Zeitschriftenartikel zum Thema „White River National Forest (Colo.)“

The change in habitat pattern is one of the key factors affecting the survival of the moose population. The study of the habitat landscape pattern is the key to protecting the Chinese cold-temperate forest moose population and monitoring the global distribution of moose. Through the ecological risk assessment of the moose habitat landscape pattern in a cold-temperate forest, we hope to assess the strength of habitat resistance under stress factors. This study provides a theoretical basis for the protection of the moose population in the cold-temperate forest in China and the establishment of the cold-temperate forest national park. In the study, the MaxEnt model, landscape index calculation and ecological risk assessment model construction were used to analyze the field survey and infrared camera monitoring data from April 2014 to January 2023. The habitat suitability layer of the moose population in the Nanwenghe National Nature Reserve of the Great Khingan Mountains was calculated, and the range of the moose habitat was divided based on the logical threshold of the model. The landscape pattern index of the moose habitat was calculated by Fragstats software and a landscape ecological risk assessment model was established to analyze the landscape pattern and ecological risk dynamic changes of the moose habitat in 2015 and 2020. The results showed that under the premise of global warming, the habitat landscape contagion index decreased by 4.53 and the split index increased by 4.86 from 2015 to 2020. In terms of ecological risk: the area of low ecological risk areas increased by 0.88%; the area of medium ecological risk areas decreased by 1.11%; and the area of high ecological risk areas increased by 0.23%. The fragmentation risk of the landscape pattern of the moose habitat tends to increase, the preferred patch type is dispersed, the degree of aggregation is low, and the risk of patch type transformation increases. The middle and high ecological risk areas are mainly concentrated in the river area and its nearby forests, showing a fine and scattered distribution. Under the interference of global warming and human activities, the fragmentation trend of the moose habitat in the study area is increasing, and the habitat quality is declining, which is likely to cause moose population migration. For this reason, the author believes that the whole cold temperate forest is likely to face the risk of increasing the transformation trend of dominant patch types in the cold-temperate coniferous forest region mainly caused by global warming, resulting in an increase in the risk of habitat fragmentation. While the distribution range of moose is reduced, it has a significant impact on the diversity and ecological integrity of the whole cold-temperate forest ecosystem. This study provides theoretical references for further research on the impact of climate warming on global species distribution and related studies. It is also helpful for humans to strengthen their protection awareness of forest and river areas and formulate reasonable protection and sustainable development planning of cold-temperate forests. Finally, it provides theoretical references for effective monitoring and protection of cold-temperate forests and moose population dynamics.

The Faunal Reserve of the Lobéké area of south-eastern Cameroon is an important area for forest conservation. One day, it is hoped, it will be part of an international unit, in association with two protected areas in neighbouring countries (Dzanga-Ndoki National Park, Central African Republic and Nouabalé-Ndoki National Park, Congo). With a view to assessing the status of its avifauna in particular, 24 days were spent in three short surveys from 1997 to 1999. The main forest type is semi-evergreen, with an open canopy; the only natural savannas are small saline swamps. The total of 305 species of bird recorded includes a forest nightjar not yet identified (but more likely to be the rare Itombwe Nightjar Caprimulgus prigoginei than a new species) and the Dja River Warbler Bradypterus grandis. The latter is a species confined to Rhynchospora swamps and had not been re-located in Cameroon since it was first collected in 1914 west of the Dja river; the extent of suitable habitat in Lobéké makes this site the most important to date for its conservation. Other rare or little-known forest species recorded include Olive Ibis Bostrychia olivacea, Sandy Scops Owl Otus icterorhynchus, Zenker's Honeyguide Meligomon zenkeri, Tessmann's Flycatcher Muscicapa tessmanni and Yellow-capped Weaver Ploceus dorsomaculatus. Barred Owlet Glaucidium capense is locally common in open-canopy forest: this population was only recently discovered in central Africa and its taxonomic relationships have yet to be determined. We include a brief comparison with the avifauna of adjacent Dzangha-Ndoki National Park and Nouabalé-Ndoki National Park. A feature of the Lobéké avifauna is the presence of a few species normally associated with forest at higher altitudes (such as White-headed Wood Hoopoe Phoeniculus bollei, Uganda Woodland Warbler Phylloscopus budongoensis, Black-throated Apalis Apalis jacksoni), and perhaps absent from lower-lying Nouabalé-Ndoki.

White pine blister rust, Cronartium ribicola, has plagued the forests of North America for almost a century. Over past decades, eastern white pine (Pinus strobus) that appear to tolerate the disease have been selected and incorporated into breeding programs. Seeds from P. strobus with putative resistance were collected from Oconto River Seed Orchard, Nicolet National Forest, WI. Seedlings were grown for 5 months and artificially inoculated with basidiospores of C. ribicola in two replicated greenhouse experiments. Needles from infected seedlings were fixed, sectioned, and stained with a variety of histological reagents, and rate of mortality for the remaining seedlings was monitored. The most susceptible families suffered 50% mortality in approximately half the time of the more resistant families. Extensive inter- and intracellular hyphae were observed in needles from seedlings of susceptible families, whereas hyphal proliferation was restricted in needles of resistant seedlings. Needles from resistant families had pronounced responses to infection. Phenolics, observed with phloroglucinol-HCl staining, were deposited around infection sites where dense mycelial masses were present. Abnormal host cell growth and rapid cell death in the immediate area of infection were also observed in some eastern white pine families.

Abstract. It has been hypothesized that in a gradient of increase of soil resources carbon allocated to belowground production (fine roots) decreases. To evaluate this hypothesis, we measured the mass and production of fine roots (<2 mm) by two methods: 1) ingrowth cores and, 2) sequential soil coring, during 2.2 years in two lowland forests with different soils in the colombian Amazon. Differences of soil resources were determined by the type and physical and chemical properties of soil: a forest on loamy soil (Ultisol) at the Amacayacu National Natural Park and, the other on white sands (Spodosol) at the Zafire Biological Station, located in the Forest Reservation of the Calderón River. We found that mass and production of fine roots was significantly different between soil depths (0–10 and 10–20 cm) and also between forests. White-sand forest allocated more carbon to fine roots than the clayey forest; the production in white-sand forest was twice (2.98 and 3.33 Mg C ha−1 year−1, method 1 and 2, respectively) as much as in clayey forest (1.51 and 1.36–1.03 Mg C ha−1 year−1, method 1 and 2, respectively); similarly, the average of fine root mass was higher in the white-sand forest (10.94 Mg C ha−1) than in the forest on clay soils (3.04–3.64 Mg C ha−1). The mass of fine roots also showed a temporal variation related to rainfall, such that production of fine roots decreased substantially in the dry period of the year 2005. Our results suggest that soil resources play an important role in patterns of carbon allocation in these forests; carbon allocated to above-and belowground organs is different between forest types, in such a way that a trade-off above/belowground seems to exist; as a result, it is probable that there are not differences in total net primary productivity between these two forests: does belowground offset lower aboveground production in poorer soils?

AbstractUsnea hirta, an important member of the lichen family Parmeliaceae, has long been used as a bio-monitor of air pollution, particularly of sulphur dioxide in North America. Although U. hirta has a wide geographical distribution, it is important to be able to identify accurately the optimal habitat conditions for air pollution-sensitive species, thus making it possible to more effectively and efficiently establish air quality bio-monitoring stations. We modelled the distribution of U. hirta as a function of nine variables, five macroclimatic variables: average monthly precipitation, average monthly minimum temperature, average monthly maximum temperature, solar radiation, and integrated moisture index, and four topographic variables: elevation, slope, aspect, and land forms and uses for the White River National Forest, Colorado. The response variable was developed based on the presence or absence of U. hirta at each of 72 bio-monitoring baseline sites established in selected portions of four intermountain area states. Our model was developed using Non-Parametric Multiplicative Regression (NPMR) analysis, a modelling approach that analyzes environmental gradients, or predictor variables, against known locations for individuals of the model species. Finally, we evaluated our model on the basis of log β values and overall improvement over a naïve model and the Monte Carlo Permutation Test with 1000 randomized runs. The best model for U. hirta included four variables – solar radiation, average monthly precipitation, and average monthly minimum and maximum temperatures (log β=3·68). Among these four variables, average monthly maximum temperature was the most influential predictor (sensitivity=0·71) for the distribution of U. hirta. The occurrence rate for U. hirta, based on field validation, was 45·5%, 65·4%, and 70·4% for low, medium, and high probability areas, respectively. This study showed that our model was successful in predicting the distribution of U. hirta in the White River National Forest. Based on these results, the north-eastern and western portions of the forest appear to offer the most favourable conditions for the installation of future air quality bio-monitoring baseline sites.

Abstract Successful fire prevention and suppression efforts during the past 50 yr have resulted in the proliferation of eastern white pine (Pinus strobus L.) in the understory of oak-pine forests on the Cumberland Plateau. Along with red maple (Acer rubrum L.), increasing density of eastern white pine in these forests signals a change in plant species composition from species adapted to periodic surface fires, such as oaks (Quercus spp.) and yellow pines (P. echinata Miller and P. rigida Miller), to species adapted to longer fire-free intervals. In the Daniel Boone National Forest (DBNF) in eastern Kentucky, the USDA Forest Service has reintroduced fire to these ridgetop ecosystems. In March 1995 and March 1996, single prescribed fires were conducted on three different ridgetops in the Red River Gorge of the DBNF. Diameter and age of white pine stems were recorded prior to burning, two growing seasons post-burn (for 1995 and 1996 fires), and three growing seasons post-burn (for 1995 fires only). Nearly all white pine less than 2.0 cm dbh were killed after a single prescribed fire, and significant mortality (P < 0.05) was measured in size classes up to 6 cm dbh. Post-burn regeneration of white pine, however, was abundant at each site. Therefore, a single prescribed burn affected the age structure of white pine but will not have an important influence on long-term species composition of these stands. A fire return interval of at least 10 to 20 yr will be required to control white pine competition with fire-adapted species on the ridgetop ecosystems of the DBNF. South. J. Appl. For. 23(3): 144-150.

AbstractThis article explores the role of business in supporting and benefiting from nature protection during the second half of the nineteenth century. It begins with the support of business for protecting scenic wilderness in California and the creation of Yellowstone, as well as the role of the railroads in encouraging easterners to visit to the nation’s western national parks—all designed to create economic value by promoting tourism. It then examines the efforts of a wide range of business interests to protect the White Mountains of New Hampshire and the Adirondack forest in New York State. The later effort was led by business interests from New York City who worried that deforestation would impair freight traffic on the Erie Canal and Hudson River as well as endanger the city’s water supplies. This article compliments Hay’s research on business and conservation during the Progressive Era by demonstrating that business also played a critical role in supporting wilderness and forest protection.

Biodiversity is important for maintaining of forest ecosystems functioning and in their resistance to anthropo-climatic challenges. Assessment of species diversity and species ecomorphic analysis is the basis for determining their current status, rational use and protection. At the end of the nineteenth century, Belgard A. L. (1950) in his system of ectomorphs using terminology presented by Dekandol (1956) and Warming (1903), had proposed a «trophomorph» category that reflected species relation to soil richness. Analysis of trophomorphs reflects diversity of soil conditions in different biotopes within forest ecosystems. The article gives an analysis on vascular plant trophomorphs distribution in various forest biotopes of Oril river valley. Flora and vegetation surveys in forests of Oril river valley were carried out by A. L. Belgard and T. F. Kirichenko since the 30s of the 20th century. The latest data on forest vegetation state within the Oril river valley were given in the works of Y. Gamulja and V. Manyuk. Generalized bioecological analysis of flora Oril river valley was represented in the monograph of B. Baranovsky, V. Maniuk, I. Ivanko, L. Karmyzova «Flora analysis of the Oril National Park». As is known, edaphic conditions of plant habitats in a first place are determined by soil fertility depending on the plant nutrients availability. Soddy-forest soil on sandy terrace of Oril river valley has a relatively low content of humus and total nitrogen: 2 and 0.04 %. Under these conditions, pine phytocenoses were ocсurred that represented exclusively by artificial plantings. Soils in the depressed area of Oril river floodplain are much richer in humus and nitrogen content (10 and 0.37 %). Here, arboreal and shrubby vegetation is represented by communities with common oak. On the second terrace of Oril river valley, forest vegetation is represented by artificial pine forests. Microcenoses with black locust, amorpha and willow occurred on elevated areas of sandy terrace (arena). In the depressed area of the arena, microcenoses with aspen and birch, aspen, Tatarian maple, amorpha, black locust were occurred additionally to pine communities. In the Oril floodplain, native arboreal and shrubby vegetation is represented mainly by communities with common oak. In depressed areas of the floodplain, microcenoses with white poplar, black poplar, aspen, Tatarian maple, amorpha, willow (Salix alba, S. fragilis), osiery (Salix cinerea, S. triandra), and alder are fragmentarily occurred. In conditions of elevated areas of the floodplain, 196 vascular plants species were found, and 105 species in depressed areas. On the second terrace, 38 plant species grow on the elevated areas, and 54 species on the depressed ones. Flora includes 45 adventive plant species. In depressed floodplain areas, oligotrophs are represented by 7 species, mesotrophs by 126 species, megatrophs by 50 species, and in elevated areas: 7, 126 and 25 species, respectively. In depressed areas of arena oligotrophs are represented by 4 species, mesotrophs by 29 species, and megatrophs by 11, elevated areas: 7 and 21 species respectively, and megatrophs were absent.

Abstract. It has been hypothesized that as soil fertility increases, the amount of carbon allocated to below-ground production (fine roots) should decrease. To evaluate this hypothesis, we measured the standing crop fine root mass and the production of fine roots (<2 mm) by two methods: (1) ingrowth cores and, (2) sequential soil coring, during 2.2 years in two lowland forests growing on different soils types in the Colombian Amazon. Differences of soil resources were defined by the type and physical and chemical properties of soil: a forest on clay loam soil (Endostagnic Plinthosol) at the Amacayacu National Natural Park and, the other on white sand (Ortseinc Podzol) at the Zafire Biological Station, located in the Forest Reservation of the Calderón River. We found that the standing crop fine root mass and the production was significantly different between soil depths (0–10 and 10–20 cm) and also between forests. The loamy sand forest allocated more carbon to fine roots than the clay loam forest with the production in loamy sand forest twice (mean±standard error=2.98±0.36 and 3.33±0.69 Mg C ha−1 yr−1, method 1 and 2, respectively) as much as for the more fertile loamy soil forest (1.51±0.14, method 1, and from 1.03±0.31 to 1.36±0.23 Mg C ha−1 yr−1, method 2). Similarly, the average of standing crop fine root mass was higher in the white-sands forest (10.94±0.33 Mg C ha−1) as compared to the forest on the more fertile soil (from 3.04±0.15 to 3.64±0.18 Mg C ha−1). The standing crop fine root mass also showed a temporal pattern related to rainfall, with the production of fine roots decreasing substantially in the dry period of the year 2005. These results suggest that soil resources may play an important role in patterns of carbon allocation to the production of fine roots in these forests as the proportion of carbon allocated to above- and below-ground organs is different between forest types. Thus, a trade-off between above- and below-ground growth seems to exist with our results also suggesting that there are no differences in total net primary productivity between these two forests, but with higher below-ground production and lower above-ground production for the forest on the nutrient poor soil.

The birds of prey or raptors in the National Chambal Sanctuary (NCS) assume importance as they are among the top predators of the region, predating on small crocodilians, turtles, and birds. Our checklist of 30 species of raptors is developed from observations made during winter surveys conducted between 1983 and 2016. The study area covered the course of river Chambal including its confluence with river Kuno that leads from Palpur-Kuno Sanctuary in Madhya Pradesh. The raptors which use the steep and inaccessible mud cliffs of the Chambal landscape include Bonelli’s Eagle Aquila fasciata, Laggar Falcon Falco jugger, Egyptian Vulture Neophron percnopterus, White-rumped Vulture Gyps bengalensis, Spotted Owlet Athene brama, and the Indian Eagle-Owl or Rock Eagle Owl Bubo bengalensis. Most of the other raptors noted in NCS appear to visit from and around the adjoining wildlife areas of Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh. According to two methods of classification the study comes in the semi-arid biogeographic zone or Khathiar-Gir dry deciduous forest ecoregion. The list of raptors from NCS-Kuno has been compared with previous reports and the list available for Sariska Tiger Reserve and Ranthambhore Tiger Reserve in Rajasthan. The present work is the outcome of a long-term ecological monitoring that primarily focused on the Gharial Gavialis gangeticus and its ecological associates in water and the riverine shores. The birds of prey demanded time and attention for looking above and away from the water surface or the shorelines. Yet, our meticulous records maintained over 34 years have generated a basal profile that is expected to inspire focused studies on parameters that sustain ecological association of raptors of NCS adjoining forest habitats and wildlife sanctuaries in the ecoregion.

As a vital ecological barrier in China, Yellow River Basin (YRB) is strategically significant for China’s national development and modernization. However, YRB has fragile ecosystems, and is sensitive to climatic change. Extreme climate events (e.g., heavy precipitation, heatwaves, and extreme hot and cold) occur frequently in this basin, but the implications (positive and negative effects) of these events on vegetation dynamics remains insufficiently understood. Combing with net primary productivity (NPP), the normalized difference vegetation index (NDVI) and extreme climate indexes, we explored the spatio–temporal characteristics of plants’ growth and extreme climate, together with the reaction of plants’ growth to extreme climate in the Yellow River Basin. This study demonstrated that annual NPP and NDVI of cropland, forest, and grassland in the study region all revealed a climbing tendency. The multi-year monthly averaged NPP and NDVI were characterized by a typical unimodal distribution, with the maximum values of NPP (66.18 gC·m−2) and NDVI (0.54) occurring in July and August, respectively. Spatially, multi–year averaged of vegetation indicators decreased from southeast to northwest. During the study period, carbon flux (NPP) and vegetation index (NDVI) both exhibited improvement in most of the YRB. The extreme precipitation indexes and extreme high temperature indexes indicated an increasing tendency; however, the extreme low temperature indexes reduced over time. NPP and NDVI were negatively associated with extreme low temperature indexes and positively correlated with extreme high temperature indexes, and extreme precipitation indicators other than consecutive dry days. Time lag cross–correlation analysis displayed that the influences of extreme temperature indexes on vegetation indexes (NPP and NDVI) were delayed by approximately six months, while the effects of extreme precipitation indexes were immediate. The study outcomes contribute to our comprehension of plants’ growth, and also their reaction to extreme climates, and offer essential support for evidence–based ecological management practices in the Yellow River Basin.

AbstractInitially some simple analytical properties based on the annual Zürich relative sunspot number are established for the 22-year Hale solar magnetic cycle. Since about AD1850, successive maximum sunspot numbers in a Hale cycle are highly correlated. Also, a regression model for the reconstruction of the 22-year Hale cycle has been formulated from proxy tree-ring data, obtained from spruce trees growing at a high altitude site in White River National Forest in Colorado. Over a considerable fraction of the past 300 years to AD1986, the ring-index time series power spectrum exhibits a strong 22-year periodicity, and more recently a significant spectral peak (at the 95% confidence level) at approximately 11 years. The model shows that the greatest variation in ‘amplitude’ in the magnetic cycle occurs over the early decades of the eighteenth century, when the sample size is small. Thereafter, a nearly constant amplitude is maintained until about AD1880 when a break occurs in both phase correspondence and amplitude, extending over the next three cycles. From AD1950 the signal recovers phase with the solar cycle, with reduced but increasing amplitude.

This report presents the selected results of rare birds of prey studies in the Nechkinsky National Park (Udmurt Republic, Russia) 20 years after the first studies undertaken here by I.V. Karyakin in 1991–1996. The main efforts were directed to the study of the White-Tailed Eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla). At the same time, the identification of other rare species was made. The studies were carried out during short visits to the territory in 2016, 2017, 2019 and 2021. In the national park (NP), within the previously known breeding areas, 3 new nests were identified. They were 0.9–1.6 km displaced from the locations of the old nests found 20 years ago. A new breeding territory was found in the adjacent area near the border of the NP. Despite the incomplete study of the area, it is assumed to be 8-9 breeding areas in the national park, and 2–3 areas directly along its borders. The number of breeding pairs of eagles in comparison with the first half of the 1990s, according to the author, remains stable, and population increase, as happened on the Lower Kama in Tatarstan, has not been observed here. Eagles nest on large, old-growth pines and larch trees, with a distance of 130–530 m deep into the forest from the outer edge. The distance to the Kama River is 0.68 km on average (0.13–1.3 km, n=4). The minimum distance between the nearest neighbors in the Kama valley, unregulated by the reservoir, is currently 3.6 km, the average (n=3) – 3.9 km. Eagles breed occasionally on and off. No reproduction was recorded for 2–3 years. The period of egg laying extends for a month from the beginning of March to the beginning of April. The death of young birds on 6-10 kV power lines was revealed, as a result, the owners were obliged to equip the power lines with bird protection devices. White-Tailed Eagle nestlings were ringed with colored rings. Two repeated observations were obtained from the lower reaches of Kama. The Greater Spotted Eagle (Aquila clanga) continues to inhabit the National Park, which is confirmed by the meetings of adult birds. There has been two-three times population of the Peregrine Falcon (Falco peregrinus) in comparison with the first half of the 1990s. Breeding of this falcon was found on 2 territories with a distance of 16.5 km between them.

Natural forests have their own ancient history, for this reason, their composition and structure reflect their existing conditions. In the artificial forests, only growth class and plantations general conditions can be in part the indicator of this residence. O. L. Belgard investigated natural biogeocoenosis and artificial cultural geocoenosis and worked up the detailed forest typology. The peculiarity of O. L. Belgard typology is biogeocoenological approach to the understanding and forest investigating based on G. M. Vysotskiy, G. F. Morozov, V. M. Suchkov ideas. O. L. Belgard accepted the conception of forest biogeocoenosis the components of which are phytocoenosis, zoocoenosis, microbiota, climatope and adaphotope. Rozsoshentsy forestry consists of 87 planning compartments with a total area of 3130.0 hectares, is a part of National Enterprise “Poltava forestry” and is situated on its southern part on the territory of Poltava administrative district and Poltava city. There are no publications in the science literature that could systematically reflect the results of investigations taken place in Rozsoshentsy forest area. Different scientists in different times investigated particular types of vegetations; the general characteristic of forests was specified in some works. The aim of our work is the forest typology investigation, ecological and biological, typological, soil and geobotanical peculiarities of natural and artificial forests of Rozsoshentsy forest area. For the fist time the investigation of natural and artificial forests of Rozsoshentsy forest area of Poltava-city green belt has been started according to the method of O. L. Belgard forest typology. Groups that were investigated inside the forestry are related to hydrotopes of bottomland forests with long-term flooding, bottomland forests with short-term flooding, noninundated with arena and ravine forests. The forest type is defined by accessories to specific trophotope and hydrotope and connected with floodplain factor of certain place of existence. The main place in definition of ecotope peculiarities takes vegetations that fully reflect the dimensionality of conditions. There are some plant associations inside the forest type that give an idea about coenosis from the floristic point of view. One or several associations can correspond to each forest type with direct species structure of tree, bushy and herbaceous layers. Artificial forests typological characteristic based on three taxonomic rank units: forest growth conditions type, ecological structure type and forest stand type. It was found out that the main forest types in structure of investigated forest area are oak, pine, sticky alder and aspen, poplar and birch forests. It means that main forest forming types are six types of wood. Rozsoshentsy forest area of Poltava-city green belt dendroflora has 33 tree and bushy types, 24 genuses, 14 families, 2 rooms. The most popular forest types on the investigated territory according to the forest typology are new oak and pine trees – 31.9 % , new pine forests – 9.1 %, new and dry maple and linden forests – 27.2 % and 6.3 % correspondently. Forest accounts for 5.3 % of forested areas with excessive wet ground. The investigation that was carried out gave us an opportunity to find out four natural forest vegetation types: (new linden and hornbeam forest with wide grasses), Dn4 (alder forest with moist tall grasses), Dc3 (wet aspen forest with aise-weed), De3 (wet white poplar forest); and two types of artificial forest vegetations: De3 (wet white poplar forest) and AB1 (birch forest with dryish miscellaneous). Different variations of soils have been investigated. It was found out that in investigated natural phytocoenosis the type of forest growth conditions is clay loam with different variations: new (СГ2), wet (СГ3), moist (СГ4); and wet sandy loam (СП3); in artificial cultural phytocoenosis the sandy loam is wet and dryish. The prevailing soil types on the territory of Rozsoshentsy forestry are dark grey podzolized forest loam, typical chernozem and podzolized hard loamy chernoozem, but in floodplain of the river Vorskla is a peat-bog soils. The content of humus is 7–8 %. The depth of ground water deposits connected with deposits of brown-red underclay (impermeable horizon) and ranges according to the relief elements and soil degree of erosion from 15 to 34 m. Carbonates are absent in soil of Rozsoshentsy forest area. Water extract analysis tells about the lack of salinity, dry particles ranges between 0.05–0.2 %, PH is mostly alkaline. Detailed ecological and biological characteristics and establishing peculiarities of Rozsoshentsy forest area adaphotope will give an opportunity to reconstruct the existing Poltava-city green belt plantations and organize the stationary investigations with the aim of their employment and saving.

This study aims to determine the distribution and characteristics of orangutan nesting habitats and analyze the state of vegetation in orangutan native habitats in the Sebangau National Park, Central Kalimantan. Sampling of research samples was determined by Purposive Sampling on 4 transect lines at the observation site with an area of each transect line of 1000m x 10m, and also made Anvage plots of 20m x 100m in size of 8 lanes. The number of nests found at the research location in the Sebangau National Park Area is 21 nests with an average nest class of 3 and 4. The condition of the forest in the Sebangau National Park area is a type of peat swamp forest located on the banks of the Katingan river, the type of vegetation obtained in the undergrowth is dominated by Malilis, Punak, Tutup Kebali, Sial, Kalalawit because it has the highest INP value (%), while the type vegetation of pole and tree vegetation is dominated by Tatumbu, White Galam, Jambu Burung, Aghatis, Karipak, and Madang Pirawas plants because they have the highest INP value (%). At the research location, it is known to have moderate species diversity because at seedling and sapling vegetation types are known to have moderate species diversity > 2 and at pole and tree vegetation growth rates are known to have moderate diversity levels > 2.Penelitian ini bertujuan untuk menganalisis karakteristik habitat bersarang orangutan serta menganalisis keadaan vegetasi pada habitat bersarang orangutan di kawasan Taman Nasional Sebangau Kalimantan Tengah. Pengambilan data sampel penelitian ditentukan secara Purposive Sampling pada 4 jalur transek di lokasi pengamatan dengan luas masing-masing jalur transek sebesar 1000 m x 10 m, dan juga membuat plot Anveg dengan ukuran 20m x 100 m sebanyak 8 jalur. Jumlah sarang yang ditemukan pada lokasi penelitian di Kawasan Taman Nasional Sebangau adalah sebanyak 21 sarang dengan rata-rata kelas sarang yakni kelas 3 dan 4. Kondisi hutan di kawasan Taman Nasional Sebangau merupakan tipe hutan rawa gambut yang berada di tepi sungai Katingan, jenis vegetasi yang didapat pada tumbuhan bawah didominasi oleh tumbuhan Malilis, Punak, Tutup Kebali, Sial, Kalalawit karena memiliki nilai INP (%) tertinggi, Sedangkan jenis vegetasi tumbuhan tiang dan pohon didominasi oleh jenis tumbuhan Tatumbu, Galam Putih, Jambu Burung, Agathis, Karipak, dan Madang Pirawas karena memiliki nilai INP (%) tertinggi. Pada lokasi penelitian, diketahui memiliki keanekaragaman jenis sedang karena pada jenis vegetasi tingkat semai dan pancang diketahui memiliki keanekaragaman jenis sedang > 2 dan pada jenis vegetasi tingkat pertumbuhan tiang dan pohon diketahui memiliki tingkat keanekaragaman sedang > 2.

SummaryAn annotated compendium of all those bird species known to have occurred in the lowland “Man and Biosphere” Beni Biological Station (B.B.S.) reserve is provided. Previous checklists are reviewed, together with sightings accumulated over the 1992–1995 period during which approximately 70 new species have been added to the reserve inventory, bringing the total to 478. Occurrence across the 12 delineated habitats, relative abundance and sighting documentation are given for each species. The avifauna of the B.B.S. is mixed biogeographically; in addition to a substantial component of lowland birds widespread throughout South America, it is composed of Amazonian, cerrado and chaco elements also. Representation from the Bolivian Yungas is minimal. Significantly, no less than four threatened and 15 near-threatened species have occurred, including the little known Bolivian endemic Unicoloured Thrush Turdus haplochrous, and the enigmatic White-winged Nightjar Caprimulgus candicans, known until recently only from Emas National Park (Brazil). Short accounts are provided detailing records of all of these species. Birds of the reserve core, consisting largely of humid tropical forest formations inundated during the austral summer, appear not to be subjected currently to any serious environmental degradation, although some subsistence clearance by Chimane Indians in the northern reaches of the reserve gives some cause for concern. Of much greater import, however, are changes occurring outside the confines of the B.B.S. These include increasing urbanization immediately to the west (and associated road upgrading) and forest fragmentation to the south brought about by logging. The latter is especially worrying because linkage of the B.B.S. forest block to surrounding forest is already physically tenuous, and therefore it is imperative that future logging activities be geared to minimize isolation occurring and the damaging restriction of gene flow. Monitoring in rainforest immediately south of the reserve should become routine to warn of putative avifaunal impoverishments. Extensive surveying of the 2,500-ha El Porvenir éstancia (savanna and related forest islands) due to be assimilated shortly into the B.B.S., which constitutes less than 2% of the area under consideration, has shown that it is used by no less than three threatened and up to nine near-threatened species. In the absence of data relating to other savanna areas (c. 15%) at present, the exact status of each species at the B.B.S. remains imprecise and begs for further research to be undertaken. Unfortunately, present management of the El Porvenir savanna is not conducive to the long-term maximization of populations of these species, several of which have local strongholds in this part of Beni. We recommend that the current policy of cattle ranching adopted by this éstancia should cease or be reduced dramatically, to minimize grazing and trampling damage, and that measures should be taken to reduce incursions of fires started wilfully in neighbouring properties. The Academia Nacional de Ciencias de Bolivia, which administers the reserve, should be encouraged to safeguard and enhance the savanna complement further by ensuring that the impending ratification of El Porvenir proceeds as quickly as possible, and by purchasing additional tracts of land to the south of the present southern reserve boundary, where feasible. Such actions should not only secure the future of the biota of the savanna habitat within the B.B.S. but also should ameliorate the degree of isolation which has occurred already by preserving the “curiches” (former river beds) and forest islands which act as access corridors for forest-dwelling and other birds.

During the 1870s, the Provincial government terminated grazing licences on large runs in Eastern Southland and West Otago. In a series of land sales, this land was surveyed into 200-acre farms and auctioned to prospective farmers on a delayed repayment scheme. 150 years later, this research searches for traces of the first buildings from this time. It focuses on the housing of eight ancestors, great grandparents of the author, who settled within a 30 km radius in the districts of Waikoikoi, Maitland, Waikaka Valley and Otama. Information was gathered from National Library collections, district and family history books, old photographs and maps, 2018 surveys of the homestead sites and interviews with cousins still living in the area. In 1870, the rolling hills were covered with open tussock. Found artefacts suggest that Māori camped in the area during expeditions to gather food from Mataura river sites. The new settlers, often in extended family groups, travelled by horse and dray overland from Dunedin or Bluff. The Dunedin to Gore railway did not open until 1879. Their first shelters were camp-sites and wagon tilts lined in felt. Soon after they arrived, established families were able to fund the building of modest timber houses often constructed by carpenter uncles and brothers. Young single men "bached" in sod and/or timber huts until they married. One great grandmother spent childhood years "comfortably" in a "half-sod and half-timber shepherd's cottage" but her teenage years at the "Big House," the 20-room homestead on the Otama Station. It was built in 1867 of "white pine" from the forest at Tapanui. By the turn of the twentieth-century, simple cottages had received additional rooms, porches and decorative verandahs or they were upstaged by new grand timber villas. In 2018, only one homestead, originally named Hopetoun, is still standing although it is substantially altered. Family photographs, usually of the front façade, provide a limited perspective only. Memoirs and local histories offer a few more clues. While buildings from the 1870s exist, historical touchstones in these country districts are more elusive.

Burial Mounds seen from the airA source critical investigationDenmark was systematically surveyed in secret by means of aerial photography in May 1954. The operation, codename Basic Cover, was executed by the US Air Force and resulted in approximately 42.700 orto-photographs taken from a fixed height of 10.000 feet and rendering a national coverage of 99.6%. The series is now declassified and, as numerous types of archaeological features are apparent on the individual pictures, it is drawn upon with increasing frequency as part of the daily routine of ­archaeological institutions around the country. As a consequence of the aerial survey having taken place relatively early in the year, archaeological monuments such as burial mounds stand out against the newly ploughed fields primarily as differences in the colour of the soil (fig 1). In 2005 the increasing general interest in the use of aerial photography prompted a group of colleagues to create the archaeological aerial photography network (LAND). COWI A/S are presently in the process of making the entire series available digitally which will doubtless lead to a further increase in its usage. Despite a general awareness of the numerous burial mounds visible on Basic Cover, little information is available concerning its properties as a systematic source. The purpose of this article, based on the results of an empirical study, is to provide tangible data on Basic Cover as a general source for use in burial mound listing and, more specifically, as a supplement to the mounds listed in the national database. The starting point was a systematic recording of burial mounds apparent on Basic Cover images from West Jutland. This took place within the framework of a project with the aim of studying the barrow line phenomenon and its links with a number of archaeologically known fords and bridges dating to the Iron Age and medieval times.The recording of burial mounds from Basic Cover was carried out for an area of roughly 1270 km2 around Skern Å (River Skjern) (figs. 2-3). The area is divided in two by the river valley; the landscape in the northern part is relatively undulating with a maximum height of 86 m above sea level, whereas the southern area is predominately flat with long smooth ridges running north/south. The river, Skern Å, which has one of Denmark’s largest river catchments, constitutes a formidable ­obstacle in the landscape. Due to contrasting soil conditions caused by variations in local glacial deposits, any comparison with Basic Cover as a source for burial mound recording in the eastern parts of Denmark should be approached with caution.An unconventional approach was employed in recording to facilitate a comparative study of different sources for burial mound recording (fig. 4). Initially all visible burial mounds were recorded from Basic Cover regardless of previous listing in the national database. The criteria for a positive recording comprised the presence of either a circular white spot or a distinct shadow relief. As a supplement to Basic Cover, burial mounds were recorded from the highly detailed historic map Generalstabens Høje Målebordsblade from 1871, which subsequently became standard issue for many of the archaeological surveyors from the National Museum. All recorded burial mounds were finally correlated with the mounds listed in the national database. The data were then transformed into a ­single set of digital points where presence or absence on Basic cover and the 1871 map were indicated along with – if any – listing in the existing national database.The compiled results of the study are presented in figure 5a. At the start of the project, the national database contained records for 2872 burial mounds from the area. Identification on the 1871 map and Basic Cover resulted in the recording of 2186 and 2209 burial mounds, respectively. The total number of positive recordings was therefore 7267, whereas the number of unique burial mounds was 3983. This adds a total of 1111 to the number of listed mounds, equivalent to an increase of 39% or about 1.1 burial mound per km2 of dry land. The mutual correspondence in percentage coverage between mounds recorded from Basic Cover, the 1871 map and the mounds listed in the national database is shown as a graph in figure 5b. It can be seen that 69% of the listed mounds already appeared on the 1871 map prior to the ­national archaeological survey. The effects of various biasing factors, for example scheduled (and thus well preserved) mounds versus ploughed-over examples, are discussed in an assessment of the strengths and weaknesses of Basic Cover as a source. Less than 50% of the mounds listed in the database and appearing on the 1871 map are evident on the aerial photos. However, the photos still make a notable contribution to the record because they “capture” the very faint traces of the almost completely destroyed mounds that were not detected by the surveyors of the other sources. The newly recorded burial mounds have a significantly positive effect on the clarity of the linear structures in the distribution of burial mounds in the area (fig. 6). Based on an hypothetical, but not unsupported, statistic calculation it is ­argued that as much as 80% of the original population of larger burial mounds has been recorded following the present study.The distribution of mounds was ­explored on the basis of agrarian land use categories shown on the Vidensskabernes Selskabs kort (map) from 1800, in order to evaluate the situation prior to the introduction of major agricultural reforms, (fig. 7) .The distribution of the mounds recorded from the various source categories on the different area types is presented in fig. 8a. When only area types heath and open land are taken into consideration it is clear that mounds recorded from Basic Cover are under-represented on heathland, whereas listed mounds and those on the1871 map are under-represented on open land (fig. 8b). The patterns are to be seen in conjunction with the long-term destructive effect of agrarian land use on open land throughout historical times. In order to investigate the effect of vegetation cover on the visibility of mounds on Basic Cover, the areas covered by forest and heath around 1950 have been added to the map. To understand the effect of agrarian land use on the records from the different sources, the open land category has been divided into two further categories, old open land and new open land, respectively. The latter represents the parts of the heath that were reclaimed for cultivation between about 1800 and 1950 (fig. 9). In order to understand the factors influencing visibility on Basic Cover the distribution of mounds has been studied with respect to heath/forest and old open land/new open land (fig. 10a). When attention is turned to the representation of mounds in old open land and new open land it can be seen that there is no significant difference in the distribution of mounds recorded on Basic Cover (fig 10b). This suggests that there was only a small difference in the density of the prehistoric settlement ­between these two areas. Furthermore, it indicates that the under-representation of mounds recorded in the open land on the 1871 map and in the listed mounds in fact mirrors a bias resulting from historic land use rather than an actual prehistoric pattern. The fact that Basic Cover makes its most significant contribution concerning new mounds in the old open land is thought to be a product of the time when photos were taken. When surveyors from the National Museum visited these areas of long-term ploughing in the late 1900s many of the mounds were already too ploughed-out to be recognisable as such. However, due to the late introduction of mechanical cultivation they were still visible as white spots when Basic Cover was executed in 1954. The aerial photos thus constitute a excellent source for supplementing existing records, but due to a weakness in identifying mounds in areas of dense vegetation cover, compensation is naturally only partial (fig. 10c).The project has generated some factual information on Basic Cover as a source for the recording of burial mounds:1. Basic Cover provided an increase of 32% in the number of recorded mounds compared with existing records.2. 45% of the listed mounds could be identified. This illustrates Basic Cover’s weakness in areas with dense vegetation cover. However, mounds have fre­quently already been listed from these areas3. There is a systematic negative bias in the national database concerning listed mounds in the cultivated areas of histor­ically open land.4. Basic Cover provides a good coverage in historically cultivated areas and it can thus productively be used to comp­ensate for this bias in existing records.5. The soils and topography in the study area are ideal for aerial photography and the results can, therefore, not be transferred directly to the rest of the country where conditions may be less ideal. Basic Cover was carried out at a fortuitous time; after the heath had been reclaimed but before mechanical cultivation had fully run its destructive course. The regrettable destruction of monuments had accelerated but was by no means complete. Fortunately, Basic Cover took place at a time when ploughing had exposed the features without destroying then altogether. Systematic recording of mounds from the Original-1 maps is also recommended ­because data from this source can compensate for the biases seen in the listed mounds from the open land. A study of place names connected to mounds has indicated that many more mounds have disappeared from the open land through historical times.Kasper Lambert JohansenDanmarks MiljøundersøgelserAarhus UniversitetSteffen Terp LaursenMoesgård Museum

Through large-scale hydrological simulation, understanding the impact of different climatic and geomorphic conditions on hydrological variables is valuable for water and land management. However, the related study is still a challenge due to strong environmental diversity in large scale region. The physically-based, national-scale hydrological model in China was developed and validated, which considered the spatial heterogeneity of climatic and geomorphic conditions. Using the model, hydrological differences during the period 1956–2020 in 21 representative basins located in nine climatic zones and four geomorphic regions were quantified. Results showed that: 1) mean annual precipitation was strongly positively correlated with mean actual evapotranspiration, and both increased gradually from north to south. Interestingly, as annual precipitation increases, precipitation tended to be more evenly distributed. In recent decades, the northern river basins have been warming and drying, while the Heihe River basin and the cold northeast regions were under climatic warming and wetting; 2) the spatial distribution of streamflow was consistent with precipitation, but their trends were different. In cold regions affected by frozen soil, the streamflow tended to increase. On the contrary, the basins located in the Warm Temperate Zone with intense human activities and fragile ecosystem had a significant decrease in natural streamflow. As for the streamflow components, the frozen soil and karst structures contributed to the increase of the baseflow index (BFI); 3) The streamflow increase or reduction in 86% of the basins was dominated by climate change, as the contribution rate varied from 51.4% to 95.7%. Affected by the Grain to Green Programme, the streamflow of the Weihe River basin reduced significantly while the BFI increased. However, the reduction of forest, grassland and wetland areas dominated streamflow increase in the Huaihe, and Hulan River basins, and the rates were 65.3% and 66.1%, respectively.

An extensive macrophyte field survey of running and standing waters was conducted from 2016 to 2021 at 786 sampling sites across Croatia as a part of the implementation of the Water Framework Directive. This survey is the first to present a comprehensive floristic catalogue of the freshwater bryoflora, along with an analysis of the distribution and diversity patterns on a national level. In all, 83 bryophyte species (68 mosses and 15 liverworts) were recorded in the 228 sites, with average species richness of 4.17 species per site. The most frequent species were Fontinalis antipyretica, Rhynchostegium riparioides, Leptodictyum riparium and Cratoneuron filicinum. The majority of the species encountered were rarely found, with over 70% of species recorded on less than 10 sampling sites and the majority of the species not being truly aquatic, rather being classified as facultative aquatics. The Dinaric Ecoregion, characterised by clean, cold, fast-flowing karstic rivers, especially in the Continental Subecoregion, supported higher freshwater bryophyte diversity than the lowland Pannonian Ecoregion, with mostly slow, eutrophic lowland watercourses with unstable sandy and gravelly alluvial sediments. Chorological comparison of Croatian eco- and subecoregions revealed the expected dominance of circumpolar and European elements, i.e. temperate chorotypes, as well as some biogeographical differences. The most frequent life forms were aquatic trailings and turfs. Amongst the recorded species, perennials and colonists were the most represented life strategies. The analysis of both the life-form and life-strategy spectra showed some differences amongst the Croatian regions, supporting the fact that the Dinaric Ecoregion provides more truly aquatic habitats and microhabitats suitable for the freshwater bryophytes, while in the Pannonian Ecoregion freshwater bryophytes dominantly inhabit the periodically submerged riparian zones, for example shaded lowland forest streams and rivulets or gently sloping margins of rivers and lakes.

Hidden away at the ends of streets, behind suburban parks and community assets, there remain remnants of the coastal wallum heathlands that once stretched from Caloundra to Noosa, in Queensland, Australia. From late July to September, these areas explode with colour, a springtime wonderland of white wedding bush, delicate ground orchids, the pastels and brilliance of pink boronias, purple irises, and the diverse profusion of yellow bush peas. These gifts of nature are still relatively unknown and unappreciated, with most locals, and Australians at large, having little knowledge of the remarkable nature of the wallum, the nutrient-poor sandy soil that can be almost as acidic as battery acid, but which sustains a finely tuned ecosystem that, once cleared, cannot be regrown. These heathlands and woodlands, previously commonplace beyond the beach dunes of the coastal region, are now only found in a number of national parks and reserves, and suburban remnants.Image 1: The author wildflowering and making art (Photo: Judy Barrass)I too was one of those who had no idea of the joys of the wallum and heathland wildflowers, but it was the creative works of Kathleen McArthur and Judith Wright that helped initiate my education, my own wanderings, wildflowering, and love. Learning country has been a multi-faceted experience, extended and tested as walking becomes an embodied encounter, bodies and landscapes entwined (Lund), an imaginative reimagining, creative act and source of inspiration, a form of pilgrimage (Morrison), forging an intimate relationship (Somerville).Image 2: Women wildflowering next to Rainbow Beach (Photo: Susan Davis)Wandering—the experience shares some similar characteristics to walking, but may have less of a sense of direction and destination. It may become an experience that is relational, contemplative, connected to place. Wandering may be transitory but with impact that resonates across years. Such is the case of wandering for McArthur and Wright; the experience became deeply relational but also led to a destabilisation of values, where the walking body became “entangled in monumental historical and social structures” (Heddon and Turner). They called their walking and wandering “wildflowering”. Somerville said of the term: “Wildflowering was a word they created to describe their passion for Australian wildflower and their love of the places where they found them” (Somerville 2). However, wildflowering was also very much about the experience of wandering within nature, of the “art of seeing”, of learning and communing, but also of “doing”.Image 3: Kathleen McArthur and Judith Wright “wildflowering” north of Lake Currimundi. (Photo: Alex Jelinek, courtesy Alexandra Moreno)McArthur defined and described going wildflowering as meaningdifferent things to different people. There are those who, with magnifying glass before their eyes, looking every inch the scientist, count stamens, measure hairs, pigeon-hole all the definitive features neatly in order and scoff at common names. Others bring with them an artistic inclination, noting the colours and shapes and shadows in the intimate and in the general landscape. Then there are those precious few who find poetry in a Helmut Orchid “leaning its ear to the ground”; see “the trigger-flower striking the bee”; find secrets in Sun Orchids; see Irises as “lilac butterflies” and a fox in a Yellow Doubletail…There are as many different ways to approach the “art of seeing” as there are people who think and feel and one way is as worthy as any other to make of it an enjoyably sensuous experience… (McArthur, Australian Wildflowers 52-53)Wildflowering thus extends far beyond the scientific collector and cataloguer of nature; it is about walking and wandering within nature and interacting with it; it is a richly layered experience, an “art”, “a sensuous experience”, “an artistic inclination” where perception may be framed by the poetic.Their wildflowering drove McArthur and Wright to embark on monumental struggles. They became the voice for the voiceless lifeforms within the environment—they typed letters, organised meetings, lobbied politicians, and led community groups. In fact, they often had to leave behind the environments and places that brought them joy to use the tools of culture to protest and protect—to ensure we might be able to appreciate them today. Importantly, both their creativity and the activism were fuelled by the same wellspring: walking, wandering, and wildflowering.Women Wandering and WildfloweringWhen McArthur and Wright met in the early 1950s, they shared some similarities in terms of relatively privileged social backgrounds, their year of birth (1915), and a love of nature. They both had houses named after native plants (“Calanthe” for Wright’s house at Tambourine, “Midyim” for McArthur’s house at Caloundra), and were focussed on their creative endeavours—Wright with her poetry, McArthur with her wildflower painting and writing. Wright was by then well established as a highly regarded literary figure on the Australian scene. Her book of poetry The Moving Image (1946) had been well received, and later publications further consolidated her substance and presence on the national literary landscape. McArthur had been raised as the middle daughter of a prominent Queensland family; her father was Daniel Evans, of Evans Deakin Industries, and her mother “Kit” was a daughter of one of the pastoral Durack clan. Kathleen had married and given birth to three children, but by the 1950s was exploring new futures and identities, having divorced her husband and made a home for her family at Caloundra on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast. She had time and space in her life to devote to her own pursuits and some financial means provided through her inheritance to finance such endeavours.Wright and McArthur met in 1951 after McArthur sent Wright a children’s book for Judith and Jack McKinney’s daughter Meredith. The book was by McArthur’s cousins, Mary Durack (of Kings in Grass Castles fame) and Elizabeth Durack. Wright subsequently invited McArthur to visit her at Tambourine and from that visit their friendship quickly blossomed. While both women were to become known as high-profile nature lovers and conservationists, Wright acknowledges that it was McArthur who helped “train her eye” and cultivated her appreciation of the wildflowers of south-east Queensland:There are times in one’s past which remain warm and vivid, and can be taken out and looked at, so to speak, with renewed pleasure. Such, for me, were my first meetings in the early 1950s with Kathleen McArthur, and our continuing friendship. They brought me joys of discovery, new knowledge, and shared appreciation. Those “wild-flowering days” at Tamborine Mountain, Caloundra, Noosa or Lake Cootharaba, when I was able to wander with her, helped train my own eye a little to her ways of seeing and her devotion to the flowers of the coast, the mountains, and the wallum plains and swamps. (Wright quoted in McArthur, Australian Wildflowers 7)It was through this wandering and wildflowering that their friendship was forged, their knowledge of the plants and landscape grew and their passion was ignited. These acts of wandering were ones where feelings and the senses were engaged and celebrated. McArthur was to document her experiences of these environments through her wildflower paintings, cards, prints, weekly articles in the local newspapers, and books featuring Queensland and Australian Wildflowers (McArthur, Queensland Wildflowers; Living; Bush; Australian Wildflowers). Wright wrote a range of poems featuring landscapes and flora from the coastal experiences and doubtless influenced by their wildflowering experiences. These included, for example, Judith Wright’s poems “Wildflower Plain”, “Wonga Vine”, “Nameless Flower”, and “Sandy Swamp” (Collected Works).Through these acts of wildflowering, walking, and wandering, McArthur and Wright were drawn into activism and became what I call “wild/flower” women: women who cared for country, who formed a deep connection and intimate relationship with nature, with the more-than-human world; women who saw themselves not separate from nature but part of the great cycles of life, growth, death, and renewal; women whose relationship to the country, to the wildflowers and other living things was expressed through drawing, painting, poetry, stories, and performances—but that love driving them also to actions—actions to nurture and protect those wildflowers, places, and living things. This intimate relationship with nature was such that it inspired them to become “wild”, at times branded difficult, prompted to speak out, and step up to assume high profile roles on the public stage—and all because of their love of the small, humble, and often unseen.Wandering into Activism A direct link between “wildflowering” and activism can be identified in key experiences from 1953. That was the year McArthur devoted to “wildflowering”, visiting locations across the Sunshine Coast and South-East Queensland, documenting all that was flowering at different times of the year (McArthur, Living 15). She kept a monthly journal and also engaged in extensive drawing and painting. She was joined by Wright and her family for some of these trips, including one that would become a “monumental” expedition. They explored the area around Noosa and happened to climb to the top of Mt Tinbeerwah. Unlike many of the other volcanic plugs of the Sunshine Coast that would not be an easy climb for a family with young children, Tinbeerwah is a small volcanic peak, close to the road that runs between Cooroy and Tewantin, and one that is a relatively easy walk. From the car park, the trail takes you over volcanic lava flows, a pathway appearing, disappearing, winding through native grasses, modest height trees and to the edge of a dramatic cliff (one now popular with abseilers and adventurers). The final stretch brings you out above the trees to stunning 360-degree views, other volcanic peaks, a string of lakes and waterways, the patchwork greens of farmlands, distant blue oceans, and an expanse of bushland curving north for miles. Both women wrote about the experience and its subsequent significance: When Meredith was four years old, Kathleen McArthur, who was a great wildflower enthusiast and had become a good friend, invited us to join her on a wildflower expedition to the sand-plains north of Noosa. There the Noosa River spread itself out into sand-bottomed lakes between which the river meandered so slowly that everywhere the sky was serenely mirrored in it, trees hung low over it, birds haunted them.Kathleen took her little car, we took our converted van, and drove up the narrow unsealed road beyond Noosa. Once through the dunes—where the low bush-cover was white with wedding-bush and yellow with guinea-flower vines—the plains began, with many and mingled colours and scents. It was spring, and it welcomed us joyfully. (Wright, Half 279-280)McArthur also wrote about this event and its importance, as they both realised that this was territory that was worth protecting for posterity: ‘it was obvious that this was great wildflower country in addition to having a fascinating system of sand mass with related river and lakes. It would make a unique national park’ (McArthur, Living 53). After this experience, Kathleen and Judith began initial inquiries to find out about how to progress ideas for forming a national park (McArthur, Living). Brady affirms that it was Kathleen who first “broached the idea of agitating to have the area around Cooloola declared a National Park” (Brady 182), and it was Judith who then made inquiries in Brisbane on their way back to Mount Tambourine:Judith took the idea to Romeo Lahey of the National Parks Association who told her it was not threatened in any way whereas there were important areas of rainforest that were, and his association gave priority to those. If he had but known, it was threatened. The minerals sands prospectors were about to arrive, if not already in there. (McArthur, Living 53)These initial investigations were put on hold as the pair pursued their “private lives” and raised their children (McArthur, Living), but reignited throughout the 1960s. In 1962, McArthur and Wright were to become founding members of the Wildlife Preservation Society of Queensland (along with David Fleay and Brian Clouston), and Cooloola was to become one of one of their major campaigns (McArthur, Living 32). This came to the fore when they discovered there were multiple sand mining leases pending across the Cooloola region. It was at McArthur’s suggestion that a national postcard campaign was launched in 1969, with their organisation sending over 100,000 postcards across Australia to then be sent back to Joh Bjelke Peterson, the notoriously pro-development, conservative Queensland Premier. This is acknowledged as Australia’s first postcard campaign and was reported in national newspapers; The Australian called the Caloundra branch of WPSQ one of the “most militant cells” in Australia (25 May 1970). This was likely because of the extent of the WPSQ communications across media channels and persistence in taking on high profile critics, including the mining companies.It was to be another five years of campaigning before the national park was declared in 1975 (then named Cooloola National Park, now part of the Great Sandy). Wright was to then leave Queensland to live on a property near Braidwood (on the Southern Tablelands of New South Wales) and in a different political climate. However, McArthur stayed in Caloundra, maintaining her deep commitment to place and country, keeping on walking and wandering, painting, and writing. She campaigned to protect beach dunes, lobbied to have Pumicestone Passage added to the national heritage register (McArthur, Pumicestone), and fought to prevent the creation of canal estates on the Pumicestone passage. Following the pattern of previous campaigns, she engaged in detailed research, drawing on expertise nationally and internationally, and writing many submissions, newspaper columns, and letters.McArthur also advocated for the plants, the places, and forms of knowing that she loved, calling for “clear thinking and deep feeling” that would enable people to see, value, and care as she did, notably saying:Because our flowers have never settled into our consciousness they are not seen. People can drive through square miles of colourful, massed display of bloom and simply not see it. It is only when the mind opens that the flowers bloom. (McArthur, Bush 2)Her belief was that once you walked the country and could “see”, become familiar with, and fall in love with the wildflowers and their environment, you could not then stand by and see what you love destroyed. Her conservation activities and activism arose and was fed through her wildflowering and the deep knowledge and connections that were formed.Wildflowering and Wanderings of My OwnSo, what we can learn from McArthur and Wright, from our wild/flower women, their wanderings, and wildflowering?Over the past few years, I have walked the wallum country that they loved, recited their poetry, shared their work with others, walked with women in the present accompanied by resonances of the past. I have shared these experiences with friends, artists, and nature lovers. While wandering with one group of women one day, we discovered that a patch of wallum behind Sunshine Beach was due to be cleared for an aged care development. It is full of casuarina food trees visited by the endangered Glossy Black Cockatoos, but it is also full of old wallum banksias, a tree I have come to love, influenced in part by writing and art by McArthur, and my experiences of “wildflowering”.Banksia aemula—the wallum banksia—stands tall, often one of the tallest trees of our coastal heathlands and after which the wallum was named. A range of sources, including McArthur herself, identify the source of the tree’s name as an Aboriginal word:It is an Aboriginal word some say applied to all species of Banksia, and others say to Banksia aemula. The wallum, being up to the present practically useless for commercial purposes provides our best wildflower shows… (McArthur, Queensland Wildflowers 2)Gnarled, textured bark—soft grey and warm red browns, in parts almost fur—the flower heads, when young, feed the small birds and honeyeaters; the bees collect nectar to make honey. And the older heads—remnants on the ground left by glorious black cockatoos, whose beaks, the perfect pliers, crack pods open to recover the hidden seeds. In summer, as the new flowers burst open, every stage of the flower stem cycle is on show. The trees often stand together like familiar friends gossiping, providing shelter; they are protective, nurturing. Banksia aemula is a tree that, according to Thomas Petrie’s reminiscence of “early” Queensland, was significant to Aboriginal women, and might be “owned” by certain women:but certain men and women owned different fruit or flower-trees and shrubs. For instance, a man could own a bon-yi (Auaurcaria Bidwilli) tree, and a woman a minti (Banksia aemula)… (Petrie, Reminiscences 148)Banksia, wallum, women… the connection has existed for millennia. Women walking country, talking, observing, collecting, communing—and this tree was special to them as it has become for me. Who knows how old those trees are in that patch of forest and who may have been their custodians.Do I care about this? Yes, I do. How did I come to care? Through walking, through “wildflowering”, through stories, art, and experience. My connections have been forged by nature and culture, seeing McArthur’s art and reading Wright’s words, through walking the country with women, learning to know, and sharing a wildflowering culture. But knowing isn’t enough: wandering and wondering, has led to something more because now I care; now we must act. Along with some of the women I walked with, we have investigated council records; written to, and called, politicians and the developer; formed a Facebook group; met with various experts; and proposed alternatives. However, our efforts have not met with success as the history of the development application and approval was old and complex. Through wandering and “wildflowering”, we have had the opportunity to both lose ourselves and find ourselves, to escape, to learn, to discover. However, such acts are not necessarily aimless or lacking direction. As connections are forged, care and concern grows, and acts can shift from the humble and mundane, into the intentional and deliberate. The art of seeing and poetic perceptions may even transform into ecological action, with ramifications that can be both significant monumental. Such may be the power of “wildflowering”.ReferencesBrady, Veronica. South of My Days: A Biography of Judith Wright. Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1998.Heddon, Deirdre and Cathy Turner. “Walking Women: Shifting the Tales and Scales of Mobility.” Contemporary Theatre Review 22.2 (2012): 224–236.Lund, Katrín. “Landscapes and Narratives: Compositions and the Walking Body.” Landscape Research 37.2 (2012): 225–237.McArthur, Kathleen. Queensland Wildflowers: A Selection. Brisbane: Jacaranda Press, 1959.———. The Bush in Bloom: A Wildflower Artist’s Year in Paintings and Words. Sydney: Kangaroo Press, 1982.———. Pumicestone Passage: A Living Waterway. Caloundra: Kathleen McArthur, 1978.———. Looking at Australian Wildflowers. Sydney: Kangaroo Press, 1986.———. Living on the Coast. Sydney: Kangaroo Press, 1989.Morrison, Susan Signe. “Walking as Memorial Ritual: Pilgrimage to the Past.” M/C Journal 21.4 (2018). 12 Aug. 2019 <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/1437>.Petrie, Constance Campbell, and Tom Petrie. Tom Petrie’s Reminiscences of Early Queensland. 4th ed. Brisbane: University of Queensland Press, 1992. Somerville, Margaret. Wildflowering: The Life and Places of Kathleen McArthur. Brisbane: University of Queensland Press, 2004.Wright, Judith. Collected Poems: 1942 to 1985. Sydney: Harper Collins, 2016.———. Half a Lifetime. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 1999.

IntroductionRegional identity is a constant construction, in which landscape, human activity and cultural imaginary build a narrative of place. For the Tasmanian Midlands, the interactions between history, ecology and agriculture both define place and present problems in how to recognise, communicate and balance these interactions. In this sense, regionality is defined not so much as a relation of margin to centre, but as a specific accretion of environmental and cultural histories. According weight to more-than-human perspectives, a region can be seen as a constellation of plant, animal and human interactions and demands, where creative art and design can make space and give voice to the dynamics of exchange between the landscape and its inhabitants. Consideration of three recent art and design projects based in the Midlands reveal the potential for cross-disciplinary research, embedded in both environment and community, to create distinctive and specific forms of connectivity that articulate a regional identify.The Tasmanian Midlands have been identified as a biodiversity hotspot (Australian Government), with a long history of Aboriginal cultural management disrupted by colonial invasion. Recent archaeological work in the Midlands, including the Kerry Lodge Archaeology and Art Project, has focused on the use of convict labour during the nineteenth century in opening up the Midlands for settler agriculture and transport. Now, the Midlands are placed under increasing pressure by changing agricultural practices such as large-scale irrigation. At the same time as this intensification of agricultural activity, significant progress has been made in protecting, preserving and restoring endemic ecologies. This progress has come through non-government conservation organisations, especially Greening Australia and their program Tasmanian Island Ark, and private landowners placing land under conservation covenants. These pressures and conservation activities give rise to research opportunities in the biological sciences, but also pose challenges in communicating the value of conservation and research outcomes to a wider public. The Species Hotel project, beginning in 2016, engaged with the aims of restoration ecology through speculative design while The Marathon Project, a multi-year curatorial art project based on a single property that contains both conservation and commercially farmed zones.This article questions the role of regionality in these three interconnected projects—Kerry Lodge, Species Hotel, and Marathon—sited in the Tasmanian Midlands: the three projects share a concern with the specificities of the region through engagement with specifics sites and their histories and ecologies, while also acknowledging the forces that shape these sites as far more mobile and global in scope. It also considers the interdisciplinary nature of these projects, in the crossover of art and design with ecological, archaeological and agricultural practices of measuring and intervening in the land, where communication and interpretation may be in tension with functionality. These projects suggest ways of working that connect the ecological and the cultural spheres; importantly, they see rural locations as sites of knowledge production; they test the value of small-scale and ephemeral interventions to explore the place of art and design as intervention within colonised landscape.Regions are also defined by overlapping circles of control, interest, and authority. We test the claim that these projects, which operate through cross-disciplinary collaboration and network with a range of stakeholders and community groups, successfully benefit the region in which they are placed. We are particularly interested in the challenges of working across institutions which both claim and enact connections to the region without being centred there. These projects are initiatives resulting from, or in collaboration with, University of Tasmania, an institution that has taken a recent turn towards explicitly identifying as place-based yet the placement of the Midlands as the gap between campuses risks attenuating the institution’s claim to be of this place. Paul Carter, in his discussion of a regional, site-specific collaboration in Alice Springs, flags how processes of creative place-making—operating through mythopoetic and story-based strategies—requires a concrete rather than imagined community that actively engages a plurality of voices on the ground. We identify similar concerns in these art and design projects and argue that iterative and long-term creative projects enable a deeper grappling with the complexities of shared regional place-making. The Midlands is aptly named: as a region, it is defined by its geographical constraints and relationships to urban centres. Heading south from the northern city of Launceston, travellers on the Midland Highway see scores of farming properties networking continuously for around 175 kilometres south to the outskirts of Brighton, the last major township before the Tasmanian capital city of Hobart. The town of Ross straddles latitude 42 degrees south—a line that has historically divided Tasmania into the divisions of North and South. The region is characterised by extensive agricultural usage and small remnant patches of relatively open dry sclerophyll forest and lowland grassland enabled by its lower attitude and relatively flatter terrain. The Midlands sit between the mountainous central highlands of the Great Western Tiers and the Eastern Tiers, a continuous range of dolerite hills lying south of Ben Lomond that slope coastward to the Tasman Sea. This area stretches far beyond the view of the main highway, reaching east in the Deddington and Fingal valleys. Campbell Town is the primary stopping point for travellers, superseding the bypassed towns, which have faced problems with lowering population and resulting loss of facilities.Image 1: Southern Midland Landscape, Ross, Tasmania, 2018. Image Credit: Patrick Sutczak.Predominantly under private ownership, the Tasmanian Midlands are a contested and fractured landscape existing in a state of ecological tension that has occurred with the dominance of western agriculture. For over 200 years, farmers have continually shaped the land and carved it up into small fragments for different agricultural agendas, and this has resulted in significant endemic species decline (Mitchell et al.). The open vegetation was the product of cultural management of land by Tasmanian Aboriginal communities (Gammage), attractive to settlers during their distribution of land grants prior to the 1830s and a focus for settler violence. As documented cartographically in the Centre for 21st Century Humanities’ Colonial Frontier Massacres in Central and Eastern Australia 1788–1930, the period 1820–1835, and particularly during the Black War, saw the Midlands as central to the violent dispossession of Aboriginal landowners. Clements argues that the culture of violence during this period also reflected the brutalisation that the penal system imposed upon its subjects. The cultivation of agricultural land throughout the Midlands was enabled by the provision of unfree convict labour (Dillon). Many of the properties granted and established during the colonial period have been held in multi-generational family ownership through to the present.Within this patchwork of private ownership, the tension between visibility and privacy of the Midlands pastures and farmlands challenges the capacity for people to understand what role the Midlands plays in the greater Tasmanian ecology. Although half of Tasmania’s land areas are protected as national parks and reserves, the Midlands remains largely unprotected due to private ownership. When measured against Tasmania’s wilderness values and reputation, the dry pasturelands of the Midland region fail to capture an equivalent level of visual and experiential imagination. Jamie Kirkpatrick describes misconceptions of the Midlands when he writes of “[f]latness, dead and dying eucalypts, gorse, brown pastures, salt—environmental devastation […]—these are the common impression of those who first travel between Spring Hill and Launceston on the Midland Highway” (45). However, Kirkpatrick also emphasises the unique intimate and intricate qualities of this landscape, and its underlying resilience. In the face of the loss of paddock trees and remnants to irrigation, change in species due to pasture enrichment and introduction of new plant species, conservation initiatives that not only protect but also restore habitat are vital. The Tasmanian Midlands, then, are pastoral landscapes whose seeming monotonous continuity glosses over the radical changes experienced in the processes of colonisation and intensification of agriculture.Underlying the Present: Archaeology and Landscape in the Kerry Lodge ProjectThe major marker of the Midlands is the highway that bisects it. Running from Hobart to Launceston, the construction of a “great macadamised highway” (Department of Main Roads 10) between 1820–1850, and its ongoing maintenance, was a significant colonial project. The macadam technique, a nineteenth century innovation in road building which involved the laying of small pieces of stone to create a surface that was relatively water and frost resistant, required considerable but unskilled labour. The construction of the bridge at Kerry Lodge, in 1834–35, was simultaneous with significant bridge buildings at other major water crossings on the highway, (Department of Main Roads 16) and, as the first water crossing south of Launceston, was a pinch-point through which travel of prisoners could be monitored and controlled. Following the completion of the bridge, the site was used to house up to 60 male convicts in a road gang undergoing secondary punishment (1835–44) and then in a labour camp and hiring depot until 1847. At the time of the La Trobe report (1847), the buildings were noted as being in bad condition (Brand 142–43). After the station was disbanded, the use of the buildings reverted to the landowners for use in accommodation and agricultural storage.Archaeological research at Kerry Lodge, directed by Eleanor Casella, investigated the spatial and disciplinary structures of smaller probation and hiring depots and the living and working conditions of supervisory staff. Across three seasons (2015, 2016, 2018), the emerging themes of discipline and control and as well as labour were borne out by excavations across the site, focusing on remnants of buildings close to the bridge. This first season also piloted the co-presence of a curatorial art project, which grew across the season to include eleven practitioners in visual art, theatre and poetry, and three exhibition outcomes. As a crucial process for the curatorial art project, creative practitioners spent time on site as participants and observers, which enabled the development of responses that interrogated the research processes of archaeological fieldwork as well as making connections to the wider historical and cultural context of the site. Immersed in the mundane tasks of archaeological fieldwork, the practitioners involved became simultaneously focused on repetitive actions while contemplating the deep time contained within earth. This experience then informed the development of creative works interrogating embodied processes as a language of site.The outcome from the first fieldwork season was earthspoke, an exhibition shown at Sawtooth, an artist-run initiative in Launceston in 2015, and later re-installed in Franklin House, a National Trust property in the southern suburbs of Launceston.Images 2 and 3: earthspoke, 2015, Installation View at Sawtooth ARI (top) and Franklin House (bottom). Image Credits: Melanie de Ruyter.This recontextualisation of the work, from contemporary ARI (artist run initiative) gallery to National Trust property enabled the project to reach different audiences but also raised questions about the emphases that these exhibition contexts placed on the work. Within the white cube space of the contemporary gallery, connections to site became more abstracted while the educational and heritage functions of the National Trust property added further context and unintended connotations to the art works.Image 4: Strata, 2017, Installation View. Image Credit: Karen Hall.The two subsequent exhibitions, Lines of Site (2016) and Strata (2017), continued to test the relationship between site and gallery, through works that rematerialised the absences on site and connected embodied experiences of convict and archaeological labour. The most recent iteration of the project, Strata, part of the Ten Days on the Island art festival in 2017, involved installing works at the site, marking with their presence the traces, fragments and voids that had been reburied when the landscape returned to agricultural use following the excavations. Here, the interpretive function of the works directly addressed the layered histories of the landscape and underscored the scope of the human interventions and changes over time within the pastoral landscape. The interpretative role of the artworks formed part of a wider, multidisciplinary approach to research and communication within the project. University of Manchester archaeology staff and postgraduate students directed the excavations, using volunteers from the Launceston Historical Society. Staff from Launceston’s Queen Victorian Museum and Art Gallery brought their archival and collection-based expertise to the site rather than simply receiving stored finds as a repository, supporting immediate interpretation and contextualisation of objects. In 2018, participation from the University of Tasmania School of Education enabled a larger number of on-site educational activities than afforded by previous open days. These multi-disciplinary and multi-organisational networks, drawn together provisionally in a shared time and place, provided rich opportunities for dialogue. However, the challenges of sustaining these exchanges have meant ongoing collaborations have become more sporadic, reflecting different institutional priorities and competing demands on participants. Even within long-term projects, continued engagement with stakeholders can be a challenge: while enabling an emerging and concrete sense of community, the time span gives greater vulnerability to external pressures. Making Home: Ecological Restoration and Community Engagement in the Species Hotel ProjectImages 5 and 6: Selected Species Hotels, Ross, Tasmania, 2018. Image Credits: Patrick Sutczak. The Species Hotels stand sentinel over a river of saplings, providing shelter for animal communities within close range of a small town. At the township of Ross in the Southern Midlands, work was initiated by restoration ecologists to address the lack of substantial animal shelter belts on a number of major properties in the area. The Tasmania Island Ark is a major Greening Australia restoration ecology initiative, connecting 6000 hectares of habitat across the Midlands. Linking larger forest areas in the Eastern Tiers and Central Highlands as well as isolated patches of remnant native vegetation, the Ark project is vital to the ongoing survival of local plant and animal species under pressure from human interventions and climate change. With fragmentation of bush and native grasslands in the Midland landscape resulting in vast open plains, the ability for animals to adapt to pasturelands without shelter has resulted in significant decline as animals such as the critically endangered Eastern Barred Bandicoot struggle to feed, move, and avoid predators (Cranney). In 2014 mass plantings of native vegetation were undertaken along 16km of the serpentine Macquarie River as part of two habitat corridors designed to bring connectivity back to the region. While the plantings were being established a public art project was conceived that would merge design with practical application to assist animals in the area, and draw community and public attention to the work that was being done in re-establishing native forests. The Species Hotel project, which began in 2016, emerged from a collaboration between Greening Australia and the University of Tasmania’s School of Architecture and Design, the School of Land and Food, the Tasmanian College of the Arts and the ARC Centre for Forest Value, with funding from the Ian Potter Foundation. The initial focus of the project was the development of interventions in the landscape that could address the specific habitat needs of the insect, small mammal, and bird species that are under threat. First-year Architecture students were invited to design a series of structures with the brief that they would act as ‘Species Hotels’, and once created would be installed among the plantings as structures that could be inhabited or act as protection. After installation, the privately-owned land would be reconfigured so to allow public access and observation of the hotels, by residents and visitors alike. Early in the project’s development, a concern was raised during a Ross community communication and consultation event that the surrounding landscape and its vistas would be dramatically altered with the re-introduced forest. While momentary and resolved, a subtle yet obvious tension surfaced that questioned the re-writing of an established community’s visual landscape literacy by non-residents. Compact and picturesque, the architectural, historical and cultural qualities of Ross and its location were not only admired by residents, but established a regional identity. During the six-week intensive project, the community reach was expanded beyond the institution and involved over 100 people including landowners, artists, scientists and school children from the region (Wright), attempting to address and channel the concerns of residents about the changing landscape. The multiple timescales of this iterative project—from intensive moments of collaboration between stakeholders to the more-than-human time of tree growth—open spaces for regional identity to shift as both as place and community. Part of the design brief was the use of fully biodegradable materials: the Species Hotels are not expected to last forever. The actual installation of the Species Hotelson site took longer than planned due to weather conditions, but once on site they were weathering in, showing signs of insect and bird habitation. This animal activity created an opportunity for ongoing engagement. Further activities generated from the initial iteration of Species Hotel were the Species Hotel Day in 2017, held at the Ross Community Hall where presentations by scientists and designers provided feedback to the local community and presented opportunities for further design engagement in the production of ephemeral ‘species seed pies’ placed out in and around Ross. Architecture and Design students have gone on to develop more examples of ‘ecological furniture’ with a current focus on insect housing as well as extrapolating from the installation of the Species Hotels to generate a VR visualisation of the surrounding landscape, game design and participatory movement work that was presented as part of the Junction Arts Festival program in Launceston, 2017. The intersections of technologies and activities amplified the lived in and living qualities of the Species Hotels, not only adding to the connectivity of social and environmental actions on site and beyond, but also making a statement about the shared ownership this project enabled.Working Property: Collaboration and Dialogues in The Marathon Project The potential of iterative projects that engage with environmental concerns amid questions of access, stewardship and dialogue is also demonstrated in The Marathon Project, a collaborative art project that took place between 2015 and 2017. Situated in the Northern Midland region of Deddington alongside the banks of the Nile River the property of Marathon became the focal point for a small group of artists, ecologists and theorists to converge and engage with a pastoral landscape over time that was unfamiliar to many of them. Through a series of weekend camps and day trips, the participants were able to explore and follow their own creative and investigative agendas. The project was conceived by the landowners who share a passion for the history of the area, their land, and ideas of custodianship and ecological responsibility. The intentions of the project initially were to inspire creative work alongside access, engagement and dialogue about land, agriculture and Deddington itself. As a very small town on the Northern Midland fringe, Deddington is located toward the Eastern Tiers at the foothills of the Ben Lomond mountain ranges. Historically, Deddington is best known as the location of renowned 19th century landscape painter John Glover’s residence, Patterdale. After Glover’s death in 1849, the property steadily fell into disrepair and a recent private restoration effort of the home, studio and grounds has seen renewed interest in the cultural significance of the region. With that in mind, and with Marathon a neighbouring property, participants in the project were able to experience the area and research its past and present as a part of a network of working properties, but also encouraging conversation around the region as a contested and documented place of settlement and subsequent violence toward the Aboriginal people. Marathon is a working property, yet also a vital and fragile ecosystem. Marathon consists of 1430 hectares, of which around 300 lowland hectares are currently used for sheep grazing. The paddocks retain their productivity, function and potential to return to native grassland, while thickets of gorse are plentiful, an example of an invasive species difficult to control. The rest of the property comprises eucalypt woodlands and native grasslands that have been protected under a conservation covenant by the landowners since 2003. The Marathon creek and the Nile River mark the boundary between the functional paddocks and the uncultivated hills and are actively managed in the interface between native and introduced species of flora and fauna. This covenant aimed to preserve these landscapes, linking in with a wider pattern of organisations and landowners attempting to address significant ecological degradation and isolation of remnant bushland patches through restoration ecology. Measured against the visibility of Tasmania’s wilderness identity on the national and global stage, many of the ecological concerns affecting the Midlands go largely unnoticed. The Marathon Project was as much a project about visibility and communication as it was about art and landscape. Over the three years and with its 17 participants, The Marathon Project yielded three major exhibitions along with numerous public presentations and research outputs. The length of the project and the autonomy and perspectives of its participants allowed for connections to be formed, conversations initiated, and greater exposure to the productivity and sustainability complexities playing out on rural Midland properties. Like Kerry Lodge, the 2015 first year exhibition took place at Sawtooth ARI. The exhibition was a testing ground for artists, and a platform for audiences, to witness the cross-disciplinary outputs of work inspired by a single sheep grazing farm. The interest generated led to the rethinking of the 2016 exhibition and the need to broaden the scope of what the landowners and participants were trying to achieve. Image 7: Panel Discussion at Open Weekend, 2016. Image Credit: Ron Malor.In November 2016, The Marathon Project hosted an Open Weekend on the property encouraging audiences to visit, meet the artists, the landowners, and other invited guests from a number of restoration, conservation, and rehabilitation organisations. Titled Encounter, the event and accompanying exhibition displayed in the shearing shed, provided an opportunity for a rhizomatic effect with the public which was designed to inform and disseminate historical and contemporary perspectives of land and agriculture, access, ownership, visitation and interpretation. Concluding with a final exhibition in 2017 at the University of Tasmania’s Academy Gallery, The Marathon Project had built enough momentum to shape and inform the practice of its participants, the knowledge and imagination of the public who engaged with it, and make visible the precarity of the cultural and rural Midland identity.Image 8. Installation View of The Marathon Project Exhibition, 2017. Image Credit: Patrick Sutczak.ConclusionThe Marathon Project, Species Hotel and the Kerry Lodge Archaeology and Art Project all demonstrate the potential of site-based projects to articulate and address concerns that arise from the environmental and cultural conditions and histories of a region. Beyond the Midland fence line is a complex environment that needed to be experienced to be understood. Returning creative work to site, and opening up these intensified experiences of place to a public forms a key stage in all these projects. Beyond a commitment to site-specific practice and valuing the affective and didactic potential of on-site installation, these returns grapple with issues of access, visibility and absence that characterise the Midlands. Paul Carter describes his role in the convening of a “concretely self-realising creative community” in an initiative to construct a meeting-place in Alice Springs, a community defined and united in “its capacity to imagine change as a negotiation between past, present and future” (17). Within that regional context, storytelling, as an encounter between histories and cultures, became crucial in assembling a community that could in turn materialise story into place. In these Midlands projects, a looser assembly of participants with shared interests seek to engage with the intersections of plant, human and animal activities that constitute and negotiate the changing environment. The projects enabled moments of connection, of access, and of intervention: always informed by the complexities of belonging within regional locations.These projects also suggest the need to recognise the granularity of regionalism: the need to be attentive to the relations of site to bioregion, of private land to small town to regional centre. The numerous partnerships that allow such interconnect projects to flourish can be seen as a strength of regional areas, where proximity and scale can draw together sets of related institutions, organisations and individuals. However, the tensions and gaps within these projects reveal differing priorities, senses of ownership and even regional belonging. Questions of who will live with these project outcomes, who will access them, and on what terms, reveal inequalities of power. Negotiations of this uneven and uneasy terrain require a more nuanced account of projects that do not rely on the geographical labelling of regions to paper over the complexities and fractures within the social environment.These projects also share a commitment to the intersection of the social and natural environment. They recognise the inextricable entanglement of human and more than human agencies in shaping the landscape, and material consequences of colonialism and agricultural intensification. Through iteration and duration, the projects mobilise processes that are responsive and reflective while being anchored to the materiality of site. Warwick Mules suggests that “regions are a mixture of data and earth, historically made through the accumulation and condensation of material and informational configurations”. Cross-disciplinary exchanges enable all three projects to actively participate in data production, not interpretation or illustration afterwards. Mules’ call for ‘accumulation’ and ‘configuration’ as productive regional modes speaks directly to the practice-led methodologies employed by these projects. The Kerry Lodge and Marathon projects collect, arrange and transform material taken from each site to provisionally construct a regional material language, extended further in the dual presentation of the projects as off-site exhibitions and as interventions returning to site. The Species Hotel project shares that dual identity, where materials are chosen for their ability over time, habitation and decay to become incorporated into the site yet, through other iterations of the project, become digital presences that nonetheless invite an embodied engagement.These projects centre the Midlands as fertile ground for the production of knowledge and experiences that are distinctive and place-based, arising from the unique qualities of this place, its history and its ongoing challenges. Art and design practice enables connectivity to plant, animal and human communities, utilising cross-disciplinary collaborations to bring together further accumulations of the region’s intertwined cultural and ecological landscape.ReferencesAustralian Government Department of the Environment and Energy. Biodiversity Conservation. Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia, 2018. 1 Apr. 2019 <http://www.environment.gov.au/biodiversity/conservation>.Brand, Ian. The Convict Probation System: Van Diemen’s Land 1839–1854. Sandy Bay: Blubber Head Press, 1990.Carter, Paul. “Common Patterns: Narratives of ‘Mere Coincidence’ and the Production of Regions.” Creative Communities: Regional Inclusion & the Arts. Eds. Janet McDonald and Robert Mason. Bristol: Intellect, 2015. 13–30.Centre for 21st Century Humanities. Colonial Frontier Massacres in Central and Eastern Australia 1788–1930. Newcastle: Centre for 21st Century Humanitie, n.d. 1 Apr. 2019 <https://c21ch.newcastle.edu.au/colonialmassacres/>.Clements, Nicholas. The Black War: Fear, Sex and Resistance in Tasmania. St Lucia: U of Queensland P, 2014. Cranney, Kate. Ecological Science in the Tasmanian Midlands. Melbourne: Bush Heritage Australia, 2016. 1 Apr. 2019 <https://www.bushheritage.org.au/blog/ecological-science-in-the-tasmanian-midlands>.Davidson N. “Tasmanian Northern Midlands Restoration Project.” EMR Summaries, Journal of Ecological Management & Restoration, 2016. 10 Apr. 2019 <https://site.emrprojectsummaries.org/2016/03/07/tasmanian-northern-midlands-restoration-project/>.Department of Main Roads, Tasmania. Convicts & Carriageways: Tasmanian Road Development until 1880. Hobart: Tasmanian Government Printer, 1988.Dillon, Margaret. “Convict Labour and Colonial Society in the Campbell Town Police District: 1820–1839.” PhD Thesis. U of Tasmania, 2008. <https://eprints.utas.edu.au/7777/>.Gammage, Bill. The Biggest Estate on Earth: How Aborigines Made Australia. Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin, 2012.Greening Australia. Building Species Hotels, 2016. 1 Apr. 2019 <https://www.greeningaustralia.org.au/projects/building-species-hotels/>.Kerry Lodge Archaeology and Art Project. Kerry Lodge Convict Site. 10 Mar. 2019 <http://kerrylodge.squarespace.com/>.Kirkpatrick, James. “Natural History.” Midlands Bushweb, The Nature of the Midlands. Ed. Jo Dean. Longford: Midlands Bushweb, 2003. 45–57.Mitchell, Michael, Michael Lockwood, Susan Moore, and Sarah Clement. “Building Systems-Based Scenario Narratives for Novel Biodiversity Futures in an Agricultural Landscape.” Landscape and Urban Planning 145 (2016): 45–56.Mules, Warwick. “The Edges of the Earth: Critical Regionalism as an Aesthetics of the Singular.” Transformations 12 (2005). 1 Mar. 2019 <http://transformationsjournal.org/journal/issue_12/article_03.shtml>.The Marathon Project. <http://themarathonproject.virb.com/home>.University of Tasmania. Strategic Directions, Nov. 2018. 1 Mar. 2019 <https://www.utas.edu.au/vc/strategic-direction>.Wright L. “University of Tasmania Students Design ‘Species Hotels’ for Tasmania’s Wildlife.” Architecture AU 24 Oct. 2016. 1 Apr. 2019 <https://architectureau.com/articles/university-of-tasmania-students-design-species-hotels-for-tasmanias-wildlife/>.

All history of this area and the general talk and all of that is that 1973 was a turning point and the Aquarius Festival is credited with having turned this region around in so many ways, but I think that is a myth ... and I have to honour the truth; and the truth is that old Dicke Donelly came and did a Welcome to Country the night before the festival. (Joseph in Joseph and Hanley)In 1973 the Australian Union of Students (AUS) held the Aquarius Arts and Lifestyle Festival in a small, rural New South Wales town called Nimbin. The festival was seen as the peak expression of Australian counterculture and is attributed to creating the “Rainbow Region”, an area with a concentration of alternative life stylers in Northern NSW (Derrett 28). While the Aquarius Festival is recognised as a founding historical and countercultural event, the unique and important relationships established with Indigenous people at this time are generally less well known. This article investigates claims that the 1973 Aquarius Festival was “the first event in Australian history that sought permission for the use of the land from the Traditional Owners” (Joseph and Hanley). The diverse international, national and local conditions that coalesced at the Aquarius Festival suggest a fertile environment was created for reconciliatory bonds to develop. Often dismissed as a “tree hugging, soap dodging movement,” the counterculture was radically politicised having sprung from the 1960s social revolutions when the world witnessed mass demonstrations that confronted war, racism, sexism and capitalism. Primarily a youth movement, it was characterised by flamboyant dress, music, drugs and mass gatherings with universities forming the epicentre and white, middle class youth leading the charge. As their ideals of changing the world were frustrated by lack of systematic change, many decided to disengage and a migration to rural settings occurred (Jacob; Munro-Clarke; Newton). In the search for alternatives, the counterculture assimilated many spiritual practices, such as Eastern traditions and mysticism, which were previously obscure to the Western world. This practice of spiritual syncretism can be represented as a direct resistance to the hegemony of the dominant Western culture (Stell). As the new counterculture developed, its progression from urban to rural settings was driven by philosophies imbued with a desire to reconnect with and protect the natural world while simultaneously rejecting the dominant conservative order. A recurring feature of this countercultural ‘back to the land’ migration was not only an empathetic awareness of the injustices of colonial past, but also a genuine desire to learn from the Indigenous people of the land. Indigenous people were generally perceived as genuine opposers of Westernisation, inherently spiritual, ecological, tribal and communal, thus encompassing the primary values to which the counterculture was aspiring (Smith). Cultures converged. One, a youth culture rebelling from its parent culture; the other, ancient cultures reeling from the historical conquest by the youths’ own ancestors. Such cultural intersections are rich with complex scenarios and politics. As a result, often naïve, but well-intended relations were established with Native Americans, various South American Indigenous peoples, New Zealand Maori and, as this article demonstrates, the Original People of Australia (Smith; Newton; Barr-Melej; Zolov). The 1960s protest era fostered the formation of groups aiming to address a variety of issues, and at times many supported each other. Jennifer Clarke says it was the Civil Rights movement that provided the first models of dissent by formulating a “method, ideology and language of protest” as African Americans stood up and shouted prior to other movements (2). The issue of racial empowerment was not lost on Australia’s Indigenous population. Clarke writes that during the 1960s, encouraged by events overseas and buoyed by national organisation, Aborigines “slowly embarked on a political awakening, demanded freedom from the trappings of colonialism and responded to the effects of oppression at worst and neglect at best” (4). Activism of the 1960s had the “profoundly productive effect of providing Aborigines with the confidence to assert their racial identity” (159). Many Indigenous youth were compelled by the zeitgeist to address their people’s issues, fulfilling Charlie Perkins’s intentions of inspiring in Indigenous peoples a will to resist (Perkins). Enjoying new freedoms of movement out of missions, due to the 1967 Constitutional change and the practical implementation of the assimilation policy, up to 32,000 Indigenous youth moved to Redfern, Sydney between 1967 and 1972 (Foley, “An Evening With”). Gary Foley reports that a dynamic new Black Power Movement emerged but the important difference between this new younger group and the older Indigenous leaders of the day was the diverse range of contemporary influences. Taking its mantra from the Black Panther movement in America, though having more in common with the equivalent Native American Red Power movement, the Black Power Movement acknowledged many other international struggles for independence as equally inspiring (Foley, “An Evening”). People joined together for grassroots resistance, formed anti-hierarchical collectives and established solidarities between varied groups who previously would have had little to do with each other. The 1973 Aquarius Festival was directly aligned with “back to the land” philosophies. The intention was to provide a place and a reason for gathering to “facilitate exchanges on survival techniques” and to experience “living in harmony with the natural environment.” without being destructive to the land (Dunstan, “A Survival Festival”). Early documents in the archives, however, reveal no apparent interest in Australia’s Indigenous people, referring more to “silken Arabian tents, mediaeval banners, circus, jugglers and clowns, peace pipes, maypole and magic circles” (Dunstan, “A Survival Festival”). Obliterated from the social landscape and minimally referred to in the Australian education system, Indigenous people were “off the radar” to the majority mindset, and the Australian counterculture similarly was slow to appreciate Indigenous culture. Like mainstream Australia, the local counterculture movement largely perceived the “race” issue as something occurring in other countries, igniting the phrase “in your own backyard” which became a catchcry of Indigenous activists (Foley, “Whiteness and Blackness”) With no mention of any Indigenous interest, it seems likely that the decision to engage grew from the emerging climate of Indigenous activism in Australia. Frustrated by student protestors who seemed oblivious to local racial issues, focusing instead on popular international injustices, Indigenous activists accused them of hypocrisy. Aquarius Festival directors, found themselves open to similar accusations when public announcements elicited a range of responses. Once committed to the location of Nimbin, directors Graeme Dunstan and Johnny Allen began a tour of Australian universities to promote the upcoming event. While at the annual conference of AUS in January 1973 at Monash University, Dunstan met Indigenous activist Gary Foley: Gary witnessed the presentation of Johnny Allen and myself at the Aquarius Foundation session and our jubilation that we had agreement from the village residents to not only allow, but also to collaborate in the production of the Festival. After our presentation which won unanimous support, it was Gary who confronted me with the question “have you asked permission from local Aboriginal folk?” This threw me into confusion because we had seen no Aboriginals in Nimbin. (Dunstan, e-mail) Such a challenge came at a time when the historical climate was etched with political activism, not only within the student movement, but more importantly with Indigenous activists’ recent demonstrations, such as the installation in 1972 of the Tent Embassy in Canberra. As representatives of the counterculture movement, which was characterised by its inclinations towards consciousness-raising, AUS organisers were ethically obliged to respond appropriately to the questions about Indigenous permission and involvement in the Aquarius Festival at Nimbin. In addition to this political pressure, organisers in Nimbin began hearing stories of the area being cursed or taboo for women. This most likely originated from the tradition of Nimbin Rocks, a rocky outcrop one kilometre from Nimbin, as a place where only certain men could go. Jennifer Hoff explains that many major rock formations were immensely sacred places and were treated with great caution and respect. Only a few Elders and custodians could visit these places and many such locations were also forbidden for women. Ceremonies were conducted at places like Nimbin Rocks to ensure the wellbeing of all tribespeople. Stories of the Nimbin curse began to spread and most likely captivated a counterculture interested in mysticism. As organisers had hoped that news of the festival would spread on the “lips of the counterculture,” they were alarmed to hear how “fast the bad news of this curse was travelling” (Dunstan, e-mail). A diplomatic issue escalated with further challenges from the Black Power community when organisers discovered that word had spread to Sydney’s Indigenous community in Redfern. Organisers faced a hostile reaction to their alleged cultural insensitivity and were plagued by negative publicity with accusations the AUS were “violating sacred ground” (Janice Newton 62). Faced with such bad press, Dunstan was determined to repair what was becoming a public relations disaster. It seemed once prompted to the path, a sense of moral responsibility prevailed amongst the organisers and they took the unprecedented step of reaching out to Australia’s Indigenous people. Dunstan claimed that an expedition was made to the local Woodenbong mission to consult with Elder, Uncle Lyle Roberts. To connect with local people required crossing the great social divide present in that era of Australia’s history. Amy Nethery described how from the nineteenth century to the 1960s, a “system of reserves, missions and other institutions isolated, confined and controlled Aboriginal people” (9). She explains that the people were incarcerated as a solution to perceived social problems. For Foley, “the widespread genocidal activity of early “settlement” gave way to a policy of containment” (Foley, “Australia and the Holocaust”). Conditions on missions were notoriously bad with alcoholism, extreme poverty, violence, serious health issues and depression common. Of particular concern to mission administrators was the perceived need to keep Indigenous people separate from the non-indigenous population. Dunstan described the mission he visited as having “bad vibes.” He found it difficult to communicate with the elderly man, and was not sure if he understood Dunstan’s quest, as his “responses came as disjointed raves about Jesus and saving grace” (Dunstan, e-mail). Uncle Lyle, he claimed, did not respond affirmatively or negatively to the suggestion that Nimbin was cursed, and so Dunstan left assuming it was not true. Other organisers began to believe the curse and worried that female festival goers might get sick or worse, die. This interpretation reflected, as Vanessa Bible argues, a general Eurocentric misunderstanding of the relationship of Indigenous peoples with the land. Paul Joseph admits they were naïve whites coming into a place with very little understanding, “we didn’t know if we needed a witch doctor or what we needed but we knew we needed something from the Aborigines to lift the spell!”(Joseph and Hanley). Joseph, one of the first “hippies” who moved to the area, had joined forces with AUS organisers. He said, “it just felt right” to get Indigenous involvement and recounted how organisers made another trip to Woodenbong Mission to find Dickee (Richard) Donnelly, a Song Man, who was very happy to be invited. Whether the curse was valid or not it proved to be productive in further instigating respectful action. Perhaps feeling out of their depth, the organisers initiated another strategy to engage with Australian Indigenous people. A call out was sent through the AUS network to diversify the cultural input and it was recommended they engage the services of South African artist, Bauxhau Stone. Timing aligned well as in 1972 Australia had voted in a new Prime Minister, Gough Whitlam. Whitlam brought about significant political changes, many in response to socialist protests that left a buoyancy in the air for the counterculturalist movement. He made prodigious political changes in support of Indigenous people, including creating the Aboriginal Arts Board as part of the Australian Council of the Arts (ACA). As the ACA were already funding activities for the Aquarius Festival, organisers were successful in gaining two additional grants specifically for Indigenous participation (Farnham). As a result We were able to hire […] representatives, a couple of Kalahari bushmen. ‘Cause we were so dumb, we didn’t think we could speak to the black people, you know what I mean, we thought we would be rejected, or whatever, so for us to really reach out, we needed somebody black to go and talk to them, or so we thought, and it was remarkable. This one Bau, a remarkable fellow really, great artist, great character, he went all over Australia. He went to Pitjantjatjara, Yirrkala and we arranged buses and tents when they got here. We had a very large contingent of Aboriginal people come to the Aquarius Festival, thanks to Whitlam. (Joseph in Joseph and Henley) It was under the aegis of these government grants that Bauxhau Stone conducted his work. Stone embodied a nexus of contemporary issues. Acutely aware of the international movement for racial equality and its relevance to Australia, where conditions were “really appalling”, Stone set out to transform Australian race relations by engaging with the alternative arts movement (Stone). While his white Australian contemporaries may have been unaccustomed to dealing with the Indigenous racial issue, Stone was actively engaged and thus well suited to act as a cultural envoy for the Aquarius Festival. He visited several local missions, inviting people to attend and notifying them of ceremonies being conducted by respected Elders. Nimbin was then the site of the Aquarius Lifestyle and Celebration Festival, a two week gathering of alternative cultures, technologies and youth. It innovatively demonstrated its diversity of influences, attracted people from all over the world and was the first time that the general public really witnessed Australia’s counterculture (Derrett 224). As markers of cultural life, counterculture festivals of the 1960s and 1970s were as iconic as the era itself and many around the world drew on the unique Indigenous heritage of their settings in some form or another (Partridge; Perone; Broadley and Jones; Zolov). The social phenomenon of coming together to experience, celebrate and foster a sense of unity was triggered by protests, music and a simple, yet deep desire to reconnect with each other. Festivals provided an environment where the negative social pressures of race, gender, class and mores (such as clothes) were suspended and held the potential “for personal and social transformation” (St John 167). With the expressed intent to “take matters into our own hands” and try to develop alternative, innovative ways of doing things with collective participation, the Aquarius Festival thus became an optimal space for reinvigorating ancient and Indigenous ways (Dunstan, “A Survival Festival”). With philosophies that venerated collectivism, tribalism, connecting with the earth, and the use of ritual, the Indigenous presence at the Aquarius Festival gave attendees the opportunity to experience these values. To connect authentically with Nimbin’s landscape, forming bonds with the Traditional Owners was essential. Participants were very fortunate to have the presence of the last known initiated men of the area, Uncle Lyle Roberts and Uncle Dickee Donnely. These Elders represented the last vestiges of an ancient culture and conducted innovative ceremonies, song, teachings and created a sacred fire for the new youth they encountered in their land. They welcomed the young people and were very happy for their presence, believing it represented a revolutionary shift (Wedd; King; John Roberts; Cecil Roberts). Images 1 and 2: Ceremony and talks conducted at the Aquarius Festival (people unknown). Photographs reproduced by permission of photographer and festival attendee Paul White. The festival thus provided an important platform for the regeneration of cultural and spiritual practices. John Roberts, nephew of Uncle Lyle, recalled being surprised by the reaction of festival participants to his uncle: “He was happy and then he started to sing. And my God … I couldn’t get near him! There was this big ring of hippies around him. They were about twenty deep!” Sharing to an enthusiastic, captive audience had a positive effect and gave the non-indigenous a direct Indigenous encounter (Cecil Roberts; King; Oshlak). Estimates of the number of Indigenous people in attendance vary, with the main organisers suggesting 800 to 1000 and participants suggesting 200 to 400 (Stone; Wedd; Oshlak: Joseph; King; Cecil Roberts). As the Festival lasted over a two week period, many came and left within that time and estimates are at best reliant on memory, engagement and perspectives. With an estimated total attendance at the Festival between 5000 and 10,000, either number of Indigenous attendees is symbolic and a significant symbolic statistic for Indigenous and non-indigenous to be together on mutual ground in Australia in 1973. Images 3-5: Performers from Yirrkala Dance Group, brought to the festival by Stone with funding from the Federal Government. Photographs reproduced by permission of photographer and festival attendee Dr Ian Cameron. For Indigenous people, the event provided an important occasion to reconnect with their own people, to share their culture with enthusiastic recipients, as well as the chance to experience diverse aspects of the counterculture. Though the northern NSW region has a history of diverse cultural migration of Italian and Indian families, the majority of non-indigenous and Indigenous people had limited interaction with cosmopolitan influences (Kijas 20). Thus Nimbin was a conservative region and many Christianised Indigenous people were also conservative in their outlook. The Aquarius Festival changed that as the Indigenous people experienced the wide-ranging cultural elements of the alternative movement. The festival epitomised countercultural tendencies towards flamboyant fashion and hairstyles, architectural design, fantastical art, circus performance, Asian clothes and religious products, vegetarian food and nudity. Exposure to this bohemian culture would have surely led to “mind expansion and consciousness raising,” explicit aims adhered to by the movement (Roszak). Performers and participants from Africa, America and India also gave attending Indigenous Australians the opportunity to interact with non-European cultures. Many people interviewed for this paper indicated that Indigenous people’s reception of this festival experience was joyous. For Australia’s early counterculture, interest in Indigenous Australia was limited and for organisers of the AUS Aquarius Festival, it was not originally on the agenda. The counterculture in the USA and New Zealand had already started to engage with their Indigenous people some years earlier. However due to the Aquarius Festival’s origins in the student movement and its solidarities with the international Indigenous activist movement, they were forced to shift their priorities. The coincidental selection of a significant spiritual location at Nimbin to hold the festival brought up additional challenges and countercultural intrigue with mystical powers and a desire to connect authentically to the land, further prompted action. Essentially, it was the voices of empowered Indigenous activists, like Gary Foley, which in fact triggered the reaching out to Indigenous involvement. While the counterculture organisers were ultimately receptive and did act with unprecedented respect, credit must be given to Indigenous activists. The activist’s role is to trigger action and challenge thinking and in this case, it was ultimately productive. Therefore the Indigenous people were not merely passive recipients of beneficiary goodwill, but active instigators of appropriate cultural exchange. After the 1973 festival many attendees decided to stay in Nimbin to purchase land collectively and a community was born. Relationships established with local Indigenous people developed further. Upon visiting Nimbin now, one will see a vibrant visual display of Indigenous and psychedelic themed art, a central park with an open fire tended by local custodians and other Indigenous community members, an Aboriginal Centre whose rent is paid for by local shopkeepers, and various expressions of a fusion of counterculture and Indigenous art, music and dance. While it appears that reconciliation became the aspiration for mainstream society in the 1990s, Nimbin’s early counterculture history had Indigenous reconciliation at its very foundation. The efforts made by organisers of the 1973 Aquarius Festival stand as one of very few examples in Australian history where non-indigenous Australians have respectfully sought to learn from Indigenous people and to assimilate their cultural practices. It also stands as an example for the world, of reconciliation, based on hippie ideals of peace and love. They encouraged the hippies moving up here, even when they came out for Aquarius, old Uncle Lyle and Richard Donnelly, they came out and they blessed the mob out here, it was like the hairy people had come back, with the Nimbin, cause the Nimbynji is the little hairy people, so the hairy people came back (Jerome). References Barr-Melej, Patrick. “Siloísmo and the Self in Allende’s Chile: Youth, 'Total Revolution,' and the Roots of the Humanist Movement.” Hispanic American Historical Review 86.4 (Nov. 2006): 747-784. Bible, Vanessa. Aquarius Rising: Terania Creek and the Australian Forest Protest Movement. BA (Honours) Thesis. University of New England, Armidale, 2010. Broadley, Colin, and Judith Jones, eds. Nambassa: A New Direction. Auckland: Reed, 1979. Bryant, Gordon M. Parliament of Australia. Minister for Aboriginal Affairs. 1 May 1973. Australian Union of Students. Records of the AUS, 1934-1991. National Library of Australia MS ACC GB 1992.0505. Cameron, Ian. “Aquarius Festival Photographs.” 1973. Clarke, Jennifer. Aborigines and Activism: Race, Aborigines and the Coming of the Sixties to Australia. Crawley: University of Western Australia Press, 2008. Derrett, Ross. Regional Festivals: Nourishing Community Resilience: The Nature and Role of Cultural Festivals in Northern Rivers NSW Communities. PhD Thesis. Southern Cross University, Lismore, 2008. Dunstan, Graeme. “A Survival Festival May 1973.” 1 Aug. 1972. Pamphlet. MS 6945/1. Nimbin Aquarius Festival Archives. National Library of Australia, Canberra. ---. E-mail to author, 11 July 2012. ---. “The Aquarius Festival.” Aquarius Rainbow Region. n.d. Farnham, Ken. Acting Executive Officer, Aboriginal Council for the Arts. 19 June 1973. Letter. MS ACC GB 1992.0505. Australian Union of Students. Records of the AUS, 1934-1991. National Library of Australia, Canberra. Foley, Gary. “Australia and the Holocaust: A Koori Perspective (1997).” The Koori History Website. n.d. 20 May 2013 ‹http://www.kooriweb.org/foley/essays/essay_8.html›. ---. “Whiteness and Blackness in the Koori Struggle for Self-Determination (1999).” The Koori History Website. n.d. 20 May 2013 ‹http://www.kooriweb.org/foley/essays/essay_9.html›. ---. “Black Power in Redfern 1968-1972 (2001).” The Koori History Website. n.d. 20 May 2013 ‹http://www.kooriweb.org/foley/essays/essay_1.html›. ---. “An Evening with Legendary Aboriginal Activist Gary Foley.” Conference Session. Marxism 2012 “Revolution in the Air”, Melbourne, Mar. 2012. Hoff, Jennifer. Bundjalung Jugun: Bundjalung Country. Lismore: Richmond River Historical Society, 2006. Jacob, Jeffrey. New Pioneers: The Back-to-the-Land Movement and the Search for a Sustainable Future. Pennsylvania: Penn State Press, 1997. Jerome, Burri. Interview. 31 July 2012. Joseph, Paul. Interview. 7 Aug. 2012. Joseph, Paul, and Brendan ‘Mookx’ Hanley. Interview by Rob Willis. 14 Aug. 2010. Audiofile, Session 2 of 3. nla.oh-vn4978025. Rob Willis Folklore Collection. National Library of Australia, Canberra. Kijas, Johanna, Caravans and Communes: Stories of Settling in the Tweed 1970s & 1980s. Murwillumbah: Tweed Shire Council, 2011. King, Vivienne (Aunty Viv). Interview. 1 Aug. 2012. Munro-Clarke, Margaret. Communes of Rural Australia: The Movement Since 1970. Sydney: Hale and Iremonger, 1986. Nethery, Amy. “Aboriginal Reserves: ‘A Modern-Day Concentration Camp’: Using History to Make Sense of Australian Immigration Detention Centres.” Does History Matter? Making and Debating Citizenship, Immigration and Refugee Policy in Australia and New Zealand. Eds. Klaus Neumann and Gwenda Tavan. Canberra: Australian National University Press, 2009. 4. Newton, Janice. “Aborigines, Tribes and the Counterculture.” Social Analysis 23 (1988): 53-71. Newton, John. The Double Rainbow: James K Baxter, Ngati Hau and the Jerusalem Commune. Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2009. Offord, Baden. “Mapping the Rainbow Region: Fields of Belonging and Sites of Confluence.” Transformations 2 (March 2002): 1-5. Oshlak, Al. Interview. 27 Mar. 2013. Partridge, Christopher. “The Spiritual and the Revolutionary: Alternative Spirituality, British Free Festivals, and the Emergence of Rave Culture.” Culture and Religion: An Interdisciplinary Journal 7 (2006): 3-5. Perkins, Charlie. “Charlie Perkins on 1965 Freedom Ride.” Youtube, 13 Oct. 2009. Perone, James E. Woodstock: An Encyclopedia of the Music and Art Fair. Greenwood: Greenwood Publishing Group, 2005. Roberts, John. Interview. 1 Aug. 2012. Roberts, Cecil. Interview. 6 Aug. 2012. Roszak, Theodore. The Making of a Counter Culture: Reflections on the Technocratic Society and Its Youthful Opposition. New York: University of California Press,1969. St John, Graham. “Going Feral: Authentica on the Edge of Australian culture.” The Australian Journal of Anthropology 8 (1997): 167-189. Smith, Sherry. Hippies, Indians and the Fight for Red Power. New York: Oxford University Press, 2012. Stell, Alex. Dancing in the Hyper-Crucible: The Rite de Passage of the Post-Rave Movement. BA (Honours) Thesis. University of Westminster, London, 2005. Stone, Trevor Bauxhau. Interview. 1 Oct. 2012. Wedd, Leila. Interview. 27 Sep. 2012. White, Paul. “Aquarius Revisited.” 1973. Zolov, Eric. Refried Elvis: The Rise of the Mexican Counterculture. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999.

There is, in our sense of place, little cognisance of what lies underground. Yet our sense of place, instinctive, unconscious, primeval, has its own underground: the secret spaces which mirror our insides; the world beneath the skin. Our roots lie beneath the ground, with the minerals and the dead. (Hughes 83) The-Home-and-Away-Game Imagine the earth-grounded, “diagrammatological” trajectory of a footballer who as one member of a team is psyching himself up before the start of a game. The siren blasts its trumpet call. The footballer bursts out of the pavilion (where this psyching up has taken place) to engage in the opening bounce or kick of the game. And then: running, leaping, limping after injury, marking, sliding, kicking, and possibly even passing out from concussion. Finally, the elation accompanying the final siren, after which hugs, handshakes and raised fists conclude the actual match on the football oval. This exit from the pavilion, the course the player takes during the game itself, and return to the pavilion, forms a combination of stasis and movement, and a return to exhausted stasis again, that every player engages with regardless of the game code. Examined from a “diagrammatological” perspective, a perspective Rowan Wilken (following in the path of Gilles Deleuze and W. J. T. Mitchell) understands as “a generative process: a ‘metaphor’ or way of thinking — diagrammatic, diagrammatological thinking — which in turn, is linked to poetic thinking” (48), this footballer’s scenario arises out of an aerial perspective that depicts the actual spatial trajectory the player takes during the course of a game. It is a diagram that is digitally encoded via a sensor on the footballer’s body, and being an electronically encoded diagram it can also make available multiple sets of data such as speed, heartbeat, blood pressure, maybe even brain-wave patterns. From this limited point of view there is only one footballer’s playing trajectory to consider; various groupings within the team, the whole team itself, and the diagrammatological depiction of its games with various other teams might also be possible. This singular imagining though is itself an actuality: as a diagram it is encoded as a graphic image by a satellite hovering around the earth with a Global Positioning System (GPS) reading the sensor attached to the footballer which then digitally encodes this diagrammatological trajectory for appraisal later by the player, coach, team and management. In one respect, this practice is another example of a willing self-surveillance critical to explaining the reflexive subject and its attribute of continuous self-improvement. According to Docker, Official Magazine of the Fremantle Football Club, this is a technique the club uses as a part of game/play assessment, a system that can provide a “running map” for each player equipped with such a tracking device during a game. As the Fremantle Club’s Strength and Conditioning Coach Ben Tarbox says of this tactic, “We’re getting a physiological profile that has started to build a really good picture of how individual players react during a game” (21). With a little extra effort (and some sizeable computer processing grunt) this two dimensional linear graphic diagram of a footballer working the football ground could also form the raw material for a three-dimensional animation, maybe a virtual reality game, even a hologram. It could also be used to sideline a non-performing player. Now try another related but different imagining: what if this diagrammatological trajectory could be enlarged a little to include the possibility that this same player’s movements could be mapped out by the idea of home-and-away games; say over the course of a season, maybe even a whole career, for instance? No doubt, a wide range of differing diagrammatological perspectives might suggest themselves. My own particular refinement of this movement/stasis on the footballer’s part suggests my own distinctive comings and goings to and from my own specific piece of home country. And in this incessantly domestic/real world reciprocity, in this diurnally repetitive leaving and coming back to home country, might it be plausible to think of “Home as Capital of the Region”? If, as Walter Benjamin suggests in the prelude to his monumental Arcades Project, “Paris — the Capital of the Nineteenth Century,” could it be that both in and through my comings and goings to and from this selfsame home country, my own burgeoning sense of regionality is constituted in every minute-by-minutiae of lived experience? Could it be that this feeling about home is manifested in my every day-to-night manoeuvre of home-and-away-and-away-and-home-making, of every singular instance of exit, play/engage, and the return home? “Home, Capital of the Region” then examines the idea that my home is that part of the country which is the still-point of eternal return, the bedrock to which I retreat after the daily grind, and the point from which I start out and do it all again the next day. It employs, firstly, this ‘diagrammatological’ perspective to illustrate the point that this stasis/movement across country can make an electronic record of my own psychic self-surveillance and actualisation in-situ. And secondly, the architectural plan of the domestic home (examined through the perspective of critical regionalism) is used as a conduit to illustrate how I am physically embedded in country. Lastly, intermingling these digressive threads is chora, Plato’s notion of embodied place and itself an ancient regional rendering of this eternal return to the beginning, the place where the essential diversity of country decisively enters the soul. Chora: Core of Regionality Kevin Lynch writes that, “Our senses are local, while our experience is regional” (10), a combination that suggests this regional emphasis on home-and-away-making might be a useful frame of reference (simultaneously spatiotemporal, both a visceral and encoded communication) for me to include as a crucial vector in my own life-long learning package. Regionality (as, variously, a sub-generic categorisation and an extension/concentration of nationality, as well as a recently re-emerged friend/antagonist to a global understanding) infuses my world of home with a grounded footing in country, one that is a site of an Eternal Return to the Beginning in the micro-world of the everyday. This is a point John Sallis discusses at length in his analysis of Plato’s Timaeus and its founding notion of regionality: chora. More extended absences away from home-base are of course possible but one’s return to home on most days and for most nights is a given of post/modern, maybe even of ancient everyday experience. Even for the continually shifting nomad, nightfall in some part of the country brings the rest and recreation necessary for the next day’s wanderings. This fundamental question of an Eternal Return to the Beginning arises as a crucial element of the method in Plato’s Timaeus, a seemingly “unstructured” mythic/scientific dialogue about the origins and structure of both the psychically and the physically implaced world. In the Timaeus, “incoherence is especially obvious in the way the natural sequence in which a narrative would usually unfold is interrupted by regressions, corrections, repetitions, and abrupt new beginnings” (Gadamer 160). Right in the middle of the Timaeus, in between its sections on the “Work of Reason” and the “Work of Necessity”, sits chora, both an actual spatial and bodily site where my being intersects with my becoming, and where my lived life criss-crosses the various arts necessary to articulating a recorded version of that life. Every home is a grounded chora-logical timespace harness guiding its occupant’s thoughts, feelings and actions. My own regionally implaced chora (an example of which is the diagrammatological trajectory already outlined above as my various everyday comings and goings, of me acting in and projecting myself into context) could in part be understood as a graphical realisation of the extent of my movements and stationary rests in my own particular timespace trajectory. The shorthand for this process is ‘embedded’. Gregory Ulmer writes of chora that, “While chorography as a term is close to choreography, it duplicates a term that already exists in the discipline of geography, thus establishing a valuable resonance for a rhetoric of invention concerned with the history of ‘place’ in relation to memory” (Heuretics 39, original italics). Chorography is the geographic discipline for the systematic study and analysis of regions. Chora, home, country and regionality thus form an important multi-dimensional zone of interplay in memorialising the game of everyday life. In light of these observations I might even go so far as to suggest that this diagrammatological trajectory (being both digital and GPS originated) is part of the increasingly electrate condition that guides the production of knowledge in any global/regional context. This last point is a contextual connection usefully examined in Alan J. Scott’s Regions and the World Economy: The Coming Shape of Global Production, Competition, and Political Order and Michael Storper’s The Regional World: Territorial Development in a Global Economy. Their analyses explicitly suggest that the symbiosis between globalisation and regionalisation has been gathering pace since at least the end of World War Two and the Bretton Woods agreement. Our emerging understanding of electracy also happens to be Gregory Ulmer’s part-remedy for shifting the ground under the intense debates surrounding il/literacy in the current era (see, in particular, Internet Invention). And, for Tony Bennett, Michael Emmison and John Frow’s analysis of “Australian Everyday Cultures” (“Media Culture and the Home” 57–86), it is within the home that our un.conscious understanding of electronic media is at its most intense, a pattern that emerges in the longer term through receiving telegrams, compiling photo albums, listening to the radio, home- and video-movies, watching the evening news on television, and logging onto the computer in the home-office, media-room or home-studio. These various generalisations (along with this diagrammatological view of my comings and goings to and from the built space of home), all point indiscriminately to a productive confusion surrounding the sedentary and nomadic opposition/conjunction. If natural spaces are constituted in nouns like oceans, forests, plains, grasslands, steppes, deserts, rivers, tidal interstices, farmland etc. (and each categorisation here relies on the others for its existence and demarcation) then built space is often seen as constituting its human sedentary equivalent. For Deleuze and Guatteri (in A Thousand Plateaus, “1227: Treatise on Nomadology — The War Machine”) these natural spaces help instigate a nomadic movement across localities and regions. From a nomadology perspective, these smooth spaces unsettle a scientific, numerical calculation, sometimes even aesthetic demarcation and order. If they are marked at all, it is by heterogenous and differential forces, energised through constantly oscillating intensities. A Thousand Plateaus is careful though not to elevate these smooth nomadic spaces over the more sedentary spaces of culture and power (372–373). Nonetheless, as Edward S. Casey warns, “In their insistence on becoming and movement, however, the authors of A Thousand Plateaus overlook the placial potential of settled dwelling — of […] ‘built places’” (309, original italics). Sedentary, settled dwelling centred on home country may have a crust of easy legibility and order about it but it also formats a locally/regionally specific nomadic quality, a point underscored above in the diagrammatological perspective. The sedentary tendency also emerges once again in relation to home in the architectural drafting of the domestic domicile. The Real Estate Revolution When Captain Cook planted the British flag in the sand at Botany Bay in 1770 and declared the country it spiked as Crown Land and henceforth will come under the ownership of an English sovereign, it was also the moment when white Australia’s current fascination with real estate was conceived. In the wake of this spiking came the intense anxiety over Native Title that surfaced in late twentieth century Australia when claims of Indigenous land grabs would repossess suburban homes. While easily dismissed as hyperbole, a rhetorical gesture intended to arouse this very anxiety, its emergence is nonetheless an indication of the potential for political and psychic unsettling at the heart of the ownership and control of built place, or ‘settled dwelling’ in the Australian context. And here it would be wise to include not just the gridded, architectural quality of home-building and home-making, but also the home as the site of the family romance, another source of unsettling as much as a peaceful calming. Spreading out from the boundaries of the home are the built spaces of fences, bridges, roads, railways, airport terminals (along with their interconnecting pathways), which of course brings us back to the communications infrastructure which have so often followed alongside the development of transport infrastructure. These and other elements represent this conglomerate of built space, possibly the most significant transformation of natural space that humanity has brought about. For the purposes of this meditation though it is the more personal aspect of built space — my home and regional embeddedness, along with their connections into the global electrosphere — that constitutes the primary concern here. For a sedentary, striated space to settle into an unchallenged existence though requires a repression of the highest order, primarily because of the home’s proximity to everyday life, of the latter’s now fading ability to sometimes leave its presuppositions well enough alone. In settled, regionally experienced space, repressions are more difficult to abstract away, they are lived with on a daily basis, which also helps to explain the extra intensity brought to their sometimes-unsettling quality. Inversely, and encased in this globalised electro-spherical ambience, home cannot merely be a place where one dwells within avoiding those presuppositions, I take them with me when I travel and they come back with me from afar. This is a point obliquely reflected in Pico Iyer’s comment that “Australians have so flexible a sense of home, perhaps, that they can make themselves at home anywhere” (185). While our sense of home may well be, according to J. Douglas Porteous, “the territorial core” of our being, when other arrangements of space and knowledge shift it must inevitably do so as well. In these shifts of spatial affiliation (aided and abetted by regionalisation, globalisation and electronic knowledge), the built place of home can no longer be considered exclusively under the illusion of an autonomous sanctuary wholly guaranteed by capitalist property relations, one of the key factors in its attraction. These shifts in the cultural, economic and psychic relation of home to country are important to a sense of local and regional implacement. The “feeling” of autonomy and security involved in home occupation and/or ownership designates a component of this implacement, a point leading to Eric Leed’s comment that, “By the sixteenth century, literacy had become one of the definitive signs — along with the possession of property and a permanent residence — of an independent social status” (53). Globalising and regionalising forces make this feeling of autonomy and security dynamic, shifting the ground of home, work-place practices and citizenship allegiances in the process. Gathering these wide-ranging forces impacting on psychic and built space together is the emergence of critical regionalism as a branch of architectonics, considered here as a theory of domestic architecture. Critical Regionality Critical regionalism emerged out of the collective thinking of Liane Lefaivre and Alexander Tzonis (Tropical Architecture; Critical Regionalism), and as these authors themselves acknowledge, was itself deeply influenced by the work of Lewis Mumford during the first part of the twentieth century when he was arguing against the authority of the international style in architecture, a style epitomised by the Bauhaus movement. It is Kenneth Frampton’s essay, “Towards a Critical Regionalism: Six Points for an Architecture of Resistance” that deliberately takes this question of critical regionalism and makes it a part of a domestic architectonic project. In many ways the ideas critical regionalism espouses can themselves be a microcosm of this concomitantly emerging global/regional polis. With public examples of built-form the power of the centre is on display by virtue of a building’s enormous size and frequently high-cultural aesthetic power. This is a fact restated again and again from the ancient world’s agora to Australia’s own political bunker — its Houses of Parliament in Canberra. While Frampton discusses a range of aspects dealing with the universal/implaced axis across his discussion, it is points five and six that deserve attention from a domestically implaced perspective. Under the sub-heading, “Culture Versus Nature: Topography, Context, Climate, Light and Tectonic Form” is where he writes that, Here again, one touches in concrete terms this fundamental opposition between universal civilization and autochthonous culture. The bulldozing of an irregular topography into a flat site is clearly a technocratic gesture which aspires to a condition of absolute placelessness, whereas the terracing of the same site to receive the stepped form of a building is an engagement in the act of “cultivating” the site. (26, original italics) The “totally flat datum” that the universalising tendency sometimes presupposes is, within the critical regionalist perspective, an erroneous assumption. The “cultivation” of a site for the design of a building illustrates the point that built space emerges out of an interaction between parallel phenomena as they contrast and/or converge in a particular set of timespace co-ordinates. These are phenomena that could include (but are not limited to) geomorphic data like soil and rock formations, seismic activity, inclination and declension; climatic considerations in the form of wind patterns, temperature variations, rainfall patterns, available light and dark, humidity and the like; the building context in relation to the cardinal points of north, south, east, and west, along with their intermediary positions. There are also architectural considerations in the form of available building materials and personnel to consider. The social, psychological and cultural requirements of the building’s prospective in-dwellers are intermingled with all these phenomena. This is not so much a question of where to place the air conditioning system but the actuality of the way the building itself is placed on its site, or indeed if that site should be built on at all. A critical regionalist building practice, then, is autochthonous to the degree that a full consideration of this wide range of in-situ interactions is taken into consideration in the development of its design plan. And given this autochthonous quality of the critical regionalist project, it also suggests that the architectural design plan itself (especially when it utilised in conjunction with CAD and virtual reality simulations), might be the better model for designing electrate-centred projects rather than writing or even the script. The proliferation of ‘McMansions’ across many Australian suburbs during the 1990s (generally, oversized domestic buildings designed in the abstract with little or no thought to the above mentioned elements, on bulldozed sites, with powerful air-conditioning systems, and no verandas or roof eves to speak of) demonstrates the continuing influence of a universal, centralising dogma in the realm of built place. As summer temperatures start to climb into the 40°C range all these air-conditioners start to hum in unison, which in turn raises the susceptibility of the supporting infrastructure to collapse under the weight of an overbearing electrical load. The McMansion is a clear example of a built form that is envisioned more so in a drafting room, a space where the architect is remote-sensing the locational specificities. In this envisioning (driven more by a direct line-of-sight idiom dominant in “flat datum” and economic considerations rather than architectural or experiential ones), the tactile is subordinated, which is the subject of Frampton’s sixth point: It is symptomatic of the priority given to sight that we find it necessary to remind ourselves that the tactile is an important dimension in the perception of built form. One has in mind a whole range of complementary sensory perceptions which are registered by the labile body: the intensity of light, darkness, heat and cold; the feeling of humidity; the aroma of material; the almost palpable presence of masonry as the body senses it own confinement; the momentum of an induced gait and the relative inertia of the body as it traverses the floor; the echoing resonance of our own footfall. (28) The point here is clear: in its wider recognition of, and the foregrounding of my body’s full range of sensate capacities in relation to both natural and built space, the critical regionalist approach to built form spreads its meaning-making capacities across a broader range of knowledge modalities. This tactility is further elaborated in more thoroughly personal ways by Margaret Morse in her illuminating essay, “Home: Smell, Taste, Posture, Gleam”. Paradoxically, this synaesthetic, syncretic approach to bodily meaning-making in a built place, regional milieu intensely concentrates the site-centred locus of everyday life, while simultaneously, the electronic knowledge that increasingly underpins it expands both my body’s and its region’s knowledge-making possibilities into a global gestalt, sometimes even a cosmological one. It is a paradoxical transformation that makes us look anew at social, cultural and political givens, even objective and empirical understandings, especially as they are articulated through national frames of reference. Domestic built space then is a kind of micro-version of the multi-function polis where work, pleasure, family, rest, public display and privacy intermingle. So in both this reduction and expansion in the constitution of domestic home life, one that increasingly represents the location of the production of knowledge, built place represents a concentration of energy that forces us to re-imagine border-making, order, and the dynamic interplay of nomadic movement and sedentary return, a point that echoes Nicolas Rothwell’s comment that “every exile has in it a homecoming” (80). Albeit, this is a knowledge-making milieu with an expanded range of modalities incorporated and expressed through a wide range of bodily intensities not simply cognitive ones. Much of the ambiguous discontent manifested in McMansion style domiciles across many Western countries might be traced to the fact that their occupants have had little or no say in the way those domiciles have been designed and/or constructed. In Heidegger’s terms, they have not thought deeply enough about “dwelling” in that building, although with the advent of the media room the question of whether a “building” securely borders both “dwelling” and “thinking” is now open to question. As anxieties over border-making at all scales intensifies, the complexities and un/sureties of natural and built space take ever greater hold of the psyche, sometimes through the advance of a “high level of critical self-consciousness”, a process Frampton describes as a “double mediation” of world culture and local conditions (21). Nearly all commentators warn of a nostalgic, romantic or a sentimental regionalism, the sum total of which is aimed at privileging the local/regional and is sometimes utilised as a means of excluding the global or universal, sometimes even the national (Berry 67). Critical regionalism is itself a mediating factor between these dispositions, working its methods and practices through my own psyche into the local, the regional, the national and the global, rejecting and/or accepting elements of these domains, as my own specific context, in its multiplicity, demands it. If the politico-economic and cultural dimensions of this global/regional world have tended to undermine the process of border-making across a range of scales, we can see in domestic forms of built place the intense residue of both their continuing importance and an increased dependency on this electro-mediated world. This is especially apparent in those domiciles whose media rooms (with their satellite dishes, telephone lines, computers, television sets, games consuls, and music stereos) are connecting them to it in virtuality if not in reality. Indeed, the thought emerges (once again keeping in mind Eric Leed’s remark on the literate-configured sense of autonomy that is further enhanced by a separate physical address and residence) that the intense importance attached to domestically orientated built place by globally/regionally orientated peoples will figure as possibly the most viable means via which this sense of autonomy will transfer to electronic forms of knowledge. If, however, this here domestic habitué turns his gaze away from the screen that transports me into this global/regional milieu and I focus my attention on the physicality of the building in which I dwell, I once again stand in the presence of another beginning. This other beginning is framed diagrammatologically by the building’s architectural plans (usually conceived in either an in-situ, autochthonous, or a universal manner), and is a graphical conception that anchors my body in country long after the architects and builders have packed up their tools and left. This is so regardless of whether a home is built, bought, rented or squatted in. Ihab Hassan writes that, “Home is not where one is pushed into the light, but where one gathers it into oneself to become light” (417), an aphorism that might be rephrased as follows: “Home is not where one is pushed into the country, but where one gathers it into oneself to become country.” For the in-and-out-and-around-and-about domestic dweller of the twenty-first century, then, home is where both regional and global forms of country decisively enter the soul via the conduits of the virtuality of digital flows and the reality of architectural footings. 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