Holy khrap.

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Queenscliff Music Festival, yes the pix are pretty weak, but the best I can offer, unfortunately. Maybe the blurry photo is indicative of what a whirlwind soul diva Betty Harris is on stage. Not bad for late 60s.

Our set was a mellow affair at 12:30 in the afternoon (arvo) on the Fishnets Stage. We had about 50 people there, a bit of applause, and played decently enough so as not to lose any sleep.

It was a multi-venue festival, and thus we could wander form stage to stage checking out a variety of music. We also had VIP status, meaning we could get a couple of free drinks in an area adjacent to the main stage, which unfortunately had terrible sightlines, but made for easy access to the front. I didn't really recognise anyone in the VIP area, perhaps if I knew the Aussie scene better I would have. Instead, I chatted with people Tammy and Eliza knew from the music scene, including Rae, my trumpet predecessor in Royalchord. She is a pianist and composer in addition to trumpet work, and has done residencies in Banff and Florida (with Sam Rivers). Full on.

Highlights of the festival were Betty Harris; Mihirangi, a Maori singer who incorporates sung loops and beats into her tunes; the Blues Train, an old steam train in which each carriage had a blues guy on acoustic guitar, and half-way through the trip the passengers change cars and thus entertainment; LABJACD, a nine piece funk-latin band with KILLER trumpet players; Fourplay, a string quartet doing modern works and covers of Radiohead; jazz quintet Baartz Freeman, whose piano player blew me away; and RnB band Blue King Brown, who I only managed to catch a bit of because it had been a really long day by that point.

Sunday was spent sleeping in, and enjoying the sun, since the previous day at the festival had been a bit cool and rainy. Also dragged myself into the mindset that I was about to leave the country, and made the final preparations for that, sitting on the suitcase, etc. We had a little barbie, and watched the epic finale of Australian Idol, the series which has been dogging me throughout Australia. Damien, the Irish dude, won it. Your fifteen minutes have started.

As I watched the over-the-top fireworks above the Sydney Opera House, I realized that this was the end for me as well, at least the Australian portion. It still hasn't sunk in, though today as I write this, the butterflies are starting to flit. The Melbourne stay was an introspective affair, essentially what I was seeking, though not in the manner I expected. It has given me much to think "aboot", as well as the urge to get back out on the road, and spin my head around the in other direction. Despite wanting to get back and begin forging a regular life for myself, I'm happy that Norm and Karen talked me into continuing my journey after all.

In a couple of minutes I'm going to hand in my keys, grab my bags, and pull the gate shut behind me. A final meal with Annie and Lee, and then I'm on a plane. For the two of you still reading this, thanks for staying with me. Drop me a line! Maintaining this blog in any sort of fashion has been difficult, though at times offered a bit of sanity too. I'm not sure if I will do it for Asia as well, since I don't know what the Net access or travel preoccupation will be like. Check here first, and if I start a new one, I'll post the address here.

As Aunt Katie put it (pandkgoskiing.blogspot.com), that's a wrap. Thanks, Ta, Conrad

Today is November 26th, my last full day in Australia. Hard to believe that I'll be on a plane to Asia in a matter of hours, a trip that I still can't quite fathom is going to happen. I knock on wood that it goes well.

I don't know exactly when or why it happened, but my experience in Melbourne started to change after that first weekend here, and with it my attitude and outlook over the next two weeks. It has been a matter of much thought (dwelling?), trying to interpret how I interpret, and I'm sure I'll still be trying to figure it out for some time to come.

As it turned out, planned meetings with travellers failed to materialize, as did the jams and musical outings which I'd felt blessed to have fall into my lap. Tammy, my main contact here, was dealing with matters which which left her less than energetic or keen on showing her Canadian aquaintance the sights. I am extremely grateful, however, for the time she did spend with me, as well the people to whom she introduced me. I was left to my own devices during the day, and didn't know anyone I could hang out with for a bit of company. Furthermore, a sudden spell of cold lousy weather (hail!) dampened everyone's spirits.

As for me, the rigours of travel, and desire to explore both the day and night aspects of each place I visited were now catching up with me, leaving me with no motivation to be curious about where was I presently. I had arrived here with the naive notion that I would automatically be "one of the gang", and found myself simply a room-mate. Perhaps I had raised my expectations too high, or not clearly thought about what I would do to pass the time in an environment where folk had their own lives and were working full time, while I was accustomed to the fantasy culture of non-working, fun-seeking wide-eyed travellers. I began to feel like a third wheel in many ways, the over-eager dog waiting for its owners to come home, a dud who needed to be led around. I felt equally out of touch with events back home, hearing of things second-hand, if at all.

I was also frustrated musically, as there had been no replies to initial contacts (shoulda known), and as the nights to the clubs to watch or play were rapidly turning into solo missions, I lost the taste for that too. Furthermore, a reluctance of the band to rehearse made me a bit stressed about the upcoming shows, the very reason I was staying in this foreign environment as long as I was. I began to respect that the art of music-making, in addition to the unreachable horizon of skill with which I'd be satisfied, relied on singular drive, years of networking, freshness of ideas, and clever marketing savvy with which I'd never been blessed. The months of impromptu jam stunts had been fun, not to mention good for my ear, but perhaps gave me a false sense of my musicianhood.

In short, the comfort, solitude, serenity, and exploration I had been looking forward to transformed into alienation and loneliness. I was losing the muster to enrich others' lives, and simply desperate to satisfy my own. So much for the intrepid traveller, now I was questioning my validity as a musician and a person. The neon signs reading "The trip is what you make it", "One shot", and "Solo is the best way to travel" kept flashing in my mind, but now I just wanted to smash them. Here I was in this great city, and I was wasting it. It was a tough time for me, and I'm thankful for communications with my mom and brother, and friends Salim, Sab, and Eric for keeping me going.

Why do I publish these darkened perspectives for the world to read? Simply put, they are as real a part of this adventure as beaches and waterfalls. I've spoken to quite a few folk who have travelled alone for long periods, and tough times such as these seem to be a common experience. It sucks at the time, but it really does teach you to pull yourself up by the bootstraps, as well as appreciate what you do have. It has made me realize how important my family is to me, and how much I miss the folks at home.

I continued to swim just to keep my blood flowing, and practice horn to prevent total boredom and utter embarrassment. After about a week of the negative thinking (the dog chasing its tail?), I decided that Australia wasn't going to end like this. I'm sure I was re-invigorated by a decent gig at Northcote Social Club on November 19th, opening for American songwriter Jason Molina (who as part of his banter gave a little spiel about missing the changing colours of autumn while on the road - gulp!). Additionally, in a week I'd be boarding a plane for Asia, something new to get stoked about.

Nor was this time a total write-off, as there were many high points: touring Cap. Paul Watson's Sea Shepard boat with Leon before it departed Melbourne to combat pirate whalers; a trip to CERES environmental centre and a crazy night on the town with Tammy's friend Cat; the Paul Williamson Hammond Combo at the Rainbow Hotel in Fitzroy (glad I didn't bring the horn that night, or I would have been humbled by young trumpet upstart Amon); a night of experimental music at Bar Open in Fitzroy (yes, a bit of key-jangling); hooking up with Sean, the guy on my Tassie trip who outdrank the pig, for a good night at Hotel Bakpak (and incidentally, a night out in the company of other travellers also did wonders to refresh my sagging spirits); a night out with Annie and Lee; hanging out for the afternoon with producer/percussionist Beno, marvelling at his toys and picking his brain for insights; and an afternoon at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image at Federation Square (sorta pictured), which had an exhibit on pre-film trickery of the eye and entertainment through motion, as well as a free library of multimedia installations. I should have come here a week before I did! Ah well, the things you learn, right?

When I arrived in Melbourne, I was feeling a sense of spiritual calm from my week in Tasmania. At first I was planning to write "energized", but that wouldn't be quite accurate, since I had done as much as possible both day and night, and now needed some rest and relaxation. It was setting up to be an interesting time: after months on the road, here I not only had Annie and Lee, but my friend Tammy. I played horn for one of Tammy's gigs back in Canada, and now I was on tap to play a show with her band, opening for Jason Molina on the 19th of November, as well as a slot at the Queenscliff Music Festival the following weekend, meaning the length of my stay here would be three weeks. Furthermore, my timeline was supposed to overlap with a few other travellers I'd met along the way, so I was looking forward to touching base. Finally, after weeks of packing and unpacking, bussing, flying, losing things, I was looking forward to having a base for a bit, stretching out, and sinking my teeth into a place. Melbourne oozes art and music. One person (Beno) has described it as not so much an industry, but a culture, and I was keen to absorb as much as possible. I wanted to be inspired, participate if possible, but mostly try to answer questions I had regarding the role of music and creativity in the context of my life.

My first week in Melbourne was a whirlwind. Tammy had arranged for me to rent a little bungalow (pictured) out back of the house of friend (and bandmate) Eliza and her boyfriend Leon in the burb of Brunswick, about a half hour's ride north of the city centre, and about a 20 minute ride from the funky artistic hub, Fitzroy. Architecturally, this area is very pretty, as the majority of the houses are old have fascades which have been preserved since their construction in the late 1800's.

I arrived the day before the Melbourne Cup, the horse race that stops the nation, the first Tuesday in November. This creates a funny work week, some have a 3-day week, some a 4, and the entire week is essentially a write-off anyway because of the festing that takes place.
I had originally planned to attend the race itself with Dave (Sydney), but he and Mandy just purchased a new house, meaning that he had more responsible things to do than drink and bet on horses. Instead, I attended a barbie that Leon and Eliza threw, made some terrible bets (an amazing aptitude for picking the horses that finish last five), and danced into the night to Duran Duran and Ennio Morricone spagetti western soundtracks, destroying numerous wine glasses. I had lots of offers to be shown various aspects of the city, as well as learning that I guilty of "oot and aboot" after all.

During the day, I began to develop a basic "normal" routine, sans work, of course. Essentially this consisted of swimming, horn practice, blog catch-up (and learning to use a Mac a bit better) and cooking non-instant meals. I was also trying to brainstorm and organize the things for the Asian leg of my trip. I had the vague feeling I should be seeing the city more, but in truth, I didn't want to feel like a tourist at the moment. Everyone I knew here worked during the day, and at first this was fine, it gave me the blissful solitude I was seeking.

I would head into the night with my horn, just in case. I found myself on stage with Don't Mess with the Pony, an all-female trio (great musos!) with a groove like Luscious Jackson; another night I went out with Tammy and a few people to The Tote (though I'm supposed to add "upstairs", much more respectable than "downstairs"), where I met producer/ percussionist/ friend Beno and a few other folk, and ended up jamming with the DJ, as well as giving my number out to those interested in a jam or some recording. My first Friday in Melbourne saw me at a warehouse party full of art students entertained by several bands and DJ's, waiting for Tammy's boyfriend, whom I was supposed to meet there. After two hours of hanging around by myself, I realized that the Canadian guy had been ditched, and went into survival mode, since it seemed too fun to leave. I did some chatting and some improv (yep, had the horn yet again), and ended up staying until the wee hours. I had new-found knowledge of the ovulatory cycle of alpacas, as well as excitement of more folk who seemed to want to get together and do some playing. This is the kind of experience that I'd sacrificed a trip to the Red Center or the West Coast to have, and couldn't wait to see how the next two weeks prior to Queenscliff would play themselves "oot".

When I woke up, we had arrived at Mt Field National Park. We had the opportunity to get off the bus for about an hour to check out scenic Russell Falls, but that's about it. It brings to mind why I'm a little leery of tours, despite the convenience of someone else doing the organising: I could have spent a week here at the park, exploring gorges, glaciers, rainforest, and mountains. Regardless, the sun was now out, the first time I'd seen it in days, and it made for a good walk to stretch my bus-cramped limbs.

That night, we returned to Hobart to relax in the Allport Hostel once again. I reclaimed my towel, and the following day, picked up my stanky laundry from the Tassielink, making sure to avoid the bus driver who had had to deal with my mess. I was feeling whole again, though not quite well-rested. My dreams of a long sleep-in were squashed when the scratchy-voiced kid who was in my room (just listening to him made me want to clear my throat), booked on the next round of Under Down Under, decided to sleep in, then take forever in the shower. At 7am, I was woken by a pounding on the door, which didn't cease until I stumbled across the room to answer. Once we figured out the kid was in the bathroom and mentioned that the bus was waiting, he still took forever, meaning that the new tour guide was standing in my room loudly urging him to hurry. The pillow couldn't block any of this out, so I gave up and started my day.
Sunday continued to be quiet and a little rainy, so thankfully for me, Planet of the Apes was on TV, rounding out the requirements for a lazy day.

Nothing else too eventful happened, except for an interesting conversation I had with an older woman named Linda who was staying at the hostel. We starting chatting about Canada, since she tries to spend at least six months a year there, finding it a nice alternative to her native Australia. The conversation turned to music, and I learned that she had been a singer. Since then, however, she had been travelling the world pursuing knowledge of alternative healing and expansion of her third eye awareness. It seems she had been having visions since she was a girl, and had denied they existed until a particularly profound event in her early 20's, which she neglected to go into. This experience made her believe in re-incarnation, and she has been letting her intuition guide her in reconciling wrongs that had occurred in her past lives. I was fascinated, as I have a scientist's scepticism of this sort of thing, yet the want of a dreamer for it to be true. Also interesting was that this had been the second such encounter on this trip. Oh, and apparently 2010 will be a big year for me, a shame since I was hoping 2006 would be the one revealing big things.

The next morning I was up and waiting for my airport shuttle, feeling magical from my mystical encounter the night before. I'd lost the return voucher somewhere in the wilds of Tasmania, but the driver took mercy on me and let me ride anyhow. Good karma indeed. I was about to begin the last leg of my Australia trip, and as I boarded the airplane, I rubbed my hands together at the thought of the music and people Melbourne had waiting for me.

The next morning I gathered my rapidly-depleting bundle of gear into my bag, which was becoming refreshingly lighter, and triple checked under the bed and various electrical outlets for possible things I could forget. We were towards the western side of Tasmania now, and our first stop was Montezuma Falls outside of Rosebury. The hike consisted of an hour walk from the buspark along a rainforested path that had at one point a rail line bringing various ores to the coast for shippage. Along the way were tall gum trees carpeted with moss and old railway trestles slowly being reclaimed by the forest. My legs and butt were feeling a little sore due to the previous day's climb, so it felt great to stretch them out, and I was secretly happy that this hike was an easier grade. At the base of the falls was a suspension bridge which offered a good vantage point to see the creek take its 110m plunge.

Once back on the bus, we lunched briefly back in Rosebury, then were off to the coast. Along the way, we passed through the mining town of Queenstown. Apparently it had once been owned by an Irish guy who was been disappointed in its lack of gold, and sold it for peanuts to two brothers who proceeded to find a huge lode of copper. I'm sure the Irish eyes were not smiling then. The copper industry is still here, and as a result of the mining and the sulphurous by-products, the vegetation has been stripped away, leaving a weird moonscape of shiny yellow rock. Like Sudbury, but with more colour. At one point in time, it was debated whether to clean up the area and replant vegetation, but it was decided that the eerie rock landscape would be good for tourism. We drove right past it.

Henty Dunes is a huge field of sand on the western coast of Tasmania. I realize as I write this that I'm running out of ways to describe remote expanses of sand that blow my mind, so I'll leave the description as is. The pine forests of the area, replanted (with non-native trees which grow quicker yet yield cheaper wood), and resembling the man-made monocultural new growth forests we have in Ontario, come right up to the dune and stop at a hill of sand I'd reckon to be about 30m high. We herring-boned our way up the side, and emerged on the sand field. Crossing felt like I would imagine being in the Sahara to be, and the shifting sands added a blurry contrast against the greenery we had just come from. I half expected to see giant worms burrowing beneath the surface, or at least two arguing droids come ambling down a drift.

Steve had a secret spot which he vowed that no other guide would have taken us to. After about 45 minutes traversing the sand, shoes back in the bus meant the cold sand came up between our toes, we reached a large bush that, when a branch was pulled away, yielded an old path partly covered in small scrub. A bit of a trek through the shrubs and across sandy ridges had us arriving at our destination: the top of a sandy weed-covered cliff overlooking Ocean Beach. I always love how Australians get straight to the point when naming places. Mind you, this may simply balance out some other locale names like Ulla Dulla or Wagga Wagga. The ocean raged here at the coast, as this is the first land reached by an ocean current which originates in Patagonia, passing underneath South Africa. The swells here can reach 20m. I don't know what came over me, but suddenly I had to have a closer look. I ditched my bag, took a breath, and leapt over the cliff onto the sand wall. I hopped down the embankment like a powder skier, just ahead of the avalanche I'd created, each jump earning me about 10 feet of air yet a soft, forgiving landing. Out of breath, I made it to the bottom, and quickly crossed the creek at the bottom to avoid the wave of sand which was spilling down behind me. I looked back up at the group, who were a bit more distant than I'd counted on, and decided not to think about how I would get climb back up for the time being.

After a little wander, watching the power of the waves which was even more tremendous up close, I waded into the water, and could feel the strength of several different directions of riptide. Furthermore, the difference in land reach from one wave to the next varied quite a lot, so that one might only reach my ankles, yet the next had me hiking my pants mid-though so as not to get wet. The scramble back up wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, and soon rejoined the group and headed back to the bus. As we neared the edge of the dune, and arrived at the spot where we had first encountered the sand, I took a running start and sped down the wall. Unfortunately, I had forgotten about the sharp turn at the end before reaching the parking lot. I almost made it, but my momentum outran my feet, and I ended up eating sand in a big way. This didn't do anything to help my Crazy Canadian rep with the Asian contingent, but did leave a beautiful facial imprint for someone else to find.

Soon we were at our hostel in Strahan, our last night on the tour. After supper, I almost conned Wendy into coming out on the town with me, but the trend of solo night prowling continued. I went out to the only pub in town, and chatted briefly with some fishermen I'd met back at the hostel. Tomorrow was the beginning of the recreational saltwater crayfish season (?), and these guys plus many others were in town to get a jump on things. I ended up chatting with this woman Pam, who gave me a blow-by-blow account of the local crayfish industry. She also told me the guy who had given me a hassle when I'd first asked to borrow a chair was her "sperm donor" and had just gotten out of jail. (My thoughts were at once back to Lee's mentioning that Tas could be a rough place.) She also told me that when this guy had gone into jail, her son hadn't been sad, or said good-bye, but simply, "Don't drop the soap, Dad".

I was about to bail on this place when the pool table opened up, and the next thing I knew, I was heading out to a party at the "House on Stilts". Sat around a huge bonfire, got to know folk, including Jail Guy. Never before had I been in the presence of so many angry women who had never heard of Ani DiFranco. Did my part to spread some culture, then considering it was already 4am, left, but not before hearing about Promite, kinda like Vegemite, but sweeter.

The next morning came waaaay too early, but since was the last day of the tour, tomorrow I'd be sleeping in in Hobart, so I had enough energy to get through the day. Besides, the sun was out, the first time I'd seen it in days. As we travelled through the mountains, Steve told us about Alexander Prior, a convict who had managed with several others to escape from a prison in Macquarie Harbour, the same harbour on which Strahan resides. Tas is a wild place, and they travelled across several mountain ranges West to East instead of following the direction of the range. Food exhausted, the convicts drew straws to select who would be eaten first. Their numbers slowly diminished through various playout's of the Prisoner's Dilemma, until finally only Prior was left, only to be recaptured. When questioned as to the whereabouts of the others, no one would believe his answer, believing the others were still somewhere in the bush. He managed to escape again at a later point, taking others along as his meal ticket, and once again practiced cannibalism. This time, however, he kept a bit of limb with him as proof.

We stopped for lunch and took in the scenery of Lake St Clair. A nice spot, but we were essentially in a caravan park. No time for exploring, and we were back on the bus. After a couple of other brief forays into nature, I could no longer stay awake, and had to tear my eyes from the scenery outside the bus to get a couple of hours sleep.

Cradle Mountain and Dove Lake, and an attempt at making this backward medium present something chronologically. This was an inspiring day, and thus lots of pix to sift through, too many to present in one entry. Besides, even the dreariness of Port Macquarie got two entries...

Writing this in Melbourne on the day I was originally to come home (whoa), and it's hailing. So much for the therapeutic blend of sun, sand, and surf.

Once again, the morning came all to quickly, and our little band dispersed off to our respective directions: John and Kat off to Stanley in the northwest, and Milja on the Tassielink bus (a hop-on, hop-off) back to Hobart, and Sean off somewhere to outdrink other forms of livestock. Joining the group was Wendy (Tseung-Hee, Kor). Our destination today was Cradle Mountain, a park teeming with wildlife, lakes and a huge variety of flora. Because of these assets, this is a World Heritage listed site, largely due to a German botanist who came here and fell in love with the place. Cradle Mt is also one of the ends of the Overland Track, a 90km five-day hike that winds its way across mountain ranges to Lake St. Clair, no, not the one in Canada. We encountered those embarking on the trek, as well as a group of uni students finishing it and eager for a warm shower and warm night's sleep. Should I ever have the opportunity to come back here, this would be at the top of my list of activities.

The park is criss-crossed with a network of trails catering to all abilities and schedules. At the base of the mountain lies Dove Lake, with a 2-hour trail around the perimeter. This appealed to Miho, Rikya, and Wendy, and off they went, leaving me and Steve for our own challenge, the summit of Cradle Mountain, sparking a running conversation which would last until the end of the trip. We were now the only two native English speakers, and had more outdoor experience and hiking stamina than the others, so much time was to be spent apart from the rest with just the two of us talking.

He's an interesting guy. Tasmanian born and bred, trained as an electrical engineer, he realized he wasn't happy doing that type of work, and preferred a life in the bush. At one point following the end of a long-term relationship, he spent a year camping by himself on Bruny Island, off the south coast of Tassie. He was quite well-travelled, and considered a solo mission such as mine to be important, because you really get to know yourself. Continually having to inspire and entertain yourself, eventually you burn off the immediate fluff, and have nothing left but the dark things in the corner of your mind, which you have no choice but to sweep out and make peace. He'd been to Canada for a spell, having met a girl from Kingston while travelling in Europe. One day, he wrote a love song for her, hopped on a plane, tracked her down on a rainy night and played it for her. This earned him a week's worth of happiness before she got a bit wigged out about the reality of dating a foreigner, and he was back on a plane.... but he is still alive, right? Our common interest in music was more fodder for conversation, as he has studied Spanish guitar in addition to writing cheesy love tunes. Another perspective of the place of music in one's life, always the desire to take it further, yet there are so many other things one wants to accomplish in one's life, as you only have one kick at the can. This guy has sold everything he owns (except for the stuff he's allowed to keep at his mother's house) to fund a recent trip to South America, and in spite of being 42-years old and married, has no home. He is guiding this tour 6 days a week, lives in the hostel on his off day, and is infectiously happy, moreso than most his age, I'd say. We talked about the running theme of captivity and freedom which had been with me throughout the trip, both in the convict heritage sense as well as more abstractly dealing with my past and future, and while one can't have everything, the distilling out what truly makes you happy versus the things that should.

Finally, the best two bits of advice I've heard in a while: (1) Live every day like it's your birthday, 'coz one day it will be, and (2) Always carry nail clippers, because you never know where they will take you, or who will need them.

Not all of this chatter occurred during the hike up the mountain, but over several days of getting to know each other. In fact, during the first half hour of the hike, there wasn't much talk at all, as the steep goat track on which we were climbing made the gasps for breath and screaming calves quite distracting. Once at the top of this first leg, we were at Marion's Lookout, and quickly donning the layers we'd shed on the way up, for now we were out of the lee and buffeted by a cold wind blowing across the hills. After the throbbing in my legs subsided a bit (Steve does this every week, this was routine for him), we were off across level ground. There were no trees at this altitude, just a carpet of tundra, moss, and tiny conifers (a tiny bush could be 300 years old, before European settlement). Every now and then we had to hop across (or through) a frigid mountain stream, and often snow was just off the side of the trail if we weren't hiking across it. A good day for me to wear shorts.

After an hour of this, we reached the Kitchen Hut, a little cabin at the base of the peak. This was a strategic point to get some food before a final assault on the summit, as well as for ditching a big pack if you were Overlanding. Shortly after, the trails diverged, one leading off to Lake St Clair 90km distant, while the other heading straight up. The gentle slope evolved into a lesss forgiving grade, which in turn transformed into a steep scramble across large, multi-coloured granite boulders. Steve had gone ahead, it was his day for a challenge, and I wanted to rest a bit in the guise of taking in the view and snapping a few pictures. The "trail" across the rocks was marked by metal poles and slight muting in the colour of the granite, and I found myself using my arms more than my leaden legs at this point, as the angular granite blocks made for excellend handholds.

I finally reached the peak, and was recharged by the view for miles and the hilly vista before me, the Overland Track snaking off into the distance. I didn't have too long to take it all in, though, as clouds were blowing in, and the thought of making the descent across slippery rocks wasn't too appealling. It began to rain as we made our way down, but we were egged on by thoughts of roaring fires and hot soup.

Within a couple of hours, we were back at our base for the night, the Cradle Mountain Cabins, and thankful that Rikyo had put some recently acquired skills to use and had a blazing fire going. The cabins weren't heated, so everyone hung out in the kitchen, unexpectedly joined by Zim (I'd met him in Hobart) who had by chance showed up via Tassielink for a couple of days here. After corrupting the Asian contigent with sayings such as "Sweet" and "Sweet as"; defining the hierarchy of "Okay", "Okedokey" and "Awesome"; discovering that my heightened sensory abilities and late night at the pub had made me forget all my laundry in Launceston; and crude attempts at vocalizing the "real" names of the Koreans, all were off to bed... except for me, which was becoming typical. I attempted to check out the pub at Cradle Mountain Lodge, apparently a 5-star hotel (something which for me would be a novelty in itself), but I found it closed. Just as well, as I wandered around by the light of the full moon, attempting once again to take pictures at night. I had the idea to take some pics of Cradle by moonlight, and so headed off back to the mountain. The best Tassie wildlife is nocturnal, and by the moonlight I could see wombats, wallabies, 'roos, and pademelons (smaller than wallabies) scurrying across the road and rustling through the bush. I reached a trail marker, and realized I actually had a 7.5 km walk ahead of me if I wanted to see the mountain. My camera batteries were dying, and I didn't want to forget anymore gear in the morning rush, so I called it a night, and returned to the cabins.

Clockwise: Priscilla the beer drinking pig. Sean, the long-haired Brit, actually beat the pig by about half a second, meaning he now has to sit in the paddock and have chug races with tourists.

The fairy penguins coming ashore in Bicheno, a nightly occurence. They come up out of the water to roost at the same spot every night, and we strolled along with them as they ambled along the path. Penguins don't have eyelids, so we couldn't use flash photography.

Finally, Tassie Devil feeding time at Natureworld in Bicheno. These little guys are quite endangered, as a communicable mouth infection have been decimating their numbers in the wild. They are quite cute, curious, and hyper, until food is involved, at which point they go berzerk and can become quite vicious. One actually jumped out of the paddock, at which point one of the visitors to the centre tried to give it a hoof to the head. Considering the centre is not a zoo but a rehabilitation centre for injured and orphaned animals, I had to fight back the urge to throw this dude into the cage and let the Devils have a go at him.

On Hallowe'en, we left Hobart and headed to the Freycinet Peninsula, home of Wineglass Bay, apparently one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. We wound our way through the mountains, looking out at hills which have been cleared over time to make room for grazing cattle and sheep. Tasmania has been affected by the drought as much as mainland Australia, and though it had been raining persistently, the lack of forestation prevents the water from being held in the ground. (There have been ridiculous sales on livestock of late, as the water required to keep them has become too precious.) However, a great deal of Tassie is now protected forest, though not necessarily old growth, as forestry is a major industry here.

Joining us was Sean (UK), who would be with us the next couple of days. This guy is totally colourblind (I'm just red-green), so we compared notes on our respective colours of sky, handling of horizontal traffic lights, and wardrobe choices. The tour took a pit stop in the little village of Ross, a quiet place consisting of two streets lined with little stone houses. The main (only) intersection of town is known for representing the four aspects of the human condition: Recreation (town hall/community centre), Temptation (the pub), Salvation (the church), and Redemption (the omnipresent jail). Also, a little bakery was the inspiration for a Japanese anime creator to develop the charactor of Kiki, who I'd never heard of, but had Miho and Rikya rushing to snap some pics.

When we arrived at the park, it was drizzle and fog, not the best beach weather. There were a few grumbles in the group, but I'd expected this sort of thing, and wasn't disappointed. Besides, the fog created a moody atmosphere in which to explore the granite outcrops and coastal scrub. We climbed up and over a ridge, quickly stripping off our insulating layers once the heat of the climb kicked in. Upon arrival at Wineglass, I took a brief stroll on the beach, but was more enraptured by the orange lichen on the rocks and the misty mountain backdrop.

Later on, we ended up in Bicheno, a small town known for its surfing. This was now far from my mind, since my "beanie" (toque) was now a standard part of my wardrobe. We checked out Natureworld, a wildlife park where one can wander with kangaroos, peacocks, and pelicans, as well as check out wombats, echidnas, Tasmanian Devils. There was also a huge aviary, containing some of the most vibrantly coloured birds I've ever seen - cockatoos, parrots, and my lil budgies. While here, John came running up claiming that one of the parrots had attacked him unprovoked. Of course, this picqued my interest, so I wandered along the path through the aviary, and sure enough, I was soon being dive-bombed by a blue-orange-green psychotic blur. We enquired about it, and the ranger laughed, saying that they'd had problems with that little fella before, but the staff were too scared to try to catch him.

After setting up in our hostel, and having some greasy yet damn good pizza, we went down to check out the penguins coming ashore, and called it a night. It was then I discovered that in my sensory-awakened state, I'd left my towel in Hobart, and would spend the next few days drying myself with a stolen tea towel.

The next day, we were off to explore the Bay of Fires, a series of nice beaches and ocean-drilled caves. Some trash talking the previous evening had resulted in three of us heading into the water for some Polar Bear swimming, which wasn't so bad once your body went numb. Of course, the other two lads (John and Steve) had big luxurious towels to return to, while I had to make the most of what I could with a tea towel and get myself into Annie Percy's beanie as quickly as possible.

We then headed into a rainforest district and checked out the St Columbo Falls, not to mention Pricilla the Beer Drinking Pig. The fern trees grow big here, and due to my distraction by the scents of sassafraz and eucalyptus, I was gaining a reputation as being the last dude back on the bus.

That night, we arrived in Launceston (Lonny), the second largest city in Tasmania. This was guide Steve's home town, so before heading off to his brother's he showed us one of his favourite spots, Cataract Gorge.
Our little group was splitting up the next day (the tour is modular - you can do three-day legs, or as part of a longer tour, head up into the northwest part of the state for more rainforest and coastal scenery), we sat down for a group-made meal of fajitas. It was nice, as this was the first time we really overcame some of the language differences which divided us, and got to know each other a bit better. Later, John, Kat, Milja, and I checked out some bands at a local pub, and watched the locals gittin' on down. I like haircuts that see the whole head shaved except for the back, and am considering it for myself.

Up and on the streets of Hobart far earlier than I care to admit. I think the SickKids folks would be impressed, though I don't want to make this a habit. A few other folk were out in front of the hostel waiting for tour pick-ups, though none were on my bus, and probably happy that they didn't have to share a trip with the Canadian, seeing as we are so damn chatty in the morning. Eventually my bus pulled up, the Under Down Under logo emblazoned on the side, and a bald dude jumped out and grabbed my pack sack, and the tour was underway.

I was taking a 6-day bus trip through Tassie, three days up the east coast and three days down the west. Normally I'd be leery of a bus tour, as you tend to be restricted by a schedule, early mornings, and the wildcard of your fellow travellers. However, I was a little tired of travelling alone for the time being, and just happy to let someone else do the organising and herding for a while. Besides, I was thankful just to get a glimpse of this remote part of the world, and determined to be satisfied with it. My compadres for this mission were to be John (UK), Kat (UK), Miho & Rikya (Jap), and Milja (Fin - don't call her Swedish!). Our faithful leader was Steve, a native and fiercely proud Tasmanian who actually had a large Tassie-shaped birthmark on one side of his face (hey man, YOU brought it up!).

Our first stop was a little town, name forgotten, with not much to it except rusticity (?) and one of the oldest bridges in Australia, convict-built. After pouring out of the bus and snapping photos, we were back on again to walk a bit of southern coastline. Took in the cliffs and dolorite spires (see pic of Cape Raoul), as well as various rock formations such as the Tasman Arch, Remarkable Cave (um, I wouldn't go THAT far, maybe Kinda Neat Cave), and the Devil's Kitchen. We were all blown away by the ruggedness of the terrain, staring out to sea knowing that the next stop was Antarctica. An echidna, a cross between and anteater, hedgehog, and porcupine, made the mistake of taking five near the bus as we returned, and became the subject of a photo frenzy that would have made Sean Penn jealous.

Soon we drove across Eaglehawk Neck, a narrow strip of land (80m) which connected a large peninsula to the mainland. What is that, an isthmus? Anyway, the colonizing British saw this as the perfect spot to house a prison colony, as Eaglehawk Neck was narrow enough to guard by having a line of men based across it, and the surrounding sea too formidable to survive a swim. Heard a few stories of escape attempts inspite of these security measures, may favourite being the guy who killed and skinned a 'roo, and attempted to hop by the guards. Unfortunately, he didn't count on the guards being bored and hungry. They started shooting at the particularly slow and uncoordinated animal, at which point it stood up, threw off its skin, and the man was returned to prison.

Further up the road we reached our destination, the former convict colony of Port Arthur. A large expanse of land covered in sandstone ruins, the colony was an experiment in prison labour as well as things such as solitary confinement (to a point that a chapel was constructed where each seat was walled from the next, a little compartment in each for the prisoner's head so that no communication would be allowed from one person to the next.) The prison was actually shut down not for inhumane practices but because businesses with hired labour could not compete with the prices of the convict-produced goods.

I found it interesting that some of the prisoners here had been Canadian, incarcerated for their roles in the early Canadian rebellions. I thought we were nice.

This site was also the location of Australia's worst mass murder. In April 1996, a tourist-hating gunman opened fire in a cafe here, killing 35 people and wounding many more. The majority of the dead were Australian, and included whole families and staff. The cafe is now part of a memorial garden, and visitors are asked not to bring up the subject. The guy is still alive, rotting in a jail just outside of Hobart.

As we headed home, we passed through Dootown, a little hamlet where instead of addresses, the citizens have plaques reading "Scooby-Doo", "What to Doo", "Doggie Doo", and "Doo Me". Those are actually some of the lamer ones, a few were quite witty.

That night, we were back in Hobart, North Hobart actually, in a hostel called Allport. Folk weren't really interacting that much yet, so we sat and watched Batman Begins. As my travels wear on, I'm continually in new places where everything is different, and have the feeling that I may never have the opportunity to be here or see what I've seen again, I find my senses are wedged open to these new sensations, and gravitate towards themes to have a sense of consistency. At this point, the loneliness and self-doubt of Port Macquarie and the stress I'd recently felt in Melbourne were still fresh in my mind. In Batman Begins, a couple of the taglines were "Be aware of your environment", and "Why do you fall? So you can learn to get back up." Despite being one of the best flicks in the Batman franchise, it gave me a new resolve not to fret the naive decisions and short-sighted mistakes I'd made thus far, to get back on the horse, enjoy the ride, and take myself further.

The next thing I knew, it was 8am on Sunday, the 30th, and I was walking around Hobart, Tasmania. The air was cool, though there was no sign of the snow the city had had a couple of days prior. I tried to check into Central City Backpackers, but they wouldn't take me until 1pm. Aw boy. Now that I had plenty of time to kill, I decided to check out the town.

Absolutely nothing was open, no one was about, it felt like I was in a ghost town, overshadowed by Mt. Wellington. I made my way to Salamanca Place, and finally found a bit of life in the form of cafes housed in an old stone quarry. Apparently a great market takes place on Saturdays, but I was a day late for that. Typical. Ordered some really cheap Eggs Benny, which I thought was a score, until it arrived and found the meat to be sliced sandwich meat. The old stone buildings reminded me a bit of Elora, though a bit more sinister seeing as they were largely convict built.

Hobart was formally an old whaling station, one of the southern-most outposts before Antarctica, really. When the whalers came ashore, they hung out by the docks and were catered to by pubs which are largely still around. Though I considered stopping in, my body still felt so out of sorts by the time change and early start I gave it a pass. Well.... that, and the fact that it was only 10am. I opted instead for the Museum and Art Gallery. There was a big exhibit about Antarctic environment, wildlife, and research expeditions. I also caught an art exhibit consisting of rubbings of fish which are then painted to match the fish in life. In case you were wondering, sometimes the "art supplies" were accidentally left out over night.

With that in mind, my second (third, fourth?) wind soon expired. I went back to the hostel, and crashed out until check-in. Once refreshed and the three S's taken care of, I was back out on the town to check out the historic district of Battery Point with its hilly streets and painted stone cottages overlooking the bay. Rounded off the afternoon, cool and alternatively sunny and cloudy every five minutes, in a little pub by a roaring fire. Not the typical Aussie experience I realize, but in this part of the world, I had my jam-jams under my jeans and all bets were off.

The hostel was pretty quiet, hung out with Adam (Aus), Joe (UK), and Zim (Kor), and hit the sack. The tomorrow was yet another early start... wasn't this supposed to be a vacation?

On the 26th of October, I learned that I wasn't the only person busy having fun. I'm becoming an uncle! Congrats to my brother Duncan and Trish!

This of course has launched speculation and debate, as I'm not sure if I like the ring of Uncle Conrad. Hmm, maybe Uncle Con, Uncle Rad, I dunno. I considered Tito Conrad, but I think the kid will have plenty of those. Meanwhile, Dunk is considering Dad, Pa, Pops, The General, or Captain Dunklor. Votes on are welcome via this site, along with a $5 processing fee deposited into my bank account. As for Trish, I haven't heard from her, so I assume she concerned with trivial matters of eating pickles, vomiting, food for two, or whatever it is that pregnant women do.

The many faces of Ned Kelly.