For the past few days, my roommate, Phoebe, and I have been exploring Tasmania. To call it an incredible experience wouldn’t do it justice, but I’m going to focus only on our last day when we visited Maria Island.
On the ferry over, amidst my clinging to my seat to ward off seasickness, the man next to us struck up a conversation. He was clearly familiar with the island, and told us two things: the Bishop and Clark hike was mandatory, and we would see wombats (in fact, we owed a 500 dollar lack-of-wombat fine if we didn’t). We wouldn’t, however, see any echidnas (much to Phoebe’s disappointment). Naturally, we pulled open our handy pamphlets and looked up the Bishop and Clark hike. Beneath the name, it read: extreme caution should be taken. Why? Well, it was 11 km long (estimated to be a 3-5 hour journey), and the last section of the hike involved “rock scrambling.” I love the outdoors, but I'm by no means an experienced hiker. What the hell is rock scrambling? We had no idea. But we figured we would try it, and if it looked too treacherous, we’d turn around.
After peeing and spotting a black snake (!), we set out on the 11 km journey. Besides a couple who we saw well in the distance, we had the entire trail to ourselves. We began on the edge of vibrant green cliffs, marveling at the steep drop off beneath us. We couldn’t believe how high up we were; how easy it was to feel so dwarfed. After a moment to drink in the spectacular view, we set off.
It started off easy enough - a gradual incline on a tree-covered path with the ocean faithfully following us on our left. We were expecting it to be cold, but it wasn’t long before we were both drenched in sweat. While Phoebe quietly called out for wombats (literally -- calling out, "Wombats! Wombats?"), I was growing exhausted. I stripped off my tank top and my bra (don’t worry, I had on a shirt), and frustratedly whipped out my map.
“We must be close,” I announced to Phoebe, calculating the amount of time we had already been walking against the miles my phone said we had traveled. Phoebe, being her wonderful self, agreed with me and coaxed me on.
We eventually arrived at a sign that said bikes were no longer allowed. Great! Seemed promising. We eagerly quickened our pace until the path dramatically narrowed and grew steep. A few rocks were scattered along the dirt. “This is the rock scramble?” I asked phoebe. “This is NOTHING, we've totally got this.”
Dripping with sweat and breathless (just me, really; Phoebe is a runner and was hilariously fine), we carried on, all the while quietly calling for wombats that we had yet to find. Along the trail, we encountered the couple we had seen well ahead of us pausing to take a picture.
I asked Phoebe if she thought that they were still on the way up or if they had already reached the top and come down. We hoped it was the former, since they had had a good lead on us and the latter would mean the top of the mountain was still a ways away. As we passed them, the snap of twigs behind us answered our question - they hadn’t made it up yet.
So onward we went until we came to another clearing.
“Oh my god,” I whispered.
It seemed we had not already reached the rock scramble, as I had hoped.
Before us was a steep hill, completely covered with stones of all sizes. Phoebe and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. But we had made a silent agreement somewhere between my taking off my sweaty bra and our passing the couple behind us - we wouldn’t turn back until we finished this hike. We were both exhausted at this point, but dammit, we were gonna scramble that rock.
So we started climbing. Right up the stones on our hands and knees. The couple behind us reached the stones and silently followed our lead. It wasn’t until a good few minutes in that Phoebe noticed there was a clear trail with orange arrows pointing us a specific way up the rocks - a way we had very much not been taking thus far. We laughed again. It's funny; I don't remember ever having been this exhausted or having laughed this much.We laughed, we traversed across the rocks, we found our way to the path, we kept going.
Still no wombats.
We reached the top of the rock pile and the little arrows pointed us left toward, you guessed it, another giant pile of small rocks. And still no wombats!!!!
So we climbed, and climbed, and complained (just me, again), and climbed some more.
And then we reached a dirt path!
“WE ARE ALMOST THERE!” I shouted to Phoebe.
And then guess what we saw scurry right in front of us on the path!!!!
No, not a wombat.
A wallaby!
That was cool.
Still no wombats.
Completely fatigued, shaking, sweating, aching, and, at this point, starving and out of water (again, me - ha), we came to yet another terrain shift.
More rocks. MORE. ROCKS.
I let out a scream.
We kept going.
And then, out of nowhere, the sky appeared and the rocks quadrupled in size.
Something in me told me to turn around.
And there, behind us, was the entirety of Maria Island in her hues of soft green and blue. There was the tiny base of the cliffs where we had begun our hike, already feeling so tall; there was the ferry that had brought us here; there was the main island where we had come from. It felt like we were perched at the top of a quiet world.
“We made it,” I muttered to phoebe. We pulled our tired bodies onto a tall rock, desperately fighting for breath and looking at the sea. Everything felt worth it. We'd been living in Australia for four months, away from home, at the end of a difficult but incredible semester, and everything felt worth it. The world felt still. I felt invincible.
And then the worst happened.
“Phoebe,” I whispered. “Phoebe.”
She turned.
And there, behind our heads, was yet another orange arrow, pointing up.
We hadn’t made it.
We looked up at a massive rock without any grip for your hands and only a tiny indent for one foot. The only way up the rest of the mountain.
“I don’t think I can do it,” I said softly. “I can’t climb that.”
Phoebe nodded in silent agreement. This was a fine spot, we decided. We were hungry and spent and everything hurt. We would eat our lunch here and then go back down. We had been defeated by the mountain.
And then our friends from behind us appeared at the base of the rock.
They asked us if this was the end, and we half-heartedly pointed at the arrow.
The man asked if we were going to continue, and we told him no. He jumped up beside us and eyed the asshole rock that we couldn’t climb. He put up a foot, placed it back down, put it back up again.
And then he climbed down, disappointed and, again, defeated by the mountain.
I looked at Phoebe. I looked at the rock. I looked back at Phoebe.
“We can do it,” I said suddenly. I threw my bag onto the rock and, with strength I didn’t know I had left, I threw my body onto the rock.
Smiling, Phoebe easily followed. We turned to our friends and told them we’d shout back to
them when we reached the top so they knew how far away it was.
More massive rocks, more arrows pointing up. more bag-throwing, more hoisting, more scrambling.
The couple behind us decided to follow.
And then, practically dragging myself up with vibrating arms, the rocks became isolated and clustered together above the rest of the island.
The summit. We had reached it. For real, we had reached it!!!! There was absolutely nowhere else we could go, no arrows to keep pointing us up. The arrows were gone. That's what happens when you arrive.
The look Phoebe and I exchange was one of pure triumph. We took the couple’s picture and they took ours. It was pretty remarkable that the only four people on this entire hike happened to reach the summit all at the same time. And then I cracked open a jar of Tasmanian honey and ate it with a wooden stick, aching and singing and glowing at the very top of this island at the very bottom of the world.
Until the rain came.
The couple went down first. We stayed a little while longer, letting the rain gently drench us before we, too, headed down.
And at the base of the very first rock scramble, guess what we saw!!!
No, not a wombat. Still no wombats.
A bright, rainbow-colored phone case. And attached to it was a phone. Some quick deductive reasoning led us to conclude that the woman behind us had dropped her phone on the way down.
We picked it up, brainstorming how we would possibly get it back to them on the way down the mountain. We ended up walking as fast as we could, hoping the couple realized quickly, turned back, and passed us on the way back up.
We made it nearly the entire way down the mountain. Still no couple. Still no wombats.
And then, at the very last leg, we spotted a man with his eyes glued to the floor, walking quickly and looking upset.
We called to him and lifted the phone in his direction. He jogged to us, bowing with his hands pressed tightly together. He thanked us profusely and turned to go back to his wife. Then, he swiveled once more back to us and said something we couldn’t hear, pointing at the view by the cliff. We thought he was offering to take our picture. he said it again and pointed.
Then I saw it.
“PHOEBE, LOOK!!!!!!”
It was
a WOMBAT.
Not only a wombat, a wombat and a joey, dangling from her pouch.
It felt like a miracle. It felt like the first rain in the desert. Like karma, working swiftly and diligently.
And when it rains --
out came --
it pours --
ANOTHER WOMBAT,
and then ANOTHER WOMBAT.
They were everywhere. It was emotional. A sea of wombats, flooding the hill, chubby and fluffy and munching grass. It felt hopeful.
"Sarah. Sarah. Sarah."
It was an echidna. We froze.
The echidna was clearly scared, motionless in the grass, but it let us creep close to look. He looked like a cross between a platypus and a hedgehog. He was beautiful.
He waddled beneath a bush with his butt sticking out to hide from us, so we let him be.
We went back to Hobart with full hearts, empty stomachs, and screaming bodies. And then I ate an entire pizza meant for multiple people.
The lessons here, I think, are clear: when the terrain gets rocky and the orange arrows keep pointing up, the best you can do is surround yourself with good company, lead with kindness, and quietly call out for wombats along the way. Our minds can be fierce negotiators with our bodies. Laughter makes everything easier. And if you put good out into the world, even against all odds & the expertise of a scrappy local, you may find an echidna.
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