Confessions – Visions of beauty: Petaurus breviceps

When I was a child I had a recurring dream, a dream of flight. I am hovering, silently, floating above sand dunes cloaked in downy grass. That sensation of flying, the vision of place was so exhilarating, scintillating, that the dream haunted, delighted me for years. In my mind I could never quite determine. Is this fantasy, or reality?

Torn from a stobie-pole in resistance of kindy, at school I found the fantasist’s relief in the tiny illustrated works of Beatrix Potter. To the young dreamer the mix of nature and fable seemed more palpable, palatable, than a world of cruel impositions. I still had flying dreams, mainly how far I could kick a a plastic footy. But it was the legend of Pan and Wendy, flying together, which then held an innocent erotic allure.

There is a meandering limestone road, in south-east South Australia, which leads to a place, a dreamland called Little Maaoupe. 27 kilometers from Coonawarra, Penola, the hub of viticultural industry, Little Maaoupe is 400 acres of pasture, bushland, seasonal swamps and a few caves. For the naturalist it is a delightful mix of topographies, geological and biological. To me it is, just, a floating enigma.

For nine years I owned that property, as much as one can ever claim such dominion. For two, I lived there, in a small van – no power, no water. The isolation could be mortifying. Winter baths in the sheep trough, or swamp, really test one’s masculinity. But the fragile beauty, which resides, will ever hold me captive.

At dusk I would oft watch two bucks, at the distant end of the front paddock, play-boxing through wisps of fog, or emblazoned in the deep pink of twilight. In the middle of the night, sometimes, the deep, nasal ‘gmp! gmp!’ of a close emu would startle, astonish. And, near the end of my residence, my sojourn in ecstasy, each dawn would yield the faint shrieks, the flight of twenty seven red-tails, endangered black cockatoos lumbering across the blue.

I heard legend, from the previous owner, that there were possibly bandicoots in the bushland, the 150 acres between the front and rear paddock, sand dune, tea-tree swamp section. Even more thrilling, researching the fauna of the area, I believed that there should be gliders – probably sugars, and maybe feathers.

For seven years I would steal weekends, holidays to be at Little Maaoupe. Fridays I taught guitar, at St. Catherine’s Primary in Stirling, the abode of my not so successful but most beloved student, Alexis Porter. Judy Gaunt, a dour principal, obviously thought me a law unto myself. But students and parents were happy – so?

And there I would turn up on Friday with my hot V8 Ford SW and trailer, packed to the hilt with provisions for the 3.30 dash, over 400 ks, to the south-east. I don’t know which delirium was greater, the high of wanting to reach Maaoupe, or the blood-sugar low that frequently caused faintness as I drove. Hi-carb/sugar diet, back then.

Excepting in summer and during holidays, it would invariably be dark when I arrived. No van then. It was the back of the station wagon, rugged up in multiple layers usually. Tried a tent once, but 60 kph winds swayed that idea. Up at the crack of dawn though, searching out wildlife, and trecking a one mile track to the windmill, sheep trough. Yes, all suffering is a path to godliness.

150 acres is a big enough stretch of bushland to almost get lost in, especially at night. And, wandering light-headed, half dreaming, half inebriated, oft in scant light and maybe in shrieking wind, there is an edge to the wonder. The knowledge of two vertical drop caves, one of them 20 ft., can keep you a little mindful. The bones of a roo, which made that perilous mistake in the shallow one were a reminder.

Yes, the whole mega-fauna history of nearby Naracoorte was gleaned from the fossils of sorry animals that fell into similar limestone hollows.

During the day the plethora of remnant wildlife kept one captivated. High voltage power lines traverse the property, with steel suspension towers over 50 meters tall. One rather lazy swamp harrier had the habit of perching there, high above the open sandy country, awaiting his next victim.

Thanks to ‘vermin-hunting’ neighbours, the local emus, which have great eyesight, would bolt and flee at a distance of a kilometer across that open sandy stretch. But, for me, finding a spring cache of 9 – 13 dark turquoise eggs, in a secret bush enclave, brought back a childhood thrill. Such were the brightly foiled Easter eggs, mystically dropped near the Rosemary bushes each year, by another fabled creature.

It is marvellous to find the emu chicks hatched, the protective father corralling them through the bracken scrub, in search of seed. One day he will have 9 totterers, the next day 8, and ultimately it may be but 3 gangly wanderers. Raptors and foxes. Life in the wild is never secure.

I would often search for gliders, looking to likely nest hollows, scanning for telltale scratch marks. Some v-shaped incisions on Silver Banksias looked hopeful, the type of cut that feather gliders make in order to draw sweet sap. But these cuts looked old, and no fresh ones. The grey furry creature frequently sunning himself, in a 6m high stringy-bark hollow? No. Just another brush-tail possum, wiling away the day. I knew that the gliders were nocturnal, searched at night a few times. But nothing.

Beyond the outright war one waged upon bipedal predators, trespassing shooters, the only near run-ins I had with wildlife involved our serpentine friends. Picked up a rock in the small quarry one day, and had my hand near on a lovely small copperhead. Cold weather – inactive period, lucky. Dragging a 1m length of bush I had inspected for any slitherers, one day, the bush was destined as protection for tree plantings. Kangaroos love Casuarina saplings, smash tree guards apart. Looked more carefully in the foliage, and there was a 4ft tiger snake, 6 inches from my fingers. Dropped it pretty quick. Walked 5 meters away. Slowly turned around – no snake. Vanished!

After seven years I finally took up residence, put a van on the block. Then, one cloudy evening, out of the corner of my eye I definitely caught something – traversing between the tree above and another.

The next night I stood vigil, right before dusk. Just as light was fading I spied the small marsupial, warily exiting its hollow. Then the sudden scurry to a distant limb, a perch, and launch! The sugar glider flutes subtly on the wind. There is the faintest thud as it hits the trunk of the next tree, an instantaneous scramble to reach the upper limbs and foliage. Even at night, any time down low, exposed, is dangerous time.

So, finally, I had found the sugar glider. And right next to the van, the same place where I had always camped. You just have to be in the right place, at the right time.

Many evenings were spent tracing the night adventures of Petaurus breviceps. They go for nectar from the two local and only SA species of Banksia. And, like koalas, they like the tender shoots of the Manna gum. I found the best nesting site was the 25 meter Pink gum in the front paddock. From a limb, 20 meters up, they glide 20 to a connecting gum in the scrub. One evening I posited behind that tree, had the wonder of watching 5 sugar gliders fluting, drifting, and plopping in their nocturnal passage.

Another night I followed a hungry glider, as he moved from bush to tree, gliding, scampering, suckling, munching. I saw an owl stalking, and couldn’t help interfering. I threw a few stones near, but not at the offender. He retreated. Near the same place a couple of nights later I had to suddenly duck. That nocturnal raptor was dive-bombing me. I decided he was an Old Testament owl.

The ungrounded life of the incorrigible romantic, Icarus, eventually took me away from Little Maaoupe. Heaven, on Earth, cannot last for long.

It is 16 years now, since those days of searing solitude, those vicarious flights of ecstasy. No more do I hear the dumb crash of the echidna, making a blind path through the undergrowth. No more do I see the seasonal, vanishing swamps, hear the mesmeric chant of frogs, hope for a last, visiting black swan.

Most of the trees I planted have been bulldozed. But I was able to take my beautiful Wendy and sit beneath a grove of Casuarinas planted 20 years ago. The wind, crying through the Casuarinas, tells me that all things must pass – even our innocent flights, the voice of a friend.

R.I.P. Rolf Schack.