Trekking in Tasmania? Oh, You Devil.

Then there were the three blokes from Melbourne we ran into that first day, two doctors and a retired banker. The trio, shouldering monster packs, were prepared for eight days on the Overland Track, which starts at Cradle Mountain. Sixty-five kilometers, or 40 miles, the distance they would cover, seemed pretty impressive. No worries, they said. Seasoned trackers, they annually tackle part of the mainland's 400-mile Alpine Walking Trail, but with Australia parched after five years of drought, bush fires are almost daily dangers.

"We thought Tassie would be safer," one of the docs said.

About the only thing our experience shared with these guys is that we also made our own breakfast each morning. At self-catering cottages, the ingredients for breakfast arrive in a basket. Each morning we cracked big brown eggs into our frying pan and shoved bread into the toaster. On at least one occasion, we made breakfast and then dined later that evening on our generous supply of eggs. Milk and orange juice were always in the fridge. Aussies love their coffee, and usually that means there's a French press pot ready to brew a good strong cup or two.

Then we'd head out for the day's adventure.

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Walking in Tasmania is to pass through temperate rain forests loaded with exotic flora: stands of gracefully tall eucalyptus trees languidly waving their leaves in the breeze; carpets of coral fern, knee-high tussocks of chartreuse button grass and stretches of other vegetation with somewhat bizarre names. Try "King Billy Pine" or "Gunn's Gebung" or "waratah." At the end of the summer (March), many wildflowers had withered, but the spiky butter-colored blossoms of the banksia trees were everywhere.

In both Cradle Mountain and Freycinet, the scenery can hold its own with any in the Southern Hemisphere. Cradle Mountain rises 5,000 feet, towering like a giant stone cradle over azure Dove Lake. In the distance, a procession of basalt columns speak of Tasmania's turbulent volcanic past. At Freycinet, a string of steep peaks called The Hazards juts out of a turquoise sea bordered by sugary beaches and bays full of oysters.

Then, of course, there's the fauna. Our first encounter with a wombat -- not a bat at all but a plump, groggy marsupial about the size of a cocker spaniel -- was along a trail at twilight. He'd fallen asleep over his dinner, curled up where he'd been munching tender grass shoots. Awakened by my footsteps, he glanced up, unperturbed, and ambled away. Wombats are everywhere, but mostly invisible. What you will see is their poop, cube-shaped pellets that conveniently refuse to roll off rocks and other spots where they are deposited. It's apparently a form of territory marking.

Wallabies regularly hopped onto the beaches at Freycinet. In spite of all the warnings, one senses that tourists have fed them, and they were expecting a handout. We left them snackless and looking a little crestfallen.

Alas, no Tasmanian devils came out to play. Their very survival is threatened by an aggressive and very contagious facial cancer that Australian scientists are struggling to understand and eradicate. Our only other marsupial encounter was with a family of possums, which shared our cottage near Freycinet. They stayed in the attic, fortunately.

We also saw a couple of brown snakes, highly poisonous, like most Australian snakes. Ditto spiders.

The outdoor riches of Tasmania are not to be taken for granted. Much of today's parkland was won in an almost epic struggle three decades ago against hydroelectric and logging interests that were ready to lay waste to much of the state. Tasmanians, who formed the world's first Green Party, fought back and won.

Today 20 percent of the island -- the entire western quadrant and much of its mountainous center -- is an enormous stretch of parkland that includes Cradle Mountain in its 5,300 square miles. The United Nations has designated that portion of Tasmania as a World Heritage Area.

For trekkers, lite or heavy, it is a grand legacy, and one we were happy to sample, if only for a few days.

Alice Reid is a writer and editor in Alexandria.