Marvellous Maria 2: Devils Below, Heaven's Above

It’s tempting to say that that night on Maria Island was a black one; all black even. But that would only be true in a metaphorical sense given that the stars were out in abundance. No, it was my early morning check of the score in the Rugby World Cup final that turned the night “All Black”.

Lynne and I had been in New Zealand during the early parts of that tournament, and we’d even joined locals watching a live broadcast of the game between New Zealand’s “All Blacks” and the lowly-ranked Georgian team. Yet despite my huge soft-spot for our neighbouring country, now that we were playing them for rugby’s ultimate prize, I couldn’t help but want Australia’s “Wallabies” to pull off an unexpected win.

[A young Tasmanian devil near the Penitentiary]

It wasn’t to be. So I was slinking back to my bunk when I suddenly heard a noise that uncannily matched my fierce disappointment. It was devils growling! Some young imps, as baby Tasmanian devils are called, had incurred their mother’s wrath. She was growling and screeching in the fearsome manner that gave these carnivorous marsupials their European name in the first place.

One of the park rangers had told us that a devil family had taken up residence directly beneath our room. They are part of a concerted government effort to re-settle disease-free devils on Maria Island. On mainland Tasmania, the devil facial tumour disease has reduced their population by over 80%. But here on Maria, there’s a chance for healthy devils to live and breed naturally without the threat of the horrible and contagious cancer.

There’s much more information, including ways to get involved, on this site Tasmanian Devils

In response to the mother devil’s screeching, I could hear the panicked imps scuttering along the wooden verandah outside our dorm. Whether they were obediently rejoining their mother in the den or running for dear life, I’ll never know. This rugby tragic had some serious sulking to get on with.

In the morning I masked my sporting disappointment with the busy-ness of preparing for our walk to the island’s highest mountain, Mount Maria (709m). I’d somehow never been there, and the fine warm morning looked ideal for the long trip there and back. With luck we might get some of the renowned views over the isthmus and down to South Maria.

["Not again?" Stefan hits the cloud near Mt Maria's summit]

One of the fascinations of Maria is the wide variety of its landscapes. Over a relatively short distance we had walked through dry pasture, open woodland, tall forest and out onto boulder screes. It had all been uphill, and we were very glad to stop and fill up our water bottles in a small stream in a wetter patch of forest.

Mike and I had kept a running commentary on which birds we were hearing. They too were changing as we ascended: skylarks and cuckoos of the lower country gave way to honey-eaters and pardalotes as we rose, and finally ravens, cockatoos and currawongs nearer the top. By the time we’d reached the scree we were disappointed to see cloud lowering over the summit block. Given the cloud-forest style vegetation near the summit, we shouldn’t have been surprised.

[Group shot with cloud: Mt Maria]

We clambered on regardless, eventually topping out on the blocky summit in thickening cloud and strong wind. We took the obligatory summit shot, grabbed a quick lunch in the semi-shelter of some rocks, then turned around for the scramble down.

That all may sound disappointing, especially for Tim and Stefan, who had suffered claggy summits two days in a row. But it was a delightful walk, and an almost literal example of the journey outshining the destination.

[At least we knew our altitude]

Still, it was a long walk back, and we’d been on the go for nearly 7 hours by the time we staggered back into the Penitentiary’s quadrangle. And there we found our neighbours had become a virtual paparazzi on the lawn outside our dorm. Their target? The mother devil and her little imps were showing themselves off, relaxing in the late afternoon sun near our verandah.

[Butter wouldn't melt: Devil imp and mother on Maria Is.] 

The imps looked rather more relaxed than they had very early this morning. As they gave butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth looks, their bad behaviour seemed just a fading dream. And now that I had walked off my rugby disappointment, I was ready to wake up to this amazing situation. How many other places can you share a quiet moment with such stunning wild animals?

Marvellous Maria 1: A Sweet Spot

I’m part of a chain of passengers passing luggage off the Maria Island ferry. I might note how apt it is using a chain-gang to get this job done, given the island is a former convict settlement. But I’m too busy chatting with the man next to me. I’ve discovered he’s a first-time visitor from Melbourne. So, like an over-enthusiastic travel agent, I’m busy selling the wonders of Maria Island.

Interested in wildlife? This place has it in abundance: kangaroos, wombats, devils, rare birds … (and on I go) … Like history? How many other places can you stay in a convict prison – in comfort – while learning all about everything from Aboriginal history to convicts and rogue industrialists … (but wait, there’s more) … Fancy a walk? Where do I start? (He’s probably wondering when I’ll finish!)

I can’t resist going on to mention the island’s amazing geology; its wonderfully untouched beaches; its stunning variety of vegetation. If only I’d be quiet for a moment, he might possibly experience the special serenity of this traffic-free island.

Okay, I don’t work for national parks any more, but it seems there’s no stopping this rusted-on fan from enthusing about Tasmania’s wonderful wilds. And marvellous Maria (pronounced like Mariah Carey’s first name), is one of our great national parks.

I eventually remind myself I’m not at work, and release the captive Melburnian. Our group wanders up to the Penitentiary, where we’ve booked a double dorm room. We claim bunks, unpack our bags, set up our cooking gear (there’s no power in the “Pen”) and make ourselves a cuppa. Then to the serious business: we settle on the verandah and let the quiet seep into us.

Fan-tailed and pallid cuckoos call; wombats stroll by; the sun shines; and in the distance waves whisper on the sands of Darlington Beach. Not for the first time on the trip I find myself believing the hype about this place. Thomas Lempriere, a convict era clerk of the Commissariat Store, called it “one of the sweetest spots in Van Diemen’s Land.” As we recline on the verandah, I wonder if even some of the convicts might have recognised they had it (relatively) better than those elsewhere.

Later in the afternoon we discover that Tim has never been to the top of Bishop and Clerk. So four of us head towards the 620m mountain “just for a look”. But I know two things: firstly that Tim will be determined to get to the top, and secondly that neither Mike nor I will bother this time, given that we climbed it last visit. Stefan’s attitude isn’t yet clear, though we suspect he’ll carry on with Tim.

[Walkers above Fossil Cliffs, with Bishop & Clerk behind] 

The walk first winds through beautifully open grassland, alongside high cliffs with vast views over the sea towards Freycinet National Park. Mike and I are cajoled into walking on “just to the top of the next rise”and then “just to the beginning of the steep bit”. The walk is so stunning, the vistas so grand, the birdlife so prolific, that it’s no trial to succumb. But eventually we divide into two groups, Tim and Stefan for the top, Mike and I for an amble back via another route.

The two of us, both keen birders, are immediately rewarded with a sighting of some swift parrots. Small, swift, green and endangered only begins to describe these lovely birds. The clearing of the forests on which they depend, particularly blue gum forests, is a major reason for their decline. So it’s a privilege to hear their high pitched tinkling call before they sweep off – swiftly – deeper into the forest.

[A wedge-tailed eagle soars overhead] 

No sooner have they gone than we’re visited by a curious wedge-tailed eagle. It circles a few times, before flying off at speed, pursued by a raven. Forest ravens are not small birds, having a wingspan in excess of one metre. Yet this one looks both small and brave up against our largest bird of prey, with its nearly three metre wingspan.

On our way back we stop to observe a common wombat: an animal seemingly at the opposite end of the speed spectrum from a parrot or an eagle. Yet I’ve heard that these rotund marsupials – dubbed the bulldozers of the bush – can, if threatened, run at close to human sprinting speed. To put that in perspective, a wombat can run at up to 40kmh; Usain Bolt can reach 45kmh.

[A common wombat, not running anywhere] 

We’re back at the Penitentiary and have been tucking into wine and cheese for some time before Tim and Stefan stagger back. They’ve made the top of Bishop and Clerk, ‘though the clouds have covered the peak and obscured all but glimpses of the amazing views. We raise a glass to them both, part commiseration, part congratulation. Better luck tomorrow?

[Relaxing in the sun near the convict-era chapel] 

Mountain tops, cliffs, wildlife and a place to relax together: and that’s just our first afternoon. This truly is a sweet spot!

On My Watch

Nothing’s sadder, I know, than the passing of time. (Neil Finn, from “English Trees”)

The trouble with normal is it always gets worse. (Bruce Cockburn, from “The Trouble With Normal”)

[a young Tasmanian devil in Tasmania's Central Plateau]


[some natural reflections on progress - and its opposite]

I was born in the optimistic afterglow of World War 2: a classic baby boomer. We weren’t rich, but there was work for everyone, and nobody seemed to starve. The privations of war had departed by the mid-1950s, and if everything was bland, I was too young to notice it.

I was fed an educational diet of science and progress. I came to believe that I could do anything and be anything as long as I gained a good education. To students of the 60s and 70s, the world was knowable. And if you knew enough you could improve the lives of everyone in the world. (Yes, altruism was part of the diet too.)

Many Pooh sticks have passed under the bridge since that rosy era. I like to think that I haven’t been totally pincered by those twin ghouls of middle age: cynicism and disillusionment. But I am finding it harder to be optimistic about human progress in the face of what’s happened here on earth on my watch.

Take road kill, for instance. An odd place to start, admittedly, but in the 1980s, when I first began driving around Tasmania, there was lots of road kill. And most notably, there were large numbers of Tasmanian devils among the animals skittled on our roads. As the top carnivores and scavengers in Tassie, they were naturally attracted to clean-up the dead animals on the road verges; often becoming victims themselves.

In the early 1990s I remember writing a small leaflet explaining to tourists that the amount of road kill was ironically an indication of a healthy population of mammals. By the end of that decade dead devils were already becoming scarcer, and we were starting to hear about a deadly facial tumour disease that was decimating devil numbers.

Sadly it has proven far worse than decimation, which literally means the death of 10%. If there was such a word, we might talk about the nono-decimation of devils, because in some areas devil numbers have been cut by around 90%.

By very unhappy coincidence the fall in devil numbers has occurred at the same time as the European red fox has been (maliciously) introduced into Tasmania. Foxes had been introduced here for “sport” (ie fox-hunting) in the 1800s. Their failure to survive was laid largely at the feet of Tasmanian devils. Devils were believed to have targeted fox cubs, thereby outcompeting them.

To my mind those who deliberately brought foxes in from mainland Australia in the late 1990s rank as environmental terrorists. Had they tried to time their ghastly work better, they could scarcely have managed it. Slipping foxes in via the Bass Strait vehicle ferries, and releasing them close to Devonport and Burnie, they happened to find a place where devil numbers have historically been low. The devil facial tumour disease knocked those numbers even lower, giving foxes a window to breed and spread.

But why am I so concerned about foxes? Here’s a short list of some of the species that are threatened by this voracious predator.
• eastern barred bandicoot
• Tasmanian bettong
• long nosed potoroo
• eastern quoll
• southern brown bandicoot
• long tailed mouse
• velvet furred rat
• New Holland mouse
• hooded plover
• little tern
• fairy tern
• ground parrot
• ground thrush
• painted button quail
• great crested grebe
• green and gold bell frog
• tussock skink
• glossy grass skink.

On the mainland of Australia, foxes have driven some of these animals to extinction. They have also taken a terrible toll on agriculture, especially sheep farming.

That two such tragedies – the demise of the devil, and the rise of the fox – have happened on my watch is profoundly sad to me. That there are many Tasmanians who don’t know and/or don’t care about this is even sadder. Is it the unregenerate baby boomer in me that thinks ignorance and malice need to be combated?

Since wringing my hands won’t do much good, I’d prefer to say how we can ring in some changes. If you even suspect you see a fox, or find any other evidence of one in Tasmania (unusual scats, den sites, stock kills), then put aside your scepticism and call the Fox Hotline 1300 FOX OUT (1300 369 688). And support the work of the Fox Taskforce, who are doing a tough job in the face of a public that is all too easily led to doubt the presence of foxes here.

And as for the devil, you can donate online to the Save the Tasmanian Devil Program Appeal at www.utas.edu.au/devilappeal. It seems apt that reaching into your purse (the Latin word is marsupium) could help save the world’s largest carnivorous marsupial.