One thing Australia in general and Tasmania in particular does not lack is jails. Or gaols, if you're into that sort of spelling. It's not surprising, all the white people here were originally sent by the British as punishment and Tasmania was seen as the even worse punishment.
The worst of the worst offenders were sent to Port Arthur, a jail situated on the Tasman peninsula. Much like Alcatraz, nature offered a barrier between the poor souls who ended up there and the rest of the population, in this case rough, rocky terrain and freezing, shark filled waters.
This is where I was supposed to go yesterday, after seeing nature preserve full of Tasmanian Devils.
This is not where I ended up. There were no devils. There was, however, wombat poop where I ended up, but sadly, no actual wombat.
In true Tassie fashion, the tour van pulled up and the guide informed me that the Port Arthur tour had been cancelled but he was going to the Freycinet National Park and Wineglass Bay, would I like to come?
I was eventually going to go to both of these places on my road trip, and it was too late to book another day tour to Port Arthur, so I went.
This seems to be happening a lot to me on this trip. Granted, it's not the most planned or best thought out trip ever, but the plans I do make tend to fall through. The thing is, everyone involved is so nice and charming, that it's hard to remain too upset. For example, at one point the guide, Jeremy, was quizzing about where we were going. I was the only one answering because, yes I am an insufferable know-it-all ,and I hate unanswered questions.
Jeremy: You seem to know a lot about a place you weren't going.
Me: I was going to drive here on my mini road trip.
Jeremy: And now I'm saving you the trouble by chauffeuring you myself.
Me: You're a gentleman and a scholar.
Jeremy: You noticed!
See? I adore banter and people who play along with it. How could I stay mad?
Freycinet and Wineglass Bay were typical Tasmanian scenery, in that they were entirely untypical: Granite Mountains surrounded by white sand beaches, hidden coves, and boulders covered in an only-in-Tas fiery orange lichen. One of the reasons these natural wonders are as well preserved as they are is because they're not easy to get to. It certainly wasn't a Mt Wellington level sufferfest, but there was some light hiking involved. Obviously, I was dressed in my gaol going finest: jeans and a thermal hoodie.
Can we talk about hiking in jeans for a minute? Because it fucking sucks. Hey, maybe you have a magical pair of jeans that fits you and your three besties perfectly even though you're all different sizes (sooo crazy!) and they allow you to have magical experiences like screwing your super hot soccer coach, (but don't worry, it's not creepy! ) and an understanding step dad with a zillion frequent flyer miles so you and said besties can go to Greece at a moment's notice, but I do not.
No, for me hiking in jeans results in the following experience: I get hot and sweaty and suddenly it feels like they're two sizes too small and trying to choke off my legs. Then they stay moist for hours and perhaps it's just my body chemistry mingled with the cotton and dye, but there's always a faintly metallic odor that clings unpleasantly to them.
So that was the one damper on the day.
Everyone keeps pointing out that since I'm renting a car, I can drive to Port Arthur. It's in the opposite direction of where I'm going, but I may figure out a way to get there yet.
Driving. I'm pretty freaked out about it. I'll be alone. It's not like road tripping in the states. And I hesitate to drive after dark, as that is when most of the wildlife is active and I don't particularly fancy trying to clean wallaby out of a rental car grill. (I also got the extra coverage for this particular reason. Do you even know the guilt I would feel if I killed anything?)
I wrote about all of my worries to my Dad and his response was: "I have faith in your driving abilities; you drive in LA daily." So true. Thanks, Dad.
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