When you’re hiking in the Australian bush, your eyes home in on every distant blob. Everything looks like an echidna. Or at least that’s what you hope. Then you blink yourself back to reality, because it turns out to be a grassy tussock, a cowpat or a stump.
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I’m an Aussie born and bred, but I’ve only seen a few of these spiny monotremes in my three-decade lifetime – and those sightings were fleeting. Occasionally they turned up unexpectedly on the farm where I grew up, sometimes I’ve had to slow down for them on the highway. Echidnas are iconic but they’re notoriously elusive.
Even when you do come across one, an echidna usually offers a prickly reception. Tucking its legs and snout beneath its body, it enters what can only be described as ‘spiky ball mode’ in an effort to deter potential threats.
All things considered, I never imagined I’d have a nonchalant echidna almost land in my lap – but that is exactly what happened one spring day in 2020.
I was birdwatching, camera in hand, at Mulligans Flat Woodland Sanctuary, a 984ha area of protected bush near the city of Canberra. As well as birdlife, Mulligans Flat provides a refuge for local and reintroduced wildlife such as bettongs, quolls and golden sun moths. And, of course, short-beaked echidnas.
I was peering at a pair of golden whistlers when I spotted a distant blob. Another tussock? But then the blob moved and began ambling towards me. With an excited flutter in my chest, I sat down at the base of a big old gum tree. If I wait here, I thought, this echidna might come close enough for me to nab a decent photo.
My instinct was right and along it came. I watched in fascination as each clawed foot padded over the ground in a waddling gait. Its spines, following the direction of its coarse brown fur, wobbled as it moved. Its long claws, specialised for digging, splayed out like manicured fingers.
The echidna snuffled around to the far side of the gum tree and I lost sight of it. I almost didn’t dare to breathe. Then, a pointy nose peered from around the trunk and it waddled even closer. It was much smaller than I expected, barely larger than my pom-pommed beanie.
Snout to the sky, it sniffed the sole of my hiking boot. I assumed that, plonked on the scratchy bark with my legs out in front of me, I was simply another obstacle to the echidna, no more than a log.
Keeping my camera on my lap, I silently pressed the shutter until the echidna was so close that my lens lost focus. The little creature moved around me, its funny snout investigating my perimeter, inspecting the outer seam of my dusty jeans and seemingly contemplating the merits of my human-flavoured odours. Finally, its snout brushed against my bum.
“That tickles!” I whispered. The echidna snuffled on, unfazed. It redirected its attention to the base of the tree, slurping up ants. Then it was off. I watched it waddle away until it was once again a blob among the distant tussocks.
Why was this particular echidna so bold? It was breeding season, so it may have been a male on a mission. Or perhaps, after emerging from the torpor of a winter spent deep in a burrow, it was feeling sociable.
I don’t know what I meant to that inquisitive echidna, or whether it even registered me, but it was an encounter that I’ll never forget. It’s a reminder that, if you sit still and wait for long enough in the bush, magic can happen.
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Top image: the echidna with Olivia’s boots in its sights. Credit: Olivia Congdon
