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.