Wild #183

#183

AU T U M N 2 0 2 2

WA'S SURPRISING STIRLING RANGE

STAYING SANE IN THE RAIN - THE NATIONAL TRAIL - PHOTO ESSAY: KOSCIUSZKO'S HISTORIC HUTS PROFILE: BRAD MCCARTNEY - PACKRAFTING THE WESTERN ARTHURS - LITCHFIELD NP'S TABLETOP TRACK

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ENTER HERE

CONTENTS ISSUE #183 AUTUMN 2022

70 Get WAKT

Packrafting the Western Arthurs

80 Alone in Litchfield REGULARS

Readers’ Letters 08 Editor’s Letter 10 Gallery 12 Columns 20 Getting Started: Staying Dry 34 WILD Shot 122

CONSERVATION

Green Pages 28 Restore Lake Pedder 48

NONE OF THE ABOVE FEATURES

Opinion: The Paradox of Consumption 32 Q & A: Outdoors People for Climate 38 Profile: Brad McCartney 42 The Longest Night 60 Packrafting the Western Arthurs 70 NT’s Tabletop Track 80 Photo Essay: Kosciuszko Huts 86 The National Trail 92 Climbing NZ’s 3000+m peaks 98

WILD BUNCH TRACK NOTES GEAR

Walks in Tasmania’s Central Highands 104 WA’s Stirling Range Ridge Walk 106 Talk and Tests 114 Support Our Supporters 116 Brand Heritage: Mammut 120

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86 Kosciuszko Huts 48 Restore Lake Pedder Fifty years ago, Lake Pedder—the jewel of Tasmania’s southwest—was drowned. Bob Brown, Christine Milne and Tabatha Badger look back on the shameful event, but also look to the future, one in which Pedder is restored to glory.

60 The Longest Night A few nights into an expedition rafting down the Martuwarra/ Fitzroy River in WA’s Kimberley Region, Alex Parsons was bitten by snake while she slept. What followed verged on sheer hell.

98 Enchainment

Late in 2021, Alastair McDowell and Hamish set off not only to climb all 24 of NZ’s 3000+m peaks, but to do it in one consecutive outing, entirely under their own steam, and in less than a month.

LETTERS

[ Letter of the Issue ]

JUST DOING WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE Hi James, Excellent editorial in Wild #182 about Parks Victoria’s grasping need to make money from national parks and their thin-skinned approach to criticism on social media. As a volunteer worker in parks and other publicly owned land over many years, I’ve come to the conclusion that PV—far from wishing more volunteers to help their admittedly hard-pressed and under funded staff—actually hate and fear volunteers, and would rather be given cash donations to employ commercial operators to do what needs to be done.

In the past 3-4 years, we volunteers have been forced to enroll on programs via PV’s dysfunctional and clunky Parkconnect app, have been given a byzantinely complicated ‘Volunteer Manual’ to comply with, and from 2022 all volunteers, even for a onehour activity with over-70s, will need to carry a Working With Children card. Many volunteers I know have far greater experience and knowledge of the areas they work in than the local PV rangers and staff, many of whom move on after a year or so. Complaints to the Minister (or PV’s Facebook page) go nowhere, so many of us are considering leaving any organised volunteer group, just doing what we know needs to be done, and simply not telling Parks Victoria.

Mick Webster Chiltern, VIC

LODGES: A COMMERCIAL NECESSITY? Dear Wild, When proponents of private lodges in national parks argue why we need them, they frequently cite commercial necessity, and also that lodges are needed to accommodate those who can’t, or don’t wish to, carry a heavy pack into the wilderness. Well, I am the Managing Director of Life’s an Adventure— one of Australia’s largest guided walking companies; we specialise in pack-free walks all around the country—and I can say both these arguments are misguided. What is undeniably evident, however, is the greed of some commercial operators who want to commercialise our national parks for financial gain.

Putting a private lodge and cabins into national parks is an act of environmental vandalism and is preventable. It seems state governments are willing to sell off their crown jewels for a pittance. It is a national tragedy which needs more media attention.

We have less and less wilderness areas in Australia.

We need to start protecting what is left.

What I find outrageous is the way state governments are allowing one commercial operator to have exclusive rights in a national park. National parks should be for everyone—the rich AND the less fortunate. To sell the rights to one operator, and then have taxpayers pay for their marketing is quite outrageous and, frankly, quite disgusting.

I would like to see a coalition of tourism operators

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who oppose any development in parks and who wish to see a more sustainable approach to commercial operations in national parks. We must ensure the parks are open for all persons to walk, either on their own (staying in a tent) or on a walking tour utilising existing accommodation. If the operator wants to build a lodge, then build it on nearby private land.

It’s great that state governments are finally waking up to the demand for parks and wilderness areas; please, however, make them accessible for all.

It has always been the vision of Life’s an Adventure to operate walking tours throughout Australia sustainably. For instance, on Kangaroo Island, we can successfully run a tour without putting up cabins and other intrusive developments in a wilderness area.

And we can give back to the local community and tourism providers by using local accommodation, restaurants and operators by simply providing walks in and out of the park on a daily basis.

Parks are for everyone to enjoy, and not just the select, privileged few.

Mark Norek Managing Director, Life’s An Adventure

ANOTHER ONE FROM BARRY (Ed: Last issue, with us nearing the 50th anniversary of Lake Pedder’s flooding, Barry shared a story about the lake and Edmund Hillary. Here he is with another Pedder anecdote.)

Dear Wild, I went to the original Lake Pedder twice. On the second trip, we flew out from the lake in a small plane.

The pilot was young. We taxied down the beach and turned around facing into the wind, which was coming across the buttongrass plains. I was sitting in the back of the plane. We started off down the beach. We gathered speed. But as we came towards the end of the beach, I began wondering when we would lift off. I looked over the shoulder of the young pilot. On his lap he had a large book opened. On the top of the page was the title ‘HOW TO TAKE OFF IN A CROSS WIND’.

Barry Revill Moorabbin, VIC

EDITOR’S NOTE ON PHYTOPHTHORA In Issue #181, we ran track notes for Fitzgerald River NP. But as Rosie Smith pointed out to us, we neglected to mention the very real threat that phytophthora dieback poses to the park, especially for portions of the route we suggested. It’s a serious issue, one that we should have addressed. Always remember before heading off-track to research which areas are sensitive and need to be avoided, or to ask for a ranger’s advice. And even though this issue’s track notes for the Stirling Range NP explain how to tread lightly in phytophthora-susceptible country, you really should head to Project Dieback’s website at dieback.net.au for more info & resources.

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

They’ll also, like Mick in this issue, receive A FREE ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION TO WILD. To be in the running, send your 40-400 word letters to: editor@wild.com.au

QUICK THOUGHT

(On ‘Are You Really Ready’ which appeared in Wild #182)

AreYou Really

Ready?

Stan Meissner sets off to circumnavigate Tasmania by sea kayak.

He quickly finds himself confronting some tough questions.

Words & Photography Stan Meissner

Josh and Wendy, below the Tasman Peninsula's sea cliffs, some of the largest in the Southern Hemisphere

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“Another great read.

There has been some courageous publishing in the last several editions.

It takes guts as a publisher to push the envelope and it is a breath of fresh air when you see it happen!” PH

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.

Mick’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 GREEN PAGES EDITOR: Maya Darby PROOFING AND FACT CHECKING: Martine Hansen, Ryan Hansen DESIGN: James McCormack FOUNDER: Chris Baxter OAM

CONTRIBUTORS: Alex Parsons, Belinda Tomlins, Alastair McDowell, Dan Slater, Catherine Lawson, Nathan McNeil, James Tugwell, Thor F Jensen, Christine Milne, Tabatha Badger, Bob Brown, Stefan De Montis, Fraser Perry, John Chapman

PUBLISHER Toby Ryston-Pratt Adventure Entertainment Pty Ltd ABN 79 612 294 569 ADVERTISING AND SALES Paul Robinson 0408 162 246 paul@adventureentertainment.com

THE

COVER

SHOT

By Fraser Perry

SUBSCRIPTIONS

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WARNING:

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

The Wild logo is registered as a trademark; the use of the name is prohibited. All material copyright Adventure Entertainment Pty Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without obtaining the publisher’s written consent.

Wild attempts to verify advertising, track notes, route descriptions, maps and other information, but cannot be held responsible for erroneous, incomplete or misleading material. Articles represent the views of the authors and not the publishers.

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

“There is often a point during a bushwalk when one reconsiders their route choice. This was that moment on the Stirling Range. After a slow morning breaking camp, we climbed out of the Third Arrow cave and then over the Second and First Arrows, before finally getting glimpses of the ridgeline and route ahead. It revealed more steep climbs, rocky descents, and exposed cliffs.

Our morale had followed a similar course. A brief respite was needed, one consisting of pep talks, snacks, encouragements, and more pep talks. Although an escape route off the range existed, it wasn’t any shorter or easier than pushing on towards Bluff Knoll. With that in mind, we set off with our spirits slowly improving.

This photo was taken shortly after from a switchback on the northern side of the First Arrow, showing the difficult terrain we had come across. It was an encouraging reminder of our achievements thus far, and of the adventure we were on. It was one of the few opportunities to show perspective of the steep terrain, something that Western Australia isn’t typically known for.”

Read more about Fraser’s route in WA’s surprising Stirling Range in this issue’s Track Notes, starting on P106.

IT’S TIME.

RESTORE LAKE PEDDER

Join the campaign today AUTUMN 2022

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FROM THE EDITOR

SECRETS

W

e all have secrets. According to the Scientific American, this is a bad thing.

“It hurts to keep secrets,” it said in a 2019 article called ‘Why the Secrets You Keep Are Hurting You’. It also claimed we have, on average, thirteen secrets, although how they came up with such a precise number seems a little, well, implausible. In any case, I suspect respondents to surveys about secrets tend to keep the number of secrets they have a secret. Or they flat out lie. When I asked my wife what her thirteen secrets were, she not only refused to divulge them, she denied she had anywhere near thirteen secrets. “There’s no way I have that many,” she said (or lied). “Do you?”

“Actually, I do,” I replied. “I have more.

Waaay more.”

This isn’t a bad thing. In fact, I wish more people in the outdoors/adventure world kept more secrets. I’m thinking of two things here. Firstly, there are my own secrets, one of which is a discovery I once made of a secret swimming hole, one surrounded by lush forest and cliffs, with a three-channelled waterfall plunging into a dark pool. I tell virtually no-one where this place is. There are also little-known routes that I won’t share widely. Locations of forest valleys with ancient, giant trees.

Of secret paths through cliffs and canyons and slots. Of sly backcountry skiing chutes and lines. Because while I’m happy to share most of my knowledge of brilliant natural spots or routes with others, some places, I think, deserve to be kept secret.

Secondly, I am thinking of Instagram, and social media in general. The ABC recently ran a story on the problem of geotagging images taken in Tasmania’s Southwest. Beautiful images are encouraging people into wilderness areas, many of which are fragile, environmentally sensitive locations. And by geotagging, which adds a specific location to the images, copycat photographers no longer have to seek out information and explore areas for themselves; the geotags deliver them right

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to the spot, with lamentable consequences for hitherto secret spots.

The article didn’t come out and say this, but many others do: Instagram is the devil.

Often, I find myself in agreement. But not always, because the problems with saying this are twofold. In fact, threefold.

For starters, what can be done about this?

Trying to hold back the flood of information on social media, and the web in general, is like trying to hold back the tide with a bucket. We can complain about this as much as we want, but this horse has long bolted. That said, reducing the amount of geotagging seems a sensible and perhaps achievable goal.

But then there is the question of what the fundamental difference is between social/digital and print media here? Or indeed any photography in general. On our Facebook post about the ABC story, one commenter wrote, “I fell in love with Lake Oberon long before social media. It was a Peter Dombrovskis print …”

It’s true; coffee table photo books, guidebooks, and indeed Wild itself, were all encouraging people into these places long before Insta reared its dastardly head.

There would be some validity to arguing that complaining about social media is a bit rich coming from the editor of a magazine long devoted to encouraging and inspiring people to go to wild places, and, in the process, sometimes giving away secrets.

In general, however, I believe Wild’s sharing of natural locations has been positive. But not always; there have been mistakes. Even in our last issue, I believe we didn’t do enough to stress the impacts of phytophthora dieback in Fitzgerald River NP (see the Letters page). Most famously, though, there was Wild’s controversial story a little over twenty years ago on the quest for the Wollemi pine. I almost always find myself nodding in furious agreement when I dig into the magazine’s archives to read old editorials from Chris Baxter (Wild’s founding editor, at the helm for more than two decades); his editorial justifying the

decision to run the Wollemi pine story was one of the very rare occasions I did not.

Getting the balance right isn’t easy, however. I have knocked back stories pitched to Wild because they revealed too much about sensitive areas. I’ve also, at times, used obscure image captions, or sometimes none at all, if it seemed appropriate. Nonetheless, I’m sure there’d be some who complain that I, as editor, don’t go far enough. That Wild says too much. That it should never reveal anywhere ‘new’.

But there’s a fundamental tension here, one that can’t ever be entirely resolved, and it involves the third problem with completely demonising social media. Because while I will argue for keeping some places secret, there’s no doubt that doing the opposite has led to not only the joy of others visiting those locations, it’s led to some of our greatest environmental campaign successes.

Back to Dombrovskis, his iconic Rock Island Bend photo helped sway a nation to fight to protect the Franklin. Who’s to say this new slew of social media images won’t do the same for a younger generation?

And so we must pick and choose. This is not to deny that Insta-fame has no costs: the possibility of erosion, introduced weeds, plant diseases and loss of solitude.

I guess the point I’m trying to make here is that this issue of secrets—whether or not to share them, whether or not to widely publicise special, wild places—requires that most precious and often elusive of qualities: Judgement. And the difficulty with judgement is that it doesn’t come with hard and fast rules. There is no clear-cut point at which the answer to the following question slips from yea to nay: Are the pros of widely sharing the details of beautiful places that inspire us to visit and/or protect them outweighed by the cons of damage by increased visitation? But even if our responses differ, we still need to ask ourselves precisely that question. So share when it helps. Keep secrets when it doesn’t. Use your judgement.

And above all, tread lightly.

JAMES MCCORMACK

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GALLERY

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We first sighted it from the opposite clifftops: a beautiful splitting crack rising above churning blue waters in the gulch below. I wasted no time rappelling down a nearby cliff to get into position, while Kenny descended to the anchors and manned an uncomfortable hanging belay.

Charlotte led, climbing towards the welcome sunshine on Maelstrom (19) Bruny Island, Tasmania

by LACHLAN GARDINER

Panasonic Lumix DC-S5, S 24-70mm f/2.8L, f8, 1/320, ISO 320

AUTUMN 2022

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MUMC (Melbourne University Mountaineering Club) Hut laying witness to some late winter star gazing on the west face of Feathertop, Alpine NP, Victoria

by ADAM FLOWER

Sony A7III, 14mm 1.8, Stacked image of 30s at f1.8, ISO 2500; 20s at f4, ISO 1000; and 1/1000 at f4.5, ISO 1250

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Ahhh, the Snowies! Here’s Teen, marvelling at the layers and layers of mountains across towards the Geehi from near Watsons Crags in Koscuiszko NP, NSW. Not long after this shot was taken, a bitter front rolled in, and we returned to the tents in 5m visibility

by RYAN HANSEN

Sony A7RII, FE70-200mm, f5, 1/160, ISO 500

AUTUMN 2022

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Eerie fog lifts near the summit of Frenchmans Cap, revealing a vertical world brushed by sunset light. This broad ledge offered not only a tantalising view over the abyssal void, but a perfect bivy site. As soon as the sun set, however, ice was crystallising all over our gear—welcome to autumn in Tasmania.

by SHAUN MITTWOLLEN

Nikon Z7, Z 14-30mm f4, f11, 1/5s, ISO 64

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GALLERY

AUTUMN 2022

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Christmas Day in 2021 for me meant setting a 3:40AM alarm to head to Rocky Creek Canyon in NSW’s Blue Mountains. While others sat at home unwrapping presents, I was going to my kind of ‘church’. 10/10 for a beautiful new tradition

by ANJA FUECHTBAUER

Sony A7RIII, FE24-70mm f4, f10, 4s, ISO 125

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GALLERY

I asked Dillon to wear an outfit as colourful as his personality ... He climbed naked! There were many great route options for this special photoshoot, like Creep Show at Logan Brae or anything on “Exhibition Wall”. However, I feel we made the right call: Here is the beautiful but limp Dillon Lamour climbing Beautiful but Limp (27), Blue Mountains, NSW

by JARED ANDERSON

Canon EOS 6D MarkII, Sigma 14-24mm f/2.8L DG HSM, f3.5, 1/1000, ISO 400

AUTUMN 2022

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Columns: GREEN LIVING Bob.Brown.Foundation bobbrownfndn

[BOB BROWN]

www.bobbrown.org.au

SENTINELS OVER PEDDER Heading off for higher ground, Bob climbs to a grandstand view over Tasmania’s Southwest.

L

for panic: Would we find ourselves stuck ast month Paul and I, following the Sentinels drops and then rises impresat a clifftop and have to backtrack? At one in the footsteps of thousands, sively towards the North Sentinel (974m). point, we had to body-straddle a quartzite struck out for Lake Pedder. We The artificial lakes Gordon and Pedder, boulder slab sitting precariously above a couldn’t, however, find the track where in the middle distance, break in and out ravine and ready—in geological time at it leaves the Gordon River Road west of of this view-field. The former is notable least—to slide into it. At another, we had to Maydena. That’s because it begins on for the dead trees lining its perimeter; cross a five-metre gap by treading on the a boggy plain and was probably always the latter for the thin white bath-ring stems of small trees which were, themshifting pre-1973, when it was thronged around its perimeter. Fake Pedder’s water selves, just managing to grip the cliff-face. with mud-to-the-knees pilgrims on their level fluctuates in the service of making Anyway, we got down. way to the doomed lake. electricity, and this has scoured the vegFrom the cliffs’ base, we crossed a thickSo we set off for higher ground. We etation from the hillsides, exposing the eted gully and scrambled down an open ended up on the handsome Sentinel Range white quartzite base. ridge, paralleling the one we had at its South Sentinel (849m), ascended, onto the plain below.

500m above the road. I have no My legs threatened to cramp. idea how I got up there as, at 77, Just before the soggy plain, Paul this was not on the agenda. But stumbled upon the Pedder Track. once we started up the ridge, we Hidden in the buttongrass which never stopped, except for a bite has sprouted since the last bushto eat on the ridgetop before the fire, the track, as we headed final ascent. There was a brief out, led us to a little creek for a diversion to watch a marsupial refreshing drink. mouse scramble up a slab of The track peters out within quartzite, but the large eagle 300m of the road. It would be watching from the ridge turned easy to follow this section back out to be a rock. to the Coronets’ rise we had seen The South Sentinel has an from the top of the range. The easy ascent on its north side, foot-deep, foot-wide cut of the but to the southwest it falls Coming down off the South Sentinel. Credit: Paul Thomas track in places is evidence of the away abruptly, terminating thousands who came this way half a cenin cliffs. To my pleasant surprise, Paul We spotted the sixty-years-old Pedder tury ago. headed up that north side and soon we Track far below to the south, where it rises After the Hydro-Electric Commission were enjoying the panorama from the top. across the terminal ridge of the Coronets built the Scotts Peak Road, a second track There is a moss-encrusted cairn on the Range, near the temporarily drowned Pedwas woven across the Huon Plains to Lake top’s western edge. der beach. So the final section of the 10km Pedder, but it did not offer the views of the Here is a grandstand with 360 degrees track remains intact. lake and beach to be seen from this track. of remarkable views overlooking Mt Anne, I was less happily surprised to see Paul It’s time for the Pedder Track to have a Mt Field, Mt Wedge, the Snowy Range, head past the mossy cairn and down new signposted starting point and to be the Western Arthurs, and the Franklathrough the underbrush, towards that refurbished for the many who will walk nds. To the north, there is the Denison sharp southwest drop-off. I followed in to see the recovering beach and lake.

Range’s Great Dome, the Prince of Wales because he had the water, the tucker, and For anyone simply seeking a view of Lake Range and, on the horizon, Frenchmans my camera.

Pedder’s magnificent setting, the vigorous Cap. Federation Peak is an incisor tooth The hair-raising way down was via a climb up the South Sentinel will remain a on the southern skyline. series of unstable vegetated lines between trackless attraction.

In the foreground, the sharp ridge of the cliffs. There was a reasonable cause

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On a map, Flowdown looks like a doodle you’d dream about riding. Matt Yaki makes this daydream a reality in Mount Macpherson’s endless green. British Columbia. Ryan Creary © 2022 Patagonia, Inc.

Columns: WILD THINGS @meganholbeck

[MEGAN HOLBECK]

www.meganholbeck.com

RUNNING INTO ANOTHER WORLD It’s amazing what comes from doing something new.

The challenge is to hold on to it.

O

ver the last few years I’ve done a lot of trail running, by my standards anyway. First it was a fast way to get fit for an overseas trek, and then I began wondering: Could I do an ultramarathon? Soon I’d bought a running pack, some fluoro shoes and signed up for the UTA 50, a 50km event through the hilliest bits of the Blue Mountains. The event was postponed a couple of times, and I finally ran it in May 2021. I loved it— the camaraderie of it all, powering up and down endless steps, taking in the views, linking the Blueys together into a mental map that actually kind of makes sense.

During the 18 months of stop/start training, running changed from something I had to do into something I looked forward to, that kept me sane during lockdowns and homeschooling, gave me space to think and breath. If I’d done what I’d planned—three months of rushed training before the event—there’s a good chance trail running would have been a blip, something ticked off the list rather than being an ongoing part of my life.

And then I would have missed a whole other world, a community full of interesting people and fascinating stories. People like Hanny Allston, runner, coach and owner of the Tasmanian Find Your Feet outdoor shops, associated tours and other fabulousness, and the only non-European to ever be a World Orienteering Champion (at the age of 20!); Chris Ord, a freelance writer, founder and ex-editor of Trail Run Magazine; Manly Beach Running Club coach Joe Ward, who spent 25 hours running through pouring rain to win the 222km Coast to Kosciuszko. I wouldn’t have heard about Hanny selling her house to finance her business and dream. About

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Chris’s attempted 100-kay run through the desert, which ended at 92km in a tetany seizure (caused by your body running out of potassium, and causing a heart attack without treatment—apparently it’s like a cramp but a thousand times worse). I never would have known how Joe’s attempt to make an ex-girlfriend jealous by getting buff turned into a running obsession, a livelihood, and a new family of friends.

I’ve heard some fabulous stories from committed runners: Some ‘good’, some ‘bad’, but with little emphasis on the latter.

IT’S EASY TO FORGET WHAT MATTERS, WHAT MAKES YOU FEEL ALIVE; THE

THINGS THAT BRING SPARK AND MEANING.” Through the burnouts, failures and really hard times, the underlying attitude seems the same: They know what matters to them and how to keep that in their lives, even if they sometimes get a little waylaid.

This emphasis on keeping the good stuff going seems to come naturally to kids—they’re excellent at prioritising fun and adventure, at grabbing chances to explore. But as people get older, it seems harder. The obstacles grow (in imagination if nowhere else), from looking stupid, to fear of failure, to money, injury, death.

And we get much better at playing safe, at shutting down opportunities, at staying home, following the routine, doing the jobs that need to be done. Along the

way it’s easy to forget what matters, what makes you feel alive; the things that bring spark and meaning.

People embedded in their communities and passions—people like Hanny, Chris and Joe—don’t forget. They’ve built their lives around them. Their days, businesses, communities and futures are based around outdoor adventures, nature and running.

When thinking about how awesome this is, I noticed an underlying resistance, best summarised as: “You can’t just base your life around running because you love it,” as if it somehow seems selfish, unrealistic, dreamy to think that life works that way.

And then I thought about the importance most people place on their work, and how that’s not usually something they love.

Instead it’s about earning a living, providing structure and stability, a sense of identity. In most cases, people wouldn’t keep working if they weren’t being paid for it.

With the runners, if the money stopped, they’d still keep on running, in one way or another. Hanny would continue helping people tap into their own inner strength to live their own lives. Chris would keep on telling stories, because he’s bloody good at it and I don’t think he could help himself.

And Joe would keep motivating others with overflowing enthusiasm and training wisdom.

It takes time to embed something into your life, whether it’s a hobby or a habit. I reckon trail running took me 18 months, and delivered a lot of unexpected goodness along the way—fitness, space, physical and mental resilience, confidence, insight into inspiring people and a whole wonderful community. The challenge now is to keep it there, or help it morph into a whole new chapter.

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Columns: OUTSIDE WITH TIM [TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE]

SLEEPING OVER Day trips are great, but finding the perfect spot to camp is hard to beat.

“D

ay trip or overnighter?”

In my mind, this is a common question when I’m planning a short adventure. Regretfully, in some ways, the outcome is more commonly the former. Yes, life gets busy, and for sure an overnighter takes more organisation and you must carry a heavier pack, but in terms of a break, there’s no argument that the latter wins. Of course, the rewards are even greater when you’re out for multiple nights.

In my mind, the greatest reward of going out overnight is finding a special place to not only experience the waking of a new day but, more profoundly and substantially, to enjoy the magical time between late afternoon and dusk. I’m unsure if it’s just my perception, but the special light of dawn is fleeting in comparison to that of late afternoon and dusk, which lingers longer and is more varied. [Ed’s note: Tim, I’m definitely with you on this] And I will always prefer reaching and making camp to breaking camp. After the rigours of the day shedding your load, ‘slipping into something more comfortable’, relaxing over a brew, setting up a nest for the night, then exploring and taking in the surroundings without the pressure of having to move on, are some of the best things about going out into the wild.

Choosing the best place to camp has always been important to me. Unless you’ve perfected the practice of sleeping in a hammock, the most basic requirement a good camp should fulfil is enough level

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ground to sleep on or pitch your tent. But I’m fussy because, if there are choices, I’m seldom content with any old flat bit of ground. Position, in real estate parlance, trumps everything else! Ideally, the more extensive the outlook, the better. Hence, unless its foggy, I prefer camping on high ground, even if it means carrying water

BUT EVEN WHEN THE BEST OPTION IS

A CRUMBLING, ICY, SIT-ON LEDGE, THERE’S A VISCERAL SATISFACTION IN FINDING THE BEST POSSIBLE PLACE, THEN

ENJOYING THE PRECARIOUS AND SPECTACULAR LOCATION.”

there and having the extra complication of finding a spot sheltered from the wind.

Certainly, it’s possible to sleep almost anywhere. On occasion, I’ve even done so involuntarily, like when rappelling a mountain in Pakistan in the semi-darkness of a crystal-clear, high-altitude night. After finding, placing and attaching myself to an anchor then calling my partners down, I promptly fell asleep.

Sometime later I was woken by shivering.

My shouting, and undoubtedly the cold, eventually woke my two buddies above, and we continued the long descent to the shelter of our lonely tent. Up there, it was the only proper option for an adequate and comfortable sleep.

On other occasions, I’ve had to make do with less-than-hoped-for spaces. But even when the best option is a crumbling, icy, sit-on ledge, there’s a visceral satisfaction in finding the best possible place, making yourself as comfortable and safe as possible, then enjoying the precarious and spectacular location. Sitting out the night just below the crest of Annapurna II, cradling a stove on my lap, looking out at the clusters of white peaks glowing in the night and strung out all the way to the eastern horizon, with a soft glow indicating the distant Kathmandu valley and the twinkling lights of Pokhara below, this was the place to be.

But normally, there’s almost always a choice about where to stop and camp.

Investing time and energy into selecting a good spot always pays off. There’s nothing so frustrating as having passed up a good spot because you came across it too early, only to have to press on into the dying light of the day because good options have suddenly evaporated. After all, having expended time and energy into getting there, why not grasp the chance of an early halt to spend more time and make the most of being in a good place?

A mind open to a flexible itinerary and route is fundamental to making the most of any adventure.

WHAT IS ADVENTURE? For generations, adventure has been in our blood.

It’s taken us to new heights and pushed us to new limits.

But what is adventure?

It’s in all of us but it’s different for everyone.

FIND YOURS AT MOUNTAINDESIGNS.COM

Homer Hut

E S T. 1 9 7 5

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

Columns: OF MOUTHS & MONIES [DAN SLATER]

MYLES DUNPHY’S MAPS The pioneering conservationist and bushwalker was also a skilled cartographer whose maps are a delight to linger over.

A

s I’ve previously mentioned, cartophiles are mourning the death of Geoscience Australia’s printed topographical map range. What better balm for the pain than to lose oneself in a collection of paper maps that represent not only a valuable resource but also a bona fide work of art?

The name Myles Dunphy is legendary in Blue Mountains bushwalking circles. An early exponent of wilderness time as therapy against ‘the shackles of ordered existence’, Dunphy was a conservation powerhouse, campaigning to protect the Blue Gum Forest in the Grose Valley from logging, and helping form the National Parks and Primitive Areas Council in 1933. In the role of secretary, he first proposed the Greater Blue Mountains National Park, forerunner of today’s World Heritage Area.

Dunphy’s legacy includes a series of delightful hand-drawn maps created between 1919 and 1971. Hundreds of sketches covered not only his favourite Blue Mountains, but as far afield as the Warrumbungles and the Snowy Mountains. Such is the loving detail imbued therein, the maps leap off the page and assault the eyes in a barrage of contour markings, place names, and annotations.

One hardly knows where to start, and looks forward to a feast of the eyes over a lengthy poring session.

Compiled from prior sources, teams of dedicated researchers, and considerable personal knowledge, the maps are primarily designed for bushwalkers. They contain snippets of useful advice pertaining to trail conditions (“very rough route, no track” and “extremely steep”), water sources (“bad drinking water” as opposed to “good water up creek”) and general bushcraft (“walker’s camp”, “waste no fuel”, “think of others”). There are even occasional

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whimsical directions, such as “peaceful place in the south” and “wind singing”.

The place names, in particular, are fascinating. “A carefully compiled feature nomenclature would attract interest in scenic country and eventually lead to requests for public parklands,” theorised Dunphy. He used a combination of old local, official historic, and general descriptive names—all in use by bushwalkers of the day. Where terminology changed over time, this was reflected on Dunphy’s maps

Detail from Myles Dunphy’s Gangerang Map

with typical completism, the former term crossed out beside the new (eg glen gully, range ridge, etc).

In fact, many names were of his own invention, some obviously intended to convey the difficulty of the task ahead.

One can’t help but shudder at Mt Paralyser or Murdering Gully, for instance, in the Kanangra-Boyd Wilderness Area. Perdition Maze, Consternation Point and Fools’ Paradise hint at less brutal but still concerning locales. Aboriginal names abound, sometimes with translation, eg Kooriekirra Top—Rainbow, or Carra Beanga—Father of

Clouds. Yet others are wildlife based: Rabbit Town, Playground of the Dingoes.

With a morass of gullies, creeks and tops to name, Dunphy inevitably fell back on themed areas. The Wild Dog Mountains are a confusion of canine nomenclature, from Ghost Dogs Ridge to Brindle Pup Gully. The other side of Breakfast Creek becomes decidedly more ferrous, with the slopes of Ironpot Mt playing host to such kitchenware as Quartpot Gully and Pots and Pans Spur. More personal inspiration brought us Dex Creek, named for Dunphy’s own dog. See also: Myle’s Chasm and Dunphy’s Short Cut. Useful historical notes, which could have been, and may yet be, the only record of such places, include “one-time aborigines camp” and “Bran Jan house, formerly Butler’s then Sharp’s, now non-existent.”

These are all colourful examples, but it’s when you peer more deeply into the folds of the mountains and ridges that the rewards come. Who can fail to be intrigued by the Den of the Mist Monster, otherwise known as Pooken Hole? I’ll let the reader make their own discoveries.

Dunphy was understandably precious about his beloved nomenclature. When the Geographical Names Board voted to change the terminology of some of his geographic features in 1968, he responded with a hundred pages of objections. In the face of such passion, they relented.

The maps are a lot of fun. When the Department of Lands’ map series was released in 1962, Dunphy claimed they “killed much of the romance of penetrating rough scenic country hitherto unmapped.”

Unfortunately, only two of the originally published twenty-six maps, the Kowmung and the Gangerang, are currently in print, sold by the Colong Foundation for Wilderness. The others remain unavailable.

Homer Hut

CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES

A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country.

EDITED BY MAYA DARBY

THIS WILD PLACE WILL BE

WILD NO MORE.”

Credit: Brenda Marshall

DEFENDING THE THREATENED LOONGANA VALLEY A small Tasmanian community network, Supporting Our Loongana Valley Environment (SOLVE), is fighting to prevent destruction caused by a proposed electricity transmission line.

I

t’s a sad truth that if you live in a beautiful part of Tasmania you’re either resigned to its destruction or you’re fighting to save it. In Tasmania’s northwest, remaining wild spaces face a new threat, and biodiversity hotspot Loongana Valley is at risk. In order to plug into the mainland grid, renewables companies want state-owned TasNetworks to bulldoze hundreds of kilometres of bush. The lush Loongana Valley—vibrant with rainforest ecosystems, full of threatened species—is slated to be filled with transmission infrastructure, easements and access roading, which will dry out forests and drive out wildlife. SOLVE Tasmania and the Loongana community, however, is defending the valley.

It’s a David versus Goliath fight—our small community is up against powerful corporate interests and the state government. Energy investors want to sell Tassie wind power to the mainland; TasNetworks want to profit from that flow; and the state government want to be seen to be promoting ‘clean, green renewables’. We asked them how transmission infrastructure, which destroys forest habitats and amplifies the effects of climate change, can be regarded as ‘clean’ or ‘green’.

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It was disheartening to discover that the slick corporate PR and political spin had no substance. There will be no ‘jobs and growth’, no ‘cheaper power’, and this isn’t even genuine action on climate—the only winners will be foreign investors, energy buyers on the mainland, and politicians. And this wild place will be wild no more.

Our community has found we’re not alone. Other communities, unions, farmers, bird watchers, ecologists and bushwalkers know just how pervasive this issue is across Tassie and the mainland. To highlight what’s at risk, we’ve focused on recording the biodiversity that locals already knew was here, and that the company still refuses to acknowledge. Every day brings new additions to the list of local species—owls, eagles, quolls, freshwater crayfish, devils, wombats and myriads of bugs and fungi—all of it thriving amidst myrtle, leatherwood and threatened eucalypt -forest communities. The Loongana Valley is a stunning example of biodiversity, and we cannot afford to lose it by pretending it’s simply ‘the cheapest route’.

Its loss would be an immeasurable cost. So we choose to fight. To join us, head to solvetasmania.org BEN MARSHALL, SOLVE

THE LOONGANA VALLEY TRANSMISSION LINE:

BY THE NUMBERS 11km long, which will cut off the Loongana range, Black Bluff and Leven Canyon from each other, destroying wildlife corridors 90m wide, resulting in threatened species being stranded 90+ football fields, which is the area of newly created open ground where weeds and feral cats will thrive 22km of edges, where wet forests can dry out, resulting in reduced biodiversity and increased fire risk 1000ha needing herbicides, which will poison springs and water sources

REPRESENTING WOTCH IN COURT

DEFORESTATION IN QUEENSLAND & BEYOND

Victoria’s forests are still recovering from the devastating Black Summer bushfires—millions of creatures perished, countless more were left without homes. Despite this, Victoria’s state-owned logger VicForests continues to cut down what little remains. This month, Environmental Justice Australia represents Wildlife of the Central Highlands (WOTCH) in a Supreme Court trial to stop precious unburnt forests being logged. Across Australia, entire ecosystems are being threatened, luckily powerful laws exist to give wildlife a hopeful future. To learn more, head to envirojustice.org.au KATHRYN LEWIS, Environmental Justice Australia

Credit: WOTCH

MARINE DEBRIS ACROSS AUSTRALIA

Credit: H Tait

Tangaroa Blue protects and preserves Australia’s marine and coastal environments by tackling marine debris head on. We empower people, businesses and governments to improve systems, processes and behaviours to stop the flow of litter at the source. The Australian Marine Debris Initiative (AMDI) is our on-ground network of volunteers, communities, organisations and partners that contribute clean-up data which we use to inform reduction efforts. Since 2004, AMDI has partnered with over 2,000 organisations, seeing the removal of over 20 million marine debris items from our beaches and oceans. To join the next event, head to tangaroablue.org

Comprehensive Queensland deforestation data has now been released for 2018-19. The Wilderness Society has been digging into the numbers, and they aren’t great for nature.

Over 668,000ha were bulldozed— that’s an area the size of the Gabba stadium cleared every 91 seconds.

The majority of this was destroyed for beef production. We are exposing this hidden problem and calling on the big buyers and sellers of Australian beef to remove deforestation from the beef they source. We can only uncover findings like these with good data. But sadly, most Australian states don’t collect and release robust deforestation data, making it less clear how deforestation impacts the rest of Australia. Find out more: wilderness.org.au/deforestation TROY BEER, The Wilderness Society

CASEY WOODWARD, Tangaroa Blue

FERAL CATS ON KANGAROO ISLAND Kangaroo Island is home to some of the world’s rarest and most unique native animals. Many of these precious animals, such as the Kangaroo Island dunnart, are facing the threat of extinction due to introduced feral cats—a threat exacerbated by the 2019-20 bushfires. The Kangaroo Island Landscape Board, Nature Foundation and other project partners are working towards eradicating feral cats from this unique and ecologically important landscape. By helping protect threatened native animals, we’re ensuring biodiversity on the island remains here for future generations. To learn more, head to naturefoundation.org.au GRETTA KOCH, Nature Foundation

Credit: J Gates

INDIGENOUS-LED SEA TURTLE AND DUGONG CONSERVATION The Indigenous Salt Water Advisory Group (ISWAG) recently launched a 10-year plan for sea turtle and dugong conservation, designed and led by Indigenous saltwater managers across the Kimberley. Sea turtles and dugongs are of high cultural and conservation significance in the Kimberley; both species face threats.

By combining western science and Indigenous knowledge, the long-term collaborative management approach seeks to maintain healthy and sustainable populations of these species in Kimberley waters to ensure Indigenous livelihoods, culture and customary practices are supported. Learn more at klc.org.au Credit: KLC

KIMBERLEY LAND COUNCIL

Land clearing near Dysart, QLD. Credit: Greenpeace Unearthed/ Mackay Conservation Group

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

AUTUMN 2022

29

LAKES ENTRANCE ADVENTURE FILM FESTIVAL 6–8 MAY 2022

Get your outdoors on at the Lakes Entrance Adventure Film Festival.

Over three days indulge your love of inspiravtional travel stories from every corner of the world. In between films, enjoy all things home-grown and local.

Choc-tops and popcorn aplenty. Hiking boots optional.

lakesentrancead.com.au

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31

OPINION

THE PARADOX OF CONSUMPTION Damaging nature while enjoying nature.

Words & Illustration THOR F JENSEN

Y

ou know that feeling of reaching a beautiful spot on a trail? public opinion. Like other big corporations, they have adapted Throwing off that heavy backpack and sensing the blood one green policy or another, ranging from solar-powered factorush back to your feet as you rest on a moss-padded log. ries to NGO initiatives. Some of these actions seem genuine; othWhile trying to listen to the bird song, you start noticing—with ers little more than greenwashing. every subtle movement—the crinkling, crackling sound of your new Taking all of this into consideration, maybe it is about time shell jacket. This sound sparks an internal philosophical debate we start veering the gear obsession in the outdoor scene away about the irony of consuming adventure clothing that damages the from new, aerodynamic designs and minuscule weight improveplanet, and then going out to enjoy ‘pristine’ nature. At least, that ments, and instead focus on where the products come from, was the case for me. how they are produced, and what affect they have on workers, Before we consider solutions to this paradox, I’d like to point out the environment and our water supplies. We should ask: Does that I don’t want you to discard all modern fabrics and wrap yourthe product contain less-toxic repellents such as silicon or wax? self in animal hides—or hike in the nude (hello ultralight hikers).

Are they using natural fibres such as bamboo and hemp? Are all Water-repellent shells and warm, quick-drying garments are not company factories run by green energy, or is it only the flagship only comfortable but can also be a matter of safety when venturstore that has solar on the roof? Look up the NGOs that you are ing into extreme environments. supposedly supporting through My, or should I say, our problem your purchase: Is there actually is that the production of these garproof that the initiative benements is damaging the very nature fits the locals/environment, or TO GUIDE we love to experience. This issue OUTDOOR BRANDS, DESIGNERS AND is it merely a western feel-good muddies the entire clothing indusmirage? What about the comNOVICES IN THE try; in 2018, the UN described the pany’s return and recycle profashion industry as an environgram—does the process actually mental and social emergency that benefit the environment? is responsible for 8–10% of global carbon emissions (more than Now we are getting closer to a solution to our paradox. As conaviation and transport combined) and contributing to 20% of sumers, we can reward brands that manufacture more environglobal wastewater. mentally friendly products, such as those that have been recyMy crinkling nylon shell jacket is drenched in fluorocarbons cled, are free of toxins and use limited water in the production also known as PFCs, which are a range of toxic chemicals used line. Another option we have is to dial down the consumption of in most, but not all, outer layers for their water-repellent propoutdoor gear. Why not prolong the life of our garments by repairerties. (Ed: Wild #180 ran a story on PFCs and DWR, which ing them? I know very few outdoors people who actually resemexamined the problem. It also recognised that some companies ble the fashion models in sparkling, new shell jackets as you see comprehend the issue’s seriousness. Helly Hansen’s Lifa Infinity them in advertisements from outdoor brands (or Instagram for membrane, for instance, has no chemical treatment. The North that matter!) Spending time in the outdoors means wear and tear Face’s Futurelight garments use a PFC-free DWR. Osprey, too, for … and repair. Why not embrace your duct tape patches and your many of its packs, uses a PFC-free DWR). dodgy sewing as badges from your adventures? And if you have And every time I wash my fleece, some of it is flushed into a busted sleeping bag zipper and are as useless with a sewing the water system as microplastic—whether the fleece is made machine as me, then you can reach out to the manufacturer or from recycled plastic bottles or not. And although my pants are a professional gear repair company, such as Remote Equipment infused with natural beeswax, the cotton and nylon blend fabric Repairs in Melbourne (remoterepairs.com.au) or Venus Repairs is still harmful for the environment (bees included). in Sydney (venusrepairs.com.au) (Ed: I’ve used Venus many Many outdoor-apparel companies recognise the shift in times; they do a great job!).

ADVENTURERS HAVE AN OPPORTUNITY

RIGHT DIRECTION THROUGH OUR CHOICES.”

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Although I am all about supporting your local outdoor shop, we might also dial down the gadgets we buy and keep our overall kit simple. Do you really need a telescopic sausage fork? As you gain more experience you tend to pack less, and instead embrace challenges that ignite the imagination. As British bushcraft expert Ray Mears says, “My favourite piece of equipment is the one I didn’t bring.”

But no-one starts out as an expert, and getting into the outdoors can be a costly affair that scares many people off. One welcome way to save money, and at the same time care for the planet, is to rent instead of buy. Here’s a brief, incomplete selection of Australian outdoor shops that hire out kit: Overnight Adventures (overnightadventures.com) ship nationwide; Bogong—Melbourne’s number one climbing shop—rents out essentials as well as crampons and snowshoes (bogong.com.au); Mont in Canberra rents out tents, skis, ice axes and locator beacons; Wilderness Sports in Jindabyne similarly offers both general outdoors gear and winter-specific equipment (wildernesssports.com.au); Outdoor Adventure Hire (holiak.com.au) has pick up locations in Byron Bay, Morisset or Melbourne; Support Crew (supportcrew. com.au) serves adventurers in Brisbane; and Lighter Faster Hire, a Victorian-based online rental company, specialises in tents and bags for you ultralight hikers (lighterfasterhire.com.au).

Another sustainable option is to make use of all the used items already in circulation. In addition to scrolling the pages of Gumtree and Facebook, you can visit Recycled Recreation (facebook.com/ RecycledRecCanberra), a retailer of pre-loved and patched-up outdoor apparel with shops in Canberra and Hobart. And there’s also the option of swapping with your mates, of course.

Lastly, I’d like to mention a growing trend in the US and Canada called ‘gear libraries’. As the name suggests, in these libraries, the public can walk in and borrow outdoor equipment, usually for free or minimal cost. Not only is this a great way of reducing consumption, it can help turn the outdoors into a more diverse, more egalitarian playground. An example of this is The Mountaineers, a more than 100-year-old non-profit organisation in Washington State (mountaineers.org). Their gear library was established to make the outdoors more accessible for everyone—not least communities of colour who have traditionally Homer Hut been excluded in mainstream representation of outdoor recreation. All Washington State residents can borrow Mountaineers’

equipment for activities like hiking, car camping, backpacking, snowshoeing and cross-country skiing.

Outside podcast has a great story of how Millinocket—a dying logging town in the US state of Maine—looked to reinvent itself as an adventure sport destination of mountain biking, hiking and kayaking. Many townspeople, however, were sceptical of the plan, in part because few had experience in these sports, a problem exacerbated by their cost barriers. But then Millinocket’s librarian came up with the idea of lending gear as well as books.

The same library card used for book borrowing was all locals needed to get a bike, or a pack, or a tent. It made trails and rivers accessible to everyone—and not just the increasing number of well-off adventure tourists.

There are many other North American examples of gear libraries, and it’s a concept that could be implemented more widely in Australia. Bushwalking and other outdoor clubs would potentially be ideal for this. Some Aussie clubs already have informal setups where gear can be borrowed, and in Canberra, Women’s Adventure ACT established a community gear library in 2019.

But it would be great if more gear libraries could be established.

(They would also make club membership more attractive!)

As I rise from the moss-padded log and chuck on my trusty $25 op-shop backpack, I conclude that while consumption itself is part of the problem—something even the greenest of green products can’t get around—zero consumption is also unrealistic (although borrowing gear or repairing it helps). The solution must be to consume thoughtfully. Look for products with smaller environmental footprints. Choose quality gear that’s durable, and that won’t—unlike cheap, flimsy alternatives—end up in landfill a year later.

Ideally, change should be a joint effort between companies, consumers and legislators. For the clothing industry, change can’t come fast enough. But for now, adventurers have an opportunity to guide outdoor brands, designers and novices in the right direction through our choices. So, choose the sustainable option, wear your patches with pride, and crack on.

CONTRIBUTOR: Darwin-based adventurer, filmmaker, illustrator and speaker Thor F Jensen is the author of Salt Water and Spear Tips: The World’s First Circumnavigation of the Island of New Guinea in a Traditional Sailing Canoe.

AUTUMN 2022

33

GETTING STARTED

TEN TIPS ON

KEEPING SANE IN THE RAIN with Nathan McNeil

With much of the country having been hammered recently by deluges of biblical proportions, it seems fitting that this instalment of our new beginner-friendly section "Getting Started" gives tips on how to deal with rain. Wild Earth Ambassador Nathan McNeil shares his knowledge.

W

hat great story starts with, “The condi-

tions were perfect for our hike”? No, instead you’ll find me (along with everyone else), ears pricked and eyes wide, hanging off the every word of the little ol’ lady at the campfire who starts her story with, “So it was Day Five, yet another evil storm was brewing, I had one dry shirt left, and I’d just torn open my Gore-Tex jacket as it snagged on a tree branch.”

It’s no secret that misadventures leave you with solid stories and something gained, either physically or mentally. Sure, it’s crap at the time, when you’re totally in the thick of it, when your boots have become bathtubs, and your socks squelch with the litre of water it seems they’ve soaked up. We’ve all found ourselves, at some point, caught in less-than-desirable weather. But rainy days don’t have to be doom and gloom experiences … if you’re prepared and if you're able to keep your spirits up!

THAT’S HAVING A BAD ATTITUDE." a soggy trail, and I often see people exerting far too much time and energy trying to avoid water over the trail. Just go straight through rather than to tiptoe around watery obstacles. My hiking buddy Henk once preached to me like a wise old kung fu master: “Boots and feet can be washed at camp; it’s better to get there in the daylight with muddy feet than at night with clean ones.”

#6

Wear a hat. Stopping rain hitting your face just by wearing a hat or cap works wonders psychologically. The peaks they put on the front of rain hoods help, but not enough.

#7

#2

#8

#3

#9

#4

#10

Pack covers ARE NOT going to keep your stuff dry!

Pack covers are only for protection from light rain showers. Instead, investing in a pack liner (or drybags, see below) is the foolproof way to ensure your pack’s contents stay bone dry.

D ry bags, dry bags, dry bags! I personally use dry bags to both waterproof and itemise the gear in my pack. It also helps with organisation at camp. I have a dry bag for food, one for clothing, one for cookware, one for sleeping equipment, one for tech, etc, and then all those dry bags go inside my pack liner so that no matter what happens, I’m good!

Bonus pro tip! (Aka Tip #3.5) Speaking of dry bags, don’t underestimate the value of zip lock bags.

Moisture-absorbing pouches; you know, the ones in the shoe box with your new hiking boots—keep 'em!

Placed in that zip lock or dry bag with your phone or camera, they work wonders at pulling out moisture from your tech goodies.

#5 34

THERE’S ONE SURE WAY TO MAKE HIKING IN THE RAIN SUCKY, AND

#1

Invest in quality rainwear! So, rainwear is good for keeping you dry. Duh, that’s a no brainer. But you've gotta invest in quality waterproof/breathable rainwear from a reputable brand; ditch the $40 Kmart special. And breathability is crucial; not only are Gore-Tex and other similar membranes important for keeping rain out, it’s equally important they let sweat out. There’s nothing worse than getting drenched from the inside. And if your rainwear is old and sorry, re-proof it before your next trip.

WILD

Drying gear under a lightweight tarp, southwest Tassie

Wear shorts instead of pants. For some reason, wet legs don't feel all that miserable compared to a wet back or chest, so unless it’s totally freezing and you need the extra protection of longer pants, lightweight shorts or boardies are sometimes a great option. They're quick drying, and it means you can keep those long pants dry for when you really need them, like at the end of the day when you've stopped moving.

Avoid down-insulated clothing. If you’re going to rain-prone areas during the cooler months, or Tassie any day of the year, take a synthetic jacket over a down one. Unlike down (which clumps and becomes useless when wet), synthetics will perform even when soaked. So too will fleece. And wool.

Add a lightweight tarp to your kit. They're amazing!

You can get 3x3m tarps that pack down smaller than a Nalgene bottle, weigh <500g and come fully equipped with adjustable guy lines. They’re incredibly versatile and functional pieces of kit that will elevate your camping/hiking experience and make you the most popular person at camp when the weather turns! Trust me, I know this from a torrid Federation Peak outing (see pic).

Keep your spirits up. There’s one surefire way to make hiking in the rain super sucky, and that’s having a bad attitude. Sometimes you just need to lighten up and have a laugh at the situation.

CONTRIBUTOR: Adventure photographer and filmmaker Nathan

Don’t get too caught up trying to keep your feet dry.

Your feet are probably the hardest things to keep dry on

McNeil can usually be found camera-in-hand at the crags around SE Queensland. He is an Ambassador for WildEarth.com.au

[SPONSORED CONTENT]

AN ICONIC ADVENTURE RACE

MOUNTAIN DESIGNS GEOQUEST 48HR ADVENTURE … RACING. HOW DOES THAT WORK? YOU DON’T HAVE ADVENTURES AGAINST THE CLOCK? IT’S NOT ABOUT HOW QUICKLY YOU REACH A SUMMIT, COMPLETE A TRAIL, CLIMB A ROUTE, OR PADDLE A RIVER. IT’S ABOUT THE JOURNEY AND THE EXPERIENCES ALONG THE WAY. It’s true of adventure racing, too, a sport which encourages people to get outdoors, have new experiences, and exceed any previous expectations of what they thought they could accomplish. It’s more about adventure than it is about racing, but the racing element supercharges the day, weekend or week outdoors. Those who try adventure racing will tell you they experience more during the race than they thought possible! It’s like time has slowed down.

SO, WHAT IS ADVENTURE RACING EXACTLY? It’s a sport where almost anything goes. It’s a combination of trekking, mountain biking and paddling (and sometimes climbing or archery) on a course which requires map and compass navigation (no phones or gps), and which is designed to take teams into wilderness areas, and find the best locations at those places. That might be a fabulous viewpoint, a deep river canyon, a historic building, some ancient forest, or a waterfall to search behind for a checkpoint.

IS THE IDEA STARTING TO MAKE SENSE NOW? If it is, Mountain Designs Geoquest, might be for you. It’s Australia’s oldest and most prestigious adventure race and takes place this year at Shoal Bay, NSW, from June 1013th. The race began in 2002 and was set up by Geocentric Outdoors, run by Craig Bycroft and Louise Foulkes.

Over the years Geoquest has been at the heart of Adventure Racing in Australia. The race ‘wall of fame’ includes all of the great names of Australian racing, many who have raced successfully internationally, including the team which finished third in the rebooted Eco-Challenge, staged by Amazon Video in Fiji in 2019.

The race in is now run by Chris Dixon of Wild & Co events company, and is part of the AR World Series Oceania calendar, but the format has remained largely unchanged over the years. It’s a non-stop 48 hour race, with teams finding set checkpoints and needing to finish within the time limit.

It’s for teams of 4 and the premier category is for mixed gender teams. That’s standard in big adventure races, where teamwork, and men and women racing together, has always been part of the mix. There’s also a half distance course within the same time limit.

That’s it really – teams head out to enjoy the wilderness, race day and night, have to look after each other, are unsupported, and must find their own way. There are ‘transitions’ to change disciplines where they can resupply, and kayaks and maps are provided. There’s just one other key ingredient, until they get their maps at the start, they have no idea where they are going!

Australia’s elite teams will be there in June for the next Geoquest, and they’ll be racing, but most will be there for the adventure. They’ll have their own goals; to beat some friends, find more checkpoints than they did last time, not get lost, race through the night, or finish the kayak without a capsize.

Adventure racing allows you to set your own goals, make your own decisions and take responsibility and credit for them. There are no phones and the outside world is completely forgotten for a couple of days. All that matters is being in the moment, enjoying the wilderness with your team mates and doing the best you can.

If that sounds good to you, find some mates and give the Mountain Designs Geoquest a go. You’ll be with other folk who understand … even if no one at work will! Be warned though, adventure racing is addictive and wll change your life.

Visit www.geoquest.com.au to register.

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If symptoms persist talk to your health professional.

Pronat Group Australia Pty Ltd | 07 5580 1173 | info@fisiocrem.com.au www.fisiocrem.com.au | 16/8 Production Avenue, Molendinar, QLD 4214, Australia

[SPONSORED CONTENT]

JANINA KUZMA

SPEAKS ABOUT BECOMING A NZGMA GUIDE Olympian and big mountain skier Janina Kuzma started the New Zealand Ski Guides Association (NZMGA) ski guides pathway in 2018, and spent the New Zealand winter of 2021 preparing for the two week exam in the mountains.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ROSS MCKAY

I was always inspired by the NZGMA guides who joined on the film projects I was involved in. Seeing the knowledge and skills they had, and seeing their perspectives on how they see the mountains and travel through them, inspired me to start my guide's pathway. It's allowed me to acquire knowledge to expand my skill set, and given me confidence in my own capabilities; I'm ready to take on more challenges in the mountains ... to reach my full potential.”

Janina Kuzma

I spent all of the 2021 winter preparing for the guides' exam, so I didn't really get much spare time to tick off major objectives in the mountains.

I was mainly keeping it local, spending a lot of time in the backcountry up at Cardrona and Treble Cone and the Remarkables; they're such amazing playgrounds to practice skills and to work on the criteria we'd be assessed on.”

I was really excited to head out and explore the Cass Valley and stay at Lady Emily Hut on a last minute invite before New Zealand went into a shock three-week lockdown. But to be honest, the whole of winter 2020 through to 2021 was just incredible. I did the most exploring I've done in New Zealand due to the lockdowns and not being able to travel. I had my first ever New Zealand summer, and really got to explore our backyard and enjoy the amazing mountains and glaciers New Zealand has to offer.”

The two week exam period was intense, nerve wracking, stressful and rewarding. You're learning a lot and getting a lot of feedback, some of it positive and some negative. I learned how to accept tough criticism without taking it personally. You learn from your mistakes and move forward.

I was lucky to have had two incredible examiners who I look up to very much.

Our first week, we camped in extreme winter conditions with high winds and through snowstorms. Our second week was a little more favourable (just) on the West Coast, starting at Almer Hut and finishing at Chancellor Hut.”

Skiing off Matenga Peak,the highest peak on the Lindon Ridge

Heading up to St Mildred Peak

I’ve had a version of The North Face's belay jacket for as long as I can remember. I climbed the southwest ridge and skied Mt Aspiring's West Face with the belay jacket. I spent two weeks in the mountains on my ski guides exam with the comfort of the belay jacket. When I take it out of the cupboard, I’m super excited; I know I’m about to go on an epic adventure.”

My greatest achievements over the last winter in New Zealand were skiing the West Face of Mt Aspiring, attempting to climb Mt Tasman, and, for sure, acquiring my guide's certificate.”

To capture the meaning behind every piece of gear, The North Face is launching its first-ever crowdsourced archive, calling on explorers all over the world to submit stories and images of their own well-loved products to potentially be included in the official archive.

To be featured on The North Face channels in Australia & New Zealand, The North Face is calling on explorers to post to social media using the hashtag #MoreThanAJacket. Those featured will receive a $100 voucher for The North Face – to keep the spirit of adventure going.

Anyone who enters will also have the opportunity to be included in The North Face living archive, created in partnership with the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMOMA). Follow @thenorthface_aunz on Instagram to learn more about It's More Than a Jacket.

The New Zealand Mountain Guides Association (NZMGA) was formed in 1974 to establish a consistent training programme for professional Mountain Guides in New Zealand. Its founding members drew on the wisdom of former guides thus ensuring the skills, knowledge and tradition gained from 100 years of guiding was not lost.

The NZMGA gained international recognition in 1981, becoming a member of the International Federation of Mountain Guides Associations (IFMGA).

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CONSERVATION

Q+A

with Outdoors People for Climate’s Kristen Perry

As outdoor enthusiasts, Wild readers know how critical it is that we—as individuals, communities, and countries—work together to fight the devastating impacts of climate change. Outdoors People for Climate is a grassroots community organisation trying to pull Australia’s adventure community together to do what it can to positively influence action on climate change. Wild speaks with Kristen Perry about OPC and its operations.

WILD: When did Outdoors People for Climate come into being, and what’s its genesis?

KP: Outdoors People for Climate was started up by outdoors educator and bushwalking guide Vicki Adams, who became concerned about the climate crisis after witnessing the impacts of the 2019/20 Black Summer fires on national parks across the country.

WILD: Did Vicki, or anyone else for that matter, have a background in the non-profit sector?

KP: We had no experience in the non-profit sector! What we did have was a passion for the outdoors, a realisation that the bush and outdoor livelihoods were under threat from a rapidly changing climate, and a sense that there were a lot of people in the outdoor community feeling the same way.

CLIMATE CHANGE TOOK ON A NEW MEANING AFTER THAT FIRE

SEASON AND I DECIDED TO GET INVOLVED." WILD: Was there a specific moment when you felt you just had to get involved?

KP: The Wollangambe area is a very special place for me that was devastated in the Gospers Mountain megafire during Black Summer. I remember hiking up to a rock pagoda called the Centre of the Universe and seeing the land reduced to tree stubble and dirt; how naked it looked. Although I’d always been interested in climate and sustainability, climate change took on a new meaning after that fire season and I decided to get involved.

WILD: Who's involved with Outdoors People for Climate?

KP: OPC is made up entirely of unpaid volunteers, who help the organisation as it fits into their work, study, and family commitments. For example, I work for OPC part-time as a director.

Other volunteers include outdoor enthusiasts, professional outdoor guides and educators, students, small-business owners, and retirees. Currently, most are in the Sydney area, but we also have volunteers in Perth and the Gold Coast.

WILD: So, what are your climate goals?

KP: Our goals are aligned with the broader climate movement in Australia: We want a national plan to reduce climate pollution this decade. By 2030, we’d like to see Australia fully powered by renewable energy, with an end to public funding for coal, oil, and gas.

WILD: We can all guess at some ways climate change will impact outdoor activities. But are there ways you can think of that are rarely talked about, or that surprised you?

KP: Increasing risk of bushfire and severe weather events

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(including heat waves) are some of the more obvious impacts. But these come alongside declining stream flow and changing river forms, flooding, coastal erosion, reduced snowfall, loss of biodiversity, changing animal and plant behaviour, increasing health risks including asthma and hay fever, and many others.

WILD: There are lots of NPOs out there fighting for action on climate. What specific niche does OPC fill?

KP: There are, and we’re not trying to reinvent the wheel. Our main aim is to link our unique community—bushwalkers, rock climbers, paddlers, canyoners, outdoor businesses and anyone else with a stake in the Australian outdoors—with the climate movement.

WILD: To what extent is OPC focussed on behaviour modification and to what extent on legislative and regulatory change?

KP: Individual behaviour change can be powerful, but OPC is primarily focussed on change at the business and political level—for example, advocating for legislation and infrastructure that facilitates the uptake of electric vehicles, rather than encouraging individuals to buy them. We’re a political group, but non-partisan.

WILD: How big is the outdoors industry in Australia? Is it big enough that you think you can influence politicians?

KP: The Australian outdoors industry is substantial, both in size and revenue, and we believe it has the power to influence our national approach to climate change. Some of Australia’s top tourist destinations, including beaches, the Great Barrier Reef, the

Red Centre, the Top End, and the Snowy Mountains, are under immediate threat. This is something politicians should care deeply about, from an economic perspective if nothing else.

WILD: Where do you get your funding from?

KP: Some of our funding comes from grants, but we rely heavily on donations; if you’re looking to support our work, this is a great way to do so. We also sell t-shirts, which are great for a day outdoors and a good conversation starter.

WILD: Even though you involve many outdoors professionals, can members of the general community get involved?

KP: A love of the outdoors is at the core of OPC, whether professional or otherwise. But we’re always looking for new volunteers, and anyone can get involved. Just check out our website.

Learn more, volunteer, or donate at: outdoorspeople.org

Ride, Protect & Share, these three words represent the essence of who we are: a snowboard, ski, surf, and outdoor clothing brand who, while not taking ourselves too seriously, still want to effect change.

At a time when the textile industry is responsible for 7%* of the world’s greenhouse gas emissions and where the climate crisis has reached its peak, we all have our role to play to make a difference. Since Picture started in 2008, we have always sought to push one step further to minimize our impact on the environment. Our commitment to a sustainable, ethical, and environmentally-responsible approach covers every aspect of our business, from the supply chain, to manufacturing, to shipping.

To reduce the consequences doing business has on both the climate and people, we need to wipe out our dependence on fossil fuels. Curbing our

impact on the environment and limiting growth, changing conventional production models, and promoting reasonable consumption are all key pillars of this evolution.

Okay, great, but alone we are just a drop in the bucket. This is where B-Corp certification has meaning: using business and our influence as a force for good. We need to galvanize as many people as possible from our community – partners, and stakeholders in the outdoor and apparel industries - to participate in the energy transition and in removing carbon from the global economy.

Fighting climate change through our passion for boardsports and great outdoors, this is our mission.

www.picture-organic-clothing.com @pictureorganicclothing *(Quantis, 2018 & Fashion On Climate, 2020)

CHILLFACTOR, WELCOME TO THE FAMILY

Australia's last remaining print snow publication is now part of Adventure Entertainment (the publisher of Wild).

ON SALE: MAY 2022

chillfactor.com

Salmon Glacier by bicycle in Canada

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PROFILE

BRAD MCCARTNEY In 2013, Brad McCartney suffered from chronic fatigue syndrome, and could rarely muster the energy to leave his bed. So what did he do? He quit his job, sold everything he had, packed all his possessions into his backpack and set off to hike from Mexico to Canada.

Words James Tugwell

S

ydney is eerily quiet when I meet Brad McCartney behind the counter at the Macpac store where he works. No hustle. No bustle. No people at all. And definitely no customers in need of outdoor adventure equipment. The locked-down city of skyscrapers is as desolate as the isolated North American pine forests Brad knows so well. Bushfires, severe flooding and COVID-19 have left many would-be adventurers cooped up in their houses during 2020 and 2021.

Brad’s shoulders droop as he talks of the painful missed opportunities of lockdown. “I’ve thought about putting my pack on and just going and finding somewhere to camp, but I know I’m not meant to,” he says.

Outwardly, Brad looks like an ordinary middle-aged Australian. His hair is in a neat, shoulder-length ponytail tracing the line of his spine down the back of his activewear t-shirt. He has well-kept stubble and wears hiking pants. He wouldn’t be out of place nodding cheerfully while passing you on the trail, except he is trapped in the city working—a salesman in a store with no customers. We chat briefly about the intricacies of down jackets. Brad’s ranked all the different brands’ models in order of his personal preference. By preference, I mean what works, when it’s tried in the most extreme conditions. Brad doesn’t do things halfway.

Gear talk alone isn’t satisfying. He asks about my own travels.

He wants to hear stories and adventures. He spins adventurous yarns full of dry humour and camouflaged by a wry smirk; I need a map to decipher truth from leg-pulling. With COVID-19, sharing tales is as close as Brad can get to his real passion: extreme outdoor adventures. “I was hoping to do the Eastern and Western Arthurs and the Larapinta Trail. But it’s almost certainly a no to something like that now,” he says, casually rattling off a list of some of Australia’s longest and notoriously backbreaking hiking trails. Talking about adventures is like an electric pulse; Brad starts bouncing in his trail runners with anticipation. No trail’s reputation is too unnerving for Brad now, no adventure beyond reach. Inner-city Sydney life can’t quite satisfy him, and it’s understandable when you consider where he has been.

Since quitting his job in 2014, Brad has hiked over 16,000km and cycled over 35,000. He is also a ‘Triple Crowner’, an elite group of less than 400 members who have hiked the three major American long-distance hiking trails—the Appalachian Trail, the Continental Divide Trail, and the Pacific Crest Trail—together totalling almost 13,000km. His last adventure was hiking the Te Araroa Trail—3,000km north to south from the tip to tip of New Zealand. He has become an internationally esteemed source of knowledge on thru-hiking by recording his travels and reviews on his blog, bikehikesafari.com. Brad is an avid and extreme adventurer. But it hasn’t always been that way.

In 2013, Brad was a policeman in Darwin. He reminisces about kilometre-long police chases, fireworks lit indoors, and skirmishes with wild Australian animals. But then an itchy throat developed into a virus that took over eight months to recover from.

Brad was diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome, a highly controversial condition affecting nearly 240,000 Australians. It is characterised by extreme and persistent fatigue that doesn’t go away with rest; sufferers are left with permanently depleted energy levels. Very little is understood about chronic fatigue, even, for example, if it is a mental or physical condition. The disease is defined by extended and unexplainable fatigue, and the ruling out of any other determinable illness or cause. The cause of the disease is largely unknown—it’s thought to be a combination of genetic and physiological factors—and no single set of symptoms or characteristics can be used to diagnose it. Some health professionals even entirely reject it as a condition. Talk of a cure, given these hurdles, is outright unfeasible.

Occasionally, people do overcome the disease, but chronic fatigue is known to flare up again months or even years later.

Most sufferers learn to live a perpetually exhausted existence.

For Brad, chronic fatigue syndrome ruined his active lifestyle with the police force. “I had days where I couldn’t even get out of bed. I couldn’t do any exercise. If I walked around the block, a distance of 200m, that was my whole energy spent and it’d take three days to recover.”

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Profile: BRAD MCCARTNEY

It was a “necessary but evil” time in his life, and it laid the foundations for what was to come. “When you’re staring at a life like that … knowing not everyone pulls through chronic fatigue, and that potentially the rest of my life was going to be lived like that—it was a defining moment for me. I had to do a lot of soul searching. I started dreaming of things I wanted to do.”

Confined to his bedroom, Brad lived vicariously through hiking, cycling and travel blogs; they inspired his dreaming. An idea began to form in his mind that he just couldn’t shake. A challenge to prove to himself that chronic fatigue syndrome would not define him: Cycling from Alaska to Mexico.

As time passed, Brad, it turned out, was one of the fortunate few. His chronic fatigue only lasted eight months, and not eight or eighteen years. Doctors are unable to explain why he was so lucky.

When he did recover, Brad pursued his cycling dream with newfound energy levels, heading to Alaska on long service leave. He successfully rode the length of North America, ending his journey in Mexico. His life’s trajectory from then on seemed pre-destined.

“That lifestyle I had while travelling in North America made me question what direction my life was going and that’s what spurred me on to make a lifestyle change. It’s a very different way of living life. You’re very much in the present, not thinking about the past or the future—just living and breathing in the moment, with the people around you.”

In particular, though, it was a chance and transformative encounter on that trip that changed Brad’s mindset. While resting from cycling, he took a short hike into the Grand Canyon, Arizona. During it, he met a “random, ragged-looking, overweight” man in his mid-60s carrying only a small daypack. He claimed to be on a five-day hike. It seemed inconceivable.

“I looked at his gear and the size of his backpack. I just said, ‘You’re kidding.’” During the conversation, Brad also learned that this guy he was an experienced thru-hiker, and had completed the Appalachian Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail—twice. “I first heard of the Pacific Crest Trail in my early 20s, in Wild Magazine or something similar. I remember thinking, ‘that’s the freakiest and most messed up thing—who on earth would want to do that?’”

Brad’s cycling route had intertwined with the trail, but he’d always dismissed it as only for super athletic wackos. Now, in front of him, stood one of those wackos. But he was just, said Brad, “a regular, overweight dude.”

It would lead to a transformation in Brad’s mind as to what was possible for everyday people to achieve, along with the understanding that body shape—along with age or even what we might more generally regard as athletic fitness or the lack thereof—was no barrier to the outdoors. And that even extended to doing super freaky things like doing the AT and PCT twice, as this guy had. A seed of desire was planted in Brad’s mind. +++++

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TALKING TO BRAD IS LIKE the conversations you have four days into a hiking trip, when the pretending is over and the track sprawls so endlessly in front that vulnerability swarms in the air like flies. He is raw and real. The bad times are just that— bad. Nothing more. Nothing less. You develop such perspective when you go through dark times; you have to, otherwise the darkness can consume you. Brad doesn’t exaggerate his story. Rather, he fondly recounts his adventures as one would retell their favourite book. When it looked like the rest of his life might be lived

IT’S A HOLY SHIT MOMENT.

YOU’RE STANDING AT THE MEXICAN BORDER LOOKING OUT AT THE DESERT AND THINKING, ‘I NEED TO WALK 32KM TO THE NEXT WATER SOURCE. I’VE NEVER DONE THAT IN

MY LIFE. IS THAT POSSIBLE?’ ”

from his bed, he developed a drive to squeeze every last drop of life from the second chance he had. If you’re chasing a drop of experience, the Pacific Crest Trail is the Mississippi River.

Over 4000km long, the PCT follows the Sierra Nevada range as it stretches along America’s west coast. It cuts through scorching deserts and snowy mountains, with temperatures erratically ranging from -10° to 40°C. Predators—bears and mountain lions—are a constant threat, as are rattlesnakes and scorpions.

Food re-stocks are available from towns intermittently along the

trail, but often hikers are isolated for weeks at a time in the wilderness. In 2019, only half of the 850 hikers who started the trail hiked it to completion.

Brad’s own past preconceptions and the PCT’s notorious reputation made it all the more alluring. He committed to becoming a wacko.

Within ten weeks of returning home from his cycling trip, Brad had sold everything but his hiking gear, quit his job, and was preparing himself. In April 2015, just six months after initially entertaining the idea, he was in Mexico to begin hiking, all his possessions strapped to his back.

“It’s a holy shit moment. You’re standing at the Mexican border looking out at the desert and mountains in front of you, and thinking, ‘I need to walk 32km to the next water source. I’ve never done that in my life. Is that possible?’”

At the end of the first day, his knee pounded when he finally made it to camp. That was Day One of a trip that would span almost five months.

The suburban block Brad used to trace while sick was 400m, and it left him breathless and broken. Here he was now, taking the first steps of a journey 10,000 times longer. Success was over 4,000km away. It wasn’t easy. Seven hundred kilometres in, Brad severely strained the tendons in his ankle from overuse. He felt like he was walking through fire. It was agony. Fortunately, Brad’s hiking partner at the time was a physiotherapist. “He said I could take ten days off the trail—have a break and put my feet up—or rather than do that, I could take three days off as a break to get back to 50% OK, and still be able to hike, albeit in a lot of pain. So I took three days off, had a rest and started hiking.” The decision meant the tendon took much longer to heal. For a month, Brad hiked 30km every day, tormented by a damaged tendon.

There are the obvious physical challenges one must survive to complete the PCT; the biggest hurdles, however, are mental. “After two months, it was like the movie Groundhog Day, where the same thing happens every day. You wake up, have your porridge and your coffee and you walk for ten hours and then have a pasta dinner and go to sleep. Just doing that day in and day out becomes very boring. It made me ask questions: ‘Why am I here? What am I doing? Do I really want to continue doing this?’”

Questions like these accost every long-distance hiker; answering them is often the

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT: Goat Rocks section of the Pacific Crest Trail in Washington State Middle column: (top) Cycling across the Arctic in Canada; (middle) The end of the Continental Divide Trail at the USA/Canada border.

Brad celebrated with a packet of Tim Tams that had been donated to him; (bottom) At the Bluff in NZ’s South Island—the end of the Te Araroa Trail Right column: (top) Getting chilly in Wyoming’s grizzly country on the CDT; (bottom) Dodgy water that Brad had no choice but to drink while on the New Mexican section of the CDT

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Hiking (and crawling) the West Coast Trail, Vancouver Island, Canada Canoeing solo down the Yukon River, Canada The Tararua Range while on the Te Araroa Trail, North Island, New Zealand

greatest obstacle of thru-hiking. “Everyone gets to that point,” Brad says, “where you’re crying in the middle of the trail asking ‘Why am I here? I’m in pain; what am I doing? In that moment, you’ve got to have an answer.”

More than any weight on their shoulders, it’s this question that causes hikers to stumble. They quit. But for Brad, quitting was returning to the bed where he’d dreamt dreams and made promises to himself. Quitting was chucking the towel in on the greatest second chance he’d ever had.

Brad sees his Pacific Crest Trail journey as a reflection of his life story. “You learn a lot about life by doing that trail. There are hard days—days when you just want to go ‘I don’t want to do this anymore.’ But you gotta stick with it. Keep going, dig a little bit deeper, and it’ll be right.”

On September 11, 2015, Brad arrived at the Canadian border, the terminus of the PCT. He took no shortcuts and hitched no rides. He was powered by his legs alone. But reaching Canada was never the objective. “Imagine if you tell yourself you’re going to do something you don’t believe you can do; it is so out there it seems impossible. But you give it a go and you do it. That’s the Pacific Crest Trail for me. I learnt about what’s possible. I’m resilient. I’m able to go and do things. Some of the things you think are impossible are possible, and they’re possible just for regular people.”

Finishing the PCT was a defining moment in Brad’s battle with chronic fatigue syndrome. Every bed-ridden memory of chronic disease was superseded by reminiscences from the trail. “I can close my eyes and see every single day of the trail. I can see it as if it were just yesterday, and yet it was five years ago. If I see a photo on that trail, I can tell you where it is. Everything is so memorable.”

The PCT propelled him into the life of an adventurer. Within weeks of finishing, he set off on a new quest: cycling from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Panama Canal. Then he conquered the Appalachian Trail, then the Continental Divide Trail. He’s bikepacked around NSW and Tasmania, canoed Canada’s Yukon River and New Zealand’s Whanganui River, hiked Canada’s West Coast

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BRAD INSISTS HIS STORY ISN’T SPECIAL—JUST AN ORDINARY GUY BATTLING COMMON STRUGGLES.” Trail, Tasmania’s South Coast Trail and topped it all off with New Zealand’s 3,000km Te Araroa Trail. Overall, Brad calculates that he’s travelled 49,493 human-powered kilometres since 2014.

Now he has set himself possibly the most daunting challenge yet: writing a book about his Pacific Crest Trail experience.

“When you do something normal folk don’t do, people think you’re not a normal person—you become fascinating to them.

Something to marvel at. I realised I’m a character in my own story. So I decided to put pen to paper, and write a book about it.”

As with life on the trail, however, writing a book, while glorious, has been difficult. “Trying to write about a bad day, or a bad situation, or trying to write about when I had chronic fatigue—it made it all come back to me. I’m trying to write as honestly as I can. Some of it’s really difficult for me.”

Brad insists his story isn’t special—just an ordinary guy battling common struggles. There’ve been dark days, where it seemed almost hopeless, but Brad sees hope in shadows. To literally keep walking, into the darkness, with only the intermittent flashes of your headtorch offering any guidance, light or hope.

He says the Pacific Crest Trail doesn’t discriminate on fitness nor age; any normal person can do it. Like any other long-distance trail, or most adventures, or even most challenges in life, you just need a ‘why’. W CONTRIBUTOR: James Tugwell once tried to convince his family to love hiking by taking them on a trek. He forgot the matches; they ate raw pumpkin in the cold. His family still don’t like hiking, so now he writes about it to try convince them.

Behind the Scenes with Adventure filmmaker Michael Dillon Untold stories & rare footage from iconic adventures

by Sir Edmund Hillary, Greg Mortimer, Tim Macartney-Snape, Tim Cope & more

What Michael will talk about If adventure is more your thing than celebrity, you’ll love a night out with filmmaker Michael. Don't miss your chance to hear him live as he outlines some of his most memorable expeditions filmed and experienced firsthand, including:

Sydney Event Wednesday, 27 July 2022 Sydney Grammar School, Alastair Mackerras Theatre, 4 Stanley St, Darlinghurst, NSW 2010

• Creating seven adventure films with Sir Edmund Hillary – you'll see

• • • • •

firsthand footage of Michael’s new film about Sir Edmund Hillary’s near fatal attempt to journey up the River Ganges by jet boat and foot.

Documenting the first Australian Everest summit via a new route, unsupported and without supplemental oxygen in 1984.

Legendary mountaineer Tim Macartney-Snape's iconic sea to summit expedition.

His experiences filming parts of Tim Cope's and his dog Tigon's epic journey in Mongolia.

The wild and epic adventures stories he has helped share – from a London to Sydney taxi ride to the world's highest formal dinner party.

What it was like to be behind the camera filming extreme sports before extreme sports were a thing.

Brisbane Event Thursday, 4 August 2022 Queensland Multicultural Centre (QMC) - 102 Main St, Kangaroo Point, QLD 4169

Melbourne Event Wednesday, 11 August 2022 The Wheeler Centre, 176 Little Lonsdale St, Melbourne VIC 3000

“Spending almost two years in Hillary’s company, on expeditions and while he was actively building schools for the Sherpas, has been the greatest privilege of my life.” - Michael Dillon

Proudly presented by

Purchase tickets at: worldexpeditions.com or scan the QR code

CONSERVATION

RESTORE

PEDDER

NOW

2022 marks the fiftieth anniversary of the tragic and shameful flooding of Southwest Tasmania’s Lake Pedder for hydro-electricity in the 1970s. But the loss of the lake also inspired Australian conservationists to take action, and, notably, galvanised opposition to another proposed dam nearby: that on the Franklin, which was ultimately saved. And now, momentum is building to drain the dam and to restore Pedder to its former glory. Bob Brown, Christine Milne and Tabatha Badger look at the early days of the original campaign, the aftermath of the flooding, and the hope that this great wrong can be righted.

By BOB BROWN, CHRISTINE MILNE & TABATHA BADGER

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Lake Pedder, TASMANIA

Lake Pedder and the Frankland Range from Mount Solitary.

By Dennis Garrett

Pedder Beach, 22 January, 1971.

By Dennis Garrett

Bob Brown and Lake Pedder protestors. Creator unknown

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Lake Pedder, TASMANIA

THE EARLY DAYS

by Bob Brown Patron of the Bob Brown Foundation & Former Leader of the Australian Greens

POWERFUL MEN LIED, CHEATED AND BULLIED their way to flooding the Lake Pedder National Park in 1972, but citizens raised a heart-rending campaign to save it and, unlike the ardour for its destruction, that campaign is yet to run its course.

Aboriginal Tasmanians witnessed the reformation of the lake, high in the mountains of the Tasmanian wilderness, as the last Ice Age ended 10,000 years ago. Records of an Aboriginal village in the nearby Vale of Rasselas, upstream beside the Gordon River, point to people walking on the lake’s beach millennia before engineers from the Hydro-Electric Commission (HEC) came in the 1960s to flood it.

The beach of fine, pinkish-white quartzite sand was more than three kilometres long (the same distance as the Sydney Harbour Bridge to Railway Square) and, in summer, was 800m wide and backed by high, vegetated sand dunes; the latter provided fine camping sites protected from the Roaring Forties winds.

Within 170 years of the British colony at Hobart, Lake Pedder and its national park, declared in 1955, was obliterated by Tasmania’s rampaging Hydro-Electric Commission. The remarkable sequel is that, fifty years later, the campaign to restore the lake is gathering a winning momentum, a momentum which awaits the political will and common sense of federal and Tasmanian leaders keen on restoring rather than ravaging the wilds. As the people, including scientists, led the lake’s defence in the 1960s and 1970s, so now they lead in its restoration.

A doyen of the campaigners, Melva Truchanas, made many trips to the Lake Pedder National Park. She became chairwoman of the Lake Pedder Action Committee and, now in her nineties, is still an active member of the Lake Pedder Restoration campaign.

Melva was a member of the Launceston Bushwalking Club in 1954 when she met, and later married, Olegas (O-lay-gus) Truchanas. He was a post-war refugee from Lithuania who saw the wild magnificence of his new island home in Tasmania, and set about recording it with his exceptional physical strength and photographic ability. (Ed: Wild ran a profile on Olegas in Issue #172) Melva and Olegas became aware that the political decision-making had little regard for long-term conservation, and the pair worked to protect Tasmania’s wilderness from development and destruction. “I found a real yearning to be involved in the land and the environment, to appreciate and make sure other people understood that,” Melva says.

The fight to save Lake Pedder from inundation dominated Melva’s and Olegas’ lives for years, and they were hit with some devastating blows along the way. In 1967, the Hobart bushfires

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destroyed the Truchanas family’s home and all their possessions.

That included Olegas’ irreplaceable slides of his exploratory walking and canoeing journeys into Southwest Tasmania.

Olegas set out to recapture his life’s work. Making frequent visits to the lake, he worked with friend (and HEC engineer) Ralph Hope-Johnstsone to create a presentation of his slides—My Pedder—which repeatedly filled Hobart Town Hall and other venues, showing thousands of Tasmanians what they were about to lose.

However, in 1972, while setting off to photograph the Gordon River, Olegas was tragically drowned. He left us this immortal injunction: “Is there any reason why Tasmania should not be more beautiful on the day we leave it, than on the day we came? If we can revise our attitudes towards the land under our feet, if we can accept a role of steward and depart from the role of the conqueror, if we can accept that people and nature are inseparable parts of the unified whole, then Tasmania can be a shining beacon in a dull, uniform and largely artificial world.”

Olegas Truchanas left another enduring gift to the Tasmanian wilderness: He had mentored the shy teenager Peter Dombrovskis in bushcraft, canoeing ... and photography. Dombrovskis took the pivotal photographic role in saving the Franklin River a decade after Pedder was lost.

As director of the Tasmanian Wilderness Society during the Franklin campaign years, I was acutely aware not only of the Truchanas’ legacies, but also of the remarkable campaign those fighting to save Pedder had run a decade before ours. The Franklin success in 1983 was founded in their fortitude. In 1985, I

IS THERE ANY REASON WHY TASMANIA SHOULD NOT BE

MORE BEAUTIFUL ON THE DAY WE LEAVE IT, THAN ON THE DAY WE CAME?”

produced the book Lake Pedder to salute the Pedder people and help keep their spirit alive.

Lake Pedder includes the evocative essay by then-teenage campaigner for the lake Kevin Kiernan, titled ‘I Saw My Temple Ransacked’. (For this edition of Wild, I have had the book digitised. It is copyrighted but feel free to browse. Go to: wild.com.au/conservation/lake-pedder-bob-brown.

1972 was the Pedder campaigners’ annus horribilis. After Olegas’ death in January, the Serpentine Dam downstream of the lake was sealed, and the Serpentine River—which flowed to the Gordon—began damming back across the plains towards the doomed lake. In that summer and autumn, thousands of pilgrims walked or flew in to see the splendour of the lake and beach before they were obliterated.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Lake Pedder’s exquisite herringbone beach.

By Graham Wootton While the flooding of Pedder’s beach has justifiably received considerable attention, it shouldn’t be forgotten that we also lost the beautiful (and aptly named) Serpentine River.

Here’s a cutting from The Sun in 1972 The expansive Huon Plains were also flooded.

By Winston Nichols

On 23 March, 1972, at another packed meeting in the Hobart Town Hall, Dr Richard Jones put a motion to establish a new political party to oppose the flooding (Labor and Liberal MPs all backed the destruction). With a show of hands over the cacophony of dam workers brought in to disrupt the meeting, Jones’ motion passed, and the world’s first Greens party was established.

However, under a fusillade of threatening advertising from the HEC, and with news coverage about power price rises (subsequently shown to be false), the new party failed to win a seat in the May state election. ‘Electric Eric’ Reece was elected premier.

Reece had famously described mainland bushwalkers as people who came to Tasmania “with one shirt and one five-dollar note, and go home having changed neither”. He glibly maintained the HEC was not destroying Lake Pedder but enlarging it—which led campaigners to dub the proposed artificial lake ‘Fake Pedder’.

The controversy gave rise to street marches, vigils in the Pedder sand dunes, and, in September, the disappearance of campaigner Brenda Hean. She had organised a Tiger Moth flight with pilot Max Price, from Hobart to Canberra, to skywrite ‘SAVE LAKE PEDDER’ over the national parliament. Two nights before takeoff, Hean received a death threat over the phone. The hangar housing the plane was broken into the night before the flight, and the flight beacon removed. The plane disappeared, without trace, over Bass Strait. Reece refused to hold an independent inquiry into what looked like sabotage and murder.

Renowned English expatriate, poet and environmentalist Clive Sansom told me that the campaigners were terrified: “We wondered who would be next. Each morning when I put my foot on the accelerator I worried the car might explode.”

Winter and spring in 1972 brought heavy rain across the Serpentine catchment. The beach was covered, leaving the sand dunes an island arc in the flood. The last defiant campaigner, Chris Tebbutt, was boated off before their tops went under.

A SMALL SOLAR POWER STATION BUILT TO REPLACE THE DEFICIT ... WOULD COST A PITTANCE COMPARED TO THE GAINS.” In December, Gough Whitlam was elected Prime Minister.

Early in 1973, influenced by left leader Tom Uren and the new Minister for the Environment, Moss Cass, Whitlam is said to have offered Premier Reece $8.5 million for a last-minute stay of execution for Lake Pedder. The offer was rejected out-of-hand

by Reece to the applause of the Tasmanian House of Assembly.

Into this maelstrom stepped Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh and the new president of the Australian Conservation Foundation. He flew over the wilderness to see it for himself, and then met Premier Reece in the state’s parliamentary building. Reece’s biographer Dr Jillian Koshin says “they had a dingdong row behind closed doors in Reece’s parliamentary office that could be heard down the corridor.” Philip wrote to Whitlam that “the Tasmanian Government simply does not understand the point of conservation.” But the Pedder campaigners did and still do. Bolstered by the recent removal of concrete dams in the USA bigger than those which immersed Lake Pedder, the course of history leads to the lake’s imminent unflooding.

A small (60MW) solar power station built in Victoria to replace the deficit to Melbourne (which currently receives Tasmanian hydro-electricity via the Bass Strait cable) would cost a pittance compared to the gains from having the lake and its beach recovered to the sunshine of wild Tasmania.

As Melva Truchanas puts it: “There is an inevitability about nature. When the dams are decommissioned, nature will prevail.” Lake Pedder’s restoration is on its way.

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Lake Pedder, TASMANIA

THE AFTERMATH

by Christine Milne Convenor of the Lake Pedder Restoration Committee & Former Australian Greens Leader

I DIDN’T KNOW IT AT THE TIME but the struggle to save Lake Pedder swirling around me at the University of Tasmania in 1972 would determine the direction of my adult life. From a conservative dairy farming family with nothing but a passing interest in politics, I was naïve enough at 19 to believe that political decisions were evidence-based. Lake Pedder changed that forever.

Although unnecessary to meet Tasmania’s energy demand, it was sacrificed to fulfil the engineering dreams of the Hydro-Electric Commission (HEC) to create the Southern Hemisphere’s largest sheet of water. It was the ultimate triumph of ‘man’ over nature.

Lesson learned. I determined then that I’d never let that happen again. We needed a new environmental focus in politics, and so when the HEC announced its intention to dam the Franklin River, I—with thousands of others—went to the blockade, was arrested, and then sent to Risdon Women’s prison. The loss of Pedder radicalised a whole generation of environmentalists who then fought to save the Franklin, and that success empowered us to maintain the struggle and to take environmentalism through grassroots activism and Green politics into state and federal parliaments.

Fast forward to 1994. After the successful campaign to stop North Broken Hill’s polluting, native forest-based, elemental chlorine bleaching pulp mill, I was in the Tasmanian Parliament as Leader of the Tasmanian Greens. I was delighted to give my full support to ‘Pedder 2000’, a campaign to restore Lake Pedder by the turn of the century. There were such high hopes that a new century would usher in an era of big-picture, transformative thinking that would make anything possible. Since 1972, campaigners had kept up the struggle to have Lake Pedder restored, but Helen Gee and Hilary Bennell took it to a new level. The campaign garnered the support of the International Union for the Conservation of Nature at its Congress in Buenos Aires in 1994, and from dignatories worldwide including David Suzuki, David Bellamy and HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh.

A federal parliamentary inquiry in 1995 heard from scientists and experts in all fields that restoring the lake was possible. But opposition to the restoration from the Tasmanian establishment, the HEC, and both the Liberal and Labor parties in Tasmania was intense. They were joined by University of Tasmania aquaculture academic Nigel Forteath, who argued that 4,000 platypus would die if the lake was restored. His claims were disputed by experts in the field; they were nonetheless amplified by a compliant media. The inquiry found it was technically feasible to restore the lake and that doing so would enhance the values of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area. The political will was

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IT [IS] TECHNICALLY FEASIBLE TO RESTORE THE LAKE AND THAT DOING SO WOULD ENHANCE THE VALUES OF THE TASMANIAN WILDERNESS WORLD HERITAGE AREA.” absent, however. “It is opposed by the government and the major opposition in Tasmania and under these circumstances has no real prospect of proceeding in the foreseeable future.”

In spite of the setback, on the 30th anniversary of the flooding in 2002, a time capsule was buried in the impoundment, defiantly containing the hope that the lake would eventually be restored.

Now in this 50th anniversary year of Pedder’s inundation, I am convenor of one of Australia’s longest-running, unbroken campaigns. The rest of the world has caught up, too, with the United Nations declaring 2021-2030 as the Decade on Ecosystem Restoration. Biodiversity loss is a global emergency. We need to protect and restore ecosystems to stem the sixth wave of extinction and to build resilience in landscapes in the face of accelerating global warming. Lake Pedder, in the heart of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area, is already recognised for its outstanding universal values; it is a perfect global flagship for the UN Decade.

Pedder’s ‘mega ripples’.

By Lindsay Hope

Restoring it would be a sign of healing, and would put Australia on the global map as a leader in ecosystem restoration.

It would give our universities the opportunity to engage in the global push for 30% of the Earth’s surface to be protected or restored by 2030, and inspire a generation increasingly anxious about global ecosystem collapse. Furthermore, the 57MW of energy it feeds into the Gordon Power Scheme has already been eclipsed by existing new windfarms, such that its restoration is no threat to Tasmania’s energy security.

A submersible craft revealed in 2020 that the pink quartzite beach and its dune system are still intact, waiting to emerge as the “beacon of hope in a dull, uniform and largely artificial world” imagined by wilderness photographer Olegas Truchanas. Imagine the joy as the thousands of people who have kept jars of Lake Pedder sand and Pedder pennies for half a century restore them to the beach.

In 1974, Edward St John said, “if Lake Pedder were to be re-exposed, its beauty would return, irrespective of the length of time the lake had been flooded. There is, very fortunately in this case, what lawyers call a locus poenitentiae—an opportunity to repent ... if not we ourselves, the day will come when our children will undo what we so foolishly have done.”

This is the perfect time for the Federal and Tasmanian Governments to sign off on the restoration of Lake Pedder.

MOVING FORWARD

by Tabatha Badger

Tasmanian bushwalker and photographer, Secretary of Lake Pedder Restoration Committee

FOR THE DURATION OF MY LIFETIME, bushwalking in Southwest Tasmania has centered around the vast inland sea audaciously titled ‘Lake Pedder’. There is barely a rocky outcropped summit in the vicinity from which the darkened waters of the impound aren't visible.

On a clear, still day, the 242km2 watershed provides glassy, mirror-like reflections of the Frankland and Wilmot Ranges which proudly rise along Pedder’s perimeter. This enlarged Lake Pedder, the Pedder I’ve always known, is beautiful in its own right, and is highly accessible to the public. Yet it looms as an intrusion in this ancient landscape. There is no quaint character to the impoundment, unlike the other elements of the Southwest wilderness.

Ultimately, it is just another man-made storage lake, the same as many others found throughout Tasmania and across the world.

Is this sameness of hydro dams the reason for decreasing visitors to Pedder? Despite being one of the few sites with drivable access in any world heritage wilderness area, estimated annual visitors have dropped from 68,000 just after Pedder’s flooding in

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Lake Pedder, TASMANIA

IMAGES - FROM TOP Plane on Pedder, March 1972.

By Chris Eden “The next six hours I’d rather forget.” Start of the Sentinel Range from the Gordon River Road, January 1972.

By Winston Nickols Final visit to Lake Pedder. March long weekend, 1972.

By Lindsay Hope

the 70s to just 15,000 in the 2000s, with a minimal rise to 19,000 in the ‘Great Tasmanian Tourism Boom’, pre-COVID. But Pedder is not only functioning poorly as a tourism destination, it’s barely being used for power. Because of legislation to prevent shore erosion and to retain aesthetic values, during the energy supply crisis of 2015-2016, the Tasmanian Government chose not to lower the minimum drawdown level of Pedder to impart water into neighbouring Lake Gordon, despite the fact that doing so would have provided Tasmania the power it needed.

It’s worth then asking: If tourism is faltering, and if we will not use the lake for power even when absolutely necessary, then why keep the impoundment at all?

The 2015 Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area Reactive Monitoring Mission identified the enlarged Pedder and its hydro infrastructure as devaluing the World Heritage site’s integrity; under the World Heritage Convention, Tasmania is obligated to restore degraded sites where possible. Restoring Pedder is not just possible, however; I believe it’s inevitable.

The question is when.

When will Lake Pedder’s famous glittering quartzite beach re-emerge? In 50 years, when the government concedes the already excessive costs of dam maintenance have become too much? Perhaps it will re-remerge after the next earthquake within the Edgar Fault Line, upon which two of the dams impounding Pedder are precariously built? Or could it be now, amid the climate and biodiversity crises, when the world needs positive, ambitious change to fundamentally shift and challenge the way in which we consider our relationship with the natural world?

The growing cohort of young adventurers nationwide calling for Pedder’s restoration not only debunks the myth that the proposal is a nostalgia trip for old green bushwalkers, it is proof the original lake transcends traditional place values to inspire a generation—a generation who have inherited enormous environmental destruction and biodiversity loss—to fight for ambitious change.

Lake Pedder’s flooding initiated a new era of environmental conservation politics; imagine what restoring Pedder will instigate!

What it would be to clamber over the boulders onto the Eliza Plateau and see the rehabilitating landscape below where the impoundment once was, knowing the next generation of adventurers will roam Pedder’s shore searching for Pedder Pennies, swim in Maria Creek and meander for hours through the shallow tannin-stained shore, with its distinct herringbone pattern.

When we dismantle the dams, (and let's re-use the material for walking tracks), we will reinstate the integrity of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area and revive an icon considered as significant as Uluru or the Great Barrier Reef. There are thousands of other impoundments to adore. But there is only one Lake Pedder. Why not restore the jewel of Tasmania’s Southwest?

LEARN MORE AT: lakepedder.org

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Here for nature.

For the special places.

For now and the future.

For communities to thrive.

For the life that supports us all.

wilderness.org.au Image: Matt Tomkins

[SPONSORED CONTENT]

Aliquam II

A Movie by Anthony Gordon PRESENTED BY

Giving a gift of the ocean to the next generation is more than just an ideology. It is also more than passing on the turbulence created by generations past.

What it is about is simply making a start to give them the gift of knowledge and ability. To provide them an extremely rare opportunity to experience their first breath beneath the surface.

This will open their eyes to not only the ecosystem that makes up almost 70% of the world’s surface but provide an important lesson of the wonders of the natural world that are worth protecting.

The producers of Aliquam II, Anthony Gordon & Lachlan Walmsley, believe that by showcasing the experiences of our kids as they look for the first time beneath the waves, that it will inspire other youngsters throughout the world to do the same.

It is providing a resource that is very rare and seldom used, that of opportunity and experience.

Anthony & Lachlan will change the world one story at a time, together with giving the viewer a sense of wonder that they themselves are in desperate need of in such uncertain times.

Ten stories, one film, one great hope for the future.

After all it is in our children’s hands.

bit.ly/aliquamii

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[SPONSORED CONTENT]

Aliquam - Life begins in the Ocean

by Jayne Jenkins

This story originally appeard in Scuba Diver Mag

O

ceans are an extremely important part of our lives. Therefore, it is important that we endeavour to protect our oceans for our future generations.

This starts with the younger generations of today learning and understanding why the oceans are so special. More than this, we can encourage our youth to take steps every day towards protecting the oceans and encourage children to learn about and help them want to care and protect the marine environment.

Teaching children to care about the ocean is reasonably easy as there is so much to discover. There are many, many documentaries’ children can watch like BBC’s Blue Planet but giving them the live experience of a snorkel or dive in the ocean itself blows their minds as we found out.

Aliquam is the is the brainchild of Anthony Gordon and is the Latin word meaning 'scuba' or 'bubbles' or 'to a large extent'.

Anthony comes from a background in rescue, short story telling and filming the mountains in Nepal to the oceans of the northern beaches and Mosman in Sydney. With his genius in storytelling Anthony recognised an area where we could generate the younger generation to experience the ocean.

“Giving a gift of the ocean to the next generation is more than just an ideology. It is also more than passing on the turbulence created by generations past. What it is about is simply making a start to give them the gift of knowledge and ability. To provide them an extremely rare opportunity to experience their first breath beneath the surface.”

Aliquam was created to encourage children to be more mindful of human impact on the ocean. The idea was to take some local children underwater, some for the very first time with a snorkel let alone scuba and get their reactions to the experience and inspiration on future protection.

There is that great saying “out of sight, out of mind” and this could not be truer for the oceans.

What the oceans need is action and as the youth of today are the future, they will inherit our oceans. The part they play is vital and

this will only happen if they experience this firsthand and know and care about the ocean.

Taking these children underwater was an amazing experience and their reactions were very heart-warming. Making it fun is an essential part as kids love to have fun, but at the same time teaching the safety aspects of snorkelling and scuba diving.

To take care and know about the ocean you really need to have experienced the ocean. By understanding how everything is connected and how we interact as humans with the ocean children will learn to care as we learnt from this programe - they want it to be a better place. This programme showed us by the reactions of the children how well this can work.

After spending time with these children and hearing about their experience, it would be an ideal world if all children were taught about the oceans in schools and were given an underwater experience whether it be just snorkelling or an intro to scuba diving.

The oceans need protecting and by showing and letting children experience them up close and personal how they can protect them, what better legacy to pass on.

There are diving experiences and learning to dive courses from the age of eight years old. As children’s physical and mental stages of development are different, defining what age depends on the child’s maturity, learning skills, and physical strength. The minimum age for scuba diving is generally 10 years old with parent or guardian permission. All potential student divers must complete a brief scuba medical questionnaire that asks about medical conditions that could be a problem while diving. In some areas, local laws require all scuba students to consult with a physician before entering the course. On the physical side all students must complete a 200-metre swim or 300 metres in mask, fins and snorkel without stopping. There is no time limit for this, any swimming strokes may be used. Finally float and tread water for 10 minutes, again using any methods.

Thank you to our supporters and sponsors for this series for showing their care in protecting the oceans.

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[SPONSORED CONTENT]

Aliquam II Words from the next generation

Eden (14): "Scuba diving

Kohia (12): "I'm usually a very anxious person ... but I found [diving] so peaceful and magical."

Zac (16): "Every kid should have the opportunity to ... see how different it looks from the bottom."

Forest (10): "This was

Ashley (16): "Diving

Jess (14): "A place where

gave me a whole new perspective on the environment and why we need to care for it."

definitely one of the best experiences of my life."

... has helped me to find my happy place."

you go and it’s all calm and you can just be at peace."

WATCH ALIQUAM II FOR FREE, AND GO IN THE DRAW TO WIN A SUUNTO 5 PEAK WATCH ADVENTURE+ are working with Suunto to give the gift of the ocean to the next generation, and are streaming Aliquam II for free from March 25th 2022. To watch the film plus bonus content, simply scan the QR code below or go to https://bit.ly/aliquamii and register. The film will be available to watch in the Your Library section of ADVENTURE+, and anyone that registers to watch will be automatically entered into a prize draw* to win the New Suunto 5 Peak. They will also receive a code to get 90 days free of ADVENTURE+ which will give access to all of the content on the platform.

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THE

LONGEST NIGHT

While sleeping after a day of paddling in Western Australia’s remote Kimberley region, Alex Parsons awoke to the sudden and intense pain of a snake bite.

By ALEX PARSONS (Unless images credited otherwise)

“W

hat a beautiful place to die,” I thought.

I lay on red rocks, surrounded by an ancient stone gorge with a fierce river cutting through it. I knew there were blue freshwater pools just a few hundred metres from where I lay, and giant boab trees reaching into the star-filled sky. I could hear the sound of huge waterfalls nearby, but the sun had already set on the scenery. Only a handful of people had ever seen this place before, deep in the Kimberley region of Western Australia.

The utter remoteness of this land was part of the appeal for a whitewater rafting adventure. But now I knew that it might also cost me my life.

Alex on a stretcher, prepped for evacuation.

The whole team pitched in for Alex’s exit.

Photo by helicopter pilot Mick McGee

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Martuwarra, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

Fitzroy Crossing

Perth

THE BITE

THE FIRST AID RESPONSE

February 19, 2021. Right now we are on Ngarinyin Country, where the Traditional Custodians hold First Law strong today.

We’ve just finished Day Three of our two-week journey to raft from near Mt Barnett to Fitzroy Crossing, travelling along the Martuwarra (Fitzroy River) and its upper catchments. It is a rarely travelled route, possible only in the wet season when torrential rain and flooding is common. We’re here to experience this land, to immerse ourselves in it, and to help bring attention to the river’s plight.

Hugely important to its Traditional Owners, the Martuwarra is considered an ancestral being at the core of their belief systems, while also being home to a number of endemic species like

I wake up Lachie, our lead guide, with a sharp tap. Then another one. “I need you to wake up,” I say. He rises groggily. I stare him right in the eyes and speak with a flat voice. “I’ve been bitten by something. It might be a snake. I need you to get the first aid kit and do a compression bandage right now.” Still half asleep, he isn’t processing the information. “Concentrate,” I say. “This is serious. I need a compression bandage. Right now.”

He looks at the bite, says, “It’s tiny,” and then walks towards the first aid kit. “Be careful,” I say. “The snake could be down there.”

I wake up our other friend John. He rouses with, “Huh? What?”

“I need a compression bandage immediately.”

He simply says, “OK”, and stands up to find one.

I’ve set the plan in motion. Now it’s up to them. Thank God the three of us had all done a Wilderness First Aid course a few weeks before the trip. Now I know I just have to stay calm, lie down and wait. I put myself in the recovery position. It’s 9:30PM. The boys return with the first aid kit and emergency communication equipment. They examine the wound and start wrapping the compression bandages. The pain is growing, a cross between a hot sting and a burn. It kicks up ferociously any time they touch my foot.

It’s spread towards my ankle. I beg them to be careful.

“Jed,” calls Lachie. “Can you get up buddy?” Jed is a paramedic.

His partner is an American woman named Jana, sleeping next to him. Together, they manage a skydiving Drop Zone in South Australia. Rounding out the team is a Broome local, Harry, who’s a musician and talented bushman.

Jed comes over. “Were you walking around?” he asks.

“No, I was just sleeping when it bit me.”

“You didn’t even do anything wrong!” He’s taking notes, his head torch illuminating the scene in the red low-light setting.

He confirms we were doing everything right—the compression bandage, the lying down. “Aboriginal people used to do the same thing,” he says, a reassuring hand on my arm. “If they were bitten by a snake they’d lie down under a tree for a while. You’re doing great.” Jed says to keep him updated if I feel any changes and is soon making a call to emergency services on the satellite phone.

I HAVEN’T BEEN ASLEEP LONG WHEN I WAKE WITH A JOLT—A SUDDEN IMPACT AND INTENSE PAIN ON MY TOE. I’M WRENCHED OUT OF SLEEP, THINKING, WHAT THE

HELL WAS THAT?”

the critically endangered freshwater sawfish. But other groups are also interested in the river—some want to take water from it for irrigation and agriculture; others want to explore the area for fracking.

Our team of six is asleep beneath tarps held up with paddles in case a storm blows through during the night. I haven’t been asleep long when I wake with a jolt—a sudden impact and intense pain on my toe. I’m wrenched out of sleep, thinking, What the hell was that?

My head torch is next to me; I grab it, swing the beam around, but see nothing.

Everybody else is asleep. Silent.

I peel down my thin sleeping bag liner to reveal my toe, where the pain is radiating from.

There are two puncture wounds below the nail, bleeding. I know what this is.

Snake bite.

But there’s no snake to be seen.

I take a deep breath. My brain explodes with possible scenarios and consequences. Briefly, I wonder: Could this be a harmless spider bite? Could I go back to sleep without making a fuss?

But I know this is serious. The pain is already strong. Being in Australia, this is likely a highly venomous snake and I don’t have much time. I need to set things in motion immediately.

Place awesome here, please Above all, I must stay calm, notan move, and caption keep my heart rate down so the venom doesn’t spread. Game face on.

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THE PAIN JOURNEY The pain started as a six out of ten, but has ticked up to a solid seven. I’m breathing deep and slow, but it’s hard. I make involuntary noises, groans and mutter occasional sentences like, “This hurts so fucking much.” My muscles keep tensing up with the pain, and I take deep breaths to try and relax them. The pain soon hits an eight. It’s burning up through my calf.

Talking to the hospital on the sat phone, the boys say they need to look at the bite. John holds my hand and says, “Squeeze.” At first my hand is limp, but as soon as they touch my foot, pain lances through my whole body. I think I’m crushing his hand.

It’s a worse pain than when I snapped my Achilles tendon, or dislocated my shoulder and collarbone. It’s spread up to my knee.

IMAGES - [THIS PAGE] CLOCKWISE FROM TOP The sun sets over our third camp just a few hours before I was bitten First camp and morning coffee with the team Our chartered flight to the heart of the Kimberley reminds us just how remote we’ll be

I am trying not to writhe.

“The pain is at an 8.5,” I tell the team. Then it rears up again and I’m in a whole other world of agony. I can’t think of anything else, searing pain is seeping into my mind.

I can’t handle more than this.

THE MENTAL BATTLE A voice inside my head cuts through the raging static: You need to take your mind somewhere else.

This is the voice of calm reasoning I developed over years of martial arts training. It’s the voice that told me what to do when I was a competitive fighter, that kept me cold and strategic when the crowd was roaring and my opponent was trying to knock me out.

I imagine stroking my cat, Kissaki. I visualise doing so in minute detail and the distraction eases the pain. Here is her glossy brown fur. I can hear her purring rumble. I can feel the scratchy spots in front of her ears, feel the skull beneath.

I remember she’s dead.

I am suddenly upset and slammed back into pain and panic.

My chances of survival are diminishing with every moment.

How much will it hurt before I actually die? Will I feel sick? Will I feel worse than I ever have in my life? Will it be a slow and drawnout death?

Come on, kid. Take your mind away. Take it to something you know well.

I am in the taekwondo dojang. I know the old sweat smell. I step onto the mats, feel the spring under my feet. Remember the paintings on the walls. The flecks on the mirrors. Remember the feel of my uniform, the long cuffs. Feel the weight of my black belt in my hand.

The pain subsides just enough for me to re-enter the real world. I am breathing. I open my eyes. Still dark.

Lachie is somewhere nearby. He says I’m doing well, and maybe it’s a spider bite. But I can feel the venom spreading up my leg. It is still incredibly painful. I wonder what happens when it reaches my organs. I need to get out of here. It’s probably about midnight and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll survive with the venom creeping up towards my heart.

At some point, Jed is back. He’s been talking to emergency services. Thank God. Then he says, “They can’t get a helicopter until morning.”

THE FAREWELL At the very best, I’ve got at least eight hours until a helicopter can get to me. Jed tells me we are doing everything perfectly.

All we can do is wait. Keep Jed updated with how I feel.

A moment later, I feel sick. A cold wave of nausea flows over me.

It feels like my blood pressure is dropping.

This could be it, kiddo.

Passing trees in full autumn colour descending to organs. the valley floor This is what I was afraid of. Surely thewhile venom has hit my

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The wet season brings sudden and intense storms.

Our noble steed in the foreground

I imagine my family right now, at home in Sydney. I feel so, so guilty that I will put them through this. I hope they will understand.

I chose this path. I made this decision to live an adventurous life.

Now I know how the story ends. I visited so many countries and saw so many beautiful places. I wish they could see this stunning place—the sheer red cliffs, the waterfalls, the fiery sunsets. What a beautiful place to die.

I feel cold and faint. Everything is far away.

I realise I may be dying right now. There’s nothing I can do but face it.

Ok, let’s do this. Breathe deep. Think of your family.

THE LONGEST NIGHT I tell Jed I feel sick. He takes my pulse. I’m glad for the physical contact. I don’t want to be alone.

Time ticks slowly away in the dark. I wait.

Jed says my pulse is normal. How odd. Eventually the nausea subsides. The pain starts to lift away, bit by bit. Time passes and I am still here. My body seems to stabilise.

The wind picks up a little and the sky rumbles. At some stage, everyone comes together to help lift me under the tarp in case a storm breaks. Now there’s nothing we can do but wait. Jed has spoken on the sat phone to a toxicologist in Adelaide, and he says it may not be a snake—I’m not bleeding out of any orifices yet and

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my symptoms are reducing. Maybe it was a spider after all? But I remember the impact of the bite and the two bleeding marks. I need to stay still and to try to make it through the night.

We decide to set a 15-minute timer to take vitals and have people take watch over me while the others get some sleep. Lachie takes the first watch and holds my hand. The pain is sitting at an uncomfortable but manageable four out of ten.

Somehow, time passes between the 15-minute intervals. It’s 2AM. I often ask for water or for my bandages to be shifted where they cut into me. Another bandage is added right up to my groin.

The pressure points where I’m lying down ache unbearably as I haven’t moved in hours.

It is a long night with a lot of time to think. I remember the days when I trained in tai chi, and I imagine moving chi around my body to heal myself.

Suddenly it’s 4AM. I think, “You just might make it through this.

But you’re not out of the woods yet. Stay strong and switched on.”

I think back to earlier in the day when I’d gone for a walk alone among the boab trees, and swum in blue, freshwater pools under waterfalls hung with vines. I had spotted the most beautiful tree, huge and ancient, and walked up to place my palm on it and feel its energy. I thought about how long this landscape had existed before me, how few had been here. Yet how swiftly humans were destroying it. Was this place next? I wondered how I might be

Martuwarra, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

SNAKES ARE EVERYWHERE; BE PREPARED While this experience happened in the remote Kimberley, this could have happened anywhere in Australia. It could have been in Alex’s home mountains around Kosciuszko NP, or in Tasmania’s Western Arthurs, or in the Cairns hinterland. And it need not have been remote; Wild’s editor James McCormack was bitten badly in Byron Bay shops—that’s right, the shops—and ended up spending three days in intensive care. The point is, no matter where you go in Australia, it pays to know what to do if bitten by a snake. And make sure you’re carrying a first aid kit, ideally with a snake-bite specific bandage.

Here are the basics you need to know:

I IMAGINE MY FAMILY RIGHT NOW. I FEEL SO, SO

GUILTY THAT I WILL PUT THEM THROUGH THIS. I HOPE THEY

WILL UNDERSTAND.

I CHOSE THIS PATH. I MADE THIS DECISION TO LIVE AN ADVENTUROUS LIFE. NOW I KNOW HOW

THE STORY ENDS.”

able to protect it. I could have sworn I had heard a voice telling me, There’s a lot of time in the world.

I repeat that sentence to myself many times through the night.

Keep breathing. Keep healing. Be patient. There’s a lot of time in the world.

Lachie is yet to change shifts with anyone. He’s still there, every fifteen minutes, checking in. He tells me, “You’re going to be OK.” For the first time that night, I start to believe it. I think about all the times I came back from injuries during my fighting days. Snapped Achilles, torn ankle ligaments, spinal tears. At one point someone told me, “You’re like a phoenix, you just keep rising from the ashes.”

THE ESCAPE Somehow, dawn comes. Finally Lachie lets John take over watch.

I try to shift my weight, and realise my whole body is like a dead slug. I’m so heavy. I try to reach for a bottle of water and can’t get my fingers to work.

Jed is up and back on the sat phone, trying to organise a helicopter. There’s still no solid plan. Abruptly, I can’t bear to be here anymore. My heart is pounding. I have a headache. I’m sweating. I can hear Jed and Lachie talking among themselves. One of them says maybe I could stay and wait it out. I want to know what’s going on.

Then they tell me there’s still no exit plan—emergency services don’t have a helicopter yet. I feel so stressed. I made it through the night.

IF YOU’RE THE VICTIM: - Get away from the snake.

- Stop moving. Lie down. Stay still.

- Calm your breathing and heart rate.

IF YOU’RE THE FIRST AIDER: - Move away from the snake.

- Contact emergency services.

- Reassure.

- Pressure immobilisation bandage ASAP. - Mark the spot of the bite with a pen.

- Consider a splint.

- Monitor and record vitals.

Now get me the fuck out of here. My mental hold on the pain is starting to dissolve. Everything is out of my control.

Time passes. I get it together again. My friends check in with me. At one stage I can barely get words out between big, laboured breaths. Then I start to pick up and have more energy. Finally, finally, we get a call that a helicopter is on its way and will land in two hours. The relief is immense.

The morning is a blur, and things take a turn for the humorous. I tell Harry I can just “jog it off”. Then I need to pee. I still can’t move, so I just have to let it flow over my thermarest. Peeing yourself is a weird feeling. And it smells. Lachie washes it off with water. I realise I went to sleep without any underwear, and he needs to put some on me for the chopper ride. For a while, I’m sure I’ve shat myself and I make him check. I then demand a sponge bath from John. I’m straight up losing my mind.

My teammates pack me a bug-out bag for the hospital. There’s talk of me re-joining the group after a few days. That I could get antivenom, hitchhike from the hospital to a hangar, get a charter flight to a cattle station and then hike 10km back down to the river. This is when Jana steps in, and makes it clear that hitchhiking after a snake bite is a terrible idea and whatever happens, she’ll evacuate out with me. In my delirious state I’m adamant I’ll be fine, but she insists. She strokes the back of my head; it’s such a relief to feel a soothing sensation after twelve hours of pain.

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Martuwarra, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

John films as Mick lands the helicopter on the rocks. Note Alex under shelter on the left. Image

by Jana Fitzpatrick

WHAT ALEX LEARNED: ASSUME THE WORST. While some snake bites are ‘dry’ (ie no envenomation) or not from a super venomous snake, you must treat them all as highly serious situations.

This mindset probably saved my life. Remember that different snake bites present with very different symptoms, from pain and swelling, to nausea, paralysis, difficulty breathing, unconsciousness and more.

REASSURANCE CANNOT BE OVERSTATED. Jed the paramedic was skilled at reassurance, and it was a great relief any time he spoke to me. Being flippant or making jokes when someone is in extreme pain and distress is rarely appropriate.

PHYSICAL TOUCH IS IMPORTANT. I was in pain for a long time. So long I forgot what a good sensation could feel like. Having Jana play with my hair, or John hold my hand, were defining moments during the experience that helped me feel better.

KEEP SOMEONE WITH THE PATIENT AT ALL TIMES. Being left alone is stressful in these situations. The brief moments I didn’t have someone by my side, I was sure I was going to die alone.

DISCUSS THE PLAN WITH YOUR PATIENT. No one likes to be talked about when they’re not there. Keep your patient in the loop with all discussions and listen to their opinions.

MONITOR FOR SECONDARY PROBLEMS. People may have allergic reactions to the venom or develop an infection in long term scenarios. I had to go on antibiotics as my bite showed signs of infection.

CONSIDER LONG TERM CARE NEEDS. Think about how you can keep your patient hydrated with minimal movement (try a water bladder), how you can move them under shelter and how they can go to the toilet, among other things.

AFTER CARE MATTERS. A snake bite is a traumatic event and mental health support is highly recommended. I saw a psychologist to help reduce my stress levels and head off PTSD.

Finally we hear the helicopter coming. It’s not a medical chopper. Just a tiny little Robinson without any doors, chartered by the hospital from a local company. The pilot is a gung-ho Kiwi, Mick, who lands, promptly hops out and says, “This camp site is awesome!”

While Mick refuels, the team get me prepped on a stretcher to move me over the rocks to the chopper. With everyone in place, they lift me and my head spins. They navigate a complex path. Up, down, slide, up, down. Eventually, I’m beside the helicopter. I realise I can’t sit up or stand, so they manhandle me into the front seat. “Is she going to fall out?” asks Mick. I say I’ll be OK, but now that I’m sitting up, I realise how incredibly weak I am. Someone puts a seatbelt on me. Then the helicopter’s headset is over my ears. There’s music playing through them. It might be ACDC. Jana, my guardian, jumps in the back.

Thirteen hours after the snake bite, I lift up into the air. I see the four boys left standing there. Watching. Waving. I try to give them the peace sign, but I’m not sure if my fingers manage it. They look small and concerned. I’m lucky I had them all. The heli circles over the camp, over the ancient stone gorge, the river and the waterfalls. The scene is so small now. Then it’s gone.

I’m on my way to hospital, where I will have half a dozen blood tests, and the doctors will be confused about how I’m so alive after so long. After multiple calls to snake specialists, I will be diagnosed with “snake bite with envenomation”, given three bags of fluids,

I SIT IN A HELICOPTER IN MY UNDERWEAR,

WATCHING THE RED GORGES, BROWN RIVERS AND GREEN FORESTS MOVE BENEATH ME. I THINK,

YOU’RE NOT DEAD YET, KID.”

none of which are antivenom, and discharged the next afternoon once my blood tests return to normal. It will take five days before the swelling in my leg goes down enough to walk properly. Three weeks later, a renowned toxicologist will tell me that the most likely cause of my specific symptoms is a mulga snake, otherwise known as a king brown.

I will fly home to Sydney to be looked after by my family for two weeks before returning to the Snowy Mountains. There, I will see a psychologist and routinely visit a doctor as my symptoms—extreme fatigue, body aches, brain fog and confusion—linger for months on end. I will be told I may be developing chronic fatigue in response to the venom.

Slowly, impossibly slowly, I will recover. I will be able to exercise again, and four months later, I’ll accept the role of Head Backcountry Guide at Thredbo. Through winter 2021, I will still get tired and worn down, but the endless horizons and snow-dusted peaks will provide a place for me to heal in both body and mind.

But for now I sit in a helicopter in my underwear, watching the red gorges, brown rivers and green forests of the Kimberley move beneath me. I think, you’re not dead yet, kid.

This phoenix will rise again. W CONTRIBUTOR: Alex is an alpine backcountry and hiking guide. She spends most days in the Snowy Mountains, wearing five layers and getting excited about granite tors. Oh, and she still loves snakes.

FURTHER READING: Pocket First Aid and Wilderness Medicine by Jim Duff and Ross Anderson is small enough to be portable, and NOLS Wilderness Medicine can be stored as an e-book on your phone. There are loads of online resources, too: stjohn.org.au is a good place to start. Better yet, do a hands-on wilderness first aid course like the one Alex did with Five Star Training.

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Directed by acclaimed filmmaker, Chis Terrill, THE LAST MOUNTAIN has been twenty five years in the making.

The film explores the forces that drove two mountaineers to their untimely deaths – a quarter of a century apart.

One a mother; the other her son.

In February 2019, Tom Ballard, 30, one of the world’s leading alpinists, disappeared with his Italian climbing partner, Daniele Nardi on Nanga Parbat in Pakistan. Known as the ‘Killer Mountain,’ Nanga Parbat is the world’s 9th highest mountain and, given to violent storms and frequent avalanches. It is amongst the most demanding and dangerous to climb. Tom and Daniele were attempting to summit it via the previously unscaled, Mummery Spur – a route that many leading mountaineers describe as ‘suicidal’. Tom’s body was spotted lying next to Daniele’s halfway up the Mummery Spur on 9 March 2019.

History was repeating itself.

In August 1995, Tom’s mother, climber, Alison Hargreaves, 33, the first woman to reach the summit of Everest alone and without oxygen, was blown to her death having just summited the world’s second highest peak, K2 in the same Himalayan range as Nanga Parbat.

The Last Mountain is the compelling story of this family born to the mountains and whose destiny has been intertwined with the primal urge to climb them. Danger and death were ever present, but, set against the backdrop of the world’s highest peaks, this tragic but ultimately heart-warming and life-affirming film does not tell a conventional mountaineering story: it explores grief and the pain of bereavement as well as the inspiring courage and enduring love of a family confronting tragedy not once but twice.

Chris Terrill: "This is the one film I prayed I would never have to make. It was a labour of love and I am grateful that it exists as testimony to Tom and Kate. In one sense, I was the best person to make the film because of my own emotional investment in the story but, in another way, I was the worst person to make it because of my own emotional investment in the story. It cuts both ways. At times the film felt too difficult, too painful and too complex a story to tell. However ... I summoned the courage to see it through for Tom’s sake. Although it has been a hard film for [family members] Kate and Jim to watch, I hope that they will come to see it for what it is: a testimony to a climbing genius."

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Western Arthurs, TASMANIA

GET

WAKT

Traversing Tasmania’s rugged Western Arthurs is widely known as one of Australia’s great walking challenges. But when Dan Slater set off to undertake it with Evan Howard—the enigmatic founder and owner of ultralightweight outdoors equipment manufacturer Terra Rosa Gear—what he didn’t know, at least until the night before setting off, was that his companion had a secret mission in mind: to paddle the Western Arthurs.

Words DAN SLATER Photography DAN SLATER & GERDA OPPERMAN

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Evan paddling to nowhere on Lake Sirona, the final leg of the WAKT

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Western Arthurs, TASMANIA

Western Arthurs

T

itanium spork—check.

Carbon fibre walking poles—check.

Digital mapping—check.

When prepping for a week-long wilderness hike, I’ll always root out my lightest, most sophisticated gear, with each item serving as many functions as possible, and I will still congratulate myself if my pack weighs under 20kg. My companion, however—being fifteen years my junior and sporting the physique of a greyhound crossed with a tramp—has no interest in such a considered packing methodology. Even so, it wasn’t until the evening before departure that I realised quite how different Evan Howard’s approach would be. As the other two team members went through last minute culling decisions, I watched him lay out his kit.

Flannel shirt—check.

Homemade 10oz canvas gaiters—check.

Five-kilogram inflatable watercraft—check.

Despite owning and running Australia’s largest and most esteemed one-man ultralight equipment manufacturing company, Evan was electing to concede a fifth of his load to, let’s face it, a boat. We’re crossing a mountain range … and he’s bringing a frigging boat! It’s like I’ve stumbled into a Werner Herzog film.

STEEP, KNOBBLY OUTCROPPINGS WITH MORE EXPOSURE THAN AN ADULTEROUS POLITICIAN, AND EACH CRUMBLING CRENELLATION MUST BE NEGOTIATED WITH STEEL

FINGERTIPS AND A CLENCHED SPHINCTER.”

While not quite as batshit bonkers as Brian Fitzgerald—who dragged a 320-ton steamship over a remote isthmus in the Amazon rainforest (or, indeed, Klaus Kinski, the actor who portrayed him in Herzog’s movie Fitzcarraldo)—Evan certainly harbours a streak of eccentricity. When, twelve years ago, I first met Ev as a lanky twenty-two-year-old, his favourite films were Alone in the Wilderness (about a man who built a log cabin in the Alaskan backwoods and lived there alone for thirty years), and Project Grizzly (about another man who attempted to build a bear-proof suit from scrap metal).

Evan’s backcountry pedigree is written into his Canadian/ Australian DNA. He exudes an aura of rugged capability, backed up by a laconic, Vancouverite drawl. He sweats insect repellent, can derive energy through photosynthesis, and one of his nostrils doubles as a USB charging port. His internal body clock will unerringly wake him just as someone has finished cooking breakfast, and he can discern the rustle of a muesli bar wrapper at 200 paces (though he prefers to subsist on pemmican, hoosh

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and boiled husky). Yes, the river of adventure flows in this man’s veins, which is why—a dozen years after first meeting him—I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather have with me in the bleak and primeval mayhem of Van Diemen’s Land. ***

O

ur wonderful country isn’t known for high mountains or frozen tundra. In fact, it’s specifically noted for its lack of such troublesome topography. Strangely, this hasn’t prevented us from producing our fair share of talented mountaineers and polar explorers. Evan himself took part in the first attempted crossing of Alaska’s Brooks Range in winter. He failed miserably, yes. But then accomplished alpinist Andrew Lock also failed, so he’s in esteemed company. Anyway, even the flattest of the world’s continents has some spiky bits, and most of these are in Tasmania. And of all this spiky island’s spiky bits, the Arthur Range is arguably the spikiest.

Lying within Southwest National Park—a 6183km2 protected area justly famous as a formidable wilderness destination—the Arthurs are a geological work of art, a chain of soaring quartzite peaks, marching southeast towards the iconic fang of Federation Peak. The range is divided into the Eastern and Western Arthurs, with the full traverse being renowned as one of Australia’s finest walking challenges—a succession of gnarled and lofty obstacles, with evocative names such as the Beggary Bumps, Tilted Chasm, Lovers Leap and the Dragon.

It’s a delightful collection of flowery labels, to be sure, but they all mean the same thing—steep, knobbly outcroppings of rock with more exposure than an adulterous politician, and each crumbling crenellation must be negotiated with steel fingertips and a clenched sphincter. No, this is no stroll in the (national) park. In fact, most groups take ropes to haul their packs up and down the more vertical sections. And what do we have? A kayak.

Well, to be precise, the five-kilogram slab of rubber strapped on the outside of Evan’s backpack is a packraft. You see, cupped in the upturned palms of the Western Arthurs’ meaty paws is a string of glacial lakes, or tarns, which dot the range along its length. Evan’s secret plan all along—yes, an impractical and ludicrous one—was to undertake the first known attempt of Australia’s newest adventure route: the WAKT—the Western Arthurs Kayak Trail. ***

I

f there were to be advantages of carrying an aquatic vessel on an alpine hike, they weren’t immediately apparent on the first morning, which was spent floundering through the thigh-deep mud of the buttongrass plains. We then climbed 800m onto the ridge, before blustery afternoon winds buffeted us along to Lake

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Surveying the range from the button grass plains Australia’s foremost manufacturer of ultralight camping equipment.

No, seriously!

Evan making it look difficult on one of the route’s more scrambly bits

I DISCOVERED HIM TO BE AN IDLE BLUDGER WITH A NATURAL RESENTMENT OF AUTHORITY, WHO SPENT FAR MORE TIME SKULKING IN BACK ROOMS PLANNING TRIPS TO VARIOUS BADLANDS THAN CARRYING OUT HIS ASSIGNED TASKS.” Cygnus, one of those classic alpine pools beset on three sides by sheer rock walls. With Cygnus’s tent platforms being full, Evan retreated to the modest stretch of beach to erect his shelter—a single-skin wedge tent of his own design that he was testing for possible future production.

A decade or more ago, I was unfortunate enough to work alongside Evan. I discovered him to be an idle bludger with a natural resentment of authority. This was a man who spent far more time

skulking in back rooms planning trips to various badlands than carrying out his assigned tasks. It was therefore no surprise when he left to pursue his own business with a passion—manipulating an ancient ‘thread injector’ (ie sewing machine) to fashion tarps, bothy bags and other outdoor equipment to flog to ultralight junkies online. Working for himself, he thrived, naming his nascent company Terra Rosa Gear after a remote glacier in British Columbia that he’d visited numerous times to search for gold.

Evan being Evan, this sometime prospecting hobby morphed into a reality television show called Curse of the Frozen Gold, in which he and a climbing buddy supposedly searched for the legendary lost mine of Slumach. What this actually entailed, however, was flying around in helicopters, jumping in glacial rivers for no reason, and generally fart-arsing around for the camera.

Technically awful but nonetheless entertaining, this puddle of US cable TV vomit had the effect of catapulting its stars to mild celebrity status in North America, thus exposing them to hordes of online conspiracy theory wackos. A second season has been commissioned.

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IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM One of many pauses required to fully absorb the rough beauty of the Arthur Range Ev and Dan discussing the finer points of tent design All side peaks must be bagged!

How’s the serenity? Surveying the Western Arthurs from a unique perspective Another tarn, another pump—the trip was dominated by local rates of inflation Portrait of a man who effortlessly gets along with everyone, and everything, he meets A packraft, a tent, a remote Tasmanian tarn—one man’s idea of heaven

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Terra Rosa Gear is now a thriving cottage industry. Somewhere among the tepid slime of the buttongrass plains, a fellow hiker noticed the TRG emblem inked on the chest of Evan’s waterproof top, a prototype smock made from paper-thin DCF. “TRG. Cool,” he offered. “I’ve got one of their sleeping bag covers.”

“Oh, yeah?” replied Evan, non-committally. “Whatcha think of it, eh?” He wasn’t about to blow his own trumpet, more interested in an honest opinion from the man in the street, or in this case, the man in the mud. The review was positive, and eventually it was up to us to spill the beans, or blow his trumpet, or blow beans out of his trumpet, and from that point on, he was surrounded by gear groupies. ***

I

t was on the morning of the second day that Evan first took to the water. His packraft is a 2014 Denali Llama, decked out in a colour palette bold enough to slay a dragon.

This wasn’t the first time he’d rafted a remote Tasmanian tarn—three years previously he’d ventured into the Spires, a forbidding range about 50km further north. Hidden within the Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers National Park, the word remote doesn’t actually even cover it; the Spires make the Western Arthurs look like the Overland Track at Christmas. The Llama has also floated on most of the Southwest’s main rivers, including the Jane, Denison and Huon. That damn packraft has seen more of Tassie than I have!

I watched from shore as he drifted away like a shaggy ghost, staring up at the looming walls with, I assume, awe. Having made discrete enquiries, we were pretty certain this

IT WAS A PRIVILEGE TO GLIDE

EFFORTLESSLY FROM THE SHORE, LEAVING BEHIND THE CAMP CHATTER AND COOKING SMELLS, AND TO ENTER A

WORLD OF BEATIFIC QUIETUDE.”

was the first time blade had cut water here, but you can never be sure what those crazy old-timers got up to. I can just imagine a few hairy 70s bushwalkers, just for a lark, hauling a 17’ aluminium canoe up here; there’s probably one sitting at the bottom of this very tarn, slowly disintegrating.

On his return, Evan was uncharacteristically serene, his patented larrikin shtick taking a back seat to quiet satisfaction.

We could tell he’d had ‘an experience’. He carefully deflated the raft, folded it up and strapped the beast to the back of his pack.

Three hours later we stopped for lunch at Square Lake, and while the rest of us took off to bag the side peak of Mt Orion, Evan unpacked, re-inflated the Llama, and drifted away again.

The Western Arthurs Traverse is known for exposed, hairy scrambling, followed by steep and slippery descents. It’s not

a route you’d want to tackle with a monstrous weight on your back, yet unless you’re one of the super-fit nutters we met running the entire track IN A SINGLE DAY(!), that’s the only way it’s going to happen. Clambering precariously down a mini cliff above Lake Oberon, clinging to rocks and tree roots, I thanked my lucky stars for the unprecedented run of beautiful weather we were enjoying. This descent would be treacherous in the rain, and only a madman would attempt it in winter.

Naturally, Evan had done just that. It was six years earlier, and sadly, an attempt was all it turned out to be. After being trapped at Oberon for three nights by a humongous storm, he bailed down the little-used Moraine E, an ignominious end to an audacious endeavour. This current trip was actually Evan’s third, the second having been a guiding gig on which he again didn’t make it past Oberon, principally due to his clients’ nervous performance on that sketchy descent. That time they reversed down Moraine A, leaving Evan itching to see the thing through once and for all.

Lake Oberon is the largest body of water on the route, and represented the third paddle in the series. Having sated his own desires, Evan graciously allowed the rest of our group to ‘ride the Llama’. When my turn came, it was a privilege to glide effortlessly from the shore, leaving behind the camp chatter and cooking

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Western Arthurs, TASMANIA That tiny speck in the middle of Square Lake with Procyon Peak looming above?

Yup, that’s Evan

smells, and to enter a world of beatific quietude. Exploring the tarn’s nooks and crannies, I made not a sound. I settled slowly back on the air-filled tubes and lay still, hesitating even to breathe, lest I impact hidden corners that may never before have felt a human being’s exhalation. A spectator drifting through an amphitheatre of calm, I almost wished I’d carried my own packraft up here. Almost. ***

N

avigable waterways were scarce for the next two days as we followed the range up high, spending the third night at High Moor. The only water there was a shallow soak, and I don’t think our fellow hikers would’ve appreciated having to reach around a rubber ducky to fill their bottles. There was barely enough to drink as it was. “There’s always yabby water,” Evan suggested casually, clearly channeling Bear Grylls. As well as creeks and rivers, the freshwater crayfish can live in small burrows excavated down to the water table. It’s apparently possible to identify a yabby hole and, using a straw, suck the sweet nectar from within.

The thought of shellfish-flavoured water makes me want to gag, personally, but my entrepreneurial side immediately kicked in.

“We should bottle it and sell it in high-end grocery stores,” I said. “Natural Yabby Water Freshly Harvested from the Tasmanian Highlands—it’ll fly off the shelves.” Ev cackled and rubbed his palms vigorously together, an endearing idiosyncrasy reserved for signifying tremendous delight. “A live yabby in every bottle,” I continued, warming to my topic. “It’d be like mescal for teetotal hipsters.”

At High Moor we met a couple I’ll call M and K, who arrived late in the day but early in a protracted argument that was to last the remainder of the hike. From what I could gather, they were ex-romantic partners who’d remained friendly enough to imagine they could endure a week’s remote bushwalking together.

They were wrong. The crux of the disagreement was nutrition-based: K had joined at the last minute, but M had failed to expand his rations to accommodate an extra mouth.

And what a mouth it was, expertly flinging sarcasm across the tent platform with aplomb, while we pretended not to look on, bemused. “Oh, this is just perfect,” she scowled, utilising an innovative double-decker structure to boil two pots of noodles simultaneously on the same stove in an effort to conserve gas. “I can’t survive on this!” “Yeah, you’ll probably perish,” stated Evan confidently, as though predicting a light rain.

The fact that M had lost their tent poles that morning didn’t improve matters. They’d been loosely attached to the outside of his pack, from whence they’d made their escape. The subsequent search had proven lengthy, fruitless, and clearly frustrating.

Evan magnanimously offered the use of his proto-tent, having also brought along a TRG bivvy bag to trial, but K refused; I can

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Western Arthurs, TASMANIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT The author enjoys his own expedition to a remote, unclimbed peak, Lake Sirona The King of the Arthurs about to faceplant under 30kg of rubber and canvas Cheers! The first known traverse of the Western Arthurs Kayak Trail—complete!

SURELY NO LOGICAL PADDLING ELEVATION PROFILE SHOULD

RESEMBLE A PUNK ROCKER’S HAIRSTYLE?”

only think because it would have deprived her of nagging rights.

They ended up using their structureless tent as a giant double sleeping bag, fortunate that the skies remained clear.

After another day of hectic ups and downs—the aforementioned Beggary Bumps, whatever that means—we reached the fourth leg of the WAKT. Haven Lake signalled the end of the serious scrambling and a chance to bask in sunshine while reflecting on maybe the world’s longest portage. I mean, surely no logical paddling elevation profile should resemble a punk rocker’s hairstyle?

By now, the eccentric kayaking story had aroused much interest in the immediate hiking community, most of whom we’d befriended after four days sharing the trail. Having known Evan since he was a castaway bum with holes in his shoes and a master’s degree in groaking (definition: to stare at people who are eating in the hope they will offer to share their food), I was quite taken aback by how many of them were aware of Terra Rosa Gear, and chuffed to bump into its founding father in the Tasmanian wilderness. My status as Australia’s Premier Hiking Journalist (source: me) was ignored in favour of gushing reports of TRG tarps purchased by gear freak friends.

To his credit, he allowed all and sundry to have a go on his packraft. If I’d humped that bastard all the way up there, I’d have been charging fifty bucks a pop. “Come in number four, your time is up!” Even M scored a temporary reprieve from K’s tongue-lashing to take a float, although to be honest, by this time they should both have been conserving their last energies to get home. Taking pity, I furnished them with some excess energy bars, which I’m sure were the only reason we didn’t come across their gaunt, lifeless bodies the following day. In return for his

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ride, M promised us cold beer back at the car park. Screw taking enough food for the hike, but making sure there’s a fridge full of frosty beverages at the end? The guy knew a thing or two about priorities. [True to his word, upon finishing the trek we found a note on our windscreen directing us to the booty, still cold, hidden behind the front wheel. Good man!] ***

T

he southern terminus of the WAKT was the petite Lake Sirona, a picturesque puddle with a view to die for—an overlook of the gloriously boggy buttongrass plains we’d soon be revisiting. The horizontal distance between first and last paddle turned out to be approximately 13.3km, with at least 2000m of elevation gain. (Admittedly, I measured this elevation gain using a plastic rule laid over a route profile on a computer screen, as nobody had thought to put this exact information on the internet).

Evan was dedicated, I’ll give him that, repeatedly unfolding the packraft, inflating it, deflating it, refolding it, and then doing it all again a few hours later. Me, I’d have probably managed two tarns before demoting the raft to a very heavy piece of camp furniture.

For Ev, as he pushed away from Sirona’s rocky shore for his last hurrah—hiking boots, gardening gloves and all—it must have been a poignant moment. I fancied I saw his shoulders contract with emotion, and I’m sure I spied a manly tear escape his flinty eye.

Being the first person to complete the long-unheralded Western Arthurs Kayak Trail was undoubtedly one of his greatest achievements, one capped only by the epic mud pit faceplant he performed on the walk out. And although he hasn’t actually admitted it yet, I can sense he’s already getting excited about our next project—the Great Himalaya Kayak Trail! W CONTRIBUTOR: Dan Slater, a lifelong bushwalker, is a ten-year veteran in the retail sector. He keeps forgetting, losing, breaking or drowning headlamps, and is thinking instead of mounting a candle on his head.

Alone in

LITCHFIELD The Tabletop Track in Litchfield National Park is one of the Northern Territory’s best kept secrets.

By CATHERINE LAWSON

A

week before my daughter’s tenth birthday, I did

two things I’d never done before. I had just recovered after being sick for a week, during which I’d felt grumpy and caged aboard the increasingly cramped sailboat I’d been calling home in Darwin. I was desperate to tackle one last adventure, but the Top End’s cool, mild, dry season—when all far-northern hiking adventures must take place—was drawing to a close; by late July, the heat was already stifling. When I asked even my most reliable hiking pals on my soonto-occur adventure, they eyeballed me with the suspicion of lunacy and shook their heads.

If I was to head out, I was going to have to do something bucket list worthy, and it was this: I had never hiked solo before, not overnight at least.

Then there was this other thing. I’d never spent a single night away from my child. That might not sound like a big deal, especially when the said child is an adequately independent ten-year-old, but it sure feels different when you’re the one ripping that bandaid off.

“High time,” I declared, so I packed my backpack and put it by the door. When staring at my pack became too much to bear, I woke before dawn, threw it into the dinghy and motored ashore in the darkness, driving south and determined to reach Litchfield before the heat kicked in.

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Lounging beneath Tjenya Falls, which I had entirely to myself

Litchfield NP

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Litchfield NP, NORTHERN TERRITORY

Three hours later at the trailhead, my partner and daughter waved me off, far too casually with hugs and smiles and a confidence in me that I was yet to feel. And as their 4WD rumbled out of earshot, I brushed aside the fears and ‘what-ifs’ chattering noisily on the periphery of my thoughts, and focussed my mind on the trail ahead, leading me high above Florence Falls and onto Litchfield’s lofty Tabletop Track.

Very few people tackle this track, which circles the high country in uber-popular Litchfield National Park. Of the few bloggers who have, not one says they’d do this walk twice, labelling it ‘hot’, ‘burnt-out’ and sometimes ‘boring’. To be fair, the terrain is challenging and exposed, the remote route takes you far out of phone range, and the unreliability of potable drinking water means adding a considerable daily supply to the heavy haul on your back.

But four days, 47km and five blisters later, I stepped away from this adventure euphoric, sweaty and stinking, revelling in my blissful alone-time and singing its praises. Four days was not nearly enough time to spend traipsing across spring-fed streams as they poured off the escarpment edge, finding and losing my way through exhausting boulder fields, and throwing down my pack beside waterholes hidden in verdant, monsoon rainforests—mostly utterly and happily alone.

The Tabletop Track attracts none of the accolades heaped on the nearby Jatbula Trail in Nitmiluk National Park, or the Red Centre’s epic Larapinta Trail, a fact that hardy hikers will find baffling. It’s a circuit track for starters, unlike the Insta-worthy Jatbula Trail (which is nearly always fully booked) and the Larapinta (which at 12 days requires a significant commitment in time and effort). Even Kakadu’s really exciting off-route wanders demand permits and a pal for pack hauling and safety, neither of which I had managed to secure.

Yet, by comparison, tackling the Tabletop Track was a breeze: No bookings, no camping fees, and close enough and short enough for a Darwin-based escapee like me to squeeze in a big, long weekend. In short, it was the perfect fit. (Ed: Unfortunately, the easy freedom of the Tabletop Track is due to change in 2022, with the NT Government introducing $25/person/night trail fees, PLUS a $4/person/night camping fee. It’s a steep jump for what was previously free, on a trail that’s barely maintained and signposted, and with rough, basic campsites.)

GETTING ON TRACK There are four access points to the loop track, with none of those trailheads on the Tabletop Track itself. Instead, you make your way first to one of four heavenly plunge pools—at Florence Falls, Walker Creek, Wangi Falls or Greenant Creek—and then try to coax yourself past the swimming holes to continue up short, steep trails to join the main track itself. I set out from Florence Falls, climbing high above its dramatic, spring-fed cascades and the deep, fern-filled amphitheatre they fill.

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Across Shady Creek and 800m uphill, my arrival at the trail proper was heralded by an old-school bushwalkers’ station, complete with a half-filled registration book and an excess of broken pens. Kick-starting this adventure required no more paperwork than signing in and nominating my next stop along the circuit (Ed: Although with the proposed fee structure looming, this will likely soon be changing). I chose Walker Creek, moving in an anti-clockwise direction for no other reason than it was already 9AM and blazingly hot, and Walker Creek was the closest camp.

One selfie in the bag and I strode swiftly north, following an easy path through flaxen, waist-high grasslands. Where the grasslands abruptly ended in a blackened shoulder of charred earth, bursting here and there was lurid green regrowth. I crossed a narrow creek, a prelude to the real thing far downhill, and once down there, I threw down my pack on a soft, grassy riverbank and dunked bare toes in the cool, clear flow.

Temptingly deep enough for a proper swim, the river supplied me with the only potable water I’d come across all day, so I filled bottles, warily resisting the chance to skive off and swim, and pushed on uphill. Away from the creek, up a rubbly slope studded

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Paving an easy start, Shady Creek Walk led me to the Florence Falls’ link track, one of four access points to Litchfield’s lofty escarpment I would remember Tjenya camp as a picturesque place in the soft light of sunset, but in the afternoon heat it was a stark scratch of dirt Wangi Creek’s hidden oasis My ever-diminishing first aid kit was pulled out at every stop View from lofty Tjenya Falls camp Tendrils of bright pink turkey bush Once I’d committed to my first big, solo hike, there was no going back

THE TEMPERATURE WAS BRAIN-BOILINGLY HOT. ONLY

HARDY LITTLE RAINBOW BEE-EATERS, HUNTING ON THE WING, WERE BUSILY

DEFYING THE UNRELENTING MIDDAY HEAT.”

with pale grey-green cycads, I began to train my eyes to seek out the sporadic blue arrows that marked the way ahead.

Hot sand underfoot and not a hint of a breeze, the temperature was brain-boilingly hot. Only hardy little rainbow bee-eaters, hunting on the wing, were busily defying the unrelenting midday heat, and twice I stopped in what little shade I found for fear of passing out. I had no doubts about coping with the physicality of the walk, or with enduring the extreme heat to which I was well accustomed, but there was an acute alertness that should anything go wrong, I’d have to rely on my smarts, and mine alone.

No specific scenario played out in my mind, but there were plenty of possibilities. I might stumble and break a leg, spook a snake (and get bitten), or burn down the tent (which I’d almost done once before). I could feel the pull of all of it, tugging at the edge of my determination.

An hour on, I passed a pair of day walkers with not much to say, but I would remember it as one of only three, quick conversations that would punctuate the next four days of hiking.

Deep inside a palm thicket, I stumbled into the boggy paperbark swamp that serviced the nearby Tabletop walkers’ campsite.

From all accounts the camp was a bit of a hard sell, and one look at the muddy ponds I was meant to cook noodles with, had me convinced that Walker Creek was worth the extra miles.

The Tabletop Track’s three very basic hiker campsites are located no more than 12km apart, taking advantage of natural water sources rather than hikers’ ambitions and getting hikers into camp early enough in the day to escape the heat. If you don’t mind sharing with the drive-in crowds, the link trails detour to popular camps at Florence and Wangi Falls, and it’s just a 50-minute downhill wander to throw yourself into Walker Creek.

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Litchfield NP, NORTHERN TERRITORY

BY TRIP’S END, MY MIND HAD RAMBLED ACROSS ALL SORTS

OF STARTLING, RANDOM NEW GROUND, AND I REVELLED IN THE SELFISH PLEASURE OF THINKING MY OWN THOUGHTS.”

FEARLESSNESS, OR SOMETHING LIKE IT “You’re so brave,” she gushed as I stumbled into camp, nursing fresh blisters and 20kg of hiking gear and in dire need of a wash.

She was hiking the track with her boyfriend, “in safety” she said.

“Doing it alone, well, that’s really next-level,” she enthused.

I smiled at the complement, wearing it like a badge. But sometime later, submerged in a deep, shady pool on Walker Creek, I wondered whether it really was. While utterly innocent—recognition perhaps of what this girl couldn’t imagine tackling—it was the kind of praise that you’d rarely heap upon a bloke. No one would think of telling a solo male hiker that he was brave, so what exactly did I have to fear that the next man wouldn’t?

This was exactly the kind of question I imagined solo walkers pondered on long stints in the bush. By trip’s end, my mind had rambled across all sorts of startling, random new ground, and I revelled in the selfish pleasure of thinking my own thoughts, without the distraction of chattering companions. At Walker Creek, however, I was far from alone.

Filling an endless chain of palm-fringed pools, the creek cuts a verdant swathe across the landscape, as serene and utopic as any tropical haven you’d yearn to find. I wandered upstream and pitched my tent, laying claim to a secluded, ferny plunge pool filled with tiny freshwater prawns and toe-nibbling fish.

Located within reach of car-based campers, just eight secluded sites are stretched along a 1.5km section of waterfront, so there’s some competition for spots. This is how I ended up accidently nabbing someone else’s sloping campsite and was then forced to nod patiently and empathetically throughout the ensuing tirade, all the while knowing I had precious few other places to go. When sharing was agreed upon, we retired to our tents with the promise I’d be out of there at sunrise. And I was, brewing coffee and patching puffy blisters at 5AM while bats roosted restlessly in the palms overhead, waiting for the sun.

BACK ON TRACK Keen to rejoin the lofty trail where others dared to tread, I happily retraced my steps up onto the escarpment in the lemony, breakof-day sunlight. It warmed the yellow wattle growing trackside, immersing me in a lime-green glow and igniting rust-coloured rubbly slopes all around. I paused to photograph delicate tendrils of bright, pink turkey bush, highlighted by the sun, and on top of the escarpment, to patch angry blisters and put on sunscreen.

As I sauntered down the slope, my phone started beeping for the first time. But I was soon back to being lost in my thoughts, and I continued rambling over low-lying hills and across great, red plains of shiny gibber stones. Fern-leafed grevilleas with orange, brush-like blooms coloured the scene.

Following red-tailed black cockatoos along the sandy bed of a seldom-flowing waterway, undulating and indistinct, I reached an unexpectedly lush oasis where a clear stream curled. This

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shady grove of pandanus and Litchfield palms might have made the ideal campsite—flat, soft and spacious—but for the fact that it was only midday, and I still had fuel in my tank.

Impatiently, I hoisted my pack and climbed away into the scrub, losing my way in a rocky boulder field and backtracking up wayward gullies. The blazing sun stole my patience as I scanned hopelessly for hidden markers to guide me through the jumble of rock. Sandy and tiresome, the trail finally elevated me within sight of the escarpment edge and the void beyond; I knew that Tjenya Camp was close.

Later, in the soft light of sunset, I would remember this camp fondly as a picturesque place. But at 1PM, it was a stark scratch of dirt, studded with spindly, malnourished trees whose bare limbs threw hopelessly thin shadows on the ground. If there’d been someone around to listen, I’d have complained loudly about this stinking-hot camp. On my own, however, acceptance came easily.

ALONE AT TJENYA I threw down my pack and followed the sound of rushing water to the face of a trickling falls, downclimbing to its trio of pools and sliding on in. I was grappling with impatience—since it seemed crazy to be calling it a day at 1PM—but the next hikers’ camp at Greenant Creek was four hours away, and angry blisters were slowing my pace. Despite being closer, I shunned the car-accessible camp at Wangi Falls; the crowds there would surely shatter my new-found solitude.

So I calmed my ambitions. I brewed a coffee and returned to the water with a book and the breeze, watching frogs scatter and freshwater prawns slide into my shadow. Lounging on a curl of rock between the waterfall and the big pool it filled, I watched rainbow bee-eaters savagely smash just-caught bugs against the tree branches. Fig trees gripped a rockface studded with blooming white orchids and a solitary Litchfield palm. And as the crows heckled each other in the afternoon heat, I tried to remember when I last felt so very far away.

UNEXPECTED GREENANT CREEK A full moon triggered a noisy night filled with crashing noises that were not easily explained away, and I read Into the Wild by torchlight while hopelessly clutching my apple paring knife.

By dawn, calm was restored, and I took extra time patching my alarmingly red, weeping heels. Halfway into the walk, quitting was not an option, so I squeezed my feet into my shoes, dunked a biscuit into my coffee and hit the trail.

I had just nine kilometres to wander on Day Three, but no way of knowing that I’d spend four hours covering it. This was a day of ever-changing landscapes, from the 360-degree panoramic knoll just half an hour beyond camp, to the unnamed waterfall that fell breathlessly off the sheer edge of the trail, filling an enormous, unreachable pool.

Florence Falls on its best day, without the crowds

I skipped downhill to cross a plain blooming with sticky, honey-scented grevilleas and slid over the escarpment edge to shimmy, bare-footed, across the jungly, fast-flowing Wangi Creek. After drying my feet and using up the very last of my blister pads, the day’s real work began.

Following Wangi Creek upstream through a stunning palm thicket, I found myself stumbling through a massive field of broken boulders. I rockhopped along rocky river terraces and trudged through hot sand, roaming over the landscape in a state of calm and absolute solitude. Or so I thought. In the next two minutes, two encounters with the living snapped me out of my reverie. A thin black snake slithered over my shoes, slipping away too quickly for me to work myself up. With my heart still pounding and an internal monologue of ‘what ifs’ playing out in my mind, a trail runner suddenly appeared. She paused momentarily to find out how far she had left to run, and shook her head in disbelief when I told her the distance. She left, shoes squeaking in the sand, and silence was happily restored.

I ambled on, reaching the camp at Greenant Creek just after noon. Within minutes I’d stripped off to float beneath its magnificent, terraced waterfalls. On paper, the day’s terrain had seemed flat and easy, but the boulder field was another beast entirely; I was exhausted. With the falls to myself, I decided to linger. Cradled by river-smoothed rocks, awash with fatigue and serenity, this moment of watery bliss was something to hike for. Then the crowds appeared.

One pair of hikers and then another, and a final onslaught of teenagers—all of them eyeing off the generous chunk of prime riverside real estate I’d coveted for myself. As they began pitching tents on top of each other, I relinquished my spot to some grateful, harried teachers, and then literally picked up my tent and retreated upstream.

The surprisingly peaceful night was shattered by the sound of teenage phone alarms long before dawn, but the early start was fine by me. Following their impressive lead, I patched my appalling looking feet, donned a head torch, and trailed the teenagers into the gloom.

LOST IN THE FOG Picking a path through the boulder field proved impossible in the thick fog. Trail markers hid themselves, and the beam of my head torch bounced back without illuminating a thing. I bumbled around until I feared I’d get lost, then waited until first light came and showed me the way.

Beyond the boulders, the dewy amble turned unexpectedly pleasant; I sped along under the cool cover of clouds, following a distinct, earthy blaze across the ashen landscape. The track was like a fire break in miniature, fringed with sun-bleached termite mounds, and all of it was so engrossing that within two hours of leaving camp I’d already hit the day’s halfway mark.

My phone started beeping again, so I sent a message to reschedule my pickup. An hour later, I was standing at the headwaters of what would swell and flow over Florence Falls. Even the most enjoyable bushwalks can lose you towards the end, but my final few hours were a grand crescendo as I crisscrossed flower-fringed streams and looped around towering quartzite outcrops.

I signed off the trail triumphantly and skipped back down to Florence Falls, feeling euphoric and eager for a long-awaited family reunion. But I staggered to a halt beneath the falls, horrified by the veritable human-soup of weekenders, floating in its waterhole. I steeled myself to join the melee, hastily washing away the heat, sweat and dust, and I hugged my young daughter close. This beautiful pool, enchanting at first light when it can be all yours, was not the Litchfield I’d just encountered, where I’d been spoilt by far wilder swims in a dozen tranquil waterholes cradled a little closer to heaven. Litchfield’s upper realm was a world apart. When I next climbed back up there, those lonely pools reserved for hot, hardy hikers would be waiting and oh-so worth the adventure.

CONTRIBUTOR: Captivated by wild places and passionate about their preservation, Catherine Lawson is a hiker, biker, paddler and sailor who runs (with her partner David Bristow) wildtravelstory.com. In their spare time, the pair write travel guides; their latest—100 Things to See in Tropical North Queensland—is available at adventure-shop.com.au

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PHOTO ESSAY

HUTS KOSCIUSZKO OF

THE

HIGH COUNTRY The Australian high country isn’t only special for its environment; another endearing feature is its historic architecture in the form of literally hundreds of rustic huts. Some were constructed by graziers and cattlemen; others as emergency shelters for adventurers. Stefan De Montis, the Huts History Officer of the Kosciuszko Huts Association, shares with us pictures and stories from some of his favourite huts in Kosciuszko National Park.

By STEFAN DE MONTIS

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The much-loved Valentine Hut shines like a beacon to the weary adventurer. A place to hide from the elements or even the ravenous summer March flies

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Kosciuszko Huts, NEW SOUTH WALES

I

’LL NEVER FORGET THE FIRST TIME I stumbled upon a high country hut. There it was, tucked away in a small valley, protected from the cold wind and rain that had been tormenting me for hours that morning. I

approached it with hesitation, as if I were intruding on something secret. I slowly opened the door and was greeted with what felt like the cosiest room I had ever set foot in. Relics from the past adorned the walls. An old wood heater occupied one end; the other had a spartan bunk below a small fourpane window. The tiny hut smelled of woodsmoke and old timber. Its slab walls creaked and whispered with stories of the past. I sat inside for an hour while warming up, eating, and wondering. For more than a decade afterward, I visited the hut regularly. A bond was formed on that first visit, and every time I entered the valley, I was excited to see my old friend.

The high country is dotted with a large number of similar yet equally unique huts. They can be found along popular walking tracks, roads or even hidden deep in the bush, some of them receiving only a handful of visitors each year. Originally constructed by graziers, miners, surveyors and ski tourers, they were built to survive the unpredictable weather of the mountains.

While some of the oldest surviving huts are more than 100 years old, some are as new as 15, having been rebuilt after fires. Maintained and cared for by volunteers of the Kosciuszko Huts Association, horse-riding groups, 4WD clubs, ski clubs, bushwalkers and Parks staff, the huts are used and enjoyed by people seeking adventure, safety and a distinctive part of Australian history.

To learn more about the Kosciuszko Huts Association, head to khuts.org

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Wheeler’s Hut is one of the many relics of the grazing era in the high country. It was originally constructed circa 1900 by Bill ‘Wingy’ Wheeler, a one-armed stockman who later tore down and reconstructed the hut 200m uphill to be closer to firewood Top row of four huts, left to right: Cootapatamba; Witzes; Boobee Spring; Brayshaw’s Lower row of four huts, left to right: Miller’s; Tin; Oldfield’s; Teddy’s There are no roads or tracks to Mawson’s Hut. One must be willing to put compass to map to find it

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Kosciuszko Huts, NEW SOUTH WALES

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT When the winds pick up, the visibility drops and the snow starts flying, huts like Cootapatamba are literal and figurative life savers. A lifelong appreciation of the huts is formed when one spends 24 hours hunkered down inside one. You count the slabs, the nails, the adze marks and read the log books from start to end. When you return in better weather, it’s like seeing an old friend O’Keefe’s Hut was burnt down in the devastating 2003 fires. It was rebuilt metres away from its original location on the northern flanks of the beautiful Mt Jagungal Just like the exterior of most huts, the interiors are unique and full of character. Stepping into O’Keefe’s Hut is like walking back in time. The walls are covered in newspapers from the decades surrounding WW2. While making dinner and warming up by the fire, you can read about war in the Pacific, wheat shortages in the UK, and post-war fashion trends Delany’s Hut was one of twelve huts lost in the 2019-2020 bushfires. Each hut that was destroyed was a source of history, a place of safety, a cherished memory, someone’s labour of love, and a social meeting place. Thanks to NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service, dedicated volunteers from the Kosciuszko Huts Association, descendants of the original builders and many others, ten of those huts will rise from the ashes to be rebuilt and enjoyed by many for years to come Group of five images on opposite page, clockwise from left: Walkers chatting by Witzes Hut’s fireplace; logbook art at Derschkos Hut; relics can be found inside many huts; drying gear and cooking dinner at Derschkos after a hard day of skiing; Derschkos in snow Visiting a hut? Please remember to leave it in better condition than you found it. Sweep the floors, replace the wood you used, and take your rubbish with you. Sleep inside only in emergencies, and record your visit in the logbook for others to enjoy. Oh, and don’t forget to close the door.

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READER’S ADVENTURE

T

ales

from

Australia’s Backyard

How do you follow up after completing the USA’s epic Pacific Crest Trail? Well, you can always return to Australia, as Belinda Sokolowski and her husband Florian did, to tackle Australia’s even longer 5,330km National Trail. Only this time, make it a family outing with your two-year-old daughter.

Words Belinda Sokolowski Photography Florian & Belinda Sokolowski

T

here was a crack and a bang followed

by the sound of a tree crashing to the ground.

Either side of the stock route taking us through the parched, scrubby cattle stations between Nebo and St Lawrence was on fire. One of the property owners’ burn-offs had clearly gotten away from him. We’d passed him earlier in the day, cuppa in one hand, bickie in the other. “She’ll be right,” he’d assured us. Clearly it no longer was.

“Aimee, you have to cover your mouth.” I repositioned the wet cloth over my two-year-old’s mouth and nose, but she shoved it aside, laughing. Try explaining the dangers of smoke inhalation to a toddler.

The farmer had estimated that the fire was burning over a 10km range. If we hiked at our normal pace, it would take us two hours. Without breaks. My blister-covered feet ached in my boots. ‘Blister pace’ would take us closer to three. Defeatedly, I looked at my husband, Florian. An unspoken agreement was made: We would have to find a hitch through the fire, hitch being the dirtiest word in a hiker’s dictionary. +++++

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IMAGE - LEFT: Having the National Trail through World Heritage-Listed Wollemi NP all to ourselves was a real gift

IMAGES - BOTTOM (LEFT TO RIGHT): The long, straight dirt roads provided the perfect place to meditate.

We often completed these sections by moonlight—no headlamp required It didn’t take Aimee long to settle into her new life on the trail. By the time we finished, she was three years old and had forgotten that people generally live in houses, not tents Grassy Mountain, NSW where we awoke to a spectacular double rainbow and views that finally matched those on the PCT

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Reader’s Adventure: THE NATIONAL TRAIL

Cooktown

Na tio na rai lT l Healesville

W

E WERE 84 DAYS and 1,364.9 kilometres into our family adventure along the National Trail.

The roughly 5,330km route—known previously as the Bicentennial National Trail—meanders from the wet tropics of Cooktown, Queensland to the mountain ash forests of Healesville, Victoria. The brainchild of iconic Australian vagabond RM Williams—and mapped into twelve distinct guidebooks by his long-term pal Dan Seymour—the trail was created for horse riders rather than hikers. As a result, only a small proportion of the National Trail is comprised of what you might think of as ‘walking tracks’; instead, much of the route takes in slippery, mud-engorged four-wheel-drive tracks, abandoned concrete roads created for long-forgotten mines, rarely used stock routes, and national park management tracks. But a lot of the land it passes through is still untamed, and its travellers must be self-reliant and adaptable.

While hiking the Pacific Crest Trail in the US in 2015, hikers from across the globe had interrogated us about whether similarly distanced trails exist in Australia. “Impossible!” we’d say.

“There’s just not enough water or resupply points to make it anything but a suicide mission.” Yet here we were five years later, on an Australian trail where an army of National Trail board members, section coordinators, property owners, townsfolk, trail angels, and previous finishers all volunteered their time, energy, resources, and senses of humour to keep us moving south.

We hadn’t even made it past Rockhampton, but we’d already encountered crocodile-infested water crossings, severe drought, flash floods, a case of cellulitis, and had drunk from a dam where the water literally tasted like we’d licked the pelt of a cow.

IT TAKES A PARTICULARLY SNAIL-LIKE PACE TO NOTICE

THAT SPIDERS’ EYES GLOW IN THE DARK. IT TAKES AN EVEN SLOWER PACE TO BE ABLE TO TRACK KANGAROOS TO

THE NEXT WATER SOURCE.”

Through all of this, though, Florian, Aimee and I couldn’t wipe the smiles off our faces. This was living!

Florian and I have been together for nine years, and we could never really adjust to the concept of living for the weekend. Seeing the same grey faces commuting for hours each day, holding on for dear life in the hope they could drink six beers on Friday night, buy more stuff they didn’t need from the shops on the Saturday, and devour an overpriced brunch at a hipster cafe on the Sunday.

We wanted to live every day and we wanted to live a different life.

A life of adventure in the wild. Call us crazy, but the odd encounter with a saltwater croc and a natural disaster or two, even with a toddler in tow, seemed like paradise in comparison.

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JUST AS WE HAD RESIGNED ourselves to continuing on foot through the fire (we didn’t have enough food to turn back), a two-seater ute towing a trailer loaded with a water tank and a quad appeared. Florian leapt up and flagged down its driver, explaining our predicament through the window. With a nod, Aimee and I piled into the passenger seat, and Flo jumped into the tray, wedging himself between our packs. We then hurtled straight through the fire.

Our driver, between yelling observations and instructions into a two-way radio, introduced herself. I recognised her name from Book Three of the official National Trail guidebooks. I casually mentioned we’d met her husband a few days back. “That’s strange,” she replied. “He’s been dead for years.” Clearly, the guidebook needed an update!

The next day, in St Lawrence—a quirky Aussie town, population 235, with a dying general store but a very much living wetlands—we luxuriated in the public swimming pool, debating our next move. It was the only public pool we’d come across with no lifeguards, that was resort-style rather than lap-pool shaped, and where all the locals had their own key. The publican had supplied ours. The cool waters of the pool were the perfect place to make an important decision: Keep on hiking? Or switch to bikes?

We had always basked in the deliciously slow pace of hiking.

It takes a particularly snail-like pace to notice that spiders’ eyes glow in the dark. It takes an even slower pace to be able to track kangaroos to the next water source. But the last stretch had given us a wake-up call. On the National Trail there are very few easily accessible alternate routes. With limited supplies and the need to break every hour to let Aimee escape from the carrier, stretch her legs, and preserve her sanity (we’d given up on ours years ago), we needed to switch to a method with a little more speed.

With zero bikepacking experience, we caught the tilt train to Rockhampton, grabbed the only mountain bikes left in our size, bussed it back to St Lawrence and left one set of hiking poles and Aimee’s carrier with Olga from the St Lawrence Bowls club to pass along to my parents.

THE FIRST 15KM OUT OF ST LAWRENCE was along the Bruce Highway. Thankful we weren’t on horses, but still petrified, we opted to ride in the overgrown ditch beside the highway. After ploughing through waist-high nettle, broken glass, and invisible holes, we collapsed at our campsite for the night, impressed at our new average-kilometre speed.

That average speed, however, was reduced significantly as we approached Kroombit Tops NP, which lies 85km southeast of Gladstone. Surrounded by cattle farms, this little-known slice of backcountry heaven is only for the truly adventurous (read stubborn). For those who enjoy spending their time exploring jaw-dropping sandstone gorges, spotting un-musterable cattle,

and discovering the remains of Betsy—a World War II aircraft which managed to go unfound for nearly 50 years—it is worth the effort of the climb.

But to climb it, you first have to get to it. It had stormed the previous night, leaving the black soil from Callide Dam to Kroombit Tops NP thick and sludgy. As we made our way along the dirt road, it was like trying to ride through tar, or through perhaps the least tasty chocolate mud cake in history. We had no choice but to dismount. But for every pitiful push forward, we had to rock our bikes backwards, clear the mud guards, and go again. Aimee laughed in delight as she ran ahead, making mud pies with the road.

Our speed slowed even more as we embarked on the ascent up Razorback Track—a 4WD track the National Trail uses to wind its way to the high points of Kroombit Tops.

Grunting with effort, we pushed the bikes up thirty centimetres at a time, often slipping back down on the loose rock. In some sections, the rocks were so greasy that Flo, generously, told me to walk with Aimee while he did the trail three times to ensure our bikes and gear were transported to the top in one piece.

Florian turned 29 at the summit. We celebrated under a mozzie net, with water freshly filtered from a storm puddle.

THIRTY DAYS LATER, THE SECTION from Point Lookout to Macleay Junction via Georges Creek started off as good sections often do: with a blue sky, a lookout, and a promise of solitude. The views from Beech Lookout over Cunnawarra and New England National Parks reminded us how lucky we were to have any green spaces left, and it was exciting to look at the endless valleys below, one of which we were heading down today.

We had plans to put in some serious kilometres, but the steady 1,100m elevation drop, combined with the softly leafed terrain down Forest Way and then Georges Trail, lulled us into serious holiday mode. At 2PM, we made camp beside Georges Creek. After spending five months in Queensland’s drought-stricken outback, the creeks in NSW felt like rivers. Clear to the bottom, Georges Creek snaked its way rapidly along the valley floor.

Flo and Aimee set about trying to catch a fish, but soon the heavens opened. Like ants, we were plunged into a hive of activity: set up the tent, inflate the mats, keep the fire

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Saturday, August 22, 2020 we set out from Cooktown with no idea of what lay ahead: the perfect way to start the National Trail After spending 24 hours a day, 7 days a week together for 9 months, our family became even closer than we could have imagined Toddlers learn surprisingly quickly One game we played along the trail was ‘Identify the Animal from the Skeleton’. This game was more enjoyable in Queensland.

Down south, the colder weather always ensured a bit of smelly flesh stubbornly clung to the bones The humble bore and tank and the generosity of the landowners who maintained them made the National Trail a feasible hike through Queensland The simple joy of being able to walk hand in hand with my daughter along a quiet country road

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Reader’s Adventure: THE NATIONAL TRAIL

going, move the wet clothes … Even with 204 nights of setting up camp under our belts, we were still surprised at the amount of work to be done and the high degree of coordinated teamwork it took to get everything just right. We were thankful for our new mats, which made the stones as soft as grass and the river under our tent unnoticeable.

The next day, we would have been better off with flippers and goggles than with bikes and boots. We must have crossed Georges Creek a thousand times. Well, technically it was around thirteen times that day, but Flo argued that he crossed it roughly 100 times: once with his bike, once with mine, once with Aimee, and once with his panniers. Being bum-height and fast flowing, it was the watery version of Kroombit Tops for poor Flo! At the time, we were naively unaware that NSW was on the cusp of a once-in-a-lifetime flood and that Georges Creek should have only been ankle deep.

At our very brief lunch break, as I scooped wet flour (dough?) out of Flo’s pannier, I was no longer convinced our panniers were as waterproof as I’d originally thought. We re-packed them to better safeguard the food items, and persisted on until we found a good patch of grass to camp on.

There were roughly ten more crossings of Georges Creek before we hit the Macleay River. Like drowned rats we eventually passed Mountain Home Station and began the excruciating climb up the steep switchbacks of the station’s driveway to the Kempsey-Armidale Road. I was glad I wasn’t in charge of collecting the newspaper at that residence!

AFTER BATTLING A MICE PLAGUE, flash flooding, and derailleur hanger troubles through NSW, we limped over the border into the ACT, relieved to hit the territory’s fast, flat, albeit windy and freezing trail. After admitting that our Queensland-centric sleeping quilt, bike pants and t-shirts were just not going to cut it in Kosciuszko National Park, we raided the local op shops and discount camping stores for warmer gear before leaving the nation’s capital to be back with the great unwashed in NSW. We were also now officially a party of four, after multiple pregnancy tests confirmed our new addition to the family during our brief respite in Canberra.

On Day 251, we crossed into Kosciuszko National Park giddy with excitement. We were to spend 190km and six days in one of the most stunning alpine regions in Australia. Our only previous experience here had been in June 2017 when, while pregnant with Aimee, we had climbed Kossie itself. But wild places need to be experienced alone, and the other six people at the summit that clear June day felt like six too many. This time in the park, though, it felt like we had it completely to ourselves, especially in its central sections, such as around Happy Jacks Plain.

Under a never-ending sky, the grassland stretched in all directions, seemingly to the end of the earth. The view took our breath

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WE NOW FELT LIKE AUSTRALIA WAS NO LONGER A STRANGER, BUT A WARM, IF NOT SLIGHTLY QUIRKY, MATE. away. A small creek carved its way through the grass, a group of wild cattle grazing by it. Witnessing these animals as they should be—truly free—amplified our own feelings of complete and utter freedom. Time seemed to stand still and the whole family was drenched in joy. Flo and I agreed that we couldn’t imagine that any place like this even existed in Australia. We felt like we were in Mongolia! If we had not been on limited supplies, we’d have been tempted to set up camp and stay for a month. But the show must go on. High country, here we come.

THE MURRAY RIVER MARKS the southern boundary of both Kosciuszko NP and of NSW. As soon as we crossed the river into Victoria, we realised why the National Trail is a horse trail; it’s too steep for anything else!

But we were finally immersed in the raw, natural environment we’d been craving since our PCT adventures. At dusk, troops of brumbies, flocks of emus and mobs of kangaroos crossed the trail in search of water. We felt no disconnect from these animals; we too were relying on the same water sources for survival.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT

Crater Lake, Oregon

Happy Jacks Plains in Kosciuszko NP showcased the best of Australian trails, making us hungry to explore the area more Damper on the fire, abundant fresh water—in NSW, the trail became more about thriving rather than surviving Once Autumn set in, any hut that hadn’t borne the brunt of a bushfire became our go-to place to set up camp Our adventure on the NT may have ended in Healesville, but we’ve already started planning our next one. To be continued …

Alas, ensconced in a permanent state of nausea, the higher we moved into the Victorian high country , the less I could truly surrender to the magic of the trail. Forced to drag my bike after my attempts to wrangle a brumby failed, I could barely keep up with my beloved husband and daughter, who were so patient with me.

Driven by storms, hail, and our desperate need to get to Healesville, like possessed vagrants we moved from hut to hut, always wet, but always in awe of the beauty of the Aussie bush, recovering from yet another bushfire.

ON 24 MAY 2021, WE ARRIVED in Healesville, Victoria.

After 276 days in Australia’s backyard, we had reached our destination, yet the journey was incomplete.

Our hearts were filled with gladness; the National Trail had gifted us nine glorious months as a family to discover our own country in a uniquely personal way, a way that no tourist ever could from the seat of a speeding vehicle. We now knew that what the publicans at Irvinebank lacked in real pub food, they made up for in their generous soft spots for kids. We now knew that a single water trough in the outback could sustain more diversity of life than an entire river in an east coast city. We now knew that Australia and its people—though often neglected, abused, and misused—would always find a way to come back in the end. And we now felt like Australia was no longer a stranger, but a warm, if not slightly quirky, mate.

But a little hole was also left in our hearts as we began to mourn our life on the trail. As we go through the motions of eating dinner on our back deck in Brisbane, our hearts are still out on a dusty stock route, or struggling up a mountain, or soaking in a clear, cold river in the middle of a national park.

Ironically, Australians are seen as being tough and adventurous people, but we have been conditioned to seek comfortable, sedate, ‘safe’ lives, especially for our children. Give parents the choice between having their kid sit in front of a tablet all weekend or camp out in the bush, the sad reality is that most would prefer their kids on the couch “where,” they would probably say, “we can keep an eye on them.” But this does not feel right to us.

Call our family naïve, but wouldn’t it be nice if all seven billion of us on the planet agreed to forget minimising carbon pollution, and returned instead to how we are all meant to be living: freely, in the wild. We have lost sight of our true natures and are so much poorer for this.

As I finish writing this article, I’m literally days away from giving birth to Aimee’s sibling. She’s excited about becoming a big sister, and we are excited about introducing him/her to Australia’s (and the world’s) backyard, which extends way beyond a fenced patch of grass in the suburbs. W CONTRIBUTOR: Belinda Sokolowski hasn’t had a relaxing holiday since she was conned into marathon running fifteen years ago. She won’t, however, be swapping mountains for margaritas any time soon.

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Southern Alps, NEW ZEALAND

ENCHAINMENT A Human-Powered Expedition to Link All of New Zealand’s Highest Peaks

Climbing all of New Zealand’s 3000+ metre peaks is a rare feat, one achieved by just a handful of alpinists. But Alastair McDowell and Hamish Fleming set off last November to not only add their names to that list, they wanted to do it as a single push, and to do it within a month. And there was one more thing: They wanted to do the whole thing purely under their own power. It was a choice that threatened everything.

By ALASTAIR McDOWELL

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“A Hamish Fleming traversing Aoraki’s exposed summit ridge

Setting off at the Copland Valley Track

ll of next week looks like rain,”

Hamish’s girlfriend Beāte announced unapologetically, as the three of us strode down Ball Road towards Mount Cook Village. Surely not, I thought. My heart threatened to sink in disappointment. It didn’t, though. Instead, it remained buoyed by a relentless optimism. Over the last 28 days, Hamish Fleming and I had climbed 23 of New Zealand’s 3000m peaks across the Aoraki region, and now there remained only one mountain to complete our quest of climbing all of New Zealand’s 3000m peaks in a single month—Tititea, aka Mt Aspiring.

Surely our luck could hold out one more time.

To arrive at this point, we had invested so much into the endeavour.

Energy. Time. Hardship. Risk. Our bodies and minds were deeply fatigued from continuous effort—Mt Dixon earlier that morning, Aoraki the day before … Our last sleep in was a distant memory. And now we had a difficult decision to make. Our goal had been for our quest to be wholly human-powered; should we relinquish that ideal now by driving the 300km to Aspiring, and thus be able to climb it while the weather was still good? Or take the chance, cycle south, but potentially have the weather turn bad during the extra time it took to get there? If we were to fail on the final peak, would it all have been in vain?

EVERY MOUNTAINOUS REGION HAS its list of highest peaks.

The British Munros. The 4000m peaks of the European Alps. Colorado’s 14ers. The Himalayan 8000ers. In New Zealand, we have the 3000m peaks.

Although the 3000m mark is arbitrary, the list of resulting 24 peaks represent the most classical of our mountains.

For over 70 years, Kiwi climbers have set themselves the goal of ticking off these 24 peaks over the course of their mountaineering careers. According to Penny Webster of the New Zealand Alpine Club (NZAC) only 22 people have completed the list. Some have climbed all 24 in a single season, such as Erica Beuzenberg and Gottlieb Braun-Elwert, in the winter of 1989. One has climbed them all solo: Guy McKinnon in 2010.

All but one of these peaks are clustered around Aoraki/Mt Cook National Park, the exception being Tititea/Mt Aspiring. Several summits are not distinct peaks; rather, they are high points on the mountainous chain extending from Aoraki/Mt Cook. Some, like Haidinger or Dixon, are small climbs from the névé. Others, like Maukatua/Sefton or La Perouse, are enormous ascents from the valley floor.

But we didn’t plan to pick off these peaks one by one. We had something different in mind. The concept of enchainment, where a mountaineer aims to link multiple summits in an extended outing, comes from Europe. One of the greatest examples of it took place in 2015, when the late Ueli Steck completed a 62-day enchainment of the 4000m peaks of the European Alps. There were 82 such peaks, and Steck travelled between mountain ranges by bike, and descended from some summits by paraglider.

At an NZAC club night, Penny Webster proposed the idea to replicate this type of mountaineering in New Zealand. “How would you do it?” she asked.

My eyes glazed over. As I started to craft the route, I realised an opportunity to transcend peak bagging into trans-alpinism, and the continuous, humanpowered-style Steck forged captured my imagination. But first, I needed to find a partner both competent enough for the climbing and fit enough for the effort. The first person I thought of was my friend Hamish Fleming. As soon as I mentioned the idea to Hamish, who has a strong background in multisport and adventure racing before turning to mountaineering, he was in. The next day, he booked his five weeks leave. It was on.

Between our commitments, we had 34 days to work with. Would that be enough to climb all 24 peaks? Time would tell. In the Southern Alps, weather is everything. But that didn’t faze us. Uncertainty makes a great adventure.

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Southern Alps, NEW ZEALAND

I FELT A TENSION BUILDING

BETWEEN A DETERMINATION TO SUCCEED, AND A DETERMINATION TO SURVIVE. COULD WE STILL TEMPER

OUR SUMMIT FEVER WITH SANITY?”

13 NOVEMBER, 2021. Twenty-eight days before being confronted by that decision at Mt Cook Village, rain pounded on the roof of the car as we pulled into the Copland Valley carpark. A true West Coast welcome to start our quest. As we shouldered our overloaded 40L packs and waved goodbye to Beāte, the lumps in our throats were soon dissolved by the excitement of a monumental adventure ahead. Immediately, we felt enveloped by the West Coast’s wilderness; home was already a long way away.

After a wet day’s tramping into Douglas Rock Hut and then a relaxing sleep in, we slammed coffee and oats at the unusual time of 3:30PM. We then hit the bush prepared for a long night of climbing. Hamish had spied—amongst a week of quagmire—a miniscule overnight weather window for our first peak, Maukatua/Mt Sefton, the ascent of which was about to teach us a valuable first lesson: accept and embrace. No amount of wishing or hoping could clear the clag that drenched us on our 2,500m climb up Sefton’s vertical bush, slippery snowgrass and gaping glaciers.

At 12:50AM, we stood on the summit in boisterous wind and sleety rain. Frozen rime smeared our faces and jackets. “Time to go down!” I yelled into the camera between shivering gasps.

Re-warmed by the descent, I was glad to have documented that wild moment.

AFTER THREE DAYS OF ENFORCED REST at Douglas Rock—heavy rain gave us no option—we were eager to face our next challenge: crossing the formidable Copland River. Even with lower flows, this torrent had caused other parties minor epics. The best crossing we could find involved getting onto a rock island in the river via a two-metre jump. It was a leap of commitment; once onto the mid-way rock, jumping back was impossible.

Hamish didn’t hesitate. Leaping across with all his gear, he clasped onto the rock. The boulder across the next smaller gap was polished and holdless. Balancing precariously, Hamish calmly stripped to bare feet and smeared onto the water-worn schist; with a few desperate moves during a tricky scramble out, he was safe. I soon followed suit. We were across, committed to the Strauchon Valley.

After wrestling through the choking bush surrounding Jungle Peak, we finally saw La Perouse, 2,000m above us, remote and colossal and gleaming with Himalayan grandeur. Beyond, Aoraki—framed by Baker Saddle—pierced the clouds. The only escape from this remote place was up … and over.

From midnight ‘til dawn, we traversed towards La Perouse, with a full moon luminous over the western ocean. During these surreal moments, pre-dawn fear dissolves into numbness; it’s difficult to process all that you’re experiencing. Daggering across the summit ridge was our first taste of never-ending, exposed, grityour-teeth, classic mountaineering. It drilled into us the virtue of patience. Take your time; eventually you’ll get there.

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The summit was spectacular; wild views of West Coast wilderness, and to the east, the Hooker faces of Aoraki—in my mind, her most impressive aspect. Hamish had never climbed any of these peaks before. His Mount Cook climbing resume consisted of a walk-in to Plateau Hut and a failed attempt on the Footstool.

His eyes were blazing seeing these mountains for the first time; I leeched off his enthusiasm.

A storm brewed at Harper Saddle, whipping spindrift into our eyes as I struggled to drill the next V-thread into the ice for an abseil. Empress Hut was in sight, and it would soon become a welcome refuge for three days of tempest. We were settling into a cycle of work, rest, and feast. We now thanked our past selves who, three weeks earlier, had slogged up Hooker Glacier to deliver seven days of rations. Ahead of us, in four other alpine huts around the park, we had also stashed supplies, piggy backing our food onto chopper flights of other friends’ adventures.

The third day revealed the storm’s impact: A frozen white blanket draping the high peaks, presaging perfect conditions for the next leg of our journey. The eleven peak traverse of Hicks to Haast—constantly straddling the exposure of the Main Divide— would be the most critical part of the project. Success here would put us in a great position. But this was also the section that filled me with the most fear.

THREE MONTHS EARLIER, I’D CLIMBED a new alpine route on the northeast face of Torres Peak with Pat Gray. On this climb, it was not the ten pitches of steep ice and mixed terrain that stretched me; it was the mind-numbing exposure I experienced crawling across the summit ridge. For hours, I’d been filled with fatigue … and fear. And from the summit of Torres, I looked over to Hicks and traced my eyes over the proposed route to Tasman and beyond, counting the scores of peaks. Trepidation almost overwhelmed me, to the point of reconsidering the whole mission.

But here we were, crunching out of Empress at 2AM, bound for Hicks, with a three-day weather window ahead of us. A shortterm memory is a mountaineer’s greatest asset. Back up Harper Saddle, five pitches through the Curtain, sun coming up: Hicks— 7AM. Across to Dampier, gendarmes and hard ice—11AM. Feeling it already. A Patagonian rime pitch up: Vancouver, sweltering in the sun—3PM. Endless, tedious and tricky terrain: Malaspina—9PM. Time to escape, out came the Escaper, a few tugs and boom, onto the snow below Clarke Saddle.

WE AWOKE IN A LUXURIOUS ‘SCHRUND CAMP just above Clarke Saddle, bathing in an Aoraki sunrise. Straight out of the bivvy we traversed out to Magellan, then set our sights on mighty Mt Tasman (Tasman’s Maori names, Horokoau or Rarakiroa, differ depending on which coast you’re on). Into the swing

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Hamish arrives on Malaspina at sunset during the Hicks-Haast traverse Hamish leaps over the formidable Copland River Mt Tasman’s spectacular summit ice ridge from Silberhorn

of things, we celebrated summits frequently that day, so many so that Hamish could barely remember the names of each peak.

At Marcel Col, however, the last peak—Mt Haast—didn’t appear straightforward. Late in the day, our motivation was waning; Haast’s summit was annoyingly far out along the ridge. I don’t always hold myself to the highest standard when it comes to summits. Often, a technical climb will top out on a relatively high point of the summit ridge, but not the absolute highest. I’m usually happy to call it; I’m not a perfectionist. Perhaps this is a distinction between an alpinist and a mountaineer—one for the line, another for the summit.

On this challenge, however, we were mountaineers striving for true summits; we surrendered to the geographical discipline of the mountain. Admittedly, there was something deeply satisfying about going to the absolute highest point of Haast that evening, since it required more of us than we felt willing to give. Ultimately, mountaineering is a game where you play by your own rules.

SAFELY ENSCONCED IN PIONEER HUT, we felt the hardest climbing was over; we could relax a little. In reality, however, every peak had a sting in its tail. Haidinger threatened strong pre-frontal winds, swaying our balance and snagging our abseil ropes. Torres’ Northeast Couloir confused us in the moonless dark, and route-finding

THE PEAKS - IN ORDER OF ASCENT 1. Maukatua/Mt Sefton (3,151m) 2. La Perouse (3,078m) 3. Mt Hicks (3,198m) 4. Rakiroa/Mt Dampier (3,440m) 5. Mt Vancouver (3,309m) 6. Malaspina (3,042m) 7. Magellan (3,049m) 8. Rakiura/Mt Teichelmann (3,144m) 9. Mt Graham (3,184m) 10. Silberhorn (3,300m) 11. Mt Tasman (3,497m) 12. Lendenfield Peak (3,194m) 13. Mt Haast (3,114m) 14. Mt Haidinger (3,070m) 15. Torres Peak (3,160m) 16. Glacier Peak (3,002m) 17. Douglas Peak (3,077m) 18. Minarets (3,040m) 19. Mt Elie de Beaumont (3,109m) 20. Mt Hamilton (3,025m) 21. Malte Brun (3,199m) 22. Aoraki/Mt Cook (3,724m) 23. Mt Dixon (3,004m) 24. Tititea/Mt Aspiring (3,033m)

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IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Summit selfie on the windswept summit of La Perouse Alpenglow dawn on the Minarets, with Aoraki and Tasman beyond The weather clears at Empress Hut in the upper Hooker Glacier Hamish descends the West Ridge of Torres Peak

mistakes wasted three hours. The crux of Glacier and Douglas was the sickening midnight alarm; we had barely unpacked from Torres.

Now things were taking on a transalpine flavour again. Hopping passes between glaciers, popping up peaks. We secured the Minarets in the rosiest of alpenglows, before plunging off the map into isolated Spencer Glacier and camping at the foot of Mt Elie de Beaumont—another peak so much more remote and attractive from the west. Early the next morning, she treated us to fine panoramas to the west and north, a perfect vantage to witness the next storm approaching. Nineteen peaks, twenty days. We could hardly believe it.

Maybe the dream was possible?

This goal to climb 24 peaks had motivated us to train, to plan, and to prepare—a fire in the future. But I never believed we might come so close. Now on the home straight, I felt a tension building between a determination to succeed, and a determination to survive.

Heavily invested in the game, could we still temper our summit fever with sanity?

AT TASMAN SADDLE, A DELUGE set in, delivering 400mm of rain in three days.

We rested our tired bones. More good news arrived. Five days of ‘acceptable’ weather was coming. Morale was high. Was this enough time to clear the park’s final four peaks?

Heavy, white murk weighed on us in the Darwin Glacier as we trudged towards Hamilton, hidden in cloud. Disappointed, our more ambitious plan of linking the Hamilton-Malte Brun skyline ridge was off the cards. We changed tack, dropped packs, and charged up and back in three hours. Hamilton ticked—we didn’t come for views; we came for summits. We needed to be opportunistic and flexible to keep momentum.

Established at the foot of Malte Brun that evening, I reminisced about a failed attempt nine years earlier on my first excursion to the Aoraki region. Unfinished business. Could

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WE RENEWED OUR APPRECIATION OF AOTEAROA’S SPECIAL WILD PLACES, LANDS THAT DESERVE PROTECTION AND CELEBRATION. WE

MUST KNOW OUR MOUNTAINS TO KNOW HOW TO PROTECT THEM.”

this be redemption? Overnight, our camp below the Bonney Rib sustained wind, snow and rain into mid-morning, plastering both our tent and the rock above with rime. We started to worry.

So deep and so close; just one missed chance could spell the end of the dream.

Patiently, we waited. Snow swirling. Sun piercing. The signs of clearing gave us hope. 2PM wasn’t a conventional time to start climbing, but fortune favours the bold; punching through the inversion, we arrived at Malte’s famed Cheval, staring across Tasman Glacier with only 3000m peaks floating above the clouds.

THAT WAS CLOSE. AGAIN, we had squeaked through the waves of weather. Just two formidable peaks remained here: the cloud piercer, Aoraki/Mt Cook; and the little cousin, Dixon. Familiarity was on our side, but the challenge was not muted. Strong north-westerlies were predicted for late in the day. Before I could touch my midnight breakfast, something churned in my guts, and I vomited over the unfrozen glacier. So deep and so close.

Until now I’d taken charge of all the technical climbing, but now it was time for Hamish to take the lead. He’d served a fine apprenticeship over the past weeks; now he was ready for the sharp end. Mentoring is integral to mountaineering culture, and it was amazing to see how much Hamish had progressed in this short time. Thanks to all the mentoring I’d received over the years through the New Zealand Alpine Team, friends like Hamish could now benefit down the line.

Hamish led through Aoraki’s summit rocks with confidence.

Before long, we stood on Aoraki, still and clear. We peered out to the northwest, baffled that the winds had abated momentarily to allow our ascent. Threading back through the broken Linda Glacier, ice contrails vortexed over the summit ridge.

One peak left in the park—Dixon. We struck the southeast ridge at dawn, hoping for another morning lull in the wind. Our guts churned again this morning, but now only out of trepidation.

Dixon also offers a tricky bergschrund crossing: question marks always loom; nothing can be taken for granted.

Hamish led us across the void, and we pushed head-on into boisterous wind up the ridge. Pumped up and invigorated by the storm’s power, we felt gratitude for the mountain’s mercy. Three days remained to finish in a month. We knew well our time goals were arbitrary, but the limit of time created an uncertainty of success which drove us on.

Later that day, Hamish and I were staggering up the moraine wall towards Ball Shelter when we spotted a girl jogging through the rocks way below. Beāte! She’d come to meet us for our final walk back into civilisation after 28 days in the mountains. She brought coke and beer, sandwiches and avocados and salad. But most importantly, she brought our road bikes. Six weeks earlier, it felt ridiculous to be stashing those bikes at Wyn Irwin Lodge.

Surely the chances of using these, it seemed, were next to zero.

But now, with our cleats clipped in, this was reality.

WE HAD VISUALISED AND ANTICIPATED this unlikely moment for so long, since it signified the completion of Aoraki’s 23 peaks. The ride to Aspiring gave us a chance to reflect on what we‘d experienced so far. Though we relished the urgency and uncertainty of charging into the unknown, the real reason for being here was not just about speed. It was about slowing down.

It was to experience an expedition-length adventure in New Zealand. A deep immersion in the hills for an extended period, on nature’s terms. It allowed us to connect with the mountain environment, to watch storms roll in and out, sense the changing conditions of snow and ice and rock, and to embrace a patient wait for short opportunities to dash up to those high summits.

Through the hardship of these harsh mountains, we renewed our appreciation of Aotearoa’s special, wild places, lands that deserve protection and celebration. We must know our mountains to know how to protect them.

THE NOR’WESTER BREWING ON DIXON earlier that morning had flared into a full-blown storm. Now it was a raging tailwind, whisking us along the banks of Lake Pukaki. What is this bicycle power, so swift? We spent the night in the town of Twizel; the following morning we were back in the saddle for the State Highway 1 café crawl over Lindis Pass in pouring rain.

We rolled into Wanaka late that evening, sore in the saddle.

One day of fine weather remained before a week of unsettledness. The momentum could not stop now; the only option was to somehow summit Tititea/Aspiring the following day.

Up early, road bikes swapped for mountain bikes, the 65km ride to Aspiring Hut was plagued by sleepiness and lethargy.

“Come on!” I yelled, trying to rouse myself. Our faithful support crew offered drinks from the car window Tour de France style; we needed all the help we could get at this stage. In the Matukituki Valley, clag shrouded us all day until, in dramatic style, we rose above the cloud at Bevan Col to glimpse our final mountain, Tititea/Mt Aspiring, standing tall. Our morales soared.

It’s hard to describe the emotions on that final summit because there were none. Despite the glorious, windless evening, I felt devoid of any feeling. I was simply too tired. Confused. Jetlagged.

Aoraki was just over there, we could see it clearly. Two days ago, we were there. Now we were here. Everything had worked.

Feelings would come later. W CONTRIBUTOR: Alastair McDowell is a mountaineer and adventurer based in Christchurch, NZ. Mostly he loves to travel light and fast, unless he is forced to search for a kayak he’s misplaced mid-trip.

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5 THE

Wild

BUNCH

A quick lowdown to

WALKS IN

TASMANIA’S CENTRAL HIGHLANDS

CENTRAL HIGHLANDS

Hobart

Words & Photography John Chapman

THE CENTRAL HIGHLANDS OF TASMANIA include Cradle Mountain - Lake St Clair and Walls of Jerusalem National Parks. The major features of both parks have been created by geologically recent glaciation, which has scoured bowls in the rock to create lakes, and scraped the sides of peaks to leave sheer cliffs. While created by similar forces, the two parks’ topographies are remarkably different. Cradle Mountain - Lake St Clair NP has numerous deep valleys and isolated peaks, while much of the Walls of Jerusalem is a relatively level plateau, covered with numerous lakes. The diversity of vegetation is astonishing: There are upland moors, deciduous fagus forests, buttongrass plains and alpine herbfields. Snowgums, myrtle beech, King Billy pines, alpine ash and more thrive here.

The area is a walker’s paradise, with tracks and routes of all standards. The most famous walk is the Overland Track—the best-known walk in Australia. However, there are many other walking tracks and routes that can be followed. Some of these intersect with the Overland Track, and walkers from other routes are allowed to follow the Overland Track for a few hours, but should plan to walk from north to south. Also, contrary to popular belief, walking in winter is still possible in the area, as long as you’re experienced and well-equipped. In any case, snow can fall here even in summer. Be prepared.

THE EASY

WALLS OF JERUSALEM 25KM; 2-3 DAYS

Well-defined tracks, tent platforms, toilets and generally open terrain make this an easy walk with delightful scenery. The main features are some lakes surrounded by a ring of small peaks which can be climbed. While many return the same way, an unmarked but easy-to-follow network of trails can be used for a circuit.

About the only detraction is that, in recent years, the Walls have become very popular and are best avoided in holiday periods.

THE CLASSIC

THE OVERLAND TRACK 74KM; 6-7 DAYS

The famous Overland Track deserves its reputation. The lanscape is incrediby diverse, as is the vegetation. There are basic but comfortable huts and tent platforms each night and the scenery changes daily. There are many beautiful lakes, tall forests, waterfalls and numerous peaks to ascend that provide sweeping views. It is a very popular walk and a compulsory booking system

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with fees applies for most of the year. When the booking system is in force, only north to south trips are permitted. It is a great track; everyone should do this walk at least once.

THE RARELY TRAVELLED

TRAVELLER RANGE 40KM; 5 DAYS

Rising above the eastern side of Lake St Clair is the high wall of the Traveller Range. It extends from the Lyell Highway north to Du Cane Gap on the Overland Track. There are a couple of named peaks, but most of the range is a high plateau covered with numerous lakes. It is suitable for experienced off-track walkers as there are no tracks or regular routes to follow across the plateau. A careful study of maps is advised to select a route that avoids meeting some of the very long, narrow lakes halfway. Walking varies from easy, grassy valleys to rough, rocky slopes with scattered patches of scrub. In general, there is more scrub on the southern half of the range. The range ends at Du Cane Gap and it is possible to extend the trip by continuing onto the Du Cane Range Circuit.

It is also possible to exit the range earlier by following a valley to meet the Overland Track just north of Narcissus Hut.

THE WILD BUNCH

THE CHALLENGING

DU CANE RANGE CIRCUIT 32KM; 5 DAYS

Starting from Narcissus Hut, climb onto the Gould Plateau then follow the crest of the Du Cane Range over The Labyrinth to Mt Massif before descending steeply from Falling Mountain to the Overland Track at Du Cane Gap. This is a very scenic route with many peaks and lakes, but has its challenges with some thick scrub near Mt Gould and some route finding through cliffs on Mt Massif and Falling Mountain.

Highlights are the small tarns on Gould Plateau, the twisted lakes of the Labyrinth and the unusual, sunken bowl on the summit of Mt Massif. For many, the biggest challenge is the steep, scrubby descent to meet the Overland Track at Du Cane Gap.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Looking towards Mt Gell from the Cheyne Range Heading towards Mt Oakleigh from the Overland Track Mt Geryon from Lake Elysia, Du Cane Range Spurling Falls in the Traveller Range Dixons Kingdom Hut, Walls of Jerusalem NP

THE UNKNOWN

CHEYNE RANGE 32KM; 4 DAYS

CONTRIBUTOR: Legendary guidebook

Located just outside the south-western border of the Cradle Mountain - Lake St Clair National Park, this small range provides some interesting off-track walking.

The range is a high ridge containing many small lakes and valleys covered with a mixture of sedges and scrub. In autumn, the yellow and sometimes orange leaves of deciduous nothofagus provide bright splashes of colour. While the range is short in length, navigation and route-finding skills are necessary as there are no tracks through numerous scrub bands and cliffs. If weather permits, a sidetrip to the highest peak at the southern end of the range, Mt Gell, is a must.

author John Chapman doesn’t just know the trails around Tasmania’s Central Highlands; he wrote literally the book on them. The Cradle Mountain, Lake St Clair & Walls of Jerusalem NP guidebook is available at adventure-shop.com.au

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TRACK NOTES

Western Australia’s

STIRLING RANGE RIDGE WALK

Perth

Stirling Range

Words & Photography Fraser Perry

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QUICK FACTS Activity: Multi-day bushwalking Location: Stirling Range NP, WA Distance: 26km (approx) Duration: 2-3 days When to go: Spring Difficulty: Hard Permits required: Entry fee required for parking at Bluff Knoll Car Park Car shuttle required: Yes (unless staying at Stirling Range Retreat).

CLIMATE: MT BARKER (300M) Rainfall (mm)

Temperature (C)

WHILE MANY WALKS IN WESTERN AUSTRALIA offer challenge to experienced bushwalkers, for most of these the difficulties lie primarily in their remoteness. The Ridge Walk in the Stirling Range is one of the few exceptions. Isolation isn’t an issue here; instead, its difficulty lies in its technical demands. The range is the sole mountain chain in Western Australia’s southern half, and the route across it—steep and unmarked— traces across exposed, craggy peaks high enough that they’re the only places in the state that see winter snow. And while the Ridge Walk is just 26km long, and a single night out, don’t be lulled into a sense of complacency. Scrambling is necessary at times, and the going is slow and tough; the terrain here is genuinely challenging. It’s not for nothing that this route is often called the ‘Western Arthurs of Western Australia’.

The walk lies within the Stirling Range National Park, a park of great ecological importance. With peaks rising to more than 1,000m above sea level, the relatively high altitude of the range and its associated montane ecosystem gives rise to a rich diversity of plants. More than 1,500 species grow in the national park, many of them nowhere else. And the topography makes an interesting alternative to most other Western Australian bushwalks, which wind through flat and arid landscapes.

Spearing sharply above the surrounding plains, the range also often experiences unusual and dramatic cloud formations. It’s for that reason the Traditional Custodians of the range, the Wagyl Kaip people, call it Koi Kyenunu-ruff; it means “mist rolling around the mountains”—far more poetic than being named after Captain James Stirling, WA’s first governor.

NB: There are no weather stations on the Stirling Range. Expect temps to be considerably cooler than Mt Barker, and the precipitation to be significantly greater.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Don’t forget to look up from your feet to appreciate the sweeping views from the Stirling Range out to the coast Waking up above a blanket of clouds nestled inside the cave of the Third Arrow Prolific grass trees (Kingia australis) growing densely across Moongoongoonderup Hill The exposed cliffs reveal the sandstone and shales that were deposited 2.8 to 2.2 billion years ago, which subsequently metamorphosised into quartzite and slate

FLORA & FAUNA The 115,900ha Stirling Range National Park is an elongated, roughly rectangular island of undisturbed vegetation surrounded by a sea of largely cleared farmland. The park is rich in flora, with more than 1,500 plant species identified, of which 87 species are endemic to the range. There are several distinct plant communities including mountain shrubland, herbland, eucalyptus woodland and mallee. While fauna is limited, expect to see wedgetailed eagles circling the peaks, flocks of black cockatoos, and quokkas if you move quietly enough.

TREADING LIGHTLY Approximately 80% of the Stirling Range National Park has been impacted by phytophthora dieback, including sections of the Ridge Walk. Phytophthora dieback is a plant disease caused by Phytophthora cinnamomi, a water mould that lives inside soil and plant tissue. It attacks the roots of plants and causes them to rot, limiting the uptake of water and nutrients.

To prevent the spread of dieback, bushwalkers should at minimum adhere to the following practices: Commence walks with footwear and poles clean and free of contaminated soils; use cleaning stations where provided; avoid disease risk areas during and after rain when soil is damp; stick to established tracks and footpads where possible; and adhere to track closures.

After showing signs of recovery from bushfires in 2000 and 2018, the Stirling Range National Park was severely burnt again

in January 2020, with over 40,000ha damaged, resulting in a temporary closure. The park reopened in February 2021, however large areas of the park remain off limits due to bushfire damage and to protect against the spread of phytophthora dieback.

WHEN TO GO Spring is the preferred season to attempt the Ridge Walk given the mild temperatures, generally stable conditions, and the opportunity to see wildflowers when they are most abundant.

While it’s possible to complete the walk during winter, the southwest of Western Australia frequently receives storms during the colder months with cool, wet and windy conditions prevailing, making an already difficult walk even more challenging. Given the altitude of the range, these storms can occasionally bring snow; it’s one of the few places in the state to ever see the white stuff. Summer is not recommended given the high temperatures and increased water carrying requirements.

The peaks of Koi Kyenunu-ruff/Stirling Range are subject to rapid deterioration in weather and are very exposed. Walkers should also avoid visiting during periods of high fire danger.

FEES/PERMITS No camping fees are payable when camping off-track. However, a WA Parks Pass, or a daily fee of $15/car, is required to access the Bluff Knoll car park. There is also a visitors’ registration logbook; it’s located at the junction of Chester Pass Rd and Bluff Knoll Rd.

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TRACK NOTES Gn ow e ll en

la g

Mirlp

an

Kuch Rd

START

Moir Hill (498m)

k Cree up

unda Fire Bre

STIRLING RANGE NP

North East Track

oo W

N th

North East Track

Rd

Boundary Fence Track

Boundary Fence Track

ak

B lu

ff K

no

ll R

Isongerup Peak (1008m)

d

FINISH

Eucalyptus )( Col P

Third

o ak She - l Arrow Pyungoorup Camp Peak Co

)(

(1054m)

First Arrow Third Bakers (894m) Arrow (936m) Knob

Ellen Peak (1034m)

(932m)

Bluff Knoll

STIRLING RANGE NP

(1095m)

STIRLING RANGE

0

1

2

3

4 KM

DIFFICULTY This is not an easy walk. While the overall distance appears short, the Ridge Walk is a hard slog that takes longer than anticipated. Once onto the Koi Kyenunu-ruff/Stirling Range at elevation, the scrambling and route finding makes walking very slow going—1.0 to 1.5 km/h is a reasonable pace. Moreover, sufficient water should be carried for the entire trip (see ‘Access to Water’ section), thus making for a heavier pack.

Most strong parties follow a two-day itinerary, camping overnight at the Arrows, while those looking for days of a more comfortable length spread the route across a three-day itinerary, camping at some of the smaller campsites scattered across the route, such as the Eucalyptus Col and She-oak Col. While the route definitely requires off-track navigation skills, it’s worth knowing that roughly half the route has a foot pad, discernible to varying degrees.

Note also that the Ridge Walk is the only worthwhile multinight walk possible in the park, as most of the peaks on the western side of the Stirling Range are isolated mountains with short approaches, which lend themselves to day walks.

ACCESS & ACCOMMODATION Stirling Range NP is approximately 400km south of Perth (4.5 hours’ driving) and 90km north of Albany (1 hour driving). To access the eastern end of the Ridge Walk, proceed to Amelup, drive 17km along Sandalwood Rd (unsealed), then turn right at Gnowellen Rd and proceed 4km to the park entrance at the Boundary Fence Track, opposite Kuch Rd. The previous access route via private property on Glenelg Estate has been removed.

To access the western end of the Ridge Walk, turn off Chester Pass Rd onto Bluff Knoll Rd and continue 8km to the car park. A WA National Parks pass is required.

The Stirling Range Retreat offers its guests—and only its guests—a daily shuttle bus service to Bluff Knoll and the park

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RIDGE WALK Map data © OpenStreetMap

entrance on Gnowellen Rd, which allows bushwalkers to avoid a car shuffle. It may be worth considering staying at the retreat for the shuttle alone; accommodation here ranges from unpowered campsites for $16/night up to two-bedroom chalets. Go to stirlingrange.com.au (see also the ad in this issue’s classifieds).

ACCESS TO WATER Water is scarce and unreliable in Koi Kyenunu-ruff/Stirling Range; walkers should pack sufficient water for the entire trip prior to heading out. A 200L water barrel was unofficially installed close to the summit of Third Arrow in the late 1970s to collect water from a soak. While the barrel remains in place today, it’s not recommended to be used given the difficulty locating it, the precarious climb to reach it, the variable supply levels, and the potential poor water quality. Water is available at Woolaganup Creek, a perennial stream that provides an option to fill up before climbing Ellen Peak. All water should be treated before drinking.

OTHER TIPS & TRICKS Tough gloves are recommended for traversing across slopes covered in swordgrass through thick regrowth.

For the latest conditions, contact the Stirling Range National Park Ranger (08 9827 9230) or the WA Parks & Wildlife Service Albany District Office (08 9842 4500).

OTHER RESOURCES - WA Topo 25 Series 2529-II-NW Ellen Peak, 1:25,000. (This map is out of print but can be downloaded digitally and printed.)

- WA Parks Foundation offer a free digital map on the Avenza app.

- Morphet, AT 1996, Mountain Walks in the Stirling Range – Part 2.

Tony Morphet also has a website (torridonbooks.com.au/ridgewalk. html) that has valuable information and sketchmaps.

- Pawley, S 1982, ‘A Stirling Effort’, Wild, Issue #6.

- Wagland, D 1998, ‘Stirling Range Wanderings’, Wild, Issue #68.

Did we really just come from there? An invisible path follows the ridgeline

View from the Blade

TRACK NOTES

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Stirling Range Ridge Walk, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

Bracing against the wind as we crossed the Arrows, we marched on towards our beacon, Bluff Knoll (on the far left corner of the image) AUTUMN 2022

111

Finding solitude—the real reason we come to the mountains

THE WALK IN SECTIONS The following notes describe the 26km end-to-end route when walked from east to west following a suggested two-day itinerary, starting at Gnowellen Rd and finishing at Bluff Knoll Car Park.

The route can be completed in the opposite direction, however; neither direction is more favourable than the other.

DAY 1

Gnowellan Road to Third Arrow 13km; 6-8 hours

The approach to the base of the range begins with 6km of walking westbound along the Boundary Fence Track, an unsealed fire trail that runs close to, and parallels, the park’s northern boundary.

After skirting north of Moir Hill, after 5km you reach a management trail heading south. Ignore it. Roughly 1km later (and 6km into the day), after you’ve descended to and just crossed Woolaganup Ck, you leave the track and head SSE along a low ridge through the scrub.

While following the light foot pad through the regrowth can be difficult, the track up the spur to Ellen Peak (1034m), the range’s most easterly peak, can be easily spotted from afar. Eventually the spur rises sharply, climbing 350m over 3.5km to reach Ellen Peak.

Grass trees are prevalent up higher. Once the route reaches a saddle roughly 600m above sea level (asl), the route changes direction and heads SW to follow the ridge. This saddle offers excellent views of the Stirling Range’s eastern side, often shrouded in clouds. Wedge-tailed eagles can be seen soaring in the thermals.

As the route gets progressively steeper towards Ellen Peak, the walking transitions to scrambling. Once on the ridge, the gradient

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flattens; the route wraps around the northern base of the cliff that forms Ellen Peak, heading easterly towards the saddle between Ellen Peak and Pyungoorup Peak at approximately 920m asl. On the westerly side of Ellen Peak, there’s a small forest of she-oak trees, offering a pleasant, small campsite, albeit relatively unprotected from the northwesterly winds.

From here, the route turns south to follow the southern side of Pyungoorup Peak (1,054m). As the route descends around the cliff, you’re rewarded with spectacular views out to the ocean. The vegetation here is also remarkable; the colder and wetter conditions on the southern aspect make it home to a large variety of montane heath. The overhanging cliffs here provide shelter from the prevailing winds and offer another nice campsite.

Continue now across a steep slope at the base of the cliffs below Pyungoorup Peak, which is covered in swordgrass. Beyond these cliffs, you emerge out of the swordgrass to the open scrub surrounding Bakers Knob (932m). An easy 20m climb takes you past the knob, where a 120m descent follows to the base of the aptly named Three Arrows—they resemble arrows sticking out of a quiver. You tackle the Arrows counting down, starting with the Third and finishing with the First.

The walk becomes more technical here, continuing with a short but steep scramble up and around the northern side of the Third Arrow (936m). This section can be particularly confusing, and you may need to poke around and deal with a few dead ends; there are no cairns, and many false tracks lead to bluffs. Morphet’s guidebook and website (see ‘Other Resources’ section) has a sketch of the correct route which is helpful for navigating this section. On the western side of the Third Arrow, another scramble leads up to a large cave which offers fantastic views of the eastern side of the range; this popular spot to camp is where you’ll spend the night.

Stirling Range Ridge Walk, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

DAY 2

Third Arrow to Bluff Knoll Car Park 11.5km; 7-9 hours

The traverse of the Second Arrow (891m) and the First Arrow (894m) are similar, with the route involving more scrambling over exposed rock ledges and traversing cliff faces.

Some of the steeper downclimbs at the base of the First Arrow may need pack hauling.

The difficult scrambling and route finding through this section has a similar feel to some of the traverses of Southwest Tasmania.

At the base of the First Arrow, the Mirlpunda Track can be used as an early exit route off the ridge. This steep, deeply overgrown track follows a sharp gully down the northern side of the ridge, and then down the spur of the First Arrow, where there is a formed fire trail that continues back to the Boundary Fence Track.

The Ridge Walk continues NE, with a 210m climb up to North Isongerup Peak (974m). It then follows the ridge line SSW, passing Isongerup Peak (1,008m) and South Isongerup Peak (962m). The foot pad then continues SW, descending 220m to Moongoongoonderup Hill, skirting north of the high point, before heading NW to Eucalyptus Col. This col offers a relatively protected campsite, and is well positioned for walkers following a three-day itinerary.

The foot pad continues SSW from Eucalyptus Col towards Bluff Knoll’s northern cliff faces. Continuing SSW, the track descends 130m to a saddle, and then rises steadily 310m to Bluff Knoll East. The track then heads west, traversing around the peak before rising 100m and then crossing a plateau to Bluff Knoll’s summit. The peak is the highest in the range, soaring to 1,095m. The views from the summit are breathtaking. Take a moment to watch the eagles soar and enjoy the serenity above Western Australia’s second-highest peak.

From here, you now join the Bluff Knoll Trail, an official track that drops all the way to the trailhead and car park 540m below. The trail—which feels manicured after the challenging walking you’ve just done—is the most popular in the entire range, and as you descend the stairs, there’s every chance you’ll do so with day walkers; little will they know just how adventurous your last couple of days have been. W

IMAGES [THIS PAGE] - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Slotting through impressive features nature has carved out on the ridge Native flora one side, a canola monoculture the other. The Boundary Fence Track shows the stark contrast of human intervention in the region Scoparia—another reminder that the Stirling Range feels like the Western Arthurs Commencing the approach towards Ellen Peak with the daunting climb in sight. Even from this distance, the ‘foot pad’ up the hill is visible As you descend off Bluff Knoll, the views across to Mt Trio and Mt Toolbrunup leave you with another reason to come back to the Stirling Range Negotiating the steep swordgrass-covered south-facing slopes requires patience

CONTRIBUTOR: Perth-based Fraser Perry lives a triple-life as a suit behind a desk by day, a kitesurfer of waves by evening, and a pursuant of outdoor missions by weekend.

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GEAR

TEST

OSPREY

ATMOS AG 65

The 2022 update of Osprey’s Goldilocks, not-too-big, not-too-small pack which adjusts to suit nearly everyone.

What makes it a real winner is its ability to be finely adjusted to suit different body shapes."

WHEN MY GRAND PLANS for a summer of Tassie

both the shoulder straps and hip belt feature extendable

bushwalking derailed thanks to that which shall not be

padding—a major improvement on earlier models. In

named, a northern-NSW road trip beckoned as a more-

essence, where most backpacks offer only a single piece

than-suitable replacement. But this drastic change in

of padding for the shoulder straps and hip belt, the addi-

destination meant that my previously scheduled 7+ day

tional padding on the Atmos (velcroed on the underside)

bushwalks in Tas would now be no more than 3-4 days at

can be extended to cater to longer torsos and broader

a time, and that realisation introduced a dilemma: What

waists, or removed entirely if desired. I particularly appre-

pack should I take? My lightweight 40L pack that I could

ciated this addition as I find longer shoulder straps more

squeeze four days out of at an absolute stretch—and in

comfortable, and the extendable waist padding accom-

the process, probably break a strap—or my 85L canvas

modated my post-Xmas figure. Some bushwalkers may

rucksack that would be overkill for the conditions? After

find the padding to be a little on the firm side, however.

much umming and ahhing, I decided I needed a mid-vol-

sought this pack—I found the 65L to be ideal for my

walks. Something in the 60-65L range would be good, I

needs. While it’s difficult to say whether the size is suited

thought. Enter the Osprey Atmos AG 65.

to your needs—different bushwalkers carry different

The Atmos (male version) and Aura (female version)

things—I found the Atmos 65 was more than sufficient

come in 50L and 65L options, although the exact volume

for four days, and there’s enough space for me to get six

varies by up to 3L depending on the harness size you

or seven days (or more) out of it too. I should mention

go for. With the Atmos/Aura line up having been one of

here, though, that I hike with my wife, which means we’re

Osprey’s flagship backpacking models for many years, I

able to share many items; solo hikers won’t have this

was excited to see what the hype was all about. I luckily

luxury. Regardless, the main compartment is roomy and

got my hands on a revamped 2022 version of the Atmos,

has well-considered dimensions, enabling easy packing

which is slated to be in stores in May 2022.

of interior items. A major drawcard is the hood; as it is

Throughout my bushwalking holiday, I put the Atmos

floating, it provides good adjustment opportunities, while

AG 65 to the test for a total of seven days across two

its two zippered compartments dramatically increase

vastly different walks, in what I’d describe as demanding

storage space. The external front storage pocket is also

conditions. Hardly classic Tassie scrub-wriggling condi-

cleverly designed, with two zippered pockets (unique to

tions, but pushing through two solid years of bushfire

the 65L version) and the standard Osprey shove-it pocket,

regrowth isn’t a walk in the park either. Needless to

perfect for stashing jackets or other items in need of

say, the once-immaculate Venturi Blue exterior is now

quick access.

somewhat blackened, though fortunately with no more

Other features worth mentioning are the classic

holes than before. Discolouration aside, the Atmos com-

Osprey hipbelt pockets, perfect for hungry hikers; the

fortably passed the induction. So let’s take a look at what

bottom-access zip, which provides quick and easy access

impressed me the most.

to the bottom compartment of the bag; the storage

The first thing that struck me about it was its

sleeve for a hydration reservoir; and the included rain-

anti-gravity (AG) harness system. Constructed with a

cover, although this doesn’t entirely waterproof the pack.

suspended and tensioned mesh back panel, I found it

There are also good external straps to secure items to the

Product class: Multi-day hiking pack

increased air flow and reduced my normally excessive

outside of the bag. I like the fact that the fabric is PFC-

back sweat—a lifesaver during the summer months. The

free, too. My only real gripe with the design is that—if

Volume: 65L

tensioning carries into the hip belt which, when tight-

you’re wearing the pack—it’s a two-person job to remove

Weight (as tested): 2190g (S/M)

ened, pulls the weight to the lumbar region of the back.

a water bottle from its pocket.

RRP: $479.95

is strikingly good.) What I found particularly impressive

features. But what makes it a real winner, in my opinion,

More info: osprey.com

with the AG system was its fit-on-the-fly design, provid-

is its ability to be finely adjusted to suit different body

ing enhanced comfort; a cam-locking torso adjustment

shapes. The end result is improved comfort.

RYAN HANSEN

NEED TO KNOW

114

On the subject of volume—the main reason I originally

ume rucksack better suited to these intermediate length

WILD

(Ed: I’ve tried this pack on, and the comfort of the hip belt

allows the harness length to be easily customised, while

The Atmos AG 65 is spacious and has cleverly designed

GEAR

TEST

LAUNCH

EXPED

NEW LINE-UP FOR 2022

Ryan’s, and his wife’s, Scarpa Rush TRKs after copping a bit of abuse

SCARPA

RUSH TRK GTX Walking boots

A lighter weight boot that can still handle the tough stuff.

A simplified selection process, plus sustainable materials.

I’VE BEEN A BIG WEARER of hiking boots, and indeed

WHILE EXPED HAS BEEN making innovative sleeping

and many others in between—I’ve been hunting for

mats for decades, “choosing a sleeping mat had become

the elusive balance between comfort and durability

too complicated for everyone: consumers, buyers, sales

without ever really discovering it. It’s felt like I’ve been

reps and salespeople,” says Tracy Collins, Exped USA’s

chasing a fantasy! My boots have either been bombproof

Director of Sales. Not only that, the company had been

but inflexible and hard as rock in the soles—leading to

receiving feedback that the lack of industry standards

severely aching trotters—or they’ve been easier on the

concerning R-Values (the measure of insulative capacity,

feet but less hard-wearing and supportive. Can’t I just

which in turn indicates the relative ‘warmth’ of a sleeping

have a bit of both, please?

mat) was causing confusion for customers.

So when Exped decided to reinvent its backpacking

Scarpa boots, for many years. From big, boofy, super rigid, full-leather boots to more flexible synthetic boots—

Well, after 13 solid days of testing, I can say the new Scarpa Rush Trek GTXs are the closest I’ve yet come to

mat line for 2022, one of the prime goals was to simplify

finding boots that can handle what I throw at them with-

the mat selection process for consumers. The com-

out destroying my fairly broad, low/mildly arched feet in

pany narrowed the procedure down to just two criteria:

the process. Comfort-wise, the combination of a mod-

First, decide on your primary use; secondly, choose the

erately lugged, shock-absorbing, Presa outsole—which

warmth you require. In terms of use priority, there are

features grippy Supergum rubber—with a compres-

now three lines: Ultra (when weight and packed size are

sion-moulded EVA midsole provides improved cushioning;

critical); Dura (when toughness and abrasion resistance

meanwhile the frame, with what Scarpa calls Dynamic

are paramount); and Versa (when you’re after something

Stabiliser Torsion, gives some extra rigidity without it being

budget-friendly). Once you’ve decided on the line, you

excessive. Add in the ankle collar, and the result is a boot

then select the warmth level by choosing an R-value. The

that’s snug and which looks after your ankles but still has

higher the R-value, the warmer the mat. There are also

enough flex to adapt to rocky and uneven terrain.

options for choosing contoured or rectangular shapes.

Considering this tech, they’re surprisingly light (1194g),

But it’s not only the selection process that’s changed

which is partly due to the suede outer. The partial rand,

for 2022; the fabrics have been entirely updated. Impor-

which is concentrated around the toes, gives good pro-

tantly, every mat is now made from 100% post-consumer

tection to high-wear locations; cleverly, it finishes before

recycled plastic. It keeps plastic out of landfills and uses

the crease point, meaning the edges don’t buckle and

less water, energy and carbon to produce. What’s more,

separate (an issue I’ve had with other boots). There’s a

the entire line is certified climate neutral. This includes

Gore-Tex lining, too, for waterproofness. Speaking of

not just the materials, but also all manufacturing and

water, bear in mind that suede needs to be dried in the

shipping processes.

shade to minimise the chances of hardening and crack-

Exped’s new Ultra, Dura and Versa mats are available in selected stores now, and Australia-wide by May. To find stockists, contact Expedition Equipment (02-94175722) or

The closest I’ve come to finding boots that can handle what I throw at them."

NEED TO KNOW Product class: Waterproof hiking boots Intended use: All-day or multi-day hiking

ing (conditioning creams are recommended, although

Weight (pair, as tested): 1194g (EU 41)

I’ve had mixed success with these).

RRP: $419.95

Comfortable. Supportive. Surprisingly light. And noth-

learn more at exped.com.au

ing’s fallen apart yet, either. It’s a thumbs up from me.

JAMES MCCORMACK

RYAN HANSEN

More info: scarpa.it

AUTUMN 2022

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GEAR

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SUPPORTERS We get it; we know ads aren’t the primary reason you read Wild. But without our supporters, Wild simply wouldn’t exist*. If you love what we’re on about here at Wild, if you’re passionate about both adventure and protecting our natural heritage, if having a magazine that’s full of well-written, crafted stories means something to you, a magazine that fights hard for our environment, then support our supporters; without them, Wild wouldn’t exist.

We know that our advertising supporters aren’t, of course, your only options when it comes to choosing what gear you purchase. But if you’re in a situation where you have a few cool options to choose from, and one of them happens to be from one of our advertisers, then show them their support means something by choosing their product. No-one’s asking for handouts, here; we genuinely believe that everyone who advertises

MAMMUT:

SAPUEN HIGH GTX Tradition meets innovation. Featuring

in the mag offers something great. But if everything else is equal, please

Mammut’s Flextron Technology, paired

support those who support us. Here’s a selection of new and interesting

with a durable and trusted leather outer

gear that our advertisers think Wild readers should know about.

and Goretex inner membrane, the Sapuen High GTX brings you the comfort and feel of a traditional hiking boot, but with cutting

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edge technology and innovation.

MAMMUT1862.COM.AU

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The stretch 3-layer Welcome Jacket is the ultimate freeride jacket. It includes our brand-new bio-sourced hard shell made from repurposed sugarcane waste. It features a 20K/20K membrane for maximum waterproof-breathability, and a Teflon EcoElite™ PFC-free durable water repellent treatment. It also features pit zips and fully-taped seams. And the drawstringed hood, adjustable cuffs, and powder skirt all mould to body to keep snow out.

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One of the best ways you can help reward them is simply to subscribe to Wild. The more subscribers we have, the more we can pay our contributors. wild.com.au/subscribe

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Osprey’s updated for 2022 Exos & Eja makes for an excellent ultralight companion. Now made of 100% recycled fabrics, the dual zippered hipbelt pockets are back to keep the essentials handy and featuring a refined AirSpeed® suspension that keeps you cool with maximum airflow between you and your pack, so each km stays as comfortable as the last.

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GEAR

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OFF THE BEATEN TRACK WA

TOURING FROM MAY 2022 MAJOR PARTNER

TOUR PARTNERS

BRAND HERITAGE

MAMMUT

160 years is a long time to be in business. And for Swiss company Mammut, while some things have changed, others remain the same.

F

or a company so associated with the mountains, one that’s based in a country so associated with the mountains— Switzerland—it’s perhaps surprising that Mammut’s birth 160 years ago had absolutely nothing to do with the mountains. In 1862, ropemaker Kaspar Tanner—after completing a three-year apprenticeship and spending time in Germany honing his craft— launched his own ropemaking business, Seilerei Tanner, in Dintikon, a small Swiss village near Lake Hallwil in the north of the country; the famed Alps are in the south.

But ropes were nonetheless needed in and around Dintikon.

Farmers required quality ropes; Tanner, being a fine craftsman, met their needs. But one of the problems with ropes for agricultural purposes was that demand was seasonal. Fortunately, there was another market soon to develop.

Just a few years after Kaspar founded his business, mountaineering’s Golden Age ended suddenly and tragically on July 14, 1865. The Matterhorn was the last of the Alps’ great peaks to remain unclimbed, but on that July day, famed mountaineer Edward Whymper finally led a team of seven to the summit. On the descent, however, the rope—made out of manila hemp and to which all climbers were attached—broke. Four of the team died.

Reports indicated the rope was “no thicker than a washing line”.

It highlighted the need for quality ropes in the rapidly burgeoning pastime of alpinism. History doesn't record whether Kaspar immediately grasped the opportunity to provide quality ropes to mountaineers, but there is no doubt the company he founded eventually did; selling ropes to alpinists provided an additional source of income to help cope with the fluctuating demands of the agricultural sector.

Mammut logos: 1943 and today

Over time, the Tanner family business grew. Kaspar moved the business to nearby Lenzburg in 1878, getting permission to braid and coil his ropes in a public laneway next to his flat. In 1897, his then 22-year-old son, Oscar, took control of the ropemaking; two years later, he put a roof over the ropewalk to make it independent of weather. Oscar was an innovator, and in 1911 registered his rope-braiding machinery as Swiss patent number 59645. By 1919, the passion and commitment towards quality ropemaking meant the family company was successful enough to take public.

It was renamed Seilerwarenfabrik AG Lenzburg.

For climbers, though, little was changing. Ropes were still made from natural materials like hemp, manila and sisal, and they

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were far less than ideal for climbers. They abraded easily. They could untwine. They could rot and were subject to mildew. A few decades on, however, another development took place that would change ropemaking forever. In fact, two developments, both— pardon the pun—intertwined. The first was nylon's invention by the Dupont company in 1935. The second was World War Two. Nylon’s inherent properties meant that not only could strong ropes be made, they could be made with stretch. Finally, ropes that could sustain lead climbers’ falls were possible. Meanwhile, military demand meant the use of nylon ropes boomed.

In 1943, Seilerwarenfabrik AG Lenzburg released a brand of ropes they called Mammut. The word is the German for mammoth; the Ice Age creature symbolises power and strength. The iconic Mammut logo, featuring the beast, soon followed; it’s still apt today as a symbol of outdoor gear strong enough to handle the demands of climbing, skiing and alpine pursuits in general.

Now the innovations began coming thick and fast. In 1952, the Mammut Argenta, the first glacier rope made of nylon, was released. In 1958, the Mammut Everest, while not the first rope to feature a modern kernmantle construction, was certainly an early adopter of the technology. And in 1964, the Mammut Dynamic was released; this dynamic rope capable of withstanding multiple falls was the first ever single rope to receive UIAA (the International Climbing and Mountaineering Federation) certification.

But now that Mammut had established credentials within the alpine community, it began spreading its wings to other outdoor goods, with innovation a constant theme. In 1978, Mammut released its Altitude jacket and pants, some of the very first to be made of a then-new wonder material called Gore-tex. In 1984, they introduced softshell technology to outerwear, and also released sleeping bags, fleeces and thermal underwear.

Soon the company began acquiring leading companies in other outdoor fields, like Raichle, who specialised in alpine footwear, and Anjungilak, a Norwegian sleeping bag manufacturer. And one purchase that was particularly significant was that of Autophon, the company that—back in the 60s and 70s—developed the Barryvox, the first mass-produced avalanche transceiver.

Nowadays, 160 years on from Kaspar Tanner establishing his business, Mammut has stayed true to its Swiss roots, maintaining a mountain sports focus that permeates its entire product line-up, from packs to footwear, sleeping bags, all manner of snow safety equipment including avalanche airbags, climbing hardware and, yes, ropes. Actually, not entirely true to its roots; ropes for farmers are no longer part of Mammut's line-up.

JAMES MCCORMACK

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24 HOURS HOT 24 HOURS COLD

WILD SHOT

Federation Peak was just my second overnight hike. I was expecting walking—you know, with feet! There were some tricky spots like this one, and plenty of mossy logs to clamber over, but it was worth it for the spectacular views near the top. I’m definitely joining when I get an invitation for the next trip like this one.”

CAROL TANG Rosebery, NSW

Carol wins an Osprey 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. osprey.com

SEND US YOUR WILD SHOT TO WIN GREAT GEAR! For a chance to win some quality outdoor kit, send your WILD SHOT and a 50-100 word caption to contributor@wild.com.au

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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.

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Featuring all-new, patented FormKnit™ technology, the AirZone Trek’s iconic carry system offers world-class comfort and ventilation. Whether you’re feeling the heat on dusty tracks or picking up the pace hut-tohut, the AirZone Trek helps you keep your cool.

02 9417 5755 | www.lowealpine.com.au