Issue 9 Feature Article

From Wilderness to Country

Friends are people with whom we have a special connectedness because of shared experiences and memories in our lifetime. Family are people with whom we have shared stories and experiences that go back for generations – hence the fasciation with family history, because those recollections and experiences are an important part of our roots, they make us who we are.
In a parallel way, place is space to which we are connected by stories or direct experiences. We say we have a ‘sense of place’. Without that we have only a name on a map, a space that seems to us empty because it has no history. Such a space can repel, can be frightening because it is unknown. The German word unheimlich (un-homelike) expresses this. Space can also beckon us because it is an escape and an opportunity. In the process of immigration both these emotions can be operating: apprehension of the new and excitement about the possibility of a new start and escape from, perhaps, a difficult past.
The Judaeo-Christian wilderness
The Biblical use of the term ‘wilderness’ carried both these meanings. In the Old Testament ‘wilderness’ referred to one of the world’s most desolate areas, the Negev Desert in Southern Israel, through which the Israelites travelled from Egypt to Canaan. It is still a treeless expanse of almost unbelievable devastation. But not only physical hardship and danger lurked there. The word ‘Eden’ is derived from the Hebrew word for delight, and the Garden of Eden stood in opposition to the vast, terrible desert surrounding it. In the Genesis story of Eden, Adam and Eve are driven from the fertile garden to a life of tribulation and pain in the arid land beyond. This association of wilderness with divine displeasure and punishment, made it also a site of spiritual and moral danger. Understandably diffident about going there in person as penance, the Israelites symbolically loaded their sins onto an unfortunate goat and drove it out into the wilderness as their substitute – their scapegoat –returning home exonerated.
However, in Judaeo-Christian tradition the wilderness was also a place of spiritual examination and growth. Here the Old Testament prophets received their message; John the Baptist and Jesus went there to prepare for their ministry; and the fourth-century Desert Fathers proclaimed that the wilderness was preferable to the comforts and distractions of the town. If renouncing materialism was a pre-requisite for spiritual growth, then the wilderness was the appropriate place to go. So the Biblical ‘wilderness’ had two code meanings: the terrible place where God was not, and the place of opportunity for spiritual growth.
European Notions of Wilderness
In European cultures the concept of wilderness also underwent many revolutions. In medieval times it was the place – usually a forest – beyond the known safety zone of the town or village, where physical, moral and spiritual dangers lay in wait for the traveler or pilgrim, where the heroes of folk-tales set out on a quest to prove their manliness and where Red Riding Hood encountered the wolf. It was also the place of female outcasts, witches, who had overstepped society’s boundaries. Wilderness was the place where, without God’s protection, you might lose your life and even your soul.
For eighteenth-century Europeans of the period known as the Enlightenment, when there was a great flourishing of science, there was effectively no wilderness. Nature had lost its numinous power for both good and evil, and been reduced to a collection of objects set out for their intellectual delight and enrichment. Australia, in particular, represented a vast museum of exotic plants and animals, a rich storehouse of commercially viable curiosities.
The Romantic revolution of the nineteenth century was a reaction against the intellectual materialism and narrow rationalism of the Enlightenment. Romantic writers asserted the value of emotions, especially in response to natural grandeur. Poets and artists initiated a fashion for experiencing the Sublime, as it was fashionable to call it; novelists embraced the wildness and moral disorder of Gothic. Lord Byron’s character Manfred declares: ‘my spirit walk’d not with the souls of men … my joy was in the wilderness’. This shunning of society in favour of wilderness was also a dominant theme of Romantic art. In Romantic paintings the human figures are passive, often insignificant, either terrified victims of Nature’s violence, as in Géricault’s The Raft of the Medusa (1819), or else wondering spectators of Nature’s awesome immensity, as in Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer above the Sea of Fog (1818)
Romantic poets, particularly Wordsworth, insisted on an intimate connection between the solitary experience of wild Nature, and ethical and spiritual well-being. Instead of a belief in a divine plan and cosmic order that had appealed to the previous generation when Isaac Newton was revered, the Romantics believed that Nature was wild, transcendent, even chaotic, and that this was not fearful but exhilarating. In the face of such power and immensity, understanding was presumptuous; to experience Nature through awe, terror and imaginative abandonment was the only appropriate response.
In 1851 the American philosopher Henry David Thoreau delivered a speech at the Concord Lyceum, Massachusetts, in the course of which he pronounced:  ‘[I]n Wildness is the preservation of the World’. These words have continued to resonate and be reproduced on posters for more than a century and a half. On reflection, though, we can see that Thoreau’s interest in Nature, like Wordsworth’s, was less for its own sake than for the effect it produced on him. He evolved a new kind of journal writing, in which Nature provides the personal interest and the relationships previously associated with human characters. His call for the preservation of wildness was partly to prevent the extinction of Native Americans and wild animals but at least equally for personal fulfillment. ‘Why should not we … have our national preserves …  our forests … not for idle sport or food, but for inspiration and our own true recreation?’
The Australian Wilderness
How do we relate to the land? In general, those of us of European descent have been conditioned to pass through it, live on it, use it, exploit it – or at least persuade it to be what we want it to be (parkland, garden, pasture, agricultural area, ski resort). We have painted and photographed it, engaged with it – commercially, pragmatically, artistically and perhaps spiritually. We have seen the land as being, at best, like a friend whom we choose for our own satisfaction. Compared with many cultures, our Western societies are impoverished in the ways they relate to the land.
For the Indigenous peoples of this continent, country is family. They do not choose it for their convenience; they are born into it. There is no demarcation of land into wilderness, bush, desert, habitable land, etc.; there is ‘country’, which was not only alive with stories but with which they have a deeply personal relationship, an I-Thou relationship that includes maternal nurturing by the land, custodial responsibility for the land and reverence for the spiritual power of the land, inhabited by the Ancestors.  A poem by Aboriginal poet Jack Davis expresses this in few but eloquent words:
Some call it desert
But it is full of life
Pulsating life
If one knows where to find it
In the land I love.
When Europeans came to Australia they were imbued with certain notions about place that can be summarized as follows.
They related to place as an I-it relationship; it was a material entity with no personal and certainly no spiritual component.
Their relationship to the land and its creatures was one of domination, based on a desire to make it serve their interests.
The process of colonization involved a continual struggle against a hostile land to subdue, conquer and possess it;
A mapped land, with European names imprinted on it, symbolized victory over the previously untamed land.
In Australia the untamed land was regarded at first an empty space, about which the colonists felt considerable fear. The fringes of settlement marked the beginning of wilderness, which was always just over the back fence – a moveable back fence: firstly the bush, then, as the settlers cleared the bush for pasture and agriculture, the central deserts, or, in Tasmania, the dense temperate rainforest of the west coast and the south-west.
The fear-factor associated with the bush was of becoming disoriented and lost in this monotonous expanse of trees that all seemed the same. Stories and paintings of lost children were a staple of nineteenth-century Australian fiction and art, a context into which the Azaria Chamberlain case was immediately slotted and which reached aesthetic heights in the film Picnic at Hanging Rock.
It was even worse with the desert wilderness. These flat and featureless plains extending into immensity threatened and disturbed Europeans because they resisted conquest and possession. The editor of the Melbourne newspaper the Argus pronounced the centre of the continent ‘this hideous blank’. Edward Charles Frome’s watercolour First View of the Salt Desert – called Lake Torrens (1843) starkly expresses the utter desolation that confronted this South Australian surveyor. A lone figure on horseback (either Frome himself or his fellow surveyor Henderson) surveys a perfectly level landscape in which he and his horse provide the sole visual interest. The desolation expressed in the painting is both imputed to, and impressed on, the landscape but its real source is, of course, the frustrated expectation of fertility – that the land should be something else – which had prompted the expedition. Samuel Gill’s Country North-west of Tableland (1846) and Ludwig Becker’s record of the Burke and Wills expedition Border of the Mud-desert near Desolation Camp (1861) are similar statements of bewilderment, despair and a sense of betrayal, at a landscape characterized by featureless, monotonous immensity.
In Tasmania the fear of the South-west was further fuelled by the politics of a penal settlement. Van Diemen’s Land embodied an identity crisis: it was expected to be both a prison to punish convicts, and a pastoral prospect to attract settlers. One way to deal with this dual requirement was partition. The eastern half of the island was declared an Eden, awaiting the development of a prosperous settlement, while the western half was ideologically cordoned off and declared a ‘hell on earth’, an appropriate place for the Empire’s worst and most dangerous felons. The horror and revulsion occasioned by the accounts of convicts at Macquarie Harbour on the West Coast, and the penal system that imprisoned them, provided a ready source of stories in which the land itself is complicit in the evil social structure. This involvement of the land in a saga of ongoing evil was the joint invention of two middle-class, nineteenth-century gentlemen who had never set foot on the west coast but felt fully qualified to elaborate on its horrors:
Reverend John West, esteemed historian and passionate opponent of transportation and
Marcus Clarke, journalist-turned-novelist, dispossessed of his expected family inheritance and packed off to Australia, like Rufus Dawes, the hero of his most famous work, The Term of his Natural Life.
Each, for his own purposes, put forward a theory of a haunted, terrible land. ‘Sacred to the genius of torture, nature concurred with the objects of its separation from the rest of the world, to exhibit some notion of perfect misery’, thundered John West:
The torrents which pour down the mountains mingle with decayed vegetable matter, and impregnated with its acids discolour the water of the harbour; and the fish that approach the coast often rise on the waves and float poisoned to its shores. (West, 1852: 181–2)
West is talking here about the tannin-stained water that has flowed through button grass plains. It is not dangerous to drink and certainly not life-threatening to fish. However, West’s powerful and evocative phrases were accepted as fact by later writers and further embroidered. Alexander Pearce, the only escaped convict known to have survived by cannibalism, has become an inevitable character in almost every novel set in Tasmania from Marcus Clarke’s The Term of his Natural Life (where he appears as Gabbett) to Richard Flanagan’s novels, and his story is currently being made into a film.
When, in 1830 the penal station was transferred from Macquarie Harbour to Port Arthur on the East Coast, the Gothic gruesomeness of the past remained associated with the South-west. The early explorers (usually parties of former convicts led by a surveyor) perpetuated these stories of a malevolent land of treacherous mountains and impassable rivers, barren of life and commercially useless. On the map of Van Diemen’s Land drawn by Assistant-Surveyor Thomas Scott in 1830 this area is named Transylvania (literally, ‘beyond the forests’) to denote its inaccessibility and isolation – though not the presence of vampires because Bram Stoker had not yet located them there.
Government surveyor James Calder’s description in 1849 of the area round the Franklin River, now one of Australia’s most revered sacred sites, is conspicuously lacking in appreciation of the Romantic Sublime.
This locality [the Deception Range] presents no other view but that of a sterile wilderness, and scenes of frightful desolation. The great ravine, which borders Deception Range to the westward … is a hideous defile. … A large and furious torrent flows through it, which, collecting all the water that falls on a wide extent of mountainous country, emerges from the glen a large and beautiful river. I called it the Franklin. … The valley of the Acheron opens on a miserable plain … producing neither a blade of grass, nor a particle of any useful herbage… [and] bare, white-looking hills of unsurpassed sterility. … the picture is inconceivably forbidding and gloomy. (Calder, 1849: 424)
This was a very typical statement of the image the nineteenth-century explorers inscribed on the land – and it stuck, long after their names were forgotten.
The Wilderness Advantage
Throughout the course of the twentieth century, there was a gradual reassessment of these wilderness areas. First the bush acquired a positive, almost a homely image. When it was no longer a threat – because settlement had encroached on so much of it and turned it into suburbia – it became immortalised in art, especially in Frederick McCubbin’s work, painted at an artists’ camp conveniently located at Housten’s Farm, Box Hill, on the outskirts of Melbourne but masquerading as ‘the Bush’. Australians began to feel comfortable with ‘the Bush’ and embraced it as a vital part of the national character, the factor that produced suntanned, resourceful bushman, pioneer women, the Lighthorsemen, the ANZACs. This was no accidental connection. The stories we write on the land are not arbitrary or innocent. They are carefully selected, just as we select our holiday photos (or even enhance them) to give the impression we want to remember – or show our friends. The embracing of the Bush was driven by politics and economics – the government’s need to settle returned soldiers on land that was otherwise regarded as useless and hence cheap, and to attract European migrants.
In the 1950s the reputation of the desert, too, began to be transformed – not in its essence but in the way in which it is now regarded. And this new perception was partly the result of seemingly unrelated factors – new modes of transport and cheap colour film. Four-wheel drives and light aircraft made the desert accessible in a way that had not been possible before and colour film moved the interest from features (which, to Western eyes were few or non-existent) to colour – specifically the stunning red colour of iron oxide. In this process the insights of artists were fundamental. Drysdale’s and Nolan’s images of desert desolation convey not despair but a kind of exultation in this unconventional beauty and in the sublimity of immensity. Molvig’s figures in a landscape convey a sense of the personality of a landscape of which Indigenous people are an integral part.
The Australian desert ‘wilderness’, the ‘hideous blank’, is now a prime tourist destination promoted internationally through images of vast desert landscapes in brilliant colour and focusing on such well-recognised features such as Uluru, Kata Tjuta or King’s Canyon, images that vie with the Sydney Opera House as immediately recognisable icons of the nation.  These are the obligatory stops on the tourist route, which takes in only red desert areas (yellow and brown deserts do not qualify). The coaches don’t journey through extended tracts of Sturt’s Stony Desert or risk boring the patrons by traveling too long through areas that are flat and lacking in impressive geographical features.
In Tasmania it was some decades after colonisation before voluntary travelers (as opposed to convicts and surveyors) discovered the South-west, but by the late 1880s, assisted by souvenir booklets of John Watt Beattie’s photographs, tourist potential was being factored into government decisions. Surveyor Edward G. Innes’s 1887 report on the Linda track from Lake St Clair to Macquarie Harbour advised that it would attract ‘visitors and tourists from the adjacent colonies’. It also attracted Tasmanians who enthusiastically took up the new sport of bushwalking. In the 1930s, Ida McAulay, a keen bushwalker and skier, recorded the new ‘take’ on wilderness.
Behind the barred teeth of this shore lies the whole jumbled tortuously broken, densely scrubbed, mountainous South-West of Tasmania, a grim, almost impossible country to traverse without food and equipment….
All the coast looks now just as it did when the early navigators sailed past in their little ships.
But that was in a time before it had become fashionable to admire mountains, and where we see beauty, they saw only a dangerous and forbidding land.
Bushwalkers of the 1930s to ’50s were likely to proclaim the benefits of such places for physical and mental health, and as a heritage that should be protected and passed on to their bush-walking, mountain-climbing children. They were opposed to roads that might take away the challenge of walking the hard places, but they were also much less likely than today’s environmentalists to consider the idea of saving the wilderness for its own sake.  They saw it as being there for them, for their enjoyment – and perhaps, as a reserve for native flora and fauna.
It is significant that none of these people mentioned the word ‘wilderness’. Even in the 1960s people spoke of’ the South-West’ or ‘The Reserve’ or the ‘National Parks’. The word ‘wilderness’ in its modern sense was deliberately crafted in response to a cause. It was suggested by the NSW conservationist Milo Dunphy on analogy with the Sierra Club’s popularisation of the term ‘wilderness’ in America, to give areas that needed protection an aura of grandeur, a timelessness and a uniqueness that they had not previously enjoyed. And it was hugely successful. Australians, especially urban Australians, embraced the new concept of wilderness. Like the central deserts, the terrain that had been almost universally feared, hated and avoided, suddenly acquired a reputation for ancientness and aesthetic magnificence.
The immense growth of support for the environmental movement in the 1970s, popularised by sympathetic media, was largely middle-class and unselfconsciously anthropocentric. The respectably dressed citizens who protested alongside stereotypical ‘Greenies’ against the destruction of ‘their’ wilderness were intent on preserving it for the physical, mental and spiritual well-being of their descendants. A walk in the wilderness would banish stress and regenerate the whole person. It embodied a desire for escape from materialism, from the economic jungle, to become purified in some unspecified way, to find a cause to live for – like the prophets and the Desert Fathers in secular dress.
As in the case of the desert, a vital role in the popularization of wilderness was played by artists, notably photographers. Like the flat expanse of the desert, most of the dense rainforest was un-paintable – for different reasons. There was too much of it, too close, too crowded. Unless you could position yourself on the other side of a handy lake – as Piguenit characteristically did, and as the Lake Pedder artists and photographers did, you would have enormous difficulty composing a landscape in traditional artistic terms. We needed Olegas Truchanas and even more Peter Dombrovskis, to invent a new way of depicting wilderness. We have now come to accept their new visual codes and conventions, so that a detail – a fern frond, a fungus, a single tree and of course, most famously, Rock Island Bend on the Franklin – can stand for the imagined whole. Without these images wilderness would never have secured the hearts and minds of Australia.
Dangers for Wilderness
This new love affair with wilderness has been generated very largely by the threats to its existence from dams, mining, logging and other forms of commercial exploitation. An endangered beloved is a more precious beloved. But a more precious beloved may be an even more endangered beloved. Ironically, that very success in publicising the widespread damage to wilderness areas, has endangered it in another way.
The price of the megastar status of Tasmanian wilderness is the crowding in of its admirers, eager to see, to experience, to photograph and film it. But by burdening fragile temperate rainforest with the responsibility of representing ‘wilderness’ in general, we inflict on it a mass influx of passionate devotees making their pilgrimage to the few internationally famous shrines. What can be done to protect wilderness areas from their fans?
One way would be to close some selected wilderness areas to all human contact. It might not be popular but with enough resources for policing it could be done. However, it is a particularly hard call for Tasmanians to relinquish the privileging of wilderness. The listing of the South-West Wilderness as world heritage catapulted Tasmania from nonentity to a key player on the international stage. It remains the State’s major claim to fame and an important source of tourist mega-dollars. Playing it down seems economic suicide.
Another solution might be the allocation of different areas of wildernesses for varying levels of engagement. Some might be off limits to everyone but rangers; others might be left difficult and dangerous for those demanding a challenge to test their physical fitness while other, more accessible areas remained available for group tourism. These latter would be, in effect, sacrificial lambs whose function is to spare the ‘main’ wilderness. The danger is that the most remote areas, usually the most undamaged, might be exploited for extreme sports, thereby becoming as degraded as the more visited destinations.
Designer Wildernesses
American novelist Wallace E. Stegner wrote in 1960: ‘We simply need the wild country available to us, even if we do no more than drive to its edge and look in. For it can be a means of reassuring ourselves of our sanity as creatures, a part of our geography of hope’. In the extreme form, we just need reassurance that it is there.
However, for those who still want their wilderness experience, there are, perhaps, substitutes that could save the ‘real’ wilderness. In an article with the arresting title ‘What’s Wrong with Plastic Trees?’ (1973) Martin Krieger proposed the creation of artificial wildernesses, just as we have a reconstructed Old Sydney Town, a Sovereign Hill, or the Port Arthur Experience. Many tourists would be just as happy to visit a wilderness theme park that mimics the features they expect to see. Those unable or unwilling to trudge along difficult tracks in miserable weather could still experience and enjoy a simulated rainforest, even a simulated experience of camping – without the rain, the mud, the snakes or the leeches. Bob Brown’s reply to those who say that no such alternatives could ever be a substitute for the real experience is interesting and pragmatic:
We shall only survive the present age of crisis if everyone foregoes much of what would have been their natural birthright in the pre-scientific age… The direct use of wilderness in times to come will be greatly restricted for us all if we are to go about it wisely and ensure that there is a long- term prospect of our enjoying wilderness at all.
A more sophisticated version of this solution may come from technology itself: simulated wilderness experiences, in three-dimensional, sense-surround multi-media. Here we might select from a menu any place, ‘real’ or imagined, that we wish to visit, and wander at will in the weather conditions of our choice, touching the moss, feeling the spray, being swirled down the currents of the Franklin, hearing the calls of birds and animals, smelling the Leatherwoods in flower, gazing up through towering eucalypts. The real objection to these alternatives is that they might ultimately devalue wilderness in people’s minds. Provided these accessible theme parks or virtual locations were kept operational, would most people greatly care what happened to the more remote ‘real’ places? Would the actual wilderness areas be regarded as expendable commodities to be auctioned off to commercial interests?
There is a more subtle and insidious danger. The dualism inherent in separating ‘it’ and ‘us’ estranges us further from nature, of which we are biologically, and I believe spiritually, a part, and reinforces exactly the kinds of discrimination, exploitation and failure in empathy that the conservation movement seeks to change. We need ways of thinking about, sensing, responding to, living with, and being in, a nature that is broader than wilderness.
There is a further ideological problem.  Restricting human presence in wilderness creates a different and essentially artificial nature, in which every species is welcome – except us. In such a program wilderness is effectively being landscaped to resemble what we have decided is appropriate. The alleged rationale for this is to preserve its pristine state, but there is no wilderness in its pristine state, except, perhaps, parts of Antarctica.
There is also the danger that if the focus is so narrowly directed towards one environmental category –wilderness – other ecosystems will be ignored and become degraded through neglect. Intent on saving so-called wild rivers and old- growth forests from destruction we risk losing sight of our responsibility to care appropriately for farmlands, wetlands, urban and suburban spaces, country towns, cityscapes, beaches, oceans, the many off-shore islands, and the non-wild rivers. Many vulnerable species go unchampioned because they live in areas we have declared to be ‘artificial’, that is, affected by human habitation – close to farmed land, in unattractive marshlands, or frequented beaches.
A more challenging solution has been proposed by eco-philosopher Thomas Berry in ‘Reinventing the Human’ and The Dream of the Earth (1988). Berry calls us to ‘reinvent the human at the species level within the community of life systems’, to think imaginatively about being an integral part of ‘the more- than-human creation’. This was an option that Australian Aboriginal culture embraced from a time long before much of Tasmania’s rainforest wilderness existed. They called it ‘Country’.
This word ‘Country’ underpins the relationship that Australian Aborigines have with their ancestral land. The depth of that connection arises from the three inseparable aspects that are fundamental to their culture and beliefs: the Ancestors, the biological forms they created, and land that sustains them. The Ancestors, powerful spirit Beings of the Dreaming, emerged from deep within the ground and proceeded to give form to a previously flat and featureless world. During their legendary journeys they created the landforms, plants and animals that remain permeated by their spiritual presence. Having completed their epic work of creation, the Ancestors returned to the earth, the source of spiritual power. Hence the ‘connection to all things natural is spiritual’. The bond between the Ancestors and their creation is maintained through the Law, which specifies the responsibility of the people to care for the land both physically (by clearing waterholes and rivers and regularly firing patches of grass to provide grazing land for animals) and spiritually (by performing the appropriate ceremonies to maintain its fertility and to honour the indwelling Ancestors). This triad – Land, Law and People – encapsulates the fundamental and enduring relation between the Land, the Ancestors of the Dreaming who gave the Law, and the communities who maintain the connection. Anthropologist Deborah Bird Rose reminds us:
A definition of wilderness which excludes the active presence of humanity may suit contemporary people’s longing for places of peace, natural beauty, and spiritual presence, uncontaminated by their own culture. But definitions which claim that these landscapes are ‘natural’ miss the whole point of the nourishing of Australian terrains. Here on this continent, there is no place where the feet of Aboriginal humanity have not preceded those of the settler. Nor is there any place where the country was not once fashioned and kept productive by Aboriginal people’s land management practices.
As non-Indigenous people we cannot – and should not – appropriate Aboriginal religious and cultural beliefs, but we can learn from these guardians of the land who have grieved for two centuries over its desecration. Generously offering their knowledge despite the many years when it was denigrated or ignored, they are now teaching rangers, biologists and environmentalists how to live in harmony with the land. Certainly this does not involve vacating it and pretending to edit ourselves out of those areas we have designated ‘wilderness’, but, rather, entering into a relationship with it, a relationship of commitment to care in which we are an integral part: not spectators, users or even managers, but custodians of our inheritance – our country – to which we belong and by which we are defined.
For me, wilderness is the place where I feel disempowered but become resourceful, the place where I am dwarfed but come to my true self.

Roslynn Haynes is Adjunct Associate Professor of English at the University of New South Wales and a Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities. As a result of her background in both science and the humanities she has been fascinated by interfaces, including the way different disciplines can collaborate to illuminate ideas. Her book Seeking the Centre: The Australian Desert in Literature, Art and Film (1998), which won the award of ‘OutstandingContribution to Australian Culture 1999’ from the Centre for
Australian Cultural Studies, explored these different perspectives from writers and artists and their interconnections. Her most recent book is Tasmanian Visions and is available from Polymath Press.

Ros now lives in Hobart. She and her husband are Quakers, passionate about peace and justice and about preserving the health of our environment. They also breed alpacas.


PAGE  13

Henry David Thoreau, Maine Woods Writings, 3, 212–3.
Ida McAulay, quoted in Helen Gee and Janet Fenton, The South West Book, pp.137.
Bob Brown, ‘The Use and Misuse of Wilderness in South-west Tasmania’, p.85.
I have written about this in more detail in my Seeking the Centre, Chapter 1, ‘The Land is a Map’.
Silas Roberts, Chairman of the Northern Land Council, in his submission to the Ranger Enquiry in 1977,
Deborah Bird Rose, Nourishing Terrains, p.18.


Further Reading
Berry, Thomas, The Dream of the Earth. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1988.
––––––––––, ‘Reinventing the Human’,. Talk delivered at Chapel Hill, N.C. June 1997, published in The Ecozoic Reader, Winter 2003.
Brown, Bob, ‘The Use and Misuse of Wilderness in South-west Tasmania’ in Vance Martin (ed.), Wilderness, Findhorn, Scotland: Findhorn Press, 1982, pp. 81–6.
Gee, Helen and Janet Fenton (eds), The South West Book: A Tasmanian Wilderness, Sydney, Melbourne: Collins & Australian Conservation Foundation, 1978.
Griffiths, T., ‘History and Natural History: Conservation Movements in Conflict?’ in D.J. Mulvaney (ed.) The Humanities and the Australian Environment, Canberra: Australian Academy of the Humanities, 1991, pp. 87–110.
Haynes, Roslynn, Seeking the Centre: The Australian Desert in Literature, Art and Film, Cambridge & Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 1998.
––––––––––––, Tasmanian Visions: Landscapes in Writing, Art and Photography, Hobart: Polymath Press, 2006.
Krieger, Martin, ‘What’s Wrong with Plastic Trees?’, Science 179 (1973), 446–54.
Low, Tim, The New Nature: Winners and Losers in Wild Australia. Camberwell, Vic.: Penguin, 2002.
Monbiot, George, ‘Planet of the Fakes’, Guardian Weekly Jan 9–15, 2003, p.11.
Nash, Roderick, Wilderness and the America Mind, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1967, Third edn 1981.
––––––––––––, The Rights of Nature: A History of Environmental Ethics. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989.
Schama, Simon, Landscape and Memory. Hammersmith: HarperCollins, 1995.
Witham, Charles, Western Tasmania: A Land of Riches and Beauty, Queenstown: Robert Sticht Memorial Library, 1949.