Wild then, wild now: Karen Alexander 

From an early age, Karen Alexander OAM has witnessed the landscapes around her shift and evolve—at the mercy of natural disasters, human intervention or just plain bastardry. Having spent decades restoring a forest on her property on Wurundjeri Country in Emerald, Victoria, she’s about to enter a new chapter in her storied life.

Words by Meg Bauer 
Photographs by Michaela Skovranova 

I’m half Karen Alexander’s age but I’m having to scurry to keep up with this 76-year-old titan of the environmental movement as she charges ahead of me through forest she knows like the back of her hand. When she pauses, it’s to wrench a weed from the ground, shake loose a cloud of seeds from the head of a native fireweed, or repair some mangled wire fencing: “deer mucking around!”

She’s in her element here: striding down well-worn paths in tall gumboots that guard against the eager leeches, and a heavily battered sunhat that still does the job.

This is Karen’s home of the last 39 years, and this is the forest she planted with her partner, photographer David Neilson. Together, they purchased 10 hectares of her grandfather’s original 100-acre property from a cousin in the early 90s, and Karen is blunt when recalling the state of it.

“It was rundown: creek in terrible condition, blackberries all over the place—especially in the steeper areas that cows didn’t like and machinery couldn’t get to. It was buggered and we didn’t want to run stock, so revegetation was a great option.”

This pragmatic approach, I quickly come to realise, is characteristic of Karen. 

Dubbed ‘the growing project’, it’s turned into quite the undertaking—made more arduous by the wallabies eating seedlings, deer causing havoc and neighbours not keeping up with their weed management obligations. But Karen has an interesting perspective on the work.

“I think of invasive weeds as: it's a game. They're very clever and I stop thinking of it as a chore. They nearly always win, of course, and I quite like it that human beings are sort of put in their place, basically.”

This appreciation for the ingenuity of nature is deep-rooted in Karen’s childhood. A child of older parents, she’d go with them on day walks in nearby Sherbrooke forest to look for lyrebirds, alert to the distinctive calls or telltale mounds—stages for the birds’ impressive displays. But before long, she was allowed to go exploring alone or with friends, having been given the explicit instructions from her father that, should she get lost, she was to follow the flow of a creek. Follow a track, and it could lead you around in circles—but follow a creek down, and you’ll eventually come out on a road. 

This immersion in nature meant young Karen was also confronted with the places she loved being altered, sometimes overnight: a big storm ripping through Sherbrooke forest and toppling the giant trees into a ‘jungle gym’, the ‘65 fires that burnt in the hills, and the ever-lengthening shadow of urban sprawl. 

“I grew up in Belgrave [in Victoria’s east]; went to school in the city and stayed with family friends during the week. So Friday nights we'd drive home down what is now Burwood highway—out past Warrigal road were orchards and no subdivision, and you drove through this archway of eucalypts all the way up to Ferntree Gully,” Karen recalls. 

“Then suburbs started pushing out from Warrigal road, the trees went and you got four lane roads and just: ugly, ugly, ugly. It looked awful to me as a child. I remember my Dad saying quietly to me, look, people need to live somewhere, you know? Apparently I snapped back: well, not here!”

But she also learnt that not all change was bad—at least for certain plant species. 

“When we were travelling home, my dad would also tell me stories about the 1939 fires, and the burning of vast areas of mountain ash—fire kills them, he said, and they need 20 years without fire before they flower again and produce seed. I was getting a feel for fire and what it could do, but also what the recovery could be.”

As Karen grew older, the lure of the bush—and the desire to spend more time in it, beyond mere day trips—led to her joining the Monash Bushwalking Club, where she first met David. With the group, they visited Tasmania, walking into Lake Pedder and along the Eastern Arthurs, climbing Federation Peak.

“It was the most amazing four weeks. It was very interesting how things were different once you’d been out [in nature] a week, and knowing you still had another three weeks to go. And then after two weeks I stopped thinking about and being tied into some slightly crazy world of university and money and study and difficult relationships with my mother at the time. That all went,” remembers Karen.

“It was similar to smoking dope—there was a lot around at the time—removing filters that we put there for practical reasons, but are a barrier to seeing and feeling. You relax and look at anything and it looks extraordinary! The profile of one of my friends on the trip, lit by the fire: I can still feel a sense of amazement at the beauty of a face. It sounds ridiculous now! But something happened that opened my eyes. The world—nature—was a beautiful place.”

By her second trip—this time five weeks, featuring near-constant rain—Karen had begun to realise Pedder was under threat. A proposal to flood the million-year-old glacial lake, with its stunning pink quartzite beach, was being pushed by the Hydro-Electric Commission with strong backing from the Tasmanian government. 

“But then the terrible recognition: that we are on about that, we are on about vested interests, and we are on about doing things that are economically and environmentally—and often socially—up the bloody creek,” Karen says, shaking her head. “It's a shocking recognition.”

She promptly failed her pure maths course at Monash—“a very good thing for me; not a very good way to get out of doing pure maths!”—and headed back to Tassie to study geology instead. At the very least, it meant she was free to do a lot more walking. And what better place to do that?

For the first time in her schooling, Karen was learning to “think a bit better” under the tutelage of Professor Sam Carey: understanding the environment from a first principles perspective, taking into account big timescales and long-term pressures. But it was 1973, and shockingly, female geologists were not permitted to work in the field with their male peers. 

Despite being petrified of not passing her exams, Karen found herself being drawn into the campaign to save Lake Pedder.

“I was attending meetings, writing occasional letters, and it was my first real lesson in how to support a volunteer. I learnt how to get the person in, sit them down, have a cup of tea, talk with them, listen to them, work out where they're coming from, and then make sure they were supported on the way through.”

This often undervalued skillset—supporting others and building relationships with people—came naturally to Karen. 

“I was good at encouraging people, that's what people have told me. I mean, to me, I just thought: why wouldn't you do this? It just seems so normal! But that’s what people said: I’d welcome people in and support them to do things, was interested in them and so on.”

When Lake Pedder was flooded and the effort to stop the Franklin suffering a similar fate was ramping up, skills like Karen’s became even more crucial. Karen was instrumental in setting up the Melbourne branch of the Tasmanian Wilderness Society—and turning the campaign to save the Franklin from being dammed into a national issue.
 
“I was doing what is now called ‘community organising’. We had campaign meetings every Monday night and, as the campaign developed, a hundred people would be there—that’s a lot of letters going to MPs. At our first public meeting, in May 1980 at RMIT’s Storey Hall, 1,200 people showed up! Many were ‘Pedder people’—angry and distressed by the loss of that beautiful lake (which should be restored!). 

“But Victoria has always supported national campaigns, whether it was K’gari / Fraser Island, Daintree, Kakadu, Jabiluka. Victorians have always been more national-thinking,” Karen explains. “Of course we had more people, so more money—more people on the ground and more electorates, so you could have more influence. We set up the branches in the marginal electorates really early. Thanks to some of the best advertising people around—Alex Dumas, Jeremy Press, Libby Smith—we did the first focus groups, long before Labor or the Libs. And very good messaging. The colour newspaper ad for instance.”

These were historic times in the global environment movement, and Karen was at the forefront. 

“For those involved [in the Franklin campaign] it was full on, life-with-a-purpose—and wonderfully collaborative. I had no idea what else to talk about after we won!” laughs Karen. “So many of us have stayed in contact for over 40 years—if I saw someone today whom I knew had been involved but I hadn’t seen since that time, there would still be a connection. Those feelings stay.”

After the High Court of Australia ruled in favour of the federal government, ensuring there would be no dam on the Franklin River, Karen stepped up to become co-Director of the new national Wilderness Society, where she helped secure World Heritage listing for the iconic Daintree rainforest and Wet Tropics in far north Queensland. After six months, she moved into the education unit, headed up by Margaret Robertson, to play a key role in the production of six 50-minute films about wilderness areas in Australia aimed at commercial television. 

She recalls “the wonderful naivete of youth” being key in getting these films off the ground. From insisting on a meeting with Robyn Williams (a prominent broadcaster from the ABC) to help her and Margaret find a good production house, to researching the locations and raising the $200,000 needed to fund each film, it wasn’t a project for the faint of heart. But Karen gives credit to Kestrel Films, who saw the vision and took on the financial risk. Ultimately, four of the films were aired on the ABC, featuring high profile figures like Michael Leunig and Mirka Mora, and footage of these special places was beamed into living rooms and hearts across the continent.   

Karen also helped find the last tranche of funds needed for the making of the feature film The Tale of Ruby Rose, set in Tasmania’s Central Plateau. The project required $150,000 more to be completed— “that’s just 150 people at $1,000 each” she reasoned. Her talent was convincing people who could do the legal work, then selling the idea to potential investors. “It’s impossible to know exactly what impact that film had, but I took it round Tasmania to lots of village halls, and people loved it.”     

The rest of Karen’s resume is so lengthy it’s hard to believe it’s the work of one person in a single lifetime. She’s had a stint with the United Nations Environment Program in Paris, held roles as Environment Manager at Australian Conservation Foundation and President of Australian Bush Heritage, was on the first Council of the Victorian Greens, and worked for her local council as well as the Victorian National Parks Association.

Despite going on to hold many prominent leadership positions, Karen is more comfortable when she’s not seen as the ‘front person’. 

“I’ve realised over the years that I’m much better at a support role. Support might be that you’re still taking a really strategic position—like doing all that stuff with the Franklin in Victoria—and a ‘Bob Brown’ is seen as the leader. Bob certainly has great capacity for strategy and media, and the media saw him as a leader! But it was still a very collaborative thing, and I didn't feel that responsibility to be the top or main person,” she says.

“I could work very, very well at that next level, even though it also meant doing all the organising and the media and a whole lot of strategic stuff—it really meant doing similar things. But there's something in my upbringing, I think, or head or whatever, that meant that the second layer down suited me. Not that we actually had a hierarchy, of course!”

She remembers talking to Bob, telling him the environment movement was “facing a gender issue: blokes build and destroy, women fix up and maintain.” This seemed to be down to a difference of perspective: men were more likely to view what they were doing as a fight, whereas women saw it as a movement. It was also very male-dominated at the top, whilst the majority of unpaid staff were women.

“I remember the first press conference I had: I had to set up the whole press conference room. I wouldn't have been sensible enough or thought enough of myself to ask for help. Classic 1950s female: oh you have to do it yourself. You're the one that supports people. Don't go and put people out of their way. So I set up the room and did the press conference and packed everything away at the end. And afterwards I thought: I don’t think that’s the way it worked for Bob!”

What Karen saw and experienced led to her co-founding WELA – Women’s Environmental Leadership Australia, where until recently she served as a board member. Through WELA, there are women leaders across the environment movement, and beyond, who have been shaped by her wisdom and mentorship.

This type of support is particularly important in a sector like the environment and conservation movement, where the stress and psychological impacts of witnessing the destruction of the natural world are inescapable hazards of the job.

Karen’s familiar with these feelings. At one point in her career, three decades ago now, she entered a type of ‘intellectual depression’—not borne of a lack of passion, but as ‘a direct reaction to terrible disaster data’. Her counsellor recommended doing something different, so despite some reservations, Karen attended a Council of All Beings workshop at the intentional community near Healesville, ‘Moora Moora.’ “It was extraordinary. And just what I needed: which was to express the grief of all the losses I’d seen—from the ugliness of the new Burwood Highway to Lake Pedder and ongoing forest destruction. Out it came. And the other people at that gathering were, like me, a bit wary of it, but got fully involved. Then I found some energy and it’s kept me going all this time.” 

Also helpful has been having a supportive partner in David, who shares the same passion for the environment—though Karen admits they show that passion in very different ways. “I love working with people; David is a sole operator for instance,” Karen says. “But what it has meant is respect, support, hugely valuing what I have done, nominating me and doing all the hard work needed for that.” [Karen was awarded the Medal of the Order of Australia in 2015 for ‘service to conservation and the environment, and to the community’.]

The growing project has also played a vital role. Karen credits the restoration of the forest on her property with keeping her “sane, fitter and mentally challenged”. And not just the logistics of how to do everything—but the curiosity it has sparked (how does this plant work?), and the utter delight evoked. 

She recalls the moment in 2022 when mountain ash trees they’d planted as seedlings flowered for the very first time (this species takes around 20 years to do so), the first time they saw a lyrebird on their property (five years ago), and the first time they heard powerful owls calling (10 years ago). All of them testaments to a job well done.

“It’s one of the joys. I could have been in this forest yesterday, and if I come back today I’ll see something new.”

As Karen leads the way through lush fern gullies and we crane our necks to take in the towering treetops, it feels particularly poignant. Karen and David’s home—and this forest they’ve grown and cared for all these years—has been recently sold. 

On the day of my visit, David was holed up in his office awaiting acceptance of an offer they’d placed on a house in Tasmania (it went through). Soon, they’ll be returning to the island state Karen fell in love with as a young adult, and management of this forest will be handed over to another family keen to carry on the work. 

“It’s time and there are good people following,” says Karen. “I’ll miss it and want to know how it’s going. Bit like a kid really—it’s now ready to go out into the world!”

She stops, and points to what would have been the next spot to revegetate—a job for the new custodians, as they call themselves.

What awaits Karen and David in Tasmania? “Smaller place, lots of friends, new country to explore, new nature mysteries around us, and time for writing—the written word and photos can be so powerful connecting people to nature.” And, because she’s Karen Alexander: “Maybe a bit of campaigning in some support role—but no committees.”

“I mean, if you’re concerned, you can't do nothing,” she continues. “Sometimes you have to recover—there's nothing wrong with doing nothing if that's what's needed at the time. You know, somebody said to me, What could I do? I said everything! Because you—and you and you—make up the change we have to have.”

I leave with the sense that many of the world’s problems would be solved if we just had someone like Karen in charge—or second-in-command, as her preference may be. For now, we’re all just lucky that she still has the energy to do the powerful, necessary work of nurturing nature, and the people committed to defending it. 

With gratitude and appreciation to Michaela Skovranova and Karen Alexander for coming together on Karen's Emerald property to tell this remarkable story for Wilderness Journal. 

Life in the balance 

Activist and adventurer Billy Rowe on living a life of purpose in the treetops of Lutruwita/Tasmania, living alongside and protecting the swift parrots. 

Words and photographs by Billy Rowe

Get a van, move to Tasmania.  

A love for mountains and the outdoors led me to become an avid rock climber. However, the shoes were always too uncomfortable. I was thrilled to discover highlining, a sport requiring a similar physicality, mental focus and balance to cross a 25mm-wide webbing between cliffs or trees. The lure: bare feet.

It’s not only swift parrots that migrate annually to Lutruwita/Tasmania; highliners also come from the mainland, seeking adventure among the island's unique geology and ecosystems. A gathering in the Styx forest in 2020 allowed for a first in Australian highlining, and my first steps on one: seventy metres high up between two big ancient eucalypts. It was here that I met my first activist friend.    

I felt instantly connected to the forests of Tasmania. The trees speak; characters towering over  the valley as if on a podium. The call to fight for nature was all too loud. Discovering that living giants like these were threatened sparked an instant motivation to be involved.  

A tree climber by trade, the process of rigging the highline alone was real fun with my new crew in the canopy of old growth Eucalyptus regnans forest. It wasn’t only a passion for highlining that I found up there. 

I quickly recognised the collision of worlds: environment and industry. My home was in the field. I began to see daily occurrences of swift parrots and other animals struggling to manage as their habitat and food was diminished. Using drones I began to map potential logging coupes put out to tender by Sustainable Timber Tasmania. This meant spending more time with the birds and the trees. This is a hefty task for a self-funded operator, but it delivered a much bigger picture than I expected. Additionally, while your average bird survey can take up to 30 minutes, I was spending days mapping in logging areas, where I couldn’t mistake the calls of our fastest parrot.   

I observed various rogue companies that now include an influx of Victorian operators that have  fled their own state operations. Following most of the ‘rules’, but  working around and breaking a few has had devastating effects for all relying on the forests. I have accepted a life of pure survival in a van with my dogs; it’s a minimalist existence. It’s a life with purpose, chasing parrots and log trucks.  

As much as you can endeavor to help, when you see forests disappear, having housed breeding swift populations, you inevitably reach a tipping point mentally. 

It forces times of escape and reflection in the mountains, on a highline, walking among the clouds in the heights of creation, away from the madness. Calm, collected, walking a thin line from one side to the other,  embracing special places like these forests with drawn-out adrenaline is always followed by a sit-down period of reflection. Gazing out over an expansive view.  

Leaving without a trace, it seems too easy to emulate the fast life of a swift parrot that perches eventually to observe its surroundings. One minute they’re here, next they are gone.

Enjoy the video above by Billy Rowe and read more about Billy's efforts to save the swift parrot in issue 22 of Wilderness Journal. 

Billy thanks the Gandalf project crew: Chris Wallace, Brendon Plaza, Emma Goldburg, Toe-Knee Sterai, Dylan Tubaro, Ian Bool, Steve Pearce, Alex Wylie, Brad Graham.

Wilderness Journal thanks our friend Billy Rowe for sharing his world and his work.