When boarding the Spirit of Tasmania, the ferry taking myself and my car across Bass Strait, there is a security check, which would be strange in its absence these days. They confiscated my gas cylinder so that they could store them with everyone else’s gas cylinder, making a much more exciting explosion should they go up. The security guard then asked me whether I had and firearms. If he had said ‘please’ I was willing to show him my secret stash of AK47s hidden behind the door panels, but he accepted my slightly startled ‘No’ as an answer, which I thought displayed admirable trust in a paranoid age. It is an experience to drive a car into the mouth of an enormous ship. The car is stored in the bowels before exiting. I perched myself on the aft deck. There was a soon a deep rumbling coming from the belly. For once the source was not my own. This shaking continued for a few minutes, and when next I raised my head I noticed that we were moving, in reverse initially, rather like reversing out of a car park, before the ship smelled the ocean and trundled towards it like a reliable old horse. As I looked towards the city of Melbourne a trail of translucent brown smoke drifted from the engine and the green-white wash from the propellers headed straight back to Station Pier.
Sydney harbour shits all over Port Phillip bay. Perhaps a harbour is naturally more spectacular than a bay, but leaving Melbourne by water is as inspiring as floating on a large duck pond in a dinghy. It is a large bay, so it feels as if you have reached open water immediately, but the flat insipid land in the distance on either side detracts from the thrill until the heads have been passed, and at last the rolling plunge of the broken surface of the ocean turns landlubbers into salty sea captains. I will freely admit to being a landlubber (a lubber is a clumsy person). A feeling of solidity under my feet is such a simple certainty that I miss it terribly when it’s not there. Possibly contributing to this distaste for instability is the embarrassing fact that I can get dizzy on hammocks and any spinning form of carnival ride. For the duration of my trip I never felt sick, thanks in no small part to Bass Strait being as calm as it ever gets, but there was a lingering unease that threatened to turn into an ill feeling and prevented me from relaxing and enjoying my surroundings. Perhaps it is difficult to enjoy constantly shaking scenery. Whatever the reason, while I was impressed by the ship and wished it no harm, I was not sorry to drive off it and into the streets of Devonport. I parked overlooking the muddy banks of the river and contemplated why it takes such a long time for the sun to go down in summer. The Galah coloured sunset gently led me into the land of sleep.
The next day I drove to Cradle Mountain with the intention of climbing it. The countryside is pleasant farmland until giant rock-covered craggy mountains announce themselves boldly. As I walked through the Cradle foothills I couldn’t help comparing this scenery to what I’ve seen in Wales, Scotland, The Rockies, The Snowies. My bushwalking book even made comparisons with Norway which I have to take for granted. If one place can claim to be a mixture of so many it is unique in my eyes. The Cradle Mountain region is lovely. Not a simpering cutesy lovely, but a bright, bold and fresh lovely. I charged up the hills at brisk walking speed leaving old people and backpackers in my wake. I smiled at the glacial lakes and steep peaks. And then I stood before Cradle Mountain. It looks like it should be Australia’s highest mountain instead of the underwhelming Kosciusko. It has the air of an evil lord’s castle, all jagged black rock rising from the grassy plateau. A cloud hung over the peak, obscuring it from view, but I assumed that the top did exist, so I clambered upwards. When I’m at the beach I enjoy clambering over the rocks that sometimes jut out at the far ends. As a kid I took pride in leaping from one to the other. Climbing Cradle mountain is very much like that experience, but instead of going sideways you go up, and it lasts a lot longer than is fun. Fun is left at the base. Halfway up is a cold wind blowing clouds past your head and cold hands scrabbling at rocks. As with most mountains I have climbed, there are several moments when you think that you have reached the top, only to find the peak stretching upwards just a little bit further. At the top I had a view of cloud, which is a much more pleasing thing to look at from the outside, and the warm afterglow of physical exertion. Then I felt a shimmer of warmth and brightness on my face. I looked up and could definitely sense that a sun did exist. By some miracle the clouds cleared and the just reward for my toil, a superb panorama, was laid out before me. It was a strange trick to play on my senses. Just as I had become used to my confined white world the dizzying reality was presented to me. That night I camped off the highway leading west from Cradle Mountain. Just before I went to sleep I peeped out the car window and saw a wombat busily trundling off on his nights activities.
The next day I drove on winding roads through lovely countryside. All the countryside in Tasmania is lovely, so let’s just assume that from now on. The west coast of Tasmania has a reputation for being windy. The Roaring Forties seem not only to have pushed the sand back into 30 foot high dunes, and bent the foliage in an easterly direction, but to have driven most of the people east as well. Up until this point all of Tasmania struck me as being blowy, but to give credit to the west coast it is a particularly windy place, and that would be a feather in their cap if it didn’t keep getting blown away. As well as the countryside being lovely, you should also assume a great windiness during my travels through Tasmania. The town of Strahan is described in my generous guidebook as a quaint fishing village and popular holiday spot. In my mind this conjured up a Cornish village with brightly coloured houses and sleepy dogs with matching sleepy old man. The reality was less so, with the exception of an old man sitting on the corner of main street with a hankerchief tied over his mouth. This was either a tribute to Michael Jackson or to prevent the dust, being blown in waves across the street, from entering his mouth. Strahan has made an unfortunate decision, in my eyes, of turning the town tourist friendly. That is, they have big signs above their shops, large maps of their town on billboards, and lots of informative signs. This may make some people feel more comfortable but it has the opposite effect on me.
Queenstown, on the other hand, while only a dawdle down the road, has an air of authenticity. There is the odd sign pointing out some impressive sight, usually to do with mining, but the town is presented with a ramshackle honesty that no marketing expert could deliver. Queenstown was the first place where I felt I was mingling with real Tasmanians, not eco-tourists. There are numerous jokes about Tasmanians being the hillbillies of Australia – inbred, backward, unintelligent, ugly. I would like to dispel these rumours but it seems there is a kernel of truth to these jokes. The typical Tasmanian male has a small head, high forehead and a recessed jaw, but they are a friendly bunch, and personality goes a long way. The natural beauty of their surroundings does not seem to have rubbed off on them. Perhaps this is because they seem intent on conquering nature rather than living with it. In Queenstown they have done their best to tear down a mountain with ugly open cut mining. Also, all through the state there is a bizarre pride taken in power stations. Rather than hiding them away they display them proudly on main roads. There is even a picnic spot situated in the shadows of enormous electrical power generators enabling you to nibble food while contemplating the glories of man. On my way to view another man made marvel, the Gordon dam, I drove through the Franklin-Gordon wilderness region (lovely) and stopped at Lake St. Clair, which it at the southern end of the Cradle Mountain National Park. My intention the whole way there was to bathe in the lake and clean my stinking body. The lake had other ideas. Apart from the icy waters, which you would expect in a deep glacial lake, and the rocky shoreline, the gathering dark clouds overhead were matched by 2-foot waves. Suddenly I didn’t smell too bad and a simple ablution of my face did a power of good.
I am not a dam groupie. My visit to the Gordon dam was not so much about the dam itself, but where it is located. The southwest quadrant of Tasmania is not readily accessible. There are three towns in the region and two of them are on the road to the dam. The road to the dam is the only road in this quarter of the state. This kind of remoteness appeals to me, so off to the dam went I, and I was not disappointed. Forget lovely, the mountains in this part of the world are magnificent. They are my cathedrals. The area around the dams, however, has an eerie, sad feeling. The original lake, before the dams were built, was small and only became an attraction when seaplanes began making journeys there. The lakes in the region are now ten times larger, although an informative notice pointed at that the original lake is still under there somewhere, sort of like a skinny person trappe’ in a fat person’s body. You can see grey, dead trees where the dam water level has fallen. A voyage in a submarine would reveal a ghost forest beneath the waters. I think a lot of Tasmanians are pleased about having large lakes to muck about on in boats on and go fishing in.
The other main attraction on that road is the Creepy Crawly nature walk. Here Forestry Tasmania have placed display signs along a 15-minute ramble informing anyone interested about all the carnivorous insects in the area. It takes the form of a murder investigation in which you must deduce what type of insect has murdered the beautiful butterfly. Is it the nasty millipede or the horrible false scorpion? No, i’ turns out that it’s you with your enormous clodhoppers that went and crushed the butterfly, so get out of the forest and let us get on with cutting down these nasty insect harbouring trees. Thank you, Forestry Tasmania, for scarring impressionable children.
I left the southwest with an hirsute face and a smelly body, as is appropriate in a wilderness area. My next port of call was a town on the Derwent river called New Norfolk. The story goes that in the early 19th century the British Government decided that Norfolk Island, located in the middle of nowhere off the Australian east coast, was not a winning proposition. It was costing ‘hem money and didn’t look like becoming sustainable. So they sa’d ‘Oi you lot. We’re moving you to Tassie.’ The settlers said ‘Not bloody likely,’ to which the Government didn’t reply, they just moved them anyway. Not having been t’ Norfolk Island it’s hard for me to make a comparison with the original, but I suspect that New Norfolk is not an exact replica. Not being an island is one small difference for a start. I had a bath in the Derwent river followed by a shave and luxuriated in the relaxed weariness that only the embrace of clean water can bring.
I arrived in Hobart early in the day and after a walk around Battery Point (nice old houses), a drive up Mt Wellington, and completing one or two tasks that a city is useful for, I left. I have nothing against Hobart. It seems fine, but offers nothing different to Sydney apart from that small city ‘tmosphere, which I’m familiar with from my time in Canberra. So off to Richmond, home to the real reason I came to ‘asmania, Australia’s oldest bridge. England boasts older supermarkets than this bridge, but it is a fine bridge spanning a small river, more of a creek really, but the bridge is well made, in good shape considering its build date of 1828, and still being used. I spent the night in the parking lot next to the bridge overlooking a lawn dominated by ducks. I regretted my choice later that night when the Young Motorcar Enthusiast Society of Richmond held their regular Friday night meeting not far from my head. There was a lot of engine rumbling before a silence broken only by the cooing of adolescent voices. They departed displaying poor rear wheel control and thankfully left me in peace.
The next day, still excited by my viewing of Australia’s oldest bridge, I headed towards the Tasman Peninsular, home to an old penal settlement and made famous by crime once again in 1996 by Martin Bryant who shot 35 people in a murderous rampage. The Tasman Peninsular is also famous for being where I set my only short story to be published so far, in the town’of Nubeena. I can’t remember now how my imagination portrayed the place, so firmly has reality intruded, but the story matches the place well enough. I drove around the coastline heading in a circle back to where I had come, Port Arthur lying between myself and escape. Port Arthur was a convict settlement where they sent those prisoners who had broken the law in Australia, the naughtiest of the naughty. They chose it because it is virtually an island. There is a thin strip of land called Eaglehawk Neck which connects the mainland to the peninsular, and it was thought that this would make the penal settlement easier to guard, although a few people did escape. The area around Port Arthur must be one of the most pleasant settings for a prison in the world. I camped near ‘he site of the Boy’s Reformatory where they sent 9-15 year olds, no doubt a nasty shock compared to where they had come from. The beaches are a pure white, which gives the water a tropical blue hue, and it sparkles with clarity. I sat next to the shore at low tide as the night grew. It was quiet apart from the rabbits running away from me, their white tails bobbing against the yellow grass. The light reflecting off the water shimmered like a time lapse film. When the sun slipped behind clouds on the horizon the soupy sea started to move. Seaweed slapped against rocks, the sea hissed against the sand and gurgled through rock pools. The only screams in this place now come from the birds, and people who see the asking price for entry into the Port Arthur historic site. You can see the prison across the water from the r’formatory. I didn’t visit the Port Arthur prison in the end. I will save my money for five movies at the Electric Shadows cheap night. Luckily I have an imagination which was fed by my day spent in the region, a feeling which a building would not enhance. I can only wonder at the thoughts of those people stuck at what then was the end of the world, with no hope of home or salvation, and probably no idea what was contained in the land we now call Australia.
I still had the reputedly mild, calm and white beach goodness of the east coast to explore. I feel the need to pause here briefly to discuss road kill – a lovely descriptive word with caveman simplicity. I have seen more road kill on Tasmanian roads than in any other place in my life. This strikes me as being a good thing, for unless Tasmanian animals are particularly suicidal, or drivers on Tasmanian roads particularly’cruel (which I don’t rule out), an abundance of road kill suggests an abundance of wildlife. I have also seen three live echidnas, which for me beat the’koala as Australia’s cutest animal. Koalas seem g’umpy to me. I don’t blame them with that diet. I do defy you not to find a waddling echidna which freezes in mid-stride before curling into a ball not poetry in motion. Three Thumbs look out, overlooking Maria Island on the east coast, was hopping with wallabies which crashed off into the bush as I walked by.
The east coast of Tasmania is dazzling in its beauty. They Freycinet Peninsular juts out about halfway up the coast and could be mistaken for a tropical island. The water is calm, only gently lapping at the beach, the sand is bright white and the water is an alluring blue. You are only reminded of Tasmania when you swim in the water, which is definitely not a tropical temperature. It is not as cold as the seas around England but that is hardly a recommendation. The Freycinet Peninsular is home to Wineglass Bay, one of the most beautiful beach’s in the world. I’m not sure who judges such things – an elite panel of beach bums? The track to Wineglass Bay is busier than Bondi. Its beauty is not matched by its seclusion.
There is a natural phenomenon where one side of a mountain range is wet and the other side is dry. For example, the Great Dividing Range and the Pyrenees. The same phenomenon occurs in Tassie, where the west coast is very wet and the mountains in the middle of the island suck most of the moisture out of the clouds before they reach the east. This makes for a nicer beach holiday but makes the region susceptible to the type of drought that we have had in Australia recently. The parched yellow grass and hot dry wind are all to familiar to me. Just inland are more mountains and forests with huge tree ferns. This quickly turns into farmland which stretches along the north of the state. I spent the night on a hill in Moorina, nearly a ghost town, in front of the cemetery. This contained an oven used by Chinese immigrants to burn paper used in their funeral service. This paper is usually burned over the coffin but the Government of the day banned this or fear of starting bush fires. Discrimination is not new.
Launceston seems like a tough little city, working class and proud, capital of the farm and forestry region. Cataract Gorge is just west of the city, within walking distance of the town. The name of the place gives adequate description. There are some cataracts running through a fair-sized gorge, across which runs a chairlift and an old suspension bridge. There is a fresh water basin and a swimming pool on one side, and a native garden inhabited by peacocks on the other. The feathers from these birds are snatched up by little girls almost before they have hit the ground.
My search for a place to spend the night took me to Notley Fern Gorge, reputed to be the hideout of a bushranger in the 19th century. He used a large hollowed out tree to shelter with three of his closest friends. On my first attempt to view the tree I was assailed by two Jack Russell terriers that appeared suddenly on the path in front of me and, in a very coordinated way, marched up the path with teeth bared. I stood my ground for a moment but I could not see a way past without doing them some harm. As much as dogs, especially little yappy ones, are not my favouri’e animal, I couldn’t begrudge them following their natural instincts. But when I turned to go the little bastards rushed towards the muscular yet delicate flesh of my calves with mouths open, sharp little fangs intent on causing pain. I aimed a kick at them, just a warning shot, but my thong flew off into a bush. When I went to retrieve it one of the little bastards rushed past me so that they could attack me from the front and behind. I swished my thong back and forth whilst I beat a retreat and the little bastards waddled back to where they had come from, happy with a job well done. It is a little known fact that Tasmanian bushrangers used packs of Jack Russell terriers, numbering anywhere from two to a dozen, as an initial attack force. They would leap from the undergrowth ‘o worry the horses’ legs, thus stopping the carriage and allowing the robbery to commence. On reflection, I think that these two dogs are the most dangerous animals that I have ever encountered in the Australian bush. Despite all the hoopla about spiders and snakes, in reality these little creatures are rarely spotted, let alone the cause of any fatalities. Little dogs could do some nasty damage to an ankle.
I’ve seen a large part of Tasmania, a state which does wilderness exceedingly well. I became smelly and hairy and went without conversation for days on end. I climbed mountains as my hands became numb, and swam at lovely beaches which almost numbed my entire body. I dined on pasta and vegemite sandwiches. I drank water. I feel cleansed and ready to corrupt myself again with city life.
Dave out.
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