After descending into Hobart, a small, quiet city at the southern tip of the island where even the central business district is entirely dead beside some scattered restaurants past 5:30 pm, we checked into the Riverside Motel near MONA (the Museum of Old and New Art) on the River Derwent. This motel and dinner that night was a great introduction to the fundamental character of Tasmania: (paraphrasing from someone who really was alive in the 1950’s) “Tasmania is a lot like going back to 1950’s small-town America: everyone knows each other, doors are left unlocked, and people are friendly.” Although I can’t speak to what small-town America was like in the 1950’s, I’ll provide an unreserved endorsement for the rest of that claim. About two-thirds of the current population of a half-million people can trace their ancestry back to founding families or penal colonists, this might contribute to the trusting, friendly character of the people we met on the island.









The following morning I headed into the city to pick up some supplies such as maps and isobutene camping fuel while my girlfriend studied. Midday we strolled over to the MONA to look around. I like the visual arts but I’m never especially moved by seeing them in person compared to photos or online and MONA was no exception. It did have some very nice modern works (I’ve included photos of some of my favorites) but my favorite part was the architecture of the museum, especially the bare rock walls which were carved out to build the primarily underground museum. Most of the bottom floor of the museum was taken up with works or material from Matthew Barney, especially items related to his most recent film River of Fundament). Perhaps I would have had a greater appreciation if I had actually seen the film before attending or was a huge follower of the artist, but as standalones most of the objects on display left me cold. For the film itself, I say with some confidence that it’s effectively impossible for normal people to track down (there were limited early showings in 2014 to reviews that were passionate but scarely complimentary) and you literally can’t buy the damn thing, so dedicating the floor of a museum to miscellanea from its production is fairly pretentious. Clearly MONA isn’t concerning itself with pandering to a broad fan-base; you can read more about the museum and its fantastically egotistical founder in this New Yorker article:
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/20...asmanian-devil

















Frenchman’s Cap

Alright, enough modern art, on to the highlight of the trip aside from riding in the front section of a 747: a three day trek at Frenchman’s Cap.

After staging with car-camping at the Lake St. Clair Lodge (the southern terminus of the much more famous Overland Track), we set out a couple of hours late from trying to stay inside during the heaviest hours of rain for the first day.









Dear reader, I hope that you have enjoyed the last photo because upon getting up from kneeling, some adherent clumps of dirt on my legs revealed themselves to be wriggling and slimy. D@&#, leaches! Some flurried picking and flinging quickly dislodged them, but of course they inject an anticoagulant after latching on to ensure themselves a uninterrupted stream of sanguine deliciousness so I was bleeding into my boots for hours afterwards. After arriving at the hut that night we relayed the drama with the leaches with a couple that just happened to work for a search and rescue group in Tasmania who responded to learning that we had just pulled them off with a, “oh, you’ll be alright,” while providing a strained smile expressing, “you definitely will not be alright.” Apparently, simply pulling the leach out will often cause the head to dislodge and remain stuck in the victims skin where it can serve as a nidus for a serious soft tissue infection. Instead, you should seek to motivate the leach to decamp with bug-spray, burning their back with a match, or (disgustingly) permit them to get their fill and depart of their own accord.





After undressing, I discovered yet another leach attached just below my sock-line. Suitably chastened with advanced leach-treatment knowledge, I tried to burn the little bloodsucker off with a match, but my shaking fingers couldn’t keep a match lit long enough to properly motivate the leach. Next I did my utmost to calmly ask for bug-spray from the search and rescue couple, and after an agonizing three minute search through multiple pack pockets, a tiny blue bottle was manifest and I could finally do something about the thing trying to consume all my precious bodily fluids. The moment insect spray was dabbed onto the back of the leach, it dutifully withdrew (head and all).

Please note, the above information only applies to the relatively benign small, black leaches pictured above. If you’re bitten by a tiger-leach (which is fortunately much rarer and perhaps not at all present in this region of Tasmania), I gather the most appropriate action is to contact an estate lawyer to ensure your affairs are in order and then await an arduous ordeal from which death will only be a welcome relief. Not that this business of leaches should dissuade anyone from hiking this trail; they only come out to attack when it rains and it only rains like half of the year here.














This gentleman was carrying a 65 lb pack of building materials for the National Park to carry out trail improvements and maintenance






A short billed echidna



This is a beautiful hike, but it’s hard. We’re relatively fit hikers but felt we couldn’t safely complete the entire hike to the summit and back to the first hut as a day hike and had to settle for the dramatic scenery from a ridge-line below the summit instead. Also, although I’ve provided a lot of the photos reflecting the outstanding hard work of the Tasmanian government and an Australian philanthropist who provided about $1 million dollars in funding this decade for track improvements, large portions of the track remain a difficult, dirty slog. The listed trekking times were accurate for us (normally they are gross over-estimates). I suggest only experienced hikers or backpackers attempt the walk.





Cradle Mountain, etc.

We spent the next enjoyable week making our way across Tasmania through Queenstown, Cradle Mountain, a nice wilderness resort called Lemonthyme, and eventually to the Freycinet Peninsula.


Queenstown-nothing’s more delicious than fatty pies and cool soda after three days of very hard hiking


Mt. Lyell Anchorage, a significant upgrade from the huts




Salt and pepper calamari

A few tips:
-Summiting Cradle Mountain is well worth the extra ~3-4 hours hiking time compared to stopping at Marion’s Lookout, etc.
-Although the Cradle Mountain National Park can get very crowded, the shuttle system works very well; we parked at the Visitor Center, took the last shuttle up to the Dove Lake trailhead, then walked back at sunset and scarcely saw another half-dozen visitors during a magical stroll down well maintained boardwalks past rolling meadows of button-grass and plenty of disinterested wombats


Just moments before we fended off a vicious surprise attack from this guy


Any a baby wombat. You can see how they camouflage themselves in the buttongrass stands.












Near the summit of Cradle Mountain










A waterfall in Lemonthyme lodge’s private tracts






Railton, the “town of topiary”