Tasmania: the beautiful and damned

Tasmania felt different from mainland Australia; almost like another country. Apart from around Launceston and along a stretch of the north coast from Devonport to Wynyard, there seemed to be hardly any people: admittedly, we didn't visit Hobart where half the island's population hangs out. Only Wineglass Bay had too many tourists. All roads were blissfully empty (and better maintained than we're used to).

Some beaches, especially in the Bay of Fires and on the Freycinet Peninsula, were contenders for the Best in Australia list. And the clarity of the water was as good as in New Zealand; that is to say, the cleanest, clearest seawater I have ever seen. The sand was the whitest; the sea the most turquoise. And the mountain vistas were breathtaking.

We ate as well as we have anywhere in Australia; all the local wines we sampled were good and some were excellent; local people were friendly and accommodating, as you would expect; and there was the usual high standard of information available in the national parks.

Our learning the Australian language continued. We were a bit baffled by the Tasmanian concept of coming and going, and in particular the sign below. This was a door to the outside: can you enter the outside? Or does it mean there'll be no one coming in this way if you're trying to get out? Or, once you go out, you won't be able to get back in? Or, you can't use this door at the moment?

And we were flummoxed one morning when trying to order breakfast at about 9.40. We were told breakfast was 'coming in' in 20 minutes. Er... 10 o'clock was terribly late to serve breakfast, wasn't it? Minutes of confusion later, we realised breakfast was going to be cleared away. We were having this conversation with a waitress in the dining room, but maybe she thought she was in the kitchen.

And then there was this, on a beautifully renovated building (in case you were in any doubt what it was).

Did the restorers intend to be rude about those who supported their efforts? Or had they been thwarted by the very same?

There were environmental issues, however, that weren't so funny. I had known, of course, about the battles between Greens/environmental activists and loggers/miners/hydroelectric power generators. After all, Tasmania had the world's first Greens party*, formed in 1972 in opposition to the flooding of Lake Pedder in the island's southwest. I was not prepared, however, for my first sight of tree debris in the aftermath of extensive felling. Almost as far as the eye could see. This was on the way to Cradle Mountain, and at the time completely took the edge off the raw beauty of Tasmania's mountainous wilderness. Later, we contrasted old-style timber-getting in the charming little 'village' of Chudleigh (how English), with modern-day methods, in a lay-by down the road near Deloraine.

For those environmental activists not fully employed trying to prevent further old-growth-forest logging and woodchipping, there are mining proposals to tackle. Tin, iron and zinc lie beneath the Tarkine's forests (see also Tasmania's northwest, March 2012). There are currently 59 mining leases and at least ten proposals for opencast mines** in what should be a World Heritage Listed area, or at the very least a national park. The Australian government has to apply for World Heritage status but it has been dragging its feet. Pristine forest is already being cleared for tracks and drilling pads. The Wilderness Society** is on the case, but it needs all the help it can get. See also http://tarkine.org/world-heritage-listing.

Tasmania's wildlife record is nothing to be proud of, either. I recommend Thylacine: the Tragic Tale of the Tasmanian Tiger, by David Owen. This insightful book tells much more than a story of ill-judged slaughter. It chronicles many 'development-versus-conservation clashes' in the state's recent history. And eloquently reflects upon the ability of a creature that hasn't been seen for 70 years to 'comfortably represent and embrace much that is Tasmanian'. Tourism Tasmania's logo says it all.

There are some people in Tasmania who believe, and doubtless many more who hope, that the Thylacine still exists – in the remotest corners of the island's impenetrable southwestern wilderness. The creature's mystique is intoxicating. If it is indeed extinct, there could be no better legacy than that of lessons learned across the whole Australian continent.

As of 2008, Tasmania's other great icon, the Tasmanian Devil, has been on the endangered list. This carnivorous marsupial, like the Thylacine, was trapped and poisoned by European settlers who believed it ravaged their poultry. Numbers plummeted until Devils were protected under law in 1941, after which they recovered. In the mid-1990s, however, a new threat emerged in the form of Devil Facial Tumour Disease, which is fatal. In the state's northeast there was a 95 per cent reduction in Devil sightings over the next ten years. It took three years to realise that the disease was so destructive because Devils normally have scarred faces from fighting over food. DFTD has now spread three-quarters of the way across the island (the Tarkine's is one of the few disease-free populations). Its origins are unknown but environmental toxins are among the suspects. Now the devils are monitored (captured and examined) and euthanized if they are infected to prevent the spread of the disease. Orphaned joeys are fostered before being released back into the wild.

As if things weren't bad enough, a fox snuck across from Melbourne on the ferry around the turn of the 21st century, and its descendants are in competition with the Devils for food. The Freycinet National Park information office told me cautiously that in the last three or four years Devil numbers have increased on the Peninsula from 12 to 20. Some fear the animal will be extinct within 20 years. I didn't spot a Devil, unfortunately, but here's one I've seen since, in a Koala sanctuary in Brisbane. And my T-shirt.

I would like to end on a positive wildlife note... 

On our last evening in Tasmania, after our walk by Cradle Mountain and a well-deserved delicious dinner, we returned to the cabin to relax on the deck. I knew something was going to happen before I heard the rustling. We peered down into the undergrowth: it was almost dark. And there were two wombats, mother and young'un; the first we'd seen in the wild. There was no light for a photograph, so here's one I took earlier (also in the Koala sanctuary). 

And, finally, the words of Henry David Thoreau:
'In wildness is the preservation of the world.' Lest we forget.

* http://www.tas.greens.org.au/history
** https://www.wilderness.org.au/regions/tasmania/big-mining-moves-in-on-the-tarkine?utm_source=phplist&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=apr_12_wildnews-5928&utm_content=story1link 

And finally... Cradle Mountain (Tas)

I was reluctant to leave Tasmania's coast, but I need not have feared disappointment in the glaciated peaks of the Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park in the Central Highlands. We headed south from Wynyard to join the Murchison Highway. The road rose into forested country and became a lot wigglier while dropping down into and climbing out of the Hellyer Gorge.


We turned off on to the Sheffield road (C132) for the last 26 kilometres to Cradle Mountain Road. On the way there was an extraordinary view – from a lookout on the Penguin Cradle Trail – which gave us a foretaste of what was to come (Cradle Mountain to the left in the picture below).

We were staying at the Cradle Mountain Wilderness Village. Our cabin was basic but clean, with a small deck overlooking the bush. It was no Winged House perched above the wide ocean, however. We enjoyed dinner with a good local wine at Cradle Mountain Chateau. An early night was necessary in preparation for a hard day ahead.

There had been much debate about the walking route. The original plan – a 6-kilometre circuit around Dove Lake – was, we had learned from fellow diners at The Edge on Coles Bay, overly popular and a bit namby-pamby for serious walkers. So, we had revised the plan to something bordering on daunting, but my friend was not to be deterred. 

It was a glorious day, with high temperatures forecast (up to 30 degrees). We decided to park at the Visitor Centre and catch the shuttle bus to the head of Dove Lake, but first there was a crazy-Aussie-rule moment when we found we couldn't buy tickets for the bus (not on the bus, incidentally, but in the Centre) without our National Parks Pass which, in accordance with the rules in every National Park in Tasmania except this one, we'd left displayed in the car. The bus driver was a little tetchy about food on his bus, too: I had got on clutching a baguette I'd bought for lunch but hadn't had chance to put in my backpack in the ticket confusion.

It was very warm by the time we started walking, at about 10. We took the Dove Lake Circuit and then soon branched off on the Lake Rodwell Track, which climbed steadily. I bottled out of the track over Hansons Peak (still no apostrophes in Tassie). I don't mind heights but I don't relish vertical drops at the sides of a narrow steep path, which looked likely from where we assessed the Peak. So we detoured via Hanson Lake and Twisted Lakes, a quite-a-bit longer route that was not easy to follow in places but wended its way through a pleasing landscape that felt wonderfully remote. 

We had intended to walk towards Lake Rodway as far as Artists Pool, which had been recommended for its birdsong, but the detour had taken time and I was already slightly concerned about water supplies. We had 2.5 litres, which was not enough in the conditions: it was hot by now and the paths were fairly hard work so I was almost constantly thirsty. Rationing liquid intake is stressful. So we struck out along the Face (of Cradle Mountain) Track. For some inexplicable reason I had got it into my head that this leg would be flatter. In reality, it climbed relentlessly, and the path was rocky and rugged. If I'd studied the contours on our TAS Map, it wouldn't have been such a surprise that our route was very up-and-downy. But neither were the walk descriptions helpful. I felt as if I'd been climbing and scrambling rather than walking for most of the way so far: is that what 'moderate-difficult' means? Maybe, if a 'difficult' rating suggests you'll be on all fours on a large boulder rock scree.

The Face Track provided spectacular views of rock strata and, ultimately, the raggedy peaks of Cradle Mountain itself. The path eventually levelled off. Now we could look down on the southern end of Dove Lake. I relaxed as we replenished our water supplies from a freezing-cold babbling brook that we were fairly sure couldn't have been contaminated by dead animals or anything else. There were surprisingly – and disappointingly – few creatures, even birds (and only occasional walkers, which was great). Velveteen lichen carpeted the dolerite in places and delicate white flowers defied this often-harsh environment. 

We joined Horse Track close to the Kitchen Hut before turning off to the right on to the Overland Track. This runs for 65km from the Ronny Creek car park north of Dove Lake, passing Cradle Mountain and Tasmania's highest peak, Mt Ossa (1617 metres), to Lake St Clair. It is claimed to be among the greatest wilderness bushwalks. It takes at least six days: there are bushwalker's huts available at five overnight stops along the way (see http://www.parks.tas.gov.au/index.aspx?base=1253 for details).

You can climb to the summit of Cradle Mountain (1545 metres) which takes 3 hours there and back from the Kitchen Hut (to the right of the picture below). But this wasn't for me. We were now on a gently undulating plateau as far as Marions Lookout and the going – on boardwalks in places – was easy. The view from the Lookout was stunning. I was reminded of a walk I once did in the Chiricahua Mountains of southern Arizona. They were not particularly high but looking north from the top I could see range after range, each separated from the next by a plain. I remember thinking that I had never seen landscape on such a scale in Europe. From Marions we looked southeast towards the wonderfully named Walls of Jerusalem National Park. There was an almost 360-degree-view of World Heritage wilderness, and it was glorious.

The descent from Marions Lookout was steep and rough by Crater Lake but there were chains to hang on to – especially useful for those with tiring legs. By now we were drinking our mountain stream supplies. As we went down, a less-than-fit-looking group were puffing their way up the mountain. It seemed late in the day to be at that stage of the Overland Track: they had a way to go before the first bushwalker's hut, which was off our map.

A little further on we took Wombat Pool Track on the last leg back to Dove Lake. Wombat Pool was very pretty: it was closely followed by Lake Lilla. Steps or any further climbing were by now making me slightly tetchy. 

As I slowly rounded the top end of Dove Lake, back into the car park, I felt a bit like Lawrence after he'd crossed Sinai, just before he walks into the Officers' Club and asks for two lemonades, for him and his Arab servant. There was no lemonade for us, but there was a drinking water tap in the car park. Having confirmed our return in the log book (not surprisingly, later than we'd anticipated when signing in that morning), we sat a bit like zombies on the shuttle bus back, rehydrating while being bombarded by the incessant loud chatter of a woman who can't have trekked as far as we had. 

In all, we had walked only 10.5 kilometres and it had taken about six and a half hours. I like to think of myself as a reasonably fit person: in an average week, I run 10 kilometres, do Pilates and, when temperatures permit, swim at least twice a week. But there were times along our Cradle Mountain route when I questioned that opinion. The distance wasn't an issue, but the rough state of most of the tracks and the exertion required for up-and-downing were unexpected. We didn't take enough water for the degree of effort involved in that much heat. Given the rugged nature of the paths, appropriately sturdy walking boots are necessary even over short distances, and hats and sunblock absolutely essential in fine weather. Take a warm/water-resistant layer of clothing whatever the weather when you start out. To help you plan your wilderness walk, read this: http://www.parks.tas.gov.au/file.aspx?id=6382. 

Meanwhile, back on the deck at the cabin, never was beer o'clock more eagerly anticipated or enjoyed. And the endorphin rush from our endeavours amidst such spectacular surroundings was considerable and long-lasting.

Edge of the world (Tas)

When I looked at the map and saw Edge of the World, just south of Albert River, I knew I had to go there. This is on Tasmania's west coast, beyond the end of the Bass Highway and at the limit of sealed roads. Wind careens over coastal scrub and waves have been gathering momentum over thousands of kilometres of ocean, all the way from Argentina.


We had been thinking we should see the Dismal Swamp – for the name alone – but weren't sure where it was. A slight detour off the Highway to Smithton's tourist information office put us straight: happily, it was on the way to the Edge of the World.


Dismal Swamp is described as a natural blackwood forest sinkhole, and is claimed to be the only one of its kind in the world. A sinkhole is a natural depression in the earth's surface formed by the chemical dissolving of carbonate bedrock, in this case dolomite. Forty metres deep, it has formed over thousands of years and supports 600 hectares of unique forest habitat. Blackwood is the tallest of the Wattles, and there are also Myrtle, Tea Tree, Tasmanian Tree Ferns and other ferns. From the rim of the sinkhole you can clearly see the sunken forest top below the surrounding vegetation.

You can get down to the forest floor by hurling yourself down 110 metres of enclosed slide. Not surprisingly, this creates a certain amount of noise as sliders scream and giggle their way down. I chose to walk sedately down a winding path, but then I'm just an old stick-in-the-swamp.


Once down, it is anything but dismal. Labyrinthine paths wend their way through beautifully backlit ferns and Tasmanian artists' installations inspired by swamp world. Inhabitants include pademelons, burrowing crayfish*, quolls, parrots, wrens and robins.

Blackwood was logged from the 1930s until the 1970s. A decade later there were calls to clear the forest for agricultural land which were opposed by environmentalists and sawmillers alike. The Dismal Swamp was declared a State forest in 1976, and two years later 100 hectares of it were made a Nature Reserve.

In northwest Tasmania you will hear a lot about the Tarkine, an area of wilderness bounded by the Arthur River to the north, the Pieman River to the south, the Murchison Highway to the east and the Indian Ocean to the west. Not only does the area include Australia's largest remaining area of Gondwanan temperate rainforest, it is the largest wilderness area dominated by rainforest. In addition, the Tarkine includes many other vegetation types, including eucalypt and dry sclerophyll forest, buttongrass moorland, wetland, grassland and sandy shorelines. It has wild rivers, caves, sand dunes, exposed mountains, significant Aboriginal archaeological sites and a huge variety of plants and animals, some of them rare, threatened or endangered.


You probably won't be surprised to learn that, despite such impressive variety and remoteness, the Tarkine has been under threat from logging and mining. There have been attempts to have it listed as a National Heritage Area, but Federal Environment Minister Tony Burke has been dithering in the face of mining proposals. There are also moves to award it National Park status. While many politicians acknowledge the area's importance and the necessity for conservation, the prospect of massive wealth from resource exploitation is difficult to resist, as is the case in Queensland.


At the end of the Bass Highway, turn left. The township of Arthur River, 14 kilometres south, feels remote and deserted. You can sail up the river aboard the George Robinson (below), into another world by all accounts.

But we were bound for the Edge of this one. The beaches face the full onslaught of the Roaring Forties and are littered with timber debris, so much so that I began to wonder whether there had been a wreck recently. The breakers backed up a long way and white horses were visible to the horizon. Any shells had long been smashed to smithereens, and the seaweed resembled barbed wire. Some rocks looked like freshly wet rippled sand, and the surreal effect of this desolate, battered landscape was completed by a family of Black Swans trying to hunker down in the strong swell.

We had to drag ourselves away from the wild west of Tassie to head back to Stanley. On the way, we detoured to yet another Tasmanian lighthouse, on Bluff Hill Point. Built relatively recently, in 1982, to replace West Point Light further north, it has an elevation of 52 metres and a range of 30 kilometres. It is surrounded by the same wind-blown coastal scrub.

And then to Stanley, Tasmania's Tidiest Town, dominated by The Nut, a square-topped, steep-sided landform jutting out on a narrow isthmus. We could see it from kilometres back. This was once the lake of lava of a long-extinct volcano: today it provides a dramatic backdrop for Stanley's smart historic houses. You can walk up The Nut or take the chairlift, but it was late in the day when we arrived and we had barely enough time to have tea and admire the town's lovely buildings.

Settlement of the area dates from 1826: Stanley was named after the British Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, Lord (Edward-Smith) Stanley, in the 1830s and 40s. Always a port, Stanley's mainstays today are fishing and tourism. I wish we'd had longer.


This northwest tip of Tasmania has the cleanest air in the world, as monitored by the Cape Grim Baseline Air Pollution Station. The Roaring Forties rush in, untainted by passage over land, and when they produce rain, the purest water falls over the wilderness. This corner of a very different Australian island is perhaps most dissimilar of all.


Next, for the first time, we were headed for an inland destination and possibly Tasmania's most famous – Cradle Mountain in the Central Highlands.


* a specialised crayfish living in tunnels in mudbanks rather than flowing fresh water