People in my community are still talking about 'when things go back to normal' but we need to realise that volatile and uncertain weather conditions are the new normal.
Goondiwindi, QLD
My name is Pete Mailer. My wife and I farm grain and cattle near Goondiwindi on the Queensland border.
I grew up farming and started my own farming business in the early 1990s. I have witnessed the impacts of climate change on my farm and community.
The 3rd of January 2014 was a pivotal day for me. That day the temperature soared over 47 degrees, relative humidity plummeted to single figures and there were high winds. It was a crop killing day.
It decimated crops that had adequate moisture and should have been able to produce a good yield. Hundreds of millions of dollars of production in the region was knocked out in just one day.
It barely made the news. If a cyclone or flood did as much damage they would trigger disaster relief.
It was dismissed as ‘a once in a hundred-year event’. However, a few years later we got a week of the same kind of crop killing days in a row. One in a hundred-year events are now turning into a one in ten-year events.
Global warming is forecast to increase the severity and frequency of extreme weather events. Paradoxically this means we will see more extremes in heat and cold weather events, drought and flood events and the intensity of storms.
In the last couple of years on my farm, I’ve experienced extreme damage from flood, drought, frost and heat. I have experienced multiple extreme events in a single production year.
The increasing volatility in the seasons is making farming harder to manage. Farmers have been pretty good at dealing with volatile weather, but increasing volatility will be almost impossible to manage without assistance..
Since the 1990s I have reduced my annual yield expectations by 15% because of uncertainty in the weather. Our returns are increasingly hard to predict. As a result, I have downsized our farming operations in response to climate risk. It’s been a pretty hard slog.
Ironically, 2021 will most likely go down as the best annual farming year of my career due to exceptionally kind weather. Sadly, the five and ten year rolling averages still attest to the realised impacts of climate change while clearly signalling the rising risks we face.
My family started diversifying our farming business and moving into solar farms some years ago. This shift was a deliberate and proactive response to climate change. All of my siblings work in the solar now.
People in my community are still talking about ‘when things go back to normal’ but we need to realise that volatile and uncertain weather conditions are the new normal.
I’m concerned for the next generation and what their opportunities will be like. Every generation is a steward and it is incumbent on us to leave our land/country/planet better than we found it. Australia is so far failing to do that.
The government’s response to climate change is grossly inadequate. Australia has an opportunity to change our response and we must act now.
Sometimes the problem looks so large that it seems like nothing we do can make a difference. In truth, everything we do makes a difference and there is a cumulative effect that eventually can’t be ignored. Individuals and communities must act on climate in whatever capacity they can rather than waiting for someone else to do it.
Hundreds of people from across the country are sharing their stories to send a clear message to the Australian government - it's time for real action on climate change.
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I am surrounding by an ocean of drowning trees. They are not drowning in water, they are thirsty for it. Brown as scabs and waving like flags throughout the forest, on roadsides, and in backyards, Endlessly and silently gesturing to all of us. You can see them out of the corner of your eye, Niggling at the edge of our thoughts, As we relentlessly drive on without changing lanes, slowing down or coming to a stop. If we did that, we would have to turn and look. Like properly look, Noticing something for the first time that has been there all along. The forest that is, which has existed and perfected its survivorship over thousands of generations. We call it the Jarrah forest, and it is found nowhere else in the world. It has loved and nurtured the people of the south west of WA, Without question and without asking anything in return. It has given breath to our lungs, pure water for drinking and sacred footpaths to tread. It could have lasted forever if we had chosen to tread carefully, And looked after it like we would our own kin. The least we could have done is look after it. The sheer number of dying trees is new, and that’s what’s waving to us, As they are drowning in the hot, dry air; New saplings that have germinated after a brutal ‘controlled’ burn, Right before the rain stopped in spring last year. It’s barely rained since, And the tender young plants cannot reach water in time to survive through summer. We are nearly two thirds of the way through autumn, And still it feels like summer. We will get rain soon, And we will enjoy the lush, earthy smells and green tones, That will please our eyes and calm our minds. The new brown scabs will remain, Reminding us of the groundwater that we can’t see, That has been depleting every year. It will remain out of reach for the old, old trees, Not just the young saplings; The grandmothers of the landscape are dying. First you see the grey-green crown start to fade, And then turn yellow, And then brown, like weak tea. Without the elders and the saplings, What is left? And what will come next? Not air for our lungs. Or water for our bodies. Or shaded footpaths. The forest will no longer be safe. Just one word, and you will know; Fire. Everyone who thinks that we don’t need the forest to survive, Will realise too late. Or perhaps they don’t think at all. Or perhaps they know, and they choose to ignore. Or perhaps they think that we have dominion over the forest, And it is there to take from what we want, And the consequences are too far in the future to worry about now. Except they are not. Those poor, drowning trees. Not drowning in water, thirsty for it. Not waving, but drowning in the hot, dry air.
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