I asked the simple question a couple of weeks ago to one of my co-workers, “When are you going to be able to play Footy again?”  (For those that don’t know - Footy is Australian Rules Football, a cross between soccer, basketball, and grid iron football - played on a cricket oval…)

“Aw mate, right after the Queen’s birthday.  Come on down and watch if you’d like.” Tom said.

Tom had been sidelined with a shoulder injury and resulting surgery for almost a year.  While he didn’t expect to play much, I will admit, I’m a fan of most of minor league and university sports.  There is just something different about watching a major league sport - regardless if it is NFL Football, NBA Basketball, NHL Hockey, or AFL Football…while the skill level and caliber is outstanding, there is usually just something missing from these high paid players.  It is a bit like mercenaries versus people defending their homes.  One is highly skilled, the other plays like there is nothing to lose.

So with some rough directions on how to make it to the footy field, (I’d gotten the location via text message, with a little fore warning - it would be a ‘cultural expereince’) I headed down the coast to watch my first minor league footy game.

I showed up a little late.  And things looked good for Tom’s team.  They were leading early in the first quarter.

Watching the game, and experiencing the atmosphere, it was a unique cultural experience.  At the clubhouse, the elders drank coffee and ate meat pies with the warm of heaters at their back.  Fans were watching from their cars, facing the field.  Kids mulled around the field, waiting for the quarter breaks to rush the field and try their skills out with others.

The players on the field, well, they played with passion.

Perhaps that is why I enjoy the minor leagues so much better than the professional teams.  There is a passion to the way that they play.  Not so much the fact that they have anything to gain, or anything to loose, but perhaps the fact that they play because they enjoy it.  Perhaps it revolves around that unique Australian tradition of ‘mateship.’

Whatever it was, it was clear it came through with the passion that they played.

Tom was worried that he wouldn’t see playing time, it had been eleven months since his last game, and his shoulder was still not fully recovered.  But when he went into the game, he charged in, and the first thing that he did, throw his shoulder (albeit his good one) into an opposing player.

That’s passion.

And the language too showed a fair bit of passion.  Let’s put it this way, there was a fair amount of language thrown around.  Language that might not be appreciated at a major league, AFL game, comments like, “Aw #$%@#!” or “Catch the #%345 @#$@ #$#$& ball.” Then just the random, #$%#$%, #$%#$, &%^&% and my favorite @#$## %$&*&* @#$##$.

There is some creativity in some of those.

Tom came out of the game towards the end of the fourth quarter.  Covered in mud, tired, and though the right team wasn’t winning, sure as #$%#$% seemed happy that he was back playing footy.

 We had one last stop before heading to the airport.  The heart of Cataract Gorge.  

Driving our way through town, we made our way to the entrance to the park.  For a little town, a little city, like Launceston, the park is a wonder.  The orginal bridge that spaned the river was built by some of the first settlers.  It cost so much, they took out a loan that took them forty years to pay back.

But the inhabitants today are still reaping the benefit.

The first bridge washed away in a spring deluge a century ago, the new bridge is impressive, and is joined by a stone bridge and dam slightly downstream.  In addition, a chair lift took people from one side of the gorge to the other.

Did I mention the gondola that scales the side of the cliff that overlooks the park?

What about the swimming pool?

And the peacocks?  A whole flock of peacocks.

And women.  Lots of good looking women.

In short, I think I know why people make so much fun of Tasmania…it is a ploy made up by the Tasmanians themselves to try and keep this little piece of paradise all to themselves.

As we headed to the airport, a part of me couldn’t wait to get back to Melbourne.  We had scheduled an early flight back to Melbourne on purpose, not expecting to see or experience much in northern Tasmania.

How wrong we were.

From Mole Creek to Cradle Mountain to Wynyard, Penguin, Latrobe, and Launceston, it was a good experience in a beautiful country.

 Bridge Over the River Flowing Through Cataract Gorge, View From Chair Lift.

 View of the Pond at Cataract Gorge

View of the Park, Note Pool, Suspension Bridge.

 Our Lucky Number on the Chair Lift….

 View of the Chair Lift…From the Ground…

 Park - Note the Peacock Amid the Leaves

 View Overlooking the Suspension Bridge

Peacock

A Nice Winter’s Day

From the cheese factory, we moved on to Incenston…I mean Launceston, and in a hurry, we had tickets booked on the Launceston Queen, a boat that plies the harbor (or harbour as they call it in Tasmania, and Australia for that matter).  

Launceston was, is, a nice little city.  Actually, a very nice little city.

We made it down to the break wall with almost thirty minutes to spare, so we watched the river, watched the people, and enjoyed a nice Sunday weather.

Soon, the Launceston Queen was ready to roll, and we took our harbor cruise.  We went down the river and up, looking at where the old wharves used to be, now fancy apartments and fish and chip shops.  We learned the history - though this was once a busy port, at the time of discovery, it was a military installation, until the area was seen as a spot for gentleman farmers to relocate from England and use prison labor to create a paradise.

They seemed to get it almost right.

Though some things just seemed a bit confusing.  Launceston was a major exporter of wood.  Wood for ships, wood for buildings, wood.  Good solid, Tasmanian trees.

Launceston was also a major importer of lumber.  Most of the old homes, built with western cedar and pine…from the good ol’ US of A.

They didn’t have the millworks to finish the lumber.

So up on the river bank, stretching out over the hill of Trevallyn, the suburb that moves over the hillside to the west, are houses.  Rows and rows of big, old, fancy houses.  It is impressive to behold.

Then there is the elevator.  Build in the 1950’s for transporting Tasmania’s produce to the world.  Built on mud flats, without proper foundations, the bins cracked after the first fill.  It is now sitting in disrepair.

Perhaps most surprising, the harbor itself has been pushed much farther down the Tamar river.  Though we were over forty kilometers from the sea, the river still experiences the rise and fall of the tides, and also the runoff from the fields up stream.  It is that run off that has slowly silted up the harbor.  For years, dredges operated on the river, trying to keep it open, but to no avail.  Now, only pleasure boats ply the waters of Tamar in Launceston.

Finally, up the river, past the King’s Bridge and past the old flour mill, we enter Cataract Gorge, a natural wonder where the river cut its way through the rock and left sheer cliffs on either side.

It is striking.

The little boat, from turn of the last century, went quiet as we moved up the gorge.  Soon, the only sound was only the sound of children from the walkway that moves about the rim of the gorge.

Pulling back into the dock, not only had we learned much of Launceston history, but also a new found respect for the port city of northern Tasmania.

 Our Ride for the Day: Launceston Queen

 Old: Warves.  New: Apartments, Fish and Chips

 Trevallyn, Old House

Elevator, Not on Solid Footings….

 Old Flour Mill, Launceston, Tasmania

 Kings Bridge

View of Cataract Gorge

View of Cataract Gorge with Australian Flag Off Back of Boat

After hearing that the cheese factory had closed, we were surprised to see a cheese factory, about fifteen kilometers outside of town, which appeared to be open.The first sign that perhaps the cheese factory was open, or that there was anything on the side of the road period were the cows.  Not just any cows, but the brightly painted cows.  Cows with amazing mix of colors.

It either had to be a tourist attraction or finally, the discovery of where flavored milk comes from.

It was in fact the Ashgrove Cheese Factory.

The parking lot, the pastures, the picnic area were littered with cows.  Real, life sized cows, all painted in various colors and designs.

Walking up the stairs, past the trees, foliage, and picnic area, we knew that this wasn’t just any cheese shop and factory, this was a tourist experience.

If you are a fan of cheese, this may be a layer of heaven…somewhere between the Colby and the Pepperjack layers…

Refrigerator cases filled with cheese.  Open shelves of cheese for tasting.  Bottles of milk to wash it down.  Behind glass, between the refrigerator cases, was a view of the factory, where massive vats of curds and whey were mixed and tumbled to produce this, golden delight, this gift of the cows, the incredible, edible cheese.

The glass window extended back, down a hallway, to the doors to the bathroom.  On one wall were pictures of the dairy and cheese factory that tracked its growth over the years.  On the other wall, all glass, the factory gave way to storage.  Huge racks and shelves filled with piles and piles of cheese.  Between the windows were letters from children expressing gratitude for tours.  Underneath the window were rows of brightly colored boots.

Buying our cheese (chive, bush pepper, and ‘Rubicon Red’ for me), we made our way past the cows and foliage and picnic area.  Silently, we made our way back to the car….

Either to impressed…or to bound up…to speak…

 Cows Beckoning From the Roadside

 Which are real?  Which are fake?

 The artificial?  Think it the fifth from the right…the black and white one…

 Greeter

 Say Cheese!

 Boots

 One of the childrens letters posted, randoming reading through, the last line caught my eye…

Eating the Rubicon Red as I type, it obviously tastes better then is smells….

 For 15 years, Bill Cosby and my father have conspired to make my life miserable.  The two of them took every opportunity to make me feel guilty and ashamed.

But Sunday, Father’s Day, I finally redeemed myself.

Long before Cosby became an international television comedy on the air, he was successful stand-up comedian and recording artist.  My father was apparently a fan of Cosby’s.

Soon after I learned to work a phonograph, I found three Cosby albums in his collection.  I played them again and again.  I shared the records with my friends and we laughed until we cried as Bill told stories about Fat Albert, Weird Harold, Russell and the rest of his buddies.

We had “discovered” Bill Cosby and soon my friends were begging to borrow the albums.  One thing let to another and I eventually loaned them to another friend who loaned them to another friend and so on until the records became irretrievably lost.  I just sort of lost track of them.

My father never forgot.

Did you ever find out what happened to those “Bill Cosby records,” he would ask. “Those are probably collector’s items, you know.”

He asked the question every time we met.  And each time he asked, arrows of guilt pierced my heart, he had no idea how terrible I felt.  I had lost some of my dad’s prized possessions with no apparent way of ever finding them.  I was crushed.  It eventually became too painful for me to even watch “The Cosby Show.”

Not that I didn’t try to find the albums. I asked Roger and Jimmy and Steve and all the rest of my high school buddies about the albums, but none of them could remember where they were.  After all those years, the trail had grown stale and cold.

But my father never gave up.  Each time we returned for a visit, I waited anxiously for “the question.”  I knew he would eventually ask, “Have you ever been able to track down those Bill Cosby records?”  Each time I would have to admit that I hadn’t found them yet.

Finally, it dawned on me, if I couldn’t find the originals, I would track down replacements!  I began scouring the bargain bins at record stores.  I became a familiar face at used record shops in the area.

For months, it was a fruitless search.  I began to appreciate how right Dad had been.  Those records were collector’s items.  Finally, as despair began to cloud my outlook, I located one of the records in Des Moines.  My search gained new vigor.

My quest for the remaining two albums was long and arduous.  I was nearly prepared to offer the single album to Dad as a token of my sincerest apology, when, on a side street in Marshalltown, I found that a tiny record shop has connections to a network of used-record dealers.

I don’t know where luann at D.J.’s Tapes and Records found them but the albums were in beautiful condition.  When she finally laid the two albums on the counter in front of me, I could hardly believe my eyes.  After 15 years of guilt induced by Bill Cosby and my father, the ordeal was nearly at an end.

The price of the albums was no less that you would expect for such collector’s items, but I paid it gladly.  I would have paid twice as much (but don’t tell luann).  I carefully padded and packaged all three albums up and sent them off in plenty of time for Father’s Day.

I called Dad on Sunday.  “How did you like your present?” I asked.

“I was listening to them when you called.  Thank you,” Dad said sincerely.

Those were the words I’d been waiting for 15 years to hear.  Now Dad has his albums back and I’m free of my guilt.  I don’t know which one us received a better gift on Sunday.

We didn’t go to Latrobe on a whim; we had a clandestine mission to get in, find the chocolate and cheese factory, maybe see a platypus or two, and get out to Launceston.

As we made our way down the highway, objective number one was pretty plan - the chocolate factory.  While Tasmanian chocolate, or Australian chocolate for that matter, has the ring to it that say Swiss or Belgian chocolate does, it should.  It is good.

Driving into Latrobe, the chocolate factory is hard to miss.  While the factory itself was closed due to it being a Sunday, the factory store was very much open.  And we filled the larder.  Both Melvin and I found some of our favorites in stock (caramel fudge and chocolate chunks for me).  Enough for a good taste of Tasmania for a week or two back in the mainland.

We made our way into downtown Latrobe, past the street markets and the crowds of people enjoying a nice winters day (about 55F and sunny), all the way to the end of town, to the world famous Platypus Experience, Trout Experience, and Axmen Hall of Fame.

The building was big, though looked more like an auditorium then a true ‘experience.’  Though the giant platypus was out front, though a little worse for wear (some of the chicken wire was exposed), but beckoning passersby to come and see regardless.

So we did.

“Can we help you find something?” Said the lady behind the information counter.

“We are just wondering what we can see.” Said Melvin.

“Oh, well, there is heaps.” Said the lady.

As Melvin and the lady discussed the intricacies of the area - the sights and sounds of Tasmania, I walked around and looked at the knickknacks for sale.  A wide array of Tasmania’s finest was for sale.  And it was tempting.  But what do you do with a plate from the Ax men’s Hall of Fame?

Wondering up to the information counter, with Melvin and information lady in deep discussion, I interjected, “Do you have live platypuses here?”

Looking at me like I was a few pints of a gallon, she replied, “Here?  In the building?  No.  If you want to see them, they are in the river all over town.  They aren’t bashful.”

The platypus experience seemed a little less like an experience.  

“No problem.”  Melvin said diplomatically.  ”How about the cheese factory?”

“Closed awhile ago.  Owner couldn’t find a buyer and just had to retire.” She said sadly.  And it was.  Being from a small town, I could sympathize, you hate to lose any business, let alone a tourist attraction like a cheese factory.

Walking out of the Axmen Hall of Fame/Platypus Experience/Trout Experience (without seeing a platypus, trout, or axmen) we headed to the river that ran next to it, to see if we could find one of these unshy platypuses.

We saw a lot of ripples, both upstream and downstream, but never where we were, so we got back in the car to move on to Launceston.

We did listen to the advice of the lady at the information counter and stopped at the ‘Cherry Experience’ on the outskirts of Latrobe, where you could get cherries, cherry pancakes, cherry jubilee, cherry pasties, cherry ice cream, cherry tarts, and cherry liquor.

Cherry liquor?  Oh yes, cherry liquor.

Being good coinsures, we invested in two small bottles of cherry liquor…well, one bag of cherry liquor and one raspberry liquor.

Getting back on the highway, we were happy that we had gotten to the chocolate factory, disappointed that we missed the cheese factory, but pleased we had made it to cherry world.

Then we saw the sign for the quite obviously open cheese factory…

 Getting the lumber home for the new hayracks was the easy part. It was a great way to spend time with Dad and to travel a day in the northwoods of Minnesota.  The work was building the hay racks.

These were not going to be your standard hayracks.  These were going to be giants.  Standard hayracks are normally sixteen feet long and hold eight to nine bales across.  Our racks were twenty four feet long, could hold twelve bales across, and ate cats for protein (that last part isn’t true…though the number of cats on the farm did decrease once we built them…I’m just saying…).

For the undercarriage, we had two Minnesota wagon frames, solid, sturdy, and built by prisoners of the Minnesota penal system, extended a bit with the help of some extra steel.

These things were solid.

On top of the extended Minnesota undercarriage, we had to have good, solid stringers.  On our old hayracks, we had some long 4 x 12’s.  We couldn’t find the 4 x 12’s for the stringers this time around, so like good farmers, we improvised.  Using a series of 2 x 12’s, we made our own.  And we did it well…perhaps even, an overkill.

First we glued them together.  And I mean glued.  Big gallon jugs of industrial strength wood glue were used to hold them together.  Then, we nailed them, careful to make sure that they didn’t stick out the otherside.  Finally, for good orders sake, we bolted them together.

Those stringers were not going to break.

Once those were in place on the undercarriage lengthwise, two on each side, we started placing the rough lumber across the rack, equally spaced, thanks to a block of wood, each of the boards were nailed down to the stringers.  At least two nails for each stringer, so a total of four nails per board…at a minimum.  All day long, we hammered away at the bed of the hayracks, over thirty boards per hayrack, measuring, cutting and nailing.

Once the stringers were in place, the beds nailed down with a careful one inch spacing in between them, we capped off the ends, so horizontal with the stingers, and perpendicular to the bed, we capped off the rough ends of the rack with an end board, bolted onto each board on each end, this made for a nice finish, covered any poor cuts, and made for a good sturdy rack.

Finally came the back.  Each rack needed a back to ensure that the hay stayed on and didn’t fall off the back, with our system of making hay, it also helped getting the loader tractor lined up right too.

The back was eight feet high by eight feet wide and consisted of four vertical boards and four horizontal boards.

These racks were sturdy and built to last.

There was only one last thing that needed to be done, protect them.  With paint brush in hand, we pained each rack with linseed oil, to provide a good finish and protection from the elements.

The racks were a lot of work, but we took a lot of pride in them.  As hard as it was to build them, making hay with them was no easy chore either.

 Rolling up the road, we pulled into the town of Penguin, named by botanist, Ronald Gunn (bump bump bada bump bump bada bump bump bada bump bump bada baaaaaaaa baaaaaaa, baaaaaaaaaaBAbaaaaaaaaaa, badadadadadadadadddddddaaaaaa dum, wait, no relation to Peter Gunn…sorry…) for the fairy penguins that had their rookeries along the coast.

The town is, well, so sickingly fixated on the penguin, its, well, pretty cool (kind of like it being hip to be square).

Driving into town is a sign like any other that says, “Welcome to Penguin” then, driving down the street facing the beach, are penguins.  And I mean big penguins.  There is the five foot penguin up the side street on top of the IGA; there is the five foot penguin on top of a few other stores on Main Street.  There is the four foot penguin outside of the information center.  There is the ten foot penguin standing with back to the beach, facing the town, tall and proud.  There is the painting on the side of the bakery.

In short, the town of penguin seems to revolve around the penguin.

We parked on the main street and headed for a little breakfast, at, where else, the Funky Penguin.

A couple of coffee and a breakfast sandwich for me, and a big breakfast for Melvin, combined with a bright sun shining over the Bass Straits lead us to be very content.

As we were paying the bill and getting ready to move on for the day, the owner of the shop asked, “Are you from the states?”

“Yes ma’am.” We responded.

“Really!  Where from?” She asked.

“I’m from Minnesota.” I replied.

“From Illinois originally, living in Minnesota.  My wife is a Minnesotan.” Melvin replied.

“Wow!” she replied, “I’m from the United States.  Colorado to be exact.”

“Hey!” I replied. “Great to have another American down here - in Penguin of all places.”

“Oh, I love it.” She replied. “Got out of the states when it looked like things were going to pieces…guess I was wrong…but this is still a great place.”

With a few postcards in hand, we made our way to the door, happy to see another American.

Taking a picture or two with the giant penguin across the street, we ambled down the street, past the library and the memorial to the war dead, then on to bakery, where an impressive water display - sailors, whales, and of course, penguins, graced the side of the building.

Picking up a few choice pastries (or pasty’s as they call them), we made our way back down the coast road and veering inland, heading for Latrobe, home of not only the Platypus Discovery Center, but also the Trout Discovery Center, and the world famous Axmen Hall of Fame.

 Sign and view of main street of Penguin.

 View of Penguin Main Street from Library (Note Penguin Statue)

 Funky Penguin Cafe, Penguin, Tasmania

 Penguin Statue, Penguin Tasmania (Seagull not attached)

Pengiun in Front of Information Center, Penguin, Tasmania

Yes, That is a Penguin Garbage Can.  Really.

You Can’t Make This Stuff Up.

 From Wynyard, Tasmania, we drove the coast road that follows Bass Straits to our next destination: Penguin.

Through the resort town of Somerset, the industrial port of Burnie, and on through the little towns that dotted the landscape.  There was something a bit surreal about driving the quiet roads of Tasmania on a Sunday morning.  With few cars on the road, it was mainly just us, driving down the road with the vastness of the ocean on the south side, and the rolling sheep and cow covered hills of Tasmania on the north side.

Outside of Sulphur Creek, we turned off towards the sea on onto a little, lonely peninsula that jutted out into the ocean.

The sign said that the point was remarkable as a sign of the chaos that once wrecked havoc on the region, for at the end of the point, you could clearly make out two types of rock, side by side, like some giant line of demarcation sticking out into water.

How could we resist.

Walking out through the gravel, grass, and short underbrush, we made it to the small ledge that overlooked the rock below us.  One side of the point had a grayish hue to it, the other side, more of a reddish.  It was geologically amazing.

We found a way down from the short cliff and were soon scrambling over the rocks, Melvin going one way, I the other.

As I made my way around a small boulder, I heard splashing coming from below me.  Cautiously, I stepped down and around the rock, not quite expecting what to see.

As cautiously as I stepped, I still almost stepped on the penguin huddling underneath the boulder.

I had seen penguins before, by the hundreds, but there was just something about seeing this one lone penguin under a rock.  Even though before what we saw were “wild” penguins, this one was indeed a “wild” penguin, huddling under the boulder at the point at Sulpher Creek.

I waved Melvin over and after taking a picture or two; we quietly left the penguin to fend for itself, as the rising tide would soon have it carried out to the safety of the water.

We stared of across the horizon for a bit longer, wondering at the vastness of it all.  A part of me was transported back home, to the quietness of the prairie and a song that graced our little churches hymnal (and was also the title for one of my favorite books):

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful:
The Lord God made them all.

Each little flow’r that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings.

The purple-headed mountains,
The river running by,
The sunset and the morning
That brightens up the sky.

The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden,
He made them every one.

The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water,
To gather every day.

He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well.

It was a good day.

   After a good night’s sleep, the intent the following morning was to wake up early and hit the road.  As it turned out, we barely beat the sun up…which, when the sun comes up at eight o’clock in the morning, isn’t anything to brag about.

Grabbing my camera and my jacket, I dashed for the door, before turning around and putting on a pair of pants….

Perhaps I wasn’t fully awake…

Walking down to the park and the docks with the fishing boats tied up, I was in awe of the rising sun, slowly making its way over the Bass Straights and turning the sky a light crimson color, bathing everything in its wake in the early morning warmth, fighting back the chill of the morning.

Snapping pictures of the sun rising over Wynyard Bay and the small fishing fleet, I was disturbed by the large flock of seagulls that seemed to be swooping towards me…and was disturbed even more when I found out that they were not seagulls, but another one of the local pests, parrots.  White and tinged with red, and raising a ruckus that would wake the dead…or the sun in my case…

I stood in awe, with only the squawking of the birds and the wind in the trees, watching as the sun mounted the horizon.

Passing Melvin in the hall, he with camera in tow, already showered and ready to roll.

“Get any good pictures?” He asked.

“Not sure if they will turn out.  But there is one heck of a view.” I replied.

One heck of a view indeed.