Category: Travel Journals

Since I was a child, I just assumed that Tasmania was one of those places you don’t go to. I put the blame for this misguided perception squarely on Looney Tunes and their nothing short of horrifying depiction of the Tasmanian devil. I just assumed the entire island was wild and unwelcoming. It wasn’t until recently that I considered this place as a possible destination. I was doing a lot of research into New Zealand and as great as New Zealand seems to be, I was getting the feeling you have to plan a trip there far in advance since it has such massive global attention. As I looked at New Zealand on a map, my eyes drifted westward to the island of Tasmania and knowing relatively little about it, I became curious. After researching online, it seemed perfect. Nice people. Nice outdoor scenery/activities. Nice food. Nice alcohol.

Its outdoor grandeur may not be as stunning as New Zealand but there was one key element that tipped the scales for me: it seemed under the radar. Of course folks in that part of the world and the UK (as Tasmania is a state of Australia which was a colony of the UK but is still a member of the Commonwealth of Nations) are familiar with Tasmania but when I told told several intelligent Americans that I was headed to Tasmania for four weeks, they said, “Cool! You’re going to Africa!” The irony of people confusing Tasmania with Tanzania is that my wife Pam lived in Tanzania for five years. So although Pam would only be joining me for two of the four weeks, she would now be able to say she has thoroughly explored this hybrid African-Australian nation of Tanzamania.

After European settlement started around 1800, Tasmania wasn’t always known as Tasmania. It used to be called Van Diemen’s Land, named after Anthony van Diemen who was the Governor of the Dutch East Indies and sponsor of Dutch explorer Abel Tasman who discovered it in 1642. In 1856, they decided to rename it Tasmania after dear Abel. If any one omnipotent force in the universe gives a damn about the realization of my fantasies, we will someday soon see the island’s name changed one last time to Jazzmania.

Why did they rename it Tasmania? I like to think of it as a legendary example of re-branding. Between 1803 and 1853, about 75,000 British convicts were transported to Tasmania alone. Thanks to the Industrial Revolution, many found themselves jobless so many turned to petty crime. And when the possibility of sending these criminals to what was now the newly minted USA ceased after the Revolutionary War, England found its penitentiary system bursting at the seams like Chris Farley in David Spade’s little blazer in Tommy Boy. The not so elegant solution was to transport them halfway around the world. After this practice of “Transportation” as it was known ended, the muckety-mucks in their great wisdom thought a simple name change could distance the colony from its grim penal past.

And speaking of grim pasts, let us acknowledge the far greater tragedy of the unforgivable disappearance of the aborigines of Tasmania. After proper settlement began around 1800, it took all of 50 years to effectively wipe out the 7000-15,000 natives that lived there and whose ancestors called it home for 40,000 years. Although there are still those on Tasmania with aboriginal ancestry, the last full blood aborigine, a woman named Truganini, died in 1876.

In efforts to break up the monstrous flight time, we decided to have a 24 hour layover in San Francisco between the six and a half hour flight to San Francisco and the 15 hour flight to Melbourne. We stayed at the Dylan Hotel near the airport where each room was equipped with a record player and four vinyl albums. Our four choices were Roy Orbison, Chuck Mangione, Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes, and Little Anthony & The Imperials. We opted for Harold as we got ready for bed. It only seemed natural. But it wasn’t until we put Chuck Mangione on the next morning that we really felt our vacation truly began. The combination of Chuck, his flugelhorn, and jazz have a way of making sure your head is where it needs to be before pursuing leisure.

We spent the day with Pam’s aunt “Tita Nining” and grand aunt Auntie Esther. “Tita” means aunt in the language Tagalog. Why isn’t Esther addressed as “Tita Esther”? I don’t ask such questions as they are above my pay grade. We enjoyed a world class Thai meal, walked along the beach, and even cleansed our souls at a late afternoon Catholic Mass. This was part of the ladies’ Saturday afternoon routine each week. After partaking in Pam’s weekly Zoom call with her family, we ate Chinese (the food, that is) and were kindly shuttled to the airport for our evening flight.

After 15 hours of flight, we landed in Melbourne, Australia. Exhausted, we became instantly energized by the beautiful, bright, cool, and dry conditions right outside the airport terminal. Imagine if Canada was in a really fantastic mood and decided to give you its very meteorological best. This is how the weather felt. In fact, those conditions continued after we exited the small airport at our final destination of Launceston, Tasmania. Just as in Iceland five months ago, we found ourselves driving another white Kia Sportage except this time somebody had the nerve to put the steering wheel on the right side of the vehicle. Although really tired, I managed to stay on the left side of the road as we drove to our lodging for one night, The Dragonfly Inn. For dinner we walked down the hill to Stillwater where we ate one of Tasmania’s cutest small-medium macropod and close relative to the kangaroo, the wallaby. It was good. It tasted of lamb but when I later saw how sweet and kind wallabies seemed to be in real time, I decided they tasted of pure villainy as that is how they made me feel after consuming these hopping angels. That said, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t eat wallaby two more times on this trip.

The following day we walked around Launceston. If the tobacco tax here was an object that moved, it would decimate the sound barrier. One decent cigar will run you $30. I don’t smoke cigarettes but if I did, I would also be paying $30 for a pack of Marlboro’s. So this is awesome: tobacco addicts can look forward to not just a shorter lifespan but one that is riddled with insolvency. After pondering all the cigars I would not be buying, we drove over to Launceston’s most prized geological possessions, Cataract Gorge, and yes, Pam did accidentally refer to “Cataract Gorge” as “Cataract George”.

After breakfast, we paid Cradle Mountain a visit. Here the weather was wet, cold, and raw with winds on exposed, peak areas that made you feel you were a gnat in some aviation jetwash. It was a bad place for sneakers, umbrellas and jeans yet we witnessed plenty of this nonsense on the trail. One couple was a triple offender with jeans, sneakers, and umbrellas all at the same time. That said, the MVP for poor clothing preparation had to go to the young lad in jean shorts, sneakers and a cotton hoodie. What may have been an attempt to impress his other young companions, he was punished on an exposed peak with cold horizontal rain and a temperature that hovered around 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Once over the peak, he ran down the hill, probably to minimize his presence in this harsh environment and to generate some precious body heat that the elements cruelly sucked out of his body.

The next morning we headed to Strahan via Queenstown to avoid the large area of forest fires raging in the northwest. At Queenstown, we walked around the town and observed a place that almost had the vibe of what would be the Australian version of the fictional town Cicely, Alaska in the show Northern Exposure. When we climbed to the top of a hill in the town we looked at a surrounding landscape that resembled Mars. All the previous mining lead to the removal of trees which, along with smelter fumes, helped cause the erosion down to the pink and gray rock surface surrounding the town. It’s like I always say, if you’re going to destroy an environment, just make sure the resulting tragedy is pretty to look at.

Pam and I arrived at our next tiny lodgings known as the Saltbox Hideaway. It was located 20 feet from Macquarie Harbor in the small seaside town of Strahan. This shack was among several others within arms length of each other that were built as little holiday structures over 100 years ago by nearby railway workers and miners with whatever scrap timber they could get their hands on. As we came around the back, we were greeted by 15 ducks. I could see no better way to celebrate my new friends than to light up a cigar while consuming the gentle charms of the calm bay.

At night, we enjoyed an absurdly large and diverse seafood buffet at a restaurant on top of the hill known as 42 Degrees. There we encountered workers from South America and Europe. This was a theme that seemed to continue throughout our travels in Tasmania as there is a labor shortage in the tourism/hospitality sector and more critically, in the healthcare sector. These foreign workers told me that in order to renew their visa, they had to spend a period of several months in a Tasmania location that is considered “remote”. Strahan definitely fit that bill which explained the international flavor of the labor present in the town’s hotels and restaurants.

The next day we hopped on a Gordon River cruise that brought us first around the large Macquarie Harbor and to the small mouth of the harbor where it met the sometimes unpredictable and unforgiving sea. Here we heard a tale or two from one of the guides over the sound system of maritime mishaps bad enough they would have inspired Gordon Lightfoot. Two things on that: 1) We think we’re so cool and open minded now but we’re not. How do I know? I know that only the 1970’s was cool and open minded enough to allow a Canadian singer by the name of Gordon Lightfoot to chart into the US top 10 multiple times, once with a song that mourned the devastating shipwreck of the bulk carrier known as the Edmund Fitzgerald. 2) This cruise company should heavily consider playing all of Gordon Lightfoot’s songs onboard to the point that people start to wonder if the Gordon River was named after Gordon Lightfoot (it wasn’t).

The boat then went into silent mode as it gently crept up the Gordon River. The river was lined on both sides by a thick cold-climate rain forest. As we glided through this pristine backdrop, I was happy that people fought hard to protect this area and leave it in a natural state. Back in the harbor, we disembarked for an hour on the small Sarah Island which was known as the most unfriendly of Australia’s prisons for its brief tenure of 1822-1833. As we reached the end of the boardwalk, we were greeted by our theatrical and slightly annoying guide. She tried a little too hard to prove she was an invaluable and entertaining conduit between this dark point in the 19^th century and the present day. One Australian woman in her late sixties found it impossible to keep her feelings of our guide to herself and frankly remarked, “she’s a bit of a tart”. This comment earned quiet laughter from those in earshot and much shushing from her close travel companions on the tour.

When we returned to the Saltbox, I noticed my cigar from yesterday on a rock. Deciding there was still some meat on it, in the manner of a hobo, I re-lit it and enjoyed the serenity of the bay. Twenty or so ducks returned to bask in this high quality second hand smoke.

That night, Pam and I were bombarded with an amazing French meal that had so many courses we both lost count. The name of the restaurant was Charlotte’s which was located in the old guest house known as Franklin Manor. One of the young friendly French owners named François served us. He recently teamed up with a fellow countryman chef and the two of them opened their doors only a few weeks previously. If this project continues at its current course, it will easily remain the finest dining in Strahan. The gastrointestinal distress caused by our excess was no match for the sensations of pinnacle pleasures still floating in our minds as we rolled out of the building like a couple overfed bowling balls.

The following day we drove north and onto the thin piece of land surrounded by the ocean known as the charming seaside town of Stanley. This subtle isolation and the looming presence of the extinct volcano lovingly known as “The Nut” give the small town a distinctive personality. Pam and I checked into Horizon Deluxe Apartments which gave us an energetic view of the town and The Nut and anything else that found its way into our unobstructed 180 degrees of view off our back deck.

Wherever we stood in our apartment, we could see The Nut as the eastern wall of our unit was practically all glass. The Nut clearly wanted us to hike up and on it. It was like some annoying dog that wanted to go for a walk and wouldn’t stop staring at us until we made things right. Finally we did and followed up this modest achievement with a stroll around the small downtown area.

Later we ate dinner at Graze in the Stanley Golf Club, a golf club that seemed to cater to the man in the street who had a few extra shekels in his pocket. The daughter of the owner and our server, Shae, told us two spots to view penguins coming to shore after sunset. She said they often come so far inshore that they take over the town at night and walk through the streets. So Stanley seemed to be a place where the man in the street could coexist peacefully with the penguin in the street.

A quick aside: due to the Japanese aversion of tattoos and a near ban of any person wearing them in their onsen (hot spring bath houses), I would imagine that Australians have a hell of a time gaining entry into any onsen in Japan. Folks absolutely love their tattoos here. Australia is a nation of ink. The funny thing is that there are lots of people who have tattoos that would surprise you (at least from an American perspective). Tattoos are not taboo in the US but they will often still bear a whisper of rebellion in some cases. Not only does it appear to be quite normal and fully accepted, the level of your average tattoo in Tasmania is more akin to that of an American biker or an exaggerated fitness warrior.

Pam and I also popped into the Highfield Historic Site which served as the homestead of the chief agent of the Van Diemen’s Land Company, a company whose primary purpose was to convert “waste lands” in Tasmania to a resource that could bring a cheap supply of wool to British factories. The site started construction in 1826 and was done with convict labor. For us, the most fascinating element of this site was located in a barn. Here they set up pictures of many of the convicts. Beneath the pictures was brief commentary by the chief agent of the company and a listing of their crimes and sentences.

Here is a list of some of the crimes the convicts committed back in the UK and the sentences they were forced to complete in Tasmania:

Stealing a pair of boots – 14 years

Stealing a bottle from a privy – Life

Stealing a waistcoat – 7 years

Stealing 8 lbs. of pork – 7 years

Stealing a turkey – 7 years

Stealing a tea caddy – 7 years

Stealing a handkerchief – 14 years

Sending a threatening letter – Life

One sentence is more absurd than the next but my vote goes to the 14 years served for stealing a handkerchief. I’m assuming this chap was about to sneeze in church, had no handkerchief of his own so grabbed the first one he could find and was transported away simply for his efforts to stifle his germs. No good deed goes unpunished. They say necessity is the mother of invention so I’m inclined to think this poor convict spent the next 14 years of his life engineering the first disposable tissue thereby ensuring this dreadful experience would not be repeated.

Another thing I find striking about this is that 99.9% of all people are guilty of at least two of the crimes on this list.

Obviously most of these convicts had no desire to be transported. That said, there were some people who committed a crime with the hopes they would be sent to Australia. In Ireland during The Great Famine, conditions were so harsh that some people would steal a loaf of bread, for example, so that they might be sent to Australia where life as a convict would be superior to suffering through a famine. And those convicts who showed good behavior might even be given land after their sentence.

Another side note: the sheer volume of roadkill in Tasmania borders an amount that would come across as an exaggeration of numbers seen only in the Bible. Sadly, I’m being truthful when I tell you that on some roads, we would pass a dead animal every 20-100 meters. Due to an abundance not just of wildlife but an abundance of wildlife that is nocturnal is a major factor. And while there are a lot of forests for these animals to live, there are also a decent amount of roads going through these habitats. My own observation would add that people are allowed to and do drive a hell of a lot faster on these secondary roads. A road that would top out at 35-40 MPH in the US would be one you could drive 60 MPH on in Tasmania.

When we left Stanley, we traveled east towards the small coastal town of Penguin. On the way we stopped at the Table Cape Tulip Farm. As they were not in season, we did not see any tulips or tables. However, we did see beautiful flowers and quickly made our way through a small corn maze. We arrived at the town of Penguin in the afternoon. Our guest house was on the main road but once seated on the front porch, had a wonderful view of the ocean. The temperature was very mild and the wind low so I decided it was the perfect setting for a cigar.

Today we went to Leven Canyon which was a real crowd pleaser. I realize this was a crowd of two people but I’m pretty sure it would’ve pleased a crowd of any size. It reminded me again of what I like about Tasmania. If this site was in any other developed nation, I’m fairly certain it would’ve been mobbed. Since Tasmania has this wonderful “end of the line” feel to it, there’s rarely flocks of tourists to compete with. Among all tourists here, most appear to be mainland Australians. After that, I would say the next biggest group would be from the UK. There’s not a lot of Americans here which is made evident by the great interest shown in my accent. When I tell people where I’m from, their eyes light up and there’s a a genuine element of surprise on their part. I struck up a conversation with a gentleman at a gas station filling up his pickup truck and he decided I sounded like a gangster. I’m not sure about this. If he was thinking I sounded like a gangster that primarily oversaw the large scale theft of valuable bookmarks, he may have had a point.

After enjoying the main viewpoint of the canyon, Pam and I returned to our car and drove down the road a little to explore the canyon from a trail that ran along its base. There were definitely less people here which made me think we would have more of a probability of a snake encounter. There are three types of snakes on Tasmania and they are all venomous. Sure enough, we came across a four-foot black snake. From what my research has told me, once these snakes are aware of your presence, they will piss off with great haste but not this SOB. I was making all kinds of racket and moved around to encourage its departure but it seemed to have no interest in vacating the area. This made Pam and I think perhaps it was a mother protecting its young nearby or it was simply drunk. We found out later that snakes don’t breed this time of year nor do they give a flying turd about their babies so it was definitely drunk.

Pam and I decided to cut the hike short because of this stubborn dink and opted for a much safer expenditure of our time at Kaydale Lodge. It was an interesting place run by a family since 1979. With admirable industry, they have turned this five-acre plot into a gardener’s paradise. I assume they hired contractors for most of the work but it turned out they did most of the work themselves. In fact, the two middle-aged daughters that run the accommodation and everything else on the property built a 50-meter rock wall which took 1000 hours of labor to complete in addition to several other masonry projects on the property. When I shook one of the daughter’s hand as we left, I felt an impressive amount of power from this gentle woman.

On our way back to Launceston, we hit the Trowunna Wildlife Sanctuary. Here we got to see (and feed) kangaroos and get up close to all sorts of Tasmania‘s fascinating wildlife. Our favorite of course were the Tasmanian devils.

Back in Launceston, we checked into the Peppers Silo Hotel. This interesting nine-story structure was once a 1960s grain storage building that had been all but abandoned for many years until it was recently converted into high end accommodation. Our cylindrical room with concrete walls reminded me of the caution one must exercise if they stumble upon the power of time travel. Depending upon the season, a careless jaunt back in time from our hotel room would have caused a “buried alive in grains” experience.

Also staying at the hotel was some sort of professional men’s football/soccer club. A few of these strong young lads walked around with an air of importance and well-rehearsed dismissiveness. Knowing next to nothing and caring little about football (and most professional sports) I felt bad for not feeling tiny in their presence.

One of the highlights of the trip came to us a couple days later: Valleybrook Wine on Wheels Tours. This small outfit was run by a lovely husband and wife team. The husband, Jeremy, collected Pam and me from our hotel in the morning in a VW van. We then picked up three dear ladies named Carol, Jill, and Joanna who were smack in the middle of a girls weekend, mini reunion thing. The last two were a friendly married couple named Matt and Emma who were trying to escape parental duties for a couple days. Although nobody said it, everyone on this tour was psyched they understood that a wine tour was a critical part in this pursuit of “letting your hair down” that we were all part of.

As we drove, I noticed an interesting book on the front passenger’s seat called “People”. Published around 1990, it included amazing photographs taken by Harry Benson of politicians, celebrities, musicians, and more from the 1960s through 1990. As great as the pictures were, Benson’s brief descriptions and backgrounds of each photo was arguably just as fascinating if not more so. Being the aware and considerate guy that he is, Jeremy decided to give me this incredible object once he saw how absorbed I became in its contents. I resisted at first knowing that he just picked it up at a thrift store that morning but Jeremy remained firm in his magnanimity, causing me to eventually accept this gift.

The tour consisted of a visit to four vineyards. The first three were reasonably tame but it was the fourth that convinced me that Jeremy was saving the best or most unpredictable for last. This final vineyard by the name of Swinging Gate was owned by a gentleman in his fifties or sixties. Determining his age was not for the novice of such an art. Doug’s blonde hair and fair complexion had been fairly exposed to the outdoors and to wine. The man enjoyed his work and was happy to share his impressive knowledge with his eager patrons. And unlike the other owners and staff of the other vineyards, Doug was quite comfortable jumping into the trenches with us as we tasted.

Speaking of the wine tastes, the first three vineyards let us conservatively sample four wines. But that’s not how Doug rolled. When I saw the complete menu of 20+ wines at the Swinging Gate, I foolishly assumed we would try four and call it day. This is not how Doug saw things. Doug felt it was his patriotic duty to drench us in wine. By the end, not only did we sample every wine Doug could get his hands on, Doug spontaneously decided to bring us into the cellar where we opened up a massive cask of wine that was still aging and sampled its contents.

Of all the members of this tour, with great confidence, I can tell you Pam had the smallest tolerance for alcohol which is why when Doug served up taste number 11, Pam was forced to tap out. But like the triumphant return of a Roman hero, Pam decided to reunite with us when Doug’s description of taste 17 resonated with her. As she put her glass up to partake, our new friends roared with approval.

The following day I brought Pam to the airport in Launceston. At the beginning of the security line, we mustered a meaningful yet appropriate spousal goodbye. Pam would initiate her 24-hour or so journey home and I would be left to my devices for two more weeks. I exited the airport parking lot and drove northeast to my next destination of Saint Helens.

From my serene and beautiful seaside accommodation of Pelican Sanctuary, I drove 20 minutes to one of Australia’s most celebrated sites: Bay of Fires. This area of unsullied coastline offers the classic combination of white sand beaches and emerald blue waters. The “Fires” part of the name is related to the unique orange lichen found on the boulders dotting the coastline and/or the Aboriginal fires seen from the boats of early explorers.

The next day I backtracked about 25 minutes, took a right off the main highway, ascended up seven miles of a windy gravel road where I finally disembarked and went for a nice quick hike that took me to the Summit of Mount Poimena. Afterwards, I gently descended the winding road back out to the main road, stopping briefly to check out an old, abandoned piece of mining equipment known as an anchor stamper that was used to help process some of the tin that was extracted from the earth at this site. The device looked like some ancient demonic musical organ.

From there, it was a long haul on 30 miles of gravel roads to Eddystone Point, made interesting at one point when a psychotic dump truck driver nearly ran me off the road as he blazed by me from the opposite direction. Once at the point, I pulled over to the side of the road and walked five minutes towards the beach on a path that saw little use. As I got closer to the water, the path just disintegrated into the dunes and finally to a beautiful two-mile stretch of beach that boasted again of white sand and blue waters. I had this slice of perfection entirely to myself.

After I returned home, I celebrated with one of my cigarette-sized little cigars known as Wee Willem Gold.

On my way out of Pelican Sanctuary the next morning, I ran into one of the owners, Jerome. He was returning from a three-hour drive from Hobart. He had driven there the day before and stayed at an apartment he and his wife keep in the city. The purpose of the trip was simply a visit to the dentist but from the looks of the canary yellow 5.0 Ford Mustang he was driving, he may have run the risk of enjoying himself during the journey. I laughed to myself contemplating his choice in cars. When I met this 60-something year old Dutch man in what is an isolated corner of an isolated corner of Australia two days ago, a new bright yellow American muscle car would not have been the option I put my money on if I were betting on what car he owned. If I were a screenwriter however, and Jerome was my antagonist, then yes, he would most certainly be lighting up the roads of Tasmania in this exact automobile.

I drove south for an hour and arrived at Sandpiper Cottages in Bicheno. The rustic little cottages that comprise this property are a two minute walk from yet another gorgeous large beach with practically nobody on it. One of the owners, John, checked me in while their barking dog interrupted us incessantly. John was a friendly man in his fifties and proud owner of a sense of humor that would show itself with little coaxing. He inadvertently reminded me to pay more attention to my clothing by heartily shaking my hand and saying “FIRM GRIP”. At first I was confused but then pointed to words “Firm Grip” in relatively small lettering in the upper front corner of my shirt. As this gray T-shirt was comfortable, cheap, and good for my work, I bought a fistful of them from Home Depot without paying attention to the name. That or because I’m in the trades, I’m all but immune to the silly, rugged, macho brands I constantly submit myself to when purchasing tools or gear. Now I realized that whenever I wear this shirt, there’s a chance someone will be expecting a firm handshake from me (this has since happened again with an 11-year old son of one of my customers).

Today I drove south to the well-visited national park of Freycinet. Trying to get away from the crowds and to achieve the best view of the famous Wine Glass Bay, I selected the two and a half hour hike which took me to the top of Mount Amos. The warning signs at the beginning of this hike were ominous. There was a lot of scrambling and bouldering that was not for the faint of heart. With many sections of steep smooth rock, it was strongly discouraged to attempt this hike with any sort of moisture on the trail. The top of Mount Amos did reward though. As I started to come down from the top, I passed a guy who was smoking a joint on the way up. This was definitely not a joint smoking type of hike and it would’ve been my recommendation to save the joint as a celebration after the hike was completed. But what do I know.

I stopped at a couple other places in the park and in the process, struck up a nice conversation with a New Zealand gentleman by the name of Steve. He was traveling around Tasmania in a little camper van, taking incredible photographs of the landscape as he went. I’ve always heard that Kiwis are incredibly nice and he proved it by giving a thirsty wallaby in the parking lot some of his drinking water.

The following day I went south again to the small port town of Triabunna (or “Try a Banana” as a cheeky main-lander lady told me). Not nearly as charming as Saint Helens or Bicheno, it did serve the purpose of allowing me to roll out of the bed of my slightly bleak little cabin and drive one minute to the ferry which would take me to Maria Island for the day. This entire island is a national park with no motorized vehicles or paved roads so I rented a mountain bike and explored feverishly. Not to put unsavory images in your head but I did strip down to my underwear and swam in the ocean at one of their beautiful beaches. As scandalous as I thought I was, Trent at the bike rental building told me that’s often a nude beach so yet again when I think I’m an actor in a filthy PG-13 movie, it turns out I’m little more than a voiceover actor in a Lego movie.

In addition to telling me how to properly gut a shark, Trent also told me that his great great grandfather who was a well-known fisherman and boat builder in the early 1900s risked riding through rough waters during a storm to permanently escort one of the island’s last full-time residents, Ruby, off the island. This was a pretty cool story until he told me that the poor woman died on the boat ride back to the mainland. Trent may have to consider making up a new ending to that story, even if it would be entirely inaccurate.

As I did a couple years ago, I am taking pictures of my friend Matt’s toy, Pheyden, at interesting places. Upon seeing the Painted Cliffs on Maria Island, I decided this was a good spot. As I was in the middle of setting up a shot, a French-Vietnamese couple walked up behind me. I awkwardly explained what I was doing and after a fraction of a moment of pleasant tension, they laughed and said they do the same thing. I didn’t believe them until they took out two small toys that actually resemble the couple themselves. My disbelief gave way to more laughter. I said it was time for a family photo and they concurred.

Back on the “mainland”, I drove south again to the Tasman Peninsula and stopped at my next lodging for two nights on White Beach which was next to the village of Nubeena. After grabbing some food at a grocery store, I stopped off at an Ex-Service’s bar which was their version of an American Legion or VFW. I bought a couple bottles of beer to take away with me. Before eating, I walked a short path to White Beach and watched the sun set over a still bay. If memory serves, I smoked a Wee Willem. As I stood by the water, I was starting to notice another pleasant aspect of Tasmania. Much of Tasmania’s beachfront property is inland a bit so when you are on the beach, you often won’t see the houses. This is great and adds enormous appeal to your time spent on the beach. From what I’ve read, this is done due to erosion concerns but also is done to protect sensitive coastal environments.

The following day I drove 20 minutes to pursue one of Tasmania’s finest day hikes: Cape Raoul. Not the hardest hike I’ve done but one that makes you feel that you deserve a steak upon completion of this 9.7-mile out and back affair. The lookout points high up on sea cliffs were second to none and would be a perfect setting for any number of Superman villains. Speaking of villains, I crossed paths with two copperhead snakes at two different points on the trail. Thankfully these two creatures treated me like an irritating in-law at a wedding reception and darted in the opposite direction upon seeing me.

That night I returned to the Ex-Service’s bar and walked into a room full of people dining at the simple but excellent restaurant. In the next room where the bar was, a formidable amount of customers drank effortlessly. I sat down at a table, fired up my Kindle like a pathetic dweeb, drank some beer in efforts to compensate for my Kindle behavior and ordered some delicious blue eye trevalla fish. As I ate, drank, and read, I watched the locals hack their way through a karaoke contest.

I packed up my things the next morning and drove past the capital of Hobart and over to Geeveston for a two-night stay at an informal animal sanctuary farm situated on five acres of land. There were a couple donkeys, two small ponies, chickens, geese, ducks, peacocks, sheep, and probably some other of God’s creatures I’m leaving out. Once I fed the donkeys some vegetable and fruit scraps, they wouldn’t leave me alone. They expressed their gratitude by distributing unholy stool samples all around my cottage.

The following morning I visited the fascinating Tahune air walk which is a 600 meter long metal catwalk that takes you through the forest at a height up to 165 feet off the forest floor. I was a little hesitant to go thinking this attraction would be mobbed as it would be in the US or Europe but I couldn’t believe how much space I had. I was able to go to the best part of the air walk which was the end of a cantilevered section and enjoy it on my own for at least five minutes. This reminded me again of the beauty of Tasmania, how easily one can find solitude and enjoy popular destinations without feeling overwhelmed.

After that I drove up Hartz Mountain and instead of enjoying incredible views on a hike, I essentially walked through a raw cloud. You can’t win them all folks.

Heading into the final days of my trip, I slowly had to make it back to the point of origin in Launceston over the next few days. I left Geeveston and went to the small seaside town of Kettering where I boarded a small ferry. Ten minutes later, it dumped me onto Bruny Island where I drove south and over to Adventure Bay. There I set out on a fairly intense two hour hike that took me up horrifyingly high sea cliffs and yet again, with Tasmanian flair, provided me five star views. On my way up, I came upon a wallaby just off the trail. I stopped and watched him or her. From what I was experiencing thus far with wallabies, if you were calm, you could enjoy their presence for at least a few minutes. I grew impatient and started to walk on which caused the wallaby to hop off. Used to only hopping creatures no larger than a bunny, it’s fascinating for me to watch these creatures bound through three-foot high brush with ease and power.

I checked into my little Hotel Bruny cottage that looked out onto the ocean and over to the rest of Tasmania. I had one of those magical moments as I sat on the little deck, equally taking in the late afternoon sun, the view, the sound of the wind through the small trees, and of course, a Wee Willem Gold. As I sat there, completely content, a young wallaby joined me and gently searched the ground for food just 15 feet away. I was wondering now if all of these wallaby visits were designed to create an overwhelming sense of guilt for the consumption of their fellow species members. It does make it harder to eat something when you stop and consider how sweet and cute it is in life. To avoid my wallaby cravings, maybe I should think like the lively and friendly Turkish woman I encountered a couple days ago that owns a wonderful Turkish restaurant and shop in Geeveston. When I told her how delicious wallaby was, she replied, “I don’t eat anything that hops!”

That evening I ate at Hotel Bruny’s restaurant. I went up to the bar to get a glass of water. A middle-aged mainland Australian couple politely moved aside so I could gain access to a water dispenser on the bar. We began talking and the topic eventually landed upon my three snake sightings. They smiled and thought my fear of poisonous snakes was cute. The husband proceeded to scare me off from an Australian mainland visit with a terrifying account of how crocodiles have been known to stalk a human for days. Whether this stalking is due to hunger or sexual deviancy, I don’t really care. Whether this type of crocodile incident happens once a year or once a day, I don’t really care. If I ever do visit the mainland, I will be sure to avoid all parts that support even a remote chance of this happening. I realize this may limit me to the top floors of a handful of Sydney’s skyscrapers, but that’s what binoculars are for.

It’s moments like this that remind me I’ll never be Teddy Roosevelt. Upon hearing this story of croc-stalking, Teddy would probably have allowed a crocodile to start stalking him and then walked out into the desert. In a battle of sheer will, he would not stop walking in the desert until the crocodile collapsed from dehydration and exhaustion. To keep things sporting, Teddy probably would have brought no food with him, would have fasted for a week beforehand, would have only an ounce of water for his journey, and would do 30 push ups every 500 meters.

The next day I drove south and paid a quick visit to Cloudy Bay. After a walk on the beach, I returned to my car in a small dirt parking lot. Parked next to me was an Australian gentleman who was returning his surf board to the top of his adventurous-looking vehicle. He told me he was knee-deep in a three or four month holiday. In some sort of a park ranger role back on the mainland, I was unsure how he managed to wrangle so long of a vacation but from what I have heard, it’s far more common in Australia for person to exit reality for months at a time each year. I thought I was a cool kid for going abroad each year for a month but it turns out I’m an amateur.

From Cloudy Bay, I drove north to the ferry station, made it back to the main island and drove north to Hobart where I checked myself into the Old Bishop’s Quarters. There were five or so self-contained apartment-style units on this heritage property that had served previously as the residence of the Anglican Bishop in Tasmania for 135 years. This was another accommodation that garnered a slightly steamed response from Pam when a Facetime call revealed how lovely of a hospitality unit she was missing.

The next day I walked all over the city of Hobart and in efforts to make amends for my solitary two weeks of travel, I purchased an attractive silver necklace made by a local Tasmanian jeweler for Pam. Towards the end of my long day of walking, I sat down in a quiet and hidden spot next to a stream that was part of a very modest greenway of sorts. Possibly a site for illicit rubbing/petting and drug use during the evening, now it provided the perfect spot to smoke my last Wee Willem Gold.

The following day I left Hobart and took the scenic route back to Launceston, stopping in at the handsome towns of Richmond, Oatlands, and Ross. Back to where it all started, my last night in Tasmania would be spent in the same accommodation we spent our first night: The Dragonfly Inn. Early the following morning, a taxi transported me to the airport and I began my three-flight, 26-hour journey back home. Upon entering my place, I discovered a wife that was happier to see me than any pet I have encountered. I’m not comparing my wife to an animal; I’m simply saying she was psyched to see me. And yes, the necklace may have turned up the heat of this warm welcome home.