It's storm time. The wind is setting up a delicious howl and the sky is every shade of dark. I'm wondering how those tender Chardonnay leaves and teeny grape bunches can stand up to pummeling rain and punishing winds and a flush of farmer's fear grips my chest. Then, a breathtaking flash followed by a sound like bedrock cracking open and we're plunged into twilight. I scramble for candles and my boys improvise flashlight games. I have a brief pang about still being connected to the grid, and therefore dependent, vulnerable. I dance around cooking supper to the frenzied drumming on the tin roof (din roof) as the day closes out.
The storm blows on through the night. I sleep intermittently, waking thoughts reaching out to the vines, the rain, the wind. In the blustery dawn I strike off to walk the power line. I'm greeted by the roaring wind and the wet kiss of rain. My rubber boots sqwump over rocks that are freshly scrubbed and full of color, lichens sponging out into the wet glory. New wildflowers push up through the grasses, sparks of color that contrast the dull dense greenness. I note hopefully, that the pounding rain hasn't harmed them, and I have a fantasy science moment to hypothesize about raindrop dodging adaptations. I mentally splice that particular adaptation onto the Chardonnay as I ford the little stream. I'm surprised at how swollen it is and at its velocity, since I know it mostly as the driest streambed on our land. To my mind this is mainly a dry defile. I also note that its flanks are now dotted by the moonglow of an invasive arum lily, Zantedeschia aethiopica, which is supposed to inspire a shudder to a caring landowner. But the creamy white blossom is so arresting, I can't hate this plant, despite how greedy it is to take over territory. It was introduced as an innocent garden plant from South Africa and “escaped”. Birds find its seeds delicious and it easily propagates through its vegetative roots as well. Arum lilies are nearly impossible to eradicate by hand. Years ago I spent hours digging out a patch and failed to remove every particle out of the ground, with the result that they came back the following year in greater number and density. As with the kikuyu grass, it is an ongoing concern and difficult to eliminate without herbicide. Even the local conservation groups suggest using Roundup on it, which is an option I will not entertain. I’ve been cutting them back before they seed as a strategy for knocking them back. It’s an ongoing campaign and I’m far from successful.
I climb into the rocks on the opposite shore and enter another landscape. Old grass trees and flowering wattles and ancient marri trees (Corymbia calophylla) carrying mysteries and timelessness. And then I see a downed giant - a Marri that must be hundreds of years old, tumbled to its final rest. I walk under it, into it, around it. It is so huge even though toppled on its side, that the driving rain is diverted by its sheltering arms. My eyes are wet from the sight and feel of this magnificent old being brought to its knees by wind and rain. It has a huge crop of honky nuts one of the critical food sources for the endangered whitetail black cockatoos. It’s demise is a big loss all around.
Like the endangered whitetail black cockatoo that’s dependent on it, the Marri is endangered as well. They are suffering from a canker (Quambalaria coyrecup) that so far has not been treatable. Every marri matters. Marris are also considered an indicator species for good grape growing soil and we are abundantly blessed in this regard. Cloudburst country is Marri country. The two go hand in hand.