Shutting Leo Out

Over the week or so I'd stayed at Kathy and Gary's, Leo and I grew close. We took trips together, worked together, and seemed to enjoy an intuitive bond. Naturally, we had discussed how wonderful it's been. We pondered our age difference, over 20 years, and the way we each see our individual futures, our hopes and plans and wondered if we could converge our paths and attempt to build a relationship. In fact, the seafood dinner at the harbour restaurant was the perfect opportunity for Leo to put his cards on the table, and find out whether I was game.

In spite of, or perhaps as result of, the strange pull we experienced towards each other, I hesitated to run with it. There was awkwardness, as, try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to see through the fog of fear and uncertainty. I kept thinking of how romantic taking this path with him would be, how wild and entirely the way I pictured the true life I should be leading to be - untethered, in harmony with the moment, off the grid. With a person I am in synch with, with whom I experience mutual empathy and love. But the truth, as I had to admit it to myself later on, was, that although I felt love for him, I had not fallen in love with him. Not as yet, anyway - from experience, it takes me more than just one week. And perhaps that indicated some great deficiency in my emotional makeup, a failure to engage my feelings. Perhaps I could've overridden this temporary, trivial and superficial resistance. Or perhaps in the back of my mind I was preoccupied with thoughts of home, my sister, my parents, and the uncertainty of when I'll be needed. Still, I couldn't help it, and it stood against my character to try and fake it.

Leo was understanding, as men who possess the mature capacity for empathy, and an appreciation of the complexities of life, tend to do. We left it be, for now.

The Gordon-Franklin river cruise is a beautiful, serene ride, once the extremely touristy bellowing loudspeaker announcements of 'and you can purchase one of those at….' touting souvenir tat subsides. Still, I suppose it is part and parcel of taking this sort of cruise. The boat manoeuvred out the harbour through Hells Gates - for us, an exciting feat, as we'd seen it from the Macquarie Head beach angle, and now got to experience just how narrow it was, and the cause for many a shipwreck. Once through, a massive rock lobster was waved at us from shore by a couple of successful fishermen, returning from their early morning run. We then careened towards the Gordon river as the boat glided into the silent forest.

The Gordon-Franklin river

 

The photo which changed the course of a river (or, rather, kept it)

It was lovely, especially since I'd taken my precautionary sickness pill, and was in a borderline-psychedelic, dreamlike state. It was, however, frustrating to see, but not be allowed to actually walk through the dense forest. This was a preservation requirement, of course, as these areas are untouched by human hand nor trampled by its foot. Having already had a chance to walk through some Tasmanian rainforest, I couldn't help but feel slightly short-changed – to see but not touch. In fact, when we did dock for a rapid ten minute trot around a decked path within the forest, we were sternly warned not to touch anything. It was a little too much nannying for our liking, the place was too beautiful not to connect with its inhabitants physically. And after all, as far I was aware - according to my hippy wannabe guru, Susan of Wilmot - trees like being hugged. This was all too contrived, too artificially constructed as a plastic bubble within a world of wonder. At one point our attention was even directed at what was purported to be the hide of a tiger snake, but the guide oddly seemed to know it was going to be there before we got to the spot. I knew snakes are territorial, and therefore easy to monitor by a wildlife expert, but Leo and I narrowed our eyes in suspicion. Could a faux-snakeskin have been left on the log as a permanent photo-op? Who could tell.
 
Having been herded back onto the boat, it then carried on to Sarah Island, upon which - could it be?... - who awaited to guide us through the site, but those same actors from the Ship That Never Was production! Understandable, as the play is the story of an attempted escape from the island. This was truly a conglomerate, a labyrinth of tourist traps from which there was no escape. We were permitted, though, this time, to walk through the island unaided, free to fondle the flora to our heart's content. We wafted from ruin to ruin, hut remain to hut remain, taking in the feel of the place and catching a passing hammed-up anecdote from the thespians, as they waxed lyrical about life on the Island, bringing it all back to life as if we'd been transported back in time.



Ruin

Described as a "living hell", the British penal settlement was nigh impossible to escape, due to its location, making boat access very tricky. The unruly labour force was used in turning the place into a profitable pine logging and shipbuilding enterprise. A means to discipline and control the uncontrollable, conditions on the island were, as to be expected, extremely harsh, particularly as supplies were short and difficult to transport across from the mainland. Lasting only eleven years, the place was practically a fully functioning village, attempting to utilise any of the inmates' skills to keep it going. However the challenging access forced its closure in its penal capacity, later on to be used as an occasional pine logging resource only.

Sarah Island 1822-1833

 

 

Once the island has been sufficiently explored, the actors were popped back into their boxes, and us ignorant uncouth masses were hoiked back on the boat for a hearty lunch - mounds of smoked salmon, although oddly nothing from the local rainbow trout farms we had pointed out to us on the way. The boat then lulled gently back to the Strahan harbour.
 
On our return, Gary was having a late afternoon nap, which meant we were jobless. This was to be my final evening here, and I took it upon myself to prepare dinner. When he awoke, Gary brought out a bottle of wine 'for my last night', and we supped on my rather delicious borscht. With Kathy being veggie (and on a diet of no sugar, salt, yeast or fun), Gary often reminded me of a ravenous dog forced to live on lettuce leaves. I asked Leo about it and he said that they had a BBQ one night, and despite the meat being extremely sinewy, Gary scoffed the lot, gnawing on the bones and leaving absolutely nothing for the distraught cat. I saw that as a sign of deep commitment - an enthusiastic bone gnawer voluntarily opting for an exclusively leafy lifestyle.
 
After dinner, the wine, the stories, Leo and I took a long sunset walk along the harbour, ruminating how amazing life can be when you just allow it to happen. It was a beautiful evening.
 
The next day I got up early to make up for yesterday's laziness and got to work on the carrots in the garden. Gary took pity on me about midday and sent me off to cook lunch for us three, Kathy having gone to work. I came through again with a hearty veggie curry, although suddenly realised I might've taken this rare opportunity to throw some animal protein on the hob for the flesh-yearning guys. Thankfully, whatever disappointment they were experiencing was not evident, and Gary fell into a chatty mood again, embarking on a talking spree. This time, unfortunately, I was forced to stop him mid-flow, as I had to rush for the bus headed to Margate - a tiny town near Hobart - Tassie's capital - to meet my next host.

This all meant a hurried goodbye with Leo, who drove me to the bus stop. The stress of rushing, my conflicted heart, the anger at Leo for wanting more and not having the opportunity to search my own feelings further, caused a less than adequate parting, with me practically storming off - frustrated at my inadequacy at a final tender moment. This was the last I saw of him. 
 

Letting Leo In

My dad was a man of contradictions. I know, you could say that about literally every person who's ever lived. But this seems to be an attribute of his, which reflects his existential internal rift. I could always rely on him for the darkest sense of humour, for slaying sacred cows whenever possible. At the same time, he remained throughout his life a very serious man - considered, fearful of rash decisions, often to a point of constipated inaction, which frustrated the rest of the family. He was a devout Socialist his whole life, yet followed conservative social norms in the most dogmatic fashion. 

Probably due to his strict upbringing, he was both respectfully fearful of the wrath of authority, yet a rebel at heart. He would never question doctors, lawyers, teachers, people who have reached the top echelons of social hierarchy, and this blind subservient compliancy ultimately contributed to his demise, failing to press for second opinions on diagnosis, or dispute lackadaisical courses of treatment. Yet he dedicated his later life, after years as a metal shop mechanic, to union work - naively, perhaps, ignoring any trace of corruption or skewed ideals, proceeding with a focused conviction of the value of integrity and culpability of humanity for each other's wellbeing - acting as legal advisor in work tribunals. Thereby he had found a way to question authority in the most fundamental way, but one which worked for him: finding where the rules were misappropriated or manipulated and ensuring justice is served, protecting the little man from the malevolent Capitalist.

Remembering my dad as I was growing up is in one of two modes - with an almost permanent slight grin, one side of the mouth curving upwards underneath his occasional moustache and hefty nose, a twinkle in his eyes as he's just dispensed some satirical or cutting - but never hurtful - observation. The other mode was as a stern, dictatorial, stubborn and arbitrary figure, unmoved by pleas or reasoning. If dad said no, it was pointless to try and argue. His word was Law. A fun, boundary-basher on one hand, a stone wall the other.

Later on, as an adult, his third mode was revealed - the depressive. Of a generation where introspective self-awareness was considered an indulgent waste of time and 'philosophising', his ultimate derisive term for anything deeper than the practical, he was ill-equipped to handle his crippling depression and nihilism, which also played a part in his deterioration.

But remembering him as a whole, complex person, divided within himself, is for me best encapsulated in a particular moment towards his final days. I was helping my dedicated mum and sister look after him, as he was deteriorating towards the unavoidable cul-de-sac in the most horrific fashion. My mum was out one morning, and I had managed to convince him to eat something so he could take his bundle of medications - food had been one of his absolute joys in life, now all but completely gone with the progress of the illness - and at his request brought him a thin slice of pumpernickel bread, smeared with cream cheese and sprinkled with chopped onion. My dad had a proclivity for the simple foods of his Germanic childhood. He ate up, with some effort. But did not manage to keep it down. As I was cleaning up, dismissing his unnecessary embarrassed apologies, he looked up at me with that little smile of his and said: 'well at least it tasted good coming up too'.

Ol' metal shop fingers and me

A transit van pulled up across the road from me, and an American man in his 50s disembarked. I knew he was an American, because he had that slick yet slightly outdated small-town look only American men in their 50s manage to achieve - a golf shirt, Bermuda shorts, a white moustache, round framed glasses and a straw hat. Like he stepped out of a Stephen King novel. But not evil.

Strahan - first impression

He walked over cautiously, having been tasked with collecting me, and politely enquired whether I was the right person, but I knew that was Leo, the man from the letter of introduction I read at Susan's house a few days earlier. As premonitioned, Leo and I hit it off straight away. He wasted no time unfolding his ideology to me - all about self-sufficiency and anti-consumerism, intending to spend the rest of his life as a handyman / Wwoofer, living off trading his many craft skills, rather than participating in our capitalist society of pointless accumulation.

Leo had been a handyman his entire life and was indeed very handy, for the moment with a pair of pliers, busily plastering the cracked walls of our hosts' house, and in the planning stages of building a chicken run, weather conditions permitting. The hosts, Kathy and Gary, greeted me with warmth, promptly introducing me to the cat, Tashi, the three chooks and the two goats (on loan) and I was fed home baked scones with jam and yoghurt. My work here was to be mainly hardcore weeding, transplanting and yet more transplanting. It was great actually, I learned a fair bit about vegetable growing just from the few days I spent listening to Gary (also an American) talk about his carrots.

Gary and Kathy were specialist trekking guides in Nepal, and when not tending to the house or garden, were busy organising the next expedition to the Himalayas. They were full of anecdotes from their adventures: from scrotum dwelling ticks, to men-hating lesbian trekkers challenging a fellow trekker - a policeman - to a fight, and to drunken monks on donkeys making "fuck" gestures at a puzzled and bemused Gary and Kathy. They never did find out what that was about.





Being travel guides also meant that Kathy and Gary were generously encouraging that Leo and I see the local sights. One night, Kathy drove us all to see Short Tail Shearwaters, AKA mutton birds - the only source of food for the original settlers, still today scoffed with 

Nesting Mutton Birds

pleasure by old-timers, a practice not favoured by a wildlife champion such as Kathy. The bird were flying in from a few weeks spent over the ocean, so they can relieve their nesting partners from their shifts, the nests based in holes in the dunes. Here they would spend the night together, then allow the nesting partner to fly off for their turn of ocean feeding. We weren't allowed to shine any direct strong lights at them, so Kathy used green cellophane wrapped around a torch to dim it, and we stood on the shore, the smell of the ocean heavy, the stars high above us, watching low flying birds screeching all around like demented bats, causing sand to blow into our already squinty eyes. Then Gary got out the single malt and all was well. 

Flocking Short Tail Shearwaters, AKA mutton birds

I had a little walk into town the next day and discovered sadly that its entire population was employed in some form of the tourist industry, a reality which was true for most small towns in the Southern hemisphere, I was to discover. Local industries have all but shrivelled dead. One woman here even turned her back garden into a native-rainforest mini museum - with entry fee of course, irritating her neighbours with the overgrown trees obscuring the sun and blocking the gutters, making it worse by tackily naming it The Magic Cottage. However, the town's main tourist attractions were the Gordon-Franklin river cruise, taking you through the untouched vast rainforests, the steam train journey previously mentioned - going to Queenstown and back, and a couple of sea-plane or helicopter rides. There was also a daily showing of The Ship That Never Was, a humorous audience participation play, depicting the story of the last ship built at Sarah Island, which was about to sail for the new prison at Port Arthur, and of the convicts who mutinied and hijacked it, escaping to Chile. Down by the Tourist Info Centre, every day at 5.30. Tickets at the door.

 

Over the next few days, Leo and I became exploration companions, with a shared passion for making the most of our free time visiting as many beauty spots. We had his trusty van, which was fortunate, as most attractions in the area were definitely a driving distance away.





Macquarie Heads



On a day off we drove to Macquarie Heads, a part of the coast with a view of Hell's Gates and a decent picnic spot to boot. It also is the start of a beach with some of the largest sand dunes and therefor THE hotspot for quad biking - both legal and illicit, as well as a reluctant graveyard for crashed vehicles. Ocean Beach, as this is known, stretches north 30k, all to way to Trial Harbour . Leo and I braved the giant dune greeting us by the parking area, getting extremely out of breath up the steep wall of sand, but it was worth it - the vast beach was spectacular, and we even managed to avoid getting run over by any of the zooming quadders and bikers.



View of Hell's Gates

Henty Dunes - white and green meeting

We then drove further down, to Henty Dunes - immense forests on one side, the crashing waves of the ocean on the other, endless white sand dunes in between. We got caught up in the emotion of the moment, melodramatically contemplating deliberately getting lost, wobbling our way towards the ocean, our feet sinking in the soft sand as we go, but the prevailing presence of noisy quad bikes allowed us to follow their tracks back to the parking area.

We then headed back to Strahan, and braved the unmissable-only-play-in-town, The Ship That Never Was - surprisingly not entirely torturous and quite fun, especially as you're given a spray bottle to go mad with during a certain bit in the show, getting all the other tourists in the audience wet in their nylon shirts.


Tourist spraying - it's a sport

We ended the day having dinner at a lovely fish shop. Ironically, the local fish were all exported, so the ones we enjoyed were brought in from Hobart - and here we were, sitting by the harbour, fishing boats everywhere.

Leo was shaping up to be a real boost to my enthusiasm for experiencing every moment to the full and becoming a yea-sayer. Even to naff, cheesy, touristy theatre productions, shelling my armour of cynicism, at least for the duration. His fervour was contagious, and he wanted to share it all with me. We reasoned that as lone Wwoofers, who don't normally get a chance to partner up as joyfully as we clearly have, we should take advantage of this unexpected duality and take the lavish - at least for us destitute types - Gordon-Franklin river cruise. And with that, the very next morning we wolfed down our quinoa porridge and jetted down to the harbour again, to catch our boat.
 

A Short Breather

In possession of a 24 hour park pass, I planned a full day’s hike. This wouldn't even begin to cover the huge Cradle Mountain and Lake St Clair (aka Leeawuleena, or "sleeping water") National Park, as it constitutes about a tenth of Tassie. Fine, that may perhaps be a slight exaggeration. But it’s big. The longest trail would've taken 6 days to cover, and stretches 65km long. But, having already established there wasn't a bus going anywhere that day, and with firm plans in place for my next Wwoofing venture in the west of Tassie, I only had one more night at the camp before moving on the next morning. 
 

After a minor hitch, involving the Australian banking system not allowing me to use my bank card for cashback from a teller, and with no cash machines available at any of the park stores whatsoever, which meant I was devoid of money, I set off on my trek. After all, no money changes hands in the wild. Apart from a few enterprising wombats selling grass to desperate naïve hippy backpackers.

The first part of the trek involved a very steep climb 2/3 of the way up Cradle Mountain, catching me completely off my guard and unprepared. Glancing up, it was a do or die moment. Throwing caution to the wind, I grasped and sweated amateurishly, heaving myself up a near vertical rock face. At points, I didn't think I would manage it, but it would've been too embarrassing to admit defeat, shamefully making my way back down, avoiding crushing hands and heads of the other scaling trekkers. But once at the top, at Marion's lookout, ample compensation came as the magnificent vista of Dove Lake revealed itself. Sitting on a rock catching my breath, I began chatting to a German girl who happened to be my would-be dorm mate, as well as my next day's bus companion. Small rock indeed. We then parted ways as she was headed on another trek.

Dove Lake from Marion's Lookout

Tannin, anyone?

Continuing towards the lake on my own, down a worryingly steep descent, I managed to yet again pioneer an original path - not a recommended attitude for the inexperienced hiker. I slip-slid down to Dove Lake, where a convenient wooden boardwalk allowed for a much more accommodating and dignified walk for the casual hiker. It was a beautiful sunny day - a rarity in rainy Tassie, and the lake was shimmering with light as I circled it. The water in the Tassie lakes and rivers is rust coloured, due to tannins in the typical button grass the wombats munch on, and also because of the tea trees that grow everywhere. The water is a bit like, well, tea! Feeling sun-kissed and smiley, I stopped to have my packed lunch in a beautiful secluded spot on the lake, took my shoes off and dipped my feet in the cool water. This was the first time on this trip I felt truly in the moment, light and clear of heart and mind. I doubt Kraft processed cheese and oat biscuits have ever tasted as delicious for anyone before, nor will again. 

A lovely day on Dove Lake

I got back in time to have another quick walk to see the King Billy pine, a big deal tree in an ancient rainforest, taking the obligatory selfie next to it. I then returned to camp for a much needed shower - considering this was a campsite, the showers were incredible, each with overhead heating and a stall for clothes and delightfully hot, high pressure water – luxury. Yes, more to say about the shower than the ancient pine! Simple pleasures matter when you travel. Speaking of which, dinner involved some quick-cook pasta, and a glass of wine kindly shared by one of my dorm mates - a stocky medical scientist with a gruff no-nonsense way about her, which endeared her to me straight away. Having grown up on a farm up near Adelaide, she’d naturally seen quite a bit of hay action, she divulged. No doubt a city boy came to town and taught them all how to dance.

Leaving the national park, I felt sad that I didn't take more time to trek around. The whole length of Tasmania, I had heard from fellow travellers, can be hiked in a couple of weeks, and it seemed like something I would one day love to undertake.

In the morning, my German dorm-mate and I got on the bus to Strahan, which snaked through a mass of increasingly green wilderness and a whole lot of absence of humans. Whatever "towns" we went through, such as they were, consisted of a milk bar and a community house of some description, with perhaps a few rickety houses. The two actual cities we drove through, Zeehan and Queenstown, looked straight out of a Spaghetti Western and I half expected a wagon to lazily creak past at any moment. But it didn't.

Queenstown, yee-haw



West Coast Wilderness Railway

In Queenstown, a gold and copper mining town, we stopped for lunch, and I wisely ordered deliciously sweet scallop fritters and chips, which would necessitate a definite repeat if I ever return. And the town may not have had a wagon, but it did indeed have a steam train, which tracks through the world heritage untouched rainforest conservation area, and was in the past used to carry the mining spoils through the rainforest, all the way to Strahan, my actual destination. However, for us pauper travellers it was startlingly expensive to go on. So we opted to take a couple of photos of it rolling into the station instead.

Owl aboard! (cause it's a forest geddit?)

Leaving Queenstown, the driver picked up a gaggle of schoolchildren. My companion and I spent the rest of the journey checking for gum in our hair and sniffing the occasional suspicious burning smell. A small child asked to take my photo "for the next bus journey". I'm pretty sure the camera was angled towards my cleavage. Cheeky monkey. Then, just before the end of the journey, drama! A water bomb had "accidentally" been "dropped" by one of the kids, startling the elderly passengers and injecting extra oomph into the driver's gas-stepping foot. Thundering to our final stop, he stood up and gave an Oscar-worthy psychotically angry finger-wagging performance, featuring such gems as 'who's gonna clean this mess eh?!' and the all-time favourite 'this is your last warning!'. The seemingly shamefaced pupils got off the bus, then proceeded to make obscene gestures upon exit. The driver turned to us couple of passengers left and asked if we thought he'd scared them. I confidently assured him he did not.

Strahan

My next Wwoofing hosts were a couple, based in a quiet suburban house in Strahan - an inaccurate description really, as the whole town is a sort of suburb. Located on the Tassie west coast, harbour access from the ocean is via Hells Gates, so named not just because of their tiny near impossible proportions, which caused quite a few ships (and a whale, apparently) serious navigational kerfuffle, but also as a reminder of the notorious Sarah Island situated just within them. Here, convicts were taken in the early 1800s to build ships in the baking heat, or just be locked up in the small penitentiary. Little did they know that the hardships they endured were only small-scale compared with the conditions on Port Arthur down in the south west, where the worst of the bunch would eventually end up. In fact, according to my trusty guides, Sarah Island gradually turned into a resort-like camp, which some of the prisoners were reluctant to leave.

My hosts sent their other Wwoofer to pick me up, and I stood looking out to the harbour waiting for him. All I knew was that his name was Leo.
   

The Gates of Hell, Complete with Devils

More Art by Susan

We arrived at the charming town of Wilmot, just south of Devonport, not far from Cradle Mountain - a World Heritage Area - entering a pleasant little cottage with a bountiful garden, clearly lovingly cared for. Susan explained that as far as she was concerned, Wwoofing is not only about work, but also about learning, a philosophy I could not disagree with. As I discovered - at first to my delight - she  meant it , and as the next few days progressed, she instructed me on correct weeding, wrapping trees in wire and mulching, and I got down to some hard graft.

 

 
Alas, the balance was quickly disproportionately tipped as I was listening significantly more than working. Susan talked NON-STOP, albeit enthusiastically and knowledgably - on Tassie's disappearing indigenous forests and wildlife, the problems of logging and mining, and rather a lot of general tree chat. But more than that, acres of talk of her past ailments, of being hounded by the local farmers angered by her anti-pesticide and anti-forestry propaganda, who would throw dead wallabies over her gate, and of dejected berserk lovers setting fire to her front porch.

Still, Susan was a genuine hippy with the best of intentions. She was a true believer in community, a non-dual universe and accountability for each other, forever exploring ways of improving the environment and helping others. We had some bonding moments of warmth and kindness - after I'd suffered bad sunburn at the end of the first day's work, with the UV index being clearly harsher than in Victoria, she provided a soothing rub with her aloe vera plant, which certainly saved me from several agonising days.

This was also where I'd  encountered the first hint of Tassie's strong link to spiritual practices, in particular influenced by indigenous ritualistic paganism and shamanism. On the bookshelf in my room I found a Book of Shadows of disreputable and mysterious origin, and I was so fascinated and delighted with it, Susan offered to give it to me. However, already aware that her gifts invariably carry a hefty price tag in various unexpected forms, I declined, a decision I regret to this day. It was quite a special book.

Most serendipitously, Susan showed me a letter of introduction she had received from a fellow Wwoofer, which made rather an impact. Sent to all hosts in the Wwoofing community, this initiative was unprecedented and very old-worldly. It carried a certain gallantry and consideration I was impressed with. The person's name itself struck an intuitively familiar chord, such that I knew we would have a significant connection, despite the chances of us bumping into each other, or being at the same location at the same time, being entirely negligible. Leo was out there, and his presence vibrated through the molecules of air, and gently mingled with mine.

There was no doubt Susan's immense expanse of knowledge was illuminating, as it turned out she was also one of the first permaculture instructors, working with Bill Mollison, the "Father of Permaculture", and teaching it for 14 years. However, the incessant chatter was growing more and more controlling, with any attempted input from me completely shut out and unwelcome. She began following me around, criticising things like my method of preparing an egg, or arguing - with no one in particular - about the basics of a band setting up their instruments for recording, me having mentioned I played in a band. Any work I attempted in the garden was scrutinised to an inch of its life. Basically I could do no right.

She also grew erratic in her expectations. She cried a lot. She told me to have time off then huffed at me about how she'd been working non-stop and what have i been doing. It was getting difficult, in particular as I depended on her for making contact with my family, trying to keep track of how things were progressing with my sister, as she now had a treatment plan and was shortly due to begin chemotherapy.

The idea behind Wwoofing, as previously explained, entails working for your host 4-6 hours per day, and, depending on whatever was agreed, you get a bed or shelter and 3 meals a day in return. Supposedly you work about half a day, which leaves the other half for exploration and, well, for making the most of your stay in the area, as essentially this is an ethical and pan-beneficial way of travelling. If you're at all unhappy, or the host is being unreasonable, you're only required to stay a minimum of 2 nights. 

Thankfully, despite all of her manoeuvres and attempts to control my whereabouts, I did manage to go on one fantastic hike to the local falls, off the Forth River and through a beautiful rainforest. Setting off trepitatiously on a trail not far from Susan's house, plenty of wallaby, rabbit and wombat rears were spotted disappearing into the thicket upon hearing my clumsy footsteps. However, it was mainly the eerie silence with the occasional bird squawk and man-sized ferns growing amongst the gum and pine trees, which made it a memorable experience. It was really just me and the animals, and i kept having to reassure myself that i was still on the right track. My marks were bright pink ribbons tied to a branch every so often. There were several occasions where I experienced anxious rapid heartbeat, and i kept expecting to stumble upon those fabled snakes, having been warned about them so many times, but no - none were to be seen. I suppose my stumble through the forest was making enough noise to scare them off. Or perhaps THEY NEVER EXISTED.

The walk took me past Lake Barrington and eventually, at a crossroads, I mistakenly took the upper route viewing the Forth Falls from the less frequented vantage point above them, rather than the conventional water's edge. Not the intended destination, but a beauty spot nonetheless, I chose not to regard this as an accidental pioneering attempt of unchartered territory, but mark the expedition a success.

Forth Falls

On my third day at Susan's she informed me she was going to nearby Sheffield - the town of murals, apparently - to pick up her alcoholic lover, Colin. I was welcome to tag along for the ride, but she was only going to be there a mere half hour. Happy to get out of the house for however short a time, and with the prospect of an extra person around the house to take the pressure off me, alcoholic or not, i agreed. I had a quick wander around town - yet another mysterious oddity of a place with the main street decorated in wall sized outdoor murals, western-style, on the walls of the shops, featuring scenes from a bar, a stable and other 19th century imagery.



 

The olden days, Sheffield, Tassie

It also had, for some unknown reason, a completely out of place specialist Scottish café, complete with an in-house bagpipes player, demoralising and irritating the customers, and a world weary waitress, both dolled up in tartan. Hmmm.  We collected Colin and his aggressive dog, Rock, and hurried back. But my oh my if for a moment I thought things were going to improve. The atmosphere was intense, every word the man uttered was hissed at and belittled. It wasn't pretty. I really felt for the poor chap. I went to bed early, leaving them to their charming dynamic, not before I'd been coerced into watching a sort of Aussie music revival festival on TV, featuring stars of the 60s 70s and 80s making a spectacle of themselves in overly tight sparkly leotards and smeared tired makeup. Needless to say none of the songs were familiar. That is until Leo Sayer appeared on the screen. That man is a truly hard working guy. 

The next morning I woke up feeling suffocated. Susan was already pottering around passive-aggressively, commenting out of the corner of her mouth that 'maybe you should have the day off' but didn't seem convinced about it, and I sensed a definite angry rant in the works if I had. I knew I had to get out, for good. The plan had been to spend a week or two at Susan's, visit the Cradle Mountain and Lake St Clair National Park for a couple of days, then head off to the next Wwoofing spot, which had already been tentatively arranged, pending confirmation of exact dates. But this plan, as it stood, was clearly not going to work out. I made some excuse about going to the nearest shop - 1.5 miles away, where I sought advice about the quickest way out of town. They seemed very sympathetic over my predicament, and said I could easily hitch a ride out of there if I just hang around outside the shop for the next hour or two, as there'll be plenty of people stopping for petrol on their way to Cradle Mountain. Very kindly they offered to ask about a lift on my behalf.

I went back to the house and warily informed Susan i was leaving. In response I got a vicious snarl and was manipulated to hang on till after lunch, despite me mentioning the time factor - Wilmot is not a place you can easily get out of after dark. The bus service runs twice a week. I rushed the meal and our awkward goodbyes, and headed back down to the shop, to make it just in time for a sweet Goth girl in a tiny red Fiat, who happened to be a staff member of the Cradle Mountain Lodge, walking in for a can of Red Bull on her way to work! Well, that extraordinary bit of luck couldn't be ignored, and I knew I was making the right decision after all - I did feel a bit bad things didn't work out at Susan's, and I was wondering if I should've grit my teeth and bore it just a few more days. But no, all signs pointed out and away! 

A sign of good things to come

Baby Echidna

The Tassie Goth Melanie drove me all the way to the Cosy Cabins campgrounds at the Cradle Mountain resort, a stunning national park in the north west, where I got out of the car and immediately encountered an alive and well echidna munching some button grass around the campsite welcome plaque - another sign!





I registered at reception with the most cheerful and remarkable George Dubbuya Bush doppelgänger, and spent the rest of the afternoon at a presentation about the all the park had to offer, followed by a feeding demonstration at the Tasmanian Devil centre.



‘Devils @ Cradle’ managing director, Wade Anthony, and devil keeper Nicole Dyble with Ossa and BJ

Here I went mad taking photos of these odd animals running around with bits of rabbit in their mouths, chasing each other and screeching, a most amusing display. I even got to pet one, although the handler seemed unnaturally attached to the creatures, in particular to the female - we could touch her " but only on the back from the waist down please!". To be fair though, he was very passionate and dedicated, and as such, great to listen to speaking about them. These animal have become endangered due to the spread of an extremely nasty disease known as DFTD (Devil Facial Tumour Disease), at first thought to have been a type of genetic cancer, several affected animals having been first spotted in 1996, but has since been discovered to be a transmitted viral disease, impacting only this species. The causes are still speculated on but may have something to do with carcinogenic flame retardant materials, perhaps linked with various detrimental industries around the forests. Susan's calls for environmental injustice rang in my ears! There has been a campaign ever since to preserve the species, with a strategy of developing an insurance population in captivity. Cradle Mountain National Park was one of the spots where this was in place.

A Demanding Devil

I ended the day with a lovely light evening's walk, where I saw a wombat for the first time - probably the sweetest creature ever and a close relative of Winnie the Pooh! Or perhaps an inspiration for the much maligned Ewoks.  Saw some wallabies too.

Winnie the Wombat

Wallaby Scuffle

I enjoyed to an unnatural measure a bowl of pot noodles and bottle of beer, more so than all the healthy hearty meals I've had at Susan's put together, and knew once again I was finally on the right track. After some light chat with the other travellers at the communal kitchen I went to bed feeling positive for the first time in days.