I rode my bike, fully packed, into the gaping belly of the Spirit of Tasmania III on Dec 18th. I was pleased to find that I got a full-length bunk to sleep in, and that dinner was a beautiful buffet, all you can eat, and covered in the cost of the ticket.
I watched the south side of the harbour pass by. People waved from all different sizes of boats. We dwarfed them all.
It quickly became cloudy, and the sea started to rise. I stood up as long as I could, watching the coast, and getting used to the rocking, up and down, side to side. I visualised the boat, dancing with the sea, and me, dancing with the boat. Inside, in the lounge, they were playing plaintive, sorrowful, soft rock. At times, the movement of the boat seemed to be in time with the music.
I handed out anti-nausea pills to the other girls in the dorm. I did not want to have to fight sea-sickness with people vomiting all around me.
I stuffed myself silly at dinner, and had a glass of wine and listened to the pianist in the lounge. He sang, "Sitting on the Dock of a Bay" by Otis Redding,
Sittin' in the mornin' sun
I'll be sittin' when the evenin' come
Watching the ships roll in
And then I watch 'em roll away again,
I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay
Wastin' time
Of course he would sing boat songs on a boat, but for some reason, it stuck in my head, and I was singing it on my bike as I sailed through the landscape. It seemed to fit, as much of the time we ended up near the water to camp.
During the night, the swells were so high that they had to slow the boat right down. I lay in my dark bunk thinking "up..... down, up.... down" to try to keep track of where I was in relation to the water, otherwise it all became a jumble in my head and that was when nausea would threaten. I was able to sleep a bit, and in the morning, the free buffet was on again... couldn't let that go to waste. They announced that the ETA had been put back by 5 hours due to the high seas overnight.
I met up with Andrew in Launceston, and we shopped for food and supplies before cycling the 10k's to the airport to meet Kerry and Adam.
The first night, we made it to Conara. The only place to camp was a small roadside picnic area. The town itself was only about 2 blocks worth of houses, with no shops whatsoever. The next night we spent at Fingal, near a river, and were able to buy veggies and sausages for a bbq.
The landscape was mostly farms, lots of sheep, and crops including pine plantations, grain, fruit, and heroin poppies. The poppies are grown for medicinal morphine, and signs on the fence say, "WARNING: Illegal use of this crop may cause death."
Traffic was blessedly light, and we often rode side by side, talking about plants, animals, geology and geography, bicycles, and much more. The road kill was a frequent topic. every few hundred meters, there would be another one, in varying states of decay. Usually I could smell it before I saw it. I looked closely at a few, and then tried not to anymore. One was almost beautiful though: a wallaby that had decomposed to a skeleton, totally undisturbed, while most had been torn apart by devils or other scavengers.
The next day we rode to St. Mary's where the road splits, and you have two choices for getting to the coast. We stopped at Escape Tasmanian Wilderness Cafe, and had lunch. We asked some locals about the two different roads. The one over Elephant Pass was much steeper, but shorter. We opted for St. Mary's Pass and set out on a long, slow uphill climb. The other side was steep switchbacks downhill. I took the middle of the road because there was not enough room for cars to pass, and I was going nearly as fast as the cars could anyway. I couldn't hear anything but the roar of the wind in my ears as I banked around the corners in a motion that reminded me of the boat... it had it's own rhythm, and it was very much like dancing, or even making love.
Sittin' here resting my bones
This old loneliness won't leave me alone
It's two thousand miles I roamed
Just to make this dock my home
Now, I'm just gonna sit at the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
Sittin' on the dock of the bay
Wastin' time
We camped in the long grass on Little Beach, pressing down the grass with our bikes, gear, and bottoms. I went out for a swim in the ocean, but it was too cold for much more than a dunk. I waded through the lagoon where the freshwater river emerged from the hills to join the sea, and collected firewood. We drank wine and cooked dinner in our two camp stoves. We got a bit silly, and probably way too loud for the comfort of other campers, but nobody complained.
The next day we set out to find a cabin that had been booked through Bob Brown. The cabin is owned by a wilderness activist who fought for the preservation of Douglas Apsley National Park. It was originally built by a farming family who had drained the land to get to the rich soil of the bog. It is a small square of private land, surrounded on all sides by the national park. It was a good couple of hours of mostly pushing the bikes up a dirt road. The instructions we had were for walkers, so we were looking for a track heading off from the main vehicular track. We had nearly given up on it, when Andrew found a track marker. We pushed our fully loaded bikes through dense trees and scrub, on a track only wide enough for a single person in many places. I scraped the crap out of my legs, and yelled obscenities when my bike refused to disobey the laws of physics and pass straight through solid objects. Upon arriving at the cabin, we discovered the vehicular track curved around to end just behind the cabin.
Exhausted, we collapsed on the front porch and licked our wounds. An echidna casually strolled past, not seeming to see us, or care when we crowded at the edge of the porch to watch it walk by.
Fresh water was available from a spring at the beginning of the bog. It consisted of a 2' pvc pipe stuck into the ground with a cover over it. Inside the cabin was space for 3 people to sleep, and bedding, dishes, and other odds and ends. There was a book about Smiling Sam, the fellow who had built the original cabin. Outside there was a smaller hut with firewood, a billy, and tools. There was a phone sitting on a crude table with a sign 'please pay for all phone calls'. There wasn't even mobile service, let alone handset.
Andrew and I went walking out the back and took photos. I am enamoured of gum trees, and found myself photographing everything I could through gum tree branches, and also just the bark itself. 
There was also a beautiful piece of sandstone with the same colours as the ochre pits in central Australia.
We cooked dinner on the billy, which ended up being curried pasta with veggies, but just about anything would have been welcome after such a day. We tried making damper and cooking it on sticks. With butter and honey, it was... well... edible.
In the morning we were nearly packed to head off when Adam found he had another flat. He had already changed the tube once, and only had one spare. I sat down with his tyre and gave it a thorough inspection, probing every crack and cut to find the culprit. I found a couple of miniscule shards of glass and popped them out. Then it started to rain. Fortunately it didn't last very long as we headed back down the hill, via the road this time. The bridge we had to cross looked like it was on its last legs. I'd hate to cross it in a car...
I had thought the dirt road would be more slippery than it was, and had suggested that others do a test skid to see. When I tried it myself, I couldn't make it skid at speeds that I felt comfortable with, so I left it. On the last stretch, Andrew decided to try a skid whilst turning, and going at a decent pace. The bike skidded, and the weight of the paniers flipped it over, throwing Andrew to the ground. He skinned his knee and palm, which is not great when starting out on a long cycling trip, but it managed to heal ok.
We got hit by a storm on the way to Bicheno, drenching us, but only about 20 minutes worth, and it was the only time it rained while we were on the road.
Just outside of Bicheno is a penguin colony. I've always wanted to see the penguins, and sure enough, there they were... flattened and bloodied by the side of the road.
In Bicheno we topped up our supplies for 3 days before heading into the Freycinet peninusula. It was the day before xmas (and also Kerry's birthday), and the shops would all be closed for the next two days. We camped at the Friendly Beaches, and opted for the beach, rather than the camping spots cut out of the shrubs by the road. Kerry decided on two-minute noodles for her birthday, and xmas dinner... accompanied by a fine cask shiraz, of course.
Xmas day we rode to Coles Bay. I was starting to wilt on the road, and by the time we got there, I was in no mood to do the climb up the Hazzards, the row of mountains that divide the peninsula. I stayed behind with all the gear, while the others rode on around, with blissfully unladen bikes, to the start of the hike. I snoozed in the grass, sheltered from the bay by some sand dunes, and watched the trees being blown around in the gale blowing onshore. When they returned, we rode down the hill to the camping area, and cooked dinner near the beach.
We decided to take a day off cycling, and had a long sleep-in, followed by many coffees and a long, decadent breakfast that lasted for hours. We washed our dirty clothes in one of Adam's paniers and strung them up with cord in the bbq area. Luckily that bbq area was for foot and bicycle campers only, the car campers had their own, and it was packed with families and screaming little kids.
Andrew and I went up the Hazzards, as I had missed out the day before. Andrew chose the most difficult climb, up Mt. Amos. The last half an hour was more mountain climbing than hiking. It was spectacular, but it put considerable strain on the exact same muscles I was meant to be resting from cycling.
When we got back down, we were treated to the most spectacular sunset, enhanced by its reflection in the bay.
We had booked a ferry for 9:30 to take us across a small stretch of water, saving us about 5 hours of cycling back up the peninsula. The fellow had been running the service for over 20 years. It was just a small dinghy, and he could only fit two of us in at a time. He told us that the area was becoming so popular that there was a lot of pressure to develop it. Adam advised him to run for local council if he wanted to have his say.
We stayed together until Swansea, where we had a criminally overpriced meal at the Left Bank Cafe. We bought more supplies, and agreed to meet in Triabunna. Andrew and I had been riding faster than Adam and Kerry, and so we went on ahead. Kerry had been given the name of an old Greens supporter on the way. We were told to look out for a house that looked like a church on the right. We pulled in at a likely house, to be greeted by a friendly older gentleman. He was not the one, but the next house was. He filled up our water bottles and chatted to us about his house, and what a lovely area it was. He told us to give Eddie a big kiss for him. We rode up to the next house, but Eddie wasn't there. His old church was covered in vines, and his gardens were all in bloom, and excellently manicured. It looked like a place a hobbit might inhabit.
We pushed off again, but quickly got sidetracked by a sign for cherries. The dirt road curved off the highway, and up a hill, at which point I bailed, and let Andrew fetch the cherries. I hadn't realised that Adam and Kerry had passed us during this stop off, and when we got back on the road, I found that I was thoroughly exhausted, and had to stop for breaks frequently. The result was that they got into Triabunna an hour before us, and had looked around for an hour before going on to Orford. Kerry and Andrew had mobile service, but the number I had for Kerry was out of date. Andrew rang up his friends in the Green party, and managed to get the number of one of Kerry staff. He phoned her, and then she phoned us as we were dining in the local pub. We agreed to meet the next day, half way inbetween, at the ferry to Maria Island. Andrew and I got a room at the pub.
The ferry was packed full, with a mountain of luggage in the corner that threw a bag off now and then as the boat struggled with the high swells. It took about an hour to cross.
There are no cars allowed on the island, and the only people that live there are national park rangers. Otherwise it's all visitors. Kerry and Adam had been there before, and they preferred to spend more time in the Wielangte forest, so they stayed for lunch before boarding the ferry back to the mainland. I managed to irritate the family types by barking at a young girl who was trying to pull my bike down on top of her. Kerry was complaining about how dirty her cargo pants were, and joking about how she would borrow Adam's to go on the plane, and Adam could wear hers. A few moments later, Adam was carrying the billy full of coffee grounds to wash it out, when it fell, splattering Kerry with coffee. We all had a good laugh.
After they left, Andrew and I rode the dirt track down the island, to Encampment Bay. Andrew had talked about setting up camp and then riding to see the old convict cells, but we ended up just sitting in the spot where we intended to camp, and watching the wallabies and kangaroos graze.
Before long it was starting to get cool, and the sun was setting. We set up the tent and made some udon noodle soup for dinner. We noticed small, torn up pieces of blue fabric all over the ground. Andrew speculated that it might be a frustrated camper, but I suspected possums. We hung the food up in Andrew's front paniers, on a line betweeen two trees. His paniers had a flourescent orange waterproof cover, which was indeed shredded into little pieces in the morning.
We had booked the return ferry for 2pm, so we had to get moving by 11:30 to make sure we made it on time. We left at 10:30, hoping we would have time to see the fossil cliffs nearby the port, but Andrew's panier rack broke off, and he spent an hour fixing it. Luckily, the unloading and reloading of the ferry took an hour itself. I wandered up the hill and looked at the inside of the warehouse from the cement business which had been operating in the 1920's. It looked as though it had been abandoned along with the business and never touched again...
We got back on the road to be met by a fierce headwind. We took the coast road and pulled off at Rheban Beach, which is just that... a very long, empty beach with low scrub and a few pine and gum trees not far from the shore. We walked our bikes down the beach until Andrew discovered that we could ride in the wet sand between the water and the dry sand. It was late when we settled on a camping spot, and we were both exhausted, having ridden about 70k's that day. We set up camp in a low spot between dunes, and had to break up most of a dead gum tree just to make room for the tent. We sat in the trough in front of the tent and made dinner of spaghetti with tomato sauce and veggies.
Andrew had been having trouble sleeping, and also trouble getting moving in the morning, which meant that without the extra motivation of Adam and Kerry setting out early, we didn't get back on the road until high noon. We hit the Wielangte road, and began the climb into the forest. There had been no fresh water at Rheban Beach, and we were running low by the time we got to a creek. I was nearly done for by then, and sat down, fully intending not to move again until 4pm when it started to cool down. Andrew showed me the map and it looked as though we had done nearly a third of the way, and the next stop looked very near. After a rest I agreed to go to the next stop, and then have lunch. The next stop, however, was two hours up a steep, dirt grade, in full sun. I quickly got off the bike and pushed, not realising the extent of the hill. Around every corner was more climbing, and my heart sank with every step. Andrew was able to ride for much longer and was a fair distance in front of me before too long. I felt shaky and slightly nauseus, and broke down in tears briefly, upon turning the corner to see yet another hill. Andrew kept trying to get me to eat chocolate, but it made me feel ill just looking at it. After about 2 hours of this, we found the bbq area where I collapsed on a bench while Andrew made lunch.
The Wielangte forest is what they call a 'working' forest, meaning that there are small bits of original forest that have been preserved for public relations purposes, but otherwise it is being logged out of existence. They have proud displays of 'two-year-old' regrowth, which has much younger trees, but when viewed from a distance, look similar to the original. Kerry said that Bob Brown has a lawsuit against Gunns in progress to protect what's left of the original forest.
Andrew informed me that it was mostly downhill from there, and not far to Frederika's place, his ex girlfriend, where he had already arranged a place for us to stay. We rode out of the forest and back into farm country, past the Falls Festival, which was just getting underway. Fred and her partner, Owen were at the festival, so we had the place to ourselves until the wee hours of the morning, not that we lasted much past 9 before crashing.
In the morning, Fred and Owen emerged to prepare for another hard day and night of partying. Fred put on a fashion show for me, trying to decide what to wear, while Owen took the dogs to the beach for a walk, trying not to be frustrated at Fred's slow deliberations. Finally she settled on two outfits, one for day and one for night.
After they left, Andrew and I took a walk out on the spit called Little Boomer. The mud flats go for hundreds of metres before the water gets very deep. The tide was out, so we could walk on it. It was made up of millions of tiny sea shells in fine sand. The consistency felt like mud underfoot, but my feet didn't sink in. 
On the way back it began to rain, so we lit a fire and listened to music until late. It was the last day of 2005, and I learned later that folks in Sydney had been treated to 45 degree heat and bushfires.
We stayed another couple of days and visited Owen's property nearby. His dog, an Irish wolfhoud mix, was dumped out of the car a good few k's before the property. He took of like a shot. We followed him down the road and clocked him at 40kph. His feet hardly touched the ground. At Owen's we loaded his sea kayak onto the top of the car, and went into town to get supplies for dinner. The next morning, Andrew and I went out on the mudflats at high tide, and I had my first sea kayaking experience.
As we prepared to leave, Fred suddenly decided to justify her relationship to Owen, who is considerably older than her. In the process, she had to explain her entire history of relationships. We didn't get on the road until about 3pm. Andrew said it would take about 4 hours to ride the final 60k's to Hobart. About two hours out we stopped for a chocolate bar.
We set out again, and shortly I saw something move on the road in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and saw a blue-tonged lizard, complete with blue tongue hanging out. It was alive, but just barely. It was bleeding from the mouth and eyes. Andrew shooed it off the road, and we set out again. It ocurred to me that, in a car, we would not have stopped, but probably run over it again. I'm not sure if that would have been kinder in the end, but if the poor thing had any chance at all, it was good we were going at a pace that allowed us to stop for such things.
The road was fairly flat, but as soon as we joined the main highway, we got a massive headwind, and had to ride on the dirt on the side of the road to avoid traffic. What was supposed to take 2 more hours, wound up taking 4. We had to walk our bikes across the bridge, and even that was challenging at times. The bike lane is barely wide enough for an unladen bike, let alone a laden one in strong, in unpredictable winds. At the end of the bridge was a staircase, with an aluminium ramp on the side for bikes. Obviously whoever designed the bridge had never ridden a bike, or perhaps actively loathed bicycles. It was almost 9pm when we got in, tired and very hungry. All the bottle shops were closed, and the pubs had stopped serving meals. I was getting seriously grumpy when we found a souvlaki shop that was still open.
After we made it to Andrew's house, I filled the bath with hot water, and nearly passed out in it.
During my short stay in Hobart, I visited the Female Factory, the womens' prison during the penal colony days. Preserved by the Tasmanian Womens' Association, it had statements condemning any imprisonment of women, but failed to make any reference to the present day: "Through these gates passed thousands of women and children. Lest we forget" and "More sinned against than sinning". It made me wonder if they had anything to say about Risdon prison, the oldest functioning prison in Australia, and source of the most recent prisoner riots as a result of inhumane conditions. Andrew and I also took a tour of the Cascade Brewery, also the beneficiaries of convict labour, a point the tour guide did not volunteer.
This was my second visit to Tassie, and it reinforced a certain schizophrenic feeling. I'm not sure if it's because of the weather, which literally changes every five minutes, or because of the blood soaked history that is repressed, denied, and covered up to the point of paranoia. There's not a black face to be seen. The state government is one of the most unaccountable I have ever dealt with, recalling the days when even the free settlers had to live by the laws created to rule the penal colony. Activism consists almost exclusively of saving the forests... a worthy cause... but try getting support for prison reform, gay and lesbian rights, or reclaiming the streets, and you may find yourself left in the dust of a logging truck.
One ray of light in this political wasteland are the good folks at Tasmedia. Ironically independent of Indymedia, they have nevertheless managed to attract a strong following of dedicated geeks and independent journalists. I spent my last day in Hobart sitting in the loungeroom with three of them, staring at computer screens.
