When I left Melrose around 10 a.m., clouds were hiding the peak of Mount Remarkable. Near the showgrounds to the north of the town, I began my ascend to the still hidden summit. Initially gently rising cattle fields with scattered, massive gum-trees turned steeper and steeper, changed their character to grassy woodland and finally gave way to a “forest” of eucalypts and grasstrees (Yacka or black boys; Xanthorrhoea spp.) on steep slopes. A typical inhabitant of such woodland, the Laughing Kookaburra (Dacelo gigas) had a huge delegation of its species flying about, their call determined to ridicule my hopes of a clear, unclouded summit. Imagine someone who, after hearing a joke, blasts out a long hoot or two, and then breaks into never ending fits of nervous giggles and raucous laughter which in turn forces everybody else to do the same and you have some idea of the “soundtrack” of my ascend. The social system of the species was partly responsible for this comedy show. The bird which has a life span of more than 20 years, not only chooses its partner for life, but forms extended families of three of four generations. In a system known as ‘communal breeding’, which is apparently more common in Australia than anywhere else in the world, all members of the family, parents, brothers and sisters, single uncles and aunts, join forces to incubate eggs, rear the young and babysit. I do not know whether vocal battles on territorial rights flare up amongst the members of one clan or between neighbouring families, but once the row has started, it certainly is one of the funniest battles to be witnessing.
“The raucous call of the laughing Kookaburra .. ..is the signature tune of the Australian bush. They are ubiquitous throughout the eucalypt forests and woodlands of eastern Australia, hunting in the classic kingfisher mode of perching motionless on a vantage point, then pouncing on the prey – usually insects and other small invertebrates, but frequently also lizards and snakes. When they’ve snatched a meal, they return to their perch to eat it which, in the case of a snake, takes some deft manoeuvring with the bill”
Vandenbeld “Nature of Australia”, p. 144
Walking further along an increasingly steep track, I reached an area of thick growth of young eucalypts. What should have registered, did not and I had to be reminded later, that a number of years ago a huge bushfire had literally set the whole mountain on fire. I had heard about the fire through friend’s letters, but, at the time, enjoying cool, moist Ireland, utterly unable to reach Australia, I had no real picture of a bushfire and the damage it could do. Up to this date, luckily, I still have not had to witness the fierce destructive force of such a fire in action, which, in the case of Mt. Remarkable had had fire fighting units from Adelaide, about 200 km away, being rushed up here, and fire-brigades from further away in the state on standby. What l was witnessing on the mountain today was the determined and strong effort of nature to bring back life, as well as the unbelievable strength of some eucalypts to survive a fire that kills everything else.
“Eucalypt leaves are loaded with flammable oils, so when fire comes it burns intensely but briefly, destroying the leaves but usually only charring the tree itself. Thick bark protects the sapwood, and immediately beneath their bark many eucalypts have an emergency reserve of leaf buds. Chemical changes in the bark, caused by the fire, signal the buds to shoot quickly … Both the tree’s thick bark and its ability to put out epicormic shoots probably first evolved as a response to soils poor in nutrients: the heartwood acts as an nutrient reserve, which the thick bark protects, and to which the epicormic shoots have direct access. In this way trees can repair their damaged crowns quickly rather than relying on the much slower supply from the roots..
Vandenbeld, p. 141
Further uphill the ground became stony, the thicket of young, competing eucalypts gave way to individual plants, young acacia-bushes with finger thick branches, charred and revived grasstrees, tall eucalypts with varying degrees of fire damage, their oil-laden drooping leaves whose predecessors had saved the trees in fire, dispensed again from most of their smooth, patchy white-brown-grey branches. The occasional lizard whisked off from his favourite spot of winter-sunbathing across shades of red, brown and yellow, across solid rock, loose stones, red soil, still wet from last week’s rains.
After five days in completely cultivated land, this was a first, if tiny, patch similar to semi-arid Australia. Not more than a hint of the outback, yet I welcomed it warmly. A glimpse which I viewed like a greeting from the country at the end of my journey.
From here it was not far to the summit. The secretive cloud cover having been dispersed, the summit now offered a brilliant view to the north and east. Against the midday sun, a vast, open, flat area stretched out towards the horizon, cut by two lines of the southern Flinders Ranges trailing in a more or less parallel fashion first north, then north-eastwards. More than halfway up towards Quorn the distinct Mount Brown stuck up its nearly 3000 feet, while over to the east the lower Pekina Range marked about 2/3 of the way to Peterborough. The first white people to set foot on those plains had been the party of explorer John Eyre, nearly exactly 150 years ago. They were the first to put their eyes onto the high, elongated, nearly 6 km long mountain on which I was standing and which was visible so remarkably well from the south and the east. Little wonder, Eyre named it Mount Remarkable. Until his party came along these eastern plains, all explorations had travelled along the western side of the ranges, from which Mount Remarkable is just simply not visible. Too far inland, it is hidden behind a number of shorter ranges within the complex of the long Flinders Ranges.
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