A death, a younger brother, before his 40th birthday. Grazing land near Biboohra that she’d inherited was sold by the widow. Approval for a crocodile farm site was approved by the Shire Council. Circa 1987, the first domino fell.
Years passed. Federal legislation prohibited the cultivation of tobacco, Mareeba’s major crop. Alternatives were considered—the hi-tech Tableland Sugar Mill established. Beset by fluctuating cattle prices, the remaining brother seized an opportunity to diversify. Selected grazing land would be laser-levelled and paddocks planted with sugar cane billets. Irrigation was available via the network of channels radiating from Tinaroo Dam. The farmer’s son, educated in Ag. Science, married and settled into a new home near the irrigation channel. August 2000 heralded the first harvest. The Crocodile Farm across the road rarely caught the attention of busy neighbours. Another domino dropped, unnoticed.
In subsequent years, three babies were born. The first little fellow was treated with a trip to Hartley’s Creek Zoo: viewed a chicken carcass dangling on a rope above a murky pool: was shocked as his grandmother shrieked when an ace predator lunged and struck. (Years later, Fate decreed that this lad would encounter one of these reptiles.)
Grandparents delighted in taking three little ones ‘out bush’. Grandma would entertain the kids at the creek, water would be splashed, stones would be manhandled and intricate dams built to impede the flow. Meanwhile, Grandad would distribute molasses licks to cattle, check fences and gates, then return for the planned picnic. There would be cries of, “Look out for crocs!’ and laughter at such an unlikely scenario. They’d share jokes, riddles, food and drink, until air cooled and kids tired. Dirt tracks and numerous bumps featured on those trips, perhaps a singalong, including a favourite, Never Smile at a Crocodile. Two adults and three kids in the front of the ute was a squeeze, until the tangle of limbs hit Peak Impossible. Their last picnic is but a memory, a tale for future generations unlikely to share that experience. On a date unknown, another domino toppled.
During a morning run along the Channel, the kids’ father was alerted by a splash, tell-tale mud tracks evident. ‘What the hell! Could it be a croc?’ he thought. Circuit completed, he returned to the spot. Watched. Waited. Bubbles rose. A dark shape emerged. A saltie. Government authorities were informed. Officers travelled from Cairns. Efforts to capture the animal failed. Days later, the grandson, now 12-year-old, used a net, and much patience, to haul in his one-metre-long catch. His dad called the EPA for collection. “What’ll you do with it?’ the obvious question; the answer a shock, “Release it into the Cairns Inlet.’ Another date unrecorded, another domino tumbling…
Reports increased in frequency, worrisome sightings from aircraft flying over Quaid Dam, a man-made lake to the near north … Dominos tumbled.
Farmers raised concerns about checking pumps in the Barron River. Council discussed safety signs warning tourists and locals. Demands for culling intensified; went unheeded. The croc farm removed all signage. More dominos toppled.
Wet seasons. Flooded creeks and rivers dominated the terrain. Alarming commentary from anonymous sources: escapee reptiles from the Crocodile Farm had been washed away; disgruntled pig hunters released young crocs into Quaid Dam. Could either, or both, be true? Dominos were tipping, tipping ….
A keen young local scouted nearby Two Mile Creek at night, recording crocodile numbers. Subsequently, two public servants from Brisbane met with Councillors and interested parties. His detailed report, listing evidence of over forty reptiles, was disparaged—a mere novice, not a qualified scientist …
Crocodiles kept multiplying; dominos kept collapsing.
More meetings. Long-term pastoralists claimed that, within living memory, never had fresh water crocodiles been reported in the area. (Don’t estuarine crocodiles require a coastal environment?) The cane farmer introduced a rule for mustering: caution when riding horses through water—shallow only. Fears were rising, but safety signs weren’t. Dominos dropped.
June 2025. A sighting by the grandfather, on his tractor, slashing headlands of cane paddocks. On the bank of a re-cycling dam, obvious to see, a saltie slithered into the deep water; swam on the surface. EPA was informed. (Not the press.) Family speculated: from where? The Two Mile? Food sources? Fish? Turtles? (Meanwhile public debate flared between two Queensland headline hunters—Bob Katter and Bob Irwin. Cull? Don’t cull?) That crocodile, a female, eventually captured, was 2.5 m, sanctioned for disposal. A marksman, flown from Mackay, was successful after an earlier failed attempt.
Soon, the other re-cycling dam, another sighting reported. Traps set. Wily, but only 1.85 m., that lucky-not-to-be-longer female now resides at an unidentified crocodile farm. The final domino?
Useless to speculate … It’s a long game.
Never smile at …
© Tropical Writers Inc 2025