For most of 2017, I was living in Melbourne, Australia. During that time, I ventured off on two hiking trips to Tasmania (apparently one just wasn’t enough). At the end of the second Tasmanian adventure (November, 2017), I decided to wrap up my 10-day trip with 48-hours on beautiful Bruny Island. My hope was to spend those two days (and nights) hiking, bobbing in the ocean, eating far too much local produce, marvelling at the sight of Little Penguins making their trek home for the evening, and taking a moment to reflect on the previous eight days.  While I did manage to tick most of those items off of my list, my time on Bruny Island involved a few more twists than I’d initially anticipated.

I made the late morning drive from Hobart down to Kettering, where one can catch a quick ferry ride over to the island.  I had booked myself a small room at the South end of the island and was eager to drop off my things so I could squeeze in a trail walk before dinner.  Before heading to the Air B&B, though, I decided to make a very necessary stop at the Bruny Island Cheese Company. I figured it was obligatory to pick-up a few, of what I consider to be, dietary essentials and bought cheese, crackers, and olives to take with me to my new home for the next two days. I also managed to pick-up a cup of tea to take on my sunny, blue-skied drive to the South end of the island- onwards.

The drive to the South end was ambling and the road transitioned from pavement to dirt, the further along I went.  To my surprise, property numbers were sparsely located and many were barely identifiable.  After a few drives back and forth along the dirt road, I spotted a wooden board with the number I had been searching for, which led me down another, much narrower, dirt road.

At the end of the smaller road (which I dubbed as ‘the dirt road to nowhere’), I emerged into a clearing. In front of me, there was a red wooden cottage to my left and a much smaller chocolate-coloured wooden cabin to my right. I parked my car, hopped out, and approached the main building to ring the bell- no answer. I tried again- no answer. I walked myself around the house and, feeling like a bit of a creep, peered through any window I could find. I noted children’s toys and comfy-looking furnishings, but no people. I then returned to the driveway and walked over to the smaller cabin, which I suspected was the room I’d rented, based on photos from the Air B&B listing. I knocked on the door- no answer. I entered the studio-styled room and looked around. It had a window overlooking a nearby inlet that took up an entire wall and simple, cozy furnishings. That being said- no people. I returned to my car and dialled the gentleman who’s listing I had rented- no answer. I sat there, looking through the windows of my rental and peered around at my insanely isolated surroundings, grateful that I at least had service. I resolved that the best thing to do would be to text the owner for further instructions and backtrack to the small hotel and pub I’d spotted on the way in to kill time (when I say “kill time”, I mean “grab a bite and sit out on a patio soaking in the sunset as I look out onto the beach across the road”).

Just as I’d plotted, I retreated to the hotel and popped out onto the patio to enjoy the sunset as I awaited my instructions. Soon enough, I received a text with a detailed explanation. As it turns out, the host had to pop up to Hobart and I would no longer be staying on a property with any other human beings. He’d given me the option to utilize the main guesthouse, which was attached to his actual house. I was caught off-guard by the gesture, as it was lovely of him to have offered the alternative, particularly since the place I’d actually rented (the cabin I’d scoped out earlier) did not have a lock on the door (ask anyone who knows me- it’s like Fort Knox when I’m home).

I wrapped up my dinner and decided to head ‘home’ for the night. The instructions he’d given me were spot on, allowing me to quickly locate the key and enter the cottage I’d have to myself for the next two nights…or so I thought.

The space he’d offered me was lovely. It was an open-concept cottage-type space with a kitchen, dining area, and sleeping area on the main floor, with a loft space up a ladder that served as a second bedroom. I moved a few of my things in, plopped them on the bed, and went for a stroll around the property before stationing myself at the dining table to muck around with my journal and Google hiking destinations for the following day. I polished off my bottle of water, while reading a review on a spot on the island called Adventure Bay, and decided that I needed a refill.

As I turned off the faucet, I glanced down and nearly jumped out of my skin. On the nearest wall of the sink, there sat a big, black-as-night, ghastly spider. I realize that this might not have been as disturbing to some born-and-raised Aussies, but I’m Canadian….we don’t have spiders like that. I staggered backwards with my freshly-filled water bottle and attempted to catch my breath, while simultaneously working out what the hell I was going to do about the presence of the spider. I decided that it’d frig off if I gave it a chance and sat myself back at the dining table to return to my photos, while pretending I hadn’t seen what I’d seen.

Flash forward about 20 minutes and, from where I was sitting, I’d spotted two more spiders around the cottage (one along the trim in the kitchen corner and the other crawling around on the kitchen counter). Within the span of about 30 minutes, I was over my quaint, remote cottage life.

While I passive-aggressively sat at the dining table, resenting the presence of these spiders, I thought it would be a good idea to message my flatmate and have her weigh in on what she thought they might be. I slinked back over to the counter to blindly reach over and get an aerial photo of the spider in the sink. I promptly sent her the photo and she called me within minutes to ask a few clarifying questions about its size and appearance. While I would probably heed any Aussie’s opinion on spiders over my own, I had particular confidence in her assessment. My flatmate was from Gold Coast. After visiting her hometown a couple of times, I knew that the range of creepy-crawlers in Queensland was much greater than some other spots in Australia and that she’d be able to flex that knowledge.

Based on our discussion, she concluded that it was possible that the spiders were ‘Australian funnel-web spiders’ (which have a lethal bite), but that they could also be a couple other types of spiders that weren’t as dangerous. Her responsible nature kicked in, though, and she advised that it was smartest to assume the worst (rather to be safe than sorry).  After hanging up, I spent a grand total of maybe 7 seconds debating my next move. I ultimately decided that there was no frigging way I would be sleeping in that spider-ridden room. So I did what any logical person would do:

Step 1: I gathered my things from the bed and chucked them into the ‘boot’ of my car.

Step 2: I took the duvet off the bed and shook the bejesus out of it to ensure that no spider hitchhikers were in it.

Step 3: I marched back outside to my car, where I turned the duvet into a burrito and embraced the adventure of sleeping in my car for the night.

As I settled in to wrap up Day 1, I told myself to embrace the somewhat unexpected events I’d encountered and that it was all about the ‘adventure’. The spiders may have thwarted my initial sleeping arrangements, but they were now a good, safe distance away and I was left feeling pumped for the hike and stops I’d planned for the next day (Fluted Capes Trail, Adventure Bay, and another stop at the Bruny Island Cheese Company…because cheese). Stay tuned.

DAY 1 ON BRUNY ISLAND:

Spiders – 0 Lindsay – 1

(I technically won, because it resulted in a travel memory
and an adventure within an adventure, so the joke’s on them)

PHOTOS & CLIPS FROM BRUNY ISLAND – DAY 1