Wild 180 Winter 2021

Issue #180 W I N T E R 2021

Hunting First Ski Descents in Tasmania Feral Horses in Kosciuszko NP Photo Essay: 40 Years of Getting Wild Climbing NZ's Steeple Mountain Wilderness Therapy for Teens Profile: Wild in Middle Age Alps 2 Ocean Bikepacking Life in the Freezer Track Notes: NT's Mt Zeil/Urlatherrke

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Contents 40th Birthday BUMPER Issue!

Issue #180, Winter 2021

Regulars Readers’ Letters

08

Editor’s Letter

12

Gallery

16

Columns

24

WILD Shot

130

Conservation Green Pages

32

Green Island Reef Restoration

34

None of the Above Australia’s First Avalanche Training Centre

36

Victorian Backcountry Festival

48

Q + A with Protect Our Winters

40

The DWR Conundrum

42

Wild Film Festival

44

Bush Poetry: Freda Du Faur

48

Wilderness Therapy for Youth

52

Wild’s Big Four-O 40th Birthday Supplement Publisher’s Letter

57

Best Wishes from Friends

59

Profile: Wild Mag at 40

60

Production Processes Back in the Day

66

Ads from Wild Issue #1

68

Quentin Chester Reflects

74

Every Cover Wild Has Ever Run

76

82 One Grand Winter 100 Weta Heck Are We

Features First Descents in the Tasmanian Backcountry

82

Photo Essay: 40 Years of Wild Adventures

92

An Unsteady Ascent of Steeple Peak

100

Life in the Freezer, Kosciuszko NP

106

A Bikepacking Evolution

112

Curse of the Wild Bush Horses

118

60 Wild at 40 124 Track Notes:

Track Notes Northern Territory’s Mt Zeil

Mt Zeil

124

Gear Gear Talk: Helly Hansen Lifa Infinity Pro

128

Test: The North Face Vectiv Exploris Shoes

128

Test: Osprey Aether Pro 85L

129

NOTE: Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, Wild’s final instalment of the series on Australia’s Great Environmental Battles, this one ‘The Battle for the Tarkine’, has been postponed (we know, yet again, damn you COVID) until travel to Tasmania becomes feasible. Don’t worry, this is driving us crazy, too.

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52 Therapy Gone Wild

Vistas are meant to be earned.

Wild Letters

[ Letter of the Issue ]

SOLITUDE FOR SMELLY BUSHWALKERS

Dear Wild (Re: Your ‘Luxury Lodges = Wilderness Lost’ articles in #178 and #179), We are experiencing the confluence of three significant factors. One is the rise of uber capitalism and the ruse that business generates most of our employment and wealth. Little credit is given to the public sector that enables business to operate effectively, or our universities and other research institutions that generate most of the knowledge on which industry depends. We should value our natural and cultural heritage sufficiently that they are adequately funded without resorting to the current [privatised and outsourced] business model where profit remains the dominant motive.

Secondly, risk management is so dominant that many in the general population are convinced they cannot undertake an adventurous activity without the support of a guiding company.

Thirdly, most Australians are unfit. Claims of athletic elitism are driven by those who would rather sell people the easy option rather than encourage people to get off their sofas and move.

After all, where’s the profit in that? Around 70% of Australians are sedentary or insufficiently active, so the potential market is huge. Culturally, it’s acceptable to work long hours at the computer or to spend hours driving or flying to meetings. It’s not considered elitist to require a high level of academic education for certain jobs or expect extensive experience for others. Just don’t ask people to exert themselves.

Those of us who run, cycle, swim, bushwalk, paddle, surf, etc are denigrated as fitness fanatics, but if you want to continue to do these things in your 60s and beyond, you need to put in the work.

It’s no different to putting in the effort to obtain additional qualifications or gain industry experience, neither of which are considered elitist. Want to walk the South Coast Track? Get fit, get the skills and acquire the necessary equipment. Please don’t encourage the destruction of the environment because you are not up to the challenge.

We will soon be left with a host of Cape Richards (Ed: the derelict resort on Hinchinbrook Island) situations across the country. Bucket list, supported walks and luxury lodges will no longer be fashionable, the companies providing them will have folded and the various state governments that once encouraged them will be left to fund the restoration of sites. Bushwalking will be left to the unfashionable, smelly few to enjoy in relative solitude—if anywhere worth walking remains.

Stephen Phelps Invergowrie, NSW

SEND US YOUR LETTERS TO WIN! Each Letter of the Issue wins a piece of quality outdoor kit.

They’ll also, like Peter in this issue, receive a free annual subscription to Wild. To be in the running, send your 50-500 word letters to: editor@wild.com.au

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COMPLEX QUESTIONS, COMPLEX ANSWERS

The Taipan Wall closure article (Wild #178) got me pondering some questions: “Who are suitable custodians of country?”; “What are the differences between Indigenous connection with country and rock climbing connection with country?”

We must honestly answer these questions.

Indigenous Lore teaches us to look, listen, learn and love. It helps us be with country, teaching us our place and our obligations. The focus is country itself.

The connection is cultural, spiritual and practical.

As a climber, I’m interested in what I can climb and how well I can do it. The focus is ‘me’ and the rock is the medium. When we climb, we are awed by nature’s beauty. We feel the rock, we notice things and we begin to connect. But the depth of our connection is always limited by our primary focus.

We might see this from various viewpoints. You could love and respect country so much that you feel a deep pain when she is hurt and disrespected. Or you might feel self-righteous indignation when anyone interferes with your right to do whatever you want.

Probably I’m in the middle. I may have genuine respect for Indigenous culture or genuine love for wilderness. Perhaps my love for wilderness is based on what I do, and nature is only my playground. Perhaps I respect traditional culture until it interferes with what I want to do. The Taipan Wall article seems to fit the last option—let’s call it conditional respect.

As a Queenslander, I’ll tell you about an issue happening here. From my veranda, I see a place of deep cultural and spiritual significance: Whinpullin (meaning grass tree). Most people call it Minto Crag. Last year, a small group of sports climbers illegally bolted and ‘gardened’ (removed hundreds of orchids) along 200m of cliff. The ground is now compacted due to increased traffic, and some climbers made derogatory comments and gave insulting names to climbs. I can’t see how this lack of respect helps anyone. If you respect traditional culture, this just isn’t a crag for climbing. Trad climbers I have spoken to agree.

The bottom line? Probably you and I will agree on some things and disagree on others. That’s not a problem. A culture that’s thrived for 60,000 years must be based on extraordinary wisdom, and there’s a process that deals with exactly this situation. Yarning through an issue helps find a complex solution. In a yarning circle, a broad range of viewpoints is a strength, not a weakness. The only thing that gets in the way is ego.

Peter Dean Maroon, QLD

(Ed: To be clear, First Nations Peoples’ understanding of Country involves spiritual and ancestral connections unknowable to others. Likewise, yarning circles aren’t necessarily open to everyone. TBH, I’m actually not sure whether, by asking the questions he has, Peter is or isn’t implying otherwise. It is clear, however, that he’s calling for respect and a genuine conversation. And nuanced introspection like this is valuable; not all answers are arrived at easily, and often they involve unanswered questions and contradictions.

We also don’t have to agree on everything to start talking!)

QUICK THOUGHT (Wild ’s newsletter a few months back featured our Wild Shot from Issue #52, 1994, with Oliver Grossman on Kachoong)

“Sometimes I wake up and can’t decide to go mountain biking or climbing. This guy has solved that dilemma!” DS

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

Smartwool is well known for their itch-free, odour-free Merino clothing, and their technical PhD socks have seamless toes and are mesh-panelled for comfort.

Stephen’s Letter of the Issue will get something special: A Smartwool sock drawer. It’ll include ten pairs of hiking, running and lifestyle socks, enough for anyone to throw out all those old raggedy, holey and often stinky socks they’ve been making do with.

AUSTRALIAN MADE. AUSTRALIAN PRINTED. AUSTRALIAN OWNED. wild.com.au/subscribe @wildmagazine @wild_mag EDITOR: James McCormack

FOUNDER: Chris Baxter OAM

PROOFING AND FACT CHECKING LEGENDS: Martine Fogg, Ryan Hansen, Maya Darby

CONTRIBUTORS: Megan Holbeck, Lachlan Gardiner, Catherine Lawson, Janette Asche, John Blay, Laura Waters, Dana Briggs, Quentin Chester, Xavier Anderson, Roland Handel, Shaun Mittwollen, Glenn van der Knijff, Craig Pearce, Ryan Hansen

INTERN: James Tugwell DESIGN: Sam Grimmer, James McCormack PUBLISHER Toby Ryston-Pratt Adventure Entertainment Pty Ltd ABN 79 612 294 569 ADVERTISING AND SALES Charles Werb 0418 984 019 charles@adventureentertainment.com CONTRIBUTIONS & QUERIES Want to contribute to Wild? Please email contributor@wild.com.au Send general, non-subscription queries to contact@wild.com.au

SUBSCRIPTIONS Get Wild at wild.com.au/subscribe or call 02 8227 6486 Send subscription correspondence to: magazines@adventureentertainment. com or via snail mail to: Wild Magazine PO Box 161, Hornsby NSW 2077

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.

The Wild logo is registered as a trademark and 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 would like to acknowledge and show respect for the Traditional Custodians of Australia and their Elders, past, present and emerging.

On The Cover Photo by Shaun Mittwollen

“This is the photograph I’d always dreamed of, yet didn’t think possible: Ben Armstrong places the first ever turn in the Federation Peak couloir, and does so in truly remarkable bluebird conditions, an event almost impossibly rare.

Back in 2017, I hiked to the mountain, deep in Southwest Tasmania, and down-climbed this chute to scope a possible ski descent. In 2020, I returned. The towering rock walls gave the sense of a proper alpine couloir.

Below, the chute rolled over into the crux of the line; a steep, concave runnel slanting towards a cliff of around three metres.

As with most ski photography, there were no second chances—the snow would be ruined by the initial tracks; we needed to nail the shot first go.

I spent five minutes perfecting the composition, and then Ben gave me a countdown when he was ready. Three, two, one! The camera was set to 9fps, capturing Ben airborne in his jump turn. Nailed it! He skied down to the bench in the lower right of frame and then it was my turn to ride.”

Read more about Shaun’s Tassie skiing in ‘One Grand Winter’ starting P80.

“There’s plenty of gear shops out there. But we know what it’s like to be out here. ”

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FROM THE EDITOR

Photo of Earth from Voyager 1, six billion kilometres distant

Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech

Pale Blue Dot

I

t wasn’t quite a ‘Pale Blue Dot’ moment, but it was humbling nonetheless. I was putting together the spreads of every cover Wild has ever run and … actually, before I go on, maybe I should take a step back and talk about the pale blue dot. If you’ve never heard of it, the phrase was coined by astronomer and author Carl Sagan. In 1990, the Voyager 1 space probe was just about to leave the Solar System, and—as its last task before doing so—it was commanded to turn its camera back and to take one last photo of Earth from a distance of six billion kilometres. In the resulting image, the Earth is tiny, a mere pixel in size, a speck in the photo that you could easily miss.

“Look again at that dot,” said Sagan.

“That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives.”

Now Wild is obviously not quite that.

But as I looked back over the six pages of 180 covers that Wild has run over the last 40 years, I noticed that the ones with me as editor—now at the helm for nearly three years—took up scarcely the last two lines of the final page. A mere blip at the end, really. A pale blue dot. Despite my life in recent years being dominated by the mag—weekends for-gone, trips never taken, back-to-back-to-back all-nighters—when I looked at the collection of covers, the ones I've been involved aren't many in the scheme of things.

I tried to make sense of it, though.

One Saturday, I sat down to make my way through as many back issues of Wild as possible. I had some notion that,

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with this being the birthday issue, I should read through every issue of Wild that’s ever been published. I would, I hoped, learn exactly what the magazine was. Within a day, I realised that simply was not feasible. I’d been at it all day, and still had barely scratched the surface. There was too much.

There have, over 40 years, been so many voices, so many contributions, so many great stories told, so many adventures shared, so much knowledge imparted, it’s hard to know where to start. It’s crazy if you step back and think about it: How many trips, adventures, environmental battles or campaigns has Wild publicised over the last four decades? Quite literally, the number is in the thousands (if you’re interested, head to wild.com.au/index to see both the sheer number and the staggering diversity of the stories we’ve run over the years). But perhaps more pertinently, what was the cumulative impact of these stories? How much did they snowball? Each single piece had the potential to inspire a multitude of others to take action. Multiply that leveraging effect by the thousands of stories we've run, and then consider how many amazing life experiences have in turn been inspired by this magazine's pages. How many people have been spurred to fight for our environment? The number is incalculable. In the vast schema of Wild, each of us is miniscule.

I am, to coin a word, one of the inspirees. My father died when I was young—just eight years old. I do not say this seeking pity; in fact, although I

loved my dad very much, I view his death in some ways lucky for me because I quickly learnt, in short, that shit happens. And once you truly accept that, life becomes very much happier. (I also recognise that for my mother, my dad’s death was very much harder). But with Dad gone, and with Mum necessarily focussed on merely looking after our family, and with me having no adventurous or outdoorsy friends or mentors to turn to, I was on my own when it came to adventure. Except there was Wild.

Through my teenage years, Wild alone guided me into the outdoors. And into conservation. Wild never told me I should set my expectations low. Or that I should play it safe. Or that I should expect comfort at every turn. Or that protecting our wild places isn't something worth going out on a limb for. Wild taught me values. Respect the bush. Respect nature. Respect adventure. Respect discomfort. Respect life.

I am not alone in being taught by Wild.

You may be—in fact, I hope you are—one of the hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of inhabitants of the pale blue dot whose life has been made a little better by four decades of Wild. Better yet, you may be one of the many who Wild has inspired to actively and defiantly fight to protect our natural heritage. I hope— although who knows what form this may be in—that, in another forty years, Wild will still be around, teaching and guiding and inspiring others.

James McCormack

Editor

BE PART OF SOMETHING BIG FOR NATURE Kelvedon Hills is 1300 hectares of rich, diverse habitat on Tasmania’s east coast.

More than 40 rare or threatened species need this habitat to survive. The Tasmanian Land Conservancy wants to make Kelvedon Hills a nature reserve, protected forever.

Find out more or make a donation at tasland.org.au Meredith River, Kelvedon Hills.

Photo: Andy Townsend

10 Discover untouched iconic experiences to build your bucket list Arctic itinerary

Canada

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Marvel at the Northern Lights in Yellowknife via a teepee, cozy cabin or viewing station

Enjoy a flight-seeing tour around Virginia Falls in Nahanni National Park

View the Muskox of Thaidene Nëné National Park Reserve with Indigenous Guides

6

7

8

Tour the Ice Roads to the Diamond Mines

Go off grid and stay in a wilderness eco-lodge

Experience the thrill of driving your own sled dog team

Winter (Dec-April) or Summer/autumn (Sept-Oct).

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Paddle iconic rivers like the Keele, Mackenzie and Nahanni River

Self-drive Canada’s largest National Park - Wood Buffalo

BOOKINGS Contact your travel agent or a speciality tour operator to create a custom made adventure itinerary to the Northwest Territories, Canada

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Speciality operators: Adventure Destinations adventuredestinations.com.au Adventure World adventureworld.com.au Great Canadian Trails greatcanadiantrails.com Entire Travel Group entiretravel.com.au Momento Travel momentotravel.com.au

Dip your toes in the Arctic Ocean travelling from Inuvik to Tuktoyaktuk

Dine in the local pubs and restaurants of Yellowknife

Natural Focus Safaris naturalfocusaustralia.com.au

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WILD Winter 2021

BR A D G R A H A M M A KES TH E FIR S T RE PE AT OF TH E C ATH E DR A L HIG H LIN E, MT BU FFA LO PL ATE AU, V IC TORIA

by Stan Meissner Olympus E-M5 MkII, 12-40mm f2.8, 35mm, f11, 1/6, ISO 200

Winter 2021 WILD

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Gallery

DREW JOLOWICZ SCORING DUSK TURNS IN THE MT HOTHAM BACKCOUNTRY, VICTORIA

by Chris Hocking Nikon D4S, Nikkor 24-70mm f2.8, f4.0, 1/1000, ISO 400

Winter 2021 WILD

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Gallery

FLYNN MEDSON IN THE WATERFALL CHUTE, WATSONS CRAGS, KOSCIUSZKO NP, NSW

by Matt Wiseman Canon 5D MkIV, EF70-200mm f/2.8L, f11, 1/500, ISO 250

Winter 2021 WILD

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Gallery

GAVIN DAY ENTERING PIONEER VALLEY, LARAPINTA TRAIL, NORTHERN TERRITORY

by James McCormack Nikon D300, Nikkor 18-135mm, f9.0, 1/125, ISO 160

Winter 2021 WILD

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COLUMNS

[ Bob Brown ]

Bob.Brown.Foundation bobbrownfndn www.bobbrown.org.au

BOB BROWN’S GREEN LIVING

Never Give Up Over the last forty years, Wild has lifted spirits in dark times.

F

orty years ago, Wild emerged on Australasia’s magazine racks and keen lovers of the natural planet have enjoyed it ever since. It is sobering to think that most current readers were not on the planet when Wild was born.

However, I was—along with many— enduring the most dreadful days of the campaign to save the Franklin River from the Gordon-below-Franklin dam.

Things looked bleak. A new outdoors and adventure magazine seemed peripheral to the cause, but we at the Tasmanian Wilderness Society lashed out and bought a full-page colour ad (Ed's note: see p72; the photo of the Franklin in the ad was taken by Bob himself ). It was a tilt towards optimism that the future would see Australia’s unprotected wild places saved, starting with the Franklin.

Besides that, Wild gave us a handy cut rate for the advertisement, which featured a photograph of the Franklin upstream of the Irenabyss gorge. I had taken the photo a year earlier knowing that this stretch of the wild river would be inundated by the third of four dams the almighty Hydro-Electric Commission had in store for it. Wild accepted our sombre captioning of the river's perilous predicament and had no trouble with our ad’s appeal for help.

Several magazines, including New Idea and the Women’s Weekly, had run pieces on the Franklin campaigners. Salamanca Place retailer of Tasmanian-made furniture, Judy Richter, had donated us her monthly front-page ad in the Hobart Mercury to promote saving the river. But we had never before had a print outlet, of itself, enticing us to buy space for the cause at a giveaway price. Clearly, Wild was not fussed that there were potential readers who backed flooding the Franklin. More than one bushwalking club in

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Tasmania was riven with division over the issue. That Editor Chris Baxter and the magazine’s managers were on side was a good feeling.

Wild has maintained its ethic of siding with the protection of wild and scenic places ever since. In a world of mounting environmental destruction, it has given defenders of wilderness four decades of good feelings.

That onrush of destruction came home to me last month when Paul and I visited Bill Smart on his farm near Manjimup in southern Western Australia. Bill took us to look at the cinders remaining from a firestorm in the native forest adjoining his home. The forest had been one of two remaining strongholds for the state’s faunal emblem, the numbat which, in pre-invasion times, had a range extending to western Victoria and New South Wales. The conservators of nature, the WA Department of Biodiversity, Conservation and Attractions (sic), firebombed the 2000ha of numbat forest in a ‘prescribed burn’ on 25 February, during the numbat’s breeding season. Bill estimates that 50 or 60 numbats, not counting the four babies on each mother’s teats, were incinerated. Five or six per cent of all remaining adult numbats in the wild were burnt in two hours by the department meant to be protecting them.

Despite Bill’s entreaties, neither the Premier nor the Minister for the Environment have been down to see the numbat habitat incinerated on their watch.

It’s disheartening, and it reminded me of 1981 when we felt sick at heart at the preparations to flood the Franklin. That sickness was to peak in May 1982 when Robin Gray and his Liberals swept to power in Tasmania and, by July, had bulldozers rolling into the Franklin valley.

Yet, in July 1983, empowered by the High Court's celebrated 4-3 judgment, the newly-elected Hawke Labor Government in Canberra overrode Gray and stopped the dam. So, in this 40th anniversary year, the Franklin still flows free to the sea, offering one of the world’s great whitewater rafting experiences as it goes.

The point here is that we should never give up. While in WA, Paul and I also dropped in on the resilient Denmark Environment Centre near Albany and had a cuppa with the 'Nannas for Forests' at Margaret River (mostly rural grandmas, many of them recently fined $500 each for peacefully protesting native forest destruction). We also caught up with Margaret Robertson who, as a teenager, followed her older brother Peter across the Nullarbor to join the Tasmanian campaign to save the Franklin.

Margaret arrived in Hobart at about the same time as the offer for us to buy that ad in Wild's first edition; both events lifted our spirits in the darkest of times.

Margaret went on to be a main player in getting the NSW Government to adopt its remarkably important Wilderness Act. Wild has gone on to advocate for wilderness and wildlife everywhere. Witness Wild’s current editor, James McCormack, presenting a compelling series of articles on the commercial interests now circling Australia’s national parks with a view to plonking private tourism infrastructure in the wild and lovely places which so many have given so much to protect over the last century.

Congratulations Wild. The next forty years will test people who love the outdoors and wild nature as they have never been tested before. I hope Wild will be there with them throughout, lifting their spirits just as it has, these last forty years, lifted mine.

COLUMNS

[ Megan Holbeck ]

@meganholbeck www.meganholbeck.com

WILD THINGS

Mid-life Reflections Four decades of Wild Magazine.

F

orty years is a long time, whether for a human, a business, or a magazine. And when you consider how much has changed since 1981, it’s amazing that Wild Magazine is still going.

We’ve gone from A-frame tents to ultralight flies; steak and potatoes to freezedried risotto; first Australian ascents of Mount Everest to plans for fat-tyred bike expeditions across Antarctica. And throughout it all—the early days of planning and graft, the boom years in the 80s and 90s, the advent of the internet and the resulting digital disruption—Wild has been publishing at least quarterly, sending packets of inspiration out into the world.

I’m in my forties too. From this far along the track, I can see the importance of the long game, and have realised that a lot of what makes life good comes from patience, perseverance, kindness, and curiosity. This mid-life perspective is like going up in an airplane and seeing the curvature of the Earth: From here I can see the arcs on the circle of life. I can understand youth from both inside and out, and see old age not as an uninspiring foreign country—a compulsory stopover if you travel for long enough— but as a continuation and a culmination of the journey, with its own challenges, rewards and contentment.

There isn’t a life cycle for a publication: Magazines can be launched and sunk in a year, splutter on for decades, burn bright and short. So instead of judging the success of a magazine against customary measures—readership, circulation, advertising—it’s more telling to look at its influence.

The eager young things who picked up Wild’s first issue would now be approaching sixty. During the intervening four decades, Wild has kindled

people’s love of nature and outdoor recreation, opened doors into other, more adventurous lives, sparked trip ideas, and given people the necessary skills and knowledge—or at least an idea of where to begin. There would be tens of thousands of people whose passion has been piqued by this magazine; I’ve not only spoken to lots of them, I am one, as is current editor James McCormack.

Wild’s success smoothed the way for other publishers, providing a model, an audience, and the encouragement needed for others to produce walking and climbing guidebooks, and books on

Wild has continued to celebrate Australia’s

outdoor adventures, community, and wild places, while advocating for

their protection."

nature and conservation and exploration and adventure. This magazine has played a key role in the careers of many Australian outdoor writers and photographers; it has published profiles on adventurers from mountaineer Andrew Lock to teenage climber Andrea Han, and on thinkers from Tim Flannery to Bob Brown. It has supported important conservation campaigns in every part of Australia, and set the agenda for discussions.

Wild was delivered to State Premiers' offices around Australia, informing politicians of what mattered to the outdoors community. Its stance hasn’t always been popular—over the years the magazine has lost readers and advertisers for sticking to its values, for staying true to its ethos rather than taking the softer,

more pliable path. (Examples of putting values before popularity are numerous and diverse, from attitudes towards advertorials, to the magazine’s support of conservation campaigns, to recent articles about lodge developments in national parks.) However, this constancy and advocacy has been valued by many more than have disapproved, earning the magazine great respect. One classic example was in 2006: At the party to celebrate the 100th issue of Wild, Bob Brown skipped dinner with the Queen to launch the magazine edition.

The positive impact of this magazine over the last forty years is impossible to measure, stretching from the local to the global, from tiny, personal wins—the selection of the right stove—to transforming people’s lives by introducing them to lifelong passions. And throughout it all, Wild has continued to celebrate Australia’s outdoor adventures, community, and wild places, while advocating for their protection.

Wild is important not just for the individual articles and images it prints, the campaigns it contains, the individual magazines published; it’s also valuable for what they represent, add up to and become: a window to inspire, educate and give balance, to remind people what they’ve got, help them enjoy it and foster a community that cares. Showing us what we’ve got. Sharing with us our wild places, the adventures out there.

Our explorers, scientists, and artists; the possibilities and perils.

There is so much to celebrate. And if there is ever an excuse for celebration, it should be grabbed: The last couple of years of disasters, cancellations and forced life recalibrations should have taught us that, at least.

Happy 40th, Wild.

Winter 2021 WILD

25

COLUMNS

[ Tim Macartney-Snape ]

OUTSIDE WITH TIM

Constancy Amid Change While I might never hitchhike again, Wild is something I hope to return to for a long time yet.

I

t was exactly forty years ago that we’d hitched to Melbourne from Adelaide via Arapiles. The journey had started auspiciously by scoring a lift in a pink Cadillac convertible. Luckily it had been sunny, the wattles were in full bloom, and as always, the rock at Arapiles had uplifted our spirits.

My then climbing partner Lincoln Hall and I were on an old-fashioned slide show tour about our recent trip up the elegant north ridge of Ama Dablam in Nepal. Our intention was to raise money for our next subsidised holiday to hopefully another cold and breathless summit.

True to form, there’d been good indications that the Melbourne crowd would be healthy in number. How could it not have been in the sport-loving capital of Australia, where amongst others, we were being spruiked by the country’s foremost climbing enthusiast Chris Baxter? He arrived at the venue early with a ream of promotional flyers under his arm. Chris’s new venture was Wild Magazine and, in his inimitable style, he was anxious to get as many subscribers signed up as possible.

I’d like to think we gave an entertaining presentation that night, and while my delivery of mountaineering lectures has waxed and waned over the years, Wild Magazine has seen its circulation steadily rise ever since.

In pre-internet days, it was a valuable resource of information regarding places to go and the gear to make it safe and comfortable. Nowadays, bombarded as we are by an online blizzard of information and an avalanche of

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equipment choice, Wild provides a valuable counterpoint; a considered distillation of adventures, destinations and reviews of new equipment.

Wild’s birth coincided with an acceleration of innovation in gear, as new materials and designs delivered warmer, lighter, and more comfortable products. The breathable waterproof membrane was just becoming more widespread in outer wear, bringing an end to the ‘oilskins’ of old. Polyester fleece and polypropylene thermals— non-absorbent and quick drying—were replacing old-style, itchy wool. Synthetics were also starting to make inroads into footwear, an area I personally experienced the biggest change in. Double high-altitude leather boots never came in a lightweight model, especially for Size-13 feet. When the leather got wet, as it always did, then froze, as it inevitably did, they may as well have been made of stone. Plastic boots, then later composite ones, with waterproof breathable membranes, delivered dry feet and eventually shaved off more than 50% of the weight! Then came lightweight inflatable mats. I’d happily gotten used to the hardness of close cell foam mats, but once I’d tried the new alternative—a little like returning to economy after you’ve sampled business class on a long-haul flight—it was hard to go back, though happily with mats I didn’t have to go back!

The new millennium delivered the next innovation-induced paradigm shift, and unsurprisingly, it was electronic. Reading by the light of a candle while cocooned in your sleeping bag

was always hard, and not just because the candle had to be kept a safe distance from anything flammable (ie pretty well everything inside the tent, including the tent itself!). Reading by headlamp was never an option on an expedition simply because there were never enough batteries. But then came LED lighting. Blindingly bright, almost never-ending light—Hallelujah! Not only did it mean you could read holding your book under the warm covers, but should you have underestimated the duration of your day’s activities, you could just keep going on into the night.

This of course, for the optimists, led to the temptation of putting that little bit extra into the day, only to find the headlamp had accidentally switched on in the top pocket of your pack or the batteries were defunct. (Ed’s note: I know this so well!)

Other electronics proliferated too: GPS devices, locator beacons, digital cameras … Now they all seem to be coalescing into one device—the smart phone. Feasibly a ‘slideshow’ now involves sharing your experiences in video and stills—all conveniently captured on your smart phone—beaming them to people’s personal screens anywhere on the planet.

While I’m ambivalent that hitching is something I’ll probably never do again, I hope there’ll still be live slideshows to give and to go to, just as I hope that when after my own day’s adventure back at camp, hut or lodge there’ll be copies of Wild to pick up and browse through, and to get inspired by what others have done and seen out in the wonders of the natural world.

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COLUMNS

[ Dan Slater ]

OF MOUTHS & MONIES

The Future Is Now Looking back on the gear of yesteryear.

T

o celebrate Wild’s anniversary, I decided to revisit Issue #1 to see how outdoor gear has changed in four decades. As I turned the pages, names from yesteryear came flooding back—Puradown sleeping bags, Brixia boots, Typhoon foul weather clothing.

There was also a full-page text ad, written in close type, that told the Mountain Designs story, which at that time was only eleven years old. But the big news, perhaps, was an ad announcing that Macpac and Wilderness had combined to form Macpac Wilderness Equipment!

As expected, some of the gear advertisements looked a little … dated. Sleeping bags scored the highest representation with four dedicated ads, the most memorable being New Zealand’s Fairydown, who promised the ‘lightest bag in the range’ at a positively buoyant 1.87kg. Kimpton Feather Industries out of Collingwood may have jumped the gun in that case, calling their 2.2kg Japara bag "the lightweight winner"! There were no temperature ranges quoted back then, just "maximum insulation".

In terms of clothing, two panels caught my eye. Northcape polar wear and thermic underwear was "equal to the tasks you will set it" and Paddymade, ‘Australia’s finest lightweight outdoor equipment’, extolled the virtues of their pragmatically-titled Rain Jacket. The classic thighlength garment boasted a 3-piece hood with stiffened visor, a Velcro closed flap over zip and came in 120gsm P.U. proofed nylon or 160gsm Gore-Tex laminate "for the ultimate in comfort." I can think of similar designs still produced today!

Packs were also well represented, particularly the Karrimor Alpiniste with its

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WILD Winter 2021

fformat (sic) frame—aluminium strips moulded into closed cell foam to form a shapable internal back panel/bivi seat.

Other improvements included the Haston Tunnel, for stowing the hip belt when not in use. Camp Trails were also advertising the Lobo from their Wolf Pack range, but most exciting of all was the Packbed—a lightweight pack that unfolded into a stretcher, chair, or tent. So intriguing was this concept that it was expanded upon on the Equipment page. After nine years of development and a "depressingly long

I personally can’t

wait for the drone

that follows you along the trail, silently of course,

carrying all your gear." road to the manufacturing stage", Victorian Ralph Barraclough had taken on production himself. An idea ahead of its time?

Also featured on the gear page were Trak ski touring boots and the new Silva Type 24W wrist compass watch, selling for a hefty twelve dollars. Speaking of Silva, there were a couple of ads in Issue #1 that could be transplanted directly into the current issue with only some graphic design updates. One of these was the Silva Type 3. While the name might have changed, the hand-drawn illustration clearly echoes the modern Ranger 3. “Silva brought us back!” screams the tagline, before adding "Available at better camping/sporting goods stores."

An honourable mention goes to Therma-Rest’s self-inflating insulating mattress ('it SELF INFLATES!’', but the If-it-ain’tbroke-don’t-fix-it prize for design longevity must go to Trangia’s "all-weather complete cooking system." I can see zero difference between the design illustration of this 1981 model and the same 25-2 UL sitting in the shops today, or my own 20 year-old set, for that matter. Materials aside, that is one solid design achievement!

As well as the plethora of gear ads, outdoor stores also wanted in on the new publication, although sadly many are now defunct. Among those that live on are the Scout Outdoor Centre, The Wilderness Shop, and Mountain Equipment (which was then located in Crows Nest, the building emblazoned with almost exactly the same silhouette logo as today). And of course, Paddy Pallin, whose ad boasted geodesic snow tents, internal frame rucksacks, cross-country knickers, and nylon and Gore-Tex cagjacs. (I had to Google it—a sort of heavy nylon cagoule/jacket first produced in 1973 by the company that would later become Craghoppers.)

All this nostalgia is most amusing, to be sure, but what will the Wild columnist of 2061 think, looking back at the ads in Issue #180? It’s impossible to say from here. Looking to the future though, what can we expect? I personally can’t wait for the hoverboard or drone that follows you along the trail, silently of course, carrying all your gear. Even better if it converted into a tent and cooked your dinner, too!

To see a slice of nostalgia yourself, go to p68 for a selection of Issue #1 ads.

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[ SPONSORED CONTENT ]

CAMERA HOUSE & SONY FILM GRANT Win $6000 in cash and gear

ADVENTURE. CONSERVATION. WILDERNESS. That’s our tagline here at Wild. And to help you create a film that communicates that ethos, we’ve partnered with Camera House and Sony to create the Camera House and Sony Wild Film Grant. The grant will award $6,000 in cash and camera gear, and will let us support a passionate filmmaker who’s striving to create a beautiful and inspirational film.

This film must be made in Australia. At Wild, we celebrate our country’s natural treasures, and we’d like your film to reflect this. We have an amazing environment—stunning beaches, vast open spaces, lush rainforest, and beautiful mountains—along with precious forests and remarkable wildlife. There are so many stories to tell here; let’s celebrate the beauty, and the wildness, that Australia has to offer.

So begin thinking about how to turn your creative concept into reality. Your film could focus on any one aspect of adventure, conservation, or wilderness, or it could combine all three. Whether it be a film about a ground-breaking expedition, about helping our environment, about overcoming challenges, or about the outdoors community, pitch us your idea.

Tell us your story. Inspire us.

PRIZE INCLUSIONS The winning grant will receive the following: - A $2,000 grant to produce your film.

- Camera House gear up to the value of $4,000 required to make your film.

ELIGIBILITY The Camera House and Sony Wild Film Grant is open to all residents of Australia over the age of 18.

HOW TO ENTER Eligible Entrants may enter this competition during the Promotional Period by submitting film ideas on their application to get the Camera House and Sony Wild Film Grant. Entries must include all requested contact details and must follow all of the other directions provided by the Promoter on the entry website. Each entry must be unique and received by the Promoter prior to the competition close date and time. Entries close 15/09/2021. For full details, go to: wild.com.au/camera-house-sony-film-grant

CONSERVATION

Green Wild’s

Pages

A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country The rocky mesas of Pullen Pullen

We’ve got to work out ways to

make the tools we have more efficient.”

HUNTING THE HUNTERS

Credits: Stephen Kearney

Feral cats kill perhaps two billion Australian animals every year, including the critically endangered night parrot. Bush Heritage Australia is seeking to change that.

Dotted throughout the dramatic landscape of western Queensland—a place of expansive red plains and broken table-topped mesas—are spiky hummocks of spinifex grass, where, if you’re lucky, you might just find a night parrot nest. But while these spinifex mounds provide the critically endangered night parrots with almost-impenetrable fortresses, the moment the birds step outside them, they’re exposed to their biggest threat: feral cats. Night parrots—being, as their name suggests, nocturnal—are especially vulnerable prey for feral cats, which typically hunt at night. And the problem is exacerbated by the birds being ground-dwelling; when young birds are in the nest, they become incredibly vocal right before they fledge. This, of course, acts as a beacon for hungry cats. It’s for these reasons that cat control is the major focus of Bush Heritage’s work on Pullen Pullen, a 56,000ha reserve in Maiawali country in Queensland’s west.

Using a combination of shooting and trapping, about 35 cats have been removed from the reserve over the past 18 months alone. Finding those cats is time consuming and costly, and there are many more still out there across the 56,000ha.

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WILD Winter 2021

“There’s absolutely no silver bullet when it comes to cat control,” says Dr Steve Murphy—one of Australia’s foremost night parrot experts. “So that means we’ve got to work out ways to make the tools we have more efficient.” As a result, Steve has been leading a project to capture feral cats at Pullen Pullen and to fit them with GPS collars. By collecting data about cat movement across the landscape, and by identifying features like dune tops or creek lines that cats frequent, Bush Heritage can target control to these key areas and improve the effectiveness of its cat control program at Pullen Pullen.

“We’ve now got really good information about where these cats went over the past six months,” says Steve. “So let’s imagine we’re a reserve manager, and we’ve got fifty cat traps to put out across the 20,000ha of core night parrot habitat. Where should we put those traps to get that optimal encounter rate?”

This research is contributing to a rapidly growing pool of knowledge that’s changing the way cat control is carried out on Bush Heritage reserves and partnerships right around Australia.

LEARN MORE

Pullen Pullen Reserve was established as a sanctuary to protect what was, at the time, the only known population of endangered night parrots in the world.

This nocturnal, ground-dwelling bird is famous for avoiding detection, and has been described by the Smithsonian Institution as ‘the planet’s most elusive bird’.

Until night parrots were discovered at Pullen Pullen in 2013, the last living specimen was seen in Western Australia in 1912.

Learn more at: bushheritage.org.au

[ Green Pages ]

DON’T FRACK THE OUTBACK

Fracking, a process for getting gas out of deep shale rock by drilling horizontally and injecting chemicals that fracture the rock, is one of the biggest environmental threats to the NT. It mostly happens in remote Aboriginal-owned land, and is deeply unpopular with Traditional Owners and the broader population; it pollutes groundwater, releases emissions, and requires industrialisation of the landscape with thousands of wells, pipelines and heavy machinery. Learn more at: alec.org.au/dont_frack_the_outback_alec

Hannah Ekin, Arid Lands Environment Centre

TEAM KOWARI

While Elon Musk aims for Mars, a small group is striving to preserve life in a remote Mars-like landscape here on Earth.

Related to Tassie devils, Kowaris are tiny-but-fierce marsupial predators living on the vast gibber plains of the Sturt Stony Desert. They are adept survivors in their extreme habitat, but land clearing for agriculture, introduced predators and increased competition mean they are steadily declining towards extinction. Team Kowari are turning this around with conservation research, education, and growing a community of Kowari lovers to save this little-known species. Go to: teamkowari.com.au Katherine Tuft, Team Kowari

WOLGAN THREATENED

Centennial Coal has applied to reopen its Angus Place Colliery on Newnes Plateau, near Lithgow.

The company’s longwall mining operations have already irreversibly damaged 15 swamps and permanently altered the hydrology of four more endangered ecological communities. Centennial Coal has failed to implement any effective avoidance or mitigation measures to reduce the impact of the proposal on nationally endangered swamps and the threatened species they contain. The project will drain the Wolgan River, and will thus dry Wolgan Falls, destroy Newnes’ hanging swamps, and will affect groundwater levels and runoff throughout the Blue Mountains World Heritage Area. Sign the petition to save the Wolgan River at chng.it/gLQtWTjQzF

CONSERVATION

IN BRIEF

Chris Jonkers, Lithgow Environment Group

Image credits (from top to bottom): CAFFA; Nathan Beerkens; Virginia Bear; Adam Monk

ASSISTANCE AFTER THE FIRES

Many ecosystems across Australia have been severely impacted from recent years’ extensive bushfires. While large areas are recovering well, others are in deep trouble. In between these extremes are numerous sites that the Australian Association of Bush Regenerators (AABR) believes will recover well if only they get a bit of help. AABR is producing online materials to assist landholders undertake ecological weed management after wildfires, as well as to link volunteers to sites in need of help. Details are at: aabr.org.au Peter Dixon, Aust. Assn of Bush Regenerators

PROTECT THE FITZROY RIVER

The Martuwarra/Fitzroy River, in WA’s Kimberley Region, is one of Australia’s largest free-flowing waterways. In 2011, it was National Heritage listed for its cultural and natural values, and in 2016, Traditional Owners called for its protection in the Fitzroy River Declaration. Over a hundred scientists have called for the same in the Fitzroy Science Statement. But there are proposals to take 375 billion litres—more than the two million people of Perth and the southwest use—each year from the river for irrigation. To learn more or to sign a petition to save the Fitzroy, go to: environskimberley.org.au/saving_the_fitzroy_river Martin Pritchard, Environs Kimberley

Credit: C. Jonkers

Wolgan Falls

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

Winter 2021 WILD

33

CONSERVATION

[ Green Island, QUEENSLAND ]

Reef Regeneration An innovative, multi-stakeholder reef restoration project using loose coral fragments to build new live coral reef habitat is underway at Green Island in the Great Barrier Reef.

Words Neil Mattocks

T

he Great Barrier Reef follows the Queensland coast—from the remote tip of Queensland all the way down to the iconic Lady Elliot Island offshore from Bundaberg. This immense length of over 2000km spans 14 degrees of latitude, with the Reef home to a wide diversity of plants and animals (including more than 600 species of coral) along its reefs, islands, mangroves, and seagrass beds.

It is also the sea country home for many First Australians—more than seventy Traditional Owner groups—whose connections to the marine environment date back more than 60,000 years.

In 1975, the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park was declared. But it’s no secret this national treasure is facing its fair share of pressure, particularly from climate change. Back-to-back mass coral bleaching* events in the summers of 2016 and 2017, coupled with a series of severe tropical cyclones that crossed the Reef over the last decade, have severely impacted this great natural wonder. When combined with additional threats—outbreaks of coral-eating crown-of-thorns starfish, poor water quality from land-based run-off, the impacts of modifying coastal habitats, and illegal fishing—the Reef’s long-term resilience has been severely weakened.

34

WILD Winter 2021

Like so many individual coral reefs, those around Green Island—27km NE of Cairns—have been impacted by these accumulating environmental stressors, as is evidenced by areas of unstable coral rubble (broken coral skeletons which accumulate in ‘fields’) and bare coral rock that even under ideal conditions would take years to recover.

In 2020, a five-year collaboration between public and private enterprise was launched: the Green Island Reef Rehabilitation Project, aimed at boosting the reef’s own regeneration capabilities and building new stable areas of live coral habitat.

With the combined forces of the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Authority (which has been managing the park since its inception), Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service, the Gunggandji Traditional Owners and other stakeholders—including Mars Incorporated, Quicksilver Cruises, Big Cat Green Island Reef Cruises, and the Coral Nurture Program—the trial project is the first of its kind on the Great Barrier Reef, and represents a commitment to collaboration and innovation in the name of preserving this natural wonder.

Working on site in November 2020, some 2,450 live coral fragments (collected as ‘corals of opportunity’)

The trial project is the first of its kind on the Great Barrier Reef.”

Coral fragment held down by a Coralclip

were attached by hand to 165 interlocked frames called MARRS reef stars. A further 200 live coral fragments were connected to hard substrate using Coralclips® across a total area of around 200m² of degraded reef habitat.

Originally developed by Mars Incorporated for use in Indonesia to rehabilitate reefs impacted by blast fishing, reef stars are sand-coated hexagonal metal frames (roughly 0.8m² each) that can be placed on the sea bed. In areas of loose coral rubble, they provide a stable platform to attach live coral fragments that can then continue to grow and eventually completely cover the reef star structure.

A small spring-loaded, stainless steel clip measuring six centimetres long, the Coralclip is attached to hard coral rock using a masonry nail fitted into a coil at one end of the clip. The process to install each clip takes about a minute. For the Green Island project, divers were tasked with selecting suitable spots for installation of the clips before a fragment of live coral was slipped under the springloaded arm and held in place under the clip where it continues to grow. Using this technique, it is possible for an experienced practitioner to install over a hundred pieces of coral in a single dive.

The project also included a trial of fully biodegradable cable ties made of potato starch. This is because even though the small plastic cable ties used become completely encased by the growing coral they are not a suitable longer-term option.

Results so far, while promising, suggest a smaller tie will be required to allow the coral to more easily grow over the top of it. Trials will continue.

With the help of fourteen divers plus a further 25-30 shore-based assistants and four vessels, collecting and installing the coral fragments using the two techniques took two full days plus countless hours in planning and preparation, making it clear that rehabilitating even small areas of degraded reef using these tools can be an intensive operation.

During installation, the island and adjacent reef were a hive of activity. Tasks included providing training, collecting suitable ‘corals of opportunity’ (loose, unattached coral pieces lying on the sea floor that are unlikely to survive), attaching them to the reef-stars, driving boats, supporting dives, taking photos and video, and talking to interested visitors.

The early signs are already very positive. Recent monitoring (26-27 May 2021) only six months

* WHAT IS CORAL BLEACHING?

Bleaching is a sign that corals are under stress. Corals are able to cope in a limited range of environmental conditions, but when these limits are exceeded (eg temperature), corals experience stress. Most corals have microscopic marine algae (called zooxanthellae) living inside their tissue. These photosynthetic organisms give corals much of their colour and also provide up to 90% of the energy corals need to grow and reproduce.

When corals are under stress, this symbiotic relationship breaks down, and corals expel the zooxanthellae and begin to starve. As zooxanthellae leave the corals, the corals become paler and increasingly transparent.

Off-loading collected coral fragments The dive team

Nailing in a Coralclip

Regenerated coral, May 2021

Installed reef-stars

after installation indicates that most corals have attached to the reef stars and are growing rapidly.

Many fish species are also starting to make the site their home. While some fragments (approximately 10%) have not survived, potentially from the stress of the initial installation, it has been a simple matter of replacing them with another suitable loose coral fragment. The Great Barrier Reef remains a true wonder, but it’s facing significant threats as a result of our changing world. While projects such as this one at Green Island are not replacements for major global action to address greenhouse gas emissions and the associated impacts on coral reefs around the world, they help show how innovative, collaborative projects can improve the outlook for small areas of the Reef while continuing to work toward larger-scale solutions. W

CONTRIBUTOR: Neil Mattocks is the Coordinator of Reef Conservation Actions within the Reef Joint Field Management Program (a partnership between the Commonwealth Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Authority and the Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service).

To learn more about the project, head to: gbrmpa.gov.au/ our-work/fieldmanagement/ green-island-reefrehabilitation-project

Winter 2021 WILD

35

NONE OF THE ABOVE

[ Winter Safety ]

Practice

Makes Perfect Mountain Safety Collective has partnered with the community to bring Australia its first Avalanche Training Centre.

Words Simon Murray

I

n recent years, avalanche safety has become a welcome and increasing priority for the Australian winter backcountry community. This cultural shift has been spearheaded by the grassroots organisation Mountain Safety Collective (MSC)—who Wild featured last winter in Issue #176, although note they’ve had a name change from ‘Sports’ to ‘Safety’ since then—who have been pushing the progression and sophistication of Australian backcountry safety standards for all participants. Now, MSC is announcing an exciting new development for those visiting the Victorian Alps: an Avalanche Training Centre.

Hopefully, winter enthusiasts are by now familiar with the daily backcountry travel advice on the mountainsafetycollective.org site (Ed—if they’re not, they should be!). The ‘Mountain Safety’ crew haven’t stopped there, however; over the last three years, they’ve worked to bring to Australian mountainsides a state of the art ‘Avalanche Rescue Training Centre’—an ATC for short. Located at Victoria’s Mt Hotham, it will be operational in 2021 once snow depth is sufficient. The centre will be public, and using it will be free.

This MSC initiative is centred around the belief that the more members of the backcountry community we have with well-honed and practised avalanche companion rescue training, the safer we all are. As important as it is to learn the fundamentals through an Avalanche Safety Training Course (AST1), developing these skills is really left to the individual; flexing the muscle of an efficient timely beacon search can mean the difference between life and death. Practise makes perfect.

Establishment of the ATC was spearheaded

by MSC’s Rolf Schonfeld. Calling on the ‘Collective’ community for support, the effort involved a wide range of initiatives, and both individuals and organisations stepped up. A crowdfunding program was followed then by an initiative by Arcteryx, which then led to the project becoming

36

WILD Winter 2021

the recipient of a Victorian Alps Relief Fund Grant.

Avalanche safety training provider Alpine Access made a generous contribution. Hotham Alpine Resort management agreed to set aside a plot.

And with four beacons in hand and snow on the ground, Mammut Australia (who manufacture industry-leading avalanche beacons) dropped the last crucial two units into the simulator.

To use the ATC, head just up from the Corral parking lot at Hotham Central and then throw yourself into a range of simulated avalanche scenarios involving single or multiple burials. With the press of a button, one, two or three ‘victims’ are activated.

You can also set an easy or hard search duration for yourself. And then GO!—the timer is on. In some cases the victim may be beyond the range of your beacon; this, for many, is an eye-opener. The search party must locate the victim(s) and once ‘probed’, the control unit either picks up the contact and beeps to indicate a strike, or it doesn’t, and it times out. If the latter occurs, as a football coach would say, “It’s time to take a long hard look at yourself, and try again.”

The random array of units scattered across the hillside is where the strength of the simulator lies.

Without this tech, it’s hard to simulate ‘real world’ scenarios. But with it, no search session is the same for any party. And would-be rescuers have no idea where the victim(s) are. It allows participants to glean an insight into what a true avalanche rescue would be like.

MSC would like to remind Wild readers not to dig out the esky-sized tethered devices, as they’re of no use without the control unit. Quick and efficient digging is another skill to practise, but do so in a drift somewhere so you can dig deep. MSC would also like to thank Rolf for his dedication to the project, Marcel Würgler from Girsberger Elektronik (who provided the centre at cost), Hotham Alpine Resort for the location, and all the people who made pledges, both the public and commercial partners. And stay tuned for the next instalment … NSW perhaps?

No search session is the same for any party. And would-be rescuers have no idea where the victim(s) are.”

Detail of poster at the ATC at Mt Hotham

CONTRIBUTOR: Simon Murray is the VP of Mountain Safety Collective.

LEARN MORE: mountainsafety collective.org

MAMMUT AVALANCHE SAFETY PRODUCTS

WWW.MAMMUT1862.COM.AU

NONE OF THE ABOVE

[ Victorian Backcountry Festival ]

A Gathering of the Tribe The annual Victorian Backcountry Festival is young, but growing fast. And not only is the event loads of fun, it’s improving backcountry snow safety and participant diversity.

Words James McCormack Photography Lachlan Short

C

2019, that’s where it went. “There’s just a great mix of easily am Walker is a victim of his own success. The organiser accessed terrain there,” says Cam, “from beginner to extreme.” of the Victorian Backcountry Festival (a celebration of The 2019 Hotham event replicated the Falls Creek model ‘all things backcountry’: alpine touring, XC skiing, splitfrom the year before. There was one key difference, though: boarding, snow camping, winter photography and more) is, It was bigger. Not just in numbers attending—350 regiswell, no longer the organiser. The annual event is just a few tered for the event—but the number of workshops and tours years old, but with numbers expected to swell to 400 for the swelled to roughly forty. There was a full day speakers’ pro2021 iteration, the organising committee has risen from one gram with focus on conservation and snow culture. There person to seven. was a film night with Protect Our Winters. There was a ski-in “It’s not my thing anymore,” says Cam. “It’s time for me to outdoor bar; no wonder it was a bigger event! let go, and for the community to own it.”

The event covered everything backcountry. Snowshoeing.

But that was always the point. “I just really like community Cross country skiing. Split boarding. Alpine touring. Telemarkevents. If you go to North America, there’s all sorts of backing. Ski mountaineering. After a Welcome to Country, and then country gatherings. I felt we should have one here; it’s an safety briefings from Hotham Ski Patrol (Head of patrol Bill attempt to have a gathering of the tribe.”

Barker has been unbelievably generous with his time, says So back in 2018, Cam set about organising an event here in Cam) and Mountains Sports Collective (we did a story on MSC Australia. It wasn’t merely about getting a huge crew together last year in Wild #176; the name of the organisation has since just to have a blast (although fun was always part of the goal); changed to Mountain Safety Collecincreasing backcountry safety was a tive), attendees headed off to whatkey objective.

I’m hoping that ever event floated their boat. Some “I had a sense that backcountry went touring. Some did workshops. was becoming more popular. And Some didn’t put on skis the entire I had a sense that a lot of the peo- on stage, they’re like, ‘Oh, maybe weekend and instead just listened to ple adopting backcountry skiing speakers or hung out at the bar. “Your and riding hadn’t come in through involvement,” says Cam, “is entirely cross country skiing; they’d come in up to what you want to do.” through resort skiing or riding. They didn’t necessarily have In 2020 … well, you can guess what happened in 2020. Damn the skills to be in that country safely. So the original idea was you COVID! Actually, the event did still run virtually, with online to have an event with a strong focus on safety and awareness. presentations. But in 2021, presuming COVID stays at bay, the We offered workshops in self rescue, navigation, wilderness physical event is back at Hotham, and it’s planned to be the bigfirst aid, snow safety, avalanche basics, use of avie beacons, all gest iteration yet. For starters, while previous festivals have that sort of thing. It had a really strong focus on, ‘If you get into taken place over a weekend, this year it will run over three days. trouble, how do you get yourself out safely without needing to In fact, as in previous years, there are shoulder events that will dial triple zero.’” extend the festivities. Avalanche Access Australia will offer twoTwo hundred people showed up to the 2018 event. day paid courses in avalanche training both before and after the They didn’t come, though, just to learn about safety. Sweetwafestival. Monday and Tuesday will be one course, Wednesday ter Brewing—which operated out of nearby Mt Beauty—set up and Thursday another, and then there’ll be the three days of the an outdoor bar with a fire. And there was a speakers’ program, event, followed by another two-day course. which, notably, had a strong focus on women in the backcounAnd that’s not all. “The other thing we offer,” says Cam, “is a try. “We were really actively going for diversity,” says Cam. That four-day trip after the festival with a capped number of people drive for inclusion worked; while men outnumbered women at (around 20) for people who feel like they’re ready to get into the the event, it wasn’t by that much. more serious stuff and to ride big lines. Daniel Sherwin runs it.

After the event, Cam asked attendees for feedback. How often In 2019, they went to Mt Feathertop [and camped]; this year will should it be held? Where should it be held? To the latter question, probably be a trip to Mt Bogong.” People will need to organise the response was resounding: Hotham. Roughly 85% of respontheir own gear, but, here’s the kicker, other than that it’s free. dents thought it was the best location, so the following year in

when women see other women I should get into it more’.”

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Getting a diverse array of speakers (especially women) is a core goal of the event

Cam Walker (left)

Hotham laid it on for the 2019 event

One of many workshops

Decisions, decisions...

Skills clinic? Beer?

Ah, let’s just go skiin’

Actually, so is most of the entire event. There’s a nominal registration fee, but beyond that, most workshops and speaking events will be free. There’ll be a demo village with all kinds of ski and outdoor gear for people to test out. Keeping the event largely free is an attempt to reduce cost as a barrier for those wishing to participate. But there are other barriers to break down as well. “White bro country is the heartland of backcountry skiing,” Cam told me, “but we’re actively seeking to have women and non-Anglo people to be represented in the program and leading tours, so that others might feel comfortable being there.”

That push starts with Cam’s passing of the baton to Anne Chiew, who will be this year’s event coordinator. Anne, both female and Chinese-Australian, told me she saw her role as an opportunity to “attract more people like me, really. It’s a longterm plan, but I’m hoping that when women see other women on stage, they’re like, ‘Oh, maybe I should get into it more’.”

The same, she said, goes for non-Anglo people. “But if they [and women] don’t see themselves represented … the barrier to entry is even greater. [Backcountry] stays something that’s not on their radar. But if only they knew how accessible it really is with the right knowledge. And how great the support group is.

This is actually a sport or a passion that’s open to everyone.”

The “Girls Who Split” Tour Where are the will be back in 2021 marshmallows?

Besides Anne, the organising team is Peter Robinson, Peter Campbell, Brendan Sydes, Tim Scott, Daniel Sherwin, and Cam himself, still massively involved. Simon Murray, of MSC, is also giving significant help. They’re all volunteers, and not just the organising committee—everyone. “The festival,” says Anne, “is only able to offer these mainly free activities/talks thanks to volunteers outside of the event committee. These speakers/workshop/tour volunteers are paying their own travel expenses, giving up their weekends, sharing their knowledge/skills, all for the sake of contributing to the backcountry community.”

As for Cam, what’s his standout memory of the events thus far? Well, as much as he loves the start of each day when “there are 200 people crammed into a room together who are just absolutely primed to get out on the snow,” it’s the end of the day that particularly stands out. “My favourite thing has to be when you’re on a beautiful mountain away from a road, while it’s snowing, and there’s an enormous fire, and you’re with 120 of your new best mates. It’s pretty awesome in my books.”

James McCormack is the editor of Wild.

The Fourth Annual Victorian Backcountry Festival will be September 3-5, 2021 at Mt Hotham. Go to: backcountry-festival.com for more info.

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NONE OF THE ABOVE

Q+A

with POW’s Josh Fletcher Protect Our Winters (POW) is a not-for-profit organisation that’s mobilising the winter sports community for positive action on climate change. Since its formation in the United States in 2007, POW now has over 130,000 supporters, and has formed chapters in all corners of the globe. That includes Australia, where a chapter was established in 2018. Wild’s editor James McCormack asks POW Australia’s Lead Advocate Josh Fletcher about the organisation’s goals here in Oz. WILD: If you’re a snowsports enthusiast, winters in Australia in terms of snowpack already seem dodgy enough. What are the threats specifically to our winters here?

JF: The simple fact is that if temperatures continue to rise, then so does our snowline. If you’re a skier in Australia (resort or backcountry, it doesn’t matter), there’s at most a little over 600m vertical to ski; if the freezing level rises by just a few hundred metres, we’ll see dramatically different looking skiing.

WILD: What are the key areas POW believes we, as members of the public, need to focus on?

JF: The organisation advocates for action in four key areas: Clean energy; putting a price on carbon; more efficient transport; and protection of public land.

But in terms of individual action, we’ve also created a Take Action Roadmap. And the first step in it is educating yourself.

There’s a lot of media spinning around regarding whether the impacts of climate change are human or naturally induced or whether they exist at all. Our advice is to read as much credibly sourced information as you can and trust the science.

After that, it’s all about finding your lever. Whether you’re a pro-athlete, business owner, employee or a customer, we all have ways that we can make an impact. Voting with your wallet as well as at the ballot box, for outcomes that will deliver on the action you want to see is a simple place to start.

WILD: POW’s website features a carbon footprint calculator (developed by The North Face). I entered the details for driving from Sydney to Thredbo, and learnt that a return trip adds roughly 188kg of CO2. Are you able to talk a little about the calculator?

JF: It’s really hard to know how to reduce your impact without having even identified it. The carbon footprint calculator is a clear way to see the impact you’re making, and then you can easily look at ways to cut out or reduce parts of it.

Using the example of your trip from Sydney to Thredbo, it came to roughly 188kg of CO2. That’s per vehicle. If you and a mate usually take your own car, then that’s close to 400kg for you both to get to the mountains. Instead, carpooling would get you both to the destination all the same, but the

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CO2 emission amount would be half. Not to mention you’d split fuel costs and spend the return trip bragging about who scored the trip’s best line.

WILD: Carbon offsetting is seen by some as the answer to global warming. Is carbon offsetting sufficient?

JF: Carbon offsetting is a positive outcome option for balancing the emission outputs we make, but it’s not the solution.

The simple solution is we need to cut the amount of CO2 we emit, and we need to transition to methods that will reduce the amount of CO2 over the long term.

WILD: What are some practical tips for reducing our carbon impact? And what are some unusual ones we haven’t necessarily thought of?

JF: There’s a bunch of ways we can reduce our carbon impact.

I am sure we’d all love to drive Teslas and live off the grid, but that’s not possible for everyone. Simple things like carpooling, turning the heater down or off in your accommodation and having shorter hot showers all make a difference, if done by everyone. Another way that’s growing in popularity is human-powered skiing and boarding. And I don’t mean a human pedal-powered chairlift, but backcountry touring. Not only are CO2 emissions reduced by you walking up the hills, but it’s good for your health and a great way to escape the hustle and bustle of the mid-week grind.

WILD: In the US, POW has been pressing for legislative change; is the Australian chapter of POW at that level yet?

JF: The US political landscape has been through some rough seas over the past few years, but the storm seems to have passed. On a political level, POW Australia isn’t yet at the table to have input regarding legislation, but with some key

federal members being winter sports enthusiasts and representatives of electorates in the alpine areas, we hope to be working with them soon and helping to represent the views of the winter sports community.

WILD: Are you only interested in snow sports? What crossover, if any, does POW have with other activities like bushwalking and climbing?

JF: Even though POW was originally formed as a winter-focused advocacy group, it’s become evident that more than just skiers and snowboarders rely on winter snowfall. The repercussions a poor snowfall winter has on other outdoor activities, such as bushwalking and climbing, is far reaching, both on a personal participation level but also on an economic and environmental level. It’s why POW now works to promote its agenda with climbers, fishers, walkers, and alpinists.

Learn more at protectourwinters.org.au

BY APPOINTMENT TO HER MAJESTY QUEEN ELIZABETH II SWAROVSKI OPTIK SUPPLIER OF BINOCULARS

NL PURE 32 ONE WITH NATURE SEE THE UNSEEN

SWAROVSKI AUSTRALIA PTY LTD 1/4D Huntley Street, Alexandria NSW 2015, Australia Tel.: +61 (02) 8345 7228, Fax: +61 (02) 9313 6506, optik.sia@swarovski.com, www.swarovskioptik.com

The

DWR Conundrum DWR has long been integral to performance raingear. But DWR’s reliance on perfluorinated chemicals (PFCs) is troubling.

We need to do better.

Words Xavier Anderson

Leave No Trace.

These three words are gospel in the bush. We carry our rubbish out, cook on gas stoves, stick to formed trails. We do this to reduce our impact on the areas we love.

Of course, some don’t place much faith in the principle of Leave No Trace, and we have all seen the rubbish-strewn aftermath of those who don’t. But even those of us (myself included) who try and pocket every wrapper scrap still leave a trace.

An often-overlooked source of our impact lies in the gear we use. The effects are more diffuse than ditching a bottle at a campsite, but they are much more widespread. Thankfully, outdoor companies are heeding the call to reduce their impacts.

There is a massive push from some leading brands to move to higher recycled content in their clothing, encouraging repairing over replacing, and increasing the transparency of their supply chains.

All this is both important and welcome. However, there remains one big sticking point for outdoor companies wishing to go green: waterproofing.

HOW YOUR JACKET KEEPS YOU DRY

Waterproof jackets have come a long way since the humble beginnings of tarpaulin fabrics. Today, they are technical marvels, with most high-end jackets comprised of either a two- or a three-layer system.

The former is comprised of a membrane and an outer fabric. The latter adds an inner fabric, too.

There are three main types of membrane layers: microporous coatings; continuous hydrophilic coatings; and bicomponent microporous and hydrophilic laminates. The most common forms—bicomponent microporous and hydrophilic laminates—act as a filter, using surface tension to inhibit water penetration while allowing water vapour through. You have probably heard of one example of this membrane: Gore-Tex. Working in outdoor retail, I am constantly asked which of our jackets have Gore-Tex, but for me, the unsung hero of waterproof gear is Durable Water Repellent (DWR).

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WILD Winter 2021

Simply put, DWR is a coating applied to the outside of waterproof gear. By increasing the surface tension or contact angle of a fabric when water comes into contact with it, DWR causes water to ‘bead’ rather than seep in. Beading is the phenomenon of water coalescing on the fabric to create discrete little droplets rather than spreading out evenly over the surface. This is extremely important for maintaining a garment’s breathability; it prevents the pores of the membrane from becoming blocked. And if the pores are blocked, they can no longer allow water vapour through. The sweat you’re giving off can no longer pass through the membrane.

Over time, however, DWR coatings on waterproof/breathable garments can wear away due to oils, dirt or abrasion. You have probably seen when this has happened. Instead of water beading, the face (outer) fabric absorbs water, and it looks uniformly saturated. The fabric ‘wets out’.

But the wetness isn’t just on the outside; inside it becomes moist, too. Most people think that when this occurs, their garment is leaking; in fact, the opposite is true. The garment is still waterproof.

The wetness on the inside is actually water vapour condensing because the membrane can no longer transfer moisture away. In short, that wetness inside is sweat that can’t escape.

With DWR being so integral to the performance of raingear, outdoor companies have used the most effective coatings available to achieve water-shedding garments. But this comes at a cost. The chemicals used to make DWR can be harmful to both the environment and human health.

Now let me be clear: Outdoor companies are leading the charge in sustainable practices. Many have integrated recycled fabrics, have moved towards natural fibres, or have established environmental conservation grants and programs. It is genuinely great to see these businesses acknowledge their environmental impacts while also seeking to reduce them. However, DWR remains a major obstacle. So, why is this the case?

The abundance of PFCs is concerning.

They can bioaccumulate and biomagnify, meaning they can make their way up the food chain, increasing in concentration as they do.”

Beading is critical to maintain a garment’s breathability

Image credits: (top) Daniel Scwarz; (bottom) Dan Gold

NONE OF THE ABOVE

[ Environmentally Responsible Gear ]

only a few uses. But are PFCs the only way of achieving this? Well, no. There are multiple non-fluorinated products out there. And they don’t only exist in the lab, either. Head down to your local outdoor store, and you’ll probably find them. The thing is, or was, that until quite recently, you just wouldn’t find them on jackets; they were mainly limited to PFCfree reproofing sprays. But that’s changing. Some companies are recognising the issue’s seriousness.

Helly Hansen’s Lifa Infinity membrane, for instance, requires no chemical DWR treatment at all (see story in Gear Tech on p128). The North Face’s Futurelight garments use a PFC-free DWR. Osprey, too, for many of its packs, uses a PFC-free DWR (see for example the Aether Plus, reviewed on p129).

Despite this, many other companies say PFC-free alternatives don’t meet their performance requirements. If you’re manufacturing outdoors gear, I can see why you wouldn’t immediately jump at a PFCfree alternative. Research is expensive and lengthy, with no guarantee of results. But we can do better.

Especially considering that researchers from Stockholm University, University of Leeds, University of Boras, and Swerea IVF consider using PFASs in rain jackets to be overengineering. In 2019, they published research saying, “The best non-fluorinated alternatives demonstrated high water repellency equal to fluorinated side-chain polymers with ‘short’ fluorinated carbon chains ≤6 carbons.” In short, PFC-free DWR garments can, “be considered as suitable substitutes for consumer outdoor clothing.”

Part of the issue, however, with the alternatives isn’t their water repellency; it’s their oil repellency.

All DWR products—PFC-free or not—are affected by body oil and dirt; some companies claim that non-fluorinated alternatives are more vulnerable to oils and stains. And, as noted earlier, the clogging of the membrane is what leads to garments wetting-out. This perceived vulnerability of PFC-free alternatives is why some companies assert, rightly or wrongly, that fluorinated DWR is still more durable for extended use in extreme conditions. (Ed’s note: I’ve been using a PFC-free North Face Futurelight jacket for at least 45 days in the field, with no issues at all. It seems plenty durable.)

We buy rain jackets, tents and down jackets not just for the look (although sometimes we do) but because we love the outdoors. We are taught to Leave No Trace. We keep the places we love healthy and pristine. In the same way that we dig cat holes away from water (or even lug out our waste with poo tubes), when buying gear, we must ask ourselves, “How does my choice impact the places I love?”

We need to make sure that C6 is just the intermediary step that companies claim it to be. Research and development are risky and expensive. So we need to remind companies that PFC-free is something we want. One way of doing that is to write to your favourite brand and ask them what they are doing to go PFC-free. Another is to research your alternatives. But perhaps the best way is by voting with your wallets. Search out PFC-free products, and if—as they become more widespread—they cost a little more, spend the money regardless. If companies believe there’s an economic upside to ditching PFCs, they’re more likely to phase them out.

This is where the challenge, and the conundrum, lies—creating a rain jacket that doesn’t harm the environment but performs well too.”

NONE OF THE ABOVE

THE CATCH WITH DWR

Most DWRs contain perfluorinated chemicals or PFCs for short. This is a name given to a family of compounds that have carbon chains with fluorine atoms bound to them. You don’t need to know much about these bonds, except that they’re highly stable and resistant to degradation. This means they remain in the environment for long periods.

The persistence of PFCs in the environment, coupled with their widespread use, has resulted in them becoming ubiquitous globally. They’ve been found in soil, water, plants, animals, and our food. In the US, one PFC, perfluorooctanoic acid (PFOA), was found in the blood of no less than 99% of the population.

The abundance of PFCs is concerning. They can bioaccumulate and biomagnify, meaning they can make their way up the food chain, increasing in concentration as they do. The effects of high concentrations of certain PFCs include neurobehavioral effects, and impacts on the liver and immune system. High concentrations are also correlated with increases in kidney and testicular cancer. According to the World Health Organization, PFOA is also a Group 2B carcinogen (meaning it’s “possibly carcinogenic to humans”). But before you burn your rain jacket in fear of being poisoned, it’s important to note that it’s the manufacturing process of garments that’s the most significant concern for human health, not PFCs being stripped from your jacket.

But let’s stick with the compound PFOA for a second; not only was it found to be poisoning residents in Parkersburg, West Virginia, but, for many years, it was the compound used to make the DWR on rain jackets. PFOA has an eight-carbon backbone, C8, which makes it extremely water repellent. It also means it takes a long time to leave a human: four years or so. As stated, this has serious health effects.

Due to the human health risks and environmental impacts, PFOA is now banned in 180 countries.

Today, outdoor companies have mainly moved from C8 to a shorter-chain chemical known as C6. These compounds break down more quickly than C8 and spend less time in the environment, but while C6 is a significant advance, it’s not the end solution. Firstly, because C6 is a shorter chain, more is needed in the manufacturing process. This means greater quantities of PFCs could be released into the environment than before. Secondly, just because adverse effects haven’t yet been found, that doesn’t mean they won’t be in the future; demonstrating the impacts of C8 compounds took years of epidemiological studies.

And according to the Helsingor Statement, “While some shorter-chain fluorinated alternatives seem to be less bioaccumulative, they are still as environmentally persistent as long-chain substances or have persistent degradation products. Thus, a switch to short-chain and other fluorinated alternatives may not reduce the amounts of per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances (PFASs) in the environment.”

These limitations are well known to outdoor companies, and if you look on the websites of most, they openly address this. However, this is where the challenge, and the conundrum, lies—creating a rain jacket that doesn’t harm the environment but performs well too. After all, no one will buy a rain jacket that doesn’t work or starts to wet out after

Vote with your wallet.

If companies believe there’s an economic upside to ditching PFCs, they’re more likely to phase them out.”

CONTRIBUTOR: Xavier Anderson is studying environmental science at ANU. Or at least should be. Instead, he spends most of his time packrafting and hiking.

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[ WILD FILM FESTIVAL ]

THE

FILM FESTIVAL

To celebrate Wild’s 40th birthday, we’re having a party. Well, actually, a party in the form of a film festival. We’ve put together a great selection of films that celebrate not just Wild Magazine, but Australia’s wild places and its adventurous community, too. And not only will there be a doco on Wild itself, many of the films featuring in the festival have been made by contributors to the magazine. The film festival will show in cinemas around the country, and in September at selected venues, there’ll be a panel dicussion as well. Head to wild.com.au/ film-festival for tickets, dates and details.

Here are just a few of the films we’ll be featuring:

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF JOHN STUART (39 MINUTES)

On January 5 1956, a man named John Stuart died in remote Southwest Tasmania. He was there on a climbing and exploration expedition into the region, and although it was summer, conditions were freezing. Shortly after summiting Federation Peak, catastrophe struck. Having spent the preceeding three days walking through snow, and after suffering a fall and subsequent concussion, John’s condition deteriorated rapidly.

Despite their best efforts, his expedition partners were unable to bring his body temperature back to a reasonable level. John perished on Scoparia Saddle, which was subsequently renamed Stuart Saddle in his memory.

Very few people knew of the tragedy and its details. But John Stuart was also the great uncle of local southeast Queensland rock climber Rob Saunders, and more than 60 years after John’s death, Rob took it upon himself to research the history of his deceased relative. He decided to embark on a journey to find John’s grave (of which there is no recorded location), and to pay his respects on behalf of four generations of his family. And Rob was determined this should not be a piece of Australian climbing and bushwalking history lost with the passing of time.

In the Footsteps of John Stuart

LIVING ON THE LINE (12 MINUTES)

‘Living on the Line’ follows the journey of Anna, Kat, and a group of inspiring women as they take part in one of Australia’s first big ‘all women’ highline gatherings. We witness their struggles as they confront and conquer their fears in high winds, and as they push themselves to their limits. The film is an insight into the unique world of highlining—exploring the close Sydney community; the physical and psychological components and misconceptions of the sport; and how the world of outdoor adventure sport has been transformed for women over the years. It also delves into the deeper and more personal motivations for chasing this adventurous ‘life on the line’.

Living On The Line

IRONSTONE (15 MINUTES)

In 2009, local caver Tony Salmon discovered a previously unexplored cave entrance deep in the wilderness of New Zealand’s South Island. Tony entered the cave alone and explored 750 metres before deciding it was too dangerous to continue solo. Ironstone follows the seven-year journey of a group of cavers attempting the first successful through-trip, as they search for an elusive entrance to a cave deep underground.

Ironstone

WILD MAGAZINE HISTORY (~15 MINUTES)

Over the past four decades, Wild Magazine has inspired adventurers, been involved with various environmental campaigns, and supported pioneers on epic expeditions.

This film tells the tale of Wild itself, from its beginnings to its role today in a vastly different publishing landscape. Editors past and present, along with prominent environmentalists and adventurers and others involved with the magazine, reflect on Wild’s legacy and celebrate its 40th birthday.

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WILD Winter 2021

Wild Magazine History

圀椀氀搀

䘀椀氀洀 䘀攀猀琀椀瘀愀氀 䌀攀氀攀戀爀愀琀椀渀最 圀椀氀搀ᤠ猀 㐀 琀栀 䄀渀渀椀瘀攀爀猀愀爀礀 眀椀琀栀 愀 猀攀氀攀挀琀椀漀渀 漀昀 氀漀挀愀氀 ǻ氀洀猀 椀渀猀瀀椀爀攀搀 戀礀 琀栀攀 洀愀最愀稀椀渀攀 吀漀甀爀椀渀最 愀挀爀漀猀猀 䄀甀猀琀爀愀氀椀愀 愀渀搀 一攀眀 娀攀愀氀愀渀搀 昀爀漀洀 匀攀瀀琀攀洀戀攀爀 ㈀ ㈀㄀ 匀倀䔀䌀䤀䄀䰀 䈀䤀刀吀䠀䐀䄀夀 匀䌀刀䔀䔀一䤀一䜀匀 圀䤀吀䠀 䄀 䰀䤀嘀䔀 儀☀䄀 匀䔀匀匀䤀伀一

吀䤀䌀䬀䔀吀匀 䄀一䐀 伀吀䠀䔀刀 䐀䄀吀䔀匀 眀眀眀⸀眀椀氀搀⸀挀漀洀⸀愀甀⼀ǻ氀洀ⴀ昀攀猀琀椀瘀愀氀 倀刀伀唀䐀䰀夀 匀唀倀倀伀刀吀䔀䐀 䈀夀

Winter 2021 WILD

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[ WILD FILM FESTIVAL ]

NATHAN MCNEIL

SPEAKS ABOUT IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF JOHN STUART Filmmaker (and Wild contributor) Nathan McNeil talks about the genesis of the movie, and the difficulties in filming and moving through Southwest Tasmania.

Rob Saunders mentioned a loose plan to go to the Southwest National Park in Tasmania to find his great uncle’s grave. When we met to chat in greater depth about the plan, he explained the history of John Stuart, and how he died in the 1950’s on a climbing and bushwalking expedition to the very remote Federation Peak. Rob then said there was some uncertainty about what led to John’s death, and that he was buried under a rock in a place now called Stuart Saddle in the Eastern Arthurs, and that there was no recorded location of his grave. I was sitting across from Rob in complete silence, totally gripped by this tale, having known Rob for many years and never once having heard about John Stuart. My jaw had sufficiently dropped by this stage, and I just announced, “Well, I’m obviously coming and filming everything.”

The Southwest has a bit of a reputation. On one hand is the totally unpredictable weather; on the other is the technical, scrambly, crawling on all fours type of “hiking” that is on offer. Having not done a great deal of any form of multi-day hiking, this journey was likely to be a huge physical challenge. I was pretty worried about it to be honest. Day One almost broke me. I sat down in camp after about six hours on foot, completely wrecked with a 34kg backpack and said to the boys, “I dunno if I can take another day of that.”

The moment we reached the Southern Traverse the winds picked up and it started raining lightly. Nothing to spoil our fun but from that moment on for the next few days, it worsened. The closer we got to Stuart Saddle, the more the weather closed in on us. It was a bit like John looking down on us, giving us a little taste of what he experienced, showing us how susceptible we are up there. The weather accumulated on Day 5, the day we were to be looking for—and hopefully finding—John’s grave. We woke up to zero visibility and incredibly cold conditions; one of the aims of the day became not to stop moving for too long..”

There were lots of occasions on the trip where we would all be having a break from walking or a bite to eat or sitting at camp, and someone would utter, “Could you imagine doing this in the 1950’s?” This would have been a very serious undertaking in those times. There were no tracks at all back then, nor markings or a GPS. Their tents didn’t even have floors! Jackets and clothing were barely waterproof, and they weighed a tonne. And there we were at camp, completely dry and warm with state-of-the-art packs and tents, complaining at how tired and hungry we were.”

Surprisingly to me, there was still no ‘track’. Just a faint foot pad that kinda led the way, confirmed by a piece of faded tape in a tree every 50-100m or so. It was literal jungle warfare straight out of the car and I was definitely a POW. But that’s what makes the Southwest so special, it’s the untouched beauty of the place. It’s not been dumbed down for the masses to experience, there’s no pack-less hikes & luxury cabins to stay in. It is pure, untouched wilderness & if you want to experience what that’s like, you’ve gotta put in the work.”

It goes without saying that the pioneers of bushwalking in Australia, particularly in Tasmania, truly did pave the way for what we have today and the places that are on the map. They did some hard yards just to get to experience nature firsthand. I am so thankful that I had the opportunity to do the same and that places of pure wilderness still exist in this world.”

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WILD Winter 2021

Nathan McNeil

In some instances, not knowing what I was getting myself into was a blessing, but at the same time, incredibly daunting. It was nerve racking.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so vulnerable in nature before.”

Starting the Southern Traverse around Fed Peak

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Issue #180 W I N T E R 2021

Hunting First Ski Descents in Tasmania Feral Horses in Kosciuszko NP Photo Essay: 40 Years of Getting Wild Climbing NZ's Steeple Mountain Wilderness Therapy for Teens Profile: Wild in Middle Age Alps 2 Ocean Bikepacking Life in the Freezer Track Notes: NT's Mt Zeil/Urlatherrke

OUR

4 0 TH Y E A R

Wild is no ordinary magazine. Since its establishment in 1981, Wild has been the inspiring voice of the Australian outdoors. It is a magazine of self-reliance and challenge and sometimes doing it tough. While it is not necessarily hard-core, what it certainly is not is soft-core. It is not glamping. It is not about being pampered while experiencing the outdoors. Wild does not speak down to experienced adventurers. And Wild does not look on conservation as a mere marketing tool. For nearly four decades, Wild has actively and fiercely fought for the environment.

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47

NONE OF THE ABOVE

A

Freda Du Faur

by George Edward Mannering

A Snow-starved ‘Stralian Soul An account in verse of the first female ascent of Aoraki/ Mount Cook by Emmeline ‘Freda’ Du Faur in 1910 Words Dan Slater

B

orn in 1882 to wealthy parents, Freda Du Faur grew up Many more summits followed over the next few years, but in Ku-ring-gai, Sydney. There she learned the basics of tragically, events then took her away from New Zealand and rock scrambling, but it was her first family visit to the she never managed to return. She’d fallen in love with fellow mountains of New Zealand that really set her heart alight.

Sydneysider Muriel Cadogan, whom she met while training She persuaded her father to allow her to visit The Hermitage, for Mt Cook, and they lived happily for a while in Europe, a popular resort hut below Aoraki/Mt Cook, where she was from where in 1915 Freda published a book detailing her enthralled by the beauty of her surroundings. time in the Southern Alps—The Conquest of Returning the next year, determined to try her Mt Cook and other Climbs. Muriel’s family dishand at mountaineering, she hired renowned approved of their relationship and had her guide Peter Graham. Her daring attire and committed to an asylum, back then a terrible unwillingness to hire a non-climbing chaperone yet somehow acceptable punishment for homobrought gossip from the society ladies, but she sexuality. Virtually imprisoned, Muriel wasted was unfazed, and her natural ability and unbriaway, mentally and physically, and eventually dled enthusiasm shone through. died, aged 44.

In a time when most women were trapped in Freda never recovered from the loss, living Freda’s grave in Manly domestic roles, Freda was an example of freealone in Dee Why before ending her own life in dom and an inspiration to many. Her talents 1935. She was buried in Manly Cemetery, Sydcombined to propel her to ever more impressive feats of mounney, in an unmarked grave. It was not until 2006 that a plaque taineering, and in 1910 she became the first woman to summit was erected at the site by a group of New Zealanders includAoraki/Mt Cook. With Peter and his brother Alex as guides, they ing Sally Irwin, the author of du Faur’s biography, Between broke the existing speed record.

Heaven and Earth.

48

WILD Winter 2021

“Miss du Faur,” came the rude alarm, “If you would be so kind,

As to rise for breakfast when you’re good ‘n ready.”

As Freda stirred from restless sleep, foreboding gripped her mind, But she bent her will to keeping nerves a-steady.

She crawled from under blankets warm, excitement catching breath, And stared up at frozen slopes so dark and bleak.

Aoraki loomed above their perch, her buttress off’ring death, To those who sought to stand atop her peak.

From canvas strung o’er two ice poles was fashioned mountain bed, From which they would their objective attack.

She drew her hobnailed leather boots from pillowing her head As tang of meths pervaded bivouac.

The moonless sky was crisp and cold with not a cloud in sight, As team devoured fruit and sucked down tea They greased their faces ‘gainst the chill and wound their puttees tight, Candles hoisted high so all could see.

NONE OF THE ABOVE

Freda Du Faur

Six footsteps crunched on hard-packed snow as they began their climb, Freda betwixt beloved Graham brothers.

Peter in front, Alex behind, they calculated time.

Their goal—a pace to outstrip any others.

Her first glimpse of the Southern Alps was a day that changed her life, and fixed her mind at once upon a goal: She’d wed the mountains there and then, disdaining fate of wife To true fulfil her snow-starved ‘Stralian soul.

Looking down La Perouse Glacier

These four years since, of nothing else but summit had she dreamt, And last year’s failure could she well remember.

On that occasion Cloud Piercer had foiled her first attempt.

1909, the first day of December.

That morn she’d left with elder Graham, bent on climbing two, While pressure glass was dropping like a stone.

“Against all mountaineering rules!” Jack Clark’s words at them flew, And truth—they’d soon regret they were alone.

At any rate they both agreed the game was worth the candle, and fretted not what dull society thought.

Then mighty bergschrund blocked their way, too mean for two to handle, So back to Hermitage they duly fought.

Thus bitter disappointment for the lady Emmeline, afeared she was that she would lose the race to skilful European frau with concentration keen who’d quick before her stand in hallowed place.

But twelve months later none had shown and folk were placing bets.

Determined Freda vowed she wouldn’t fail.

Now veteran of Malte Brun, Sefton and Minarets, Mt Sealy and evocative Nun’s Veil.

Her hopes would not be dashed this time by flaws of gentler sex.

At Dupain Institute she trained all year And hired the younger Graham boy, the shy and quiet Alex.

Ne’er ‘gain would dearth of numbers cost her dear.

Criticism came instead from prudish end of scale, Of single lady lacking chaperone.

To sleep with guides in single tent was quite beyond the pale.

Best morals keep, and freeze to death alone.

“If reputation’s so fragile it will not pass the test, I’m happy to be rid of useless thing.

Perhaps appendage I should seek, the female climbers best.

A husband with skills good enough to bring.”

Freda, circa 1910

Winter 2021 WILD

49

NONE OF THE ABOVE

Freda Du Faur Which brings us back to 1910, that chill December night, The boys wore tweeds complete with knotted ties.

In knee-length skirt and knicker-bocks, our girl was quite a sight That ne’er before met mountaineer’s eyes.

By 4AM the candles snuffed and stashed in Haversacks, Manila hemp rope wound around their breasts.

They plugged uphill at quite a clip, the bergschrund at their backs, For tea and biscuits at the West Buttress.

The route they took was recent forged by climber Laurence Earle, assisted by Jack Clark, Alex and Peter.

Could repetition come so soon, by this ‘a mere girl’?

Or would intervening fate attempt to cheat her?

The Earle Route led off solid rock and onto rotten shale, Scarce held intact by treacherous blue ice.

One at a time they inched across, the handholds faint as braille, With rock fall hazard left to roll of dice.

Despite superior climbing skills obtained while just a pup, In youthful forays ‘round Ku-ring-gai Chase, Critics had oft accused du Faur of being ‘carried up’, A slander aimed to keep her in her place.

The aneroid now measured yet one thousand feet to climb.

With skies still clear, young Freda dared to hope.

Their pace was good, they all felt fit, they double-checked the time.

The summit record hung upon a rope.

Freda with Alex and Peter Graham

But many barriers remained to nudge their win to loss.

First up—a frozen film of smooth green glass.

Impossible to find a hold, they only scratched across By leaving swathes of skin stuck to it fast.

Beyond that trap a couloir lay, its neck a clean white chute Pummelled by the keen wind rushing down.

Dry mouthed they pushed their bodies through, ‘til finally the route Arrived at where the summit ridge did frown.

While Peter chopped the final steps, chips flying from his axe, Our hero’s mind was harking back to home And newfound friend Miss Muriel Cadogan, in whose tracks The future lay. Together they would roam Along life’s steep and rutted paths, beset by prejudice. ’Cross continents and decades their love spanned.

To madness, grief and suicide from early years of bliss.

Whatever came, they met it hand in hand.

Such tragedy was yet to come as Freda climbed the slope, Her gallant guides already stepped aside, To let her top out on her own, ahead by length of rope, First female to complete this rocky ride.

She felt so humble, small and ‘lone, her cheeks inclined to wet, ‘til joined by friends to celebrate with glee.

And bagging fastest time to boot, of any climbers yet.

Aoraki surely smiled upon these three.

Photo by Freda from Aoraki’s summit

Elated, Freda shook their hands, congratulating feat, And pulled out trusty 3A Kodak box To photograph the glorious sight, New Zealand at her feet, A world comprised of tumbled, icy blocks.

But as she viewed the massif below, a new route caught her eye, One ne’er yet done by woman or by man.

A Grand Traverse of Mt. Cook’s peaks. Surely the time was nigh?

In Emmeline’s mind there slowly formed a plan…

Three years later, in 1913, Freda and Peter, along with another guide David Thomson, made the first successful traverse of Mt Cook’s three peaks. It remains a classic to this day.

50

WILD Winter 2021

ALL NEW FILMS

SCREENING AS AN OFFICIAL PART OF WOMEN'S HEALTH WEEK IN CINEMAS 6610 SEPTEMBER 2021

TOUR PARTNERS

MEDIA PARTNER

STREAMING PARTNER

NONE OF THE ABOVE

Therapy Gone Wild

Long have we taken our worries into the wilderness, but today, a new kind of healing is taking place in Australia’s wild lands as therapists exit their offices, strap on backpacks, and let nature and adventure nurture at-risk teenagers.

(Warning: This piece discusses suicide, self-harm, and mental illness.)

Words Catherine Lawson

Whatever the magic that nature works on us, it’s something that outdoors-loving people have trusted for centuries

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WILD Winter 2021

[ Wilderness Therapy ]

Australia has, unfortunately, been slow to embrace wilderness therapy

T

he wilderness has long provided solace to meet with fellow adventurers and counsellors, sleep in tents (sometimes for the first time), and cook a camp meal together. humans, welcoming us in all our troubled incarnations It helps organisers ensure every youngster has exactly the right onto its surging rivers, lonely backcountry trails, and gear to cope with anything and everything the weather and the windswept mountain summits. Into the wild we carry our wilderness might throw at them in the field. troubles, frustrations, and our angst, to shake it all off on the And then after the big expedition takes place, there’s a flanks of rugged ranges and raging seas, trading sweat and reunion camp to consolidate and celebrate the positive steps adrenaline for the sense of calm that nature—effortlessly forward, and another six months of individual, one-on-one and always—instils in our busy minds. counselling support—all of it tackled outside.

Whatever the magic that nature works on us, it’s someAustralia might have been slow to embrace the worldwide thing that outdoors-loving people have trusted for centuries. phenomena that bush adventure (or wilderness) therapy Nature soothes us, and in troubled times, sizing ourselves up has become. But for therapists like Andy Hamilton, who has against all that nature can throw back at us can be precisely been working in the wild for more than 20 years, this kind the salve we need. Sometimes, sweating and struggling, facof counselling work is a no-brainer. “It’s like turbo-charging ing challenges and solving problems (and more than likely the therapeutic experience because trust deepens quickly on getting scared out of our wits) empowers us just enough to these adventures.” head back home and face whatever it is that’s waiting for us.

According to Hamilton, progress that might otherwise take Whether we understand it or not, ‘rewilding’ works. six to twelve months in a therapist’s office is achieved in just On the Northern NSW coast, a team of clinical psychologists ten days in the wilderness. Why that happens is difficult to pin is taking this ‘nature as therapy’ idea literally, swapping the clidown, but for Hamilton, it’s the shared experiences between nician’s couch for hiking trails, canoes, and sailboats, and doing everyone on these trips—pitching tents, cooktheir best work outdoors. Andy Hamilton is the ing meals, picking each other up when they fall therapeutic lead and founder of Human Nature or fail—and ultimately, somewhere along the Adventure Therapy, a not-for-profit hub of therhiking trail or at the helm of a sailboat, digging apists and trauma-informed outdoor educators deep to open up, share stories and heal. whose wilderness expeditions and intensive “It’s not rocket science,” Hamilton says, bush-based therapy programs appeal enorpraising the capacity of the wild itself to mously to young people when conventional deepen human connections and develop the counselling doesn’t. kind of trust needed to do meaningful therFor these young people—males and females apeutic work. aged 14-24 struggling with childhood trauma, Group experiences can realign lives Hamilton talks freely about the clients he mental health issues, and all kinds of addictions calls ‘young people’. It seems an awkward and behavioural challenges—a spot on Human phrase for an age group lost en route between childhood and Nature’s Recre8 program throws them the last-chance lifeline adulthood, and whose struggles are all-too-often the stuff of they so desperately need. It’s an intervention when no other nightmares. When Hamilton talks about these youngsters slipprogram works, and it’s turning out to be a game changer. ping through the cracks, he knows what he’s talking about.

From the outside, Human Nature’s rugged, 10-day advenHis program is often the last stop before self-harm, incarcerture expeditions look like one hell of a good time: sailing, ation, or suicide. Many of these young people are what psycholpaddling and lots of open-sky island hiking. It’s for this reaogists refer to as ‘the missing middle’—failed by the system and son, perhaps, that young people, who’d otherwise refuse to left floundering on their own—and more than a few, Hamilton sit with a stranger in a counsellor’s office, choose to sign up. heartbreakingly admits, end their lives while still waiting to But there’s real magic at work, and plenty of work to be done. get a spot on his adventures. For those who make it through, Before the multi-day adventure begins, participants tackle an though, the transformations can be startling. overnight trial run aimed at setting them up for success. They Winter 2021 WILD

53

[ Wilderness Therapy ]

Whether we understand it or not, ‘rewilding’ works

accountable, get them to own it and provide a safe space for ON THE TRAIL them to go through whatever they are going through and Sally McAdam is a mentor at Human Nature, a NOLS (National provide the skills for them to work through things.”

Outdoor Leadership School) graduate, and a passionate advoAfter five days hiking, the girls climb a lofty sand hill on cate of harnessing wilderness experiences to get struggling Mulgumpin to find a flotilla of sailing boats waiting for them souls back on track. She’s an immensely positive life force— in southern Moreton Bay—six metre-long lug-rigged yawls wild and dreadlocked and invariably smiling—and one hell of and Amity 20 gaff-rigged sloops—and they get to spend the a gutsy sailor. next five days ‘finding their true north’.

I’ve witnessed Sal’s easy-going affinity with the sea while “They’re learning navigation,” Sal says. “They’re learning sailing in tandem into a Gulf-of-Carpentaria maelstrom, with communication. They’re learning how to steer a boat and tie Sal’s boat Clearwater pitching and rolling somewhere beyond knots, which is awesome because it gives young people sometowering waves, and me, strapped into my own sailboat with thing to do with their hands while they’re talking about some the sea exploding all around. She’s steadfast and unshakable, really big things.” but for the kids she takes into the Moreover, the sailboats provide wild—walking and talking and an exciting opportunity for kids listening more—she’s accessible, who don’t get a lot of big breaks. kind, and just a little bit cool.

“The outdoors has always been from experience, and experience comes “No one,” says Sal, “is going to come up to these young people on the my place of refuge, where I’ve felt street and say ‘Hey, do you want to the most connected and the most go sailing?’” looked after in my time of need,” And that’s when the magic happens. “Nature is accessible to Sal begins, explaining why she has faith that Human Nature’s everyone. I often say that nature will teach you what you need wilderness therapy Recre8 program really works. “It’s not a to learn, not what you want to learn. Put everyone out in the boot camp. It’s an expedition that young people have to buy into. bush and suddenly they’re all in the same boat.”

They have to want to meet the challenges that nature puts onto them, they’ve got to do the work.”

Her job as a mentor is to ensure the kids thrive. “We make sure they’ve got the right shoes, warm enough clothes, the right FINDING TRUE NORTH rain jacket,” says Sal. “We spend time beforehand learning what Getting everyone onboard is Jono Goss, an outdoor educator their triggers are, what they are most anxious about,” because, and social justice mentor who’s spent most of the last decade she says, “It’s all 100% new. Most have never had to carry their running The Sea School (aka Blue Peter). He’s been a school own food, their own sleeping gear, dig a hole, or communicate teacher and the principal of an independent school for expelled their needs to a group openly.” kids with nowhere else to go; he’s sailed on a tall ship and raced For the young women who sign up, the 10-day hiking and the Darwin-to-Ambon, so it’s no surprise he’s a big fan of risk sailing expeditions on Mulgumpin (Moreton Island) are full of taking, which the sea and sailing provide in bucketloads. activity. “Every morning, we get up and do stretches and have a “Most people would think it’s unsafe to take absolute morning check in. The therapy happens as you’re walking along, beginners sailing, and I agree,” Goss says. “I was brought up either one-on-one with a therapist, or in the evening when we to be wild and free, able to do a lot of things that would not be sit down around the campfire. There’s group meditation, and a permissible in today’s society, but today we are desperately nightly topic to discuss—anything from what it means to be a limiting young people in their thinking and abilities, and it’s feminist, to relationships, dealing with body types and imaging, a form of crowd control that’s completely unnecessary.” negating social media and so much more.”

He’s witnessed time and again how resilient and brave young Sal continues: “We say to the young people ‘No one knows people can be when not restricted in their capability to learn; you here, so here’s an opportunity for you to be your best on the sailing trips he runs in conjunction with Human Nature self. What attributes does your best self have and how can we Adventure Therapy, he strives to create scenarios where kids bring them out? Let’s write them down,’ and we make them can take risks and build their confidence and personal power.

Good judgement comes

from bad judgement.”

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WILD Winter 2021

To Blue Peter’s Jono Goss, the sea is a beautiful, accessible wilderness Simon McGuire at work in Deloraine, Tasmania

Human Nature mentor Sally McAdam

To Jono Goss, only horses and the sea teach kids to work with a force greater than themselves

Failure is a word we shy away from, to the point where nobody wants to take risks with kids

While it looks like ordinary, outdoorsy fun, these camps are therapy gone wild

I ask him what the sea has to teach these young people.

“The sea is a beautiful, accessible wilderness experience.

Less and less are we able to get away from the human world and into a place where we’re supported by nature rather than separate from it.” Sailing, he says, keeps us very much in the present moment, focused on the wind and the waves and constantly adapting and revising our plans.

“The beauty of the ocean is that it gives immediate feedback. You’ve got absolutely no control over what the wind’s going to do next. We’re at the mercy of the wind but we can choose our attitude, set our sails and still make progress no matter what happens.”

For young people desperately searching for ways to get their lives back on track, the ocean is also a very patient coach. “The sea is very forgiving. It’s generally not critical if you make a mistake,” Goss explains. “The worst thing that can happen is you capsize, and even then, you’ve got about 200 options up your sleeve.”

Underpinning his ‘own-your-mistakes’ mentality is a belief that mishaps make for powerful lessons. “Failure is a word that we shy away from,” says Goss, “because it’s drummed into us how bad it is, to the point where nobody takes risks because they don’t want things to go wrong. But we can’t develop our skills and our capacity without failing.”

“Resilience is another word that’s out of favour at the moment, because it implies that kids need to toughen up. And that somehow these bad things will be good for them”. There’s an element of truth to that, he admits, but he retells a saying that resonates with me still: “Good judgement comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgement.”

“As adults we draw on experience, even if it’s unconsciously, because when we encounter tough times, we know the tide is going to turn because we’ve been there before. For young people, experiencing discomfort and fear—in situations where they are encouraged and supported—can be really powerful, positive learning experiences.”

In essence, I suggest, nothing sticks in your memory like a trip gone wrong. Goss laughs and agrees. “These young people are capable of so much more than they know, and by embracing the risks that people take, celebrating the mistakes, we watch people become themselves.”

“I say, ‘It’s OK if you get it wrong; just make a call and commit to it, and be prepared to accept that it’s wrong and change it, at the right time.’” At the helm, he says, feeling out of your depth is a good place to be. “The tendency is to pull that back and not let anyone get scared, but we lose something in taking that approach.” W

CONTRIBUTOR: Captivated by wild places and passionate about their preservation, Catherine Lawson is a sailor, trekker, paddler and cyclist who, with her photographer partner David Bristow, runs wildtravelstory.com. Their latest travel collaboration—100 things To See On Australia’s Coral Coast—is due out in August.

LEARN MORE: Human Nature Adventure Therapy is an Australian, not-for-profit organisation that relies on private funding to change lives. But the wait list for kids to get in is long, and some miss out; your donations make all the difference. Visit humannature.org.au to find out more. To learn to sail and support The Sea School, head to bluepeteraustralia.com.

Winter 2021 WILD

55

[ 40th Anniversary Supplement ]

HAPPY 40TH

BIRTHDAY,

56

WILD Winter 2021

THE BIG FOUR-O

[ From the Publisher ]

A Wild-inspired life Toby Ryston-Pratt, Publisher of Wild and CEO of Adventure Entertainment, reflects on the magazine’s past, present and future.

I

t is hard to believe that Wild Magazine is 40! Almost the same age as me.

As the publisher of Wild, I prefer to stay in the background and leave our amazing team led by Editor James McCormack do the talking. However, on an occasion like this it felt remiss not to say a few words.

I have been reading Wild now for almost 20 years, having first picked up a copy when I was at university, full of heady dreams of getting out into the Australian bush and beyond. Since then, it has been my go-to for inspiration and information about adventure and topical wilderness and conservation issues.

Throughout its long history, Wild has been through many hands. As you’ll read about in this edition of the magazine, it started with the legendary Chris Baxter. Chris founded the magazine with the purpose to provide information, education and inspiration flavoured with Wild’s ethos of being self-sufficient, adventurous, untamed, and a defender of wild places.

Today that purpose lives on, thanks to the hard work and dedication of a long list of publishers, editors and owners that continued, including the likes of Steve Hamilton (who acquired the magazine from Chris), and, more recently, my good friend Roland Handel (from whom we acquired the magazine).

Wild also would not exist but for the thousands upon thousands of words written by a host of contributors over the years, who have contributed, and continue to contribute, as much for the love of the magazine as anything else. These people are far too numerous to list, but I do want to acknowledge in particular Australian bushwalking legend John Chapman and our four current regular columnists Tim Macartney-Snape, Megan Holbeck, Dan Slater and Bob Brown.

In late 2019 we had our own opportunity to pick up the

Wild ‘baton’ when we acquired the magazine—along with Vertical Life and Trail Run Magazine—from Roland. My main motivation in taking on the challenge of Wild was to ensure the legacy of the magazine that has inspired me and so many others, can continue into the future.

At the time the business I was running, Adventure Entertainment, was predominantly focused on adventure films and we saw a unique opportunity to pair the films with the magazine and in doing so help to get Wild to a new audience.

Little did we know at the time that a global pandemic was about to arrive and dash the plans we had at the time to increase Wild’s reach.

However, with amazing support from our loyal readers and advertisers, I am pleased to say that Wild is still here and going strong. In the last year, despite the challenges of the pandemic and a declining magazine industry, we have been able to grow our subscriber base and retain the majority of our advertisers who were also hit hard by COVID-19. We have also introduced a host of improvements including increasing the size of magazine, committing to a long-term arrangement with an Australian printer, adding dedicated customer service support, and securing newsagent distribution in New Zealand (which will start with Issue #181).

Finally, we have also reinstated three important words that appear boldly and proudly on the cover of every edition: ADVENTURE – CONSERVATION – WILDERNESS. These words speak to the purpose of Wild, a purpose to which we remain committed to preserving and growing.

Thank you to everyone who has read Wild over the years.

Your ongoing support has enabled the magazine to thrive for so many years. As we look to the future, I encourage you all to pass a copy of Wild to the next generation and help us ensure that magazine is here to celebrate another 40 years.

Winter 2021 WILD

57

THE BIG FOUR-O

Best Wishes From some Wild friends over the decades

Happy Birthday Wild!

Congratulations on reaching 40. Chris would be proud indeed to see how Wild continues to celebrate wild places and seek their preservation. On looking again at the ideals Chris set out in the first issue of his dream—a dream he held from an adventurous childhood—it is pleasing to see that 40 years down the track they are still being upheld. Technologically things have changed, but at the roots the philosophy has not. I quote the message from Chris in his farewell editorial (Wild Winter 2005): “From the outset we were adamant that Wild would be ‘different’ —it would not be just entertaining but also truly informative, even educational, and it would also do everything possible to ensure the preservation of wild places.” It is great to see the torch Chris handed on that winter still burning brightly.

Sue Baxter Wife of Founding Editor Chris Baxter

So it’s been 40 years? In musing on that time, I worked out I’ve been making contributions to Wild for 35 of those years, working with every editor. It’s been a great journey, but I doubt I’ll be doing so for another 35 years. Nevertheless, I hope Wild continues to be around for that time, supporting recreation in and conservation of our precious wild places.

Grant Dixon

Contributor to Wild from the 80s until today

Happy 40th birthday Wild Magazine!

Wild’s ability to stay loved and relevant for such a long time is a testament to both the adventurous spirit of Wild readers and to the magazine’s ability to capture that spirit within its pages. Wild’s role as a strong voice in Australian conservation is also a marker of the times—now more than ever, those who love being active in the Australian outdoors landscape are harnessing that love to be active in Australian conservation. Congratulations, Wild, many happy memories! Here’s to forty more.

Bron Willis

Environment writer, and regular Wild contributor in the Noughties

Wow, 40 years! I have been a subscriber of Wild since Issue #1 and have looked forward to receiving every issue in my letterbox. I remember when it was first published—the outdoors club I was a member of received a press release about this new magazine and I thought it sounded like a great idea, as I don’t think there was anything else like it back then. I’ve continued to read Wild all these years for inspiration and for bringing back fond memories of places I have been to. Congratulations on 40 years of Wild; I hope there will be many more to come.

Janette Asche

Wild subscriber since Issue #1

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WILD Winter 2021

In 1984, at age 16, I stumbled on my very first issue of Wild, the Autumn Issue, Number 12, with the cover of a couple sitting on Mt Buggery in the Victorian Alps. I will never forget that moment. I was obsessed with everything Wild from then on. Soon after, I was sharing a meal with Chris Baxter and our friendship began. By 1988, I was the Advertising Manager at Wild, and under Chris’s expert tutelage, I became the owner in 2002 of Wild Publications, up ‘til 2009. Over the journey, I have met amazing people, pioneers of the outdoors, industry leaders and lifelong friends. I am so grateful that Wild chose me, and to see that the heritage of Wild is still so strong is a testament to the vision that Chris had. Best wishes on reaching 40 years.

Stephen Hamilton

Longtime employee and Ex-Publisher of Wild

I am sure the founding editor, Chris Baxter, would be proud of the current magazine.

Since its inception, it has been the leading outdoor magazine and has evolved into a very professional magazine both in terms of content and print quality.

Happy 40th birthday.

John Chapman Guidebook author and publisher, and Wild Issue #1 contributor

Glenn Tempest

Publisher and Wild Special Adviser and contributor

My old man has been a Wild subscriber since the very first issue (and still is), and many times during my childhood I would rifle through his collection of battered back issues. So it was a lovely surprise when many years later I was made the editor of Wild (it was a less-pleasant surprise to Wild’s 87-year-old sub-editor, Mary, whose confidence in my editing ability led her to lend me a book on grammar). It’s great to see Wild still flourishing, still publishing the best words and pictures of the bush, and continuing to do its best to protect these irreplaceable places we all love so much. Happy 40th!

Ross Taylor

Wild Editor 2008-2011

How about that, a magazine filled with inspirational, titillating, scary, insightful, gearish, often bearded-type information is much the same age as me. Happy birthday you wonderful bastard, you’re just hitting your straps!

While other outdoor Carry on! magazines have come Beau Miles

Filmmaker, YouTuber, writer & contributor to Wild back in the day

Congratulations Wild for producing a high-quality publication encouraging, over a 40 year period, responsible risk taking and adventuring in the outdoors. I “dips me lid” to you. Happy 40th birthday.

Dick Smith Founder of Australian Geographic

and gone, Wild has stood the test of time.

For 40 years, Wild has catered for bushwalkers, climbers, outdoor enthusiasts and armchair travellers alike. With its articles on outdoor adventures, environmental issues, equipment, food, guidebooks, maps (and more) Wild has played an important role in providing adventurers with advice and advocacy, education and enthusiasm, information and inspiration. For a historian, Wild is a treasure trove, a recorder of change and continuity in how we experience our environment. Happy 40th birthday Wild; long may you continue to prosper.

Melissa Harper

Author of The Ways of the Bushwalker: On Foot in Australia

When I first met Wild’s founding editor Chris Baxter, I was applying for the editor’s job myself.

I’d been climbing at Mount Buffalo and missed the application deadline, and Chris quite rightly hired a more-reliable female. But generously, he beckoned me off the rock, insisted we meet and inspired me so enormously that I’ve been writing for Wild ever since. For 40 years now, Wild has been nurtured by the ‘Who’s who’ of editors and columnists; some of the most ethical, skilled, environmental guardians in the business, and I’m so very proud to be a part of this resounding, much-needed voice. Happy birthday Wild!

THE BIG FOUR-O

Wild was born at the very start of the 1980s, at a time when young Australians had managed to shake off the horrors of the Vietnam War, embraced the punk rock music revolution, and were about to embark upon the greatest environmental crusade of our history— the Franklin Dam protest. Under the editorial direction of founder Chris Baxter, Wild quickly established a reputation for high-quality journalism and as an influential voice for the conservation of our wild places. I was fortunate to have been a special adviser and regular contributor to Wild in those early years, an experience which placed me on a lifelong path of adventure publishing and photography. I’m so pleased that after 40 years, Wild continues to attract new generations of readers without compromising the values upon which it was conceived. Well done Wild, and happy birthday.

Catherine Lawson

Journalist, author, producer and regular Wild contributor It was spring 1981 at Goolang Creek in northern NSW. Lo and I were training to raft the Franklin, and our three children, cared for by grandparents, were watching and sometimes participating, grandparents and all. I had acquired a copy of this magazine called ‘Wild’ which we were passing about but it was my son, Matt, who was most fascinated by the pictures. Fast forward 40 years. Our children have achieved significant worldwide expeditions in their own right, but still vie for my copies of Wild when they arrive.

Matt stores them. We’ve had to buy them gift subscriptions! Congratulations Wild!

Ben Lans

Wild subscriber since Issue #1

In 2017, I had the chance to acquire Wild. I’d read it religiously as a kid during the 1990s; I wanted to keep it going. Wild’s success is borne from the readers out there who contribute their stories, photos, and adventures that enable the rest of us to experience everything that is so great about the outdoors. Happy birthday Wild, and thank you readers, young and old, for keeping Wild alive.

Roland Handel

Ex-Publisher of Wild (and still a contributor)

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Words Andrew Findlay Photography Margus Riga

Credit: Sue Ferrari

The Wild office in 1981: Chris Baxter and Michael Collie Credit: Dan Slater

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[ Profile ]

Wild at 40 Our regular contributor of profiles for the magazine, Megan Holbeck, changes her gaze with a profile of a different sort: one on Wild itself.

Words Megan Holbeck

L

ooking through any old magazine is like opening a time capsule from another era, revealing the dreams, the heroes, the aspirations and the achievements. The first impression of Wild Issue #1 is that it’s so tactile, so real. You can see the grain in the images, the effort in the design. The blood and passion and commitment are tangible in the stories and the magazine, and you can imagine the community it was set up to serve, thirsting for the first delivery of their very own publication.

This Wild-shaped window into ‘80s Australian outdoor culture also points to bigger transformations. It’s obvious how much the internet has changed the role of magazines: There is so much space devoted to information you’d now find online—functional, newsy snippets about what people are up to, gear updates, specifics of how to do things and where to go. But back in 1981, unless you knew the right people, these details could only be found in photocopied track notes or specialised guidebooks.

The ads, of course, are flashbacks. There’s a full page taken up with what looks like a blurry, skinny Christmas elf on Trak skis; a trekking company invites you to send $1 to an address in Mosman to receive their brochure by return mail; a text-only box describes the joys of a packbed—an oh-so-comfortable sounding pack that unfolds into a stretcher.

The Wilderness Society’s full-page ad for its campaign to save the Franklin is there too, a reminder of the issue dominating the magazine’s early environmental coverage. (see pp68-71 for a collection of Issue #1 ads, plus p4 for The Wilderness Society’s iconic ‘Franklin Flooded’ ad.)

What is less obvious from thumbing through the pages is the thing that’s remained the same, namely the magazine’s purpose—to provide information, education, and inspiration, all of it flavoured with Wild’s ethos of being self-sufficient, adventurous, untamed, and a defender of wild places. We don’t notice it anymore because over the last forty years we’ve absorbed, accepted, and come to expect it, and it’s helped to shape not only

the magazine but also the community and culture of the Australian outdoors. The person who established and guarded this ethos is the person who loomed largest both in the Wild office and in its history: founder and Editor Chris Baxter.

THE FOUNDING FATHER

Many Australians of a certain age (40+) and interest range (climbers, walkers, and outdoor types) have heard of Chris.

But back in the tight-knit world of 1980s climbers, everyone would have known him. Before he started Wild, he was editor of Argus, the Victorian Climbing Club’s magazine, and he’d written a half-dozen or so rockclimbing guides, and established hundreds of routes, mostly at Arapiles and the Grampians. He’d also climbed extensively overseas, and was the Australian correspondent for UK climbing mag Mountain, a role that earned him the nickname ‘Radio Australia’ from fierce rival (and later great friend) Rick White. According to Mike Law, Baxter is, and has been, Australia’s most prolific climber, developing scores of areas and making the first ascents of thousands of routes.

But his achievements tell you what he did, not who he was. For that, you must go back further. The eldest of four boys, Chris was born in 1946, his love of adventure planted by his father’s stories of long walks across the Victorian Alps with packhorses. By the age of eleven, he was off on solo overnight walks on his grandparents’ farm in East Gippsland. He then spent a year at Timbertop, Geelong Grammar School’s campus in the Victorian High Country, solidifying his love of exploration, adventure, and personal risk. From there, his life was about exploring: mountaineering, climbing, walking and trekking everywhere from Tasmania to Canada, Ethiopia to Italy, up until his early death in 2010.

When asked to describe Chris, people approach it in different ways. Some start with his size and demeanour. He was six-foot-four in the old measure (the only one that fits), and intimidating in the unconscious manner of someone Winter 2021 WILD

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Clockwise from top left: Editorial from Wild Issue #3, 1982 Chris at work on the typewriter Readers were rarely left in doubt as to where Chris stood Wild HQ was in the front bedroom of Chris’s house. The room was shared by a piano, a bed, and a wardrobe. There were no funds for extravagances like filing cabinets; records were ‘filed’ in piles on the floor Chris put his boarding house up for sale in the Geelong Advertiser

accustomed to being right. Others begin with his approach: Michael Collie, graphic designer for the first seven years of Wild, describes him as disciplined and mischievous, while long-time climbing partner Dave Gairns mentions his intensity and humour. Other adjectives associated with Chris are honest, straightforward, gruff, opinionated, and scrupulous.

If this all sounds quite dry and terrifying, that’s because it’s only one side of the man.

When I asked his widow Sue Baxter Jarratt for a quick summary of Chris, she took about a minute or so to stop laughing.

“With most people that’s hard; with Chris it’s impossible.”

Because on the flip side of all that rectitude was “an amazing, adventurous spirit that just couldn’t be quietened, not ever.

Even when he was as sick as a parrot, he still wanted to be out there. He was still writing lists of what he wanted to explore, and do, and where he hadn’t been.”

Chris also loved a good story as much as anyone I’ve ever met. All the clichés about knee slapping and roaring with laughter fit: His whole body got involved in his mirth. I worked with Chris at Wild from 2003 until he retired in 2004, and you could always sense when he had a tale to tell, a joke in the making: It fizzed off him in bubbles of anticipation. As Mike Law wrote in his obituary in Rock magazine: “Many people first saw his planning and care in business matters, and would find this hard to reconcile on the weekend when he was either champing at the bit to get into a new cliff, sounding terrified but continuing up a climb, or cheerfully demolishing reputations around the campfire in the evening.”

In keeping with Law’s observation, some of my favourite stories about Chris are the least expected. Ones like the intriguing, amusing idea he had before the athletics carnival at boarding school: If the running track was shortened just a

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little, all sorts of records would be broken—and wouldn’t that be fun ... So Chris enlisted friends, swore them to secrecy, and the night before the big event they washed off the finish line and drew it back on just a little bit shorter, all by torchlight.

The following day there was much jubilation as record after record was smashed. Eventually someone grew suspicious and, after a lot of beard stroking, the measuring tape came out. The game was up, but Chris and his mates were never caught. As Sue describes it, that prank captures every aspect

Things quickly got serious:

In the lead up to the first issue of Wild, Collie and Baxter spent seven months

working seven days a week.” of Chris: the sense of fun, adventure, and risk combined with very careful planning. He followed this up with a more audacious idea, and set about selling his boarding house via an ad in the Geelong Advertiser.

Other stories show the freedom, opportunities and space of the Australian outdoor scene in the early 1980s. Chris was one of the early climbers at Mt Arapiles, putting up climbs willy-nilly, almost wherever he wanted. One Sunday he was heading home, sodden and exhausted, when he saw a ‘For Sale’ sign out the front of a house on Natimuk’s main street; he pulled over for a quick glance through the front window. The next day he called the real estate agent and made an offer, becoming the proud owner of a Nati climbing pad, paid for on his credit card without ever being inside.

Chris met Michael Collie and Brian Walters on a ski touring trip on the Bogong High Plains in September 1980

THE EARLY YEARS

So that’s a snapshot of Chris: scrupulous, adventurous, larger than life, a lover of pranks and great stories. He was also a taker of measured, sensible risks, and one of these was starting Wild. He’d been working on the idea for a year or so, devoting a day a week to research and planning when, in a stroke of good fortune, he met Michael Collie and Brian Walters while ski touring on the Bogong High Plains. Collie was studying graphic design and Walters was a lawyer, neatly fitting the two roles that Chris had identified as essential for starting the magazine.

Things quickly got serious: In the lead up to the first issue of Wild, Collie and Baxter spent seven months working seven days a week, finding subscribers and advertisers, planning the magazine, working out logistics. During much of this time, Michael lived at Chris’s house, sleeping under his desk: It’s safe to say they put in some effort! According to Collie, they knew the only way it would fail was if they didn’t work hard enough, so they made sure that they did.

Certain founding principles were put in place from the beginning: Contributors were paid equally and transparently; advertorial, freebies, and irrelevant ads weren’t accepted.

These rules continued throughout Chris’s time, earning him both friends and enemies. The magazine was set up to serve its community, and it certainly did that: The arrival of each new issue was an event. In the early days, Collie hand-delivered each issue to the outdoor shops and advertisers in Sydney and Melbourne, visiting each in person to get feedback and put out any fires.

The magazine was also an early sponsor of many expeditions, including the first Australian ascent of Mt Everest in 1984 by Tim Macartney-Snape and Greg Mortimer. And the

Gear has become lighter.

More breathable. More comfortable. More disposable. In the ‘80s, people were still

wearing woollen Army surplus trousers, oiled japaras, and

scratchy woollen thermals.”

Wild office was often the first port of call for those returning from trips, eager to show off their slides and tell tales of their adventures, with articles to follow. Wild set the standards, the dialogue: As the first of its kind, it made up the rules.

CHANGES

Wild has changed since, but so have both the world and the Australian outdoor community. Flicking through the early issues, one of the things that’s noticeable is how many ads there are for small businesses—gear, maps, packbeds, early guiding, whatever—most of them Australian. By my count, there are 53 separate advertisers in the 56 pages of the first issue, with most one-third of a page or smaller, as well as almost two pages of classifieds. Wild #177, for comparison, was 114 pages long with 21 different advertisers (all taking at least half a page) and no classifieds. It’s a good indication of not merely the influence of the internet, but also the way outdoor gear and services have gone from being small, local, independent businesses to (often) being multinational corporations.

Gear has become lighter. More breathable. More comfortable. More disposable. In the ‘80s, people were still wearing woollen Army surplus trousers, oiled japaras (although Winter 2021 WILD

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Sponsorship tag on contents page of Wild Issue #15, Summer 1985

Gore-Tex had just come onto the scene), and scratchy woollen thermals. According to Andrew King, owner of One Planet, “You had to be a bit harder because the rain jackets leaked, the tents didn’t have floors in them and your boots were crap—an outdoor experience involved getting near hypothermic.”

As well as being less comfortable, gear was also much more expensive, comparatively at least. Just ask Steve Hamilton: In 1984, he was 16 years old when he saw Wild in a newsagent and became enamoured with the idea of bushwalking. That year, without ever having gone on an overnight walk, he quit school to work fulltime to buy the gear he needed. Four years later, he started working at Wild, remaining there for a total of fifteen years and eventually buying the magazine from Chris.

And for an illustration of how much cheaper gear has become, look at the back cover of this very issue of Wild, where there’s an ad for Lowe Alpine’s Cerro Torre Pack. In the pack survey in 1987’s Issue #25, the 68L version went for $325 (approx. $860 in today’s currency). That was 83% of the average weekly wage back then. It now sells for under $500, just over 30% of 2020’s average weekly wage.

Cheaper, better gear has made walking both more comfortable and accessible: You no longer need to be a masochist

With there now being fewer wild

places, but with more people in them, there is greater

pressure than ever on the environment.”

or to quit school to do it. Increased car ownership also means people can get to where they want when they want. Bob Brown identifies this as one of the big advances of the last four decades. “Everybody is super mobile, so access to wild and scenic country is much easier and much cheaper. Back then hitchhikers were everywhere; now they’re nowhere— everybody is self-sufficient.”

This tied into the movement away from clubs and into people doing it for themselves. Wild helped with this, providing not only the inspiration to get started, but the information needed to do so—where to go, and what gear to bring. Melissa Harper, author of The Ways of the Bushwalker, says “[Wild] has always looked great and had interesting stories, but it’s been

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Wild Issue #15, Summer 1985 ran Tim Macartney-Snape’s account of Australia’s first successful Everest expedition

an educative tool for people. It’s been so important in giving people knowledge about places to go and equipment—how you can do it.” The thirst for this is shown in the magazine’s growth: After only a year and four issues, it had doubled its circulation and increased its printed pages by more than half.

As gear got better and access easier, more people began bushwalking. Bushwalking guidebook author John Chapman, a Wild contributor from the first issue, compares it to the changes in surfing culture from the 1960s to the 1990s. “Surfing in the ‘60s was just a hardcore group who really wanted to do it and went out there, and everybody knew everybody.

Nowadays you don’t know everybody at all.”

But with this increase comes a change in the type of bushwalking, with day walks, shorter overnight walks, and guided, luxury walks taking over from the longer, self-sufficient exploratory forays of the 1980s. In the Eighties, the commercial walking industry was in its infancy; the Overland Track was likely the only guided, commercial multiday walk in Australia. Now one company alone, Great Walks of Australia, boasts twelve multiday guided walks, all with—and anyone who has read Wild recently knows this is contentious—a big dollop of ‘eco-luxury’ comfort.

According to Collie, this reflects a change in more than bushwalking trends. “My observation is that Australian culture and Australian values have changed quite dramatically over the last fifty years. We’ve become affluent and comfortable. In fact, personal comfort and pain avoidance—they’re our chief cultural values at the moment.” He points to a traverse he did of the Eastern and Western Arthurs in 2011: over fifteen days, they saw two other parties. “Where,” he says, “are the walkers?”

“In fairness, however,” says Wild’s editor James McCormack, “some studies actually point to there being more bushwalkers than ever; perhaps what’s changed is the types of trips they’re undertaking. And there are still a lot of hardcore people willing to suffer; many have just found other outlets. Back then, virtually no-one took on a 50k trail run. Now, you’ll get literally thousands turning up to single events of 100k (or more, often far more) or to 24hr MTB races, or to multiday races.

And there are more backcountry skiers in Oz than ever.”

Nonetheless—and James readily admits this is the case— it’s hard not to come away with a sense that, broadly speaking, people have become a little softer, a little lazier, a little less daring. And there’s less adventure on offer, too, with more

Tim and Ochirbat, elder of the Mongolian nomad family with whom he stayed while buying his first three horses

Fighting to save the Franklin (above) has been just one of Wild’s campaigns over the decades.

East Gippsland’s forests (centre), the Daintree (lower right) and Tasmania’s Weld Valley (upper right) are just three of the many other areas Wild has fought for

restrictions in place. Since the 1980s, wilderness areas have been destroyed, fragmented, and their remoteness has vanished, removed by access roads and development. Coupled with this are technological advances that mean you can conduct work chats on wilderness walks, blast hip hop from the hilltops, and blog from your campsite. It’s hard to feel you’re self-sufficient or have escaped from it all when you’re still in touch with the world. Bob Brown bemoans this loss of remoteness and true wildness, saying, “The experience of being self-reliant and out of communications for days, if not weeks, at a time is almost impossible to recreate forty years on.”

It’s not just the wilderness we’ve lost, but also the freedom to explore it. The ability to go where you want—to walk, camp, climb, ski and paddle where you choose—has all but disappeared. There are many reasons for the increase in restrictions. Some involve ecological protection—prohibiting campfires in many national parks has allowed the surrounding bush to recover and likely prevented bushfires, and restricting numbers on popular walks has reduced crowding and prevented the degradation of sensitive areas. And our society has become more aware of cultural and environmental values and the importance of their protection. But some restrictions are the result of Australia having grown more litigious and risk-averse. And with there now being fewer wild places, but with more people in them, there is greater pressure than ever on the environment.

One thing, however, hasn’t changed over these last four decades: Wild has, since the first issue, remained a staunch defender of Australia’s natural environment. Looking back over the years, there have been so many campaigns of different size, duration, and outcome. But while it’s depressing to note what has been destroyed, and the time taken to achieve protection while wilderness values have been slowly whittled

away, it’s also humbling to see the hard work, passion and commitment of conservationists, with Wild consistently taking the side of nature. Brown, for one, is deeply grateful for the magazine’s lasting contribution to the environmental

In this world of everything being seen as exploitable, it’s great there’s an entity like Wild that’s there to defend the very thing it’s about.” movement. “In this world of everything being seen as exploitable, it’s great that there’s an entity like Wild that’s there to defend the very thing it’s about, not just to exploit it and sell it and wrap it up and make money out of it.”

Recent issues of Wild display its values proudly, the cover emblazoned with three words: adventure, conservation, and wilderness. This ethos has remained the same for the last four decades, informing the direction, content, look, feel and readership of the magazine. Of course, some things have changed, but if you look at how the world has altered since 1981, that‘s to be expected.

But what Chris Baxter would love is—that at the heart of this magazine—there is the same celebration of wildness, of exploration, of people doing brave, adventurous, and courageous things, of getting out there and appreciating Australia’s amazing natural beauty. And that is something of which we can all be very, very proud. W CONTRIBUTOR: Megan Holbeck is a writer based in Sydney. She’s convinced that an ‘adventure-mindset’ is a real thing, and cultivates it at every opportunity. Sometimes it even works.

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THE BIG FOUR-O

PRODUCTION IN THE ‘80s OF Wild #33, Winter 1989. Dig the 80s threads!

Glenn van der Knijff joined the Wild production team in the late 80s. His ‘official’ role, at least according to Wild’s masthead at the time, was ‘Maps & Mail Orders’, but really, he was a Jack-of-alltrades involved with many aspects of the mag. Here, he reflects on some of the processes involved in creating Wild #33, Winter 1989.

Words Glenn van der Knijff

Though these days Wild is produced using modern, digital production and design techniques, it was while recently reminiscing about Wild and its longevity that I was brought back to some of the old publishing techniques used in the early days of desktop-publishing technology. These production techniques may seem like they’re from the age of the dinosaurs, but to Wild’s staff, we were just so excited to be a part of these new and developing technologies. Here’s a sense of what production was like back then, looking at Issue #33.

DESIGN & LAYOUT V

By the late 1980s, after I’d been working here for a year or so, Wild took a step into the digital age, at least where design was concerned. powered by a After purchasing a computer, founder and then Managing Editor 386 processor Chris Baxter moved the magazine into the ‘modern’ design age with the purchase of Ventura Publisher, a desktop-design program. Up until this point, all text for Wild was created by typesetters, who outputted the text onto special paper that could be glued to gridded artcard for layout purposes, and design work was done by hand on paper.

With Ventura, the team at Wild could create basic layouts (ie text in columns with frames to indicate image locations) on the computer. These files would then be professionally outputted by a typesetter and glued to artcard using special wax.

V

A sheet of overlay paper would then be applied to each page of the magazine’s layout, on which the 250% Graphic Designer would add notations about such things as to what colour to print headings, the enlargement size of any images, and other general by placing it Each colour slide or transparency would then be overlaid in a zip lock on top of the appropriate frame where the image would bag and appear, and then an instruction placed on the zip lock then taping bag as to what percent the image needs to be enlarged it in position to in order to fit the frame. All slides/transparenwith sticky cies would be sent to a professional scanner to create tape colour separations; ie to create black, cyan, magenta and yellow film layers for each image. These separations then went to Wild’s printer, along with the Graphic Designer’s artwork, for printing purposes.

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EDITING Most submissions to Wild in the ‘80s were paper hard copies.

V

Articles selected for publication were firstly typed into a computer using Wordstar, a basic word-processing program that we used with an MS-DOS operating system. As I had basic typewriting skills, learnt at high school, I was usually the person to do this.

To ensure that I didn’t miss anything, I’d then read the article on screen to another staff member, who at the same time would follow along using the contributor’s original submission. This way, we made sure no text was omitted during the typing process.

THE BIG FOUR-O

My first Track Notes published in Wild. I’ve gone on to write 46 articles for the mag over the following years.

As Wordstar preceded a Windows environment, all tagging of text (ie, bold or italic) was done using simple code. Once articles were correctly saved as Wordstar files, the text would be edited by Wild’s Editor and then proofed by a freelance sub-Editor before being ready for the design/layout phase.

MAPPING When I started at Wild, maps were still being produced in a very manual way, and it was some years before Wild was able to produce maps digitally. So, in the late 1980s and early 1990s, creating maps was a fiddly and slow task.

Interestingly, the red dots used to show routes were not drawn using an ink pen; instead we used characters from sheets of Letraset. (Letraset was a company that produced plastic sheets of letters, numbers and symbols in various fonts and sizes. These characters could then be transferred to artwork paper by rubbing over them with a tool such as a pen. Used extensively at the time, Letraset was popular with students, designers and anyone needing to create quality text in a range of fonts, styles and sizes.)

All text for the maps was clearly written on a sheet of paper and sent to a typesetter to create the text in whatever size and font we indicated. The maps were then created using a series of overlays, one for each colour used. Using the Bogong High Plains map on p61 of Wild #33 as an example, the black text and linework (drawn using ink pens) was on one overlay, the blue text and river linework on another, and the red dots (showing the routes of described journeys) was on yet another overlay.

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THE BIG FOUR-O 68

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THE BIG FOUR-O

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[ Wild Issue #1 Ads ]

WILD Winter 2021

Editor’s Note: It was a bold step

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For nature since 1976.

THE BIG FOUR-O

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THE BIG FOUR-O

Reflections on 40 Years Quentin Chester has probably had a hand in more issues of Wild than anyone else.

Words Quentin Chester

I

n recent years, quite a few strangers have greeted me like a long-lost uncle. I get big handshakes. Even the occasional hug and kiss. These chance meetings often bring forth reminiscing. Unprompted tales of ridges scrambled and gorges followed, not to mention epic descents, busted gear and campsite shenanigans. The common thread is a devotion to being in the wilds, plus a surprising allegiance to a magazine that’s been giving those experiences a voice for twoscore years.

During the last quarter of this stretch, I’ve been in exile on Kangaroo Island. Far from a life of seclusion, this time has become more public than any decade that went before. Among the upshots of guiding at a lighthouse has been a string of accidental encounters, including with a number of Wild followers.

As an erstwhile contributor, the acknowledgment is gratifying. But these exchanges go beyond any regard for my back catalogue. Instead, I seem to serve as an intermediary, an unwitting keyholder to a memory vault of striving and wonder, complete with bouts of chaotic weather, solitude, desperation and bliss.

Forty years on, it’s almost impossible to convey the impact of Wild’s arrival on the scene. In the days before this century’s deluge of online blather and pics, magazines had a singular allure, especially for pastimes neglected by the daily press. And Wild was no ordinary mag. Big-name publishing groups had made fitful attempts to do outdoorsy periodicals. But Wild landed fully formed with a knowing voice and clean look.

By the time Chris Baxter hatched the magazine’s concept, he had more than 20 years of avid climbing and wilderness exploits to draw from. This boots-in-the-mud experience, plus a network of contacts across the country and an instinct for adventure’s gritty leading edge, gave Wild its authentic aura. Each issue felt like it had been curated by canny insiders. Chris was many things: Vocal, combative and fiercely independent, he loved a racy yarn and news from the front. A phone call from the man himself—his General Melchett-style voice booming down the line—always bristled with ideas, gossip and trenchant opinions.

As fate would have it, Wild’s timing was spot on. By the 1980s bushwalking had emerged from its frumpy wool shirt and black japara days. Conservation tussles to protect

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Southwest Tassie stirred a new generation of devotees to tap into the experience these places offered. A similar awakening unfolded across the continent. From the Daintree and Kakadu, to the Wollemi, Fraser Island, the Bungle Bungles, Cape York and the Gammon Ranges, an appreciation of wilderness, both as a cause and a call to action, took hold. At the same time, the notion of adventure was growing evermore voguish. Tour companies began flogging Himalayan treks, hot air ballooning, ski trips to Hokkaido, whitewater rafting and tramping in New Zealand. Even mountaineering and rock climbing found their way into the glossy brochures. Pursuits once seen as offbeat and outlandish were suddenly couched in aspirational blurb. Within a few years, a whole world of packaged risk taking was available to cashed-up baby boomers.

Through all this Wild flourished as a guiding beacon. Track notes and gear reviews catered to a readership hungry for the lowdown, while longer trip-based stories bore witness to the reality of being bush day after day. And not just the ritual uphill grinds with summit views as a payoff, but the immersive power of place, the whole daft, messy splendour of sweating it out in the depths of beyond. While gear ads might present perfectly coiffed models bestriding sun-kissed peaks, the magazine proudly ran pics of daggy types waistdeep in swamps or knackered summiteers lying slumped in their rucksacks. +++++

Wild never held back from shaping the world it sought to portray. At heart, Chris was an enthusiast. He took his editorial lead from the likes of Ken Wilson, the fearless, driven editor of the legendary UK-based magazine Mountain. Steeped in the no-nonsense ethos of the British climbing scene, Chris was rigorous about defending wild places and the integrity of what the magazine called ‘the rucksack sports’. If developers, old-growth loggers, gormless bureaucrats, off-road hoons and charlatans of any persuasion crossed the line they copped a serve.

The authority of the magazine as an independent voice was underpinned by its attention to detail and consistency.

That clarity of purpose also shone through in Michael Collie’s

THE BIG FOUR-O Words from Quentin in Issues #124 (left), #1 (centre) and #82 (right).

His column ‘The Wild Life’ (and later simply ‘Wild Life’) ran from Issue #54 until #160

delusional. In even the most remote stretches of the stone crisp visual design. Together, he and Chris held the line as true believers, carefully constructing each new issue as if it country, we were bowled over by testimony of a world that was the next chapter in a moral quest. Other magazines came dwarfed anything we could conjure. Weeks of being bush and went but Wild kept its crusading focus. In doing so, it and stumbling into ancient rock art and occupation sites, as won a loyal audience and became the virtual basecamp for well as the quiet strength of Traditional Owners we met, was expeditions and individuals aiming to push the boundaries. humbling and endlessly provocative.

Mountains were Chris’s great love. He was passionate I still wrestle with the gift and weight of this backstory. about the Victorian Alps and Tassie’s craggy peaks. It’s fitting Going bush remains a footloose escape, an excuse for all that his stint in the editor’s chair coincided with a decade of sorts of jollity. Yet the terrain is never timeless. One way or phenomenal achievements by Australian another the past is always coming at you. climbers in the Himalaya. These included And over the years, having a crack at geolOther magazines landmark ascents of Everest in 1984 and, ogy and trying to understand the shape six years later, K2. Though not directly came and went but of the land and its profoundly rocky oriinvolved in the expeditions, Chris had gins felt like an analogue for the numinous a deep knowledge of what was at stake power of Indigenous life. and the climbers themselves. Through This changing horizon found its way into Wild, he provided support and encourthe occasional column. Others, too, broadagement for many expeditions, and was In doing so it won a loyal ened the scope of Wild with stories that justly proud of his godfather-like role. embraced desert and outback as worthy audience."

This in many ways points to Wild’s realms to explore. greatest accomplishment—not so much In a sense, these little essays of mine the ink-and-paper magazine itself, but the sense of belonging reflected a contrarian’s point of view. There was rarely and direction it fostered. For a smattering of outdoor diehards anything single-minded about my travels in the wilds. Year scattered across the continent, the publication represented a by year, the column reflected this wayward approach, the de-facto communal space. It provided inspiration and a focal distractions and diffidence, the odd connections and flawed point for debate and discussion. Everyone had an opinion humanity—things that came to feel as much a part of being about the magazine. And there was usually some smarty with bush as a forest’s spotty light or river gravel crunching a whinge about a boring story, lousy photo or biased gear under my boots. review—yet they almost always came back for more.

I’m forever thankful for that opportunity. Whether it’s For my part, Wild was like having an extra cardinal point with words or on foot, the chance to explore is still the nub as I navigated a haphazard outdoor career. Though never of what the outdoors is about. And just now, almost any kind part of the magazine’s innermost circle, I treasured the assoof leeway feels extra precious. So, it’s timely to honour the ciation as a peripheral, albeit long-time, contributor. Being a old-school things that help us show the way, that give our columnist, I was given licence by Chris and the many fine edifreedom shape and direction. Things like lighthouses and tors who followed him to stray in style and subject from the magazines and even unexpected strangers coming through well-trodden path. the door with memories to share.

Through the early 1990s, my own mindset was being challenged by trips to the deep north. With each new journey CONTRIBUTOR: Photographer and writer Quentin Chester first to the Kimberley, the notion of ‘the wilds’ as a blank canvas wrote for Wild in Issue #1, and appeared regularly as a contributo be colonised with quests and bravado seemed evermore tor and columnist for more than three decades.

Wild kept its crusading focus.

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EVERY COVER

EVER

#1

In 40 years, we’ve run a lot of covers.

Here’s the collection in its entirety.

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#175 What’s your favourite cover?

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Here’s Wild’s editor’s fave: While Martin Stoll’s photo for Issue #175 is probably the most meaningful Wild cover ever, I can’t go past 1987’s Issue #23 cover as my personal fave. It’s silly, muddy, and screams Tasmania. Issue #22’s was up there, too.

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One

Grand

Winter Shaun Mittwollen and Ben Armstrong spent the entire winter season of 2020 chasing epic snow in the wilds of Tasmania, and notched up a string of rare ski descents.

Words & Photography Shaun Mittwollen

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t seems the walls of this chasm are perspiring. Snow and ice are releasing off the rock in a never-ending cascade, flowing freely down a seemingly endlessly vertical shaft that disappears from view over what is most likely a cliff. Far below, the couloir fans out into an impenetrable jungle thick with vines and incessant scrub; each tree is a speck beneath our ski tips. The snow is frozen solid. Vertical cliffs entomb us, festooned with ice—crystalline stalactites, standing still in this world for only a fleeting moment. If this isn’t a proper mountain, I don’t know what is.

Ben and I are deep in Tasmania’s southwest wilderness, standing atop what, in the words of Sir Edmund Hillary, is “Australia’s only real mountain”—Federation Peak.

We are about to ski a line that is arguably the pinnacle of ski mountaineering in Australia, a line that has been years of research and theorising in the making.

Above, the sky is as blue as the waters of a Pacific atoll, and—after a week of snowfalls—the last clouds gather only around the high hills. Ahead of me I can see all the way along the Western Arthurs. Conditions are absurdly pristine. As good as they get.

But the last time I placed a turn on snow was just on half a year ago, when I made a timely visit to Japan right before the world was transformed by COVID-19. And now I have to ride the gnarliest line of my life without a mistake. A single error will send me on an elevator ride to the bottom some half kilometre below, with only a few jagged rocks to cushion the descent. On each foot, bright blue skis stare up at me with cheery optimism. Brand new ultralight touring skis. Never ridden. Short, narrow, twitchy.

Not the most forgiving tools, considering I’m locked in the grips of a steep icy couloir, two days of heinous walking from the nearest help. Nerves and hesitation wash up from below.

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Ben Armstrong lifts the speed lower down in Cradle Mountain's 'Secret Couloir' Winter 2021 WILD

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First Ski Descents, TA SMANIA

Cradle Mtn Mt Ossa

Walls of Jerusalem Du Cane Range

Federation Peak

F

or the best part of half a decade, Ben Armstrong and I have made a habit of exploring the backcountry ski potential of Tasmania. Many consider us mad, especially those who have spent any time in the Tassie bush. Others look at us with surprise; unbeknown to them, Tassie has significant maritime mountains and occasional deep snow. Our efforts have usually been rewarded with fickle snows failing to deliver, arduous approaches, and terrible weather. But when—in fleeting moments—conditions have aligned, it's all been worth it. Snow camping under the Aurora Australis. Windless evening summits. Steep, North American-esque chutes along open swathes of snowbound ranges starkly juxtaposed with the nearest city.

The mountains down here have limitless adventure; almost all lines have never been attempted, let alone skied.

It was this untapped potential for adventure skiing right in our backyard that had both Ben and I eager to explore. The endless allure of far-flung destinations could be easily sated within 100km of our homes, never more important than in these current times. In 2020, assisted by a fortuitous Adventure Grant from The North Face, we fully committed, clearing our schedules of any plans. To really score we needed to be as flexible as possible. Weather windows measured in hours and minutes; prior commitments were the enemy of success. Federation Peak was the main line we had our eyes on, but we had an ever-expanding list of others that only grew with more time in the mountains. Along with Fedders, we’d ski Cradle Mountain, Mt Ossa, the Walls of Jerusalem, and the Du Canes all in one grand winter plan. Hunting first descents around our home, it would be the winter to end all winters. +++++

The final approach on the Southern Traverse felt decidedly un-Australian

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LINES OF SWELL BRUSH AGAINST the side of the boat as we motor across the abyssal Lake St Clair. The water is stained with tannin, dark as the deep ocean. Aboard the normally packed craft is just us two and the captain, along with our skis, ice axes, crampons, and five days’ worth of food. The wind gusts heavily from the west, and, as we round a bend in the shoreline, the boat jostles under the full force of the building swell. “This is about as big as the waves get here,” says the captain excitedly, right as the boat—seemingly airborne for a moment before landing heavily—launches off the crest of a set. Our gear clangs against the hull. Around us, the snow-capped peaks of Mt Olympus and Mt Ida tower above the lake, while brooding snow clouds cloak Mt Gould to the north. Behind that, our target of the Du Canes lies hidden, completely enveloped in cloud.

The Du Cane Range is a central massif chock full of the steepest couloirs around. This is dolerite country. Hexagonal columns of fractured igneous rock naturally form chute after chute, as cracks are widened by constant freeze-thaw cycles. Typically no more than a few metres wide and over 45 degrees, the lines here are narrow and steep. The Du Canes are a ski touring staple—not due to ease of access, but rather, high elevation.

After disembarking at Narcissus Jetty, it’s a nine kilometre walk contouring scrubby glacial moraines to Pine Valley Hut. The morning snowfalls have turned to rain as we meander through the ancient rainforest, and the hut is a welcome sight that can’t come a moment too soon. Our gear is sodden, dripping steadily on the weathered timber boards of the hut, and roaring rain lashes the sides of the building. At least there is a fire.

Above us is the Labyrinth. The name is apt; the high plateau is a maze of tarns, alpine yellow gums and glacially carved rock, cut by a rough path that scales a high plain en route to the Du Canes. In good conditions it’s one of the most scenic places in Tasmania. In fog, rain, and high winds, however, beauty is found in its ferocity.

Apprehended by wind-driven mist, our crossing of the Labyrinth uncovers only lingering drifts and occasional glimpses of the potential. To our left, Walled Mountain’s breach is a long, narrow tumble of dolerite boulders. Filled in, it’d certainly be one of Tassie’s best lines; today, however, a huge cliff bisects the route. Midwinter, yet low tide.

Our ascent finds only worse weather. High on the Du Canes, we set up camp on a semi-sheltered ledge, with a huge drop on one side but with protection from bitterly cold winds. And then we are tent-bound for nearly 24 hours. Amid gusty squalls, freezing rain deposits thick layers of ice on everything outside.

Every few hours, we venture out to bash the ice off our tent and our gear; at times, it's several centimetres thick. Eventually, late in the second afternoon, we have our first glimpse of the sun.

Southbound. The weather has broken. We’ve warmed up earlier by taking a lap of a short chute near Big Gun Pass, where an open snowfield hangs above a steep rollover. Finally—the speed of an open slope, as opposed to slow and methodical couloir hunting in subpar snow. Now, though, we are heading to what Ben has described as the steepest line of his life: the

Freezing rain left ice on everything

Huge cliffs flanked our Du Cane camp

Scoping lines near Big Gun Pass

Snow-capped peaks surround the Lake St Clair ferry

Tight terrain in the Sisyphus

It’s steeper than it looks: Du Cane cliffs Exposed shelf camp on the Du Canes Huge cliffs surround Mt Geryon, Australia’s answer to Fitz Roy

Shaun Mittwollen drops into the first roll in Federation Peak couloir, with the razorthin Blade Ridge towers to the right

Sisyphus Couloir. He explored the area two winters back, and found an entry in excess of 55 degrees above exposure. Twentytwenty proves different; low snow has mellowed the entry.

Beyond that, though, the slope rolls quickly into the unknown.

We ski towards the precipice. Over the edge, and I’m instantly questioning my decision to ski this technical, no-fall descent. The tips and tails of my skis are engaged in a concave runnel, leaving the middle half suspended above the stomach-lifting drop below me. I sidestep down the slope, too gripped to even place a turn.

“Is this really skiing?” I yell down to Ben. Each step down, I make sure the inside edge is hard into the snow before I dare release the other. Each movement sends snow sliding down the chute, accelerating before disappearing from view—exactly what I’ll do if I fall. At this moment, all I want is to be surfing instead of skiing, out on a nice, warm, peeling pointbreak. But metre by metre we persevere. By the time we reach the bottom, I’ve changed my mind. The relief,

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The line itself is gut-churningly steep. From a small notch west of the great main spire, it descends with reckless abandon, wedged between huge cliffs and razor ridges." the sense of achievement, is phenomenal as adrenaline washes through my veins. But I’m already thinking: Where to next?

WHEN, IN AN OLD AERIAL PHOTO, we first catch a glimpse of the Federation Couloir, it seems impossible. The jagged, quartzite peak spires right out of steep, Gondwanan rainforest hillsides. Buttongrass plains fill the valleys to the horizon.

Driftwood-intruded rivers have been left undisturbed for millennia. There is no habitation in sight; here in the Roaring

First ski descents, TA SMANIA

Credit: Ben Armstrong

Forties mountains, habitation is unrealistic. Above 1,000m, winter wind speeds are routinely measured in three figures as a constant procession of storms slam in, the first point of contact with land after raging across thousands of kilometres of the tumultuous Southern Ocean.

The line itself is gut-churningly steep. From a small notch west of the great main spire, it descends with reckless abandon, wedged between huge cliffs and razor ridges until it eventually disappears under the canopy of bottomless jungle.

To challenge matters further, this is low-elevation terrain, topping out just under 1,200m above sea level. Only the most severe winter fronts dump enough snow to fill in the line.

And then there is the problem of access.

Access is the main barrier stopping people from skiing in Tasmania. This isn’t a place of free rides to the summit. Heli drops are illegal. Lifts are almost nonexistent. Mountains must be accessed on foot; many peaks are significant multi-day undertakings at the best of times, let alone during winter storms.

Federation Peak has about the worst access imaginable. For two days, adventurers—either intrepid or foolish enough (or both) to take on this challenge—must constantly battle the forest and mud in a morale-fatiguing jungle gym just to reach the bottom. It’s a place that defies imagination. Just how slow is it possible to walk while still moving forwards? Every ten metres, fallen trees—coated with vines and scrub—impede progress to a few kilometres an hour. If that. The forests here have you begging for the gentle ease of the knee-deep mud pools of the buttongrass plains.

Our skis, so they don’t snag on the tangles of forest, need to be attached to our packs—85L behemoths—not in the usual vertical fashion, but instead horizontally. This we achieve via systems of paracord and carabiners. But at least we’ve packed light; despite all our climbing and skiing gear, our packs weigh just 25kg, and that’s despite the twelve days’ worth of supplies—enough to last us should massive snowfalls block our escape. And there is a genuine chance of that. The system we’re targeting is the most impressive of recent years. A frigid southwesterly airstream is bringing snow directly from Antarctica; before we left, forecasts predicted snow to fall to sea level across much of the state. Above 1000m, it called for over a metre.

In proper winter conditions, let alone in the weather that’s been forecast, Federation Peak is seldom visited—perhaps only a handful of people have ever made it to the summit. I quizzed legendary Tasmanian photographer Grant Dixon about his previous two attempts, once scoring deep snow but horrible weather. He spoke of expeditions in the '70s where people had lost toes to frostbite in the bitter alpine cold while never seeming to gain a break in the clouds.

Day Seven. We’ve been tent-bound for four days now, halfway up the mountain at Bechervaise Plateau, pinned down by the storm. Day by day, the snow has steadily deepened, pushing vegetation downwards under its weight. But today, the storm has finally abated. Sunrise light strikes the summit tower. Below us, a sea of cloud blankets the buttongrass plains, and snow-capped peaks rise above the fog in all directions. We load our packs, gearing up to tackle the difficult Southern Traverse to the couloir.

Normally a bushwalking route, in snow the Southern Traverse becomes legitimate winter mountaineering with hugely exposed drops, rock, and ice. We make our way through Geeves Gully, a slanted slot canyon no more than two metres wide. At first, the going is simple down-climbing with crampons and ice axes. But then the gully pitches violently downwards. We set an anchor in the cliff-face to abseil the airy descent. The 30m single-strand rope barely touches the notch below, flexing heavily as we hang almost vertically above Lake Geeves 600m below.

Around us, snow clings to the sheer faces. Other potential ski lines pop up valley-wide; most seem to be no-fall zones.

Above us looms Chockstone Gully: a slim path of snow upwards, characterised by—halfway up the gully—a huge, wedged rock that had fallen into place eons ago. When we top out after two pitches of steep snow-climbing, the mighty summit tower of Fed Peak soars above us. Here on the shaded south side, snow and ice festoon the face, as if it’s giving its best impersonation of Cerro Torre. A simple traverse of a hanging snowfield, and here we are—staring down into the couloir. It’s full of snow.

“Wow.” That’s all Ben says. After so much doubt, so much questioning, we’re about to ski a descent we didn’t think was even possible. Then the magnitude of the line itself dawns on us.

It feels as big as staring off Feathertop’s huge south face, but squashed between massive rock towers. Steep. Icy. Exposed.

So far removed. We’re probably some of the first people to Winter 2021 WILD

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Federation Peak Climbing through deep snow towards the Southern Traverse

Ben welcoming the mud

One of the more 'pleasant' stretches of Moss Ridge. Note the ski attachment method Looking back up the Geeves Gully abseil

Base camp, Bechervaise Plateau

All around us is pure wilderness.

The air is still and calm. Chunks of snow and ice tumble from the cliffs, echoing off the walls.

This is Australia’s wildest line.” ever see this view. All around us is pure wilderness. The air is still and calm. Chunks of snow and ice tumble from the cliffs, echoing off the walls. The atmosphere has a crisp humidity to it in the shade, but as the sun peels around the corner, a warm glow reaches us. Dead ahead, the Devils Thumb stands out from Goon Moor. This is Australia’s wildest line.

Ben drops first. He tests the exposed conditions with tentative turns down to a protected bench, and his edges scrape obnoxiously—ice. The skiing isn’t great. Tied to his ski pole is his ice axe, which he clutches in one hand. As the line rolls towards a small cliff, it grows narrower. We set a few nuts as an anchor, then abseil, with skis affixed, through the roll, and peer into the lower line. And then … disappointment.

The slope is nothing but death cookies, balls of knee-shattering ice.

With each passing minute, the sun creeps further around the corner of Blade Ridge. The warmth dislodges rime ice which then showers down constantly, and fist-sized chunks pelt into the couloir, migrating gradually southwards towards our position. We draw the line. It’s not worth pushing it any further; the risk of being walloped by falling ice is too high. And it’s two very solid days walk from help—we can’t afford injuries.

In the end, Tasmania’s mountains are no different from anywhere else in the world. They demand respect. Still, this is bittersweet. Actually, more sweet than bitter. While we’ve

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only partially skied our goal, we’re elated. We’ve achieved what we thought was impossible; we’ve tested ourselves and embarked on an adventure into the unknown. But as Ben puts it, "We’ve scratched an itch." What if that itch was to return?

THE CRISP GLIDE OF SKINS on firm snow. Ahead of us the boardwalk of the Overland Track meanders through prehistoric pandani heath. Wombats graze in the open grassland.

The sun sets an idyllic scene, breaking through snow clouds that shroud the Cradle Plateau, illuminating a faint rainbow over the track. Despite there being snow on the ground, our presence is met with surprise by other hikers. ‘You skiing up there?” is the question of the day. Indeed we are!

Cradle Mountain's west face is rugged and exposed. Snow doesn’t readily accumulate here, blasted away by incessant westerly winds. On the east face, however, it’s a different story.

Here—even when the west face is knuckle-bare—deep snow can be found. And along with it, Tasmania's best (in my opinion) consistent ski line: a line we've dubbed the Secret Couloir.

Difficult to locate, this twisted chasm begins its journey from an unassuming notch on the razor-edged Skyline Ridge.

Down through a crack in the dolerite it plummets for three or four hundred vertical meters of steep but low-consequence skiing, some of the funnest—yeah, funnest—to be had.

Making our precarious way to the couloir, we ascend on mixed scrub and huge boulders across teetering snow bridges.

Up and up we climb, eventually topping out and peering down into the slot. At first, it’s not obvious how long it is—a shelf blocks the view. A quick scramble above the wall, however, reveals the true extent. Barely though; in the fog, the end— far, far below—is only just visible.

Low snow on the West Wall Battling unconsolidated snow on scrub, Cradle Mtn

The eternal campsite of Dixon’s Kingdom. The pencil pine to the right is well over 1,000 years old

Ascending Cradle’s hidden couloir

Kitchen Hut has stood near Cradle Mountain since the '30s

The line is steep but not too steep, and is wide enough to do more than just jump turns. The snow, however, is atrocious: dense, wet, unforgiving. We deliberate. Do we wait for better conditions tomorrow? Or ski it now? But the answer is obvious.

Ben and I drop in. The snow is like concrete. It grabs our ultralight touring planks like they’re pool noodles; we’re promptly face down and with our jackets full of saturated snow. We pick ourselves up and—to find a way into the couloir proper—sideslip our way to the cliff edge.

The cliff, we discover, isn’t huge—only three or four meters high. On its left, a shallow, stepped runnel looks climbable. We lower ourselves down, the sharp claws of our crampons and

How we wish for the snows of the old days, well before our time. Regardless, one thing is for sure: Even with little snow, Tassie is skiable. And it is epic.”

ice axes finding purchase in the tiny cracks above this epic line.

Below the cliff, we click back into skis. Protected from constant westerly moisture, the snow here in this deep notch is much better, the base far firmer. As we descend, the chute ebbs into wider fields that allow larger turns, then flows into tight dolerite constrictions no more than two meters wide. Like a river with tributaries, veins of snow from the vertical world above join the main chute, before we’re eventually deposited at the apron back out into the wider wilderness. I look back up the chute and laugh. It is the best line of the winter. +++++

TWENTY KILOMETRES DUE EAST of Cradle Mountain, the West Wall—the epicentre of skiable lines in the Walls of Jerusalem NP—rises as an imposing fortress. The face is far taller than photographs imply, and it looms above high alpine plains dotted with iridescent tarns and stands of pencil pines gnarled and battered by hundreds of years of gales. Steep, doleritic gullies empty from nooks in the ridge into clean runouts akin to an Alaskan glacial plain. On high, the wall is ringed with huge cornices in good years. In good years.

We learn that this isn’t one of those years when—after schlepping in three days’ worth of supplies—we round the final bend into the West Wall amphitheatre. We’ve had prior hints, though. Even at the trailhead, we rounded bare and sunbaked mountaintops. And when we near the wall, ominously, the tarns glisten with ripples; they are ice free.

Arriving beneath the face, we crane our necks skywards. The offerings are meagre. The last vestiges of snow hide in the lee of rocky outcrops, and the chutes are adorned not with thick snow but instead bony, sharky rocks ready to slice ski bases.

The eastward position here means it’s in the rain shadow of windward peaks, and in combination with a low snow year, the Walls are completely unskiable. They will have to wait. But to the west, we can see a snow-cloaked peak standing on the horizon, beckoning us: Tasmania’s highest mountain, Mt Ossa.

THE WINTER THAW HAS COME REMARKABLY early this year, and snow remains only on the highest of summits. And when our chance comes to ski Ossa, we have just a two-day weather window; a lengthy tropical incursion is approaching. Our packs are light and small this time—35L and less than 14kg. With a winter’s worth of fitness, we seemingly float over the Arm Winter 2021 WILD

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The last sunset for the winter, Mt Ossa summit Dusk at our Ossa summit camp

River Track in remarkable time. The earthy smell of dewy conifers contrasts with the cacophony of awakening insects. A tiger snake slithers out of our path into tufts of hazy, green grass.

When we set up camp on the summit, there is zero wind as dusk falls. Warm hues are cast over the landscape as Ossa’s shadow stretches like a cone towards Pelion East. Over to the west, the ocean is clearly visible, and panning three-sixty reveals sweeping vistas of just about every peak in the state.

The mountains are saying goodbye. The next day we’ll ski our final line for the winter.

At dawn, frigid air and mist billow over the summit plateau. The faint, early light scratches the snow, but the east face remains frozen solid. Half a kilometre below our awaiting ski tips is Pinestone Valley, where open moorlands and native conifers form a pleasant backdrop against the ribbon of white.

We wait several hours until the sun rises directly above us, until the snow has softened beautifully in the centre chute. And

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then we drop in. Quick skidding turns send snow glissading down in front of us until it barrels over freshly exposed vegetation and out of view. The chute is unusually narrow this late in the season, but regardless, the snow is in excellent condition.

Classic spring corn is a welcome change from Tassie’s typical dank and sodden snow. Just halfway down the face, though, scoparia pokes out of the line. Our descent is abruptly ended. But we have no regrets. We are completely satisfied, and call it quits on our last turns for the winter.

INSIDE ALLGOODS, ONE OF HOBART’S many camping retailers, hangs a huge black and white photo of Mt Wellington plastered by snow. If you’re familiar with the western faces of the Main Range in Kosciuszko NP, that's what the southeastern face of Wellington looks like, with even Avalanche Gully skiable down to the Springs. The simple caption reads ‘Hobart 1970’. Nowadays, we're lucky to get a few patchy drifts up on the summit.

In 2020, the snowmelt came quickly. Each season, our warming planet means the probability of the deep snow Tassie needs to be skiable is becoming less and less. A byproduct of our mistreatment of the planet and our lavish lifestyles. How we wish for the snows of the old days, well before our time. Who knows if Federation Peak will ever be skied down into the rainforest below? Perhaps 2021 will throw up one last hurrah? Regardless of whether big snowfalls return or not, one thing is for sure: Even with little snow, Tassie is skiable. And it is epic. W CONTRIBUTOR: Shaun Mittwollen is a permanently stoked adventurist and photographer who gets far too excited about remote ski lines. He usually forgets how difficult the access was within 24 hours of returning and is already thinking about going back.

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YEARS 40 Wild ADVENTURES [ Photo Essay + Reader’s Adventure ]

OF

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Janette Asche has been a reader of Wild since its very first issue back in 1981. And in the forty years since, not only has she been adventuring around the planet, she’s been taking gorgeous imagery documenting her trips. In this special photo essay, she shares a few favourite pics with us.

Photography Janette Asche

1984

Our plan was to walk the Western and Eastern Arthurs in Tasmania. The weather was perfect and here, above Lake Oberon where we camped the night, we had a clear view of Federation Peak and Precipitous Bluff. However, bad weather came through overnight; we waited for a couple of days as tackling the next section of the range was only recommended in good weather. It didn’t clear so we headed back out the way we came. As the bad weather was only in the southwest, all wasn’t lost as we were able to go to the Walls of Jerusalem and do some bushwalking there.

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2019 1986

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40 Years of Adventure

1983 Clockwise from top left Hiking in the Italian Dolomites had been a dream of mine for many years. With my partner, Harry, and some friends, we booked into a seven-day trip. This was the afternoon of our second day. After settling into our accommodation at Rifugio Fanes, I noticed there was a waterhole nearby, so wandered down and saw this beautiful light and reflection.

2008

Canyoning and abseiling was a regular activity for me in the ‘80s. Here Dave is abseiling on a lower waterfall in Arethusa Canyon in the Blue Mountains, NSW. For ten years or so, I didn’t do much adventuring as we were busy bringing up a family. However, we managed to do a few walks when the children were older. This is our youngest, aged nine, tramping New Zealand’s Kepler Track.

I was born into a bushwalking family and fell in love with the Australian bush at a young age. As soon as I was old enough, I joined a bushwalking club in the early ‘70s and, a few years later, another club which covered all aspects of outdoor adventuring including liloing and canoeing. Col kayaking on the upper reaches of the Shoalhaven River, NSW.

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40 Years of Adventure

1990 Clockwise from top left In 1989, Harry and I moved to southeast Queensland, so we did lots of bushwalking in the region for a number of years. This is Lightning and Thunder Falls in Black Canyon—one of Lamington NP’s most remote waterfalls. We walked here via the Razorback and Lost World Plateau, before dropping down into the Albert River where we camped the night.

The falls are about an hour’s walk upstream from the camp.

2012 1988

For the past ten years or so, we have been doing a yearly summer tramp in New Zealand with friends. Here, we’re in the Young Basin just before heading up Gillespie Pass, on the Young-Wilkin Track in Mt Aspiring NP. Mt Awful is at the head of the valley.

As part of my training for the Dolomites, I went on a six-day walk on a few sections of the Larapinta Trail in Central Australia. We started walking at 2AM to reach the summit of Mt Sonder for the sunrise.

In 1988, Harry and I spent six months travelling in Europe and Asia. One of my most memorable and rewarding hikes ever was climbing Mt Olympus, Greece’s highest mountain. Overnight, while we bivvied under a tiny rock overhang, there was a wild thunderstorm. But the next morning was crystal clear above us, with a sea of cloud below—a magical sight.

I’d planned to climb Kilimanjaro when I was younger, but that fell through; in 2012 it would be now or never. With my main training being walking up and down Brisbane’s 300m Mt Coot-tha, I wasn’t confident I’d make it.

But, ascending via the Lemosho Route, I reached the summit without any problems. This is the view of the glacier on top; Mt Meru is in the distance.

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2014

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40 Years of Adventure

2017 1981

Clockwise from top left Our last New Zealand tramp before COVID-19 stopped travel was to Mt Owen in Kahurangi NP, NZ’s second-largest park and one of my favourite areas. After summiting, Harry is walking on limestone outcrops which make up Mt Owen, the highest mountain in the park.

We spent two weeks travelling around the Colorado Plateau region of the USA—a photographer’s paradise. We did as much hiking as we could, including to Partition Arch in Arches NP. Sally looking towards Mt Carruthers, Mt Townsend and Mt Alice Rawson in Kosciuszko NP, NSW. I spent many summers bushwalking and winters cross-country skiing in the fabulous Snowy Mountains.

This was my first visit to Tasmania since 1984. I had walked the Overland Track twice before and was keen to take my family of five. This view of Cradle Mountain was on our first day, but our December through-walk turned out to be quite an epic as we had two days of snow in the middle of the trip.

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WETA HECK

ARE WE? No harness? Wrong route? Rock that’s like kitty litter compacted into death blades? Lachlan Gardiner sets off to climb Steeple Peak, and hits a bump or two on the way.

Words & Photography Lachlan Gardiner

Nick had forgotten his harness. Just like that, the alpine summit we’d come chasing suddenly seemed impossible to reach. It was a crushing blow; getting that far had already involved what alpinists technically term ‘a fair whack of effort’. There had been long hours of planning. A flight to Queenstown. A drive to Dunedin. Another drive—through pouring rain, mind you—of four hours to the trailhead. A lengthy and sodden half-day walk in, one punctuated by rain and that ended in darkness and involved more river crossings than could ever be enjoyable. And—on soggy ground—a bivouac, during which it had, guess what, continued to rain. When the new day dawned, however, it was clear and bright; our spirits finally lifted. But then Nick looked for his harness, and our optimism evaporated.

Our little mountaineering adventure was doomed.

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Steeple Peak, NEW ZEAL AND

Mardi Himal

Kathmandu

Steeple Peak

IT WAS MY ANNUAL VISIT TO NZ. I had, what were for me, ambitious plans; classics like the West Ridge of Malte Brun and the Northeast Ridge of Mount Aspiring. But that was until I arrived at Nick’s place in Dunedin, where for days our eyes were glued to screens filled with route descriptions and complex weather maps and avalanche bulletins. And as we did so, we witnessed Aoraki/Mount Cook’s avie forecast rise from ‘Moderate’ to ‘High’. Plans for high alpine objectives were reluctantly shelved for another time, traded for lower-altitude rock where scary slopes laden with unstable snow would be less likely.

We learnt of what was to become our fallback plan the previous week, when another climber (thanks Jonno!) suggested the route Weta Prowl on Steeple Peak in the Ben Ohau Range.

The area was unfamiliar to both Nick and me. But a quick Google search yielded several trip reports, with the consensus suggesting a classic route up mostly solid rock, involving 400m of climbing at Grade 3+ on the Mount Cook Alpine Scale (or a rock grade of 14). Typically climbed over seven or eight pitches, it seemed to offer enough alpine complexity to test the mettle of two Queensland-bred rock climbers.

We left the trailhead at 2PM, toting bulging packs and at least two nights’ rations (see, we were prepared!). The trail followed the stream, winding through compact beech forest up the South Temple Valley, although the boots-off river crossings—five of ‘em—became significantly less enjoyable. After 2.5 hours, South Temple Hut, a cosy 6-bed shelter, appeared on the far bank. We stopped here for a brief and late lunch, during which the pesky rains returned. My already-fragile spirits sunk.

Luckily, Nick’s optimism was unfaltering; we slogged on regardless. The track soon disappeared, and with waterlogged boots—why’d I even bother removing them for all those stream crossings?—we climbed a final rocky gully and entered the valley below Steeple Peak. As we set up camp, a dreary grey night enveloped the world around us like a wet blanket. It was hard not to think of the dry bed and warm hut in the valley below. +++++

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Following the South Temple stream during the approach

“IT’S A LOT FURTHER UP THAN I EXPECTED.” Nick was looking up at Steeple Peak, bathed in soft early morning light. From the valley floor, the slope soared upwards for 500m before transitioning to a snow field below the main west face. From there, the peak speared into the sky. At 2207m, Steeple Peak is by no stretch one of the Southern Alps’ tallest mountains, but as the name suggests, it stands prominent and proud.

A smearing of fresh snow, courtesy of yesterday’s precipitation, still peppered the entire mountain. As a result, we opted for a less-than-alpine start; perhaps the snow and ice would melt in time for safe passage over dry stone. It also appeared the weather gods were finally granting us some favour. A line of sunlight crept towards our camp, which was scattered with equipment ready for the day’s work ahead. And that’s when Nick unceremoniously emptied the remaining contents of his rucksack onto the grass.

There was no harness.

That Nick—usually a responsible, careful sort of fella—had made such a packing blunder seemed, well, pretty damn funny.

Ha! Nick’s forgotten his harness—hilarious. And then it dawned on me: You can’t rope climb without a harness. I stopped snickering.

Our whole trip was in jeopardy.

But Nick wasn’t easily deterred. He set to work, grabbing some spare slings to fashion a serviceable harness-like contraption, albeit one that is comfortable in the same way that squeezing into the exact size underwear you wore as an eight year old isn’t. Nick could have gone old-school, I guess; before modern harnesses came along, climbers just tied hemp ropes around their waists and went for it. But then I wouldn’t have been able to laugh at the colourful nappy/harness hybrid Nick created. It was not a work of art.

WE LEFT THE BIVOUAC AT 09:00. Two hours later, out of breath, we reached the base of the main face. After the painfully steep approach, we were eager to trade damp boots for sticky rock shoes. Possibly too eager. And almost certainly overconfident.

It’s the only explanation for what came next.

Looking back, I’m honestly not sure why we chose the particular line we did; it probably just seemed like the easiest and most likely option at the time. Oh boy, how wrong we were. In hindsight, we should have given the lower section of the route more thought and consideration. It’s not like we hadn’t already done countless hours of research and preparation. But did we think to refer to our notes upon arrival below the face? Of course not!

So it was that we managed to overlook where exactly to begin climbing the route. And when we re-read our notes later, they clearly described a radically different start to the one we took. Instead of several easy pitches over sound rock, the rock we climbed was shattered and unstable. And it only got worse the higher we got. Imagine a tall stack of dry WeetBix with the crumbly narrow ends facing skywards. Or as Nick described it, “Kitty litter compacted into death-blades”.

What little remained of my faltering confidence felt like it was being squeezed in a cold vice.”

The camera didn’t capture Teen’s leg shakes...

Nick following an upper pitch; the rock below is as rotten as it looks

Nick leading the second last pitch, with Mts Aoraki and Tasman in the distance

Steeple Peak, NEW ZE AL AND Our bivvy, with Steeple Peak on the skyline above to the right

Approaching the looming main face

All smiles as we near the summit

Is this a suitable mountain?

It wasn’t long until what little remained of my faltering confidence felt like it was being squeezed in a cold vice.

Our climb started with Nick locating a likely weakness. I followed suit and we simul-climbed the first 80-odd metres to a broken ledge. Climbing in pitches from there, I took the lead, following a vague feature of seemingly climbable rock. Should I emphasise the seemingly? Certainly, the protection was only seeming at best. I found myself setting stoppers in jumbles of shattered rock, doing so mostly as acts of defiance or in deferral of decisive action. Nick’s belay below was also, well, questionable; two slung flat-topped horns of rock hardly make a textbook anchor. Gingerly, he rested on the slings, squirming to find

When Nick reached my anchor atop pitch four, the fear I’d experienced leading it

was starkly reflected in his eyes.” elusive comfort in his makeshift nappy-harness. We both knew a lead fall on my part could lift him clean off the stance.

Still, the climbing until now hadn’t been technically difficult.

But as we were lured upwards, the angle turned increasingly steep; our hope of an easy retreat dwindled. At one point, three or four pitches up, a booming rumble filled the compact valley.

A large section of the snow slope in the gully below—directly above the descent route we’d hoped to use—cut loose. Tons of snow and rock were suddenly set in motion with the fury— well, at least the partial fury—of an open-cut mine detonation.

It did little to lessen my misgivings. But Nick soon shouted up some encouraging words, something about the corner system above looking “promising”. I’d been eyeing off the same feature; it was probably worth a closer look. Once in there, I found a suitable slot beckoning for a Camelot. Finally! The first solid

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gear on this whole rotten pitch. Pushing cold fingers of doubt aside, hands smeared with fresh chalk, I cranked through a surprisingly stiff sequence. Grade 16 maybe? Beyond, the angle eased slightly; miraculously the rock quality also improved. Pro remained sparse but I motored upwards, and soon located a suitable belay.

WHEN NICK REACHED MY ANCHOR atop pitch four, the fear I’d experienced leading it was starkly reflected in his eyes.

“My nerve for this kind of tomfoolery is waning,” he said. OK, so he didn’t actually say tomfoolery, but that was the subtext.

“You know what we should call this detour,” he then suggested. “Weta Heck Are We?” I stayed silent, hoping the worst was behind us, and passed across the scant remants of our light alpine rack. We’d taken the advice of several previous parties, bringing only five cams, a small collection of nuts and hexes, plus a single 70m rope. So far, this had been sufficient. Keep in mind we’re two Frog Buttress-trained climbers, accustomed to a generous double rack of cams and endless cracks to jam them in. Let’s just say, climbing with such minimal gear dictated a theme of longer-than-comfortable run-outs. Above me, the rope played out quickly and before long I joined Nick on a comfortable ledge. Back on lead, I followed an easily protected corner system, the rock reassuringly solid for a change. It appeared we had finally rejoined the originally planned route. Maybe this whole excursion wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Maybe.

CLIMBERS ARE AN ODD BUNCH. We don’t go looking for the easiest way to the top of something. No, we say, let’s shit-scare ourselves instead by taking that line straight up the steep part. Wouldn’t that be fun! Let’s go via a route which requires

Let’s shit-scare ourselves

instead by taking that line straight up the steep part. Wouldn’t that be fun!

excesses of specialised equipment and skill to render it even remotely safe. We seek out objectives with an acceptable level of risk, their merits evaluated against various measures of aesthetics and technical difficulty. Yet in the fleeting span of one arbitrary decision or action, even the most carefully designed plans can crumble apart in an instant. A wrong turn. A misstep. Or—heaven forbid—a forgotten harness. But by the same token, the opposite can also happen. A desperate situation can be overcome, be it due to skill, luck, or some combination of the two. In this case, thanks largely to the latter, in the span of a single 60m pitch of climbing, our mutual terror transformed into enjoyment. This emotional rollercoaster isn’t uncommon when climbing. It’s possible to experience a full seven-course-meal worth of feelings throughout a single climb, with some of those courses occasionally being downright horrible. But if you’re lucky, your degustation culminates with the sweet dessert of gaining the top, and making it down safely again.

AS I CRESTED THE MAIN FACE, the terrain dropped away steeply, revealing the summit another 100m further along a winding knife-blade ridge. Straddling, downclimbing, bridging and balancing along this gorgeous feature a further 25m led to a delightfully lofty and exposed belay. Around me, the afternoon was bright and clear. Deep blue skies draped above glittering white-capped peaks marching away in every direction. By the time he joined my perch atop the ridge, Nick wore a smile you couldn’t punch off. “Dude, this is one of the best multipitches I’ve ever done!”

Knowing the summit was finally within grasp, we relaxed.

Two superb pitches, across exposed but secure terrain, remained. Before long there was no more rock to scale. The distant mountains of Aoraki, Aspiring, and Westland National Parks stretched to the horizon. Looking south, the vast expanse of Lake Ohau shimmered turquoise in the distance.

To the east, a broad, braided river filled the valley far below.

Some months later, I’d be with Nick bouncing down that very same river; true to form for us in the Ben Ohau Range, calamity would again be knocking. After unsuccessfully attempting to climb another peak nearby, I would be perched precariously upon the bow of a single-person packraft. Nick, shivering and soaked, would be on board that same tiny vessel. I know what you’re thinking. No, we didn’t forget any vital pieces of equipment. Like a harness. Or a packraft. No, this was deliberate. You wouldn’t necessarily be wrong in saying that that only makes it worse, that we should know better than to take outings in the Ben Oahu Range lightly. But Nick—some might say optimistically; some might use choicer terms—figured we could both fit into one small packraft. This concept was, at that time, untested, and would result in us paddling furiously in a dire effort to outrun hypothermia and an approaching night ... But that’s a story for another time.

Back atop the Steeple, the day was growing long and weary.

With creeping shadows and golden light splashing across the crags, we began our return to the valley floor. Darkness spread slowly across the scene; soon it was by headlamp we ambled downwards, in search of the waiting bivouac. Tomorrow no alarms would be set, nor any alpine starts attempted.

We’d earned a sleep in. W CONTRIBUTOR: Lachlan is a Brisbane-based adventure photographer, writer and filmmaker. Like any good climber, he has a perverse masochistic streak and revels in altitude-induced hardship.

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LIFE IN THE

FREEZER Wondering what life might be like as a polar explorer, Laura Waters heads out for a midwinter bash in Kosciuszko with the legendary Eric Philips. There is, however, one teeny-weeny problem.

Words & Photography Laura Waters

Credit: Eric Philips

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Kosciuszko NP, NEW SOUTH WALES

T

he tales of explorers trigger excitement and awe in most of us. They’re stories of people leaving behind the safety of the known and comfortable to forge routes across extreme and remote lands while facing unimaginable hardships. Polar travel seems particularly awesome. Endless kilometres of ice and snow. Tents blasted by gale-force winds. Furtrimmed hoods and icicles frosted onto beards.

Facing off with polar bears …

It all seems so thrilling.

So when the opportunity arose to embark on a ‘polar’ adventure of my own, I jumped at the chance. Better yet, I’d be accompanied by a real explorer. Eric Philips is a proper dude. He was the first Australian, along with Jon Muir, to walk to both the North and South Poles. He’s crossed every major ice cap, and is considered worldwide as a leading expert on polar travel. He shares his knowledge, too. Under the banner of Icetrek Expeditions, he takes adventurers to the globe’s most bitter, most frigid corners: Greenland, Svalbard, Antarctica, the Arctic. Some of those he guides are experienced adventurers who rely on his polar know-how to help them achieve new routes or other ambitious objectives. Others are wannabes like me who just wonder what it’s like to step into a polar traveller’s boots for a bit.

Mind you, I’m not going to Antarctica to do so. I’ve signed up for a fiveday, midwinter novice trip around Kosciuszko National Park, where— with Eric as my guide—I’ll snowshoe, ski, and drag a sled around.

There’s just one small problem with my ‘polar explorer’ aspirations.I’m crap at the cold. Like truly rubbish at it.

One slide at a time, hypnotised by the swish of skis

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Kosciuszko NP, NEW SOUTH WALES

Sydney Kosciuszko NP

INTO THE WHITE

The question of how I will cope in sub-zero temperatures is one I’ve been growing increasingly anxious about as departure day draws closer. I can often be found bundled up in a down jacket and beanie while others linger comfortably in unzipped fleeces.

Our team consists of two middle-aged sisters seeking a personal challenge, an osteopath wanting the skills to avoid the repeat of an earlier disastrous winter hike, a 20-year-old hiking guide from Tasmania, and a woman who has already signed up for one of Eric’s upcoming Arctic expeditions. All of us are looking to see what we’re capable of, to experience something far outside of the norm.

The adventure begins at a carpark fifteen minutes from the pumping ski resort of Thredbo. It takes a good few hours to sort gear, stashing it in dry bags and a waterproof duffle. We’re issued sleds and XC skis with skins, before we then don our snowshoes and begin the steep climb towards the Main Range.

Australia’s highest mountain range is the ideal location for this kind of adventure; in winter, its rolling peaks and plateaus are expansive and relatively empty. In the last few days, the region has been caked with 1.4 metres of snow, but now clear skies have returned; our biggest challenge is not sinking too deep into the fresh pow as we climb to the first camp.

I’m no stranger to hiking but snow travel is a different beast. Our tents may have been to the North Pole six times but the humans hauling them need educating. Eric shows us how to anchor the flapping red nylon against the wind while we erect it, and then shovel snow against the storm flaps (“in case there’s a blizz”). Sleds are flipped over and secured with snowshoes and skis are wedged into the snow. Everything

A frosty morning at Seaman’s Hut

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is done according to a tried and tested routine that Eric has fine-tuned, one we’d apply equally if we were making our way across Antarctica.

Cooking inside a tent is usually a cardinal sin but venting the inner and taking care to avoid any sudden movements makes it safe enough. With three warm bodies inside each tent, it’s surprisingly cosy, and I slip into an early sleep only to wake three hours later uncomfortably cold.

By morning, frost has formed inside our tent—the freezer outside encroached into our home. Eric asks how we fared the night; I tell him I was cold.

“Hmm… What did you do with your down jacket?” he asks.

There’s just one small problem with my ‘polar explorer’ aspirations. I’m crap at the cold.

Like truly rubbish at it.”

“I wore it.”

“You wore it.” His tone is a mix of incredulity and concern.

I don’t have the courage to admit to the thermal leggings, fleece pants, two thermal tops, fleece jacket and beanie as well. To be fair, I was expecting the sleeping bag I’d rented in Jindabyne to be rated to -20°C but when I collected it, I discovered it was only a zero, and everyone knows bag ratings are overstated.

BEDTIME STORIES

There’s nothing like a seven-hour climb to warm up. We harness up our sleds and tackle the eleven kilometres, our snowshoes collapsing soft pillows of fresh snow between the snowgums before we ascend above the treeline. Exposed to the wind, the snow alternates between squeaky and icy.

A few hours of gentle undulations allow us to swap from snowshoes to skis. We glide across the snow, employing new skills Eric has taught us: herringbone steps for uphill, and keeping our weight forward to retain control on the down. Sleds only increase the degree of difficulty, randomly jolting us from behind and threatening to pull us sideways on traverses.

On a vast, high plateau, fog swallows us and my world turns white. Suddenly I could be on the Arctic tundra. I listen to the swish of my skis while my fingers and toes turn numb in the wind, despite gloves and the thickest socks I own. Hours pass. White.

Just white. My mind starts playing tricks. I turn around briefly to look behind and when I turn back, something long and dark slides into my goggled vision. What the hell is that? I freak out slightly. Oh, just my skis.

The last steep pitch beneath Etheridge Ridge takes all my focus and energy to complete, but finally we arrive at Seaman’s Hut. Built of stone and as squat and solid as the granite boulders surrounding it, the hut is only intended as a refuge in bad weather, so we pitch our tents next to it, using the stove inside for cooking dinner.

Learning how to build a snow wall for wind protection

Hours of climbing in the fog

Credit: Eric Philips

The ice can be a lonely place

Eric and our crew

Pointing out Main Range peaks

Eric regales us with tales of falling down crevasses and slipping through breaking ice sheets into Arctic waters. Then there was the time a polar bear stood on its hind legs just twenty metres away, clawing the air while he and his partner readied themselves with flares and a gun. We hang off Eric’s every word, wide-eyed with wonder. He’d have every right to be full of swagger; instead, he’s modest and down-to-earth.

THE ROOF OF OZ

A windy night is made infinitely more comfortable by the donation of a spare sleeping bag by one of my new buddies.

In the morning, I ask Eric to take a stab at the overnight temperature. “Five? Seven?” he says. I’m surprised. “As in, minus,” he clarifies. Eric’s vocab only works in negative figures.

I make a dash outside for a low pile of boulders, the only shelter around for miles, and attempt to pin my plastic poo

I attempt to pin my plastic poo bag down with lumps of snow. The wind whips at its edges and stings my fingers.

It’s a goddamn epic.”

bag down with lumps of snow as instructed. The wind whips at its edges and stings my fingers, which can’t handle more than a few seconds outside of ski gloves. It’s a goddamn epic.

I’ve spent months at a time living in ski resorts, but being out on the snow day and night is a different ballgame. There is no drying room at day’s end, no heated bedroom. I persist with the frustration of doing everything with ski gloves on— even brushing my teeth—because it’sPassing a skilltrees thatinsimply mustcolour full autumn be learned. I lose my appetite, eitherwhile fromdescending cold or exertion. to the valley floor Winter 2021 WILD

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Fresh snow is like marzipan perfection

The payoff, though, is a surreal and beautiful landscape: moonlit peaks overhung with glittering stars at night; fat snowflakes falling silently; endless space away from civilisation. To be self-sufficient in the face of such a foreign and challenging environment is an effort, but one worth making.

A sled-free day is spent climbing Mt Kosciuszko on snowshoes. The sun returns and the views are immense. It doesn’t

Eric admits even he suffers at times, too. “It’s impossible to acclimatise to the cold in a single generation,” he says. “Our only option is to habituate to it.”

look like a place I know, just endless rolling, white peaks. After one last pitch we’re on the roof of Australia. The last time I was here, there were about fifty daytrippers queuing to stand on the stone pillar marking the country’s highest point, but now impressive rime grows sideways off it, and we are alone.

The sun’s frail warmth keeps the icy air at bay. Temperatures don’t exceed one degree all week, but when the rays are out, or while I’m hauling, my body core stays warm; it makes living on the ice bearable.

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But what if the weather wasn’t so cooperative. Would I cope? Does Eric have some superpower I don’t? “God no!” he says. “I’m not superman. I use the best gear in the world, and I know how to use it and when, and that’s what’s important. I have to pre-empt everything that’s going on. If I stop moving, I’ll have to get the layers on straight away. But if I’m warm, I’ll need to allow that moisture to vent out first, because if everything is wet, I’m going to freeze my arse off.”

But Eric admits even he suffers at times, too. “It’s impossible to acclimatise to the cold in a single generation,” he says.

“Our only option is to habituate to it.”

ANTARCTICA DREAMING

Hostile winds, angry and strong, greet our fourth day on the ice. I voice my dread at having to venture into the gale with my poo-tube, but Eric offers up the vestibule of his tent as a suitable shelter. “Mine’s got more space than yours,” he says.

Eric’s right up there on my hero list. Twenty years ago, I read his book Ice Trek, detailing his quest to ski, kite and walk to the South Pole and back. I never imagined then that I’d one day crap in his tent, happily out of the wind’s reach.

We retrace our route back to Camp One. With a new aspect and the fog gone, it feels like a different place. “This could be Antarctica,” Eric says, gesturing at the seemingly boundless white of the Rams Head Range with random rocky tors poking through. Crunchy wind-whipped ripples in the snow are the

Kosciuszko NP, NEW SOUTH WALES A rare warm moment, soaking up the sun

Securing the tent is important at 2,100m

Heading towards North Rams Head?

Or somewhere in Antarctica?

The last pitch to the So where was that water drop? top of Kosciuszko

beginnings of sastrugi. Off to our far right, on Etheridge Ridge, Eric spots a long sweep of broken snow beneath a cornice, the aftermath of an avalanche that he declares the biggest slide he’s ever seen in Australia. (We later discover a snowboarder set it off, getting buried to his shoulders but miraculously surviving.)

Eric’s love for such landscapes is clear. “I like the austerity, the nothingness. It’s like being in an ocean,” he says. He also likes the challenge. I ask if the trips he offers can be compared to guided Everest trips. “Yes, but people on Everest are at a high level of risk for three or four days, whereas in a polar expedition you’re at moderate level of risk for weeks or months at a time.” In the Arctic he once travelled across a lead (a fracture in

People on Everest are at a high level of risk for three or four days; in a polar expedition you’re at risk for weeks or months at a time.”

the sea ice) one kilometre wide. It was impossible to determine ahead of time how deep and strong the ice was. He got across safely, but when his buddy Jon Muir—who was 20kg heavier— ventured across, he watched the ice bounce like a trampoline before cracking open and dropping Jon, fully clothed, into the water. Such challenges are not for everyone.

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

A day later we begin the descent, and the views across distant treed ranges are utterly spectacular. Wind flails the snow, sending it fluttering like dry ice across the surface, freezing my toes and fingers in its wake.

Eric skis all the way down even with a sled—because he’s a boss—while the rest of us shuffle ungracefully in snowshoes.

I lament the waste of fresh powder—flawless and smooth like the marzipan on a wedding cake. Oh, for my snowboard.

After one more night on the snow, spent tucked behind a wall of hand-cut snow blocks for wind shelter, we tackle the final descent off the range. It’s so steep we’ve no chance of safely dragging the 20kg sleds; instead, we flip the traces over and push them ‘lawn-mower’ style on a tight slalom between the snow gums.

The week has given me a glimpse into the life of a polar traveller: a life of constantly battling the elements, of living with numb fingers and toes and wrestling with dry bags of gear. It’s a world where you expend energy simply to obtain drinking water from snow, or to go to the toilet. It’s raw, hard, and beautiful, and I’m glad I’ve done it. But I won’t be signing up for the North Pole anytime soon. W

CONTRIBUTOR: Author of Bewildered—an account of her 3,000km journey on the Te Araroa Trail—Laura Waters never lets the cold hard facts deter her from taking on adventures.

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[ Reader’s Adventure ]

A Bikepacking

Evolution Unsure whether she’d ever return to the outdoors, Dana Briggs took a chance by heading off with her family bikepacking on New Zealand’s Alps to Ocean Trail. On the way, she learnt that she and her family have changed.

Words & Photography Dana Briggs

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hen the bike-tour company shuttle driver arrives at our motel in Omarama, he is visibly distressed to find our gear piled on the driveway. His usual Alps to Ocean (A2O) clients have a wheeled suitcase and a daypack, ride rented e-bikes between lodges, and carry only the day’s provisions. We have two bikes, two child seats, a bike trailer, camping gear for four, three food bags, two daypacks, and two small children. He is sceptical of our plan and our ability to pull it off. When we disembark at the Tekapo B Power Station, our chosen starting point, we surprise him by assembling our bike trailer and packing it with all our gear in less than five minutes. He reckons maybe we’ll be OK, after all.

In fact, we surprise ourselves. My husband Hugh and I are mountaineers, hikers, climbers, paddlers, road cyclists and mountain bikers, but not cycle tourers, and certainly not bikepackers. Six weeks prior to today, before I could even walk properly following a hip reconstruction, Hugh asked me to ride the 300km A2O Trail with him. It was a ridiculous request, and I burst into tears of frustration and despair. Biking from Aoraki/Mt Cook, New Zealand’s highest peak and the heart of the Southern Alps, all the way to the Pacific Ocean, felt impossible.

At my core, though, I am a person who aspires to say yes—to adventure, suffering, hope, all of it. So, after a few days, I tentatively said, “Yes, but not yet.” I figured it would take a year for my hip to recover enough for sufficient training and for us to work out the logistics of bike travel with our two small children.

But once I looked into it, bikepacking turned out to be the perfect means to the desired end: returning to the outdoors. It’s gentle on joints, doesn’t require much fitness or demand physical effort from the kids, and we can haul significantly more gear on wheels than we could carry on our backs.

So, after much Googling, a few trips to the gear store, and a single night bikepacking test starting from our front door, here we are, just six weeks after that ridiculous request, setting out to ride 100km of the A2O.

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Greta and Hugh enjoying the simplicity and shared experience of bicycle travel

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Alps to Ocean, NEW ZEAL AND

Christchurch Omarama

AFTER ASSEMBLING OUR GEAR AND KIDS, we ride south along the shore of Lake Pukaki. Frost hangs in the air, and a dusting of snow lends texture to the mountaintops. This is New Zealand at its best.

Otis, nearly two, sits behind me in a traditional rear child-seat, and I haul the kids’ double trailer, which is full of camping gear but can be emptied to hold the kids in severe weather. He falls asleep immediately. Greta, four, is perched on a shotgun seat in front of Hugh and must compete with the tent strapped across the handlebars for a handhold. Both bikes are unbalanced by their loads and feel treacherous on the gravel singletrack.

We stop for lunch at the southern end of Lake Pukaki, in awe of Aoraki’s presence. After lunch, as I climb back on the bike, I realise I’m still hungry. We’ve attended to layers, taken photos, fed the kids their lunch, fed the kids the better part of our own lunches, and suddenly they want to go. No second helpings or hot drinks, no reflecting on the journey so far. This is the deal with kids in the outdoors—we ride the wave of their enthusiasm and stop when the wave crashes. So, if they’re ready to go, we go.

After leaving Lake Pukaki, we detour to Lake Poaka, where there’s a campsite with a longdrop and million-dollar views.

The kids busy themselves with their trowels; the hard-packed ground is unrewarding, so they satisfy themselves by digging in an old firepit and are soon streaked with ash. Giant boulders and climbable trees provide entertainment until the light turns golden and the temperature drops.

Greta and Otis help prepare dinner, and embrace the strange, dehydrated food, beaming at their performance as bona fide bikepackers. We discovered long ago that the magic of adventure clashes with the artificiality of restaurants and hotels, an effect amplified with children. The spell cast by a day in the wild breaks when we wrestle our children into

Dinner time at Round Bush Camp

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highchairs and enforce arbitrary rules about the volume of our voices and running inside. Here, there is nothing to break the spell, so its magic outlasts the day.

Greta is a champion camper; she eats noodles and dehydrated meals, doesn’t feel the cold and sleeps reliably in a tent. Otis and I do feel the cold, so we cosy up together in my down bag. I sleep lightly and intermittently, treasuring the warm discomfort of Otis’s small body pressed into mine.

THE CLEAR AND COLD MORNING dawns orange. Ice crystals line the tent. The temperature dipped to -5�C overnight and we resort to eating breakfast in the tent, cringing at the porridge drips on the down bags. The kids are cold, out of sorts, and we are slow to break camp.

We regain Ohau Canal Road for a long gravel grind. Hauling the bike trailer along gravel is relentless; the wheels are always the wrong width for the ruts and the weight makes it sink and swerve.

When we stop for a roadside picnic under an impossibly big sky, the kids are easy company, exploring but not straying, discussing why the nearby sheep are, in fact, sheep and not cows, and showing each other what they unearth from the ground. Afterwards, while Otis sleeps behind Hugh, Greta and I chat about climate change, the water cycle, tectonic plates, avalanches, the principles of leave-no-trace. I am astounded by her comprehension of the natural world and how much a four-year-old will understand and remember when you take the time to explain it.

Beyond Lake Ohau, the Southern Alps rise, with long valleys and inviting couloirs. It’s late in the day and we are only 25km into our 40km day. The sun will soon disappear behind the mountains, taking with it its warmth and light. A couple of trail barriers delay us; they are designed to allow through bicycles but nothing else, and it seems no one has planned for child seats and bike trailers.

We put our heads down and grind the last nine kilometres to Round Bush Camp. I don’t have enough power to pull Otis and the trailer up the hill, so we switch bikes. Hugh is indefatigable, his strength complemented by an incredible capacity for suffering. I am yet to see him at his limit, and I wonder if he has one. I push Greta to the top of the hill before I attempt to get on. To mount the bike with her on the shotgun seat, I must push off with one foot and throw the other leg over the bike once I’m rolling. I’m scared of this; my hip joint capsule has been artificially tightened to restrict the range of motion, and I worry I’ll re-tear the ligament holding the joint together.

Greta’s patience with me is humbling; she encourages me, saying, “I know you can do it, Mama,” praises me when I get it right, reassures me when I don’t.

She knows I’m tired after nearly 40km of riding, worries that my hip hurts. She has been sitting on the shotgun seat for the better part of five hours, rugged up against the cold, but her concern is for me. She urges me forward so we can

Otis taking a break from the view A rare patch of sealed road alongside the Ohau Canal The planning is over, the doing begins Overcooked on Day Two

Who we truly are has evolved. We’re discovering new depths in our children, and reflected in those depths, we see more clearly who we are as parents.” inspect the horse poo lining the road, and she takes delight and horror in equal measures as we discuss the horse’s enormous capacity for producing faeces, the importance of fibre, and the nutritional value of grass. Her enthusiasm distracts me from my fatigue, and I focus on moving the pedals around and around, closer to camp. At least I am warm.

When we leave the road, Greta thrills in the rough descent into Round Bush Camp on the shore of Lake Ohau. We select a natural tent platform close to the treeline with unobstructed views down the lake. The kids know the drill now. They help us collect lake water for dinner, careful not to get their clothing wet, and we bask in the twilight devouring our food. We covered twice yesterday’s distance today, and I feel the cumulative fatigue of the distance, cold, and poor sleep. It feels exquisite, earned. It’s been a long time since I have won such fatigue. I’m deeply happy as I sit on the ground with my family, eating tasteless, long-expired pasta.

Play naturally curtails when the children become afraid of the darkening woods, convinced the Gruffalo is lurking. The kids are asleep early, and I sneak outside to enjoy the nightscape with Hugh. This is the first moment of the trip that we have not been attending to our children or otherwise occupied with tasks, and we luxuriate in it. We drink tea, chat, pat ourselves on the back for raising these wise and kind kids, for pulling it off, for realising a different kind of wild.

BEFORE I HAD CHILDREN, time in the outdoors was about finding flow, limits, perspective, myself. Since becoming parents, Hugh and I have made sacrifices and compromises in

Trail barriers aren’t designed for child seats!

how we experience the outdoors. We aim to foster a sense of wildness in our kids without pushing them too hard or too far and putting them off. But we’re discovering a new dynamic on this trip; the combination of biking, camping, wild places, and long-distance travel is rewarding in a way that we haven’t been able to achieve with both kids before. It isn’t rushed, or stressful, or beyond anyone’s abilities. It allows us all to be who we truly are, not just who our regular life demands us to be.

And in doing so, we’re learning that who we truly are has evolved. We’re discovering new depths in our children, and reflected in those depths, we see more clearly who we are as parents. Otis is no longer a baby that requires constant tending. He can tell us what he wants and needs and enjoys. He can perform simple tasks around camp and participates in the collective experience with joy. Greta is starting to hold her own with adults. She is physically capable, curious, becoming increasingly independent in the outdoors, and she is sensitive to those around her and how they feel. Our children are wonderful company and are becoming adventurers in their own right. I guess, as parents, we’re doing some things right.

In this season of our lives, adventure requires adaptation, easy objectives, layers of contingency planning, more emotional than physical effort, and sometimes pretending to be a unicorn. We don’t always make it past the trailhead. But when we do, it’s extraordinary.

THE MORNING IS MOODY, BEAUTIFUL. Greta wants to go home; she is cold and tired. She says three days is too many, and we shouldn’t have brought her here. I explain that I understand, I didn’t know, I’m sorry, and the only way to get home is to keep going. She tearfully says she is doing her best, and she is. She gets on the bike with a sigh.

The road out of camp is crushing. It is gravelly, hilly, and we both immediately bonk. Greta, on the other hand, perks up at the familiar sight of the horse poo. We have 42km ahead of us, the hardest day of our trip.

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Elation at the high point— it’s all downhill from here

The first 12km is uphill, and I stop often. Aside from one brief meltdown, Greta is phenomenal. She checks in about my hip, asks me if I’m tired. On a break, she confides to her dad that I’m having a hard time but that she knows I can do it. We talk about bravery, confidence, practice, about how I’m tired and it’s hard but that I cherish finding the blurred edges of my limits. She tells me she’s proud of me.

The trail today is Grade 3, rocky and uneven. The laden trailer is not suited to this terrain and it threatens to roll, pulling Hugh backwards and making him fight to defend every metre gained. I have trouble with my rear derailleur and keep dropping my chain when I change gears. On an exposed part of the trail, I drop the chain and spin in space. I stall, and fall.

I am shaken, tearful. Greta is unperturbed. She says she is

The repetition transports me back to the expeditions of my past, reminding me of where I’ve been, what I’ve done, who I am.”

only a little bit hurt, and she knows I am doing my best. I smile through my tears—which she has not noticed—at Hugh, who understands what I am not saying: That I made this magnificent creature, she is mine, and I love her.

We stop for lunch and when we return to the trail, I am content plodding away, turning over my pedals, knowing that I’ll eventually get there. The repetition transports me back to the expeditions of my past, reminding me of where I’ve been, what I’ve done, who I am.

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I’ve always gone to the wild to think. Somehow, regular life doesn’t fit me very well; I’m sensitive, easily hurt, prone to overthinking. I get caught up pursuing things that don’t serve me. But in the wild, I’m at peace. I see things for what they are.

I see myself for who I am and what I can do and who I want to be. It unfolds in front of me, like a map. I remember what serves me: moving my body, communing with nature, knowing myself to be capable, paying attention.

Then, after a while, I get lost again. I forget to use the map. I forget what serves me. I’m in the wrong place, doing the wrong things, being the wrong person. So, I recalibrate by going back to the wild. I understand now that being in the wild is necessary. Maybe not for everyone, but for me.

And, I’m now seeing, it might just be necessary for my kids, too.

WE STOP AT THE HIGH POINT to celebrate with Hugh and Otis, but a chill wind forces us on again. Greta loves to go fast, and she cheers me on as I switch mental gears and work up my confidence for the descent. When I tell her I’m nervous going down, she tells me to focus on the trail ahead, just as I told her on the way up.

Eventually the trail evens out, and we ride through the golden tussock to the road for the long slog back to Omarama.

We ride side by side when we can, and when Otis howls like a wolf, we all join in, howling to the wind and the sky and the mountains and each other. W CONTRIBUTORS: Dana Briggs is a devoted adventurer who doesn’t let her fear of exposure, lack of technical expertise, or two small children get in the way of a moderate objective.

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CURSE OF THE

WILD BUSH HORSES Australia’s high country is being devastated by feral horses.

Words John Blay Photography John Blay, Richard Swain, Alison Swain & Franz Peters

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he Byadbo Wilderness isn’t a tourist destination. It’s not pretty. There are no facilities. A few rough fire trails haphazardly follow key ridges, and yet I’m always overjoyed when I come through McGuigans Gap into Kosciuszko National Park’s southeastern corner. It’s like entering another world. Last year things were bad as we arrived at the grasslands of Merambego Creek. This year it’s worse. The grasslands have become bare earth with hints of green. None of the usual mobs of kangaroos and emus. The understorey’s been cropped so hard you can see much further than usual. I had no idea the drought was so bad hereabouts. This is rain-shadow country, so I expect it to be dry, but over the past twenty years I’ve never seen it so dry, so desperately dry.

Fires are breaking out in Queensland.

In the early morning, as we set off walking the ancient pathway from Byadbo Gap, we consider the mystery of the wild bush horses. Richard Swain is an Aboriginal man, a river guide who’s been running canoe trips along the Lower Snowy for years. He has a good sense of the country and how the water flows through it. His grasp of the landscape is matched by Franz Peters, naturalist and former park ranger. Last year there were hundreds of horses evident, but now, just shadows. For the first hour or so the country along the track is extremely dry, and there are fewer surprises than usual. The little splashes of colour from yam plants and ground orchids lighten the dryness. In a dry tributary, creekside masses of roundleaf mintbush flower in a joyful purple. Patches climb the hillsides to mingle with lichen-covered, reddish boulders. Below, glimpsing the Byadbo Creek again, we discover a surprisingly good flow of water. But the banks have been smashed.

Piles of flood debris four and five metres high include green tree trunks that have been tumbled downstream and stripped of roots and branches; they now look like logs freshly prepared for milling. What’s been happening? The Merambego is about as dry as it’s possible to get and yet there’s been a great flood in the adjacent catchment. It’s bizarre. I’ve come here regularly over twenty years to explore and map the Bundian Way, and I’ve never

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IUnless credited otherwise, images in this piece are by John Blay

Credit: Richard Swain

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Feral Horses, KOSCIUSZKO NP

Kosciuszko NP

seen anything like it. By the time we reach the junction of Stockyard and Byadbo Creeks, it’s clear how terrible the damage has been. Once-lush flats have been cleared of trees altogether. Broken trunks and smashed undergrowth are piled in heaps amongst trees on the slopes, and the transformation of the scene is complete. Now it’s a science-fiction catastrophe, clear of vegetation like a great parking lot. We walk upstream to the ancient quarry site where the old people collected and shaped stone axe blanks; it’s been wiped clean. So too all the smaller flats meandering on either side of the stream. At the streamside there were banks of food plants. All gone. So too the slender black sallees and the various box eucalypts. All gone. On previous visits horses and foals grazed round every bend. All gone. The creek more resembles a steep-sided city stormwater drain made of bare concrete where the water trickles over the stony bed.

Last year there were unsustainable horse numbers around the dam at Merambego. They must have retreated from the deeper wilderness to make a stand there. But there was no grass remaining. Their condition was so poor they would not have had the strength to get to the Snowy River, where they would have found little more food. The Merambego catchment apparently missed all the rain from a very narrow but savage storm that deluged the Stockyard only a few kilometres away. This drastic country misses the rainfall of the Australian Alps. Twice in previous years I have seen similar weather events, but neither had such singular ferocity.

In the months that followed, Richard and his wife Alison photographed dying and dead horses along the Snowy River, some frozen in the most agonised throes of death. They saw them pitifully wading into the river to claim the last green bits of reed that grew along the banks, often in competition with feral pigs, goats, and deer. The drought continued, like a signal of the climate changing. +++++

Death on the banks of the Snowy River Credit: Richard Swain

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WE HAVE LIMITED TIME, and plan to walk this 30km section in one day, from Merambego to the crest of the Black Range that divides the headwaters of Byadbo Creek and the Sheepstation Creek tributary of the Snowy River at 1,000m elevation. Our aim is to chart how that storm event has impacted the old track.

Since 2002, I have walked this area in different ways many times while mapping the Bundian Way and researching and conducting oral histories with cattlemen whose families used the area from settlement until it became a National Park in 1970. We recorded the routes they used and compared them with older maps and historical surveyors’ notes. At the time of our survey the crew dismissed the extreme difficulties of walking the area, saying people need a challenge nowadays, and this would be the most important part of the walk. It is where you can prove yourself. That said, walking here is indeed still a challenge.

The ravaged bowl of the Stockyard, at 700m elevation, comes at about one third of the way along our walk. The next leg involves clambering up rugged slopes about 300m to the rounded crest of Stockyard Ridge. We’ll follow the up-anddown crest for a few kilometres. Then, about four kilometres on, we intend a stopover at a legendary grassland known as Edbo Flat in the shadow of Byadbo Mountain.

Our clamber to the crest of the Stockyard Ridge is hot and dry and challenging, and yet these grassy woodlands don’t appear to have suffered too much from the rain, or rather, the lack of it. We follow the ridgetop for a few kilometres before we can descend a ridge to the junction of the Byadbo and O’Hares Creeks in a traverse I’ve undertaken many times before. But this time, the westward flowing drainage lines off Stockyard Ridge have suffered massive gully erosion, most likely triggered by floods scouring heavily grazed drainage lines. The narrow, crumbling ravines are four and five metres deep. It would be hard to find stronger evidence of the damage being done by feral horses. There was no sign of gullies when I walked the route in 2010.

Arriving at the junction of the Byadbo and O’Hares Creeks, there is none of the sheet erosion we found along Stockyard.

Several shallow pools survive in the creekbed near the junction, and none afterwards. There is barely enough water, I guess, to last a week without real rainfall, but its quality is so disgusting, foul and smelly, few creatures would brave drinking it.

BYADBO ISN’T RICH COUNTRY. It ran large numbers of cattle at the time of first settlement during the late 1820s but year by year those numbers kept falling. What used to be a good track ran through it—a groove in the ground maybe a metre wide, going east to west along the section of Byadbo Creek that leads to Edbo Flat. Here, there is a substantial area of lush native grassland. Hilltops overlooking the flat land reveal all manner of Aboriginal artefacts. It had always been regarded as a surprising, special place located in the middle of nowhere or the centre of everywhere else. I had followed this track on many

This’ll do us. Our campsite above Park Pass Glacier

Mintbush Animal cruelty?

Credit: Franz Peters

Richard Swain and John Blay on the Bundian Way near Upper Byadbo Creek Stockyard Flats gouged by floodwaters

Flood erosion, Stockyard Creek tributary

Credit: Alison Swain

View from McGuigans Gap of the Merambego grasslands, and to Byadbo and the Snowy River.

Snow-covered high country in the background

occasions over the years. But now, everything is different. The delightful route along flats beside the meandering creek overshadowed by eucalypts is changed. The creek is dry. The flats and nearby dry-as-a-bone hillsides are overgrown with interlaced branches of common cassinia, about three metres tall.

This environmental weed has greatly thickened and spread in recent times because of heavy grazing by the feral horses. The bared soil invites rapid invasion. Once the invasion is complete, the feral horses turn their attentions to the understorey further uphill. We have to crawl or smash our way through the scrub to make slow, unpleasant progress while its spent flowers explode about our heads and necks, and the debris gets in our eyes and ears and down our backs where it causes itching.

The Edbo Flat—with its swampy grassland and wildflowers, surrounded by a ring of rugged mountain crests—was like a Shangri-La. After extensive hot fires during the summer of 2003, upper parts of the Edbo Flat grasslands were overtaken by heavy regrowth and scrub comprised of mostly white sallee, black sallee, silver wattle and especially the dreaded dogwood cassinia. After disturbances such as hot fires or heavy grazing—when the earth is bared—the country responds with weeds and scrub. When the fire trails were bulldozed along ridgetops, they were quickly lined with walls of cassinia.

Any thoughts we might follow the old cattlemen’s route beside the creek to the flat are abandoned. Shadowing a mob

Byadbo is hard, unforgiving country and yet there’s beauty in its harshness. Its secrets call you back.” of brumbies, we now walk through the driest and most rugged parts, simply because there is less cassinia. The three of us agree that the best way to regain balance in the locality is to get rid of the horses and reintroduce traditional cultural burning as practised before colonisation.

Near the end of the walk and facing nightfall in a state of near-total exhaustion, there are moss-covered multicoloured stones of volcanic origin. And beyond the cassinia, steep hillsides slope towards the Snowy. It’s adventurous country. Across the silvery tones of the mountainside, its grey box trees are studded with the gold of mistletoe, which stands out at a distance to make the slopes look like a mighty Aboriginal dot-painting. Further down towards the Snowy, cypress pine dominates.

The day I walked Byadbo with Richard and Franz is one I should prefer to forget. We came looking for answers but found only more questions. Byadbo is hard unforgiving country and yet there’s beauty in its harshness. Its secrets call you back. By the campfire later, I think of how the horse came to rule here and how it failed to manage its kingdom.

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Feral Horses, KOSCIUSZKO NP

A dead horse in the waters of the Snowy Credit: Richard Swain

Snowy River

Brumbies and roos at Merambago Flats

Credit: Franz Peters

THE 6,900KM² KOSCIUSZKO NATIONAL PARK includes the highest parts of the Australian continent and is home to the iconic Snowy River. Within fifty years of European settlement, the alpine grasslands of the high country were found to provide valuable drought pastures for a region much prone to drought. Subsequently, a few horses escaped or were set free, and they began to populate the pastures.

If it were a farm, the national park would clearly be overstocked, to the extent that I believe its owners would be prosecuted for cruelty to their animals. And Byadbo Wilderness is not the only part of the park with unsustainable numbers of feral animals. In the adjacent Pilot Wilderness, the headwaters of the mighty Murray River have also been impacted by feral horses. Instead of extensive swampy wetlands holding the streams back for slow release to the westward plains, they have been grazed to mud that will soon enough become erosion gulches. Other parts of the national park rising into the alpine habitats are also suffering. Unique wildlife is threatened.

IN 1895 FOREMOST BUSH BALLADIST, Banjo Patterson, published a poem that was an instant success. The Man from Snowy River extolled the wild bush horses and the man whose horsemanship single-handedly rescued a colt that had run away to join the renegade mob. The poem’s ongoing popularity brought a romantic aura to feral horses, also known as brumbies. At the time, well-bred horses were highly valued.

None were willingly surrendered to the wilds. Every blade of

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grass was valuable and wild horses were shot on sight. The responsible farmer managed his stock and strictly controlled their number by the season.

The poem was quickly taken to heart by the Australian public and is now arguably the nation’s favourite. Today, horses that would have been shot by the graziers of yesteryear have been romanticised as brumbies in books and movies. Tourists want to see brumbies in the wild, and horse tours have become popular.

Everybody knew the horse population had increased to an alarming extent, especially given the effects of climate change and drought. At a scientific count in 2014 there were nearly 10,000. Nonetheless, for years the extent of their increase has been hotly debated.

If the horses are so numerous that in parts of the park they are dying of starvation, we must surely change management of our public lands. How can we allow the cruelty to continue while fragile systems at the headwaters of the dry continent’s significant waterways are put under threat and the effects multiply? How can public opinion be turned around? Doesn’t science have the answer to such a deplorable situation?

The growing impact of feral horse overpopulation in Australia’s biodiverse high country has increasingly concerned scientists, land managers, and members of the public. Despite this, the NSW Government enacted the Kosciuszko Wild Horse Heritage Act of 2018, which provided legal protection to feral horses on cultural grounds. Scientists were alarmed by the hazards the legislation raised; in desperation, they organised

doubled over the five years, increasing 23% annually from an estimated 9,190 in 2014 to 25,318 in 2019. It is a rate of population growth consistent with international monitoring of feral horse populations across the world.

Like the case for taking action to reduce climate change, if the overwhelming scientific case against protection of feral horses is not sufficient to persuade our legislators to change the law, then what is? How can it be that we allow spurious, emotional arguments to trump good science? Can you fight poem with poem? Why not re-legislate nature to bring about change? Can writing save the nation’s most significant national park?

On the Bundian Way, heading to Stockyard Creek

Who can view upland meadows that have

found their balance and form with the husbandry of thousands of years, and yet decide that all this place needs is a mob of feral horses to perfect it?” the Kosciuszko Science Conference to bring together key scientists and managers of the region in late 2018. At the conference, an accord signed by over 120 attendees stated that “scientific evidence shows that there is a clear and present threat to the natural water catchments and the natural ecosystems of Kosciuszko National Park and other Australian Alps national parks caused directly by thousands of feral horses” and called upon the government “to substantially and urgently reduce feral horse populations in these protected areas” and restore the protected status of the park.

In autumn 2019, scientists from the Australian Alps National Parks Co-operative Management Program undertook a feral horse aerial survey. This survey followed the 2014 model, employing the same operational and statistical methodology. It allowed for the estimation of both the current population and the change in horse numbers over the past five years. Results from both surveys indicated that the overall feral horse population was large, widespread, and continued to increase in size. The estimated population more than

NATIONAL PARKS AREN’T CREATED for the convenience of horses. They exist for the protection of unique native wildlife, which in this region includes emus, kangaroos, koalas, eastern quolls, antechinus, lyrebirds and platypus. Horses belong on farms. The park is not drought pasture. On occasion over the years, I saw occupied horse floats visit Merambego and depart empty, and now realise they weren’t on NPWS business but leaving behind their old station horses. I guess the grazier preferred to do this rather than send old horses to a knackery. But while I can’t say all horses in Merambego were brought by graziers, I do believe some of them survived and were joined by others from the drought-grizzled wilderness, resulting in the unsustainable population.

Factions of government are at odds over reducing greentape.

Serious environmental issues like climate change, management of the brumbies, water rights, land clearing, insensitive logging, protection of native grasslands and endangered species are blissfully being ignored. Too many politicians work to override the scientifically based management of national parks. They disregard science as an article of faith and say it is too cruel to cull the brumbies while ignoring those in agonised death throes beside the iconic river.

Shelley famously said that “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” but his words have brought an ironic twist to Australia’s best-known verse. The NSW Government’s brumby bill aimed to stop the culling of ‘heritage’ feral horses, and yet the subject of Banjo Patterson’s poem is the recapture of a valuable colt that “had got away” and “joined the wild bush horses”. Language has become detached from the real world, just as many feel themselves removed from ‘nature’, that they have lost their sense of belonging, their sense of being connected to a particular place, of being responsible for it, of caring for it. It’s time to rediscover our sense of belonging and connection.

And how, I wonder, can we re-engage the popular imagination with the realistic truth of nature’s predicament? Desperate action is called for. Poets, artists, scientists, Aboriginal community leaders and other opinion makers will have to rediscover the language of the natural world to distinguish it from the hollow ‘concepts’ our politicians constantly argue about. If we can follow Shelley’s dictum, it’s time for us to re-legislate for the survival of wild nature beyond this day and age.

Who can view upland meadows as beautiful as these, that have found their balance and form with the husbandry of many thousands of years, and yet decide that all this place needs is a mob of feral horses to perfect it? The consequences can be found in the desolated Stockyard and the tortured forms of dead brumbies beside the Snowy River.

CONTRIBUTOR: In 1982 when John Blay won a Fellowship to spend twelve months alone in the wilderness to write about his experience, fears were held for his safety and wellbeing. Today, fears are that he may yet turn into a shy black wallaby. His latest book is Wild Nature.

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TRACK NOTES

[ Track Notes ]

Surveying the way ahead

Mt Zeil

Words Roland Handel Photography Roland Handel & Paul Smith

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WILD Winter 2021

Activity: Off-track daywalk Location: Central Australia Distance: Approx. 15-18km (depending on route) Duration: 9-14 hours When to go: May-August Difficulty: Hard Maps: Hermannsburg 1:250K, but digital mapping apps are preferable Permits required: None Public transport available: No

Climate: Alice Springs Temperature (C)

If it weren’t for the fact that Mt Zeil/Urlatherrke is the Northern Territory’s highest peak (1,531m), I doubt it would ever make anyone’s peak-bagging bucket list. And even being one of Australia’s State 8 (the highest peak in each Australian State/ Territory), there are still only a handful of hikers who manage to climb its summit each year. As a footnote, Mt Zeil was the last of my own State 8 summits and—as you’ll read—one of the toughest of the eight mountains I’ve climbed.

Located at the western edge of the West MacDonnell Ranges, Zeil’s summit offers fantastic views toward the more-famous Mount Sonder (1,380m) and the peaks surrounding the world-renowned Larapinta Trail. However, in order to enjoy these views, you must endure hours of scrambling over jagged, hot rocks, weave and dodge thousands of spinifex needles, all the while having the central Australian sun blazing down on you, your only shade being your hat’s visor.

There is no trail up Mt Zeil and I’m not even sure there is a ‘best way up’.

Instead, summiting Zeil is a toss up between how long you want to be out in the sun versus how much you want to avoid walking through another f*#@ing spinifex bush. All that said, climbing Zeil is a great experience, and is within the grasp of any experienced walker. And if you’re a peak bagger, it’s a must do.

QUICK FACTS

Rainfall (mm)

Mount Zeil/ Urlatherrke NORTHERN TERRITORY’S

Alice Springs

Mt Zeil, NORTHERN TERRITORY The upper part of the gully below the summit

Even the bull ants stayed out of the sun

WHEN TO GO

DO NOT GO IN SUMMER! This part of Australia gets ridiculously hot. There is no water, little shade and temperatures routinely hit 40°C+ during summer (and even in spring and autumn).

And you’re a long way from help if you get into trouble.

The best time to climb is midwinter or early spring/late autumn. We climbed in mid-September and even though we kept an eye on temperatures, on our summit day the temperature peaked at 38°C. It was not pleasant.

GETTING THERE/ ACCESS

The launchpad for Mt Zeil is Alice Springs. You can source everything you need in town, including any outdoor gear from Wild stockist Lone Dingo (lonedingo.com.au). If you’re arriving by air, or only have a 2WD vehicle, you’ll need to rent a 4WD; the road to Zeil—while pretty good—is mostly dirt and often covered in sand drifts. Book your 4WD ahead, as they rent out quickly. Be aware it’s lonely out there; we didn’t pass a single vehicle once we turned off the Stuart Highway.

To drive to Zeil, head north out of Alice Springs toward Tennant Creek on the Stuart Highway (A87). Set trip odometer to 0.00 at the 80km/hr sign on the north side of Alice Springs (near the Motor Vehicle Registry). Turn left on Tanami Road (~15km), about 15 minutes out of Alice Springs.

At roughly the 133km mark, turn left onto dirt Gary Junction Road (toward Papunya). (Note, Google Maps names this Kintore Road). At around 185km is the final turnoff toward Mt Zeil. There is a beat-up white metal sign under a tree with Mt Zeil painted on it. You cross over the cattlegrid and immediately turn left. There is a track on either side of the cattle grid following a fence line. You need to take the track on the far side of the cattle grid. There are several gates along the way (leave them opened/closed as you find). The campsite is at roughly 192km, where the track ends and it opens up into a big area.

There is a big sandy hill right before the campsite, however you can take a detour to avoid driving up and through the sand.

FEES/PERMITS

None required

DIFFICULTY

For a one-day outing, this is a tough hike. There are no tracks— there aren’t even animal trails to follow. For most of the hike, you’ll be either climbing or descending rocky, spinifex-covered slopes, with very little (read NO) shade. In short, the general consensus is that the walk invariably turns out to be far more demanding than people expected. (NB: Ultra-runner Courtney Atkinson—a Red Bull-sponsored, pro ultra-runner—found it far harder, and took far longer, than he expected, and he ran out of food and water. “It was,” he said “a nightmare day.”)

The obligatory summit photo

NAVIGATION

In terms of official topo maps, there is the Northern Territory: Hermannsburg 1:250,000. However, at this scale, it renders features so small that the map is virtually useless. Instead, use online and phone mapping apps to get far more detail. By far the most useful, though, is satellite/aerial imagery (hence our departure from Wild’s usual mapping style in these track notes). Ahead of time, both print out (important!) and load onto your phone the necessary aerial imagery, and if you use an app like Australia Topo Maps, All Trails or similar, you can download satellite imagery for offline use and that will show your GPS position on it.

Regardless, carry a compass, and have a printed map of some description. You should also have good map-to-ground navigation skills. While you can often spy Zeil in the distance, being able to identify the easiest route toward it is essential.

If you’re not using a phone-based mapping app, being able to identify where you are on the map is important in identifying the best route back toward your campsite.

SAFETY & EQUIPMENT

Strongly consider carrying a Personal Locator Beacon (PLB).

Shortly after leaving Alice Springs, phone reception cuts out; you’ll have none during the hike. At the very least, let the rangers in Alice Springs know when you will be hiking and when you will return. Contact the Chief Ranger, Chris Day, at chris.day@nt.gov.au, or by phone: 08 8951 8251.

The terrain is rocky and unforgiving. You’ll often be wading through knee-high spinifex or jumping from rock to rock (to avoid the spinifex). You need thick, supportive shoes and knee-high, tough gaiters. The spinifex blades will often pierce lighter shoes like trail runners, and can make your life a misery. And gaiters won’t hurt in terms of another danger: snakes. Central Australia is notorious for having some of the world’s most venomous species. Carry a snakebite first aid kit, and know how to apply a pressure bandage. Remember, if you’re bitten, a PLB may save your life.

Finally, take plenty of water (see ‘Water’ below).

ACCOMMODATION

Camping only. Alice Springs, though, has options from cheap campgrounds right through to high-end fancy hotel chains.

WATER

Once you leave Alice Springs, there is no water (or food or fuel).

Get what you need in town. I can’t emphasise enough that you need to take LOTS OF WATER. Take what you think is plenty, and then add a little more. We took six litres of water each; more than enough, we thought, especially since it was only mid-spring. We still ran out.

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Mt Zeil, NORTHERN TERRITORY

Campsite

START/ FINISH

Mt Zeil/ Urlatherrke

Northwest Ridge Route

Northeast Gully Route

Alt B Route

Alt A Route

EXIT/ENTER MAIN GULLY HERE

Northeast Gully Route

Northwest Ridge Route

Mt Zeil/Urlatherrke (1,531m)

0

1

2 KM

The Walk This is an unusual set of track notes to write up. Climbing Zeil is like an old-school choose-your-own adventure. With no track, no good topo maps, and with the land being so open with few big obvious features, there’s no point giving blowby-blow, turn-by-turn instructions. I’ll provide the lay of the land, outline our route, and say what I’ve been able to learn from others’ attempts. And then it’s up to you. You choose the way you want to tackle the mountain.

From where you start, Zeil’s summit is almost due south, and bang-on six kilometres away as the crow flies.

Y2 OPTION A

Northwest Ridge (aka Direct) Route Approx. 7.5km (5-8 hours)

Immediately south of the camp area, there is a low hill. It’s a good idea to start by climbing it to get your bearings. From there, head in a southwesterly direction for a bit over a

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Map data: Google © 2021, Imagery © 2021 CNES / Airbus, Maxar Technologies

kilometre before heading south. As the climb isn’t too rugged, you have good views of the terrain ahead and can pick and adjust your route as you proceed. At about 2.5km, you reach the edge of a steep drop into a valley, crossing it before commencing the climb of the second range toward Zeil proper.

The second range is noticeably steeper to climb, and it becomes tougher to navigate as you climb in and out of peaks and troughs.

By staying right (west) you can avoid ascending/descending a smaller ridge which cuts across the hike. You eventually reach a ridge (the Northwest Ridge) that runs all the way to Zeil’s summit. Once on this summit ridge, much of the spinifex gives way to long grass; you can make good time here as the ground flattens out, and you can hike along the spur rather than climbing up it.

The above description is the most direct route toward Zeil and you can largely determine how far right (ie west) of Zeil you’ll end up before following the Northwest Ridge toward the summit.

It took us around six hours to reach the summit via this direct route (with minimal breaks). The summit is clearly marked by a large cairn of rocks (and when we climbed, by a small mobile weather station as well).

We descended into and across the main valley on the photo’s far left. By staying right (west) we were able to traverse the head of the valley, avoiding a steeper climb back out

A rare shady spot.

We ran out of water shortly after this photo was taken

Paul trying to work out the least-worst way to continue

OPTION B

Northeast Gully Route Approx. 9km (5-8 hours)

An alternative way to climb Zeil is to commence in a southeasterly direction. This entails skirting around the first mountain range and walking along a wide, dry, sandy plain. It’s even lightly wooded in some parts. After heading southeast for three kilometres, you reach a point where a large valley cuts in from the WSW (although this may not be obvious depending on the tree cover, and how east or west you are from the valley exit).

You have two options here: You can do what most people do, which is to cross the valley exit and continue heading southeast to a point where another creek gully exits onto the flats; you then head directly south up this gully (see Alt B Route on map).

But you can instead head southwest for a few hundred metres into the large WSW valley, then swing SE up the next creek gully, before heading due south over one of the hills before eventually connecting with the main gully (see Alt A Route on map).

With this latter option, you avoid some difficult terrain. You then continue up this ‘northeast’ gully before leaving it for the final ascent up Mt Zeil. There are several options as to where to leave it, however; your decision when to do so will be informed by your judgement of the lay of the land.

We actually descended via this Northeast Gully Route; I’ll describe this descent now. Head north off the summit, and you soon reach a bone-dry river gully that continues all the way to flatter ground at the base of the range. The upper part of the gully is easy to follow. It’s wide, with mostly big flat rocks, and you can quickly cross from one side of the gully to the other or simply descend straight down the middle of the gully.

The gully heads vaguely northeast for nearly 1.5km, before it heads due north for roughly 400m. In the middle of the day, it can get nasty here, with the heat radiating off the walls.

There are several dry waterfalls/big drops to negotiate, and the descent becomes increasingly steep. After roughly 400m

down that due north section of gully, a dry, steeply-angled rockface makes progress down the gully difficult. At this point, you can either skirt high above this steep face until you find a route back into the gully. Or you can do what we did (see Alt A Route on map), which was to exit west for roughly 200m, before then heading north over a low rise and entering another gully which eventually spits you out onto flatter country. This option both saves time and avoids some steep sections in the main gully. Once back on the sandy plain, it’s roughly three kilometres back to the camp/car. It took us six hours to return via this route.

And the best way is?

During my research prior to setting out, I’d read different opinions as to whether the Northwest Ridge/Direct Route or the Northeast Gully Route was better. We did both; I’m still not sure one is superior to the other. The Northwest Ridge Route is shorter in distance, but it involves more ascending, the ground is rockier, and it’s where we encountered most of the spinifex.

On the other hand, while the Northeast Gully Route starts with easy walking on flat, wide, sandy ground, it becomes challenging once you hit the gully itself. The bottom section is steep, and it can be difficult climbing through the jumble of rocks and weeds that choke some sections of the gully. It’s hard yakka.

So, I’m undecided. I think both routes work. Our circular/ loop route was a good compromise, allowing a gradual ascent and then a fast descent, although it takes a little longer because you’re routefinding the entire way. But charting your own course is part of the joy here; what’s fun about climbing Mt Zeil is that you get to choose your own adventure. W

CONTRIBUTOR: Roland has the ambitious target of trying to climb the highest peak in every country he visits. Belgium and the Netherlands were a cinch; the summits of India and Pakistan were no-go zones. You can read about all of Roland’s State 8 climbs at state8.net

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GEAR

[ Gear Talk ] HELLY HANSEN

Lifa Infinity Pro A waterproof/breathable fabric that finally ditches DWR.

N

ow, hopefully you’ve read Xavier Anderson’s piece ‘The DWR Problem’ in this issue of Wild.

If you haven’t, check it out (p42), but in short, most Durable Water Repellent treatments involve the use of PFCs, which are harmful to both humans and the environment. When Xavier initally wrote the piece though, while both he and I knew of a few garments out there with PFC-free DWR, neither of us knew of waterproof/breathable garments existing that not only don’t use DWR, but that don’t use chemicals at all. But then we learnt about Helly Hansen’s proprietary waterproof/breathable fabric Lifa Infinity Pro which, in short, instead of using chemicals, achieves waterproofness via fibre selection, and through physical manipulation of the materials, such as heating and stretching.

To be fair, the fabric is new, and only properly arrived on Australian shores earlier this year. But garments using it, like Helly’s Elevation Infinity Shell, have been winning 2020 and 2021 Northern Hemisphere awards—like at ISPO, Red Dot, and Outdoor Retailer—thanks in large part to their eco-friendly production.

The fabric combines a hydrophobic face fabric with the Lifa Infinity membrane. The latter is created via a solvent-free process, after which it is

stretched—at different temperatures— in varying directions. The result is mainly, well, nothing. The membrane is 75% air. Not only do these nanoscale pores allow great breathability, they allow for an extremely lightweight membrane weighing just 4g per square metre.

The face (outer) fabric is the element where manufacturers usuElevation Infinity Shell jacket ally apply a DWR coating; as noted earlier, all-too-often this treatment involves PFCs. But Helly’s use of Lifa fibres (a proprietary fibre based on polypropylene, which has a much lower surface tension in comparison to polyester and polyamide fibres) allows the company to do away with chemicals and the DWR process in its entirety. Not only is this more eco-friendly, it has performance benefits, too. There is no DWR to rub off or wear away; the garment never needs treatment, or even tumble drying, to reactivate water repellency.

While all this sounds awesome on paper, does it deliver in practice? Well, over the coming winter, Wild will put Lifa Infinity Pro to the test. We’ll deliver our verdict in the next issue.

James McCormack

[ Gear Review ]

THE NORTH FACE

Vectiv Exploris Futurelight Heavy on tech, light on weight.

I

like hiking boots. Big ones. Big leather ones. Big heavy leather ones. But one reason I’ve usually opted for them is that, in my experience, shoes aren’t robust enough to handle what I throw at ‘em.

I’m what you’d call a ‘clumsy’ hiker, and it results in two things. One: me tripping over and injuring myself. And two: my shoes getting holes in them.

The North Face’s Vectiv Exploris shoes, therefore, mightn’t seem an obvious choice for me. They use no leather. They’re not heavy. They’re not even boots.

In fact, they look far more like trail runners thank boots. But when I unboxed my pair, my first thought was this: Whoa! This is some serious footwear!

It seems TNF had lightweight shoe doubters like me in mind when they designed the Exploris. Those holes I talked about my shoes getting? They normally develop around the toe, on the sides where the sole meets the fabric, and on either end of the crease line. These wear points have been reinforced on the Exploris with a protective toe cap and rand, and by integrating an abrasion-resistant Cordura upper.

And then, since we’re talking about toughness, there are the soles—solid, and with enough rigidity to feel supported without being excessively flexible.

The soles are actually the shoe’s headline tech

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feature, the ‘Vectiv’ element of the Exploris. High-end road running shoes have recently undergone a revolution with stiff, energy-returning carbon plates being incorporated into their soles; TNF changed the game by extending this technology to trail running shoes, and now to hiking shoes, too. And to further maximise momentum, the Exploris’s sole is heavily rockered (curved); it’s not difficult to see the running shoe influence here. I’ve got to admit that, at first, the rockered sole felt different, particularly on flatter ground. But it didn’t take long to feel at home, and I actually do believe the rocker—coupled with the Vectiv plate—supplies some extra momentum to reduce fatigue throughout a day’s walking.

A few other brief points: Traction seems solid, even on slippery rock. And while I haven’t worn them in the rain yet, there’s no reason to think the Futurelight membrane would offer anything other than excellent waterproofness. In any case, they’ve proven breathable thus far. The end result is an ergonomic hiking shoe that’s lightweight, waterproof, breathable, tough, grippy and energy saving. Oh, and unlike my leather hiking boots, they never need polish.

Ryan Hansen

Need to Know Acitvity: Hiking Waterproof: Yes Weight (EU 41 as tested): 724g (pair) RRP: $270 More info: thenorthface.com.au

GEAR

[ Gear Test ] OSPREY

Aether Plus 85

Craig Pearce puts the next generation Aether Plus to the test in the Victorian Alps, and finds it to be a serious contender.

I

wanted to try out my son’s Osprey Aether Pro 70L pack for a multidayer at Mutawintji. I called it ‘borrowing’. My son called it ‘theft’. My wife arched an eyebrow. I mean, hello, it was me who’d paid for the thing! Anyway, I pulled off the heist, and was so impressed by the comfort of its harness system that when a new generation of Osprey packs was released, I was eager to give one a crack.

The upshot? I was impressed. I ended up going with the Aether Plus 85, although because I went for the S/M version, it was actually 83L (the L/XL is the full 85). Advertised at 2.76kg (my scales said 2.95), the Aether Plus 85 was heavier than the pack I’d been using, but without a doubt the harness system—upgraded from the generation of packs my son was using—made this ride the most comfortable backpack I’ve ever experienced. #designcounts.

And for me, as someone who likes his multidayers, comfort is the crux. There’s a lot of science that goes into these packs, and plenty of excellent options, but Osprey is clearly a leader in the field.

It probably helps that they’re primarily a pack-only company. That is what they’re dedicated to producing, so they have sound commercial motivation for getting it right.

After trying an interchangeable approach to hipbelts and harnesses in its previous generation of packs, with the Aethers it was back to the single setup, this time with a focus on making sure the harnessing, shoulder straps and hip belt can easily be adjusted to the individual—and while in action.

I found this ‘fit-on-the-fly’ capability—on a 70km, four-day walk up-ing and down-ing in the Victorian Alps carrying 18-20kg—to work efficiently.

One reason for the Ospreys’ comfort factor is that they’re comparatively slim and tall. The load is held snug to the back; there’s minimal pulling away from the shoulders. This reverse ‘pull’ has been the primary pain point for me when using backpacks. The Aether does a noticeably good job of getting the weight to sit on the hips, rather than the delicate shoulder musculature. The stability was excellent.

The other big Aether bonuses, for me, are the detachable daypack, and the many externally accessible pockets. Both features—especially when you’re doing multi-dayers, which you will be; you’re not going to lug around an 85L pack otherwise—are extremely practical. Yet not all packs have them and/or do a good job with them. The daypack setup is simple once you get the gist. For me this was a weight saver, as I would have taken something to do the job anyway. The volume is ideal for your random diversion 101 gear: jacket, water, food, camera, safety and nav stuff etc.

And the pockets? Perfect for my needs. Four large ones (three frontal, one in the lid), two small ones (both on the lid, with the day pack feature being workable as a small pocket, too) and two generous hip-belt pockets.

The latter are useful for glasses, small cameras, snacks, maps etc.

Other features include a raincover (its roomy pocket provides yet another option to stow gear), floating top lid, an integrated FlapJacket for lidless use, dual ice axe loops, side and front panel compression straps, attachments for trekking poles, and other straps that allow for random bits to be lashed to the pack. There is also front-panel access to the main compartment.

The Aether Plus range has 60 to 100 litre options.

The women’s equivalent—Ariel Plus—runs from 60 to 85 litres. The ranges have impressive sustainability characteristics. They include most (if not all) harmful substances being removed from their production; the fabric does not have toxic chemicals in its water-repelling constituents (ie its DWR finish is PFC-free; see this issue’s story ‘The DWR Conundrum’ starting on p42); the suspension system almost eliminates plastic waste in its manufacturing (thanks to the frame being injection moulded); and the company actively works to reduce and offset its carbon footprint.

Niggles? Well, I still haven’t found a pack where my non-contortionist self (okay, so I’m not in my supple 20s) can easily access a water bottle from the side-pockets designed for this purpose. I’d hope the Aether Plus might be the first; sadly, it wasn’t to be.

There is also a slight weight penalty paid through the generous number of pockets, the daypack attachment, and the sleeping bag partition within the pack itself. While the former two features are more than worth the weight gain, the latter feature is pointless in my view, and can’t be removed despite the website claiming otherwise; you can ‘decommission’ the divider, but unless you cut it out, it’s attached to the pack. Other than that—and ditching the unnecessary but now seemingly de rigueur bladder system—the comfort, volume and features make the Aether Plus 85 a serious contender. Retailing at $540, it offers sound value for money. I plan on happily using mine for many treks to come.

The harness system made this ride the most comfortable backpack I’ve ever experienced."

In the Victorian Alps

Need to Know Volume: S/M 83L; L/XL 85L Intended load range: 18-32kg Weight (S/M as tested): 2,950g Detachable daypack: Yes RRP: $539.95 More info: Osprey.com

Craig Pearce

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[ Wild Shot ]

I was at West Cape Howe, Western Australia, when I photographed these climbers making their way up the wall with the roaring southern ocean below and a helluva storm approaching. They had about an hour until the rain set in; it’s not the place to get stuck.”

Jeremy Shepherd Perth, WA Jeremy wins an OSPRE Y TALON 22 PACK, valued at $199.95.

With trekking pole, ice axe and bike helmet attachment points, it’s a versatile, multisport daypack, at home bagging peaks or on cycling adventures.

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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Suspension A LightWire spring steel peripheral frame and an Air Scape® ventilated backpanel for the best quality carr y ever of fered.

Load Capacity Designed to provide a stable closeto-body carr y; ideal for managing heavier loads when the trail gets technical.

Custom Fit A c u t t i n g - e d g e C u s t o m F i ton-the-Fly® design does away with complexity while of fering a truly fine-tuned fit.

A quarter century of evolution. For a lifetime of trips.

The all-new Aether™ | Ariel. Available now at your authorised Australian Osprey deler.

www.osprey.com

CERRO TORRE

The mountains creak.

Shoulder your Cerro Torre Breathe in. Buckle up.

Zip, clip, adjust.

Listen for the horizon Silence beckons you forward.

Brace yourself.

This is The Carry Moment™ Breathe out, and go.

CERRO TORRE World class carry system

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Move through isolated wilderness carrying everything you need to survive in the Cerro Torre. A serious load carrier for self-sufficient trekking and expeditions – the most advanced carry system we have ever built.

CERRO TORRE: designed to move your world.