The pub was the only place around we could see any light. As my boyfriend Brian and I entered the smudging smoke, a deep and slightly drunk voice came straight at us.
�That�s what I said, just watch, I bet they�ll be back in ten minutes. It�s not even five. �
People laughed, and the voice continued. �I said, where the bloody hell they think they are going, at this time of the day?! There�s no where they can go other than up that bloody hill.�
Once we sat on the bar stool, we found ourselves in the center of five people�s attention. A stout man with a much tanned face wearing a flannel shirt and dirt-yellow overalls was the one making fun of us. The goateed pub owner brought us Victoria Bitter and pointed us to the menu written on a blackboard. Our choices were: Possum Pie, Maggot Mornay, Wallaby Stew, Leprechaun Pee Soup, Blow Fly Sponge, Kangaroo Tits, Native Hens, Withetty Grubs, Ant Rissole, and Cockroach Jelly, among other items.
We were hungry. For a good part of the afternoon, we were inching up the Weldborough Pass in northeastern Tasmania. After the fiery western sky turned purple, accompanied by wheels humming with joy, we rolled down the unmarked summit through temperate rainforest and overshot Weldborough Pub by at least 500 yards. I had no idea we were watched by anybody inside, even more so, what was on the menu.
�I think we�ll stay with the basic and go with � burger with-the-lot,� said Brian with an obvious hint of proud in his voice.
More than three weeks ago, we pushed our bikes (or push-bikes as the locals like to call them) out of the overnight ferry from Melbourne to Devonport on Tasmania, Australia�s smallest and southernmost island state. Since then, our vocabulary of Aussie English had increased steadily.
The quiet pub owner who seems to have a permanent smile on his face soon came back with our �burger with-the-lot�. They stacked higher than the mountain pass we just did and every bite was a full mouthful of flavor, followed by sauce dripping down my hands, chin, and Brian�s bristly beard.
What a difference a day made. That morning, we woke up to the high-pitched musical thrill of song birds in a sunshine-spilled campground by the ocean. Cycling up through white sand dunes, we fell helplessly to Captain Catch�s Fish n� Chips. After hours of first gear grinding, we ended the day in an old mining town deep in the mountain. That five people are about half of the population in town, yet hospitality and good natured humor are easy to find.
The owner and a middle-aged woman stayed up late with us. They were happy to know we had spent a considerable amount of time on the island. For most people, Tasmania, at the size of West Virginia, is a weekend destination. But for cyclists who have to slow down, there are always the Weldborough Pubs waiting for you to discover.
Our route started at the northwestern coast. Following the nicely paved Bass Highway, we cycled through small towns, farms, and fishing villages. The ocean was never too far out of sight, and so did road-kills, mostly possums, sometimes wallabies.
One night at the camp, our handlebar bags were raided by two possums that have mastered the technique of opening zippers. While having a snack break, we stumbled into an echidna, oblivious to our existence, thrusting away rocks bigger than its head looking for ants. And another night, in a tiny cottage on a pebble beach surrounded by hundreds of acres of wilderness, we tiptoed by a small window with Geoff, a local farmer turned conservationist, watching wild Tasmanian Devils munching their way around a whole wallaby carcass.
As soon as we turned our back on the ocean going toward the central midland, the hills started. Traffic was sparse. The occasional passers-by would often honk and wave at us as a way of encouragement. We needed that. Nearly a quarter of a mile before reaching the highest point on the paved road, I had to dismount and push my loaded bike up while watching Brian struggled to keep his front tire on the ground.
Three highway maintenance workers greeted us when we reached the summit. �This is it, Mate, you can�t go any higher,� one yelled at us. After passing a number of construction sites, we came to the conclusion that in Tasmania, you need three people to work on any project, one to work, one to watch, and another one keep them entertained.
Out in the distance, craggy peaks bond together forming a semicircle signaled our entrance into Cradle Mountain-Lake St. Clair National Park, a pristine piece of wilderness protected as a World Heritage Area. Here, our bikes and we took on a different route. We would hike the 60 miles Overland Track and our bikes would take a bus ride to Lake St. Clair, waiting for us to come out of the bush.
After six days and five nights through sun, rain, and hailstorm, by way of lakes, peaks, and rainforest, we reunited with our bikes. All our fellow trekkers returned to the comfort of air-conditioned buses. We slipped our muddy boots on after a hearty meal and peddled our way back into the wind and rain.
Situated between latitude 40� and 44� south, an area known to sailors as the �Roaring Forties�, Tasmania has its fair share of extreme weather that changes like the face of a three-year-old. On the western half of the island, it is not uncommon to start your day in T-shirts and end in winter jacket.
But once we descended the central plateau toward the east coast, balmy temperature with plentiful sunshine blessed our days and also that of the local farmers. One late afternoon, we sat by a picnic table overlooking rolling hills after a visit to a nearby farmstead. Under a wattle tree, we rubbed dirt off the bush tomatoes we just bought and popped them in one after another like candies. Those were the ugliest yet juiciest and sweetest tomatoes I have ever had. Over our heads, two white rosella were also indulging themselves with berries. Once in a while, a burst of purple seeds showered on us. We looked up. The trouble-makers just danced their way to another branch.
Following Derwent River, we breezed past orchards, free roaming sheep, and apiaries. Apples and peaches were in season. We made frequent stops by roadside stands, often with only a coin jar to drop our money in. Sometimes we bought a fruit or two; sometimes we just stopped to take a deep breath of the air laced with fruity sweetness.
Passed Hobart, Tasmania�s capital city, undulating landscape occupies most of the southeast region. Distance between towns is short though you can always find solitude if you wish. Several times, we set out without a fixed destination in mind and let the road take us to our day. On one of those days, we found ourselves talking to an old beekeeper at his home honey farm.
�I�ve been in the business for more than forty years,� said the old man who offered us to sample his prized honeys, clover, blue gum, and Tasmania�s most famous leatherwood.
�My wife said it�s a sticky business.� He started giggling like a kid while I still had a spoon in my mouth. The piquant taste so unique to leatherwood honey lingered long after we had pedaled several more hills. Our stomachs always have room for sweets; our panniers always have room for another jar of leatherwood honey.
We continued up north. Our route veered inland before we could reach the east coast. Traffic again was close to nothing. Within a day�s riding from Hobart, we had both �Bust-Me-Gall� Hill and �Break-Me-Neck� Hill under our wheels. We were in a hurry because we wanted to catch a ferry to Maria Island, used to be a colonial penitentiary, now a national park and wildlife reserve.
Tasmania, like New South Wales on mainland Australia, has a long history as a European penal colony. From late 18th to late 19th century, convicts from mostly England were sent to various settlements along Tasmania�s east coast. The most famous was Port Arthur on the Tasman Peninsular.
It took 20 minutes on the ferry to reach Maria Island from the rather unattractive commercial port of Triabunna.
Other than several stone structures from the penal time, the impact of previous settlements have virtually disappeared from Maria Island. As if the 20th century left this place all alone, here, there are basically no paved roads, no shops, and camping facilities are basic, no electricity and no shower.
We were ordered to wash any soil off our bikes at the dock before we set off. A healthy separation from the mainland has created a wildlife sanctuary on Maria Island. Sharing our tent sites were native hens and Cape Barren geese, minding their own business regardless of our present.
With no cars to yield and the only form of traffic being wallabies and geese going across the gravel path, riding along the white sand beach under brilliant blue sky was one of those moments I wish time could stand still. We followed the beach to a sandstone cliff, or rather, a watercolor of red, pink, and white. Thousands of years ago, Aborigines came here to collect these colorful stones for decoration.
Open gravel path soon entered the forest. The track became sandy and at various spots, very soft. We cycled in the shade of eucalyptus trees until we reached an open meadow, oddly placed in the middle of the forest.
For a period of time before Maria Island became a natural reserve, farming took place here in small scale. Two abandoned sheds on the meadow were all that remained from an old farm. But, it was far from deserted. The new residents are wallabies and pademelons, a small sized kangaroo about 2ft high with dark brown fur and a rather bulky build. I stood by the meadow. Those wallabies and pademelons were not shy at all. Several looked at me, none ran away.
When our path left the forest, I could see a narrow isthmus leading to the lower part of Maria Island. Shattered seashells and fishbone mangled with dried seaweeds covered the otherwise wild and rocky beach. There was a sign pointing to a convict ruin but I decided to leave the tortured souls alone.
We took a different route back through a trail leading to the highest mount on the island. It turned out to be rather rocky and steep. Coming down one of the sharp turns, I collided with a tree. A shadow in the forest distracted me. It was a Forester kangaroo, the biggest kangaroo in Tasmania.
We returned to our campsite just before sunset. While we tended the camp fire, two pairs of wallabies hopped across the meadow in complete unison, as if trying to chase the setting sun.
The next morning, we woke up to constant patters on the tent. Blue sky was no where to be found. Only the meadow was even greener in the drizzle than the day before.
At the end of our ferry ride back to the main island, buckets of rain poured on us. Streaks of water came down on my face as we scrambled to take shelter.
Pedaling with heavily water-logged boots, we set out for Swansea, 30 miles north. Constant northerly wind pushed us forward in full speed on Tasman Highway. After several rounds of downpour, when we were both soaked inside and out, a rainbow rose from the ocean. Sun peeked through the clouds. We could see a long and narrow peninsular across the choppy sea.
When the weather is good, a local farmer will take you and your bike on a small boat to that peninsular, Freycinet National Park. That would not only cut your cycling distance by more than 40 miles, but also you wouldn�t have to cycle the same way twice.
But we had no luck. The sea was too rough for the dinghy. On the other hand, strong wind that forced us away from the short-cut also helped us flying down the road. We both cranked up to the fattest gear and felt more powerful than ever. That was until we had to take that dreadful U-turn. And to add to the fun, another round of downpour started.
Constantly wiping rain water and sweat from cycling uphill against the headwind, we reached a wild beach campground. There was no luxury to speak of. The pit toilet was quite spartan, and our only source of water was that from the sky. But over a sandy trail, we got a stretch of magnificent oak-white beach. When there was a break in the weather, the view was simply priceless.
In between a lot of sun and occasional rainstorm, we pedaled north along the coast. One night we pampered ourselves with a three-room RV turned cabin, a heater to dry our wet boots and an in-suite kitchen to cook our favorite veggies. Other nights, we were all alone with nobody but absentminded calls from forest ravens, wild campfire, and the Southern Cross over our heads.
The goateed owner got up early to make a hearty Aussie breakfast for us, even though Weldborough Pub normally doesn�t open until lunch time. His tearoom was decorated with old pictures from the mining era. A leather fire blower hung above the stone fireplace. From a back door, he brought in an old axe, one that was his proud tool when he worked for the forestry. He demonstrated in front of us, something we considered an honor. We were not just his customers, we were treated like mates.
A sticker on the door says: I had a devil of a time at the littlest pub on the coast, Weldborough, Tasmania. Outside, it was solid blue sky.
We cycled up the �bloody hill� and found more of the same grade ahead of us. Through switch-backs within rainforest where giant ferns thrive, through streams trickled down the mountain, through free roaming cattle, through cheese factory and farm houses, we came to Launceston, Tasmania�s second largest city, the finishing point of our very first cycle touring journey.
�Honk for support!� A group of school children called out to every car passing by, for a cause we didn�t even know. At the top of our voice, Brian and I �honked�, adding amusement to the already energetic crowd. But we were the ones who were the most cheerful inside and out, as we not only survived in the land of Tasmanian Devils, but also, we had �a devil of a time�.
