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.