Shacking Up

First came the people, then came the sheep, then came the trout. The history of the Central Highlands of Tasmania is one of hunting and shelter. And water. And stories.

In what can only be termed a ‘dream assignment’, I was asked if I would be interested to do a story on Tasmanian shacks. Hell yeah! When it comes to immersion journalism, I’m all in.

Little Pine Lagoon is variously described as a ‘mecca’, ‘bucket list destination’, and ‘Australia’s best trout fishing’. Picking my way along boggy edges under a blue sky I found unsuspecting prey. No, not a fish, but a pair of fishers pushing a boat down the gravel ramp and off for an afternoon on the water. Yes, they were staying in a shack here, and yes, they would be happy to chat.

On the edge of Penstock, I snuck along the dam wall, casting in between conversations with those who came for weekends or whole summers. A man with eye holes cut in a refashioned neck gaiter pointed to better hunting grounds around the lake, but he thought I was after fish.

By Arthurs Lake and in the two Great Lake pubs more quarry described renovations and innovations. I read some fascinating local history books.

EARLY DAYS

Over time the wild Central Plateau of Tasmania has been trammelled but only partly tamed, described pragmatically by archaeologist Richard Cosgrove as ‘adaptation geared to exploitation.’ Cosgrove investigated Aboriginal campsites around Little Pine and yingina (Great Lake), finding hunting flakes and scraping tools, hypothesising campsites were placed to take maximum advantage of food, whilst sheltering from weather extremes of polar lows and high winds.

After European arrival, shepherds built more permanent dwellings of stone, wood, and scavenged tin. They grazed stock in the summer then turned to trapping, getting higher prices for the thicker winter pelts. Better incomes and meat from what was called roo’n, rabbit’n and possum’n meant families could live largely self-sufficiently, supplementing diets with cabbage and turnips, drinking spring water and making candles from tallow.

The trout came in 1864, fishers followed, and some shepherd huts became guesthouses. By the early 1900s a combination of the fish, the hydro schemes and the advent of the private motor car meant barracks and bigger guest houses were needed, followed by the first private recreational shacks. The fabled Shannon Rise of snowflake caddis, from 1916 until the hydro changed the water flow, brought fishers from England and Scotland.

‘There are very few of the old shacks still around but there is a 1920s place made of small, corrugated iron at Fosters Bay,’ notes Malcolm Crosse, co-author of Australia’s Best Trout Flies. Some of the other older dwellings are repurposed. ‘The Tasmanian Fly Tyers Club used an old hop pickers hut transported from the Derwent Valley in the 60s. It is a bit primitive, with an outdoor toilet,’ he says.

Builder John Gunn started coming up in 1946. ‘We had one or two crowbars for iron pots, and bunks were made with wire netting. Many had earthen floors, but the better ones had split slab wooden floors. In those days shacks were built out of round timber and shingles. If they were lapped right, they would be totally waterproof.’

John’s family drifted sheep ‘up top’ for summer from December through to Anzac Day. Nowadays his shack is at what is referred to as the ‘Paris end’ of his street. He lives here most of the year. ‘I can’t think of a better place. For some the climate is too severe but I just say put another jumper on and keep going. Some winter days are tough, but others are absolutely fabulous. Sometimes there’s snow but you get a lot of good weather in between.’

Founder of the Compleat Angler, Jim Allen says his first shack was ‘one room, a stove, kitchen chair with a long drop outside and three-minute showers from a kerosene tin with a rose head underneath.’ His current one is rather more comfortable with leather furniture and a view over the hills to help spot the valley mist heralding a midge hatch.

Prices have evolved during Jim’s time on the Plateau, from scavenged timber-made squats on the shore, to a few thousand paid for a long term lease, to these days some shacks or land parcels costing hundreds of thousands of dollars.

If you find a bargain, be prepared to renovate says Shannon shack owner Debra Pennicott. ‘When we bought our shack, it was in really bad condition. We couldn’t put anything in the cupboards. We completely rebuilt it in redwood and cedar.’ Even after doing a place up, you need to take account of the weather conditions. ‘One weekend it was so cold our inside toilet froze and cracked.’

The demography has changed. Commonwealth Fly Casting Champion Craig Coltman estimates around 40% of highland shacks are now owned by mainlanders. When Jim ran the Great Lake Hotel for a few years in the 80s there were just 17 permanent residents, now more are seeing the advantages of a full-time lifestyle. Some shack owners sublet through airbnb.

A shack can be built of timber, fibro, rammed earth, brick, iron sheets or stone. Some used to be clad in flattened out kerosene tins. Others had their wooden walls smothered in sump oil. These days planning laws, shaped by lessons learned from fire, mean the newest shacks are often built in ‘ocean blue’ Colorbond. It is common to see solar panels. In this land of scattered dolerite, forest and lakes, the ideal shack has great views. ‘But one thing you won’t see is boundary fences as you aren’t allowed to have them,’ said Craig.

WHISKY & FIRE

While the building materials might differ, there are some common essentials for a good shack. You need a fire for warmth, cooking, and water heating says John. ‘A wood stove is the most important part of a shack,’ says Debra. Jim agrees fire is important: ‘Fishing is a Neanderthal instinct… a true shack owner also has a smoker for smoking fish.’ He offered me some of his smoked trout. It was delicious.

Mark Mallamaci is driven by the food aspect of shack life, pointing out that the trend to natural and organic is embodied by the opportunities for wild harvesting on the Plateau. He’s not the only one. I saw quail swapped for fish and heard of venison and even a boat motor being part of the gourmet barter system.

If you aren’t going to smoke the fish, at the very least you need a ‘fish safe’ to hang your catch. The wooden and wire mesh box keeps the fish insect-free until it is a little dry and stiff to help filleting. In any case, there is a reverence in catching, preparing, and eating your fish in the highlands. ‘You have to treasure the animal if you need to kill it,’ says Jim.

There are other staples to consider. Historically, the original plateau inhabitants imbibed the local cider gum (Eucalyptus gunnii). A record from 1826 notes Tasmanian Aboriginals drinking the fermented sap by Arthurs Lake. Early settlers found it a useful booze substitute and bottled it. For shack owners these days, ‘After a fire, the next most important thing is whisky,’ said Deborah. I saw whisky in every shack I visited. ‘A good supply helps,’ said Don. And he has a good supply. A whole trunk of bottles in fact.

You need a bit of kitchen gear too. ‘At the very minimum you need some pots and pans,’ said Malcolm. At least in the old days. These days, people expect a few more creature comforts. ‘One guest recently asked me if I had a lettuce spinner.’

CHARACTER

‘My idea of a good shack is it has character, it has things on the wall here that you can’t put on the wall at home,’ said Jim.

Les Perkins agrees, ‘A shack needs to be comfy and warm and have character.’ He pointed to a stove used for boiling the water for a shower. ‘It is great that it is a bit rough. You are escaping modern privileges and getting down to the essentials.’ Les fishes three times a day at Little Pine, stalking the banks at dawn, then taking his boat from the back yard to the ramp for morning and afternoon sessions.

From fading photos to stuffed fish, there is a lot of history and even more memories hanging on shack walls. Fly fishing and tying books jostle rainy-day novels and sporting histories. There are bamboo rods mounted next to framed collections of local flies. I saw maps, a wooden paddle, a kangaroo skin, trophies, a bong, fire irons, convict irons and barometers.

Jim said many shack owners keep a diary, his go back 40 years. ‘But you know a true fly fisher if they keep stomach contents.’ He pulled out wooden boxes of glass vials floating with ants, water snails, spiders, beetles, small crayfish, wasps, frogs and even cigarette butts.

Malcolm’s shack is at Cripps Point at Penstock. Originally vertical board, he rebuilt it in local stone, carrying each one three times before setting them into 300mm thick walls. His lounge has curtains from Kashmir, bought during one of his three fishing trips there. His bathroom tiles are hand painted with flies by his artist wife. A leadlight window of a rising trout was made by his daughter. Malcolm can look at the lake, see a trout rise, grab his rod, go down and cast and says he ‘has a fair chance of catching it.’ He is putting it up for sale soon. You heard it here first.

There is character in the names too. I saw Hilton on Arthurs, The Rat’s Nest, Stuart’s Retreat, the 4 Seasons, I Think She’ll Be Right, Just Stumblin In, Just a Shack, the Booze and Snooze, and one I didn’t see, but was referred to as Asbestos Heaven and apparently owned by someone who’s grandfather brought trout to Australia.

MYTHOLOGY

‘The highlands are full of crazy stories, some of which are true,’ said Jim. He used to stay at an accommodation house at Lake Sorell run by a Mrs Lewis. ‘She would send food to Miss Wilson who lived at the Steppes. Miss Wilson used to put saucers of milk inside the house. Turns out these were for the tiger snakes. Mrs Lewis had a son, and after a tractor accident, he was found half eaten by devils.’

The rise opposite the pub is called Murderer’s Hill, apparently due to a bushranger killing a shepherd. ‘At least two of the shacks are in their present place after being floated across the lake from Tods Corner — Balmoral and the deterministically named Esratu, or Wet Arse backwards,’ John explained. John used to stay in the Miena Hotel until it burned down. He remembers the Shannon Rise. ‘The fishers would have tweed suits and plus fours and fish shoulder to shoulder. We would hang the fish under the pub and the owner would cook them for us.’

Most people I interviewed told tales of one Bill Beck who left for more celestial fishing grounds a little while ago. ‘Billy used to have a place at Little Pine called Hiccup Hall,’ said Jim. ‘We would play cards there til three a.m.’ (This might explain other stories I heard of Billy loudly singing Elvis at dawn). Hiccup Hall is gone now. I heard when the hydro wanted to change the lake level and some shacks needed to go, he burnt it down to stop them getting it. His neighbour fought on, allegedly threatening to shoot anyone who tried to take his place. The neighbour’s shack survived but these days is abandoned. I wandered the overgrown garden quietly imagining the fray.

Someone told me a wombat used to live in the pub. Actually, I know that one is true as I still have a photo of an 18-year-old me cradling Henrietta when she crawled up to my lap while I was reading in the armchair one rainy afternoon.

Fabled fly fishers live on, immortalised in fly names like the Billy Beck Green Machine, the Charles Peck Dun and the Barry Lodge Emerger. I’m not aware of a Malcolm Fraser fly, but he had a shack up here too.

FRIENDS

There was ‘One thing in common whether they were trappers, shepherds, fishers, hydro, farmers, graziers, rangers or builders… the self-reliance of the individuals, the sense of community and the warmth and strength of human relationships,’ according to the oral history series of the Central Plateau. And those relationships are still an important part of shack life. Whether it is a regular morning coffee gathering at Jim’s place or neighbours sharing dinner every few nights, the sense of community remains strong.

Don McTaggart and Mark bought their shack after the wake of their friend Don Urquhart. ‘A few of us were talking there, we were concerned at what would happen to his place, so I sort of fell into it,’ said Mark. ‘I’m not much of a trout fisher, I’m more here for the spirit. It isn’t just about the fishing; fishing is the by-product. What you get with a shack is friends for a drink or dinner time together, that’s what a shack brings, it’s not just the physical surrounds.’

‘A shack is good for the soul too,’ said Don, gazing down over his wonderful view to the bay. ‘And for watching the birds.’

Friends have friends who come to stay. Jim had an Australian Governor General come for a visit, who arrived with a bottle of Grange Hermitage. Malcolm hosts women who are part of the Casting for Recovery group. Debra said she came initially for the fishing, but now the friendships are just as important. ‘Everybody seems to run into everybody about once a day and we stop and have a chat, or we go for a drink to theirs or they might come to ours.’

Immersion journalism in the Central Plateau would not be complete without a last cast. I managed a trout at Little Pine. One I stalked. On a fly I tied 20 years ago. Bucket list — tick.