Forth to Forth, or Penguin, The Nut and Farewell to Tasmania.

To Forth and beyond.

We left Smithton, heading east along the coast. After our Tarkine adventures, it was time to head for home. Last stop in our Tassie adventure, Forth.

We were taking the coastal route, with an early detour through the seaside town of Stanley, famous for a volcanic plug plateau, called charmingly, The Nut. The circuit walk around the top provides amazing views over the north west coast of the island, as well as a great view over the bay, beaches and historical buildings of the little township. It has several distinct sections, from a small scrubby forest, to windswept grasslands, and a few really well placed lookouts. Mutton birds roost there, like the little penguins, they burrow into the sandy earth, so watch where you walk.

There’s a chairlift, with the obligatory gift shop, that can take you up the 143 metre vertical climb. It was our preference to take it rather than trudge the manual climb that zig zags at a steep incline not far from the mechanical ascent.

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We drove on to Forth, arriving late morning. We’d be spending our last night in Tasmania at the local sports ground, a cheap, bare basics place by the River Forth, (pay your money at the United Service Station next door).

It’s not too far from the Spirit Of Tasmania ferry we’d be taking back to the mainland the following night and in hindsight, this would be a great first night spot if you come over with a van or camper. It’s close to a heap of great stuff, most notably the Spreyton’s Cider factory where you can have a tasting palate a variety of fine ciders. It also is home to the biggest cherries I’ve ever seen and reasonably priced.

After unhitching the camper and setting up, we headed out for one last touristy afternoon in this wonderland. First stop a beach, Turners Beach, to be precise.

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Now no trip to the region is complete without a visit to Turners Beach Berry Patch to pick  the nicest blueberries, strawberries and raspberries I ever had in my life. Do yourself a favour, as Molly used to say, and go there.

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After stacking a large punnet with berries, we headed to a place called Penguin, the quirky beach town that has, well, take a look for yourself.

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Leaving Penguin, it’s giant little penguin and it’s Tardis, we drove on, past the fields of opium poppies with their dire warnings to would be poppy thieves. (Seriously people, just don’t.)

The afternoon was filled with sightseeing before returning to the van to  make dinner, while sampling our days haul of good stuff. Before we knew it, it was time to sleep and prepare to farewell this beautiful island.

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That night I dreamed of the things we’d seen, and I awoke a little sad. Photos don’t do it justice, but the memories will stay with me.

This island state punches above its weight for natural wonders and palate pleasing products, the people are friendly, some a little crazy, but that’s how I like the world. Wonderfully diverse. If you can, you should go, when Australia isn’t lurching from one apocalypse to another.

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Our last day in Tassie was spent loading up on supplies, and stowing everything for the nights passage. In Devonport,we confronted the thickening smoke blowing in from the mainland bushfires. While fires were raging up and down the east of the mainland, we’d been a long way from them, and the thick haze was a sharp reminder that a lot of people were doing it tough between us and home. It was also a reminder, we still had to find our way back through the fiery apocalypse, but for now, it was time for the crossing of Bass Straight. At the docks of Devonport loomed thee Spirit Of Tasmania, our ticket home, and again I’d be in the cheap seats.

Boarding went without a hitch and before we knew it, we were watching a bushfire sunset as we sailed out from Devonport. So long Tassie. Love your work and can’t wait to come back.

Bushfire Sunset

Those are not tears. I’m not crying, your crying.

Next post: Melbourne To Brisbane Via Hell, or Smoke Chases Us Home.

Cold Coast, or Everything Is Blowing In the Wind.

Smithton and the Northwest

Our time in Tasmania was drawing to a close, only three nights and we were on the ferry. But the Island keeps some of its best  surprises till last.

 

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So after packing up the Jayco camper trailer, we left Cradle Mountain, the heart of Tasmania,  leaving a little of our own hearts behind. The vague thought passed through my vaguer mind, surely after the natural wonders of Cradle, that was as good as it gets.

Twit. Underestimate Tassie at your peril, every corner is packed to overflowing with treasures and adventures, you’ve just got to keep your eyes and mind open.

It was a couple of hours journey to our next port of call, Smithton, a coastal town on the north-west edge of the island. The weather closed in again, the rain a light smattering, the wind just shy of a gale. Setting up the camper trailer was going to be fun, in the same way root canal work is fun (it’s not, in case you’re in doubt).

 

 

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After a brief stop along the way at a beach, or two, where brave souls were out riding the waves whipped up by the growing gale, we finally arrived at the appropriately named River Breeze Caravan and Cabin Park. Now to anyone who’s tried to set up a camper trailer in a gale, I know you feel me. After securing the Jayco to the ground with every guy rope and octopus strap I had in my possession, we took a quick trip through town and up to the local lookout.

We didn’t stay long, as the wind threatened to pick us up and throw us halfway back to Hobart. Returning to the van, we settled in for the night, not so gently rocked to sleep by the buffeting wind. Tomorrow we’d be exploring the north west corner of Tasmania.

Now I’ll be the first to admit my ignorance about the historical fight for the Tarkine, was limited. It’s a place I’d only heard of as a shadow of the fight to save the Franklin, so I had much to learn. The region is a reflection of the entire Tassie western wilds, an area we nearly lost to greed.

The next day broke fine, the night’s gale now a just a strong breeze, blowing the clouds across the sky. We had one day to explore the Tarkine. With an ABC podcast called The Woman Who Lived In A Tree, we set off on a days adventure.

First stop Marrawah, where you can get this handy list of way too much to do in one day.

 

 

21 spots to visit, we had to trim.

The helpful brochure , a guide to more than you can see in a day

We start at Marrawah, close to the western most point in Tasmania, with beaches where some brave souls were surfing.

 

 

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Next, whipping over to Bluff Point Lighthouse, which is about as far west as Tassie goes. The lighthouse was alive and buzzing, and not in Round The Twist kind of way. Bees had taken up residence there, flying in and out of the walls. As for the view, well let’s let the pictures tell the story.

 

 

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Next stop the Arthur River bridge and beyond to the Edge Of The World. The river mouth was filled with trees; massive driftwood, washed down from the forests, like war wounded on the battlefield between Sea and River.

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By now the sun was out, and we were heading back inland, and the start of the Tarkine, with its thick patchwork of old logging sites, regrowth forest, and truly Ent age trees. But first a quick stop at the Kanunnah bridge for morning tea. Sandwiches and tea, a travellers comfort food.

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Next stop Sumac lookout, a sign at the entrance gives the details and the walk down to the lookout is a short doddle from the carpark. It gives a great view up the valley and Arthur River upstream from the bridge.

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Following the ubiquitously winding Tassie road, we came to Julius River, a nice walk through the Man Ferns. Yes, you read that right, Man Ferns. Walking under these ancient tree ferns is a privilege and breathes new life into you.

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There’s a lot of serenity to be found under those fronds.

While Julius River was a beautiful little pocket of rainforest, our next stop on this whirlwind Tarkine tour, was Lake Chisholm, a huge sinkhole that mother nature filled with water. The whole region is peppered with caves and sinkholes, but for now, enjoy a walk through the forest to the lake.

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Did I mention sinkholes?

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Now next stop is Milkshake Hill in Milkshake Forest. This is an old logged area that was regrowing nicely till bushfires killed off a lot of the young trees a couple of years back. Less milkshake and more shitstorm, but the regrowth was nice and it makes a nice little cautionary tale.  Another fire now would be devastating.

 

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Next place was a real gem, like a secret passage to a fantasy world. Trowutta Arch has a surreal, other worldliness about it. This was every superlative you care to think of, sublime, beautiful and exactly why we need to preserve what remains. It also shows what regeneration looks like. What does it look like, I hear you ask?

 

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That was all we could fit in. The next day we’d be moving forth to Forth and then leaving Tassie’s wonderful shores. About then a little sadness crept in. So much had happened. But the adventure wasn’t quite over.

Next post

Forth to Forth, or Penguin, The Nut and Farewell to Tasmania.

 

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Also, if you liked this, check out some other places I’ve been and adventures I’ve had. Even better, say hi, like, share or follow. It’s all just a bit of funny really.

 

 

Blue Skies and Sunshine in Tassie’s Heart, or Finally, Wombats

To Cradle Mountain Part 2

(Author’s note: When last I left you, the wife and I had returned to our Jayco Penguin camper, tails between our legs. driven home from Cradle Mountain by atrocious weather. One wombat in the distance was all we’d seen and only half of Cradle Mountain itself. And so we continue…)

As so often happens in Tasmania, the weather, so miserable in the morning, had cleared to a bright, if not warm, afternoon. We’d returned to our camp at Round Hill Coffee, (again, you should check it out if you’re around Cethana). We considered returning to Cradle Mountain, but decided to cut our loses for the day and hoped the nice weather held out to the next day. And luckily, it did.

The next day dawned cool, crisp and bright, the sky a promising shade of blue. A hurried breakfast, pack up and hit the winding road back to the Cradle Mountain Visitors Centre, and even Google trying to drive us off a cliff couldn’t dampen my enthusiasm.

The long and winding road.

We arrived at the visitors centre early and, before catching a shuttle bus, talked to the helpful guides and rangers there. We booked an evening guided tour for that night, amusingly titled a Wombat Waddle, and then headed on the bus; destination, Cradle Mountain. Some windy road, a few stops at the Ranger’s Station and Interpretation Centre, the enticingly named Snake Hill and the less threatening, Ronny Creek, and we arrived. Cradle Mountain laid out before us in all its glory.

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Now of the numerous walks available in the park, we’d chosen the Dove Lake Circuit, a 2-3 hour moderate walk, and I found it relatively easy going. It’s worth it, if you get the chance, as there’s a different aspect of the lake and mountain revealed around every corner.

Here, let me show you.

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Now if you’re interested in flora and the environment of the region, I’ll add this little slideshow of some of the beautiful flora of the region. If that’s not your thing, feel free to skip over it.

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Now by the end of the walk, it was past lunch time. The decision was made that, as the best time to see wombats is dusk or dawn, and as we were doing the Wombat Waddle that evening with a guide, then we’d head back to camp, grab some lunch/dinner and return before dusk to finally see the elusive marsupials.

The return journey that afternoon was filled with expectation. Finally, I’d get to see one of those lovable balls of rusty steel wool. So just after everyone else left the park, they let us in. This time it was me driving, very slowly, avoiding the wildlife that gets a little suicidal come dusk. We drove the winding single lane road to the blink-and-you’d- miss-it side road up to Waldheim. There we found a carpark and some nice accommodation if you can afford it, and also a great view into the gentle slope of Cradle Valley.

And there, at last, the critters appeared. Grunting and chasing each other as they protect their little patch of grass. If you come here, resist the urge, as we did, to run excitedly up to one and pat it. A big bull wombat can really mess you up. My brother used to say a wombat was the only animal that could take on a Mack truck and have a 50/50 chance of winning.

The guide would later tell stories of tourists who’d encounter the wrath  of a wombat. None the less, viewing them from a few metres away is usually fine. Give them some space, lord knows we all could use that sometime. Wombats are only slightly less dangerous than drop bears.

No drop bears, but along with the wombats we saw  pademelons, microbats and two quolls, a rare sight, one spotted the other a chocolate brown. Only the second time I’ve seen them in the wild.

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The special guest guide, who was only speaking that night, was funny and informative, intertwining facts, stories and poetry as we walked around the area, spotting wildlife. I’ve never been educated so entertainingly as that evening. As several of the local rangers had joined the walk to hear the guide speak, there was a bit of a buzz in the air, and it was a delightful way to learn more about the local fauna.

One sad tale he told, is of the die back of many trees around the park. Everywhere you look, the grey skeletons of the eucalypts are a sad reminder that the are is actually enduring a drought. One stand of trees is 400 years old, which means it’s the worst drought in at least 4 centuries. (Hmmm… Looking at you, tin-foil-hat lady.)

There’s so much to see in this park, so much to learn, I felt we just scratched the surface. All Tassie’s wonders need to be looked after, and nowhere so much than it’s heart.

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We returned to the van, and for the first few kilometres, wombats formed an honour guard, at least one every few hundred metres, munching on the sweet grasses on the verge of the road. It was heartening to see them doing so well, but made for a slow trip back.

Of course, Google tried to kill us again on the way home, but by now we were wise to it’s murderous ways, and back at the van, with a warm mead and a bit of Netflix, life’s pretty good.

Next week a look around the region and then onwards.

Art For Art’s Sake, Or the Town That Got A Facelift.

Me wearing bogan jacket and vintage triple Jay t-shirt.

Comment, connect and say hi below. And if you like it, why not LIKE it as well or share it. That’d be cool. Yeah, do that. LOL. Stay safe folks.

Chris K

 

The Living Heart of Tassie, or In Search of Shelter and Wombats.

To Cradle Mountain Part 1

Follow me.

We left Queenstown, New Years Day, 2020, leaving the scarred hills and heading for the very heart of Tasmania, for if Uluru is the spiritual heart of mainland Australia, then surely Cradle Mountain is the spiritual heart of Tassie. Among the many things we were hoping to see was that most lovable Australian, the wombat. I’d seen the waddling marsupials in the wild when I was in my teens, camping in NSW, but hadn’t seen them roaming free in the forty odd years since. I was excited, but we had to get there first.

To get from Point “A” to Point “where we want to B”, we were relying on Google Maps. Now Google Maps had already tried to derail the Tassie adventure in Melbourne, but there’s no fool like an old fart, and we placed our lives once again in it’s hands.

Now as we were on the West Coast, in a mining region, and as we had all day to make the 2 hr drive to our campsite, we checked Wikicamps for a few of the touristy spots to stop along the way. You know, have a cuppa and a sandwich, take our time. The weather was a bit spotty, but hey, how often are you in Tasmania.

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Along the way, we decide to go to an old mine in Zeehan to see what’s called the Spray Tunnel. Now bare in mind, from the front bumper of the CX5 to the spare tyre on the back of the Jayco Penguin Campertrailer is about 10 Metres (33 feet) and this is not the offroad model. But Google assured us the road was sealed, so off we went on the mini side-quest.

The road slowly narrowed, becoming less road and more graded gravel goat track and after about 200 metres of winding— lets call it a road, it became apparent we were committed. The foliage was getting just a little too friendly as we crawled along at about 15 kph. There was no turning back, so Google reassures us that we’ve only got about a kilometre of this to go.

Then, at about the 400 metre mark, Google casually tells us “Turn right in 50 metres.” There is no right turn. There is the remnant of a washed out goat track, so we forge on, as the outdoor plants attempt to become indoor. Google tells us “GPS Lost” in that snarky AI tone, translated roughly as,  you’re on your own now.

Then, just as I silently and the wife vocally were reaching the point of despair, the road opened up, to reveal an area large enough to turn ten metres worth of car and Penguin. We were saved.

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After exploring the tunnel and the remains of the mine, we returned to the car as the light rain was joined by bitter cold winds. Luckily, we didn’t meet any cars coming the other way on the way out, not that I was worried about an accident at 15 kph, but there was no way we could back up.

Safely back on the road to Cradle Mountain, we arrived at a Black Bluff lookout, the vista spanning the Vale Of Belvoir, where we had planned to set up camp for the next few days. However a quick walk up to the lookout, exposed to the howling Antarctic winds sweeping across the plain, driving the misty rain into every exposed body crevice and I knew we needed to find somewhere else to stay.

The lookout afforded us our first view of the Mountain, though somewhat foggy, still majestic.

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So we drove to the Cradle Mountain Visitors Centre, the only place with phone signal, and trawled the internet for alternate campsites at a reasonable price (staying in the park is expensive and our budget had been damaged by cheese and gin). We also needed to get fuel, the appropriate permits and information and of course, a souvenir. Google lied about the visitors centre having diesel, the pumps closed permanently, apparently, not sure why.

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We found a place on Wikicamps and with a phone call we were off to Round Hill Coffee. about 30 kms past the visitors’ centre, where they had a few sites out the back for a very reasonable rate. We asked Google to find the nearest alternative fuel source on the way as the needle headed for the quarter mark. Yes, we trusted Google again, shame on this old fart.

The long and winding road to find fuel took us through tiny little places the hills around Tassie’s Heart, as the fuel gauge headed towards red. Google would occasionally direct us to drive off a cliff or into a rock wall, but we were wise to its murderous intents.

We found diesel and returned back along the winding roads to Cethana and our new home away from home without her help or hindrance. By the time we arrived, the rain had stopped and the site was protected from wind by the cliffs around us. 

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Now Round Hill Coffee is a little hidden gem that between Cradle Mountain and Sheffield. The facilities were a work in progress, the place just recently being taken on by a mother daughter team, and the friendly welcome, chat about the area and cafe all amply compensated for any short comings. I’ll post more about the place later but here’s a few pics to give you an idea of the surrounds.

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Now we had a quiet night, the rain light but constant and the next day we were planning to head back to the National Park for a proper day of wombat spotting and sightseeing. The weather had other ideas. The cold misty rain became cold misty rain and fog, but we were committed, only having a couple of days to explore the whole place. So with picnic lunch in backpacks, we followed the long and winding road back to the visitors centre, arriving pretty much on opening. Unsurprisingly, we found a parking spot easily, the inclement soak and single digit temperatures seemed to slow people’s enthusiasm for early morning adventures. I must say, it made me question the sanity of what we were doing, so I bought some gloves in the visitors centre.

There’s a couple of walks around the centre, and we did a short one through a beech forest before the bus came.

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We hopped on the first bus of the morning, leaving driving the winding single lane road to the professional lunatics. The buses are the best way to get around the park, and run on a circuit about every 15 minutes or so. I was grateful for heating in the bus as the temps climbed to the high single digits.

First stop for us, the Overland Trail, reputed to be the best spot for viewing my favourite marsupial. Alas, all we got was cold, wet and a distant flash from a wombat arse. Even the wombats thought it was too cold to be out.

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We returned to the bus stop, and caught the next bus to the heart, the goal, the wonder that is Cradle Mountain. Upon arrival, along with two tourist bus loads of Japanese people in matching ponchos, trying to see a mountain, grown shy behind the clouds.

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Damp in body and spirit, we returned to the visitors centre and walked another trail called The Enchanted Walk, in hope of spying an adventurous wombat there. It’s an easy and pretty walk, with a creek and waterfalls, but still no wombats, plenty of evidence though.

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We returned to the car and drove back to Round Hill Coffee, and as happens so quickly sometimes in Tas, the weather cleared.

The day hadn’t been a complete failure, but as far as meeting our hopes and dreams, maybe a 3 out of 10. Tomorrow would be different, I said after a gin or two. And it would be, but that’s next post.

I spent the rest of the day checking out the place we were staying. The campsite expansion is in its infancy, but the place was clean and the people friendly. I’d seen a deserted tin shack through the blackberry vines, small birds flitting between the thorny branches. Talking to the daughter she told the story of an old couple who’d lived there, their son building a similar shanty further into the bracken. She encouraged us to check it out.

Foxglove and blackberry fight with the ferns as they slowly reclaim the place. Bumble bees the size of peanuts in a shell, buzz among the flowers as we walked over the broken debris of some broken life.

Then we stepped inside.

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The house was a testament to the power of entropy. The calendar on the laminate wall read 2015. Less than 5 years before, people lived there, and now it was a slowly weathering metaphor.

Up behind all of this is what seems to be an old quarry, but I couldn’t help feeling this would be a great place to shoot a post apocalyptic movie.

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All in all, I’d thoroughly recommend staying there, or if you pass through there, get a coffee and some fabulous food.

Next Post: Blue Skies and Sunshine in Tassie’s Heart, or Finally, Wombats…head explodes from the love.

Here’s a preview.

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The Scars of the Past, or A Very Quiet Queenstown New Year’s Eve.

Derwent Bridge to Queenstown

The road to Queenstown is a wending drive through forest covered hills and valleys, and it’s worth making a stop at Nelson’s Falls, not far from Queenstown. It’s a pretty little rainforest walk that will help give you a last glimpse of bush before the reported moonscape ahead.

 

 

 

As you approach Queenstown, the landscape changes, leaving you in no doubt about the mining history of the place. Hills that were covered in trees now develop the environmental equivalent of alopecia. Much of the land appears blighted by some ancient curse, all of which will give you entirely the wrong impression of this friendly, if not a little quiet, town.

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The town itself has most of the things you could need, including two IGA supermarkets that compete, so if you can’t get what you want from one, you might get it from the other. There was really only one choice for us of restaurant for our NYE celebration dinner. The Rusty Iron Thai Restaurant, with a decor that can only be described as outback corrugated iron, which belies the lovely meal we had there. Reasonably priced, tasty dishes, not bad for the only place open on New Years Eve.

We were staying at the Queenstown Cabin and Tourist park where the locals and visitors were friendly and the owners add nice little touches like a stack of clean bathmats in the showers to guard against cold tiles. It’s about a kilometre and a half from the centre of town, and is on the verge of where forest begins again, giving it a sort of peaceful respite feel.

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The weather changed constantly, literally like four seasons in one day, from sunshine to winter winds and rain and then back to sun, prompting me to say, Tassie, get it together.

Of course, no trip to Queenstown is complete without checking out the old works. There were only two places we went to, as the cold winds blew in carrying light misty rain and the winter portion of the day went into full swing.

It had no right being that cold in high summer.

First stop was the Iron Blow mine. Which, if I was petty, would be described as a big hole in the ground full of toxic water. But I’m not. It’s a fascinating, spectacular hole in the ground filled with toxic water.

 

 

 

Next stop was the Horsetail Falls, which weren’t flowing due to the drought. The light rain and strong winds didn’t help. The walk goes up a boardwalk bolted into the hillside, and if you’re interested in the geology of the place, it gives you an up close look at the layers of rock that mark the millennia. It’s not a hard walk, but quite steep in places and exposed to the weather. Be prepared.

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New Years Eve came and went without fanfare, apart from some distant lonely fireworks somewhere and a subdued cheer from one of the other vans. Usually I like to spend NYE staying awake all night, preferably by a campfire, contemplating the achievements and failures of the year and thinking about what I plan to do differently in the year ahead. For the first time in decades, I climbed into a warm bed at 10 o’clock, and contemplated the inside of my eyelids instead. (Note: If I’d known what was coming in 2020, I probably would’ve given it a lot more thought and consideration).

Queenstown was a nice little stop on the way through Tassie, and if you’re into history, mining, geology and the impact we can have, both negative and positive, on the environment, Queenstown could be the place you’re looking for.

Next stop was the most exciting to me and the wife. The very heart of Tasmania. But that’s next post.

The Living Heart of Tassie, or In Search of Shelter and Wombats.

 

Hills and Rainforest Chills or Psst, Wanna Buy A Pub.

Hobart to Derwent Bridge.

Leaving Hobart, with all the excitement and glamour of the city, in the dying days of 2019, we head north-west, following the mighty Derwent River into the highlands and the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area. This was just an overnighter for us, but if you’ve got the time and like nature, this is a place worth deeper exploration.

Along the way we had a morning tea stop at a little place in the highlands, the Tungatinah Power Station, one of the 30 hydroelectric power stations that provide most of the electricity to the state of Tasmania.

The two and a half hour drive to our destination, Derwent Bridge Wilderness Hotel, is lined with forests and evidence of old and new logging.

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We arrived at the Derwent Bridge Wilderness Hotel which is styled like a ski chalet and allows weary travellers with mobile homes and vans to spend the night in the carpark, in hope that you might come in for a meal and a nice cold beverage. They also have accommodation for those who don’t bring a home with them or just want a change. On a cold mountain night, the open fire in the pub is a welcoming place to  spend a couple of hours, too.

Nearby are public loos, a picnic area and a cute little eatery called The Hungry Wombat Cafe. Apart from that, there’s pretty much just forests and nature and beauty and wonder. What else do you want?

Now if you’ve got some cash to splash around and you’ve always dreamed of owning a pub, it’s up for sale.

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This region is the gateway to the World Heritage area and was the scene of a long struggle between the greenies and the logging industry. Obviously the greenies won, and driving through some of the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen, and doing a few of the local short walks, I’d like to say thanks to all those tree huggers who saved this wilderness for the future.

After the obligatory camper trailer setup and some lunch, we headed out to check out the local bushwalks. If you come here and don’t do that, you’re missing the best part of the place.

First stop, the trail-head for the 3-5 day walk to Frenchman’s Cap. Full disclosure, we just did the first 15 minute walk down to the Franklin River, the lifeblood and rallying cry of the fight for the wilderness.

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Next walk on the agenda was the Franklin River Nature Trail. This easy walk wends through some amazing forest and, to quote The Castle, “How’s the serenity? So much serenity.”

As sometimes happens on this blog, I’ll let the pictures tell the story.

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Back at our camp in the hotel carpark, we settled in for the night.

Now a word of warning here. For a Queenslander, anything below 15 degrees celsius is cold. Add to that, here is Australia, December 30 is high-summer. I remember thinking, “WTF Tasmania!? 4 degrees?” The obvious lesson here is, bring warm clothes, and if you’re planning on going in winter, better make them rated for Antarctica.

Not much between you and the elements

As I’m sure you can imagine, the canvas walls of the Jayco Penguin have an insulating capability akin to tissue paper but a quilt, blanket and opened up sleeping bag helped give us a good night sleep. The next day, dawned cold and dreary as we packed up and headed for our next stop. It was New Year’s Eve, but that’s next post.

The Scars of the Past, or A Very Quiet Queenstown New Year’s Eve.

 

Ships, Salamanca and Stuffing Your Face or the Best Of All Worlds.

Hobart 2.2

28th of December, 2019, and things were about to get really real. The alarm went off and I completely failed to leap out of bed, eye’s more bloodshot than bright, and bushy tail somewhat bedraggled. Late nights around a campfire will do that to you. But the wife was right, I needed to get up and she assisted by poking me until I was semi-vertical.

The day ahead was huge, requiring a dawn start, so we could be in the city before the first arrival. First arrival? I hear you ask. Since boxing day, whilst I’ve been enjoying the wonders of Tassie, a bunch of crazy people with too much money were racing none stop in wind driven sea craft, just to get a taste of what we’ve been enjoying.

A rushed breakfast, mostly consisting of strong coffee, we discussed the day ahead. The plan was to go to the Salamanca Market, then the Tastes of Tasmania festival and maybe catch some of the ships coming in from the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race as they come in. Hobart had all of them conveniently in the same place, more or less.

We arrived around 7 and after about 15 minutes we found a park at Battery Point. A quick walk through the bohemian part of town reminds me of many other older inner city suburbs. Cafes and colonial housing.

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We reached the Salamanca Market but only in passing.

There was movement at the dock and we heard talk of the race winner, Comanche having arrived. We missed it by 10 minutes. Though we raced to get a vantage, the sky became abuzz with helicopters, and we reached the water just in time to see number two, Info Track  round the bend. 

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Word spread that after 44 hours of racing, three yachts were jostling for 3rd place in the line honours,

We raced around the corner to get a view and watched the tactical battle as the three tried to find the fastest bead on the finish line. After nearly two days of sailing there were scant minutes between them.

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After that excitement, we left the shore and returned to the famous Salamanca Markets. A market with everything you could want and so much stuff you didn’t know you needed.

Have a wander through Salamanca with me.

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Coming away from the Salamanca Market with a backpack full of goodies, including a really nice Hellfire Gin, we headed to the adjacent Taste of Tasmania Festival to search for some lunch and some more gourmet delights (including more alcohol tastings, of course).

Some of the stalls were a little overpriced at the Tastes of Tassie, but there’s a sense that a lot of commitment has gone into presenting the produce of the island in the very best light.

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After filling up on cider, baby octopus and cheese, we headed over to the dock to check out the place getters and see how the champagne crowd party. To be honest, the markets are more my kind of style.

After a wander around the docks, and a quick skirt of the market, we headed back through the labyrinthine street to the car and headed home to the Jayco Penguin and the wildlife. That night I had a fire, the last for a while. The temperature had reached 30c and the bush was a tinderbox. A total fire ban was coming into effect from midnight and tomorrow was our last full day in Hobart, where we intended to squeeze in a little more sightseeing.

The next day word went through the camp. They were closed to any new campers, though those already camping could stay, reducing the number of campers by a process of attrition. The fireys’ orders had come. The fire danger had been raised to “Shit’s getting real,” level and the fires raging across the east side of mainland Australia had made there way here.

We headed out for the day, and as we exited down the long, steep slope from the campground to the main road, I vaguely consider the nebulous concept that when we left the next day, I’d have to watch the brakes. Keep that in mind.

First stop was Mt Wellington, the major geological feature that overlooks Hobart’s sprawl. The day we were there, the wind was blowing a gale, but apparently, that was just a stiff breeze on the mountains scale. Bring warm clothing. This was the end of December. Tasmania doesn’t do summer.

There are some nice walks that start from the mountain, though we just did a short walk, through the boulders and wildflowers. Mt Wellington is a must see if you’re in Hobart.

That being said, there’s a few disconcerting warning signs the EMR from the massive radio and microwave towers adjacent to the car park, and I can’t help wondering what that’s doing to our genes. 😉

Leaving the pinnacle, the views and the the other irradiated tourist behind, we drove down the mountain, stopping at the  Shoobridge Track, about 6 kms from the Mt Wellington lookout. There’s a circle walk, but we just went to see the Octopus Tree. I mean seriously, who wouldn’t want to see that.

We returned to the van and after lunch, and some more cheese from the market, I had a nana nap, a very tired old fart.  Awakening mid arvo PM back at the camp, we had time to squeeze in one more stop, before calling quits on our last day in Hobart.  Not far from the Tasman Bridge is the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens, and here I’ll let the pictures tell the story.

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.The day ended, I slept soundly, and in the morning I broke camp. By 10 am the Jayco Penguin was hooked to the Mazda CX5, and we were off. Now remember earlier, that vague reference to a vague feeling I should be worried about brakes?

To tow anything over  GTM 750KG needs an electric braking system on the trailer wheels with a controller system for the driver. Now most times, setting the brakes just right is more guesswork and experience than pure science. Basically, you need to get it so the trailer brakes and the car brakes are synchronised. If the car brakes and the trailer doesn’t you end up wearing the load on the car brakes, which in the case of a fully laden Jayco Penguin is about an extra 1600 kg attempting to give the CX5 an unpleasant proctological examination.

The inverse is also problematic as trailer brakes are not built to slow the vehicle as well as the van. Now for me I prefer a slight lead of van first followed by car a nanosecond later. Now this goes doubly important when going downhill.

Now the road from the campground down to the main road is steep and long. Like 1.7Km long. As we begin to descend the hill, I fiddle with the brake controller trying to find the sweet spot. It takes me the first hundred metres to find it, by which time I can imagine the brakes are getting really hot. I wind down the window and by the time we reach the 500 metre mark I began to smell the distinctive odour of burning brakes.

By the time we hit the bottom I pulled over, and inspected the brakes in an invisible cloud of burnt metal. Everything seemed more or less okay, so we hit the road. Next stop, Derwent Bridge, and a lovely pub that’s up for sale.

That’s the next post.

Hills and Rainforest Chills or Psst, Wanna Buy A Pub.

 

While you’re here, why not help an old fart out and Like, Subscribe and Share, or say g’day in the comments.

 

Honey and Hopping Things, or Welcome Back To Hobart

Hobart 2.1

Leaving Southport at 10 AM, we headed north, travelling up the Huon Valley and along the beautiful Huon River. This is the home of the mighty Huon pine, though there’s not so many mighty ones left. Overlogging had the old growth ones headed on a trajectory toward being wiped out. They’re protected now, but these are very slow growing trees. More history here.

With only a couple of stops to pick up more apples from a farm and some excellent honey and mead from the Honey Pot in Huon, along the way, we were back in Hobart by lunchtime. Our destination was a campground in Kingston, just south of the city.

The campground is The Lea Scout Camp, which opens to the public in the scouting off season, allowing tents and camper-trailers to stay for a reasonable fee. Wildlife thrown in for free. This place comes very high on my list of top campsites around Tassie and indeed, the country. This is the perfect balance of clean, basic facilities, proximity to nature and access to power, for a little extra. There’s water available and a laundry, flushing toilets and hot showers, which are a bit communal but with curtains. Cheap firewood is available by the wheelbarrow full, and there are plenty of half 44-gallon-drum fireplaces available for those nights sitting around the campfire with a libation of choice.

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Now remember how I said, proximity to nature. Well nature literally comes to your doorstep. Wallabies, possums and lesser seen marsupials like bettongs and pademelons just wander into camp, hoping for some leftover snacks.

Don’t feed them, that’s bad. Lock up your food and your rubbish really well, especially from the possums. Crafty little buggers know your food storage weaknesses and will take advantage.

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Now the day we arrived, was a bit of a blur, as was much of the next two days. After setting up camp, we headed out to explore a little of the city. We did a quick circuit of the Hobart museum before setting off to Fossil Cove to see natures Museum.

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Now the walk down to Fossil Cove is steep, be warned. The return journey is all up hill, but this old fart and his wife did it so make of that what you will. Here’s what it looks like. It’s worth the effort.

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It was December 27th, 2019 and we returned to the Penguin, the bettongs and dinner. After dinner we planned out the next day, spent in the city, down at the dock. An early night was in order. The next day was going to be Huge. Here’s a preview.

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And that’s next week’s post.

Ships, Salamanca and Stuffing Your Face or the Best Of Everything.

 

 

Go South Old Fart, or Fishing At The End Of The Road

HOBART TO SOUTHPORT

So, early in the morning we set off for Southport, a couple of hours from Hobart. It was going to be a long day as we only planned to stay the one night and had a lot to cram in. In hindsight, this is place deserves a couple of nights at the very least.

Photo by Elizabeth Tr. Armstrong on Pexels.com

It’s a nice drive full of little surprises, my favourite being an apple farm with a fridge, an honest to goodness honesty box and the best apples on the planet. For a couple of bucks you get a great big bag of apples the like of which I have never had. Perfect apples. I know, that’s a big claim, but seriously, as someone who thinks apples are a bit ordinary, it was a revelation. I would return to Southport just for those apples.

We arrived mid morning at that night’s roost, a van park hidden behind the Southport Hotel and Caravan Park.  The pub/park is reasonably priced, with basic amenities, powered and unpowered sites and a couple of cabins for those lacking the mobility of a trailer. I quickly setup the Jayco Penguin just enough to make some lunch for later and lock it all up. Soon we were off again, heading 30 km south as far as the road would take us, to a place unironically called The End Of The Road.

 

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As you approach the End of the road you pass through Recherche Bay Nature Recreation Area, where vans and tents and camper-trailers are stacked and packed like tins on a supermarket shelf. This is the wild west of camping, with people taking up whatever square inch of space they could, and bugger personal space. Everyone seems to be in a sort of gridlocked arrangement. I look at them and wonder how anyone in the second row, let alone third, fourth and fifth, were going to get out. I imagine people packing and shuffling to let vans on the inside out, like a giant complicated game of magic tiles.

I had originally planned a night amongst the hoard, but the idea of eking out a few square feet for the van with hundreds of other free campers was unappealing, as would be the smell after a couple of days, and I was glad we were staying back at the pub. Beyond the crowded camp grounds is the end of the road, The End Of The Road.

There’s a bridge over Cockle Creek which marks the end of civilisation, and below it, on the sand flats, we were treated to a parade by the locals.

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Strangely, the road extends a few hundred meters on from the End Of The Road sign, past ruins left behind from the whaling days of old. At the end of the road is a sculpture of a whale, now revered for more than its byproducts. I like to think it’s a testament to how far we have come, but it’s more like a reminder of how far we’ve got to go in our appreciation of all nature has to offer.

 

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Not far from the Whale Lookout, is a track that meanders over sand and rock and low scrub, then through a magic forest to the old pilot station ruins at Fishers Point. Along the way are a myriad of shells, birds and trees both living and skeletal.

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This is as far south as an old fart can get these days. If you’ve got a young person’s stamina, there’s a track to the southernmost point, and it runs along the rugged southern coast, but it’s a three day journey one way. They recommend you organise a boat or chopper to take you out afterwards. For me I think I’d need an air ambulance.

This is an amazing part of Tassie, where everywhere you look is a postcard-esque view waiting to be photographed. Every turn has a point of interest whether it be nature, people or history, Tassie has something for everyone.

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We returned to the pub and the Jayco Penguin and had an early dinner. Then, at last, I got a chance to wet a fishing line. Now I’ve been fishing since my grandfather took me to Iluka when I was 10. First I tried the wharf at Southport, but the wind was against me and the fish uncooperative. Next I found a sheltered spot, which I will share with you lucky people.

First catch was a small rock cod, spiny nasty little creatures. But the the Red Cod, (a different fish) came on the bite, and dinner was caught.

With venomous spines, not for eating or touching. Red Rock Cod.

Another, much nicer Cod. Red Cod

Secret fishing spot.

Our time at Southport was over, and next day we’d be returning to Hobart, where Tassie turns up the adventure to 11.

But that’s next post.

Honey and Hopping Things, or Welcome Back To Hobart.

 

 

 

Hiatus

The Old Fart Himself. See, I cook.

So, I reached my limit on photos for my blog and now I am scrounging for the 60 bucks to get another 3 gig. Here’s a preview of the upcoming post which will be in a few weeks.

Go South Old Fart, or Fishing At The End Of The Road

Hobart to Southport

So, early in the morning we set off for Southport, a couple of hours from Hobart. It was going to be a long day as we only planned to stay the one night and had a lot to cram into the day. It’s a nice drive full of little surprises, my favourite being an apple farm with a fridge, an honesty box and the best apples on the planet. I know, that’s a big claim, but seriously, as someone who thinks apples are a bit ordinary, it was a revelation.

We arrived mid morning at the van park, a reasonably priced place with powered and unpowered sites, out the back of the pub. After a quick setup of the Jayco, we were off again, heading as far south as we could get in a car to a place unironically name The End Of The Road…

(Back in a couple of weeks)

In the meantime stroll down my memory highway and check out the aarchive posts.

Thanks everyone and stay safe during these weird times.