Western District Lakes

In the western reaches of Victoria lies a vast enclave of rolling plains and pools of water that glisten like mirrors. This is the Western District Lakes area, an expanse of bucolic tranquillity nestled within the Corangamite Shire, with the towns of Camperdown to the south-west and Cressy to the north. But this superficial serenity is deceptive—the real essence of the place lurks beneath the outwardly homogenous surface. The pleasant vistas promise peace, but it is instead a place of constant motion. The wind seldom abates, and so there is a kind of incessant agitation in the frequently shifting light and the rippling grasses that shield the earth. It can be somewhat disorientating, and the gusts are strong enough at times that it feels as though one might lose their footing and be carried away. It is a world best suited to creatures in flight, gliding through the sky high above the shimmering sheets of water.

When I first encountered this place I felt mildly perplexed. It was picturesque but vaguely unsettling; it was a while before I identified what was prompting this unease. I realised it was the paucity of trees, with those present for the most part situated strategically to act as windbreaks. Intended as nominal protection for crops and livestock against the strong winds that sweep the plains, these trees are themselves twisted and misshapen by exposure to the elements, hunched over in defensive positions. Yet despite such hints at formidable forces, the landscape appears generally tamed and subdued—a picture of pastoral benevolence and a land conquered.

The extensive wetlands that comprise the Western District Lakes are internationally recognised and were designated a Ramsar site in 1982. Although the region has many lakes, only nine are included in relation to the Ramsar listing. Eight of these are saline, while Lake Terangpom is the sole freshwater lake. These lakes support a diverse range of bird species, including migratory shorebirds. Lake Corangamite is the biggest of the lakes in the area, covering approximately 230 square kilometres and having a circumference of 150 kilometres. These statistics make it the largest permanent saline lake in Australia. The Indigenous name for the lake is Kronimite, and it contains much evidence of a long history of human habitation, archaeologists having uncovered various stone artefacts scattered within its basin.

I lived out here when I was younger, but it wasn’t until years later that I realised this place was more than it appeared. I had known there were two volcanoes within the western district region—Mt. Leura at Camperdown and Tower Hill near Koroit—but I considered them defunct vestiges of a prehistoric past. I was stunned to learn these volcanoes were not extinct at all but dormant, and that this compliant pastureland was in fact a dynamic volcanic field awash in diverse characteristics, yielding prolific evidence of more cataclysmic times. It is known as the Newer Volcanics Province, and it covers an expanse of 15,000 square kilometres. This geological area stretches from Melbourne, Victoria, to Mt. Gambier, South Australia, and is home to over 400 volcanoes. The Newer Volcanics Province was most eruptive between 4.5 million and 5,000 years ago; however, volcanologists consider the field to be ‘active’ with the likelihood of future eruptions. There is currently no estimate available as to when the next eruption will take place.   

The landscape of western Victoria has been heavily influenced by volcanic activity, and related features appear across the plains in a variety of forms that range from small hills to towering peaks, the highest of which is Mt. Elephant rising 380 metres above sea level near the town of Derrinallum. Around the Lakes region, lava flows formed a flat to undulating basaltic plain that is dotted with scoria cones and maars. The lakes system consists of deep crater lakes as well as hundreds of shallow lakes and wetlands formed by the blocking of streams by other lava flows. Lake Corangamite is one such lake, formed when occluded streams were diverted into depressions created from volcanic activity. The salinity of these lakes can vary greatly from fresh to hypersaline due to factors such as the type of basalt substrate, seasonal variations, and catchment-to-surface area ratios. There are also variations in colour due to high mineral concentrations in some, which result in blue or greenish shades.

This area has some of the most consistent rainfall in Victoria, resulting in fertile volcanic soils that have supported human life for millennia. The Djargurd Wurrong are the Traditional Owners of much of this region and are made up of twelve clans that each have their own language, traditions, and territory. According to local oral histories, the Djargurd Wurrong witnessed volcanic activity firsthand, and many place names reference this. Archaeological evidence also supports these ancient accounts passed down through the generations. It is believed that First Nations people transformed the landscape through the judicious use of fire over many thousands of years. This changed the appearance of the native bushland, with large areas of forest being replaced by open grasslands. When the first Europeans arrived in the area, they noted that the ground was blackened in some places due to burning—now thought to be the result of a method called fire-stick farming. This was implemented in a carefully regulated way in order to stimulate new pasture growth, maintain species diversity, and make hunting easier.

Prior to European arrival, the native vegetation would have consisted of damp sclerophyll forests and grasslands, with many areas densely timbered in Eucalypts with a thick understory of bracken and shrubs. The woodlands provided a habitat for a wide range of species, such as kangaroos, possums, wallabies, emus, and koalas, and the lakes supported plentiful aquatic and bird species. The swathes of open grasslands made it almost immediately suitable for livestock and agriculture, and when the first Europeans arrived they set to work clearing the land further and erecting fences using stone cleared from the ground in order to protect livestock from predators and delineate boundaries.

The original landscape has consequently been radically altered, reduced to fragments preserved in reserves or on difficult-to-develop terrain; some volcanic ridges and crater regions situated in excessively stony ground still retain some of their original features. However, the majority of the land has been heavily modified, with trees and shrubs mostly found in windbreaks or along water courses. The destruction of the original floral landscape is almost complete as a result of livestock grazing and cropping. The grasslands, once abundant with perennial and annual flowering plants, have been stripped of their diversity, including the once abundant Yam Daisy (Myrnong), which was a vital source of starch for local First Nations people. Several of the volcanic rises have been mined for the scoria gravel contained within and bear unsightly gashes from this practice.

In certain weather, especially during the colder months, this mostly treeless landscape with its dry stone walls can evoke a wild yet melancholic atmosphere reminiscent of the English moors or the west of Ireland. This is perhaps not so surprising given that many of the first generations of European arrivals hailed from that part of the globe and sought to replicate the aesthetics of their homeland in this unfamiliar place. While many wrote home of the lush and arable plains in glowing terms, not all early descriptions were positive. Some settlers expressed antipathy, feeling discomfited by the dramatic landscape and the alien vegetation. Social isolation and the perceived harshness of their surroundings led to a rush to domesticate what appeared to the European eye as an uncontrolled wilderness. Their evident success at times engenders a strange feeling; the pillaged environs are the outcome of a drive to repress a fundamentally vital landscape. Although attractive in some aspects, it is as though something has been forced into a subterfuge it can’t quite pull off. The ghosts of past landscapes linger, making one uneasy about this deception.

As the number of Europeans in the district increased in the late 1830s and early 1840s,  Aboriginal land was rapidly appropriated by squatters. This land theft and pastoralist dominance had a catastrophic impact on their way of life, which had been finely balanced for tens of thousands of years. First Nations people were shut out of their traditional hunting grounds and lost access to water sources and traditional sites of great cultural importance and utility. This invasion also caused severe loss of life through disease and frontier conflict. Many Europeans established themselves on vast tracts of land known as ‘runs’, and by the mid-1840s, most of the grazeable land in the region had been taken.

While delicate terms such as ‘took up’ (a run) proliferate throughout the annals of Australian history, they obscure the brutal reality of colonisation. Repeatedly, one will encounter other sanitising euphemisms such as ‘settled’ but this is obfuscatory language related directly to the fiction of ‘Terra Nullius’ (belonging to no one). This language implies that the First Nations people of Australia willingly gave up their land and autonomy to European invaders, rather than having it taken from them through force and duplicity. It erases the suffering and trauma experienced as a result of European invasion and presents a false narrative of First Nations peoples apparent acceptance of it.

It is a matter of record that across Australia there was determined resistance and wide-spread frontier violence.  Propagation of a version of colonisation involving peaceable acquiescence is misleading and disrespectful. The First Nations cultures of Australia were, and remain, intellectually and spiritually advanced, with complex systems of law and customs that include a deep sense of responsibility and connection to the land, developed over many millennia. This is not something that they would have relinquished without a fight. Despite the immense challenges they faced, they were able to organise themselves strategically and fight against the colonists in skirmishes and attacks. In some cases, they were able to successfully resist the invaders for a prolonged period, which is remarkable considering the odds against them and the numerous unfair advantages held by the encroaching side. Ultimately, however, it became impossible to continue fighting against firearms, poison, and diseases to which they had no immunity. In numerous cases colonists took retaliatory measures, which often had tragic consequences. There are several documented accounts of massacres in the Western District Lakes area, plus many more across the entire Western District, which was once referred to as "a distant field of murder", as noted in Jan Critchett's book of the same name, first published in 1990. This book details some of the more than one hundred separate massacres and killings that have been recorded in this part of Victoria alone, many of which occurred in the initial years of European arrival between 1839 and 1842. These are just the ones that have been formally recorded—Aboriginal oral histories in this region speak of more.

. . .

Bordering the western side of Lake Corangamite is a small rural locality named Leslie Manor. Originally known as the Punpundah Estate, it was one of the immense ‘runs’ that were established in the area. The 18000-acre property, located between Foxhow and Pomborneit, was obtained by John Hastie and Samuel Proudfoot Hawkins in 1841 and later sold to pastoralist George Russell in 1867. Russell renamed the estate Leslie Manor in honour of his wife, who passed away shortly after the purchase. Russell is a prominent and respected figure in Western District history; however, the manner in which he achieved this status appears questionable. An obituary for Russell published in The Argus in 1888 describes his close involvement in plans to eradicate the Indigenous population in Tasmania, and on more than one occasion he made ‘one of a party’ participating in reprisal attacks against the First Nations people around the Geelong region.

Leslie Manor remained one huge property until it was divided into smaller land parcels for soldier settlers in the early 20th century. When I lived there all the farms were functioning, and the days were replete with the sounds of animals and industry, but the country is far quieter now. My home was surrounded by lakes, and when I was told of the weirdness of the different salinity levels I was fascinated— it seemed a kind of magic that one could be salt and another just a few hundred metres away, freshwater. I was told that a small saline one nearby named Lake Bulkil Narra was full of rubbish — discarded farming paraphernalia, tyres, old cars. I pictured fully intact FJ Holdens sedately parked on the floor of the lake. I’d often come here and gaze at the steel-coloured surface hoping for something to be revealed, but it never was.

There wasn’t a lot to do besides ramble along the dirt roads that dissected the flat land and take in the lakes and big skies. The two most notable landmarks were the telecom exchange at the end of the road and the small Leslie Manor hall—still used occasionally for community events but nowhere near as frequently as it had been in the past when it functioned as a school, dance hall, church, and general gathering place. I recall sneaking in through an unlocked window and rifling through a filing cabinet in search of something salacious. I was forced to make do with perusing old Country Women's Association meeting minutes, which contained a total lack of intrigue and made little sense to me.  A few years ago I returned to visit the area, as I have done several times over the years. Stopping at the hall, I was startled to see it dressed in a fresh coat of paint. Peering through a window, I could see it had been converted into a sort of Airbnb. A kitchen setting, couch and beds had replaced the faded vinyl chairs and laminated tables. The tuneless upright piano and the tinted photograph of Elizabeth II fresh from her coronation had all been removed. A little saddened by what some would call progress, I began walking away just as a slightly intimidating and distinctly incongruous black Mercedes SUV pulled up to the gate. By random chance it was the new owner, territorial instincts aflame upon seeing me on what was now his property.

Once I had explained myself he was welcoming, and enthused at length about his new property, with something of the air of the landed gentry glorying in his largesse. He had purchased a substantial amount of land in the area, and amongst his holdings was the original Punpundah homestead, which he used as a sort of weekender several times a year rather than a primary residence. I remembered coming across this place on one of my long walks, and I wondered to myself how holidaying at such a place could ever be a relaxing proposition. It was high summer, the paddocks famished and the light bright. I was walking aimlessly down yet another unsealed track when, unexpectedly, I spotted a crop of bluestone buildings some distance from the road. Built in the 1840’s, the large main house and its accompanying outbuildings resembled a penal colony, crouching in dour isolation amongst long golden grass dappled with strokes of silver under the scorching summer sky. I shuddered even though it was a hot day. There seemed something admonitory about it, and I felt I had stumbled across a place I had no business being.

As we walked around the grounds of the hall, the new owner highlighted unique characteristics and detailed future plans. In his unguarded enthusiasm, he brought to mind a child who had collected a new toy for his play set. He appeared lightly charmed by his own altruism in saving a place of local value, despite the irony of having now turned it into a private residence available for rent. My attention began to drift as I became engulfed in memories. When he paused, I ventured to share some, but his polite disinterest conveyed to me clearly that he preferred his own vision of the past and that of the future. I returned to my role as audience, but as he resumed his synopsis of improvements, my thoughts again began to stray. I remembered a long-ago auction when the hall still operated as a community hub. Farmers from the surrounding area gathered inside on a rainy day, their boots tracking mud across the floorboards. Steam from the heat of bodies and breath fogged up the windows, and the earthy smell of damp driza-bones mingled with the slightly dusty smell of the old timber building. It was perhaps a year before the wool crash, but everyone knew by now that the signs were ominous. I was just a child with no comprehension of these adult concerns, but I do remember vividly the loaded atmosphere and the sombre mood. The eyes bright with repressed, unrelenting strain, as the twilight of an era descended, and the inevitable loomed around the corner. Like a relic from the days of Punpundah, this new rural overlord before me would never know the anxiety in that room, moments before catastrophe.

The wool industry has long been a significant contributor to Australia's export income. In order to stabilise wool prices and mitigate fluctuations, the Australian Wool Commission established the Australian Wool Reserve Price Scheme in November 1970. This price floor scheme was later taken over by the Australian Wool Corporation in January 1973. They were to purchase wool when the price fell below the floor price, with the scheme being funded through a levy on wool sold by farmers. The Reserve Price Scheme functioned fairly effectively until 1987, when the Wool Council of Australia was formed and took over the responsibility of setting the floor price. They set the price at 830 cents per kilogram, which artificially inflated confidence among wool producers and encouraged them to increase production. As a result, farmers purchased more sheep and produced substantially larger volumes of wool than they would have had they been receiving the real market prices at the time.

Around this time, for a variety of reasons, the wool market began to show signs of collapse. Some of these reasons included a decrease in purchases from major buyers such as China and Russia, a shift towards other textiles, and a decrease in demand for luxury goods such as wool due to the global economic downturn. Despite these challenges, the Australian Wool Corporation and the Wool Council of Australia  continued to refuse to lower the floor price, even as the Australian Wool Corporation depleted its buying reserves and began borrowing, and a massive surplus of unsalable wool accumulated in warehouses across the country. Their obstinacy led to the Wool Crisis of 1990-91, which caused global wool prices and production to plummet.

This was one of the most colossal business disasters in Australia’s history. One of the major reasons for it was the change in governance arrangements that had led to increased political pressure to raise the guaranteed minimum floor price to unsustainable levels. Another factor was the resolute refusal of decision makers to admit that they had made mistakes and their active resistance to and dismissal of advice from competent economists warning against their flawed and irresponsible approach, even when the advice came from economists within their employ. The Hawke government failed to take direct action, possibly due to their desire to avoid controversy and maintain support given the upcoming federal election in 1990. The delays in shutting down the scheme contributed significantly to the escalation of costs. When the responsible minister, John Kerin, finally did act, he erred by initially cutting the reserve price to 700 cents per kilogram, which was still far too high. There were no buyers, and the Reserve Price Scheme was eventually suspended in February 1991, but not before 4.8 million wool bales of unwanted wool had accumulated, which took about a decade to sell and resulted in billions of dollars in losses. The mismanagement and subsequent collapse of the Reserve Price Scheme caused financial ruin for farmers and wool-related businesses both nationally and internationally. These reckless decisions caused untold anguish and hardship, and the social costs continue to this day. The wool industry in Australia has never fully recovered from this government-sanctioned statutory intervention, and those who masterminded these calamitous events have largely escaped censure, despite calls for a Royal Commission. As writer and former farmer Charles Massey puts it so succinctly, “We can count the billions of dollars lost, but we don't have statistics for the depression, the suicides, the fractured families, or the agony caused to farmers by having to shoot and bury thousands of worthless sheep. I don't think those responsible for this misery have ever been adequately held to account."

The land out here now sits largely idle. Where once each house was occupied, some for several generations, most are now uninhabited. Although some farming still occurs, the paddocks appear for the most part deserted — certainly in comparison to the boom years. After an epoch of maximum exploitation and upheaval, the country now rests and regenerates.

. . .

Camperdown is surrounded by several large lakes. To the west of Camperdown are Lakes Bullen Merri and Gnotuk, and to the east is Lake Purrumbete. These lakes appear picturesque and tranquil, with verdant slopes embracing azure waters. However they are actually maar volcanoes—craters with low rims around them formed by enormous explosions caused by interaction between magma and groundwater. Lake Purrumbete is especially notable as it is one of the largest maar volcanoes in the world, measuring over 3km in width. In contrast, most maars are only up to 500 metres in diameter. Lake Bullen Merri and Lake Gnotuk are twin lakes separated by a high land bridge. Lake Bullen Merri is brackish, while the smaller Lake Gnotuk is hypersaline. Megafauna are known to have inhabited this landscape, as fossil bones of the large marsupial lion Thylacoleo carnifex have been found in the vicinity of Lake Gnotuk.

This area was the territory of the Leehoorah gundidj, and the land bridge was known as Wuurong killing. It featured a fresh water spring that would have been highly valued by the local people and was a significant camping, hunting, and fishing area. It is believed that eel traps were also built on the lake banks. The lakes and surrounding forest provided ample opportunities for hunting, with a variety of wild fowl and marsupials present in the area. The east side of Lake Bullen Merri was called Karm Karm and was a long-established campsite for the Leehoorah Gundidj. The high plateau with majestic views of the lakes and surrounding plains, now home to the Camperdown Botanic Gardens and the local caravan park, was known as Gnotukk. Today, the native vegetation has been almost completely cleared. Views of this area as it once was—referred to colloquially as the Basin Banks by Europeans—can be seen in paintings by Eugène von Guérard completed in 1857 and 1858.   

In 1839, this area was associated with a brutal massacre in which almost the entire Tarnbeere Gundidj clan of the Djargurd Wurrong people were murdered. Somewhat unusually for the time, there are numerous local accounts and official reports of this horrific event. The massacre took place near a creek west of Camperdown, where pastoralist Frederick Taylor and his shepherds killed 35 to 40 men, women, and children while they lay sleeping. A group led by Taylor rabidly pursued one survivor, Bareetch Chuurneen, but she managed to escape by bravely jumping into Lake Bullen Merri and swimming approximately three kilometres to safety on the east bank, all the while carrying her child on her back. Those who perished were reportedly dumped in the creek and later burnt, according to some accounts. This was seemingly verified by pastoralist Niel Black, who found a mass grave on his Glenormiston property after purchase, a property previously belonging to Frederick Taylor, who had commandeered the land in 1839. The local Europeans, typically detached from such events, were so appalled that they changed the name of the waterway from Taylors River to Mount Emu Creek. The site of this massacre is now known as Murdering Gully.

Overlooking Lake Gnotuk from the east is the Camperdown cemetery. Meticulously tended, the dead lie cloaked in well-disciplined emerald grass. In a prominent central position unmissable from the entrance, is a large grey granite obelisk—a monument erected to honour Wombeetch Puyuun, thought to be the last member of the Leehoorah Gundidj clan still living freely on his ancestral lands at the time of his passing. This memorial was erected by his friend James Dawson, a figure of note within the colonial history of western Victoria. Dawson was originally from Scotland and emigrated to Victoria in 1840, where he was a resident of the Camperdown district for several decades until his death in 1900. A pastoralist and businessman, he was unusual in that he formed mutually respectful relationships with the local Aboriginal people, and he was at one point assigned the governmental role of Local Guardian of Aborigines. He and his daughter Isabella spent much time recording cultural information and languages shared by the First Nations people they came into contact with in western Victoria, and they published this research in 1881 in book format. This was the first compendium of its kind in Australia.

Wombeetch Puyuun was an exceptional man in many ways. Most of the members of the Djargurd Wurrong who had survived pastoral expansion in the middle of the century had been forcibly moved to the Framlingham Mission, established in 1865 near Warrnambool and roughly 50 kilometres west of Camperdown, located on the country of the Kirrae Wurong people. A small group of ageing Djagurd Wurrong men, including Wombeetch Puyuun, refused to go and remained living on their own land, which fell within the boundaries of what had by this time become the township of Camperdown. At one stage, Wombeetch Puyuun found himself before the local magistrate, answering to a charge of public intoxication. Adjured to consider relocating to Framingham Mission, Wombeetch Puyuun rejected this entreaty and said he was going nowhere — instead suggesting the magistrate make renumeration to him of sixpence rent for continuing to live on his country. As Camperdown expanded, Wombeetch Puyuun continued to reside in his mia-mia near present-day Walker Street, where today a reconciliation garden has been named in his honour.

Wombeetch Puyuun passed away due to bronchitis in February 1883 and was unceremoniously interred in a swampy area outside of the consecrated cemetery grounds by the local colonists. His friend Dawson had been away visiting his native Scotland, and he was shocked upon his return to discover the treatment his friend had received in death. Outraged at this lack of respect toward a man of Wombeetch Puyuuns’s stature, Dawson sought donations in order to fund a monument to be erected in his memory from various local citizens of note who he knew had been either directly responsible for, or complicit in, the depredations, violence and dispossession visited upon Wombeetch Puyuun and his countrymen. He published an article in the local newspaper and distributed flyers to the pastoralists, who now benefited so richly from the land stolen from the traditional owners. Not a single one of those thus lobbied contributed nor even bothered to feign sympathy with the proposal. Wrote one in response: ‘My wife wants her drawing-room papered.’

Dawson was left to cover the expenses by himself, and although lacking official permission, he personally reburied the body of Wombeetch Puyuun in his own pre-purchased plot. Inscribed upon the memorial are the words ‘In Memory of the Aborigines of This District’ and below this, ‘Here Lies the Body of the Chief Wombeetch Puyuun the Last of the Local Tribes’. The granite also has two dates carved into it—1840 and 1883— representing the span of time it took for European colonisation to displace the Djagurd Wurrong from the area through varied harrowing means after countless millennia. The memorial stands as a dignified rebuke to those who seek to erase the barbarous reality of the past. Said one pastoralist with somewhat anachronistic honesty when asked to contribute, ‘‘It will point for all time to our treatment of this unfortunate race—the possessors of the soil we took from them, and we gave in return the vices belonging to our boasted civilisation. I decline to assist’.

. . .

It is difficult to grasp fully the drastic changes wrought within such a short span of time upon a diverse and fecund landscape enslaved by agricultural imperatives. In my time living there, I found enchantment in it nonetheless, and now knowing its true properties, I admire it more still; it only slumbers in its deceptive placidity. Heavy mists are frequent here, and at times the sparse features of the landscape disappear entirely under a shroud of uncompromising nothingness. These are the rare intervals of almost complete stillness punctuating an otherwise persistent restlessness, no matter how clement the day.  Because of this unceasing flux, one often has the impression in this land of the non earth-bound that something is always moving just beyond one’s field of vision— it can be maddening. The great washes of blue and green hues shift and transform, intensify and fade, as the the clouds skitter across the horizon. The grass whispers. The wind sighs.