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When Chris showed up with a green compact he had rented, we suggested that he, Dorothy, and Alexis take the day off and explore some of the north coast's beaches. We told them we would scout ahead and meet up with them the following day. We wanted to get our heads together to think about the best way to pursue our quarry. Plus we had to see a man about a devil.

From Devonport we drove onto the Bass Highway, a long stretch of two-lane blacktop that runs along the northern coast of Tasmania. Tasmanians, like all Australians, drive on the left side of the road, a practice we found disorienting even while driving in a straight line. Every time we signaled to turn, the windshield wipers came on.

Our destination was the far northwest corner of the island, and once we left the port cities behind, we saw nothing but rolling pastureland, occasional glimpses of the Bass Strait, cows, and a few sheep. The only other attractions worth noting were the huge logging trucks that barreled toward us and the numerous roadkills—many of which we pulled over to examine. Though unable to identify any of the flattened remains, we perceived that most had fur, four legs, and a tail. These creatures had literally been pounded into the pavement. We diligently checked the bodies for stripes, but there weren't any as far as we could tell.

Back at the ferry terminal, we had picked up a copy of the local Visitor Gazette, which tried to put a positive spin on the roadside carnage:

One of the few sad things about this beautiful district is the roadkill.… The animals are sometimes impossible to avoid.… It is not because the lo-cals are heartless or cruel with no compassion for wild things; they despair as much as you will. However, nature wastes nothing and these animals in their turn provide sustenance for Tasmanian devils, crows, hawks, and ravens, which are continually cleaning up.… One animal's death is an-other's life. Nature's way.

We weren't keen to participate in “nature's way.” Each time we drove away from one of our roadside autopsies, we scanned the highway for animals that could end up as flattened fauna. But no Tasmanian wildlife was waiting to dash beneath our wheels. In fact, the only creatures we saw were ravens picking at the flesh of animals that were already dead. We identified them as native Tasmanian forest ravens, Corvus tasmanicus, and checked them off in our bird book.

As for the rest of the scenery, it was lullingly monotonous. Brown pastures baked beneath the summer sun. Hereford cattle swished their tails. Except for the occasional splattered beast, nothing struck us as stopworthy until we came across a farm field filled with strange-looking plants. Bloated, anemic-blue bulbs floated atop unusually long brown stalks. A sign on a low fence read, “DANGER. KEEP OUT. TRESPASSERS PROSECUTED. ILLEGAL USE OF CROP MAY CAUSE DEATH.”

The plants were opium poppies—the kind used to make heroin and morphine—and the bulbs were seed heads very close to harvest time. A field of the same crop in Afghanistan or Asia's Golden Triangle would draw down the wrath of international drug agents. But this was legal. Tasmania had a United Nations sanction to grow poppies for making medical-grade morphine and codeine. The island produces about 40 percent of the world's supply.

The poppy field spread out before us like a blue mist. Just a little slash in one of the bulbous seed heads would produce a sap that would soon harden into highly potent opium. We would see plenty of tigers under those conditions. We were tempted to lie down in the field and take a long, opium-induced nap. But we kept driving—mile after lonely mile.

As we passed signs for the towns of Black River, Smithton, and Marrawah (and roads named Devil's Elbow and Dismal), the pastures gave way to stands of forest dominated by eucalyptus trees. Signs of civilization dwindled to the vanishing point. We had nearly run out of highway, when we reached a ramshackle farmhouse, standing alone at the side of the road and surrounded by brush. A man in a polo shirt, blue