A Tasmanian Bikepacking Memoir

Additional photos by Shannon Gyles

It was the end of a completely hectic week when my partner, Shannon, and I hastily checked in at Adelaide Airport to fly to Hobart, Tasmania, for Easter break. We had left most things in chaos, but the prospect of 11 days off for only four days’ leave was simply too good to pass up. We had both once visited as young children but had no recollection of the fabled land of adventure. Despite a lack of solid plans, we were both eager to explore Tassie. We had a vague notion of catching a bus to Launceston (fondly referred to as Lonny) on Monday morning and attempting to cover the east coast in just five days. 

We arrived in Hobart the Friday before Good Friday and were greeted by some friends who kindly offered to let us stay with them and show us the ropes around Hobart. On Saturday, we took the bikes out on one of the many paths around the city and visited the art gallery, MONA, which is a must-do. We even snagged a concession rate for riding there, and on the way back, we passed the botanic gardens and managed to sneak in a free Hockey Dad concert (sitting on a fence with a surprisingly good view over the festival)!

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On Sunday, we softened our desk legs with a jaunt down to Cape Huay to see just one of the Three Capes on the so-named track. They are Australia’s highest cliffs, and you know about it well before you get there by the signage alone, which grimly states “sheer cliff edges.” Terrifying but well worth it. Just be sure to grab a parks pass and sign in and out of the hike (Tasmanian parks staff are excellent, if a little concerned for tourists). 

We rushed in the door on Sunday afternoon and hastily got to work trying to map something for the next day. After the bus, we made loose plans to ride from Lonny to St Helen’s and down to Maria Island. We strapped bags to the bikes near midnight and then fell onto some air mattresses to nab some sleep before an early start. 

The alarm went off at 4 a.m. We drowsily chewed through some quick oats under the heater, listening to the wind howling down the Derwent River. Then it was time to go. We steeled ourselves and set off into the dark across the Tasman Bridge into Hobart to catch the 6 a.m. bus to Launceston. The buses in Tassie are great, the staff are jovial and friendly, and despite only having a “small” coach, the driver easily accommodated our overweight bikes. I can highly recommend both Tassielink and Kinetic (formerly Tas Redline). Just be sure to call them and book in advance, as they have limited bike space.

 

Three hours later, we arrived in Lonny. Already hungry, we made tracks to a quirky cafe named Frankie’s. We fuelled up on pancakes, $22 eggs, and a hot cup of coffee. We also swung past Cycle2… Life in Motion to grab a saddle pack for Shannon (did I mention we were chronically unprepared?). I excitedly asked about following forestry roads across passes and mountain trails, but the best I could glean from the mechanic was that it might be “fine, but pretty bumpy.” We hastily repacked in City Park next to the Japanese macaques who call Lonny their home. Yes, Japanese monkeys. There is some interesting history here, but the main gist is that Launceston has a sister city, Ikeda, in Japan. Ikeda gifted Launceston the Macaques, and Launceston gifted Ikeda 10 wallabies in return. 

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It was finally time to set off. We climbed steadily out of Launceston towards Mount Arthur Forest reserve on the Tasman Highway, the main thoroughfare for Tasmania’s intensive logging operations. After a while, we turned off the Tasman and found ourselves on small country bitumen, which gradually gave way to smooth gravel and forestry roads. We kept climbing, heading up Patersonia Road and then up the loose, steep gradients of Bessels Road. We were nearing 650 metres of elevation when the trees on either side gave way suddenly, as did the gradient, and we rolled out onto a small plateau of sorts with breathtaking vantages of the island’s northeast. No photo will ever do this view justice. We looked out over an ancient valley lined with native forest and pine plantation, all the way to the ocean, where islands glinted in the water, some 35 kilometres in the distance. 

“Fine, but pretty bumpy,” I recalled. I get it, keep ’em away, this can’t be real. I wouldn’t want them on my roads either if they were this good. 

After a quick break, we continued on Bessels Road, which now led us down into the valley. The landscape morphed from towering gums and giant ferns into thick pine plantations and then into rolling hills and dusty pastures where beef cattle grazed. While we thought the view from the top was magic, meandering through the giant gum trees was something else! Seeing them in the flesh truly puts into perspective the tragedy of native forestry operations in Tassie (and the good work Bob Brown Foundation is doing, amongst many others). 

Still in awe of the riding we’d just experienced, we popped back out onto the Tasman, relieved we had skipped some 40 kilometres of highway. Soon enough, we were riding into Scottsdale, and then we joined the North East Rail Trail en route Branxholm for the night. The trail traces the path of an old railway line, traversing from Scottsdale to Billycock Hill some 30 kilometres before terminating just shy of Branxholm. It’s a stunning journey, hand-cut into the rugged hills, and a steady three-percent climb in the north-eastern direction. At points, the trail narrows, hemmed in by hewn rock cliffs (“tunnels”) and Jurassic ferns. There’s also an abundance of well-marked historical points of interest, but the setting sun hastened us onward to our destination.

We popped out the northeast end of the trail and jetted down into the valley as the sun was dipping. Vivid purples and pinks washed over the rolling green hillscape, and the scent of dense hops growing filled the air as we descended into the town. Although the thoughts of a bitter and earthy IPA filled our minds, we pulled into Centenary Park for the night, too tired to indulge in the pub. The facilities here are superb but bring some earplugs. The Tasman Highway never sleeps, and the logging trucks keep coming, as do their exhaust brakes. 

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The next morning, we smushed some banana into a Nutella wrap. Back on the bikes, we were rudely greeted by 800 metres at a 15-percent grade almost straight away. However, not far up the road was a quaint but nonetheless beautiful single trail, easily passable on gravel bikes. We pedalled onto it without thinking, immersed in the forest once more, where we stayed until the trail popped us out into Derby. While small, Derby holds its own as a hidden MTB hub and exudes an unmistakable “shred here!” vibe. The post office has bananas, bags of trail mix, and chips. Otherwise, it’s a few scattered cafes and bike shops. We had the best avo on toast at Doors Down Cafe. The town has character and an abundance of trails. Like many places on this trip, I vowed to be back as we trundled out of town.  

On local recommendation, we turned right onto Mutual Road after leaving Derby, following the Devils Cardigan route (Australia’s national gravel championship course). We began climbing again. This ramp is brutal, but we were distracted by the small wooden abodes—damp, aged, and slumping in the morning sun—where the ancient forest is slowly engulfing them. We were so immersed that we almost missed the turn-off when Garmin unexpectedly sent us up an overgrown trail. Apprehensive, we followed it, and just over the thickly ferned crest, we found a dilapidated “bridge” made of roughly felled trees over a crisp mountain stream. It was evident that an adventure bike had ripped through recently, so we took it as a sign and pressed on. The lush rainforest, fresh air, and trickle of creeks drew us steadily up. 

After a few more “bridges” and beautiful riding, we emerged onto a bonafide fire road and stopped for a breather. There, we noticed police tape tied to a tree (cool and normal…) and some numbers sprayed on another. Hmm, maybe not “breather” locale. Further up the track, we passed more police tape and numbers. Rationality assured us that we were undoubtedly safe, yet we both increased our power output briefly. However, even subdued fear wasn’t enough to get up the wall between us and Welborough. We pushed the bikes up a steady 20-percent grade and yarned, taking in the surroundings. We’ve had a Google since, but the mystery remains. Maybe drop bears.

At the top of the fire road, the thick pine gave way to native forest once more and led downwards to Weldborough. Weldborough was bustling with men repairing wooden slumped homes under the midday sun, but the old hotel is the centrepiece. We were in search of some water to top up before venturing towards St Helen’s, so we tried the campsite (which offers access to even more trails). The rain water came out an unsettling murky orange. Attempting to filter it proved futile, prompting us to opt for the pub instead.

Weldborough Hotel proved to be a true gem, mirroring the warmth and hospitality of the publican. From the witty banter exchanged over the bar to the tongue-in-cheek advertisements seeking staff, the owner enthusiastically shared local knowledge and lightly made suggestions of dead possums in the rainwater tanks while helping us plan a route to St Helens. What more could one ask for in a quintessential Tasmanian watering hole? Too bad we didn’t have the time to try one of the many beers on tap. That IPA would have to wait. 

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We headed back out on the Tasman Highway for a short while, up a stunning climb back into the rainforest and Blue Tier Forest reserve. There is another world-class MTB trail here—the same one Payson McElveen descended on when he crossed Tassie—but our better sense told us that loaded gravel bikes would do better on gravel. We were once more immersed in vivid green, towering trees, and giant ferns as we descended through Lottah. Shannon turned to me at some point and asked, “Is this champagne gravel?” My ear-to-ear grin said it all. We raced down the mountain, hugged by the dense green rainforest to the soundtrack of our tyres “bubbling” over the crunchy yet smooth road. 

Mid-descent, we stopped for a bag of chips on a surprisingly manicured lawn. Then we flew down through Goulds Country, where rolling hills and dairy pastures reached up into the forests. We had hopes of camping at the highly recommended Humbug Point, next to Bay of Fires, but after a refuel at St Helens IGA and a quick glance at the Garmin Climb profile, we settled on Diana’s Basin campsite instead. We found ourselves on the beautiful coastal gravel trail that follows the St Helen’s foreshore. Although, at some point, we unexpectedly crossed into St Helen’s Mountain Bike trails and ended up climbing a hill equivalent to the one that spooked us at the IGA. We didn’t sign up for it, but Shannon was surprisingly stoked at the rugged change. After a quick bomb back down to the Tasman Highway, we were only a handful of minutes from Diana’s.

This is a beautiful campsite that looks west over a saltwater lagoon. However, it is also home to a long drop that burnt our nostrils if we ventured too close and the feisty “inch” ant that turned my middle finger into a chicken nugget in the middle of setting up my tent. We had noodles by the lagoon, watched the sunset, and spun yarns with another bikepacker who had arrived at the same time as us. Marc was riding the Giro-Tasmania route and recounted some of his travels, the friendly nature of the Tassie locals, and even that someone had given him a hiking tent after his went bouncing into oblivion on a mountain descent.

We were up relatively early the next day, fearing the call of the long drop. We made good time to Scamander, where we stopped for a delightful bite to eat and a coffee at Swims East Coast Coffee. Some great facilities also offered a chance to refill water and use the loos. We even managed to scrounge some phone charge from the cafe. We had a rough plan to follow the Tasman Highway, but the logging trucks quickly put us off following the Tasman any longer than we needed to, and a 100-kilometre day on bitumen sounded terribly unromantic. I had been eying a road from St Marys through to Swansea since the beginning of the trip, but now it was crunch time, and we decided we would try McKays Road. I can’t help but chuckle at the sheer audacity of our decision to take on that track, and I later learned that Emma Flukes incorporates it in the Tassie Gift, although not from the start. I’m told it’s much better than it used to be.

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A word of caution: be prepared, and have backup plans if you are going to attempt the Tassie wilderness. I can’t dig up much history on this road, err, track? Goat passage? Mistake? But it joins St Mary’s to Crankbrook(ish) through the back of the Douglas-Apsley National Park. While Garmin, Ride with GPS, and Strava all have the capability to map a route here, it is not the AI’s first choice. The “road” starts at a dead end. If you follow a faint goat track through the bushes and then over a creek into a paddock between fences, you’ll find yourself weaving between huge tussocks of grasses. Then, slowly, a chunky rock thoroughfare appears, which gradually winds up into the mountains. 

At several points along the route, the “road” seemed to vanish entirely, forcing us to hoist our bikes and navigate through eroded waterways, riverbeds, and up and down steep embankments through the forest. Had we picked any other time than at the end of a very dry summer (by Tasmanian standards), it may well have been impassible. When I spoke with Emma Flukes, I learned that’s precisely the reason the Tassie Gift doesn’t take that entrance. Eventually, we found ourselves on a track with signage for waterfalls, emergency access, and even ways out! But we’d come this far…

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We were once more mesmerised by the transition from rugged rocky pasture and untamed grass tussocks to avenues of birch, where the ground was carpeted with thick mosses and then higher yet into the temperate rainforests. As we ascended, we wove in between warm towering eucalypts and gum trees, nestled amidst dusty shrubbery where the sun lingered, and starkly cool jungle greenery engulfed by towering ferns in the damp lee of the hillsides. And back into the golden hue of a late afternoon sun. 

We rode the track for maybe 50 kilometres and finally reached a river crossing with forestry tracks on the other side. We descended Old Coach Road as the sun was dipping in a familiar wash of brilliant colours, but as we turned back onto the Tasman Highway, the sun had faded, and we were riding under our own lights. 

With 18 kilometres remaining to Swansea, we suddenly realised that both of our taillights had run flat. Fortunately, Shannon, being an avid trail runner, had a formidable head torch equipped with both front and back LEDs for nighttime running. So with headlights blazing, and Shannon’s flashing helmet bobbing along the highway, we made good time for weary travellers. It was 10 p.m. by the time we were applauded into Swan Reach campsite by some confused European van-lifers. We were utterly exhausted and we sat hunched in the tent devouring tuna, cold packet rice, and plain tortillas before dozing off to the sound of the river lapping just below us. 

Thursday brought the best coffee of the trip but also the most tired legs. We trundled into Swansea and stopped at the aptly named Coffee + Cake + Honey. We indulged. Again, we managed to scrounge some charge for our battery pack, followed by the familiar IGA ritual. Tuna—check. Rice—check. Wraps—check. Chocolate bar—check. Banana—check. Milk? Yeah, why not? 

Swansea is a beautiful seaside town on the northern edge of Great Oyster Bay. Settlers were first drawn to it because of the milder winters, and the warm weather seems to have left an enduring mark on the friendly folks bustling around the small country town. And we were immersed in the hubbub about the ever-rising price of petrol, the weather, and other mild phenomena as we repacked the bikes outside the grocers. Swansea also has, hands-down, the best accessible public toilet I’ve ever used, directly across the road from the East Coast Heritage Museum. I highly recommend the experience if you’re in town. 

Sadly, we didn’t get to see Freycinet National Park, but the stunning views from our 50-kilometre Tasman Highway stretch solidified once more that it wouldn’t be our last visit. The road winds along the bay, with epic views of the jagged Freycinet over the crystal blue waters of Great Oyster Bay. Shannon’s Strava activity said it all: “Not bad for road miles”. 

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We only had one stop left before we slogged the final stretch back to Hobart: Maria Island. The ferry departs from Triabunna, which also hosts epic fish and chips. We made tracks to the info centre and booked a ferry ride. While there, the rangers impressed the importance of notifying them about any decisions we made to change ferry times at the risk of being labelled “a missing person.” We paid our fees, and then got stuck into those fish and chips with the remaining minutes before jumping on the ferry to Maria Island. 

We were welcomed by a tranquil turquoise bay in Darlington some 30 minutes later. Here, the remnants of a penal settlement stand, surrounded by pastures where wombats now roam freely against the backdrop of the towering Mt. Maria, reaching some 700 meters into the sky. Instantly captivated, we abandoned any thoughts of riding back to Hobart, opting instead to spend a few more hours on the island. With the stern warnings of “missing persons” echoing in my head, I hastily called the national parks office at Triabunna. Though they had closed for the day, they did answer, and I successfully arranged to change our ferry to the 4:15 departure the following day, citing our reference number. The helpful woman assured me that she would pass on the information to the park ranger on duty the next day.

Having sorted out our return ferry, we discovered that the Tassielink coach only passed through at 10 a.m. each day on its way down the coast. As an alternative, we booked a shuttle bus back to Hobart through Encounter Maria Island. With our transportation plans secured, we hopped back on our bikes and meandered around the island on pristine gravel trails to Encampment Cove for the night, humming the theme from Jurassic Park as we went. 

​​Shortly after setting up camp, a nonchalant potoroo took charge of our check-in process, wasting no time in thoroughly inspecting our tent, bikes, bags, dinner, jet boil, and anything else it could find. I cracked a can of Great Northern, affectionately dubbed “warm road beer,” when I’d found it on the verge of the Tasman earlier that day. Soon, we were full of noodles, warm beer, and ready to settle into our sleeping bags and close our eyes. 

Our night didn’t go as planned. We were first interrupted by a rat gnawing through our tent to reach a porridge sachet (note to self: bring a bear container or something, the locals here are conniving and relentless). Then, as we were dozing off a second time, a group of rowdy Aussie blokes landed their tinny on the rocky beach of the cove and proceeded to set up camp mere meters away from us. They laughed, shouted, and drank late into the night, often watering the grounds around our tent and loudly serenading the island with colloquial quips. Needless to say, tensions were high, and they only turned in around 1 a.m. after several diplomatically chosen “suggestions.” Ahh, cultural immersion. 

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We were up early, as were the locals, who, after a hearty breakfast of cigarettes, rolled up their swags and returned to the ocean like a flock of migrating birds. Bleary-eyed, Shannon and I brewed a stiff black coffee to sip in the morning sun while we aired out our surprisingly dew-laden tent (now with speed holes). Maria Island has an array of gravel trails, mostly accessible by bike, so after a broken sleep, we chose to venture as far away from humans as possible. “Haunted bay” sounded delightful. Along the way, we stopped by some dilapidated convict cells built of brick and stones haphazardly piled on planks to serve as a roof. There, we read a brief history of the terrible conditions in which people lived before the island was deemed logistically and “humainely” untenable. 

We looped back to the main trail, and after a very brief stretch on smooth gravel, we turned onto McRaes Isthmus, which runs between Shoal Bay and Riedle Bay. While stunning, it is deep and loose sand. Shannon and I persevered along the track, tackling a formidable technical climb to traverse the island. On the other side, we were greeted by views of the capes we had hiked earlier in the trip. There was the option to hike down to Haunted Bay proper, but we took lunch with a view, conscious of time.

After a satiating snack of tuna wraps, we headed back towards the ferry. As we crossed the isthmus, we encountered two fellow gravellers exploring Maria Island, Alice and Roger. They had wisely foregone the ordeal of the sandy track and instead opted for a refreshing swim—a decision we couldn’t help but admire. And, inspired by their pragmatism, we made a pit stop at 4 Mile Beach to cool off in the crystal-clear waters. Maria Island’s fabled swimming beach, Painted Cliffs, was marginally further, but it’s more populated. 

We arrived at the ferry in the nick of time, although the staff were a little surprised to see us. “You were booked on the 2:30, and we tried calling and left a message. No matter, climb on!” I implored Shannon to switch the phone back off airplane mode, and sure enough, there were voicemails abound! One of which was from the national parks ranger who had warned us about missing persons. I called her as soon as I could. Boy-oh, did I get the talking to—we were marked “missing” in less than two hours! I shortly explained I had called the afternoon before and spoken to someone, which slowly diffused the situation, but we were left a little embarrassed.

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On the other side, we were met by a small shuttle bus with a traditional bike rack, which meant we had to strip off many of our bags, but it was our ticket home. We wearily clambered onboard and slept most of the way back to Hobart. 

In hindsight, the impulsive decision to embark on this Tasmanian adventure was one of the best we ever made. It was a journey filled with spontaneity, excitement, and unforgettable experiences that will stay with us for a lifetime.

One thing is certain: We’ll be back!

Further Reading

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