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...