Wild #184

#184

WINTER 2022

AIR APPARENT: STEVE LEEDER TAKES FLIGHT

THE LOST ART OF TAKING IT EASY • PROFILE: HANNY ALLSTON • NZ'S TOAROHA-WHITCOMBE LOOP DAINTREE REVIVAL • DE-WILDING THE WILDS • PAUL PRITCHARD • AFTER THE CLIMB • QLD'S SCENIC RIM

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CONTENTS ISSUE #184 WINTER 2022

74 Bounty Hunting Chasing Snow in Tasmania’s Mountains

40 Daintree Revival REGULARS

CONSERVATION

NONE OF THE ABOVE FEATURES

WILD BUNCH TRACK NOTES GEAR

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Readers’ Letters 12 Editor’s Letter 14 Gallery 18 Columns 26 Getting Started: Things You Need 48 WILD Shot 162 Green Pages 36 Daintree Revival 40 Huon Pines in the Tarkine 108 Opinion: De-wilding the Wilds 44 Getting Home Safely in the Backcountry 50 Q & A: NZ POW & The Final Symphony 52 Profile: Hanny Allston 58 Paul Pritchard on ‘The Mountain’ 66 Snow Hunting in Tasmania 74 Photo Essay: Steve Leeder 84 Ice Climbing at Blue Lake 90 Photo Essay: After the Climb 118 Taking It Easy in the Gibraltar Range 126 Walking in Beauty: Jatbula 136 Southeast Queensland’s Scenic Rim 142 NZ’s Toaroha-Whitcombe Loop 144 Backcountry Ski Gear 152 Talk and Tests 156 Support Our Supporters 158

58 Hanny Allston 66 The Mountain What lessons can the mountains and the natural world teach you? In this powerful essay, adapted from his book The Mountain Path, Paul Pritchard asks—and answers—some big questions.

108 Tape Level The Wilson River that flows through takayna/Tarkine in Tasmania is home to an ancient but little-known grove of Huon pines of rare quality.

Sadly, it’s not protected, and mining and climate change threaten it.

126 The Lost Art of Taking it Easy Busyness seems to infect all aspects of modern life, and that even includes the outdoors. Do we try to do too much, both at home and out there? Ryan Hansen heads to northern NSW’s spectacular Gibraltar Range looking for answers.

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LETTERS

[ Letter of the Issue ]

LOOKING OUT FOR EACH OTHER Hi James, Over New Years, I took my partner and twin 10yo daughters on an overnight hike to Ropers Hut. Never one to miss a teaching moment, there was ample opportunity to educate them on the dark arts of a properly adjusted pack harness and the etiquette of not yelling at the top of your voice in a campsite full of people. After pointing out the travesty of Victoria’s third-highest peak being unnamed, I got the intended synchronised eye roll in response to my suggestion of Mt No-Name.

Returning, I commented on the Falls to Hotham Alpine Crossing sign at the Heathy Spur Junction.

We then discussed the pros and cons of Parks Victoria’s ‘Iconic Walks’ strategy (hat tip to Wild #181): The benefits of getting more people into the outdoors and focussing walking infrastructure to funnel people to limit environmental impacts versus the problems of private infrastructure on public land and the cost barrier to what should be an egalitarian pursuit.

As we stopped for our last packs-off break, we noticed two hikers approaching from behind us. As we had numerous times that day, we engaged in the ‘Where are you headed?’ conversation, to which they replied, “The Falls to Hotham Crossing.” They proceeded to ask us if we knew where they should head, as they didn’t have a map and had only received vague directions before setting out. After telling them to follow the ‘yellow triangle road’, I proffered my A4 printed map sheets and pointed out the route as far as the map edge at Pole 333. They took our no-longer-needed map, thanked us, and proceeded on their way.

After pointing out to my daughters the oft-repeated safety message that you should never head outdoors without a map—and know how to use it—we hefted our packs for the final downhill leg to the car.

As we walked, there was the chance for one last outdoors reflection. “That was really nice of you to give them your map, Dad.” Hopefully as well as remembering the great views and the joys of Type Two fun my daughters will remember the most important lesson of the trip; in the outdoors we look out for each other.

Liam Bantock Moe, VIC

LODGES: EMBRACE THE SPECTRUM Dear James, I have been reading the articles in Wild about the commercialisation occurring in our national parks and its impact on wilderness, and I am very

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concerned about this trend. These issues require a well-coordinated group approach to take up with the various government departments to achieve a satisfactory outcome for the whole community and avoid losing out to private business interests.

As a bushwalker I prefer to see national parks and wilderness areas be left underdeveloped. However, not everyone is a bushwalker or interested in ‘roughing it’, nor do they want an adventure to appreciate these wild and beautiful areas. Several years ago, my wife arranged to walk the Milford Track with several of her friends who were not bushwalkers, nor capable of carrying rucksacks or staying in the Department of Conservation (DOC) huts. Instead, we went on the commercial hike and stayed at the luxury lodges, and still thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

These lodges are located and operated by a private company within the Fiordland National Park wilderness area, and you hardly notice their existence hidden away in the dense forest, creating what I thought (although I could be wrong) to be minimal environmental impact.

To retain and protect the wilderness regions or national parks in Australia, we need to be proactive about the issue but also embrace the spectrum of people’s ideas about wilderness and how commercial businesses (if allowed) could coexist, particularly if these businesses can incorporate Indigenous people and their connection to Country.

QUICK THOUGHT “Thanks for your work to produce an interesting magazine.

To me, the most important thing [you’ve covered recently] was going through the analysis of intrusions into the national parks by corporate developers. Grateful if you could continue, as the deals are done with slight of hand and formalised before we know it.

Wonderful work!” IS

Ian Kelso Kurwongbah, QLD

ED’S NOTE: A LETTER WE CAN’T RUN HERE, BUT WAS TOO IMPORTANT TO IGNORE We received a Letter to the Editor from David Thomas on the threat that lodge development imminently poses in QLD’s Great Sandy NP. It was too long to run here, and was too important to cut down. So we’re putting it up online. Here’s a snippet: It sometimes feels like with every issue of Wild there is yet another area of wilderness under threat. First comes the fight to protect an untouched wilderness.

Then comes the second fight, to preserve the supposedly protected area. The area of concern this time is in SE Queensland ... The Great Sandy National Park consisting of K’Gari (Fraser Island) and Cooloola combine to form the largest and most complete age sequence of vegetated dune systems in the world ... and provide a refuge for many relict populations of flora and fauna including the vulnerable ground parrot. It also contains rare perched lakes which sit above the water table. Despite this, the national park is now being proposed for commercial development.

Head to wild.com.au/opinion/cooloola-ecocabins-threat to read David’s important letter in full.

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.

Liam’s Letter of the Issue will get something special: A Smartwool sock drawer. It’ll include 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.

THE

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SHOT BUMS FOR THE BUSH Dear James, As a long-term Wild reader, I remember, years ago, a very tasteful picture of a bare female bum eliciting consternation and dismay from a section of the more conservative readership. I found this funny, as mixed skinny dipping was almost compulsory at the time. Now I find references to smoking joints and pictures of naked climbers. Times have changed! I therefore offer this pic of myself at Corang Cascades, Morton NP. Perhaps Wild should start a new section ‘Bums In The Bush’, culminating in a calendar Bums For The Bush, with profits going to an environmental charity?

Yours partly in jest, Keith Binns Goulburn, NSW

KEEP YOUR SECRETS Hi James, Your editorial ‘Secrets’ in Wild #183 really struck a chord with me. I have stopped subscriptions to other outdoor magazines, and unfollowed individuals on social media who make a living from outdoor journalism. Why? Because they create a culture that encourages the modern phenomenon of the ‘fear of missing out’ by curating experiences for likes, follows, shares and readership. There is a difference between intentionally seeking out a guidebook or Wild to learn about a location previously unknown to oneself, and aimlessly scrolling through Instagram or Facebook and seeing curated photos of a wild place–usually with a carefully posed individual–to get that same shot to share on social media.

At the risk of raising people’s ire by generalising: Those who do the former tend to have a keen interest in their chosen outdoor activity and a desire to tread lightly and protect wild places, while the latter often appear to use wild places as a backdrop to themselves without considering their environmental impact. For better or worse, guidebooks, coffee-table photo books and–dare I say it– Wild have a more restricted audience than social media platforms. I’m hanging on to my Wild subscription for now—I’m heartened to read that you consider the potential impact of the publication of stories and photos on the natural environment, and of all the outdoor mags, I think you’ve got the best balance. And please keep holding back some secrets—wild places and your readership, both present and future, will be grateful for it.

Angela Agius Altona, VIC

SEND US YOUR LETTERS TO WIN! Each Letter of the Issue wins a piece of quality outdoor kit. They’ll also, like Liam 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

By Aaron Dickfos Heading out with Steve Leeder, you’re guaranteed to be looking up, then looking up a little more. I’ll point out features which would frame up well in an image, then he’ll mention that cliff above it with next-to-no take off and seemingly no landing. “Sure man, if you want to fly off that, I’ll get the shot!”

We had some overcast weather on this particular day, and decided to stick to the lower valley. Steve picked out this monster boulder he thought had a nice in-run. The first attempt proved it was going to play hard to get, with some hidden off-kilter rocks just at the point he had to duck under a low-hanging tree branch.

After a few close calls, he managed to dial it in and send it, and I got the epic shot we were after.

Then he yelled, “One more!” I took the chance to boost over to another spot to the right, and as I blindly heard him scrape through the tree branches above, he shot out into the sky, crossed up perfectly, and my trusty, snow-caked Olympus came through with the goods again.

See more pics of Steve Leeder hitting backcountry airs in the photo essay “Air Apparent”, starting on P84.

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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 Elders past, present and emerging.

WINTER 2022

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FROM THE EDITOR

THE OLD MAN WILL FALL

H

e stands head and shoulders over everything else in the valley. And it’s a beautiful valley, too—fern-studded and rainforest-smeared, thick with greenery and looping vines. There’s no official track here, but the canopy is dense enough that its darkness ensures that much of the understorey is open and clear; you can pass through with minimal effort. Not that many do pass through, however. I’ve come here probably—without exaggeration—close to a hundred times, and I’m yet to encounter anyone. Anyone, that is, except Ol’ Man Turps.

This ancient turpentine is huge, so much bigger than any other tree here.

He is a testimony to what once was, and is the last of the big trees, the really big ones, left in this valley; he has no similarly aged brethren. The rest were chopped down roughly a century ago. It wasn’t easy to do. American publication Wood Magazine writes, “In Australia’s Blue Mountains and the coastal districts of New South Wales, there grows a tree so difficult to cut that lumbermen practically limit its processing to sawing it down. With a hardness said to be 100 times greater than red oak, the tree’s wood unmercifully dulls saw blades and other cutting edges that encounter it.”

Nonetheless, of all the huge specimens of the tree that once soared in this valley, it was Ol’ Man Turps alone that escaped the woodcutters, and he still stands next to a silent creek riddled with moss-caked boulders. Every time I come through, sometimes walking, but nine times out of ten trail running, I stop for a minute or two— no matter how hard the workout—and simply gaze up at his massive, armoured

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trunk. It runs straight and hard and clear, devoid of all branches until it clears the canopy. Then, and only then, do the branches spread, over and above the other rainforest trees which are large enough in themselves. In fact, were Ol’ Man Turps not here, it would unlikely occur to anyone that this valley could be any more beautiful, that this blanket of airy greenery with its crystal creek slicing through it could possibly be improved upon.

But here’s the thing: Ol’ Man Turps is going to fall. In fact, he’s already leaning considerably. And with all the recent rain, and the gouging of the creek’s banks, two of the larger trees nearby crashed down. The same is going to happen to Ol’ Man Turps soon, too. And when that day comes, when he crashes down, will this valley still be beautiful?

Absolutely. Will this, however, be an irrevocable loss? Again, absolutely.

And I can’t help but carry this concept further. In this issue, we have a Q+A with Marian Krogh, of Protect Our Winters (POW) NZ, about the film The Final Symphony. And while the film is beautiful, I found it depressing, too. There are ski lines that soon will likely never be skied again, and there is much talk about the sadness that future generations will not be able to experience the mountains in this way. Again, will the experience of being in the mountains, even if they can’t be skied, still be amazing? Absolutely.

But will something have been lost if they can no longer be skied? Again, absolutely.

And, if you’ll indulge me, I want to make one more extrapolation; this time to lodges and wilderness, which—as readers of recent issues of Wild well know—is something I’m passionate about. The

developers of these lodges don’t want marginal lands that other park users pay little attention to; they want the prime locations. And will these locations and the areas surrounding them, these headlands over beaches, these bluffs with commanding views, these tranquil hollows of lush vegetation, still be beautiful?

Absolutely. But will something have been lost forever once these places are no longer wild? Will something have been lost forever once the wilderness is no more?

Will something have been lost forever once structures impinge upon the landscape? Absolutely.

We look at big things, like the destruction of takayna/Tarkine, like the wholesale destruction of native hardwood and old-growth forest, and it’s easy to see the damage that will be wrought. But these other things—the deaths by thousands of cuts, the creeping changes to our climate, the gradual incursion of lodges into public lands—happen incrementally, until eventually, like that frog in slowly heating water, we suddenly realise we’re down to the last of what we once treasured. And then it just takes a single event to wipe out the last of it. Like, say, a fire. Or a wildlife-disease event. Or like when Ol’ Man Turps falls.

And when he does, for a while, there’ll be a gap in the canopy. But in decades afterwards, it will be largely forgotten that there were ever trees of this stature in this valley. Just as it will be largely forgotten that a particular couloir was ever skiable.

Forgotten that wilderness once existed where now stands strings of lodges. And once gone, none of these things, at least not in our lifetimes, will return.

JAMES MCCORMACK

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Perfect New Zealand turns for Steve Moffat on Mt Lydia during an epic traverse of the Snowdrift Range, Mt Aspiring NP. Definitely a remote part of the country, jammed at the head of the Dart and Arawhata Rivers, with Mt Aspiring in the background. Good snow, blue sky, awesome ski mission—another great average day in the Southern Alps!

by THOMAS VIALLETET

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I felt a bit spoilt on my first overnight kayaking adventure with a beautiful sunset paddle down the Pumicestone Passage. With little-to-no wind and a favourable tide, we inched towards a gathering of iconic Glasshouse silhouettes. We had no plan on where to stop for the night, just to keep paddling until a suitable patch of beach beckoned us or the light disappeared over the horizon, whichever came first.

by NATHAN MCNEIL

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Keen to see how Barrington Tops’ waterfalls were faring after consistent rain, Martine and I sought out Williams Falls. After a committing walk, we were rewarded with a stunning light display as the late-afternoon sun shone through the spray. Needless to say, Martine got drenched.

by RYAN HANSEN

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WINTER 2022

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Winter is my favourite time in the Tasmanian mountains, and when the snow-bearing gales abate, which is rare, an exposed ridge crest is my campsite of choice. This site was reached via an alpine traverse below Frenchmans Cap’s huge south face, and it proved an ideal place to experience the gloaming.

by GRANT DIXON

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WINTER 2022

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Columns: GREEN LIVING Bob.Brown.Foundation bobbrownfndn

[BOB BROWN]

www.bobbrown.org.au

​AWESOME ITIRKAWARA On a trip to Central Australia, Bob visits a spiritually powerful and geologically remarkable landmark.

O

n our April trip to Itirkawara, who never went there. The NT Parks and and Wildlife Service for visitors to refrain one of the most awesome geoWildlife Service sign explains that “The from adding more graffiti has been largely Pillar is a significant heritage site assological features in Australia, the heeded. However, in a salute to the fact ciated with John McDouall Stuart, one rock-strewn washaways from last sumthat we can’t help ourselves from addof our greatest explorers. He made three mer’s floods reshaped the car’s undering infrastructure to everything natural, carriage. There was no one else along the attempts to cross the continent from Adethere are concrete steps and iron railings rough final road from the village of Titjiklaide to the north coast, finally succeeding on the northern side which impinge on ala, although Itirkawara is less than 200km in 1862. He first came here in 1860 and every view of this natural wonder. south of Alice Springs. named the pillar in honour of his friend A gibbous moon was declining in In Arrernte Aboriginal the cloudless sky behind tradition, Itirkawara is a Itirkawara as we viewed it.

Knob-tailed Gecko spirit It was giddying to think that ancestor, a fierce warrior this monument’s formawho travelled widely and tion took 20 million years killed many others. He of erosion from an iron-red was evil and lived with plateau which, 340 million women who, under tribal years ago, formed near the law, were forbidden to inland Australian sea. There him. Banished because of has been a human presence this behaviour, he brought for less than one-thoua girl relative to these sandth of that process. sandhills and sat down On nearby Yayurara, itself to rest. He was turned to an astounding geological feastone, and his companion, ture, a huge red boulder sits crouching with her face poised, ready to drop from turned away in shame, the top. Another teardrop became nearby Yayurara ready to fall.

(Castle Rock). Itirkawara Scientists say that the is a permanent reminder harder red top of Itirkawara Itirkawara soars some 50m above the surrounding plain. of the need to observe kincame from iron being seeped Look closely, and you’ll see the gibbous moon. Look closer ship laws. up towards the top of the still, and you’ll see Paul at the base of the tower If you understand what ancient plateau in water and financial supporter James Chamyou’re looking at, this is a terrifying place. drawn to the surface in dry seasons. That bers.” No Aboriginal is named.

Great blocks have fallen away from the left the lower whiter layers softer and more A parade of Europeans have carved tower which, as a result, is surrounded by liable to erode. their names in the sandstone of a pile of pulverised stone. Who knows how Avoiding an unexpected tumble is a Itirkawara, including telegraph builders, soon the next block, if not the lot, will split good reason to stay your distance from land-grabbers and killers of the Arrernte’s and tumble down as well?

Itirkawara. Anyway, this formidable towforebears. Paul hazarded a close-up photo Itirkawara—which soars 50m above the er—I found it astonishing—is best appreof their attempts to escape mortality. plain—is better known to non-Aboriginals ciated by standing well back on the desert Mercifully, the appeal from the Parks as Chambers Pillar, after an Adelaidean below.

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Scan here to find out more about environmental groups that are fighting to defend our forests, air and waters.

Vancouver Island in British Columbia is known for its old-growth forests, with some trees towering over 200 feet tall. But all that height requires an intricate system of roots. Martin Byers tries not to get caught in the web.

Ryan Creary © 2022 Patagonia, Inc.

Columns: WILD THINGS @meganholbeck

[MEGAN HOLBECK]

www.meganholbeck.com

TAKAYNA/TARKINE Running to save a forest.

A

clear-fell site feels like a battleground: the ground churned up, littered with dead limbs.

Without the canopy, there isn’t shelter to protect you from sun or rain. There’s nothing soft, nothing living, just harshness and destruction.

I was at the Pieman Blockade in takayna/Tarkine, northwest Tasmania, my first time at both a blockade and a clear-fell. It felt foreign, like visiting the moon. Clambering around the site, part of me marvelled at the neat stacks of logs, at the industrial scale of it all—five hectares cleared in four days. And another part looked at the rainforest beyond the edges, at trees 70m high stretching down to the Pieman River, imagining this bald clearing as part of the intact forest. takayna/Tarkine is Australia’s largest sub-temperate rainforest, assessed as worthy of World Heritage protection for both its wilderness and cultural values.

But the vast majority of the 495,000ha area has no real protection, and faces threats from logging, mining and more: The Pieman Blockade was established to stop logging, but now exists to prevent the construction of a toxic tailings dam.

I’d come to Tassie for takayna Trail 2022: Two magical, sunny days of friendship, running and good vibes surrounded the event, with communal dinners in the Waratah ‘Earth Shed’, the fields outside dotted with tents and campers. The previous day I’d run the 22km course, or parts of it anyway. Other bits involved special sorts of rainforest manoeuvres: clambering around mossy logs, sliding down hills of dirt, almost knocking myself out on overhanging branches. At the finish line there was food and a DJ, sunny grass for lounging and hugs from Bob Brown.

The event was a fundraiser for the Bob Brown Foundation (BBF), raising money to

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protect forests like those we’d run through and to stop clear-fells like this one. As Race Director Majell Backhausen said, “All trail runners are 95% on the same vibe. At this one we combine running and activism, so that’s bumped up to 99%—we’re all one family.” He was onto something, too: Many others had come to visit the blockade, to see what we were trying to protect.

Jenna Harris rounded us up for a walk through the rainforest, and we stepped from harshness to beauty. We breathed in the scents of the 300-year-old myrtles and sweet-smelling sassafras as she pointed out holes made by burrowing crayfish.

Endangered masked owls and spotted-tail

THE IDEA IS THAT PEOPLE CONNECT

TO A PLACE AND WANT TO SAVE IT.”

quolls live in the surrounding bush; days earlier, a Tasmanian devil had stopped by.

We stepped from the soft, green-filtered light back into the harsh sun, past blockaders’ tents surrounded by rutted mud and dead trees. The original campsites had been nestled in the rainforest but logging made the trees unstable. Now blockaders opened their tents each morning to views of devastation: less pleasant, but perhaps more motivating.

This year was the fourth takayna Trail, and the first time there’s been a waiting list for the 150 spots. Runners raised more than $270,000 in 2022, with $800,000 raised over the event’s history.

But it’s not just about the cash. People come from all over Australia, and while they fundraise they spread the word.

This is a new type of event, engaging

people in sports activism: The idea is that people connect to a place and want to save it, building a movement along the way. The mob behind takayna Trail founded For Wild Places last year with the purpose of “protecting and celebrating the wild places we run in”, holding the inaugural Pilliga Ultra in northwest NSW in March 2022 to protect the area from coal-seam gas mining. takayna Trail is only one of the many efforts to show off the area to the greater community. The Tarkine Trails bushwalking guidebook was first published in 2015, morphing into an app. In the same year, the citizen-science BioBlitz began, running annually since, giving people the opportunity to spend a weekend in the forests, surveying with scientists. An annual invitation for artists to spend four days in the woods leads to the Art for takayna, now in its eighth year. A yearly exhibition is mounted in Hobart, before travelling around the country, celebrating the area’s rare natural beauty through stunning artworks and photography, dance and musical performances, and more.

All these activities help make people care about takayna, and more prepared to fight for its fate. Scott Jordan, BBF takayna/Tarkine campaigner says, “We take people into these forests interested and bring them out as evangelists.” takayna/Tarkine is not a resource to be depleted, it is a treasure to be shared and protected. You don’t have to run through a rainforest or visit a clear-fell to see that.

(After this piece was written, police arrived at the Pieman Blockade and began arresting people. But the protestors have stood firm, and the blockade continues; it now stands at well over 100 days. For up-to-date info, visit bobbrown.org.au)

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

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: OUTSIDE WITH TIM [TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE]

SHUT DOWN Hitting the wall, bonking, blowing up ... whatever you call it, fatigue can cause your body to say enough’s enough. But as Tim has discovered, that can come with an upside.

“Y

ou’re bonking man!” said Bob stomping up behind me. Well, I could have been bonkers for agreeing to guide him and his fanatically fit skiing mate from Utah. They’d specified they wanted to do “eight-thousand-foot (2500m) backcountry days” in the deep powder of Japan’s central Hokkaido, but bonking, as I understood it, was the last thing on my mind right then. We’d just climbed out of the steep skin track I’d broken earlier in the day; this was our third time up the daunting slope.

Premium conditions had kept us going hard all day as the skiing had been sensational. But then, suddenly, my legs just gave up on me. There was no pain, no signal except no signal. Like the fast winddown of a power tool that shuts down when the battery goes flat, my legs just ground to a halt. Apologising to the other two, I slumped into the side of the hill. Before I could scramble in my pack for any source of sustenance, Bob took something out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Homegrown elk jerky. Made it myself from a buck I shot with an arrow in my own backyard!” It wasn’t exactly what the doctor would order, but with such provenance, how could I refuse? Any fuel is better than no fuel, and the salty treat was welcome until I found something sugarier.

Hitting the wall, or bonking as it’s commonly called by Americans, happens if your energy output exceeds your energy input. More specifically, when your body’s energy supply—glycogen—runs below a certain level, your regulatory system goes into safety mode, reserving supply for the essential services of the heart and brain.

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These days you can read all about hitting the wall from numerous sources with a few taps of the finger.

I’m embarrassed to say that this wasn’t my first time experiencing bonking; in fact, I’ve been a serial offender for a large part of my life. Slow learner, you would rightly say. But in my defence, it has usually been the product of over-enthusiasm to get the task at hand—usually climbing a hill—over and done with before the weather closes in/the sun goes down/the snow turns sloppy/the snow forms a crust.

LIKE THE FAST WIND-DOWN OF A POWER TOOL

THAT SHUTS DOWN WHEN THE BATTERY GOES FLAT,

MY LEGS JUST GROUND TO A HALT. ”

The first time I experienced this metabolic stop signal was on a blisteringly hot morning under a bright, sub-tropical sun in central Nepal. The steep, corniced ridge rose in crests to a distant sub-peak that we were keen to see the other side of before the inevitable cloud welled up from the steaming jungle below. The fresh snow from the previous night’s storm was blindingly bright, reflecting the high-altitude sunlight so that it baked us from below as well as above. Plugging steps in crusty snow is hard work at nearly six-and-a-half-thousand metres, but our stunning situation was more than adequate compensation for it.

In my mind, there are no more spectacular mountains to be on than those of the ‘front’ peaks of the Nepal Himalaya, the ones that rise abruptly from the foothills, and nowhere is this more dramatic and abrupt than in central Nepal. Below us, from where over the past few weeks we’d wound our devious and cunning path, the mountain dropped 4000m to steamy jungle. Floating above the canopy, cotton wool balls of cloud were already forming.

Beyond that deep green blanket, the lower and densely inhabited foothills stretched away to the Gangetic Plain on the southern horizon. To the east and west, a series of dazzling peaks marched away. And to the north and above us loomed the black summit pyramid of Annapurna II, our ultimate goal.

The setting was so beautiful and spectacular that it was energising, and as I got firmly into a step-plugging groove, I felt unstoppable.

Suddenly, however, over the course of just ten or twelve steps, my legs began to quiver. Lifting them was like trying to run in a dream. And then they simply stopped working. All I could do was chop out a seat, slump down into it, drink some water and (since energy gels didn’t exist back then, at least in my world) try to eat a packet of locally made ‘glucose’ biscuits; they’re ubiquitous across the sub-continent, and on my early expeditions were my affordable ‘go-to’ energy snack.

While the others now took over breaking trail, I was left to enjoy the upside of this particular bonking episode—time to take in one of the best views in the world until I eventually had functioning legs once again.

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Columns: OF MOUTHS & MONIES [DAN SLATER]

GEAR SNOB It can be easy to think high-end gear is always the best option for heading outdoors.

But you shouldn’t forget that entry-level gear can have its place, too.

A

hem … Hello everybody. My name is Dan … and … I’m a gear snob. There, I said it. This is as much a surprise to me as it isn’t a surprise to my friends, for it’s happened insidiously over a period of time. Having worked in the outdoor industry for nigh on 15 years, I’m too professional to throw shade on a competitor’s products while helping a customer, but I recently scoffed at a friend’s purchase of a not-unreasonable, entrylevel tent. Sure, Aldi camping gear probably deserves all the scorn poured upon it, but this didn’t, and it occurred to me there and then what I’d become.

When I first started hiking, like most people, I borrowed gear. I was a jobless teenager, and pocket money in the 1980s didn’t quite cover the cost of a Force 10 A-frame tent (with cotton flysheet), the shelter of choice among my peers.

Sometimes (ie usually) I ended up with wholly inappropriate gear, of the wrong size and design for my body and the mission at hand. Once, I borrowed a pair of army disposal store combat boots for a 100-mile walk through the highlands of Scotland. My mate was a couple of sizes larger than me, and I only discovered this when I picked up the boots literally the day beforehand!

Nowadays, such a suggestion from a customer would leave me spluttering for breath. “That’s totally inappropriate!” I might say. “Boots are your most important piece of outdoor gear, and must be custom-fitted and worn in and blah blah blah …” and I’d say this out of genuine concern for the person’s feet. And it’s

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true. Taking new or unfamiliar boots on a multi-day bushwalk is a terrible idea.

My point is, I wasn’t always a gear snob.

It might be understandable had I grown up in a wealthy family and been bought all the latest gear by my parents for my first school camp. But I wasn’t. And they didn’t.

But working within the higher end of outdoor equipment—the top brands available in Australia—I’ve come to respect them, while at the same time looking down my nose at other, less expensive brands.

THERE’S ROOM FOR EVERY STANDARD OF EQUIPMENT, AND EACH SHOULD BE RESPECTED FOR ITS POSITION IN OUR WONDERFUL INDUSTRY.”

To state the bleeding obvious, the highest-priced gear isn’t always the best or the most appropriate. Aside from the fact that in some cases you’re paying for the logo and the reputation of a brand (naming no dead birds), people starting out usually have no need for the most technical, up-to-date equipment. They may promptly discover they don’t actually enjoy the outdoors as much as they thought they did, and never venture forth again. Plus, they’re likely to begin with day trips, or overnighters on which a 7D sil-nylon tarp and quilt ground set-up represents a big leap from their comfy

bed at home. Much better to go through the traditional double-walled-tent stage first. And this is why entry-level brands exist—to service the beginner’s market.

Then another thing occurred to me: Is it possible I’ve only developed this patronising attitude because I rarely need to pay full price for my outdoor gear? Well, indirectly. I don’t spend a lot of money on ‘things’; rather, I fritter away my income on ‘experiences’, which is supposed to be a much healthier way to live. Therefore, I don’t own many other expensive ‘things’ (save probably audio equipment).

So <cogs turning> maybe simply owning the best, most expensive of anything is what turns one into a snob, be it equipment, wine or cars. This may explain why snobbishness is often attributed to the wealthy. It may also explain why, having travelled to and experienced much of the globe, I’m a godawful travel bore. Either way, this is a character flaw which I will strive to suppress.

And you know what? Those boots I borrowed got me through that eight-day hike with zero problems. (Well, we had a lot of problems but my feet weren’t one of them.) Against all the odds, the boots were perfect. I didn’t know how lucky I’d been. So, I’ll rein in my cheap-gear negativity from now on. There’s room for every standard of equipment, and each should be respected for its position in our wonderful industry. Except for Aldi. Aldi gear is crap. (Ed: Ouch. But my family has some Aldi gear that’s been great and that we totally love! K-mart gear on the other hand …)

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TREAD LIGHTLY. HIKE HAPPY.

NXIS

OUR FAMOUS FIT, MADE TO GO FAST.

CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES

A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country.

EDITED BY MAYA DARBY

NATURE DOESN’T RECOGNISE SQUIGGLES ON A MAP.”

COAL MINES NEXT TO WOLLEMI GIVEN THE BOOT

Image captured by the Wilderness Society of Wollemi NP, and an area next to it that the NSW Government recommended for an open-cut coal mine.

Can you tell which is which?

Thanks to courageous community opposition, the NSW Government has been forced to retract three coal mine leases on the doorstep of Wollemi National Park.

I

t seems remarkable because it is. The NSW Government was prepared to have not one but three filthy coal mines adjacent to Wollemi National Park. At over 500,000ha, Wollemi is one of the largest national parks in the entire country, and is the biggest reserve in the Greater Blue Mountains World Heritage Area, which was inscribed to protect the best examples of what makes Australia, Australia. But thanks to strong opposition from the local Rylstone community—and actions from The Wilderness Society and supporters—the government has binned all three proposed mining sites. The last site to be abandoned was announced on May 4, 2022.

(Ed: It’s outrageous that it took this long!)

Wollemi is a culturally significant place for the Wiradjuri, Dharug, Wanaruah and Darkinjung people.

It’s known for peculiar pagoda-like rock formations, expansive canyon views and glimpses of platypuses, gang-gang cockatoos and rare brush-tailed rock-wallabies, and it has an exceptional diversity of eucalypts and other quintessential Australian flora like banksias, waratahs, tea trees, she-oaks and wattles. It’s also internationally renowned thanks to the famous 1994 discovery of the plant equivalent of a living

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dinosaur by botanist David Noble: the Wollemi pine (Wollemia nobilis). Who knows what else is out there in this remnant of the Gondwanan supercontinent?

Nature doesn’t recognise squiggles on a map.

The state forest and Crown land that the coal mining leases targeted are indistinguishable from the national park itself. Indeed, parts of one of the areas, Ganguddy-Kelgoola covering Coricudgy State Forest, are being considered for inclusion into the World Heritage estate.

This mindless release of new fossil fuel acreage causes anxiety for local communities whose opinions are ignored in the approval process for new projects. It needs to stop. Communities shouldn’t have to fight rear-guard actions like this to protect the places they love. People have a powerful voice, but we need community rights that guarantee people receive a genuine say in decisions that impact nature and climate.

The Wilderness Society is working to ensure that Wollemi and its surrounding forests never have to face this sort of threat again. Follow the campaign at wilderness.org.au/wollemi DAN DOWN, The Wilderness Society

WOLLEMI NP: NEED TO KNOW Rock art in Wollemi is thought to be between 2,000 and 4,000 years old. Art at Eagle’s Reach contains depictions of animals long since extinct in the area.

Wollemi is home to 265 bird species (onethird of all of Australia’s), 50 mammals, 30 frogs and over 60 species of reptiles.

Rare animals include the critically endangered regent honeyeater, vulnerable glossy black cockatoo, and spotted-tailed quoll.

TASMANIA’S DEER IN THE SPOTLIGHT

NATIVE BIRDS KILLED

Feral fallow deer are spreading rapidly across Tasmania, with numbers close to 100,000. They are extending further into the eastern section of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area, where they trample, graze and degrade the sensitive ecosystems that make this part of the world so unique. Unfortunately, under a new plan, the Tasmanian Government is prioritising protecting deer as a hunting resource rather than managing them as an invasive species threat to the state’s environment and agricultural sector. The Invasive Species Council says Tasmania needs to act now to stem the growth of feral deer and remove the protected status of this damaging invasive species. Learn more at invasives.org.au

Each year, around 60,000 ducks are killed during Victoria’s duck shooting season. Threatened, and non-game native species like great crested grebes and blue-winged shovelers are indiscriminately killed, and eggs are abandoned by parents after being scared off by gunshots. A recent survey of duck shooters indicated 80% failed a bird identification test. Wildlife Victoria CEO Lisa Palma says, “Many duck hunters simply don’t know what they are shooting at. To people who can’t easily identify one species from another, it makes no difference if a native bird is threatened or protected … one in every four birds is wounded instead of being killed cleanly. This leaves our wildlife veterinarians in the field to follow up by euthanising and treating critically injured native birds that get caught in the firing line.” Support Wildlife Victoria’s in-field veterinary triage work at wildlifevictoria.org.au/

JAMES TRESIZE, Invasive Species Council

Credit: Faye Beswick

Credit: Mimal LMAC

INDIGENOUS LAND MANAGERS TO ACCESS CARBON MARKETS The Indigenous Carbon Industry Network enables and empowers Indigenous land managers and Traditional Owners involved in carbon projects to benefit from carbon markets. Through savanna fire projects, Indigenous ranger groups work with Traditional Owners and scientists to meticulously plan, map out and record their work through detailed fire maps of their country.

Savanna fire projects increase biodiversity, improve soil health and significantly reduce greenhouse gas emissions through early season burning, thereby reducing hot fires later in the year.

Fire ecologist and senior Traditional Owner from West Arnhem Land, Dean Yibarbuk, explains that “Through reinstating traditional burning practices, new generations of landowners have been trained in traditional and western fire management, hundreds of thousands of tonnes of greenhouse gases have been abated, and the landscape is being managed in the right way.”

To learn more, head to icin.org.au

triage-trailer Wildlife Victoria

Indigenous Carbon Industry Network

CITIZEN SCIENCE TO MONITOR PLATYPUSES Watergum’s PlatypusWatch is getting ready to conduct their twice-annual platypus surveys. The wildly popular citizen-science program monitors fragile platypus populations along five different waterways on the Gold Coast and in Logan. PlatypusWatch volunteers have witnessed some of the most amazing exhibits of platypus behaviour which makes up for the early mornings and keeps them coming back year after year! For more information about Watergum’s PlatypusWatch, visit watergum.org Credit: Daniel Blanks

EMILY VINCENT, Watergum

Top to bottom: blue-winged shoveler, Australian coot, hardhead.

Credit: Wildlife Victoria

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CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES

A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country.

VICTORIAN SEED BANKS Seeding Victoria manages a network of seed banks to collect and provide provenance-based indigenous seed supply for revegetation projects throughout Victoria.

Local provenance seed is adapted to the local environment, soil types, geology, rainfall, flora and fauna of each particular region, and can provide a range of genetic variation that ensures future resilience. This means regional seeds have higher rates of successful establishment, which provide the best chances for revegetation and rehabilitation of ecosystems.

Healthy plants established from this seed provide food sources for local fauna, and help maintain the unique biodiversity of local areas.

For more information, head to seedingvictoria.com.au ELLE FOX, Seeding Victoria

Credit: Elle Fox

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

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STRONG WOMEN FOR HEALTHY COUNTRY

Indigenous women from across the Northern Territory are coming together to help care for Country.

T

he Mimal Land Management area sits at the geographic centre of Arnhem Land, about 250km east from Katherine, and covers an area nearly as big as Kakadu National Park. Our country is made up of lots of different types of ecosystems that support a diverse array of plants and animals—from Ruwurrno and Rorrobo (Grassy plains) to Badno and Ngalwad (Rock country), Berrhno and Mininyburr (Woodland and Forest) and Djula and Wah (Freshwater country). Across the area are special places that have important meaning to our people, including rock art sites and spiritual places linked to our dreaming.

People, country and culture are the focus of our vision: People on their country with families, living on outstations and working to take care of country. Rangers supporting and working with outstation people and other landowners. Strong community relationships where we have good access to country, jobs and the right services and facilities. Country is clean and safe, springs and creeks flow strong and clean, and there is plenty of bush tucker. In the right season, we find plants and animals that have always been there. We have strong ceremony, language, dance and song connecting families, country and culture.

In 2019, Rembarrnga, Dalabon, and Mayili Elders invited women caring for Country from across the NT to meet at Bawurrbarnda in central Arnhem Land. Here, women from 32 ranger groups articulated their shared vision: “We are strong Indigenous women of the Northern Territory. We stand united as one strong voice. We commit to a network that gives equal power to the rights of all our women. Strong Women means Healthy Country.”

Today, the Strong Women for Healthy Country Network is proudly hosted by Mimal Land Management, and has doubled in size. In May 2021, over 260 women from across the NT met at Banatjarl on Jawoyn Country for the second Strong Women for Healthy Country Forum. At this forum, women set out how they want to support each other to achieve their vision through strong and strategic advocacy, collaboration, communication and governance.

In 2022, women will gather for their third Strong Women for Healthy Country Forum on Eastern Arrernte Country. To support and stand with the Strong Women for Healthy Country Network, and to learn more, head to: mimal.org.au/strong-women-healthy-country KATE VAN WEZEL, Mimal Land Management

A long past, a living future This continent is ancient and remarkable. Whether it’s the expanse of the Lake Eyre Basin, Martuwarra River or forests of lutruwita / Tasmania, these places are unique on a global scale.

Rich ongoing culture, species found nowhere else, and biodiversity critical for life support in a changing climate— these places deserve respect and care.

Find out more about these iconic places at wilderness.org.au

Bandilngan / Windjana Gorge | Image: Jenni Wight

CONSERVATION

DAINTREE REVIVAL Queensland’s rainforests have long been cleared to give way to logging and sugarcane fields.

But now the comeback of the world’s oldest rainforest has begun.

Words

JOHAN AUGUSTIN MARTIN STRINGER & JOHAN AUGUSTIN

Photography

T

he mist from a recent shower still lingers in the air.

Rain in this part of northeastern Queensland is a frequent event, which not only makes the undergrowth— consisting of big ferns and hundreds of other plant species— constantly soaked, the humid air creates a water vapour that literally brings out all the aromas in the rainforest.

We are in the Daintree, and not just in old-growth forest, but, at 180 million years old, in the oldest existing rainforest in the world. It’s also Australia’s biggest rainforest, covering 1,200km², and it hosts 3,000 plant species and varied fauna.

Hundreds of threatened animal species—such as tree kangaroos and cassowaries—live here, as do roughly two-thirds of the country’s bat and butterfly species, and over a third of Australia’s frogs and marsupials.

But the forest that remains is just a fragment of what once was. Cattle grazing, sugarcane fields and other developments have severely damaged or destroyed large swaths of the ancient forest. Recently, though, a breeze of change is starting to blow through the area. Environmental organisations have begun collaborating with the landowners to restore these forests. And some organisations, like not-for-profit Rainforest Rescue, are conducting buy-back schemes of once-cleared land so that forests can be completely regenerated; Rainforest Rescue alone has bought roughly forty lots of private land.

But even when the farming stops, old-growth forest doesn’t just reappear overnight.

“We use some pioneer species to create substance,” says Justin McMahon, a land manager working with Rainforest Rescue.

His handshake is firm and, as he’s leaving the shade of the oldgrowth forest, he walks into a lot which used to be a sugarcane

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field, and now covers plants of various sizes. The pressing heat in the open shows no mercy, and Justin—although he’s used to Queensland’s climate—is drenched in sweat. Even so, he still smiles and carries on. Justin is “building species”; it’s the process, he says, of planting various types of vegetation species next to each other so they can thrive. He’s planting some 200 tree species, some of which will grow faster than others and thereby offer shade and nutrients for the ones that follow. Next to the field grows a forest corridor—where trees were planted a few years ago, with some now reaching more than ten metres in height.

The trees now attract animals like flying foxes and endangered cassowaries, which then will disperse fruits and seeds naturally over even greater areas. It’s a success story in the making.

NEW THREATS AND NEW SOLUTIONS Even so, a new threat has arrived in the Daintree during the pandemic. People from big cities like Sydney and Melbourne are showing interest in tree-changing, and are buying up land in the area. With the newcomers, a huge new challenge arrives.

“The biggest threats to the lowland Daintree rainforest continue to be inappropriate development and climate change, with historic fragmentation exacerbating the potential for decline,” says Dr Robert Kooyman, a Research Fellow at Macquarie University’s Department of Biological Sciences. Kooyman, (who Wild interviewed in Issue #175) is a rainforest ecologist who provides scientific advice to protect intact rainforest areas that are currently outside conservation reserve systems, and who works to restore areas previously cleared of rainforest or degraded by different land uses.

So why is the Daintree important? Well, for starters, says

Kooyman, the Daintree protects the largest remnant of lowland tropical rainforest in Australia. The lowland rainforest also adjoins and connects to upland rainforests rich in Gondwanan plant and animal lineages and evolutionary history. “It represents a direct connection to that deep time history,” says Kooyman.

He also says it’s important to reconnect small and large forest areas in the Daintree. “It facilitate[s] the movement of plants and animals, and protect[s] the functional integrity of the forests and enhance[s] their capacity to be resilient in the face of climate and other changes.”

Looking ahead to further expand Australia’s rainforests requires, says Kooyman, a combined “toolkit”. It’s necessary, he says, to nurture and enhance natural regeneration processes, and to assist those natural processes with weed control, but also to engage in the “scientifically informed restoration planting of trees.”

And that doesn’t mean simply finding the fastest growing species and planting lots of it. “We have to mimic nature,” says Marine Deliens, manager

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Cooper Creek meanders through the midst of a 180 million-year-old rainforest. Photo credit: MS The second-largest bird in the world, cassowaries play an important role as rainforest gardeners.

Photo credit: MS Justin McMahon from Rainforest Rescue inspecting plantings that will form future rainforest.

Photo credit: JA

MORE INFO: Since 1999, Rainforest Rescue has been re-establishing rainforests through planting, maintenance, and restoration programs, as well as purchasing and protecting high-conservationvalue rainforest and preserving its biodiversity.

Learn more at: Rainforestrescue.org.au

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Daintree, QUEENSLAND

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Rainforest and reef in the Daintree. Photo credit: MS Marine Deliens at work in the shade house.

Photo credit: JA A northern silky oak (Cardwellia sublimis) seed; the plant is endemic to northern Queensland’s wet tropics. Photo credit: JA Seeds are collected in the rainforest, and brought to the nursery to become the new generation of the Daintree. Photo credit: JA

at Rainforest Rescue’s nursery in the Daintree. Part of that process of mimicking nature, she explains, is ensuring there is genetic variation in the plants; it’s crucial, and gives them better chances of survival. It’s also important to divide certain species into certain areas, and to help plant species spread naturally via animals such as birds or wild pigs.

The nursery consists of various sections. The initial stage is a ‘shade house’ where seedlings and small plants are protected from rain and harsh sunlight. Once they’ve grown sufficiently, they’re moved out into the open, unforgiving climate of northern Queensland. “We want sturdy plants,” Marine says, “so we try them out in the sun to see if they survive.”

Currently, the nursery produces 12,000 plants annually. But this number is set to increase dramatically later this year, when the nursery is to be transferred to an abandoned airport, long overgrown by weeds. The new nursery is planned to hold up to 150,000 plants.

NOT EVERYTHING IS NEW Nurturing this forest and growing plants, however, is far from a new activity in the Daintree. The Traditional Owners of the Daintree, the Eastern Kuku Yalanji people, have long used, and are still using, their knowledge in replanting the rainforest.

“We are natural gardeners who grow seeds, among other things,” says John Dockrill. John grew up in Wujal Wujal, a small Aboriginal community in the Daintree, and compares his people’s connection to the rainforest with that of the Amazon and its Indigenous peoples.

The forest, he says, “is our life nerve. We must have [it] in order to exist.”

In September 2021, formal ownership of four national parks in northeast Queensland—including the Daintree—was returned to the Eastern Kuku Yalanji people. (Ed: It’s about time!) They will co-manage the parks, which have a combined area of 160,213ha, in partnership with the Queensland Government. This management role is important; native title had been recognised over the area, but locals wanted more than recognition: They wanted a say in management; this new partnership recognises the people’s land rights and their ability to manage their own Country.

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Eastern Kuku Yalanji culture is one of the world’s oldest living cultures, and part of managing this area will involve Elders and rangers sharing their knowledge with the younger generation. They’ll do so in diverse fields, such as controlled fires, regeneration of plants, and understanding wildlife such as crocodiles. But the knowledge of the Eastern Kuku Yalanji people is planned to be spread further, says John Dockrill. As members of the Kuku Yalanji people become leaders in the tourism industry, he says they’ll share their knowledge with visitors.

The result will be a network of people helping to protect the diverse ecosystems of the Daintree—its rainforests, woodlands, wetlands, and mangroves—which together form one of the most important natural places on earth.

FOREST AND REEF The Daintree is famously the only location where two UNESCO World Heritage-listed areas meet. The rainforests stretch out to the Coral Sea, home to the Great Barrier Reef and its WHAlisted reserve. Apart from being an important tool as a carbon sink in the fight against climate change, the Daintree is also preventing leakage of agricultural nutrients from reaching the reef—which is already affected by recurring bleaching events.

“The forest acts as a barrier before the reef,” says Steve Edmondson. His family business in Port Douglas—Sailaway Reef and Island Tours, which brings tourists on reef trips to view sunsets with the Daintree as a backdrop—is involved in the planting of corals, creating what will be new ‘coral gardens’.

“We already see how the new corals create ecosystems with many different fish species,” Steve says. He also says the reef is resilient, and it’s on its way back despite the bleaching events. “It just needs a little help on the way, just like the rainforest.”

And a little help is exactly what organisations such as Rainforest Rescue are bringing in. Many locals are not only interested in replanting rainforest, but also want to see the restoration of wetlands. And Justin McMahon is positive about the future in the Daintree. “It’s all about finding a balance,” he says.

If only given a chance, nature will bounce straight back.

CONTRIBUTOR: Sydney-based journalist Johan Augustin focuses on environmental and travel-related topics.

OPINION

DE-WILDING THE WILDS Is the transformation of our national parks going too far?

Words CATHERINE LAWSON Photography DAVID BRISTOW

O

nce upon a time, when muddy tracks and mosquito-ridWet Tropics World Heritage Area. Fuelled by state and federal den forests flew under the radar of profiteers, the wilfunding to the tune of $41.4 million, and due for completion in derness was a reassuring constant. With a backpack full 2023, the Wangetti Trail will, not surprisingly, contain eco-acof gear and a few days to use it, any rigorous ramble could offer commodation “nodes”. These will be located, according to the up splendour and suffering in equal parts, and send you home Queensland Government’s Ecotourism Trails website “… with shattered and smiling, and entirely restored. But something sufficient physical separation to provide a sense of separation, happened while we were out climbing hills and fording rivers in exclusivity and privacy.” search of some joie de vivre.

Eloquently railing against the privatisation of Australia’s People slowly noticed how happy the wilderness made us, and national parks, Wild Editor James McCormack last year penned wondered what the experience might look like if you took soggy an in-depth, two-part essay “Luxury Lodges = Wilderness Lost” tents and two-minute noodles out of the equation. What if trails (Wild Issues #178-179). This report highlighted just what we could be groomed, and packs didn’t need to be carried; if experihave to lose when commercial developments are allowed inside ence, expertise and fitness were no longer required? What if dispark borders. To be clear, I’m talking about bricks and mortar, comfort could be tempered with fine wining and dining, and, if privately owned constructions, not the everyday use of parks the wilds could be tamed, who else by commercial operators might want to take an adventure? undertaking guided activiA decade ago, when opportuties (whether they be luxurinistic developers started circling ous or not), to which I have TO THE Australia’s national parks in earPOINT WHERE ONE’S BANK BALANCE IS no inherent objection. And nest, our wild places were ripe while I’m not against pubBECOMING POTENTIALLY for the picking. Parks were under licly owned huts that exist pressure to increase visitor numfor the use of all hikers (like bers, and private developers— those on Tassie’s Overland spruiking altruistic tunes about making parks more accessible Track), the consensus is that the latest rush of privately owned to the people—came to the rescue, rolling out plans for luxury luxury developments are something else entirely, inflicting a ‘villages’ and calling shots about access to parks that should far greater impact on other park users and the very wilderness have remained in the hands of national park stewards. their marketing relies upon.

What they were selling was a cleaner, greener version of the In this tussle for ownership of and access to Australia’s wilderness. Upholding this illusion of exclusivity meant keeping national parks, we need to consider what the fallout will be, sweaty, smiling campers (who paid for their outdoorsy fun with and how dangerously close we are to alienating the one group pocket change) well out of sight. And so it followed that in some among us that might save our sanctuaries. places, campsites for ordinary walkers were relocated off the trails and out of view, and higher fees were introduced to slow SOCIAL EQUITY, AT A PRICE access for the masses. The precedent set on Tasmania’s Three That adventures can be bought and sold is no new notion. It plays Capes Track has since been replicated—or at the very least, into the old ‘health versus wealth’ debate we’ve been having for planned to be replicated—elsewhere across the country, estabdecades about how much access everyone should get to the willishing a dangerous new framework for future development that derness and who has the greater right. Mount Everest is a prime widens the gap between Australia’s haves and have-nots. example of the dichotomy. Athletes and guided clients share the Currently, planning is on track to carve a 94km-long dual same mountain, but pay for summit views in polarising ways: one biking and hiking trail in my own backyard, from Port Douglas with experience and daring; the other lacks of those qualities, but to Cairns through the Macalister Range National Park and the has the ability to compensate with a sizable chunk of coin.

WE RISK TIPPING THE BALANCE TOO FAR,

A BARRIER TO ACCESSING WILD PLACES.”

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Beyond Cradle Mountain, Tasmania’s Overland Track winds south, providing public huts for all walkers, without sky-high fees

OPINION

HAD THOSE ACCESS FEES BEEN PROHIBITIVELY EXPENSIVE, I MIGHT NEVER HAVE KNOWN THE RAPTURE OF STANDING ATOP THE WINDY WESTERN ARTHUR RANGE ... OR THE PECULIAR DISCOMFORT OF WADING WAIST-DEEP

THROUGH THE SODDEN LODDONS ... WITH MUD IN MY UNDIES.”

But the wilderness doesn’t care much for what we earn or how we earn it. When you’re walking a trail, paddling a river or climbing a mountain, all that matters is what we bring to the experience: our patience and strength, our toughness and agility, our endurance and ingenuity. Nowhere in this script have we needed a fat wallet, until now.

Let it be said that all humans—regardless of age, mobility or income—deserve access to the wilderness. But this ideal of ‘access for all’ is a double-edged sword that conveniently roots for developers too, validating their profiteering under the guise of creating greater access for high-paying clients who might never otherwise strap on hiking boots.

But right now, we risk tipping the balance too far, to the point where one’s bank balance is becoming potentially a barrier to accessing wild places. And when you can’t afford to take a walk in Australia, something’s gone terribly wrong.

PARKS NEED PEOPLE

The buzz of helicopters, sky-high fees and big, guided crowds: It’s enough to send bushwalkers packing, abandoning the parks they have known and loved in search of solitude in more remote destinations. This is what Aussie bushwalking author John Chapman calls “displacement”, and when it happens, we risk losing our parks’ most essential guardians.

People who know a park—who walk its trails and value the adventures they tackle within its boundaries—are its most motivated protectors. But passion for a place comes from feeling a deep connection to it, and when you displace such people from a wild space, lessening their experiences, or worse, thwarting access altogether, you’re unlikely to win them back.

It’s a viewpoint shared by Dave Copeman, Brisbane-based Director of the Queensland Conservation Council, who says he’d be furious if ordinary walkers were excluded from national parks in his state. “Giving a range of people a range of access to parks is one thing, but deliberately setting up elitist or exclusive access doesn’t sit with the values that should be behind our national parks,” he says. According to Copeman, holding onto low-cost access to national parks—less than $10 a night—is key to encouraging more people into parks.

“We need to get greater connection with national parks, from more people,” he says. “We need people to connect with them and want to fight for them.”

On Australia’s West Coast, where national parks are yet to face the kind of wilderness ambushing taking place elsewhere in the country, Rob Annear (Director of Visitor Services, Parks and Wildlife Service WA) is charged with deciding who gets a footing inside those precious boundaries. “Western Australians aren’t often first to the party,” Annear admits, “but in terms of developers calling the shots, that’s not how it works in WA”.

For starters, Aboriginal Traditional Owners jointly manage forty of Western Australia’s most prominent national parks and reserves, guaranteeing a tougher, more rigorous gatekeeping process. Any developments will come under greater scrutiny, and must align with Traditional Owners’ wishes. This shifts the focus of parks tremendously, and Annear says his focus is firmly on maintaining equity of access to create the next generation of people who care.

“From a personal point of view, I worry about wild places remaining wild. I ask myself, ‘Who’s going to be there to speak for parks when I’m gone, and what’s the best way that I can spend my time to make sure that there are advocates and people who are going to speak up?’”

Annear says it’s all about providing opportunities for people to experience why parks are such special places. “Place attachment plays a really strong role in creating that next generation as advocates,” he says, “and we’ve got the opportunity to capture the hearts and minds of someone who’s going to be an advocate and speak for that place.”

MAKING MEMORIES

FREE AND WILD

Let’s imagine, for one moment, that you never get that chance.

Imagine that the national park trail you want to explore is just too expensive to consider (hiking the Three Capes Track costs $495, and Victoria’s Grampians Peak Trail in excess of $500 if you hike it alone). As a youngster I spent long summers in Tasmania’s Southwest Wilderness, tackling trail after trail in the

The Bibbulmun Track is the holy grail of West Coast walking trails, and one of Australia’s longest, oldest and most accessible multi-day wilderness experiences. The 1,003km-long journey from Albany to Kalamunda, north of Perth, takes between six and eight weeks. But more outstanding is that tackling the track and overnighting at 49 walker-only campsites, costs you nothing.

DISPLACING THE NEXT GENERATION

46

same pair of dirty shorts with only the briefest of breaks to gather more food. I had far more stamina than cash, but these holidays bound me to Tassie in a way that’s difficult to put into words and impossible to extinguish.

Had those access fees been prohibitively expensive, I might never have known the rapture of standing atop the windy Western Arthur Range, a pinnacle of rock elevating me amongst swirling storm clouds. I’d have never known the peculiar discomfort of wading waist-deep through the Sodden Loddons and hiking for half a day with mud in my undies. The point is, you can’t protect what you don’t experience, and if today’s young hikers are excluded from our most precious wild places—the ones that big developers covet—who is going to fall in love with them and fight for their protection?

WILD

Summit views from East Mount Barren in Fitzgerald River National Park—one of WA’s remote wilderness reserves that has so far kept private luxury developments at bay

Mike Wood is the Founding Chair (now a board member) of the Bibbulmun Track Foundation (BTF), a not-for-profit community group that supports the trail and its users. He’s a former walking guide, a businessman, and a WA Parks and Wildlife employee, who says he struggles with the philosophical nature of charging people to access trails.

Like other great Aussie trails, the Bibb Track (as it’s locally known) hasn’t escaped the attention of luxury developers, but Wood says it would never accommodate a exclusive clientele, and adds that there’s nothing on the table for the foreseeable future.

After an almost 25-year-long involvement with the Bibb, Wood has seen many changes in how parks and trails are managed. He cut his teeth on Australia’s hardest backcountry tracks, loading up an awkwardly fitting external frame pack with tins of baked beans, and gathering mates for muddy weekends in the most remote locations they could find. “Those places we found were magnificent,” Mike says, lamenting in the same breath how much we’ve dumbed things down in the decades since.

All this reminiscing is what psychologists would call ‘connection’. With every big adventure or weekend walking escape, the photos stack up, the memories grow, and our passion for these special places amounts to something we begin to tangibly feel.

Beyond the awesome scenery, it’s how wild places pull us back that connect us to them. And this is what is most at risk.

RISKY BUSINESS In our rush to secure access for high-end clientele in our national parks, we risk transforming public parks into places where those who can pay, do, and those who can’t pay, don’t. In doing so, we risk alienating young guardians who might undo the harm that’s already been done. Ultimately, we risk losing the wilderness itself.

Our wild spaces are ever diminishing and finite, and the threats from logging, mining, fracking, and commercial development are real and ongoing. Yet we need wild places more than ever, and in ways that we don’t always fully fathom. Modifying wilderness merely so people can cash in on it comes at everyone’s expense.

When we mess with wild places, grooming and tempering them for our convenience and comfort, we not only degrade these landscapes by lessening the challenges and jeopardising wildlife species, we swiftly erode their intrinsic wildness, too.

Our national parks and reserves are not places for fine wining and dining; they safeguard the habitats of wild things—the flora and fauna upon which our very existence depends.

We go to the wilderness seeking solace, to reconnect with nature and to observe a more beautiful slice of life; to strip back a few layers and rediscover ourselves; to stretch our muscles, to still our minds and to size ourselves up against all that nature can throw at us. In places inherently wild, the challenges are real, and facing them builds a confidence that’s primeval and hard to shake.

I struggle with the compulsion to make money off every good and wholesome thing in this world. Give me bogs and barely there trails, and places to pitch a tent that don’t alienate wild things. Some things, especially places and experiences so integral to the soul, must surely be held sacred.

CONTRIBUTOR: Captivated by wild places and passionate about their preservation, Catherine Lawson and David Bristow are hikers, bikers, paddlers and sailors who run wildtravelstory.com. In their spare time they write travel guides, and their latest—100 things to see in Tropical North Queensland—is available at wildtravelstory.com

WINTER 2022

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GETTING STARTED

THINGS YOU DON'T KNOW YOU NEED ...

UNTIL YOU NEED THEM with Kieron Douglass

Figuring out what gear to take when you're starting out isn't always easy, especially if you only keep hearing about the same old basics.

Ultrarunner, adventurer, conservationist and Wild Earth Ambassador Kieron Douglass shares his knowledge about some cheap, lightweight but useful pieces of kit you're less likely to hear about.

S

o you’re planning your first trip into the great

unknown to camp in nature and all its beauty. But when you asked your experienced mates for gear recommendations, all they gave you were old, standard clichés: tent, sleeping bag, pillow, and food. Boring! What they didn’t suggest are items you don’t realise you need … until you need them. Here are a few lightweight, cheap and downright useful things to bring along.

Let’s start with something I always suggest to mates, whether they’re camping, running, climbing or just day hiking: a LifeStraw. I learnt the hard way about how valuable this super light and easily stored piece of kit is: While running a 100 mile race in the beautiful Glasshouse Mountains, I thought I’d save time by skipping the water table at a checkpoint and instead filling up at the next. The issue was, the next checkpoint was 25km away, and I was already incredibly thirsty and dehydrated; every muddy puddle I ran past from rain the night before looked like a beautiful oasis. Eventually, I cupped my hands and thought "Why not?" Three scoops later, I was on my merry way. The following morning I had diarrhoea, stomach cramps, nausea—you name it, I had it. For two weeks, I might add. But a LifeStraw— weighing just 56g—can filter 1,000 litres of water to make it safe and clean, and it removes 99.9999% of waterborne bacteria and 99.9% of parasites. (Ed: Another option is RapidPure's Pioneer Straw, which weighs 18g more but is an actual purifer as opposed to just a filter; we reviewed RapidPure in Wild #179.)

Let’s move on to something that will definitely make life easier when you head out into the wild world: cable ties. There are so many uses for them; the sky’s the limit. Here are a few examples: It’s midnight, it's dark, and you drank way too much water before bed; now you can’t find your tent’s zips to let you out quickly enough. Never fear, cable ties are near! Loop one through the tent's zip to make a bigger ring so it’s easier to grab when needed. (An even better idea is to attach a little night light to the zip for those night escapes.) Then, after relieving yourself and getting back to sleep, you wake early to hike up a nearby mountain for an incredible sunrise. But it’s going to be cold up there, so you've stuffed your daypack completely full of warm clothes and chocolate bars. And you can’t hand-hold a water bottle because you need both mitts free so you can scramble up that tricky rock face. But wait! You were smart enough to pack a bag of cable ties because you picked up Wild mag a few days earlier, and you read about this guy’s kooky experiences while camping. You grab a trusty cable tie and attach your drink bottle to your pack. Off you go! Well, not yet, because when you go to put on your shoes—which have endured mud, water and weather

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YOUR GIRLFRIEND KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN; SHE’D

WARNED YOU MULTIPLE TIMES ABOUT IT." during your adventures—you go to pull your laces tight and SNAP! But it’s OK … your girlfriend (or husband/wife/partner/ etc) knew this would happen because she’d warned you multiple times about your frayed laces in the weeks leading up to this trek. She pulls out a bag of cable ties, weaves a cable through your shoelace holes and … voila. Life is good! Until you hit that scrambling section near the summit. You stretch out for a foothold and … the button on your hiking pants pops; now your zip won’t go back up. Cable tie that right up, and then on you go to summit where you can take all the sunrise selfies you want without fear of your pants falling down.

Next up: As a conservationist, I love that we’re taking a stand against single-use plastic. But if you’re anything like me, you still have a few bags stashed away in your cupboard. These bags have obvious uses when camping—like carrying your food or your clothes—but they can have less obvious uses as well, like the one I’m about to tell you. It sucks to have muddy shoes and socks from unexpected storms and rainy days, especially when you need to leave your tent for whatever reason, so here’s what you do: Put each foot in a plastic bag, use a cable tie to secure the bag around your ankle and there you have it—plastic bag shoe covers. Mud-free camping at no cost and with little weight penalty.

Another piece of gear your mates forgot to mention was lightweight rope or cord. Nothing crazy, just a good length with a 3-4mm thickness is all you need. Use it to hang your food up from those cheeky possums heading out for a midnight snack, to make a handy makeshift clothesline, or to fashion a belt for your pants to match that cable-tie zip! You could also attach one end of the rope to a dry sack, and the other to your arm while you cross a creek or two. And if you’re anything like me and get a little lost occasionally, you can use it to mark a few trees so you can make your way back to camp after a big day of exploring.

As I said, you never know when you’ll need things like these ... until you need them. And whatever equipment you decide to take (or not take), remember to have fun, stay safe, don’t leave any rubbish behind, and recycle when you can. Happy camping!

CONTRIBUTOR: Conservationist and ultrarunner Kieron Douglass can usually be found planting trees around his home town on QLD's Redlands Coast. He is an Ambassador for WildEarth.com.au

NONE OF THE ABOVE Buff Farnell with the Razorback and Feathertop in the background.

Credit: Andrew Barnes

GETTING HOME SAFELY The number of backcountry enthusiasts has exploded in recent years. Many of these newcomers, however, aren’t aware of the safety issues; a new film being released by the Australian Ski Patrol Association aims to change that.

T

he fact that more people than ever are heading to the Australian backcountry to ski and ride is something to be celebrated; that many of them seem poorly prepared and educated, however, is not. And when lack of knowledge results in injuries, search-and-rescues, or worse, it’s usually ski patrollers from nearby resorts who head out to help. “We have seen large numbers of people with limited experience … going out back,” says Peter Mowbray, President of the Australian Ski Patrol Association (ASPA). “And when they get hurt, somebody has to go and pick them up.”

So ASPA decided to be proactive, and it commissioned filmmaker Stephen Curtain (who, coincidentally, was Assistant Editor of Wild back in the late ‘90s) to make a short film pointing backcountry enthusiasts in the right direction in terms of both understanding the risks out there, and the factors they should be considering. Awareness is the goal, says Bill Barker, Ski Patrol Director at Hotham, who was heavily involved in the film’s production. And as Stephen Curtain adds, “Prevention is easier than the cure.”

But part of the issue with awareness is that while overseas-produced videos on backcountry safety dwell, understandably enough, on avalanche risk, they usually don’t address some of the primary dangers in Australia: hypothermia; long, uncontrolled falls and slides on firm slopes; and getting lost. This is not to downplay the risks of avalanches, because they definitely happen here, and if people are caught in one, says Stephen Curtain, it can be of “high consequence.” Deaths have occurred, and as Bill Barker says in the film, “burials occur nearly every year.”

Nonetheless, people need to be aware that the Australian backcountry has other prevalent dangers.

These dangers are addressed early in the film, a suggestion, Stephen says, of Tim Macartney-Snape (mountaineering legend, Wild columnist, and one of the film’s interviewees). But it’s worthwhile

50

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remembering that these dangers often only arise because of insufficient preparation. “Poor planning, and an inability to navigate,” says Stephen Curtain, “can lead you to get lost. Getting lost can lead to hypothermia. One leads to the other.”

A key problem, however, is that novice backcountry enthusiasts (and even more experienced ones) often aren’t aware of what they don’t know. With that in mind, the film addresses—step-by-step—the elements of knowledge necessary to be backcountry safe. As Bill Barker states, you need to know how to: 1. Prepare 2. Plan 3. Navigate 4. Recognise and treat hypothermia 5. Read constantly changing snow conditions 6. Recognise avalanche hazard 7. Self-rescue The film then breaks these elements down, and gives simple, concise but valuable advice about them. These aren’t so much in-depth, instructional ‘how-to’ tips (in a ten-minute film, that would be an impossibility), but they do provide a useful mental checklist for things to, at minimum, be aware of.

And even though the film is clearly aimed at backcountry users with less experience, this checklist is a useful refresher for more experienced enthusiasts.

And importantly—beyond simply raising awareness—it will hopefully spur, says Bill Barker, “people to go out and find some training.”

Not only is the film instructional, there’s some beautful skiing footage in there, too, the type of stuff that’s likely to make you want to head straight out there. Still, one of the most important takeaways from the film is, says ASPA’s Peter Mowbray, “to be prepared not to go.” It’s sage advice.

The film (along with other resources) is available online at: snowsafe.org.au/backcountry JAMES MCCORMACK

HEADING BACKCOUNTRY? REMEMBER THIS: - Getting lost is easy - Hypothermia is our biggest killer - Uncontrolled slides can have tragic consequences - Avalanche burials happen virtually every year - You can’t rely on a rescue party to respond

MORE RESOURCES “The film will be surrounded by other resources people can research before they head backcountry for the first time,” says filmmaker Stephen Curtain. Foremost amongst those is a revamped SnowSafe website. Head to snowsafe.org.au to learn more.

Best Choice For Worst Case Safety is a must. In open terrain, an avalanche transceiver, probe and shovel are essential. Every second counts and the only way to rescue buried tour partners is with a complete set of emergency equipment. An avalanche airbag can actively protect you from becoming buried. mammut1862.com.au @mammutausnz

NONE OF THE ABOVE

Q+A

with Protect Our Winter's Marian Krogh The New Zealand chapter of Protect Our Winters (POW), an international advocacy group that connects the outdoor community to help them take climate action, is about to release a new half-hour film. At turns beautiful, inspiring, and depressing, The Final Symphony highlights the impacts of climate change in NZ's mountains.

Wild Editor James McCormack speaks with Marian Krogh about the film.

WILD: OK, so what's The Final Symphony about?

MK: The film follows myself and Gabby Degagne as we traverse New Zealand’s South Island using a combination of trail running, ski mountaineering, packrafting and biking. On the way, the impacts of climate change are extremely apparent; we ski over the Main Divide via a classic route called Symphony on Skis, and there’s not as much snow or ice for skiing as there was even just a few years ago. We’re connecting the changes we’re seeing in the mountains to changes we’re seeing downstream to demonstrate how climate change impacts all of NZ. WILD: What spurred you to make the film?

MK: POW in NZ hosts a lot of movie nights; they’re a great way to connect the community. We tend to show foreign films, though, with POW athletes from North America or Europe. They‘re inspiring stories, but we wanted to have a locally relevant film.

WE CONSIDERED PUSHING THE TRIP BACK A YEAR. BUT 2021 MIGHT BE

THE LAST YEAR WE’D BE ABLE TO DO IT WITH ENOUGH SNOW. "

WILD: Early on in the film, you focus on Fox Glacier’s plight. What’s happening with it specifically?

MK: When I was a teenager, you could walk right onto Fox Glacier.

But over the past 20 years, it’s shrunk so much that it’s no longer possible to safely access it on foot. It’s now only accessible to tourists via helicopter, which in itself has problems with the high emissions, but it also means the average family can’t afford it.

And to get onto the Fox Glacier Névé, it’s now a full day, dangerous mission with more rockfall exposure as the glacier shrinks.

WILD: Was there a specific moment for you in your life when climate change first really struck home?

MK: Being in the ski industry, you can’t help but be aware of climate change. In the scheme of things, though, us not being able to ski—which is a privilege—isn’t a real problem. But I went skiing in Kyrgyzstan a few years ago, and the changing winters there are a HUGE problem. Most villagers we spent time with were nomadic herders, and they were at risk of losing everything because of almost no snow that year. They’d contributed negligibly to climate change, yet they were so much more severely impacted. That’s something that really struck me.

WILD: Despite the beauty and inspiration the film offers, seeing what's being lost can be depressing. Was there a point in the filmmaking you found notably heartbreaking?

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Credit: Abby Wells

MK: Before the trip, my adventure partner Gabby had health issues, and we considered pushing the trip back a year. But the reality was that 2021 might be the last year we’d be able to do it with enough snow and with safe conditions on the glacier. That was depressing, realising that this classic ski route mightn’t be doable anymore.

WILD: I’ve often wondered if countries with glaciers take climate change more seriously than Australia, partly because they’re watching glaciers disappear before their very eyes. Do you think, however, NZ’s broader, non-outdoorsy community is aware of the rate of glacial retreat?

And does this level of awareness (or lack thereof) impact NZ’s responses to tackling climate change?

MK: Yes, in general, countries with glaciers aren’t burying their heads like some countries, but I’d still say the broader non-skiing, non-tramping community in NZ isn’t aware of the extent of glacial retreat. New Zealand is definitely not a world leader in terms of climate action, and its emissions are some of the highest per capita. Unless you’re really involved or educated in the climate change space, I’d say most Kiwis don’t know this, and would be surprised to find this out. In fact, when I bring it up, often people try to deny it, or make excuses! We’ve done an excellent job of greenwashing; it’s going to take work to shift the culture.

WILD: Intergenerational legacy seems to be a key theme for the film’s interviewees. How widespread are these concerns?

MK: One of the easiest ways to motivate people to either change their behaviour or to advocate for systemic change is to talk about their kids. People want their kids to be able to ski and to experience the outdoors in the same way they have, so that’s a great way to connect, and a great lever for change.

WILD: I was surprised that, for an organisation that is so aligned with snow, the film spoke specifically about bike paths. Can you elaborate on this?

MK: We wanted to make sure the film offered solutions. Transportation is the fastest rising area of greenhouse gas emissions in NZ and it’s mostly from fossil-fuel powered cars. The POW community loves to get outside, and many would cycle more if there were more safe, accessible cycleways. POW is also advocating for more public transport, and that it's more accessible, too.

WILD: When is the film's release? And how can readers see it?

MK: We’ll be hosting some screenings for POW movie nights at the beginning of winter, but soon after we’ll have it available online for everyone to watch.

Learn more at: protectourwinters.nz And Aussies, also check out protectourwinters.org.au

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Hanny climbing Mt Murchison, West Coast Tasmania.

Credit: Graham Hammond

Salmon Glacier by bicycle in Canada

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PROFILE

HANNY ALLSTON The Tasmanian runner, coach and businesswoman has spent a long time finding her feet.

Along the way she’s found her story, her strength and her self.

Words Megan Holbeck

T

asmania’s Western Arthurs circuit covers 68km along the spine of the Southwest Wilderness, usually walked in six days. And while it’s on the top of many bushwalkers’ dream lists, it is not to be messed with: it’s remote, rugged and committing, with horrendous weather, raining an average of 250 days annually, often with gale-force accompaniments.

In 2020, Hanny Allston ran it solo in a day, for fun, for play, because the idea of it “made her toes tingle”. She began and finished (10h:15m later) at Scotts Peak car park rather than the usual Junction Creek trailhead, the only person (she thinks) ever to do so. Despite running an extra 14km, she still holds the fastest known time for the run.

She counts it as her finest achievement, but not because of any record: On her first solo outing across this extremely rugged terrain, she felt at her best, her most alive and wild.

Hanny didn’t cover the extra distance to prove a point, or to set a new standard, or even to simplify logistics. She ran those kilometres so that at the end of the day she could have a swim; although Hanny likes to play in the mud, the weather and elements, she doesn’t like to go to bed dirty.

Hanny is not a straightforward person—even a quick chat with her hints at difficult paths, deep thought and myriad contradictions. She’s an elite performer who takes great delight in coaching ‘ordinary’ people, helping runners of all standards see themselves as athletes, improving both performance and enjoyment. She has won both NZ’s iconic Rotorua Marathon and the Melbourne Marathon, and had her sights set on the Olympics, but she isn’t competitive with others, just with herself. She’s adamant she’s not a businessperson, but she won the Telstra Tasmania Small Business awards both individually and for her Find Your Feet outdoor retail business, which she founded in 2014. And despite having initial scepticism about anything spiritual, she’s probably done more ‘self work’ than anyone I’ve ever met, crediting her insights about archetypes with allowing her to add ‘mother’ to her array of identities and thrive.

I PULL UP OUTSIDE HANNY’S HOUSE in South Hobart, the profusion of baby carriers, bike carts and sporty shoes confirming I’m in the right place. It is stunning: a wooden frame nestled in space and trees and views; fingers of mist hanging down over the bushy valley; trails leading up kunanyi/ Mt Wellington.

I’ve never met Hanny, but feel like I know her well. In 2006, I was working at Wild when she first came on to my radar, winning both the junior and senior Orienteering World Championships, aged nineteen. I’ve spoken to her numerous times since, read her Trail Running Guidebook and her Finding My Feet memoir, and used her UTA 50 training guide and ‘Find Your Feet’ podcast to build the knowledge and confidence to complete the 50km run in the Blue Mountains.

Knowing a lot about someone isn’t the same as knowing them, however, and there are always surprises. She looks as I imagined—wiry and strong, with the kind of muscle definition that takes a lifetime to build and makes you think about sculpting marble. But she seems both older and younger than her 36 years, tough and vulnerable at the same time. This is partly juxtaposition: She’s spoon-feeding her eleven-month-old son Nikolas while telling me about handling athletic success as a teenager; getting me vegan choc-chip cookies from the oven while recounting how when COVID first hit, she thought they would go bankrupt and lose their house—she used to cycle around Hobart instead of going home, not wanting to get too attached. But her toughness and vulnerability are not all due to context. Deep self-knowledge has given her the ability to be open and honest with herself and others, while maintaining strong boundaries.

I’m far from the first stranger to feel like I know Hanny. The ‘big fish, small pond’ thing is very true in Hobart, especially in the small pond of elite sport and outdoor retail she’s been playing in for years. She’s not famous, but she is well-known—there are variations of “Oh, you’re that runner chick” wherever she goes.

But as she’s increasingly aware, that’s only one part of her.

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Profile: HANNY ALSTON

Her sense of what it took to be an elite athlete began aged seven in the pool. Her mother, Julia Hutchinson, is a “phenomenal swimmer” and a doctor, informing Hanny’s early goals of Olympic swimming and medicine. By the age of twelve, “it was skin-folds every week [and] regimented, hard, long, brutal training with very little emphasis on technique”. She made finals in national events and developed her early approach to training: the harder, the better.

From her family’s organic hobby farm half an hour from Hobart, she balanced up to twelve training sessions a week with a childhood of freedom and adventure. Her family was outdoorsy, touring the state in their trusty orange Kombi. A measure of their love for adventure is the reward used to motivate Hanny and brother James not to bicker for an entire school term: a week-long family trip to Cradle Mountain. (Modern parents take note, although I’d give it a day with my kids!)

After her dad began rogaining, James soon joined in orienteering (the two sports are similar), with Hanny tagging along as a one-night-a-week break from the pool. In 2003, she made the Australian team. When she went to New Zealand, the coach pulled her aside and suggested she try out for the Junior World Championship team heading to Estonia. “I got home and pulled out the atlas … to go from feeling limited to a swimming pool in Hobart, to suddenly realising you could travel around the world—it wasn’t a hard decision in the end.”

Orienteering was something she was naturally good at, backed by a phenomenal amount of work. As she recounts in Finding My Feet, her focus was on being the best runner. Hanny says she used “my physical fitness as a buffer to my slowly improving navigation.” Her life was busy, packed with achievement: In 2005 she came home from the Junior World Championships in Switzerland with a second and third; sat her first-year medical exams; and flew to Japan for the World Championships ten days later, coming sixth in the long-distance event. She returned home ecstatic, but shortly afterwards, things began to fall apart.

While qualifying for the final in Japan, Hanny ‘sprained’ her right ankle: Three months later she had an ankle reconstruction, not sure whether she’d ever run again. Less than two months on—while Hanny was recuperating, rehabilitating and studying for her medical exams—her father tried to end his life, spending four months in hospital.

Hanny found herself in a big, ugly hole. Unsure of how to deal with the situation or her feelings, she set herself a goal: to win the Junior World Championships. Which she did, following up the achievement by winning the Senior World Championships two weeks later.

Orienteering is not a big sport in Australia, but it is in Europe.

The different levels of media attention give some idea: While there were news pieces published here about Hanny’s achievements, a Swedish writer and photographer flew to Tasmania

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THINGS KEPT DISINTEGRATING:

HER FAMILY SPLINTERED; HER CHILDHOOD HOUSE SOLD. ‘AS I WALLOWED, PUSHED AND CLAWED MY WAY OUT OF THE HOLE, ANOREXIA SIDLED

UP TO BEFRIEND ME.’ ”

to follow her for a week, writing a series of feature articles for everything from orienteering magazines to the Swedish equivalent of Australian Geographic.

There were many reasons why her performance was memorable. “I’m a bit of an anomaly,” says Hanny, “in that I am still the only non-European to win a world title, and I’m still the only individual to win both the junior and senior titles in the same year … The race was also around Prince Frederik’s Summer Palace (in Denmark), and it was the year that he married Tasmanian Princess Mary.” At the age of 19, while pretty much anonymous in Australia, she was a celebrity in the orienteering world.

Hanny returned home, having achieved the goal that had been “the super glue holding the pieces of me together.” But things kept disintegrating: Her family splintered; her childhood house sold. In a piece she wrote for Travel Play Live Magazine, Hanny described what happened next. “As I wallowed, pushed and clawed my way out of the hole, anorexia sidled up to befriend me. And so became a slow dance, a waltz that saw me become a World Orienteering Champion, the Australian and New Zealand marathon champion, a university graduate, and yet a bundle of skin and bones.”

Over the next few years, Hanny dropped out of medical school but finished a Bachelor of Medical Science, did a teaching degree in New Zealand and taught in a Melbourne school. All the while she kept training and competing, winning marathons, aiming for the Olympics. At training camps, there was much discussion about ‘healthy nutrition’—she remembers a girl discussing how some of her teeth had fallen out; another how she was only allowed to run if she ate. Hanny’s attitude to training was getting her places, “but it burnt me out big time, [so] in 2010 I took a big step back from racing. In fact, I thought I was done.”

She moved back to Hobart in 2008 and paused, began to address her anorexia, to find her feet and to work out the answer to the question: What next? While driving to her Mum’s place halfway up kunanyi/Mt Wellington, she noticed people training for an upcoming event with a distinct lack of fun. By the time she got home, she’d decided on her next hobby—helping recreational athletes run more easily, more playfully, more enjoyably. Little did she know how far her ‘Find Your Feet’ business would go.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT: Preparing for the World Orienteering Championships in Italy at Passo Pordoi, July 2014.

Credit: Graham Hammond First overnight walk, aged 4, on Tasmania’s Central Plateau. Credit: Julia Hutchinson At the World Orienteering Championships in Scotland, 2015. Credit: Wendy Reid Setting the race record on the Six Foot Track, NSW. Credit: Graham Hammond Hanny, atop the podium as World Champion in Denmark, 2006.

Credit: Julia Hutchinson

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This photo was a part of the release of Hanny’s memoir Finding My Feet: My Story. But it’s since been used often to illustrate her business success as ‘Tasmanian Young Businesswoman of the Year’, and, in 2018, her business being awarded the ‘Telstra Tasmanian Small Business of the Year’. Credit: Jess Hirst

IMAGES (THIS PAGE) - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Hanny on her record setting Western Arthurs traverse. Credit: Graham Hammond Atop Mt Anne, Tasmania. Credit: Graham Hammond On a Find Your Feet Tour. Credit: Graham Hammond

I HONESTLY BELIEVE THAT YOU

CAN PLAY AND HAVE A LOT OF FUN AND KEEP IT HEALTHY AND ACHIEVE TO THE HIGHEST LEVEL.” Things always seem obvious in hindsight, especially in a profile: One thing leads to the next in a logical, almost preordained way. But the path of business (like life and love) isn’t always smooth. Hanny describes herself as an ideas person, someone who asks ‘What if?’ instead of ‘How?’ or ‘Why?’ According to Hanny, her strength is in starting, not finishing (although she still seems to have finished plenty!). Find Your Feet followed Allston’s ideas and interests, growing organically, in fits and starts.

When she took an Athlete Supervisor role at the AIS in 2011, her coaching work followed her to Canberra, and she began hosting running camps and clinics, writing training plans and performance consulting.

Life also flowed: A close friendship with Graham Hammond—a ski coach and guide she first met when both worked at Hobart’s Paddy Pallin in 2001—became a relationship. They lived in Canberra from 2011-2014 where they bought a house, and they married in 2017. In the lead up to the 2012 London Olympics, Graham prompted Hanny’s return to competition, asking whether she had any regrets about her athletic career.

She did: She’d never found out if it was possible to get to the top and do it in a playful, healthy, holistic way.

In 2013, she returned to racing to find out. First up was the Cradle Mountain Run, 82km along the Overland Track that she ran in 8h:13m, knocking more than an hour off the previous women’s record (also set by Hanny, as a 17-year-old!). More phenomenal results followed as Hanny set about answering her own question, with wins on trail events at Bright, the Six Foot Track and the UTA 50, and fourth and ninth place at the 2015

World Orienteering Championships in Scotland. “I honestly believe that you can play and have a lot of fun and keep it really healthy and achieve to the highest level.”

In 2014, the couple moved back to Hobart to open the Find Your Feet outdoor shop. They piled every cent from the sale of their Canberra house into the new venture while living with friends and family, in a converted garage, sometimes in their van. Hanny says they’re not businesspeople; despite this, both her and the business have won awards in Telstra’s Tasmanian small-business awards, and after eight years they have a much bigger Hobart premises, as well as a Launceston shop.

HANNY STEPPED BACK FROM COMPETITION in 2015. But her wilder adventures have continued, often starting as crazy birthday celebration ideas with best mate Dale Cockley. In 2017, they ran the South Coast Track (92km in 12h:20m); in 2018, they made the fastest return trip up Federation Peak (43km in 11h:26m). In 2019, she spent a three-week ‘holiday’ running 700km along the French Pyrenees, starting at the Atlantic and finishing at the Mediterranean nineteen days later.

This meant averaging just under a marathon daily, and doing so across rugged terrain, with around 42,000m of ascent. Each of these missions reinforced that she loves to play wilder, and gave her the confidence to do more.

Graham has been a catalyst in helping her move away from competition. Hanny describes him as a “live-in-the moment, spontaneous creature—he doesn’t want to plan ahead, and doesn’t want to walk too far behind. He’s a gypsy who loves to roam and will give anything a go.” He’s been the support crew for many of her adventures; in the Pyrenees he drove the hatchback, running in to meet her at the end of each day.

Meanwhile Hanny has continued trying new ways of getting elite knowledge out to everyday athletes, and the ideas keep coming. Her podcast ran for 59 episodes from 2017-2020, covering everything from conservation to finding purpose and to

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Mt Wellington … Hanny’s home in Tasmania.

Credit: Glenn Murray On the Overland track with Nikolas. Credit: Graham Hammond Niko at two weeks of age. Credit: Graham Hammond

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nutrition and hydration on the trail. She’s been giving away free training planners since 2020, now gifting between $1,5002,500 of plans every week.

Her latest initiative is the ‘Wilder Trails’ community project.

It sprang from discussions she’d had with running friends on kunanyi/Mt Wellington years earlier: Wouldn’t it be cool if more people knew about these trails? When COVID cancelled events, Hanny decided it was time to “help people find adventures that aren’t about speed and time.” There are now 13 mapped trails designed to help people play wilder, from the Tasman Peninsula’s 14.5km Pole Dancer to the 24km Jerusalem’s Calling jaunt around the Walls of Jerusalem National Park. There’s a strong educational element to each route, with information about plants, animals and culture aiming to deepen people’s connection to, and care of, the environments through which they run.

There’s a cute badge to be earned for each run—Scout badges for grown-ups—and the eventual aim is to put the proceeds into conservation projects.

to their lives; of how all the work she’s done to understand herself means that she’s been able to add motherhood to the list of identities that make up Hanny—athlete, wife, businessperson, friend, and many more—rather than lose her feet again. And how, after this period of stability in Hobart—eight years of mad stability, with a lot crammed in—it’s time for a new challenge.

The nature of that challenge is still to be determined. In April, the family began packing up their house, ready to move to Scotland where Hanny would take on the double role as High Performance Coach for Orienteering at Edinburgh University and Head Development Coach for British Orienteering. It was an exciting position, pulling together Hanny’s diverse skill sets and interests, from the tactical, physical and technical elements right through to wellbeing and engagement. But in the end, it just didn’t feel right to leave family, home and community ... at least not now. So they’re staying put, pursuing the remarkable opportunities locally. It will be fascinating to follow whatever comes next. W

BACK IN HANNY AND GRAHAM’S house, watching Niko crawl around the lounge room, pulling cards out of wallets and smiles from his mum, Hanny talks about the joy he’s brought

CONTRIBUTOR: Megan Holbeck is a writer based in Sydney. She’s con-

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vinced that an ‘adventure mindset’ is a real thing, and cultivates it at every opportunity. Sometimes it even works.

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M O U N TA I N What lessons can the mountains and the natural world teach you?

In this powerful essay, adapted from his book The Mountain Path, Paul Pritchard asks—and answers—some big questions.

Words PAUL PRITCHARD

P

erched atop Tasmania’s Totem Pole, 65m above the waves, I struggled for breath, my face planted against the left foot of my climbing partner Steve Monks. There had been no other way for my hemiplegic body to wriggle onto the rock needle’s postage-stamp summit. My one functioning arm was almost useless after the 126 one-arm pull-ups it had taken to get me up here. Steve had taken his tight rock shoes off, to ease the discomfort. I looked up at him.

“You’ve not washed your feet, have you?”

My own legs were still stuck out over the void but here was the rest of me, on top of the world, kissing my dear leader’s feet. He put out his hand and helped me to an unstable standing position, my legs fatigued and spastic. After a joyful hug, I thought it best to sit down again and conduct operations from a cross-legged posture.

Steve checked his knots and zipped himself across the rope we had rigged up earlier that connected us to the headland. I was left alone on an ever-so-gently swaying pillar of dolerite, meditating on what I had just achieved.

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Steve Monks looks down from the halfway ledge on the Totem Pole as Paul Pritchard approaches. Credit: Matt Newton WINTER 2022

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The Totem Pole, TASMANIA

D

espite being 65m high, the Totem Pole is just four metres wide, making it the slenderest sea stack in the world. It stands in the Southern Ocean on a remote stretch of jagged coastline in southern Tasmania. A local car bumper sticker reads: “An island off an island, at the arse end of the world.”

Almost two decades earlier, back in 1998, I had endured the most painful, lonely and confusing experience of my life on this stack of rock. My partner Celia Bull and I were down there alone.

We were attempting the second free ascent of this tower when a laptop-sized piece of dolerite scythed through the air from 25m above me and struck my skull like a blow from an axe. I was left hanging upside down on the end of the rope, just above the sea, blood pissing out of my head and turning the sea red.

Celia, standing on the Totem Pole’s only ledge, now faced her own ocean of trauma as she hauled me back up the vertical wall, the 9mm nylon rope gouging her hands. Bear in mind this was before the days of mobile phones. There was no dialling a rescue here. It took a full three hours before she could tie me safely to the ledge. Then she told me she was going to have to leave and get some help.

Fighting to steady her body, Celia began climbing the rope we had left in place to the summit of the tower. She then clipped herself onto our zip-line (climbers call it a Tyrolean traverse) connecting the Pole to the mainland. Dragging herself across, she paused for breath, 60m above the swell that was now mauling the base of the column.

In a moment of morbid fascination, I walked my fingers up through my gluey hair to the top of my head. I discovered a huge hole in my skull. Shocked, I pulled my hand away. My fingers were painted red with blood and sticky with cerebrospinal fluid.

The whole right side of my body had no feeling; I couldn’t move either my arm or leg. When I tried to call Celia’s name, no sound came from my mouth, just a faint croak. I was alone and broken on a distant stack of rock in the Southern Ocean.

Even though I had no idea why my limbs were paralysed, there was one thing I did know: I could trust Celia with my life, even though—as I was acutely aware—that life seemed likely to end soon. There was little I could do about that. And in my confused state, I had little energy for reviewing my life. I seemed comfortably detached from my imminent demise. All I could do was calmly accept my fate and make my last moments as un-distressing as possible. At the same time, I had to keep my options open. Here was a thought: What if I lived?

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I remember thinking, before once again plunging back into unconsciousness, “What the hell am I doing here?”

I know I didn’t just mean “What am I doing on this ledge?”

I knew that much.

I was now oblivious to Celia, as she climbed the final steep path to the crest of the headland above. It would take her two

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IN A MOMENT OF MORBID FASCINATION, I WALKED MY

FINGERS UP THROUGH MY STICKY HAIR TO THE TOP OF MY HEAD. I

DISCOVERED A HUGE HOLE IN MY SKULL.” hours to run back to Fortescue Bay and alert the rescuers. Later, she told me that she looked back at me down on that ledge and thought it was the last time she was ever going to see me alive.

I heard the whirring of helicopter rotor blades on the wind; Neale Smith, a paramedic, roped down to me. He thought he was in for a simple corpse recovery when he saw the amount of blood on the ledge, but when he realised I was still alive, he knew there was no time to lose. He clipped me to his harness and abseiled me down into a waiting tinny that was acting as a lifeboat. When the ‘lifeboat’ reached the beach, I was transferred into a helicopter before eventually being stretchered into the Royal Hobart Hospital a full ten hours after the accident.

From that very point onwards, I became a searcher, although it was by a long and circuitous route that I found any kind of meaning in my life.

I have come to understand that climbing is more than just ascending a mountain or rock face. The act of moving one’s body while in situations of great risk to personal safety is

The Totem Pole

mind training in the truest sense. The charioteer Lord Krishna in the Bhagavad-Gita describes this type of mindfulness-yoga as “skill in action.” Now, he was talking about war, but isn’t holding a contorted fingertip pose for multiple seconds while in extremis a kind of internal war?

I have learned much from the wild places I’ve wandered and the mountains I have climbed. I doubt I would have survived that day on the Totem Pole, spilling half my blood into the ocean and onto that ledge, without that knowledge gained in the mountains. I can still hear the vacant groaning as the air escaped my lungs, as if Celia was dragging someone else inch by painful inch up that wall.

There, on that ledge, all I wanted to do was sleep. But I was certain that if I did drift off, it would be for the last time. I made a vague pact with myself to attempt to live.

I found myself dumbly forcing my body up onto my one functioning elbow, looking down into a sticky red pool and moaning. I then dropped my head straight into my own viscous cold blood with a dull thud. It is not my intention to gross you out here, but communicate that without this persistent determination, I would not have realised half the things I have since. I very much doubt I would have attempted to climb Kilimanjaro or cycle to Mount Everest. It is not stubborn or aggressive, this determination that The Mountain taught me. No. It is more a patient resolve.

I had to stay awake and alert, and yet remain calm and balanced. Looking back from a distance of 24 years, I can now see that the meditative trance I entered into, neither asleep nor awake, was a vital coping mechanism. When we are in life-or-death situations, being paralysed with fear does not come naturally. In 1844, when a lion mauled David Livingstone, he thought it the most serene moment of his life. Like Livingstone, I was not overly worried about paralysis or death. I remained in a becalmed state of mind on that sofa-sized ledge for those long hours.

Some might think that my brain injury could have been easily avoided. If only I had ignored my passion and stuck with the joinery apprenticeship I’d begun in the suburbs

IMAGES - TOP TO BOTTOM Paul, one handed rope climbing. “About 3/4 of the way up, my shoulder began to hurt and I’d have to shake it out every five moves up the rope.” Credit: Matt Newton MRI scan showing extensive ‘midline shift’ Paul’s head needed 36 staples

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of Manchester at age 16. Yet, living with paralysis all these years has actually improved my life. So much so that I can say without doubt that this catastrophic brain injury is the single best thing that ever happened to me.

Brain trauma is starkly different to any other form of injury.

This isn’t just what you could become. This is what you really are: the constant public fretting, the addictive behaviour, the verbalising of thoughts about sex. The emotional lability that forces you to see the hysterically funny side of death one moment, when the next you have tears streaming down your face because you have seen early-morning storm light caught on a tree. Always being in a variety of states of existential crisis.

This is who we really are, once we drop the façade, once we cease to act out the part we have created for ourselves.

The version of our lives that’s like being trapped in Waiting For Godot.

Added to this, the partial long-term memory loss I suffered, and an almost complete lack of working memory, meant I have been forced to live in the moment. In my mind, the loss of one’s memory can be a curse or a meditation, for meditation is all about being in the present moment. I am forever grasping at the straws of times past that have, well, passed. It is exhausting. But I have learned that if I can accept that this is the reality of this moment, I can turn memory loss around so that it becomes a gift.

Don’t get me wrong. I still have embarrassing moments in cafes when I am ordering breakfast. I can picture an egg but cannot for

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IT’S A JOURNEY ENCOMPASSING MANY PERSPECTIVES, NOT LEAST A CLEARER INTERPRETATION OF FEAR.

FEAR DOES NOT WARRANT THE IMPORTANCE [WE] ATTACH TO IT.”

the life of me recall the name for it and simply say, “Egg, please.”

So instead I say, “One of those oval things that comes from chickens.”

Those who have brain injuries hold up a mirror to society.

This can make brain-injured people terrifying to the ‘normal’ person in the street, because at some level they fear this is who they might be. There are the awkward reactions from some people, the sideways glances and weird comments, day in, day out.

Some of them I’m sure are meant as compliments. “You’re so brave,” they say, when I’m simply walking down a country path.

Or else the comments are dressed as empathy. “Never mind, I’m so forgetful too.”

Sometimes it’s darker. People with disabilities often arouse suspicion. On more than one occasion, I’ve been challenged while taking pictures of my son at soccer or looking for my daughter in the school grounds. I won’t go into the psychology of why most Bond villains have a disability. But it’s lucky that I have a black sense of humour and can see the funny side of these moments.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM FAR LEFT During a first ascent in Torres Del Paine, Patagonia. Credit: Philip Lloyd In Hampi, Karnataka State, India in 1990. Nobody had ever climbed in this wonderland of rocks before. Credit: Andy Parkin On Trango Tower, Baltoro, Pakistan. Credit: Adam Wainwright Steve Quinlan skiing towards Mount Asgard, Baffin Island before making the first ascent of the West Face with Paul.

Credit: Paul Pritchard Cycling towards Mt Everest at 5,300m. Credit: Sharyn Jones

Occasionally it gets really dark. I have suffered physical attacks more than once. In the most recent, I was taking my children to a matinee performance of The Wind in the Willows at a local theatre. My lurching gait must have attracted the attention of a man who, unprovoked, crossed the street and punched me around the ear, knocking me to the ground. My already fragile head hit the pavement with a thud. After bending over me and urging me to “Fuck off and die,” the man hurried off around the corner. A passer-by helped me to my feet. The only saving grace was that my kids were already in the theatre so didn’t see their dad getting beaten.

So, I have dealt with some shit that nobody should ever have to face. And this led me down a different path of thought. Why do people behave as they do? Should I forgive my attacker? Perhaps they are just mistaken, as no one is born mean spirited.

What are the ethics of any given situation?

I think this constant questioning of reality forces you to take a philosophical journey. It certainly did me. And it’s a journey encompassing many perspectives, not least a clearer interpretation of fear. Fear does not warrant the importance many of us attach to it. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be concerned for our own welfare: just that whether we are paralysed with fear or not, the result will likely be the same. What is courageous is the ability to just ‘do it scared’, and trust that the universe will provide.

Eleven years after my brain injury, I made my first lead climb since the accident. Clearly, it might have been safer to stay on

the ground and not risk my neck. Yet I understood there was an opportunity for growth up there on The Mountain. So I climbed anyway. And as the years passed, I discovered that courage meant embracing the essential and often difficult skill of living in the present and letting the future go without anticipation.

But it wasn’t until I embarked on a pedal-powered journey across the Tibetan Plateau that I realised what being in the present moment actually entailed. In Tibet, I became aware I was not nearly as important as I thought I was. And it was while turning my pedals monotonously round on the road to Everest that I understood the transformative effect pilgrimage can have.

Through the course, discussions with our Tibetan guide and the monks I met along the plateau, I came to see that many Tibetans have a similar worldview to the one I had learned, by a sort of osmosis, in the mountains. I realised that through facing my deepest fear on The Mountain, I was learning to live in the moment, a core teaching embodied in Buddhist philosophy.

After six weeks in the Royal Hobart Hospital, I was deemed stable enough to fly home. Thus began an entire year in a Merseyside hospital unable to talk, unable to walk and unable to use my right side. During that year, I wrote The Totem Pole—it was either that or go down to the day room with the other clients and watch reruns of The Bold and the Beautiful. I pressed a million keys with one finger to write that book.

Yet, I am human still; I descended into a deep well of despair at the thought of never being able to climb again. For a while, I

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The Totem Pole, TASMANIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Rock climbing with half a body presents a challenge. Credit: To The Rainbow/Bamboo Chicken Shattered on the summit of Kilimanjaro after climbing The Western Breach.

Credit: Slack Jaw Productions The Kili team, L to R: Paul Pritchard, Pete Steane, David Lim, Jamie Andrew.

Credit: Slack Jaw Productions Climbing The Totem Pole.

Credit: Matt Newton

THE MOUNTAIN HAS INFUSED ME WITH A PROFOUND ACCEPTANCE OF CHANGE. THIS INCLUDES EMBRACING THE MOST

But hear me out. This challenge has questioning at its heart, and this questioning is fundamental if we wish to live our lives to the utmost. This challenging ourselves and questioning—if we do it often enough—pushes us to do our best, be our best, to strive to be more comfortable with inevitable fears, to be more trusting and more able to be dedicated. It allows us to put painful events such as illness, grief and loss into perspective, and— dare I say it—to live a more harmonious life. W

could not summon the energy to climb out of my hospital bed, never mind to go into the physio gym for my daily walking practise. However, in a few short months, I had climbed out of that depression and accepted my situation. How was this possible? I suspect it was something to do with having spent my life in the mountains. If I am right, then The Mountain has taught me something profound. Yes, the wild places I’ve visited have instilled in me a steadfast resolve. But more than this, The Mountain has infused me with a profound acceptance of change. This includes embracing the most profound change of all: death.

I now see why we go to the wild places. Why we climb. After all, there are a thousand reasons not to go to The Mountain.

Rockfall, hypothermia, avalanche, altitude sickness, the risk of falling off, severe weather or just the hard work of it all. When I look at it carefully, I see there is but one singular reason to climb a rock or mountain. The reason we climb is for the challenge.

“Of course it’s for the challenge!” I hear you say.

CONTRIBUTOR: This story was adapted for Wild by Paul

PROFOUND CHANGE OF ALL: DEATH.”

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Pritchard from his book The Mountain Path, published by Vertebrate. Prior to Paul’s accident on the Totem Pole in 1998, he was a leading rock climber and alpinist. He’s made many significant ascents, including what were at the time some of the UK’s hardest rock routes, the first ascent of the West Face of Mt Asgard on Baffin Island, and also an ascent of the East Face of the Central Tower of Paine in Patagonia. Since his accident, Paul has continued to lead a challenging life through caving, tricycle racing, sea kayaking, river rafting, and, of course, climbing.

He is an international speaker, advocating for disability, and a diversity and inclusion trainer. He lives in Hobart, Tasmania. The Mountain Path is available at adventure-shop.com.au

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Wild is no ordinary magazine. Since its establishment in 1981, Wild has been the inspiring voice of the Australian outdoors. It is a magazine of self-reliance and challenge and sometimes doing it tough. While it is not necessarily hard-core, what it certainly is not is soft-core. It is not glamping. It is not about being pampered while experiencing the outdoors. Wild does not speak down to experienced adventurers.

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Slabby waterfall downclimbs are no place for ski boots. Ben, ejected from the summit

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BOUNTY HUNTING

Thoughts on pursuit and reward in Tasmania’s mountains

2021 was a lean year for skiers in Tasmania. But that didn’t stop Shaun Mittwollen from venturing to Frenchmans Cap and Cradle Mountain in search of epic turns. And it allowed him to think about pursuit and reward in the backcountry, and on what it means to be a skier.

By SHAUN MITTWOLLEN

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Backcountry skiing, TASMANIA

THE PURSUIT ...

T

he hardest part is leaving. It’s a long

drive in a warm car but the windows don’t lie. The rain runs down them like little meandering rivers. It’s five degrees Celsius. Cold, wet and miserable. The kind of weather that makes it OK to sit inside and do absolutely nothing. Each minute brings you ever closer to that most dreaded point—stepping outside. The humidity condenses on every free surface within seconds. You know well that you won’t be comfortable again until you return to this remote point of civilisation, perhaps some days later. In Tasmania, almost certainly some days later. You savour the warmth of the heater vents, linger on the last morsels of a roadside breakfast. The last vestiges of comfort.

Things always seem easier when you’re sitting at home several coffees in, dreaming about skiing the remote mountain chutes you sighted during a balmy summer bushwalk. Oh yeah, two days’ walk in. That won’t be too bad. Or: I’m sure the snow will be awesome up high. And so on ... The age-old saying Without risk there is no reward is no more apt than in Tasmanian skiing.

When you step out on the trail, you throw it all on the line. You have no idea what to expect. The weather is changeable to the nearest hour, and there is no real way of telling just how much snow is in the mountains without actually going there. And so, there is only one way to find out. It takes an optimistic adventurer to take this final, most committing step.

Prepared for the worst but secretly hoping for the best, the approach takes no prisoners. It’s tiring work; the kilometres are slow and the equipment ungainly. The mind drifts to stay occupied, as if to distract you from dampening base layers and freezing, sodden boots. Still, with increasing excitement as the goal draws nearer, you wonder how the mountain will look. Hours go by; in some cases, days. Camps are set and broken in the rain. Trees roar with gusts of wind. Occasionally, flurries of snow waft down to the valley floors, signalling a blizzard high in the clouds. The mountains are up there in the fog, keeping their secrets hidden.

This is a proper adventure. Daydreams become reality. The excitement of the potential makes your imagination run wild with possibilities. Where the snow has filled in, massive dolerite boulders poke from the snow like nunataks, and the tops of scorparia bushes barely reach above the sastrugi-drifted surface.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Hamish Fleming traversing Climbing the bare upper Aoraki’s exposed summit ridge rock of Frenchmans Cap, the lack of snow became steadily apparent No. No snow here …

Frenchmans Cap is an impressive fortress but offers a potential ski line from the summit A snow filled slot in the place where a semi-permanent snowfield once existed Long marches through dripping rainforests for the chance of a wild ski line

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YOU’LL TEST YOUR

LIMITS OF MENTAL STRENGTH, RESILIENCE AND FOCUS. YOU WILL BE EITHER REWARDED OR KNOCKED BACK, AND ALL THE MORE HUNGRY FOR A

SECOND CHANCE.”

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Breaks in the clouds reveal steep mountainsides caked with rime ice and charismatically narrow couloirs. You’re urged to take a closer look; you may discover and ride some of Australia’s steepest, gnarliest, and most remote lines. This is country where you’ll explore uncharted land far from any signs of humanity. You will be completely self-sufficient, stripped back to the basics of life. You’ll test yourself right up to your limits of mental strength, resilience and focus. You will be either rewarded or knocked back, and all the more hungry for a second chance.

Frenchmans Cap stands proudly out of impenetrable forests and vast plains. A glistening monolith of jagged quartzite. Revered in bushwalking and climbing circles for its iconic shape and a massive cliff, Frenchmans is lesser known for its skiing; it has probably never seen a true descent. Decades ago, there were whispers of—southeast of the summit—a semi-permanent snowfield that often lingered through the summer. Australia’s best answer to a glacier.

It takes two days to reach the summit.

Winter has seen languishing snowfalls that circle west of Tasmania. Disappointingly few of these storms land on the island; instead they are bound for the mainland. When you top out, the challenge is not yawning blue crevasses, but instead steep cliff faces and a scary lack of snow. Barely a drift has accumulated. Out here, the impacts of our rapidly warming climate are starkly illustrated.

This is the risk element. Your huge effort is not rewarded. Or is it?

Although you barely manage to ski the 50m of vertical on the summit drift, the mountain leaves you more excited than before. This is all part of adventure. Setbacks and knowledge. Most expeditions in Tasmania are failures in terms of quality skiing, but at the same time, they are highlights of achievement that cascade enthusiasm for another attempt. That same optimism will keep you returning. The same plan, but with more snow. +++++

The mystical spires and charismatic plant communities of alpine Tasmania made the approach feel like we were in another country

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Backcountry skiing, TASMANIA

... & THE REWARD

Sometimes everything lines up perfectly.

You are far to the north of Frenchmans Cap, and stand on a windswept col somewhere along the Cradle Mountain skyline.

The wind ferociously corners angled stone. Snow buckets down.

Below you, coated in 20cm of fresh is arguably one of the most beautiful ski lines in all of Australia.

You hammer a piton into the rock. A small cliff dictates a rappel, down into a narrow slot that slices almost dead straight for some three hundred vertical metres through the mountain’s east face. Skis on your back, you lever yourself over the edge pressing away from safety. You know there is only one place to go. Touching down, ski boots compress into a soft surface as if planting the first steps on the moon. Your heart rate elevates.

The moment is right here, and you know it. Nerves turn over in your stomach, anticipation reaching boiling point. You turn around and face your goal. Your dreamland is here and now.

Down off the col, the wind settles. Small sluff-slides occasionally stream over the walls—reminders of what hangs above your head. The dense snowfall softens all sounds through the long chamber. Your partner takes off first, leaping into the air to guide his massive planks through the first turn. He keeps going out of sight. It must be good.

The last time you skied this chute, the snow was so claggy it was pure survival skiing. Today is different. Soft and forgiving,

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YOU TURN AROUND AND FACE YOUR GOAL.

YOUR DREAMLAND IS HERE AND NOW.”

Fresh snow and dolerite chasms.

Insanity meets reason

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Climbing the scoured western faces of Cradle Mountain. We’re metres away from our goal with no idea what to expect The reward The final hurdle. Jacob abseils into the line The anticipation builds Kitchen Hut was built in the 1930s. There are stories of it being buried up to the roof spine in big years

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even on ultralight touring skis. As you rotate towards the fall line, time slows, and you are immersed in the moment. The walls become an omnipresent peripheral, but they mean no harm. Your skis glide effortlessly on the surface as short turns link just between the cliffs. With each successive moment, your confidence adds speed, and the line begins to open up, twisting towards the valley below. Down the bottom of the chute, you regather. You are ecstatic. You have hunted; now you have scored your bounty.

CONTRIBUTOR: Shaun Mittwollen is a permanently stoked adventurist and photographer who gets far too excited about remote ski lines. He usually forgets how difficult the access was within 24 hours of returning and is already thinking about going back.

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PHOTO ESSAY

After a couple laps of Watsons Crags, I saw this take-off on the way up. I knew I had to hit it; the only problem was it went to some pretty hard-packed snow. But a group had just got to the top after hiking back out of their line, and now that the whole peanut gallery was there, I just had to get it done. Photo credit: AD

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AIR APPARENT

‘Free the heel, free the mind’ goes the telemarkers’ old saying.

Steve Leeder can add ‘Free the skis’ because he just can’t keep his tele gear on the ground in the NSW backcountry.

Words STEVE LEEDER Photography AARON DICKFOS, STEVE MAXWELL & STEVE LEEDER

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Kosciuszko Backcountry, NEW SOUTH WALES

W

HEN I TELL PEOPLE that I mostly backcountry ski, their first thought is “cross country.” And then when I say on telemark skis, they think of

old skinny skis. But it’s been a goal of mine to change those misconceptions, and hitting big airs and big terrain is the easiest way to open peoples’ eyes really quickly.

I moved to Australia from Canada almost twenty years ago, and people assume that because I’m Canadian, I must get bored with the skiing here in Oz. But right away, I was introduced to some of the Main Range’s best bits; I just can’t stop exploring it all, and there is so much fun stuff here that I always get my fix. To be honest, I haven’t skied overseas for twenty years, yet I’m having just as much fun every day on snow here as I did then.

The best part about the terrain in Kosciuszko is the amount of ‘mini-putt’ zones. It’s a term I use to describe an area of a mountain that has loads of rad features and lines all in the same area, in the same way a putt-putt golf course is a small, technical, fun, miniaturised version of a standard course. Air, tech and gnar—AKA fun—all lined up in the one compact area. It’s my favourite stuff; well, I think taking air is my real favourite. I like to get that scared feeling, and then shutting it out and sending ...

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Blue Lake is one of my favourite playgrounds, so I couldn’t not jump over the whole thing.

Photo credit: AD Sometimes it’s all about just trying to make it work. This air really didn’t go anywhere, but I knew if I just caught the little transition, it would be smooth and fun.

There’s no way most other people would even bother hitting something like this, but the challenge of making it work is half the fun. Photo credit: AD Once I remembered how to do backflips, I wanted to do them off everything. So I did.

Photo credit: AD

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Kosciuszko Backcountry, NEW SOUTH WALES

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP I’ve been fortunate to try out a lot of different action cameras over the last few years, and it’s really changed how I look at shooting some things. Working with GoPro last season testing out the MAX—not a drone, just a sort of selfie stick—was rad, and it definitely got people talking about my shots. Photo credit: SL I bet you can’t figure out the take-off point either (Ed: you’re right; it’s got me stumped!). COVID last year brought the backcountry even closer. This is actually in-bounds at Perisher, but with the resort closed, I had to skin to it. That makes it backcountry, right? Photo credit: SM Spring melt brings out so many more airs. It really is some of the funnest skiing all year! Photo credit: SL Just up the road from Perisher on the way to other things, this zone often gets overlooked, but it has so many fun hits. Photo credit: AD Just trying to get a good look at how solid the cornice is. Photo credit: SM

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READER’S ADVENTURE

FAFFAINEERING AT BLUE LAKE

Mountaineering: The art of ascending mountains; requires high levels of fitness, technical skill and efficiency.

Faff: To spend time in an ineffectual activity. In an outdoor setting, generally interpreted to mean general bumbling, forgetfulness and inefficiency.

Byron Muir on an uncharacteristically good day of climbing

Every alpinist has to start their career somewhere. For many generations of aspiring Australian mountaineers, that somewhere has been Kosciuszko NP’s Blue Lake. Nat Walkom was no different, although there have been just a few hiccups, speedhumps, mishaps and plain old stuff-ups along the way.

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“T

here are,” Ernest Hemingway once said, “only three sports: bullfighting, motor racing, and mountaineering; all the rest are merely games.”

But it was via games—or more precisely, via my failures in them—that I came to the “true sport” of mountaineering. I was a mediocre rugby player, a completely ungifted but committed surfer, a clumsy skier, and an average rock climber/endurance athlete who didn’t understand why they couldn’t progress without training. A few years ago, I deluded myself that a combination of these shortcomings would amount to a decent mountaineer.

Dreaming of distant peaks had been my favourite pastime since my first exposure to real mountains during a fateful family hiking trip to the Land of the Long White Cloud. As usual, however, putting dreams into action required some external motivation.

Enter Damo. In preparation for a mountaineering course, Damo was heading down from Newcastle for a weekend of ice climbing in Kosciuszko National Park. Australia’s aspiring mountaineers have long honed their craft in the park’s Main Range, with one location in particular being of prime importance: Blue Lake. During Australia’s last glacial maximum, the lake was sculpted by great rivers of ice, which carved hard granite into a deep cirque. In winter, the granite walls are covered by ice flows and the crags coated in rime, while cornices stand guard menacingly. Gone are the masses of summer tourists that buzz around the hills. Instead, the few travellers that visit the lake are frequently lashed by howling winds and blizzards that roll up in storms from the Bass Strait. But when the Queen of Winter smiles upon you, when she holds back her storms, when the clouds part, the beauty of this ancient landscape shrouded beneath its white cloak is revealed: beautiful but fleeting, magnificent but treacherous.

Nat and Byron in their newly renovated kitchen

OUR PLAN WAS TO SNOWSHOE from Guthega, spend the night near Blue Lake and climb the next day. Never mind that Damo had close to zero climbing experience and I had never camped in the snow, let alone used the traitorous pieces of plastic that are known as snowshoes.

So, there we were, two bumblies at the Guthega carpark in the heart of winter, equipped with a three-season tent, snowshoes, and some borrowed ice climbing gear we barely knew how to use. To top it off, it was snowing at a rate that even the mad Scottish would have considered staying in the pub. I had envisioned a stroll through sunlit alpine meadows filled with flowers, then there would magically be ice to climb at the end. What lay ahead was a far cry different: The hard face of the mountains in winter, and an exhausting plod through knee-deep snow.

All the factors were lining up for a proper adventure.

Plodding along the Snowy River, we fell into innumerable snowdrifts before finally crossing at a suspension bridge. We’d been anticipating this point; when we’d looked across at the shady faces on this side of the river, the trees had thinned. Surely, we’d figured, travel would be easier once we’d crossed the Snowy and were above the treeline. Wrong! The snow had developed an icy crust. We slowed to a Himalayan pace.

Damo then had a great idea: “I reckon crampons are better for this icy stuff than snowshoes.”

They weren’t. Instead, Damo learnt exactly what is meant by breakable crust. His legs drove through the icy, seemingly firm top layer, and he sank to his knees in the deep snow beneath. He also shredded his pants with the sharp crampons. Meanwhile, I was quietly chuffed; my ‘expert alpine climbing instincts’ had advised me to remain in snowshoes.

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Blue Lake, NEW SOUTH WALES

DAMO INCHED UP THE FLOW, FLAILING

WILDLY AND KICKING LIKE AN ANGRY MULE. HALFWAY UP, HIS RIGHT

CRAMPON FELL OFF HIS INCOMPATIBLE APRÈS SKI BOOT AND DANGLED FROM ITS

BINDING BENEATH HIS FOOT.”

Finally, with night looming, we pitched our tent on Mount Twynam’s eastern flank amidst strengthening winds. We had decided Damo would be in charge of ‘The Snow Camping Stuff’, so he suffered outside, constructing a snow wall in a vain attempt to prevent spindrift blowing through our tent’s mesh sidewalls. Inside, I was discovering that not all stoves work well in freezing temperatures. Half an hour later, after spilling water in the tent, I decided half-cooked lentils would suffice, and I retreated to my sleeping bag.

Waking after a surprisingly good sleep, we began our march to Blue Lake. Rounding the final spur, the clouds began to clear, and gifted us a glorious sight—shimmering ice flows above a frozen lake, and in Australia, no less!

It was only later, back at home and looking through photos of our outing, that I realised many of the “beautiful shimmering ice flows” actually had grass sticking out of them! And they were of pitiful length. At the time, however, this escaped the attention of the two young and impressionable would-be alpinists; instead, they were psyched.

At the first ice we came to, I stopped and—with me being in charge of ‘The Climbing Stuff’—set up a top rope. Luckily for us, the ice was low angle; we had absolutely no idea what we were doing. Even our rope was an issue; from the outset, it was somehow soaking wet (I didn’t know dry ropes existed).

Worse yet, my ‘expert alpine climbing instincts’—so prescient when it came to that breakable crust—suddenly deserted me, so Damo went first. Having seen videos of people hacking with ice axes and kicking crampons, he set to. Damo inched up the flow, flailing wildly and kicking like an angry mule. Halfway up, his right crampon fell off his incompatible après ski boot and dangled from its binding beneath his foot. By some miraculous feat of strength and hopping, he made it to the top.

Inspired by Damo’s ‘performance’, it was then my turn. I grovelled upwards with wild swings and skating feet, with all the composure and grace of a frightened cow.

Then it was back to Damo. This time, however, he decided that instead of his unfaithful right crampon, he would use a snowshoe.

This didn’t work.

He seemed to have confused the intended purpose of crampons and snowshoes. But where does innovation come from without experimentation?

After a couple more laps, we scurried back to the car to avoid an oncoming storm . It’s hard to express both the levels of tiredness and satisfaction brought on by hard days in the snowy hills. All you want to do is eat as much food as you can and curl up someplace warm afterwards. I was completely exhausted but also the most excited I had been in a long time. I was basically an alpinist! I had joined the club of a select few who have risen above the flat lands of Australia to climb water frozen in time.

It didn’t take long before I was back.

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TWO WEEKS LATER, I MET BYRON MUIR. He was of similar (read: limited) experience to myself and, with a few others, we set off the next week. But there were a few key differences between this outing and the last. This time, I slept in a four-season tent. And I also used backcountry skis. doing so opened up for me a whole new avenue for winter exploration in the hills. While skinning uphill far ahead of the pack, I swore a solemn oath.

“I’m never touching bloody snowshoes again!” Three years later, the oath still stands.

But perhaps the most crucial difference was that this time, we had someone with us who actually had an inkling of what was going on: Matt Clark. While the rest of us tried like punch-drunk boxers to beat the ice into submission, Matt climbed with a grace and skill the rest of us could only dream about. To be frank, though, that was an exceedingly low bar. Nonetheless, under Matt’s guidance, I learnt not only the art of self-arresting, I also discovered there was not just one technique for moving in the mountains, there were many: the French technique, the German technique, the American technique … And that was before I even learnt the techniques themselves. But Matt demonstrated them all; I was beginning my real education as an ice climber.

THE NEXT WINTER, BYRON AND I were back at it again, trudging out to Blue Lake in all conditions: rain, blizzard, sleet, snow snot, graupel, hail, gales, freezing rain, fog, drizzle, mizzle, scotch mist, rapidly melting snow, and everything in-between. All conditions, that is, except sun; we must have angered the mountain gods, because we missed all the sunny days that year …

The season’s first trip took place during a classic Australian wet blizzard. And if the worst conditions I’ve experienced before or since didn’t already make the trip challenging enough, the snow also had a heinous rain crust that broke under my weight and gave no friction for skinning. Maybe snowshoes would have been better?

But at least with the skis I wasn’t post-holing through the deep snow on foot. The same couldn’t be said for Byron. Before leaving Guthega that morning, I returned from the toilet to find a confused Byron standing next to the car. He looked lost. This is unusual for Byron, who is often already packed and halfway down the trail if I’m not fast getting my things together.

“I can’t find my ski boots.” “…”

“I think I left them at my front door!”

A call to Byron’s mother confirmed his suspicions. We set off anyway, and to this day, I’m still unsure how he made it to Blue Lake without skis or snowshoes. I suspect self-hatred was the main motivator.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Classic Australian ice climbing conditions Still smiling despite (or because of?) the terrible conditions and lack of climbing It’s a good morning when you have to excavate snow to find your packs Unimpressed selfie upon waking up to another blizzard Blue Lake under a mantle of snow

After a lot of suffering and post-holing on Byron’s part, we eventually arrived. Conditions were perfect. We did a couple of laps of the low-angle ice (during which I pulled off a feat I was psyched about for weeks—a mixed climbing move), before heading off to set up our tent. Overnight, another wet blizzard rolled in. To investigate, I went out for a ski and Byron went for a walk.

The air and the ground were indistinguishable. Yep, blizzard confirmed.

But when we returned to what we thought was our tent, an ice wall had magically appeared on the windward side. And two sets of skis were stashed out the front. Where had our tent gone?

The weird thing was, this one looked exactly the same as ours.

We did a lap of the mysterious but familiar structure. At this point, two heads poked out the front door.

The heads belonged to some very lost skiers from Wollongong. They had stumbled across our tent, and then dived into it seeking salvation from the storm. Unfortunately for them, we needed to get back to Canberra that afternoon, so we evicted them into the blizzard. They weren’t entirely out of luck, though;

thanks to the wonder of GPS navigation, we led them back to Guthega. They bought us dinner and beers for our ‘services’, which, being students, we readily accepted.

THE WINTER OF 2021 SAW BOTH my most successful and my least successful ice climbing trips. The first involved leaving Guthega at dawn with a light daypack to meet Byron, who had kindly already carried out all the heavy gear and camped out for a few days with a mate. We had a beautiful day of climbing low-angle ice flows before I headed back to Jindabyne for dinner at the pub, leaving Byron in his natural habitat—camped on a ridgetop staring out at the oncoming storm.

Bish, bosh, bash: ice climbing done light, fast and sexy!

But at the opposite extreme sits my most recent outing. It was a trip where no axes were swung, nor crampons kicked in.

In fact, there was no climbing at all. Instead, for three days, we stumbled around in a blizzard, bumbled around with tent malfunctions, and fumbled around with traitorous and dodgy

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Nat looking confused while Matt attempts to impart knowledge Still a surfer at heart, atop Mt Twynam Matt on some steep ice Sunset at basecamp Trying to figure out how ice tools work

CONTRIBUTOR: Four years ago, Nat was dragged away from the beach for a family hiking trip to NZ. This began his transformation from a beautiful long-haired surfer boy to the hunchbacked climber you see today.

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snowshoes (well, the others did; I stayed true to my oath of never touching them again, and used skis instead). On one of the days, I returned to the tent from a day of attempted-but-not-successful climbing to find Kaz (who’d wisely stayed in the tent) in the midst of an exhaustion-fuelled existential crisis.

“I’m seriously questioning if I actually like the outdoors,” he said.

“Of course you do,” I told him, before deciding the best course to cheer him up was to talk for hours—while we lay shivering in our sleeping bags—about the joys of offwidth climbing. Sienna, who had been bundled into our tent after hers had collapsed, was unfortunate enough to be stuck between us for the entirety of this discussion.

But instead of turning Sienna off trad climbing forever, the conversation, perversely, inspired her. Over the next two months, she transformed from a dedicated boulderer whose pully tendons were in a constant state of crisis, into an off-width-loving masochist who has since left skin from her fingers, knees, forearms, ankles and face in most of the medieval torture devices disguised as granite cracks that surround Canberra.

SO HOW DO I FEEL ABOUT ICE CLIMBING at Blue Lake? It has been one of the most formative and memorable experiences of my young life; it has also been the been the source of the most ineffectual, most ridiculous, and most frustrating times I have ever spent outdoors. Faffaineering, indeed.

But I have not given up. In fact, my experiences in the frozen bowl of Blue Lake drove me to buy a one-way ticket to The Great White North (aka Canada) with the sole purpose of climbing ice and, eventually, alpine routes.

And if you ask why, I will tell you this: Ice calls you like a siren song. When you dance up a frozen flow, you are not of this world. The ice, you see, is not a place for humans; it’s too hard, cold, wild and pure. We have no power over this realm, we can’t dominate it and control it like we do other environments. We simply pass through and carry the experience with us. You feel the power of the mountains in the howling of the wind or in the absolute silence of the snowdrift, and you are both humbled and blessed. W

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Sustainable travel in Switzerland

SW CO I TNZCEI R EL RA GN ED

It’s time for a new kind of travel. Sustainable travel doesn’t necessarily mean having to go without. Here are some ideas for your next trip:

Hop on a train In Switzerland, public transport will also take you to smaller and more remote places, and, with 9,000 trains a day, you’re sure to find a suitable connection. What’s more, Swiss Federal Railways will carry your winter luggage from station to station, or even from door to door, so that you can enjoy your journey in a relaxed and environmentally friendly way whatever the weather.

Enjoy responsible cuisine The Michelin Guide has introduced a new symbol for 2021: the green star is awarded for sustainability in the restaurant industry. You can enjoy fine dining with regional products in the 19 listed restaurants, safe in the knowledge that a responsible approach is taken with regard to animals and the environment.

Protect the winter An NGO called “Protect Our Winters” organises, among other things, ski touring and freeride weekends with climate protection experts. This means you can be guided safely through the mountains and at the same time find out what you can do to ensure that winter experiences in the mountains are still possible in 50 years’ time.

Spend time in the cities Switzerland’s cities are bursting with creative minds who are also committed to the issue of sustainability in their businesses and who live this out in the form of locally, fairly produced products or innovative restaurant projects. All of these can be discovered on a city trip.

Campaign for greater sustainability Swisstainable sheds light on what is already available in terms of sustainability and creates an incentive for new ideas.

Find out more: » MySwitzerland.com/swisstainable

Sustainable travel

4

“My Swisstainable Journey” is a series of inspiring, personal stories.

Let yourself be inspired Switzerland Tourism has spent some time with people who are committed to achieving greater sustainability with new ideas or an environmentally conscious lifestyle. Some beautiful stories have emerged that leave you wanting more.

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SW CO I TNZCEI R EL RA GN ED

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SwitzerlandMobility Sustainable winter experiences: over 600 excursions using public transport at the click of a mouse.

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Travel by train and bus through the snow-covered landscape and enjoy the special magic of nature in its soft winter coat while snowshoeing, winter hiking or sledding. These tips are the perfect way to enjoy the peace and quiet of wintertime.

Montreux

WINTER HIKING

Braunwald

TOBOGGANING

Grindelwald

A tour with a “sea view”

Taking the air in Glarus

A sled with a difference

Sunset high above Lake Geneva.

Gentle trails at the foot of impressive peaks.

Riding a Velogemel below the Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau.

Hardly anyone would associate the shores of Lake Geneva with snowshoeing – but they’d be wrong! A snowshoe tour in Caux at the foot of the Rochers de Naye offers great views that are hard to beat, especially as the sun goes down. A glass of local wine completes the experience.

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Cog railway to the summit of Rochers de Naye.

Les Paccots

Culinary tour Fondue from your rucksack in the Fribourg Pre-Alps.

With the fondue kit in your rucksack, you can set off on the circular route away from the slopes and ski lifts. The motto is: stop wherever you like, prepare a fondue and feast. However, it can take a while to decide on a place to stop and rest, as there are so many fantastic vantage points.

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B The hike leads through the magical Braunwald mountains and offers views of the Tödi and other Glarus peaks. The ice gallery in the rock and the deepest valley in Switzerland are particularly impressive; almost 3,000 metres in altitude separate the Tödi, the highest mountain in Glarus, and the village of Linthal.

The sun terrace of the the listed Ortstockhaus.

Savognin

In search of game Deer watching in winter.

Armed with binoculars and accompanied by a local guide, it takes just 15 minutes to reach a south-facing slope that is popular with deer. So as not to disturb the animals, a minimum distance is always maintained during observation.

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Make sure you wrap up warmly. The temperature drops as night falls.

Try Fribourg cuchaule (saffron bread) in Châtel-St-Denis.

Riederalp

Within touching distance of the sky Views of glaciers, 4,000m peaks and primeval forests.

On this guided snowshoe hike, you’ll be struck dumb as you view the Aletsch Glacier, the largest Alpine glacier in Europe, and the majestic 4,000-metre peaks.

Enjoy a Valais platter on the sun terrace of the golf hotel.

Kandersteg

Far from everything A winter hike far from civilisation.

After the cable car ascent from Kandersteg to Sunnbüehl, there is still a 400-metre difference in altitude and a four-hour walk before you reach the Gemmi Pass. This is an impressive route that was the central link between the Bernese Oberland and Valais back in the Middle Ages.

With a bit of luck, the photo you take at the finish on the Gemmi Pass might even include a bearded vulture flying overhead.

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C Sled + Bicycle = Velogemel.

This vehicle is a Bernese Oberland invention and was once used as a means of transport, not a leisure sport.

Things are quite different today: the fun begins at Grindelwald train station, where the vehicles are available to hire. Then you take the bus up to Bussalp, where the fast-paced adventure can begin.

There are superb views of the Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau as you start out.

Stoos

Dizzying depths and distances Ten lakes, countless peaks, a rapid descent.

Thanks to the exposed location, the view from the Fronalpstock is phenomenal.

The rapid sledding to the middle station is at least as tempting. The speedy route full of bends offers the finest tobogganing fun – although perhaps not for beginners.

Let’s go to the Stoos ridge on the steepest funicular railway in the world!

Fiescheralp

Never-ending descent Sledding fun in Valais.

The run from the Fiescheralp to Lax is more than 13 kilometres long. It winds its way quickly down the mountain through snow-covered forests. You can take the shuttle bus back to Fiesch and have another go – if you still have any energy left.

After a tasty fondue, you can take

Hotel Schwarenbach offers a refuge

your sled down into the valley by

away from it all.

the light from your head lamp.

Human-powered mobility

SNOWSHOE HIKES

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With around 7,000 kilometres of slopes, Switzerland is an eldorado for snow sports enthusiasts. Experienced experts, up-and-coming piste skiers and powder connoisseurs will all find something to their liking here. This is made possible by modern technology and contemporary offers.

M O R E S U S TA I N A B I L I T Y

Tenna

A solarpowered ski lift SW CO I TNZCEI R EL RA GN ED

A pioneer celebrates a birthday.

Fast geschenkt The Safiental valley in

Graubünden is home to the world’s first solar-powered ski lift. The 450-metre-long lift system carries winter sports enthusiasts up the mountain while at the same time generating solar energy. The installaIn der Wintersaison tion is ten years old this year – 2021/22 gibt es die happy birthday!

Tageskarten für Melchsee-Frutt Raiffeisen-Mitglieder mit 40 % Rabatt.snow Eine Region Making ausknobeln und ab without electricity auf die Piste!

The height of ingenuity.

In 2013, the people of Central Switzerland started a pilot test, and now they have 19 “Nessy Zero E” snow lances. The Swiss invention uses just water pressure to produce snow. This pressure is delivered by the lakes high up on the Melchsee-Frutt.

Schneespektakel

Measuring the snow with a snow groomer More expertise – less snow.

The Flumserberg cable cars were the first to rely on Snowsat, a technology that measures the depth of snow under the snow groomers. This means that less snow is required to compensate for unevenness; snowmaking and grooming costs can be reduced as a result. 190 snow groomers in 28 ski areas throughout Switzerland are now equipped in this way.

Gian Plaiv fun slope Fun on the slopes for the whole family.

M O R E S U S TA

Tenna

A solarpowered

A pioneer celebra

The Safiental val Graubünden is h world’s first solar lift. The 450-met system carries w enthusiasts up th while at the sam ing solar energy. tion is ten years o happy birthday!

Gian Plaiv has an extraordinary mix of slopes, a snow park and cross-country trails, and is equally popular with young and old, beginners and advanced skiers.

Sörenberg

A paradise for kids A wide variety of fun and games.

Something for every age group, from the Kids Village to Kinderland with a covered magic carpet and the Kid’s Freestyle Line for more grown-up kids.

Braunwald

Kinderland Hüttenberg

In addition to 30 kilometres of slopes, Braunwald has Kinderland Hüttenberg with two rope lifts for the little ones as well as jumps, a parcours St. Moritz An An den den packenden packenden SchweiSchwei-course and plenty of opportunities for practice. zer Ski-Weltcuprennen

Vision zer Ski-Weltcuprennen live dabei sein!

100 water live mit mit% dabei sein! Als Als Raiffeisen-Mitglied und Raiffeisen-Mitglied und recycling

Zuoz

SKIING WITH THE W H O L E F A M I LY

The children’s play area for the whole family.

Wit exp mad

Melchsee-F

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St. Moritz

Vision 100 % wa recycling

A world first in th Swissrent Get straight off your couch and into the snow: thanks to the extensive range of rental equipment

from Swissrent, snow sports enthusiasts are well equipped for every adventure. » swissrent.com

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Eine Mütze für Sie …

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On the slopes

Flumserberg

slopes and Skihäsliland with its six ski lifts, a carousel and fun park.

SW CO I TNZCEI R EL RA GN ED

water at 2,500 metres above sea level, which can then be returned to the slopes as snow in the autumn. The people of the Engadin hope to save a total of over 4GWh of electricity, which corresponds to the annual consumption of 900 family households.

Fit Fitfür fürdie diePiste!

Piste!

F A M I L Y D E S T I N AT I O N S

For young and old Perfect family holidays from A to Z.

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Klar im Vorteil

Skihäsliland Bidmi

St. Moritz aims to makers on its pis use recycled wat is also planning a reservoir that will

With around 7,000 kilometres of slopes, Switzerland is an eldorado for snow sports enthusiasts. Experienced experts, up-and-coming piste skiers and powder connoisseurs will all find something to their liking here. This is made possible by modern technology and contemporary offers.

A magical winter trip by train

Flumserberg

AINABILITY

Measuring the snow with a snow groomer More expertise – less snow.

ski lift

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lley in home to the r-powered ski tre-long lift winter sports he mountain me time generat. The installaold this year –

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The Flumserberg cable cars were the first to rely on Snowsat, a technology that measures the depth of snow under the snow groomers. This means that less snow is required to compensate for unevenness; snowmaking and grooming costs can be reduced as a result. 190 snow groomers in 28 ski areas throughout Switzerland are now equipped in this way.

SKIING WITH THE W H O L E F A M I LY

Braunwald

Kinderland Hüttenberg The children’s play area for the whole family.

In addition to 30 kilometres of slopes, Braunwald has Kinderland Hüttenberg with two rope lifts for the little ones as well as jumps, a parcours course and plenty of opportunities for practice.

Hasliberg

Skihäsliland Bidmi The ultimate ski school training area.

Meiringen-Hasliberg has more than 60 kilometres of ski

slopes and Skihäsliland with its six ski lifts, a carousel and fun park.

Zuoz

Gian Plaiv fun slope Fun on the slopes for the whole family.

Gian Plaiv has an extraordinary mix of slopes, a snow park and cross-country trails, and is equally popular with young and old, beginners and advanced skiers.

Sörenberg

A paradise for kids A wide variety of fun and games.

Something for every age group, from the Kids Village to Kinderland with a covered magic carpet and the Kid’s Freestyle Line for more grown-up kids.

8

On the slopes

water at 2,500 metres above sea level, which can then be returned to the slopes as snow in the autumn. The people of the Engadin hope to save a total of over 4GWh of electricity, which corresponds to the annual consumption of 900 family households.

M O R E S U S TA I N A B I L I T Y

Tenna

F A M I LY D E S T I N AT I O N S

For young and old

A solarpowered ski lift Perfect family holidays from A to Z.

Families will receive a warm welcome in the 25 holiday resorts that have been awarded the Family Destination label.

The offerings are specifically geared towards the needs and wishes of children and their guardians. Our highlights:

A pioneer celebrates a birthday.

MySwitzerland.com/family

The Safiental valley in Graubünden is home to the world’s first solar-powered ski lift. The 450-metre-long lift system carries winter sports enthusiasts up the mountain while at the same time generating solar energy. The installation is ten years old this year – happy birthday!

Melchsee-Frutt

Flumserberg

Measuring the snow with a snow groomer More expertise – less snow.

The Flumserberg cable cars A were the first to rely on Snowsat, a technology that measures the depth of snow under the snow groomers. This means that less snow is required to compensate for unevenness; snowmaking and grooming costs B can be reduced as a result. 190 snow groomers in 28 ski areas throughout Switzerland are now equipped in this way.

Grand Train Tour

slopes and Skihäsliland with its six ski lifts, a carousel and fun park.

Zuoz

Gian Plaiv fun slope Fun on the slopes for the whole family.

Gian Plaiv has an extraordinary mix of slopes, a snow park and cross-country trails, and is equally popular with young and old, beginners and advanced skiers.

Sörenberg

A paradise for kids

C

A wide variety of fun and games.

Something for every age group, from the Kids Village to Kinderland with a covered magic carpet and the Kid’s Freestyle Line for more grown-up kids.

Winter Magic Tour

SKIING WITH THE

W H O L E F A M I LY Making snow without electricity Braunwald The height of ingenuity. y Kinderland In 2013, theOne people country, of Central one ticket rozen lakes, fluffy powder snow and majestic glaciers: all are

F Hüttenberg

Switzerland a pilot test, to the From the started economy day ticket guaranteed on the new Winter Magic Tour! The journey takes and now theyTravel have Pass 19 “Nessy Swiss – the right you from Lucerne via the Jungfrau Region to Zermatt, where the The children’s play area Zero E” snow lances.

The guest.

Swiss ticket for every world-famous Matterhorn awaits. After an excursion to the Gornerfor the whole family.

F A M I L Y D E S T I N AT I O N S invention uses just water presMySwitzerland.com/tickets grat, the Glacier Express takes passengers through a winter wonderIn addition to 30 kilometres of sure to produce snow. This presland to the Engadin. It crosses beautiful landscapes where the roads slopes, Braunwald has sure is delivered by the lakes are impassable in the colder months. It has never been easier to expeKinderland Hüttenberg with high up on the Melchsee-Frutt.

MySwitzerland.com/wintermagic rience winter in all its splendour. two rope lifts for the little ones as well as jumps, a parcours Carefree travel Perfect family holidays St. Moritz course and plenty of opportuWithout any inconvenience or unnecessary from A to Z. nities waiting times. The easy way to send yourfor practice.

Families will receive a warm luggage from station to station, or even welcome in the 25 holiday refrom door to door. sorts Tour that have been awarded Hasliberg Grand Train of Switzerland Family Destination label.to sbb.ch/luggage Enjoy a the relaxed ride from highlight The offerings arethe specifically highlight and marvel at breathtaking A world first in the Engadin. geared towards the needs landscape through the train window.

St. Moritz aims to use snow and wishes of children and their makers on its pistes that only The ultimate ski school » 1,280 kilometres guardians. Our highlights: use recycled byreap 2025, Explore,water collect, theand benefits training area. » World-famous panoramic routes is alsoWith planning a second the Grand Train Tour app.Meiringen-Hasliberg has more MySwitzerland.com/family » Top sights and mountain excursions reservoir that will hold melt than 60 kilometres of ski MySwitzerland.com/traintourapp

For young and old

c

Vision 100 % water recycling

à

Skihäsliland Bidmi

10 8

Railthe On & cable slopes

water at 2,500 metres above sea level, which can then be returned to the slopes as snow in the autumn. The people of the Engadin hope to save a total of over 4GWh of electricity, which corresponds to the annual consumption of 900 family households.

th around 7,000 kilometres of slopes, Switzerland is an eldorado for snow sports enthusiasts. Experienced perts, up-and-coming piste skiers and powder connoisseurs will all find something to their liking here. This is de possible by modern technology and contemporary offers.

SW CO I TNZCEI R EL RA GN ED

A

Grindelwald Eiger Glacier

Eiger Express

The latest technologies A Two new cable cars now run

from Grindelwald right into the heart of the mountains. The Eiger Express, the most modern tricable gondola in the world, will take you directly to the Eiger Glacier, the highest point in the ski area, in just 15 minutes. It starts from the new terminal in Grindelwald, where the departure point for the Männlichen cable car can also be found.

y

Zermatt

Gornergrat

Gornergrat Bahn

The Matterhorn up close and personal

B Gornergrat at 3,089 metres, is

a place that you have to have visited at least once: it’s hard to find a better view of the majestic Matterhorn, after all. The journey itself provides plenty of opportunities for picture-postcard shots: snow-covered larches and impressive mountain panoramas.

Zermatt

St. Moritz

Glacier Express

Spectacular pass rides C Deep gorges, high passes, mighty mountains and sparkling lakes: a ride on the Glacier Express is packed full of natural highlights.

Passing through untouched winter landscapes, the trip from Zermatt to St. Moritz is a treat for all the senses.

Grindelwald

Zermatt

Engadin

Travel time: 15 minutes

Travel time: 33 minutes

Travel time: approx. 8 hours

Skiing adventure in the Jungfrau Region

Tobogganing between 29 4,000-metre peaks

In the land of limitless cross-country skiing opportunities

Snow Fun Park at over

Snowshoeing on the Gornergrat

Skating on the frozen surface of Lake St. Moritz

z 3,500 metres above sea level

C

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Snowy experience in panorama trains The rails are cleared and heated early in the morning – MySwitzerland.com/panorama for a trip with the kitsch factor.

Rail & cable

B

A

S i l va p l a n a - S u r l e j

A must for winter sports enthusiasts

SW CO I TNZCEI R EL RA GN ED

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hat wonderful air! Once you’ve discovered the Upper Engadin, you will want to return to this idyllic place again and again. Hotel Nira Alpina is located at the highest point in the picturesque village of Surlej. It glitters in the sunshine. The special location right by the ski slope makes the hotel the ideal base for snow sports enthusiasts. Outside there are plenty of sporty adventures to be enjoyed and inside guests can expect pure comfort – including a whirlpool with a direct view of the wonderful mountain panorama.

à

Comfort and reliability from A to Z.

y

A sporting adventure: the insider tip for guests at the Nira Alpina is the Hahnensee run to St. Moritz.

:

Conviviality plays a key role here.

SNOW SPORTS HOTELS

MySwitzerland.com/ snowsportshotels

These accommodation options are ideal for winter sports enthusiasts – the perfect place to relax after an action-packed day on the slopes, have your equipment serviced and be the first one back on the mountain the next day. The needs of guests are the top priority here.

à

Snow Sports Hotels

Nira Alpina A Silvaplana-Surlej Hotel Castell Zuoz Hotel Bella Vista Zermatt Lenkerhof Lenk Huus Gstaad Hotel Saanen

Hotels

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TYPICALLY SWISS HOTELS

MySwitzerland.com/typically Regional building style, traditional decor or a menu of Swiss specialities: the Typically Swiss Hotels – from aristocratic townhouses to country inns – are sure to please any fan of Switzerland.

Hotel Fafleralp Blatten

A

Hotel Krone Sarnen

MySwitzerland.com/deluxe

SW CO I TNZCEI R EL RA GN ED

Pilatus Kulm Hotel Kriens/Lucerne

Elegant architecture, state-ofthe-art facilities and top-notch service: Swiss Deluxe Hotels offer an exclusive ambience in which every moment makes a lasting impression.

Four Seasons Hotel Geneva

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SPA & VITALITY HOTELS

MySwitzerland.ch/spa

Sauna, medical treatment or an outdoor pool: guests of the Spa & Vitality Hotels will enjoy the facilities at these superior wellness hotels in some of Switzerland’s most unique natural settings. The perfect choice for healthconscious travellers.

Cervo Mountain Resort Zermatt C

INSPIRING MEETING HOTELS Host meetings against a beautiful mountain panorama, in a former monastery or in a lux-

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Sorell Hotel Zürichberg

SWISS FAMILY HOTELS & LODGINGS

MySwitzerland.com/ familyhotels

SWISS DELUXE HOTELS

Wellness & Spa Hotel Ermitage Schönried

urious high-tech tent: Inspiring Meeting Hotels help promote successful meetings with their unusual locations and their exceptional support programmes.

B

Crèches, storytelling, children’s spas, cinemas or adventure playgrounds: the needs of the little ones are the focus for Swiss Family Hotels & Lodgings.

Reka Holiday Village Belalp

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DESIGN & LIFESTYLE HOTELS

MySwitzerland.com/ designlifestyle

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High creative standards, a distinct design and carefully selected materials: with their inspiring architecture, a stay at one of Switzerland’s Design & Lifestyle Hotels will be a lifestyle experience for guests with a sense of style.

Marktgasse Hotel Zurich Boutique-Hotel Guarda Val Scuol

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SWISS HISTORIC HOTELS

MySwitzerland.com/historic Whether you choose a grand hotel from the Belle Époque or a baroque inn, guests at Swiss Historic Hotels sleep within walls steeped in history and can enjoy the atmosphere of a bygone era.

Schloss Wartegg Rorschacherberg

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This way for more hotels and accommodation options

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Hotels

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CONSERVATION

TAPE LEVEL Words & Photography by ROB BLAKERS

The Wilson River that flows through takayna/Tarkine in Tasmania is home to an ancient but little-known grove of Huon pines of rare quality. Sadly, it’s not protected, and mining and climate change threaten it.

“T

ape level, is it good?”

Charley’s distinctive French accent emanates from behind the large Wilson River Huon pine before me. Kasey—finger firmly placed on the other end of the measuring tape, GPS recorder at the ready—answers affirmatively.

“Yeah, that looks good.”

“So, we are 345,” says Charley.

Kasey types in the data and acknowledges the reading with a crisp: “Yeah, cool, 345.”

Charley Gros, lead author of a ground-breaking report on the endangered Tasmanian masked owl—prime evidence against a proposal for a mining tailings dam in a takayna rainforest—first came to takayna less than a year ago. Immersed in observation and analysis, he has hardly left since.

Environmental scientist Kasey McNamara worked on that same report. She came to takayna on a holiday three years ago, and chanced upon a forest-defenders’ blockade; she soon packed up her life in Brisbane and moved to Tasmania. Kasey spent the best part of the 2021 winter consistently wet, gathering data on the Tasmanian masked owl, recording their distinctive screeches in the majestic rainforest that will be buried beneath tens of metres of toxic mine-waste sludge if Chinese state-owned miner MMG has its way. +++++

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WILD

takayna, TASMANIA

Paddlers on the rainforested Wilson River Scientists Kasey (left) and Charley, tape in hand

Bob and Kasey on the river

WINTER 2022

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takayna, TASMANIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Bob astanding next to a 1,000-year-old Huon pine Wilson River Huon pines Parsons Hood— a proposed mine site Mining transect tapes cut through the pine grove

I FIRST CAME TO THE WILSON RIVER decades ago, trailing a raft for the length of the river during one of the driest summers on record. I returned with botanists in the spring of 2019, when we explored massive Huon pines along Yellow Creek, the major tributary of the Wilson. On that trip, at the end of the second day on the river, we found ourselves camped on huge granite boulders at the upper Wilson Falls, dodging passing showers.

But the next morning—as a storm front that brought heavy snow to the highlands intensified—our planned rest day became, of necessity, an onwards and downwards day, and we manoeuvred our packs and rafts through vertical gymnasiums of thick vegetation that cloaked the river walls. Age-old Huon pines—weathered by floods and time, and with their exposed roots barely distinguishable from the water-worn rock that they clung to—were the unmoving sentinels to our plunging flight as we chanced ever more dicey crossings of the rising river.

A third wet night squeezed into the dripping scrub gave us the desperation needed to look for other options. The next morning, we retreated from the maelstrom, leaving the river to fling itself down thundering gorges as it dropped 200m in elevation in less than three kilometres. Wetsuited, and wearing every other stitch of clothing besides, we climbed to and were ultimately rescued by

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WILD

THERE ARE HUON PINES ON THE WILSON THAT HAVE BEEN

MEASURED AT ALMOST TWO METRES IN DIAMETER; SOME ARE ESTIMATED TO BE 2,500 YEARS OLD. THEY ARE THE SECOND-OLDEST

DISCRETE TREES IN THE WORLD.” a high ridge that paralleled the raging river below. We walked for a day and a half with monster packs and freezing fingers, before dropping to the gentler lower reaches of the river and then rafting out along a verdant corridor of sunlit Huon pine rainforest.

Huon pines are extraordinary trees. Growing for centuries, their limbs and boughs are characteristically colonised by mosses, lichens and ferns—and even other trees. There are Huon pines on the Wilson that have been measured at almost two metres in diameter; some are estimated to be 2,500 years old. They are the second-oldest discrete trees in the world, after the amazing North American bristlecone pines.

It gets better: Groves of pines are thought in many cases not to be multiple trees, but a single or a few distinct entities only.

Trees grow, and roots swim into soil. From these roots and from fallen trunks and limbs, other trees begin, and the process continues indefinitely. The multi-aged, off-river groves that Huon pines typically form may have lived and died and kept on living since the end of the last ice age 10,000 years ago. Here is the mystery and lure of a tree that, theoretically at least, may be immortal.

Historically, Huon pine was extensively logged for its highly valued, rot-resistant, fragrant timber; as such, it has been subject to dramatic disturbance. Although widespread in western Tasmania as a species, over 90% of all stands of Huon pine have been damaged by logging, historical mining, and recent fire.

The Wilson catchment—deep within Australia’s largest temperate rainforest in Tasmania’s takayna—has largely escaped this anthropogenic onslaught. With pines stretching for over 25km along its valleys, it is the most extensive contiguous, intact and unlogged Huon pine forest that remains in Tasmania … and hence the world. +++++

I KNOW THAT THIS GENTLE CORNER WILL NOT ALWAYS BE SO SERENE, BUT FOR NOW, THERE IS NO

MORE BEAUTIFUL PLACE TO BE.”

IT IS LATE JANUARY 2022. Five of us have made a temporary summer home on the middle stretches of the Wilson.

Serenaded by march flies, Kasey, Charley and myself wrangle pine measurements while Bob Brown and Paul Thomas search for giants somewhere nearby in the tangled green maze that is the preferred home of these ancient trees. The miningexploration transect line—that has its pink tapes running directly through this grove—gives urgency to our mission.

With measuring tapes set aside, in the early evening of the first day, we launch rafts and hand-paddle from our shingle-bank campsite, pulling upstream through the silky water of small rapids to where a pair of 500-year-old Huon pines with entwined roots cantilever from the flood-scoured river bank. Late sunlight catches the high ridges above, and the verdant rainforest is cast into shadow. The march flies are gone, and the air is warm.

WINTER 2022

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JUST FOUR PER CENT OF TAKAYNA IS PROTECTED AS NATIONAL PARK. THE

MINING EXPLORATION LICENCE AREA—ALONG WITH OVER TWENTY DRILL SITES—COVERS MUCH OF THE INCREDIBLE WILSON CATCHMENT.”

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WILD

Untracked, un-roaded, rarely visited and lined with Huon pines—the Wilson Valley

WINTER 2022

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takayna, TASMANIA

EINSTEIN SAID WE USE JUST 10%

OF OUR HUMAN CAPACITY;

IF WE CAN TAKE INSPIRATION FROM ANCIENT FORESTS AND THE MYRIAD LIFE OF WILD NATURE ...

THE OTHER 90% BECKONS.”

I know that this gentle corner will not always be so serene, but for now, there is no more beautiful place to be. We float on the quiet water, spinning slowly past ferns and pines and moss and myrtle in every shade of green.

Just four per cent of takayna is protected as national park.

(Ed: This is a travesty!) The Mining Exploration Licence Area granted to Perth-based miner Venture Minerals—along with over twenty drill sites—covers much of the incredible Wilson catchment, including most of the wild Harman River and the dramatic Harman Falls. Lush Huon pine forests grow at prospective mine locations, and although the faded yellow tape next to a 900-year-old pine that we document identifies ‘Huon Habitat’, the transect line it is a part of remains unperturbed.

Venture’s mining plans would bring holes in these mountains.

It would bring rock dumps, major haulage roads, and mining infrastructure. It would bring access for Huon pine poachers, weeds, loss of wilderness, toxic run-off and a massively increased risk of fire. This wild and remote rainforested valley, the most extensive intact Huon pine catchment that remains on the planet, would become a privatised industrial zone.

But the underlying problem is that state and federal governments literally do not see any value, intrinsic or otherwise, in these ancient forests. Until a species or community is imperilled almost to the point of extinction, Australia’s key environmental legislation is indifferent to its wellbeing. And so no costs are applied for the privilege of the absolute ruination of wild nature at McKimmie Creek and at the Wilson River. For MMG and Venture, the rainforest is available for free, to do with what they please. And so, with government backing, they plan to have their way with it.

And even beyond deliberate destruction, climate change has the potential to devastate Huon pines, as evinced by dry rainforests and wildfires arising from unprecedented, and exponentially increasing, dry lightning strikes in western Tasmania.

The future of the relatively few intact Huon pine communities

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that remain—even though most are now ostensibly protected within the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area—is far from assured.

But for us on the wild river, even knowing full well the entwined threats of climate crises and wilderness mining, there is no doubt in our minds as to the direction forward. The beauty, complexity and antiquity of these life-filled forests permeates the space around us, soaking deep into our being. Evening conversations revolve around questions of how to protect this place, and places like it—how to be a voice for wild nature.

And how to be more than a voice, how to be hands that will join to defend these places, to repel ignorance and greed.

Einstein said that we use just 10% of our human capacity; if we can take inspiration from ancient forests and the myriad life of

Bob Brown and an ancient Huon pine. The massive root system that binds this majestic tree to the river bank has allowed it to withstand the floods of millennia, but won’t protect it from fire or chainsaws

wild nature to resolutely face the cascading crises of self-centredness and environmental collapse, the other 90% beckons. We need every shred of love, inspiration, creativity, courage, connection, high-level skill and even deeper-level thinking to have a chance at a future for wild places—and for everything else besides.

But for now at least, the summertime Wilson River remains a sublime place. As well as documenting Huon pines, we are here to film interviews with Bob, to try to catch a sense of our time on this wild and beautiful river. In the early morning of the last day, we paddle a long pool to where a huge Huon pine reaches low across the water. We clip a mic to the lapel of Bob’s lifejacket, send him upstream and press record.

And all of a sudden, he is alone on the misty blue water, drifting slowly towards us on the gentle current.

“It’s early morning here on the Wilson River in southern takayna ... and … it’s just magic. This is a bit like the lower Franklin, except, the Huon pines are all here—they haven’t been taken away … It’s quiet, the morning bird chorus is over, the river’s dappled … a lot of leatherwood blossom amongst that. And here’s this giant Huon pine tree—2,000 years it’s watched over this river. And … it’s magnificent.”

Spellbound, we watch and listen as this man, who has done so much to protect the wild face of planet Earth, floats on the silent water and gazes up at the ancient tree.

CONTRIBUTOR: Hobart-based photographer Rob Blakers came to Tasmania for a three-week holiday, fell into the campaign to save the Franklin River, and stayed for the privilege of fighting for ancient forests.

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PHOTO ESSAY

AFTER THE CLIMB Jared Anderson has been heading out with climbers in NSW’s Blue Mountains, and not only documenting their climbs, but capturing their emotions in the minutes afterwards, when, he says, they’re relaxed and basking in the glow of the climb. The result has been an ongoing series of remarkable portraits.

Photography by JARED ANDERSON

NEIL MONTEITH

Climb: Lunge Cancer (24)

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Lunge Cancer, in Neil’s words:

My lips still taste fear and lichen, but my brain says I survived. When

can we do it again?

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ZAC VERTREES

Climb: Parched (29)

In Zac’s words:

I arrived in the car park with a good friend Macciza, who was partially disabled from a climbing accident. I put up the route with Macca in 2005 and he knew the wall as well as me. In hindsight, it was probably a bit much of an ask for him to give me a catch, as it’s got a few runouts that jolt the belayer abruptly off the semi-hanging belay 100m up, tethered to the wall. Jared phoned a friend, and Dylan came to the rescue.

Jared managed to catch me trying hard (blowing chunks) on the crux.

But it all went smoothly as I dogged my way up this ultra exposed runout masterpiece.”

ZOE COX

Climb: The Name Changers (24)

In Zoe’s words:

Among all the beautiful aspects of climbing, exposure is what I crave most. Regardless of the grade, following long lines up mega-faces brings out a heightened sense of freedom and wild in me that is seldom matched. Climbing The Name Changers left me in a bundle of laughter and appreciation for sharing these moments of wild with those I love.”

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JACQUI RUELLO Climb: Mirrorball (21)

In Jacqui’s words:

On January 17th, one of those quintessentially scorching hot Aussie summer days, we set out to climb Mirrorball (21), a 49m 3-star classic pitch that runs up the ironstone headwall above the distinctive Mirrorball Pinnacle. This long sport pitch delivers beautiful, vertical climbing with decent runouts and some choss. Did I mention the exposure is exquisite?

I am a Type II fun addict. Climbing teaches me that I can show up for myself. Every time I climb, it challenges me. When I’m under pressure, my mindset helps me to power through—and a little positive spray of encouragement from my belayer! This is why I couldn’t have done it without my climbing partner, Ben Collins. He always brings the laughs! He supported me with words of encouragement that kept me smiling the whole climb.”

TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE Climb: A Storm from the East (24)

In Tim’s words:

Jared chose the climb, though I don’t think he realised how overhanging it is. Suffering as he was from a massive hangover, spinning about in mid-air apparently made him all the more nauseous. Having seen it on the cover of a previous guidebook, I was drawn to what seemed like the quintessential Blueys arête arching out over the void of the Katoomba cliffs. Unlike Jared, I found the rap-in approach to a hanging belay far above the cold, green jungle quite sobering. That and the camera focussed my brain, channelling it ‘into the moment’—that ideal climbing state of mind that lets you flow up the rock.”

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JOSH NORRIS

Climb: It Came from Outta Space (25)

In Josh’s words:

Feeling pretty chuffed to have some feeling back in my fingertips after getting up this old-school classic. Arêtes are not usually my forte, especially in sub-ten degrees in the shade, but Josh [Mackenzie—pictured opposite, who climbed with me that day] knows how to twist my arm.”

JOSH MACKENZIE

Climb: Oranges Poranges (24)

In Josh’s words:

This route doesn’t seem to have a consensus on grade—some call it 24; some call it 25. What is not up for debate is whether this route deserves a reputation as being both intimidating and impressive. A rap-in, climb-out, slightly overhanging corner of beautiful orange rock with hundreds of metres of air below you. Oranges Poranges was exactly what I love most in climbing—a push into the unknown and a good challenge of both the physical and mental. A good day with good friends in the Blueys.”

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Gibraltar Range, NEW SOUTH WALES

THE

LOST

ART OF TAKING IT

EASY Busyness seems to infect all aspects of modern life, and that even includes the outdoors. Do we try to do too much, both at home and out there? Ryan Hansen heads to northern NSW’s spectacular Gibraltar Range looking for answers and solutions.

Words RYAN HANSEN Photography RYAN HANSEN & MARTINE HANSEN

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No busyness in sight. Martine chilling out atop our first peak on Gibraltar Range

Gibraltar Range, NEW SOUTH WALES

Gibraltar Range

Sydney

“I’m too busy!”

We hear others say it all the time, don’t we? We say it too. Hell, I believe it. Being busy is the modern way of life.

At what point is one deemed to be busy, though? According to Dr Google, busyness is defined as the “state or condition of having a lot to do.” A lot to do, eh? Like trying to manage studying, working, cleaning, cooking, looking after the kids, cleaning, commuting, renovating the house, cleaning, washing the clothes, trying to dry the clothes, exercising, cleaning, gardening, socialising, scraping the mould off the lounge—wait, maybe that’s just me—then cleaning some more? While busyness looks different for different people, the bottom line is there’s always something to be done.

But, why? Why is adult life characterised by busyness? Does life have to be constantly busy, or have we just made it that way?

Granted, busyness is essential for some people—it’s a way to make ends meet. But for most people, it’s self-imposed. It’s a choice. We choose to be busy. I choose to be busy. I haven’t pinpointed why, though. Maybe I think being busy will make me a better person. Maybe I’ve just got super high/unrealistic expectations of myself. Maybe I think I’ll win the Nobel Prize for Busyness if I pile enough stuff on my plate.

HERE’S A QUESTION: ARE YOU

TOO BUSY OUT BUSH AS WELL? I AM; IRONICALLY ENOUGH, THE BUSYNESS HAS OFTEN INFESTED MY OUTDOORSY OUTINGS TOO.”

What I find fascinating about busyness is how, when we overfill our schedules with jobs and commitments, we unerringly omit one of the most important things—to look after ourselves. To have some ‘us time’. To do the little things that bring us joy. Perhaps we think that looking after ourselves will demand time and effort we don’t have. Maybe we just prefer to self-destruct, to devote our physical and psychological resources to tasks that are unenjoyable, draining, and unrewarding. Frustratingly, time and again I get conned into letting my busyness build and build. Beginning as a minor virus under the surface, it multiplies, continually spreading, until finally … Bam!, there’s a full-scale infection. Then I’m forced to look after myself. At that point, I like to head out bush.

You, dear Wild reader, probably do too. But here’s a question: Are you too busy, not just at home but out bush as well? I am, at least sometimes, because ironically enough, the busyness has often infested my outdoorsy outings too. I’ve welcomed it. Like, let’s cram as much into this weekend as we possibly can, because more is better! Let’s do two big canyons in two massive days. Let’s drive for five hours after work, and then break our backs trying to walk to a really remote place.

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Something needed to change. To restore the balance, Martine (aka Teen) and I wanted to revive a ‘Let’s just appreciate being out there’ mentality while adventuring. So we sought out the Gibraltar Range—a northern-NSW area teeming with declared wilderness, wild creeks, lush Gondwana rainforest, and extensive granite outcrops—for three multi-day bushwalks. The focus: taking it easy.

IT SEEMED WE’D BARELY BEGUN our first three-day walk when we were already setting up camp near a mountain with sensational views overlooking much of the Washpool and Gibraltar Range National Parks. Having walked a mere two or three kays, it was one of our shortest and easiest days of bushwalking ever.

But the burning question was: Did it matter? Did it matter that we hadn’t busted our backsides for ten hours, that we hadn’t covered 20+ kilometres? Did it matter that we’d only stood atop one mountain instead of four? Did it matter that, when we reached camp, the afternoon was still in its infancy?

No, it didn’t. Not even the tiniest of tiny little bits.

In fact, we revelled in this less-is-more approach. Instead of rushing through the landscape en route to somewhere else— somewhere better—we stopped to study the trees and shrubs and flowers. We paused to admire the sweeping granite expanses, to locate notable landmarks that would be the focus of future explorations. We took the time to wander the mazes of livingroom-sized boulders, to investigate their remarkable geology. We slowed down to take it all in, to sit and watch, to learn, to breathe, to paint, to photograph, to appreciate and to experience.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love a full-on, epic adventure. Intense outdoor pursuits enrich our lives. The senses of challenge, physicality, mindfulness, and of pure accomplishment that come with them—they’re hard to parallel. But, as I’m slowly learning, there’s a lot to be said for toning it down. Not always, but every now and then.

We didn’t know it at the time, but on this first night in Gibraltar, we were having a little taste—an appetiser—of the Norwegian friluftsliv concept. Coined in the 1850s by Henrik Ibsen, friluftsliv has become engrained in Norwegian—and more broadly, Scandinavian—culture and philosophy as a means of appreciating the outdoors, in the open air. As Hans Gelter explained in his 1999 article ‘Friluftsliv: The Scandinavian Philosophy of Outdoor Life’, while various superficial versions of friluftsliv have become common, authentic friluftsliv involves properly taking the time to connect with nature and to experience its freedom.

It’s not just a way of thinking, but a way of life. A way of life that us Aussies could embrace, if we learn to intrinsically value nature rather than seeing her merely as a venue for outdoor activities.

After a dazzling sunset display, the evening turned out to be cold, wet, and windy. But it didn’t matter. We were on top of the world.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Wandering the expansive granite slabs and monstrous boulders Slowing it down: sitting and appreciating Martine capturing the beauty of the landscape through a painting We couldn’t pass up this stunning balcony campsite. A top spot to write our vows

DAY TWO BEGAN WITH A SATURATING, drizzling rain.

Sheltering under a cosy boulder, we discussed our day’s plan. A nearby ridge with an array of intriguing rock formations tickled our fancy. And that was as much of a plan as we needed. Off we went.

Though we soon ran into what is technically known as ‘a spot of bother’. The sleety rain had converted the granite slabs into an ice-skating rink, and I slipped A-over-T on the most gentle of gradients. In the interest of maximising friction, we zig-zagged our way down scrub-choked cracks. A couple of skin gashes and a few tears later, we were down.

With time up our sleeves, it was the perfect opportunity for Martine to practise her off-track nav skills. Previously, with more ambitious and time-sensitive adventures, she hadn’t had many chances to fully lead the way. This trip was different. There was time for her to try various lines across the terrain, to backtrack when they backfired, and to search for a better route. There was time to discuss features in the land, vegetation and rock types, what was conducive for walking and what wasn’t. There was time for thinking and looking and being, rather than just doing.

SLOW ADVENTURE PLACES THE EMPHASIS BACK ON

SIMPLY BEING IN THE OUTDOORS, IMMERSING YOURSELF—IN A

MEANINGFUL, COMFORTABLE, MULTISENSORY FASHION—IN YOUR SURROUNDINGS.”

We’d embraced a ‘slow adventure’ mindset, an approach advocated for by Farkic and Taylor in their article, ‘Rethinking Tourist Wellbeing through the Concept of Slow Adventure’. Slow adventure places the emphasis back on simply being in the outdoors, and fundamentally involves moving at a slower pace while immersing yourself—in a meaningful, comfortable, multisensory fashion—in your surroundings. By doing so, you disconnect from the “stressful and disturbing stimuli with which the external world is overly

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Gibraltar Range, NEW SOUTH WALES

THEREIN LIES THE KEY—

HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT ARE THE SMALL BUT

SIGNIFICANT WAYS WE CAN LOOK AFTER OURSELVES. WE JUST NEED TO UNLOCK THEM.” saturated” and enhance your wellbeing, a theme I also examined in ‘Nine Reasons Why’ back in Wild #181. Crucially, as Farkic and Taylor elaborate, “slow adventure has the potential to improve people’s general health and wellbeing through mindful enjoyment and consumption of the outdoor experience and thus bring people back to a state of mental and physical equilibrium.” We were well on track to recovering that balance.

Not long after lunch, Teen led us out onto a sensational balcony on the edge of our target ridge. Sheltered by a rock wall and boulders, it offered speccy views of the range twisting its way ahead. The booming of water, discernible below where the creek began its descent off the swamp-lined plateau, belied a secret waterfall. Across the valley was a fascinating fortress-like formation, guardian of these special lands.

The ledge screamed “Campsite!” So we obliged. Such was the spot that, in the afternoon, we were inspired to write our wedding vows. It seemed an apt way to round out our first exploit in Gibraltar Range.

GIVEN WE WROTE OUR VOWS on Gibraltar Range it was fitting that, a couple of months later, we return for two honeymoon hikes.

Yes, you read that correctly. We spent our honeymoon bushwalking.

Where our first walk explored the northern border of Washpool and Gibraltar Range NPs, for our second outing we thought we’d cruise along the southern escarpment. A casual three-day circuit—which used two shorter tourist tracks as a conduit—would enable us to visit seldom-visited granite peaks.

As with our first laid-back walk, this one began with an afternoon amble of an hour or so, before we spotted a ripping campsite near a well-known lookout. Despite being a popular walk, and smack-bang in the middle of holiday season, we had the lookout to ourselves for sunset. And what a sunset it was! A rich golden glow gave the landscape a divine atmosphere. Beams of orange light highlighted the undulations of the Nymboida and Barool, begging for future exploration. Vibrant forests of green, recovering after the scorching bushfires, were rejuvenating for the soul.

Also energising was the realisation that this reinvigorating sense of solitude was gained with minimal effort. We didn’t work super hard for these rewarding feelings of isolation and remoteness, of gratitude and admiration. Nor did we need to seek out somewhere far from anywhere. If we didn’t already know that only a couple of kays away was the road and a bustling campground, we would’ve felt deeply submerged in the wilderness.

And therein lies the key—hidden in plain sight are the small but significant ways we can look after ourselves. We just need to unlock them.

A BRIGHT AND CHEERY SUNRISE set the tone for the new day. After bathing in the warm morning light, we backtracked a bit before leaving the trail behind. Meandering through stands of shapely grass trees, also thriving after the fires, we then wove our

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Martine having a taste of friluftsliv, connecting with nature and experiencing its freedom

IMAGES - TOP TO BOTTOM , LEFT TO RIGHT Feels like wilderness, doesn’t it? Close to civilisation, yet far far away Pesky march flies. But at least they preferred the taste of Martine’s boots and gaiters to her exposed skin Rediscovering the balance, mindfully appreciating the environment Gibraltar’s Gondwanan rainforest is a pleasure to explore Christmas bell lilies are a staple of Gibraltar, populating many of the swamps Taking a refreshing swig of pristine swamp water Topped up with meaning and calmness, there’s no existential emptiness here

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way up easy chutes onto another granite slab. On the not-too-distant horizon was the notable cap-like figure of our objective.

Having refuelled, we set off again, partly just to evade the pesky march flies. Another distinctive anvil-like feature soon appeared, which continually evolved in shape and appearance as we circled around it, in the process crossing a series of swamps dotted with pretty Christmas bell lilies. While the swamps turned out to be less swampy than they first appeared, Martine managed to find the boggiest bits, narrowly avoiding a number of soggy tumbles. If our mindset wasn’t so relaxed, we probably wouldn’t have seen the funny side.

In the early afternoon, content with our progress, Martine snoozed in the shade while I checked out a nearby rocky knoll for a campsite. Dubious as to whether I’d be able to reach the top, as I neared the base of the hill, a custom-made pass revealed itself. “Like a bought one!”

While getting on top was easy, finding a suitable campsite proved much trickier. I wandered around for almost an hour before I eventually spotted a flat and sheltered site.

Soon settled in, we returned to the tops to admire the incredible vastness of the surrounding scenery.

As we sat on the summit of this anonymous hill, one of a myriad of unnamed granite outcrops that characterise the area, we reflected on our journey thus far. How many others— with the exception of the Traditional Owners who occupied and traversed these lands long before us—had walked our route in the manner we had? Would we ourselves have previously planned a walk that was so chilled out if we weren’t now making a concerted effort to dial it down? Would we have dismissed it as too sedate of a walk, lacking in real adventure?

WHEN IT COMES TO THE OUTDOORS, DO I—DO

WE—SOMETIMES ATTEMPT EPIC ADVENTURES ONLY BECAUSE WE SEE

EASIER OUTINGS AS TRIVIAL AND POINTLESS?”

Tim Kreider, in the audiobook version of We Learn Nothing, posits that our busyness serves as “a kind of existential reassurance, a hedge against emptiness.” He argues that we self-inflict busyness so that we don’t see our lives as “silly, or trivial, or meaningless.” Is that why I choose to be busy? Do I think my life would lack meaning if I studied less, if I worked only two jobs instead of three, if I spent more time doing the things I actually want to do? And when it comes to the outdoors, do I—do we—sometimes attempt epic adventures only because we see easier outings as trivial and pointless? Do we long for the challenge and intensity of these adventures as a means of avoiding an existential emptiness?

We pondered these questions, and eventually decided that by taking it easy, we were bringing back the meaning, not taking it away. There was no emptiness, but instead a refreshing calmness.

And it felt good. Damn good.

OUR THIRD AND FINAL EASY-GOING three-day walk in Gibraltar Range—on paper at least—promised to be straightforward: Use that nice track as access, then make a cross-country dash over to that spur, follow it down to the junction of two awesome-looking creeks, find a nice campsite, have a day to look around, check out some waterfalls, then come back. Easy, right?

Wrong. Soooo wrong.

It didn’t help that our false expectations of a tranquil, laid-back outing were reinforced when we unexpectedly discovered our intended, exploratory route—one largely off-track and not indicated on the topo—was described on the car-park noticeboard as a five-hour return day walk. It caught us off guard. “Must get more traffic than we thought! It’ll be even easier than expected.”

And so we set off in high spirits, marvelling at the lush, pristine Gondwana rainforest. But when we left the main track, things

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Gibraltar Range, NEW SOUTH WALES

IMAGES THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Is this sign a joke? After having unexpectedly battled through dense scrub and relentless vines, we discovered the hard way that things don’t always go to plan Soothing rainforest Our waterfall-edge campsite. Don’t be mistaken, it was much more angular than it appears in this photo After very little sleep, this little dip was particularly energising Enjoying an amble along the carved creek slab

rapidly unravelled. What began as an old and overgrown—but easily followable—vehicle track soon dissolved into a mass of fallen trees, dense scrub, and practically impenetrable vines. Literally, everywhere we looked was vines. Oh dear.

Our previous sense of admiration for the rainforest was replaced by a sheer frustration that bordered on outright hatred. We flailed about, getting tangled in the vines and flicking off clingy leeches that tried to scab a free ride. Forty-five minutes in, and having

OUR SENSE OF ADMIRATION FOR THE RAINFOREST WAS REPLACED

BY FRUSTRATION THAT BORDERED

ON OUTRIGHT HATRED.”

covered only a few hundred metres of ground, we stumbled upon a signpost smothered by vegetation: “Junction Walk – 8 hours return.” Somehow, having already walked more than an hour, our five-hour walk had miraculously swelled to an eight hour one. The sign also added that the Glenn Innes Rescue Squad had installed trail markers here in the 1980s. Given we’d been scrub-bushing through a section with barely the slightest trace of a trail, let alone

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any markers, the sign seemed like little more than a cruel joke.

As we descended for the next few hours, the roar of the creeks became a full-blown bellow, and when we eventually reached the junction baring a few too many scratches, the water crashing down— combined with the veil of spray—was intimidating. We had a collective What are we doing? moment. There was way more water than we’d expected, even considering the recent rain. And the only halfflat spot big enough for our tent was right on the edge of a waterfall.

Half-flat is being optimistic, too. A realist would describe the site as profoundly angled. Being perched on a smooth slab, we were forced to shoddily secure the tent with boulders, using extra rocks tied to the guy ropes as counterweights. At least we thought it was high enough that we wouldn’t get washed away.

Sleeping was another matter entirely, though. I can still distinctly recall that thunderous noise—it sounded like we were under the waterfall. I lost count of how many times I awoke in a panic, hastily scanning the tent for water. At one stage, I even went to check on the creek level, thinking water was lapping at our tent. It wasn’t; it had dropped. But rest still didn’t come easily.

It was a long night.

Times like these remind us, humbly, that the busyness infection can reappear if we let our guard down. We can unintentionally put ourselves in busy predicaments, even when we try our

ULTIMATELY, THE CHOICE IS OURS. ONLY BY BEING AWARE

AND ACTIVELY PERSISTING WITH A CHANGE IN MENTALITY CAN WE STRENGTHEN

OUR IMMUNITY TO BUSYNESS.”

darnedest to avoid them. And that’s just how it goes—busyness isn’t an easy illness to overcome. Even when we think we’ve cured it, the virus can prevail.

Ultimately, though, the choice is ours. Just like we choose to be busy, we can choose to take it easy. We can choose to put ourselves first. Only by being aware and actively persisting with a change in mentality can we strengthen our immunity to busyness.

WHEN WE SURFACED THE NEXT MORNING, it felt like we hadn’t slept at all. We’d spent the night on the threshold of unconsciousness without ever achieving a state of complete rest.

Grateful for the spare day, we dawdled about camp in a dazed fashion before scrounging a few morsels of energy to explore upstream. While the carved slabs edging the creek made for slippery going, after some easier rock hopping we passed a number

The source of the bellow: a pumping ‘creek’

of impressive cascades. Eventually, however, we were halted by a fast-flowing crossing that we thought best to leave for another day.

One thing we didn’t leave for another day though was—with the enticing sunshine about—a cheeky little dip, albeit in the relative safety of the water’s edge.

Refreshed, we returned to camp and got our leisure on. It was what we yearned for—to sit there and absorb it all. While we were still a way off achieving friluftsliv, the slow-adventure mindset had returned. We’d rekindled the desire to dial it back, to slow it down, to do less. To just be in nature. Not even the prospect of another dodgy night’s sleep, nor the sweaty slog through the consuming vines, could bring the busyness back. And in its place, we’d rediscovered something else: The lost art of taking it easy. W CONTRIBUTOR: Ryan Hansen loves every aspect of being oudoors, even drinking red wine out of plastic cups and eating freeze-dried slop.

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READER’S ADVENTURE

i

magine Jatbula

The compelling beauty and cultural depth of the Top End’s famed Jatbula Trail sends Ross Hanan deep into thought.

Words Ross Hanan Photography Ross Hanan & Sam Webb

I

t’s the Age of COVID, and I don’t trust being locked in another state without wheels. I saddle up my Ford Territory for one last spin before it’s sent to the knackers. It’s old, and it can’t tell an outside temperature let alone connect to my phone, so the library beckons to find some old-timer CDs to listen to on our Sydney-to-Katherine sojourn. It’s 8,000 clicks return, just so you know.

Rapid Russian doesn’t last long. The excellent Blink eats up 1,000km. In goes The Art of Travel, and Alain de Botton goes straight for the jugular and asks this: Why are you travelling? I hit the pause button and begin to reflect [enter your own deeply considered rationale here: 5,000 words or less].

But this is not that story. This story comes towards the end of our talking book, where the Philosopher General rages against the photograph. Given this image-driven world in which we hang, it’s a tough call. To be clear, his target isn’t all photographers. He doesn’t rage against the minority of photographers—skilled professionals and passionate amateurs—who spend time thinking and considering and deeply contemplating subject and object. Instead, he rages against the images most of us take, me included. Plainly, Alain has seen my poorly thought-out snapshots, as I struggle to capture something of the beauty I feel and see. I nearly always fail. Because of this I have developed a mantra, “If I can’t remember it, then it wasn’t worth remembering”. Self-justification is a wonderful thing. But I find my ‘rememberers’ failing to remember. I need a new way.

Philosopher Al provides an out. Instead of looking, begin noticing. Meditate. And if inspired, create. He states it doesn’t matter if you are rubbish: Just do it; you’ll understand more. I challenge Al with the notion that all mediums are compromised in attempting to capture the je ne sais quoi of whatever. But we are doomed to try, so I begin to imagine the Jatbula Trail in prose, as, frankly, our what-I-did-in-the-holidays photos just won’t do it any form of justice (see associated photos). *****

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Large melaleuca (paperbark) trees border picturesque Sandy Camp

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Jatbula Trail: NORTHERN TERRITORY

Nitmiluk NP

“Jatbula walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes” Lord Byron, sorta.

used. Clothes go synthetic. Out go the heavier internal dry bags; in come light mesh ones. Scandalously, no rain jacket is taken.

I repeat, no rain jacket is taken; for a former Kiwi, those words are hard to fathom. Our packs have never been lighter.

Imagine a place

where worries become wonders.

We seek out a local ranger’s advice before we leave. He mentions fires. As in bushfires, not campfires. Sam and I put on a brave where blue-sky days are guaranteed. face. Last year, before the pestilence, we had fire. I spent four I earnt my outdoor spurs in New Zealand, starting low in the days on a friend’s farm fighting the poorly named Little L Comvalleys and heading higher and steeper as my skills progressed: plex (complex yes; little no), and wasn’t keen for more. But then from the Rees and Dart, to Aspiring and Aoraki. Those that have the ranger adds, “Don’t worry, we’ll know where you are. And been will know that the great bane of hiking in NZ is weather. anyway, just step into the black area.”

Sleet, drizzle, snow and rain, rain, rain. It’s nasty, miserable, and A little over an hour into Day One, and we stumble upon the it can be dangerous. perfunctorily named Northern Rockhole. Think of the movie On the Jatbula Trail, over the month of June, rainfall averages Blue Lagoon, only it’s a rich emerald. So let us stick with the pria comical 1.8mm. July and August are less than 1mm. In Septemmary colours. Green lagoon. It’s a circle of green, bordered by ber, we are up to 6.5mm. We laugh at such numbers. These are a crescent of orange cliffs at one end. A black stripe splits the the Goldilocks months, when the days are hot, but not too hot; the burnt-orange rock, over which a white streak of water plummets nights cool, but not too cool. The track was booked in a matter to the pool beneath. Fan palms fringe the edge. On one side sits of hours this year (2022); a a small sandy beach, framed maximum of 15 independent by large granite-grey boulders.

WE DRINK THIS ESSENCE OF LIFE. We grin and enter the Kingdom walkers per day are allowed (there’s a separate daily alloof Heaven (err, we swim). cation for guided walkers, who On Day Two, we see a flare of WE stay in separate camping sites, flame deep in the valley below which, FYI, are no superior CRITICISE ALL OTHER WATER SOURCES the escarpment—it looks beauto the campsites provided for IN THE WEEKS AND MONTHS AHEAD. tiful, and we stare like it’s our independent walkers). There home fire pit. On Day Three, were a lot of disgruntled walksmoke appears along with a ers venting online. But whisper wind; we decide to get moving, this to your serious outdoor friends only: If you’ve got the expebut within minutes it has vanished like a ghost. And on Day Four, rience, you can seek permission from NT Parks to do it yearwe hear crackling; before we know it, we’re in a burning, ashen round. Permission is not guaranteed, however, and you’ll need land. But by now there is no PTSD, and we feel part of this fireto demonstrate significant experience and carry an emergency farmed land. Nurtured and cared for, connected to a time-tested beacon. (Ed: And, crazily, you also must have $10 million public practice, and thankful for it as the land appears perfect, unspoilt liability insurance. Yup, 10 mil!) Sam and I walked in May and and natural. We step into the black. had the trail to ourselves, delighting in the freedom. Remember the weather is different up here. Four equally spaced seasons is Imagine a pool very European. of liquid jewels soaked in the purest of water.

The local Jawoyn people recognise five major climate cycles: A long pool lies at the top of the camping area. Deep and cool, Jungalk: September, October, November—the build-up it has the length and shape of an Olympic swimming pool.

Kuran: December—the rains begin Cliffs frame one side, with pandanus reaching over the water.

Jiyowk: January, February—heavy rain The edge is fringed with pink and purple lilies. Below here the Pangkarrang: March, April, May—rain decreases, dry begins river fragments into a multitude of cascades. The rocks are deep Malapparr: June, July, August—the dry season shades of red and orange. The effect is akin to a Japanese garA new, dry-weather hiking style is required. A 1.2kg mesh den on steroids where the rulebook has been thrown out. We dome tent (BCF, $40) replaces the 3.2kg alpine one. A small choose our neck-massaging spot then reverse direction, pumlightweight tarp is bought from Bunnings just in case; it is not melling and caressing our tired feet.

Imagine a walk

IT IS THE SWEETEST WATER WE CAN EVER RECALL. NONE CAN COMPARE.”

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I won’t go on and on about each pool, but every day brings a new wonder. Same, same, unique, unique. We explore up and down the waterways, searching for new pool nirvanas. We hunt waterfalls and small babblets, we search for tricklets sequestered between grizzled rocks. We find falls as square as an inner-city water feature, and rainbows in billows of thundering water. There are plunge pools and circular ponds.

We drink this essence of life. It is the sweetest water we can ever recall. Unfiltered, unadulterated, pure. One set of waterholes is aptly called Sweetwater. We can’t get enough, and the trail demands we drink it. We burn this fuel at about half a litre per hour per person. I have never drunk so much water so continuously. It is no hardship.

Give me more. We criticise all other water sources in the weeks and months ahead.

None can compare.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT The track can get overgrown out of season In the hottest and most barren part of the walk, salvation is found. (Good luck finding it!)

The beautiful flowering Yiwal tree, otherwise known as woollybutt. The spectacular orange flowers produced in May and June tell people it’s time to light fires to clean up the Country Open savannah Artistic gifts: Emus and dancing girls

Imagine a culture

that is the oldest living one on the planet.

We walk a Songline. Frequently, blank looks appear at the mention of the word Songline when dropped at the pub or eastern suburb soirees. Is this not taught at school?

Did Bruce Chatwin make no impact on the chattering classes? Even my spellcheck thinks Songline is a mistake.

In my poor European understanding, a Songline is akin to a spoken map that details the land as it is walked. I have the guidebook and the official guide map, but we are walking out of season, and it is recommended that you purchase the Northern Territory’s cartographic map. One look at it, and I am lost. I do maps, but there is little here to hang my hat on. It’s a complex landscape. Later, as we walk the dense tree- and grass-filled savannah, it becomes clear the value a Songline would have in navigating the complexities of the land. My map is unused.

Whatever walk de jour is fashionable among the elites at any given time has nothing on the Jatbula. (No offence, Camino de Santiago/Way of St James and similar, but you just can’t compete). This is an ancient culture interacting with an ancient land. Always was, always will be.

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Jatbula Trail: NORTHERN TERRITORY

THE MILKY WAY ARCHES ACROSS THE SKY—THE

EMU IN THE SKY SMILES BACK WITH INSOUCIANCE. A METEOR STREAKS. THE NIGHT IS WARM, SO WE LIE ON THE RADIATING ROCK AND PONDER THE

GREAT QUESTIONS AT LENGTH.”

The Jawoyn people have graciously opened some ceremonial, mining, and art sites to us bush-bashing philistines. These are living sites. Faded, red-ochre outlines; newer white-ochre shapes. We rush around the rocks hoping for our own Raiders of the Lost Ark-style archaeological discovery. The environs of Nitmiluk National Park have some of the oldest art found in Australia, (try googling ‘Nawarla Gabarnmang’). While some of these sites are not open to the public, in others the meaning of the drawings are simplified and explained to us. You would need the culture and language to understand them at any depth, but they’re themes our not-of-culture minds can grasp. There is talk of dressing and dancing, seduction and desire, love and lust.

Preparing for a dip at Northern Rockhole

Imagine a sky

where darkness is light.

The Milky Way arches across the sky—the Emu in the Sky smiles back with insouciance. A meteor streaks. The night is warm, so we lie on the radiating rock and ponder the great questions at length. Are there aliens at Wycliffe Well? Is the Big Bang too simple an idea? When will 60,000 years of culture reap its temporal ascendancy? Will Barty win the tennis? Our mesh tent has allowed us to look up each night and see Orion appear early in the night and Scorpio as morning nears. As my eyes grow older, the stars twinkle more. The night is full of seeing.

Imagine plants and animals so surreal and sublime.

Adults draw their trees in greens and browns while children are happy to draw them in whites or pinks. Pink and white trees abound this land—ghost gums and salmon gums. The finches are crimson. Skinks come with firetails. The earth is hard orange and soft reds. The quartz is pink and mica flecked. The kingfishers are azure. Each sunset causes a rainbow sky.

“It’s colour Jim, but not as we know it.”

Bones McCoy, Star Trek, maybe.

The wild brumbies, muscular boars, whip snakes, birds and birds and birds. Trees and grasses and all kinds of flowers. The way the track gently lets you in: Nine kilometres on Day One; eleven on Day Two; ten on Day Three, so that by the last two days you are fit and fabulous. The heat of the day; the cool of the night. The vastness of the landscape; the intimacy of the pools.

The silence of the land; the urgent thunder of the waterfall. The nipping shrimps.

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Hydrotherapy in Sweetwater Pool

Imagine a thank you that matches the gift.

Thank you, Jawoyn people for sharing your land and stories with us. We are deeply and humbly appreciative. Thank you Peter Jatbula and friends and associates for having the inspiration to develop and promote the trail. Thank you to Nitmiluk National Park, and especially the Jawoyn for managing this landscape. It looks and feels pristine. W CONTRIBUTOR: Ross Hanan was lost for three days in New Zealand’s Silver Peaks when in Year 6. He managed to find his way out, and has been losing and finding himself ever since.

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A quick lowdown to

WALKS IN

QUEENSLAND’S SCENIC RIM Words & Photography Alice Twomey, Miranda Fittock,

Marina Santiago & Reid Marshall

Brisbane SCENIC RIM

HOME TO SOUTH EAST QUEENSLAND’S highest peak and its largest rainforest ecosystem, and (along with its twin park in NSW) one of the largest boulder fields in the world, the Scenic Rim area is full to the brim with challenge and beauty. The region is synonymous with outdoor adventure, and while there are ample opportunities for rock climbing at Mount French or swimming in the Upper and Lower Portals, we think the Scenic Rim is best explored on foot, whether it be day hiking, overnight backpacking, or trail running.

The diversity of trails in the Scenic Rim is unparalleled. There are peaceful trails through lush rainforest, where every breath is full of life and the air is filled with the constant sounds of lyrebirds, whipbirds, cockatoos, and bellbirds. Once you’ve had enough of the forest, there are strenuous climbs to thundering waterfalls, serene pools to cool off in, or barren alpine zones with stunning views of the surrounding mountains and lakes. You might even spot some rock wallabies. And speaking of rocks, the rock formations at Girraween are otherwordly—giant pyramids, underground creeks, expansive caves, and balancing rocks can all be explored on a wide network of trails. When visiting the Scenic Rim—despite its proximity to Brisbane and the Gold Coast—no matter which trail you choose, it’s easy to get away from it all, feel on top of the world, and be at one with nature miles from civilisation.

THE EASY

LOWER PORTALS 8KM; 3 HOURS

This calm and undulating trail leads to the most picturesque waterhole in all of South East Queensland. Rolling hills take you west from the trailhead through an open eucalypt forest teeming with grass trees, reptiles, and macropods. You can rock-hop or wade across the crystalline streams of Rocky Creek and Mount Barney Creek before reaching the expansive Lower Portals. The water here is frigid, making this the perfect summer swimming destination, and a great picnic spot year round.

THE CLASSIC

MOUNT GREVILLE 8.6KM; 5 HOURS

The combination of dense piccabeen palms, panoramic vistas, cascading waterfalls, narrow gorges, and rocky outcroppings make this one of Australia’s most exceptional summits. While the abundant piccabeen palms flower in midsummer, many other wildflowers can be found in spring, like the bright red

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Moogerah pea and the delicate white flowers of Mount Greville phebalium. The panoramic views near the summit cairn and atop Slab Rock are unrivalled, with Mount Greville’s crags towering over Lake Moogerah and its surroundings. The steep and challenging descent from the summit to Slab Rock makes this trail more suited to experienced adventurers.

THE CHALLENGING

STEAMERS, SUPERBUS & LIZARD POINT 20.7KM; 2 DAYS

The Scenic Rim’s ultimate challenge, this hike in Main Range NP ticks off the Steamers, Mount Superbus and Lizard Point in a spectacular two-day adventure. (Wild #172 ran a story on this amazing loop.) It’s a gruelling outing, but the rewards are plentiful: stunning views of unique geological features; great ecological diversity; moss-draped cloud forests; and the historic, overgrown wreckage of a 1950s Lincoln bomber. While 1372m Mount Superbus is South East Queensland’s highest mountain, it’s not known for its views. Lizard Point, however, has arguably the best views in the entire region, although the vista across the volcanic plugs and spires of the Steamers are also hard to beat.

THE WILD BUNCH

THE RARELY TRAVELLED

MOUNT MAROON TO MOUNT MAY VIA PADDY’S FALLS 14.7KM; 2 DAYS

Mount Maroon is a popular mountain to climb in Mount Barney NP, but is home to natural features other than the summit itself. This hike starts with the steep and, at times, tumultuous trail leading to Maroon’s summit, but then continues deeper into the park.

Using a combination of goat and fire trails, plus a bit of bush bashing, you eventually follow a creek to spectacular Paddy’s Falls, where water surges over tall stone columns that beg to be climbed. The cool waterhole here offers a well-deserved reward after a hard slog. The next day, you head to Paddy’s Peak, then to Mount May, where you can choose to summit for views of the Scenic Rim, or to extend your hike by visiting the Upper Portals.

THE NATURE LOVER

GIRRAWEEN EASTERN PEAKS CIRCUIT 39.5KM; 3 DAYS

Get set for three jam-packed days on this walk through Girraween NP’s eastern section.

The landscape of Girraween is unlike any other, and evidence of ancient volcanic activity is everywhere. Monoliths such as South, Middle and West Bald Rock offer opportunities for exploration, and you will traverse ancient lava flows, hike steeply up large boulders, and discover various caves and caverns along the way. We find new caves each hike! Kangaroos and wallabies rest at every grassy campsite, and at night the bush is alive with owls, nightjars, and frogs. Try this hike in September for your chance to spot the elusive lyrebird; their calls echo throughout the rocky valleys.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT The spectacular rock formations of the Steamers Paddy’s Falls Looking towards Lake Moogerah from Slab Rock on Mt Greville One of the many caves in Girraween NP Swimming in the Lower Portals

CONTRIBUTORS: Guidebook authors Alice Twomey, Miranda Fittock, Marina Santiago and Reid Marshall don’t just know the trails around the Scenic Rim; they literally wrote the book on them. Overnight Hikes in South East Queensland and Trail Running SEQ are two of the Challenge and Beauty guidebooks covering the Scenic Rim; they’re available at adventure-shop.com.au

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TRACK NOTES

TOAROHA WHITCOMBE LOOP West Coast, South Island, NZ

Words & Photography Neil Silverwood

Hokitika

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QUICK FACTS Activity: Multi-day tramping Location: Hokitika, West Coast of the South Island, New Zealand Distance: 47km (approx) Duration: 5 days When to go: Year-round is possible, but Jan-April is ideal Difficulty: Hard—requires navigation skills. Winter may require alpine equipment and skills Permits required: None Car shuttle required: Yes

Rainfall (mm)

CLIMATE: HOKITIKA AIRPORT

NB: Expect temps to be cooler than Hokitika, and the precipitation to be greater.

Temperature (C)

ONE THIRD OF NEW ZEALAND’S LAND MASS is set aside for conservation. Within this lies a plethora of tracks and huts through pristine forests and primordial landscapes. New Zealand’s Great Walks offer a sample of what’s on offer, but there is far more backcountry tramping to be had. In fact, there are arguably many better tramps off the beaten track where you can find solitude and true wilderness.

The catchments of the Toaroha and Hokitika Rivers in the western South Island offer a prime example, where a complex network of tracks connects both the tentacle-like arms of the rivers, and the multiple huts that come in many shapes and sizes. This is rugged, isolated country, and there is a lifetime of exploration in these catchments and those surrounding them.

An excellent starting point is the Toaroha-Hokitika-Whitcombe Loop. Beyond the popular road-end huts, you are unlikely to come across another soul. There are nine huts to choose from on this loop and several others that can be reached by sidetrips. Most parties will want to set aside five days for the trip, as well as a day spare in case of adverse weather, a common event in this part of the world.

The schist mountain landscape has been shaped by high rainfall and the Alpine Fault; New Zealand’s largest fault, it has helped mould the Southern Alps. The river valleys and canyons are steep and crisscrossed by active landslides. This is a loop where you will traverse a landscape on the move.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Frew Saddle is the highest pass and the crux of the route The ultra-cute Poet Hut is maintained by Permolat—a volunteer group. The hut has been lovingly restored and still contains the original open fireplace A cable car ride across the Hokitika River is an added bonus. There are a number of cable cars in the backcountry across rivers that are too wide for swing bridges Crossing the upper Hokitika River. The river’s source is from the northern section of the Southern Alps

HISTORY The Whitcombe River is one of the mightiest on the West Coast; its powerful waters are uncrossable for much of its length. At the river’s head lies Whitcombe Pass, which Māori—often carrying pounamu (greenstone)—used to cross between the east and west coasts. In the 1860s, business leaders and politicians dreamed of establishing an easy route to unlock natural resources on the West Coast. John Whitcombe and his guide, Jakob Lauper, were hired to find a crossing through the formidable Southern Alps.

The crossing was marked by hardship, bad weather and starvation. They set out carrying basic and insufficient equipment.

The pair had woollen blankets, biscuits (enough for two per day), a rope, a billy, sugar and a good supply of tobacco; they did not carry a tent. They averaged just 5km a day. On one notably tough day, they made just 200m of progress around a cliff on the edge of the river.

When they finally reached the coast, the Māori village they’d expected to visit for food had been abandoned, and progress north along the coast was blocked by the swift and flooded Taramakau River. Their attempted crossing went awry, and Whitcombe drowned. Plans for a crossing along their route were dropped, and Whitcombe Pass remains a remote, infrequently visited spot. The Toaroha-Whitcombe Loop follows a short section of their journey, but doesn’t go all the way to their pass.

Whitcombe and Lauper’s journey is documented in Pushing His Luck, and this light paperback would be an excellent book

for trampers on the loop trip to read. If nothing else, it will help you appreciate the cableway and swing bridges, the marked tracks and warm huts.

There is some history to the huts themselves, too. The majority of the huts and tracks in the Hokitika catchment were built by the Forest Service to aid government-paid deer cullers, who lived for weeks or even months at a time in the backcountry. Over the years, many of the tracks became overgrown, and many huts were unmaintained. The Department of Conservation (formed in 1987) tired quickly of the responsibility, and by the early 2000s they wanted to remove a number of the less popular huts.

A public backlash resulted in DOC agreeing to leave the huts.

A public group, Permolat—named after the white venetian blind that the group commonly used as track markers—took over much of the maintenance, with trampers and hunters ‘adopting’ their favourite huts and nearby tracks to maintain. This has resulted in the majority of huts and tracks being restored.

FLORA & FAUNA While much of the lowland forest on the West Coast has been logged, the upper Hokitika catchment is covered by lush, oldgrowth, podocarp forest. The area is home to kea, New Zealand’s cheeky mountain parrots. Be advised they can wreak havoc on tents and gear—no shoe or sock is safe if left outside a hut. Deer and chamois, both introduced for hunting, are also common on the tops and on river flats.

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Styx River

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Cedar Flat Hut

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Mt Reeves (1779m)

Mt O’Connor (1814m)

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Steadman Saddle

Frew Saddle

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GE

Bluff Hut

Frew Hut

TOAROHAWHITCOMBE LOOP

AN

Top Toaroha Hut

(2130m)

0

2.5

5.0

7.5

10 KM

CLIMATE

WHEN TO GO

The Hokitika River catchment is in the top five highest annual average rainfall areas in the world. In 2019, a new record for the most rain in New Zealand over a 48-hour period—1,049mm— was set here. At times, the rain has exceeded 100mm an hour.

There is a well-known, anonymously written poem which describes the weather in the Hokitika area: It rained and rained and rained The average fall was well maintained And when the tracks were simple bogs It started raining cats and dogs After a drought of half an hour We had a most refreshing shower And then the most curious thing of all – A gentle rain began to fall.

Next day but one was fairly dry Save for one deluge from the sky Which wetted the party to the skin And then at last the rain set in!

Finding a good weather window for this tramp is the difference between a slow, soggy trip with no views and a dry, enjoyable one.

The Toaroha-Whitcombe Loop can be completed at any time of year. However, due to creek crossings and the possibility of snow in winter, it requires a good five-day weather window. The driest, warmest months for tramping tend to be Jan–April, when you can expect long, fine days.

The Hokitika catchment receives significant amounts of rain.

Spring, and in recent years autumn, tend to be quite wet. While most major rivers are bridged, there are a number of unbridged side creeks that can become uncrossable when waters rise.

In winter, expect short, crisp, cold days. Snow is likely to be encountered on the tops, including on Toaroha and Frew Saddles. Depending on conditions, an ice axe and crampons and the skills to use them may be required. Avalanche risk is possible— especially after a large snow event.

The crux in winter conditions is likely to be the short climb from the Hokitika River up to Frew Saddle. During the colder months, the trip would be best tackled by doing the loop in a clockwise direction so that you are climbing rather than descending the saddle. That way you can backtrack if needed.

In winter, if snow makes the loop unachievable, an excellent

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The confluence of the Mungo and Whitcombe Rivers. The blue tinge is from rock ‘flour’—ground-up schist which is suspended in the water and refracts sunlight

alternative is the nearby Styx Valley-Arahura Loop. This is a 3-4 day tramp with a much lower pass—770m ASL. Travel through the lower Styx River Valley, however, requires good weather as there are numerous river crossings.

Before any trip, check in with the local Department of Conservation Visitor Centre to find out about track conditions.

Landslips and washouts are not uncommon.

GETTING THERE The nearest international airport is in Christchurch, about 3.5 hours’ driving from the start of the loop. There are daily flights from Christchurch to the small town of Hokitika, but the service can be unreliable due to weather and other factors. When flights get cancelled, the airline puts customers on a minibus over the mountains (the last time this happened to me, it felt like Mr Toad’s wild ride). Another option is to hire a car for the three-hour drive from Christchurch to the coast. If travelling from Australia, check out the latest COVID-19 travel restrictions at covid19.govt.nz/international-travel. Also, remember to check your gear for stowaways that pose a biosecurity risk in New Zealand.

The start of the loop is a 30-minute drive inland from Hokitika. It is not a complete loop—a car shuttle, clever planning, long road walking (roughly 30km) or hitchhiking is required.

If you’re doing the latter (I’ve had luck doing this on two occasions), it’s worthwhile doing the trip clockwise so you can finish at touristed Hokitika Falls, where there’s likely to be traffic.

Going in the other direction, you finish where there’s far less traffic. And even if you are able to arrange a car shuttle, going

clockwise and finishing with a side trip to the Hokitika Gorge is a nice way to end the trip. This is a short walk that takes in the famous blue gorge at the end of the loop.

To get to the trailhead to do the route clockwise, head first to Kaniere, then take the Kaniere-Kowhitirangi Rd south. At the T-intersection, turn left onto the Upper Kokatahi Rd, and follow that until Middlebranch Rd heads off to the right. The track starts at the end of the road.

FEES/PERMITS No permits are required. All huts on the loop are currently on a first-come, first-in basis, and cost five dollars (one backcountry ticket) per person per night. Tickets can be purchased from any DOC Visitor Centre or Information Centre. If you are tramping in peak holiday or hunting periods like Christmas-New Year or Easter, you’ll want to carry a tent just in case. Bring your own sleeping bag, cooking gear, food and fuel. Huts have mattresses, and some have wood fire heating but not all.

Note that you can stay in any of the in-between huts mentioned in the trail description; just have a back-up plan if one of the smaller huts is full—either a tent or enough daylight and energy to find another suitable shelter for the night.

DIFFICULTY This is a hard trip, and you should have experience before undertaking it. It requires navigation skills, and there are untracked sections (although poles mark the route). Winter may require alpine equipment and skills. And there are watery crossings, too; after heavy rain, they may be impassable.

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The Bluff Swing Bridge provides access across the swift upper Hokitika. The track on either side traverses rough, undulating terrain, and this section of the track is often affected by landslides

THE WALK IN SECTIONS Be aware that these track notes describe just the main loop; there are also several sidetrips you could do venturing off the loop route if you want to extend your time in the backcountry. Upper Mungo River to Mungo Hut is probably the pick of the extensions but there are loads of others, including up to Whitcombe Pass. Check out NZ’s 1:50,000 topo maps for more inspiration.

DAY 1

Toaroha Car Park to Cedar Flat Huts 7.7km; 4-5 hours

The walk begins by following a 4WD road through farmland before leaving the river and heading into dense forest. The track utilises an old pack-track cut by hand some 100 years ago.

About an hour after leaving the car park, the river is regained, followed by an easy boulder hop. The track then climbs around Toaroha Canyon and descends to Cedar Flat; on the river’s true left, a swing bridge provides access to the Cedar Flat Huts. Keep an eye out for native blue duck/whio as they whistle in the river.

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There are two huts here: a modern 12-bunk hut which is well insulated with a fire, and a rustic, 2-bunk historic hut which is still open for use. The new hut is popular with families. It can be full on fine weekends and holidays, but there is space to camp on the lawn if needed.

If you’re keen for a soak after a day’s walk, there is a hot pool twenty minutes from the huts which can be reached by crossing back over the swing bridge and heading up the true right of the Toaroha River on a marked track. The pool is in the creek bed of Wren Creek, and may need to be dug out if there’s been recent heavy rain. It is superb.

DAY 2

Cedar Flat Huts to Top Toaroha Hut 7.4km; 5-6 hours

A track leads from the flat to a swing bridge across a narrow gorge 700m upriver. It then follows the Toaroha up to the Top Toaroha Hut. The terrain and track are notably rougher than the lower Toaroha section. Several tracks branch off the main track, allowing access to the tops above the Toaroha and to other huts.

Toaroha-Whitcombe, NEW ZEALAND

The route is possible in most conditions, but after heavy rain, some side streams and the upper Toaroha may become impassable. Small streams can rise and fall equally quickly, and are often crossable just a few hours after the rain has finished.

The Top Toaroha Hut is a humble 6-bunker from the Forest Service days.

DAY 3

Top Toaroha Hut to Bluff Hut 7.9km; 7-9 hours

The track carries on across an open tussock basin, ascending steeply up to the top Toaroha Saddle and bivouac—a tiny two-person hut with mattresses but no fireplace. It’s a stunning spot offering views of the Southern Alps just 6km to the south. A well-cut and marked track drops from the saddle down to Poet Hut—an ultra-cute 4-bunk hut in a small clearing on the bank of the remote Mungo River.

The next section of track to Bluff Hut is gruelling and traverses undulating terrain.

The short distance can be deceptive, and your travel speed will only be around 1km/h. After Poet Hut, there is a swing bridge across the Mungo River before the track ascends steeply up a ridge to Bluff Hut, which was rebuilt in recent years and was in good condition last time I visited. It has six bunks. This section of the trip has had landslips on occasion, so check doc.govt.nz for updates on track closures or other issues.

IMAGES THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Toaroha Saddle is straightforward in summer, but travel can be hampered by snow in winter While the major river-crossing points are bridged, there are numerous small streams which can be difficult if not impossible to cross during heavy rain. These go down as quickly as they rise, and can often be crossed just hours after rain stops falling. This crossing on Day One, halfway up to the Cedar Flats Huts, is usually just a small stream Huts built with hobbits in mind— the Toaroha Saddle Biv The route has two ultra-cosy two-person bivs which can be used as alternatives to the standard huts. This is inside the Toaroha Saddle Biv

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The Collier Gorge Swing Bridge, Whitcombe River

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TRACK NOTES

IMAGES THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Wind-blown scrub near the Frew Saddle The fancy, newly built Bluff Hut. This is the most isolated hut on the trip Frew Saddle Biv is positioned to provide shelter on the most exposed (to the weather) part of the trip

DAY 4

Bluff Hut to Frew Hut 11.9km; 6-8 hours

The section between Bluff Hut and Frew Saddle is a route rather than a track and is marked by poles. Despite the lack of a track, travel is straightforward in good visibility, and the open terrain, crystal clear Hokitika River, and the views of the surrounding tops make this part of the trip a highlight for many parties.

There is a final short-but-steep climb up to the saddle and Frew Biv, a 2-bunk basic hut without a fireplace.

The descent to Frew Hut from the saddle is lovely, down a well-maintained track. To reach the hut, when you hit the Whitcombe River, and the Whitcombe Valley Track, don’t head downstream (the direction you’ll head tomorrow), but instead turn left, upriver; Frew Hut is about 400m upstream. It’s one of the trip’s nicest huts—modern, with ten bunks and a wood fire. Its forest setting adds to the variety of accommodation after Bluff Hut’s airy perch and Top Toaroha Hut’s tussock flat.

DAY 5

Frew Hut to the Trail Head

There is a swing bridge across Colliers Gorge. The bridge across Rapid Creek has been washed away and is yet to be replaced. In normal and low flows, you can cross the creek without issue, but in flood Rapid Creek becomes impassable.

Rapid Creek Hut is a 4-bunk Forest Service hut just 2-3 hours from the road end. It has a fireplace and mattresses but is pretty basic. It’s also popular with hunters, and it sees a reasonable amount of use due to its proximity to the road end. The sandflies are ferocious here as well. (Ed: Neil, you’re not really selling this hut very well.)

Just below the hut, there’s a cableway across the river—it’s basically a fancy flying fox with a tray to sit in that’s just large enough to take you and your pack. Make sure the pulling tool is there to pull yourself across if you’re travelling alone. Parties of two or more can crank the winch for each other from the bank.

Beyond the swing bridge, there’s an old, benched pack-track.

The final section is an uninspiring 4WD road through farmland to the carpark. Five minutes into your drive back to civilisation, you’ll come to the Hokitika Gorge—a popular tourist spot and a good place to walk to if you intend to hitchhike back to your vehicle at the Toaroha end. W

12.2km; 5-7 hours CONTRIBUTOR: Occasionally—very occasionally—photographer and

This section is best described as a good, honest grind. The track follows the Whitcombe River closely and is in good condition.

caving diehard Neil Silverwood comes up for air, takes off his gumboots, and goes on a walk near his home on the West Coast of NZ’s South Island.

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GEAR

GEARING UP FOR THE

BACKCOUNTRY

There’s no doubt about it—backcountry skiing involves a lot of kit. Even more so if you want to do it safely (and you do, don’t you?), and if you want to maximise your fun. Different people have different approaches and styles to this; here’s the complete mix of old and new gear Wild’s Editor James McComack will be taking into the Aussie backcountry in 2022.

By JAMES MCCORMACK

SKIS, BOOTS, BINDINGS, POLES & SKINS

1

WHEN IT COMES TO SKIS, everyone has their own preference, so I’ll state mine up front: For me, the down is more important than the up, and I’m willing to use

4

heavier gear (to a point) on the ascent if it means the descent is, well, funner. I also prefer my skis a little fatter than most Aussies. My Blizzard Cochises (1) are, at 108mm underfoot, my ‘skinny’ skis; my ‘fatties’ are 125mm Black Diamond Carbon

7

Megawatts (which are lightweight and aimed at touring). But the Cochises are my all-conditions go-to skis, hands down one of best pair of skis I’ve ever owned, and perfect for hardpack, ice, slush, crud, spring slop and moderately deep pow. They’re on the heavy side, sure, but even though many other skiers will think differently, for

2

most conditions I’m happy to make the trade-off; some lightweight touring-specific alternatives ski like wet noodles. My Cochises are getting long in the tooth (and very beaten up), but given I still love them, I’m loathe to ditch ‘em. That said, they may be

6

nearing the end of their useful life.

My ski choice is also influenced by the fact that I split my skiing days between resort and backcountry, and that I ski overseas often. If I didn’t, I’d definitely consider lighter, touring-specific skis. But the weight restrictions on planes mean I’m

3

8

limited to two pairs when travelling, so I want both skis to work well in resorts, too.

This leads me to what’s probably most interesting about my ski setup; the fact I’ve mounted Binding Freedom swap plates (2) to my skis, letting me run either regular alpine bindings or touring bindings on them. (Insert screws let you do the same

5

thing.) Simply unscrew the bindings, and then screw in the right bindings for the day. It’s about a 10- to 15-minute job. I’m not going to lie, though; swapping bindings can be a minor hassle. But I think it’s been worth the effort. Alpine bindings handle

6

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WILD

day-in, day-out resort abuse better than touring bindings, they have better elasticity, and they let me ski on relatively high DIN settings, usually 13 or 14—more than most

touring bindings. In fact, it’s for this reason that I’ve stuck with the

here’s the thing: I’d mount them via insert screws so I could swap

setup I’ve got (including my old boots; see two paragraphs on) for so

between them for resort days (but with the capability of occasional

long. But there’s been a development recently that I think may per-

touring, so that I wouldn’t have to bother swapping bindings over for

suade me to change; I’ll get to that shortly.

short backcountry jaunts), but then having the option of swapping

Like my skis, my Dynafit FT12 touring bindings (3) are getting old too, but have usually, though not always, served me well. I’ve considered updating them for a few years now, but the swap plates are specific to these bindings, so I’ve stuck with them. Also, I’ve been waiting to see if the perfect binding—one with a tech-toe

* that tours

to a much lighter, dedicated touring binding, albeit one with a high DIN-equivalent setting, say like ATK’s Freeraider 14 or 16.

My boots are also on the heavier side (2,259g/boot), but again, I’m more about the down than the up; my Black Diamond Factor boots (4), with a 130-flex rating, are stiffer and more solid than most

well but still has alpine binding-like characteristics and durability—is

regular recreational alpine boots. And I can swap the heel and toe

eventually released. To my mind, that hasn’t happened yet; Salomon’s

blocks to work with either alpine or touring bindings. Like my skis

Shift MNC 13, Black Diamond’s Fritschi Tecton, and Marker’s Kingpin

and bindings, the boots are old too, and I’ve stuck with them largely

bindings have all had a crack at this, but I don’t think they’re quite

because I can put alpine soles on them; if I update to Duke PT 16s

there yet. In fact, I’m slowly realising that the ‘perfect’ binding is most

though, I won’t need alpine blocks any more, and I’d look to update

likely impossible, kind of like wishing for a low-slung sports car with

the boots to something a little lighter, and with more aggressively

high clearance for off-roading capabilities. So having given up on the

lugged soles, than the Factors.

perfect binding dream, I’m now looking at updating to Marker Duke

My Black Diamond Ascension skins (5) are also old, but they’re

PT 16 touring bindings. Yes, these are heavy bindings that don’t tour

still going strong. I store them, at least while I’m out touring, in a pair

that well. But they are superb descenders, as close to alpine bindings

of G3 Love Gloves (6). You may think spandex is only for clubbing or

as any tech binding has ever been. They hit the market two years ago,

the bedroom, but it has a place in the backcountry, too. These little

but because of a blown ACL and then this damn pandemic, I haven’t

spandex ‘socks’ take a lot of the hassle out of stowing skins, espe-

looked at getting them; now that I can get back on snow, I am. But

cially on windy days; just don’t store your skins long term in them.

As for my poles, I just use regular ones. I’ve seen multiple touring

bindings, aka ‘pin’ or ‘insert’ bindings, are touring bindings that clasp to *the‘Tech’ toe of your boot via two ‘pins’, which you then pivot off to raise the heel. There are other types of touring bindings out there, notably frame bindings which are waning in popularity due to their weight and less-efficient touring mechanics.

partners have issues with telescopic ones, so I prefer the bomber simplicity of my Black Diamond fixed-length poles (7).

Last of all, ski straps (8) are useful not only for holding skis together when they’re on your pack, but potentially for repairs as well.

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BACKCOUNTRY GEAR

9

10

17

22

23

18

24

25 26

27 19

20 14 11

28

16

12

13

15

29

21 30

PACK/S

winter-capable tent I’ve owned in the past. Look for a full review of

I’ve long used Wilderness Equipment’s Mountain Expedition

the Assault in Wild’s Spring issue.

pack (9). At 100+ litres, it’s so huge it not only carries all my gear,

To pin down the tent, I use 30cm snow stakes (18). But it can get

including camera gear (as a pro photographer, I have plenty of it,

really windy out there. I’ve camped out in 140km/h winds (hunkered

and it’s the main reason I need a pack this size), it even doubles as an

down, of course). And given I once lost a tent in a gale in California’s

emergency bivvy. Although it’s ‘winterised’ with a shovel pocket and

Sierra Nevada—and I literally mean lost, not broken; it’s a long sto-

ski and crampon attachments, it serves well for regular hiking, too.

ry—I now take out two deadmen (19).

The pack also skis well, and it compresses down impressively. On

Feathered Friends Tern Dryloft sleeping bag (20). This slim-cut,

day trips, though, starting this season, I’ll take out Osprey’s back-

800+ loft, -23°C rated bag is a great example of why it pays to get the

country-specific Soelden 32 daypack (10). At 1.15kg, it’s lightweight

very best bag you can afford; a good one lasts so long. Mine is more

for a ski pack of its volume, and far lighter than my 3.5kg Mountain

than 20 years old and still going strong. As for my mat, this will be my

Expedition. It carries skis in either A-frame or diagonal positions, has

first season taking out Exped’s newly released Ultra 5R Mummy mat

a large front-panel pocket for all my avvy gear, has dual positions for

(21). Not only will it be more comfortable than my old Thermarest (it’s

my ski helmet and a scratch-free soft goggles pocket.

at least double the thickness), and warmer than it (with an R value of 5, it’s perfect for winter snow camping), it will weigh 50g less, too.

SAFETY AND SNOW TOOLS Pieps DSP avalanche beacon (11). Beacons are an absolute necessity.

COOKING, EATING AND DRINKING

Carry one. Anyone who thinks avalanches aren’t an issue in Australia

One of the pitfalls of most canister stoves is their poor performance

is flat out wrong. My Voile telescopic shovel (12) is the same one I got

in blustery conditions (something that’s all too hard to avoid in Aus-

decades ago, and there’s no need to change it. It’s light, and I prefer

tralia’s mountains). The Soto Windmaster (22) is an exception, and

metal/aluminium blades; I’ve heard stories of plastic blades breaking—

this awesome, lightweight stove (just 60g) performs well without

not ideal if someone’s life is on the line. Then there’s my probe—Black

a shield (23) even in moderately blustery conditions. For general

Diamond’s Super Tour 265 (13). As for a PLB, my KTI SA2GN beacon

bushwalking, I usually leave the shield at home, but for trips into

(14) is lightweight and tiny; you can read about it at wild.com.au/

the mountains, I still bring one along. Bring a stove stand (24) as

gear/sa2gn-plb. I’ll also carry SOL’s Emergency Bivvy (15) this

well; the smooth bases of canisters can begin sliding in snow once it

season; learn more about this lightweight piece of insurance on the

melts a little. Oh, and a lighter (25); bring one, even if your stove, like

next page. At just 50cm, my Black Diamond Raven ice axe (16) is

my Soto Windmaster, has a piezo igniter.

perfect for ski mountaineering when you don’t need a full-length

As for my pot, I’m still using the same old beaten-up and dented

axe. Depending on the terrain you’re skiing, an axe in Australia may

aluminium billy (26) I bought as a teenager, along with a plastic

be overkill, but carrying one has saved my butt several times when

GSI 500ml handle-less cup (27) that doubles as a bowl. I also have

it’s come to boot-packing steep terrain on hard snow.

an extra-long spoon (28) that allows me to get to the bottom of a freeze-dried sachet without getting food all over my paws. I also

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SHELTER & SLEEPING

have long used a 6L MSR Hydromedary bladder (29); it’s no longer

This season I’ll be taking out The North Face’s Assault 2 tent (17).

available, and has been replaced by the DromLite bladders. Note

Made of Futurelight, the waterproof/breathable membrane we’ve

that I’ve used a sharpie pen to draw in the litre marks; they’re really

talked about in previous issues of Wild—this single-walled tent tips

useful for knowing exactly how much you’ve got in there. And as a

the scales at just 2,332g (not including stakes), far lighter than any

bombproof backup, I always carry a 1L Nalgene bottle (30).

WILD

32

31

41

35 34

58

42

59

44

36

66

57

48

43

65

56

55

33

60 37

49

50

61

51

67 63

38 39 40

45 52

53

46

62 + 64

68

54

47

TOOLS AND SPARES

my REI down booties (52). Few things are more blissful in life than, at

BD Binding Buddy tool (31), Leatherman’s Skeletool (32), spare ski

the end of a long day, getting out ski boots and into these soft puppies.

basket (33), cable ties (34), spare tent pole sleeve (35), super glue

And for my noggin, a visor (53) and a balaclava (54).

(36), duct tape (37) (wrapped around a ski pole) and a spare pack buckle (38). 10m of cord (39) is also useful, and can help if—god for-

FIRST AID KIT

bid— you need to haul a makeshift rescue sled. I hold all the spares in a

I could write a whole separate article on this. In short, bring one (55).

mesh bag (40) that I can see through when I need to find something.

CLOTHING

PROTECTION You want Cat 3 sunglasses at least; I’ve got Bolle’s Shift photo-

For outerwear, there’s The North Face’s (TNF)’s Futurelight jacket

chromic glasses (56). I’ll also take out Giro’s Article goggles (57),

(41) (see my review at wild.com.au/gear/futurelight-freethinker).

Smith’s Maze helmet (58), a bandanna (59), and, of course, sun-

My Gore-Tex Mountain Equipment Co-op bib pants (42) weigh just

screen (60). Carry more than you think you need. And make sure it’s

530g—lightweight for bib pants with a full zip (definitely preferable

not out of date. The reflected rays are incredibly harsh, and I once got

over half or quarter zips for ski touring. You can vent far better on

horrendously burnt because I used old sunscreen that wasn’t effective.

climbs, and take them on and off over ski boots far more easily.

I’ll mention two insulating jackets here. Firstly, for warmer condi-

RANDOM OTHER KIT

tions, there’s Arc’teryx’s Nuclei FL (43) (which I reviewed in Wild

Phone, with downloaded maps, in a waterproof case from

#177; read it at wild.com.au/gear/arcteryx-nuclei-fl-jacket). I love

Decathlon (61). When the weather turns wet and foul with zero

this jacket; it weighs just 310g and yet provides incredible warmth,

visibility, and you need to navigate via your phone’s GPS/mapping

even in the damp conditions common in Oz’s often above-freezing

apps, the last thing you want is to be afraid to use your phone simply

temperatures. For mid-winter cold, this season I’ll be taking out

because of the weather. And the same goes for your back up paper

TNF’s 50/50 down hoodie (44). With 800-fill down, it’s going to

map (62) (and yes, despite the GPS on your phone, you still abso-

be light but warm. But its unique baffle construction allows for

lutely need a physical map as a backup). And it, too, like your phone,

increased airflow so you don’t heat up too much during activity.

needs protection in wet weather. I carry a power bank (63), too, for

As a mid-layer, TNF’s L2 Futurefleece hoodie (45) ticks all the

the phone. My Sealine map cover (64) is big enough for me to be

boxes I want: thumb loops; hood; full zip; slim fitting (so it’s not

able to navigate with the map tucked up safely inside, along with my

squeezy when worn under a shell) and weighs a mere 210g.

compass (65). And then there are my dry bags. There’s my Sea To

For base layers, this year I will take out Patagonia’s Cap Air crew top (46) for the first time. It’s 51% merino wool and 49% recycled polyester, and seems to take on the best qualities of both—it’s quick-drying, lightweight, doesn’t stink, and when I’ve put it on, it’s

Summit Event compression dry bag (66) for my sleeping bag, and then another Sea to Summit Event dry bag (67) for regular gear.

Black Diamond’s Storm headlamp (68) weighs just 120g, but pumps out 400 lumens—bright enough to ski with at night.

felt lovely. On the bottom, I’ll have TNF’s Poly tights (47), coupled with some warmer Nike Dri-fit tights (48). In Oz, it’s warm enough that I usually don’t bother with any heavy-duty insulation for my legs.

For my hands, I’ll have TNF leather-palmed Gore-Tex gloves (49)

ONE LAST THING Whew! That’s a lot of gear. But there’s at least one more essential to consider before you head out, and that’s knowing the condi-

and rubber-palmed stretch-fleece gloves from Aldi (50) (sorry Dan,

tions. Head to MountainSafetyCollective.org for the latest back-

see P 32). For my feet, there’ll be Macpac ski socks (51) and (best of all)

country bulletins and to become a member. Stay safe out there! W

WINTER 2022

155

GEAR TECH

ANON

WAVECEL

A new technology promises more protection for your greatest asset: your head.

I

T’S TAKEN A LONG TIME for the risks of concussion to be taken seriously in the community, and it seems like

the various football codes are only now getting in on the act. But skiing and boarding was no different, and helmet wearing has only relatively recently become com-

Anon’s Merak WaveCel Helmet MORE INFO: wavecel.com/science anonoptics.com

monplace. While this is great, one of the problems is that

a collapsible cellular structure that flexes, crumples and

standard foam helmets, while offering far more protection

glides to reduce rotational acceleration. Helmet manufac-

than nothing, are still far from perfect. They mainly provide

turer Anon, the only company licensed to use the technol-

protection from direct impacts, but as anyone who’s slid

ogy in snowsports helmets, describes the process like this:

on snow knows, most falls happen all over the place, with

“First, cells flex to divert the impact force away from the

twists and angled impacts. These can cause rotational

head. Next, cells crumple to absorb impact energy, like

acceleration (in laypeople’s terms, rapid spinning) of the

the crumple zone of a car. Finally, cells glide to distribute

head, which in turn carries a greater risk of brain injury.

rotational forces.” The end result is protection far greater

MIPS is one helmet technology designed to lessen rota-

than that offered by a standard helmet. And since you’ve

tional forces. But now there’s another: WaveCel. It’s a new

only got one head, that’s good to know.

technology, albeit 20 years in the making, that employs

JAMES MCCORMACK

MICRO REVIEW

SOL

EMERGENCY BIVVY A little insurance.

I

F YOU’RE HEADING OUT into the snow in winter, it pays to

have a little insurance. For me, that insurance means always being prepared, even on day trips, to

LAUNCH

VICTORINOX

SWISS TOOL SPIRIT MXBS It’s time for Australia to get a knife of its own.

spend the night out. It could be a result of injury, or a broken or lost

THERE’S PROBABLY NOT A WILD READER out there who hasn’t heard

ski, or any number of other reasons. But you want to know

of the Swiss Army Knife. After all, it’s only been around for 125 years, and

that even if it’s not going to be a comfortable night, you’ll

the phrase itself has become synonymous with do-it-all gadgets in gen-

at least get through. So, firstly, I always carry a down jacket.

eral. But did you know there’s an Australian Army Knife? Well, OK, I just

Secondly, I carry an emergency bivvy. This year I’ll be carrying

made that up, but I’m only slightly joking, because the same company

SOL’s Emergency Bivvy. It reflects 90% of your body heat,

that gave us the Swiss Army Knife 125 years ago, Victorinox, is about to

and it’s tear resistant and waterproof. And it comes with an

release to the public the very same multi-tool it started supplying to

emergency whistle and tinder cord. In the past, I’ve carried a

the Australian Defence Force last year. To win the contract, however,

heavier emergency bag weighing 227g. This SOL one, with the

Victorinox had to ensure the tool could be opened with one hand, while

stuff sack, is exactly half the weight at 114g, and it’s no bigger

wearing combat gloves. The company had never produced a one-hand

than a tennis ball. SOL also have heavier-duty, warmer emer-

opening tool before, so it set to work.

gency bivvies—in fact a whole range of them, even a water-

156

The end result was the creation of the MXBS, a 25-function, burnished-

proof/breathable one that looks pretty interesting—but for

steel multi-tool that Victorinox now supplies to the ADF. Really, though,

me, this one is so small and light I’ll be able to chuck it in the

that wasn’t the end result, because the company took it further; the

bottom of any pack, day or overnighter, and then forget about

actual end result was the release of a whole family of multi-tools based

it; I won’t notice it until the day I need it (hopefully, never). And

around the MXBS, all with 20+ functions but slightly altered configura-

it’s cheap, too, just $45. It seems a small price to pay, in cost,

tions. Not all the tools are black, which the ADF required to stop the tool’s

in weight, and in space, to carry this little bit of insurance with

reflectivity. In fact, four of the six models are polished silver; they’re all

you on every trip. Check out the bags at

beautiful, though, and highly crafted. And, of course, functional too; it’s

surviveoutdoorslonger.com.au

an Aussie Army Knife, after all.

JAMES MCCORMACK

JAMES MCCORMACK

WILD

Going backcountry this winter?

• Check the conditions • Know the hazards • Make informed decisions

Check the bulletin MountainSafetyCollective.org

The view from Machinery Point: Diamantina and Avalanche faces, Central Buttress and the Ampitheatre of Mount Feathertops east aspect, mid August conditions, Alpine National Park, Victoria, photo credit: Simon Murray

EXPLORE MORE, WORRY LESS

ESCAPE BIVVY

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At only 241g, the unexpected night out just got warmer & drier with the heat reflective bivvy that breathes.

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For more information visit: surviveoutdoorslonger.com.au

GEAR

SUPPORT OUR

SUPPORTERS We get it; we know ads aren’t the primary reason you read Wild. But without our supporters, Wild simply wouldn’t exist*. If you love what we’re on about here at Wild, if you’re passionate about both adventure and protecting our natural heritage, if having a magazine that’s full of well-written, crafted stories means something to you, a magazine that fights hard for our environment, then support our supporters; without them, Wild wouldn’t exist.

We know that our advertising supporters aren’t, of course, your only options when it comes to choosing what gear you purchase. But if you’re in a situation where you have a few cool options to choose from, and one of them happens to be from one of our advertisers, then show them their support means something by choosing their product. No-one’s asking for handouts, here; we genuinely believe that everyone who advertises

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* We also wouldn’t exist without our amazingly talented and tireless contributors, either.

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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WILD

ventilation and fit for modern or more in duration, the series feature improved anti-gravity technology—a continuous backpanel of lightweight mesh—that wrap the wearer in supreme comfort.

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GEAR

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warmth and packability but with the warm-when-wet perfor-

coupled with the Vibram® Eco Step Evo sole this allows perfect mobility and support control. LASPORTIVA.COM.AU

mance of synthetic insulation. It is also Fair Trade Certified™ sewn, meaning the people who made it earned a premium for their labour. RRP: $349.95 PATAGONIA.COM.AU

SEA TO SUMMIT

SALEWA:

Cleverly constructed comfort

Robust and reliable, the Denali II is a 2-per-

ETHER LIGHT XT EXTREME MAT for the coldest conditions.

Designed with XT Air Sprung Cells that provide four inches of stability and comfort, while dual-density layers of THERMOLITE® insulation prevent con-

DENALI II TENT son, 3-season, double-wall dome tent that’s rugged enough for a trekking trip, yet light enough for a bicycle tour. With good weather protection (thanks to the fly’s 3,000mm waterhead), the Denali II has great stability and ventilation. Its large internal space and dual vestibules allow for easy cooking or gear storage, and its dual entrances improve interior comfort. RRP: $429.95

vective heat loss and internal air movement. This results in true four-season performance. RRP: $369.99-$429.99 SEATOSUMMIT.COM.AU

VICTORINOX:

REPLICA 1897 LIMITED EDITION SWISS ARMY KNIFE To celebrate the 125th anniversary of the Swiss Army Knife, Victorinox is launching a true replica knife based on the original.

The Replica 1897 is available in a limited quantity of 9,999 pieces only. Individually numbered and engraved with the year 1897, this unique knife makes a superb collector’s item or a very special gift. RRP: $999 VICTORINOX.COM.AU

Not all of our supporters make gear, and they deserve our support, too. Please check out what they’ve got to offer.

SOL:

FIRE LITE FUEL-FREE LIGHTER Like lightning in the palm of your hand, the SOL Fire

ADRENALINE.COM.AU

WILDEARTH.COM.AU

WILDERNESS. ORG.AU

WLDNCO.COM

FISIOCREM.COM.AU

CRADLEMOUNTAIN CANYONS.COM.AU

Lite™ Fuel-Free Lighter lets you start fires with the touch of a button. This weatherproof electric lighter works in all weather conditions, and ignites at any altitude. USB rechargeable, with a single charge powering up to 45 uses, it weighs just 51g. The plasma lighter also comes with a built-in 100 lumen LED light and tinder cord lanyard. RRP: $59.95 SURVIVEOUTDOORSLONGER.COM.AU

ALSO, PLEASE CHECK OUT OUR CLASSIFIEDS PAGES OVERLEAF, AND SHOW OUR SMALLER, COMMUNITY SUPPORTERS YOUR LOVE

WINTER 2022

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Wild CLASSIFIEDS

Show our smaller supporters some love

ULTRALIGHT HEATED TIPIS & OUTDOOR EQUIPMENT

For 15 years, Dan Mazur and SummitClimb have been leading treks and expeditions in the Himalaya, and South America.

Accomplishments include getting Austrialia's youngest climber up Ama Dablam, Australia's first climber up Baruntse, and Australia's oldest climber up Everest.

SummitClimb were the ones who rescued Lincoln Hall on Everest.

DISCOUNT

5%

FOR WILD READERS September / November ‘22 Manaslu, Ama Dablam, Baruntse, Lobuche, Island Peak, Everest Base Camp and Remote Service Trek.

December ‘22, January, February ‘23 Christmas Trek, Island Peak, Aconcagua and Ojos Del Salado or Kilimanjaro April - May ‘23 - Everest Summit Climbs: Nepal or Tibet, Everest Camp 3 Training Climbs, Mount Lhotse, Everest’s Sister.

Also, Everest Glacier School and EBC Trek. Leader Dan Mazur with 12 Successful Everest expeditions.

pastoutdoors.com 1800 727 847

Ski the backcountry with

Bogong Equipment Alpine Touring Skis + Telemark + Cross Country

r! gea i k s our t u ck o Che

Gear for serious adventures 374 Lt Bourke St, Melbourne 3000 + Tel: (03) 9600 0599 + bogong.com.au

June - July - Aug ‘23 - Gasherbrum 1 and 2, K2 Summit, 8000m Training , Broad Peak, K2 Base Camp Trek, Pastore Trekking Peak (near K2). 3 time K2 Leader Dan Mazur and Sherpas!

Ring me for a chat in Sydney: (02) 8091 1462.

WhatsApp : +13602503407.

Email: DanielMazur@SummitClimb.com www.SummitClimb.com Messenger: Facebook.com/DanielLeeMazur

Contact paul@adventureentertainment.com to get your spot in the Wild Classifieds

OUTDOOR GEAR & APPAREL

SHOP ONLINE HIKING TRAIL RUNNING LIFESTYLE TOURS

wilder places need wilder people

findyourfeet.com.au

WWW.ZORALI.COM

WILD SHOT

As a few of the lucky crew to be in the NSW backcountry while Sydney was locked down in August 2021, Tim Clark, Hayden Griffith and Sophie Hewitt were taking in the view of the Western Faces from our eagle’s lair campsite. While that low cloud treated us to an epic sunset that evening, it rose the next morning and kept us tent-bound in a dense white out the entire next day!”

OWEN LANSBURY Avalon Beach, NSW

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WILD

Owen wins the minimal yet formidable Osprey SPORTLITE 20 daypack. Its AirScape backpanel and suspension system, plus quick-release compression straps, allow for a stable and dynamic carry that everyone can appreciate. And it’s made with 100% recycled materials. 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

Atmos | Aura A DV E N T U R E , M A N I F E S T

Explore novel trails and storied peaks with the new Atmos/Aura, updated with enhanced AntiGravity suspension, a fine-tuned Fit-on-the-Fly ® harness and hipbelt, and an exceptional dual-access main compartment for ease of organisation.

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