Tasmania
Tasmania by Bike: How a Stone Soup Traveler Gets Going
You know the story. Old man shows up in a village with a rock and pot to his name. Puts some water in that pot, the rock too, and pretty soon both are boiling. A villager walks up, asks the man what he’s cooking and the man replies “stone soup”.
Then the old man says the soup he’s making would be better if it had some carrots. And you know what happens next. The visitor goes home, returns with a… Continue reading
Tasmania by the Numbers: Cycling Around Tasmania on a $10 Bike
It’s official. My voyage around Tasmania on a junk shop bike is complete. I’m back in North Carolina spending some time on the farm. Still, before life in the Tarheel state drags me into another adventure, I wanted to share some last Tassie thoughts and images with you. To that extent, I’ve put together a “Tassie by the… Continue reading
Cast Away on a Whaleboat
Sheesh! Last time I wrote you I was waxing poetic on Tasmanian country roads. Just to show what wonderful things they lead to, the gravel road I followed lead me to a 30-foot open whaleboat, an overnight stranding that amounted to a modern day cast-away status – and a… Continue reading
Biking Around Tasmania: One Last Ride Before Leaving
Sheesh Bucky! The ten dollar bike and I have been traveling around Tasmania for going on half a year now. Which means it’s time to think about heading home to North Carolina.
Yep, on May 28 I depart Hobart, Tasmania for the long wing home.
Still before I hit the road, I decided to take one last ramble over the hills. That means meandering over the mountain range that separates Tasmania’s west and east coasts.… Continue reading
How to Smoke Fish Without a Refrigerator: A Bike Camper’s Guide
People wonder. How do you live on a bike without refrigeration? It’s as though the Big Chill is some invisible cord that tethers people to civilization.
For most things, it’s not required. Oats, vegetables and eggs don’t need cooling if consumed in a timely manner. Milk comes… Continue reading
Five Days at Macquarie Beach: Tasmania’s Southern Ocean Shore
In less than a month, I return to North Carolina. My half year bike voyage of Tasmania will be over.
To sear some final southern ocean images into my brain, I spent 5 days camped at Macquarie Beach, west of Strahan. Each day I walked the beach looking for something to bring home in my brain. For you, I… Continue reading
Shonky Freewheel Fix: Bicycle Repair in Tasmania
Recently, on a steep descent outside Tunnel, Tasmania, the pedals on my bike, which should stop spinning when you stop pedaling, went into overdrive. Like an imp of satan had taken over the pedaling, the pedals took off at a blazing, ankle breaking speed.
Luckily I don’t have toe clips, those cage-like things that hold your feet to the pedals. So I just lifted my boots off the cheap plastic pedals and let them thrash around until I coasted to… Continue reading
Why They Call It the Pieman River: A Tasmania Ferry Story
It struck me as curious. How does a Tasmanian river come to be called the Pieman River? Recently, while spending some time with the crew of the “Fatman” ferry, Tasmania’s smallest, remotest punt, I found out why.
In the interview you’re about to hear, I’m hanging out with ferry operator Blackie Stewart in the Fatman’s wheelhouse. After he’s explained the punt’s workings,… Continue reading
Driving the Fatman: Tasmania’s Smallest, Remotest Ferry
Traveling around Tasmania on my rapidly disintegrating bike, I recently had the honor of spending a few days with the crew of the “Fatman”, Tasmania’s smallest, remotest ferry. In the course of my visit, I had a chance to take a turn at the helm.
So what’s it like to drive the “Fatman”?
A lot, it turns out, like driving my ten-dollar bike. In places where you’d expect high dollar, legit parts, you’ll be… Continue reading
How the Fatman Ferry Works (and How It Got Its Name)
It’s a curious thing. Travel down Tasmania’s rugged west coast on a bike, as I did recently, and about half way down, the gravel road comes to an abrupt stop at the Pieman river. Full stop. No bridge. Some days there’s not even a safety barrier to keep cars from driving into the river.
Sort… Continue reading
The Rest of the Story: Riding Into Strahan, Tasmania
The old pushie (push bike) and I have just rolled to a halt in Strahan, Tasmania.
The past 2 weeks on the road have yielded a bumper crop of audio footage — from interviewing a man and dog in Paradise to riding the Fatman across a river named after a cannibal. Yep, at this point that makes no sense to you. But check back shortly. A shower after 2 weeks on the… Continue reading
Hauling Wild Apples in My Boots Through Tasmania
It happens. Biking around Tasmania on a junk shop bike, I come across stuff I’d like to take with me. But often there’s just not room.
Take the apple season. In these late summer days, wild, well, let’s call them feral, apple trees drape their bounty across the dirt road shoulders. (Quick apple lingo: “feral” means you can reach them from your bike. “Someone else’s” means you have to climb across a fence and sidle up next to an apple… Continue reading
Sounds Like the Roaring Forties
Recently, while traveling across Flinders Island on my cast off bike, I took a break next to a sign welcoming me to the Roaring Forties. After toasting the event, I whipped out my audio recorder to capture the sound the sign was making. I bottled it up in my audio recorder and today you’ll have a listen.
What you’ll hear is the wind blowing over two bolt holes on the Roaring Forties sign.… Continue reading
Toasting the Roaring Forties With a Fly
In the last update, I was on Flinders Island toasting the Roaring Forties. To be precise, I was beneath the “You are crossing the 40 South Parallel” sign lifting a jar of scotch to my lips. That’s when I heard the buzzing in the air.
What the hell was that?
It didn’t sound like an albatross, cliff or flapping sail, all the sounds I associate with this way-south part of… Continue reading
Welcome to the Roaring Forties
Roaring Forties. The words conjure images of the salt captain braced against the ship’s helm, sparks flying from his pipe. Sails tattered. Lee shore looming, hard and horrible, under the dolphin striker stay.
But just what are the Roaring Forties? Where do they lie? What do they sound like?
A few years ago, I got close to them in my sailboat Sea Bird.… Continue reading
