When a Moree farmer bulldozed 300 hectares of the world-recognized Gwydir Wetlands earlier this year it made national headlines and sparked an outcry of protest. It seemed like a simple case of environmental vandalism and the New South Wales Government promised an immediate investigation and swift retribution against those responsible. But according to a neighbouring farmer, whose property shares a significant piece of the same wetlands, there is a far greater crime being committed against the delicate Gwydir Valley ecosystem, perpetrated by the government itself.
There is no doubting the value Howard Blackburn places on the wetlands that sprawl across the bottom paddocks of his property. Framed photos line his walls showing the blue sky darkened by thousands of birds that once traveled here to breed, while his photo album is full of pictures of grinning family and friends wading through the seemingly endless water that covers the land during significant flooding events.
Unfortunately such occurrences are now little more than fading memories, with the amount of water flowing into the wetlands greatly reduced. River regulation structures upstream, including Copeton Dam and Tareelaroi Weir, capture much of the water destined for the wetlands and send it to irrigators down the Mehi River to the south of the Gwydir Valley and Carole Creek to the north.
“Once upon a time, before all the regulation, this was the priority stream chosen by Mother Nature. All the water from a huge catchment area that stretches as far as Armidale, Inverell and Manilla flowed through the Gwydir Wetlands and eventually trickled into the Barwon River. Now the water bypasses the wetlands and goes to irrigators on either side,” Howard says.
Looking at a satellite map of the region reveals the exact nature of the problem. The wetlands appear as a dark blue smudge down the middle, outflanked on both sides by a string of densely packed bright green rectangles that represent the thirsty irrigation farms that swing in a wide arc around the Gwydir Valley, carrying the water tantalizingly close but keeping it ultimately out of reach. Howard traces a finger across the map, following the course of the water that might have passed through the wetlands but never will.
“We used to get floods on a regular basis, pretty much every time it rained, but now they happen very rarely. The floods only happen now when there's a very significant flow that cannot be controlled,” he says.
It is those floods that make the Gwydir Wetlands so important. When the valley fills with water it sparks off a chain reaction that leads to an incomparable natural spectacle. First the pools and streams fill with insects, tadpoles and fish, swarming in their billions. Then the birds start to appear, seemingly from nowhere. During the 1995 flood, the most significant in recent memory, there were more than half a million breeding pairs of ibis alone, not to mention brolgas, black swans, magpie geese and countless others, many rare and endangered. Walking over the barely damp ground of the wetlands today, it's difficult to believe the magnitude of the scenes it once played host to. The only birds that can be seen now are a few lonely ibises, sentinels left behind to perch on the skeletal branches of dead trees and scan the horizon for any hint of the rising water that will signal the return of their kinsmen.
When, or if, the birds do return it is unclear what they will find, as the wetland ecosystem has been undergoing a major change, triggered by the lack of water. The vegetation in particular is shifting dramatically. When Howard first bought the property in 1982 it was covered in bull cooch, an aquatic grass that makes excellent cattle feed. But 25 years of gradually declining water flows have seen the desirable native grasses disappear, only to be replaced by dry land weeds, such as the noxious lippia.
“The whole ecology of the place has changed. The cooch can't survive on rainfall alone, it needs the water from upstream. The place is being taken over by lippia, which is now pretty much the dominant species,” Howard says.
Lippia is particularly hard to control and its relationship to the other plants can clearly be seen in Howard's patch of wetland. Wherever the ground is dry it spreads across the earth like a suffocating carpet. Only where there is still water contained in channels and isolated holes is the cooch thick and vibrant, desperately dependent on the remaining moisture to make its final stand against the invading weed.
Howard is a moderate man and he understands and sympathizes with every point of view in this complex issue, including farmers, irrigators and environmentalists. However, when it comes to the government, at both levels, his criticism is scathing. He accuses the NSW Government of setting up a flawed system - “Man has completely altered everything to do with water in this valley. Inevitably if you change something there's always a compromise somewhere else.” - and he believes the Federal Government should have done more to intervene and address the issues that have arisen.
