Tramping in Tassie

Tramping in Tassie

Tassie is a very strange place. Not that surprising for a chunk of dirt that wa

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Cradle Mountain (Marjory Embleton)

eople say that Tassie is a lot like New Zealand.lt rains a lot, there are large amounts of dense rainforest with ferns dripping precipitation, carved glacial landscapes, constant westerlies lashing the island, some glorious coastline visible in the occasional fine breaks and the odd snowstorm. Oh, and a laconic population all of whom have a chip on their shoulder about those pretentious northerners and all of whom are talking about migrating.

So why would one pay the extortionate airfares to spend a week hamping in Tassie? First reason: with the demise of Ansett, domestic airfares make travel to Australia the same cost as flying to the Hutt. Second reason: no one can ring you on your cellphone.

So there two of us stood one very chilly late May night on the Hobart tarmac. For the third time. Repetition has the advantage that you know where you're staying and where the best local pub is. In Hobart, the latter is very important because there are quite a few really good local pubs. Over an insipid Aussie beer,we discuss our plans. II

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Stranger, they came to like it and ended up staying ther the weather is fine in the morning, we hire a car and hez straight for the hills.

I can recommend Selective Car Rentals. The weel cost of a rental is the same as for a weekend elsewhet You get a car with personality and are often mistaken f locals when you slide into mountain carparks. Which on very cold morning is where we are headed. Progress nor through the cenhal plateau is slowed by a heavy winter ft and spectacular hoarfrost covering the gums, but by eat afternoon we are in Shevrock. It's actually the town Sheffield, but the locals call it Shewock because of a bloor great rocky mountain poking out of its backyard.

The weather is perfect and soon we are puffing our wi up through the bush to be rewarded with a spectacu alpine traverse along the range in the golden glow of la afternoon sunshine. Not a soul anywhere and we desce back to our Selective steed just on nightfall.

This means that next morning we are up well befo dawn, chipping a couple of millimetues of frost off the mob

Tramping and Mountaineering 2OO1 /20 to spend the day up at Cradle Mountain. This is the main entrance to the most popular national park in Tasmania. We're not too surprised to see a few other souls loitering at the carpark admiring the reflection of Cradle Mountain in the alpine lake below. But we are a bit surprised to spend a few hours on the Overland Track and see no one. Better yet, the famous mud is fuozen solid and we take glee in crunching our way across icicle bogs. At lunchtime, we swing off the tops and drop down to a hut nestled in the beech trees back from a cirque lake.

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We amble upward through streams and copses of stunted trees to regain the ridge having now completed a circuit of the mountain. As we wander down the track overlooking the lake, we see our first signs of people - would-be American tourists who seem tenified to venture more than sprinting distance from their car. We, of course, look suitably tired and purposeful and make sure that our explanations as to where we have been are suitably vague but sound impressive.

Sitting in the Shevrock pub, we have now completed our plan of getting a couple of good days to get some exercise. The plan is now to spend the next few days eating, drinking and meeting very weird people. We start this plan by sampling the new Indian menu at McDonalds, which is being piloted in Tassie. I kid you not tandoori chicken burgers

Our route tums into a fairly steep rock scnamble emerging on the summit in mist and wind.

and cumT puffs. We also whiz down to the Indian resrauranr in Devonport and there meet some tourists who have just misread their ferry ticket and face the prospect of not being able to get their car back to Melbourne for two weeks. Visions of the future across Cook Strait. And then back for a nightcap before bed. Only problem is that there are stars twinkling over the top of the Rock and another heavy frost.

So with a sense of d6jd vu, well before dawn we are chipping ice off Captain Selective and motoring our way to the Walls of Jerusalem. The Walls is probably the most spectacular national park in Tassie. To control visitor numbers, they have tried a couple of brilliant tricks. First, there is an awful lot of gravel road that gradually gets rougher. Second, there is one track into the park: when you get sick of that you just head overland to wherever you want to go. Unfortunately this means there is no track to the Growling Swallett and this intriguing feature marked on the map is rather remote.

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To get to the Walls involves climbing up through bush before reaching a plateau dotted with alpine tarns and necks of bush. In the open tussock-lands you can see wallabies and wombats and other bizarre creatures. The Walls themselves are a series of massive rock bluffs randomly dividing the plateau. We cruise up through Herod's Gate into the main Walls area with the intention of climbing the main bluff. But a zippy little wintry wind is bringing swirling way :ular late :end fore rbile

1002 Tramping and Mountaineering 2001 /2002 cloud around us. It almost dares to rain. This is enough for me - we beat a fatigued retreat back to the car and the Mole Creek pub.

The publican tells us that the weather is forecast to be better in the south, so we guzzle another beer and drive that way. Returning to Hobart would lead us into the path of temptation so we spend the night in the village of New Norfolk at the local pub in front of a roaring fire and good plate of sausages and mash.

Dawn breaks to yet another perfect day. I am starting to feel rather tired and rather over-extending myself, being old and lame. But apefieclday at Mt Field National park is too good to pass up. Mt Field is grandiose, featuring limitless views across the south-western World Heritage Area. While we wait for the sun to have some impact on the frost we head downhillthrough the bush past a couple of lakes. We then work ourway upward through a series of terraces with sparkling lakes and gnarled trees. The aftemoon is spent zigzagging our way back across Tarn Shelf, which surprisingly is a broad rock shelf with a lot of tarns on it. It also features extensive copses of deciduous beech, which turn spectacular colours of red and gold around this time of year. And the best part of Mt Field: it comes with its own pub conveniently located at the park entrance. This is a great pub, unchanged for the past 30 years. Today features a raffle from the local fishing club: first prize a truckload of firewood; second prize $150 cash; third prize fishing gear. Now those are priorities.

By now, I am ready for the hurly burly of Hobart and a bit of relaxation. So we decide to get up late and spend the next day on Bruny Island, an isolated island of holiday homes accessible by ferry. Only problem: there is nothing much on Bruny Island except scenery. And I discover a booklet on walks on Bruny Island. Which explains why I am dragging my way up come cliff-side walk with sweat pouring off me, swearing at the wallabies. This walk takes so long that our stop at the Bruny pub is all of three minutes so we can drag race our way back to make the ferry home.

And now we have one last day left and the weather is still good. I agree with some considerable relucrance ro a brief walk up Mt Wellington, the imposing massif that looks down on Hobart. I consult my map and look for something easy and short. What I forget is to look at the closely packed contour lines. Our route turns into a fairly steep rock scramble emerging on the summit in mist and wind. This time, I really am feeling rather fatigued and retire once more to the local hostelry.

So this trip to Tassie was not too similar to New Zealand. Aweek of continuous fine weather. Never having to use a parka. And no time to really appreciate the more oddball characteristics of Aussie's oddest state.