Day 2: Sheffield to Tullah
Sheffield > Cradle Mountain National Park > Tullah
MC and BB 110km
Out onto the main road, past the pub, under the stony gaze of Mt Roland. Turn right into a formidable headwind (that John later describes as “a hand on the forehead”) and pass through undulating country and settle down for a 6-kilometre 11 per cent upward grind. Simon’s warning that there is no flat country in Tassie seems to be true. The temperature drops and the wind picks up as we turn off the main tourist road into Cradle Mountain National Park, over the cattle grid and past the scurrying echidna, It’s 10 degrees so after a quick lunch we keep going and head back out into the tourist traffic – a steady trickle of winnebagos - and gusty winds and a short rain shower.
Our next home is Tullah, a former mining and hydro town ringed by mountains. The temporary portable housing sets a certain dreary scene but the rooms are cosy, the showers hot and the view over Lake Rosebery a million dollars. We find a spot beside the lake to watch the wind ripple the black peat-stained waters, and hardy locals jumping off a pier into frigid waters.
Day 3: Tullah to Strahan
Tullah > Mt Murchison > Zeehan > Strahan
MC 80kms, BB 110kms
My knees ache all night. I ‘sag’ (climb into the bus) as the early morning cloud lifts from over the lake and ride the easy way for the first chilly 30 kilometres. As Ben and the other cyclists pedal over the saddle of Mt Murchison and down to Lake Plimsoll, Sam and I chat and take photographs. I jump on my trusty red steed at morning tea to tackle the heavy undulating roads that lead to Zeehan, a mining town famous for its 27 pubs. A patch of sun to enjoy another great lunch at the local Lions park. We are travelling along a busy tourist route used by winnebagos and hire cars driven wrecklessly by holidaying visitors who leave too little room for cyclists. A truck chases Simon, Ben and I up a hill and down over a shakey plank bridge for a 10-kilometre team ‘draft’ with a last minute sprint (won by Dash) into Strahan. Strahan is all about its waterways and people flock to it to appreciate its proximity to the Gordon River and wilderness areas, its location on the west coast, and the efforts of its fishing fleet (Peter bags a crayfish for an afternoon snack).
Day 4: Strahan to Bronte Park
MC 132kms, BB 157kms
Goodbye busy touristy Strahan. We climb up and out, ascending for 13-kilometres through heavily timbered country to take in great views from mountain lookouts before descending into Queenstown. Famous for its ‘moonscape’ landscape that was created by years of copper mining, Queenstown has more trees that I remember when I went there in the nineties. The fellas try out the town ‘velodrome’, a sealed track that encircles the local (gravel) footy oval, before we head out of town. The climb out of Queenstown is a fairly steep and winding 6-kilometre road with great views of the pinks, yellows and greys of the surrounding exposed hills. There’s another 40 kilometres before lunch so we line up and draft efficiently behind the superior power and muscular legs of locals Dash and Simon, all the way to a sunny spot where Sam awaits us at Lake Burbury.
Our task this afternoon is to conquer Mount Arrowsmith. It is a universal truth of cycling that the only way to climb a hill is at your own pace. There is a natural hierarchy when the altitude increases, with part of the group speeding up and the rest settling in for a slow climb. My climb up this formidable and seemingly never ending incline is indeed slow, but rewarded with glimpses of the magnificent Frenchman’s Cap along the way and the rusty colours of high-altitude grassy meadows. At the top, triumphant, we eat lollies and then roll towards our new home in Bronte Park. The final leg takes us through Derwent Bridge where walkers of the Overland Track (Cradle Mountain to Lake St Clair) emerge, and past busy echidna. We are in alpine fisherman country (a strange breed that we observe over dinner).
Day 5: Bronte Park to Hobart
Bronte Park > Hamilton > New Norfolk > Hobart
MC 120kms, BB 160kms
Another steepish climb in the chilly early morning shade and then much ascending and descending and ascending again in and out of valleys lined with fat hydro pipes and power stations. After lunch at historic Hamilton we encounter some over zealous canines – a kelpie that leaps fences in a single bound and a terrier who thinks he is a greyhound and is determined to defend his boundary fence. There’s a killer hill at a corner – very short and very sharp - at Rosegarland then there’s another downhill race through golden farmland to New Norfolk. The last 40 kilometres to the Hobart Cenotaph are part country road and park bike path through Hobart’s northern suburbs. Peter and John have circumnavigated the island in 10 days and approximately 1200 kilometres – a might effort that started and ended in this green park where people are jumping out planes. The rest of us have endured 700 kilometres of unfamiliar terrain, beautiful scenery and great company. The beers taste sweet that afternoon.
Day 6: Up Mt Wellington, Hobart
Hobart – Sandy Bay > Kingston > Ferntree > Mt Wellington Summit
MC and BB 79kms
Back into city cycling - the lanes and lights and fumes are a bit of a shock after a week of wide horizons and clean air. We spin through bayside suburbs and along busy roads. Mt Wellington with its pale communications tower seems a long way off as we cycle the many undulating hills lined with homes with large leafy gardens. Our friend John starts feeling worse for wear and leaves us to return and rest in the city. It is unusual for a road leading up a mountain to have no switchbacks (turns), that snake back and forth and flatten out temporarily on the curve. The road up Mt Wellington offers no such respite and couples the 12-kilometres of straight incline with a heavy uneven road surface. Simon knows every trick in the book and points out to me that there are numbers on the road that count down the agony to the top. I become fixated on the numbers and somehow we all make it to the summit where it is chilly, our friends have gathered and there are fabulous 360-degree views of the Derwent River, the ocean, Bruny Island, Hobart city and its suburbs. A few tourists clap as we go past.
Watching promises kept?
This is merely a short piece to commend an idea and recommend that we all try to contribute to GetUp’s latest initiative - to log promises made by politicians hopeful of being elected on 24 November. The evil plan is to collate and then quote those promises back at the perpetrator and ask for follow through should they get elected (if they don’t get elected we won’t really remember their name, anyway, will me?)
So keep them honest by contributing to the wiki at getup.org.au/promisewatch/
(At the time of blogging 292 promises had been contributed)
Know your limits
I am not known to bake. But as the old people are off spending my inheritance on another overseas jaunt, I thought it only right that I should make a bit of a fuss of my brother on his birthday. We are a small family, after all.
I decided that patty cakes might be manageable on this, my first foray into baking since a childhood that was busy with the making of slices and cakes. Cupcakes are are social, as everyone can have one, and they are sort of quirky and homemade. And simple. Or so I thought.
I am not going to share recipes and methodlogies with you, but will cut to the chase and lament the overflowing wonders that I watched slide, merge and rise as a puffy mass in my oven. Those papers are useless and crap. But the outcome tastes great and when the icing went on you could tell what they were supposed to be. They weren’t presented to a gasping crowd of friends at the birthday celebrations as I chickened out and left them on the fridge. The birthday boy did get a surprise delivery, however, and super dog and I enjoyed a few for Sunday afternoon tea.
Now I can empathise with women who become mothers and are thrown into the who-can-make-the-most-speccy-cake competitions that are children’s birthday parties.
Showing my age
Went to see Peeping Tom at the Forum last week to relive my early-twenties fascination with Mike Patton, who was the front man for Faith No More. Saw him at Alternative Nation in 1995 (I think) when he was 10 times better than headlining Trent and Nine Inch Nails who climaxed with a lame instrument smashing exit effort.
Mike was great then and is great now. He is funny and he has a great voice with awesome range and he assembled a diverse bunch of musicians ranging from a sultry songstress with Macy Gray hair to a slim girl with a huge beat box talent, to a dextrous DJ and a geeky guy on keyboards and close trio on drums and guitars. They did hip hoppy tunes and got the crowd involved and there was a bit of banter. It was great.
Until a bunch of morons in black tshirts in the front row started spitting. At Mike. He’s seen it all, being a festival heavy in the eighties and early nineties, but even Mr Patton commented on the gross gesture chosen by these supposed ‘fans’. They persisted. And so it was only right that he reciprocate. Good one Melbourne morons. Thanks for making us a memorable crowd for all the wrong reasons. And reminding us just how ‘base’ the Australian male can be.
I look forward to hearing him again, next time in a smoke free venue.
The farmers are right
I was surprised to read in yesterday’s paper that the government had decided to step back from the requirement that all new houses include either a rainwater tank or solar panels, because this might add a bit of cost to the price of putting up your new dream home. How can we continue to talk about individual inconvenience in this era of dams falling to all-time lows and public money being spent in the billions to desalinate water (and do unknown damage to the environment with the salty leftovers)? Oh, wait, I see, we won’t encourage water tanks ‘cos then ‘people’ will have to buy water from the desalination factory…
But I digress. The farmers are right. City dwellers should learn about saving water. Living with a tank is the best tool for teaching users to turn off the tap. I have childhood memories of parents banging on the bathroom door to remind you to hurry up in the shower and of carrying the rinsing water from the washing machine down the driveway to water trees. And each time I pass those towering trees that were fostered by (resentful) teenagers bearing buckets through hot Northern Tableland summers, I know what water is worth. Learning how to save water is really easy stuff to get into the habit of doing and if you grow up with it, it will never leave you.
Beginning, middle, end
First of all there was a tube in a tyre on a bike.
Then there was an idea forming on a loom. Then there was a bag:
First there was a sheep, then unspun wool, then a felting exercise at TAFE, then another bag.
First there was a piece of fabric that got chopped into lengths then a length of fabric on a loom, then a little bag to ‘clutch’ to your person.
Now there is a really tired TAFE student.
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