We left Strahan under a hail of freezing rain. Later, just for variety, we would be subjected to a rain of freezing hail. Our destination was Derwent Bridge. Derwent Bridge isn't really a place, rather it is where such of the foolhardy as have survived the Overland Track stagger out in search of civilisation. There isn't any at Derwent Bridge but fortunately there's a bus to take them the rest of the way. For those who emerge blinking and shivering from the wilderness too late to jump the bus to Hobart accommodation has been built at Derwent Bridge. Here the intrepid walkers can be eased gently back into civilisation by controlled exposure to hot showers, cooked food and not having to walk over some of the most god awful terrain in Tasmania. My correspondent has done the Overland Track (of course she has) and spoke of its horrors with such an enthusiastic gleam in her eye as to make me seriously worry for her sanity.
Along the way to Derwent Bridge we passed through Queenstown. If you ever get the opportunity I strongly encourage you to pass through Queenstown. There are so many other interesting places you can be going. Not Derwent Bridge of course but most of the rest of Tasmania. Queenstown has many interesting tourist attractions like the gravel football field, the slag heap and deforested hills. You get the idea. In fact a combination of tree chopping, pollution from the mine works and incessant rain reduced the landscape to something quite resembling the surface of the Moon. Things are a little better now and some of the more bloody minded tree species are sending some tentative roots down into the blasted hellscape. The population of Queenstown took a vote and narrowly decided not to rip them all up again (by this time the "surface of the Moon" look had become a genuine tourist attraction).
Since it was cold, windy and raining naturally my correspondent decided to take a quick walk along the side of a cliff to look at a waterfall. Naturally because I'm an idiot I went with her. Naturally, because she's the only one of us with a modicum of common sense, the retired diplomat stayed in the car. We clumped and slithered along a walkway that had been securely (I hope) bolted to the side of the mountain and peered through the water coming down at even more water coming down. This is my correspondent's idea of a good time.
Once we were done we left Queenstown behind us (which is my idea of a good time) and pointed the car in a southeastish direction towards Derwent Bridge. Beautiful forested countryside (once we were safely away from Queenstown) passed by in a grey rain sodden haze. Suddenly my correspondent starting talking enthusiastically about Lake St Clair which was apparently quite close to our destination. The retired diplomat hunched down in her seat well aware of what was coming. Despite my experiences to date I was less insightful and eventually was talked into taking a quick trip out to Lake St Clair once we had arrived at Derwent Bridge.
Our accommodation in Derwent Bridge was huge, cavernous and ill heated. To be fair Hell would have had difficulty heating something the size of our accommodation. Vast high ceilings snatched what heat the fires put out and clutched it jealously to themselves while the wretched human denizens below shivered. It is the first place I've been to that found it necessary to issue blankets for the guests in the dining room. It has to be said that the place was on the decline. My correspondent having been alternately scalded and frozen by the shower recommended basin washing for the duration of our stay.
Once we had dumped our bags in our chilly rooms my correspondent drove me to Lake St Clair. The retired diplomat huddled under a blanket with a bottle of wine and rejected any attempts to move her. Through rain that was fast becoming sleet we made our way to Lake St Clair. It was indeed beautiful and scenic and all the stuff you normally associate with lakes surrounded by bushland. Also, unusually for Tasmania, this was a natural lake and not created by damming the hell out of something. It is actually here at the rangers station that the Overland Track officially ends. Hikers lurch out of the wilderness and provide details of the fallen to the rangers who have to write more "I regret to inform you..." letters than a World War 1 general. Sometimes the bones are found sometimes not. Once a hiker is down they are easy prey for Tasmanian Devils who will eat everything including the skeleton.
Having "enjoyed" the rain sodden vistas at Lake St Clair my correspondent acceded to my increasingly incoherent pleas to be returned somewhere warm and drove us back to our accommodation which as noted above didn't really qualify. The place is for sale. Hopefully the new owners can do something with the place. I recommend demolition.
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