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?