In community, I trust.
Thursday 13 March 2025.
It’s been six inspiring, jaw-dropping, heartbreaking years at our home in the mountains. We came here for the abundant birdlife, the strangling figs, and the distance from our life at the time. Prior to moving, I had thought a lot about what it would be like to live surrounded by trees, but would never have imagined what it would be like to share this place with the people that would live around me.
Cesar and I, we lead busy lives that takes us away from home regularly or for long periods. Whenever we are home, we most often stay within the boundaries of our garden, as what we came here for, often comes to us. The birds flit through the grevillea I planted in those first few months. We needn’t look further than the view from our water tank to absorb the serenity of the rainforest. Croaking frogs echo madly during dark summer nights, and fireflies dance dizzyingly through the crisp air at dusk each spring.
Despite our efforts to keep to ourselves, we inadvertently have found a home surrounded by like-minded people. Making it impossible to not have made friends here in a crowd of bird-watchers, artists, bushwalkers, travellers, gardeners. Down in the low-lands we were the most radical of our friends, though we were barely extreme — we were simply early adopters of reusable shoppings bags, eager recyclers and shopped for food at the farmers markets. Now we likely could be considered two of the more conservative folk in our neighbourhood.
Ex-cyclone Alfred is not the first natural disaster we have witnessed since living here. We lived here through the pandemic, and through a rain event in 2022 which dumped over a metre of rain on Mount Glorious within 48 hours, nearly flooding our home. When we made the decision to stay at home for the impending cyclone, I attempted to console our worried family that we were surrounded by an experienced community and in knowing that, we would be OK.
As the wind raged outside, we survived the night unscathed in our home. I worried for the birds and their safety. In the morning, leafy debris littered our flooded lawn, and unsurprisingly we had no electricity or phone reception. Undoubtedly a tree had taken the power lines down with it — it was just a matter of where and how many. The rain didn’t cease, but the sky became lighter, and slowly neighbours emerged to assess the damage, colliding on the tarmac with worried questionings about how everyone was.
We had all awoken in our tiny hamlet on the outskirts of the main mountain village, surrounded by Maiala National Park, with no way out. A towering fig now smothered the road close to the main road entrance, and a few driveways down from us, a grand deciduous tree had fallen and isolated the last occupied dwelling on the street.
As the day progressed it quickly became evident that we were not wrong to place our trust in the hands of our community. Contemplating this by candlelight, with the kind of clarity that is accentuated by a lack of phone signal, I am in awe of the spirit alive in my neighbours — they are not afraid of taking action. From experience, the community knows that we are often the last on the list when it comes to the deployment of essential assistance from the local council.
Armed with chainsaws, the mountain folk began clearing toppled trees and disconnecting vines, reclaiming a pathway across the hinterland and down into the valley. The route now resembles what I imagine as apocalyptic. Trunks remain trapped on taut powerlines, teetering above the road. Weak Limbs cast from stronger trunks remain as obstacles, entrapping your eyes to the road in order to safely navigate this new terrain.
With limited access to the community Facebook group, or communication via text, we revert to old fashioned word-of-mouth. Communing throughout the day by chance on the road, as we walk our dogs during brief reprieves from relentless rain, or attempting to source a bar of 5G under the cover of the bus stop. We update each other on what we heard from someone else, and slowly stitch together that the road is safe enough to drive — “Jason has been down and back for fuel”.
Together, we convene over dinners by candlelight, enjoy overdue cups of tea warmed on the stove, bake focaccia next door, and plan convoys to ensure solo neighbours reach the bottom of the mountain in safety. It is in these moments of vulnerability that the true spirit of the mountain comes alive as no deed is too big, and faith in humanity feels restored.
It is our fifth day without electricity or phone signal. The contents of our fridge and freezer have been scooped into a bin bag, I’ve washed my hair outside in a bucket of cold water, and I feel mentally and physically drained from the stress of the last week. Yet, I sit here on my couch, listening to a chorus of chainsaws, knowing that there is a lot to be thankful for: a secure roof over our head, tins of tuna, a full rainwater tank and the blessing of this community that we call home.
