Full Circle - Part II

Day 22 - Dec. 16, 2019

Corinna to Zeehan to Queenstown to Strahan and Back to Zeehan ~ 82 kms

"What a zany day!” I wrote in disbelief from within my flimsy fabric fortress that evening. I’d heard tales of mushroom pickers and hikers who, when lost in the woods, unknowingly wander in circles, convinced they’re walking in a straight line. My day had taken on a similar shape—a serpent chasing its own tail—leading me full circle, only to catch up with myself, nearly biting my own bum in the process.

It began from my cutesy rental cabin in Corinna, where, at 7:30 am, I packed all of my newly dried affairs and biked 45 seconds to the landing for the “Fatman Ferry.”  This cable drawn barge crosses the Pieman River, which lazily winds its way through the rainforest, towards the great rolling Indian Ocean swells.  

This morning, I could feel the pull of time drawing me back to where I began – Launceston, where, in just seven days, my journey would also end. There’s an inevitable shift when you start ‘closing the loop’—a melancholy creeping in as your mind drifts from the here and now to the logistics waiting ahead...  

Three weeks felt like a lifetime ago from when we started – first of all, I could no longer be referred to as “we”, having parted ways with my travel partner in the past 7 days. Secondly, as of last night, I was pretty sure I had reached complete spiritual enlightenment, after having listened to the audiobook “The Power of Now” by Eckhardt Tolle in its entirety, albeit in fits, through bouts of naps and manic reorganizing of my gear.  I was pretty sure I got the gist of it.

Now, as a spiritual guru,  I wondered empathetically about my friend and travel companion. I hadn’t heard from her since we parted ways, and I hoped she, too, had found some joy in her solitude. Our departure had been abrupt and unceremonious. Were we even still friends? Could we reconcile and find our way back to the ease we’d had before the trip? The answers were as murky as the waters of the Pieman River, and maybe we’d both arrive at clarity only after our own winding journeys.

I still hadn’t really decided which of the few good options I would take to get back to Launceston, but with failing brakes, there was a certain amount of restriction on where I could bike safely.  I did not want a repeat of yesterday’s death defying mishap, having narrowly missed being launched over a cliff to my untimely death, due to the brakes letting go. The question was not if, but when my brakes would decide to fail again.

Ironically, up until last week I had been feeling bound by the limitations of my friend’s travel style. Now my bicycle had taken her place in imposing its own limitations, but I wasn’t ready to call it quits just yet.  I had schemed a few routes based on necessity:  the return route must be mostly flat or uphill,  avoiding any and all major downhills until I could reach a big enough center with a bike shop, ideally. “This is doable” I thought optimistically, since the routes I looked at would lead me up the central Alps and high plateaus of the Island.   

The Fatman Ferry, simple and boxy, like a child’s Lego creation, is capable of taking only two standard vehicles at once, plus a handful of two-wheeled and foot traffic. I paid my 13 bucks and rolled my bike onto the barge. The first car was driven by an antisocial couple who had rented a cabin next to me the night before in Corinna. They seemed to be feeling their way through the world behind a screen, guided by a selfie stick that had become their blind man’s cane. I couldn’t help but wonder if their obliviousness might one day lead them to walk off a cliff.  Yesterday, prior to coming to peace with the universe, I would’ve cackled at the thought of it.  But who was I to judge? I was out here maybe knowingly biking off of cliffs, depending on my route selection. Different flavours of foolishness, but still equally reckless.  Just as it looked like they’d be my only company, a beat up Toyota truck suddenly roared out of the bush and  swerved onto the ferry at the last second. Driving it was a wiry man with wild ‘80s rocker hair, flame tattoos climbing his arm, and a smoke between his fingers. Our eyes met momentarily, and we exchanged nods.

The ferry operator asked where I was headed, and I mentioned Zeehan, hoping to find a bike shop. “Is it mostly uphill? My brakes are shot, and I’m trying not to go downhill at all.” The ferry operator chuckled, saying, “It’s mostly up. But there are some downs, too. About 40k of it to Zeehan.” Meanwhile, the man with the truck watched, taking a drag of his cigarette, eyes locked on me. Then, with the cigarette hanging from his mouth, he asked, ‘D’you need a roiiiiiide?’ as he blew the smoke out the side of his mouth.

The moment I had seen him, I sensed that offer was coming. I tend to have a radar for these things.  But was he a travel angel or a serial killer? I hadn't had time to run my trusty built-in character profiler, and I only had a split second to decide - the ferry ride was only 2 minutes long.  

Upon first impression, he looked rough as hell: a fresh gash across his crooked nose, tattered clothes, bloodshot blue eyes that held a piercing gaze. I glanced at the barge operator, who seemed perfectly unfazed by this local’s offer, even nodding in agreement. Next, I scanned the truck: a happy-looking dog in the back seat, plush fabric on the passenger’s side, and, somehow, the driver looked vaguely familiar. At that moment, my inner safety algorithm decided that the cozy seat and cheerful dog outweighed the rest.  Having passed my stringent observation process,  I loaded up my bike and panniers into the back of the stranger’s truck and jumped in. 

The thick Tarkine forest, with its side roads to God knows where, seemed like an ideal spot for a serial killer to ply his craft. Though I wasn’t completely “out of the woods,” I started to relax. The man, shy but kind, introduced himself as Johnny.  The best way to describe Johnny is that he resembled what ACDC’s Bon Scott would look like after feigning his own death and living in a cave for 30 years. He had a full, wild mop of hair, wore a ragged wool sweater layered with a torn flannel quilted jacket that hung from his cagey frame.  His hands were dirty, veiny and calloused, yet also long and elegant.

In my journal that night I noted:

“Johnny said he lived on the water not far from Corinna and goes crayfish fishing for work.  I am looking at the map right now and have no fucking clue where he came from.  There are no roads marked on the map near Corinna.  He says there are 17 fishing shacks down where he lives, but only he and another guy live there year round.  He didn't speak much, we had long periods of silence punctuated by me asking stupid questions and blathering on about nothing.  Sometimes I just looked out the window at the thick bush of the Tarkine forest - ferns and trees whose rounded tops looked like broccoli crowns.  He lives off grid - a couple of solar panels, and 12v for water pumps.  Sounds very familiar.  He said he enjoyed living away from the insanity of the world outside of his community and liked his peaceful existence.” 

Johnny and I were kindred spirits in that way.  I had long abandoned the feeling of needing to belong to society beyond my community in any way.  My natural personality would have to be enough, freed from worries about fashion, image, or others’ opinions. In the world beyond, true authenticity feels almost discouraged. These small communities, by contrast, act as sacred sanctuaries for the self, where resourcefulness, generosity, and reciprocity are valued above all else.  

In my home in Haida Gwaii, I had found a community that reflected that same lifestyle and philosophy - it was heartening to see people living out this lifestyle on another part of the globe.  I felt I could easily transplant myself to Tasmania and live a lifestyle similar to the one I had in Haida Gwaii, trading in bears for deadly poisonous snakes. Like Johnny, I too lived for several years off grid, washing in rivers, from a rain barrel outside of my house, eventually “upgrading” to an outdoor shower stall complete with a 12V hot water on demand set up, which I felt was the epitome of luxury.

Johnny needed to go to Zeehan for a grocery resupply, but had lost his bank card. He hoped he could get credit from the grocery store, considering he had been a resident there for 10 years.  Otherwise, he would have to go further afield, he said.  I hoped maybe that Zeehan was big enough to have a bike shop.  Johnny didn’t think so, but he said we could ask around.  

We pulled into the IGA in Zeehan - this town looked familiar - full of similarly built vacant homes, dilapidated, but also with some old school charm, like a big pub and some ornate buildings - a prototype of many boom and bust towns like I’ve seen back home.   “Johnny says Zeehan is about to boom again soon - it was an iron ore town and he reckons iron is now coming back into vogue” I wrote later on.

Walking through these desolate places feels like stepping into a forest after a fire has swept through—calm, but the remnants of a once bursting and boundless energy still lingered.  Now reduced to glowing embers, waiting for the right conditions to either ignite once more or extinguish forever.

I was ready to jump out here, but Johnny told me to wait, as he could give me a ride to Queenstown in case the store manager wouldn’t cut him some slack. I watched their exchange as I pet Ruby - Johnny’s happy-go-lucky black lab.  After a brief discussion, the manager wasn’t willing to give him credit, and he said he would indeed have to go to Queenstown – “ a shit hole” by his determination, but it’s the only nearby town with a bank. 

So, we zoomed another 40kms up into the mountains to Queenstown.  Johnny figured there was a bike shop there, and said he would ask if there was one while at the bank.  I knew there wasn’t, as I had Googled it while at the Lodge in Corinna.  Johnny seemed entirely unaware that the internet existed and got all of his information from personal interactions and hearsay.  It was refreshing and endearing.  

While waiting for the answer I already knew, I sat out on a bench across the street in the glorious sunshine, giggling to myself about the turn this day had already taken and all before 10a.m.  The route had been decided for me, it seems.  No sooner did I sit down, did a man approach me.  He was bald, middle-aged and pasty white, wearing a black doo rag on his head.  His almost translucent paleness struck me as odd, considering we were in Australia - the land of the leather-skinned folk.   With the thinnest ozone layer on earth, I thought no one was spared from the sun’s radiant wrath. It almost seemed plausible that he was a vampire, had he not been out in the midday sun.  Maybe he was a gamer – a more realistic hunch.

“You’re sat at the warmest and best bench in all of Queenstown!” the man announced, doo rag fluttering in the wind. “...when the sun is shining, which is not often” he added.  Apparently it rains a lot here, because of the mountains creating a rainshadow effect. He welcomed me to Queenstown, and then warned me about dying of hypothermia while camping around these parts.  I was about to regale him with my story about being cold, wet and brakeless on my way to Corinna, but our conversation was cut short by another man who showed up hugging a brown paper grocery bag.  Though he wore all black, he was a colourful character nonetheless. I marvelled at his dedication to his image at the expense of comfort - the heat of the sun was already quite intense and his leather jacket/toque combo must’ve created a greenhouse effect inside of his duds.

The leather clad fellow produced a pointy red and white hat out of his bag.  He was having a “Santa Party '' at his place on Saturday. I could barely understand his thick colloquial dialect, but he invited us to his party, as well as to his 1-man Macbeth performance in Hobart on January 2nd.  It was tempting, but my flight out on solstice burst that bubble.

More and more people started congregating at the sunny bench.  I was engulfed by a diverse and peculiar cast of characters.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in the middle of a quirky murder mystery where the townsfolk are hiding a dark secret— maybe there are catacombs below the town, and my new friends have been performing wild blood rituals beneath our feet. 

As all of this was happening, I was keeping an eye out for Johnny, who was running errands, and could be seen skulking along the streets as he walked into various shops on the main drag.  He carried himself like a coyote, looking wild, yet timid, but wily and intuitive enough to seek out what he needed.   

When approaching strangers, Johnny didn’t so much ask as thrust himself toward them, possessed, and blurted out, “Where’s the bike shop in town?” A churchy-looking gal in a long skirt, the startled recipient of one of his unorthodox approaches, told him there were no bike shops but mentioned there might be one soon, thanks to some new mountain bike trails being built. I wondered if Queenstown would follow in the footsteps of Blue Derby, where my cycling partner and I had parted ways. That sleepy mining town had reinvented itself as a mountain biking hub—it was questionable if it was for the better.  There were some locals there who mourned the quiet days before the adrenaline junkies arrived and turned the place into a mecca on the verge of being choked out by adventure tourists.

I waved goodbye to my wacky new group of friends as Johnny waved me over to the truck.  He drove me out of town, stopping first at the gas station.  As he pumped the tank, his phone rang - the ringtone was the guitar intro to ACDC’s “Thunderstruck” which confirmed my Australian stereotype once again, and made me wonder if Johnny actually was Caveman Bon Scott after all.  He dropped me off at the turnoff to the next town over, Strahan, with an invitation to come to his place to stay next time I am on the West Coast of Tasmania.  

As we said goodbye, I had the urge to hug him, but also knew it would be an awkward hug, like trying to embrace a wild animal, so I held off.  I was grinning ear to ear as I biked off - high in equal parts from my odd little morning and also from being cast off into the great unknown once more.  

But, after biking 10kms down the road, I noticed my brakes were almost non-existent once again, and had to adjust them before the inevitable dip down from the mountains to the sea level coastal town of Strahan.  With this nagging brake issue, it was becoming more evident that leaving this area via my own means was becoming less and less realistic, so I elected to carefully bike to Strahan, in case they had a bike shop, and if not, maybe I could hop on a bus to a place that did.

As I was about to take off, a man hauling a tubby, darling little boat called “Peanut”, pulled over to see if I needed a ride to Strahan.  A reasonable person whose tolerance levels for sketchy are lower than mine would’ve said yes, but I am not that person, and I insisted on continuing on, though I thanked the stranger for his concern.

I rolled down to Strahan with no incident, having enjoyed the thrill of the downhill.  It was an adorable small town on a natural harbour. I spied Peanut putting along in the water.  Part of me wished I had taken the ride which maybe would’ve led to a fun afternoon on a boat.

I stopped by the Information Center to ask about bike shops—none. I also inquired about buses, but the next one to Burnie didn’t leave until 7 a.m. tomorrow. I found a rickety picnic table near the skate park and decided to send a message to my former biking partner, just to check in. As I hit send, I thought about taking a nap, finding a cafe, and camping out just outside town for the evening, planning to catch the bus to Burnie in the morning.

I opened my journal and wrote a quick note:  

“I’m suddenly all people’d out and think I’ll just keep to myself for the rest of today.”

With my newfound resolve of solitude inscribed on my page, my plans were set.  Just then, a man on a scooter zipped by and, with surprising agility, bashed his scooter up the curb and onto a rough patch of grass, a manoeuvre I didn’t even know was possible on a scooter. He made a sharp 90-degree turn and headed straight for me, as though magnetically drawn toward my picnic table.

He introduced himself as Mike, wearing a blue shirt and four earrings in one ear, which gave him a distinct "I work at Lordco" vibe. His Australian accent, combined with a speech impediment, made him tough to understand, but I caught most of what he was saying. He was friendly, curious about my plans, and quickly invited me to his house for tea.  It was laughable how quickly my plans dissolved with his offer. 

My philosophy is simple: if someone offers you something, and their intentions aren’t shady, it’s because they genuinely want to, so turning them down would be rude.  I had already turned down a few genuine offers today, so what kind of heartless monster would I be turning Mike down?

Before I knew it, I was biking behind Mike’s scooter as he led me down the sidewalk to his place. On the back of his scooter was a bumper sticker that read: "Honk if you’re horny," which, he told me, was given to him by the local pharmacist.

We got to his little brick house, where there was a gate, which he stormed recklessly with one leg out as he revved the scooter.  Soon, I found myself at Mike’s kitchen table, adorned with cheesy internet dad jokes, pictures of kittens and scantily clad ladies, and reminders posted under the clear table cloth to do his physio exercises.  His house had strategically placed signs to remind him of basic daily tasks, and locations of things like medications, dishes, and things to be done.  “Did you turn off the stove?”  “Remember to empty the dishwasher”  “Take your medication at 5pm” “Cups and Plates go in here”.

Turns out about 12 years prior, Mike had a car accident while driving on the beach - he hit a wash out at high speed, went through the windshield, broke his neck, his back, his arm, and also suffered brain damage.  He says he doesn’t remember it.  He is able to walk laboriously, getting around with a twisty rubber-legged waddle. He has a physio room in his house - squat machine, elliptical, treadmill, various weights, rollers and bands.  He also has a care aide come in for 4 hours a day.  Otherwise, he lives on his own.   He says he can no longer dream or even daydream after the accident, so he likes to watch Netflix and DVD’s to replace that.  

Despite all of the changes and damage suffered by Mike in his body and his mind - one thing remained entirely intact after the car accident - his libido.  He laid on the charm at every opportunity.  I wondered if he was always like this, or if he also lost all sense of impulse control in the accident.  After a cup of Tetley, we exchanged phone numbers and became facebook friends.

Then, Mike grabbed me by the hand as we went to check out his guesthouse - a wee little cabin with plumbing, a queen bed, shower, mini-fridge - a sweet setup. He sat on the bed and bounced up and down on it.  Bed squeaking as he bounced, I couldn’t quite decipher what he was saying, but I am pretty sure he was offering the bed to me for the night and kept patting the spot beside him so we could “test out the bed together”.   I chose to keep my speaking voice at the “nurse professional” level to intimate a standoffishness that I am not sure is detectable by Mike, or simply he is horny and just doesn't care.  HONK HONK!

He showed me his lemon tree in the garden, introduced me to his neighbours and their kids and I decided this was a good time to leave.  Mike let me pick a lemon off his tree, and grabbed my hand as he walked me back to my bike.  I was simply going to bike back to town, charge my phone and find a camping spot, but Mike insisted on escorting me out of town on his scooter.  A knight on a wheeled steed, he held out his arm so I could grab it and he gave me a boost for about 2 kms.  It was a glorious scene that I hope plays out in my life’s highlight reel when I die.  

He suddenly screeched to a halt as though there was an imaginary threshold he could not cross.  We waved, then handshook, then hugged goodbye in the most awkward way—his attempt to kiss me ending somewhere near my ear as I turned my head away to deflect his advances - a horndog to the very end.  So now, suddenly, in a ridiculous gesture of politeness and an inability to set boundaries, here I was biking back to Zeehan.  Sure, I could’ve let Mike zoom away and then I could bike back to town, but this had happened so naturally that it felt wrong to not go with the flow. I biked 43 kms, away from my-so-called plan.  

Now I’m in Zeehan once again, sprawled out by a swampy lake, wondering where tomorrow may take me, with pieces of this journey I didn’t have before. It’s my mission to sort through these pieces and figure out where they fit in my life—what I can keep and what I can leave behind. Travel, like life, can bring you full circle, back to where you started—in some ways the same, but in others, different. Before bed, I checked my email and found a note from my friend—she’d finished her Tasmanian travels early and flown back home. She asked where I was and what my plans were now. Truthfully, I didn’t know, but I had some ideas. Plans, I remind myself, are just ideas with expectations.

The roundabout route to Zeehan, Tasmania, Australia. Map data ©2024 Google