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The Examiner's travel writer David Scott relates his Tasmanian holiday experiences.
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 THERE is a walk up Mount Wedge, on the road into Lake Pedder, that seems to have been carved and marked out by a sadist.
Not much right, not much left ... serious uphill.
At least, it was this way about 10 years ago when and friend and I gasped our way to the top, only to find a fellow scrambler enjoying a can of beer at the summit.
There's a certain cache associated with bagging mountains and celebrating it with a fine ale is a worthy notion. He would have commanded awe from the two fellows about to sip water and scratch out some cheese dip from their Le Snaks but for one point: it was light beer.
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 EMERGING from Rocky Cape National Park in the sunny mid-afternoon, I'm looking for a place to eat.
So far, the day has been all about the coast. Lookouts, beaches, shacks, lighthouses ... my aspirational lunch menu is zeroing in on seafood.
Even random conversations with fellow travellers through the day have turned to the crucial topic of lunch, more precisely the search for fish and chips.
With appetite at the wheel, fully in control of the expedition, the car finds its way to the junction of the Rocky Cape road and Bass Highway.
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 BEN Pyka plunges a landing net into the tank.
"You've heard of food miles?''
He lifts a couple of prime salmon from the concrete enclosure and gestures to a nearby processing building. "Here, we measure them in metres.''
Food miles usually measure the distance a product travels before it reaches the consumer. By the time a salmon has emerged from the smoker at 41 South Salmon and Ginseng
Farm near Deloraine, it's probably clocked 20 "food metres'' with another 60 or so to reach the property's retail outlet.
The point's well taken. There's not a lot of waste in the operation Ben and his dad, Ziggy, carved out of a willow-infested swamp 11 years ago.
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ALL good journeys carry a degree of distraction.
It's often the distractions that give you the best anecdotes. No one wants to hear about the time that your plane took off on time, your driver met you at the right place in the airport and took you directly to the hotel, where they knew about your booking and had the room ready.
It's the attractions you miss, the wacky detours, the mechanical breakdowns, the emotional implosions that ultimately define a travel experience.
A recent trip to Hobart had a couple of splendid detours, one to Oatlands and one to the Museum of Old and New Art, so good that they both earned repeat visits the following day.
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