The field guide
How to read the country
This is the page to use outside: a quick method for working out what you are standing in, a few tricks for seeing more, and a tour of where to go. The gradient teaches the rule behind it all; this one puts it to work on the ground. Read it here, or print it and take it with you.
How to read any landscape in five minutes
Stand somewhere — anywhere — on the Sunshine Coast, and ask these five questions in turn. Run them and you'll know, before you've read a single sign, roughly what you're standing in, why it's there, and what it's been through.
- 1
Read the shape
What's the lie of the land? A lone, steep, sharp peak is a volcanic plug — the hard core of a vanished volcano, left standing while everything softer wore away. A flat-topped range with a steep rim is a basalt cap. Low rolling hills are the soft foundation rock. Dead-flat coastal ground is young sand or river flat. The shape tells you the rock, and much of what follows starts there.
- 2
Read the soil
What colour is the ground? Deep chocolate-red means basalt clay — the richest soil on the coast. Thin, pale, mixed soil means the softer foundation rock. Dark, fertile flats mean river alluvium. And bright, bleached, bottomless white sand means the oldest, poorest country of all: the wallum.
- 3
Read the water
What colour is any water you can see? Clear and cool off a green range is basalt water. Brown and turbid is sediment-laden floodplain water. Clear but stained dark, the colour of cold black tea, is the acid blackwater of the sand country.
- 4
Read the vegetation
Closed, dim, multi-layered forest on red soil is rainforest. Tall or open gum forest over grass is eucalypt country. Pale, papery-trunked trees standing with wet feet are paperbark swamp. Low, hard-leaved heath that flowers in spring is wallum. Trees breathing through snorkel roots in tidal mud are mangroves.
- 5
Read the fire and the history
Blackened trunks fuzzed with green regrowth, or grass-trees in flower, mean a recent burn. Rainforest creeping into a gully means country long unburnt. A straight drain, a giant old tree marooned in a paddock, a thicket of lantana: these are the marks of clearing and disturbance.
That's the entire method, folded down to something you can do from a lookout. Explore the relief map, or keep this page in a pocket.
One word before you go. This country is alive and forever rearranging itself — tracks wash out, gates close, and tides, fire and flood can rewrite a day's plan without asking your leave. Check current access, tides, conditions and park rules before you set out, treat what you find on the ground as the last word, tread lightly, take out what you carry in, and take full responsibility for your own safety. Fuller safety notes are further down.
The art of looking
The five-minute method tells you what to read. Now the how: the country gives up far more to a patient watcher than a hurrying one, and most of that is technique you can learn.
Slow down, and stop. The most useful field skill is also the simplest. Most of the life here won't show itself to a walking human, but much of it resumes business a few minutes after you go still. Pick a log or a rock, sit, and let the bush forget you're there: the pademelon edges back out, the small birds return to the low scrub, the skink reclaims its sunlit stone. Ten quiet minutes in one place will nearly always show you more than a brisk hour covering ground.
Go at the edges of the day. Dawn and dusk are when the country is busiest: the day animals feeding hardest, the night ones beginning to stir. And not by coincidence, the light is kindest then, and the heat least. In summer, start at dawn — the best walking of the day, and the safest.
Read with your ears. Much of this country announces itself in sound long before you see it. Listen for the explosive crack of a whipbird and the answering note from its mate; the rich carolling of a magpie; the soft, continuous sigh of wind through a she-oak you haven't yet found; the shriek of lorikeets tearing through blossom; and, on a warm wet night, the layered chorus of frogs, each species calling its own line. Some of it you'll only ever hear.
Carry two small tools. A pair of binoculars pulls the honeyeaters, the fruit-doves and the whale-spout offshore into reach; a simple hand lens turns the ground at your feet into a whole other landscape — the sundew's glistening traps, the workings of a wildflower, the lichen crusting a rock. Most of the country's detail is either too far away or too small for the naked eye.
Don't always turn for home at dusk. The gliders, the owls, the possums and the frogs come out only after dark, and a still night in the bush is a different country from the same place by day. A quiet wait near a flowering tree, or a slow walk with a dim, red-filtered torch, may show you gliders working the blossom or an owl on a branch; a warm, wet night beside a wallum swamp is the frogs' great hour. Keep it gentle: a soft or red light, a low voice, no beam held on an animal more than a moment, and nothing touched.
The one-day gradient
If you do only one thing with all of this, make this drive: from Maleny down to the coast at Mooloolaba, reading the gradient as you descend. It's the best classroom on the coast, because it crosses nearly every ecosystem in order, in one short traverse — and because it's far easier to start in the cool of the range and let gravity take you down than to climb.
Start high, in the rainforest of the Blackall Range — Mary Cairncross Scenic Reserve is the classic stop, a surviving fragment of the big scrub, cool and dim and dripping on deep red basalt. Then point downhill and watch the reading change beneath you: rainforest thinning into tall eucalypt forest; the trees opening into drier grassy woodland; the slopes flattening onto old floodplain, with its cane, its drains and the occasional lonely forest red gum left standing; the ground turning to sand, with paperbark in the hollows and heath on the rises; and finally the mangroves and open water of the Maroochy mouth, where the tide runs in and out. That's six worlds in one short drive. Do it slowly, stop often, and run the five-minute reading at each change of country.
A reader's tour — where to go
Where to go to meet each kind of country, roughly from the range to the sea. (Always check current access, conditions and park rules before you go; some sites are seasonal or sensitive.)
- A volcanic plug, up close. The Glass House Mountains are the grand set piece, with lookouts at their feet and tracks on several peaks — but Mount Coolum, Mount Tinbeerwah and Mount Ninderry all teach the same lesson on a gentler scale: hard rhyolite or trachyte standing where softer country has worn away.
- Rainforest. Mary Cairncross and the reserves of the Blackall Range (Maleny–Montville–Mapleton), and the gully and waterfall walks at Kondalilla and Mapleton, where streams saw down through the basalt cap.
- Eucalypt forest and woodland. The foothill and range reserves throughout the hinterland; almost any patch of open, straight-trunked gum forest over grass. Look for hollow-bearing old trees, and listen for the glossy black-cockatoo where she-oaks grow.
- Wallum and dunes. Noosa National Park and, above all, the Cooloola section of Great Sandy National Park — the science's home ground: bleached sand, spring wildflowers, perched lakes such as Lake Poona, and the Noosa Everglades of the upper Noosa River, blackwater made visible.
- Paperbark swamp and freshwater wetland. The Maroochy floodplain wetlands and reserves; melaleuca stands in any low, wet hollow. The restored Yandina Creek Wetland is a fine, accessible example of country brought back.
- Estuary, mangrove and saltmarsh. The mangrove boardwalk at the Maroochy Wetlands Sanctuary, Bli Bli, and the long sheltered Pumicestone Passage behind Bribie Island — best read at low tide, when the zones from seagrass to mangrove to saltmarsh lie open.
- Sea country. The headlands of Noosa and Point Cartwright for the offshore view, the reefs off Mooloolaba and around Mudjimba Island for the two-oceans overlap, the Pumicestone Passage for seagrass, and, in season, the whales offshore.
A reader's calendar
This country reads differently through the year, and timing a visit well can mean the difference between an empty heath and a blazing one. It runs on weather, not the calendar, so treat these as cues. (For what to look for this very month, see This Month.)
- Spring (Sep–Nov): wallum and heath at their flowering peak. Migratory shorebirds arriving on the flats from the Arctic. Humpbacks heading south, often with calves.
- Summer (Dec–Feb): the wet season — frog choruses erupting after warm rain, storms recharging the swamps and the sand-mass aquifer. Hot, humid and storm-prone; mind the safety notes below.
- Autumn (Mar–May): the wet easing; the rainforest lush and dripping; fruiting that draws the fruit-doves and flying-foxes.
- Winter (Jun–Aug): the dry season — humpbacks heading north to breed (the "humpback highway"); the driest, safest walking; the main season for planned and cultural burning in the fire-country.
Three highlights are worth planning a trip around: the spring wildflower flush in the wallum, the whale migration (north through winter, south through spring), and the frog chorus on the first warm, wet nights of summer.
Before you go: stay safe
Beautiful country, and parts of it are dangerous to the unprepared.
- Heat, sun and water. Summers here are hot and humid. Carry more water than you think you need, cover up, and stay off exposed walks in the middle of the day — most tracks have no drinking water.
- The peaks are real climbs. Several of the Glass House Mountains are steep, exposed scrambles that have cost lives, and some routes are closed or restricted. Check the current status, respect the grading, and turn back in the wet, when the rock grows treacherous.
- Snakes and ticks. This is snake country — the eastern brown and red-bellied black among them. Watch where you put your feet, leave any snake alone, and learn pressure-immobilisation first aid. Paralysis ticks are common in the moist forest; check yourself afterwards.
- Water and tides. Surf beaches have rips; the estuaries, sandflats and Pumicestone Passage run on the tide; and the Cooloola and Noosa North Shore sand tracks are four-wheel-drive only and strand the unwary on a rising tide. Read the tide before you head onto a flat or a sand track.
- Tell someone, and don't count on a phone. Much of the hinterland and sand country has no mobile signal. Leave word of where you're going and when you'll be back.
- Check before you go. Access, closures, fire and flood conditions and seasonal restrictions all change. Confirm them with Queensland Parks and Wildlife or the local council before you leave, rather than trusting any printed guide — this one included.
Tread lightly
Once you can read a landscape, you tend to want to keep it in one piece.
- Keep to the tracks and stay off bare dunes; the foredune pioneers hold the whole coast together and are easily killed by trampling and wheels.
- Don't foul the water. The acid wallum and its frogs are undone by anything that sweetens or pollutes them. Clean your boots and gear between wetlands, so you don't carry weeds and disease from one to the next.
- Leave plants, animals and rocks where they are; a wildflower left standing makes next year's seed.
- Keep dogs out of wildlife habitat, drive carefully through bush at night, give nests, roosts and hauled-out animals a wide berth, and never handle bats.
- Respect cultural sites: much of this landscape holds places of deep significance to the Kabi Kabi people. Treat all sites and any access restrictions with respect.
Lend a hand
Most of the looking-after on this coast is done by volunteers, and they are always glad of another pair of hands. Local Landcare, bushcare, dune-care and rivercare groups, catchment and "friends of" associations, and community nurseries work patches of bush, creek, dune and wetland right across the region; turn up and they will find you a job. Citizen-science projects will take your frog calls, bird lists, koala sightings and wildflower records — noticing things, which you will be doing anyway, made useful. And there is always planting to be done, from rainforest framework plantings down to a single birdwing vine in the backyard. The vine counts.
Now close the page and go outside
The country is waiting, and it's far better company than any screen. If you'd like the deeper story behind all this — how the coast was made, and the science under every cue — that's what the book is for — and it's free.