Saturday night evening walk, and we’re out by the cliffs near the river. I look to the west and see the bright light of Venus. I look higher to the east and see an-almost-half Moon that was below Venus at sunset a mere couple of days ago; it points to the Sun. Then to the east I see two satellites heading further east and disappearing, then another heading a different way. Nearby is the bright shining gloss of Jupiter. And above, higher in the sky, in a line between Jupiter and the Moon, is the smaller reddy-blue of Saturn. All of them in a line—Venus, Moon, Saturn, Jupiter—with the three stars of Orion’s belt off to the side.
Author Archives: jbstubley
Gravity and Raptors
Back at the lake for the first time in more than a week, and there are birds spread out everywhere. The first thing I notice is the high, melodious sound of the reed warbler; though I can’t see him, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him warble so much. In the centre of the lake a swan is pulling up grass surrounded by coots; the water where they are seems a slightly darker colour, and circular—it seems like it is a real centre today, with a kind of centre of lake gravity, with much movement or birds and water. Elsewhere, there are other coots spread. Shelducks. Pink ears. A hardhead diving down. And then, from across the other side of the lake, very low and rapidly approaching, comes something with a small wingspan, though not flapping but rather gliding and tilting as it goes; it shoots past a little grebe, which ducks under water, by the edge of the reeds in front of us—reeds all top heavy with seed—then tears off to one side and disappears. As it passes by I start to think it is a raptor of some kind, maybe a kestrel or hobby. No other bird seems to feel threatened, or maybe even notices. It was such a brief, sharp flash.
Dolphins In Traffic
Somehow finding ourselves in Saturday morning traffic on the upriver bridge crossing in Fremantle. We’re heading south and the trucks are banked up in the left lane. I’m in the passenger seat for the first time in a long time, and I’m looking at directions on my phone. I take a moment, however, to pull myself away in order to look down at the river. The car has stopped, the traffic is so slow. And there, by the edge of the jetty in front of the Left Bank Hotel, is one small dolphin coming up for air. Then a moment later, another kwilena even closer to the shore. I watch and watch but see no more movement in the water. I look around to see if anybody else has noticed anything. There is a guy fishing nearby, who must have seen; and people on the walkway have stopped near the jetty to look at something. The car starts to move.
The things I must miss while driving.
New Moon Rain Again
December, and usually blue skies and predictable winds on Whadjuk country. But today there is cold wind and nimbus and rain. And I can’t help noticing that it is also new moon today—with rain, again.
The Animals Approach
Wardandi country with nephew Fin and a similar thing is happening to around this time last year. When he first arrived in Australia and we went to Dwellingup, he would say things like, ”Have you ever seen a goanna?” and there would be one. “What about an emu?” and soon after one would appear. Then we went to Dunsborough. “Snakes?” and then we’d see one. “You’d better be careful what you ask next,” I said. The following day, while walking next to the shallows of Geographe Bay, he asked if I’d ever seen a shark up close. We then saw a shovelnose where I’d never seen one before; it was headed one way, so we doubled back and decided to have a quick swim. Fin decided to go further out. He’s adamant the shark brushed his leg.
That was all last year. This time when we go to Wardandi Country he doesn’t say anything. But when we sit and have lunch at Yallingup, a yoornt bobtail/blutongue lizard emerges from out the bushes, across a long stretch of grass and comes right to our feet; I have to erect a kind of wall of thongs and towel to keep him at bay. The seagulls were a little bit more predictable. That evening at Castle Rock carpark quenda the bandicoot appears from near the barbecues and comes within a couple of arm lengths. Shortly after, karda the goanna lazily turns around by the edge of the Meelup trail to look at us, but doesn’t bother to move as we go by. When we put our rafts in the water we see a large baamba stingray moving in the shallows. We ride the wind all the way towards Meelup Beach, pausing at times along the way to lie back and look out north across all the water of the bay. Coming into Meelup we pass through a couple of large white rocks of roosting cormorants—appearing like a kind of gauntlet—with only one or two birds on nearby smaller rocks flying away as we pass. The next day, walking along the same trail, a young yonga kangaroo lifts its head and observes us no more than four metres away. We pause and wait for it to hop off, but he stays put, only moving his ears slightly. And, finally, that evening, goomal the possum arrives on the verandah. We open the door to observe him, and he begins to approach, pink nose in the air.
Just Another Lakeday
Lots of birds at the lake today, including a group in the centre of the southern end. All the usuals are here—swans, black ducks, numerous teals, coots, swamphens, wood ducks, pink ears, three hardheads, some shelducks, shovelers, and a bunch of others out of view right now. Fin and I walk the path around the edge, observing as much as we can. There are a couple of quendas near the jetty. I guess the water level to be 1.24 metres, he guesses 1.22—the gauge says 1.23 metres. The level makes it possible for many different birds in many different places to reach food across the lake. The melaleucas keep flowering, as do the yellow and red eucalypts further to the north and west. There’s a Pacific black duck with six chicks. I tell him I saw a kakka bakka the other day—he says that’s his favourite bird name—we make it to the gazebo, but I can’t see the spoonbill today. We see some more coot chicks. And then uplifts a cloud of janjarak black winged stilts with a seagull behind. At first it looks like the seagull is chasing them. But then appears on the scene the long orange wingspan of the swamp harrier again. At this point the seagull doubles back and starts to give chase. The harrier begins to move south as more stilts take to the skies, coming from every part of the lake, it seems—I had no idea there were so many. The harrier moves further south, and the seagull backs off. The harrier comes to land amongst the grass on the eastern side of the lake. It’s hard to spot him now, but there may be a wagtail harassing him in the reeds. Nothing happens for a while so we move off. Then a little later the harrier takes off again and glides on the wind, one way and then another, his big wings catching the air like a sail, and he seems to almost struggle with the change of wind direction as he circles. He’s moving further south now, and then from nowhere another bird is giving chase—it looks like a small raptor—an Australian kestrel maybe, perhaps a hobby. It dives at the harrier a few times, then peels off into a nearby tree. The harrier is hovering while looking down amongst the reeds; it hovers remarkably well for its size, sitting above one particular spot, before he comes into land, and we move on.
Mimal
On the day of the big wind I take an evening walk down to the river at Harvey Beach. This would be one of the few places in Perth slightly protected from this roaring southerly. While there I remember that nephew Fin has been telling me about a couple of chicks he’s been watching grow on a branch at the northern end of the beach. He says he sees an adult come in and feed them. I look in that direction and there they are—a couple of mimal darters, fairly large now, maybe both adolescents, maybe one adult and an adolescent, one of them burying its long needle-like beak into its feathers—at the end of a branch that overhangs the water, and which remains relatively still as tuart trees bluster and blow all around it. Further up the branch looks strangely white. And then, in the background, further upriver, I notice a solitary adult on another branch, on another tree.
The next day I return, and it is one adult and one adolescent on the branch today. No other mimal seen. And today the adult one has a stick in its beak, and it’s trying to add it to the whiter part of the branch which I now see is a nest of dead twigs. But first the younger mimal has to move off the nest, and only then can the new, grey, dead stick be placed atop the others.
Wind
A wind has sprung up overnight and blows strong, fast and slightly cold throughout the whole day. We take a walk along the beach into it—sand flies everywhere. No sandflies. It is one of the strongest winds I can remember, especially for this time of year. The following day I look at the weather maps. I see that a tropical low/monsoon trough coming down from the equator joined with a cold-front low blowing up from the southern ocean (followed by a high pressure system). This would have created the conditions necessary for extra wind to blow up from the south, and that’s exactly what happened. Nephew points out that it’s interesting this wind happened at the same time as storms in the UK, and wonders if they are connected. But my reference maps don’t stretch that far.
Central Bay Cliffs
Down on the beach for two days in a row: a lower line of small bay ridges forming smaller bays within the larger bay of Leighton Beach to Cables Station. The tide is morning low, with little variation with the mid-sky moon. The angle of the slope from flat sand down to the water is pretty gradual, 30 degrees or less, and there is a hint of bay-ridge remnants from a formerly higher tide further up the slope. Around mid bay, between the lower ridges, I notice a couple of cliff faces forming—places where the long, slow, back-and-forth of gradual tide—stormless, swell-less—leans into a kind of cliff-barrier where the water, due to what it has created in the sand, is unable to rise any higher; a cliff place where water starts to cut horizontally into the sand, rather than wash over and flatten it out, as it does further north.
Sting Ray
Walking along the ocean shoreline Sunday morning. And between the handful of scattered swimmers spread out between Leighton Beach and Cables Station I see, moving south to north, a small dark cloud. The thought ‘sting ray’ immediately comes to mind. The black cloud continues moving along the base of the light blue water, about ten metres out. It does not surface for air. Baamba sting ray it must be. Not the small ones I see often down in Geograph Bay, nor the massive ones down in Hamelin Bay, but the ones about the same size I used to see swimming the reefs between Cottesloe and North Cottesloe about twenty years ago.
John Stubley 