Travelling Hopefully - Most of Cape Queen Elizabeth

 The next day still semi delirious from our white wallaby frenzy we headed off to do the Cape Queen Elizabeth walk we had planned to do yesterday. This time we made absolutely sure we had water and supplies before abandoning our little car in what we hoped was a parking spot and not just a random location by the side of the road.

Our little journey got off to an inauspicious start when a couple of hundred metres along the path we encountered a couple coming the other way who informed us that an elderly lady had taken a fall a bit further along and that there was a fair bit of blood on the track.

Sure enough we soon encountered a clutch of people gathered around a rather battered lady on the ground. First aiders were in attendance and medics had been called so we eased around both blood and victim and abandoned them to their fate.

It all depended on the tide. Part of the walk took us along a beach which was submerged a decent part of the day. We had skilfully arranged to arrive at the beach at a time when the tide would be cooperative. Unfortunately the tide arrived at the same time and was unwilling to cooperate.

A frantic glance at my trail app showed us that we could circle around the rest of the walk and approach the beach from the other side when surely the tide would have sorted itself out. 

Up we struggled, panting through the bushes. At least I panted through the hedges. The Pilates instructor skipped gaily from rock to rock as if only lightly tethered to the ground. Eventually we reached the beach on the other side of a headland still inconveniently submerged. We found the rock archway that was the draw point for our entire walk. We took photos and then sat and stared at the tide for half an hour in the hopes it would take the hint.

The tide didn’t take the hint and eventually we struggled back the same way we came although not before scrambling up a sand dune in the vague hope it might magically deposit us where we wanted to go.

So we didn’t complete the walk although with all the backtracking and sand dune shenanigans we probably covered more ground than if we had. The elderly lady and the pool of blood were gone on our return proving that either medical attention had arrived or that the scavengers in this part of the world are pretty enthusiastic about their jobs.

Travelling Hopefully - White Wallaby Edition

 In the beginning was the plan. It was a plan meticulously worked out by the Pilates instructor with occasional unhelpful suggestions from me. We would rise, journey to Adventure Bay, known lurking spot of a community of white wallabies. After breakfast we would enjoy the sight of pallid marsupials disporting themselves for our amusement. Then we would drive to North Bruny Island where a brisk 13km bushwalk would build up an appetite to be satisfied at the only dining establishment on the island open on a Sunday night.

Things went wrong almost immediately. Offered the choice of two routes to Adventure Bay my companion chose the one she felt would be the most scenic. In this she was right. How much of the truly impressive scenery she managed to enjoy as she carefully guided our little town car along an unsealed track that existed largely in the imagination of the cartographer is another matter.

We emerged from the primordial forest grateful to have escaped with our lives and finally found the sole café Adventure Bay could boast. After breakfast we set out to see the white wallabies which we expected to be performing a welcoming dance in the street. There were none.

The wallabies are most active at dawn and dusk. Apparently 10am isn’t considered dawn in these parts. Faced with an absence of wallabies we headed towards the start of the Flutes Cape walk where apparently white wallabies covered the ground. On arrival at the car park we were greeted by a pair of regular wallabies who were working the car park like truck stop hookers. They were very obviously posing for photos before an admiring group but we spurned their coarse advances and headed into the bush.

The beginning of the trail came and went and with no sign of our prey we kept going. Things weren’t helped by the fact that everyone we passed regaled us with white wallaby sightings until we ground our teeth in envy.

At some point we realised we had pretty much committed ourselves to the entire walk and found ourselves plodding reluctantly up an impressive hill. Things weren’t helped by the fact that my companion’s white wallaby obsession had clearly spiraled into madness. She was seeing white wallabies behind every bush.

“There’s one!” She shrieked.

“That’s a rock.”

A little further on,

“There’s one!”

That’s a branch.”

And so on. Eventually wallaby spotting or, more accurately, not wallaby spotting had to give way to gasping for breath as we struggled up to the cape. On arrival the walk was definitely worth the effort as we gazed over the sea and assured each other that the inadvertent walk had definitely been worth the effort.

Since we had never intended to go this far we had left our water and supplies back in the car. Fortunately some passing hikers took pity on our obvious ineptitude and gave us some water. Refreshed and having exhausted the photo opportunities provided by cliffs, sea, bush and random islands we headed down by a different path so we could not see wallabies in a different location.

By the time we reached the car park we had covered ten hilly and unintended kilometres and agreed that the walk we had planned to do could be put off until another day. Besides it was grey and starting to rain. But the white wallaby obsession still burned fiercely in our breasts. A cafe employee assured us that the wallabies would come down out of the hills around and parade for visitors in the local’s yards. They would do this around five pm. It was currently twenty to three.

So we sat in a car park for the next two hours as the skies got greyer and rain misted down. My companion’s delusion got worse as the shadows lengthened.

“There’s one,” she shrieked.

“That’s a gas meter.”

Suddenly we saw a group of people staring fixedly up at a hill behind a house. Eagerly we joined them, there may have been a certain amount of elbowing small children out of the way. There in the distance was a whitish shape that with a certain generosity of spirit could be considered wallaby shaped. We took photos and assured each other it was a wallaby before returning to the car park.

Of course we could have left then but with the shadows lengthening we decided there was little harm in hanging around until our welcome completely wore out. Back in the car we peered out into the gathering gloom until my companion clutched my arm.

“There’s,” she hissed, “it’s coming down the hill.” She took photos which we examined minutely. It was a sign nailed to a tree. It was now around five in the evening. We drove slowly and a little disconsolately along the street. As if to mock us regular hued wallabies popped up in every yard. 

Then as if by a flipped switch suddenly we were overwhelmed with white wallabies. They posed for photos, they hopped across the street at one point I think they tried to steal our car. After a long day our white wallaby cup ran over and puddled on the ground.

Travelling Hopefully - Arrival Edition

 My journey of a thousand miles began with the traditional step towards Sydney airport but rapidly improved as we were rapidly herded towards a modest sized aircraft that surprised everyone by being on time. I was also pleasantly surprised to find that in defiance of rational expectations 

Also defying rational expectations was the sudden presence of the Pilates instructor who had unaccountably rejected multiple opportunities to flee for the hills and joined me on the flight. 

We landed in Hobart slightly early, picked up our rental car and set off for Bruny Island. Thirty seconds later we stopped again and referred to the vehicles manual to identify such useful things as the indicator controls and why the hell the car kept beeping at us.

With cheerful enthusiasm and frequent cursing we eventually (and by “we” I mean she) worked out how the car was meant to work and we pointed our nose in the direction of Bruny Island. My role was to simultaneously keep an eye on the map and the speed limit signs and warn her if we ran anyone over.

We headed through bustling, downtown Hobart and two minutes later had left Tasmania’s glittering, cosmopolitan capital behind us heading for a car ferry that would carry us across the storm tossed waves to Bruny Island.

Actually the whole trip was remarkably painless despite my propensity to shout “wallaby!” every time a marsupial got within a hundred metres of us.

Middle afternoon saw us crunching up the drive of our rented cottage as wallabies fled in all directions. We got out of the car, rhapsodised about the view and the quality of the accommodation and promptly drove off to see a lighthouse.

My companion was much taken with said lighthouse, with the view and particularly the clouds and the sunset. I having followed her eager ascent perhaps a little too vigorously simply gasped for breath and tried not to vomit.

With shadows lengthening and park personnel glancing meaningfully at their watches we clambered back into our faithful if somewhat undersized steed and returned to our cabin. Along the way wallabies scrambled out of the way with sufficient frequency to explain the roadkill littering Tasmania’s streets and, not infrequently, driveways.

That night I dined on most of a sheep while my companion seemed a little miffed that wallaby had been removed from the menu. My suggestion that she simply scrape some off the road was not met with favour.