Australia is a land of tremendous beauty, uniquely blessed.
Its cities sport magical names: Goonoowigal, Cullenbenbong, Kootingal, Billabong, and Woorabinda. It is famous for its grilled bangers, swagmen, backyard barbies, kangaroos, waltzing matildas, jumbucks, socceroos, and leather boots known as Blunnies. The crazy laugh of Kookaburras can be heard at dawn. At night, the looping arch of the Milky Way glitters brilliantly overhead, the Southern Cross crisp and visible throughout the year. Shimmering green rainbow lorikeets peck for seeds along the sidewalks, and brilliant black-and-white magpies, protective of their young, swoop aggressively at passing hikers.
In late 2024, I traveled to Australia for the first time. My flight to Sydney was delayed by an intense rainstorm in New York and, after sitting on the runway for two hours, it was hurry-up-and-wait the rest of the way. Racing through airports in the dead of night, toting multiple massive luggage pieces for a friend, is not my idea of a good time, and on the fifteen-hour flight over the Pacific, a baby six rows back spent a good chunk of the time bleating for dinner. Though the city of Brisbane was not on the original itinerary, that didn’t prevent me from ending up there anyway. If anything went according to plan, I can’t remember it.
Arriving at last in New South Wales, I was hosted for six weeks by a warm-hearted farmer whom I will call Ian Hestler. A man of genial disposition, Hestler has been raising cattle for twenty years. For the duration of my visit, the weather was perfect (lots of sun, little rain, mild temperatures, refreshingly cool nights), and we spent many amiable hours relaxing on his wide porch, grilling steaks and washing them down with cold beer. One of the primary subjects of our discussions was the state of his farm.
On the sandy beach of a small lake near the bottom of his valley, Hestler has erected a wood-fired sauna. From the outside, it looks like a shepherd’s tin shed, but inside the ceiling was so low that we were forced to shuffle humbly in, heads bowed, like worshipping pilgrims. It was hot and dark and close in there, like an Egyptian tomb, but not quite as comfortable. The intense heat of the steam curled over my shoulders and down my spine, and it wasn’t long until we were well-roasted and sweating profusely. Exuberantly, we took to the water to cool off.
Kangaroos are crackpot marsupials who bounce through the tall paddock grass from dawn to dusk. Like sheep, they seem to spend a good portion of their day watching to see what the other crazies in the clan are doing. One restless soul will careen off in a random direction, clueless as to where he is going or why, and the others will look up, confused. Then off they all go! Frequently, a pair of large males will take offense at something, stand up on their tails, and begin to kickbox. It was a never-ending delight to watch this game, and my breakfast egg went cold on multiple occasions due to this distracting entertainment.
To get a general feel of the countryside, I hiked the outlying portions of Hestler’s property extensively. The predominant color is a dusty gray-green. Then there are sudden startling flashes of primary colors, brilliant yellow wattle, flax, or cactus. In places, the vegetation appeared exhausted, the soil dispirited; open fissures riddled the trails, and the rusty-brown soil crumpled and crunched under my feet like crushed gravel. Enormous gullies and chasms have been carved out between the ridges, a direct result of decades of insufficient trees and vegetation. A flock of around twenty white cockatoos burst out of a gum tree and flew off, squawking. In a nearby gully, I scared up a herd of thirty kangaroos that sprinted out of the cover and down towards the stream.
When the Australian sun disappears beyond the ridges, the light fades quickly, and on more than one occasion the darkness caught me completely by surprise. One evening I missed a turn in the trail and ended up stumbling alongside a stream in pitch darkness. During the daylight, I’d paid careful attention to where I placed my feet, being distinctly skittish of the deadly eastern brown snakes that lurk everywhere. But in the pitch darkness, unable to see a thing, I was forced to plunge through two fields knee-deep in lush vegetation. Multiple electric fences impeded my progress, and though I managed to dive over a couple of them unscathed, it was not an easy journey in the dark. Vaulting over one of them, a shoe came off, and I was forced to clamber back again to retrieve it. Eventually I came out onto an access road and breathed a prayer of thanks.
Fences, I discovered, are ubiquitous in the land down under. Stiles for climbing over them have yet to be adopted there, and in crossing them, my ingenuity was severely challenged on more than one occasion. On one hike alone, I was forced to negotiate seventeen of these fences.
Hestler explained to me the different types of fences that he uses on the farm, and their purposes: “hard” fences (seven strands of wire, round and barbed), “soft” fences (one round steel strand), and electric fences with only occasional ceramic insulators to help you recognize them and avoid a good high-voltage kick in the pants. He showed me how to climb through a seven-wire fence unscathed; you choose a barbed wire strand just below waist height, push firmly down on it and step carefully over, allowing the un-barbed strand to slide across your back.
A substantial brook flows through the bottom of the valley, and at one point a shallow ford allows vehicles to cross. The brook is a major source of drinking water for cattle and sheep and for irrigation of the fields and pastures. Generations ago, the property lines were intentionally drawn to cross the brook frequently so that each farmer and his herds had direct access to the precious water. But, as everything in Australia depends on water, the brook is a constant source of irritation, complaints, and pitched battles. For a time, Hestler irrigated his fields from the stream, but complaints from his neighbors that he was using too much water led him to look for alternatives.
Australia is a parched land where every drop of water is valued as gold. According to the Bureau of Meteorology, the average annual rainfall is sixteen inches. Droughts are commonplace, and there is never enough water to go around.
When the early Europeans first arrived, they viewed the native vegetation as worthless. Wishing to raise crops as they had done back home, they began systematically clearing the land of trees. The idea of turning “worthless” forests into tillable fields is a concept deeply embedded in the mindset of farmers and, even today, is mirrored in Australian law and culture.
Following World War I, the Australian government, wishing to recognize the service of its returning soldiers and spur interest in farming, offered them large parcels of land and cash with which to purchase equipment, seeds, and livestock. The new landholders were expected to erect fences, build stockyards, establish water sources to irrigate crops, and clear the land of trees. Special incentives were offered to those who harvested at least 90% of the trees. Perhaps, at the time, it seemed like a good idea.
It wasn’t. It was carnage in the first degree.
Today, only a small fraction of the land has survived the mistakes of the past; less than 50% of the original woodlands still exist. The fundamental reality, a chronic lack of rain, has been severely exacerbated by rampant deforestation.
Instead of being a blessing, as it should be, rain has become a highly destructive force. The hard-packed ground is unable to absorb the water, and it runs off quickly, lost and wasted. Precious topsoil is stripped away, leaving massive gullies. Hundreds of species of animals, birds, and insects that depended on trees for survival were catastrophically impacted when they disappeared. Open fields became hard and hot, adding to the ever-present danger of fire.
The so-called Millennium Drought, the worst in recorded Australian history, began with dry conditions in late 1996. Historically high temperatures, combined with below-average rainfall, continued for eight years. Crops failed, and massive herds of sheep and cattle starved to death or had to be slaughtered due to lack of vegetation and insufficient drinking water. The experience was so traumatic that many farmers committed suicide.
“The earth,” wrote Ernest Hemingway, “is a fine place and worth the fighting for.” For those who are inspired, like Hestler, there are ways to radically rebuild the Australian soil, to transform the barren landscape. Level ditches, called contour banks, can be dug high on the hills to slow, redirect, and capture the precious rainwater when it does come. Chains of linked ponds (called leaky weirs), similar to beaver dams, can be built into the bottoms of valleys to provide time for the rainwater to soak into the ground and be retained like a sponge.
The use of chemical fertilizers and additives has been extremely harmful over the years. A vastly better option, Hestler explained to me, is to introduce sheep and cattle onto the land to provide organic fertilizer in the form of dung and urine.
Tree rips can be planted along the tops of the ridges. Wooded areas absorb significantly more rain than open pastureland, and they also slow the velocity of winds that would remove moisture from the land. Trees offer valuable shade for cattle and sheep. Water cisterns can be placed on the tops of ridges. The combination of shade and water at the tops of the ridges attracts the cattle and sheep, and as they spend time in these wooded areas, they leave behind a heavy dose of dung and urine. When subsequent rains arrive, this natural fertilizer seeps down the hillsides into the valleys and the entire farm benefits.
Paddock sizes can be reduced, and speed grazing introduced. When cattle have a large area to graze in, they tend to spread out and spend their time in the few small areas of good grass; the poorer patches are ignored and thus receive no fertilization. By shrinking the size of paddocks and allowing only a few days in each one, the cattle are forced to graze the entire area quickly and cleanly. Speed grazing mimics the days when sheep and cattle stayed in tight bunches for protection against natural predators and results in a regenerated landscape where everything flourishes.
One afternoon, I walked with Hestler into one of his best fields. The vegetation was thigh-high, bursting with life, and he simply stood there grinning, shaking his head in amazement. He could not resist pointing out to me the desolate condition of his neighbor’s field right on the other side of the fence. To say that the difference was dramatic would be a major understatement.
I spent the better part of an afternoon with Hestler as he moved a herd of cattle from one paddock to another, something he does every second or third day. Wide sections of pasture, called laneways, have been fenced off between the paddocks, and a system of gates allows him to efficiently move his herds from one paddock to another. It had rained the night before and, in places, the sticky black mud was eight inches deep. We spent much of the afternoon sliding sideways in the utility vehicle (ute), hanging on for dear life.
We found a herd of 500 cattle in a gully at the back of the property. With the ute leading, and a dirt bike and two dogs assisting from behind, the herd marched peacefully towards the next paddock. The cattle know Hestler’s voice and the sound of the ute engine, and they understand that a brand-new field of lush grass awaits them. They followed eagerly, down to the creek, then up toward a beautiful little mountain rise overlooking several large paddocks of fresh, strong grass. The cattle, mooing and bellowing with delight, went right to work.
Renewal of Australian farms has been slow, hindered primarily by two obstacles: tradition and government. Many of the old farmers are adamantly opposed to changing methods that they have used for generations. In addition, current Australian laws are geared to the flawed concept of moving rainwater off the land as quickly as possible instead of slowing it down, redirecting it, and capturing it.
The benefits of Hestler’s rejuvenation efforts were obvious and exciting to see. To my layman’s eye, it appeared that further improvement in the next years would turn exponential. His fields and the entire valley seemed ready to explode with new life, new vitality. He showed me numerous before-and-after photographs of his farm, and they were remarkable. Early photographs show a hot, dusty, dry farm with few trees, scant vegetation, and washed-out gullies everywhere. More recent photographs show a lush, green landscape, a farm that is healing quickly, flourishing.
In the soft soil between the leaky weirs and ponds, new willow trees are thriving, some of them eight inches in diameter and twenty feet tall. If you look closely, you can see that there is water sitting submerged beneath the grass and tall elephant reeds, barely moving, barely visible. Days after a solid rain, the water remains, continuing to nourish the land.
Protection against the threat of fires has improved dramatically due to Hestler’s regeneration efforts. In recent years, a huge fire swept across the area. But when it reached the perimeter of his land, the fire effectively died out due to the increased moisture held in the landscape and the lushness of the vegetation.
The natural wildlife biodiversity of Hestler’s farm has also made a remarkable comeback. Many species of animals, birds, and insects, absent for decades, have returned. Since wetlands and open water are once again available, many birds have taken up permanent residence there, nesting and raising their young. Green frogs chirp from the safety of water held by the contour banks and leaky weirs. Marsh hens explode out of the reeds, and ducks take flight from the surface of the water. I witnessed a great egret glide into the reeds; he is a gaudy white bird with a yellow beak and dangling legs that look several times too large for his body. Large hares, when flushed from their hiding places, scatter and scamper along narrow paths through the tall grass.
Ian Hestler and other creative farmers have demonstrated that the precious soil of the land down under can indeed be saved, rejuvenated, rehydrated, and healed. There is much reason to hope that Australian farms can regain their original beauty and become fruitful and productive once again.
Image Credit: Zalie Davison, “Water – Dreaming”
