The flow of time captures man's intent, Etchings on the landscape it's movement traces, Gondwana over eons grinds its lips, in continental birth, Celestial orbs forever in their circuits run In unity, yet singly, they complete their turn, Mindful of their duty. Time, the midwife of creation eternally nascent, Whose pangs we cannot tell, nor movement, Nor any sound, or sign, to gauge The immanence of birth whether zygote or pupal state; Though creating, its gestation is unknown, It's moment not discernible. Yet around us is perceived a coming into being, Faithful to a primordial bond with some progenitor, Whose ancient ancestorial lineage can be but guessed at: And, as pale tinctures in the evening There descry a setting sun, so does the earth, As any babe, in part describe it's parent. Then, from the earth Moihernee took Parlevar, Symbiotic with the land, and vassal to its seasons, The customs of the tribe arose, obedient to its laws Throughout the ages, which not the coming of the ice, Nor the retreat of the sea, impaired that similitude That tells of harmony. And in that same place, where the glacial chisel Sculptured and withdrew its detritus untidy lay Time fashioned from it there, a lake of brackish hew, Unknown, untold, its shores in nature's purdah hidden, Waiting to disturb with joy and elevated thoughts, mans minds Deuced with the weary weight of things. Upon its sandy shore the unheard melodies of a distant time Captured for a moment in the sense, some far off symphony, Ancient and solitary, whose beauty haunting, evoking mysteries Felt and understood, would disperse in telling, as incense, In pointing to paradise, moves the pall dark spirits effect, And in whose greater glory is forgotten. Alas, imbued with present instancy, Insensate to the record time had wrought, There, was worked, an act so blunt that made opaque The retina of the very eye of God; Though sentient men cried out! Mt Solitary marks its sepulchre Entombed in uncontrolled intent. For those who mark this scene, who gaze upon its depths, The irresponsive silence of that tomb lacks not for sounds Of sighs, of grief, of discontent: voices of a mystery, That dark follower of time which each man fears, And by regeneration's cloak, hopes he, through such disguise, Shall not, like this, be found by death. This death evokes at times a fierce rage, A gale, oft shifting round the Solitary Mount That swells in gusts to fling itself upon the sedgy seams, And by its force, to rent the watery shroud which hides Within its folds the black arts of a tragedy; a loss to virtue Which full restoration only, might absolve. While vanity and pride hold fast the shroud, Believing virtue is captive in their grasp, Veiled in morning mist she has already flown, and waits, In silence, till the shroud, breached by time, released: Those shores restored once more, revealed, Men cling to vanity, but value virtue more. Like Parlevar we are one with the earth, He, yesterdays example, the future ours to choose, Guardians of the earth. Vanity profits for a time. Each generation makes its choice anew and, as the lake, Like virtue drowned in tears, is obscured from view, The flow of time will capture man's intent.
Barry Rowe
The antiquity of Lake Pedder is placed far back in geological time. We are conscious of time and here and there find clues of its duration, such as the planets, earthquakes reveal Gondwana land which ceaselessly is changing. We can trace the action of glaciers and see the lakes left behind after the last ice age when the sea was much lower than it is today. To what purpose, if any, this is all taking place is not known, but we are conscious of creation continually going on around us. The Tasmanian Aboriginals, in their mythology explained creation in terms of the action of the spirit called Moihernee, or Moinee, who also created from the earth Parlevar, man. The seasonal movements of the Tasmanian Aborigines according to the dictates of the seasons depicts a harmony with their environment. When the Aborigines and the glaciers withdrew from inland Tasmania at the end of the last ice age, Lake Pedder was formed, but its existence became known only after the arrival of the white colonialists. Unlike the Aborigines the colonists and modern man seek to dominate the environment and turn it to contrary purposes in the name of improved standards of living. Unfortunately this goal becomes sullied through investment, by territorial wars, and the like where vanity and pride make resolution very difficult. The result is that in many cases man is in disharmony with his environment and the virtue of harmony is lost from sight. This state of affairs can be seen in the drowning of Lake Pedder. Virtue too, can be a victim in a double sense. Those who were responsible for damming the lake see their actions, and the result as producing a benefit for Tasmanians, cheap electricity. This is a virtue. Others see the action of damming the lake as the loss of virtue, it represents disharmony. Virtue is not a prisoner and never was but seeing the lake was to glimpse virtue. Virtue was not the lake but in drowning the lake man removed a symbol, a way of knowing or understanding virtue, which was a solitary experience. Thus to restore the lake is to restore a way of apprehending virtue. It is vanity and pride, now, primarily that prevents the restoration of the lake and cost and price of restoration is used as a cloak, to maintain their place or power. The issue is really one about values and the price of virtue and in one sense the higher the price the more highly valued is virtue Only when the price is paid will it be seen how much virtue is valued. Time here plays a part too, for over time, as man continues to put the land in bondage to exact a monetary reward etc. there will be reached an end point where the effects on the environment will be such that exploitation will have to be replaced by restoration for man to survive. Vanity and pride will delay that moment because they have so much at stake in terms of reputation, status, power and the like. Any change is as much about values as anything else and will be achieved by the recognition that the price of not changing will be greater than the cost of continuing with the present system. Thus the flow of time will capture mans intent.
1. Over the browns and ginger of that month. Rain on the day and gangs of silver mist loitered. First light ink brush fingers combed the distance / soothing the arch back of stone. 2. They are waiting for the word in weatherblown, torn khaki plastic. Torrents in angry fusillade dropping from the clouds against the obdurate calm of the waters, as like opposing elements this downpour is no relation to the lakes still or the earthbound beard of ice clinging brittle beneath overhangs. Tears & other human stuff bounce off the pink sand. 3. Some have dived to find the hidden shore, Pressed fingers on the old beach. And sunsets still bring rose to the water as the lake lies buried beneath itself.
Les Wicks
I've only seen your image on a screen. A wash of muted colours pinks and greens. Your lights and shadows apportioned to a frame. And your history abbreviated to captions: Melaleucas bent and weathered on your southern shore. Mount Solitary, caught in a golden hour glass, fringed with leaves at dawn. I'd like to know you without their hydro electric harness reining you in and riding you down the depths of flood until you drown drown drown. I'd like you untouched and natural below the Sentinel Range, silent and spiritual, like the mythical unicorn wild and free.
Deb Matthews
The Mountain road, a white scar across wooded landscapes, past signposts Tim Shea The Thumbs Wylds Craig The Ragged Range. At Stillman's Bay we glimpse a flooded valley, submerged trees, extended waters lapping the jagged peaks of Frankland Range. Truganini's spirit lives in this place. She knew this tarn resting in a glacial valley a square cut gem set in white, white sands, fed by steams that tumble in laceries of foam, settle in quite reaches of whisky coloured water, reflecting melaleuca tea tree, Huon pine. I have a dream to see renewed the wave washed dunes grow buttongrass and thyme, lemon scent floating over the summer beach of Pedder.
The HEC will flood Lake Pedder they say with a bigger, better lake. We fly West to pay our last respects. It gleams blue and white, stranded by primeval time in wet buttongrass. the dark range rings it in silent Auld Lang Syne. Between the mountains we fly, into the glacial valley, circle Lake Pedder, land on the beach. There are half a dozen planes at the far end, tiny with distance. No one told us it was long and wide, an ocean beach without a coastline. We wander to the waters edge. Walk back to the plane. Drink the spirit of Lake Pedder. The sand clutches at the wheels. We rise into gathering cloud. A vision in our minds. Photos in our cameras. Sand in our shoes. The sun flares as we pass Mt. Wellington. Lake Pedder vanished into memory.
Judith Johnson
Cold pink grains shudder and are still; ripples restless to feel again the roving fingers of the Westerlies, patterning.... Reeds beckon concealed seeking air, and the people, too, hold their breaths for the rebirth. Unseen, yet known, by so many a seamless pairing of water and sand, sculpted to harbour walkers and arrest the sunset. No room, now, for the sharpness of dawn, the peaks no longer laze on the surface, but drown in the imposed deep. The people work, and wait, with patient eyes, for certain triumph.
Nicole Long,
PEDDER TWO THOUSAND
Man drowned Pedder in its third decade of dark at long last lightening; an insuppressible light giving birth to change as year two thousand lips the Coronets, the Frankland Range Once more the Serpentine will snake the buttongrass cast of the sludge, the skin, destroy the false, restore the old, giving time and help, regenerate new life in all its magic majesty; not yet too late. Come back again Olegas come back all those thousands saddened by Lake Pedder's fate watch the reinstatement of a dream: old Pedder welcoming again a million footprints in the sand a beach washed clean by wind and water, and rest content Lake Pedder will remain a wonderland.
Barry Roberts
We reached the beautiful lakes, which we named Lake Pedder and Lake Maria, lying in the heart of the most romantic scenery and being surrounded by lofty mountains. .... a negative relief shielded by a mantle of Ice Age detritus pushing the Serpentine North, the flow eased, yielding anabranches meandering around fossil anabranches exacerbated by the wind driven incubus of ice. .... a small elevated lake unique, square, shallow, ten feet max carrying the colour of blended whisky drained from skeletal peaty soils, bog sedge and button grass. The body dropped from the Frankland Range to the north and leaking from sparse wooden hills rising slackly to the Sentinels in the south. The whole was a wild twelve days walk. Star of the repertoire was a beach of fine grained quartz white sands teased pink. In summer, a kilometre wide enough for light planes to taxi sightseers, in immaculate conditions photographing earthbound clouds bouncing off borrowed blue. The landing strip concealed considerable riches endemic worms and crustacea lounged in the interstices of sand grains then there were three original caddis flies and a fish Galaxias peddensis by now probably extinct. the luminous beach still legible to divers lies submerged as if held down by stones, trout grow fat with the weight of water.
I have camped here on this island for five months now. Destruction is imminent and I shall have to leave ... It is raining now as I write this; a swell is up on the lake and minor erosion continues. Tomorrow the sun will be evaporating the rain. So you see how precariously balanced is the continued existence of the dune and it's ecology? Landforms effervesce and weather down, forest is half dead/half alive, the web vibrates patiently at the end of the street. Violently we graze this radiant place cut through its slope, sever roots pour brittle concrete over wads of earth. The advantage of place lies in resisting reduction to its constituent parts. It's all history, geology, soil, fauna, nests, burrows, garden walks and views. As for history, the totality of all that has happened engulfs us, what we really mean by it are moments marked for some reason or other by indiscretion. The atlas marks retrospective names, Penguin, Dover, Christmas Hills gloss in a disturbed topography the area's unstable appetite of ice clouds shuddering on the satellite map rain trimming back contingent light. Everyday we demolish reality and everyday a new one forms, is cut to shape and floated into place even as decay sets in and another suitable replacement appears. (Pedder is bent out of all recognition by an abrupt waterline).
Benefits would include: greater scenic appeal with reflections of many miles of spectacular mountain ranges in the new lake, to a length of about two miles with the present lake. Water's a substance best not left to chance, its erratic agility and turbulent behaviour we monitor and manage as best we can. Enterprise diverts rivers and reclaims land, improving things, addicted to the technological fix. The engineers composition Large Wall with Turbines is a naive variation on the theme of dry stone walling, the Hoover Dam warded off Depression, momentum jams the vast curved concrete creation in place. This engineering solution (mentioned yesterday by Robert Hughes, as taller than Cheops) was preferred to a poet's civic imagination. Herodotus has explained that the Great Pyramid took thirty years and 100,000 men. As much time again has elapsed since the writing as but a sneeze to these hereditary scars. Strong sense is made by a mountain range suitable for early Christians who, wanting privacy confidently sought remote and dangerous places, there's not a ruin within walking distance but songs must have sung to these mountains, though George Robinson who kindly, it is said, but mortally, kidnapped Aborigines from the coast believed no one reached past the Arthur Ranges. Beach vigil: the mourners sacrifice a statue of Truganini, as the waters rose (a crimson symbol) her tongue described this ineffable wilderness.
The real evidence has, of course been prematurely buried... The best attempt to re create something of the feeling of the place is probably by means of the "audio visual" productions. A picture's worth a deep breath of words, the lake postures in the palm of a photograph its inland beach is the decisive element. A sense of water fills the dusk, darkness cascades as quolls emerge, devils scurry along the valley's sides, birds fall silently. A boat glides, lurching a little as the oars bite. The body is eclipsed as if nothing will grow among rumours of bottomless depths of fine art. In the equilibrium of object/subject, a hand held camera shoots the last impatient thylacine pacing a black and white cage in Hobart Zoo. Revived, it steps out warily from behind tall grasses, a logo selling the slogan Discover Tasmania the Natural State. Over 30% of the flora is foreign and the waters run with carp, trout, redfin, goldfish thriving in the ice melt of the river systems. I bend, dip my tongue into geology's lexicon net `sag pond'. Its taste is transparent. In this environment, marinas edge out poems. Speed boats stain rainbows on the surface concealing memories that possess the past's arithmetic and processes, frustrations and desires. Language sinks through the wash of information, for me, the word `lake' introduces white swans as if history will never quite arrive.
The inundation [was] such a tragic event, comparable with the destruction of a world famous church or temple Imagine a city after catastrophe the end of manufacture bacteria, earthworms, nematodes are all in place, weeds like trad are already working the joints. Lantana, privet, cotoneaster have thirsty roots that lever away like minute crowbars, 24 hrs a day. Mortar crumbles, masonry falls, soils form narratives from plant litter, mosses and lichens. Botanic flesh walks the streets, understoreys of flowering buds angophora, acacia pittosporum seducing insects. Birds arrive, seed disperses, native reinforcements battle the exotics. Fire and tree roots crash tall buildings releasing nutrients, embankments erode, floods rush. Raptors nest in derelict towers, the city is alchemised, steel starts rusting and bloated bursts from its concrete cladding, form flows into form, feral pets converge on the end of the beginning. Detritus covers the tracks in other words, it could look as if the past has caught up with us, except that the second law tells of natures asymmetry, complexity is increasing, entropy growing. Our ordered life is merely borrowed, so where to find? generous perspectives in a disembowelled city waiting for archaeologists.
It seems incredible that this could happen....[the Government] have to promote the new lake "much better than the old; bigger and better". The islands elected representatives demand expansion of its appetite, a competitive quest requiring increasing quantities of power to heat what's cold, to cook what's raw, to wash what's dirty, to illuminate those fissures of darkness as if without that light, we would revert to heathen. Politicians and public servants don't notice the future, too busy promising waterproof alibis in reaction to the `small is beautiful' vantage. There's no one else but you who knows what's really happening and there's nothing else but this space before tomorrow. Nothing is prescribed except engagement and agitation for active restoration of what has not been lost or left to drift ecologically. Bury the sentiment of a `balance of nature', the present is much more exciting and the future so much unknown. We work and play intently, we could use art to repair the damage and learn along the way, singing the dirty fingernail approach.
The Committee sought opinions from several witnesses qualified in artistic matters. My hand grows from Ink Lake growing a skin of words over the anatomy of the map. Amidst the chatter, these small symbols cultivate this planet, words touch the tongue reverberate and interfere. I blame photographers, painters and topographical artists in general for the way sublime wilderness overpowers real landscape and nature's intimacy. Eyes inhale dilated distance, it's a physical thing seeing the world exposed, too weird and complex for tuned strings of words to replicate. Is this what wilderness achieves? stilling the restless tongue, deflating complacent verbiage working with the familiar, slowing down the mind's metabolism. Hesiod was just the first to try reversing history though prior states are imaginary, out of reach, the sky sheds all its light. Entomologists were first to see chaos, the puritan feed of deep ecology golden stasis, ignores astronomy's violence and our authentic nature as inhabitants of a garden cracked by meteorites and ground away by ice. Being human is hypothetical, of all the different arguments, a poem is one too. What evidence? can a poet present a committee, when agendas deny the morphology of mountains and wilderness is measured by the absence of roads. Meanwhile, back in the body, even as we talk' the sea is being poisoned the miracle of earth is ebbing away.
John Bennett
Quotations
1. John Wedge, April 1835.
2. Letter to newspapers (not published), Chris Tebbutt, Crumbledown Island, Lake Pedder, 1972.
3. `Why Lake Pedder is being enlarged', Hydro Electric Commission, 1972.
4. Lake Pedder Action Committee, formal submission to Lake Pedder Committee of Enquiry, 1972.
5. Dr Keil, psychologist, witness to the Lake Pedder Committee of Enquiry, 1972
6. Max Angus, artist, Hobart Town Hall, 1976.
7. `The Flooding of Lake Pedder", Lake Pedder Committee of Enquiry, Final Report, 1974.