It’s dark. It’s raining (it nearly always is – this area gets over two metres rainfall a year). The chunky 4WD tyres are slick with mud. And in front of us is a sign with huge red letters: NO TRESSPASSING. KEEP OUT. And a high barb-wired fence. Damn.
We’re looking for Rush. Rush is a young male fox I fitted with a GPS tracking collar a month ago. He used to live in a small patch of recently burnt forest, holing up in a tree-fern gully during the day and then scouting through the bush and nearby paddocks overnight. A concise home-range, only a kilometre across, which overlapped neatly with Cinnamon’s – I suspect they are siblings. But this morning his collar sent me an email from a completely new location, nearly 4 km from where he’s been before (very funky technology, this! Saves me an incredible amount of driving in circles looking for non-existent foxes).