The morning light slides across the paddocks of Bellbrae, a coastal stretch just inland from Torquay. From across the land, a low, drawn-out moo rolls through the stillness of the crisp autumn morning. From the road, the fields look lush and green, a sign perhaps, that the worst has passed. But the man who’s spent his life working this soil knows the colour can be deceiving.
At 50, having been “born on the property”, Murray Johns has lived on the farm his entire life. His family hastended this property since 1986. “You picture drought as hot and dry,” Murray says, “But when the brown drought turns green, it gets harder for people to cope because of the continuity of time you’re doing it for.”
Across the Barwon region, farmers like Murray are facing their third consecutive year of severe drought—drought that often goes unrecognised, yet places increasing pressure on both livelihoods and the mental health of farmers.
Murray’s farm sits roughly ten kilometres inland from the surf coast, close enough for his children to visit the beach, but far enough that the realities of rural life never fade. “It’s a great spot,” he says. “But the land values are high, and it’s not the most productive farm inland going around. We make the best of it that we can.”
The National Farmer Wellbeing Report found that in recent years, “nearly half of Australian farmers (45%) have felt depressed, with almost two-thirds (64%) experiencing anxiety”. For Murray, a husband, a father, and a farmer, those statistics feel personal. “It takes its toll mentally and financially,” he said. “You’re wondering how long you can keep going. There’s always that anxiety: how long will this last? Can we afford it?”
In good seasons, the Bellbrae property runs up to 1,200 sheep. “We’re down to about 700 now,” Murray says. “It’s been extremely dry, the worst rainfall reduction we’ve seen.” According to the Australian Bureau of Meteorology, “the extent and severity of long-term rainfall deficiencies has slightly increased in south-eastern states”. The problem with the “green drought”, Murray explains, is simple: “We have enough rain to germinate the grass, but it requires sunshine to keep growing.”
When the rain doesn’t come until late in winter, the days are short and cold. “The paddocks have turned from brown to green, but there’s so little growth that the livestock aren’t getting enough to survive,” Murray says. “The garden dies because you’re saving the water for livestock. If a plant dies, you’ll go to the nursery in 12 months’ time and buy another. If you run out of water for your livestock, you can’t let them die of thirst; it’s non-negotiable.”
His two daughters have grown up on the land, marked by the mixture of freedom and limitation that rural life brings. As a father, Murray feels responsible for providing his family with as many experiences as he can. For this family, many outings mean a half-hour drive into town. “They can’t walk down the street to see friends; they certainly miss out on some social things,” he says. “When you’re feeding every day, you don’t have time. You tend to get inward-focused. But we make an effort where we can.”
In the tougher years, Murray has had to make sacrifices that affect his family. Choices like “do we take the family on holiday, or do we buy more feed?” become part of everyday life. It’s here that local support networks have become lifelines. Murray helps co-ordinate two producer groups: BestWool/BestLamb and BetterBeef. He says he’s getting “the best of both worlds,” as he “would’ve been a member anyway”.
Each group brings together 15 to 20 farmers six times a year, initially to provide educational information. “But the real value is social,” he says. “You get away from your own place, talk about how things are going and realise it’s not just you. You go home with a burden shared. We’ve been through five droughts since I’ve been here. You just try to remember what worked and what didn’t. You record it for yourself, and for whoever comes next,” says Murray.
On better days, the sheep are healthy and the paddocks shimmer with new grass. “You look at them and go, wow, I’m proud of them,” he said. “It’s always hard work, but it’s rewarding too. You know the cliché poem,” he says. “We’re a land of droughts and flooding rains.”
If you or someone you know needs support, contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 or the National Centre for Farmer Health at (03) 5551 8533.
This story is part of a project exploring regional Victoria and the issues farmers are facing. See the whole collection here.
