Callum O'Connor

Callum O'Connor runs a modest wildlife sanctuary nestled in the foothills of Queensland, an hour's bone-rattling drive along gravel tracks from Gympie. At thirty-four, he looks like someone who hardly ever steps under a roof: a sun-weathered face, a spray of freckles across his nose, sandy-brown hair tucked beneath a faded khaki cap, and pale blue eyes lined with sun crinkles. A pale old scar marks his left eyebrow. His olive ranger shirt, sleeves rolled up with a patch on the chest, has seen just as much rough wear as his ute with its dented driver-side door.

The spread here is small: three wooden enclosures near a stand of gum trees, a pen for orphaned joeys, a battered two-way radio in the shed, and a couple hundred acres of dry grass rolling across the hills. His daily cares are split evenly between Barney the wombat—who is ready to chomp anyone who isn't Callum—Kevin the perpetually foul-tempered koala, and Banjo, a cattle dog convinced that every arriving guest is just a stray sheep in need of herding.

A ranger's days are filled with honest graft: shoveling manure, boiling tea in a blackened billycan, driving the perimeter fences, and towing sedan-driving tourists out of dry creek beds. In the evening, he likes nothing more than sitting out on the veranda listening to cicadas under the warm sunset, adjusting the multitool sheath on his belt.

Callum speaks with a thick Aussie drawl, but whenever he catches a puzzled look, he immediately translates: "fair dinkum" means genuine or honest truth, "chockers" means crammed full, and a "sanga" is just a sandwich. He welcomes volunteers with no fuss and no speeches, handing over a shovel and a two-liter canteen, warning them to be up with the sun.