With big seas forecast and several people drowned on the east coast over Easter, swept away by sudden high waves, I knew I’d better head to the sea for my first blog post at home. I could hear the roaring well before I could see its source.
The sea was heaving, its rolling waves evident for a long way offshore.
The Port Macquarie shoreline rocks are dark and jagged; I always think of the unlikelihood of surviving a shipwreck here when I see them.
But today the surf that pounds these rocks is not like the surf we usually see, a refreshing topping on the waves, but thick and soapy, whipped into white suds.
Wary of those hungry high waves, I walk down to the grassy headland to get a closer look.
It is actually a little scary being so close to this constant lashing and roaring; I know the tide is coming in, and when I start to feel the sea spray on my face, I turn back.
There are waves breaking out to sea off the Tacking Point Lighthouse; not just rolling, but cresting.
Even the little bay before it is wild, white water constantly breaking over its rocks, making waterfalls every few seconds.
Close to shore, in front of the seafoam, the water is a kind of jade green colour. It catches my eye amidst all that white.
Not the bright turquoise of Tasmania’s east coast, but in fact today this coast reminds me of the fierce Southern Ocean of Tasmania’s west coast. It sounds like it too.
No wonder there were so many families at calm Lake Cathie yesterday; no beach would have been safe for swimming.
On my way back north from Tassie I caught up with my Victorian sister Colleen at James Reserve, a free camp near Swanpool. It’s a pleasant grassy area beside this small burbling creek, and it has a short walk up the ridge behind it.
In the Strathbogie Ranges, its most notable feature are the huge granite boulders that have tumbled to stack, often incredibly balanced, sometimes nerve-wrackingly close to the path as you climb.
My sister took this shot of me, showing just how very big these boulders are.
Mossed and lichened, they are all eye-catching.
But when not goggling at them or watching where I put my feet, the sporadic glimpses of the range are constantly eclipsed by the trees of this forest.
The main trees are apparently Mountain Grey Gums and Peppermints, but as always it is the bark that draws my eye. Here it is the extremely vivid green of the lichen that decorates this shaggy trunk.
Or the twisted contortions that this big tree has undergone in its life.
The pick has to be the strange head that this tree has spawned, ears alert and gaping maw ready to frighten small children, as it lurches out from the main trunk.
The walk winds back down to the creek and the bush becomes more gentle, with trees taking over from the boulders.
An easy and rewarding walk, and so different from my Tassie walks that It helped me re-orient myself…
I am now back home, and I find that Tasmania has unsettled me in various ways.
It is small, but at the same time vast and varied, and full of contradictions.
Yes, it has much natural beauty, and that is what I concentrated on seeing, experiencing.
I deliberately did not return to places I had briefly seen before on work trips, like the spectacular Tasman Peninsula, or the historic towns.
The tree fern forests, the mossy walks, the myrtle confetti, the mountains and lakes, the crystalline turquoise east coast waters, the stunning rocks, the sheer amount of trees … all memorable.
Unfortunately so is the sheer amount of roadkill and the seemingly complacent attitude of drivers, judging from the multitude of squashed small furry native creatures. And perhaps of the government who does not lower the road speeds for everywhere from dusk to dawn, to try to protect them.
The history of Tasmania’s occupation and the relentless pursuit of its indigenous people rings loudly for me. The cleared lands full of sheep or apples or hops or tree plantations or tourist attractions are as loud as the wilderness appeal.
And there are far too many tourists like me everywhere. A friend suggested that, like Lord Howe Island, Tasmania ought to place a limit on the number of visitors at any one time.
Tasmania must not be allowed to become a theme park, a parody of itself. To protect all that is special about it, its nature must be valued more highly, not paraded for a fee.
If I had to name the highlights of my time there I would say one was the sighting of an Eastern Quoll.
The trip taught me two things: a) I am not a traveller, but a camper for longer times than overnight, and b) I could not live there because of the roadkill attitude.
I may visit again, because I missed a few critical places, such as Hartz Mountain National Park, and Corinna, with the road closed due to bushfires.
In all, Tasmania is overwhelming; I am glad I went – although it was foolish to think a month would be enough – and I will be processing the experience for a long, long time.
Thanks to all who bore with me and followed my travels and thoughts on this blog.
Another ferry ride to an island, but this time as a passenger only. I am heading to Maria Island for the day so I can get an idea of why people talk about it so much. I was unsure if I would, as it is basically the ruins of a convict probation station (1842).
I was convinced by learning that there is no shop at all there … for anything, food, drink, souvenirs… and no vehicles allowed for visitors except bikes.
This young wombat was right by the road, setting my day off to a good start.
The road passes through an avenue of enormous and relatively ancient (almost 200 years) fir trees … the kind of settler legacy I have to be impressed by, as they are so very big.
A mature wombat ambles up the bank and across the road, ignoring me.
The windswept nature of the island was symbolised by this lone and humble little cottage, once Ruby Hunt’s, and its attendant struggling trees.
Not being a cyclist, I am only doing the shorter walks, like along Hopground Beach to the Painted Cliffs, where I learn that access is restricted due to geological issues.
We have been warned to leave any middens alone. The Puthikwilayti people of the Oyster Bay tribe visited this island over 40,000 years, until the whalers and sealers came in the 1800s.
The British set up their penal probation colony in 1825. It wasn’t very successful, as prisoners could escape, and kept doing it… unlike from Sarah Island.
The scooped and scalloped layers are beautiful, although I cannot see the reason for ‘painted’. But likely they are further around, currently inaccessible; photos show quite stunning colours and patterns.
My walk takes me past the Oasthouse, where the remains of two round hop drying kilns demonstrate the bricklaying skills of the past. I am most interested in the patterns of the bricklaying.
As always, the higher and less fertile parts were less cleared, and the eucalypt forests, regrowth or not, are encouraging and calming.
I am struck by these teeny plants on the side of the track, looking like pale starfish, or daisy chain crochet stitches.
Buildings that were for grander purposes than Ruby’s home are still in fair or good condition. Many are used as basic accommodation; you can book to stay.
But for me the ones that attract are more for the patterns their ruins make than for the elegance that the ruling classes enjoyed.
I want to walk to the Fossil Cliffs, but a gander from the island’s large population of Cape Barren Geese had other ideas, hissing and honking at me. Once the second rarest goose in the world, they were introduced to Maria in the 1970s and thrive here, helping the marsupials keep the native grass mown and fertilised.
I grew up with domestic geese, so I know to be wary…
After a picnic lunch in front of the convict barn, geese gone, I visit the desolate cemetery. Only one convict, a Maori, was buried here; the rest only got timber crosses elsewhere.
A small group of Forester Kangaroos, also introduced here in the ‘70s, are resting as I pass. I learn they are actually Eastern Greys, which I do know.
The Fossil Cliffs are wild and spectacular, and the part I can access was once a quarry.
It is hard to believe that such rich geological treasure was treated as a mere source of rocks. You cannot see a section that is not almost totally made of shellfish fossils. I know little about fossils, but as links to our distant pasts they have to be respected.
As our ferry leaves Maria Island, I am glad I came, so that I now have a concept of its mountains and cliffs, its bays and rolling slopes, but also feel the sadness that always follows such evidence of displacement, of colonisation and invasion, of clearing, of failed undertakings…
But I am glad it’s been a national park since 1972, and that it’s not been ‘developed’ as a tourism attraction in the way that Bruny Island has. Its natural beauty and its past seem enough to attract visitors.
Another Tassie day beginning with impressive low clouds…
A surprising waterhole with surprising colours after a dry climb in Douglas Apsley National Park. People were there, after swimming; I felt the water and again, it wasn’t cold.
And another Tassie day with impressive mountains coming into view… only I think I know these ones, as I am in the Freycinet National Park.
Yes, they are the Hazards, here seen from Coles Bay. They look like they’d be snow-covered in winter, but I asked, and I was told they are not, or not usually.
On the quite steep walk up to the Wineglass Bay Lookout, I decided it is not the mountains here that are most notable, but the rocks. Striped and bulbous cliffs and boulders.
And I could have waited for the orange rocks…
An enormous amount of work has gone into making these rock paths and steps, and the sideshows of nature’s work are even more impressive.
Stripey cliffs and stripey trees, in colours that keep me snapping photos.
A lone example of a Heath, but I am not sure which one: the Common Heath (Epacris impressa) or Pink Moutain Heath (Archeris combari),
But the ever-present and generously flowering Banksias cannot be surpassed with their lemon purity.
I do make it to to the top but the weather refuses to provide a picture postcard Wineglass Bay. The shape is there, but not that brilliant blue as I saw at Bay of Fires.
Tasmania has great wide cloudscapes, and because of all the mountain ranges, it gathers lots of clouds. Most mornings seem to begin with cloud.
From almost anywhere you can see mountains.
The bleached colour of the fields is also common, with or without sheep, shorn white or unshorn dirty grey.
I had aimed for the top of the island, and did reach Musselroe Bay but it was so windy I didn’t stay.
Mt William National Park is in my sights before I head south along the east coast.
I drive through hectares of low coastal plants like this.
I climb rocky Mt William, although the sandy walk to its top was more interesting to me than the view.
This white lichen seemed to echo the sand colour.
I stop in the car park afterwards to make a coffee.
Whence I leave the induction cooktop on the bench to cool… and forget about it as I drive off.
I remember it only as it crashes to the floor at the first bump.
Disaster, discovered later. Cold dinner that night.
I camp along this east coast, so very different from the wild west coast’s Southern Ocean.
At a place north of Binalong Bay, called The Gardens, I first see the astonishing clear blue-green of the sea here. I will find it all along the east coast. I think of a postcard I once saw of the Isle of Capri.
The white sands are typical. This is part of the Bay of Fires, a most beautiful stretch of coast north of St Helens.
I had thought this Bay was so called because of the vivid orange-lichened rocks, Caloplaca marina, but no, it was due to the fires of the local Kinnara Kuna tribe seen along this north-east coast by Captain Furneaux in 1773.
The tea-coloured lagoon behind this beach is also eye-catching, as are its shapely dolerite rocks.
The ubiquitous black swans like this lagoon too, cruising about in their stately manner.
Not knowing what is to come, I take far too many photos of orange rocks…
After so many forests and ferns, mountains and mosses, I was ready for a change pf landscape and vegetation. Narawntapu National Park provided just that… a coastal kingdom for the many creatures that live there
Like most National Parks, its roads are restricted to 40kmh, for the sake of wildlife. I think speed limits on all Tassie roads should be reduced, given the amount of roadkill.
Due to the windy conditions I was advised to camp at Koybaa, which was protected; it was quiet, with only one other invisible camper, and I felt at last as if I was in the bush — without people.
Next morning I walked first to the bird hide at the wetlands, but too late, as there were only a few ducks about.
And then on — and up — to Archer’s Knob.
The walk went along a sandy track through such diverse vegetation that I was constantly taking photos.
Like these paperbarks, clearly designed by Dr Seuss, as I have noted elsewhere, with their little topknots of leaves.
There were many swamps, both water-filled and dry. The paperbarks did their best to infill in massed numbers.
There were wind-battered older trees, like this one with its feet crossed.
Plenty of pademelons were still out and about, relatively unfazed by my trespassing in their kingdom.
I saw only one snake, black and very shiny. I waited until it had long left the narrrow track. Whatever it was, I knew Tassie’s three snake varieties — Tiger, Lowland Copperhead and White-lipped — were all venomous.
On top of Archers Knob was a colony of grass trees, waving gently in the breeze as if signalling.
Looking back over the Park, it was easy to see why it had such vibrant wildlife, from water birds to macropods, as it had such varied habitat.
In the other direction, at the end of the pristine and empty Bakers Beach, was Little Badger Head and Badger Head itself.
I loved the denseness of the bumpy bushes and curving trees; such perfect places for critters to live and hide in.
Tourists are warned that Launceston’s Cataract Gorge is not to be missed.
And on this particular Sunday, in their hundreds they obeyed.
A few people were actually swimming in the ‘basin’ itself, but most seem to have come for the chairlift ride.
The Esk river is wild and the rocks are well tumbled. This gorge is as much about rocks as it is about water.
It is an old (mid-late 1800s) reserve, so I was not surprised at this shelter of ‘faux bois’, cement and wire made into fake wood, which reminded me of the older Katoomba shelters in NSW or those in Salso-Maggiore in Italy. It was originally a European Renaissance craze.
The path around the ‘basin’ had plenty of unafraid wildlife, like this young Bennetts Wallaby.
The lawns near the Visitors Centre, which mainly seemed to be selling chairlift tickets, had naturalised peacocks wandering about and families of the endemic Tasmanian Native Hen, often called ’Turbo Chooks’ as they can run very fast.
This handsome bird is flightless, like the mainland’s Emu and Cassowary, and only found here now.
I have seen them in plenty of places, close to humans, as they like cropped grass, so they are unlikely to become endangered.
They are a plump bird, and supposedly good eating, so I am surprised that the ’settlers’ didn’t wipe them out.
I was about to give the Cataract Gorge a miss, and the Queen Victoria Art Gallery, the latter being the whole reason I had come to Launcestion, because the day before I became hopelessly lost in the one way labryinth of Launceston (like Hobart).
I needed a camping ground, but the Info Centre had shut at 2pm. Buttonholing a passing stranger, I wrote down directions from his phone.
Now my task was to somehow get the maps thingy on my phone to give me directions. So far I had only managed to make it show me where I was but not tell me how to proceed.
Next morning that is all I did… and I succeeded.
I took no photos at ‘Gentle Protagonist,’ the Michael McWilliams exhibition. I can only say that he/it is wonderful; quirky and moving and summing up all I feel about Tasmania: the Thylacine, the Devil, the fallen forests, the salmon, the sheep. Truly I was torn between laughing and crying; I did a little of both.
Having chosen the Highland Lakes Road because, to an ancestral highlander, it sounded romantic, I was disappointed that these lakes were basically a chain of dams for the Hydro-electric scheme.
Stocked with fish, especially trout, they are sporadically edged by several clusters, like Miena, of small cabins/cottages/shacks, for keen fishers and boaters.
It is harsh stony country, so not otherwise appealing.
Amidst these rocky Tiers like Baker’s Tier are the Steppes, where Steven Walker (the same sculptor who did the whale at Cockle Creek) had donated a series of complex bronze nature sculptures, affixed to standing stones.
They do not photograph well, as small, dark and complicated.
As the weather varied during the day, I often found myself driving past paddocks with mountains and mist behind them. So typically Tasmanian.
Or through forest-edged roads with rocky crags towering above them.
I know I am once again close to Cradle Mountain … but this is Tasmania… and to get a feel for the country I have been doing a lot of circling.
I passed over many similarly rushing rivers; I think this was the Mersey — or the Meander — or one such. Part of the reason for this post was to keep track of where I had been, but I drove for such long distances on back roads that I lacked the energy to stop and take photos… and it is the photos which drive the blog.
The Alum Cliffs (Tulampanga) are steep and stunning. This was an important site for women to gather special ochre for their ceremonies.
I did enjoy the walk up to the Cliffs, as it goes through eucalypt forest, where large trees manage to grow even in this extremely rocky ground.
Does this mean I am over moss? And tree ferns?
Whilst I’ve now driven on quite a few corrugated dirt roads, Tasmania has many small tarred roads, all numbered and leading somewhere, so criss-crossing the countryside or the forests is not a drama; I loved driving through the Mole Creek Karst National Park, for example.
But, heading for Launceston, I am dreading once more coming into a city… and getting lost.
Heading towards Bruny Island on the ferry from Kettering, the island seemed so long that I wasn’t sure if it was a real island. And what is ‘mainland’ to Bruny when Tasmania calls the other big bit of Australia ‘the mainland’?
We land at Roberts Point on North Bruny, the closest to the other side.
Unlike the rest of the disembarking cars and vans, I head as far north as I can go, to Dennes Point.
Dennes Point is a shock, as even after driving about half an hour on corrugated dirt road, I find a suburb. I am told that what were once all ‘shacks’ are now mainlanders’ million-dollar holiday homes.
It is only as I drive down though the heart of this place that I begin to understand how big it is – the size of Singapore, but with only 700 permanent residents. I can’t begin to guess how the tourists swell that number daily. The ferries run non-stop…
I go to Adventure Bay, where people are swimming in that beautifully clear water. I checked; it’s not cold.
Right at the bottom of South Bruny is the now-decommissioned Cape Bruny Lighthouse. The views from up there are spectacular on all sides.
Here I confess that somehow I managed to delete all but these two of those pics! Trust me, the cliffs are steep and rugged.
I camped at Jetty Beach. where the thousands of tiny crabs kept me from walking into the clear shallow water. There was no jetty, by the way.
Nor was there much peace, thanks to a yobbo who played loud music from his ute.
I left early before he could start up again.
Bruny has such a convoluted coastline that many places are close to water; there are hundreds of great views.
The island is so big that it has an internal landscape like the NE Tablelands, big forests of big trees, plains, beaches and coves.
No wonder that Truganini’s tribe, the Nuenonne, numbering around 160 before whites invaded, could live well here. She was born here.
The two halves of Bruny are joined by a narrow strip of land, appropriately called The Neck.
Here there is a monument to Truganini, who in the end was not the last of the Tasmanian aboriigines… their culture continues today.
It is also a Fairy Penguin rookery and I could see many Short-tailed Shearwater (Mutton Bird) burrows.
A fitting end to my taste of Bruny. I needed to go there to better understand its story.
Like all the beauties of Tasmania, a pity about all us tourists…
Whilst I am a wuss regarding heights, I decided I would gather up my courage and do the Tahune Airwalk, in an ‘eco-tourist’ complex which is a slow 60kmh 30 minute drive through plantations from Geeveston.
But it promised a rare mix of rainforest, giant eucalypts and Huon pines.
I was about to start when the rain came in; by the time lunch was over, it had stopped.
The bridge over the Huon leads to the two walks I would do.
A trio of horse riders surprised me by appearing from a side track; and no, they were not here for the Airwalk.
Despite what their brochures say, the Airwalk does mainly pass over forests that were burnt in the huge 2019 fires, as most of this area was. It is still an interesting walk – and not really scary. I am giving the swinging bridge a miss…
Even enormous and ancient Eucalypts (obligua especially) were killed in those fires.
From the Airwalk, beyond the Huon River, you can see forests that were not burnt.
There is plenty of information provided here regarding the post-fire regeneration of different species.
From the Huon Walk, you can gauge the power of this river at times from the large logs piled up along its banks.
The first actual Huon Pine we are pointed to is small, old and damaged. We know that Huon Pines were cut wholesale in the early settler days, floated down the rivers and used for all sorts of unworthy purposes.
We now acknowledge that Huon Pine is an ancient, very slow-growing tree, endemic to Tasmania, and it is now never cut down. Only the stockpiled remnants are allowed to be used, valued for the fine grained durable wood.
Huons need water, so favour river sides like this.
But we do see plenty of other sorts of trees that are old and grand… and still alive.
Trees like these put our puny lives in perspective.
However, the best thing about the Tahune was that outside the Visitors Centre I saw this young Eastern Quoll gambolling about, just as I’d always imagined them in the wild.
They are a cousin of the Spotted-tailed Quolls I had at my Mountain, but so much daintier.
I thought my day was made.
Then, coming back into Geeveston, I saw this fantastic owner builder creation-in-progress: Castle Phoenix.
Wild creatures and weird creations: what more could I wish from a day?
Cockle Creek, where I am to camp ( if I can find a spot!), is as far south in Tasmania as you can drive.
The nearby South East Cape is the southernmost bit of Australia. I’d been to the farthest west, now I want to feel what it’s like down here.
It’s closer to Antarctica here than to Cairns…
This bronze sculpture by Steven Walker of a young Southern Right Whale reminds us of the awful whaling industry that once thrived here.
This is Recherche Bay, and that French connection is the other reason I wanted to come here.
Imagine the surprise and relief of the leaders of the two French ships, the Recherche and the Espérance, when they found this refuge. They spent 26 days here in 1792 and 26 in 1793, resting, doing maintenance work on the ships, replenishing supplies like water… and forming unusually good relationships wiith the local Aboriginal tribe, the Lylueqonny.
Admiral Bruni d’Entrecasteaux and his ships were looking for the lost La Perouse and his expedition; they didn’t find him.
Apart from the mapping they did, the ship’s botanist, Jacques Labillardiere, made an amazing compilation of Tasmanian plants.
That early French connection is commemorated in many place names here. The British didn’t get to Tassie until 1803!
This Huon region is full of waterways, small ports, small boats and small villages.
And of course, apples. I have yet to buy the apples and cider I want to take home, but Tassie is still often called the Apple Isle, so I assume I’ll get plenty of chances.
