ISLE OF WONDER
The rarefied beauty of Lord Howe
SLIDING DOWN A RAIN-DRENCHED hill on one’s bottom is not something that most people would be happy about. It’s not something that they would write about in a national magazine either, for fear of embarrassment overcoming them. But I’m thrilled. Just as I was when I fell flat on my face earlier in the day.
The reason for my uncontained joy at each fumble, stumble and fall is that all come in the service of making Lord Howe Island even more perfect and pristine than it already is. Even in the short space of time since I arrived on the island, I have decided it is the least I can do for a place that has filled me with such a strong sense of calm and contentment.
I am taking part, ever so briefly, in an ambitious weed-eradication program designed to rid the island of introduced pests, no small task given the lush thickness of the vegetation that blankets it and the teeny tiny size of the weeds in question. Around my waist I am equipped with all the paraphernalia needed to strike a blow to the pernicious encroachment of such things as cherry guava (it sounds nicer than it is, I assure you) and ochna, including knives for stripping back roots, little bottles of poison, and a GPS tracker that allows each weed found to be documented and added to an electronic map for reference. After a few hours of crawling through the dense island scrub, weaving my way between seemingly infinite kentia palm, and following a meticulously strung thread boundary demarcating the territory to be covered on this day by the happy band of volunteers (many work in the hospitality industry on the island) I’m working with, I feel like I have played a part in the destruction of a handful of weeds, although I didn’t manage to find any myself. I emerge from the trees covered in mud and with a sense of satisfaction that only comes from helping.
I am told that the program will continue until all weeds have been banished from the UNESCO World Heritage-listed island, which sits 600 kilometres off the New South Wales coast in the Tasman Sea. Eventually the eradication of such pests will result in the island being named as a biosecurity zone.
But first they need to get rid of the rats that have been residents of the island since the steamship SS Makambo ran aground at Ned’s Beach back in 1918. Since then they have been credited with playing a part in the extinction of birds, invertebrates and plants. Rats were also thought to have helped wipe out the Lord Howe Island phasmid, a giant stick insect native to the island, but they were happily rediscovered in 2001.
Equally ambitious as the weed eradication, yet much more controversial, is the program of baiting that took place during the winter months, which will hopefully result in 210,000 rats being removed from the island in one fell swoop, never to return.
Given my hatred of rats I am happy not to be taking part in that particular project, but during my time on the
island I hear both sides of what has become a heated argument. Those who are for it trust the science that says the poison being used will have no impact on the abundant birdlife on the island, the staggering marine life surrounding the island or the permanent human population of some 380 people. Those opposed to the method of eradication are sceptical. Only time will tell.
As I ride a bike back to my accommodation, the graciously luxe Arajilla Retreat, waving to fellow visitors (there are only 400 allowed on the island at any given time) and local kids making their way to school sans shoes (they are not part of the official uniform), I take in the landscape of lush tropical vegetation ringed by bluer-than-blue waters. I have my back to it now, but I almost feel the presence of the hulking Mt Gower behind me, so complete is its presence from every corner of the island. I stop regularly to observe a rollcall of birds that busy themselves rooting around in the thick, moist ground cover in search of food, and check in on the beaches where I have been told I am sure to see turtles coming in close to the shore to feed.
The unspoilt beauty of it all makes me think of the Galápagos Islands, a place I have never been myself but one I imagine might be similar to Lord Howe Island.
The next day the clouds that unleashed a torrential downpour the night before have cleared (Mt Gower is still shrouded in its ubiquitous fluffy white crown), presenting me with perfect island weather. Jumping back in the saddle I head to Ned’s Beach on the north-east of the island to watch as any number of mullet, garfish and kingfish, among others, gather around anyone who wades into the water here. Fins, snorkels and masks are available for hire, the money collected in an honesty box, or you can feed the fish by hand on nutritionally beneficial fish pellets dispensed in perfect piscine portions from a nearby box. Unfortunately I don’t have time to do either right now as I am scheduled to take to the water myself on a cruise to the mesmerising Ball’s Pyramid, a jutting shard of rock protruding from the dense blue waters 23 kilometres off the island. At 551 metres, it is the world’s tallest sea stack, and as we head towards it, past the dramatic basalt cliffs and churning waves that have been assaulting the island for millennia, the otherworldly beauty of water and rock becomes hypnotic.
Our captain Dave Gardiner, who has spent 40 years on these waters, names the abundant birds that dart and wheel overhead. Suddenly sighting sleek outlines bobbing above the surface of the water in the distance, he points towards them thinking they are some of the plentiful dolphins that can be found here. “No, that’s a pod of pilot whales,” he explains upon closer inspection. “You guys are lucky to see them. You know, Lord Howe is considered the Galápagos of Australia,” he continues. I knew it!
The breadth and beauty of Lord Howe Island’s nature is confirmed yet again when I head out the next day to do a spot of twitching with naturalist and tour guide Ian Hutton and his happy band of birdwatchers. Our minivan stops on
the road that runs past the end of the airport’s runway, where the grassy reclaimed swampland opposite is a popular location to spot all kinds of birds. While not as robust as the volunteers I worked with the other day (I am the youngest in the group by far), my binoculared companions are nonetheless taking part in a volunteer program of their own, helping Ian count the different birds for a central register kept back on the mainland. As the majority of them fan out in search of their designated species, volunteers are sought for the walk to nearby Muttonbird Point to see if any young masked boobies can be found among the birds nesting there. Addicted to the sense of accomplishment I felt the other day, I immediately agree to be included in the exploration party. I am rewarded with the sight of at least two downy avian youths, a haul my fellow booby hunters seem pleased with.
By the time I fly out of Lord Howe Island, craning for my last glimpse of Mt Gower and Ball’s Pyramid, I feel like I have helped maintain the paradise on Earth that the island is. And I have the mud stains and satisfied grin to prove it.
I almost feel the presence of the hulking Mt Gower behind me, so complete is its presence from every corner of the island.