‘But your licence allows you to pump more water out of the bore, doesn’t it?’ I asked. ‘I mean, if you really need to?’
‘Well, to my mind there’s a difference between what your water licence permits you to take, and what you should take,’ Stuart replied. ‘I’ve watched the signs over previous seasons as more of my neighbours have sunk bores and started pumping from the aquifer. Blind Freddy can see it’s dropping. So I’m giving the aquifer time to refresh itself. But I’m not stupid enough to expect that many others are doing the same.’ I shifted forward in the seat.
‘But why should you give up your water allocation for environmental reasons, when no-one else does?’ I asked.
We stopped near the end of the field and Stuart let the engine idle. He rubbed his jaw. ‘Well, it’s my choice, Fi. No-one’s putting a gun to my head. I just think it’s the right thing to do for the aquifer. Of course, it’s not the right thing to do for me financially. Water is money. And that’s why everyone else in the area is probably using their full water allocation. They’d all think I was crazy if they knew.’
Some would call it business suicide, I thought to myself. ‘So what makes you so different in your approach?’ I asked.
Stuart shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. I guess I’ve just always seen farming as something more than making money from natural resources. It’s a gift; you’re asking nature to do certain things for you. You can’t demand water from the earth just because the government’s given you a licence to extract it. You can wave your piece of rubber-stamped paper all you like, but if the aquifer’s dropping, you have to respond to that.’ He paused, staring out at the fields. ‘It’s the principle of the matter,’ he added.
Stuart kicked the four-wheeler into gear. If only others took such a principled approach, I reflected, perhaps Australia’s water crisis would ease.
We accelerated towards the southern boundaries of the property and two more paddocks flashed by.
‘That’s Field 5 and Field 6,’ shouted Stu. ‘They’re the most efficiently irrigated on my farm. Unlike the other fields, I don’t have to move water long distances, so it reduces evaporation and seepage.’
I noticed a series of white fibreglass pegs suspended in Field 5. ‘What’s that?’ I called, pointing towards the pegs. Stuart braked and steered the four-wheeler towards the staked-out area. We ground to a halt and he cut the engine.
‘That,’ he replied, ‘is a trial site for a new type of genetically modified cotton.’
Instinctively, I grimaced, surveying the plot warily. Apart from the pegs staking out the area, it was impossible to differentiate the genetically modified crop from the conventional cotton growing nearby. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
‘Currently the only GM cotton seed on the market is the one owned by Monsanto,’ Stuart continued. ‘You know, the company everyone loves to hate.’ He removed his hat and scanned the site. ‘The plants growing in there have been developed by another company, a Monsanto competitor. They’ve asked me to run a trial plot because of my research interests.’
‘And what’s been modified in those plants?’ I asked.
‘Well, they’ve been genetically manipulated to produce a toxin that kills the heliothis caterpillar, cotton’s worst enemy,’ he explained. ‘The plant’s a poisoned chalice – one bite and the toxin kicks in. But it’s so specific it doesn’t harm anything else.’
‘But how do you really know it’s safe to grow?’ I asked. ‘Couldn’t it contaminate the other plants?’ I’d read media stories about ‘Frankenfruit’.
Stuart folded his arms across his chest. ‘Well, it’s a tough one. I don’t want to sound condescending, but it’s easy to be reactionary about GM when you don’t work in agriculture. A lot of people talk about the precautionary principle and not taking any risks until you’re 100 per cent certain of the ramifications. Well, humans wouldn’t be where we are today without people taking risks.’ He paused, kicking the dirt from his boots.
‘I’ve had a good look at the science of GM cotton and it stacks up, as far as I can tell,’ he said.
‘How’s that?’ I asked, unconvinced.
‘Well, for example, when cotton pollinates, it’s such a heavy pollen that it can’t travel very far – it only ever moves about a metre from the pollination site,’ he said. ‘So we’ve put an enormous buffer zone in this site, well beyond the metre mark, which reduces the risk of contamination.’ I gazed at the GM plants, glossy leaves rippling in the breeze.
‘But there’d be other contamination risks apart from pollination, wouldn’t there?’ I asked. ‘I mean, the site’s right near a public road.’
Stuart nodded. ‘Yeah, and there’s a book six inches thick in my office about managing all sorts of risks on this site. The Office of Gene Technology is watching it like a hawk. I can’t even drive a tractor in there without telling them first,’ he said.
‘Guidelines are all very well,’ I said, ‘but is every farmer as thorough as you in observing them?’
‘I’d say so,’ he replied. ‘I mean, they’ve got a vested interest in making sure their land isn’t adversely impacted by GM, haven’t they? No farmer in their right mind wants to wake up one day with a disaster on their hands because they’ve ignored the protocols set down by the gene regulators.’
Suspicious that the profit imperative might overshadow individual responsibility, I fell quiet.
Stuart detected my cynicism. ‘Look, GM isn’t a panacea, Fi,’ he said. ‘But when it comes to cotton, GM seed does reduce pesticide usage – by about 80 per cent. Before I planted GM, I used to spray harsh chemicals twelve times a season for heliothis. Now I only spray three times a season, with chemicals that are much softer on the environment.’
‘Sounds like an ad for Monsanto,’ I said wryly.
Stuart grinned. ‘Maybe, but I reckon most conservation groups would be happy with that sort of outcome. Fewer nasty chemicals drifting around the environment, potentially contaminating the soil and waterways.’ He revved the engine of the four-wheeler and clicked it into gear.
‘The whole issue’s not as black and white as many people think,’ he called over his shoulder.
I remained dubious.
Wasn’t planting GM cotton to reduce pesticide usage a little like introducing the cane toad to control the cane beetle? The solution to the problem just becomes another problem?
As we accelerated away from the trial plot, I reflected on my ignorance of GM crops. While Stuart and I had discussed the issue in the abstract during the early months of our relationship, actually seeing a GM crop in the field was confronting. The truth was, I was afraid of genetic engineering and its unknown consequences for humanity. But my fear was largely reactive, based on media reports and hearsay. I’d never bothered to do the sort of due diligence that Stuart had. In deciding to plant GM cotton, Stuart had combed through the existing science, contacted experts in the field, weighed up the pros and cons, and finally arrived at an informed conclusion. By comparison, my own visceral reaction to GM was utterly uninformed.
Whichever way I looked at it, though, I still couldn’t shake my concerns. Stuart’s prudent approach to water resource management seemed somehow at odds with his acceptance of genetic engineering. How could someone so concerned about the environment be such an advocate of GM?
‘You’re awfully quiet back there,’ Stuart called over his shoulder.
‘I’m still thinking about GM,’ I said, leaning towards his ear. ‘And you know, it just doesn’t seem natural to me.’ Stuart’s laugh was audible over the engine.
‘Join the club. Most people have a pretty hardline reaction to it,’ he said. Slowing the four-wheeler, Stuart turned in my direction. ‘Well, Fi, if you’re anti-GM cotton, you’d better start identifying which clothing companies use organic cotton, because you’ll need to restock your wardrobe. And next time you go to the movies, you’d better check your popcorn isn’t cooked in GM cottonseed oil.’
‘I don’t like pop
corn,’ I protested lamely.
‘But you might be partial to deep-fried chips,’ he replied. ‘And they’re often cooked in cottonseed oil. The thing is, if you’re against GM cotton, Fi, you’ll need to change the way you live. Just like you have by being a vegetarian.’
I mulled this over as we continued our journey, feeling mildly chastised. He was right, of course: I couldn’t just object to GM crops in theory. Either I accept GM cotton, or I change my consumption habits. Deep down I knew what my choice would be. Was I just taking the path of least resistance?
We drove along the border of Field 6 and took a sharp left turn, bouncing over long grass towards a fallow paddock.
‘This is Field 7,’ announced Stu, steering the four-wheeler across the dirt towards the field’s edge. ‘It doesn’t look very special, but this is where I first found water.’ Stuart shut down the engine and leant back in the seat, his right arm slung loosely across my leg.
‘It was my second year of farming and I was only 22,’ he recalled, looking around the paddock. ‘I had a small herd of cattle, but we were in drought. The worst drought in a century, so the records said. The Cooranga Creek wasn’t running, I’d nearly drained all my stock dams and the animals were struggling. I just had to find bore water to survive.’ He swatted at a fly buzzing near his ear, catching it deftly in his left hand.
‘I’d saved up $10,000 from cattle sales the year before. It was all I had in the bank. But being young, I was ready to take a punt.’ He laughed.
‘So I rang Col Markham, a local drilling contractor, and asked him to come out and sink four test holes for water. It was going to cost me $2,500 apiece and four was all I could afford.’ I imagined Stuart gambling his savings on the equivalent of four raffle tickets, with no guarantee of winning a prize.
‘I was down on my luck,’ Stu continued, ‘Col sank three holes, but found no water. I crossed my fingers as he drilled the fourth hole. I think I might’ve prayed.’ Stu stared out at the paddock. ‘He found nothing. Dry as a bone. I shook Col’s hand and wrote him a cheque for $10,000. I was ready to give up farming and go back to the city. I’d just spent my money making Gebar less valuable, because now I’d proven there was no water under it.’
I pictured Stuart, an idealistic 22-year-old, defeated by drought.
‘And what happened?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ said Stu, ‘Col felt sorry for me, a young bloke from the city having a go on the land. So he offered to drill me an extra hole for free. I asked him if he was for real. “I’m serious, mate,” he said. “An extra one for good luck. Now, where do you want it?”’
‘I’d picked four losers in a row and couldn’t decide. So I turned to my dog Hayley and joked, “Where do you think it should go, girl?” and right away, she jumped off the back of the ute and trotted over there.’ Stuart pointed towards a power pole jutting upright in the paddock.
‘She stopped about 80 metres in and did this enormous crap on the dirt,’ he laughed. ‘So I said to Col, “Have a go at drilling a hole out there, mate.” Col drove his rig over, sank a hole, and found water.’
Goosebumps tingled across the back of my neck and down my arms.
‘It was bloody amazing, some sort of doggy divination,’ Stuart murmured. ‘We hit a sub-artesian aquifer. My farm was instantly transformed.’ I squeezed him tightly around the waist, quiet with wonder. Stuart started the engine and turned towards the fallow paddock.
‘Thanks, Hayley,’ he called out.
We gained speed, tracking east towards the creek. The road ended at the southern reaches of a large dam, one of two water storages on the property. Stuart manoeuvred the four-wheeler along a narrow path hugging the dam wall. I reached out to touch the smooth leaves of the cotton plants growing to my left. Swallows darted among succulent green undergrowth, bees hummed jubilantly between gleaming white-and-pink flowers. Pockets of cool air eddied around us.
‘It seems fresher here,’ I said.
‘You’re right,’ called Stu. ‘It’s the evapo-transpiration effect through the cotton leaves, which makes everything cooler. I irrigated these plants from the bore last week and they’re busy sucking water from the soil, happy as anything.’
I dug my knees into Stuart’s thighs as we accelerated up an incline at the northern end of the dam.
‘Problem is,’ said Stu, surveying the empty dam before us, ‘if we don’t get rain soon, those plants will suffer.’ Colossal cracks zigzagged across the dried clay in the bottom of the dam and tufts of yellowed grass clung to the edges of a long-gone waterline.
‘This is the Lagoon Dam,’ said Stu quietly. ‘Try to picture thirteen football fields of water, five metres deep. That’s what it looks like when it’s full. I used the last of the water before Christmas. So let’s just hope it rains.’
We retraced our path and descended the bank to ground level, bouncing along a wallaby trail through scrub. We emerged at the eastern end of a large field backing onto a second dam.
‘This is the Pelican Dam,’ said Stu, as we peered into its arid interior. ‘Looks great when there’s water in it. The pelicans love it.’
The fields surrounding this dam were strikingly different to the earlier paddocks. Even to my untrained eye, it was clear that these cotton plants were struggling. Most had cast off their delicate flowers; the remaining buds clung to leathery, flaccid foliage. The field had taken on a bluish tinge, and the plants seemed to sag against one another.
‘That’s what drought does to a crop,’ Stu said. ‘But you know, I reckon there’s something else happening to those plants. Maybe a nutrient deficiency or a disease of some kind. The agronomist’s told me to relax and see if it improves. But he always says that.’
‘What’s an agronomist?’ I asked, unacquainted with the term.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Stu. ‘I guess you’ve never met one?’ I shook my head.
‘Agronomists are the most important people a farmer knows. They’re basically crop doctors,’ he explained. ‘They inspect the field every few days, monitoring insects, weeds and moisture. You pay them to avert disaster.’
‘And your agronomist’s not worried about those plants?’ I asked, squinting at the wilting crop.
‘Well, he reckons it’s just the drought,’ Stuart replied. ‘But my hunch is, there’s something else going on.’
I wondered briefly who was right. A light breeze had sprung up and a tract of trees to the north caught my eye, their leaves glittering in the sun.
‘Over there,’ said Stu, following my gaze, ‘is Wilden’s Walk.’ Three years previously, Stuart had planted native trees across an area of some twelve hectares, under the direction of an environmentally conscious friend from the ethics program.
‘It’s a real wildlife corridor now,’ said Stu, pointing at a mob of kangaroos lazing in the late afternoon sunshine. ‘I copped a bit of flak when I first planted it, with farmer mates calling me a greenie.’
Stuart steered the four-wheeler off the embankment and we continued east through shrubby native country. I noticed an increasing number of spiny cacti-like plants hampering our passage.
‘What are they?’ I asked. ‘They look lethal.’ Stuart pulled up alongside a particularly large specimen and kicked at it with his boot.
‘Tiger pear,’ he said. ‘Shocking stuff. Hayley used to have a hard time with it. She’d limp in at night with needles stuck in her like a pin cushion.’ He patted me on the knee.
‘Don’t ever come through here unless you absolutely have to,’ he said. ‘I call it “Tiger Pear Alley”. But there’s something nearby I want to show you.’
Stuart shifted the four-wheeler into a lower gear as we lurched across rough terrain. Near the banks of the Cooranga Creek, Stuart cut the engine. The creek bed was parched, exposing the intricate root systems of enormous box trees lining its banks. Silty deposits marked the meandering of previous flows in languorous swirls. As we walked along the creek bed, kookaburras announced the impending sunset.
‘There,’ said Stu, pointing to a majestic old poplar box tree, charred from bushfires long past. ‘It’s been hollowed out by fire, and there’s plenty of room inside. When we broke up, I spent a lot of time just sitting in there, thinking.’ I winced at the mental image of Stuart brooding inside a burnt-out old tree.
‘I’m so sorry …’ I began.
‘Shhh,’ said Stu, ‘I didn’t bring you here for another apology. All that’s behind us now. You’ve shown me you’re sorry by moving up here.’ He led me towards the tree and urged, ‘Have a look inside.’ I approached the entrance and peered within. It was spacious enough for two, and its cool environs offered a perfect retreat for contemplation. Stuart took my hand and, ducking through the entrance, pulled me into the hollow trunk after him.
‘This tree knows everything about the last six months,’ he said. ‘So I think we’d better let it know we’re back together.’ I giggled as he slid his arms around me.
We kissed, our bodies pressed between walls of charcoal.
The sun slipped below the horizon and we returned to the four-wheeler, heading north towards a wild expanse of grass country. It was a vast, untouched area, dotted with shrubs that resembled miniature Christmas trees.
‘Who owns all that?’ I called to Stuart over the noise of the engine.
‘I do,’ yelled Stuart, ‘but I don’t plant crops on it. I just let nature do its thing in there. The box trees and she-oaks match up with the trees along Wilden’s Walk and the creek country. It’s good for the wildlife.’ On cue, a mob of galahs rose screeching from the grass, swirling like a fluttering sheet in the dying light.
I quietly considered how much profit Stuart had forfeited by making this environmentally conscious choice; judging by the size of the area, it was a considerable sum.
As if reading my mind, Stuart yelled over the engine, ‘Neighbours have been pushing me to plough it up for years. They think I’m mad. But my view is, you don’t have to farm every last acre of your land. In fact, I reckon as a farmer you shouldn’t. You’re a steward of the land.’
Love in the Age of Drought Page 9