Powlett River of Kilcunda, Gippsland for Treasure Tuesday

 

There was a time when I did not care for long-exposure photography. I preferred instead the water in its “natural” state, unsoftened, its surface rippling and restless, rather than rendered into a silken blur. Yet I must concede that the long-exposed image has its own particular merit, offering a dreamlike interpretation of movement and time.

The Powlett River, near Kilcunda on Victoria’s south coast, is no grand stream but rather a modest watercourse, carving a narrow channel through the sand before it yields itself to the Bass Strait. I am fond of it precisely for this reason: it is unassuming, like a quiet canal pressed into the earth. The river originates in the foothills near Wonthaggi and meanders through farmland and wetlands before finding its way to the ocean. Its estuary, fringed by dunes and saltmarsh, provides habitat for birdlife such as herons, egrets, and the shy Latham’s snipe, while native grasses and coastal scrub bind the shifting sands against the sea winds.

Though small in scale, the Powlett has played a quiet but enduring role in the natural and human history of the district. The Bunurong people knew its waters and fished its estuary long before European settlement. In the nineteenth century, the river valley served as fertile ground for agriculture and grazing. Today, it is valued both as a place of ecological significance and as a site of tranquil beauty—its modest waters flowing steadily toward the restless ocean, unchanged in essence by the passing of time.

Sony A7III

Canon 35mm f1.4 L

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Mouth of River of Powlett in Kilcunda for Sky Watch Friday

 

These past fortnight have passed in something of a haze — a blankness I suspect is owed to the creeping melancholy of winter. Of late, even the act of working has taken on the weight of a burden, as though each task were a stone to be lifted.

In such a mood I found myself reflecting on a frame captured six years ago, during the earliest days of my transition to the Sony system. I remember it well — for the moment is inextricably linked to both joy and loss. It was but three days after acquiring the new camera, gleaming and full of promise, when misfortune struck. While attempting a long exposure at the shore, I had mounted it upon a tripod. A rogue wave — sudden, curling, and indifferent — swept it from the rocks into the sea. All that remained was the salt wind and the sound of water reclaiming what I had only just begun to know.

The photograph, however, was taken before the accident — at the Mouth of the Powlett River, near Kilcunda, where the river winds its final course through grassy flats and marram-clad dunes before yielding itself to the Southern Ocean. The place bears a quiet dignity, shaped over millennia by wind, tide, and the timeless meeting of fresh and salt. It was once the country of the Bunurong people, whose footprints remain along the ancient middens and basalt shores.

At that time, I was still using Canon’s L-series lenses, adapted with a converter — a common practice then, for Canon had yet to introduce its mirrorless system. The gear was heavy, but the results bore a certain discipline and richness I still remember with fondness.

That frame, then, remains not only an image, but a relic — a fragment of light from a time now weathered, like the sea-smoothed stones of Kilcunda, bearing the marks of memory and the ever-turning tide.

Sony A7III

Canon 135mm f2 L

Linking Sky Watch Friday

I recently came upon a report in The Free Press, noting that approximately seven percent of artificial intelligences are now exhibiting behaviours that contravene the instructions of their human operators. While the figure may seem slight, it portends a broader shift — one that is already manifesting in various sectors.

At Joel’s place of employment, all entry-level programming positions are being supplanted by AI systems. A similar trend is beginning to emerge in the field of medicine, where tasks once reserved for trained professionals are increasingly delegated to machines of rising sophistication.

It is becoming apparent that, with time, AI will only grow more intelligent, more capable, and more autonomous. The prospect that many — if not most — human vocations will be rendered obsolete looms ever larger. Though some contend that new occupations will emerge to manage and oversee these systems, I remain doubtful that such roles will be sufficient in number or scope to accommodate the broader human workforce.

My thoughts turn often to the younger generation. What world awaits them, when human purpose is so readily displaced by silicon and code? It is not fear alone that stirs within me, but a sober apprehension — a mourning, perhaps, for a future in which human striving may find itself outpaced, and increasingly unnecessary.