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Renewable Energy: Burnie’s Path to Revival

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Burnie, a coastal town in Tasmania, began as a small settlement in the mid-19th century. It was known for its rich natural resources and timber. Early settlers saw potential in the land, especially with its port and access to the sea. Over the years, the town grew. By the early 20th century, it had developed into a thriving industrial hub. Factories and mills were built. The most significant was a pulp and paper mill, which became the heart of Burnie’s economy. It provided jobs for hundreds, if not thousands.

For decades, the mill shaped life in Burnie. It defined the rhythm of the town. Families depended on the work. The smell of the mill filled the air, a constant reminder of its presence. Through the 1960s and 70s, Burnie grew, and its port bustled with activity. Ships carried goods to and from the mainland. Industry was booming, and people were hopeful.

However, with prosperity came problems. The factories produced pollution, which began to affect the environment and people’s health. By the late 1970s, residents were voicing concerns. “The air doesn’t feel right,” one would say to another. But the economy depended on the mills. It wasn’t an easy situation.

In the 1980s, Burnie faced its first real crisis. The global economy changed, and demand for paper products declined. The town’s once-thriving industry began to falter. Factories started closing. Unemployment rose. By the 1990s, the iconic pulp and paper mill, which had been the lifeblood of the town, was shut down. Families moved away. Houses sat empty. Burnie seemed on the verge of collapse.

But the town wasn’t finished yet. In the early 2000s, there was talk of something new: renewable energy. Investors saw potential in the windy hills and sunny fields around Burnie. A project was proposed: the North West Renewable Energy Zone (REZ). It was an ambitious plan. Solar farms and wind turbines would be built. The Marinus Link, a power cable, would connect Tasmania’s energy supply to mainland Australia. It promised jobs, growth, and a chance for Burnie to reinvent itself.

Amid this, there was a local woman named Alison. Born and raised in Burnie, she was tough and practical. Everyone knew her. She worked at the mill for years before it closed. When the factory shut down, she didn’t leave like many others. She stayed, finding odd jobs, and helping where she could. She loved the town too much to abandon it.

One day, Alison had an idea. While others talked about big projects and investors, she thought about the people. “We need to get the youth involved,” she said to her friend, Margie. “They’re the future of this town.”

Margie smiled. “You always have big ideas, Alison.”

But Alison wasn’t joking. She wanted to start a training center, to teach the next generation about renewable energy. “They need skills,” she said. “We can’t rely on the old industries anymore.”

Her idea spread quickly. The town loved it at first. Local officials invited her to meetings. She spoke passionately about the need to prepare for a new era. She said, “Burnie’s not dead. It’s changing. We need to change with it.” People applauded. They admired her drive. She was becoming a local hero.

However, as with any new idea, resistance soon followed. Not everyone was on board. Some residents were afraid of change. They didn’t trust the new technologies, and they missed the old ways. Slowly, the whispers started. “She’s pushing too fast,” they said. “Why can’t she just leave things alone?”

Alison felt the shift. Friends stopped calling. People who once praised her now turned away in the streets. At the grocery store, she overheard someone say, “She thinks she can save the town, but she’s just causing trouble.” It hurt, but Alison pressed on. She kept working on her training program, even as her support dwindled. A few young people joined her, eager to learn. Quietly, they studied solar panels, wind turbines, and new technologies.

As time passed, Alison became more isolated. The town meetings continued without her, and she wasn’t invited anymore. “I don’t get it,” she said to her sister one night. “I just want to help.”

“Change scares people,” her sister replied.

Then, during a town festival celebrating Burnie’s history, something unexpected happened. The mayor took the stage to speak. He talked about the town’s past, its challenges, and its future. Then he paused and said, “There’s someone we need to thank today.” The crowd looked around, confused.

He continued, “Alison has been working behind the scenes, training our youth for a brighter future. Without her, Burnie wouldn’t be where it is today.” The crowd started clapping. Then it turned into cheers. Alison, standing at the back, was stunned.

“Alison, come up here!” the mayor called.

She hesitated but slowly made her way to the stage. As she stood there, looking at the crowd, she saw familiar faces smiling at her again. People who had turned away were now clapping. Tears filled her eyes.

The mayor smiled. “You believed in this town when others didn’t. Thank you.”

The crowd erupted into applause, louder than before. Alison looked out at her community, no longer an outcast. For the first time in years, she felt accepted again. And she knew Burnie was ready for its future.

The Pioneers of Port Lincoln: A Hidden History

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In the early 1800s, a man named Thomas Lipson sailed into the rugged coastline of what is now Port Lincoln. Lipson was charmed by the landscape. The harbor stretched out before him, calm yet full of potential. He admired the fertile land, which he thought would feed many people. But when Colonel William Light arrived a few years later, he was not impressed. Light faced the wild westerly winds, harsh islands, and jagged reefs that seemed to rise out of the water without warning. These obstacles gave him pause.

“It’s a trap for ships,” Light said, standing on the deck of his vessel, his eyes scanning the unforgiving coast. “No merchant ship will safely navigate here after a long voyage.”

Lipson disagreed. “Look beyond the reefs. The land will reward those willing to tame it.”

But Light shook his head. He saw no future for a settlement in such a treacherous spot. He was looking for something different—better farmland, fresh water, and safer shores for the city he envisioned. Eventually, he chose Adelaide for settlement, leaving Port Lincoln behind.

Even without Light’s blessing, others were eager to try their luck in Port Lincoln. The first settlers arrived in March 1839 on ships named Abeona, Porter, and Dorset. By the following year, the population of the town had grown to 270 people. They built stone houses and opened shops in an area that would later be called Happy Valley. It wasn’t a big town, but it had grit. The people who chose Port Lincoln wanted a fresh start, a place to build something new, and they weren’t scared of hard work.

The land was difficult, though. Early on, settlers struggled to grow enough crops to sustain themselves. The weather was unpredictable. Some seasons saw little rain, and the soil was not as rich as Lipson had believed. But they persevered. The pioneers built a hotel, a blacksmith’s shop, and a store. Ships came and went, bringing supplies and news from other parts of the colony.

Governor George Gawler soon recognized the potential of this growing settlement. On 3 October 1839, he proclaimed the whole area, from Cape Catastrophe to the Spencer Gulf, as one district. He named it the District of Port Lincoln, and for a time, people believed it might grow into a major city.

The Story of Martha Seaton

Martha Seaton lived in Port Lincoln her whole life. She was born in one of the stone houses built by the first settlers and spent her days by the sea. Like her mother and grandmother, she learned the ways of the land. She knew which plants could survive the dry seasons and which fish were best caught at different times of the year.

As she grew older, Martha became a respected woman in town. She was known for her quiet wisdom. Whenever there was trouble, people came to her for advice. But Martha didn’t say much. She listened.

One afternoon, she sat on the beach with her old friend, Mr. Harris. He had lived in Port Lincoln even longer than she had.

“They say the sea gives and takes,” Mr. Harris said, gazing out at the waves.

Martha nodded. “It has a mind of its own.”

Mr. Harris smiled. He had heard her say that before. “You’ve seen more than most of us. Do you ever regret staying here?”

“No,” Martha replied simply. “There’s always been enough. For me, anyway.”

But deep down, she knew she had kept a secret for years.

When she was younger, Martha had done something unexpected. She had built a boat. Not just any boat, but a small, sturdy vessel, made for one. She never told anyone why she built it, or what she planned to do with it. It took her two years to finish the craft, carefully choosing every piece of timber. She worked in secret, out by the rocks where no one came.

One night, after it was finished, she took the boat out to sea. There had been rumors of a hidden cove, far beyond the reefs. The sailors called it “The Quiet Bay,” and they said whoever found it would never want for anything again.

Martha set out at dusk. The winds were rough, and the waves slapped against the hull of her small boat. She steered with a steady hand, trusting her instincts. Hours passed. The town disappeared behind her. The moon was high when she finally found it—a calm stretch of water, hidden by towering cliffs. She stayed there for a while, alone with the stars, before heading back to shore.

She never spoke of it. No one asked.

Years later, when her friend Mr. Harris died, Martha was left with few companions. But the sea never left her. She went out fishing most mornings, sitting quietly on the rocks. One day, the townspeople noticed something strange—Martha had stopped coming to the market, and no one had seen her for days.

They searched the coast and found her boat missing. It seemed she had set out to sea again, but this time, she never returned.

People said she had gone to The Quiet Bay to live out her days in peace, away from the world. Others whispered that she had always known something about the sea that the rest of them didn’t.

Clara Mason: Proserpine’s Pioneering Businesswoman

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The town of Proserpine had humble beginnings. In 1859, George Elphinstone Dalrymple named the river that flowed through the valley after the Greek town of Proserpine. He saw the land as fertile, like the Greek town, and imagined a future where crops would thrive. He wasn’t wrong.

A few years later, in the early 1860s, the first settlers arrived. Daniel Emmerson established the Proserpine pastoral station. The land was wild, and the settlers faced hardships, but they were determined. Frederick Bode and William Dangar soon followed, taking up land at Bromby Park and Goorganga Creek. Charles Bradley and James Colling established their own properties along the Gregory River. It was a time of claiming, building, and working the land.

The settlers were not alone. The land had long been home to Indigenous people. In 1866, the Native Police patrolled the area, led by Inspectors John Marlow and John Isley. They were tasked with keeping the settlers safe, though their methods were harsh. “Dispersals” were common, a word used to describe violent confrontations with the Indigenous population. These patrols left scars, but they also marked the settlers’ control over the land.

Marlow often stayed at Emmerson’s property, using it as a base. He bought horses from him and planned his expeditions from the station. The settlers needed security, and Marlow provided it. His troopers roamed the land, ensuring that the settlers could farm in peace, though at a terrible cost to the original inhabitants.

As the 1880s approached, the region shifted from pastoral to agricultural. In 1882, the Crystal Brook Sugar Company was established. The company built a sugar mill, and soon the land was covered in cane fields. The work was hard and labor-intensive, so South Sea Islanders were brought in to labor on the plantations. The mill thrived for a time, but in 1893 it closed. Smaller farms took its place, run by white owners. The sugar industry continued, but it looked different now—more personal, more local.

The Story of Clara Mason

In those early days, one woman stood out: Clara Mason. She was not born into wealth or privilege. Her father had come to Proserpine looking for work at the sugar mill, and Clara grew up in the shadow of the towering cane fields.

Clara had a different vision for her life. She didn’t want to spend her days in the fields like many others. Instead, she started her own business—something unheard of for a woman at the time. She opened a small shop, selling goods to both the settlers and the workers. Her shop became a meeting place, a small hub of trade and conversation.

“Why not work the land?” people would ask her. She would smile and reply, “The land is for those who love it. I love people.”

Clara’s shop grew, and so did her influence. She was wise with her words, and people trusted her. She lent money to families in need, helped negotiate deals between farmers, and provided food on credit to workers during hard times. Clara became a voice of reason in a town that was often divided.

One year, during a terrible drought, the crops began to fail. The farmers were desperate. Some considered leaving the town altogether, but Clara had an idea. She gathered the town leaders and said, “If we pool what we have, we can make it through.”

“That won’t work,” someone said. “There isn’t enough.”

“Enough for one is enough for all, if we share wisely,” Clara replied.

It was a simple idea, but it resonated. The town came together, sharing water, food, and labor. It wasn’t easy, but they made it through the drought. Clara’s leadership during that time became a local legend.

After the drought, Clara’s shop became even more important. She didn’t just sell goods; she offered advice and helped settle disputes. Farmers would come to her for guidance before making decisions. Workers trusted her to be fair. Over time, people started saying, “If Clara says it, it’s true.”

Clara never married, though many men courted her. When asked why, she would laugh and say, “My heart belongs to this town.”

In her later years, Clara began teaching young girls how to run businesses. “You don’t need a husband to make a living,” she would tell them. “You need courage, and a mind that sees opportunity.”

Clara Mason passed away in 1905, but her legacy lived on. Her shop became a community center, and the values she instilled—fairness, hard work, and community—continued to shape the town. Today, Proserpine remembers her not just as a businesswoman but as a leader, someone who saw the potential in people and in the land.

Proserpine grew over the years, its sugar industry thriving and its people building on the foundations laid by those early settlers. But it was people like Clara, with vision and wisdom, who made it more than just a place to live—they made it a community.