Cirrus@Austlit

'From the cliffs, the sea looked beyond dangerous. There was malevolence in the white-blue mess of its face. In the smacking of its waves and the lurch of its current. Up close, from the tideline - after I descended a long set of salt-stained stairs - it was even harsher. Not only did the waves seem larger. and the current wilder, and the gritty slope where the ocean met the land steeper than I would have believed feasible: the sense of danger was intensified by the immensity of the sea's sound. The cliffs behind the beach reflected the crashing of the water, and the curve and height of the rock amplified the noise into a numbing roar. Water broke, crashed and flew up the angled sand, before sucking back into the blue murk with hungry speed. ft felt impossible that a beach could be this unsafe.' (Introduction) 
 

'Tasmania has been lauded for its natural beauty and sublime landscapes by European arrivals since the late nineteenth century. It took another century for the island's biodiversity and unique ecologies to be recognised for their inherent values. In 1995, something occurred that many thought impossible -  Tasmanian Aboriginal land rights were granted to a people whom popular history had declared were gone forever. In addition, a burgeoning conversation movement in Australia has increasingly recognised that Western models of ecological value based on rarity, diversity or threat are able to embrace the principles of ethics and knowledge emerging from Indigenous lifeworlds. This has resulted in what Philip Toyne has described as 'a green black alliance to stem the tide of destructive elements in our society', embracing our responsibilities to the past and recognising the deep values and connections that make a place an enduring home?' (Introduction)

'IT was the summer that Deano and I travelled mostly by snorkel. That January will be remembered for other, bigger things. A sky muddied by smoke, a handful of vaguely concerning bulletins about a virus in China. The beginnings of the Trumpian death-spiral. But in our small world, rattling around in the old Flinders Island house with its flies and its huntsmans. it was the cycle it had always been: swimming for flathead - miles and miles for maybe two or three fish, so that the eventual meal represented a calorific exchange of sorts.'

 (Introduction) 

  
 

'Every 26 January Australians are reminded of the importance of origin stories. It has become clear that the way we tell our founding narratives shapes how we understand the past and imagine the future.   And what is evident in nations is also true of organisations. story of organisations and movements. The mythic power integral to an origin story is evident in the environmental movement in Tasmania, where, in the past 20 years. the story of the Franklin River campaign has assumed epic status.' (Introduction)

'The Vale of Belvoir is a limestone karst and basalt-filled grassland valley, forming the northern and westernmost edges of Tasmania's rugged mountainous country known as the Central Plateau. Black Bluff's long ridge-flank, stretching all the way to Mount Beecroft, forms the north-western boundary. The near-impassable country around Reynolds Falls marks its southern extremity. It sits rather quietly, overshadowed by the bustling brouhaha of nearby Cradle Mountain with Bond Range's unpretentious violet lines protecting it from the world's view.' (Introduction)

'They say that Lake St Clair Is the deepest lake in the continent. In his journals. George August Robinson recorded its traditional name as leeawulenna. which is translated into English as sleeping water; dozens of creeks and waterways flow into the heart of the island. filling a lake that holds the beginnings of the River Derwent. carrying millions of years of water that sifts from the clouds into the sea. Deep in the central highlands is a valley carved by ancient glaciers, fed by clouds, shaped by rivers that have lived for millennia where time stands still. poised at the water's edge. The saddle arc of Mt Olympus runnels between watersheds, the seasonal snowmelt gently weathering the island's channels. It's hard for me to imagine the lake's depth - more than one hundred and fifty metres — without draining the water in my imagination.' (Introduction)
   

'I wander up the creek with my two boys. Vincent and Santiago. They run ay to wade in the water, climb on the boulders, move the rocks to make paddling pools, offer hands as landing pads for dragon flies and scan the water for galaxiids. I find a warm rock to sit on for a moment before they demand my participation. I see my face reflecting on the glassy surface. framed by overhanging eucalypt branches. I try to see Sand's face reflecting back at me, and then Vincent's. I look up to watch them revel in this place they love as my mind wanders.' (Introduction)