27 and 28 Mar 2011

As I was crab-crawling my way back down the granite slab, my thoughts touched momentarily on how these mountains are called the “Hazards” for a good reason.  This was just the briefest of thoughts for most of my mental energy was being expended on visualizing various rather grisly and disturbing scenarios that included me sliding uncontrollably down this ridiculously steep and perilous slope into the prickly shrubs below.  A road-rashy, bruising, inelegant slip that would lead to one good story and several bad scars.

Upon safely reaching the chock-block boulder below, my thoughts next turned to Gina and admittedly not so much as to how she was faring getting down this same slope but instead to how she had prodded me into going up it in the first place.  Now why I even bother to think these thoughts after all these years is really probably something between me and my therapist for, as we all know, the very definition of crazy is to keep repeating the same thing but always expect a different result.  See a mountain?  Must hike right up it.  Never just gaze at it or wander idly around it or paint a pretty postcard of it.  Nope.  See it, climb it.  Same event, same result.  At least the views were worth the peril.

After our abandoned ascent of Mt. Amos, we opted to lower our blood pressure and anxiety levels with a stroll along the much more amicably named Friendly Beaches.  White sand and emptiness greeted us, the latter a characteristic of Tasmania that we are thoroughly enjoying and appreciating.

As for the rest of our day, well, it was spent driving.  Not too far and certainly not too fast (although the Tasmanians behind us would no doubt prefer if we sped up, a preference we can’t quite oblige should we desire to keep all four wheels in contact with the endlessly curving pavement ahead).  Destination: Richmond.  Like Ross, a quaint heritage town of well-preserved sandstone jails, tombstones, bridges, and churches.