Tahune terror.

After some clockwork organisation by Jen this morning, we managed to set off before 8 am. The temperature in downtown Hobart was a brisk 8 degrees, making my selection of shorts a very brave move indeed. 

We wound our way through the southern hills of Hobart (the 'Southern Outlet' if you will) and very quickly found ourselves in more rural surrounds. As is the case in the country-side, we passed the occasional deceased small furry animal. To our mortification, their numbers continued to rise, until at one point it appeared that all of the local marsupials had gathered on one stretch of road to voice their concerns with tragic results.

We passed through some of the smaller townships on the Huon Trail, and noticed a proliferation of election posters - each candidate apparently attempting to capture a certain earthy look (in a slept-in-a-ditch kind of way). We arrived at Geeveston (the last town before the Tahune Forest Airwalk - our destination) a little earlier than expected, and Jen was approached by an elderly lady asking directions for the church (clearly exuding piety, or perhaps just looking like a local). We were hoping to pick up Airwalk tickets at the Information Centre, but as it was still closed, we continued into the State Forest on the expectation we'd be able to pay our way in at the venue itself.

We made it to the Tahune Forest Reserve just in time - to wait half an hour for the place to open. The heavy concentration of tannin in the river water makes for a pleasant (dark brown) surprise in the centres facilities. Much to the delight of the family (and to the unease of this blogger) we were to partake in both the Forest Airwalk (a see-through platform weaving its way through the forest canopy) as well as the Swinging Bridges (as mobile as they sound).

The kids raced along the Airwalk, and even threw a coin or two onto The Wishing Stump (picture a stump the height of a telegraph pole, still meters below the platform) part way along. 

Yay! It's the Wishing Stump!

The Engineers, who clearly enjoyed scaring the life out of ground-dwelling humans, saved the best for last. The final section of the walk consisted of a cantilevered viewing platform that would spring and sway alarmingly with each step. I bravely lead the way off the infernal construction, and along the forest floor once again.

The stuff of acrophobic nightmares.

All too soon, we came to the first of the two Swinging Bridges, which cross the tannin-laden Picton River. Almost immediately, the Martin children began leaping up and down, as well as swaying the whole blasted thing from side to side. Hilarious.

The dark brown waters a surprise when
first encountered in public plumbing.

We made it back to the Forest Reserve Centre, and had some morning tea. Jen and I had some freshly-baked scones with locally made jam, while the kiddies managed to get a reasonable amount of hot chocolate smeared across their faces. Some rambunctious child made one crazed circuit of the place too many, and ended up colliding with a fairly solid-looking glass sliding door. Flustered shop assistants produced some official-looking ice packs, and all was well once again. Before leaving the newly-dented Centre, we picked up a Huon chopping board and Myrtle bowl.

We were making good time on our return trip, and decided to break the journey for lunch after noticing a sign advertising the best tasting Scallop Pies in Tasmania. The venue: the Petty Sessions (a Cafe in the sleepy township of Franklin). I can safely say it was the best tasting scallop pie I've ever had, and look forward to having another for an actual basis of comparison.

You can almost feel the hustle and bustle of Franklin.

The Martin-clan, satiated with some seriously good food, no sooner returned to the road than had to come to a complete stop to allow one local resident to waddle, clucking across the road. Too late did we think to ask what possessed her to cross in the first place - a question for the ages.

We pushed our luck in terms of weather and made our way up Mount Wellington, past scores of masochistic cyclists, struggling their way up one sizeable mountain. The place took on a definite alpine edge as we neared the summit, impending rain and fierce cross-winds did little to warm the place up. We noticed one base-jumper toying with the idea of leaping from The Organ Pipes, a fairly spectacular cliff-face. He proceeded to brood and pout, and eventually called the whole thing off as some misty rain set in.

Our destination tomorrow will be largely determined by the weather, but am hoping it will consist of a ground-based activity with a distinct absence of road-kill.