Tasmania - Whammy Rule of Three

Never say Never… (Iron Art at Longley Pub)

March 2-21, #26

At this point in our trip, for those that have followed along from the start, it would indeed appear that we were on a magical carpet ride. But of course, at some point, the less desirable realities of human existence do appear - and usually in triplicate. And if you think that’s being superstitious, well…see image above.

Temporary End to a “Good Run”

After returning from Bruny Island, our plan was to visit Port Arthur, over 140 kms from Oyster Cove, before returning to Hobart in a couple weeks to take care of the last of our “life stuff”. Thanks to our Bruny family, we had another member willing to host us in South Hobart, giving us a much needed stop over on our way to Port Arthur. And equipped with their advice on backroads, we would also be able to avoid the traffic-choked roads we first took out of Hobart on the way to Kettering.

Even though we left Oyster Cove under blue sky and clouds following the backroads, by noon a severe weather warning for strong winds and rain had been issued. After sitting out the last severe wind storm at Dee Lagoon, we thought it wise to seek shelter, and not risk getting caught on the long climb up to Fern Tree at the base of Mt. Wellington just above South Hobart.

Conveniently, our Bruny hosts had also told us about a pub with free camping in Longley. We managed to arrive at the doorstep, just before the storm picked up, on a fundraising music festival weekend. As the wind howled and rain pelted, we were grateful to have a place just across the road to stay dry, be well fed, and hang with the locals undeterred by a little weather.

Once the storm passed, we were again able to travel under blue sky and clouds, enjoying the views as we climbed. After passing through Fern Tree, we veered off to descend through the Waterworks Reserve to our next host’s home, tucked into a forested ravine along Sandy Bay Rivulet at the edge of South Hobart. It was such a pleasure to meet another member of our Bruny family, and her lovable Lab, with an open invitation to return in a couple weeks time to finish up our “life stuff”, before we started up the East Coast. We spent the night camped in her back yard, on the edge of the reserve, where wildlife calls still resounded over the sounds of city life below us.

Whammy #1

The next morning, we left for Richmond, our first stop before heading south toward the Tasman Peninsula. After a short ride on Hobart’s city streets, we took the waterfront bike trail over to the Tasman bridge, the highest volume road section in Tasmania. As we wound our way up to the raised cycle path/walkway, we were surprised to find we had just inches to spare on either side, combined with a steady cross-wind and a shadow casting a mesmerizing horizontal pattern through the railings onto the ground in front of us.

By the time we reached the other side, one of Nivaun’s pannier clips had been ripped off the rack, leaving it beyond repair. It didn’t make sense to continue on without trying to find a replacement part, considering we were about to exit the city. Fortunately, there was a bike shop nearby in Bellerive that was willing to sell Nivaun a clip off of a new pannier. Even though it meant we had to make an out and back detour of 10.5 kilometers, we at least got to ride some of the bike trail along the river, in the opposite direction…

Whammy #2

A couple hours later, we were headed back the direction we originally intended to go on the river-front bike trail. As we started to cross through a neighborhood park on a paved path, I heard a loud “pop” followed by swearing behind me.

Nivaun’s rear tire had a puncture almost the size of a dime and no evidence indicating what caused it. Needless to say, it was not a quick fix, and one that left him feeling as though the plug may not even hold. Just days ago, we had talked about how soon we might need to order new rear tires. Evidently, that time was now. Nivaun decided on the spot to call the bike shop closest to our host in South Hobart and order two tires, so we could pick them up on our return in a couple weeks.

It was now almost a couple hours before dusk and we still had 18 kilometers left with a significant hill to get over. We stopped at a nearby cafe for a quick dinner before riding out of town, hoping the “whammies” were behind us.

As we turned to start the long winding climb on a narrow road over Grasstree Hill, the frequency of roadkill around every corner combined with tire marks squirreling across the lanes became overwhelming. About midway, we were both convinced the tire marks were there solely because, the drivers were intentionally running over anything attempting to cross the road. I would of had a hard enough time mentally, if I had driven this road, but to be faced with all the sights and smells in the midst of climbing a hill, and racing against the sun to reach our caravan park - it was more than my emotions could handle. Amazingly, either because of, or inspite of, my escalating rage mixed with grief, we made it to the caravan park right at dusk.

Whammy #3

If you’re now wondering, “Wow, what could possibly happen to Nivaun, next?” Well - nothing…It was my turn.

We awoke the next morning, ready to spend the day unwinding and de-stressing. The winery we had just passed the night before seemed like a good place to start. We then rode through town and realized there was more to explore and decided to get a cabin for a couple days. Unfortunately, some time during the night my “lower internals” decided to make other plans.

Our stay went from two days to five, most of it I spent laying low and babying my behind. At first, I thought it was dreaded food poisoning. But after day three turned into four, with no improvement, it was hard not to panic about what was actually going on. Thankfully, Nivaun remained impervious, and discovered one of the caravan park hosts was also sick with same symptoms.

In spite of all my drama, we still took short walks through town each day to explore - visiting the Pooseum (how appropriate?!?), touring the historic Richmond Gaol and sampling treats at the cafes. By Day 6, we realized there was not enough time left to still visit Port Arthur and make it back to Hobart in just 7 days. Reluctantly, we let our host know of our misfortune and found an easier route back to the city. Port Arthur would have to wait.

Restored

Our return route was so pleasant - a stark contrast to the distress of GrassTree Hill. Riding past farms and wineries, we stopped in at the Wicked Cheese Factory and a local u-pick strawberry field, taking it easy and enjoying treats along the way - reminiscent of countryside trips taken in our own PNW.

We spent the night in another caravan park, before dropping back into the city near Bellerive to once again traverse the dreaded Tasman bridge (walking this time) back to South Hobart.

Our host was away until the end of the week. So for the next few days, we slipped back into the routines of domestic city life, just the two of us. Forever grateful to have met such warm-hearted, caring people willing to open their homes to us, even in their absence.

Within almost two weeks time, we accomplished all that we needed in the city. Our bikes and bodies restored! Not only did we have new rear tires, we also had a 28-tooth chain ring up front to give us a bit more of a hill-climbing edge.

Our host returned a few days before we were ready to leave giving us some time to spend together. Earlier in the week, we had hiked the surrounding area, but did not make it up to the top of Mt. Wellington (Kunanyi), so she offered to drive us to the top. As we wound back and forth up the hillside, she commented “sometimes it will even be snowing at the top”. I was excited by just the thought, having missed winter at home. And within the next couple twists of the road, hail started bouncing off the windshield. By the time we reached the summit, snow flurries were whizzing past us in all directions caught up in the ferocious wind gusts. It was 1 degree Celsius.

A few minutes later, the clouds opened up to give us full view of the Southern landscape around us - a maze of water dotted with land mass. The Franklin-Gordon Wilderness behind us. Bruny Island below us. And off in the distance to the East a faint outline of the peninsula, home to Port Arthur.

Pinnacle Observation Shelter ~ Kunanyi/Mt. Wellington

An expression I have heard throughout my life is - “home is where the heart is”. Only now can I say, I understand it’s meaning. And more deeply, it is not about self and one’s own comforts, it is about being open to experiencing the heart of others. Due to the kindness of all our amazing hosts, our journey, living life on the road, continues to be a dream, full of moments we will be re-telling far into the future.