Mount Field

My tent at the entrance to Mt. Field National Park sat next

to a small stream and a patch of tall ferns. That is where a band of children

were playing a vigorous game of hide and seek. Maybe I would be taking delight

in their squeals of pleasure if they were children I knew. Instead, I had my

earplugs in. So much for the peace of the great outdoors.

Sleep did not last long enough. At five in the morning,

noise of a different sort began. I crawled out of my tent—it was brisker out than

I imagined—to find who could make such a racket. The Tasmanian Native Hen

needs a tune up. When they get going it is something like a rusted engine

trying to turn over, the scraping clatter supernatural. The hen teamed up with

the yellow-crested white cockatoo flying high overhead screeching to ensure

that sleeping in was not an option. Fine. I had a long hike ahead of me.

When I arrived at Mt. Field the day before I walked the

mellow trails at the base of the mountain through enormous tree ferns and the

tallest trees I have seen except those in the Muir Woods in California. These

swamp gums measure up to 300 feet, and are so wide at the base it would take

three or four people holding hands to offer a decent hug.

I mosied past what most tourists come to Mt. Field

to see: Russell Falls, cascading down over forty feet, the water dropping in

layers. Framing the falls was the lushness of a rainforest. Then I traipsed on

to the Lady Baron Falls. The dense forest allowed for little light, and

sheltered by Mt. Field, the trail stilled, all the walkers gone for the day.

This solitary walk surprised me and at the same time, I felt grateful to have

the place to myself.

I walked these tracks to console myself. I had, with great

difficulty, left Sonia and her family the day before. The girls had gotten up

at the un-teenage hour of 8:15 to say goodbye. Nina, still shaggy and warm from

sleep, flopped into my arms. Sonia repeated, “What are we going to do without

Susie?” More to the point: what was I going to do without them?

The minute I pulled into Mount Field, I felt the shock of

solitude. On the one hand, I liked the unpopulated, isolated aspect of

Tasmania—there are only 500,000 inhabitants and most seemed to cluster in a few places like Hobart and Launceston. And here in one of the oldest and most popular parks I saw no one on the

wide, smooth trails that told me that at some points these trails saw a lot of traffic. Most often, I appreciate when the inner and outer worlds align, but in

this case, I needed the busyness

of people in my heart to counteract the emptiness of the land. Without them, it

all felt too empty.

Movement is the surest cure for just about everything: broken

hearts, loneliness, grief, general malaise, indigestion, bad thoughts,

crankiness. I drove the 16 km to Lake Dobson on a very narrow, very steep, ery

precarious dirt road. My early departure had the advantage that I did not have

to figure out what to do if a car came from the other direction (really, there

was no room for two).

In an empty lodge, I signed into the trail book. One person,

heading out to do the Tarn Shelf & Lake Webster loop. 13.4 km. US citizen. I

scanned the names of the other walkers. No one else on the trail yet that day.

Most other walkers simply stroll around the lake. I wondered if my plan was

nuts. No one knew where I was or what I was doing. It was cold out—I was

wearing every layer I had with me: fleece, sweatshirt, jacket, wind parka. I

knew that by the end of the day I would be carrying all of these layers, but I

wanted them with me, an odd security blanket in this vast empty land.

Before I could overwhelm myself with self-pity, I became

overwhelmed by the trail. The Tasmanians have this wonderful trail building

habit: wooden walkways. They make walking super easy—nice level surface, no

roots to trip over, no ankles to twist on protruding rocks, no feet to get wet

in marshy or wet bits. And, all of the debris—the shreds of eucalyptus bark,

stray sticks that so imitate snakes are absent. In other words, on these

walkways, I could walk without having bursts of snake-panic. If a snake lurked

it would be pretty visible. Small lizards darted between the boards, but

otherwise the trail was mine. This allowed me to take in the extraordinary

flora of the area. Above all, there was the Dr. Suess-invented Pandani, a tree

that looks tropical, like a large pineapple top. The lower leaves sagged brown

while at the top there was a burst of bright green wide leaves, and a red rocket-shaped flower. They grow to

about twenty feet tall, but most are shorter; they clustered in by the trail, like spectators cheering me along.

Other trees that delighted me were the Silver Banksia, with prominent feathered

cone flowers and the Mountain pinkberry. The female of the species produces a

vibrant pink berry.

After a steep climb on a dirt road--not the nicest part of the trail--I was above treeline, a dense underbrush surrounding

me and Alpine heath myrtle in bloom as well as the extravagant Tree Waratah,

the thin red spindles of the flower stick to the end of a long stalk, as if

exploding into the air. The trail was well marked with cairns and posts with

orange triangles pointing the way. I was looking down into the valley, at

lakes, and dense forest, but above and around me was blue sky, scrub, and soon

enough delicious tarns nestled in the side of the mountain.

The light on this day—actually almost every day I was in Tasmania—was

exquisite. The air is clear, so colors taken on a depth and vibrancy I had

never seen except in Antarctica, and there the color palate is fairly limited.

Here, the range of greens and blues can not—I am sorry—be described.

Despite the well marked trail, I still managed to lose it. I

back tracked, returning to the trail, but the error made me edgy. I was counting

on visibility and good weather since I was traveling without a compass or a

good topographical map. And then not a half hour later, I lost the trail a

second time. For twenty minutes, I tromped through the sedge, following animal

trails. I aimed for the end of a tarn, which I knew the trail skirted (I did

have a very good guidebook, written by the Chapmans, Day Walks Tasmania).

Soon enough I was on the trail, and tromping toward the Twilight cabin. I

wasn’t really lost-lost, just off track, but the isolation of the trail,

combined with this moment forced me to focus more on the markers and cairns.

Stupid mistakes are just that, until your luck runs out.

There are times when I am oppressed by my aloneness. I could

feel that creeping in on me and so I forced myself out, to look at the

landscape, the waratahs along with the white mountain rocket exploding in front of me, those tarns shimmering in the

high southern sun. I settled into the beauty of the place. I stopped for

lunch and to explore the Twilight cabin.

For lunch, I sat outside of the Twilight Cabin. After cheese and bread, an apple and lots of water, I explored the inside of the hut. In the dim light and fire-musty air rested skis,

boots, pots and pans from hikers and skiers from the past. I expected someone

from the 40s or 50s to come walking through the door.

The descent toward Lake Dobson unfolded easily, two baby

tiger snakes slithering away from my footsteps. As a group of four approached, I cringed at the sound of

their voices. They passed, first two women who carried hefty packs and smelled

of clean laundry. They nodded hello and I nodded back. I realized I had not yet

spoken to anyone all day. I had traveled

with the weight and at times fear of being alone and now wanted to hang onto

the isolation and silence I had walked through. I could not speak. They were

followed by a young man with a dingy over stuffed pack. The last guy had a big

pack and was sporting flip flops.

I couldn’t help myself. “Nice shoes,” I said, thinking of

those snakes.

“Hey, it’s summertime,” he said cheerfully.

The walk had worked its cure. “Right,” I said, echoing his

cheerfulness.