Reflections on Sacred Waters

Civilisation gradually relinquished its hold as we journeyed deeper into Tasmania's magnificent World Heritage wilderness. The road narrowed, straightened, then curved again, each kilometre stripping away another layer of the constructed world. While more remote regions existed—accessible only to those willing to traverse them on foot—this particular route represented one of the precious few vehicular gateways into Tasmania's untamed heart, a corridor through time and terrain that beckoned us with wild promise.

Mt Field slipped past our windows, its forested slopes a verdant tapestry of ancient growth. We exchanged knowing glances, silently agreeing to return here when our adult children might join our nomadic existence—to share the walking trails that wound through this temperate paradise. The landscape transformed dramatically as we continued westward, the magnificent dolomite cliffs of the Needles and Sentinels thrusting dramatically from the earth like stone sentries guarding forgotten realms. Their jagged silhouettes etched against the pearl-grey sky conjured images of primordial times when this land first emerged from the cosmic forge.

Lake Pedder finally revealed itself, a vast mirror stretched between embracing mountains, reflecting heaven upon earth in breathtaking symmetry. Unlike our previous winter sojourn when we'd been the sole inhabitants of Ted's Beach, this late-summer visit found a scattering of other travellers similarly drawn to this remote sanctuary. Nevertheless, our preferred position—perfectly situated at the water's edge—awaited us like a faithful friend, unoccupied and welcoming. We eased our bus into this familiar embrace, aligning our windows to capture the expansive vista that had haunted our dreams since our last departure.

The afternoon brought unexpected communion when two vans arrived nearby, disgorging four youthful adventurers who plunged enthusiastically into the lake's crystalline waters. Drawn to their exuberance, we wandered across to exchange greetings, discovering they had just completed the formidable Western Arthurs Traverse—one of Tasmania's most challenging and spectacular alpine circuits. Their eyes still carried the luminescence of high places, their conversation peppered with tales of narrow ridgelines and precipitous descents that had tested both courage and endurance. We lingered in their reflected glory, absorbing their stories until dusk ushered us all toward shelter. By morning they had vanished like mountain mist, their next adventure already unfurling before them.

The ensuing days brought an ever-changing tableau of fellow nomads—some arriving with elaborate encampments, others with the barest essentials. We observed the theatre of humanity in miniature: tents blossoming like exotic flowers; motorhomes establishing temporary suburbs; roof-top tents perched like eagles' nests; swags unrolled directly beneath the infinite sky; and one particularly impressive UniMog that resembled a terrestrial spaceship ready for interplanetary exploration. Each setup revealed something intimate about its inhabitants—the minimalists, the comfort-seekers, the technically inclined, the romantics—all drawn here by the same primal longing for connection with the wild.

Tasmania's capricious climate maintained its reputation, shrouding us initially in overcast skies interspersed with gentle rain. Yet even this temperamental display seemed mild compared to the meteorological drama unfolding in Queensland, our former home before embracing life on wheels. Cyclone Alfred—the first tropical cyclone to threaten Brisbane in decades—careened toward the coast, disrupting plans throughout the eastern seaboard. Sal's impending flight and first week of university attendance fell casualty to nature's intervention, her Master's degree progression momentarily paused by forces beyond human control.

What initially brought disappointment transformed into unexpected blessing, as the postponement gifted us another precious week together. The shadow of impending separation had been looming—particularly poignant so soon after Anth's trial in Melbourne had previously divided us. We received this reprieve with quiet gratitude, savouring the extension of our shared existence at the edge of this primordial lake.

Nature's mood shifted dramatically as if celebrating our extended communion. Clouds that had clustered around mountain peaks dispersed like scattered thoughts, revealing a canvas of perfect azure stretched from horizon to horizon. The lake's surface transformed from textured slate to liquid sapphire, mirroring the heavens with such perfect fidelity that the boundary between above and below became a philosophical question rather than visual certainty.

Each afternoon brought a sunset more magnificent than the last—a celestial art exhibition with mountains as the gallery and Lake Pedder as the reflective medium. Crimson bled into amber, violet into indigo, each composition unique yet familiar, ephemeral yet eternal. We stood together at the water's edge, fingers intertwined, witnessing the daily miracle in reverent silence, understanding without words that moments like these formed the true currency of our chosen existence.

Practical matters asserted themselves occasionally—the laundry that had been thwarted in Glenorchy now fluttered on improvised lines, caressed by the mountain breeze. We surrendered to the lake's crystalline embrace, our bodies initially shocked by its alpine chill before adapting to its invigorating purity. Our grocery supplies—planned for a briefer stay—required creative management, particularly as our fresh vegetables dwindled sooner than anticipated. Yet even this limitation became an opportunity for culinary improvisation rather than hardship.

The long weekend brought an influx of locals, transforming our tranquil shore into a temporary playground of human celebration. Jet-skis carved glistening furrows across the lake's surface before disappearing into distant coves. Children's laughter harmonised with adult conversation, creating a symphony of communal joy as families embraced this perfect confluence of weather and landscape. Yet like all temporal gatherings, this too dispersed as swiftly as it had assembled, leaving the lakeshore once again to those few souls seeking extended communion with wilderness.

For our final day at Lake Pedder, we embarked on a pilgrimage to Gordon Dam—a destination previously obscured by winter fog during our visit with Justin and Andy. This time, however, sunshine illuminated the extraordinary engineering achievement in all its curved concrete glory. We traversed its dizzying arc, the absence of biting cold allowing us to linger and appreciate both the human ingenuity of its construction and the breathtaking natural amphitheatre that cradles it.

Our farewell to this beloved landscape culminated at Strathgordon's Twelve Trees restaurant, where we indulged in what can only be described as transcendent pub fare—meals whose flavours and execution surpassed any reasonable expectation for such a remote outpost. With satisfied palates and hearts brimming with accumulated beauty, we reluctantly turned our wheels eastward, pausing at Mt Field only to replenish our water reserves—that most essential element of continued independence.

As Lake Pedder receded in our mirrors, we carried with us a renewed appreciation for Tasmania's wild heart, for the serendipitous extension of our time together, and for the realisation that sometimes nature's intervention—even when it disrupts carefully laid plans—delivers blessings we could never have orchestrated ourselves.Read more