Cradle Mountain National Park

Lots of pictures in this one, folks. Sorry if it takes so long to load. It's worth it.

I barely found lodgings—literally arrived five minutes before a backpacker/cabin community closed for the night. There weren’t many accommodations close to the mountains. I had a late dinner of PB&J and stocked up on water—had to boil before drinking. Showered. Probably annoyed my three other roommates by getting in so late.

I awoke to find the sun blocked by a thick layer of clouds. It was already 6:30, and I was surprised to find no other hikers up and about. I walked down a dirt road to the reception building, only to find that it wasn’t staffed until 8am. No wonder I was the only one awake! Couldn’t check out.

It was probably the last remnants of jet lag that helped me rise so early in the morning. It happened to work perfectly for me—I wanted to be outside to experience as much of Tasmania’s beauty as I could. I saw a path leading from the dirt road to the surrounding forest, and decided to explore a bit. Many wallabies were active, and I was able to approach within five feet of the braver ones. But the highlight of that detour was spotting a family of wombats in the base of a hollowed out tree. Wombats are much more timid than wallabies, and they look like a cute, furry cross between an koala and a pig. Being Australian, however, they can probably kill you in ten different ways. I stood about ten feet from the tree, engaging the daddy wombat in a staring contest. I had forgotten my camera, so I tried to permanently etch the scene in my mind. It worked rather well and stuck with me for the rest of the morning.

At 8:00 I checked out and drove a half mile to the Cradle Mountain information center. A park ranger advised me on a day hike. I asked why none of the day hikes took me past Lake St. Clair, which was 80.5 kilometers south. Oops. Thousands hike down from Cradle to St. Clair annually--the Overland Track--but it’s a weeklong trip by itself. I would basically be hiking south around Dove Lake and up toward Cradle Mountain, then follow around the other side of the lake, continue hiking north until I reached Ronney Creek. See?? The ranger said there was no way I could get lost.

I bought 1.5L of water and a sandwich (like Pulp Fiction and the $5 milkshake, but without a dancing partner) for $13, the price of convenience. A bus drove 20 of us further inside the park, and the driver showed us the points of interest, which included Fysh Creek, named after the woman who fell in it. “There aren’t many people in these parts, so you don’t need to accomplish much to find your name on something. But she had been on a horse when she fell,” the driver said.

We arrived at the northern end of Dove Lake, and the mountains were still hidden by the fog. Still looked nice.

I was pretty much floored by the beauty of the park, and stopped every twenty feet to take another picture. Could you blame me?

Dove Lake could have been a mirror for all I knew.

I only put the camera down when I was about to be overtaken by a gaggle of septuagenarians. Fortunately, we came to a fork in the road and they took the steeper path. I was able to slow down again. I could just make out half of Cradle Mountain in the mist.

I quickly arrived at the southern end of the lake, plunged into a small forest of trees and mushrooms, and was able to enjoy some relative cool while the fog was heated off.

At last, I was able to look upon the sight that had so mesmerized me throughout an extended winter break in Poughkeepsie. Cradle Mountain! Not just a state or national park, as the name might suggest, but a World Heritage Area protected in the interest of all mankind. Everything else I planned to do in Taz was peripheral. Go on, click on it.

And these too.

It was 10 or 11, and getting pretty hot. I couldn't find the sunscreen I had just bought a day before. I cursed my forgetfulness, not for the last time. There was enough food, but I was running low on water, so I went into Extreme Hiker Mode, which says if you're still sweating, you're not dehydrated enough. I don't know if I read that somewhere or made it up.

I passed by several groups of hikers along the way, some starting the Overland Track, others just day hiking. One group was sitting on a boulder as I passed, eating lunch. One shapeless guy was shirtless, while the fifteen other hikers were clothed. It struck me that they were all of different ages. I continued on.




Made it out alive after a five and a half hour hike, though with an empty water bottle for the last forty-five minutes or so. Drove to Devonport, for my three day east cost tour, which started the next morning at seven o'clock.

The Tamar Valley

Brrrr it’s cold here in Australia! Sights like these aren’t uncommon in the middle of the outback. HAH HAH! I’m just teasing you again—this picture was from Ithaca in December. But from what I’ve heard, it hasn’t changed much since then. My friend Bobert complained about having only a half day of school last week: “I still went to three of my classes, but was unable to attend office hours. Sledding was fun, I heard.” Congratulations, Bobert! You’re a true Cornellian.

Back in temperate Tasmania, I had left Cataract Gorge, left the hostel, and was heading north-west on the west side of the Tamar Valley. The drive had been recommended for the following reasons:

But most especially because of this, at Brady's lookout (go on, click on it):

I stopped when a seahorse exhibit caught my eye, and was able to see a male seahorse give birth to dozens of smaller seahorses (seaponies?). These gender-bending pseudo-equines are CRAAZY and have been known to eat another’s offspring, so the babies pair up by hooking tails together and appearing to be a larger organism. Let’s count our lucky stars we’re all born to females who spend most of their lives dieting. “Oh no, I just couldn’t,” she said, suppressing a belch and continuing, “that placenta was quite rich.”

There was also a sea dragon (an animal so flamboyant that Elton John, Tom Cruise, Velma from Scooby Doo, Ted Haggard, and all the Boston priests can’t even compete), and these other seahorse relatives that resembled blades of grass. I wasn’t allowed to take pictures, sorry.

It was about four in the afternoon, and I wanted to get to Cradle Mountain National Park before sundown. Marsupials are known to be more active at dusk, and Tasmania's roads have more curves and less travelers than US roads. Additionally, I hadn't made any sleeping arrangements. The lovely couple had recommended a driving route for me through various forests, but I misread my map, as usual. I went about 20 kilometers out of my way.

There were still some pretty views as I drove past, including some solitary mountain whose name starts with an R. I hiked in a pine tree forest that could have been in North America, except for its incredibly strong pine smell. There was also a woodland area with many downed trees. I planned to ask about them when I arrived at Cradle.

Cataract Gorge

Actually, I lied about that last bit. I didn’t go straight to bed, I just wanted to finish that entry. Artistic license.

Arriving at the Launceston airport provided my first real feeling of leaving the US. The scenery was totally different; different grass, flowers, steeper mountains, with eucalyptus and strange pine trees dominating the landscape. It looked African at times. However, the city itself had a European feel to it. Maybe it was the unpronounceable French cars. The architecture was a mishmash of styles that chemistry majors don’t learn about. Sorry, folks. That’s why I take pictures.

After arriving at the hostel and bidding the lovely couple adieu, I made myself a classic dinner of a PB&J sandwich and grapes, and spoke with some Melbournians who recommended a hike in nearby Cataract Gorge. I felt elated to actually be on the other side of the world—Tasmania was my oyster, with nobody to tell me when to do my dishes or go to bed. Naturally there was a bit of a letdown when I realized I couldn’t make my sister do my dishes for me, and that I had arrived on a Sunday night. Shucks.

The next morning I awoke with the sun and walked across town to pick up my rental car. Cornell Abroad had expressly told us not to rent cars, because two students have inadvertently killed Australians in driving accidents. Trouble is, the public transport in Tasmania is easily more expensive than driving. I had figured that if I restricted my driving to a 48 hour period I probably wouldn’t have enough time to kill anyone, but I was beginning to doubt my logic. Driving with the lovely couple through turning circles and complicated intersections had made me realize that not only was everything backwards—it was as if papa rule book had not only flipped baby rule book upside down, he had also jiggled it until it died of shaken baby syndrome. Hey, Australia’s a tough place.

You can imagine my relief when a sexy car store representative gave me the keys to an upgraded “compact” sized automatic. They were out of stick shift minis. Still, there were some quirks to get used to, such as the windshield wiper lever located where the turning signal lever should have been, and vice versa. After driving around for a half hour, I felt quasi comfortable, and my windows were immaculately clean, albeit unintentionally.

First stop was Cataract Gorge, where I went across the world’s largest single-span chairlift (not a big deal, it just meant the distance between two of the poles was really long. They could manage that due to the basin shape of the park). I was immediately confronted with a family of wallabees, just hanging out in the park and doing their marsupial thing. By the way, marsupials should win some award for having the most conspicuous scrotum. And it's furry on the bottom, too. See?

Oh, and here's what I think is wallabee poop. This might be a good time to mention that you can click on any picture to expand it.

Well, there were salamanders as well. I wondered if they might act differently when prodded with a stick, since they're Australian and all. Maybe some poison or cool fangs or something. Actually, they just stood really still or scurried off when I bothered them. LAME.

I went for a lovely hike under the hot Tasmanian sun, and learned what an ozone level of 10 means. It means you shouldn't hike under the hot Tasmanian sun. But at the end of the hike I was sad to leave the gorge, filled as it was with furry, scaly, and feathery animals. I decided to drive up the Tamar Valley, and maybe stop for sunscreen along the way.