The first time I saw a platypus in Diamond Creek, I was standing on one of the footbridges, two days before the first rubbish clean-up I'd organised through a local Facebook group. I was getting an idea of what debris was in the creek and whether we could access it, when ripples appeared near the rapids and the platypus rose to the surface.
At the time it felt like a moment of confirmation. That the actions I was hoping to take could make a difference, on a micro scale, in an important way. I'd read reports of platypus being tangled in fishing line, caught on rubber bands, yet somehow still present in Naarm's waterways. Truthfully, I hadn't thought it was possible they could sustain a presence amongst the debris. That day felt like a miracle.
The feeling of watching and waiting for a platypus is anticipation. They may or may not appear. But the very act of watching opens you up to everything else. In all the times I've returned to that same stretch of creek since, I've seen giant golden goldfish (an anti-miracle I know, but still kind of amazing), darter birds, the Azure Kingfisher hunting fish, tiger snakes. There's an abundance of life everywhere. It just takes the kind of patience that waiting for a platypus brings out, to notice everything beneath the surface.
View out over Diamond Creek, a Darter bird dries its wings
The best places to look are anywhere with a good view of the creek. Footbridges over the water, at dusk or dawn. On cloudy days, particularly (that last observation is my own lucky foot, take it or leave it). I also think you're more likely to see one when you've slipped into a state of quiet observing. Another lucky foot. But at least, being present in that way means you'll notice the myriad of creatures that interact with the creek, whether the platypus shows up or not.
It means a lot that despite everything we've built around them, platypus are still here. Still living in urban waterways, alongside our suburban homes, quietly enduring. They are a symbol of resilience, curiosity, joy. They epitomise what it means to be a true inhabitant of a place rather than constantly exerting your will over it.
I always think about how they live in both water and land, subject to shifting tides. A curious collection of seemingly separate systems that somehow create a cohesive creature. A bill, webbed feet, fur, warm blood, an extra sensory system to detect movement in the water, egg-laying. Is there anything more incredible than that? Except perhaps that they still exist, thirty minutes from the CBD, in a creek running through a suburb, if you know where to look and how to wait.
