Travelling Hopefully - Marsupials in the Mist

 After our fungus ridden heroics of the previous day both my correspondent and myself were ready for a quieter, less physically demanding day. In this we were assisted by breakfast. The previous night I had raised, purely hypothetically I assure you, the possibility of a breakfast that involved pancakes, butter, maple syrup and bacon. Quite specific for a hypothetical scenario I'm sure you'll agree. I was expecting the location of a cafe that might serve such items to eager travelers. Instead my correspondent recruited an ex-prison guard who filled me so full of food that walking was out of the question and even registering a pulse seemed like too much effort. 

However I couldn't spend all day rolling on the floor clutching my belly. At least that's what my correspondent said. Whether she was keen to show off her neighbourhood or simply desperate to get me out of her house is a matter of debate but eventually I shambled after her as she set a brisk pace towards a nearby stream. 

The aforementioned stream runs down a valley that my correspondent's house clings to the side of and provides a little local bushland within walking distance. Or at least it was walking distance for those who weren't stumbling along with bacon fat dribbling out of their eyes. My correspondent waxed lyrical about the bush, a small cave positioned for our entertainment and marsupials. Yes apparently furry, hoppy things abound. If we came back at dusk we could see them. I refrained from asking what we were doing there in the middle of the day.

Before the thrill of caves and marsupials however there was water.  The stream had been dammed a little upstream of my correspondent's home and the ensuing modest lake provided its small mite to Hobart's water supply as well as a residence for homeless water birds who I can only assume were living in bus shelters until the dam was built.

Here is the aforementioned lake doing its best to look like a natural feature

 I agreed that the lake was picturesque and definitely a fine example of lakedom (actually "lakedom" sounds like a rather niche porn site). I took photos and gathered my strength before embarking on the cave aspect of our journey.

"Where's the cave?" I asked looking around hopefully. My correspondent pointed straight up, there may or may not have been a malicious gleam in her eye. I should have guessed that. Since her locale was blessed with a creek it should not come as a surprise that there was a certain amount of verticality to the land immediately on either side of it. A road snaked up the hillside. Apparently if we climbed for a certain distance we could then strike out for a brief stroll until we reached the cave. Unspoken was her assurance that if I didn't make it up the hill she would leave my body to the tender mercies of the elements and marauding marsupials.

I gasped, retched, heaved and sweated and once I had made it to my feet set out on the hill climb. I suppose it wasn't that brutal as steep ascents go. It was relatively short and I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I prayed for death as my wobbly legs somehow propelled my breakfast heavy body upwards. My correspondent chatted on the way, I'm not sure who to as my conversation consisted of ragged gasps and occasional moans. 

When the path finally tilted back in the direction of horizontal my correspondent invited me to admire the view. The only view I was admiring was the red mist in front of my eyes but it has to be admitted that was spectacular. A short way along and the cave was presented to me in all its glory.

A small but definite cave

I took my time admiring the cave. Frankly I would have admired a rubbish heap if it had given me a chance to catch my breath. I agreed with my correspondent that it was a charming and understated example of the species then I turned my back on it so I could photograph the surrounding scenery.

The surrounding scenery. Somewhere at the bottom of this is the lake we just left

We sat and chatted idly in the shadow of the cave while some of us waited for our heart rate to get down to a level where coronary was only likely rather than inevitable. Once having exhausted every excuse for not moving, and disliking the look of the clouds charging over the top of Mount Wellington we decided to depart. Rather than retrace our steps down the road we went down the hillside instead. It took us about five minutes which made my previous whining seem a little pathetic. 

Once back at lake level my correspondent presented me with two options. We could either return to her house or cross to the other side of the creek and walk through the bush there. For reasons which I can only describe as pure masochism I selected option B. I almost gave up when the first thing that happened was we started climbing again but fortunately this was of short duration. With the creek somewhere below us on the right we strolled along the narrow path. I glanced down and came eye to eye with a wallaby which had been hiding in a bush hoping we'd go by without stopping. Caught out it graciously posed for a photograph before fleeing into the trees.

Well that was unexpected

Quite cock a hoop I continued along with a spring in my step. I looked more closely at the bush from then on and was rewarded with close views of the bush. A black blur caught my eye, I initially passed by but retraced my steps. I peered at the blur and it resolved itself into something roughly marsupial shaped. A potoroo according to my correspondent. 

This is the best I could do, it was considerably further away than the first one

Naturally I looked for platypus in the creek and naturally I didn't see any but I was over my platypus fixation now glutted on marsupial sightings. "Just wait," promised my correspondent.

Later that day after an afternoon nap/coma my correspondent returned me to the lake amidst mounting drizzle and mist. Apparently marsupials of various stripes congregated on the open grass once all of the tourists had buggered off. We sneaked up on vague, black shapes in the rain and gathering darkness. Closer they resolved into vague, black shapes that were, well, closer. Fortunately the quality of my phone puts my eyes to shame.

It was nowhere near this clear or this bright.

 

 

I'm not sure what this is but it hopped and was furry so I'm going with marsupial rather than frog

With my trip to Tasmania crowned in marsupial glory there was nothing left but to thank my correspondent for not killing me at any stage in the proceedings and retire to my hotel in preparation for my departure the next day. At the airport I bought the latest book by Richard Osmond and finished it by the time I arrived back in Sydney.

Travelling Hopefully - Waterfall and Fungi Edition

 Daylight comes slowly in Hobart in Winter.  It generally manages to turn up several hours after the day has begun without the slightest apology for being late. My hotel informed me that they served breakfast from 6.30 in the morning and that they recommended wearing warm clothing since they served breakfast in the "atrium". For the hard of understanding an atrium is essentially an aircraft hanger with furniture. It is not easy to heat and the hotel had solved that problem by refusing to try.  I slithered over the ice coated tiles, chased the snow leopards away from the table and signalled to one of the staff members that had not yet succumbed to hypothermia that I would like breakfast.  The speed with which I was served was an indication that movement was the only thing keeping my waitress alive.

Once sated with breakfast I took a call from my correspondent. Which did I prefer, caves, coast or waterfalls?  I pointed out that I'd already had breakfast but apparently she was referring to bushwalks that could be undertaken. Shyly I indicated my preference for waterfalls and in less time than it takes to tell (especially if I'm telling it) I was in a car travelling in the direction of downward heading water.

We left Hobart and headed towards the wild interior of Tasmania (approximate travel time, 27 seconds). The Derwent River uncoiled lazily on our right and then appeared on our left due to an unscheduled interaction with a bridge. My correspondent pointed out that this was absolutely not the river that produced the waterfalls, apparently Tasmania has at least two. Our destination was Mount Field where sufficient of the native forest had been left standing to justify walking trails and generalised outdoor activities. My correspondent waxed lyrical on the profusion of fungus that would present itself for our delectation as we wandered through the bush. To meet her hype fungus would have had to be throwing itself out of the forest at us at every turn. Strangely she wasn't far off.

Mount Field of course has a special place in my heart as it was here some years ago that I saw a platypus (very briefly) swimming down a creek. I knew the chances of a repeat performance were slim but I stared at every patch of water we encountered in breathless anticipation. Sadly the monotreme visibility on this particular visit would be on the low side.

The day was cool, there was moisture in the air (to be fair there was a good deal of moisture at ground level too, particularly the more waterfall intensive parts) and we set off into the bush at Mount Field in good spirits. By good spirits I mean my correspondent promised not to kill me if I kept my mouth shut.

The Tasmanian bush plus an indication of the ruggedness of the trail we were walking on

The next seven kilometres was a waterfall splashed, fungus ridden wonderland. At least it was if you like both waterfalls and fungi. For reasons I can't adequately explain, I do. If you don't like waterfalls and fungi then the next seven kilometres was a waterlogged, mouldy hellscape. A vast profusion of fungus presented itself for my delectation and I was busy with my camera taking what, for the most part, turned out to be rather inadequate photos. I'm not particularly good with a camera as the number of blurry fungus photos in my possession proves despite the fact that fungus doesn't move particularly quickly and is generally prepared to pose for the paparazzi. 

We'll get to the fungus later but first, a waterfall

It had rained recently and the waterfalls were quite enthusiastic about their job of transporting liquid vertically downward for the excitement of the audience. We greeted the sight of gravity doing its job with appropriate awe stricken noises although the real excitement would have come if the water had done anything else.

We moved slowly through the bush our pace dictated by the idiot freak with the camera insisting on pausing to photograph every piece of fungus that presented itself.

For example

As the day went on and the number of fungus photographs climbed into the low hundreds I started getting a little picky, turning up my nose at examples of fungi I had already seen. This quickened our pace somewhat but by that time my correspondent had already begun to despair of ever seeing her family again. 

 

Of course it couldn't be all fungi and waterfalls, despite my best efforts.  From time to time in the interests of balanced reporting I took photos of trees and logs and things. But then the next fungus would present itself and I would sink happily back into old ways.

We snuck up on the next waterfall from above so that instead of seeing water cascading down a cliff we saw water vanishing into the void. From above it looks as though the river just stops which I suppose is true in a sense although the water keeps going.

 

The river stops and starts up again somewhat lower down

In deference to the fact that the water going down is the picturesque part of a waterfall we then followed the water's path (somewhat less precipitously) for appropriate, cascade style photographs.

  

The same waterfall believe it or not

With two waterfalls under our belt we re-immersed ourselves in the world of fungi so thoroughly that I'm surprised we ever emerged. At some point during our walk the quiet of the bush had been shattered by a gang of black cockatoos that had rendered speech nearly impossible while simultaneously remaining to far away to be effective photographed. So here are some more fungi shots instead.

If you don't have a burning interest in fungi you could probably go to the end of this blog entry now. Oh wait, you already have

The path went on and so did the fungi, dogging our steps whether we were climbing hills or wandering through valleys. By this stage I was a total fungus snob refusing to photograph anything but the choicest selection.

 

 

The fungi have improved, sadly my photography hasn't

 

 

As is traditional on bushwalks we had taken a generally downward trend which required a definite amount of climbing to return to our starting point.  This climb took the form of a staircase leading up through the bush.  I had been given dire warnings about this staircase and approached it with distinct trepidation but with my correspondent leading the way I made it to the top without any more than the usual dizziness and black spots before my eyes. My correspondent congratulated me on my fitness while I wheezed and tried not to vomit on her shoes.

After I had recovered somewhat I stumbled after her back to her car, arriving just in time to thwart her plans to race off and leave me to the mercies of marauding fungi. We had dinner that night at a restaurant so close to my hotel that even I found it impossible to get lost on the journey.  The next day I had been promised marsupials.

Travelling Hopefully - Evacuation Drilled

 At slightly later than advertised but nowhere near late enough to complain a random group of people united by nothing but their desire to reach Hobart without getting seasick obediently clambered up a rickety looking gantry to gain entry to a rather small aircraft.  The aircraft it had to be admitted was an awkward size.  It was too small to use the usual terminal gateways but wasn't quite small enough that you could simply walk up to it and hop in, hence the meccano set inspired stairway.  If you don't know what meccano is, ask your parents to ask their parents.

Once we were all stuffed in a narrow metal tube the safety briefing began. I have sat through so many of these that I could recite them in my sleep or at least I could if I had listened to any of them. There was a new twist to the standard "in the unlikely event that you survive an emergency" talk this time though. Just ahead of me a pair of wings sprouted from the sides of the plane and those passengers fortunate enough to be sitting beside them were taken aside by the stewardess who quizzed them on the likelihood of their keeping their wits sufficiently about them in a crisis to open the evacuation doors which were apparently right over the wings. Apparently sufficient greasy assurances were provided by the passengers to satisfy the stewardess and she got on with the rest of the briefing. I eyed my fellow passengers suspiciously, one of them was already toying with the safety release and I wondered how many previous passengers had precipitated an emergency by being a little too eager with the evacuation protocols.

The rest of the briefing was all the standard stuff.  We were told that our life jackets were under our seats where they would be easy to grab assuming the aircraft crashed on a perfectly even keel. If it tilted at all passengers were far more likely to be trying to remove the seat in front of them from their face to reach for a life jacket which was now likely above their head. Said life jacket was equipped with a whistle. Air passing through this whistle would produce a high pitched screaming noise which would save the passengers the effort while they were plummeting to their deaths. A convenient light which would activate in water was also provided to assist rescuers in finding your corpse. If the plane isn't going down over the sea try and aim for a swimming pool or large puddle otherwise they may never find you.

In case you weren't listening to the stewardess all of this information was conveniently printed on a card that you didn't read either. I must admit I'm usually pretty sanguine about the safety briefing but sitting in a small, narrow plane that could apparently be torn apart by a couple of passengers certainly helped to focus my attention. What it didn't focus my attention on was the safety briefing, rather I focussed my attention on my fellow passengers to see which ones I was most likely to be able to kick out of the way as I scrambled for one of the holes ripped in the fuselage by someone who was almost certainly out of the plane already and probably dead.

After this build up it was actually a little bit of a let down when the plane landed in Hobart with barely a tyre screech to announce our arrival. 

Touring the Colonies

 I reached out to my Tasmanian correspondent the other day something I am reluctant to do ever since the "unpleasantness". Still she was technically my employee (or at least she would be if I paid her anything) so I felt within my rights to get in touch.  She obviously had a different opinion around the entire "get in touch" scenario but after a great deal of effort I managed to coax her onto a video call.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Fine," she replied with that sort of studied neutrality that implies an awareness of impending disaster coupled with uncertainty about its direction.

And that's where things stopped.  Having gone through all the effort of getting in touch it suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten to have anything to say.  Suddenly inspiration struck.

"It's your birthday soon isn't it?' A look of pure horror crossed her face.

"No," she whispered, her voice a desperate plea.

"I might come down..."

"Dear god no!!"

"... and visit you."

"If you come anywhere near me..."

"I'll bring a present."

"I'll pick you up from the airport."

It is deep, dark Winter in Tasmania.  The days are short, the nights are cold and twisted creatures roam the howling wilderness seeking prey.  But enough of the Hobart night life.  I shall enjoy my correspondents hospitality (when she heard I was staying the night she was kind enough to insist I stay at a hotel) and will spend the days roaming the bush or the city or wherever else my correspondent abandons me as she makes her getaway.  I've bought return flights which in retrospect seems a little optimistic of me.

Tasmania has remote bushlands abounding in platypus and fungi and all of them (my correspondent assures me) unlikely to be disturbed should an interloping mainlander wind getting buried there.  Some of those remote bushlands are disturbingly close to my correspondent's home.  On an unrelated note she informs me she has recently purchased a new shovel "for gardening".  My correspondent expressed a hope that I would see a platypus which I thought was rather nice of her although I'm not sure why she felt obliged to add the words "one last time" to the end of that sentence.

So in a spirit of eagerness and trepidation I approach the weekend looking forward to when our nation's largest surviving airline shoves me into a metal tube and essentially throws me at Tasmania.  It's not enough that I have to survive my correspondent.  First I have to survive Qantas.

My Legions are Growing

 Recently my parents returned from New Zealand.  Somewhat less recently my parents went to New Zealand but that isn't part of this story.  As proof of their globe trotting ways they turned up at home clutching photographs and gifts.  Sitting down and looking at some of the former was the price I paid for one of the latter. The latter was a rather handsome kiwi themed plush toy which I have christened Spike.  I introduced him to his companions and all seemed to be going well.  Until the next morning.

I awoke to find the furry spider two feet away from my face, staring at me. I screamed and he jumped two feet straight in the air.

"What the hell was that?" demanded the spider.

"Sorry, foot cramp."

The spider rolled several of its eyes.

"Come into the lounge room," it ordered. In the lounge room the plush toys were gathered in a semi circle waiting for me.

"Oh god, not another intervention."

"Listen," said Humpy the camel, "we all love you..."

"Bullshit, half of you can't remember my name and I'm pretty sure I saw the puffin stirring ground glass into my dinner last night."  

"Which you didn't eat despite all the effort I put in," snapped the puffin. "All right, none of us love you but if you go completely over the edge and get hauled away to the giggle factory what's going to happen to us?"

"So what is it this time?"

"Have you seen how many plush toys there are about the place?"

I looked around, they had a point. There were definitely more of them than I recall.  Certainly more than I remembered buying.  It has to be admitted that what had started out as a harmless personality quirk had teetered more in the direction of something disturbingly pathological.

"All right, point taken. Now what?"

The plague doctor stepped forward with an unholy gleam in his eye.

"Fortunately modern medical science can come to the rescue.  Your humours are seriously unbalanced leading to an excess of black bile but fear not, relief is at hand." Proudly he displayed his tools; a set of garden shears and a selection of hand held drills some of which still had bits of previous patients adhering to them. I made a bolt for the exit but went down under a tide of plush toys, which rather proved their point.

"What are you going to do?"

"I recommend a course of remedial trepanning," replied the plague doctor.

"He's going to drill holes in your head," giggled the puffin with what I thought was seriously misplaced enthusiasm.  I struggled but to no avail.

"Don't worry," said the plague doctor, "I've never lost a patient." 

"Really?"

"Yeah, I know where all of them are buried."

"How the hell is this supposed to help?" I demanded struggling futilely against my bonds.

"Honestly," snapped the plague doctor his bench side manner almost exhausted. "I drill the holes releasing excess blood so that the black bile can dissipate and your humours can rebalance. It's simple medical science son." The puffin meanwhile was shaving my head with far more enthusiasm that the situation required as the plague doctor reached for what looked like the rustiest and most blood spattered of the hand drills.

 "Will it hurt?"

"Occasionally I get cramp in the wrist but not normally."

"I mean will it hurt me?"

"Oh hell yes, they'll hear you in the next state."

Forty five excruciating minutes later my humours were so well balanced that they were trickling out of both ears.  The plague doctor pronounced himself satisfied and the other plush toys crowded around congratulating him on his skill. I settled for showing my gratitude by whimpering to myself.

"I think I need another plush toy," I muttered.

"Buy as many as you like," replied the psychedelic shark with an evil grin, "our numbers must grow."

"Just one thing," said the plague doctor, "I may have left the drill bit inside of your head.  Try to avoid sudden movements, or sneezing." 

Definitely not too many plush toys