Accent
First Love
Brushies
Conflict
Give Me Courage
Trip around Australia
Homeward bound
Haiku
Huon Pine
Life is a jigsaw
Images
What is a race?
The Fourteen Mile
Strings
Chronicle of a Tree
The little wallaby
Whale Watching
List of 2005 stories
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Brushies
Brush possums are the outstanding characters in the Tasmanian bush. The size of a big cat, but with
claws that give moggies inferiority complexes, these bright eyed, fearless furballs will go anywhere,
yes anywhere, for a feed. They will climb barbwire fences, scramble up steel cables, slide down the
chimneys of bush huts, undo zipper closures on backpacks, and squeeze through impossible gaps for
anything edible. Mountain cabin logbooks are full of reports on the activities of Black Pete, a
mythical Brushy of huge dimensions, infinite cunning and insatiable appetite. All bush walkers have
tales of being raided in the early hours by piratical possums. Unguarded packs have been opened,
upended and emptied by these marauding marsupials. But you can’t help liking them. They are inquisitive,
appealing, cute, but definitely not cuddly. You would like to pick one up and stroke the soft, beautiful,
variegated fur, but it would be at your peril. One swipe from those claws will give you a lot more than
a nasty rash. They will condescend to accept food, any food, from you, and you may be allowed if you are
particularly favoured, a quick, light stroke down the back. But no more than that. Teeth and claws will
be brought into play with savage speed and effect. I am talking about wild Brushies of course. Some
country kids have had tame ones and these suffer the indignities of being hauled around by the tail,
stuffed into prams and baby cots, cuddled at odd angles, all with calm aplomb. As long as they get fed,
they will endure quite a lot of innocent abuse. However, occasionally the child needs to be reminded
there are limits. A fast nip or even faster swipe of a taloned forepaw is usually enough to drive home
the lesson.
Like all bushwalkers, I have had my experiences with the creatures. Not
always funny, as loosing a good portion of your tucker miles from the store can be a bit embarrassing.
Waking at midnight in a small tent to find king size possum ratting your pack is the stuff of very bad
dreams. But, overall, they are my favourite animal.
Many years ago, I took our family to Cradle Mountain National Park for a
few days. We had hired one of the cabins and spent the days wandering the paths of that glorious place.
The weather had been pleasant and we decided to explore a valley outside the park. We drove out in the
early morning and found the place easily. Equipped with daypacks, we strolled through the light scrub,
enjoying views, birds and flowers. We even picked a few flowers, something not allowed within the park
boundaries. The kids loved it. Late afternoon, we turned back to the road, piled into the car and headed
for our holiday cabin.
A couple of miles down the road and we came across two hitchhikers, obviously
heading for the park. We crammed them in, no easy process with four adults, two children and two large packs
in a Volkswagen Notchback. The pair was from Germany originally, and were working in the Northern Territory.
Preferring the cooler climes of Tasmania, they had headed South for their holidays, determined to climb a few
mountains. We dropped them off at the camping site, and invited them to our cabin for coffee later that evening.
I mentioned in passing that the possums would be coming out of the bush scrounging food at eight o’clock.
After a barbecue tea we were sitting on the steps of our cabin having a quiet family chat when our new
acquaintances strolled up. They found a good campsite, eaten well and, best of all, found a shower block.
Coffee was prepared and served and we chatted easily. The sun had gone down and in the short twilight,
the first possum emerged from the bush. We had brought a bag of plums with us from town, knowing the
Brushies would be in attendance, and knowing how much the kids would enjoy feeding them. This was only
the third night, but the gang had got the message. Food! I casually indicated the lead scout waddling up
the path. Seconds later another emerged, then another. The kids dashed inside to get the plums, and my
wife went to get her camera. The German gentleman, amidst this burst of activity, consulted his watch.
It was exactly eight o’clock.
"You were right" he proclaimed, "They are here at the time you said." I have often wondered what he
would have said or done if the possums had been late.
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