Shuttle Bunnies

Today is the boys' day. They are off to paddle the Mitta Mitta Gorge, as befits tradition.

Peter is feeling rather poorly, but since he is unlikely to take a swim, I stay silent.

At the put in we meet the rafting company, training their customers, before getting on the wet stuff. Napoleon faced, they sit in the raft and practice paddling. We watch them put in and wave them goodbye.

Then the boys put in. Pete looks very pale as he plays around in the rapid. Just as Anthony is about to slide off the bank, I grab his shoulder. "I'll be at the Black Duck till midday. You know ... just in case he's not coping." I nod towards Pete, and let go of Anthony. Anthony glides into the water, then turns around in the eddy. "I'll keep an eye on him", he smiles.

We drive to the Black Duck. From the road, the Black Duck is a mere corner, with a turnout big enough for a bus. But down below, it's a huge pool of water, the size of a football field. Black and mysterious. If you've done the upper Mitta, and you're looking for a challenge, you keep paddling to the Black Duck. Then, if you're still in need of an adventure, you paddle the Mitta Mitta gorge.

As I turn out at the Black Duck, Anthony runs up to the car. "We're all good", he says panting. "Go straight to Hinnomunjie bridge." He turns on his heel and runs down. Two strides and he is out of sight. We go onto Hinnomunjie bridge as instructed. Sabina takes her shoes and socks off and plays on the bank of the river, collecting stones, building stone walls.

"Sabina, can you see them yet?", I ask. She stands calf deep in the river, looks downstream, and says "No Mama". I laugh heartily, and point upstream, towards the bridge. "They'll be coming from there."

Paddling the Cobungra

Morning is a sunny affair. We meet our friends outside, congregate over coffee, and make plans for the day.

The Blue Duck is positioned on the banks of the Cobungra river - a serious white water river that ought to be paddled with respect. But where it passes the Blue Duck, the rapids are small, easy, inviting. Pete and I wander up the bank. We pass three rapids and arrive at a little sand bar. "I think you could paddle this stretch with Sabina", I suggest. Pete's eyes light up. We jog back down the river and investigate the take out. The route is set.

With four adults in attendance, the little girl sits in the orange boat, eating a snack before the trip. Finally, Pete jumps in the boat with her, and they slide gently into the water. The first rapid sends a gush of freezing water into the boat. Sabina gasps. "Papa, it's cold, I want to get out!" Mid river, she proceeds to stand up in the kayak. Pete holds her back. Napoleon faced, she grips the edge of the cockpit with white knuckles.

The second rapid brings a smile. The third rapid another. Gently they eddy out at the take out. Sabina runs joyfully along the sand, dipping her toe in the freezing mountain water, and sending it splashing along the bank.

To Omeo

This weekend we're off to Omeo. Paddling. It's becoming a bit of an annual event. Remember last year's trip? The drive? Racing along the Tambo? Sabina's patient "It's a long way"? Seeing Spirit and Rain? Memories of Winter Classiscs gone by and the Mr Men team?

This year we're driving up together as a family. Mr and Mrs Orange (our boats) on the roof. At Bairnsdale we stop and ride the flying fox. It's still a long way, and darkness descends as we glimpse the Tambo. The wind howls. We drive. "But when will we get there?", quizzes Sabina. The road winds, the Blue Duck lights up. We arrive.

I busy myself preparing dinner, Pete brings things in from the car. Sabina explores. By the time dinner is ready, she has decided she will sleep in the top bunk. After dinner, we still seem to be busy settling in. Sabina tugs at my sleeve. "Mama, there is no bath", she says. "I don't want to shower. Can I just go to bed?" Deep down, I gasp. A child that just wants to go to bed? This is pretty cool. I dig out her pyjamas, and just point out that she must brush her teeth. Minutes later she tucks herself in.

S and R waltz in, baby in one arm, bottle of red in the other. We chill out, sip the wine and joke.

The generator goes off at about 10pm, our guests leave, we hear D and A arrive and settle in next door. A million starts twinkle outside, and a freezing chill sweeps the valley.

Compost bins work

Our compost bin has been full for months now and we have just been adding food scraps to it regardless. The time has come to empty it, do something with its content, and start afresh. My husband proceeds to dig it out. The first wheelbarrow is ready to go. "You better test it", he calls out. I grab a sample and run over to the microscope.

It's beautiful. It is rich in bacteria, and it has a good number of ameaba in it. Not too many hyphal fungi in there, but a few potential hyphal fungi spores. It looks and feels great. I run out of the house with thumbs up. The wheelbarrow departs towards our other compost heaps. (Had the thumbs been down, the wheelbarrow may well have departed in the direction of Bob's valley. I guess we will never know.)

So what did it look and feel like?
Soil. Absolutely crawling with worms soil. Really nice, little bit sticky, not too wet, but definitely moist, soil. Crawling with worms. Dark dark brown, almost black in colour. And did I mention the worms?

What can it be used for?
Growing most garden plants - veggies, flowers, herbs. Not trees though. It needs more hyphal fungi to grow trees. And it's probably too rich for some veggies. I am not an expert in this yet. Watch this space.

What did we make it in?
In normal compost bin. One of those that just stands on the ground, and worms from the ground can get into it. (And they did get into it.) It has a lid on top. It's round, and about 50cm in diameter at the top. Bit wider down the bottom.

How did we make it?
We put all our food scraps, except for meat and bones, into it. So this included all vegetable, fruit and fish matter. (Yes, fish too! Including fish bones.) Tissues. Tea bags. Egg shells. Bread, rice, pasta. Onion and garlic peel. Orange and lemon peels. Avocado seeds. And when my daughter had not finished her dinner, it went into the compost too. Meat and all. (Please do note that these were usually very small amounts, like about two to four teaspoons, and it happens very infrequently. Perhaps once per three months.)

By the time we were digging it all out again, everything (except the fresh stuff on top) had been decomposed. The only thing we could recognise was the egg shells. And let them sit there I say. They provide great air pockets!

How long did it take?
We started the compost bin either in late 2006 or early 2007. After the first six months it was moved, together with all contents. About 18 months ago it was full, but then during a hot spell it sank down by 1/3rd. So we kept filling it up. We only filled it up on weekends, which is why it took so long to fill.

Mothers' Day

Mothers' Day was few months ago. I know. In our family, we have a particularly poor photo download and publish process. So I only found these snapshots recently, and thought they were worth sharing.

This year, for Mothers' Day, Sabina took me out horse riding in the state forest. As it was a bit of an "occasion", Crownie had to be plaited up.

We got to Dead Cow, and Sabina was so exhausted, that she needed to stop for a picnic.

This left me holding onto the horses.

Then we rode back home.

And here's a tip from Sabina. "This is a great way to celebrate Mothers' Day."

Credit Kid

"Mama, what do you need?", Sabina jumps onto the bar stool at the kitchen bench, bear in one hand, bag in the other. I gaze carefully, wondering what sort of game we're playing now. "Can you get me some milk, ham and cheese?", I ask. "No", she responds. "I don't have those, but I can sell you this purple ball for a dollar." She produces a purple ball from the bag.

"A dollar you say?", I quizz, "ok. Looks like an alright deal. But listen, can I put that on credit?" "Yes you can," she responds. I commence writing out an old fashioned, "IOU" credit note. "Mama, give me your card," says Sabina. I stare. "Mama, you need to give me your card," insists the little girl. I pick up the closest business card lying around and hand it to her. "I need to snap it", she says impatiently. "Mama, give me that box so I can snap it." Bewildered, I pass the said ice cream box, which has a little groove at the edges.

Sabina grabs the box, swipes the card through the little groove, punches something into the box, then looks at me. "Mama, but where's the little piece of paper that comes out the top?" I hand her the IOU note. She pretends that it comes out of the box, and the transaction is complete. "Here Mama, here is your card back, here is your ball", she leaves the items on the kitchen bench and packs up ready to depart.

"Sabina", I say, "you 'swipe' the card. Not 'snap'. Swipe."

Afternoon tea

We're working outside, in the garden. Icy wind blows through the rocks we're trying to move with the tractor.

Three muffins.
Three minutes.
Gone.
Three smiles.
A chocolate crumb left in the corner.

Work resumes.

Garden path

We are trying to build a path in the garden, that will go all the way around the house. It will allow Sabina to do laps around the house on the bike, it will mean that visitors don't need to tramp across bunches of wet capeweed from their car to the house. It's a great idea.

In order to build the path, we need to move a few rocks. Well ... when does a rock stop being a rock and become a boulder? I think we need to move a few boulders. Pete brings in the tractor to help. Without it, we would still be standing over the rocks with a cup of tea. But even with it, the work is a feat of horse power and simple engineering. Wooden planks protrude at all angles as a rock is levered out of it's bed. Some of these rocks are like ice bergs - you only see 10% above ground.

Once the rock is "loosened up", the tractor pulls them out. We use the scoop for this, and it's a game of hit and miss. Sometimes, the rock is 3/4 out, then the scoop looses grip, and it rolls back in. Other times, the tractor tyres start spinning slowly, as it tries to win a tug of war with a stubborn rock. Pete estimates that some of the rocks weigh as much as the tractor.

Most of the rocks just need to come out. But one particular rock needs to be moved, and positioned carefully to fit in as the end piece of a rock wall. We roll it out, we roll it in, we jiggle with the wooden planks and the crow bar. We just need it another inch closer to the other rock. We roll it out again. The tractor holds it in a precarious position, while we dig away more soil behind it. What a shame we don't take a photo. We roll it back in. More jiggling - I suspend my weight on the crow bar in the process. More planks. Finally, it's done. It looks sensational. Like it belongs there.

Compost Analysis

I set the microscope up on the kitchen table. Sabina dances around it impatiently.

I open the little jar with a compost sample and put it under the tap. "You're supposed to use distilled water, otherwise you might be introducing organisms", I muse. I look around. We don't have any distilled water. I turn the tap on, and start agitating the little jar.

Five minutes later, I pippette the murky solution onto the slide, Sabina breathing heavily over my shoulder. I slip the slide under the lense. "Mama can I have a look?" "No, not yet."

I turn the microscope on, and focus the lense. Even before I flick to maximum magnification, I see a nematode. A tiny little worm, moving left and right across the slide. I stand aside, and Sabina pokes her head over the lenses. She sees the nematode. Silence. Then she's off to play.

I observe the nematode for a while, trying to judge whether he is a good guy nematode. Then I go on with my analysis, or assay.

There is a fair bit of bacteria there, and a lot of amebea. But the amebea seem to be quite inactive. Very little fungi. But the fungi that I do find is amazing. There are probably only about 4 strands, but they are dark brown and really thick - about 5 micro metres. Wow. I have never seen fungi that good.

My conclusion is that the compost is "average". We need to add more fungal food to our compost. Obviously we have the capacity to produce some amazing fungi, but there is not enough food in there for the fungus to grow.

The microscope

So, we've got the compost heap, I've done the soils course, and I have the skills to identify the good stuff from the bad stuff in composts and compost teas.

Now I just need the microscope, right? Right.

I drive down to Darnum today to purchase a second hand Microscope from Agrisolutions (who ran the courses). As I arrive at the doorstep, I am met by a dismayed Carol. "Ania, I am so sorry. One of the girls has borrowed the microscope. She's just gone home to get it, but it will be another 45 minutes. Please come in for a cuppa."

I duck back to the car, grab Sabina and an assortment of colouring pencils, paper and toys, and follow Carol inside. The place is full of various organic books, magazines and posters. Sabina loves the Man-Sun on the biodynamic calendar, and we receive a free copy to hang on our wall at the farm. I get talking with Gerhard (company owner) and he shows me his "no-dig" veggie garden, and his orchard.

"Who gets the fruit?", I ask, looking at his assortment of 30 odd trees. "Well in the past it used to be 80/20, birds/me. But last year, I turned it around. I got 80% of the fruit", his eyes twinkle with a secret. I gaze at the orchard, which shows no netting, then at Gerhard. "Pigs", he says wisely. "Nature's way of bird and pest control. They eat everything that falls to the ground, and the birds seem to stay away." I am suitably impressed.

"The black pigs seem to be more effective. And it's better if they have a nose ring. They won't dig up the orchard so much then", he adds.

The microscope arrives. I get a quick lesson about the lenses, transport, and putting it all together. The contraption is put into a box, and strapped into the front seat of the car.

If the microscope hadn't arrived, I wonder what else I could have learnt?

Microscope course

As a follow-up to the Soil Microbiology course, my husband sends me off on a microscope course, while he takes Sabina to the football.

The course is run by the same group that ran the Soils course, and is aimed to teach you to use the microscope and recognise all the different microorganisms in your soil - good, bad or ugly. And some of them are ugly.

I get my own microscope for the day, learn how to set it up, then I get a slide of compost tea, and off I go. The amount of life on that slide is amazing, and after some instruction, I get quite good at identifying the various little creatures.

At the end of the day I feel confident that, should I brew my own compost tea, I would be able to classify it as excellent, average or throw away.

Hide and seek

The currawong is strutting around under our bird feeder. I can see him from the kitchen. Every now and then he pokes his long beak into the softened ground and pulls out a tasty worm.
I grab the left overs from yesterdays dinner - morsels for the birds, and walk towards the bird feeder.

The currawong spots me. He's hoping that I'm heading for the hills hoist. I'm not heading for the hills hoist, he decides, and jumps effortlessly behind the stalk of the bird feeder. For a moment I can't see him.

Then his head pops out to the left of the feeder stalk. Quickly it darts back. I take another step forward. His head darts out to the right, then back, to the left, to the right, to the left. I continue to advance.

The currawong flies to the nearest tree, as I let the morsels fall onto the feeder. I go back and watch him from the cover of the kitchen.

He flies back to his well tested picking ground, every now and then eyeing off the feeder platform. Finally, he gets the courage to inspect the morsels, but he is ousted by the two crows, regulars, who fly in from nowhere. He watches from under a nearby tree, while they feast.

When they are gone, he returns to his slim, or perhaps slimy? pickings.

"But Mama, why didn't he get the meat?", asks Sabina. I gaze at her with that patient adult gaze "The early bird gets the worm".

The farmer's wife

Amongst our family and friends, my husband gets title of "the farmer". Why? Because he builds fences. He chainsaws, collects and splits the wood. Because he's taken the jockey wheel off the trailer and rolls the contraption by hand when he wants to attach it to the tractor. Because our daughter says "Papa's hands are rough. Not smooth like mine or yours."

Me? When it came to rolling the trailer by hand, I gave it a single heave, and said "oh no, too heavy". We won't even mention my effort at building fences.

Today, the farmer is getting ready to go on a bike ride. Farmers do that, you know. And I need to get 12 bales of hay out for the horses.

The farmer is still in the garage tuning his bike when he hears the rumble of the tractor. He pops his head out to see the tractor towing a trailer full of hay. By the time he's returning from his bike ride, the tailer and tractor are standing quietly side by side in the shed.

The carriage

Our daughter has seen backpacks of various shapes and sizes. Yet, when looking at some hiking photos with Papa, she sees a photo of me carrying a full hiking pack and says "But Papa, why has Mama got the carriage on her back?"

They keep looking through the hiking shots. Sabina looks on with great interest then says "Papa, when do you take a break?"

At this point I can no longer hold back. "Yeah Papa!" I holler from the kitchen, "when do we take a break?"

The compost heap

I drive the tractor (glorified lawn mower) towards the compost heap. Scoop down. I plunge the scoop into the heap, showing no mercy. When the tractor stops moving I scoop up and drive backwards. The contents is dropped off a mere 3 metres to the right. Every now and then I see steam rising from the heap. I put my hand against it. Not too hot. Good. I smell it. Smells divine. Not anaerobic then. Excellent. I keep doing this until I see soil and roots poking through it.

But, hang on, hang on. Soil? The bank there was very compacted earth and/or rock. So I haven't hit the bank yet. But it's definitely not horse poo. It's soil. Beautiful 70% cocoa chocolate brown soil.

And the roots? Whose roots? Well, the compost heap was originally built between two eucalypt trees. Then they were sprayed with poison. They have a few brown leaves, but they are far from dying. Now I know why.

Soil Fertility in practice

Okay, okay, I'm sold. How do I do this on my farm?

Well, today we get several presenters who have applied Dr Elaine's method's in Victoria. There is no shortage of volunteers keen to share their story.

One thing becomes obvious. Brewing a compost tea is a science, and these guys, are ... well ... farmers. No surprises there.

Getting the brew right is tricky, time consuming, and can be very disappointing when your perfect brew is destroyed by your machinery as you spray it out on the paddock. Those poor fragile fungi just cannot be squeezed through certain pumps. And even the bacteria suffer. If you can afford to backpack spray, then do so. Do I see a job coming up for some volunteers?

If brewing the perfect tea is tricky, then getting enough fungi in there seems impossible. Wonder if the scientist in me can change that. I won't quit my day job just yet.

I also manage to get my compost samples under the microscope. Sample one is 2-3 weeks old. Some bacteria there, not much variety, a few spores, and one ciliate (bad guy). Sample two is 4-5 weeks old. Heaps of spores, some nice fungi, although still not much variety. Now I'm excited. Wonder what the 1 year old stuff looks like?

Soil Fertility Seminar - Day 2

So we have now covered more chemistry than at first year uni, and the words bacteria, fungi, protozoa, good guy nematodes, flagelletes, ciliates and microarthopods roll off my tounge like butter.

Now we start covering food and healthy environments for the good guys. Bacteria love nitrates (NO3) while fungi like nitrites (NH4). But get too much food, and you have bacteria and/or fungi growing too fast, and you run out of air. Then you go anaerobic and lose all of your good guys. So, hello!, when a horse does a poo, it drops on the ground, there is a high concentration of NO3s, bacteria multiply too fast, soil goes anaerobic, good guys die, bad guys prosper and weeds flourish. Go capeweed!

If you do go anaerobic, you get bad smells. Rotten egg gas, sour milk, and so on. Trust your nose. If it stinks, leave it alone. It is bad.

If you have a worm farm, and you get liquid coming out the bottom, watch out! This is not compost tea. This is anearobic residue. Compost must be 70% moisture in order not to go anaerobic. (Add some shreded paper to your worm farm. Worms LOVE paper.)

This brings me to worms. Worms (can be seen by the naked eye, yay) eat everything in their path. Bacteria and fungi included. Good guys and bad guys. But then the good guys are nurtured in the worm's stomach, while the bad guys are destroyed. Then the worm's casting contains just the good guys, ready to grow and play. In addition, worms are covered by a light layer of slime. This slime allows good bacteria and fungi to grow, and get this, it kills e.Coli. Yep. Dr Elaine did an experiment testing just this.

We also cover mycorhizzal - an innoculant for plants. This is so cool. And apparently, if you have good guys in the soil, you will have good guys on the leaves. The good guys destroy pests. Yes, flies and mites become white fuzz balls. I told you it was cool.

Soil Fertility Seminar

I am at a Soil Fertility seminar today. My husband went to this seminar last year, got all inspired, gave me the brain dump, then said "Next year you have to go".

Since during the entire year the best we've done for our soil fertility is build a compost heap, here I am.

The seminar is intense, and goes right into microscopic details of micro biology, and chemistry. I'm keeping up, just. The overall message is clear. Don't ever ever ever use pesticides, herbicides or fertilizers ever again. Yes, those 20l of MCPA 500 we bought last year are heading for the bin. You don't need them. Just make your own compost, compost extract, and compost tea, and you're self sustainable. Yes, it's that simple. And Dr Elaine Ingham has heaps of examples to prove it. Oh, and did I say reduce your garden's water consumption by 70%? Yes. It's true. Have a draught year and don't water. Not one drop.

Don't believe me? Go and attend the seminar. Or, come and see us at the farm some time after we've done our first spray.

The method can be applied to a garden, a pot, or thousand acre farm. And anything in between. It's based on maintaining healthy soil. What's healthy soil? Well, depends. Depends on what you would like to grow in it. What's healthy for a weed is not healthy for a vegetable. What's healthy for a vegetable is not healthy for a tree. So yes, where you have trees you spray a different mix of compost tea than your lawn or your vegie garden. If fact, you may spray a different mix for carrots, and different for broccoli.

I must admit I am a bit wide eyed about this. I put up my hand. "So say you spray a compost tea on your paddock full of capeweed," I ask. "What happens to the capeweed?" "Well, assuming you got your mix right, the capeweed wilts", says Dr Elaine. Wow. This I want to see.

One mouse down

I check the mouse traps in the morning. They haven't been touched.

I check the mouse traps in the afternoon. They haven't been touched.

I go out at night to feed the horses, walkie talkie on my chest. Carefully I look behind the feed bin at the traps. One of them is gone! My heart pounds. Where is it? I find it behind the oaten chaff bin. Mouse caught. Such a pity it's not the rat.

So now I need to get rid of the mouse. Carefully, with appropriate long range utensil, I open the trap. The mouse gently tumbles onto the floor, still soft in its movement. It's definitely dead, but as I put it onto the dust pan I half expect it to twitch or speak up. It does! "Are you right out there?", says Pete over the walkie talkie. I get such a fright I almost bounce the mouse straight into my face.

Rat!

We have a rat in the big shed. No doubt about it. We've always had mice, and I don't like them, but they don't cause much harm, and they do clean up the odd flake of oaten chaff. But a rat. He stinks. Big time. And he causes harm. He's already chewed through three plastic containers with fish fertilizer. And now he's chewed through my plastic container with barley. Enough is enough.

I set mouse traps. We've got a rat trap somewhere, but we can't find it right now. So mouse traps will have to do for now. Even if he just gets his paw stuck in it. How's he going to squeeze through his little escape hole with this trap dangling off his paw?

The packaging for the traps prides itself in high quality. One of the traps breaks as I'm setting it. I position it together with the other traps. Just in case. Fingers crossed.

Holiday Diary: The Prawn Fishers

As an extended family, we've been to Merimbula before. And every single time we've been here at new moon time, when the prawns swim out to sea as the tide turns. An ideal time for prawin fishing.

The fist time, we talked about prawning. The second time we got 37 prawns. By the third time we were up to 44 prawns.

Being of a kayaking family, we catch the prawns with a net, from a kayak. This year, for the first time, we're using two kayaks, one net each.

The high tide peaks at 11:30pm. It's a late start for a family with young kids. Deep down, we all think we're mad, but no one says anything. The price of determination.

We're at the bridge a smidgin before the set time. The tide is still flowing in, but I manage to get a large prawn from the bank regardless.

Pete taps me on the shoulder. We put it. In the darkness, by torchlight, the paddles quietly lap the water. It's unusually romantic.

The first half hour is filled with using far too much torchlight to see the odd prawn, only to find that they quickly float to the bottom.

I look around. Where is my husband? I can hear his paddle. He banks 5 or 6 prawns with R and H on the bank. Damn. I haven't even got one. On the other hand, I feel really lucky that I haven't yet lost my net, or my paddle, or fallen in the water. Actually, amazing.

Then R points to a clump of seaweed and foam floating not too far from the bank. "What's that?" he calls. I paddle over. Gold. I return with three prawns. I return to the pointed spot many times. Sometimes, H and R on the bank cannot keep up with emptying the nets.

At about 1:30am I start feeling the cold night creeping in. And the romantic feeling returns. But I keep catching prawns. In fact, I get so cheeky, that as I see them approaching I choose the ones I will get. "I'll have the one on the left, and these two big ones on the right". The odd one gets away.

At 1:55anm my chin is starting to wag, and we cast our final net. Back at the house, R is busily cleaning and counting the catch. "Somewhere between 115 and 120. I lost count", he says.