No Turning Back

The 650km Australian Alpine Walking Track is one of Australia’s greatest hiking challenges. But a Queenslander and a South Australian, neither coming from a state noted for snowy weather, decided they needed a greater test still, so they set off to do it in winter. On the way, they dealt with avalanches, frostbite, swollen rivers, whiteouts, ice bullets, dangerous tumbles and the theft of gear…by a rat.

By REID MARSHALL

We were in over our heads. Here we were, on the final climb to Magdala’s summit, and two options presented themselves: Either go directly over the massive cornice, or traverse around and ascend the southern (and wind-slab avalanche-prone) aspect. It was a daunting choice, one that could mean our lives. Despite the risk, we chose the latter. Not a single step felt secure. One misplaced kick of a boot, or one crack of the ice underneath, could spell the end of me. Or us. We thought the real danger would be at the Crosscut Saw, not here. But now here I was, torn between scurrying to the summit to minimise my time in the danger zone, or taking my time and being surefooted. I chose the latter. In any case, I had gone too far to turn back.

After reaching the summit, a wave of relief washed over me. But it was short lived. I looked back at Chippy, who’d begun following in my footsteps. And that’s when it started, a rumble so deep it shook my very being: an avalanche.

THE AUSTRALIAN ALPS WALKING TRACK (AAWT) is a long-distance walking trail through the alpine areas of Victoria, NSW, and the ACT. This 650km journey starts in Walhalla, Victoria and finishes in Tharwa, ACT, just south of Canberra. Ascending Australia’s tallest peaks, the AAWT is a popular thru- or section hike in warmer months. But having hiked significantly longer trails—Chippy had done the US’s Continental Divide Trail and I’d done the Appalachian Trail—we didn’t think a summer thru-hike would be enough of a challenge. So, with me (AKA Wombat) being a Queenslander used to July warmth, and with Chippy being from snowless South Australia, we decided to up the ante: We would do the traverse in winter.

The first sign we were woefully unprepared came before we’d even set foot on the trail. We’d decided to first undertake an avalanche-awareness course at Jindabyne. The fun part of the course involved rescuing fake people buried under the snow using our beacons, probes, and shovels. The less fun bit was learning that the risks posed by avalanches and exposure in the Australian High Country were far greater than we thought.

We set off regardless, spending the next couple of days dropping off buckets of food and supplies at predetermined points along the trail. Without a slew of funds, most of my meals consisted of noodles, peanut butter wraps, and instant oats. Chippy, on the other hand, had a dehydrator, and went all out with curries, stews, and even hummus.

With months of planning, and huge time and money invested into gear, the avalanche course, and food drops, we were all agog to start trekking.

WE WEREN’T EVEN FIFTEEN MINUTES into our month-long journey when the sound of bagpipes flooded the valley alongside the morning light. The ‘Walhalla Bagpiper’ had just started playing his melancholic tunes atop the cliffs overlooking the town, and he sent us off on our traverse with a smile and a wink. Everything seemed to fit into place, and all sense of civilisation and human existence faded rapidly. I felt on top of the world. Neither of us, however, had ever carried such elephantine packs. Not only did a winter trip demand heavier and more technical gear (like a four-season tent, snow shovel, etc), but a winter road closure forced us to haul enough food for the first nine days. Our joints were already beginning to strain.

By Day Two, we were completely alone, and verdant forests had given way to snowy mountaintops. With snowshoes on, we began trudging up and down mountains from sunrise to sunset. But the window between the two (sunrise and sunset, that is) was limited: 7:30AM to 5:00PM. The lack of daylight, coupled with our new aches and pains, saw us falling behind our anticipated pace. We didn’t know whether we had enough food to make it to our first resupply point at Mt Hotham.

On our sixth day, we made a desperate push to ascend Mt Clear after sunset. The snow-covered peak had loomed in the distance all day; climbing it now under torchlight seemed surreal. The sky was ablaze with the lights from billions of stars, and the lights from Mt Buller Ski Resort shone in the distance. Although the AAWT doesn’t pass through Buller, knowing that people and help weren’t far away was reassuring.

Descending Mt Clear was a different story. With each downward step, unbearable pain began radiating outwards from my right knee. I couldn’t take a step without succumbing to tears. Too exposed to set up camp, I tried sliding down the mountain on my butt instead. I was moderately successful in this, and we finally reached a flat, snow-covered road. I started setting up the tent; Chippy went off in the dark to find water.

After what seemed to me like an hour, I heard them yelling in the distance. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Were they lost? When they made it back to the tent, we melted snow instead, and I now realised that my insulated bottle was missing—it must have fallen out of my pack when I was sliding down the mountain.

The next morning was one of the most picturesque and perilous days of our lives. We woke at 4AM, knowing we’d need as much daylight as possible to safely traverse the Crosscut Saw. We started snowshoeing along snowy 4WD roads, and then descended to the base of Mt Magdala. The snow a few days prior had dumped here. Even in snowshoes, we sunk knee-deep with every step. The ascent was toilsome. Meanwhile, the terrain became ever icier, and crampons became necessary.

Then my ears perked up: the low frequencies of an avalanche. It was distant but alarming. My heart was in my throat. The recent sunny weather following a colossal snow dump had made southern aspects here prone to wind-slab avalanches. Behind schedule and already rationing food, we had a question to answer: Do we continue up Mt Magdala and traverse the Crosscut Saw with high avalanche danger, or do we turn around and try to make it back to civilisation before we run out of food?

We had no choice but to push on. But Chippy and I were terrified. Even when we were both safely at Magdala’s summit, the ongoing rumbles of crashing ice and snow on the slopes nearby was unnerving. We needed a backup plan fast. There was a hut before the Crosscut Saw, but we’d still need to traverse more avalanche-prone terrain to get there. Setting up our four-season tent on the summit wouldn’t be ideal, either. And there was no way we were going back the way we came.

After consulting backcountry condition reports, and after trying to take in the spectacular scenery, we made a decision. On the map, it appeared the approach to Mt Howitt was low-angle enough to avoid a wind-slab avalanche, and so we decided to head to the Vallejo Gantner Hut just beyond.

The hut was a godsend. The fire kept us warm and dried our sodden gear, and we escaped the elements for the first time in a week. That afternoon, we planned alternate routes to bypass the avalanche-prone terrain. The limiting factor was the amount of food we had left; waiting out the high avalanche danger for more than two days wasn’t an option.

It wasn’t until the stars illuminated the sky again that I remembered what we’d seen from atop Mt Clear—the lights of

Sunrise after leaving Edmonson Hut near Falls Creek

Wombat and Chippy atop Mt McDonald

Where’s the next trail marker?

Wombat with nine days worth of food

Taking in morning rays at Vallejo Gantner Hut

Mt Buller Resort. And after scouring our topo maps, we discovered a route that could get us there. We trod carefully down from the stark ridgeline, following snow-covered trails that were immensely overgrown and taxing, but it was far preferable to being buried in the snow. It took two days to reach the resort, which was in peak ski season. Seeing so many people was overwhelming, but comforting too.

AFTER WAITING OUT THE HORRENDOUS CONDITIONS, resupplying our food, and getting a replacement water bottle, we were back on trail. The alpine crossing from Hotham to Falls Creek was up next, and it was breathtaking. Mt Feathertop dominated the immediate landscape, with rolling snowcloaked mountains and ridgelines fading into the distance. With minimal avalanche danger and low-angle snowshoeing, we could finally enjoy the scenery.

On our first night back on trail, I lost my headlamp at Dibbins Hut. I could have sworn that I had it right next to my sleeping mat when I drifted off to sleep. I searched my sleeping bag. No luck. So I asked Chippy to do the same. We were already getting on each other’s nerves, and they didn’t want to go through their stuff (again!) to find something that wasn’t there. Then I noticed we weren’t the only creatures seeking shelter here; rat droppings littered the hut floor. But even if a rat could physically drag a headlamp, why would it? (Ed: You’re right; I can’t see the point in a rat stealing one. The strap wouldn’t fit its tiny head, for starters.) But after a 30-minute search, Chippy found a hole in the very corner of the hut just wide enough for a rat. And lodged in this hole, with bite marks all over it, was the headlamp. It must have been too wide. Fortunately, it was just reachable with a human arm.

Everyone has to get a photo at Valentine Hut

Seamans Hut saved our lives

Oldfields Hut on a snow-less day near the finish line

This Alpine Track marker needs a haircut

After Falls Creek, we encountered our first major water crossing—Big River. Knowing how cold the water would be, we’d brought along water booties. Well, one pair of them, the idea being that, after crossing, one of us would throw them back to the other. But the rivers were often too wide to risk throwing them, so—having carried them all this way—Chippy wore the booties.

Later, I would learn that this would take a toll on me, potentially with lifelong effects. In the Jagungal Wilderness, after reaching Valentine Hut on skis, we would need to cross the wide and deep Valentine Creek, followed shortly after by the Geehi River, and then two more subsequent creeks. Trying to balance a full winter pack through belly-deep water—clad in just undies but with skis submerged in the river, causing immense drag— made each crossing slow. Each one felt like an agonising eternity, with water so cold it felt like searing hotness branded my skin. My feet were discoloured, and this time, the numbness didn’t fade away like it had before. I was frostbitten.

That was all in the future, though. Before then, there were more huts, rats, and icy rivers to cross, but Chippy and I were getting stronger daily. Our aches and pains faded, and we adapted to the cold and to our snowshoes. Speaking of which, we’d made the right decision to use them instead of skis so far; we’d barely been able to make it 100m in most places without having to heave ourselves over a fallen branch or traverse a patch of boulders jutting out of the snow. Nevertheless, from Dead Horse Gap, we planned to cross-country ski as far as we could. The terrain was supposedly ideal for skiing.

Impeccable timing had us hitching into Jindabyne just before an onslaught of 100mm of rain. We waited out the worst of it before picking up our skis and then skinning up to South Rams

Head. No one else was out that day, and for good reason. The rain had soaked through the snow and subsequently frozen. Chippy and I fell over more times than I could count. And that was before the blizzard set in. Full whiteout conditions. One-hundred-kayan-hour winds. Bullets of ice, belting into us so hard we were left with bruises. It took us six hours to reach Mt Kosciuszko, having to either shelter or dig our feet in every time a big gust came through. We had no choice but to bail to Seamans Hut.

Then it happened: a misplaced step. I began tumbling down Etheridge Ridge. Nothing I jammed into the ice would stick. I kept gaining speed, hurtling towards my inevitable death. Meanwhile, all I could think about was how I couldn’t feel my toes.

A hundred metres went by in an instant. I hurtled towards a ledge with seemingly terminal velocity, and I braced myself. Death seemed inevitable. But then, fortunately, those same icy pellets that had left me bruised had accumulated here, and the air between all the pellets made the collision akin to landing on a feathery bed. I got up, dusted myself off, and made my way back up to the ridgeline towering overhead. Chippy was waiting. “I looked up,” they said, “and you weren’t there anymore. At first I thought you’d boosted ahead.” It took us another hour to make the final kilometre to the hut.

That wasn’t the last of our falling, though, nor the last of our bruises. Skiing through the Jagungal Wilderness, the frigid mornings hardened the snow, and we tumbled frequently. It gradually became easier and more painless to just use our snowshoes on the slick ice. As we inched ever closer to Tharwa, the snow receded; we ditched the skis, and returned to regular old hiking shoes for the first time since beginning our journey.

Despite still not being able to feel my toes, the snowless terrain—and our desire to both finish and to gorge ourselves on enormous amounts of junk food—allowed us to hike huge distances; we knocked off multiple fifty-kay days in a row. On our last few days, we chanced upon dozens of brumbies, upon bridges inundated due to snowmelt, and upon an interminable amount of macropods.

As we hobbled down the final mountain to the Namadgi Visitor Centre at Tharwa, just south of Canberra, heavy rain obscured my tears. The near-death experiences, the extreme cold, the booming of avalanches, the numb toes, the bruised hips, the unusable knee—these were all forgotten. Instead, the tears came forth from Chippy’s motivating words, from the hardships we’d overcome, from the unforgettable landscapes, the pure joy of just being in nature, and, most importantly, from the connection I’d built to the trail and our Australian Alps. W

CONTRIBUTOR: Queensland-based guidebook author and obscene optimist Reid ‘Wombat’ Marshall can’t get rid of the mountains or the rats.