With platypus glory still ringing in my head we sloshed our way back to the car and, once we had enticed my correspondent in out of the rain, headed off for Strathgordon which is described by wikipedia as a "locality". The wilderness lodge we were staying at was the sole source of food, accommodation and petrol in the region. To all intents and purposes the lodge is Strathgordon insofar as Strathgordon is anything at all. A single narrow, winding road took us further and further away from such shreds of civilisation and deep into the wilderness of southwest Tasmania. The retired diplomat and I frequently had to restrain my correspondent to prevent her leaping from the car for impromptu bushwalks, this was particularly important since my correspondent was driving.
Despite these minor excitements we trundled slowly behind various logging trucks en route to a world heritage wilderness area. Apparently it was too difficult to log and too barren for sheep. A lake loomed on our left.
"Is that Lake Pedder?" I asked excitedly.
"No"
Another lake loomed.
"How about that one?"
"Probably not."
A third lake presented itself for our visual delectation.
"Yes, ok that one is probably Lake Pedder."
A quick check on the map after our arrival confirmed that in fact all three "lakes" were Lake Pedder. It's really rather big. In mist and rain we rolled into the wilderness lodge, parked our bags and met in the lounge.
"Would you like to go for a walk?" suggested my correspondent.
"Do you want to share a bottle of wine?" offered the retired diplomat. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and occasional glimpses of Sun could be seen between the clouds. My correspondent retreated muttering while the retired diplomat and I enjoyed the wine.
The wilderness lodge was definitely the best stay of our trip. Cheaper than Cradle Mountain, more convenient than Strahan and less chilly, ill designed and decaying than Derwent Bridge. The food was great and the view (when it could be seen through the mist) pretty much obviated the need to do anything as adventurous as walking outside. Which didn't stop my correspondent who roamed the wilderness like the buffalo of old (very lost buffalo but buffalo nonetheless). The retired diplomat and I confined our roaming to the journey from our seats to the bar and back again. Even that got a little difficult later in the evening.
The next day was somewhat nicer weatherwise which was convenient considering that we were leaving. Reluctantly heaving our, now somewhat noisome, luggage into the car we set off. Our ultimate destination was Hobart but we took a side trip to look at Gordon Dam. Depending on your perspective the Gordon Dam is either a staggering work of engineering or one of the worst pieces of environmental vandalism you're likely to encounter. It certainly looks impressive, the Gordon Dam forms Lake Gordon then they dammed Lake Pedder just in case Lake Gordon ran out of water.
The dam itself was a towering curve of concrete that neatly filled the gorge that the previously unemployed Gordon River had cut through the countryside. Despite grey skies and occasional rain (the weather hadn't improved that much) the dam demanded attention. Whichever of the two categories above you fall into you're unlikely to leave the dam unimpressed. A flight of metal stairs led from the viewing platform down to the dam itself. I felt rather than saw the gleam in my correspondent's eyes and sighed.
"Oh all right!"
We made our way cautiously down said steps while the retired diplomat retreated to the car. Once on the dam we had stupendous, if somewhat stomache churning, views down the valley. Signs warned us not to hop up on the wall which was the only thing preventing us from falling to a grisly death. The fact that the signs were necessary at all is yet another indication that the Human race hasn't got evolution quite right. Sights were gawped at, photos were taken and then all of those steps had to be gasped and wheezed up to get us back to our metal steed. Once there we coaxed the retired diplomat out from under the seat (she was driving) on a promise that we would stop absolutely nowhere else for bushwalks or vertiginous sight seeing.
And indeed that promise was kept. Hobart was calling and, for reasons not entirely clear to me, we answered the call. We arrived in Tasmania's capital in mid afternoon to be immediately drowned in a sea of hounds and children. Which pretty much brought us to the end of our holiday, except for the next morning when we popped down to Margate where Tasmania's last passenger train had been repurposed as a slightly bizarre shopping mall. I'm not even sure if the train ever went to Margate. Finally though my correspondent took me to one side, pointed out that my plane was leaving soon and even if it wasn't she was sick of the sight of me. In revenge I introduced her daughters to Swedish power metal on the way to the airport.
No comments:
Post a Comment