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Early Starts & Tiny Turtles in the Pilbara
Updated: Jan 27
This wasn’t a holiday.
It wasn’t exactly work either.
My husband, Craig, works in the mining industry out of Wickham, Western Australia, and through his time up here I started hearing about the West Pilbara Turtle Program. A group of local volunteers who monitor turtle nesting and hatching during the season.
Instead of Craig flying home as usual, we swapped directions. He stayed in the Pilbara and I jumped on a 2hr flight from Perth to Karratha so I could spend a week on the ground to see the magic of hatching season for myself.
That’s how I found myself up here, on a Pilbara beach before dawn, camera ready, heat already building, learning quickly that this landscape doesn’t bend for anyone.
Before Sunrise on Turtle Beach
The alarm drags us out of bed at 4:30am. We drink as much water as we can force down, knowing it won’t be enough, and on workdays Craig drops me at the beach while it’s still dark. Once the sun peeks over the dunes, it’s not long before you’ve sweat through every layer you’re wearing and dripping head to toe (a dead giveaway that my Scottish blood was never built for the Pilbara).
Most mornings, I've met the same small group. Locals who’ve been doing this for years, alongside visiting families learning how to read the stories left behind in the sand overnight. One of them is Jodi Cridland, an incredibly talented wildlife photographer, whose patience and eye for detail become obvious the moment you walk alongside her.
Another familiar face this week has been Claudia Kraus. A long-time volunteer with the program who, after her second year of early starts, finally got to witness hatchlings emerge this week. Alongside Jodi, she’s been walking multiple beaches from 5am every morning since I’ve been here. Claudia is also a talented visual artist and diver, with a deep connection to the ocean that runs through all her work. We even squeezed in some time playing with clay at the Karratha community center where we each sculptured baby turtles, of course.
Paying attention
The West Pilbara Turtle Program at its heart, is about paying attention.
The volunteers are here to understand what’s actually happening on these beaches alongside an operational mine site. How many turtles are coming ashore, where they’re attempting to nest, and how often those attempts result in hatchlings making it to the water. By reading and counting tracks every morning, they can tell whether a turtle laid, turned back, or whether hatchlings erupted overnight.
They also record what gets in the way. Vehicle tracks through nesting areas. Disturbed sand. Interference from birds or feral animals.
Over time, the stats add up. The information collected helps the council and mine site make informed decisions about what needs protecting and what changes genuinely improve nesting success. It’s slow, repetitive work most days, but without it, they’d only be guessing.
Specifically, the West Pilbara Turtle Program is a partnership between WA Parks and Wildlife Service and RioTinto, monitoring beaches around Wickham and Cleaverville, including Bells Beach alongside Cape Lambert Port operations.
The main species nesting here are flatback turtles, native to Australia and found nowhere else in the world.
They return to the same general areas year after year, which makes the condition of these beaches really important.
Reading the sand
One of the first things I learnt is that the beach tells you everything, once you know how to read it.
At Bells Beach, a rake is dragged across the sand before dawn every morning and walked the length of the beach, roughly 600 meters. Any tracks crossing that line the next morning are considered fresh, meaning they likely happened overnight.
From there, it’s about slowing down.
Not every track belongs to a turtle. Crabs, birds and other beach-dwelling animals leave marks. When fresh hatchling tracks appear, the volunteers carefully inspect the site to determine whether more hatchlings are likely to emerge. Hatchlings don’t all surface at once. Depending on conditions, they can pop out of their chamber over several nights, sometimes spread across an entire week.
From what I've observed from the vollies, the protocol is to wait, watch and not to interfere.
Hatchlings and harsh odds
Watching hatchlings make their way to the ocean can be kind of confronting.
Some are strong and insanely quick. Their tiny bodies barely grazing the sand beneath them, almost like they're flying. Others are slower, get tired faster, especially when the tide is out and the journey is longer and more exposed. Some unintentionally flip themselves onto their backs, exposing soft underbellies to the sky, which is exactly what the birds are waiting for. One even swooped as I took this photo (above), and if I hadn’t caught its shadow crossing my lens, the photo would look a lot different.
Nature is harsh and the survival rate is brutal.
One morning, Craig walked ahead while I set up my camera beside a freshly erupted nest. He came back to tell me he’d found a couple of hatchlings that hadn’t made it. Likely taken by the same birds he’d just shooed away from another nest as he approached.
Usually, when there’s activity across multiple nests, we split up. The idea is simple: keep predators distracted long enough for the hatchlings to get a decent head start at life (before the sharks inevitably take their pick once they hit the water).
One morning was different. We’d walked the full length of the beach and found just a single nest showing signs of life. A few tiny turtle heads began to appear, so we all took a perch and waited while they warmed up enough to make a break for it. The surface sand is usually cooler than the nest below, and turtles are cold-blooded. Without a bit of warmth, there’s no energy for that frantic dash to the sea.
As we sat there, I caught movement out the corner of my eye. A seagull had swooped not ten meters away, snatching a hatchling from the sand, followed by a mid-air pursuit between the gull and a Whistling Kite. At one point, the gull dropped the turtle mid-flight, out over the ocean, and the kite swept in to collect its takeaway.
Hands over my wide-open mouth in shock, realising I’d completely missed a live nest. I watched as the kite found a perch onshore with its prey still in its talons. It sat there, looking back at us as the turtle was devoured alive. I was beyond gutted!
Earlier in the week, one of Craig’s workmates shared a story about his daughter, an electrical apprentice, who often comes across bird nests while running wiring at work. She often finds the shell of turtle hatchlings. Decaying after the rest of its flesh is eaten after being carried inland. It’s a tough way to begin life.
Roughly one in a thousand hatchlings will make it to adulthood.
And when you’re standing there watching it unfold, you understand that some hatchlings are, quite literally, part of the system. Slower, weaker and easier targets. Their role isn't survival, but to give their siblings a better chance at life. Some vollies naming these particular hatchlings "the food".
Heat, tides and cyclones
Timing is everything and luck plays a bigger role than I ever realised.
On a high tide, the ocean comes close, shortening the distance and giving hatchlings a fighting chance. On a low tide, that same journey stretches out across open sand, tidal pools and rocks, leaving them exposed and exhausted before they even reach the water.
Then there's cyclones. When they come through, entire nesting beaches can be wiped out overnight. Storms often wash nests away, drown eggs, or bury them so deep before they even see the light of day. Nothing about it is fair.
For the hatchlings, it really does come down to when they decide to make a run for it. The tide, the weather, the heat are all big factors as to whether they'll likely make it out to the ocean. So much of it hinges on timing.
Why the walk matters
Wanting to help is instinctive. Knowing when not to act is the harder lesson, and one I still wrestle with.
The vollies make it abundantly clear: hatchlings must walk themselves to the ocean.
Apparently, that first crawl helps develop their lungs, so they don’t drown once they hit the water, and it also allows females to imprint on the beach. A process that will likely bring them back to this same stretch of sand, to lay eggs of their own, decades down the track.
Helping doesn’t mean carrying them. It means protecting the space around them. My limited understanding is that the most useful thing us humans can do is manage predators without overly interfering. Walking nearby (not too close), staying visible, and if needed, tossing a small handful of sand towards (not at) birds to keep them moving. Once a hatchling reaches the water, it’s on its own.
If tidal pools are involved due to a low tide, crabs and octopus often claim their pound of flesh too. The poor little buggers don’t stand much of a chance. But the ones that do make it? They’ve well and truly earned it.
Human behaviour
Turtles rely on the moon and stars to work out where the ocean is, and white light has long been shown to interfere with that instinct. When there’s an operational mine site over the dune, artificial lighting becomes part of the landscape whether we like it or not, which makes how we manage light on the beach even more important.
That’s why red lights are used during turtle monitoring. They’re the least intrusive option available. Red light sits outside what turtles respond to, allowing people to see what’s happening without competing with the moon and stars. It’s a small adjustment on our part, but one that gives hatchlings a better chance to do what they’ve been doing for far longer than we’ve been here.
You can see the difference human behaviour makes almost immediately.
At Yacht Club Beach, cars still drive across the sand, signs or no signs. Compacted sand, deep tyre ruts, and hatchlings funneling along tracks that don’t lead to the water. Jodi caught it clearly in a short reel. Once you see it, it’s hard to unsee.
At Bells Beach, cars can’t get onto the sand here, and you notice it straight away. The nests hold and more hatchlings seem to get a fair run. It’s not complicated, but it does require an ounce of common sense.
When you know how few make it, and we’ve already taken so much from their world, leaving known nesting beaches alone kinda feels like the bare minimum.
Working, just somewhere else
By 9am most mornings, I’m back in town, showered, with my lappy open. My workday starts exactly as it would if I were in Freo. That’s the biggest gift of working this way. With decent internet and my laptop, I can work from almost anywhere.
And to be clear, this isn’t some romantic notion of camping in our rooftop tent and working with a laptop in the middle of summer. The Pilbara heat is no joke. When temperatures push 45 degrees, being outside in the middle of the day just isn’t realistic, well not for me anyway. This setup works because it’s sensible. I’m in Craig’s accommodation during the heat of the day, then back out again at dawn and dusk. I struggle to keep hydrated at the best of times.
If you’re thinking of coming out here
Preparation matters.
There's no public transport to these beaches. You’ll need a faithful stead of sorts or a mate who can get you out here, a red-light torch only (white light alters turtle behaviour), and more water than you think you’ll need plus electrolytes.
Bring a hat, sunscreen, insect repellent, a face net if flies test your patience, and proper walking shoes. The bush between the car and the beach can be shits and giggles, with little surprise deposits of double Gs. Bring your pluggers with you & leave dogs at home.
Depending on your length of stay, I'd also recommend a couple of changes. One set of protective clothing is nowhere near enough when you’re returning each morning as a puddle of sweat. Washing the same clothes every day became part of the rhythm.
If possible, arrange to line up with a volunteer. You’ll learn more, and you’ll avoid accidentally doing harm while trying to help. If you have time up your sleeve, consider volunteering. Contact the West Pilbara Turtle Program Coordinator on wptp@dbca.wa.gov.au .
And if you’re lucky enough to witness turtles or hatchlings, take the time to read and follow the Turtle Watching Code of Conduct.
The one thing I underestimated
I’ve trekked through jungles in Costa Rica, Guatemala & Nepal, spent months sleeping in the African desert, picked up dengue fever in Indo and camped throughout rural Peru with Glandular Fever, but can you believe it was the bloody Pilbara sandflies and bull ants that ultimately flattened me? Proof, perhaps, that it’s rarely the big, dramatic things that take you down, but the far less impressive critters.
After forgetting to spray repellent on the final day (whoops), we'd spent hours waiting beside an exposed nest for it to warm and erupt. When I arrived home, I went into "delayed anaphylaxis" without any warning and I hit the deck (thankful it was carpet), fully conscious, yet unable to move for ten long minutes. I laid there panicking until my arms could move enough to reach my phone, on the couch only 30cm away, to call for help. I've picked up several fun tropical souvenirs over the years, but this episode scared the absolute crap out of me. Equally as disappointed it’s not even a cool story.
We all call them “bites”, though technically they’re not, it's pee. That aside, the reaction was severe enough to change my relationship with histamine. The swelling and itching lingered long after I left the Pilbara. I managed with ice packs on my ankles to get to sleep. But the episode where my body shut down like that was entirely new to me. After a week spent mostly sleeping and recovering, I’m now working through the slow process of settling a histamine response that can be easily retriggered.
And for the record, I’m no soggy cookie. I’ve bush-bashed, bled, and been bitten for years without much fuss. This was simply one of those rare reactions that catches you off guard. Still, you'd do well to learn from my mistakes!
If you take anything practical from this blog, let it be this: don’t be casual about repellent here. Set a reminder if you need to. Get ahead of it because Sandflies & Bull Ant bites really do suck at the best of times!
What stayed with me
After ten days on the beach, and a bit of a health scare, I still feel pretty honoured to have walked so many hatchlings to the water. A privilege I’m aware very few people ever experience in their lifetime. It’s a memory locked in for life.
What stayed with me most, though, wasn’t just the hatchlings, but the people. This work doesn’t belong to a single logo. It’s hands-on, sleep-deprived locals who deeply care about seeing flatbacks survive alongside an expanding industrial footprint. People who show up, day after day, in 30+ degree heat, to walk the same stretch of beach knowing some mornings they’ll witness landings or hatchlings, and many days/years they won’t.
To their credit, RioTinto has installed warm tinted lighting across its mine site to minimise the disruption to turtle behaviour. Rio also sponsors this monitoring program, and I'm grateful to hear that support exists. Still, standing there morning after morning, it’s hard not to quietly ask: is this all that can be done?
Time on that beach reminded me that conservation rarely looks impressive. Most days it looks like showing up, paying attention, recording what you see, and doing it all again tomorrow without applause.
And sometimes, if you’re reeaally lucky, it looks like walking tiny turtles to the sea.
Impressive blog… well written xxx