The Crocodile Hunter: The Incredible Life and Adventures of Steve and Terri Irwin (5 page)

The fourth member of our gang was Egg Head, an emu who had an appetite for just about anything, including my marbles.

But other aspects of Egg Head’s behavior were more worrying. One day I heard Dad shouting, “You stupid bird brain, get out of it!” Egg Head had snuck up and was eating Dad’s nice shiny nails. That same day we had to catch and restrain our poor old emu when he stuck his whole head into a can of paint! An emu with a “Mission Brown”–painted head looks pretty funny, but it wasn’t funny trying to hold him down and wipe it off, his eyes and beak sticking together as the paint dried. It was a traumatic experience but by the next day Egg Head had forgotten all about it and was keen to play armies again.

I grew up with a very strong sporting background—swimming, playing football, cricket, and soccer and, later in life, surfing. Dad had been in the Australian badminton team and one day I decided to build a badminton court, Dad helping to put up the net and to mark out the boundaries with sand. Problem was, Brolly considered the sand pile as his. He would dance on his sand pile for hours, showing off to anyone or anything in the vicinity.

“Brolly, I’m taking some of your sand,” I said.

Brolly spread his wings and jumped in the air, dancing and bugling in response. I guessed that this meant “no way” in brolga lingo but, determined, I gathered a bucketful of sand and started to mark out the boundaries. Brolly was very unhappy with this and stood in my path with his wings spread aggressively.

“Listen here, Brolly,” I said, “if you’re a good bird and let me build this court, we’ll let you chase the shuttlecock and stab the net.”

He seemed to understand exactly what I said, moved aside, and turned his back on me. “Thank you, you’re such a clever bird,” I remarked, but no sooner had I tipped out a handful of sand when,
whammo,
everything went black. The defiant Brolly had waited for his moment and then pecked me on the top of the head so hard it had knocked me down and out.

As I regained consciousness and my vision, the first thing I saw was Brolly dancing and flicking sand out of the bucket, obviously very proud of his win. I picked myself up off the ground and went running to Mum, blood streaming through my hair and down my face.

I was nine years old when I captured my first croc.

“Mum!” I cried. “Brolly stabbed me in the head and my brains will come out,” I whimpered.

“Don’t worry, son, you’ll be all right, give me a look,” she reassured me.

I was always injured and bleeding from somewhere. Once again, Mum cleaned me up and sent me on my way, as only a mother could.

“Now you respect Brolly’s things. You wouldn’t like it if he took your bike now, would you?” she explained.

To this day I still have some very memorable scar tissue on my head, but by the next day Brolly and I were mates again. I continue to respect an animal’s space and belongings. Such trials and tribulations from those early years are now fond memories, forming lessons and experiences that in one way or another I utilize in everyday life, and which make me the bloke I am.

By 1980, the Beerwah Reptile Park had grown at an incredible rate and was upgraded to the Queensland Reptile and Fauna Park. We were a zoological facility like no other in the world. Our collection of beautiful Australian animals was made up of orphans that had been raised as my brothers and sisters, and reptiles that people despised were loved and welcomed into our family.

It was in the early eighties, when Mum and Dad were so desperately dedicated to rescuing, saving, and protecting all of Australia’s wildlife, that a huge decision was about to be made.

Dad and I were out on a pineapple farmer’s property trying to rescue a platypus that had lost his water hole, and the bulldozers were moving in. We were skirting the muddy banks, almost giving up hope of finding the poor little blighter. Something urged me to dive my hands into the mud to catch a yabby (a type of freshwater crayfish), and as I grabbed the yabby, it hit me. I looked down into the greasy mud and saw movement. With the yabby still firmly clamped on my fingers, I reached into the mud and there she was—the most beautiful animal on earth, a very young female platypus. She was gorgeous.

“Dad, Dad, I got her!”

“You beauty!” he thundered back.

On our way to release her into a new water hole where she would be safe from bulldozers forever, Dad discussed his huge decision with me.

Oh boy, here we go.

Dad and Mum were sick to death of people’s hatred of the big saltwater crocodiles in far North Queensland. They couldn’t stand it any longer. They decided now was the time to rescue crocs that were deemed dangerous and were to be eliminated. Their belief and aim was a massive move to boost conservation and education about crocodiles, to help crocodiles in need of new territories, and to educate people about the beauty of the greatest reptilian predator in the world.

The platypus I rescued. Isn’t she gorgeous?

It was in the early 1980s that Dad and I got deadly serious about capturing and relocating crocodiles that were deemed dangerous. He fired up his busted old backhoe and started digging water holes. We were building the Crocodile Environmental Park. To this day we’re still building it—it will never be finished. The Queensland Reptile and Fauna Park was not about catching a bunch of crocodiles and sticking them in cages for people to look at. No way—never. Not on your life.

We built croc territory for designated rogue or problem crocodiles that were destined to be shot or killed. We love crocs, always have and always will. Our passion for crocs is perpetual, and over these early years, Dad and myself rescued hundreds. All of the animals you see in our zoo needed our help, especially our crocs.

Dad on his backhoe constructing the "Crocodile Environmental Park."

The Acco Encounter

I
t was during the 1960s that stories first emerged of a huge black crocodile living in one of many river systems of North Queensland. Fishermen working the monster’s remote tidal river system would return with yarns, reinforced by fear in their expressions, of narrow escapes and life-threatening battles with the marauding monster croc.

For over twenty years the legend of the big black croc sent shivers down the spines of North Queenslanders. He had sunk boats, torn up nets, driven fishermen from the river, and attacked and killed scrubber bulls, then dragged the carcasses hundreds of feet across mudflats to consume them at his leisure. He was said to be over thirty feet long, his belly wider than a dinghy, and his head so immense that it could swallow down a whole “Barra” boar.

During his reign, some of the finest croc shooters in the North pitted their wits against his in a futile effort to secure the ultimate trophy. By the 1980s professional and sports fishermen, along with local farmers, were complaining to the department of National Parks and Wildlife that this crocodile was a menace. They felt threatened by his presence and wanted him destroyed or removed.

The government sent in professional crocodile catchers who worked for crocodile farms to rid the area of any crocodiles deemed dangerous, but the big black croc’s instincts allowed him to avoid capture easily. Man was his only fear, but he’d learned about man, the invaders of his territory who were torturing and taking his girls when the tranquil still of night was disturbed by the thundering of outboard motors and by piercing bright lights. They had been killing his family for over fifty years and he knew that if he looked at the lights, the loudest of all animals would call and his death would follow.

It was in 1985, while assisting the Queensland National Parks and Wildlife Service with relocating rogue crocodiles, that Dad and I heard the tale of this legendary croc. We felt drawn to him.

In 1987 we surveyed the croc’s territory and in 1988 we had been designated caretakers of his river system. We were to work under the East Coast Crocodile Management Program, set up by the Queensland National Parks and Wildlife Service, and our objective was to remove and relocate rogue or problem crocs from populated areas.

My family felt that our participation in the croc management program was the best way to protect the crocs from humans. Our aim was to catch and relocate them before they made the mistake of showing themselves around populated areas.

Typical Freshwater Croc habitat.

From the moment Dad and I laid eyes on the habitat belonging to the big croc we fell in love with it, a truly magnificent tidal system laced with enchanted mangroves and wetlands fed by the spectacular tropical rainforests of the Great Dividing Range. This picturesque environment supported a myriad of wildlife, from its apex predator, the saltwater crocodile, to docile vegetarians, from agile wallabies to microscopic marine life.

Crocodile slide on a tidal mud bank.

But the area is the scene of classic conflict between man and the environment. Cane farms are bulldozed all the way to the river, and there’s pollution of the river systems exacerbated by speed boats.

We spent many months scanning the muddy riverbanks, a primeval ooze teeming with life, on the low tides, hoping to see the slides or marks left by our quarry. Countless lead-in baits, lures, and traps were set to no avail.

Then, one morning, Dad spotted our first sign. The big black croc had made a mistake. Dad located a belly slide tucked up in the mangroves where the big old fella had spent some time basking the previous day.

Several days later, Dad left me, with faithful dog Chilli, in the croc’s territory. One man and one dog in the vast maze of mangroves, pitted against the legend. I set two traps in the vicinity of the belly slide Dad had located. Then I set my biggest trap upstream from the belly slide, in the area I considered the wildlife “hot spot,” the stretch of the river prolific with wallabies, pigs, flying fox, fish, and mudcrabs: perfect croc cuisine.

Another trap was set down toward the mouth of the river in the area where the majority of “man versus beast” stories originated. The mouth of a river is of prime importance in a large male’s assertion of dominance in his territory. This old bloke would have had many bone-crunching fights with subordinate males trying to cut in on his turf.

It was hard work preparing a trap site.

Every time I entered his part of the river I could feel his presence. Often in the stillness of the night I’d cut the outboard, turn on the spotlight, and drift. And every time an eerie sensation would overwhelm me. Even Chilli could sense it. My task was awesome and, by crikey, I was going to be careful!

One night I spotted the eyeshine of a small croc, about ten feet long, which I assumed was one of the croc’s girls. I quickly unraveled a net, tied it to the mangroves, then reversed out into the middle of the river, hoping the current from the tide would drift the net around the croc. Briefly turning on my spotty, I picked up her eyeshine. The net was coming around nicely. Another scan with the spotty: the crocodile was coming straight for me, against the current! Adrenaline surged, and my hands were sweating and shaking so hard I couldn’t start the outboard. I was panicking.

“Stevo, slow down! Slow down!” I kept repeating, trying to get the grip on myself I needed. “Chilli, get in the middle of the boat and stay!” I commanded. I grabbed the spotlight. It had been disconnected by my scared little dog.

Scrambling frantically, I reconnected the spotty. Confidence was regained once I had the power of light in my hands. I scanned the river. There it was. The net was now past my boat and heading upstream at a good rate of knots.

“Start the outboard!” I had to shout at myself for my body to react. The boat caught up to the trailing ends of the net. “C’mon, Stevo…think, boy, think.”

The floats upstream were disappearing, the net was being dragged under. Scurrying to the bow of the boat, I grabbed the net ends and tied them to the bow hook. I jumped back toward the outboard as an almighty surge pulled the bow of my boat underwater. Regaining an even keel, I slammed the idling outboard into reverse.

“Back off, Steve! Back off!”

The reverse thrust of the outboard against the “nuclear sub” I’d caught in the net pulled the bow under and I began to take in water.

“Crikey, I’m going to sink! Forward, forward! Get into forward!”

Acco attacks! He’s a little cranky!

Before I had the presence of mind to jam the motor into forward gear, the bow sprang back out of the water like a slingshot. Seconds later the net floated up and drifted back toward the boat. Apprehensively I gathered the net and headed back to camp. There was a hole in the net that you could have driven a 4WD through.
Whew!
Thank God for that.

It seemed obvious that old legend, the big black croc, had been sidling up to one of his girls at the time, so he had challenged the net, perhaps in her defense. The ease with which the mighty dinosaur ripped through the net was proof of an animal with intense power.

My second encounter with the old legend occurred another day around dusk. Chilli and I were in hot pursuit of a group of feral pigs which, to get the drop on us, had decided to swim for it. They quickly entered the water and headed toward the opposite bank—almost seven hundred feet away. Out of breath, I hastily grabbed Chilli before she swam after them—the staffie (Staffordshire) in her seemed to cloud her common sense. This stretch of river belonged to the legend and I’m sure he’d love to eat my little dog.

We sat on the bank and excitedly watched the pigs swim to the other bank, hoping the legend would emerge and strike at one of the porkers. Four, and then five, reached the bank, and boggingly climbed the muddy incline. The last pig reached the bank, dug its front hooves into the mud to pull itself up, but then slid backward and simply disappeared back into the water. No squeals, no thrashing, it just disappeared beneath the swirling river. The other pigs didn’t notice one was missing and wouldn’t be scared crossing this part of the river in the future, thus ensuring the big croc of a steady food supply.

I hung around for an hour, hoping to see the croc emerge with the porker in his jaws and swallow it down, but it was not to be. Days flowed into weeks, then months. Still no sign of the big fella coming anywhere near my traps. Not one lead-in bait had been touched.

Chilli and I had become part of the mangroves; birds and wallabies accepted us as part of their everyday life. My stalking skills became very refined. Sometimes I’d squat for hours in the insect-infested mangroves, camouflaged with leaves and mud, just hoping to glimpse my target crocodile. But nothing, not one thing. I was starting to lose the plot— I calculated that it was over eighteen months since I’d first anticipated catching this elusive old croc.

One of the traps I set up to catch Acco, this one up near the mouth of the river in the spectacular wetland habitat of North Queensland where this big croc lived.

Then at the cracka one morning I was doing my routine trap run when I noticed a lead-in bait had gone. Excitedly I jammed the boat into the mangroves and grabbed the bait’s nylon cord. It had been pulled so hard it had been flung up into the branches, severed by a large downward force. The entire fist-sized piece of fresh pork and part of the nylon cord were gone. Was this the croc’s second mistake? I was so excited I didn’t even swat the ants biting my eyelids. It was the trap I’d anticipated he’d hit, my biggest trap in the wildlife “hot spot.”