Travelling Hopefully - Hopefully Traveling

 We left the place of carved wood ignoring the vengeful muttering of bumblebees outraged at our escape and pointed our nose towards Hobart and the end of our journey. My companion was driven to transports of ecstasy over the beauty of the Tasmanian countryside. I, who had visited Tasmania several times, affected an air of world weary indifference that impressed her so much she threatened to brain me with a water bottle. 

As we approached Hobart and the Tasmanian countryside started to change into the Tasmanian cityside it became obvious that something was wrong. The minibus, our noble steed for the past few days, was struggling. Warning lights that no-one, not even our tour leader, recognised started appearing on the dashboard and our pace slowed to a glacial crawl. Painfully we inched our way up hills while other traffic, bicycles and the occasional motivated pedestrian whizzed past us. Downhill gravity and momentum came to our aid which gave us enough of a run up for the next labouring ascent.  

Inch by inch we crawled towards Hobart cursing every red light that brought our dubious progress to a halt. Eventually however the minibus heaved itself over the last rise and trundled down into the streets of Hobart where gathered impetus and the prayers of the passengers helped it lurch to a halt at the Travelodge which was our finishing point. Here my companion and I said a hasty farewell to our leader and the remaining CoRS before grabbing a fully functioning uber to the airport adjacent caravan park that would be our home for a disturbingly short number of hours before our flight to Broome the next day. Once in our accommodation my companion amused herself by striking pilates poses while I amused myself by ogling and taking photos (with her consent I hasten to add).

At obscene o'clock the next morning we dragged ourselves to Hobart airport for the first of three flights that would eventually deposit us in Broome at the other end of the continent. As we flew over Bass Strait the rising sun provided us with an unforgettable picture that was eclipsed only by the sight of the same sun setting as we were landing in Broome. Having woken before 4am we arrived in Broome after 7pm and arrived in our accommodation. As we entered my companion stared at me with an look of betrayal on her face. I had selected the accommodation based on the fact that our tour would pick us up there the next day. My companion thought we were staying in a Travelodge, a cheap but reliable hotel chain. We were actually staying in a travelers lodge, essentially a backpackers hostel thronging with young people disinclined to go to bed at an early hour. I pointed out that we were only there until 7.30 the next morning and she pointed out that the chances of my surviving that long were decreasing by the minute.

Strangely we both survived the night, had our last hot showers for several days and presented ourselves at the entrance in good time the next morning along with a couple of other travelers joining our trip who had made the same foolhardy decision as myself. A little while later we got a call from the tour group asking where we were. Apparently they were at the end of the driveway and hadn't thought to come up to the actual entrance to see if we were around. With that little misunderstanding resolved we clambered onto a large wheeled truck with windows and (blessedly) airconditioning and pointed ourselves in the general direction of the Bungle Bungles, our ultimate destination. 

Travelling Hopefully - Carved Wood and Bumblebees

 The next day steeped in culture and with the scent of rainforest lingering in our nostrils we departed Strahan. Truly there was no reason to stay and the place was becoming less like a tourist attraction and more like a haunt for serial killers with every passing hour.

So off we went my companion and I plus a tour leader and various hangers on. Our first stop was Queenstown which completely failed to alter the latent serial killer vibe that was starting to permeate everything. 

We had breakfast at a cafe attached to Queenstown railway station.

“Aha!” I hear you cry, “So Queenstown has a railway service.”

Well yes and no. Slightly yes but mainly no. What it has is a heritage railway run as a tourist attraction. Technically it connects Queenstown with Strahan but the last time I caught it the  train stopped halfway and returned to its point of origin. Not that I’m complaining about not visiting Queenstown.

We finished breakfast and fled Queenstown as quickly as we decently could. Behind the wails of souls damned to walk its treeless streets clawed at our sanity.

Which is probably why we stopped at Lake St Clair. It is virtually impossible to travel to Tasmania and not stop at Lake St Clair. Certainly there is a very pretty lake there and it’s also the terminus of the Overland Track. 

The Overland Track starts at Cradle Mountain and finishes at Lake St Clair. Hikers whose fitness and enthusiasm are sadly not matched by their sanity or good judgment launch themselves into the alpine wilderness and usually emerge at Lake St Clair where they call a bus to take them home. I say “usually emerge” because sometimes they don’t emerge at all. Finding the unfortunate victims bodies is difficult because Tasmanian devils have very powerful jaws and even more powerful digestions.

On that cheery note we dined on pizza by the lake and looked out for the snakes that warning signs promised us were stacked ten deep on the most popular trails. We didn’t see any and slunk back to our minibus to look at some carved wood.

At least some of the CoRS looked at carved wood. I had seen the carved wood the last time I was in Tasmania and had no desire to see it again. Other CoRS came out with words of praise for the carved wood and the Pilates instructor berated me as she had followed my example and not looked at the wood. Instead she had spent most of her time watching one of our number flee squealing pursued by a bumblebee. Possibly the least menacing predator known to man. As for me I was still getting over the shock of someone making decisions based on my opinions.

Travelling Hopefully - Rainforest Edition

At Strahan a stern choice awaited us. We could either go for a walk through the rainforest or take a cruise up the Gordon River which would allow you to see the rainforest while sitting in a seat. For reasons that are unclear to me even now I and the Pilates instructor chose the first option in the company of a couple from England while the remaining CoRS chose Option B.

Our tour leader bundled the four of us into the minibus and drove us deep into the woods. Despite this horror movie themed start the day got better as we set out on our walk. The sky was grey, the air was cool, rain threatened but didn’t eventuate and we ambled along chatting and photographing the scenery.

It wasn’t virgin rainforest, we were walking along an old mining track and in the recent (geologically speaking) past miners had stripped the countryside bare. Since they stopped the countryside has grown back with a resilience bordering on bloody mindedness presenting us with apparently pristine wilderness. We took photos of fungi (me), leaves (the Pilates instructor) and less specific scenery (everybody). Our destination, and we did have one, was Montezuma’s Falls a waterfall which promised to be in good shape after recent rains.

As we strolled through the lush bush we spared a thought for our fellow travellers forced to sit in comfortable seats, choking down complimentary salmon and champagne while the boat did all the work for them. Poor bastards.

Our walk took us past an old mine shaft, a dark opening in the hillside. I took a photo and stared at the indistinct figure that appeared to look back at me out of the darkness. I apologised to the tourist I had inadvertently photographed and hurried on before she could press charges.

Montezuma’s Falls came into view with an impressive amount of water taking the most direct route down without any of that “carving of a valley” nonsense. There was also a suspension bridge that seemed to exist only to creep out those who crossed it. It didn’t actually go anywhere.

On our way back to Strahan we stopped at Zeehan for lunch. A Sunday visit to Zeehan is like walking into a scene from a Scooby Doo cartoon. You expect the ghost of an ancient miner to pursue you through the abandoned but picturesque streets. Sadly we had to leave before we could reveal that the “ghost” was actually the much loved family solicitor trying to swindle the heiress out of her fortune.

Back at Strahan we collected the rest of the CoRS and were quietly smug to learn they hadn’t had a great day. Then we went to see The Ship that Never Was a play I saw last time I was in Strahan and is immense amounts of fun if you like pantomime and audience participation.

Travelling Hopefully - Rapid Walk Edition

After our triumphs at the Devil sanctuary we set off for Dove Lake where we intended to challenge the elements by walking the six kilometre circuit in weather conditions my companion called delightful and I thought was a precursor to the apocalypse. There was wind, cold and icy rain while mist virtually concealed Cradle Mountain, the putative object of our efforts , from all but the most penetrating of gazes.

We were in a hurry, apparently. Our tour leader chivvied us and impressed on us the absolute importance of our doing the six kilometre circuit within an hour and forty five minutes. If we lagged behind it was strongly implied that we would be abandoned to the ice and snow and the devils would feast on our bones.

While we were challenging the elements at Dove Lake our tour leader guided the bulk of the remaining CoRS on what was supposed to be a more modest walk that would culminate in wombats.

With our leaders encouragement/threats ringing in my ears I charged down the path. My companion showed a disturbing tendency to stop and enjoy the view or take photographs. I had no patience with such trivialities and urged her on through the sleet and mist.

Despite my companion’s annoying tendency to attempt to enjoy herself we made the six kilometres in an hour and thirty seven minutes and had time left over to photograph wombats. 

After that giddy with triumph (and in my case hypothermia) we headed off to Strahan.

Travelling Hopefully - Breeding Predators Edition

 Our guide approached us, despair writ large upon his face. He had been informed that the path to Cradle Mountain had been attacked by weather. Snow, ice, rain, mist, lakes of blood and plagues of locusts had been predicted for the Cradle Mountain region. The CoRS scattered in all directions seeking warmer clothing. Since there was only one store in Sheffield that sold such attire they all recoalesced pretty quickly. I joined the mad rush for warming attire. Only my companion stood proudly aloof. She did not panic, she did not falter. With a steady hand she produced her phone and searched through half a dozen weather prediction websites until she found one that pleased her. She then waved this in front of our guide’s face and in soothing tones assured him all would be well.

Strangely all was. At least for a given definition of “well”. Our minibus failed to slide off the ice slicked roads, the threatened blizzard and sleet didn’t eventuate and we arrived at Cradle Mountain chilly but unscathed. Or at least I presume we did. The prevailing mist meant that sight of the actual mountain was somewhat problematic.

At first we didn’t care as we had closer and more aggressive fish to fry. We visited a sanctuary for Tasmanian devils. Since they were a comprehensive sanctuary they also bred quolls, as you do. This is an attempt to defeat the face cancer which is threatening to wipe Tasmanian devils from the face of the earth thus fulfilling the fondly held dreams of nineteenth century farmers.

At the sanctuary fresh, cancer free devils are bred and kept. They aren’t released because there’s no point releasing them if they’re just going to catch cancer too. However researchers at the University of Tasmania are confident they’re only a couple of years away from a vaccine at which point a critical mass of devils will be inoculated and released in a black furred tide. I’m sure this won’t have any unforeseen side effects.

The sanctuary does release the quolls it breeds because nobody cares if quolls die.

Travelling Hopefully - Mural Edition

We rose early to see the sunrise. Unfortunately the sun was late and we were back at the motel before it turned up. With that as an introduction to the day our guide rounded up the CoRS and herded us onto the minibus. 

We were heading towards Sheffield, a town famous for being convenient for other more interesting places. Before the mural bedecked delights of Sheffield were paraded before our weary eyes we dropped in briefly on the Bay of Fires. There was a beach that we walked on to the delight of those among us who delight in walking on beaches.

Waving the coast goodbye we headed inland towards the delights of Sheffield. Sheffield’s delights are precisely two; murals and a Chinese restaurant.

The murals need a little explanation unfortunately I don’t have it. Suffice to say that most of the available wall space in town seems to be covered in murals. Some of them are quite good, others aren’t.

I was surprised to learn that Sheffield had a Chinese restaurant. I was even more surprised to learn that you had to reserve a table twenty four hours in advance. We obediently did so and presented ourselves at the restaurant at the allotted time. The young man behind the counter reacted as if, not only had he never seen a customer before but this might in fact be his first contact with the human race.

Eventually we forced him to admit that we did indeed have a booking. He gazed helplessly around the completely empty dining room and asked if table 9 would be acceptable. Frankly any table that wasn’t positioned over a trapdoor to the cellar was acceptable at this point. I’m pretty sure that he chose table 9 because it couldn’t be seen from the outside and therefore wouldn’t give passersby the impression that the restaurant was open.

Despite the slight horror movie vibes, the food was perfectly nice and reasonably priced although the young man, who appeared to be the only person in the building apart from ourselves, had terrible difficulties operating the register. There was a point where I thought he would actually be grateful if we fled without paying.

Eventually we did pay and we left replete with decent Chinese food and a slight feeling of only just having escaped with our lives.

Travelling Hopefully - Penguin Porn Edition

We rose the next day and headed to Wineglass Bay another beautiful place with a horrific history although in this case the atrocities were committed against the cetacean population rather than the indigenous one.

Along the way we stopped at a blow hole where we spent an entertaining twenty minutes or so watching water flow through a rock. We all agreed this was the best thing since sliced bread and continued our journey to Wineglass Bay in a state of near ecstasy.

A pleasant bushwalk took us to a lookout from where we got a great impression of how high we were above the bay. Our guide informed us there was a path involving many many steps that would take us down to the beach. I turned up my nose at such exertion but the Pilates instructor was jumping up and down with excitement and such is the effect of an attractive woman on a certain type of impressionable man (me) that I found myself following her down the path.

The journey down wasn’t too bad and we had a pleasant five minutes on the beach before we had to face the ascent. Partway up my companion’s enthusiasm drained away to be replaced by impassioned diatribes against her quadriceps which had apparently failed her at crucial moment. Despite this muscular treason we somehow made it to the top and stumbled frantically after the minivan which was in the process of abandoning us.

Catching the minivan was vital as it was our sole means of returning to our accommodation and, more importantly, penguins.

We turned up at the penguin pestering location in the early evening and after a brief opportunity to purchase a small penguin plush toy (eagerly accepted by at least one individual) we were loaded into a small van and driven to a piece of shoreline within the sanctuary. A guide asked us with apparent seriousness not to step on any penguins and led us into a surreal landscape illuminated in red and yellow lighting which I presume was for the benefit of the penguins as it certainly wasn’t helping the humans much.

Firstly we were shown a couple of penguins in a box. Apparently to assist the penguins in home making a number of artificial “burrows” have been created so that all the penguins have to do when they come ashore is move in. At that point I did wonder if this was all we were going to see of penguins so I dutifully took a photo before we were herded to the first viewing point.

The first viewing point presented us with the sight of a trio of penguins stumbling up the beach some distance away. There were “oohs” and “aahs” but they made themselves scarce pretty quickly. The next viewing point was pure gold. About a score of penguins were ploughing up the beach directly towards us. They paused for a moment as the shutter noise from some idiot’s camera spooked them but they regrouped and charged straight past us on the way to their burrows both artificial and penguin made.

That would have made my night but the next stop was the burrow area where penguins hang out. Penguins were indeed hanging out. In fact they were doing more than just hang out. There was flirting, mating displays and finally full on penguin on penguin action in front of us. My companion, displaying a level of depravity that she had so far kept hidden, filmed the whole thing. It will be visible on certain highly specific websites in a few weeks.

Once the NSFW part of the evening was over a pair of penguins walked up so close to us that I could have reached down and touched it. I didn’t in deference to the penguin’s sharp beak and habit of projectile excreting when they feel threatened. A group of people did their best to be as unthreatening as possible and eventually the penguins wandered off. Apparently they didn’t like the smell of somebody’s shoes. Shortly afterwards we wandered off ourselves our penguin cups running over.