whaling took place from the nearby waters of the Southern Ocean .
We ’ d followed the track south and camped amongst the dunes , a heavy aging Yamaha not suited to the conditions , the rider less so . Had a minor fall , an ailing bike and a fuel leak been the catalyst to disagreement ? Surely not , amongst this paradise of rugged terrain , isolated beaches , and bronzed surfing bodies . My travelling companion had mentioned that a group of Harley Davidson choppers had ridden the track to Trial Harbour , I ’ d called ‘ bullshit ’ and suggested it was faked for television . Could this have been a catalyst that caused tempers to fray , and friendships become tested .
Approaching Derwent Bridge , I was lulled back to the present and amongst a multitude of camper trailers and caravans I sought refuge on a nearby picnic table . My frustration and disappointment had waned somewhere along the Lyell , I sat awaiting the arrival of my travelling companion .
A litre of water , two protein bars , and that statement again , “ Hey mate , you sure are living the life ”. I was struck , the comment had come from a woman at a nearby table . I nodded as she continued to prepare a sandwich , a wisp of hope wanted the sandwich in my hands .
“ Where ’ re you headed ,” she smiled , behind her a beaten-up old bongo van , the rust held together with stickers depicting where it had been .
“ Somewhere down the road ,” I offered little . She smiled in agreeance and suggested likewise .
“ Best way to travel ,” she smiled once more .
The comment lifted the burden of argument as I sat waiting for my travelling companion . On my table , a large ant stared at me , as if knowing a deep truth . A motorcycle burbled through the hamlet to come to rest next to mine . “ That was a great ride ,” my travelling companion enthused . A glimmer of hope that all was forgotten . No ! It started again .
Why ? And here , a nirvana for the motorcycle traveller . I sat , deflecting a tirade of abuse , catching some and returning serve . Venomous and vile , the abuse went both ways , time morphed into the never , the sun getting low .
“ So ,” I was questioned . “ Why did you wait ?”
“ It ’ s what we do ,” a reply that instantly calmed . “ Let ’ s go .”
We rode on , a silence forced by helmets designed to protect . The Highland Lakes road north taking us through Bothwell and into the region of the Great Lakes , a turn toward Poatina , another of those most joyous of Tasmanian roads , hairpin after hairpin , descending from 1500 metres to 500 in what seemed like less than 100 metres of forward motion . It didn ’ t get much better , a chalet beckoned the nights ’ accommodation , a religious community in reality . No beer here , possibly a good thing .
An odd little community , not for the people , odd for the history . Built as recently as the 1960 ’ s , Poatina is one of those Tasmanian communities pre-planned and built to house workers of the hydro-electric scheme .
A post-World War II streetscape with an almost post-apocalyptic feel , deserted streets , signs of occupation abundant yet no signs of life . Ghostly , mysterious .
The promised chalet no more than an old workers community hall . Almost deserted , we were given a room , along a hall , surrounding a quadrangle . Common to any 1960 ’ s styled accommodation it felt dated and devoid . It was a bed , it didn ’ t matter .
The hospitality warm and trusting , a calm , perhaps of the religious
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