The Leaving of Hobart down the Derwent River – And time to reflect
At last we were off and Zoonie was back on track with Nichola, a yacht with an interesting heritage. Designed by renowned, prolific and versatile Australian designer and draftsman Joe Adams back in the 1970’s she is 32’ long, has a double chine, (two angles between her bottom and sides), she looks like an overgrown dinghy and sails much like one too. She is made of steel and weighs just 7 tons. No wonder she is fast. Joe Adams vessels were made in all materials including ferro cement and there are hundreds still around.
Poor Joe came to a sticky end. At the ripe old age of 81 he was found sitting on the settee in his home in the Philippines with machete cuts on his hand and into his neck and skull, something to do with his calling in a debt.
We followed Nichola to Alexanders Bay on Bruny Island for our first stop, not far but then we left late. It was so calm in there that despite Ken picking up the empty mooring on the advice of the police on their launch and despite us tying up alongside the mooring line to the buoy remained slack as you can see.
On shore there was a perfect farm for Rob with his love of the sweet, red succulent, bite sized fruit. See the widow’s weeds of black netting covering the grade one cherry orchard going up the hill. A location geographically suited to get all the day’s sunshine, perfect. I imagined what it must be like to live so near the convenience of a capital city and yet so remote to be permanently peaceful and maybe the pretty little yacht was theirs too.
The next morning we moved on down the channel between Bruny and the mainland, past the vast salmon farms you can see, where the ship tells us everyone loves their fish and into the D’entrecasteaux Waterway which led us towards another peaceful spot for our second night, this time in the Pigsties, a recess in Recherche Bay. Seals lay on their backs in the water relaxing with their heads down looking for the odd passing fish and theirs flippers sticking up. It was partially cloudy and cooler as we approached and there was snow on Mt La Perouse, brhhh.
We stayed offshore on approach because of the extensive kelp beds that can entrap a passing yacht as they did to one that passed inshore of us. He stopped dead and then gingerly reversed to get clear. Kelp around the prop and rudder is like rope.
The entrance was very narrow, with a rock in the middle of the channel. Nichola nosed her way carefully in and we followed her wake until she anchored and we rafted alongside again, it is so handy to be able to climb directly onto eachother’s boats and this time we had the company of two catamarans, we wondered if they would take off west with us the next day.
All around us was lush green woodland, so different to the parched fields we had been seeing. Maybe the fires had not reached this far south. Ken caught himself three carpet sharks, or was it one twice and another, and put them all back where they belong. We returned to Zoonie after a supper of mushroom stroganoff and watched one episode of Outlander before turning in for an early start in the morning. Lookout Southern Ocean, here we come.
Three Capes in one day – South East Cape, South Cape and South West Cape
South East Cape you see in the first photos is the first of the three capes we will bag on our way home and is the most southern at 43:38.37S and 146:49.39E. There are two other capes that are further south, South Cape New Zealand at 47 degrees south and Cape Horn at 55 degrees south but we will not be rounding those. The other two of the Five Great Capes that we will round, hopefully, are Cape Leeuwin on the south west corner of Aussie and Cape Agulhas off South Africa which is further south than the Cape of Good Hope.
But we were satisfied with three local capes in one day, South East and her sisters with a light headwind and minimal swell. Perfection would have been a wind from the side back so we could sail but never mind, short and frequent are the weather windows at the moment. We were back amongst the shy albatross, gannets and shearwater as we listened to a Mayday being dealt with somewhere on the west coast of Tassie which delayed the weather forecast but resulted in a happy ending.
Tas Maritime Radio broadcasts weather bulletins three times a day giving details of the general synopsis, wind force and direction, wave heights and swell in specific areas around the entire coast including Flinders Island in the north. It is modelled on our own Shipping Forecast but is run by volunteers who do a very professional job, but not without the occasional humorous interjection. The island you see in 735 pic with the water breaking over the middle is Maatsuyker Island (Pron. Matsiker) and it gets some pretty hellish winds as you can imagine, 56 knots on one report, fortunately we were safely tucked up at the time . The volunteer coastguards who man the lighthouse and weather station have to be prepared to stay there for six months at a time because of the cost of flying them in and out. One weather report went thus,
“Maatsuyker Island, they won’t know what’s hit them, its calm!” and on another occasion, “Maatsuyker Island, this must be a misprint, CALM!”
The main fishing around Tassie seems to be crayfish, at the moment anyway; although sometimes fishermen would tell us there weren’t many out there as the men approached the end of their quotas for the season and we had to be on constant look out for their buoys with the thick ropes tying them above the pots on the rocky sea-bed below. I wouldn’t like to do this trip under engine at night.
Well offshore seals would poke their heads up to see us go past and the southern swell would build and heave towards the coast in long pale green/white mounds that crash to destruction on the rock cliffs in magnificent style. And that on a calm day. Many of the inshore areas of this coast are still unsurveyed despite the work of such illustrious sailors as Matthew Flinders and, judging by the names, Dutch and French explorers too.
Now you might think that with a headwind against us along the south coast as soon as we turned around South West Cape we might be able to sail with the wind on our beam, but it drew us around veering north as it went, the direction we were headed for the last few miles before the entrance to Bathurst Harbour. Nichola was more ambitious than us keeping her sails out to catch whatever wind they could for some forward momentum.
In photo ending 790 the entrance is to the right of the low white rock band and it was a delight, after a long day at sea making our way around southern Tassie, to glide along on the calm water with moleskin hills showing granite face in places and slip into Wombat Cove where Nichola rafted up with us for the night.
Wombat Cove to a Hike up Balmoral Hill
But first a short aside. It’s 6.00am here in Portland Harbour, Victoria on Saturday the 25th January. The wind is still blowing a strong westerly but as the Australia Day long weekend holiday is upon us the local commemorations are starting with countless fishing boats being backed down the ramp behind 4X4 trucks to speed off for the start of the fishing competitions. We were in Darwin this time last year. The men have struggled to erect the tents and staging for the Festival of music, food and watersports entertainment (fishing clinics, talks and giveaways, competition results, kayak hire and youth activities, just a few metres away from us on the foreshore. The musical entertainments bill is being filled with D J Noah, Mint, Dean and Damon, J.A.B. Sides and the Vanns and topped with Jon Stevens, no I haven’t either but we soon will.) Meanwhile back to the blog.We didn’t go right in to Wombat Cove (I have marked in pencil as number one on the chart photo) because it is tiny and we had Nichola rafting alongside for the night, so we anchored in 5 metres on mud, lovely grippy, thick, black, stinky glutinous ouse just like Zoonie dug into in Newtown Creek on the Isle of Wight. The only dragging there would be ourselves to bed.
After supper we cleared away and played games. Mexican dominoes and Up and Down the River, a card game from Bron and Ken and Scrabble and Tri-onimos from Zoonie’s cupboard. We got on so well with Ken and Bron and found we had more and more things in common. Bron has had a life of adventure, domestic trauma matched with joy and has found extreme happiness with Ken since she has known him over the past few years trusting totally in him as a companion and skipper and Ken has a remarkable brain, both artistic and intellectual and having lived for forty years on the little island off the north east coast of Tasmania, Flinders Island he knows and understands well the plight of the less fortunate, especially the indigenous people and has done much to help them in his role on the council and as mayor. We were privileged to share their company.
Nichola moved gently away from us and we followed her along Bathurst Channel towards Casilda Cove (number two anchorage) where the two would wait as we four climbed the 562 metre Balmoral Hill, not quite a mountain!
We all climbed into Ken’s hard tender as we had to find the overgrown gap in the rocky shoreline foliage onto the track and felt Zoonie’s little rubber duck would be too vulnerable from the rocks. Passing through the bottleneck between our cove and Horseshoe cove you can see on some of the photos, we used eight eyeballs navigation to see a way to the shore and what looked like might be a break in the bush. Bingo, after a short scramble we were on the foot wide track that meandered away infront and upwards.
I have previously described the hillcover as moleskin because that is the effect the buttongrass gives at a distance. The hillslopes are covered with it as it thrives in these peatlands. It has a single seedhead that grows on a stem well above the leaves and the round seed head surface erupts into spikes which can and do give one an alarming shock if they are caught by the wind and hit your face. The ancient compacted peat trapped over the quartzite rock is the base to the most beautiful alpine-like garden of flowering plants and we strode upwards like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music, ready to burst into song at the top. Well not quite, for one thing the path was uneven with lots of holes to give one a foot grip and for another it was littered with wombat, wallaby and possum poo, so any bursting forth could have been quite messy if not physically damaging.
With her expertise Bron was able to identify the local mammal population by their poo and if I remember correctly wombat poo is cone-shaped. The whole surrounding area reminded Rob and me of Scotland and has since inspired us to cruise that area at home sooner rather than later.
Heather and holes, banksias and burrows. The holes belong to crayfish that climb far away from the water and while unwittingly giving the peat deposits and essential breath of fresh air gain their food by munching on the roots of plants that protrude into their little subterranean homes.
The views from the top were matched by the peaceful silence and the knowledge that this is one of the few untouched wildernesses left. It was hot and windless up there and much cooler down below. We gazed out over nature’s pristine work, a perfect balance of climate and topography, a harmony between the elements and the flora and fauna, what could possibly damage this wonderful, isolated and inaccessible place?
We sat on cushions of buttongrass and ate our sandwiches fully expecting to hear the sounds of a solo piper or be knocked off our tussocks by Jamie and Claire from Outlander galloping up on their steeds. We weren’t disappointed when they didn’t.
There was severe weather forecast for the next day so in the back of our minds as we reached the summit was the need to move on to a safe, sheltered anchorage and so we headed for the uncharted Kings Cove just around the entrance to the right in the harbour itself. Our convoy included Zoonie at the front finding our way down the deepest part of the channel using the chartplotter and eyeball nav, followed by Nichola and then a big, very smart fishing boat that appeared to have the same thoughts as us; shelter. A sea eagle wheeled around above us watching to see if we disturbed anything that might make a dive worthwhile.
(A sturdy fisherman with a coffee to go in one hand and a loaded wheelbarrow in the other followed by two official looking guys with water bottles have just strode down the pontoon, maybe to monitor the competition that started a few minutes ago. It’s all hotting up here for the boys!)
Awaiting a gale in Kings Cove
As we turned the corner past Kings Point we spotted a nice meaty looking buoy with a substantial mooring line attached, so we attached ourselves to it and Nichola came alongside for a brief few hours of fun before the arrival of the storm. Tucked up in this cove protected us not only from the ensuing westerly wind but also meant we would not be subject to the long fetch of weather as it sped across the harbour to the eastern side.
Bron had been busy baking scones on the passage down Bathurst Channel to the cove and we were able to provide the strawberry jam I had made with Martina in Newcastle, so our games evening followed an English Cream Tea. The calm before the storm. Nichola moved away from us to anchor a short distance from the shore, but she started dragging in the night so I had a little shock for a second when I was checking on her the next morning and she wasn’t in the same spot. Just a little nearer to the shore.
As you can see on our barometer the Atmospheric Pressure dropped by a whopping 29mbs overnight, so a day on board was called for and Rob busied himself sorting out why one of the 12 volt charging sockets had given up the ghost; just look at that corrosion, Rob found the problem in a wire connector behind the control panel above the chart table and we traced the cause of the fault back to the seawater deluge Zoonie experienced on our way back to New Zealand from Fiji, if you remember, salt water never completely dries out!
Listening again to the excellent Tassie weather forecast we learned that a fifty knot wind was expected with a sea-state of 2 – 2.5 metres which added to the swell height of 3-4 metres would give a gut wrenching sea height of 6.5 to 7 metres, it must have been impressive out at Maatsuyker Island. We still had the wind generator working to keep the batteries charged but we were watching it like a new born and as soon as the charge reached 100% or the wind went above 30 knots it was turned off.
The wind would persist all day and into the night, the Roaring Forties were living up to their reputation and we were at latitude 43’21 south. We recorded 39 knots in our sheltered spot and just hoped the mooring was as substantial down to the sinker as it was on top. It was uncannily hot outside; was the north element of this wind coming from Aussie’s hot red centre, pushed onward by the Indian Ocean Dipole? I think so.
Ken told us via VHF that during the night his dinghy had been flipped over and the motor went underwater and he was washing it through and trying to get it re-started. I had total faith in his efforts, if anyone could achieve what he set out to do it was Ken.
By the following morning the blow had moved on eastwards over the island and Nichola came alongside for a chat, lunch, games and to formulate a plan for an afternoon exploration of the nearby beach; we were all feeling a little cooped up and needed some exercise.
For some reason I wore walking trainers and did not want to get them wet, I think I was hoping for a short hike but there were no obvious trails to follow, so Rob kindly carried me ashore. Instead of vast vistas there were lots of mini landscapes along the colourful shoreline. Looking up the little creeks, flowing with peaty brackish water, one could imagine we were witnessing the home of elves and goblins. Lush smooth green earth curved gently down to the sandy beach in places giving way to level rocky surfaces covered in mossy algae like weed with tiny white flowers.
Ken was shaping views with his hands and photographing them with his camera ready to turn them into personalised paintings back in his studio only to find his camera memory card was full and hadn’t saved them. Hopefully he will find some in Bron’s and my photos.
That evening, over supper, we planned a move the next day around to Clayton’s Corner anchorage with a view to a long dinghy excursion up the Melaleuca Inlet. Now the bad weather had passed so much seemed possible.
Claytons Corner – What was it like to live there?
It was a very short trip following Nichola around to the next cove, anchoring close to but separately because we weren’t going to be on board for a while and inflating our tender ready for the two pronged adventure; first we were drawn to the well maintained jetty where we knew there was a homestead and then on up the Melaleuca Inlet towards the camp and airstrip.
In the back of our minds was the next stage of the sea journey north to Macquarie Harbour, but today was destined a fun day in the sun.
Win and Clyde Clayton moved into this home they built in the year I turned 10, 1962 and left for a retirement nearer to civilisation in the year Stuart and I went to the USA with our Safari Landrover for a long tour. 1962 to 1976, fourteen years in the wilderness with just a few distant neighbours to share company with on occasions. So what was it like and could you imagine doing the same thing?
Well they were both born to the remote life so that must have helped and once they moved away from their exposed home in Bond Bay they would have found delightful shelter here. The surrounding trees that now tower above the homestead would obviously have been there then and allowed Clyde to cultivate some vegetables and fruit and Win to re-instate her garden with its flowering bushes including a rhododendron. After a few hours of toil on a sunny day what could be nicer than sitting on the back veranda drinking a hot cuppa and watching the birds and bees clear up and visit the many blooms.
Both of them found harmony with nature, look at the pygmy possums who found a friend in Clyde and a comfy spot on his shoulder to say nothing of refreshments from the larder.
We were surprised to find both doors open when we arrived. There was no-one there at the time and we were trusted to enjoy the home without doing anything negative, in fact a warm welcome awaited us from the home and the memory of a couple who would have given us an equally kind welcome had they been there in the flesh. Hikers are invited to take shelter there and sleep on the bare beds. The open fire in the living room had been used recently and the kitchen only needed the addition of food to create a wholesome evening meal.
We walked on up the gentle slopes towards the promontory overlooking Kings Point to enjoy the view before wandering back down to the garden where we found the couple from the other boat that had weathered the storm with us in Kings Cove. They were there for a few weeks enjoying the peace away from their busy lives in Hobart and they told us that they donated the cooking range to the home a few years ago. I briefly wondered if Win would have been grateful or if she would have been quite content with the cooking method she used. Either way the walkers must enjoy its luxury. Bron and I left a message in the visitors book, had a quick look through the library and the family photos on the walls and then we made our way back to our tenders for the next stage in the adventure. I think I could have lived there for a year maybe, to experience all the seasons and do lots of writing. How about you?
Up Melaleuca Creek – And back through time
Sometimes I wake during the night and am drawn to take a look around at the wonder of the night sky, the presence of stars and the moon and how they shed the dimmest light on the landscape around. The photo at the start of the last blog was a result of a short commune with our surroundings in Kings Cove and Mount Rugby, a real mountain, keeping overall guard.
But now the sun was up and Ken’s motor was behaving itself despite its unwelcome drink as we sped away from our yachty homes for the journey up the creek.
In places the dark brown water was untouched by the wind and the surface mirrored the surrounding hills and cloudless blue sky. Approaching each corner and bend we wondered what would be beyond and we could check our progress using the Navionics app on Rob’s IPhone. Small boats came by and we imagined they had dropped walkers off on their next stage and then a bigger tripper boat approached us, “Fear not dear friends, we come in peace and will do you no harm” the guide jokingly called over to us through his mic.
The loose arrangement of logs and lines you see in one of the pics was where decades ago recently felled Houn Pine logs were rafted and tied together by men working from fragile little punts and standing on the logs themselves. A potentially dangerous job I thought. The rafts could then be floated towards the estuary entrance ready for shipment to the sawmill.
A pair of Black Currawong with white-tipped wings flew from one side of the creek to the other bank near to where we passed a beautiful lagoon into which only certain people were allowed to venture, we would sit alongside it for our lunch later.
Then suddenly, after an hour of motoring, the very sturdy new pontoon appeared with a stack of kayaks stored on the bank for wandering further upstream as part of a tour. We tied up out of the way of the boats for which the jetty was built, and scrambled ashore, numb bums welcoming the change in posture. Unexpectedly we came upon an elevated walk over the fragile peatland that was open to all comers and was intended to tell the story of the first inhabitants of the region, the Needwonnee Aborigines.
The Needwonnee People – A Mystery Tribe
Little has been written about this south west tribe and the available information comes from the elders of three other local tribes. I wonder where they went? They appear to have made a successful getaway from the policy to shunt them all to outlying islands in the Bass Strait, mostly Flinders Island according to Ken. They appear to have lived a content and sustainable existence for tens of thousands of years and we could certainly learn from them in our consumeristic and unsustainable lifestyle.
We used the last of our morning to explore the walk. The photo showing the single long stem with the little mine shaped seed head is the buttongrass which predominates all over this landscape and the little reed canoe reminds me of the polynesian style of bundled reeds that Thor Heyerdahl copied from Egyptian wall paintings with his Ra 1 and Ra 11 sailing vessels he sailed through the Med and across the Atlantic to prove a certain east to west migratory route. I could just see a young aborigine silently paddling over the protected lagoon to find food for the evening meal.
The six naturally rusted plaques with their pressed out images tell the story of Parlevar, the first Aboriginal Man. To make him Moihernee, the Great Spirit, took some earth up to the sky and fashioned a man who had a tail and legs without knee joints, so he could not sit down. Dromerdeener, the Star Spirit, cut off his tail, cured the wound with grease and made knee joints for Parlevar.
Parlevar stayed in the sky for a very long time. Eventually he came to the land by walking along the Milky Way. He argued with Dromerdeener and was forced to leave the sky and come down to land near Louisa Bay. There he fought with many evil spirits who lived on the ground. His wife came down to live in the sea and many of their children came down in the rain.
When Moihernee died he went to the land near Cox Bight. There he turned into a large rock that stands majestically on a point of land near the sea. Another lovely origin story I thought you might like.
In the camp I liked the little ditty bag hanging outside the hut that someone would have used for collecting shells or nuts and fruits and the red hand print on the tree trunk used as way markers. But most of all I liked the fact the walk had been created with the help of the aboriginal people who know about this mysterious clan, unseen and unharmed by white man.
The pathway took us on towards the present camp and for lunch we sat on the boardwalk looking over the lagoon, our feet just above the ancient peat bog and tried to take in the beauty of the place for future reference. Thank goodness for photos.
People who need People – And where has the orange-bellied Parrot gone?
It is easy to understand how important family and friends are to people living busy lives in isolated places like Tasmania’s south west wilderness but what is surprising is how few other humans are needed to remain happy and content with one’s life. The quality of those bonds was sufficient to raise well balanced children and sustain marriages and friendships for life.
What a highlight it must have been for the King family, including the girls, Mary and Janet, to entertain Sir Edmund Hillary for a few days and what fun those girls must have had as they pottered up and down the creek in their dinghies exploring their environment.
Once all the Huon pines had been felled the search was on for other valuable products and using skills learned from England and the gold rush in North America Peter Willson discovered the ore needed to make tin, cassiterite and his friends leant a hand in the mining, Charles King using gold he found in the mine to make his wife Margaret’s wedding ring.
All that finished when the area was made into a National Park in 1970 and since then the main concern has been with conservation of the flora and fauna of the area.
So with everything here set up to preserve the native plants and animals why are there so few orange-bellied parrots left? The answer is because they over winter in Victoria and South Australia where they suffer as a result of loss of habitat and genetic diversity, fox and cat predation, the more frequent bushfires, competition for nest sites and disease.
Here in the Southwest National Park the staff are working on their preservation by releasing captively bred parrots back into the wild, providing supplementary food at the table you see outside the museum and providing nesting boxes from which they can monitor the numbers. Possibly the warming climate will make it unnecessary for them to migrate in the winter and may also encourage other species to make the Park their all year round home where their survival prospects are better.
We wandered back to the jetty along the boardwalk past the airstrip. The tenacious little crayfish are prolific here and their little holes with mud ‘chimneys’ proliferate all around us, literally millions of little holes all over the landscape aerating the damp peaty soil and contributing to its on-going health.
Bron came back in our dinghy with us so Ken was able to get more speed out of his two cylinder motor and we shared another evening before turning in early ready for the start of the journey to Macquarie Harbour northwards up the west coast of Tasmania the next day, our ‘Swallows and Amazons’ Adventure tucked under our belts.