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Cycling in Tasmania

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BY A. Salkin, January 1951

It was at Burnie, a pleasant seaport on the North West coast of Tasmania that I first began to write of our experiences in Tasmania. I had bought a cheap notebook and a pencil and with this equipment had sat down on the beach to write. I began by saying that writing must be the cheapest of all hobbies as indeed it is; for my pencil and paper cost me sixpence and the enjoyment I received from them was immense.

My mind wandered back to December, when on a hazy evening full of the strangest, subtlest light we were towed by a tug down the Yarra and then released to steam out Port Phillip Bay.

After tea we had passed through the Rip and were pitching and rolling in the heavy seas of Bass Strait. As there was little point in staying up we turned in early, it being easier on the stomach horizontal than vertical.

The morning saw us off the coast of Tasmania and slowly approaching Devonport, our port of destination, we had breakfast and soon after our vessel tied up.

We set foot on Tasmanian soil and no sooner had done so than it cost us 7/6; this we were told was a shipping charge for cycles. The officer who took our money told us that we would probably have to pay wharfage charges also but that was not his department. We thanked him and as soon as our bikes were unloaded we grabbed them quickly and rode swiftly off. We had but gone to the main road when a voice behind us shouted Hoi!

I glanced behind and saw a man in a peaked cap apparently perusing us on a bicycle. We increased our pace a little but like the Forces of Destiny he came relentlessly on. We stopped and he approached rather breathless. There was something not quite official about him. True he did wear a peaked cap and an oil skin coat looked very nautical but the rest of his apparel consisted of e not too clean wind cheater, a pair of slacks well creased in the wrong places, and canvas shoes from which most of his toes protruded. In a strong, but as I say breathless Canadian accent he asked us if we were going to tour the Youth Hostels.

All our misapprehensions as to his being the wharfage collector had disappeared. A fellow tramp and we had led him a high chase.

We told him we were members of the Youth Hostels Association. He showed us his Canadian YHA badge. He was 67 and had a weather-beaten skin somewhat reminiscent of rhinoceros hide, but for all that he still possessed that chief attribute of youth - the insatiable lust for seeing and knowing new things.

On his bike which weighed some 50 lbs he had cycled up the east coast. No mean feat for a much younger person. He was wildly enthusiastic about the grandeur and splendour of this coast line and from the miscellaneous assortment of junk that he emptied from one of his kit bags he pulled out a couple of pamphlets that contained much valuable information on Tasmanian Y.H.A. He was volatile possibly from French ancestry and it was very difficult to tear ourselves away. Before parting he gave us one extremely useful piece of information: we could get a free train ride down to Hobart as fruit pickers.

From Devonport we cycled through pastoral country somewhat reminiscent of England to Elizabeth Town. Here we had lunch, and soon after picked up a lift that took us through Deloraine and within 12 miles of Launceston.

On arrival in Launceston we went to the office of the firm advertising for fruit pickers. We were accepted and told we would be given a free rail voucher on the day after the morrow to proceed down to Hobart. Having there fore one clear day in Launceston- we found a camp for the night and the next day set off to explore the cataract Gorge.

Launceston is not a city of great beauty. It is small and its main buildings are not particularly inspiring, but its scenic location is magnificent. It lies deep in the valley of the Tamar, it the point where the river sweeps tram the encompassing walls of Cataract Gorge ", broadens and flows more placidly to the sea. The Gorge has been left almost untouched and remains a National Park for all who would visit it. The only modifications are at the first basin about a mile up where a swimming pool has been made and ~ English trees planted. These I am told make a tine sight in autumn, clothing the Gorge in the mellow tones of dead and dying leaves.

Three miles up the gorge at the second basin is a power station that traps and utilises same of the tremendous flow of water down the gorge. Then the gorge comes into its own. Its wildness is untouched as tar as its source in the Western Tiers. At the spot where we were camping there was no water and Ivor would go to the nearest house to get some. When he went in the evening the lady of the house gave him tour eggs and a pound of cherry plums. I mention this in passing just to illustrate the hospitality of these people. We were total strangers disturbing their peace and they gave us luxuries.The following day we picked up our rail tickets and caught the train for Hobart.

This was a modern diesel and very comfortable, but due to the narrow gauge of the track the journey was slow, taking five hours to cover 130 miles. The way was through the centre of the country, through the bare moorlands, where graze some of Australia's finest sheep. Eventually we reached the Derwent and from then on the trip was of absorbing interest.

The line went by the side of the river and with every turn we had a fresh view of Mt. Wellington. Its massive bulk darkened to deep blue by a heavy mantle of cloud; the whole effect making it seem that heaven and earth were touching. At Hobart transport was waiting for us and we were soon on our way. We did not get very far, only to the first pub, into which the driver and his mate disappeared. After an interminable period they reappeared and we continued our ride.

We started to climb and soon it began to get cold. This was not surprising for the day was none too warm and the road on which we were traveling up a spur of Mt. Wellington, which was some 2,000 feet high. At the highest point on the road stands the Hotel Ferntree. Here we stopped again.' I know not whether it was the quality, strength or price of the beer that caused our driver's thirst, but at this pub we determined to find out.

Cold, almost frozen we jumped off the truck and ran into the pub. The beer was Cascade, the price 6d. and the strength and quality superlative. Had we drank more than three glasses there would have needs been to carry us out. There were a number of other people with us on the wagon and most of these the driver dropped at various orchards in the vicinity of Sand fly, some 14 miles from Hobart. When all but a young lad and ourselves were left, the driver pointed to a farmhouse right at the top of a hill, some 800 feet above the valley, "That's your place up there" he said. "Mr. Wiggins will come down and pick you up."

Soon after a red wagon rolled up and we transferred our baggage to it. The driver a morose bewhiskered stringy individual assured us that he had a good crop and was paying 23/- per 100 lbs. This he claimed was 3/- more than they were paying in the valley. He drove a little way down the main road then turned off up a narrow road whose surface was broken and rocky. I remarked on the condition 'of the road and he said that the Government ought to do something, about it.

As it was, nobody would come up to his place, neither the baker, the grocer, or the butcher. I asked him how we would go on for food. "Oh! I'll go down and get anything you want he said".

We arrived at the top of the hill and he showed us to a three-roomed timber shack. These were quite comfortable and soon we had a fire going and cooked our tea. As our supplies were meager we mucked in and made the best of it. Trevor, the lad who was with us, remarked that the advertisement in the paper had said £1 per 100 lbs. and free milk, wood and potatoes.

We had the free wood O.K. but the potatoes and milk did not seem to be forthcoming. So we set off to the farmhouse to question the farmer. The extra 3/- he said was to cover milk and spuds, but if we worked well he'd see that we had free spuds. Milk he couldn't give us as he had no cow. I asked him what time we started in the morning. "Early" he said. A little scared to ask him what he called early I left it at that and decided to get up early.

At 6 a.m. on a fine crisp morning we were about. our hut we could see into the valley carpeted and walled with neat rows of fruit trees and bushes, set at different angles and of various colours and looking fine in the pale light of dawn. By 7 o'clock we were among the canes picking. The job was monotonously easy. You picked with both hands and put the raspberries (that was the fruit) in a tin strapped round your middle. These tins held 8-9 lbs and when filled were emptied into a lacquer. This was a 4-gallon kerosene tin that had been lacquered to prevent the juice from rusting the tin and held 20-25 lbs.

By lunchtime Ivor and I had filled a lacquer and a half and Trevor had filled two.

At this rate we weren't going to earn much, but perhaps with experience we might become better. Earlier in the morning we had asked Mr. Wiggins to get us some supplies for lunch. When we got back to the shack we found that he had only brought half of what we had asked for. We took over an hour for our lunch. It isn't easy to cook and have a short lunch and after the long morning in the field we felt that we needed something more than sandwiches. After lunch we worked till 7 p.m. and our total bag for the day was about 60 lbs. each. Trevor’s was slightly higher.

The following day was Saturday and we mentioned to Mr. Wiggins that we might take the day off and go into Hobart to collect our bikes at the railway station. He was mightily indignant at this suggestion, mentioning the fact that fruit was falling off his trees and that he was loosing money.

So feeling sorry for the bloke we started to work intending to finish out the weekend and then tell him to find someone new for Monday. We had hardly got through our morning work when he approached us and told us that we were not picking our bushes clean enough, and further that if we did not pick them cleaner we could take our lacquers and go. This was word enough for us and without any hesitation we took our tins and left the orchard.

From there we went back to the shack, made lunch and packed. After lunch we collected our money which after he had deducted for food amounted to 17/- between the two of us. We walked down the long rough road and out across to the main highway. We had read about a place called Recherche Bay It had sounded a pleasant spot and as this highway led that way we decided to go there.

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The people who had given us the lift took us back to the Chalet, three miles from the caves and there we left them to have a swim in the Thermal Pool. Here the water was 87°, a temperature from which it varies little throughout the year. The sensation of bathing in it was that of soaking in warm tea. Not entirely pleasant. The water is supposed to have some medicinal effect. How true this is I don't know, but I did note that for quite a long time after we had bathed we would laugh ourselves helpless on the most trivial of matters.

For instance when recalling our fruit-picking episode one of us had only to compress his lips slightly and blow than we would be convulsed with peals of laughter. When we had finished our swim we retraced our steps to the road hoping to pick up a lift back to Hastings, but as no one would stop we had to walk the four miles into that township.

At Hastings there is an old school that has fallen into disrepair; at one time it educated some 300 children but now due to the introduction of area schools this has been left for vandals to break the windows and scatter the mats and books and other scholastic paraphernalia on the floors. We camped in the schoolroom, which seemed to be the general practice. As the evening was Sunday we went to the side door of the sfore and managed to obtain some provisions. We also made enquiries about Recherché Bay and found that the only transport that went down was the mail bus every Wednesday.

As the distance was twelve miles we decided to walk it with our packs in a day and spend another day walking back.

So on Monday morning we started walking. The road was bad being composed of rocks the size of a fist and set very unevenly. There was little to see on the walk except for occasional glimpses of Adamson's Peak and Mt. La Perouse. The latter having streaks of snow across its rugged east face.

By lunchtime we had reached the first creek that flows into Recherche Bay. This was a wide clear stream lined with native lilac in bloom, wattles and river gums. We made a camp near this spot and as the weather was very hot and the timber tinder dry we took precautions to see that our fire did not get out of hand by clearing a large area around it of dead leaves, and fallen twigs. We made lunch and afterwards when we had doused our fire set out for Catamaran where the road ends.

We had not walked far when we came across a man driving some cattle down the road. We wished him good day and fell into conversation with him. He was one of the very few people still in this part of the world. Coal had brought the road and a town down here but now there was no coal and slowly the people had drifted away.

There were now but two families. He was not a miner but found his wealth not under the earth but under the sea - fishing for crays, which are plentiful in these waters. He took us to his home which was poorly but neatly furnished and gave us a drink. He told us of his fishing trips and of the South West coast which was just around the corner, of Port Davey and Bathurst Harbour and the wild impassable country beyond it.

We had a swim in the bay and trod the clean white sweep of unbroken sand. We walked down the road to Cockle Creek and while admiring its loveliness were startled to see a jeep come bounding down the track. It was a Forestry Commission vehicle and the Ranger driving it asked us if we wanted a lift. We told him we could use one the other way and he told us to pile in as he was going back shortly. We were on his way to investigate a fire.

We travelled a mile and got a view of a small fire burning high on a hill. We asked him if anything could be done about it. "No." he said. "We'll have to wait until night and then when the wind has dropped we'll attack it." The fire had been spotted from Adamson's Peak where a lookout was situated. In the course of our conversation I happened to mention that we should like to climb the Peak and he suggested that we go as far as the plateau with a couple of men who were going up the following morning, with rations for the fire spotters.

Alvin Townsend, for that was his name, turned the jeep round and we started back. At our camping spot we picked up our packs and flew down the miles we had so tediously trod that morning.

We arrived at Alvin's home near Raminea. Alvin went in and reappeared ten minutes later with two cups of tea and a plateful of homemade cakes. He said "If you like lads, you can pitch your tent behind the house and stay here the night and come down with me in the morning to the track. You could have slept in the house only we are a bit pushed for room at the moment." We assured him that we would be quite comfortable at the back of the house and that we were more than grateful for that. Assuring himself that we would be quite O.K. he left us to attend to some business.

 

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