Tasmania: Wineglass Bay Bushwalking, Port Arthur, and the Isle of the Dead

Most visitors don’t make it all the way to Wineglass Bay Beach, the one in those famous photos. They stop at the Wineglass Bay lookout, snap selfies with the perfect curve of golden sand down below, and debate whether to keep going down to Wineglass Bay Beach, despite the warning signs that do everything in their power to discourage. So many hard hard steps! Must bring survival water and food! It’s a long long long way! Beware! Turn back before it’s too late, Dorothy!

In fact, a hike to the lookout alone takes an hour and a half, and some tourists don’t read the fine print even on that. They’re peeved when they find out that no, you can’t drive to the Lookout – bust out your hiking shoes, people. And no, when you reach the Lookout you’re still not at the beach, which is even further – an additional hour and a half. And then there are those daunting steps.

One thousand steps sounded so easy. How hard could that be, just 1000 steps down and up, each way? Helps to count them and I only counted 820, but quite the sweaty, huffing 820 rocky steps coming back, up several steep grades. More than worth it, though, to stroll stunning Wineglass Bay beach with only a few other hardy souls and a friendly kangaroo, waves crashing in. The ‘roo wanted our apple, but we said ‘no’ – good stewards of Tasmania’s natural fauna that we are. 

A visit to the Isle of the Dead was worth it as well, and we met a whirling Tasmanian devil (she really was whirling, just like the cartoon devil we grew up with – frantic little critters, with jaws of steel). My favorite thing about this area, though? Why, the steel-and-glass vacation rental, my dream house of sorts. I’ve never cared to be wildly wealthy, but if I could build one of those I’d make the sacrifice and turn wealthy in a blink. Somebody needs to step up and serve as the world’s 1%, after all….guess we’ll just have to break down and be those people. 

But winning the lotto might not be all it’s cracked up to be, I’ve learned, from my Cruise Critic Roll Call Book Group assignment. We’re reading Nine Perfect Strangers, by Australian author Liane Moriarty (also author of the breakout hit Big Little Lies). The story’s about a group of nine strangers who meet at a mysterious health resort near Sydney, Australia. One of the couples, Ben and Jessica, recently won 22 million in the Australian lotto but all is not well, hence an attempt to save their marriage at this so-called ‘rejuvenation’ resort. The wife addicted herself to plastic surgery and ended up with one of those Frankenstein faces, and the husband just buys cars (Padre might do that too if he won the lotto – I could see that). 

Ok we know that wealth does not guarantee happiness, but a girl can dream, right? Nine Perfect Strangers, for the readers out there, is a page-turning beach-type read – a laugh-out-loud examination of our oh-so-human frailties and triumphs. You’ll find yourself in there somewhere, among the nine – with an Australian twist.

The glass house Footprints On the Beach 2 was a bit of a splurge and online it looked spectacular, advertised as offering 180-degree Oyster Bay views, a sugar-sand beach a few stairs down from the front door. I’ve learned that when booking online to never actually believe the hype until we see it with our own eyes, so I purposely didn’t tell Padre much about it as we approached, since one never knows.

When we walked in the front door to face an expansive wall of glass framing the drop-dead gorgeous sunset, Padre was so amazed he turned and bowed to his “travel-planner extraordinaire” – yep that’s me (at least it’s me, when it works). I do confess to a bit of obsessing over lodging and travel choices, just a wee bit (it’s a delightful type of shopping, at least to me, so there’s that). 

The visual feast carried on into the bedroom, the bathroom, and, my very very favorite – one entire corner of the house was constructed of glass, so you didn’t miss a bit of the stupendous view outside, heaven forbid. The next morning I sat alone in inky darkness and counted falling stars, until the morning sun slowly bathed the landscape in golden pink hues from one end of the windows to the other. Padre snoozed through the sunrise, as usual, but hey – he does sunsets, which I often miss even when I try my best to stay awake. So between the two of us, we’ve got the sun’s comings and goings covered.

Then, off to Freycinet National Park and bushwalking up trails ringing the Hazards, craggy peaks that seem to have purposely deposited enormous pink granite boulders around every switchback. Very fun to watch people wrestle with the 1000-step challenge dilemma. My favorite bushwalkers were two mothers, each with a sleeping baby on her back, debating, ‘Should we? Shouldn’t we?” They did, and I’ll bet those babies didn’t even wake up – those moms were FIT.

Spotted a wallaby in the parking lot, and also a kangaroo on the beach. Neither of them seemed a bit concerned with us. I think they’re the local dumpster divers, just hoping for scraps, much like our raccoons back in the Pacific Northwest. Still a thrill to walk right up to a kangaroo and look ‘em in the eye. Half expected the ‘roo to say ‘G-day, Mate!’ but he eventually hopped off, looking for a more generous tourist for a handout.

The steps back up from the beach did seem to go on forever, but when we finally reached the top I thought I should write my knee surgeon to let him know how much I appreciated his handiwork – my bionic knee rocked the Hazards and all those relentless steps. How great is that? And Padre may be a senior citizen now, but he could have climbed all those steps in half the time it took me – a fit old goat, I’d say.

On the way home we stopped for fresh calamari and succulent mussels at Freycinet Lodge, a resort which was beyond our lodging budget but not as cool as the glass house (just sayin’). We toasted our bushwalking success from the bistro’s deck, soaking in the endless views of craggy granite headlands off in the distance, stretching in every direction as far as the eye could see.

The next morning we stopped at Freycinet Marine Farm for a briny fresh oyster breakfast (I mean, why not?), then headed off to the Tasman Peninsula, a perfect location for isolating convicts, who were thwarted in their escape attempts by 1) isolation, 2) the dogline, and 3) sharks. Eaglehawk Neck, a narrow isthmus, was guarded by the infamous dogline, which was just what it sounds like: a line of ferocious dogs growling and slathering, to keep convicts from escaping. For good measure, guards spread the rumor that the waters were shark-infested (not so much, in reality). All to instill even more fear in convicts pondering a run for it, so not a happy place. 

We found the gorgeous natural setting of Port Arthur’s prison ruins at odds with its grim reputation as a somber historic site. Yes, this was the location of much sadness and tragedy. Not only did thousands of prisoners suffer here, but in April 1996 a crazed gunman massacred 35 people, most of them dying in the museum’s waterside café. The maniac, when asked ‘Why Port Arthur?’ explained that it was a violent place anyway, so it made sense. No it didn’t make sense, except to a mentally ill person like the gunman. In response to such lunacy, Australia transformed the site of the café shooting into a peaceful memorial garden honoring those who lost their lives here, and implemented strict new gun laws. As a result, today Australian gun death rates are among the lowest in the world.

Golden leaves and rust-colored foliage framed the acres of historic brick prison ruins here on the day we visited, since this is Tasmania’s autumn season. Sunlight reflected off the cobalt blue waters of Port Arthur’s harbor as we ferried out to Port Arthur’s Isle of the Dead. Padre thought the prisoner-turned-caretaker who chose to live on the island with all the dead bodies made a fine choice, but the man refused to grow a vegetable garden while living there. Didn’t want to eat anything from the same soil all those bodies were composting into, no sir. I wouldn’t either. 

Destitute convicts were buried in unmarked graves lower down on the small island’s shore, while the bodies of camp officers and family members were plotted up higher on the island, in marked graves. So society’s divisions continued here even after death, although we bet the composting worms and insects don’t pay much attention to the class barriers. We’re all dirt eventually, as Padre the former funeral home attendant made sure to point out.

Our lovely Port Arthur lodging, Harper’s On the Beach, sat smack in the middle of another glorious stretch of beach. Is there any other type of beach in Tasmania? We haven’t found anything but. We strolled along the White Beach shoreline next to turquoise waters, on miles of sand we had all to our little old selves. Very romantic, even for old people.

And Padre concluded that driving on the left was not so hard, after all. He never did get the hang of the turn signal – he’d turn on the wipers instead and curse, every time – but by the end of our Tasmanian road trip he whipped around the narrow country roads with ease (even though he complained that the Suzuki Swift was gutless). Good practice for next October’s Ireland journey, when we attempt to recreate our honeymoon from 30 years prior. We’re wiser and smarter, sure, but the reflexes and our youthful belief in our own immortality have dimmed a bit over time by necessity. But he’ll probably need those windshield wipers in Ireland, so he’ll know how to turn those on, at least.

Tasmania may be near the ends of the earth, but it’s an outdoor person’s fever dream – everything in terms of recreation and natural beauty seems to be here – and then there’s the food. And if you don’t like beaches, just travel inland a bit to find towering mountains, endless bushwalking trails, snow skiing and more. It’s all here, on this amazing island in the middle of nowhere.

And yep, we met a couple Tasmanian devils, fascinating birds, and a mess of kangaroos who ate right out of our hands – how cool is that? We’ve seen so much fascinating wildlife here in Australia (and nothing’s bitten, stung, clawed, or killed us, at least not yet) – that I’m saving the critters for the next post, so stay tuned.

Thanks as always for following along, everyone!