that the Tasmanian despite being declared extinct in 1986, claims

Transcription

1 i n s e a r c h o f t h e Ta s m a n i a n t i g e r despite being declared extinct in 1986, claims that the Tasmanian tiger still exists have driven thousands to the island in search of the elusive striped marsupial. Onelife joins the search and tracks down some exclusive lairs along the way words helene dancer photography morgan silk

2 It is 11pm, deep in the Tasmanian wilderness, and I m staring at an animal s stool in a plastic bag. With much ceremony, my host, Craig, places it on the wooden table and pulls the lanterns in closer so we can take a better look at the sizeable sample. What is it? I ask, intrigued by this surprise guest at the dinner table. I ll tell you what it s not, he replies. It s not human, it s not Tasmanian devil, it s not dog and it s not quoll. So could it belong to a Tasmanian tiger? His blue eyes twinkle. It makes it something else. Was this it? Proof that the Tasmanian tiger, declared extinct in the 1980s, was still alive? I haven t told anyone about it, Craig continues. You re the first one to see it. Perhaps the combination of the full moon, the tick-tick-tick of spotted-tail quolls crunching on bugs, the sight of fluffy possums shimmying up the wooden struts of Craig s ramshackle cabin, and a four-course bush tucker meal had taken the edge off my skills for discerning truth from fiction but I really wanted this to be tiger dung. The Tasmanian tiger, or thylacine, is the stuff of legend, which is why I d travelled halfway across the world to find out more. The last wild tiger was killed in the early 1900s and the last captive one died at Hobart Zoo in But despite it being declared extinct after falling prey to bounty hunters and trappers, there are people who believe the tiger still exists. Some have apparently set up cameras and infrared devices deep in the forests in the hope of capturing evidence to prove its existence. Such is the lure of the Tasmanian tiger that it was even the subject of a film in 2011, The Hunter, starring Willem Dafoe and Sam Neill. Driving around Tasmania, which is roughly the size of Scotland, it is no wonder people have become obsessed with this homegrown unicorn, not just to clear our ecological consciences, but because Tasmania is one of the world s most magical places. It is Middle-earth, but with wombats instead of hobbits, and as 48 per cent of the island is locked away in national parks and World Heritage wilderness areas where apparently no human has ever laid foot, anything s possible. Clockwise from above: the last Tasmanian tiger in captivity; Hobart, Tasmania s capital city, and the Derwent River; MONA the Museum of New and Old Art is one of Hobart s top artistic destinations; Hobart s picturesque promenade Tasmania has also become a destination for the great and the good, with some of Australia s very best five-star lodges, carefully curated art galleries and upmarket boutiques. It s a place to see and be seen. My search for the Tasmanian tiger may end with dung but it begins in a far more salubrious setting; Hobart, Tasmania s capital, where I hop in a Range Rover and take a drive through the chocolate-box prettiness of Battery Point and its artisan bakeries and Georgian-style cottages. It feels a little like a film set here especially with moody Mount Wellington shrouded in cloud on the horizon. I half expect Willem Dafoe to come strolling out from Jackman & McRoss with a loaf of sourdough under his arm. I head down towards the marina and pop into the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery and it s here I spot my first tiger. Artist James Newitt s To Catch A Tiger installation features a wall of photographs of the tiger, footage of people talking about sightings, and recreations of the tiger s natural habitat. The lights are turned down low and the other visitors are as transfixed as I am. On the drive down to the popular Salamanca Place, famous for its high-end boutiques, galleries and restaurants, I spot my next Tasmania has become a destination for the great and the good, with some OF Of Australia s best five-star lodges and upmarket BOUTIQUES

3 Clockwise from top left: Port Arthur s iconic Penitentiary; the Range Rover tackles the Tasman Highway; Freycinet National Park; farmer Bob Greenhill shares his tiger-sighting tales Cradle Mountain Launceston Hobart Port Arthur W e lo o k e d o u t f o r A T I G E R for many years. I know people who saw it first hand it s a long time s i n c e I v e ta l k e d a b o u t i t Freycinet National Park tiger, which stares back at me from the registration plate of the car in front. My third sighting of the day causes me to choke on a mouthful of tempura-battered trevally, when the tiger blinks from the label of my bottle of the locally brewed Cascade beer. It s everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I m intrigued to find out more. I catch wind of a man who knows of sightings up in the northeast, so I jump into the Range Rover and navigate the neat ribbons of roads that lead out of Hobart. But before I get the binoculars out, I take a quick detour to Port Arthur, the island s most famous penal colony, to get a better idea of Tasmania s history. The drive along the Tasman Highway takes me twice as long due to obligatory photo stops for dramatic coastal views and a curiously striated section of beach that reminds me of a certain tiger. I eventually wind through the narrow isthmus of Eaglehawk Neck that connects mainland Tasmania to the Tasman Peninsula, and pull into the historic site. Port Arthur began as a timber station in 1830, but evolved into the British Empire s favourite place to send its undesirables. The convicts here became part of a thriving shipbuilding, brickmaking, timber-producing and flour-milling industry that also became a testing ground for British prison-reformer Jeremy Bentham s hypothesis. Jeremy believed that convicts would be better reformed by psychological rather than physical punishment such as solitary confinement, for example and it was at Port Arthur that these methods were put into practice. I shut myself in the isolation cell before the claustrophobic darkness and ringing silence beat me. I d lasted five seconds. You could easily spend a couple of days wandering around Port Arthur to gain a deeper understanding of its political, psychological and philosophical impact on the world but I have a tiger to find, so after a night at the luxurious Stewarts Bay Lodge and a wholesome organic breakfast, it s back in the Range Rover and north to Freycinet National Park, one of Tasmania s most popular wildlife destinations. The forests succumb to sheep farms and I spy a wedge-tailed eagle surfing the thermals in the big blue sky. En route, I m stopped in my tracks by a tenacious sheepdog, I later learn is called Bess, herding a flock of sheep across the road. I pull over to let them pass and get talking to farmer Bob Greenhill, who scoots over on his quad bike for a chat. It s a serendipitous delay, as Bob tells me that one of the later tiger sightings was on this very farm in We looked out for a tiger for many years, he says. I know people who saw it first hand it s a long time since I ve talked about it. I smile encouragingly and he continues. There were shooters out on a kangaroo drive round the back of the property and they saw it going across the hill it was in sight of them for a minute or so and each one pointed it out to the others and they all came home, about 10 of them, saying what they d seen. The memory paints a wistful sheen on his eyes, which he creases up in the bright sunlight. I ask him if he thinks that there s a chance the tiger still exists. It s a nice notion, isn t it? he replies. People would hate to think that it s gone. That s what it s about I suppose. He strokes his beard, which is the same colour as the clouds now amassing ominously along the horizon. Bob s been living on this farm for 45 years and describes how his corner of Tasmania has developed from a predominantly wool-producing industry to viticulture and now tourism. He points me in the direction of a winery, Gala Estate in Cranbrook, which his son runs, and I pop in for a quick look before the rain sets in. Once again luck is on my side. The winery, housed in a quaint weatherboard cottage with its front veranda propped up by green-painted tree trunks, was home to one of the East Coast s most famous inhabitants, Ted Castle, who had his own links with the Tasmanian tiger. Bob s daughter-in-law, Grainne Greenhill, shows me around the cottage, which has the kitsch authenticity the trendy coffee shops in Hobart could only dream of emulating. She tells me that Ted was something of a legend for his simple way of life up until his death in 2009, he rarely used electricity and never had any modern appliances. What s more, his father, Frank Castle, used to tell Ted stories about the days when tigers were in abundance on the East Coast, and how his own father caught many of them when there was a bounty on their heads. The tiger now tantalisingly close, I take the winding road down towards Saffire Freycinet, my home for the night. The Range Rover looks right at home parked outside this

4 sculptural masterpiece of a hotel, adding yet more luxury to the island s already heady mix of wildlife, rugged beauty, myths and legends. Designed by Tasmania s most visionary architect, Robert Morris-Nunn, Saffire looks a little like a giant stingray-shaped spaceship landed in paradise. I curl up in an Eames chair in the library and admire the view of the undulating pink granite mountains, the Hazards, on the far side of the Pantone-perfect, azure-blue Coles Bay. I consult my thylacine sightings map and am pleased to note that the dots are most densely clustered in the north-east of the island, where I m headed. But Brady Nichols, Saffire s guest services manager, has another suggestion. He tells me about an exhibition dedicated to the Tasmanian tiger up at Cradle Mountain. It s a tough call but since much of The Hunter was shot in that region, and it s one of Tasmania s most iconic and picturesque destinations, I agree to the detour. But first, I sample the degustation menu at the restaurant Palate, with its focus on local produce and excellent wines paired to each course a slice of epicurean heaven. After a night spent in my opulent suite, dreaming of striped animals and Tasmanian blue cheese, I hop back into the Range Rover and travel west towards Cradle Mountain. I pass a signpost for the Wye River with a handwritten sign affixed below that reads: Coz it s bigger than a creek, clusters of rusty letter boxes that lean in towards each other like old men at a Rotary Club reunion, and then plunge back into the forested hills with their myriad shades of green. I continue through pine plantations and stop to watch a spiky echidna cross the road, closely followed by a bounding pademelon. I manoeuvre the Range Rover carefully past the animals and follow the signs to Cradle Mountain Chateau s Wilderness Gallery, where Brady has assured me of some excellent tiger sightings. He s spot on. The Tasmanian tiger exhibition is a peerless homage to the animal, showing the heartbreaking footage of the last Tasmanian tiger in its tiny cage at Hobart Zoo, a selection of tiger skins, a skeleton and a buggy rug, which was used in a horse-drawn carriage and is apparently worth millions. The rug comprises eight skins stitched together and is exhibited under a protective screen, such is its value. There s also a reconstructed trapper s hut, original photographs of the tigers in captivity in Meet the Locals From top: a spotted-tail quoll; a ringtail possum; a wombat; a brushtail possum. Clockwise from top right: Cradle Mountain in all its glory; the five-star luxury lodge that is Saffire Freycinet Hobart, and others of hunters posing with their trophies. I meet Heather Mather, a born and bred Tasmanian who s worked at the Wilderness Gallery for just over two years, and we talk about my chances of spotting a real-life tiger. I did believe it existed but I ve travelled the west coast roads for 40 years and I think they ve long gone, which is very sad indeed, she says. I m sure if they were about, they would have multiplied. I believe we ve lost them forever and we don t want it to happen to any of our other animals. We walk through the trapper s hut and I suggest it s a shame we didn t realise the impact of our actions all those years ago. I do think that back in the early 1900s it really was about survival for our people with big families and they had to put their meals on the table, Heather replies. And I guess they didn t even think that this might happen. I return to the gift shop and peruse the tiger merchandise; fluffy toys, mugs and wine-bottle stoppers. I stop short of purchasing a tiger-themed beer cooler and head back out to the Range Rover for what will be the most interesting twist to my search for the Tasmanian tiger. I drive east towards Launceston, past a giggling kookaburra on a telegraph pole and a furry wombat waddling along in a field of buttongrass that looks like sheets of taupe bubble wrap, and follow the signs to the historic town of Evandale, which is fringed by hawthorn bushes that look rather tame in comparison to the indigenous fauna. The English settlers did everything they could to make themselves feel at home in this foreign land. Standing on the pavement in his khaki shirt and Magnum, P.I. sunglasses is wildlife expert Craig Williams, my last hope for a successful mission to find the tiger. Craig not only knows the North East Midlands like the back of his weather-beaten hand, he tells me, but can shed some light on tiger sightings, too. THE SCULPTURAL masterpiece of a hotel adds yet more luxury to Tasmania s already heady mix of wildlife, rugged beauty, myths and legends

5 Clockwise from far left: Tasmanian devil alert; Craig Williams stands proudly on Ben Lomond; the vertiginous Jacobs Ladder; Hobart s Mount Wellington, where scenes from The Hunter were filmed the Range Rover handles Jacobs Ladder s vertiginous switchbacks beautifully as w e c l i m b to wa r d s t h e s u m m i t He whisks me down a gravel track towards Ben Lomond, Tasmania s second-highest peak, and the Range Rover handles Jacobs Ladder s vertiginous switchbacks beautifully as we climb towards the summit. We step out of the car and it feels like being on top of the world. I love Tasmania, says Craig, his arms outstretched. It s the purest air in the world you re breathing, the purest water in the world you re drinking, which is a primary ingredient for the best produce in the world. You can drive for three hours and go through seven different landscapes there s nowhere else in the world you can do that. There s amazing wildlife, birdlife, trees more than 3,000 years old. There s not much we haven t got here. But have you seen any tigers? He throws me a sideways glance. If I said yes, then people would say I m telling fibs and trying to promote my own business. If I said no, I might be. Who knows what s out there, comes his enigmatic response. He pulls his sunglasses down on to his face, a resounding full stop, and we continue through the wilderness before pulling over at a stretch of road called the Big Dip in South Springfield. Craig gets out of the Range Rover with a twinkle in his eye. This is a special place, he tells me. A gentleman who lives up here a very honest gentleman, actually saw a Tasmanian tiger cross the road just there. He points to a patch on the dirt road. That s probably about ten years ago, I reckon. This was once a good spot for them, so who knows? He s not known for telling untruths. There have been a lot of sightings in the north-east in general. I ask him again if he s had any sightings of his own, but he executes another neat side step. A lot of people have seen things they can t explain and some of those I believe have merit to them. There s probably room for consideration. There are also a lot that haven t been reported because people just don t want to go through that process and would sooner not talk about it. Still no straight answer, so I subject him to my best imploring face in the hope that it might convince him to spill the beans. Everybody deep down wants it still to exist, and I m not to say it does or it doesn t. But if I said yes, I d be called a liar and if I said no, I could be. I fight the urge to scowl. Dusk is creeping in, so we drive to Craig s cabin on a track that snakes through eucalyptus trees and giant tree ferns, and dodge wallabies and possums along the way. Craig is famous for his bush tucker so as soon as we arrive, he gets stuck into preparing a four-course meal that includes trout cooked with fragrant sassafras leaves, more Tasmanian blue cheese and a course of wallaby in pepperberry sauce. For dessert, Craig places a gold box on the table, opens it and pulls out a waxy animal stool wrapped in a plastic bag. He peels away the plastic so I can see the sample in all its glory the alleged Tasmanian tiger scat. I ve had it for a couple of years, he says, watching for my reaction. It s very unusual I ve only seen it once before. It s a different composition from any scat I ve ever seen. There are yawning gaps in Craig s story if this scat did belong to a tiger, then surely he d have sent it for DNA testing. He shrugs off the suggestion, saying that someone else he knows did just this and the results were inconclusive. But what about comparing it to DNA from the existing tiger skins? He shrugs this off, too, wrapping the stool carefully back in its plastic bag and returning it to the gold box before placing it in a cooler bag next to the Tupperware containers of olives for the salad. Shall we go and look for the platypus? Of course, I reply. Have I just been ripped off by a master storyteller, or scored a cameo role in one of the world s greatest mysteries? Your guess is as good as mine. FOLLOW THE TRAIL Join the Onelife team on its journey in search of the Tasmanian tiger. Either: Scan here (How? See page 4) or visit bit.ly/onelifeplaylist