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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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