Photos from the field: East Gippsland, Victoria

I recently began a brand new project with the University of Melbourne. The beginning of a new project is filled with equal parts excitement and trepidation—excitement at the novelty, the blank canvas, the potential, and trepidation at not wanting to put a foot wrong in critical early decisions that will affect the outcome of a career-defining opportunity.

Here the photos from a first foray into East Gippsland, surveying sites for bird-pollinated Prostanthera walteri.

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Mt. Elizabeth

 

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Snowy River National Park

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Prostanthera walteri

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Prostanthera hirtula

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McKillops Bridge

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The Snowy River

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The Snowy River

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Prostanthera walteri

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Snowy River National Park

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Gippsland waratah – Telopea oreades

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Floral diversity in Prostanthera

 

The Toadlet Diaries 1: Trench warfare frogging.

In 2010 I was fortunate to accompany herpetologist Dr. Renee Catullo on a trip through Australia’s Top End collecting little brown frogs. Here are some of my field notes along with photography. While my photography has vastly improved, I’m not sure I’ve felt so inspired to write since that trip. I hope this series of vignettes communicate some of the flavour and excitement of the wet season in Australia’s monsoon tropics.

3 February 2010

Birds, wind, insects, all still, all silent. An atmosphere of exhaustion settles in as the temperature draws near 40. Wanda Inn roadhouse sits baking between red clay and the azure expanse of the outback sky. This would be home for the night, and we’d best get some sleep before tonight’s activities.

Littoria caerulea find respite from day's dry heat by hanging out in the toilets.

Littoria caerulea find respite from day’s dry heat by hanging out in the toilets.

The area hadn’t seen rain for a while but on dusk the moodily flashing cumulus clouds in the distance promised a change in the weather. Soon after dark we find ourselves in frogless country, standing on the roof of the Landcruiser captivated by the lightshow of distant electrical storms. As time passes the breeze blows harder, and we drive closer to its origin. Soon we are buffeted by a stiff cool wind, petrichor fills the air, fat drops of rain spatter and we are surrounded on all sides by the intermittent discharge of three kinds of lighting. Coruscating bolts crack somewhere between us and the horizon, leaving their jagged after-image in negative on our retinas, snaking fingers of electrical tracery race bifurcating and branching in the clouds overhead, and distant bolts diffused through cloud and rain suddenly bathe the land in white, turning puddles into mirrors for the silver sky before plunging us back into darkness. The weather is completely in character for the Northern Territory: at once utterly romantic and dangerously thrilling.

We stop periodically to stand on the car and take pictures of the gathering storm (still no frogs calling) but when a blinding bolt cracks too close for comfort we quickly curtail our roof-standing. Discouraged by the lack of frogs, the talk turns to gin and tonic at our next stop, but when we get there, rather than a refreshing drink, the distinctive chip of the Stonemason toadlet greets us and the frogging is on.

And so the wind blows, fat drops spatter our skin as we stride through waist high grass and negotiate ankle-twisting holes, boot-sucking puddles, and mud that cakes to the mud that’s caked on the mud caked on our boots. We wiggle between the slick ground and barbed wire fences while the sky flashes chaotically, rumbling and booming, and we stalk around pools thronging with the disorientating din of burrowing frogs, occasionally glimpsing the wide eyes of the other when the land in an instant becomes awash in the white of a nearby burst of lighting. This was trench-warfare frogging.

Top End storm

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My bruised human ego

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This is the best photo I got of a group of baboons who gave me quite an experience the other day.

On a sandy fynbos trail, I rounded a corner obscured by vegetation and came abruptly face to face with a troupe of seven of these creatures. The closest member was only 3 metres from me. All of them were stopped, standing or sitting,  looking at me as I did the same. My first reaction was one of awe, these creatures are impressively muscular and intimidating up close. One of them, a very large male, was wearing a radio collar. My second instinct was to take advantage of the photo opportunity, but my camera was in my backpack.

My only close experience with monkeys comes from Indonesian macaques, and extrapolating from the damage these ones wreak on tourists’ belongings I was not keen to get the baboons interested in anything I owned. I was also aware that some baboon troupes in the Cape have a reputation for raiding. Bins, bags, picnics, cars, houses are all fair game. They have overcome their fear of humans and are now a famous nuisance requiring full time management.

My bag therefore remained zipped and in place on my back. I raised my arms and hissed, to try and persuade them off the trail. One of the leaders began to advance on me, and the others stood up to follow suit.

Finally, I was forced to concede the path to the baboons. I back-stepped into the bush beside the track, allowing them a 2 metre thoroughfare which they calmly took in an orderly and nonchalant fashion. Only after passing me, when their backs were exposed, did they pick up speed into a quick trot for a dozen metres to put some distance between us.

 

Red Hill fynbos track

Kleinplaas Dam fynbos track