Me and Abby

I'm having a tough time getting online in rural Tasmania, but here's a teaser.

Moody Marsupial

Here's how the Tasmanian devil sounds.

Cranky.

Taz

The devil made me do it.

Landing in Tasmania

I'm in Hobart, Tasmania, where eating out is one helluva lot more reasonable than it was in Western Australia. But I couldn't tell you much about Hobart yet. I can barely keep my eyes open.

The red eye flight took about three hours from Perth to Melbourne, and we changed time zones as well. So while I was in the terminal at Melbourne at six in the morning, it sure didn't feel like six to me. I was so tired that I nearly missed my connecting flight while typing an email to Roberta—the entire plane had loaded and I hadn't even noticed. I was the last one to board the Virgin Blue flight and the door was closed behind me.

Once in Hobart, I collected my tent, sleeping bag, mat, and backpack and caught a shuttle to Hobart Hostel. My room wasn't ready for an hour, so I ate at the cafe across the street.

The real challenge came with keeping my eyes open in my room while doing laundry nearby. I seemed to do laundry the entire day, but that's not right, is it? I also went through all my possessions—I'd lost my mini MagLite, which I bought in Singapore in 2001. Where did I lost it? Bangkok? Bali?

Paring Down

My palatial estate a/k/a roughing it

I peeked out of my tent at six...drizzly day.

Hell. I don't need that. I need a dry tent that I can pack. 

I jumped up and got to work to beat the rain. I had a 23-kilo luggage allowance. I knew I had under 15 kilos in my regular pack, but how much would all this stuff add? Anyway, how much is a kilo? I know how much a pound is but what the hell is a kilo anyway?

Yeah, I know mathematically what a kilo is. But I wish my instincts could measure one the way they can measure pounds.

My original plan had been to stop by a secondhand store and donate the entire lot of camping gear, but then my writer/journalist friend Amanda was coming to Oz with her BF, and they were going to camp in the Blue Mountains. Why bother lugging a tent over when they can just as easily donate mine to the charity shop after they've used it?

So I'd carry all that I could to Sydney and hand it off to her there.

Winding Down

I drove north back to Fremantle on Saturday morning, arriving in late afternoon. 

I hurried my tent up and rushed out—I had to pick up some things at the store and parts of Australia have a habit of closing at five or six on Saturdays and sometimes not opening at all on Sundays. 

But I needn't have worried. After shopping, I headed to the center of Fremantle.

Map's End

"Can you fix it?" I had handed over my broken tent pole to the cashier at Ray's Outdoors where I'd bought my tent a week ago.

"Sure, but the question is do we have it in stock."

We checked. They didn't. I was hoping they'd just take it back and give me a new one, but apparently torrential rain and wind isn't covered in my purchase agreement.

"We have these." She showed me some spare rods, the same diameter as mine but longer. "But they're too long."

I didn't really want to try to sort out how to take apart the poles and re-string them anyway.

She made some phone calls.

"They have them across the road. Here, I'll show you where to drive."

Humpback Highway

I had chosen to go whale-watching with Mills Charters because I could drive from my campground to their departure point at Hillarys Port in about 20 minutes (including stop to put air in my flat tire), and there was plenty of parking. Plus, their Wednesday trips include free admission to the Western Australia aquarium, which is also located at the port.

I used to get direly seasick back in the nineties. The worst time was off San Diego, when I was bobbing alone in the ocean while my dive buddies were wandering around chasing fins or throwing up. The bobbing got to me as I waited and by the time Jon Babcock hauled me back up onto the boat, I was too weak to even take care of myself. He had to haul me over to the side and put my head over the water so I could vomit into the Pacific, then he had to remove my dive gear and drag me to a bench, where I remained until we got back to port. Somehow, none of this stopped me from going on the Marvel dinner that night, but I probably didn't eat that much.