There are many reasons I traveled to Tasmania. Some I knew before I left—my friend to visit, the land, which is beautiful. Pademelons. Snakes. Echidnas. It was not until I was on the flight from Sydney to Hobart that I figured out one main reason. I had the window seat, another woman had the aisle. In between us, that one undesirable seat. Along came a woman, both tall and wide—I am guessing six feet. She slipped into that impossibly small seat, and pulled out a tiny book: Sense and Sensibility. Soon, of course, I was asking her questions. A Tasmanian (how many true Tassies are there?) who wouldn’t leave for the world. She announced: we hit population of 500,000 this year. 500,000 in a place the size of Ireland. Or Virginia. Suddenly I understood that the busyness and crowdedness of the world had been getting me down. I needed just to step outside of movement. Of cars lined up at stoplights. Of lines in the grocery store. Of endless emails that make it seem like the world has seeped into my living room. Tasmania was the place to escape.

It is, as far as that is possible. My cell phone did not work on the island. The internet is near nonexistent. Every place I visited I hiked alone, perhaps seeing a few other people.

And then I got to Cradle Mountain. Cradle Mountain was one of my top destinations. The Cradle Mountain Trail—the 65 kilometer overland walk—is, in a country with many overland walks, one of the most celebrated.To hike it with a tour costs about $2,800. For six days of hiking that must be some gorgeous scenery. Or good food.

When I drove the narrow road in toward the park, the mountains framing the horizon I sensed I was entering a special but crowded place. Suddenly here were all of the tourists in one spot, the Disney or Yosemite of Tasmania. I wanted to turn around and leave—could the natural beauty really offset the mass of people?

I was up at 6:30 and at the shuttle stop by 8 when the first

bus takes off for the hills. This shuttle reminded me of Denali National Park where

buses have taken over carting people in. Here it seems more essential as the

road is so narrow there were many places two vehicles just would not fit. Since

there were no worries of anyone coming down at this hour, the driver zoomed up

the steep incline while offering a constant patter of information about

helicopter rides and if we had a “spare few days we could hike the Overland

Track.” She asked how many were going up Cradle Mountain and the entire bus

raised their hand. There were women in tennis shoes that had about as much support

as a pair of Keds, there were young men carrying small plastic water bottles

and little less, there was a woman so overweight I was not sure she could get

on and off the bus. OK, I thought, here we all go.

I got off at the Ronny Brook stop, which is where the

Overland Track begins. The trail—or track—was once again a boardwalk through

low scrub. There were bushes in bloom by the side of the trail, dusty whites

and vibrant yellows. Mounds of scat graced the track, each piece the shape of

an oversized dice, piled like a pyramid. Wombat. Then the thin small scat of

the possum. I did not see the scat ragged with bones and fur that would

indicate Devils, though apparently there are some roaming the park.

Soon enough I entered a glade of trees, hiking up a wooden

staircase, a waterfall cascading to my right. I passed a group being guided up

the peak, a couple on their honeymoon (“New Zealand is better; everything is

bigger”). I kept leap frogging another couple—he with a small pack, she with

nothing—who got off the bus with me. In other words, front and back were people

lining the boardwalk that laced gracefully uphill.

Marion’s lookout perches high above Dove Lake (the

destination for most people). Spinning around at the lookout offers views of Crater

Lake, and of course the mountain we were all going to climb. A group of kids with

big packs ready for the Overland Track, rested and snacked. The smell of

perfume and deodorant and laundry detergent was so strong I struggled to

remember I was in the wilderness. I continued down the track and saw my first

snake of the day—a white lipped whip snake. With so many people on the trail I

assumed that snakes would steer clear. But there it was, dashing into the

brush. Later in the day, a

now-familiar tiger snake slipped by and a copperhead made its first appearance.

A small hut at the base of the mountain offers shelter in

bad weather. High and exposed, this rocky land looks weather-beaten, dramatic

with rain and snow. Crampon marks on the rocks tell stories of snow and ice. But

for this day it is all blue sky and sun, perhaps too much sun as later I cringed

seeing people with electric red arms and imagined the restless nights they

would spend. With a stiff wind it remained cool for the quick, craggy ascent

and amazingly I was alone through much of this. I boulder hopped and scrambled,

winding toward the far end of the citadel of rocks.

On the summit, two couples snacked tucked away from the wind

behind boulders near a large stone summit marker. A bronze plaque indicates the

names of the peaks visible in every direction. One energetic man offered to

take my photo—“jump on top of that marker,” he coaxed, and I did, worried that

the wind might knock me off. He bounded over, helping me down. I overheard him

speaking with the other couple about a place with identical box houses, all

painted a different shade of pastel and the Vietnamese woman who runs the café

in town who told him “You only get three chances in life, this is my second chance.”

I think I might have used up my three chances already.

“Is that Tarraleah you are talking about?” I asked. I had stopped

there en route to Cradle Mountain and this small town, based on power

generation was spooky with its tidy houses and huge pipelines.

“Yes!” He exclaims, “A bit Stepford, isn’t it?”

I agreed. He

and his girlfriend got ready to leave when she realized she had lost her hat. “You

lost your hat?” he asked bemused.

He hopped from one rock to another, looking for it. With the

wind, it was unlikely he might find it.

“Oh, silly Lilly,”

he said shaking his head and giving up the search.

“Silly Lilly”

ran through my head all day, the affection and disbelief intertwined.

On the scramble down I ended up in conversation with another

couple. Nichole has traveled the world, spent months in India. Phil is a jazz

trumpeter. I’m enchanted by their stories of travel, the sense of curiosity and

time that allows them to drift and live. And then the lens turned toward me,

America. Within moments, there she was:

Sarah Palin. She was the one subject everyone I met wanted to talk

about.

“Yeah, Sarah Palin,” I said with a sigh. How is it possible

to explain how she emerged on the national political scene?

In their eyes shone the glee of incredulity.

I looked away with embarrassment.

We parted at a junction where I had to decide whether to go

around another peak and to Twisted Lakes, or down to Dove Lake. I was roasting

hot and low on water, despite carrying two liters. The Lake looked inviting and

I saw a swatch of sand; my swimsuit was tucked in my pack. So I plunged down,

through a dense, moist forest, astonishing because I had just been in the

desert, red dry soil under my feet. On the way down I met my first Americans,

from New Jersey no less. So we walked in concert and at the swim hole plunged

in together.

Before heading back to the parking lot, with a throng of

older people in sensible shoes, I swam out into the lake one more time: out

doing the backstroke in memory of my father, in doing the breast stroke in

memory of my mother. And they were with me, the best company I had had all day.

I felt ridiculous complaining about the crowds; so fast,

though, Tasmania had spoiled me. I had come to see each trail or view as my

own, had come to treasure the deep, ringing silence available only when the

patter of the world is miles away. On this one day I spoke to more people than

I did the whole trip. Those conversations added their texture to the land, but

had I missed any tiger snakes? Any fresh blooms? Might a Devil have slipped by

without me—deep in conversation—noticing?