Lost Worlds (43 page)

“So—anything else you should warn me about before I set off?”

Bob laughed. Some of his bushman bravado returned. He sat up straight, poked the fire, and nonchalantly offered: “Well—they told you about the leeches, right?”

“Leeches! What leeches?”

“Oh, they didn’t. Well—you didn’t do enough reading, Dave—wait till you get to the Ironbounds. There’s rain forest over there. That’s where you’ll find ’em. But you got gaiters and all that stuff, right?”

“Yes, I’ve got gaiters. But I hate leeches! Last time I got them was in Iran a few years back, when I was working on another book. I can still feel them. Worse, I can still see them. Inflating themselves like little black balloons. Filling up with my blood.”

“Well,” said Bob, knowing he’d gotten my attention. “Let’s see what else…oh—there’s the devil—Tasmanian devil. You know about that little critter?”

“A bit. Not much. I thought they were mainly in zoos now.”

“Lord—no. No, no! All over the damn place. Not too many down this end though. More in the west—Cradle Lake, Overland Track—’round there. But I’ve seen a few. Bad-tempered little blighters. Though if you get ’em young and tame ’em they can be quite normal. Friendly—but I still wouldn’t trust a bugger with teeth like that. And a stinker—wow, what a stink it puts out! Takes a week to get rid of it. And as black as night. ’Bout as big as a rabbit—big bare ears, long whiskers. Y’should see it eat a fowl—or a possum. Eats every blinkin’ scrap—skin, bones, fur, feathers. The lot. Growls and snarls like a demon, spits and barks—and fights like a pit bull….when they get mad you’ll know about it.”

“Great. Nice place I’ve come to.”

“It’s okay, Dave. Doubt if you’ll see one way down here. Maybe hear one once in a while. You’ll be okay. You’ll get mainly possums, wallabies, and those small scrub wallabies—pademelons—lizards, quoils, that kind of thing. Maybe a spotted cat—bit like a weasel or a tiger cat—they’re a bit devilish in spirit. Y’might see a platypus or two in the streams. Maybe a wombat—now, there’s a nice cuddly little critter. Very shy.”

“And leeches.”

“Oh, yeah—leeches. Definitely leeches, Dave.”

Bang!

Another knock on the door. This lost world was turning out to be a far busier place than I’d envisaged. Maybe the possum was back for more fish. Well—tough. I’d finished it off long ago.

Bob rose, stretched, and smiled. “Now, here’s a guy that’ll tell you ’bout the nicer things down here.”

He pulled open the door to reveal a small, thin man with an enormous black beard and mustache, circular John Lennon spectacles, and a mop of unruly black hair.

“Steve—c’mon in. You’re just in time, boyo. I was telling Dave here about our wildlife and he thinks he’ll be eaten alive soon as he sets off on the track.”

“Which track?”

“South Coast Track.”

“Poor bugger.”

“Yeah—that’s what I told him,” said Bob.

“You by yourself?” asked Steve, blinking ferociously behind his thick glasses. He reminded me of a smaller version of Steven Spielberg.

“Hi, Steve,” I said. “Yes, I’m by myself.”

“Oh.” He didn’t seem to be able to focus on my face. Either that or he was nervous.

“Been tellin’ Dave ’bout the leeches ’round Ironbound.”

“Oh, yes,” said Steve.

“Maybe a devil or two. Wadda you think?”

“Unlikely, I think.”

“Yeah, so do I,” said Bob.

“Spiders, though,” said Steve quietly.

“Oh, God! I forgot those!” said Bob, his face cracking into a thousand laugh lines. “By God—I forgot the bloody spiders. Sit down, Steve. Tell him about the spiders.”

Steve joined us by the fire, which now roared with new vigor as Bob piled on fresh logs.

I decided to bluff this one out. Bob was obviously enjoying himself far too much at my expense.

“So, Steve,” I said. “Tell me about the spiders.”

“Sure you want to know?” He smiled for the first time. His walrus mustache shook with repressed chuckles.

“Sure, I’ve seen quite a few supposedly deadly spiders around the world. Most of them are not half as bad as their reputations.”

“That’s very true.” Steve smiled. “Same here.”

“Good. Well, that’s fine.”

“Except for the wolf spider—their venom can give you a bit of an ache.”

“Great—I’ll remember that.”

“And the black house spider, though you won’t find those here.”

“Fine.”

“And the red-back. That was a killer once, but now there’s an antivenin. No one’s died since the sixties.”

“Well, great. That’s it?”

“Well, no. They haven’t found an antivenin for the funnel-web yet.”

“What’s a funnel-web?”

“Nasty bugger. Lives down in a burrow which it lines with silky thread and opens it up like a funnel with trip lines that extend out from the tube. The male venom is real potent.”

“How potent?”

“You die,” said Steve with a serious professorial look on his face.

“Die?”

“Sure.”

“Am I likely to find any down here?”

“Well—the worst ones are up around Sydney. They build their funnels near drains, in wood piles, gardens—cool, shady places.”

“Sydney’s a hell of a long way from here.”

“Right.”

“So, I’m okay?”

“Oh, I’d think so…just be careful.”

“You mean I might find some?”

“Unlikely. Don’t you think so, Bob?”

“Yeah, I’d think so,” said Bob. “Don’t remember seeing one ’round here…”

“Good,” I said.

“…recently,” said Bob, and burst out laughing again.

“The hell with you two!” But I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re not going to put me off this hike.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Bob.

“’Course not,” agreed Steve.

“Good. So—no more spider crap. Bob says you can tell me about some of the ‘nicer’ things down here.”

“Oh, he did.”

“Like your birds,” prodded Bob. “Steve’s quite a famous person down here. He’s helping reintroduce the orange-bellied parrot—it’s almost extinct, but who knows, this could be where it makes a comeback.”

“That right, Steve?” I asked.

“Well, forget the famous bit. I’m just an assistant—a volunteer. But that’s what we’re doing. This is their only breeding ground and we’re trying to get them reestablished. It’s early days yet. I’ll be down here another few months helping them get adjusted.”

“I’ve read quite a bit on the ‘greening’ of Tasmania since I arrived. In fact the night I came into Hobart the Green party thought they’d got the government by the short ’n’ hairies. Some scandal about logging rights?”

“Oh, God,” said Steve with a sigh. “That’s been a problem here for decades. Not enough controls. We’ve lost tens of thousands of hectares to those logging operations—you’ll see what they’ve done when you get to the end of the South Coast Track. Like night and day. Soon as you cross the World Heritage boundary there’s whole stretches of foothills where the forest has been clear-felled. Nothing left.”

For the first time I sensed vigor and anger in Steve’s mellow manner.

“Is it changing? Is the government getting into selective felling?”

“All bloody nonsense, that ‘selective felling.’ All euphemisms and rhetoric—like ‘managed forests,’ ‘replanting schemes’—honestly, we’ve heard all the cowclap for decades. Now we’re saying—stop everything. No more felling. Tasmania’s a small place and we need all the forest we can keep. There’s not that much left. Less than a tenth of what we once had. Wildlife is being wiped out, the rain forest is dying, we’re getting erosion, the bloody dams are filling up with runoff soil. Half of them will be useless by the end of the century. They’re so dumb in Hobart! Bloody ‘bludgers’” (a word I was to hear often in Tasmania, apparently referring to those nefarious members of society who live off the sweat of other people’s brows).

Bob nodded and chuckled, “He’s right, David. Few years back the Greens were laughed off as a bunch of pot-heads and leftover hippies. But now they’ve got some clout—and things are happening…. Tasmania could become the place to make a stand…set an example.”

Our conversation rolled on into the night as the fire glowed and crackled. With people like Bob and Steve it seemed Tasmania might have a chance. I finally curled up on one of the bunk-bed platforms and, with the exception of a series of wall-shaking snore barrages from Bob, slept a quiet and dreamless sleep.

The smell of coffee and bacon awoke me.

“God—you sleep deep,” said Bob, bringing a chipped enamel mug steaming with a thick black brew. “You’ll likely need a few of these to get you going.”

Getting going is not one of my God-given talents. I mumbled thanks and sipped the scalding coffee.

“Listen, Dave, I was thinking. You gonna leave today or d’you wanna spend a bit more time here?”

Thinking in the early morning is another skill I haven’t yet mastered.

“Not sure yet. Why?”

“Well—I could take you out to the beach. Show you a bit of Bathurst Harbor. Then there’s the Willsons. You wanna go over and visit?”

“Sounds fine.” I wasn’t really ready for the lonely hike. I was enjoying Bob’s company and the prospect of six, maybe more days out on that trail (leeches, Tasmanian tigers, funnel-web spiders, et al.) didn’t appeal yet. And anyway it was all mist and drizzle outside. Not an auspicious time to begin a big trek.

Bob’s bacon and fried-bread sandwiches were greasy and delicious. I’d catch up on my muesli, bran, and fruit later, in less challenging climes. Cholesterol and caffeine were fine for the moment.

When we emerged from the hut the mists were clearing and there was warmth in the early sun.

“She’ll be a good un’,” mumbled Bob as we headed past Deny’s house to the boat jetty on the creek. I found it hard to share his confidence. From what I’d heard about the fickle moods and tantrums of the climate down here, such pronouncements seemed dangerous invitations to providence. But then again, he was the bushman. I was merely passing through.

“Maybe catch up a few yabbies for lunch,” said Bob as he untied the small motorboat and kick-started the engine.

“Yabbies? What are they—fish?”

“No—sorry mate—keep thinkin’ you know all this bush talk—they’re crayfish. Freshwater crayfish. Cook ’em up in boiling water. Eat ’em with melted butter. Bloody marvelous.” The crackle of the engine destroyed the early morning silence. Two herons flapped in an ungainly manner up out of the shallows on the other side of the creek and headed upstream in search of quieter hunting grounds.

The water wound lazily through dense thickets of King Billy pine and stunted myrtle, their roots exposed mangrove-fashion in tortured coils and grasping tentacles. They looked alive in an animal sense, as if embroiled in some slow and macabre dance. Slivers of mist were still tangled in their upper branches and hung across the peat-bronzed waters like wraiths. Once in a while I’d spot a lonely pandanius, that strange variant on a tropical palm found in isolated clumps all over the southwest heathlands. Its slender trunk can reach fifteen feet and is topped by a crown of arched yard-long leaves. Decades of dead leaves cover the trunk like the hairy hide of some prehistoric monolith. Strange creatures indeed, which enhance this region’s lost-world flavor.

Gradually the creek widened out into Bathurst Harbor and the thick vegetation drew back revealing vistas of mountains. To the far north, the hazy quartzite arêtes and pinnacles of the Arthurs; closer in the morose-looking mound of Mount Melaleuca around which winds yet another trail, the South-West Cape path, and, across the water, the rocky summits of Mount Rugby and Mount Stokes, bathed in a watery silver light. A majestic if melancholy scene, now even more reminiscent of western Scotland, particularly the remote Torridon region, one of my favorite wild places.

Without warning, as we left the shelter of the creek, a blustery wind from the north set the boat bobbing like an empty bottle on the choppy broil of the fjord. It was a cold wind too, cutting right through my three layers of vest, shirt, and sweater.

“Put your parka on, Dave. It can get real brass monkeyish.”

Bob was right. I was already shivering and as I pulled on the waterproof jacket, my fingers turned into a messy mélange of red and purple splotches. He was sitting on the floor of the boat to reduce the bone-numbing blast. I joined him and peered over the side like a child on his first boat ride—open-eyed and just a little awed by the swell which made our small craft thump and bang its way across the waves.