Silly After Action Report - Muddy Mayhem

 Struggling under a heavy load of ammunition didn't stop the marine from complaining.

"A nice sea voyage and then hitting a beach, that's what the marines are supposed to be about.  Does anybody see a beach around here?"

One or two of the younger marines looked about but their view of any potential beaches was blocked by trees.

"At least the Japanese didn't expect us," responded one of his comrades while simultaneously trying to stop the mud flowing into his mouth.

"Of course they didn't expect us," continued the whiner.  "No one in their right mind would try coming through here."  There was a wet squelch as another marine tripped on a hidden tree root and landed in the mud.  By the time rescuers arrived he had disappeared without trace.

"You'd better watch it," said one of the other marines while clinging to a tree with one hand.  "If the CO hears you bitching you'll be in trouble."

"The CO ain't gonna hear anything," replied the first.

"How can you be so sure?"

"I'm standing on his shoulders."

In a futile attempt to get me interested in campaign games Dave Wilson has been selecting various scenarios for us to play.  This time its scenario J136 - Muddy Mayhem from the Suicide Creek mini campaign game that came out in ASL Journal 9.  The map consisted of a virtually unbroken sea of green with (as advertised) a creek running through it.  I would command the heroic US marines attempting to get from the tree covered mud on one side of the creek to the tree covered mud on the other side of the creek.  Dave's Japanese were grimly determined to defend their tree covered mud to the death.

The victory conditions are simple.  I don't have to kill Japanese or exit troops or capture buildings, all I have to do is get my own troops across that creek.  Thirty two VPs worth of troops plus a tank.  When the objective is that simple you just know its going to be virtually impossible.

Still I appear to have the tools to do the job.  I have twenty squad equivalents of 668 marines plus four squads of 768 assault engineers. They are led by nine officers and are equipped with a pair of hernia inducing heavy machine guns, five medium machine guns, five bazookas, two DCs, a flamethrower plus a pair of Sherman tanks, two M3 halftracks with 75mm guns and (for reasons I can't quite explain) a pair of 37mm antitank guns.  In case this doesn't seem quite enough another pair of Shermans roll on in turn three.  I also have a field phone and a radio connecting me to two different sets of artillery about which the less said the better.

Squatting like malevolent toads on the apparently more desirable, higher rent side of the stream are Dave's Japanese.  Six first line squads, three second line squads, two heavy and two medium machine guns, four light machine guns, two 50mm mortars, three DCs, and two 70mm guns.  Fortifications are represented by ten pillboxes with storm cellars and six wire counters.  He gets another six squads (including two elite) as reinforcements.  The lot are led by six officers including a 10-1.  He also has a field phone connecting him to some much better organised artillery.

OK, here's the thing.  If they want to get anywhere at all the tanks can only move along the trails which represent corduroy roads.  Further they can only cross the creek at one of the two fords which I had to place prior to the Japanese set up.  Realistically there are only a couple of places those fords can be put anyway.  This means that the Japanese will know where the tanks are crossing and can set up accordingly which Dave dutifully did. 

After looking at his set up I placed a pair of tanks and a decent force of infantry near the ford on the right.  The two reinforcing tanks and a small amount of infantry would head for the ford at the centre of the map.  Given the exiguous nature of the Japanese antitank defence I figured I would get at least one across.  All the infantry placed with the vehicles was largely diversionary, to throw firepower down on those opposite and stop them from interfering on the left of the map where his forces seemed thin and where I placed a large amount of infantry including three squads all manning mmgs and guided by a 9-2 leader.  In short I would tie him down in the centre and right and hopefully get infantry across on the left with relative impunity.

At start set up.  Both hmgs are lurking under a tank on the right.

It seems that I don't have much luck with artillery and that would continue, I would not get a single fire mission the entire game.  In this case however it wasn't luck that was to blame but sheer mind buggering incompetence on my part.  I set up the field phone in a location where it had a line of sight to literally nothing.  Over the course of the game the officer toting the radio connected to my other artillery would have better things to do (like attempting self rallying) than calling for fire support.  At the very least this reduced my administrative burden somewhat.

Things went more or less ok in the first couple of turns.  On the right the massed firepower of two tanks, a 37mm, two hmgs and weapon happy marines proved incapable of harming the Japanese in their bunkers.  An attempt to get a DC close resulted in marines fleeing (very slowly) for the rear.  On the left though my kill stack swept the area clean and allowed the accompanying troops to slither and splash their way into the creek enroute for the fabled southern bank.  In the centre I sent some troops and an M3 to start softening up the area prior to the arrival of my turn 3 tanks.  Such softening as occured was largely of me as Dave gave a master class in artillery (tip, put your observer somewhere he can observe something) and the crew of my 37mm in the area was broken and the newly arriving M3 rapidly destroyed.

End American turn 1

Dave brought on his reinforcements to reinforce the centre but was forced to redirect them to the threat on the left.  On the far right for reasons he never explained to me he jumped a force across the stream, apparently to bring the war onto American home ground.  I watched this with some bemusement as they struggled through the jungle and then cheerfully slaughtered them when they turned up adjacent to my 37mm gun.

End Japanese turn 1

The situation on the right wouldn't really change for about three turns.  I sat there in the jungle and blasted at pillboxes with immense firepower while on the Japanese side they sat there and took it while simultaneously breaking any marines who tried break the stalemate by getting a little too close.  A halfsquad with my sole flamethrower died a grisly death before he could fire a shot and the combined firepower of multiple squads, heavy machine guns, two tanks and my surviving M3 seemed to do little more than irritate the Japanese.  This was actually a little misleading.  Japanese concealment had been stripped and the sheer volume of fire they were receiving would garner rewards eventually.  The garnering was assisted by my sniper.  Dave and I had looked at the mighty leaders (a 10-2 for me and a 10-1 for him) and agreed that each of them was nothing more than sniper bait.  We were right.  My sniper took out his 10-1 (guiding one of his hmgs in a pillbox).  In turn his sniper (slightly less effectively) wounded my 10-2 and reduced him to a still impressive 9-1 albeit a rather slow moving one.

Over on the left I had discovered his barbed wire.  Fortunately I had time to wriggle free of it before Dave's reinforcements veered left to face my troops now (I though) safely across the river.  Well most of the squads wriggled free.  One particular squad remained stuck on the wire for three turns and it was really a mercy when Dave's artillery laminated it across the landscape.  Still despite my frustration at the stalemate on the right I was feeling pretty good.  My troops were across on the left in force and my reinforcement tanks were rolling towards the centre.  I had completely forgotten about his two 70mm guns but a quick check of the table indicated that they were unlikely to be able to do much about the Shermans anyway.

End of Japanese turn 2.  Those reinforcements are looking disturbing

Things went a little to hell after that.  Some nifty close combat had cleaned out his bunkers on the left but my troops were standing in relatively open ground while a horde of largely concealed Japanese poured towards them.  Dave's artillery didn't help very much with that, mangling a couple of squads and sending them yelping back across the river.  As my force on the right started striping the hmg crews in the bunkers Dave sent some troops forward across the creek to help.  At least I think that's what they were trying to do.  They popped up on my side of the creek, took a look at the force waiting for them and hopped back into the river again.  

Greatly daring I had sent my hmg squads (led by a 9-1) into the ford under the dubious protection of a Sherman tank I had parked there to menace his bunker a little more.  That pretty much worked, only one squad got killed but the survivors were able to add some more firepower against the pillbox dwellers who by this time could probably build armour plate out of all the metal I was throwing at them.

Things no longer looking so good on the left

Dave's artillery had saved his position on the left but then my kill stack destroyed it again, some low rolls slaughtered his reinforcements and gave my battered forces a breathing space.  It didn't hurt that Dave who up until now had been producing black chits all over the place finally turned over a red and briefly lost his artillery (it would come back).  On the right I had finally taken down the machine gun crews in the pillboxes and everything was ready for the final push.  I managed to push troops into both pillbox hexes and challenged him to try and take them back.  For my tank in the creek I had other plans, it turned and rolled up the creek. Admittedly it rolled only one hex before bogging but that didn't matter.  It broadened my beachhead (mudhead?) and provided a little protection for the troops crossing the ford.  This was good as there was a 70mm gun waiting for them to do just that.  Now with a Sherman tank parked directly in front of it it had other things to worry about.

In the centre my reinforcing tanks had arrived and rolled towards the other ford.  I got one tank across the creek in the teeth of his largely impotent defences while my wounded 10-2 and his troops provided support from a distance.  The other tank I left in the ford hex for reasons which will become apparent later.  On the right I sent troops which until now had largely been contributing to a human traffic jam sweeping to the right where they crossed the river unopposed.

Strangely I appear to be succeeding

My final plan depended on the fact that I only needed one tank across the stream (which was useful since two of them were bogged).  Dave had a unit in the stream capable of covering the centre ford.  My tank in the centre ford turned and rolled into the Japanese unit's hex (and fortunately Dave didn't get a TH hero) thus occupying their attention which allowed my infantry (and wounded 10-2) to get into the ford.  They (except the leader) would advance onto the south bank in the advance phase.  This should be enough to get me the win.

This brilliant plan was almost derailed when a Japanese half squad facing my tank on the south side of the stream generated a TH hero and sent it against the solitary Sherman in the victory area.  With all the other tanks wallowing in the stream if this tank went down there would be no recovery.  I consoled myself with the thought that Dave needed to roll a three to get any sort of a result in CC.  Dave rolled a three.  The Sherman was immobilised.  I scanned the victory conditions desperately.  It said nothing about mobility, the tank just needed to have functioning MA and it did.

With most surviving American troops across the creek and the remainder poised to advance on Dave conceded.

Endgame.  Even more strangely I appear to have won

For the bulk of the game I appeared to be getting nowhere and at the last turn I had so many troops across it was almost embarrassing.  Much thanks to Dave for the game.  This was his choice so next time he won't be surprised to see he's attacking Italians in the desert.

A weary, sweat soak marine wiped some mud off his uniform only to find that he had nowhere to put it that wasn't also covered in mud.

"So this is the south bank," he muttered looking around.  "I can see why we wanted it.  The mud is definitely of higher quality over here.  You could eat your dinner off this.  In fact you have to."

Travelling Hopefully - Massive Dam Edition

 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.

Travelling Hopefully - Platypus!!!

 It snowed overnight.  Just to prove that this wasn't a coincidence it snowed in the morning as well.  I was entranced, I rarely see snow living as I do in a more habitable part of the planet.  There was snow piled up on my correspondents car and the sight of it was so exciting that I briefly forgot how freaking cold it was.

But this led to an urgent consultation.  Our journey today would take us down to Lake Pedder which was at the end of a long, winding road completely surrounded by wilderness (although Forestry Tasmania are doing their best to rectify that) and while Pedder itself was low enough that snow was unlikely to be an issue there it would be quite easy for the road to be cut.  Our holiday was coming to an end, my correspondent and I reflected on the reaction that our co-workers would have if they were informed that we were stuck in the wilderness and unable to return to work on Monday.  There were smiles, there were sniggers, there was outright laughter.  Unfortunately my correspondent remembered she had children and dogs (for the sake of the children I shan't mention which she remembered first) and we decided that if the weather was iffy we should forgo Lake Pedder.

To get the latest news I contacted our accommodation at Lake Pedder.  It will be fine they assured us, absolutely no problem at all.  Please come and spend money.  We decided to go and spend money.  Along the way my correspondent mentioned Mount Field.  The retired diplomat and I exchanged "here we go again" glances.  Another place of beauty coincidentally ringed by bushwalks to take you into those parts of the wilderness that you obviously shouldn't be going because if you should be there would a road wouldn't there?

So we stopped at Mount Field.  The weather and the need to get to Lake Pedder meant that we couldn't do any long bushwalks but my correspondent chivvied both of us into doing a reasonably brief walk along a creek to yet another waterfall.  We could see water fall simply by looking out the car windows but apparently that wasn't good enough for my correspondent.  So we went, we walked, we got wet.  We saw the waterfall which was very pretty, it certainly wasn't short of water and headed back along the creek to our starting point.  Along the way we came across some steps that led up to a steeper higher walk.  My correspondent stopped and looked at us hopefully.  The retired diplomat diplomatically retired.  I realised this was my line in the sand moment.  It was pissing rain and the visitors centre wasn't that far away.

"Have fun," I said and followed the retired diplomat along the path that led to warmth and comfort.  As always whenever I was near any sort of flowing water (including bathtaps) I kept an eye out for a platypus.  Not that I expected to see one.  They are rare and retiring.

"Platypus!" shouted the retired diplomat.  I thought she was joking.  I stared but couldn't see it.  Was this it?  My chance to see a platypus gone?  No, the retired diplomat pelted down the path at a speed quite dangerous for someone traversing a water sodden bushwalking track in high heeled boots, keeping pace with the platypus until she found a spot where I could look out over the water as well.  And I saw it, just for a few seconds but a definite platypus making its way into its burrow beside the creek.

Have I ever mentioned how awesome the retired diplomat is?  Her intelligence and charisma almost obscure her charm and good looks.  The truth is I would never have seen the platypus without her eagle eye (my own eyes are more of the mole variety) and to see a platypus in the wild is something a bit special.  I texted my correspondent a little (ok a lot) smugly to inform her.  She hid her disappointment well and very kindly didn't point out that she had seen one just going for a walk in the bush near her home, she even took video of it which I didn't have the opportunity to do.  You're just going to have to take my word for it.  I floated back to the visitors centre on Cloud 9 and once there expiated the gods by purchasing a fuzzy stuffed platypus toy to take home with me (like I wasn't going to do that anyway).

Travelling Hopefully - So Very Cold

 We left Strahan under a hail of freezing rain.  Later, just for variety, we would be subjected to a rain of freezing hail.  Our destination was Derwent Bridge.  Derwent Bridge isn't really a place, rather it is where such of the foolhardy as have survived the Overland Track stagger out in search of civilisation.  There isn't any at Derwent Bridge but fortunately there's a bus to take them the rest of the way.  For those who emerge blinking and shivering from the wilderness too late to jump the bus to Hobart accommodation has been built at Derwent Bridge.  Here the intrepid walkers can be eased gently back into civilisation by controlled exposure to hot showers, cooked food and not having to walk over some of the most god awful terrain in Tasmania.  My correspondent has done the Overland Track (of course she has) and spoke of its horrors with such an enthusiastic gleam in her eye as to make me seriously worry for her sanity.

Along the way to Derwent Bridge we passed through Queenstown.  If you ever get the opportunity I strongly encourage you to pass through Queenstown.  There are so many other interesting places you can be going.  Not Derwent Bridge of course but most of the rest of Tasmania.  Queenstown has many interesting tourist attractions like the gravel football field, the slag heap and deforested hills.  You get the idea.  In fact a combination of tree chopping, pollution from the mine works and incessant rain reduced the landscape to something quite resembling the surface of the Moon.  Things are a little better now and some of the more bloody minded tree species are sending some tentative roots down into the blasted hellscape.  The population of Queenstown took a vote and narrowly decided not to rip them all up again (by this time the "surface of the Moon" look had become a genuine tourist attraction).  

Since it was cold, windy and raining naturally my correspondent decided to take a quick walk along the side of a cliff to look at a waterfall.  Naturally because I'm an idiot I went with her.  Naturally, because she's the only one of us with a modicum of common sense, the retired diplomat stayed in the car.  We clumped and slithered along a walkway that had been securely (I hope) bolted to the side of the mountain and peered through the water coming down at even more water coming down.  This is my correspondent's idea of a good time.

Once we were done we left Queenstown behind us (which is my idea of a good time) and pointed the car in a southeastish direction towards Derwent Bridge.  Beautiful forested countryside (once we were safely away from Queenstown) passed by in a grey rain sodden haze.  Suddenly my correspondent starting talking enthusiastically about Lake St Clair which was apparently quite close to our destination.  The retired diplomat hunched down in her seat well aware of what was coming.  Despite my experiences to date I was less insightful and eventually was talked into taking a quick trip out to Lake St Clair once we had arrived at Derwent Bridge.

Our accommodation in Derwent Bridge was huge, cavernous and ill heated.  To be fair Hell would have had difficulty heating something the size of our accommodation.  Vast high ceilings snatched what heat the fires put out and clutched it jealously to themselves while the wretched human denizens below shivered.  It is the first place I've been to that found it necessary to issue blankets for the guests in the dining room.  It has to be said that the place was on the decline.  My correspondent having been alternately scalded and frozen by the shower recommended basin washing for the duration of our stay.

Once we had dumped our bags in our chilly rooms my correspondent drove me to Lake St Clair.  The retired diplomat huddled under a blanket with a bottle of wine and rejected any attempts to move her.  Through rain that was fast becoming sleet we made our way to Lake St Clair.  It was indeed beautiful and scenic and all the stuff you normally associate with lakes surrounded by bushland.  Also, unusually for Tasmania, this was a natural lake and not created by damming the hell out of something.  It is actually here at the rangers station that the Overland Track officially ends.  Hikers lurch out of the wilderness and provide details of the fallen to the rangers who have to write more "I regret to inform you..." letters than a World War 1 general.  Sometimes the bones are found sometimes not.  Once a hiker is down they are easy prey for Tasmanian Devils who will eat everything including the skeleton.

Having "enjoyed" the rain sodden vistas at Lake St Clair my correspondent acceded to my increasingly incoherent pleas to be returned somewhere warm and drove us back to our accommodation which as noted above didn't really qualify.  The place is for sale.  Hopefully the new owners can do something with the place.  I recommend demolition.

Travelling Hopefully - Playing Around

 "Would you like to walk through an abandoned mining tunnel?"

"I'd rather drill a hole in my head," replied the retired diplomat.

With our obligatory and, to be honest, rather perfunctory offer my correspondent and I happily deserted the retired diplomat for the second time in about six hours.  By this stage she's entitled to have some severe abandonment issues.  We also temporarily abandoned Strahan.  Yes we left the glittering seaside lights and returned to Zeehan.  The phrase "returned to Zeehan" isn't one you're likely to hear to often in your life so make the most of it.

In truth we didn't so much return to Zeehan as drive through it.  Our destination was the abandoned Spray Silver mine just on the other side of Zeehan.  Guess what they mined there.  The name is a shameless marketing ploy.  It was the habit at the time to give mines catchy and vaguely ejaculatory names in the hopes that investors would be inspired to pour their money into what was literally a hole in the ground.  If I ever discover silver I'm going to call it Orgasm Argentum.  The prospectus practically writes itself.

We couldn't get into the actual mine of course, that is worked out, closed off and covered in bush.  Rather we were invited (and by invited I mean nobody stopped us) to walk through a tunnel that used to be used by the trolleyway that hauled the ore away to be tortured until it gave up its precious cargo.

There is no location so bleak, desolate or lost to civilisation that it doesn't have a golf course.  So we turned left at Zeehan Golf Course and eventually ran out of whatever the Zeehan equivalent of civilisation is.  Ahead of us loomed the Spray mine and the terrors of the old tunnel.  It was all rather like an episode of Scooby Doo although not one of the better ones.

We cross the grim brick portal and were instantly plunged into pure Stygian darkness.  Well pure Stygian darkness except for the literal light at the end of the tunnel (which is only about a hundred metres long).  That light provided a goal but didn't help with the actual seeing what we were doing right now.  With wincing care we shuffled blindly along trying not to fall off the duckboard into the eternal blackness.  Seconds passed, seconds filled with ragged breathing and a mounting sense of existential dread.  The blackness seemed to call us with a ghastly siren song of horror.  Slicked with sweat we stumbled towards the faint, mocking promise of the light.  Oh, and we stopped for a selfie along the way.

Once outside there wasn't a lot to do except turn around and go back.  Stygian darkness, existential dread etc etc.  We did poke about the bush uncovering random bits of mine workings and equipment.  Mining companies aren't exactly famous for cleaning up after themselves.  We also didn't see a platypus in a nearby creek.  Finally we had to admit it.  We were going to have to return to Strahan and face the wrath of the retired diplomat.

"We're going to see a play tonight," announced the retired diplomat upon our arrival.  My correspondent and I looked at each other in slight confusion.

"Are we?"

"Yes we fucking are."

So we went to a play.  Or rather we went to see The Play.  The Ship That Never Was has been running continuously in Strahan since 1994 which makes it Australia's longest running play.  I don't want to spoil the story in case you find yourself stranded in Strahan and suicide is against your religion but its about a bunch of convicts who built a boat, stole said boat, got arrested and sentenced to death for the preceding and then it turned out that there wasn't a boat after all.  It was actually immense amounts of fun.  There is a lot of that customer humiliation which is normally dignified with the term "audience participation" (I made a great helmsman) and since we're still in the throes of an epidemic the action would stop every so often while cast and crew (and random audience members) applied hand sanitiser.  Fortunately its the sort of play that isn't appreciably harmed by such interruptions.

Travelling Hopefully - Overeating by Rail

The town of Strahan has two separate components, a preserved, picturesque little village down at the water’s edge and, further up the hill a collection of houses and shops where the inhabitants actually live.  Our destination was picturesque village which has the advantage of convenience to the water and is actually worth seeing.

Strahan was once a major port.  All of the minerals (mainly copper) that were extracted at Queenstown some forty extremely difficult kilometres further inland were transported by rail to Strahan for export to more civilised regions like Hobart and Launceston (just think about that for a moment).  Nowadays Strahan survives on tourism and a little cray fishing.

Large comfortable boats convey mostly elderly people up the picturesque (it has trees) Gordon River which conveniently flows into Strahan’s ridiculously oversized harbour.  The prospect of spending six hours trapped on a boat with a gaggle slowly declining humanity having failed to appeal we decided to catch a train instead.

To be more accurate my correspondent and I decided to catch a train.  The retired diplomat indicated with word and gesture that she would rather remove her own appendix than spend three hours on a train.  Somewhat callously we abandoned her to find what amusement she could in Strahan and caught the train anyway.

The Abt Wilderness Railway is the old aforementioned railway from Queenstown to Strahan now repurposed as a tourist railway (although they proudly insist that they still carry freight, mainly beehives, as well) using a collection of heritage steam and Diesel engines.  We weren’t travelling the entire distance, rather we had a short in and out lasting three hours through the rainforest.

We ate well on this journey.  We were greeted with a glass of champagne (after a quick discussion we decided 9am wasn’t too early to start drinking).  After that there were scones with jam and cream, pumpkin soup, tea, coffee and ice cream.

In between gorging ourselves we glanced out the window at the temperate rainforest that the rail line had been gouged through while a guide told us some of the history of the line.  Like many great achievements the railway was the result of someone very rich taking a decision and not being particularly concerned with the well-being or continued existence of the employees who actually made it happen.

This charmer’s name was Bowes Kelly and he owned the copper mine in Queenstown.  Very lucrative if you can actually get the copper out, hence the railway.  Kelly hired a group of surveyors who worked for eighteen months and reported it was impossible.  Kelly promptly fired them without pay and hired another group of surveyors who, perhaps unsurprisingly, reported that it was possible, maybe, just.  Apparently they were right.

There followed months of agonising, backbreaking work in near constant rain (hence the term rainforest) during which time the workers were literally never dry.  It was impossible to even light a fire and the only real difference between the land and the nearby river was it took you slightly longer to drown on the land.  Eventually Kelly got his railway and his employees, hopefully, got paid.

But tragedy, if it happened long enough ago becomes heroism and it was certainly an interesting story to listen to as we sat in our seats enjoying the fruits of past labour and wondering if we could stuff in another morsel of food.

There were a couple of stops where we were permitted to heave our bellies off the train and wander briefly through the rainforest in a largely futile attempt to offset the amount we had eaten and drunk.  As we stumbled among the trees in a near food coma my correspondent and I competed to see who could take the best fungi photographs.  About half the photographs I’ve taken on this trip have been of various mushrooms and fungi, I honestly don’t know the difference.  If you do know the difference please don’t feel obliged to tell me, I also  honestly don’t care.

Travelling Hopefully - Sudden Mountain Edition

 Before I begin this blog I need to address an issue raised by the retired diplomat.  She is concerned that my description of her as a retired diplomat has given readers the impression that she is some seventy three year old maniac obsessed with cross stitch.  I would like to assure everyone who reads this blog that she is actually in her early forties.

With that out of the way normal programming can resume.

I woke the next day fresh, eager and only slightly hungover to see something unexpected, a bright blue sky.  Stepping out into the atypical sunshine I staggered back in surprise.

“What the hell is that?” I demanded.

“That’s Cradle Mountain,” replied my correspondent.

“Has it always been there?”

Once breakfast had been completed and my surprise over the sudden appearance of an entire mountain range apparently overnight had died down we set off.  Today we would drive to Strahan but first;

“We’re going for a walk around the lake,” announced my correspondent with what seemed like totally unnecessary enthusiasm.  I glanced desperately at the retired diplomat but she appeared willing to acquiesce.  We hopped on the bus (cars aren’t allowed) into the national park and headed lakeward.

Dove Lake is actually where my walk the previous day had ended.  At the time I had admired the grey water under a grey sky against a grey background but it looked even better under a bright sun.  The walk was a circuit of the lake and we lost the retired diplomat almost immediately as she surged ahead. Her basic attitude to bushwalking is to do it as quickly as possible, get to the end and then stop.

My correspondent and I strolled around the lake through foresty bits, hilly bits and sometimes (for variety) hilly, foresty bits.  Cradle Mountain which had been invisible the previous day made up for its tardiness by looming impressively above us and pausing for photo opportunities.  My correspondent pointed out the most inaccessible bits and mentioned how one could walk them with great enthusiasm.  I smiled politely and took photos of fungi.  Quite a lot of fungi actually.

Since we were walking a circuit we eventually returned to our starting point, my correspondent glowing with rude good health and myself glowing with an incipient heart attack.  The retired diplomat was waiting to greet us, largely I suspect because my correspondent had sensibly kept the car keys in her own bag.

Also waiting for us when we returned was a collection of the most physically decrepit old people I have ever encountered.  If the ancient Egyptians had seen this lot they would have started digging out the bandages and the brain hooks immediately.

As this collection of the (barely) walking near dead shuffled slowly past us I wondered not so much whether they would survive the journey but how on earth they had survived getting off the bus.

Abandoning the lake to those who would almost certainly be buried there we fled back to the car and pointed its nose in the direction of Strahan.  Or rather we pointed it in the direction of Zeehan.  Once in Zeehan we could point it in the direction of Strahan.

The scenery was beautiful and the road windy.  We were going through forest now on our way to what was once one of Tasmania’s major ports but now isn’t.

But first, Zeehan.  Zeehan is an old mining town and I asked if there were still any working mines in the area.

“We’ve passed two gold mines in the last twenty minutes,” replied my correspondent, “didn’t you notice?”

Apparently no I did not.  There was mutual eye rolling on the part of those in the car who weren’t me.  Zeehan has a very long main street, much longer than the town actually requires.  It has sunk a long way since its heyday but should the day of hey ever return Zeehan has just the main street for the job.

Zeehan also has the West Coast Heritage Centre.  In Zeehan “heritage” is synonymous with “mining”.  I went in and was treated to one of the most extensive rock displays I’ve ever seen.  There were also train engines.  I took some photos but my heart wasn’t in it, in Strahan  I would ride on an actual train.

Up ahead were trains, plays and no platypuses.  Also the uncharacteristically pleasant weather was about to end.