The Crocodile Hunter: The Incredible Life and Adventures of Steve and Terri Irwin (3 page)

The Early Years

T
he early years of the Beerwah Reptile Park were total wildlife experiences, so many that my memory will be recalling them till the day I die. Too many phenomenal wildlife experiences to ever remember and record in the rest of my life—but I’ll give it a go anyway.

I remember my dad being recognized as the greatest herpetologist (one who studies reptiles) in Australia and revered throughout the world as a legend for catching highly venomous snakes, with nothing more than his bare hands and sharp reflexes. I used to watch in awe, in an adrenaline-filled stare, as Dad captured fierce snakes—taipans, browns, tigers, and death adders—the most venomous snakes in the world—in wilderness, rural, and urban areas all over Australia.

My dad, my hero.

His passion, enthusiasm, skill, and greatness with venomous snakes are an innate, natural, God-given ability, which unbeknownst to me, was also in my veins, heart, and soul. By staring at and mimicking my dad, my own instinctive ability with snakes and virtually all wildlife began to develop. Little did I know that my dad was my mentor, and all those early years when I was a kid, he and Mum were gearing me up to become a wildlife guru like them.

Curley the Curlew looking after an orphaned joey grey kangaroo.

What a childhood! My mum was a pioneer in Australian history. She was the Mother Teresa of wildlife rehabilitation. Way back in the late sixties and early seventies, very little to nothing was known about caring for or raising orphaned kangaroos, wallabies, koalas, wombats, platypuses, snakes, and lizards. This was unknown territory that my mum pioneered with brilliance and innovation. She developed pouches for kangaroo babies, known as joeys. She developed formulas and nursing techniques for orphaned koalas, and raised Sugar Gliders when scientists were still endeavoring to work out what they were. My mum
was
Mother Nature. Crikey, I love my mum and I am so sorry I can’t write every single detail and element of my love for her and the greatness of her work. To this day, I miss her so much, the pain is so strong, I can barely keep pen on paper. I’ll swallow, I’ll push back the tears, and continue.

An orphaned koala hugging its teddy bear for security.

Our house was a giant maternity ward fair smack-dab in the middle of the Beerwah Reptile Park. It was nothing for us kids to be sharing our house with orphaned joey red and grey kangaroos who’d stayed in their dead mothers’ pouches after they’d been killed on the road. Luckily enough we always stopped to check on the road-killed mothers, and other good Samaritans were constantly bringing joeys they’d found in to us. There’d be three orphaned Sugar Gliders and a couple of ringtail or brushtail possums that would need feeding and a play at night, koala joeys that Mum was raising because dogs had killed their mummas, six baby birds, untold amounts of other orphans, babies, and injured Australian animals constantly sharing our house. What a wild menagerie and an exceptional household to be raised in. Imagine the skills and hands-on experience I was getting as a child—soaking up all this pioneering, virtually unteachable, incredibly important information that could only be learned by living in my mum’s rehabilitation world—a wildlife orphanage.

Dad at the original Beerwah Reptile Park entrance.

Am I the luckiest bloke in the entire world? Yes! I totally believe I am and I owe it all to my dad and mum and, of course, fate. My destiny—my path in this life, in this world—was chosen for me.

All I had to do was walk the path and live my life. I became the man I was always meant to be. Thanks Dad and thank you, Mum, I love you dearly.

From 1970 onward, our entire lives were dedicated to one all-important common goal: the Beerwah Reptile Park and wildlife conservation. Each and every day we strove for excellence and innovation in educating people about our precious Australian wildlife.

A juvenile freshwater crocodile. What a little beauty!

I’ve got the wildest childhood memories. My Dad, Bob Irwin, is recognized as a legendary herpetologist, pioneering venomous snake and crocodile capture techniques. Before I was ten, Dad was spending more and more time teaching me how to jump and restrain crocodiles, and deal with the world’s deadliest snakes without causing them stress and at the same time minimizing the chances of being bitten.

I remember my very first croc capture when I was nine years old. Dad had been asked by the Queensland National Parks and Wildlife Service and a local farmer to catch and relocate a small colony of freshwater crocs at the Leichhardt River System in the Gulf of Carpentaria, North Queensland.

There are two species of crocodile in Australia: the large, notorious, sometimes man-eating saltwater crocodile, and the less aggressive freshwater crocodile. Saltwater crocodiles always command respect as they are the “Kings of the North,” and can grow to lengths in excess of twenty feet. The freshwater crocodile rarely grows more than ten feet. Commonly known as “freshies,” they are considered harmless to humans if left alone. However, they are very powerful, compact crocs with rows of needle-sharp teeth, and if molested can cause nasty injuries.

The colony of freshies we were asked to capture and remove were about to lose their isolated waterhole; it was to be drained out and filled in. Our method of capture was one I still use to this day—spotlighting at night out of a small aluminium dinghy then jumping on the crocs.

Dad with a small “freshie” he caught, for relocation to the Park.

Over a couple of nights while moving the colony of freshwater crocs, I’d worked at carefully and quietly idling the boat in the direction of Dad’s spotlight and the crocodile’s eyeshine. As we got closer and closer, Dad would poise himself at the front of the boat and put his spotlight down as I’d bring mine up. Closer, closer, I’d idle the boat right at the red glowing eyeshine. Just as I’d lose sight of the eyeshine under the front of the boat, Dad would spear himself right on top of the crocodile. Grabbing it around the neck, he’d use his legs and body to restrain the frantic croc. Once it had tired and Dad was in control he’d call to me, “It’s comin’ in.” He’d flip the croc straight into the boat, at which point I’d jump on it with all my weight and hang on. Restraining it on the floor of the boat was wild; I’d get thrashed around all over the paddock but I wouldn’t let go. I’d hang on regardless of the consequences because I knew that in a very short time Dad would be back in the boat to help.

Dad, Mum, and me removing skin from a 20-foot reticulated python.

Dad would secure blindfolds on the crocs to settle them down and to minimize their stress, then he’d pop them into a bag. We were quite a team—the “bring ’em back alive” team.

And so on the day I first captured a croc myself, Dad was securing a croc in a bag while I scanned the waterhole for more eyeshine.

“There’s one,” I whispered.

“Looks like a little beauty!” Dad replied.

“About a three-footer, I reckon,” I whispered, now with some experience in my voice.

“You get up the front of the boat and hold the eyeshine with the spotty!” Dad commanded.

Without knowing what was about to happen, I did just that. Dad pointed the boat straight at the croc and idled up closer and closer. Frozen in position, and with eyes as big as dinner plates, I focused on the eyeshine as it grew brighter and brighter. We were within twenty feet of the croc when I twigged: I’m in the wrong position—I should be driving!

Next thing I knew Dad’s spotty was glowing over my right shoulder, right onto the croc. “Righto, son, I’ve got him, down spotlight.”

Without the slightest sound I flicked my spotty off and placed it down. “Get up there, boy.” Without a moment’s thought I positioned myself in the jumping position.