The Last Crocodile Hunter

by Bob Irwin

  That felt like the end of my childhood family. It was a very long time before I returned to Melbourne: our southern chapter had well and truly come to a close, and our future was deeply planted in Queensland. Just like trees, nothing can remain standing if its roots aren’t deep. There was no more looking back; we were here to stay.

  3

  Queensland Reptile and Fauna Park

  By 1980, Beerwah Reptile Park was steadily trucking along. Every single cent that came through the front gate in takings went straight back into the running of the park. Day by day, week by week, year by year, the park continued to progress and, finally, began to turn a profit. As we became one of the Sunshine Coast’s premier tourist attractions, we reached a point where we had even outgrown our name. We decided it was time to rebrand the business to better represent what our little family park had evolved into. As a family, we settled on the name Queensland Reptile and Fauna Park. Beerwah was suddenly too limiting, and we had established more than just a collection of reptiles, having expanded to house all kinds of furry, scaly and feathered fauna. Bursting at the seams on our three-and-a-half-acre block, we also purchased an adjoining five acres next door, allowing us to finally expand the park.

  As we got on our feet financially, we could afford to employ staff for the first time. Now that the park had quite literally doubled in size it had become a lot for our small family to manage. But in the early days I struggled to find appropriate people to fill those positions. After the social liberation movement swept across Australia at the tail end of the 1970s, a large majority of applicants openly smoked marijuana and they weren’t backwards in coming forwards about mentioning it in the job interview. I’d have to explain that because of the kind of work they’d be doing—dealing with venomous reptiles, crocodiles and large birds of prey—I couldn’t risk employing someone with reduced faculties. I don’t know how many people I must have interviewed before I finally found a handful of dependable people who shared our vision. It was a small team to begin with, but they were of enormous assistance to the park.

  Our eldest daughter, Joy, eventually joined us in Queensland and enrolled in an environmental studies degree at university. Mandy was getting involved in horse-riding on weekends, and both of the girls did a wonderful job running their own business serving food and drinks from a kiosk that I had built at the front of the park. I had made it a point to teach them very early in the piece that with a small family business, whether you were running a reptile park or a kiosk, you needed to be able to do just about anything yourself. Because a lot of the time you’d be the only one around to do it.

  When Mandy’s involvement in horse-riding competitions became serious, I used to take her to all of her shows, hitching the horse float to the back of my car. She absolutely loved her horses, and I loved going out with her and seeing her immerse herself in something she was really passionate about. Eventually she got her own vehicle. Then one day she called me out to help her with a flat tyre. ‘One thing you’ve got to learn, Mandy, is that if you get a flat tyre you’ve got to be able to fix it yourself. You’ve got to learn. So we’ll start right here, right now,’ I said to her as I arrived at the scene. My advice was always the same. ‘Don’t use force, get a bigger hammer,’ I concluded.

  She listened carefully as I talked her through changing the tyre and then repeated the steps over and over until she eventually got the hang of it. I knew then that whenever she went out, she’d be able to look after herself. I was very insistent that both of the girls were independent like that, because I knew that as they got older I wasn’t necessarily always going to be around to help them or to be there to do it for them. All of the children wound up being very capable in that way as time went along; you only ever had to show something to them once. Steve, on the other hand—well, he was another story. At fourteen years old he was still escaping out of his bedroom window. I think it takes boys a lot longer to get themselves sorted.

  ***

  Around this time, my mentor and most treasured friend on the wildlife scene, David Fleay, became gravely unwell. In the face of his declining health, David parted ways with his thirty-seven-acre sanctuary to the Queensland government, after which it became a conservation park only displaying native wildlife in their natural environment. As David found homes for his exotic animals, he offered to give me some of his prized animals, including Alistair, an American alligator; his magnificent boa constrictor; and Harriet the Galapagos tortoise, at a staggering one hundred and fifty plus years of age the most esteemed animal I had ever known and a living antique. I was temporarily overwhelmed and then over the moon, delighted to have been entrusted with such special creatures. To receive that from the man I considered one of the best in the business was the greatest privilege I could ever imagine.

  Her Majesty Harriet was a much-loved elderly lady with a long history thought to go back to the 1830s, when colonial Australia was just forty-two years old. David had first sighted Harriet at the Brisbane Botanical Gardens in 1939. Back then she was thought to be male, and was one of a trio of tortoises named Tom, Dick and Harry. Upon learning in the 1950s that she had been put up for sale, he purchased her to live out her days in peace at his sanctuary, and subsequently discovered that Harry was in fact a Harriet.

  It was plausible that Harriet had arrived in Australia on a sailing ship in the nineteenth century. Tortoises were often stowed as food for the sailors; up to forty at a time would be flipped on their backs in the hold of the ship, where they could survive for up to a year without any food or water. It was a possibility that Harriet was brought to Australia on the HMS Beagle after being collected as a specimen by the great naturalist Charles Darwin himself, and later gifted to the Brisbane Botanical Gardens by the retired captain of the ship.

  Harriet made her final, not-so-grand voyage in the back of my humble Toyota Landcruiser wagon, nicknamed the Poo Mobile. It came to have that name because the first three letters of the number plate were P-O-O, which the kids found painfully comical. But Harriet cemented the car’s nickname that day, as, far from genteel, she smeared poo throughout the back of that wagon. It stank to high heaven and she made an astonishing mess which took many days of airing out to get rid of the stench.

  We had a lot of trouble getting her through the front entrance of the park because she was so impressively large, weighing more than two hundred kilograms. In the end we removed an entire panel of the fence and chaperoned her in the Poo Mobile right up to her new enclosure. She was greeted by a throng of journalists and visitors who had gathered in excitement to welcome such a highly esteemed creature. I had made her a beautiful enclosure, complete with a heated house to retreat to in the cooler winter months. We were determined to give Harriet a home fit for the grand old queen that she was; it really did feel like we were receiving a member of the royal family, we were just that thrilled to welcome such a special creature into our care.

  Harriet fast became an adored addition to our family, as well as a favourite of visitors and staff. If we were ever under any stress we would just go and sit quietly with Harriet. We could confide all of our woes to her, and she’d barely bat an eyelid. In fact, because Galapagos tortoises rely more on their eyesight than their hearing, she could probably barely hear us anyway. But she absolutely relished fresh fruit and her favourite treat of all, hibiscus flowers. It was like taking flowers to our grandmother: we’d arrive at her gate with a bunch of pink and red hibiscus and she’d slowly make her way over to us. She’d slowly devour them all, eyes closed in pleasure. We’d sit beside her and she’d stretch her neck out like a periscope for us to scratch her creased, leathery skin. She had a face like E.T., feet like an elephant and a domed shell the size of a mansion.

  It was hard to get my head around all the years she’d been on the planet. I wished that Harriet could somehow share her knowledge of our world, from the perspective of one of the longest-lived vertebrates on the planet. I’d think about her long journey, which had begun with her infancy as a ti
ny little tortoise hatching somewhere off the west coast of South America that finally brought her to us at a ripe old age. And I’d always reflect on what a privilege it was to have Harriet as part of our family. And I think she was pretty damn pleased with her retirement too.

  Despite the fact that I’d installed a comprehensive drainage system when we’d first established the park, it was prone to flooding. With the arrival of the summer storms, it seemingly only took a sprinkle for the park to be inundated with water. At times we even had to close the park while we waited for the floodwaters to recede. Late one evening as the water began to rise, Mandy, Steve and I headed out to check on the animals. I was particularly worried about a little pen housing injured birds that were unable to fly—a curlew and some baby kookaburras and tawny frogmouths. After taking care of them, we checked the rest of the park and found Harriet’s enclosure completely underwater.

  ‘She’ll sink like a rock! We need to keep her above the water,’ I called out to the kids as we all waded out to Harriet, who was sitting in the middle of a growing pond like a giant boulder. We set about trying to move her to higher ground. We knew we couldn’t lift her, so we resolved to take turns to hold her afloat in the now waist-deep water to make sure she wouldn’t drown. At the time, you just do whatever is necessary for the survival of the animals in your care. We must have held her for hours before the water eventually began receding. Finally we collapsed in bed, knowing she was out of harm’s way.

  So imagine our surprise when the next morning we saw our damsel in distress swimming from one end of her enclosure to the other. She’d become buoyant, extending her neck out like a snorkel in the water and breathing perfectly. All two hundred kilograms of her was effortlessly doing a tortoise’s version of doggy paddle. Here we were thinking that Harriet was going to drown because our assumption was that Galapagos land tortoises can’t swim, and there she was, getting about in her new water feature like she was taking a few leisurely laps of her local swimming pool in a flowery bathing cap. That was such a laugh. Eventually we all witnessed Harriet swimming on many more occasions throughout the wet seasons at the park. Needless to say, we didn’t worry too much about her the next time it rained. She was always one step ahead of us, our grand old lady.

  On receiving another of David’s estimable animals, Alistair the alligator, I could hardly wait to introduce him to Daisy, a beautiful female alligator I already had. I had fond hopes that they’d fall in love. Daisy had always enjoyed making nests in her pen. As she was kept alone, her eggs were never fertile, of course, but she’d tirelessly fuss over her nests regardless. But once I put Alistair into Daisy’s enclosure, her attitude changed from big black pussycat to being flat-out aggressive. Those alligators fought like cats and dogs; I couldn’t understand it. It all came to a head when Daisy broke Alistair’s jaw. It was a bad break: she virtually snapped poor old Alistair’s jaw in half.

  In those early years of the park, finding any sound veterinary advice was difficult, and I certainly wasn’t anywhere near experienced enough in that field. Not a lot was known then about what drugs would work on reptiles, and at times it became exasperating trying to find anyone at all, especially on the Sunshine Coast, who had the knowledge to care for our large collection of exotic and native species.

  We eventually stumbled across a local vet named Angus Young, whom we saw for our dog, Trinni. He was working out of a clinic that specialised in normal, garden-variety animals like dogs and cats. But I was immediately struck by his compassion and willingness to get involved when nobody else was prepared to even try. He was such a big-hearted bloke; we could always be sure that no matter the time of day or night, if we called he’d provide his input and give his professional advice. No matter how unfamiliar a species they were to him, he’d only be too happy to try his best. We came to rely on him, and as the years wore on we most certainly would have been up that proverbial creek without a paddle without him.

  When Alistair’s jaw was broken, Angus agreed on the spot to help and started making enquiries around the world about anaesthetic protocol for alligators. He also tracked down a portable anaesthetic machine. We were finally able to begin the painstaking operation to reconstruct Alistair’s jaw. After many hours, Angus had successfully pinned together Alistair’s top jaw, drilling a hole through the bone and fixing it in place with a steel pin, all while the kids excitedly handed him his instruments through the fence. It was an exciting procedure for everyone to watch; pinning the jaw of an alligator doesn’t happen every day. Everything went exceptionally well—that was until Alistair wouldn’t wake up from the anaesthetic.

  The anaesthetic had been too much; there just wasn’t enough information around. And Angus did an exceptional job then in making enquiries about how to wake a heavily anaesthetised alligator. While Alistair was unconscious, the whole family took it in turns to sit in a lounge chair inside his enclosure, keeping an around-the-clock vigil. Of an evening, I rolled out my swag and slept beside him in his pond, one of the rare times Lyn was upset about the attention I was giving to the animals. It was Christmas and I’d even spent Christmas Day out there in that pond.

  ‘You devote more time to that alligator than to me. When are you spending a night in the house?’ she shouted, before taking off in the car after one of the very few arguments we ever had.

  But I was so concerned about Alistair drowning. We had to keep him submerged so that he could excrete the excess medication. Alligators will only excrete in the water, so someone had to be there with him to keep him afloat at all times. I decided to take on the job of making sure he didn’t drown, keeping my hand under his head to keep him out of the water when he slipped back down. After school, the kids would join me and we’d camp out in the enclosure in our swags by the light of the torch.

  Finally, after almost two very long weeks, Alistair opened his eyes. He was a modern-day Sleeping Beauty with a reptilian twist. After his jaw recovered, he returned to normal, as strong as the steel pin holding him together, and now in his very own enclosure. I never paired him with Daisy again, because I had also discovered, during this whole ordeal, that Alistair was in fact Alison. He was not a male alligator at all. Those two females, it seemed, had become territorial.

  Lyn eventually forgave me, and I was allowed to sleep in the house again. Angus became one of the most knowledgeable veterinarians in the area, able to treat a variety of ailments across a broad spectrum of exotic wildlife. He certainly stood out for his dedication to always finding out the best practice, despite being unfamiliar at times with the kind of weird and wonderful animals that we often presented him with.

  I had a good laugh with David about our escapades with the animals he had entrusted to me. I considered them tests from David, generating some of my greatest lessons yet in animal observation: I learnt that Galapagos tortoises can in fact swim exceptionally well, and that you should never assume the sex of an alligator despite a rather masculine name.

  ***

  Ultimately David’s ill health meant he was confined to bed. I found those visits incredibly difficult. I’d still sit by his bedside and have a cup of tea with him, and despite how unwell he became he’d still answer all my questions. When his days were numbered and the end was in sight, I hurried to ask him everything I could possibly think of. When David finally passed, a vast wealth of knowledge was lost with him. That was an awfully sad day for the animals.

  He had been a trailblazer: from his work to help develop the first taipan antivenom to pioneering captive breeding of endangered wildlife, he expanded our knowledge of the natural world. His life was dedicated to the betterment of animals and their environment. David was the first person in the world to breed platypuses, emus, koalas, powerful owls, wedge-tailed eagles and countless other native Australian wildlife in captivity. So much of what’s known today about our Australian wildlife is thanks to my dear friend David.

  ***

  Monty was my very first saltwater crocodile. I got him in exchange for a mo
nitor lizard that I bred. He was only two and a half feet long when he was welcomed into our park. Almost as soon as I got him, I fell under his spell and for that reason I used to spoil Monty rotten. As soon as I’d closed the gates to tourists for the day, I’d go and sit with him. I thought he was just the absolute king of the park and I’d give him extra food as a special treat. Before long he was over three metres long.

  Monty had his own pen complete with a tiled swimming pool, but as he grew he needed more space, so I constructed a spacious new enclosure for him. I was so impatient to show it to him that instead of sensibly restraining him and lifting him into his new home, I thought I could do it without catching him, just let him walk proudly in himself. Monty was a good-natured boy, despite his size; I’d never had any problems with him. I had built a metre-wide alleyway between the pens. I opened the gates of Monty’s old pen and of the new enclosure at the far end, and let him into the alleyway. I naively thought I would be able to encourage him to walk there all by himself as if taking my pet dog for a stroll off the leash.

  At first everything went to plan. Curious about all the activity, he climbed out of his pond and slowly walked, high up on his legs, halfway to his new home. Salties instinctively tail walk—where their belly and most of their tail are off the ground. In the wild, this is a skill they learn as a hatchling to catch small prey up on the banks. But now, excited that my plan was working, I made the mistake of walking directly beside him, level with his head. A lightbulb went on at that moment. In the instant I realised it I thought, Well, you’re an absolute dummy, Bob. But it was far too late. I knew very well that the last place for me to be standing was beside his head. Whammo, he got me. You should never stand next to a salty, because they can move sideways so quickly that you won’t even see it coming. And I didn’t.