Final Days of Tasmania

My feet may be covered in blisters, my legs may detach and run away from my body at any moment, and my face may feel like it could crack into a million smaller pieces, but at least I made it out of the Tasmanian Bush alive; as if there were any doubts. I spent the last 3.5 days camping along the Tasman Peninsula Coast, alone. It was a challenging yet rewarding hike, with spectacular views of steep dolerite cliffs; eroded into vertical geometric pillars of rock. I spent the first day hiking for 5 hours in a perpetual hail storm; the trail was a sloppy white mess. I was completely soaked when I arrived at Bivouac Bay and spent the rest of the evening curled up in my sleeping bag trying to get warm. The following day I hiked another 5 hours to Cape Huay, and fund myself standing on the edge of the world, as far south as I’ve ever stood; or at least on the edge of certain death with a 600 ft fall into the chilly Tasman Sea. The third day was all sunshine, and I swam naked in the refreshing Bivouac Bay; which likely made the elderly couple trying to enjoy their lunch break a tad uneasy at the sight of the homely bearded naked man leaving an oil slick in his wake. The following is an expert of my journal writings, which I think sums up my thoughts and sights during the trek:

Sunday March 6th, 2011

I was fortunate enough to spend a few good days with a nice group of people on Wedge Island, and now as usual I find myself alone again in the middle of what feels like nowhere. Although this place is more spectacular than Wedge, with its 300 meter cliffs and dense gum tree forests, it feels dull and muted in comparison. On Wedge, I could laugh about the freezing cold and frequent hail squalls with the company of others, talk about the brilliance of the stars; here alone in the woods, I’m only lost in my thoughts hiding away in my tent.

The most important lesson I will take away from my many days alone over the past 9 months is how important the human connection is. I didn’t think I needed it, thought I could find comfort in nature alone. Yet I’m finding that experiences are worth nothing unless shared; maybe that’s why I feel compelled to write in this journal (or this blog for that matter). Just as we’ve evolved the desire to pass on our genes, perhaps a vestige of this evolution is the desire to pass on our experiences. To teach others the lessons learned. If anything it seems selfish to live a life of solitude.

Shortly after writing this a group of hikers pitched camp at the site across mine. We exchanged hellos, that was all I needed. I left my dungeon of a tent and went for walk, more like a climb, around the jagged point of Bivouac Bay. I found myself a nice pillar to perch upon and took in the view.

I’m looking across Fortescue Bay to the cathedrals of rock, reaching vertically 600 ft. The sun’s low light absorbed by the lichen, paints a golden orange on the cliff faces, with contrasting black boxy shadows. The wind is high, blowing wave tops into spray, creating miniature rainbows as the water rains down. Dozens of Shy Albatross, with feruled brows, patrol the surface in the wind, while Australasian Gannets, with a flash of white wings dipped in black ink, soar high above. Black Faced Cormorants dawned in elegant tuxedos stand idle by on the rocks around me, their wings outstretched and heated by the suns reseeding rays. Sooty Oystercatchers pierce the exposed limpets and mussels with their fire red bills, while the broad leafy fronds of Bull Kelp dance and slap as they fold in and out with the waves. Somewhere in the distance I hear the muted bark of an Australian Fur Seal, masked by the howling wind and the crash of the boiling surf. The entire scene, the setting sun, the chill in the air, the epic cliffs, and the abundant wildlife, is absolutely beautiful…and all it took, was a simple hello.

Anyways enough with the poetry. I’m in Hobart for the last time, flying to the Gold Coast tomorrow for surfing and good company. Hoping the waves are rolling in and the beer is cold.

Photos: Evil molting Little Penguin, hiding in its burrow along the trail. These guys had burrows everywhere, you can find them by following the smell of fish and by piles of feathers. Views from Cape Hauy.