Thylacine (21 page)

A single tree, 70 metres tall, contains almost 100 tonnes of usable timber. Carefully graded and converted this will make: enough thinly sliced decorative veneers to panel the walls of a four-storey hotel,
plus
enough sawn timber for the framing and roof trusses of an average family house,
plus
enough solid wood to make a set of household furniture: tables, chairs, beds and cupboards,
plus
after all that, enough pulpwood to photocopy the complete works of Shakespeare over 3,000 times.
¹²

Much has been written about the valiant but vain effort to save the original, unique Lake Pedder from being drowned in late 1972–early 1973 to create a hugely enlarged body of water for the HEC's Gordon Dam complex power scheme. Like the thylacine, the lake with its pink-white quartzite sand beaches has iconic status, yet it too no longer exists—although, in a somewhat spooky echo of thylacine sightings, its original shape can sometimes be seen from the air (and some vow to restore it one day). But it remains the other vivid Tasmanian symbol of the triumph of vested economic interests over environmental considerations.

Guiler noted that the flooding of Pedder destroyed ‘useful' thylacine habitat; over and above that, the controversy destroyed a Labor government and, in 1972, created the United Tasmania Group, the world's first green political party. Indeed, politics and the environment had become fused ‘The struggle to save Lake Pedder did a great deal towards the awakening of Tasmanians to their natural heritage. Thousands who deeply regretted the destruction regretted also the political and administrative machinery that permitted it despite such enormous opposition'.
¹³

Who was to blame? The answer to that question dates back to the first European settlement-invasion of Van Diemen's Land, since when the island has always been at the mercy of ingenuity in the name of progress. Thylacines were a great target and politicians duly took aim, and succeeded, when in 1887 that narrow vote was cast to eliminate them. Nearly a hundred years later, politicians had it in their power to act nobly—alternatives to the flooding of Lake Pedder were tabled and viable—but, in another echo, a bad one harking back to those reactionary east coast grazier kings, the stayer Eric Reece and his old guard ‘were simply bewildered by the growing wave of public feeling for the natural environment. Pedder foundered largely because of the pride of old men who had been left behind by changing times'.
¹⁴
Meanwhile the search for the thylacine went on. In 1968 the biggest expedition to date was mounted, by James Malley— then a Smithton real estate agent—and Jeremy Griffiths, a Sydney zoologist. Over a four-year period, throughout the heat and emotion of the Pedder campaign, they worked assiduously towards proof of the animal's continuing existence, sometimes aided and sometimes rebuffed at the official level, and always struggling to find funds to keep the search alive. In 1972 they were joined for a period of nine months by a young Sydney medical graduate, Dr Robert Brown, who ran their Launceston-based information centre. The three were briefly known as the Thylacine Expedition Research Team. When that team disbanded, Brown wrote: ‘The enormity of the thylacine's importance in our natural history can be seen as perhaps even greater than that of the odds of there being any members of the species left in Tasmania'.
¹⁵
It was a pessimistic summation of yet another failed attempt, but with a new focus. Even as Pedder was drowning, the thylacine was emerging as a beacon, its ‘enormity' in the Tasmanian story sheeted home to that same Robert Brown, who then settled in the state and created another kind of history, which continues to unfold. Today Bob Brown is the world's most influential Green politician.

The Tasmanian Wilderness Society, which Brown co-founded as a result of Pedder, determined that the mistakes of the past must not be repeated. In Brown, the Society had a formidable and forthright spokesman.

12 WE WAKE UP
TOO LATE

It was now 1946 . . . this man Mark McCloud greeted us with the words ‘Welcome sportsmen, you are now in Balfour'. Mark was nearing 80 years of age, his clothes were patches upon patches, a shaggy white beard and long hair covered most of his face, but his tall figure now bent with age told of a once hard strong man. We stopped the night with Mark, and that in itself is a story but to hasten on . . . It must have been near midnight when I went outside before turning in for the night. The night was still and sounds carried far, when suddenly a sound I had never heard before came from a nearby hill. The sound was clear, not a bark but rather a high pitched yelp. Immediately I called to Mark and Ray and Mark had no hesitation in stating that it was only a tiger after the hindquarters of a roo he had left hanging in a tree.

C. L. S
MITH,
T
ARRALEAH

I
n the latter part of the twentieth century, interest in the thylacine continued to grow. Sir Edmund Hillary, in Tasmania to climb its wild peaks, expressed a hope of seeing one. Animal welfare celebrity Brigitte Bardot wanted to search for it but funding problems prevented her. However, in 1978 the newly established Australian chapter of the World Wildlife Fund put $55 000 into a proposed search, to be run jointly by Eric Guiler and Steven Smith of Tasmania's National Parks and Wildlife Service, formerly the Fauna (Animals and Birds' Protection) Board.

The two men worked separately over the next two years. Much of the funding was spent on sophisticated automatic cameras which were strategically placed in a wide variety of likely locations. Alas, while virtually every other species of Tasmanian animal was filmed, not one thylacine showed up. If proof was required that they were no more, surely it had come through the patient lenses of those expertly positioned cameras. Smith published his report in 1980, declaring the species extinct. Yet every second Tasmanian continued to have a tiger story confirming its presence. (Today, that may be down to every third Tasmanian, but their belief is, if anything, more passionate.)

In 1981 the first book devoted exclusively to the thylacine was published—although, at a mere fifty-four pages, and concentrating on searches to that point, it was hardly intended to be comprehensive. Written by Canberra-based historian Quentin Beresford, and Garry Bailey, a journalist with
The Mercury
, its blurb posed the inevitable question: ‘Does the Tasmanian tiger still exist?'
¹

This little book, important in its own right, gave rise to an equally important historical record of the thylacine. To publicise and celebrate its release, publisher Dan Sprod organised a Tasmanian Tiger Competition in September 1981, in conjunction with the now-defunct
Tasmanian Mail
and a hotel chain. The newspaper advertised it as ‘a contest for the best true story relating to the Tasmanian tiger', a point emphasised in the conditions of entry: ‘The content of the story must be fact not fiction'. Clearly, the exaggerated yarns known to be out there were not required. A limit of 500 words was set, with these further terms:

Stories which qualify for entry include personal recollections of the writer (or friends or relatives), stories passed down from those no longer living, or accounts told in letters or diaries from times now past . . . The inclusion of a factual background, such as dates, and the names of persons and places, is recommended . . . Interesting facts about this unique animal are sought. Skill in writing is not needed to win the competition . . .

The contest attracted 39 entries: not many, perhaps, but they are the invaluable experiences of Tasmanians talking about their special, tragic, marsupial predator. Diligent, honest and full of character, they are heartfelt and add to the richness of the island's story.

First prize was two nights' accommodation at a Four Seasons Motor Inn in Tasmania and a copy of Beresford and Bailey's book; five runners up also received the book. It was with significant foresight that Sprod decided that ‘At the conclusion of the contest all stories entered will be deposited in the State Library [Archives Office] of Tasmania for use in future historical research'.
²
Many stories are handwritten, by elderly entrants; legibility is occasionally a factor in their reproduction. Those that appear here have been transcribed exactly as they were written.

From Betty. Holmes, East Wynyard
Every time I hear the Tas Tiger mentioned I am filled with remorse when I think back of a thing my mother and I did. As early as I can remember my collector Uncle lived with us. Occupying the largest bedroom for his displays, of mineral, & marine, and the
‘Tiger skin'
. It held pride of place in front of the fireplace. He loved to take visitors to his room to see his various collections. How my mother hated
that
skin, she was really ashamed of it . . .

At my Uncle's passing in 1956, that treasure was first on the fire, as my mother got rid of his rubbish, as she put it. When my Uncle became ill, an old friend he had not seen for years called to see him, & was Talking about the skin, & I can remember his saying to my Uncle, My word Alf, you'd do well to catch one today, I reckon they have nearly been ‘wiped out'—How pitifully true those words have become—I can see it lying there on the floor as tho it were yesterday, sort of fawn colour as I remember,
and its black stripes
—
across the back
& measuring about 4 [feet] long give or take a little. and hating it because my mother did, and so destroying a museum piece for the future generations.

From Raymond Melville Lawes, Burnie
. . . This whole area is known as Cuckoo Valley where we lived (a family consisting of Mum & Dad and seven kids.) My father Alfred Lawes cleared and used a lot of bush land under these hills. Being a very poor family my father and us older boys done a lot of hunting during open season—often snaring well into the mountain country and it was up there about 1930 when I was fourteen years old that I saw my first Tiger from about six feet.

I had climbed onto a big log one foggy afternoon to look at a snare down the lower side—sure enough there was a wallaby but sitting there eating was what I thought was a striped greyhound. It looked at me then took off in a line for the myrtle forest.

Back at camp telling my father he laughed and said—no dog that. That's the damn Tiger. Been eating wallabies up there for some years now. Said I should have shot it. (I had a rifle with me and was a good shot.)

We—my elder brother Lawrence & myself hunted every winter and during the next couple of years we became pretty good bushmen— so much so that we graduated with our uncle Len James to the plain away behind the mountain range. This was known as Morris Plains and was rough and rugged country. Stretches of myrtle forest wet tea tree flats—the biggest and tallest I have ever seen. In between rising ridges of gum where the possum fed. All this led down to stretches of plain dotted with many old logs. The whole area abounded with wallaby and other game.

It was while camping and hunting here that we had many experiences with our Tiger friends. Uncle Len thought there was a large family around.

Our dogs disappearing back to camp was a common occurrence— we had some pretty large fellows—kill kangaroo and badger easily.

Certain nights somehow seemed to be ‘Tiger nights', a strange eerie quietness seemed to come over and uncle would say—Listen— and then the dogs have gone home. We would sit quiet for a while and then light up the spot lights and slowly look all around—fleeting glimpses of glaring green eyes in the distance—left—front right & even behind told the story. They never came very close and we never had any fear of them . . . This was really Tiger country and today nearly fifty years later providing forestry workers haven't moved in too close I see no reason why there could not be some chance of a Tiger still living somewhere in that country . . .

From Kath Doherty, Ulverston
It was a cold winter evening in late June 1916 when my young brother Jack rode through our home gate with his arms clasped around a live ‘hyena'. He carried it on the pommel of the saddle, the lower part in a potato bag and its jaws firmly clamped in a mussle. He was just twelve years old and always remembered the thrill of mixed fear and excitement of the taking, the mussling and the trussing that day.

My father, Frank Upston, had set a snare run that terrible winter in the World War I year, to help keep something on the table for five children and another already overdue, who arrived on 9th July. As well as the ready cash for the skins, we often had and liked wallaby tail soup and patties made of mince hind leg & bacon.

This snare line ran through the area now called Meunna while we lived in Lapoinya, where the forestry area building now stands.

He knew the ‘Hyena' was on his scent each evening. As he left the scrub he could see the movement just a chain behind. It never approached any closer and always stopped (or the movement of the low shrubs stopped) when he stopped.

He told us of this for several days he had been offered £25.00 for one alive by James Harrison and decided to take it alive. He made and set strong snares in places he knew it to frequent. He also fashioned and made a rawhide mussle, which he carried each day.

When he did take it, a half grown male, it was not in the ‘hyena' snare, but a light one on a frail springer, in a place where he did not expect it roamed. My young brother had ridden into the scrub to meet dad and carry out the skins, so together they trussed it and brought it home. We had it on display till next mid afternoon in our house and I think all the neighbours for miles around came to see it. It did not take any food, but we sent live joey wallabies for it, on its trip to Sydney, where it went to the Sydney Zoo. Most potatoes from the Wynyard– Table Cape area went to the Sydney market by a small fleet of Auxiliary Sailing Vessels from the Wynyard wharf in those days, and, our ‘tiger' was shipped from there.