Are We on the Monaro Alone in This?

Today I am wondering if it is as windy everywhere else....or is it only here on the high plains of the monaro that the heated, gale force winds, dry as chips, rough as rasps, blow without relent. Monotonous, hard driven, skin shredding wind, without a hint of moksa.
Every living thing has vanished. The streets are deserted, even the flies have gone. The wind stings in its cutting monotone, a tiresome concert with the sun. Everything takes cover but there's nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. Even inside, the heated wind penetrates. Are we on the monaro alone in this?.
What will bring relief to this cycle of existences? What will bring us sweetly home? What will make the birds sing and the sheep fat? What will make the grass grow and swell that smile? What will allow us to ease the tenuous grip to this hardened existence so familiar?. What will ease the built up tensions and resentments? What will ease this? What?, will ease, This?

Rain.

Overcast skies pouring with rain.

Rain.

The smell of rain on the dry dusty ground.

Rain.

Rain on dry grass.

Rain.

The sound of rain on tin roof.

Rain.

The sight of rain falling from the skies.

Rain.

The sight of rain overflowing water tanks, the sight of rain gathering, flowing down gutters.

Rain.

Rain will ease this. Rain will bring my father home. Rain will soften this hardened shell. Rain will release this cycle of existences. Rain will revive the spirit of this land and its people, afreshed. Rain will reveal the other side; lighter, brighter, relaxed, laughter: no more torment by the wind tearing at the sinews of hope.

Rain.

Wind driven smoke makes it arrival and in the town it settles as the torrid wind sweeps through and is gone. From the cloud of smoke it comes.

Rain.

The wind sings in its cutting monotone in concert with the sun. Everything takes cover but there's nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. Are we on the monaro alone in this?

During this day parts of the monaro erupted in fire. Around Michelago, on the monaro, a catastrophic fire burnt through 11000 hectares of bushland and grazing country, taking some houses, livestock and other animals.

South of Bombala, fires blazed in the Cann River area and over the Snowy Mountains to the west, fires burnt through farmland and bushland along areas of the upper Murray River around Tooma and Walwa. It was a fierce day, the wind awesome. Late in the afternoon the relentless wind shifted direction to the southeast. Still relentless, with gale force, choking smoke filled Bombala and then, in the night, the wind and smoke was gone and rain fell upon the tin.

It is taking some time to acclimatize to the monaro but it has me captivated, it has me intrigued. Never before have I ever experienced anything like this. Driving out of Bombala, several days after this torrid wind event, towards the Snowy Mountains, I covered the ground of the monaro farmlands; the bare hills and gentle valleys, the steep, short sided ravines, the rocky outcrops and the rangelands, the rivers now reduced to waterholes, the solitary gums and distant eucalypt woodlands and as I drove I had the feeling that I was in a desert.


There was not a soul. Everywhere was now brown, dried up, shrivelled. Dirt, rock and scabby plants. Intense blue sky, whispy clouds. The air and the landscape was trying to suck whatever moisture could be found out of any living thing, including me. Sheep crowded lonely trees seeking out shade, panting. At water troughs they clambered over each other to drink.
Birds in seedheads beside the road laboured into flight. There were more than the usual number of dead birds on the road. Rabbits and hare scooted across bare earth raising dust. Desolation came to mind. A desolate scene; an unihabited, barren and wretched landscape.
But is it?

When I first arrived here on the monaro in mid Oct 2009, farmers where feeling elated at the late winter, early spring rains that had fallen over the area. Lingering, late winter, intense weather systems had thankfully carried some of their moisture over the snowy mountains and leaked their last drops across the monaro. A green veneer grew over the landscape. The farmers were happy with this new colour, green, and the feed it provided but the soil beneath was still desperately dry and had no moisture to leak. Dams were empty or near empty and the rivers and streams had given up running long ago. They called it a "green drought" and prayed for more rain.

It seems that this may be the way it is on the Monaro and the way it has always been for the white settlers who came to farm sheep on the monaro. Deperately dry, hot summers and a landscape devoid of feed. But I think that now, 150 or so years on, it is even more desperately dry and devoid of feed and decent soil. In the past, stockmen on horseback walked their herds overland via the dry monaro plains and hills to the alpine areas of the now Kosciuzko National Park where they stayed until late Autumn. Here their animals grazed on large areas of rich native grasses and generally had abundant water. This is no longer permitted and so the monaro is now grazed all year round.

As I drive the early summer landscape of the monaro, wind of several days previous now died, I ponder this landscape: desolate or not?, future farmland or not? I am captivated by it and am taken on a journey to within its realm. I will seek out its nooks and crannies, peaks and troughs and try to understand this land.

If Li Po were here today I wonder what he may have had to say.