Chapter Four: TASMANIA

The Cradle Mountain Walk

I cashed in my life insurance to do the famous Cradle Mountain to Lake St Claire bush walk in Northern Tasmania at the ripe age of 21. Louise and I caught the boat from Melbourne to Devenport—some people call it a ferry. You can drive your car on which is what we did. They filmed the Lord of the Rings in New Zealand, it could have been easily filmed in Tasmania. Cradle Mountain is a beautiful shard of rock rising out of an ancient forest.

The trip on the ferry is always eventful because the Bass Strait has huge waves that turns the ferry into a hapless cork, bobbing, up and down, in desperate pursuit of land.  The trip out of Melbourne in the serene waters of Port Phillip Bay is intoxicating. The beautiful lights surrounding the bay, reflections of a full Moon everywhere you look and the peaceful sounds of the boat chugging and creaking through smooth glassy water.

Port Phillip Bay, an inlet of the Bass Strait on the south-central coast of Victoria, Australia, extends approximately 30 miles (50 km) north-south and 25 miles (40 km) east-west. The large metropolitan area of Melbourne, the state capital, is located at the head of the bay. Rivers emptying into the bay include the Little, Werribee, and Yarra.

The bay’s entrance, known as “the Rip” (1.75 miles [2.8 km] wide), between Points Lonsdale to the west and Nepean to the east, leads into a navigation channel 3,600 feet (1,100 meters) wide and 45 feet (14 meters) deep, with access northward to Hobsons Bay and westward to Corio Bay (the harbour of Geelong). It was visited in 1802 by Lieutenant John Murray of the Royal Navy. Murray named it Port King to honour Captain Philip Gidley King, then the governor of New South Wales, of which Victoria was then a part. It was later renamed for Captain Arthur Phillip, the first (1788–92) governor of New South Wales.

Everything changes as you exit the bay through the rip and hit the Bass Strait swells pounding the coast. We had dinner on the boat during the calm. I went outside to see the ferry leaving the bay, barging through the swells, and the near touchable navigation beacons on each point of the narrow entrance to the Bay. The wind and spray tried desperately to knock me off my feet. As did the boat, suddenly rising up and down, a minion to the dark blue mountains racing toward us.  When the bow crashed down, into the trough of the swells, it made an eerie, life-threatening noise, then smashed an ocean of water back over the boat into the past. Then, each time more terrifying, it would rise up over the wave, pointing its bow to the quiet disinterested Moon. My hands vice-like, while my rubber legs swung to the whims. The young man of the sea, me, enjoying the fear and adventure of surfing giant waves in a sturdy boat, but, encountering a fate in every second, like never before.

When the ocean became excessively mean, the boat had to turn around and run back home to the safety of Port Phillip Bay. When the waves played hard, they could pummel everyone off their feet and into the nearest sickbay. This trip, the ocean neither calm nor furious, tempted us to wallow in its unnerving swells and if not, be beaten back to civilization.  On the way back to Melbourne the next day, the captain was knocked off his feet and broke his arm.

We had tickets, the cheapest, for chair sleeping. The seats, bolted down, all in a row, like a mad fat bus. After dinner and the roller coaster ride, we felt like a good night’s sleep. But, after trying, then throwing up from all the rocking and swaying we snuck into a closet; big enough to sleep on the floor on our super soft sleeping bags.

The ferry took 12 hours to make the trip to Tasmania. When I woke up in the morning I raced outside and saw us going past an island and the coast of Tasmania in the distance, maybe an hour away. I felt like an immigrant might have felt, coming to settle in a new land.

Tasmania is a small island of Australia. It has pristine forests, rivers, lakes and a lot of strange animals like the Tasmanian Devil. It is a great place for bushwalking and communing with nature. Hobart, the capital, has many old English style buildings. There are many dairy farms and unfortunately a lot of timber cutting. One company was cutting the forest down as fast it could go and replacing it with ugly plantation trees all in unnatural rows.  

On a beautiful sunny morning, the ocean calmed by the sun, we glided into and down the Devenport River and birthed. We disembarked with our knapsacks and sleeping bags, walked to the main road to Launceston. I put my shy thumb our over the white line and got a ride to Cradle Mountain pretty quickly.  After 30 minutes we were dropped off at the turn into Cradle Mountain. We started to walk through the forest, and in a few minutes a small bus picked us up and we went the final 10 kilometres to the mountain together; past the famous Cradle Mountain Lodge. The Lodge was luxurious and expensive, we couldn’t afford to stay there.

The soft morning light, beckoned us to start the 50-mile trek straight away, alleviating the heavy cost of sleeping in a hotel. The man in the van, dropped us off at the start of the trek, where we could see the view of the mountain and the goat path we had to take to get to its base. The scene felt biblical, much the same as seeing the Southern Ocean wobble for the first time.  

The walk to the first hut would take a day, around eight hours, so we had to get moving. There were old tin and stone huts every 8 miles between Cradle Mountain and Lake St Claire, the end of the journey. If you didn’t want to sleep in the wild you had to walk at a brisk pace all day to get to a hut. The huts had big open fires and bunks that everyone shared.  We had to carry our own food which made the packs nearly too heavy to carry. Packed with chicken noodle soup and beans.

Day 1: Waldheim to Barn Bluff Hut.

Day 2: Barn Bluff Hut to Pine Forest Moor Hut.

Day 3: Pine Forest Moor Hut to Pelion Hut.

Day 4: Pelion Hut to Kia Ora Hut.

Day 5: Kia Ora Hut to Windy Ridge Hut.

Day 6: Windy Ridge Hut to Lake St Clair

The Waldheim Chalet, where we started, to Barn Bluff Hut took us on a gradual climb past Dove Lake, then a steep, back braking, climb up to the base of the mountain and down the other side past Barn’s Bluff into a treed valley. It started off gradual and got steeper and steeper. The further we went the heavier our packs felt. Sometimes we walked on narrow rocky ledges that felt dangerous. We spent most of our time craning out necks looking up at the peaks, the biblical ones, of the mountains.

The scenery contrasted beautifully with the ugly life we slowly left behind us. No more thinking about money, jobs, careers, religion and even people. The saturated blue sky, puffing white smoke, with the contrasting black and browns of the peaks had such strong energy, one that you could feel imbuing your senses, in a beautiful and positive way. If you want to find God, or meaning and peace, it is here in Tasmania. Humans do not personify creation as a forest or animal does. In fact, we are contradictions, always in need of improvement, something most mountains never feel.

The Barn Bluff lodge was a modern ‘A frame’ style hut. By the time we got there it was full of school students. Packed to the rafters, nowhere for us to sleep. Luckily there was a forest ranger there who said we could sleep in an attic way above the students.  The days walking, with our heavy packs all day, took a happy and contented toll, we fell asleep quickly.

The next morning when we woke up the students had already left. We eat our chicken noodle soup and took off to Pine Forest Moor Hut.  We walked through some forest and came out the other side and could see Barn’s Bluff. The path was a crescent shape along a narrow ridge, much like walking on the edge of a soup bowl, slightly tipped, that went past the base of Barn’s Bluff and slowly descended into a deep green forest. The paths were naturally made, by people walking. Most of the time you would walk alone, following other people’s long-gone thoughts and wonders. We had brought the wrong kind of food. If anyone asked what we had brought to eat, our answers brought chuckles and mirth. We gradually eat the heavyweight away, until the last part of the journey, only crumbs for dinner.

The need to walk and partially climb nine miles every day meant you couldn’t stop much to relax and enjoy the beauty all around. Definitely, no time to go and explore. I could feel my legs getting stronger with every mile, which I liked. The slow descent into the forest took us into the heart of nature.  If you have ever seen the movie, ‘Lord of the Rings’ then you will know our journey well.

The next hut, sitting in a forest, had a few people staying there for the night. No sign of the students though, maybe they were going the other way. The big open fire was already raging, keeping the cold and damp weather locked outside. Somehow, I had to put an opened can of baked beans into the sun itself and retrieve them cooked like an English breakfast at Faulty Towers: maybe some were burnt on the bottom and the rest tasted more singed than gourmet.  Our clothes were wet this time, some light rain got us on the way. We changed and dried everything by the fire, then slept more soundly than the sum of a lifetime.

The trek took us past the highest mountain in Tasmania, Mount Ossa. We could have climbed it if we ever knew we could, but we didn’t. This was an ill-prepared, raw emotion, trip of a lifetime, because we could, trip.

The walk was without the constant chatter of Gollum. No roads, no vehicles of any kind—100% natural. I often felt I was doing something epic: the distance, the wilderness and the humility of bowing before and in something so much greater than myself. Each day transformed me more. With every step my love for nature grew inside me; a lamp that would guide me to my future life in Castlemaine. I would leave the photographer behind, after this journey, for more than 10 years. I had brought a camera with me on this trip, but could never stop long enough to take pictures, and the film was heavy back then. My forever memory eyes did that for me instead.

After Mount Ossa, we walked along forest trails to Kia Ora Hut.  We had walked over 30 miles, seen endless beauty, marvelled out our insignificance, appreciated the people who made this trail before us and were overjoyed at our legs getting stronger and our packs getting lighter. Going to the gym, or playing sport bored me, not that I ever did it. The only other comparable contact with raw nature was my encounter with the ocean in my surfing days, and like this walking made me fit and empowered my senses at the same time.  But this, feeling endless, walking through boggling creation would make me the fittest I have ever been. It felt liberating, self-empowering like it did for forest Gump: escaping from the machinations of industry into the hummings of nature oneness.

 Another can of beans and a peaceful night’s sleep in Kia Ora Hut.

The next hut at Windy Ridge would be the last one before the end of our journey at Lake St Claire. The next morning after Kia Ora Hut we ventured and trekked with a fit determination in our stride. Loving every second as our Mercury like legs flew up and down ridges, through valleys and crossing some plains. Every hour the movie-like scenes in front of our eyes would completely change, we had no idea what could be around the corner. After another brilliant day, feeling incredibly transformed, we arrived at what was left of Windy Ridge Hut. We were shocked to see it had burnt down the night before. Still smoking, in ruins, we had nowhere to sleep. Luckily, we had arrived midafternoon (each day we felt stronger than the one before). We decided, no other choice, to keep walking to Lake St Claire. This would mean double the normal distance in a day: 18 miles.  Our packs were light enough, our legs were strong enough, we set off at pace. We had to do the next nine miles in a trot to make it before dark. The track started to take us down, down, down past walkers going to Cradle Mountain. We often stopped to tell trekkers the hut had burnt down. The ones with tents continued on, the others stopped and discussed their options.

On we went, desperate to get to civilization and a bed. We had never thought about sleeping outside under the stars. We could have, but no. This place at night turned into squealing Devils and lethal stripy Tigers.  Faster and faster, nearly running, like the sun before us going down, but even faster. The hours blurred by until darkness came; but luckily, not completely, a twilight came and lit our path until the end. A painful end. About 2 hours from the Lake, I twisted my leg on a tree root and put my back out (my pelvis). I couldn’t put any weight on one leg, the pain was excruciating. The last four miles hopped and screamed slowly by. The track had water on it too. When the hopping stopped for a few seconds the slipping and sliding took over.  I cried out in frustration, asking God to save me. Then the light diluted into a soft glance on the trees above, then left for good that night.

Luckily, stupidly and energetically we could see the lights of Lake St Claire through the black tree trunks before the moon. I had to keep hopping and screaming till the end, as we ejaculated from Mother nature into the crap whence, we came. This last leg of our journey, urgent, scary, running from the devil we could imagine that would manifest after the light, and eat our flesh from our bones was nothing like the peaceful struggle, meeting nature at the start.

That night she slept in the hut while I rolled in agony. The next day, still in pain, but bearable, we hitched to Hobart to see our friends, John and Kerry Tucker.  John, a brilliant classical guitarist from Warrnambool and Kerry bought land on a tree-covered mountain, an hour out of Hobart. They had a small wooden hut, stocked with bottles of the most delicious homemade chilli sauce, amongst the trees at the very top. If you walked out for a pee you had to be careful because the hut was on the edge of a cliff that fell a long way down the mountain to their small raspberry field below. They were happy to see us, celebrating the reunion with lots of yummy wholesome food smothered in, the said same, homemade chilli sauce. We stayed a couple of days on the mountain then John suggested we go on a journey up the East Coast back to Davenport. They had a jeep-like car with an open back, a Suzuki? The back is where we sat and saw the East Coast of Tasmania, a stark contrast to Cradle Mountain, but still wild and untamed nature, that I now loved, and feared. 

The miles streamed by, showing their beauty with more speed than the forests we left behind.   One morning, early and hungry, we came upon Bicheno, the world’s scallop capital. The boats had come in with their catch an hour or so before we got there. We sat in a small, somewhat insignificant cafe. The scallops were bigger than golf balls, soft and buttery, like a dream on our senses: epic. My thoughts go to Dave, he would love this even more than me: I wished he was there with us.

After Bicheno the road curved inland to the Northern Highway. The weather was blue, the back of the jeep still chariot like, and our impending exit from heaven getting closer every thoughtful minute. My mind now, horribly so, slowly filling with the problems waiting back over the Strait in Victoria. Now, after becoming Davy Crockett, what seemed like my mind, tumbled in confusion more than ever before. All my life I had struggled to balance the Aboriginal in me and the businessman in my father. A forest and nature in one hand and a camera in the other.

My friend and art teacher from Warrnambool, George Butcher had bought an old brick factory in Castlemaine to live in and invited us to check out Castlemaine, see if we liked it and wanted to live there. This would be our next stop after Tasmania.

John and Kerry were amazing, we had the best time, driving the East Coast for a few days. We said goodbye at the boat: sadly. I hobbled on, still in pain, desperate to see a chiropractor back in Warrnambool. This time when the boat took off, the serene quiet part of the journey lasted only minutes as we headed out the mouth of the river into hell. The swell was even bigger than we left the mainland. Moving, sloppy mountains, lined up again, ferocious and hungry, in endless rows. The boat banged loudly, blasting its way up down the swells. The sea and the boat competed for the most noise. A cacophony of sound that matched the mountainous seas invisible in the dark. I felt scared, then threw up, then fell off my feet and then prayed. We heard the captain had broken his arm on a super swell that knocked him off his chair, cork-like, subjected to an enormous power beyond ours. Everyone on the boat had to dance with each swell, tumbling and bumbling all over the place. The hours never changed, until we triumphantly slid back into the quiet waters of Port Phillip Bay the next morning, after another night sleeping in a closet.

I wanted to get to Warrnambool as soon as possible to fix my back. Dave knew a few chiropractors. I had never been to one before. I raced off to the best one. He said, lie on the table, roll onto your right side, bend your top knee and fold your arms. He put one hand on my folded knee and the other on my shoulder and quickly twisted my body. I heard a loud cracking noise. He said all fixed, please stand up and walk around the room. Wow, it worked, for the first time since hopping for my life down the treed valley into Lake St Claire, I was pain-free. Within days we would visit George in Castlemaine. The beautiful transformation, brought on by nature, could not be forgotten. We decided to check out Castlemaine, and if we liked it, drop out and live a more natural life surrounded by trees and animals—kangaroos. Not wild like Tasmania but better than the suburbs and a heartless factory. It took some courage back in the 70s, to love what was left of nature in Australia and even more courage than that when you had to explain to normal people why you did: and God gave Adam dominion over all living things… 

The Nut at Stanley

The second trip to Tasmania came 20 years later, but amazingly started the same way the first trip finished. On the morning Angie, Reuben, Cecelia and I got into the car to leave for the pier, I twisted my leg getting into the crowded car and my back went out again. The pain tore through my body, I could not walk.  I slowly got out of the car and declared to everyone, go without me. They all replied we are not going without you with very sad faces. I said OK, I will come and with debilitating pain remounted the Ford. If I sat in a certain way and didn’t move it was bearable.

We were going to visit Angie’s mum, Sandra. She and Terry had sold up and moved to Davenport.  I had been to Tasmania years ago; they had never been before. We would be celebrating Christmas with them the day after we arrived. This time we would be taking a car, driving on and driving off. When we arrived at the pier to drive it on I carefully and ever so slowly got out of the car and tried to walk. I couldn’t walk faster than a turtle, excruciating pain shooting up my legs and back with every step.  I stopped at a large metal bollard, the kind you tie ocean liners up to, to rest my legs and accidentally bumped my back into it. This put it out even more. I could not walk one step, everything felt painful and looked hopeless. No matter where I went right now, wouldn’t change how I felt. So, we decided no matter what to keep going, solider on. We decided once we got on board, we would ask the doctor for some pain killers. My pelvis was out. I had no structural integrity on one side of my body.

Dragging one foot after the other I boarded the boat. With them rushing up and down corridors, and me not, we finally found the doctor. His face, contorted and bemused, questioned our decision to continue the journey—same as me. He poured a small mountain of pills into my outstretched hand, then ordered me to retire and rest. Big pills for big pain choked all the way down. I tried to get comfortable. I could lie down in one position and get some relief. The others skipped off to dinner without me.  After an hour the pills were working. Time passed slowly with the preferring death kind of pain. After dinner, Reuben and I went outside to look at the lights of Frankston passing by and the lonely cliffs guarding the ocean rip to the open sea together. I loved this contrast between smooth and peaceful water and the wild stormy seas in the open ocean, like a horse walking into a gallop: a rush.

High walls of water rolled into the bow but they were not the monsters I had seen years before. But, enough though to make the voyage more uncomfortable than it already was.  I had some left-over food, found a way to sleep and woke up in agony. When the boat glided down the river into Devonport, I could see Sandra and Terry at the pier waving to us. I hobbled to the car, murfed my way into the seat and we drove off the boat, then followed them to their home five minutes away. Everyone looked worried and were disappointed this happy reunion would be tarnished with pain. I could do nothing but lie on a bed and not move. The next day they had Christmas dinner without me. Everyone wanted to go driving and see Tasmania, so I said no problem leave me in bed until we go home. Everyone looked sad again, but this time I couldn’t say ok. After their Christmas dinner, I decided to call my chiropractor friend in Shepparton, Wayne Chambers, to see if he knew any chiropractors in Tasmania that could fix me: he didn’t.  We hung up with no solutions. Then, 30 minutes later his wife Lisa called back (she is a chiropractor too) and said she could guide Angie to fix my back. She said I should lie on the edge of a bed with my top leg bent and cross my arms. Then Angie had to put her knee inside my knee and push down while pushing my shoulder the other way. It worked, within a minute I was running around happy and free of my bone prison. Well done, Lisa. It was a technique I would use again and again in the future.

The next day we set off to the Nut. The historic village of Stanley, in the far north-west of Tasmania. It is nestled at the base of the Nut, a sheer-sided bluff, the remains of an ancient volcanic plug. There is a walking track that climbs to the summit of the Nut, or you can take the chairlift, with its spectacular views.

I don’t like chairlifts so I walked up the Nut, the others took the chairlift. A few years before at the Blue Mountains North of Sydney when I went bushwalking with James and Francis Corr in a deep valley surrounded by enormous cliffs. To get out they took a chairlift up to the top and they waited an hour for me to climb up a steep goat track. The others could have had two picnics on top of the Nut while I hobbled and scraped up it.

The view took in the Bass strait, the surf beaches and the small town of Stanley below. I walked back down; the others took the chairlift again. Then we went to the beach for a swim. A beautiful sunny day, perfect for swimming. We, Reuben, Cecelia and I, ripped our swimmers on, ran to the water and froze. The water, cold as ice, took our excitement away with our breath. Standing in ankle-deep ice, I wondered if I should retreat and survive or snap freeze.  I knew from my Warrnambool surfing days if you could stand the cold for five minutes it would feel warmer, because of the numbing effect. No amount of slowly, softly would work. I willed up, ran as fast as I could and broke the ice with a giant splash and dived under a small wave. The cold water felt surprisingly refreshing, like drinking an ice-cold beer. The numb theory kicked in as planned, the kids and I played in the water for two hours. They had never swum in the ocean, or played in waves or run away from sharks before. The only reason we stopped sealing around indefinitely, because, the others got tired of waiting and called us in. We drove back to Devenport pickled with fun.

The next day we visited my relatives at Launceston. I had not met them before.  Two Hedditch brothers with cargo ships, originally from Portland started a cargo business. One settled in Devenport and the other in Portland. These Tasmanian Hedditchs greeted us very well and asked if we wanted to see their platypus sanctuary. For the past 10 years, they turned a local rubbish tip into a beautiful sanctuary for platypuses.  They made a small lake and planted trees all around it. To be honest I had never met any other Hedditchs in my life. I loved this moment, eagerly searching for a platypus swimming in the water, marvelling at their goodness for what they have done.  It was good for Reuben and Cecelia to meet some of the Hedditch family too. Normally they were surrounded by the Russis, a completely different species.

After a few days, we went back home to Rushworth. Terry and Sandra took great care of us. They stayed in Devenport for a few years and loved it. But when Terry was diagnosed with prostate cancer they decided to move back to Victoria. They bought a large home at Tatura which is where Sandra and Carmin had their Biodynamic farm, a ten-minute drive from Rushworth beside the lake. Terry used to be a dairy farmer until one day he sold the farm and dabbled on the stock market. He had a lucky break with a mining company in Western Australia and made nearly a million dollars. After two years back in Tatura, he died in the Tatura hospital. Sandra lost her loving husband. She eventually sold her big house and came back to Rushworth to live near us. She would take solace in the Rushworth Church of England, her garden and a handful of friends until now. No words, none, can describe the quiet desperation of loneliness in old age. Pride and personality conflicts take the better of everyone. I prefer the humility and security of Asian culture. Families, most of the time love to live together and find much more joy than pain in cohabiting with loved ones.