Thirsty Bees and Wasps
Telowie Gorge, apparently known as Watapa to the indigenous Nukunu clan who once called this ancient region home, is a steep, rocky, craggy gorge that has been cut and carved, over millions of years, by water flowing through uniform, pink to white, fine to medium grained feldspathic sandstone and quartzite. It is a place where one can feel one’s sense of ‘time’ melt away, through layers of ancientness that one cannot conceptualise, into a fundamental feeling of ‘timelessness’. But there are also perceptions of more recent effects of time that one certainly cannot help but recognise. I previously made an overnight visit and recorded at Telowie Gorge in September 2020. This being the southern hemisphere, September is (officially) the first month of Spring. At that time, there was a good flow of water through the gorge. Even so, birdlife was much scarcer than I had expected, or have experienced in many other conservation parks. However, at that time, I sighted (and photographed) several Yellow-footed Rock Wallabies (officially listed as ‘vulnerable’); but also a few feral goats.
My second overnight visit, after a long hiatus, occurred in February 2026, during the (official) last month of summer. The rainfall since the beginning of the new year had thus far been 0 mm. The weather was hot, and the gorge was bone dry; and although I did see one Yellow-footed Rock Wallaby, I saw far more feral goats – and families of feral goats – than I had seen in 2020. In my unattended overnight-to-dawn recordings of February 2026, I recorded a couple of Yellow-footed Rock Wallabies (Andu), and also recorded a few more kangaroos or wallabies (these may have been Western Grey Kangaroos (Wawu), Red Kangaroos (Urdlu), or Euros or Common Wallaroos (Mandyas)). However, the predominant inhabitants, here, without question, were the feral goats. Deep into the gorge, at first light, the ‘dawn chorus’ comprised, almost exclusively (apart from intermittent wind), only the plaintive cries of individual feral goats, and of dispersed groups of feral goats, echoing through the gorge. Hardly a bird call was to be heard (although the quiet flutter of wings was recorded at dusk, and through the night). It is a beautiful and yet eery, imbalanced place.
Wandering along the gorge in February 2026, I came across one small remnant rock pool of water. In the early spring of 2020, this pool had been quite deep, brimming with water, and the water was flowing freely downstream. In the late summer of 2026, the pool was relatively shallow, and one could see, from the darker colouration of the adjacent rocks, the much higher accustomed water level. It was clear that the current water level was extremely low, and a flow of water was impossible. But that scarcity of water was, precisely, why this remnant pool was a vital oasis for thousands of feral European honey bees and hundreds of native wasps: these have come to be named ‘Australian Hornets’ (Abispa ephippium), but they are, in actuality, a vespid, a native type of ‘potter wasp’ or ‘mason wasp’. The sounds produced by these two different species are very clearly distinguishable: the deeper thrumming frequency is that of the native wasp, while the higher frequencies are produced by the feral bees.
The microphones were set up close to the water’s edge, while I pressed myself into the narrow band of shade provided by a cliff, trying to keep out of the searing sunlight. Strong wind – with occasional stronger gusts – was blowing through the gorge, and through the leaves of its adamant, stoic flora, and this can be heard fluctuating in the background, beyond the vivid, vibrant sounds of the bees and the wasps, seeking the water of life. It was a harsh, yet really quite beautiful and inspiring natural place, although sorely in need of balance between ‘past’ and ‘present’, if it is to maintain a ‘future’ existence. This is something that one can feel, without having to ‘think’ about it, simply by sitting there, looking, listening, sensing.