Bastard Trumpeters at Bittangabee Bay

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After Hobart Beach I thought I had a handle on who goes camping in National Parks. Middle-aged refugees from urban life.
'Communities' of people returning year after year from all over the country gathered without sounds of industrial life. Solar-powered and gas-fueled fridges. Generator hums replaced by cicadas. But of course you can never generalise. Bittangabee Bay harboured a new species, the hunting, fishing species. The gung-ho, goanna-tossing, spear-fishing, night prawning variety. But I think the refugee camp image prevails. Clothing strung on trees, logs and rocks; blackened cooking pots piled around wood fires. Makeshift showers with water bags hanging from available branches. Small groups of people sit around in various states of undress doing nothing much in particular, children play as they always do. But there the analogy ends; the luxuriousness of leisure, no worry about insecurity, jobs or food.

So what does it bring out? Me collect more firewood, make bigger fire, catch more fish than you.
A return to an earlier, simpler time. Unless of course you belong to the caravan brigade. Bush at a safe distance with all mod-cons, the plug-ins to society found at most caravan parks. After all who could be expected to live without a microwave and a hairdryer? Oh and of course a private toilet. None of those shared enviro-loos! Another welcome silence for those urban refugees smug in their collective knowledge that they flush away no litres of drinking water.

So back to the Yahoos. A group of likely lads camped next to us but no they did not continue well into the night playing drinking games but passed the time playing alphabetical games. Countries of the world I believe was the starter! They then proceeded to discuss various cooking methods for the fish they had caught, the benefits of growing your own herbs and island recipes for marinated seafood. Sounded like they knew what they were talking about so we bartered chocolate and special Disaster Bay chipotle smoked chilli and garlic barbeque sauce for two very generous fillets of bastard trumpeter and a dozen meaty mussels.

And talking of toilets, did you know wombats use high-rise toilets? Graeme and I had been fascinated by piles of what seemed like green wood-shavings at the end of each log laid along the Light to Light track.
'Strange,' said Graeme,' I can't imagine ants eating treated pine!'
Surmise upon surmise we deduced that the strange cubes of green poo placed on tree roots and logs (before they break down to sawdust) must belong to the clearly territorial wombat. We read confirmation of this on one of the strategically place information boards on the second leg of the walk. And so it is that wombats like to do their business on top of logs. Logs upon logs, if you will pardon the expression. A strange pre-occupation then found us marvelling at every occurrence.

The two return walks of 18k and 14k respectively to Saltwater Creek and Green Cape lighthouse took up two days of partly sunny weather. Saltwater Creek and its lagoon were stunning with its small campsite totally booked for the holiday season. Small wonder. Green Cape was an easier, flatter walk with no outcome as the ranger informed us it was too windy to go up to the top and to come back another day. Well, I suppose if you have seen one lighthouse you have seen them all but we did learn of the haunting story of the wreck of the Ly Yee Moon, gone to ground on the reef whilst ferrying 80 passengers from Melbourne to Sydney in 1886.

A melancholy graveyard with forlorn rocks marking the unidentified graves is all that is left of the passengers of a proud ship first used as a paddle steamer in Hong Kong for the opium trade. After several disasters, fires and refits it found use as this luxurious passenger ship. Only 14 survived that stormy night when the captain must have sailed too close to shore trying to avoid the current sweeping southwards. The plucky lighthouse keeper helped rescue passengers from the stern as the ship broke into two but looking down at the treacherous rocks and boiling seas it is a miracle that any were rescued from the dark, oily waters.
Who do you meet camping? Teachers of course. Long holidays bring them out like a rash. We had conversations about the efficacies of Steiner education, the lament of high school assessments and the welcome introduction of VET courses. We talked about camping, solar panels, gas cookers, fridges and all the mundane trappings of the gypsy life. We met musicians, especially the talented group at Hobart Beach who put on a concert for all. We missed the advent of the Little River Band guitarist who had played there one year but hey the others were still good playing classic Neil Young, Dylan and Simon and Garfunkel tunes.

Who else? An American solar expert from Sausalito, California writing his PhD at Canberra University travelling the coast with his visiting daughter and friend. You may be pleased to know that they are working very hard on increasing the efficacy of panels, expecting a breakthrough very shortly. Two middle aged men from Melbourne on a road trip with their teenage suns, surfing and snorkelling and packing more into a station wagon of unknown origin than you have ever seen; then the lanky lads squeezed in. A young student teacher with her boyfriend from the Northern Territory whom she had met whilst governessing.

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