Carnivorous Nights_ On the Trail of the Tasmanian Tiger - Margaret Mittelbach [22]
We studied the pup and felt almost voyeuristic, putting our noses right up to the side of the glass. The fur was so thin and wispy, the pup looked almost naked. To all appearances, it was still as vulnerable as it had been when it was taken from its mother's pouch. We could see why it had been the inspiration for so much scientific longing.
We didn't know if the Australian Museum would ever succeed with cloning the tiger—or even if it was a good idea. All we knew was that we were head over heels again for the tiger.
After nearly twenty minutes inside the safe, we were starting to feel woozy from the fumes emanating from the flask and the temperature had risen uncomfortably. “Do you mind if we get some fresh air?” we asked Sandy.
Alexis gave the pouch pup a parting look as Sandy put it back in its bucket. “Hey,” he said. “Here's something that will fulfill your fantasies. What if its eyes suddenly popped open?”
We quickly came up with a movie title: The Reawakening of Baby Thylanstein. But then we thought better of it.
“Let it sleep,” we said. Maybe it was dreaming of Tasmania.
5. CROSSING THE STRAIT
We had two major biogeographical boundaries to traverse to reach Tasmania. The first one—Wallace's Line—had been crossed a week before on board a plane on our way to Sydney. The second—the Bass Strait—was yet to be breached.
Separating Tasmania from the Australian continent, the Bass Strait is a formidable barrier. One hundred fifty miles wide, it roils and churns unpredictably. Countless craft lay at its bottom, and it had claimed the lives of thousands of sailors. It's possible to fly across the strait and avoid the notoriously treacherous waters, but we wanted to savor the experience of crossing into a new world. The Bass Strait ferry, the Spirit of Tasmania, left every night (weather permitting) from Melbourne on the mainland's southern tip. We caught a short flight south and that night rendezvoused with Alexis and Dorothy at a Thai restaurant in Melbourne's South Yarra district. We had to be at the ferry at 8:00 P.M.
Just as we were diving into spring rolls, a stranger walked up to the table. He was boyish-looking, with light brown hair and a crooked smile. Suddenly, he threw his arms around our shoulders and gave us a squeeze.
“Hey, team!” He had an American accent.
Who was this guy?
Alexis jumped up immediately and shook his hand. It was Alexis's friend from New York, the one he had said “might” be coming.
The newcomer sat down, bit into a spring roll, and introduced himself. His name was Chris Vroom. He was thrilled about the idea of going to Tasmania. And we rapidly absorbed his life story. As a Wall Street analyst, he had made a killing during the Internet boom and at age thirty-seven was already semiretired. Since Chris didn't have to work, he indulged his two passions, travel and art. He traveled whenever he got the urge and recently had been to Antarctica and the Himalayas. As for his other interest, he had immersed himself in New York's contemporary art scene, becoming a serious collector and using his own money to start a nonprofit organization that gave grants to promising young artists. One of his prize possessions was a sculpture constructed entirely from police officers' batons. Chris and Dorothy hit it off immediately and began talking about galleries, who was on the board of what museum, and who had sneaked off with whom at the last Venice Biennale.
We broke in. “So what made you decide to take a trip to Tasmania?”
“Alexis invited me,” he responded enthusiastically.
Oh. Right. This was rapidly evolving from “might” be joining us to full-fledged expedition member. We continued our inquiry. “What was the thing that intrigued you most about the idea?” We were still hoping to uncover