Journal articles on the topic 'Fire ecology – Western Australia – Perth Region'

In January 1989, a wildfire burnt 120 ha (45%) of the 267 ha of native vegetation in Kings Park, Perth, Western Australia. The area burnt included a transect along which birds had been censused during 1986 for comparison with censuses on the same transect during 1928–37 and 1952–55. Counts of birds along the transect from 1989 to 1995 indicate a slow recovery in numbers for 11 (38%) of 29 species present in 1986. Two species disappeared from the transect, but one of these was found elsewhere in the park. There are many reasons for the changes in the avifauna of Kings Park, including changes to the structure of the vegetation, the increasing isolation of the park from other native vegetation, and changes in the distribution and abundance of species outside the Perth region. The long-term trends in the avifauna and the impact of the 1989 fire indicate that a new approach to the management of the Park’s vegetation may be required. For example, to avert continuing declines in the Park’s avifauna, it may be helpful to re-establish a canopy of eucalypts and to create a more open understorey with some bare ground. However, the impact of the 1989 fire and the slow recovery of the avifauna illustrate the sensitivity of small reserves to major disturbances and the difficulty of conserving the original biota without intensive intervention.

We studied the post-fire vegetation development of a low open woodland dominated by Banksia attenuata and B. menziesii near Perth, Western Australia. Two similar stands burned in autumn and spring displayed different regeneration patterns, with seedling regeneration occurring only in the autumn burn area. Vegetative regrowth was more rapid and post-fire species numbers were higher in the spring burn area. Introduced annuals increased significantly in the autumn fire area. Longer-term vegetation development was studied in a series of stands ranging in age since last fire from 1 to >44 years. Species richness was greatest in the 5-year-old stand, and many shrub species were most abundant 2-5 years after fire. Non-native annuals were found only in stands less than 5 years old since last fire. Dominance by the shrub Eremaea pauciflora increased with stand age, although shrub structure and total biomass did not vary greatly except in the oldest stand studied. The proportion of total shrub biomass accounted for by leaves declined with stand age. Both the two major Banksia species had mixed size structures with seedlings present in all stands, indicating that neither is dependent on fire for recruitment. The results indicate that while autumn burns promote seedling regeneration they may also increase invasion by non-natives, and spring burning may be preferable in these Banksia woodlands. Burning rotations longer than those required for fuel reduction purposes are necessary to maximise conservation values.

The Gnangara Mound is an area of elevated sandy soil on the Swan Coastal Plain to the north of Perth. It constitutes a major groundwater resource for metropolitan Perth. Sixteen wetlands on the Mound had total phosphorus concentrations of 12-462�g L-1, the high values being attributed to agricultural and urban activity. Sediment concentrations of total phosphorus and total nitrogen were 61-954 and 1212-16739 �g g-1, respectively. Conductivities were 505-10270 �S cm-1, and pH values were 3.3-9.3. Only one wetland was highly coloured (79.9 8440 m-1), with an E4/E6 ratio of 4.6. Chlorophyll a concentrations were 0.01-130.8�g L-1; in wetlands with low gilvin concentrations, Myxophyceae dominated, whereas wetlands with higher gilvin concentrations had large numbers of diatoms and Chlorophyceae. The highly coloured wetland had the lowest chlorophyll a concentration despite high nutrient concentrations, supporting the hypothesis that the consequent reduction in light or other associated factors are important in maintaining low phytoplankton biomass in dystrophic wetlands of the region, particularly those on Bassendean sands.

The paper reports on the development of a decadal fire history, 1990–1999, derived from Landsat imagery, and associated assessment of landscape-scale patterns, in a remote, sparsely human-populated region of the high rainfall zone of monsoonal north-western Australia. The assembled fire history confirms observations, derived from coarser-scale imagery, that substantial areas of the North Kimberley are burnt each year. The annual mean extent of burning was 31% (albeit involving marked inter-annual variability), with most burning occurring in the latter part of the dry season under relatively severe fire weather conditions. Extent of burning was found to be associated with intensity of landuse; most burning occurred on pastoral lands, particularly in association with more fertile basalt soils. Based on previous modelling studies, predicted effects of contemporary fire regimes include increased development of woody regeneration size-classes, especially on non-basalt substrates. In contrast, on sandstone-derived substrata, fire interval data indicate that longer-lived obligate-seeder shrub species are likely to be suppressed and ultimately displaced by contemporary fire regimes. Such observations are supported by recent evidence of regional collapse of the long-lived obligate seeder tree species, Callitris intratropica. Collectively, assembled data point to the need to undertake a thorough appraisal of the status of regional biota in this remote, ostensibly ecologically intact region.

Banksia woodland is a seasonally arid and fire-prone environment. Although a seemingly inhospitable environment for frogs, seven species were recorded in pitfall-trapping carried out in six areas of Banksia woodland near Perth from April 1983 to March 1986. These areas had different fire histories, ranging from recently burnt to unburnt for 23 years. One of the areas was burnt during the course of the study. Three species made up 95% of captures, viz. Heleioporus eyrei, Limnodynastes dorsalis and Myobatrachus gouldii. Annual numbers of captures of H. eyrei were not greatly affected by fire or increasing time after fire. L. dorsalis and, to a lesser extent, M. gouldii were caught in greater numbers in long-unburnt areas than in recently burnt areas. Variation in the abundance of L. dorsalis and M. gouldii with time after fire did not appear to be related to changes in leaf litter and vegetation density, or to the abundance of invertebrates as potential prey.

We investigated the efficacy of firebreaks in the prevention of wildfires in the Arnhem Land Plateau, a vast, rugged and sparsely populated region with high biodiversity value and frequent wildfires. A total of 623 events where a fire met a permanent firebreak (cliffs, stream order, tracks and roads) in different fire seasons were compiled. Cliffs were more effective than streams at stopping fires, which were more effective than roads. Larger streams were more effective than small ones. The largest streams stop 75% of early dry season fires, but there are no firebreak types with more than 50% likelihood of stopping a late dry season fire. Geographic Information System (GIS) surfaces of the relative density of the three firebreak features in the landscape were randomly sampled and compared with the total number of fires and late dry season fires using generalised linear modelling. Several of the density variables were weakly but significantly related to fire frequency, and it appears that late dry season fires are influenced by features at a larger scale (16-km radius) than total fires (4 km). The Aerial Prescribed Burning program for 2004 was studied to identify how effective it was at stopping subsequent wildfires by dividing ignition lines into 137 5-km sections. Only 20% of sections achieved a 100% burn and where gaps occurred, a subsequent fire was 88% likely to penetrate the line. Firebreaks are not certain instruments for fire management in this area.

The Weather Research and Forecasting (WRF) model was used to simulate fire weather for the south-west of Western Australia (SWWA) over multiple decades at a 5-km resolution using lateral boundary conditions from the European Centre for Medium-Range Weather Forecasts (ECMWF) Re-Analysis (ERA)-Interim reanalysis. Simulations were compared with observations at Australian Bureau of Meteorology meteorological stations and the McArthur Forest Fire Danger Index (FFDI) was used to quantify fire weather. Results showed that, overall, the WRF reproduced the annual cumulative FFDI at most stations reasonably well, with most biases in the FFDI ranging between –600 and 600. Biases were highest at stations within the metropolitan region. The WRF simulated the geographical gradients in the FFDI across the domain well. The source of errors in the FFDI varied markedly between the different stations, with no one particular variable able to account for the errors at all stations. Overall, this study shows that the WRF is a useful model for simulating fire weather for SWWA, one of the most fire-prone regions in Australia.

Hakea myrtoides Meisn. is an attractive shrub that has a restricted distribution in the south-west of Western Australia. It is not killed by fire but re-sprouts from basal lignotubers. Its leaves are often severely affected by tar spot disease, caused by the biotrophic, stromatic ascomycete Phyllachora grevilleae (Lév.) Sacc. subsp. grevilleae (Lév) Sacc. This disease is spread by ascospores that are produced during the wettest months of the year: late autumn, winter and spring. Badly infected populations of H. myrtoides were burnt, either in a controlled burn in November 2007, or in a wildfire in January 2008. The incidence of tar spot disease on leaves of burnt plants in 2008 and 2009 was 4.4%, while its incidence on unburnt plants was significantly higher (25.1%). The incidence of flowering in 2009 was similar in both burnt and unburnt populations. Tar spot disease is common on H. myrtoides; it is present on 77% of collections of this host in the Western Australian Herbarium (PERTH).

Investigations of wildfire impact on water resources have escalated globally over the last decade owing to an awareness of climate-related vulnerabilities. Within Australia, research into post-wildfire erosion has focused on water supply catchments in the south-eastern region. Here, we examine post-wildfire erosion risk and its potential for water quality impacts in a catchment in south-western Australia. The catchment of the Harvey River, which drains from forested escarpments onto an agricultural coastal plain and into valuable coastal wetlands, was burnt by wildfire in 2016. The aims of this study were to determine erosion risk across contrasting landforms and variable fire severity, using the Revised Universal Soil Loss Equation (RUSLE), and to determine whether post-fire water quality impacts could be detected at permanent river monitoring stations located on the coastal plain. RUSLE outputs showed erosion hot-spots at intersections of steep terrain and high fire severity and that these areas were confined to forested headwaters and coastal dunes. Monthly water quality data showed conspicuous seasonal patterns, but that sampling frequency was temporally too coarse to pick up predicted event-related effects, particularly given that the pre-existing monitoring sites were distal to the predicted zone of contamination.

A study of 26 burnt mulga (Acacia aneura) stands was conducted from 2003 to 2012 in the Gibson Desert and eastern Gascoyne–Murchison region of Western Australia to assess the effect of fire interval on seedling regeneration. Tree-ring analysis and Landsat satellite imagery identified mulga stands with fire intervals ranging from 3 to 52 years. Results show fire-return intervals less than 20 years produce 2–3-year-old seedling regeneration lower than 50% of the original adult stand population (average juvenile-to-adult ratio=0.49). In total, 6 of the 26 stands sampled had reburnt within 3 to 10 years of the previous burn, a consequence of increased plant growth associated with higher rainfall. For all fires, summer fires were larger and more frequent (24 of 35 fires recorded, median fire size=150km2) than spring fires (median fire size=91km2). This study emphasises the important role of fire in maintaining the diversity and vigour of the mulga–Triodia ecosystem but indicates a minimum fire-return interval of 26 years to maintain mulga populations.

The Gnangara Mound is a 2,200 km 2 unconfined aquifer located in the Swan Coastal Plain of Western Australia. This aquifer is one of the most important ground water resources for the Perth Region and supports a number of groundwaterdependent ecosystems, such as the springs of Ellen Brook and root mat communities of the Yanchep Caves. Although freshwater copepods have been documented previously from those caves and springs, their specific identity were hitherto unknown. The current work formally identifies copepod samples collected from 23 sites (12 cave, three bore, five spring and three surface water localities) within the Gnangara Mound region. Fifteen species were documented in this study: the cyclopoids Australoeucyclops sp., Eucyclops edytae sp. nov., Macrocyclops albidus (Jurine, 1820), Mesocyclops brooksi Pesce, De Laurentiis & Humphreys, 1996, Metacyclops arnaudi (G. O. Sars, 1908), Mixocyclops mortoni sp. nov., Paracyclops chiltoni (Thomson, 1882), Paracyclops intermedius sp. nov. and Tropocyclops confinis (Kiefer, 1930), and the harpacticoids Attheyella (Chappuisiella) hirsuta Chappuis, 1951, Australocamptus hamondi Karanovic, 2004, Elaphoidella bidens (Schmeil, 1894), Kinnecaris eberhardi (Karanovic, 2005), Nitocra lacustris pacifica Yeatman, 1983 and Paranitocrella bastiani gen. et sp. nov. Tropocyclops confinis is recorded from Australia for the first time and A. (Ch.) hirsuta and E. bidens are newly recorded for Western Australia. The only copepod taxa endemic to the Gnangara Mound region are E. edytae sp. nov. (occurs primarily in springs and rarely in the Yanchep National Park Caves) and P. bastiani gen. et sp. nov. (confined to the Yanchep National Park Caves containing tuart root mats). Paracyclops chiltoni was the most common species, whilst T. confinis and N. l. pacifica were rarely encountered. Metacyclops arnaudi was the only taxon absent from ground waters. The copepod fauna recorded in the caves and springs of the Gnangara Mound region are comparable, with respect to species richness, endemicity and the varying degrees of dependency on ground water, to those reported from similar habitats in South Australia and Western Australia. Restoring the root mats and maintaining permanent water flow within the Yanchep Caves, as well as minimising urban development near the Ellen Brook Springs, are essential to protect the copepod species, particularly the endemic P. bastiani gen. et sp. nov. and E. edytae sp. nov., inhabiting these unique ground water environments.

The use of distributed temperature sensing (DTS) for ecological applications has increased rapidly in the last 6 years. Here we demonstrate the first use of DTS to measure soil temperatures during a fuel reduction burn – in an urban grassy Tuart–Banksia woodland remnant near Perth, Western Australia. Optical fibre with an acrylate material coating (diameter 242μm), but no other jacketing or cabling, was buried in the soil at depths between 0 and 5cm. Measurements were recorded over 316m of optical fibre using a DTS measurement unit, providing data over a 5.5-h period at 20-s intervals; resulting in 1243 temporal measurements at 60-cm spatial resolution. Soil temperatures were calibrated to an error of±6.8% at 250°C. Methods for installation, calibration and data visualisation are presented. Issues associated with assessment of DTS data in a fire ecology context are discussed.

The mistletoe flora of the tropical Kimberley region of Western Australia was studied over a 30-year period, with a particular emphasis on distributions, use of hosts and effects of fire. The results were compared with those of a similar study undertaken in the Pilbara, a more arid tropical region in the same State. The flora consisted of one genus with three species in the Santalaceae and five genera with 22 species (one with two varieties) in the Loranthaceae. Amyema was the largest genus in both regions. Four species are regarded as Kimberley endemics but two of them may also occur in the Northern Territory. Most species occurred in three or more of five Kimberley bioregions. However, six species were recorded only from the North Kimberley where they were all rare. Host records included 165 species from 33 families. Fabaceae (particularly Acacia) and Myrtaceae (particularly Eucalyptus and Corymbia) were the most important. The perfect dichotomy between species using fabaceous and myrtaceous hosts in the Pilbara was strong but imperfect in the Kimberley. Fire responses of two species were not observed. Two (perhaps three) taxa were able to resprout, whereas the remaining taxa were killed if scorched. Most species occurred, at least occasionally, in relatively fire-safe refugia. Nevertheless, fire is eroding distributions of many species and may be threatening some, particularly the rare North Kimberley species.

Banksia includes 38 fire-killed (seeders) and 20 resprouting species, and two species with contrasting ecotypes, in south-western Australia. There may be up to 12 seeders per 50 × 50 km grid cell in the southern sandplains and 12 resprouters in the northern sandplains. The patterns of distribution of species across soil type and eight climatic attributes is similar for both life forms, except that greater numbers of resprouting species occur at higher rainfalls and where there is greater seasonal spread of rainfall. Most seeders occur on white sands and rocky substrates, and resprouters occur on yellow sands and the more fertile lateritic soils. Nutrient requirements for both life forms appear to be similar. Resprouters are more widespread than seeders which suggests that resprouters show greater environmental tolerances. The distribution of grid cells containing each life form across soil types and eight climatic attributes is similar and any differences in climatic profile for all species in each category are considered biologically insignificant. Both life forms in section Abietinae are well represented in the climatically distinct southern and northern sandplains indicating no climatic preferences within the lineage. There are no consistent trends in environmental attributes from fire-killed to resprouting ecotypes of B. ashbyi E.G.Baker and B. violacea C.A. Gardner. Multiple-partitioning classification of the floristic data produced 10 groups varying greatly in geography, species richness, and proportion and endemism of each life form. The Lesueur (northern) district has four endemic seeders, six endemic resprouters and a mean of 10 resprouters per cell. The East Eyre (southern) district has five endemic seeders, no endemic resprouters and one resprouter per cell. Both groups have a mean growing season of 5 months. The relative aridities and fluctuations of present and past (Quaternary and late Tertiary) climates are invoked to explain the much higher proportion of resprouters in the northern than southern sandplains and the absence of seeders in the most marginal cells. The absence of endemic species yet high proportion of resprouters (73%) in the extreme south-western corner of the region might be explained by elimination of seeders through frequent burning by Aborigines in the late Quaternary. The increase in the proportion of fire-killed species along the south coast from 23% to 100% at the edge of the Nullarbor Plain also requires an explanation.

Given the recent history of frequent and extensive late dry season wildfire in Australia’s fire-prone northern savannas, regional conservation-based fire management programs typically aim to mitigate wildfire through the use of strategic prescribed burning during the cooler early dry season. However, it remains unclear as to the extent such environmental management concerns are being addressed by these renewed fire management efforts. This study documents changes in fire regime in the western Arnhem Land region of northern Australia associated with the implementation of active fire management since 2006. Over a 12-year period, the regional fire regime has transitioned from late dry season, wildfire-dominated to being characterised by a majority of fires occurring as small early dry season prescribed burns. Although overall area burnt has not significantly decreased, most ecological threshold metrics have improved, with the exception of those describing the maintenance of longer-unburnt habitat. Challenges involved with defining, delivering, monitoring and evaluating heterogeneity targets are discussed.

The historic influence of human fire and the role of ‘top-down’ vs ‘bottom-up’ drivers on ecosystems globally is highly contested, and our knowledge of regime diversity is poor. This paper uses an early European account as a case study to describe Aboriginal fire history in south-eastern Australia based on links between fire and: grasslands, native foods and culture. The route and observations detailed in Assistant Protector William Thomas’ 1840 account of a journey led by Aborigines to Western Port, Victoria, were overlayed with grass-tree boundaries compiled from historic plans. The narrative provides direct evidence of up to moderate-scale and intensity burns (with minimal fine-scale patchiness), undertaken in the height of the dry season, opportunistically linked to rainfall. The fires targeted open grassy ‘plains’ to maintain and access preferred hunter-gathering grounds. A synthesis of the earliest records supports high frequency anthropogenic burning maintaining alternative vegetation states with dynamic boundaries on elevated alluvial plains and, in places, adjoining swamps. The narrative represents an important primary source for studying traditional society, including the description of a local historic fire regime (‘koyuga burning’). Establishing such a fire regime ‘benchmark’ has the potential to stimulate new interdisciplinary research around the complex processes controlling grass-tree patterns, and build confidence that fire-stick farming was potentially instrumental in grassland formation, and integral to grassland maintenance throughout this region.

A sustainability assessment of the Western Australian (WA) rangelands identified a range of issues associated with regional economic decline typical of many marginal rangeland regions in Australia. As part of a regional rejuvenation strategy, the WA state government purchased selected pastoral lease properties for incorporation into the conservation estate. It was intended as a means of land-use transition from mono-functional productivism to multi-functionality incorporating protection of significant rangeland bioregions and development of tourism. A 1-year project was conducted to assess the issues relating to this transition. Archived information was obtained from government relating to the characteristics of the lease properties at the time they were purchased. Site visits were undertaken to purchased leases acquired by the government as well as neighbouring leases. During site visits, interviews with pastoralists and purchased lease managers were conducted. A series of facilitated community discussion groups in the region was held to ascertain the views of landholders and managers, government representatives, indigenous interests and commercial operators in the region. This paper describes how the transition to a combination of protection and consumption exchanged one set of problems for another. This was due partly to the intrinsic character of the land, in terms of previous overgrazing, isolation, large distances, and limited infrastructure and services. More importantly, the top-down approach to land transition failed to allocate adequate management resources to replace those lost when the former pastoral leaseholders left. The consequences of inadequate management included theft and rapid degradation of assets, inadequate control of pests and weeds; inadequate fire prevention management and poor communication between the government and other stakeholders over management decisions. This paper discusses the dynamics of this WA rangeland transition with reference to the multi-functional rural transition concept.

Prior to European settlement, medium-sized marsupials, especially bettongs (Bettongia spp.), were widely distributed across arid and semi-arid Australia. Most disappeared rapidly in the late 1800s in the earliest settled rangelands such as the West Darling region of western New South Wales following the spread of domestic herbivores, rabbit invasion, exotic predators and loss of habitat. Because the burrowing bettong (Bettongia lesueur) is the only fossorial macropod species, it left a clearly visible record of its past presence, distribution and habitat preferences in the form of substantial relict warrens, particularly in stony, ‘hard-red’ habitats. With the reduction in fire frequency because of excessive grazing pressures following European settlement in the 19th century, there was a rapid increase in the density of unpalatable native shrubs. We examine the hypothesis that periodic wildfires and browsing by bettongs were together able to regulate shrub densities in semi-arid rangelands in Australia. Information from various sources concerning the effects of fire, rainfall and browsing on the demography of shrubs was used to construct a model of shrub population dynamics. The model indicates the potential for two states for a given bettong density: first, a low shrub density maintained by a combination of periodic fire and bettong browsing; and second, a high shrub density in the absence of fire. These results have broad implications for pastoral and conservation management in Australian semi-arid rangelands.

This study was undertaken to assess whether the nutritional quality of spinifex pasture lands is improved by buming to promote the growth of grasses other than spinifex. We selected two comparable sites in the Exmouth Gulf region of Western Australia; one had been bumt in late 1979 and the other had not been burnt for many years. On these sites we sampled the five grass species present, as well as Triodia pungens (soft spinifex) and Plectrachne >chinzii (Oat eared spinifex) on 10 occasions from March 1980 to April 1982. Plant parts were analysed for nitrogen, phosphorus and sulphur content, and in vitro digestibility. None of the common grass species tested was more nutritious or more palatable than soft spinifex. It seems that little is gained from manipulating spinifex pastures through burning if the aim is to encourage alternative grass species. There is a need however for further studies into the importance of woody herbs and forbs in the nutrition of grazing animals on spinifex country and the effect of fire on these species.

The Australian sea-lion, Neophoca cinerea, has a 17-18-month breeding cycle on islands off the west coast of Western Australia. Buller, North Fisherman and Beagle Is are the main pupping sites, with several very small colonies (n> 3) at the Abrolhos Is. The 4-5-month pupping seasons are synchronised at North Fisherman and Beagle Is, but the sea-lions from Buller I. breed one month later and those from the Abrolhos Is two months earlier. Pup production and pup mortality were highly variable between seasons over which observations were recorded: 129 pups were born at the main breeding sites in early 1988, the mortality in the first five months was 7.1%, whereas 181 pups were born in late 1989 of which 24.3% died. Pups remain in the vicinity of their natal islands for the first 4-5 months of life before leaving, perhaps on foraging trips, with their mothers. Most return to their natal island, although others haulout on islands up to 27 km away. Some male N. cinerea congregate in bachelor colonies on islands adjacent to the Perth metropolitan region during the non-breeding season and migrate up to 280 km north each breeding season. The status of the isolated, west-coast N. cinerea population is unknown. The current high level of human pressure on sea-lion terrestrial habitats and their food resources indicate a need for further monitoring of this species.

The Pilbara population of the northern quoll (Dasyurus hallucatus) has been seldom studied, and the impacts of threats such as altered fire regimes, total grazing pressure, predation and mining and infrastructure development are not well understood. While the Pilbara was once thought likely to provide refuge for northern quolls from the poisonous cane toad (Rhinella marina), recent modelling suggests that cane toads will invade the region. The environmental approvals process for mining development in the Pilbara has generated considerable offset funds that are to be directed towards research on the northern quoll. In an effort to identify future research priorities for this species in the Pilbara through a collaborative process, the Western Australian Department of Parks and Wildlife hosted a workshop attended by scientists, environmental consultants, mining proponents and state and federal regulators. Participants at the workshop identified five key areas for future research effort: (1) develop appropriate and standardised survey and monitoring methods; (2) define areas of critical habitat and better understand how disturbance affects habitat quality; (3) improve our understanding of population dynamics; (4) better understand the key threats to the northern quoll and the interactions between these threats in the Pilbara; and (5) determine whether the northern quoll will colonise restored areas or artificial habitat. We provide the expected timelines and current allocation of resources to these research priorities over the next 10 years. We reflect on the lessons learnt from the workshop process and consider ways to improve the outcomes of such collaborative exercises.

This paper examines a range of environmental, research and practical issues affecting fire management of pastoral lands in the southern part of the Kimberley region in Western Australia. Although spinifex grasslands dominate most leases, smaller areas of more productive pastures are crucially important to many enterprises. There is a lack of local documentation of burning practices during traditional Aboriginal occupation; general features of the fire regime at that time can be suggested on the basis of information from other inland areas. Definition of current tire regimes is improving through interpretation of NOAA-AVHRR satellite imagery. Irregular extensive wildfires appear to dominate, although this should be confirmed by further accumulation, validation and analysis of fire history data. While these fires cause ma,jor difficulties. controlled burn~ng is a necessary part of station management. Although general management guidelines have been published. local research into tire-grazing effects has been very limited. For spinifex pastures, reconimendations are generally consistent with those applying elsewhere in northern Australia. They favour periodic burning of mature spinifex late in the year, before or shortly after the arrival of the first rains, with deferment of grazing. At that time. days of high fire danger may still be expected and prediction of fire behaviour is critical to burning decisions. Early dry-season burning is also required for creating protective tire breaks and to prepare for burning later in the year. Further development of tools for predicting fire behaviour, suited to the discontinuous fuels characteristic of the area, would be warranted. A range of questions concerning the timing and spatial pattern of burning, control of post-fire grazing, and the economics of fire management, should be addressed as resources permit. This can be done through a combination of opportunistic studies, modelling and documentation of local experience. The development of an expert system should be considered to assist in planning and conducting burning activities. Key words: Kimberley, fire regimes, fire management, pastoralism, spinifex

Western Australia has five species of rock-wallabies. Petrogale brachyotis, Petrogale burbidgei and Petrogale concinna occur in wet-dry tropical habitats in the Kimberley region. Petrogale rothschildi is a Pilbara region endemic, while Petrogale lateralis has the largest distribution, extending from the south-west Kimberley to islands off the southern coastline. There have been few collections of the three species restricted to the Kimberley. Their small size, secretive disposition and variable pelage have hampered field identification, and thus, understanding of their distribution and status. The populations of all three are currently believed to be stable and their status is considered secure. Petrogale rothschildi is known from the Hamersley and Chichester Ranges, the east Pilbara, the Burrup Peninsula and four islands in the Dampier Archipelago. It is abundant on three of these islands but has declined on Dolphin island. The status of the mainland populations is uncertain. Petrogale lateralis is a diverse species, with two subspecies and two chromosomal races occurring in WA. Petrogale lateralis hacketti is restricted to three islands in the Archipelago of the Recherche. Petrogale lateralis lateralis has declined throughout its mainland range, with extant populations known from six localities in the Wheatbelt; Cape Range; the Calvert Range; and Barrow and Salisbury Islands. It may still be extant in Kalbarri National Park. Petrogale lateralis West Kimberley race has a restricted distribution but appears secure, while P. lateralis MacDonnell Ranges race has declined markedly in recent years. Fox predation has been implicated in the decline of some populations of P. lateralis and P. rothschildi. The impact of factors such as competition from introduced grazers (stock, rabbits, goats), fire and habitat clearing have not been examined. Increased control of exotic predators, taxonomic research to clarify the identity of unsampled populations and field surveys are needed to improve the conservation outlook for WA rock-wallabies.

The genus Hakea Schrader (Proteaceae) has its world centre of diversity in south-western Australia; the majority (c. 70%) of species are endemic to this region. To examine the distribution of Hakea within south-western Australia, canonical correspondence analysis (CCA) was used on species presence and bioclimatic parameters in 0.5° x0.5° latitude-longitude grid cells. Of the 12 bioclimatic attributes initially applied, annual temperature and rainfall data, and indices of their variation, were best related to species distribution. Clustering of the species (on the CCA ordination) produced five distinct groups (not including species near the origin of the ordination) roughly representing floristic regions of southwestern Australia (Avon, Irwin, Eyre-Roe, southern Darling, northern-central Darling). Species distribution was then related to four morphological groups based on their leaf type (broad, terete) and post-fire life form (non-sprouter, resprouter). The highest percentage of terete-leaved non-sprouters occurred in areas of low-moderate rainfall and large annual temperature ranges (Avon and Eyre-Roe clusters), whereas terete-leaved resprouters displayed a very patchy distribution, accounting for less than 20% of the hakeas present in most of the grid cells. Broad-leaved resprouters dominated areas of strongly seasonal rainfall (Irwin and northern-central Darling clusters), with few species occurring in the drier Avon and Eyre-Roe districts. Broad-leaved non-sprouters were best represented in areas of low annual temperature (southern Darling and Eyre-Roe clusters). The distribution of non-sprouters and resprouters may be due to climatic factors affecting seedling recruitment and/or fire frequencies. Leaf morphology appears to be more directly related to species distribution, as broad leaves are favoured in regions of medium-high, seasonal rainfall (less stressful habitats) while terete leaves are better adapted to tolerate hot, dry environments.

A large proportion of Australia’s rangelands is arid or semi-arid and is dominated by soils low in total phosphorus. Productivity is controlled chiefly by the season and distribution of rainfall, although fire plays a major role in determining species composition, especially of the scrublands in these regions. Two legumes, common to the Pilbara region of Western Australia, Acacia ancistrocarpa and Senna notabilis, regenerated quickly after fires in summer 1995–1996. We examined their growth, mineral nutrition and carbon fractions in relation to their role as possible feed for herbivores, both native and introduced, with and without added phosphorus both in the field and the glasshouse. In the field, both species showed no significant changes in concentrations of total phenolics, condensed tannins, non-structural carbohydrates or lignin in response to fertiliser addition. Both species accumulated nitrogen and phosphorus after summer rain but the allocation of those resources varied between species. In the glasshouse, the concentration of nitrogen in both species was not affected by phosphorus fertilisation but the concentration of phosphorus in foliage increased linearly as the amount of phosphorus increased. Phosphorus application resulted in an increase in the dry mass of both species. Both species are low in in vitro dry organic matter digestibility and maintain high concentrations of total phenolics, condensed tannins and lignin. All nutritional, including major minerals, and anti-nutritional components varied significantly with season.

Exploration for oil and gas resources requiring the clearing of seismic lines has been occurring in central and northern Australia for many years. For example, seismic surveys have been conducted in the West Kimberley region of Western Australia since the 1960s. Despite this being a widespread practice, the recovery of vegetation on seismic lines has not been well studied. To better understand vegetation recovery in the West Kimberley, we conducted vegetation surveys on recovering seismic lines cleared using a raised-blade technique, from ∼two months to 4.9 years post-clearing, and compared them to paired control plots. Generally, the vegetation structure and community composition on seismic lines recovered quickly, with no discernible difference between control and seismic plots that were cleared more than 6 months prior. Some individual vegetation characteristics (e.g. understorey density and overstorey cover) recovered slowly, whereas other characteristics such as the number of individual grasses, recovered quickly. Vegetation recovery was confounded by the time since fire, which accounted for differences in vegetation structure at 1–2 years and 3–4 years since clearing. The fast recovery rate observed suggests that raised-blade clearing may not present a lasting impact on Pindan vegetation in the West Kimberley.

Gravity cores taken from five sites in the Nielsen basin, a sinuous trough on the Mac. Robertson shelf of the East Antarctic continental margin, have yielded non-marine palynofloras of late Early Jurassic to Early Cretaceous age. The palynomorphs occur in glacimarine muds and are thus not in situ, but the composition of the samples indicates that no mixing of individual assemblages has occurred, and that the sediments were deposited very close to outcrop of the source of the palynomorphs. The sequence is oldest at the seaward end of the Nielsen basin, and youngest near the fault-bounded landward end. It is interpreted as reflecting pre-break-up deposition on a passive, rifted continental margin. The age of the assemblages has been established by comparison with the zonal scheme developed in the Perth Basin of Western Australia. Similarity of the Antarctic palynofloras with those known from basins on the east coast of India confirms continental reconstructions that show this part of East Antarctica to have been contiguous with eastern India prior to break-up. The non-marine character of the palynomorphs suggests that marine conditions in this region of the Antarctic margin did not develop until at least late Early Cretaceous time.

Context Large portions of the world’s forests and woodlands are currently affected by declines in canopy condition of dominant tree species; however, the effects of these declines on faunal communities are largely unknown. Eucalyptus wandoo woodlands in the south-west region of Western Australia have demonstrated declines in condition since the early 1990s. Such declines in tree condition can result in reduced understorey vegetation, increased leaf-litter cover and coarse woody debris, potentially altering the habitat and resource available to reptiles. Prescribed fire events, another mechanism of habitat change for reptiles, are a common occurrence in these woodlands. Aims The present research investigated whether reptile communities were influenced by E. wandoo tree condition, and the changes in the habitat associated with E. wandoo decline. Methods Reptile trapping was conducted at 24 E. wandoo-dominated sites (of varying condition) in Dryandra State Forest and Wandoo Conservation Park, Western Australia. Overall, reptile abundance, species richness and individual reptile species abundances (only those species captured in sufficient numbers for analysis) were compared with a range of habitat characteristics that are likely to be altered by changes in E. wandoo tree condition. Key results Overall, higher reptile abundance and species richness were observed at sites with longer time since fire and more site litter cover. There was also a greater abundance and diversity of reptiles at sites where E. wandoo trees exhibited fewer symptoms of tree decline. Similar analyses for the five most common skink species indicated species-specific relationships with tree-condition measures, time since last fire, site litter cover, distance to drift fence from E. wandoo trees, understorey vegetation density and the density of coarse woody debris. Conclusions Abundance and species diversity of the reptile communities in E. wandoo woodlands were strongly related to time since last fire, E. wandoo tree condition and habitat characteristics such as site litter cover and the density of coarse woody debris. Implications Decline in the condition of E. wandoo trees and the fire events in E. wandoo woodlands are both mechanisms of change correlated with reptile habitat and resources. Future management of E. wandoo woodlands may include reducing prescribed fire events in areas demonstrating symptoms of tree decline, to conserve reptile abundance and species richness.

ANIMALS are commonly separated into two major categories based on their activity patterns: diurnal and nocturnal. However, evidence of numerous species exhibiting diverse periods of activity, including arhythmic and crepuscular habits, broadens the description. The honey possum (Tarsipes rostratus), a small West-Australian marsupial feeding exclusively on nectar and pollen, has been described as strongly nocturnal (Wooller et al. 1981; Russell and Renfree 1989). However, infrequent daytime activity in captivity (Russell 1986) and in the wild under cold, cloudy conditions, has been reported (Hopper and Burbidge 1982; du Plessis and du Plessis 1995). During trapping exercises in the region of Jurien Bay (250 km north of Perth, Western Australia), several animals were observed foraging after sunrise and before sunset, with occasional diurnal activity. To date, no study has investigated directly the activity periods of the species. Furthermore, studies of the visual capabilities of T. rostratus revealed that its retinal organisation is not compatible with a nocturnal lifestyle, but presents features comparable to those found in diurnal species (Arrese 2002; Arrese et al. 2002). Such discrepancies warranted the monitoring of activity periods (rhythmicity) of T. rostratus in its natural environment, a study reported here. We discuss our results in the context of the visual ecology of the species.

The southern brown bandicoot (Isoodon obesulus) occurs across the periphery of southern and eastern Australia as a series of isolated regional populations. Historical records and recent surveys conducted for I. obesulus indicate that it has disappeared or decreased significantly from many parts of its former range. Vegetation clearance, habitat fragmentation, feral predators and fire have all been implicated in the decline of the species. This paper examines the distribution of I. obesulus in the Portland region of south-western Victoria. Historical records of I. obesulus were compiled from the specimen collection of Museum Victoria, the Atlas of Victorian Wildlife, Portland Field Naturalists’ Club records and anecdotal sources. Field surveys were conducted to determine the current distribution of I. obesulus in the study area based on evidence of its foraging activity. The historical records reveal limited information: most are clustered around centres of human activity, indicating observational bias. The field surveys demonstrate that I. obesulus occurs in the Portland region as a series of local populations. Each local population is associated with a patch of remnant native vegetation separated from neighbouring patches by dispersal barriers. Within these habitat remnants the occurrence of the species is sporadic. Approximately 69% of the potential habitat is managed by the Forests Service, 31% is managed by Parks Victoria, and less than 0.5% is held under other tenures. Spatial isolation of habitat remnants, fires and feral predators are the main threats to I. obesulus in the Portland region.

The range of grass, shrub and tree levels present in the Louth region of western New South Wales was determined in an area where woody weeds are considered to be rampant, and the prospects for change by burning were evaluated. Relationships between the three vegetation elements in each of four major landforms were determined by regression and reduction in the canopy cover of woody vegetation after one or two fires were simulated. Basal cover of grass was negatively related to canopy cover of woody vegetation, except in the Sandplains and Dunefields landform. The relationship here was curvilinear with maximum grass cover occurring at 10% canopy cover of the woody vegetation. Pastoralism was considered to become less efficient when the canopy cover of woody vegetation exceeded 5%; 44% of sites measured were below this threshold. The remaining sites could be divided into two groups; one which would fall below the threshold if burnt with a prescribed fire (21%) and the other which required two fires or an equivalent second treatment to reduce the cover below the threshold (35%). The survey confirmed the perception of pastoralists, administrators and scientists that shrub cover is unacceptably high for pastoralism throughout much of the region. Additionally the perennial grass cover was very low and this would increase the instability of forage supply to pastoral herbivores. The high spatial variability in the composition of vegetation indicates that graziers need to identify and treat areas where return on investment in rehabilitation will be highest and most certain.

We studied the demography of the splendid fairy-wren, Malurus splendens, a group-territorial, cooperative-breeding passerine, near Perth, Western Australia, from 1973 to 1990. This period included 13 years of below-average rainfall, a number of minor wildfires and one that burnt 95% of the study area in January 1985. Annual survival of breeding males (mean = 70%) and females (mean = 59%) was higher during a period without fire. Survival of breeding females fell to less than 50% from 1987 to 1989, two years after the major fire. Survival of adults did not vary with age, but survival of juveniles was lower (mean=31%) and variable (range 11-59%), particularly among those produced in the first breeding season after the fire in 1985. Splendid fairy-wrens bred during the Austral spring, with minor variation in length of the breeding season depending on rainfall at the start and temperature at the end of the breeding season. Clutch size varied little, but females laid more clutches in years when predation or brood parasitism were high, particularly in the two years after the major fire. Females produced a mean of 2.9 fledglings each season (4.7 in the best year), but productivity was low for several years after the 1985 fire. Helpers attended 60% of all nests but overall had little effect on annual fledgling production. Experienced females were more productive than novices, both with and without helpers. High reproductive effort, indexed by days nesting and caring for fledglings, did not reduce a female's chance of survival to the next breeding season, and annual reproductive effort was not correlated with female survival. Differential dispersal and mortality produced variation in the adult sex ratio. During the fire-free period 1978-84, the numbers of non-breeding males and females increased, because of a lack of available territories rather than a lack of available partners. Variation in natality and survival caused large variations in population density but the density of breeders was more constant (C.V. = 24%) than than of helpers (C.V. = 57%). No decline in the population after the major fire of January 1985 was apparent until the 1988 breeding season; the number of groups declined from 1988 to 1990, some previously occupied territories became vacant and group size decreased. This delayed decline in population is attributed to decreased production of fledglings in the years after the fire and the gradual replacement of experienced breeding females by novices, which were less productive and suffered higher mortality. The major causes of demographic variation (brood parasites and fire) directly affected natality and juvenile survival; indirectly, population density, age structure, sex ratio and group composition were affected. Delayed dispersal, the proximate cause of cooperative breeding in splendid fairy-wrens, is favoured by this demographic environment. The widespread occurrence of similar demographic profiles may in part explain the high frequency of cooperative breeding in Australian birds.

Seeds of 22 species collected from recently burned phrygana were tested for their response to fire-type cues of charred wood and heat-shock. All Cistus species were stimulated by brief heat-shock, as shown in previous studies; however, none responded to charred wood. Only one of the 22 species was stimulated by charred wood, and only in dark-inhibited seeds, and this response did not occur in the light. The lack of charred-wood-induced germination is in contrast to the substantial proportion of species with this germination response reported for mediterranean-type vegetation in California, the Cape region of South Africa, and Western Australia. Phrygana has many species with heat-shock-stimulated germination, primarily in the Fabaceae and Cistaceae. This germination cue is widespread in these two families, thus, the presence of heat-shock-stimulated germination is a result of homologous, rather than covergent, adaptations in mediterranean-climate ecosystems. Germination response to light was not randomly distributed with respect to fire-type response. Heat-shock-stimulated species were almost uniformly light neutral, in contrast to more opportunistic colonizing species with non-refractory seeds, in which half of the species responded positively or negatively to light.

AbstractMorphophysiological dormancy (MPD) is predominantly found in seeds of temperate regions and is uncommon in arid biomes. MPD has been reported in a number of Hibbertia (Dilleniaceae) species of temperate Australia, and in a single species of the arid zone, H. glaberrima. This study aimed to examine the dormancy and germination ecology of seeds of H. glaberrima. Seeds were subjected to temperature stratification treatments designed to mimic summer and autumn conditions in the Pilbara region of Western Australia. Seed germination and embryo growth were measured. We also tested the interaction between temperature stratification and cycles of drying and wetting designed to mimic sporadic rainfall events. All temperature and moisture treatments were tested in combination (+/–) with the smoke-derived chemical karrikinolide (KAR1). Exposing dormant seeds to temperatures suitable for warm stratification (35°C) for ≥ 8 weeks, followed by incubation at 25°C, resulted in significantly higher germination compared with non-stratified seeds. Exposing seeds to dry/wet cycling in conjunction with temperature stratification did not significantly increase germination. Exposure to KAR1 increased germination under most conditions. Once seeds are shed during October to December, they are exposed to hot and sporadically wet conditions over summer, allowing MPD to be overcome in a proportion of the seed population. Seeds may germinate in autumn (March to April), in conjunction with cooler temperatures. More deeply dormant individuals may require more than one summer to overcome dormancy. Similar to other species occurring in fire-prone ecosystems, fire also plays a crucial role in the germination ecology of H. glaberrima.

We have studied the ecology and conservation requirements of Banksia species in the species-rich sandplains of south-western Australia for 25 years. Loss of habitat through land-clearing has had the greatest impact on their conservation status over the last 50 years. Ascertaining optimal conditions for conservation management in bushland requires detailed knowledge of the species under consideration, including demographic attributes, fire regime, growing conditions and interactions with other species. Where populations have been fragmented, seed production per plant has also fallen. The group most vulnerable to the vagaries of fire, disease, pests, weeds and climate change are the non-sprouters, rather than the resprouters, with population extinction so far confined to non-sprouting species. Recent short-interval fires (<8 years) appear to have had little impact at the landscape scale, possibly because they are rare and patchy. Fire intervals exceeding 25–50 years can also lead to local extinction. Up to 200 viable seeds are required for parent replacement in Banksia hookeriana when growing conditions are poor (low post-fire rainfall, commercial flower harvesting) and seed banks of this size can take up to 12 years to be reached. Seed production is rarely limited by pollinators, but interannual seasonal effects and resource availability are important. Genetic diversity of the seed store is quickly restored to the level of the parents in B. hookeriana. Florivores and granivores generally reduce seed stores, although this varies markedly among species. In Banksia tricuspis, black cockatoos actually increase seed set by selectively destroying borers. Potential loss of populations through the root pathogen Phytophthora cinnamomi also challenges management, especially in the southern sandplains. Prefire dead plants are a poor source of seeds for the next generation when fire does occur. Harvesting seeds and sowing post-fire have much to commend them for critically endangered species. Bare areas caused by humans can result in ideal conditions for plant growth and seed set. However, in the case of B. hookeriana/B. prionotes, disturbance by humans has fostered hybridisation, threatening the genetic integrity of both species, whereas fine-textured soils are unsuitable for colonisation or rehabilitation. Few viable seeds become seedlings after fire, owing to post-release granivory and herbivory and unsuitable germination conditions. Seedling-competitive effects ensure that season/intensity of fire is not critical to recruitment levels, except in the presence of weeds. Water availability during summer–autumn is critical and poses a problem for conservation management if the trend for declining rainfall in the region continues. Our simulation modelling for three banksias shows that the probability of co-occurrence is maximal when fire is stochastic around a mean of 13 years, and where fire-proneness and post-fire recruitment success vary in the landscape. Modelling results suggest that non-sprouting banksias could not survive the pre-European frequent-fire scenario suggested by the new grasstree technique for south-western Australia. However, we have yet to fully explore the conservation significance of long-distance dispersal of seeds, recently shown to exceed 2.5 km in B. hookeriana.

Barrow Island, which lies about 90 km north of Onslow off the arid Western Australian Pilbara coast, experienced its driest year on record in 1990 with a total of only 122.4 mm of rain. Golden bandicoots captured in November 1990 evidenced poor condition and mean body mass was a low 242.6 +/- 10.9 g with-a total body water content (TBW) of 76.3 +/- 1.4%. Despite this substantial loss of body water and solids, the animals maintained water and electrolyte balance during the period of turnover [water influx 79.5 +/- 6.9 v. efflux 83.3 +/- 5-7 mL (kg0.82 day)-1 and sodium influx 4.9 +/- 0.7 v. efflux 5.3 +/- 0.7 mmol (kg day)-1]. By April 1991, although only a further 37.4 mm of rain had been recorded on Barrow Island, the condition of the bandicoots had improved markedly, as a result of exploitation of insect resources, and their mean body mass had increased to 306.5 +/- 22.6 g and TBW decreased to 62.5 +/- 1.4% (both P < 0.001), the latter reflecting enhanced fat stores. This general improvement in condition of the bandicoots was in marked contrast to that of other herbivorous marsupials on the island. Rates of water and sodium turnover of the golden bandicoots were, however, not significantly different from those measured in the previous November, Field Metabolic Rates (FMRs), measured with doubly labelled water ((HHO))-H-3-O-18, were extremely low, averaging only 0.45 +/- 0.26 mL CO2 (g h)-1, which is very close to laboratory estimates of 0.35 +/- 0.09 mL O2(g h)-1 for the basal metabolic rate of this species. A major cyclone struck Barrow Island on 3 March 1992, with 162 mm of rain falling in 24 h, and turnover measurements in May of that year revealed a substantial increase in rates of water flux. Mean body mass further increased to 332.6 +/- 8.5 g and TBW averaged 61.8 +/- 1.1%. Water turnover rates were significantly elevated when compared with April of the previous year with an influx of 112.5 +/- 7.3 and an efflux of 119.0 +/- 7.6 mL (kg0.82 day)-1 respectively (both P = 0.001). Rates of sodium turnover, however, were only slightly lower at 3.6 +/- 0.5 and 4.1 +/- 0.5 mmol (kg day)-1 for influx and efflux respectively (P = 0.056 for influx only), suggesting a slight decrease in the average sodium content of the diet. The volume of water required to maintain hygric balance was estimated by regression analysis at 26.7 mL day-1 [=88.3 mL (kg0.82 day)-1] in November 1990, and 33-9 mL day-1 [=85.2 mL (kg0.82 day)-1] in May 1992, following rain. The FMR of eight bandicoots was very significantly elevated to 1.39 +/- 0.23 mL CO2 (g h)-1 after rain, which is substantially higher than even the FMR of 0.91 +/- 0.07 mL CO2(g h)-1, or 644 kJ day-1, reported for the closely related southern brown bandicoot (Isoodon obesulus) studied in the region of Perth by Nagy et al. (1991). Turnover rates of water and sodium for two rodent species, the Barrow Island mouse (Pseudomys nanus) and the rock rat (Zyzomys argurus), were very similar to those recorded for golden bandicoots in the dry period, but FMRs were a little higher at 0.80 +/- 0.26 and 0.59 +/- 0-36 mL CO2(g h)-l respectively. The FMR of Barrow Island mice increased very significantly to a mean of 2.73 +/- 0.50 mL CO2(g h)-l after rain, but rock rats were not caught at this time. The data document the impressive ability of these mammals to avail themselves of extremely limited resources and maintain physiological homoiostasis under conditions of extreme aridity.

In 1848 an expedition led by German scientist Ludwig Leichhardt set out from Moreton Bay (Brisbane) with the intention of crossing the continent to the Swan River (Perth). The trip was expected to take two to three years, but instead the entire expedition disappeared and its fate remains a mystery to this day. It is now recognised that in his time Leichhardt was the best-trained scientist-explorer to have visited Australia, having studied under many of the most eminent European scientists and absorbed the works of others, including the great Alexander von Humboldt. Because of this, I argue that his 1848 expedition was not intended to be merely an east-west traverse of the continent. I determine what route Leichhardt planned to follow and show that he chose this route with several 'Humboldtian' aims in mind. If his expedition had succeeded, it would have been the greatest land-based scientific expedition in Australia's history, and Leichhardt would arguably now be venerated as the father of Australian landscape ecology. From the time it was realised Leichhardt's expedition was lost, many theories have been put forward as to its fate. Most suggest that the expedition perished somewhere in western Queensland or in the vicinity of the Simpson Desert. I present evidence to suggest that Leichhardt followed his proposed course and that this took him far from the Simpson Desert-Central Australian region, that in fact he made it more than two-thirds of the way across the continent and perished in the area where the Tanami Desert meets the Great Sandy Desert.

Models to calibrate tree and shrub cover assessed from aerial photography with field measurements were developed for a range of vegetation types in north-western Australia. The models verify previous studies indicating that woody cover can be successfully determined from aerial photography. The calibration models were applied to estimates of woody vegetation cover determined for 279 randomly located sample areas in the Ord–Victoria Rivers region using aerial photography from 1948 to 1950 and 1988 to 1997. Overstorey cover increased from a regional average of 11.5% to 13.5% and understorey cover increased from 1.3% to 2.0%. Downs, Limestone Hills and Alluvia land-types showed the most substantial increases in overstorey cover while overstorey cover in the Limestone plains land-type decreased. Relatively open structured vegetation is most susceptible to thickening. Rainfall records reveal an extreme multi-year rainfall deficit in the study area in the 1930s and relatively wet times in the 1970s and 1980s. Interpretation of a limited set of aerial photographs taken between 1964 and 1972 suggests that most of the increases in cover have occurred since this time. The study highlights the possibility that the average trend of vegetation thickening represents recovery during the relatively wet times after the 1970s. There was no relationship between structural change and a grazing intensity surrogate (distance of sample points to stock watering-points). However, the causes of structural change are undoubtedly multi-factored and the relative contributions of climate, fire and grazing vary for different landscapes and tree species.

Models to calibrate tree and shrub cover assessed from aerial photography with field measurements were developed for a range of vegetation types in north-western Australia. The models verify previous studies indicating that woody cover can be successfully determined from aerial photography. The calibration models were applied to estimates of woody vegetation cover determined for 279 randomly located sample areas in the Ord–Victoria Rivers region using aerial photography from 1948 to 1950 and 1988 to 1997. Overstorey cover increased from a regional average of 11.5% to 13.5% and understorey cover increased from 1.3% to 2.0%. Downs, Limestone Hills and Alluvia land-types showed the most substantial increases in overstorey cover while overstorey cover in the Limestone plains land-type decreased. Relatively open structured vegetation is most susceptible to thickening. Rainfall records reveal an extreme multi-year rainfall deficit in the study area in the 1930s and relatively wet times in the 1970s and 1980s. Interpretation of a limited set of aerial photographs taken between 1964 and 1972 suggests that most of the increases in cover have occurred since this time. The study highlights the possibility that the average trend of vegetation thickening represents recovery during the relatively wet times after the 1970s. There was no relationship between structural change and a grazing intensity surrogate (distance of sample points to stock watering-points). However, the causes of structural change are undoubtedly multi-factored and the relative contributions of climate, fire and grazing vary for different landscapes and tree species.

Abstract Background Prescribed burning is used to reduce fire hazard in highly flammable vegetation types, including Banksia L.f. woodland that occurs on the Swan Coastal Plain (SCP), Western Australia, Australia. The 2016 census recorded well over 1.9 million people living on the SCP, which also encompasses Perth, the fourth largest city in Australia. Banksia woodland is prone to frequent ignitions that can cause extensive bushfires that consume canopy-stored banksia seeds, a critical food resource for an endangered bird, the Carnaby’s cockatoo (Calyptorynchus latirostris, Carnaby 1948). The time needed for banksias to reach maturity and maximum seed production is several years longer than the typical interval between prescribed burns. We compared prescribed burns to bushfires and unburned sites at three locations in banksia woodland to determine whether low-intensity prescribed burns affect the number of adult banksias and their seed production. Study sites were matched to the same vegetation complex, fire regime, and time-since-fire to isolate fire intensity as a variable. Results Headfire rates of spread and differenced normalized burn ratios indicated that prescribed burning was generally of a much lower intensity than bushfire. The percentage survival of adult banksias and their production of cones and follicles (seeds) did not decrease during the first three years following a prescribed burn. However, survival and seed production were significantly diminished followed high-intensity bushfire. Thus, carrying capacity for Carnaby’s cockatoo was unchanged by prescribed burning but decreased markedly following bushfire in banksia woodland. Conclusions These results suggest that prescribed burning is markedly different from bushfire when considering appropriate fire intervals to conserve canopy habitats in fire-resilient vegetation communities. Therefore, low-intensity prescribed burning represents a viable management tool to reduce the frequency and extent of bushfire impacts on banksia woodland and Carnaby’s cockatoo.

Every act of art is able to reveal, balance and revive the relations between a territory and its inhabitants (François Davin, Southern Forest Sculpture Walk Catalogue)Introducing the Understory Art in Nature TrailIn February 2015, a colossal wildfire destroyed 98,300 hectares of farm and bushland surrounding the town of Northcliffe, located 365 km south of Perth, Western Australia (WA). As the largest fire in the recorded history of the southwest region (Southern Forest Arts, After the Burn 8), the disaster attracted national attention however the extraordinary contribution of local knowledge in saving a town considered by authorities to be “undefendable” (Kennedy) is yet to be widely appreciated. In accounting for a creative scene that survived the conflagration, this case study sees culture mobilised as a socioeconomic resource for conservation and the healing of community spirit.Northcliffe (population 850) sits on a coastal plain that hosts majestic old-growth forest and lush bushland. In 2006, Southern Forest Arts (SFA) dedicated a Southern Forest Sculpture Walk for creative professionals to develop artworks along a 1.2 km walk trail through pristine native forest. It was re-branded “Understory—Art in Nature” in 2009; then “Understory Art in Nature Trail” in 2015, the understory vegetation layer beneath the canopy being symbolic of Northcliffe’s deeply layered caché of memories, including “the awe, love, fear, and even the hatred that these trees have provoked among the settlers” (Davin in SFA Catalogue). In the words of the SFA Trailguide, “Every place (no matter how small) has ‘understories’—secrets, songs, dreams—that help us connect with the spirit of place.”In the view of forest arts ecologist Kumi Kato, “It is a sense of place that underlies the commitment to a place’s conservation by its community, broadly embracing those who identify with the place for various reasons, both geographical and conceptual” (149). In bioregional terms such communities form a terrain of consciousness (Berg and Dasmann 218), extending responsibility for conservation across cultures, time and space (Kato 150). A sustainable thematic of place must also include livelihood as the third party between culture and nature that establishes the relationship between them (Giblett 240). With these concepts in mind I gauge creative impact on forest as place, and, in turn, (altered) forest’s impact on people. My abstraction of physical place is inclusive of humankind moving in dialogic engagement with forest. A mapping of Understory’s creative activities sheds light on how artists express physical environments in situated creative practices, clusters, and networks. These, it is argued, constitute unique types of community operating within (and beyond) a foundational scene of inspiration and mystification that is metaphorically “rising from the ashes.” In transcending disconnectedness between humankind and landscape, Understory may be understood to both culturalise nature (as an aesthetic system), and naturalise culture (as an ecologically modelled system), to build on a trope introduced by Feld (199). Arguably when the bush is cultured in this way it attracts consumers who may otherwise disconnect from nature.The trail (henceforth Understory) broaches the histories of human relations with Northcliffe’s natural systems of place. Sub-groups of the Noongar nation have inhabited the southwest for an estimated 50,000 years and their association with the Northcliffe region extends back at least 6,000 years (SFA Catalogue; see also Crawford and Crawford). An indigenous sense of the spirit of forest is manifest in Understory sculpture, literature, and—for the purpose of this article—the compilation CD Canopy: Songs for the Southern Forests (henceforth Canopy, Figure 1).As a cultural and environmental construction of place, Canopy sustains the land with acts of seeing, listening to, and interpreting nature; of remembering indigenous people in the forest; and of recalling the hardships of the early settlers. I acknowledge SFA coordinator and Understory custodian Fiona Sinclair for authorising this investigation; Peter Hill for conservation conversations; Robyn Johnston for her Canopy CD sleeve notes; Della Rae Morrison for permissions; and David Pye for discussions. Figure 1. Canopy: Songs for the Southern Forests (CD, 2006). Cover image by Raku Pitt, 2002. Courtesy Southern Forest Arts, Northcliffe, WA.Forest Ecology, Emotion, and ActionEstablished in 1924, Northcliffe’s ill-founded Group Settlement Scheme resulted in frontier hardship and heartbreak, and deforestation of the southwest region for little economic return. An historic forest controversy (1992-2001) attracted media to Northcliffe when protesters attempting to disrupt logging chained themselves to tree trunks and suspended themselves from branches. The signing of the Western Australian Regional Forest Agreement in 1999 was followed, in 2001, by deregulation of the dairy industry and a sharp decline in area population.Moved by the gravity of this situation, Fiona Sinclair won her pitch to the Manjimup Council for a sound alternative industry for Northcliffe with projections of jobs: a forest where artists could work collectively and sustainably to reveal the beauty of natural dimensions. A 12-acre pocket of allocated Crown Land adjacent to the town was leased as an A-Class Reserve vested for Education and Recreation, for which SFA secured unified community ownership and grants. Conservation protocols stipulated that no biomass could be removed from the forest and that predominantly raw, natural materials were to be used (F. Sinclair and P. Hill, personal interview, 26 Sep. 2014). With forest as prescribed image (wider than the bounded chunk of earth), Sinclair invited the artists to consider the themes of spirituality, creativity, history, dichotomy, and sensory as a basis for work that was to be “fresh, intimate, and grounded in place.” Her brief encouraged artists to work with humanity and imagination to counteract residual community divisiveness and resentment. Sinclair describes this form of implicit environmentalism as an “around the back” approach that avoids lapsing into political commentary or judgement: “The trail is a love letter from those of us who live here to our visitors, to connect with grace” (F. Sinclair, telephone interview, 6 Apr. 2014). Renewing community connections to local place is essential if our lives and societies are to become more sustainable (Pedelty 128). To define Northcliffe’s new community phase, artists respected differing associations between people and forest. A structure on a karri tree by Indigenous artist Norma MacDonald presents an Aboriginal man standing tall and proud on a rock to become one with the tree and the forest: as it was for thousands of years before European settlement (MacDonald in SFA Catalogue). As Feld observes, “It is the stabilizing persistence of place as a container of experiences that contributes so powerfully to its intrinsic memorability” (201).Adhering to the philosophy that nature should not be used or abused for the sake of art, the works resonate with the biorhythms of the forest, e.g. functional seats and shelters and a cascading retainer that directs rainwater back to the resident fauna. Some sculptures function as receivers for picking up wavelengths of ancient forest. Forest Folk lurk around the understory, while mysterious stone art represents a life-shaping force of planet history. To represent the reality of bushfire, Natalie Williamson’s sculpture wraps itself around a burnt-out stump. The work plays with scale as small native sundew flowers are enlarged and a subtle beauty, easily overlooked, becomes apparent (Figure 2). The sculptor hopes that “spiders will spin their webs about it, incorporating it into the landscape” (SFA Catalogue).Figure 2. Sundew. Sculpture by Natalie Williamson, 2006. Understory Art in Nature Trail, Northcliffe, WA. Image by the author, 2014.Memory is naturally place-oriented or at least place-supported (Feld 201). Topaesthesia (sense of place) denotes movement that connects our biography with our route. This is resonant for the experience of regional character, including the tactile, olfactory, gustatory, visual, and auditory qualities of a place (Ryan 307). By walking, we are in a dialogue with the environment; both literally and figuratively, we re-situate ourselves into our story (Schine 100). For example, during a summer exploration of the trail (5 Jan. 2014), I intuited a personal attachment based on my grandfather’s small bush home being razed by fire, and his struggle to support seven children.Understory’s survival depends on vigilant controlled (cool) burns around its perimeter (Figure 3), organised by volunteer Peter Hill. These burns also hone the forest. On 27 Sept. 2014, the charred vegetation spoke a spring language of opportunity for nature to reassert itself as seedpods burst and continue the cycle; while an autumn walk (17 Mar. 2016) yielded a fresh view of forest colour, patterning, light, shade, and sound.Figure 3. Understory Art in Nature Trail. Map Created by Fiona Sinclair for Southern Forest Sculpture Walk Catalogue (2006). Courtesy Southern Forest Arts, Northcliffe, WA.Understory and the Melody of CanopyForest resilience is celebrated in five MP3 audio tours produced for visitors to dialogue with the trail in sensory contexts of music, poetry, sculptures and stories that name or interpret the setting. The trail starts in heathland and includes three creek crossings. A zone of acacias gives way to stands of the southwest signature trees karri (Eucalyptus diversicolor), jarrah (Eucalyptus marginata), and marri (Corymbia calophylla). Following a sheoak grove, a riverine environment re-enters heathland. Birds, insects, mammals, and reptiles reside around and between the sculptures, rendering the earth-embedded art a fusion of human and natural orders (concept after Relph 141). On Audio Tour 3, Songs for the Southern Forests, the musician-composers reflect on their regionally focused items, each having been birthed according to a personal musical concept (the manner in which an individual artist holds the totality of a composition in cultural context). Arguably the music in question, its composers, performers, audiences, and settings, all have a role to play in defining the processes and effects of forest arts ecology. Local musician Ann Rice billeted a cluster of musicians (mostly from Perth) at her Windy Harbour shack. The energy of the production experience was palpable as all participated in on-site forest workshops, and supported each other’s items as a musical collective (A. Rice, telephone interview, 2 Oct. 2014). Collaborating under producer Lee Buddle’s direction, they orchestrated rich timbres (tone colours) to evoke different musical atmospheres (Table 1). Composer/Performer Title of TrackInstrumentation1. Ann RiceMy Placevocals/guitars/accordion 2. David PyeCicadan Rhythmsangklung/violin/cello/woodblocks/temple blocks/clarinet/tapes 3. Mel RobinsonSheltervocal/cello/double bass 4. DjivaNgank Boodjakvocals/acoustic, electric and slide guitars/drums/percussion 5. Cathie TraversLamentaccordion/vocals/guitar/piano/violin/drums/programming 6. Brendon Humphries and Kevin SmithWhen the Wind First Blewvocals/guitars/dobro/drums/piano/percussion 7. Libby HammerThe Gladevocal/guitar/soprano sax/cello/double bass/drums 8. Pete and Dave JeavonsSanctuaryguitars/percussion/talking drum/cowbell/soprano sax 9. Tomás FordWhite Hazevocal/programming/guitar 10. David HyamsAwakening /Shaking the Tree /When the Light Comes guitar/mandolin/dobro/bodhran/rainstick/cello/accordion/flute 11. Bernard CarneyThe Destiny Waltzvocal/guitar/accordion/drums/recording of The Destiny Waltz 12. Joel BarkerSomething for Everyonevocal/guitars/percussion Table 1. Music Composed for Canopy: Songs for the Southern Forests.Source: CD sleeve and http://www.understory.com.au/art.php. Composing out of their own strengths, the musicians transformed the geographic region into a living myth. As Pedelty has observed of similar musicians, “their sounds resonate because they so profoundly reflect our living sense of place” (83-84). The remainder of this essay evidences the capacity of indigenous song, art music, electronica, folk, and jazz-blues to celebrate, historicise, or re-imagine place. Firstly, two items represent the phenomenological approach of site-specific sensitivity to acoustic, biological, and cultural presence/loss, including the materiality of forest as a living process.“Singing Up the Land”In Aboriginal Australia “there is no place that has not been imaginatively grasped through song, dance and design, no place where traditional owners cannot see the imprint of sacred creation” (Rose 18). Canopy’s part-Noongar language song thus repositions the ancient Murrum-Noongar people within their life-sustaining natural habitat and spiritual landscape.Noongar Yorga woman Della Rae Morrison of the Bibbulmun and Wilman nations co-founded The Western Australian Nuclear Free Alliance to campaign against the uranium mining industry threatening Ngank Boodjak (her country, “Mother Earth”) (D.R. Morrison, e-mail, 15 July 2014). In 2004, Morrison formed the duo Djiva (meaning seed power or life force) with Jessie Lloyd, a Murri woman of the Guugu Yimidhirr Nation from North Queensland. After discerning the fundamental qualities of the Understory site, Djiva created the song Ngank Boodjak: “This was inspired by walking the trail […] feeling the energy of the land and the beautiful trees and hearing the birds. When I find a spot that I love, I try to feel out the lay-lines, which feel like vortexes of energy coming out of the ground; it’s pretty amazing” (Morrison in SFA Canopy sleeve) Stanza 1 points to the possibilities of being more fully “in country”:Ssh!Ni dabarkarn kooliny, ngank boodja kookoorninyListen, walk slowly, beautiful Mother EarthThe inclusion of indigenous language powerfully implements an indigenous interpretation of forest: “My elders believe that when we leave this life from our physical bodies that our spirit is earthbound and is living in the rocks or the trees and if you listen carefully you might hear their voices and maybe you will get some answers to your questions” (Morrison in SFA Catalogue).Cicadan Rhythms, by composer David Pye, echoes forest as a lively “more-than-human” world. Pye took his cue from the ambient pulsing of male cicadas communicating in plenum (full assembly) by means of airborne sound. The species were sounding together in tempo with individual rhythm patterns that interlocked to create one fantastic rhythm (Australian Broadcasting Corporation, Composer David Pye). The cicada chorus (the loudest known lovesong in the insect world) is the unique summer soundmark (term coined by Truax Handbook, Website) of the southern forests. Pye chased various cicadas through Understory until he was able to notate the rhythms of some individuals in a patch of low-lying scrub.To simulate cicada clicking, the composer set pointillist patterns for Indonesian anklung (joint bamboo tubes suspended within a frame to produce notes when the frame is shaken or tapped). Using instruments made of wood to enhance the rich forest imagery, Pye created all parts using sampled instrumental sounds placed against layers of pre-recorded ambient sounds (D. Pye, telephone interview, 3 Sept. 2014). He takes the listener through a “geographical linear representation” of the trail: “I walked around it with a stopwatch and noted how long it took to get through each section of the forest, and that became the musical timing of the various parts of the work” (Pye in SFA Canopy sleeve). That Understory is a place where reciprocity between nature and culture thrives is, likewise, evident in the remaining tracks.Musicalising Forest History and EnvironmentThree tracks distinguish Canopy as an integrative site for memory. Bernard Carney’s waltz honours the Group Settlers who battled insurmountable terrain without any idea of their destiny, men who, having migrated with a promise of owning their own dairy farms, had to clear trees bare-handedly and build furniture from kerosene tins and gelignite cases. Carney illuminates the culture of Saturday night dancing in the schoolroom to popular tunes like The Destiny Waltz (performed on the Titanic in 1912). His original song fades to strains of the Victor Military Band (1914), to “pay tribute to the era where the inspiration of the song came from” (Carney in SFA Canopy sleeve). Likewise Cathie Travers’s Lament is an evocation of remote settler history that creates a “feeling of being in another location, other timezone, almost like an endless loop” (Travers in SFA Canopy sleeve).An instrumental medley by David Hyams opens with Awakening: the morning sun streaming through tall trees, and the nostalgic sound of an accordion waltz. Shaking the Tree, an Irish jig, recalls humankind’s struggle with forest and the forces of nature. A final title, When the Light Comes, defers to the saying by conservationist John Muir that “The wrongs done to trees, wrongs of every sort, are done in the darkness of ignorance and unbelief, for when the light comes the heart of the people is always right” (quoted by Hyams in SFA Canopy sleeve). Local musician Joel Barker wrote Something for Everyone to personify the old-growth karri as a king with a crown, with “wisdom in his bones.”Kevin Smith’s father was born in Northcliffe in 1924. He and Brendon Humphries fantasise the untouchability of a maiden (pre-human) moment in a forest in their song, When the Wind First Blew. In Libby Hammer’s The Glade (a lover’s lament), instrumental timbres project their own affective languages. The jazz singer intended the accompanying double bass to speak resonantly of old-growth forest; the cello to express suppleness and renewal; a soprano saxophone to impersonate a bird; and the drums to imitate the insect community’s polyrhythmic undercurrent (after Hammer in SFA Canopy sleeve).A hybrid aural environment of synthetic and natural forest sounds contrasts collision with harmony in Sanctuary. The Jeavons Brothers sampled rustling wind on nearby Mt Chudalup to absorb into the track’s opening, and crafted a snare groove for the quirky eco-jazz/trip-hop by banging logs together, and banging rocks against logs. This imaginative use of percussive found objects enhanced their portrayal of forest as “a living, breathing entity.”In dealing with recent history in My Place, Ann Rice cameos a happy childhood growing up on a southwest farm, “damming creeks, climbing trees, breaking bones and skinning knees.” The rich string harmonies of Mel Robinson’s Shelter sculpt the shifting environment of a brewing storm, while White Haze by Tomás Ford describes a smoky controlled burn as “a kind of metaphor for the beautiful mystical healing nature of Northcliffe”: Someone’s burning off the scrubSomeone’s making sure it’s safeSomeone’s whiting out the fearSomeone’s letting me breathe clearAs Sinclair illuminates in a post-fire interview with Sharon Kennedy (Website):When your map, your personal map of life involves a place, and then you think that that place might be gone…” Fiona doesn't finish the sentence. “We all had to face the fact that our little place might disappear." Ultimately, only one house was lost. Pasture and fences, sheds and forest are gone. Yet, says Fiona, “We still have our town. As part of SFA’s ongoing commission, forest rhythm workshops explore different sound properties of potential materials for installing sound sculptures mimicking the surrounding flora and fauna. In 2015, SFA mounted After the Burn (a touring photographic exhibition) and Out of the Ashes (paintings and woodwork featuring ash, charcoal, and resin) (SFA, After the Burn 116). The forthcoming community project Rising From the Ashes will commemorate the fire and allow residents to connect and create as they heal and move forward—ten years on from the foundation of Understory.ConclusionThe Understory Art in Nature Trail stimulates curiosity. It clearly illustrates links between place-based social, economic and material conditions and creative practices and products within a forest that has both given shelter and “done people in.” The trail is an experimental field, a transformative locus in which dedicated physical space frees artists to culturalise forest through varied aesthetic modalities. Conversely, forest possesses agency for naturalising art as a symbol of place. Djiva’s song Ngank Boodjak “sings up the land” to revitalise the timelessness of prior occupation, while David Pye’s Cicadan Rhythms foregrounds the seasonal cycle of entomological music.In drawing out the richness and significance of place, the ecologically inspired album Canopy suggests that the community identity of a forested place may be informed by cultural, economic, geographical, and historical factors as well as endemic flora and fauna. Finally, the musical representation of place is not contingent upon blatant forms of environmentalism. The portrayals of Northcliffe respectfully associate Western Australian people and forests, yet as a place, the town has become an enduring icon for the plight of the Universal Old-growth Forest in all its natural glory, diverse human uses, and (real or perceived) abuses.ReferencesAustralian Broadcasting Commission. “Canopy: Songs for the Southern Forests.” Into the Music. Prod. Robyn Johnston. Radio National, 5 May 2007. 12 Aug. 2014 <http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/intothemusic/canopy-songs-for-the-southern-forests/3396338>.———. “Composer David Pye.” Interview with Andrew Ford. The Music Show, Radio National, 12 Sep. 2009. 30 Jan. 2015 <http://canadapodcasts.ca/podcasts/MusicShowThe/1225021>.Berg, Peter, and Raymond Dasmann. “Reinhabiting California.” Reinhabiting a Separate Country: A Bioregional Anthology of Northern California. Ed. Peter Berg. San Francisco: Planet Drum, 1978. 217-20.Crawford, Patricia, and Ian Crawford. Contested Country: A History of the Northcliffe Area, Western Australia. Perth: UWA P, 2003.Feld, Steven. 2001. “Lift-Up-Over Sounding.” The Book of Music and Nature: An Anthology of Sounds, Words, Thoughts. Ed. David Rothenberg and Marta Ulvaeus. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan UP, 2001. 193-206.Giblett, Rod. People and Places of Nature and Culture. Bristol: Intellect, 2011.Kato, Kumi. “Addressing Global Responsibility for Conservation through Cross-Cultural Collaboration: Kodama Forest, a Forest of Tree Spirits.” The Environmentalist 28.2 (2008): 148-54. 15 Apr. 2014 <http://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s10669-007-9051-6#page-1>.Kennedy, Sharon. “Local Knowledge Builds Vital Support Networks in Emergencies.” ABC South West WA, 10 Mar. 2015. 26 Mar. 2015 <http://www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2015/03/09/4193981.htm?site=southwestwa>.Morrison, Della Rae. E-mail. 15 July 2014.Pedelty, Mark. Ecomusicology: Rock, Folk, and the Environment. Philadelphia, PA: Temple UP, 2012.Pye, David. Telephone interview. 3 Sep. 2014.Relph, Edward. Place and Placelessness. London: Pion, 1976.Rice, Ann. Telephone interview. 2 Oct. 2014.Rose, Deborah Bird. Nourishing Terrains: Australian Aboriginal Views of Landscape and Wilderness. Australian Heritage Commission, 1996.Ryan, John C. Green Sense: The Aesthetics of Plants, Place and Language. Oxford: Trueheart Academic, 2012.Schine, Jennifer. “Movement, Memory and the Senses in Soundscape Studies.” Canadian Acoustics: Journal of the Canadian Acoustical Association 38.3 (2010): 100-01. 12 Apr. 2016 <http://jcaa.caa-aca.ca/index.php/jcaa/article/view/2264>.Sinclair, Fiona. Telephone interview. 6 Apr. 2014.Sinclair, Fiona, and Peter Hill. Personal Interview. 26 Sep. 2014.Southern Forest Arts. Canopy: Songs for the Southern Forests. CD coordinated by Fiona Sinclair. Recorded and produced by Lee Buddle. Sleeve notes by Robyn Johnston. West Perth: Sound Mine Studios, 2006.———. Southern Forest Sculpture Walk Catalogue. Northcliffe, WA, 2006. Unpaginated booklet.———. Understory—Art in Nature. 2009. 12 Apr. 2016 <http://www.understory.com.au/>.———. Trailguide. Understory. Presented by Southern Forest Arts, n.d.———. After the Burn: Stories, Poems and Photos Shared by the Local Community in Response to the 2015 Northcliffe and Windy Harbour Bushfire. 2nd ed. Ed. Fiona Sinclair. Northcliffe, WA., 2016.Truax, Barry, ed. Handbook for Acoustic Ecology. 2nd ed. Cambridge Street Publishing, 1999. 10 Apr. 2016 <http://www.sfu.ca/sonic-studio/handbook/Soundmark.html>.

Semi-arid landscapes are of interest to fire ecologists because they are generally located in the climatic transition zone between arid lands (where fires tend to be rare due to lack of fuel, but are enhanced following large rainfall episodes) and more mesic regions (where fire activity tends to be enhanced following severe rainfall deficits). Here we report on the characteristics of the contemporary fire regimes operating in a semi-arid region of inland south-western Australia with rainfall averaging around 300 mm per annum. To characterize fire regimes, we analyzed a geodatabase of fire scars (1960–2018) to derive fire preferences for each major vegetation type and fire episode and used known fire intervals to model fire hazard over time and calculate typical fire frequencies. We also used super epoch analysis and correlations to explore relationships between annual fire extent and rainfall received before the fire. We found fires strongly favored sandplain shrublands, and these tended to experience hot crown fires once every 100 years (median fire interval), with fire hazard increasing linearly over time. In contrast, fires were rare in eucalypt woodland and other vegetation types, with a median interval of 870 years and broadly consistent fire hazard over time. Annual fire extent was most strongly linked with high rainfall in the year prior to fire, and this was particularly so for eucalypt woodlands. Large-scale fires in shrublands tended to favor areas burnt in previous large fires, whereas in woodlands they favored edges. In conclusion, we found divergent fire regimes across the major vegetation types of the region. Sandplain shrublands were similar to Mediterranean shrublands in that they experienced intense stand-replacing wildfires which recovered vigorously although slowly, meaning burnt shrublands did not experience fires again for at least 25 and 100 years on average. In contrast, eucalypt woodlands were fire sensitive (trees readily killed by fire) and experienced fires mostly around the edges, spreading into core areas only after large rainfall events elevated fuel levels. Overall, both vegetation types subscribed to typical arid-zone fire regimes where elevated rainfall, and not drought, promoted fires, although the role of fuel accumulation over time was more important in the shrublands.

Special Care Notice This article contains images of deceased people that might cause sadness or distress to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers. Introduction Like many cities, Perth was founded on wetlands that have been integral to its history and culture (Seddon 226–32). However, in order to promote a settlement agenda, early mapmakers sought to erase the city’s wetlands from cartographic depictions (Giblett, Cities). Since the colonial era, inner-Perth’s swamps and lakes have been drained, filled, significantly reduced in size, or otherwise reclaimed for urban expansion (Bekle). Not only have the swamps and lakes physically disappeared, the memories of their presence and influence on the city’s development over time are also largely forgotten. What was the site of Perth, specifically its wetlands, like before British settlement? In 2014, an interdisciplinary team at Edith Cowan University developed a digital visualisation process to re-imagine Perth prior to colonisation. This was based on early maps of the Swan River Colony and a range of archival information. The images depicted the city’s topography, hydrology, and vegetation and became the centerpiece of a physical exhibition entitled Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands and a virtual exhibition hosted by the Western Australian Museum. Alongside historic maps, paintings, photographs, and writings, the visual reconstruction of Perth aimed to foster appreciation of the pre-settlement environment—the homeland of the Whadjuck Nyoongar, or Bibbulmun, people (Carter and Nutter). The exhibition included the narrative of Fanny Balbuk, a Nyoongar woman who voiced her indignation over the “usurping of her beloved home ground” (Bates, The Passing 69) by flouting property lines and walking through private residences to reach places of cultural significance. Beginning with Balbuk’s story and the digital tracing of her walking route through colonial Perth, this article discusses the project in the context of contemporary pressures on the city’s extant wetlands. The re-imagining of Perth through historically, culturally, and geographically-grounded digital visualisation approaches can inspire the conservation of its wetlands heritage. Balbuk’s Walk through the City For many who grew up in Perth, Fanny Balbuk’s perambulations have achieved legendary status in the collective cultural imagination. In his memoir, David Whish-Wilson mentions Balbuk’s defiant walks and the lighting up of the city for astronaut John Glenn in 1962 as the two stories that had the most impact on his Perth childhood. From Gordon Stephenson House, Whish-Wilson visualises her journey in his mind’s eye, past Government House on St Georges Terrace (the main thoroughfare through the city centre), then north on Barrack Street towards the railway station, the site of Lake Kingsford where Balbuk once gathered bush tucker (4). He considers the footpaths “beneath the geometric frame of the modern city […] worn smooth over millennia that snake up through the sheoak and marri woodland and into the city’s heart” (Whish-Wilson 4). Balbuk’s story embodies the intertwined culture and nature of Perth—a city of wetlands. Born in 1840 on Heirisson Island, Balbuk (also known as Yooreel) (Figure 1) had ancestral bonds to the urban landscape. According to Daisy Bates, writing in the early 1900s, the Nyoongar term Matagarup, or “leg deep,” denotes the passage of shallow water near Heirisson Island where Balbuk would have forded the Swan River (“Oldest” 16). Yoonderup was recorded as the Nyoongar name for Heirisson Island (Bates, “Oldest” 16) and the birthplace of Balbuk’s mother (Bates, “Aboriginal”). In the suburb of Shenton Park near present-day Lake Jualbup, her father bequeathed to her a red ochre (or wilgi) pit that she guarded fervently throughout her life (Bates, “Aboriginal”).Figure 1. Group of Aboriginal Women at Perth, including Fanny Balbuk (far right) (c. 1900). Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: 44c). Balbuk’s grandparents were culturally linked to the site. At his favourite camp beside the freshwater spring near Kings Park on Mounts Bay Road, her grandfather witnessed the arrival of Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick Irwin, cousin of James Stirling (Bates, “Fanny”). In 1879, colonial entrepreneurs established the Swan Brewery at this significant locale (Welborn). Her grandmother’s gravesite later became Government House (Bates, “Fanny”) and she protested vociferously outside “the stone gates guarded by a sentry [that] enclosed her grandmother’s burial ground” (Bates, The Passing 70). Balbuk’s other grandmother was buried beneath Bishop’s Grove, the residence of the city’s first archibishop, now Terrace Hotel (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Historian Bob Reece observes that Balbuk was “the last full-descent woman of Kar’gatta (Karrakatta), the Bibbulmun name for the Mount Eliza [Kings Park] area of Perth” (134). According to accounts drawn from Bates, her home ground traversed the area between Heirisson Island and Perth’s north-western limits. In Kings Park, one of her relatives was buried near a large, hollow tree used by Nyoongar people like a cistern to capture water and which later became the site of the Queen Victoria Statue (Bates, “Aboriginal”). On the slopes of Mount Eliza, the highest point of Kings Park, at the western end of St Georges Terrace, she harvested plant foods, including zamia fruits (Macrozamia riedlei) (Bates, “Fanny”). Fanny Balbuk’s knowledge contributed to the native title claim lodged by Nyoongar people in 2006 as Bennell v. State of Western Australia—the first of its kind to acknowledge Aboriginal land rights in a capital city and part of the larger Single Nyoongar Claim (South West Aboriginal Land and Sea Council et al.). Perth’s colonial administration perceived the city’s wetlands as impediments to progress and as insalubrious environments to be eradicated through reclamation practices. For Balbuk and other Nyoongar people, however, wetlands were “nourishing terrains” (Rose) that afforded sustenance seasonally and meaning perpetually (O’Connor, Quartermaine, and Bodney). Mary Graham, a Kombu-merri elder from Queensland, articulates the connection between land and culture, “because land is sacred and must be looked after, the relation between people and land becomes the template for society and social relations. Therefore all meaning comes from land.” Traditional, embodied reliance on Perth’s wetlands is evident in Bates’ documentation. For instance, Boojoormeup was a “big swamp full of all kinds of food, now turned into Palmerston and Lake streets” (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Considering her cultural values, Balbuk’s determination to maintain pathways through the increasingly colonial Perth environment is unsurprising (Figure 2). From Heirisson Island: a straight track had led to the place where once she had gathered jilgies [crayfish] and vegetable food with the women, in the swamp where Perth railway station now stands. Through fences and over them, Balbuk took the straight track to the end. When a house was built in the way, she broke its fence-palings with her digging stick and charged up the steps and through the rooms. (Bates, The Passing 70) One obstacle was Hooper’s Fence, which Balbuk broke repeatedly on her trips to areas between Kings Park and the railway station (Bates, “Hooper’s”). Her tenacious commitment to walking ancestral routes signifies the friction between settlement infrastructure and traditional Nyoongar livelihood during an era of rapid change. Figure 2. Determination of Fanny Balbuk’s Journey between Yoonderup (Heirisson Island) and Lake Kingsford, traversing what is now the central business district of Perth on the Swan River (2014). Image background prepared by Dimitri Fotev. Track interpolation by Jeff Murray. Project Background and Approach Inspired by Fanny Balbuk’s story, Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands began as an Australian response to the Mannahatta Project. Founded in 1999, that project used spatial analysis techniques and mapping software to visualise New York’s urbanised Manhattan Island—or Mannahatta as it was called by indigenous people—in the early 1600s (Sanderson). Based on research into the island’s original biogeography and the ecological practices of Native Americans, Mannahatta enabled the public to “peel back” the city’s strata, revealing the original composition of the New York site. The layers of visuals included rich details about the island’s landforms, water systems, and vegetation. Mannahatta compelled Rod Giblett, a cultural researcher at Edith Cowan University, to develop an analogous model for visualising Perth circa 1829. The idea attracted support from the City of Perth, Landgate, and the University. Using stories, artefacts, and maps, the team—comprising a cartographer, designer, three-dimensional modelling expert, and historical researchers—set out to generate visualisations of the landscape at the time of British colonisation. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup approved culturally sensitive material and contributed his perspective on Aboriginal content to include in the exhibition. The initiative’s context remains pressing. In many ways, Perth has become a template for development in the metropolitan area (Weller). While not unusual for a capital, the rate of transformation is perhaps unexpected in a city less than 200 years old (Forster). There also remains a persistent view of existing wetlands as obstructions to progress that, once removed, are soon forgotten (Urban Bushland Council). Digital visualisation can contribute to appreciating environments prior to colonisation but also to re-imagining possibilities for future human interactions with land, water, and space. Despite the rapid pace of change, many Perth area residents have memories of wetlands lost during their lifetimes (for example, Giblett, Forrestdale). However, as the clearing and drainage of the inner city occurred early in settlement, recollections of urban wetlands exist exclusively in historical records. In 1935, a local correspondent using the name “Sandgroper” reminisced about swamps, connecting them to Perth’s colonial heritage: But the Swamps were very real in fact, and in name in the [eighteen-] Nineties, and the Perth of my youth cannot be visualised without them. They were, of course, drying up apace, but they were swamps for all that, and they linked us directly with the earliest days of the Colony when our great-grandparents had founded this City of Perth on a sort of hog's-back, of which Hay-street was the ridge, and from which a succession of streamlets ran down its southern slope to the river, while land locked to the north of it lay a series of lakes which have long since been filled to and built over so that the only evidence that they have ever existed lies in the original street plans of Perth prepared by Roe and Hillman in the early eighteen-thirties. A salient consequence of the loss of ecological memory is the tendency to repeat the miscues of the past, especially the blatant disregard for natural and cultural heritage, as suburbanisation engulfs the area. While the swamps of inner Perth remain only in the names of streets, existing wetlands in the metropolitan area are still being threatened, as the Roe Highway (Roe 8) Campaign demonstrates. To re-imagine Perth’s lost landscape, we used several colonial survey maps to plot the location of the original lakes and swamps. At this time, a series of interconnecting waterbodies, known as the Perth Great Lakes, spread across the north of the city (Bekle and Gentilli). This phase required the earliest cartographic sources (Figure 3) because, by 1855, city maps no longer depicted wetlands. We synthesised contextual information, such as well depths, geological and botanical maps, settlers’ accounts, Nyoongar oral histories, and colonial-era artists’ impressions, to produce renderings of Perth. This diverse collection of primary and secondary materials served as the basis for creating new images of the city. Team member Jeff Murray interpolated Balbuk’s route using historical mappings and accounts, topographical data, court records, and cartographic common sense. He determined that Balbuk would have camped on the high ground of the southern part of Lake Kingsford rather than the more inundated northern part (Figure 2). Furthermore, she would have followed a reasonably direct course north of St Georges Terrace (contrary to David Whish-Wilson’s imaginings) because she was barred from Government House for protesting. This easier route would have also avoided the springs and gullies that appear on early maps of Perth. Figure 3. Townsite of Perth in Western Australia by Colonial Draftsman A. Hillman and John Septimus Roe (1838). This map of Perth depicts the wetlands that existed overlaid by the geomentric grid of the new city. Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: BA1961/14). Additionally, we produced an animated display based on aerial photographs to show the historical extent of change. Prompted by the build up to World War II, the earliest aerial photography of Perth dates from the late 1930s (Dixon 148–54). As “Sandgroper” noted, by this time, most of the urban wetlands had been drained or substantially modified. The animation revealed considerable alterations to the formerly swampy Swan River shoreline. Most prominent was the transformation of the Matagarup shallows across the Swan River, originally consisting of small islands. Now traversed by a causeway, this area was transformed into a single island, Heirisson—the general site of Balbuk’s birth. The animation and accompanying materials (maps, images, and writings) enabled viewers to apprehend the changes in real time and to imagine what the city was once like. Re-imagining Perth’s Urban Heart The physical environment of inner Perth includes virtually no trace of its wetland origins. Consequently, we considered whether a representation of Perth, as it existed previously, could enhance public understanding of natural heritage and thereby increase its value. For this reason, interpretive materials were exhibited centrally at Perth Town Hall. Built partly by convicts between 1867 and 1870, the venue is close to the site of the 1829 Foundation of Perth, depicted in George Pitt Morrison’s painting. Balbuk’s grandfather “camped somewhere in the city of Perth, not far from the Town Hall” (Bates, “Fanny”). The building lies one block from the site of the railway station on the site of Lake Kingsford, the subsistence grounds of Balbuk and her forebears: The old swamp which is now the Perth railway yards had been a favourite jilgi ground; a spring near the Town Hall had been a camping place of Maiago […] and others of her fathers' folk; and all around and about city and suburbs she had gathered roots and fished for crayfish in the days gone by. (Bates, “Derelicts” 55) Beginning in 1848, the draining of Lake Kingsford reached completion during the construction of the Town Hall. While the swamps of the city were not appreciated by many residents, some organisations, such as the Perth Town Trust, vigorously opposed the reclamation of the lake, alluding to its hydrological role: That, the soil being sand, it is not to be supposed that Lake Kingsford has in itself any material effect on the wells of Perth; but that, from this same reason of the sandy soil, it would be impossible to keep the lake dry without, by so doing, withdrawing the water from at least the adjacent parts of the townsite to the same depth. (Independent Journal of Politics and News 3) At the time of our exhibition, the Lake Kingsford site was again being reworked to sink the railway line and build Yagan Square, a public space named after a colonial-era Nyoongar leader. The project required specialised construction techniques due to the high water table—the remnants of the lake. People travelling to the exhibition by train in October 2014 could have seen the lake reasserting itself in partly-filled depressions, flush with winter rain (Figure 4).Figure 4. Rise of the Repressed (2014). Water Rising in the former site of Lake Kingsford/Irwin during construction, corner of Roe and Fitzgerald Streets, Northbridge, WA. Image Credit: Nandi Chinna (2014). The exhibition was situated in the Town Hall’s enclosed undercroft designed for markets and more recently for shops. While some visited after peering curiously through the glass walls of the undercroft, others hailed from local and state government organisations. Guest comments applauded the alternative view of Perth we presented. The content invited the public to re-imagine Perth as a city of wetlands that were both environmentally and culturally important. A display panel described how the city’s infrastructure presented a hindrance for Balbuk as she attempted to negotiate the once-familiar route between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford (Figure 2). Perth’s growth “restricted Balbuk’s wanderings; towns, trains, and farms came through her ‘line of march’; old landmarks were thus swept away, and year after year saw her less confident of the locality of one-time familiar spots” (Bates, “Fanny”). Conserving Wetlands: From Re-Claiming to Re-Valuing? Imagination, for philosopher Roger Scruton, involves “thinking of, and attending to, a present object (by thinking of it, or perceiving it, in terms of something absent)” (155). According to Scruton, the feelings aroused through imagination can prompt creative, transformative experiences. While environmental conservation tends to rely on data-driven empirical approaches, it appeals to imagination less commonly. We have found, however, that attending to the present object (the city) in terms of something absent (its wetlands) through evocative visual material can complement traditional conservation agendas focused on habitats and species. The actual extent of wetlands loss in the Swan Coastal Plain—the flat and sandy region extending from Jurien Bay south to Cape Naturaliste, including Perth—is contested. However, estimates suggest that 80 per cent of wetlands have been lost, with remaining habitats threatened by climate change, suburban development, agriculture, and industry (Department of Environment and Conservation). As with the swamps and lakes of the inner city, many regional wetlands were cleared, drained, or filled before they could be properly documented. Additionally, the seasonal fluctuations of swampy places have never been easily translatable to two-dimensional records. As Giblett notes, the creation of cartographic representations and the assignment of English names were attempts to fix the dynamic boundaries of wetlands, at least in the minds of settlers and administrators (Postmodern 72–73). Moreover, European colonists found the Western Australian landscape, including its wetlands, generally discomfiting. In a letter from 1833, metaphors failed George Fletcher Moore, the effusive colonial commentator, “I cannot compare these swamps to any marshes with which you are familiar” (220). The intermediate nature of wetlands—as neither land nor lake—is perhaps one reason for their cultural marginalisation (Giblett, Postmodern 39). The conviction that unsanitary, miasmic wetlands should be converted to more useful purposes largely prevailed (Giblett, Black 105–22). Felicity Morel-EdnieBrown’s research into land ownership records in colonial Perth demonstrated that town lots on swampland were often preferred. By layering records using geographic information systems (GIS), she revealed modifications to town plans to accommodate swampland frontages. The decline of wetlands in the region appears to have been driven initially by their exploitation for water and later for fertile soil. Northern market gardens supplied the needs of the early city. It is likely that the depletion of Nyoongar bush foods predated the flourishing of these gardens (Carter and Nutter). Engaging with the history of Perth’s swamps raises questions about the appreciation of wetlands today. In an era where numerous conservation strategies and alternatives have been developed (for example, Bobbink et al. 93–220), the exploitation of wetlands in service to population growth persists. On Perth’s north side, wetlands have long been subdued by controlling their water levels and landscaping their boundaries, as the suburban examples of Lake Monger and Hyde Park (formerly Third Swamp Reserve) reveal. Largely unmodified wetlands, such as Forrestdale Lake, exist south of Perth, but they too are in danger (Giblett, Black Swan). The Beeliar Wetlands near the suburb of Bibra Lake comprise an interconnected series of lakes and swamps that are vulnerable to a highway extension project first proposed in the 1950s. Just as the Perth Town Trust debated Lake Kingsford’s draining, local councils and the public are fiercely contesting the construction of the Roe Highway, which will bisect Beeliar Wetlands, destroying Roe Swamp (Chinna). The conservation value of wetlands still struggles to compete with traffic planning underpinned by a modernist ideology that associates cars and freeways with progress (Gregory). Outside of archives, the debate about Lake Kingsford is almost entirely forgotten and its physical presence has been erased. Despite the magnitude of loss, re-imagining the city’s swamplands, in the way that we have, calls attention to past indiscretions while invigorating future possibilities. We hope that the re-imagining of Perth’s wetlands stimulates public respect for ancestral tracks and songlines like Balbuk’s. Despite the accretions of settler history and colonial discourse, songlines endure as a fundamental cultural heritage. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup states, “as people, if we can get out there on our songlines, even though there may be farms or roads overlaying them, fences, whatever it is that might impede us from travelling directly upon them, if we can get close proximity, we can still keep our culture alive. That is why it is so important for us to have our songlines.” Just as Fanny Balbuk plied her songlines between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford, the traditional custodians of Beeliar and other wetlands around Perth walk the landscape as an act of resistance and solidarity, keeping the stories of place alive. Acknowledgments The authors wish to acknowledge Rod Giblett (ECU), Nandi Chinna (ECU), Susanna Iuliano (ECU), Jeff Murray (Kareff Consulting), Dimitri Fotev (City of Perth), and Brendan McAtee (Landgate) for their contributions to this project. The authors also acknowledge the traditional custodians of the lands upon which this paper was researched and written. References Bates, Daisy. “Fanny Balbuk-Yooreel: The Last Swan River (Female) Native.” The Western Mail 1 Jun. 1907: 45.———. “Oldest Perth: The Days before the White Men Won.” The Western Mail 25 Dec. 1909: 16–17.———. “Derelicts: The Passing of the Bibbulmun.” The Western Mail 25 Dec. 1924: 55–56. ———. “Aboriginal Perth.” The Western Mail 4 Jul. 1929: 70.———. “Hooper’s Fence: A Query.” The Western Mail 18 Apr. 1935: 9.———. The Passing of the Aborigines: A Lifetime Spent among the Natives of Australia. London: John Murray, 1966.Bekle, Hugo. “The Wetlands Lost: Drainage of the Perth Lake Systems.” Western Geographer 5.1–2 (1981): 21–41.Bekle, Hugo, and Joseph Gentilli. “History of the Perth Lakes.” Early Days 10.5 (1993): 442–60.Bobbink, Roland, Boudewijn Beltman, Jos Verhoeven, and Dennis Whigham, eds. Wetlands: Functioning, Biodiversity Conservation, and Restoration. Berlin: Springer-Verlag, 2006. Carter, Bevan, and Lynda Nutter. Nyungah Land: Records of Invasion and Theft of Aboriginal Land on the Swan River 1829–1850. Guildford: Swan Valley Nyungah Community, 2005.Chinna, Nandi. “Swamp.” Griffith Review 47 (2015). 29 Sep. 2015 ‹https://griffithreview.com/articles/swamp›.Department of Environment and Conservation. Geomorphic Wetlands Swan Coastal Plain Dataset. Perth: Department of Environment and Conservation, 2008.Dixon, Robert. Photography, Early Cinema, and Colonial Modernity: Frank Hurley’s Synchronized Lecture Entertainments. London: Anthem Press, 2011. Forster, Clive. Australian Cities: Continuity and Change. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2004.Giblett, Rod. Postmodern Wetlands: Culture, History, Ecology. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 1996. ———. Forrestdale: People and Place. Bassendean: Access Press, 2006.———. Black Swan Lake: Life of a Wetland. Bristol: Intellect, 2013.———. Cities and Wetlands: The Return of the Repressed in Nature and Culture. London: Bloomsbury, 2016. Chapter 2.Graham, Mary. “Some Thoughts about the Philosophical Underpinnings of Aboriginal Worldviews.” Australian Humanities Review 45 (2008). 29 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.australianhumanitiesreview.org/archive/Issue-November-2008/graham.html›.Gregory, Jenny. “Remembering Mounts Bay: The Narrows Scheme and the Internationalization of Perth Planning.” Studies in Western Australian History 27 (2011): 145–66.Independent Journal of Politics and News. “Perth Town Trust.” The Perth Gazette and Independent Journal of Politics and News 8 Jul. 1848: 2–3.Moore, George Fletcher. Extracts from the Letters of George Fletcher Moore. Ed. Martin Doyle. London: Orr and Smith, 1834.Morel-EdnieBrown, Felicity. “Layered Landscape: The Swamps of Colonial Northbridge.” Social Science Computer Review 27 (2009): 390–419. Nannup, Noel. Songlines with Dr Noel Nannup. Dir. Faculty of Regional Professional Studies, Edith Cowan University (2015). 29 Sep. 2015 ‹https://vimeo.com/129198094›. (Quoted material transcribed from 3.08–3.39 of the video.) O’Connor, Rory, Gary Quartermaine, and Corrie Bodney. Report on an Investigation into Aboriginal Significance of Wetlands and Rivers in the Perth-Bunbury Region. Perth: Western Australian Water Resources Council, 1989.Reece, Bob. “‘Killing with Kindness’: Daisy Bates and New Norcia.” Aboriginal History 32 (2008): 128–45.Rose, Deborah Bird. Nourishing Terrains: Australian Aboriginal Views of Landscape and Wilderness. Canberra: Australian Heritage Commission, 1996.Sanderson, Eric. Mannahatta: A Natural History of New York City. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2009.Sandgroper. “Gilgies: The Swamps of Perth.” The West Australian 4 May 1935: 7.Scruton, Roger. Art and Imagination. London: Methuen, 1974.Seddon, George. Sense of Place: A Response to an Environment, the Swan Coastal Plain, Western Australia. Melbourne: Bloomings Books, 2004.South West Aboriginal Land and Sea Council and John Host with Chris Owen. “It’s Still in My Heart, This is My Country:” The Single Noongar Claim History. Crawley: U of Western Australia P, 2009.Urban Bushland Council. “Bushland Issues.” 2015. 29 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.bushlandperth.org.au/bushland-issues›.Welborn, Suzanne. Swan: The History of a Brewery. Crawley: U of Western Australia P, 1987.Weller, Richard. Boomtown 2050: Scenarios for a Rapidly Growing City. Crawley: U of Western Australia P, 2009. Whish-Wilson, David. Perth. Sydney: NewSouth Publishing, 2013.

Abstract As Proteaceae subfamily Proteoideae are richly represented in the Cape Floristic Region of southern Africa and in south-western Australia, it is a convenient group for comparative studies of evolution and adaptation of plants in widely separated areas with a Mediterranean-type climate. Although species of Proteoideae attract considerable attention of researchers, the structural diversity of wood in this group remains under-explored. The wood structure of 51 species of 14 African and Australian genera of Proteoideae (Proteaceae) has been studied. These taxa are uniform in their wood structure; the diversity patterns are more related to plant stature, climatic factors and fire-survival strategies than to the taxonomy or phylogeny of the subfamily. Increases in length and diameter of fibres and diameter of pits in fibre walls are associated with a shift from a semi-arid winter-dry climate to a milder climate with winter rainfall. These trends may imply the transition from non-conducting imperforate tracheary elements to conducting elements in Mediterranean-type climatic regions. This presumable gain of hydraulic function of imperforate tracheary elements could be explained by adaptation to freeze–thaw stress during the late Quaternary, at least in the Cape Region. Vessel grouping shows no correlations with climatic factors. The seeders have a higher vessel frequency and narrower and lower rays than sprouters. We hypothesize that the larger rays in overground stems of sprouters serve as the sites of epicormic buds that provide for resprouting after fire or other damage. The occurrence of sclerified cells and/or irregularly arranged (occasionally circular) tracheary elements in broad rays of some species are thought to be responses to excessive sucrose transport in secondary phloem.

IntroductionBushfires have taken numerous lives and destroyed communities throughout Australia over many years. Catastrophic fire weather alerts have occurred during the Australian summer of 2012–13, and long-term forecasts predict increased bushfire events throughout several areas of Australia. This article highlights how organisational and individual responses to bushfire in Australia often entail creative responses—either improvised responses at the time of bushfire emergencies or innovative (organisational, strategic, or technological) changes which help protect the community from, or mitigate against, future bushfire catastrophes. These improvised or innovative responses include emergency communications systems, practices, and devices. This article reports on findings from a research project funded by the Australian Research Council titled Using Community Engagement and Enhanced Visual Information to Promote FireWatch Satellite Communications as a Support for Collaborative Decision-making. FireWatch is a Web-based public information product based on near real time satellite data produced by the West Australian (WA) Government entity, Landgate. The project researches ways in which remote and regional publics can be engaged and mobilised through the development of a more user-friendly FireWatch site to make fire information accessible and usable, allowing a community-focused response to risk.The significance of the research project is evident both in how it addresses the important and life-threatening challenge of bushfires; and also in how Australia’s increasingly hot, dry, long summers are adding to historically-established risks. This innovative project uses an iterative, participatory design process incorporating action-research practices. This will ensure that the new Firewatch interface is redesigned, tested, observed, and reflected upon multiple times—and will incorporate the collective creativity of users, designers, and researchers.The qualitative findings reported on in this article are based on 19 interviews with community members in the town of Kununurra in the remote Kimberley region of WA. The findings are positioned within a reconceptualised framework in which creativity is viewed as an essential component of successful emergency responses. This includes, we argue, two critical aspects of creativity: improvisation during a catastrophic event; and ongoing innovation to improve future responses to catastrophes—including communication practices and technologies. This shifts the discourse within the literature in relation to the effective management and community responses to the changing phenomenon of fire catastrophes. Findings from the first round of interviews, and results of enquiries into previous bushfires in Australia, are used to highlight how these elements of creativity often entail a collective creativity on the part of emergency responders or the community in general. An additional focus is on the importance of the critical use of communication during a bushfire event.ImprovisationThe notion of "improvisation" is often associated with artistic performance. Nonetheless, improvisation is also integral to making effectual responses during natural catastrophes. “Extreme events present unforeseen conditions and problems, requiring a need for adaptation, creativity, and improvisation while demanding efficient and rapid delivery of services under extreme conditions” (Harrald 257).Catastrophes present us with unexpected scenarios and require rapid, on the spot problem solving and “even if you plan for a bushfire it is not going to go to plan. When the wind changes direction there has to be a new plan” (Jeff. Personal Interview. 2012). Jazz musicians or improvisational actors “work to build their knowledge across a range of fields, and this knowledge provides the elements for each improvisational outcome” (Kendra and Wachendorf 2). Similarly, emergency responders’ knowledge and preparation can be drawn “upon in the ambiguous and dynamic conditions of a disaster where not every need has been anticipated or accounted for” (Kendra and Wachtendorf 2). Individuals and community organisations not associated with emergency services also improvise in a creative and intuitive manner in the way they respond to catastrophes (Webb and Chevreau). For example, during the 9/11 terrorism catastrophe in the USA an assorted group of boat owners rapidly self-organised to evacuate Lower Manhattan. On their return trips, they carried emergency personnel and supplies to the area (Kendra and Wachendorf 5). An interviewee in our study also recalls bush fire incidents where creative problem solving and intuitive decision-making are called for. “It’s like in a fire, you have to be thinking fast. You need to be semi self-sufficient until help arrives. But without doing anything stupid and creating a worse situation” (Kelly. Personal Interview. 2012). Kelly then describes the rapid community response she witnessed during a recent fire on the outskirts of Kununurra, WA.Everyone had to be accounted for, moving cars, getting the tractors out, protecting the bores because you need the water. It happens really fast and it is a matter of rustling everyone up with the machinery. (2012)In this sense, the strength of communities in responding to catastrophes or disasters “results largely from the abilities of [both] individuals and organisations to adapt and improvise under conditions of uncertainty” (Webb and Chevreau 67). These improvised responses frequently involve a collective creativity—where groups of neighbours or emergency workers act in response to the unforseen, often in a unified and self-organising manner. InnovationCatastrophes also stimulate change and innovation for the future. Disasters create a new environment that must be explored, assessed, and comprehended. Disasters change the physical and social landscape, and thereby require a period of exploration, learning, and the development of new approaches. (Kendra and Wachtendorf 6)These new approaches can include organisational change, new response strategies, and technologies and communication improvements. Celebrated inventor Benjamin Franklin, for instance, facilitated the formation of the first Volunteer Fire department in the 1850s as a response to previous urban fire catastrophes in the USA (Mumford 258). This organisational innovation continues to play an instrumental part in modern fire fighting practices. Indeed, people living in rural and remote areas of Australia are heavily reliant on volunteer groups, due to the sparse population and vast distances that need to be covered.As with most inventions and innovations, new endeavours aimed at improving responses to catastrophes do not occur in a vacuum. They “are not just accidents, nor the inscrutable products of sporadic genius, but have abundant and clear causes in prior scientific and technological development” (Gifillian 61). Likewise, the development of our user-friendly and publically available FireWatch site relies on the accumulation of preceding inventions and innovations. This includes the many years spent developing the existing FireWatch site, a site dense in information of significant value to scientists, foresters, land managers, and fire experts.CommunicationsOften overlooked in discussions regarding emergency communications is the microgeographical exchanges that occur in response to the threat of natural disasters. This is where neighbours fill the critical period before emergency service responders can appear on site. In this situation, it is often local knowledge that underpins improvised grassroots communication networks that inform and organise the neighbourhood. During a recent bushfire on peri-rural blocks on the outskirts of Kununurra, neighbours went into action before emergency services volunteers could respond.We phoned around and someone would phone and call in. Instead of 000 being rung ten times, make sure that one person rang it in. 40 channel [CB Radio] was handy – two-way communication, four wheelers – knocking on doors making sure everyone is out of the house, just in case. (Jane. Personal Interview. 2012) Similarly, individuals and community groups have been able to inform and assist each other on a larger scale via social network technologies (SNTs). This creative application of SNTs began after the 9/11 terror attacks in 2001 when individuals created wikis in order to find missing persons (Palen and Lui). Twitter has experienced considerable growth and was used freely during the 2009 Black Saturday fires in Australia. Studies of tweeting activity during these fires indicate that “tweets made during Black Saturday are laden with actionable factual information which contrasts with earlier claims that tweets are of no value made of mere random personal notes” (Sinnappan et al. n.p.).Traditionally, official alerts and warnings have been provided to the public via television and radio. However, several inquiries into the recent bushfires within Australia show concern “with the way in which fire agencies deliver information to community members during a bushfire...[and in order to] improve community safety from bushfire, systems need to be implemented that enable community members to communicate information to fire agencies, making use of local knowledge” (Elsworth et al. 8).Technological and social developments over the last decade mean the public no longer relies on a single source of official information (Sorensen and Sorensen). Therefore, SNTs such as Twitter and Facebook are being used by the media and emergency authorities to make information available to the public. These SNTs are dynamic, in that there can be a two-way flow of information between the public and emergency organisations. Nonetheless, there has been limited use of SNTs by emergency agencies to source information posted by in situ residents, in order to help in decision-making (Freeman). Organisational use of multiple communication channels and platforms to inform citizens about bushfire emergencies ensures a greater degree of coverage—in case of communication systems breakdowns or difficulties—as in the telephone alert system breakdown in Kelmscott-Roleystone, WA or a recent fire in Warrnambool, Victoria which took out the regional telephone exchange making telephone calls, mobiles, landlines, and the Internet non-operational (Johnson). The new FireWatch site will provide an additional information option for rural and remote Australians who, often rely on visual sightings and on word-of-mouth to be informed about fires in their region. “The neighbour came over and said - there is a fire, we’d better get our act together because it is going to hit us. No sooner than I turned around, I thought shit, here it comes” (Richard. Personal Interview. 2012). The FireWatch ProjectThe FireWatch project involves the redevelopment of an existing FireWatch website to extend the usability of the product from experts to ordinary users in order to facilitate community-based decision-making and action both before and during bushfire emergencies. To this purpose, the project has been broken down to two distinct, yet interdependent, strands. The community strand involves collaboration within a community (in this case the Kununurra community) in order to carry out a community-centred approach to further development of the site. The design strand involves the development of an intuitive and accessible Web presentation of complex information in clear, unambiguous ways to inform action in stressful circumstances. At this stage, a first round of 19 semi-structured interviews with stakeholders has been conducted in Kununurra to determine fire-related information-seeking behaviours, attitudes to mediated information services in the region, as well as user feedback on a prototype website developed in the design strand of the project. Stakeholders included emergency services personnel (payed and volunteer), shire representatives, tourism operators, small business operators (including tourism operators), a forest manager, a mango farmer, an Indigenous ranger team manager as well as general community members. Interviewees reported dissatisfaction with current information systems. They gave positive feedback about the website prototype. “It’s very much, very easy to follow” (David. Personal Interview. 2012). “It looks so much better than [the old site]. You couldn’t get in that close on [the other site]. It is fantastic” (Lance. Personal Interview. 2012). They also added thought-provoking contributions to the design of the website (to be discussed later).Residents of Kununurra who were interviewed for this research project found bushfire warning communications unsatisfactory, especially during a recent fire on the outskirts of town. People who called 000 had difficulties passing the information on, having to explain exactly where Kununurra was and the location of fires to operators not familiar with the area. When asked how the Kununurra community gets their fire information a Shire representative explained: That is not very good at the moment. The only other way we can think about it is perhaps more updates on things like Facebook, perhaps on a website, but with this current fire there really wasn’t a lot of information and a lot of people didn’t know what was going on. We [the shire] knew because we were talking to the [fire] brigades and to FESA [Fire and Emergency Services Authority] but most residents didn’t have any idea and it looks pretty bad. (Ginny. Personal Interview. 2012) All being well, the new user-friendly FireWatch site will add another platform through which fire information messages are transmitted. Community members will be offered continuously streamed bushfire location information, which is independent of any emergency services communication systems. In particular, rural and remote areas of Australia will have fire information at the ready.The participatory methodology used in the design of the new FireWatch website makes use of collaborative creativity, whereby users’ vision of the website and context are incorporated. This iterative process “creates an equal evolving participatory process between user and designer towards sharing values and knowledge and creating new domains of collective creativity” (Park 2012). The rich and sometimes contradictory suggestions made by interviewees in this project often reflected individual visions of the tasks and information required, and individual preferences regarding the delivery of this information. “I have been thinking about how could this really work for me? I can give you feedback on what has happened in the past but how could it work for me in the future?” (Keith. Personal Interview. 2012). Keith and other community members interviewed in Kununurra indicated a variety of extra functions on the site not expected by the product designers. Some of these unexpected functions were common to most interviewees such as the great importance placed on the inclusion of a satellite view option on the site map (example shown in Figure 1). Jeremy, a member of an Indigenous ranger unit in the Kununurra area, was very keen to incorporate the satellite view options on the site. He explained that some of the older rangers:can’t use GPSs and don’t know time zones or what zones to put in, so they’ll use a satellite-style view. We’ll have Google Earth up on one [screen], and also our [own] imagery up on another [screen] and go that way. Be scrolling in and see – we’ve got a huge fire scar for 2011 around here; another guy will be on another computer zoning in and say, I think it is here. It’s quite simplistic but it works. (Personal Interview. 2012) In the case above, where rangers are already switching between computer screens to incorporate a satellite view into their planning, the importance of a satellite view layer on the FireWatch website makes user context an essential part of the design process. Incorporating many layers on one screen, as recommended by participants also ensures a more elegant solution to an existing problem.Figure 1: Satellite view in the Kununurra area showing features such as gorges, rivers, escarpments and dry riverbedsThis research project will involve further consultation with participants (both online and offline) regarding bushfire safety communications in their region, as well as the further design of the site. The website will be available over multiple devices (for example desktops, smart phones, and hand held tablet devices) and will be launched late this year. Further work will also be carried out to determine if social media is appropriate for this community of users in order to build awareness and share information regarding the site.Conclusion Community members improvise and self-organise when communicating fire information and organising help for each other. This can happen at a microgeographical (neighbourhood) level or on a wider level via social networking sites. Organisations also develop innovative communication systems or devices as a response to the threat of bushfires. Communication innovations, such as the use of Twitter and Facebook by fire emergency services, have been appropriated and fine-tuned by these organisations. Other innovations such as the user-friendly Firewatch site rely on previous technological developments in satellite-delivered imagery—as well as community input regarding the design and use of the site.Our early research into community members’ fire-related information-seeking behaviours and attitudes to mediated information services in the region of Kununurra has found unexpectedly creative responses, which range from collective creativity on the part of emergency responders or the community in general during events to creative use of existing information and communication networks. We intend to utilise this creativity in re-purposing FireWatch alongside the creative work of the designers in the project.Although it is commonplace to think of graphic design and new technology as incorporating creativity, it is rarely acknowledged how frequently these innovations harness everyday perspectives from non-professionals. In the case of the FireWatch developments, the creativity of designers and technologists has been informed by the creative responses of members of the public who are best placed to understand the challenges posed by restricted information flows on the ground in times of crisis. In these situations, people respond not only with new ideas for the future but with innovative responses in the present as they communicate with each other to deal with the challenge of a fast-moving and unpredictable situation. Such improvisation, honed through close awareness of the contours and parameters of both community and communication, are one of the ways through which people help keep themselves and each other safe in the face of dramatic developments.ReferencesElsworth, G., and K. Stevens, J. Gilbert, H. Goodman, A Rhodes. "Evaluating the Community Safety Approach to Bushfires in Australia: Towards an Assessment of What Works and How." 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IntroductionI work at a regional campus of La Trobe University, Australia. More precisely, I work at the Bendigo campus of La Trobe University. At Bendigo, we are often annoyed when referred to and addressed as ‘regional’ students and staff. Really, we should not be. After all, Bendigo campus is an outpost of La Trobe’s metropolitan base. It is funded, run, and directed from Bundoora (Melbourne). The word ‘regional’ simply describes the situation. A region is an “administrative division of a city or a district [… or …] a country” (Brown 2528). And the Latin etymology of region (regio, regere) includes “direction, line”, and “rule” (Kidd 208, 589). Just as the Bendigo campus of La Trobe is a satellite of the metropolitan campus, the town of Bendigo is an outpost of Melbourne. So, when we are addressed and interpellated (Althusser 48) as regional, it is a reminder of the ongoing fact that Australia is (still) a colony, an outpost of empire, a country organised on the colonial model. From central administrative hubs, spokes of communication, and transportation spread to the outposts. When Bendigo students and staff are addressed as regional, in a way we are also being addressed as colonial.In this article, the terms ‘region’ and ‘regional’ are deployed as inextricably associated with the Australian version of colonialism. In Australia, in the central metropolitan hubs, where the colonial project is at its most comprehensive, it is hard to see what remains, to see what has escaped that project. The aim of this article is to explore how different aspects of the country escape the totalising project of Australian colonialism. This exploration is undertaken primarily through a discussion of the ways in which some places on this continent remain not regional (and thus, not colonial) how they keep the metropolis at bay, and how they, thus, keep Europe at bay. This discussion includes a general overview of the Australian colonial project, particularly as it pertains to First Nations Peoples, their knowledge and philosophies, and the continent’s unique ecologies. Then the article becomes more speculative, imagining different ways of seeing and experiencing time and place in this country, ways of seeing the remains and refuges of pre-1788, not-regional, and not-colonial Australia. In these remains and refuges, there persist the flourishing and radical difference of this continent’s ecologies and, not surprisingly, the radical suitedness of tens of thousands of years of First Nations Peoples’ culture and thinking to that ecology, as Country. In what remains not regional, I argue, are answers to the question: How will we live here in the Anthropocene?A Totalising ProjectSince 1788, in the face of the ongoing presence and resistance of First Nations cultures, and the continent’s radically unique ecologies, the Australian colonial project has been to convert the continent into a region of Europe. As such, the imposed political, administrative, scientific, and economic institutions are largely European. This is also so, to a lesser extent, of social and cultural institutions. While the continent is not Europe geologically, the notion of the Anthropocene suggests that this is changing (Crutzen and Stoermer). This article does not resummarise the vast body of scholarship on the effects of colonisation, from genocide to missionary charity, to the creation of bureaucratic and comprador classes, and so on. Suffice to say that the different valences of colonisation—from outright malevolence to misguided benevolence–produce similar and common effects. As such, what we experience in metropolitan and regional Australia, is chillingly similar to what people experience in London. Chilling, because this experience demonstrates how the effects of the project tend towards the total.To clarify, when I use the name ‘Australia’ I understand it as the continent’s European name. When I use the term ‘Europe’ or ‘European’, I refer to both the European continent and to the reach and scope of the various colonial and imperial projects of European nations. I take this approach because I think it is necessary to recognise their global effects and loads. In Australia, this load has been evident and present for more than two centuries. On one hand, it is evident in the social, cultural, and political institutions that come with colonisation. On another, it is evident in the environmental impacts of colonisation: impacts that are severely compounded in Australia. In relation to this, there is vital, ongoing scholarship that explores the fact that, ecologically, Australia is a radically different place, and which discusses the ways in which European scientific, aesthetic, and agricultural assumptions, and the associated naturalised and generic understandings of ‘nature’, have grounded activities that have radically transformed the continent’s biosphere. To name but a few, Tim Flannery (Eaters, “Ecosystems”) and Stephen Pyne, respectively, examine the radical difference of this continent’s ecology, geology, climate, and fire regimes. Sylvia Hallam, Bill Gammage, and Bruce Pascoe (“Bolt”, Emu) explore the relationships of First Nations Peoples with that ecology, climate, and fire before 1788, and the European blindness to the complexity of these relationships. For instance, William Lines quotes the strikingly contradictory observations of the colonial surveyor, Thomas Mitchell, where the land is simultaneously “populous” and “without inhabitants” and “ready for the immediate reception of civilised man” and European pastoralism (Mitchell qtd. in Lines 71). Flannery (Eaters) and Tim Low (Feral, New) discuss the impacts of introduced agricultural practices, exotic animals, and plants. Tom Griffiths tells the story of ‘Improving’ and ‘Acclimatisation Societies’, whose explicit aims were to convert Australian lands into European lands (32–48). The notion of ‘keeping Europe at bay’ is a response to the colonial assumptions, practices, and impositions highlighted by these writers.The project of converting this continent and hundreds of First Nations Countries into a region of Europe, ‘Australia’, is, in ambition, a totalising one. From the strange flag-plantings, invocations and incantations claiming ownership and dominion, to legalistic conceptions such as terra nullius, the aim has been to speak, to declare, to interpellate the country as European. What is not European, must be made European. What cannot be made European is either (un)seen in a way which diminishes or denies its existence, or must be made not to exist. These are difficult things to do: to not see, to unsee, or to eradicate.One of the first acts of administrative division (direction and rule) in the Port Phillip colony (now known as Victoria) was that of designating four regional Aboriginal Protectorates. Edward Stone Parker was appointed Assistant Protector of Aborigines for the Loddon District, a district which persists today for many state and local government instrumentalities as the Loddon-Mallee region. In the 1840s, Parker experienced the difficulty described above, in attempting to ‘make European’ the Dja Dja Wurrung people. As part of Parker’s goal of Christianising Dja Dja Wurrung people, he sought to learn their language. Bain Attwood records his frustration:[Parker] remarked in July 1842. ‘For physical objects and their attributes, the language readily supplies equivalent terms, but for the metaphysical, so far I have been able to discover scarcely any’. A few years later Parker simply despaired that this work of translation could be undertaken. ‘What can be done’, he complained, ‘with a people whose language knows no such terms as holiness, justice, righteousness, sin, guilt, repentance, redemption, pardon, peace, and c., and to whose minds the ideas conveyed by those words are utterly foreign and inexplicable?’ (Attwood 125)The assumption here is that values and concepts that are ‘untranslatable’ into European understandings mark an absence of such value and concept. Such assumptions are evident in attempts to convince, cajole, or coerce First Nations Peoples into abandoning traditional cultural and custodial relationships with Country in favour of individual private property ownership. The desire to maintain relationships with Country are described by conservative political figures such as Tony Abbott as “lifestyle choices” (Medhora), effectively declaring them non-existent. In addition, processes designed to recognise First Nations relationships to Country are procedurally frustrated. Examples of this are the bizarre decisions made in 2018 and 2019 by Nigel Scullion, the then Indigenous Affairs Minister, to fund objections to land claims from funds designated to alleviate Indigenous disadvantage and to refuse to grant land rights claims even when procedural obstacles have been cleared (Allam). In Australia, given that First Nations social, cultural, and political life is seamlessly interwoven with the environment, ecology, the land–Country, and that the colonial project has always been, and still is, a totalising one, it is a project which aims to sever the connections to place of First Nations Peoples. Concomitantly, when the connections cannot be severed, the people must be either converted, dismissed, or erased.This project, no matter how brutal and relentless, however, has not achieved totality.What Remains Not Regional? If colonisation is a totalising project, and regional Australia stands as evidence of this project’s ongoing push, then what remains not regional, or untouched by the colonial? What escapes the administrative, the institutional, the ecological, the incantatory, and the interpellative reach of the regional? I think that despite this reach, there are such remains. The frustration, the anger, and antipathy of Parker, Abbott, and Scullion bear this out. Their project is unfinished and the resistance to it infuriates. I think that, in Australia, the different ways in which pre-1788 modes of life persist are modes of life which can be said to be ‘keeping Europe at bay’.In Reports from a Wild Country: Ethics for Decolonisation, Deborah Bird Rose compares Western/European conceptualisations of time, with those of the people living in the communities around the Victoria River in the Northern Territory. Rose describes Western constructions of time as characterised by disjunction (for example, the ‘birth’ of philosophy, the beginnings of Christianity) and by irreversible sequence (for example, concepts of telos, apocalypse, and progress). These constructions have become so naturalised as to carry a “seemingly commonsensical orientation toward the future” (15). Orientation, in an Australian society “built on destruction, enables regimes of violence to continue their work while claiming the moral ground of making a better future” (15). Such an orientation “enables us to turn our backs on the current social facts of pain, damage, destruction and despair which exist in the present, but which we will only acknowledge as our past” (17).In contrast to this ‘future vision’, Rose describes what she calls the ‘canonical’ time-space conceptualisation of the Victoria River people (55). Here, rather than a temporal extension into an empty future, orientation is towards living, peopled, and grounded origins, with the emphasis on the plural, rather than a single point of origin or disjunction:We here now, meaning we here in a shared present, are distinct from the people of the early days by the fact that they preceded us and made our lives possible. We are the ‘behind mob’—those who come after. The future is the domain of those who come after us. They are referred to as […] those ‘behind us’. (55)By way of illustration, when we walk into a sheep paddock, even if we are going somewhere (even the future), we are also irrevocably walking behind ancestors, predecessor ecologies, previous effects. The paddock, is how it is, after about 65,000 years of occupation, custodianship, and management, after European surveyors, squatters, frontier conflict and violence, the radical transformation of the country, the destruction of the systems that came before. Everything there, as Freya Mathews would put it, is of “the given” (“Becoming” 254, “Old” 127). We are coming up behind. That paddock is the past and present, and what happens next is irrevocably shaped by it. We cannot walk away from it.What remains not regional is there in front of us. Country, language, and knowledge remain in the sheep paddock, coexisting with everyone and everything else that everyone in this country follows (including the colonial and the regional). It is not gone. We have to learn how to see it.By the Fox or the Little EagleFigure 1: A Scatter of Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo Feathers at Wehla. Image Credit: Terry Eyssens.As a way of elaborating on this, I will tell you about a small, eight hectare, patch of land in Dja Dja Wurrung Country. Depending on the day, or the season, or your reason, it could take fifteen minutes to walk from one end to the other or it might take four hours, from the time you start walking, to the time when you get back to where you started. At this place, I found a scatter of White Cockatoo feathers (Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo—Cacatua galerita). There was no body, just the feathers, but it was clear that the Cockatoo had died, had been caught by something, for food. The scatter was beautiful. The feathers, their sulphur highlights, were lying on yellow-brown, creamy, dry grass. I dwelled on the scatter. I looked. I looked around. I walked around. I scanned the horizon and squinted at the sky. And I wondered, what happened.This small patch of land in Dja Dja Wurrung Country is in an area now known as Wehla. In the Dja Dja Wurrung and many other Victorian languages, ‘Wehla’ (and variants of this word) is a name for the Brushtail Possum (Trichosurus vulpecula). In the time I spend there/here, I see all kinds of animals. Of these, two are particularly involved in this story. One is the Fox (Vulpes vulpes), which I usually see just the back of, going away. They are never surprised. They know, or seem to know, where everyone is. They have a trot, a purposeful, cocky trot, whether they are going away because of me or whether they are going somewhere for their own good reasons. Another animal I see often is the Little Eagle (Hieraaetus morphnoides). It is a half to two-thirds the size of a Wedge-tailed Eagle (Aquila audax). It soars impressively. Sometimes I mistake a Little Eagle for a Wedge-tail, until I get a better look and realise that it is not quite that big. I am not sure where the Little Eagle’s nest is but it must be close by.I wondered about this scatter of White Cockatoo feathers. I wondered, was the scatter of White Cockatoo feathers by the Fox or by the Little Eagle? This could be just a cute thought experiment. But I think the question matters because it provokes thinking about what is regional and what remains not regional. The Fox is absolutely imperial. It is introduced and widespread. Low describes it as among Australia’s “greatest agent[s] of extinction” (124). It is part of the colonisation of this place, down to this small patch of land in Dja Dja Wurrung Country. Where the Fox is, colonisation, and everything that goes with it, remains, and maintains. So, that scatter of feathers could be a colonial, regional happening. Or maybe it is something that remains not regional, not colonial. Maybe the scatter is something that escapes the regional. The Little Eagles and the Cockatoos, who were here before colonisation, and their dance (a dance of death for the Cockatoo, a dance of life for the Little Eagle), is maybe something that remains not regional.But, so what if the scatter of White Cockatoo feathers, this few square metres of wind-blown matter, is not regional? Well, if it is ‘not regional’, then, if Australia is to become something other than a colony, we have to look for these things that are not regional, that are not colonial, that are not imperial. Maybe if we start with a scatter of White Cockatoo feathers that was by the Little Eagle, and then build outwards again, we might start to notice more things that are not regional, that still somehow escape. For example, the persistence of First Nations modes of land custodianship and First Nations understandings of time. Then, taking care not to fetishise First Nations philosophies and cultures, take the time and care to recognise the associations of all of those things with simply, the places themselves, like a patch of land in Dja Dja Wurrung Country, which is now known as Wehla. Instead of understanding that place as something that is just part of the former Aboriginal Protectorate of Loddon or of the Loddon Mallee region of Victoria, it is Wehla.The beginning of decolonisation is deregionalisation. Every time we recognise the not regional (which is hopefully, eventually, articulated in a more positive sense than ‘not regional’), and just say something like ‘Wehla’, we can start to keep Europe at bay. Europe’s done enough.seeing and SeeingChina Miéville’s The City and The City (2009) is set in a place, in which the citizens of two cities live. The cities, Besźel and Ul Qoma, occupy the same space, are culturally and politically different. Their relationship to each other is similar to that of border-sharing Cold War states. Citizens of the two cities are forbidden to interact with each other. This prohibition is radically policed. Even though the citizens of Besźel and Ul Qoma live in adjoining buildings, share roads, and walk the same streets, they are forbidden to see each other. The populations of each city grow up learning how to see what is permitted and to not see, or unsee, the forbidden other (14).I think that seeing a scatter of White Cockatoo feathers and wondering if it was by the Fox or by the Little Eagle is akin to the different practices of seeing and not seeing in Besźel and Ul Qoma. The scatter of feathers is regional and colonial and, equally, it is not. Two countries occupy the same space. Australia and a continent with its hundreds of Countries. What remains not regional is what is given and Seen as such. Understanding ourselves as walking behind everything that has gone before us enables this. As such, it is possible to see the scatter of White Cockatoo feathers as by the Fox, as happening in ‘regional Australia’, as thus characterised by around 200 years of carnage, where the success of one species comes at the expense of countless others. On the other hand, it is possible to See the feathers as by the Little Eagles, and as happening on a small patch of land in Dja Dja Wurrung Country, as a dance that has been happening for hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of years. It is a way of keeping Europe at bay.I think these Cockatoo feathers are a form of address. They are capable of interpellating something other than the regional, the colonial, and the imperial. A story of feathers, Foxes, and Little Eagles can remind us of our ‘behindness’, and evoke, and invoke, and exemplify ways of seeing and engaging with where we live that are tens of thousands of years old. This is both an act of the imagination and a practice of Seeing what is really there. 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