Welcome back to the Deep Dive. Today we are tackling
something huge. Ah, quite literally. Literally.
We are doing a deep dive into Australia's largest
and I think most misunderstood desert, the Great
Victoria Desert. We're not just looking at it
as a patch of hot sand. This is a landscape of,
you know, extreme heat, very rare rain, and a...
A really surprising hidden ecosystem. And a very
complex human history on top of all that. Absolutely.
That's right. The Great Victoria Desert, or the
GVD as you'll hear it called, it's one of those
places that's so isolated people tend to just
gloss over it. Right. But it's officially classed
as an ecoregion, and this is important, an interim
Australian bioregion. What does that actually
mean in simple terms? It means it's recognized
on a national level for its unique biodiversity,
its geology. It's a distinct place. spanning
huge parts of Western Australia and South Australia.
And the sources we've got today are just fantastic.
They give us this complete picture from like
the tiniest detail of how a plant survives all
the way up to... The geopolitical scale of nuclear
testing. Yeah. It's not just a physical journey.
This is a dive into survival itself. So to get
you oriented, picture the middle of Australia,
but a bit south of the Tropic of Capricorn. Okay.
We're talking coordinates around 29 degrees south,
129 degrees... East. And our mission here really
is to get past that stereotype of a barren wasteland.
For sure. We need to walk away understanding
its immense scale, the incredibly specialized
life that has mastered this place and the strange
paradox of its history. How it's both a sanctuary
and... And a site of permanent human contamination.
Exactly. So let's unpack this vast hidden world.
Okay. So the first thing you have to grapple
with when you talk about the GVD is just... The
scale. It's staggering. Forget the Sahara for
a second. In an Australian context, this is the
biggest. This is number one. And it's so big
that even the official measurements, kind of,
they vary. I saw that. Why is that? Well, it
depends on how you define the edges of an ecosystem,
right? Is it this type of soil, that type of
plant? So our sources give a range from about
348 ,000 square kilometers. Which is already
huge. All the way up to... Maybe 422 ,000 square
kilometers. Wow. So to put that in perspective
for someone listening, say, in Europe. You're
talking about the entire size of Germany. The
whole country. Or for American listeners, it's
a bit bigger than the state of Montana. It's
a landmass that just swallows countries whole.
And that difference in the numbers, that just
speaks to how remote it is. Right. It's hard
to even survey it properly. For sure. But the
number that really got me was the width. It's
over 700 kilometers wide from west to east. That's
just. An ocean of arid land. And that width has
huge implications for the climate, for the ecology.
You're crossing multiple, you know, microclimates
and pressure systems. So to really understand
it, you need to place it on the map next to its
neighbors. Exactly. Its position is key. To the
south, you've got the Nullarbor Plain. Which
everyone knows is that super flat, treeless expanse.
A huge limestone slab, basically. It's a very
clear geological boundary. Then, if you go north
of the GVD, you hit the Gibson Desert. To the
west, you've got the Western Australian Mulga
Shrublands, which are a little less dry. And
then to the east. That's where it gets interesting
with the stony deserts. Right. You butt up against
the Tarare Sturt stony desert. And it's important
to list these because the GVD is a transitional
zone. It's not one single thing. So it's mostly
sand ridges. But as you move east, it changes.
Precisely. As you approach the Sturt stony desert,
you start getting into what are called gibber
plains. The boundaries aren't fences. They're
these. slow ecological gradients. Let's dig into
that landscape then, because the mental image
of just endless sand dunes, that's wrong here.
Totally wrong. It's a mosaic. Yes, there are
sandhills, but they're not the massive shifting
dunes you might imagine. They're smaller, more
stable. And in between them? You have grassland
plains and, fascinatingly, these huge salt lakes.
Which aren't really lakes most of the time, I
assume. No, they're ephemeral. They only hold
water for a short time after a really big rainstorm.
Most of the time, they're just these vast, white,
salt -crusted pans. And then there's the feature
I think is so cool, the desert pavement. The
gibber planes. Yeah, the gibber planes. You have
to understand the gibber to understand the GVD.
The landscape is covered in this tightly packed
surface of small, dark, weathered pebbles. The
gibbers. How do they even form? It's a process
called deflation. Over thousands of years, the
wind just blows all the fine sand and dust away.
So it leaves the heavy stuff behind. It leaves
the heavier, gravelly stuff. And it forms this
interlocking armor on the surface of the desert.
It's incredibly stable, but it's brutal for anything
trying to grow or dig. That armor sounds like
it would affect the climate, too. Yeah. What
are the conditions that create this kind of world?
Well, the number one thing is the low end gem.
And totally unpredictable rainfall. Right. The
average is only 200 to 250 millimeters a year,
about 8 to 10 inches. But the key word there
is average. Exactly. The irregularity is what
kills you. Yeah. Life out there isn't about surviving
the average. It's about surviving the longest
possible time without any rain. And droughts
can go for years. And yet, in the middle of all
that dryness, you have these bursts of just...
intense weather. This is the really interesting
part. The GVD gets on average 15 to 20 thunderstorms
a year. That seems like a lot for a desert. It
is. And it feels like this violent compensation
for the dry spells. These storms are the lifeblood
of the whole ecosystem. So they're not gentle
showers. Oh, no. They're often very localized,
incredibly intense, and they can dump a huge
chunk of the entire year's rainfall in just a
few hours. And that's what fills the salt lakes.
It fills the lakes, the clay pans. It triggers
this frantic, super fast life cycle for certain
plants, insects, and as we'll get into, some
amazing frogs. But on a day -to -day basis, it's
the temperature that's the real challenge. For
sure. The extremes are just... punishing. Summer
daytime temps are like a furnace. You're easily
looking at 32 to 40 degrees Celsius. It's 90
to 104 Fahrenheit. Right. And that heat is what
drives so many animals to live underground. But
then the winter brings this surprising relief.
That's the crucial contrast. Winter days are
beautiful. They drop to, you know, 18 to 23 Celsius,
which is in the 60s and low 70s Fahrenheit. That's
actually quite pleasant. It's a critical period
of relief. It lets animals forage without as
much stress, and it's when plants can recover
if there's any moisture left in the soil. It's
a cycle of extreme stress and relative calm.
So it's a desert of extremes, of irregularity,
and it's armored. It demands, well, incredible
determination from anything that tries to live
there. And that vast punishing place was, for
early European explorers, this just... almost
impossible barrier. The history really begins
with the attempts to cross it, starting with
the guy who actually gave the desert its name.
That would be Ernest Giles, a British -born Australian
explorer. In 1875, he finally did it. He crossed
the desert. And he named it in classic 19th century
fashion. After the reigning monarch, he called
it the Great Victoria Desert. There's a real
irony in that, isn't there? This incredibly remote,
uniquely Australian place. It's named for a queen
and a palace on the other side of the world.
It just perfectly captures the colonial mindset
of the era. You know, a place wasn't really real
until it had a European name on it. And his journey
wasn't a walk in the park. Not at all. He was
out there with no real maps, no modern gear,
relying on bush skills and very often on the
knowledge of the local indigenous people he met.
He really laid the groundwork. And after him,
there was this continuous push to map it and,
more importantly, to find a use for it. Right.
In 1891, you had David Lindsay's expedition,
which went north to south. And then as the country
developed, the motivation changed. It wasn't
just about exploring anymore. It was about money.
It was about resources. That brings us to Frank
Hahn. He was the prospector. Exactly. He spent
five years from 1903 to 1908 just combing the
desert, looking for gold. Did he find any? Not
in any real commercial quantity, but these guys,
Hahn and Giles and Lindsay, they established
the first rough routes. They found the water
sources. And then we jump forward a few decades
into the mid 20th century and we get the person
who. probably have the biggest impact on how
people get around there today. Len Beadle. Len
Beadle. His work in the 1960s wasn't about gold.
It was driven by the Cold War. Right. Access.
Access. He was a surveyor, and he's famous for
building the first tracks right through the heart
of the desert. Roads like the Ann Beadle Highway.
And we should be clear. When we say highway,
we're not talking about pavement and service
stations. Oh, no. These are rough, unsealed tracks.
They're incredible feats of engineering and sheer
bloody -mindedness, but they're not highways.
And they were built for a very specific and much
darker purpose. They were. They were built to
service the other human activity that came to
define the GVD after World War II. Nuclear weapons
testing. Yes. It's a jarring transition, isn't
it? It really is. You go from naming the land
for a queen to using it as a bombing range. The
very isolation that had protected its ecology
for millennia suddenly made it the perfect target.
Let's spend some time on this because it's a
critical part of the story. The British nuclear
tests. The British weapons trials of the 1950s
and early 1960s. They were conducted right on
the eastern edge of the GVD. Where exactly? The
two main sites were named Maralinga and Emu Field.
They conducted a series of atmospheric tests,
you know, the big mushroom clouds, and then a
lot of smaller ground -level trials. And these
left behind a terrible legacy. A permanent one.
The areas were contaminated with radioactive
materials. The sources are really specific about
one isotope in particular, plutonium -239. Why
is that one so bad? It comes down to its half
-life. Which is? Clutonium -239 has a half -life
of about 24 ,100 years. 24 ,000 years. So any
contamination isn't a temporary problem you can
just clean up. It's a management problem that
will outlast civilizations. So what does this
all mean, connecting it to the present? The GBD
is defined by this paradox. It's the ultimate
paradox. The same isolation that lets you have
these massive, pristine conservation zones. Which
we'll get to. Is the exact same quality that
appealed to weapons designers. who needed a place
where, you know, a bit of radioactive fallout
wouldn't immediately affect a major city. There
were cleanup attempts, right? Yeah, there were,
but they were, let's say, inadequate at first.
A royal commission in the 1980s was scathing
about the whole thing. So this is still an active
problem. A very active problem. Managing the
long -term threat of plutonium contamination
in a place that is also a world biosphere reserve,
that's probably the biggest human challenge the
desert faces. Okay, so let's move from that human
history to the biological resilience. Yeah. Section
3 is about this incredible unseen ecosystem,
the life that has figured out how to get by on
next to no water. It's a masterclass in efficiency.
The GVD is not barren at all. It's just very,
very selective. And it all starts with the plants.
It has to. The vegetation is the foundation.
We're talking about a kind of wooded step, especially
in the low areas, the swales between the sand
ridges. So what are the dominant trees? I see
a couple of types of eucalyptus mentioned. Yeah,
you see a lot of mallees and related eucalypts,
specifically eucalyptus gongiola carpa, the desert
gum, and eucalyptus youngiana. And how do they
do it? How do they survive years of drought?
Two main tricks. First, they have these incredibly
deep and widespread root systems. They're tapping
into water far, far below the surface. And the
second trick has to do with fire. Absolutely.
The Mallee eucalypts are famous for their ligmotubers.
What's that? It's this big, woody swelling at
the base of the trunk, mostly underground. It's
packed with nutrients and dormant buds. So when
a fire comes through and burns the whole tree
to the ground... It can just re -sprout from
the base? Instantly. It's built for drought and
for fire. A perfect desert adaptation. But the
real star of the show, the thing that covers
the ground everywhere, is the spine effects.
You cannot talk about the Australian arid zone
without talking about spine effects. Specifically,
a species called Triodia bastoe. And it's not
like a normal long grass. Not at all. It grows
in these big, dense, spiky hummocks. It's the
engineering marvel of the desert floor. How so?
What does it do? Well, it stabilizes the sand,
for one. But more importantly, it creates microclimates.
The base of a SpineFX clump is way cooler and
holds more moisture than the sand around it.
So it's like a little apartment building for
desert creatures. It's exactly that. It's the
refuge for insects, for lizards, for tiny marsupials.
It's the cornerstone of the whole habitat. Which
brings us to the fauna. And the big survival
strategy here is just avoidance. Exactly. If
you can't handle 40 degree heat, you just get
out of it. You become a burrower, a subterranean
specialist. This is the hidden zoo of the GVD.
Okay, so give us the stars of this underground
world. Well, number one has to be the southern
marsupial mole, Noderictes typhlops. This thing
is incredible. It's almost completely blind.
Its eyes are just little vestiges under the skin.
It doesn't dig permanent burrows. It literally
swims through the loose sand. It swims through
the earth. Yes. Its front claws are like massive
shovels and it just pushes through the sand looking
for insects collapsing the tunnel behind it as
it goes. Wow. It's an unbelievable level of specialization.
And then there's the water holding frog. The
name kind of gives it away. It's maybe the ultimate
example of adapting to irregular rain. When there's
a huge downpour, the frog comes to the surface,
eats like crazy, and absorbs a massive amount
of water. It just bloats itself up. It does.
And then as the ground dries out, it digs itself
deep, maybe a meter down. Yeah, this is where
it gets weird. It secretes this waterproof mucus
cocoon all around its body. It seals itself inside
this bag made of its own slime, and it just...
shuts down its metabolism slows to almost nothing
and it can stay down there for years for years
possibly even longer just waiting for the seismic
shock of the next heavy rain to wake it up that
is just an amazing survival hack it's an evolutionary
insurance policy against drought okay so let's
talk about the reptiles because this is where
it gets really interesting including some very
recent discoveries reptiles are kings out here
they can manage the heat by moving in and out
of the sun but the big aha moment from the sources
is about the central ranges taipan a taipan one
of the world's most venomous snakes exactly and
it was only formally identified as a distinct
species in 2007 2007 that's less than 20 years
ago It tells you everything you need to know
about how vast and unstudied this region still
is. We're still finding new species of large,
highly venomous snakes out there. That's mind
-blowing. And what about the predators at the
top of the food chain? Well, the dingo is a key
predator, and its presence here is really significant
because the GVD is north of the famous dingo
fence. So what does that mean, being north of
the fence? It means the dingo population is largely
unregulated by humans. of the fence, they're
mostly eradicated to protect sheep. Here, they
play their natural role in the ecosystem. Which
is actually a good thing for conservation. It's
a critical thing. Dingoes help control the populations
of feral cats and foxes. Which are devastating
for native wildlife. Exactly. So ironically,
the dingo acts as a guardian for the smaller
native marsupials and birds. And then you've
got the giant lizards. The big monitors. You
have the parntii, which can grow over two meters
long. One of the biggest lizards in the world.
Wow. And the San Goanna. They're the patrols
of the sand ridges, eating pretty much anything
they can find. So it's clear life isn't just
surviving here. It's engineered these incredible
solutions. Highly sophisticated solutions to
the most extreme problems you can imagine. Which
leads us straight into how humans fit into this
picture today. We've done the geography, the
climate, the amazing biology. Now let's focus
on the people. Right. Because the human history
here goes back tens of thousands of years before
Ernest Giles showed up. And today, the human
population is predominantly indigenous Australians.
Yes, the people who have always been there. The
sources mention several specific groups, the
Kogara, the Merning, and the Pichanchichara people.
And there's a really interesting point in the
source material that... Unlike some other remote
areas, the Aboriginal populations here have been
increasing. Which points to ongoing cultural
strength and resilience, especially in places
where communities have been able to maintain
their connection to the land and traditional
practices. And there are active efforts to support
that, like the Willy Rara Creative Programs.
Those programs are vital. They're about young
Indigenous adults actively maintaining and evolving
their culture. It's not about freezing it in
time. It's not just about preserving old songs.
No, it's about traditional art, but also modern
art. It's about land management techniques like
controlled burning and making sure that deep
knowledge of the environment is passed on to
the next generation. Which is essential both
for culture and for modern ecological management.
Absolutely. But even with these thriving communities,
the place is still incredibly isolated. Getting
around is a major challenge. The isolation is
profound. Access is still mostly limited to those
rough tracks that Len Beadle built back in the
60s. The Connie Sue Highway, the Anne Beadle
Highway. Right. You need a serious four by four
vehicle and you need to be completely self -sufficient.
And that very difficulty of access, it acts as
a natural filter. It limits the pressure from
the outside world. And that leads us perfectly
into the conservation story of the GVD. It seems
like all the things that make it so hard to live
in have also helped to protect it. That's the
great irony. The harshness has been its salvation.
Because it's never been suitable for large -scale
agriculture or ranching, many of the habitats
are basically pristine. And the numbers on this
are amazing. The key statistic is that 31 % of
the desert is officially protected. 31%. And
when you remember, we're talking about an area
the size of Germany that is a monumental conservation
achievement. A huge area of land. It's a vast
network of protected areas, including some that
are recognized globally. The prime example is
the Mamungari Conservation Park in South Australia.
Which used to be called the Unnamed Conservation
Park. Which just tells you how remote it is.
Yeah. And Mamungari is not just a park. It's
one of Australia's 14 World Biosphere Reserves,
which is a designation from... It recognizes
its global importance. And the management of
these areas is really modern with a big emphasis
on indigenous co -management. The governance
is key. A huge part of this protected network
is made up of what are called indigenous protected
areas or IPAs. What's an IPA? It's where the
aboriginal traditional owners voluntarily agree
with the government to manage their land for
biodiversity conservation. It's a fusion of ancient
traditional knowledge and modern conservation
science. So the people with the deepest connection
to the land are the ones leading its protection.
In many cases, yes, especially in South Australia,
where the Anangu Pitjantjatjara or APY lands
make up a massive local government area that's
under indigenous ownership and management. And
this is a whole network of parks and reserves,
not just one big one. It's a mosaic. You have
the IPAs, you have state -run nature reserves
like the Great Victoria Desert Nature Reserve
in WA, and then national parks like Lake Gairdner.
It's this multi -layered system designed to protect
all the different habitat types across the desert.
It's just a stunning success story. Especially
when you remember that geographically, it's right
next door to the areas contaminated by those
nuclear tests. That is the defining contrast
of the GVD. It's one of the most ecologically
intact arid zones left on Earth, largely thanks
to its isolation and the dedication of its traditional
owners and conservationists. Okay, so let's try
to wrap this up. Let's consolidate our deep dive
into the Great Victoria Desert for you. We've
really hit on three big contrasting themes. First,
just the immense scale. It's Australia's largest
desert, and it's not just sand. It's this mix
of sand hills and those tough pebble -armored
gibber plains. All of it shaped by that rhythm
of long droughts broken by these intense, dramatic
thunderstorms. Second, its history is this total
paradox. You have the classic European exploration
story with Ernest Giles. And then this dark 20th
century shadow of nuclear testing. at Maralinga.
Right, which left behind this permanent legacy
of contamination, especially that plutonium -239,
which needs to be managed for, what, tens of
thousands of years? A geological timescale, basically.
And third, the ecology. It's a master class in
adaptation. We talked about being a subterranean
survivor. The sand -swimming mall, the frog in
its mucus cocoon. All the way up to the dingo,
acting as this vital conservationist north of
the dingo fence. And all of that has led to this
huge conservation success, 31 % of the desert
protected. Much of it through indigenous -led
initiatives like the IPAs and the Mamungari World
Biosphere Reserve. So if we connect this to the
bigger picture. What's so amazing is the resilience.
The desert has absorbed some of the most powerful
technology humans have ever created, atomic bombs.
And yet its unique ecology and its ancient cultures,
they just, they persist. They thrive. So that
leaves a really important question for you to
think about. The nuclear contamination zones
and the World Biosphere Reserve are... Geographically,
very close neighbors. Right next to each other
in some cases. So given the 24 ,000 -year half
-life of plutonium, how do you practically balance
the need to manage those contaminated sites for
millennia with the goal of keeping the areas
right next door truly pristine? And how do those
historic threats actually inform modern conservation?
Does having a permanent, off -limits, hazardous
zone nearby ironically help protect the surrounding
land by keeping people out? It's something to
think about. We encourage you to look at a map,
see how these zones of destruction and preservation
actually overlap in this vast, hidden, and truly
incredible world.