Wild #190 Summer 2023

#190

SUMMER 2023

VICTORIA'S MAGNIFICENT HIGH COUNTRY

LOOKING AFTER OUR CRAGS • SURVIVING THE O.R. TRADE SHOW • BUSHWALKING CLUBS • GROUP DYNAMICS • KOSCIUSZKO WALKS • SAVED BY THE MOUNTAINS • LEEUWIN-NATURALISTE NP • GREAT NEGLECTED WALKS • FATHER-SON WILDERNESS WALKING • NATURE WRITING TOP TEN

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BUNGLEBOORI CANYONING JOURNEY TO THE SOUTH POLE PHOTO ESSAY: DEEP SNOW IN JAPAN GETTING INTO PACKRAFTING PROFILE: BEAU MILES

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ENTER HERE

CONTENTS ISSUE #190 SUMMER 2023

64 Into the Void A 62-day epic to the South Pole 118

74 REGULARS

CONSERVATION

The Best Laid Plans

The Cover Shot 12 Readers’ Letters 16 Editor’s Letter 20 Gallery 22 Columns 28 Getting Started: Group Dynamics 52 WILD Shot 146 Green Pages 34 Leeuwin-Naturaliste NP Under Pressure 38

NONE OF THE ABOVE

Opinion: Great [Neglected] Walks 42 Younger People and Bushwalking Clubs 44 Nature Writing Top Ten 48 Crag Stewardship 54

FEATURES

Profile: Beau Miles 58 Jouney to the South Pole 64 Bungleboori Canyoning 74 Saved by the Mountains 84 Father and Son in the Western Arthurs 94 Photo Essay: Getting Deep at Nozawa 102 Surviving the O.R. Trade Show 110 Getting into Packrafting 118

WILD BUNCH

Kosciuszko Walks 126

TRACK NOTES

Victorian Alps: The Bluff - Mt Clear Loop 128

GEAR

Talk and Tests 136 Support Our Supporters 140

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Getting into Packrafting

84 Freedom of the Hills

A very personal story of how three months of alpine climbing and splitboarding in NZ’s South Island helped an ex-serviceman overcome an intense sense of isolation.

102 Photo Essay: Getting Deep It’s no secret that the skiing in Japan in general, and Nozawa in particular, is amazing. But with cat now out of the clichéd bag, if you really want untracked fluff to yourself, you’ve gotta head backcountry and earn your turns.

110 Surviving Utah’s

O.R. Trade Show The Outdoor Retailer Trade Show is North America’s largest expo for the outdoors industry. In 2023, after five years in Colorado, the event returned to Salt Lake City; Wild’s intrepid gear columnist, Dan Slater, put his body (and mind) on the line to check it out.

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EDITOR: James McCormack EDITOR-AT-LARGE: Ryan Hansen GREEN PAGES EDITOR: Maya Darby PRODUCTION ASSISTANT: Caitlin Schokker PROOFING & FACT CHECKING: Martine Hansen, Ryan Hansen DESIGN: James McCormack FOUNDER: Chris Baxter OAM COLUMNISTS: Megan Holbeck, Tim Macartney-Snape, Dan Slater CONTRIBUTORS: Craig Pearce, Shaun Mittwollen, Dylan Robinson, Johan Augustin, Brooke Nolan, Mick Ripon, Megan Holbeck, Kelly Kavanagh, Lachlan Short, Neil Silverwood, Mat Young, Christian McEwen, Dan Slater, Jeremy Shepherd, John Chapman

THE

COVER

SHOT

By James McCormack It was already getting late in the day, and it had become apparent we were unlikely to make it to our intended campsite before nightfall. But that seemed a poor excuse to rush things; it’s not like we get to the Victorian High Country every day, and the views as we climbed towards the summit of the Bluff were too precious to squander by merely racing to the top.

So instead we lingered. Not just at this viewpoint with Mt Cobbler in the distance, but at the summit of the Bluff to come, and then some more after that on a high, long, treeless ridge so broad and smooth it felt more like an uplifted alpine meadow than ridge.

In the end, this lingering would mean Ryan and I would walk for more than an hour in darkness, but we would do so on a soft night in which the air felt thick and warm, in which the moon and the stars burned so bright that I could float on high across the roof of Victoria without ever switching on my headlamp. It felt like I was gliding.

But before all that, before the darkness and the stars, there was this viewpoint on the ragged brow of the Bluff. I didn’t even need to tell Ryan to head to this spot on the edge to get a pic; he knew the second he saw it to head there. It was our first truly amazing viewpoint of our trip; it was far from our last.

You can read the accompanying story in this issue’s Track Notes starting on p128.

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WARNING: The activities in this magazine are super fun, but risky too. Undertaking them without proper training, experience, skill, regard for safety or equipment could result in injury, death or an unexpected and very hungry night under the stars.

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LETTERS

[ Letter of the Issue ]

TAKE CARE OUT THERE Hi James, I read with interest the article on canyoning ethics by your frequent contributor Ryan Hansen in the Autumn issue of Wild (#187). It raises some important issues about ensuring these fantastic places can be enjoyed by generations to come.

I started canyoning in the late 90’s when I was about 50. My bible is the book Canyons Near Sydney

by Rick Jamieson. We only do those canyons which don’t require abseiling: Wollangambe 1 and 2, Du Faur Creek, Sheep Dip, Rocky Creek and Valley of the Waters from above Lillians Glen (and turning round at the top of the Empress Falls). When we first started we had all these canyons to ourselves, but now the activity has become so popular some of these get quite busy on weekends. I’m now 75, and most of my canyoning buddies have hung up their wetsuits. I am wondering whether I should do the same.

For me, canyons are surreal places. When you are down in these dark and narrow gorges, you’re away from the hustle and bustle of the world above as you experience these fantastic green natural wonders.

However, as noted in the article, canyons are dangerous places. There are slippery boulders, jumpins, rocky bottoms, swirling water, etc. This all adds to the challenge, but it is important to evaluate the risks and act responsibly—the leader especially needs to take his or her duty-of-care seriously. As alluded to in the article, one of the big risks is rain in the catchment area. Water levels can rise very quickly in these narrow slots with strong currents and a lot of turbulence. Sadly, there have been a number of drownings here and overseas when parties have not checked the weather and properly evaluated the risk after rain.

Rick Jamieson’s book has excellent advice in a section on safety. We need to make sure that we canyon safely. The last thing we want is authorities placing restrictions and controls on our canyoning adventures!

Dennis Wood St Ives, NSW

EAGLE EYES Howdy Wild, Just reading the Overland Track article in the latest issue of Wild. A small correction is needed for one of the pictures; a hut is described as Kitchen Hut under the Du Cane Range. It is actually the old Du Cane Hut. Walter Berger Gembrook, VIC

(Ed: Thanks for the eagle eyes, Walter.)

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UNIMPRESSED Dear Wild, Normally a massive fan of the mag, I confess I was unimpressed by the article in Wild #189 ‘Nepal Ends a Golden Age of Trekking’ in which the author (which your own profile characterises as an advocate for ‘simple, mindful living’) unpacks her grievances about new rules for solo trekkers in Nepal. The exploitation and under-payment of guides in Nepal has been well-documented for years. Despite the passion among westerners for trekking in the region, Nepal continues to languish economically. Its main source of income is remittances by Nepali workers employed abroad, rather than tourism. It really does beggar belief that the authors could be so blind to their own privilege.

QUICK THOUGHTS On Reinhold Messner’s record of being the first to ascend all fourteen 8,000m peaks being rescinded by the Guinness Book of Records: “Guinness are dumb and their beer tastes like mud.” JA “First world problems.

Silly pissing contest.

Revoke awards for fraud, not accidental mistakes.” TM

Patrick Hockey Clunes, VIC

Catherine responds: Patrick and I agree on one point: that trekking guides in Nepal have been notoriously under-supported for decades. However, it appears Patrick is assuming this new regulation will fund a brighter future for them. The Nepal Tourism Board (NTB) and the Trekking Agencies Association of Nepal (TAAN) have a long history of harnessing funds from trekkers and keeping them close, making hallow promises about training and insurance to its member guides and porters but delivering nothing.

The trekker fees levied by the NTB could be used to improve the quality, training and safety of guides and porters, provide insurance, and when accidents occur, fund airlifts and provide family compensation. “But that’s not happening,” says Raj Gyawali, head of Kathmandu-based Social Tours. “Right now it’s just a collection mechanism, and it’s pointless.”

As I wrote, no one refutes the Nepali Government’s right to implement rules or charge fees, but suggesting (and hoping) this will trickle down to guides and porters denies a history of the cash being kept in Kathmandu. Corruption and governmental mismanagement are rife, and while no one denies that the trekking industry needs a better deal, few believe this new regulation will provide it.

Ideally, a percentage of the funds collected would be set aside to fund a better deal for guides, porters and their mountain communities.

Thanks for letting me clarify this important point.

Catherine Lawson

SEND US YOUR LETTERS TO WIN! Each Letter of the Issue wins a piece of quality outdoor kit. They’ll also, like Dennis in this issue, receive A FREE ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION TO WILD. To be in the running, send your 40-400 word letters to: editor@wild.com.au

EVERY published letter this issue will receive a pair of Smartwool PhD crew hike socks.

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FROM THE EDITOR The scene of the crime: Bluff Hut in the Victorian High Country

OFF-TRACK

E

ach issue, I get to sit at my computer and write my editor’s letter.

Sometimes, often in fact, I seat myself down with a sense of trepidation, knowing that I have no idea of what I should say or talk about, and wondering for how long exactly I might sit and stare at a blank screen in the vain hope some words come out. There are other times, however, when the opposite is true. I arrive at the desk with confidence because I know exactly what I want to say. And this, dear Wild reader, was one of those times.

Except it wasn’t. I thought I knew what I wanted to talk about—a recent event that was perhaps one of the most bizarre events I’ve ever experienced. I’ve seen a lot of—let’s be frank—weird shit in my life; this was right up there with the weirdest.

It was in the Victorian High Country (see this issue’s Track Notes), and we’d stayed up high near the Bluff’s summit taking sunset photos. When we descended, we walked the last hour in darkness, which I did with my headlamp switched off just for the sheer joy of being able to walk under star- and moonlight alone.

When we arrived at Bluff Hut, it was after 8:30PM; given the late hour, I decided against setting up my tent and to sleep in the hut instead. I hung up my food to thwart raids by nocturnal critters; set my phone, headlamp and GPS watch next to my head; and drifted off to sleep.

Around midnight, I woke to see an antechinus or broad-toothed rat or similar scurrying about. I thought little of it.

A bit later, he jumped up near my head; I shooed him away as I would a fly. Soon I heard what sounded like a battery, a cylindrical one like an AA, rolling along a wooden bench. At the time, I thought I must have dreamt this. The benches

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weren’t angled; there was no way something could roll along them.

But in the morning, I discovered I had not dreamt this sound; my Garmin Fenix 7, a GPS watch I’ve relied on almost daily for trail runs and hiking, relied on for tracking all manner of outdoor activities, relied on for navigation while backcountry skiing and out bush, was missing. We searched high and low, but it had gone. It just didn’t make sense. I’d been in the hut alone. Then I remembered Reid Marshall talking about his headlamp being stolen by a rat in the story he did for Wild a few issues back on the AAWT. It seemed surreal, impossible to be true: A $1000 (yes, I’d paid full price for it) worth of watch stolen by a thieving rat. My food had not been that well put away; why hadn’t it stolen a piece of salami? Or cheese? Or a cracker?

Why a thousand-dollar watch? Perhaps the rat here at Bluff Hut, unlike the one Reid encountered, was more concerned about punctuality than illumination.* But I’ve gotten off-track, because before I even set finger to keypad to write this Ed’s Letter, I realised that this watch theft wasn’t what I wanted to talk about at all. Right next to my desk—within arm’s reach so I only have to swivel the chair to get at them—sits every issue of Wild, all 189 of them, organised numerically from Issue #1 to the latest. Unfortunately, at times, this easy access also allows for easy distraction, and I will pull out a copy at random just to flick through and—yes, I’ll admit it—sometimes procrastinate.

This time, however, I reached to grab a few issues, and it had nothing to do with procrastination. It has just turned November, and it was back in November 2018 that I started working as Editor of Wild, putting together the remainder of Issue

#169. Wow! Five years! It actually makes me the second-longest-serving editor here after founder Chris Baxter.** What an amazing honour! Back in my youth—when Chris was editor and Wild was so formative for me, influencing indelibly my hopes and desires, my goals for adventure, my politics, indeed, my entire worldview—not in my wildest dreams would I ever have believed that this would one day transpire.

Gratitude. Privilege. Luck. These three words immediately spring to mind when I think of my time here at Wild thus far. But none of my good fortune would be possible were it not for three factors: Firstly, the prior editors: Chris, Megan, Ross, Belinda, Carly, and Campbell; I’m going to be clichéd here, but I just can’t help it—I stand on the shoulders of giants.

Secondly, the gifted and hard-working contributors I’ve had the pleasure collaborating with, who make the mag what it is. There are few publications out there where contributors—who put up with my niggly requests for rewrites of rewrites of rewrites—dedicate themselves so diligently to creating such a work of beauty. But their hard work means—and I know it’s self-serving to say this, but I whole-heartedly believe it—that Wild is not only the best mag of its type in Australia, it’s one of the best mags, period.

And thirdly, I wouldn’t be here were it not for the community of Wild readers.

Without you, of course, the magazine would be nothing.

Thank you forever for your support.

JAMES MCCORMACK if you find a Garmin Fenix 7 at Bluff Hut, *youBTW, know who to return it to.

** Man, I’ve still got a long, long way to go to

catch Chris, who was editor for 24 years. What a legend; he’ll forever hold the crown.

TAKE TO THE TRAILS

Photo: Harrison Candlin

E S T. 1 9 7 5

B O R N O F T H E M O U N TA I N S

GALLERY

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After fifty crossings of the Overland Track, I was finally presented with a spectacular display of the Aurora Australis overlooking the Spires on Mt Oakleigh. The gauges on the aurora forecast were maxing when I arrived on the summit at sunset, but it was just as heavy mist descended on the peak. In seemingly vain hope I hung around, and eventually the clouds parted. revealing this incredible scene.

BY SHAUN MITTWOLLEN Nikon Z7, 14-30mm, f4: Triple exposure at 20sec @ ISO 3200 for sky; 30sec @ ISO 12800 for mist structure; and 7 mins @ ISO 1600 for spires & valley

SUMMER 2023

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GALLERY

Dave McLoskey getting hammered descending Danae Brook in Kanangra NP, NSW. Unlike this part[cular image, in most of the shots I took of Dave during this abseil, you could barely see him; this was one of the points when he was being least pounded.

BY JAMES MCCORMACK Canon 5D MkIV, 16-35mm f/2.8L, f6.3, 1/200, ISO 1600

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Jane Dunne on the seventh and final day along WA’s 127km Cape to Cape Track. Looking back, I miss the bird songs, seeing whales breaching, and dolphins playing in the surf. The many orchids and wild flowers. Looking up at the night sky and watching shooting stars. The simple sound of my shoes crunching through dirt day after day, mile after mile...

BY JEREMY SHEPHERD Nikon D850, 24-70mm f/2.8, f7.1, 1/400, ISO 320

SUMMER 2023

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Columns: WILD THINGS meganholbeck.substack.com meganholbeck.com

[MEGAN HOLBECK]

@meganholbeck

AGE: IT’S NOT REALLY ALL IN THE MIND It’s also in the body. But I’d still take my 40-plus-year-old self over my twenty-year-old one any day.

I

like my watch. It’s one of those fancy Garmin ones that does all sorts of things unrelated to time: It tracks my speed and route; lets me know if I’m stressed (just in case I can’t tell …); it even reminds me when my period is due.

All of these things are good, but they are nothing to do with why I like it.

Here’s the actual reason: In an obscure little corner of the corresponding app, it gives my fitness age—twenty. I don’t know or even care where this figure comes from, but I like it. It’s less than half my actual age, so if I’m feeling old, slow and tired, knowing that I am actually physically twenty (in terms of VO2 Max, whatever that is) gives me a burst of brain Botox and I feel young and smug.

I don’t mention this to gloat (that’s just a happy by-product), nor to encourage someone to burst my bubble by telling me how inaccurate these things are—please don’t. Rather, it’s because it highlights something I’ve been thinking about: the relationship between age, fitness and outdoor adventure.

I often enter into random conversations with strangers, making the days more interesting but my kids seriously embarrassed. Today’s was with a man who is opening a business down the road.

The restaurant is new, he told me, but he’s not, although he wished he was: He’d love to pour his current mind into his 20-year-old body.

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I thought about this while running around Manly Dam, the light dappled, the kookaburras loud. What would it be like to wake up one morning in your younger body? Would you feel it immediately?

Would you spring out of bed, marvel at the ease (and quietness!) as you walk up stairs, run for the sheer joy and to feel the speed and awesome recovery?

I OFTEN ENTER INTO RANDOM CONVERSATIONS WITH STRANGERS, MAKING

THE DAYS MORE INTERESTING BUT MY KIDS SERIOUSLY EMBARRASSED.” The only experience I’ve had that may be vaguely comparable is laser eye surgery, where my terrible short sightedness was miraculously transformed to 20/20 vision in twenty minutes. I immediately had the best vision I’d had since I was six, and I woke up the next morning to find I could read the clock beside the bed without having to put on glasses. It was both life-changing and quickly normal: Within a fortnight I’d pretty much forgotten my vision had ever been crap.

Would it be like that?

I may be kidding myself, but I think I’m fitter now than I was at twenty. Not physiologically, but overall. I exercise for longer, and more regularly, too. I eat and sleep better. I drink less. I bend my knees when I lift things, have regular breaks from sitting, am protective of my mental health—I’m generally more proactive and aware.

My attitude is better, too. I can commit to early training five mornings a week (for a while at least), and not miss every second one due to unplanned big nights or more appealing offers. I enjoy the time to myself, the thinking space, the dose of nature, the feeling of pushing myself.

I remember my younger approach to exercise and the outdoors, and can see it in my kids. When I was little, I whinged about the idea, then loved the experience.

In my teens, I was keen, but it was hard: I didn’t have experience, independence or a licence. In my twenties, other things took over—work, friends, and nights out all got in the way of weekends away. And then: small kids. Outdoor adventures had to be hard to fit in before I valued how important they were to me.

I don’t have any desire to be twenty again, to go through that huge, scary rollercoaster process of working out who I am, what I care about, what I want from life. That may change though, as the general wear and tear of age increases. Ask me again when I’m sixty.

DELIGHT IN THE DETOUR

TAKE THE ALT ROUTE

Columns: OUTSIDE WITH TIM [TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE]

A WEIGHT OFF YOUR SHOULDERS Backpacks have steadily evolved to make our outdoor lives far more comfortable. One thing hasn’t changed though: the relief of dumping your pack at the end of the day.

A

recent social media comment about a poster we had printed in 1983 to raise money for our then upcoming attempt to climb a new route on Everest’s north face prompted me—for the first time in years—to look at the poster again, this time with fresh eyes.

The photo was taken by Lincoln Hall, looking down the corniced, upper north ridge on Ama Dablam. In the foreground, Andi Henderson is downclimbing towards me, where I was belaying him from below. In the background, looming above clouds billowing up from the valley, is the snow- and ice-streaked wall of the Nuptse Lhotse south face, with the upper part of Mt Everest towering behind.

It’s a great shot and it was a popular poster, but what strikes me, looking at it today, is the enormous packs we were carrying. On the previous day, we’d ‘enjoyed’ some vertical wading up the succession of steep snow mushrooms that capped the upper ridge, and had dug a cosy snow cave for the night, where we would rest up before making our final push for the summit the next morning. In our packs, we carried a kerosene stove with fuel and pot, snow shovels, sleeping bags, closedcell foam mats, food, down jackets, spare rope, and a slew of other climbing hardware. I reckon modern equivalents would today fit inside packs around half the size of our packs back then, and would weigh much less.

Unlike other animals, we modern humans are generally incapable of traveling far without having to carry shelter and sustenance. Experience soon tells us that the best way to carry any weight for any distance is by bearing it on our backs.

A sack or basket with a couple of shoulder straps (or tump line across the forehead)

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was the original backpack. The first purpose-made backpacks were simply canvas sacks with shoulder straps and a flap that buckled down over the top.

By the time I came to own a pack, designs had changed to include a rigid steel frame that stopped the sack sagging so much. Cotton webbing stretched across the frame kept the sack from rubbing on your back and gave some ventilation. Then alloy frames with an added waist strap became common—a huge

innovation as it allowed you to share the load between hips and shoulders. Multiple compartments were soon incorporated. Then we started reverting to using a new iteration of the frameless pack, this one using a waist belt, a design which I copied to make my first alpine pack.

These evolved to borrow the central concept of the frame by integrating a minimal internal ‘frame’, thus giving the sack added rigidity. A further advance came

with purpose-moulded foam, which conformed to better fit our body curvature; although best used on shoulder straps and waist belts, it’s often overused in poorly designed packs to give the illusion of comfort, especially along the back where it simply blocks ventilation and adds unnecessary weight. Another refinement came with more sophisticated adjustable fitting, not only catering for different back lengths but hip and shoulder shapes and sizes.

However, while packs and the stuff we put in them have steadily become more comfortable, lighter, and easier to use, there’s no getting around the fact that if you want to travel in comfort for more than a day in the wild, you’ll have to carry enough stuff for long enough that you’ll feel relief when you take your pack off.

But like the extra effort it takes to climb a hill to be rewarded by an amazing view, it’s a small price to pay for the freedom and self-sufficiency of having our home on our back. In fact, it’s a trifling price to pay for the wonderful lightness we feel when the weight of everyday life is left behind and we suddenly find ourselves living in the present.

When I pare my life down to the necessities of food and shelter, and then wander off into the wild—whether it’s walking, bikepacking, ski touring, paddling or climbing a mountain—part of me feels I’m returning to a second home. But then I have to say that, like on every expedition I’ve ever been on, the above trip being no exception, I get to a point where I begin yearning to return to my everyday home. And at journey’s end, when my pack leaves my back for the final time, my rejuvenated senses truly rejoice in a reappreciation of life.

For the moments that make us

MAMMUT1862.com.au

Mammut Ducan Spine 28-35L

Columns: OF MOUTHS & MONIES [DAN SLATER]

AN EVEN LIGHTER PACK Gear selection is a process of lifelong education, even for experienced adventurers. Dan discusses the lessons learnt during his recent 800km traverse of California’s Sierra Nevada.

L

ast issue, I wrote about my gear prep for an 800km traverse of California’s Sierra Nevada mountain range, and how I used the website lighterpack.com to whittle my base weight down to an acceptable 11.53kg.

I’ve since completed the hike, and thought it would be interesting to go through the gear changes that occurred during the trip.

There’s only so much you can infer from reading blogs, or from talking with experienced ultralighters, or from common sense, so it’s inevitable that once on the trail, you’ll need to rethink your kit to take account of real-world input. I knew this would be the case, and was prepared to refine my weight along the way, sending packages home from resupply towns if necessary. Even the night before I set off, on the advice of an Austrian I met who’d just completed the whole Sierra section northbound, I jettisoned my multi-tool and also the snow baskets and rubber tips for my poles. His counsel proved wise— on steep snow, the larger baskets would have prevented the pole tips from penetrating deep enough, and they’d have just skated off the surface.

Without further ado, here’s some of the gear I either ditched or replaced: - With 2023 being a record-high snow year in the Sierras, traction was more important than usual. I vacillated long over pull-on spikes vs lightweight crampons, but after discussing it with several PCT alumni, I plumped for Kahtoola’s Microspikes. After a few days, however, I swapped them for their K-10 crampons; despite the added weight, I just felt safer with the more reliable bite of a fuller crampon on the steep slopes I was encountering.

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- I sadly ditched my mirrorless camera and telephoto lens at the first opportunity. My pack was just too heavy, and this photographic equipment was the main culprit. These were the only items I was sad to see go.

- Another one I pondered long and hard over was waterproof trousers. Over 35 years of trekking, I’ve been conditioned to protect myself fully against the elements, so I originally included them.

Sending them back was a good decision

IT’S INEVITABLE THAT ONCE ON THE TRAIL, YOU’LL NEED TO

RETHINK YOUR KIT TO TAKE ACCOUNT OF REAL-WORLD INPUT.” though, for I only experienced half an hour of rain the entire trip.

- I started walking with a BV500 bear canister, required by law along most of my route. This, the largest model, was gifted to me, so I gratefully took all 1.2kg of it. But I soon found that, as well as being a troublesome size to wedge inside my pack, I could fit seven days’ food into the smaller BV450 (920g). So I borrowed one for the remainder of the hike.

- One of the curiosities of the US ultralight community is its fascination for the Sawyer water filter combined with a Smartwater bottle ($2 from any grocery store), which uses the same thread.

I went all in on this theory, buying a filter, bottle, plus a CNOC soft bottle to

collect and store the pre-filtered water.

But I soon became frustrated at the slow speed of filtration, and the bottle was too tall to fit in the balance pockets of my Aarn pack. I sacked them all in favour of purification tablets (much lighter) and a pair of (shorter) Evian bottles, and never looked back.

There were also some other items I added for convenience: An extra dry bag.

A small plastic jar (originally containing Talenti Double Dark Chocolate ice cream—yum!) that I used for mixing my dehydrated hummus lunch. Snow pegs: I borrowed a couple from a mate, after unexpectedly having to, on the very first night, camp on snow; naturally, I never camped on snow again, but they did come in handy when I needed to use some of my regular pegs to splint a cracked trekking pole (the last of three I broke along the way). Lastly, I borrowed that same mate’s Garmin InReach Mini 2 to send nightly “I’m OK” messages to my wife. This was in addition to the ACR PLB I carried to call the cavalry in case of emergency.

In the end, my base weight was 10.25kg, almost down to the hallowed 10kg threshold, although I only discovered this on my return. With hindsight, I could also have dumped my ice axe (265g), which I never used in anger, and entered—(Ed: with fifteen whole grams to spare!)—into the realms of sub-10 carry. Maybe next time. ++++++

FYI, in case you’re interested, here’s my starting list: lighterpack.com/r/0np8dc And here’s what I ultimately finished with: lighterpack.com/r/t7guj4

WHEREVER LIFE TAKES YOU,

TAKE THIS PLB.

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gme.net.au/plb

CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES

A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country.

EDITED BY MAYA DARBY

THOUSANDS OF HECTARES OF FOREST

WITHIN THE PROPOSED NATIONAL PARK AREA COULD BE DEMOLISHED

WHILE PLANNING TAKES PLACE.” Logging in Tamban State Forest within the proposed boundary of the national park.

Credit: Victoria Jack

GREAT KOALA NATIONAL PARK

Pilfered as it’s planned: the rush to log a proposed national park in NSW.

T

he NSW government promised a park to save koalas from extinction, but won’t stop logging it in the meantime.

Every year in NSW, around 14,000ha of native forest—home to an astounding array of globally unique plants and animals—is torn apart by logging. This is compounding the devastation wrought by the Black Summer Bushfires and is pushing some of Australia’s most iconic wildlife to the brink of extinction— including our eucalypt-munching marsupials.

The NSW Labor government has realised that something must be done to protect the state’s koalas from the biggest driver of their demise: habitat destruction. It has committed $80 million to deliver a new national park on the NSW Mid-North Coast to safeguard the precious tall forests that koalas, and other threatened species, desperately need to survive.

The problem, however, is this: The forests that could form part of the Great Koala National Park are being logged as planning for the park is underway. It’s terrible news for koalas, though, and all the other animals that live there. In fact, thousands of hectares of forest within the proposed national park area could be demolished while planning takes place. To date, the NSW government has only agreed to protect 5% of the future Great Koala National Park area from logging

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while the park is being established; meanwhile, it’s allowing the life to be logged out of some of the most important koala-habitat forests. And it’s not just koalas that are affected; it’s important habitat for many other species, some of them threatened, such as the rufous scrub-bird. The bird, perhaps the most ancient songbird on the planet, relies on moist rainforest floors; industrial logging, however, dries out forests.

It consequently makes them more prone to fire, too.

This is emblematic of the wider issue of industrial native forest logging in Australia. Native-forest logging is a loss-making industry that costs taxpayers millions of dollars a year; it operates against scientific evidence, to the detriment of wildlife and often against the wishes of the community; and it increases Australia’s bushfire risk.

For koalas, the stakes are incredibly high. They’ll likely be extinct in the wild in NSW by 2050 if the forests they depend on continue to be flattened.

That’s why the Wilderness Society is calling on the NSW Government to immediately suspend logging in the Great Koala National Park area, and to fasttrack the proposal—for the good of so many species … including our own.

Find out more at wilderness.org.au/stopthechop MEG BAUER, Wilderness Society

ON THE CHOPPING BLOCK: Oakes State Forest— which lies within the proposed boundary of the Great Koala NP but is still set to be logged—is a stronghold not only for koalas, but for other threatened species: - Rufous scrubbirds: On the wet rainforest floor, these birds shelter and forage in the dense groundcover and deep leaf-litter.

- Glossy black cockatoos: These birds spend most of their day feeding in the native trees and shrubs.

- Greater gliders: The old-growth trees have hollows big enough for Australia’s largest gliding possum to nest in.

Photo: Andrew Watson © 2023 Patagonia, Inc.

CONSERVATION

TIME FOR TRADITIONAL CARE Traditional Aboriginal Cultural Practices like Cultural Burning have nurtured Country for millennia. Yarrabin Fire was established following the 2019/2020 Black Summer Bushfires, and uses Traditional expertise and a nuanced management approach to protect native biodiversity, control exotic weeds and restore the health of the ecosystem. This is also fundamental to reducing fuel loads for decreasing fire severity, frequency and intensity and avoiding future catastrophic fire seasons. Despite the severe fire season predicted Credit: Den Barber this summer, Yarrabin Fire are not currently permitted to perform these important Cultural Burns that help protect our landscapes and our people. To learn more about the importance of Traditional Aboriginal land management, head to yarrabin.com.au DEN BARBER, Yarrabin Fire

ALL EYES ON THE EARLESS DRAGONS The four species of grassland earless dragon (GED) are under threat of extinction; just 1% remains of their natural temperate-grasslands habitat. The Grassland Earless Dragon Alliance is a group of passionate researchers raising awareness about these lesser-known dragons, considered to be some of Australia’s rarest reptiles. Landholders, local land services and volunteers are coming with alongside the alliance to protect and restore grassland systems essential to the survival of GEDs, like the Monaro grassland earless dragon.

Get more info at facebook.com/earlessdragonalliance Credit: George Madani

CHAD BERANEK, Grassland Earless Dragon Alliance

SUPPORTING THE GREEN AND THE GOLD

Australia’s native plants are under increasing pressure from climate change, habitat degradation and invasive species. The Foundation for Australia’s Most Endangered Species (FAME) has partnered with the Royal Botanic Gardens Victoria for the Raising Rarity program, which will conserve our precious native wildflowers and engage the local community in the protection of threatened and rare plants. As part of FAME’s outreach program, students at Gippsland’s Rosedale Primary School are growing a species of critically endangered billy-button (Craspedia canens) that once thrived in the area.

Students will harvest their seeds, that will then be stored in the Victorian Conservation Seedbank. To learn more, or get involved by growing rare plants in your backyard, head to fame.org.au/projects/raising-rarity TRACY MCNAMARA, Foundation for Australia’s Most Endangered Species (FAME)

When nature thrives, so do people—and given 70% of Aussies live in cities, greening our urban spaces just makes sense! That’s why Greening Australia is teaming up with Brisbane City Council and the Brisbane Sustainability Agency to establish one million native plants in the lead up to the 2032 Olympic and Paralympic Games.

The project will have enormous impacts beyond the city, supporting the restoration of natural ecosystems and tree canopies, building green corridors and improving water quality in rivers and wetlands. To learn more, go to greeningaustralia.org.au LEAH SJERP, Greening Australia

RAISING RARITY IN OUR BACKYARDS

Credit: Cathy Finch

BUG-EYED FOR SCIENCE

Dragonfly nymph Credit: E Tsyrlin

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The National Waterbug Blitz is Australia’s first nationwide citizen-science project that collects and collates waterbug data to assess riverine health and to manage conservation of freshwater waterways. Freshwater macroinvertebrates are highly sensitive to changes in water, with each type of waterbug vulnerable to different pollutants and water-quality changes. This means their presence can be used to measure the health of rivers, creeks and wetlands. The National Waterbug Blitz needs citizen scientists from across Australia to add to their data—especially from remote areas that only the most avid hikers dare go! To get involved, head to waterbugblitz.org.au JOHN GOODERHAM, National Waterbug Blitz

Examining a billy-button up close.

Credit: Nicoletta Centofanti

GOT ANY GREEN NEWS? Engaging in an environmental campaign that Wild readers should know about? Send a paragraph explaining what’s happening and why it’s important to editor@wild.com.au

5mm bleed

GREEN PAGES

Aliens exist in Australia’s South-West

You won’t find flowers like these anywhere else on the planet—or possibly the universe—and the same is true for the vast majority of Jarrah forest flora.

With 8,000+ species of wildflowers, 300 species of orchids & 60 different banksias*, it’s an annual flower show unlike any other. *and wait until you hear about the animals!

Discover the wonders of this unique region and how it can thrive into the future

wilderness.org.au/jarrah

Image: Fringed mantis orchid | Noongar Country Callan Wood

CONSERVATION

UNDER PRESSURE

With over four million visitors a year, Leeuwin-Naturaliste National Park is the most visited national park in Western Australia. This popularity doesn’t come without costs, and the park is feeling the burden.

Words JOHAN AUGUSTIN

L

eeuwin-Naturaliste National Park in Western Australia’s South West is a place of spectacular natural beauty.

Visitors can stroll through the Boranup Forest, with its towering karri trees endemic to the area. They can explore the park’s 300 limestone caves that pock its karst landscape. They can view stunning red sunsets over the wild ocean, or swim at the famous surf breaks dotting the park’s rugged coastline. It’s a diverse and captivating landscape.

In fact, the convergence of these varied ecosystems is the reason WA’s South West region is internationally recognised as Australia’s only biodiversity hotspot. What’s more, Leeuwin-Naturaliste NP is home to many threatened species, including the Rottnest teatree, the ring-tailed possum and the red-tailed black cockatoo.

But these natural riches come at a price. Visitors—understandably—flock to the park, and increasingly so. In the mid-1990s, there were roughly 350,000 annual visits; in 2022, there were 4.6 million. It’s WA’s most visited national park, and it’s suffering under the weight of numbers.

ACCESS IS AN ISSUE Aboriginal people have lived here—where the Leeuwin Ridge is intercepted by several rivers, among them the Margaret River— for more than 60,000 years. They call the land here Wadandi Boodja (Boodja means ‘Country’), and it’s of high spiritual value.

Leeuwin-Naturaliste NP was established in the mid-1950s; it now covers about 22,000ha and has 54 access points. And therein lies a core problem for the park’s management: Whereas the vast majority of national parks have limited access points, making it possible to charge entry fees, the sheer number of access points in Leeuwin-Naturaliste NP makes entry fees almost impossible to levy. It’s revenue that’s sorely needed, however, says Sharna

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Kearney, CEO of the Margaret River Busselton Tourism Association (MRBTA). Were more funds available, she says, more could be spent on infrastructure; proper signage could be installed; more bins could be placed; and more tracks could be built. The area has many endemic orchids—one of them, the exotic spider orchid (Caladenia nivalis), only grows in a secluded stretch of coastline 30km long—and new tracks could help protect these delicate and easy-to-step-on flowers. But it’s not only new infrastructure that’s important; increased funding could also be directed towards maintenance. And importantly, the park’s staffing could be increased. “We need more rangers,” Sharna says. Currently, there are just four.

However, people aren’t the only ’visitors’ putting pressure on the park. Drew McKenzie, general manager for the-not-for profit organisation Nature Conservation Margaret River Region, says a key issue here is weed and feral-animal management. “Key environmental weeds like arum lily dominate significant portions of the park,” he says. “[They] can take over the understorey and replace the diverse range of native species that should dominate.”

What’s more, feral cats and foxes represent a major threat to the park’s wildlife. “The linear nature of the park,” says Drew, “makes traditional control methods like baiting problematic, but new technologies like ‘Felixer’ feral-cat grooming traps provide hope for more widespread control in the future.”

None of this, however, will come cheaply. “Adequately responding to this issue,” says Drew, “will require significantly increased resources.”

THREATENED SPECIES OFFER A SOLUTION Exacerbating the pressures of both visitation and invasives is Leeuwin-Naturaliste NP’s proximity to the many townships

and residential areas it lies adjacent to. It makes sustainable management difficult, according to Steve Harrison, the MRBTA Capes Foundation director. “The park is being treated [like it’s] people’s backyards,” he says.

One such place is Redgate Beach, which Sharna and I pass in her car. The beach, wedged between rocky outcrops, is famous for its surf break. “During high season,” Sharna says, “people park on the dunes.” Sure enough—and even though it’s outside of peak season—a red 4WD has pulled up on a dune, with the driver getting ready to hit the surf.

Sharna describes the peak-season situation as a “stampede”, and it’s not helped by the fact that there are no bins for litter. But it’s not just wildflowers and other fragile flora growing here that’s affected: Hooded plovers, for instance, nest on the beach or in the primary dunes. “[The hooded plover] is an ocean-beach specialist,” says Drew McKenzie, “threatened by dogs, feral foxes, cats, 4WDs, and general disturbance on beaches. The increased visitation to the park makes them particularly vulnerable.”

The consequences of parking directly on the dunes can be dire. But even though the action is prohibited, with the high numbers of vehicles and so few rangers, policing parking is difficult.

“Because of our close proximity to Perth, we’ll always have that flow of visitation into the region,” Sharna says. Visitor numbers can’t be easily capped, nor would locals necessarily want them to be. As Sharna says, “Tourism is the biggest industry in our region.” The question, then, is how to grow tourism in a sustainable way.

A NEW PLAN Natural threats such as bushfires only increase the pressure on the park. In December 2021, the Calgardup Fire ripped through the area, with devastating consequences. Sharna describes the fire as a “wake-up call”; serious action was required. To that end, representatives of key community organisations of the Margaret River region came together, and in the month following the fire they unveiled a six-point recovery plan for the Boranup Forest and the Leeuwin-Naturaliste National Park. The plan was then put to the Western Australian Government.

In May this year, the WA Government responded, announcing major upgrades to the park; $2.7 million will be spent, most of which is slated for major upgrades to the Cape to Cape Track. Although many people outside Western Australia mightn’t have heard of Leeuwin-Naturaliste NP, far more will have heard of this iconic track, which runs for 135km

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT Unfortunately, the Calgardup Fire of December 2021 burnt nearly the entirety of the stunning Boranup Forest. Credit: Ryan Murphy Overlooking Contos Beach, just one of the many sections of stunning coastline in Leeuwin-Naturaliste NP. Credit: Tim Campbell

IN THE MID-1990S, THERE WERE ROUGHLY 350,000 ANNUAL VISITS; IN

2022, THERE WERE 4.6 MILLION. IT’S WA’S

MOST VISITED NATIONAL PARK, AND

IT’S SUFFERING UNDER THE WEIGHT OF NUMBERS.”

SUMMER 2023

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Leeuwin-Naturaliste NP, WA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Walkers on the Cape to Cape Track. Credit: Tim Campbell/ zero2hero’s cape2cape Trek for Youth Mental Health Sharna Kearney is CEO of the Margaret River Busselton Tourism Association. “We need more rangers,” she says.

Credit: Johan Augustin A 4WD parked on sensitive dunes. Credit: Johan Augustin Steve Harrison, Director of the MRBTA Capes Foundation.

Credit: Johan Augustin

between the lighthouses of Cape Naturaliste and Cape Leeuwin.

The track—largely located within the park—was created in 2001, and is stunning and world-renowned, with sandy beaches, cliff formations, wildflower meadows and towering forests. For some years, however, the track has been underfunded, and maintenance has lagged; the six-point recovery plan called for this to change.

The funds to be spent on the Cape to Cape Trackas part of the government’s planned upgrade are estimated to total two million dollars, and will include improvements to the track surface, infrastructure upgrades, along with trail realignments to protect culturally sensitive sites and erosion management. A further $700,000 will be spent on visitor signage.

INCREASED NUMBER OF RANGERS It’s not only infrastructure, however, that’s being addressed: Responding to calls for more rangers, the current number of four will be increased to eight. Moreover, there are now plans to extend the national park. Privately owned land will be purchased east of Boranup, where plantations of blue gum—a species known for depleting soil and groundwater—will be removed.

A new focus will be to re-establish local flora and fauna on purchased land on the Nindup Plain “to help build a habitat connection from the national park to the state forests to the east.”

One critical element of the plan is to fully incorporate the Traditional Custodians of Wadandi Boodja into the national park’s decision making. On top of the $2.7 million announcement in May, in October the state government also committed a further $1.2 million to support the local Traditional Owners at the Undalup Association to deliver their ‘Ni Kidji Gnangkaa Boodja—Listening to Mother Country’ project. Aiming to protect key cultural

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sites from population growth and the damage from ever-increasing visitation, the initiative will support a coordinator and an additional four rangers (thus eight rangers in total for the park), who will work in consultation with Elders to identify, map and report on sites across the national park that are under the most pressure.

According to Sharna, this will make Leeuwin-Naturaliste South West WA’s first national park to enter joint management with local Aboriginal Custodians. And it will not only provide employment; it will potentially incorporate cultural burning, thus lowering fuel loads and preventing new large-scale bushfires to spread. “[The] project will help to deliver critical guidance for the long-term management of visitation and protection of the Leeuwin-Naturaliste National Park,” says Sharna.

THE FUTURE So will the new funds promised by the WA Government be enough? The park’s popularity will undoubtedly continue to grow; in turn, that will put increasing pressure on the delicate environment. Even so, Sharna thinks the recent developments have formed a new beginning for the park, one that stakes out a bright future, and one in which local partnerships play an important role “in securing meaningful outcomes for the region”.

As I walk with Sharna on a narrow path overlooking Redgate Beach, the smile on her face says it all: “These are [the] initial steps on a longer-term journey.” W CONTRIBUTOR: Sydney-based journalist Johan Augustin focuses on environmental and travel-related topics.

NOTE: The Undalup Association was invited to comment for this piece.

OPINION

GREAT NEGLECTED WALKS Governments of late seem to be focused on high-end walks designed to attract tourists at the cost of funding for conservation measures and the basic maintenance of the low-key walks most bushwalkers love.

Words & Photography MICK RIPON

A

ustralia has many great bushwalks. However, in recent recent times, a bushfire in 2019 burnt a large area of this park, years, it appears some walks are greater than others. including the composting toilet at Nyimba Camp. This campsite Governments of both persuasions appear to have their is at the juncture of several tracks, and is one of the most popular favourite ‘Great Walks’. These walks, targeting high-yield tourcampsites for visiting schools and the public. It took Parks Victoists, seem to attract large, disproportionate amounts of public ria over four years to replace this basic toilet. funding while less-favoured walks have their modest budgets The Light to Light Walk in NSW’s Beowa NP is another Great continually squeezed. Ultimately, it means that national parks Neglected Walk. I geotagged 42 obstacles on a 3.1km stretch like the Grampians NP get huge funding to ‘upgrade’ tracks and of this track alone in 2022. This walk was earmarked by polibuild high-end infrastructure, whereas other national parks get ticians and senior NPWS bureaucrats as a possible ‘Great Walk their maintenance funding reduced. The result is the less-faof Australia’, an idea that I am strongly opposed to; imposing voured tracks become degraded, which not only causes unnecnew commercial, urbanised developments upon wild areas is essary environmental damage but the tracks also become less an anathema to the function of a national park. It’s one of the enjoyable and less safe. reasons that I’m now a spokesTake, for instance, the Mitchperson for the Beowa Light to IT’S HARD NOT TO BE CYNICAL ell River Walking Track in VictoLight community Action Group AND TO SUGGEST THAT ria. Last year, I was involved in (BLLAG), which in turn led to me an outdoor-education camp that becoming involved with another, took school students along this emerging national group called track; my science background, Protec tOurNat iona lPa rk s.org teaching qualification, and love (Ed: Full disclosure, I’m a member of the outdoors, means I get offered a lot of this type of work of the latter, too.) Both groups are actively campaigning to stop which I enjoy. But the walk last year tested my patience, espethe unnecessary development of large accommodation complexes cially when I had to call 000 to evacuate a student. It was a sitat two iconic locations within Beowa National Park. We argue uation, I believe, partially caused by a lack of basic park mainthe money would be better spent on conservation measures and tenance. The track was extensively overgrown, with roughly actually maintaining the existing L2L track as opposed to buildfifty obstacles—mainly fallen trees—in 22km. This caused the ing what are effectively remote-area bush hotels. walk to be unnecessarily long and arduous, which in turn conThe Light to Light Walk is already an amazing walk, even with tributed directly to the difficulties experienced by the students. its lack of maintenance, and visitation is high. Despite this, I’ve More recently, a student had a fall causing a serious head injury heard from a local source that the NPWS workers assigned to which required immediate hospitalisation, but the nearby 4WD maintain this track have been re-assigned to other duties due to access track was technically closed, and had been for well over budget cuts; no wonder the track is in a poor condition. a year. Fortunately, we managed to successfully evacuate both From what I’ve seen of the proposed track (I am a member students—they’ve since made full recoveries—but the situations of the Stakeholder Reference Group that provides input to the could have been much worse.

NPWS on the L2L development), it is a heavily engineered Another Great Neglected Walk is the popular and stunning pathway that includes imported stone steps, huge amounts of track to Lake Tali Karng in Victoria’s Alpine NP. The lake is the gravel, extensive civil works and significant vegetation clearstate’s highest, formed only 1,500 years ago by a landslide. The ing. Many of these types of highly engineered tracks—typical area has significance for First Nations people, especially as local of the requirements to meet a ‘Great Walk standard’—appear Gunai Kurnai people were killed during this landslide. In more more like an urban pathway through a suburban park than a

GOVERNMENTS ARE BEING TRICKY WITH THEIR FUNDING.”

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School students on one of the many overgrown sections of the Mitchell River Walking Track

bushwalking track. Our groups are hoping that the track work currently underway for the L2L walk maintains its intimate connection with nature, but we have reservations: The ‘huts’ designed for the L2L Walk are designed by the same architect who designed the luxury $1,000/night lodges on the Three Capes Track. We are hoping the L2L Track will not be over-engineered like the Three Capes Track.

There’s a fine line between over-development of a bush track.

Boardwalks, for example, are an obvious human intrusion into the natural world that detracts from the bushwalking experience, but we understand, and accept, the use of boardwalks as a means of protecting sensitive environments. That said, it’s clear that boardwalks can, however, be just as easily used to provide a dumbed-down walking path. The same can be said of steps or stairways. The point I’m making here is that it’s important to maintain, as much as possible, the wild character of our national parks by minimising obvious and unnecessary intrusions; the old ‘tread lightly’ approach is best. Our groups believe that developments in our national parks need a more considered, sensitive and balanced approach, one that embraces Australia’s unique wild places and takes advantage of this point of difference without degrading the very essence of what our national parks have to offer.

A similar pattern of neglect played out in Tasmania during the construction of the $25 million dollar Three Capes Walk, where funding for upmarket infrastructure appeared to take priority over maintaining other tracks in Tasmanian’s national parks. The funding for basic maintenance of these less-favoured tracks almost dried up; broken bridges and boardwalks weren’t repaired, and many tracks were left in serious need of work.

While governments are quick to point out that funding for these extravagant projects are separate from recurrent parks budgets, it’s hard not to be cynical and to suggest that governments are being tricky with their funding. In 2016-17 for example, the NSW Government sacked 100 rangers and other key personnel, and removed $121 million from the NPWS budget.

It imposed further budget cuts (including $80 million from the department overseeing parks) in subsequent years. Then a few years later, in January 2021, the NSW Government announced

the “biggest infrastructure investment in the history of NSW National Parks”. Yes, it was a massive spend of $257 million, but it was basically robbing Peter to pay for Paul’s bush hotels.

Incidentally, there is a significant announcement to be made in relation to the development of the Light to Light Walk: NPWS are now proposing tent platforms in place of ‘huts’ at a campsite known as Hegarty’s Bay along this walk. Our groups view this as a positive sign, demonstrating that NPWS are starting to listen to the community. Furthermore, the proposed accommodation complexes for this walk have been put on hold pending funding; we hope that the new Labor government sees sense, and withdraws funding for this unnecessary, extravagant and environmentally damaging component of the L2L development.

The other great irony for me is the fact that Australia has so many great walks that could be made into really great walks with minimal maintenance and genuine consultation with local communities. Senior parks managers would also do well to listen to staff on the ground when it comes to track conditions and maintenance. These rangers have valuable local knowledge and interact regularly with park users, otherwise known as customers.

It’s important to point out that many of the community groups actively trying to protect our national parks are not opposed to development per se, just what our groups refer to as ‘inappropriate development’. It is simply an affront to democracy to allow the current top-down approach of vested-interest groups—such as big tourism operators, big political parties and senior bureaucrats—to determine what happens in our public national parks.

Australia’s wild national parks are the envy of the world, and our groups believe in a more balanced, nuanced approach to development, one involving environmental experts and genuine consultation. As Joni Mitchell sang in her song Big Yellow Taxi, “You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone,” wild areas are disappearing from our planet at an alarming rate; we need to value what we have before developers move in. We need greater protection for our precious national parks. We need to keep them wild. W

Beyond Cradle Mountain, Tasmania’s Overland Track winds Light to Light community Action Group (BLLAG) and for Protect Our public south, providing huts for all walkers, National Parks (ponp.org) without sky-high fees

CONTRIBUTOR: Mick Ripon is a spokesperson for both the Beowa

SUMMER 2023

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BUSHWALKING CLUBS

AN AGE-OLD PROBLEM Can bushwalking clubs attract a new generation of adventurers?

Words BROOKE NOLAN

B

ushwalking clubs have long been an integral part of the outdoor adventure landscape in Australia. For generations, they’ve provided a place for bushwalkers to learn and share knowledge, discover new locations, and form lasting connections. However, an ageing demographic of members and leaders could spell the end of this Aussie legacy.

Jonathan (Jon) Gray, 64, is Vice President of Bushwalking NSW Inc. He is also chair of the organisation’s Young People in Clubs (YPIC) Working Group. He’s been a member of multiple clubs over the years, and he sees the ageing of members as a significant concern to the ongoing viability of bushwalking clubs.

“Individual clubs will eventually cease to function if they are not replenished with younger members,” he says. “Even the bushwalking club movement as a whole will gradually fade and become less relevant in our society unless younger generations become more active in clubs.”

What counts as ‘young’ is highly subjective, but the YPIC group broadly considers it to be those under 40. Some larger clubs have already started to create dedicated subgroups restricted to younger members, proving successful.

Jon points to recent data from the Australia Sports Commission’s AusPlay report, which shows that only 1.1% of the adult participation in bushwalking is ‘organised’ and only about 0.2% is through a club. This is despite visitation to national parks surging across the country. In NSW alone, visitation to national parks grew by 49% over the past 10 years, reaching more than 53 million visits in 2022.

THE CHANGING LANDSCAPE OF THE OUTDOORS “The rise of less organised social media groups such as Facebook or Meetup groups diverts many people, particularly younger people, away from established clubs,” continues Jon. “These social media groups are easily found online, involve less commitment, offer a wider range of choices, and therefore seem more appealing to many than traditional bushwalking clubs.”

But there are many other reasons younger people are going elsewhere, too. According to 21-year-old Ethan Taylor, president of the Tasmanian University Bushwalking Club (TUBC), it’s a chicken and egg situation where—in order to attract more younger members—more younger members are needed.

“Bushwalking clubs aren’t always very attractive for the

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younger generation partly because—at least in Hobart—they’re largely composed of older retired folk, and there are large gaps in the young-adult and middle-age demographics,” Ethan says.

“I think changing the median member age is the only way forward if clubs want to attract a younger membership base.”

As a university club, there’s perhaps an unfair advantage when it comes to attracting younger members, with TUBC’s member age mainly below 30. However, there are valuable lessons that can be applied to non-university clubs too.

Ethan got involved with TUBC after noticing in Tassie logbooks other university bushwalking clubs. He was frustrated that UTAS wasn’t represented, and became president with the aim of developing a culture around bushwalking at the university.

“For our club, it seemed like lots of people didn’t even know we existed, or they just have their own set group that they enjoy getting out with,” Ethan says. “I also think we have a reputation that we only tackle shorter and easier walks, which was probably the case in recent years until I stepped in.”

Ethan believed that the thrill-seeking nature of younger generations calls for more daring and demanding hikes, and these challenging hikes have been integral to growing the club’s membership base. Although it’s a careful balancing act to ensure hikes are challenging, but not so much of a suffer-fest that they put off new members from coming back.

It’s not just the hikes themselves that need to appeal either, but how they’re promoted and spoken about. As part of the YPIC group, Jon Gray assessed Google search data for the word ‘bushwalking’ and found a decline in the term in Australia over the past two decades. Yet, the term ‘hiking’ has experienced a 40-fold increase.

“I believe bushwalking clubs need to present a more dynamic, exciting and ‘cool’ image in order to attract younger generations,”

says Jon. “A key element of this lies in the naming of our groups. We need to make it clear that we are principally involved in ‘adventure’, and more specifically ‘outdoor adventure’. I believe we need to move away from the sole use of the term ‘bushwalking’ in our club names.”

Founded in 1894, the Melbourne Walking Club (MWC) is one of the oldest clubs in Australia. It has 270 current members, of which the median age is 67, with around 30 per cent aged under 60 and a growing number of members under the age of 45.

Notably, the club doesn’t use the term bushwalking in its name, which Trevor Rosen, 71, who has been president of the club for the past nine years, believes has a positive impact when appealing to younger members. But it’s more than just a name; it’s about the club’s offering—which includes a ski lodge at Mt Buller.

“Our club was originally called the Melbourne Amateur Walking and Touring Club and changed its name to the Melbourne Walking Club in 1982,” Trevor explains. “We do not use the term ‘bushwalking’ in our name partly because of this legacy, partly because of the ski lodge, and partly because we offer a range of different walks that aren’t all bushwalking.”

Although most clubs don’t have the blessing of a ski lodge, many do offer alternative activities that could be lost in translation if the term bushwalking is used in the name. Many clubs offer training such as navigation or—depending on location—canyoning and abseiling skills, which are costly to do via a commercial entity, so, therefore, are a big selling point for younger generations.

Sabrina Roesner is a trip leader with the Upper Blue Mountains Bushwalking Club. She’s one of the club’s younger leaders at 37 and is a huge advocate of joining clubs as a way to meet new people and to discover new areas that are tricky to access and navigate without experience.

“They [clubs] are very generous in sharing their knowledge and are passionate about exposing you to unique places that you would not find otherwise,” she says. “They also offer free courses to members, including abseiling, canyoning, rope skills and navigation, which enable you to gain valuable skills and build up your confidence to tackle more challenging walks.”

After taking advantage of the club’s offering for a couple of years, she decided to become a walk leader to give something back, and also to highlight the cultural and environmental values of the Blue Mountains and encourage people to take care of it.

“I hope that sharing some of the knowledge that was shared with me will inspire more young bushwalkers and walk leaders,” she says. “Now, more than ever, we need people to understand and appreciate our environment and make sure that we safeguard it for future generations.”

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT A Sydney Bush Walkers club trip to Ettrema Gorge in 2023. “It’s important to keep a core of younger members in a club,” says Tom Brennan, a former SBW club president. “Once you lose all your younger members, it’s hard to attract new young members.” Credit: Tom Brennan A TUBC group approaching Mt Chapman, SW Tasmania. Credit: Ethan Taylor Ethan Taylor, President of the Tasmanian University Bushwalking Club.

Credit: Sophie Lindner Jon Gray, Chair of the Young People in Clubs (YPIC) Working Group at Bushwalking NSW Inc. Credit: Jon Gray

HOW CAN CLUBS ATTRACT YOUNGER MEMBERS? - Hold events aimed specifically at younger members - Include harder/more obscure trips that people can’t access easily without a club - Think about adding kid-friendly hikes for young families - Promote training like canyoning skills and navigation to show value - Promote carefully via social media - Ensure your club’s website has imagery of young people engaging in activities - Try traditional advertising like flyers and posters in places young people go

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Having a range of activities beyond just walking, especially those that involve skill sets that can otherwise be difficult and/or expensive to obtain, can be attractive to younger members. Pictured is an SBW trip to Watta Canyon in NSW’s Southern Highlands.

Credit: Tom Brennan A Tasmanian University Bushwalking Club crossing a creek on the Port Davey Track. Credit: Ethan Taylor Trevor Rosen, President of the Melbourne Walking Club.

Credit: Kim Rosen Sabrina Roesner is a trip leader at the Upper Blue Mountains Bushwalking Club. Credit: Sabrina Roesner

CONTRIBUTOR: Brooke Nolan is a writer from the UK who’s made NSW’s Blue Mountains her home. She’s happiest sleeping on a mountain under the stars, and can never say no to a wild swim.

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THE DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD OF SOCIAL MEDIA It’s no secret that social media has spurred a whole new generation of outdoor adventurers, often seeking out vulnerable wilderness areas that have become the latest viral sensation. Certain swimming spots and viewpoints that were once only known by locals now attract thousands of visitors—and the graffiti, litter, and inevitable rescues soon follow.

While social media is fantastic at inspiring people, it doesn’t often do a good job in terms of education. Clubs, however, can play an important part in educating younger generations on how to interact respectfully with the outdoors.

“I think clubs actually give good regulation to wilderness areas and promote sustainable recreation,” explains Ethan Taylor of TUBC. “For us, this includes regulation of what we post on social media. If you scroll through our Instagram, none of our posts are geotagged with a specific location, and we never give out GPS routes to off-track or sensitive areas.”

While social media has, without doubt, had a negative impact on certain fragile places, it could become a saviour for clubs looking to attract a younger generation whose entryway into the outdoors includes Instagram, TikTok and other platforms.

“I think that bushwalking clubs have opportunities to engage with younger audiences via social media and improve their communication platforms to make it easier and quicker to join,” says Sabrina from the Upper Blue Mountains Bushwalking Club.

Clubs looking to enhance their social media presence should do so responsibly, ensuring they avoid geotagging vulnerable locations and instead, prioritise providing crucial information on safety in the Australian wilderness.

While it’s unlikely that clubs will ever compete with the glamorous Instagram influencers who have seemingly become the gatekeepers of the outdoors, social media does afford a valuable opportunity for clubs to spotlight the unique offering they bring to the table.

“With so much information and maps online nowadays, younger people tend to organise their own activities and often at short notice,” says Trevor of Melbourne Walking Club.

“But joining a bushwalking club offers many other benefits, including a varied walks program, visiting places you’ve not been to before, insurance in case of an accident and meeting new people on walks.”

While bushwalking clubs definitely face challenges in attracting a younger generation, there are clear opportunities for revitalisation and growth. It might not be easy, but by rebranding, embracing social media, and showcasing the unique benefits of joining a club, hopefully clubs can continue to attract new members, ensuring their long-term viability and, above all, inspiring a new generation to explore the outdoors with respect. W

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NONE OF THE ABOVE

TALKING TROUBLE:

ECOLOGICALLY, POLITICALLY, PSYCHOLOGICALLY

A top ten of recent nature writing.

Words CRAIG N PEARCE

T

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The most powerful example of this collection’s edge, though, is umwelt, as outlined in Ed Yong’s An Immense World. Wow. It’s science, but it amplifies into incredibly important existential thinking, too. We humans, collectively, have little idea of the perceptual galaxies existing right in front of us that we do not have the capabilities to perceive. Tragically, we also often don’t even seek to understand, or worse still empathise with, organisms that do actually possess these perceptual capabilities. Yong’s precepts lead to the irrefutable—irrefutable to me at least—proposition that all organisms have a right to exist.

Humans, with our power, need to ensure these rights are fulfilled. Yet there are so many examples of humans not even supporting humans other than their own family and culture that it seems a very big ask for our species to care for non-human species.

Reciprocity and balance: Implicitly, these fundamentals for existence are unpacked in these ten books. Right now, we are unbalanced, probably terminally. The ecological faceplant we are seemingly so determined to execute is racing towards us with ever-increasing velocity. It would be some achievement indeed if those not already converted to the cause could be motivated, by these books, to take more direct, personal action. The summaries of them here are (due to space) necessarily superficial. The books themselves aren’t. Immerse yourself in them and you, too, are likely to be enlarged by multitudes, the multitudes of an amazing Earth.

Image credit: iStock.com/WhitcombeRD

he appalling truth of nature writing since the 1960s, when the impact of contemporary climate change began to become widely recognised, is that it has all been about survival—the survival of nature. Even when celebrating works written before the Sixties, it inevitably draws attention to our current sick Earth. And this affliction is, of course, the work of a single species, the planet’s apex species—do I need to name it?

Another truth of nature writing is that it encapsulates hope, and is a literal/literary example of humans doing something material to reverse or stop climate change. This is worth celebrating. But let’s be realistic, it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

We can do more, like change our buying habits, ensure our super is not supporting climate change-generating companies, and vote for the best possible political choice.

Those who are doing the most to save our planet are climate-change activists, aided by organisations that have actually changed their ways to support a healthy environment. They are at the edge, like many of the stories in this collection of recent nature writing. Adam Nicolson and Wyl Menmuir have their own edge in the littoral, AKA the edge between land and sea, making their works particularly resonant for us in Australia: The littoral is important to us economically, socially and environmentally. All these books—like our coasts—contain multitudes, constellations, of narratives, perspectives, experiences… and organisms.

The Sea Is Not Made Of Water: Life Between the Tides

by Adam Nicolson

In a time where fluidity, ambiguity and agility are, more than ever, required to navigate life—think gender, countries’ borders, expectations in the workplace—examinations of the littoral are particularly pertinent. In The Sea is Not Made of Water, Nicolson dives into the littoral’s ultimate manifestation, the intertidal zone, the amorphous border where life on land took its first evolutionary ‘steps’ out of the sea. It is a place of “stable disequilibrium”, a paradoxical description which suits this never-quite-but-could-be realm, another on the list of nature’s assets packed with subtlety and vibrant life—unless, that is, humans have done their destructive thing to it. Creatures are the sea’s genes, says Nicolson, and the genes of his book are patience, curiosity, creativity and science, all braided into a beautiful DNA in itself.

The Draw of the Sea

Planta Sapiens – Unmasking Plant Intelligence

by Paco Calvo with Natalie Lawrence

We humans think far too highly of ourselves. This is clear once you look at life through the lens that Paca Calvo provides in Planta Sapiens (actually, Yong— in his ruminations in An Immense World—illustrates this clearly too).

Calvo’s work builds on other research in this area (such as Suzanne Simard’s work on mycorrhizal networks helping create ‘communities’ of trees); while recognising plants do not have brains, they do have, according to Calvo, sapience—my interpretation of sapience is the application of information to impact on behaviour. Like Yong in discussing organisms more broadly, in the context of plants, Calvo asks that we “think into the experiences of other organisms dramatically different from ourselves”. Calvo is talking empathy and, by extension, humans moderating our own behaviours (ones with climate change impacts, especially) to accommodate the existence of non-humans. As Calvo writes, our avoidance of taking this approach means we are now “in a great deal of trouble—ecologically, politically and psychologically”.

by Wyl Menmuir

One line of my ancestry leads to Cornwall, which lies at the southwestern tip of England, the setting for this book. So, sort of personal. Typically, and for good reason, Cornwall is described as a romantic destination, a county largely defined by its borders with the Atlantic Ocean and the English Channel—in other words, it is defined by the sea. In The Draw of The Sea, Menmuir unpacks human lifestyles that leverage the opportunities living there presents: surfing, freediving, beachcombing, even ‘real work’ like lobster potting. The sea acts, for many, “as a metaphor for the unconscious mind”. Whether it is a creative activity, a physical one, or even a scientific one where stolid rigour would seem imperative, associations with the sea facilitate a loosening of deliberate consciousness and actions.

An Immense World: How Animal Senses Reveal the Hidden Realms Around Us

English Pastoral: An Inheritance

by James Rebanks

Driven by a desire to create a healthier and more sustainable environment, James Rebanks sought to reintroduce wildness into his family farm. And while the ensuing book about the journey of discovery he takes, English Pastoral, ripples with beauty, it is in simplistic terms a discussion of his family’s relationship with the land. He talks about humans thinking about more than themselves through the ‘simple’ act of planting a tree—it means you care about the future, beyond your own life.

It is a difficult task Rebanks and farmers like him have been set. The industrialisation of farming is driven by us demanding cheaper prices, which the supermarket sector is devised to deliver. Quality and sustainability don’t fit comfortably into this equation. Humans—aren’t there enough of us on the planet already? Can’t we decrease our demands on the environment?

by Ed Yong

I cannot emphasise enough how important I think the sentiments articulated in this book are. I found An Immense World seismic. Yong’s key premise is that of umwelt, a term defined by Baltic-German zoologist Jakob von Uexküll in 1909. It refers to an organism’s “perceptual world”. The revelation for me was that each organism perceives the environment in which it exists in different ways depending on its sensory capabilities. Dogs largely define their world through smell. Most insects, I learnt, “can taste with their feet and legs”. Animals can perceive a differing breadth of colour, and others have amazing (to humans) night vision. Many of these capabilities are superior to those humans possess. One of Yong’s lightbulb insights is when he says colours only “become magical when and if animals derive meaning from them”.

The Farthest Shore – Seeking solitude and nature on the Cape Wrath Trail in winter

by Alex Roddie

Like Rebanks did with English Pastoral, Alex Roddie’s The Farthest Shore is an act of welcoming the wild. Seeking a healthier mental state, Roddie set off on what is likely Great Britain’s least human-impacted long-distance walk: Cradle Scotland’s Cape Wrath Trail. What’s more, he did so atBeyond the most Mountain, Tasmania’s inhospitable time of the year: winter. Roddie’s reflections on his Overland Track winds mental health—helped by his separation fromsouth, the digital/social providing public huts for all walkers, media-verse—are blended with vivid descriptions of Scotland’s

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NATURE WRITING

RECIPROCITY AND BALANCE: IMPLICITLY, THESE FUNDAMENTALS FOR EXISTENCE ARE UNPACKED IN THESE TEN BOOKS.”

natural world and its ridiculously appealing landmarks (helped by their equally ridiculously appealing nomenclature, such as Bealach Trallgil, Glen Oykel, Assynt, and that’s just one paragraph!).

While the book documents the travails and inspirations of the trail walker’s existence, it’s wild in a different way to Australia— there are B&Bs and bothies (little huts) to rest up in, and roads and rifle ranges to avoid—but the challenges, frequently water-related, are still significant. Interesting, too, that Roddie’s interactions with other humans helped enliven and enrich his communing with nature. Together with English Pastoral, The Farthest Shore is one of this collection’s most pragmatic books.

The Golden Mole and Other Living Treasure

by Katherine Rundell

“I am glad not to be a Greenland shark,” writes Katherine Rundell. “But I find the very idea of them hopeful.” Her book The Golden Mole could have been titled World of Wonders (had that name not already been taken by Aimee Nezhukumatathil for the next book in this list); both books are similar in that they discuss the intimacies and associations of a myriad of Earth’s creatures as unbelievable as they are real.

Greenland sharks—“slow, odorous, half-blind creatures”—are, for instance, the planet’s oldest vertebrates, possibly living to over 500 years. If they can survive the tumult of this world, Rundell posits, maybe humans can adapt as well. Then there are hermit crabs in their renaissance courts, potential devourers of pilot Amelia Earhart. Wolves, legion with metaphors: “They tell of the desires we attempt otherwise to keep hidden.” Crows: “the guardians of the soul”, some think of them as unremarkable, but not so; “their brain to body mass is only a little lower than our own”; they operate vending machines, have been trained to pick up litter, and have a prodigious memory. Nature. You wouldn’t dream about it.

World of Wonders: In Praise of Fireflies, Whale Sharks and Other Astonishments

by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Like Rundell’s The Golden Mole, Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s World of Wonders catalogues an astonishing collection of the animal world’s marvels and curiosities. Ribbon eels: all born jet black and male, but are protandric, “changing to female only when necessary to reproduce”. Southern cassowaries: they decrease their

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population then, BOOM, “so does the proliferation of fruit trees, and with that, hundreds of animals and insects then become endangered”. Narwhals: Arctic Ocean-dwelling, Norse ‘corpses’ (named for their resemblance to drowned sailors) whose ‘horn’ is “a tooth with about 10 million nerve endings.” Maybe the real wonder of this book is the way nature’s tales are woven into Nezhukumatathil’s own existence. For her, it’s personal.

Goshawk Summer: The Diary of an Extraordinary Season in the Forest

by James Aldred

Myth and folklore are founded in nature and humanity’s journey through it. In nature, we find a jumble of fascinations so unreal, so otherworldly, that they are seemingly indecipherable. Except, mostly, they are. Decipherable, that is, thanks to science. Which is how we come to understand the lives of goshawks in Aldred’s book, which follows a family of them in an English forest. Predictably, this remnant forest and the ‘remnant species’ is threatened. Even swamps (mires)—home of another of Aldred’s subjects, curlews—are threatened. But, says Aldred, “I marvel at how the forest has survived to the present day with so many of its precious habitats intact.” The imperious goshawk dominates Aldred’s compelling narrative, but Goshawk Summer casts a multifaceted net with its social, historical, and ecological interests.

Winters in the World: A Journey Through the Anglo-Saxon Year

by Eleanor Parker

Winters of the World is less about science than about humanity’s interpretation of nature through the seasons, and the way Anglo-Saxons have captured this interpretation in literature, myth, tradition and social frameworks, including religion.

Saint Cuthbert, after praying up to his neck in the sea, is dried by otters “with their fur and warm breath.” Saint Guthlac feeds cuckoos and is blessed by their voices. The reciprocity is stirring and instructive, a reminder of the balance between humans and nature that we have lost, with the result being a threatened planet. Parker writes of a tree “grieving for the loss of its leaves”. Unless humanity’s trajectory changes, we’ll be grieving for more than that. W CONTRIBUTOR: Sydney-based Craig Pearce is still recovering from a wilderness ‘experiment’ he conducted last year in the Western Arthurs.

GETTING STARTED

THE RIGHT PEOPLE with Christian McEwen

Group dynamics can make or break a trip. Wild Earth Ambassador Christian McEwen gives some tips on

The team standing atop the Totem Pole. Credit: Jack Bryn

how to find 'the right people'.

O

n a recent trip to Tasmania's Cape Huay to climb the Totem Pole, I had many preconceptions as to what we were about to encounter and how we were going to climb it and in what style. But upon arriving and getting stuck into the process of actual climbing, these preconceived ideas faded away; instead, the importance and qualities of the people I was with emerged as the biggest factor in our success. So let’s delve into the concept of 'the right people' to climb with. And although I’m doing so in the context of rock climbing, understanding the essential elements that create trust and great group dynamics equally applies to paddling or backcountry skiing or challenging bushwalking or, in fact, most adventure sports.

CHARACTER TRUST: The foundation of any group dynamic is character trust. Climbing partners must believe in each other's integrity, honesty and ethics. It's not just about trusting them not to steal your gear; it's about trusting they'll make decisions with everyone's safety and wellbeing in mind. Climbers with strong character trust communicate openly, support each other emotionally, and put the collective good ahead of individual desires.

PREDICTABILITY: Predictability is another vital aspect of trust. Knowing how your partners will react in different situations can be a lifesaver. Predictable partners make safer decisions because you can anticipate their actions and plan accordingly. This predictability stems from an understanding of each other's climbing styles, preferences, and communication patterns. It's not boring to be predictable!

DEPENDABILITY: Dependability goes hand in hand with predictability. Reliable climbing partners don't bail on plans at the last minute or take unnecessary risks. They come prepared with the right gear, have a solid understanding of the route, and contribute to the group's overall safety. Dependability builds trust over time and helps the group perform better on the rocks.

HONESTY ABOUT CAPABILITIES: One critical aspect of trust is honesty about your own capabilities. I've learned the hard way with this one! Pretending to be more skilled or experienced than you are can lead to dangerous situations. Trustworthy climbing partners acknowledge their limits and communicate them openly. This honesty fosters an environment where everyone feels safe admitting their weaknesses and seeking help when needed.

LIGHT-HEARTEDNESS: While climbing requires focus and seriousness, light-heartedness can work wonders for group

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THE IMPORTANCE AND QUALITIES OF THE PEOPLE I WAS WITH EMERGED AS THE BIGGEST

FACTOR IN OUR SUCCESS."

dynamics. Maintaining a positive attitude, sharing jokes, and enjoying the process together reduces stress and enhances trust.

Adventuring with people who can lighten the mood when things get tough can significantly improve your overall experience.

STAYING STRONG TOGETHER: The ability to stay strong together is crucial when facing adversity. Trustworthy partners support each other emotionally and mentally during tough climbs. They offer encouragement, motivation, and reassurance, helping each member of the group to push their limits and achieve their goals. This mutual support strengthens the bonds between climbers and enhances group cohesion.

COMMUNICATION: Effective communication is essential to share information about routes, gear and safety. Open and clear communication prevents misunderstandings and promotes trust.

PLANNING: Successful climbing outings require careful planning. Responsible partners work together to plan routes, check gear, and assess risks, ensuring a safe and enjoyable experience.

SHARED GOALS: Climbing partners with shared goals and a common vision for the adventure tend to work better together.

Everyone should be on the same page regarding objectives.

FLEXIBILITY: While physical flexibility obviously helps us immensely, mental flexibility is also crucial. Climbing conditions can change rapidly; the ability to adapt and make quick decisions as a team is vital.

+++++ Building trust among partners takes time, but it forms the bedrock of safe and successful adventuring. And when you have the right people to climb with—or ski, canyon, hike or paddle with—it not only ensures your safety, it creates lasting memories and a sense of camaraderie that extends long after your expedition is over. W CONTRIBUTOR: Climber and snowsports enthusiast Christian McEwen is a Wild Earth Ambassador who has spent decades engaging in global exploration and adventure. He now calls QLD's Gold Coast home.

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OUTDOORS ETHICS

CRAG STEWARDSHIP Australian climbers have long cared for the environments they’ve climbed in. But now—as a result of greater understanding, as well as facing greater climber numbers, and more restricted access—the movement to care for our crags is stronger than ever.

Words LACHLAN SHORT

T

he relationship between climbers and climbing is complex. For some, there’s the physicality and adrenaline and, yes, ego. For others, it’s about community, wild places, or challenging yourself to see what’s possible and to see who you are.

But none of this happens, on outdoor rock at least, without access. And access is no accident. As a climber, I feel I must acknowledge this journey the climbing community is experiencing: On the one hand, there are instances where climbers, whether by their sheer numbers or sometimes by the reckless actions of a mere few, are impacting the natural environment. On the other, there are climbing communities moving to care for and restore cliff environments, weaving a brighter future.

Let me address the former first. Climbing numbers in Australia have exploded, coinciding with climbing’s inclusion at the Tokyo 2020 Olympics. There are now reportedly over 300,000 Australians climbing at indoor gyms. In Queensland alone, climbing gyms grew from four in 2014 to twenty-two at last count in 2023.

As these numbers soared, so too have the environmental impacts. As a Queenslander, in the last fifteen years, I’ve witnessed what’s happened to places such as the Glasshouse Mountains (Ngungun, Beerwah and Tibrogargan) and Mt Maroon (Wahlmoorum). Trees and ferns have simply disappeared at some crags, many access tracks have doubled in width (from hikers, scramblers and climbers) and housing estates have popped up everywhere after the local farmers sold up. The mountains are being loved to death.

Compounding the problem of sheer numbers, many climbers heading for outdoor rock for the first time are doing so without the privilege of an astute climbing mentor to provide guidance about respectful climbing and minimal-environmental-impact practices.

In one extreme example, Whinpullin (Minto Crag) in SouthEast Queensland’s Scenic Rim was a place where the old guard and school groups had been quietly climbing for decades. Upon being ‘discovered’ by the new-age sport climbers, a wave of bolting began. To quote an article in March 2023 in the Guardian: “Over the months that followed, orchids were pulled from the cliff. Smooth rock was chipped, artificial holds epoxied onto the

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basalt. A grass tree, protector of mountains, was cut down …

‘Long story short, a lot of destruction took place over a very short period of time’.”

But then there’s the counter story, the other side of the journey we as a climbing community are taking, the one down a path known as crag stewardship. What is crag stewardship? It’s the process of working as a community to establish or maintain sustainable access to cliff environments, and to address the impacts of larger climbing participatory numbers. It does so by caring and respectfully managing cliff environments in collaboration with land managers, Traditional Owners and other recreational users.

This is increasingly being viewed as part of what it means to be a climber and just as valued as the admiration we have for boldness, adventure and the onsight of a climb; something worthy of celebrating. Australia-wide there are many examples where climbers are standing up for and looking after cliff environments.

I’m going to tell you about four such instances now.

SCENIC RIM, QUEENSLAND The Scenic Rim in Southeast Queensland is home to Frog Buttress, one of the planet’s greatest concentrations of accessible, quality single-pitch crack-climbing routes. Pockets of rock are dotted through private and public land, often with tight easement access. Some of these crags, such as Shady Buttress and Western Wall, saw farmers banning climber access in the 1990s.

It meant that young Queensland climbers, such as myself, never had the opportunity to visit such places.

But Minto Crag was one place I did have to opportunity to climb at, although that was before all the new development occurred that caused all the problems, when orchids were pulled, holds chipped, and grass trees chopped down. In opposition to this destruction, local farmers, the Indigenous Ugarapul people and even frustrated climbers banded together to form the Friends of Whinpullin. Ultimately, in February 2022, climbing at Minto Crag ended when the Queensland Government announced the land would be reserved for Aboriginal cultural purposes.

I’ve spoken to some of the local old guard about what’s been happening at crags in Southeast Queensland. I can feel their

Crag Care Tasmania volunteers working at the Organ Pipes. Credit: Rosie Hohnen

hurt; why the need for all this environmental demise of cliff environments that they grew up with, places that until recently were mostly in a condition that would have mirrored pre-colonial times? At the crux of this problem lies massive population growth in close vicinity to crags; by 2046, SE Queensland is, according to the Brisbane Times, expected to swell to six million people.

But things are changing; crag care is growing, attempting to repair the wounds of the land and bring communities together.

The ACAQ (Australian Climbing Association of Queensland), the state peak-volunteer body for climbing advocacy, lobbies the government and works with Queensland Parks, and have held annual crag care events at locations such as Kangaroo Point, Mt Maroon, and more recently, Cedar Creek.

But with the ACAQ having such a heavy workload that they’ve had to focus primarily on access, Friends of Frog and the Scenic Rim (@FriendsofFrog) was established in 2021 as the local crag care group; I was involved in setting this up. President Tyson Burns has since conducted half-a-dozen working bees at Frog Buttress; progress is incremental but growing quickly.

At the same time, some of the local old legends—including Glyn Thomas, Bruce Exeter and Scott Camps—in 2023 formed the Cliff Conservation Alliance (@CliffConservationAlliance) to advocate, protect and conserve cliff environments. They’ve got strong networks after decades working in the outdoors, and the alliance is in fact a branch of Wildlife Queensland.

CRAG CARE TASMANIA Tasmanian climbing is mindblowing. As a result, every summer, there’s an annual pilgrimage of mainland climbers to the island (I have been one of the pilgrims, spending the two COVID summers there). But the exacerbating impacts of the sheer number of these users means that locals are at times left picking up the pieces. For many years, it was the Climbers Club of Tasmania, and local legends such as Bob McMahon, who looked after cliff environments in quiet ways.

But in 2021, Crag Care Tasmania was formed; it’s now by far the most extensive current active crag-stewardship volunteer organisation in Australia. It has engaged in many environmental

projects, including partnering with the Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife Service to revegetate Freycinet clifftops; extensive weeding and revegetation work at Fruehauf Cliff; maintaining climbing tracks on kunanyi (Mt Wellington); partnering with local landowners to support the building and maintenance of Fingal campground facilities; and working to look after climbing areas in much-loved Launceston Gorge, including weed and rubbish removal and track maintenance.

But the group is not just about environmental work; education and awareness are equally important. This past summer, the group focused on addressing issues such as the mandatory booking system for climbers at Frenchmans Cap, closures at Sisters Beach for Aboriginal heritage, access around crags on private land, and education around peregrine falcon nesting.

The team of volunteers includes Rosie Hohnen, a wildlife biologist who leads much of the work in the south. And in the north, there’s Steve Postle, Crag Care Tasmania’s President, who is brimming with infectious energy. “I hope,” says Steve, “[that] Crag Care will become a force in educating climbers on ways to interact with the community and the environment. Not to be just sustainable, but really create something stronger, diverse and resilient so future generations can enjoy this beautiful land.”

GARIWERD (THE GRAMPIANS), VICTORIA In 2019, there was a signal that times had changed overnight: Parks Victoria, in consultation with Traditional Owners, instated sweeping climbing bans in Gariwerd to address pressing Aboriginal cultural-heritage concerns as well as environmental impacts.

Literally thousands of climbs were closed, including some of Australia’s most loved routes. In the years since, while some bans have been lifted, in other places the bans have been extended.

These issues had been building over decades. I saw this first hand. I lived in Victoria for two years (2018-2019), and on weekend visits to the Grampians (plus a month spent at Arapiles), I immediately noticed the effects of park-user traffic (not just climbers, but hikers and other recreational users) in a nutrient-poor soil landscape that’s highly susceptible to impacts.

Coupled with the explosion of climbing numbers, and instances

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where climbers had not respected the wishes of Traditional Owners—nearly 90% of Victoria’s rock art exists in Gariwerd, much of it in the steep overhanging rock and caves that hard-grade climbers and boulderers like to find themselves in—led Parks Vic to recognise and formally protect Indigenous heritage.

But in the decades prior, CliffCare, the environmental arm of the Victorian Climbing Club, had also been hard at work. Established as a non-profit in 1998, the organisation employed Australia’s first-ever paid Access and Environment Officer, starting with John Stone, who held the role from 1998 to 2002, and later by the indefatigable Tracey Skinner (2007 to 2019). They developed ongoing relationships with land managers and stakeholders, and acted as conduits between land managers and the climbing community.

Here are some examples of work by climbers in the Grampians in the years prior to the bans: Summerday Valley trail improvements and retaining-wall stabilisation (2000); Mt Rosea rehabilitation at bush campsites (2003); Taipan/Spurt Wall base protection and track rehabilitation (2007); Mt Rosea track repair and rehabilitation (2007); Flat Rock/Polhners Rd track rehabilitation (2008); Bundaleer Track rehabilitation and construction of protection for cultural heritage/artworks (2008); Mt Rosea climbers’ access-track rehabilitation (2012); access track realignment to protect cultural heritage sites and repairs to the track following floods (2012); Flat Rock and Stapylton Amphitheatre track cleared after fires (2014). (You can read more at cliffcare.org.au/our-record) Still, the signs were foreboding. As I was told by a local Grampians climber, “There is no doubt that the crag care work that was done supported the access to climbing for many decades but there was a sense that closer to the Grampians closures, it was merely putting out smaller fires.” And so it was that despite CliffCare’s hard work, despite multiple warnings to show restraint, despite calls to step up and address environmental concerns, the reality of increased climbing traffic, inappropriate crag development (such as bolting and bouldering in sensitive areas) by some climbers, and the impossible task of educating the community on responsible climbing practices when not all climbers were fully engaged, resulted in the inevitable: widespread climbing bans.

Relationships in the Victorian climbing community have been deeply challenged and divided as a result. Both sides have a point. As climbers, we need to do better to protect Indigenous cultural heritage. But conversely, can you imagine losing access to the climbing crags you are most deeply connected to if that’s what drives your connection to the rock and nature?

It took several years, but Parks Vic ultimately engaged in a consultative process. In December 2021, the Greater Gariwerd Landscape Management Plan was released; over 100 climbing destinations, including 13 bouldering areas, were reopened.

Taipan Wall (Gunigalg) was one of these areas, and it is a delicate example where both climbers and Indigenous peoples can

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TAKE SOME TIME TO TUNE

INTO THE NATURAL WORLD AROUND YOU AND THINK ABOUT

HOW YOU CAN GIVE BACK.”

facilitate a shared connection to place. Side-by-side are sites of cultural significance and climbing routes; the respect of all users will be required for continued shared use.

ARAPILES (DYURITTE), VICTORIA Rising sharply out of the Wimmera plains, Mt Arapiles (Dyuritte) is arguably the spiritual mecca of Australian climbing.

More than 3,000 routes—mostly trad routes, some of them the best in the country—are condensed into one small but dynamic range, and visitors both domestic and international flock here to test themselves. Many of these visitors never left; the climbing community in the nearby town of Natimuk is strong and vibrant.

Climbing at Araps has a long history; so too does crag stewardship, which extends back informally to the 1980s, when Friends of Arapiles was founded, a group that climbing legend Louise Shepherd was involved with from the outset. The group is still hard at work; a working bee in 2023, for instance, involved replacing dilapidated tree guards, weeding, revegetation and tree watering in the Pines Campground.

In the early 2000s, CliffCare Victoria started getting involved with numerous projects here, including revegetation, ground stabilisation and repair, and climbers’ track construction in areas such as the Organ Pipes, Bushrangers Bluff, Pharos Gully and the

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Friends of Frog volunteers at work in September, 2023. Credit: Ismael Perez-Smith Revegetation work at Mt Arapiles (Dyuritte). Credit: Louise Shepherd Naomi Gibbs being handy with an angle grinder at the beginning of the Bundaleer Track in the Grampians, circa 2007. Credit: Tracey Skinner Poster for an education program to protect peregrine falcons involving Crag Care Tasmania.

Crag Care Tasmania volunteers at Fruehauf, Hobart’s local town crag.

Credit: Alex Hartshorne

Upper Central Gully. Many of the projects were extensive, requiring years to complete; the Pharos Gully Repair Project, for instance, ran from 2009 to 2015.

Ryan Siacci, who runs a popular blog called Zen and the Art of Climbing, sums up what’s been happening here well when he says, “I think Arapiles is a really good poster child for sustainable and respectful climber use…an area almost exclusively used by climbers and is in better condition than it was 50 years ago… People really care about it!”

SELECTED LIST OF AUSTRALIAN CRAG CARE ORGANISATIONS - Friends of Arapiles (Est. 1988) - Crag Stewards Victoria (Est. 2021) - CliffCare Victoria (Est. 1998)

SPEAKING TO MANY CRAG CARE ORGANISERS across Australia, the story was often the same. Firstly, greater involvement in crag stewardship is required to ensure a healthy ecosystem; this, in turn, allows access to be maintained. Secondly, education concerning respectful outdoor behaviour and minimal-impact practices needs to penetrate deeply into our climbing community. Thirdly, climbers must do better, by reducing their environmental impact, and by showing restraint when it comes to crag development. Note that many climbers have long gone down this path, but the ethos needs to extend to the entire community. As Steven Wilson, Coordinator of Crag Stewards Victoria—a group established in 2021 aiming to create a network of formal stewards for crags around the state—told me, “Young climbers are going to have to face the future and pull their socks up otherwise they may lose access to more climbing.”

Like the model for CliffCare Victoria’s funded Access and Environment Officer, Australia would greatly benefit from more paid positions whereby some climbing-minded environmental advocates are employed to develop and drive an ongoing education programme and crag care work. Look at the Access Fund in the US or the Aotearoa Climbing Access Trust in NZ, and you’d be hard pressed to disagree that a national access and crag steward group with funded positions is a great idea.

A brighter future for climbers is being built with greater participation and education in caring for rock environments. Integral to that, though, is considering your relationship with rock climbing. How and why do you climb? Take some time to tune into the natural world around you and think about how you can give back. And there’s no better place to start than by joining a local crag care group. W

- Crag Care Tasmania (Est. 2021) - Friends of Frog & the Scenic Rim (Est. 2022) - The Cliff Conservation Alliance, QLD (Est. 2023) - Cliff Care Blue Mountains, NSW (Circa 2013) - Climbing Club of South Australia (Crag care work from at least 2014)

CONTRIBUTOR: Lachlan Short hails from Queensland and has recently relocated to Sydney. He is embarking on a twelve-month project to explore practical solutions to the environmental crisis.

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PROFILE

BEAU

MILES Filmmaker, adventurer, maker and fixer, academic, writer, doer, dad.

Megan Holbeck attempts to dissect the backyard adventurer.

Words Megan Holbeck

I

t’s hard to know where to start a profile on Beau Miles. He’s lived about thirty different lives (a conservative, factually accurate figure), has approximately 3,000 divergent interests, and wholly defies pigeonholing.

To give insight into how hard this gig is, let’s imagine Beau at the bank, filling in a loan application, pausing when he reaches the dotted line for profession. He could legitimately write many things: filmmaker (he’s made hundreds, and has more than 600,000 YouTube subscribers); adventurer (that’s what all those films are about); author (of so many things, and working on his second book); academic (Dr Miles was lead academic of Monash University Outdoor Education until 2019); and there are many others that fit, too, like public speaker, head of production team, actor, thinker, and oddball. (Ed: You can also add contributor to Wild Magazine in here too!)

But the easiest, most accurate word is ‘polyjobist’ a term Beau invented to describe himself: a person who is happily, deliberately a jack of all trades. He’s “never had a bad job”, but had a huge range of good ones, from guiding to carpentry to the more high-profile roles above, and is as happy talking about woodchopping as about his PhD thesis (The Secret Life of the Sea Kayaker, which involved making films about his paddling expedition across the Bass Strait.)

As anyone who’s read his writing or watched his films knows, he’s also a huge fan of tangents and distractions. For example, his 26-minute film about eating only beans for forty days (The Human Bean) delves into road-trips across America, John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row, and how human biology means that by the end of his experiment with tinned food, flat moods and flatulence, his cells were made entirely of beans.

This diversity makes conversations with Beau entertaining and wide-ranging; it does not, however, make it easy to absorb these many strands and then write a cohesive, definitive profile on him. So instead of trying, I’m going to divide Beau into four digestible chunks.

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PHYSICAL BEAU His spectacular beard is the first thing you notice. A few shades more flaming than his hair, it makes him look like a cross between an inner-city hipster and a bushranger, with a bit of country tradie thrown in. He’s tall-ish—apparently 183cm (six foot), although I’d have given him at least another five centimetres—and has an open, quizzical expression: I reckon he’d have the same smile and ready greeting whether you’re a local redneck, CEO or schoolkid. He looks like a person who’d strike up conversations with strangers at the local train station.

Which is exactly where we met: the tiny Bunyip Station near his home in Jindivick, West Gippsland. The initial plan— for Beau to run my legs off while I peppered him with questions—was scuppered by a sick nanny. Instead, I was given the full Miles experience: A whole day with Beau and his youngest (Charlie, aged one), whose raspberry blowing formed the background to conversations while we had coffee, went for a run and visited Beau’s block (the setting of many of his ‘backyard adventures’) for a look around and lunch.

Once you get past the beard-admiration phase, the most striking thing about Beau is the way he moves—certain and solid, whether driving, running, or wrangling a pram.

It’s a similar non-thinking, physical competency to that of a lifelong climber tying a bowline, a chef wielding a knife, a footy player running to take a mark. His is not specific, but across the board—the competence and confidence that comes from decades of fitness, practical skills and working things out, building from one thing to the next.

It’s obvious in his films: He runs and paddles and walks and makes tables and plants trees and builds cabins and plays Scrabble and sleeps, all with the same quick and easy movements. It isn’t accidental, but the result of deliberately holding on to all his interests and identities rather than dropping them to specialise and increase both expertise and money-making potential.

“I don’t want to be paid the most amount of money for doing one thing,” says Beau. “I’d rather be paid peanuts for doing 25

Beau paddles down the River Murray while filming the fourth instalment of his Bad River YouTube series. The canoe he’s in, and the junk-made paddle, were the subjects of an earlier film Renovating a Canoe While Running a Marathon

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Profile: BEAU MILES

things and enjoy it. It is amazing how many people do one thing for the majority of their life, and they’re just bloody wishing they tried other stuff. Well, I don’t want to be wishing.”

And his films, his books, his stories—his entire life—are the result. The way he solves problems and cracks on and builds things developed over the ten summers he spent at Camp Sangamon in Vermont, USA, where he ran logistics and programs, and just fixed stuff. The year he spent immersed in the theatre world at Vancouver’s University of British Columbia influenced his filmmaking; the twelve years in academia honed his philosophising and robust thinking; a lifetime of outdoor adventures forged his fitness and physical competency; and teaching and guiding developed his people skills.

It’s not just the constant, competent doing that’s remarkable, but the attitude underpinning it. “I am a doer and I’m an optimist. I wake up most mornings and, even if I’ve had shitty sleep, I think I’m gonna do good stuff today. I feel like doing good stuff.”

We’re speaking at the tail end of what he describes as the toughest year of his life: He’s got that bone-deep, new-parent exhaustion that smears across all aspects of life, courtesy of his two daughters—the lovely but non-sleeping Charlie and threeyear old May. But he just gets on. Our interview is an example: He didn’t plan to answer questions for hours while simultaneously dadding, or for his lovely little house (which he mostly built) to be on display in all its lived-in glory, or to make a stranger lunch.

But he doesn’t baulk. He rolls with it, fitting the rest of his day around a run and Charlie’s sleep and kid pick-ups and my train times while being on: funny and interesting and involved.

And yes, I know that mothers do this all the time and it’s not noticed or remarked—it’s just life. But I notice when it’s done, because it is my life too, and I recognise the effort involved in that juggle, and Beau is a good juggler (metaphorically and, probably, actually).

PHILOSOPHISING BEAU Beau’s love of and need for action has resulted in amazing achievements: A five-month, solo-sea-kayaking expedition around the coast of southern Africa; becoming the first person to run the 650+ km Australian Alps Walking Track back in 2011 (it took 14 days). Then there’s the everyday stuff—the regular, unremarkable weeks of 5-15 hours of running; the constant building, fixing and doing. The counterpoint to all this action is a lot of thinking. “The only reason I’m sitting here a relatively happy, stable dude is because I run six days a week. I think the easy-going Beau sitting at the kitchen table is a response to going away doing lots of things, thinking about the mechanics of time, life, mortality, his body. I’m here for another 40 or 50 years so I may as well do something that is good fodder for the mind.

Think a bit deeper, do a bit deeper.”

The driving force of Beau’s life is curiosity. He follows what

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interests him and sees where it goes, leaving plenty of room for chance, opportunity and fun. His decade-long involvement with the US summer camp began on a Thai beach with a frisbee thrown by the owner’s son. He spent six years between graduating from Monash and starting his Masters there “purely fucking around”: doing fun, seasonal work—guiding, wood splitting, radio, carpentry—before spending another 12 years at the university, making films on the side. He met both members of his production team at Monash—one was a student, the other a colleague. His stories are littered with coincidences, opportunities and mates. He doesn’t plan too much, but thinks a lot.

A great example is his process for planning films. He keeps an online document of ideas, each no more than two sentences long.

(He adds two to three a week; sometimes none for months.) He runs these past his testing panel—production partner Mitch and wife Helen—to see which ones stick. And then they make a film, working from his 100-word script.

As he outlines in his book The Backyard Adventurer, he deliberately strips things back to introduce challenge and does as little preparation as possible, believing that research “obliterates curiosity, which is a foundation of fun, and cock-ups.”

“I want to not know what I’m gonna say or think or feel—it’s got to be curious. And you know what, if you do that right, people see it in the footage because it’s real. I want to write that way. I want to live that way.”

His films highlight how little adults experiment, how little room is left for play. A great example is A Mile An Hour, in

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM At Camp Sangamon in Vermont USA during his 20’s, Beau pretty much made up trips doing anything and everything. This photo was of campers taking photos of their friends taking photos Beau during his epic African sea-kayaking expedition, as he attempted to paddle from Mozambique to Cape Town. This was the day he lost his hat!

Beau grinding it out during the first running of the Australian Alps (2011). The Crosscut Saw in the Victorian Alps is, says Beau, “My favourite piece of territory on Earth.” Credit: Brett Campbell A Mile An Hour is Beau’s most popular YouTube film.

He ran a mile each hour for 24 hours, and in between runs completed tasks like tree planting (top) and shaving his beard off (bottom) Credits: Chris Ord

EXTERNAL INSPIRATION ISN’T SOMETHING HE NEEDS TO FIND: I’M FULL UP WITH INSPIRATION. I’VE

GOT ENOUGH MOTIVATION AND LIFEFORCE FOR TEN LIFETIMES.” which Beau runs a lap of his mile-long block hourly for a day, fitting as many varied tasks as possible around this marathon.

Thirty things end up on his completed list, including “made an awesome outdoor table”, “shaved off magnificent beard” and “planted thirty trees and ten shrubs”.

It’s his most popular film, viewed more than four million times, and it’s inspired many: A quick Google search turns up hundreds of versions of this challenge. But Beau says he’s shocked when people call him inspiring, and claim they couldn’t do what he does. External inspiration isn’t something he needs to find: “I’m full up with inspiration. I’ve got enough motivation and lifeforce for ten lifetimes, which is sort of weird, but I feel like I’ve got plenty to keep me going.”

His creations highlight the things that matter but that fade into the background: What we eat and drink; where we live; what we own; how we divide up our day; how we get around; what we notice and value. These assumptions are poked and prodded by the smiling Beau, brought to life by his mess of contradictory characteristics: Active and intellectual; quirky and everyman; opinionated and open-minded; profound and prone to profanities.

Above all, the ideas (and resulting experiments) have to be intriguing. As he says in his book: “Backyard adventuring is about concocting meaningful events and experiments that challenge me, that redefine my childhood sense of the hero’s journey, that force me to look intimately in everyday places, and question how I live among others…Convincing my ego that homespun adventures can be challenging, insightful, dirty, intense, intimate and all-consuming might be the most courageous thing I’ve ever done.”

Luckily, these homespun adventures also fit well with both family life and efficient content production: They’re generally quick to shoot, require relatively little time and money for travel and preparation, and are flexible in timing and duration. Compare his Africa kayaking film with his recent, backyard shoots.

For the former, Beau shot 20 hours of footage over five months, and produced a 48-minute film; the latter, his new films, take from an intense day to a week to shoot and are 10-20 minutes long. Bang for buck, they’re much better. (And he can still be home to cook dinner.)

WORKING BEAU Just as Beau uses physical activity to anchor and balance his philosophising, he uses work as a frame to support an interesting life.

His path isn’t chosen for prestige or wealth; instead he’s aiming for interest, competence and variety, for the chance to be good enough to understand what excellence looks like in a wide range of fields. He’s not motivated by being the best, except for charmingly

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specific personal challenges: for example, being “the best wheelbarrow pusher of two girls on a windy day around my block”.)

Work is one of the many things Beau knows how to do well.

His work ethic was cultivated by his parents while growing up on a small farm in West Gippsland not far from where he lives now.

His dad Gary was an interstate truckdriver and artist (he still paints, landscapes mostly—they’re good), and his mum Cherry is a nurse. It was a busy, doing house of busy, doing people; they took pride in their ability to get things done.

Which Beau can. While we’re having lunch, he talks about the book he’s currently working on. Bad Rivers will be a companion to the four-part series he’s making with Screen Australia looking at the country’s most degraded waterways. (The working strapline is “Bad Rivers and other good stories”; he works hard to keep even bad news positive.) He’s keen to get it finished, so is about to start the same routine he used for the last one: waking up at 4AM to get a few hours of writing in. This is on top of his usual day-to-day, as well as a national tour of “secret screenings” of film projects. Oh, and running six days a week, all while in the “young, non-sleeping kids” phase of family life.

But it’s not the work that bothers him. As he says, “If you’ve got a work ethic, making money is easy. I could go and be a brickie’s labourer, or a bloody chippy, or move sand, or be a farm labourer.” But he’s chosen to make films, and this is where the tension lies. Because if the point of his creations isn’t about making money, he wonders, what is the point of his films?

His standard answer to combative YouTube viewers is entertainment, and also to allow individuals to form their own opinion about whether a film is shit. (If the answer is yes, they can stop watching.) But there’s more at play here, because Beau half agrees: Maybe there is no point, and he should just shut up and go back to being a farmer.

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THE POINT OF WORK (AND LIFE) IS NOT HAPPINESS

BUT SOMETHING THAT’S BOTH HARDER AND MORE REWARDING: TO BE

HAPPILY CHALLENGED.”

This tension is not easily resolved. As Beau sees it, his whole life is reflection: He shoots for a day, and then spends a few weeks trying to figure out what happened, what the story is, what to keep in and what to leave out. “I’m trying to unpack my life right in front of my eyes for the rest of the world to see.”

When the subject matter is your own life, the division between authentic and entertaining can grow blurry.

This extends to his on-screen persona. He explains it like this: Just as he imagines the screen version of Steve Irwin was a true but exaggerated version of the real man, the public Beau is a hammed-up version of himself. He dials up his wackiness, the quirky side projects, the bits of him that are fun, inspiring and appealing to his audience. But it’s still very much the real him.

For Beau, the point of work (and life) is not happiness but something that’s both harder and more rewarding: to be happily challenged. (He says it’s easy to be blissful—“that’s what alcohol does!”) And perhaps that’s the point of both his adventures and films: to follow his curiosity into the land of happy challenges, entertaining himself and others, while not doing any harm.

FAMILY-MAN BEAU Despite repeatedly unpacking his life for the eyes of the world, and regularly addressing hundreds of fans, Beau considers himself “by nature a good hermit”, best suited to happy challenges

of the solo kind. So the last few years have been an experiment in creating a life of happy challenges with others, as part of both a family and a small business.

Beau is candid about some of his more difficult times: The five months paddling in Africa (formative but bloody hard work); the year he spent living in his shed like a mongrel dog, subsisting on tea, brown rice and lentils (he was deeply unhappy after a breakup, but kind of enjoyed the lull). The fact that this year, his first with two kids, has been the hardest of his life says a lot about the trials of parenthood and sleep deprivation, but not about the ongoing success of his family experiment.

It started in September 2014, when he met Helen Barclay for a drink. Beau’s main thought was, “Don’t cock this up.” By the end of their first date, he had decided to finish his barn quickly so he could marry her in it the following year. He must not have cocked it up, because that is exactly what happened.

They met during “the great block of dates” initiated after Beau shared a bottle of wine with his dad and realised that his aloneness had turned into loneliness, and his ‘mongrel dog’ phase had to end. To maximise opportunities and time, and to minimise travel and showers, Beau signed up to eHarmony and organised ten dates over four days.

Helen (the front-runner from the get-go) was number four.

She sounds amazing. A phenomenal athlete (captain of the Canberra Darters netball team at the age of 21), she’s also smart and driven, and is currently the managing director of an innovative environmental-DNA company. In an online description for a YouTube film (in which they race up a steep hill, him on foot, her on a bike) Beau sums Helen up thus: “Super nice, hardworking, glory parker, athlete, total hottie. I think she’s fundamentally a better human than me.” He describes her as funny, open-minded, and tolerant of his ideas, which seem like prerequisites for the relationship to work.

Nine years, lots of adventures and two kids later, they have plenty of thoughts about what might happen next. (Perhaps they’ll move somewhere with more bush and trees; spend a year overseas…) But for now they’re home, continuing the adventure. Because, as Beau says, when times get tough (like they do in parenthood), it’s easy to go down the prescribed route—the right primary school, the white picket fence. Which is when you have to crack out the ‘backyard adventurer’ attitude that makes all the difference: “If we can’t get our adventure on a sunny island somewhere, let’s make our island right by the couch.” W

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM In his movie Big Tree, Beau spent a night out 30 feet up a 100yo Strzelecki gum by his house. “I think we were kind of acquaintances before I spent the night,” says Beau near the end of the film, “... and now we’re mates.” Credit: Pat Corden Beau’s filmmaking and his ‘dad-time’ have merged to become a different kind of entity.

In his film A Mile With May, the pair set off on a slow lap of the block to do all the things Beau had forgotten to do. Credit: Mitch Drummond By the end of Beau’s first date with Helen Barclay, he decided he’d better finish off building his barn quickly so he could marry her in it the next year. Here they are getting hitched in the still-not-quite-finished barn.

Credit: Chris Ord The cat was out of the bag. Beau had been making a secret office for his wife Helen, until she found out (and took this photo). Credit: Helen Barclay May and Beau make tea while on their first cross-country camping trip. Credit: Liam O’Connor

CONTRIBUTOR: Megan Holbeck is a Sydneybased writer. She’s convinced that an ‘adventure mindset’ is a real thing, and cultivates it at every opportunity. Sometimes it even works.

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INTO THE VOID A 62-day Aussie expedition to the South Pole.

Words & Photography Kelly Kavanagh

Union Glacier

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Hercules Inlet South Pole

I

t’s a terrifying thing, to watch someone’s lips turn blue as they gasp for air.

Rapid, staccato breathing, audible over the violently flapping tent—a harbinger of the worsening storm bearing down on us.

We had just tumbled into the hastily erected tent, searching for a brief respite from the cold, dry air that clawed at our lungs. Now I pull at my face, tearing off the tangle of frozen coverings, discarding them on the tent floor with beard still attached. The stove sputters in its feeble attempt to warm the tent air. I look over at Squiz and Vinnie. Hard men, both of them. But their faces mirror mine—fear.

The child-like scribblings on the tent wall behind them show the passage of time: We have been out here for 54 days. We’re still at least a week out from the Pole, and we are exhausted, thin, and in

serious trouble.

The Antarctic Plateau is utterly inhospitable, sustaining almost no life at all

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South Pole, ANTARCTICA

T

HE JOURNEY, FOR ME AT LEAST, BEGAN seven years earlier. Having just returned from a winter crossing of Iceland—a reckless, foolhardy and utterly brilliant adventure, which through sheer dumb luck rather than skill saw two of us walk away unscathed—I was apathetically wading through my inbox. Post-expedition blues had well and truly set in. Then I noticed an email from an old friend with a single line: “This may interest you.” I opened the attachment to see an expression of interest from Emily Chapman, seeking people to form a team to undertake a large expedition in Antarctica. I applied on a whim.

Hundreds of applicants were screened, sorted, interviewed, assessed, prodded, poked, and ranked.

With each team-building, training, and selection activity the herd was thinned. We hiked in Tasmania, climbed in the Blue Mountains, skied Kosciuszko, and shivered our way through the quintessential Australian mix of sleet and snow out the back of Falls Creek.

But ultimately, nobody restricts themselves to Australia to train for a polar expedition. We packed our duffels and skis and flew to Norway, to the unassuming mountain village of Finse; it’s nestled between two barren, icy plateaus, and is about as real as you can get to train for Antarctica.

Our original plan was to start the expedition at the end of 2019, but we couldn’t pull the funding together in time, so we pushed it back to the Austral summer of 2020. What we didn’t foresee is that for the next two years, we would barely be able to leave our homes, never mind make it to Antarctica. During this delay, life rolled on for many, and our initial group of ten was whittled down to a final six.

When we finally scraped together the required funds, we were left with barely three months to prepare. But the logistics involved in getting six people and over 1,000kg of equipment to Antarctica are extraordinary. It was absolute mayhem.

PUNTA ARENAS, CHILE. A WINDSWEPT OUTPOST at the end of the world. It’s our last stop before we fly to Antarctica itself. But bad weather at our destination—an icy augury of conditions to come—is holding us up, and we can’t fly to Union Glacier, a seasonal camp and blue-ice runway on the edge of the continent where we intend to acclimatise from our Australian summer to the frigid conditions.

We pace around Punta Arenas impatiently for days. Finally, we have the green light to fly. When we touch down on the ice, the door of the plane opens, and the frigid air rushes into the cabin.

Taking our first steps in Antarctica, the cold is mind-numbing.

It’s impossible not to question if we’re up to the task ahead.

We spend just two nights at Union Glacier; the weather window to fly from there to our starting point at Hercules Inlet,

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on the Ronne-Filchner Ice Shelf, is narrow. We madly bundle our gear into the back of a small Twin Otter ski plane, climb in behind it, and we’re on our way.

Half an hour later, having disembarked, we gaze upwards, shielding our eyes from the bright sun as the plane tips its wings while flying off into the distance, leaving us isolated and utterly alone on the Ronne-Filchner Ice Shelf. It is a surreal feeling, a heady mix of excitement and relief.

We step into our skis, take up the slack in our harness traces until the full weight of our pulks can be felt, and with our heavy burdens, take the first, of many, strides south.

EVERYTHING IN ANTARCTICA IS DICTATED by the elements. Everything.

It is the coldest, the highest, the windiest, and the driest continent on Earth.

THE SOUTH POLE SITS AT THE SURPRISING altitude of 2,835m, atop the mammoth ice sheet that covers the vast frozen continent—a living, breathing, moving beast, rending its way through everything in its path as it searches for the sea. It slides, creeps, compresses and deforms. Glacial tributaries feed frozen rivers, all moving at different speeds as the ice tears itself apart. The resultant scars are a heavily crevassed landscape, often lurking below a thin layer of snow.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Expedition prep consumes everything when living in a small house!

Jack conducting a final comms check via sat phone Vinnie working on his future modelling career Long days with not much to see The team, all smiles and excitement before departing Union Glacier for our Hercules Inlet start point. L to R: Jack Forbes, Kelly Kavanagh, Tim Geronimo, Vincent Carlsen, Emily Chapman, Sean ‘Squiz’ Taylor

WE GAZE OUT IN AWE UPON A VAST SEA OF SASTRUGI,

STRETCHING AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE. A CONFUSED MASS OF CRESTING WAVES, FROZEN BEFORE US IN AN

INSTANT OF TIME.”

From the Ronne-Filchner Ice Shelf, we have a long climb ahead of us to gain this plateau.

The conditions are firm and icy, yet we start slow, easing ourselves into the gruelling task of man-hauling. The Australian ski season had been cut short; for some of the team, it’s been nearly two years since stepping into skis.

At the end of our first day, we set up camp at the base of our first big climb. It’s a slow, disorderly, and bumbling affair as we’re yet to settle into the groove of expedition life.

On the morning of Day Two, we start our ascent under clear blue skies and a beaming sun. We skirt a heavily crevassed area, caused by the tidal effect upon the floating ice shelf hinging at the edge of the land mass. Then we take a slow, circuitous route, zig-zagging our way up the steep snow face.

For days we climb.

We knew it would be a slow start with fully laden pulks, but it’s hard not to be frustrated by the lack of progress. We fight a constant battle of layering and venting. The golden rule of polar

travel is to never sweat. Ever. The moment you stop, your sweat cools and freezes to your skin. At best, it’s an annoyance; at worst, it’s deadly.

After countless false summits, we finally reach the top of our climb and gaze out in awe upon a vast sea of sastrugi, stretching as far as the eye can see. A confused mass of cresting waves, frozen before us in an instant of time. The katabatic winds flowing down from the upper plateau shape the landscape, warping and contorting the snow and ice, carving out these incredible formations, often over a metre high.

We steer a course for ‘Three Sails’, a faint black speck, barely visible on the distant horizon, and our next waypoint.

The wind builds through the afternoon. Windswept snow reduces visibility, and by the time we call it a day, it’s blowing a gale. But the forecast is for conditions to deteriorate further, so we hunker down in our double-poled tents to wait out the storm. Our shelters violently shake and shudder around us, nearly blowing flat in the gusts. There’s nothing to be done but to grab ear plugs, an eye mask, trust the person who sewed the tent, and try to sleep.

BY MORNING, THE STORM STILL hasn’t abated. A quick team meeting and we’re all in agreement: It would be too risky to try and pack up camp in these conditions, too easy to damage or lose a tent completely. But this is not without cost, because a day without movement means a day’s rations consumed for no gain.

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Awaiting us at our expedition’s midway point, at the base of the Thiel Mountains, is a pre-buried food and fuel cache. We expected it would take us 23 days to cover the five degrees of latitude (300 nautical miles or 555km) to our cache. However, to give us a bit of breathing room, we are carrying 27 days’ worth of food and fuel. Still, the margin is fine.

The storm eventually blows itself out and we’re back on our way.

Our daily routine involves waking at 7AM, begrudgingly leaving our sleeping bags’ warmth for the world’s most efficient bathroom break, before diving back into the tent to get started on breakfast. We melt snow and ice to boil water for a dehydrated meal, then boil more water to drink through the day. We ski for roughly an hour, take a five-minute break, then rinse and repeat. We try to get four sessions in, then have a 20-minute lunch break, then have another four sessions after lunch. Then it’s tents up, melt snow and ice again. Eat then sleep. Then wake at 7AM again.

Prolonged polar travel is all about routine. Doing the exact same thing day after day, after day, after day, after day.

We ski for days towards the Three Sails—triumvirate sentinels ruling over their vast icy domain—seemingly never getting any closer. Suddenly, they are upon us. They thrust upwards through the ice sheet, their jagged faces too steep to hold snow.

This also signals our turning point, as we adjust our course to the left and head due south.

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PROLONGED POLAR TRAVEL IS ALL ABOUT

ROUTINE. DOING THE EXACT SAME THING DAY AFTER DAY, AFTER

DAY, AFTER DAY, AFTER DAY.” It’s a huge mental shift. Since our first steps on the ice, we have always had a landmark to aim at, a mountain range, a distant peak or nunatak, even a small rocky outcrop. With the Three Sails behind us, it’s nothing but ice for hundreds of miles.

We don’t get far before the weather starts to worsen. The wind builds, and there’s an unusual amount of falling snow. We’re trapped in our tents again as the storm rages outside. We sleep, trying to preserve every calorie possible. Another day is lost to the elements. Another day’s rations consumed for no gain.

Eventually, we get moving again, but now Tim, our expedition medic, starts experiencing excruciating lower-back pain.

The source of his pain seems to be radiating from ‘down south’.

We coin it his ‘polar balls’; he pretends to see the humour in it.

The pain is worsening, yet he somehow battles on.

The storm abates, but the snowfall continues. It’s not supposed to snow this much—Antarctica is a desert, the driest

THE UPPER PLATEAU IS A VAST FEATURELESS EXPANSE, DEVOID OF

ALL LIFE, FORM, SHAPE OR COLOUR. THE MIND DRIFTS

AND WANDERS FOR HOURS AT A TIME.”

continent on earth—but for days, snow keeps falling from the sky. Hauling our pulks through the soft powder is backbreaking work. The runners sink in, and the whole base of the heavy pulk bears down onto the sticky surface. It feels like you’re pulling an upturned fridge along a sandy beach.

Navigating through the chaotic sastrugi is exhausting. You scramble over frozen mini-peaks, turn around and—with a fistful of harness trace—wrestle the pulk out of the trough and over the crest, where it careens down out of control into the back of your legs, sending you lurching forward. This is now made even more difficult as the troughs begin to fill with fresh snow. Any semblance of momentum is lost, and the pulk comes to a stubborn halt each time.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Navigating through sastrugi is difficult, but provides a nice break from the dayto-day monotony of polar travel Sunlight refracts through suspended ice crystals to produce a parhelion, or sun dog, high on the plateau Any moisture or perspiration freezes instantly Tents are rolled with their poles still in to save time

TIM’S LUNCHES NOW CONSIST OF chicken-noodle soup and codeine. There’s seemingly nothing to be done but try and manage the pain. On the worst days, we reshuffle some weight around to try and lighten his load. He stoically skis on without uttering a single complaint. Around this time, Emily starts struggling with nutrition and recovery. We redistribute some more of the team’s weight, and push on.

The snowfall eventually lets up, only to be replaced by days of complete whiteouts.

Our entire world fades into nothingness as we stumble along blindly, falling over unseen sastrugi as we desperately try not to break a ski, or a wrist.

Conditions are far worse than predicted, and we’re moving far slower than expected.

Emily’s condition deteriorates. She is starting to develop ‘polar thigh’—an injury caused by the cold where the skin ulcerates and bursts open, exposing the mucous membrane underneath. Unsurprisingly, it’s incredibly painful. The worst of the ulcers are dressed and, in an attempt to slow the spread, a topical steroid is applied to the

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South Pole, ANTARCTICA

surrounds. The nightly inspections confirm the worst—it is The four of us settle back into the monotonous routine that spreading, escaping the bounds of the Granuflex. Cold injuries is polar travel, climbing higher and higher each day. At first are incredibly difficult, if not near impossible, to treat effectively glance, the upper plateau is a vast, featureless expanse, devoid out in the field, exposed day-in day-out to the same conditions of all life, form, shape and colour. The mind drifts and wanthat spawned the injury. Despite the obvious pain and discomders for hours at a time, only to be endlessly fascinated by the fort, Emily stubbornly skis on. arrival of a new texture in the snow, or the diffraction of light Our initial plan of 23 days to our supply cache is shot. through suspended ice crystals.

We tally up our daily distances—scribbled inside the tent Christmas arrives. We build snowmen and exchange preswalls—and conduct a full stocktake of our food and fuel; then ents. In an expedition where every gram matters, we’re in tears we get down to the maths. No matter how we tackle the problaughing at the utter stupidity of some of the gifts, one being a lem, the result is the same: We are going to run out of supplies CD of the soundtrack to the 1983 Japanese drama Antarctica. before we reach our cache.

New Year’s Eve is celebrated in style with Jägermeister served We tentatively start to ration. We each have different caloric over Antarctic ice. needs, ranging from 5,000 to 8,000 calories per day. This comes We pass through the most incredible landscapes of huge rollfrom cheese, salami, butter, chocolate, a high-fat nut mix, and ing dunes of snow. They take hours to climb, and we fly down protein shakes. But the bulk of the other side, our out-of-conthe caloric heavy lifting is done trol pulks snapping at our heels by the three dehydrated meals as we laugh maniacally. We we eat each day. arrive at a Ptolemaic interpreTHE tation of our world—our tents We slowly limp along, running FEAR IS OBVIOUS ON OUR FACES. out of food. The sastrugi that has surely must be the centre of plagued us for weeks finally starts the universe as the sun, never WE’RE NOT ACCLIMATISING TO THE to flatten out, and our pulks get setting, continuously circles ALTITUDE, AND WE STILL HAVE lighter and lighter by the day. overhead.

200KM TO THE POLE— Every evening, we carefully meaIt gets colder as we climb, sure our distance run and count the temperature dips to -35°C our remaining supplies. and the windchill is into the It’s Day 32 and we have run -50s. Long gone are the days of out of dehydrated meals. We are now subsisting on scraps of old gloves; it’s full mittens full-time. salami and trail mix. Soon enough, that runs out too.

Despite the gradual ascent over many weeks, we’re really Day 35 and handfuls of caffeine gummies are passed around feeling the effects of the altitude. Even the smallest of efforts as we ski on in a haze. A speck of colour appears, a single pixel leaves us breathless. The massive calorie deficit we experion an all-white background. We ski for hours without it getenced weeks prior has left its indelible mark. We are thin and ting any clearer. Late in the day, as the image finally starts to fatiguing rapidly, none more so than Jack. Naturally a lean take shape, our world is torn apart by a deafening roar. A plane guy, the starvation affects him worse than the rest of us. dives, barely overhead, on its final approach to the icy makeThe plummeting temperatures and near-zero humidity shift airfield up ahead. It takes us an hour to cover what the attack our lungs, and we start to see worrying signs in Jack; plane did in seconds. he is fine in the mornings, but gasping for air by each lunchA bamboo stake marks the location of our buried salvation. time. We continue like this for days as he deteriorates further.

Exhausted, we set to the arduous task of shifting the massive We hastily erect the tent and try practically everything in our mound of frozen snow and ice keeping us from our first real medical kit, to no avail. His lips turn blue as he strains for air. food in days. We gorge ourselves and collapse in a heap.

The fear is obvious on our faces. We’re not acclimatising to the altitude, and we still have 200km to the Pole—our only option is to push on. We ski long, hard days. The snow is a strange, IN THE MORNING COMES OUR most difficult moment dry, sand-like consistency and drags at our pulks, sapping our to date. Emily, our expedition leader, and Tim, our medic, leave energy further. us. For the second time, we stand and watch a small Twin Otter A small smudge appears on my goggles. I try to wipe it away, ski plane circle overhead and fade away in the distant sky. in vain, before realising it is fixed on the horizon. The visibility We leave our midway point with pulks fully laden and a holin the cold, clear air is staggering, and we can see the Amundlow feeling in our hearts. sen-Scott South Pole Station from miles out. We ski for a few

HIS LIPS TURN BLUE AS HE STRAINS FOR AIR.

OUR ONLY OPTION IS TO PUSH ON.”

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more hours, then instead of continuing all the way, we drop down into a small valley and camp a few miles out of sight, relishing the final night of our expedition.

We commemorate with a dehydrated dinner washed down with the last of our whisky, and we reflect on the past seven years of effort and sacrifice; not only for the four of us remaining, but for everyone who has been part of the journey to get us here. We wake at 5AM, skip breakfast and hurriedly pack up camp.

There’s a palpable air of excitement as we ski hard with the South Pole in sight.

We reach a sign at the outer perimeter of the research station, informing us that we’re almost at our destination. We ski side by side, the four of us, savouring the final moments, laughing and chatting about how far we have come.

At 2:41PM on the 17th of January 2023, after 62 days of skiing, we reach the Geographic South Pole.

We have a group hug, and notice with interest that we’ve reached the pole exactly 111 years to the day since Robert Falcon Scott’s ill-fated party. It’s a sombre reminder of the perils of Antarctic travel. Then we ski over to the mess tent near the research

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Another day of staring ahead at the featureless expanse. Note the down skirt: it provides vital protection against cold injuries to some important parts Jack sporting some fine breath-stalactites The first human-made object we had seen in many weeks; at last, we were so close we could almost taste it A novel form of transport to the Union Glacier Blue-Ice Runway

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South Pole, ANTARCTICA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP The Geographic South Pole, and the culmination of seven years of effort The ski-equipped DHC-6 Twin Otter that flew us to Hercules Inlet on the Ronne-Filchner Ice Shelf It’s a long, slow climb to reach the Antarctic Plateau. But what took us many weeks to cover on foot, the plane covered in mere hours

A SPECIAL THANKS to Eric Philips, Heath Jamieson, Hannah McKeand, Devon McDiarmid, Denise Martin, and Allie Pepper, for their mentoring, training, and continuing guidance over many, many, years. To Steve Jones, and the entire team of ALE for their wonderful support and professionalism.

station; fortuitously, we’ve arrived still in time for lunch. Sitting in a heated tent, with our first proper cooked meal in two months, it feels surreal.

We set up for the night, eat dinner, then have a flight briefing for 4AM departure back to Union Glacier. We ski the short trip back to the South Pole to soak up the experience further. We try to get a couple hours’ sleep, but we have to scramble to pack up camp quickly. The already narrow weather window is closing, and we need to fly at once.

It takes us five hours in the plane to cover what took us 62 days on foot. By the time we’re above Union Glacier, the weather has closed in; it’s nearly a full white out. People are lining the ice runway, holding lit flares to help guide us in. The pilots throw the plane around like a toy as we try to hold onto our dinner. We bump, rattle, then slide to a halt.

We spend a few nights at Union Glacier before flying back to Punta Arenas. With a couple of days to spare, we grab a tent and head to a Patagonian national park—it seems we aren’t quite ready to transition back to the comfort of a proper bed and roof over our head. We plan a few hikes, but in the end just sit on a small wooden bench on the shore of a glacial lake enjoying the view, soaking up the sunshine and warmth, and coming to terms with everything that we’ve accomplished.

Then we depart Punta Arenas for our long journey home. We go our separate ways back to family, friends, and loved ones. The aches and pains from the long expedition fade as we settle back into our lives. It’s remarkable how quickly your mind forgets the suffering and hardships endured, only remembering fondly the long days spent on the ice with good friends.

But before the last of the pains have subsided, a small gnawing thought takes seed and grows into a life of its own: What next? W

And of course, to Emily Chapman, with-

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out who, none of this would have been

CONTRIBUTOR: Melbourne-based Kelly Kavanagh is actually pretty average at almost everything

possible.

outdoors, he just seems to have an empty enough mind to be good at suffering on a long trip.

WILD

MAGAZINE

Get ready for an issue full of features, including ultra runners Phil Gore and Sam Harvey, Weston Hill Q&A, and Scott Wilson's interview. Race reports, reviews, contributions, and a nature appreciation column by Hilary McAllister.

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PHOTO: Ben Wallbank

THE

BEST L AID

PL ANS A man of meticulous organisation, Ryan Hansen learns to get comfortable with winging it.

Words & Photography Ryan Hansen

“W

haddya reckon?”

It was the end of Day Four of a planned six-day canyoning expedition in the south branch of Bungleboori Creek (AKA ‘the Boori’) in NSW’s Blue Mountains NP. Just then, having completed only two canyons of our intended five—after lugging in 20m+ of spare tube webbing, a collection of rope off-cuts, and six spanking new rap rings to replace old or damaged anchors— we ran out of anchor materials. Well, to be precise, there were no remaining rap rings; there was still ample webbing.

There’d been many surprises—navigational blunders, plus taking twice as long as anticipated to reach base camp—but the biggest shock was how few recent visitors had been to these canyons.

By ‘recent’, I mean in the last three years, since the Black Summer fires. The anchors said it all: Bridge Canyon’s slings were charred, decrepit, degraded or damaged. Bubblebath’s first anchor was missing entirely. So many anchors, in our opinion, needed replacing or reconstructing that we’d expended our back-up supply of rap rings.

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Teen descending into the depths of Steep Creek (AKA Bridge Canyon)

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Blue Mountains NP, NEW SOUTH WALES

Blue Mtns NP

I

f we persisted with the plan and attempted a third canyon to find another forlorn anchor—which, if Bridge and Bubblebath were indicative, was probable—we’d be forced to manage with a less-than-ideal solution, like wrapping our rope around a tree or log without using dedicated anchor materials.

(Doable, and commonplace during canyon exploration’s early days, but potentially problematic with the increased friction or, especially, with the damage it could cause to the tree.) Or, instead, abseiling straight off tube tape without a ring or maillon. (Also feasible, and an historic approach too, though we’d read multiple accounts of webbing being ‘burnt’ from rope friction. Admittedly, this mainly occurred from pull-downs rather than abseiling, and our tape would be new rather than used, but still, given we’d never done this before, nervousness dominated.

And it wasn’t like we could, out here with no reception, jump on the net or phone a friend for guidance.)

Perhaps we were wrong.

“Maybe others have been through recently,” my wife Martine—Teen—suggested. To our left, the tent was perched on a ready-made balcony under a dizzying overhang. To the right, the soothing trickle of water down Bubblebath’s final cascades was still audible.

“What, and ghosted the canyons?”

“Yeah. They could’ve used fiddlesticks or made do with logs.”

“Surely they didn’t use these dodgy old things!” I said, poking the mounting pile of soggy, sad plastic scraps and rusted-through maillons.

A big pack, and canyon country

My internal tug-of-war raged on. In a few weeks, we’d be moving to Victoria; at the soonest, it’d be a year ‘til we could return. Getting here had been a sluggish, sweaty slog. Would it be worthwhile if we only managed two new canyons in six days?

And anyway, we weren’t novices. Surely, we could problem-solve makeshift anchor solutions if needed? But, as much as I begged it to bugger off, I couldn’t ease the worsening wrench in my gut.

I eventually attributed it to the issue of numbers: It was just us two. Despite being the typical shut-down period between

IS IT WORTH THE RISK?”

“WELL, WHAT’S THE PRIORITY? STICKING TO THE PLAN? OR MAKING IT HOME SAFELY?” Xmas and New Years, when fellow canyoners are more likely to be in these areas, we’d not encountered anyone. At least half-adays’ walk from our car which—following a higgledy-piggledy approach courtesy of a road closure due to a project removing old military ordnance scattered through bush near here—was loyally waiting on Newnes Plateau’s edge, and then roughly a further three-hours’ drive from the nearest major hospital, help was distant. How long would it take for emergency services to arrive if we triggered our Garmin’s SOS? I returned to my initial question.

“So whaddya reckon?”

“Dunno,” Teen offered, helpfully. “Is it worth the risk?” She’s got a knack for answering questions with questions.

“Well, what’s the priority?” I side-stepped. “Sticking to the plan? Or making it home safely?” This answering-questions-with-questions business is contagious.

FOR MOST OF MY LIFE, I’ve been scrupulous. An organiser. An analyst. A planner. Someone who considers, practises, and prepares for every conceivable possibility. Someone who always knows what’s happening now—when and where, and for how long—and what will come next. And so on and so forth.

Mathematical. Measured. Meticulous.

Being fastidious resulted in success. Academic, sporting, you name it, it worked. When it came to exams, I considered every imaginable question type and solution strategy. As a batsman, when playing cricket, I carefully and repeatedly practised an array of shots for different bowling types, surfaces, and fielding arrangements, and catered for different tactics. The outcomes: mid-90’s ATAR, HD-average at uni, scholarships recipient, rep cricketer. Through my conscientiousness, I was a high achiever.

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I’VE COME TO REALISE THAT A PLAN IS A

DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD. IT CAN PROVIDE DIRECTION AND PURPOSE, BUT IT CAN ALSO

CAUSE PRESSURE AND PAIN.”

Wandering through the impressive lower reaches of Bubblebath Canyon

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I attribute this approach to a fear of failure. And the pressure of expectation. Success was my norm. If I wasn’t the best, I’d let people down—myself, my family.

Meticulousness, combined with this flawed notion of success, initially shaped my adventurous mindset, too. To the nth degree, I’d be organised: food, clothing, equipment, destination, weather, itinerary. All factors were carefully considered. I’d visit places where I knew what to expect—how to get there, how long it would take, what it’d look like. Little was left to chance. There were few unknowns. Inherently, the trip’s success depended on everything going to plan: Doing what I intended, reaching the objective, seeing what I wanted to see. If not, it was a disappointment. Underwhelming.

Having thought this way for so long, I believed this psychology was genetically hard-wired within me. That it wasn’t a choice, that I was born a rigorous planner. Consequently, I convinced myself I wasn’t an improviser. That I couldn’t adapt to unexpected and unfamiliar situations.

Then I became an educator. Two things happened: Firstly, I discovered that—by sticking to what was comfortable and known, and by being averse to challenges—my thinking was rooted in a fixed mindset. To achieve a growth mindset, I needed to embrace the unknown, and value the process over the outcome.

Secondly—and I’m sure this is true of many other professions and trades outside of education too—success is more achievable

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BY STICKING TO WHAT WAS COMFORTABLE AND

KNOWN, AND BY BEING AVERSE TO CHALLENGES—MY THINKING WAS

ROOTED IN A FIXED MINDSET.”

when you’re comfortable being uncomfortable. Prepared to feel unprepared. Adaptable. As much as my lesson plans can be bomber, assuming they’ll happen as expected is fraught with danger. Sometimes, tasks I expect to be done with ease are found more difficult, and those intended to be challenging aren’t tough enough. Activities can take longer, or shorter, than anticipated. A personal incident, or something that happened at home, or maybe a lack of sleep might affect concentration.

Schedules might need to be modified at a moment’s notice. The list goes on. It’s my job to respond to unexpected events with decisiveness. Making assumptions or wishing for normality— whatever that is—isn’t helpful. Neither is self-doubt.

In the South Boori, not unlike the unknowns that can get thrown our way in our work and prefessional lives, our circumstances demanded flexibility and improvisation. And most importantly, as we learnt from Day One, a willingness to abandon the initial plan.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT While short, Bubblebath’s first abseil compensates with raw wow factor Soaking it all up at base camp Although outside of the peak blooming season, native wildflowers amply coloured the countryside Relishing the easy-going woodland walking White flannel flowers—a trademark of the Blueys— adorned the ridges

HALFWAY TO OUR INTENDED FIRST CAMP, we called it a night. Ambition had, once again, come second to physical capabilities. A severely delayed start didn’t help, either. Continuing under torchlight, trying to navigate a convoluted network of ridges, well…it wouldn’t have been the first time. (Nor would it have been the last.) But hey, neither Teen nor I were complaining about ditching our oversized packs. Instant relief.

“Early start tomorrow?”

“Yep, let’s aim for the cave by, say…10AM? 11 at the latest?”

“Sure. That’ll give us time for Bridge in the arvo.”

“Done like a dinner!”

By 1:30PM though, Day Two’s plan had also disappeared up the proverbial. The day’s start had, however, been promising; turn after turn, no beats were missed. Earlier than anticipated, a lookout with expansive, albeit misty, views over canyon country—creek after creek choc-full of recognised canyons—produced a pep in our step.

Until we got cliffed-out.

We’d been lapping up the easy-going heath so much that we overcooked the main course. Like a first timer frying kangaroo steaks, we stuck at it for too long—less is more!—and hit our target creek too far from its source; part-way down, on the side, rather than right at the top. As a result, where we’d hoped for numerous passes to choose from, there was instead a mini canyon with impenetrable walls. Despite our best efforts, unless

we abseiled—which would be more of a time suck—there was no immediate solution.

We abandoned the fruitless search and instead hastily backtracked uphill and bumbled our way into the ‘proper’ pass. No abseil necessary.

By lunchtime, to our disdain, the enshrouding fog still hadn’t burnt off. The humidity! A continuous stream of salt and sunscreen-infused sweat stung our eyes. Stray branches, lush and thicketed post-fires, whipped and whacked our bodies relentlessly; like magnets, they were unwaveringly attracted to bare skin. Equally tiresome and unforgiving was the creek itself: bouldery, slippery, jungle-like. And even as the final collapsed trees were hurdled, and the open bedrock slabs of the creek junction welcomed us with tender hands, complete joy remained unreachable.

“The cave can’t be far away?” My attempt at a reassuring exclamation deflated into a desperate plea.

“Surely not!” said Teen with more conviction.

We were due a moral victory. And Nature, she sympathised.

Camp, it eventuated, was close.

LAYING DOWN ON A HARD SURFACE never felt so good. But as content as I was to be lazing about, the realisation that we were nearing the end of Day Two and hadn’t yet stepped foot in

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a canyon proved sobering. As Teen merrily napped away her weariness, I tried pin-pointing the cause of my unease. Why was I already beginning to feel like this trip was a flop?

It’s not until now, ten months later, as I sit here writing this, that I’ve finally worked it out.

At 26—I’ll be 27 by the time this Wild issue is in your hands—I think I’m having a quarter-life crisis. Nearing the end of my first year of full-time work, with a mortgage, a house to maintain, the prospect of kids on our minds, this newfound land of adulthood is a lot to juggle. More and more, I—and this is true for Teen, too—sense the pull of nature. Yet, by our own design, there’s prohibitive commitments and responsibilities.

Weekly—if not daily—there are reminders of our mortality. Who knows BE GRATEFUL. APPRECIATE when it will be our time? Each Christ- ALL TIME SPENT IN NATURE. mas, we comment that the year’s transANY IS BETTER THAN NONE.” pired faster than the last. There’s a burning sense of urgency. Our time on Earth is fleeting; it feels we must cram what we can into the little time we have.

The trick, I’m learning, isn’t to act with haste. It’s to slow down. Be grateful. Appreciate all time spent in nature. Any is better than none.

THE TRICK ISN’T TO ACT WITH HASTE. IT’S TO SLOW DOWN.

DAY THREE’S BUZZ WAS ELECTRIFYING. Maybe it was thanks to the previous afternoon’s wander through Bubblebath’s lower reaches, with its mesmerising curves and alluring coachwoods. Or was it the restful sleep to the pitter patter of calming rain?

Regardless, even the prospects of repeating yesterday’s trudge—now up the pass rather than down it—coupled with yet another gloomy day couldn’t dampen the vibe.

Our entrance point was, this time, bang on, and after a short hand-over-hand to enter the creek, we arrived at the first abseil. I completely missed its anchor—mangy, and covered in debris—and from then on, the abseils appeared with regularity. Some short, others overhung, many spectacular; most memorably, there was a stunning descent through a narrow twisting cleft and, later, a Claustralesque drop down a waterfall and into an amphitheatre with strikingly sculpted red-black walls. Divine.

The ‘bridge’—the canyon’s namesake—proved fascinating. A fault line cutting across the canyon produced a mesmerisingly thin and straight corridor and, through it, the carving forces of water had cut an impressive arch. Further on, a much squeezier circular opening gave passage into a pothole drained by another waterfall.

“Can you see the anchor?” High, low, backwards, forwards; neither of us could locate it. Or, for that matter, many suitable options for rigging our own. Eventually Teen—on all fours—discovered a manky old rope underwater, looped through a minuscule crack in the sandstone which had silted up from floods.

Is this what Rick Jamieson meant when he wrote in his iconic Canyons Near Sydney guidebook that anchors in Bridge Canyon “can be hard to find”?

FROM ALL ACCOUNTS, BUBBLEBATH WOULD BE A GEM. If nothing else, the leisurely approach and the warming sun—which, on Day Four, finally showed its face—were welcome additions. So, too, the canyon’s headwaters: gorgeous clear pools and trickling cascades, followed by stretches of twisting, shallow canyon between pagodas.

Suddenly, the creek disappeared, plummeting into the depths. There was nothing to rig off; the previous anchor had washed away. Let the fun begin! We jammed logs low down,

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In years gone by, I would’ve scoffed at the idea of taking two days to reach our base camp. But an upside of taking twice as long as anticipated was having the time for a leisurely afternoon stroll through Bubblebath’s final section; it provided an alternate perspective of its stunning features. Viewing landscapes like this, in the reverse direction, undoubtedly affords a stronger appreciation of the surroundings

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT A short, squeezy abseil in Bridge Canyon Teen enjoying one of Bridge Canyon’s later abseils after uncovering the almostindiscoverable anchor Bubblebath’s fern heaven A friendly visitor popped in to say G’day

CONTRIBUTOR: Educator, photographer and outdoor enthusiast Ryan Hansen relishes any opportunity to get out bush, even if it means slogging litres of water up a mountain just for the sunrise.

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in pockets under stronger ironstone, extending a rope anchor to assist the pull-down.

“Wait ‘til you see this!” I called back up. I’d just swum across a plunge pool and was now hunched in a crawlspace peering across and up at Teen, who was descending a slippery waterfall bordered by layers of magnificent moss-covered arcs. It was difficult not to picture faces and creatures lurking among the rocky features.

It seemed like the fun in Bubblebath would never end. Turn after turn of twisting, ferny, slotty goodness. Even a cold and concerned slitherer, seeking warmth on a sunlit log, came to enjoy the party.

Almost too soon, the cavern signalling camp reappeared. Not to worry; a new favourite canyon had been found.

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, THE DECISION to bail on Day Five was the right call. Even after later conversations with experienced canyoners—who reassured us that our concerns about alternate anchor set-ups were largely unwarranted, and that we probably would’ve been fine—there was no regret. Yes, we’d been slow. Yes, we’d cut the trip short. Yes, we only scored two out of five. But forty per cent is forty per cent more than zero per cent. And we arrived home safely. Why be greedy and lust for more?

I’ve come to realise that a plan is a double-edged sword. It can provide direction and purpose, but it can also cause pressure and pain. Its presence can feel essential, yet its absence empowering. It prioritises the future instead of valuing the present. And there within lies the risk: expectation. Beware of expectation; it can breed discontent.

Adaptation. Winging it. Managing with what’s available. These aren’t signs of weakness or failure. They’re indicators of strength. Innovation. Success.

The best plan, I now understand, is the one that’s made to be broken. W

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PHOTO: Nathan McNeil

READER’S ADVENTURE

FREEDOM OF THE

HILL S After leaving the Army, Mat Young felt intensely isolated. In this heartfelt piece, he tells how he found his way out of darkness via an extended stint of climbing in NZ’s Southern Alps.

Warning: This story discusses suicide.

Words Mat Young

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Mat shredding down Hochstetter Dome with Mt Elie de Beaumont in the background. Credit: Adam Flower

I

n the void below me sat the West Face of Mt Aspiring/Tititea: fifty degrees at its steepest, and today in less-than-perfect conditions.

Adam and Ollie had already dropped, departing with the harsh scrape of sharp edges on icy snow.

On my snowboard, I am confident. I back myself to get down just about anything. But this—a classic ski-mountaineering line on a big mountain— would be the toughest test yet of that belief. If I lost control in these conditions … well, there was no margin for error.

This was the moment, the peak of a winter spent getting after it in the mountains of New Zealand, climbing like it was my job. It was a moment I believed I was ready for. But the joy and exhilaration of getting here couldn’t have been further from the challenges of the twelve months preceding it, because 2021 was the worst year of my life. For months, all I could think about was how little I valued my own life. +++++ SUMMER 2023

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Mt Tasman Queenstown

R

ewind to July 2020. After eight years of service, I transitioned out of the Australian Army, ready for a new lifestyle, hopefully one built around climbing.

My time in the Army had been well spent: I left with some operational experience, a few memories worth holding on to, and some friendships that will last me a lifetime.

But moving from the Army to civilian life was jarring. I had thrived in my role as a combat engineer; I was a leader, I was skilled, and I was experienced. But as a civilian with few realworld qualifications or experience, I began to feel like there was no place for me outside of the ADF; the future I saw for myself was bleak. From high achiever to shit kicker, this challenge to my sense of identity was confronting. My mental health began to suffer.

What followed was a deep depression that I’m thankful to have made it through, and without the burning drive to climb and test myself in the mountains, I might not have. But despite being unable to shake this persistent suicidal ideation, I never seriously contemplated suicide. That’s partly because I know, first-hand, the pain it would cause my friends and family, but also because I know that when I go to the mountains, it all goes away. When I’m so focussed on the next foot placement that my entire world shrinks to that moment. Or, when I’m flying down a steep slope with a blank canvas of untracked powder in front of me and I am set truly free. I go to the mountains with my burdens; without fail, I return a better version of myself.

The descent of Aspiring’s West Face went as you might imagine. None of us shredded that face like a highlight reel set to a soundtrack played by M83. We rode it slowly and carefully, ice All smiles after Mat’s first ice lead; Tom Stone (left) seconded. Credit: Mat Young

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axe in white-knuckled hand. It was survival skiing, but still, we got down in one piece. In hindsight, we rode the face too early in the day; the weather was too cold, and we didn’t give the snow enough time to soften in the spring sun. It was a successful descent, but I’ll have to go back another time for that glory lap.

TAKING THREE MONTHS OFF TO GO alpine climbing in New Zealand wasn’t the best financial decision I’ve ever made. But at that point in my life, pursuing the intensity of that lifestyle, and the meaning it gave me, was something I needed.

The search for purpose mattered more than the numbers in my savings account. It was an immersive experience, one ultimately

TAKING THREE MONTHS OFF TO GO ALPINE CLIMBING IN NEW ZEALAND WASN’T THE BEST FINANCIAL DECISION I’VE EVER MADE.” more rewarding than I ever imagined. Those twelve weeks likely changed the course my life will take moving forward. But it was an experience I felt I deserved—deserved for surviving the most challenging bout of mental illness that I can imagine.

My trip began at the Remarkables Ice and Mixed Festival.

The annual meeting in Queenstown is known for bringing together not just Kiwi climbers but climbers from around the planet; it’s also a waypoint for adventurous Aussies looking to dip their toes into alpine climbing. Toe dipping, though, didn’t appeal to me; I wanted to jump in head first.

During the festival, I connected with several other climbers; these connections afforded opportunities to climb for the rest of my trip. Ted Bannister-Sutton is a Kiwi crusher who’s solid and makes it all look so easy. (Ed: You may remember the photo of Ted that graced the gallery section of the mag just two issues back in Wild #188). Adam Flower is another Aussie who was on the same track as me; hyper-motivated, and was spending an extended stint in NZ to develop his alpine-climbing skills. He’s also a great bloke, and is exceptional behind the lens of his camera (Ed ... AGAIN: He certainly is! Adam is a regular contributor to Wild’s gallery pages, and actually took the just-mentioned photo of Ted).

A few moderate outings together had us searching for a greater level of complexity and adventure; Aspiring loomed large— an inspirational pyramid of ice and stone that just begs to be climbed. Looking back, I love how much this stunning mountain became the yardstick for my progression as an alpine climber.

Mat plodding uphill in the Darrans.

Credit: Adam Flower

I KNOW THAT WHEN I GO TO

THE MOUNTAINS, IT ALL GOES AWAY. WHEN I’M SO FOCUSSED ON THE NEXT FOOT PLACEMENT THAT

MY ENTIRE WORLD SHRINKS TO THAT MOMENT.” SUMMER 2023

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We camped among the seracs, and then on a perfect, clear day, set off up Aspiring’s Southwest ridge—conditions had steered us to this classic, aesthetic line. Now, for most climbers of a certain calibre, if you’re on snow you’re soloing, mostly for the sake of moving quickly; so it went for the SW Ridge. And although I didn’t have the mileage in the mountains to feel as comfortable as the others when climbing unroped, I sucked it up.

After half a kilometre of front-pointing up the spectacular ridge that makes up the bulk of the climb, we arrived at the crux: a rope length of hard, blue ice high above the glacier. I wanted the lead,

TRYING TO FIND MEANINGFUL CONNECTIONS WITH NEW PEOPLE CAN SEEM HOLLOW IN COMPARISON. IT’S HARD, AND THIS DIFFICULTY

CONNECTING CAN MAKE FOR AN INTENSELY LONELY EXPERIENCE.” and Adam and Ted graciously let me have it. The payment they received in return was having to belay in a shower of falling ice.

We topped out in perfect weather, and shared an unhurried snack at the top. Sitting there, head and shoulders above the surrounding peaks, I waited for a sense of euphoria at having attained the summit. But it was upon returning to Earth that a sense of achievement finally stirred, not from reaching the top, but from the knowledge that we climbed a proud line, in good style, and with friends. Maybe, I thought with pride, I had the ‘right stuff’ to climb in the alpine at a reasonable standard. I was beginning to feel like I belonged within the small community of young guys pushing their climbing in these challenging hills.

A sense of belonging is something you get straight away in the Army. It’s drummed into you, in fact. And when you discharge from the Army, it means leaving an environment where deep bonds have formed between colleagues through years of shared hardship. For ex-Defence personnel, entering the civilian world and trying to find meaningful connections with new people can seem hollow in comparison. It’s hard, and this difficulty connecting can make for an intensely lonely experience.

While no one fully understands the complex emotional state that people find themselves in after leaving the Army, my personal experience has highlighted how devastating losing that sense of belonging can be. When I ponder the reasons for my friends taking their own lives, I question whether they, too, felt these feelings of overwhelming isolation.

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While my experience was painful and left its mark, I am not unique. Almost everyone in Defence has a personal connection to this issue: Within the ADF community, it’s not a question of if someone you know will go through something like this, but when. So many people struggle to find purpose after leaving the Army.

Many also struggle with mental health, and too many of them take their own lives as a result. Veteran suicide is a serious problem. In 2020 alone, 79 ex-Defence personnel took their lives. And between 1997 and 2020, according to a report issued by the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare, 1,600 of us committed suicide. That’s one father, son, wife or daughter every five days for 24 years.

ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH MY three-month trip, I felt like I was ticking along nicely. I didn’t have many preconceived ideas regarding what I might achieve, but I was stoked with how good I felt in big terrain on my splitboard. I wanted to take it further.

Ted Bannister-Sutton halfway up Aspiring’s SW Ridge.

Credit: Adam Flower

Adam Sanders and I have been climbing together since 2020. We started trad climbing together and our partnership had taken us up and down the east coast of Australia, to some of the country’s most adventurous and iconic crags, Frog Buttress and Arapiles among them. But Adam has also been sharing a similar relationship with Ollie Dowling—a young and intensely motivated guy who is nonetheless a proper Kiwi gentleman—so it was fitting that we decided to all spend a few days together at Pioneer Hut. The hut lies at 2,400m, perched atop a cliff amid a broad expanse of glacial névé, and the opportunities for climbing and ski touring from it are near limitless. Some of New Zealand’s highest mountains soar majestically nearby; one of them, Mt Tasman—an imposing and visually striking hulk of a mountain—is at 3,497m the nation’s second highest peak. Meanwhile, in the distance, if the day is bright and clear, the Tasman Sea is visible crashing against the West Coast. It’s a setting that invites boldness, and with a forecast of sunny weather and a stable snowpack, the stage was set for a productive stint in the hills. Our goal was to climb every day.

The scenic heli flight up and over the Fox Glacier had us giddy and psyched to climb.

We immediately dropped our gear, racked up and set out for a warm-up route on the steep alpine ice of Mt Alack’s south face. We’d actually planned on climbing something different, but when we saw this pitch of thick ice—nerve tingling in its verticality—we were compelled to climb it.

HOW TO HELP Mat’s personal reflections Like most climbers, I spend a lot of time in situations where a slip or a trip would be catastrophic; writing this article, however, was more intimidating than climbing will ever be. But this is an issue that people need to know about, so I’m baring my soul in the hope that raising awareness will make a difference. All I want is for more people to understand: There are some good people in Defence who sacrifice a lot, and some that sacrifice too much.

For a lot of us, organisations like RSL and Mates4Mates (mates4mates.org) can really make a difference. I leaned heavily on these two after ‘getting out’, and the support they gave me was pivotal. If after reading this you have any desire to help, supporting either of these organisations would be a great way to do so.

The bike park in Levi offers trails for almost all skill levels SUMMER 2023

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That evening, we set our alarms for 2:00AM. The day’s goal was the north shoulder of Mt Tasman; it promised to be a long day moving in highly exposed terrain. Attempting a climb with this level of commitment feels a bit like putting your head in a noose. But after a lengthy approach, we arrived only to find bare ice; our crampons’ front points couldn’t dig in more than a few millimetres. It felt desperately insecure. Soloing was out.

Forced to reevaluate, we settled instead for a splitmo (splitboard mountaineering) descent of Lendenfeld Peak.

Now, we could have adjusted our strategy and still gone for Tasman: We could have pitched it out or simply accepted more risk.

But the prospect of climbing with that heightened level of concentration for 8-12 hours was far more than we’d bargained for.

We decided it would be better to attempt it another time, when conditions were more suited to our preferred style of ascent.

And so we climbed Lendenfeld. Although it’s one of New Zealand’s 24 peaks over 3,000m, the mountain almost feels like an afterthought tacked onto nearby Mt Tasman. That said, it’s still

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AS WE APPROACHED THE CRUX—A MIXED PITCH OF ICE AND ROCK—THE SHRIEKING BEGAN. IT WAS THE WIND; THE

STORM WAS ARRIVING EARLY.” a noteworthy consolation prize, with a beautiful 45-degree snow slope that’s a joy to descend before you thread your way through the yawning crevasses of Heemskerck Glacier’s icefall. One of those crevasses had swallowed one of my ski poles that very morning, after I dropped it and it slid down before disappearing into a dark abyss. On the descent, I made sure not to suffer the same fate.

Our next objective was Mt Haidinger’s south ridge; with a storm forecast to roll through that afternoon, we wanted something we could do quickly. Straddling the Main Divide, Mt Haidinger, with its broad shoulders, ticked that box perfectly. Setting off at

sunrise, we ski toured up mellow terrain, gaining the ridge in good time, peering up at the west face which was encrusted with streamers of blue sastrugi. But as we approached the crux—a mixed pitch of ice and rock—the shrieking began. It was the wind, roaring through the notch below us with a horrific tearing sound. The storm was arriving early.

It was Ollie who suggested this route; that meant, according to our group’s informal rules, the crux was his lead. With a growing sense of urgency, he pushed through the brutally cold winds and blinding spindrift. Adam and I seconded as fast as our chilly bodies and stiff hands would allow. Meanwhile, the clock ticked silently in each of our heads.

At the top, we shared a quick high five. But we knew without words that a speedy descent was needed, albeit not one so breakneck that we’d compromise safety; we still needed to take care of each other. After a few abseils—a couple off V-threads, and one off a snow picket we had to leave behind—and then a careful ski down in flat light, we were back at the hut, nursing our hot drinks with frost-nipped fingers.

The storm, when it eventually slammed into us with its full force, came with unrelentingly vicious winds; in the whiteout, we were trapped in the hut for the next two days. It gave us plenty of time to recover, and to reflect on some lessons learned the hard way.

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Ollie leading the crux on Haidinger.

Credit: Adam Sanders Mat and Ollie near the top of Lendenfeld.

Credit: Adam Sanders Ted and Mat contemplating Aspiring’s last pitch. Credit: Adam Flower Pioneer Hut. Credit: Ollie Dowling A very cold Ollie and Mat descending from the summit of Haidinger. “It’s hard to shaka with frozen hands.”

Credit: Adam Sanders

+++++

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Sunset skiing on the Fox névé.

Credit: Ollie Dowling Ollie and Mat descending from Pioneer Col. Credit Adam Sanders A trio of stoked heads: Ollie, Adam and Mat. Credit: Mat Young

CONTRIBUTOR: Based in Tassie, Mat Young spends his summers guiding wilderness trails and his winters getting gnarly in the mountains. Special skills include the ability to polish off a six-pack of donuts in one sitting.

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SPLITBOARD MOUNTAINEERING ENABLES you to travel quickly and efficiently in alpine terrain, and that’s a beautiful thing. But combining climbing and snowboarding in a way that actually challenges both can be tricky; when you do so however, the rewards are great. Climbing an aesthetic line and then writing your name on a steep alpine face with graceful turns is, for me at least, an expression of absolute freedom in the mountains, an ideal to strive for.

But getting to this point is a steep learning curve. Almost every time I went out for the fifty-plus days I spent in the South Island’s hills, I did something for the first time. And being in New Zealand only steepened that learning curve. The Kiwi style avoids spoon-feeding, and instead emphasises adventure and self-reliance: When researching a new objective, the information you gather often amounts to little more than, “Hike up the valley, climb the ridge.”

What you get as a result is a high level of uncertainty, and an environment that rewards courage and mental toughness. With my background being what it is, I have always considered myself mentally tough. But something I learnt on this journey is that chosen suffering is not true suffering. A situation you’ve chosen to be in, though challenging, will never compare to one you’re powerless to stop.

It’s a fact well-known within the outdoor community at large: None of us are immune to struggle, and many of us find solace in the hills. After enduring months of suicidality, not knowing if or when it would end, I came to realise that I had grown from the experience.

But it took my time in New Zealand—spending weeks immersed in those raw and rugged mountains—to reach that place. Having come through so much emotional pain, it wasn’t until I had been changed by those hills, that I was finally able to move past it. W

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THE OUTDOOR LIFE

HEAVY

METTLE IN THE WESTERN ARTHURS

Eight Insights into Father-Son Wilderness Walking

Words & Photography CRAIG N PEARCE

T

HE EXPERIMENT: According to one scientific study, little research has occurred exploring links between fathering and youth stress. So I thought, what the hell, for the glory of science and all that, why don’t I take my 19-year-old on a five-day exercise in physical attrition across Tasmania’s revered and feared – nominally a walk; more accurately a finger-shredding, rockface exposure-ridden scramble – Western Arthurs? This ‘walk’ is viewed by many outdoors cognoscenti as Australia’s toughest on-track hike.

I mean, what could go wrong?

How did it go, I hear you ask. Well, the experiment was a raging success, thanks. A feast of data was captured. The father-son relationship itself? That chemical stress bomb? Yep, it went off, so success of sorts.

Nineteen is a prime pain-in-the-arse age for the male of the human species. Knows it all. Bullet proof. Not agile in mind. Doesn’t like surprises. Life defined by screen and socials.

The upside? Strong as an ox. Agile in body. Experienced in multi-day walks. Enjoys being in the high country: The views and openness there induce a sense of freedom, maybe even of possibility, and also offer a release from the constraints imposed upon us by urban and digital living (the latter being a toxic, psychological soup for teenagers in particular—this toxicity hyper-charged for those who, like my son, were at their most vulnerable through COVID’s face-to-face social-separation years).

The Western Arthurs were the perfect place for his high-country fix; not sure what he ended up complaining about, really.

Okay, maybe it was Day Four, when we combined two days’ walking into one 7AM to 10PM push.

Or the final day—the supposedly easy leg—when a raging bowels-of-hell gale unleashed utter carnage upon us on the Arthur Plains. Antarctica had come north. Our situation had gone south. Horizontal rain hammered us like a Gatling gun spray of bullets. The wind was a death-metal scream.

I was born in a crossfire hurricane And I howled at the morning drivin’ rain I was drowned, I was washed up and left for dead I fell down to my feet and saw they bled. (Mick Jagger & Keith Richards) Barely able to stay upright, and with hypothermia a material threat, we hunkered down, clinging and clustered, heads bowed in a misery prayer for survival. +++++

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Happy days (we speak relatively here) on the range

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THE FINDINGS: The results of the Western Arthurs father-son nexus scientific experiment were peer-reviewed by the world-leading behavioural scientist on these matters, also known as the wife and mother of the experiment’s subjects.

The results are being published for the first time here in the renowned science journal, Wild.

Readers are advised that—as with all matters outdoors and, more relevantly, family-related—caution should be applied when using the research’s findings. There are first aid kits for physical injuries, but what I needed on this experiment was a first aid kit for the human psyche. I advise packing one if embarking on similar risk-fraught, teenager encumbered enhanced endeavours.

1. LEVERAGING THE AWE

“Gee, you’re spending a lot of time with your son lately,” said my friend Fara. In the adventure’s prelude, we’d been to Sharon van Etten and Nick Cave gigs, and done a warmup hike to break in my son’s new boots. I began to ask: Was this our relationship’s dawn after a long night? No, was the answer: It was nothing sustainable; just the odd shooting star lighting up the gloom.

Science tells us it is usual for the father-son disconnect to occur at mid-late teenage years, where interactions need to be carefully ‘managed’, in much the same way as you might handle a snake. But I’ve never been inclined to handle a snake. As a parent, though, it’s not as if there’s a choice.

Fara had made this call in the lead-up to the Annual Wilderness Expedition (AWE). Or it used to be annual, before COVID enforced an absence from the trail. The last one we’d done was three years prior through the Jagungal Wilderness, where we’d been extracted by park rangers due to a bushfire racing towards us (see Wild Issue #175). Not auspicious, I agree. And like rafting the Franklin with my son (see Wild Issue #173), the scheduling for this Western Arthurs walk was driven by him being old enough to tackle it and me, conversely, not being too decrepit.

If you ever want proof that nature comes in packages not always branded ‘blue-sky beautiful’, look no further than the Western Arthurs. Take, for instance, the plains’ mudhole swamps. Or the human-devouring, black-hole -evel weather. Or, as Svengali track notes author John Chapman puts it, the “precipitous gullies”. Or the days comprised of slow slides, sidles and contortions, with bodies twisted and hanging on for dear life. If I’d known, I would have woven steel threads into the seat of my pants. The descents felt less like walking than rough-rubble bum-slides going down.

On the skyward scrambles, it felt like we were devolving to apes— lats, biceps and forearms activated. “In America,” said Massachusetts Jose (whose identity will make sense soon, trust me), “this would be described as a climb, not a walk.” It was also, he added, “…the worst fun you can have outdoors.”

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IT WAS, HE SAID, THE

WORST FUN YOU CAN HAVE OUTDOORS.” As revelatory as this experience was, though, we are unlikely to repeat it. Does that matter? Probably not. The bigger question is whether in years to come, including when I am long gone, my son will value our time spent together. Let’s be half-glass-full and say he will. And use it as a back porch, parental, North Star insight that this AWE was analogous for life itself. Make the most of the moments together, as AWEs like this one are the destination, and are never—because of their collective characteristics—repeatable.

2. UNITED STATES

At Lake Oberon, my son and I were approached by two strangers: SA James, then Alaskan Lucy, who both evidently perceived competency in my son and I (their bad), and asked if they could join up with us. Absolutely. Then on the climb out of Oberon—at an infamous hole in the rock that you’re obliged to somehow connive and pack haul through—we met Massachusetts Sarah and Jose, who were considering turning back. Instead they, too, joined the tribe.

And so it came to pass: five states—Alaska, Mass., NSW (son), SA (James) and QLD (me)— became united.

Strength in numbers? Doubtful. But strength in diversity? Definitely.

Now, I’ve never picked up compadres on a bushwalk before, and the new members of the group, who wanted to pack haul and use ropes (which we mostly didn’t feel the need to do), slowed us down. This didn’t just test my son’s patience; it vaporised it. And his frustrations were pointedly vented at…me. It was my fault, yet again, this time for inviting the others along.

For mine, though, the introduction to our diet of Sour Patch Kids—a type of jelly lolly, for those not in the know—was alone worth celebrating. As was the company. I was not so sure, however, about the banter about American sports. But Jose and my son—partially based on their taste in these matters and their sorry sense of humours—formed a ‘Coalition of the Sorries’. In fact, on the plains, after that Antarctic hell had been unleashed upon us, my son said to Sarah and Jose, “I don’t think I would have been able to get through it without you supporting me.” I happily accepted it as a weak but encouraging sign of humility.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT If “Bring it on” was the wish, consider it request granted Pack-hauling—a true time-suck—on Day Three where, between Lake Oberon and High Moor, the Arthurs get real ...

You have been warned!

Welcome to the fun zone! A swampy mudhole on Day One Team United States

3. LEADERSHIP IS SHARED

After leaving Haven Lake on Day Four, on our first action of any note for the day—descending a typically Western Arthurian rocky, ragged chute—we collectively displayed a massive lack of attentiveness and missed the ledge, half-way down the chute, which was the ‘track’.

Instead, we continued to its base and were perplexed by a dead-end. Because we were literally underneath the route we should have taken, our digital nav was telling us we were on-route. The befuddlement only cleared when Lucy, calling out that maybe we’d missed a turn, took the arduous option and returned up the chute to investigate.

This failure in nav took over 90 minutes to rectify. Not ideal on a day destined to be fifteen

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hours long. We could have thrown this section’s group leader under the bus. But it wasn’t solely his fault; unlike Sarah, Lucy and I, who between us had undertaken multiple wilderness walks, he wasn’t an overly experienced bushwalker. We—all six of us—should have been more observant. We were all accountable. This is how high-performing teams function—together.

It was at this point that my son, wielding one of his weapons of choice—an accusing finger extended from his red right hand— spat out, “You’ve done it again.” Got us lost, that is. Like I did on our first bushwalk when he was four, a benign wander near Blue Waterholes in the Kosciuszko NP. Somehow, through retelling, it’s tattooed in his memory. Yes, I was inexperienced back then.

But I learned. Oh, I learned. But the price continues to be paid.

4. HUMAN NATURE

Go solo, and it’s all about you and your relationship with nature and place. Go with humans, and (obviously) your relationship with them, too, comes into play. In this trip’s case, my relationship with my son was of prime concern. As other people came into our orbit, they also exerted gravitational forces on the human ecosystem of the walk, influencing its—sometimes wayward—trajectory.

It was an exercise in exploring human nature, as much as it was an exploration of nature as we more commonly think of it. To paraphrase Nick Cave, nature for us is a “sacred realm”, but it is also more than that. For us as father and son, wilderness has brought us together in ways that no built environment could. It is, for our relationship, a ‘sacred space’ too.

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5. THE BEAST IN THE BELLY

Old man take a look at my life, I’m a lot like you.

I need someone to love me the whole day through. (Neil Young) If he’s your own child, you have to—as stressful and disheartening as this can be—take whatever he throws at you. And, what’s more, do it with love, “the whole day through”. Parents need to show the same resilience we try to cultivate in our kids, supporting them through the tough-time storms (The Gale on The Plain being our un-fun, meteorological-emotional analogy).

We do this in the hope our forbearance is influential role modelling, and that they, in turn and in time, adopt these behaviours as they mature.

On this trip, and in its aftermath, I was on the receiving end of spiteful accusations of putting him through too much hardship, of making bad decisions, of not fulfilling my responsibilities as supposed leader (I reject any notion of being the group’s ‘leader’, BTW). Most parents cop this sort of garbage, I assume. It’s one reason I find the prevailing rose-coloured glasses narrative of family outings in nature nauseating, if not deceitful and dull. As Tolstoy said, “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Viva la différence misery.

What the limit is on how much bad behaviour we should tolerate as parents, and there has to be a limit, I can offer no counsel, other than to say the bar for bad behaviour needs to be higher for our children than anyone else, at least until they reach some semblance of adulthood. And I hope, I really do hope, this pays off, and that when the child becomes an adult, he is one who has a positive impact on society and nature.

Western Arthurs, TASMANIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Yes, it’s called Tilted Chasm for a reason Awed by the Arthurs’ blend of beauty and geological brutalism Above Haven Lake on a VERY rare section of boardwalk (FYI, it’s a bad place to be in poor weather) Obligatory Lake Cygnus family photo

A LIFE LIVED FULLY IS NEVER GOING TO BE ONE WITHOUT MISTAKES OR SCAR TISSUE. THESE

ARE NOT HANDICAPS. THESE ARE BADGES OF GROWTH.”

6. PAIN AND GAIN—A SEARCH FOR BALANCE

Short-term pain, long-term gain—isn’t that parenting mid-tolate period teenagers (scientific term: the Dark Teenagerozoic Era) in a nutshell?

In terms of short-term pain, there was plenty of that. And I don’t mean just emotional pain; towards the top of Moraine K, I did a dumb leap where I should have stepped. I went down—ligaments audibly wrenched—in a dramatic heap of exquisite pain.

For ten minutes, I thought being choppered out was a certainty.

I felt acutely embarrassed for the bother I’d be causing. Eventually, I managed to keep going, slowly and carefully, but the Moraine K descent was—as I politely replied to queries—“uncomfortable”; I kept the adjectives boiling in my brain to myself.

(Meanwhile, Alaskan Lucy had her own ankle issues. On the approach to Haven Lake, she turned hers, and had to spend a couple of days there to recover.)

And as for the gains? If my son enjoying himself, and us interacting in a way that tentatively suggested ‘quality time’, were the immediate priorities, then evidence suggests the outcomes were mixed. He found parts of the experience, if not the walk itself,

too tough. Yet for most of the first four days, it was all good. He took special pleasure in clambering up, down, and around rockfaces faster than me. A stopwatch ticked loudly. Or was it a death knell? I could never be sure.

There was also the benefit of separating him from the dark evil of teenagers’ social media and online hidey holes. On the range, there were no digital cocoons into which you could retreat. It demanded an adaptability that comes from real (ie actual) life.

Every day that one of these teenage species hacks it out in the wilderness—carrying their packs, shitting in a hole, facing up to uncertain and sometimes hellish conditions—has to be of longterm benefit. But how much is too much?

“He told me he thought he was going to die,” said my wife.

“Well,” I responded, “he didn’t. You’re welcome.” Saying that didn’t go down too well back at the ranch, mind you.

And do you really want to teach your child not to take risks?

While the choice of walk was an educated roll of the dice, the mistakes you make when taking risks are where learning and growth often (mostly?) occurs. He took a risk in trusting me; he felt that trust was violated. Yet he overcame all physical and mental challenges, if not every attitudinal one, and he came out ‘safe’ on the other side. Yes, damaged, scarred to some degree, but a life lived fully is never going to be one without mistakes or scar tissue. These are not handicaps. These are badges of growth.

7. STRENGTH IN WEAKNESS

“One thing I’ve learned from doing these walks with you,” my son said to me, “is that old age isn’t as bad as I thought it once

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Even in calm weather, the Arthurs’ unrelenting exposure demands respect

was.” I’m not sure when he started thinking of me as old (which is a fair call), or for how long he characterised all old age as an anteroom for extinction, but I take this as evidence (the walk’s second example—hallelujah!) of a modest shift to humility.

I also witnessed this through him recognising how important the support of others was to him on this walk’s dog days. And, in turn, him helping them. In each instance that we step out of civilisation’s cossetted confines into wilderness, it builds in him an awareness of the primal energies of nature that individual humans are emotionally, physically and intellectually incapable of resisting.

Acknowledging nature’s power—and the Arthurs is well beyond most people’s capability—is acknowledging one aspect of its value, which includes its capacity for rejuvenating us. Anyone entering the fray must put pride aside, and be open to being humbled. Make it through this signature Oz-outdoors, fair-dinkum experience, and you exit carrying a multifaceted value that cannot be procured by any other means.

8. SEPARATION AS CONNECTION

When my son was much younger, he sang—sweet, rejuvenating music—on our walks. I wish he would have continued with it but, as with many aspects of a child growing up, with a stinging regret they inevitably depart. The child leaves, the teenager’s rewired brain appears, civilisations come under threat.

As much as we need to forgive the departure of the child in our children, however, so do we need, as parents, to forgive ourselves for our regret. And as we struggle through this parenting thing, allow ourselves some space to heal. Teenagers—this is not a fantasy—inflict wounds. And this space, this separation, can have unanticipated benefits.

Technically speaking, I claimed some separation on my single, small solo diversion, bathing in a sunset on Mt Columba, when a honeycomb glow melted over the Arthurs far, wide, and beyond.

Unknown to me, recumbent on a rock down below at High Moor, my son kept an eye on me, bathing in his own melt, Kurt Elling’s luxurious baritone.

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So the separation I’d allowed myself, a brief self-forgiveness, actually became a connection. Knowledge of this specific connection, not known at the time, has enriched how I feel about the experience and how I feel about my son. The sunset glory, the jewel in a ring setting of High Moor and, now, this bond-strengthening between my son and I was only made possible through separation. How many more of these occurred that neither of us was conscious of, but have now seeped into our relationship?

CONCLUSION I asked my son to join me on this Arthurs experiment—bloody hell and inspirational heaven in one pulsating outdoors package—in the full expectation there would be relationship challenges. And so indeed was carnage unleashed, this time emotional.

Knowing this, and certain that hard-core heavy mettle would be needed, I still decided it was the right thing to do; it was a risk I had to take. It wasn’t even a wanting thing. My wife warned me off it, but it was like a parental need, something atavistic, inescapable. Maybe this feeling was exacerbated by the reality that my years are numbered. In the not-too-distant future, I will be incapable of expeditions like the Arthurs. And my son’s willingness to join me is an ongoing lottery.

Would I do it again, knowing what I now know? My answer, without hesitation, is yes. Surprisingly, my son also said yes, albeit not in the days following the walk, when he received a bonus of hospitalisation, put on a drip due to dehydration having been run over by a truck called dysentery. The Arthurs: The gift that keeps on giving.

I don’t have the requisite psychological-analysis skills to understand what his ‘yes’ response implied. I have a feeling, though, it’s not a terrible result. Is the final scientific finding of this experiment, I wonder, maybe even its true legacy…hope? W CONTRIBUTOR: Sydney-based Craig Pearce escapes, whenever possible, the wilderness of the corporate canyons for the non-anthropocentric society of snakes, snow gums and wallabies.

PHOTO ESSAY

GETTING

DEEP Local skier Kaoru Aoyagi is no stranger to the perfect tree corridors of the Nozawa backcountry

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Nozawa Onsen Tokyo

It’s no secret that the skiing in Japan in general, and Nozawa in particular, is amazing. But with the cat now out of the clichéd bag, if you really want untracked fluff to yourself, you’ve gotta head backcountry and earn your turns.

By DYLAN ROBINSON

I

T’S SOME OF THE DEEPEST SNOW I’VE EVER WITNESSED. Once again, I have been drawn back to Japan, and as I climb out of the resort boundaries of Nozawa Onsen in Nagano Prefecture, the deep press of my skins builds lactic acid in my legs. But I am distracted from the burn in my muscles by soft-falling snow, snow that shimmers in the sunlight between winter trees as we hunt to find an untouched forest to immerse ourselves in.

It is not a long search. We quickly find ourselves in the most perfect corridors of beech trees. The branches are heavy with snow, yet it’s the lightest fluff you’ll ever find.

I am fortunate to share this skin track with Aussie freeskiers Drew Jolowicz and Theo Lansbury; the former is a veteran, the latter a young up-and-comer experiencing Japan for the first time. Even better, we have linked up with old friend and Nozawa local Kaoru Aoyagi. The beautiful culture of the Japanese people slows the pace down, and truly makes us appreciate our surroundings.

Moments like these bring old friends and new together for the same love: Deep, deep tree skiing.

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Nozawa Onsen, JAPAN

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT The village of Nozawa Onsen is one of the most charming I’ve visited in Japan. Stone roads, heated by natural springs, run to the fourteen natural bathhouses Breaching the surface for a moment, Drew takes a final afternoon lap before going off to search for ramen Kaoru looking very comfortable deep in the bottomless snow on her home mountain During a final ascent for the day, the golden light of the late afternoon illuminates the magical landscape of beech trees Theo exploring the streets of Nozawa Onsen during a storm day that brought well over a metre of snow to the region

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Nozawa Onsen, JAPAN

IMAGES THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Breaking trail in the Japanese backcountry after a huge snowfall makes you rethink everything you know about skinning. There is nothing graceful about the way you need to shuffle your legs and skis through this snow. But it sure leaves a delightful sight A very happy Kaoru, after skiing some of the season’s deepest snow Humans aren’t the only creatures that enjoy hanging out in hot springs—the snow monkeys of Nagano know how to do winter Villagers have their work cut out for them when the snow falls constantly for days on end. Clearing roofs, doorways and driveways is a near-daily winter occurrence

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One of those daysTASMANIA where the stars Overland Track,

aligned. Blue sky, an abundance of fresh, dry snow and Drew nearly disappearing below the surface in each turn

Subject to horrendous weather, the flora in Tasmania’s alpine region is impressively rugged.

The shapes that these trees form due to the constant battering of wind is nothing short of art

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP High above the valley and hidden in the trees, Drew finds another feast of untouched powder as the sun starts to drop A favourite spot for snack time in Nozawa is the steamed-bun stand. There is a locally grown vegetable called Nozawana that’s used in one of them; it makes for a perfect post-touring warmer The vending machine snow gauge Nozawa Onsen is becoming known for its fire festival, Dosojin. This traditional spectacle marks a coming of age for some of the villagers One of the best ways to spend down days is in an onsen. This is Maguse Onsen, which is outdoors with some pretty special views as you soak the pains away Theo finds a pillow to fly off in his newly discovered backcountry playground

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Nozawa Onsen, JAPAN

CONTRIBUTOR: Dylan Robinson is a Wollongong-based photojournalist.

Storytelling, filmmaking, contemporary issues and mountains are his key interests. See more of his work at instagram.com/dylrobinson SUMMER 2023

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LIFE IN THE INDUSTRY

SURVIVING

O.R.

The Outdoor Retailer Trade Show is North America’s largest expo for the outdoors industry. In 2023, after five years in Colorado, the event returned to Salt Lake City; Wild’s intrepid gear columnist, Dan Slater, put his body (and mind) on the line to check it out.

Words DAN SLATER

A

ny true gear nut will know instantly what is meant by the words ‘The Mecca of Outdoor Equipment’. Of course, I would never use such a tired cliché (!) but anyone who did would be referring to Outdoor Retailer, or “the leading outdoor sports business event in North America” as it’s drily described on their website.

Oh, but it’s so much more! It’s a glorious explosion of paraphernalia. It’s the newest kit in the world dedicated to hiking, biking, paddling, trail running, climbing, etc. It’s any wilderness pursuit you can imagine, and every associated outdoor product, large and small, from 4x4 rigs to titanium folding sporks. It’s gadgets, it’s colours, it’s fabrics, it’s tastes and smells and feelings. It’s famous faces, it’s freebies, it’s panel discussions, it’s demos, it’s keynote speakers, it’s post-show parties, it’s … it’s Outdoor Retailer, baby, and it’s gonna blow your face off!

At least, that’s what it was like in my head.

I’d been dreaming of going to OR for at least a decade. At first, it was the boyish thrill of being surrounded by new toys. As my appreciation and knowledge of equipment grew, a measured enthusiasm took over. Then, when I became a gear reviewer and columnist as well as a user, a professional interest developed, but tethered to the unbridled excitement of those early days. Outdoor Retailer—for so long those two words have represented the glowing centre of my chosen industry, the shining light towards which any dedicated outdoorsperson is drawn, from shop assistant to manufacturer to journalist to end user. If you’re into gear, you want to be here. And finally, I was. *****

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It’s a tough job but someone has to do it, even though Dan is clearly only in it for the beer. Err, sorry, gear

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Outdoor Retailer, UTAH

I WAS ATTENDING ON BEHALF of my employer, an importer, distributor and retailer of hiking and climbing gear.

The group consists of our outdoor stores—Trek & Travel and Mountain Equipment—and our commercial entity—Southern Cross Equipment—of which I am the manager. The latter supplies extreme cold-weather and tactical-outdoor equipment to the Australian Defence Force (ADF) and other government departments, primarily the Australian Antarctic Division (AAD). It was on this basis that I was there, looking for cool new gear that might be of interest to my ADF and AAD contacts.

The show is a biannual event, focussing on summer products in June, when I was visiting, and with a Snow Show in January. Approaching the Salt Palace Convention Centre on the first morning, I couldn’t wait to be in the physical presence of so much outdoor gear all at once. I’d likely suffer some sort of apoplexy, my brain overwhelmed by the sheer volume of shiny objects and the intensity of future trip inspiration.

The exhibition hall was a space as big as the MCG. The far wall was about ten miles away and the ceiling out of sight above. The floor map, when unfolded, was an A2-sized maze. After a few steps, I was lost in a labyrinth of booths—from single cubicles (the cheapest available real estate), to doubles, and all the way up to the largest open-plan zones, which occupied entire city blocks. Dotted around were lounges, conference tables, food trucks, water stations, the Salt Cave Relaxation Experience…I wouldn’t have been surprised to see SOS phones for those who couldn’t find their way out. To walk the length of the ‘room’ without dallying took literally 10-15 minutes. It seemed huge, but here’s the thing: The word on the street was that this was, by some margin, the smallest show in years.

As soon as I’d got the go-ahead from work, I’d visited the OR website to register and gorge on the details. There’d been no exhibitor list, which I’d thought strange, but then it was still months away. A few weeks before my flight, I’d re-checked and found the directory of which companies would be attending. I’d scrolled through, hungry for familiar names. And scrolled. And scrolled. As A had morphed to M and towards the back end of T, I’d realised I was viewing a list of strangers, bit players and brands outside my sphere of interest. Jetboil? Well, sure. Klean Kanteen? Meh. Mystery Ranch? Not a fan. It was underwhelming, to say the least.

Excitement had ebbed away, exposing disappointment mixed with confusion. Where were all the major brands? Where were Arc’teryx, Scarpa, MSR—all the brands we know and love in Australia? Instead, there was Lunatec and Disc-O-Bed, and who the hell was Nose Slap!? A high proportion were Chinese companies with unsexy names like Fuzhou Fengxiang Camping Products Co Ltd, and Far Eastern New Century Corporation. If they had tactical ranges, they were likely poorly thought out. Just as female designs which are based too closely on male ones are

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I KNEW THE DRILL—CRUISE THE AISLES, TRYING NOT TO

MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH THE INDIVIDUALS LURKING THEREIN.” ridiculed by the catchy epithet ‘Shrink it and pink it’, so too can over-priced tactical versions of regular outdoor gear be summed up by ‘Black it up and jack it up’.

Fortunately, I’d been to trade shows before; I knew the drill— cruise the aisles, actively trying not to make eye contact with the besuited individuals lurking therein. Better to pretend not to see them than experience the awkwardness of looking into their desperate eyes then walking away. Every stallholder is there to win new customers, to gain traction, but you must judge, from map recall and peripheral vision only, if they are worth your time. There were 754 exhibitors in 2023; I couldn’t possibly stop and chat to them all, even if I wanted to. I find glancing up at the stall name or backdrop as you stroll by to be a good strategy, as your eyes pass over theirs while simultaneously gathering information to calculate their suitability.

Once engaged, the exhibitors are also playing the game— determining whether you’re a freeloader only there for the swag, or if your interest is genuine and worth rewarding. Everyone wears a lanyard around their neck with not only their name but

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Energy food and electrolyte stalls = guaranteed freebies There were plenty of toys to play with at Outdoor Adventure X, an outside event the day before the main show Nose Slap! Tested extensively in the late-night writing of this article Get away from it all in the Salt Lake City Municipal Salt Cave Relaxation Experience Potty gloves. What will they think of next?

a hint of their power. As you approach a booth, the occupant will likely offer their hand while flicking their eyes downwards so they can greet you by name, but also take in your business and station therein. At OR, ‘Retailer/Buyer’ is the most common designation and thus carries the least weight.

My show badge boasted ‘Importer/Distributor’, implying a little more clout. The ultimate classification is ‘Government’.

Then you’ve got it made; all doors are open.

If the stallholder spots you as a tyre-kicker, they’ll be polite (usually) and send you on your way with a business card or sticker. They win. If you can feign interest long enough to walk away with a cap or water bottle, you win. It’s an endurance contest as brutal as the Hardrock 100. But what have you actually gained? If I’d collected every freebie from every stall at OR, I’d have enough drinking vessels to cross the Navajo desert without resupply. My hat collection could solve Australia’s skin-cancer epidemic at a stroke. I understand the cost vs coolness conundrum, but a little imagination in the giveaway department wouldn’t go amiss.

THE FIRST OUTDOOR RETAILER SHOW took place in 1982 in Las Vegas. After a stint in Reno, OR found a near-permanent home in Salt Lake City, Utah. In 2017, that relationship came to an abrupt end when the state decided to

roll back protection of two of its most prominent national monuments, Bear’s Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante. Patagonia, one of the largest outdoor-apparel companies in the world and wellknown for its history of environmental advocacy, threatened to boycott the show if it stayed in Utah. The North Face, retail giant REI, and others followed suit. Show organisers bowed to the pressure and signed a five-year contract with Denver, Colorado, where it was held from 2018-2022.

However, the Republican government of Utah held their stance on rescinding the status of public land, and then COVID threw another spanner in the works, with 2020 shows cancelled. This led to some of the heavyweights, including the originators of the boycott, realising they could get by without the enormous expense of exhibiting at OR, preferring to attend cheaper regional shows which would also reach a more focussed customer base. So when the time came for Denver’s contract to be renewed, the boycott factor had effectively been removed.

Show organisers made the decision to return to SLC, citing the proximity of the mountains and the city’s investments in clean energy, while also admitting the move hadn’t heralded the changes for which Patagonia et al had hoped. “We will push back, not pull back,” they said. “We firmly believe that staying engaged and collectively contributing to the ongoing discussion, no matter how difficult, is far more constructive.” More sceptical voices may ponder unspoken financial and political reasons for the return.

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Either way, for me the result was the same—a dearth of useful or interesting companies. Aussie favourites like Icebreaker, Keen, La Sportiva, Smartwool, Nemo, and Rab were all absent. Even the aforementioned Klean Kanteen and Mystery Ranch didn’t turn up as planned, despite the latter being one of the show’s Silver sponsors. By contrast, the exhibitor list at this year’s Outdoor

by ISPO event in Germany, held just a week beforehand, was like a who’s who of the industry, a classic-era OR line-up. Could there be a new global centre for the outdoor retail sector?

BACK IN UTAH, THE MOST PRESTIGIOUS clothing brand on the floor was Jack Wolfskin. There were various leading non-apparel names, like Komperdell and Spyderco, and second-stringers like Klymit and Optic Nerve, but few that got me excited. Enlightened Equipment had a tiny booth, but I did take the opportunity to try on their Rain Wrap, a waterproof kilt alternative to overtrousers. I was also pleased to see Oru Kayaks there, as I’d recently become the proud owner of one of their origami-style folding boats.

Oru was now straying into the furniture category, and their Hi-Lo Table was being featured in The Gear Guide, a showcase of the most exciting and innovative new products at the show, presented by Cameron Martindell. Cameron was the official OR gear guru and a writer for Outside, the most prestigious outdoor magazine in the world*. He’s kind of like a US version of me.** (Ha ha—I wish! I was star struck!) I sidled over for a chat after * Of course, this is a joke; it’s Wild. ** Yes, this is another joke.

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the presentation, trying to subtly glean career insights without straying into fan-boy territory. He was friendly and forthcoming, and I hoped I’d have another chance to speak with him later on in the evening. Maybe some of his success would rub off on me?

Unless you’re a player, you’ll be keeping an ear to the ground for news of post-show parties, or trying to score an invitation to dinner. OR actually does a good job in taking care of this for you, with social events scheduled nightly. There’s the 4PM to 6PM happy hour, where you try to swallow enough free Sierra Nevada Pale

WE ATTENDED THAT EVENING’S ENTERTAINMENT ... THERE WAS MINGLING, A HOT DOG BUFFET

AND, TO MY SURPRISE, SOME SORT OF BEER-CHUGGING

COMPETITION.”

Ale to lubricate you for the rest of the evening. Solo OR virgins might feel like a spare wheel here, conscious of their invisibility while regular attendees hallooo each other and chew the fat. Fortunately, I was meeting up with old friends Andrew and Ben from One Planet in Melbourne. They were here mostly to visit ‘Sourcing’—an unexpected section of the show designed to connect product designers with OEMs (Original Equipment Manufacturers); Andrew spent most of the show ogling the sort of textiles, fasteners and buckles, labels and trims, etc, etc that go into and onto One Planet’s Australian-made backpacks and sleeping bags.

Together we attended that evening’s entertainment, the Block Party, held in a bar opposite the convention centre. There was mingling, a hot dog buffet and, to my surprise, some sort of beer-chugging competition. It culminated in an impressive drone show, after which we called it a night. I was walking in the direction of my hotel when I spotted Cameron ahead of me, heading into a pumping bar with a mate. This was my chance to follow and ‘accidentally’ bump into him, but I quickly decided against this for being a tad creepy. I imagined I’d so far come across as curious and incisive, professional yet unobtrusive, and didn’t want to blot my copybook with half-cut blathering. Better to connect with him on LinkedIn, which I tried to do a week later.

My invitation has been languishing in ‘Pending’ hell ever since. Fail!

YOU MIGHT THINK THAT BY DAY TWO you’d be able to relax. Think again. It’s a whole new dance. You’ll see the same people you spoke to yesterday, either in their caves or roaming free, and you’ll have to judge the nod of recognition—firm enough to be polite, but dismissive enough to avoid another conversation. The second morning is also the first morning after the night before. It’s quite possible that, being off the leash, you may have engaged a little too keenly in the after-show socialising and made some new friends. You’ll now bump into those people, and smile at whatever shenanigans you shared into the wee hours. You’ll probably refer sheepishly to the state of your hangovers. Yet this is not merely boisterous overindulgence—the evenings are where the real relationships are made and deals brokered. Depending on your mission, you can’t afford to retire to your hotel room with a hot cup of cocoa and a good book, thinking your duties for the day are discharged. You need to be out there schmoozing.

Contacts made over a cocktail are far stronger than those made over a bottle of Evian.

I’d made most of my appointments for the second day, so I was kept busy. One dilemma at trade shows is always how much time to spend on the floor versus at the numerous industry presentations that take place in conference rooms secreted around the building. At OR, these varied from the interesting (to me) ‘Demystifying Real-World Product Testing’, to the unquantifiable ‘How to Maximise Merchant Profitability and Sustainability with Returns Automation and Customer Lifetime Value Analytics’. Er, no thanks.

I did catch the end of a panel discussion called ‘People Over Profits’ at The Ranger Station,

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM The Enlightened Equipment Rain Kilt.

Next stop—the catwalks of Milan!

The extensive ‘Sourcing’ section of the show was an opportunity to geek out on zips and buckles This is what they thought of next— freeze-dried salsa! (Ed: That actually sounds awesome!)

Bonding is hard work. The post-show antics are where the real deals happen Gear expert Cameron Martindell is in my sights Whatever you do, doughnut miss out on afternoon tea Maybe I’ve had enough free drinks now. This is getting weird

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Bathing in negative ions inside the Salt Cave. Maybe it was all a dream?

mainly because it overlapped the beginning of happy hour. I can him/herself in a refreshing mist of cool water. One lady tried to best describe this event as four guests taking turns to answer a sell me on the idea of a female urinary device, like a Shewee or question put to them by the host, a question designed to allow Go Girl, but attached to a container within the wearer’s clothing. them to run through their personal achievements in a self-con“It’s very useful in cities as well,” she explained. “Public toilets gratulatory manner before lauding the identical responses of the aren’t always easy to find, and you can’t just nip behind a bush.” other panellists. In other words, it was a huge back-slapping com“What you’re describing is a colostomy bag,” I wanted to point petition, like a live-action adaptation of Instagram, but the Amerout, “and it has no place at an outdoor show!” icans seemed to lap it up. Post-happy hour crowds exiting through I eventually did come across Nose Slap!, which turned out to be the lobby were confronted by show greeters waving large ‘Free “a scented aroma product that uses peppermint vapours to deliver drinks’ placards in a transparent attempt to coax alcoholics into an intense, refreshing blast of fragrance that puts you in the mood the Salt Lake Ballroom for the evening’s to be active.” Smelling salts, basically. event—the OR Inspiration Awards. Hon“When you’re afraid of nodding off at the THERE WAS A HUGE estly, it’s amazing what people will tolerwheel,” the salesperson explained, “Nose AFTER-PARTY— ate for free beer!

Slap! will wake you up for long enough to As I milled about after the awards, I drive safely to your destination.” was collared by an excitable young man “Interesting, but what are the outdoor , and swept into an Uber along with a applications?” I asked.

AND FACES I SEMIbunch of other bewildered singletons.

“Well,” she said, barely pausing to RECOGNISED FROM THE As the car pulled away, we exchanged think, although she probably should have, PREVIOUS TWO DAYS. nervous shrugs upon realising our cap“When you’re riding a motorbike and tor wasn’t even with us. We needn’t you’re afraid of nodding off at the wheel…” have worried. It safely deposited us at a I’m not sure that counts as an outdoor warehouse in a strange part of the city, inside which was a huge activity, but thanks for trying. after-party—a rocking band, even more free drinks, swag strewn There’s always that winding-down feeling on the last day of a about, a pro photo booth, and plenty of faces I semi-recognised show. There are fewer attendees around, and often booths have from the previous two days. Now we’re talking! Yes, much fun was packed up and already gone home. I made one final circuit, on had, and the less said about the after-after-party, the better. the lookout for anything I’d somehow missed. It reminded me of skiing holidays, when you know you have to leave but just want to catch one last lift. Would I come again? I doubted it. I was sad I WAS SMART ENOUGH NOT TO have made any appointit was over, but OR just wasn’t the force it used to be ten, even ments for Day Three, but this being my first and possibly last OR, five, years ago. No, Munich’s Outdoor by ISPO was looking more I wanted to maximise my useful time here. And it gave me the and more like the new Mecca for Outdoor Equipment. Oops! W chance to visit the more niche booths: the chancers, the lemons, and the downright bizarre. There was ExtremeMist Personal CONTRIBUTOR: Dan Slater, a lifelong bushwalker, is a fifteen-year vetCooling Systems—like a hydration reservoir with a battery-poweran in the retail sector. He keeps forgetting, losing, breaking or drownered spray nozzle instead of a bite valve, so the wearer could douse ing headlamps, and is thinking instead of mounting a candle on his head.

A ROCKING BAND, EVEN MORE FREE DRINKS

NOW WE’RE TALKING!

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IMAGE: PAT CORDEN

EXPLORE THE GOONDIE SERIES

HOW-TO

Getting into

PACKRAFTING A journey as good as it gets

Packrafting has exploded in popularity in recent years, and with good reason: It’s easy to get into, it allows paddlers the opportunity to reach otherwise difficult-to-access rivers, and best of all, it’s loads of fun. If you haven’t yet had the chance to experience packrafting for yourself, Kiwi river guide Neil Silverwood explains how to get into the sport.

Words & Photography Neil Silverwood

DREAMING OF A MULTI-DAY JOURNEY with days spent soaking up the sun, cooling off in clear water and watching the sunset from idyllic campsites? Look no further, packrafting may just be the sport for you! It can be a rewarding way to experience wilderness, an excellent medium for travel, and a wonderful way to get to know people—lifelong friendships are forged on the river. Every packrafting trip is unique, but they’re all as good as life gets.

Like many, I came to packrafting from a whitewater-kayaking background, although this isn’t a requirement by any means. For me, the difference between the two is that whitewater kayaking is all about the rapid—the quest to paddle ever-harder, more challenging river runs. Packrafting, on the other hand, is more about the journey—enjoying remote multi-day trips in comfort and style.

Packrafting can also be much quicker to learn. In comparison to kayaks, packrafts generally take a grade off any rapid (up to a point) and if you do swim, the packraft acts as a flotation aid rather than a water-filled anchor. Packrafting is also a gamechanger when it comes to remote rivers. Many NZ rivers that were once only the domain of those with enough coin to fly in, or Australian rivers with bush too thick to drag a kayak through or were too far from the nearest road, can now be reached on foot with a packraft in your backpack. A world of opportunities has opened up.

Whether you’re craving a cruisy, feet-up float down a mellow local run, or a wild, multi-day adventure on a remote, churning Grade 4 river, you’ll need a range of skills and equipment to be successful and to stay safe. Here’s some info to get you started…

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Grade 3 rapids on the Upper Grey River on NZ’s South Island.

Packrafting involves a great deal of teamwork. On difficult rapids, one person goes down first from eddy to eddy, probing and waiting at the bottom. In easier water like this, however, it’s more efficient to simply travel as a team

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Getting into PACKRAFTING

WEATHER AND RIVER FLOWS In NZ, packrafting is possible all year round for the hardy, drysuit-clad crowd; for the rest of us, it’s a three-season sport. Typically, the season kicks off in spring, which tends to bring rain, snowmelt and moderate temperatures. Rivers will be running high, and some rivers that are usually too low to paddle will be at a nice flow.

As summer rolls around, the days get warmer and drier, and the river flows drop. High-volume rivers that are usually too big often become paddleable. Summer is a great time for multi-day river adventures, and it’s my favourite time of year to be on the water.

Autumn tends to be a mixed bag. Temperatures are dropping, and there’s little-to-no snowmelt. Rivers can be low unless autumn is wet in your region, but you’ll likely still get a few good days in.

In Australia, there is usually somewhere to paddle at any time of the year. Tasmania’s rivers are the country’s finest, and are best from November to March when there’s usually enough water in the rivers and temps are warm. Wherever you paddle prior to commencing any river expedition, it’s important to check both the weather and the river flows.

For weather forecasting, I use yr.no and windy.com (or the app). YR, a Norwegian site, provides a basic forecast and is a great starting point, whereas on Windy you can choose from additional weather models and more detailed information. The principal information you want is rainfall—how much is predicted before and during your planned trip. It’s important to look not only at the rainfall in the area where you’re paddling, but to also understand the forecast in the whole river catchment. Rain falling miles away can cause rivers to rise rapidly, even if you’re paddling in sunshine.

Wind can also significantly affect your trip. A strong headwind can slow travel greatly. My partner and I once found ourselves being blown backward, upriver, in powerful winds. We pulled over and waited them out, but it cost us hours. While we hunkered down, we studied the map and picked a back-up campsite that was closer than the one we’d planned to make that night.

Tailwinds are usually welcome, but if they’re too strong, they can also be a hazard by making it harder to catch eddies or by pushing you into obstacles faster than you can avoid them.

Temperature can be a safety factor too, mostly when paddling in winter or on the edge of seasons when cold snaps can occur.

Remember that weather forecasts are predictions based on large-scale models; local factors such as anabatic and katabatic winds may result in very different weather than what was forecast.

Many rivers are flow-monitored for safety and environmental purposes. When planning a packrafting trip, look for online flow gauges, often on a local council website, to learn the current flow and trends. In Australia, head to the Bureau of Meteorology’s site (bom.gov.au), choose the state you’re paddling in, and then seek out the rain and river data page. Knowing the flow will help you

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Super clear water on the Whataroa River, western South Island

Drain holes in a self-bailing raft

decide if it’s safe to paddle on a specific day, as well as other useful info like how fast the river typically rises and falls with rain.

Packrafts are well suited for low-to-moderate volume rivers where rapids are followed by pools. They are poorly suited to flooded rivers where there’s no calm water at the bottom of rapids and where rescue of a swimming packrafter is more difficult.

Flooded rivers may become much harder to paddle than usual depending on the dynamics at play. One of my local runs goes from Grade 2 in normal flow to Grade 4+ in flood! Caution is needed when considering paddling a flooded river.

Trees and similar obstacles that block a river’s surface but that allow water to flow underneath them are the greatest hazards on a river, and have led to numerous incidents and even death.

Be vigilant for logs in the river, even in mellow sections, and be extra cautious after flood events that may have brought down new trees and debris. Low water may also cause snags that are usually well beneath the surface to rise above it, or worse, be just a few centimetres beneath it.

EQUIPMENT The craft There is a wide range of packrafts on the market, with each brand and style being quite different. Most manufacturers build a range of models, from lightweight craft starting at about 1kg designed for flat water, to heavy-duty packrafts weighing up to

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An incomplete list of some key items you’ll need

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1: Packraft (with thigh straps)

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2: Inflation bag 3: Drysuit

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4: Helmet 5: Throw bag

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6: PFD 7: Inflation device 8: PLB case 9: PLB 10: Tyvek tape 11: Paddle (4-piece) 12: Pack 13: Storage bags 14: Bow bag

THERE’S A COMMON THEME IN ALL GEAR OPTIONS—YOU

HAVE CHOICES BETWEEN DURABILITY AND WEIGHT.” 8kg designed specifically for whitewater. Alpacka Rafts are considered by many to be the best on the market but they’re pricey.

Kokopelli makes several models which are suitable for whitewater—they are inexpensive and robust. However, unlike Alpacka Rafts which come in several sizes, Kokopelli rafts are one-size-fitsall. There is also a good NZ-made brand called Koaro who build tailor-made packrafts. They’re designed for whitewater and are especially light where weight is critical. Blue Duck Packrafting is also a reliable brand, designed in NZ but manufactured overseas.

For general whitewater use, you want something in-between, something moderately robust but still reasonably light for carrying. For the most versatility, look for a raft that’s under 5kg and designed for paddling whitewater.

There are two main design options—spray skirt (designed similar to a whitewater kayak with an enclosed cockpit) or self-bailing (open cockpit with drain holes in the floor to drain the water that splashes in). This choice comes down to your personal preference.

The spray-skirt design will be warmer and likely easier to roll

if you have the skill. The self-bailing design, on the other hand, allows you to easily get in and out, which is especially helpful on rivers where you regularly need to scout rapids or want to be able to jump back in quickly if you tip out. I’ve found that on colder rivers and during shoulder seasons, a drysuit is essential if you’re paddling a self-bailing packraft, otherwise you get too cold. My personal preference is for the self-bailing design due to its ease of use and versatility. My dog also loves packrafting and prefers the open cockpit when he comes along. (Ed: I hope you’ve trimmed his claws!)

In both designs, thigh straps are essential, at least for whitewater paddling. These hold your knees in place and allow you to rail the boat in whitewater. In a whitewater kayak, your hips and thighs fit tightly in the cockpit, and the kayak responds to your movements as you turn in and out of eddies and rapids; thigh straps in a packraft serve the same purpose.

Another option you’ll want to consider is whether to splash out on a model with a T-Zip or not. A T-Zip can add to the cost, but it allows you to store gear inside the pontoons of the packraft, keeping it secure and dry and providing stability by placing the weight down low. If you’re only planning to do day trips, a T-Zip is not necessary; you can simply secure gear in a drybag on the outside.

But if you’re planning on doing multi-day journeys like New Zealand’s Clarence River or Tasmania’s Franklin River, then I highly recommend getting a T-Zip.

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Paddle You won’t get far without a paddle. You’ll have noticed by now there’s a common theme in all gear options—you have choices between durability and weight. With paddles, you also have choices based on how they perform. I’ve found a good compromise is a whitewater-specific paddle with a carbon-fibre shaft and plastic blades. For portability, go for one that splits into four pieces.

Because packrafts are wider than kayaks, you’ll want a slightly longer paddle, something between 200 and 220cm depending on your height. I’m 170cm tall and use a 205cm-long paddle.

Inflation Most packrafts come with a lightweight inflation bag. These work great but can be time consuming to use. An electric pump makes airing up your packraft quick and easy. I use a rechargeable Kokopelli Feather Pump which weighs just 170g and does approximately 40 inflations per charge. Some hardware shops sell similar products designed for inflating camping beds. These will do the job too and may be more affordable. The only drawbacks are that they’re slightly heavier than an inflation bag, and that although they’re waterproof, like phones and cameras it’s best to keep them dry.

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DON’T PADDLE A RAPID TO SEE IF YOU CAN DO IT; PADDLE IT BECAUSE YOU KNOW YOU HAVE

THE SKILL TO SUCCEED.”

Clothing Now, what to wear? Drysuits are an excellent choice for packrafting as you can layer up beneath them depending on the temps, and at about one kilogram, they’re fairly light for carrying. You can also arrive at camp and be instantly in dry, comfy clothing as soon as you remove your drysuit—no rummaging through your gear for clothes, or peeling off sticky, wet layers. They are, however, expensive and a bit fragile. Wetsuits, on the other hand, are robust, and many people already own one for other sports. I’ve found wetsuits are fine on day trips and overnighters, especially when the weather is warm, but on longer trips it’s not much fun putting a clammy wetsuit on day after day; what’s more, they’re reasonably heavy and bulky to carry, even when dry. If you can afford it, I’d highly recommend a drysuit.

Safety Personal flotation devices (AKA PFDs or life jackets) and kayak helmets are a must in whitewater.

Like packrafts, they come in a range of weights and styles. Before purchasing, think about the kind of trips you’re most likely to do. If you’re aiming for burly rapids, day-tripping or just doing roadside park and play without much walking, go for the best in terms of safety and durability. If you’re planning to take your packraft on long walkabouts, then consider more lightweight options.

All paddlers should also carry a throw bag (a safety rope for throwing to swimmers in whitewater or recovering boats that are stuck on rocks or trees). Like PFDs and helmets, go for the highest safety rating matched with the type of trips you plan to do. For remote trips with a lot of carrying, there are lightweight, compact options.

SET YOURSELF UP FOR SUCCESS Paddling in whitewater is a skill progression; it’s not learned in a day. While it’s easier for a beginner to progress in a packraft than in a whitewater kayak, don’t rush. Each grade will teach you something new and will provide a different experience, no matter your skill level. Just enjoy the journey and move up to the next grade when you feel confident and safe. Some good advice I was given in my early kayaking days, but unfortunately sometimes ignored, was, “Don’t paddle a rapid to see if you can do it; paddle it because you know you have the skill to succeed.” If I’d taken that advice, I would have avoided some harrowing swims.

Building skills and confidence takes practice, so I recommend if you’re new to the river, start with a whitewater paddling course and/or join a local paddlesport club. Also do some river rescue training and practise it regularly to keep yourself and others safe on the water. The New Zealand

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT While more difficult to roll than a kayak, if you do swim, a packraft will float and will be an aid. You can get back in, too, even mid-rapid with practice Packrafts open up a world of possibilities; the Whataroa on the western South Island was once only the domain of fly-in (helicopter) paddlers Unlike whitewater kayaks, packrafts are especially comfortable and well suited for long river journeys Paddling a Grade 4+ rapid on the Whataroa River, Western South Island Alpacka’s bow bag is waterproof and great for storing sunscreen, lunch etc Lightweight pumps like Kokopelli’s Feather Pump are a good investment A throw bag (and the skills to use it) are essential on any whitewater trip

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Teamwork is dream work. Staying close and working together is what its all about.

Upper Grey River, Western South Island

Kayak School in Murchison runs packrafting courses as well as rescue training and their instruction is world-class. There are also a number of places in Australia and Tasmania that offer packrafting courses. Joining a club provides a good pool of experienced people to go paddling with. Clubs also often organise courses and social opportunities for their members.

Although I spent many years honing whitewater-kayaking skills and seeking out gnarly runs, these days I feel more at home in a packraft—the skillset gained in whitewater kayaking is extremely transferable. My partner, who always felt anxious in a kayak and never really got into it, now relaxes on the river and thoroughly enjoys packrafting, even in Grade 3 whitewater.

We both also enjoy the extra opportunities packrafting opens up because we can carry them almost anywhere. Last year, we hiked for two-and-a-half days and paddled out over four days. This section of river was previously only the domain of kayakers who helicoptered in and paddled out.

Another advantage of packrafts is the ability to carry gear inside them. On a multi-day whitewater kayaking trip, space inside the boat is at a premium, whereas packrafts with a T-zip hold a surprising amount of gear without any significant effects on the stability of the craft. In fact, weight in a packraft can increase its stability (within reason). If your raft has a T-zip, try to pack an even amount of gear in each side. Some boats come with special drybags shaped to fit perfectly inside them and clip into the internal space. This helps secure your gear from sliding around. Choose your tramping pack carefully as it will need to be foldable or the right size to fit through the T-zip when you swap from walking to paddling.

TEAMWORK IS DREAM WORK One of the greatest joys of river running is working together as a small team. Whether it’s whitewater rafting, kayaking, or packrafting, paddling at any grade is the art of linking eddies (areas of still water downriver of rocks etc) together.

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One key technique teams use to navigate safely through whitewater is ‘scout and plan’. Each time you come to a rapid, you have options: You can choose to catch an eddy at the top, hop out and scout from the bank, or you can catch an eddy where you can see the rapid and decide from your boat if it’s safe and what line you should take. The latter tends to work well in Grade 2-3 rivers where you have good visibility downstream, but in Grade 3+ and above, you’ll generally need to hop out and plan your line from the bank, as well as setting up safety measures like positioning a team member with a throw bag in case things turn to custard.

Once you’re through the rapid, pull into a good eddy at the bottom where you can easily see your mates. This helps you all to regroup and stay together, as well as giving you an opportunity to provide feedback to the rest of the team by giving paddle and hand signals.

These signals are universal among whitewater paddlers and can be learned on courses or from experienced paddlers.

WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? From the first time you dip your paddle into the water, you’ll be hooked on packrafting. I may be biased because I love whitewater, wilderness and adventurous journeys, but there are simply few sports that are more fun and accessible for beginners. Packrafting has opened up a world of possibilities, both for me as a kayaker, as well as for friends and family who I’ve watched start as beginners and take to it like a fish to proverbial water. Setting yourself up with the right equipment and training at the start is the key to progressing safely and having fun. Invest in the best equipment you can, seek out training in technique and safety early, take your time to gain experience, paddle with people who make you feel safe… and get ready for the adventure of a lifetime. W CONTRIBUTOR: Occasionally—very occasionally—photographer and caving diehard Neil Silverwood comes up for air, takes off his gumboots, and goes on a paddle near his home on the West Coast of NZ’s South Island.

Packraft in Tasmania Experience fun rapids, stunning gorge campsites, wildlife and great food on a three-day, all inclusive river trip with the adventure professionals Cradle Mountain Canyons

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A quick lowdown on Sydney

Kosciuszko NP

WALKS IN

KOSCIUSZKO NP Words John Chapman Photography John Chapman & James McCormack KOSCIUSZKO NP IS THE HIGHEST PARK IN THE COUNTRY, and it contains all of Australia’s 2,000m plus summits.

Despite its many peaks, the crest of the park is a series of mostly open rolling hills and meadows containing rocky outcrops with patches of snow gum forest adorning the slopes. But it’s far from all gentle, and, especially on the western fall of the Main Range, the relief can be huge; the vertical ascent from Geehi Flats to Mt Kosciuszko itself is, at 1,800m, the largest in Australia.

The park is huge (at 690,000ha, it’s the largest in NSW), and there are many bushwalks across the range. Alpine huts, most of them historic, can be found dotted throughout the park, and in summer, wildflowers are found in abundance. In winter the area is covered in a blanket of snow.

THE EASY

MAIN RANGE LOOP

19KM; 1-2 DAYS – EASY-MEDIUM In fine weather, the walk along the crest of the highest range in the country is relatively easy but nonetheless superb. Nearly the entire walk is above the treeline, and it features not just mountains but several beautiful lakes. Starting from Charlotte Pass, an old, closed road is followed to Mt Kosciuszko (2,228m). After a sidetrip that will you see standing atop Australia’s loftiest peak, you then loop northward on a maintained walking track along the range past Mt Northcote and Carruthers Peak, before descending to cross the Snowy River and climbing back to the start at Charlotte Pass.

While the circuit can be done as a long day walk, camping along the way allows extra time for sidetrips to climb the highest peaks in the country, with possible additions to the circuit including Mt Townsend, Lake Albina, the Sentinel, Mt Twynam and Blue Lake. But with the whole walk being through alpine grasslands, it’s basically possible to strike off to wherever takes your fancy.

THE CLASSIC

KIANDRA TO MT KOSCIUSZKO 106KM; 6-8 DAYS – EASY-MEDIUM

For many, the traverse of the park from the old goldfields near Kiandra through to the nation’s highest peak, Mt Kosciuszko, is an absolute classic trip. While much of it follows closed management tracks, a few variations are possible across untracked alpine grassland. The route passes several historic huts, although

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some have been destroyed by fires and are not yet replaced. The northern half follows management tracks through a large wilderness zone passing old goldfields. Halfway along is Mt Jagungal; in fine weather, it’s a must-do sidetrip. The southern half of the route follows either management trails or heads off-trail across grassland to Whites River Hut, then traverses the Main Range to Mt Kosciuszko. The trip can be shortened by descending from Whites River to Munyang Power Station.

THE CHALLENGING

HANNELS SPUR TO OLSENS LOOKOUT 22KM; 3-4 DAYS – HARD

Hannels Spur provides the longest vertical climb in the country, and when combined with the trackless descent of Lady Northcotes Canyon, the result is one of the country’s toughest bushwalks. The route starts from Dr Forbes Hut near the campground on Geehi Flats, from where a gruelling 1,500m climb leads you to the crest of the Main Range. Most groups overnight at Moira’s Flat on the way up; Wilkinsons Creek is another popular camp.

Once on the Main Range, you can take a 7km sidetrip to the summit of Kosciuszko itself, or you can continue straight to beautiful Lake Albina, which sits nestled in an alpine valley. You then descend the rocky creek bed of Lady Northcotes Canyon, passing a major waterfall to the rebuilt Opera House Hut. From the hut, follow Strzelecki Creek to the Geehi River, from where a steep scrubby climb leads to the road at Olsens Lookout. A car shuffle to Olsens Lookout done prior to commencing the walk will reduce road walking. (See Wild #174 for track notes on this exact walk.)T

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THE SURPRISING

COOLEMAN PLAIN & CLARKE GORGE 13KM; 1-2 DAYS – EASY-MEDIUM

While the dominant rock of Kosciuszko National Park is granite, in the north of the park, at Cooleman Creek, there is a region of limestone providing a very different and surprising alpine landscape. Limestone is porous, and it can dissolve, creating caves and underground streams. A circuit track follows the normally dry Cooleman Creek, passing several large caves that can be explored.

When the water does surface from a cave at Blue Waterholes, it heads downstream through the rugged cliffs of Clarke Gorge. A track passes through the steep-sided gorge. This is an area where you can both bushwalk and camp, or just explore the caves and gorge as day walks from car-based camping at Magpie Flat.

THE CULTURAL

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Overlooking Lake Albina and the Main Range’s western faces Lake Albina outlet looking towards Muellers Pass Clarke Gorge in Kosciuszko NP’s northern section The cheerful red paint of Valentines Hut has made it a Kosciuszko NP icon

HISTORIC HUTS

36km; 3-4 DAYS – MEDIUM Many of Australia’s historic alpine huts are located inside the Kosciuszko National Park. While some huts have been destroyed by bushfires, many others have been either saved from fires or have been rebuilt. Visiting these huts can feel like a step back in time.

The largest concentration of huts is found in the region north of the Munyang Power Station, from where good tracks head north passing the huts of Horse Camp, Whites River, Schlink Hilton and Valentines. Off-track walking across meadows then leads east to Mawsons Hut. From there, it’s possible to follow the Kerries to return to Schlink Hilton.

But a more interesting route follows an open valley to Tin Hut, from where a steep climb leads over Mt Gungartan (which at 2,068m is the highest mainland Australian mountain not on the Main Range) to Disappointment Spur Hut, ending with a wade across Munyang River to the power station. The huts are all different: Some were built for the Snowy Mountains Scheme, some by cattlemen, and one for the first winter crossing from Kiandra to Kosciuszko. (Check out Stefan De Montis’s photo essay ‘Huts of the Kosciuszko High Country’ in Wild #183 to see many of the huts mentioned above.)

CONTRIBUTOR: Legendary guidebook author John Chapman doesn’t just know the trails around the Australian Alps; he wrote literally a book about walking their entire length. The Australian Alps Walking Track guidebook is available at wildearth.com.au

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TRACK NOTES

VICTORIAN ALPS

THE BLUFF KING BILLIESMT CLEAR LOOP Words & Photography James McCormack

Melbourne

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QUICK FACTS Activity: Multi-day loop hike Location: Victorian Alps Distance: 52km one way Duration: 3 days (as described, but can be extended) When to go: Late spring to midsummer is best, though any time outside of winter is possible Difficulty: Medium (Grade 4) Permits required: None Car shuttle required: No, but if desired it can be done to shorten the walk

Rainfall (mm)

CLIMATE: MT BULLER (1,707M ASL) Temperature (C)

NEAR THE SOUTHWESTERN CORNER of Victoria’s sprawling but beautiful Alpine National Park lies some of Australia’s wildest and most beautiful country. Cragged peaks thrust towards the sky; alpine grasslands spread across high plateaus; and forests of gnarled snow gum shrawl the higher hills. In the valleys, meanwhile, there are forests of towering mountain ash and rushing rivers.

This three-day loop takes in a spectacular part of the region. Starting from the Jamieson River, you climb the Bluff—a serrated peak that punctures the horizon south of Mt Bulller—before heading across to a string of peaks including the King Billies, Mt Clear, Square Top, High Cone and the Nobs. And they’re just the peaks you actually climb; there are views across deep valleys to dozens more stunning peaks, including Mt Buller, Mt Magdala, Mt Speculation, Mt Buggery and the Crosscut Saw. The vistas here are simply superb.

And so are the sunsets. As rugged as the country is, many of the peaks here have summits that are capped by mini plateaus; camping on high here is not just feasible but easy, making access to dramatic spots for sunset viewing uncomplicated.

While it’s far from unknown country, it’s far from busy either; you can expect to have long stints on your own and to encounter few other parties, which is surprising given the quality of the walking here. Throw in the fact that on the loop there are two historic, character-filled cattlemens’ huts in the form of Bluff Hut and Lovicks Hut, and that a sizeable portion of the walk is on the iconic AAWT, and you have one of the best three-day loops you’ll find anywhere in Australia.

The Bluff

The view from Mt Clear

Tranquil walking through snow gums

Sunset view towards Mt McDonald and the Governor

WHEN TO GO Unless you own snowshoes, winter and early spring—when a heavy snowpack covers most of the route—are out. And late summer and early autumn, when water is difficult to source, aren’t ideal either.

The best time is October to mid-January, although this is entirely dependent on how soon the winter snows melt, and how quickly water dries up in the summer heat. (See ‘Access to Water’ section.)

GETTING THERE Cars are the only option for access. Drive to Mansfield and onto Merrijig; a few kilometres on, look for the Howqua Track turn off to the right. Even though it’s only just over 40km from here to the starting point at the Jamieson River North Branch, it’s a long, twisty, gravel drive to get there; allow about 1.5 hours.

Follow the Howqua Track to the Sheepyard Flats Campground, after which the road becomes Brocks Road. You stay on it for the next 27km, winding alongside the Howqua River before a long climb and then descent takes you to the Jamieson River Valley.

At the 27km mark, look for a junction with Low Saddle Road.

Turn right here; less than 100m on, there’s a campsite next to the Jamieson River North Branch where you can park your car.

OPTIONS The walk is described here as a 52km three-day loop, starting from the North Branch of the Jamieson River, heading up to the Bluff, then east across to the King Billies, before swinging south then west to climb across a string of peaks including Mt Clear, Square Top, High Cone and the Nobs, with one night spent near

Bluff Hut and the other atop Mt Clear. Some parties will find they need to add an extra day (or even two) to this schedule.

But there are many other options. There’s a profusion of great campsites, many with spectacular sunset views; tweaking the itinerary to take them in is definitely worth considering. Highly recommended campsites include the gap between the Bluff and Mt Eadley Stoney (with water being easily accessible here); Picture Point (more precisely, a spot nearby I’ve dubbed ‘Even More Picturesque Point’); the summit plateau of King Billy One; the southwestern edge of Mt Clear (Day Two’s suggested campsite); and the summit of the southwestern peak of the Nobs. Chesters Yard also has reliable water if you find getting from Bluff Hut to Mt Clear in a day to be a little too far, although it has no views.

But another great (and adventurous) option is to extend the walk’s tail end—making it a four-day outing—by continuing along the AAWT (Australian Alps Walking Track) up to the summit of Mt McDonald (where there is spectacular camping nearby). From there, branch NNW from the AAWT to descend the spur that will get you down to Low Saddle Rd and back to your vehicle. Some maps show a track on this spur north from Mt McDonald, but be aware that (at the time of writing) it hasn’t been cleared in years and is overgrown (although apparently there are plans to clear the track in the near future). Also, be aware there are many rock bands to negotiate, raising the level of difficulty. You’ll need to make a sidetrip for water, too. (See ‘Access to Water’ section.)

Lastly, there are car shuffling options; eg cutting out the Refrigerator Gap Track and Brocks Rd sections at the walk’s start and end.

Seasonal road closures (Jun-Nov) may impact car shuffles, though.

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TRACK NOTES

THE BLUFF KING BILLIES MT CLEAR LOOP

Bl

uf

f

fL

King Billy Tree

in

Water

Bluff Hut

B lu

ff T

k

(1725m)

King Billy 1

(1696m)

(1684m)

King Billy Tk

Day 1 Camp ar Cl e

(1684m)

Water Chesters Yard

Water

Water

B ro ck sR d

Rd

Mt McDonald (1620m)

N

A AW T

ies

m

Ja

Suggested route Parking for car shuffle

s ob

A AW T N ob

Tk

Water

Day 2 Camp

2.5

sT

W AA

k

The Nobs

NB: All water sources marked are subject to seasons and are not guaranteed 0

Mt Clear Tk

R

Mt Clear (1695m)

Possible extension

Tk

ck s

No

Brocks Rd

bs

B ro

rth

ch

No

START/ FINISH

on

r ive

an Br

AA W

T

(1726m)

Mt Magdala

King Billy 2

Mt Lovick

Mt Eadley Stoney

The Bluff

T

(1716m)

Lovicks Hut

d kR

Parking for car shuffle (closed June-Nov)

Rd

W AA

Mt

To Mansfield

Li

nk

uf

(1635m)

Even More Picturesque Point

Tk

Bl

Picture Point

(1495m)

5

7.5

T

Square Top (1587m)

High Cone (1488m)

10KM Map data © OpenStreetMap

FEES/COSTS/PERMITS No permits or fees are necessary to do this walk.

DIFFICULTY & NAVIGATION Overall, this route would be described as being perhaps halfway between moderate and hard. While much of the walk is relatively level, and is on easy-walking fire roads or management trails, it starts and ends with a big climb and descent, and on the final day in particular there are plenty of shorter but sharp and sometimes loose ascents and descents. What’s more, because of the general lack of water (see next section), you’ll often be carrying a lot of it, enough to see you through the second night and through the following day. It makes for a heavy pack.

The other factor upping the difficulty is navigation. Notionally, the entire loop is either on vehicular tracks or on walking trails.

Most notably, nearly 20km (almost 40%) of the walk is on the AAWT, and although it’s one of the country’s premier long-distance walking routes, it’s often exactly that—a route, and not a track. Such is the case with the section of the AAWT you’ll encounter on this walk; not only has there been no track construction per se, much of it (at the time of writing, at least) is heavily overgrown to the point the track is non-existent. Markers are more often than not rare, too; you’ll frequently go long

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distances without seeing one; you can’t rely on them for navigation. In short, you’ll need some navigational skills for the walk.

That said, the sections where nav skills are required tend to be on obvious ridges, or in the case of the plateau surrounding Square Top, bordered by a clear drop off that you can just trace alongside. Also, one tip is to look for old sawn branches lying on the ground; they’re evidence of route clearing done in years past.

ACCESS TO WATER It may seem surprising that access to water might be an issue here, given the rushing waters running through the valleys. But most of those creeks and rivers are far, far below, and the ridgelines themselves are high and dry. The last day, in particular, is dry, and you’re unlikely to find any water until you’re nearly back to the car. (Note that if you decide to extend the walk by returning via Mt McDonald, water is usually available on Day Three by making a side trip a kilometre or so down the Nobs Track after its western split with the AAWT.) The most reliable water on the actual route is near Bluff Hut and Chesters Yard. Depending on the time of year (there’s much more water the closer you are to the end of snowmelt), other small creeks and soaks will have water, too. Around the King Billies is one such place, but there are other areas too.

Alpine NP, VICTORIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Heading towards Mt Eadley Stoney from the Bluff, it feels like you’re on the roof of Victoria While AAWT markers aren’t always thick on the ground, you can sometimes find blazes to point the way The spacious interior of historic Lovicks Hut The King Billy Tree is likely the hugest, fattest, multi-trunked snow gum you’ve ever seen. Its significance is such that it’s been registered by the National Trust

THE WALK IN SECTIONS DAY 1

Jamieson River to Bluff Hut 16km; 1,030m ascent/320m descent; approx 5-9 hours

From the bridge over the Jamieson River’s North Branch, head back west for 70m before turning hard right and onto Brocks Rd. Walk along it, listening to the beautiful sounds of rushing water floating through the stands of huge mountain ash.

After 700m, turn hard left and commence the long climb up the Refrigerator Gap Track towards Refrigerator Gap itself.

You’ll gain more than 500m vertical on the way, but that sounds worse than the climb actually is; the track is well-graded, and the ascent to Refrigerator Gap may prove easier than expected.

Roughly 10km up the track, you reach a pleasant, grassed area, signalling you’re at the gap; it’s a good spot for lunch. At the T-intersection, turn right onto the Bluff Link Rd. After following it for 800m, you’ll see a signpost indicating the track up to the Bluff itself. Turn right onto the track (the first actual walking track of the trip; it’s been management trails and roads to this point), and begin the next phase of your climb to the summit of the Bluff, which lies roughly 400m vertical above you.

Unlike the climb to Refrigerator Gap, the climb here is hard, with the track becoming increasingly steep, and increasingly rough, too.

But the views, meanwhile, only become increasingly better. Soon, you’re above the treeline, with absolutely fantastic views across to Mts Buller and Stirling to the north, and Mts Speculation, Koonika and Cobbler to the east. (Check out this issue’s cover shot; that’s on the climb.)

After 1.2km, you reach the summit ridge. Swing ENE now; the grassy ridge soon broadens and flattens out, and there’s no sense of a spine. Instead, it feels like you’re on the roof of Victoria. About 300m along the ridge, you’ll reach The Bluff’s summit cairn. It’s an amazing spot to be at sunset.

You now continue along the treeless ridge towards Mt Eadley Stoney, descending gently for nearly 2km until you reach the gap between the two peaks. Camping somewhere around here is a great option; there’s water nearby, as are high points where you can view the sunset from. Assuming, however, that you’re heading to historic Bluff Hut for the night to camp, it’s another 2km of walking, with you only really entering the trees as you near the hut.

BTW, be aware of thieving critters if you leave anything in the hut.

There’s a water tank at the hut, but if you head directly across the road opposite the hut, you’ll find a foot pad that leads you 100m down to a small spring with good water.

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Alpine NP, VICTORIA

DAY 2

Bluff Hut to Mt Clear 19km; 760m ascent/560m descent; approx 5-9 hours

Having done a whack of climbing yesterday, your legs will be probably happy to know that this second day, while longer, involves far less climbing. For the most part, it’s undulating with no major hills until right at the end of the day when you head to the summit of Mt Clear.

Start by heading east along the Bluff Track. Depending on the time of year, you may be sharing the track (which is only open to vehicles between November and June) with the odd 4WD-er, but as you meander through the snow gums, it’s still a pleasant enough walk. A few hundred metres in, there’s a grassy flat off to the left that gives great views to the north, especially at sunset.

A further 2.3km up the track, there’s another grassy area, again with views to the north. But then a few hundred metres further on, there’s an opening with views this time to the south, where you can see the peaks you’ll soon be climbing: Mt Clear, Square Top, the Nobs and (possibly) Mt McDonald.

Not long after, you reach Mt Lovick. The peak, at least from the track, seems to be little more than an unremarkable rise in the ridge line, but the snow gums here are the best of the trip so far: undamaged by fire, and big and fat and gnarled. A short side track leads to the summit of Mt Lovick itself, but the views aren’t any better than what you’ve just seen.

Continuing on, it’s roughly another 3km to the junction with the Cairn Creek Track. Stick to the left, and after a few hundred metres you arrive at Lovicks Hut (roughly 6.5km in total from Bluff Hut). It’s a large, beautiful hut, and a great spot for a break.

There are some stock dams here which you could use for water, but they’re a bit mucky; you’d definitely want a filter.

After 1.5km of on-again, off-again climbing, you reach the top of Helicopter Spur. But while there are good views here, you’re better off keeping the camera tucked away for another kilometre, where you’ll reach Picture Point; it gets its name for a reason. It’s a short sidetrack off the main route, with a sign indicating where to turn off. After 30-40m, the trees abruptly drop away, and the views unfold. You can head now a couple of hundred metres to the left to get to Picture Point, but if you instead head right for a hundred or so metres, you’ll arrive at a spot I’ve dubbed ‘Even More Picturesque Point’ where the views across the valley to the ragged and jagged peaks of the north are even better. It also has the advantage of—if you continue to follow the footpad for another 100m or so past the viewpoint—bringing you back to the main track at a minimal distance penalty. (BTW, if you’ve carried enough water, Even More Picturesque Point would make a fine campsite.)

Right near where you rejoin the main track, keep your eyes out to the left for the King Billy Tree, likely the hugest, fattest,

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multi-trunked snowgum you’ve ever seen. It’s estimated to be up to 500 years old, and has been classified by the National Trust.

A short distance on, the AAWT (which comes in from the north) joins the main track, and you’ll be sticking on it for the rest of the walk save the final few kilometres. Almost immediately, though, the AAWT branches off to the left. The junction is signposted, and if you don’t feel like climbing over King Billy One and Two, you can just stick on the Bluff Track (which heads right) and rejoin the AAWT later. If you’re sticking, however, to the suggested route (and the AAWT), then branch left here; it’s a gentle climb through open forest, but the track quickly becomes indistinct and the markers soon stop. Nonetheless, follow your nose or the faint track for roughly 500m before you hit a final steep pinch and then pop out on a lovely, pocket-sized plateau that takes you to the summit of King Billy One, where there’s a huge cairn. Again, the views are spectacular, as is the camping (presuming, as ever, that you’ve brought water).

From here, continue along the ridgeline towards King Billy Two, after which you descend steeply. Don’t expect to see any semblance of a track here, nor any markers, and if you’re going to encounter snow anywhere along this entire walk, this is the place it’s most likely to happen. You may have to wade through heath here, too.

After a few hundred metres you’ll rejoin the Bluff Track. It’s technically a five-way junction here, with the Bluff Track to the hard right, Brocks Rd to the middle right, King Billy Track to the left, and the AAWT straight ahead on what now becomes the Mt Clear Track. The latter is the one you want.

It’s relatively level walking through snow gums here, trending vaguely downhill. After roughly 3km, a creek crosses the track. This is Chesters Yard. Be aware that many, if not most, online maps show Chesters Yard as being a kilometre further on in an open but dry paddock; this explains why there are many online reports of Chesters Yard not having water.

Regardless of Chesters Yard’s true location, you want to fill up with water here, enough to see you through the rest of today, plus the evening, plus tomorrow as well. The creek is small where it crosses the track, but if you head just a little downstream, the flow dramatically improves.

Nearly a kilometre further on, you reach the open clearing surrounding the ‘other’ Chesters Yard, and then another kilometre past that, you hit a Y-intersection in the track. Both soon meet up, but you’ll want to take the left-hand option up a short but steep climb. And then one more kilometre on, keep your eyes out for a foot pad/track branching off to the left (the Mt Clear Track you’ve been walking on since the King Billies has all been 4WD/double track); there’s a small AAWT marker here, but it’s low to the ground and five metres in and (with the vegetation at the time of writing) difficult to spot.

Turning left here, you begin the only real climb of the day—the ascent to Mt Clear. It’s not huge, but the climb is sharp enough to take the wind out of you. Be aware that the ‘track’ is more of a footpad than anything else, and switchbacks are rare. You climb through alternating bands of rock then grass, rock then grass. Eventually you pop out at what you probably hoped was going to be the summit, only to see you’re only on a terrace, and that the actual summit lies across the plateau nearly a kilometre away. Still, you’ve done nearly all the climbing; it’s a gentle meander through snow gums until you reach the grassy summit plateau, where there’s a huge cairn.

There are many places to camp, here. The best spot for sunset viewing, however, is to the WSW of the summit cairn (see the image above); make your way through the snow gums for roughly 100m until they clear and suddenly the world drops away beneath you to reveal an amazing vista. It’s possible to camp here, but level sites are limited; you may find it easier to camp near the summit and simply walk down to catch the sunset.

IMAGE - THIS PAGE It’s hard to imagine there are better places to camp in Australia than atop Mt Clear IMAGES - OPPOSITE PAGE A happy but rare occurrence found on the approach to Mt Clear: an AAWT marker As impressive as the summit cairn on King Billy One is, the views to the northwest—of Mt Magdala, Mt Buggery, and the Crosscut Saw— are more impressive still Snow gums at sunrise on Mt Clear

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Alpine NP, VICTORIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Reaching the summit of High Cone on Day Three Sunset on the Nobs. Although this is not one of the two ‘suggested’ campsites on the loop, it’s still definitely worthwhile considering camping here Yes, this is the ‘track’. Lack of regular clearing on the AAWT means you’ll still need navigation skills

DAY 3

Mt Clear to Jamieson River 17km; 370m ascent/ 1,260m descent; approx 5-8 hours

Depending on where you’ve camped, you’ll want to make your way around to the ridge that heads due south from Mt Clear, where you’ll pick up the footpad. After a steep but short descent, you’ll hit a saddle (you’re about 1km into the day at this point), and then begin the ascent to Square Top. As you begin to get close to the top, but before you reach the summit, keep your eyes out as the footpad veers to the right—AAWT markers are rare, and the track often indistinct. It helps to look for blazes cut into tree trunks here, or to look for occasional branches lying on the ground with their ends clearly sawn, which serve as evidence of past track clearing. Sidle around to the west of Square Top without ever reaching its summit, and then after 500m or so, begin heading southwest while staying at roughly the same elevation.

Much of the bush on the Square Top plateau has been fire-affected. The regrowth becomes increasingly thick, and, at the time of writing at least, the track becomes difficult to follow. But not impossible; although it’s not far off bush-bashing, you can still sniff out the rough route. None of this is helped by the fact that AAWT markers are virtually non-existent here (again, at the time of writing, at least). At worst, if you’re struggling navigationally, stay on the western edge of the Square Top plateau while still heading southwest, and you won’t go too far wrong.

Eventually, you pop out at the plateau’s southwestern tip, where the trees break and you get some great views, especially towards High Cone, the Nobs, and Mt McDonald. A short, loose descent ensues, after which you follow the ridge almost westerly for roughly 300m before then turning abruptly left. Head south now, through thick bush and on an overgrown, barely discernible track. Stay on the spine of the ridge, and make your way down to a grassy saddle.

From here, you begin climbing through open forest to High Cone, following a foot pad that’s easier to follow than those you’ve been recently encountering. What’s more, although the climb is

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steep, the ascent feels easier than expected; maybe it’s because the increasingly fabulous views take your mind off the pain.

At the summit, you meet (quite surprisingly given the cramped area) a vehicle track coming from the other direction; follow it down for 50m but then head off to the right, along the ridgeline heading due west. After 300m, you reach a grassy section where you turn hard left. The track descends, starting almost due south but over the next 800m curving around so that you begin heading west, and then northwest, where you soon hit a saddle. From here the final climb of the walk commences as you ascend to the Nobs.

The track heads up through bands of trees and open slopes, becoming ever steeper as the ridge it’s on narrows to the point it nearly becomes a spine. There are, of course, a couple of false summits, and there’s even some little bits of low-grade scrambling. When you finally reach the summit of the first Nob, though, it’s disappointingly surrounded by trees. But you can strike out off-track for a few hundred metres to get to the second Nob, where the views are phenomenal, as is the camping. Ditch your pack before heading over, as you’ll be returning here.

Once back at the first Nob, you now descend steeply to the north. After roughly 600m, you reach the Nobs Track, which is open to 4WDs. Unless you’re heading onto Mt McDonald (in which case you keep heading straight), turn right here. The track stays level for 500m before it plunges steeply to the valley; those with bad knees will appreciate trekking poles. After about 2km of descending, you reach an intersection, with the Mt Clear Spur Rd coming in from the right. There’s a creek here where you can fill up your water bottles for the final 5.5km walk back to the car.

Head left, continuing on the Nobs Track (some maps show this section as the Clear Creek Track); after 2km you’ll hit Brocks Rd. Turn left here for an unusually pleasant stretch of road walking through cathedral columns of towering mountain ash, made even more pleasant by the knowledge that your car, and a pizza at Mansfield, is not far way. W James McCormack is the editor of Wild Magazine.

GEAR TEST

THE NORTH FACE

VECTIV ENDURIS 3 TRAIL RUNNING SHOE

Cushioned but responsive.

S

HOE REVIEWS ARE HARD: So much is subjective, from how they fit, to cushioning, to the sole. What

you like depends on your feet, the type of trails you run, and where you fit on the trade-off of cushioning versus being able to feel the ground.

The other hard thing about reviewing shoes is that you soon forget what others feel like: The new ones

The odd couple: Megan’s footwear while testing the Vectiv Enduris 3

quickly feel normal, and you can no longer really compare them. So I decided to wear one old and one new shoe—the Hoka Mafate Speed 4 on my right, the Vectiv on my left—and compare them directly. (While I really like my Hokas, I’ve done hundreds of kays in them; meanwhile, the Vectivs are bouncy and new, but I did my best…)

NEED TO KNOW Intended use: General trail-running Weight (as tested): 240g Stack height: 31mm/25mm RRP: $250 More info: thenorthface.com.au

What did I discover, except that you get strange looks

ing them, in the best way. They’re supportive and firm

is thicker—occasionally I’ll clip a shoe when I don’t lift

enough to hold my foot securely, give great spring, and

it high enough—and they feel like they’d handle any-

they don’t rub. In fact, they fit (me at least) perfectly:

thing, while the Vectivs are stickier on rock. I can also

Shoes often rub on the widest bit of my inner foot (a

feel the ground better through the Vectivs (which I like),

common complaint), but not with these, nor on my toes.

and they’re slightly more comfortable, holding my foot

They’re bouncy, light and cushioned, but I can still feel

snuggly without rubbing. When I weighed them, the

the ground enough to react.

Vectiv Enduris 3 is 15g lighter (240 vs 255g)—completely

pean sizing in The North Face shoe than all others I’ve

but thus far, the Vectivs have held up: despite the fabric

worn—I’m a US 9 in both shoes, which translates into EU

being light ripstop—almost see-through—it looks and

40 for the Vectiv, but 41 1/3 (!) for the Hokas.

feels tough.

MEGAN HOLBECK

breathable that you simply squeeze the air out so that your dry bag can—instead of being filled with air like a balloon—

An old favourite made even better.

Summit’s versions, and I sing their praises to all and sundry:

S

compress down to easily fit in your pack.

Now, I love my eVent dry bags; I own a couple of Sea to In fact, in the first iteration of Wild’s ‘Unsung Heroes’, that

OMETIMES, IT’S THE SEEMINGLY simple prod-

ran in Issue #182, the product I simply had to talk about was

ucts that revolutionise outdoor gear. I believe such is

these bags. Honestly, Sea To Summit’s eVent compression

the case with the humble dry bag. It simply seems hard to

bag is, particularly for high-lofted cool-weather sleeping

remember there was a time that they didn’t exist, a time

bags, such a no brainer that I can’t understand why every

when—in order to keep gear dry—adventurers wrapped

single adventurer out there doesn’t own one.

After a decade of use, however, my 13L one recently

that, before plastic and synthetics were ubiquitous, when

began showing enough wear and tear that it was time to

keeping gear dry during extended wet weather was well-

replace it. And this year, Sea to Summit revamped its lineup

nigh impossible.

of drybags, including its Evac Compression Dry Bag. It’s

The dry bag changed all that. Stuff your gear in, roll up

WILD

highly breathable but waterproof membranes like eVent, so

SEA TO SUMMIT

everything in multiple garbage bags, or a time before

136

One odd thing is that I’m a whole size smaller in Euro-

unnoticeable in use. The Hokas have lasted really well,

DRY BAG REVAMP

Big River Dry Bag

box—not a blister—and you almost forget you’re wear-

when running around with odd shoes? The Hokas grip

NEWS

Evac Compression Dry Bag

Having hedged my bets nicely, I’ll tell you what I think: These shoes are great. They’re comfy right from the

kept all the good stuff—the eVent membrane; the robust,

the top, snap the buckle closed, and voila; your gear is

reinforced double-stitched seams—but has improved upon

guaranteed to stay dry. Simple. But then there have been

it. The main body’s 70D nylon—which has a 10,000mm

further advances in dry bag construction; take the use of

waterhead, BTW—is now recycled and Bluesign approved,

GEAR

TEST

SCARPA

MESCALITO

TRK PLANET GTX BOOT

Super tough. Environmentally conscious.

THERE’S A BIT TO UNPACK about Scarpa’s new offering in the bushwalking-boot department, the Mescalito TRK Planet GTX, not the least of which is the name (what a mouthful!). But don’t let this bamboozle you; there’s a lot to love about them. And what better place to start than with their most appealing feature: their ‘greenness’.

With the Mescalito TRK Planet GTX, Scarpa’s gone all-out in its goal of manufacturing the most sustainable trekking boot, hence—or, at least, I think—the name’s reference to the ‘planet’. Not one, not two, but all three of the major construction components (the upper, inner, and sole) comprise a large percentage of recycled product: The Perspair upper contains 45% recycled materials; the Vibram Ecostep Evo tread incorporates 30% re-used rubber; even the Bluesign-certified lining is made from 98% recycled Gore-Tex! Upon unboxing, this was evident in the sole; you can literally see small chunks of re-used rubber in its speckled appearance.

Importantly, the large amount of recycled fabrics doesn’t impede strength or durability. On a recent mission in the Victorian Alps, my Mescalitos withstood all my attempts to smash, bash, scrape and slice the bits out of them; the Perspair upper, which contains various types of yarn, is especially abrasion resistant. It feels amaz-

My Mescalitos

withstood all my attempts to smash, bash, scrape and slice them.”

ingly tough, like it’s kevlar, or the type of material some YouTuber would make a video about seeing whether or not they could cut it. The upper is then reinforced by a strong rand, which seamlessly blends into a tough toe box.

And while, relative to Scarpa’s full-leather SL Active boots, the Vibram Ecostep Evo tread is moderately lugged, it’s still seemingly much tougher and hard-wearing than my other boots’ soles. I expect to get some serious use out of them before needing a re-sole. And, what’s more, at 670g per boot, they’re surprisingly light for their strength.

In terms of comfort, the Mescalito TRK Planet GTX was able to accommodate my relatively broad feet, and

NEED TO KNOW Intended use: Multi-day bushwalking

where other similar boots can feel like walking on concrete, not so with the Mescalitos. On the downside, though,

Waterproof: Yes, 3L Gore-tex-lined

for me at least, a pressure point formed on the crease line. It’s possibly just because the upper is soooo tough.

Sole: Vibram

Careful lacing reduced the problem, but it didn’t eliminate it entirely, and while I wouldn’t say it was a deal breaker for me, nor would I say I won’t keep wearing them, it’s not ideal. That said, there’s every chance they just need

Weight - pair (as tested): 1340g (42)

more breaking in (I’ve worn them about ten days), and I doubt everyone will experience this hassle.

RRP: $549.95

Environmentally conscious, durable, and strikingly orange (an azure blue option is available too), the Mescalito TRK Planet GTX is a worthy addition to any bushwalker’s footwear collection.

More info: scarpa.com

RYAN HANSEN

and it also has a non-PFC DWR finish. And as opposed to my old one, it now has an oval base to make packing more efficient.

But Sea To Summit didn’t just revamp its Evac Compression Dry Bag; 2023 saw the entire dry bag line being overhauled. From its standard Lightweight dry bags to its superlight Ultra-sil dry bags to its heavy-duty Big River range with its 420D nylon, multiple lash points and 30,000mm waterhead, improvements such as recycled fabrics, field-replaceable buckles, and non-PFC DWR were made (although not every product received all those upgrades).

Additions to the range that I particularly like are the simple snap clip and T-bar attachments on all Lightweight and Big River dry bags. This allows you to easily attach Sea To Summit’s Dry Bag Sling, which you throw over your shoulder to convert the dry bag into a satchel of sorts. It’s not just handy for the beach, or for short forays into wet environments, it’s convenient if you’re walking and you want to ditch your heavy pack to head off on a side trip, but want to ensure your gear stays dry.

In short, Sea To Summit’s already great dry-bag range is now better than ever. To learn more, head to seatosummit.com.au JAMES MCCORMACK

The Dry Bag Sling allows overthe-shoulder carrying of Lightweight and Big River Dry bags

SUMMER 2023

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GEAR REVIEW

SUUNTO

VERTICAL SOLAR CANYON GPS WATCH

The best battery life and GPS on offer.

I

T’S FUNNY HOW THINGS CHANGE. For most of my life, getting outdoors meant I eschewed technology

entirely. Wasn’t adventure meant to be an escape from gadgetry? From electronics? From the world out there?

Slowly, however, my attitude has evolved, although

49mm is a great size for a watch face

NEED TO KNOW Weight (as tested): 71g Barometric altitude: Yes GPS Bands: GPS,

GLONASS, GALILEO, QZSS, BEIDOU

138

The watch uses five simultaneous satellite-track-

it took a recent event to comprehend how fully that

ing systems—GPS, GLONASS, GALILEO, QZSS and

change has been. I was in the Victorian High Country,

BEIDOU—connecting with up to 32 satellites. The

when my GPS watch, a high-end Garmin Fenix 7, was

result? No device I’d tried so far, including the Fenix

bizarrely stolen (it’s a long story; if you haven’t already,

7, had ever successfully managed to stay locked onto

read my Ed’s Letter in the front of this issue); in the ensu-

GPS signals on the heavily forested rainforest trails

ing weeks, I felt well, naked. I’d not only come to rely on

where I live; the Vertical, conversely, has never lost

my watch; my life felt measurably better for having it.

them. In the past, if I paused, every other device has

It hadn’t only been Garmin devices I’d owned in the

struggled to re-establish a connection; the Vertical,

past; I’d had a Coros Apex as well. But one brand I’d not

meanwhile, has happily jumped back into action.

owned was Suunto. Although a major player, it had—for

Always. I’ve been seriously impressed. Suunto claims

a few years apparently, or so the reviews went—fallen

the watch has the highest GPS accuracy on the mar-

a little off the pace, so I’d looked elsewhere. But earlier

ket; from what I’ve experienced, I can’t argue with that.

this year, Suunto released the Vertical, a model that has

Despite the watch’s stellar battery life and GPS

created buzz for both its insane battery life and its excel-

preformance, that’s not to say everything about the

lent GPS performance. Given these are by far the most

Suunto Vertical Titanium Solar Canyon is positive; I’ve

important attributes in a watch for me—I want a device

found a few niggles, all related to software. The ability

for multi-day bushwalks, and (because I live near rain-

to tweak the main watch face is limited compared

forest, and run and walk in it all the time) I need a device

to other brands; there’s no option to even get your

with a GPS that can deal with heavy forest cover—I

heart rate showing on the main face. You also can’t

decided to give the Suunto Vertical a go; I’m glad I did.

auto-scroll during an activity, nor have a custom or 0/

The Vertical comes in two models: a stainless-steel

kmh auto-pause speed (2km/h is the minimum, but if

one, retailing for $999; and a titanium one—AKA the

you’re climbing or bushbashing, it’s easy to go slower

Vertical Titanium Solar Canyon, the one I got—which

than that). Almost unforgivably, there’s no option for

retails for $1299. The latter is a few grams lighter, 74g

giving a total elapsed time if you’ve manually paused

vs 86g, but that’s not the key reason for forking out the

the activity. C’mon Suunto! You’ve created one of the

extra bucks; it’s the battery life. While the stainless-steel

most amazing watches I’ve ever experienced, then

model has a superb battery—it can go 60 hours while

let it be compromised by easily fixable complaints

tracking on its highest level of GPS accuracy, and up

that could be vamoosed in a single update.

to 500 hours on lower levels—solar charging on the

Here are a few more nuts and bolts things. It has a

titanium model gives it the best battery life of any GPS

nice, large 49mm watch face. It comes standard with

watch on the market. Period. You can, presuming you

the best watch strap of any device I’ve owned. It has all

Max connected satellites: 32

get enough sun, go 85 hours on a single charge, all at

the fitness-tracking functions (sleep, VO2 max, blood

the highest level of accuracy tracking. On lower levels

oxygenation etc) you’d expect from a flagship watch,

Digital compass: Yes

of GPS accuracy, you can go up to 30 days. And if all you

and then some. It has 95 sport modes. A flashlight

Strava and sports communities compatible: Yes

want is the time, you can go a year. That’s right—a year!

option. A barometric altimeter. It gives storm alerts,

However, this 85-hour battery life comes with some

too (it predicted two humdingers for me last week).

Battery times during activity with GPS (claimed): Performance: 85h Endurance: 140h Ultra: 280h Tour: 30d

caveats. Firstly, you need sun. Without it, you’re back

Another real positive is the ability to load free—that’s

to the still-impressive 60 hours offered by the stain-

right, free—offline maps onto the device for navigation

less-steel model. But the second caveat is that I haven’t

and routing. I’ve loved this feature.

Downloadable maps: Yes, free

quite hit those numbers. I haven’t been a long way off,

In sum, yes, this watch has a few niggles. And

and I’ve gone by far the longest I’ve ever gone between

whether stainless steel or titanium, no, it is not cheap.

charges, but in the time I’ve had the watch—admittedly

(If you’re after bang for buck, Suunto’s recently

not ages—I haven’t quite got there.

released Race—with its AMOLED screen and high-end

But here’s one other key thing: When you hear

features for just $719, a price point that’s shaken the

Waterproof: Yes, to 100m

impressive battery-life numbers being touted by some

market—is an excellent option). But if you’re like me,

RRP: $1299

other watches, that’s always at lower levels of GPS accu-

and the two key attributes you desire are the best GPS

More info: suunto.com

racy. But Suunto’s claimed 85 hours, however, is using its

and battery performance available, it’s very, very hard

highest-level ‘Performance’ mode GPS, which has offered

to look past the Suunto Vertical Titanium Solar Canyon.

by far the best GPS accuracy I’ve ever experienced.

JAMES MCCORMACK

WILD

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