Deluge

We have had little rain for the past 5 months, and November and December have been hot and windy. Only 60 ml of rain has fallen, compared to the normal 283 ml for this period ― evaporation has exceeded precipitation, and the property looks brown and parched.

Numerous forecasts of rain have come to nothing, and on several days I have watched, first in anticipation, then in frustration, as promising black thunderstorms passed just to the north or south of us.

But what’s this got to do with being carbon neutral? Well, heaps actually.

Back in October 2005, one of our paddocks was sown with native tree and shrub seeds. They germinated well after the wet spring that year but now the young seedlings are desperately in need of a drink. Many have already died, unable to cope with the high temperatures and dry conditions.

In September this year, helped by family and friends, Hilary and I planted 800 native seedlings. This was followed a month later by another broad area seeding with Greening Australia.

These seeds and seedlings, as well as providing wildlife habitat, will help us to offset our carbon emissions — providing they grow!

I have just spent 3 weeks hand-watering the seedlings and wasn’t relishing the thought of having to do it again soon. The next watering was scheduled to start on January 10^th if no significant rain fell, so when thunderstorms were forecast for New Year’s Eve, I kept an eye out for them. I always know when a thunderstorm is coming as Cassie, my sooky border collie, starts panting and scratching on my office window, asking to be let in.

So when Cassie started panicking, I let her in and checked the radar. A large mass of ‘yellow and orange’ cloud (ie heavy rain) was heading slowly in a north-westerly direction, and would pass south of the farm. “Head north, head north’, I implored the radar, fearing my frustration would turn to depression if the farm missed out again. However, valium wasn’t needed as the storm started tracking straight towards us.

Then it hit — it was a deluge. Heavy rain slammed into the corrugated iron roof, conversation was impossible, gutters overflowed, and the lounge room ceiling started leaking.

Thirty minutes and 45 ml later it stopped — the yard was awash, four dams that had been empty were now overflowing, and I wasn’t going to have to water our carbon-offsetting plants next week!

A day later, there were frog concertos around each of the newly-filled dams – where do these amphibians come from? — and today, gelatinous white blobs of frog eggs were floating on the muddy water. To quote an inappropriate cliché — aren’t all clichés inappropriate? — this was a good example of making hay while the sun shines.