Tasmania Part Two

Seven kilometers of swamp must be crossed before reaching the foot of the Western Arthurs ridge. Pools of mud riddled with foot-shaped holes lie between mounds of peat and buttongrass, waiting to swallow the calves of hikers. It is difficult to tell where a foot can be placed without sinking in, so we spent a great deal of time hopping around the pools with the occasional startling plunge of a leg into the sucking goo. The best tactic is to stay to the edges. In many cases, as Raphael is demonstrating, one must fight through the dense scrub to avoid the biggest bogs.

Crossing a small rise along charred planks brings the skyward path in to view. Blackened trees and scrub frame the entrance as dark gates, dead fingers reaching for the sky with futility. Walking along the planks squeezes the mud underneath with dull squishes, and the wind rattles and squeaks the dry branches. As the climb begins, the mud is no longer a deep impediment, but a slippery one. Groping for the twisted branches of low bushes allows a foot to be placed on a slick ramp of mud, then body and pack are hoisted up another few feet. Large conical seed pods watch the passage of hikers like clusters tiny eyeless faces. Scorched by fire, their capsules have burst open to release seeds, leaving behind tiny mouths agape with silence.

Switching back and stepping up, looking upward to the towering grey rocks every so often, with my face pale, legs burning, muscles twitching under the burden of a seventy-pound pack, the rasp of the cold rocks against palms, the needle stabs of spiky leaves, and the skies darkening, I made my way to the top of the ridge. Here, it is evident that the wind rules the land. Everything is shaped by it, and we leaned against the gusts as we crossed the stepping-stones southward. Dark shapes loomed out of the fog. Bonnie disappeared in front of me, and Raphael disappeared behind me as thick cloud raced over the razorback. At one point, I stopped to wait, looking behind me while Raphael's shape slowly came into view along the base of a sharp triangular peak. Great volumes of cloud were battering him, sloping up the western ramp of the peak, and boiling from the eastern cliff in a rotating maelstrom. We reached a saddle looking down into a bowl where we would camp. The fog lifted for brief moments revealing a hanging lake at the base of a long, wet, staircase of rock. Down, down, down, knees caning with each step. The wind subsided to a gentle swirl inside the bowl. Enormous vertical towers of dark-grey stone surround the rim, an imposing edifice in each direction that seems to lean its weight inward and say "Turn back! Woe to all who enter here!" And there was woe. The wind had penetrated clothing, sapped heat from our bodies, and lowered morale. My tent had remained dry, but Bonnie and Raphael's tent had allowed water to seep in and pool on the floor. We remained here an extra day hoping the weather would improve, but the grey skies lowered further, and sleet came down through both nights. The decision was made to head back. The brooding, magical darkness of this place made my mouth water. My gear was holding. I looked at the southern saddle above the lake, and I wanted to push on into the darkness and see how much I could take. However, it was best to stick together for the walk back and look forward to a future return.

The trek back to the car was arduous. Out onto the ridge through sideways hail hissing against the rocks. The wind pressed the left side of my hood against my head, and the wet pellets of ice spattered against it in deafening waves. The valley slowly came into view as we descended past the cloud level. After an hour of pounding, downward steepness, we arrived at a patch of sunlight on the valley floor. Over the two nights when we were getting pummeled, the valley was being soaked by rain showers. The mud we had struggled through on the way in was now twice as sloppy. We had crossed two or three shallow streams on the way in, and now there were seven to ten. They were swollen with water stained dark red. This was the end of my dry feet. As I trudged through the flowing water, I felt the wet cold seep in under my gaiters, over the tops of my boots, down my ankles, and around my toes. The deeper mud was now less of a concern, and I trudged right through the middle of the smaller bogs. Bonnie went ahead to attempt an early hitchhike to Hobart, and Raphael and I took a much longer time staggering toward the shelter of camp on the seemingly endless track. When we emerged on to the relief of the dirt road, we smacked palms together with satisfaction and followed the smell of campfire back to warmth.

The next morning, a brief break in the rain bathed us in sunlight just long enough to hastily pack up the half-dry, steaming tents. We boarded a minibus that was picking up some other people and just happened to have enough extra seats. The ride was overpriced, but we were on our way back to Hobart. It wasn't really that comforting to be heading back to Hobart on New Year's Eve knowing that finding accommodation would be next to impossible. Bonnie took an early flight home, so Raphael and I were left to our own devices, and we wandered around the warm streets with our stinky clothes and wet backpacks, joking about being bums, and trying to find two available beds. At the city info center, Raphael grabbed a pamphlet for Hobart Hostel, called them, and scored what were probably the last two beds in Hobart.

Walking into the hostel room, we were greeted by the friendly face of Noel, a guy from Launceston who was down for mountain biking and the New Year's festivities. We quickly made friends with him and the three of us went down to the wharf for fish, chips, and beer. The fish and chips joint owns and operates their own fishing boats, so the seafood was incredibly fresh and delicious. With full bellies we took a walk around the piers. The Sydney-to-Hobart yacht race had just concluded, so the harbor was jammed with the spectacle of hundreds of expensive sailboats. Techno music bumped out of fancy boat stereos, and people in polo shirts drank champagne and celebrated the end of the race. After the stroll, we decided to go out for the night's festivities together, but we had some time to kill, so we stopped at the bottle shop for supplies and headed back to the hostel to throw back some chilly beers over some good conversation.

Close to midnight, the wharf was bustling with people, and out on the water, fireworks were being prepared atop a barge. The show was an impressive spectacle, people cheered, and showers of sparks boomed and popped for quite a while. After the show, three girls ran down the street yelling "Happy New Year!" One of them stopped and hugged Noel. I said "Kiss him!" and she did. This provoked a round quick kisses from the other two girls for Raphael and I, and the girls were off running again.

The next day we had a lazy morning walking around the "Taste Festival" in a huge building along the wharf. It is a festival of food, and one can get any sort of food imaginable. There were probably a hundred booths along the length of the building serving local foods, ethnic foods, wines, beers, and deserts. There was also a DJ on a second-story platform spinning up dance music. I had a bowl of fried Tasmanian mushrooms with gourmet sauces, a wood oven pizza, and a dry cider. I wished I had had an unlimited appetite so I could have tried all the various delicious treats.

Noel headed home that afternoon, but he invited us to his place in Launceston the next day for some more bushwalking around Tassie. So the next day, we got some cheap bus tickets north and watched the countryside whiz by to the sounds of Motown and Simon & Garfunkel.

Noel is an extremely generous guy, and he made us feel totally at home. He took us to the local gorge, where peacocks roam the grass around billowing blue flowers, and we had a barbecue at a public outdoor grill near a huge outdoor swimming pool and lawn. I even taught Noel how to make green smoothies, and he seemed to receive the idea pretty well.

We also went on a road trip to Wineglass Bay for a challenging climb up one of the small peaks overlooking the beach. Noel has a totally boss Subaru WRX painted a pleasing metallic red-orange, and complimented with gold wheels and some tasteful under-hood mods. He let me drive it for a short bit, and the feeling everything being opposite was incredibly strange. One must drive on the left side of the road, the driver's seat is on the right side, and I had to shift gears with my clumsy left hand. Oh yeah, and each time I went for the turn signals, I flicked the wipers on. The car is wickedly fast. With its turbo whistling and the tires glued to the road, it was a real treat to drive it. There are very few straight roads in Tasmania, so it is the perfect car to have there.

For our next adventure, we were of to the southwest again to try our luck with a track called the Mt. Anne Circuit, right across the road from those wicked Western Arthurs. We loaded up Noels perfectly clean car and headed for the muddy dirt road around the foot of Mt. Anne. Along the way, we stopped at a bottle shop for three victory beers which we stashed in the icy cold river next to the carpark. Straight out of the parking lot, the trail goes to the bloody moon. Along the brutal climb, and as usual, intermittent showers of hail came down sideways against our ears. There is an old stone hut in the shadow of the smaller Mt. Eliza, and we decided to camp there and hope for a weather window in the morning that would allow us to get to the summit of Mt. Anne. Signs of improvement came after dinner. The clouds broke over the valley, and the setting sun shone gold beams onto Lake Pedder throwing sparks off the distant waves. The three of us sat on a big rock near camp overlooking the entire valley, and watched the light paint the land. Air rushing up the western slope condensed into cloud beneath our feet before passing the rock. Even though the sun was obscured by cloud from our view, it's disappearance over the horizon was marked by a sudden drop in temperature that drove us into the tents.

Rays of sun came, went, and warmed us during breakfast. The forecast called for storms, but our window for climbing Anne was looking good. So up we went, scrambling over boulders to the top of Eliza, then across a plateau to the foot of Anne. She revealed herself to us a few times, cloud boiling off the east face, and as Noel is pointing out, towers of rock along the south face standing beween us and the summit. We dropped our packs and went for it. The vertical bits required a small amount of free-climbing to cross. It was a welcome challenge, and it got the old ticker pumping pretty hard. There was another scary bit where a sloping ledge of rock around a corner must be crossed. The cliff below made me want to grasp something for insurance, but there is nothing but a thin crack in the ledge which only added to the precariousness. We just had to trust in the traction of our boots and go for it. The summit was covered in fog, but we had satisfied smiles that came with the accomplishment. The weather seemed to be worsening, so we headed down quickly to search for a place called Shelf Camp.

As the name suggests, Shelf Camp is an exposed area of flat rock shelves below Mt. Anne. During the few brief views between cloud breaks, I could tell it was a spectacular place. That night it was also to be a violent place. Just as we were setting up our tents, a cold wind was whipping up. As darkness came, the air began to rumble. The sides of the two tents sagged and heaved against the increasing power of the gusts. The big tent held for Raphael and Noel, but mine finally folded over. The fabric and the main pole slammed against my legs with each roar. Periods of dead calm came with a hush, then another dreadful, hollow torrent could be heard approaching over the shelf on it's way to deliver a pounding. I awoke after a brief sleep to a dead, cold weight covering all except my shoulders. The blizzard had begun while I dozed and had already half buried my sagging tent. I kicked and shoved at it from the inside, and the ice gave way slightly, sliding off the fabric. Of all the punishment my tent took that night, it didn't tear or break. It was a sad sight in the morning though, looking like a soggy taco.

In the morning, the wind was still howling and the snow was still driving down, so it was an easy decision to go back to the car. Breaking camp and packing up my tent in the chill of the wind was one of the most difficult things I've had to do on this trip. Noel saw that my fingers were freezing, and he helped me stuff my tent into it's sack. I had a little purple pain in my fingertips that was to last for another 48 hours.

The decent to the carpark was brutal on the knees, but we were all happy and satisfied that we had survived such a crazy night. We reached the river, and the beers were not in their original hiding place. Noel and Raphael jumped in to search for where they had gone. It was not looking good, and we were about to give up. Then, Boags Brewing Company should have been there to film what happened. Raphael's hand came bursting out of the icy rapids clutching a Boags Premium. With water cascading from the bottle, Raphael exclaimed "Oh yeah baby!" With renewed vigor, the search resumed for the other two brews. Noel grabbed a water-logged dead tree, and heaved it aside with inhuman strength, arms plunged into the river, and the other two bottles were retrieved from the river bed. We clinked our victory beers together, slapped each other on the shoulders, and drank our much deserved fizzy treats.

Back in Hobart. What the hell?! All rooms are booked solid again! Why? It's the middle of the week on the 8th of January. Who knows why, but our chances of finding a room for three people wasn't looking good. We drove past a posh looking little B&B, and decided to call them. Score one executive suite for fifty bucks per person! The room-pictured here shortly before it defiling-was pretty luxurious with its hardwood floors, brass beds, high ceilings, and zebra rug, but soon it was strewn with stinky, wet clothes. I set up my tent on the zebra rug, and the big tent was hung on the shower rails, dripping muddy water on the white tile floor. The plumbing was tested, and the after-effects from a flatulent camp diet probably still lingers there. So much for the exexutive suite. Luckily, Raphael gave the receptionist a fake credit card number. The room was on the top floor, and walking up and down the stairs was always a pleasure. We also took advantage of the breakfast buffet and pillaged all the cakes, cereals, cheeses, and meats. They even had french-press coffee. Wow.

That day, Noel had to go back to Launceston, but not before one last visit to the super fresh fish and chips place. Raphael and I now had several days to kill, so we went on the hunt for a rental car. Surprise, surprise, everything was booked solid! We had one last stroke of luck though, and scored the last car in Hobart. This is Hungrygirl Bigglesby the Great. She was a Mitsubishi Magna V6 Executive. That's right, executive! She was the color of cold ice, rode like a baby buggy, and loved to peel out. Could two guys possibly have had better luck? This car was FRESH! We were rollin in some serious fliff. We put on our specs and hit the road for a beach campsite called Cockle Creek. Here, would enjoy one of three day hikes around peaceful harbors, crecent beaches, and rocky cliffs. From there we would head to Brunie Island, and then on to Fortescue Bay, whipping the car around the curves and bumpin the jams. Every time we would pass slowly through a town, we had to shake big sticks out the windows to fight girls away.

Fortescue Bay was the best spot we found on our road trip. As we drove in, the sun was setting behind tall gum trees, and when we walked through the bushes onto the beach, the hazy air and mist of rain was illuminated yellow. It soon turned firey orange, then pink, then blue night. Shortly after the last light had gone, the full moon rose between the rocks and illuminated the sand silver. In my tent, the waves put me to sleep, and I slept like a baby to the regular sound of the wooshes and hiss of millions of foamy bubbles.

The next day, I bid Raphael a fine farewell, as he flew back to Melbourne to study for an exam. Now, with no passenger, it was really time to horsewhip Hungrygirl Bigglesby! Noel invited me back to Launceston, so I went north again leaving a trail of tire smoke like the space shuttle!

Noel has a vintage mountain bike called the "Compass Outback." What a sweet machine! On it, I followed him out into the gorge to some steep, rocky singletrack trails. All of my hand and forearm strength was required to actuate the brakes, and at full braking power on a 45-degree slope, the brake levers touch the handlebars and the wheels continue to roll. The crank arms are from some other bike, and they are about two inches off the ground. It was one of the most challenging rides of my life. Noel said it was funny riding ahead of me down the rocks and listening to my wheezing grunts.

The next day, it was around 95 degrees, so we went to the beach on the north coast. Dogs love beaches, and Fergus the Jack Russel had a good time running through the shallow surf, shredding a perfectly good tennis ball, sniffing balls, and stealing other dogs' tennis balls. It finally felt like real sun on my back. So many chilly days in Tassie made me feel like I deserved a few hours of soaking it up. We relaxed, dozed, buried our feet in the hot sand, drank fizzy beers, and ate fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. 

The trip home in Hungrygirl was a nailbiter. Other than a couple petrol stations in the cities, everything shuts down in the early evening. So we had an 8th of a tank to go 70 kilometers. Now, I had gotten to know Hungrygirl pretty well, and I knew she wasn't going to like being so hungry. We drove extra slow, and slipped her into neutral on the downhills. We glid into a 24-hour station in Launceston on fumes, and I breathed deep and dried my sweaty palms.

My last day in Launnie was a real treat. Noel has a mountain biking buddy with a spare bike and shoes, so we loaded up three bikes and headed for some singletrack north of Devonport. The hot summer air, the buzzing forest, the dusty track, the bike geek talk, and being on a real mountain bike made me feel a bit homesick. I reminded myself that it was probably blustery and cold in Albuquerque right then. My bike for the day was a Giant XTC hardtail with a Reba fork and SRAM XO. Light, fast, crisp, and fun. Besides my Ellsworth, what more could I want? At one point, I came hurtelling over a log jump and ate it into the dust. Ahh, that old familiar sting!

Now, I'm back on the mainland staying with my lovely new friend Michelle. She's an immunologist who works with bats here in Geelong, just south of Melbourne. She says bats are "bags of viruses." They carry a plethora of diseases, but they don't contract any, so they must be facinating to study. She's also a cyclist, and quite modest about her abilities. She took me on a ride down the coast, and schooled me. She zipped along breathing calmly whilst my lungs seared with pain, my eyes watered, and I sweated like a pig even though the wind was chilly. Fortunately, while riding behind her, I had plenty of time to admire her sleek, black, Cervello Team CSC bike. After 52 miles of schooling, my legs were toast. I couldn't put any power into the pedals, and I was stiff for a day after.

Michelle has an inviting, cozy, little house that has been a restful sanctuary for me. It is an older house on a quiet street, with the warmth of wood everywhere, and light that streams in from stained-glass windows. One window is particularly striking. Pictured here in the glory of morning light, it depicts some sort of interesting flower. An orchid perhaps?

Tasmania Part One

I'll be putting up three posts about Tasmania. There are too many photos and there is too much to talk about in one post. The second will come soon, and the third will be nothing but extra photos with descriptions.

I like Melbourne. I like it more than any city so far. It's diverse, safe, unique, full of art, easy to get around in, and offers everything one could want. Before heading off for Tasmania, I had a small taste of Melbourne and had the privilege of meeting some of Bonnie's lovely friends. There is a huge market in the city center every Saturday, and Bonnie, Jeff, Marty, and I wandered around getting supplies for hiking, laughing at all the junk for sale, and drooling over the acres of fresh fruit, vegetables, cheeses, and meats. I bought some goat cheese and bread, Jeff bought some beers, and we sat at a street table in the sun enjoying our treats. Jeff kept me laughing the whole time we hung out with him. He does a great impression of the local kids who soup up their Asian cars. He says they like to take a Corolla and make it "fully sick, drop it on it's guts, then put two fifteens in the trunk to go DOOF DOOF." "They only listen to the music that goes DOOF DOOF," says Jeff. Jeff himself drives an older light blue Holden Commodore with an antenna bent into the shape of Australia. He would say "You need to get a Commodore!" at opportune times. Riding through the city in the back seat of the car that night made me happy. I was just plain happy to be with good people watching the glittering buildings, billboards, and art posters fly past the windows. I also knew that the next day, I would find myself bumping through the air over the Tasmanian mountains on my way to places far removed from cities.

Bonnie and I were very fortunate when we arrived at the airport In Launceston, Tasmania. Bonnie's friends John and Olivia happened to be in the area with a rented caravan, and they picked us up at the terminal building. We rode illegally in the back of the caravan, and John drove like a maniac through the winding Tassie roads, tossing us around like ragdolls all the way to Cradle Mountain. We arrived, shaken but happy, at a caravan park after closing hours and scored a free tent site from a french girl who had purchased two sites and only needed one. Here, we were introduced to the biggest scourge of campers in Tassie; ugly black possums. One tore into Bonnie's trailmix after pulling the raincover off her pack and opening the zippers with it's paws. I found another slowly perusing around my tent and had to kick it twice in the rump to get it to walk away. In the night, I awoke to some scratching noises on my tent mesh. Bonnie said "John, you've got a possum." I saw the dark shape, my fist emerged from the sleeping bag, and delivered a swift punch to the possum's face. "I got it" I said. The whole operation was swift and effective. The possum left me alone after that.

In the morning John, Olivia, Bonnie, and I went scrambling up to the top of Cradle Mountain. The "trail" that goes straight up the face ramps skyward into a scree of craggy boulders. Some of the boulders at the top are house-sized, and we had to crawl like crabs to make progress, avoiding crevices deep enough to cause a lot of pain. I love stuff like this. I love the challenge of moving my body across difficult rocks, finding places to brace my feet, releasing them, and swinging like a monkey over the crevices. It was supposed to be a warm up, but it made my legs quite sore to tackle Cradle Mountain. I knew that, embarking on the Overland track the next day would mean that soreness would be constant for the next eight days.

The Overland Track

I'm sure hardcore bushwalkers would frown on the Overland, considering it too easy, but even with my cycling legs, I found it quite physically challenging. The huts along the way break the track into six or seven days, and they all have fresh water and toilets. The huts have been built and positioned in places with spectacular views of the rocky cliffs, waterfalls, and mossy green valleys. Near each hut, wooden tent platforms have been built, and we used them most nights.

Day 1

Packs are heavy with a weeks worth of food, and legs are sore accordingly. Spectacular views along the face of Cradle Mountain, over a high plateau, and down into Waterfall Valley where the tent platforms form a terrace along side the gentle falls. The valley floors are covered in moss, peat, and buttongrass, and a plethora of marsupials emerge at sunset to nibble on the greens. Tiny spotted quolls scamper around the wooden tent decks, one putting his little paws on the edge of our deck, trying to do a pull-up, and not quite making it.

Day 2

Bonnie bit off more than she could chew and convinced me to hike past Windemere hut and on to Pelion hut. She assured me with the utmost conviction that the track between them was totally flat. It was however, not totally flat, and we only made it within four kilometers of Pelion. It worked out for the best though, as we spent the night in the green forest at a beautiful place called Frog Flat. It was a quiet place, and we slept undisturbed by animal pests. We also met a nice German fellow named Henning who hiked and chatted with us for some time. He went on to Pelion and left us to cook the best meal of the trip. Pasta with beef, shitake mushrooms, and little bits of fiery chili pepper. It was a good thing I had such a hearty meal to eat, as my legs were so sore I couldn't walk straight. Despite her pack being heavier than mine, Bonnie was not in the pain that I was. She proved that day that she is much stronger than I.

Day 3

The previous day's agony allowed us to have an easy jaunt up to Pelion hut. There, we dropped off the packs and headed for the summit of Mt. Oakley. It was a sticky journey through the swamps to the base of the mountain, more mud through the layer of forest, then up steeply through a layer of subalpine pandani plants. It is a strange plant that looks like a cross between a tree fern and a yucca. It has the appearance that it has been around for millions of years. The best thing about them is when a light breeze blows through the drooping leaves, the plant produces a sound exactly like rain on a window pane. Onward, through dense scrub scratching knees and tearing sleeves, onto the rolling plateau toward the summit, and through more peat bogs. Walking up a slow incline past bigger and bigger rocks, we knew it was coming, but it was difficult to tell when. It appeared rather suddenly, a sheer precipice with hexagonal spires of rock towering a couple thousand feet above the valley. It was a place that needed to be contemplated, so we remained there for quite a while. I basked in the sun atop one of the columns of rock. Gentle updrafts brought with them a plethora of colorful insects up the cliffs to land around me. I spent some time lazily photographing them. One little red-orange beetle spent some time on my thumb, twirling around like a tin toy and rubbing his feet together. It was a sad affair to get up and leave such a beautiful place.

Day 4

Up, up, up to Mt. Ossa, the highest mountain in Tassie at 1600 meters. About half way up, the trail passes some scree and through a ten-foot-wide notch in the lower ridge of the mountain. The wind here is funneled and accelerated through the notch. The actual trail zig-zags to an easier passage, but I didn't see this, and went straight for the narrow sliver of light with the wind flapping my cheeks. After about fifteen feet of vertical climbing, I stumbled through the notch. The wind on the other side was surprisingly much calmer, and I resumed my progress toward the summit. Through a boulder-strewn bowl and up to another sloping plateau, the entrance to which is marked by huge cushion plants. The summit is a pile of enormous columnar rocks lying on top of each other like wrecked locomotives. Some shelter small cushion plants between their walls, and between others are black crevices where no light penetrates. Nearly the whole of Tasmania is visible from this vantage point, including the distant ocean, and to the southwest, I could see the craggy peaks of the Western Arthurs where I would be in a week. I was filled with that child-like excitement again, and I leapt around exploring the boulders and avoiding inky crevice death as if high on some sort of drug. On the way down the mountain, we passed a fellow who we had befriended a couple days before. Andrew is a guide for one of the private tour companies, and he was easily the nicest of all the people we met on the track. He's full of smiles, and still had wonder in his eyes. On this day, he jovially said "You guys want some fresh bread?" and he pulled out half a loaf and handed it to us. Turns out, part of his job is to slave away over a hot stove making home-cooked food for his patrons. So there we were devouring the delicious wheaty gift on the mountainside before heading to camp at Kia Ora hut. There, we found Andrew again at the nearby waterfalls. He leapt into the icy falls with a big grin and tried to get us to do the same. Leaping into bitterly cold mountain rivers is not my cup of tea, so I resorted to photographing the miniature plants around the misty base of the falls.

Day 5

The descent into the damp, green valley south of Kia Ora took us to three more waterfalls, the most impressive of the trip. Set in deeply cut gorges, huge volumes of water rumbled down rectangular boulders sending clouds of mist skyward. At the biggest one, I sat and contemplated it for a while, feeling little cold droplets of mist land on my face and imagining different past paths each droplet might have followed in it's watery doings and undoings. Who knows how many times those molecules had lifted from the sea, been whipped around in high clouds, condensed on flowers as morning dew, nourished the roots of plants, and tumbled down rivers into oceans to drift for years through the abyss again. Then, deep in thought, I let out a long, reverberating, and satisfying belch. Mouth open and uvula flapping, not a sound was audible over the roar of the water, even to me. Back at a trail junction, we found Andrew again and he handed us more fresh bread. This time, the bread had little pieces of apple and cashew baked in. We loved Andrew. What a great guy. We reached Windy Ridge hut and basked in the glow of more evening sun while dinner boiled. I left the rainfly off of my tent for the last moments of daylight. I was on my back, watching the orange clouds drift overhead.

Day 6

It was an easy cruise from here on out to civilization, and as we strolled along down to the shores of Lake St. Claire, I stopped at clusters of red flowers to dip my finger in the sweet, gleaming droplets of nectar they produce. When we reached the north end of the lake, all of the people we had hiked with opted to take the ferry to the south end, so we bid them and Andrew a fine farewell before heading about six more kilometers to a lakeside beach campsite. It is called Echo Point, and we had the whole beach in a protected cove all to ourselves. Low, puffy clouds moved quickly across the evening sky, and as the tops were lit by the falling sun, the bottoms glowed orange from within. I stood on the sand and watched the last light as fish breached the water surface and bats darted over the waves. As darkness fell, I heard a distant scream of a Tasmanian devil. It is an unearthly sound, and despite the harmless nature of the creatures, the scream gave me a chill. Moments later, I heard one of them growl just outside my tent. I unzipped the door ever so slowly, but the devil had stealthily vanished before I could get a glimpse.

Day 7 (Christmas)

Rodrigo and Don met us at the visitor center to give us a much appreciated ride down to Hobart. I like Rodrigo and Don, and I felt comfortable around them immediately. Rodrigo is an animated, joyful fellow from Bolivia. I like his accent and the way he expresses himself. Don is a jolly fellow from the Philippines with a contagious laugh and a heart of gold. I like his accent too and the way his eyes smile when he laughs. Rodrigo has a little Land Rover named George, and we left the Overland Track behind, bounding over the Tasmanian country roads toward Hobart. Arriving in Hobart, we found our hostel to be completely booked. There was some mix-up, and the Pickled Frog had no beds for us. The girl at the counter felt genuinely sorry for us and handed us free beers for our trouble. Fortunately, we found a couple of beds at Don and Rodrigo's hostel. The guys had bought a small ham, cheese, bread, wine, and Ferrero Rochet chocolates for us. We ate our Christmas dinner halfway up the road to the summit of Mt. Wellington in a roadside stone hut. It was a unique Christmas dinner sitting there in the cold, dark hut, eating hot quinoa soup and the other delicious items. The wine warmed us up, Rodrigo told hilarious stories of his childhood in Bolivia, and we laughed with clouds of steam coming from our mouths.

The day after Christmas, we went bouncing down to the southeast to a place called Cape Raoul. A five hour walk takes you out to the towering cliffs of the cape. At least a thousand feet above the ocean, you stand atop the hexagonal columns with nothing below you but crashing waves. The waves were not as big as I had hoped, but the evidence of thier potential size is visible. At points where the rock juts out to a point in the ocean, the rock forms a sloping ramp. So where there was once a cliff, the waves have collapsed the columns and smoothed the rock. These ramps are about a hundred feet high in some places, so the waves must be frighteningly huge at times. What a treat it would be to see them hit the cliffs during thier full fury.

Hobart is a metropolitan city, but still delightfully small, quaint and welcoming. Every Saturday, a street down by the wharf is closed, and there is an outdoor market. We went there to get some goodies for the trip to the Arthurs, and to take in the sights and smells. Everything is available. Booths sizzled with ethnic foods, candy, local farm produce, cheese, art, and an array of other crap. One guy was selling a few sad things he had stitched from bits of leather, and next to him were expensive marble and bronze bird baths. Polished silverware sculpted into windchimes tinkled in the breeze, and the smell of wood and spiced soap wafted around. I stopped at a booth of plexi-glass cases filled with long ropes of flavored licorice and bought a grab-bag of assorted deliciousness. I also bought a bar of locally made, apple-flavored chocolate for the road.

One more stop at the supermarket before cramming all of our stuff into George for the drive to the Western Arthurs. By this time, Raphael had joined us, so five people, all our luggage, and 14 days worth of camp food was crammed into the poor little car for a three-hour drive. It took us to Scott's Peak Dam where we set up camp and ate a feast from the market goodies. As the sun was setting, we drove to a lookout where the entire expanse of the Western Arthurs was visible. The mountains looked dark and ominous, like something out of a magical adventure movie, a long jagged range topped by clouds shaped by violent winds. That night the wind howled over the tops of the trees around camp like a warning. In the morning, the peaks still looked ominous, and after saying goodbye to Don and Rodrigo, we started walking toward them.