“What’s the chance of finding one?” I ask as we bat through the Acacia forest surrounding the swamp.
“Not high. We’ve been checking the tubes every six months since the fire and so far, it’s only Antechinus scat – but that’s still good – means some things are recovering,” the ecologist explains to our little group of would-be-naturalists. “The Eastern Pygmy Possum needs flowering shrubs, and they don’t stay put. They tend to find a good feed and a cosy spot for the night then move on. We’ve finally got a nice chest-height layer of Banksia flowers this year, so I’m hopeful.”
He turns uphill leading us through a net of fallen tree limbs and charcoal trunks. Orange fingers of coral fungi poke from beneath grey ribbons at the feet of moribund Eucalypts, and I lift the bark aside to take a photo. The forest floor is alive with feasting fungi, eager to devour and aid nature’s recovery: red boletes, purple pixies and the curling softness of golden chanterelle.
Skinny wattles have sprung up to fill the vacuum, poking skyward like teenage boys stretching for a hoop. Their trunks are bent and broken and new bark peels away from the soft leafy protuberances.
“It’s over here,” a fellow possum seeker calls, and we weave our way back to the burnt torso of a gum. Ziplocked to its side is a cami-painted downpipe, sealed at either end, marked BB01.
We lean as one to watch the ecologist unscrew the lid.
“Scats. Antechinus and maybe a bush rat too.” He sifts through a selection of brown pellets so we can see the difference, then sniffs at them. “The Antechinus is fresher, that’s good.”
“How do you know?” I ask. My knowledge of rodent poo clearly needs an uplift.
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s my job now – a marsupial and rodent poo expert. The fire wiped out everything, so scats are the only way we know they’re here.” He patiently explains what they are looking for, then checks the GPS and points toward the next tubes. We fan out into the forest, then regather as each tube is found. My heart flutters with each twist of a tube top, then sinks into the void of the empty tubes. Not even a scat.
“OK, last one and we’ll stop for a cuppa.” He points back toward the swamp, and we trudge downhill on a fire trail, slipping and sliding through a sludge of yellow clay deepened by trail bike tyres.
“It’s here by the swamp edge,” someone calls from far ahead, and we quicken our pace.
“We got one!” the ecologist exclaims, as he stands with a grin that splits his whiskery beard in two.
My timid steps are forgotten, and I skid on the clay, arms flailing as my rear end lands with a thud. “You OK?” someone yells over their shoulder as they rush past, then vanish behind a Gahnia on the swamp’s edge. I shift my weight to my knees, hoping gravity will play nicer with four limbs, and attempt to stand. Damn, am I going to miss it?
I can hear their excited shrieks as one by one they peek inside.
“Oh my God, it’s so beautiful! You have to see this! It’s so tiny!”
“Is it still there?” I ask as I limp towards the group huddled tight around the tube.
“Don’t worry. It’s torpor – total shutdown. It usually takes five minutes for them to come around,” the ecologist says. “It hasn’t moved a dot. Have a look.” He waves me closer.
The tube is stuffed with a cardboard toilet roll wrapped tightly in the soft white fluffiness of a cushion liner and Banksia foliage. At the base, a possum is curled on its side. A tiny black ear is turned upwards, oblivious to the noise overhead. “Is it definitely a Pygmy Possum?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. You can tell by the jaw, bit odd looking so it can get its snout right into the nectar. You can have a look when we get it out.” The ecologist gently shakes the little possum into a calico bag and suspends it from a scale. It weighs 14 grams – about as much as a tablespoon of cooked rice! The bag begins to wiggle, and he reaches inside with gloved hands, takes a firm hold of his tail and peels back the calico.
Huge black eyes blink and it opens its mouth to reveal sharp little teeth that sink into his gloved hand. “A good sign,” he says, as he grimaces. “Check out how fat the tail is – it’s where they store their fat for the coming winter.” I marvel as our little friend stretches flat against the glove. Pointed talons protruding from four sets of fat tiny pink digits hook themselves into the gloves.
He lifts its tail to check if it’s Mr or Miss and is delighted to find it’s she, then feels her soft white belly hoping for a full pouch. “No babies, but a healthy, average-sized female,” he declares, then holds his gloved hand still – perhaps to alleviate her fear or the hold of those spiky teeth.
Her little ears press flat against the soft fawn of her thick fur as she blinks. I wonder what she is thinking, as she is measured and weighed, her tail assessed for fatness, length and colour. Perhaps she is hoping too.
Hoping that we will all go away and leave her and her forest intact. Or just that the forest and its bounty of nectar will be here when she passes by again – a safe place to sleep and a full belly.
I hope so too.
Photo: Tracie McMahon.
