It starts with a plant

This article is adapted from a speech given at the 2024 TLC Conservation Science Symposium.

For me, nature has always been more than just a backdrop; it’s been a classroom. From a young age, nature ignited my curiosity, offering the breathing space to think, learn, and ask questions. So, when I graduated as a conservation ecologist from Deakin University (and, yes, I’m a proud Mainlander) and spent an Honours year studying bryophytes (yep, still love moss!), I was thrilled to land a job as a Park Ranger in the Great Otway National Park—home to the endangered Bossiaea cordigera.

In my first few months as a Ranger, researchers visited Otways to search for this elusive plant. They spent over a week surveying potential habitats but found nothing. I remember bidding them farewell on their last day as they headed out for one final survey site. I then went out on patrol with Mick, one of the longest-serving Rangers in the region. Mick, born and bred in the Otways, knew the land like no one else. He was a man of few words, and I grew accustomed to the silence that often accompanied our work.

We arrived at a beautiful patch of coastal woodland I’d never visited before. As soon as I stepped out of the ute, my eyes were drawn to a wiry shrub I hadn’t seen before—a thriving population of Bossiaea cordigera. I asked Mick if this was the plant the researchers had been searching for. His simple reply: “Yep.” When I asked why he hadn’t mentioned it to them, he shrugged and said, “They never asked.”

I’m not sharing this story to criticise the researchers but to highlight a valuable lesson in ecology: it’s about observation, listening, learning, questioning, and being present. It’s a reminder to engage with the world around us and respect the observations of others.

A few years later, I found myself in Tasmania, visiting my partner and helping with her work on Tasmanian devils. One freezing autumn day, we drove along the Marlborough Highway towards Hobart, navigating through sleet, black ice, and snow. I recall stopping on the side of the road as Elise retrieved a roadkill quoll for a tissue sample. It felt like Antarctica, and I doubted I’d ever return to such a wild place.

Yet, fate had other plans. I later secured a job as an ecologist for the Tasmanian Land Conservancy (TLC) and moved to Tasmania. My first major task was vegetation mapping on TLC properties in the highlands for a project called Five Rivers. Jane, my boss, recommended a good pub in Bronte Park and assured me the cabins were warm.

Bronte Park quickly became a second home. The work was fascinating, and the landscape was awe-inspiring. I had the chance to work with Bruce Hay, a former Gunns forester who had joined TLC when we acquired the land. Bruce, like Mick, was a man of few words. But, as time went on, his deep knowledge seeped through in conversations over dinner at the pub. He shared insights about eagle nests, old-growth forests, and sphagnum bogs.

One day, while surveying a highland marsh, I stumbled upon a hut perched among the snow gums. Bruce knew its history, including the tragic love story of its former inhabitant. I spent many hours there, gazing north up the valley towards Pine Tier and the Walls of Jerusalem. Near Pine Tier, I discovered a beautiful stone tool from the Big River Tribe. This landscape taught me the profound impact humans have had on shaping the environment we experience today.

Twelve years later, TLC continues to work in this landscape, managing and monitoring, and we’re on the brink of creating the largest contiguous area of privately protected land in Tasmania with the purchase of Pine Tier.

The west of Five Rivers Reserve is home to Skullbone Plains, a place is rich in biodiversity and human history. The original surveyor’s notes described it as “principally open marshland” with little commercial value. Yet, the area’s true value is immense. Jennie Whinam’s coring of the sphagnum peatlands on Skullbone dates some areas to over 8,000 years.

In 2013, TLC invited eleven artists to explore this remote landscape, guided by our ecologists. The result was the Skullbone Experiment, where science and art intersected. Pete Hay, a Tassie legend, described the land’s connection to ancient times and the intricate interplay of species and ecosystems. My favorite piece from the project was John Wolseley’s Natural History of a Sphagnum Bog—a perfect example of how science and creativity can illuminate our understanding of nature.

As I prepare to visit the Vale of Belvoir, I reflect on its significance in conservation science. The TLC’s commitment to applied conservation played a crucial role in the 2008 acquisition of the land from the Charleston Family. Over 16 years, we’ve built a strong relationship with the Charlestons, learning from their generations of land management.

The Vale is renowned for its grasslands, but its ancient rainforests are equally spectacular. Lisa Charleston’s haunting piece in TLC’s Breathing Space publication captures some of the historical accounts of life on the land, including the presence of native hyenas and tiger snakes.

Last year, I had the privilege of traveling to Patagonia on a three-month sabbatical to engage with and learn from other conservationists. I asked them a simple question: What does conservation mean to you?

Victoria Alonso responded:

Jose, replied:

John Woinarski’s writing helped me process my experiences. He described ecology as a “charmed science” that allows us to see beyond the surface and understand the intricate interplay of components in the natural world. To practice ecology is to shed our human-centric views and connect deeply with the world from different species’ perspectives.

For me, conservation is about creating protected areas, building knowledge, and fostering a deep sense of purpose and belonging. It’s about observing, connecting with people and place, and making sense of the world. After all, we are part of the system, and it’s up to us to do what we can, with what we have, to achieve meaningful conservation.

To finish, I’d like you all to ponder over that question:

What does conservation mean to you?

And as Wendell Berry beautifully captures in his poem, The Peace of Wild Things:

“When despair for the world grows in me,

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief.

I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light.

For a time, I rest in the grace of the world and am free.”

May we all find our own peace and purpose in the wild things.