Wild Edition 189

#189

SPRING 2023

FEAR. AN HONEST REVIEW

PROFILE: MELINDA OOGJES & PAUL PRITCHARD • AVENTURING WITH KIDS • GOULBURN RIVER NP • PHYTOPHTHORA • SKIING VIC'S RAZORBACK RIDGE • NEPAL TREKKING CHANGES • NZ SPRING SKI TRIPS • TRACK NOTES: TASSIE'S GORDON RIVER RD • PLATYPUS REINTRODUCTION • UNSUNG HEROES

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A DV EN T UR E - CO N S ERVAT I O N - WIL D ER NE S S

EXPLORING GILES MASSIF PHOTO ESSAY: THE OVERLAND TRACK THE BEST WORST TRIP EVER MTB-ING IN LAPLAND

ADVENTURE LIKE WE DO!

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CONTENTS ISSUE #189 SPRING 2023

92 Goulburn River Gold Lessons learnt in one of NSW’s lesser known national parks 110

80 REGULARS

CONSERVATION

NONE OF THE ABOVE FEATURES

Lapland’s Sixth Season

Readers’ Letters 12 Editor’s Letter 14 Gallery 20 Columns 28 Getting Started: Adventuring with Kids 54 WILD Shot 146 Green Pages 34 Gordonvale’s Tenth Birthday 38 Battling Phytophthora 40 Platypuses Return to the Royal 44 Opinion: Solo (Wo)man 48 Opinion: Nepal Trekking 50 Profile: Melinda Oogjes & Paul Pritchard 56 Photo Essay: Overland Track in Spring 62 Fear: An Honest Review 70 MTB-ing in Lapland’s Sixth Season 80 Lessons Learnt in Goulburn River NP 92 Razorback Ridge Reflections 100 Walking to K2 Base Camp 110 Exploring the Giles Massif 118

WILD BUNCH

Spring Ski Trips out of Wanaka 126

TRACK NOTES

Day Walks on Tassie’s Gordon River Rd 128

GEAR

Unsung Heroes 136 Talk and Tests 138 Support Our Supporters 140

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The Best Worst Trip Ever

62 Photo Essay: The OT in Spring Tasmania’s iconic Overland Track is one of Australia’s most popular multiday walks, and for good reason. In early spring, though, when Tassie’s Central Highlands are dark and moody, you can have the track to yourself. Well, almost.

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Fear: An Honest Review

Adventure may be synonymous with the outdoors, but the real game is not so much outside us as within.

And few things dominate our internal monologues more than being scared.

Anzhela Malysheva gives fear a lyrical, thoughtful and brave appraisal.

128 Track Notes: Five Day Walks on Tassie’s Gordon River Rd Walking in Tassie’s Southwest doesn’t necessarily have to involve an epic. The Gordon River Road gives access to a grab bag of awesome and accessible day walks that are so close to Hobart.

Fitzroy, K2, Cho Oyu, Denali, Aconcagua, Kilimanjaro, Kosciuszko, El Capitan, Ama Dablam, Annapurna, Everest, Minto Peak ...where will you take it?

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

MOUNTAINDESIGNS.COM

LETTERS

[ Letter of the Issue ]

THERE AT THE RIGHT TIME (Re: Wild #188’s cover story ‘The Chase’, written by Tim Van der Kroght about his team’s three-week effort to find Australia’s best backcountry lines.)

Hi James, It was Tuesday September 20, 2022. Peak snow depth and a perfectly calm spring day provided what may have been 2022’s ‘day of the season’ on Victoria’s Mt Feathertop. Canadian split-boarder Tim Van der

MORE KIND WORDS

QUICK THOUGHTS

Dear Wild, I am currently travelling through Western Australia with my partner, two kids (aged five and two) and two dogs. I picked up your Winter Issue (#188) at some random newsagent at a town named Onslow. I immediately fell in love when I read the Letter from the Editor—I’m nearly finished my psychology degree (I do it online), and I’m obsessed with fear and comfort zones and how our time in nature is affected by it.

I don’t think I’ve read a magazine for years, but after buying the issue, I could see why it caught my attention. Tim Macartney-Snape’s article on making fear a friend was terrific, and the romanticism I felt in Matthew Crompton’s article made me think it was written just for me; I deleted all social media off my phone along with about thirty other useless apps. And even though I find so many beautiful places from social media, James Tugwell’s article ‘Leave No [Online] Trace’ made me stop and think how the adventure of the journey to a destination is getting lost.

I can truly say that every single article in the magazine has affected me in some way. I’m already itching to get the next issue. And thank you for putting a bunch of truly wild stuff in one spot.

And also thanks to James for telling the story of a failed campfire-spaghetti cook up—you made a pretty funny campfire story to tell my boys. But now they want a spaghetti explosion!

On the decision to cease all native forest logging in Victoria by the end of 2023, six years ahead of schedule: “Best news of the year!” HP “An historic day for native forests in Victoria, thanks to the tireless work of many thousands of forest activists over many years..” JP

Sarha Johnstone Clifton Springs, VIC

CLOSE TO HOME

Kroght (pictured) capitalised on the moment, laying down a beautiful line (among others) on one of Australia’s prized mountain faces, Avalanche Gully.

I was lucky enough to witness the descent, and was awestruck by Tim’s (and Chris Wills’) riding that day... it was a right place, right time kind of show!

David Dunlop Brunswick, VIC

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Hi Wild, The cover shot of your Winter Issue caught my eye.

Idly, I flicked through the first few pages assuming it was taken in a far-flung powder heaven overseas… only to discover this was our very own Feathertop!!

What a thrill (and the closest I’ve been to handon-heart pride) to see the Victorian Alps portrayed in the big-line perspective typically reserved for our mountainous friends in the Northern Hemisphere.

My stoke levels went through the roof. A couple of friends and I just about flew up Mt McKay the next day in search of some backcountry lines of our own.

Thanks for reminding me that the freeride action is right here in our backyard!

Chloe Kerlidis Tawonga, VIC

SEND US YOUR LETTERS TO WIN! Each Letter of the Issue wins a piece of quality outdoor kit. They’ll also, like David 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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FOUNDER: Chris Baxter OAM CONTRIBUTORS: Selina Spowart, Nathan McNeil, Catherine Lawson, Jane Rawson, Jessica Miller, Tracey Hawke, Craig Pearce, Anzhela Malysheva, Dylan Robinson, Ross Hanan, Chris Armstrong, Craig Fardell, Thomas Vialletet, Martin Bissig, Gerhard Czerner, Johan Augustin, Stan Meissner, Grant Dixon, Emily Murray

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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.

Wild is a registered trademark; the use of the name is prohibited. All material copyright Adventure Entertainment Pty Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without obtaining the publisher’s written consent. Wild attempts to verify advertising, track notes, route descriptions, maps and other information, but cannot be held responsible for erroneous, incomplete or misleading material. Articles represent the views of the authors and not the publishers.

Wild acknowledges and shows respect for the Traditional Custodians of Australia and Aotearoa, and Elders past, present and emerging.

THE

COVER

SHOT

By Daygin Prescott

Truly full circle. This shot and the accompanying article are pretty symbolic for me. Anzhela (Ange) was the instructor on a multi-pitch guiding course I was doing in the Blue Mountains. At the start of the year, I wrote some big goals for myself; the last one I had to tick off was getting an image published in an outdoor magazine. I began to tell everyone about my goal, because not only do you need to create an epic image—you need a story to go with it.

I mentioned this to Ange one day during the course, and she told me of her aspiration to write an article. On a day off, we headed out to climb Disco Non-Stop Party (25) at Pierces Pass to shoot some images…and here we are.

The location is wild—a sharp overhanging arête, in the middle of a giant amphitheatre-like valley, with a huge waterfall just to the side. You’ve got over 200m of air below you. As you rappel in, the exposure of the route really begins to make itself known. Fear in a place like this is certainly warranted.

You can read Anzhela’s accompanying story ‘Fear. An Honest Review’ starting on p70.

FROM THE EDITOR

NATURAL DIVERSITY

T

he other day, I was bushbashing off-trail through rainforest near my home. It was lush and green.

The smooth, clean trunks of coachwoods punched upwards. Vines looped from the sky. Ferns smothered the ground; the boulders were smeared with moss. The rain, meanwhile, was thumping down, and fat leeches sucked blood from my ankles. And what I was thinking about was…fish. Not the freshwater type that might swim up the clear, rushing creek I was walking next to; instead, I was thinking of the ocean variety, and what’s more, I was specifically thinking of fish from the other side of the planet.

You see, the rainjacket I was wearing, the one that was keeping me dry in this downpour, was once a South American fishing net. I wondered how many fish it had dragged in before it was recycled and transformed into the yarn this jacket was made from. It seemed to me extremely cool—if not a little surreal—to think about that, the fact that my jacket (which is reviewed in this very issue, BTW; see p138) had literally caught fish, likely thousands of them. I pictured them shimmering and silver-scaled, writhing and flapping en masse as they were dumped into the fishing boat’s hold.

But that wasn’t all I was thinking about in the midst of this lush greenery. I was also thinking about why I like deserts.

And mountains. And rollicking grasslands. And why I like, especially, the rainforest. In truth, this affinity for rainforest had been dominating my thoughts lately, ever since, roughly eight months ago, my wife and I finally decided to jump for the first time into the crazy, overheated, overpriced fray that is the

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For 16 years I lived 150m from the Coke sign at Sydney’s Kings Cross; now I live 100m from this

Australian property market. The house we bought is right next to rainforest; that for me, was one of the big factors influencing the decision to purchase.

We’d been living in the area for five years (having spent sixteen years prior living in one of Australia’s most densely populated areas, Sydney’s Kings Cross, literally within 150m of the famed Coke sign), so I’d had rainforest nearby for a while now; what I’d discovered in that time was just how important rainforest lushness is to me. In fact, when my wife and I thought about leaving the city five years earlier, we first looked at moving north to Brooklyn on the Hawkesbury River. It’s lovely up there: The water glitters on sunny days, and the sandstone cliffs above the water glow orange at sunset. But I quickly realised I could never move there; for me, the bush there was simply too dry. The ground seemed hard and rocky and sandy; too many of the plants were spiky and tough.

Now, I am not saying there is no beauty to be found in Australia’s dry sclerophyll forests like those around the Hawkesbury; I’m saying merely that rainforests sing to me more. I have, of course, considered the fact that there is likely an atavistic element to this, that the very fecundity of the rainforest signifies potential life and growth and sustenance. But then again, I am almost equally drawn to areas that are seemingly inimical to life, such as high mountains and deserts and the inky depths of canyons. The dramatic paucity of vegetation in those places seems to be part of their beauty.

The thing is, we each have our own sometimes inexplicable likes or dislikes for certain natural landscapes. I know,

for instance, people—and I’m talking about nature-loving, outdoorsy folk—who hate my beloved rainforest. It’s too dark, they say. Too enclosed. Too stifling. Too wet and muddy. And it has—and here they have a point—those fricken leeches, as well. Give me, they say, a bright, airy, light-filled eucalypt forest any day.

In short, whether you’re talking coastlines, rivers, cliffs, mountains, plains, forests, oceans, deserts, jungles—the list goes on—we react to them all differently.

It was an aspect left out of the dialogue during the COVID lockdowns. While it was often discussed that we had collectively, as a society, realised that getting into nature was important for us, ‘nature’ was inevitably lumped together. Nature meant anywhere outdoors, with no differentiation between what going to the desert might do for us psychologically as opposed to visiting a rainforest or a mountain or an empty, long beach. In short, left out of the discussion was the fact that different landscapes have different emotional impacts, not only between individuals, but within individuals as well.

I don’t know that I really have a point with all of this. I guess, if anything, it’s merely to celebrate natural diversity. Getting outdoors anywhere is good, of course, but what makes it even better is the fact we have—if funds and time are not prohibitive—the freedom to go to those landscapes that offer the deepest emotional impacts for us. Take advantage of this. Go afield. Go to meaningful places, and don’t stick close to home if it’s merely because of laziness that you do so. And if you come to the rainforest, rejoice in its abundance.

Just watch out for those damn leeches.

JAMES MCCORMACK

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GALLERY

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Corn snow conditions let Janina Kuzma rip full-speed turns on the classic ski mountaineering Northeast Face of Receveur Peak, Westland/Tai Poutini National Park, New Zealand. Glaciers on the South Island’s West Coast are amazing spring skiing destinations, with awesome views of the Tasman Sea. (Ed: Also check out Tom’s guide to spring touring round Wānaka, starting p126 of this issue)

BY THOMAS VIALLETET

Fujifilm X-T3, XF 10-24mm, f8, 1/400, ISO 160

SPRING 2023

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Spring is usually a good time for packrafting in Tasmania as smaller rivers can have decent flows, neither too scratchy nor too intimidating. But it’s a fine balance. Such rivers flowing from the mountains can be steep in places and have gorges, chasms or falls that you would not want too much water in to negotiate. Mark Oates struck it right on this day on the Dove River.

by GRANT DIXON

Sony 6600, 16-55mm f2.8 G, f5.6, 1/1250, ISO 800

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It was cold, the middle of winter, and Brad Graham was just a few attempts away from sending his dream line above Mt Buffalo Gorge. It was such a great experience to witness curiosity turn to passion, and, eventually, a high level of skill. It was a realisation of a dream: a beautiful and exposed line that overlooks almost 1000m of air above the valley floor. Magic.

by STAN MEISSNER

Olympus OM-D E-M5 II, M12-40mm f/2.8, f14, 1/30, ISO 200

SPRING 2023

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GALLERY

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Opting for high camps often involves a fine balance of risk vs reward. In this case, at Mt Bogong, the threat posed by gale-force winds was almost—almost—enough to force us into retreat. The sight of another nearby tent being absolutely blasted made us appreciate our surprisingly protected, albeit very slopey, campsite below Castor Outcrop. And the reward: a dazzling light show overlooking the layers upon layers of mountains.

BY RYAN HANSEN

Sony A7RII, 16-35mm f4, f8, 1/500, ISO 250

SPRING 2023

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Columns: WILD THINGS @meganholbeck

[MEGAN HOLBECK]

www.meganholbeck.com

LESSONS FROM NATURE From the scientist, the artist, the spiritualist, and me.

I

’m amazed by naturalists: the way they can identify birds, plants and animals, and provide explanation, wonder and insight, seems to me like a particularly useful type of magic. It’s one I’m trying to learn by consciously paying attention, but god is it slow.

In January, my parents gave me Field Guide to the Birds of Australia. It’s a new edition of the book they took on a threemonth loop of the country, spotting 90 species in 100 days. This gift was meaningful and useful, both a portal and a prompt. It was my chance.

I headed off for a long run in Murramarang National Park to embrace my inner twitcher, returning to tick off five species with great flourish. I ignored Dad’s comment that they were the easy ones— herons, rosellas, cockatoos—and later paused lunch to investigate the small bird flitting around the table. “A common sparrow,” I announced sheepishly.

Six months later and the kids have named individual birds that visit our deck—Yandi the cockatoo, Ben Smith the kookaburra—and we pay more attention to flocks overhead and chirping in trees.

On walks we’ve seen cormorants dive and emerge with fish; eagles plunge for prey.

To summarise, we like birds, but we don’t know much about them.

In contrast, Leila Jeffreys knows a lot.

A Sydney-based photographic artist and activist, she takes gorgeous, luminous portraits and videos of birds. As part of Sydney’s Vivid festival, she hosted a discussion titled ‘What we can learn from nature’. Her budgies flew in the foyer of the Australian Museum, while the theatre was full of galahs and cockatoos bathing in glorious, close-up detail.

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The event was wonderful, with hundreds of people packing a huge room to discuss nature, its wonders and teachings. It was designed to explore three different perspectives—the scientist’s, the spiritualist’s, and the artist’s—attracting diverse viewpoints and audiences.

Ecologist and author Tim Low talked about how nature is all around us. Even in cities, we’re surrounded by its beauty and drama; on nature strips and on the way to the bus, when we look up and down in

IF ENOUGH PEOPLE OPEN LITTLE WINDOWS INTO CARING AND

THEN TAKE ACTION AND AMPLIFY, WE MAY

PREVENT THE APOCALYPSE YET.”

suburban backyards. We just need to pay attention, look and learn.

Spiritual teacher David Gandelman, visiting from America, said nature provides the answers if you slow down and listen. A tree shows how to be grounded; a cloudy sky demonstrates the fleeting nature of thought. By connecting to nature, we can help save it and ourselves, he said, paraphrasing Carl Jung: “The apocalypse we’re heading for is not inevitable if enough people do their inner work.”

Offering the artist’s perspective, Leila talked of how nature makes us better people, giving back energy and joy, teaching us how to see, appreciate and highlight the right things. Fixing the world

starts with fixing us, because healthy humans care about a healthy planet, and they take action and amplify voices to produce change.

Leila had just returned from eleven days on Macquarie Island, and described turning a corner to see thousands of king penguins on a beach. She sat down and they surrounded her, quizzically examining her camera gear; she cried with joy.

This triggered a memory from when I worked at Wild 15-odd years ago. I was hunched over the light table, looking at slides from Macquarie Island. In among the seals and penguins were images of what looked like tiny, ruined cattle yards, as well as old metal cauldrons with ramps leading to their top. The photographer explained that in the late 1800s, penguins were herded into the yards, then made to follow each other (and their natural curiosity) into the pot, where they were boiled down for lamp oil—a pint a penguin. (I have forgotten the details, but not my horror at the awfulness of humans.)

The island has been a wildlife reserve for almost a century, and people now go there to study its creatures and to marvel (and occasionally cry with joy). And cities today host huge festivals exploring humanity’s connection to nature, where diverse groups of people gather to share and amplify their love of the world.

My ‘lesson from nature’ is really just a hope: that although there are now so many humans, crowded like penguins on a beach, perhaps we’re beginning to head in the right direction. If enough people open little windows into caring (through talks, bird books, whatever), and then take action and amplify, we may prevent the apocalypse yet.

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Columns: OUTSIDE WITH TIM [TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE]

LIGHT UP MY WORLD For most of human history, heading into the night meant heading into darkness. The ongoing revolution in headlamp technology has changed that.

I

grew up with no electricity. It was in rural Tanzania; neither the countryside nor the homes we lived in had power, and at night, we depended on kerosene lamps to extend the day. The brightest were pressure lamps, which required tedious pre-heating to light.

Fully primed and pressurised, their rareearth-coated mantles glowed as bright as a miniature sun. Away from the spread of these mini suns, however, a cloudy night with no moon was truly dark. If the night was a clear one, starlight let my young eyes see enough to distinguish shapes against the sky, and lighter objects appeared ghostly against darker ones.

Tropical twilight being so fleeting, I would too often find myself caught out, finding my way home after sunset, occasionally stumbling and sometimes bumping into the unseen. Unexplained sounds would set my imagination running towards the sinister, usually in the guise of a leopard. Torches were a prized possession that I had a fascination with, but their use was curbed by the expense and limited availability of batteries.

After moving continents, to ‘developed’ Australia, and then taking up bushwalking in my mid-teens, light out in the bush was provided by campfire and candles.

Usually one or two people in the party carried a torch, however, but even then, watching the torch light dim to a dull orange as the batteries drained was a common sight.

I can remember when outdoor shops started carrying headlamps. They were fiddly, unreliable and heavy, and I could never justify the cost of the investment.

Consequently, I had my fair share of

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darkness falling when we were way short of camp, and—so I could stumble in the right direction back to camp or the car— I’d navigate by setting a compass course with a match or candle, or by trying to see the horizon as a reference.

Things changed when better designed headlamps started appearing in shops, and when we all seemed to have more money to spend on gear. Battery life, however, was always a limiting factor. If you can recall warming drained batteries in front of the fire or a liquid-fuel stove, or fumbling in the dark to change a broken incandescent bulb, you’re part of the

I REMEMBER WHEN OUTDOOR SHOPS STARTED CARRYING HEADLAMPS. THEY WERE

FIDDLY, UNRELIABLE AND HEAVY.”

‘headlamp revolution’ generation, and you no doubt have your own stories to tell of flat batteries, blown bulbs, or faulty wires and connections.

Probably the worst place I’ve ever had to change a set of batteries was on the steep and icy snow slope leading towards the gully at the top of the great couloir at around 8600m on Everest’s north face. The terrain was unfamiliar, as we’d ascended a different way to avoid deep shade. Between the three of us, I had the sole headlamp, which was crucial in picking the safest line to downclimb before reaching a rock step that we would have to abseil down.

Facing into the slope, endlessly kicking front points into frozen snow, I found the repetitive movement wasn’t helpful in keeping my oxygen-starved brain from wandering off on illogical tangents. Only the pool of light cast by my headlamp—a clear reminder that below us lay a deep and sucking void to be descended with the utmost care— helped keep my mind focussed.

Suddenly, everything went dark.

With their life shortened by the cold, the alkaline batteries had expired. I had four spare ones in a zippered pocket in anticipation of this, but even in the best of circumstances, changing them was a fiddly process. Up there in the dark, the air temperature well below minus thirty—with an annoyingly drifting mind and two sets of mittens and gloves to avoid dropping, not to mention the batteries which had to be inserted one by one with the correct polarity—made the pit stop a slow and challenging process.

Ultimately, I was successful, and we were able to safely descend, reaching our tent in the early hours of the morning.

Years on, around the turn of the century, the headlamp revolution happened with a meteoric rise in terms of brightness, ‘burn time’, and the speed of evolution of LED headlamps. Today, like so many electronic devices, headlamps are ubiquitous, affordable and completely taken for granted as an essential piece of gear.

Gone are the days when it was difficult navigating terrain after dark. The modern night has less mystery and is perhaps less adventurous, but it’s also less of an inconvenience…unless, of course, you’ve forgotten to carry fresh batteries.

TIM MARKLOWSKI MOUNTAIN GUIDE

JOURNEY 1884

TACKLE THE ALTITUDE WITH ATTITUDE AND APTITUDE Embodying the spirit of mountains and trails but just as happy on urban adventures, this watch takes you wherever you want to go.

FROM THE MAKERS OF THE ORIGINAL SWISS ARMY KNIFE™ ESTABLISHED 1884

Columns: OF MOUTHS & MONIES [DAN SLATER]

DOUBLE DUTY Having tried half-heartedly a while back to go UL (that’s ultralight, for those in biz), Dan decides to buckle down and give it a real go.

The results? Let’s just say he didn’t quite succeed.

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ay back in Issue #182 I wrote a column on going ultralight, in which I mentioned lighterpack.com—a simple website designed to help hikers minimise their carry weight by itemising and categorising every little thing that would be in their pack. I trialled the system for an overnight hike, and while it was an interesting experiment and all, for such a short trip I didn’t really put my heart and soul into it. This year, however, I will be putting myself in a position where shaving grams could make the difference between success and failure.

In December 2022, I decided to hike the length of California’s Sierra Nevada mountains—an 800km stroll. (Ed: If you want to learn more about this fantastic range, Wild ran a destination piece on it just two issues ago, in #187). I would have six months to prepare, and to fully enter the mindset of the American UL thru-hiker. I wanted to reduce my base weight—the sum total of everything I’d carry on my back (excluding food and water)—to 10kg. That was my absolute limit, my cut-off point, the event horizon beyond which I would not travel. Many thru-hikers walk thousands of kilometres (thousands!) with base weights of half that. I couldn’t fathom how, but I took a deep dive into their world to find out.

Despite being little more than a fancy calculator interface, lighterpack.com was a very useful tool, and I embraced it wholeheartedly. I began by inputting the weights of all the gear I’d take if I left tomorrow, and then began researching how the gram gremlins got their weights below

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4.5kg. Complicating my effort was the fact it was a particularly high snow year.

‘The Big Three’ are your pack, shelter and sleep system. I had what I thought was a pretty lightweight single-person tent (1.2kg). On the other hand, A ZPacks Duplex—made of Dyneema Composite Fabric and pitched using trekking poles— would be 700g lighter and roomier into the bargain. However, the cheapest one I could find second hand was $700.

That’s $1 per 1g saving, a ratio which

THE TRULY ENLIGHTENED ONES USE A COUPLE OF OLD BREAD BAGS INSTEAD, BUT CLEARLY

I’M JUST NOT THAT HARDCORE.”

somehow seemed to hold across many of the upgrades I looked into, be it footwear, sleep system or spork. A global UL pricing conspiracy? Maybe.

Anyway, I splurged on the tent before moving on to smaller and ever more insignificant weight savings. I swapped my mummy sleeping bag for a quilt, thereby saving the weight of the down that would be squashed beneath my body and therefore useless. I left my water bottles at home and bought a $2 Smartwater bottle, a disposable filtered-water brand available at any grocery store in the US, and favoured by seemingly every thru-hiker in the country. I integrated my toothpaste needs with

Dr Bronner’s all-purpose miracle soap, a bit minty but bearable. I ditched my boots in favour of trail runners, but succumbed to the lure of dry feet by taking waterproof socks for days of snow tramping. The truly enlightened ones use a couple of old bread bags instead, but clearly I’m just not that hardcore.

The mandatory bearproof canister set me back 1.2kg (ouch!) but I had a secret weapon—the Aarn Bodypack with its balance pockets. Though heavier than the Osprey Levity I already owned, the benefit of having a few kg on my front balancing the load on my back and effectively disappearing, vastly outweighed (pun intended) the additional 87g. I forked out, although the 1:1 cost/weight ratio definitely didn’t hold true in this case! Then I jettisoned all non-essentials. Towel?

Nope. Fleece? Negative. Kindle—don’t be ridiculous. Camp slippers though? I caved in the end.

So I scrimped and saved, but still couldn’t get down to 10kg, mainly due to one category—photography. My mirrorless camera and telephoto lens together crippled me to the tune of 1,366g. But hey, I’m a writer who has to provide images to accompany his articles, and I haven’t yet given up completely and become a phone photographer (although this might be the perfect time to do so!).

In the end, I started with an 11.5kg base weight. So much for my event horizon. Lighterpack.com had served its purpose, and could help me no longer.

Now it was up to me to load up and haul out. Unless I could find a website called carrymypackforme.com?

WHEREVER LIFE TAKES YOU,

TAKE THIS PLB.

GPS PERSONAL LOCATOR BEACON MT610G Introducing the Australian Made 406MHz GPS Personal Locator Beacon from GME, the MT610G. The MT610G is a super-compact, lightweight PLB, offering an impressive 7-year battery life and a 6-year warranty.

Featuring an integrated 72 channel GPS receiver, high-intensity LEDs, IP68 Ingress Protection, and an inherently buoyant design, the MT610G is designed to meet and exceed the latest international standards, ensuring enhanced peace of mind for the outdoor adventurer.

gme.net.au/plb

CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country.

EDITED BY MAYA DARBY

DEMOCRACY UNDER ATTACK Around the nation, governments are aiming to silence environmentalists by radically changing protest laws.

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round Australia, we’re seeing an unprecedented attack on people’s right to peaceful protest, a cornerstone democratic freedom that has protected some of our most iconic landscapes.

Without citizens exercising those rights, Tasmania’s Franklin River would have been dammed, and Australia’s World Heritage-listed Gondwanan Rainforests would have been logged. But in the past 18 months, maximum fines for certain types of peaceful protest in some states increased ten-fold and prison terms trebled, and these draconian new laws, fines and prison terms are effectively stripping citizens of these rights.

Last year, for instance, NSW introduced twoyear jail terms and increased maximum fines from $2,200 to $22,000 for anyone damaging, disrupting or obstructing major bridges, tunnels, roads, railways stations, ports. Victoria did something similar, introducing new offences and doubling penalties and prison terms for “hindering, obstructing, or interfering” with timber-harvesting operations. Forest protesters there now face fines up to $23,000 and 12-months in prison.

Tasmania raised maximum fines to $48,750—a 10-fold increase—for trespass by an organisation.

For individuals, fines for certain types of trespass increased three-fold to $14,625, and maximum prison terms trebled to 18 months. Then earlier this year, South Australia passed new laws increasing the penalty for obstructing, “directly or indirectly”, free passage of a public place by a staggering 66 times, from $750 to $50,000. It also added a three-month jail term.

These changes are alarming, but legislation targeting environmental defenders isn’t the only way to “crack down” on peaceful protest.

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Credit: Bob Brown Foundation

Thus far, Western Australia hasn’t amended its protest laws, but that’s possibly because existing penalties are working just fine to stifle freedom of political expression. Over the past six months, the fossil-fuel sector, police, government and the media have worked in concert to oppress protestors and silence dissenters who dare to blow the whistle on the power and privilege of the fossil-fuel sector and the deadly harm it’s doing to the planet and vulnerable communities.

Peaceful environmental defenders who have sought to raise the alarm about the carbon bomb that Australian petroleum company Woodside wants to explode on the Burrup Peninsula have been the subject of oppressive policing tactics, including repeated raids and ongoing surveillance by law enforcement.

In addition, some are now being threatened with SLAPP (Strategic Lawsuit Against Public Participation) suit litigation that could financially bankrupt environmental defenders, facing the prospect of paying thousands of dollars to multinational companies like Woodside for supposed damages.

As the struggle to save our planet becomes more urgent, fossil fuel and logging companies and their political allies are colluding to shut down dissent using heavy handed and anti-democratic tactics we usually associate with oppressive foreign powers.

The Environmental Defenders Office is proud to be working with many courageous people who continue to peacefully stand up to the most powerful interests in our society—not for their own personal gain, but for nature, communities and for future generations.

JULIA GRIX, Environmental Defenders Office

SA PASSED NEW LAWS

INCREASING THE PENALTY ...BY 66 TIMES.” IN BRIEF: 2019 QLD: New fines up to $7,740. New two-year prison terms

2022 NSW: Ten-fold increase in fines.

New two-year prison terms VIC: Fines doubled.

Prison terms doubled TAS: Ten-fold increase in fines.

Prison terms tripled

2023 SA: Sixty-six-fold increase in fines.

New 3-month prison terms Find out more at edo.org.au

Who do you run with?

Photo: Brendan Davis © 2023 Patagonia, Inc.

We run with our local communities and a shared history. With our mentors, the next generation, and perspectives.

Community is something we construct; out of shared ambitions and common ground, out of a desire to take on difficult things and to change the way things are done. We run with others to finish what we started, and to share the view.

CONSERVATION

SAVING VIC’S PRECIOUS GRASSLANDS Victoria’s grasslands once covered almost a third of the state. But centuries of grazing, agriculture, invasives and urban development have meant these grasslands are now one of Australia’s most endangered ecosystems. The Grassy Plains Network works for their protection, running tours, giving talks, writing submissions, and advocating for better urban planning. And we engage with all levels Credit: GPN of government to improve outcomes for this declining, but highly biodiverse, ecosystem, which is home to endangered critters such as the striped legless lizard, growling grass frog and plains-wanderer. To find out more, head to grassyplains.net.au ADRIAN MARSHALL, Grassy Plains Network

CROWDSOURCED INVESTIGATION SAVES REGENT HONEYEATER HABITAT The Australian Conservation Foundation recently enlisted the public’s help to expose potentially illegal land clearing.

More than 2,000 volunteers participated, comparing current satellite images of at-risk native habitat with images Credit: ACF from months before, looking for evidence of land clearing. They scanned 3.6 million hectares, and exposed (near Arimdale, NSW) the recent bulldozing of 250ha (and more being prepared for logging) of habitat for the critically endangered regent honeyeater. ACF verified the damage and contacted the landowner and authorities, stopping the ongoing clearing operation. To read more, head to acf.org.au JOSH MEADOWS, Australian Conservation Foundation

LIFE OR DEATH FOR THE MURRAY-DARLING The once-mighty Murray and Darling Rivers are in a desperate state. After promising 450GL in environmental flows for the Murray more than a decade ago, upstream states are still stalling on the MurrayDarling Basin Plan. In July, Conservation SA and other state peak bodies brought together a panel of experts for Credit: Celine Steinfeld ‘Life or Death for the Murray Darling’ to kick-start the debate about the future of Australia’s greatest river system. Urge Minister Plibersek to save our rivers before it’s too late: conservationsa.org.au/get_the_basin_plan_back_on_track

STILL FIGHTING TO SAVE LAKE MALBENA Many may think the Lake Malbena saga came to its natural conclusion back in 2020 when the full bench of Tasmanian Supreme Court asked the developer to resubmit their application due to gross deficiencies.

However, like an uninvited zombie of the apocalypse, the developer has sought Federal approval via a review under the EPBC Act. Subsequently, opponents again mobilised and made over 5,200 submissions against this wilderness-destroying helicopter tourism proposal. Federal Environment Minister, Tanya Plibersek MP now has to bring down her decision, and by the time of publication that decision should have been made. If she approves it, the saga continues and the opponents will mobilise again. Should she reject the proposal, opponents will wait for the next sneaky move from a developer that won’t take no for an answer.

Stay tuned.

DAN BROUN, Protect Our National Parks

KATE SUTCLIFFE, Conservation SA

END TO NATIVE-FOREST LOGGING IN VICTORIA Home to endangered wildlife as well as Earth’s tallest flowering tree, the mountain ash, Victoria’s carbon-dense forests have Credit: Henry Gold for cheap paper and for decades been clear-felled and torched packaging. Now, after years of campaigning by The Wilderness Society and other environmental groups, the Victorian governCredit: Rob Blakers ment has announced a statewide end to industrial native-forest logging by 2024. This is a momentous result for the forests and animals; for First Nations groups with deep spiritual ties to the land; for Melburnians who depend on clean drinking water; for regional communities looking for decent and secure jobs; and for every Australian wanting a safe and liveable climate. Learn more at wilderness.org.au/vic MEG BAUER, The Wilderness Society

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Halls Island, in Lake Malbena, is still sadly under threat. Credit: Dan Broun

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

Where the land ends, is where a lot of the world begins.

It’s not just the scale of the Great Australian Bight that’s awe‑inspiring—this coastline supports more biodiversity than the Great Barrier Reef. In fact, more than 85 per cent of the species in the shallows are found nowhere else on earth.

It is a nursery for southern right whales, now on their way back from the brink of extinction.

Unearth the wonders of this unique region and see how it can have a living future

Image: Peta North APWA

wilderness.org.au/greataustralianbight

CONSERVATION

GORDONVALE RESERVE REVISITING THE BUSHWALKERS REST 2023 marks the tenth anniversary of the founding of this special reserve by the Tasmanian Land Conservancy.

Words JANE RAWSON Image ROB BLAKERS

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he walk to Lake Rhona is one of Tasmania’s iconic hikes.

Long a trail known only by word-of-mouth, this eighthour one-way walk to a glorious alpine lake reminiscent of Pedder has recently become more prominent thanks to social media. But while more hikers are setting out to see Rhona’s quartzite shores, not many of them know their track passes through a privately owned nature reserve. Even fewer know that the reserve exists, thanks to the Russian Revolution, fountain pens, and a community fundraising effort.

On the Parks and Wildlife Service map of the hike to Lake Rhona, a small green rectangle marks Gordonvale Reserve, now owned and managed by the Tasmanian Land Conservancy (TLC).

This rectangle was once the home of legendary backcountry man, Ernie Bond. Gordonvale, known last century as ‘the Bushwalkers Rest’, was a well-used stopover for walkers on their way into the wilderness, a place of comfort and respite.

Gordonvale sits in the Vale of Rasselas, part of the Traditional lands of the Pangerninghe clan of the Big River nation.

This area was continuously occupied by Aboriginal people for at least 30,000 years before Europeans arrived. After white occupation (Ed: An occupation which involved 30 to 50 members of the Pangerninghe clan and Leenowwine clan—another of the Big River tribes–being massacred by armed soldiers and convicts in 1804), some of these Europeans grazed sheep in the Vale, building a bridge to get their stock over the Gordon River.

Then a revolution on the other side of the world transformed the Vale. Russia had once been the main source of osmiridium, a naturally occurring alloy needed to make fountain pen nibs.

The Russian Revolution cut off supply to the rest of the world, and the only other place where the mineral was found in quantity was in this remote area of Tasmania’s Southwest. Miners flooded in to take advantage of the spike in demand and prices, but at this distance from Hobart, food and other supplies were hard to come by and wildly expensive. In 1934, Ernie Bond gave up on mining and settled in what is now Gordonvale, taking up hunting and planting a remote market garden so he could sell food to the mining community. The bridge over the Gordon made his business possible and, over time, his welcoming and outgoing nature made his homestead a staging post for prospectors, hunters and bushwalkers.

By the 1950s Ernie was a celebrity among scientists and hikers, and his Bushwalkers Rest was the stuff of legends. But by 1952, both the mines and demand for osmiridium had dried up, and

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the bridge had burned down, so Ernie called it quits and moved into town. The Hobart and Launceston walking groups took over Ernie’s buildings and used them as a hostel, but the maintenance was more than they could manage; the site deteriorated dramatically. In 1987, an American businessman bought the property and, after his death in 2007, his children put it up for sale five years later. The buildings had all but vanished, leaving nothing but a few farming implements and some stone foundations.

The bush, though, was flourishing, with tall wet eucalypt forests merging into gullies of rainforest.

This was an iconic property with significant built heritage, surrounded by the Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers National Park; it seemed too risky to leave Gordonvale’s future to the will of the property market. In 2012, the TLC stepped in and started raising money to purchase and protect it for conservation.

The TLC—a non-profit organisation supported by public donations—was founded in 2001 to protect nature on private land in Tasmania. Many of Tasmania’s unique plants and animals don’t live in national parks, so the TLC looks after threatened species wherever they’re found. They do this both by working with landholders, and by buying and protecting areas of high conservation value across the state.

The campaign to protect Gordonvale took place over two years.

The Australian Plant Society of Tasmania and the Hobart Bushwalking Society got involved, drumming up support among their members and the wider public. In the end, more than 600 people gave generously to ensure this area could, in 2013, become a nature reserve. They were motivated not just by the human history of the land, but by its importance for conservation.

The forests here are dominated by old-growth gum-top stringybark trees (Eucalyptus delegatensis), growing on a south-facing

A frosty morning at Gordonvale Reserve, flanked by the spectacular vistas of Great Dome and Wylds Craig. These buttongrass plains and riverside woodlands are habitat for some of Tasmania’s iconic animals, including the nationally endangered Tasmanian devil

slope protected from fire as well as along the shores of a little creek running through the property. Below these large trees—full of hollows that make homes for birds and mammals— visitors can wander through a dense rainforest of Tasmanian myrtle (Nothofagus cunninghamii), sweet-smelling sassafras (Atherosperma moschatum), tree ferns (Dicksonia antarctica) and celery-top pines (Phyllocladus aspleniifolius), found nowhere but Tasmania. Despite the decades of small-scale white settlement here, the forest is almost untouched. There is only one small clearing—now a beautiful soft lawn maintained by marsupials—where Ernie Bond’s homestead, outbuildings and farm once stood.

Gordonvale Reserve covers almost 81ha. It sits in the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area, and the landscape around the reserve is a world centre of diversity for velvet worms, amphipods and crustaceans, including the 250-million-year-old mountain shrimp (Anaspides tasmaniae) and the rare Hickman’s pygmy mountain shrimp (Allanaspides hickmani).

Flanked by the spectacular vistas of Great Dome and Wylds Craig, the undulating buttongrass plains, riverside woodlands and the forest of Gordonvale Reserve are habitat for some of Tasmania’s iconic and fabulous animals, including the nationally endangered Tasmanian devil and the threatened ground parrot.

2023 marks the tenth anniversary of the founding of Gordonvale Reserve. In caring for this reserve over that decade, the TLC has done extensive work to maintain its natural values. Weeds have been removed, and the property is monitored to ensure the species that live here continue to flourish. As the walk to Lake Rhona becomes better-known, the reserve and its surrounds are increasingly showing signs of pressure from visitors. The TLC has established 25 reserves across Tasmania, covering more than 18,000ha. Reserves at Skullbone Plains, in Tasmania’s eerie central highlands; Tinderbox Hills, protecting forty-spotted pardalotes just outside Hobart; and the Vale of Belvoir, in a stunning landscape near Cradle Mountain, see regular visits from walkers eager to experience the landscapes and species the TLC has conserved. But Gordonvale Reserve is a little different. One of the TLC’s most popular reserves, it is inadvertently visited by hundreds of people every year who are unaware of the community passion and the science-based conservation management that has gone into preserving this very special place. The Bushwalkers Rest is special to many, not least the plants and animals that live here; balancing the needs of nature and those of nature-lovers will be a fascinating challenge in the years to come. W

MORE INFO: The Tasmanian Land Conservancy is an independent, notfor-profit organisation supported by donations from the public. It protects nature on private land, both on reserves and in partnership with landholders. The TLC’s network of reserves around the state is selected using the best available science and managed in perpetuity to support nature to thrive. Find out more at

tasland.org.au

CONTRIBUTOR:

Jane Rawson is Beyond Cradle Communications Coordinator at the Mountain, Tasmania’s Tasmanian Land Conservancy, and Overland Track winds south, providing public a novelist and essayist who writes hutschange. for all walkers, about nature and climate without sky-high fees

SPRING 2023

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CONSERVATION

A grasstree affected by phytophthora dieback

PHYTOPHTHORA BATTLING THE BIOLOGICAL BULLDOZER

An innovative multi-stakeholder threat-management program is working to stop the spread of a deadly plant pathogen in Victoria’s Otway Ranges.

Words & Images JESSICA MILLER (Unless otherwise credited)

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ictoria’s Otway Ranges are stunning and precious, home to windswept coastlines, breathtaking waterfalls, remnant Gondwanan cool-temperate rainforest and vast swathes of grasstree-dominated heathlands. It’s no wonder the Great Ocean Road—which runs the length of the Otways— has become world famous. Hundreds of unique plants and animals live here, too, including threatened mammals like the long-nosed potoroo, swamp antechinus, southern brown bandicoot, and white-footed dunnart. An ominous threat, however, looms over the landscape: a plant pathogen called Phytophthora cinnamomi.

Phytophthora (pronounced fy-TOFF-thora) is a microscopic water mould that lives in soil, water and plants. Its effect can be devastating; by invading the roots of susceptible plants, it prevents their nutrient and water uptake, causing the plant to die.

Following infestation and subsequent loss of susceptible plant species, the vegetation becomes simplified and dominated by grasses and sedges that are resistant to the pathogen. This in turn can have horrendous consequences on native fauna.

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Approximately 3,000 Australian plant species—including 10% of those currently listed as nationally threatened under the Environment Protection and Biodiversity Conservation Act—are threatened by phytophthora. In terms of the number of threatened species affected, Australia’s latest State of the Environment report ranks the pathogen as the nation’s second most invasive species (after rabbits). Not all plant species, however, are affected in the same way. Certain species—like grasstrees (eg Xanthorrhoea australis) and banksias—are more vulnerable, and their loss from the environment has devastating impacts on biodiversity and ecosystem health.

THE IMPORTANCE OF GRASSTREES Grasstrees epitomise the Australian bush. They are beautiful, ancient, and hardy; they thrive in nutrient-poor soils, and they flower profusely in response to fire. The skirts of the grasstrees provide protection and shelter for threatened mammals, birds and insects. Most grasstree species are extremely slow growing,

Phytophthora under a microscope

Carlisle Heath in the Otways is thick with grasstees.

Credit: Jarrod Boord

with trunk height increasing 0.8cm to 6cm annually depending on local environmental conditions. This means a two-metre-tall grasstree could be more than 200 years old. A stand of ancient grass trees can be the equivalent of an ‘old growth’ eucalypt forest.

Phytophthora dieback, however, has unleashed an epidemic of destruction on fragile grasstree-dominated coastal forests, woodlands and heathlands. These ecosystems have been severely altered, and the many small native mammal species that rely on the dense skirts of grasstrees for nesting and refuge have suffered. In the eastern Otways, radio-tracking studies have found that such animals include the agile antechinus, the eastern pygmy possum and the white-footed dunnart. Elsewhere across Australia, the sheltering role of grasstrees has been established for mammals such as the bush rat, the southern brown bandicoot, the ash-grey mouse and the New Holland mouse.

“Mammals love to have cover,” says ecologist Dr Mark Garkaklis. “Species like bandicoots, potoroos and swamp antechinus move in and out of the skirts of the grasstrees, [and] pygmy possums will make a nest to breed in the hearts of the grasstrees. The spiky and dense nature of the vegetation when it is healthy provides fantastic habitat and protection from introduced predators like feral cats and foxes. When phytophthora dieback hits the grasstrees, it hits the animals as well.”

Grasstrees are also an illustrative example of the connection between the health and wellbeing of Country and people. In the Otways region, the Wadawarrung People of the Kulin Nation and the Kirrae Whurrong, Djagurd Woorroong, Gulidjan and Gadabanud People of the Maar Nation have managed Country for millennia to ensure its health, using fire as a tool in the landscape to encourage grasstrees to regenerate and flower.

First Nations people across Australia have relied upon grasstrees for a myriad of uses: spear making; brewing a sweet drink with the nectar; and using the sticky resin as a glue in making tools and implements.

Bandicoots rely on grasstrees for cover.

Credit: Jarrod Boord

ARRIVE CLEAN, LEAVE CLEAN: Strict hygiene and effective management—including removing all mud and soil from footwear, vehicles and equipment—minimises the risk of spreading dieback.

• Avoid wet or muddy conditions.

• Be aware of dieback-free and infested areas prior to activities.

• Inspect and clean vehicles, equipment and footwear before entering bushland.

• Prepare a dieback hygiene kit.

• Stay on established roads and tracks.

• Follow all signs and guidance in relation to Phytophthora dieback.

• Ensure all soil or plant material sourced is dieback-free.

THE INTRODUCTION OF PHYTOPHTHORA Phytophthora’s arrival in Australia was likely a result of colonisation. Host plants may have included many species of annual flower crops, berries, deciduous fruit trees, ornamentals and vegetables. The earliest reports of phytophthora in Australia date back to the 1850s, when pineapple crops were impacted in Queensland. The effects on native vegetation were first recorded in 1948 in New South Wales, and it is now present in every state of Australia except the Northern Territory. The pathogen is particularly virulent in south-western Australia, where over 40% of native plant species are susceptible to the disease, including the economically valuable jarrah (Eucalyptus marginata).

The pathogen is spread naturally through root-to-root contact. But while it often spreads at a rate of about one metre per year, it can do so far more rapidly downhill with the movement of water and soil. This is particularly so after fire; in some cases, it’s spread more than one hundred metres in a year. In warm, wet weather, phytophthora

PREPARE A FIELD HYGIENE KIT: • Scrubbing brush or small screwdriver to act as soil/ mud pick for boots • Sprayer • Methylated spirits or approved sterilising agent

SPRING 2023

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Phytophthora, VICTORIA

can produce large numbers of infective motile spores that move autonomously/independently in wet soil and from one host plant root to another. In addition, the pathogen may be carried in soil moved by or on vehicles and earth-moving machinery, by mountain bikes, motorbikes, animals, and by bushwalkers. In remote areas, muddy bushwalking gear such as tent pegs, gaiters, toilet trowels and hiking boots also transfer the pathogen.

Altering drainage patterns for roads and landscaping can also spread the disease.

The disease is difficult to identify, with laboratory testing required for confident diagnosis. However, we can suspect that phytophthora is present in any area where susceptible plants are yellowing and dying, and resistant plants are healthy. It rarely attacks all vulnerable plants in an area at the same time and often presents in a ‘patchy’ manner, where plants are seen in various stages of decline or are largely unaffected. The visible symptoms of the disease vary between species. The leaves of banksias, for example, slowly go yellow before dying, whereas grasstrees are known to die from the ends of the leaves inwards to the heart of the plant before collapsing dramatically. Eucalypts also slowly die back from the branch tips.

Heathlands, coastal woodlands and dry eucalypt forests are the most vulnerable plant communities. Research has shown that in Victoria, the disease can cause the death of more than 25% of the overstorey plant species, and 50-75% of the understorey plant species. Bird and insect populations are also affected, as are mammals which prefer to live in dense heath understorey.

Colourful wildflowers pollinated by birds, insects and mammals are replaced by drab communities of grasses and sedges pollinated by wind.

MAMMAL DECLINE AND PLANT DISEASE To tackle this insidious disease, the Wild Otways Initiative—an Australian Government-funded research and applied-management program—has taken a multi-pronged approach; local land managers, Traditional Owners, scientific researchers, local government, and the community have all been enlisted to help. The key areas for protection were determined through workshops with local land managers and researchers to focus efforts for treatment and prevent the disease further impacting biodiversity values.

Extensive trapping and surveying of threatened species of mammals—including the New Holland mouse, long-nosed potoroo, swamp antechinus, southern brown bandicoot, and whitefooted dunnart—were undertaken to fill knowledge gaps of their locations, to understand how P. cinnamomi threatens surviving populations, and to determine what role priority-protection areas could play in conserving their habitat.

Veteran ecologists and local residents Dr Barbara Wilson OAM and Dr Mark Garkaklis led the three-year search for threatened mammals. Doctor Wilson has studied small mammals in the

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WITH RESEARCH, COLLABORATION & A MULTI-PRONGED, LANDSCAPESCALE APPROACH, THERE IS HOPE

IN TACKLING THIS CHALLENGE.”

Otways for over thirty years, and has seen their recent decline first-hand. Once prolific throughout much of the range, animals like the swamp antechinus now have highly restricted habitats confined to narrow strips along coastal dunes.

When overlayed with maps of disease, the research has revealed that many of the threatened small mammals are absent from areas of phytophthora infestation. Protecting grasstrees and limiting the spread of the pathogen is critical not only for the protection of floral diversity, but also for fauna species and the habitat they depend on.

DISEASE MANAGEMENT “Climate change is likely to increase the spread of the disease,” says Dr Wilson. “As the pathogen prefers warm, moist soils, the last two years of La Niña conditions have exacerbated [its] spread.”

It makes phytophthora control all the more critical. Foremost in preventing further spread of the disease is the ‘hygiene’ of those visiting the area. Once the disease is in the soil it is almost impossible to remove. Accordingly, in the Otways, boot and bike cleaning stations have been installed in sensitive areas, along with interpretive signage by local land managers and project partners Parks Victoria and the Department of Environment, Energy and Climate Action (DEECA). A training video highlighting the

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Stump of a grasstree killed by phytophthora Aerial spraying is one of the approaches used in the Otways to control the pathogen A stand of grasstrees in the Otways Potoroos are just one of the many small mammals that rely on healthy grasstree communities.

Credit: Doug Gimesy Dr Barbara Wilson and Dr Mark Garkaklis holding a swamp antechinus.

Credit: Tom Mansfield

importance of arriving clean and leaving clean, and showcasing the Otways’ heathland and its values, has helped in promoting positive action to the broader community.

Another key component of the disease’s future management in the Otways is knowing where it occurs, and the rate at which it spreads. The research program has facilitated further testing of cost-effective, non-invasive, and innovative techniques in mapping the spread of phytophthora across thousands of hectares of heathland. Remote sensing techniques, together with analysis of aerial photography, were used to determine the vegetation greenness—or density and health of individual plants—in each pixel in an aerial photograph. These techniques required on-ground observations to cross-check whether the method was accurate in determining areas of diseased versus healthy vegetation. Fine-scale mapping like this is important to determine disease progression over time, and to enable fine tuning and precise evaluation of control strategies.

While phytophthora dieback can’t be removed easily from a landscape, it can be treated with a low toxicity, salt-like solution called phosphite. Phosphite is used in the agricultural industry to combat and prevent phytophthora infestations, and it can be applied aerially or by hand spraying. It doesn’t kill the pathogen, but it does signal the plant to turn on its own defence mechanisms. In other words, it boosts the plants’ immunity, thus preventing spread to other plants in the area.

Application of phosphite has been used successfully for over 25 years in Western Australia to protect the highly biodiverse bushland-plant communities and significant forests. A trial of aerial spraying was undertaken recently at three sites across the Otways’ heathland, using a light aircraft called an ‘air tractor’ that applied the liquid phosphite at the right concentration, height and droplet size to allow leaf absorption. Hand-spraying of areas accessible by road complemented this aerial spraying, protecting high-priority, biodiverse stands of grasstrees and associated susceptible vegetation.

The phytophthora dieback epidemic has been labelled a ‘silent killer’. It works its way across landscapes, permanently changing the form and function of the ecological communities it infects. But the Wild Otways Initiative has shown that—with research, collaboration and a multi-pronged, landscape-scale approach—there is hope in tackling this challenge. W

BUSHWALKERS: CLEAN YOUR GEAR! • CHECK your footwear and other equipment for mud and soil before entering bushland. Try to remove dry mud and soil with a brush.

• CLEAN boots and equipment using cleaning stations provided or a dieback hygiene kit.

• DISINFECT boots and equipment by spraying with 70% methylated spirits, after brushing. Ensure your footwear and equipment is DRY before moving on.

CONTRIBUTOR: Jessica Miller is the manager of the Wild Otways Initiative, a collaborative project run through the Corangamite Catchment Management Authority.

LEARN MORE AT: otways.ccma.vic.gov.au

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CONSERVATION

A ROYAL COMEBACK The recent reintroduction of platypuses to Australia’s oldest national park is a cause for hope.

Words JOHAN AUGUSTIN Photography JAMES MCCORMACK (unless otherwise noted)

“S

he’s about 500m from here,” says Patrick Giumelli.

Patrick, a rewilding program ecologist from the World Wildlife Fund (WWF), is tracking platypuses in the Royal National Park, which lies just south of Sydney.

While the park—which coincidentally is the world’s second-oldest national park—used to have platypuses in its waterways, there have been no confirmed sightings for decades. Now, though, the VHF antenna which Patrick waves about emits clicking sounds, indicating that a tagged female is nearby. She is one of six females released a couple of weeks earlier, in mid-May 2023, with four males being released into the national park about a week earlier.

These unique egg-laying monotremes—relocated from the New South Wales Bombala and Dalgety regions—will be monitored regularly in their new environment, to track progress or any developments, especially if they reproduce successfully. If so, it would be a vital step for a species that’s experienced a significant habitat loss; roughly a quarter has disappeared in the past three decades.

POPULATIONS IN DECLINE The species is in dire need of help, and faces a critical decline.

Australian researchers believe that platypus numbers have halved over the last fifty years. Platypuses serve as early indicators of the health and stability of water ecosystems. When waterways become polluted or when urbanisation encroaches upon platypuses’ natural habitats, these unique creatures tend to disappear.

One reason behind the local disappearance of this iconic species is said to be a toxic spill in the 1970s on the nearby Princes Highway that flowed into the Royal’s waterways. Another significant factor within the park has been feral animals, particularly foxes, which pose danger to platypuses, especially when the latter is travelling overland between river systems. There’s also the

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fact that Australia’s oldest continuously working coal mine, the Metropolitan Mine, lies less than one kilometre upstream of the Royal, and frequent pollution events from the mine have made their way down Camp Gully Creek and into the park. Notably, there was a major pollution event in September 2022—just one of several incidents last year—and it was, in fact, Wild editor James McCormack, local in the area, who first raised the alarm with the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA). Subsequent reporting

by Wild on social media shed light on the pollution, which led to all major media outlets picking up the story. These pollution events can not only increase water turbidity, but they can cause a crash in the number of macro-invertebrates, a key food source for platypuses; frog populations, too, were impacted by the 2022 pollution events (see Wild’s Green Pages in Issue #187).

FINDING SUITABLE HABITATS Recently, rewilding has gained immense popularity, a concept described as the restoration of natural habitats as well as reintroducing lost species to natural parks and other wild areas. But according to Patrick Giumelli, rewilding is as much about getting local communities “interested and engaged in environmental work.” It’s one of the reasons, Patrick says, that the Royal NP was a compelling location for the platypus rewilding program, as the park’s iconic status, and its proximity to Sydney, would mean high levels of community engagement.

But the Royal is only the first step in this new rewilding collaboration between WWF and its partners, including UNSW, which aims to identify multiple suitable habitats for the reintroduced platypuses. As noted previously, platypus habitat has declined markedly, and how many platypuses actually remain in the wilds of eastern Australia still remains a mystery; estimates range

widely, from 30,000 to 300,000. Studying the elusive, nocturnal monotreme is challenging due to its vast range, says Gilad Bino, the UNSW ecologist—considered by many to be a ‘platypus expert’—who has led the research for the rewilding project in the Royal National Park “We have no idea [how many there are],” says Gilad. What he does know, however, is that “humans are impacting their habitats.” But he adds that the lack of sufficient data makes it difficult to assess the specific threats and take the appropriate measures, hence creating something of a ‘catch-22’. And while there is uncertainty surrounding the total numbers of platypuses, Gilad’s DNA testing of water samples taken from the Royal NP prior to the relocation of the ten platypuses showed the genomes of approximately 200 other animal species; there were no traces, however, of the elusive animal. (While there have been reported sightings of platypuses since their apparent local ‘extinction’, none have been confirmed.)

To ensure the Royal was still suitable for platypuses, before the reintroduction, an ongoing baiting program to rid the area of ferals was conducted, and extensive water-quality testing was carried out to guarantee that a viable platypus population can be sustained.

One of the big issues with water quality has been the ongoing concerns regarding the potential impact of coal waste from the nearby Metropolitan Mine; the EPA is still investigating spills from last year. However, Gilad is having ongoing conversations with the mine, which, according to him, has “cleaned up 98 per cent of the spill” and has taken measures, he says, to prevent further spills. Thus far, says Gilad, toxicity levels in the river system have been “within the parameters”, and the team behind the project perceives the water quality as good. “Coal mines will always impact the environment somehow,” says Gilad, “but through the eyes of the platypuses we are not concerned by the mine.”

(Ed: Several elements of the preceding paragraphs about the Metropolitan Mine’s impact deserve closer scrutiny. The mine has a long history of water pollution, going back decades, if not a century, and even after the egregious pollution incident in September 2022, and the mine promising to improve, there has been subsequent pollution. A November event led to yet another fine being levied by the EPA, and there was even another ‘event’ in August 2023, less than two weeks before this issue of Wild went to print. It remains to be seen whether the mine can ever clean up its act, let alone guarantee “good” water quality. And the extent to which the mine actually cleaned up its recent pollution is definitely open to debate. Still, the platypus program will likely lead to increased scrutiny of the mine, a positive outcome.)

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Patrick Giumelli in the Royal NP tracking recently released platypuses with a VHF antenna Members of the Taronga Conservation Society release a platypus into the Hacking River. Credit: R Freeman Gilad Bino, lead ecologist for the program, taking measurements of a platypus. Credit: Platypus Conservation Initiative, UNSW

ONE MORE POSITIVE: Aside from it being great to see platypuses again in the Royal NP, an additional positive to their reintroduction is the increased scrutiny that will be placed on the nearby Metropolitan Colliery and its waste. A rewilding program like this doesn’t just involve improving platypus habitat; it involves improving the habitats of all the other elements of the food chain upon which the platypus depends. Thus, while it may seem that rewilding programs only focus on ‘sexy’ species like platypuses, the success of such programs are utterly dependent on the health of ‘unsexy’ species like macro-invertebrates, and frogs, and insects, and so on. Rewilding involves a ‘whole of food chain’ approach.

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Platypus Rewilding, NSW

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP A sedate pool like this in the Hacking River is perfect platypus habitat Controlling feral predators will be crucial for the program’s success Patrick Giumelli’s VHF receiver indicates the presence nearby of tagged platypuses The logos on Patrick’s shirt show another animal that’s part of Rewilding Australia’s program: the eastern quoll

MONITORING THE SPECIES As Patrick strolls along the Royal NP’s Lady Carrington Drive—a closed-to-cars dirt road that meanders alongside the Hacking River and that plunges into and out of temperate rainforest and drier stands of eucalypts—he continues waving the antenna about. Patrick describes the acoustic transmitters as a “game changer”, a revolutionary technology in monitoring the endangered animal.

“We’ll monitor their activity,” Patrick says, “and next year we’ll see if they’ve reproduced on their own, or if we need to repopulate more.”

Happily, one month after the reintroduction, in mid-June, “all ten platypuses are still accounted for.”

“We are really positive about that,” Gilad says, adding that the tagged animals are spreading throughout Hacking River and Kangaroo Creek, a potential habitat totalling about 40km of rivers and creeks.

The ultimate goal of the rewilding project is to closely monitor the species’ progress to assess the feasibility of reintroducing platypuses to other areas that have experienced local extinctions or substantial population declines, such as river systems outside Brisbane and Adelaide.

In the face of an ever-changing climate, such reintroductions could become increasingly important, as does preserving existing habitats for platypuses. Devastating events like the Black Summer bushfires, along with the extensive floods that followed, pose challenges, especially as water seeping into platypus burrows potentially leads to the drowning of juveniles that are still in the process of learning to swim. Furthermore, during periods

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of drought, the species is prone to starvation unless it finds new pools with sufficient water, and the risk of predation increases when the animals travel overland.

On a positive note, however, the species can coexist with humans, so urbanisation itself is not necessarily the major issue.

That said, in normal circumstances, platypuses will travel overland in search of other river systems; if extensive human development surrounds a particular habitat, the animals will struggle to find neighbouring habitats that are suitable. Moreover, it’s critical to ensure that water sources such as creeks and rivers remain free-flowing and are not obstructed by, for example, dams.

“That’s why it’s important to preserve our rivers”, Gilad says.

Taking preventive measures to restore water quality and reducing land clearing is vital; the latter often results in higher sedimentation levels in river systems, negatively impacting platypus habitats.

Patrick Giumelli is hopeful for the future. As he continues along the Hacking River, he points out where fallen dead trees have created pools of green water. These pools, a couple of metres deep, are enriched with nutrients that support the growth of macroinvertebrates. The presence of these mini dams along the Hacking River, and its adjacent tributaries such as Kangaroo Creek, creates a perfect home for platypuses. It’s an environment in which, hopefully, the species can thrive and reclaim its lost territory, and then potentially spread to areas where it hasn’t been seen for decades. W CONTRIBUTOR: Sydney-based journalist Johan Augustin focuses on environmental and travel-related topics.

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NONE OF THE ABOVE

SOLO (WO)MAN What are the joys and pitfalls for women venturing out into the bush on their own? Tracey Hawke sets off to find out.

Words & Photography TRACEY HAWKE

M

y first multiday solo hike happened due to a COVIDfocused. And with solo hiking, once you have broken camp you 19 related tantrum. The lockdown of a neighbourhave one job—walk in the right direction. That’s it. That’s all you ing area left me without work for a week, and withhave to do. Surely that can be achieved. out a playmate, so I made a snap decision to go for a six-day Even if I’m not on a well-marked trail, and I’m using a topohike in Central Queensland, a place with few people and limited graphical map to navigate, the absence of another person natmobile phone coverage. tering about some deeply philosophical Day Five topic—such as Four hours into my eight-hour drive to the middle of nowhere, the cherry-picking rules required to maintain order if chocolateI started thinking “Is this a bad idea?” I’ve heard people say that coated cashews are added to the shared scroggin mix—it’s much stupid people are too stupid to know that easier to gauge distance and read the terthey are stupid. What if that is me! What rain. Obviously in whiteout conditions, if I am driving toward my own death? it’s pitch-the-tent-and-grab-the-sudoku IF THIS IS IT, Or worse still, driving toward public time, because leapfrog-style navigation humiliation by being featured on the is a challenging activity to achieve solo. evening news wrapped up like a storeBut for the most part, being alone both bought burrito in a reflective emergency motivates and facilitates concentration. blanket?

And in the end, I am carrying a super In a patch of mobile phone coverage, I called a friend to check small but military-grade GPS. I don’t know how to use it. But I’ve if I was being foolish. And while a complete psychological assessgoogled how to start a fire using the batteries it contains which ment is still pending, she was willing to confirm that my concerns eliminates the need for the burrito-style emergency-blanket appeared to be reasonable, and we workshopped some issues. wrapping when I make the evening news. Problem One solved.

I’M GONNA GO DOWN FIGHTING.”

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PROBLEM ONE - GETTING LOST

PROBLEM TWO – GETTING INJURED

I am an accomplished nothing-box dweller for a female. That’s right! A trait once thought to only exist in males—particularly those who enjoy fishing and other ‘companionable silence’ activities—has infiltrated the female species. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, google ‘Nothing Box’, and watch Mark Gungor’s ground-breaking analysis of human brains. I am also a major ear-wormer—usually, the torturously repetitive Tainted Love by Soft Cell which has, on many occasions, driven me to believe that death by multiple fork stabbings would be a far more humane way to go.

My point, though, is that I’m not the chattiest person to walk with. If I have brain activity at all, it will be Soft Cell on repeat ruining my serenity. But, over time, what I have noticed by quietly walking behind fellow hikers engaged in a chat-fest is that people who talk while walking often fall off trails. Given that I am not prone to conversing with myself, not out loud anyway, being alone means that my concentration should be sharply

My long-held belief is that any injury I sustain while hiking will be due to a snake. I have a severe allergic reaction to the mere sight of the things. The ensuing muscle spasms caused by this reaction manifest themselves as a finesse-free version of Riverdance. Given my age, lack of flexibility, and decreased levels of coordination, such a dance spectacular is not recommended, and the subsequent injuries could be significant. And this is without the snake even making contact.

I have been told that women get bitten by snakes while hiking more frequently than men. Sounds crazy, right? But the reason for it comes down to plumbing. Women get bitten scurrying off behind trees and bushes to relieve themselves. And here’s a question for the practical among us: Where would you start the snake bandage if you were bitten down there? The answer is, I don’t know. All I can say is, if this happens to me, let it be a highly venomous snake, and let me go. I don’t need this type of injury on my permanent record. (Ed: Let alone on the evening news!)

WILD

Enjoying the view on her own at the Stern, Main Range NP, Queensland

These days I carry walking poles to increase the noise I make when walking, so that the snakes beat a retreat before I see them. I wear gaiters whenever the path is narrow and grassy.

And because I’m walking by myself, the days of scurrying off behind trees are over. Problem Two solved.

PROBLEM THREE – GETTING MURDERED In the 20+ years that I’ve been hiking and sleeping in walk-in campsites, I’m yet to come across a scenario where I have truly feared personal harm at the hands of another person. In fact, the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me in a tent occurred recently, while perched on the escarpment above Carnarvon Gorge the final evening of my six-day solo hike. I was sitting in the tent with the light on, absolutely dominating the sudoku puzzle I was working on, when the side of my tent caved in, and I was hit twice in the shoulder.

It was like a one-two punch. There was no lead-up noise. No warning at all. I scrambled from my tent thinking, if this is it, I’m gonna go down fighting, not running around zipped up inside my tent like a little kid in a white bed sheet at Halloween. But when I leapt out and spun around in a flurry of wax-on, wax-off style karate manoeuvres, there was nobody there. Just a heap of bugs and moths buzzing around my tent, and completely empty bush. The only logical explanation was that a large bird or owl had swooped down to indulge in the ready-made meal of bugs my light had provided and misjudged its braking distance.

The double punch was probably each of its wings pumping to try to avoid the glowing blue mass of tent I was sitting in. It made sense. And—while I avoided a ridiculously annoying nickname due to my dodgy martial arts display—the absence of a witness guaranteed that I was in for a sleepless night.

Realistically, if I use the daylight hours to think about this (because my night-time mind is more than a little dramatic), is an axe-murderer going to pack an axe into a backpack, walk 15+km out into the wilderness on the off chance there is a single female in a campsite completely by herself? Unlikely. I mean, they’d take a tomahawk for starters. An axe is far too heavy. And it does seem like a lot of effort. Especially if it’s a thru-hike with a large car shuffle. What axe-murderer wants that extra hassle?

Rationally, I can see that the axe-murderer is a doubtful scenario. But, for me, it’s best if all the comings and goings of the campsite have happened before I crawl into my tent, because that is a vulnerable position to be in. Random night-time footfalls can render me unable to breathe let alone sleep. So, based on prior experiences, I have implemented a two-part process for selecting campsites to manage this issue. Firstly, the site must be further than a half-day walk from a vehicle entry point. This prevents the late arrival of the biggest pest of all—pack-roaming teenagers. This Bluetooth-music-toting species is generally known to be completely incapable of carrying their dinner plate from the table to the sink, but will carry a six-pack of illegally purchased beer for miles if the goal is to light fires and go swimming at night with mates. So, Step One is to camp far enough from a road that any reasonable pack leader will grow fearful of the beer becoming warm or flat and stop well before reaching me.

Step Two is to get well off the side of the trail. This one is to avoid the full-moon hiker, and trail runners who have decided that night-time temperatures are best for running. It sounds crazy, but I have come across both scenarios in the bush. The trail runners were particularly disturbing. I had flashbacks to waking up in a nightclub minus the loud music and toilet seat curled neatly into my arms. There were head torches flicking around like strobe lights, and everyone was yelling at each other. And it was well after midnight. The explanation: A local running club had decided to do a night marathon and claimed that they hadn’t noticed my tent right next to them while they whooped and wooted at each other. As you’d expect, yet another sleepless night was had, and the second of my camping rules was established.

Well, that’s it. These are the thoughts that bring me peace. They allow me to go wandering around in the bush in a deluded bubble, waiting for the day when a highly venomous snake bites me on the butt, and instead of a 30-second news story, I end up featuring on the reality TV show Ambulance. Until then, happy hiking! W CONTRIBUTOR: Tracey works as a professional cat herder, running outdoor-adventure activities at a school camping facility in SE QLD. She needs her regular solo time; without it she’s a public nuisance.

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OPINION

NEPAL ENDS A GOLDEN AGE OF TREKKING No-one disputes Nepal’s right to regulate its trekking industry, but that doesn’t mean serious concerns can’t be raised about the mindset and methods involved.

Words CATHERINE LAWSON Photography DAVID BRISTOW

W

hen Nepal banned independent trekking on Others agree. Creator of the Great Himalaya Trail, author and April 1st this year, lovers of solitude and snowy, sustainability expert, Robin Boustead this year signed a Memmountain-teahouse treks were left reeling. Introorandum of Understanding with the masterminds of the new duced suddenly and without widespread community consulregulations—the Nepal Tourism Board (NTB) and the Trekking tation in Nepal, the new regulations blanket all the country’s Agencies Association of Nepal (TAAN)—to co-promote sustainnational parks and conservation areas, making it now compulable mountain tourism. Yet even he laughs at the idea that guides sory to walk with a guide. It sounds the death knell for Nepal’s will bring about increased trekker safety. golden era of exploratory mountain wanders.

“More trekkers die in the company of guides than not,” he The new rules effectively outlaw what the Nepali government tells me via phone from Kathmandu. “There are around 40,000 calls ‘Free Independent Trekkers’: those travelling solo, in pairs, guides in Nepal. Are they skilled?” Boustead asks. “Are they or in small groups without a registered guide. Those who fell experienced? All they have to do is a one-month course, and into the ‘FIT’ category accounted for about 27 per cent of Nepal’s then, without an educational background of any kind, all of 171,000 visitors in 2019, and it’s this a sudden they are somehow capable of group that the ban targets, hoping to turn being responsible for human lives,” he THIS PROCESS them into guided-group trekkers before says. There is a time and a place for a guide IS ABSOLUTELY the year is out. in the Himalaya but, as Boustead points out, “forcing people to take incompetent ONLY POLITICS AT PLAY guides is not a solution to anything.”

It’s no secret that—to boost local employGranted, trekking guides have the ment and revenue, under the guise of potential to add all kinds of layers to a increasing trekker safety—vested intermountain experience, connecting you to ests in Nepal’s trekking industry have the local culture and weaving into daily been angling for guide-only trekking for years. No one disputes wanders the kinds of stories and observations that help interNepal’s right to regulate its own hills, or to charge whatever it pret and reveal a world that might otherwise remain unfamilwants, but playing the ‘foreigner safety card’ has even faithful iar. But not everyone wants to hire one. If you’re a skilled and Himalayan stalwarts shaking their heads. experienced trekker—or are simply a resolute solitude-seeker Jamie McGuiness, Everest guidebook author and the owner like me—hiring a hand-holder seems like the soft option, espeof Nepal-based trekking company Project Himalaya, is adamant cially if your ambitions don’t dare you over treacherous mounthat the new rules care little about trekker safety. “It’s certainly tain passes. And for those who hike simply to sit in some sunny, fair enough to charge tourists more,” he says, “but this whole mountain-teahouse courtyard with a pile of books and a pot of process is absolutely only driven by corruption and self-interest. chai, paying a guide to sit alongside them seems more than a There’s no safety aspect to it.” little farcical.

DRIVEN BY CORRUPTION & SELF-INTEREST.”

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Himalayan guides can be tremendous assets in the hills, but swapping mountain solitude for so-called safety is a dubious trade

ARE TREKKERS AT RISK? The Nepal Tourism Board and the Trekking Agencies Association of Nepal would have us believe they are somehow saving trekkers from themselves. Yet neither organisation has revealed concrete plans that map out how this might happen. How dangerous are Nepal’s well-trekked, popular trails? According to missingtrekker.com, deaths on Nepal’s Himalayan trails actually occur infrequently.

Two deaths were recorded in 2019 and there were none during the pandemic years from 2020-21. Last year, three independent trekkers went missing (presumed dead), and another four died while on guided treks (one of whom was a guide). These statistics don’t support the idea that guided trekkers are somehow safer.

Raj Gyawali is a man with his finger on the pulse. He’s the founding director of Kathmandu-based Social Tours, which runs immersive cultural and mountain-based adventures that directly support locals and their communities. He’s made a good living out of guiding foreigners in the Himalayas, but says that if the compulsory guide rule’s aim is to increase trekker safety, it will fail, 100 per cent.

“There are very specific areas where trekkers absolutely should be taking a guide. If people go above 4,000m, or over a pass, take a guide. But a blanket rule makes no sense,” he says. “The bottom line is that the NTB wants money, and this is a great way to try and take money from trekkers.”

The revenue he’s talking about comes from trekking permits known as TIMS (Trekking Information Management System) cards, which were introduced back in 2007. Costing around $25 per person, TIMS cards generate significant funds for the NTB, which goes to fund the training, insurance and rescue of guides, or so the NTB says.

Free independent trekkers have always paid for TIMS cards, but the new cost of hiring a guide through a trekking agency (even a budget-priced one), stands to add $500 or more to the cost of a two-week-long trek. When that comes on top of pricey international flights, new trekking gear, and daily food and lodging expenses in the hills, Nepal may start to lose its shine with budget trekkers. But it’s not just the hip pocket that’s going to hurt.

FREEDOM TREKKERS For trekkers who like to go it alone, this new rules tears at the fabric of all wild Himalayan dreams, because in mine, there are no guides beside me as I sit on a Nepalese mountain top taking in the stunning views.

Robin Boustead insists a downturn is already happening.

According to him, just ten trekkers set out on the Great Himalaya Trail this year with the aim of walking from one side of the Nepal Himalayas to the other; last year that number was fifty. I can understand why the number has tumbled. Arranging guides for a trek of between four and five months is not only a logistical nightmare but a costly one too, adding in excess of $5,000 in fees to already substantial trekking permits and national park entrance fees.

But if there’s one silver lining to all of this, it’s the benefits that might flow to Nepal’s restricted areas, which have long been saddled with guide-only access and high-priced visitor permits that local communities don’t see a cent of. Perhaps, given that foreign travellers will have to pay for guides anyway, some might shift their sights to more remote and daring adventures in Upper Beyond Cradle Mustang, Kanchenjunga and Upper Dolpo, and bring muchMountain, Tasmania’s needed income to these local communities.

Overland Track winds Jamie McGuiness hopes this will be the case,south, but inproviding the meanpublic hutsby forfifty all walkers, time, he foresees that trekker numbers might drop per

without sky-high fees

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Thanks to the Everest revolt, guidefree trekkers can still set their sights on the world’s most famous mountain

cent. “Some will agree to take a guide, some won’t come at all, but where else can you go to tackle an independent lodge trek?” he says. Well, across the border in India for one, where—despite the absence of lofty Mt Everest—trekkers can find snowy Himalayan peaks, uncrowded trails and friendly, welcoming lodges.

THE EVEREST REVOLT If there’s one chink in the NTB’s armour, it’s that those in charge of the Everest region are so far refusing to play ball.

The Khumbu Pasanglhamu Rural Municipality, for instance, continues to welcome unguided trekkers with open arms, refusing to recognise the NTB’s compulsory TIMS trekking permit, and is still charging the same amount in the form of a local Trek Card to keep every cent in the Solu Khumbu.

It remains to be seen if their tough stance will lure this year’s trekkers The new rules tear at the fabric of wild to the Everest region, and steal indeHimalayan dreams pendent trekkers off ever-popular circuits of Langtang and the Annapurna mountains. If this happens, other regions may join the Everest revolt before the year is out.

The man behind the new compulsory guide scheme, NTB Director Mani Raj Lamichhane, considers this a “serious concern”, but says these regions are so far cooperating. As for a downturn in trekker numbers, Lamichhane concedes arrivals may fall by five to ten per cent, but he believes that adding guides to every trek will bolster Nepal’s flagging safety reputation in the international community.

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THE VOICE OF REASON Sharing joint responsibility for the new rules (and its ensuing profits) is the Trekking Agencies Association of Nepal. As CEO, Ram Chandra Sedai sticks firmly to the company line, making it near impossible to get a straight answer about where all this is heading. The most I can deduce is that so far this year, there have been no $120 fines issued to unguided trekkers, no checkpoints established on trails, and no apparent plan to crack open that can of worms. Reports supplied to Jamie McGuiness from trekkers in the Annapurna and Langtang regions suggest no one is checking permits or bailing up guide-free trekkers.

But it’s Ram Chandra Sedai’s final comment to me that illuminates what’s truly at the crux of all this: “We know that we have Everest, and that we will be losing some trekkers for one, two, three years. But ultimately, what we have in our mountains, other countries do not.”

And he’s totally right, of course.

The Himalayan peaks that lie within Nepal’s boundaries are extraordinary. Whatever the hurdles—monetary or otherwise—this is Everest we’re talking about. And for travellers yet to stand in its presence, getting to Everest may be all that matters. W CONTRIBUTOR: Inspired by adventures into unpopulated places, author Catherine Lawson and photographer David Bristow are hikers, cyclists, paddlers and sailors, who advocate simple, mindful living.

Their latest book The Hunter and The Gatherer (a sustainable cookbook for ocean-loving foodies) is available now at wildtravelstory.com

GETTING STARTED

EXPLORING WITH KIDS with Emily Murray

Taking kids along on an adventure is rewarding, but there's no doubting that challenges await. Wild Earth Ambassador Emily Murray gives some tips on how to make the outings easier.

I

t's 4:30AM, pitch black. We're camping in Carnarvon Gorge NP, and the remote site is particularly quiet and secluded.

The camp area is surrounded on three sides by Carnarvon Creek, and is set down deep between sandstone walls. The echoes here are impressive; even the whispers bounce around.

Four tents arrived after we turned in; they’re now filled with sleeping hikers. In our tent, Etta, my 18-month-old daughter, wakes and starts shrieking. Not just once, mind you, and each shriek is amplified throughout the gorge. Every word we say to calm or distract her is echoed. Our manic whispering and negotiating has unfortunately become everyone else’s unwanted alarm clock. In panic, we pack up the tent, shove it in a bag and get out of there, but not before scratching a quick ‘sorry’ into the dirt with a stick and hoping we never see the other campers again.

It would be a lie not to admit we began thinking that day that maybe these trips were becoming too hard for us and too disruptive for others. We questioned whether it was worth it, or if we should wait until she was older. In the end, though, that story wasn’t our main takeaway from that trip. That award went to Etta, who happily walked the first two kays of trail before resting in her pack and then going again. I know adults who wouldn’t do that. Certainly, there are challenges on trips, but our strongest memories are rarely those of tantrums; rather, they’re of the happiness that ensues. I tell this story to inspire confidence in other parents when taking little ones on adventures.

Etta is not yet two, so we are only at the beginning of our parenting adventure. I will not, then, pretend to be an expert; instead, I’ll share some of the lessons we’ve learned so far.

EXPECTATIONS VS REALITY It’s your expectations vs those of your children. For us, success might be making it to the summit for the perfect family photo at sunset, but for them it might just be picking up some sticks or collecting stones by the creek bed. This balance is ever evolving. As Etta grows more competent in the outdoors, her ability to achieve the goals we may set grows too. We only hope that, by keeping it fun, she will want to join us on the ‘big ones’, and will start to make her own lists of feats to achieve.

NAPS ARE YOUR FRIEND If your day consists of covering extensive kilometres or challenging obstacles, then nap time is your chance to make some headway. Take advantage! Use whatever cliché you want—fail to plan, all the P’s, and the rest—but seriously, plan your daily targets or milestones with nap times in mind. While on a three-day kayaking

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THE MORE YOU DO IT AS A FAMILY,

THE MORE GRATIFYING IT WILL BECOME."

adventure, we completed, during Etta’s nap time, a section of paddling that we knew had few highlights or places to stop and enjoy. It left us with the afternoon to aimlessly play and explore.

WHATEVER GEAR WORKS There‘s a lot of gear tailored to getting outdoors with children, but just take extra time here. Carrying a small person already adds a physical load, so it’s important every item you carry is useful and, ideally, has multiple uses. For the big stuff—like packs and tents—chances are you’ll know someone who has something in the garage that you can trial before purchasing your own. And when making purchases, remember to take into account that children grow fast and so do their abilities; a piece of gear won’t necessarily last for season after season.

DISTRACTION, DISTRACTION On every adventure, there have been moments when we needed to employ tactical distractions. Snacks that take toddlers an extralong time to eat are perfect—think beef jerky and fruit leather.

Flash cards also deserve an honourable mention; they’re small and light to carry, but hold so much time-consuming potential.

TRUST Allow your child to surprise you. This has proved to be the most rewarding part of taking Etta outdoors; her resilience and ability to bounce back is a superpower perhaps reserved for the young.

PERSISTENCE IS KEY Our biggest suggestion is to get outside as often as you can, and to stay consistent. Whatever it is that you enjoy—hiking, canoeing, cycling; it doesn’t matter. The more you do it as a family, the more gratifying it will become. We’ve found ourselves planning shorter adventures, but our persistence has been unwavering. The joy we experience and the (usually) calming effect it has on Etta is testament to that. Back yourselves, and try not to overthink it, because a hard day trying is still better than not trying at all. W CONTRIBUTOR: A keen outdoors woman and adventure mum, Wild Earth Ambassador Emily Murray—originally from the UK—now calls the Gold Coast home.

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PROFILE

Melinda and Paul at Cape Raoul on the Tasman Peninsula.

Credit: Pritchard Collection

MELINDA OOGJES & PAUL PRITCHARD DOING IT SCARED TOGETHER

All partnerships involve give and take. But that’s truer than ever when one of those partners is a hemiplegic with an unquenchable thirst for adventure.

Words Selina Spowart

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THE INJURY HE SUSTAINED WAS CATASTROPHIC. HE

DESCRIBES HANGING UPSIDE-DOWN ON THE ROPE WITH A GAPING HEAD WOUND

TURNING THE WHITE FOAM OF THE SEA BLOOD-RED.”

M

elinda Oogjes and Paul Pritchard have a tendency to see the humorous side of things. Hiking the 223km Larapinta Trail in the blistering heat of the Red Centre with one half of your team suffering from a harrowing brain injury that’s robbed him of movement on the right-hand side of his body isn’t most people’s idea of a good time. But Melinda and Paul make their own fun. To pass the time, they cast themselves as renowned British mountaineer George Mallory (Paul) in the lead, and faithful Sherpa Tashi (Melinda) carrying the bags.

That Paul Pritchard is in fact a renowned British mountaineer himself only made it funnier for Melinda.

“We could just see the absurdity in the whole dynamic really,” she says. “Walking along in the desert for hours and hours, with me loaded up like a donkey, and Paul being stopped by everyone along the trail to be congratulated and fawned over, knowing that history would record this as his great feat. It was so funny.

We also made our own country crooners’ act: Shady Breezes and Rocky Outcrop, singing songs of love.”

“It was Sunny Outcrop, darling,” Paul interjects. “Rocky Outcrop sounds like a porn star’s name.”

I ask who was who, and Melinda laughs.

“I think I’m Shady and he’s Sunny,” she says.

The Larapinta Trail traverses the spine of the Tjoritja/West MacDonnell Ranges in the Northern Territory. Australian Geographic Magazine describes it as “one of the world’s best long-distance arid-zone walks.” It is divided into twelve sections of various lengths and terrains, winding its way through gorges of pink and blood-red quartzite, dry riverbeds, high mountain ridges and open woodland forests. Temperatures at night can drop below zero, and during the day the heat can be brutal. In April 2022, a 22-year-old man died on the trail, and numerous other hikers had to be rescued. The Larapinta Adaptive Expedition aimed to be the first all-abilities team to walk the trail, and was the brainchild of Paul Allen, who invited his friend Pritchard along.

The team, who describe themselves as “disabled not unable,” consists of author, adventurer and disability educator Paul Pritchard (brain injury with semi-paralysis), furniture designer/ maker; author and comedian Paul Allen (brain injury with working-memory problems; writer and adventurer Walter Van Praag (cystic fibrosis with 38 per cent lung function); nurse and medic Vonna Keller (lung cancer); support and safety manager Conrad Wansbrough; and support and disability advocate Melinda Oogjes, who is also Paul’s life partner. Paul’s 15-yearold son, Eli, also accompanied them for part of the journey, as did cameraman Mike Sampey and several others. A short film will be made about the journey after the success of the team’s award-winning earlier film Lowest to Highest, which describes their 2,221km cycle journey in 2018 from Australia’s lowest point (Kati Thanda/Lake Eyre) to its highest (Mt Kosciuszko).

When Melinda and Paul met in 2008, she had no idea about

his fame as a mountain climber and adventurer. To her, he was just a dad whose daughter was in the same class as hers at the local primary school. They first connected over their kids, then over reading, when Paul told Melinda that Jane Eyre was his favourite book.

“We connected over literature,” Melinda says. “I mean, hello!

How many Australian men love Jane Eyre?”

She’d only been on a couple of dates with him when he left for the Himalayas on a bike-riding adventure.

“I realised early on that he was such a huge person, an amazing man,” she recounts. “And then he left for the trip. That day I googled him, and found out he was this world-famous climber.

He had a Wikipedia page and everything. I remember I felt sick.

I didn’t think I was good enough for him.”

Pritchard was already a climber and adventurer of international repute in 1998 when he took on the notorious Totem Pole in Southern Tasmania, a pillar of rock 65m tall and a mere four metres in diameter. It rises up from the freezing, turbulent waters of Cape Hauy on the Tasman Peninsula like a finger pointing in accusation, or perhaps in warning. He’d already taken on many of the most difficult mountain routes in the world, and had won the Boardman Tasker Prize, considered mountain writing’s Booker, for his 1997 book Deep Play. With the prize money, Pritchard and his then girlfriend Celia Bull travelled to Tasmania to climb the Totem Pole. It’s on the bucket lists of most professional climbers, not least because of the jaw-dropping beauty of the igneous dolerite cliffs of the Tasman Peninsula. As Pritchard wryly says, “It’s a very scenic place to have a head injury.”

While abseiling down the Totem Pole to begin the free climb upwards, he dislodged a laptop-sized piece of rock which hit him on the head. The injury he sustained was catastrophic. In his 1999 book The Totem Pole, he describes hanging upside-down on the rope with a gaping head wound turning the white foam of the sea blood-red. After seven hours and a heroic effort by Celia to haul him up the rock and then hike out to trigger the rescue— which included a dramatic abseil by paramedics and a freefall into a waiting dinghy—Pritchard arrived at Royal Hobart Hospital and began what would be a gruelling year of rehabilitation.

These days he describes his near-death experience on the rock as the best thing that ever happened to him. Although now partially paralysed, with epilepsy and a brain injury that causes memory loss and difficulties with working memory, he says in his 2021 book The Mountain Path that he’s been forced by injury to live in the moment, to embrace a philosophy of radical acceptance and to be at peace. He returned to the Totem Pole to finish his climb in 2016 with Melinda, climbers John Middendorf and Steve Monks, as well as Neil Smith, the paramedic who abseiled down to rescue him in 1998. Accompanying them was film director Matthew Newton and his crew, who made the short film Doing It Scared about the trip. I ask Melinda about

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Profile: MELINDA OOGJES & PAUL PRITCHARD

her feelings, perched on the cliff at Cape Hauy, watching her partner climb the rock that almost killed him.

“I think the ‘Doing It Scared’ motto is really about courage,” she says. “To be scared is OK, and to witness someone try and succeed is a wonderful thing. I was aware of the danger but felt very held by all our friends around us. I focussed all my emotional energy onto Paul, and I do remember crying when he got to the ledge he almost died on. We were all there for him. Few people have had that much love actively demonstrated to them. There were times when I thought he might not make it out, but each movement was a victory. It was a triumph of friendship and determination.”

Do you think your kids understand how dangerous your expeditions are? I ask Pritchard.

“For years they didn’t understand, I don’t think,” he says. “I practise what is known as radical acceptance and I have always tried to instil in my kids the idea of ephemerality. I know they would be sad if I died on one of my adventures, and that’s a good thing. But they would know where to look if they wanted to speak to me.”

In The Mountain Path, which was shortlisted for the 2022 Boardman Tasker Prize, Paul described Melinda as “brave, but she’s not a climber,’ which he wrote was “what drew me to her.”

“She is an artist working for people with disabilities, so she understands when she sends me out to the shop to buy bread and milk and I come back with bananas and mangoes,” he wrote.

I ask why he was drawn to someone who isn’t a fellow climber.

“I don’t know,” he says. “In the main, climbers are usually selfish people. Melinda is the opposite. She put me on the right path to meditation and I view her as my teacher.”

These days they live in Taroona, a riverside suburb south of Hobart, with their three children. It’s a tranquil setting, surrounded by trees, with a vegetable garden and chook run. In their sunny study—lined with what they describe as “our chaotic bookshelves”—Melinda playfully rearranges Pritchard’s hair, smoothing it down over his forehead.

“You look really English now,” she laughs, and indeed he does look as though a knotted handkerchief on his head is all that’s missing to complete the ‘daggy Englishman’ look. They laugh and tease one another often, though each gives the other ample space to answer questions without interruption. They also don’t hesitate to disagree with each other’s version of events, such as when I ask Pritchard what particular challenges the Larapinta Trail presented.

“The trail was much more difficult than we expected,” he says. “Each day presented its own challenges like the boulders in dry riverbeds, very difficult terrain. Also, there were a couple of instances before the trip which really impacted on fitness for a couple of us. My mother died in Britain, and I had to go over there, so I wasn’t as fit as I could have been. And Walter with cystic fibrosis, his lungs started bleeding and he was hospitalised

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HE’S BEEN FORCED BY INJURY TO LIVE IN THE MOMENT, TO EMBRACE A PHILOSOPHY OF RADICAL ACCEPTANCE AND TO BE AT PEACE.” for five weeks, so when he joined the trip on Day Ten, he had to hit the ground running, which was really bonkers.”

I ask if he’d ever thought he would have to postpone the trip.

“I didn’t feel I could shift things; it would have been very difficult,” he says.

Melinda, who has been listening patiently, interrupts him.

“It was never tabled that we could possibly postpone it!” she says. “Quite frankly, when you’re going to do something, there’s actually no way for things to be stopped. I mean, we talked …”

Pritchard tries to interrupt her, but she is having none of it.

“No, no, because you’ve been talking for all this time and that’s not how I saw it,” she says. “I tried to say, do it next year, several other people were saying it would be better done in 2023. And you kept saying no, it has to be done in 2022.”

“We’d already postponed it from 2021, though,” says Pritchard.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT On a tandem trike on the 2,300km Lowest To Highest Expedition ( Kati Thanda/ Lake Eyre to Mt Kosciuszko).

Credit: Pritchard Collection Paul reclimbing the Totem Pole 18 years after his brain injury on the same needle of rock. Credit: Matt Newton Paul, age 17, in Verdon Gorge, France. Credit: Phil Kelly Paul climbing in Kunming, China, in 2018. Credit: Pritchard Collection Paul presenting with the Hobart Human Library, a storytelling project promoting inclusion, and reducing stereotyping, of marginalised groups. Credit: A Fairer World On the Friendship Highway in Tibet during a cycle from Lhasa to Kathmandu via Chomolungma/Mt Everest.

Credit: Sharyn Jones Paul’s head after the brain injury. Credit: Pritchard collection

But Melinda is on a roll.

“There was no shifting you from that,” she says. “Because of all the things that were happening before the actual trip, it meant that no one had dealt with trying to work out where you were with your organisation, around all of the sponsorship.”

Nevertheless, the team (minus Walter) hit the trail on 5 July 2022 in Alice Springs. By Day Five, Pritchard described in the Larapinta Adaptive Traverse blog some of the challenges the team experienced on what was supposed to be the easy part of the trail.

“I had to spread my pack load amongst Pallen (Paul Allen), Melinda and Vonna as I was in danger of not making the distance,” he wrote. “I fell twice, bruising my arm. I’m filled with gratitude for the show of selflessness. Vonna has a cracked rib (a side effect of all that radiotherapy) and had stabbing pains in her ribs. I have about eight blisters on my paralysed foot and am very worried about infection. Pallen is super strong but needs his fellow trekkers to guide him...”

One of hemiplegia’s complications is that a person can lose control of their muscles. Pritchard had a choking incident at lunch one day, which Melinda describes as “a bit hairy”.

“He was very tired and couldn’t control his oesophageal

muscles,” she explains. “A bolus of food became lodged in his throat. It went on for more than twenty minutes. I slapped him on the back, and it eventually dislodged.”

By Day Eleven, the middle toe of Pritchard’s left foot was starting to dislocate, causing him intense pain. Because his right side is paralysed, it meant his left foot was taking a lot of the load, and so his feet needed attention when the team made camp each evening and, as the days wore on, during the day as well. In their daily lives, Melinda is not Pritchard’s carer, a decision they made together.

“Every partnership is about give and take,” she explains. “It’s easy for people to think of me as this saint-like, amazing person caring for a person with disability, but this is a very condescending, minimising view. The other view is of Paul being a superhuman who somehow exists in his amazingness and needs nothing. His specialness makes me invisible. Both are rubbish.”

She explains how they strive for equality in their partnership.

“We don’t get into the productive vs non-productive paradigm,” she says. “In saying that, we do realise his disability affects planning, memory and some judgement. It does mean I have to step up. Can you tell me a relationship that doesn’t make these accommodations?”

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Melinda describes the role she assumed on the Larapinta trip as a form of metta meditation—a Buddhist meditation technique that focuses on projecting love and benevolence towards those you care for.

“I did it for everyone on the trip, but Paul was my focus,” she says. “It was really challenging. When Paul’s son Eli arrived on July 13, we tag teamed. Eli is an amazing, intuitive supporter, and also took care of the whole team, both able bodied and those with a disability.”

The team completed their journey on 22 July 2022, summiting Mt Sonder, a moment Pritchard described in the blog as “tinged with sadness.”

“It’s that ‘what next’ moment after over a year of planning,” he wrote. “The end of a profound experience of friendships constructed through mutual hardships.”

IN ‘THE LONGEST EXPEDITION’, ABC TV’s Australian Story episode about Paul’s 2016 return to the Totem Pole, Melinda described Pritchard as someone who’s not happy unless he’s got some adventure or mission in the pipeline. I wonder what that’s like to live with, and what it’s like to watch him put himself in danger.

“I’m usually pretty good with it, him going away and all,” she

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I’M USUALLY PRETTY GOOD WITH IT, HIM GOING AWAY AND ALL, BUT

THERE’S NOBODY ELSE I’D RATHER BE WORRIED ABOUT.” says. “Because if I wasn’t, you’d just be really worried all the time.

But there’s nobody else I’d rather be worried about than Paul.”

She doesn’t hesitate when asked what the highlight of the Larapinta expedition was for her.

“Hands down, it was Paul Allen,” she says. “Watching him succeed, watching him struggle and just get up and do it. It was a privilege to watch. And I realised Larapinta wasn’t about Paul, or Pallen, Vonna, Wally, or me. It was about group and service.

And the power of a group of people cooperating, of community.”

In terms of future adventures, he’d really like to cycle the Nullarbor on a trike (he has one that’s been adapted for lefthand drive), and do the Oodnadatta Track, a 620km outback trail which follows the old Ghan railway route from Adelaide to Alice Springs.

I tell them I’d been reading about the early Antarctic explorers, how their wives stayed at home for years while the men were away, and wondering if they ever asked their husbands not to go.

I ask Melinda if she had ever said ‘no’ to any of Paul’s ideas.

She laughs.

“You did!” exclaims Pritchard. “You said no to the Antarctica thing.”

“Yes, I did,” she admits. “You see, Paul had this idea to make a boat and sail to Antarctica, on the Southern Ocean, and then somehow convert the boat into a sled and pull the sled to the South Pole. And I said, ‘No, you are not doing that!’”

They both laugh.

Formula One racing driver Nikki Lauda famously said he was prepared that every time he got in the car, there was a twenty per cent risk he would die. Pritchard puts his level of risk these days lower—he has a family to think of—although he admits that the risks he used to take as a younger climber were probably greater than twenty per cent.

“I think that all the trauma I had to my head even before the Totem Pole contributed to my risk-taking,” he says. “I don’t judge whether that is a good or a bad thing, it just is. I wasn’t alone in that; many climbers in my community were taking risks like that.”

This sanguine attitude is part of the way he lives a life of mindfulness and radical acceptance.

“Paul is a meditator and knows metta,” says Melinda. “He does it every day and gives gratitude to each person in the family every morning formally, and each day practically.

He knows how to accept metta and give it. It is a flow of love that ultimately comes back to you. So the effort I put in is broadly acknowledged, but deeply felt. Paul takes what he needs, he is comfortable being in the centre. I am always looking at what others need.”

She smiles.

“When I say what I want, I am always supported, but rarely am I asked. It’s something that Paul never thinks of. He has a brain injury.” W

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT The Larapinta Adaptive team. Top: Vonna Keller. Middle: Melinda Oogjes. Bottom (left to right): Walter Van Praag, Paul Pritchard, Paul Allen, Eli Pritchard, Dirk Oogjes. Credit: Mike Sampey Rwetyempe/Mt Sonder. Credit: Pritchard Collection Melinda on the Larapinta Trail. Credit: Pritchard Collection Paul enjoying a trailside rest. Credit: Melinda Oogjes Paul two kays into the Larapinta Trail’s twelve sections. Credit: Mike Sampey Roping up on the Larapinta to bypass a difficult dry waterfall. Credit: Melinda Oogjes Paul recovering from a choking incident on the Larapinta Trail. Credit: Melinda Oogjes

CONTRIBUTOR: Selina Spowart is a Hobartbased writer and Scrabble enthusiast. She loves kayaking and quoits, especially if she can get them on a triple word score.

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PHOTO ESSAY

SPRING

ON THE

O.T.

Tasmania’s iconic Overland Track is one of Australia’s most popular multiday walks, and for good reason. In early spring, though, when Tassie’s Central Highlands are dark and moody, you can have the track to yourself. Well, almost.

By NATHAN MCNEIL

Y

OU’VE PROBABLY HEARD A THING OR TWO about the Overland Track.

You might even know a few people who have done it, or better yet, done it yourself. It is one of Australia’s most popular hikes, and for good reason.

It’s stunningly beautiful. It’s accessible. It’s mildly challenging without being gruelling. There are huts to sleep and cook in each night, and transfer services to get you to the start from the finish. In short, it’s a fantastic glimpse into proper multiday hiking in the wilderness.

But if you’re like me and my good mate Jack, you’re not really interested in spending too much time in the outdoors with other people; you’re more likely to go against the grain, or to seek to up the challenge a notch compared to standard OT crossings. We decided to do an off-season crossing, but not so off-season that we’d get buried in snow for days. We wanted a time when the weather would be a little volatile, when we could do the track in whatever direction we wanted, and when we would see fewer people out there than during the summer months.

Spring, the very middle of it, ticked all those boxes.

So in September 2022, we set off, undertaking a south-to-north crossing (that’s right, back to front) finishing with a full traverse of Cradle Mountain on our final day. It turned out the logistics of an off-season, reverse OT crossing was a massive undertaking…but it was totally worth the effort.

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Jack approaching what I’d jokingly told him would be our quarters for our OT adventure’s third night. Historic Kitchen Hut, 110 years old, leans proudly beneath beautiful pines and the towering cliffs of the Du Cane Range.

After a spot of lunch though, we marched on to a more suitable abode

Cradle Mt Lake St Clair

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Overland Track, TASMANIA

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT This is a close-up snapshot of the duckboard that you’ll walk frequently along during your Overland Track journey. I found myself stopped on a section of it, having a rest and a sip of water. I looked down, and my eyes focused on what I realised were marks from hiking poles. In just this teeny tiny section of duckboard, there were hundreds of pole marks, with barely a patch of unmarked surface. It set me to thinking: How many sets of hiking poles have come through here over the years?

Luxuriant moss coats everything in sections of the OT Not long before reaching Pine Valley Hut, a setting sun, moss-green forests and a beautiful path stopped me in my tracks. I was literally just three hours into our Overland journey, and it turned out to be one of the trip’s biggest highlights. Absolute beauty!

Common OT fashion: shorts, gaiters, gloves and a mid layer. For when you want to be warm but functional Our first morning on track started with an early departure from Pine Valley Hut and a speedy side trip up to the Labyrinth. The views were glorious as we reached the first saddle, high above the valley floor, with Mt Gould and the Minotaur in the background.

The surroundings here sure do make you feel small One of the perks of springtime on the OT is that the waterfalls are absolutely pumping from rain and snow melt

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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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Overland Track, TASMANIA

IMAGES THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP The day from New Pelion Hut to Windermere Hut (if going south to north) is not only the trek’s longest day, but also its most technical.

There are loads of slippery tree roots, and mud is everywhere, especially on the sodden plains that, in spring, turn into marshes. But the views of Barn Bluff offer a great pick-me-up Jack eyes up Mt Ossa, Tassie’s highest peak. The weather that day turned Ossa into a gloomy and menacing monster, one with Mordor-esque appeal Arriving at New Pelion Hut to find we had the entire place to ourselves for the night. A rare occurrence, I’m sure Nearing Kia Ora Hut, the weather started to close in around us. Cloud gathered and rainbows formed as Tasmania’s fickle weather decided upon its next move

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As we hit the saddle below Cradle Mountain on our last day, Jack got to experience the ‘All Seasons in a Day’ weather I’d told him to prepare for

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Overland Track, TASMANIA

IMAGES THIS PAGE - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP An eerie corridor of fog, mud and tree roots awaited us as we departed New Pelion Hut heading north As we slowly rose from the moor, our views expanded tenfold as we looked back to Mt Oakleigh and New Pelion Hut On our final day, about halfway down the Face Track, we reached the top of the chained section. It was pure misery in this weather. But it also offered our first glimpse of Dove Lake and the subsequent finish line to one hell of an adventure A strangely eye-catching collection of pandani huddled together

CONTRIBUTOR: Adventure photographer and filmmaker Nathan McNeil can usually be found camera-in-hand at the crags. He sometimes puts up new climbing routes, too; more often, though, he just makes a fool of himself on existing ones.

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THE MENTAL GAME

FEAR. AN HONEST REVIEW

Adventure may be synonymous with the outdoors, but the real game is not so much outside us as within. And few things dominate our internal monologues more than being scared. Anzhela Malysheva gives fear a lyrical, thoughtful and brave appraisal.

Words ANZHELA MALYSHEVA Photography DAYGIN PRESCOTT

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Staring down the sharp, right-angled arête of Disco Non-Stop Party (25) at Pierces Pass in the Blue Mountains. With 200m of a seemingly infinite void of air below, Ange is deep in battle—both mentally and physically SPRING 2023

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FEAR. An Honest Review

A

s I throw the rope down and then watch it uncoil—over the backdrop of the Grose Valley, over the bright epicormic growth of the bush, over the airspace I’m about to step into—I go through the last checks in my head. Shoes, draws, ascending gear, a few lockers, courage ...

Why am I here again? Whose idea was it to be dangling in space, hundreds of metres off the valley floor, nine millimetres of tightly woven nylon keeping me from becoming history?

I set my rope protector between the nylon sheath and the mean-looking ironstone edge. That’s right, it was mine, it was all me. My idea, my objective, my motivation. Internal locus of control. My friends loiter a few steps away, chatting cheerfully about the grandeur of the valley. Maybe I can bail?

I can come up with an excuse, pretend I forgot my shoes, have a headache, changed my mind, have an urgent call to make …

I get on the rope, and the stunning arête steps out of the void. It points at me with unmistakable geometrical beauty; deposits hundreds of millions of years old—compressed and lifted, shifted, shaped and carved—become an alluring attraction for the seekers, like me, of the ephemeral. As I descend, horizontal breaks speed up before my eyes. My brain reads the terrain, doing the groundwork. I scan the arête lower down, searching the surface for less obvious features, clipping positions, measuring distances between the bolts.

My stomach tightens up in a mix of anticipatory excitement, slight vertigo, and fear.

I am scared. +++++ FROM THE BLUR OF IRONSTONE VEINS and sandstone edges, the Sanskrit of holds slowly surfaces. Sequences start making shapes before my eyes, appearing like watermarks on a folded sheet of papyrus. It looks thin, balancy, exposed, and airy.

The arête is sharp but not too jugged. I place some long runners to reduce the rope drag and minimise the rope-cutting potential.

“The rope-cutting potential?!” My reptilian brain rebels. “Are you insane?” The voice in my head keeps screaming, stomping its feet against my temples like an unruly toddler, hungry for attention.

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WHY AM I HERE AGAIN? WHOSE IDEA WAS IT TO BE

DANGLING IN SPACE, NINE MILLIMETRES OF TIGHTLY WOVEN NYLON KEEPING

ME FROM BECOMING HISTORY?”

I leave the comfort of the hanging belay and step onto the wall.

My toes and fingertips become my points of contact, the rest of my body is enveloped in a thin blanket of exposure. “You’re fine, you’ll be fine.” The first twenty metres look hard. I move with purpose and make slow upward progress, my coordination and balance unfamiliar with the intricacies of multi-planed climbing. I tense up, fighting against the natural forces that pull me this way or the other, waiting to be ripped off. I anticipate which way my body will be ejected off the wall, following a curving trajectory and envisaging where the impact will occur. I estimate how much rope I have in the system, and how much stretch I’m going to get.

I glance down at Mitch: a speckle of blue hanging in the distance. “Soft catch, hey,” I yell at the speckle.

The updraft carries words of support and encouragement, and washes over the cliff top which looks so hopelessly far away. I can feel fear rippling along my spine and shooting nervous energy into my tips; they dig further into the grainy sandstone, blurring the lines, mixing matter with matter, organic with mineral. My effort is evanescent, and yet of such deep importance.

What are you scared of? Let’s talk about it. A self-directed therapy session, a cognitive check-up halfway up the pitch. At the epicentre of my conscious mind, the nugget of tension radiates in all directions. I can’t silence the musings. I don’t reject the fantasy. I won’t try to shut the voice down. I engage. In the time somehow stretched across transitions—between one body position and the other, one precarious point of balance and the next—I close my eyes and start dreaming. I dream of equipment failure. I dream of hard catches and awkward falls. I dream of holds breaking, of rope de-sheathing, of the gravitational pull and the collision. I dream of losing control and proprioception. I dream of weightlessness and shapelessness, of the fractals of my fears becoming the whole of my present truth. I binge on the newest episodes of ‘worst-case scenario’, written and directed by my preoccupied logic.

The shutter opens and closes, while the rhythm of movement continues, undisturbed. In this parallel reality, the body knows the drill, keeps the pace, rehearses the moves: the pushes and the pulls, the assurance and the doubt, the anticipation and the relief. It is not the first episode of this show, and it certainly won’t be the last.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Feeling small in the huge wrapping amphitheatre of Pierces Pass In the midst of a flow state, navigating the crux. The towering, single-drop waterfall in the background heightens the drama Topped out, fixing the rope for Mitch to clean the route Ange and Mitch on the approach through rugged, clifftop shrubbery.

Top-access is common for the majority of climbs in the Blue Mountains

+++++

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT One of many whips from the day. The sharp arête makes falls worrisome, with awkward landings and potential rope cutting being just two concerns Pumped and psyched!

Celebrating the success with Mitch

CONTRIBUTORS: Anzhela is a Blue Mountainsbased guide, instructor and rock climber.

If you see her wandering along the sides of remote cliffs, she’s not lost, just searching for quality cracks. Daygin is a Queensland-based adventure photographer. An often-broke dirtbag with huge dreams, he’s inspired to create beautiful images in hard-to-reach places.

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I DON’T REMEMBER THE FALL. I don’t remember the moment the friction and the tension failed to be greater than gravity.

I don’t remember the tenderness on the fingertips and the burning sensation of the pumped forearms.

I don’t remember the rush of air, the whoosh through space, the limbs flopping, the rope running through the metal and then becoming tight.

I don’t remember the spins in my head and the prickles in my stomach when I slammed into the wall and cartwheeled to the side, like a rag doll.

All I remember is the dance. The dance of my thoughts in the tight embrace of an unexpected outcome, of the uncertain timing, of the error in my predictions. I remember swimming through the waves of dopamine trying not to drown.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel fear, just as I wish I didn’t feel sadness or disappointment. Fear—felt by most, appreciated by few—is part of a complex chemistry-based survival mechanism, and a profound human experience. I know I cannot stop feeling fear, and maybe, just maybe, I am going to stop wishing not to feel it. It is fear that allows me to make good choices, evaluate my options and assess the risks I am taking. It is fear that assists me to transition into dimensions of growth and self-discovery, and to later be proud of my accomplishments. It is fear that facilitates my staying alive, my continuing to adventure, my climbing and getting scared, again.

I shall not wish to be rid of fear, for I cannot fathom missing out on such a powerful feeling, but I shall wish to transform it into an incentive, or even into an inspiration. I shall dance the dance. Fight or flight? What’s it going to be?

I give fear four-and-a-half stars. W

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MOUNTAINFILM

MOUNTAINFILM ON TOUR RETURNS TO AUSTRALIA & NEW ZEALAND TOURING IN SEPTEMBER & OCTOBER Mountainfilm on Tour, the tour which brings best films from the famous Mountainfilm festival in Telluride, Colorado, starts it’s annual tour of Australia & New Zealand in September. The tour is being presented by Colorado Tourism Office, Osprey Packs and as well as giving audiences the chance to see some unique films, will offer the chance for two lucky people to win a trip to Durango, Telluride and Denver, Colorado, for the actual Mountainfilm festival among other adventures next May. Mountainfilm, established in 1979, has stood the test of time as one of the United States longest-running film festivals. Anchored in the picturesque town of Telluride, Colorado, this festival has become a beacon for adventurers, artists, and thinkers alike. With its annual occurrence coinciding with the Memorial Day weekend, the event paints the town with a vibrant tapestry of creativity and inspiration.

Beyond being a mere celebration of film, Mountainfilm is a dynamic nonprofit organisation that thrives on sharing narratives that embody the resilient human spirit. The festival's core is fostering a sense of awe and reverence for the natural world while catalysing conversations around important ideas. It's a testament to the power of storytelling to inspire change, push boundaries and challenge perceptions.

In the spirit of spreading this magic far and wide, Mountainfilm on Tour takes the festival's finest films on tour. Mountainfilm on Tour has been touring Australia and New Zealand since 2017 and Wild is proud to support the tour as official media partner. Get along and check out a show!

A Baffin Vacation: Erik Boomer and Sarah McNair-Landry set off on a bold, multi-sport, 45-day expedition traveling through the remote landscape of Baffin Island in search of cliffs to climb and unexplored rivers to whitewater kayak.

The Nine Wheels: Mountain bike stars of the future, Emric (10) and Raoul (13) are home-schooled by their parents Toni and Laetitia. They are the Schneeberger family, aka The Nine Wheels.

They live in their motorhome going from bike park to bike park across Europe, a decision prompted by the discovery of a neurodegenerative disease in Laetitia. The Nine Wheels explores what it is like to live with a disability, the power of brotherly love, the devotion of parents, and ultimately, what it is like to live life fully one day at a time.

Like a River: Enamored by the three major canyons of the Southwest, artist and climber Jeremy Collins narrates a mesmerizing trip in which a river becomes a brushstroke. Millions of years equal millions of strokes and although wildly different, each of these canyons are ultimately the same creature, created with the addition of water and the subtraction of earth. In an attempt to find his own flow, Collins seeks to be like a river, ever-changing but still the same, making something from nothing — nature’s greatest artist.

Film Round Up

SELECTED TOUR DATES

This year’s film selection for Australia and New Zealand includes the following films.

Visit www.mountainfilmausnz.com for more screening dates.

Leo & Chester: Disillusioned with his life of rock and roll, Leo Downey sojourns into the desert of the Sierra Madre Mountains and sleeps beneath the stars. Deep in the desert, Downey undergoes a spiritual experience that changes his life forever. Following his intuition, he leaves his life in California behind and becomes a firstgeneration buffalo rancher. To gain the acceptance of an animal four times stronger than an ox and faster than a horse, he must face his fears and embrace the herd’s gift.

Fight or Flight: Chronicles the journey of the first female pilot employed by Colorado Parks and Wildlife. She shares her story of how she overcame childhood trauma by taking to the sky. Drawn to flying as a means to flee her early life, she pursues a career in professional aviation and discovers she must first assemble the tools required to face her past and heal.

Advennture: Although separated by the Atlantic ocean, longtime friends Sämi Ortlieb and Rob Heule find common ground through shared ski experiences from their respective homes in Glarus, Switzerland and Alberta, Canada.

Soundscape: Features Erik Weihenmayer, a global adventure athlete and author who is fully blind, as he ascends a massive alpine rock face deep in the Sierra Nevada. Using expert camera work and emotive, novel animation to bring to life a concept by adaptive climbing pioneer Timmy O’Neill, the film is a surprising and soulful adventure in echolocation, touch and imagination.

Tear Down the City: "Mountain biker Xavier Massicotte tears around the streets, stairs, parks and subways of Montreal in this fast-paced, flowy adventure.

Well Worn Life: Well Worn Life is a short documentary film series that reveals the recipes of outdoor-minded individuals who love life deeply and live it to the fullest extent. Dani ReyesAcosta is a mountain athlete, land cultivator and storyteller whose path consistently seeks the limits of possibility. Reyes-Acosta is constantly moving through the landscapes of Southwest Colorado — by bike, on foot, on skis and clinging to the side of a boulder — to see where she fits into it.

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Queens of the Break: Shot almost entirely on 16mm, Queens of the Break gives credit to the first generation of women in the Santa Barbara Surf Club and their friendship that has spanned over 50 years.

WILD

AUSTRALIA ACT Canberra - Dendy Cinemas Canberra - 26 October NEW SOUTH WALES Sydney Premiere - Ritz Cinemas - 7 September Blue Mountains - Mount Vic Flicks - 20 September Sydney Inner West - Dendy Cinemas Newtown - 21 September Sydney Northern Beaches - Glen Street Theatre - 13 October QUEENSLAND Brisbane - New Farm Cinemas - 4 September Gold Coast - Home of the Arts - 4 October Brisbane - Dendy Cinemas Coorparoo - 12 October SOUTH AUSTRALIA Adelaide - The Regal Theatre - 8 September VICTORIA Melbourne - The Astor Theatre - 6 September Belgrave - Cameo Cinemas - 5 October Melbourne East - Classic Cinems Elsternwick - 5 October Hawthorn - Lido Cinemas - 5 October WESTERN AUSTRALIA Perth (Leederville) - Luna Cinemas - 12 October Fremantle - Luna on SX - 19 October NEW ZEALAND NORTH ISLAND Auckland - Rialto Cinemas Newmarket - 11 September Wellington - Penthouse Cinema & Cafe - 21 September SOUTH ISLAND Nelson - Star Cinema - 22 September Queenstown - The World Bar & Restaurant - 19 October Get your tickets before they sell out! www.mountainfilmausnz.com

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WIN A TRIP OF A LIFETIME TO THE MOUNTAINFILM FESTIVAL IN COLORADO FLYING UNITED AIRLINES Simply purchase a ticket to MOUNTAINFILM ON TOUR in Australia and New Zealand for your chance to win PLUS win other great prizes from our partners

Want to experience Colorado’s Mountainfilm Fest for yourself? Enter by attending any Mountainfilm on Tour screening and telling us in 25 words or less why you love Colorado! You and a friend can be jetting off to Colorado with United Airlines - first stop Durango for a two-night stay. Situated in Southwest Colorado and surrounded by diverse and dramatic landscapes, it offers unparalleled access to the great outdoors. Then, venture into the mountain town of Telluride, known for its festivals throughout the year, none more famous than the Mountainfilm Festival. Enjoy days of movie screenings from some of the best adventure film directors in the world while basking in the hospitality of Telluride and its epic backdrops. Completing your trip in Denver, Colorado, the Mile High City is known for its incredible arts and culture scene, craft brews and Rocky Mountain views. This is a prize not to be missed and will wow you at every turn. We can’t wait to show you the Colorado we love. T&Cs apply.

SCAN HERE FOR TICKETS

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Credit: Colorado Tourism Office

COLORADO – A YEAR-ROUND PLAYGROUND FOR ADVENTURERS Renowned for its adventurous spirit, 28 world-class ski areas, 58 peaks that top 14,000 feet, 26 Scenic and Historic Byways, 4 diverse national parks and a whole lot of Old West charm, Colorado is a dream to explore whatever the season.

1. Urban adventure in Denver – your year-round basecamp Touch down at Denver International Airport – the gateway to the Rocky Mountains. Take a few days to acclimatise before hitting higher altitude.

Easy to reach from the airport with several car hire options at arrivals or the A-line train direct to Denver’s Union Station in 37 minutes, the Colorado adventure begins here.

Spring-Fall: Take an eTuk tour around the city; head out to Red Rocks Park & Amphitheatre, you’ll find all the locals running top to bottom of the amphitheatre as part of their altitude training, Yoga on the Rocks on Saturdays each summer (book ahead), or explore the park with beautiful hiking trails that serve up great views across the city and to the Rocky Mountains. Stock up on adventure gear at Denver’s flagship REI store; take out a kayak in Confluence River; cycle some of the city’s 850 miles of bike trails.

Winter: Explore the street art and breweries of the hip RiNo neighbourhood; catch a live sports game; sample the city’s food scene served up by several award-winning chefs.

the USA, with Winter Park being Colorado’s longest continually operated ski destination. With an IKON Pass, skiers and snowboarders can take advantage of experiencing both locations in one trip, with one pass. Off the slopes at Steamboat, go fat biking, try your hand at ice fishing and relax in Strawberry Parks Hot Springs. From Winter Park, try Nordic skiing at Snow Mountain Ranch, SnoGo biking and stargaze with s’mores on a Snowcat tour.

Summer and Fall: In Summer, both these North Colorado mountain locations offer stunning views and endless hiking opportunities. From Winter Park, take a guided tour of Rocky Mountain National Park, ride Colorado’s longest Alpine Coaster and hit the bike trails at Trestle Bike Park from late June. Embrace Steamboat’s Cowboy culture, with the Steamboat Pro Rodeo each Friday and Saturday late June – late August, horseback ride through Aspen trees in Fall, paddleboard, fly-fish and trail run.

3. Vail Resorts Winter: Vail Resorts manages the mountain resorts of Vail, Beaver Creek, Breckenridge, Keystone and Crested Butte. Take advantage of the EPIC Pass to gain access to the mountains at each of these premier resorts during a Colorado ski safari that all deliver their own personality with miles and miles of varied terrain.

2. Steamboat & Winter Park Winter: Steamboat is renowned for its Champagne Powder™, Western Charm and more Olympians than any other town in

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Summer and Fall: Vail and Beaver Creek’s summer activities are endless – from sophisticated summer days of wine tasting, golf, mountaintop yoga and horseback riding, to hiking, biking,

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summer tubing and riding a mountain coaster. In Breckenridge, try SUP Yoga, whitewater rafting, road biking and check out the highest distillery in the world. In Crested Butte be sure to take on the mountain bike trails – this town claims a stake in pioneering mountain biking. Don’t miss hiking the wildflower dotted mountains each summer.

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4. Telluride Summer-Fall: The home of MOUNTAINFILM and myriad festivals throughout the summer, Telluride is a hidden treasure trove of music, culture and adventure. Global talent headlines many of the town's music festivals, which include Telluride Blues & Brews, Telluride Jazz Festival, Telluride Bluegrass Festival and Ride Festival. Take on Via Ferrata, extreme hiking in the surrounding San Juan Mountain range or lower elevation hikes to waterfalls, and take a 4WD jeep tour to Imogene Pass for stunning views of the San Juan Mountains. Winter: Telluride blends Old West town with mountain resort seamlessly, with options to stay in the town or on the mountain and a free gondola service that runs between the two year-round. Dine at the highest fine dining restaurant in North America, Alpino Vino, take a snowmobile tour of the mountains and ghost towns and splash out with heli-skiing adventures.

Credit: Visit Denver

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5. Durango Spring-Fall: From May each year, you can hop aboard the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad for a steam train experience through the San Juan Mountains. With access to Colorado’s largest wilderness area, thrill seekers are set for fly-fishing, mountain biking, 4WD off roading, bouldering and rafting.

Credit: Alterra Mountain Company

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Winter: Take on the back country with cross-country skiing, snow biking and ice climbing, or ski a mix of steep tree skiing trails and wide-open cruisers at Purgatory resort, 25 miles from Durango (1,600 acres of skiable terrain, 105 trails, 11 lifts). In the town, experience Old West hospitality at the Diamond Belle Saloon and check in to a historic Victoria era hotel such as the Strater.

6. Colorado’s National Parks Go wild at Colorado’s national parks year-round, our picks of the best experiences at each: Rocky Mountain National Park: take a drive along Trail Ridge Road in Summer, the highest paved road in the USA; hike peaks and waterfalls; cliff camp with views across the park and sound of morning birdsong; spot elk in Fall and snowshoe during Winter.

Timed entry reservations are required during busy summer months, so plan ahead.

Credit: Jack Affleck

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Great Sand Dunes National Park & Preserve: sandboard down the tallest sand dunes in the country, with the magical snowcapped mountain backdrop, test your hiking skills with miles of dunes and by night gaze at the starlit sky, it’s a certified International Dark Sky Park.

Credit: Visit Telluride

UNESCO Heritage listed Mesa Verde National Park: take a guided tour (May-October, reservations required) of the bestpreserved archeological cliff dwellings in North America, with September as the ideal month when the park is less busy, before exploring some of the many hiking trails in the park.

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Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park: characterised by dark skies, steep canyons and craggy spires carved over 2 million years. Look out for wildlife, with the fastest bird in the world, the Peregrine Falcon in spring/early summer, yellow-bellied marmots, squirrels, and Colorado chipmunks. Watch the stars at night and hear sounds of coyotes at dawn if you’re staying in one of the park’s campsites, bookable from mid-May.

www.Colorado.com

Credit: Anthony D’Amato

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THE

SIXTH SE A SON Floating houses, northern lights dancing across the sky, shamanic wisdom dispensed by the fire and endless trails crossing multi-coloured fjells: MTB-ing through the resplendent autumn landscape of Lapland almost verges on sensory overload in more ways than one.

Words Gerhard Czerner Photography Martin Bissig

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Low sun brings out the vivid colours of the Rouvivaara Plateau SPRING 2023

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Lapland, FINLAND

Kittilä

FINLAND

R

USKA IS THE FINNISH WORD used to describe the spectacular natural autumn phenomenon that transforms the countryside of Lapland into an explosion of colour. Golden birch leaves hang from white, gnarled branches, a beautiful contrast to the flaming-red carpet of blueberry bushes on the forest floor. The low-lying, lateafternoon sun bathes the surroundings in a soft, warm light, further deepening the blue of the lakes.

It’s a seasonal spectacle that usually lasts about two weeks.

But we don’t know how lucky we—myself, Fränzi, and Martin— are to be in Lapland for a week of MTB-ing during this unparalleled natural event until we land in Kittilä, far north of the Arctic circle. As soon as we leave the airport, on both sides of the road, we see nothing but the blazing colours of autumn forests. It’s almost overwhelming.

Forest covers 70% of Finland, so trees are thick everywhere.

But here and there, we catch glimpses of little settlements and their typical red wooden houses. “The colour,” explains Juha, our driver, “originally came from the red oxide sludge left from the mine tailings. These hamlets usually consist of a few homes, a guest house, a bakery, barns and outbuildings. The reason they’re so spread out is so they don’t all go up in flames if there’s a fire. After all, we have enough space.” Juha’s family has been living in the Levi area for over five hundred years. Today, he and his wife, Heidi, operate a renowned travel agency, Polar Star Travel. We’re thrilled to be able to travel around with people whose local roots run deep.

The log house we’re staying in—so perfect it could be a movie backdrop—couldn’t be more authentic; natural building materials exude cosiness in every room. It belongs to a family of hunters, and pelts and antlers adorn the walls. In addition to

a few bedrooms, a living area and an adjoining kitchen flooded in natural light, there is, of course, the requisite sauna. Saunas have a long history in Finland and are an essential component of Finnish life. “A house isn’t complete without a sauna,” Juha says, laughing. “There are over three million in Finland!” Later on, we meet his wife, Heidi, in the pihvipirtti, which means steakhouse. The old floorboards creak as we step into the room.

Floors, ceilings, walls, chairs. All made with wood. The counter, on which is spread a huge buffet, is made of natural rock. The ambience is sublime.

Dinner that evening marks the start of a culinary week extraordinaire; the creativity in the kitchen here seemingly knows no bounds. And the food couldn’t be fresher. Vegetables,

FJELLS COME IN ALL SHAPES AND SIZES, AND THEY’RE

THE PERFECT DESTINATION FOR MOUNTAIN BIKERS AND HIKERS;

NARROW, DELIGHTFUL PATHS USUALLY LEAD RIGHT TO THE TOP.”

herbs and potatoes are grown right outside the door. Clean air and summer’s long daylight hours allow plants to flourish. In turn, these healthy plants feed the animals, mostly reindeer, a staple food in Lapland. Reindeer is served in every form imaginable: reindeer fillet, reindeer stew, reindeer burgers, reindeer cutlets, and even reindeer-stuffed elk. Their meat, as we discover, is particularly tender, with a taste unlike anything we’ve ever had.

Where the polar bear reigns supreme We don’t have much time the next day to get warmed up on our bikes. The narrow trail winds its way through dense forest, and after just a few minutes, it climbs steeply up one of the many fjells (mountains) in the area. We actually have to get off and push, and later, shoulder our bikes. We’re surprised. Compared to elsewhere in Europe, Finland is not mountainous, and its highest peak is just 1,331m asl. In the Alps, they’d call these fjells no more than hills. “Who’d have thought that we’d have to carry our bikes in country as flat as this,” I say, laughing.

Fjells come in all shapes and sizes, however, and they’re the perfect destination for mountain bikers and hikers; narrow, delightful paths usually lead right to the top. As is the case now.

We arrive at the top, and the treeless plateau opens out onto a magnificent view over endless swathes of land. Once we’re in the saddle again, we head back out towards the tree line. The colourful vegetation is smaller, the view extends further. Fränzi Allow plenty of time to enjoy the moods of the is thrilled. “You can just look and look, for hours on end. And countless lakes all those lakes!”

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Some of the trails look as if they were created especially for biking. Fun is guaranteed!

THE GROUND IS GRIPPY, WITH THE TRAIL TURNING LEFT, THEN RIGHT, HERE A ROOT FOR JUMPING, THERE A TECHNICAL CHALLENGE—THE TRAIL IS

PERFECT, EVEN IF WE STILL DON’T FEEL COMPLETELY WARMED UP.” SPRING 2023

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Lapland, FINLAND

We don’t stay at the highest point for very long, though; a storm is brewing. Thanks to the amazing view, we can already spot it on the distant horizon. We turn our bikes around, happy to make our first descent in Lapland. The ground is grippy, with the trail turning left, then right, here a root for jumping, there a technical challenge on steep steps—the trail is perfect, even if we still don’t feel completely warmed up. We can’t help but grin when we come upon a rustic log cabin at the foot of the fjell.

Gratefully, we sink into the pelt-covered lounge chairs in front of the log cabin, its overly decorated exterior almost kitschy.

Elk antlers, ancient skis, lanterns, strawflower bouquets—once again, it feels like we’ve been dropped into the middle of a movie set. But we get used to it, because this is seemingly how they do things in northern Finland. Finland is also known for its

IT FEELS LIKE WE’VE BEEN

DROPPED INTO THE MIDDLE OF A MOVIE SET. BUT

WE GET USED TO IT, BECAUSE THIS IS SEEMINGLY HOW THEY DO THINGS

IN NORTHERN FINLAND.”

coffee consumption, ranking first in the world, and our steaming hot coffee is served in a wooden kuksa. These cups, made with birchwood, are the traditional drinking vessel of the Sámi, Lapland’s original inhabitants, and are still very much in use wherever we go. It’s as though the Finns have carefully thought out every aspect of life because the architecture perfectly complements the dishes.

The other thing they’ve carefully considered—as we find out on our visit to one of the many sauna parks—is how well damp, cold weather goes with saunas. The sky is just starting to open up again when we reach the sauna huts located on the shores of a deep, blue lake. We sit on the generous wooden benches, sweating, enjoying the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The golden birch leaves are reflected on the choppy lake.

“I couldn’t imagine a better way to end a day of biking,” I say, interrupting our silent reverie and pouring more water on the hot rocks.

Also on the program is a visit to the Levi Bike Park. The map shows sixteen different routes or partial routes. It’s got everything, from easy blue trails to a World Cup black trail. There are also two enduro routes that go around the park’s perimeter.

The next day, the gondola takes us the 310 vertical metres to the top. The summit station is high above the tree line and offers an impressive panoramic view of the surrounding landscape. The trail conditions vary. We’re surprised by the diverse terrain in

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

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the park. From rough nature trails following shaped flow lines to challenging stretches featuring big jumps and wooden structures, the trails guarantee that bikers will have a great time, regardless of their skill level. We spend several hours having fun on the trails until our forearms are burning. On the exciting red trail, aptly named Santa’s Cabin, we actually do come across a real movie set. The windswept cabin is right beside the trail. This is where little Nikolas from the world-famous movie, Christmas Story, grew up. He would later become Santa Claus.

Our evening is no less exciting than the trails in the bike park.

For dinner, we go to see the local shaman. The word “Shaman” is posted on a small, six-sided house, so we know we’ve found the right place. These cabins, called kota, were originally meant to shelter hunters and foresters. They have a fire pit in the middle, and now they’re often used as a grill cabin of sorts. We have to duck down to get through the doorway, and the door falls

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THE COUNTRY AND ITS INHABITANTS EXUDE CALMNESS AND SERENITY. MAYBE THAT’S ONE OF THE REASONS WHY FINLAND

RANKED AT THE TOP OF THE 2021 WORLD HAPPINESS REPORT.” shut behind us. We’ve barely sat down when a terrifying apparition steps into the room. After a ritual that includes the shaman painting our faces with charcoal and poking a stick into the fire until sparks wildly fly up to the ceiling, the pelt-clad shaman shows himself to be an incredible storyteller and cook. He fills the evening with exciting stories from Lapland’s mythology, all the while feeding us fish he’s caught and vegetables from his

garden. We learn a lot about his family, and that he comes from a long line of natural healers. “Even now, many Finns live in tune with nature and feel the magic it embodies,” he tells us. Enchanted by his tales, it’s late when we finally leave the kota.

Walking out into the darkness, we experience our own magic moment. The night sky is lit up with a display of shimmering lights. Shades of green and purple northern lights dance between the stars and are reflected on the lake.

“Quick, come look!”

“Wow, they’re getting bigger and bigger!”

“Amazing, did you see the ones back there?”

We keep pointing up at the sky, calling out to one another in amazement. None of us had ever seen the northern lights. Of course, we’d hoped to see some, but we didn’t really believe we would. Now we’re as happy as kids seeing snow for the first time.

Deep in the night, once the cold has penetrated our bones, we head back. Despite the hour, we decide it’s not too late to fire up the sauna in our log house. While bathed in sweat, I say to Fränzi and Martin, “That’s something everyone has to see at least once in their life.” They nod in agreement.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Rustic decorated huts beckon you for lunch Narrow yet grippy trails allow fast runs and, occasionally, a little airtime A shaman tells stories from the land while preparing a tasty meal on the fire Seeing the northern lights for the first time in our lives is an almost magical moment Sauna culture in Finland is ancient and is still extensively practised today

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We don’t fill our coffee cups until late the next morning. The country and its inhabitants exude a calmness and serenity that’s hard to ignore. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why, for the fourth time in a row, Finland ranked at the top of the 2021 World Happiness Report. We’re happy, too. Happy about the many experiences over such a short time, and about the little trails that we take to get to a husky farm. Centuries-old fisher huts with densely overgrown rooves blend seamlessly into the landscape. The sense of urgency we’d brought with us has all but disappeared. We savour every moment, give ourselves time to take little breaks, and enjoy nature.

At Levi Husky Park, we finally fall head over heels. The trusting animals, with their dense fur and light-blue eyes, are all it takes to turn us into total Lapland fans. On a tour through the park, we feed foxes, play with huskies, and even kiss a reindeer.

We’d already seen a few of the rare snow-white animals, but we had yet to get this close to one. We discovered all kinds of interesting things about this member of the deer family. Here’s one surprising fact: They can swim for kilometres on end. “They don’t drown because of their coat,” explains our young and

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IN OUR DAILY LIVES, WE ARE USED TO HAVING CONTROL;

HERE, THOUGH, YOU ARE SECOND TO NATURE. THE LANDSCAPE AND THE ELEMENTS DICTATE AND SHAPE YOUR LIFE. YOU ARE SMALL AND

INSIGNIFICANT.”

clearly enthusiastic tour guide. “It traps pockets of air, keeping them insulated and afloat.” Here’s another surprising fact: Reindeer can change their eye colour. “In the summer,” she explains, “when it’s light all day and all night in the high north, their eyes are golden in colour. And in the darkness of winter, they turn dark blue.”

Our route back, naturally, takes us past a sauna. But not just any sauna. This one is floating. This construction is unique to this part of the world. A house is built onto a wooden platform that is kept afloat with large pontoons. A white fence surrounds

the platform. Four outboard motors propel the behemoth through the water. Inside, beside a large common area, there is a huge sauna with a wood stove. When we get there, smoke is already rising from the chimney. We step onto the boat via a gate. The house slowly moves away from shore. “I can’t believe it! We’re in a house, heading across a lake into the sunset!” It’s hard not to grin. “OK, let’s hit the sauna, and then we’ll dive into the lake!” Fränzi is bursting with enthusiasm. Three sauna rounds later, each followed by a jump in the lake, we head back. “This is so amazing,” Martin says with delight.

The bike tour the following day takes us to Rouvivaara, an expansive plateau 560m above sea level, and overgrown with moss. In our eyes, this doesn’t really seem like a big hill. But still, the wind blows in fierce gusts across the treeless plateau, and with the incredible panoramic view, the hill seems much higher. The trail is rocky in parts, making it tough to move forward, but otherwise, it’s a well balanced mountain-bike outing, one imbued with a Lapland vibe. Logs have been laid down side-by-side wherever the ground is soft and boggy, forming a rough boardwalk of sorts. We meet a few hikers, but we’re the only ones on bikes. The descents wind their way down from the plateau into the dense forest, where we see tree trunks deformed into abstract sculptures by the wind and the weather.

Our tour starts and stops at a lake called Hietajärvi. On our return, Heidi and Juha welcome us into a half-open hut with a beautiful view of the water. A fire is already burning in a pit in the middle, and a whole salmon is being grilled on a board carefully placed by the fire’s edge. Potatoes are roasting in the hot coals. The delicious aroma wafts behind the

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Wanna trailside snack? This singletrack leads through forest with an understorey of blueberry bushes Mysterious forest creatures abound!

This freshly caught fish, cooked on an open fire, was one of the best we’ve ever had Australia has its kangaroo and wombat crossings; in Finland, keep your eyes out for moose instead The view stretches far across the Rouvivaara Plateau; the strong winds here can be merciless on a bike Dressed in traditional clothing, a farmer with a reindeer on a leash welcomes us Fränzi would prefer to stay with the huskies

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Lapland, FINLAND

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Forests, lakes, sunsets and lots of trails: What more do you want?

Australia, you may have the Big Banana, the Big Merino and the Big Pineapple, but do you have a Big Reindeer?

Jumping in the lake because you’re too hot is no problem on this floating sauna.

And it comes with grand views free of charge

CONTRIBUTORS: Gerhard Czerner is a German mountain biking author and speaker. This trip to Finland marked the first of many more to come. Swissbased Martin Bissig traded banking for biking and balance sheets for breathtaking shots. In the process, he’s become a Canon ambassador and one of Europe’s most published outdoor photographers.

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hut, where we’re busy stowing away our bikes. “There’s always firewood here, and it’s open for use by everyone,” Heidi explains. “Many people come here, even entire families with kids. It’s a relaxed place for people to come together.” As the daylight fades, more and more stars appear. “What a beautiful evening out here,” I say, looking to the sky. It’s with a hint of melancholy that we pack our things and make our way back late in the evening.

Another day on our bikes awaits us in the region around Ylläs, where there’s an exciting network of trails. Various rental shops, bike shops and restaurants round out the offer.

Only marked bike trails can be used in Pallas-Yllästunturi National Park, but the routes are well signed, and lead through gnarled, magical forests or up to the area’s fjells so that on some of the routes, a few hundred vertical metres add up quickly. We almost feel a bit exotic with our regular mountain bikes, as most people are riding fat bikes. These fatties make sense, especially in the winter and on soft ground.

Early in the afternoon, we find ourselves overcome by hunger. We find a restaurant, where we closely study a map showing the many different tour options. Unfortunately, there’s not enough time for us to do the nearly 100km ride to Levi. “Sounds exciting, though,” grins Fränzi, biting into her reindeer burger. “I guess we’ll just have to come back.”

“What is it with the sixth season that I heard about?” I ask Juha on our last evening together. “The Sámi, Europe’s only Indigenous Peoples, split the year into eight seasons.

So in addition to winter, there’s also early winter and late winter. The same applies to summer,” Juha explains. “And ruska, autumn, is the sixth season in the Sámi calendar.”

We agree that these beautiful weeks fully deserve their own season, because biking along lonely paths through a light-filled, resplendently colourful forest on days like these truly is a magical experience. W

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GOULBURN

RIVER

GOLD

Eight golden lessons gained over eight equally golden trips in NSW’s little known Goulburn River NP. Words & Photography Ryan Hansen

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handful of photos. A few words. And an unfamiliar name. That’s how it started.

One ordinary evening (‘ordinary’ in the sense that I was doing the usual— avoiding sleep in favour of scrolling through maps and websites for more inspirational photos and trip reports), I happened across an intriguing post on a blog: ‘The Trading Route: Goulburn River National Park, NSW’. The blog was awildland, and it’s the work of Craig Fardell and Chris Armstrong, frequent contributors to Wild Mag (Ed: In fact, they’ve contributed the track notes to this very issue). And just as they’d done repeatedly in the past, the pair presented me with a national park I hadn’t the foggiest about, in a region I’d not explored before. Craig (AKA Caz) is an excellent photographer, and the images he captured showed a landscape possessing the kind of natural, subtle beauty that Russell Coight (Glenn Robbins’ fictionalised survival and wildlife expert character) might describe as “ethereal”.

“Check this out,” I said to my wife, Martine.

She rolled her eyes. Here we go again, I knew she was thinking. Can’t we just go to bed?!

“We should check it out!” I persisted.

She agreed.

And then we forgot all about it for a whole year.

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Just a heads up: We’ve made the conscious decision not to caption this story; the reason is explained in the text

Goulburn River NP Sydney

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Goulburn River NP, NEW SOUTH WALES

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ELL, TRUTH BE TOLD, I didn’t forget; I put it on the backburner. There was always somewhere more spectacular to go, something more exciting to do someplace else. (Hang on, that makes me sound like a right snob, doesn’t it? “That patch of nature isn’t good enough; I like this one better!”) Then there was the online information. As in, there was none. Zilch. Zippo. Nada. Nothing. Other than stereotypical photos from Instafamous locations, and National Parks’ deets on a couple of campgrounds and a short walk to a lookout, there wasn’t much to go off. The Goulburn, it was proving, was an enigma.

Uncharacteristically, we kept evading it. Where we’d normally actively embrace the challenge of visiting somewhere foreign, off-track, with little background information—going in blind, so to speak—we became complacent. Lazy. Greedy, even.

It was easier, simpler, and more rewarding to travel further to locations in ‘superior’ parks like the Blue Mountains and Wollemi, parks we knew would provide the goods, time and again.

Then my teaching Internship happened. I’d been studying to be a teacher, and, for those non-teachers among Wild’s readership, the Internship (and that’s Internship with a capital I) is the final mandatory practicum before graduating. It’s renowned for being intense. That meant big weekend missions were sadly off the table, for the school term anyway. We needed somewhere closer, somewhere we could scoot out for a swift overnight bushwalk and return in time to prep lessons and meals for the next week. So, after being ignored for so long, the Goulburn was back in the equation.

Maps were pored over with renewed interest, potential locations plotted, and the semblance of an initial foray materialised. Unbeknown to us then, the Goulburn and its bordering areas would become not only the destination for eight future adventures, but the setting for a mixed bag of revelations.

THE FIRST OBSTACLE OCCURRED BEFORE we’d even stepped foot in Goulburn River NP: access. Despite covering more than 70,000ha, there ain’t that many public access points. So we opted for a short off-track circuit from a main road, an ostensibly straightforward route to the river. Yet in my overexuberance from being back in the bush and visiting a new national park, I had us lost faster than we could say “Goulb!”. This resulted in two quick observations. Lesson #1: Not all landmarks are as obvious as they appear on the topo, especially when navigating relatively featureless bush (that’s my excuse anyway, and I’m sticking to it). Lesson #2: Geotagging the location of your car, before you leave, is smart, particularly if you want to be reacquainted with it when you return.

Having corrected our bearing, the next hurdle was finding a pass down to the river. Frankly, being our first time walking here,

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I was healthily apprehensive. How continuous would the cliffline be? Would a rope be necessary? Would we be forced to spend the better part of the afternoon searching for a viable option? These fears were quickly allayed though, as we discovered a well-worn animal pad providing uninhibited passage to the river.

Back when Caz and Chris had explored near here, the river flats looked pretty and grassy. We expected it to be similar where we were heading. Wrong. Instead, there were extended stretches of above-head-high weeds which were—literally— bloody frustrating. Perhaps the aftermath of floods? Or possibly from prior grazing? Anyway, being mid-winter, the alternative prospect of repeated chilly river crossings was by no means heart-warming (pun intended). So we stumbled and bumbled our way on, accumulating more and more unfriendly prickles on every exposed surface (and even the unexposed ones too).

Jingle. Jangle. Jingle. Crack. CraThistles scrunched; thistles crunched. Geez, was Martine ever moving fast! And through a tangled mess like this.

“Teen, why are you running?” I asked.

No answer.

I turned around. Teen wasn’t there. Well, she was, just a long way back; it definitely wasn’t her who’d been hurtling through the undergrowth towards me. Who was it, then? A wombat? A boar? A yowie? Whoever, or whatever, it was, hopefully it wasn’t

IT DEFINITELY WASN’T HER

WHO’D BEEN HURTLING THROUGH THE UNDERGROWTH TOWARDS ME.

WHO WAS IT, THEN? A WOMBAT?

A BOAR? A YOWIE?”

too enraged; I doubt it was planning a warm welcome. The sensible response would’ve been to make plenty of noise. You know, to scare it away. Instead, bravely, we froze.

Anticlimactically, the animal bypassed us; we never saw it But from then on, we opted for wet feet instead.

BY LUNCHTIME ON THE SECOND DAY, we were seriously questioning why we’d left it this long to visit the Goulburn. We’d camped by the river on a picturesque gravelly beach, encircled by towering cliffs. We’d also discovered an incredible exit route via a remarkable cave (Lesson #3: If there’s an animal track, it probably ‘goes’; and Lesson #4: Conglomeratey-sandstone erodes easily, thus producing an abundance of passes). And now we stood at a stunning lookout, absorbing the panoramic views of the winding gorge we’d wandered through.

For the weekend at least, this place felt like ours, and ours only.

After this first walk, we’d caught the bug—fortunately, not of the stomach variety. This place, for which there was so little online information, had a wilderness-style appeal. For those willing to put in effort—researching entry points, planning routes, trying things without guidance, taking reasonable risks—there were infinite rewards.

And, as we later realised—now having an eye for distinctive Goulburnesque features—there are actually numerous online accounts of others’ adventures here. You just have to know what to look for. But like others before us, we’re not going to give the game away entirely either; to preserve this sense of discovery, the areas we’ve travelled won’t be described in explicit detail or even mentioned by name. That’d be pointless anyway, as many of them don’t have officially recognised names. (Ed: If you’re planning on exploring Goulburn River NP yourself, follow Ryan’s lead, and please be judicious in what you post online.

You’ll also notice, BTW, we’ve given no captions for this piece.)

THE INSPIRATION FOR OUR NEXT outing in the area was simple: We spied a sexy-looking mountain on the drive home and thought, “We should climb that!” So we did.

Promptly, the next two lessons unfolded. Lesson #5: The

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centre of a ridgeline tends to be the scrubbiest. And Lesson #6: When you’re barging through the aforementioned scrub, wear a tough long-sleeved shirt. (For reasons only known to myself, I chose to wear a new thin T-shirt that’s since been left permanently scarred. Live and learn, Ryan. Live and learn.)

Our friend Caden joined us for this jaunt, which, once we’d escaped the shrubbery, proved to be a corker. A spiny, contorted ridgeline slithered its way onwards and upwards, providing infinite caves and slabby terraces to explore, and we made camp among the pines on a secondary knoll where there were speccy views of our target mountain and the surrounding pastoral lands.

On the topic of which, pastoral lands that is, for the vast majority of our exploratory bushwalks, we’ve sought destinations which feel natural, untouched, and remote, untainted by societal constructs. Previously, it’s been difficult to disconnect—in a meaningful and enriching way—from the hubbub of modern life when there’s been cars audible, or roads and buildings visible, or even other people around. But here in Goulburn River NP, the juxtaposition couldn’t have been more glaringly apparent: On one side of the ridge lay a vast wilderness, expanding practically as far as the eye could discern; and on the other side, below us, was a railway line, farmland, and a major road. Yet, strangely, neither the hourly presence of coal trains of seemingly unending length, nor the dawn mooing alarm of the cows, was unsettling.

Instead, it provided a welcome reminder that adventures don’t

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have to be full-on or in the middle of nowhere to be worthwhile.

Sometimes, the best destinations are hidden in plain sight.

As we stood atop our mountain and watched a lone car meander along the road, I couldn’t help but wonder: How many other outdoorsy people had—like us, initially—driven straight past this peak, and the infinite array of others just like it, without stopping or affording it a second glance, en route to somewhere better? We resolved to seek the value in the unpopular. The unheard of. The unheralded.

But the findings weren’t yet finished, oh no. While passing through Denman on the way home, I discovered the most succulent steak sanga I’ve ever had the pleasure of gorging myself on. Thank you, Fresh Denman; we’ll be back!

BY THE END OF OUR THIRD TREK here, the Goulburn River was undoubtedly our new go-to area. Dubbed ‘The Wattle Walk’ (the yellow blooms were prolific), we found significance in topographical nuance. Camped merely 150m or so in elevation above the valley floor, the expansiveness of the views was surprising. It wasn’t the Grose Valley, sure, but it was good enough for us.

As we left the main ridge to follow a spur back to our car, we were shocked to stumble across an old cairn. It was heartening to know that a fellow bushwalker had seen worthiness here too.

COMPLEX RIDGE SYSTEMS REVEALED THEMSELVES,

AND NEW POSSIBILITIES FOR HIGH CAMPS BECAME ENDLESS. DECIDING

WHERE TO VISIT FIRST BECAME THE BIGGEST CHALLENGE.” Our next two trips emphasised the usefulness of satellite imagery. In the past, when planning off-track outings, I’d predominantly used topo maps to scout for interesting-looking features.

Significant landmarks were usually named, major clifflines noted, etc, etc. The thing was, with Goulburn River at least—not necessarily being of à la grande scale—when only consulting the topo, much of the landscape appeared sedate. But when viewed through satellite imagery, oh boy, the place came to life!

Complex ridge systems revealed themselves, and new possibilities for high camps became endless. Deciding where to visit first became the biggest challenge. That’s not to say navigation was straightforward, though; cliff bands appeared in unexpected locations, and it paid to be prepared for all possibilities. Nevertheless, the scope for exploration off the beaten path was astonishing.

Which prompted Lesson #7: Remember Lesson #5. Oh well, nothing another steak sanga couldn’t atone for.

THE FOCUS FOR WALKS SIX AND SEVEN shifted to sharing the majesty of the Goulburn River with others; first with friends, then with family. Camped on a wonderfully sandy beach below impressive sandstone cliffs, lazing about in the river, sharing stories over a bottle of wine—Jo and Mitch had it damn good for their first overnight bushwalk. Too good, perhaps. If only Mitch told us beforehand that he suffered from severe hay fever, we probably wouldn’t have chosen a route through spring grasslands. Whoops.

And after hearing us continually sing its praises, my parents also decided to see for themselves what all the fuss was about.

‘Fuss’ being the key word here, as the first afternoon was spent de-tiger-pearing our boots, and eventually giving up on the romantic grassy vista in favour of unpunctured sleeping pads and un-spiked arse cheeks. Sunrise Two, overlooking a dramatic knife-edge ridge, with atmospheric sweeping mists in the background compensated for all prior indiscretions. You’re bang on Russ Coight; there’s definitely plenty of ethereal here, mate!

Unfortunately, as with everything in this life, our time in the Goulburn was finite. We’ve recently moved to Victoria; it’ll be a while between drinks. But there couldn’t have been a more fitting finale—or, for that matter, a more apt introduction to packrafting—than a relaxing float down this majestic river.

Beach after beach, cliff after cliff drifted on by, with enough fun rapids ensuring that we had to keep our eyes on the water

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from time to time. Having procrastinated coming here in the first place, it was now unfathomable that we’d soon leave it behind. But not before one final lesson. Lesson #8: Packrafts don’t agree with shark sticks.

OUR TIME EXPLORING THE GOULBURN RIVER area has blessed us with precious insight and introspections.

From literal learnings about navigation and trip planning, to reconceptualising our essence of adventure, our mindsets and knowledge base have irrevocably enhanced. In hindsight, it’s incomprehensible that we nearly didn’t even make it here. And for such shallow, superficial reasons. We won’t make the same mistake again.

On another level, the fragility and susceptibility of these precious areas to external, destructive forces can’t be understated. The protected area of the greater Wollemi region—and the Goulburn River is no exception—is bordered by an excess

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of coal mines. Even as far back as the 80s, the proposed Kerrabee Dam would’ve had catastrophic impacts on the area, had a cultural-heritage survey, which revealed more than 300 sacred Indigenous sites, not been conducted. I’ve also read reports that the water levels in the Goulburn River itself have been depleted in recent years by a mine upstream. These areas must be savoured while they still can.

Goulburn River NP symbolises what gold can be gleaned from national parks that—having been relegated by better known or more easily accessible destinations—are overlooked and relatively unvisited. It signifies all there is to be gained from being inquisitive, and from seeing a landscape in a different light.

Beauty can be found where you least expect it. W 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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Alpine NP, VICTORIA

Reflections on the

Razorback The 11km rollercoaster spine that leads from Victoria’s Diamantina Hut to Mt Feathertop is one of Australia’s best backcountry zones. Pro ski and adventure photographer Dylan Robinson reflects on what the ridge means to him.

By DYLAN ROBINSON

Mt Feathertop Melbourne

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Buff Farnell dives into a blank canvas on the Razorback

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he sound is almost hypnotic. Like a metronome,

my skins glide and thud as they connect with a faded track from the day past. Crystals bounce off the exposed skin of my face as a northwest wind blows a change. Overdue snow is imminent. Like ants before rain, we scurry off for the last beams of sunlight that will grant us soft passage.

A pot of gold is often said to be at the end of the rainbow. Slithering through Victoria’s Alps, Razorback Ridge is different. Yes, it leads to the beloved Mt Feathertop—a backcountry beauty, the jagged, iconic peak which is the assumed reward of wandering the path of the ridge.

But to me, there is reward and beauty in the path itself. +++++

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Razorback Ridge, VICTORIA

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hy am I out here...again?

After no less than twenty trips walking, skiing, admiring, and documenting this snow-covered spine, I can’t help but feel a special connection to it. There’s an ever-changing personality to the ridge as it mirrors the sky and the sun, casting shadows along its flanks and deep gullies.

Waves of white and grey layer upon each other. Wind-drifted snow is textured like the veins on the back of my hand. My eye follows their patterns and my mind wanders, placing silhouetted figures in perfect positions.

The gold and pink hues deepen each moment as the sun, nearing the horizon at the end of the day, sets on fire. Cooling soon after, blues and neon green cast over the sparkle of the refrozen surface.

Light fades. My fingers are numb from holding my camera and my feet hurt. Why am I still here, suffering for these pictures?

It’s not a job, I’m not forced to be here. I could be on the couch, watching cinematic genius that I don’t need to lift a finger to create. But the answer to why am I suffering in the backcountry is easy: I simply want to be here. Maybe there’s something inside me, though, that needs to be here. Something that drives me outside of comfort zones in the mountains and to be here instead, recording memories and experiencing the emotions that this harsh, beautiful environment throws at me. +++++

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LITTLE DIPPER. BIG DIPPER.

WASHINGTON POINT.

TELLESON POINT. TIMBER POINT. CAMP NOTCH. SOUTH KNOB. TWIN KNOBS. HIGH KNOB. CAIRN HILL. FINALLY, UP THE

WEST RIDGE TO FEATHERTOP ITSELF.”

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Razorback Ridge, VICTORIA

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hy do I ski? I didn’t grow up skiing, but I have always held wonder for the beauty of movement. The ocean was always the most powerful moving force around me. I think about it now: Sunlight diffracts through the back of a wave as I float and stare, clicking an imaginary shutter in my mind.

When I fell into mountain environments, light and movement became my common language. As skiers drove in arcing turns across snow, I found comfort and awe in the overhead plumes of billowing, cold, dry smoke they produced, backlit like the sun through a wave.

I ski because I want to be a moving part in a culture, and part of the world, that makes me stop and absorb. +++++ I want to reflect on the past years’ experiences with the ridge. Day trips and simply chasing fiery skies into the evening made it clear that the rainbow gives opportunity, not just the pot of gold at the end.

Quiet and crisp. The only sounds made are the damp crunch of ski boots as I turn myself back to the whisper of a breeze, perched on the top of Victoria’s most dramatic alpine peak: Feathertop. How do you beat this?

My whole body seems to fall into the final few steps approaching the peak’s Hellfire Gully. I snap my pack buckles like slicing taut rope; my lungs expand as my eyes peel from one valley to the next. A bird’s eye view from the island in the sky. This is a time when the pot of gold really is at the end of the rainbow.

Whenever I pass over the summit of the 1,922m peak, I always peer down into the void of Avalanche Gully. There aren’t many mountains in Australia that make you feel small like this. Maybe this is why I come here: perspective. Not necessarily to belittle myself, but to slow down the rat race of daily life. Perhaps I shouldn’t stand too close. These cornices are truly works of art, sculpted by the howling winds of the north and ready to release in the right spring conditions.

It’s not all about curating a fine-art exhibition in my mind when in this terrain. Snow conditions change rapidly with solar radiation, and temperatures constantly shift. A dreamy turn in the light can change to a coral reef of ice in the darkness. Stay sharp and reap the rewards.

Like a chandelier in a breeze, I watch and listen as skiers turn past me; the corn snow is turning back to its solid state for the night. Both speed and caution are our friends. In the abyss of the south faces, we begin the climb to the top of the ridge. Warm, golden light that burns Feathertop’s northern aspect greets us, and one last line is sought out for the day. Crampons, headtorches and the luminous light of the alpenglow are our companions for the last ascent to base camp. Once there, we huddle with friends, sip warm drinks, and speak utter nonsense as our necks stretch upward toward the shimmering stars. Again, how do you beat this? +++++

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Buff Farnell makes tracks along one of the Razorback’s ribs Drew Jolowicz in the eye of the volcano during one of the most incredible sunsets I’ve witnessed Ascending the north face of Feathertop, Drew locks in with crampons and a head torch Toby Nagorka on the final push to Feathertop with Drew Peeking out of his tent, Toby catches a glimpse of the sunrise from the top of Hellfire Gully

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aturally, when I’m out on the Razorback, my eye constantly sinks into the depth of endless shapes and colours. But the skiing! So much amazing skiing! Do I have half an hour for a lap? Do I have several days and all the snacks from my pantry? Either way, there are turns to be found.

I’ve experienced every type of snow Australia has to offer out here. Perfect corn, actual powder (yes, we get it sometimes), manageable crust layers, and terrifying, icy coral. Each has its charms. But not only is there variety in snow, there is variety in terrain; there is something for everyone.

Recently, I showed my folks this area for the first time. They aren’t snow people by any means. Snowshoes and the sheer allure of such a beautiful landscape are enough to get most people out here, wandering curiously. It’s an area that can be so simple, yet so rewarding.

That said, you can also get yourself into complex terrain. Fun for some, might I add. For those seeking more challenging terrain without heading all the way to Feathertop’s Avalanche Gully, the rainbow delivers. For example, Twin Knobs sit at 1,750 metres, offering the rocky steeps of Middle Finger Chute and Index Couloir.

Neither are for the faint-hearted.

Little Dipper. Big Dipper. Washington Point. Telleson Point. Timber Point. Camp Notch. South Knob. Twin Knobs. High Knob. Cairn Hill. Finally, up the West Ridge (which in truth is as much from the south as the west) to Feathertop itself. Explore a little, or maybe summit the big one and then scurry down through the lush bushland of Bungalow Spur. +++++

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The Razorback, VIC

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Drew Jolowicz finds solitude with Feathertop towering behind Dancing with shadows on a memorable powder day (skier Drew Jolowicz) Buff Farnell finding fresh turns on Bon Accord Spur, which peals off to the western flank of the Razorback The crags of Feathertop; choose your own adventure SPRING 2023

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Razorback Ridge, VICTORIA

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ore than ever, I love the backcountry to get away from the crowds of resort skiing. I want to see views unobstructed by lift towers and staff accommodation, and I want to escape the hum of diesel machinery. I want to hear only the rustle of my pack, the click of my skis and the wind through trees.

Yes, increasing numbers of people are venturing out here, leaving common backcountry areas with tracks upon tracks.

But this ridge that I’ve come to love is accommodating and capacious; multiple groups of snow freaks can explore here and literally not cross paths with anyone if they don’t wish to. Simply follow the yellow brick road to the big rock in the north, and you have eleven kilometres of some of the best backcountry skiing in Australia.

There have been few occasions I’ve walked away from Razorback Ridge unfulfilled. Almost inevitably, I’ve been inspired and in awe of the beautiful sunsets and many other moods I’ve shared with friends out there. But despite that, I know this: I have barely scratched the surface. Regardless of the stunning moments I’ve played witness to over the years, I don’t believe they serve as a true testament to just how compelling this place can be. W

CONTRIBUTOR: Dylan Robinson is a Wollongong-based photojournalist.

Storytelling, filmmaking, contemTouring solo is great, but it’s even better with mates. Here, a group slide into the pastel layers of the Razorback in one of its softer moods

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porary issues and mountains are his key interests. See more of his work at instagram.com/dylrobinson

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READER’S ADVENTURE

THE BEST WORST TRIP EVER Wanting to visit K2’s base camp, experienced hiker and alpinist Ross Hanan decided to take on a new challenge: joining an organised trekking group. And to up the ante, he invited his entire family along.

Words & Photography ROSS HANAN

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On the long and smooth Vigne Glacier as we make our way to Ali camp (4800m), the last sleep before climbing to Gondogoro La

K2

PAKISTAN

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Karakoram Range, PAKISTAN

Alice Springs

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he question has been hiding in plain sight. Where the feck is K1? And what about K’s 3, 4, 5 and beyond? Fame and fortune in the Grand Explorer tradition await.

Tally-ho old chap, off we go!

Actually, I’ve wanted to do this for a very long time. See K2, that is. Maybe it was my brother’s brand of skis, or my hankering for the underdog; perhaps I was attracted to its standalone beauty, or its difficulty in climbing, or its extraordinary death rate. Whatever it was, Everest never held much appeal—just too many people. That is not why I go to the mountains.

The risk assessment started early. DFAT has this on its Smartraveller website: Reconsider your need to travel to Pakistan overall due to the volatile security situation and high threat of terrorist attack, kidnapping and violence. I drill down into the data, and the region we are going to looks OK. Next are the health considerations. Choose your sickness here. To mention a few: malaria; polio; typhoid; hepatitis; measles; tuberculosis; rabies; and Crimean Congo haemorrhagic fever (whatever that is). It’s enough to put you off. We pin-cushion up with inoculations and raid the pharmacy for all types of tablets. For me, as it turns out (spoiler alert), stomach upsets (I end up losing five kilos) and car crashes (one small ding) were the main health risks.

Outdoor folk understand risk. We’re assessing it all the time.

Is that Grade 4 river running at a Grade 5? Will there be enough water to drink on our outback hike? Is that MTB descent too technical for my ability? And we react accordingly…if we’re smart. I recall a story (apocryphal or not) of two NZ climbers, Rob Hall and Gary Ball, who ran a snowpack analysis when 200m short of the top of Mt Everest; they determined it was the ‘wrong kind of snow’, and turned back. I hold that kind of thinking close, getting your personal balance between risk and reward right.

I then see if my partner wants to join me (yes), and also invite my twenty plus-year-old kids with this addendum: “You will need to deal with any adversity as adults. This is not a “Mum and Dad will sort out any issues” type of trip. Should anything go wrong, then you will have to tough it out. It is not a place for being precious. Think walking multiple days with a badly sprained ankle, quietly suffering with a bad back...” I receive two yesses. The kids’ adversity record for the adventure (and here’s another spoiler alert) ends up being this: one broken finger; one dramatic faint; relatively constant diarrhoea; various forms of sickness; and a loss of twelve kilos and four kilos respectively.

Next comes the choosing of a guide company (compulsory). We go local, wanting our money to stay in the country, but this comes at the cost of a western safety overlay. Some examples: The satellite phones have charging issues; the first aid kit is non-existent;

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WE SWING LIKE MONKEYS AND CURSE LIKE TROOPERS

AS THE HUSKS OF BATTERED AND ROLLED VEHICLES LYING IN THE VALLEY BELOW TORMENT US.”

the only EPIRB is my own; the porters’ clothing and footwear is inadequate; the guides don’t have crampons, etc.

And then there’s the decision as to which route to do—we choose the Gondogoro La, a high-altitude pass, (a 1+ grade on the NZ Alpine Grading System). We will head up the Baltoro Glacier to Concordia. We’ll then spend a night at K2 Base Camp, and return to Concordia before heading up the Vigne Glacier to the Gondogoro Pass (5,585m) and then down the Hushe Valley.

It will be a tough two-week trek requiring significant skills, deep commitment, and fitness.

Visa, tickets, carbon offsets, and we’re off.

OUR GROUP IS A LARGE ONE: Twenty-two, although the intention is that we’ll split into two groups of eleven when we begin walking to make the logistics more manageable. It is a heady mix of international overachievers. We have a French surgeon, a

Dutch rocket scientist, an English insurance company owner, a Belarusian engineer, a Bolivian Spanish professor, an American silicon chip designer…all with significant trekking résumés.

We leave our base in Skardu on a road that is a feat of endurance, tenacity and will-power.

The wooden suspension bridges sway and pulse ominously. Two bridges are down, so we have to ditch our 40-year-old LandCruisers for whatever is trapped on the other side of the bridgeless rivers. We bake in the sun waiting, as vehicles arrive one by one. Finally there are fifteen of us left and one aged Cruiser available before dark closes the road. A game of Tetris begins. Four folk cram into the front seat. Half a tonne of luggage gets stacked in the high-sided back tray along with eight other standing trekkers. Still there are three of us left; we end up hanging off the back. My arms are pumped in minutes. It’s an hour of grim holding on over rough terrain; the Landcruiser belches thick black smoke. We swing like monkeys and curse like troopers as the husks of battered and rolled vehicles lying in the valley below torment us.

Here’s a hint for anyone considering replicating our route: Those bridges are likely to be out for a while. Allow extra time.

We make it to Askole and lie exhausted in the tent, waiting for sleep. My trousers are a glitter fest, thanks to the mineral-rich dust of the area. Flecks of silica and mica suspended in the air are caught in the torchlight. They sparkle and glint like stars; the night sky has appeared inside our tent. It’s a beautiful moment.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Our beasts of burden operating in an uncompromising landscape Goats don’t like cold water.

Who knew?

Wooden suspension bridges rock We pray to the Gods of Gondogoro La, and they prove to be kind Paragliding in the Baltoro valley.

Risk assessment: That’s a NO from me There is always room for one more in a Landcruiser The servo, Baltistan style. A pile of discarded jerrycans

BEFORE WE LEFT, A FRIEND lent me a fraying copy of In the Throne Room of the Mountain Gods. The book is a comprehensive history of trekking, exploring and mountaineering in the Karakoram. It is an excellent read, but a recurring theme is the trouble with porters.

There is generation after generation of trouble.

And so it comes to pass.

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There is a religious festival occurring—Muharram; we can’t find enough porters. God triumphs money during this period.

We offer three, four and even five times their normal rate, but Mammon holds little sway. Our target is around one hundred porters, which is a long conga line of folk. For reference, a safe porter ratio is about one walker to five-and-a-half equivalent porters while one horse/donkey/mule/ass is equal to approximately three to four porters. We were two groups of eleven, and ended up with twenty two porters and ten donkeys—about half the safe minimum. How might this affect safety? Well, should anyone suffer from altitude sickness or injury, the ability to send them back with adequate portage is deeply compromised. Or when you arrive at camp, your tents aren’t already pitched; if weather conditions are bad then you’ll be outside and exposed until the tents arrive.

Further, to enable duplicate gear to be ditched, the idea of two teams of eleven is shelved. Not only does this mean all those little luxuries like tables and chairs are gone, there is now little redundancy should things go wrong.

We wait an extra day and the donkeys don’t arrive. The elite aren’t happy and begin revolting. There are threats of a social media attack. A summit meeting is held. Bashir, the head guide, is encircled. The talk is all logistics and God. This is our first trek, (but we are experienced hikers), so we stay away from the melee and instead join in praying to the mountain gods that our donkeys will arrive.

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The gods prove to be kind. The donkeys appear at our Paiju campsite after only two days of waiting. But the delay costs us contingency days. Our risk increases.

WE BEGIN FOLLOWING IN THE FOOTSTEPS of all the K2 expeditioners before us. Little has changed, apart from puffer jackets replacing tweed, and canvas tents being usurped by some synthetic wonder-brand; our procession of donkeys and porters could be from a thousand years ago. Even the campsites we stay at are the same places the earliest European explorers stayed at. We step back in time.

For mountain junkies like me, the Karakoram offers an overdose in alpine ecstasy. Surround-sound mountain views begin from the first campsite on the glacier, Khorburtse, and the music never stops.

But it’s the lesser known mountains that hold their own among the classics, and they are everywhere. There are innumerable impressive spires, none of which are remarkable enough for the locals to give them names. But who knew spires could come in such forms? Even the gendarmes amaze—tall and proud, leering menacingly over you, guarding like sentinels, every type of Polizei on the planet is here, in this valley, in stone.

We find it! The former impersonal colonial name, K1, does Masherbrum (7,821m) no favours. It presents a fierce face. I

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Camping under Mitre Peak; the Gasherbrums ahead, Broad Peak left, K2 far left Approaching the pass, with a much-welcomed hand Still enough energy for star jumps across from Trango Towers A rare daughter and dad pic Gilkey Memorial: Taking on the ‘savage mountain’ can have terminal consequences Without equine assistance our trip would not have been possible

THREE 8,000M+ PEAKS SIT IN PLAIN SIGHT. THIS WAS OUR

GOAL. HERE IS THE THRONE ROOM. ANYTHING ELSE IS A BONUS.”

can see no line of weakness from this side. It has been climbed a grand total of four times, sneaking up the sides or around the back. Its elegant head strikes a defying pose to 7,925m Gasherbrum 4 (aka K3) at the head of the Baltoro Valley. Brum is the Balti word for mountain, but purely serendipitously, the English words Masher and Gasher evoke the sense of power these mighty peaks hold.

Next is camp Urdukas, where the first view of an 8,000m peak appears—Falchan Kangri (Broad Peak, 8,051m).

As we move up the valley, the symphonic height and beauty of the mountains builds to the crescendo that is Concordia. If there is a place on the planet where one of those ‘hippy’ energy centres resides, it is here. Glaciers pour down from everywhere; I stop counting at thirty flowing into the head of the Baltoro Glacier.

All these glaciers meet at the focal point that is Concordia, the ancient Roman goddess of harmony. Three 8,000m+ peaks sit in plain sight. This was our goal. Here is the throne room. Anything else is a bonus.

Our local Baltistani guides call K2 Chogori, though Capmulapba,

Daip Sang, and Shah Ghori are other names touted. Even K2 isn’t quite correct; it’s an abbreviation with K standing for Karakoram.

This was a naming convention used during the Great Trigonomic Survey of British India in the 19th Century. When I was young, NZ’s Mt Fuji lookalike was called Mt Egmont, and I climbed Mt Cook. Now I know them respectively as Taranaki and Aoraki; the old English names seem wrong, from a different time and place.

The name K2 is deeply embedded in my psyche, but—and it won’t happen overnight—I suspect that, slowly, Chogori may likewise become the default for me.

Due to our porter crisis, we’re running out of time; overnighting at Chogori (K2) Base Camp is off. Instead we walk there and back in a day. I’m zonked. Try not to do this.

The unfit and infirm (four in total) are sent back down the Baltoro. Being fit is a controllable; becoming unwell or injured is just bad luck. My partner Sam has a chest rattle, and her skin has puffed up—a sign she is holding excess fluid. Both are potential altitude-sickness symptoms, so she makes the brave but excellent decision to descend. Separating is difficult, but—together— we decide that my technical skills might be needed to help our ‘children’ get over the pass. The rest of us are on a do-or-die mission. Because of our lack of contingency days, there won’t be enough time to turn back and still make our flights once we begin the trek to Ali camp and then across the Gondogoro Pass the following day. We are committed.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT K2. ‘Nuff said During Sam’s return, she found that by afternoon, snow melt made some rivers too dangerous to ford. How much safer this ropeway was though is open to debate Fresher food than from any supermarket The Cookie Monster doesn’t find any cookies on the pass

MY DAUGHTER, POIGNANTLY ENSURED THE ROUGH WOULD ALWAYS BE REMEMBERED WITH THE SMOOTH: “THIS

WAS BOTH THE WORST AND THE BEST TRIP EVER.”

CONTRIBUTOR: Ross Hanan was lost for three days in New Zealand’s Silver Peaks when in Year 6. He managed to find his way out, and has been losing and finding himself ever since.

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Gondogoro La is a serious undertaking, and is not to be underestimated. You need to be fit, have basic mountaineering skills (such as being able to walk in crampons, being confident with prusiking, knowing how to use a harness) and have excellent judgement. This is graded a YDS Class 4: Simple climbing, often with exposure. A rope is often used. A fall on Class 4 rock could be fatal. Typically, natural protection can be found. Add an altitude of 5,600m; then couple this with people with little climbing experience and the risk rises. (Just three out of our group of twenty-two trekkers have mountain-climbing experience, and we struggle at times with some of our guides’ decisions, decisions we may not have made with such a large inexperienced group. It is difficult letting go.)

Crevasses are leapt unroped, unstable seracs loom overhead, and we walk over the evidence of recent avalanche activity as we climb to the pass. But it is the descent that proves more dangerous.

Helmets here are absolutely essential. Rockfall is ever present. The ground is strewn with unstable rubble and is icy. But the ice is a blessing, too, and our descent must begin before the sun starts melting it, which increases the fall of debris. It’s not just melting ice that releases rocks; we have to be constantly careful not to kick or knock rocks down on trekkers below.

There are about 300m of fixed ropes in situ, but these are in a poor state having been retied multiple times, as the falling rocks continually slice them. The knots make descending difficult and slow, as you have to stop and untie your prusik over each one. Many in our group choose not to prusik or do not have rope skills, so they rely purely on arm strength to get themselves down.

And the ground is steep. Very steep. To give you an idea of the steepness, one of our party stumbles after we arrive on ‘safe’ ground, at a point where the fixed ropes have finished. She double cartwheels, hitting her head badly, injuring her foot; she is lucky not to continue tumbling.

From the pass, there are only two more campsites to go as we descend the beautiful Hushe Valley. Here we see our first grass in over a week, and we smell the fragrant juniper and pinenut trees. We also buy a lamb from a shepherd who walks with us down to camp where a grand dinner awaits—our local Uber Eats.

The walking stops at the village of Hushe, and we are bundled back into the ever-impressive LandCruisers. We head back to Skardu for our first shower in a fortnight to wash away the dust but not the memories.

Memories can be imperfect, and we are wont to airbrush out elements through time. But my daughter, Paris, (who fainted, and suffered a broken finger, constant nausea, diarrhoea, and the loss of 12kg) poignantly ensured the rough would always be remembered with the smooth: “This,” she said, “was both the worst and the best trip ever.”

Bonne chance. W

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BLOOD

MERIDIAN EXPLORING THE GILES MASSIF Eight days off trail in the Red Centre’s sensational West MacDonnell Ranges.

Words & Photography Craig Pearce

Raw, nearly naked earth in the West MacDonnells

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“P

eople die out here all the time.”

It was an eerily dark day in Central Australia, a day suffocated by gun-metal clouds, and we were being driven from Alice Springs to Ormiston Gorge, our walk’s start and end point. Our driver continued: “A 20-year-old had a heart attack last week.” Hmm. That’s interesting I thought, quietly checking my pulse, and listening for anything that might be an augury, like, of cardiac arrest.

Most walkers coming to this part of the world are here to tackle the famous Larapinta Trail; we were not most walkers. Instead, we—a Mötley nine-person Crue of which I was the lesser part—were here for an eight-day semi-circumnavigation of one of the area’s geologic centrepieces, the crumpled uprising of the Giles Massif. The massif is part of the Chewings Range which, with the Heavitree and Pacoota Ranges, comprises the 644km-long MacDonnell Ranges, and its Traditional Owners are the Arrernte people. It’s also recognised as an international site of conservation significance. Not far away a fossil of the world’s oldest vertebrate was found, left from the tropical Larapintine Sea which once inundated this ancient land. Fossil invertebrates from 435 to 600 million years old are common. Some rivers here are believed to be the world’s oldest, having followed the same course for 350 million years.

Giles Massif

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Giles Massif, NORTHERN TERRITORY

While the sea no longer exists, Sister Water remains and— in a sibling relationship with Brother Rock—is a fundamental determinant of life. The latter captures, stores and distributes the former. The tell is in the soaks and trickles emerging from the ranges, and in diamond-precious waterholes that stud the creek beds. Here, refuge habitats exist, including of human hikers meandering the land.

When there was an inland sea, materials were deposited and compressed into sedimentary rock, raised through compressing, folding and buckling into mountain ranges (similar in height to the North American Rockies), then eroded away. Over aeons, this process repeated itself several times, leaving the plains and ranges—with their trademark red quartzite gorges— that we see today. Dolomite, granite, sandstone and limestone are other hard core local constituents.

Yet despite the rock, and despite the reasonable presumption of the Red Centre’s aridity (after a wetter than usual summer, it appeared at times more like the Green Centre), the biodiversity was astonishing.

Seven hundred native species exist here. Over 150 of these species are birds, more than in all of Great Britain (we spied many of them, from finches, kites and peregrines to an elegantly ectomorphic, Parisian-catwalking white-necked heron). The area is also one of Australia’s most significant centres of plant species abundance. One of the most noteworthy vegetation communities is on high ridges (not obvious!). Somehow, too, nine species of fish even manage to survive. The whole is an extraordinary picture of evolutionary adaptability; Darwin would be in seventh heaven. Apt, then, that the Territory’s capital was named after him.

THE CROSSING Our path on the plains was often taken through dry creek beds.

The first of these, Ormiston Creek, was the Champs-Élysées, broad and ghost gum-guarded. These icons are icons twice—for their smooth beauty in a smashed land, and the way in which they have been captured in Albert Namatjira’s paintings of the West Macs. They’re among the earliest memories I have of culture and art, being a mandatory fixture of every alternately baking and freezing portable primary-school classroom I learnt in.

As a child, they beckoned and resonated; they were the wonder of our country’s interior, encompassing implications of our own interior. It was thrilling to finally enter the paintings’ frame. I re-entered a dream.

While appealing in theory, in practice, nav by creek bed was no cruise. They tended to either be sand-clogged—which sucked hungrily at our thighs—or rock-crammed and ankle-turning.

One advantage they did provide was relatively clear staircases to and from the massif.

It was the creek beds’ and gullies’ shaper-in-chief—water, whether absent or present—which exercised the greatest

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influence on the route we took. Even though the area averages only roughly 275mm of rain each year—half, if that, of what Adelaide and Melbourne receive—the dread of water-dearth was, for me, this walk’s key death risk.

Other than water, exploration of canyons and the seeking of drama-views from massif highlines influenced our route—as well as our walk leader’s love of a good campsite. Night One’s example, Bowmans Gap—sited on a sandy expanse, with extensive waterholes and a rugged, towering ‘feature wall’, a brutal scar that had agonised its way out of the flatness—was one of the best.

Before we reached here, however, we had the first of our many diversionary mini-expeditions: the Canyon of Thirteen Pools. Discarding the multi-day pack for the side trip was a relief, but there was no removing the three kgs of hitchhiker bush flies from my back. Thirteen Pools was our initial experience of scrambling on a crumble of rock, fractured and red— always red, blood-coagulated red. And hard, too. Terrifically so when you collided with it. The canyon inevitably compressed the further up we went, limpeting to its angled scarps until a solitary—the thirteenth—pool sat at the base of an 80m cliff.

It was clearly a waterfall at times, one that would be a miracle to witness. In either state—water-less or water-felled—it was a place for meditation. It calmed even our group’s Day One raucousness.

Geology’s stark architecture manifests itself as a sentient

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT The Chewings Range’s spine stretching out from Giles Massif Early days up the Canyon of Thirteen Pools Dead fish, green water— what’s not to like?

Do NOT be lured by the temptations of the grotto

ITS PITILESS ATTACKS PROVOKED FEAR, LOATHING AND A DONNING OF FULLMETAL-JACKET PROTECTION. BUM GAITERS ARE GEAR DE RIGEUR.” entity in this landscape. This became overwhelmingly apparent as we rose, for the first time, up the massif. So little of the land is clothed in vegetation; its ochre vividness was omnipresent.

And then, as Day Two on the heights unspooled—and the pressing grey clouds dissolved, ochre’s serene inverse—an ultramarine blue of Titian proportions, enough to break your heart, unfurled like a wakening flower. One, an old, haggard prize fighter, battered by time’s relentless aggressions. The other, newly born, a calming balm, stillness implicit. And that was before the irresistible power of the sun forced itself upon the landscape.

But as with much of what occurs in the West Macs, appearances are deceptive. The blueness-facilitated heat sucked oxygen out of the parched air. Whether crossing the not-so-breezy lunar plains, or whether enduring shadeless, midday massif ascents and traverses, the blue became more sinister than soothing.

As we picked our way along the northern spine of Red Walls we were introduced to, alas, what became our constant unwanted

companion: the scarifying evil that is spinifex. Euros—as in the macropod, not the humans—are about the only animals which eat the stuff. “Bring on a breeding program for them,” was one of my colleagues’ demands. I suspect the 30-odd species of spinifex will sniff its haughty ambivalence at climate change.

Certainly, it paid little respect to nine humans dodging its porcupine weaponry. While it looks benign enough in its dun green and straw livery, its pitiless attacks provoked fear, loathing and a donning of full-metal-jacket protection. Bum gaiters are gear de rigeur.

As if in recompense, many waterholes were full of, well, water. Except for the second night’s Letterbox Gorge camp.

Here, we were offered an impressively viridescent soup, full of dead fish. It looked like you could walk on it. The choice was simple. Suck it up (literally), or go thirsty. “The fish don’t look like they’ve been dead that long, do they?” This was asked with a low-ebb sort of optimism, applying, I presume, something analogous to the five-second rule. As we discovered, as long as bottles were pushed beneath its surface, the water proved not to be totally opaque. But as for its flavour, I’m sorry, my therapist has advised me to repress that memory.

Another green—albeit flecks, barely a rumour as we passed through the ranges—were the more than 600 plant species: acacias like mulga, waxy wattles and gidgee, as well as mallees and grasses.

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The weight-full hiking—yeah, those eight-day packs—was balanced by an environment that seemed weight-less. The bearable lightness of being? At times, it felt like floating, and distant ranges seemed within arm’s length. In this harsh environment— more than seems to occur in a vegetation-packed place—your own perspective on place, and your role in it, feels interrogated.

The land weaves its magic, and fosters a slow, subtle, shapeshifting influence. It is of the unseen as much of the seen: a place for imagining.

There was nothing weight-less on the heat-full days, though.

This became apparent on Day Three as we climbed the south ridge of Red Walls, out of ‘Dead Fish Gulch’ (so christened by me). Termite-mound ziggurats—statuesque externally, pullulating inside—marked our way. Distractions were also provided by squadrons of tiny budgerigars, full throttling between our flummoxed ranks. The sun’s relentless gaze evaporated the morning’s cool. When pausing, we gathered like cattle under the anorexic shade of lonely white cypress pines.

‘Real’ shade was only to be found in canyon fissures, where grottos pockmarked the massif’s flanks. These alcoves were deceptive in their welcome. They shed shards without warning, daggers to the heart of anyone foolish or desperate enough to be seeking shelter. And as for shelter, for most of our group the choice was none at all: tarp-less and tent-less, the lack of humidity making this viable. Central Australian snakes have nocturnal tendencies, though, so I kept to my fly-less inner strategy.

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AFTER DAYS OF PUMMELLING

BY ANGRY ROCKS, THE SOLES

OF MY FEET WERE ON FIRE. THE EARTH SEEMED A SCRAMBLED COLLAGE

OF HOT PLATES.”

The typical casualty of walking in this relentless ruggedness is, however, boots; mine managed to survive their ordeals. Just as well: Even with boots, after a few days of pummelling by angry rocks, the soles of my feet were on fire. The earth boiling, its surface seemed a scrambled collage of hot plates. Even so, to save me from submerging into the energy-sapping sand of the creek beds, I looked for stones. Flat stones. Any stones really. I was stone dancing—a zig and zag, my feet cats on hot stone rooves.

The most unexpected components of the terrain were the almost tropical-seeming micro-ecosystems we encountered in gullies and canyon mouths, vegetal oases. On Day Three—gravel-sliding down a gully, unsuccessfully trying not to dislodge boulders—we marvelled at the MacDonnell Ranges cycad, a species unique to Central Australia. They look like palms, yet reproduce with cones, and have been around for 10-20 million years. Their closest relatives are 1,200 km away.

There was no water in this gully. But later that day, at the Canyon of Defiance, there certainly was. The canyon was a

micro-ecosystem of tall trees and—as evening would reveal—frogs (they can burrow deep to withstand the dry). Their choir was accompanied by musical instruments we sometimes call branches and leaves; wind blasts out of the canyon conducted them into an agitated frenzy.

We nestled for two nights at the Canyon of Defiance; it seemed a 5-star resort. There were pools of water for drinking: another for a cleansing of our soles. I don’t know if I’d call them masseuses exactly, but fish took to nibbling our feet, which was a degenerate pleasure we revelled in. Or maybe that was just me.

We saw kangaroos escaping on the plain from us on our way to the canyon; while on our day devoted to its exploration, we encountered black-footed rock-wallabies. The towering, sheer walls of Defiance—and its chasms of cool—were a lifetime away from the walk’s sundrenched days. Pools were hidden among the maze, and we found more waterless waterfalls. The architecture—including the massif’s jagged razorback spurs, isthmuses of emaciated red ribs—was a ruined La Sagrada Familia.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Getting tight and squeezy in the Canyon of Defiance Dusk lit up by a Massif igneous lantern Looking out over the serrated fingers of the Giles Massif Dawn from Upper Giles Spring Termite ziggurat, vagrant human

NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN The glory depths of the Canyon of Defiance presaged an utterly inverse experience (and for me the journey’s highlight): two days of skyline rollercoasting across the Giles Massif. Eventually, after a night at Upper Giles Spring (it was astonishing that so much water was available at such a high point) we made camp on one of the Territory’s highest points—Mt Giles itself.

This traverse was full of rubble trouble, especially in the sudden ups and downs on the ridge’s tumoured spine. While it looked solid, the rock desiccated underfoot and in our grasp; we walked on hair-trigger grenades. Looking for fun, my ‘teammates’ decided it was no country for old men, and—after a pretence of warning—they shoved (for my own safety, they said) a massive boulder down a 70-degree rockface at me.

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Not far now from an Ormiston Gorge swim

“Calling Craig, calling Craig, are you alive?” Vlad the Conqueror yelled out.

Yes, you bastards: Missed!

This fractiousness was like our relationship with the landscape. Its splintered character—a riot of clefts and shrapnel— was an ever-present threat. Vigilance was our most effective risk-mitigant. Further on, the Heavitree Range came into view, running a drum’n’bass counterpoint to the bolder percussive rhythm of our massif. The rationale for the Arrernte’s caterpillar dreaming—in essence, these ranges—was clear.

On the massif’s skyline, dusks and dawns carried us to dimensions markedly different from our sun-filled days. The planet glowed at sun’s end of day; hills held on to sky-light bounced from beyond the horizon. Then the moon emerged, gently rinsing the land. While the sun had weight, the moon appeared to have the opposite effect.

The Earth went Zen. The country spoke quietly, but spoke volumes.

Night hosted a fake darkness. The sky ignited with stars: some pin pricks; some blazing; some a falling flare of brightness.

Moments in time, breath-holding, breath-taking. Dawn presented dusk’s inverse. Not a coming to life; just a sliding-door moment when the mood shifted, and actors exchanged their onstage places.

At Upper Giles Spring, a pair of nankeen kestrels, loitering with intent, scrutinised us. Surely not enough walkers had passed here for them to think we were food sources. More likely, they were simply curious. Then again, we were disturbed at night here by a terrorist cell of fifty-cent-sized desert mice.

I caught one in my headlamp beam, searching for a way into my pack. Others weren’t so lucky; the cell successfully secured several midnight snacks.

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THE SKY IGNITED WITH STARS: SOME PIN PRICKS;

SOME BLAZING; SOME A FALLING FLARE OF BRIGHTNESS. MOMENTS

IN TIME, BREATH-HOLDING, BREATH-TAKING.”

BY DAY FIVE, PEOPLES’ PERSONALITIES (most were unknown to each other prior to the walk) were revealing themselves. Restrained initial interactions had, let’s say, faded.

Banter flourished. Although eyebrows were raised when the female representative on the trip—let’s call her Kathleen—lowered herself to the immature depths of her male confederates, we thought it best to let that slide. Anyone with moral fibre might have felt cause to reflect on their negative influence on Kathleen; happily, none of us were encumbered with said fibre.

We gleefully continued with our juvenile antics.

Having company also provided me with an unforeseen benefit to my food stores. I’d underestimated my appetite, so after some guilt-free begging, I gratefully accepted everything from M&Ms to honey-infused dried fish flakes (yep, Kathleen), to processed cheese and to getting-a-bit-manky-at-this-stage salami. The latter two items bulleted up the Camping Culinary Esteem Chart.

On our Mt Giles summiting day, one of us—problem—physically hit the wall. Decisions had to be made. Ultimately, we split the contents of a pack; it allowed progression to safely occur.

One in, all in.

The splitting proved wise. The walk’s final descent was also

Giles Massif, NORTHERN TERRITORY

its most treacherous. No one was spared a feet-out-fromunder-you moment of hips slamming into damnable knifeedged scree. I even managed to—in a flailing trip, twist, spin and fling manoeuvre—somehow fluke one of my trekking poles into jamming between a couple of giant rocks; I was hung out like washing in the breeze. My shoulder ligaments howled, but I was saved from an ugly collision of bone, skin and blood.

DOORS OF PERCEPTION It was from the Giles Massif’s extended crow’s nest where Earth’s muscular flexing was most apparent, where you could view the range’s vertebrae breaking through the planet’s withered skin. A heavy tension existed here between geological turmoil and geological placidity; my camera was a useful tool for capturing these moments. But it also prompted a consideration of this land: of Traditional Owners’ long occupation, of their interdependence with—and respect for—non-human life. My mind, including its conscience, proved a vastly more powerful lens than what was in the camera.

And as evocative as images can be, they pale beside the moment of being present on this mighty land in a single, specific, non-repeatable moment in time. These moments—doors of perception—were openings into the great Australian imagination, an imagination both Indigenous and non-Indigenous (an imagination sometimes enriched by those not Australian at all): Chatwin’s Songlines. Roeg’s Walkabout. Wright’s Beyond Capricornia. Stow’s Tourmaline. White’s Voss. Carmody and Kelly’s From Little Things Big Things Grow. Scott’s That Deadman Dance. No Fixed Address’s We Have Survived. And yes, Albert

Stars aligning with a true dream run for Tim from the peak of Mt Feathertop

Namitjira. Dreamtime’s fascinating expanse is surely beyond imagination, but feeds into it. Papunya Tula painters captured the land beneath us, providing pointillist maps and yet more doors for perception to surge through.

The mysteries of walkabout, of songlines, were ways of seeing beyond the grasp of our Caucasian group. But we traversed this land wondering into our own mysteries, seeing and interpreting the land in our own ways, and then leaving to tell our own unique stories. Mine is just one of them. A token for a revelation.

Not much. But one shaped by gratitude. Maybe even love. 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.

No Country for Old Men (and Younger Woman) indeed

5 THE

Wild

BUNCH

A quick lowdown on

SPRING SKI TOURS IN THE

WANAKA BACKCOUNTRY

Wānaka Alice Springs

Words & Photography Thomas Vialletet ADVENTURE SEEKERS AND OUTDOOR ENTHUSIASTS will be familiar with Wānaka, New Zealand and its alpine landscape. In the summer months, there is amazing tramping, paddling, mountaineering and even canyoning. And in winter, the main attractions are skiing and snowboarding at busy local ski resorts. But for those willing to earn their turns, and who are happy to leave the lift queues and crowded slopes behind, the region also offers a grab bag of awesome ski-touring destinations, peaks and summits. Spring is a great time to be here, too; the snowpack is more stable, corn snow is on the menu, and meanwhile, higher up in altitude, there’s still plenty of fresh and cold snow to be found. From gentle and easy day-trip summits to stunning multi-day tours to remote glaciated peaks, you can be sure to find the perfect spring ski-touring adventure for you at the doorstep of Lake Wānaka!

THE EASY

MT CARDRONA

2 HOURS-FULL DAY – EASY With its fast and easy access, a day trip up Mt Cardrona (1,936m) is the perfect introduction to ski touring around the Wānaka Region. A gentle snowcat track gets you around the back of Cardrona ski field, and in no time, you’ll find yourself climbing the last low-angle, broad ridge to the summit, from where you’ll see the snow-capped Southern Alps in all their glory. The panoramic view here spans 360°, and is simply breathtaking.

After a snack and a cup of tea, the fun downhill part arrives, and so do the choices. There are several nice bowls with different orientations and slope angles to choose from, and they cater to all ski levels and skillsets. On a good year, you can even ski down to the valley bottom. Once you’re back at the resort base, you’ll find a bonus for all your hard work: warm coffee! Cardrona’s backcountry delivers good turns from early-season snow in June until perfect end-of-season corn snow of October.

THE CLASSIC

MT PISA AND THE PISA RANGE 2-3 DAYS – EASY-MEDIUM

Located between Wānaka and Queenstown, on the opposite side of the valley from Cardrona Ski Resort, there’s a hidden gem that’s a local classic ski-touring destination: the Pisa Range.

With easy access via the Snow Farm and its cross-country groomed trails, the range—found within the Pisa Conservation Park—offers perfect low-angle terrain, with plenty of nice long bowls. For more adventurous skiers and riders, however, there’s

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the East Face, which offers steep lines and fun couloirs. At the end of the day, head to the base of Mt Pisa (1,963m), where you’ll find Kirtle Burn Hut, a seven-bunk, first-come, first-served hut from where you can enjoy magnificent spring sunsets (book at the Department of Conservation website: tinyurl.com/4ds34w2w).

The range is generally sheltered enough from northwesterly storms, providing you great skiing when the Southern Alps are under the clouds. The snow here can last easily until spring, when the warmer temperatures can give you perfect corn conditions.

THE CHALLENGING

BLACK PEAK

1-2 DAYS – HARD Across the lake from Wānaka township, and down the Matukituki Valley, lies a prominent snowy peak with an invitingly pointy summit: 2,289m Black Peak, a serious destination for athletic ski tourers. Starting from Treble Cone Ski Field, it’s at minimum seven kilometres to the peak, but it’s challenging, with multiple uphills and downhills along the way, plus the need to manage exposed ridges and avalanche terrain.

The South Face of Black Peak offers plenty of long ski lines, with as much as 800m vertical on offer. For the fittest, a day trip to Black Peak from Treble Cone returning to the car is possible; most tourers, however, will find camping near the peak to be preferable.

Not only will this allow an awesome last ski run at sunset straight down to your tent, in the morning you’ll awake to a breathtaking sunrise over Lake Wānaka. And if your legs are strong enough, you can add a day and even push north of Black Peak towards Fog Peak (2,240m), another six-plus kilometres away.

THE WILD BUNCH

THE AESTHETIC

MAHU WHENUA TRAVERSE 4-5 DAYS – MEDIUM-HARD

The idea in New Zealand of a hut-to-hut ski-touring trip (with all the comfort that involves) is something special. While most ski traverses here involve bivvying, the Mountain Turk Club has made possible a long-held dream for Kiwi ski tourers: a hut-based traverse between Treble Cone and Coronet Peak ski resorts. The journey takes you on the edge of Skipper Canyon, across the Harris Mountains, and then, after climbing a few peaks along the way, Mt Motatapu, Mt Hyde, Mt Vanguard, to name a few. It’s a really beautiful ski-touring traverse with amazing views!

It takes on average 4-5 days to complete this traverse from Wānaka to Queenstown—the Otago Haute Route!—and you’ll be staying in an unusual form of accommodation, a turk. What is a turk?

It’s a hut made out of a large plastic water tank, fitted with bunk beds and other amenities, and then dropped in location by chopper; it’s a cheap, practical and pragmatic way to offer mountain accommodation. To use the turks, though, you need to be a member of the Mountain Turk Club (mountainturk.org.nz) and you’ll need to book them long in advance.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Pisa Range on an evening run above Kirtle Burn Hut Last sunlight on the South Face of Black Peak Head of the Dart Glacier, on the way to Mt Liverpool A turk (a hut made out of a water tank) on the Mahu Whenua Traverse

THE RARELY TRAVELLED

MT LIVERPOOL 3-4 DAYS – HARD

Let’s talk serious business here. Located in the heart of Mt Aspiring NP, Mt Liverpool (2,482m), right on the Main Divide, is a glaciated remote peak only reachable by adventurous ski mountaineers. The journey to Liverpool starts in the green Matukituki Valley, with skis attached on your backpack, and your tent and a few days’ worth of supplies inside. The climb takes you all the way to the challenging yet stunning Cascade Saddle, where you’ll pitch your tent (be aware of cheeky keas! ). The next day, a long, glaciated ski tour across Plunket Dome and the head of the Dart Glacier offers astonishing views of Mt Aspiring and its surrounds, before you arrive at your final destination—Mt Liverpool. The journey back is just as magical, with glacier skiing and a long walk out! Pro tip: Stay an extra night or two at Cascade Saddle so you can explore and ski Mt Tyndall and the Isobel Glacier.

CONTRIBUTOR: Thomas Vialletet is an IFMGA mountain and ski guide. He runs Summit Explorers, a mountain-guiding company based in Wānaka. He is always keen to explore his backyard and to discover new places while sharing his passion with friends and clients. Learn more at summitexplorers.nz

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TRACK NOTES

FIVE DAY-WALKS ON

SOUTHWEST TASMANIA’S

GORDON RIVER ROAD Words Chris Armstrong Photography Craig Fardell

Strathgordon Hobart

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QUICK FACTS Activity: Day hiking Location: Southwest NP, Tasmania Distances: Varying from 2.4 - 7.2km return Duration: 1.5 - 7 hours When to go: Year-round is possible (except Sentinel Range), but Oct-May is best Difficulty: Medium to Hard (Grade 3-5) Permits: None, but Tas Parks Pass required Car shuttle required: No Park contact info: Mt Field Visitor Centre, 03 6288 1149

Rainfall (mm)

CLIMATE: SCOTTS PEAK DAM Temperature (C)

SOUTHWEST NATIONAL PARK IS TASMANIA’S largest expanse of wilderness and its largest reserve, covering almost 10% of the entire state. It is famous as the home of some of our country’s most challenging multi-day hikes; the Western and Eastern Arthurs, the South Coast Track and the Mt Anne Circuit.

But it’s also home to a plethora of remarkably accessible and spectacular day walks. Head west on the sealed Gordon River Road, and just a couple of hours out of Hobart you are soon driving past rugged mountains, through buttongrass plains and into vistas that make you slam on the brakes and wonder how you can get closer and deeper into the imposing landscape. Hidden in this landscape is a cornucopia of faint tracks and challenging trails that climb up and down just about every peak in sight.

What follows is a guide to five of the best day walks along this road, taking in two ‘Abels’—Clear Hill and Mt Wedge—as well as hidden gems, such as the rugged little Needles track, the wild and remote Mt Sprent, and a jewel of the Southwest, the spectacular Sentinel Range.

This is a true adventurer’s playground. On many of these walks, you’ll have the track—and the summit—to yourself, and you’ll find yourself standing atop a wild peak with thousands of acres of uninhabited land stretching away at your feet, and with you caught in the heart of it all.

Honeysuckle Beach

Clear Hill sunrise

Atop the Sentinel Range

LAKE PEDDER - OLD AND NEW We can’t talk about this region without discussing the elephant in the room—Lake Pedder, both old and new. From every walk described in these track notes, views of either Lake Pedder or Gordon Dam dominate. These two vast bodies of water were created to generate hydroelectricity, and in that process, we lost one of the region’s most scenic natural features—the original Lake Pedder, a stunning, naturally occurring glacial lake 10km2 in area with a famous quartzite beach one kilometre wide and three long.

In fact, the first national park in this area was declared in 1955 to protect the scenic beauty of the original Lake Pedder and its surrounding mountains. But in 1967, Lake Pedder National Park was revoked by the Tasmanian Government so it could build the Gordon River Power Scheme. Despite fierce opposition, both the Huon and Serpentine Rivers were dammed, drowning the original Lake Pedder in 1972. Now, ‘Fake Pedder’—as locals call the ‘new’ Lake Pedder—covers a staggering 242km2. But Pedder doesn’t actually create hydroelectricity; instead, it acts as a vast diversion pond for Lake Gordon to the north where power is generated. However, only the top metre of Lake Pedder is actually diverted; the 14m of water beneath that, sitting on top of the original Lake Pedder, is simply there to elevate the level so it can gravity feed the canal to Lake Gordon. Consequently, current

Climbing one of the many Needles

Lake Pedder’s level changes little; beneath its inky waters, the original quartzite beach sits largely intact and undisturbed.

There’s now a strong case for restoring the original lake to its former glory. Be sure to visit lakepedder.org for a full run down on the remarkable vision of this idea.

In 1968, the Southwest National Park, as it’s called today, came into existence. It now contains Tasmania’s largest expanse of wilderness. In 1982, the park and six other reserves were collectively inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage List to become the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area. (For a full history of the TWWHA see Geoff Law’s article in Wild #187.)

The drowning of Lake Pedder, and the Gordon River Power Scheme, dramatically changed bushwalking in the region.

Before being flooded, a walking track to the original lake also gave easy access to the spectacular Frankland Range; today, however, walking the Franklands is logistically challenging (see Hamish Lockett’s story in Wild #187). But the sealed Gordon River Road also opened up access to other areas of the Southwest, particularly for enthusiasts of ‘bagging Abels’. The Abels list of mountains—based on the Munros in Scotland—was devised by Bill Wilkinson in 1994, and it contains a group of 158 mountains above 1,100m and with a prominence of at least 150m. Clear Hill and Mt Wedge, covered in these track notes, are just two of the 158 Abels.

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TRACK NOTES

DAY WALKS

WALK 2

ng Ra

The Thumbs

er

Clear Hill

T ig

GORDON RIVER ROAD

e

ON THE

CLEAR HILL

WALK 1

THE NEEDLES

Lake Gordon

Gordon River

To Ma Hob yd ar t en , a

Strathgordon WALK 5

MT SPRENT Ted’s Beach Campground

Mt Sprent

Go

Lake Pedder

rd

on

Ri

ve

rR

WALK 3

d

MT WEDGE

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WALK 4

SENTINEL RANGE

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5

7.5

10KM

GETTING THERE All these walks are accessed from the sealed Gordon River Rd (B61) but the only way to access the trails is by private vehicle.

There is no public transport to any of the trailheads.

WHEN TO GO Tasmania’s Southwest hasn’t earned its nickname, the “sou’ wet”, without good cause. While Hobart—with an annual average rainfall of just over 620mm—is Australia’s second driest capital city, the tiny settlement of Strathgordon, the closest town to all these walks, has an annual rainfall closer to 2,500mm.

This precip mostly falls in winter and spring, but rain and even snow can be expected any time of year; the volatility of weather here shouldn’t be underestimated.

The walks in this piece were done in a variety of seasons. The Needles—being of lower elevation—is suited to all-year walking.

The Sentinel Range shouldn’t be attempted in tough, wet, winter conditions, as there’s a short, knife-edge section of rocky track that’s treacherous in poor weather or when icy. Mt Wedge, Clear Hill and Mt Sprent are achievable year-round, but due to their elevation and exposure, they can be covered in cloud, snow and ice. While winter walking can be a fun challenge, it can also be dangerous. Days are short, and poor visibility or snow can hide the faint tracks, adding difficulty to each walk’s exposed rocky sections. Summer offers the best chance of clear weather, but it can also get uncomfortably hot and dry. Any daytime maximum over 28°C will feel much hotter on the open ridges where there’s no shade, where water is scarce, and where Tasmania’s incredibly high UV burns you to a crisp. Autumn is probably the pick, with good weather sometimes hanging on until March and April.

FEES/COSTS/PERMITS You will need a Tasmanian Parks Pass. There is a Daily Parks Pass, which costs $41.20 per vehicle (up to 8 persons) or a Holiday Pass, which costs $82.40 per vehicle (up to 8 persons) and

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Mt Bowes

Sentinel Range

e

0

Mt Wedge

To Scotts Peak Dam

Map data © OpenStreetMap

lasts two months. These can be purchased online (passes.parks. tas.gov.au/pass) or at the Mt Field NP office, which is en-route.

DIFFICULTY & NAVIGATION Most popular navigation apps show these tracks, but be aware signage is limited or non-existent on all these walks. While maps are advised, walkers are best served by being adept at route finding and following worn footpads, and then navigating when tracks become less distinct or braided. Maps covering the area include the 1:250,000 (South-West) or 1:50,000 (Dohertys, Lake Pedder, Denison Range) or for finer details 1:25,000 (Serpentine, Tiger, McPartlan, Bowes, Adamsfield).

Terrain varies from muddy rainforest tracks with exposed roots through to rocky scrambles; some areas have a small amount of exposure. Expect everything to be steep, sometimes extremely so. Above-average fitness is recommended.

As with any walk in Tasmania’s Southwest—even for day walks of just a few hours—attention to safety is paramount: check weather forecasts regularly; carry quality wet-weather clothing; and wear good hiking shoes. Gaiters are recommended, as is carrying an emergency-communication device. Phone coverage is limited on many of the walks.

AMENITIES AND ACCOMMODATION Maydena is the last point to purchase limited grocery items and petrol. The town has a variety of self-contained accommodation including The Giants Table Cottages and numerous small holiday rental cottages.

Near the Gordon River Rd’s western end is the old hydro town of Strathgordon, where you’ll find the Pedder Wilderness Lodge.

Just before Strathgordon is a serviced, free campground at Ted’s Beach, which has toilets, a large shelter and untreated water.

Camping sites are lakeside on the quartz beach; for caravans and campervans there’s a parking/camping area. It’s also possible to camp roadside at various points along the Gordon River Rd, but it’s important to practice ‘Leave No Trace’ principles.

Misty morning on the Needles

THE WALKS WALK 1

THE NEEDLES 2.4km return, 1.5 – 2.5 hrs, Grade 3

Don’t be fooled by this walk’s short time and distance. The elevation gain is nearly 400m, and it packs a huge scenic punch for its small stature.

To get there from Maydena, travel 16.5km to the ‘Highest Point On Road’ sign. Park in the car park, cross the road and locate the pink and blue tags up off the road. This is the track’s start. Follow an old dirt road for 100m, but be alert as the route takes a sharp right turn. After the turn, you’ll find a walkers’ registration logbook.

After the logbook, the track can be muddy as it begins steeply ascending through banksia and ti-tree scrub burnt in 2018/19 wildfires. There are no track markers, but the foot pad is clear as it climbs towards a rocky outcrop. At the top of the first steep climb, 20-30 minutes in, the large outcrop should be to your left with another outcrop, just ahead, on your right. The rock on your left can be climbed, with just a few scrambling moves towards the top.

Continue between and beyond these outcrops, following the track as it swings south-west along the ridge’s spine. For 15-20

minutes, the track climbs steadily, then crests a natural, rocky step. Beyond this step looms the final ascent, rocky and steep, to the summit. Allow another 20-30 minutes to reach the summit cairn (1,020m).

From the top, enjoy uninterrupted, 360-degree views south to Mt Mueller and Mt Anne, and west to the Thumbs and beyond.

Also take time to explore the summit area, which has a imposing bluff on its western side with some toe-tingling edges. Return via the same route.

WALK 2

CLEAR HILL 5km return, 4-5 hours, Grade 4-5

This hidden gem with its remarkable summit views is worth the detour from the sealed road. Travel west from Maydena on the Gordon River Rd for 35km. Turn right onto Clear Hill Rd and continue 22km along this gravel road (2WD accessible) to a large cairn on the left-hand side.

The trail starts by climbing sharply up the road embankment opposite the cairn. The steep start is also a good indication of how the day will progress, but the views from Clear Hill are spectacular. This ‘hill’ is also an Abel and at 1,189m, there’s 430m of elevation to gain over the 2.5km to the summit. But it’s the first 400m of the walk that’s the steepest as you climb onto the ridgeline.

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TRACK NOTES

Once up, you step out into a fire-affected landscape, but also enter an extraordinary world of sculpted, enormous boulders of grey conglomerate rock. For the next 400m, the track flattens out as it winds between, and through, these lumpy outcrops.

The track swings northwest, and begins climbing steadily up the ridgeline’s eastern side. As you ascend, the vegetation is unburnt and changes to pretty mountain heath and shrubs.

After 1.6km, the trail briefly descends as it skirts around the eastern side of a rocky highpoint. It then drops to a saddle before the climb to the summit. This final 500m becomes steep in parts, and there are large step-ups and boulders to negotiate before reaching the trig marker on the summit. There are stupendous views in every direction—particularly northwest to distant Frenchmans Cap, and closer north to the magnificent Stepped Hills. And far below is the narrow chasm that is the Gordon River Gorge, a place where the river remains wild before disappearing into the huge lake of Gordon Dam. Retrace your route to the car.

WALK 3

MT WEDGE 7.2km return, 4.5 – 6 hours, Grade 4-5

This mountain is named after surveyor John Helder Wedge, who wandered out this way looking for the Huon River’s headwaters. His exploratory route eventually formed the basis of the

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Gordon River Rd, which you’ll follow west from Maydena for 43km to find the poorly signposted Mt Wedge Car Park. Look for a clearing on your left. Tucked at the back of the clearing is a small sign, sitting amongst the ti-tree, saying ‘Mt Wedge 5 hrs return’.

Wedge described the ascent of the mountain as “arduous”.

That hasn’t changed. There is no cheating the 800m of elevation gained to the summit. At 1,147m Mt Wedge is also an Abel.

The first kilometre of track is an old interpretive trail, and meanders through cut grass and eucalypts before emerging into a clearing beneath powerlines. Follow the star pickets and arrows up a steep bank onto a dirt road. Turn left, and continue for about 450m until you come to another star picket with an orange arrow and a wooden sign. Turn right and follow the track into the forest.

For the climb’s first section, red arrows on trees act as track markers. When the arrows disappear or become infrequent, the track is still clear. The rainforest of myrtle beech and sassafras here is beautiful—moss-laden and vibrant green. After 2km, the track flattens out briefly before climbing again, with the rainforest slowly giving way to pandani and sub-alpine vegetation.

After roughly 1.5 hours of walking, you pop out into tall heath, where finally the vistas open up. Jaw dropping views abound.

You can now see the rocky cliffs and gully that lead to the summit. Although this next section looks more daunting than it is, there are nonetheless steep sections with large step-ups and even a little bit of rock clambering.

Gordon River Rd Daywalks, TASMANIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Approaching the summit of Clear Hill Mt Wedge, looking to the Sentinel Range Pandani, Mt Wedge rainforest Sunset on the Sentinel Range

Once up and over the small cliffs and gully, expect to have been climbing for 2-2.5 hours. From here, the track becomes bouldery underfoot and the gradient continues. The summit is still 500m or another 20-30 minutes away. Stay on the ridge, following rock cairns where necessary as there are a few false leads. Keep walking upwards until you reach a flat area where you will see a communications tower, building and helipad. The summit is behind these, atop the final few rocks.

Allow plenty of time on the summit to take in the truly spectacular panorama—there are mountains in every direction, with the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area stretching away in all its wild, uninhabited beauty.

WALK 4

THE SENTINEL RANGE 3.4km return, 3-5 hours, Grade 4-5

Now we come to the jewel of the Southwest, a mountain range you won’t have trouble finding because as you drive west along Gordon River Road, this powerful rocky range will have you slamming on the brakes, eyes wide open in surprise and delight.

It is a beautiful sight.

To reach the trailhead, drive west from Maydena on the Gordon River Road for 43km. Continue past the Bitumen Bones sculpture, and in 300m turn left onto a dirt road. In 200m the road opens to a clearing and an old, decrepit picnic shelter. Park

here and walk directly towards the mountain range. The first challenge is to cross the Wedge River on an old log. After heavy rain, this can be submerged; caution is required.

Once across the river, in 50m there’s a walkers’ registration logbook jutting out of the buttongrass. From here, head south across the buttongrass. As the gradient steepens, the track veers slightly left (east) across rocky slabs at the range’s base until you’re hard up against an enormous buttress of rock. The track stays close to this wall, ascending onto the range via an astonishingly steep, rocky gully.

After 1.2km, the trail crests the range, and lands you in a saddle behind the large buttress of rock you’ve been following (on your left) and the main range (now on your right). A short, easy detour to the top of the buttress is worthwhile. From the saddle, the track swings east, sidling southwards to climb onto the true Sentinel Range ridgeline.

The track’s final 300m follows the spine of the ridge, heading east. The path is narrow and exposed at times. In other spots, the track pushes through thick mountain trees and shrubs. There is no rock cairn or trig at the summit, just a small open area where the trail obviously can proceed no further.

The views from the top of the range are stunning, especially looking south and across the valley below towards the range of rounded hills known as the Coronets. At their western end, the original Lake Pedder lies drowned and ghostly beneath the deep waters of the current impoundment. Return the way you came.

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OTHER RESOURCES

WALK 5

There are some great books on the Southwest Wilderness and the history of Lake Pedder. We recommend Pedder Dreaming: Olegas Truchanas and a Lost Tasmanian Wilderness by Natasha Cica, and The Mountains of Paradise: The Wilderness of Southwest Tasmania by Les Southwell (out of print but available secondhand).

They will leave you dumbfounded and enraged by the pig-headed politics that led to the loss of this natural wonder.

MT SPRENT

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Descending Mt Sprent From Mt Sprent looking to the Frankland Range and the Western Arthurs View south from Mt Sprent across the Southwest Wilderness

CONTRIBUTORS: Chris Armstrong is a writer, adventurer, poet, and dreamer. Craig Fardell is an adventure guide and wilderness photographer.

They’re currently lost somewhere in Tasmania.

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6km, 5-7 hours, Grade 5

To reach the track’s start, drive west from Maydena on the Gordon River Road for 83km, then turn left onto the road to Serpentine Dam. Follow this for 1.4km, and park below the dam wall. Walk across the dam wall and climb the stairs. Once in the forest you’ll find a walkers’ registration logbook. From here, you begin climbing—literally. The track’s first kilometre could lay claim to being Tasmania’s steepest (Ed: Wow! That’s saying something). Some step-ups are chest high. Be ready to say thank you to the trees on either side as they help you haul yourself up each increment of the mountainside.

The steep climbing finishes where the trees give way to buttongrass and low heath. There are no markers on this trail, but the foot pad is well defined as it winds up the range’s eastern flank, although there are some patches of thicker scrub to push through. (You’ll also pass a solar-powered data-collection station on the way.) At the 2km mark, the track swings south, as it sidles along the ridge’s flank, making its way around to a saddle. Expect about 1hr or more of constant up to reach this saddle.

From here, the final climb to the summit begins. The track twists its way through bands of rock, and around and over rocky outcrops. A summit-like high point is visible to your right, but Sprent’s summit is to your left. After crossing a lovely alpine lawn, the summit trig is just a few rocks away. Of all the mountains in these track notes, Mt Sprent is the best choice for a short overnight hike, although water can be scarce in summer.

The peak was named for James Sprent, former Surveyor General of Tasmania, who is said to be the first European to lay eyes on Federation Peak. From the top of Mt Sprent, you can see those many mountains he surveyed, including, if the weather’s clear, Federation Peak to the southeast. He called it the Obelisk. Looking south from the summit of Mt Sprent, you’re staring along the rugged reaches of the Wilmot and Frankland Ranges (see Wild #187). Also, look east to all the peaks you’ve just climbed while following these track notes. You should be able to see them all from here. More importantly though, look around for the ones you are yet to meet. W

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GEAR

UNSUNG HEROES We all have our go-to products. Kit we turn to time and again, trip after trip, year after year, simply because it’s the best gear out there. Those products aren’t necessarily big, though. Often, they’re the little, simple things; products you’re never likely to actually read a review about, or hear promoted. But let’s cheer on our unsung heroes. Here’s a collection of the lightest, cheapest, most durable or useful swag as recommended by some of Wild’s regular contributors.

INVISIGRIP GLOVES: CYCLONE

NECK TUBE: BUFF

Scrub gloves are the per-

Buff’s classic neck tube does

fect way to protect your

it all. It can warm your neck, or

hands while wriggling

protect your lower face against

through Tasmania’s

the wind on a cold cycle com-

sub-alpine flora on warm

mute. Half pulled over your

days. Cyclone’s Invisigrip

head, it can shade you from a

Tough Gardening Gloves

glacier’s reflective rays while

(get ‘em at Bunnings for

heading back to the hut after

just $7.98) have a rubber palm and breathable mesh panel on the top.

a mountain climb; used as a bandana, it can keep your ears warm on a hike without the

These gloves also have excellent grip and are suitable for rock

overheating of a beanie; bound

scrambling. On the cold, wet days, compliment them with

at the top, it can be a makeshift

a set of thermal glove liners (eg Rab Primaloft Glove) and/or shell mitts (eg Outdoor Research Revel Shell Mitts).

ANDY SZOLLOSI

hat. Oh, and it always works to make that greasy hairline vanish.

ANJA FUECHTBAUER

PACK LINER: KATHMANDU

Tougher than a garbage bag and a true

AEROS ULTRALIGHT PILLOW: SEA TO SUMMIT

136

weather-stopper, this nifty Kathmandu pack liner has survived three

A good night’s sleep can be the difference

Himalayan trips and

between a memorable trip into the wild or a

counting. It could dou-

soul-crushing experience. For years, I crammed

ble as an emergency

an old pillow into my pack until someone had the

bivvy, but the job it

good sense to give me a dedicated product that is

does best is keeping

way smaller and a lot less stinky. The regular size

the crazy away on accli-

weighs 79g (114g for the large) and inflates with a

matisation days by con-

couple of breaths. It’s not quite as luxurious as the

verting to a game board

real thing, but it’s a big step up from a sleeping

(BYO M&Ms).

bag cover stuffed with clothes. ALISTAIR PATON

CATHERINE LAWSON

WILD

GEAR

SUMMIT L2 FUTUREFLEECE FZ HOODIE: THE NORTH FACE

I know James (Wild’s editor), included The North Face Summit L2 Power Grid LT Hoodie in the last Unsung Heroes, but this new version, The North Face Summit L2 Futurefleece FZ Hoodie, is lighter and warmer. Whether I’m doing a multi-pitch climb, a multi-slope backcountry day or a multi-day trek, this hoodie is usually first on my packing list and the item that I most commonly wear. It’s warm, compact and super light (just 208g). Add a lightweight shell and

Tim wearing his TNF Summit L2 Futurefleece on a chilly day in February 2023 on the North Fitzroy Glacier in Patagonia

you feel you can meet almost any weather with confidence.

TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE

DEUCE #2 UL TROWEL:

ULTRA SIL NANO DAYPACK:

THE TENT LAB

SEA TO SUMMIT

Doing a number 2 in the bush

On side trips while multiday bushwalking, we

is the most detested aspect of

usually leave our large

adventuring. But it doesn’t have to be. The Deuce #2 poo trowel,

packs behind and use

weighing just 17g (17g!) makes the

lightweight Sea to Summit daypacks to carry raingear,

prospect of toileting much more,

water and snacks. This is

ahem, digestible. It’s compact and

truly a lightweight item

low-profile enough to squeeze in anywhere. While it’s a little hard on the hands

with no padding, but

(using two hands works better), it’s seriously sharp, which is what you want if

adding a sit mat provides

you’re in a hurry. And if you’re ever faced with an emergency of another kind - for-

some comfort. This day

getting a bottle opener for those summit bevs - it can come to the rescue there

pack weighs only 50g and

too. Questionable hygiene, but hey, whatever works. RYAN HANSEN

packs into a tiny egg-size stuff-sac. Rated to carry a maximum of 4kg, for those who need to carry up to 7kg, there is also a heavier 72g model.

JOHN CHAPMAN

SNAPFOLD BOWLZ: FOSSILZ

Packing a bowl into a hiking pack can sometimes be a hassle. It’s nice to have a good bowl to eat out of, but they’re a pain-in-the-arse shape to pack efficiently.

But these amazing little snapfold bowls are super simple, as they convert from a flat plate/chopping board-like shape to a perfect little bowl. They’re also easy to clean as there are no little nooks

GOGGLE WIPER: SKI GEE

for food to get stuck in. NATHAN MCNEIL

FLY NET:

Skiing in blower

RANDOM DISPOSAL STORE

dry pow that doesn’t stick to your goggles is an all-too-

Years ago, I received sage advice from a WA

rare occurrence in Oz; instead, precip usually comes in the

local when about to head off, with my son, to

form of heavy, wet mank (if it’s not rain, that is) that smears

Fitzgerald River National Park, a UNESCO-rec-

across your goggles and makes clear vision impossible.

ognised biosphere reserve hugging WA’s

Enter the Ski Gee; it’s like a windscreen wiper for your gog-

southern coast. The advice was do NOT go

gles. Just slip it on your thumb (yes, it fits over your gloves)

without a face-shielding fly net. I heeded the

and you can clear your goggles in an instant, even mid-

warning. $2 for two fly nets (source: disposal

turn while you’re skiing. For just a few bucks, these little

store). It was the best $2 I’ve ever spent. They

rubber doohickies are game changers when it comes to

were a life saver; the flies were rampant. I now

foul-weather skiing. JAMES MCCORMACK

never go bush without one. CRAIG PEARCE SPRING 2023

137

GEAR REVIEW

PATAGONIA

GRANITE CREST JACKET

A Goldilocks jacket that’s eco-friendly.

R

EDUCE. REUSE. RECYCLE. They’re three golden

Patagonia calls a “Killer Wash”, a wet flex and

words we should live by. But when it comes to Pata-

abrasion test that simulates up to thirty (that’s

gonia’s Granite Crest Jacket, you could add a fourth ‘R’

right: three-zero) years of use in drench-

word to the list: reincarnate. Because reincarnation is

ing conditions. They start the test using

effectively what Patagonia has achieved with this jacket,

20,000mm waterheads, and at the end of the

and indeed all the products that use the company’s Net-

three simulated decades, are given another

Plus fabric, by recycling old fishing nets from South Amer-

10,000mm test. In short, even after heavy-

ica and repurposing them into yarn. Old nets are a partic-

duty use, this jacket should keep you dry.

ularly harmful form of plastic pollution in our oceans, and

Breathability, even in the wet, seemed

by providing financial incentives to local fishermen, nets

good. I took the jacket on both moderate

nearing their end of life can be transformed into some-

walks and even some easy trail runs in the

thing useful, like, in this case, a jacket. It supports locals,

rain; the latter pushed the jacket’s breathabil-

and it supports ocean wildlife.

ity to its limits, but even so, it took a while to

Now, if you’ve read my Editor’s letter at the start of this issue (and if you haven’t, go back and read it!), you’ll know

Product class: 3-layer waterproof/ breathable garment

I found it to be extremely cool—if not a little surreal—to

The Granite Crest seems very much a goldilocks, all-

be wandering around bushbashing in the rainforest in

rounder jacket. Although walking—either in the bush or

a downpour, kept dry by a jacket that has likely caught

around town—is likely what the jacket is most likely to be

PFC-free: Yes

many thousands of fish in a previous life. But keep me dry

used for—its middle-of-the-road cut and shape, neither

Pit zips: Yes

it did. The Granite Crest’s 3-layer construction kept out the

overly baggy nor overly slim, means it can be used for a

moisture admirably, although, to be honest, you’d expect

wide range of activities, including skiing or even MTB-ing.

nothing less than that for any quality waterproof/breath-

Meanwhile, the adjustable hood and visor is not in the

able jacket nowadays. Perhaps what’s more impressive is

slightest restrictive, and the hand-warmer pockets are

the jacket fulfilling Patagonia’s H2No performance stan-

positioned to sit above your pack’s harness. The chest

dard, the company’s benchmark when it comes to water-

pocket, with its watertight zip, is equally well positioned

proof/breathable garments. Fabrics are subjected to what

and of a just-right size, neither too big so that items flop

Weight (as tested): 403g RRP: $400 More info: patagonia.com.au

REVIEW

NEVE GEAR

FEATHERTAIL

-12°C QUILT

Aussie-made warmth.

A

temperature regulation.

threads, and the 10D shell felt surprisingly tough. My second thought was: 900 fill power is seriously lofty!

Since then, I’ve taken the Feathertail on two trips, in -2°C and -4°C temps respectively. While neither would be considered frigid by Vic Alps’ standards, both myself and my wife are cold frogs; nonetheless, we’ve slept soundly using the Feathertail. I believe four main features are to thank for this: the two included pad straps, which effectively wrap the sides around you, reducing the escape of warm air,

S PART OF THE ULTRALIGHT (UL) revolution, back-

and helping maintain its position on your sleeping mat;

packing quilts have become increasingly popular

the comfy neck collar and associated drawcord that limit

among adventurers seeking light and roomy alternatives

cold draughts from entering; the sewn foot box to keep

NEED TO KNOW

to sleeping bags. That’s especially so in the US, where the

your tootsies toasty; and the 640g of RDS-certified 900 fill

Product class: 4-season quilt

massive UL thru-hiking scene means there are loads of

goose-down is quite respectable, especially for a quilt.

quilt manufacturers to choose from. In Australia, though,

The Neve Feathertail’s pros don’t end there, though: It’s

that’s not the case, but a rising number of Aussie-owned

super compressible for its weight; it comes with a dry stuff-

small businesses are entering the fray: Neve Gear, based

sack; it’s also available in 0°C and -6°C comfort ratings; the

in NSW’s Port Macquarie, is one such company.

price, at just $550, is great; and to cap it off, it’s made by a

Temp rating: -12°C Fill: 650g of 900 fill goose down Weight (as tested): 870g (incl straps and dry sack)

138

get to that point. Generous 2-way pit zips assisted with

NEED TO KNOW

Having recently relocated to Victoria, and hungry for winter explorations in the alps, I needed a warmer sleep-

small Aussie business!

While I’ve been thoroughly impressed with my -12°C Neve

ing bag. Neve’s Feathertail Quilt caught my attention.

Feathertail so far, I’m healthily sceptical of its claimed com-

RRP: $550

Weighing in at 870g and boasting a -12°C comfort rating,

fort rating, as I am with most manufacturers. Numerous fac-

More info: nevegear.com.au

on paper the Feathertail ticked all the boxes: light, warm,

tors contribute to a cosy night’s sleep, and I’d warn against

and affordable. On delivery, my initial impression was that

blindly expecting to be comfy in this quilt (or any similarly

the Feathertail’s build quality looked exceptional. Slick, no

rated bag, for that matter) at -12°C. Look, you might be fine,

WILD

GEAR

REVIEW

RAB

VEIL 2L VEST Light and dry.

A

RE YOU A TRAIL RUNNER who is sweaty? Inflexible? Clumsy?

One who needs to shave a few grams? If, sadly, you’re like me,

around on your chest, nor so small that you’re struggling to fit a

you’ll be answering yes to all of the above. And if that’s the case (and

larger mobile device in there. Lastly, at $400, the jacket is mid-

frankly, even if it’s not the case), Rab’s Veil 2L vest, as I’ve discov-

range in price as well.

ered in the last three months of heavy use, is a vest that deserves

There are a few areas where the jacket is not middle-of-the-

your attention.

road, though, and in a good way. Firstly, the jacket is light. At just

Let’s start with the sweaty bit, because I’ve found the hydro-

400g, it may not be the very lightest of waterproof/breathables,

phobic mono mesh that forms the vest’s chassis to be remarkable.

but it’s certainly on the lighter side of average. Secondly, the

Rab says the mesh is 50% lighter and holds 70% less water than an

jacket’s DWR finish is completely PFC-free; no perfluorinated

alternative spacer mesh, and it’s a claim I’d find hard to dispute.

chemicals here. And thirdly, as I mentioned earlier, there’s the fact

Despite my best efforts to drown the vest in profuse perspiration,

this jacket is made from reincarnated (OK, technically recycled)

it never really got sodden. That’s not to say it didn’t get wet at all,

fishing nets. In short, the Granite Crest is a solid do-it-all jacket,

but even when it did, once I got home and hung it out, it dried out

just one with an unusually cool pedigree.

super quickly.

JAMES MCCORMACK

As for catering for flexible and inflexible trail runners alike, the stretch pockets on the Veil 2 are supremely accessible, even for those with shoulders and backs as stiff as mine. The front of the vest alone has eight pockets of varying sizes: two zipped pock-

but that won’t be the case with everyone. And in temps like -12°C,

ets, two flask pockets, two gel/key/small item pockets, and two

the lack of a hood is a limiting factor; because quilts don’t fully

general stash pockets; the latter I never came close to reaching

enclose at the back, cold air can potentially enter, although using

capacity with despite the sheer number of gels, energy bars and

a high R-value pad with a closed-cell mat or emergency blanket

large bags of jelly snakes I stashed in them. Bungee cords let you

underneath will bolster the likelihood of luxurious sleep. Moreover,

attach collapsible poles to the side; there are also bungee cords

if you’re in -12°C temps, you’ll likely have plenty of warm clothes to

that can hold the two included 500mm soft flasks in place so they

rug up in anyway. And then, when you consider the fact that the

don’t slip to the pocket’s bottom as they empty. And then there’s

-12°C Feathertail is a smidgeon over half the weight—and is a frac-

the stretch back pocket, which despite being only two litres in

tion of the price—of a comparably rated winter sleeping bag, these

volume, I had no problems fitting in a jacket, loo paper, first aid

limitations seem more than acceptable.

kit, headlamp and more.

All in all, if you want an example of top-notch Aussie gear man-

Clumsy? Well, even if you’re all thumbs like me, the bungee

ufacturing, the Neve Feathertail is hard to beat; it’s lightweight,

cord sternum-fitting attachments were

warm, well-built, and surprisingly affordable.

a breeze, making it a cinch to put on or

RYAN HANSEN

remove the vest. And as for gram shaving, this thing is light, and made even more so by the fact it doesn’t get heavy with sweat: I weighed mine at 193g.

Honestly, I love this vest. And it’s fluorocarbon-free, too. But I know what you’re thinking; it must have one flaw.

NEED TO KNOW Intended use: Trail running Flasks: 2 x 500mm soft flasks included PFC-free: Yes

You’re right, it does—the little whistle

Weight (as tested): 193g

in the key pocket is basically useless.

RRP: $195.95

Beyond that, though, the Veil 2 is a seriously well thought out piece of kit.

More info: intertrek.com.au

JAMES MCCORMACK

SPRING 2023

139

GEAR

SUPPORT OUR

SUPPORTERS We get it; we know ads aren’t the primary reason you read Wild. But without our supporters, Wild simply wouldn’t exist*. If you love what we’re on about here at Wild, if you’re passionate about both adventure and protecting our natural heritage, if having a magazine that’s full of well-written, crafted stories means something to you, a magazine that fights hard for our environment, then support our supporters; without them, Wild wouldn’t exist.

We know that our advertising supporters aren’t, of course, your only options when it comes to choosing what gear you purchase. But if you’re in a situation where you have a few cool options to choose from, and one of them happens to be from one of our advertisers, then show them their support means something by choosing their product. No-one’s asking for handouts, here; we genuinely believe that everyone who advertises in the mag offers something great. But if everything else is equal, please support those who support us. Here’s a selection of new and interesting gear that our advertisers think Wild readers should know about.

YETI:

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THE NORTH FACE:

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ber, and saltwater.RRP: $449.95 AU.YETI.COM

Made with lightweight material and a seam sealed FUTURELIGHT shell, The North Face Summit Superior FUTURELIGHT™ Jacket offers both breathability and

SEA TO SUMMIT:

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MAMMUT:

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140

WILD

LA SPORTIVA:

LA SPORTIVA ULTRA RAPTOR LEATHER MID Modelled off the tough design of the Ultra Raptor running shoe, these waterproof hiking boots offer the same adaptability, while offering the protection and stability of boots for hiking. All in a lightweight package. RRP: $349.95 LASPORTIVA.COM.AU

GEAR

A gear guide from our advertisers

PATAGONIA:

OSPREY:

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over years of field-testing and expedition use, the current model is engineered with a Pertex® Quantum Pro ripstop shell for exceptional water and wind resistance, along with RDS-certified 800 fill-power DownTek™ treated goose down for premium lightweight insulation. RRP: $799.99 MOUNTAINDESIGNS.COM

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SPRING 2023

141

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PAST OUTDOORS:

A PASSION FOR THE OUTDOORS, CONSERVATION AND CREATIVITY PAST Outdoors offers a carefully selected range of hiking, camping and expedition equipment tailored to meet the needs of your next adventure. They also manufacture a range of ultralight shelters that can be heated with a titanium wood stove. When you visit the retail store south of the Royal National Park in Helensburgh NSW, you can expect personal, expert advice from Dave and the team. Drop in to the store or shop online at PASTOUTDOORS.COM

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FISIOCREM:

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142

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LIVE WITH CONFIDENCE

6 Autumn Climbs & Treks to Discover

Discount 5% for WILD READERS

October / November ‘23 - Baruntse - Mera Peak, Ama Dablam, Lobuche, Island Peak, Everest Base Camp and Remote Service Trek December ‘23, January, February ‘24 - Christmas Trek, Island Peak, Aconcagua & Ojos Del Salado or Kilimanjaro April - May ‘24 - Everest Summit Climbs: Nepal or Tibet, Everest Camp 3 Training Climbs, North Col Tibet, Mt. Lhotse, Everest’s Sister. Also, Everest Glacier School, EBC Nepal Trek, or ABC Tibet Trek with leader Dan Mazur 12 Successful Everest expeditions.

June - July - Aug ‘24 - Gasherbrum 1 and 2, K2 Summit, 8000m Training , Broad Peak, K2 Base Camp Trek, Pastore Trekking Peak (near K2). 3 time K2 Leader Dan Mazur Leader: 3 time K2, 2x Broad Peak, 1x Gasherbrum and Sherpas!

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Ring me for a chat in Sydney: (02) 8091 1462.

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WILD SHOT

After a successful climbing mission on the Moai (the sea stack next to Tassie’s famed Totem Pole), Liv returns to her five-star accommodation to pamper herself and to celebrate in classy style.”

LACHLAN SHORT Sunshine Coast, QLD

Lachlan wins an awesome Osprey MUTANT 22 climbing pack. It features integrated rope carry, a wide-mouth zippered opening, customisable options for carrying crampons/other items on the front of the pack, a secure and easy-to-use ice tool carry system, and the webbing hip belt won’t get in the way whether worn, buckled behind you, or removed. osprey.com

SEND US YOUR WILD SHOT TO WIN GREAT GEAR! For a chance to win some quality outdoor kit, send your WILD SHOT and a 50-100 word caption to contributor@wild.com.au

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The New Exos | Eja Pro W H E N E V E RY. S I N G L E . G R A M . CO U N T S .

Taking the ultralight platform we’ve built with our Exos/Eja hiking backpacks and going even lighter, the new Exos/Eja Pro relies on featherweight NanoFly™ fabric and an essentialist approach to features to deliver a remarkably comfortable, durable and capable pack that weighs in just under one kilogram.

Satisfy your wanderlust with the all-new Sirac, built for self-sufficient quests to Satisfy your wanderlust with the all-new remote corners of the world.

With Sirac, built for self-sufficient quests to its lightweight and ventilated Air With Contour™ X carry remote corners of the world. its lightsystem, stable, Air strong, and moves with weight and it’s ventilated Contour™ X carry you over all terrain.

Ideal backpacking system, it’s stable, strong, andfor moves with youand overmountain all terrain.treks, Idealthe for Sirac’s backpacking fuss-free anddesign mountain treks, the Sirac’syou fuss-free carries everything need. design carries everything you need.

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