The Crocodile Hunter: The Incredible Life and Adventures of Steve and Terri Irwin (7 page)

The perentie is another of the fascinating creatures living in this rugged landscape.

I ran like the wind, backtracking toward camp. By the time I got to the last sand dune, I could see the 4WD and the glow of the fire—just across from the biggest fire of them all. The sun was like a giant orange fireball touching the horizon. The ripples in the sand were now patterned with shadows and, as I changed pace to a slow idle, a knob-tailed gecko shot across my foot into a spinifex clump. It was too dark to be fossicking around without a torch so I marked the clump with a stick so I could find it later.

My photo of the knob-tailed gecko, taken in red-dune country.

“How’d ya go, son?” Dad asked, as I got within earshot of camp. “You’ve been gone for hours.”

“Wow, great! I saw heaps—plenty of dragons, a flock of emus, tracked a big sandy, and I nearly stood on a knobby!” I replied.

“A knob-tailed gecko? When?”

“It was just up there five minutes ago.”

“I’ll grab the torches, you grab the camera,” Dad said. “Do you think you can find the spot again?”

“Yeah, no worries. It’s up here.”

No sooner had I spotted my marker stick when Dad said, “Look, son, there he is—near these sticks. See if you can sneak in for a shot. I’ll keep him right on the edge of my beam.”

Without uttering a word, I stealthily crawled around Dad’s knees, flicked on the flash, and snapped off some of my most treasured photographs. We watched the gecko go about his business for a few minutes, then charged back to camp, jumped in the 4WD, and went spotlighting for snakes and looking at the nocturnal mammals and owls.

It was a great night’s spotting. We saw red kangaroos and dingoes, hopping mice out on the plains, an owl feeding on a rat, and plenty of snakes and geckos in between. I was asleep before we made it back to camp, so tired I don’t remember getting into my swag.

Flooded plains mean the end of this road anyway.

During the night, Dad had decided to try searching for fierce snakes further north. We packed up camp at first light and were heading toward the Black Soil Plains when Dad commented on the ominous-looking black clouds.

“It doesn’t rain out here much, lad, but when it does we don’t want to be anywhere near.”

Dad decided we’d better head for higher ground and the nearest bitumen road.

The rain started slowly—there seemed to be more wind than rain—but it was enough to turn the bull dust to grease and the ground to bog. Dad dropped the 4WD back to high-range second gear to minimize the sliding. Many times we went into a slide, heading down the road sideways or even backward.

Hatching fierce snake eggs.

As the thirsty landscape soaked up the light, steady rain, the sliding problem diminished as we sank deeper and deeper into the grease-like mud. This was the ultimate test for any 4WD and driver. Dad was down to low-range 4WD and had to rev the engine to the red line, and hold it for hundreds of yards at a time. The engine peaked so hard for so long that it pinged and missed. It took us four hours to do four miles. Every mile we had to stop and chisel out the incredibly tacky mud that had built up between the wheels and the chassis. Our 4WD had worked so hard that the mud compacted around the wheels was hot. When we hit water, steam came off the setting mud pack.

Australia’s largest lizard, the perentie.

We struggled all day to finally reach the bitumen; when we did, Dad immediately pulled over and made a cuppa in the rain. Due to the real threat of being bogged out in the sand dunes for a month, we hadn’t dared to stop for a drink or a feed. Dad’s a devoted teetotaller and his driving force to get to the safety of the bitumen was a cuppa.

The hardships of traversing this dramatically changing landscape are insignificant when compared to the beauty of the wilderness and the wildlife experiences. My love for this land has drawn me back time and time again over the last twenty-five years.

Central Australia-truly a land of great beauty.

Together, Terri and I passionately explore and research this thirsty, rugged landscape. We’re currently conducting research on the fierce snake and the perentie. It’s been a real thrill teaching Terri stress-free techniques to restrain the number-one most venomous snake in the world. The snakes aren’t too stressed but Terri sweats buckets she’s so nervous. She’s the only sheila I know who’s capable of tossing the deadliest of snakes. We have an absolute ball out there and are producing some major scientific data, which eventually we hope to utilize to conserve this fragile, hot environment and its fascinating wildlife.

Terri chases down another fierce snake for capture.

Getting Agro

A
fter a three-week stint in the bush without seeing or hearing another human, I was a little excited to see the nearest telephone box. This was the late 1980s and I was working full-time catching rogue crocs for the Queensland National Parks and Wildlife Service. It was nearly twenty miles by 4WD to the nearest civilization and phone.

“Gidday, Dad, how are ya?” I greeted him excitedly.

“Not bad, son, howze it all goin’ up there?”

“Yeah, really good, thanks. I’ve got eight traps set between Townsville and Cairns, the two crocs near Townsville are just starting to hit the lead-in baits. Spotted that little fella at the main boat ramp. He let me get within a few feet, so we can jump him whenever I get some back-up. When are you coming up?” I asked.

“I can’t go anywhere, so you’re on your own for another couple of months,” Dad explained. “Can’t a National Parks and Wildlife Service bloke back you up and drive the boat so you can jump that little fella? They seem really keen to get it captured before some idiot shoots it first.” “Yeah, it’s a real worry,” I replied. “I was talking to the local fishermen on the weekend and they’ve already taken matters into their own hands and tried to kill it. They reckon it’s in excess of eleven feet and that it’s been stalking their kids. They must’ve been seeing its back and head while it was in the water and mistaken it for a larger crocodile head.

“It’s a real popular ramp, probably one hundred fifty to two hundred people down there every weekend, so I reckon its days are numbered. I’ll get right onto it. What else is news?”

“Well, lad, I just got told by the National Parks powers-that-be that the notorious big male croc near the S-bend is back again and he’s popping up right alongside people in boats. He’s gotta come out before he gets too bold for his own good. That’s the fourth recent complaint about him so you better get onto him. Have you got any large traps available?” Dad asked with a sense of urgency.

“Yep,” I replied, “I’ve got the big blue one and a black trap sitting at camp ready for action.”

“Good. You’ll see a piece of silver duct tape in the mangroves where I spotted him last. It looks like the likeliest location for a trap—right on the shallow bend where the high tide goes up into the mangroves,” Dad explained.

“Yeah, Dad, I know the spot well. I’m surprised that naughty croc is still alive—apparently he’s got a bad habit of sitting under the shade of the mangroves and staring at people fishing. He seems to have a territory over a mile long, and at least one eight-foot female occasionally suns herself with him. I reckon he’ll be an easy croc to trap as he’s got a pretty aggressive air about him.”

“You be careful, son. I know for a fact this croc’s got a real attitude problem. When I surveyed his territory I could feel his presence the whole time. He’s really bold and isn’t scared to mix it up with bigger males. This is one croc I’d consider as a potential threat. Don’t take any risks or your mother will kill me. She’s right off the idea of you tossing it on your own.”

“Yeah, Dad. It’s not a problem.”

Agro territory.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dad added jokingly, “
I’m
not the slightest bit worried about you. It’s your mother that’s got me shaking in me boots.”

“I’ll be careful and I’ll give you a ring as soon as I’ve jumped the little fella or caught this agro croc,” I said confidently. “If I don’t have any luck I’ll give you a call in about two weeks. I should’ve run out of fuel about then and will have to come into town anyway.”

“OK, mate! Take it steady. I’ll talk to you soon,” he replied with concern.

“See ya, Dad!” I shouted as I hung up the phone.

Once I’d filled my jerry cans with outboard fuel and diesel for my 4WD, I loaded up with some bare essential groceries and headed back to my camp. Along the way I was daydreaming, pondering the plight of the saltwater crocodile. Almost driving on automatic pilot, my mind was a million miles away, trying to picture what this land was like before mankind came along, and wondering if Australians and visitors to Australia will ever become proud of the largest reptile on the planet.

Up until the early 1970s crocodile shooting was legal. Crocs were regarded as a pest and countless thousands of them were shot for their belly skins. Crocodiles were considered fair game and were also shot for sport and trophies.

We should be
proud
of our crocodiles. Here in Australia we don’t have large predatory mammals such as lions, tigers, or bears; no, we’re in the land of the reptile. The crocodiles are ancient animals dating back sixty-five million years. Today, virtually unchanged, they are modern-day dinosaurs. They’re certainly the kings of Australian fauna.

Before the arrival of modern man, crocodiles were common from Northern Australia up to Papua New Guinea and Indonesia, through the Malay Peninsula into Thailand and the Bay of Bengal. The wholesale slaughter of crocs since has pushed them to the brink of extinction throughout the majority of their range. It’s only in the Northern Australian region that their numbers can be considered stable.

Once upon a time these large saurians ruled the waterways, with adult animals having no natural predators except larger, more dominant crocodiles. There was no such thing as an overpopulation of crocs; their intricate social structure and the availability of food kept their numbers in check. It is we humans who have introduced conflict and a breakdown of their social structure. The encroachment of civilization has been a detriment to our entire northern ecosystem’s stability and health.

A 9 ½ foot saltwater crocodile that Agro killed.

Capturing an adult saltwater crocodile for relocation.

The saltwater crocodile is the number one species in the food chain. It is the apex predator and wherever there remains a natural habitat and healthy croc numbers you’ll find wildlife “hot spots” of great biological diversity and flourishing populations of all species. Unfortunately there are few wilderness areas that support such healthy crocodile populations.

The problem we face—and one that our children’s children will continue to face—is the lack of harmonious coexistence between humans and large predators. Whether it’s a great white shark, a Bengal tiger, a grizzly bear, or a saltwater croc, if someone gets attacked it’s the animal that suffers. For example, in 1985 a middle-aged woman decided to go for a swim at night in known crocodile territory and was killed and consumed by a croc measuring over fourteen feet. The week after her death, over two hundred crocodiles, both large and small, were killed by vigilantes and locals seeking revenge.

It is this sort of slaughter and unwarranted hatred that has become my driving force. If I don’t capture problem crocs and alleviate the potential conflict, the entire ecosystem will corrode from the removal of the apex predator.

Scouting locations for setting traps can be tough work.

Once I’d reached my camp on a salt flat in the mangroves, I wasted no time loading up my dinghy with the black trap and gear. It was serene and tranquil motoring along the river looking for croc tracks and slides. Within an hour I’d located a couple of fresh slides in the deep mud where a croc of approximately twelve feet had dragged itself out of the water to sunbake earlier in the morning. Like all reptiles the crocodile is poikilothermal, or, as they are often misleadingly known, “cold-blooded.” Rather, reptiles utilize the temperature of the sun, air, and water to govern their body temperature. Their optimum temperature is approximately 30°C, or 86°F, and if they’re feeling a little cool they’ll climb up the muddy banks to sunbake in a patch of sun to warm up. This activity provides me with a positive identification of the croc’s mass, its territorial limits, and a general idea of its daily routine.

I located the silver duct tape Dad had stuck to a mangrove branch. He was dead right—this was the center of the croc’s territory and an ideal location to set the trap.

Restraining this 9 ½ foot saltwater crocodile (male) is no easy task.

The tide was low and on the rise. Nosing the boat into the grassy mud, I saw I’d have to carry the trapping gear twenty feet up to the mangroves to set up the trap. Always a little on edge, I had a cursory look around to make sure I wasn’t going to jump straight out of the boat into an ambush. Everything seemed settled and tranquil so I tossed out the trap, axe, shovel, bags, and ropes. They partially sank in the mud. As I lowered myself out of the boat I quickly sank up to my waist in the ooze that literally teems with small bugs and mud skippers. I felt more than usually vulnerable: I was close to the murky water’s edge and would have no hope of movement in the retarding mud if the croc had wanted me for lunch.

“Stay in the boat,” I ordered my best mate, Chilli. She was much safer there and I couldn’t afford to have her scurrying around attracting the attention of a hungry croc.

I was vulnerable enough. Crocs love to eat dogs; they must taste great.

I’ve learned the hard way to rely on my instincts, and while I trudged toward the mangroves my instincts were working overtime. It took me three lengthy, strenuous trips to carry the gear to the trap site. I was well aware of the commotion I was creating and my senses were telling me not to drop my guard.