Not in my backyard
by Tom Wolff
At the end of 2021 I moved to the suburbs of a town I never thought I'd live in; a place we used to all make fun of as we drove through on the school bus as teenagers who thought they knew everything. In the yard of the place that was now ours I could have counted all the species of plants on one hand: one frangipani, a hibiscus, a lillipilly hedge, a golden penda & a magnolia. By my count that's two natives, with one being endemic to the area where we lived.
Over the course of the next three years we slowly but surely increased the biodiversity on our quarter acre block. Admittedly early on it was a bit of a mish-mash of trial and error, as we figured out what we could and couldn't plant. After all, deep-rooted rainforest trees don't mix well with sewerage pipes and drainage lines.
In a sea of tiled roofs, barking dogs and the fairly constant thrum of a highway nearby we fought for our little patch of biodiversity where we could. At times it felt like a hopeless case. But being blessed with the soil that gave birth to the Big Scrub and the weather patterns that come with living on a plateau gave us a pretty decent leg-up. In the front yard, we set ourselves the goal of getting King Parrots to feed on the trees one day. After taking advice from parents who were 25 years into their regeneration project, and had King Parrots as regular visitors, we planted Pigeon Pea (admittedly non-native) to attract them.
The first year of flowering gave birth to the seeds they love to munch on. The rainbow lorikeets arrived in droves began to intoxicate themselves on the endless nectar supply provided by the grevilleas that lined our front porch, and with no apparent inhibition seemed to be loudest at 5am. But we waited and no King Parrots arrived. As we moved into the second year, things started to change out the back. A white-faced heron decided our dog-less yard was a pretty attractive place to chase insects. A wiley currawong figured out the seemingly endless supply of blueberries on our prolific plant were easy fodder while we were at work. And a nocturnal bandicoot decided the best place to forage for native truffles and fungi was right under our freshly planted veggie seedlings, it's cone shaped holes giving away the culprit.
The lone blue tongue lizard appeared to be everywhere in the yard all at once, until we realised there were actually three all of a sudden. Native bee swarms moved in to feast on the leptospermum as it flushed white with flowers. I eventually told the neighbours that from now on I'd throw stones every time I saw their roaming cat at our place, for the sake of native wildlife. They replied unfazed, "Fair enough." Then, on new years day this year, a lone King Parrot swung back and forth on the powerline that connects to our house eyeballing me as I nursed myself through the first hangover of 2024.
Over my life I have been gifted the opportunity to work and play in wild places. From Tasmania to Alaska and Mexico to Mullumbimby I've been privy to the lessons of observational ecology; hundreds if not thousands of hours watching and wondering. Through this experience I've gained a particular love and admiration of birds. They are dinosaurs after all. I've come to understand how the way we construct our gardens in australia has allowed for the dominance of birds like native miners, rainbow lorikeets and australian magpies. Which, coincidentally, were the three most counted birds in the 2023 Aussie Bird Count by Birdlife Australia. The vast modifications we have made to our landscape and our strange ideas of what a 'good' garden is has meant birds such as these have driven avian biodiversity down to a handful of species, particularly in residential areas.
A few months ago I was sitting in the yard when a small honeyeater swooped in to sit on one of the many species of grevillea that now take residence in the backyard. For the first time since we'd arrived in this place, here before me was a small bird making itself at home and happily drinking some flower juice. Unbeknownst to my feathery friend, it signified a big moment for me; a turning point of sorts. We'd finally managed to create enough habitat to make this little creature feel at home on our patch.
I first wrote about the importance of ecosystem habitat in 2017; a story of how clear-fell logging had decimated salmon populations in the Pacific Northwest of the Americas. An old fisherman named Tom spun me this yarn over the course of the week as we took shifts driving The Pearl Sea from Haida Gwaii to Vancouver Island. He showed me that 50 years on the sea gifts you a type of wisdom you won't find in any book. It also provided me the seed that eventually germinated into an understanding that while revival and regeneration is vitally important, conservation and protection of existing complex ecosystems is imperative to the survival of our species.
When the King Parrots finally arrived - three years on - to feast on seeds last Sunday, I was excited but I wasn't surprised. And funnily enough it wasn't the pigeon pea they were interested in eating. I first spotted the male with its vibrant red chest. Eventually the female arrived coated mostly in green feathers and well camouflaged. I took some dodgy photos using the zoom on my phone, not wanting to get too close and scare them off. They stayed for about an hour before heading off across suburbia, presumably to the next decent spot for a feed.
Against the tide of climate denialism and ecosystem degradation, it was a little victory to savour.