Wild #185

#185

SPRING 2022

TASMANIA'S NATIVE FOREST LOGGING

THE ABELISTS • ALL ABOUT ROGAINING • FIVE TOP END WALKS • ICE CLIMBING IN CANADA TRACK NOTES: CRADLE MOUNTAIN LOOP • TAKING RESPONSIBILITY IN THE BUDAWANGS 20 YEARS OF TASMANIAN FOREST ACTIVISM • PADDLING VICTORIA'S CALEDONIA RIVER

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CONTENTS ISSUE #185 SPRING 2022

68 The Reunion Climbing Tassie’s Mt Ida

88 Unridden Kangaroo Valley REGULARS

Readers’ Letters 14 Editor’s Letter 18 Gallery 22 Columns 28 Getting Started: Planning a Hike 48 WILD Shot 146

CONSERVATION

Green Pages 36 Native Forest Logging in Tasmania 40 Victoria’s Great Forest NP 98

NONE OF THE ABOVE

Rogaining: An Aussie Success Story 44

FEATURES

Photo Essay: Tassie Forest Activism 58

The Abelists 52

Climbing Mt Ida 68 Janina Kuzma Talks Mountain Safety 78 Unridden Kangaroo Valley 88 Photo Essay: Ice Climbing in Canada 106 Taking Responsibility in the Budawangs 116 Paddling the Caledonia River 124

WILD BUNCH TRACK NOTES GEAR

Walking in the Top End 130 Tassie’s Cradle Mountain Circuit 132 Talk and Tests 138 Support Our Supporters 142

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Days, 106 Seven Nine Wonders

58 Photo Essay: No Surrender Photographer Matthew Newton has for more than twenty years been documenting the brave struggle of those fighting—often by literally putting their bodies on the line—to protect Tasmania’s natural heritage.

78 The Trap Decision-making in the mountains is not always easy, and even the best of us need to not let irrelevant factors cloud our judgement, writes famed pro-skier Janina Kuzma.

98 The Reason Why Victoria’s Central Highlands are home to a jumbled network of small reserves. But there’s a proposal to join them into one contiguous, 500,000+ hectare protected area that would become one of Australia’s iconic parks: The Great Forest National Park.

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LETTERS

[ Letter of the Issue ]

SPURRED ON BY A NAME Dear James, Apologies for the slow response to Dan Slater’s ‘Myles Dunphy’s Maps’ column in the Autumn 2022 (#183) edition. As I turned the page and spotted the little cut out from his Gangerang map, I could immediately name and picture the features having traversed that area numerous times, from all directions. I’ve since spent weeks trying to hunt down my old map, or at least photos from those trips, but 55 years in between (and numerous house changes) meant it was a futile and fruitless search.

My family holidayed in the NSW Blue Mountains sometimes twice a year, every year I can remember between the mid-50s to the late 60s. With a gung-ho father, good-natured mother and four straggling children, and with cars being a luxury beyond most families, there’s hardly a place we didn’t walk from the front door of our rented house and back.

As a teenager, I began bushwalking not with family but friends. Longer trips saw us walk all the way down the Coxs River, up the Kowmung (with fruit trees from farms sometimes bearing supplements to our diet), down off the magnificent Kanangra Walls, or along Scotts Main Range from Yerranderie when it was still an uninhabited ghost town with welcome shelter from the rain in the old hotel (now The Post Office Lodge). We went up and down via Black Dog Ridge or the easier White Dog—thankfully a fire trail given how long and steep it was (or at least felt that way after five days out). The ridge is now understood to be a traditional route for the Gundungurra people, who showed the roughly 400m pass to Robert O’Rielly. Reportedly, he exclaimed something like, “that was a black dog of a ridge”, perhaps giving rise to Myles’ evocative nomenclature.

One time, at another pass (Carlon Head), up those spikes and chains in sub-zero temps, our hands felt brittle on the iron, and snow was still deep on the platform when we made it to Katoomba train station. We also rode bikes along the fire trails, hoisting them over road blocks, and climbed up and over Mount Solitary, the waratahs in full bloom.

This sounds romanticised, but it was romantic.

Yes, we were often hungry and/or thirsty; quite a few times lucky to escape swarms of black snakes on otherwise idyllic river banks; other times we swatted flies ‘til our arms ached. But those name places spurred us on. Who wouldn’t want to make sure they reached where you heard the ‘wind singing’ by night fall? It shaped our lives.

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TRUST BUT VERIFY G’day Wild, After a thirty-year absence, I subscribed to Wild this year. As soon as I opened #183, I recognised what I had enjoyed reading so much in my teens, and I revelled in the various trail reports, opinion pieces and great photography. Dan Slater’s story ‘Get WAKT’ was hilarious and inspiring. I even learned a new word: groaking!

With several friends and a dog that excel at the activity, I was keen to put the new addition to my lexicon to use. However, following the Russian proverb, I decided to “trust, but verify.” According to the website Urban Dictionary, ‘groak’ has several meanings. I’m glad Dan clarified exactly which he was using for his mate Evan.

Thanks again for a great read and for contributing to my vocabulary as well.

“For me, a benefit of a life in the outdoors is realising that I can never see everything, and knowing, at the back of my mind, there are places out there that have never been diminished by humans (to paraphrase Judith Wright).” TH

Airell Hodgkinson Albany, WA

(Ed: I’m glad he cleared it up, too; one of those other meanings is far from fit for family consumption.)

LOVING LONG-FORM WRITING Dear Editor, Just a note to say thank you for including thought-provoking articles in Wild. We’ve just read Paul Pritchard’s piece and considered about attitudes to disability, living in the moment, and doing it scared.

Before that, we went to Gibraltar with Ryan Hansen and thought about friluftsliv and what genius the Scandinavians have to roll our whole way of living into one word. Thank you for knowing there are many readers who still love long-form journalism complete with literary references. We may not always see eye-toeye with you on every issue, but we love your style.

Keep up the good work.

The Magdics family Toowong, QLD

A NEW BENCHMARK??

Dear Wild, I recently spent a night in the new public hut at Waterfall Valley on Tasmania’s Overland Track. The hut design and materials are impressive, and it was comfortable inside, but I was surprised to see that the communal dining area had lights (powered by solar panels and batteries). I wondered how many bushwalkers really need or want lighting in their hut, and whether this was really the best use of park funding. It’s one more thing in the race to provide the biggest and best in public roofed accommodation in national parks and in doing so, setting a new (and unreasonable) benchmark for visitor expectations for every other parks service hut in Australia!

Stephen Crump

Peter Beaumont

Dynnyrne, TAS

Moonee Ponds, VIC

WILD

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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.

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THE

COVER

SHOT

By Steve Pearce This tree is called Big Lonely Reg. It’s a 76m-tall Eucalyptus regnans (AKA mountain ash) that was left in the middle of a logging coupe in the Florentine Valley, Tasmania. The way that I found this tree was actually quite unusual. I was hiking with some friends and from the top of Mt Field West, there is an uninterrupted view across the Florentine Valley. Unfortunately, what you see is a once-pristine valley which has been absolutely decimated by decades of logging.

But one thing stuck out: Big Lonely Reg standing there on its own in a freshly logged coupe. Why had they left this tree there?

Was it some way for Sustainable Timber Tasmania to seem less destructive? Was it to fill their environmental obligations by not cutting down the tallest tree, just everything around it?

The following week, we went and climbed Big Lonely Reg. What a beautiful tree! The Florentine Valley used to be full of giants like this one. Imagine how incredible that would have been. We still have patches of old-growth forest in Tasmania, but some of them are still under threat by logging. These forests need to be protected.

Read more about native forest logging in ‘Tasmania’s Forests: A Climate Solution in Plain Sight’, starting on P40.

TREAD LIGHTLY. HIKE HAPPY.

NXIS

OUR FAMOUS FIT, MADE TO GO FAST.

FROM THE EDITOR

IN PRAISE OF OUTLAWS Credit: Bob Brown Foundation

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little while ago, Gup, my father-in-law was visiting us. I can’t remember how the conversation came about, but he remarked to my 8yo son something along the lines of that it was never OK to break the law.

I disagreed, and—with what’s happening in the Tarkine at the forefront of my mind—told my son that were the circumstances warranted, not only is it OK to break the law, there are in fact times we should break the law. There ensued some to-ing and fro-ing on the subject. It got to the point where it became sensible to drop the topic, and I let Gup have the last word: “The rules are the rules,” he said, “and they’re there for a reason.”

Many rules and laws are there for a reason. And it’s worthwhile obeying them. I have, for example, been in certain poorer countries where driving on the correct side of the road seemed not to be a rule but a matter of preference, one that could, if desired, be ignored. It made for some terrifying road trips. So yes, some laws, in fact most laws, are necessary for a well-functioning society.

But not all. Not long after my conversation with Gup, I was talking with Tasmanian photographer Matthew Newton.

Matt—who has been documenting direct action in Tasmania for two decades now; see his powerful photo essay in this issue—and I were talking about law-breaking. He raised the point that so many of the wild places we now treasure are wild only because some people were willing to step up and break the law.

To name just a few places saved by ‘obstructive’ direct action: the Franklin, Northern NSW’s Gondwanan rainforests (Terania Creek, Chaelundi, and Nightcap), WA’s Southwest forests, Jabiluka, James Price Point, NSW’s Southeast forests, Gippsland’s forests ... the list goes on.

There have been dozens, if not hundreds, more. And not all actions have been successful, with many, including some of those just listed, only partially successful.

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Obstructive direct action isn’t easy. Nor is it for everyone. I often tell people that I can’t afford to get arrested on a forest blockade because my wife has said she’d divorce me if I got a criminal record. She’s not joking. But also, perhaps, that’s something convenient for me to hide behind.

Perhaps, even if that wasn’t the case, I’d never want to get arrested simply because I’m chicken. I’m not down on myself for this, nor down on anyone else who’s afraid of getting arrested; the reason I’m mentioning this is instead to highlight the resolute courage of those who are prepared to break the law to save the planet.

Because here’s the thing: You don’t casually blockade a forest. You don’t stand in front of a bulldozer, or get suspended ten metres in the air up a tripod, or treesit for months on end, or spend one or three or even more years in a tent, or get arrested and have to front up to court and face potential fines or even jail time, without displaying incredible bravery, incredible resolve, or incredible selflessness.

And it takes vision. When I spoke with Jess Beckerling of the Western Australia Forest Alliance, someone who herself spent years blockading in brave defence of WA’s forests, she talked about how often it’s clear now that historical laws needed to be changed. “Laws were broken,” she reminded me, “fighting for the right for women to vote, for an eight-hour work day.” In fact, she added, “The only time there was controversy was at the time.”

You can, of course, go back further, in Australia at least, starting with centuries of resistance by our First Nations people fighting against occupation and colonialism. And more recently, to name a few, climate change, unjust wars, the plight of refugees, animal welfare are all causes that have invoked direct action.

There has long been a tradition in this country of respecting the right to engage in peaceful resistance to protect the environment. Well, OK, ‘respect’ isn’t quite the right word, because arrests have

taken place, and penalties levied, in their thousands over the decades since 1979 when activists at Terania Creek mounted the first instance of direct action in Australia. But recent years have seen a draconian escalation in these penalties.

In Tasmania, as I write this, parliament is looking at passing a bill that would increase the trespass penalties for protestors to be the equivalent of aggravated trespass, which, as Jenny Weber of the Bob Brown Foundation explained to me, includes people using a weapon.

“It’s obscene,” she said. “We’re always so non-violent, and engaged [only] in peaceful protest.” Maximum fines for individuals would, the ABC has reported, swell to $21,625 or up to two-and-a-half years in jail. For organisations like the Bob Brown Foundation, the figure is $103,800.

What’s worse, writes Keiran Pender of the Human Rights Law Centre, the law being considered is vaguely written, and will give police arbitrary powers.

Other states have followed Tasmania’s lead, although in Victoria, the Andrews Government—despite acknowledging the damage inflicted by native forest logging—has introduced laws that specifically target forest protest, even to the extent, Jenny Weber told me, of potentially criminalising citizen-science projects such as surveying greater glider habitats. In NSW, however, anti-protest laws are broad, and penalties have recently risen to $22,000 plus jail time.

And while activists have been imprisoned, on the flip side, has anyone in the history of this country received jail time for illegally logging irreplaceable forest?

Not that I know of. You only go to jail for protecting forests, not for destroying them.

But the fight goes on regardless.

Obstructive direct action is still taking place around the country. Laws are still being broken. And when I asked Jess Beckerling why, she put it succinctly: “Because sometimes the law is wrong.”

JAMES MCCORMACK

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GALLERY

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An aurora from the summit of Federation Peak, Tasmania. Looking along the frame here we can see the knife-edge Southern Traverse ridge collecting some evening mist as the last touch of light fades on the western horizon. It wasn’t my intention to score an aurora in this case, but as the light faded, a telltale green glow was revealed. It ended up being one of the best auroras I’d ever seen with crazy swirling movements and pulsing flashes.

by SHAUN MITTWOLLEN

Nikon Z7, Nikkor Z 14-30mm f/4S, stacked image: (Land) f8, 240s, ISO 2500; (Sky) f4, 20s, ISO 3200

SPRING 2022

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Liv Grover-Johnson laying down some spring turns on Avalanche Face on Mt Feathertop’s east face in Spring 2021.

by ADAM FLOWER

Sony A7III, 24-105mm f/4, f4, 1/1250, ISO 100

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Paul ‘Frothy’ Thomson on a variant of Beowolf in Tasmania’s Freycinet Peninsula. Paying homage to the era in which the first ascent of the route was done, Frothy donned 80s attire, and even wore a Whillans sit-harness for historical accuracy. The beer had nothing to do with the 80s, though; that was just Frothy turning the epic into the absurd.

by JARED ANDERSON

Canon 6D MkII, Sigma 14-24mm f2.8 DG, f3.5, 1/1000, ISO 400

SPRING 2022

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Kate Spicer and Martine Hansen taking in the impressive cave in Acoustic (AKA Sunnyside) Canyon on the Newnes Plateau. While I’d seen photos of this ‘acoustic chamber’ prior to our visit, the scale and magnificence of it were something else.

by RYAN HANSEN

Sony A7RII, FE 16-35mm f4, f4 , 1/160, ISO 400

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SPRING 2022

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Columns: GREEN LIVING Bob.Brown.Foundation

[BOB BROWN]

bobbrownfndn www.bobbrown.org.au

​AMRITA, THE ACTIVIST Centuries ago, an Indian activist paid the ultimate price for defending a forest. Sadly, activists in Australia today are still being demonised for protecting forests and, more broadly, the planet.

A

ustralian activists are not yet in the situation faced by Indian forest defenders in 1730, though some parallels are emerging.

Maharaja Marwar wanted the Khejarli forest to build his new palace. The Bishnoi community, led by Amrita Devi, got in the way of Marwar’s loggers. Amrita said that the trees were sacred, and that her faith prohibited her from allowing the forest to be logged. She refused a big bribe, and the Bishnois made a last stand by hugging their trees. The Maharaja’s men cleared the way by beheading Amrita and her four daughters, and murdering 359 more, before the ruler relented and left the forest alone.

Amrita’s defiance inspired the Chipko movement in India in the 1960s and 70s, in which women and men saved large swathes of forests by hugging their trees.

They, in turn, gave inspiration to other activists around the world, including Australia, where the rainforests of Terania Creek, the Franklin River and Daintree were rescued in the 1980s.

However, the first forest activist in Tasmania landed long before the Frankliners. In 1808, the British parliament legislated to give over the people’s forests to naval and industrial use. By 1831, industrialists—with excellent political connections—had fenced off the Dean Forest near Bristol in England, locking out the local community which depended on it for sustenance. Three thousand locals tore down 100km of the fence, but the riot was quelled when the leader, Warren James, was smashed up, jailed and sentenced to death. The uproar found sympathisers in London and, to cut a long

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story short, James was sent to Van Dieman’s Land instead of the gallows. Such was the seething resentment back in England that, five years later, he was pardoned. The hapless James had no money to get back home and died in appalling penury in Hobart, where nobody has since cared a fig.

I’d like to find where James is buried and put a sprig of Tarkine rainforest flowers there to celebrate both his defiance and the fact that in 2022, the Federal Court ordered the machines of destruction out of Tasmania’s Tarkine rainforest,

AS THE PLANET’S ECOSYSTEM IMPLODES, EXPECT

PEACEFUL DEFIANCE FOR EARTH TO GROW. at least temporarily. By the time you read this, we’ll know if the new Federal Minister for the Environment, Tanya Plibersek, has let them back in again.

On the day those bulldozers came out, Western Australia’s Main Roads bulldozers were smashing down the Gelorup corridor woodlands, which are full of rare and endangered creatures. The Friends of the Gelorup Corridor were shocked that Minister Plibersek’s first decision was to agree to the needless flattening of their woods for a Bunbury bypass, which should be going over nearby cleared land.

At state level, Plibersek’s Labor colleagues are teaming up with the

Coalition to criminalise environmentalists. Australians making a peaceful but effective stand anywhere in the way of resource extraction—eg mining, fracking, logging and industrial fish farming— will henceforth face hefty fines if not jail.

If the latest Tasmanian laws get through, obstructing a chainsawyer from felling an ancient tree and its wildlife will attract the same criminal penalties as terrorising neighbours with a shotgun.

Already, peaceful activists in NSW have gone to jail for slowing down the export of planet-destroying coal. In Victoria, despite union objections, the Labor Government attracted fulsome Coalition backing for penalising environmentalists—including those scientists trying to count Leadbeater’s possums and greater gliders in the public forests before they are killed by logging—with fines of up to $21,000 or 12 months in jail.

Yet the tide of activism for Earth is rising rapidly. Authorities in NSW found that out when, despite their armed raids on unarmed environmental camps, a young woman named Mali, representing an unincorporated group called Blockade Australia, blocked some morning traffic with her car. This was a defiant call for life on Earth in our age of climate emergency and biodiversity crisis. Mali gallantly stood by her action on Channel 10’s The Project. Though the corporate capture of the old political parties may get more ruthless, as the planet’s ecosystem implodes, expect peaceful defiance for Earth to grow.

As Amrita showed three centuries ago, try taking the forest out of a human soul, and you’ll end up with an activist.

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 www.meganholbeck.com

[MEGAN HOLBECK]

TO PLAN OR NOT TO PLAN? That is the question, although without a definitive answer.

I

am fascinated by the idea of paddling across the Bass Strait. It seems magical, backlit by golden light: Imagine floating in a tiny boat surrounded by nothing but ocean, pulling up on uninhabited islands and bunkering down for days, waiting for the weather to change, and arriving on a whole other land mass under your own power. It also seems like a proper, doable adventure, provided you have the patience, fitness and experience.

This idea of it being possible (with work) may or may not be true, but I know its source. Tasmanian teacher and adventurer Andrew Hughes spent much of 2006 sea kayaking from Hobart to Cape York. From my hazy recollections, he spent six months learning to paddle, then set off across Bass Strait solo. He arrived at Thursday Island in Torres Strait six months later, still not able to Eskimo roll.

Enter a little secret spark smouldering through the years: One day, I am going to do that. By that, I don’t necessarily mean Bass Strait—just a decent paddling trip somewhere remote. I haven’t done much to date, but the dream is that when I have more time, when the kids are older and my knees more painful, I’ll buy a boat and take to the water.

Social media knows me well, delivering an invite to a presentation about a recent crossing. I turned up on a rainy Friday, ready to live vicariously through someone else. But what followed was less about the experience, challenge and emotions and more about data and graphs: route plans, tide and weather charts, even specific training and fitness stats. Although the guys delivered a lot of useful information, I left decidedly underwhelmed: There was no romance, no adventure; just the considerations and planning that led to a successful trip.

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I’m being harsh. The men were not motivational speakers—they were ordinary paddlers who’d achieved a big, long-held goal. Starting their talk, they’d explained that this was their first expedition trip, and they’d decided to overcome their relative inexperience through extra planning and time allowance so they could outwait and outwit both trouble and weather. By considering every eventuality, they’d done exactly what they should to have a safe trip. I also wasn’t

THROUGH THE SHEER AMOUNT OF PLANNING, I FELT THEY’D

REMOVED MOST OF THE ADVENTURE.”

their target audience; those looking for information would have found the talk very useful.

But through the sheer amount of planning, I felt they’d removed most of the adventure.

There was also an unfortunate juxtaposition at work. I’d just finished reading Beau Miles’ The Backyard Adventurer, a book all about finding adventures in the everyday and close to home. One of his key tricks is not doing research. He writes, “I do as little prep as possible, which is harder than it sounds. Humans always seem in search for more information because more information makes things easier. This has made us mind-bendingly advanced animals. But I’ve come to see easy googling as the antithesis of innovation and invention, likely pegging us back in the evolutionary stakes: because 1) it obliterates curiosity, which is a foundation of fun, and cockups.”

Beau uses lack of planning and supplies as a way to turn up the adventure dial. There are many examples in his book (and YouTube channel): not taking any supplies for his 90km walk to work so he has to find food and bed-making supplies along the way; running 50km along an abandoned train line dressed like a 1950s train driver and carrying a shovel.

This style of adventuring isn’t for everyone, especially neophytes (Ed: who may want to check out this issue’s ‘Getting Started’ on P48). But Beau’s a different cat: he’s got a PhD in Outdoor Education, and has decades of making and surviving and serious adventures. He’s got the skills, experience and fitness to take the freestyle approach, leaping into half-baked adventures and letting them rise around him. Most people who’d try to replicate what he does would have a terrible time (in the best-case scenario).

I used to embrace my own version of ‘planning light’. I’d do the fun background research about history, nature and other things that add context and connection; make sure I had food and gear. But when it came to maps, data and navigation, the attention and information didn’t stick. I set off woefully underprepared on numerous occasions, and they were often the best trips.

But journeys like that require competence, time and a good attitude, which precludes taking children. To take kids along, safely, happily and healthily, I’ve become a planner.

I’m looking forward to the luxury of not planning: setting off with an idea and some gear and seeing where I end up. By that time, I might even have the equipment and skills to experience the goldhued magic of a Bass Strait crossing. Or at least be able to bore you with my training charts and stats.

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]

STRONGING IT OUT Though being strong is integral to successful mountaineering, so too is thinking of the team.

E

arly morning conditions had been stunning. A light overnight dusting of snow had covered the landscape in a sparkling, dazzling white blanket, forming a magical carpet for my skins to glide forwards smoothly and silently. Despite the cold air irritating my post-COVID inflamed airway, the amazing spectacle around me—and the rhythmic lope of kicking, gliding and pole pushing that makes skiing up a gentle incline so addictive—had seen me transcend the teeth gritting, ‘just-get-up-and-get-onwith-it’ horror of a sub-zero alpine start and the frustrating impairment of compromised lungs. Despite the coughing, I’d made good time most of the way up to our advance base camp. But in the last hundred or so vertical metres, a metabolic cut-off switch that had plagued me all trip got activated.

Like everyone, I find it progressively difficult going higher at altitude, but apparently not as badly as most people.

Not this time, though. I knew that attempting a Himalayan peak immediately after a bout of COVID, even one as mild as mine had been, was risking unforeseen consequences—pulmonary oedema, where your lungs fill with fluid, being the most worrying. Unsurprisingly, the persistent cough from the infection got worse above 4,500m, but whenever I’d push through another half-thousand metres, a more sinister menace became manifest.

A tightening around my chest and a feeling of suffocation began to take hold. I could only manage fifty metres at a time.

Of course, I found this handbrake—in a situation I’m normally strong and confident in—frustrating. I was sorely tempted to outwill it. ‘Stronging it out’ at altitude is something I’m well-practised in, so why not just suck it up and push through? The

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vision of that gleaming summit—with its views of mountains and valleys stretching out in every direction that had been the inspiration for me to commit to this expedition—burned brightly. As it must, if one is to overcome all the difficulties of climbing high in air that gets progressively thinner and colder.

Yes, I thought to myself, after all the expense and hard work of load carrying to here, I’ll push through this. But a big ‘if’ loomed in my mind. What if this feeling of suffocation was real, a warning signal? Pulmonary oedema has felled many

THE SINGLE MOST

IMPORTANT ELEMENT IN MOUNTAINEERING IS TEAMWORK.” a climber, often with fatal results. Some even succumb after reaching supposedly safe altitudes lower down.

The single most important element in mountaineering is teamwork. Even for the successful solo climber, common sense, desire and ego must work together to achieve a balance of acceptable risk; in this case, though, I was with four others. Pushing myself to the point where I’d need their help to get down could terminally disrupt our tight schedule. Taking myself higher had a chance of jeopardising the whole expedition. Together with the added uncertainty of having COVID-compromised lungs, I decided the risk wasn’t worth taking.

Our team continued on, eventually, in a single heroic push, making the first successful repeat of the west wall of Changabang, a climb made famous in Peter

Boardman’s classic of mountaineering literature The Shining Mountain. While the others struggled with all the challenges of climbing a gigantic rock wall in unseasonal cold, I retreated to base camp to rest before going back up a couple of times to bring down the food and equipment I’d so laboriously carried up there.

Having given up on the summit, my mind was free to absorb the wonder of my amazing surroundings. The ridges and faces of no less than seven summits, some over 7,000m high—all presenting unclimbed, challenging possibilities for future alpinists—were endlessly fascinating.

Less expansively, there was the constant challenge of finding and negotiating the least problematic route up and down. The hot spring sun makes for rapid changes at that time of year, turning the snowpack from powder to corn in a day.

Then, because air temperatures are still below freezing, as soon as the sun gets obscured by the daily build-up of cloud or when it drops below the horizon, a frozen surface crust forms under which the snow continues to deteriorate into a rotten, wet, unsupportive morass. The next day, this crust may or may not hold the weight of even a skier. Moving over it becomes a game of chance—not so bad moving up, but when it comes to skiing down, usually fully laden, you can only laugh when what you’re skiing on top of suddenly drops half a metre. You ski into the frozen, bottom edge of the hole, simultaneously skinning your shins and doing a pack-driven face plant into the slope below. Absolutely type-two fun!

When the summit team finally arrived back in base camp, spent but ebullient, our collective sense of fulfilment was deeply satisfying. And it’s that that makes these kinds of wild adventures so precious.

I need new heights.

I need Switzerland.

Get inspired today at www.mySwitzerland.com

Columns: OF MOUTHS & MONIES [DAN SLATER]

BRAVE NEW WORLD Dan looks at the world of independently designed and marketed outdoor products.

I

n Wild Issue #176, I mentioned in this column that the shopping landscape is changing, and this is nowhere more conspicuous than on our social media channels (if we have them).

With advertisers now able to dial down to the exact end-user demographic suitable for their products (age, gender, geographical location, hobbies etc), it’s unsurprising that my news feeds are filled with sponsored posts featuring techy outdoor gear. However, these ads aren’t from the usual brands with which we’re already familiar, but independently designed and marketed one-off products—a backpack, a pair of trousers, a multi-tool, etc.

After trying to ignore them as I automatically do all advertising, I eventually gave in to my curiosity and checked a few out. They seemed to be a mix of established manufacturers and crowdfunding projects on Kickstarter or Indiegogo. The thing is ... some of them actually looked pretty good. I know it’s advertising and they’re supposed to look good, but to my discerning reviewer’s eye, they actually did. But are they? Let’s look a little closer.

Outdoor Chair 2.0 (kilosgear.com)

A lot of links turned out to be from online stores marketing a single cheap-arse product as though it was the best thing since sliced bread. Kilos Gear (“Gear that weighs less ‘kilo’grams so you can travel further over more ‘kilo’meters”) is one example. Based in the US, their inventory is full of interesting-but-not-quite-interesting-enough-to-buy type things. The Outdoor Chair 2.0 is a Helinox knock-off (although to be fair, all camping furniture is now) which claims to be super-strong and breathable. It weighs 1kg, same as the Helinox Chair One, but packs down

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bigger, although the stable disc feet look pretty neat. At $106 USD it’s not actually that cheap, but if Helinox is sold out (as usual) you could do worse.

DarkHeat Tactical Instinct Outerwear (Kickstarter)

Yep, it’s the single best jacket since the dawn of outdoor apparel, or so it claims.

The DarkHeat fabric boasts 4-way stretch and a respectable 20,000/10,000 waterproof/breathability rating, and is stitched into a tailored fit. Fourteen (14!) pockets, including a Direct Access Unit which swallows items like cameras and tablets, and a hidden rear pocket for a laptop. I’m not sure it’d be comfortable carrying all

THE SHOPPING LANDSCAPE IS CHANGING, AND THIS

IS NOWHERE MORE CONSPICUOUS THAN ON

OUR SOCIAL MEDIA CHANNELS.”

that around in a tailored, stretchy fabric, or how it might look from the outside. There’s just too much going on here even to summarise, but my impression—it’s trying too hard to be everything to everyone. $179 USD might prove me wrong.

Project 8020 Ultimate Dry Backpack (expedition-units.com)

This seems to be a crowdfunding website but not affiliated with one of the usual suspects. The submersible waterproof pack certainly looks the business: radio-frequency-welded seams, a decent-looking adjustable harness, two

external pockets with water-resistant zips, external daisy chain, internal laptop sleeve. It’s tactical-styled (“We are against all forms of war, but we love military design”), and apart from the fact I wouldn’t submerge any roll-top dry pack with my computer in it, I like it. (Further scrolling reveals its waterproof rating as IPX5—definitely not submersible.) Made from recycled bottles, the 23L volume is enclosed in a TPU-coated 600D fabric, and weighs 950g. When I checked, it was already 1495% funded and selling for a reasonable $89, plus they contribute 2kg of rice in Bali for each pack sold.

GIGA Pump2 (Indiegogo)

This fist-sized, rechargeable air-mattress pump doubles as a lantern, both inflating and deflating at up to 180 litres/minute through a variety of nozzles that’ll fit most valves. The lantern burns at up to 400 lumens, although only for an hour.

This looked so unique (Exped have since brought out the very similar Widget Pump) that I coughed up $34 USD and helped fund the campaign. The unit’s delivery was delayed by a few months but it turned up eventually, and yes, it does what it says. It worked great when I tried it, and it is really small. So small, in fact, that after I put it away with my camping gear, I practically forgot its existence. In over a year I have NOT ONCE remembered to take it camping with me. Bargain!

We already know social media is changing the direction of advertising, but is crowdfunding the future of product design? Standalone pieces of outdoor gear, each created by the perfect person to do so and propelled to market success by the populace? Only time will tell.

Find your nearest retailer

marmotau.com @MarmotAus Men’s Minimalist Jacket

CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES

A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country.

EDITED BY MAYA DARBY

SUCH ACTIONS DESTROY AND COMPROMISE THE VERY NOTION OF WILDERNESS.”

Lake Poona

SAVING COOLOOLA

One of the most precious, undeveloped regions on Australia’s east coast is being threatened by commercial developments within Great Sandy National Park.

C

ommercial luxury cabins and glamping development in Great Sandy National Park remains a battleground issue within Queensland national parks. The proposal would develop five sites on private leases along the iconic Cooloola Great Walk, a 102km thru-hike from the Noosa North Shore to Rainbow Beach, with construction due for completion in 2024. But with adequate camping sites existing already, sites currently used for guiding outdoor programmes and personal trips, there is significant local opposition to the proposal; Keep Cooloola Cool and Protect our Parks are just two of the NGOs spearheading the fight.

Lying north of the Sunshine Coast—home to the famous Noosa Everglades and Double Island Surf Point—the Cooloola region is both special and precious. It is one of the only remaining undeveloped coastal sand land masses on Australia’s east coast, and Poona Lake is one of the only perched dune lakes in mainland Australia.

The Queensland Parks website identifies the company CABN as the preferred tenderer for constructing accommodation along the Cooloola Great Walk. The proposal places development at highly significant and sensitive locations, including Double Island Point, and near the well-known Campsite 3 on the Upper Noosa River, gateway to the Great Sandpatch. And at

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Poona Lake, ten 38m2 luxury-accommodation units are proposed to be built, in an area now populated by massive old-growth blackbutt trees. Safety standards would require the trees’ destruction.

National parks are established for the conservation of biodiversity and so that all people might experience and develop a positive connection with the natural environment. Commercial operators in national parks can play a crucial role in providing education and recreational experiences for people. Surely, though, they have a responsibility to not degrade the environment. Commercial operators should therefore not be in a position to develop extensive infrastructure in national parks that results in increased human traffic, land clearing and furthers pollution.

Such actions destroy and compromise the very notion of wilderness, the reason many people come to visit such places.

Greater awareness and action against the issue can be taken by following Keep Cooloola Cool (keepcooloola-cool.org) and Protect our Parks Initiatives (protectparks.net), who both have really detailed sites explaining what’s involved and what’s at risk here. And you can help by spreading awareness about such issues so that Australians can make a stand against the commercialisation of our national parks.

LACHLAN SHORT

GREAT SANDY NATIONAL PARK: NEED TO KNOW The Great Sandy National Park is one of the only undeveloped coastal landmasses on the east coast and includes Fraser Island.

It is the only place known on earth where rainforest is found on sand, formed by thousands of years of topsoil nutrient build-up.

Biodiversity includes 44% of Australia’s known birdlife, including eastern ground parrots, wallum froglets, and kauri, hoop and white beech pines.

SAFEGUARDING LOCAL PLANTS IN THE KIMBERLEY

BRINGING TARCUTTA HILLS BACK TO HEALTH

The Kimberley Community Seedbank is coordinated by Environs Kimberley and supports the Bardi Jawi Oorany, Nyul Nyul, Yawuru, Karajarri and other Aboriginal women rangers to collect seed from rare, endangered and culturally significant plants in order to rehabilitate degraded areas of their Country. Seeds Credit: K. Weatherall are sustainably harvested, cleaned, stored, propagated and grown either at the central seedbank, or plant nurseries based at the Ranger bases or community volunteer groups. The bush regeneration using these plants compliments Environs Kimberley and the rangers’ larger work safeguarding Country from feral animals, invasive weeds, fire, development and climate change.

Additionally, the project and rangers are creating social enterprise products—such as nursery seed packets and roasted wattle seed—to provide profits for Aboriginal communities.

Learn more at environskimberley.org.au/seedbank_project

Bush Heritage Australia is nursing Tarcutta’s precious grassy white box woodlands back to health at Tarcutta Hills Reserve. These woodlands were once part of a network covering some 10 million hectares of south-eastern Australia but dramatic changes to the landscape have taken a heavy toll and experts believe they’re now one of the most highly fragmented and poorly protected ecosystems in Australia.

They’ve been particularly hard hit in the Tarcutta region, putting many bird species—some of them among NSW’s most vulnerable—at risk of local extinction. Tarcutta Hills is also protecting animals like squirrel gliders and yellow-footed antechinus, plants like white cypress pine and small-leafed bush pea and vegetation communities like mugga ironbark, scribbly gum and red stringybark open forest. Learn more at

MALCOLM LINDSAY, Environs Kimberley

ART IS SAVING OUR STICKIES Stick-nest rats (AKA ‘stickies’) are native rodents that build impressive stick castles as homes to shelter and raise families in. Their nests are built over many generations, and sometimes expand to form granny flat stick-nests nearby. Known to the Wangkangurru people of the Simpson Desert as ‘Wopilkara’, stickies were once widespread across southern Australia, but they disappeared from the mainland as rabbits, feral cats and foxes invaded. Stickies have Credit: Katherine Tuft now suffered the mega-drought of 2018-19, in the driest and hottest weather on record. They struggled to find food and suffered extreme heatwaves. As above-ground nesters that don’t always have access to other animals’ burrows, artist Jane Bamford has designed terracotta burrows and nesting domes for the stickies to use instead.

Camera traps can show us how stickies interact with the artworks, and data loggers measure how well the tubes moderate the high temperatures. To learn more, head to aridrecovery.org.au

bushheritage.org.au Bush Heritage

KATHERINE TUFT, Arid Recovery

SAVING WILDLIFE WITH A NOSE THAT KNOWS Conservation dogs can sniff out scents from targets that are invisible to the human eye, underground, in plants, or even in water. At Skylos Ecology, we utilise these incredibly accurate and sensitive instruments to collect data for environmentally based projects. Our canines can detect minute traces of plant and animal species with accuracy rates between 80-100%, and search for multiple target scents simultaneously. Skylos Ecology have many partnerships, including with Team Kowari (who Wild featured in Issue #180’s Green Pages). Oakley and Rex have been trained as kowari scent experts, able to provide crucial data that will be used to protect these rare micro-carnivores. Visit skylosecology.com to learn more.

FIONA JACKSON, Skylos Ecology

Swamp wallaby in the Tarcutta Hills.

Credit: Maya Darby

GOT ANY GREEN NEWS? ‘Rex’ working with kowaris in the Simpson Desert. Credit: T. Lyten

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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CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES

A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country.

12 MARINE PARKS AND 54 THREATENED SPECIES ARE AT RISK.”

Photo of Nico Leonard taken on the Greenpeace boat tour to document and bear witness to landscapes and marine life that may be affected by Woodside Energy’s planned gas-expansion project off Western Australia

A CLIMATE DISASTER IS UNFOLDING IN WA

Woodside’s gas project will accelerate climate change and endanger migrating whales.

I

t’s enraging. The crystal blue ocean waters of Ningaloo and Western Australia’s northwest are some of the most biodiverse in the world. The region is known globally as a haven for whale sharks, humpbacks, endangered sea turtles and colourful corals. But fossil fuel company Woodside Energy is set to put it all at risk with its proposed Burrup Hub gas project—the most climate-polluting fossil fuel project currently proposed in Australia.

Woodside wants to massively expand infrastructure in WA to unlock and extend two clustered sets of deep-sea gas fields, at Scarborough and Browse, with three new gas fields at each site. The company would dredge a combined 1,330km of ocean floor for its pipelines, and send out seismic underwater pulses every five seconds for months at a time—right through key whale migration routes. Woodside’s gas project would cut through or border no less than twelve precious marine parks.

It gets worse: The gas Woodside wants to drill is a fossil fuel that’s a leading driver of climate change.

Over its lifetime, Woodside’s project would add a staggering 6.1 billion tonnes of climate pollution to our atmosphere. That’s twelve times more emissions than Australia currently produces in just one year.

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Nearby, just off the coast of Exmouth on the North West Cape, lies a patch of coral reef that’s already dead and bleached white. It’s a sad glimpse into what’s to come if fossil fuel projects like Woodside’s continue to go ahead. With climate change driving more marine heatwaves that destroy corals, the UN tells us we’re in for “widespread destruction” of the world’s reef ecosystems as early as 2030 if things do not change.

But we still have time to stop the destruction. Right now, Greenpeace Australia Pacific and our allies are sounding the alarm on this unfolding disaster. Greenpeace’s recent investigative report has used Woodside’s own spill and accident scenarios to show the risks to ocean habitats and coastal communities, and thousands of Greenpeace supporters have written to Woodside’s Board and CEO to denounce the project.

The case against this new gas mega-project is building, but we urgently need more people to join the campaign to help stop Woodside’s gas expansion in WA and protect marine life. Add your name to Greenpeace’s petition to tell Woodside’s CEO and its board to walk away from their polluting gas project. Find out more and sign the petition today at: act.gp/choose-wildlife NICO LEONARD, Greenpeace

THE RISKS FROM WOODSIDE’S BURRUP HUB GAS PROJECT ARE FAR TOO GREAT: An accident could impact 12 marine parks and protected areas including World Heritage Ningaloo Reef 54 threatened species could be at risk, including pygmy and Antarctic blue whales The project will release 6.1 billion tonnes of climate pollution – 12 years’ worth of Australia’s current emissions A spill or accident could release toxic gas and condensate, with dangerous pollution reaching WA coastal communities and as far as Indonesia

Credit © Brooke Pyke / Greenpeace

These whales need your help Every 5 seconds, for months at a time whales could be impacted by seismic blasting as Woodside Energy expands their deep-sea gas drilling in Western Australia.

Sign the petition now Scan the QR code or go online act.gp/choose-wildlife

CONSERVATION

TASMANIA’S FORESTS

A CLIMATE SOLUTION IN PLAIN SIGHT A recent report found that native forest logging is the highest greenhouse gas emitting sector in Tasmania. However, writes Dr Jennifer Sanger, protecting native forests would draw carbon dioxide down from the atmosphere and store it long-term, in turn offering a real climate solution.

Words

DR JENNIFER SANGER STEVE PEARCE

Photography

T

asmania’s forests are remarkable for many reasons.

They are incredibly beautiful. They are home to iconic wildlife. And they capture a unique essence of Tasmania’s wilderness. But perhaps the most awe-inspiring quality is that they are home to giants.

Massive eucalyptus trees can tower up to 100m above the forest floor. But while many people are familiar with Eucalyptus regnans—more commonly known as mountain ash, which is the tallest flowering tree in the world—what many don’t know is that Tasmania has another four species of eucalypts that are in the top twelve of the world’s tallest trees: southern blue gum (Eucalyptus globulus); manna gum (Eucalyptus viminalis); brown top stringybark (Eucalyptus obliqua); and alpine ash (Eucalyptus delegatensis). These giant trees, all attaining heights of over 85m, store a lot of carbon. As a result, Tasmania has some of the most carbon-dense forests in the world.

Forests play an important role in the carbon cycle. They absorb carbon from the atmosphere and store it long-term.

However, if these forests are disturbed, they can become a significant source of carbon dioxide emissions. Around 12% of global emissions are from land clearing and logging.

Readers of Wild Magazine will be aware of the decades-long history of logging in Tasmania. The state is notorious for its ‘harvesting’ of pristine forests, and hundreds of thousands of hectares of these irreplaceable ecosystems have been destroyed.

But if Tasmania is home to some of the most carbon-dense forests in the world and we are still logging them, what does this mean for climate change?

It turns out that it’s not a simple question to answer. The way that current emissions are reported for the land sector sees

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forests and the forestry industry lumped into the same category.

This means that the emissions from the logging of Tasmania’s carbon-dense forests and the carbon that the forests absorb are reported together, as one net figure. As a result, there is no easy way to separate out how much emissions are coming from the logging of our forests. +++++ I AM A SCIENTIST WITH A DOCTORATE working for The Tree Projects, an environmental outreach and science education organisation, and I was determined to find out this answer. After much research, plenty of emails and a few phone calls, I came up with a formula for calculating the emissions from native forest logging. What I found is that native forest logging is the state’s highest emitting sector, with annual

emissions of 4.6 million tonnes of carbon dioxide. To put this in perspective, that’s equivalent to 1.1 million medium-sized cars, or over two-and-a-half times the entire Tasmanian transport sector—all the cars, trucks, shipping and domestic aviation combined.

I was shocked by this figure. I knew it would be high, but I didn’t think that it would be the state’s highest emitter. Worse yet, given the severity of this statistic, it’s shocking that the report I wrote on this issue, “Tasmania’s Forest Carbon: from Emissions Disaster to Climate Solution” is the first time this information has been made publicly available. How could this information be hidden from the community? And these emissions are just from native forest logging in Tasmania—imagine how much is being emitted by all the native forest logging across Australia?

My report’s findings surprised many; most people believe the misconception that forest carbon gets stored in wood products. But this is not the case.

The reality is that merely 6% of a forest’s carbon gets stored in long-term products suitable for building.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Tree climbers get ready to measure Big Lonely Doug, a giant tree left in the middle of a logging coupe in the Florentine Valley, Tasmania A climber stands on top of a huge 80m-tall tree. A tree this big stores huge amounts of carbon Around 60% of a forest’s carbon is left onsite as waste. When this is burned, it releases huge amounts of carbon into the atmosphere After logging, Sustainable Timber Tasmania uses aerial fire bombing to burn the leftover waste

MORE INFO: To find out more about Dr Jennifer Sanger’s report ‘Tasmania’s Forest Carbon: from Emissions Disaster to Climate Solution’ please visit: thetreeprojects.com/forestcarbon

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Native forests, TASMANIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Teams of volunteers regularly measure trees in Tasmania Tree climber Shaun Green surveying trees for carbon estimates Native forest logging is incredibly destructive. Only 6% of the forest’s carbon ends up in long-term wood products Forestry fires cause significant amounts of air pollution Forestry burns often escape boundaries and can damage the surrounding forest

A forest is made up of biomass—all the living material such as leaves, branches, stems, and roots. It’s in this biomass that the carbon is stored. When a forest is logged, 60% of the forest’s biomass gets left behind on site as waste. Half of this waste is burned, releasing carbon dioxide and other potent greenhouse gases, such as methane and nitrous oxides, into the atmosphere immediately. The remainder of the waste gets left behind to rot, releasing carbon slowly into the atmosphere.

Of the timber that gets removed from the forest, the vast majority goes to pulp, which is used to make temporary products such as paper and cardboard. These products last only two years on average, then the carbon is released into the atmosphere.

Merely 1% of the forest’s biomass ends up in the sawn timber used for building and furniture. A further 5% goes into engineered timber products, such as laminated timber and plywood. It means just 6% of a forest’s carbon ends up in long-term timber products. The reality is that 94% of the forest’s carbon is either waste or paper, and that most of this carbon is emitted back into the atmosphere within a few years.

This all sounds bad, right? Native forest logging is currently Tasmania’s highest source of emissions and most of the forest’s carbon ends up as waste or temporary products. But here’s the good news: It doesn’t have to be this way. Protecting Tasmania’s forests could be the best climate solution—not only for Tasmania, but for the rest of the country as well.

Native forests, especially ones that are regrowing after logging, absorb an astonishing amount of carbon dioxide. But these regrowing forests are often put into short logging cycles and are harvested after 40-80 years, meaning the captured carbon is

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TASMANIA IS IN THE FORTUNATE POSITION THAT IF IT ENDED

NATIVE FOREST LOGGING NOW, IT COULD DRASTICALLY REDUCE THE STATE’S EMISSIONS.”

released back into the atmosphere. If these forests, however, were protected, they could continue to draw down carbon. If left undisturbed, they could store carbon indefinitely.

Tasmania’s forests draw down a significant amount of carbon dioxide; it’s the reason the state is one of the world’s few jurisdictions to become carbon neutral. In six out of the last seven years, Tasmania has reported negative net emissions. This is due to Tasmania’s forests and the fact that we have large areas of regrowing forests due to decades of logging.

But Tasmania’s emissions record hasn’t always been this good. Prior to 2012, Tasmania had higher emissions because the rate of logging in previous decades was much higher. A downturn in the forestry industry, and changes in legislation in 2012, saw the amount of native forest logging halved; half-a-million hectares of forest were reserved. This drastically reduced the emissions from forestry. If halving the amount of native forest logging was all that was needed to turn Tasmania from carbon positive to carbon neutral, imagine what could be done for the climate if native forest logging ended completely?

Tasmania has a real opportunity to become a true leader in climate action. A recent study by Dr Barrie May looked at how

much carbon forests that are currently managed for logging could absorb if they were protected. He found that 75 million tonnes of carbon could be drawn down from the atmosphere by 2050 if Tasmania’s forests were protected instead of logged.

To put that in perspective, that’s the equivalent of taking every single Australian car off the roads for an entire year, or the same as shutting down Australia’s dirtiest coal-fired power station eight years early.

Our forests are worth more standing. If protected, Tasmania’s forests could be providing $2.6 million of sequestration services to the community. This is in stark comparison to the far-from-profitable Tasmanian native forest logging industry.

The state-based logging agency, Sustainable Timber Tasmania (STT), loses millions of dollars each year. In fact, it has lost over $1.3 billion over the last 20 years. That’s correct: $1.3 billion.

And given that this is a resource that STT gets for free, this loss is incredible.

It’s worth noting, however, that STT doesn’t readily admit to these losses. For 2020/2021, it claimed to generate a profit of $3.9 million. But that only came about after government cash inflows of tens of millions of dollars; strip those away, and STT operates at a massive loss. In fact, for decades now, the Tasmanian native forest logging industry has been propped up by state and federal government grants and subsidies, receiving over $1 billion in tax-payers funding over the last twenty years. This is all to support an industry that currently makes up merely 0.04% of the Tasmanian workforce.

TASMANIA IS IN THE FORTUNATE POSITION that if it ended native forest logging now, it could drastically reduce the state’s emissions. Furthermore, protecting these forests would remove significant amounts of CO2 from the atmosphere.

This is not only true for Tasmania, but for the rest of Australia as well. Vast areas of forests are being logged across the country, producing huge amounts of emissions. Western Australia will be ending native forest logging in 2024, proving that conserving our forests is possible, feasible and supported by the public. Victoria has committed to ending native forest logging in 2030, but it could be doing better by bringing that commitment forward. Eyes are now on New South Wales and Tasmania to make commitments to ending native forest logging.

Our society is at a critical turning point, and we need to take immediate action if we are to restrict warming to 2°C. Denial of climate change should no longer be tolerated; even many conservative leaders realise that we need to take drastic action.

Reducing our fossil fuel usage, and our emissions in general, is necessary, but we also need to remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. Much talk surrounds carbon capture and storage technologies, but these are in their infancies, and they also currently use significant amounts of energy without even offering a secure way to store the carbon. Meanwhile, we have a 300-million-year-old intervention: It’s called a tree. It can store carbon perfectly, it can do it immediately, and it can do it for free. Protecting our native forests is real action on climate change.

CONTRIBUTOR: Dr Jennifer Sanger is a Tasmanian-based forest

+++++

scientist and co-founder of The Tree Projects.

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NONE OF THE ABOVE

ROGAINING

AN AUSTRALIAN SUCCESS STORY It’s like orienteering, except you need strategy, teamwork, and the stamina to last up to 24 hours. Here’s an introduction to the sport of rogaining.

Words

JULIAN LEDGER

W

hat sport takes place on full moons, was invented in Australia, and now extends worldwide?

The answer is ‘rogaining’. It’s a navigational activity where teams of between two and five travel (traditionally on foot) to visit checkpoints using only a map and compass. Each of the checkpoints is given different point values, and the goal is to collect as many points as possible within a given time frame.

The sport is not entirely dissimilar to orienteering, but while orienteering is undertaken individually, rogaining is a team event.

Also, unlike classic orienteering, where checkpoints must be visited in a specified order, rogaining teams can visit checkpoints in any order they choose. It means there is wide dispersal of competitors across the map, and it also means strategy is a key element of rogaining.

Teams start at the same time, and the distribution of the checkpoints, each with different point values, determines overall route choice. Competitors must also factor in the bush to be encountered, tracks, elevation changes, and the weather forecast. Other considerations include uncrossable features such as cliffs and creeks, the availability of water, and the possibility of returning to the start (Hash House) for a hot feed and a rest.

Rogaines typically last 6, 12 or 24 hours, take place over large areas of land, usually on weekends near full moons, and involve between 200 and 600 participants. Each competitor has a wrist band containing an electronic chip, punched at each checkpoint (control) and downloaded at the finish. A mass of data then allows teams to compare their route and adventure with others.

Rogaining can be addictive because it combines teamwork, competition, endurance and strategy, all within the natural environment. Events can be found in all states and territories, and in New Zealand, too.

PARTICIPATION OVER COMPETITION Rogaining came out of a tradition of 24-hour walks at Melbourne Uni and Scouts—namely the Surrey Thomas Rover Crew in Melbourne. But it was only in the late 1960s that the sport was first codified into its current form, and it was not until 1976 that it even came to be known as rogaining. There was a tale that the word ‘rogaine’ was derived from ‘Rugged Outdoor Group Activity Involving Navigation and Endurance’. A good summary, but in fact it came in 1976 from the names of those

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EXPERIENCING A CLASSIC 24HOUR ROGAINE IS TO LIVE A MINI LIFETIME ... WAS THAT 24 HOURS OR 24 DAYS? BEFORE YOU KNOW IT, YOU ARE SEARCHING

FOR THE NEXT ROGAINE.”

who coined the name—Rod, Gail and Neil Phillips. The Victorian Rogaining Association was founded that same year, and not long after, the distinctive logo was created by Sue Grice.

The sport’s formative years coincided in time and place with the launch of Wild by Chris Baxter who, through the magazine, was a supporter. From Victoria, rogaining spread to the other Australian states and then internationally. Neil and Rod Phillips published books to guide competitors and organisers. The brilliance of the early vision was an emphasis on participation over competition, on fun, learning new skills, enjoying the natural environment, teamwork and camaraderie.

Rogainers compete at their own level and in their own category. Because every team chooses its own route, there is no sense of being left behind, and during events, outstanding athletes can be at the same place and the same time as novice and family teams (and speaking of families, children love a treasure hunt.)

The first Rogaining World Championships were held in Beechworth, Victoria in 1992. I competed in that inaugural event 30

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Ronnie Taib and David Williams—midnight winners of the 2022 AutumnGaine at Garland Valley, NSW. Credit: Andrew Smith Colour coded route planning at Sydney Metrogaine. Credit: Julian Ledger Tom Shafron and Rachel Slatyer stretching out at the Upper Colo. Credit: Kim Eales Hash House camping valley courtesy of Chapman Valley Horse Riding.

Credit: Rick Cavicchioli Tassia Kolesnikow—a checkpoint found. is a happy rogainer.

Credit: Rick Cavicchioli

years ago; it covered a huge area, and featured mixed forest and old mine workings. My team, like all others, was tested by cold and blustery weather. But as competitors, we knew we were taking part in history.

Australia has since hosted three more World Championships: in WA (Mt Singleton); NSW (Warrumbungles); and the NT (Ross River in the Red Centre). The character of events varies enormously. This year the 17th Championships are in the Czech Republic, with over 20 nationalities represented. In 2023, the event goes to California.

Today, the sport is organised domestically by the Australian Rogaining Association (rogaine.asn.au), and it has a common set of rules. Rogaining has enjoyed continuous innovation, with events of 3, 4, 6, 8, 12, and 24 hours’ duration, along with a ‘15 hours out of 24’ version. There have been kayaking and skiing and mountain biking versions of events, too, and with a variety of durations and disciplines, the sport now sees names like the Minigaine, Metrogaine, Socialgaine, Paddlegaine, Snogaine, Cyclegaine and Upside-down rogaine (start at midnight). Often the shorter and more accessible events are the most popular, and those taking in metropolitan streets and parks are a great entry point for novices.

A LIFETIME IN 24 HOURS Experiencing a classic 24-hour rogaine is to live a mini lifeHomer Hut time. It starts with the choice of teammates, preparation of gear and food, and then travel to the event. Maps—most commonly

1:25,000 scale with 10m contours—are issued three hours before the midday start, and there is a period of intense route planning and strategy.

As noon approaches, it’s time to select gear, listen to last minute instructions and socialise with fellow competitors.

After the hooter goes, there is an initial hustle as teams head in different directions. The early checkpoints may be busy, but it soon settles down. With fresh legs and the benefit of daylight, things usually go well during the first afternoon, and checkpoints should be found quickly. After three or four hours, though, the effects of the pace may be felt. As dusk falls, it’s time to slow down to eat, fit a headtorch and adjust to the challenges of night-time navigation. Many mistakes are made after dark, and pace counting is used to help judge distance travelled.

During the night as tiredness kicks in, there almost inevitably will be problems finding certain controls or losing contact with the map; the sport now draws deeply on skill and experience.

And if it rains or is cold or if your body cries out for rest, then you and your teammates have to dig deep. You may question if this is still fun, and swear that you won’t be doing it again any time soon. During the ‘witching hours’ of 1-4AM, it may be necessary to find a spot for short and broken sleep.

Dawn is often the coldest time, but the joy of early morning in the Australian bush sees team spirits lift. Everyone is weary now but focused on the last quarter of the event and judging the route to be back in time for midday, trying to maximise points while not being late and losing them again.

SPRING 2022

45

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Julian Ledger and John Clancy after the start.

Credit: Kim Eales Que Jephcott deep in navigation concentration.

Credit: Rick Cavicchioli Team fun with Bryan Ho, Justin Nam and Chris Chan. Credit: Julian Ledger Metrogaine scenic spot with Katherine Cameron and Allie Blackwell.

Credit: Ted Woodley

NAVIGATION BY DOING. HERE ARE SOME SKILLS ROGAINERS LEARN: • Trusting compasses for off-track navigation • Learning to relate the map to the topography and natural features • Pace counting to measure distance, especially at night • ‘Aiming off’—a technique to deliberately navigate to the left or right of a point • Using an obvious feature like a creek junction or a knoll as an ‘attack point’ as near as possible to the destination control • Taking back bearings to confirm location • Following ‘handrail’ (helping) features such as ridges or watercourses • Focusing and communicating with teammates to maintain direction and distance

Rogaining’s distinctive logo

CONTRIBUTOR: Julian Ledger has been rogaining since the 1980s. He formerly headed up YHA Australia but these days has more time for bush navigation.

LEARN MORE AT: rogaine.asn.au and rogaine.org.nz

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Once finished, you take the weight happily off your legs. You eat and drink, wash, change your shoes and clothes, attend the awards ceremony, and compare notes with other teams. You rue the one that got away.

The next day despite a groaning body, the mind has the sense of a great cleansing wash, and of elation and triumph. Your sense of time has been distorted with endorphins and the flow of the experience. Was that 24-hours or 24 days? Before you know it, you are searching for the next rogaine and planning your team. This is the beauty of the Australian sport of rogaining.

WHO IS A ROGAINER? When rogaining is described, people sometimes have visions of iron men and women with pumped bodies and type-A personalities. In fact, my observation is that many of the best rogainers are low-key, left-brained, and even introverted characters with a capacity for great concentration, adaptability, information processing and decision making.

Physically, what works are strong legs for hill climbing, good lungs and a light upper body, along with the mental toughness to push through and keep going. The endurance element means that elite rogainers often peak late. Also, the best women are not infrequently winners in the open category. Many rogainers are also accomplished orienteers. Slow and steady teams that are mistake-free often do better than would-be hares.

Take-away benefits of the sport include being capable, safe and comfortable in the bush; staying calm; having directional skills, especially in the dark; and experiencing a feel for, and appreciation of, the land.

Rogaining is volunteer-run and has grown organically and wonderfully through the enthusiasm of its members. However, coordinating an event, gaining land access, and course setting are all time intensive, and that can be a challenge for attracting new volunteers. Younger rogainers are also needed to become involved in leadership roles. The culture of the sport is mostly low-key, although there have been long-term relationships with retailers such as Paddy Pallin.

Rogaining has not had the driver of a profit motive, and promotion largely relies on word-of-mouth combined with websites and social media. New rogainers arrive with their friends and may be bushwalkers, adventure racers, orienteers, or trail runners.

The sport exists in a world where smart devices are relied upon for day-to-day navigation. The blue dot tells us exactly where we are on the earth’s surface; paper maps are being consigned to history. However, a GPS has no place during a rogaine event.

My sense is that rogaining has enough intrinsic values to ensure it does not become the Morse code of the 2020s. W

TRIED, TRUSTED, AND A LITTLE BIT TWISTED

MAFATE SPEED 4

Extreme traction for those who choose the toughest terrain

GETTING STARTED

THE ART OF

PLANNING A HIKE with Shannon Johnston

Failing to plan means planning to fail. Adventure filmmaker, photographer and Wild Earth Ambassador Shannon Johnston shares some tips for planning your hikes.

A

s an adventure filmmaker

and photographer, I’m lucky enough to have hiked in Canada's Pacific Mountains, NZ’s South Island, and Southeast Queensland's lush rainforests, among other places. In the beginning, I often got things wrong, but it wasn’t forgetting bug spray or things like that. Instead, it was poor planning. Planning may sound mundane, but it guarantees a better adventure, because failing to plan all-too-often equates to planning to fail.

As it turns out, trip planning is something that’s fresh in my mind. Just yesterday, I went to Lamington NP for a 30km rainforest hike. A 2:15AM alarm and 2.5-hour headlight hike resulted in spectacular views and sunrise photos at 1100m+ ASL. As we trekked the final 100m to the lookout—surrounded by ancient Antarctic beech trees—luminous, red rays of light radiated through the yellow and green forest over the distant Gold Coast skyline in a way I’d never seen. Those magical few minutes dissolved the early-morning exhaustion.

So let’s run through the planning steps I took to enjoy a nature-filled day of fresh-air adventure.

ROUTE PLANNING Start by picking a route that’s suitable. Don’t set off on a 14-hour off-trail epic with 2000m+ of climbing if you’ve barely walked an hour on trails before (see also the upcoming section on knowing your limitations). And try to get a gauge as to how difficult the route may be. Five kays on flat, open trails may take as little as an hour; in tough terrain, it may take all day. Remember, you’ll be slower if you’re carrying a heavy overnight pack.

Picking a good route also means knowing what’s involved in getting to and from your location; road and trail closures; distances; weather forecasts; and round-trip timing.

NAVIGATION Before you go, be sure to look at an official map of the area, and then screenshot it, print it out, or download it for offline use; mobile data can be intermittent, so don’t rely on it. Go to national parks' websites, AllTrails (or similar) and Google Earth to learn the nitty gritty of your route. Take a compass (and depending on your outing’s length and complexity, a paper topo map, too) because you might take too many selfies, and phone batteries love to die.

FOOD AND WATER I carried 3L of water yesterday in 7-17°C temps. It was enough, but in hotter conditions I’d carry more. You’ll also burn carbohydrate calories quicker than protein calories. My wife pre-made me an egg and bacon sandwich to eat before the hike (lucky

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Shannon on his recent trip to Lamington NP

PLANNING MAY SOUND MUNDANE, BUT IT GUARANTEES A

BETTER ADVENTURE."

man, I know). Energy gels, lollies and chocolate are great for a kick, but packing nutritional food like sandwiches, bananas and protein bars keeps you optimal.

CLOTHING, WEATHER AND GEAR I can happily say I got my clothing options right for yesterday’s hike. It was 4AM and calm when I hit the trail, and I headed out in light hiking pants, a polyester shirt (cotton is a no-no), a longsleeved fleece and a hard-shell rain jacket. This wardrobe gave me options during the day; the 60km/h wind gusts and spiky lantana were dealt with by the shell, but the breathable fleece was comfortable and warm when slowing down to take photos and hiking in the shaded canopy.

Remember, air temperatures can drop about 0.6°-1.0°C for every 100m in elevation you gain. Know your temp ranges and pack to suit. If rain is likely, consider bringing equipment such as dry bags, a lightweight tarp or extra socks.

KNOW YOUR PHYSICAL LIMITATIONS Halfway through my hike, my knee started locking up; I spent the afternoon hobbling like an overworked cowboy and moving at half my usual pace. It had been months since I’d undertaken such a big day hike, and I wasn’t as conditioned as I thought I was. Throw in the fact I was lugging a 15kg pack, and that there were fallen trees from recent storms, and it meant I moved slowly for most of the day. In short, consider limitations such as these as part of your planning.

REWARD YOURSELF Don’t forget the whole idea is to have a good time; plan to treat yourself after all the tough work. In hotter months, I might pack a beer to crack with friends, but yesterday at 7AM, after 14km on foot, I took a moment to enjoy a hot cuppa tea while standing on an exposed 750m ledge, looking over lush Gondwana rainforest and cloud ripping over nearby escarpments. That thermos of tea had never tasted so good! It’s experiences like these that get etched in your memory. So be sure to celebrate! You earned it, and you planned it.

CONTRIBUTOR: Adventure filmmaker and photographer Shannon Johnston (RisenFilm.com) is based in Queensland's Gold Coast hinterland. He is an Ambassador for WildEarth.com.au

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NONE OF THE ABOVE

THE

ABELISTS IN THEIR OWN WORDS

Looking for a challenge? One you could, if you want, take a lifetime to complete? Then ticking off the entire list of Tasmania’s Abels—the 158 peaks in the state with heights above 1,100m—could be right up your alley. Mind you, only 23 people so far have knocked off all the Abels.

Here are the experiences of three of them.

Introduction & Interviews by

Y

DAN SLATER

ou’ve probably heard of the Munros in Scotland (284 summits above 3,000 feet), and/or the Wainwrights (214 peaks in the England’s Lake District favoured by erstwhile fell-walker and author Alfred Wainwright). You may even have dreamed of heading to Old Blighty to complete one of these classic challenges. Most of us don’t have that luxury, but what if there were such a challenge in our own backyard? Well, guess what—there is. And where else would it be but Tasmania?

The Abels are defined as all the mountains in Tassie with a summit height of 1,100m or greater, and with a drop of at least 150m on all sides. This somewhat arbitrary classification was the brainchild of Bill Wilkinson of the Hobart Walking Club, and in the early 90s resulted in a list of 158 peaks which he named the Abels, after Dutch explorer Abel Tasman. His starting point was the club’s Peak-Baggers’ Guide, a roll-call of almost 500 of their favourite summits, each designated a points score between 1 and 10, based on difficulty. While Bill has never completed his own challenge, that’s not any kind of slur—only 23 people ever have.

The challenge was first completed in 2011 by Philip Dawson, making him the first ‘Abelist’. Another followed in 2012, and another the year after that, and as more lifelong bushwalkers discovered the list, the number grew. Most had already been at it for decades; it took John Carswell (#7) 54 years. On the other hand, the most recent finisher, Lewi Taylor, knocked them off in just over five months (see next spread). The youngest completer to date was Zane Robnik (#14), aged 26 years and 2 days, and the oldest appears to have been David Griffiths (#19), at the ripe old age of 76.

Although Mt Ossa, as the highest mountain in Tasmania, also claims the position of highest Abel, the most difficult and scary climb, by most accounts, is Federation Peak, only the 95th highest in the state. Other famous Abels you may have inadvertently climbed include Cradle Mountain, Barn Bluff, and Frenchmans Cap, while the prize for most fanciful name has to go to Recondite Knob. Many of the peaks were unnamed when Bill finalised his definition, so he submitted names to the Nomenclature Board of Tasmania (now under the remit of Placenames Tasmania) following whatever whim took his fancy.

In the pages that follow, you can read, in their own words, the motivations, the challenges, the joys, the trials and the tribulations of being an Abelist from three who have completed the challenge: Maureen Martin; Lewi Taylor; and Louise Fairfax.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Lewi Taylor ascending West Portal looking back over the Eastern Arthurs. Credit: Joe McLachlan Louise Fairfax climbing Moss Ridge.

Credit: Alex Willows Maureen Martin on Mt Proteus. Credit: Louise Fairfax Lewi Taylor scaling Federation Peak, with Lake Geeves below. Credit: Clinton Garratt Louise Fairfax in the Western Arthurs.

Credit: John Whiteley

MORE INFO: All the information one could possibly want about this iconic challenge can be found in two beautiful volumes called The Abels, edited by Bill Wilkinson and published by Tasmanian Outdoors Collection. You can purchase them direct from Bill via his website: theabelmountains.com.au

SPRING 2022

53

The Abels, TASMANIA Maureen in the Western Arthurs

MAUREEN MARTIN Year of completion: 2017 #13 finisher

When Maureen ascended her final Abel, 55 years after she climbed her first, she entered the record books as the first female to complete the challenge.

Credit: Kathy Cotton

WHEN I WAS EIGHT, one of my aunties took me up Mt Roland. As soon as I got on top, I felt like the king of the castle!”

I’D SAY THAT 90% of the mountains I climbed were with the Northwest Walking Club. When we didn’t have anywhere to go, we’d look up the Peak Baggers List and say, “We’ll go and do that one for a few more points”.

When Bill Wilkinson wrote his book of the Abels, a lot of them were on the Peak-Baggers Guide list as well, so I found I’d already done them. It wasn’t until 2015 that Louise Fairfax got in touch and asked how many Abels I’d done. Well, I’d never counted them up, but when I did there were only thirteen I hadn’t done, and I thought, “Gee, only thirteen? I may as well knock them off!” It took me two years to finish, and I achieved my feat on May 20th 2017, 55 years after Mt. Roland. When I saw a young 30-year-old guy did them all in five months, I thought “Ah gee, to be youthful again.””

Heading to Pokana Peak. Credit: Kathy Cotton

SOMETIMES YOU’D THINK, “Gee, that was a really hard mountain,” and you look it up and it wasn’t even on the Abels list; it was on the Peak Baggers list! In those days I wasn’t even counting them, just going for a walk at the weekend with a heap of (mainly) fellas, because there weren’t many strong female walkers in the group, whereas now there might only be one or two men on the trip, so it’s really turned around.”

MY LAST ONE WAS MT BOBS, which is quite a flat mountain, so we walked around for 1½ hours with a GPS to find the highest point! My friends had brought up a small bottle of champagne, and when we got back to camp we had a little celebration there with a whole heap of bites to share.

It was great.”

I DIDN’T THINK AT THE TIME it would mean much to me to be the first female completer, because to me they’d always just been mountains and I liked standing on top. Then I got people ringing up congratulating me, and the newspaper did an article on me, and I thought, “Oh, I have done something,” and since then there’ve been a lot of women inspired. It’s something I can really say I’ve achieved and no-one can take it off me. Because of that I got a position in the Queen’s Relay in the Commonwealth Games in 2018, and I was quite pleased about that.”

I’M STARTING TO GET INTO long-distance bike riding now. I’m finding that bike riding is a bit easier on the body than walking through all that scrub! I don’t think I’ll be getting into mountain biking though, because last year I fell off my bike and broke my arm, and I thought “I never did that while I was bushwalking!””

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Battling horrendous scrub near Mt Gell. It took hours to do only roughly 200m. Credit: Kathy Cotton

In the Norold Range. Credit: Louise Fairfax

LEWI TAYLOR

Year of completion: 2022 #23 finisher

Lewi had barely done any overnight hiking before setting off on his 158 Challenge, a quest to climb all 158 Abels in 158 days, all with the goal of raising $158,000 for Cancer Council Tasmania.

AT THE START OF COVID, I read an article about Zane Robnik and the Abels. I thought it was a cool concept to have these very simple criteria which sounded achievable but also diverse. I got in contact with Bill Wilkinson, along with Nigel Richardson, the book’s photographer, planning an itinerary for the challenge. They were super supportive.”

UNTIL CANCER ENTERS YOUR LIFE through a loved one, it’s something you don’t really think about, but then it becomes all-consuming. You feel kind of helpless. When cancer returned in my mum six years after her first diagnosis, all I could think about was the process of treatment and her journey ... [T]hat inspired me to do something, not just for one person immediately, but for a community of cancer-affected Tasmanians. I could use the challenge as a vehicle through which to raise awareness and funds for an organisation that helps all Tasmanians with all cancers.”

On the Beggary Bumps, Western Arthurs. Credit: Joe McLachlan

I SPENT ABOUT A YEAR PLANNING the logistics, and a good six months on timings. I looked at blogs, specifically Becca Lunnon (rockmonkeyadventures.wordpress.com) and Louise Fairfax (natureloverswalks.com).

Becca was instrumental in giving good descriptions of the routes, and combined with books and bushwalking forums, as well as my own abilities, I got a conservative estimate as to how many days it would take, and theoretically it was less than 158. In the end, the scheduling pretty much came off to a tee and theoretical became actual. I did want to end with a week in hand, which would have given me seven days to plan the final climb [kunanyi/Mt Wellington], but I got COVID. This threw a spanner in the works and the final week was frantic.”

FED PEAK WAS MASSIVE ... the elation I felt on that summit and to have enjoyed every single second of getting up there. The beauty of the Eastern and Western Arthurs is unparalleled; it’s the most exceptional area in the world from a landscape point of view. That night after Fed Peak, watching sunset over the Arthur Range, is a moment I’ll never forget. The traverse? It depends how good you are with heights. I don’t physically react to exposure, I don’t shake or anything. You have to focus and lock into the manoeuvres because you’re very exposed, but overall the rock is solid and if you don’t have a breakdown in focus, you should have a great time.”

THERE’S AN AMAZING FEELING of satisfaction and empowerment when you come across adversity and you have to reach inside yourself and pull out resilience. That’s something we have to work on as a society.”

I DIDN’T REALISE THE LEVEL of connection I’d have with people I’d never met. To receive messages and have people come up and meet me on the final summit, and tell me the impact I’ve had through what I’ve done, and that it’s changed their lives, maybe that’s changed my perspective on what my purpose is in the future. Maybe my calling is to find avenues through which I can impact people’s lives, whether it be through physical challenges or social media, and maybe be a beacon of light for people.”

To learn more about Lewi’s challenge (or to donate), you can go to

Ascending Mt Aldebaran. Credit: Joe McLachlan

Instagram.com/tassie.taylor or to 158challenge.com

SPRING 2022

55

The Abels, TASMANIA Louise atop Precipitous Bluff

LOUISE FAIRFAX

Year of completion: 2022 #21 finisher Louise was an athlete and orienteer who, when her husband got too sick to orienteer any more but could still bushwalk, set about taking him up mountains. She learnt to carry a heavy pack on the job, and is the first person to have completed both the Wainwrights and the Abels.

Credit: Louise Fairfax

IN 2015, I WAS ASKED BY BILL Wilkinson to compile a list of the people who’d completed the Abels, or who had 20 or fewer to go. At the time, I don’t think there were any women on that list, and we both felt that was a failure.”

I MYSELF HAD PROBABLY done around 100 Abels at that point, but I became a facilitator. I offered to help one man by putting him in touch with others who needed the same peak, but he thought I was asking if he’d like some company, and about a week later I got an invitation to join him. So I began helping him by being his hiking partner, and eventually he said to me, “You’re amassing a lot of Abels, you could be a completer,” and I said, “Oh, don’t be stupid. That’s for amazing bushwalkers, not me.” In my mind, all I was doing was helping him (and some others). Suddenly I only had about nine to go, but then my husband died and I lost all interest in that, and anything else on the planet. Everything seemed pretty trivial compared to losing Bruce. I didn’t have the oomph, didn’t feel like doing much at all, so I didn’t for ages. And then, at the same time as I became ready to get back into things, a helpful friend wanted some company and I started getting invitations again.”

WE WANTED TO BAG PRECIPITOUS BLUFF, but that was about the sixth time I’d been blizzarded off the Southern Ranges. It’s seriously exposed; the wind whacks into you, picks you up and dumps you two metres to the side, and that’s with your pack on and if you weigh twice as much as I do. One year, all I asked for was three gale-free days in a row, but they never existed, not once in the whole summer. I’ve got friends who’ve gone three years with no Abel because of the weather, be it blizzards, droughts or flooded rivers. Anyway, I kept trying and kept getting blasted off by gales and hurricanes and snowstorms. PB was this monster that had laughed at me for years and nullified every attempt I’d ever had. It seemed I was never going to get there. I said, “I think I’m giving up. I’ve only got four left, I reckon that’s a pretty good tally.

I’m quitting.” Then he said, “No, come on, we’re going to have one more attempt on this bugger.” I said, “You’re right, I’ll at least give it a go,” and to my deep surprise, we got it!”

Trail scrambling in the Western Arthurs. Credit: Karin Levet

THE LAST ONE [CAMP HILL] REALLY IS A HARD mountain to find anyone stupid enough to do with you. It’s fortified by a band of very thick scrub, and we ended up literally crawling and snaking on our stomachs through these ghastly scrubby bits. We sweated and toiled our way up and got there, but there was no big yahoo; we were just relieved we’d got this brute off our chests.”

THE FISH THAT PLAYS HARD TO GET is the one you’re most proud of having caught, and the one in which you invest the most emotional energy will therefore elicit the greatest elation when it actually happens. Apart from PB and Fedder, the day I climbed West Portal was highly memorable, ... [and] I actually cried at the top because I thought, “I’m actually now what they’d call a real bushwalker!””

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Taking in the vista, Western Arthurs. Credit: Louise Fairfax

Experience the magic of takayna Expertly guided wilderness walks

.com.au Image by Dan Broun

13 0 0 133 278

PHOTO ESSAY

NO

SURRENDER TWO DECADES OF TASMANIAN FOREST ACTIVISM Matthew Newton has for more than twenty years been documenting the brave struggle of those fighting—often by literally putting their bodies on the line—to protect Tasmania’s natural heritage.

By MATTHEW NEWTON

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2006 An activist stops logging in a clearfell in the Styx Valley in southern Tasmania. Known as the Valley of the Giants, the Styx Valley is home to some of the world’s tallest trees. In 2013 it was included in the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area

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Forest Activism, TASMANIA

F

OR ME, DOCUMENTARY PHOTOGRAPHY offers the future a view of the past. It bears witness in an age when publications turn towards entertainment, celebrity and spin.

I have been photographing the struggle for Tasmania’s wild

lands for over twenty years.

During this time, exclusion zones—designed to keep media and the public out of the forests—have been declared. Those exclusion zones have made it illegal to protest, and to record the act of protesting, in Tasmania’s forests.

Many of the contested areas I have photographed are now included in the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area, vindicating those that put themselves out there in front of the chainsaws and bulldozers. There are countless more hectares of forest still standing than otherwise would be, thanks to non-violent direct action. Nonviolent direct action is a critical part of any democracy, and its effectiveness can be measured by the zeal with which governments and big mining and logging companies seek to stop it.

For over a hundred years, documentary photographers have been recording events worldwide without the sanction of governments, and away from mainstream media. Many documentary photographers, as do I, maintain a faith in the force of our collective acts of empathy and witness.

History will decide the merits or otherwise of our work.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP The height of the Tasmanian forest wars saw thousands of people take to the streets of Hobart to protest the logging of old-growth forests. This particular demonstration took place a few days before the Labor Party‘s then-leader Mark Latham arrived in the lead up to the federal election Police escort a logging truck past a protest camp in the Florentine Valley in southern Tasmania. This area is now included in the Tasmanian Wilderness Word Heritage Area Clearfelling involves the complete logging of a forest.

Then the whole area is burnt by using helicopters to drop incendiary devices made of jellied petroleum, commonly known as napalm. The result is the total destruction of the forest. The fires are so ferocious that they form mushroom clouds that can be seen for many kilometres

2004

2012

Bob Brown with the giant stump of a Eucalyptus regnans in the Styx Valley

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Forest Activism, TASMANIA

2006

2009

2009

2007

2006 IMAGES - THIS PAGE, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT In 2003, Gunns Ltd—an Australian logging giant—proposed building a $2.3 billion pulp mill in the Tamar Valley, north of Launceston. Years of protests followed until, in 2012, Gunns went into voluntary administration Police form a wall to prevent protesters entering forests earmarked to be logged in the Florentine Valley Police forcibly remove activists from a roadside in the Florentine Valley An activist climbs a Eucalyptus regnens earmarked to be felled in the Styx Valley, southern Tasmania. This area is now included in the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area Activists occupy and temporarily stop logging in a coup in the Styx Valley

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A young activist is restrained on the waterfront in Hobart’s CBD after leaping into then Prime Minister John Howard’s car in the lead up to the 2007 federal election. The forest wars in Tasmania were a key election issue

2007 Allana Beltran, a visual artist, entered Tasmanian folklore by attaching herself, at great personal risk, to a giant tripod to halt logging operations in the Weld Valley. With her face painted white and a long white curtain wrapped around her waist, she wore wings she made herself of white cockatoo feathers. Allana became known across the world as ‘The Weld Angel’, and the creator of one of the most beautiful forest protests our country has seen SPRING 2022 63

Forest Activism, TASMANIA

2017

2013

IMAGES - THIS PAGE, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Tarkine Rally, Parliament House lawns, Hobart. Former leader of the Australian Greens, Bob Brown is now the figurehead of the Bob Brown Foundation. The BBF is currently leading the campaign to save the Tarkine Locals from Tasmania’s northwest protesting in support of a proposed new mine in the Tarkine Activists learn tree-climbing skills in the Tarkine Pete Hay—poet, writer and academic—sits with other members of his cricket team and blocks a road into a proposed tailings dam in the Tarkine.

Jenny Weber from the BBF acts as police liaison at an action at the head offices of Sustainable Timber Tasmania in Hobart’s CBD

2022

IMAGES - OPPOSITE PAGE, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP The logging of Tasmania’s old-growth forests continued during 2020’s nationwide COVID-19 lockdowns.

After months of staying at home, Anna Brozek went to the Wentworth Hills near Lake St Clair, and climbed high up into cable-logging machinery where she stayed for two days and nights on a hanging platform.

She was eventually arrested and fined for her actions 3AM in a safe house on the west coast of Tasmania.

Two activists hug after sending out another group to disrupt work on a proposed tailings dam An activist is escorted by police out of the headquarters of Sustainable Timbers Tasmania (formerly, Forestry Tasmania) in the Hobart CBD Forest activist Indigo heads into the takayna/Tarkine forests dressed as an endangered wedge-tailed eagle.

Over 75 days through the winter of 2021, activists halted development of a road being built to construct a proposed 140ha heavy-metals tailings-waste dam

CONTRIBUTOR: Matthew Newton is a Hobart-based photographer. You can see more of his work at instagram.com/rummin_matt

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THE CLIMBING FILM TOUR

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THE

REUNION

Having forged a friendship scaling Nepal’s Ama Dablam, a trio of climbers get the gang together again to head to Tasmania’s Mt Ida. Unfortunately, not everything goes to plan.

Words & Photography LACHLAN GARDINER

Rijan and Scotty paddling their packrafts across Lake St Clair towards the prominent spire of Mount Ida

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Mt Ida

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Mount Ida, TASMANIA

“O

h my GOD!! RIJAN?!”

My eyes rolled and an involuntary groan undoubtedly slipped out. Young Bull was up to his old tricks. It had taken almost two years of attempts—all crushed by the ‘spicy cough’—but finally we were here. Scotty, Rijan (pronounced Ryan) and myself had managed to line up a trip to Tassie, and were moments away from striking out. Slowly mind you; our spines were soon to be crushed under 30-something kilo packs. Our stepping-off point was the Lake St Clair Visitor’s Center, more commonly known as the finish line of one of Australia’s most iconic multi-day hikes, the Overland Track. Presently, a rucksack-wearing young lady who had just completed that very journey was now excitedly engaging in conversation with Rijan.

Following what Scotty later described as “an awkward two steps in and out for an attempted hug, possible handshake, no, now it’s a hug kind of dance …”, we later learned they knew each other from work back in Victoria. Fortunately for us, Young Bull was no longer a single man … our imminent departure may have otherwise been in jeopardy.

Before we get too far, I should probably explain the nickname Young Bull. The year was 2016, and the setting was a bustling teahouse in the Khumbu (Mount Everest) region of Nepal.

Scotty, Rijan, myself and several others were making the iconic pilgrimage up-valley towards some of the world’s tallest mountain peaks. Our objective was to climb Ama Dablam, an almost impossibly steep and beautifully shaped 6800m+ monster sculpted from rock and ice. The teahouse was jam-packed with trekkers, mostly undertaking the classic route towards Everest Base Camp. After dinner, Rijan sauntered towards the bar to try his luck … and not for the first time on the trip, mind you. To be fair, he had flown in straight from a five-week stint working on a remote oil rig. It was hardly surprising he was keen to mingle.

Ultimately, Rijan’s attempts at courtship were mostly unsuccessful; nonetheless, the title ‘Young Bull’ was coined.

In all, it was an unforgettable month-long affair that resulted in all three of us reaching the cold, lofty summit of Ama Dablam. This high-altitude campaign culminated in a celebratory teahouse pub crawl back down the Khumbu, and high on the ever-increasing oxygen—coupled with drinking copious lashings of chhaang (local firewater)—we were willingly led astray

by Mingma, our Nepali climbing guide. That trip was the biggest, hardest, and to this day remains the most memorable expedition of my short life. Sharing the journey with Scotty and Rijan cemented a unique friendship between us. The type that only shared struggle, triumph, and adversity can forge.

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DESPITE BEING IN PLAIN VIEW OF ANYONE WHO VISITS

LAKE SAINT CLAIR TODAY, MOUNT

IDA IS SELDOM VISITED.” But that was five and a half years ago. Despite multiple failed plans, including several scrapped due to COVID and lockdowns in recent years, we had not managed to get the whole band back together for a reunion tour since visiting Nepal. But here we were, in Tasmania, with Rijan’s dad’s old “slow but reliable’’ 80-series LandCruiser stuffed full of stinky hiking, climbing and packrafting gear. There was even a mountain bike in there somewhere, a rude reminder that the lads had arrived a week early and headed straight to the MTB Centre of the Universe (Derby) without me. Also, and of note, there was something new in our gear collection—three bright-yellow inflatable packrafts.

EARLY ON, RIJAN—A COLORADO WHITEWATER rafting guide in his youth—had to be convinced that the mighty Franklin was a little above mine and Scotty’s pay grade. None of us had much packrafting experience full stop, so, ultimately, it

was probably fortunate that Tassie’s big rivers were all running exceptionally low after a dry summer. Speaking to several locals, “too low to paddle” was the overwhelming consensus, and our alternative river objectives were all shelved.

Not to be defeated, I set about cooking up another trip idea. It would combine hiking, adventure-trad climbing, AND—here’s the kicker—packrafting! The destination would be Lake St Clair, a rarity in Tasmania, in that it is naturally occurring, and not a dammed river like many other lakes. Fun fact: It is also the deepest lake in Tasmania at 215m. This steep, rugged topography was once carved by glaciers, and the lake is now fed by the Narcissus River. Overlooking this iconic wilderness is a particularly proud and pointy mountain, named Ida. A 1950s Tasmania Government Tourist Bureau poster titled ‘Tasmania: The Switzerland of the South’ shows a painting of Mount Ida; the slogan likened it to the fairytale steep crown jewel of the Swiss Alps, the Matterhorn.

Despite being in plain view of anyone who visits Saint Clair today, Mount Ida is seldom visited. It is perched overlooking the difficult-to-access eastern flanks of the lake. No trails lead here, and any off-track approach would be a decidedly arduous mission.

Enter the packrafts! In my research, only a single rock-climbing route had been documented on Mount Ida. Way back in January of 1975, the southeast ridge was scaled

by Philip Blake, Mike Douglas, and Chris Viney. A repeat of that five-pitch achievement would be our objective, and at grade 13 … how hard could it be?

As it turned out, this question would remain unanswered.

THE 11KM HIKE FROM OUR CAR to the Echo Point Hut was miserable. I, for one, was not remotely pack-fit coming into this trip, although I’m not sure my body has

1950s tourism poster of Mt Ida

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Scotty smiling on the maiden voyage Rijan packing climbing kit Evening entertainment at Echo Point as our packrafts created a buzz among the Overland Track walkers The Mount Ida ‘Play Abels‘ card (see story on P52 about the Abels) Bulging packs on the approach

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ever been in sufficient shape to not suffer under a 37kg rucksack.

Anyway, fuelled by excitement, and the desire to reach camp before dark, we had forced our lockdown-softened bodies into a steady rhythm. Reaching Echo Point was a huge relief, but there was no time to waste, because within seconds, the small lakeshore beach was a hive of activity.

Our three bright-yellow packrafts created a buzz among the Overland Track walkers; a small crowd of interested spectators quickly gathered, and the questions came thick and fast.

“Where are you going?”

“How?” “In those?

“How cool is that!?”

Assuming the role of the rugged, intrepid and experienced packrafting pros that these strangers mistakenly assumed us to be, Scotty, Rijan and I answered these queries with confidence and authority. Did they not notice our decidedly less-than-perfect execution of packing all our gear inside the packrafts? They

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THE PROSPECT OF BECOMING BENIGHTED

IN SUCH A REMOTE AND UNKNOWN LOCATION HELD LITTLE APPEAL.” should have, given the fact none of us had ever completed this task before. Nonetheless, a short while later—and with only a little confusion and experimentation—all three boats were ready to launch into the unknown.

Lake St Clair can, on any given day, be a wild and tumultuous body of water. A combination of the long, deep and narrow shape, and it being hemmed in by tall mountains, creates a windtunnel-type effect; in gusty conditions, it’s not uncommon to encounter six-foot swell. Knowing this, we’d scrutinised forecasts and selected a weather window that was free from rain, but, more importantly, any significant wind. The waters were calm as our

Mount Ida, TASMANIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Scoping out the peak during the paddle approach Landing our rafts on the far shore Camped lakeside on the green lawn Rijan pointing towards the (incorrect) route Early morning scene near camp, looking across towards Mount Olympus

small flotilla paddled away with cheers from the crowd.

Navigation was simple: Aim straight across the lake towards Mount Ida. Over the years, I’ve observed a pattern that often emerges early in adventures. To begin with, my mind is busy with planning, prepping, packing, transiting and all that comes with starting a new journey. But at some point, the stress of all this fades. The ‘getting there and getting started’ part occurs, and the expedition is properly underway.

For me, this is the point when I can finally relax and be in it— immersed and fully along for the ride. Paddling out into Lake St Clair, with the sun behind and the unknown ahead, it felt like the real adventure part had begun. Maybe the other lads felt it too; perhaps it’s for this reason the three of us were suddenly hooting and hollering with excitement.

Cutting more or less straight across the lake, we had just one kilometre to paddle; quickly, the far shore came into view.

Ahead was easily one of the most idyllic campsites I have ever seen. A wide, flat, pebbled beach was covered by a soft carpet of

greenery. Small mossy plants resembled a well-trimmed lawn.

We carried our equipment-filled boats ashore, and spilled their contents onto the lawn to establish camp.

THE NEXT DAY, SIMPLY LOCATING the start of the route proved to be more difficult than anticipated. Within minutes of reaching the cliffs, Young Bull got excited and proclaimed he’d found the climb. Rijan wasted no time launching a bold, albeit ultimately unsuccessful, attempt at what was definitely not the right crack system. Loose blocks and small shrubs were deemed insufficient protection, and Young Bull made a careful retreat.

Meanwhile, I’d wandered off and stumbled upon the actual southeast ridge route, starting just 40m further along the cliffs.

By this point, the day was growing long; the prospect of becoming benighted in such a remote and unknown location held little appeal. The approach hike from camp to the steep, rocky summit block of Ida had taken over two hours off-track. At times, it

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saw us following the faintest of foot pads, but even that involved constantly disappearing in dense undergrowth and a jumble of fallen trees. It was quickly agreed that reversing this in darkness was off the table, let alone getting stuck halfway up the ‘75 route, which was still mostly unknown and obscured from view.

No, there would be no historical multi-pitch repeats for us today. But it came as a surprise that a fire still burned in my belly, the type I had seldom felt during the preceding two years.

Years spent close to home that had seen very little ‘real’ adventure. “Screw this,” I thought to myself. “My back and knees still hurt from yesterday’s spine-crushing pack march. I’ll be damned if we’re lugging all this heavy climbing gear up here and not climbing something!”

Fortunately, Mount Ida’s columnar dolerite lends itself to forming vertical crack systems, so locating alternative potential routes was a real option. I scouted for a line worthy of an attempt and that would also offer an easy descent (or escape) option. Almost miraculously, within minutes, a primo-looking

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I HADN’T CLIMBED

ANYTHING MORE CHALLENGING THAN A STAIRCASE IN OVER TEN MONTHS ... AND HAD BARELY TOUCHED ROCK IN THE PAST TWO-AND-A-

HALF YEARS.”

20m-high cliff split by several cracks presented itself. Not only did the climbing look good; the stunning backdrop of the lake below meant the route would photograph well, too. I chose the better looking of the two lines, racked up, and struck upwards, although not before requesting Scotty to stand-in for camera duties (thanks mate!). Personally, I hadn’t climbed anything much more challenging than a staircase in over ten months … and had barely touched rock in the past two-and-a-half years.

But feeling inspired, the cobwebs and doubts were shoved aside.

Mount Ida, TASMANIA

This was in my wheelhouse. I had climbed hundreds of pitches of similar easy-to-moderate grade trad in the past. Rusty or not, it was time to step up. Following the cracks upwards, the moves felt secure, and the gear was solid. No slinging precarious shrubbery was required. Fully aware this was unclimbed stone, I moved slowly and with care, and I tested any remotely suspect-looking rock with a customary thump of the fist.

Attentively belaying below, Rijan shouted encouragement. Soon, I reached a sizeable ledge featuring a tree sufficiently large to create an anchor from. From there, I belayed both Rijan and then Scotty up, all the while enjoying the expansive views and warm afternoon sun. The grade back home in QLD would have been around 15, but this was Tassie and the locals climb hard! So, after a discussion with Scotty and Rijan who had both seconded the route, Evening Entertainment (20m Grade 14, Trad) was dispatched—it was named for the impromptu ‘Packrafting 101’ show we put on the previous evening lakeside at Echo Point.

From this lofty perch, I could see the long sweep of the lake, and couldn’t help but retrace our journey to this point.

While Evening Entertainment had satisfied our rock-climbing desires, it was on a part of the cliffs that fell well short of reaching the tippy top of Mount Ida. While researching the trip, I’d learned that there was also a hiker’s route leading to the peak’s summit. After rappelling the climb, we calculated there was probably just enough time to tag the top before

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Lachlan climbing Evening Entertainment.

Credit: Scotty Ready to climb on the final approach Rijan inspecting potential routes Off-track deep in the forest Clear night skies over camp

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Mount Ida, TASMANIA

beating a hasty retreat back to camp. Naturally, the aforementioned hikers’ route was in fact a steep and moderately exposed scramble, but it did quickly have us enjoying 360-degree views from the airy summit. The entire lake spread out below, and beyond lay rugged wilderness as far as the eye could see. The mountain’s angular shadow stretched long below, a visible reminder that we had better get a wriggle on. Retracing our earlier path back downhill mostly went to plan, a task greatly assisted by the GPS track on both my and Scotty’s watches. Back upon the green lawn, we relived the day’s antics and got stuck into the customary dinner-from-a-bag.

IMAGES - TOP TO BOTTOM Panoramic views from the summit of Mount Ida The team: Scotty, Rijan and Lachlan

CONTRIBUTOR: Lachlan is a Brisbane-based adventure photographer, writer and filmmaker. Like any good climber, he has a perverse masochistic streak.

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THE NEXT DAY, THE THIRD of our little escapade, was a relaxing one.

All enjoyed a sleep in, and in an unhurried fashion we packed camp back into the three little boats. Already our respective techniques for loading and inflating the packrafts had seen great refinement. Miraculously the weather was once again on our side—clear and, more importantly, next to no wind.

Off we paddled. Mount Ida rose steeply behind us, some of her secrets now unlocked. In stark contrast to being brutally crushed under a backpack, paddling on Lake St Clair was a delight. Packrafts aren’t exactly built for flat-water speed, but we were in no rush.

Angling towards the lake’s far side, we drifted past what could only be described as a tree graveyard. The forest around Lake St Clair has never been cleared and grows dense right to the water’s edge; in the shallows, huge tree trunks many hundreds of years old lie partially submerged, entombed by the clear, cold waters.

Far in the distance, a small jetty loomed, signalling the end to the 10km paddle. I was once again reminded of our trip to Nepal, and of our bender down the Khumbu Valley. The experiences were vastly different, and that expedition had lasted a whole month. But this three-day jaunt ended much the same—a celebratory return journey shared with two good mates. As often happens towards the tail end of any outdoors mission, our collective mind turned towards the culinary and liquid rewards that awaited. There would be no Nepali firewater this time; instead, a counter meal and cold beer at the pub beckoned. And there was one other thing we vowed would be different to our Nepal trip: that the next reunion would take place much sooner than in another five years. W

Photo: Flight Risk Media

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C E N T R A L H I G H L A N D S TA S M A N I A

THE

TR AP Decision-making in the mountains is not always easy, and even the best of us need to not let irrelevant factors cloud our judgement.

Words Janina Kuzma Photography Jeffrey Ward

I

yell to the team to turn around, but my words fade into the cold roar of galeforce winds. Meanwhile, my face is being peppered by

icy needles blowing in the 80km/h blasts; I try to pull my balaclava up to protect my exposed skin. I’m only half successful. I sit there momentarily, hunkered low, thinking we can still push for Mt Tasman’s summit. It is so close. But then we are hit again by another big gust. This one nearly topples us. With a mixture of emotions—disappointment being the most evident—I realise the summit is out of reach.

Mother Nature clearly has a different plan for us.

On one knee, holding hard onto my ice axe, I shout again to Sam and Tom to turn around, and point back down the ridge from where we just pitched. Tom hammers in a snow stake as our anchor, while I help him set up the rope so we can safely downclimb back to the media team. On the ridge above the couloir, I watch Sam survival-ski down the fifty-degree vertical pitch on rime ice. Alright, I think to myself. It’s way too dodgy for me to ski down the entrance of this couloir. I’ll just downclimb the first 200m and then put my skis on.

Once I get down to a suitable spot, I build a platform and gear up. My skis are on. I’m ready to drop. But I’m ready to drop not just into a line I’ve spent the last two years planning to ski, but also potentially into something far more dangerous, into something psychologists and mountain-safety professionals call a heuristic trap.

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Janina ascending the Stevenson-Dick Couloir SPRING 2022

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Mt Tasman, NEW ZEALAND

L

et me take you back 14 years, to January 7, 2008, in Fernie, British Columbia. I was heading off to shoot photos on the northern slopes of 2,400m Mt Proctor, a peak that, once at the top, has incredible views overlooking the Fernie township area. With me was professional photographer Todd Westlake, a petite guy standing at five-five and weighing no more than 55kg, and our friend Ian Bezubiak, a happy-go-lucky sort who loves a good crossword. After snowmobiling up a logging road for 45 minutes to the trailhead, we put on ski touring gear, and began climbing through gradually thinning trees to an alpine ridge.

Once high on the ridge, we geared up for our descent.

We knew to be careful: Early-season storms had left the snowpack layered and unpredictable. Avalanche danger was considerable at all levels. However, Todd knew some people who had been out in the same area two days previously without incident, so we descended, albeit cautiously.

We stuck together on low-angle slopes, crossed tracks from the previous days, and then paused above a wide gully. Ian skied across the entry to test the snow stability. His weight triggered a 60cm-deep, six-metre-wide slab avalanche that raged downhill like water released from a dam. All I could hear over the torrent of snow was Todd screaming, “AVALANCHE!” Then, as the snow wave of whitewash passed, everything was silent. I was left standing atop the avalanche crown. Ian, meanwhile, had been engulfed by snow as he bear-hugged a spruce tree.

Todd, however, was gone. The avalanche had taken him.

At first, Ian didn’t know this. When I yelled to Ian, he thought Todd was just below him, out of harm’s way. Unfortunately, that was not the case. In a frenzy, we leapt down to the bed surface.

You could feel the hard crust layer, which the unsupported snow had gone on. It was hard for my skis to get an edge on it.

Ian and I switched our avalanche beacons to search mode and began a frantic search of the debris field. My beacon led me down 200m to the bottom of the slide path; the reading indicated we were within a few metres of him. Trying to hustle over the avalanche debris, I located the lowest reading on my beacon of 4.2 metres. We knew he was buried deep, and we prepared ourselves for the worst, but we both kept saying to each other that there was no way we were bringing Todd home dead. I drove my probe into the snow and hit him on my third strike. We whipped out our shovels for the most challenging, most time-consuming phase of any rescue: digging. Again, we knew Todd was buried deep; his chances of survival were falling fast.

Nearly 23 minutes after the avalanche, we reached Todd. He was unconscious, blue, and labouring through sporadic, shallow breaths. Ian cleared his airway, and unclipped Todd’s camera to relieve the pressure on his chest. A few minutes later, he began mumbling. Fifteen minutes after that, he could move.

We eventually evacuated under our own power as there was no phone reception to call for help. With Ian piggybacking Todd, we skied down to where we’d parked the skidoo, and

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Mt Tasman

ALL I COULD HEAR OVER THE TORRENT OF SNOW WAS TODD SCREAMING, “AVALANCHE!” THEN, AS THE SNOW WAVE OF WHITEWASH PASSED, EVERYTHING WAS SILENT.” then evacuated Todd straight to hospital, where he was treated for hypothermia and a broken back. But Todd was lucky. Really lucky. Twenty-three minutes under is a long, long time; usually a burial of that length involves not a rescue but a body recovery.

LOOKING BACK, WE HAD SUCCUMBED to a heuristic trap. Heuristics are simple rules (‘rules of thumb’ is another way of describing them) that people use to simplify decisions about complex events and situations. We tend to apply these rules frequently and subconsciously. And when we over-simplify, or are influenced by factors not relevant to the actual hazards, that’s when we fall prey to heuristic traps. In the outdoors, the rules must be relevant to the actual hazards and risks for them to be effective. If they are not, accidents will eventually result.

In our case back in Fernie, we’d committed to skiing our line with no backup plan. We relied on Todd’s knowledge, experience and confidence in the area to the extent we didn’t even question the avalanche-danger rating for the day. We knew Todd knew

Janina Kuzma, Sam Smoothy and adventure filmmaker Jase Hancox set out across the Albert Glacier laden with basecamp gear

that people had been out there skiing lines a couple days before, which gave us a false sense of security in the area. Ian and I ignored the physical signs, records and data.

This early experience in my ski career—for those who don’t know me, I’m a professional freeride skier and retired competitor who’s recently transitioned to becoming a mountain guide and filmmaker—has shaped how I now value risk versus reward with my skiing, how I travel and approach the mountains, and how I make decisions with my film crew in the mountains when I’m doing expeditions and ski projects.

You must take risks to stay ahead of the game, but each risk needs a reward, so the risk: reward ratio must be calculated, and equal to a real payoff. As a competitive skier, I would push myself further and take more significant risks because I knew the reward— standing on that podium—would be high. If I wasn’t on top of my game, I’d take less risk because I knew a good result would not be in reach; the reward wouldn’t be worth it.

Now that I’m a ski guide, I’ve learnt to take a heuristic approach to risk assessment in the mountains, and I tackle risk versus reward using a strategic mindset that’s become a highly tuned automatic process.

SO LET’S FAST FORWARD TO 2021 and the start of this story, to that point on Mt Tasman where I am finally ready to put on my skis, and potentially on the verge of falling into another heuristic trap. Actually, let me take you back just a little earlier, because it’s been a long road to get here.

Tasman—at 3,497m, it’s New Zealand’s second-highest mountain—proudly stands on the main divide between Aoraki and Westland Tai Poutini National Parks. The peak’s top ridge looks like a serrated knife edge, with a sharp crest and steep sides—a 100m drop on one side and a 500m drop on the other.

Climbing the peak via its classic narrow ridge, a snow arête climb, is gnarly and super exposed. You have to move confidently and efficiently on steep snow and ice in highly

HEURISTIC TRAPS The acronym FACETS can help you remember some common heuristic traps:

Familiarity: The more familiar you are with the terrain you travel in, the more you tend to expose yourself to risk factors.

Acceptance: The desire to fit in or be liked by the group.

Commitment: The more goal-oriented or committed you are, the more likely you are to expose yourself to hazards and instability.

Expert halo: Someone in your group with high knowledge, expert skiing ability, or simply confidence can influence the entire group and dampen all other concerns.

Tracks/social proof: Previous ski tracks can give a false sense of security. Just because other people have skied the same slope doesn’t mean that the slope is safe.

Scarcity: The race for first tracks can cloud your judgment. In addition, having a limited resource (fresh powder) can make you take risks you may not normally take.

Source: Decision Making for Wilderness Leaders: Strategies, Traps and Teaching Methods by Ian McCammon

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exposed terrain. As a result, it gets fewer ascents and less attention than Aoraki/Mt Cook, New Zealand’s highest mountain, or the stunningly aesthetic peak of Tititea/Mt Aspiring in the Southern Alps.

It’s for this reason I want to ski Tasman, and what’s more, to make a film about it. It’s been a project that’s turned out to be two years in the making, because I want to document not just the ascent and descent of Tasman, but also to document both my season-long preparations for the attempt, along with my final New Zealand Mountain Guides exam in spring.

Prepping for the latter has meant a hectic lead-up to Tasman. I needed to be out in the backcountry, training on the syllabus I’d be examined on. This included navigation skills, rope skills, and avalanche rescue techniques. Through all this, I managed to—in an excellent warm-up for the Tasman mission—put all my skills to the test by skiing off the West Face of Mt Aspiring.

With me for this Tasman project is Sam Smoothy. A Wanaka local—like myself—he went viral on the internet after his 2015 Freeride World Tour run in Andorra, which has been dubbed the gnarliest competitive ski run ever thrown down. Lately, though, he’s been throwing himself into ski mountaineering, and spent last season ticking off NZ’s 3000-ers like a mad man on a mission. One of those descents saw him become part of the first Kiwi team to successfully ski Aoraki’s Caroline Face. +++++

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THINGS BEGIN GOING OFF-PLAN in the weeks before our mission. Just when we’re almost ready to depart, we get delayed by a three-week COVID lockdown. This, in turn, pushes back the ski guides exam and thus our Tasman trip. Uncooperative weather, coupled with our media team’s schedules adds further layers of complexity. It’s a classic shit show.

We roll into November. It’s not typically the best time of year to ski this couloir; it’s NNE facing, and its position to the sun means soft snow avalanches and rockfall are common. But with commitment from sponsors, the show must go on.

We fly into Pioneer Hut, regather our gear and set out across the Albert Glacier, before heading under the Buttress and then onto the Abel Janszoon Glacier. We pitch basecamp at the upper end of the Janszoon, where we can see Tasman up close. From our campsite vantage point, we’re able to study the approach, see the bergschrund, and gauge how the sun has affected our line— the Stevenson-Dick Couloir.

The SD Couloir is a continuous 800m straightforward line descending from the West Ridge, averaging 40–50 degrees. The couloir lies above a glaciated feature, and as the glacier changes with the seasons, there can be an ice cliff. As a result, the route can completely be cut off. The Stevenson-Dick Couloir isn’t the most popular route to Tasman’s summit, but, as a skier, climbing your line before the descent is nice.

Studying the mountain and discussing the route simultaneously makes me feel excited and nervous. I’ve planned to climb

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM FAR LEFT Janina hauls herself out of the Stevenson-Dick Couloir Prepping rope for glacier travel Janina roped up travelling across the Abel Janszoon Glacier Sam Smoothy admires the beautiful Mt Tasman and our approach to the Stevenson-Dick Couloir from our basecamp on the upper Abel Janszoon Glacier Sam climbs above Janina in the belly of the Stevenson-Dick Couloir

WITH EACH STEP, YOU CAN HEAR THE SHOWERING OF SNOW GRAINS WHISTLING DOWN THE COULOIR, ALMOST AMPLIFIED

BY THE ICE-ENCRUSTED WALLS.”

and ski this mountain for almost two years. Finally, I now stand and stare at this glorious peak from my tent; soon, I’ll tick it off and ski down. We discuss our plan, eat dinner and hit the sack in the light of day, ready for an alpine start.

We wake at 1:30AM, and set off. Navigating the bergschrund in the pitch-black takes longer than expected. Also of concern are the vast, metre-deep runnels from the spring erosion, smack bang in the middle half of the couloir. Worse yet, it is super icy. One fall climbing up or skiing down, and we’d tumble into the deep, open bergschrund at the bottom. Nonetheless, I still feel confident; the sun, I figure, will warm the couloir by the time we reach the top.

One step. Two steps. Ice axe in. Ice axe out. Repeat for two hours, straight up the couloir. With each kick of my crampons and swing of my ice axes, I hear a crunch of the hard ice we are climbing up. I count my steps almost rhythmically: one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four. Crunch ... crunch ... crunch ... crunch. With each step, I hear the showering of rounded snow

grains whistling down the couloir, almost amplified by the ice-encrusted walls. We are all silent in the dark as we ascend, like sitting in a Vipassana retreat. I take in the beauty of the West Coast, watching the starry sky turn from black to the most majestic pastel hues of pinks and oranges. Visible in the distance is the ocean, and you can just make out the swell of the waves.

Admiring the sunrise, we’re greeted with the forecasted clear, blue skies. But also with us, as forecasted, are the winds, only blowing much harder than we expected. We knew there would be a little wind—maybe 25km/h. Instead, as we reach the top of the couloir, we are battered by 80km/h gusts.

Given the conditions, we decide to leave the media team behind so we can attempt the summit without them. We head along the ridge; both sides of the edge have sheer, exposed drops, and I can see the ice on the windswept ridge to our right glistening at us. One slip would mean a slide all the way down into the Balfour Glacier. Death would be certain.

And still the howling wind is building. It comes at us sideways, blasting snow in our faces, and we struggle to hear each other talk. It is hard to stay upright. At a plateau just 150 vertical metres shy of the summit, we have a discussion. Well, we shout a few words at each other. We all agree, without hesitation, to turn around. No mountain summit is worth this risk.

With crampons on and axes out, we make our way back down the firm ice to the freezing media team. Unsurprisingly, the couloir has seemingly not softened at all. Regardless, Sam puts his

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Janina and Sam climbing simultaneously towards the summit of Mt Tasman Back at basecamp and removing layers after the unsuccessful summit bid Janina downclimbing the Stevenson-Dick Couloir

YOU CAN BE WRONG BY NOT MUCH BUT ENOUGH FOR A NOT WANTED OUTCOME. THE MOUNTAINS STAND STRONG, NOT VINDICTIVE. ” skis on. We rig him up for a ski belay descent into the couloir, and then dish out rope fast enough for him to time it perfectly with each turn. I can hear his skis scrape and chatter over the hard ice like nails on a chalkboard. It quashes any hopes I had that it might have softened lower down.

One hundred metres down, and Sam is off the rope. But he is still survival skiing, with an axe in hand. He is yelling a commentary, too, mainly four-letter words. It’s a good indicator that I should downclimb for my safety.

And so I do, downclimbing the line I’ve planned to ski all season. It’s gut-wrenching. A couple of hundred metres down, though, I build a platform to sketchily put my skis on. After not summiting, I’m still keen to ski at least from here; I don’t want the trip to be a complete failure. I have come all this way to make the project happen, and I don’t want to go home with a nagging sense of dissatisfaction, of self-doubt, and of feeling like I should have tried to ski the couloir.

This is the point I almost fall into that heuristic trap. I am being too goal orientated, on the verge of letting my ego dictate decision-making, letting it override the reality that the icy conditions, the metre-deep runnels, and the bergschrund at the bottom, makes the line an absolute no-fall zone.

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Sam is now just below the dogleg of the couloir. He yells up to continue downclimbing. I snap back to better modes of thinking. Once at the couloir’s base, with slightly softer snow, I find a safe spot from where I can ski the remainder of the line. Arriving back at basecamp was bittersweet. I was happy I got down safely and could ski the last 300m, but knowing the whole project was about skiing that one line meant I hadn’t achieved the goal I had set. But I trusted my gut and relied on my intuition to make a high-risk, high-impact decision at the time. And we all got home safely. That’s the most important thing.

ULTIMATELY, MY REASON FOR TAKING RISKS is the sum of my experiences, and these factors ultimately produce my risk tolerance. Most adventure sports are the same—self-indulgent and self-centred. The activities become your crucial focus, and success in them is your big pillar in life.

It’s hard to measure the effect on those around you and loved ones as they accept your pathway for you; no doubt they’d always like you to take less risk, and to come home happy and healthy.

However, the stakes remain the same, novice or expert—you just develop judgement and skills to deal with it.

However, you can be wrong by not much but enough for a not wanted outcome. The mountains stand strong, not vindictive.

They do not give special rights to anyone or to any activity. When the mountains speak, you listen; sometimes, that message is to go back to the hut or your tent, and to chill. W CONTRIBUTOR: Wanaka-based pro-skier, filmmaker and NZGMA Ski Guide Janina Kuzma is a team athlete with The North Face.

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READER’S ADVENTURE

UNRIDDEN

KANGAROO

VALLEY Who says you need to travel to the ends of the Earth to have a real adventure? Just 160km from Sydney, Sebastien Deubel goes sleuthing for some vintage trails on a vintage bike.

Words & Photography SEBASTIEN DEUBEL 88

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Sebastien embracing the view from a plateau 400m above rainforest that has reclaimed forgotten trails more than a century old

Kangaroo Valley, NEW SOUTH WALES

Sydney Kangaroo Valley

IT IS A HUMID LATE AFTERNOON deep in Kangaroo Valley, December 2021, 160km south of Sydney. From the books I’ve read, I believe I am the first person to ride this lost track, dug in the 1880s by cedar loggers. As I progress, I notice a sudden change in the ground in front of me. This is bedrock. Ahead, a treacherous creek stands in the way of my dream. I climb on a tall boulder and realise that I have no choice but to cross the intimidating, dark water. I memorise a path to the other side, one that avoids the vicious and deeply submerged rocks.

“Show me who you are,” I say to myself, trying to stay calm and composed. I pick up the bike, lift it above my head and step into the unknown.

My feet slide on the slimy bedrock. The water reaches my neck.

Mid-traverse, with my arms rapidly fatiguing, I know I have just

TRYING TO STAY CALM AND COMPOSED, I PICK UP THE BIKE, LIFT IT ABOVE MY HEAD AND STEP INTO THE UNKNOWN.” seconds before I lose the strength to keep my most important piece of gear, the sleeping bag, dry. The prospect of the bicycle falling on me and keeping me under water also crosses my mind.

From that moment I move quickly and with my eyes focused on the opposite bank, one last burst of energy propels me to safer ground. Having barely enough strength to place my precious cargo on the dry rocks, I take my shirt off, squeeze every bit of water from it and leave it on a tree branch to dry while I catch my breath.

My dream is still alive. I quietly savour the successful crossing and ride upstream, in the creek, towards the spot I will set up camp.

WHILE THE UPCOMING CAMP WILL BE my first of this three-day bikepack, the adventure started roughly a year earlier.

Actually, it really started far earlier than that. Back when I was 12, growing up close to a forest, I realised that a bicycle could take me across difficult terrain to unexplored places, alone. I had a strong sense that I was finding the world’s last quiet pockets, to interact with nature and connect deeper with myself. My addiction to these experiences, that made me feel so alive, developed into a philosophy for me. From there on, the possibility of riding routes not yet travelled by bike, combined with the mentality of pushing through hardship, started to craft all my dreams.

And then twelve months ago, my curiosity took me along a track that I had never ridden before down to the Kangaroo Valley.

Three meters wide and initially easy to follow, the track gradually disappeared under the blanket of a prehistoric-looking rainforest. I looked around for footprints and tyre marks, but I could not

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find any. Clearly it had been a long time since someone travelled along the path, as if the track had been forgotten.

Back home, I looked at topographic maps for the track, and searched for it on Google Earth. There was nothing. I could only conclude that it had to be an old track. This unidentified track became a fascination. Why was it there? Had it ever been ridden?

Were there others like it? And could these tracks be linked together to create a single ride. With its dramatic geological history hidden in a glorious jungle, I knew I had to explore the Kangaroo Valley escarpments that had never been ridden.

For the next twelve months, I researched and prepared. I scoured the internet, pored over old maps, read old books. I scoped possible routes using Google Earth’s terrain features. I returned to Kangaroo Valley multiple times on foot to rediscover individual, long-overgrown sections of track and to figure out how they might link up. These lost and historic paths, consumed by nature, obstructed by impenetrable vegetation or collapsed cliffs, demanded improvisation.

Early in my research, I visited a local museum in the hope it had old maps sketched back in the days when Kangaroo Valley locals created the tracks. I didn’t find any. But my visit wasn’t entirely fruitless. Instead, I discovered two photographs from 1889; in their descriptions, they stated, “Bullock teams were a common form of haulage in the Valley”.

Was this the first evidence of the tracks I was looking for? They were certainly convincing enough to me. So I searched online, and found Growing up in Kangaroo Valley: An Oral History, which was a transcript of a 2015 interview with Fay Martin. Fay was raised in Kangaroo Valley during the Great Depression. She remembers influential government officials visiting the valley at the beginning of World War II and her grandfather showing them all the exit routes accessible by horse up to Robertson, Jamberoo, and Meryla. I now knew these passes existed, at least in the 1930s.

Perhaps my dream of riding these lost paths was not crazy after all.

Days later, I found, at the National Library of Australia, a Royal Australian Historical Society journal reporting that Surveyor RJ Campbell referred, in 1863, to Kangaroo Valley as “the resort of cedar sawyers”. The trees, growing up to forty metres tall, with trunks sometimes three metres in diameter, were coveted by the Royal Navy in Sydney for their resistance to rot and insects. And Campbell also wrote, “At Fitzroy Falls, a series of ladders and platforms was erected on the face of the cliff and the cedar was carried, piece by piece, from the country below up to the tableland above.” The need for safe passes was inevitable.

And there was one last clue. I found it at a local antique shop, a book called Australian Transport Through 200 Years, which explains how “bullocks hauled most of Australia’s cedar, usually yoked in pairs in teams up to 40 [feet]”. It now seemed to me

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP There’s something unique about crossing a deep creek while carrying your gear. What is more important? Keeping everything dry, or not getting stuck underneath it?

There is an entire world of epiphytic plants endemic to the Kangaroo Valley, ranging in size from one millimetre long to two metres in diameter Peugeot bicycle, made in 1974. The gears and the brakes work well. And it is comfortable, reliable and not expensive— perfect for great adventures Feeling so small in a world that’s so big

beyond doubt that bullock teams were used to pull the cedar trees up Kangaroo Valley’s passes to the Southern Highland plateau.

I then turned to more technological methods to conduct my research. Specifically, I turned to Google Earth. Using the terrain layer, and having the elevation reading activated, within minutes I could recognise numerous possibilities—contour lines indicated slopes gentle enough for traverses to be dug in one direction as far as the terrain allowed, followed by a 180-degree turn to the opposite direction and up another gentle slope to the next potential apex.

At each turn, it seemed the ground was level enough to allow bullocks to be unhitched, walked to the other end of the load, and continue hauling up the pass, now from the other side. Piece by piece, I was putting together the puzzle that made my dream conceivable.

ACROSS THE STEEP SLOPES—WHERE ROCKS the size of watermelons have fallen from the cliffs above—this section of the abandoned track is not easy to follow or ride. Taking my right hand off the handlebar and reaching for the downtube shifter, I drop two

THIS BICYCLE TAKES ME BACK TO MY CHILDHOOD, WHEN I RODE SIMILAR BIKES IN THE WOODS AND FELL IN LOVE WITH A NEWFOUND SENSE

OF FREEDOM.”

gears. My thumb immediately finds the dimple in the shifter, as if I’ve made this move a million times. I probably have. Alexandra, our neighbour, rode this very bicycle around Tasmania in 1983 and started a profound relationship with her beloved Peugeot until she could no longer cycle. She wanted a good home for it, knew my taste for vintage bikes and offered it to me.

Why is my chosen ride for this adventure retro? My answer is multilayered. For starters, there are environmental reasons.

What a fantastic feeling it is to give the 47-year-old machine a second life. But another reason is that I want to encourage people to understand that nobody needs a costly bicycle to experience a

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Kangaroo Valley, NEW SOUTH WALES

great adventure. Lastly, there are nostalgic reasons too. This bicycle takes me back to my childhood, when I rode similar bikes in the woods and fell in love with a newfound sense of freedom.

It is not only the bike, however, that is old here. Palms and giant ferns have reclaimed the ground they ruled over for thousands of years. In more ancient eras still, the region has at various times been under the ocean. Sand was laid down and compressed to create layers of sandstone. Five million years ago, however, the land saw its last uplift. In finding its way to the ocean, water from the resulting plateau gradually eroded the sandstone and carved out the 400m-tall cliffs that now impound Kangaroo Valley.

As I cycle through this root-infested, primordial terrain, the sound of water powering down the rocks a hundred metres below takes my mind back to the Permian Period. The cascading water reminds me of a report I read recently from a field geology club visit to the Kangaroo Valley. Instantly, I remember that these ancient rocks, exposed by the recent heavy rain, are over 250 million years old.

Then, through lush ferns, my eyes catch a stone at the base of some falls.

Riding on the brake hoods, I squeeze both levers and swing my left leg over the waterproof pack that keeps my hammock dry. I lean the bicycle on the ground with my gaze still fixed on the rock. Was this actually part of a tree, buried in mineral-rich mud, perfect for petrification back when Australia was still connected to Antarctica?

The concentric rings and bark-like texture set my imagination off. It feels like I have not moved for a long time, but a singing lyrebird snaps me back to the present. Before my fingers touch the ancient wood, I feel compelled— almost obligated by history—to freeze this instant in time as my right hand makes most likely the first human contact with the fossil, a quarter of a billion years old.

Squinting through the camera, I make sure the focal point, aperture and exposure are right. I connect the timer remote controller to the camera and set it to delay by 15 seconds, a series of ten shots set at one second intervals.

My fingers are within centimetres of the specimen when the shutter fires for the last time. Behind my now-closed eyes, my mind is filled with vivid imagery. 250 million years condensed into seconds. I see continents drifting, mountains rising, dinosaurs ruling and early humans discovering fire. Trying to comprehend how much the Earth, and life on Earth, has changed since the tree must have fallen, I pick up the stone and wonder.

I was right. This stone has not always been a stone. It was once a tree. What I’ve discovered is petrified wood, looking like wood but with the weight and coolness of rock.

MORE GEOLOGICAL SURPRISES ARE IMMINENT. The lava flow I ride on, which belongs to the Gerringong Volcanics, has been revealed by a shallow creek that has washed away the rich and fertile soil. Holes in the solidified lava are scattered all around, just underneath the flowing surface, sometimes one metre in diameter by half a metre deep. I must be careful, and I ride at walking pace.

The trail now runs along the cliff edge. Three metres ahead, the trickling creek falls off the edge of a thirty-metre drop. I look ahead for the safest path

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A fallen tree bridges an impenetrable tangle of dense vegetation to a rideable track

SLIPPING HERE IS NOT AN OPTION.

MY RIGHT FOOT TIMIDLY FEELS FOR GRIP. I CAN SEE THE WATER RISING FROM THE MOSS ALL AROUND MY SHOE. IT TAKES ME THIRTY SECONDS TO MAKE THE FIRST STEP.

THIRTY STEPS TO GO.”

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Riding above a plunging waterfall Blood sucker along for the ride The dense canopy occasionally opened up, letting the sun poke through for a few seconds of riding Thirty hours of adventuring in jungle so thick you can barely see ten metres ahead, and then suddenly this Out of the sweat-soaked clothes for a swim at an unknown water hole How often do you find petrified wood that started its mineralisation process when Australia was still connected to Antarctica?

Knee-deep mud gave rise to an acrobatic face plant before then trying to suck Sebastien’s shoes right off his feet A section of technical, root-riddled track slicing between forest and a cliff face

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to direct my focus towards and sail through an ocean of ferns, before riding down the pass I was searching for. Progressively, the forest gets denser, darker, cooler, more humid, filling the air with earthy smells. The sunlight must never hit the ground here.

A web of liana vines latches onto my handlebars and feet, as if giant carnivorous plants are trying to capture me. I patiently free myself, then continue deeper into the uncharted territory. Before I know it, I land face down in the mud. A tiny stream has created an invisible trap, twenty metres long, where standing water has softened the dirt enough for my front wheel to sink knee-deep instantaneously. I am thrown over the handlebars. It’s hard to extricate myself from the mud without it stealing my shoes clean off my feet.

More challenges await. I have to carry my gear across a fallen tree, two-and-a-half metres above a pit of stinging nettles, ten metres long and covered in a carpet of neon green moss. Slipping here is not an option. My right foot timidly feels for grip as I try to peel away some of the centimetre-thick moss with my shoe, testing the bond between moss and tree. I can see the water rising from the moss all around my shoe; it is hard to trust the grip. It takes me thirty seconds to make the first step. Thirty steps to go.

Beyond the creek crossing, I feel like I’m cycling across a giant puddle where the splash never stops. Eventually, I pinpoint two trees—strong and branched at the right height—that I can use to suspend my hammock safely for the night. And safely suspended it must be. The two trees, the only ones the requisite five metres apart, are on different sides of the creek; I will be perched above the water.

Once my hammock is set up, I realise I‘ve spent most of the day completely wet.

I HAVE STOPPED COUNTING

THE TIMES I‘VE FALLEN ON THE SLIPPERY SLOPE, AND IGNORE THE CONSTANT SNAGGING OF THE BIKE BY LIANA VINES.”

Whether it was the rain, the creeks, the waterfalls, the mud, the sweat, or just the humidity, I do not remember being dry. I feel a desperate need to wash myself, to scrub the dirt off from head to toe. It is near the latter—well, just above the ankle—that I find a fat leech. Judging by its size, it must have been attached for hours.

Knowing it might not be wise to step into the creek during the night—to pee, for instance—bag, towel, water bottle, and pee bottle go in the hammock. A light, notebook, and pen go in a pocket suspended above me. The rest stays in waterproof bags outside. I slide through the hammock’s entrance, settling down slowly, and laugh quietly: “You had better have tied it up correctly.”

Before swinging my legs in, I dry my feet. Once in, my weight creates the tension through the hammock that closes the velcro

of the entrance underneath me. Lying down, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I am exhausted and let what has happened today sink in. For thirteen hours, I have not stopped adventuring.

The sense of accomplishment from discovering all these forgotten tracks is the kind of reward that comes only from overcoming uncertainty.

THE NEXT MORNING, MY EXIT is 400m higher up to a plateau, across what looks like thick and unexplored rainforest that hums with life. Hauling the bicycle across my shoulders and gear up onto my back, the sharp teeth of the chainring are just centimetres from my neck, and are only hidden behind the protection of the chain. I have stopped counting the times I‘ve fallen on the slippery slope, and ignore the constant snagging of the bike by liana vines, tree trunks and branches that pull me back down.

Repeatedly, I throw the bicycle and gear in front of me so I can snatch onto roots and pull myself up the slope. Thornbushes and low branches keep brushing my blood- and mud-coated shins. I cannot dwell on the brutality of this challenge, because there is just one way out from where I am: Only by relentlessly putting one foot in front of the other will I reach the top.

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IMAGES THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Steep technical switchback Admiring the delicate beauty of nature When there was only one way out: A two-hour test when mental strength was everything Staying calm and in control above a thirty-metre drop Experiencing a profound connection with the world

Eventually the jungle opens in front of me, and after two hours of arduous carrying, the summit plateau appears. I collapse on my back. Getting to the top was beyond anything I’ve ever done. The only muscles I can use for the next few minutes are the ones drawing air into my lungs. Every other muscle is in recovery mode. But soon enough, I smile.

Back up and riding, I am amazed by how little effort it takes— compared to the relentless slog I’ve endured—to move quickly across the escarpment. For a day and a half, my body and my mind

I KNOW I’M WITNESSING SOMETHING UNIQUE, AND I FEEL A GENUINE CONNECTION WITH THE WORLD AROUND ME, AS IF I AM

IN IT, NOT ON IT.”

have been conditioned by the simple fact that I‘ve faced constant adversity; here I am now traversing this paradise at speed. My free ride continues, and I cycle in a tranquil creek downstream.

The reflection of the white sky on the surface of the water keeps the ride technical; the bedrock below is everything but flat.

Cracks, steps, and holes are hidden underneath the white veil.

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Unexpectedly, the late-afternoon updraft sprays millions of water droplets into the air in front of me, masking stunning escarpments on the horizon. With the caressing touch of the water, the view, and the setting sun, it is tempting to succumb to the incredible aura around me.

But I don’t want to lower my guard. Five metres in front of me, the creek quietly drops before roaring 180m below. Riding carefully, I stop in a safe position and embrace the moment. I know I’m witnessing something unique, and I feel a genuine connection with the world around me, as if I am in it, not on it. Soon, I remember that for many thousands of years, members of the Wodi-Wodi people have been living in Kangaroo Valley; they would know much about the trees, plants, animals, birds, insects, and fish—all vital knowledge for survival on a land which they were part of. Perhaps deep in all of us is an instinct that once tied us all in with nature.

Another day and a half of adventuring is still to come. But the confidence I have built up over the exploration thus far reassures me as I go through the remaining unknowns of this ride. I remember that only my wheels have rolled across this remote place, and that I am well on my way to achieving my dream. W CONTRIBUTOR: Sebastien Deubel is passionate about telling stories about bicycle adventures where no one goes, so he can also enjoy the strongest cheeses ever on his own.

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CONSERVATION

THE REASON

WHY

A Case for Victoria’s Great Forest National Park

Words by MAJELL BACKHAUSEN

Majell Backhausen decided to take on a 275km trail run through Victoria’s proposed Great Forest National Park. On the way, he learned all-too-well why this remarkable country deserves protection.

I

stopped counting trees along the route when I got to three thousand, seven hundred and eleven. It had seemed a good idea to start with, an alternative to the mantra “left foot, right foot, relax, breathe”. But just 22 kays into the 275-odd kilometre long run I was undertaking through Victoria’s proposed Great Forest National Park (GFNP), less than a tenth of the way into the traverse, I was reminded of the enormity of this forest and of this run. In any case, I’d already counted enough trees to get a sense as to what was at stake here.

This is land of immense ecological and cultural value. It is home to some of the planet’s most carbon-dense forest, forest that replenishes our oxygen supplies. Home to mountain ash (Eucalyptus regnans), the tallest flowering plant on Earth. Home to clear creeks and waterways that supply nearby Melbourne/Naarm with some of the highest quality drinking water in the world. Home to Bundjil/ wedge-tailed eagles, sooty owls, powerful owls, feathertail gliders, greater gliders, yellow-bellied gliders, Buln Buln/superb lyrebirds, Baw Baw frogs (Victoria’s only endemic frog) and the smoky mouse.

And it is not just home to, but is the last remaining home to Victoria’s state fauna emblem, the critically endangered Wollert/Leadbeater’s possum.

I’d consider even just one of these factors to be reason enough to protect the proposed park, which would stretch across Victoria’s Central Highlands, the lands of the Taungurung, Wurundjeri and Gunaikurnai people. Currently, the area has 184,000ha in protected lands, spread across many small, fragmented reserves located around towns including Healesville, Kinglake, Toolangi, Warburton, Marysville and Wood’s Point. Under the GFNP proposal, these reserves would be expanded dramatically, incorporated into a single, contiguous reserve system totalling 536,755ha.

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Great Forest NP, VICTORIA

The montane fens of Mt Baw Baw are just one of Melbourne’s water sources that would be protected by the GFNP. Credit: Sarah Rees

Gondwanan rainforest on Mt Donna Buang.

Credit: Sarah Rees

Majell and Beau Miles surveying a logged coupe just a short run from the infamous Ada Tree.

Credit: Cam Suttie

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Great Forest NP, VICTORIA

Connecting these reserves would allow the area to have greater resilience against the myriad threats facing the mountain ash forest ecosystem and its inhabitants. Threats like logging (legal and illegal), as well as increased fire severity, frequency, and intensity. A larger, contiguous national park would allow large, old trees to thrive, while also facilitating the restoration of natural fire regimes. It would also enable Victoria to match other states already recognising, valuing, and celebrating the globally significant biodiversity and cultural heritage of this continent.

UPON LEARNING THE EXTENT of the proposed GFNP boundaries, running through this landscape in its entirety in one long 275-odd kilometre run —a Great Forest Traverse—felt like something I had to do.

But questions needed to be answered before I could lace up and go jogging. Chiefly, there was this: “Why am I really doing this?” My answer had to be something other than “I love running” or “So we can make a movie Run Forest, Run”. And although part of my answer for such a run involved wanting to have nothing left in the tank, wanting to become emotionally vulnerable through exhaustion, I felt there should be more.

In searching for an answer, I thought back to a book launch I hosted in October 2021. It was for Professor David Lindenmayer’s The Great Forest, a book showcasing the importance of the area. Stacie Piper, a Wurundjeri, and Dja Dja Wurrung woman, gave her welcome: “Wominjeka”.

“It loosely translates to ‘Come with purpose’,” she explained.

“When we welcome you, we are asking you to come with purpose.”

In the world of trail running, your ‘Why’, your primary purpose, is likely focussed on racing or chasing down FKTs, both of which are common ways to push limits, boost egos, and attempt to justify hours spent going a long, long way, yet often just finishing back where you started. Geographically, that is.

I’ve spent a hell of a lot of time and energy racing across the world. Highlights include the MDS, the seven-day stage race in the Sahara Desert. The Manaslu Mountain Trail Race in the Himalaya. Tackling the UTMB, arguably ultra-running’s premier event—a 171km circuit of Mont Blanc with 10,000m of elevation gain. Skirting Hong Kong city limits for 100km. Navigating New Zealand’s beech forests and rivers.

Along the way, I’ve had the honour of working alongside the world’s best ultra-runners. Like Killian Jornet, from whom I learnt that numbers and stats only matter if we also take responsibility for the environments in which those numbers and stats are established. Or like Dakota Jones, who says, simply, “Environment > Winning”.

I realised this should be a traverse less about numbers, and more about trying to raise awareness about the GFNP, about its

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WHY AM I REALLY DOING THIS?”

MY ANSWER HAD TO BE SOMETHING OTHER THAN “I LOVE RUNNING.” threats, its numerous endangered species, and its grassroots community organisations that are working tirelessly to protect it all. It would be a new experience for me, a project like this one, offering a greater sense of purpose.

When my ‘Why’ emerged, it made me think of reciprocity, and of mutually beneficial relationships within our natural world.

And it called to mind further knowledge sharing from Stacie Piper. “There are lots of layers to our connection to Country; it’s an unsevered connection,” she explained. “Our kinship and Country aren’t separate for us. In order for us to heal our community, we need to heal Country. It’s very important. If you care for Country, and our children, our future, you are most welcome on the land of the Wurundjeri people.”

THIS TRAVERSE COULD HAVE BEEN attempted several ways. And while I could have undertaken a single push, self-supported FKT attempt, moving to the point of collapse and crying about seeing a giraffe eating my Clif Bar (hallucinating obviously), I chose a more relaxed, four-day mission with a crew alongside for the journey. I started on the westernmost edge of the proposed GFNP on Taungurung Country, made my way east

ARK FOR RNE & VICTORIA

rk will be to Melbourne what the nal parks are to Sydney. The Park will ne, being a natural amphitheatre of hazy the city. The protection of the Central d cultural values will provide long deserved he forests right on Melbourne’s doorstep.

ovide an this unique ouring, ed trips, g, bed and the cultural rs. It will ke.

its critical e of the sustaining ng critically

THE PROPOSED GREAT FOREST NATIONAL PARK

The Great Forest National Park will protect Melbourne’s drinking water.

• Eildon

• Healesville

• MELBOURNE

• Mt Baw Baw

Proposed new parks Existing parks

match its valuing and iodiversity

This map shows the proximity of the proposed Great Forest Parklands to Melbourne. through theNational traditional of the Wurundjeri people, and finished along the Austra-

gnature tall lian Alps Walking Track on the Mount Baw Baw Plateau—the southeast boundary of the proposed park in Gunaikurnai Country. ans Muell.)

I was fortunate to sleep soundly in my tent most nights, nestled under rustling eucaTraditional Owner groups in the region and surrounds dlife, some lypts, surrounded by the scary and not-so-scary sounds and smells of the Great Forinclude the Bunurong/Boon Wurrung, Gunaikurnai, The Park est—in truth, I was probably the worst-smelling creature here. Not leaving this route Taungurung Wurundjeri peoples, long, d forest was important to me; I and wanted to be immersed in thewho area.have I wanted to create a cruongoing connections with and custodianship of land oodlands and cible within which I could face a challenge and, through that process, change in some and waters.of sorts, facilitated by the Great Forest. way. A rite of passage In terms of habitat I ran through, it began in sooty owl territory with healthy, tall gnise and trees. I then moved into the habitat of the critically endangered Wollert/Leadbeater’s ral values of possum, and through gargantuan mountain ash forest that survived the horrific 2009 ighlands offires. Finally, I entered the home of the Baw Baw frog and the snow gum trees so iconic to Australia’s alpine areas. Using land-classification lingo, the route moved through regional park, state forest, bushland reserve, scenic reserve, and national park.

It’s both uplifting and disturbing to think of this land in those terms, because linked in with those classifications are conditions like ‘land off limits to logging’ and One the most famous networks of illegally nationallogged’. parks,This use of natu‘land open to of logging’, not to mention ‘land being particularly within a short distance of a major urban out of nowhere, ral resources is an absolute waste. Logged ‘coupes’ pop up seemingly ‘hidden’ high in the hills in inaccessible places, away from public eyes. Sometimes on landscapes deemed too steep to log, they are completely cleared nonetheless, hence ‘land being illegally logged’.

Much of the logging here is for wood chips to make disposable packaging, cardboard, and other single-use items. It makes my stomach turn more than my 37th vegemite and peanut butter sandwich, chased by my 48th raspberry razz Clif Bar gel. What’s more, the industry runs at a financial loss; in 2019-2020 alone, the loss on native forest logging operations was $20 million. All this for what? Cardboard cup holders?

There’s a better opportunity here.

Interstate Comparison – Greater Blue Mountains, New South Wales

ark: Tenure, values and reserve design methodology

Summary of criteria for a across the Central Highla

• Criterion 1: Ecological integrity and via • Criterion 2: Richness and diversity (hig biodiversity).

• Criterion 3: Rarity/conservation status • Criterion 4: Representative of type.

• Criterion 5: Scientific and educational IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Toolangi mountain ash. Credit: Sarah Rees Majell decending into the town of Healesville with the Yarra Ranges National Park off to the left. Credit: Cam Suttie Map of the proposed Great Forest National Park, plus existing reserves

centre, is the Greater Blue Mountains area in

Cathedral Ranges - Nanadhong.

Wales.

Credit: Chris Taylor

Masked owl. Credit: Steve Kuiter Surrounding the city of

Sydney, this protecte network consists of eight national parks and Leadbeater’s possum. Credit: Steve Kuiter in two connecting blocks that are separated transportation and urban development corr

Collectively, they cover 1 million hectares of l far exceeds the formal national and state pa STATISTICS CONSIDER surrounding TO Melbourne, which is less than 18 hectares.

- National park area within 100km of the Sydney/Eora CBD* - 1,094,207ha

- National park area within 100km of the Melbourne/Naarm CBD* - 168,891ha

Melbourne deserves more than 15.4%* of what sits on Sydney’s doorstep. * As of 2015

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Wild places like the Central Highlands are significant for the health of our planet and its people. Mounting evidence suggests that community health, wellbeing and economic resilience are linked to healthy and resilient ecosystems. Parks allow people to connect with nature and provide diverse opportunities for outdoor recreation. They maintain and improve the state’s liveability and support the economy—important to a region still in recovery from the devastating effects of fire. They provide tangible services such as clean water; climate and heat regulation; nurseries for fish breeding; pest-control services and pollination for agriculture; storm protection for coastal communities; and physical and mental-health benefits for park visitors. They also provide benefits such as neighbourhood amenity, social cohesion, and scientific and educational opportunities.

EACH DAY’S PLANNED RUNNING DISTANCE was largely determined by a practical end point at which to rest. This proved a logistics executive’s dream, but a runner’s challenge.

After 72km, Day One ended on the edge of Kinglake National Park at a quiet, lush campsite. It felt hidden—a tent site with a eucalyptus fortress created by towering gums. It provided a perfect canopy from the late-afternoon sun, but open enough to see the night sky full of stars, uninterrupted by town or city lights.

It felt peaceful and harmonious here—quiet, still, and untouched—allowing the blood to find equilibrium in my body again after a day that would turn out to be the toughest. My mind was all over the place. After just one day, I felt like it drew attention to every physical issue I had—a sore hip, a cut in my foot, a potential blister, or it would antagonise any doubt I had about successfully running the full span of this lengthy-yet-lush forest.

The next day, I ran past giants of the forest in Toolangi, trees of such magnitude they would take nine tree huggers to wrap around it for a connected hug. I stopped, taking in a gel to help increase my blood-sugar level enough to comprehend the size of

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LITTLE MORE THAN ONE PER

CENT OF OLD-GROWTH

FOREST IN THE AREA REMAINS.”

these trees. Hollowed, high, stable trees like these are homes for endangered species, and they only form into these homes over decades of growth. If these trees are logged, we actively reduce the habitat for critically endangered species, and they will die and never return, just like the Tasmanian tiger. We can prevent another Tasmanian tiger situation, right now.

Meanwhile, mountain ash forests like these are the most carbon dense in the world; maintaining them helps mitigate climate change. Maximum biomass carbon density for an oldgrowth mountain ash forest is 1,819 tC/ha (tonnes of carbon per hectare) in living, above-ground biomass and 2,844 tC/ha in total biomass. In logged mountain ash forests, these values drop to as low as 262 tC/ha.

Areas with high carbon stocks have been identified across Toolangi, Warburton, Lake Mountain, and the Royston Ranges.

However, only half of the forest with high carbon stock falls within existing reserves. The GFNP would protect these forests and would also allow previously logged forests to regrow.

A study, conducted in 2014, found that the mountain ash forest ecosystem of the Central Highlands to be critically endangered (as per the IUCN Red List of Ecosystems criteria). Under each of the 32 distinct scenarios considered, there was at least a 92 per cent probability of ecosystem collapse by 2067. As of a decade ago, less than 2,000ha of old-growth forest remained in the Central Highlands region; that’s barely more than one per cent of the historical area across which these forests once thrived.

Did you catch that? Little more than one per cent of old-growth forest in the area remains, and each day sees further destruction.

When you’ve taken 99% already, surely it’s time to call it quits?

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Snow gum on Baw Baw. Credit: Chris Taylor Blanket of soft tree ferns in the Yarra Ranges.

Credit: Sarah Rees Logging burns, Noojee.

Credit: Nik Passman Clear-fell logging on steep slopes in Melbourne’s water catchment. Credit: Sarah Rees Majell, exhausted at the finish, having run 275-odd kms through the GFNP. Credit: Cam Suttie

And here’s one last thing: I’ll be honest, I didn’t know any of this for the first 30 years of my life, even though I grew up just south of here, and studied double quadratic equations in high rises at Melbourne’s RMIT, from where the forest can even be seen on a clear day. Most embarrassing of all, I’ve used these lands as a training ground, running for hours on end past the world’s tallest flowering plant, without so much as a clue.

ONE HUNDRED KILOMETRES IN, I was feeling a little beaten up by the accumulated kays. Running along a ridge towards Healesville, to one side of me was ‘protected’ forest designated as a national park; to the other, ‘unprotected’ state forest. In my low-energy state, all I could think was, “Wow, they are two different worlds, one looks like it’s natural and healthy; the other, not so much”. Revolutionary thoughts and conclusions, I know. But I genuinely felt better looking at the ‘healthy’ forest compared to its alternative, so I stared at it for the rest of the descent to Healesville.

In Healesville, my sister Simone joined me, running by my side for the next few hours as we climbed up to Mt Donna Buang; soon, my energy and excitement levels were spiking as I called out to her.

“Check this out,” I yelled. Fixed to a towering mountain ash was a sign from the Australian National University (ANU).

We were passing one of their long-term research sites, some of which have been going on for 38 years thanks to the work of Professor David Lindenmayer and his team. I’d heard and read so much about these exact sites in preparation for this run and I’d wondered what they comprised of and the exact type of forest they existed in, and here it was, in a healthy, untouched patch of forest with big old trees. The air felt crisp, clean, invigorating; with renewed energy, we moved with a pep in our step.

All this fresh air got me thinking about oxygen. We need oxygen, which we get from trees. And in the process of releasing

that oxygen for us to inhale, they extract carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. Isn’t it wild! We breathe in what they breathe out, and they breathe in what we breathe out. We must be a perfect match.

Oxygen was still on my mind a few hours later. Along with Simone, I was dragging my butt up the 1,000m vert long haul up to the summit of Donna Buang, and sucking in lungs full of high quality O2. It reminded me of the synergy I felt earlier— we breathe in what they breathe out; they breathe in what we breathe out—and I felt more a part of this forest than ever. And then a thought struck me: What percentage of my being is a tree?

By the time Simone and I reached Donna Buang’s 1,250m summit, the sun had set behind us and a near-full moon had risen. It felt like the day, and this dang long climb up Donna in particular, was a beast I didn’t quite realise was coming.

At the summit, though, we met Perry Wandin, a Wurundjeri man. He welcomed us to the Country of the Wurundjeri people, and we stood absorbed by a spectacularly clear night. Perry smoked eucalyptus and she-oak leaves, and shared the importance this land holds for all humans. The night was still, but the smoke made its way around the circle of people, not aided by wind but something else. We were grateful to be here. It brought a level of depth and meaning to the experience, a level I only feel when on Country with Traditional Owners.

BEAU MILES JOINED ME on the broiling hot third day, offering 50-odd kilometres of distracting humour and companionship. He also packed two cans of beer for our lunch, and we saw a snake, too, which made us jump like a pair of tourists new to the Australian continent.

Beau can, well, talk a lot. But he can also move, and that we did, until, 25km in, we hit a stream—crystal clear and cool like so many in the Great Forest—where we stopped and then submerged ourselves to let the refreshing water soothe us.

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Great Forest NP, VICTORIA

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT The relief, appreciation and understanding that the work to protect this place has only just begun.

Credit: Cam Suttie Sylvia Creek Falls, Toolangi.

Credit: Chris Taylor

LEARN MORE, AND CONSIDER RUNNING THE GREAT FOREST TRAVERSE YOURSELF: An abridged version of Majell’s traverse, The Great Forest Trail Marathon, will take place on Sunday, November 20, 2022 departing from Healesville.

Runners can sign up at: greatforest.raisely.com There’ll be a film about Majell’s run coming out towards the end of the year. To find out about it—and to learn more about groups that are fighting for our land, forests and water—visit Patagonia.com.au/activism You can also find out more about the proposed park, along with loads of scientific data to back up its gazetting, at greatforestnationalpark.com.au

CONTRIBUTOR: Trail runner Majell Backhausen is the sports community manager at Patagonia Australia and New Zealand.

He is passionate about conservation, activism, and runs for our wild places.

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It was a simple pleasure, but one thing I appreciate about a traverse of this size is exactly that: that my world becomes simple. Eat, drink, move, drink, stop, rest, drink, repeat. On any large traverse, access to water is the critical element to success. Lucky for me, I was able to access some of the world’s highest-quality drinking water. I could access it from streams, creeks, rivers, drinking fountains, public toilet sinks, a couple of front yard taps ...

And that’s the thing; you don’t need to be deep in these forests to access some of the world’s best water. In fact, Melbourne’s 4.8 million residents can all access it. But it largely comes courtesy of the Great Forest area; most catchment areas for Melbourne Water’s ten storage reservoirs fall within the region, and most of the city’s drinking water comes from it.

Water yields are maximised in old-growth forests. Studies conducted in the Central Highlands specifically found that runoff decreases when forests are disturbed and that areas disturbed by clear-felling have significantly lower runoff. Establishing the GFNP will more effectively protect water catchments, providing benefits to Melbournians in the long run.

THE NEXT DAY, MY FOURTH and last (well, I didn’t want to call it ‘the last day’ because you never know what can happen in 78km), I was still thinking about water. I was on the Australian Alps Walking Track, moving across the Baw Baw Plateau, and I was parched. I mean parched. My throat was an arid desert, all I could think about was water, that pure essence of life that makes up 2/3 of the human body. A craving, if quenched, I knew would make my legs work better, my heart sing with full gusto again, and would get me through this day.

The Baw Baw Plateau was nonetheless beautiful. It’s snow gum country, an incredible setting. I moved across the plateau during the most beautiful part of the day. The sun was sinking, the light was golden, warm, and gentle; I honestly couldn’t believe my luck.

How could it all be this beautiful, this stunning? I thought it couldn’t be topped, until I descended into the very final km’s of this long run, entered Mushroom Rocks and …

“WOAH!” There was a labyrinth of singletrack coursing through perfectly rounded, colossal boulders, seemingly placed there by the BFG (Big Friendly Giant) himself.

It seemed a dreamy end to a dream traverse of this Great Forest; a dream that took three seconds to think up, over and done with in four swift-ish days. But they were immersive days, days that left me wondering: Are we humans in nature, or really nature in humans?

I believe it’s the latter. And I feel that a long time spent outdoors is a truly beautiful thing.

You can feel it too. Visit the proposed Great Forest National Park; be immersed in the wildness of it. Let rain drops run down your skin, breathe fresh air, and even get a few leeches on your ankles! Feel that chill of the wind, before thawing out when the day is done.

And then, after that, if you feel called to reciprocate, help the environmental grassroots organisations working in the proposed Great Forest NP area. Lend them your valuable time and energy, help to protect the forests still remaining in these Central Highlands.

These are irreplaceable natural spaces, irreplaceable habitats, irreplaceable creatures.

They deserve protection. As famed biologist E. O. Wilson once said, “Destroying rainforest for economic gain is like burning a Renaissance painting to cook a meal.” Not protecting the Great Forest of Victoria would be no different. W

Long Past, Living Future This continent is ancient and remarkable. From the Kimberley and Martuwarra all the way to the forests of lutruwita / Tasmania, there are special places unique on a global scale.

With their rich evolutionary history, species found nowhere else, and deep significance for First Nations people, these places deserve respect and care.

Find these iconic places at wilderness.org.au/natures-elders-aus

Mount Field National Park | Image: O. Alamany & E. Vicens

PHOTO ESSAY

SEVEN DAYS,

NINE

WONDERS It almost seemed like this was a doomed roadtrip for Blue Mountains photographer Ben Sanford. But then, after months of trying, everything came together, and he and his crew were able to string together an amazing sequence of some of Canada’s more aesthetic ice climbs.

By BEN SANFORD

Jesse Renwick on Pitch 2 of Kemosabe (WI4), Waipurus, North Ghost, Alberta. It’s a long day to access this region—a couple of hours each way in the car through the snowy/icy trails, then hours of walking to the routes. We had incredible weather, best of the whole trip, but it was getting too warm. I didn’t place many screws on the first pitch simply because they would’ve been useless; by the time I’d topped out and the seconder came up, some might have melted out already. With storms rolling in that evening, it was the last day of our climbing roadtrip and I was on a high after an incredible week in the Rockies

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Rockies Ice Climbing, CANADA

T

HERE ARE SOME TRIPS you have where everything goes smoothly. Others seem to be precisely the opposite. This was one of those, a trip where it seemed everything conspired against

us. We—me, Case Turner, and Doug Hollinger—had initially planned to meet in January, 2022, to put together a roadtrip climbing a variety of the amazing waterfall-ice routes that drip down the magnificent cliffs and mountainsides of the southern Canadian Rockies in British Columbia and Alberta.

The problems, however, started from the outset. I lost baggage at Vancouver Airport. Bungled COVID testing protocols for international travel blocked the three of us from our planned January trip. I partially tore my ACL in February. My credit card was eaten by an ATM; a replacement never arrived. When I finally got to Revelstoke, BC, where I planned to base myself, avalanches closed the highway for weeks. Then Doug and Case were struck down by COVID itself.

But finally, in March, everything came together. Spectacularly. Thanks to local knowledge of the region, we could mitigate the weather forecast to maximise the time our feet were in crampons. Avalanche conditions were favourable, too. Along the way, we were joined here and there by Jesse Renwick, Oakley Werenka and Chris Meginbir as we scored seven days of climbing, and ascended nine outstanding routes. It was a trip to remember.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Case Turner on Wicked Wanda (WI4), South Ghost River Wilderness Area, Alberta (AB). It was on the first day of the road trip, and a great way to kick things off Seven Pillars of Wisdom (WI5+) is off the Icefields Parkway in Banff National Park, AB. It’s a rarely formed route, and we were shut down on the third pitch because the ice was gone and we didn’t have rock gear. Unable to protect the climbing, and with no idea what anchors were above even if we free climbed the pitch, we were forced to descend Oh Le Tabernac (WI5) is another climb just off the Icefields Parkway in Banff NP. Low winds and nice sunshine helped us manage the wildly low temps in the minus 20s

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We climbed Kemosabe as two parties: Case and I climbed the money pitch in the last of the sun; Jesse and Doug climbed it in the shade. Full shade makes for better shots which is why we went for that order. The ice quality improved for Jesse in the time the sun had gone, and we’d also cleared all the crappy ice out of the way as we’d climbed. The route was still dripping wet in sections for them, though

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Rockies Ice Climbing, CANADA

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Climbing Oh Le Tabernac (WI5) in one long pitch definitely made for a tougher ascent but we had great conditions. Really cold weather in the minus 20s came in during the middle of our trip, causing us to reconsider our objectives; we couldn’t climb long routes like Polar Circus because they’re in shade and we’d be suffering in the cold to keep our digits warm. Instead, we opted for routes like this in the sunshine and had a great time

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Rockies Ice Climbing, CANADA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Doug Hollinger on Cosmic Messenger (WI5+) in Banff National Park, AB We free climbed the first pitch (pictured) of Super Bock (WI5), Yoho National Park, BC. Case then led the second pitch and I led the third. Doug followed, abseiled, dropped a rope, and then Case led up while I photographed from the top. But the most nerve wracking part of the day was walking across the lake to and from the car, when I went first and heard a few cracks underfoot Case on Pitch Three of Spray River Falls (WI5) in Banff National Park, AB. We had awesome conditions for the approach; it was easy to move fast. The route had seen a lot of traffic, so it climbed fairly easily with a bunch of hooks already in the ice. There was a small cave at the top of the second pitch that was nice to belay from out of the wind

CONTRIBUTOR: Ben Sanford is a photographer and videographer based in NSW’s Blue Mountains. You can see more of his work at instagram.com/bensanfordmedia SPRING 2022

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Up Shit Creek

UNRIDDEN

in the

KANGAROO Budawangs

VALLEY

Ryan Hansen sets off for the first time into NSW’s magnificent Budawang Wilderness. But when he finds a pile of poo right next to an otherwise beautiful creek, it sets him thinking.

Who says you need to travel to the ends of the Earth to have RYAN HANSEN a real adventure? Just 160km By from Sydney, Sebastien Deubel goes sleuthing for some vintage trails on a vintage bike.

Words & Photography SEBASTIEN DEUBEL

Sydney Budawang Range

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he Budawangs, NSW. A region with a reputation that well and truly precedes it. A place rightfully deserving of its status in bushwalking guidebooks and blogs and travel guides as a must-see destination, one that snatches the attention of tens of thousands of hikers a year who, just like me, come in search of luscious, pristine rainforest, stunningly shaped rock outcrops, and jaw-dropping vistas of rugged gorges.

But when I finally stepped foot in these esteemed lands for the first time earlier this year, I wasn’t expecting those first steps to nearly be in an actual pile of poo.

Yes, you read correctly. There I was, wandering through the fern-clad rainforest of the Monolith Valley, having just been mesmerised by the Green Room—an oasis-like mini canyon decorated with vibrant emerald-coloured mosses and contorted Ent-like tree roots—when I saw it.

In the middle of one of the most spectacular pockets of beauty, barely off the track and a mere metre away from a babbling brook, was a mound of human excrement. It was smothered in about a third of a roll of toilet paper, with a single fern frond thrown on top for good measure.

This is why we can’t have nice things, I thought to myself. How on earth could someone take a dump practically in a waterway? Granted, sometimes a digestive switch flicks and grants you only a few seconds to avoid a disaster—I’ve found myself in these sloppy situations more frequently than I’d like—but for crying out loud, even walking a step to the other side of the trail, away from the water, would’ve been more desirable. Actually, doing it basically anywhere but there would’ve been better. Don’t even get me started on leaving it uncovered.

Caden taking in a majestic sunrise over Byangee Mountain and the Clyde Gorge, with Didthul/ Pigeon House Mountain on the horizon

The Budawangs, NEW SOUTH WALES

So no, this wasn’t an accident. This was blatant disrespect for the environment. Total disregard for a place that is a privilege— not a right—for us to be able to access.

Over the course of four days exploring the Budawang Wilderness—in that time, barely scratching the surface of the gems it has to offer—it became glaringly apparent that this disrespect for the Budawangs runs deep. Which raised a rather depressing question: Is the future of recreation in the Budawangs—and, more broadly, across the country—disappearing up the creek without a paddle?

CADEN AND I HAD VENTURED to the Budawangs for a boys’ Easter long weekend. Following our departure from the packed Wog Wog car park, we’d traipsed along the Scenic Rim Walking Track, burdened by packs laden with a selection of wintery stouts and Easter eggs. In the space of a few hours, we had already encountered a broad spectrum of adventurers— from inexperienced couples, to trail runners, to young families with toddlers, and most other denominations in between. As we crossed Corang Peak and continued towards Corang Arch, enchanting late-afternoon light dipped the landscape in swathes of yellow. All around us were enticing lures: the swampy valleys of Canowie and Burrumbeet Brooks; the cliff-lined peaks of Bibbenluke, Owen, Cole, and Tarn on the horizon. It’s country that’s enraptured many before us, and will, hopefully, continue to do so for many years to come. But will these adventurers of future generations still have the freedom to access and enjoy this mesmerising landscape, or will a continuation of unsustainable practices ruin it?

Before European colonisation, the Traditional Owners of the land—the people of the Yuin nation, which includes many different sub-groups—occupied, used and cared for these lands for tens of thousands of years. (‘Budawang’ is actually an Anglicisation of the Indigenous word for macrozamia palm, ‘Buddawong’.) While contemporary knowledge and understanding of this cultural history is continually being expanded, several hundred important Aboriginal sites have been located throughout the area. As the 2007 Budawangs Walking and Camping Strategy reported, tragically, some campers have disturbed Aboriginal-occupation deposits and art sites in caves and overhangs—both due to a lack of awareness and sheer insensitivity—and cave camping is now only permitted in thirteen localised regions, such as in Burrumbeet Brook, where we spent the first night. Given that the conglomerate rock is predisposed to forming impressive overhangs which are a pleasure to camp under, and the Budawang Wilderness encompasses such a huge area, it’s a great shame that modern-day human impacts have compromised cave-camping opportunities. To rub salt in the wound, the Walking and Camping Strategy admits that, “Occasional use of more remote caves would be acceptable if

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WILL FUTURE GENERATIONS STILL HAVE THE FREEDOM

TO ACCESS AND ENJOY THIS MESMERISING LANDSCAPE, OR WILL UNSUSTAIN-

ABLE PRACTICES RUIN IT?”

all walkers behaved appropriately, with no digging, rubbish or fires. Unfortunately, there have been instances of serious damage from a single use to important remote caves in the Budawangs within the last 10 years.”

In recent times, it’s become a precedent that the management of Australian national parks is viewed through more of a cultural lens, and recreational use is being restricted when cultural values are perceived to be endangered; just look at the Grampians climbing bans as one example (albeit a contentious one). It’d be a damn travesty to see the Budawangs, so rich in wilderness value, to become another area where harsher restrictions—and possibly further bans—are imposed on recreational users. In these turbulent times, it’s becoming increasingly important for all users, but particularly bushwalkers, to become educated on

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Big views from the side of Mt Owen, overlooking the impressive southern cliffs of Mt Cole One of the real gems of the Monolith Valley: the Green Room Late-afternoon light near Corang Arch, a fantastic vantage point. We’d later stand atop those distant peaks

how they can have as minimal of a cultural impact as possible.

But it’s not just cultural impacts that we need to be mindful of. When it comes to recreation, some people lack an understanding and a willingness to employ sustainable environmental approaches. After sidling beneath the eighty-metrehigh walls of Mt Cole, we ascended the pass to encounter an old sign which alerted us of our entry into the Monolith Valley no-camping zone, a zone created because of overuse and careless camping. You guessed it—it was in this no-camping zone where we encountered that lovely track-side surprise. Vegetation destruction from firewood collection was another reason for the zone’s implementation, and Budawangia gnidioides, a rare and endemic cliff heath which commonly grows in caves and overhangs, has become further endangered through use as bedding and fire tinder. We’re good at leaving our mark, aren’t we?

This combination of intentional and unintentional impacts has resulted in camping bans in other parts of the park too, such as in the Hidden Valley and Castle Saddle.

Considering the Yuin people did a good job of looking after the place for over 20,000 years, at what point did such environmental vandalism in the Budawangs become the norm? It possibly had something to do with the formation of an artillery

training area during World War Two, when someone thought it’d be a good idea to practise firing ordnance into the mountains.

As Robert Snedden writes in his book, Tianjara: Early Exploration, Settlement, and Military Heritage at Tianjara, much of the area was under a military lease until 1981, when the land was included in Morton NP. Nowadays, there’s a bunch of restrictions in place throughout the former military zone due to associated contamination. In the artillery impact area where it’s believed there are unexploded shells, bombs and grenades, visitors are strictly permitted to only use established vehicle trails and walking tracks, with camping limited to two campgrounds.

In recent years, the boundaries of the exclusion region have been extended to include parts of the national park which had previously been accessible for decades.

Well, I guess if it’s OK to bomb the place, and then leave it riddled with UXO, why not shit in the water too?

AS WE NEARED THE SOUTHERN END of the Monolith Valley, closing in on the famed mountain of Cooyoyo (now more commonly known by its English adaptation, ‘the Castle’), we began running into more people approaching from the Long

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The Budawangs, NEW SOUTH WALES

Gully side. Apparently, there was a large group of bushwalkers who’d ignored the signs and camped at Castle Saddle, instead of walking another 500m or so to the Cooyoyo Creek campsite, where camping is permitted. What’s it going to take for people to start heeding the warning signs?

I should clarify here that I’m not a stickler for the rules. But when it comes to national parks, and all the good things that the outdoors provide, it really grinds my gears when the actions of a few could wreck it for all of us. For the most part, recreational users are mindful of the impact they’re having, and they actively try and limit their environmental and cultural footprint. I’m also not so naïve as to think that users will leave no trace whatsoever; all of us leave some kind of impact, however small or large that may be. But given that we’re all subject to potential bans enforced by the big wigs, we can’t give them a reason to take our access away; once it’s gone, it’s damn hard to get back.

Growing increasingly annoyed with the human race, a detour to the Shrouded Gods allayed my frustrations. Firstly, the tricky scramble up the entrance chute demanded all my attention, leaving no capacity for anger. Secondly, the view from the lookout was insane. Words, and even pictures, struggle to do this place justice. The dinosaur-like spiny ridges of Mt Mooryan dominated the foreground, with the Castle just peaking over the top. Across

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the valley, the distinctively twisted shape of Byangee Mountain, with its hundred-metre-high cliffs, gave way to the Clyde Valley.

On the horizon was the ever-present, breast-shaped Didthul/ Pigeon House Mountain. It was a view more than worthy of a repeat ascent for sunrise.

MY LITTLE WALKING LEGS WERE in desperate need of a break on Day Three, so while Caden ran off to bag the Castle (and a bunch of other peaks I only wish I had the energy to explore), I returned to Monolith Valley and the Green Room to soak up its beauty for a second time. I also properly checked out a remarkable natural arch—somehow still intact—which you can fully walk underneath.

By that point, Caden had returned, and we opted for an alternate route back via Mt Owen. It provided an awesome challenge: plenty of little scrambles, including one which required a good dose of teamwork, punctuated by another impressive section of rainforest gorge. When we reached the expansive summit plateau—thankful the fires had obliterated what I’m sure would’ve previously been horrendously dense scrub—we sat and enjoyed the sunset with a final stout and the last of the Easter eggs. We weren’t ready to return to civilisation.

WHILE THE FOURTH AND FINAL day was an absolute mission to get back to the car, there was still time for some final reflections along the way. Almost back at the start, we ran into a group of twenty-odd high school students setting off with their teachers for a good camp out. (Massive respect—it’s so important for kids to get out there in the bush). But it did make me wonder what example these teachers would be setting for their students in terms of respecting the environment that they were walking and camping on. Had they read the walking and camping guidelines? Would they carry out all their rubbish with them? Would they steer clear of camping in sensitive areas? Would they be cutting down trees for firewood? Would they properly bury their poo?

Perhaps the teachers, and their students, ended up doing all these things. But perhaps they didn’t. So often, we emulate the approaches that we observe others using.

In particular, young people—and it’s worthwhile noting I’m still in my mid-20s—do this without thinking critically about the effect their actions might have. It’s essential, therefore, that they learn from good role models. When it came to learning to bushwalk responsibly, my teachers were my parents, and as much as they’re caring and considerate people, the ways in which they did some things probably could’ve been better. Like toileting, for example; they always did their business well away from water sources, but only dug a small hole with the heels of their boots, and then covered it up as best as they could with rocks and soil and sticks—definitely not the recommended approach of digging a hole at least 10-15cm deep. Naturally, I copied them. It’s only been more recently that I’ve bought a trowel to properly bury my poo. And while I haven’t yet used a poo tube or plastic bags to carry out my bowel by-products, I can definitely see the value; in fragile environments like the Monolith Valley or in situations

WORDS, AND EVEN PICTURES,

STRUGGLE TO DO THIS PLACE JUSTICE.”

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Caden admiring one of the bigger caves lining the edge of Mt Cole. The cave network in the Budawangs is on another level The dinosaur-like ridges of Mt Mooryan are like nothing I’d ever seen before Scrambling off the big peaks was good fun

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Monoliths everywhere. It took me a while to realise it, but we could even see the ocean Precious rainforest gorge on the approach to Mt Owen. This section reminded me of exits to many Blue Mountains canyons An impressive arch in Monolith Valley

LEARN MORE: For more information on how you can tread lightly in the Budawangs, check out the Requirements and Guidelines for Walking in the Budawang Wilderness, Morton National Park at environment.nsw.gov.au/

where it’s impossible to bury your poo or get far enough away from the water, carrying it out with you is definitely the preferred alternative. It’s never too late to improve the way you do things.

In recent years, especially in the wake of COVID, there’s been a big spike in visitors to national parks, and more of a representation of young people, who mainly draw inspiration from social media. They can also tend to jump straight out there without much thought for how to do things properly. Add to this the concerning trend that the management of parks and reserves and conservation areas is becoming more restrictive, and the future of recreational use is perhaps bleak. Now more than ever, it’s imperative that recreational users are mindful of the effects they could—and will—have on the environment that they’re visiting. If we want to continue to be able to access the bush that we love, and use it in the ways we want to, we need to prove that we can sustainably use it.

The question remains: How do we ensure that the majority will employ minimal-impact strategies? I don’t pretend, not for a second, to have all the answers, but it’s a conversation that I believe is worth having. As a starting point, I think we need to foster a fundamental respect for the land that we’re visiting. And while I’m not from an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander background, I think we can all learn from these cultures—in which the land is of vital importance—how to look after it so that future generations can still enjoy it.

I sincerely believe most people have it in them to make good choices, and to improve their approaches. I also think that in time, we can reverse some of the impacts we’ve already had—one poo at a time—which will hopefully see current restrictions rescinded.

We’ve definitely found ourselves up the creek, but we can still make our own paddle. W

research-and-publications/publi-

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CONTRIBUTOR: Ryan Hansen loves every aspect of being oudoors, even drinking red wine out of

ing-and-camping-strategy

plastic cups and eating freeze-dried slop.

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Caledonia River, VICTORIA

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A beautiful mini-gorge on the Upper Caledonia

A

River is

Calling For decades, kayaking Victoria’s Caledonia River, despite being just 34km long, proved an elusive goal for Ro Privett and his long-time paddling mate, Dave Matters. But the missteps and frustrations along the way didn’t merely make achieving their goal more enjoyable; they were an integral part of learning about themselves.

Words RO PRIVETT Photography RO PRIVETT & DAVE MATTERS

Change is inevitable, right? Very little appears constant, especially in light of COVID. As the years nonchalantly roll past—with all life’s charms, trials and tribulations—a lot of us become acutely aware that it’s also (and just as importantly) change at a personal level. Somewhere deep inside—whether we are receptive to it or not—questions pop up about our life choices.

Who are we changing into?

Who truly am I? What’s important to me?

Caledonia River

That’s where, from a personal perspective, wilderness journeys provide time and space for personal reflection. We earth ourselves, so to speak. Yet some rare experiences rise above that, and stand alone as a powerful metaphor for change and growth—a rite of passage you might say.

This is one of those occasions. Numerous failed attempts.

All-night evacuations. A near-death experience. Yet the lure of this particular wilderness was as strong as ever; a river quietly tucked away in the Victorian Alps. This river was the first steep alpine wilderness river we ever attempted. It became our Everest. It became our nemesis.

While many other rivers raged in our attention, this elusive river lay patiently … calling us … knowing our time would come when we were truly ready. Twenty years later, with our personal transition completed and our vision reinvented, Dave and I returned. This is that story. +++++

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Caledonia River, VICTORIA

“HEARD OF THE CALEDONIA RIVER, RO?” Dave Matters asked with a grin. The year was 2002, and Dave and I were enthusiastically squinting over a torn, old topographical map of the Victorian Alps. Back then, the two of us had only just started paddling together, but we were both at a stage in our lives when we had enough whitewater paddling skills to heed our calling—to seek, explore and experience rare alpine rivers.

I watched Dave’s finger sketch along a seemingly implausibly long, thin blue line on the map. Little did I know this would be one of those times when life’s destiny can be forged in one simple moment. Little did I know it would lead us into wilderness paddling odysseys all over Australia and the globe. And little did I know that nearly twenty years on, we still would not have successfully paddled the Caledonia.

There were, though, many attempts. Many hard-learned lessons. Lessons on dehydration and exhaustion to the point of fainting, lessons on unrelenting gorges littered with unmarked waterfalls, lessons on being hopelessly entangled in dense wilderness, lessons on kayaks pinned against logs in treacherous rapids. The list goes on. While determination was on our side, it wasn’t yet coupled with enough hardened experience.

We surrendered to the fact it would happen when it happened. We had to let go. Detach. Grow. And in the meantime, we kept our guard up. We kept striving with purpose. And eventually, we realised the lessons we learnt from our failed attempts of this rarely paddled river were serving us beyond our comprehension.

PULLING OFF MISSIONS LIKE THESE usually takes a mix of preparedness and perspiration and tenacity; you’ve got to really want it. Having Lady Luck—who usually has the last laugh—on your side doesn’t hurt either. And it was a combination of all these elements that saw us—nearly two decades after we first attempted the Caledonia—near the Mount Tamboritha saddle in northwest Gippsland.

But there’s one other ingredient that can help a mission, too: healthy stupidity. Enter a golfcart and a baby’s pram. Yes, Dave stood at the saddle wielding not only a kayak but a baby’s pram.

“Why the pram, Dave?” I asked.

“Another damn kid,” he replied, “will be the death of me.”

Look, we weren’t being entirely stupid. There is a 15km 4WD track all the way to the river, so we’d conjured up these makeshift trolleys for our ‘yaks. The wager was on for which trolley would cut the mustard better.

I lost that wager pretty damn quick. My golfcart’s plastic axles cracked under the load. Dave couldn’t resist a verbal jab: “Yeah, you always crack under pressure.”

We both fancy ourselves as bush ‘MacGyvers’, so with new axles made from tent pegs held in place with zip ties, we edged

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NO WORDS WERE NEEDED—THE EYES SAID IT ALL. HERE WE WERE ONCE AGAIN, SEARCHING FOR

OUR ELUSIVE CALEDONIA RIVER.” along the track, much to the astonishment of the kangaroos— no doubt they thought we were clowns. MacGyver might have thought the same; I soon found myself back in my old faithful mode of ‘boat dragging’. Primitive but effective.

Dave nonchalantly rolled ahead, proud as punch with his flimsy pram; I brang up the rear, grunting and cursing. The track seemed endless. The boats were heavy. The rocks took pleasure in scraping plastic off our trusty kayaks. By the time the final steep descent to the river beckoned, the day was getting long in the tooth, and thunder was clapping.

And our roles had been reversed. Instead of us dragging our boats, now it was our boats trying to drag us, right down this steep slope; we strained at the slings we had in place to stop our fully laden kayaks from careering away. Our paddling booties were no match for the loose rocks and gravel, and we found ourselves clinging for purchase on all fours.

Then I heard the cry.

“Watch out! Runaway boat!”

I turned and saw Dave’s kayak hurtling towards me. Crikey. I launched superman style off the track, cursing the cruel ironic fate of coming to grief via a kayak on dry land—not ultimately in a treacherous rapid. Go figure.

The kayak ghost-boated past me and launched down the trail,

IMAGES - TOP TO BOTTOM, LEFT TO RIGHT Dave and his pram A view towards the Crinoline on the walk in Off-track ‘boat lowering’ as we descended to the river Our destination in the valley below In our element among uncharted rapids

ricocheting off trees before ‘slam parking’ against a manna gum.

We shared one of those glances when no words are needed—the eyes said it all. Here we were once again, in the middle of the Victorian Alps, searching for our elusive Caledonia River.

THE FIRST TIME WE CAME FOR the Caledonia, back in 2002, we never even saw it. We were close, and on our way to it, but then I made a suggestion: “Dave, let’s take a shortcut down this creek.” And so we started to paddle down Shaw Creek, an innocent-looking stream which accesses the Caledonia at its confluence. Soon it got steep. Very steep. Like waterfall-steep.

We were out of our depth. There we were, two green expedition newbies, on our first true alpine whitewater paddling trip, and we were dealing with high-grade rapids, waterfalls, a remote steep gorge, freezing conditions, and inappropriate and heavy kayaks. And heck—it wasn’t even the right river! After numerous, involuntary kayak cartwheels over some large boulders in a treacherous long rapid, we decided to cut our losses and get out of there. We spent the next few hours multi-pitching with ropes and dragging our kayaks up near vertical cliff faces in the dark—just to get out.

But the next attempt of the Caledonia was even worse. I wasn’t there for it though; the first I knew of it was when—just after finishing hiking in Nepal—I saw an email from Dave. The subject simply read ‘Almost died’. He’d taken it upon himself while I was away to do a solo reccy mission. In the middle of a scorching summer, Dave tried to reach the river but was blocked by endless cliffs. With no water left, he chose to cross a ridgeline to the next valley, but was foiled by dense scrub. He went days

without hydration. Out of pure desperation, he drank his own urine. Eventually he made it—literally on his hands and knees— to the Macalister River. Gutsy stuff.

“TIME FOR A CUPPA, DAVE!” I announced. It’s my usual response when things get sticky.

“So how is it,” Dave chuckled as the brew got going, “that we always find ourselves in these situations?”

Good question. We often wonder ourselves. We might like to think we choose these adventures, but ultimately, it seems, the adventures choose us. And the beauty of them is that you never know whether the cards will fall your way or not, a bit like life.

“So exactly how many times have we attempted this river, Davo?” I asked as we packed up the stove and billy.

Dave didn’t answer. Instead, he responded with a question of his own. “Hang on mate—what’s that sound?” We listened.

“That’s got to be the Caledonia, my friend.” I’ll be dammed. The sound of water flowing is always music to a paddler’s ears. Especially this time—after twenty-plus years, we two stubborn paddlers were finally about to reach the banks of our nemesis. You couldn’t hold back the cheeky grins on our faces. Payday!

But we had little time to savour the moment as the heavens suddenly opened up, subtly cueing us not to get ahead of ourselves. We snapped into action, and descended the last steep kilometre. And there it was. The Caledonia. Our Everest. Just as we envisioned, it was beautifully flowing and innocently unaware of our lifetime ordeal to reach her remote banks. After reflecting upon and cherishing this humbling moment, we indulged in one of our river welcome rituals, and drank from her veins.

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Caledonia River, VICTORIA

ON A RIVER WITH THIS PROFILE,

RUNNING A RAPID WITHOUT INSPECTING IT COULD PROVE FATAL OR, AT THE VERY LEAST, FOIL OUR BOLD ADVENTURE.

IT WAS GAME ON.”

Even though the heavens stayed open all through the night, we slept contentedly, snug in our achievement thus far. On daybreak, we quickly packed our gear into our ‘yaks, and slid onto the Caledonia. It was a momentous occasion indeed as we traded numerous grins back and forth.

Yet our adventure was only just beginning. Consistent Grade II water greeted us, carving its way through this beautiful steep valley. We bounced through rapids and rocks, aided by the spring conditions and last night’s deluge.

We knew nothing about what lay around each corner. All we knew was that our faithful map had us zig-zagging between a hell of a lot of contours and cliffs for the first 20km as the river plummets to the Macalister River junction. Nonetheless, we were attuned to the fact that this waterway may become busy.

Very busy. There was the real potential for technical and rocky rapids, river-choking logs, and little reaction time. On a river with this profile, running a rapid without inspecting it could prove fatal or, at the very least, foil our bold adventure. It was game on.

Thankfully, though, despite the rain, the river wasn’t flowing too high; it wasn’t too pushy—it granted us paddlers ‘room to move’, so to speak. It’s all about management. The river gods tend to favour the careful, not the foolhardy. And so, slowly and methodically, we swapped leads, paddled defensively, read off each other’s lines while signalling each other, and routinely caught eddies so as not to run any rapid ‘blind’. And we started to absorb the beautiful surrounds. The cascading creeks that nonchalantly trickled in and added to the flow; the stunning cliffs that overlooked each bank; and even the occasional deer we caught off guard, deer that normally never experience human intrusion.

It doesn’t get better than this. You don’t forget these days.

We pulled up for lunch on a beautiful little rocky outcrop. It was thirsty work, so our bodies appreciated some well-earned Staminade. And as we drank, we remembered that the last time Dave was in this valley, back on that solo mission, his desperate search for water nearly cost him his life.

“EDDY OUT!” I HEARD DAVE CRY as he signalled ‘stop’ with straight arms. Looming dangerously close was a fallen tree blocking the whole river—a paddler’s nightmare. We have both been stuck under these damn things before; never wanting to experience that again, we both eddied out to safety.

Portage time. We dragged our ‘yaks around the log, shuddering at the thought of being stuck under it. But portaging around fallen trees is par for the course on these alpine adventures, and throughout the rest of the day, we portaged another four or so times—not too bad, all things considered.

On we paddled, amazed by continual Grade II/III rapids and the clear, manageable river—all read and run. Gold.

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We were literally ‘in the flow’. Attuned to our environment, paddling strong and connected to our surroundings. Right.

Left. Middle chute. Ferry glide. Eddy out. Swapping signals.

Run a drop. Left again. Repeat. It was a consistent pinball of lines and chutes, kilometre after kilometre. Even a wedgetailed eagle soaring above us agreed. It was a moment when you are simply being, when you rise above thinking. A moment you live for. A moment that draws you back.

This rollercoaster of clean lines rolled flawlessly on until we saw another river coming in on the right bank. I’ll be buguared.

We’d reached the Macalister junction. Tick. It meant we’d successfully plummeted through the steep ‘unknown’ section from the high plateau to the plateau below and were on more common ground, so to speak. We had cracked the back of our Everest.

“DAVE! YOU SMELL SMOKE? What’s going on?” We couldn’t believe it when, tucked away in this rarely seen valley, we spotted two guys on the bank.

They madly waved and cheered at us, so we pulled in. They were two deer hunters who’d trekked into the upper Macalister for a few days, and they were as amazed to see us as we were to see them. They never expected to come across two mouldy kayakers venturing along these rivers. We never expected to meet anyone who’d endeavour to trek in to such a remote location.

And that wasn’t all that was unexpected; we soon found ourselves sharing a campfire and dining out on smoked venison! It was one of those great moments you just can’t plan.

With some of their ‘Dutch courage’ in our bellies, we pushed on. We didn’t get far. Dave’s kayak developed a nasty crack under the cockpit; it seemed like he was paddling a submarine.

After a few kilometres, we pulled up stumps for the day.

“You cracking under the pressure now, Dave?” This was my revenge for his broken golfcart wisecrack at my expense yesterday. It seemed like the universe was telling us to set up camp and tell stories around a campfire.

In the morning, we did some dodgy plastic welding with our cigarette lighter. “That’ll hold, Dave!” I told him. But it didn’t take long for the crack to reappear, and so Dave was forced to empty out his submarine hourly.

After a couple of hours, we reached the Barkly River junction—a river we’d ventured down a few years before.

“You know, Dave,” I said. “We’ve got our money’s worth out of this river valley over the years.”

“Shame they didn’t all end up being paddling trips,” he replied.

Beyond the Barkly, the river consistently greeted us with Grade II rapids and waves. It gave us some rewarding play time, but I could tell Dave was pulling for the finish. Not only was his bathtub dampening his enthusiasm, but he was all too aware that cold beers were stashed in the river at the end. It was all the motivation he needed.

THE LAST FEW KILOMETRES, while tiring, were spent in pure awe of what we’d finally achieved. Our perseverance had paid off.

Farm paddocks came into view and the foreign sound of a car broke the silence along Tamboritha Road. “This is it, Davo!” I hollered. The final bend was upon us, and as we rounded it, some riverside campers were startled by our sudden appearance. We shared a few words, but our minds were on the stashed beers. Thud. Our trusty kayaks docked for the final time and with little fanfare, we located our two sunken treasures and set upon deciding their fate. Priceless. We had knocked the bugger off. Happy days. Once again, it was one of those moments in life that you never forget. Time just stood still.

For the months to come, we allowed the splendour of the moment to wash over us. Slowly but surely, as the adrenaline and the memories ebbed, it allowed the doors of reflection to swing open. What had we achieved? Well, first and foremost, two good mates had lived out their paddling dream. The last twenty years had dished up one hell of a flow. We’d embarked on a silly paddling mission. Successfully too. Silly to others but proudly normal to us.

But then there were those questions I asked at the start of this story: Who are we changing into?

Who truly am I? What’s important to me?

On the Caledonia, I realised it was the connection to nature. The earthing. The comradeship. And I also realised that this closing of the Caledonia chapter was a turning point.

While Dave and I probably will stubbornly never hang up the paddle, the desire to incessantly chase remote and committing rivers no longer resonates at the same level. That’s okay. More than okay.

Our priorities are changing, and we can embrace that. The Caledonia was our holy grail and our yardstick. It kept us honest, even though it wasn’t a high-grade river in the end.

But that’s beside the point. It was high grade to our growth and to our sense of wellbeing. Change is inevitable, and so the memory of honouring our Caledonia passage helps us embrace forthcoming change, change that is so evident in these turbulent times. May your own adventures help you embrace it too. W

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Dave celebrating our arrival at the river finally Not our day job—plastic welding, MacGyver style Campsite with a view Delighting in a continual cascade of rapids

CONTRIBUTOR: As soon as Ro Privett tore off his wretched nappies, he was in a wetsuit. A lifestyle in Outdoor Education and kayak instruction flowed from there as rivers became a metaphor for his life.

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5 THE

Wild

BUNCH

A quick lowdown on

Darwin

WALKS IN THE

NT’S TOP END

Words Catherine Lawson Photography David Bristow WITH RUGGED ESCARPMENTS, PANDANUS-FRINGED waterholes and wildlife that reminds us who’s really at the top of the food chain, the Northern Territory’s Top End lures wanderers seeking a complete change of scene.

Temperatures, even on winter’s coolest, kindest days, can stop you in your tracks, but this only makes reaching the next verdant, spring-fed pool all the more soothing.

Big-name national parks—Litchfield, Kakadu and Nitmiluk—provide an extensive network of trails peppered with rock-art galleries, lookouts and waterhole campgrounds. If perfect timing is possible, you can expect clear, blue skies and milder temperatures from June to August. But to catch waterfalls still tumbling and enjoy some serious solitude, arrive immediately after the rains in March or April with plenty of mossie repellent in your pack.

THE EASY

SOUTHERN LOST CITY, LIMMEN NP 2.5KM; 1 HOUR - MODERATE

Rising suddenly on the southern fringe of remote Limmen NP, the Lost City’s dramatic cluster of sculpted domes and bulging buttresses turns golden with the rising sun. Luring crack-of-dawn hikers out of their beds, this excellent, short scramble can be tackled before your first coffee, along an easy, meandering trail.

Squeeze and scramble through slender rock chasms, losing yourself among the tumbledown boulders and teetering rock pillars.

Finally pulling you out of the maze of rock, the trail gently curls upwards to reach a skinny ridgeline dotted with the hot pink blooms of turkey bushes and flowering woollybutt trees. Grand vistas from the top showcase an entirely new scene as the ridge gives way to a deep, wide valley and rises again as the Arnhem Land Plateau beyond. Follow the ridgeline briefly before looping back into the Lost City, and then back to camp.

THE CLASSIC

JATBULA TRAIL, NITMILUK NP 62KM; 5 DAYS - MODERATE

Permits for the Top End’s most popular (and pricey) bushwalk get snapped up within hours of going live online, making this the hike that travellers plan their holidays around. Famed for soothing, end-of-day waterholes, short daily walking tallies, and remote Jawoyn rock art, the trail is carved along the western edge of the Arnhem Land escarpment, and stretches from Katherine Gorge to the verdant oasis at Leilyn (Edith Falls).

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Daytime temperatures, even in winter, are tough, so campsites are located a half-day’s walk apart and can’t be skipped.

This means you reach camp before the temps begin boiling your brains, and it lets you instead spend each afternoon neck-deep in some lofty, lonely waterhole. The adventure begins with a ferry ride across Katherine Gorge, and over the next five days, a wellworn path leads over sometimes-rocky ground to deliver you to increasingly superb incarnations of the perfect outback waterhole. (Read more about Jatbula in Wild’s previous issue—#184.)

THE CHALLENGING

LILY PONDS LOOP, NITMILUK NP

25KM; 7-8 HOURS - MODERATE/HARD Carved 70m deep into the rugged sandstone escarpment, Katherine Gorge is dramatic from every angle: an immense system of 13 canyons that thrills paddlers and self-sufficient hikers with its freshwater crocodiles, falls and ancient Jawoyn rock art. Located in Nitmiluk NP, the Lily Ponds loop is part of a network of trails carved along the southern edge of Katherine Gorge, accessible without permits or day-use fees.

To beat the heat, set out early from Nitmiluk Visitors Centre to climb to Baruwei Lookout for sunrise views. Continue on and join the Windolf Walk to Southern Rockhole, then climb gingerly down for a freshwater swim. Scale back up for excellent Katherine Gorge vistas from Pat’s Lookout and Jedda’s Rock (900m away).

Lily Ponds is another 8km on over rough, slow-going ground, but the pools, the seasonal falls and the creek below make the extra hours worthwhile. From Lily Ponds, retrace your steps to Butterfly Gorge junction and return via the easier, inland Yambi Walk.

THE WILD BUNCH

THE LESS TRAVELLED

TABLETOP TRACK, LITCHFIELD NP 50KM; 3 DAYS - MODERATE

Until the secret gets out, this exceptional loop around Litchfield’s high plateau remains remarkably uncrowded. Terrain varies from flaxen, waist-high grasslands to exposed gibber plains and rockhopping, rambling boulder fields. As is de rigueur in the Top End, all sweaty days end with soaks in rock pools nestled in groves of pandanus and palms.

Four link trails get you onto the plateau, setting out from Florence Falls, Walker Creek, Wangi Falls and Greenant Creek. Of the three hiker camps (located about 12km apart), Tjenya Falls and Greenant Creek are recommended, and the campsites at Walker Creek are worth the 2km off-trail detour. Although rated moderate, wet conditions, sporadic trail markers and oppressive heat and humidity can ramp up this walk’s difficulty. Carry plenty of water and watch for snakes. (Read more about the Tabletop Track in Wild #183.)

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Nitmiluk’s Baruwei Lookout at sunrise Clear skies make winter the best time to hike the Jatbula Trail The upper realm of Burrunggui offers a rugged loop through Kakadu’s stone country Florence Falls on Litchfield’s Tabletop Track The Barrk Bushwalk links two galleries of 20,000-year-old rock art

THE AESTHETIC

BARRK SANDSTONE BUSHWALK, KAKADU NP 12KM; 6 HOURS - HARD

This rugged trail through Kakadu’s stone country begins with a scenic wander past 20,000-year-old rock art at Anbangbang Gallery, before climbing into the crowd-free, upper realm of Burrunggui. At the top of the escarpment, pause to take in dramatic scenes to the south, before pushing north to the sculpted Enchanted Castles and Balancing Rock. Follow the markers as the trail rises and falls over a series of ridges and gullies studded with Darwin woollybutt trees and fern-leafed grevilleas.

In the valley, the difficulty eases and Nanguluwurr Gallery looms, its walls adorned with intricate, highly ornamented rock art. Looping back towards Anbangbang, the trail pushes southwest through open woodland riddled with sandstone outcrops, where the trail’s namesake animal—the barrk (or black wallaroo)—is found. Heading home, the trail swings southeast over ridges for exceptional views of Burrunggui’s western escarpment.

CONTRIBUTORS: Inspired by the world’s unpopulated places, author Catherine Lawson and photographer David Bristow are hikers, bikers, paddlers and sailors who live aboard a catamaran called Wild One, currently sailing the West Papuan Coast.

Their latest guidebook, 100 things to see in Tropical North Queensland, is available at wildtravelstory.com

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TRACK NOTES

CRADLE MOUNTAIN CIRCUIT Tasmania’s

Words & Photography Alistair Paton

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QUICK FACTS Activity: Multi-day hiking Location: Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park, Tasmania Distance: 37km (approx) Duration: 3 days (can be extended to 4) When to go: November to May is best Difficulty: Medium-hard Map: Tasmap 1:25,000 4038 Cradle topo Permits required: Yes Car shuttle required: No

Rainfall (mm)

CLIMATE: LAKE ST CLAIR Temperature (C)

CRADLE MOUNTAIN IS ONE OF AUSTRALIA’S iconic natural destinations for both sightseers and serious bushwalkers. But most of the thousands of visitors who hit the trails starting in Cradle Valley miss some of the area’s most beautiful features.

This isn’t through a lack of walking tracks; instead, it’s due to an abundance of them. Most day visitors don’t have time to see all the wonders the vicinity has to offer, and most long-distance walkers embarking on the Overland Track are on a tight schedule to get to Lake St Clair more than 60km away.

But a multi-day exploration of the immediate surrounds of Cradle Mountain is a worthy expedition in its own right—the threeday route described here visits rocky summits and rarely visited alpine lakes with overnight accommodation at a comfortable hut in incredibly scenic surroundings. Peakbaggers will tick off two of Tasmania’s six highest summits and the route includes a full circuit of Cradle Mountain itself—the circumnavigation takes most of a day, with the only downside a sore neck from constantly looking up to take in the majestic cliffs and picking out distant peaks.

Walking here is challenging and incredibly rewarding in any conditions, with the famously fickle Tassie weather dictating the mountain’s mood; no two trips are the same. In some sections, you’ll feel like the only person in this great wilderness. Elsewhere, you’ll bump into enthusiastic hikers at the start of a week-long Overland Track adventure, awestruck day visitors and fellow trekkers to share stories, a game of cards and turns stoking the stove at night. And it allows a full appreciation of Australia’s truly great mountains beyond the famous silhouette so familiar from postcards and tourist billboards.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT The author on top of Little Horn at sunrise, looking over Dove Lake and Hansons Peak Descending a section of the Overland Track above Crater Lake at the height of the ‘turning of the fagus’ in Autumn

Cradle Mountain

Scott Kilvert Hut is a comfortable spot to base yourself for the two nights of this circuit The Face Track passes under the northern cliffs of Cradle Mountain

HISTORY

WHEN TO GO

Today’s national park is part of the country of the teen toomele menennye (Big River) people, who witnessed the ice age that carved the spectacular landscape around 10,000 years ago. European occupiers forcibly removed the Big River people from the area in the 1800s, and some of the last members still living on their traditional lands were captured near Barn Bluff. European visitation remained rare during the 19th Century, limited mostly to surveyors, miners and fur trappers, but fortunately some saw the value of attracting visitors to appreciate the wild scenery.

For the protection of Cradle Mountain, we can thank irrepressible Austrian Gustav Weindorfer, who built his mountain home Waldheim near Ronny Creek in 1912. A decade later, an area of 158,000 acres—from Cradle Mountain to Lake St Clair— was proclaimed a scenic reserve and wildlife sanctuary.

Late summer and early spring offer the best chance of clear weather, but blizzards can hit here at any time of year, so be prepared. (Ed’s note: I’ve experienced snow in February here several times.) The last week of April and the first weeks of May are—courtesy of one of Tasmania’s most spectacular plants, nothofagus gunnii, or deciduous beech—the best time to see the slopes break out in blazing orange, yellow and gold. This is one of the best places in the state to enjoy this annual botanical spectacle. Note: I’ve completed this circuit in March-April twice in the past three years and have experienced the best and worst of Tasmania’s weather. Fortunately, this area is spectacular in all conditions!

FLORA & FAUNA The park covers a range of habitats and vegetation types including the quintessentially Tasmanian pandanus, pencil pines and fagus. Many plants here have a connection to Gondwana, the ancient supercontinent that broke up 140 million years ago.

Tasmanian devils, possums, spotted-tail and eastern quolls, echidnas and platypuses all live around Cradle Mountain, but the most common wildlife encounter is with the wombats that munch on the buttongrass beside the wooden boardwalk at Ronny Creek.

GETTING THERE All walks into the northern end of Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park now start at the Cradle Mountain Visitor Centre. Park here and get a ticket on the shuttle bus, which takes all visitors down the narrow 9.5km road to Dove Lake every 15 or so minutes. The bus operates from 9AM to 5PM from 1 April to 30 September, and 8AM to 6PM from 1 October to 31, which is worth noting—if you miss the last bus back at the end of the walk, it’s a long walk back up the road.

The Visitor Centre is a 1.5 hour drive from Devonport and 2.5 hours from Launceston via the town of Sheffield. From Sheffield, take the C136 and C132 to the park entrance.

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TRACK NOTES

CRADLE MOUNTAIN CIRCUIT

To Cradle Mtn Visitor Centre

FINISH

P

Ronny Creek Carpark

DAY 1 DAY 2

START

DAY 3

Mt Campbell

Crater Lake

(1248m)

Dove

Marions Lookout

Lake Hanson

(1223m)

Lake

Hansons Peak

(1180m)

Twisted Lakes

Smithies Peak (1527m)

Artists Pools

Cradle Mtn

(1545m)

Scott Kilvert Hut

Lake Rodway

Mt Emmett

(1410m)

Waterfall Valley Hut A OVERL

Barn Bluff

To Lake St Clair

ACK

Map data © OpenStreetMap

ND T R

(1559m)

0

1

2

3

4KM

FEES/PERMITS All visitors must purchase a National Parks Pass. A daily pass won’t cover the length of the walk, so you have the choice of a two-month ($40) or yearly ($90) pass, which grants access to all Tassie national parks and includes the shuttle-bus ticket. Parks passes can be purchased online at parks.tas.gov.au

The walk described here is all on well-marked trails, but it includes sections of exposed walking and several steep climbs, with the ascents of Cradle Mountain and Barn Bluff both over boulder fields. Chains assist in some precarious spots. Days Two and Three are lengthy, so a good level of fitness is required.

park rangers request that all overnight walkers take a tent with them, and recommend an emergency locator beacon as well.

The hut is large, with room for 20 or so sleepers upstairs on the wooden floor—BYO mattress, pillow and sleeping bag. There is a toilet nearby, and a coal stove, but a sign requests that this only be used if the temperature drops below five degrees (there is a helpful thermometer on the wall).

The entire national park is a fuel-stove-only area. The shop at the Visitor Centre sells gas canisters and some emergency supplies, but it’s best to stock up before leaving town. Phone reception can be received on higher parts of the walk but not at the hut. And don’t forget your camera.

SAFETY & EQUIPMENT

ACCESS TO WATER

This is a short expedition by Tasmanian hiking standards, but it still includes exposed mountain walking and requires the full set of hiking equipment, including heavy-duty boots and wetweather gear. Accommodation is on tent platforms beside Scott Kilvert Hut or inside the hut, but even if that is your intention,

As with most Tasmanian walks, there is no shortage of water.

That said, most water on this route is found in tarns rather than fresh flowing streams, and there are not a lot of those in the higher reaches including most of Day Two. Fill up at the water tank at Scott Kilvert Hut.

DIFFICULTY

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The view back to Cradle Mountain from the final scramble to the top of Barn Bluff

THE WALK IN SECTIONS DAY 1

Dove Lake to Scott Kilvert Hut 5.5km; approx 3 hours (although several side trips are possible)

Take the shuttle bus to its last stop at Dove Lake. At the time of writing, a new multi-million-dollar shelter is being constructed (its purpose isn’t entirely clear apart from allowing a view over the lake when it’s raining, when you likely can’t see Cradle Mountain anyway). When completed, it will presumably include toilets and the walker-registration books that are currently in portable shipping container style facilities on the edge of the construction site.

From the car park, head left, following signs to Hansons Peak and Lake Rodway. The track follows the lake shore then splits at Glacier Rock—take the left fork to head uphill on a steady climb on the western flank of Mount Campbell. After about two kilometres, the side-track to Lake Hanson and Twisted Lakes leaves to the left of the main trail. This is a very scenic diversion if you have time, or want some shelter from high winds; the path loops around Twisted Lakes and re-joins the main track almost one kilometre further south, bypassing Hansons Peak. But if the weather is clear, continue to the peak, with a chain providing assistance on a short, steep section. The view from the top over Dove Lake and towards Cradle Mountain is sensational.

Just over the other side of the peak, the Twisted Lakes sidetrack joins from the left; if you chose not to take the full sidetrack, it’s worth dropping packs and ducking down to the lakes for fifteen minutes to appreciate this very scenic location. Back

on the main route, it’s a short walk downhill to another track junction; turn left here, following the signs to Lake Rodway.

There is a small rangers’ hut at the junction that provides emergency shelter in bad weather.

The Lake Rodway path is extremely scenic, passing through extensive groves of fagus with the cliffs of Cradle Mountain looming overhead. Artists Pool and Flynns Tarn offer excellent photographic opportunities before the track reaches the shore of Lake Rodway about 2.5km from the rangers’ hut. Turn right here—the track is a little indistinct through the forest but soon emerges beside wooden tent platforms; Scott Kilvert Hut is a short walk away. The hut was built in 1966, and named in memory of teacher Ewen Scott and 14-year-old student David Kilvert, who died in near-blizzard conditions on a school trip in May 1965 (newspaper clippings on display in the hut recount the full tragic and heroic tale, a reminder of the dangers of this wild location).

DAY 2

Return walk to Scott Kilvert Hut via Barn Bluff and Cradle Mountain Face Track 17.6km; approx 7-8 hours

This is a long day, so get going early (the full route is probably too ambitious in non-daylight-savings months). Fill water bottles at the tank beside the hut and a day pack with provisions (tossing in a torch is a sensible move) then head south, away from the lake and into the forest behind the hut. The trail passes through pretty rainforest, then starts the steady climb to Cradle Cirque, attaining almost 300m over 2.3km before levelling out and hitting the Overland Track south of Benson Peak.

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TRACK NOTES

Wooden boardwalks protect the delicate alpine environment on the track to Barn Bluff

Turn left here to head south and follow the Overland Track for 400m to another intersection. In between, the path passes an igloo-shaped shelter—this area is very exposed and cops the full brunt of Tasmania’s weather; if you need to stop here (other than for a quick look inside—it’s pretty cool) it’s probably a sign that you should put the Barn Bluff trip off for another day. A great alternative if visibility is poor is to stay on the Overland Track and continue to Waterfall Valley, 1.7km further south. This is a beautiful area to explore. In fact, if you have time, you could extend the hike to four days to accommodate both.

In good weather, the trek to Barn Bluff—allow three hours return—is some of the best walking you’ll find anywhere. Much of the route is on duckboards, and the track heads almost directly towards the bluff, so you can just enjoy the flat terrain and sensational views in all directions. To the south are the major peaks of the Overland Track, including Mount Ossa and the Pelions (East and West); to the north is Fury Gorge, with Barn Bluff dominating the skyline ahead and Cradle Mountain directly behind you.

After climbing a small hill, the track ascends steadily to a large boulder field at the base of Barn Bluff. From here, look for cairns marking the route to the top. The first section is across the boulder field, then a series of sharp gullies are negotiated before a final scramble to the summit, where you can take a well-earned break (the top of Barn Bluff is fourteen metres higher than Cradle Mountain) and enjoy the sweeping views. Take care on the steep descent, then follow the duckboards back to the junction.

Turn left to follow the Overland Track along the western flank of Cradle Mountain—prepare to step aside for oncoming traffic. The walking is easy, the views fantastic, and fagus and pandanus are abundant. It takes about an hour to reach Kitchen Hut, another emergency shelter that’s a good spot for a snack and a photo.

Just before the hut is another track junction—backtrack to this point and turn left onto the Face Track. You also pass the turnoff to Cradle Mountain’s summit; that would be a lot to cram into one day, but you will return here tomorrow! The Face Track offers more fantastic walking, although it’s a bit rougher than the boardwalks traversed earlier in the day. The first section of this track is directly under the breathtaking northern cliffs of Cradle Mountain, flanked by pandani and cushion plants. The path can be indistinct at times, but snow poles with reflectors help mark the route.

After passing a turnoff to Lake Wilks on the left, the track passes under Little Horn, the eastern spire of Cradle Mountain’s ‘cradle’ (there is a rough path up the hill to the rocky peak, but it’s a steep scramble that will add about 45 minutes to the day). The Face Track descends steeply from here to reach the rangers’ hut and the Lake Rodway track junction. Turn right to head downhill to Scott Kilvert Hut via Artists Pool and Flynns Tarn. After a long and exhilarating day, a hearty dinner is in order.

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WILD

DAY 3

Scott Kilvert Hut to Ronny Creek 13.5km; approx 7 hours

Another packed day that requires an early start to avoid missing the last shuttle bus back to Cradle Valley. If the schedule is too tight, the Cradle Mountain summit climb can be bypassed—or added to an extra day of an extended trip.

With full packs, embark on the 2.6km trek back to the rangers’ hut and turn left onto the Face Track. The sharp climb to the base of Little Horn is taxing, but the views down over Dove Lake are a nice distraction. Continue along the Face Track to the turnoff to the Cradle Mountain summit, which is well marked. Drop packs here for the return trip to the top—a thrilling and challenging 2.6km return journey that takes about two hours. The summit track is really only a track for the first 500m; after that point, it’s a winding route over a giant boulder field to a sundial that marks the 1545m summit and its (in clear weather) incredible 360-degree views.

Cradle Mountain, TASMANIA

Retrace your steps to the junction, pick up your packs, and then continue past Kitchen Hut to head downhill on the Overland Track. At a fork, take the route to the right, avoiding the Horse Track. Just over two kilometres of exposed walking leads to Marions Lookout, where you’re likely to find a crowd appreciating the grandstand views over Dove Lake towards Cradle Mountain; it’s a nice spot to appreciate the summit you were standing on a couple of hours earlier.

It’s a steep descent from the lookout, with a chain helping in the trickiest section high above Crater Lake. The view on the descent is one of the best of the trip, as the granite cliffs plunge into the glacial tarn. In autumn, they are painted a vivid orange.

Ignore detours to the right to Dove Lake and Wombat Pool as the track levels out beside Crater Lake; a boat shed at the lake’s northern end marks the end of the descent.

From here it’s less than two kilometres of easy walking to the end of the trail, but there is one more highlight to come. Soon after Crater Lake, the path enters dense rainforest, and a wooden staircase descends alongside Crater Falls, which thunders through the forest after heavy rain. After viewing a series of impressive cascades, the path leaves the forest and emerges on a buttongrass plain. A steady descent leads to a bridge over Ronny Creek. Cross the creek and follow the flat wooden boardwalk for the final 500m to the car park and shuttle-bus stop. And remember to keep an eye out for wombats along the way. W

IMAGES THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Sunrise on Cradle Mountain, looking south over Mount Emmett to the major peaks of the Overland Track Nothofagus gunnii, or deciduous beech, is a rare Australian plant that loses its leaves in Autumn. It is found only in Tasmania’s highlands Crater Falls are the last scenic highlight of the trip

CONTRIBUTOR: Alistair Paton is a writer, photographer and digital editor who lives in Melbourne but would be open to the possibility of working remotely from Tasmania’s wild mountains. His new book is Of Marsupials and Men, a history of Australia’s pioneer naturalists.

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GEAR

REVIEW

THE NORTH FACE

ASSAULT 2

FUTURELIGHT TENT Futurelight has revolutionised The North Face’s outerwear line-up. Now it’s doing the same for its shelter.

IF THERE’S ONE THING that seems common among winter-slash-four season tents, besides the fact they’re bomber, it’s that they’re heavy. Compared to tents designed for the warmer months, these things weigh a ton. Well, OK, that’s figuratively, not literally. But many do weigh upwards of four kilograms, and one that hits three

NEED TO KNOW Product class: 2 person single wall alpine/winter tent with removable vestibule Materials: Canopy: 3-layer Futurelight laminate; 1,500mm waterhead.

Floor: 40D nylon ripstop; 3,000mm waterhead. Poles: Carbon fibre Easton Syclone Area: 2.49m2

kilos on the dot is definitely on the lighter side. So when

This is not to say the Assault 2 can’t handle winds

you’re on an alpine expedition, or on a long backcountry

and tough wintery conditions. I took it out on some

skin up the side of some peak, and you’re grunting away

blustery nights of snow camping, and decided to

thinking, Man, I wish my pack was lighter, your thoughts

test the tent by not digging in or building any snow

immediately turn to the heaviest single piece of gear

walls to protect it; the Assault 2 handled it just fine.

you’re likely carrying: your tent.

And the Futurelight membrane stayed breathable

The North Face’s Futurelight Assault 2 tent is a radical

despite some considerable cold. I’ve had it out on at

departure from the norm, though. The tent is made of a

least one night when the mercury dipped to nearly

3-layer version of TNF’s proprietary material Futurelight,

minus 10, and while there was the teensiest layer of

a waterproof/breathable membrane which we’ve spoken

condensed frost on the roof, I’m talking really bugger

about in Wild in the past, and it allows this single wall

all. And that was with an inch of snow on the roof. I’ve

tent to, not including pegs, tip the scales at just 2.3kg.

certainly owned double-walled tents where I would

But that’s including the removable vestibule. Take that

have expected far greater build up. And by the time I

away— the fact that you can opt to leave it at home is

returned from skiing for the day, it had all disappeared.

actually a pretty neat, and versatile, feature—and your

Breathability is further assisted by two small vents

tent and poles come to just 1.7kg. That, my friends, for a

(which tuck under the cross-bar) and a small rear

4-season tent is impressive.

window (the zip of which on mine, in heavy rain, gave

To be clear, similarly light winter tents aren’t impossible to find; they are, however, rare. And also to be clear,

a small drip, one that I’ll have to attend to with some seam sealant).

Weight (as tested): Body only (incl poles): 1713g. Vestibule only (incl poles): 603g.

Tent, vestibule, poles, pegs + stuffbags: 2,516g

TNF doesn’t actually label the tent as 4-season, despite

The tent is roomy, considering its lack of weight. I’ve

the fact that it seems that most of the tent’s end-users,

been in both bigger and smaller winter tents. And the

including myself, regard it as such, and see it as winter

vestibule is definitely a solid size. The tent walls—being

shelter. Perhaps it’s that yes, in comparison to TNF’s

steep sided—give plenty of usable living space, but the

Mountain 25 tent—which is unequivocally a 4-season

trade-off is the decreased ability of the tent to shed

RRP: $1,500

tent—it’s not as robust. But the Mountain 25 weighs more

wind. As with any tent, though, this is an either/or situ-

More info: thenorthface.com.au

than four kilos; if you’re heading somewhere that doesn’t

ation; you can’t have both.

require the most absolute bombproof of winter shelter, then the Assault is the far lighter option.

138

I’ll no longer be able to blame the weight of my tent for my lack of climbing speed. Me being a slug up the hills will be my fault alone.”

WILD

But beyond those steep walls, there are some other compromises with the Assault 2, and some trade-offs

GEAR

Assault 2 minus the vestibule

TEST

ARC’TERYX

ATOM LT HOODY A multi-purpose jacket suited to a variety of adventurers.

Steep walls increase the living space

WHEN I UNPACKED MY NEW Arc’teryx Atom LT Hoody, my first thought was: “Holy dooley, this thing is light!” At just 360g, it promised to pack a punch for as well. Honestly, it’s inevitable for a tent that’s this

its weight. My second thought was this: “It looks super

impressively lightweight. While I found the main body

shmick”. With its streamlined, slick design, the Atom

of the tent super easy to set up—simply pop the ends

LT was guaranteed to seriously spruce up my bush-

of the carbon-fibre poles (which are also astoundingly

walking wardrobe.

featherweight) into the four corners of the tent’s interior,

Luckily for me, when I took it into the mountains—

and then set the crossbar (you can do all this in less than

Goulburn River NP and Brisbane Water NP—for a few

60 seconds)—using the Velcro tabs to hold the poles

mid-winter overnight trips, I was reassured to find that

in place had a slight fiddle factor. So, too, did attaching

the Atom LT doesn’t just look sexy, it’s constructed effi-

the vestibule. And the guy lines and toggles need to be

ciently and thoughtfully too. The 20d Tyono shell, with

set carefully if the lines aren’t to slip. I quickly learnt that

its DWR finish, aims to provide the wind and water

giving a few twists of the toggles and properly cranking

resistance of a good outer layer; while I haven’t yet

down on the guy line holders stops any slippage, but I’d

tested it in the wet, the moderately windy conditions I

recommend getting the knack of this at home rather

found myself in were no match for the Atom—no gusts

than, as I did, trying to figure it out for the first time

made it through. Although these conditions were by

after dark in a howling wind in subzero temps.

no means extreme, I’d be surprised if it buckled under

For a shelter that’s so light, I do wish the tent pegs

The Atom LT was going to seriously spruce up my bushwalking wardrobe."

the pressure of stronger winds.

were lighter. At 200g for 12, and we’re not talking snow

What I’ve found impressive about the Atom LT,

pegs here, you’ll find lighter options elsewhere. (Since

though, is that it combines these attributes of a solid

weight weenies are very much the target market for this

shell jacket with the added warmth of an insulated fill,

tent and since they’ll likely want, or already have, lighter

making it a versatile addition to the kit. The 60g/m2 of

pegs, it’s for this reason I didn’t mention pegs in the

Coreloft siliconised-polyester insulation – designed to

overall weights I stated earlier). Still, getting lighter pegs

maintain warmth even when wet—gives the Atom LT

is a relatively easy fix, one that should in no way influ-

an extra edge without it being an out-and-out synthet-

ence your purchasing decision.

ic-down jacket. I must say that, in fresh temperatures,

NEED TO KNOW

say mid-to-low single digits, I wasn’t entirely toasty

Product class: Insulation

Overall, I found the Assault 2 to be an impressive offering, light enough and versatile enough—especially

with the Atom LT alone; adding an under-layer like a

with its removable vestibule—that there’s no reason to

thermal made a big difference. The insulated Storm-

restrict its use to winter camping. And when it comes

hood provides further cosiness.

to heading out into the snow, I can’t tell you how much

Some other noteworthy features include the revised

Intended use: Cool weather to cold weather activities

I bitch internally about the weight of my gear. With the

cuff design, trim fit, good pockets, primo packability,

Weight: 360g (M)

Assault 2 Futurelight, I’ll no longer be able to blame the

and materials that make it Bluesign-certified environ-

RRP: $400

weight of my tent for my lack of climbing speed. Me

mentally friendly. All-in-all, an excellent multi-purpose

being a slug up the hills will be my fault alone.

jacket suited to a variety of adventurers.

More info: arcteryx.com.au

JAMES MCCORMACK

RYAN HANSEN

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139

GEAR

TEST

PATAGONIA

DIRTROAMER JACKET + STORM PANTS

Featherlight MTB-ing outerwear that sets new standards in comfort.

P

ATAGONIA MAY NOT NECESSARILY be as well known for their mountain bike apparel as they are for their other

outdoor gear, but perhaps they should be. The company’s Dirt Roamer collection, which includes shorts to go with the shell jacket and pants I tried out, is some of the nicest MTB gear I’ve ever worn. It does, however, come with a problem.

REVIEW

I guess the issue only arises if you think of the jacket and pants as an inseparable pair. Both are superlight, super breath-

SALEWA

able and super functional. But the pants (with a 3-layer water-

WILDFIRE EDGE

proof/breathable material) are waterproof, while the jacket,

A technical approach shoe with looks to match.

given that fact, I actually didn’t see how the two garments

F

IRST IMPRESSIONS MATTER. And my first impression of Salewa’s Wildfire Edge approach shoe was this: These things are

which relies purely on a DWR finish, is not. And I’ll be honest, would work together. So let me look at them both individually, starting with the jacket.

Before I began wearing it, I didn’t think I’d particularly like the jacket for the simple reason that it’s not fully waterproof. Yes,

sexy. I mean, really. They have a suitably high end aura, the colour

down the track, I found that it kept me dry in showers and light

combination of teal and red/orange is right up my alley, and they

rain—the DWR is actually pretty awesome, and water beads up

look like what I’d imagine the offspring would look like if I left my

really well on it—but once it started bucketing down, I got wet.

day hiking shoes alone for a cosy night with my climbing shoes. I

Patagonia doesn’t claim it to be waterproof either, and when

guess that’s not surprising given the alpine climbing and technical approach intent of the shoes.

Before I’d ever got to see them in the flesh, though, I had to figure out which size to get online. I’m usually an EU39.5, but that size— along with some other in-between EU size options—was not available. I used the size chart tool on Salewa’s website, which allows you to enter a different brand of shoe in a size that fits you, along with some general info about your feet to make a recommendation. In this case, it recommended to go with size EU 39; it fit me surprisingly well.

When the shoes arrived, right away the yellow featured insoles with instructional icons caught my attention. Salewa’s Multi Fit Footbed Plus (MFF+) allows for customisation of the shoe to a narrow fit or medium fit via two interchangeable layers. For me, I wasn’t interested in the narrower configuration; for the last ten years, I’ve been religiously wearing Merrells, which are on the normalto-wide side. Anyway, in short, for my foot shape, I found the shoe to be incredibly comfortable.

The lacing system works well to tighten sections of the shoe, allowing for good customisation of the fit without the shoe overall being too tight or loose. The Switchfit Technology feature changes the shoes from walking to climbing mode by tightening the laces at the rear eyelet. When you do so, your foot gets pulled forward in the toe box, making the Wildfire Edge closer to a climbing shoe than a walking shoe. Unfortunately, the-virus-that-shall-not-be-named ruined my planned trip to Arapiles to thoroughly test this feature. But I found that the theory checked out when I played around in the shoes closer to home near Newcastle (see pic on right).

I also appreciate the heel loops, which come in handy to clip your shoes to your harness or pack when off on a multi-pitch adventure. Taking them out to the local crag between rain showers was a pleasure. They happily kept my feet dry through the puddles and mud, and offered great grip on the handline downclimb along roots and rock. They were, however, quite slippery on the wet rock next to the stream. But then again, I am holding them up against my 5.10 water tennies that I use

Product class: Approach shoe

for canyoning and kayaking, and they are made for that stuff; stuff the Wildfire Edges are clearly not designed for, even if the POMOCA Speed MTN sole does advertise improved grip in both wet and

Intended use: Technical hiking and climbing approaches

dry conditions. Maybe just don’t take them stream hopping. Oh, and you might want to consider

Weight (pair, as tested) 760g (EU 39)

what season you’d want to use them for. Despite the shoe’s tongue being mesh, with its upper being

RRP: $234.95

suede leather, you definitely stay toasty in them. They mightn’t be ideal for really warm conditions.

Overall, however, I am extremely smitten with these shoes. Slipping them on is a pleasure, and I am hoping that the no blister guarantee will hold up for longer outings as well.

ANJA FUECHTBAUER

140

NEED TO KNOW

WILD

More info: climbinganchors.com.au/ salewa-wildfire-edge-womensapproach-shoe

GEAR I first put it on, I asked myself, “Why would I only want a water-resistant jacket?” I stayed dry that first day, despite some light rain, but perhaps the more astonishing thing was what happened once I got home. The jacket was so featherlight (just 234g), so comfortable, so breathable, so motion-friendly thanks to its inbuilt stretch, and so soft against my skin that I simply forgot I had it on. A couple of hours after being home, I suddenly looked at myself and realised, I’ve still got my jacket on. I hadn’t noticed. This thing is effortlessly the most comfortable shell jacket I’ve ever worn. And so I began wearing it not just MTB-ing, but walking, trail running, road cycling, and more. It packs down to almost nothing, and the hood, which while big enough to put over a helmet, nonetheless stows away easily. In fact, I can say that over the last two months, I’ve worn this jacket more than any other piece of outerwear.

The Storm Pants are equally great. Soft and comfortable, they’re reinforced at the crotch, bum and the knees (both wear points for cyclists).

And despite being slim and close fitting, and tailored for bike positioning, they have enough stretch that you never feel even slightly impinged in them. They almost encourage movement. Unlike the jacket, however, the pants—with their 3-layer waterproof-breathable fabric—will keep you totally dry. The funny thing is though, because of that waterproofness, before I wore the jacket I would have sworn it would be the pants that would see more use. In fact, it’s turned out to be the opposite. This is neither good nor bad, just surprising.

So, despite the differing level of waterproofness, does the system work? I’d say yes, although I still think you’re going to want a waterproof—rather than water resistant—jacket for days when it’s bucketing down. But taken individually, both garments are superb, absolutely as good as they get, and it’s worthwhile owning both for that reason alone.

NEED TO KNOW Product class: Jacket: Water-resistant outerwear. Pants: Waterproof outerwear Intended use: MTB-ing Weight, as tested: Jacket: 234g (M) Pants: 338g (M) RRP: Jacket: $349.95 Pants: $399.95 More info: patagonia.com.au

JAMES MCCORMACK

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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

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HOKA:

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GEAR

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LIFALOFT INSULATOR JACKET

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extra grip. The split toe cap strikes a balance between protection and feel, while the breathable KEEN.DRY waterproof membrane keeps water out. $299.99 KEENFOOTWEAR.COM.AU

Not all of our supporters make gear, and they deserve our support, too. Please check out what they’ve got to offer.

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ALSO, PLEASE CHECK OUT OUR CLASSIFIEDS PAGES OVERLEAF, AND SHOW OUR SMALLER, COMMUNITY SUPPORTERS YOUR LOVE

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WILD SHOT

I set myself up deep within a dark and mysterious chasm at Frederick Peak, and stared out in awe as Marina Haintz threw herself around up the eversteepening cliff. Distracted by the colours and the echoes bouncing off the narrow walls, I almost forgot I was there to capture some images. One desperate and guttural roar of determination from Marina brought me back to reality, and I clicked this shot of her climbing Arrested Development (24) near Townsville, Queensland.”

JARRAH BRAND-ADAMS Townsville, QLD 146

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