Professor Bruce

Some of life's most valuable lessons come when you least expect them.


From those that you might think least likely!

Professor Bruce

‘Kar-arrk!’ Two red-tail black cockatoos glide low along the river. Strange! It is surprising to see these large birds, for they are generally found up high in the old forests where you would count yourself lucky to see one. 

‘Kar-arrk!’ slow and periodic, ‘Kar-arrk!’ like an alarm, warning all the inhabitants of the Kalang river valley. 

Kalang means ‘beautiful’ in the first nation peoples Gumbaynggir language. A lush, green valley, flanked by densely forested hills. The slow moving river serpentines towards the coast, cutting a broad path etched into alluvial flatland. Occasional deep pools lie beside rocky outcrops that have stood resistant; helping shape the course of the flow and creating the odd swimming hole. Ancient collections of worn rocks, rounded and smooth, pile along the length of babbling rapids. 

A dead-end road with numerous river crossings is the only access in and out for the small population. Farmhouses appear occasionally, set in the middle of grassy paddocks. Friendly and supportive, people tend to know every household and their livelihood along its twenty-kilometre length. It’s not uncommon to hear a conversation, something like: 

‘Oh, there’s Jimmy Lovell driving back home. I saw him drive into town about ten this morning’.

‘Wonder what he was doing?’

It’s been a very wet start to the year so the river is up. This is really crucial for myself as I live in a house on the opposite bank to the road. Most times this just simply involves crossing the river on foot using an old fallen tree and a series of carefully positioned rocks, just shoes off and a nimble tightrope like balancing act. Right now though, it has become trousers rolled up and wading carefully through knee-deep slow-moving current, toes gripping the flat pebbles underfoot. 

I share this idyllic location with two others. We rent a tiny old ramshackle house for $5 per month from a local farmer; no electricity, wood stove, and bathing in the river the order of the day. Surrounded by forests, there is no other house in sight. Land that was once paddocks is slowly being reclaimed by verdant growth, dairy cattle no longer a viable option. The weatherboard cottage sits close to the ground on a high bank facing a bend in the river, a view beyond to a tall stand of trees studded all the way up a steep incline. You might say it’s a bit like camping, not really of the holiday variety as much of our time is spent doing daily tasks; tending the vegetable garden, repairing fences, collecting firewood, cooking, home improvements, and learning about all things country. We are three city kids enjoying a two year-long venture, ‘The University of Life’ I call it.

We discuss the red-tail black cockatoos in what is an eerie and ominous atmosphere.  Still and quiet, a grey leaden sky. The landlord’s small herd of ever-curious beef cattle, normally so fond of pushing their way into our poorly fenced garden, have disappeared. Never before have any of us seen cockatoos, or any bird for that matter, follow the meandering course of the river in such a shrill manner.

  

During the night rain starts to fall, slowly at first, then building to a deluge that continues hour after hour. Happily, we have a roof over our heads and a stockpile of dry firewood. Sleep is postponed as the rain continues relentless, a solid torrent cacophonous on the corrugated iron for most of the night. Outside is pitch black, the sound of rushing water and trees snapping tell us the river has become a raging destructive force. 

First light reveals a sleeping giant has awoken, a mass of muddy water gouging its way in one big sweep, swallowing all the nuanced curves and rock pools of the once gentle flow. The stand of tall trees on the opposite embankment has been savaged; fallen trees bobbing like corks. A rush surges over the edge of the embankment that is normally ten metres above the river. We have front row seats, our verandah now only twenty metres from the water’s edge.

The rain has eased considerably so we take some comfort and surmise that the water should not rise any further. This might be more hope than reality, as we have never experienced a flood before. Our thoughts turn to how other people might be faring. Maria at nearby ‘Hilltop’ is expecting her first child any day now! What will the numerous river crossings be like? Bridges made of timber sleepers, only a couple of metres above the riverbed, will have all gone under. How much food do we have? How long will we be cut off from town? From anyone! Did I mention we don’t have a phone!

Three days pass with no more rain; the river has dropped somewhat, but is still fast flowing and deep. Locals in cars going past on the road wave and yell that the next bridge towards town has been badly damaged and is still under water. We indicate we are okay. However food supplies are now low so a decision is made to attempt a crossing. I have a small trail bike over the river so the plan is to ride up and along the forestry trails high through the forest, and hopefully find a ridge that links to town. No one is aware of it being done before but under the circumstances there is no better time to try. 

Calculating the drift I go upstream a little, strip off, and tie my clothes in a towel. I pick my spot and wade as far as I can before launching into sidestroke, one hand with my clothes held high trying to keep them dry. The most ungainly way of swimming imaginable! It is a scramble on the other side, first finding my footing, then clambering up the bank. 

The force of the water has gouged out sections of the riverbank, undercutting trees that are now angled downwards, their tops trailing in the water. My bike parked beside the road is sodden but safe. Kick starting doesn’t work so I wheel it to a rise and roll a clutch start … she fires up, a few coughs and splutters, and I’m on my way. 

Previously I have walked partway up one trail so I start with what is familiar. On the bike I find the ascent relatively easy. The country is steep and the sclerophyll forest dense with older trees up to fifty metres high. The seldom used trails are overgrown. They were originally made to accommodate a logging truck, so they are wide enough for me to weave around tall grass, small saplings and fallen branches. The forest is mostly regrowth, much of it having been logged in the first half of the 20th century. The original forest had magnificent red cedar trees but they were virtually all cut out in the mid to late 1800s. To sight one now would be akin to finding gold.

Reaching the ridge I find a trail that appears to head in the direction of town. I ride across the undulating spine of the mountain range, the crowns of trees close over the top of me. Should do a walk with friends along this trail sometime I think to myself. A whole other world, very picturesque, views out through the trees to distant mountains, the occasional farmhouse down below. Absolutely no signposts, so it is a bit of guesswork. By road it is eight kilometres, so I estimate my distance covered, and choose a trail heading down to what turns out to be a suburban back street of Bellingen. Fortunate you might say, a stroke of luck! 

At the general store my eye catches a newspaper headline:

‘1974 Worst Ever! - Brisbane Flood, 16 dead, 8000 homes destroyed’. 

Even though I am a long way from Brisbane, Cyclone Wanda has dumped rain over a vast area. Seems like the red-tail black cockatoos know a thing or two!

On the rear bumper of a mud-splattered utility, I can’t help but notice an image of a bulldozer and the words ‘Doze a Greenie a Day’. Comical? Arrogant? Pathetic? Depends on your view. It alludes to a local conflict in this beautiful part of the world. Utopian place names such as the Promised Land or the Never Never River, even a remote forest called Diehappy, masking an underlying social divide and tension. To say city folks, hippies, or tree changers, are in some way opposed to country born and bred is too simplistic an explanation. 

Logging forests is an industry that has been around a hundred years or more. Old-growth forests were originally heavily logged giving rise decades later to what is called regrowth forests, the main site of operations today. Very little old growth remains. Recent decades have seen the decline of the dairy and beef industries, particularly on small farm holdings (like where I live). Jobs in the logging industry are promoted as one answer for a region struggling economically, particularly to stop the young moving away to live in cities and large towns. 

From the conservationists’ point of view, nurturing and protecting the forests are critical. They refer to evidence of widespread logging from the past where old growth forests were plundered with little regard for species survival (red cedar). Forest management and highly mechanized logging practices (clear felling) have in some circumstances created habitat destruction, including that of native animals. Red-tail black cockatoos, for instance, depend on old eucalypts for nesting hollows. Employment solutions such as eco-tourism, small-scale niche farming, and craft businesses are only in their infancy. 

Ironically I had recently been looking for some sort of work as my savings were running low. In asking around it was suggested I go and see Bruce who lives at Sunny Corner. Bold and naïve I had rolled up unannounced and introduced myself. He seemed like a bit of a character, a friendly guy, gravelly voice, roll your own cigarette dangling on his bottom lip.  Probably about twice my age, he ran a small bush timber mill on his family’s modest few acres. When I arrived he was tinkering with old cars that littered the yard. He was easy to talk to and when I broached the request for any work, to my surprise he said yes! 

‘Mill work in a couple of weeks ... should have some houses to cut by then' he said. 

(A house to cut - meaning he received a specific order to cut all the sizes and amounts required to build a timber frame house.)

‘Yeah sounds great, I’m up for that’, I said without qualification.

‘Well, we’ll see how ya go, ya look a bit on the skinny side’, he smiled.

So with the flood crisis over, bridges and roads operational, I fronted up for my first day as a timber mill hand. It was a very simple operation; an old Ferguson tractor (Fergie), lifts the logs onto bogies, and once secure, we push them along railway like tracks to the bench. Fergie has her driveshaft connected to a big circular saw on the flatbed bench. Bruce insists on being on the receiving end as the log passes the saw blade and separates. 

He recounts many stories (always at other mills) of logs getting caught at the back of the saw, then being propelled at speed towards the receiver causing unspeakable injuries. Bruce amps up the narrative giving the story plenty of embellishment. It was dangerous work and Bruce stood tall in my eyes, taking the most risky position himself.

There were four or five of us operating the mill. What was particularly hard was keeping the cut even, as the big logs were prone to shift. Bruce started with whole logs, cutting in certain ways and sizes to maximize the yield and to keep warping to a minimum. He said what he thought and was full of colourful language, particularly when things went askew. You always knew when you messed up! There was plenty of time for breaks, smoko, and lunch, as Bruce loved a yarn. I think he liked outsiders, both to set us straight, and also to broaden his world. He was a very wide-ranging thinker, opinions on all topics.

During one lunch break he took us to see his recording studio; a makeshift affair on the back verandah of his house, old mattresses used as walls and acoustic lining. I think he fancied himself as a ‘Slim Dusty’ style country guitarist/singer. Not too many days passed before the discussion turned to logging versus greenies. Being a man from the hard-knock bush, Bruce was also very knowledgeable and not at all dismissive of efforts to conserve. 

He lived surrounded by forest and it was his major livelihood, so it was in his interest to protect the opportunity to have trees to harvest. Hardwood trees such as blackbutt, flooded gum, and tallowwood take many decades to reach maturity. I must admit I started out thinking that these forests should be left completely alone, the image of logging I had was one where every single tree was cut, the land totally denuded and left to erode, valuable soil washed away, stream flows changed, and water quality spoiled.

A week later Bruce wanted to show us something, and he arranged for a day trip. We piled into his old beaten up flatbed truck and drove up into the forest where he sourced his logs. It was steep country so it took some time, and we eventually reached a high clearing. It was a magnificent day; the forest a tranquil place to be, the air sweet, just the sounds of birds and wind rustling through the trees. Bruce parked the truck up against a makeshift embankment used for loading the felled trees. Then we waited. 

Maybe he has brought us up here to just enjoy the forest I thought. Along with some good natured ribbing, we heard all about the concerts, life on the road, hard-luck stories, broken hearts, pub antics, being thrown out of towns. Thing is, I had no reason to doubt his stories. With Bruce anything was possible. 

What are we waiting for? Why is he keeping us in suspense?

From down in the middle of the forest we hear a voice ... A man talking? … Then, the soft sound of chains chinking. A team of bullocks makes their way up the slope. The man is on his own, his talk directs the team. There are three pairs of bullocks, each yoked together, and the pairs connected a short distance apart by a chain. No need to follow the vehicle track as they weave through the trees, tackling steep terrain or sharp corners with ease. They arrive at the clearing and Bruce introduces us to Craig the ‘bullocky’. He in turn presents the team; leading pair Spur and Banjo, Captain the biggest is down at the rear, for a bit of grunt I expect. They stand placid; their big eyes look you up and down while ears and tail twitch the flies away. Craig gives us a quick history lesson, his team one of the few left on the east coast of Australia. Before the 1920's they were the favoured means for moving logs, but mechanized transport, trucks, and tractors slowly replaced them.

‘Time to get to work!’ announces Bruce. He has carefully selected a tree down amongst a dense stand, an Ironbark about a metre in width at its base. With chainsaw in hand, he walks around the tree planning in which direction to angle the fall and hence, where to cut. First, a triangular sliver is cut lowdown from the side he wants it to fall towards. This is calculated to protect neighbouring trees and vegetation. Swapping to the opposite side he starts a cut that is higher than the first.

We all stand well back. Bruce drives a couple of wedges in just to encourage the direction of fall. Working in stages he then saws horizontally to about the midpoint of the tree, at which time it starts to move ever so slowly at first and then as the remaining uncut section splinters and cracks, the tree crashes through the neighbouring branches to the ground with an all mighty thud. Perfectly executed, Bruce just taking an assured step back as the tree falls away from him.

Craig stands a good two metres from the bullocks as he leads them down to the cut tree. Whilst compliant they are also massive, and once in team mode, a bump could easily knock him off his feet. He has a stock whip but I don’t see him use it. He is very calm and gentle with his bullocks. Bruce goes along the tree trimming off leaves and branches, all of which is just left as mulch. When the bullocks arrive at the log the leaders turn through 180 degrees back in the direction they came from, stopping as the rear pair reaches the widest log end. 

Chains are attached to the log and then connected to the bullock team. On command they put power to the forest floor … the log starts to slide, ‘snig’ Craig calls it. The bullocks are strong and enjoy their work, intelligent in being able to work together. Craig has mentally mapped out the best route, and he gives directions so the bullocks know how far to travel before turning, so as to snig the log through standing trees. 

His tone is like normal conversation, no shouting or raised voice. Navigating around trees big and small it's amazing how flexible the team is, what little space they require, and most importantly, the minimal damage they cause. Young saplings remain undamaged as they bend over and spring back once the team has passed. The task is undertaken with a sense of ease and in no time they have the log on the mound next to the truck. The only disruption is a narrow dragline on the forest floor, something that in a few days will be impossible to see. The bullocks are repositioned and then their superior strength is used to slide the huge log onto the truck. 

By cutting this ironbark Bruce has made room for others to grow into the now vacant light space. His next tree is from a different spot, a good distance away. In a sense he is pruning this regrowth forest, one he hopes will sustain him into the future, and also ensure a continuation of the tree species and their habitat.

So thanks Bruce, Craig, Spur, Banjo and the rest of the team, it’s been a real masterclass. Oh, and also, better not forget the red-tailed black cockatoos.

Scott Avery

2019

Note: Bullocks are castrated male cattle.