From death and decay,
rises blossoming fruit, life,
From death and decay,
From death and decay,
rises blossoming fruit, life,
On the first day of my holiday, I woke up thrilled. I had entire days without having to worry about work, my exercise routine, or chores. I felt liberated.
And I was, it was my first real vacation in over three years and my first ever without carrying my laptop since I got my first laptop. Before this, every time I travelled, whether it was for work or to visit family, I’d always go prepared to log into work in case something blew up. But here, in Launceston, I was free of my life. It felt like I’d gotten rid of the huge baggage on my shoulder.
I was up at 5. I had no reason to stay in bed. I was in the Launceston Backpackers hostel—a hundred-something-year-old building which looked and felt its age but was so well maintained by the staff. It’s the cheapest accommodation you can find in the city, and it was still way better than I imagined. They even gave me two blankets when I only asked for one!
Almost jumping out of bed on day one, I brushed, yoga-ed a bit, pulled on my long comfy pants, and marched off into the biting cold. Mid-autumn in Launceston is often colder than winter in northern Australia. But for me, coming from Canberra and loving the capital’s winter season, Launceston was perfect. Just the right amount of chilly. Of course, I soon lost all sense in my fingers and toes, but I knew it wouldn’t be for long.
I’d done my research. I headed off to the most popular tourist attraction in the city: Cataract Gorge. It’s a short 20-25 minute walk from the heart of the city, and the main feature of the gorge is the King’s Bridge-Cataract Walk, a beautiful path along the South Esk River. The passage was built by volunteers in the 1890s and is the main pathway leading further into the gorge where there’s a world-renowned chairlift. The longest single-span chairlift in the world, going up to 457 metres. It’s one of the must-do, must-see things in Launceston, second perhaps only to the ridiculous amount of vineyards in the Tamar Valley region. All this, I knew from my research and by exploring the Cataract Walk the previous day, not too long after I landed in Tasmania.
This morning, however, I wasn’t going for the Cataract Walk or the chairlift. Instead, I’d read and heard about another path leading into the gorge. A much more challenging and steep climb: The Zig Zag Trail. This trail, I realised, is much more secluded from the outside. You see, to get to the start of the Cataract Gorge walk, you have to cross the King’s Bridge which runs above the South Esk River. So even while you cross the bridge, you get stunning views of the gorge and the river running through it. As soon as you cross the bridge, the Cataract Walk begins on your left. With the Zig Zag Trail, though, you don’t have to cross the bridge at all. The beginning of the walk is what looks like a pile of large rocks stacked against each other with steps going through it. While the river is on one side of the trail, the other side is a commercial building. Unless you know that it’s the trail leading into the gorge, you’ll likely miss it.
Most people who walk the trail, I later realised, start the walk from within the gorge—after exploring the attractions, the views, and the chairlift, they chance upon the Zig Zag Trail with an ominous message: Steep – Hikers Only. It’s enough to pique the curiosity of anyone, but not enough to tell them how steep is steep.
As I entered the trail from the city, it was just after dawn. The sun was still behind clouds, and a chilly breeze lingered around my ears. My fingers and toes were numb, and my adrenaline at an all-time high. I climbed step after steep step. Within minutes, my heart was pounding in its cage, and I had the highest of highs I’d had in a long time. I stopped to look around, and amidst the dense bushes around me was the King’s Bridge in the distance and the rising sun further behind it. I stood for a good few minutes, entranced but also to catch my breath.
When I turned back to my path, I had renewed energy—all I wanted to do was to get to the other side of this trail and feast my eyes on the view.
After 15 more minutes of heart-hammering cardio and smiling at the locals who clearly did this every day, I got my view. It was about 8 in the morning. I was looking out at the gorge and the infamous Alexandra Suspension Bridge that connected one side of the gorge to another. It was too early for the tourists, and I got the entire bridge for myself.
As I gingerly walked onto the bridge, drinking in the views, it dawned on me how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things. All around me, water and forests and wallabies thrived. As the sunlight hit the water, it rebounded on the millions of leaves around, nourishing and feeding countless lifeforms for hundreds of years to come. And here I was, just a traveller with my backpack and a petty iPhone, clicking away as if I could capture the essence of what was happening around me.
Heart full of joy and satisfaction, and a slight disappointment for those who couldn’t be there and experience what I’d experienced, and for those who were there and still had different experiences, I turned to go further into the gorge. For I’d heard that even though the Zig Zag Track ended in the First Basin, there was a much longer and more rewarding track not too far: The Duck Reach Trail.
And like me, if you think it’s a track that’d lead to a pond with a handful of ducks in it, my friend, you couldn’t be more mistaken. More on that later.
I booked my tickets two weeks in advance and my accommodation just a handful of days before the big day.
No one in Australia does that. For instance, my friend booked a week’s stay in a cabin far, far away—five months in advance. That’s normal.
And here I was booking flight tickets to Tasmania, about to spend ten days in a city I knew nothing about. In hindsight, I’m proud of myself for choosing Launceston—it’s a delightful place to visit. But even until the last moment, the day of my journey, as I sat in the back seat of the cab, looking out at Canberra’s iconic welcome to Autumn, I wasn’t excited. Even as I went through security check, I was more alarmed that we no longer have to take out our electronics for screening than I was excited about my upcoming trip.
Sitting in the plane, watching the ground become bigger and bigger as we soared into the sky, I felt nothing. My glasses fogged from me breathing through my face mask, but I had the best seat in the house—the window. Still, my insides felt like a balloon that failed to balloon.
It didn’t feel like I was going away on holiday.
I landed and walked into the biosecurity area of the Launceston arrivals zone. And I texted my trusty friend and brother: Launceston Airport is a massive tent.
We queued up in what looked like a huge white canopy with three podiums with officers checking everyone’s border permit and asking each person individually if they’ve travelled to any hotspots or have any symptoms. It’s incredible how much we humans function on trust systems. Once I’d shaken my head no to all his standard questions, my officer—a stubby man wearing a polo t-shirt and pants—gadded me a card that had some contact information in case I developed any symptoms. I thanked him and walked out—and into the actual airport. It was smaller than the Canberra airport—just two conveyor belts for baggage. Brilliant and easy to find. A good five minutes later, my yellow backpack waded its way to me, and I hoisted it up on my shoulder and turned to face the exit.
Those glass doors didn’t open automatically.
No worries. I’m used to motion sensors not sensing me. I went closer only to realise that the double door had a big circular sticker on either side of the partition with text that read, “Touch to open door”. Amused and highly sceptical, I touched and viola! I was out in the chilly breeze and the sunny outskirts of Launceston.
Following the sign, I turned left, looking for a bus. The airport shuttle was supposed to be waiting for passengers who wanted to go into the city. Instead, there was a van—an approximately 15-seater vehicle with a chubby bald and smiling man waiting outside. On the van, clearly visible, was a sticker that read, The Airport Shuttle. I had to ask. “Is this the airport shuttle?”
He didn’t sneer. He wasn’t sarcastic when he replied, “It is! Where do you need to go?”
“The city, please.” As if that was a destination by itself.
“Do you have a specific place in the city?”
“Ah, yes. The Backpackers Hostel.”
“Sure thing. I can drop you off right at the door. How long are you in town for?”
I told him, and he suggested I go to the visitors’ centre and get myself a walking map. He helpfully added that it’s inside the post office, which I knew was built in the early 19th century and was still functioning handsomely.
I thanked him, paid him, and took my seat. And at long last, I removed my mask and did a full mouth rotation to make sure my facial muscles were still operating. 20 minutes later, I stood outside the hundred-year-old building—just another old building, I realised as I later wandered around town—that was the hostel I’d be staying at.
And then it hit me.
I had ten glorious days to do anything but the things that defined my life.
To be continued…
Badly, barely paved:
the path to nature’s bounties—
Alters with landings,