On a dark, cloudy night in northwest Tasmania, I dropped silently onto my stomach and crawled to within a few feet of a Tasmanian devil. It was absorbed in the task of ripping a carcass to shreds, and barely noticed me. Up close, it resembled a pit bull terrier, and I was nervous about lying prone with my face exposed.

Earlier in the day, my host, farmer Geoff King, had trawled the highways around Marrawah looking for roadkill. He found a possum. At dusk, we tied the reeking cadaver to the back of Geoff’s pickup and dragged it across his farm (which covers an area about the same size as New York City’s Central Park), laying down a scent trail.

In the lee of his beachside shack on a beautifully wild stretch of coastline, Geoff pinned the carcass to the ground with a pitchfork, then rigged up spotlights and an intercom. We retired inside to eat a dinner of abalone (a type of sea mollusk), and we waited.

An hour after nightfall, the intercom crackled. We watched from the window as the first of a succession of devils set to work on the carcass. Each time another devil closed in, there was a commotion, sometimes leading to a full-blown fight. It was mostly rowdy theatrics.

Encouraged by Geoff, I abandoned the shack to caterpillar as close as I dared. The cold breeze off the Southern Ocean prickled on my face, and the pungent odor of the carcass smarted in my nostrils. Only one devil was feeding, while another lurked in the shadows. The interloper let out a blood-curdling scream. It was a thrilling sound. To spend quality time with these rare marsupials was a special privilege. I knew that I was experiencing one of the highlights of a lifetime of wildlife encounters.

“Tassie’s a bit of an Ark, I reckon,” said Androo Kelly of Trowunna Wildlife Park, a 37-acre sanctuary set amid forest and bushland west of Launceston, when I visited the following day. We were standing under an eucalyptus tree, looking up at a koala. “These fellas aren’t native to Tasmania, but the population over in South Australia has been badly hit by chlamydia. Here in the sanctuary we’ve established a disease-free group.”

The majority of the other sanctuary residents were indigenous Tasmanian species, mostly rescue cases. Around us, free-ranging mobs of Forester kangaroos and Bennett’s wallabies roamed between the various animal pens.

Until the end of the Ice Age, 13,000 years ago, Tasmania was connected to the Australian mainland by a land bridge. When rising seas severed the link, a wide range of wildlife was left stranded on the new island. The benefit of this circumstance was truly realized when humans arrived in Australia. The native animals on the mainland were decimated, yet many of their Tasmanian counterparts survived.

Tasmania was the last refuge for two large marsupial carnivores. The dog-sized thylacine, or Tasmanian tiger, has probably fallen to extinction in recent decades (there are still occasional reports of sightings, but no confirmed evidence), while the Tasmanian devil remains widespread (though a mystery disease has reduced the population lately).

Androo led me to an enclosure full of truculent devils, reached over the wall, and pulled one out by the scruff of the neck. Its initial hisses of displeasure subsided to contented silence. For all their huff and puff, and fearsome looks, they turned out to be softies.

During my short time in Tasmania, I had grown used to having my first impressions overturned. On the turboprop flight from Melbourne, crossing the Bass Strait, we had flown into a storm. My initial view of Tasmania was of a rocky shore being pounded by violent waves, and a hinterland of bleak, hilly terrain shrouded in mist. This island (which is about the size of Maine) was originally called Van Diemen’s Land — a forbidding name that still seemed to fit.

But within an hour of my arrival, the sun was out. My local guide, Anna, drove me through lush, rolling countryside reminiscent of southern England. Soon we reached the town of Burnie, and followed the signs to Fern Glade, a park on the banks of the Emu River.

It was late afternoon and people were picnicking under the eucalyptus trees. We walked to the water’s edge. Anna told me to wait and watch. Almost on cue, something broke the surface, forging a U-shaped wake as it swam against the current. I was looking at a duck-billed platypus.

It was the most bizarre creature I’d ever seen. With its comical, rubbery bill, it seemed completely benign. That turned out to be another Tassie deception. The males are equipped with sharp spurs on their hind legs through which they can inject a lethal poison.

“I wouldn’t worry about platypuses,” said Darryl Stafford a couple of days later, as we set off from the small port of Stanley in his fishing boat. “You’re only in danger if you pick one up. So long as you don’t do that, they’re completely harmless.”

I had more immediate worries. As we chugged past the Nut, a 450-foot volcanic hill that looms above the harbor, the boat began to rock alarmingly in the swell.

Our destination was an island of slick rocks ruffled by splintering waves. Some of the rocks were moving. “They’re what we’ve come to see,” Darryl shouted above the thunder of the breakers. “Australian fur seals. World’s fourth-rarest seal species.”

With the boat pitching violently in the heaving water, Darryl steered as close to the rocks as he dared. Most of the seals were basking in the sun, but two dozen were in the water, swimming adroitly through the turbulence. I tried to forget that their main enemy — often found close to the rookeries — is the great white shark.

On my final night, I met up with Nick Mooney, one of Tasmania’s leading wildlife experts, for a night tour of Narawntapu (formerly Asbestos Range) National Park near Tasmania’s third city, Devonport. Ahead of us, moonlight glistened on the crinkled Bass Strait.

Our torch beams swept across open heathland, latching on to gray kangaroos, Bennett’s wallabies, Tasmanian pademelons (mid-sized kangaroos), and a wombat, which looked like a small barrel on legs.

Here, once again, I got to observe Tasmanian devils in the wild. This time they were squabbling noisily over the wallaby carcass Nick had staked down. We watched from a distance, through scopes.

“There’s Elvis,” Nick whispered when an exceptionally battle-scarred male wandered into the spotlight. He looked worse than his bite, and was soon chased away by the three reigning incumbents.

After a few minutes of remote observation, Nick led me down to the tattered wallaby, which was now attended by six devils. My apprehension had evaporated; I crept as close as I could. Each time they let out a chilling scream, I welcomed the sound. It was so much better than silence.

INFO TO GO

There are no scheduled international flights to Tasmania. The nearest mainland city is Melbourne, from where there are daily connections to several Tasmanian airports. For northern Tasmania, one of the most convenient starting points is Wynyard/Burnie Airport (BWT), which is served by Regional Express (http://www.regionalexpress.com.au).

Geoff King’s devil-watching tours cost A$75 ($69 U.S., as of Nov. 2007) per person. He also offers accommodation in a cottage nearby from A$95 per night ($88 U.S., as of Nov. 2007) (http://www.kingsrun.com.au). Trowunna Wildlife Park (http://www.trowunna.com.au) is open daily, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., admission A$16 (about $15 U.S., as of 11/07). For details of Darryl Stafford’s seal-watching cruises, visit http://www.users.bigpond.com/staffordseals