In the weeks before the Richmond, Clarence and Tweed rivers swelled and spilled over in early March, my family was isolating at home with Covid. The five of us were cooped up in close proximity in our flimsy subtropical farm house, rotating around a few rooms, watching the incessant rain. It was gentle at times, then it would flare into a hammering rage against the roof, windows and walls. At every break, we rushed out of the house, grateful to get outside and away from each other, even briefly.
At that point, as continual summer rain turned into continual autumn rain, the ground was beyond sodden. Our fluffy white husky-cross-samoyed had turned a black-flecked terracotta all over, and had the constant whiff of low tide about her. She didn’t mind, though. She was busy catching rats that had moved up to higher ground and into our crops.
Late one afternoon, I was at the kitchen table processing bulbs of garlic. This act was part preparation and part optimism. I was hoping the ground would dry up so we could get the separated cloves planted by St Patrick’s Day, in time for a spring harvest.
My children were watching a movie. My daughter veers towards the macabre, so had chosen something water-themed. That meant it took us a while to comprehend that the gushing noises we could hear were not coming from the TV. Then, there was wetness at our feet.
A pipe – recently cleared in anticipation of the weather – had burst from the pressure of the rain. It punched a hole the size of a fire hydrant hose through the back of our house.
I told you subtropical houses are built flimsily, for sunny days and tide timetables, not climate disasters.
It took us four hours to direct the water out with shower squeegees. We pushed it through the garage. There, we realised the rainwater was already on equal footing with the floor, and threatening to rise higher at any second. It was our first cry-laugh moment, so bizarre and infuriating, like bailing a leaking canoe when it is pouring overhead.
That little tragicomedy was dwarfed by the devastation around us 10 days later. Hell in the form of high water shook our community, drowning our towns, dispersing our vehicles and machinery. Mud and contaminated water invaded homes and open spaces. It rendered fertile soils unusable, for the time being.
In the shock and trauma, people sprang into action – searching, clearing, cooking, transporting, cleaning, washing, decontaminating and giving. Always giving. Most were wondering when help on a larger level was going to come, but few expected it would.
When the much-needed Australian defence force arrived a week later, we were grateful. We are even more grateful they are still here.
We were less grateful to be used as a photo opportunity. When we got news that the prime minister would visit, some locals had plans to turn their backs on him. In the end that never happened. His stay was so brief, his back was turned before anyone else had the chance.
Not even a full month after one of the biggest disasters in this area, another flood event rolled in. This time it was not the rivers swelling over, but flash-flooding from storm water. The Byron region has not seen a flood event like it before, but it doubtless will again.
Our already flood-damaged roads resembled a river that day. As with last time, it was a Tuesday, the day we harvest for Sydney, sending our produce down to restaurants. On Wednesday, the Shoobridge freight truck (which already struggles to come up our potholed dirt road under “normal” circumstances) would have no access to the farm.
The men and women of our area’s logistics companies deserve heroic recognition for their assistance to farmers and producers. To us, they are lifelines, delivering fresh produce where it needs to go. Highway closures mean a huge loss of weekly income for farmers – and with it our ability to pay mortgages and employees. We rely heavily on freight services’ punctuality and ingenuity, and they know it. They are pragmatic and gracious under the most incredible duress.
A month ago, the highway was closed and Shoobridge’s own freight warehouse in Murwillumbah was completely flooded. This time, with the last disaster’s highway closures in mind, we all knew we were up against the clock.
I got the call. They said the driver was on his way and the Sydney trucks were going to make it through after all. We raced down in the pouring rain to confirm the state of our road – not passable.
So we did the practical, hard thing. We took apart the pallet full of boxes from the cool room, loading and distributing them between the only two vehicles still in commission on our farm: a 20-year-old tractor and our 4WD.
My kids, my husband and our two legendary farmers, Kazu and Eddie, formed a human chain. We passed 60 boxes along. Some weighed upwards of 20kg. We sloshed and waded with water up to our knees and waists, our gumboots taking in mud and detritus. The moment was rich with teamwork and camaraderie, but the rain still insisted on hammering us.
Once loaded up, we crawled at a snail’s pace across the sodden ground. Any faster and the wheels would stick in the soil, which had the consistency of mashed potatoes with too much butter. The truck and its patient driver parked where our new river began, just off the highway.
Eddie was in the tractor’s bucket, raised up high, holding on to the boxes. The tractor looked like a one-armed crab, resolute that it should not give up the prey in its pincers. It was a laugh moment, and then it was not. At a slight bend, the tractor took on an unnatural right lean. Convinced that the tractor was about to capsize with Eddie on it, we all rushed forward to try to right it in the sinking mud. Eddie seemed less concerned with his own safety, and more worried that the chillies and eggplants he picked might perish in the mud.
We managed to correct the course of the tractor, which now has a bung wheel, dug the 4WD out of the mud and towed it back up the hill. If you’ve ever seen a quad bike tow a 4WD up an 80-degree incline, you’ll know that it is a brazen move. But the pallet on the truck was filled, and the produce arrived in Sydney – with a slight delay. We’ve temporarily sealed the wall with duct tape.
For others, the situation has been far more catastrophic. The damage to our psyches may be more permanent than the damage to our equipment. The anxiety is very real every time it starts to rain.
Our farm sits high on a lovely hill. These days, it looks like a castle with a lush green moat, or an island on a lake, depending on how hard it is raining, how much water the land can hold.
In our lower fields, we started regenerative work seven years ago, planting paperbarks and other habitual native plants and trees. We hoped to reinstate the natural wetlands that had been cleared to make way for cow pastures.
It is tangible to see this natural system of drains and sinks at work now. The water rises and recedes – some days it happens so rapidly that what looks like a lake in the morning can be reduced to spotty pools by mid-afternoon.
The original peoples understood and respected the synergy of this ecosystem. This ecology is imperative to the workings of our entire coastal region. And yet we repeatedly clear and build over it.
According to the Bureau of Meteorology there is above-median range of rainfall forecast in the northern rivers through to June. Our only move is to keep moving forward; to get the garlic into the ground.
