Tasmania

It was only an hour and a half flight from Sydney to Launceston but i had the feeling that I was leaving a chapter of my adventure in Australia behind.  Outside the plane window I could see yellow fields and lush green mountains surrounded by a deep cobalt sea.  From the air, the island looked wild and underdeveloped, reminiscent of video montages that make up the beginning of Planet Earth and David Attenborough BBC documentaries.  I felt privileged to fly somewhere so remote, and even more privileged in knowing that my adventure would take me to the centre of this landscape.  

The plane landed smoothly and metal stairs were released onto the concrete below.  Everyone around me seemed instantly relaxed.  The same passengers who were visibly impatient and annoyed at the delays in Sydney were suddenly calm, proof that the open air provides an antidote for the congested city.

Exiting the one room airport, I saw a sign "Launceston City and Suburb Shuttle," under the headline were the words "next shuttle," and a chalkboard where every hour a worker would hand write the approximate time that it would arrive.  As I waited for the shuttle, I imagined what it would be like to have the sign writing job.  

"What do you do for a living?" 

"I am the chalk artist who writes when the next shuttle will arrive at the airport."
"Isn't that boring? Don't you want to do something else with your life?"  
To this I would answer calmly, with pride because in this fantasy scenario I am a forty something year old trade worker with a family and a strong sense of community: "Well without someone to write the times on the chalkboard, how would people know when to expect the next shuttle?  There would be commotion and tourists would cry out of shuttle frustration.  It is a tough job but somebody has to do it."
The shuttle arrived and in perfect small town fashion, the driver had a long conversation with me about San Francisco that lasted well after we had arrived at my destination.  


Tasmania is the small triangular island south of the Australian mainland.  After an extremely bloody history, locals have fought to protect the wealth of resources on the island. Probably due to the lack of infrastructure, Tasmania is remarkably untouristy.  It is considered one of those off the beaten path places, which attracts outdoor enthusiasts and wine lovers, but literally nobody else.  Though I love wine as much as the next person...probably more than the next person, I came to Tassie for the nature alone.

The Overland Track covers 65 kilometres from Cradle Mountain to Lake Sinclair.  There are huts along the track that provided shelter and emergency shelters.  To protect the wilderness, the park only lets thirty people set off on the track everyday, so to do the trail you have to register.  You also have to pay a park fee.  You have to have your own tent that you can spend the night in if you do not make it to the next hut.  You have to have food and warm weather gear.  Every time you get to a hut you write your name down on a sheet so that the park rangers know that you are safe.  The Overland track takes anywhere from five to nine days to complete.  I did it in seven.  

The trail provides side trips that you can take along the way.  All in all, I hiked up four mountains, one of which being Mt. Ossa: the tallest mountain in Tasmania.  I lucked out with the weather.  It was unusually hot during my trek and I was able to swim in lakes and waterfalls along the way.  I met some amazing people and hiked with them along the way, all of whom were as awed by the environment as I was.  In Tasmania, the only animals you have to watch out for are snakes, which you do see every now and then (luckily they are always slithering in the opposite direction).  Besides snakes, the animals are magnificent and harmless...they are magnificently harmless.  There are pademelons (really cute little wallabies that hop around gracefully), wombats (fat lazy creatures that waddle around behind campsites), big possums with black tails, echidnas (spiky mammals with long noses) and a panoply of birds and insects that make noises all day and all night.  

I remember reading a piece by Elizabeth Gilbert in a travel writing class in college.  She said something to the point of: the thing (or the great thing, the good thing, the something) about walking everywhere is that you suddenly feel like there are the exact right amount of hours in a day.  I love this.  It is so true.  The hours that you walk are like a mini journey.  You are immersed in the trail, the trees, the moss, the roots, the rivers, the flowers, the rocks, the mountains, the spiky bush that scratches you legs.  You loose your thoughts.  Your thoughts become your footsteps, the sound of which are lost in the wind.   Then suddenly you are somewhere: a hut, a cliffside view, a lake to swim in, a clearing to camp in or maybe just to eat lunch in.  Where ever you are, there is that feeling that you have arrived.     

On day seven, the ever changing scenery changed once again.  The deep forest began to open up and I was surrounded by bright green ferns.  Then, peeking out between the trees, I got my first glance at sparkling Lake St Clair.  I remember learning about the Oregon Trail as a child.  There were landmarks that provided trail walkers with information about how far they had come.  Of course it is no comparison...but that lake <3.  By the end of my trek I had hiked approximately 124 kilometres in seven days -- something that I would not have thought that I was in any way capable of accomplishing.  Luckily I was able to catch a bus to Hobart a few hours after completing the track.  

I am now staying in a funky little hostel called The Pickled Frog.  I am tired and my feet hurt but Hobart is a good town to recover in.  I finally have phone service again, so if I am close to you you can expect a call sometime soon.  If I am not close to you and you are reading this, thank you so much for reading my blog :).