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.

Travelling Hopefully - Wombat!!

 The next day the Sun shone brightly.  Unfortunately it shone down onto a thick layer of cloud which the light, exhausted by its ninety two million mile journey, proved incapable of penetrating.  Between cloud and earth was a large amount of water moving as quickly as it could from the former to the latter.

The retired diplomat and I peered into the murk and mutually agreed that inactivity was the only sane course to follow.  At this point my correspondent bounced into the room radiating the kind of enthusiasm normally only seen in puppies and small children going to visit Santa.

“Who’s coming with me on a bushwalk?” she asked.  It is fair to say that the response was not entirely what she had hoped for.  I politely declined.  The retired diplomat was somewhat more forthright, nay, explicit in her refusal.

The three of us made our way to the resort lounge where the retired diplomat and I secured places in front of the fire and pulled out our books.  My correspondent plunged straight through into the rain saturated gloom and was immediately lost to view.  To be fair that was largely because we stopped looking.

“Do you think we’ll ever see her again?” I asked.

“See who?” asked the retired diplomat.

The hours flew by in well heated comfort.  The weather outside did a magnificent job of convincing us that our decision to stay inside was the only sane one.  Somewhere out there my correspondent was struggling through the rain and wind, matching her body against nature in the most primal of contests.  To this great battle it is fair to say that neither the retired diplomat nor myself gave the slightest thought.

At the time negotiated by the retired diplomat I wandered off for my massage.  I hold the massage responsible for everything that happened next.  I selected a massage that would “energise” me, whatever that means.  On completing the muscle manipulation equivalent of methamphetamine I discovered that my correspondent had returned cold, wet, muddy and deliriously happy.  Well she seemed happy and there was definitely delirium involved.

She extolled the delights of pointless exposure to the elements so effectively that I began to wonder how bad it could be.  At this point it is entirely possible that the massage oil had seeped into my brain.  Besides I really wanted to see a wombat and to hear my correspondent tell it vast herds of wombats roamed the land like the megalodons of old.

“I shall do it!” I announced, the invigorating effects of the massage still running through my body.  My correspondent cheered, the retired diplomat rolled her eyes and ordered another glass of wine.

In my defence the weather had improved over the course of the day.  The wind was merely biting rather than mauling, the rain had dropped from continuous to frequent and the mist had lifted to such an extent that it was possible to see the mist that concealed the mountains.  Previously that mist had been hidden by mist.

My enthusiasm carried me out the door and onto the bus that would take me to the national park on our doorstep.  While I was sitting there anticipating wombat flavoured glory I received a text from my correspondent.  She had photographed a wombat from the window of the lounge I had just left.  I was still cursing when the bus spat me out into the cold and fled before I could change my mind.  My massage induced energy was rapidly dribbling away.  Something else dribbling away was the massage oil that my masseuse had, for reasons of her own, rubbed into my scalp.  Under the impact of the icy rain said massage oil was trickling into my mouth.

With hope in my heart, rain in my eyes and massage oil in my mouth I set out across the alpine plain in search of wombats.  Or rather I set off just above the alpine landscape on a boardwalk built to protect the alpine landscape from the boots of all the idiots trying to cross it.  I clumped along the boardwalk enjoying the bracing (ie freezing and frequently wet) air and scanning the horizon for signs of wombats.

So deep in my search was I that I almost missed the couple on the boardwalk in front of me who were waving in my direction.  I stopped and looked down, there was a wombat six inches away from my foot.  I reeled in delight (or possibly it was the massage oil) and scrabbled for my camera.  Shortly afterwards I set off again leaving a spectacularly well photographed wombat in my wake.  Amount of interest the wombat took in the preceding; nil.

Determined to build on this initial success I carried on.  The open landscape changed to rock adorned with trees and the boardwalk graciously consented to permit my feet to touch the earth once more.  The landscape of hills, cliffs, forest and what looked like peat bogs was a spectacular symphony of grey.  I walked along a narrow, rocky path.  At least “path” is what it would be called in dry weather.  Currently a better term would be “stream”.

After a long soggy walk I encountered a sign directing me to Wombat Pool.  Inspired I pressed on and much gasping and heart palpitations later I arrived at Wombat Pool.  There was indeed a pool, and a complete absence of wombats.  In desperation I texted my correspondent 

“Where are the wombats?”

“Where are you?”

“Wombat Pool”

“Oh there aren’t any wombats there.”

Cursing I hurled myself down the track uttering blood curdling and utterly impotent threats against the twisted, malicious degenerate who had named Wombat Pool without apparently bothering to confirm the presence of wombats.  In addition to the disappointment was the fact that time was slipping by and I needed to be on the last bus out of Dodge if I didn’t want to spend the night here (for the record I didn’t).  My haste and anger are the reasons why I didn’t manage to get a photo of the large black wallaby that hopped across the path in front of me despite the fact that it paused for a decent period of time before losing patience and hopping away.  Fortunately I did manage to catch the bus.  Back at the resort my companions and ridiculous amounts of wine awaited.