Syrup, hot damper and sapotes: Wattle and lantana

Our first day this trip we headed north in our motorhome towards sugar-cane country (the ‘syrup’ part of the blog title) winding our way through little hinterland towns so prettily labelled long-ago by aboriginal folk: ‘the mountain where green parrots live’ is Beerburrum; ’volcano creek’ was named Mellum Creek, and later became Landsborough. We have never travelled slowly enough to appreciate the physical aspects of these little towns: the influence of setting on a place name; this time is different: we have hardly any time limits at all.

We chose an alternative route from Maleny to Kenilworth: It turned out to be a slow, winding, narrow, switchback gravel track of the type we used to experience as kids, but have hardly ever driven since. It was all birdsong and white gums; the track oozy and greasy and glistening after soft rain; moisture spicing the air with that tantalising tang of lantana.

There were cautionary signs warning heavy vehicles of danger, and we found the author of these near the bottom of the range when we stopped to take a photo of wattle about to bloom. A banker turned cattle farmer on his converted quad bike, pulled in for a chat, doffing his soft felt hat in greeting when we slowed to a stop.

His ancestors from Germany had ’selected’ this land on their arrival in Australia long ago, so much of what was visible between the high enclosing mountain tops was still in the family, generations later. He had successfully lobbied for the cautionary signs to be installed as the route was known locally as the “Suicide Track”. He told us of his property, and of the timber, dense on the surrounding hills, which his grandfather had helped keep clear and clean of rubbish until he was well into his eighties, climbing high and doing it tough. Up in the hills his grandfather clambered with his cruick, his can of herbicide, and a soft quill, minutely marking the vegetation that he wanted gone. Protecting the rest.

He told us that the timber beyond these hills — in all of Queensland, he said—which the forestry had once managed had now been given over to private enterprise, and how profit-making, sadly, had become the priority, while keeping the forest clean and fire free was not even on the agenda. He told us that the forest his grandfather had laboured over was now thick with a sub strata of lantana.

We were stunned.

We must have been overseas when the state government sold off the management of Queensland’s forests in a ninety-nine year lease arrangement to a Boston based investment group, HQPlantations, in order to balance a budget. And it must have been kept mighty quiet since, as we have been completely out of the loop on that manoeuvre. Hundreds of millions of HQPlantation dollars have gone into the government spending pot: a pot that seems always to be in free fall.

A botched government decision, the farmer was saying.

One that clearly explained the scent of spice so heavy in the air as we made to stop for the night in Kenilworth. Lantana.