It looks like the drought's broken and hopefully we'll get back to more normal weather patterns and have good follow-up rains. But,' he warned, 'it's too early to declare the drought broken. We'll need at least two good seasons in a row before we can say that. Nevertheless, I reckon things are looking pretty dammed good, eh.'

Sporting trophies and school certificates feature prominently on the walls, shelves and in cabinets throughout the Cornishes' home. This is a high-achieving sporting family and Sandra and Rob willingly travel huge distances in order to give their two children every sporting opportunity.

'Did you hear that a dam wall collapsed,' said Rob, 'and a house and yard got flooded?'

'They had a hen sitting on eggs in a cut-in-half bucket,' continued Sandra, 'and the bucket floated away in the flood water, along with the hen.'

'Do you know what happened to the hen?' I asked.

'Not a word,' drawled Rob, with a grin, 'but you've got your wish, Robin. The river's halfway up the murals, lapping around the bank.'

'Yes, and I can hear the roar at our place, from the old crossing,' I said, thinking back to the 1800s when bullock teams and Cobb and Co coaches were held up by floodwaters. Times had changed, but the cycle of drought and floods continued through the centuries. I'd had the privilege of witnessing the transformation of the land and the people through times of drought to flooding rains.

'I hear there's a mob of cattle at the racecourse,' said Doug, 'about five hundred I think. Do you know where they're going?'

'They plan to swim them across the river tomorrow,' said Sandra, 'then drove them up the Forest Vale Road to a property near Mount Moffat. Would anyone like seconds? There's plenty here.'

But my mind wasn't on the food. Instead it filled with the sound of hundreds of hooves, mooing cattle, shrill barks of cattle dogs, cracks of whips, snorts of stock horses, and the aroma of sweat and cattle dung. I saw drovers wearing muddy boots and Akubra hats, their smiles wide because of the rain.

'This rain should see Beardmore Dam fill and overflow into the Balonne, with the water ending up in the Murray–Darling system,' said Rob. 'This is the best rain we've had since floodwaters swept over the top of the bridge in 1990.'

'I hope you'll ring us if the river floods,' said Doug, passing Sandra his plate for a second helping.

'We'll ring when Cecil's dogs float past,' said Rob, in his dry way, 'but this rain is very localised. The drought is still a reality in lots of other places and many are surprisingly close to here.'

***

Bathed with sunshine spilling from a cloudless sky I stood gazing at the bridge. This was our second-last day and the subject of bridges occupied my attention.

Driving across the bridge that connects Phillip Island to mainland Australia always gives me a buzz: likewise the bridge over the Maranoa River. Both bridges inspire feelings of separation and connection; of an island-like community with its bridge a link to the outside world.

As I looked down onto the fast-flowing water of the Maranoa, thick with silt, I couldn't begin to imagine how anyone would contemplate diving or jumping off the bridge into the swirling water. But someone had. Bill Dodd now lives in the Mitchell Memorial Hospital as a result of diving off the bridge and into the Maranoa River when only eighteen years old.

As a quadriplegic – and over many years – Bill learned to paint and to write prose and poetry. His book _Broken Dreams_ tells the story of a high-spirited Aboriginal teenager whose world changed in an instant. Bill's passion was horses and stock work, and he loved to run, box and play football. Now in his forties, Bill is described by carers as the 'ideal patient', having long ago come to terms with his situation and made the best of it. In typical Mitchell style, this small outback town has taken Bill Dodd under its wing and given him a home as fulfilling as possible in the circumstances.

I looked at the swiftly flowing current and the murky water and felt sick at the thought of one act of teenage bravado causing such tragedy. My sneakers made a wet sucking sound as they sank slowly in the mud. Looking up into the underbelly of the bridge I saw patterns of light and dark. Shady areas of coolness captured the rich organic smells of the river and its surrounding vegetation: a secretive smell.

The spray-painted murals decorating the thick concrete bridge supports were almost covered by water. When the floodwaters receded, I wondered, did the council wash down the murals to clean them of mud? Perhaps they would also need touching up?

Carrying its load between Brisbane and Mount Isa, a road train thundered over the bridge. I felt its vibration pass through my body, from the earth where I stood. I felt awe for the engineering skill in designing and building a bridge able to withstand floods, droughts and the steady stream of travellers and road trains that use this section of the Warrego Highway.

This bridge; the entrance to and exit from a special place.

***

With temperatures now in the forties, I needed to give Stego more frequent soaks in the laundry trough. My stumpy-tailed lizard didn't appreciate being lifted from his grass nest; it was much too hot. Nevertheless I carried him to the laundry and lowered him gently into the shallow, cool water. There he stood, soaking up moisture through his scales, while occasionally lapping with his fleshy blue tongue.

It isn't so bad after all, he seemed to say, as I gently moistened his back with my fingers – until he got sick of it and tried to get out, usually after ten minutes or so.

After carrying him back to his house, I hand-fed him a meal of snails and banana, which he ate with great enthusiasm. Within minutes of his last mouthful, however, he burrowed back into his grass nest and fell asleep.

The thought of transporting Stego back to Phillip Island in 30–40°C temperatures concerned me. Would he feel too hot and confined within his box?

While Doug was taking a final load of rubbish to the tip – for us and our neighbour Marg – he saw a discarded cooler box and thought, Stego. Lined with newspaper, packed with a layer of soft dry grasses and complete with a chickenwire frame lid, it looked perfect. In a trial run, this stumpy-tailed lizard of ours seemed content to sleep peacefully in his new home, emerging only in the early morning to lie in the sun and have banana hand-fed to him.

Stego hibernated when the temperature became either too hot or too cold. This made him a very easy pet to transport.

***

The Christmas spirit was clear to see in and around Mitchell. Coloured lights, red-clothed Santas, Christmas trees, reindeers and bells decorated and twinkled in streets, shops and homes throughout the town. The Maranoa Arts Gateway was well stocked with art and craft items made by locals, some reflecting the Christmas theme.

Organised by the Booringa Action Group and Rotary, Christmas in the Park was a community event celebrated on 3 December from 6 p.m. onwards. Held at the Mitchell Memorial Park, the event brought together well over 400 people from Mitchell and surrounding areas.

Like a lighthouse, a 40-metre water tower stood within the park, a powerful presence silhouetted against the golden glow of the dying sun. This landmark, visible from up to 50 kilometres away, watched over the gathering, its white concrete tower a reminder of Nature's most precious gift – artesian water; the lifeblood of Mitchell.

For me, the evening was a bit like a dream: neatly cut springy grass beneath my feet, a balmy breeze caressing my face, lots of wide-eyed little kids running around, pregnant mums, teenagers, young adults and older adults and the happy, excited chatter and laughter of people coming together to celebrate.

Food and gift stalls presented a vast array of home-made and other goods for sale, and raffles galore bumped up the coffers of local charities. A jumping castle gave children the opportunity to let off steam and have heaps of fun, while the barbecue provided a seemingly endless supply of sizzling meat for hungry mouths.

Everywhere we wandered people greeted us warmly and engaged in conversation. I was reminded once more of Vance Palmer's observation while living at Abbieglassie, 'I never was in an environment where I know so many people.'

We heard about trucks and cars sliding over roads; of sheets of water so deep that vehicles were up to their headlights in water; of four-wheel drives getting bogged. And of course there was talk of the river, about the raging torrent called the Maranoa. People walked a little taller and everyone was smiling because of the rain.

Rain not only grows grass, it gives people hope.

Here, at this event, everyone shared in a double celebration: the breaking of the seven-year drought and the joy of Christmas. A feeling of community, I decided, was different to having lots of good friends and family. People from large towns and cities often search in vain for a sense of community, a feeling of belonging. Out here the community has a big heart.

As waves of excited chatter and laughter broke over and through me, I felt a surge of sadness to be leaving these unpretentious, generous-hearted people: people able to take pleasure in simple things. I realised with a rush that I'd never felt so Australian. And it was, of course, a great feeling.

The stage upfront – lit with spotlights and fairy lights – provided entertainment with kids singing carols and guest singers performing. The evening light was gentle as I gazed dreamily around me. I knew with a sudden certainty that in this far-flung place I had everything I could ever want. This was a place where people had a go at anything and everything, and usually made it work.

'Look around,' I heard somebody say. 'There's not much wrong with this place, is there?'

Towards the end of the evening, Santa arrived with his helper elves to give out lollies and icy poles to the children – and there was also a Christmas stocking competition. Bathed in the moment, I listened to the excited chatter of children while at the same time hearing leaves whispering in the treetops and frog song pulsing throughout the town.

There are moments in life when you think to yourself, I'd like to capture this memory in a bottle, seal the lid and preserve it forever. This was one of those moments.

***

My last walk followed a river trail I knew by heart. The sun was bright and strong, shadows from the trees fell across the path. My eyes flickered with the changes; dark and light, dark and light, dark and light.

A carpet of the most vivid emerald green I'd ever seen met my eyes. Tussocky buffel grass made up a large portion of the green, but there were many other grasses and weeds as well – in fact trillions of them stretched as far as my eyes could see. Amazed by the explosion of growth around me I gazed at the greenery, and even as I gazed it seemed to grow thicker and greener. Seeds that had lain dormant for years had germinated, triggered into action by the breaking of the drought. Even though mud glued me to the earth at every step, rain had put a spring in my stride.

I paused beneath the wide spreading branches of a doolan tree, an acacia dripping with pods that had dried into curved and twisted shapes. Inside the pods black seeds nestled like eggs, surrounded by bright red material. A carpet of brown pods lay in the leaf litter at my feet. Every now and then a flash of red alerted me to the presence of a seed. The red and black were but a tiny fragment of the pod and appeared ladybird-like on the ground.

Sitting on a log on the riverbank in the shade of a red gum – close enough to the water to dip in my finger – I touched the swirling muddy water. Unable to slow its frantic pace, the river raced and roared southwards, towards the ocean in South Australia.

Standing motionless on a fallen log on the other side of the river was my friend Snow White the egret. Suddenly she was all action, stabbing her beak into the muddy water to catch a fish. Bubbles broke the surface. I saw a lump go down her long elegant throat.

Overhead the sky was huge and pale, bleached by the sun. Butterflies flirted in the treetops; dragonflies dipped into the water then rose up into the sky, hovering, dancing in the sunlight. Nearby, a couple of wasps crafted a mud nest on the rough bark of a tree trunk. A fly crawled up my nose. I brushed it away absent-mindedly.

A pair of sulphur-crested cockatoos swung upside down on the bony branch of a river gum, only metres away, holding on with their black scaly feet while cracking open gumnuts with their powerful bills. They flew off screeching – sulphur-head plumage raised ecstatically – white against the pale blue sky.

A mighty frog chorus of booms and trills suggested yet another burst of reproductive frenzy. Smelling a warm musky odour drifting on the gentle breeze, I was reminded of the musky odour of the muttonbird rookery on Phillip Island. Likewise, the frog chorus reminded me of the muttonbirds chattering, chuckling and cooing to one another as they dug out their burrows, courted and then mated in the moonlight. Their song – and that of the frogs – was a celebration of new life in the making; of optimism for future generations.

It didn't seem to matter how much rain fell, the trees, shrubs and grasses drank every drop greedily. The gnarled red gums that lined the river seemed the thirstiest. High up in the sunlit canopy of a gum I saw honeyeaters and parrots feeding amongst the creamy blossoms, as well as kingfishers and kookaburras investigating various nesting hollows. A whole community of creatures live in and around this majestic tree with its torn and twisted limbs. With a lifespan of between 500 to 1000 years it has a unique story to tell.

I saved my mulberry tree till last. Watching the water swirling around the base of the tree, I imagined the river rising higher and higher until only the leaves on the very top were in view: heart-shaped leaves, their rough surface exposed to the sun while the remainder of the tree lay submerged beneath the fast-flowing muddy water.

That night, shortly after sundown the darkness was filled with the lonely desolate calls of a pair of koels. Like lost souls they sang from the treetops.

***

Saying goodbye can be painful: but it can also be filled with joy.

When Mel and her mother Sandi came to say goodbye, I could tell that Mel was close to tears. Feeling a tug of guilt to be the cause of her distress, I led her over to the table and offered drinks, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

'I gathered some rushes from down by the river,' said Sandi, understanding my concern for Mel, 'and this is the first weaving I've done using Mitchell rushes. I'd like you to have it.'

Knowing of their family tradition of giving away the first of anything handmade or grown in their garden, I felt particularly privileged to receive this gift.

'Thank you,' I said, giving her a hug, 'it's beautiful and I'll hang it on the wall over here by the clock. I love the texture of the rushes and the way you've twisted them.'

'And I've got something for you too,' said Mel, hugging me then thrusting a plastic bag into my hands. At first I thought it was a large coffee-table book, but as I took its weight I realised it was far too light for a book. Taking it out of the bag, I removed the tissue paper to reveal a painting of a mulberry leaf on canvas: acrylic blue and green surrounds on a background of muted white.

Gasping at its significance, I hugged her. She was crying. Taking her arm in mine I led her gently towards Doug's desk, sat down on the carpet and pulled out a Brisbane telephone book. Opening its pages I took out eight pressed mulberry leaves and then handed her the largest – exquisite in its texture and shape.

'I knew the mulberry tree was special to you,' she said softly, 'but I didn't know you had these pressed leaves.'

'I'll take your painting back with us to Phillip Island and hang it where I'll see it often,' I said, 'and think of you every single day until we return.

'And you can look at my muttonbird painting,' I continued, 'and know that we'll return to Mitchell as surely as the muttonbirds migrate every year from Phillip Island to the Bering Sea – at the end of April.'

Only the week before, I'd given Mel my painting of the muttonbirds returning to their rookery on Phillip Island. I wanted her to have my first painting. I wanted her to know we'd return like the muttonbirds.

'Everyone wants you to stay,' said Mel, her eyes brimming with tears. 'I want you to stay.'

'And I don't want to go,' I replied, my voice choked with emotion. 'But we have to go. I'll keep in touch by phone and letter, and I promise we'll be home in Mitchell by May next year. Your painting will link us, even though we're apart: your painting is like a bright promise. The time will fly.'

I could see that she believed everything I said, except for the bit about how time would fly.

During those last few days we said goodbye to Glenda at the library, Janelle at the café, Deb at the police station, and Cecil and Marlene over the back fence. Daphne called in to find out details of what we wanted her to do in our absence, like lawn mowing, watering and window cleaning. Marg popped in from next door and said she'd miss us, and likewise Rod and Carol, Richard, and Sandra and Rob Cornish. We wanted the Cornishes to keep using the back paddock, harvest the pumpkins and citrus, and use the shed and carport for their vehicles.

***

Shortly before our departure, a large group of visitors descended upon the town. This was in marked contrast to the trend of fewer tourists as the daily temperatures soared.

A sizeable cluster of cars parked at the spa complex alerted me to preparations being made by a volunteer organisation – Isolated Children's Parents' Association – dedicated to improving educational and cultural opportunities for geographically isolated students, many of whom attended schools of distance education or small schools in the region.

This four-day camp, held at the beginning of December, included swimming, gymnastics, dancing, a ropes course and rope tying, touch footy, cricket, netball and other activities. It was a fun camp that gave children the opportunity to learn new things, develop friendships and socialise. The organisation interested me greatly and I promised myself I'd investigate it further the following year.

My eyes took in the signage around the Great Artesian Spa and I thought of the rising and falling fortunes of various business and tourism enterprises as key people came and went. For instance, there used to be river cruises, horse and buggy rides around town, an upmarket café at the spa and a water-bottling plant that sold Mitchell Dinosaur Water in capital cities throughout Australia.

Like the Maranoa River, Mitchell goes through down times, with floods and droughts relentless in their intensity, and effect. At other times though, energy in the town flows strongly with the lifeblood of free enterprise. Like the river, however, Mitchell seems unable to flow consistently.

Does the river control the town? To a degree it does, I believe. Drought causes a slowing down and phasing out of some enterprises. Drought drains the energy out of people, robs them of the drive needed to expand horizons. With rain and the river flowing, people smile; feel energised.

Maybe now, with a new year on the horizon, Mitchell will begin to grow again, in spite of or as a result of council amalgamation and the breaking of the drought. There are people here with big but realistic ideas for the town and its future.

Mitchell folklore is a tapestry in the making.

***

We were concerned that in our absence – without the toilet flushing and without water going down the hand basin and shower – the frog in our ensuite might dehydrate (and possibly starve too) if we left her there. So the night before we left, I caught her, cupped her in my hand and, gazing into her dark eyes, said to Doug, 'She'll be safer in the bathroom because of the open louvres.'

This desert tree frog, with her plump body dusted with gold had become so much a part of my nightly shower routine that I knew I'd miss her.

Last-minute tasks always take time, especially when mixed with last-minute goodbyes. On our final morning in Mitchell, in spite of getting up at 5.30 a.m., we didn't leave until six hours later.

There were a couple of loads of washing to be done; the fridge to be cleaned out and turned off; pantry to be wiped out; sinks, shower and toilets to be cleaned; floors vacuumed; cloves scattered around cupboards to deter insects; blinds to be pulled down in some rooms; and dust sheets draped over furniture.

Outside, the caravan's water tank needed to be filled and the car and caravan loaded; jobs we had intended doing the day before, but ran out of time because we had so many visitors. Not that we minded. On the contrary, it warmed us to know that so many people came to say goodbye; that they wished we weren't going, that they hoped all the roads leading south would be flooded – to stop us leaving.

On our last night in Mitchell, Sally knew we were leaving. Add thunder to that and Sonia being away and we had to let her inside. She was beside herself with gratitude and happiness. Immediately she took over Del's bed in the lounge room, so we put another dog bed in our room for Del. During the night, musical beds occurred and when we awoke, Sally was sleeping on the mattress next to our bed.

I tried hard to explain our departure to Sally, but doubted she understood my words. 'Goodbye, we can't take you, sweetheart. Sonia and Caleb love you and want you and even if they didn't you couldn't possibly live at Phillip Island beside a muttonbird rookery. I know you too well. It would be impossible to keep you in and when you got out you'd head straight for the rookery and kill muttonbirds. It's in your genes. You're a terrier with an incredibly strong instinct to hunt. No mouse, rat, lizard, snake, cockroach or wallaby is safe around you, let alone thousands of flapping down-covered chicks in burrows in the sand dunes. The situation would be impossible.'

Sally helped me hang the washing on the clothesline. I felt choked up as she pressed against my leg, warm and wagging. As I bent down to scratch behind her ear she rested her chin in the cup of my hand and gazed into the depths of my soul, eyes reproachful and sad.

I told her we'd be back early next May. I told her not to wait around our place and fret, but to go back home until our return. She looked deep into my eyes and then turned tail and scampered off to the shed to hunt for cockroaches and mice.

Did she understand, I wondered, as I finished hanging out the clothes, or would she grieve and feel abandoned?

Ten minutes before departure, and by arrangement, I put Sally on a lead and took her into Marg's. Sally's family were away at work and school. Handing over the lead, I said, 'Can you keep her inside for at least a couple of hours?' With tears in my eyes I gave Marg a hug and Sally a final pat. True to form, Sally sprang into mouse-hunting mode. She strained on the lead to get to a cupboard, enthusiastically sniffing under it. I moved reluctantly out of the house, closing the door softly behind me.

A conversation sprang to mind, involving Kent, her breeder. 'Sally's the only one left. Her mother, father and litter mates are all long gone. No Jack Russell dies of natural causes out here.'

'Why?' I asked, guessing the answer.

'Snakes, or the road.'

This I could believe, but it filled me with dread.

Rod called in briefly, just as we were leaving, to wish us safe travels. 'Can you fit these in somewhere?' he said, handing me a parcel of home-grown vegetables. 'This morning I counted twenty-two pumpkins growing on just one vine, and I picked watermelons, four buckets of beans, sweet corn and carrots. Not bad, eh?'

Seconds later Richard, sporting a newly shaved head, arrived with gusto to wave us goodbye. As we drove out our driveway and into Louisa Street it seemed we left on a bubble of energy pushed our way by our new young friend.

We continued on down Louisa Street. Putting the house keys into the glove box I blinked hard and concentrated my attention on the river, then on all the stick and mud debris alongside the St George Road leading south. Two days ago this road was cut by floodwaters. Today it was letting us through.

'Who on earth would want to live out there?' I'd heard people say about Mitchell and other similar outback towns.

You could be forgiven, I realised, for thinking this an inhospitable wasteland, but on looking beneath the exterior a storehouse of remarkable and rare beauty unfolds – both within the environment and within the community itself. This is a place where people can dream, where there is sufficient space to make individual dreams a reality. Time feels elastic out here, so elastic that almost anything seems possible.

The outback had cast its spell over me, well and truly. I would never be the same again. Nor would I want to be. I expected to like the outback but hadn't anticipated feeling so much at home: so much part of the land and her people.

Even in the depths of winter, most days I could walk and enjoy being outside – without angina. The warm dry climate of outback Queensland agreed with me, gave me a sense of freedom and inner peace. But rarely did I articulate the true reason for our move.

In the main, this was my choice because I prefer to distract my mind with more uplifting topics. And although I know it's silly, I feel a bit ashamed to have so many different things wrong with my health. Therefore, I've preferred to think of Mitchell as a lifestyle choice. Nevertheless it was angina that propelled me to make the leap between Phillip Island and outback Queensland.

With these thoughts playing around in my mind, I relaxed into the passenger seat, absorbing a feeling of inevitability. We were on our way, travelling in a pocket of protection towards our other reality; Phillip Island in southern Victoria.

Chapter 11

Migrating South

After looking desiccated and desperate for years, the country was now a vision of green. The rain had transformed the land. Pools of water lay beside the road, dams were full, and leaves washed clean of dust. Everything looked crisp, clean and clearly defined: red earth, green grass, bitumen road, white tree trunks and clumps of symmetrical cypress pines.

At the junction of Womalilla Creek and the Maranoa where I had celebrated my birthday, we stopped to sponge Del and the cats with cool water. An eagle flapped off, escorted by two crows. The dry silted-up riverbed of 29 August was now a fast-flowing muddy torrent and, judging by the flood debris, the level had been at least 4 metres higher the day before.

Weeds growing beside the road burst with brilliant purple and yellow flower heads; a vibrant effect when combined with the orange colour of the earth. These opportunist plants were making excellent use of the recent rains: so too were the butterflies fluttering around the flowers. Grasses were beginning to form heads. Soon the air would be thick with pollen and hay fever. Feed was abundant, but there were scarcely any cattle, sheep or goats left to eat it, nor were there many kangaroos.

A lone prickly pear reminded me that in 1922 this stock route between Mitchell and St George was almost completely overrun with the pest. At the present time, only the occasional prickly pear is left growing, with the intention of keeping alive a base population of cactoblastis caterpillars. Never again does the outback want to risk the devastating effect of total invasion.

Heading south, following the Maranoa River, we travelled for a very long time, stretching the umbilical cord that connected us to Mitchell. Maybe we needed this time, space and distance in order to adjust to a totally different lifestyle, home environment and people. Separation was a painful process, I discovered, as kilometre after kilometre slipped by.

Stopping to have a toilet break, stretch and drink of water – out in the middle of nowhere – gave Doug the opportunity for some amusement.

'There's a truck coming.'

'Ha, ha,' I replied, my only protection being a dome of heat and a wide blue sky.

A removal truck came into view, heading towards Mitchell. Feeling a faint splatter of urine hit bare ankles I attempted to stop in time, pull up my pants, and look normal. I didn't succeed. Ants scurried away from the warm urine being absorbed into hot red sandy gravel. Flea burrs in their thousands sprawled over the ground, ready to mature in the next week or so.

The sun blazed down with a sting and a glare so intense that to _not_ wear sunglasses and a hat would have proved impossible. Del bounded over and absent-mindedly I stroked her back. Surprised by how hot it was to the touch, I sponged her fur again, using cool water from a container in the back of the ute, concentrating on the area around her neck and head.

Bush flies, it seems, are an inevitable part of the Australian bush but I draw the line at tolerating their presence within the vehicle. Nevertheless, they tried hard to hitch a ride with us and it was ten minutes or so before the cab was free of that last sticky black fly. Relaxed at last, I sank back into my thoughts, free of the irritation of buzzing flies intent on sucking saliva from my mouth, mucus from my nostrils and tear film from my eyes.

Picture-postcard beauty flashed through my head: autumn in the Canadian Rockies, the Swiss Alps in summer, the Amazon rainforest, and the emerald-green fields of Ireland. So why did Mitchell and its surrounds have such appeal? I wondered, as I felt its insistent pull. From out of nowhere a kangaroo leapt in front of the car. Fortunately we missed it; just.

Water gushed over the weir wall at St George; it was banked up to the high water mark. How I wished this abundance could be used to flush out the Murray–Darling river system rather than fill dams and channels destined to irrigate crops of cotton and rice. What a lost opportunity.

A mirage shimmered on the horizon like a pool of opal. The road snaked towards the mirage and, as if by magic, a convoy of four-wheel drive vehicles and caravans appeared. Like a many-jointed reptile the convoy passed us, with only one vehicle returning our wave of friendship. Were they from the city? I wondered. Had population pressure squeezed the friendliness out of these people?

The small bubble of air-conditioned comfort in which we travelled was a welcome refuge from the oven-like heat outside. With the combination of cool air from the car air-conditioner and the hypnotic sound of rubber on rough bitumen I felt myself slip into a trance-like state. Hour after hour I watched as the land slipped slowly by, interrupted only by the sudden clunk of cattle grids, the occasional sight of blood-red cattle with long floppy ears, and regular stops to sponge Del and the cats with cool water.

Our Siamese rolled over onto their backs and 'talked' about how they half liked and half didn't like being made wet – then stretched out on their sheepskin bed and spent the next hour or so licking themselves dry. Del thought that anything to do with water was great fun; an opportunity for laughter and play.

After booking a site at the Lightning Ridge Caravan Park, we noticed the quote on the receipt which said: _This isn't the end of the world – but you can see it from here._ The temperature was 36°C in the caravan and I found myself getting irritated over little things. That first night on the road was always the most difficult: remembering where everything was located, settling into a new routine, getting used to living in a confined space – as well as feeling hot and tired.

Trim, swivelling his large Siamese ears, was all eyes and ears at each of the windows of the van, watching strange people, dogs and vehicles coming and going, apostlebirds squabbling over crusts, and large flying insects smashing against the windows.

During the evening our two Siamese stretched out on the caravan bed, luxuriating in the heat. Del panted softly on the floor, a tennis ball between her front feet. Occasionally she rose to nudge the cats, giving them huge slurping kisses; causing them to complain noisily. Dressed only in shorts and singlet tops, we played Scrabble, read and listened to local ABC radio for weather reports and general news about irrigation, flooding and hailstorms.

After a simple meal of steak, peas and a tin of cherries I walked to the amenities block where giant cockroaches with shiny dark brown shells had congregated around the septic tank. Careless travellers had left half a dozen slices of white bread out for the birds, but it was the cockies that were feasting now. Even an army of cockroaches couldn't eat this amount of bread.

Surrounded by arid pastoral leases and opal fields, Lightning Ridge sits on the largest deposit of black opal in the world. Within the town are old corrugated-iron miners' cottages, houses made from beer bottles, shops and businesses with bars on their windows, a supermarket with an extraordinarily large range of up-market foods, sky-high petrol prices – and on the outskirts of the town, a true castle. A significant number of people choose to remain uncounted; consequently at the entrance to town a sign states: _Population ?_

To try their luck on the opal fields, people have come to Lightning Ridge from over fifty different countries. As a result, the newsagent stocks a huge range of newspapers in different languages. The Ridge is a place of eccentrics: also of wealth, poverty and intrigue. But the wealth is secretive – below ground.

Morning coffee at the Lost Sea Opals Coffee Shop gave us time to absorb the sight of 110-million-year-old opalised seashells, dinosaur claws, plants, fish and reptile bones; fossilised tree trunks; and an opalised platypus jaw estimated to be 120 million years old. I'd never thought of Lightning Ridge as lying beneath the sea, but the display of fossils – as well as the name of the café – gave me a much clearer idea as to its origins, as well as evidence of how life in the water moved to life on the land.

Within the Lost Sea Opals showroom, Lightning Ridge opals are on show: from milky pale blue to brilliant greens, blues, reds and purples. After looking at the stunning display we sat out in the breeze to have our coffee. With the tourist season almost over, our fellow coffee drinkers were locals whose talk was of cutting and selling opals, drilling, four-wheel drives, gambling and money. The café also attracts artists and potters, people seduced by the light, colour and atmosphere of The Ridge. The dusty ochre colours, warmth and openness of the country acts like a tonic to the soul.

Conversations also focused on the weather. We heard that Peak Hill had copped 4 inches of rain the previous night, along with severe hail that damaged cars and houses, that hail and thunder were predicted in the Dubbo area over the next forty-eight hours, and that there was major flooding throughout inland New South Wales and southern Queensland.

'We've been fortunate to miss storms and road closures to our north,' I said to Doug, 'and now severe storms to our south. It's like we're travelling in a pocket of luck.'

Further down the road, after we'd left Lightning Ridge, a sign declared: _Unfenced Road. Beware of Stock_ , and shortly we came to a large herd of cattle grazing the stock route. A bloke on a motorbike kept watch over a group of cows with young calves (one only several hours old) struggling to keep up with the mob.

Looking ageless, wearing dusty boots and a battered felt hat, the stockman whistled a command to his heeler. He appeared a man of few words, but he looked up and acknowledged our wave. When he realised that our progress through the cattle would be slow and careful, a smile creased his weathered face and he gave us a friendly thumbs up.

Brahman-cross cows and calves stretched out ahead, all with multicoloured ear tags and branded hides. They spread out along several kilometres of road and surrounds. Doug estimated the herd to be at least 1000 head. With heads down the cattle grazed the green grasses and herbage growing along the edge of the bitumen.

After a long time on the road, these cattle were used to trucks, cars and caravans. Scarcely blinking their long eyelashes as we passed, they moved along the stock route in their own time and at their own pace. As they walked they ate, hooves occasionally striking the bitumen, hot cowpats splattering the road. I breathed in the heavy aroma of cowhides, urine and dung.

This stock route – one of New South Wales' 'long paddocks' – is part of the largest stock route network in Australia, stretching for thousands of kilometres. Managed by government stock route officers, this Crown land is subject to rules and regulations. In order to give other drovers 'a go' and allow the annual grasses, herbs and weeds to grow between mobs, cattle are supposed to move at least 16 kilometres a day. Regular watering places dot the route.

As we passed the last of the herd, a silvery-grey cow with long pendulous ears propped in the middle of the road. Doug put his foot on the brake and slowly came to a halt, motor idling as the cow called to her calf. She looked anxiously around; from the green pick to the earth beyond, then down the black snaking bitumen road. Eventually she ambled off onto the verge and bellowed again, swishing her tail.

I watched the end tassels flick over her rump in a vain attempt to rid her backside of the horde of bush flies gathered there. I hoped her calf wasn't one of those I'd seen at the back of the mob.

Moments later, a drover's camp came into view, tucked away in a thicket of native cypress pines. There were a couple of trucks, two caravans, three young children running around, a campfire, at least fifteen dogs, a clothesline and some tethered stock horses. The kids must be home-schooled, I guessed, assisted by the New South Wales Distance Education Scheme. The women and children would be resilient and their men tough.

The campfire flickered and I saw a woman squat and lift something black from the fire. Perhaps it was a billy to make tea? Cattle dogs ran to the ends of their chains and yapped shrilly. I thought of the drover at the back of the mob, slowly herding the cows and calves towards the camp. How long had this family been on the road? Where was home?

Had they chosen the droving life rather than sell their cattle, pay agistment and trucking or rail transport costs, or buy in hay and grain? If this drought was at an end, would this family return to a more normal lifestyle? With global warming and climate change now a scientifically proven reality, perhaps this arid region had slipped into a state of perpetual drought. I hoped fervently that this was not the case. These people mattered, and so too did their cattle and the environment over which they grazed.

Leaving the mob behind, we picked up speed and continued on our way but the drover's plight stayed in my mind, reinforced by snatches of Banjo Paterson's poetry and John Williamson lyrics that played over and over in my head – lyrics that celebrate the great Australian tradition of droving sheep and cattle from faraway grazing lands to markets, mainly in the south.

***

The next afternoon, with central inland New South Wales in the throes of a heat wave, our cats needed to sit up front for a few hours. Like royalty they stretched out on my knee – elegant on a green towel – while I sponged and combed their cream-and-coffee-coloured fur. Katie purred loudly while I groomed her, whereas Trim complained loudly at the indignity of being wet.

Katie also purred at night when Doug lifted her and placed her carefully in my arms in our bed. There she stayed till morning; warm, snug and utterly content – with Trim alongside. These were two very special Siamese, definitely of royal blood.

With temperatures continuing to hover in the mid-thirties, regular river and lake rest stops gave Del opportunities for water play and cooling off. Our stumpy-tailed lizard remained in a dormant state, safe in his carry-box in the caravan, with Doug's young trees packed alongside. The oolines in particular were thriving in the heat.

Over cattle grids we rumbled and clunked, with floodways and 2-metre-high flood markers suggestive of massive quantities of water – and hope. Alongside the road clumps of sunflowers in full bloom betrayed the spillage of seed from trucks carting the grain south. Blue sky stretched from one distant, flat horizon to the other as the harsh outback landscape slid past the window.

***

Our friendship with Val, Mike and their two dogs goes back twelve years and originates on Phillip Island. They are warm, cheerful people and easy to be around. Now that they live near Sydney, we arranged a two-day rendezvous at the Gilgandra Caravan Park, enjoying their company, and the park's magnificent trees and spacious green lawns. Galahs, eastern rosellas and an amazing stick insect with a huge abdomen and bright green and red wings kept us further entertained. It was Doug who saw the stick insect being attacked by a butcherbird. He rushed over to see what the bird was doing and discovered a creature that none of us had ever seen before.

'It was probably blown out of one of the trees during the storm last night,' said Doug, as he handed the exotic creature to me. Much larger than the size of my hand, it clung to my fingers with its long, spindly yet leaf-like legs.

I remembered the classic 'dead eucalypt twig' stick insect that had landed on our verandah one evening in November. Swaying in a non-existent breeze it had sat on my hand pretending, until I'd released it into a nearby tree. But this stick insect was much more exotic.

A maggot fell off its underside and onto my finger, then the insect secreted a little squirt of liquid onto my skin – probably from stress. Doug and Mike took lots of photos to assist in identification. The creature looked newly moulted; a brilliant green insect with red-and-green-coloured wings, leaf-like legs, and a soft plump body that looked to be modelled on the leafy foliage in which it lived.

'If I was a little kid,' said Val dreamily, 'I'd say this was a fairy, especially when it opens up its transparent wings.'

'I think she's a female,' I said, looking at her swollen segmented abdomen. 'She looks ready to lay eggs.' I was thinking of hundreds of eggs falling to the ground like seeds, there to lie in the leaf litter until they hatched some time later into nymphs that would undergo numerous moults until they reached adult size.

'I can't imagine her flying,' said Mike, 'she's much too heavy; like an overloaded aircraft.'

The stick insect was focused on climbing upwards, up anything that resembled a tree; even a human would do. I chose a tall eucalypt and placed her against the rough bark, which she grabbed hold of and began the long journey up the trunk. We watched until she disappeared into the twig and leaf canopy overhead, where we hoped she would be concealed from the prying eyes of kookaburras, hawks and butcherbirds. Stick insects have perfected the art of camouflage, so we figured she had a good chance of survival.

Later we sent our photographs to the Senior Curator of Entomology at Museum Victoria for identification. Within one week we had a letter informing us that the plasmid we'd found was a red-shouldered stick insect _(Tropidoderus rhodomus_ ). How special, I thought, to share this living, breathing mimic of vegetation with close friends.

***

Continuing our southerly migration we began noticing the first of many things suggestive of cities down south: traffic lights, signposts to Melbourne, Hungry Jack's and McDonald's, increased traffic, more people and more pressure. Once again, we travelled in a pocket of stable weather, while all around us severe and damaging thunderstorms and flooding occurred, and ABC radio warned of rising river levels and hail, and of low-pressure systems dumping more heavy rain.

As we moved through the central western plains of New South Wales, the first blue and white agapanthus flowers suggested a change in latitude. With 70 per cent of New South Wales still in drought, this sheep grazing country was having a hard time. I thought of the dingo fence located north of Mitchell, designed to keep this country free of dingo attack. With the current drought these sheep and these farmers needed all the help they could get.

I'd been lulled almost to sleep by the open plains country with its grazing sheep, when all of a sudden the largest radio telescope dish in the Southern Hemisphere jumped into my line of vision: the CSIRO Parkes Radio Telescope, 64 metres in diameter.

An eerie feeling hangs over The Dish and the Visitor Discovery Centre: a hush of expectation, of something outside our relatively safe, familiar world. Will The Dish pick up a radio signal sometime in the future that tells us we are not alone: tells us something we think we want to discover, until the moment of truth?

Car travel allows an unwinding like no other, with kilometre after kilometre, hour after hour; sometimes talking, other times thinking. Long days on the road give a true feeling of distance and the space to adjust the mind to a new and quite different lifestyle.

The rain storms we'd heard about on the radio and from locals were very localised and disappointing for many regions of New South Wales. On the other hand, we heard on the news that, as Rob Cornish had predicted, the Beardmore Dam had filled and was now overflowing down the Balonne and towards the Murray–Darling river system. I wondered how far this first flush of water would travel before being swallowed up by thirsty sand and irrigation dams.

It was a Sunday and we were crossing seemingly endless plains when Doug said, out of the blue, 'I wonder what the kids in Mitchell are doing right now?'

'Climbing river gums, catching yabbies,' I said dreamily, thinking of some of my students, 'mucking around in the mud and sand, riding horses, relaxing with friends at the spa.'

'Fishing, having fun at the weir, riding motorbikes,' continued Doug, 'swimming at the pool, playing golf and cricket, checking fences, water troughs and cattle, putting out salt licks.'

Once again my mind was back in Mitchell. But we were heading south, away; away from relative innocence. Away from a place where time seemed to stand still, unaffected by the rush and pressure of modern city life.

My thoughts moved on to Sally. Was she sitting beside our front door, waiting? Was she listening for the sound of our ute, her eyes sad? My throat tightened and I deliberately focused my attention on the bitumen road stretching ahead like a lazy snake, hypnotic. The first mountains came into view; the first Paterson's Curse in full purple bloom.

Local radio told us it was 30°C and humid with storms forecast. But our bubble of sunshine continued as we headed further and further south along a familiar migration route to our home on Phillip Island, our eyes focused towards the southern horizon.

I wondered what the muttonbirds thought as they flew south, after feasting on krill in the Bering Sea. Did they visualise their island, their rookery, their burrow? Or did they fly on automatic pilot, their minds in neutral, following a program determined by their DNA, following the migration flight of their ancestors? I knew they got tired as they battled storms along the east coast of Australia. We got tired too, driving long distances, especially in the unaccustomed humidity.

Our migration was by choice though, whereas for the muttonbirds it was coded in their genes. But the restlessness and the lure of the island were common factors. Maybe my restlessness was also determined by my genes.

West Wyalong Caravan Park and momentous news seem to go together. It was here that we'd heard news of Steve Irwin's sudden death the previous year; it was here, right now, that we heard the news that three of our Queensland police friends had survived a direct lightning strike during a fierce electrical storm.

Sergeant Craig Shepherd and senior constables Deb Cousins and Glen Fletcher were in a police car on the Mitchell–St George Road about 5 kilometres south of Mitchell just after midnight, checking flood levels at Arrest Creek, following heavy rain. A lightning bolt struck the steel aerial on the roof of the four-wheel drive with such force that it passed into the engine bay, causing a complete disruption of the vehicle's electrical equipment. The car had lit up like a Christmas tree.

'It was actually like hitting a brick wall,' said Craig Shepherd. 'The car shuddered, stopped, sparks flew out everywhere, the siren came on.

'The roof of the car got super hot and I felt my hair stand up. I remember asking my two officers if my hair was on fire. It was just freaky. Everything went orange, like an orange glow.

'It was like slow motion. It was like something had grabbed the car. The windscreen cracked in two places where the aerial bent over and melted into the windscreen.'

With the police siren blaring uncontrollably, they drove slowly back to Mitchell, stopping on the outskirts of town to avoid alarming people. Before leaving the vehicle they disconnected the engine, effectively deadening the lights and siren. The following day the vehicle was towed to Roma for repairs.

Afterwards, the three officers suffered ringing ears, felt like their hair was standing on end and their skin creeping, but other than that they were unharmed, except for the shock which lasted for days. Craig Shepherd, because his hands were on the steering wheel, was affected the most, feeling heat through his body that lasted for days. The trio were lucky to escape death.

Since we knew all three police officers, and Deb and Glen were our friends, the news had a huge impact on us. Australians have about one chance in 1.6 million of being struck by lightning. A single strike of lightning releases up to 500 million volts of electricity, generating a temperature of around 27,000°C. This is three times hotter than the surface of the Sun. It was extraordinary that our friends had survived.

On leaving West Wyalong, evidence of drought was clear to see. Bare orange earth grew spindly grain crops with tiny shrivelled heads, too sparse to cut for hay. Dams were empty. A flock of newly shorn merinos stirred up a cloud of dust simply by walking slowly across the paddock. Cattle gathered around a truck delivering water to a trough, a desperate sign of drought in country as desiccated as I'd ever seen.

Even the trees look sad and dejected. A goanna crossed the road and ran up a eucalypt that was mostly dead. The goanna's 1.5 metre striped body looked prehistoric with its bands of yellow across the tail.

At The Rock, a sign by the roadside read: _Turkeys for sale. Live or dressed._ This had us chuckling, remembering one of Michael Leunig's cartoons: _How to prepare the turkey._ In this classic, Michael Leunig leaves the reader without Christmas dinner, but with a gift of peace and friendship with a feathered friend. Every country town en route was decorated with Father Christmases and tinsel, and most were well-shaded with leafy white cedars; the same trees we'd seen naked on our way up in June, except for their clusters of mustard-coloured berries. Thoughts of friends from Mitchell, the girls I'd taught and Sally kept popping into my head. Were they thinking of me too? There was no way of knowing, but I believe there was a connection happening at some level.

Joining the traffic on the Hume Freeway gave me an unpleasant jolt, and as we headed towards Melbourne I had to wonder whether we were travelling towards or away from civilisation.

Car travel proved good training for Del, who turned one year old that week. Lots of jumping in and out of the ute, being tied up, free running under voice control, coffee at outside pavement settings, meeting other people and other dogs, walking on the lead around the shopping strips of country towns, learning not to bark or jump up, but rather to sit quietly and shake hands when requested – all these and more were excellent training for our young German shepherd.

Crossing the Murray River was a significant last step: into Victoria, the place of our birth and upbringing. Yet I felt a heaviness of heart that was hard to explain. I'd seen, heard and smelt the Maranoa River turn from a dry sandy riverbed to a swiftly flowing torrent. I'd felt the joy of the breaking of a seven-year drought.

I'd rejoiced in the chorus of frog song; in goannas and geckos, and butterflies; in Snow White the egret, dancing brolgas and soaring eagles; in my mulberry tree, river red gums, bottle trees and palms; in old Queenslander houses and wide streets, the artesian spa and café. Yet more than any of those things was the joy I felt at being part of an outback community.

So what is perfection? I wondered. Experiencing a place as it is, with all its inconveniences and extremes, or cocooning yourself to block out all discomfort? If things are too perfect, I thought, maybe life would be boring, resilience would never be developed, strengthened or tested. In Mitchell we'd experienced a mini-tornado, severe hail and thunderstorms, dust storms, intense heat and minus 6°C temperatures. We'd had snakes, a mouse plague, burrs, ticks, bush flies, cockroaches, biting ants, mosquitoes and sandflies.

During the six months we lived in Mitchell there'd been a bag-snatch in the main street, arrests for drunken driving, domestic violence, road fatalities, cattle trucks overturning, a woman killed by her pet camel, drug dealing and hooning youth offences – all the usual indiscretions that occur in any community. Mitchell was far from perfect.

When the first drops of rain hit the windscreen and the temperature dropped, I knew we were well and truly back in Victoria. The freeway glistened black with rain. I was not looking forward to feeling cold. As we drove through Shepparton, stopping at traffic lights, we experienced the rush and tear of the south for the first time in six months. The town had grown, with outskirts that sprawled like a growth of mould.

'And this is only a country town,' I said, 'Can you imagine what Melbourne will be like?' I was beginning to remember the frantic energy of the city and suburbs and these memories failed to excite me.

But Doug was concentrating too hard to reply, so my thoughts swung back to Phillip Island, the bridge, and penguins tumbling out of the surf onto a golden beach. At another set of traffic lights, a couple of tradesmen in a ute signalled to attract Doug's attention and then pointed questioningly to the shovel-holder mounted on the side of our vehicle.

Doug lowered his window and called out, 'A rocket launcher.' Responding with a thumbs-up sign and huge grins, they sped off towards the centre of Shepparton and their next plumbing job.

The gate to my brother's place was wide open. We drove slowly down the gravel driveway. Located beside Castle Creek and surrounded by expansive lawns, garden beds, river red gums and exotic trees, their home was approached through an avenue of oak trees that our nephew had germinated and planted from acorns he'd collected as a nine-year-old.

'Frogs must be in our genes,' I said to my brother, Gordon, as we paused beside his frog pond.

By staying with my brother and then Doug's brother on our way back to Phillip Island, we figured we were easing our way back – by degrees. But back on the road materialism and overpopulation crowded in on us. People seemed greedier here. They seemed to want everything new and better than anyone else's; and to want it now. The country was certainly prettier here in a conventional way, looked more civilised, and the climate was more moderate. Yet it lacked the space and freedom of Mitchell and the outback. People avoided eye contact in the street, seemed closed-in.

We made a phone call to Rod and Carol, who told us, _'_ _Mitchell's received excellent follow-up rain, with over 100 millimetres falling during the past four days. Grass and weeds are leaping out of the ground, there is mud everywhere and the Maranoa is roaring. Everyone is smiling. The drought is over!_

' _The sand flies are out in their millions, have descended on the town. Legs and arms are covered in bites, it's impossible to go outside. They squeeze through flyscreens and are attracted by bright lights.'_

Skirting around Melbourne, we travelled through a variety of landscapes. In places, mountain ash trees towered overhead while tree ferns nestled snugly in gullies. In others, orderly vineyards stamped the hills. A patchwork of potato and strawberry crops merged into semi-suburbia developments, well-treed and tidy, with the Puffing Billy railway line wending its way through the hills. There was a look of plenty. But we saw no butterflies.

As we travelled south through Victoria, Stego slipped into a deeper hibernation. At Doug's brother's home in the hills I too began feeling the cold. I needed to wear Explorer socks and sneakers for the first time in months, plus a jacket, and bed socks at night.

With Phillip Island, the beach, the muttonbirds and good friends ahead, I thought, I should be feeling excited about arriving home on the island. Instead, I longed for Mitchell and the outback. Perhaps, I thought, the sight of muttonbirds circling the rookery, the smell of seaweed and the sound of crashing waves will bump me out of the apathy I feel about our return.

Following the signage down the Princes Freeway towards Phillip Island we passed lush paddocks dotted with large hay bales and Friesian dairy cows grazing pastures so green it looked like September, not December. This area was experiencing the bonus of two springs.

Moments later I caught sight of the sea, of sand banks, of fishing boats tied to the jetty and seagulls circling overhead. I breathed in the smell of salt and seaweed. Fluffy white cumulus clouds, blue-green water and yellow beach sand formed a backdrop to the cry of Pacific gulls. Black swans and pelicans foraged in the shallows.

Here, at the small village of San Remo I saw the bridge looming ahead, connecting Phillip Island to the rest of Australia – a lifeline carrying water and power as well as traffic. The solid land of the island beckoned me.

Phillip Island and Mitchell: each has its bridge, wildlife and 'island' community. Perhaps this is why I'm drawn to both places.

We approached the 530-metre-long bridge. Suddenly the journey seemed to have ended too quickly. But there was no turning back; we were on the bridge. Thirty minutes later we arrived at Grossard Point overlooking the bay, West Head and the Mornington Peninsula. Our 'burrow' awaited our return; a single-storeyed brick home with a colour scheme that blended into the surrounding vegetation; a burrow that needed to be tidied up and settled into for the summer.

It was 11 December and we were home. We had arrived, just like the birds.

Chapter 12

Island in the Sun

Wandering around the garden I found the vegetable patch shoulder-high in silverbeet and thistles, with bright red poppy heads scattered throughout. But the grass was neatly cut. My jade and other succulents growing in pots on the front verandah had survived the six months without any problems, and likewise the native plants in our garden, many of which are nectar-producing species.

Carrying Trim and Katie to the back door, we unlocked it and stepped inside. Our Siamese stalked around their old territory, yowling as they inspected every nook and cranny. Finding everything in order, they settled in their chair in the sunroom, yawned, stretched and then fell asleep. Oh, to be a cat!

An hour or so after arriving back on the island, and with Del in high spirits, we walked the short distance to our beach. I saw wallaby tracks hopping along the hard wet sand, found seaweed rolled and matted like felt, sea urchins, abalone shells, cowries and cuttlefish. The tide was low.

My beachcombing started immediately, motivated by an impulse to pick up flotsam to take back to Queensland. I combed the seashore for treasure. I wanted to create collages for a picture storybook. Maybe my young student Jessica would like some shells for her jewellery making? I could use flotsam as writing inspiration for groups of students. Some of these outback kids had never been to the beach, and certainly not to Phillip Island.

I began exploring the eroded reef, gazing into rock pools at brilliant green clumps of sea lettuce, sea grapes and waving seagrasses; a few starfish, crabs and sea anemones; limpets and a variety of other small shellfish. Washed up on the shore were finger-like sponges, long strands of thick bull kelp, pieces of driftwood bleached by sun and salt, the occasional shark egg case and many cuttlefish bones – an excellent source of calcium for caged birds and for polishing granite tombstones.

A pair of sooty oystercatchers flew overhead, their cries eerie; hypnotic, calming. I felt the rhythm of the tides. Time felt elastic. Past and present merged into one.

The _Iron Monarch_ steamed past, its white funnels bathed in evening light, its black hull cutting through the steel-blue water of the bay. The distinctive throb of diesel engines reminded me of foggy autumn mornings when the sound of its foghorn warned shipping of its bulky presence. This ship travels from Port Kembla carrying blocks of steel to the rolling mill at Hastings where they're converted into roofing, rods, pipes and flat steel.

A brand new moon stamped the fading sunset as muttonbirds swooped and flapped their way towards the rookery: each towards its mate sitting on a large egg positioned deep in a sandy burrow, amongst tussocks, salt bush and coastal scrub. The musty smell of muttonbirds filled my nostrils. I heard them chuckling, trilling as I watched them circling the house in their thousands.

Mel's painting of the mulberry leaf was one of the first things I chose to unpack. I found a position in the lounge room where I would see it often. Standing back to admire it, I was struck anew by its intensity and meaning. I picked up the phone and rang Mel's number.

***

Stego's lizard house was, of course, completely overgrown with grasses and weeds. It didn't take long, however, to whipper-snip the grass and pull out the weeds that had grown over his basking rocks, hollow logs, sleeping box and food and water bowls.

Putting Stego back into his Phillip Island 'house' proved that lizards remember places, even after a period of six months. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he strode purposefully towards his house, marched straight in the door and made himself comfortable in his bed of soft dry grasses. We didn't see him again for two weeks. It was cold; too cold for lizards, too cold for me.

There was a gale warning on the island, and a temperature of 16°C with showers. As I continued to unpack I shivered and longed for warmth, longed for the freedom to walk without chest pain. My computer glasses, mouse, Doug's camera stuff and a bag of bread mix were missing. I looked everywhere with no success. Guessing we'd left a box behind, I phoned Daphne and asked her to look around the house.

The next day there was a phone call from Daphne. She'd looked everywhere in the house and was unable to find the missing box. She had gone to Roma the previous day and told me, _'Three inches fell in less than twelve hours – the streets were running water. The gutters were overflowing and I had to take off my shoes and wade or they would've been absolutely ruined. There was so much rain I came home looking like a drowned rat. Some of the grass I've been asked to cut is taller than me. You can literally see it growing. I can't keep up with the mowing. I cut one day and three days later the weeds and grass are knee-high again. And everyone wants their grass perfect for Christmas!'_

Giving up about the box, I ordered myself a new pair of computer glasses and bought another mouse.

A day later I found my computer glasses and mouse in a tin box containing my computer memory sticks. I hadn't looked in this box because I hadn't used the computer because I couldn't find my computer glasses. I'd packed them so carefully and thoughtfully – and then completely forgotten their whereabouts. A week later I picked up my new computer glasses and mouse, at a cost of $250.

Friends called in. They grasped my hands prior to a hug and kiss and exclaimed, 'You look so well. Ten years younger! But your hands, they're so cold!'

And I replied, 'Yes, six months living in the outback has made me feel great!'

'But didn't you miss the island?' they asked hopefully.

Later that evening, a phone call from Heather came with exciting news. _'A family of Major Mitchell cockies are feasting in our brigalows! The plum-headed finches have disappeared and the Chinchilla gums are flowering.'_

In front of and around me spanned Western Port Bay in all its sparkling blue intensity. On a morning walk I found a sea tulip washed up on the shore; a small, potato-like bulb at the end of a long stalk, red to orange in colour. Like an alien cast upon the sand, this advanced invertebrate intrigued me as it looked to be a plant, yet wasn't. This strange creature lives just below the low-tide mark. It had been washed up onto the shore as a result of heavy seas the previous day.

A phone call to Rod and Carol kept us in touch with the outback: _'_ _Mitchell's had huge rains – over 5 inches since you left. Lots of storms passing through, every evening. Roads are underwater, road works held up, the river about the same. The farmers are so happy! It was 41° one day. Too wet for Sally to sit by your front door and wait, but she knows you've gone. The bowling green is knee-high in water, and needs pumping out. It was 37° today. You can't pull off the road anywhere or you'll sink in the mud or slip and slide all over the place.'_

Kent – who records river heights for the weather bureau – told us that the river had risen to 4.5 metres.

'My mulberry tree will be up to her belly in water,' I said dreamily. Next year, I thought, we'll take more books, pictures for the walls, my electric keyboard and photo albums. We'll have the phone connected and the Internet, we'll buy a TV. Next year ...

On the first Saturday of our return to the island we resumed our Saturday morning social treats, with Doug meeting his motorcycle friends at a café on the Cowes jetty, and me meeting my friends at Harry's On The Esplanade, also for coffee and laughter.

With a shared interest in art, books and writing, I'd been meeting a group of women friends every Saturday morning for twelve years – at the same venue. Consequently, the staff know us well, with one young waitress, Jip, our favourite. Edna, who'd recently returned from a holiday in Singapore, read us a poem inspired by a statue of the Buddha she'd seen. Within a short time Jip arrived at our table with a poem she'd just penned on the back of a menu. She'd written about us Saturday morning ladies, and finished up by saying she hoped that one day she would have friends like us.

The next morning on the radio, Macka's _Australia All Over_ program informed us that: _'_ _Bumper rains are predicted for southern and central Queensland over the next week, especially in the Warrego and Maranoa areas.'_

My heart lurched: my country, my river, my place.

***

Every New Year's Eve, the Grossard Point light, boardwalk and viewing platform is the gathering place of forty or so locals. On the cliff's edge, inside a high ring-lock fence is an automated beacon. Its nightly patrol begins as dusk settles over the rose-coloured cliffs. The beacon warns of the dangerous 700-metre McHaffie Reef, which extends towards the busy shipping channel. It flashes red, white and green to guide shipping to the entrance of the western channel of Western Port Bay.

From our house, we can see the beacon flashing throughout the night, every night of the year. Five channel markers – three red and two green, and all with different flash intervals – can also be seen from our living room, guiding shipping through this dangerous channel.

On New Year's Eve, the fireworks in Cowes and along the Mornington Peninsula can be seen from Grossard Point. At midnight, the chuckling cries of thousands of muttonbirds blended with firecrackers, cheers and lots of hugging. '10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Zero!' the crowd chanted, 'Happy New Year!' I kissed and hugged Doug and then our friends, feeling hope for the New Year.

We stayed until everyone else had gone. Gazing across the vast expanse of sea and dome of starlit sky, all was calm, all was still. As we left, the trill of penguins sang the tune of summer and our part in it.

***

Ours is an ever-changing view, rich in variety and interest. Originally a place for birds, wallabies, koalas and seals, Phillip Island now has a thriving tourism industry and a robust human population.

Yachts, cruise boats, gas tankers, fishing boats, the Seal Rocks ferry, cargo ships and the occasional oil rig pass across our stage. Then on the grass between the house and the sea we watch the passing parade: children flying kites, people walking their dogs, families playing cricket and footy, picnickers spreading out their rugs, model planes and gliders flying high, bird observers watching through binoculars and windsurfers soaring in the wind currents.

Every now and then a honking, trumpet-like call alerts me to the presence of a pair of Cape Barren geese grazing the foreshore. These large grey geese have heavy bills adapted to graze tough grasses. They are native to the islands off the southern coast of Australia.

During January, long weekends and the Easter break the population of Phillip Island swells from about 7000 to over 70,000 people. Crowds flock to the world-famous Penguin Parade at Summerland Beach, there to wait until dusk to watch hundreds of penguins emerge from the waves, pause a few moments and then waddle up the beach to their burrows in the sand dunes.

Over half a million people visit Phillip Island every year to watch the penguins waddle ashore at dusk. Only about 40 centimetres tall and weighing about 1 kilogram, fairy penguins, or little penguins, as they are correctly called, are the smallest of all penguins and are the only species to breed on mainland Australia. Phillip Island Nature Park research scientists have been studying this penguin colony for over forty years. Penguins, dressed in their quaint little dinner suits, are always a crowd pleaser, for international and local tourists alike; so much so, it's been estimated that each penguin living on Phillip Island generates $6000 in tourist-based income.

Nearby is Seal Rocks, the breeding ground of about 6000 Australian fur seals, Australia's largest seal colony; and then the Koala Conservation Area with its treetop boardwalk; Churchill Island with its historic homestead and ancient moonah trees; and the Grand Prix track. The Motorcycle Grand Prix – a three-day event in October – sees the island fully booked with biking enthusiasts from all over the world.

***

Every evening we walked our shepherd along the beach, revelling in the feel of sand between toes, the musty smell of muttonbirds, the smell of rotting seaweed and the sound of waves crashing on hard sand. I explored rock pools and the reef, and listened to the haunting cry of gulls and sooty oystercatchers.

Neighbours and friends we have in abundance. Absent, however, is a sense of community.

The people living around us on the island are, generally speaking, better educated, live in more up-market housing, are more widely travelled and read, and have more material possessions than those living around us at Mitchell. But are they happier, more content? Better people? The answer is a definite no. Many have lost the plot, are striving in the wrong directions. Absent is the basic trust and openness of the outback.

The rude push, shove and grab shopping frenzy of January in the island's main commercial centre of Cowes causes most locals to go to ground, emerging in February to restock their pantries.

Tourists and holiday house owners from the city seem reluctant to meet your eye, to say, 'Hi' or 'G'day'. They're inclined to walk by as if other people are invisible. In Mitchell people are acknowledged, no matter where they are from or who they are.

Yet, how stunning is the coastal vista before me, how rich the ecology of the island. Sunsets over the ocean are moments to cherish. Occasionally, like the most brilliant green emerald, there is a flash of green in the sky after the last of the sun's golden disc has disappeared below the horizon. Atmospheric conditions have to be just right for this rare and fleeting event to occur. We see the flash of emerald green light about twice every year and consider ourselves privileged to do so.

***

ABC radio news told us that heavy rain had fallen in Queensland, flooding Charleville. We heard news of sandbags, Hercules aircraft, emergency sirens and evacuations as the Warrego River rose to 5 metres.

But what about Mitchell and the Maranoa? we wondered.

Carol phoned us with the latest. _'The Maranoa River is over the murals: and rising. No part of the weir is visible. Two-thirds of Queensland is affected by floodwaters. The river at Charleville is 1 kilometre wide and expected to peak Tuesday midday. Sandbags are in place._

The Fairbairne Dam near Emerald has overflowed – the first time in seventeen years. In the town of Emerald, 2000 people have been evacuated. Emerald has been declared a disaster zone. It is completely cut off by road. Three metres of water is flowing over the spillway.'

***

Muttonbirds are sometimes known as moonbirds and the legend surrounding this name is a charming one. Writing in 1933, Professor F. Wood Jones of Melbourne suggested that when the surface of the Earth was molten, the Moon flew from the face of the Earth and up into space, leaving behind a scar that became the Pacific Ocean.

He went on to theorise that the Pacific Ocean is the moonbirds' only playground and the islands their only home. The story suggests that every year in April, moonbirds leave their Bass Strait breeding islands to return to the Moon, following a pathway of pale silvery light.

The professor speculated that muttonbirds are refugees from the Moon, with moon time controlling all their activities. He called them birds of the moon: moonbirds.

Whenever the moon was full and sitting low in the western sky, I was reminded of this romantic legend. From its position above the Mornington Peninsula, the moon cast its silvery sheen like a magical pathway across the bay and straight into our living room. And along that silvery pathway flew thousands of muttonbirds, flapping, swooping, hovering and soaring.

On every full moon I viewed this magic. It was easy to imagine the legend being a reality: my mystical moonbirds from another realm, flying from the full moon down a silvery staircase to their island home.

***

In 1947, Australia's Dr Dominic Serventy – one of the most eminent ornithologists of the twentieth century – began fixing small, silver-coloured bands to the legs of muttonbirds on Fisher Island in Bass Strait. Twenty thousand birds were banded. It was his hope that some of the bands would be returned and so help solve the mystery of where the birds disappeared to between the months of May to September.

His research is regarded as one of the world's best-documented studies of any bird. Dr Serventy waited twelve years for the answer to the question scientists were asking. Where did the birds go?

An Eskimo fishing in the Bering Sea was the first person to find a banded muttonbird and return the band to Australia. Other bands followed, and gradually a picture emerged. The muttonbirds migrated every year from southern Australia in a remarkable journey that swept north across the Pacific Ocean to Alaska and the Bering Sea – then back south again in September – an annual return flight of about 32,000 kilometres.

Based on information gathered from muttonbirds tagged on Fisher Island, Dr Serventy found that muttonbirds are usually faithful to one mate. He also documented the longest-lived muttonbird on record; a 36-year-old female. By the age of about thirty-five years, this muttonbird would have flown about 1.05 million kilometres. A trip to the Moon and back is not that far!

Matthew Flinders sighted seabirds that looked very much like dark-grey pigeons, but with long slender wings and short rounded tails in Bass Strait in 1798. He reported that as a flock passed over his ship, they darkened the sky. In his journal he wrote: _'They were 50 to 80 yards in depth and 300 yards or more in breadth. The birds were not scattered but flying as compactly as free movement of their wings seemed to allow. During a full one and a half hours this stream of petrels continued to pass without interruption at the swiftness of a pigeon.'_

Flinders estimated the number to be 151 million.

Captain Cook sighted muttonbirds in the Arctic Ocean in 1778, yet no connection was ever made with the disappearing Bass Strait birds. It was a seemingly impossible flight from Tasmanian waters to the Bering Sea. Gangs of sealers, early pioneers and settlers observed the birds as well, and are responsible for the name muttonbird as they considered that the meat from muttonbirds tasted like mature sheep meat: mutton.

The muttonbird's other common name – short-tailed shearwater – describes its short, rounded tailfeathers and the fact that the bird glides close to the water, sometimes shearing the surface with its long narrow wings, as it banks to turn.

Observations of the muttonbirds' synchronised life cycle punctuated my summer. Their arrival back on the island on 26 September; mating in late October– early November; egg laying on 25 November; and egg hatching on 15 January.

On 14 January, hundreds of thousands of muttonbird chicks stirred in their eggs, stretched their legs, flexed their necks, opened and shut their beaks, ready to peck their way out of their egg shells the following day. Our rookery was electric with excitement. January 16 found tiny chicks dry and fluffy beneath the protection and warmth of a parent, each within a deep, sandy burrow. The other parent had already fed the chick its first meal of krill.

Although our dog knows every part of the track through the rookery to the beach, we always keep her on a lead. She doesn't have the killing instincts of a terrier, but we don't believe in taking chances. With her heightened senses she is aware of the birds' presence beneath the surface: warm, pulsing bodies, hundreds of them, all around and beneath her. She senses them as hot spots of living flesh and blood, invisible yet there; so many, so alive.

Yet the majority of people walk down that same track totally unaware of what lies around and beneath their feet. They don't see the burrows, or the footprints of the birds. Don't see the droppings, don't smell the musky odour. If they do see burrows, many believe them to be rabbit holes.

Our beach track meanders through tussocks, pussy-tail grasses, pigface creeper, sword grass and tea tree scrub through which New Zealand spinach and clematis climb. While walking one day on the soft grey sand, smelling the sun-warmed vegetation, a stamp on one of the supporting posts of the boardwalk caught my attention. Here, on this cypress pine post was evidence that this timber originated in the forests of the Maranoa region. Running my fingers over its fine termite-resistant grain I again felt the thrill of connection.

***

Thoughts of Sally were frequent, and often I found her eyes following me from her photograph perched prominent on the buffet. But I knew without doubt she'd be a disaster living next door to a bird rookery.

Marg gave me regular progress reports of Sally throughout the months we were absent. Almost always the conversation ended with: _'I've never seen a dog look as sad as Sally. I keep telling her, "They'll be home soon," and you know I think she understands. Poor little mite.'_

Meanwhile, gale force winds and a lashing storm hit Phillip Island, with 15°C temperatures. The ocean was as disturbed as an upset stomach. My fingers and toes were icy cold and whenever I stepped outside angina gripped my shoulder and chest. In contrast, Mitchell was in shorts-and-bare-feet mode.

Rod told us on the phone: ' _The Maranoa's risen well over the murals and the grass is sky-high all around town._ _Over the past week, 8 inches has fallen in and around Roma. This is the best rain for fifteen years, so hopes are high for a bumper sorghum crop over the summer. Farmers are ploughing paddocks in the hope of follow-up rain and their first income for seven years.'_

On that same day we heard that Tinkerbell the joey had been killed by a large king brown snake. Deb was beside herself with grief: ' _I couldn't go through this again,'_ she said, her voice breaking on the phone. _'I'll never rear another joey – you get to love them so much and then something terrible kills them. And in our garden too. No. Never again.'_

Deb's German shepherd and pet sheep Ruby were killed by a snake the following week – probably by the same king brown that killed Tinkerbell.

Tears flooded my eyes as I remembered kangaroo joeys I'd reared and lost – of a heart that seemed broken for a while, until some other creature wormed its way into my soul. I felt deeply for Deb. We sent her copies of the best photos we'd taken of Tinkerbell.

***

Our double life was creating a few problems. Although having twice the number of friends and neighbours is a lovely thing, it takes time and effort to maintain and develop these relationships, and sometimes I found myself lacking the energy to socialise.

Packing and unpacking proved easier with practice. But the two houses posed different maintenance issues. Phillip Island required me to guard against mould and rodents in the roof cavity. Mitchell meant dust, cockroaches and mice, as well as the threat of the river flooding. All this and saying goodbye to our friends and neighbours made a very full-on week prior to departure – from each location.

Inevitably the question arose: which place was home? And, could we have two homes, with shared loyalties and commitments? Could we have 'a foot in both camps'?

With my heart in two places, could I find true contentment?

Meanwhile, I participated in a Saturday morning program for children organised by the Phillip Island Conservation Group. Stego and I were invited to give the children an opportunity to learn about stumpy-tailed lizards. My talk included a demonstration of giving him a bath, showing the children a recently shed skin that included his little toes, as well as a ripe banana and garden snails to show the foods he ate.

One of my greatest pleasures is giving children the opportunity to stroke and hold this prehistoric-looking reptile. Most children are afraid to begin with, but with calmness and a little persuasion can enjoy the experience of gentle interaction with a stumpy-tailed lizard.

While I was playing with lizards and kids, Doug was planting the native seeds we'd collected from trees in Mitchell that had survived the drought – especially oolines, lemon-scented gums with their smooth white trunks and distinctive lemon-scented leaves, _Eucalyptus rhodantha_ with their enormous seed cases _,_ Chinchilla gums, and silver cassia ( _Cassia artemisoides),_ a small hardy shrub with clusters of little yellow flowers. Gradually tiny shoots emerged. Over weeks, fragile shoots became tiny trees reaching for the sun. Nurturing his trees was a daily routine and source of satisfaction.

The prospect of taking boxes of young trees to Mitchell to plant during winter and spring was exciting. We wanted to improve the environment of our home block and riverside, as well as grow trees to give to other people in Mitchell. We had a vision of young trees planted everywhere. Of birds, of butterflies.

With our renewed enthusiasm for growing native plants from seed, the new third edition of my book _From Seeds To Leaves_ was timely. Trees offer hope, are symbolic of a future where climate change will come under some degree of control.

Later, a telephone conversation with Marg left me feeling sad: _'_ _It's very quiet next door. Sally makes regular visits to your place; sits out front for a while and looks really dejected. She's living in hope of your return. Everyone misses you and people often ask after you._

There are bogged vehicles everywhere, and muddy boots and lots of fences and bridges to repair. The Dunkeld Crossing is flooded and no one has been able to get in or out for days, and there are sandflies and mosquitoes everywhere.'

On Phillip Island, sandflies are a problem in the coastal vegetation at dusk but mosquitoes are less of a problem. Development has gone crazy though, with large numbers of luxury townhouses and eco resort type accommodation. Rare are the fibro holiday shacks of the past; rare are the modest single-storey homes of retirees. Our Grossard Point neighbourhood seems a mass of double-storey houses, alarms, security systems, video cameras, intercoms and deadlocks.

Without warning, my mind slid back to the wide muddy Maranoa, and my new friends. In outback Australia people don't expect to be burgled or bashed. Security systems are not part of life in the outback.

***

A proposal to build a desalination plant at nearby Wonthaggi in south Victoria caused grave concern and controversy on the island and surrounding areas. It would involve an 85-kilometre pipeline to connect the desalination plant to Melbourne, and an underground power line to provide power for the desalination plant. Not to mention the waste products, some of which would be disposed of on land, and the rest piped out into the ocean. The welfare of the penguin and muttonbird populations was of great concern, along with fears for all the other birds and marine life living along the coastline.

Melbourne's water supply had become critically low, which was why the authorities seemed intent on going ahead with the desalination plant – regardless of local environmental objections.

The prospect of an intensive development of 200 houses on farming land behind us at Grossard Point also caused alarm in the district. The increased pressure on the beach, wildlife and muttonbird rookery would be immense.

Increasingly, conspicuous affluence, greed, obsessions about security, incidents of road rage and overcrowding were evident on our lovely island. Would overdevelopment spoil the unique wildlife and natural vegetation, as well as the attractive farming land and relaxed lifestyle? Did we want Phillip Island to be covered in housing estates, or could we call a halt to development in a similar manner to that done on Lord Howe Island?

***

On a more positive note, the discovery of a young echidna (puggle) in our compost heap – where it was put by its mother to keep warm – was a sight which will be forever imprinted in my mind. The short-beaked echidnas that live in the coastal scrub of the rookery lay eggs and convert ants into milk to feed their young.

Back on the beach sunbathers, brightly coloured towels, dogs, kids, March flies and sailing ships signalled summer on the island was in full swing. I watched a three-year-old boy watering his make-believe garden created alongside a castle built on the sand with tunnels, a moat, sea shells and seaweed – then saw him run up to the cliff, pull down his pants and have a wee. On that same afternoon I saw an enormous oil rig move slowly into Western Port Bay, sunshine catching the bright orange of the rig, its structure dramatic against the blue of the sea.

The next day I found a hermit crab in a bright green periwinkle shell and because I thought it was dead, decided to take it home and preserve it in methylated spirits – to show the children in Mitchell. I walked home with it cupped in my hand and on the way back showed it to a couple of kids. When almost home I discovered it had gone further into the shell and was alive. I went straight back to the beach and put it in a rock pool.

At sunset, the red-brown cliffs of Grossard Point reflected their colour into the water of the bay in a great sweep, with the colour extending out to sea like tongues of flame. As dusk fell, there was a pancake sunset with no green flash.

On 22 February a howling gale and cool change hit the island. The bay became agitated, the wind driving the waves in from the west. One hundred and twenty-four kilometre per hour winds lashed Phillip Island. Trees were down. Power was cut. After the gale, the water in the bay was much cooler in temperature and clearer too. It seemed the whole of Western Port Bay had been cleansed by the storm.

From Mitchell, Richard told us: _'Every time we step onto the grass, swarms of sandflies eat us alive. You can't step outside with any bare skin showing unless you are covered with Aerogard, otherwise you're attacked by sandflies within seconds. Rain is falling every day, mostly 2 inches at a time. They say that Mitchell has never looked greener or more lush. The mosquitoes are black and the size of horses.'_

***

An envelope arrived with our address neatly printed and the postage stamp sitting exactly in line with the right-hand top corner. Seeing Caleb's name and address on the back I felt a thrill of pleasure and surprise. Sitting by a big window overlooking the bay, I opened up the envelope and read the single sheet of paper covered with carefully printed words: news about Sally, his guinea pigs, snakes along the river bank, playing his drum in the band, footy, the mouse plague, and getting hit in the mouth by a cricket bat and breaking some teeth.

' _I'm really looking forward to seeing you this year,'_ he wrote. ' _Sally is missing playing with Del. When are you coming home?'_

With these words, I felt myself back in Mitchell as I greedily soaked up the news. This was the seduction of Mitchell, I realised; the promise of a return to a slower, more civilised way of living. It seemed an achievable aim. It _was_ an achievable aim, I realised, with a rush of gratitude for our double life.

***

Over a period of twelve years we've seen many changes on the island. The diversity of marine plant and animal life in rock pools has diminished; especially starfish, sea anemone and shellfish. With less shellfish on the reef, the sooty oystercatchers need to cover a much larger territory so we see them less frequently.

The flotsam washed ashore is less rich in variety and quantity. There used to be plentiful sea urchins, abalone shells, cowries and cuttlefish. The sea grapes are less plump. Is this due to increased quantities of stormwater entering the bay, water that is laden with detergents and pesticides? Or is the pollution coming from the increased passage of larger ships?

Frogs used to croak in the low-lying grasses between us and the rookery. With the widespread use of pesticides nearly all the frogs have disappeared. There are hardly any butterflies left and no skylarks trill over the grassland between us and the cliff face. All this has happened in the space of twelve years.

Phillip Island is getting warmer and drier, more populated and more polluted.

I rang Marg: ' _Sally is okay but is spending a lot of time with me, even sleeping on my bed during thunderstorms. No water has reached the Murray River. All has gone into irrigation storages or evaporated. Water is still flowing over the weir and the old crossing, and the grass is hip-high.'_

A card from Carol said: ' _The Bering Sea looks lovely and green, and your new trees are growing well. Everyone is asking me when you're coming back home.'_

Touched by her reference to the name of our home up north and the meaning behind it, I remembered her quirky sense of humour and the fun we shared at pottery classes.

Regular emails from two of my thirteen-year-old Mitchell students kept me up to date about life on outback properties over the summer period. Their posts always offered fresh insights and I marvelled at their lifestyle.

By mid-April I had 84,000 words on my computer about our Mitchell experience; Doug had built a motorcycle trailer, rebuilt his 1956 BSA Bantam motorcycle and tended his vegetable garden and young trees. Collecting a sample of each of the different kinds of seaweed found along our shore was another of my pastimes. I pressed each specimen between sheets of white paper and began the task of identification, aiming to mount them in frames.

***

The distinctive high-pitched yip of a fox at dawn, although alerting me to danger, did little to prepare me for the carnage I viewed that morning. The bodies of sixty-three plump young muttonbirds lay scattered along the sandy track and within the rookery; lifeless, with their downy necks each slashed and fractured by a single bite.

What followed at the Ventnor rookery on 17, 18 and 19 April was the slaughter by a single fox of over 200 muttonbird chicks. It was a massacre of unbelievable proportions. Distressed by the carnage, neighbours banded together to create over 100 frowning faces painted on plastic plates and ice cream lids. Attached to sticks, these were placed along tracks and in the sand dunes alongside fleshy pigface creepers, New Zealand spinach, sword grass and tussocks. It was hoped that these faces with their huge staring eyes would frighten away the fox until other measures could be organised by rangers at the Phillip Island Nature Park.

For two days and two nights the rookery seemed on alert, awaiting the fox's return. Dominant eyes signalled to the fox: stay away from this territory.

At first light on the third day, however, Doug and I were shocked to see another lot of headless muttonbird chicks strewn along either side of our beach track – at least forty. Feeling sick to the pit of my stomach at the slaughter, I kicked at the dew-drenched sand and cursed the short-sighted Englishmen who introduced foxes to Australia solely to satisfy their own sporting pleasure.

After another phone call to the nature park, stage two of the campaign sprang into action, but only once the full extent of the rampage and carnage was evident. Subsequently, treadle snares (a relatively humane way to catch a fox that involves a soft noose around the animal's leg) were set by the nature park staff. A day later the rogue fox was caught and shot.

The Phillip Island Nature Park traps between thirty and forty foxes every year and aims to rid the island of this serious feral pest that threatens penguins and muttonbirds in particular. It's estimated that about fifty foxes remain on the island. It will be interesting to see if these rogue foxes can outwit their human hunters.

***

A week later, and in contrast to earlier grisly finds, I made a delightful discovery. On the beach I found a creamy-white nautilus shell, marked with an intricate pattern of seashore ripples. For me, nautilus shells are the ultimate treasure; fragile, delicate and beautiful. Each is a cradle, built by a female octopus to hold her eggs, and the shells are usually washed onto the shore every five to seven years – especially during the months of autumn. Twice we have found them; the first time, seven years ago, about one hundred arrived in the waves and were swept ashore. On this second occasion, we found just one.

My mind swung back to my friend Mel and her family tradition of giving away the first of anything. Using many layers of bubble wrap and cardboard, I wrapped the nautilus shell and then posted it to my brother, who was unwell.

Autumn also signalled the moulting of penguins and seals. This usually meant bad-tempered, itchy individuals surrounded by either a lot of feathers or old fur. But it was also a time of renewal.

News of a consignment of hundreds of hand-knitted penguin vests delivered to the Phillip Island Nature Park hit the Melbourne headlines. These protective vests are designed to put on oil-polluted penguins, to stop them ingesting oil as they preen their feathers. The nature park aims to have at least 3000 of these vests in storage in case of another oil spill.

Many of these vests were knitted by people from countries all over the world, demonstrating there is a huge international interest in the welfare of Phillip Island's penguin population.

In the mellow stillness of an autumn night, I heard the calls of penguins and muttonbirds as a full moon hung in the sky and stars twinkled overhead, brilliant against an immense sky. That same morning – in our garden – we watched two copperhead snakes mate; their long slender bodies coiled around one another, writhing.

Blue-tongued lizards are more common in our Phillip Island garden than they are in Mitchell, and we always welcome their presence. Often Doug picks them up to remove ticks from their body using tweezers. When the lizard feels threatened it will hiss, with its mouth wide open and blue tongue protruding. One individual was infested with thirty-one ticks – under her armpits and in her ears in particular. Usually we offer them a meal of ripe banana upon release, and often they accept our gift.

Frequently we see wallaby footprints along the beach. The tracks come down from the dunes and onto the beach, right to the water's edge. What is the animal's motivation? Is it curiosity, or to graze seaweed tossed onto the sand?

Sometimes wallabies are seen swimming out into the sea. Is this for pleasure? Perhaps it is for lice, flea or tick control, or to wash away dust or cool down?

What I love about observing animal behaviour is that we don't know everything. Animals hold on to some of their most intimate secrets.

Chapter 13

Muttonbird Gales

I felt restless. The days were growing shorter, and the wind had a bite to it, a bite that penetrated my chest. A bite that said, angina: go north to the sun and warmth of Queensland.

The muttonbirds were restless too. Already the adults had flown to the Antarctic Convergence to feast on the krill, fish and squid that build a nourishing layer of fat to sustain the birds on their migration flight to the Bering Sea. Now, back on the island they flexed their wings, ready to fly.

I felt their collective restlessness, felt the rhythm of their pulse. Their chuckling cries said, 'Go, Go, Go, Go.'

On 18 April the adult muttonbirds departed Phillip Island, leaving behind chicks that were too plump to fly and were still carrying some of their downy plumage. Within days though, the chicks began flapping their wings in preparation for their own migration. With no guidance at all, practice flights were hazardous.

Injuries and casualties to young birds occurred through collisions with buildings, vehicles, bridges and powerlines; predation by foxes, Pacific gulls, dogs and feral cats; and stormy weather.

The Shearwater Rescue Mission on Phillip Island involves nature park rangers and an enthusiastic band of volunteers who rescue, rehabilitate then release the young birds to safer areas. Flashing neon lights on the Phillip Island bridge tell of the birds' imminent departure and warn motorists to slow down and take care.

Because of the birds, the island switches to go-slow mode.

Meanwhile I sorted through several boxes of flotsam collected over the summer into at least fifty species of marine life, as well as a selection of wave-sculpted, coloured stones.

Thoughts of Sally were frequent and I wondered if she knew we were coming back to Mitchell. Could Sally read my mind? Did she know that all the time we'd been 'down south' her framed photograph had stood in pride of place on our buffet? That I'd looked into those eyes and felt a deep longing. That I'd felt her sadness.

***

During the last week of April, and after weeks of flapping practice, the muttonbird chicks had grown their flight feathers and were muscular with no excess fat or downy plumage. They were ready to fly: to the Artic and then back again. Meanwhile, salt-laced gales lashed the island and I knew it was time for us to leave too. This year we would leave a month earlier. We would leave with the birds, leave behind the debilitating effects of angina.

A south-westerly wind tore at the vegetation in the rookery, ripping leaves off the tea tree; pruning and twisting the branches with its raw energy. No plant could grow straight in these conditions. Most were a tangle of woody limbs blown prostrate by the prevailing south-westerlies. Some of the plants clinging to the cliff were so stunted by the action of wind and salt they looked like exotic bonsai.

Below the surface the sand vibrated with life; the harsh cries, chuckles and coos throbbing in rhythm with the storm outside. This vast underground network of burrows was teeming with young muttonbirds. Tonight was the night! Tonight the animation and restless joy heralded the coming migration. The rookery was electric with excitement.

The date was 30 April and the time 4.30 a.m. It was as if an alarm clock rang out across the rookery. Suddenly, thousands of young muttonbirds emerged from their burrows, stretched out their long, slender wings and gave them a flap. Next they preened their soft, rounded tailfeathers. Then, standing perfectly still, they watched and waited.

As if on a signal they began walking through the saltbush, pigface and tussocks to the top of the cliff, chuckling noisily. A gust of wind blew a cloud of fine salty spray from a crashing wave, and as the flock flapped, the gust lifted them up into the air.

They were flying. They were free. The great grey cloud of muttonbirds circled the rookery, flying fast and close together, sweeping the tops of the waves then soaring on currents of air rising from the cliff; playing in the wind. But they left before the sun rose, flapping their wings then gliding until they were just tiny specks on the horizon.

Using a finely tuned navigational mechanism located in their brain, the birds headed off across the Pacific Ocean towards the Bering Sea, wings outstretched, swooping and gliding as they flew for the first time their amazing migration route to Alaska and back.

First thing next morning I walked around the deserted rookery. I saw sand patterned with thousands of webbed footprints. A deep, earthy silence hung over the vast network of burrows.

I saw the curve of the bay, with its sweep of newly washed sand, while overhead oystercatchers hovered, then landed gracefully on a crag. Their lonely cries rang out, echoing around the cliffs, melting into the coastal vegetation bathed in early morning dew. I shivered as a sudden blast of cold air swept across the ocean and hit the headland. A bank of dark cloud rolled in from the west, blocking out the sun.

With a cold blustery wind ripping my hair and snatching at boxes, I helped load the last of our possessions into the ute. After settling the cats on their sheepskin on our bed in the caravan, Doug slid Stego's carry-box and a few boxes of plants into a corner position and tied them securely. Del jumped into the back of the ute and we were off, to begin yet again another phase of our double life.

Driving over the bridge connecting the island to mainland Australia, I felt my mind lift and soar with the muttonbirds. And as I dreamed, Mitchell's well-known folklore came to mind. _Once you cross the Maranoa and have slept on the west bank you will always return._

Chapter 14

Postscript: Missing

The beginning of that day was typical of Mitchell during winter. Frost carpeted the ground, yet as bright rays of early morning sunshine danced in the top of a nearby palm and I looked into a cloudless sunny sky, I could not help but feel optimistic. Today the mulberry tree beside the river would unfurl its buds into fragile pale-green leaves, like newly emerged butterfly wings. By ten o'clock in the morning the sunshine would be warm enough for T-shirts and thongs – a balmy 25°C on this the first day of July. Here in Mitchell was where I wanted to be.

But something nagged in my mind. Where was Sally? Almost always she was on our front doormat at first light, peering through the bottom porthole, eager to catch sight of our first movements.

'I haven't seen Sally since lunchtime yesterday,' I said, uneasily, 'and that's not like Sally at all. Perhaps Sonia is making a big effort to keep her at home and inside.'

Later that day we set off in the car to search the nearby streets in case she'd been knocked on the road. I tried hard not to think of bad outcomes, but I had to be realistic: chasing cars was one of Sally's hobbies. On our way we saw Sonia and a few of our other neighbours. No one had seen Sally. Had she been accidentally locked in a shed?

Perhaps she'd been stolen, or a traveller had seen her and thinking her a stray had taken her to the council. Or maybe she'd taken a poisonous bait – or been bitten by a snake? Further possibilities jostled in my head. Perhaps she'd chased a feral pig, and become exhausted and disoriented in the bush.

Over breakfast the next day Doug said, 'If she's been hit on the road, she may have been able to drag herself into that long grass along the riverbank. Perhaps we'd better do another really thorough search of the grass between our place and Sonia's.'

Sonia and her family had similar thoughts. We worked from our end, and they worked from their end.

Sonia found her – dead. There was no sign of injury. Sonia's oldest son fetched a spade, dug a hole and buried her close to where she lay. Then he collected a pile of river stones and placed them over the grave, to protect Sally's body from scavenging animals.

There was much debate about the cause of her death, but most agreed that snake-bite was the most likely cause, especially as she disappeared on an unusually warm day for mid-winter – 26°C. Sally was a hunter and a killer of anything resembling a rodent or reptile. This time it appeared she hadn't been so lucky.

According to the locals, an animal bitten by a king brown feels 'crook' straight away and heads for water. Although the riverbed was covered in deep yellow river sand, beneath the surface flowed water. This Sally would have known.

News of Sally's death was all over town. Carol tried to comfort me by saying, 'One of our dogs was bitten by a king brown and she was dead before she'd staggered 10 metres. Sally's suffering would not have been too prolonged.'

My mind was full of Sally. How glad I was that we'd had the pleasure of seeing her so happy on our return to Mitchell; that she loved her new bed on the chair on our front verandah; that she'd had such fun playing with Del and going for walks with us along the river: proudly on a lead.

Everywhere I looked I expected to see her cheeky face and wagging tail. At the window, looking through the porthole, pottering over at the shed with Doug and Del, mousing and sniffing about. Alternatively, she'd be lying on her side, soaking up the warmth of the sun. Always present. Here at the crack of dawn, as soon as Sonia opened the back door and let her out – until Sonia picked her up after work, after dark.

'We didn't miss her straight away,' said Sonia, 'because we thought she was with you.'

'And we thought you must have been home from work and be keeping her inside,' said Doug.

Touching a large number of lives and giving generously of her happy, loving disposition, Sally had her regular rounds in the neighbourhood – rounds that were only now being revealed.

'She was like a social worker,' said Carol. 'Where else, except in a town like Mitchell, would a dog like Sally be allowed to roam the streets visiting the elderly?'

The following Sunday, ten-year-old Caleb decided that Sally needed a proper funeral, and began building a huge cross. Measuring about 1.5 metres high with a 1-metre cross-piece, this was quite some feat, especially since the timber was red gum. The cross was his own idea and he completed the task by himself, using hammer, nails and paint.

When I visited, he had the cross leaning against the back fence and was touching it tentatively to see if the white paint was dry enough for him to paint on Sally's name and the date he last saw her alive. A pot of blue paint stood ready for the task.

Later that afternoon we met on the riverbank. There was no formal service, no pews, or robes. Not everything needs to be said, I thought as we stood around the grave, each absorbed in our own memories and emotions. The main thing was that we were there, together, sharing Sally as we had always done. Sally made sure of that; the sharing bit.

Looking down at the pile of smooth, river stones covering the grave, three-year-old Abbey asked, 'Can we get Sally out now? I want Sally!' With the pitch of her voice high, the air crackled with emotion.

'No, darling,' replied Sonia, her eyes full of tears. 'Sally is dead. Her body is buried here but she's really up in Heaven where there are plenty of mice for her to chase. She's happy up there.'

The late afternoon sunshine illuminated Abbey's red hair like a halo, and by a trick of light, it seemed the individual hairs on her head were on fire. In a strange way, Abbey's chatter was comforting, needing no reply. Out burbled her innermost thoughts.

Bathed in the golden glow of sundown we left the graveside. Pausing for a moment, I looked down to the riverbed, a stretch of sandy beach at least 30 metres wide. Images of Sally spilled over me, like water, a series of floating memories rising as if from the river itself. A true terrier to the last, Sally had burrowed deep into my soul.

In a small secret clearing, hidden from the road, halfway up the riverbank, and surrounded by bush and one majestic river red gum was Sally's final resting place. I looked at the cross, and, meeting Caleb's gaze, felt a sudden stab of grief. I knew that the rollercoaster of emotion would pass, but in the quiet of that moment it seemed too raw to bear; Sally gone, forever. Caleb was too young to realise that the hurt would fade in time, that his appetite would return, that there was room in his life for another puppy.

All of us had to come to terms with the fact that nobody had ever owned Sally. She owned herself. With this realisation came a lifting of the spirit, and acknowledgement that we'd been privileged to share in the care and joy of this irresistible Jack Russell terrier.

Several months later, and with my help, Caleb finished writing a small book about Sally. One of my friends generously used her expertise to combine Caleb's text and charming illustrations with photographs collected from around the neighbourhood. When colourful graphics were added, the end product was a charming little book. Only weeks after publication of the Sally story, Caleb and his family moved to Roma, along with their new Maltese terrier puppy named Lilly.

Sally's cross remains on the riverbank, safe – for now – from floodwaters sweeping down the Maranoa River.

###

### About the author

Robin Stewart is an award-winning author and well known as a person with a passion for animals and chemical-free living. This she has combined with a career as a writer and teacher. Although conservation and the natural world are keen interests, Robin has also been active in breeding and showing Irish setters and Border collies, Anglo Nubian goats, stud sheep and stud cattle. At the present time, Robin and her husband Doug have two German shepherds (Del and Major Mitchell), a Siamese cat called Katie, and a 40-year-old stumpy-tailed lizard known as Stego.

In the 1980s, Robin and Doug spent seven years on King Island in Bass Strait, where they owned a sheep property and established a penguin banding and research program on their coastline.

At present, Robin and her husband Doug live a double life – six months on Phillip Island (home of the famous Little Penguins) and six months at Mitchell in outback Queensland. When not studying muttonbirds on Phillip Island and participating in outback life at Mitchell, Robin writes full time.

A commitment to Mitchell (through the purchase of a house; volunteer teaching at a local school and her husband's assistance with the town's emergency services cadet program) has given her insight into this unique outback community. Acceptance into that community and a sense of belonging has been her reward.

Robin is a compulsive writer and researcher, with a keen sense of curiosity and a great love of books and writing.

Please feel free to visit:

My Blog:

http://robinsoutbackblog.blogspot.com

My Facebook:

www.facebook.com/home.php#!/profile.php?id=100001331994020

### Other books by Robin include:

**The Clean House Effect** : Hundreds of Practical, Inexpensive Ways To Reduce the Use of Chemicals in the Home

**Moonbird** , a novel for teenagers

**New Faces** : The Complete Book of Alternative Pets (CBC Book of the Year 1995)

**From Seeds to Leaves** : A Complete Guide to Growing Australian Trees and Shrubs from Seed Publisher: Black Inc, Melbourne.

**Envirocat** : A New Approach to Caring for Your Cat and Protecting Native Wildlife Publisher: Hyland House. Distributor: The Australian Book Group, Drouin, Victoria.

**The Dog Book** : How to Choose a Dog That Suits Your Personality and Lifestyle Publisher: Hyland House. Distributor: The Australian Book Group, Drouin, Victoria.

**Wombat** and **Koala** : Bush Babies Solo Series Publisher: Omnibus: Scholastic

**Alternative Pets** : From Budgies and Yabbies to Rabbits and Rats Publisher: Hyland House. Distributor: The Australian Book Group, Drouin, Victoria.

**Robin Stewart's Chemical Free Home** : Hundreds of Practical and Inexpensive Ways to Reduce the Use of Chemicals in Your Home Publisher: Black Inc, Melbourne.

**Robin Stewart's Chemical Free Pest Control** : Hundreds of Practical and Inexpensive Ways to Control Pests Without Chemicals Publisher: Black Inc, Melbourne.

**Green Home and Garden** Publisher: Black Inc, Melbourne.

**Tread Lightly** Publisher: Black Inc, Melbourne.

**Darwin's Tortoise** Publisher: Black Inc, Melbourne.

**Charles Darwin's Big Idea** Short-listed CBC Book of the Year Award 2006. Publisher: Hyland House. Distributor: The Australian Book Group, Drouin, Victoria.

Acknowledgements

The people of Mitchell and Phillip Island have been generous with their time and reflections about what makes a community tick. My sincere thanks go to one and all – there are far too many generous-hearted people to mention by name.

I'd like to thank my editor Karen Ward for the sensitive way she worked with me to extend the manuscript in some areas and tighten it up in others. Her intuition and attention to detail were excellent.

My double life would not have been possible without the support and guidance of my husband, Doug. With love, sensitivity and strength, Doug makes all things possible.

