The Last Crocodile Hunter

by Bob Irwin

  I established a private plant nursery at Rosedale where I grew all the plants for Steve at the zoo. I cultivated thousands of all sorts of palm tree varieties to plant out new pathways, enclosures and landscaped grounds as the park expanded. As always, I got stuck into it, reading as much as I could, seeking information from other people in the horticulture business, and constructing my own greenhouses.

  I relocated each tree to Beerwah myself, digging them out of the ground and driving the seven-hundred-kilometre round-trip. It was a chance to check in with the park, to see all the expansions taking place. I had cottoned on that whenever I turned up, Steve had spent the better part of the last few days getting everything in tip-top shape: park staff were prepped, enclosures were extra clean, pathways swept, new constructions finished. He wanted to make a good impression. But he didn’t need to; he made it on his own. I was always so proud of him.

  In those later years at Rosedale, Lyn and I welcomed a new member of our family, Ailac the Alaskan malamute. He was named after a glacier, because he was so big, it felt as though he was the size of one. When his mother rejected him a day after birth, Mandy raised him until he was five weeks old and then he came to us, where he quickly became part of the family. He was a giant ball of fluff, and shed clouds of fur with every shake of his body.

  ‘Will you get that bloody dog off the bed!’ Lyn would shout as Ailac bounded into our bedroom every morning, startling us awake as this thing the size of a rhinoceros tried to wiggle in between us on the bed. I’d make the appropriate noises, but I secretly loved those wake-up calls from him.

  He was gentle and playful, and loved to jump into Island Creek on his daily off-leash adventure. He wasn’t allowed to go in but he always did, and on the walk back to the house I’d warn him about how we were both going to pay for that, so I’d wash him and dry him and spend an hour brushing his thick fur. When Ailac got into trouble, usually I did too, because whatever we did it always involved a lot of mud.

  By the year 2000, Steve had got in our ear about us moving to a new property he and Terri had privately purchased to keep as a wildlife sanctuary. The 1650 acres needed infrastructure built from scratch. Steve wanted to prove that it was possible to run cattle without detrimentally affecting the environment or its wildlife, and also wanted to create a release facility for rehabilitated native wildlife at the same time. The property would also have a plantation of over 33,000 eucalypt trees to feed the koalas back at the zoo. As just one koala needed to feed on around three hundred eucalypts per year across eight different species, that alone would be a full-time job.

  By now, Steve and Terri had welcomed their first child into the world, a beautiful daughter called Bindi Sue. She was the apple of Steve’s eye, and being a father became the most important job in the world to him. She was the latest addition to our ever-expanding brood of grandkids back down on the Sunshine Coast, who were the catalyst for Lyn wanting to agree to Steve’s idea to move. Being a typical doting grandmother, Lyn was convinced almost immediately because it meant we would be closer to the family. But I loved our life at Rosedale, and as usual I took a lot more convincing.

  Travel Log: Bob and Amanda on the road

  THE ALICE RIVER, CAPE YORK, QUEENSLAND, SEPTEMBER 2015

  AMANDA

  Enjoyment comes in the form of some of the most basic things when you’re out in the bush. Things that I ordinarily take for granted at home. Being covered from head to toe in powdery red bull dust or sweating in forty-degree heat for days on end truly makes me appreciate the very basic necessities of daily life. Like washing my hat-hair for the first time in a week, or shaving my legs, just basic maintenance that feels long overdue since being on the road. Things like this are just a part of my everyday life back in Brisbane, but to be able to take some time out of the hottest part of the day to sit in the shade of a paperbark tree on the banks of a remote waterhole in the middle of Cape York makes the experience a novelty.

  On this particular day, an ibis soared gracefully overhead, travelling slowly in my direction. I was enjoying watching him effortlessly glide along, his reflection perfectly mirrored in glassy water below. The moment he realised I was there, he got a fright and awkwardly changed course, almost back-flipping in his panic to get away from me. I could only imagine his thoughts: What the bloody hell is that thing? His surprise to see me was the perfect sign of the remoteness of this place. I laughed to imagine city ibis being afraid of people as they raided rubbish bins on our streets. How nice it would be for all wildlife to be unaware of humans in this way, not habituated like the ones having to contend for habitat in suburbia. I felt tiny under the limitless, vivid blue sky of Cape York, reflecting on what an insignificant little dot I was on the vast landscape.

  I had an iPad set up beside me playing Jack Johnson songs that resonated with my feelings about this trip, songs about perfect days in a mellow world. Every now and then a little freshwater crocodile would surface in the waterhole beside me and take a good look. I enjoyed playing a little game with him; I’d look away, and then quickly turn back to catch his eye. Every time our eyes met, he’d disappear below the water, leaving ripples in his wake. I found it endearing that he thought he could take a stealthy glimpse at me without me knowing. We were so remote, it was likely he’d never seen a human before. How good is life? I thought.

  But a familiar voice soon sounded behind me. ‘Amanda, what is this disgusting music?’

  I turned around to see Bob, beach towel over his shoulder and thongs on his feet, prepared for an afternoon dip. Our swims had become a daily ritual to relieve the heat of the unforgiving late-afternoon sun. When we couldn’t stomach another cup of scalding hot tea, and got tired of moving our chairs every five minutes to stay in the constantly moving shade, we’d walk to the river and lie down in ankle-deep water until the sun sank over the sand hills. We’d look forward to being momentarily cool, even though we knew we’d be dripping with sweat again by the time we’d clambered back over the sand dunes to camp. As the sun sank, we’d take a moment to rejoice in the fact that the flies had finally gone to bed. It was always a short-lived celebration, though, because then the other little buggers would come out—the mosquitos.

  When swimming alone, I’d be watching my back like a meerkat on duty, but when Bob was with us I’d feel at ease. If Bob was in the water, we were sure to be safe, because Bob can think like a crocodile. I don’t know how he does it, but I trust him with my life and I’d sit calmly, my body fully submerged, despite the fact that we’d seen sizeable salties in adjoining waterholes.

  ‘It’s Jack Johnson, Bob. And it’s not disgusting,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘I feel depressed. Even the fish are depressed. Look at them swimming upside down. They’re protesting about this awful music.’

  It dawned on me that the entire journey north had been devoid of any music. Almost everywhere I travel back home in my car there’s a soundtrack to my day. But in all my journeys with Bob, we never once had the radio on or music playing. We would either be talking, or sitting in silence, wrapped up in our own thoughts. More often it’d be silence. For Bob, driving was thinking time.

  I’d never thought to ask him about what style of music he even liked. ‘Growing up, I really liked Buddy Holly. He was more my vintage, long before your time,’ he said.

  But he’d gravely underestimated my varied taste in music. We sat listening to ‘That’ll Be the Day’ on my iPad, and I could tell from Bob’s toe-tapping that he enjoyed the fifties rock’n’roll echoing across the otherwise still Alice River.

  ‘Look at that. The fish are even mating again!’ he cried, with a defiant grin on his face. We sat for hours talking about great bands of the past. He’d seen Roy Orbison live at the Caloundra Civic Centre once with rave reviews, and he didn’t mind a bit of Johnny Cash over the wireless too. But it was The Everly Brothers’ ‘Dream’ that brought back his fondest memories, recollections of his early days courting Lyn.

  ‘I find it hard to listen
to these songs nowadays and that’s why I don’t often listen to music. They remind me of the times I had with Lyn, it takes me right back and that’s a painful memory. Funny how music has a way of doing that. I try as hard as I can to never let my mind wander there.’

  His words saddened me. I went quiet and listened as Bob continued speaking. ‘Do you want to know something that sounds silly? I loved her more after forty-six years than the day we first met. That’s a feeling that is difficult to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it.’

  As we sat quietly, Bob went on to share with me the story about the day his music died. And while there weren’t words to describe his love for Lyn, I wondered if perhaps the Everly Brothers were able to say it for him instead.

  6

  A sign of life

  Convinced I finally was, and in January 2000 I set off for our new home at Ironbark Station, just outside of Blackbutt. Ironbark Station is in the South Burnett region north-west of Brisbane, where the east coast meets the dry west at the Great Dividing Range. I was shadowing the removalists’ truck, with my own truck and trailer overflowing with the belongings of our Rosedale life. Towing this much weight was going to make it a long, slow trip, so Lyn stayed behind to do one final tidy and then bring Ailac, who needed a lot of room, and Sandra the bird-eating spider, in her glass aquarium.

  The vacant new house I was slowly heading towards was a replica of our beloved Rosedale: everything, inside and out, had been fabricated to be identical to the home we had adored. The wide verandahs skirting the new house were built to the same open-plan style, the bedrooms were laid out in the same configuration, and the kitchen had been duplicated too, with cupboards and benches in exactly the same places. Once our possessions were all in place, it would be a clone of our life in Rosedale—apart from a new outlook onto open eucalypt forest and a much larger expanse of land. We had already weathered one big storm, and reproducing Rosedale would make this uprooting less of a struggle and give us a comforting reminder of our old life. This had been our one condition before finally agreeing to Steve’s idea to relocate.

  I was sad to be leaving not only our property, but also the deep-sea fishing spots out on the southern end of the Great Barrier Reef that had become favourite haunts for Lyn and me. We’d set out from the quiet seaside town of Seventeen Seventy in our prized fishing boat, in search of red emperor and coral trout to take home and cook on the barbecue. Lyn was a really good fisherwoman. Almost too good, in fact; so much so that it was embarrassing.

  But I was ardently looking forward to being closer to our growing brood of grandkids, and also to helping Steve with his plans to buy large expanses of private land to secure as wildlife habitat. Ironbark Station was to be a pilot project, where he hoped to turn private land into regenerated areas for wildlife, similar to the model of our national parks. My role as the property manager would be to build the property infrastructure on the sparse block, the kind of hard work that I enjoyed: building fences, slashing grass, digging out dams, and other general maintenance.

  Lyn was looking forward to getting back to wildlife care again too, with plans to develop the property for wildlife rehabilitation in a big way, starting with a large hack-out facility—a soft-release area for injured wallabies and kangaroos. Lyn had been sold on this idea long before I came around to it. I think Steve had got to me through his mum.

  But none of it was meant to be. Lyn never called Ironbark Station home. Three hours into her four-hour journey to our much-anticipated new life, Lyn fell asleep at the wheel. Her car hit a tree and she died on impact, together with Ailac. Sandra’s glass aquarium shattered beyond recognition. And so did my life.

  In an instant, my perfect world was altered forever. All that we’d worked towards in our forty-six years together was ripped away. I had never considered, not even for a second, that we wouldn’t grow old together.

  I had become increasingly concerned when she didn’t turn up when expected; I had called the zoo, Steve, Mandy, Joy, friends and neighbours. But I feared the worst as soon as I saw the police car arrive with flashing lights down our very long driveway. I saw it approaching as if in slow motion. A gentle young policeman named Brett looked downhearted as he knocked on the door of our unfurnished home and introduced himself before breaking the unbelievable news. I could tell from his anguished expression that he hadn’t been long in the job. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Irwin. I’ve got some news about your wife, Lyn.’

  I don’t recall what he said after that because I instantly felt numb. It was incomprehensible. But I was also all too aware that Lyn had a bad habit of getting sleepy when driving long distances. I was instantly consumed with regret that I hadn’t made that journey together with her. I thought if only every other moment.

  The first thing that goes through your head in the days that follow is wishing it was you, and not a person you believe had more reason to live. I would have given anything to have been able to take her place. What a bloody waste of someone who was at the centre of our family. She was a good mother—the best there was—and the Mother Teresa of animals too. But most importantly for me, she was my true soulmate, and my lifelong friend. We had grown up together from young teenagers. I didn’t know how this world operated without her in it.

  And Lyn, of all people, didn’t deserve this. I couldn’t help thinking that life was so intensely cruel for having dished this out to us. I couldn’t grasp why it had happened. I began searching for answers everywhere. I couldn’t comprehend how the lights can just go out on a life like that.

  I didn’t handle it well. You can’t live with someone for all that time and have this happen and just flick a switch and think, Well, now I’ll carry on as usual. The numbness continued until I couldn’t remember feeling otherwise. My formerly carefree world now seemed ghastly and unfamiliar. I didn’t recognise anything; everything was tinged with overwhelming sadness.

  I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t stand still. I couldn’t be alone of a night in that big empty house. In one way it was full of familiarity, reminding me of our happy times whichever way I turned, but it also couldn’t have felt more different to the life we had once made together. The walls were suffocating and so I slept outdoors, messing up the sheets in the bedroom to cover this up from the family who constantly visited to keep an eye on me.

  I just shut everybody out. I didn’t want to talk, I just wanted to be left alone.

  I set up camp outdoors in the sawmill shed, with my swag on the ground. I felt more comfortable outside. The lean-to had just a roof, no walls. It was next to a gully. I’d pace there when I couldn’t fall asleep, chewing over my questions. That gully created a sliver of peace and tranquillity among the carnage. Eventually as the night wore on I’d just sit there, under the mass of stars, and quietly try to come to terms with my grief, finding a bit of comfort in the busy night-time goings-on of insects and animals around me.

  One moment I’d feel like I might be able to get my head around it a little, and the next the darkness would come on like a stealthy black dog. You can ask it to stay away, you can fight it off with a stick, but eventually you succumb to the grips of despair. I’d slip back down to the bottom of a dark hole that was impossible to climb back out of for another few days.

  I would over-exert myself all day with physical work—the busier the better, less time to think. But I’d dread the approach of the dark, knowing that at some stage I’d have to go to bed. In the days, weeks and months that followed, I spent hours just walking through the darkness with absolutely no purpose at all. I didn’t achieve anything. I didn’t solve any problems. I didn’t find any answers.

  In the rare instances when I was gifted a night of refreshing sleep, I’d wake in the morning only to remember it all over again, like a punch in the face. It was like losing her anew every morning.

  After quite a while, I decided I didn’t want to go on. I was so wrapped up in my own grief I wasn’t thinking clearly. All I knew was that I didn’t want the pain to en
dure, because it was excruciating. In working with wildlife I’d come to know physical pain; I’d been hospitalised and put back together many a time. But mental suffering is something else. And all you can do is wait it out and hope that it passes, but with each new day that hole just grew into an infinite void. Each day that I didn’t see her, I missed her more profoundly. I just wanted to disappear quietly out the back door and be with her again. I didn’t know how to live without her and I didn’t want to any longer.

  So I made preparations. I made sure that all of the kangaroos in the hack-out had plenty of water and food. I told my son-in-law Frank to send somebody out to feed the animals for a few days. I made out that I was going on holidays, but he must have twigged. I had packed enough stuff in my truck for just one day. I knew it would take me twelve hours driving nonstop to get where I was going: the escarpment country on the edge of the desert at Windorah.

  I’d left, and could barely see through the tears to drive, when I realised that there was a major glitch in my plan: I’d left the mobile phone inside my truck and it started ringing. It was Steve. I pulled over and answered. I don’t know why; perhaps deep down I needed to hear from someone who understood me like no one else did. I didn’t speak, just listened to Steve say, gravely, ‘I know where you’re going and I’ll meet you out there.’

  He knew because we’d discussed this moment over the years. I had a pact with Steve that if anything ever happened in our deadly line of work to physically incapacitate me, then I was to be the one to decide how it ended. There’s no way I wanted to become somebody else’s liability, and I wanted any physical pain over quickly. But I had gravely underestimated emotional pain. I hadn’t known how it could incapacitate you as much as if not more than physical pain. Steve also knew I loved that part of the country: my favourite part of the wilds of Australia where we’d camped as a family many a time.