TASMANIA: Australia's Lost World | 4K Travel Documentary

At the bottom of the world, there is an island where the map simply ends. Sail south from its shores, and there is nothing. No land, no people, only the wildest ocean on the planet, rolling unbroken across thousands of miles of grey water, all the way to the ice of Antarctica. This is Tasmania. A single island, hanging off the edge of Australia, smaller than most people imagine, and stranger than almost anywhere on Earth. For most of human history, the rest of the world forgot this place even existed, and in that forgetting, something extraordinary happened. While continents drifted and ice ages came and went, while empires rose and vanished, Tasmania held on to a world the rest of the planet had already lost. Here, in hidden valleys, grow living things so old they were already ancient when the pyramids were young, some have been alive for tens of thousands of years, researchers believe a few may be among the oldest living organisms on the entire planet. Here, forests still breathe that first appeared when the dinosaurs walked, survivors of a supercontinent that broke apart and disappeared. Here, a predator once roamed that no longer exists anywhere on Earth, a creature so mysterious that people still search the shadows for it today. And here, towering above wild seas, stand cliffs of dark stone that were born in fire when this island was torn away from Antarctica itself. This is a journey to the edge of everything, across haunted ruins and mirror-still rivers, into rainforests that feel older than time, and out to a coast where the air is the cleanest ever measured on Earth. Travelers who come here say the same thing when they leave, that Tasmania does not feel like part of the modern world at all, but it feels like stepping into a lost one. So let us begin, at the bottom of the map, where the wild south is waiting. Every journey into Tasmania begins beneath a mountain. It rises more than 1,200 meters straight up from the sea, its summit often wrapped in cloud, its shoulders dusted with snow even in summer. The first people of this island called it Kunani, today it stands guard over Hobart, the small salt-washed capital that clings to the slopes below. Hobart is one of the oldest cities in Australia, and one of the most remote capitals on Earth. Its harbour opens directly onto the Southern Ocean, and from its docks, the same waters stretch all the way to the bottom of the world. Sandstone warehouses line the waterfront, built almost two centuries ago by convict hands, now filled with markets, fishing boats, and the smell of the sea. But it is the mountain that defines this place. Drive the winding roads to the summit of Kunani, and the whole island seems to unfold beneath you. The city, the silver river, the endless ranges fading into blue, and on a clear day, the ocean curving away toward an horizon with nothing beyond it. Near the top, something strange emerges from the slopes. Great columns of dark rock, standing in rows like the pipes of some vast broken organ. Locals call them exactly that, the organ pipes. They are made of dolerite, a stone forged deep underground in an age of fire, and they hold a secret about how this entire island was made. A secret this journey will return to in the end. For now, stand at the summit, and feel the wind. It comes screaming off the Southern Ocean, unbroken, relentless. Sailors gave it a name long ago, the Roaring Forties. That wind is the key to everything that makes Tasmania wild, and to truly understand it, the journey must leave the city behind, and travel out along a narrow neck of land, to a place of breathtaking beauty and haunting sorrow. 90 minutes southeast of Hobart, the land narrows to a thread. The Tasman Peninsula hangs off the rest of Tasmania by a strip of sand barely a hundred meters wide. In the convict era, this single choke point was sealed with a line of half-starved guard dogs, chained across the neck, snarling day and night. The waters on either side, the prisoners were told, were full of sharks. Escape was impossible. Beyond that narrow neck, lies one of the most beautiful and most haunted places in the Southern Hemisphere, Port Arthur. Today it looks almost peaceful. Green lawns roll down to a quiet bay, English oaks rustle in the wind, elegant ruins of brick and stone stand open to the sky, their empty windows framing the water beyond. But this was once the most feared penal settlement in the entire British Empire. It began in 1830 as a timber camp. Within a few years it had grown into a vast industrial prison, designed in the words of its founder, to be a place of terror. Here the British Empire sent its hardest cases, the convicts who had offended again after already being transported to the other side of the world. More than 12,000 prisoners passed through over nearly 50 years. The men who ran it imagined a perfect machine of punishment and reform. In the separate prison, inmates were locked in silence and isolation, hooded when they moved, known only by numbers, in an early and chilling experiment in psychological control. And yet the surroundings remain almost unbearably lovely. Researchers and visitors alike describe the same strange feeling here, a collision of beauty and sorrow that is difficult to put into words. Across the water lies the Isle of the Dead, where more than a thousand people were buried, most in unmarked graves. The prison closed in 1877. Fire and time took many of the buildings, but enough survived that Port Arthur became, decades later, one of Australia's first great heritage sites, now protected by UNESCO. It has known modern grief too, which the people of Tasmania remember quietly and with great care. To walk here at dusk, as the light fades over the ruins, is to feel the full weight of this island's human story. But just beyond these walls, nature tells a story far older, written in walls of stone that rise straight out of the sea. Follow the peninsula to its end, and the land does not gently meet the ocean. It falls off the edge of it. Here, at the Three Capes, the coast of Tasmania rears up into some of the tallest sea cliffs in the entire Southern Hemisphere. At Cape Pillar and Cape Hoy, sheer walls of dark rock drop almost 300 meters into the churning Tasman Sea. Standing at the top, the horizon seems to bend, the waves far below move in total silence, too distant for their sound to climb the cliff. These cliffs are made of the same stone that crowns Mount Wellington, Dolorite, and up close its strangest feature becomes clear. The rock is split into enormous vertical columns, packed together like a bundle of titanic pencils standing on end. Some of these columns rise unbroken for hundreds of meters, the tallest of their kind anywhere on the planet. Walkers on the famous Three Capes track spend days among this scenery, tracing the cliff edges where the land simply stops. Sea eagles ride the updrafts. Far below, seals haul out on black rocks, and pods of dolphins cut through the swell. In the right season, migrating whales pass directly beneath these towering walls. A short drive north lies a quieter wonder. At Eagle Hawk Neck, the ocean has carved the softer coastal rock into a vast, flat platform that looks impossibly man-made. It is broken into neat rectangular tiles, stretching out toward the sea like the floor of some drowned cathedral. People call it the tessellated pavement. No human laid these stones, the cracks formed naturally, then the salt and the waves did the rest, etching the pattern over countless years. Nearby, the same forces have punched the coastline full of drama. There is a blowhole that roars with the surf, a great natural arch the sea has bored clean through solid rock, and a sheer-sided chasm the early settlers grimly named the Devil's Kitchen. This is a coastline, being slowly devoured by the most powerful ocean on Earth, and yet just offshore, on a wild island of its own, that same ocean has created a sanctuary, a refuge for creatures found almost nowhere else. Just south of Hobart, separated by a narrow channel, lies an island that feels like Tasmania distilled into a single, perfect fragment. Bruny Island is really two islands, north and south, joined by one of the most extraordinary stretches of land in the country. They call it the Neck, a thin ribbon of dune and sand with the open ocean crashing on one side, and a calm bay resting on the other. Climb the wooden steps to the lookout at dusk, and the whole sweep of it lays bare before you, the two halves of the island reaching away into the fading light. At night, the Neck comes alive, little penguins, the smallest penguins on Earth, struggle ashore in the darkness and waddle up the sand to their burrows, returning from a long day fishing in the cold sea. Short-tailed shearwaters wheel overhead in their thousands, having flown astonishing distances across the Pacific to nest here. The southern half of the island is wilder still, towering cliffs of dolerite plunge into the southern ocean, fur seals bask on the rocks below. Out here, where the swell rolls in from Antarctica, the wildlife seems almost untroubled by the modern world. And on Bruny, travellers report a rare and almost ghostly sight, white wallabies. Through generations of isolation, a population of these marsupials carries a rare gene that turns their fur pale, and they graze quietly at the forest edge, like animals out of a dream. The waters around the island teem with life. Boat tours nose beneath cliffs alive with seabirds, past blowholes and sea caves, into a coastline shaped over millions of years, local oysters are pulled straight from the cold, clean channel. This is an island that feeds both the body and the imagination. Bruny is a place of gentle abundance, of penguins and seals, and pale wallabies in the dusk. But to find Tasmania's most famous landscape, the one image that has drawn travellers to this island for generations, the journey must turn north, and follow the wild east coast, to a curve of sand so perfect it hardly seems real. Some places are photographed so often they lose their power. Wineglass Bay is not one of them. On Tasmania's east coast, the Frasenet Peninsula juts into the Tasman Sea, a spine of pink and grey granite mountains known as the Hazards. Their stone glows rose gold in the morning sun, rising straight from the water in great rounded domes, and hidden behind them lies one of the most celebrated beaches on the planet. The classic view comes after a steep climb to the saddle between the peaks, you round the final bend, the trees fall away, and there it is, far below. A flawless crescent of white sand, curved like the rim of a wineglass, cradling water so clear, and so impossibly blue it looks almost tropical, even here, in the cool south. The walk down to the sand is steep, and the swimming is bracing, but those who make the descent often have long stretches of that perfect beach almost to themselves. Behind the bay the peninsula rolls on into quiet coves, granite headlands and lagoons where black swans drift on still water. This coast has another secret, hidden beneath the waves. The clear waters off Frasenet shelter forests of giant kelp, and meadows of seagrass, nurseries for an astonishing range of marine life. Dolphins are common here, white-bellied sea eagles nest in the headlands, in the cooler months, migrating whales pass close to shore. Frasenet is the gentle face of Tasmania, all rose-colored stone and turquoise water, but travel a little further up the coast, and the colors change entirely, into something so vivid that, when people first see photographs of it, they often refuse to believe it is real. The name sounds like a warning, the reality is one of the most beautiful coastlines on earth. Along the northeast shore of Tasmania stretches a place the world has come to know as the Bay of Fires, and the first time travelers see it, they often stop in disbelief. Against blinding white sand and water of pure turquoise, great boulders rise from the shore, glowing a deep fiery orange. For years people assumed the name came from those burning colors, but the truth is older, when a British navigator sailed past this coast in the 1770s, he saw the fires of aboriginal people burning all along the shore, and named the bay for them. Those fires were a sign of a human presence here that stretched back thousands upon thousands of years. The orange that blazes across the rocks is not stone at all, it is a living thing, a bright lichen that coats the granite, thriving in the salt spray, painting the entire coastline in color. Where the lichen meets the white sand and the clear sea, the effect is almost unreal, three pure colors laid side by side along miles of empty shore. And empty it truly is. You can walk this coast for hours, and meet almost no one, sheltered lagoons sit behind the dunes, clear streams run down to the sea, the water is cold but astonishingly clear, and beneath the surface lies some of the richest seafood in Tasmania, abalone and crayfish hidden among the rocks. This is a coastline that feels untouched, a place where land, sea and sky meet in their simplest and most perfect form, but Tasmania is far more than its coast, to reach the true heart of this island, the journey must now turn inland and climb, up into a realm of jagged peaks and mirror lakes, where the air grows thin and the wilderness begins. Inland from the coast, the land rises into something ancient and severe. Cradle Mountain is the great icon of the Tasmanian highlands, and one of the most beloved wilderness areas in all of Australia, its jagged peaks claw at the sky, carved into rough teeth of dark dolerite by the ice ages, when great glaciers ground their way across this plateau, and gouged out the valleys and lakes below. At its foot lies Dove Lake. On a still morning before the wind rises, its dark surface becomes a perfect mirror, holding the reflection of the mountain so cleanly, that the world seems to double. A walking track loops the entire shore, winding through ancient forest, and past a weathered timber boatshed, that has become one of the most photographed sights on the island. This is alpine country, raw and changeable. Snow can fall here in any season, mist rolls in without warning, swallowing the peaks, then clears just as suddenly to reveal them again. The vegetation is strange and old, cushioned plants that grow in dense green mounds, and ancient pines that have clung to these slopes since the last ice age. The wildlife here is unlike anywhere else. At dawn and dusk, wombats graze placidly on the button grass plains, stocky and unbothered, echidnas shuffle through the undergrowth, wallabies and pademelons watch from the forest edge, and after dark, the true rulers of this wilderness emerge, the creatures that give the night its voice. Cradle Mountain marks the northern gateway to the vast Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area. A single protected expanse so large it covers nearly a fifth of the entire island. From here the famous overland track sets off south on a multi-day journey through the wild interior. But our path leads west, into something even older and stranger than these peaks, a forest that has survived, almost unchanged, since the age of the dinosaurs. In the far northwest of Tasmania lies a forest that should not still exist. The locals, and the first people of this land, call it Takena. The world knows it as the Tarkeen, and it is the largest tract of cool temperate rainforest left in Australia, a vast breathing green wilderness covering hundreds of thousands of hectares, more than 90% of it still untouched. To step inside is to step backward through time. The light turns soft and green, filtered through a canopy of towering myrtle beech. Every surface drips with moss, ferns uncurl from the forest floor, fallen giants lie covered in a thick carpet of green slowly returning to the earth, while new trees rise from their bodies, the air is cool, damp and utterly still. What makes this forest extraordinary is its lineage. These are the living descendants of Gondwana, the ancient supercontinent that once joined Australia, Antarctica, South America and Africa into a single landmass. When Gondwana broke apart, these forests survived here, on this isolated island, while they vanished almost everywhere else on earth. Scientists describe Takena as a living window into the deep past, one of the most primitive forest formations left on the planet. The richness of life here is staggering, researchers have catalogued well over a hundred species of moss and liverwort alone, some of the best preserved plant fossils in the world have been found in this region, pressed into rock dating back 65 million years, and among the trees still move some of Tasmania's rarest creatures. The coast of Takena holds another treasure, it is one of the great archaeological landscapes on earth, scattered with the hutsites, middens and rock art of the aboriginal people who lived here across thousands of generations, the Australian Heritage Council has called it one of the world's great archaeological regions. For decades this wilderness has been the subject of a passionate struggle, as conservationists, scientists and the aboriginal community fight to see it permanently protected. To walk beneath these ancient trees is to understand why, that the forest does not end at the land, it follows the rivers down toward the sea, where the oldest trees of all are reflected in dark and silent water. On the wild west coast of Tasmania, the rain falls more days than not, and the rivers run the colour of dark tea. Here lies the old port town of Strahan, perched on the edge of Macquarie Harbour, a body of water six times the size of Sydney Harbour. Beyond it, fed by the mountains, flows the Gordon River, winding deep into the heart of the Wilderness World Heritage Area, into country so dense and so remote, that for much of its length no road has ever reached it. The river's surface is its great wonder, stained brown by the tannins of the buttongrass plains, the water lies almost perfectly still beneath the overhanging forest. On a calm day it becomes a flawless mirror, doubling the rainforest so precisely that the reflection is hard to tell from the real thing. Travellers on the quiet river cruises often fall silent here, gliding through a world turned upside down. Along these banks grows one of the most remarkable trees on earth, the Huon Pine, it is one of the slowest growing and longest living plants on the planet, adding barely a millimetre to its width in a year. Individual trees can live for well over 2,000 years, and high on nearby Mount Reed, a stand of Huon Pines, all sharing a single root system, is believed to have been quietly regenerating itself for more than 10,000 years. That oil-rich, honey-coloured timber once made the Huon Pine the most coveted wood in the colony, prized by boat builders because it simply would not rot. The hunt for it drove men deep into this brutal, beautiful wilderness, today the ancient trees are fiercely protected, living museums of a vanished world. The history of this coast is etched in hardship, on a tiny island in the harbour, named Sarah Island, stood the most feared convict outpost of all, even before Port Arthur was built. And a restored wilderness railway still claws its way through the rugged mountains, a monument to the miners who once tore copper and gold from these unforgiving ranges. This is a coast where the forest meets the sea, but south of here lies something even wilder, a corner of Tasmania so remote that almost no one has ever set foot in it. There is a corner of Tasmania, where the modern world has simply never arrived. The southwest wilderness covers a huge sweep of the island's bottom edge, and across this entire expanse there are almost no roads at all, no towns, no powerlines. To reach its heart, travellers must fly in by light plane, or sail in along the wild coast, or walk for many days through some of the most demanding country on earth. What waits there is a landscape of stark and lonely beauty. Vast plains of golden buttongrass roll toward jagged glacier-carved peaks, tea-coloured rivers bend through empty valleys, and at the centre lies Bathurst Harbour, a great inland waterway, dark and silent and ringed by mountains, where the stillness is so complete that it can feel almost overwhelming. This is one of the last truly wild places left in the world. The rivers here have never been dammed, the forests have never been logged, the night skies are among the darkest on the planet, ablaze with stars, untouched by the glow of any city. For researchers, this is a precious living baseline, a glimpse of what the earth looked like before humanity reshaped it. And somewhere in this immense wilderness hides Tasmania's most astonishing secret of all. In an isolated valley, whose exact location is kept hidden to protect it, grows a single plant called King's Holly. It does not reproduce by seed, instead it clones itself, dropping branches that take root and grow on, each one genetically identical to the last. By studying fossilized fragments, scientists estimate that this single organism has been quietly cloning itself for over 43,000 years. Let that number settle. This plant was already ancient when the last ice age gripped the planet, when mammoths still walked the northern continents, it may be one of the oldest living things on the face of the earth, and it survives even now in a secret valley in the Tasmanian wild. This is the deep silent heart of the island, but to feel the raw power that shaped it, the journey must travel to the very edge of the land, to a place where the wind has blown clean across half the planet, and the locals have given the horizon a fitting name. On the far northwestern tip of Tasmania, the land runs out, and the planet seems to begin again. This is Cape Grim, and the wind that strikes this coastline has a quality found almost nowhere else on earth. It has traveled across the southern ocean for thousands of uninterrupted miles, around the entire bottom of the world, without touching land, without passing over a single city, factory or road. By the time it reaches this cliff, that air is the cleanest ever measured on the planet, so clean, in fact, that scientists built a monitoring station here, perched on the headland, to use it as the global benchmark for pure air. The readings from Cape Grim help researchers around the world understand exactly how human activity is changing the atmosphere, by measuring it against air that is almost perfectly untouched. Stand on this coast and you can feel why. The wind is relentless, screaming in off the ocean, bending the few hardy trees into permanent sculpid crouches, the sea throws itself against the rocks in great explosions of white. There is nothing soft here, nothing sheltered, it is raw, elemental, and strangely exhilarating. A little to the south lies a place the locals have named, with perfect honesty. At the mouth of the Arthur River stands a lookout simply called the edge of the world. From here, gazing west across the heaving gray ocean, there is no land at all between you and the distant coast of Argentina, almost halfway around the globe. A poem mounted at the site captures the feeling of standing at the boundary of the known world. This coast is wild, lonely and humbling. It is the very edge of Tasmania, and in a sense the edge of everything, but this island is defined not only by its land and its oceans, but by the extraordinary creatures that live here, and by one in particular that does not, a ghost that still haunts the Tasmanian imagination. When Tasmania was cut off from the mainland, its animals were sealed inside a kind of ark, and they have been evolving in isolation ever since. The most famous of them all emerges after dark. The Tasmanian devil. It is the largest carnivorous marsupial left in the world. A stocky, black-furred creature, about the size of a small dog, with jaws so powerful they can crush bone, its unearthly screams and growls once terrified European settlers who gave it its devilish name. In truth, it is mostly a scavenger, the clean-up crew of the bush, and it now survives in the wild only here, on this single island. But the devil is fighting for its life. In recent decades, a rare and contagious facial cancer has swept through the population, one of only a handful of transmissible cancers known to science. It has devastated their numbers. Today, conservationists across Tasmania are working urgently to save the species, breeding healthy populations, and establishing safe havens in a race against time. The island teems with other strange and wonderful life. Wombats, sturdy and slow, dig vast burrow systems beneath the highlands. Echidnas, spine-covered and ancient, shuffle through the among the last egg-laying mammals on Earth. Platypus glide through the quiet rivers at dawn, pademelons and wallabies melt into the undergrowth at the first sign of movement. And then there is the ghost, the thylacine, the Tasmanian tiger, a striped, dog-like marsupial predator that once roamed this island as its top hunter, wrongly blamed for killing sheep. It was hunted relentlessly for a government bounty, until the very last known thylacine died. Alone, in a Hobart zoo, in 1936. But the story did not end there. For decades, people have reported glimpses of a striped shape slipping through the remote southwest, and now scientists have launched an audacious effort to bring the thylacine back, using preserved DNA and cutting-edge genetic technology to attempt what would once have been pure fantasy, the resurrection of a vanished species. These creatures, the living and the lost, are the soul of wild Tasmania. But long before any of them, and long before the first European ship appeared on the horizon, this island belonged to people, and their story is older than almost any other on Earth. The human story of Tasmania does not begin in centuries, it begins in tens of thousands of years. During the last great ice age, so much of the world's water was locked up in ice, that the seas fell dramatically, and a bridge of dry land emerged, connecting Tasmania to the Australian mainland. More than 40,000 years ago, the ancestors of the aboriginal Tasmanians, the Palawa people, walked south across that bridge. They knew this land as Lutrawita, and they made it home, becoming in time, the southernmost human beings on the entire planet. They lived here through the depths of the ice age, hunting and gathering across a landscape colder and harsher than today. Researchers have found that they used fire with great skill, deliberately shaping the land, opening the forests, and managing the country around them for over 40,000 years. Then the world changed, as the ice age ended, the seas rose, and slowly, relentlessly, the land bridge drowned, the rising water narrowed it to a thread, then swallowed it completely, and Lutrawita became an island once more, sealing its people in near total isolation from the rest of humanity for roughly 8,000 years, one of the longest periods of isolation any human group has ever known. Here is the part that astonishes scientists. The memory of that flood was never lost. Palawa oral traditions, recorded by Europeans in the 1830s still described a time when Tasmania was joined to the mainland, and told of the waters rising to cut it off. Researchers studying the seafloor have confirmed that these stories accurately recall events from more than 10,000 years ago, making them some of the oldest true stories ever told by human beings, passed down faithfully across roughly 400 generations. The arrival of Europeans in the early 1800s brought catastrophe, violence and disease that came close to destroying the Palawa entirely, and yet they were not destroyed. Today thousands of Tasmanians proudly trace their heritage to the island's first people, keeping their culture, their language, and their ancient connection to this land alive. Their story is woven through every valley and shore of this island, but beneath even their 40,000 years, lies a far deeper story still, written not in memory, but in the very stone of Tasmania itself. To understand why Tasmania looks the way it does, you have to go back, not thousands of years, but millions. Throughout this journey, one stone has appeared again and again. The dark, column-shaped rock of Mount Wellington's organ pipes, the 300-meter cliffs of the Tasman Peninsula, the shattered teeth of Cradle Mountain, they are all made of the same thing. Dolorite. Geologists call it the rock that made Tasmania. Its origin lies in an act of planetary violence. Around 175 million years ago, in the age of the dinosaurs, the great supercontinent of Gondwana began to tear itself apart. As Australia slowly ripped away from Antarctica, the strain cracked the crust open, and vast volumes of molten rock were forced upward, squeezing between the layers of older stone-like magma pressed into a sandwich. But this magma never reached the surface. It never erupted as a volcano. Instead it cooled slowly, deep underground, and as it hardened, it cracked into those distinctive vertical columns. Over the millions of years that followed, the softer rocks above it were stripped away by wind, water, and ice, until the hard dolorite was finally laid bare, forming the mountains, plateaus, and cliffs that define the island today. And the story runs deeper still. Some of the rocks on the are over a billion years old, and they contain fossils so ancient, they are among the oldest forms of complex life ever found. Life from a time when Tasmania may have been joined not to Australia, but to an early version of North America, on the far side of a vanished world. This, in the end, is the secret of Tasmania. It is not simply a remote island off the coast of Australia. It is a surviving fragment of a lost supercontinent, a piece of the deep past that drifted to the bottom of the world and held on, carrying its ancient stone, its ancient forests, and its ancient life into the present day. Everything this journey has touched, the haunted ruins, the towering cliffs, the mirror rivers, and the wild south, all of it rests upon this foundation of fire and time, an island built from the bones of a world that no longer exists. The journey ends where it began, at the bottom of the map, where the land gives way to the wildest ocean on earth. But the island looks different now. That curve of orange rock against white sand is no longer just a beautiful coast. It is a place where human fires burned for 40,000 years. The Mirror Still River is no longer just a river. It cradles trees that were old before Rome was built. And the dark stone beneath every peak is no longer just rock. It is the memory of a continent torn apart. This is what Tasmania does to those who travel here. It collapses time. The deep past does not feel distant. It feels close enough to touch, in the cool breath of an ancient forest, in the silence of a hidden valley, in the relentless wind off the southern ocean. In a world that has been measured, mapped, and tamed, this island remains stubbornly, gloriously wild. Here, the oldest living things still cling on. Here, the air is still clean. Here, stories 10,000 years old are still remembered, and a vanished predator may yet walk again. The roaring forties still sweep across the empty south. The waves still hammer the tallest cliffs in the southern world. And somewhere, deep in a secret valley, a single ancient plant goes on living, as it has for 43,000 years, quietly waiting at the edge of everything. A lost world. Still here. Still breathing. At the bottom of the map.