South Cape. How imaginative. But one step further south are only endless miles on the Southern Ocean before reaching the ice-covered plains of Antarctica. No road extends so far south, the windy cape is only reachable by foot, water or air. Australia’s most southern multi-day hike passes through here, either as last or first leg, continuing along the southern coastline westward until reaching the middle of nowhere from where a plane has to carry back the strong-minded individuals that withstood the challenging weather, proving its arctic proximity. The less adventurous just walk the eight kilometres back to Cockle Creek Campground, passing from the uninviting coast, so stunning in its pure wilderness though, into the low wind-shaded forests and green sparkling, shrub covered lowlands of the Southwest National Park. The track, enforced with wooden boards where the moorland would otherwise result in wet shoes, is flat and easily walkable, occupied by day tourists and various lizards. At its end, or rather beginning, the standard shoe-cleaning station invites the walkers to get rid of plant pathogens and rot, that would otherwise spread much quicker and endanger the sensitive ecosystem of an island that’s been ecologically isolated for most of its lifetime. We wouldn’t want what happened to the aboriginals and animals here to also happen to the plants. Upon arrival of the first Europeans, Cockle Creek Bay was quickly discovered to be a pristine whale-hunting spot. Neither aboriginals nor whales survived the first contact, the former terminated albeit unintentionally by imported diseases, the latter intentionally by imported weapons. So sad the story, so beautiful is the place nowadays. Crystal clear waters along ivory-white beaches sprinkled with crimson-coloured boulders invite for taking a dip, not for long though, unless carrying a wetsuit. It’s quite icy. The road back winds itself through the more remote areas of the Southern Ranges, where lime-green paddocks, just at the brink of dryness, harbour old caravans-turned homes, as if the camping tourists just decided to stay. Understandable. Every now and then a skew wooden shed, about to fall apart any second, just being held up by a wayward beam or rusty nail. All surrounded and sheltered by impenetrable thickets of blackberries. Not native, to be sure. But tasty. With half a year lag to their northern-hemisphere siblings, they ripe in the Tasmanian summer. As do the apples for which the Huon Valley is so famous. Again, not endemic. A double-edged sword. With the weather still holding it is worth taking a trip to the nearby Hartz Mountain National Park. The foot of the mountain is covered in vast dead-wood forests, a snake’s paradise. Luckily there are only three species in Tasmania to keep track of, unluckily all three of them venomous. And though they grow to impressive sizes, they tend to be quite shy and not dangerous as long as unprovoked. As the smaller sister of the much larger national parks around it, the Hartz Mountain hiking trails are a little abandoned at times. Overgrown by ferns, soaked in recent rains and blocked by fallen trees, it is indeed a challenge to walk them. But the views are rewarding. Hidden waterfalls and creeks and on a clear day the views from the Hartz Mountain summit are simply amazing. And still not a single Tasmanian devil.