Chapter 17

The Lure of the Wilderness

I hedged my bets on a full moon, deciding that the week following the full moon would best present me with reasonable conditions along a section of coastline that at times can be subjected to wild and unpredictable weather, extremely rough seas with swells of up to 15 metres, high winds and copious amounts of rain, not to mention plummeting temperatures. I am being perfectly honest in confessing that I’m no seaman, far from it. The mere thought of a sea voyage, no matter how far and regardless of whether it was on a rough or calm sea, alarmed me no end. I am an in-shore canoeist at best and this was definitely out of my league. Being cast ashore in the wilderness with acute seasickness may well have spelt disaster from the very outset. I had meticulously planned this expedition for many months, leaving nothing to chance. My idea was to mount an extensive investigation between Birthday Bay and Point Hibbs in search of evidence of Tasmanian tiger activity, and I had seven days to see those plans at last come to fruition.

My search was based on numerous documented thylacine sightings along this wild and isolated section of coastline. This particular region gained world attention back in January 1957 when a helicopter pilot and his passengers claimed to have observed an animal they described as a Tasmanian tiger run from the beach and along a sand dune before disappearing into coastal scrub. ANA pilot Captain Jim Ferguson, Mount Lyell mines chief engineer Les Taylor, and Mr M Solomon watched the animal for about two minutes, hovering above it as it ran along the beach at Birthday Bay. Captain Ferguson said there was no mistaking the animal’s identity:

‘I dropped the copter down to 30 feet to get a better look, but the noise of the engine frightened the creature and it ran off onto the bush. The animal was about the same size as an Alsatian dog, with a striped, brownish coat and a long tail that stuck out from behind.’

Following this report, a team of Queenstown bushmen planned an expedition to try and locate the animal. An official expedition was also being planned by the Animals and Birds Protection Board. That party, expected to leave during March, would include the Director of the Tasmanian Museum, Dr WG Bryden, Dr Eric Guiler from the University of Tasmania and various of the board members including Mr GK Meldrum. The Chairman of the Animals and Birds Protection Board, Mr HR Reynolds, warned that the Tasmanian tiger, as a wholly protected species, should not be hunted without the board’s written authority. He went on to say that the real purpose of their expedition was to attempt to obtain photographic proof that the Tasmanian tiger still existed. If it was found impossible to photograph the animal in its natural state, and if one had to be captured, the tiger would be held in captivity only until photographs could be obtained, after which time it would be released. Once the tiger’s range was located, their intentions were to contain the animal by erecting a large enclosure built from portable strips of wire mesh fencing. Two separate fences would lead off at angles to funnel the tiger into an enclosure. Once captured, it would be held for no more than two days during which time various media and government photographers would have free reign to capture it on film before release.

From what I saw of the landscape on that particular part of the west coast, their plans were, in my opinion, somewhat unrealistic. The only place they could possibly have erected such an enclosure would have been a long way inland or along the beaches. It would have been extremely impractical to erect such elaborate fencing along the coastal strip owing to the dense nature of the scrub. I very much doubt that any of them had actually done their homework on the Birthday Bay area, otherwise they would have realised the enormity of such an exercise. Therefore I can only presume that this project was designed for another area entirely. Suffice to say, my own plans were not quite so elaborate or optimistic as those of the Animals and Birds Protection Board.

Also, their plan to capture the animal and study it at close quarters was a road fraught with danger, as thylacines were known to be extremely highly strung and the consequences for any taken by this method may well have proved disastrous.

I had carefully researched west coast sightings over the preceding years and it was my firm belief that this wild stretch of rarely trodden country could well present me a favourable chance of catching up with the Tasmanian tiger. I had no intention of trying to contain the animal in any way, and the best tangible evidence I could hope for would be a cadaver, skeletal remains or a genuine photograph. My main mission was to establish reasonable proof of a thylacine presence in the area. I would therefore hope to succeed in satisfying myself of this, if nothing else.

The Tasmanian Government has long maintained the thylacine is extinct, so one can only presume it has no policy or plan in place to implement should the animal be proved to still exist at some future date. Where previously I had discussed rediscovery plans with Eric Guiler, he was no longer able to assist me and I would now have to carry the load myself. Who I could safely trust with such information was now my main concern. If a thylacine presence was confirmed, it was imperative that, for the animal’s sake, any future strategies, whatever they might be, would unconditionally be in the tiger’s best interests. I had my own ideas on this, and still do, and I have to be perfectly honest in saying that there were very few people I know personally who would measure up to that trust.

On the surface, it appears extremely doubtful that officialdom would be geared up to assume responsibility for the long-term future of the tiger. Nevertheless, it would be an odds-on certainty that once they caught wind of it they would muscle in and attempt to take over. It has happened so many times before on far lesser issues. If past efforts are any example, the whole scenario may well degenerate into a typical debacle of potentially catastrophic proportions. For was it not the Tasmanian Government that implemented the tragic thylacine bounty scheme in 1888 to rid the island once and for all of the entire thylacine population? Granted, that took place in a bygone era when values were poles apart from those of today, but the danger remains that the thylacine’s immediate and long-term future could be placed in serious jeopardy by bureaucratic bungling.

It was therefore with great excitement that I set out from home in my 4WD at 5 am on that early April morning in 2004 for the five-hour journey to Strahan. Arriving early at the Seair terminal, I killed time by strolling down to a café on the waterfront for a coffee. Little did I know that it was to be my last decent-tasting drink for some time. As I sat silently contemplating my plans, I looked apprehensively out across the harbour and pondered what fate had in store for me over the next seven days.

And so it was with a feeling of apprehension that I loaded my gear onto the chopper later that morning. Once away into the wild blue yonder, I made sure I was fully occupied with reconnaissance of the landscape below in order to stave off hidden fears of suddenly plummeting to earth should the rotors stop spinning. My initial reservations soon subsided as I concentrated on plotting our course over the vast uninhabited wilderness below. Once above the wild, craggy coastline, I was careful to keep a sharp lookout through my binoculars for any movement that could betray a dog-like animal slinking along the isolated beaches. Following the map, I struggled to clearly identify offshore rocky outcrops and other landmarks, as I had never before laid eyes on this part of Tasmania. After three-quarters of an hour or so in the air, I at last located my drop-off point alongside what I believed was a freshwater creek a kilometre or so past the Modder River, one of many such watercourses that run out to sea along that stretch of coast. The only suitable landing place was on the beach alongside Griffiths Creek. Once unloaded, I stood with mixed emotions as I watched my lifeline to the outside world disappear from sight, not to return for seven days.

It is hard to describe my feelings as I stood on the beach that day, realising that I was alone in the wilderness and that the only way out was the way I came in — by chopper. In one way I felt vulnerable should I come to grief in unforeseen circumstances, but I also felt an exhilarating sense of adventure at being able to explore new horizons along this distant shore.

My choices for a suitable campsite were extremely limited. On or near the beach, I ran the risk of being swamped by the incoming tide or washed out to sea by a rising creek should heavy rains hit the area, which they so often did. Wind was also a major risk factor, as gales and storms often drive winds, well in excess of 100 kilometres per hour, that slam into the exposed coastline. Eventually deciding the safest spot was atop a lofty sand dune, I was faced with a torturously steep approach. My tent site, sheltered from the wind by a thicket of dense coastal wattle, was precariously perched on a narrow ledge overlooking a steep 30-metre drop to the river valley below.

In order to gain a suitable foothold, I was forced to excavate and level the whole site with my only implement, a small trowel, a demanding task that took me some considerable time. Thankfully it was all pure sand, save for the rampant fibrous root systems of numerous varieties of resident vegetation. Despite its uncongenial nature, my lofty roost did give me a decidedly scenic vantage point; regardless, it also presented me with a strength-sapping climb each time I returned to my tent. This was only made possible by an ascent up a stout length of rope that I always carry in my haversack for such emergencies. It was almost a sheer climb, and hauling up copious loads of gear presented me with quite a trial of strength.

I carried in only a small canteen of fresh water and it wasn’t long before I became totally dependent on the creek for my supply, and that’s where my troubles began. I found the creek water extremely brackish and tannin-stained; it neither looked nor tasted good. In fact it tasted dreadful, and I was forced to drink it, clean my teeth with it, as well as cook and bathe in that water for the next week. My entire daily supply had to be carried approximately 100 metres from the creek, up the 30-metre 2:1 gradient sandhill, plus a further 40 metres to my tent. With the exception of bathing, for all my other needs the water had to be boiled prior to use, but this failed to improve the taste to any degree. The creek was constantly being tainted with salt by the tidal flow, and access to clearer water further upstream was made all but impossible by a dense, virtually impenetrable scrub barrier. After seven days spent consuming that appalling saline beverage, my tortured body was screaming out for help: my legs felt lethargic, my blood pressure had gone sky-high and I was beginning to suffer periodic stomach cramps. I was rapidly approaching meltdown. Unfortunately, there was only a slight drizzle during my time there and as dew was negligible, my opportunities to harvest surface water were slim indeed.

 

 

On the second day I began exploring my wild domain, com­mencing with a stiff walk north along the beaches to Birthday Bay, the site of the documented 1957 tiger sighting. Much of the journey took in magnificent white sands flanked by towering scrub-covered dunes with particularly picturesque rocky headlands. Pristine areas such as this are a precious natural heritage, now sadly disappearing on mainland Australia at a rapid rate. It is imperative that these special wilderness areas be preserved forever in all their unspoilt glory. However, there remains an unfortunate downside to all this splendour. The amount of garbage lying along those isolated beaches is unbelievable; most of it, if not all, undoubtedly jettisoned from passing ships and fishing boats. All varieties of plastic containers and cardboard cartons, bottles, garbage bags, discarded nautical buoys, nylon rope and string; the list goes on. Especially disturbing were the many large objects protruding from the sand: discarded refrigerators, electric stoves and other largely unrecognisable steel containers. All this along with huge logs, no doubt originally flushed out of western creeks and far out to sea, only to be washed back to the coast again by raging storms. It is possible that much of this garbage could have come from international waters, such is the power of the sea, but the sad fact remains that the ocean is being used as one huge garbage dump by uncaring sea travellers. On finding sizeable logs weighing many tons washed far back into the dunes by what could only have been monstrous seas, my heart sank for fear of similar wild weather during my stay. But I needn’t have worried; the weather during that coming week spared me any drama, with mild days and nights, and thankfully no strong winds or high seas.

I spent several days tracking and exploring along the beaches, pushing as far inland as the scrub would permit. I was alarmed at the noxious weeds growing behind the dunes, with rampant outbreaks of saffron thistle and ragwort, along with various other nasties. Thick stands of bracken exceeding two metres in height were also common at the back of the dunes. The coastal scrub is rampant, no doubt enhanced by a healthy rainfall.

Each night I studied animal movement in the sandhills and along the beaches as well as in adjoining rocky headland areas, and there was much to observe. Both rufous and Bennett’s wallaby abounded, along with native quoll, wombat and, most important of all, an abundance of Tasmanian devils showing no obvious evidence of the dreaded facial tumour disease ravaging their numbers only some 50 kilometres inland in the Derwent Bridge–Bronte areas.

Wombat populations were mainly confined to the rocky headlands, where large outcrops of marsupial lawn are to be found growing right to the base of the rocks and in some cases up to the sea itself. These particularly picturesque, lush and delightful areas are kept manicured by the constant grazing of the numerous herbivores that live in the region. Large areas of vibrant green moss cling tenaciously to the numerous rocky bluffs, providing a stark contrast to the duller hues of surrounding greenery. These areas are pock-marked by scats of the resident grazing population.

I was disturbed to find many dead fairy penguins high up in the dunes — far too high up to have been washed there by an angry sea. They appeared freshly dead, still with their vibrant colouring and displaying no obvious signs of attack or scavenging. Their living relatives could be seen at night making their way to burrows in the dunes, presumably safe from predation. This is one species that would suffer immeasurably were foxes to become established throughout Tasmania.

Large stretches of beach were strewn with kelp and seaweed, while others were reasonably clean, being constantly swept by wave action, with thick swathes of seagrass making tracking impossible. There was driftwood in abundance at the high water mark, no doubt regularly culled by monstrous seas and pushed far back into the dunes, where copious quantities could be found. The lack of seashells was noticeable, other than patches of shell grit around the rocky headlands.

Delightful, small ponds amongst the rocks were a source of fascination, taking me back to childhood days spent with my father. Rinsed daily by the wash of the sea, the startling array of creatures that dwell in such an estuarine setting is truly astonishing. Molluscan limpets and small barnacles, tiny crabs and chitons, along with the usual assortment of rock clingers, abounded. Invasive clumps of kelp floated through this otherwise placid environment, once again with the addition of vibrant green moss coating the sparse surrounding patches of solid earth.

My most important find was on day two: a trail of dog-like prints running from a sand dune, along the beach for several hundred metres, and then back up into the dunes again. I tracked these prints as far as possible into coastal scrub before losing them amidst a tangle of the rampant vegetation. I strongly suspected they were from a Tasmanian tiger, but unfortunately I never got as much as a glimpse of the animal that made them. The only other animals resident in the area that would make such large prints were wombats, and it is highly unlikely that these were wombat tracks as the wombats appeared confined to grazing on the rocky headlands. The print trail kept a reasonably straight line for the whole distance it ran along that beach and was well paced and distinctive, typical of a cantering animal, whereas a wombat swaggers from side to side, taking shorter steps as it weaves a crazy drunken path. As there was little possibility of a fugitive domestic dog living along that section of coastline, I could therefore draw only one conclusion. Intermingled with these prints, were the smaller prints of what was undoubtedly a Tasmanian devil, no doubt keeping tabs in the hope of an easy meal further along the track.

Prints in the sand near Modder River, West Coast, April 2005: smaller Tasmanian devil prints alongside what I believe to be Tasmanian tiger tracks on an isolated West Coast beach at Varna Bay.

 

Considering that this was the very same area of the tiger sighting by the two Strahan fishermen, and because of the time lapse, it could not possibly have been the same animal. But perhaps it was its offspring? It was a comforting thought to know that my quarry may well still frequent those remote parts. Early one morning I was awoken by a single, high-pitched scream that came from a gully near my tent. I lay awake willing the noise to come again, but it never did.

A somewhat demanding journey to the south brought me to Point Hibbs. The trek into Spero Bay and Endeavour Bay saw much the same coastal scenery, fascinating rocky headlands interspersed with both long and short stretches of white sandy beaches. It truly was a glorious feeling knowing I was likely the only human along that whole section of coast. Ancient Aboriginal middens scattered throughout the dunes are a notable feature of these isolated costal areas, as are sea caves, along with those captivating rock pools, while inland the same almost impenetrable coastal scrub barrier persists. At Pennerowne Point to the south of Varna Bay, I located a lonely grave, possibly that of a shipwrecked mariner of long ago; a simple wooden cross sat amidst a cairn of locally gathered stones. Along an exposed section of beach, I discovered huge bleached whale bones protruding from the sand. This section of coastline had been the site of a recent mass stranding and undoubtedly there had been others in times past. A large stranding had taken place only months previously near Point Hibbs.

Heavy black clouds rolled in from the sea looking decidedly ominous as day three drew to a close. With the wind beginning to pick up from the north-west, I decided to secure the tent in case of a storm. It rained little during the night, and although the wind freshened, thankfully it all came to nothing and by next morning everything was back to normal. I walked those cool, lonely beaches that night buffeted by a brisk wind, searching for signs of wildlife, but the animals were strangely absent. The constant crash of the waves as they hit the sand was the only sound. Despite the moonless night, there was an eerie, aurora-like glow over the landscape that provided reasonable viewing well into the distance.

The day before I left, the regularly turbulent sea became millpond calm, which was quite unbelievable when one considers its often angry nature, with huge waves pounding the exposed coastline for days on end. This was the only reasonably warm day during the time I was there, and what I wouldn’t have given to be able to lie on the beach soaking up the sun with a nice cold bottle of something wet and unsalted. For the first time in a week I noticed fishing boats well out to sea, no doubt on their way to their favourite lobster spots along the rocky coastline.

I searched for a small lagoon just behind the dunes that I’d spotted from the helicopter on the way in. Reaching its shoreline to hunt for animal prints presented a challenge in itself. Extremely thick coastal scrub fiercely protected it on all sides and continually barred my entry. I worked out that the only way through was to copy the animals; crawl on all fours through a network of burrows and tunnels, expecting at any moment to encounter a curious tiger snake lurking in the undergrowth. It was exhausting work, with scratches and abrasions being the order of the day. A welcome dip in the lagoon helped to ease the pain and wash away the grime gathered on the way in. The water was surprisingly cold, despite the mild daytime temperature. Although this water was definitely more palatable than what I had been drinking at the coast, it was still brackish, and the difficulty of accessing it ruled it out as an alternative supply. Judging by the diverse range of animal footprints littering the lagoon’s sandy three-metre rim, my hopes of finding what I was searching for rose significantly. But it was not to be. Not unlike that Coorong soak of long ago, any worthwhile tracks were lost in the confusion of countless others.

I was by now becoming increasingly aware that the water from the creek was seriously affecting me, and it was perhaps opportune that I had done the longer walks during the first few days I was there. Oh, how I longed for a decent drink of anything wet and palatable, other than the horrible salty, tannin-stained brew I was forced to consume each day. How the local animal population put up with drinking that stuff I’ll never know. Maybe they’d grown used to it, or supplemented it with occasional rainwater and dew.

As the week drew to a close and departure day loomed closer, I became frustrated that my increasing lack of energy was preventing me from carrying out the further activities I’d planned. The area abounded in natural history and an additional few weeks spent assessing the many features would have been wonderful — dependent, of course, on a well set-up camp and an ample supply of fresh water. Ideally, it would be great to explore the whole way along the beaches as far as High Rocky Point and perhaps beyond to Bathurst Harbour. I am sure such a project would be a wonderfully rewarding experience, as no doubt a few hardy and adventurous souls have already discovered. The weather would, of course, be the determining factor and it would be a game of Russian roulette in choosing the correct time to go.

Finally, departure day arrived, dawning cool and overcast; a direct opposite of the previous day, but thankfully remaining fine. Getting my gear back down that steep incline presented me with fresh difficulties, but as always, I somehow managed to improvise and overcome. Retrieving my length of rope was my final chore, after which I sat on the sand contemplating my week’s stay in isolation. Being something of a pessimist, my worst fears were that the helicopter would forget to come back, or that the pilot wouldn’t remember where he dropped me off. If by chance he failed to show, my predicament would be grave indeed, as I was all but out of provisions and I would be forced to activate my EPIRB to summon help, something I was loathe to do.

It was with some relief that I eventually heard the chopper thumping its way over the dunes that morning. By then I’d well and truly had enough: beset by escalating health problems; wall-to-wall sand in my less than comfortable living quarters; sand in my food, my clothing, my person; ravaged by thirst and ready to kill for a decent drink — and with more sand still to come!

Loneliness was never a problem as I kept myself busy with day-to-day activities. Other than the water problem, my greatest overall concern had been the weather, as other than what I could observe, I had no way of knowing what was coming. Several days after my departure, the weather did indeed turn sour with huge waves and gale force winds battering the coastline for days on end. How lucky was I to vacate that coast when I did?

I had washed and dressed in clean clothing carefully stored in plastic bags for my departure, only to be thoroughly caked with blinding sand whipped up by the rotors as the helicopter landed closer to me than expected — but this was, after all, a minor hiccup. Soon loaded and thumping our way back to civilisation, the chopper flew low enough for me to carefully observe the splendid vista unfolding below. I could see Huon Pines growing along the many watercourses that crisscross that wild and isolated country, along with many taller trees of unknown varieties, hopefully safe forever from the axe. Although there are walking tracks further inland from Birchs Inlet in Macquarie Harbour through to Low Rocky Point, that particular section of countryside is wild and seldom walked owing to the nature of the terrain. So isolated is it that anything could live there in complete safety and anonymity.

Once back in Strahan, I made a beeline for the same café on the waterfront, and an eagerly anticipated coffee. I can still visualise the startled looks of a party of well-heeled foreign tourists as this weary, dishevelled and salt-and-sand encrusted old tiger hunter came shuffling through the door and stood impatiently at the counter. The waitress must have taken pity on me, and instructed me to sit at an outside table while she brought my coffee. I selected a table on the sidewalk as far from prying eyes as possible. Completely overwhelmed by the beautiful, fresh and, I stress, unsalted beverage, I remained completely oblivious to the impolite stares of the up-market clientele as I relaxed and gazed out across the harbour. Surely this must be the best coffee I have ever consumed.

As I sat quietly reflecting on the events of the past week, I realised that while there still remain such pristine areas in Tasmania today, increasing waves of tourism mean the likelihood of their survival is shrinking by the day. One wonders how much longer we can protect this pristine wilderness for which our magnificent little island is rightly renowned throughout the world.

However they are currently classified, nothing can be taken for granted so far as these wilderness areas go. Governments vary widely in their approaches, often allowing mining and other harmful activities, and reclassifying land on a whim that can amount to little more than sacrilege. If the government really cared, there is much it could do – such as regularly patrolling these wilderness beaches and removing the copious amount of garbage that litter the landscape.

Despite having failed to achieve my ultimate aim, I was thankful to return safely and in one piece after a memorable week on the rugged West Coast.