New Scientist Reporter James Woodford shares his encounter with a rabbit.
D. Cunningham/Shutterstock
On a fateful Sunday shift, I felt an unsettling dread arise when breaking news emerged about a biological control virus aimed at Australia’s massive rabbit population escaping quarantine. This incident occurred near Yunta, a tiny speck on the South Australian map, roughly 250 km off the coast. Surprisingly, authorities identified only two individuals who had traveled to both Point Pearce and the new quarantine zone—myself included.
This unsettling event took place in October 1995, while I was a junior environmental reporter for one of Australia’s major newspapers in Sydney. Amid a whirlwind of topics, one article caught my attention: the ambitious endeavor to eradicate Australia’s invasive feral rabbit population was faltering.
The project, spearheaded by CSIRO, Australia’s foremost federal science agency, involved testing the lethal rabbit calicivirus at a quarantine facility on Wardung Island, situated a few kilometers off South Australia’s coast. Significant work remained before the virus was deemed fit for release; scientists were determined to ensure it posed no risk to native wildlife or the ecosystem.
However, on October 10, CSIRO announced that the virus had spread beyond its quarantine confines, reaching two additional locations, while oddly asserting that it had not escaped the island. Just a week later, I arrived at my desk to learn that the virus had somehow crossed from Wardung Island to Point Pearce on the mainland. I promptly urged my editor to let me and the photographer fly to Adelaide and head straight to Point Pearce.
By early afternoon, photographer Peter Ray and I traversed the arid landscape of Point Pearce for a meeting with government scientists managing the quarantine response.
Upon our arrival, local Aboriginal community members escorted us the final few kilometers to meet the quarantine team. Despite being the sole reporters present, the evidence of the impending rabbit crisis was unmistakable—dead rabbits littered the paddock. We documented interviews with researchers and accompanied them to the cabin where autopsies were taking place.
As the gravity of what we witnessed became apparent to our editors back in Sydney, I was tasked with exploring the potential implications if the virus continued to breach quarantine controls. I reached out to a rabbit meat wholesaler who connected me to an archer supplying rabbit fur for Australia’s renowned Akubra hats.
The next morning, we traveled to Yunta, over 300 km north of Adelaide, to meet rabbit shooter Clinton Degenhardt, who sat in his car with a rifle beside him. He and others in the rabbit meat and fur industry were deeply concerned about their livelihoods.
The following day, our front-page story was published, and as the week progressed, nothing more transpired until that Sunday, when the devastating news broke that the virus had reached Yunta.
South Australia’s chief veterinarian suggested that Peter and I might have inadvertently spread the virus, prompting a press release to that effect. My tranquil Sunday was suddenly transformed into a chaotic meeting as our editor tried to ascertain how we were tied to this incident.
The next day, Tim Fisher, the then-leader of the Australian National Party, raised the issue in Parliament, proposing that if our involvement was confirmed, we should take up jobs on the Dog Control Fence—a lush 5,600 km long pest control barrier separating southeastern Australia from the rest of the country.
Fortunately, scientists soon suggested that blowflies might have transmitted the virus instead of us, allowing the story to evolve. Nonetheless, it perplexed me that the virus first surfaced in Yunta, the area where I’d interviewed the rabbit shooter. Was this mere coincidence, a conspiracy, or a hoax? I may never know.
Competing news outlets thrived on the irony of our major scoop morphing into a public relations nightmare, and my friends and colleagues found endless amusement in teasing me. During those initial tumultuous weeks, I received a copy of the book Watership Down, and many dubbed me the “Bunny Killer.”
Interestingly, while many harbored animosity towards rabbits, there was also excitement at the prospect of liberating the land from these invasive hares. Farmers, conservationists, and endangered species researchers rejoiced at the likelihood of eradicating one of Australia’s most notorious pests, albeit temporarily until resistance would develop. In those initial two months following October, at least 10 million rabbits perished, and ultimately, hundreds of millions more would follow.
Nearly four years later, I found myself at Herdanda Station, a sprawling 3,000 square kilometer ranch near Alice Springs. Before the calicivirus outbreak, the property was home to 20,000 rabbit warrens. When I visited, the rabbit population had dwindled to nearly zero. When the owner, Bernie Kilgariff, discovered my identity as the reporter accused of spreading the virus, he insisted I sign the visitor’s list as a guest of honor rather than as a governor-general.
Topic:
Source: www.newscientist.com
