the kitchen to warm up some homemade curry. We gobbled down the abalone in between sips of sauvignon blanc we had bought in Devonport. The abalone's clamlike flesh was ambrosial—sweet and meaty, with a hint of the ocean it had just been pulled from. After these appetizers, Geoff joined us at the table, bringing over plates of chicken curry and rice. He had prepared the curry using a free-range chicken, or “chook” as he called it.
After a few bites, we reminded him that the other members of our expedition would be arriving the next day at noon.
“Now, who are they exactly?” Geoff asked.
Alexis, we explained, was an artist. He was going to be making images of Tasmanian wildlife. Dorothy was an art critic and Alexis's new love interest. And Chris … who was Chris? We didn't really know him.
Geoff stopped eating. “He's not an ax murderer, is he?”
“No, he's a wealthy art collector from Manhattan.”
“Oh well, that could be more dangerous.”
After dinner, we switched over to a carton of Shiraz that Geoff brought out from his pantry and watched a cricket match that went on for hours— which still wasn't long enough for us to understand the rules. When we finally jumped into our sleeping bags around 2:30 A.M., we discovered that the guestroom had been invaded by an army of small brown beetles. They made soothing clicking noises and occasionally plopped down on us throughout the night.
In the morning, we drove over to have a cup of tea with Geoff's mother, Dulcie. In front of her white clapboard ranch house—which was as isolated as Geoff's—she kept peacocks as pets. Four small brown peachicks pecked the ground in her front yard.
“Aren't they lovers?” she cooed.
She was a wiry, energetic woman, about seventy years old, sportily dressed in black shorts, striped ankle socks, and sandals. Geoff had told us that in her twenties, Dulcie had been the all-Tasmanian badminton champion and came close to representing Australia in the Commonwealth Games.
She fixed us tea with lemon from her lemon tree. And we sat down in a room decorated with framed drawings of horses. (A family-owned horse had won the Tasmanian pacing championship in 1979.) Geoff had hopedhis mother would have some stories to tell us about the Tasmanian tiger. But when she heard the word “tiger,” she said, “Ooooh, the tigers are traveling at this time of year—the tiger snakes.”
Our ears perked up. Getting lost, land leeches, and hypothermia were high on our list of bush dangers. But tiger snakes were higher.
“My first memory is of snakes,” Dulcie told us. One day when she was a young girl, she was helping her brothers drive cattle through a field when a tiger snake bit her. “It banged like a hammer on my leg,” she said, pointing to her thigh. “It just stood up and struck. The poison went off on my trousers. I remember they were new blue jeans.”
The snake's fangs hadn't broken the skin, but her family called in the doctor anyway. “He said even a little bit could do you in. If you stay calm, you can last eighteen hours, but if you run around …” She trailed off.
After finishing our tea, we all went for a drive. Geoff took backroads to the top of a nearby hill, where we had a panoramic view of rolling green pasture and stands of native forest. Occasionally, we could make out a lone eucalyptus tree, with its angular skeleton of forking branches and blue-green leaves growing in flat tufts on top. These oddball trees were the epitome of Down Under.
“What we have here,” said Geoff, “is a very English pasture system grafted onto a very Tasmanian landscape.” English ryegrass and clover grew fitfully in the fragile sandy soil. Tasmanian farmers are highly protective of these pasture grasses, surrounding them with fences to stop native animals from grazing—and frequently resorting to shooting.
On the way down the hill, we drove along a shady, wooded road. Geoff pointed out some huge gray-barked eucalyptuses.
After a few bites, we reminded him that the other members of our expedition would be arriving the next day at noon.
“Now, who are they exactly?” Geoff asked.
Alexis, we explained, was an artist. He was going to be making images of Tasmanian wildlife. Dorothy was an art critic and Alexis's new love interest. And Chris … who was Chris? We didn't really know him.
Geoff stopped eating. “He's not an ax murderer, is he?”
“No, he's a wealthy art collector from Manhattan.”
“Oh well, that could be more dangerous.”
After dinner, we switched over to a carton of Shiraz that Geoff brought out from his pantry and watched a cricket match that went on for hours— which still wasn't long enough for us to understand the rules. When we finally jumped into our sleeping bags around 2:30 A.M., we discovered that the guestroom had been invaded by an army of small brown beetles. They made soothing clicking noises and occasionally plopped down on us throughout the night.
In the morning, we drove over to have a cup of tea with Geoff's mother, Dulcie. In front of her white clapboard ranch house—which was as isolated as Geoff's—she kept peacocks as pets. Four small brown peachicks pecked the ground in her front yard.
“Aren't they lovers?” she cooed.
She was a wiry, energetic woman, about seventy years old, sportily dressed in black shorts, striped ankle socks, and sandals. Geoff had told us that in her twenties, Dulcie had been the all-Tasmanian badminton champion and came close to representing Australia in the Commonwealth Games.
She fixed us tea with lemon from her lemon tree. And we sat down in a room decorated with framed drawings of horses. (A family-owned horse had won the Tasmanian pacing championship in 1979.) Geoff had hopedhis mother would have some stories to tell us about the Tasmanian tiger. But when she heard the word “tiger,” she said, “Ooooh, the tigers are traveling at this time of year—the tiger snakes.”
Our ears perked up. Getting lost, land leeches, and hypothermia were high on our list of bush dangers. But tiger snakes were higher.
“My first memory is of snakes,” Dulcie told us. One day when she was a young girl, she was helping her brothers drive cattle through a field when a tiger snake bit her. “It banged like a hammer on my leg,” she said, pointing to her thigh. “It just stood up and struck. The poison went off on my trousers. I remember they were new blue jeans.”
The snake's fangs hadn't broken the skin, but her family called in the doctor anyway. “He said even a little bit could do you in. If you stay calm, you can last eighteen hours, but if you run around …” She trailed off.
After finishing our tea, we all went for a drive. Geoff took backroads to the top of a nearby hill, where we had a panoramic view of rolling green pasture and stands of native forest. Occasionally, we could make out a lone eucalyptus tree, with its angular skeleton of forking branches and blue-green leaves growing in flat tufts on top. These oddball trees were the epitome of Down Under.
“What we have here,” said Geoff, “is a very English pasture system grafted onto a very Tasmanian landscape.” English ryegrass and clover grew fitfully in the fragile sandy soil. Tasmanian farmers are highly protective of these pasture grasses, surrounding them with fences to stop native animals from grazing—and frequently resorting to shooting.
On the way down the hill, we drove along a shady, wooded road. Geoff pointed out some huge gray-barked eucalyptuses.
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