Carnivorous Nights_ On the Trail of the Tasmanian Tiger - Margaret Mittelbach [30]
In its first few years, the Van Diemen's Land Company suffered huge stock losses. Its sheep were killed off by bad weather and disease. And some were killed by animals—wild dogs, Tasmanian tigers, possibly devils. But tigers were targeted as the main culprits. It was a typical story. The British and their descendants had systematically gone after the top predator in most places they lived—particularly if it was considered a threat to livestock. In 1830, the company offered a bounty of 5 shillings for each male tiger and 7 shillings for each female tiger. The bounty would be increased to 10 and 12 shillings respectively as more tigers were killed. In 1836, the company hired its first “tiger man”—the first in a long series— whose job was to help eradicate the animal. Eventually, other groups of landowners began setting up their own organizations to pay tiger bounties, and the Tasmanian government set up an island-wide bounty system in 1888, paying £1 for each dead adult tiger.
As the bounty years wore on through the latter half of the nineteenth century and into the twentieth, tigers were seen less and less in the settled areas. In fact, they became so rare that if one was captured or shot, people would come from miles around to take a look.
One of the most famous photos of the Tasmanian tiger was taken in the nearby community of Mawbanna in 1930. It shows a young man, named Wilf Batty, holding a shotgun and squatting on his knees next to the stiff body of a tiger. The body is leaned up against a fence and the tiger's eyes are closed. It's believed that this was the last tiger ever to be shot in Tasmania.
“What about the sightings?” we asked. “What about all the people who say they've seen them?”
“I've spoken to people who say they've seen them or heard them. Lots of people believe the tiger's still around,” Geoff said.
“What do you think?”
“I'd have to say that based on the evidence—or lack of it—that it's probably gone. But then you never know.” He thought for a minute. “Tomorrow I'll take you to a place where there was a famous tiger sighting. It was taken very seriously because the fellow who reported it was a wildlife expert employed by the government. It sparked an extended search.”
Geoff stopped and engaged the four-wheel drive. Then he made a sharp right and drove off the gravel road straight into the bush and onto a narrow, barely discernible track. As the Pajero lurched forward into a shallow sandy ditch, we remembered the woman at the car rental agency saying something about not taking the vehicle on unmapped roads.
As the Pajero squeezed through a corridor of tiny-leaved tea trees, rough branches scraped along the sides of the car and poked in through the open windows. The sandy track was rutted, dipping and cresting in a series of small waves. As we jounced along, we felt like we were back on the pitching ferry. Geoff worked the wheel in ways we had never imagined.
“You're a really good driver,” we said, our teeth rattling.
“Well, I have a bit of a reputation. I used to be the designated driver after parties and other spirited events.”
“You don't drink?”
“I do. But if you only have one eye, you can get pissed, and you won't see two lines going down the middle of the road. No double vision.”
Reaching a small crest, Geoff jammed on the brakes and ran around to the back of the vehicle. In every direction, the knobby landscape was covered with tufts of native grass.
Geoff hauled out the foul-smelling black bin, removed the tarp, and pulled up a limp creature. He held it up by the tail to give us a better look. A patch of dried blood marked its chest. We were by turns fascinated and revolted, but we tried to play it cool. “What the hell is that?” we blurted.
“It's a pademelon.”
“What kind of melon?” we asked, swatting away a few flies.
“It's a Tasmanian pademelon—also called a rufous wallaby. It's a small type of kangaroo,