Chapter 13

The Day I Almost Struck Gold

Towards the end of October 2000, I was almost rewarded with another tiger sighting when I stumbled upon the day hide of a resting thylacine in the south-west. It was just on daybreak on a cool, misty spring morning when I reached what I believed to be a thylacine corridor in a highland area along the Ragged Range. I had been keeping the area under surveillance for some time. On this day my persistence almost paid off.

I was reasonably sure that tigers were moving through the region following game trails as they traversed their extensive home range. The escarpment was riddled with small caves and rock overhangs and suitably endowed with a heavy bracken and man fern understorey beneath a high, leafy eucalypt canopy. The weather was fine and mild, with winter long gone and the movement of animals from the lowlands back to the high country all but complete. Up there the snows come often during winter months and the annual migration to lower elevations normally begins in mid to late autumn. The marsupial carnivores follow their prey down to the low country and when nature gives her assurance of spring, they invariably follow it back up again.

Long convinced that this area was an active thylacine corridor, it was on that memorable morning that my theory almost paid dividends. My instinct told me to spend as much time as I could there during the month of October. Periodic reconnaissance had revealed valuable signs of spasmodic thylacine movement, including potential hides amongst rocks, hollowed trees and logs, scats, and the occasional footprint – plus a possible audio encounter early one morning while camped in the area. Little did I realise I was about to experience my first actual scenting, something that was strangely missing from my unforgettable 1995 Weld Valley sighting.

Approaching a low cliff face, I detected an unusual and distinctly pungent odour. I had left the ‘Rocky’, the 4WD, about three kilometres away on a disused logging road and followed well-trodden animal trails leading into the high country along a familiar path I had pursued on numerous occasions. The cool mountain air was refreshing; the dawning sky partly hidden by a light highland mist subtly enveloping the surrounding landscape. As I moved through moist bracken and fishbone fern glades and on into magnificent myrtle woodland, I could hear the lyrebirds noisily commencing their day in the forested gullies far below. Various other bird calls punctuated the serenity of the forest, and every so often an errant pademelon would scamper from its hiding place amongst the undergrowth.

The higher I climbed, the brisker the mountain air became, now tainted with the unmistakable musky scent of decomposing fungi and vegetation, clearly distinct from that of the eucalypt forest below. Towering ancient myrtles stood sentinel, their limbs winding skyward; lords of the forest, some no doubt hundreds of years old and, remarkably, untouched, unlike their eucalypt cousins in the forest far below, where clear-fell logging had raped the landscape bare only 25 years before.

The mist was becoming lighter, and at times I could glimpse blue sky through the tree tops, giving hints of a fine, warm day ahead. Along the way I checked the various fallen tree trunks and rocky outcrops and amongst the ferns for signs of a thylacine hide. Huge boulders lay strewn throughout the forest, as though scattered by some giant hand, each one capable of concealing a sleeping tiger returned from its nocturnal hunt. But for this exacting search, I may well have reached the top of the range earlier that morning. Dawn had well and truly broken by the time I neared my main objective, a limestone cliff face some 30 metres high that stretched for several kilometres along the crest of the range.

An abundance of forest litter announced my arrival as I snapped and crushed twigs, fallen bark and leaves under foot. If only I’d been aware of what lay ahead on that memorable morning, I would surely have been much stealthier in my approach. Finally reaching the cliff face, I began moving warily along its base, methodically checking every small cave and rock overhang as I had done on numerous previous occasions. After travelling some 300 metres, I reached the top of a slight incline swathed in bracken and man ferns. It was there that I was confronted by a most powerful odour. The forest was gloomy and quiet, giving off an altogether ethereal feeling. That scent was both pronounced and pungent. Unlike anything I had smelt before, it took some seconds for me to come to terms with what it might be. If I were to compare it with any other animal, then I would rate it as being similar to the distinctive odour that emanates from the red fox — but this was something different again.

That powerful aroma appeared to best fit the distinct tang emitted from the thylacine as described to me by the old Tasmanian trappers and bushmen. Those who fought in the Boer War in South Africa at the turn of the twentieth century returned with stories of an animal smelling like our tiger — the African brown hyena. Could this be why thylacines are called hyenas in northern Tasmania?

As realisation dawned on me, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and a cold shiver ran up my spine. I stood riveted to the spot, my ears pricked, my breathing shallow, hardly daring to move a muscle. Was this going to be a repeat of my previous unrewarding encounter? I was, however, much better prepared on this occasion, having a video camera in my right hand and an activated still camera in a carry-bag around my waist. All that I dared move were my eyes, as they darted from side to side in a frantic effort to locate the source of this strange smell.

It was eerily still up there that morning, with not even the slightest breeze to blow that unforgettable odour away. I stood motionless, fearful of betraying my presence. But then, perhaps I had already been detected? Ever so slowly, that scent began to gradually waft away, becoming fainter by the second until I could smell it no longer. Maybe thirty seconds separated us, a minute at the most, but it could not possibly have been more. And because of the potency of that odour when I first arrived on the scene, I felt sure the animal could not have long left the vicinity.

There was little doubting the creature had heard me coming and hurriedly vacated its hide amongst the ferns and moved away. Slowly lowering my haversack to the ground, I activated the video camera and began methodically searching for clues. Creeping stealthily through the undergrowth, poised to snap my ever-elusive quarry, I was determined not to replicate my previous mistakes of being totally unprepared for whatever would eventuate. Searching vigilantly for tracks amongst the forest litter and occasionally sniffing the air should that tantalising odour reappear, I spent the best part of an hour meticulously investigating the surrounding forest and small caves. I was in no hurry to relinquish my position, for on this memorable occasion, diligence was the order of the day. This scenario was the opposite of six years earlier, because at no time did I actually see the tiger: previously I had seen the animal but not smelt it. With both cameras now ready for action, I pressed on, fully anticipating coming across the beast at any moment. All I needed was just one shred of tangible evidence that a Tasmanian tiger had been close by. Much as it would have been the cause for great jubilation, sadly it was not to be; apart from that unforgettable smell, my quarry had evaded me yet again, with not even a print to compensate my best efforts.

My sole reward was the lingering thought of what might have been. Ever the hard taskmaster, I once again silently scolded myself for not having taken more precautions when entering the area. Countless possibilities flooded my mind. While I emphatically believe that I almost stumbled upon a resting tiger that morning, I realised that convincing others of my discovery would be easier said than done. There would, after all, only be my word of what had transpired that memorable October day. But isn’t this the lot of every person claiming to have sighted this remarkable beast? And now it had happened to me twice in the space of seven years!

I am absolutely positive I smelt a Tasmanian tiger in the wild that morning, as indeed did Hans Naarding on that fateful night in March 1982 at Togari near Roger River in the north-west of the state. The big bonus for Naarding was that he had the privilege of actually seeing the animal as well.