Category: Photography

Nearly three years ago as I was eagerly anticipating my return to Australia amidst the worst of the pandemic, I reflected on my many incredible road trips around Canada and America and reached the conclusion that it was something I should do more of in my home country when I returned. I didn’t waste any time – following my release from hotel quarantine in Perth, I embarked on a road trip up the coast of Western Australia and my soul came alive. The sense of freedom, of independence, the comfort of home, was overwhelming. Especially after being trapped for so long and experiencing the immense stress of getting back at all.

I’ve seen a fair chunk of Australia, but three regions of this country were gaps in my experience which sat at the top of my list – Far North Queensland (still keen to go), the Kimberley (requires too much planning and time), and Tasmania. So, given the landscape of 2021 when international travel was still not an option, I made plans to do a ten-day road trip of Tasmania in February 2022. Unfortunately, Omicron happened, and since infection isolation was still a legal requirement then, I pulled the plug and postponed it a year (which itself is extra peculiar in retrospect given I still haven’t had covid).

So the trip began a few weeks ago with an element of “why am I doing this again?”, and I set off down the coast keen for a change of scenery at the very least. Perhaps the excitement would arrive once I got there? It did, but this time something was missing.

The Sights and The Hikes

Let’s start with the highlights. The scenery proved to be incredible. The National Parks in particular, and the walks I embarked on within them. The food was great, MONA was terrific. The local beer, wine, cider and whiskey which I sampled were amazing.

The beaches had the clearest waters and whitest, softest sand (and the water wasn’t even that cold). I had only two days of rain (one a driving day, and the other the day I did MONA – no great loss). The wildlife was exciting, although not as easily found as I’d hoped. I couldn’t get enough of all the wrens (the blue ones especially). I just wish they weren’t so shy.

The ferry was an experience in itself. I’m not sure I would do it again, but it was a nice novelty to drive my car on board, head upstairs to bed, then drive on out in another state and not have to kill time across Bass Strait, nor waste a day doing nothing.

So I arrived bright and early on a Saturday morning, and after a quick journey to Stanley (and its incredibly shallow beaches) I made my way to the first stop, Cradle Mountain.

Cradle Mountain

Cradle Mountain really was a sight to behold. The park had elements which took me back to Canada – big mountains, lakes, even the visitor centre felt a little more “Canadian”. It’s admirable how well they look after this place. All of the main paths are elevated above the ground to preserve flora and fauna, and it works. I got excited to spot my first Wombat, only to walk another five minutes and see about twenty of them. Wombats are the zero-fucks legends of the animal world. They’ll look up at you with a blank face which would make Mike Ehrmantraut look overjoyed by comparison, then continue about their day at the same pace.

I did not arrive with a plan to climb to the summit of Cradle Mountain but somehow found myself there on the first day. About halfway up the mountain is Marion’s Lookout. It’s probably the most popular walk after the lake circuit, and the view is impressive. But I got there pretty quickly and easily, and I was not satisfied. Plus, I was curious to see how everything looked from a spot over the next ridge – so I pressed on. Before I knew it, I was on my way up the mountain and there was no turning back.

I’ve climbed many a mountain in my time, but this was easily one of the more challenging ones. The final stretch is near-vertical with enormous boulders requiring actual climbing in some spots. I had to take my backpack off several times and throw it to the boulder above in order to spiderman my way through small gaps or take large jumps. I’m glad I have long legs, because I’m not sure how one would achieve this climb otherwise. I also imagine even the slightest amount of condensation would turn those rocks into slippery dips – so I was fortunate that the weather cooperated. But there was more than one moment where I was stuck looking for a pathway up the rockface and thought “my confidence in my ability will get me killed some day”.

But I got there with only a few scrapes on my legs, and the view was incredible – and I felt alive. The trip was off to a good start.

Bruny Island

One thing which always struck me in North America was the intense scent of pine trees whenever I ventured into nature. I’d never noticed the same thing with eucalyptus here in Australia – but figured either I was immune to noticing it, or that pine was simply a stronger scent. Bruny Island changed that. The smell of eucalyptus enveloped the entire island with an intense aroma, noticeable from the moment I drove off the ferry. I asked around about this, but nobody seemed to hold any insight – so it remains a mystery (or I am insane, also possible).

The island itself was incredibly stunning. Everything just seemed to shine and sparkle. I was disappointed that I didn’t manage to spot any significant wildlife, despite waking before sunrise and venturing out into the scrub. An albino wallaby would have been a thrill, as would an echidna or platypus – but nothing came. While watching sunrise at the neck point between the north and south sections I met a couple of Belgian girls who claimed to have seen penguins at that spot the day earlier. I saw nothing. Perhaps I was cursed? I gave up and went for a swim in water which was so much warmer than the air that steam was rising in front of me, and there was not a single other person in sight. Bliss.

Hobart

Really the only thing worth mentioning about Hobart is MONA. Sure, the city has a lot more to offer, but it’s the kind of stuff which would be better enjoyed with some company (food and wine for instance).

But MONA was impressive. It has to be the most fascinating art gallery in this country, full of unique ideas, thought-provoking works and captivating spaces. The museum itself, and the way visitors move through, is all part of the experience. And once you’re done with the art, you can sit in the garden and listen to some live music while knocking back several Moo Brew Anotherberry Sours as I did.

Words can’t do it justice; it really has to be experienced.

Port Arthur

I pulled into Port Arthur around two in the afternoon, hungry as hell and in need of something to eat. The area isn’t exactly sprawling with options, and that time of day is already too late for most – but there was a pub which I thought might have something to eat so I parked my car and marched on it.

I walked in to see eight eyeballs pointed firmly in my direction. Three men were sat at the bar, facing away with their heads turned to the doorway which my silhouette now filled, and the young woman behind the bar stood expressionless. The men looked like garden gnomes who had spent a bit too long in the sun. Their leather skin was almost indistinguishable from their jackets, their beards like steel wool. They wore faces which were just as dirty as the work boots on their feet. In that moment I was wishing I hadn’t entered, but there was no turning back now. I must have looked like Peter Pan to this Pirate Crew – my green shorts, white tee and pristine thongs shining like a light globe.

I noticed Keno on the screen and broke the ice.

“G’day fellas, who’s winning on Keno?” I asked in a volume about 10 decibels louder than usual.

“Steve just cleaned up he’ll shout you a beer!” one of the men replied, which set off a conversation. I sat at the bar, ordered a burger, and washed it down with a beer I had not planned on drinking, but enjoyed in order to fit in. I had a brief chat with all of them, witnessing the casual sexism directed in the direction of the bartender – followed by her even more masterful return serves.

Shortly before I finished my burger, a man walked through the door and I became the newest member of the bar team, turning around as the light in the room darkened – the sunlight from the doorway being the brightest source of light, now filled by a man dressed in chinos and a crisp long-sleeved striped shirt and glasses. All that was missing was someone asking “Where’s Wally?”.

“Oh, um. Do you have food?” he asked. “Never mind” he added, as he left before anyone had the chance to respond, and I pretended that I had not been the exact same man just half an hour earlier.

Port Arthur was a lot more fascinating than I had anticipated. The area is dedicated to its convict history first and foremost. The tragic events of 1996 (which is also how they reference the event) are a footnote. The site of the Broad Arrow Cafe, now a garden, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The convict history, and the former prison buildings were all really well preserved and I wandered around with the attitude of “when in Rome” but quickly found myself fascinated. Growing up in Australia, convict history is so engrained that it can be easy to glaze over and switch off. But I exist in this country thanks to the presence of these prisoners, so it carries a little more weight. It’s hard to imagine such brutality occurring amidst so much beauty.

Freycinet and The Bay of Fires

The approach to Freycinet had me craning my neck as its mountains started to peek above the treeline and the bay in front of them sparkled and flashed between tree trunks like a zoetrope. I pulled in for a coffee at a berry farm to take it all in (along with some incredible blackberries, which we all know is king of the berries).

The sight of crystal-clear water lapping cleanly against rock with no moss or sand momentarily took me back to Lake Powell, one of the most alien places I’ve ever been (and part of one of my favourite trips ever). That place, however, was in the middle of the desert. Freycinet was dense with gum trees which I found myself immediately hiking through to access Wineglass Bay.

There’s a childlike excitement I still get on the journey to a beach with a long approach. Wineglass Bay is only accessible via a walk over Mount Mayson – or in my case, a thirty-minute run. At the top of the mountain, you’re treated to a great view of the beach with its sparkling turquoise water and blinding white sand. From there the excitement builds as the water gets closer and the perspiration builds. I jumped straight into the water as soon as I got there. The best swims are earned.

And it was so good I did it all again the following day, before heading out to Launceston via Derby. I squeezed in a stop to the floating sauna at Lake Derby on my last day and thoroughly enjoyed it. After a little bit of confusion finding the place (hard to get angry over when its seclusion part of the appeal), I spent an hour moving between the wood-fired (the smell!) sauna and swims in the lake. A perfect way to end things, although if I ever find myself back in Derby I’ll be hiring a mountain bike cause the tracks there look terrific.

The Gripes

There were a few issues with this journey – first, the trip was about three days longer than it needed to be. I suppose this is something that can only truly be determined in hindsight, but there were periods where I found myself bored and having to kill time. When travelling alone, I prefer to be go-go-go – to the point where I can sometimes stretch myself a little too thin. There were still days like that, but other days left me frustrated. I took the time to slow down, do some reading, drawing, writing or simply “existing” – but I became keener to head home with each passing day.

Which brings me to the second issue – on the third day on the road, I passed a truck. The truck threw some pebbles my way. One of the pebbles hit my windscreen. The windscreen cracked with a twenty-centimetre L-shape right next to the rear-view mirror. My initial reaction was cool and calm, straight from the gospel of Shit Happens, and I reflected on how good it was to not have to stress about such things. But as the days progressed the crack slowly grew, agitated by the poor condition of the roads. If the moon landing was staged, then they filmed it on a Tasmanian road. So many bumps and holes, and every bump had me checking the crack, its L-shape glaring back at me like a highschooler making the “loser” sign on their forehead. It affected my plans as I avoided rough dirt roads and four-wheel drive tracks.

And my fellow road users did not help. Passing trucks naturally caused grief, but I’ve always loathed them. It was the dudes with their lives in tow who were the real enemy. Every second car which passed was a white Toyota Hilux. It was like the semi-trailer from Steven Spielberg’s Duel – a villain on the horizon at every turn. Every Hilux was driven by a man carting all of his worldly possessions like an Egyptian pharaoh hauling his pyramid along the road behind him. Khufu in his Hilux with his great pyramid. No wonder the roads are chopped to shit.

But the final thing was the biggest surprise of all – solo travel just wasn’t cutting it this time. Gone was the sense of freedom and independence which accompanied my incredible Utah and Florida trips. In the past, I’ve had moments where I had wished someone was with me, but it never bothered me, as it did here. I’ve long known that cities are more difficult when alone – when you want to try restaurants and bars, art galleries and “culture”; whereas nature can be enjoyed equally well. The hikes were most enjoyable for this reason, but even there I was missing something. Perhaps it’s just the familiarity of “Australia”, or perhaps this phase of life has run its course.

There was a moment when I checked into a tiny house in Freycinet National Park and found a free bottle of champagne along with a telescope set up on the back porch and thought “my life is wasted on me”.

(Didn’t stop me from downing half the bottle and doing some stargazing and astrophotography)

So often the decision comes down to travelling solo, or not at all. Solo travel will always trump travel with the wrong person, and in the absence of the right one, the equation typically falls on going it alone.

Some great memories were made, mountains were climbed, and incredible sights were seen, but I don’t need alone time. And with my “pandemic home journey PTSD” now a distant memory, I’m keen for the next one to be overseas.

(I’m also not keen to do that Geelong-to-Sydney drive home in one day again. Five coffees and a red bull, Christ)