Devil's Playground: Southern Gothic (Cont.)

Outside Magazine November 2002

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	Hazardous coastline: Wineglass Bay in Freycinet National Park (Courtesy, Australia Tourism Commission).

Tasmania's mystique has been ingrained since birth in wandering Aussies like myself. Years ago, I took a month to hitch around the apple-shaped island, hiking into remote national parks with a sleeping bag under one arm and a bag of white rice under the other. This time, flying from New York to Launceston, I eased myself into Tassie in a slightly less haphazard way: Interlopers from the outside world are now offered rustic luxury within their bush jaunts, and even the most far-flung pockets of Tasmania have their lonely wilderness lodges, where visitors can enjoy a little haute cuisine.

These civilized oases were almost impossible to imagine when our group first set off on the Bay of Fires trail, beginning at Stumpys Bay, where a dirt road from Launceston had petered out a stone's throw from the surf. As we hiked into the void, the fall temperatures were in the mid-sixties, warm enough for shorts and a T-shirt. The pace along wet sand provided a decent workout, and with the sweat beginning to pour, I already had the feeling that I'd stumbled into the wrong latitude. But when I threw off my pack and plunged into the waves, there was no doubt this was the deep antipodes. It was like jumping into iced sake.

"There are currents coming from both the north and the south," explained Natalya, a wiry Argentine-Tasmanian fresh from the dairy farm, who had just taken up guiding at age 22. "This one's out of Antarctica, I reckon."

We stared out at the waves, tasting a sudden rawness in the wind. The purity of this coastline was almost lacerating; I felt like I was being stone-washed clean. Then, before dusk, we stumbled into the first wilderness refuge, the Forester Beach Camp—a semi-permanent, steel-framed canvas tent with a few humble luxuries, like foam mattresses for the sleeping bags and certain exotic camping foods, 100 yards off the beach. Tassie tucker, once a grisly menu of English boarding-school sludge, would now satisfy any French provincial gourmand: organic double-cream brie, chèvre, salmon. Not to mention a constant supply of Tassie "plonk"—red wine.

"The pinot noir is a particularly good drop," Amy, the other guide, said proudly.

The sense of privilege grew even deeper the next morning as we continued along what naturalists sometimes refer to as "the spray zone," a stretch of unique shoreline vegetation in contact with the saltwater spray. Biologically alien items had washed ashore—purple "sea eggs," seaweed bulbs as delicate as Faberge eggs; and the long strands of bleached white sponge known as "dead men's fingers." I took off my shoes to follow the tightly packed sand along the surf line. A string of islands stretched along the horizon, last relics of a land bridge crossing Bass Strait, an isthmus that once linked Tasmania to the mainland. It flooded after the Great Ice Age, 8,000 to 12,000 years ago, sending every plant and animal on a unique evolutionary trajectory.

In the late afternoon, we descended a rocky headland called Eddystone Point onto the Bay of Fires itself—the most perfect of the beaches, three miles of exquisitely unblemished sand. The bay was named in 1773, when the British sea captain Tobias Furneaux, passing by in a ship, saw campfires blazing in the bush. They had been lit by the Tasmanian Aboriginal people, whose ancestors are believed to have crossed over from the mainland about 30,000 years ago and gotten isolated when the land bridge was flooded. They were hunted by British settlers like foxes in a calculated campaign of extermination, and by 1878 the last full-blooded Aboriginal was dead. Now, their pyramid-shaped middens, or mussel-shell dumps, stand along the coastline like memorial cairns.

"Behold the promised land!" crowed Angus, a former surfie from Melbourne, as we ascended Bayley Hummock and spotted a man-made structure almost entirely lost in the forest. We slipped into a sleek structure composed of Tasmanian hardwood and glass, perched above the beach, whose simple architectural lines and expansive walls of glass revealed the riotous bush and blue horizon at every turn. The Bay of Fires Lodge was designed with the purest of eco-intentions: The power is solar, the toilets are dry-compost, and rainwater is collected for the showers. But there's no stinting in the alcoholic beverage department: Young Angus had already poured his first glass of Tassie sauvignon blanc as we surveyed the 270-degree sweep of the ocean from the lodge's deck—and spotted the spout of a southern right whale rising in the distance.

After two days at the lodge, I'd kayaked a sinuous bush river and skimmed across the placid bay racing eagle rays. I'd relished blue-eyed cod in chile-lime sauce, prepared by the guides. I'd even managed to bodysurf those glassy rollers. (Surfing, however, was out of the question, as it would have required hauling a board on my back for 20 miles. Plus, the best waves in Tasmania are south of the Bay of Fires near the town of Bicheno.)

Thawing out on the sun-filled terrace with a final eggs Benedict, I had to admit: The Bay of Fires Walk had been brilliant, but I missed that rush of Tasmanian freedom I used to feel when I was out in the bush alone, with no coherent plan. So back in Launceston, I dashed into a camping store, picked up a tent and sleeping bag, jumped in a rental car, and started driving.

It was time to set up my own private eco-lodge.

As I drove due south, then swung back to the east coast, the Irish-green farmland began to unravel and finally dry to a salty brown. I took the turnoff to Freycinet Peninsula, a dinosaur spine of granite above a string of secret coves about 80 miles south of the Bay of Fires, and climbed a crest to view Wineglass Bay. At the far end of the beach, I found the best campsite in Tasmania. There were three Norwegians in one tent, and a couple of Aussies in a recess, but the natural seclusion was palpable. In fact, we all gathered to watch the sun setting over the peaks—called the Hazards—then admired the stars, joined by a Tasmanian yachtsman who'd weighed anchor in the bay for the night.

Admittedly, my camping grub wasn't exactly gourmet—I'd brought a pastrami sandwich with me from a Launceston deli. The possums devoured my breakfast, which I'd strung up between two trees. And then it started to pour down rain, so I trudged back to my car like some wild-eyed prophet, taunted by the laughing kookaburras as I passed them. But I'd proven one thing: No matter how much pinot noir or double-cream brie it produces, Tasmania hasn't been tamed quite yet.

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