Following the fantasies of a mumbling madman or fossicking for a living legend? Luke Wright went wild to find out if the thylacine is really extinct

Pint in hand, I was settled on a bar stool near a Hobart waterfront when something I overheard piqued my curiosity. Behind me, close to the open fire popping and hissing, a mad old bloke was banging on to nobody in particular about Tasmanian tigers.

“If there’s any bloody tigers,” he growled, “the mongrels’ll be up in the Tarkine. Up in Pieman country.”

I swivelled around to get a better look at him. “What’d you say?” I asked.

He just mumbled and turned away, looking into the fire’s deep glow.

The Tarkine, I read later that night, is a huge temperate rainforest in Tasmania’s remote north-west. It’s an otherworldly link to the primordial super-continent, Gondwanaland. Home to old growth forests, countless critters and the majestic Tasmanian wedge-tailed eagle, the Tarkine is a wild wonderland. 

The Pieman, oddly, is a river named after a pastry-chef convict who escaped the law and cooked and ate his fellow escapees.

So on a whim sparked by a madman’s rant, I set off to find a Tasmanian tiger. I was only tinkering on the edges of the Tarkine, and figured I had about as much chance of finding Elvis as a tiger, but hope doesn’t cost anything.

Corinna is a wilderness area in Tasmania’s west. It’s also the indigenous name for the Tasmanian tiger. This, to me, seemed as good a place as any to find a tiger.

There was a sense of being watched as I forged into the dense forest. Twigs snapped under my feet, heightening my awareness and sense of removal from the outside world.

Suddenly, as I bumbled around a bend, I caught sight of it – a tail disappearing into the shrubbery.

I stopped and listened. The animal was already deep into the underbrush and didn’t want to be found. I walked on, dejected.

Seconds later I stopped dead again. Mere metres before me I saw something that made my heart race and adrenaline flow. Grey and glistening wet in the sunlight, with steam rising from it, I saw what must be – what could only be – a fresh Tasmanian tiger poo.

I’m no expert on these matters, but I was sure I’d stumbled across an internationally significant scientific find. I circled it with awe. I looked around to see if anyone else was witnessing this moment, but I was alone. I got down on my knees for an up-close inspection. Tiger poo, no doubt about it.

Using a large leaf, I scooped up the marvellous muck with care. Arms outstretched, beaming with pride, I carried the poo back to town. I imagined the global fame and fortune it would bring and concentrated on not dropping it. After about an hour, with my arms tiring and my excitement brimming, I arrived at Corinna and ran to the closest person I could find – a young man sweeping a shed.

“Look what I’ve found,” I shouted.

The man with the broom ambled over and took a gander at my discovery.

“Possum poo,” he said.

He squinted at me and cocked his head. I had, after all, just emerged from the forest, grinning like an idiot, carrying fresh possum dung.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“The stuff is everywhere, mate. I’ll bet my life on it. Possums.” He laughed and walked away.

In one moment I had gone from a scientific hero to a madman carrying a turd. I unceremoniously flung it back into the trees.

I never did find a tiger. In fact, after the great dung debacle, my search was officially cancelled and I turned my attention to less significant matters, such as fishing.

I did discover the magic spirit of Corinna and the Tarkine, though. That was enough.

And I’ll be back to find a tiger. The mongrels’ll be there somewhere.

Open Road e-zine October 2008

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