The sap is rising, not only in the plants but among the animals too. Bursting buds, blossoms, and bulging pouches are just some of the indicators. But among the humans, temperatures are rising in another way. There’s conflict in The Patch! I’m not talking demonstrations or bloodshed, but if rocks aren’t being thrown, exactly, they are being gathered and used. 

A minor track – we call it The Orchid Path for its profusion of those – is occasionally used by mountain bikers. Lately rocks, along with logs, have been dumped across this rough track. One day we’ll come across these makeshift barriers; the next day they’ll be gone. It’s a clear sign of divergent opinions on how we should – or shouldn’t – be using this 150 hectares of suburban bushland on the lower slopes of kunanyi.

Apart from removing barriers, the mountain bike fraternity has other tactics. “Sappers” from among their number have cached tools in the bush for use in the stealthy construction of jumps and bermed tracks, some of which are amazingly elaborate. Another militant group, the chainsaw brigade, has also been busy. Their work is a lot more blatant, since no-one has yet invented a silencer for chainsaws. Also felled trees are easy to spot. 

We hear that the landowner is planning to refurbish the water pipeline that runs along The Patch’s main fire trail. Any dead trees that could fall onto this infrastructure have been marked for felling. However, we’re not convinced that every person with a chainsaw, a hard hat and a hi-vis vest is cutting trees “officially” for the landowner. 

This all feels like Tasmania’s environmental conflicts writ small, The Patch a microcosm of the wider Tasmanian environment. Always on this island we seem to be in conflict over how we manage the land. Since the conflict is old, I’ve been wondering whether an old solution might work as well – or perhaps better – as any current model. 

The “old” approach is that of American forest ecologist Aldo Leopold. In his 1949 classic, A Sand County Almanac, Leopold expounds what he calls a land ethic. He uses "land" to mean "soils, waters, plants, and animals" as well as the circuit of energy flowing between them. He summarises his land ethic thus.

“A thing is right when it tends to preserve the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community. It is wrong when it tends otherwise.” 

Essentially, Leopold wants us to recognise that we have ethical obligations not only to other human beings but also to entire ecosystems, including animals and plants, soils, water and air. As Leopold searches for ways to help his generation consider the “beauty of the biotic community” – essentially to come to love it – he turns to his long and direct observation of nature.  

“I have seen a thousand geese this fall. Every one of these in the course of their epic journey from the Arctic to the gulf has on one occasion or another probably served man in some equivalent of paid entertainment. One flock perhaps has thrilled a score of schoolboys, and sent them home with tales of high adventure. Another passing overhead of a dark night, has serenaded a whole city with goose music, and awakened who knows what questionings and memories and hopes.”

For him life forms have an intrinsic value. He asks an odd yet profound question: who would be able to “fashion a goose” from scratch if they had caused its extinction? His quasi-biblical turn of phrase is deliberately reminiscent of God’s quizzing of Job in the Old Testament.

“Does the hawk take flight by your wisdom and spread its wings toward the south? Does the eagle soar at your command and build its nest on high?” (Job 39:26-27)

Both call for humility in the face of living things. Sadly, while humanity and humility might share many letters, that appears to be the extent of it. Rather than being thrilled by flocks of geese – or their local equivalent – I wonder if we’re more likely to be thrilled by technology or human achievements.  The beauty of the biotic community seems too easily eclipsed.

But then we’re out walking The Patch with some of our grandchildren. It’s a walk we do often, as a kind of bush fitness trail. But this time we slow down, stop often, look closely, ponder the kinds of questions only young children ask. One granddaughter stoops, transfixed, while she inspects the hot pink blooms of the uncommonly beautiful common heath (Epacris impressa). Her face tells me she is, to use the words of eco-philosopher David Abram, falling in love with the local earth. 

When conflicts arise, it’s fair to ask whether any of us could fashion a goose, or an epacris, if our actions caused its demise. But if the size of that ethical task feels overwhelming, I stop and think of my granddaughter. Caring for the earth starts locally, and may be best achieved by helping one child fall in love with one bird, or one bit of bush. According to Abram, this is the deepest medicine. 

We could all do with a dose of that.

Peter Grant lives in the foothills of kunanyi with his wife. He worked with the Tasmania Parks and Wildlife Service for 24 years as manager of interpretation and education. His passion for the natural world led him to write Habitat Garden (ABC Books) and found the Wildcare Tasmania Nature Writing Prize. More of his writing can be seen at naturescribe.com.

Click here to read more from Peter Grant's column, The Patch.