Tasmania: Day 6 - Wild Beauty

Theme Songs of the Day:

1. "First Dy of My Life", by Bright Eyes
2. "Burn One Down", by Ben Harper
3. "Are We Different?", by Priscilla Ahn
   

CAMPING ON THE RIVER FLATS

The morning dawns achingly cold on the flood plains of Taylor Flats.

Blue smoke bellows from the still-damp campfire while I stand on the bank of a river, casting into the flow and hoping for a rainbow or a brown trout to strike. The air is still, and my breath hangs around my shoudlers in a puffy veil.

Kookaburras guffaw in the distance while other birds chatter and chirp and whistle all around me. An industrious little fellow tap tap taps at the skeletal tree standing behind me, pulling out grubs and other goodies from the dead wood.

Poplar trees grow thick along the banks to the water’s edge, and I pick my way upstream searching for breaks in the undergrowth large enough for me to cast from. Back at the campfire, butter and home-made raspberry jam bubbles away on the gridle, while bread smokes itself into toast for our breakfast.

Last night we met Roslyn and Oscar, Peter’s wife and youngest son. I spoke with Roslyn on the phone when we landed in Tassie, or rather she spoke to me through the crackling connection: “Is that you Matt??” She is tough as nails, all sinew and no nonsense, with a warm smile and a heart of gold.

Oscar and his brother grew up on the “luxury campgrounds” and were homeschooled by their parents. He is a confident, well-mannered 16-year old, also tough as nails, all sinew, and no-nonsense. He does have his father’s cheeky grin, and the twinkle in in his eye that suggests he may or may not be about to play a practical joke on you…

On the day that the Board of Education came to interview the children to find out how effective [or not] their homeschooling had been, Roslyn was nervous that they might deem their progress sub-par, and take her children away. Instead, the lady that came out was so impressed that she asked if the boys would come and speak to other homeschool families as an example of possibility.

Roslyn explains to me later that their approach was simple: keep the boys engaged and having fun, and they would learn something without even realizing it. For example, to teach them about mathematics and geometry, they built a shed and had them do all the calculations on site that were necessary to complete the project. They learned the theory and application of the concepts being studied, and gained the practical construction skills while swinging their hammers. At 23 years old, Wilbur now travels the world as a freelance adventure guide; he is currently away in Europe leading whitewater kyak adventure tours in Norway over the summer season.

We get to see more of the benefits of this kind of education first hand when we get back to camp and Oscar invites us to join him and his best mate Alex [who is 3 years older] on the downhill Moutain Bike Track that he and his brother Wilbur have built on the other side of the waterfall.

The track is impressive; a narrow trail winds its way down the mountain, earthen embankments allow you to throw the bikes around the switchbacks, and a fallen log provides a massive railslide that drops back onto the track on a steep, twisting ramp. The see-saw feature they fly over freaks me out and sends me careening off into the bush, mowing down a couple of baby eucalypts along the way.

I opt to take the side route on the final stretch, which drops off a rocky outcrop before slipping through a narrow gap in the trees. It took us twenty minutes to hike up to the start, and maybe three minutes to barrell down, hooting and crashing and laughing all the way down. I am thankful that the 15-foot jump they are still building mid-way down is incomplete… and that despite falling off twice, I survived my first downhill mountain biking experience with barely a scratch!

The adrenaline is still coursing when we return to “camp”, and we are still wild-eyed when Peter shows us the yield of hazlenuts that he and Aoba have gathered that morning. The Canadian has asked that we do a bonfire that night, so Roslyn announces that ice cream, molten chocolate, and home-made raspberry sauce will compliment campfire-roasted hazlenuts perfectly for desert.

Before we head out to gather wood for the bonfire, however, Peter invites us on a bushwalk with him to Levyn Canyon. The 45-minute trek up to the lookout point takes about 25 minutes with the pace that he sets for us, and our breath is taken away when we reach the end of the trail. Wooded valleys stretch to the horizon as a river winds its way through. We are ants perched precariously on the edge of this precipice, dwarfed by the massive spectacle of nature engulfing us. The platform and we stand on and polished trail signs behind us are the only sign of human presence; the work of a single park ranger who has carved the trail out with his own two hands, and the occasional help of a laborer or two.

THE RIVER WINDS THROUGH...

Once we regain our breath, we head back to the car which Peter guides deftly around the gravel roads twice as fast as I would be comfortable driving, to bring us to another trailhead. This one descends into the canyon and crosses the river, where we pass a sign reading EXPERIENCED BUSHWALKERS ONLY, and our motley crew - The Moustachioued One, The Canadian, The GreenBackpack, and the Tokyo Girl - pick our way along the steep trail until we round a bend and stop at a natural stone bench which overlooks dark tea-colored pools that eddy and swirl below.

It dawns on me how foreign an experience this must be for Aoba, who has probably only known the bright lights and ceasless racket of big city life... now we are surrounded by a natural symphony, the water rushing below, the breeze whispering through the treetops in waves, birds cackling and whistling and chirping all around.

NATURE'S SKYSCRAPERS

We sit and munch on the chocolates I have brought, drinking in the view from the canyon floor. The cliff face stretches up 100+ stories above, and you can almost hear the cracking and rumbling of the massive rock stratas which lie at a 45 degree angle from the horizontal rocks which are the adjacent cliff. The river does a huge switchback here, and Peter tells us that at some time in the distant geological past, this entire canyon was formed by the collapse of the massive rockforms towering above. If we were ants standing on the top of the canyon, we are gnats as we look up from within.

We return to "camp" with a new sense of quiet satisfaction, our glimpse of the awesome power of Wild Tasmania lingering in our auras. This is Peter's backyard, and I find myself longing to keep exploring, to discover yet more wild spectacles that few privelleged humans will get to experience in their lifetimes. The wild places of the world don't want to be discovered, preferring instead to reveal their secrets only to those intrepid enough to seek and discover...

Dinner is the vegeterian green Japanese curry that I have had bubbling away all afternoon. The homegrown baby yams added at the last minute are pink and translucent and no bigger than my thumb, and lend just the perfect earthy-sweet flavour to this Asian-Australian bush tucker meal we have just invented.

HYPNOTIC

We take turns simmering in the woodfired bath; house rules are that whoever is in the hot tub gets waited upon hand-and-foot, “As you wish…” Everyone outside of the bath house sits and stares into the fire, talking about past and future planned adventures [and misadventures], and even start to sketch out a vague plan to hike in to Cradle Mountain and back from Loongana when I return to Tasmania.

Aoba entertains herself by slicing cross-sections of the bonfire smoke rising into the night sky with her bright green laser beam, whistling Super Mario Brothers to herself and munching on potatoes roasted in the glowing embers. I can only imagine what her internal dialogue would be, 18-years old girl raised in the Tokyo metropolis in the middle of the Tasmanian bush and only enough grasp of English to understand fleeting glimpses in our conversations..

Roslyn and The Canadian have convinced Peter to break out a bottle of homebrew honey mead which has been “cellared” for a couple years. The amber liquid has a velvety texture, not quite as viscous as scotch, yet smooth enough to coat the sides of the glass when swirled. It smells sweet like honey, not the sickly sweet of desert wines, or the artificial sweet of soda pop, but a subtle, delicate sweetness imbued with a hint of citrus… and the taste? Divine. Almost spiritual. If one were lucky enough to sip from the nectar of the gods, than surely this would be it.

Maximus curls up in my lap and drifts off to sleep, twitching and eyelids fluttering as he starts to dream of chasing birds and sticks and severed wallaby heads. The conversation fades and becomes more intermittent, each of us losing ourselves in the hypnotic glow and crackly of the bonfire, connecting with some deep part of ourselves from eons past, when ape-like men huddled around campfires in caves.

Glowing embers float up and away into the milky way yawning above us. I realize that have discovered a formula for inner peace:

Homebrew Honey Mead
+
Vegetarian Japanese Curry
featuring Home-grown Baby Yams
+
Fire-Roasted Hazlenuts on IceCream with Molten Chocolate
and Home-made Raspberry Sauce
+
Woodfired Bath-house
+
Bonfire
+
Awesome People
+
Amazing Conversation
=
Bliss

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BEDFORD'S BACKYARD

RIVER CROSSING

THE CANADIAN


CHILLIN' ON THE STONE BENCH


AOBA [TOKYO GIRL] CONTEMPLATES NATURE


ROASTING HAZLENUTS


BLISS

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farewell Honolulu, hello Melbourne!

THEME SONGS FOR THE DAY:

1. Honolulu City Lights - by Keola Beamer. This is a pretty random video, but it was the only recording of the song I could find on YouTube!
2. The Horses - by Aussie singer Daryl Braithwaite, from the album "Rise"
3. Back in Black - by rock legends AC/DC, from the album "Back in Black"

SUNSET ON MY LAST EVENING IN HONOLULU;
THE WAIKIKI SKYLINE BIDS ME FAREWELL

The weeks and days counting down to my departure from Honolulu are a blur of laughs, first-time experiences, and happy good-byes. It is surreal how quickly my departure day was upon me, as I boarded the plane it felt like I was watching a movie of myself, you know the one with Jim Carrey where he runs down the jetway yelling, "It's OK, I'm a LIMO DRIVER!!!"

Funny how when you are about to leave a place, all of a sudden you meet the coolest people and start to do all the funnest things you didn't do but wanted to the whole time you were there: paddling on a stand-up board and then a one-man outrigger canoe off Kaimana Beach were firsts on the 3rd-to-last day in the islands [i'm hooked!]. And, I've done more rockclimbing, hiking, camping, motorcycling, volunteering, and just hanging out with loved ones in the last 2 months than I have in the last 12 years of living in Honolulu.

CLOCKWISE, FROM TOP LEFT:
1) SQUALL OFF LAIE POINT
2) BOGGART'S "KRAKATOA STEAMER" WITH POOTIE
3) CAMPING AT "LUANA"
4) GETTING GROCERIES AT KAENA POINT

Since I pulled an all-nighter to pack 12 years worth of accumulated "stuff" into two oversized suitcases, I slept through the 9-hour flight to Sydney and awoke in a new hemispehere, a new country... the 60-minute connecting flight to Melbourne was over by the time we finished the tiny butter chicken dinner with peas swimming in a tasty curry-like sauce over rice that they served up; QANTAS always did have decent airline food...

...but this was nothing compared to the delicious meal Mum, Dad, Sis and I enjoyed at the Pacific Seafood House, a new contemporary asian restaurant in its new location at the edge of Melbourne's Chinatown. This neighborhood smells just like Honolulu's Chinatown: a mix of five-spice, char-siu, and steamed dumplings on the main streets, with the faint underlying stench of hum-ha, stale beer and urine wafting through the air from the back alleys. Chinatowns smell the same all over world.

We get home late, and as I walk into the house that my family has lived in for the last 12 years, it feels like I am home. Mum says, "I'm glad you're here," before turning in for the night, and I am fast asleep in the back room soon after.

I wake up to an empty house as everyone has left early to get to work, and Yuki the cat greets me with a loud meow before settling into a chair to wait for a beam of sunlight through the windows she can bask in. She doesn't have to wait long, as I am making my breakfast of crumpets with honey and tea, the autumn sun appears and streams through the windows to both of our delight.

The crisp Melbourne autumn morning is too inviting to stay inside the house, so I take my breakfast and the old naval war novel I am reading [thank you, Hawaii Yacht Club book exchange] and find a warm sunspot in the garden to sit and read in. Mum interrupts [it's "Mum" when I am in Australia, "Mom" when I am in Hawaii] 1 chapter before the thrilling finale of the book - she only has a half day at work and has come home to take me out for a Melbourne latte and lunch.

We go to Batch Espresso in Balaclava, a trendy cafe three stops up on the train line. Young families, artistic types, dapper executives, and orthodox jews in black suits, hats and sporting beards and sideburns bustle about the street here, which is lined with cafes, restaurants, and specialty shops. This kind of vibrant street culture is one of the things I miss most about this place, and is something that Honolulu could certainly learn from. No newbie police officers pouncing on their prey to hand out jaywalking tickets here!

The cafe's menus are cleverly presented in old refurbished hardback novels, with notches in the pages cut out to the places where the menus are hidden - reduce / reuse / recycle at its best in the artistic simplicity of the idea. I order the avocado-feta mash on ciabbata bread [toasted], with a side of bacon [thick, satisfying rashers that are far more decadent than the thin, crispy, burnt stuff Americans are so used to], while Mum goes for the fish special, a pan fried fillet of "roughy" served on a bed of pilaf lentilis with a glass of rose.

I order myself a latte, and soak in the whole scene. There are two ladies seated right next to us, bistro-style so that our elbows are rubbing, talking animatedly about their clients' latest purchases in her boutique, while an artsy lesbian couple sip lazily at their lattes on the sidewalk tables, scratching their dog's belly with their feet. When my drink comes I grin broadly and breathe in the java; there is nothing quite like a Melbourne latte.

It is difficult to describe why a Melbourne latte is so special; perhaps it is the hormone-free milk that is used in every other country in the world except for the united States, or maybe it is simply the sheer volume of espresso that Melbournites consume, forcing barristas everywhere to be on their toes because their discerning audience demands it.

A good Melbourne latte is velvety smooth and doesn't have the bitter bite that many Kona blends do. You could drink three or four of them at one siting and still want more. Think of the creamiest, most expensive, espresso ice cream you've ever had....and imagine that coming out of the espresso machine steamer into your steaming mug...and that is close to what a Melbourne latte is like. Glazers' in Honolulu comes close, but Melbourne still has my vote when it comes to "Best Latte in the World"...

...it is good to be back in my new old home.

THE AUTUMN MELBOURNE SKY...
NOT A CLOUD TO BE SEEN IN ANY DIRECTION...

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