Writings

A Journal Entry from the Author’s Family Vacation to the Land Down Under
by Cynthia Reeg

December 28, 2007
Today, early, we docked in Hobart, Tasmania . The morning was gray, windy, and quite chilly. (50’s F.) The tree-covered hills surrounding the small city were wreathed in fog. The mist seemed to wrap its arms around the quaint houses, hugging them close to the mountains lest they slide off.

Eager to begin our adventure, my husband Robert and I went into town early before most of the shops had even opened. We watched fishermen and dock workers unload crates of various fish for a small dockside restaurant, cleverly named Fishy Business. We fought against the strong wind for a block or two as we scouted out a tiny bit of the town—a fairly usual mix of small shops. But we soon came back to the dock area when we heard the boom of the loud speaker. It was an announcement to the growing crowd that the first of the many sailboats which had left Sydney harbor on Boxing Day was soon to reach port. These boats were competing in the annual Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race, a sometimes deadly contest which pits boats and sailors against the Southern Ocean’s often unruly gales known as the infamous Roaring Forties.

We scurried back onto our Celebrity line cruise boat, Mercury, for a better view of the harbor. Climbing up to the 12th deck, we made it just in time to see Wild Oats win the race—for the third straight year in a row. A new record!

Wild Oats bore a tall black mast, hung with a silver sail. The boat itself was trimmed in red, as were all the crew members in their matching attire. As it plowed through the gray waters of the Derwent River, which flowed into Sullivan’s Cove, it tilted dangerously to its side. All the crew clambered atop the starboard side, shifting the balance of weight to keep the boat from capsizing. What a majestic creature Wild Oats was! So regal, so sure, so stately.

Lucky for us, by the afternoon a whole new forecast kicked into Tazzy gear. As we bounced in our tour bus up the winding roadway of Mt. Wellington, we found the former dark gray skies turned to bright blue. The lush rainforest vegetation sparkled with leftover drops of the previous evening’s rainfall.

The bus dropped us off near hiking tracks. Dave, our knowledgeable guide, led us through a dense Alpine forest—pointing out Mountain Pepper Berry trees (with their spicy leaves and fruit) and other numerous Tazzy berries and trees, many of them found nowhere else in the world. One of the highlights of the hike was a tall, ancient tree named the Octopus Tree because of its giant tentacle-like roots which had wrapped around a large boulder. Truly, the boulder seemed caught in the monster tree’s grasp.

The hike ended with a British-inspired tradition, afternoon tea. Dave brought tea, pepper berry biscuits (shortbread cookies with pepper berry seasoning which made for a sweet & spicy taste sensation), croissants, blackberry jam (native to area) and local cherries (remember, the seasons are reversed and December in Tasmania is summertime.)

After our short tea time, we climbed back into the bus and began our ascent of Mt. Wellington. The winding, narrowing road finally brought us to the top—1271 m (over 4,000 ft.) We learned that Charles Darwin had ventured to this same mountain top as a young man. He did it on foot!

The views from the top were spectacular—a vista of Hobart and surrounding towns, bays, and hills. Earlier on our forest hike, we had viewed Hobart from a lookout spot. Then the harbor and its teeny boats had seemed small, but from the top of Mt. Wellington the harbor looked like a mere speck. With great force, the winds whipped all about us. We leaned into them to stay upright. The dark volcanic rocks pushing up through the limestone looked jagged, alien—almost like formations from some distant planet.

In the late afternoon we returned to our ship. As we stood looking out from our balcony, the town band—a group of 13 red-kilted musicians—serenaded us with a farewell of bag pipes and drums. They played a variety of songs, ranging from Waltzing Matilda to Amazing Grace. It was so sweet, so moving, almost surreal—an ultimate tribute to the region’s Scottish heritage.

Finally, with a blast from our ship’s horn we sailed away. The dockside pigeons and sea gulls screeched a final Hobart farewell. A Tazzy day well spent.