Talk about timing!

Touch down, and another handful of days to go nuts in Aussie's coolest city. Once again, the wonderful Pim and Yvonne played hosts - the beer was ready and waiting when we knocked on their door! As was good'ol Ray, so our first night back was a late one as we all stayed up drinking and catching up.

To be frank, this time around we had no intention whatsoever of plodding the streets. With only three days it was all about getting out there and taking in the nightlife. So what a bonus to hear that our arrival coincided with the 30th anniversary of the St Kilda street festival.

A record turnout had seen, according to the newspapers, more than 250,000 revellers going bonkers in the south Melbourne beach suburb, and with Sunday the end of a week long party some 400,000 were expected to descend - and they did, and we made a point of being among them! There was live music everywhere - tram stops were besieged by bands eager to play to the masses. Food stalls everywhere you turned. Then there were the bars. Hundreds of bars packed to the rafters. Oh what an atmosphere. Oh what a laugh!

What we hadn't banked on was catching up with Kirsty (a long story, but Kris and Kirsty used to play together in the sandpits as kids) and her fella James, recent arrivals in Melbourne from the UK intent on making the second biggest city in Aussie their new home. It was great to catch, albeit quick, and great to hear that their settling into their new way of life, with good jobs and an appartment in the chic suburb of Toorak.

It was a late night, you can be sure. But not as late as the next! Once we learned good ol'Kasper from Amsterdam was due to land on the Monday there was no holding us back! All those months since we'd last shared a beer disappeared when we met him off the airport bus and headed out for some well overdue beers! Kasper, I'm not sure how your head was on Tuesday, but shit were we hungover as we hailed yet another taxi and bid this great city farewell.

Tassie hospitality at it finest

Neither of us really knew what to expect of Tasmania. Both of us left humbled and inspired. This tiny little state, forgotten and overlooked by mainlanders, offers all who visit an unforgettable experience. Sure, it’s devoid of bright lights and late nights (Hobart aside) but that’s not what this place is about. Tasmania is about embracing the great outdoors. It’s about camping and tramping, fishing and fires. It’s about diverse landscapes and the weird and wonderful wildlife. It’s about forgetting the outside world and revisiting our roots.

True to their word, no sooner had we pitched up in Hobart than we were swept up by the wonderful Troy and Toni and packed off to their Lindisfarne home. During our brief night together besides a fire at Top Camp, two weeks earlier, we clicked, both Marit and I felt like we’d known them for years. And the feeling only intensified during our three night stay, during which we were made to feel like royalty – Troy, Toni, our door is always open, where ever we might be. Kangaroo on the bbq greeted us after our first hot shower in a week. Our dirty stained clothes got the wash of their life and were hung outside to dry. Cooked breakfasts, a double bed with pillows, internet access and music were just a few of the home comforts thrust in front of us. A great night out in town with their friends suppin local beer and wine culminated with a fantastic Thai feed – oh how good it was to chow down on food we hadn’t had to cook!

It’s an often used adage that “time flies” and so it proved as we wiled away our final few hours in the state capital. For a second time we absorbed the atmosphere of the Salamanca market, strolled along the wharf eating fresh fish and chips, and ended the day in style with a visit to the brilliant Lark Distillery, Tasmania’s award-winning whisky distillery. Unlike Hellyer, this place entices the visitor to sample whiskies from around the world in homely surroundings; the bar brimming with hundreds of bottles, not to mention over a dozen of its own offerings. Time for us to go Tasmania, thanks a bundle for everything, it has been emotional!

Sweaty palms and tree huggers

Deep in the south west at the end of the remote Gordon River Road sits the amazing Gordon Dam, an engineering feat of supernatural proportions. Built over five years and opened in 1974, Tassie’s largest dam is the beating heart of the state’s much maligned hydro-electric revolution.

Standing 140m high and some 200m wide, the mind boggles as to how man trumped nature to build this concrete giant. Just peering over the unmanned fences into the abyss below was enough to give Kris sweaty palms, but bold ol’Marit descended the 200-plus steps to take a walk along the top of the massive dam. Just 2.2m of concrete stand between the Gordon and Pedder lakes, the water behind the dam equal to 27 times the volume of Sydney Harbour (we love useless facts!) 183m below the ground the Gordon power station generates about 15 per cent of the state’s electricity underlying the significance of hydro-electricity to Tasmania’s power needs. What was once a bustling town for workers, Strathgordon is today a ghost town – surely the only built up area in Tasmania without a pub or post office. The subsequent flooding of Lake Pedder has created a magnificent sight, but you’re left with a bitter sweet taste in the mouth in knowing that this huge expanse of water shouldn’t really be there. Swimming in the lake is surreal: a half meter of pristine clear water sits atop a black unknown that drops down tens of meters and is home to some of the biggest fresh water trout in the world (fishermen have caught trout here weighing up to 25kg!) Ted’s Beach is a beautiful spot on the lake shore and is where we laid our heads on our penultimate night of camping. In the morning we started on our final leg back to Hobart, passing through a small community of environmentalists living in trees in protest of the region’s long established logging industry. While regulated and controlled many of these tree hugging hippies have spent year upon year clashing with loggers and trying to de-road trucks. Their reasons might be honourable, but in targeting the mere pawns in the environmental game their tactics are not. “Give a toot if you’re against dead wood,” reads one sign hanging high above the road. The activists will not be moved in their battle to save the trees – in the aptly named Styx Valley of the Giants white trunk eucalyptus trees stretch over 90m into the sky making them some of the world’s tallest hardwoods. Ironically, the activists flow to the region from Europe and America; you’d be hard pressed to find a Tasmanian championing their cause. Lunch at Hobart’s prestigious Moorilla wine estate reminded us of what we’d been missing for two weeks. This majestic vineyard come winery is home to some of Tasmania’s finest vinos – we couldn’t help but take advantage of another free tasting! We must have looked like hobos when we strolled through the winery doors, but nothing was going to stop us getting stuck into some fine wine even if we did smell like road kill! Better still, the winery doubles up as a brewery producing the wonderfully fulfilling range of Moo Brew craft ales. “Not fit for bogans,” reads the Moo Brew logo, what a shame we must have looked like a couple of them as we swayed our way out of the restaurant. Onwards to the little town of Kettering where we found a lovely pub to will away the late afternoon hours before stocking up on wine and cheese and consulting our Irish camping guide one more time. Our last night in the bush was spent in Gordon, a nothing place on the D’Entrecasteaux Channel overlooking Bruny Island. Determined to enjoy one last fire we eagerly gathered wood and sat back to reflect. Such was the warmth provided by the fire that we were joined soon after by Una and Xavier, a lovely young couple from Belgium whom it seemed, didn’t have much cash to spend. Our donation of left over food and no longer needed camping gear lighting up their faces like the Southern Cross constellation had the night sky.

It's raining bugs!

According to our recently acquired Irish guide to free camps – we were prepared for the unexpected – the creaking hamlet of Hamilton had a small section of public grass on which we could pitch a tent. The plan had been to pick up some meat to bbq along the way, but the only supermarket (village f**king shop) we could find was in Ouse, where all the labels read: “2009”. Marooned and doomed to a night in the village pub we reached into our rucksacks to locate the fake smiles. Not that they were needed as the pub, The Hamilton Inn, was bustling with life. Not a bogan to be seen, rather the place was awash with thirsty fire fighters and forestry workers keen to sink a few stubbies after a long day locked in battle with fires. Not unlike the mainland, Tasmania is constantly ravaged by fire, the searing temperatures and tinder dry bush a recipe for disaster. More than 20 fires were raging across the state at one stage during our trip causing chaos, although fortunately no one was killed. On most days smoke bellowed high into the sky, all the while small teams worked relentlessly to bulldoze and shift trees. In the evening, shifts change, and the day time crews come together to plan tomorrow’s tactics and vent their spleens at the “twisted f**ks” who get a kick out of striking a match and setting fire to the bush. Our night at the Hamilton Inn (www.hamiltoninn.com.au) couldn’t have been better. Dinner was served outside as the sunset, fresh squid and chicken washed down with ice cold beer. The service was excellent, the food great, and then came the hours of laughter and banter with some of the fire and forestry service’s best! And a special mention must go out to the pub’s fine landlady Gina, who single-handedly pulled every pint while at the same time preparing every plate. Sat outside with Jarrod and Bobby, the laughing only stopped when it started raining solid black bugs. The scene was like something from the Bible as tens of thousands of the little critters pounded into the pub’s lights. Everywhere we turned it was raining bugs: street lights, public toilet, even the local phone box! No one seemed to have an explanation even though this happens every night. By morning, however, there was no sign of the night’s tormentors as if the village employed a special person charged with hovering up the bugs.

A cup of tea with the Irish

We were just finishing frying our butcher bangers on the campfire when Mary and Steven jumped out of the darkness. Despite their 40 years in Melbourne this delightful couple still spoke with the softest of Irish accents when inviting us to join them for a morning cuppa in their school bus come converted motor home. Perched on the side of the beautiful Lake Burbury we talked at length about Tasmania, a state which the couple have visited for a month every year without fail. Their knowledge on the best places to free camp was priceless, backed up by a book full of years of notes and maps. So you can imagine our surprise when they thrust the book into our hands. “Just make sure you pass it on to someone else who’ll appreciate it when you’re done,” whispered Mary. Not a day later we got another dose of Irish charm on the banks of Lake William, an eerie sight to behold in the wake of mass tree felling (anti-hydro lobbyists succeeded in preventing yet another dam and flooding). There we sat putting the world to rights over chilled beer, the pounding sun sending the temperature gauge soaring into the high 30s! The lake separates the Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers and Lake St Clair national parks, the former sitting in the world heritage area that makes up 20 per cent of Tasmania. Much of the park remains unexplored, its deep river gorges and impenetrable bush attracting just a handful of intrepid surveyors and hikers each year. Deeper in, the park boasts some of the world’s most untouched rainforest, most of which has stood tall since the dawn of time.

For us, the summit of Mt Rufus (1416m) offered magical views of both parks, but not before a sweaty and arduous trek through fly infested bush. The trail was hard going, with us seemingly the only people walking in the park. Such was the afternoon heat that we couldn’t stop ourselves from stripping off and diving into the undisturbed Shadow Lake. A further hour’s walk brings you to the serene Lake St Clair, which at 167m deep in Australia’s deepest freshwater lake.

Much like the northern end of this glorious national park, the southern end is breathtakingly spectacular, a testament to Tasmania’s diversity and beauty. But after six hours of hard walking, there was more on our minds than taking photos, so we bundled into the car and set off in search of a beer.

A hike up to the “babies cradle”

The Tarkine is a 3500 sq km wilderness stretching from Arthur River in the north to the Pieman River in the south. For years conservationists have been battling to have the area awarded World Heritage status courtesy of its archaeological worth. Despite its undeniable indigenous heritage value the Tassie government gave the nod for the area to be logged opening the door for the forestry industry to start hacking at some 2000 sq km of pristine and unspoiled rainforest.

The only road through the area – known locally as the “road to no where” – is only accessible by 4x4s, and with William still smarting from his forced oil change, we decided this was one part of Tassie that, for us at least, was out of bounds. Instead we retraced our steps along the top to Wynyard – another shit hole – from where we took the Murchison Highway and headed south through the steep and winding Hellyer Gorge.

Situated in the central west the Cradle Mountain – Lake St Clair National Park is perhaps the most famous and most visited of Tasmania’s countless national parks. The area has been utilised by Aboriginals and, more recently, has seen miners, surveyors and timber getters pass through. It took an Austrian couple to bring lasting fame to the area; in 1912 Gustav and Kate Weindorfer built a chalet at Cradle Valley after declaring the park a place “for the people of all time to come and love”.

Today the park is home to the much celebrated week-long Overland Walk (such is its prominence and popularity walking numbers are restricted to 60 a day), while boasting a plethora of day walks of varying difficulty. We decided to attempt an eight hour circuit including two summits: Hansons Peak (1185m) and the jaw-dropping Cradle Mtn, the state’s second highest at 1545m.

The hike was simply awesome, and even the weather smiled with the heavy rain and thick cloud that greeted our morning arrival in the park lifting by midday. The walking was tough and, at times, scary, both of us forced to rely on metal chains to haul ourselves up rocky faces and orange topped posts to navigate the way. The one hour push to the top of Cradle required total concentration, with a slip in any direction surely proving fatal, or at best ending with broken limbs! Relaxing with a few beers afterwards a truly great day was completed when, much to our surprise, we clocked a few tassie devils wandering by. Unlike the now extinct tassie tiger (like the abdominal snowman, there continue to be random sightings) devils are still going strong, although their numbers have been decimated by a facial tumour disease that kills the animal off within a matter of months. Wildlife authorities are working overtime to track and understand the disease, while a number of centres have popped up with the aim of boosting numbers in captivity and reintroducing into the wild (they use tourism to boost the coffers) Seeing a tassie devil just about completed our wildlife set. Already we’d been harassed by wallabies, pestered by possums, enchanted by echidnas (a cross between a hedgehog and porcupine) jumped over snakes (there are three types in Tasmania and they’re all poisonous), screeched at spiders (they’re big, they’re hairy and they jump!), and swerved to miss the armour plated wombat. All that eludes us is the rare duck-billed platypus – but time is still on our side!

The raping and pillaging of Tassie’s beautiful west

A few minutes drive outside of Rosebery sits the impressive Montezuma falls, one of the state’s highest at over 100m. The falls are situated at the end of a 5km trail, which follows an abandoned railway that once served as an arterial route for silver miners in the mid-1800s (we think the falls are named after one such mining company). Despite the drought currently hurting Australia the waterfall was raining hard, testament to Tasmania’s incredible environmental diversity.

In the 1870s speculators struck gold near the Tamar River, while tin was unearthed in the north east. The finds sparked a rush of international proportions, particularly among the Chinese. Mining was / is a tough way of life for most, with the first few prospectors to arrive sweeping up the rich, surface deposits. Once news travelled that there was wealth to be found, more and more companies entered Tasmania to try their luck. On the west coast, discoveries of large deposits of silver and lead prompted the 1880s boom, the epicentre of which was Zeehan.

There is simply no reason to stop here – the town might still be home to a league of miners but there was nothing outside the habitual pub and post office. Equally impressive was the river side town of Strahan, a once rugged west coast town at the mouth of Macquarie Harbour that shot to fame in the 1980s as the centre for the Franklin River Blockade – an intense protest by environmentalists against the damming and subsequent flooding of huge portions of Tasmanian land.

A staggering 46 per cent of Tasmanian voters wrote “No Dams” on their ballot paper in the 1981 federal government election as confrontation between the Tasmanian Wilderness Society (TWS) and Hydro Electric Commission (HEC) intensified. Despite the west being awarded World Heritage status the then premier tried to get the listing dismissed! The damming and flooding of Lake Pedder (previously the largest glacial outwash in the world) in 1972 caused such a public backlash that proposals to do the same to the Franklin River were canned and the area was instead designated a national park. Strahan seemed popular with the aging tourists, perhaps attracted to the relaxing Gordon River cruises. To us, Strahan was less a town and more a strip of brightly painted, but ultimately uninspiring shops pandering to tourists’ needs. We sunk a couple of local beers and headed for Queenstown, another Tassie town hanging on to modern day life by the thinnest of threads. So rich was the land with minerals that mining towns started popping up everywhere, the biggest being Tullah, Rosebery, and Queenstown. But geological exploitation went unchecked for years while the land was raped and pillaged. Today, much of the land, especially around the once tin rich Queenstown, looks like the surface of the moon. Absent are the trees and vegetation that cover the rest of the state; the winding descent into town is unforgettable for barren sulphur scarred slopes. The town itself is a long time dead, little more than a crossroad of vacant pubs and empty shops.

Seeking refuge from the "Roaring 40s"

In the updated Lonely Planet guide to Tasmania the state’s third largest town, Devonport, copped a huge amount of flak predominantly for its booze fuelled brawling and intimidating biker gangs. Such were the strength of the comments the guide book was taken to task by the local paper – The Mercury – which strongly criticised LP for its one-sided view based on little more than poorly sourced conjecture. Either way, it was our next stop, albeit to top up the supplies before hitting the north coast. Devonport was neither charming nor memorable, but neither did it seem overrun by bogans and bikers. If anything, it has more promise than Launceston, which in the main is a slowly dying dump! As for us, the town will be best remembered for Kris’ mechanical mishap which resulted in William undergoing an unnecessary oil change! Driving down the main highway shortly after topping up on oil, Kris suggested out loud that he might not have replaced the oil cap, and so it bloody well proved! Oil flew everywhere when Kris popped the bonnet covering him from head to toe much to the amusement of passing motorists. Marit, meanwhile, paced up and down the streets of Devonport in search of the missing cap; much to our relief it was eventually spotted wedged down the side of the engine. It was a good 50kms before the overpowering odour of burning oil subsided, replaced by the strong smell of sea salt whipping off the Bass Straight. At the quaint seaside town of Penguin – the focal point of which is a towering concrete copy of the flightless bird – we paused for a coffee at the wonderful Groovy Penguin café – a “must do” recommendation from Top Camp’s Toni, who spent her youth in the town. Here a lovely lady suggested we call in at the Hellyers Road Distillery, the largest single malt whisky distillery in Australia. How could we say “no”?

Parked next door to the disappointing Lactos Tasmania cheese centre (the cheeses on offer really were disappointing and, in the main tasteless) the distillery offers a decent variety of bourbon casked malts (and one experiment with Pinot Noir cask) all of which failed to deliver; the Scots have nothing to worry about on this showing, with all of those tasted proving harsh on the palate, probably because they are too young.

The north west is a complete contrast to the north east, its beaches and bays very rugged, as you’d expect from a coastline battered and bruised by the treacherous Bass Straight. Here the notorious Roaring 40s (the name given to the howling westerly winds that besiege latitudes 40 to 50) prevail, bringing with them more than 2000mm of rain each year. The region is remote at best, with coastal heaths and wetlands whose history stretches back over 35,000 years when Aboriginal tribes sought shelter in caves along the coast, where they left a remarkable legacy of rock engravings.

When we rolled into tiny Boat Harbour we were greeted by the Roaring 40s in all their glory, but it didn’t stop us stripping off and running into the ferocious Bass Straight for a dip! After all, you only get the chance to body surf the Bass once, so that’s exactly what we did. A refreshing beer in the delightful Jolly Swagger café helped us forget our bruises and scrapes, but at no stage did the howling wind want to relent.

Onto Stanley, a small fishing village sat in the shadow of a 152m monolithic rock form, aptly nicknamed “the nut”. This striking formation is said to date back more than 13 million years, and a steep 20 minute climb provides amazing views across the Bass, east and to the west. That is, when the region is not under attack from gale force winds, and after struggling to the top we were forced to quickly retreat.

With the storm raging we continued our hasty retreat inland where we encountered uninspiring farmland but no where to camp. On to Marrawah, a surfing mecca with some stunning sweeping bays and internationally renowned breaks. Still the wind raged and our attempt to pitch the tent at the impressive Green Point proved futile and once again we were forced to retreat.

With daylight fast running out we had to act fast. Driving on Tassie roads between dusk and dawn is not clever – it’s when the wildlife come out to play and that means running a gauntlet of wallabies, devils, and armour plated wombats! We made the remote township of Arthur River just as the sun bid us farewell, but there was no sign of the wind abating. Such was its ferocity that it was necessary to tie the tent to the car and we crawled into our sleeping bags with fingers crossed we, and our tent, would survive the night!

Did you know...

While beer and wine are two unsung Tasmanian delights destined for greatness, this small island is responsible for a whole lot more on the production front. Perhaps our biggest surprise, however, came in learning that one of Tasmania’s most lucrative industries is opium. Believe it or not the state now produces over 40% of the world’s “legal” opium, boasting conglomerates Glaxon & Kline, and Johnston & Johnston among its growing client list. Since poppies were first planted in 1970, production has grown at such a rate there are now more than 1200 growers who cultivate 200 square km of the plant every year. What’s more, it’s the only place in the southern hemisphere where opium is legally grown, the poppies seemingly in love with Tasmania’s rich healthy soils. Perhaps the craziest thing about the set up is the fact that it’s thrust in ya face. There’s no growing behind closed doors or off out in the wilderness. Nope, it’s there for all to see. The only thing stopping you hopping a fence and picking plants till your heart’s content is the odd sign advising it might not be too clever a thing to do! Using a Hungarian method growers extract opiate alkaloids direct from the dry poppy straw, as opposed to extracting the juice – the preferred method for illegal producers around the world – and then drying it as a concentrate. Put it this way, if you stand down wind of a Tasmanian poppy field on the day of harvest the chances of you getting stoned as a monkey are pretty darn high (farmers have reported cattle grazing in nearby fields doing some pretty funny shit!)

Wineries

Morning started with a climb to the summit of Mt William, which while only a few hundred metres tall offers is said to offer magnificent views stretching from Portland in the north to Eddystone in the south. Typically, though, all we saw was cloud as the weather waved two fingers and sent us packing – it was to prove the first of several fruitless climbs!

Down, but by no means out, we nursed “William” back to Gladstone (making sure all doors were locked) and opted for the coastal scenic road to Bridport, a small seaside town. What a mistake! Another 40kms of gravel lay in wait. In fact, we’d never seen so much of the bloody stuff and just to compound our frustration there was no coast in sight! We’ll be having words with the guy who drew up our map!

While Bridport was no Gladstone that was as good as it got; just another Tassie town with nothing more than a pub and post office. As a rule of thumb, don’t make any assumptions whatsoever about Tassie towns offer; in most cases it’s sweet bugger all! No reason to stop so inland we went in search of some of Tasmania’s much hyped wineries. We did, however, stumble upon one great find on the way out of Bridport: the quaint Flying Teapot, a small family run café. Lining a short grass runway this café was established as a rest stop for recreational flyers, and given the buzz it seemed to be

very well received by passing pilots. The Tamar Valley wine region is quickly developing an international reputation as a producer of fine new world wines, emerging from the shadow of its mainland peers particularly South Australia’s Shiraz focused Barossa and McClaren Valleys. Our first true taste of what the state is capable of came at the wonderful Pipers Brook Vineyard where, unlike New Zealand, tastings are free and bountiful. Pipers – a pioneer of the plonk industry here having been established as far back as 1974 - has amassed many awards in recent years in the main for its Pinot Gris and Bruts. We were so impressed we stayed for a long lunch and couldn’t help but buy up a few bottles before departing.

Next up was the tiny Providence Vineyard. Here we sampled one Pinot Noir after another, only stopping when offered a glass of the resident Port for fear of running into the cops on the drive into Launceston. Such was the size of The Jansz Vineyard we got lost among the vines and never got to the winery to try some of Tasmania’s most prized sparkling whites. Others we passed included Jinglers Creek (Pinot Noir and Chardonnay), Josef Chomy (sparkling wine) and Sharmans (Cab Sav among many varietals) to name but a few. Another fabulous offering came from Bay of Fires Wines, which also produce the Hazards Ale, a 5.4% treat that soon had Kris hooked! Just as Tassie is producing some lip-smacking vinos the state is also home to some of Australia’s best craft brewers. A great example is Seven Sheds, which brews a fabulous Kentish Ale and super strong Belgium Trapas. Kris could go on and on for he was often referring to having died and gone to heaven – but just Google “Tasmanian brewers” and you’ll see for yourself.