Chapter 15: A Drying Habit

When my awareness crystallized I found a community flooded by misery and slipping further into poverty. Several new families had moved into the area- British immigrants like the rest of us. They had been allotted farms immediately upstream, or even on the hills behind those of the first arrivals.

From conversations overheard I came to appreciate that cutting down the forest that so inconsiderately encroached on their land was just the start of a long, drawn out spectacle. Stumps left behind stood out like pockmarks across the hills and had to be torn out by teams of horses, or blown up with dynamite to unplug them from the hard-packed earth. More than one person had lost fingers to detonators igniting while they were setting them up beneath the stumps.

Insufferable quantities of hefty rusty rocks had littered the hills. Teams of surly teens roamed the hillsides scouring the earth for rocks and wood to hurl onto the back of the cart. The bearing-sized nodules that covered the rocks punctured their hands, eliciting howls of pain that echoed down the gullies. Great windrows of scrap wood and vast mounds of orange rock were piled into the corners of the paddocks. The teens’ scowls cast shadows across the valley and their parents suggested they sleep amongst the young crops to encourage the storm clouds to form and the rains to fall.

Much of the land had been cleared of the old growth forest, leaving me isolated on the slope of a fast balding hill. But the task of clearing the land had been no guarantor of prosperity. The slopes into which the regimental Jarrah, Marri and Karri had once been moored were now littered with the green and rust of blankets of bracken. While once they had been kept at bay by the voracious thirst of the trees that sheltered them, now they were exposed to the sun and quickly spread to cover every attainable piece of land. The farmers had to apply a continuous regime of slashing and burning just to maintain small portions of land clear of its' virulent grasp, but the spores were kicked along by the stiff breezes funneling up the valley, and before too long any land that was not rigorously maintained was inundated by curled fronds poking their heads out of the damp earth and unfurling their bipennate fronds- green on top, rust coloured spores underneath- to bask in the warm sunlight.

On the evidence of the trees that originally blanketed the valley, the crops sown during those first years were high intensity, high yield crops like wheat and barley. However, against all their prophecies, the soil that had so successfully accommodated such vast and strong trees was in fact incredibly infertile. The slow turnover of leaf-litter and compost coupled with the high winter rainfall had, over the course of centuries, leeched the soil of most of its nutrients and minerals. The startling Karri tree had over the course of thousands of years evolved to cope with the particular conditions and soil found only in this isolated pocket of the world. While they grow so majestic and true here, it is only because of their perfect adaptation to the environment. It is an ecosystem rare and beautiful.

The summer heat caught them all unawares. They had experienced a few months of it when they first arrived, but didn’t realise exactly how unrelenting it could be. The incessant heat and scant respite caused grown and battle hardened men to weep openly. From November to April they skulked about their farms, avoiding the worst of the day by staying inside under the pretext of paperwork. Any hard yakka was saved for the early mornings or evenings to avoid the devil east wind that choreographed willie-willies across the stages of the hills and baked any remaining moisture out of the soil and transformed the paddocks into little more than orange ripples of bull-dust.

If they ran out of paperwork the men would leave their wives sweltering in front of the slow-combustion stoves, while they themselves mooched around the sheds sharpening axes and saws and tending to water tanks on the off chance they could get away with falling in. Inevitably, as evening approached the Fremantle Doctor crept its way up from the Indian Ocean, bringing sweet relief and cheering even the most furious matriarch toiling away in their box ovens. Under this zephyr Oscar Monroe and the irrepressible Felicity Craig conducted an illicit affair in the Karri grove, one that would climax with shotguns retrieved from under beds and aimed squarely at the boy’s melon, a wedding, and the first-born child of Karabup, all by the time the land had recommenced its drying habit.

The first summer crops of pumpkins and corn had suffered in the heat. With the start of the heat the rainwater tanks that had filled during the winter were drained at an alarming rate by the kitchens, laundries and gardens. The creek, which had flooded its narrow banks and drowned the flats over winter, reverted to its lazy trickle- a poor source of water for the wilting crops.

The executive decision was made to sacrifice first half, then another half of the crops to ensure that the harvest wouldn’t be a complete waste of time and effort. In the end only enough was produced to share amongst each other, with little left over to sell at the markets. With each trip into town they would spend beyond their profits on flour, sugar, salt, carrots, potatoes and beef to allow them to scrape through.

Crop after crop failed, and the Groupies were left with scarcely enough food to feed themselves, let alone their stock. Mr Enfield forfeited his loans and moved off the land, to be replaced by the next saps chancing their hand. Times were hard. Crops of wheat, barley and cotton all failed. They would sprout, but never take. The soil simply couldn’t support them. Some success was founded growing potatoes and onions, but while the cool wet winters and springs were almost perfect for these, the bone-dry summers and autumn turned everything brown, the hot easterlies scorching everything down to the roots. This dichotomy, so extreme when compared to home, was the hardest of all with which to cope.

While the heat was hard to cope with, it was the availability of water that was undoubtedly the single greatest problem they faced. In the late autumn there was rain enough to soak the ground and run off the slopes to goad the creek into running again, and in winter the creek flowed freely and spread its wings to waterlog the plain. The potato seedlings that had been bought with what little money they had been given by the government were cut adrift out in the giant puddles, leaving the community with little choice but to let them rot into the soil.

By the time October rolled around the rains stopped, the floodplain receded, and the mud divided up into fragile porcelain plates. By the end of November the creek was nothing more than a disconnected series of stagnant, brackish pools, drying to sand that would bluster about in the wind that blew through the seasonal canyon. The season would break towards the end of April, but the creek would not start flowing again until the rains started to fall with any form of regularity. So between December and May the community had to survive on what water they could reserve in their tanks. This meant no water for commercial crops, bath water saved and recycled onto the household vegetables, and water hauled in from the reservoir near town to keep the stock from perishing.

To combat this, the community started digging broad holes in the silt of the floodplain. They piled the dust, then clay up on the edges of the holes like the arms and back of a sofa. The stubborn sun baked the clay into bone.

True to plan the holes collected the water that ran over the banks of the river and the community set about preparing and planting their crops for the spring and summer. But even though they now had a more bountiful source of water, by January the dams had all but dried up and they were left to pick up the pieces of another broken crop.

The families stood around scratching their heads once more until the Kelly brothers suggested they bring in outside help to drill down to the water table and affix diesel-powered pumps to the bores to propel the artesian water up to the concrete tanks that would be built on top of the ridges. That way the water could be gravity fed back down the hill to irrigate the crops and fill the troughs for the stock. And so it was that the summer project was devised and set in motion.

A couple of water diviners located the likely intersections of underground streams and drilling equipment was brought in at considerable expense to all involved. While the drilling crew set about their task, the groupies began building the concrete tanks and digging trenches and laying pipes to connect everything together. After a couple of weeks the drilling crew had packed up and left having sunk a bore on each property, each with its own diesel pump. Most of the piping had been laid, but the tanks were still some way from completion. In fact it took a couple of solid months before all the tanks were properly set and corrugated iron roofs were placed over the top to prevent it all from spiriting away.

The first rumbling of stale air out the end of the pipe into the Monroe’s tank was greeted with a holding of their collective breath as they all stood craning forward waiting for the water to flow. Hearts thumped harder as the rumbling grew louder. It echoed around the concrete cavern like a stone in a pot, until a spray of mist, then a trickle, then a choking burst. As water slapped the bottom of the tank for the first time a cheer rose from among the assembled throng. The pipe continued to spew forth the minerally water like the pulse from some far off underground heart.

The bores were a revelation to the farms. For the first time the Groupies had a reliable source of water all year round. But as the scale of the farming and cropping increased, so too did the demand for the water, and it soon became apparent that the artesian water level was receding and it was probably unsustainable to continue pumping water at the current rate.

            And so it was that my Dad proposed the idea of building a levee and flooding the plain. Like all issues that affected the entire community the issue was taken to a group meeting. There, all the arguments both for and against filtered up the hill towards me on the evening breeze. It was early April and the winter rains had started with a fine mist. It was hardly a break in the season, but it was enough to see the first hints of green breaking through the dust. It had been a particularly harsh summer, following on from a somewhat weak winter. So the topic of water was fresh in everybody’s mind, and the will to do something proactive was strong.

It was eventually decided that there would be no harm in getting a surveyor in to see how much land would be lost, how much water could be stored, and even if there would be enough water flowing down the creek in winter to ensure there would still be water left by the end of summer. A week later the surveyor came from town with his theodolite, sticks and plumb-bobs. His assistant carried a long black and white ruler across the land, pausing at times and carefully moving his stick an inch this way, an inch that, gesticulating all the while in some secret language to his boss bent over the tripod further down the valley. The two of them traipsed across the land, up the banks of the hills and into the creekbed. Sheep and cows clustered around them at a safe distance, curiously watching these two strange men and their even stranger implements, until they got bored and wandered off to sit under trees and chew their cud.

The surveyors consulted with the farmers over afternoon tea. They couldn’t see any reason why a dam couldn’t be built. Yes they would lose land, but in return they would gain a ready store of fresh water for irrigation. They discovered that under the sand of the plain was a layer of clay that should prevent the water from draining away. The recommendation they put forward was for a dam wall up to 6 feet high to be built on the creek about mid-way along the selection of the most downstream selections- the Craig’s and the Spring’s. An overflow channel was suggested for the Craig’s side of the wall and a trapdoor at the base of the wall in case the dam ever needed to be drained and dredged, or flash flooding ever threatened the integrity of the wall.

After much debate, the community unanimously agreed to the plan and the damming of the creek began in earnest. A concrete slab was laid along the line of the levee around a scaffold of steel rods. A plate of iron was inserted in front of a hole in the concrete wall, and a pulley mechanism constructed with which to winch the trapdoor up and down as needed.

While the concrete for the wall was being poured the trapdoor remained open to feed the lower reaches of the creek, then once the levee had been reinforced by clay dredged from the base of the brook the trapdoor was lowered and water began to pool behind. The flow of water gradually diminished with the passing of winter, then ceased by the end of spring, but there had already been enough water collected in the preceding months to allow the farmers to irrigate their crops, and come the end of summer shallow pools of water still persisted against the harsh sun. When the season finally broke in April and winter tightened its grip on the land the levee kept filling until, in the middle of September, the first tickle of water spilled across the overflow. The community gathered, bonfires were lit, beer flowed steadily and together they danced and sang the night away safe in the knowledge that summer would produce bountiful crops of maize, hops and Lucerne.

Except it didn’t. While the water lapped eagerly at its wall throughout the summer, the paddocks and crops were stripped clean by a cloud of locusts that feasted for 3 days before continuing their trail of destruction towards the west. Barely a patch of green remained on the ground, and once more the valley was coated in a layer of dust. What remained of the crops were tended to half-heartedly and harvested for chicken feed a few weeks later. The optimism that had electrified the community just weeks before was nothing more than a bittersweet memory.

During the first few years of the Group Settlement of Karabup, the mothers had to find time in their hectic schedules to teach their kids reading, ‘riting and ‘rithmatic. While their kids were getting the hang of the basics, there was only so much free time in which to sit down and actually explain things, and only so much they themselves could actually teach them. It wasn’t long before the mothers began to get impatient with this arrangement, and started petitioning the government to at least provide them with a teacher, if not a school building as well.

The government responded in a manner predictable of a government- with all these communities springing up throughout the South-West, and only so many teachers being certified every year, there were simply not enough teachers to go around. The government would palm the issue off to a committee to discuss what to do, with the committee set to inform the government of its decision in 6 months time.

Discontent simmered. They felt betrayed by the government once more. Not only had they been supplied with only the bare essentials for life upon their arrival, but now they felt abandoned by the people that put them in this situation in the first place. They felt as though they were second-class citizens and that their children were now being neglected by the state. As much as they petitioned, the government just kept replying that they had chosen to be in this situation, and would just have to accept the consequences of their decisions. The community was furious, but with the government holding all the cards, they had no option but to continue trying to do the best by their children as they could.

But those in Karabup weren’t the only ones dissatisfied with the lack of opportunities given them by the government. By now there were nearly a dozen similar group settlements dotted throughout the forests in that region alone, and each was trying to get the basic services delivered to them. Until then each group had felt very protective about their own community, as if it was them against the world. But now, in the face of being abandoned by the very scheme for which they had given up their lives back in England, it was decided that the best way through this mess was to band together for the greater good.

A district meeting was organised and representatives from each group settlement arrived in Manjimup one Saturday morning. In all, about 60 parents, some with children in tow, a couple of shire councillors, a representative of the Midland Railway Company, and the local Member of Parliament were congregated in the town hall waiting for proceedings to start. Mr Monroe rose from his seat and got things underway, inviting representatives from each community the opportunity to speak before the local politicians took the stage and questions were opened up to the floor.

A rare and beautiful thing happened– there was unanimous support for the proposal- and everybody wondered why they went through all the trouble of organising the meeting, the speakers and the representatives when the result turned out to be so decisive. In fact things went even beyond their hopes. Not only was it agreed that a school covering grade 1 through to 10 should be set up in Karabup to service the surrounding communities, but that there should be a second school set up in a settlement 5 miles away. There was even the proposal of scholarships for eager students to board in town and complete their education there. The local government representative was in full support, and agreed to table these proposals at the sitting of government the next week.

Guilt over their handling of the Group Settlement Scheme must have gotten to the government, as plans for the construction of three schools and the provision of electricity to each settlement was approved, and construction began post haste. By the end of the year Karabup had a school, a teacher, electricity, and even a railway siding from town to a bush block just to the west. Paradise was now opened up to the outside world.

A merchant from town saw an entrepreneurial opportunity and opened a store next to the school and hall. Now the 9 families that presently made up the settlement of Karabup need only travel a few minutes on horse to gather food and supplies, rather than take a day to fill orders in town. Sure there were still some things that a small store couldn’t afford to stock that required a trip into town, but now the staples could be easily sourced from close to home.