by Bob Irwin
‘I think we should call this one Steve,’ one of the boys said. I couldn’t have agreed more. The decision was unanimous. Soon afterwards, we caught him again in another trap just around the corner. His name certainly was fitting: he had a full-on nature. Crocodiles are like people in that way, no two have the same personality. We all thought that was pretty good and that perhaps Steve was somehow up there with us, orchestrating it all for our entertainment. He would have been having a good laugh, I’m sure.
Over the years, Steve had spoken quite a few times about how he’d want to be remembered. It’s like he always knew he wasn’t going to be around for long. And over these days I heard a lot of stories about how on that last trip Steve had really gone out of his way to thank people for their work over the years and acknowledge how far they’d come as a team. In the light of what had happened, most of the team felt that Steve had said his goodbyes. Then, before he’d left on Croc One, he’d called the team together to deliver a very emotional speech. He told them that it had been the best month of his life.
‘Fair dinkum. I came up here busted up, with a broken neck, and the first week was just hell. All I could do was walk around. But you guys are really good. You made sure that I didn’t have to lift anything too heavy, and jumped on the crocs like absolute legends, and so I was able to relax. And it felt good teaching and giving this year, rather than trying to do everything myself. My neck’s still giving me grief, but you know what? It pales in comparison to the goodness that I’ve got in my heart from this month. There’s not a team on earth that I’d sooner be with.’
He was with a group of people he understood, who were dedicated to the work that he did, and he was working with one of the most important creatures to him on the planet. Really, how much better could it be? He left us on such a high.
Steve’s greatest legacy has been establishing a team of dedicated people to increase our knowledge of crocodile habits and habitats through research. This research has helped to educate millions of people about the importance of nature conservation. I knew that it would continue on without him. He had been like a rock in a pond, sending ripples right across the surface of the water. As I watched his team catch almost thirty crocodiles on that trip, I realised how capable they had become. They didn’t need me anymore, they had crocodile catching down to a fine art.
So that was my last crocodile research trip with the team. A huge chapter in my life closed. Although I’ll never tire of catching crocodiles, it felt like the end of an era for the team and me. I knew that the team would keep it going, and that it was their time to step up. For me, and for Steve, if you’re not passing that knowledge on, then what are you doing it for? When you get to mentor someone in a field you are very experienced in, there is no better feeling in the world. Steve had, without question, established the best croc-catching team out there. That was his legacy.
On arriving home, I realised that Steve was in every part of that country for me and it was still too raw. He was in the campsite, the boat, the crocs, and the people he had taught. There wasn’t a part of that country or a kilometre on the road to get there that wasn’t a reminder to me of his uncontained excitement, or the experiences we’d shared over many years together. I needed some time to adjust to a world without him.
13
Camp Chilli
In 2008, I announced to zoo management that I had decided to part ways with Australia Zoo, and the media went to town on it. There were some pretty speculative headlines, saying there’d been rifts, family feuds, that I was worried about commercialisation, that I was locked out, that I’d quit.
Some of it was true. Some of it wasn’t. What it came down to was that management and I weren’t able to agree on certain aspects of Australia Zoo after Steve’s passing. Nearly every time I went in I would have a difference of opinion with somebody on matters that I was growing increasingly concerned about. The zoo was finding its feet without Steve. While the management were understandably readjusting and finding a new balance, things were suffering as a result of that, in my opinion. It was certainly a difficult time for everybody involved, because we weren’t just a business—we were a family. But I still felt there were important things that needed attention regardless of the circumstances and so I addressed them, in person and through letters.
It all came to a head in a final telephone call—that was the final push for me. I was told I was becoming a disruptive influence and that I was no longer welcome at the zoo. I felt that I had no alternative but to leave. In my opinion it had been made very clear that my influence and knowledge were no longer required. I didn’t retire as was suggested to me. I resigned.
As soon as I made that decision, that was it. I downed tools at Ironbark Station. I’ve always had the attitude that you can’t do something half-heartedly. If you’re going to do something, you’ve got to do it one hundred per cent. That means you’ve got to be ruthless in order to move forwards sometimes, because being stuck in the middle is what causes unhappiness. This was one of those times for me where there could be no grey area—it was plainly black and white.
But I won’t go into much more detail than that, other than to say that I made a pretty finite decision to part ways with the zoo so I could continue Steve’s work the way I believed it needed to be done. But I don’t think my family matters should be aired publicly and I will stand by my decision not to discuss this in further detail with the media. It’s certainly nobody else’s business but zoo management and mine.
At the time, I was so angry with how it had panned out that I probably didn’t think things through as well as I should have. I hadn’t factored in how I was going to survive without a wage from the zoo. I didn’t own anything—no house, no car, no assets at all. People probably expected me to be driving around in a Mercedes-Benz due to the financial success of Australia Zoo, but everything I’d ever had I had put into the reptile park or the work that Steve and I did together. That’s what I had wanted to do, that’s how I had wanted to live my life. Looking back with hindsight I wouldn’t change it a jot either.
After some negotiation, I came to a financial agreement with the zoo, because of my thirty-six years starting it up and the rest of it. We agreed on a modest pension that would allow Judy and me to have a house and property and a small income.
One thing that weighed heavily on me about leaving the zoo was how Steve would have reacted. To a certain degree, I felt as though I’d failed him. I was tired. I’d had enough. But I felt guilty for not trying harder. Steve had always achieved whatever was in his heart—he’d fought hard for what he believed in and stood up for what was important. I knew I could never be another Steve, but I didn’t doubt that he would have hoped that I would carry on his work.
I beat myself up about that for quite some time. I wondered what he would think about his old man not being there, working as hard and as passionately as I once had for the place we built up together with our bare hands. But finally, hard as it is to explain, I was sure I’d made the right decision. In the end, I felt he would have been happy for me to carry on our work in my own way.
But it certainly felt awful to walk away from the zoo. I’d raised my family there and spent three decades establishing it from a bare block of land. I’d put my heart and soul into that place, and I think a part of me will never leave, will always be there alongside Steve. It was certainly difficult to part from my son’s final resting place, the many special animals, the crocodile research and the team that I considered to be like my family.
There were personal consequences to leaving the zoo as well, among them that my relationship with Steve’s children, Bindi and Robert, would suffer. Naturally that wasn’t something I was happy about. I had so many stories of Steve and my adventures that I would have loved to have told the kids. I would have loved to have shown them some of those special places Steve and I ventured to together.
One of the things I found most difficult was leaving Ironbark Station. Everything I did there was f
or Steve and me—they were the projects we talked about, our big hopes of building a new model for conservation properties. We’d already proved a lot: that it’s possible to run cattle at a profit and keep habitat for wildlife at the same time. It didn’t need to be one or the other—we could create a more harmonious balance. Steve and I had turned Ironbark Station from a wildlife desert into a wildlife haven. I suppose sometimes you don’t realise how deeply you are entwined with something until you leave it. I hoped the property would still be run as successfully, and with the same level of commitment, after I left.
As it turned out, Australia Zoo’s maintenance manager, Trev, took over my role, which I was happy about. They don’t come more dedicated than him. Trev is the kind of person who always says it how it is. Before too long, he moved to Ironbark Station and let me know how things were going. Trev was, and still is, the closest friend that I’ve had since Steve left. He’s certainly the closest person to a son I’ve had in the years that’ve followed.
Just before we were due to leave Ironbark Station, I agreed to an interview with ABC’s Australian Story to address my departure from Australia Zoo. The media were harassing us constantly but I wanted to get my point of view across without my story being altered in any way, as was happening elsewhere in the media. There were so many appalling versions out there about what had taken place. I simply wanted people to understand that I had resigned from the zoo, hoping that it would finally put an end to some of those rumours and allow us some privacy.
I didn’t get paid for the story, despite the fact that there were a lot of other paying offers at the time. I’ve always had a lot of respect for the ABC, because they do their homework and I really trusted the team assigned to produce the story. Money was never a consideration. They didn’t twist my words, they just let me tell it how it was from my perspective. As it turned out, that episode became one of the highest rating episodes for Australian Story that year, and one of the top ten for the decade. Around one and a half million viewers tuned in. That was a sign of how much interest there was in the Irwin family story. It was crazy to think that people were so interested in a time in our lives that we just wanted to put behind us.
***
The day I resigned, Judy and I started looking for a new property to move to. We had the same problem that probably everybody faces when they’re trying to start a new life—nothing quite suited us. We wanted somewhere that wasn’t totally destroyed by land clearing. Finally, we found a place just thirty kilometres from Kingaroy, three and a half hours’ drive north-west of Brisbane. As soon as I drove through the gates of this 640-acre property, I had a really good feeling about it. The real estate agent was trying to spruik it as a good cattle block because there was no infrastructure on it at all. But we didn’t want it for cattle, we wanted it for wildlife, and it was perfect wilderness country, surrounded by national park and state forest. We instantly knew this was going to be our new home.
There was certainly a lot of work ahead. We had to start from scratch and build a house, a shed—even a road to get in there. Once we’d bought it I worked twelve- to fourteen-hour days to get it to a habitable state. But I just loved it. It was good to keep my mind active and my hands busy, because I wasn’t handling things all that well.
We were stuck for a name for the property, but we didn’t stew on it and we knew that something would come to us eventually.
I had buried Lyn’s ashes in a box in a special area at Ironbark Station, out on a big hill overlooking the rest of the property, not too far from the house. When it was finally time to leave Ironbark Station for the new property, I decided there was no way I would leave Lyn there. But I hadn’t marked the spot, and after digging for hours I still couldn’t find it. I got so frustrated with myself that I sat down and shed a few tears. After a while, I pulled myself together and quietly asked Lyn to help me find her. I got up again, walked three or four paces, and tried again. And there was the box, right where I’d started to dig.
Judy was really good about that; she knew that it was important for me. At the new property I found the perfect place when we arrived, and I made a special place for Lyn to rest. A place where she could keep an eye on me and give me a good kick up the bum from time to time. Lyn will always be wherever I am.
***
Soon after Steve passed, I received a phone call out of the blue from Stephen Accornero from up at Cattle Creek. I had really shut myself away from the rest of the world after Steve had left us, and it had been a long time since we had properly spoken. Stephen said he would like to come out and pay us a visit.
It was an emotional reunion for both of us. Stephen and his family represented a special time in my life that I could never have back. At the end of their visit, Stephen said he had something to give me, that he’d made the journey specifically to hand it to me because he didn’t trust sending it in the post.
I was lost for words—it was the ‘Camp Chilli’ sign I had made for Steve when he lost his beloved companion down at Cattle Creek. Stephen told me they had kept it under lock and key in their home, not wanting anything to happen to it. I knew this memento would have been difficult for them to part with.
‘Although it means a lot to us, it’ll mean even more to you—you made it especially for him. We’d like for you to have it back,’ Stephen said, with emotion.
I started to talk but then was overcome with tears. I was inconsolable and I felt a bit embarrassed about that. I had to walk away to collect myself.
This relic—this unassuming little sign with words burnt into it—represented such a special time in my life. I might have made Stephen and Annalisa feel guilty for upsetting me, but if I could have spoken I would have said that their gesture meant more to me than they could ever realise. It would have to be the single most important thing that I now own. I have very few things that belonged to Steve. I hung it in the machinery shed where I could look at it every day.
Once we’d finished the new house on the property, I built a woodshed out of some old timber and sheets of iron for the roof. In front of it I dug a fire pit surrounded by logs. Beside the campfire I set up Steve’s fading camp chair, to permanently sit empty beside me whenever I lit a fire. I could sit there under the stars at night, the way we used to, and think about him and talk to him in my own way.
Then one night, I had a feeling that I needed to move that wooden sign. I could almost hear Steve telling me to hang it by the campfire. So I got it from the shed and hung it at the entrance to our woodshed. Before I knew it, I had my own little replica of the place that I had so adored with Steve: a mini Camp Chilli.
Without much further thought, Judy and I had serendipitously stumbled across the perfect name for our new home. ‘Why don’t we call this place Camp Chilli?’ Judy said. I couldn’t have agreed more. I wasted no time in painting a sign for the front gate with the property name. We’ve never called it anything else since.
Camp Chilli fast became a beloved home for Judy and me. There is no traffic; there are no neighbours. It’s a very peaceful place in a remote part of the world. A good number of kangaroos and wallabies have moved onto the property since I dug out the dams, providing ample watering holes. We’ve got most species of gliders, from the tiny feathertails to the yellow-bellied and even the incredible greater gliders. A small population of koalas come and go. And there’s an abundance of native bird species—we’ve seen about ninety varieties just around the house.
We also look after Skippy, an eastern grey kangaroo that we’ve taken into care. She was hand-raised by an elderly couple and couldn’t be released into the wild.
Camp Chilli became a retreat for me in the wake of some very turbulent years. Out on the property I have special places where I like to go and hide out and be by myself, just roll a couple of smokes and listen to nature doing its thing around me. Sometimes sitting under the trees and having your feet planted firmly on the ground is the most spiritual thing you can do.
***
People oft
en tell me that it’s time I got over Steve’s loss, but I feel I need him here to keep going. I gain strength from him, I get inspiration from him, I still have the same passion and drive that he and I both had. Steve’s presence is always with me. It’s pretty hard to explain without sounding odd, but it’s when things get difficult that I feel him around the most. That’s when I feel his energy, his drive and his passion. That’s what kept me going in those really bad days, when I wondered how to go on. I got to a point where I could understand how if people have enough of those kinds of feelings, they just don’t think they can handle it any longer. And he was somehow around me when I needed him, at those difficult times.
And if it hadn’t been for Judy, I simply wouldn’t have coped. Yet again, she helped me through a difficult time that I otherwise wouldn’t have survived. There’s no way to compare the loss of Lyn and Steve—neither was any better or worse. But the combination of the two losses was simply horrible. Lyn’s passing certainly didn’t make it any easier to prepare for Steve going. I consider myself lucky that I have had such a strong person like Judy alongside me to help me cope with that. I also consider myself really fortunate to be just as lucky a second time around with marriage as I was the first time. I’m so thankful to have someone who really cares for me and encourages me. It wasn’t an easy time for Judy to have joined our family.
I hid out for a long time. I just needed some stable ground beneath my feet, to heal and come to terms with so much loss. I needed a chance for things to run smoothly again, I needed stability. I couldn’t cope with one more blow. I didn’t know what I was going to do next, but I knew that I had to do something. Ultimately, I couldn’t sit still.
It’s interesting how a single decision can alter the whole way your life pans out from thereon in. Whether it’s the right one or the wrong one, just one decision can make a huge difference to where the road is going to take you next.