The family that fights together stays together

The minutes of 2015 ticked down as we rode into Hobart on December 31st. We disembarked feeling tired, discombobulated with the abrupt transition from wilderness to city, grumpy and famished. A stop at the fish and chip boat in the harbour satisfied our hunger, and a rest in the tourist office helped us get our bearings, but it wasn't until we got to Kara and Ben's place that we really relaxed. Though our hosts, due to fly in from Sydney that evening, hadn't yet arrived, they had left a key for us and their landlord welcomed us with open arms and mince pies. Inside were presents that our thoughtful family had sent us for Christmas, including new shirts from Grandma Rosie and Grandpa Peter that were a very welcome change from our camping wardrobe of the past many months.

Everyone is smiling here, but as you can imagine it's not always fun and games. Being together 24-7 for the past eleven months means the family dynamics vary from sweet harmony to mutinous discord, within the same day, hour or even minute. 

Being with friends keeps us solidly on the positive end of the spectrum, and it was lovely to see Kara and Ben when they arrived later that evening. We had meant to pick them up in their car but discovered it was standard, over which arguments ensued over whose fault that oversight was (mine). Neither of us had driven a standard in years and Paul was sure he'd burn out the clutch, stall mid-highway or worse if he tried. A taxi came to the rescue, and we all rang in the the new year with oysters, champagne and a view of the fireworks from the balcony.

The kids have a limited capacity for good behaviour indoors. Sitting peacefully on the couch morphs into climbing on top of it and throwing pillows, and quiet games of cards turn into acrimonious arguments over who won (or cheated), so we were glad to be able to take them to a great park nearby.

or send them outside to the tennis court in the backyard.

In Hobart we bumped into Hugh and Zoe from the Overland Track (who'd witnessed our complex negotiations and resultant tantrums around splitting up the precious bar of camping chocolate) at the Taste of Tassie festival where we didn't have to fight over the region's best food but instead got our own treats. Big Bessie's ice cream truck served up scrumptious ice cream -

I loved the crack caramel pie pieces in the Breaking Bad sundae (garnished with a topping of blue ice powdered sherbet).

We had a brief interlude on our own on beautiful Bruny Island, 

where we hiked 3km along the beach 

to get to a lovely secluded campground in the trees. No arguments when we united against a common enemy - a group of drunken guys still blasting guns 'n roses at 3 am - I went over to shut down the party and Paul provided unconditional support from the sleeping bag. Come morning we hiked up into the hills, 

then trekked back to the car and drove to a different campsite, close to an equally lovely beach, 

on the end of the narrow Neck that joined North and South Bruny. 

We joined the ranger to watch fairy penguins march in from the sea as soon as it got dark. They moved quickly in the cutest conga line ever, scurrying off once they reached the dunes and scrub into the safety of their nesting burrows.

Then it was off to Picaninny Cottage, a hidden gem available only through word of mouth for five glorious days of sun, 

sand, 

and surf 

with Kara, Ben, his daughter Olive, and two of their friends, Frankie and Alma. It was wonderful to see how well the kids got along,

though Tom got frustrated at not being part of all of the girl's games. At one point as the girls ran off I had to take him aside to explain that they needed some space, resulting in him throwing himself on the ground exclaiming with characteristic drama "There go Kyra and her friends, having such a great life, my life sucks".

When we weren't at the beach we were hard at work in the hammocks,

taking baths in the outdoor tub,

walking the tightrope,

and careening down the zipline,

from whose perch I sat to watch the sunrise. 

We flipped pancakes in the morning and cooked dinners in the outdoor kitchen, with lots of chips in between.

Paul and Ben manfully chopped wood and made fire at the outdoor pit,

and in the evenings we philosophized by the fire or speculated about artificial intelligence by candlelight in the unpowered cabin.

We had no trouble filling our time at the cottage but did do a couple of excursions, one to a lagoon 

reached by a short walk, 

the other to Apsley Gorge where the water was cold, fresh and deep.

When it was time to go we didn't want to so we extended our visit for one more night and even then could have stayed longer. But time and camping reservations (not to mention work) wait for no man so we all reluctantly packed up and went on our way - Kara, Ben and Olive back to Hobart, and the five of us to Freycinet National Park.

No sooner had we set up our campsite at Freycinet's beautiful Honeymoon Bay

than some new friends - Ricky, Karen and their 8 year old son Dorian - arrived. A month previous, Ricky French  (who took the above photo) had gotten in touch to interview me for a story about the Three Capes hike. The article made the front page of Australia's national newspaper, 

(though my quote was the last paragraph at the bottom on page 9). 

We exchanged information on our trip to Tasmania, and arranged to join forces for some hiking, which is how they knew to find us at Freycinet.

 

Dorian and Tom became fast friends (Ricky also took this photo), 

doing puzzles, Harry Potter games, and beach cricket together, with wallabies as spectators (to the left of Jacob).

Together we hiked the shores of Friendly Beach, 

swam in the inland lagoon, 

and trekked up to the lookout over Wineglass Bay,

which many think is romantically named after the shape of the beach but actually derives from the fact that, instead of the turquoise we see today, the waters ran red when the whaling industry was in full force just offshore.

The kids took a mid-hike break for one of their regular tussles, which always start off as friendly wrestling matches but usually finish with screams and tears.

Ricky and his family moved on to Hobart, while we travelled north to the Bay of Fires, so named because of the red lichen covering the rocks, 

atop which we ate our dinner of rice, beans, guacamole and mangos.

We said good-bye to the beach and headed inland to Derby, a town soon to be world renowned for its amazing mountain bike trails, which Paul and Jacob explored for a few exhilirating hours.

Tom, Kyra and I did our own little walking tour, 

stopping at the playground and sampling the town's milkshakes and pastries.

Besides the physical travels the five of us are undertaking, there is also the very emotional journey we are on together, which has as many ups and downs as our hikes through the mountains. Sometimes I wonder if other families would get along more peacefully than we do. We argue about whose turn it is, whose fault it is, who lost it, who got us lost, and whose feet smell the worst. When things around us go awry or are beyond our control, we too often vent our frustration on each other rather than going with the flow. That might be okay for six year old Tom, 

sulking because he was too small to go on the mountain bike ride with Paul and Jacob, or maybe even ten year old Kyra, 

having a meltdown because Jacob swatted her pet fly into the sand, but not for us adults. Fortunately there's no photographic evidence of my outbursts but they exist all the same (far more than Paul's if I'm honest about it). But, we keep trying to be better people, and can only trust that despite the occasional emotional tribulations, the lessons we are learning about how to get along will make us better people, not dwelling on negativity and conflict but leaping with joy and light!

Christmas in the Tasmanian Wilderness

Christmas was approaching (yes this blog is a month and a half behind!) and other than listening to carols on our ipod, and posing at the Christchurch Museum with a green robed Father Christmas (represented as he was before his Coca Cola engineered transformation into red garb),

we had had very little time to ponder the time of year. Arriving in Launceston in northern Tasmania the weather was hot and sunny and being in summer kept Christmas feeling distant.

Launceston was mostly a stop to get ready for the epic eight day hike we had ahead of us, but we still got out and about enough to appreciate the charms of the small city. There were retro buildings everywhere, looking like new but dating back to 1950's 

and even earlier into the late 1800s.

The colonial character of the streets was largely intact and the modern development that had been done provided good public spaces with colourful sculptures,

scenic walkways

and the preservation of a park with an elaborate fountain at its core.

The farming history of the town was evident in the bold titles engraved on the facades of the Woolgrowers Building and the Farmers and Graziers Associations. 

The sky was clear and as it faded to night it developed the most stunning palate of buttery yellow, pale rose, violet and finally inky navy, all reflecting on the river below,

Our apartment was the aptly named Quirky Cottage which felt like a farm homestead itself, with an old wooden fence lining the property and a tree full of ripe plums we snacked on during our walks.

Area residents are lucky to have an incredible gorge with cool swimming and hillsides covered in trees as their recreational area, just a ten minute walk from the middle of town.

That night we called Paul's parents and skyped mine to have our last contact with home before setting off into the wilderness. My parents and sisters were gathered together and we could see the Christmas tree in the background as they prepared for the feasts and celebrations ahead. We sang Feliz Navidad to one another and then said a somewhat tearful good-bye. 

While I've always loved the holiday season, I thought it wouldn't be too hard to be away on the 25th, after all, it was only one Christmas and there would be many more to celebrate together again once we were back. We certainly had more than enough to distract us from what we were missing.

First of all, there was the time consuming and careful preparation of eight days of food for our hike. Even with all the thought we'd put into our meals we still managed to come up one meal short at our campsite at the trailhead, and ended up eating our leftover breakfast cereal with milk powder another camper had left behind (we heated up some water to mix with it so at least it was warm powdered milk). yum! 

Then there was the excitement of setting off on the epic Overland Track on Christmas Eve.

The sky was blue, 

and the dolerite stone columns soaring to the sky beckoned us to climb their heights.

Our first ascent was to the top of Cradle Mountain, grappling up and over boulders 

then reaching the summit with exhilaration, 

enjoying the speccy (Australian for spectacular) panoramic view.

The descent over the rocks was a little tricky 

until we got back to the boardwalk at which point it was smooth sailing.

Dancing outside our hut on the helipad to Queen's "Thank God it's Christmas" on the speaker was fun,

but even in spite of the amazing day and evening we'd had, we still went to sleep feeling a little sad on Christmas Eve - Kyra crying and Tom vehemently insisting that without Santa, family and Toronto, it was the worst Christmas in the world. 

The sadness brought its own insight into what Christmas means to us. We have always loved all that surrounds our mostly secular celebration of the season - the time with family and friends, the food, the parties and of course the excitement about Santa. On the spiritual side we try to honour the historical significance of the day and the ideals of peace and hope for the world. I had felt that we could reflect on those ideals and celebrate in our own way while we were travelling, but we found that just wasn't enough. We ended up feeling like we had largely skipped Christmas altogether. In cultures around the world tradition and ritual play a big role in binding people together and celebrating life's milestones, whereas in ours the two are seldom present. I realized that Christmas at home is one of the very few rituals we consistently observe in our family, not only bringing us closer together but also marking the passage of time in a meaningful way. I vowed not to take it for granted in the future.

While December 25 was very different, we ended up having a terrific day, and everyone's spirits rose with the dawn. We had spent the night in the hut with two separate families who had brought presents along for their teenage kids. Amazingly some secret Santa had hung chocolate stockings on the wall for our kids, and I took out my very small stash of presents which the kids opened as the kids ate their oatmeal (cranberries and cinnamon made it seasonal). They loved their gifts (a necklace for Kyra, a kiwi stamp for Tom and a pen for Jacob, woohoo!). 

Then another group of campers showed up to have breakfast in our hut. One of them had a Santa hat and a big red Santa bag, and as they played carols on their phone he walked around bestowing gifts on his friends. At the bottom of the bag he pulled out a bag of gummies and gave them to our kids, who were delighted. Tom said he had changed his mind and that this was in fact a great Christmas.

The sun was out which meant we were warm enough to swim with a buff Santa at Lake Wills

where we stopped for lunch. We had a beautiful hike and reached the hut with plenty of time left in the day. It was sunny and hot so after ditching our packs we went to Lake Windermere for another cold but refreshing swim.

We celebrated the night with games and conversation with our trail buddies, and went to sleep having had a merry Christmas after all.

We awoke the next day to pouring rain and a feverish Tom, who vomited all over the floor, then went back to sleep for two hours. We were given various medications - it turned out one group we were hiking alongside was comprised of doctors and dentists packing everything one could possibly need in an emergency - and offers of help with our packs to keep us going. We gratefully declined the help and pondered whether to keep hiking or take a day off so Tom could rest. When he woke up he was the same bouncy boy as ever, so we set off in the rain,

warm and dry under our rain gear.

Plants with beautiful berries in many shades of pink lined the walking path. It took us forever to find out the name - we kept asking people "what is the name of the plant with those pink berries" - it turned out to be Pinkberry.

When we caught up with our friends they were delighted that Tom was back to normal, and the kids ended the evening building Santa out of nano lego (another gift from fellow hikers!)

and playing card games.

Despite the great camaraderie we said good-bye to our hiking cohorts the next day so that we could take a side trip and spend one more night at the same hut. On the Overland track hikers can take as long or as short as they want to do the track, so some people do it in three days or less, while others take eight or nine days to experience it to the fullest.

Our side trip was to the top of Mount Oakleigh. To get to the top we passed through many layers of changing landscape. First was the boggy marsh, whose mud puddles seemed innocuous enough until Jacob stepped into one and plunged in up to his chest. We contemplated turning back but he was wearing rain pants and jacket so we figured it would all just shake off as we walked.

Next were the enchanted forests 

with jumping pademelons (marsupials that look like mini wallabies), then a band of giant grass trees,

and finally prickly alpine vegetation that scratched us as we squeezed through the narrow path.

It was cloudy so the panorama couldn't quite compare with the amazing one we'd experiencd from Cradle Mountain, but we still had a pretty good view. 

On our way back to the hut we reached the marsh so I reminded everyone to be extra careful of the deep mud pits disguised as shallow puddles. Kyra said "mom that looks like one right there" and stepping towards it I said "no it's noooooooot" as I sank waist deep into the muck.

No showers at the hut of course so I just rinsed off a bit in the stream then hung my stuff out to "dry", which it wasn't the next morning but I wore it just the same!

Fortunately the weather turned back into glorious sunshine so I didn't mind being a bit damp and muddy. That day's climb was to the top of Mount Ossa, the highest mountain in Tasmania. Starting off along the boardwalk through eucalyptus forest and clumps of buttongrass,

we came to a junction where we could leave our heavy packs and then start the ascent. An echidna joined us for our hike along the ridge.

The way to the top involved more boulder climbing.

We stopped on the plateau to have a snack at the edge of an alpine tarn, clear as a looking glass.

We could see for miles at the summit,

then headed back down and along the boardwalk 

to the junction where our packs awaited - some of their contents somewhat redistributed by curious currawongs (from the crow family) who knew how to open zippers. Fortunately the food was securely protected but our first aid kit had been ransacked.

Normally the weather on the track is wet, grey and cold, but an unusually (and dangerously) dry spell continued to hold and the rest of the hike was beautiful and warm. 

Sun dappled the leaves of the forest we trekked through, 

and though it failed to heat the water at Hartnett Falls where we stopped for lunch and an icy swim,

it cast a warm glow on the mountains behind our campsite.

By this time we had bonded with a new group of hikers, including two separate groups from Melbourne. Maree, Kym and her dad were just in Tasmania to do the Overland, while Hugh and Zoe were here a bit longer to do the track and visit with friends. It was 11 km over mostly easy terrain and a suspension bridge

to Narcissus Hut, where we said bye to Maree, Kym and Peter.

Most hikers caught a ferry to the end of the track, but Hugh and Zoe continued on foot to the end of the track as we did, after a swim of course. 

Our final night on the track was the camp at Echo Point, where we met a dad and his son who had kayaked in for the night. They took Tom for a paddle 

and afterwards the two boys spent most of the evening fishing off the dock with a stick and some plastic wire baited with a wood chip with a fish painted on it. We looked for platypus with Hugh and Zoe 

but despite our searching we only glimpsed one from afar.

The next morning we had to hike 13 km before catching our 11:30 bus, so we rose at sunrise

and walked as fast as we could through the forest,

until finishing, tired but triumphant.

We all passed out on the bus to Hobart, catching up on our sleep on the last day of 2015 so we'd be ready for more adventures in the new year!