A park ranger, identifiable by a badge with a pink Tasmanian devil on it, pointed out the route to the Twisted Lakes: “Just chuck a left at Hanson’s Peak, mate. Not a soul up there.” ‘Chucking a left’ took me over a mountain ridge and into the void. Up above, bare granite peaks protruded like decaying teeth. Clusters of tiny scarlet flowers swayed in the bush. At one turn, I nearly tripped over a wombat. This shy, muscular, almost spherical creature scratched itself awake and lumbered off like a miniature tank, smashimg branches as it went. As the sun climbed, bathing the landscape in a dreamy warmth, the trail wound upwards onto a highland plateau. That’s when I found the Twisted Lakes – a trio of moss-fringed tarns looking as deliberately arranged as a Japanese garden. As I took my skinny dip, I realised why Tasmania is considered a hiker’s paradise by Australians. In the rest of the country you often have to travel for days to notice a change in landscape.