What is this thing? – please help me solve a 50-year-old mystery

I am reaching out to the internet for help in solving a 50-year-old mystery: what on earth is this object?

It looks like a petrified apple. It weighs 76 grams, is about 5cm in diameter, and appears to be made of stone. It is dark brown, hard, partly hollow and it sinks like a brick in water.

I am 99% certain it is a natural object – not manufactured.

If my memory can be trusted (and I am not sure that it can be), I found the petrified apple when I was about 12 or 13, under an apple tree in the back yard of a house in suburban Adelaide, South Australia.

That memory is extremely vague, and it may be completely wrong. It may just be that I have retrospectively associated the object with the apple tree in that yard. I can’t be sure.

However I came by the object, I know that I have owned it since I was a child. And I have never worked out what it is.

To complicate matters, somewhere along the way I acquired a second, similar ‘petrified apple’. The second apple is much like the first, except that it has been cut by some unknown person, then patched with some kind of filler to make a paperweight.

Again, my memory is vague, but I think I bought the second apple in an antique shop in the South Australian Riverland about 35 years ago. Presumably I bought it because I had a similar one at home.

I think I bought the apple on the left in about 1990. The one on
the right I have had since the early 1970s.

This is not the first time I have tried to identify the object. I have posted pictures of it on various fossil-related Facebook Groups. Some people have been intrigued, some have made suggestions, some have even mocked or abused me. But so far no-one has offered a convincing explanation.

What I have found on Google:

I have also carried out quite a few Google searches, taking me down many rabbit holes. The results have done more to confuse than to enlighten.

It seems other people, in other countries, have found similar objects, and have also reached out to the internet for help. None of them have landed on an explanation I regard as persuasive.

Below are links to my Google findings:

Blackburn Museum Blog, 9 March 2012 – A UK regional museum posted an image of a very similar looking object, which it says was identified in the 19th century as a ‘petrified apple’. The museum asked if anyone disagreed with that identification. “Ian” from Australia responded, saying it was indeed a petrified apple, and that he had inherited two of them from his late grandfather who was given them in World War 2 whilst serving in Darwin, Australia.

Archaeobotany archive, 5 March 2015 – Professor Marijke Van Der Veen from the University of Leicester posted several images and a description of a very similar looking object, seeking help from the archaeobotany community to identify it. There were several replies to the post, which can be found by scrolling down here, but (to my mind) no convincing answers.

The Fossil Forum, 1 May 2015 – A post by someone identified as ‘tunie’ from Southern California, sought help to identify a similar (but more brightly coloured) object which they also had for “about 50 years”.

The Naked Scientists, 26 August 2016 – A post by someone identified as ‘JohnNZ’ on a forum called ‘The Naked Scientists’, sought help to identify an object which appears very similar to mine (albeit about twice as heavy).

Wharfedale Observer, 4 May 2017 – A local newspaper report announced that a “petrified apple” found in the ruins of Pompeii was on sale at an antiques fare in Harewood, West Yorkshire, UK. Regardless of what you think about its supposed Pompeii provenance (pardon my scepticism), the pictured object appears very similar to mine.

Pinterest, 2020 – A post on Pinterest depicted a “petrified apple with a wormhole”, which it claimed was discovered at the bottom of a coal mine in Pennsylvania in 1747. I don’t know how Pinterest works, nor what to make of this post.

Source Vintage Antiques, 13 June 2025 – A UK antique seller posted images and a description of a similar object on various social media outlets (Facebook, YouTube, eBay etc), apparently for sale.

Worthpoint antique website, undated – A “fossil petrified apple” was listed for sale.

What my ‘petrified apple’ is not:

Helpful people on Facebook and elsewhere have made suggestions as to what the ‘petrified apple’ might be. I have looked into them, and none of them fit.

Here is a list of some things I am sure my ‘petrified apple’ is not:

• Oak gall
• Conker / horse chestnut
• Wood apple
• Bradford pear
• Camelia fruit
• Japonica fruit
• Artificial (glass / ceramic / stone facsimile).

What I am hoping to achieve by this blog

Quite a few of the links above are related to attempts to sell ‘petrified apple’ objects. That is not my interest – I just want to know what the objects are.

It would be really nice if someone happened to read this blog and got back to me with an explanation. However, I am not really expecting that (sadly my little blog does not reach very many people).

More realistically, I hope that next time someone googles ‘petrified apple’ or ‘Pompeii apple’ or some such thing, this blog will come up. At the very least I might save that someone a bit of searching time, and perhaps they will have more luck than me in solving the mystery. If so, please let me know.

If you want to contact me about this, you can do so via applepetrified@gmail.com

Front and back of my two ‘petrified apples’. Note that the one the left (which I bought in about 1990) has been cut and filled with some kind of clay or paste, and it has a hole (possibly drilled) in the back. My original is on the right. I know they look wooden in the photographs, but they are not – they are stone.
My apologies for the poor quality of these photos – my iPhone camera has lost one its little lens covers, and I can’t get it to focus properly.

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Five years on: my COVID project stands the test of time

Today marks five years since the first national COVID lockdown in Australia – five years since (like so many others) my wife Chris and I watched our small business seemingly evaporate overnight.

It was a bleak, scary time for us. Chris, ever the practical one, responded by going out and getting a second job. Me, ever the romantic one, responded by building a new vegetable garden.

In retrospect, Chris getting a second job did far more to rescue our finances than my growing vegetables could ever have done.

In my defence, however, we still have what we now call the “Quail House” – a 14-metre-long enclosure encompassing espaliered fruit trees and raised vegetable beds, all protected from birds, rabbits and possums by a roof of wire netting.

I was excessively proud at the time that I built it all myself, and also that the whole thing cost less than $1,000.

Five years later I remain excessively proud that the Quail House is still standing, still producing large volumes of fruit and vegetables and – here is my favourite bit – still being effortlessly weeded by a tiny herd of guinea pigs and a bevy of uncomplaining quail.

How I built the Quail House

For anyone who wants to play along at home, below is a step by step guide to how I built the structure pictured above.

I paid $200 to buy a wrecked greenhouse frame from a local guy on Facebook marketplace, and $100 to get it delivered.
I pegged out an area 14 metres long and 3.5 metres wide. My first task was to flatten the site, To save money, I did this with a shovel and crowbar, which took a couple of weeks.
I re-used as many uprights as I could from the wrecked greenhouse – hammering them into the ground with a dropper-knocker. I was short two uprights, so I had to buy a small amount of steel pipe to make two new ones (about $50).
I spaced the uprights 1.5 metres apart, so I could re-use the 1.5-metre spacer pipes I salvaged from the wrecked greenhouse.
I paid $408 for 2 x 50-metre rolls of 12mm wire netting (including delivery). To lift it over the frame, I attached one end of the netting to a steel bar, and dragged it over with ropes. It was easier than I expected.
I ran a wire below ground level at the base of the uprights to crimp the netting to. I also added some extra steel spacers to hold the sections apart (cost about another $150), and I put diagonal braces on the end uprights (I used old bits of pipe I had lying around for this).
The ramshackle shed on the right is our Guinea Pig House (which houses the family guinea pigs).
I was pretty pleased with the way I did the back wall of the structure, tying off the wires using an old ring-shaped thing I found in the shed, and a piece of green-painted steel pipe I had lying around in the yard.
The entrance door took a bit of thinking. I used the steel struts of an old Hills Hoist, held together with some joiners salvaged from somewhere, and a bottom hinge I bought at Bunnings (see next pic).
A few details – taps, door frame and door hinge. I re-used some old taps I had in the shed, and bought some more from Bunnings. The pipes and risers etc. were all stuff I had lying around (I am one of those people who hoards odd bits of steel in the shed – the Hills Hoist I took down about 20 years ago, while some of the risers and joiners are even older).
I finished the basic structure by late May. Total cost to this stage was around $950.
I dug a trench to the guinea pig house and buried some 200mm PVC sewerage pipe (from Bunnings) to create a tunnel for the guinea pigs. They started using it almost immediately.
I made the raised beds out of old corrugated iron, held together by tech screws and some 25mm square steel frame. I laid some waste cardboard on the bottom, and filled them with autumn leaves, leaf litter and bark etc. from our garden.
I kept filling the beds up with any organic matter I could find – bark, sticks, branches, leaves, then topped them with soil I dug from our driveway drain. I also shovelled in lots of manure from our chooks, and added some worms. It took a couple of years to properly settle down and become soil.
I made three raised beds, and strung some wires along each side for espaliered fruit trees. Within a couple of years I was harvesting large amounts of many kinds of veges, and increasing volumes of fruit in season.
In combination, the guinea pigs and quail are great ground-level weeders. In five years, I have never had to weed outside the raised beds, and neither quails nor guinea pigs can get up into the beds to raid the veges.
Over the past five years the fruit trees have grown, and I have kept adding new things – such as the removable wire frame on top of the tomato stakes (image on right), which makes staking the tomatoes easy.

With the benefit of hindsight, it might sound as if I knew what I was doing the whole time. It might sound as if I planned each step meticulously, that I had all the skills, tools and foresight I needed, and that I was confident it would be successful. None of the above is true.

At every stage of the project I doubted my capacity to get it done. I was an overweight man pushing 60, who had spent most of my life in front of a computer, with a rudimentary understanding of the tools and materials I was using. In short: if I did this, anyone can – given time and motivation.

At time of writing, the tomatoes are just finishing. Many, many kilograms of tomatoes – what we didn’t cook or eat fresh, we gave away, or preserved by drying and freezing. We also picked many, many kilograms of plums, figs, apples and other fruit – including cherries at Christmas.

Text (and most of the photos) by David Mussared

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Happy Birthday to us – NRMjobs turns 25

This weekend my wife Chris Duigan and I are celebrating our silver anniversary.

Not our wedding anniversary, but something almost as significant. On Sunday, it will be 25 years to the day since we launched NRMjobs – our family business, and also our window to a fascinating world of great-hearted people doing astonishing things in breath-taking locations around Australia.

For those who don’t know it, NRMjobs is a niche job board, which advertises vacancies in the environment, water and natural resource management in Australia.

Of course, we didn’t know when we started it in 1998 that NRMjobs was going to be a job board. Job boards hadn’t been invented yet. We made it up as we went along. There were no examples for us to follow.

I could launch here into a self-indulgent tale about the early days (you know – life was tough, we worked hard, and young people today don’t understand, do they…), but I would prefer to talk instead about that window to the world which our business has gifted to us.

Because it occurs to me (somewhat to my own surprise) that I must now be something of an expert. For 25 years I have watched Australia’s environment industry waxing and waning, and I have dabbled daily in the detail of environmental job descriptions and employment conditions.

Chris in the early days – when we ran NRMjobs with floppy disks, dial-up internet and small children.

My role in the NRMjobs business from the beginning has been receiving, editing and publishing the job advertisements. My wife’s role has been looking after the financial side of things (often while also working in other jobs).

I estimate that since 1998 we have read, edited and published something like 50,000 job advertisements on behalf of perhaps 5,000 different employers, and that we have pushed the button exactly 1,300 times to send a weekly email bulletin listing job opportunities to an ever-growing list of email subscribers.

What has 25 years taught me about the environment industry?

So what has all this taught me about the industry I serve? What is the current state of employment in the environment, water and NRM industry in Australia? What trends have I observed?

The short answer: the state of environmental employment in Australia has never been stronger. We’ve been through some bumps and curves, but in 2023 more people are employed in the industry, working for a more diverse range of employers, than at any time in the past 25 years.

There are several reasons for this.

Once has been convergence. In 1998 the silos were still breaking down. Water management, land management and biodiversity management were traditionally the realm of different government agencies, different professions and different private businesses. Each jurisdiction did things differently, and skills were often neither portable nor recognised. TAFE and university courses had yet to be designed to cover many aspects of the industry.

A second reason has been divergence. The number of employers involved in managing the natural world has grown markedly, and the number of organisations which recognise the environment as a crucial element of their business has exploded. Local government has shouldered a large burden of new natural resource management responsibilities, indigenous land management organisations have emerged as very significant employers of environmental professionals, private businesses have found new opportunities servicing the growing sector and philanthropic organisations have proliferated as conservation landholders and employers.

A third reason has been awareness. The fruits of environmental education in primary and secondary schools, though slow to ripen, are now increasingly evident, and are reflected in the concerns of taxpayers, rate-payers and voters. Community environmental volunteer groups of all kinds have helped environmental knowledge percolate throughout society at all levels. In 1998 the environment sector was no shrinking violet, but it was not ‘mainstream’ the way it is now. In the 1990s, environmental concerns were mostly relegated to the portfolios of junior ministers, and only occasionally spilled into headline political issues. Whenever I despair at the environmental ignorance of modern Australia, I remind myself what it was like when I first became involved in the landcare movement in 1989.

A fourth reason has been professionalisation. In the early 1990s I was contracted by the National Landcare Program to edit a newsletter (called ‘Decade of Landcare Update’) designed to service Australia’s new profession of ‘landcare co-ordinators’. Among other things, I interviewed landcare co-ordinators about what had brought them to this trade, and what their previous career trajectories had been.

I was struck at the time by the diversity of professional backgrounds – farmers’ spouses, former agricultural extension officers, environmental advocates, teachers, scientists, tradies, journalists, rangers, volunteer firefighters – any milieu which brought motivated people in contact with the nascent landcare movement spawned the first generation of landcare professionals. They learnt on the job, and their jobs evolved with them. In those days there were no ‘natural resource management’ courses at university. Even ‘environmental management’ was still an emerging field. Fast forward 30 years and almost every aspect of the environmental sector has a university course tailored to it, and a wealth of experience to inform it.

Me at my desk in about 1999: a hand-knitted jumper (thanks to my late Mum), and a steep learning curve.

In 2023 it is possible to look forward to – and even perhaps to plan – a career in the environmental sector which will earn you a reasonable wage, a pathway to promotion and advancement, and considerable portability of skills to new employers and locations. None of this was possible when NRMjobs started.

These are all huge positives for environmental professionals. Now is arguably the best time in Australian history to be an environmental professional.

But there is still such a long, long way to go.

In almost every jurisdiction or discipline, the hands-on practice of environmental conservation feels woefully inadequate against the tide of environmental degradation. Australia’s national parks are pitifully understaffed. Bush regeneration is fighting a losing battle against development, weeds and the climate. Biodiversity conservation is going backward almost everywhere. Small numbers of iconic species are being rescued heroically in enclosures, while the numbers of even common native species are dwindling alarmingly. Climate change is accelerating. Coral reefs are struggling. River health is in crisis. The list goes on.

All of us who work in the industry know that it is going to take at least an order of magnitude more funding, effort and staff to turn the Australian environment around. In coming years, we are going to need the sort of money and policy determination which are now directed to defence or health to reverse the threatening processes which are currently overwhelming us.

All of which means that NRMjobs’ silver anniversary leaves me with a bitter-sweet taste – unsure as I raise my glass whether I am drinking to the sector’s success, or drowning my sorrows at its failure.

Thanks for all the fish…

Thanks to all those who have helped with NRMjobs – especially Shane Gelven, who has worked with us in various capacities for more than 20 years. But also Tully, Alice, Joe and too many others to list.

And a huge shout out to all our advertisers and subscribers. Thanks for your support, patience and good humour. Truly you are an inspirational bunch.

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Claiming copyright revenue for nature

In 2006 I wrote a very cheeky letter to Vivendi Games, publisher of the mega-successful Crash Bandicoot video game franchise, asking for financial help for our community’s small bandicoot conservation project in the Adelaide Hills.

To quote my letter:

“For some years now my children have been playing the various ‘Crash Bandicoot’ games, and I have been struck by the irony that this small, beautiful marsupial has become a much-loved international icon in the electronic world while at the same time it is disappearing in the wild.”

“…I am wondering if there might be some scope for your organisation to recognise the plight of this animal, and perhaps to assist financially with its recovery.”

Unsurprisingly, I received no reply. But it did get me thinking.

bandicoot-

So many animated film characters, sports teams, advertising images, games avatars – so much of our 21st century iconography – consist of images of the world’s dwindling stock of wild animals, many of which are endangered, and all of which are under pressure.

It is easy to see what the film makers and so forth get out of the deal – ready made, recognisable character blanks that are already imbued by the public with attributes and emotional triggers. It is much harder to see what the animals get out of it.

Remember the singing, dancing lemurs in the 2005 film Madagascar? The film cost $75 million to make, and grossed $542 million (according to the IMDb website), which was a lot of money at the time, and it spawned several sequels.

Actually $542 million sounds like quite a bit of money even in 2023.

I apologise to DreamWorks and Pacific Data Images if I have missed something, but I don’t believe the lemurs, lions, giraffes, penguins or multiple other animals which featured in the movie received any cut of the takings.

I have given up trying to figure out how much Crash Bandicoot has grossed – certainly much more than $1 billion – and I have no idea what the production budgets have been for its various incarnations.

However, my point is that a video game featuring a critically endangered Australian marsupial has brought in eight-figure takings for its owners, but the bandicoots are no better off as a result.

It’s not just international corporations.

I am a rugby union follower, so I support the Wallabies and Wallaroos – but none of the gate takings or other revenue from that sport ever finds its way to helping fund the plight of endangered macropod species in the wild.

So what I have I actually done about all this? Not very much. In 2014 I started a Facebook page called ‘Copyrights for Wild Things’ (currently 38 likes), with the thought that this might be a good project for my retirement. It’s still on my ‘to do one day’ (maybe) list.

That’s about it from my end. You can hardly get more ineffectual than that.

‘Species royalty’ could revolutionise conservation funding

But as it turns out, I am not the only who has had the same idea, nor even the first one. Others far more effectual than I am are on the case.

A paper in Animals by the Wildlife Conservation Research Unit at the UK’s University of Oxford in 2017 proposed a “species royalty” for the use of animal symbols, which it said could revolutionise conservation funding.

The paper by Caroline Good, Dawn Burnham and David W Macdonald – titled A Cultural Conscience for Conservation – was inspired by the much-publicised killing of Cecil the lion by a US trophy hunter in Zimbabwe in 2015.

“What the fallout of this moment has shown, is that if the powerful sentiment felt by millions of citizens worldwide is grasped, it could fund a movement to repay the historic cultural debt to animals,” the paper says.

“To do this, it is necessary to take stock of the proliferation of animal symbols, prints, and logos that adorn clothes, food, branding, and buildings. For centuries, they have brought human civilisations feelings of luck and protection, helping shape personal, professional, and national identities. It is now our turn to protect them and their habitat.”

The authors say that applying a ‘cultural conscience’ to the use of wild animal imagery could generate fees for wildlife conservation, in the same way that the use of images, models or designs generates fees for their human owners.

“What if each time the symbol of an endangered animal was used the species, or the effort to conserve it, was paid a royalty? This principle, applied to threatened, charismatic animals, could revolutionise funding for conservation; and just such a revolution is needed to reverse the current tumble to extinction.”

The paper lists three examples of where such species royalties might apply – food labelling, sports mascots and fashion.

It also details the cautionary tale of the armadillo logo used for the Brazilian soccer World Cup in 2014, where conservation scientists called on FIFA and the Brazilian government to protect 1,000 hectares of three-banded armadillo habitat for each goal scored in the tournament.

“The armoured mammal rapidly became the most successful FIFA World Cup mascot of all time, generating millions of dollars in revenue through merchandising. But after the excitement that centred around the mascot dissipated, FIFA did not support the proposed environmental initiatives. It would only have cost a fraction of the event’s revenue to support the initiative. It would also have looked good for FIFA.”

FIFA’s mis-use of the armadillo mascot, and its failure to live up to its environmental promises for the Brazilian World Cup, were lambasted by environmental groups at the time.

‘Save your logo’ – 2008 IUCN campaign

The University of Oxford paper also refers a notable earlier attempt to monetise the private sector’s use of wildlife imagery for conservation: the IUCN’s 2008 ‘Save Your Logo’ campaign.

Save Your Logo was a French-based collaboration between the World Bank, the IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature) and the GEF (Global Environmental Facility). It was launched with much fanfare, and its first major success story was Lacoste’s crocodile logo.

Sadly, reading between the lines, it looks as if the Lacoste crocodile might have been the Save Your Logo campaign’s only success story.

Again, I apologise if I have got this wrong, but it appears that Save Your Logo’s ambitions narrowed to being a purely Lacoste thing, which Lacoste later morphed into a very worthy ‘Save Our Species’ marketing campaign, raising money for 10 endangered species.

Programs launched with great fanfare don’t usually announce their demise when they fizzle a few years later, so I haven’t been able to find out when the Save Your Logo initiative officially wound up. It is notable, however, that all sources refer to it in the past tense.

Doubtless there have been other incidences of businesses paying something to help conserve the species emblazoned on their products, but wouldn’t it be nice if they all did it?

I doubt there is any legal way to impose or enforce such a regime, but the court of public opinion can sometimes be a powerful arbiter, so perhaps corporations can be cajoled, brow-beaten or shamed into coughing up something for conservation of the species whose totemic value they exploit?

*****

Text (and photo) by David Mussared

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Could a robot do bush care?

Could a robot ever replace a human bush carer?

It is a question which has nagged at me for more than 25 years – since I first started doing volunteer bush care work – and, according to the experts, the answer now appears to be a cautious ‘yes’.

For those who don’t know what a bush carer does, the work mostly consists of restoring native vegetation by removing invasive weeds.

Mostly such weeding is done manually – hand pulling, or grubbing out with various tools, or dosing the leaves or stems of weeds with herbicide. The aim is always to avoid ‘off target’ damage to native plants, and to minimise disturbance to the bush.

More often than not, bush carers work under a tree canopy in dense vegetation, and frequently on challenging terrain (slopes, rocks, gullies). And typically bush carers need to return to the same sites numerous times over many years, until the weed seedbed is spent.

All that adds up to a lot of labour-intensive work.

And how big a problem are invasive bushland weeds? How many thousands of hectares – indeed, how many thousands of square kilometres – are in desperate need of weeding? No-one really knows, except that it is a huge problem.

According to Australia’s Invasive Species Council (ISC), almost half of NSW’s threatened species, and most of its endangered ecological communities, are threatened by weed invasion.

“Weeds can be as destructive as land clearing – displacing and threatening native species and transforming ecosystems,” the ISC says on its website.

Australia has a lot of bush care volunteers. Tens of thousands, probably. And we have a similarly large paid bush regeneration workforce. As one of the volunteers, who has worked with many of the professionals, I am in awe of what this combined professional and volunteer workforce can achieve.

But I am also worried about the future. The scale of the problem is so huge, and so long-term, and the capacity of both volunteers and professionals is so stretched, that it seems unimaginable such a concerted effort can be maintained over generations to come. Which it will need to be, especially as climate change does its deadly mischief to our ecosystems.

My fantasy solution is this: a cheap, renewably-powered robot that could patrol an uneven bushland site, identify invasive weeds and inject them with herbicide – all without damaging the surrounding vegetation.

If you talk to the experts, it turns out this fantasy may not be so far away.

‘It’s definitely coming’, say the experts

Andrew Davies is the CEO of Taz Drone Solutions, which – among other things – employs drones to spot spray weeds in difficult locations, most notably on cliffs and dam walls under contract to Hydro Tasmania. Davies keeps a close eye on the new technologies now emerging around the world.

“There’s so much emerging,” he says. “It’s definitely coming, the question is, is it going to be in time. But I definitely think it’s possible.”

Eureka Prize winner Professor Salah Sukkarieh, from the University of Sydney, is one of Australia’s leading developers of robots for agriculture – including SwagBot, which can navigate open pasture, identifying and treating weeds such as serrated tussock and African box thorn.

Professor Sukkarieh says developing a bushcare robot is “very plausible”, although it would require a funded research program to overcome the challenges presented by the terrain.

“There are terrains and there are terrains,” he says. “It comes down to the complexity – and you can always design the robotic platform to deal with any type of terrain, but then the cost and maintenance increases.”

Professor Sukkarieh says the existing SwagBot platform can already deal with 15-degree slopes and ditches 50-100 centimetres deep, and that a more important research problem for a bush care robot would be its ‘perception’ system – the sensors and algorithms it would need to understand the terrain.

“Can it see the ditches, and avoid the logs? Can it navigate around trees. What if the ditch is covered with pasture? What if there are a collection of trees and logs that make it untraversable – will it know this before it sets out?”

“The perception problem is always the work that is being focussed on in R&D and that changes with changing terrain types. And you don’t want to spend a lot of money on complex sensors.”

A bush care robot could not rely on GPS, he says, because of the tree foliage – so sensors were all-important.

“Taking SwagBot into a bush care activity would be an easy application transfer, but would require funding to solve specific elements in bush care.”

“It would be a mixture of an ag robot in versatility with a space robot in terms of requiring autonomy for long durations without comms and human interaction – a challenge but not something that would be impossible, in fact very plausible, but needs the funding to focus on it.”

‘For bush care it could be 10-15 years’

Davies’ Taz Drone devices are operator controlled – they don’t have an on-board AI to seek out and treat weeds. But he says the onboard computer power and problem-solving capacity is increasing all the time, and numerous innovative approaches to weed control are being tested world-wide.

In the rapidly evolving field of agricultural robotics, numerous technologies are being commercialised around the world for weed control – including micro-herbicide injections, lasers, electric shocks and mechanical devices. Davies mentions a Chinese-developed agricultural weed robot, which carries thousands of small “guns” which shoot fine bursts of herbicide at emerging weeds in crops.

“There’s no reason that this can’t be integrated into something that’s flying,” he says. “Even if it’s a swarm of small drones flying in under the canopy. If you’ve got a thousand drones carrying a few grams each…”.

Davies says drone technology is now used for weeding only in niche areas, where access is difficult for humans – such as on cliff faces, or in estuarine areas where the vagaries of tides mean weeding crews working in the water, sometimes in the dark.

“We’ve got a really big rice grass problem here on the Rubicon in North West Tasmania. I reckon it’s a perfect job for the drones. It’s just a shit place for people to be.”

How many years into the future are we talking about? Professor Sukkarieh says the answer is largely a question of how much money is invested in developing the necessary technology.

“In agriculture we generally are about 10 years behind what you see in mining and defence robotics,” he says.

“So if you see a robot out there operating in your environment run by mining/defence company, then that technology will probably be available to the agriculture community in 5-15 years.”

“For bush care it could be more like 10-15 years. It comes down to bringing the cost of the technology down – which comes with time – and having enough people interested in solving the problem for bush care, which requires funding.”

The cost to develop a bush care robot, Professor Sukkarieh estimates, would be “in the order of hundreds of thousands, and then into a couple of million to have a commercial system”. The target would be to develop a robot which would cost roughly the same as an ATV (all-terrain-vehicle).

Why bother?

As I said, I am a volunteer bush carer. You get to do a lot of thinking while you are crouched in the bush with a pair of secateurs and a swab bottle.

Bush care is not a dangerous task – although in the Adelaide Hills you do have to keep a wary eye out for the local Myrmecia species (hoppers and inch ants) – but it can be irksome.

Particularly in hot or wet weather. Particularly if you are re-visiting an area you have already weeded several times before. Particularly if the weedlings are depressingly numerous. Particularly if you are getting on in years, and no younger volunteers are lining up to succeed you.

I am now in my 60s, and I am one of the youngest regular bush care volunteers in our group. I understand why new volunteers are hard to find – people who live nearby and who have an interest in conservation already have a lot to do on their own properties.

While I am crouched in the bush, I sometimes like to imagine myself as being akin to one of those legendary European medieval monks – the scribes who copied ancient texts onto new vellum every few generations, so that the wisdom of the past could be preserved for the future, even if no-one at the time was interested.

Just as generations of anonymous monks carried the light of learning through a time of ignorance into a grateful future, I imagine, so might a generation of anonymous bush carers carry patches of intact ecosystems through Australia’s environmental dark age into a future which values those patches, and has the resources to re-build from them.

But like the sputtering candles of those monks, I fear that the light of many bush care groups might also be slowly going out – as we age, and as we face the reality that in the end we aren’t actually monks, and that maybe replacing us with automata is a more reliable bridge to the future.

I also think robots might end up being better than humans at bush care weeding – at least with the more common weeds which make up the bulk of the task.

Mostly bush care involves dealing with large numbers of the same weeds – I would guess about 25 species on the sites I work on. The rule is, anything you are not sure about, you leave.

So on a typical terrestrial remnant bushland site, a robot might need to identify and treat (say) about 100 species of weeds accurately to do most of the work of a human bush carer. And it could stay out there all day doing it.

In 2016 a prototype submarine robot called COTSbot made headlines. Developed by the Queensland University of Technology, COTSbot detects crown of thorns starfish growing on the Great Barrier Reef, and injects them with a biocide. Armed with machine learning, COTSbot now claims to have a 99% accuracy at recognising pest starfish.

That sort of accuracy is better than most humans can achieve.

I suspect there will always be a place for professional bush regenerators, and perhaps for skilled bush care volunteers. After all, someone will still have to assess and review the sites, watch out for unusual or emerging weeds, and to carry out some of the other tasks which go with managing bushland. Someone will still have to go to all the meetings, puzzle over disputed taxonomy and draw on their knowledge of landscapes and ecological processes to plan the work schedule.

Someone will still need to tell the robots what to do.

*****

Text by David Mussared. Illustration by Alice Duigan Mussared

(dedicated to Dewey, 1972 & WALL-E, 2008)

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“The country needs its people”

– why closing remote Aboriginal communities is a bad idea for everyone

What if Aboriginal people did take Prime Minister Tony Abbott at his word, and abandoned their “lifestyle choices” to dwell on tiny communities in traditional lands?

The country would be heaps better off, right? It would save taxpayers a motza?

In fact, Australia might find that it is a whole lot worse off, and fairly quickly. Because – leaving aside any considerations of culture and human rights – Aboriginal communities are actually doing a great service to the nation by occupying that archipelago of remote outstations and microscopic communities.

What Aboriginal people are doing out there is managing the land. What they are doing is conserving the last vestiges of species and ecosystems which could collapse altogether in their absence. Some conservationists believe we need many more indigenous people occupying the outback, not fewer.

One such conservationist is Dr Barry Traill, from Pew Charitable Trusts. Last year, in a landmark TED talk in Sydney, he put it succinctly: “the problem for a lot of our wildlife in the outback is not too many people, but too few people.”

“In our outback there are now fewer people on the country than at any time in the last 50,000 years, on most of the outback. And by on the country I actually mean in it and managing it, dealing with fires, dealing with feral animals. We now have a situation where most of the country is simply not managed,” Dr Traill said.

He said from the 1940s, as Aboriginal people left remote areas, numbers of native animals dwindled. The pattern was repeated across Australia – Aboriginal hunting and burning disappeared from the landscape, leaving it to wildfires and feral animals.

“As the number of people declined in the desert…so did the number of some of the animals,” Dr Traill said. “We now know that this not only occurred in the Great Sandy Desert, but in many other places. The details vary, but elsewhere in Central Australia, in northern Australia as the patterns of humans changed in the outback, animals have declined.”

Dr Traill said he strongly believed that Aboriginal people needed their traditional country; that they were happier and healthier if they had attachment with it. But he said the opposite was also true – “the country needs its people”.

“Our outback is one of a tiny number of great, wild places left on our fairly crowded planet. But if we want to keep it healthy, if we want to keep our extraordinary wildlife there, we need to bring back people into all of our outback wilderness.”

Arguably the Australia’s greatest environmental success story over the past decade is one that most people know almost nothing about – the proliferation of indigenous ranger programs across much of outback Australia. These programs, the bulk of which are funded by the Federal Government, employ local Aboriginal people as rangers on their own lands.

From small beginnings, the ranger program has swelled to employ about 700 indigenous people on more than 100 teams. It is one of the few areas of environmental spending which has largely survived the successive purges of the Rudd, Gillard and Abbott Governments’ razor gangs. It is also one of the few areas of environmental policy that is supported by almost all sides in the environment debate.

Over the past decade scientists have recorded a frightening “second wave” of native mammal declines across much of northern Australia. Much of the immediate cause is thought to be the feral cat, populations of which have recently exploded and are cutting a terrible swathe through hundreds of species of mammal, birds and reptiles.

The indigenous ranger groups are the front-line battling this worrying surge toward extinction. They are resuming the hunting of cats and foxes which in the past suppressed their numbers, and reinstating the complex burning regimes which created the habitat preferred by native animals.

“The rangers have now come back, they manage the fires, they deal with feral animals like water buffalo, the bush is healthier, and wildlife which has declined … are coming back,” Dr Traill said. “And there are now dozens and dozens of Aboriginal ranger groups like this operating throughout Australia, and they’re combining traditional knowledge, western science and using modern equipment and modern technology.”

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A farewell to my absent friend

jangoIt’s been 10 days now since I last saw my old friend Jango. It’s time I faced the truth: he is either dead, or in prison. For his sake, I hope it is the former.

Jango first came into my life three years ago. He turned up on our lawn one day in spring, chewing – as galahs do – on the kikuyu stems. I knew immediately that he was different.

The other galahs flew away when I approached, but Jango continued chewing unperturbed. He let me come right up close.

I decided he must be someone’s escaped pet, and that he was probably hungry and at risk living in the wild. Even then I had a healthy respect for a galah’s beak, so I caught him carefully using an Akubra hat and a jacket.

We had an aviary sitting empty next to the shed, so we put him in there while we decided what to do with him. We fed him some parrot mix and asked around. No-one seemed to have lost a galah.

About the same time my daughter brought home a rescued rainbow lorikeet, which she called Boba, after the Star Wars bounty hunter. So the galah, naturally enough,  became Jango – although the two birds never got on.

Jango did not like captivity, and it upset all of us to see him sulking in the aviary. But we thought we were doing the right thing; that he would surely die if we let him go.

We brought him inside sometimes, to give him something to do and space to fly around in. Often during the day we would also bring him out of his aviary to a smaller cage on our verandah, where he could see what was going on and not be so lonely. We brought him toys – sticks, flowers, gum nuts and the like – which he chewed relentlessly. But you only had to look at him in the cage to know he wasn’t happy.

Then one day, after about a month, one of my sons – Max – was transferring Jango from the aviary to his verandah cage when he accidentally let him go. Jango flew into the tree-tops and wouldn’t come down. That, we decided, was that.

But just to be sure we left some food in his verandah cage, in case he got hungry. Apparently he did; he flew down a couple of days later and helped himself to the seed. We let him be, and didn’t try to catch him again.

cage

“we moved his food bowl to the top of his old verandah cage”

It quickly turned into a routine – we moved his food bowl to the top of his old verandah cage, and he would fly down a couple of times a day for us to feed him. Over time, the relationship developed.

At first Jango really only trusted Max. He distrusted me most of all. We joked at the time that this was because Max had been the one to let him go, while I had been the one who put him in the cage. Ha ha. Three years on I now think that was probably the truth; we learned that Jango was a very smart bird, and he most certainly could tell human beings apart.

max

“A boy and his bird”

Jango became increasingly attached to Max. When Max walked outside, Jango would appear out of nowhere and land on his shoulder. Max could do anything with him – tickle him, tumble him over in his lap, take him for rides on his scooter. I would often come outside and find Max lying in the hammock on the verandah, with Jango in his lap. A boy and his bird. It was lovely to watch, but I admit I was a little jealous.

Because, as I said, Jango did not like me. If I came anywhere near him his crest would go up menacingly, and if I got within a metre or two he would fly at me squawking. He would let me feed him when he was hungry, but there were days when I was nervous about going outside because he was waiting to attack.

If ever I went outside with no shoes – to get the clothes off the line or something – Jango would land near my feet and attack my bare toes, viciously.

It took months to convince Jango to trust me. Max and the other three children were away during the day, and I was home working. So Jango and I saw a lot of each other, and more often than not I was the one feeding him.

Over time he conceded first to sit on my shoulder, then to let me pick him up. Gradually we grew close, Jango and I. Eventually I was almost as popular with him as Max was – although even after three years Jango would desert me and fly to Max if he had the chance.

It is a strange thing to be befriended by an individual from another species; it gave me extraordinary joy every time he chose to be with me. Sometimes it was just about food – I would feed him, and stand nearby while he ate so the other galahs or the bronzewing pigeons didn’t steal his food.

Sometimes, perhaps bizarrely, it was about sex. In spring Jango would get urges. He lusted after human hands: mine, my wife’s, Max’s – anyone’s.

If I walked outside at any time during the day it was no surprise to hear a sudden flap of wings, and Jango would land on my shoulder. I never knew before that galahs could purr, but Jango could. He would nibble at my ear, purr, and bob his head up and down. That was the standard Jango greeting. It was very hard not to bob your head back, and he always liked a good scratch.

But if it was spring, Jango’s purring and bobbing would inevitably lead to somethings else: his eyes would become transfixed on my hand, and he would start to sidle, ever so surreptitiously, down my arm. His lust was such that if I did not stop him – and he was not always easy to stop – he would start humping my hand, twisting his tail back and forth.

Poor Jango, his love affair with the human hand was un-requited. Often in spring if I was going somewhere in the car I would hear a soft ‘thud’ on the car roof just as I closed the door, then the scrabble of Jango’s claws as he scuttled across to a window. Jango’s head would appear upside down peering through the driver’s window or the windscreen, his eyes staring longingly at my hands on the wheel.

alice

“Jango knew our family’s habits”

Jango knew our family’s habits, and how to get our attention. If he was hungry or lonely he would land on the kitchen window sill and tap persistently on the glass until someone went out to see what he wanted. It wasn’t always about food, or sex. Often it was just about company.

Sometimes Jango seemed to be bored, in search of excitement. He would demand to be brought  inside – either into the dining room or the office – where he would proceed to fly around until he could find something to wreck. He’d land on the backs of our dining room chairs and start chewing large splinters out of the wood, or strut up and down the kitchen sink picking up items with his beak and throwing them on the floor.

In the office Jango was really annoying. It was almost impossible to get any work done with him in the room. He would land on the back of my chair and rub himself up against my neck and face while I was working. Or he would attack my keyboard (and, of course, in spring he was irresistibly drawn to my hands as I typed). More than once I had to stop him as he started to rip individual keys out of the keyboard with his beak.

twigs

“There is a little pile of Jango’s dried leaves and twigs behind my keyboard as I type this”

If I got sick of him and put him out, he would march up and down outside the office window scratching at it and climbing up the flyscreen. Sometimes he would disappear for a while and re-appear holding a gum twig with a few leaves on it. He seemed to know I couldn’t resist a leafy twig, and would always let him back in if he had one. There is a little pile of Jango’s dried leaves and twigs behind my keyboard as I type this.

gate

“When I worked outside Jango would often join me”

When I worked outside Jango would often join me, sitting on my shoulder, or on the grass or a perch nearby. His favourite thing was the clothes line. Sometimes on stinking hot days Jango would sit on the kids’ basketball hoop and we would squirt him with a hose to cool him down.

I learned a lot from Jango. I can never look at another bird, indeed another creature, the same way again. He was so clever, so much an individual, so obviously a conscious and feeling being. Somehow, across the huge divide which is the species barrier, we connected with each other. We got on. If two creatures from worlds as alien as Jango’s and mine can do that, surely there is hope that humans can reach across the much smaller gulfs which separate us. I won’t labour the point.

It was a funny sort of a relationship, which was always – on my part at least – tinged with concern. Because I knew every time I saw Jango it might be the last. I knew, and perhaps he did too, that the world out there is full of things that eat galahs, and of people (like me) who might want to put them in cages. I worried about that, a lot. So much so that I found someone on the internet who made parrot leg bands, and I got one made up for Jango with my phone number on it. I thought that way at least someone might ring me if they found him. No-one has.

For three years I spent time with Jango almost every day. The last time was one evening early last week, when Jango – who had been pestering our family all week with his spring time urges – turned up for a quick feed and a scratch before dark. Then he vanished, and I have not seen him again. I doubt now that I ever will.

I really hope he is dead, that it was quick, and that he is not trapped in a cage somewhere. I miss the little guy.

jangoandbeard

“two old men of the world”

My most treasured memories of Jango were the late afternoons in summer. I never did find out where he spent his nights – somewhere up in the gum trees about 100 metres from our house, I think.

But in the long summer evenings, as the heat went out of the day, Jango would sometimes come around and tap on the kitchen window. And I would go outside onto the verandah to sit with him and watch the sun set. Sometimes he would nibble my ear, or purr. Sometimes we would bob heads at each other, or I would scratch him.

But mostly we would just sit quietly together, two old men of the world, and watch the sun set behind the trees.

jangowingsinsunset

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Anzac Day and all that…

initialslowresIt’s the little things that get you.

Look at this photo for example. It’s what finally got to me.

What the photo shows is my grandfather’s initials, carefully written in 1917 – somewhere in the battlefields of France – on the back of a new armband he had been issued to wear with his AIF uniform.

A few days ago I was going through some of my grandfather’s war memorabilia with my father. When I noticed the red initials I felt a chill of recognition – “someone walked over my grave”, as my mother would say.

Because doesn’t the way my grandfather drew his initials remind you of something?

Isn’t it exactly the way a child might do it?

Look at the way he joined  the letters, ‘JLM’, together in a crude monogram. Can you imagine any adult you know writing his initials like that? Can you remember doing your initials like that as a kid? I certainly did, on the back of my ruler at school.

Remember that these initials are the work of a capable AIF veteran, a man who – surrounded by death and destruction – had already earned the respect of his superiors, had been wounded, and would shortly be commissioned as an officer.

But this veteran was also still little more than a child: he was just 17 years old. Like so many others, he had put up his age by two years so he could join the army.

JLMresizedThe year before, aged 16, he had already fought for several months in the Somme, one of the legendary bloodbaths of World War 1. In October 1916 (a month after his 17th birthday) Grandpa’s service record reports that he had been “slightly wounded”, but that he had quickly returned to the Somme trenches.

Then in November, as the freezing wet of the French winter set in, Grandpa had contracted “trench foot“. He was evacuated from France to England.

Lying in hospital in London, my grandfather saw a medical note attached to the foot of his bed. He asked the man in the bed next to him to read it for him. The notice, his mate told him, said that Grandpa was scheduled to have both his feet amputated.

My 17-year-old grandfather crawled down to the end of his bed and tore the notice up.

His feet recovered.

By May 1917 Grandpa was back in France. Details are scanty, but his service record shows that in July that year he attended something called the ‘Pigeon Flying School’. Soon after graduating from that, he was commissioned as an officer.

As far as I know Grandpa didn’t have anything to do with messenger pigeons during the war, so perhaps Pigeon Flying School was a code name for something intelligencelowreselse – perhaps an intelligence training unit. Whatever the case, at some stage that year my grandfather was issued with the white armband marked ‘INTELLIGENCE’ – on the back of which he scrawled his initials, his hand still childish despite all he had been through.

Later in 1917 (a few days after his 18th birthday) my grandfather took part in the now-famous Battle of Polygon Wood. Perhaps it was there that he picked up some of the other objects which have come down to me, via my father.

mugandbucklelowresAmong Grandpa’s war souvenirs is a German soldier’s belt – the buckle emblazoned with the famous ‘Gott mit uns‘ motto, and a smattering of other German army memorabilia – including several buttons, and an enamel mug.

My grandfather told my father he had got them from prisoners of war, a story which my father has never questioned.

But I wonder – how do you get a belt buckle (and buttonslowresindeed, the entire belt) from a living prisoner? How do you get buttons?

Perhaps a more likely story is that my grandfather took the items from a body, and the ‘prisoner of war’ story was intended to shield his young son’s sensibilities.

Whatever the case, my grandfather returned from the First World War with his souvenirs, and with some other enduring legacies.

My father recalls that Grandpa regarded the annual Anzac Day and Remembrance Day commemorations as “almost sacred” events. The war never really left him – literally. He died in 1973 with pieces of it still embedded in his body.

As a boy I can remember my grandfather showing me a small dark mark – not unlike a deep tattoo – under the skin of his arm. It was a piece of shrapnel from World War I, he told me, still working its way through his tissues. Over the years several other pieces had already found their way out.

My dad tells me that Grandpa loathed rats. Passionately. He detested particularly the squeal made by feeding rats when they are disturbed. It is not hard to imagine why.

But there is another story which has come down in the family which reminds me of just how young Grandpa was. When he finally returned to Adelaide after the war, he moved back in with his parents.

His father – my great grandfather – told this veteran of the Somme, Polygon Wood and who knows what else, that he must be home by 11pm. When my grandfather did not comply one night, his father locked all the doors and windows of the house except one, then moved his bed under the unlocked window so he could catch him when he came home.

There was one final, bitter irony. Two weeks after my grandfather returned, his father died of the Spanish Flu which was then sweeping the world – a pestilence supposedly brought back to Australia by soldiers returning from the war. The implication is obvious, but thankfully unprovable.

I have not inherited Grandpa’s reverence for Anzac Day. I don’t go to Dawn Services, I have never donned his service medals to march in Anzac parades. I doubt I ever will.

There is no moral to this story.

gottmitunslowres

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