At dawn on Sunday mornings, I walk the roads on the western side of a stony ridge a few kilometres south-west of my hometown of Dubbo, listening. Here, it’s easy to believe world tensions are a million miles away, despite the effects felt at the fuel bowser and the supermarket checkout.

Each day from Monday to Friday, I present three hours of live radio for our national broadcaster, across a rural, inland region of New South Wales covering about 200 thousand square kilometres, but with a population of only 124 thousand. I speak with ministers and police commissioners, farmers and tradies, scientists and artists — people whose lives, labour and ideas give the region its identity. My program covers everything from the local impact of world events and Australian politics to broader questions about the future of our communities in a fast-changing world shaped by geopolitics, technology and an increasingly variable climate.

All of these stories are, by their nature, human-centred. I’m required to be switched on to the issues of the day most of the time; everything and everyone is a potential story, a lead to follow up, or a talking point. As much as I love the work and the adrenaline of live radio, it is mentally exhausting. 

I have the weekends off, and in the early hours of most Sunday mornings I walk, immersed in the sounds and sights of the rural landscape I’m part of. The start of this walk is along a short gravel road curving gently along the western side of a ridge, flanked by native trees and understorey — Cypress Pine, Ironbark, Wilga, White and Grey Box, Wattles, Hopbush and native grasses. It leads to a T-intersection and a short stretch of bitumen running north-south. Turning left takes me south through more small-acreage blocks and a network of narrow roads that eventually meet the highway running through the centre of the State. Along this route, I may meet a fellow walker, who lives a couple of kilometres around the corner. Pacing ourselves to fall into step with each other, we talk about the small, domestic matters in our lives.

Turning right takes me north, towards the road and rail line into Dubbo — a trip I make Monday to Friday by car. On these mornings, I choose to walk in silence, occasionally stopping to listen more attentively. I take a back seat to what’s happening in this environment, where the birds and insects, the trees and the wind have no care for world events.

I read the landscape by listening and observing, and through the tread of my feet on the ground, mentally noting overlapping sounds, the silences, what’s changed since my last walk, and the effect of my presence. Across an hour or so, I will know who has travelled or crossed the road since my last walk. Tracks overlap and each mark and call reveals something about the more-than-human species whose home this is.

It’s late autumn, and the Rainbow Lorikeets — usually thought of as coastal birds, though now well established inland — have returned now the Ironbarks are flowering. Their raucous screeches fill the snowy canopy above me. The reverberating calls of a large flock of Currawongs cut through the early morning air. Their numbers have been building in recent years, pushing out some of the smaller birds. Last night, a possum perched high in the Grey Box branches overhanging the road; fresh droppings lie on the bitumen below.

These sounds and prints layer over time, creating a story of co-existence and entanglement. It’s a story you can really only understand on foot.

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