Wild #187

#187

AU T U M N 2 0 2 3

TASMANIA'S FRANKLAND RANGE

PROFILE: OUTBACK MIKE • BUILDING A CLIMBING WALL • CLIMATE CHANGE & THE PLACES WE LOVE • PACKRAFTING TASSIE'S LAGOON RIVER • FIVE WALKS ON WA'S CORAL COAST • PHOTO ESSAY: DAVID NEILSON • TRACK NOTES: COLO RIVER LOOP • TASMANIAN WILDERNESS WHA TURNS 40 • GOING SOLO

AUS: $13.95 NZ: $13.95

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

ANATOMY OF A SEARCH CANYONING ETHICS SKI TOURING IN SWEDEN'S FAR NORTH HIKING IN THE SIERRA NEVADA VICTORIA'S RAZOR-VIKING CIRCUIT

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YOUR LIFE

IS WHAT YOU MAKE IT

ENTER HERE

CONTENTS ISSUE #187 AUTUMN 2023

112 You Don’t Know What You Don’t Know

Reconsidering Canyoning Ethics

90

Photo Essay: Chasing the Mountain Light

64 Thank You, Sarek REGULARS

Readers’ Letters 14 Editor’s Letter 18 Gallery 22 Columns 30 Getting Started: A Home Climbing Gym 46 WILD Shot 146

CONSERVATION

Green Pages 36 Welcome to the Pyrocene 40

Search and Rescue is a service we hope we never need. Caro Ryan, who has worked for two decades as a land search volunteer, gives us a fictional account of how a search effort might typically unfold.

NONE OF THE ABOVE

Opinion: Going Solo 42 Q+A with Hilary McAllister 44

82

FEATURES

Profile: Outback Mike 50 Walking Tassie’s Frankland Range 56 Ski Touring in Northern Sweden 64 Anatomy of a Search 74 Tasmanian Wilderness WHA 40th B’day 82 Photo Essay: Chasing the Mountain Light 90 Walking the Razor-Viking Circuit 98 Packrafting the Lagoon River 106 Reconsidering Canyoning Ethics 112

The Tasmanian WHA Turns 40

Four decades ago, UNESCO declared Tasmania’s Southwest to be an area of global significance. Geoff Law looks at the history leading up to the declaration, and at the fights since then to further protect this stunning area.

122 Destination: USA’s Sierras

WILD BUNCH

WA’s Coral Coast 120

DESTINATION

Hiking in California’s Sierra Mountains 122

of the fabulous hiking opportunities

TRACK NOTES

NSW’s Colo River Gorge 130

outlines a new route he’s conceived

GEAR

Talk and Tests 136 Support Our Supporters 140

10

74 Anatomy of a Search

WILD

John Chapman gives an overview in California’s Sierra Nevada, and

of through these fabulous mountains: The Sierra Grand Traverse.

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LETTERS

[ Letter of the Issue ]

A DISAPPOINTING SCORECARD Dear Wild, I became very emotional watching the new film, Franklin. The film relives the Tasmanian dams campaign through the eyes of a young man retracing his father’s rafting trip on the way to getting arrested at the Gordon River blockade.

They were very rich and heady times to be in the movement. The day the High Court announced the Franklin would be saved was the happiest day of my young life. Many of us were optimistic that we were striding towards a more environmentally responsible Australia.

Forty years on, the scorecard is less rosy. The latest State of the Environment report provided a shocking account of the state of Australia’s natural environment. While there have been some notable environmental wins over that time, these stick out as anomalies in the inexorable flow of daily decisions and actions that degrade nature.

The very areas in Western Tasmania that were protected for their wilderness values are now the targets of myriad tourism proposals that would damage them for profit. Then there are the pervasive and insidious impacts of climate change.

The environment movement has never had the resources to address the drivers of this destruction. A key driver is our society’s lack of valuing of the natural environment and our ignorance of our dependence on it for our wellbeing. This couples with an economy that has always sought short-term and unsustainable extraction of profit to the detriment of the environment. Additionally, our economic system relies on unending growth, including constant expansion into new sectors and regions. It is fifty years since the release of the Club of Rome’s Limits to Growth, which warned of the risks to humanity of ongoing economic expansion. Its message is more relevant than ever.

To secure long-term the precious natural areas essential for our recreation, we need to move to a sustainable settlement with our natural environment, which will require radical changes to our thinking and to our economy. The futures of our society and Australia’s wondrous landscapes and species depend upon it.

Jonathan Miller Curtin, ACT

SEND US YOUR LETTERS TO WIN! Each Letter of the Issue wins a piece of quality outdoor kit. They’ll also, like Jonathan in this issue, receive A FREE ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION TO WILD. To be in the running, send your 40-400 word letters to: editor@wild.com.au

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BEACH INSPECTOR Hi Wild Mag, Here’s a snapshot of a fair chunk of rubbish collected along a meagre 80m stretch of Cowley Beach along QLD’s Cassowary Coast. Not a reflection of the locals, but from the tidal fronts drifting in from the northern counterparts of Papua New Guinea and Indonesia.

QUICK THOUGHTS On Wild’s social media posts about commercial developments being proposed for NSW’s Gardens of Stone SCA:

Rachel Schmidt Mena Creek, QLD

“Sigh. An ‘adventure theme park’. What is wrong with the people managing our public lands?” MC “These development types are the great takers in life.” JP

TIME TO TESTIFY Kia ora Wild, Here’s the Latin root of the word ‘protestor’: It comes from protestari, meaning to ‘testify before’ or to ‘bear witness’.

It’s sad to see that now even the simple act of protest itself is under threat. How can caring for something be illegal; is it not what makes us human?

Nature protesters are actually not against something; they simply protect something they love (Cousteau) and what has been here for years before us.

I went to ‘protest’ at “Protect Putiki” on Waiheke in NZ last year. Well, I mostly stayed and enjoyed the place as it was not that intense at that time, but it always makes for something [special] if you stay at one place for longer with people with the same goal.

I’m happy about my protest experience where I’ve met some of the most passionate and wonderful people.

There is a Maori proverb: “People will pass but the place will remain.”

And here’s a quote from John Muir: “Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.”

Cheers, Hajo Späthe Waiheke, NZ

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

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

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

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FOUNDER: Chris Baxter OAM CONTRIBUTORS: Craig Pearce, Geoff Law, Megan Holbeck, Caro Ryan, Geoff Macqueen, John & Monica Chapman, David Neilson, Evelina Nilsson, Andy Szollosi, Hamish Lockett, Catherine Lawson, Nathan McNeil, Cam Walker, Tom Brennan, Jacinta Pink, Aidan Williams, Michael Taylor

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WARNING:

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

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

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

THE

COVER

SHOT

By Hamish Lockett

This image captures the essence of our Frankland trip. There’s the feeling of standing in the pure awe of a new place. A place where, for days in any direction, you won’t see another person. And there’s the feeling of freedom that comes from standing on a summit. But this freedom comes to you in more ways than one. In places like Southwest Tasmania, not only is it freedom from civilisation, but also freedom from the not-so-appealing tree lines below, and a moment of freedom from the challenging journey you’ve endured thus far. I remember taking this photo along the range, and it truly just felt like a moment we had been longing for: To put your hands in the air and celebrate being out here, with good weather, with magical views, and—as you can see by the frame—with plenty more of it to come.

Read more about Hamish’s traverse of Southwest Tasmania’s Frankland Range in ‘The Inauguration’, starting on P56.

FROM THE EDITOR

THE BEAUTY OF SHADOWS

A

few months ago, at the end of a fifty-kilometre ride, as I coasted home down the final stretch of bushland road that gently meanders through a forest of gnarled angophora, I was nearly knocked off my bike by a deer. There I was, minding my own business, when it sprang out of the roadside vegetation and nearly barrelled straight into me. There was less than a metre in it.

The shock alone nearly killed me.

Granted, it was not entirely the deer’s fault. In fact, it was not even mainly the deer’s fault. Perhaps not even remotely the deer’s fault. It was after dark, and—given the roads around my place are quiet, the cars rare, the tar smooth and the potholes non-existent, and given there was a hint of moonlight—I had decided to ride the last few kilometres through the bush with my bike’s headlight switched off.

No doubt, I scared the hell out of the deer, too. In fact, there is probably a deer around somewhere now telling his mates at the pub about the time he was minding his own business crossing the road, when out of nowhere in the darkness sprang an idiot cyclist with his headlight switched off that nearly barrelled into him, with less than a metre in it. The shock alone, he would sombrely be telling his gathered friends as they cradle their beers—a difficult task, given deer have hooves and not hands—nearly killed him.

Now, a sensible reader (do Wild readers fall into that boat?) might be tempted to ask, why ride with my lights off? Well, firstly it was to engender different ways of seeing. I’ve ridden this road hundreds of times; doing it in darkness, however, forced me to see it afresh. The colour of the trees, of their leaves, branches, trunks, was gone. By seeing no more than

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monochromatic shadows, by no longer being distracted by the olive of the leaves or the almost blushed-apricot hue of the angophoras’ trunks, I focused on the trees’ shape alone, and on the writhing form of the branches interlocking over the road to form a shadowed tunnel.

There is, as 20th Century Japanese novelist Tanizaki Junichiro—whose writing I love—said, much to praise about shadows. While the hard clarity of light and sunshine diminishes wonder, darkness, and the inability to discern all but outlines, renders its own subtleties. In the secrets of those shadows and dimly viewed depths, beauty resides.

But my riding sans headlight wasn’t merely an aesthetic quest. It was also a search for adventure in small ways. We often think adventure only happens on ‘big trips’, but that mode of thinking is capacity limiting, because adventure surrounds us everywhere, if only we let it.

In recent years, the door to that realisation has been pried open a little; COVID’s lockdowns forced us to consider adventures close to home. I hope that mindset doesn’t leave us. There are so many elements that constitute any outing’s adventurousness—challenge; scale; risk; exoticism; aesthetics; audacity; uncertainty; novelty (in the sense of newness)—and while it’s true that it’s only on those bigger trips that some of these elements can be found, or at least more easily found, that’s not the case with all of them.

It was British adventurer Alistair Humphreys who coined the term ‘microadventure’. “A microadventure,” he says, “is an adventure that is short, simple, local, cheap—yet still fun, exciting, challenging, refreshing and rewarding.” He also adds that “Adventure is a state of mind.”

Darkness lends itself to microadventures. Walking or running a wellknown trail at night, climbing an otherwise easy route after dark, ascending peaks under moonlight, or canyoning under star-like displays of glow worms— all these things, simply by switching them from day to night, change our perspective and introduce a fresh level of adventurousness. But there are, of course, many, many ways we can introduce novelty to any local adventure: switching up or reversing routes; researching new local possibilities; altering your mode of travel; running rather than walking; walking rather than running; combining paddling with cycling; taking that path or turnoff you’ve gone past countless times but have never been down; going solo; going with new partners; wandering—deliberately— off-course; going fast; going slow; taking risks, but hopefully not outrageous ones.

The list of ways to mix things up goes on.

In short, do this: Banish staleness.

Because here’s the thing: Humans, largely, crave ritual and regularity. But being the perverse species that we are, we—contradictorily—crave novelty too.

The dopamine hits that accompany new experiences have shaped human evolution and engendered our drive for curiosity; adventure, especially local adventure close to home, is a relatively guilt-free method to satiate that desire for novelty, as opposed to, say, the unbridled and planet-wrecking consumption of needless new products. It’s not just that adventure makes us happier; it’s that new adventures make us happier, too. And those new adventures can be found closer than you think. Just don’t be so stupid as to ride bikes at night without lights.

JAMES MCCORMACK

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Photo Credit: Harrison Candlin

E S T. 1 9 7 5

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

GALLERY

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Brady Hayes walks across Australia’s longest-ever highline. In NSW’s Blue Mountains, in November 2022, a team including Brady pulled together to set this highline spanning 1,290m in length. As the day drew to a close, and with the wind making its presence felt by shaping the line into an extraordinary arc, the sandstone cliffs were blanketed in a golden curtain of light, providing the ultimate amphitheatre for Brady’s walk. You can read more about the project, and see more images from it, at wild.com.au/blue-mnts-highline-record

by AIDAN WILLIAMS

Canon R5, RF24-70mm f2.8L, f3.5, 1/200, ISO 160

AUTUMN 2023

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GALLERY

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Alex Mcintyre paddling on the upper Blicks River on the Dorrigo plateau in northern NSW. It’s a classic Grade 4+ creek, with a waterfall-gorge section, running at 20km and with at least seven drops over five metres. This is Dead Dog Falls, which at nine metres is the highest on the section.

BY MICHAEL TAYLOR

Fuji X-T2, XF18-135mm f3.5-5.6R, f4.5, 1/420, ISO 200

AUTUMN 2023

25

GALLERY

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WILD

This was that moment of feeling on top of the world, the highlight of the Larapinta Trail.

The weather was pristine, and the views spectacular. In the distance, we could see Mt Sonder, the end point of this epic journey. I couldn’t have asked for a better morning on trail.

by JACINTA PINK

Sony A7RIV, 24-70mm f2.8, f3.5, 1/100, ISO 100

AUTUMN 2023

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Columns: WILD THINGS @meganholbeck

[MEGAN HOLBECK]

www.meganholbeck.com

RECOGNISING THE GOOD BITS Remember to remember how good life is.

L

ast year was a bit average. There were highlights: time spent in the rainforests of Tassie’s takayna; a fantastic family adventure up to Far North Queensland, exploring the reef, the waterfalls, the stunning beaches and landscapes; three days of sunshine and stunning coastline along the NSW South Coast’s Light to Light track; and many other smaller adventures. There was also the chance to reconnect with friends and family after years of COVID interruptions, and, conversely, there was not a single day of home schooling.

But after what feels like years of crap weather, I realised my outlook and expectations changed in 2022. (I suspect a large swathe of the East Coast’s population also adapted to 2022’s ‘new normal’, just like we did globally with the pandemic.) I stopped planning outdoor things for the weekend because they were always washed out. After cancelling four camping trips in a row, our family almost forgot how much we love a tent. I barely went in the ocean because the “no swimming for 48 hours after heavy rain” advice wiped out two-thirds of the available days.

And at the end of the year, for the first time ever, I had a limb in plaster. In the school holidays, we escaped the rain by going ice skating and I zoomed around the rink, remembering that feeling of gliding, of flying. It didn’t take much encouragement to pull out my primary-school figure-skating skills. “Mum, you’re so good,” my daughter said. “What tricks can you do?” I launched into what should have been a basic twirl and quickly realised two things: Those skills are rusty, and ice is really hard.

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There was a collective, “Oooh,” when I hit the ground. I sprang up from the quickly forming circle of concern and did a few laps of the rink to show how much it didn’t hurt, ignoring the blossoming shock and my ballooning right wrist. I made it through lunch, then took myself to emergency. I then spent more than a month in a cast.

But good things came out of both the rain and the injury.

THERE WAS A

COLLECTIVE, “OOOH,” WHEN I HIT THE GROUND. I SPRANG

UP QUICKLY ... TO SHOW HOW MUCH IT DIDN’T HURT,

THEN TOOK MYSELF TO EMERGENCY.”

Not long after ‘the fall’, I had a weekend when the days sparkled with spring and possibility; the sun was out from Friday to Sunday. I’d organised a surf weekend for fifteen friends with lessons and catch ups and fun and freedom at Gerroa on the NSW South Coast. My old-school plaster cast couldn’t get wet, but I swam regardless, holding my arm above my head.

While the others surfed, I sat on the beach and watched, went for walks and read.

Part of me was bummed while the rest of me was delighted: I could still go for runs; eat, drink and be merry; soak in the warmth of friendships and sun. And watching others out there made me realise how much I enjoy surfing and want to do it. When the cast is off, I will be back out

there, rain or no rain, without the excuses of tiredness or busyness or anything else.

In colder climes, people really appreciate a glorious day. In the UK, the sun transforms the mood. On the first spring day, the sun comes out, and so does everyone: Undie-clad people cover every available patch of London grass, the beaches are packed, and normal life slows down so everyone can soak in the warmth and the goodness, and replenish their stores of both.

That’s what life now feels like in Sydney: We’re making the most of every sunny day. Instead of waking up to perfect weather and not even really noticing, now we’re capturing every moment: We dry off the chairs and have dinner on the balcony; pick up the kids for a swim and fish and chips on the beach.

It’s all about silver linings. The interminable downpour made me grateful for any break, and the actual [bone] break made me realise how lucky I am to be healthy and active. After being locked down, we can appreciate our usual freedom.

In Gerroa, during that weekend away that I’d organised, I joined the end of a surf lesson, shivering in the shallows in my swimmers with my wetsuit-clad friends. Our coach was ex-professional big-wave surfer Rusty Moran, who had begun the lessons with a rather big claim: Surfing makes people better humans. He finished the weekend with meditation to show us how.

The waves washed in. The sun was warm. You could hear the surf and feel the peace. Tap into this feeling whenever you want, he said. Don’t try so hard, don’t think so much, don’t stress. Just be. And be grateful.

Columns: OUTSIDE WITH TIM [TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE]

KEEPING STANDARDS HIGH We should continue to laud those adventurers who strive to overcome the greatest challenges.

I

n the post-monsoon season of 2021, three Ukranian climbers (Mikhail Fomin, Nikita Balabanov and Viacheslav Polezhaiko) embarked on an attempt of one of the most sought-after big lines in the Himalaya: the complex 3000m southeast ridge of Annapurna III. Leaving their remote base camp, they headed up the mountain with twelve days’ food and fuel, carried in packs weighing up to 24kg. After a tenacious struggle over eighteen days, they amazingly succeeded in getting up and down intact and with no injuries.

It was undoubtedly one of the greatest alpine-style climbs ever done, one that I hold in the highest regard. Yet despite being short-listed for the annual Piolet d’Or—mountaineering’s equivalent of an Olympic gold medal—the award was not given to them. In essence, the reason was because the trio had used a helicopter to get into and out from the mountain. I understood their reasons for skipping the problematic walk in, but lamented the compromise with them at the time, and I agree with the Piolet D’Or decision.

Though the approach to that southern side of Annapurna III is one of the most difficult in the Himalaya, it isn’t impossible. When we climbed the nearby south ridge of Annapurna II in 1983 (see Wild Issue #12), the approach was probably just as hazardous and problematic. But had helicopters been an option back then, I wouldn’t have taken it. To me, the attraction of the climb lay in its challenges to be overcome, and in the curiosity, uncertainty, and excitement of confronting a physical unknown, and the difficulty of

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the approach was as much a part of that as the vertical upper part of the ascent.

Interestingly, looking back on that experience, the approach and climb below the snowline was just as memorable, if not more so, as the eventful ascent above it. Struggling through the monsoon-drenched temperate rainforest infested with leeches and stinging nettles, and weaving an intricate route through the vertical botanical garden that clung to the hillsides, it felt like we were in a lost

LOWERING ANY STANDARD AXIOMATICALLY LEADS TO MEDIOCRITY. MEDIOCRITY

IS THE ANATHEMA OF ADVENTURE.”

world—a feeling that’s increasingly rare today, and one that would be instantly shattered by the presence of a helicopter.

Of course, we could not and would not have done it without the stoic help of the villagers from lower down. Getting to know them gave us a rich, added level of connection to that amazing part of the world that I would hate to have missed out on.

Recently, Norwegian Kristin Harila was awarded the 2022 European Adventurer of the Year Award for her fully guided climbs of all but two of the 8000m peaks in record time, which made use of helicopter access, fixed ropes and supplementary oxygen—a style Reinhold Messner famously said was alpine tourism, not alpinism. There’s no

doubt it was an incredible physical and logistical achievement, and something to be personally proud of, but was it worthy of being thus hailed, especially since a previous recipient, Austrian Gerlinde Kaltenbrunner, climbed all fourteen 8000-ers without oxygen on unguided expeditions?

It seems that compromising purism in style might be creeping into acceptance, and I worry that the long-term consequences of this tendency in adventures can only be negative. Taking out any major obstacle in the complex succession of problems that comprise an expedition worth undertaking increases the chance of success, but it also diminishes the challenge.

In the times we live in, most adventures are somewhat contrived and are just a game, but games have rules or conventions to keep them interesting and challenging. Take out the challenges, and they become boring to the point where those participating end up, in effect, short-changing themselves.

Of course, if their activities are not negatively impacting others or the environment, everyone is entitled to the freedom of setting their own rules in adventure.

But when it comes to setting a standard, as award programs inherently do, I think it’s very important to uphold the highest standards, especially now that professionalism and sponsorship are so prevalent and tied up with achievement. Lowering any standard axiomatically leads to mediocrity.

Mediocrity is the anathema of adventure; if there isn’t a challenging element to an undertaking, then it isn’t adventure. After all, aren’t the greatest dreams the ones that strive for the seemingly impossible?

Columns: OF MOUTHS & MONIES [DAN SLATER]

A LIFE FULLY LIVED Throwing away a used item of outdoor gear and clothing might be thought of as tragic, but only if that piece of equipment is being discarded prematurely.

A

pologies if I’ve mentioned this before, but I have a lot of outdoor equipment. I don’t say this to show off, but because it gives me a privileged perspective on the value of possessions. Everyone loves getting shiny new gear for their adventures, and that special feeling when you’ve spent a considerable amount of money on a dream tent or sleeping bag is magical. I’ll never forget it. The thing is, despite my extensive gear closet (OK, it now occupies a small room of its own), it’s been a long time since I spent ‘a considerable amount of money’ on any outdoor gear.

Working in the outdoor industry for any length of time, you just can’t help but accumulate ‘stuff’. There are giveaways at trade shows and training nights, prodeals and bro-deals, warranty stock that has to be written off even though there’s basically nothing wrong with it. I’m a gear reviewer. I test gear, write about it, and if I’m lucky the brand in question will allow me to keep it (which would in no way influence the nature of my review, by the way).

Back when the Petzl Nao head torch was newly released and the hottest thing since sliced bread, a colleague of mine (and I don’t know which one) made a sale.

The thing is, what the customer actually paid $200 for was ... an empty box! The actual torch was up on display and neither of them noticed its absence. In their defence, it was a particularly heavy empty box. Nevertheless, the customer walked away with nothing but an instruction manual, and yet they never came back!

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I cannot fathom what sort of person would arrive home, open the packaging, discover their loss, and then just throw it away with a shrug. Perhaps, however, that wasn’t the circumstance at all. Perhaps it was a gift, and the ensuing embarrassment precluded any mention of the lack of substance. Perhaps the buyer lost it before they had a chance to open and use it. Maybe they kept it for an emergency-lighting situation, which when it

THE DAY I THROW OUT A PIECE OF EQUIPMENT IS NOT, AS YOU MIGHT THINK, A SAD ONE. ON THE CONTRARY, IT’S A

CELEBRATION! ”

occurred resulted in a fatal accident due to the absence of said light. I’ve thought about this long and hard, believe me!

My circuitous point is this: No matter how much swag I accumulate, and regardless of owning the latest model in any given category, I will never throw away my older gear until it’s completely dead. (Ed: I’d say likewise, but the hoarder in me keeps a lot of dead gear as well, just in case I can cannibalise some part of it for use elsewhere). I’ll keep using it and using it until it finally shuffles off its mortal coil. Even with the newest, shiniest version standing eagerly by, I’ll favour the faded, threadbare favourite any day. It’s as if the closer

it comes to D-Day, the more I’ll thrash it to get it there as quickly as possible.

Case in point—my Earth Sea Sky Silk Weight T. When I first started work at my current company in 2009, I was given this T-shirt not only to wear in the store, but also on adventures to give me confidence in the product. It worked alright!

I now have five of these Silk Weight Ts (some of which I actually paid money for), but I still almost exclusively wear the first one. It’s thirteen years old, discoloured, manky and full of holes, but that’s the one I reach for while the pristine shirts sit ignored at the back of the drawer. (Tragically, the style has now been discontinued, but at least I have enough in hand to last me the rest of my life!)

The day I throw out a piece of equipment or clothing, finally beyond any further repair (and repair it I always do), is not, as you might think, a sad one. On the contrary, it’s a celebration! A triumph of perseverance. The feeling of having worn something completely out is that of a job well done. I pat myself on the back, bid the garment a fond farewell and reach for the next in line, which may already be ten years old and virtually unworn.

Sure, there’s a tinge of melancholy when I think of all the good times we’ve had together. I might take a final photo, or in extreme cases, cut out the logo to stitch into a hideous FrankenTee in an eccentric attempt to keep it on life support for a while longer. But the overwhelming feeling is of joy. The resources that went into this product were not wasted. It lived a full life and died a hero. Vale!

3D WarmCube™ technology circulates heat while you move and traps heat in down cubes when you come to a halt, for adaptable temperature-regulating comfort to cover a wide range of stop-and-go outdoor activities.

@MarmotAus

marmotau.com

CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES

A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country.

EDITED BY MAYA DARBY

BACKROOM DEALS HAVE PERVERTED PARK MANAGEMENT PROCESSES.”

The iconic Lost City in the new Gardens of Stone SCA is at risk of being monopolised for a commercial theme park.

Credit: Henry Gold

GARDENS OF STONE

The conservation vision for the unique Gardens of Stone landscape of NSW’s western Blue Mountains is threatened by commercial tourism development.

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fter decades of struggle, local conservation groups won additional protection for the Gardens of Stone near the NSW town of Lithgow. Sitting to the south of Gardens of Stone NP, the new, approximately 30,000ha state conservation area, with a world-class tourism and conservation vision, would be a win for workers, the community, and the environment. Called Destination Pagoda, it proposed a gentler, more family-friendly and nature-immersive experience than its rugged World Heritage-listed neighbour, the Blue Mountains NP. This vision celebrated the national park idea, allowing the new state conservation area reserve to be upgraded once already-approved underground coal mining in the area ceased.

It seemed to be a victory for conservationists. But when the NSW Government announced the Gardens of Stone State Conservation Area in 2021, it came—thanks to pressure from Deputy Premier and local Nationals member, Paul Toole—with multi-million-dollar infrastructure subsidies to support an adventure theme park and accommodation proposals.

If approved, there’ll be large impacts on the natural and cultural heritage from the four proposed privately leased accommodation nodes or resorts located on remote, intact and scenic parts of the Gardens of Stone SCA. The selection of sensitive sites

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disregards the NPWS’s sustainability guidelines for new accommodation that specify use of disturbed sites. The associated walking track seems an afterthought amongst the backroom deals that have perverted park management processes, with lease notices exhibited over Christmas 2022 that were accompanied by only five lines of information.

The proposals for the Lost City Adventure Precinct include ziplines, elevated walkways and via ferrata climbs; these will create visual blight, and monopolise use of Lithgow’s most scenic pagoda landscape, a view as awe-inspiring as the Three Sisters. The Lost City location could also put people at risk as Marrangaroo Military Base that uses live ammunition and ordnance is just 400m away.

Lithgow’s best chance of becoming the next Katoomba is visitor management that puts nature first. Proposed resort developments on-park will siphon off paying visitors who might have otherwise spent money in the local community. Gardens of Stone is a wonderland of dramatic pagoda rock formations, and it doesn’t need artificial adventures that sideline nature. Nature is good enough with amazing wild adventures, even for grandparents and the kids, so join us on the frontline to a sustainable future: gardensofstone.org.au KEITH MUIR

The new 30,000ha reserve is being damaged by ongoing coal mining, and threatened by proposed commercial leases for tourism development over five sites. Instead, it should be managed to protect: - Internationally rare & spectacular pagoda rock formations - Nationally endangered upland swamps - Significant Aboriginal heritage - 84 threatened plant and animal species - 16 rare and threatened ecological communities - Over 1,000 native plant species - 319 vertebrate species - Forested windblown sand dunes from the last Ice Age

End native forest logging and support the creation of the Great Forest National Park

Scan here to find out more

CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES SAVING SPECIES WITH PRIVATE SANCTUARIES

COAL SLUDGE KILLING FROGS

Odonata Foundation’s Academy Mastermind program is working with landholders to establish threatened-species sanctuaries on their properties. The program has helped regenerate populations of some of Australia’s most threatened species like the southern brush-tailed rock wallaby and the eastern quoll, and in 2021, the program helped the eastern barred bandicoot be downlisted from ‘extinct in the wild’ to Credit: Annette Ruzicka ‘endangered’. Given Australia’s alarming extinction record, programs like this allow landholders to make a tangible difference to conservation while connecting with a growing network of like-minded individuals. To learn more about the program, head to odonata.org.au/get-involved/establish-a-sanctuary

In September last year, Wild Editor James McCormack discovered coal sludge in the Royal National Park following a pollution event at Peabody Energy’s Metropolitan Colliery in Helensburgh. PhD student Shannon Kaiser has since been studying frog populations in the park, and has found disturbingly large amounts of dead, dying or sick frogs throughout impacted areas along the Hacking River.

Frogs are great indicator species; understanding the impact this pollution event has had on their populations is crucial in measuring the entire ecosystem’s health.

Information can be reported to the NSW Environment Protection Authority on 131 555.

Stay up to date with Shannon’s research by following him on twitter @shannonwkaiser. The Sutherland Shire Environment Centre also has information on the Metropolitan Mine’s ongoing impact on the Royal NP’s precious ecology: ssec.org.au

HILARY VAN LEEUWEN, Odonata Foundation

PERTH’S DRINKING WATER AT RISK FROM BAUXITE MINING It’s official. Bauxite mining in the Northern Jarrah Forest is threatening Perth’s drinking-water supply. New information reveals that the Aluminum Company of America (Alcoa) has been granted ministerial approval to strip mine in near sight of Serpentine Dam, despite relevant government departments raising serious concerns about harmful sedimentation and pollution risks—and the failure Serpentine Dam with a mining explosion in of miners to plan to address these problems. the background. Credit: Jeremy Perey WA forest campaigners first raised drinkingwater concerns regarding bauxite mining in the late 1970s. Since then, climate change has seen an almost 80% drop in streamflow in the Northern Jarrah Forest, historically Perth’s main water catchment. The city now relies on desalinated water for nearly half of its supply. With the Serpentine Dam contributing another 18%, authorities question the risk from ongoing bauxite mining.

Moreover, Rio Tinto and other mining companies have lodged fresh exploitation licence applications for other minerals across large areas of the Northern Jarrah Forest. Again, these include source areas for public drinking water. What price for mining?

To learn more, head here: wafa.org.au/northern-jarrah-forests

SHANNON KAISER, Macquarie University

JANE HUTCHISON, Western Australian Forest Alliance

PROTECTING OUR PRECIOUS BATS The Australasian region is a hotspot for bat diversity, but unfortunately it also has one of the highest numbers of species at risk of extinction. The Australasian Bat Society Inc promotes the conservation of bats and their habitats by supporting research and education initiatives and fostering community engagement. Bats play vital ecological roles in our natural environment by controlling invertebrate numbers, dispersing seed and pollinating flowers.

To learn more about protecting our precious bats, head to ausbats.org.au SUSAN CAMPBELL, Australasian Bat Society Inc

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Dead frog found next to the Hacking River. Credit: Shannon Kaiser

GOT ANY GREEN NEWS?

Credit: Adriana Ananda

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

CONSERVATION

WELCOME TO THE PYROCENE Climate change is coming for the places we love.

By CAM WALKER

A

fter World War Two, a growing appreciation of the As fire seasons also get longer in the northern hemisphere, Australian landscape and an emerging conservation this impacts on our ability to fight fire here. During the 2019/20 movement led millions of people to become involved Black Summer, around 1,000 personnel came from North in campaigns to protect our wild and special places. From the America to assist us in our firefighting efforts, and we continue Little Desert campaign in Victoria in the late 1960s and the to lease most of our large firefighting aircraft from the USA. Franklin campaign in the ‘80s, to the efforts to protect the This is impacting how we fight fires in our wild and protected rainforests of the Wet Tropics and the wonderful landscapes places. A stronger emphasis on aggressive ‘first strike’ tactics— of K’gari/Fraser Island, millions of hectares have been granted which aim to contain small fires caused by lightning before they conservation status and protected for generations to come. become blazes—is helping reduce the number of fires. Many Wild Magazine, and its readers, have played a key role in states are spending more to employ additional firefighters. securing many of these wins.

Large-scale interventions, like the ‘strategic firebreak’ program Once a campaign was won, however, we often thought the batin Victoria, aim to slow the spread of fire in forested landscapes. tle was over. There was an assumption that the relevant parks It is also impacting the way land managers look after forests service would have sufficient funds to manage these new conserand other ecosystems during and after fires. After large fires in vation reserves; sadly, that was far from the reality. But the direct the high country of Victoria in 2013, the Victorian Government threats—be they mining, logging, cattle grazing or other activiestablished an aerial seeding program to try and ensure that ties—were removed by the granting alpine ash—which are often killed of protection status as a national by wildfire and then require around I FIND IT HARD TO ACCEPT park or World Heritage Area. twenty years between fires to be THE Several decades ago, I volunable to produce seed—did not colteered with an environment group lapse. This is a great program, howthat campaigned to protect wild ever the scale of the 2019/20 fires WHERE THERE showed how hard it will be to keep ecosystems. In those days, I supported a ‘let burn’ policy for managup with the need to re-seed areas USED TO BE MATURE FORESTS.” ing fire in wild landscapes. Leaving facing the prospect of ecological aside the problematic concept of collapse. It is estimated that at least wilderness (where First Nations people are liquid papered out 44,000ha of immature alpine ash forests in eastern Victoria are of history, and land is declared to be ‘pristine wilderness’ rather at risk of collapse (that is, conversion to non-native forest cover) than managed and co-created in conjunction with First Nations because of the 2019/20 fires. peoples) we argued that the Australian environment was In Australia, the threats posed to special ecosystems—like the adapted to fire, and that wildfire in large reserves would simply ancient vegetation in lutruwita/Tasmania that emerged when burn itself out as it hit natural buffers like old-growth forest. The Australia was part of the Gondwana supercontinent—is leading argument went that we needed less human intervention in manto even greater intervention on the ground. For instance, during aging wild ecosystems, and that if humans withdrew from active the 2020 fires, firefighters were deployed to a remote part of the management, the land would eventually pass back into equilibBlue Mountains to defend the only known natural grove of the rium as it recovered from impacts like logging and mining. world-famous Wollemi pines. Fire crews were dropped into the Fast forward to now, and we find ourselves in a different world. area to operate an irrigation system set up to protect the trees, Climate change is coming for the places we love and for which we with helicopters also doing water drops on the fire’s edge to worked so hard to protect. The impacts are everywhere and are reduce any impact on the pines. easy to locate—drought, flood, storm events, heat waves, rising It is the same dilemma overseas. During recent fire seasons in sea levels and so on. But I will just look at one: fire.

North America, for instance, firefighters wrapped fire-resistant In a warmer world, fire seasons are already getting longer and blankets around ancient trees as blazes raced through Califormore intense. Higher temperatures and extreme drought condinia’s world-famous Sequoia National Park. While sequoia trees tions driven by climate change increase the risk of the hot, dry are very fire resistant and have evolved to survive flames—the weather that is likely to fuel wildfire. same as most eucalypts—the scale and frequency of fires is

ENDLESS ‘GHOST FORESTS’ OF DEAD TREES

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Mt Blowhard, Victorian Alps. This area has been impacted by fires several times in recent decades, including 2002/3, 2006/7, 2013 and 2019

threatening these ancient trees, which only exist in localised areas. The US Forest Service also announced it’s taking emergency action to save the sequoias, through labour-intense efforts like removing smaller trees and vegetation around the large sequoias, and using prescribed fires—intentionally lit fires to burn away underbrush. This is intended to reduce the risks of high-severity wildfires.

Recently, prominent researchers in lutruwita/Tasmania argued that as wildfires increase in severity and frequency as a result of climate change, Australian authorities will need to adopt a landscape scale plan to protect old trees in the way that American land managers are doing. They note that fires in 2003, 2010, 2012, 2016 and 2019, mostly “ignited by lightning storms under drought conditions”, destroyed seventeen of the world’s largest eucalypts.

Meanwhile, in the Australian Alps, the situation for the mountain pygmy possum is so dire because of reduced snow cover, bushfires and the reduction of a major food source—the Bogong Moth—that there are now attempts to start new colonies outside the mountains. With populations at great threat in the wild, a breeding program has been set up in Lithgow in order to try and ‘future-proof’ the species. When the captive-bred possums have successfully adapted to the warmer temperatures in Lithgow, researchers will aim to create new wild populations of possums, outside of the threatened alpine environment.

In just a few decades, we have passed into a new era—the Pyrocene—where fire is a dominant force across most of the planet. This has been created through human-induced climate change. It has profound implications for the wild places that have been protected in conservation reserves. Unless we accept this, and shift significant resources to manage landscapes and limit the impact of fire, we risk losing the places we love.

We have a choice to change this trajectory, but we need to act now. We need to do everything possible to reduce Australia’s contribution to further global warming, to play our part in global efforts to maintain a safe climate for people and wild places.

We also need additional capacity to fight fires. Some ideas here include establishing a national remote-area firefighting team that can be deployed locally where fires threaten World Heritage conservation or other values. This was proposed by a senate inquiry after 2016’s terrible fires in Tasmania. More recently, the federal Minister for Emergency Services, Murray Watt, has discussed establishing a ‘semi-professional’ national firefighting team.

Many states already have volunteer remote area firefighting teams which work with career firefighters to defend our conservation estate. Victoria does not, and should set one up. We know these teams can deliver extra capacity to firefighting efforts at limited cost to the tax payer. Given that most people living in large cities can’t join local volunteer brigades, Victoria could decide to create a new form of remote-area team—one that recruits from urban-based communities.

Last year I was at a forum where Craig Hore (Ranger in Charge, Fire and Emergency Operations, North East District, Parks Victoria) talked about the impacts of climate change on mountain environments. As a ranger, he’s seen first-hand the changes that have happened in the Alps in recent decades. Since the fires of 2002/3, the mountains have been transformed. With ever more frequent fire and drier conditions, he doesn’t feel that we can go back to what the Alps used to be like. In his early days as a ranger, he could drive through older forests for hours; now, however, so much of the park has been so badly impacted by fires that he says, “I doubt we will ever see those old forests again.”

Like other mountain lovers, I spend as much time as I can up in the Alps. I love nothing better than a long walk above the treeline. But I find it harder and harder to accept the endless ‘ghost forests’ of dead trees and regrowth that cover the high plains where there used to be mature forests. Unless we act Beyond Cradle now, we will lose the remaining old forests.

Mountain, Tasmania’s Overland Track winds CONTRIBUTOR: Cam works with environment group Friends of the south, providing public huts firefighter. for all walkers, Earth, and is an avid walker, backcountry skier and volunteer without sky-high fees

AUTUMN 2023

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OPINION

GOING SOLO Yes, travelling in the bush with others has its advantages. So, too, does carrying PLBs and mobile phones. But for thousands of years we’ve done without being able to call for help, and dealing with difficulties on our own is a pathway to growth.

Words & Photography ANDY SZOLLOSI

INTRO There is a process that tends to occur in the lead up to a solo wilderness excursion. It all begins with the awakening of a strong desire to visit a place, to experience it first hand. It might be born out of a story we have heard, or a photograph we have seen. The result is a growing resolution to visit the place, regardless of the effort required to reach it. Some wild places are well guarded by fast-flowing rivers, thick forests and precipitous slopes. We may be resolved, but the place will ask us in no uncertain terms: Are you willing to pay the cost of passage?

some from our walking buddy. If we let ourselves get too cold and are then unable to put a tent up in perilous conditions because our hands are too frozen to be useful, we may die of exposure.

It is said that a group size of four is a safe number. If there is an injury, one person can stay with the casualty, and the other two members can go and get some help. This way, no one is left on their own. Everyone remains with their buddy in case something goes wrong. This is a comforting idea, and it minimises the risks we are likely to encounter out in the bush. All things considered, it’s quite sensible to travel in small groups.

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III

The reason we end up going solo may be simple. We may fail to Another sensible idea is to take a communications device, like a find another person who has the same desire to go to the place we mobile phone, or a PLB, or both, especially if we have decided to have resolved to visit. This is not to say that other people won’t head out solo after all. It’s generally our loved ones who say to want to go there, but that we have simus: “Take something you can use to call ply not been able to find a suitable comfor help, just in case things go wrong.” panion to undertake the journey with In fact, it’s quite difficult to argue these us. In this case, we may wait and hope days against the idea of taking a coma suitable person arises in the future munications device. After all, it could WITH NO MEANS OF who we can go with. Or, we can go solo. save your life, or someone else’s life.

COMMUNICATING There are benefits to going solo. We Furthermore, there is some substance set our own routine, and can perfectly to the ‘social responsibility’ argument tailor the trip to suit our own needs. as well. I’ve often been told to take a We can walk and stop whenever we device, out of consideration for the like. We don’t have to wait for or keep up with anyone. We may people who love me, and out of consideration for my potential discover that talking and singing to ourself is a perfectly acceptrescuers. If you don’t return from your trip to the wilderness, a able form of entertainment. And without the distractions posed rescue party is going to come looking for you, whether you wish by our companions, we can be completely immersed in the landfor them to do this or not. And given a search will commence, you scape and be in tune with our inner world. may as well make it easier for your rescuers to find you.

Going solo also provides the perfect opportunity to overcome our fear of being alone. For me, there is a difference between IV solitude and being alone. Being on our own doesn’t necessitate People tell me that their decision making is not altered by the a feeling of loneliness. If we are able to connect with the landpresence of an emergency device. I do not believe them. Having a scape surrounding us, we will never have a dull moment on our device with an SOS function alters the nature of the trip from the trip. Sure, there will be moments where we wish for companionoutset, and it alters our decision making, whether we are aware ship, and the absence of people may strike us at certain times. of this or not.

But when we do return from our trip, we will be that much more Having a safety line means we are more likely to attempt grateful for the presence of people in our lives. something dangerous than without a safety line. A trip we may not be willing to undertake suddenly becomes feasible if we II know that we can call for help in case things get out of hand.

Don’t go into the bush alone.

We are more likely to attempt something that is on the border This mantra exists for a reason. There is safety in numbers. of our abilities. Having a communications device makes the trip When we are solo in the bush, there is no one to help us if somesafer overall; but having a device also increases the chance of thing goes wrong. If we run out of toilet paper, we can’t borrow needing a rescue.

WHEN I SAY SOLO, I MEAN ON MY OWN, WITH THE OUTSIDE WORLD FOR THE DURATION OF THE TRIP.”

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View towards Frenchmans Cap, Central Highlands, Tasmania.

Pentax MX, Ektar 100, September 2020

V When I go what I consider to be ‘solo’, I do not carry a PLB. Or a mobile phone. Or a GPS. Recently, I’ve been considering leaving my maps at home, too. When I say solo, I mean on my own, with no way of communicating with the outside world for the duration of the trip. This means that if something goes wrong, I won’t be able to call for help. In no way am I advocating that this is the correct procedure for going solo.

The idea of what it means to go solo evolves for each person individually. Although I tend not to take a device, I still leave my trip intention with my emergency contacts, so that is my safety line. In the future, I may very well write a letter and get it signed by a justice of the peace saying that if I do not return from my solo trips, I do not wish to be rescued, thus removing this last safety line. To me, this would be the ultimate form of going solo, because it implies taking full responsibility for my own safety and a complete acceptance of my actions and their consequences.

On the other hand, I could also one day come full circle and realise that taking a PLB is the correct procedure for me after all. It’s healthy to remain open to the possibility of changing our mind. If you are unsure what to do, you could ask yourself this question: Will I regret this decision if something goes wrong?

VI People have lived in the Australian bush for at least 60,000 years.

And it is only in the last twenty years that we have developed the belief that a satellite communications device is essential for a foray into the wild. Tasmanian Aboriginal people managed to survive the last ice age with a very simple tool kit. Their knowledge of their country and their skill set must have been extraordinary.

There is no denying it—our modern ways create a safer environment for people. But our way of life comes at great costs: the increasing destruction of the natural world, and a strong dependence on technology. People survived the last ice age in Tasmania with only stone tools. Today, most people are unwilling to go for a walk into a remote area without depending on satellite technology

and the ability to call for help if need be. This holds significance to our discussion about going solo. Have we truly ‘gone solo’ if we have a way of calling for help when we run into trouble?

VII There is another mantra, and it’s one I live by: Prior Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance. These are the six Ps of outdoor leadership. They encourage self-reliance, and our taking responsibility for our own safety out in the bush. I identify my escape routes. I allow extra time for unforseen delays.

Being lost is a state of mind, not something that happens by accident. Being lost is a state where we have lost track of our surroundings and our orientation in them. But at the end of the day, if we can pitch our tent and make ourselves a cup of tea, then everything will be absolutely fine, even if we’re not quite sure exactly where the heck we are. In order to return from the wilderness, we must know our way home, and have a strong enough reason to return to it. That’s the key to coming back.

OUTRO I find that the greatest trips have the greatest obstacles near the end. Achieving the objective of an adventurous trip is not a given. Each trip usually has a crux, or most difficult part, a natural bottleneck that forces us to act with skills we didn’t know we had. A worthwhile solo trip is one where we are required to perform something we have never performed before. And by doing so, we prove to ourselves that we are capable.

If we have done our solo trip right, we will come back feeling better than when we left. This might mean that we are as ragged as the seven whips of hell, but we are elated nevertheless, for we have grown in ways which we previously thought impossible.

Beyond Cradle CONTRIBUTOR: Andy Szollosi is a walking guide and photographer

Mountain, Tasmania’s based in lutruwita/Tasmania. He sometimes has trouble finding willOverland Track winds ing friends to accompany him on his adventures into the wilderness. south, providing public huts for all walkers, View more of his work at theiapictures.com/scribbleton-post without sky-high fees

AUTUMN 2023

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NONE OF THE ABOVE

Q+A

with Hilary McAllister, CEO of For Wild Places Hilary McAllister is the CEO and Co-Founder of For Wild Places, a nonprofit organisation that harnesses the energy of Australia's trail running community. Wild’s Editor James McCormack asks Hilary about her involvement with FWP, and learns more about its mission and its goals.

WILD: You’re the CEO and Co-Founder of For Wild Places.

Tell us a little about what FWP wants to achieve.

HM: Our mission is to make trail running a meaningful expression of environmental activism. We want to connect the community with actionable ways to protect our incredible biodiversity, culture and ecosystems.

WILD: What’s the genesis of the organisation?

HM: After takayna Trail 2020, event Co-Founder Simon Harris reached out to some participants who’d expressed interest in being more involved. We were in the early throws of COVID lockdowns, and had time on our hands; personally, I felt adrift and somewhat useless in the chaos. Together, we took on the task of creating a sustainable non-profit with a wonderful rag-tag crew of trail runners turned Board members! Fast forward almost three years and FWP has evolved a lot, and there’s still a long way to go.

COMMUNITY AND CONNECTION ARE KEY TO FACILITATING CHANGE;

GOING AT IT SOLO IS LONELY AND LEADS TO BURNOUT."

WILD: Was there a specific moment when you first felt you had to get involved?

HM: My ‘Ah-ha’ moment was after the 2019 election; I realised I had to be more active in confronting the climate crisis. My involvement with FWP has been a great way to put my skills to good use, and made me realise community and connection are key to facilitating change; going at it solo is lonely and leads to burnout.

WILD: Why has sports activism gained traction lately?

HM: In some ways it was inevitable—we’re a sporting nation, and as the catastrophic impacts of a changing climate become more visceral, it was only a matter of time before athletes became more outspoken. I also think activism is now seen as a worthy pursuit—Greta Thunberg is an inspiration, and gives many people, including myself, motivation to get out of our comfort zone and stand up for the places we care about.

WILD: Speaking of traction, can you talk about February's upcoming TRACTION (TRail ACTION) event?

HM: In early 2023, there’ll be several free TRACTION: Trail Action events happening across Victoria. Each event will invite trail users to volunteer and pick up rubbish, resurface, prune or weed trails and plant trees. We’re excited to be joined by community leaders to share their experiences and local issues with us. We hope to expand this initiative across the east coast later this year, so stay tuned!

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Credit: Bryan Hynes

WILD: You’ve got a camp this Autumn in the Victorian high country, too; can you talk about that?

HM: We’ve wanted to put on an FWP Camp for a while now, and it’s finally happening! This camp—which will welcome people of all fitness levels, at different stages of their sports activism journey—will be the first of many combining education, empowerment and the environment. We’ll learn about the high country landscape from Traditional Owners, ecologists and local environmental groups, and then explore different ways we can use our individual skills to be more active in protecting wild places.

WILD: Holding events seems to be a core focus of For Wild Places. Why did you take that approach?

HM: Nothing beats sharing unique experiences and in wild places. Personally, heading down to lutruwita for takayna Trail changed my life trajectory; an experience that can’t be replicated online. Events are, however, incredibly resource intensive and risky; we’re working on creating impact in other ways to create a range of other initiatives.

WILD: For Wild Places is known for the Pilliga Ultra. But at this year’s event, there’ll be a tweaked format involving greater local buy-in. Why make the change?

HM: In the Pilliga Ultra's first year, we got to know the locals, and witnessed the frustrations they have with accessing funding to support grassroot initiatives. As a result, this year we want to channel the funds raised straight to the community, which includes the satellite towns on this enormous forest’s perimeter.

WILD: Thus far, For Wild Places has focussed on harnessing the trail running community’s energy, but do you have plans to broaden your base?

HM: We started with trail runners because that’s who we know best. For now, we intend to stick with this audience because we feel we still have a long way to go to activate all trail runners, and to strengthen the connection between trail running and environmental activism. It’s also a rapidly growing sport, so the potential for impact is incredible. In saying that, a bunch of our members are trail users (hikers, bikers, etc) so our mission appeals to a wide range of outdoors people.

WILD: How can people help out, or learn more about FWP? HM: Our weekly newsletter is jam packed with interviews, interesting articles and upcoming events. Social media is a good way to know what’s coming up, and if you’re super keen, becoming a member will ensure you’re the first in line to RSVP to events and hear about new initiatives. Becoming a member also supports the ongoing sustainability of our organisation; like many NFPs, we run off the smell of a sweaty tee-shirt!

Learn more about For Wild Places at: forwildplaces.com

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D O L O M I T E S

Distributed by

GETTING STARTED

BUILDING

A HOME WOODY with Nathan McNeil

Building a climbing wall at home is not as difficult as you might think, says Wild Earth Ambassador Nathan McNeil.

B

een climbing for a while and looking to up your game?

Want the awesomeness of a bouldering gym in the convenience of your home? Sounds like it’s time you built a ‘woody’! A woody is the suspicious name climbers give to home climbing walls as they are predominantly made of timber, therefore … woody. Fun, isn’t it? So I set myself a goal over this last summer to finally build my own woody. I got a few things right, and definitely learnt a few things too, so here’s what I learnt that will help you when building your own home wall.

1.

FIGURE OUT ANGLE AND DIMENSIONS. Your woody

needs a home, so figure out where you’re going to put it and then work out what size wall you are going to make/can fit and what angle you want it to be; this is the basis for everything else; spend the time to get this right. I went for a 35° wall and 1.5 sheets of ply wide (3.6m) and 2.5 sheets of ply high (2.8m) plus a 400mm kick board at the base.

2.

CONFIRM HOW IT WILL BE CONSTRUCTED WITH FRIENDS OR PROFESSIONALS. Once you’ve

worked out where it’s going, figure out how you’ll put it together.

If this isn’t your forte, ask some chippy mates or even draw up a sketch of your wall, and get some photos of the space and ask the staff at your local building supply shop. Knowing exactly how you plan on constructing the woody will save you from making on-the-fly decisions and wasting materials and time.

3.

CONSIDER COST-SAVING OPTIONS. Things like us-

ing form ply over marine ply will save you big bucks. Also consider not using T-nuts, and simply screwing holds to the wall instead. This will not only save you money but you'll also save a heap of time and heartache. There are many ways to build a wall for less.

4.

KNOW WHAT YOU NEED BEFORE YOU GO TO BUNNINGS. Write up a list of materials you’ll need

5.

MARK AND CONFIRM T-NUT GRID LAYOUT BEFORE DRILLING ANY HOLES. The T-nut pattern for

before going shopping. Try and cover off everything you need to start and finish the project. Otherwise expect to spend half a day in Bunnings walking around the aisles aimlessly. If you really want to save time, order it online and click-and-collect!

me was the crux. I didn’t know what was right and wrong here. In the end, I just went to the gym and measured their T-nut spacing and went with that. I used a 150mm grid which meant a lot of T-nuts, but you can do any spacing you like really. Just make sure you are happy with your spacing before drilling any holes.

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Nathan's pride and joy—a freshly built home woody

TURN YOUR HOME CLIMBING

DREAMS INTO REALITY."

6.

ONLY DRILL HOLES FROM THE FRONT FACE OF THE PLYWOOD. When drilling the T-nut holes, only

7.

MARK FRAMING LOCATIONS ON PLY SHEETS AS YOU'RE FITTING THEM. As you put ply sheets on

8.

BE SAVVY WITH BUYING HOLDS & MATTING.

drill from the ply’s front-facing side (the side your holds will attach to) as that will leave the cleanest hole. The ply’s back side will usually crack and break when the drill bit pushes out the other side.

This means you need to mark your grid on the face side also.

the wall, mark the locations of the studs/frame on the ply sheet before putting the next one up. Otherwise, when you’ve fully sheeted the wall, you won’t be able to see where the framing is to screw the rest of the sheets off. This is a simple time-saving technique but a super useful one. Hot tip—fit the kick board sheets first and make sure they’re level; that way you can sit the bottom sheets of the wall’s main part on top of them for support.

Holds and pads can be expensive. I found lots of holds on marketplace, as well as cheap boulder pads. Even ask mates if they want to sell an unused one that’s been sitting in the garage for years. For most of the holds, I waited for a sale and bought a bunch from Climbing Anchors. Wild Earth also sell holds, as do a heap of other places, so keep an eye out. Also check with your local climbing gym; they often sell old holds super cheap.

Having completed the wall now, it’s definitely been a worthwhile exercise. The actual act of building the woody wasn’t that hard or time consuming. Most of the effort went into planning and design, but once I’d figured that out, it was just a matter of putting in bolts, cutting and screwing timbers, and putting the thing together; it didn’t take all that long. It cost me around $1700 all up including holds and pads, and it's rad!

Remember, you can make this project as big or as small as you want, and there are many cost-saving options for penny pinchers. If you’ve been thinking about building a home woody but haven’t been sure where to start, this is your sign! It’s time to turn your home climbing dreams into reality.

(A longer, more detailed version of this piece is available online at

wild.com.au/build-a-home-woody)

CONTRIBUTOR: Adventure photographer and filmmaker Nathan McNeil can usually be found camera-in-hand at the crags around SE Queensland. He is an Ambassador for WildEarth.com.au

CLIMBING GEAR SPECIALISTS with stores in Alexandria (NSW) & Fitzroy (VIC).

Mini Stores in Lane Cove (NSW) & Waterloo (NSW). Online at climbinganchors.com.au

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PROFILE

OUTBACK

MIKE

Air Force pilot, survival expert, filmmaker, adventurer. It takes a lot of words to describe Michael Atkinson, and a lot of confidence to be him.

Words Megan Holbeck Photos Michael Atkinson (unless otherwise credited)

I

nterviewing someone is supposed to be a process of uncovering what makes a person different to (and more special than) you. But with Outback Mike (aka Mike Atkinson), the interview begins with discovering how similar we are, at least in our backgrounds. He’s only a year older than me, and also grew up in suburban Canberra’s mighty Weston Creek, with us both attending local government schools. We even had brief modelling interludes, my role in a 1980s Thai TV commercial (sporting a pink beret and lots of blue eye shadow) matching his fleeting appearances in Canberra ads and fashion parades.

But, aside from being married with kids, that’s where the similarities end.

The differences between Mike and I (and just about everyone else on Earth) are contained in the following life summary. He was a defence force pilot for fifteen years, doing everything from helicopter peace-keeping missions to breaking the sound barrier in fighter jets. Mike is a survival expert who has lived off the land for months at a time, with skills learnt directly from Indigenous folk across Australia. He’s also a filmmaker—Surviving the Outback was his award-winning first film, selected for the Banff Film Festival—and he’s partway through making his first feature. (He is cameraman, writer, director, producer, on-screen talent and everything else.) And he’s also an adventurer, one who has skied solo across Iceland, trained camels in Saudi Arabia and headed off across the Dannah Sands. Mike’s latest expeditions have been solo trips escaping historical survival scenarios: Sailing an improvised raft up the Kimberley coast then trekking out; and a 1,500km trip up the Great Barrier Reef in a home-made dugout canoe.

I suspect Mike will soon be a big name in the TV/adventure field too. He finished his Great Barrier Reef trip in August 2021.

When we meet fourteen months later, he’s working on his book’s second draft, and the long, painstaking process of turning footage into a film. This year will be big: He’s self-publishing his book to coincide with a planned year-long film tour, and planning to grow his YouTube channel massively.

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My family has just got hooked on Alone, a winner-takes-all reality TV show where ten individuals compete to last the longest living off the land, solo, in remote wilderness. When I meet Mike, I immediately think he’d be a perfect contestant. Then I see a trailer for the next season, filmed in Tassie: In one shot there’s someone who looks suspiciously like Mike …

THE FOUNDATIONS But for all the amazing stuff he’s done and is doing (yes, my Alone suspicion has been confirmed!), most startling to me is Mike’s confidence. It’s not arrogance, just a supreme belief in his skills, competency and ability to manage risk and handle situations. The most obvious example of this is his twin directions in life—aviation and survival filming—and their origin: Watching the movie Top Gun and the TV series The Bush Tucker Man as a teenager. I put it to Mike that a lot of people wanted to be Top Gun’s Maverick, but not all of them trained as fighter pilots, and he’s a little perplexed. “I probably had an ill-founded self-confidence in my ability to achieve things. I don’t know where that came from. It’s kind of weird, because I always assumed that I could do whatever I wanted to do.”

Mike and I are talking as we walk towards Brooklyn on the Great North Walk, a beautiful stretch dropping down to the Hawkesbury’s Jerusalem Bay. When we met at Cowan Station, one potential source of confidence was obvious. Mike’s a good-looking man, a mix of Zoolander doing a permanent ‘Blue Steel’ mixed with Rami Malek playing Freddy Mercury. And although it will make me sound pervy, a quick (and purely professional) perusal of his Instagram page reveals that he’s quite a fit human.

Physical attributes only get you so far though, and I spend most of the walk trying to work out the nature/nurture confidence split. First stop is 1980s Canberra, a hotspot of mullets and desert boots. Mike was a confident, competent kid and things came easily to him, both academically and physically.

He was (and still is) deeply uninterested in social structure and

Mike casts a nervous glance behind to check for breaking waves and assess the severity of an approaching squall. He had to take the biggest waves stern-on, or the canoe would broach sideways and capsize

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Profile: OUTBACK MIKE

approval. He had deep passions and interests—fishing, skiing, exploring, building stuff—and a few close friends, and didn’t care what anyone else thought.

He remembers a childhood with freedom to explore and set his own limits, to build things, make and learn from mistakes.

(One example is building exploding arrows from nitrous oxide cartridges, cap-gun caps and other parts, then firing them in an abandoned road cutting—there was shrapnel pinging off the rocks.) Most weekends he spent bush with best mate Andy Tomkins, fishing and exploring. Mike was seventeen when the two walked and skied 220km from Mt Kosciuszko to Canberra.

While he was given love and freedom, in his teenage years there wasn’t much cash. Without money to buy gear, Mike made it a personal challenge to do bigger and better adventures on cheaper and more ridiculous equipment. He remembers wearing skis from the tip to compete in the interschool ski competition, taking on private school teams wearing one-piece matching Gore-Tex suits. As he puts it: “I took pride in beating people that were given a better leg up. I guess it’s the underdog cliché, but it works. Being told you’re not good enough for something is usually the best motivator to do it.”

By the time Mike finished school, he had confidence aplenty: He had the brains and brawn, disregarded others’ opinions but was motivated to do well, and had plenty of adventures behind him. At eighteen, Mike set himself two life goals based on his favourite fantasies: become a fighter-jet pilot, and do something similar to the Bush Tucker Man. Piloting was a young man’s game, so he figured he’d tick that off first. What came next was the adversity needed to harden up.

TOUGHENING UP Ready to start his own Maverick journey, Mike applied for pilot training in the Air Force. He expected to get in, and it was a huge shock when he didn’t. The next year was tough, working as a ground-force soldier while he waited to apply again. But again he didn’t make the grade. He was, quote, “very sad”—my translation is “devastated”. Dreams in tatters, he took off around the world on a shoestring budget, having solo adventures from Alaska to Nepal. It sounds great, but for Mike it was rock bottom. He was lonely, broke and—worst of all—didn’t have a plan.

Mike is extremely driven and logical. I think his confidence partly comes from his ability to break down any plan into steps and then just begin. For example, with his Great Barrier Reef trip, he first had to find a four-tonne log, then craft it into a boat that could handle strong winds and choppy conditions.

(He hoped construction would take four months; it took fourteen.) Then there were the test runs; transporting the craft from NSW to north Queensland; the three-month expedition itself; the months of book writing, film editing, and creating YouTube content; all of which will be followed in 2023 with the year-long

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SO WHAT’S IT LIKE WALKING

WITH A SURVIVAL EXPERT?

IT’S LIKE ANY OTHER BUSHWALK, ONLY

MORE INTERESTING.”

film and book tour, starting with a fortnight living on his dugout canoe in Sydney Harbour.

In 1996, when he was lost and lonely, travelling the world, Mike used a similar approach to plan his way out of his slump.

If he couldn’t get into the Air Force, he could still fly: He’d just become a geologist, start an exploration company, and fly helicopters instead. Simple! Armed with a plan, he returned to Canberra for two years of science at ANU, before passing the exams to become an Army helicopter pilot. He was ecstatic: This would give him access to the best survival training, just like the Bush Tucker Man.

EXPERIENCE This was Phase Three for Operation Super Confidence: gaining skills and experience. In eight years based in Darwin, Mike did all the training he could, including a NORFORCE course run by a predominantly Aboriginal unit. This taught him everything from survival skills to bush tucker to finding water, and involved living off the land for three weeks. (He later instructed this and other courses.) He jettisoned the Army’s heavy-drinking culture,

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Sailing the remote Kimberley coast (Balanggarra Country). Mike was in an improvised raft, recreating the historic (1932) predicament of lost German aviators Hans Bertram and Adolf Klausmann Catching yabbies as a kid (1987, age 11). Credit: Ian Atkinson (Mike’s dad) Mike in Timor Leste as a reconnaissance helicopter pilot with the Australian Army, 2002.

Credit: Eric Larsen

and began putting his skills into practice on solo adventures, including an epic 2,000km tinny trip from Darwin to Derby.

During this time, he flew Kiowa reconnaissance helicopters over most of the continent, picking out Queensland’s 1770 and NSW’s Mid North Coast’s Port Stephens as his preferred future homes. It was also an opportunity to scout for locations, plan photogenic adventures, and work on his photography and filming skills. As it turns out, it was also a great time to find a wife.

While visiting his mum in Canberra in 2003, he met the gorgeous Melinda. A first date at a restaurant led to a second that sounds like some sort of Bachelor/Survivor reality TV hybrid. “I took her to the Kimberley and we did 500km in the tinny and got a chopper and got dropped down the coast,” says Mike. Melinda must have passed her initiation, because they got married in 2007, had Tom in 2008 and Zara in 2010, the same year they bought their house at Port Stephens.

So far, so good: all peachy on the home front. And Mike’s survival skills, adventure experience, photography and instructing abilities were almost ready for his tilt at adventure filming. But there were Maverick moves ahead: Through a series of manoeuvres, he was accepted into the Air Force for jet training, but was scrubbed from the course after a few years. At 36, eighteen years after his fighter-pilot dream began, it was over.

But it wasn’t a failure. Along the way he’d forged a career and gained the skills necessary for goal number two: adventure survival filming. A five-year stint in Saudi Arabia instructing Air Force pilots shored up the family finances; meanwhile, he taught

himself as much as he could about film production. During a sixweek ‘holiday’, he completed his first filmed expedition: Surviving the Outback.

So what’s it like walking with a survival expert? It’s like any other bushwalk, only more interesting. Mike details making damper from lomandra longifolia seeds, and how the stems from grasstrees are excellent for traditional fire lighting. At lunch, we eat water lilies, and he stops me stepping on what I think is a tiny snake but is actually a legless lizard. (If a catastrophe wiped out the world while we walk, my chances of surviving would be far greater than on a usual day.)

As we hit the Hawkesbury, looking out over water framed by orange sandstone, I ask Mike to identify a weakness. He nominates storytelling, although through book writing and film editing, he’s learning fast. We move on to talk about the difference between filmmaking and writing, and the challenges of each. We discuss the importance of authenticity, about telling the story that happens rather than the one you anticipate. About framing a story, and how the most interesting thing of all is the truth.

We also talk about Mike’s realisation that “part of the trick to a good adventure is having the imagination to come up with it.”

On his two most recent trips, he’s found his sweet spot: taking a historical survival setting as the starting point and challenging himself to escape.

For his first film, this starting point was that of two German aviators stranded in the Kimberley in 1932 after running out of fuel. The two men made a raft from a seaplane float and

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attempted to sail to civilisation: They were days away from death when local Balanggarra people rescued them.

On his expeditions, Mike doesn’t re-enact historical survivors’ actions, just the starting conditions, surviving on bush tucker and using only materials originally available. In the Kimberley, to cover the 200km between Wyndham and Seaplane Bay before beginning the trip proper, Mike motored for eight days on a raft he’d made from bush logs and mock seaplane floats. Then, using sails made from bathrobes, and sleeping on spectacular but croc-patrolled beaches, he sailed for four days, before crossing 70km of rough terrain on foot to reach the since-closed Pago Mission.

For his latest trip, Mike chose the starting point of James Morrill. Morrill was shipwrecked in 1846 off the Great Barrier Reef, setting off on a raft with 21 others. There were seven left alive when the raft landed just south of present-day Townsville 42 days later; soon it was just Morrill. He was cared for by the Birri-gubba locals, living as part of their society for seventeen years, before eventually being re-assimilated back into white society.

Mike challenged himself to escape Morrill’s situation one year after reaching shore. His plan was to sail 1,500km to the 1800s emergency haven set up on Booby Island, off Australia’s northern tip. Morrill was a carpenter and sailor with tools and skills; after a year, he would have known how to survive off the land.

But for this trip, picking a good adventure was the easy bit.

Fashioning a dugout canoe that could cope with rough seas and strong winds took more than a year, even using power tools to speed things up. (Mike did every task once with hand tools to show it was possible. There’s a YouTube video of the build with more than 12 million views.) Even then the vessel was only just acceptable: Mike came close to capsizing once, in rowdy seas with a hulking croc nearby. The canoe was designed so he could

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cut away one outrigger and right the boat, but in wild water (particularly if injured) all bets were off.

But the boat didn’t capsize, and Mike didn’t drown or get eaten or even injured. Instead, it all went according to plan; he landed on Thursday Island fifty days after setting off. Even Mike says this was amazing, crediting it to good management combined with not being unlucky. “It kind of makes it look like it’s all a bit easy, but it’s not. With both the Kimberley one and that one, if I did them again, there’s still a 50% chance that I wouldn’t make it.”

IF A CROCODILE CAME ABOARD, HE’D STAB IT THROUGH THE SLATS UNTIL IT JUMPED OFF AGAIN.” This is one downside to filming a survival epic in paradise: It looks like a holiday. But it definitely wasn’t. Mike trawled for 700km before catching his first fish—a huge queenfish. He was so happy he cried. And he rarely got off the boat: Getting ashore was too risky, so he spent most of the time onboard and slept on deck. His high-tech crocodile defence plan was to sleep in the dugout, take a whopping knife, and put the slatted deckhatch on. He figured that if a crocodile came aboard, he’d stab it through the slats until it jumped off again.

There were lowlights—almost capsizing, loads of rain—as well as highlights. It took Mike 46 days to work out how to use the big sail properly. “Sailing along a beautiful reef in full sunlight … I’d put the big sails up and I’d just caught a fish. There were moments when you’re like, I’m doing what I dreamed about right now.”

INFLUENCER

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM

After his last two expeditions, Mike’s found that adding a real story adds depth, boundaries, survival skills and the potential to spread messages. “If you just do an adventure for the sake of adventure, there’s not as much to bring depth to it—the historic angle brings depth. And because I also have this goal of influencing things, it’s a good way to bring Aboriginal people into it. You get to tell Australia’s actual story.”

Mike wants to bring change: first through his book and films, then through a YouTube channel of challenges, bush tucker and survival. He wants Australians to realise that in pre-colonial times, when only Aboriginal people managed the land, it looked different to te way it does now. He believes we should return our wilderness areas to this previous state by managing them in the same way, to better suit the conditions our plants and animals are adapted to, and to reduce the frequency of severe bushfires.

The first step, says Mike, is recognising how different this landscape was. He points to pictures and descriptions from early colonisers, with one example from Captain Cook at Botany Bay. “The woods are free from underwood of every kind, and the trees are at such a distance from one another that the whole Country, or at least great part of it, might be Cultivated without being obliged to cut down a single tree.” (Mike challenges anyone to find anywhere in a national park fitting that description now.)

Mike sets his adventures in Australia so he can interact with First Nations people, talk about how the land has changed, and to look for (and spread) the truth as he sees it.

It lets him discuss not only the knowledge that’s been lost but also what hasn’t, and to raise awareness of the answers staring us in the face.

Mike, as always, has a life plan. In five years, his film will be done, and he hopes to have paid himself a reasonable wage for the years of work. He’s not planning other big trips—probability-wise, he thinks he should have died by now—but will put his efforts into shorter YouTube adventures, hoping for half a million followers or so.

And in ten years? “Maybe politics,” is the surprising answer. But only if he thinks that’s the best way to make a difference.

So Mike Atkinson for Prime Minister? Perhaps … and after reviewing his life to date, I wouldn’t bet against it. But first he might need to find a fictional version for inspiration: maybe one starring Chris Hemsworth as PM? W

Mike with his camel Sultana and her baby Pom Pom (named by Mike’s kids), as he attempted to cross a Saudi Arabian desert using traditional Bedouin gear. Mike needed a lactating mother so he could add camel milk to his diet of dates and dried goats’ milk Rounding Cape York (Yadhaigana Country) on his way to Booby Island (Ngiangu) A freshly speared mullet taken with traditional spear and woomera on a remote sandspit (20km offshore) in Umpila Sea Country, halfway up Cape York Mike marked the days off on his canoe’s stern during his 50-day journey up the Great Barrier Reef Mike with wife Melinda, and children Tom (14) and Zara (12), holding baby Tasmanian devils at Aussie Ark. Credit: Adam Mowbray and Aussie Ark

CONTRIBUTOR: Megan Holbeck is a Sydneybased writer. She’s convinced that an ‘adventure mindset’ is a real thing, and cultivates it at every opportunity. Sometimes it even works.

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T he

Inauguration Tasmania’s wild Frankland Range turns out to be the perfect proving ground for two young adventurers to test themselves.

Words & Photography Hamish Lockett

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E

very outdoor enthusiast has a memory of that trip. The one where they understood the feeling of being properly immersed.

This was that memory. The better part of a week spent getting lost, levitating metres above the ground in tangled bauera, drinking any water graspable, and enjoying sunsets in solitude. That’s one way to put it, although I like to reflect on this trip more as a coming of age of bushwalking in Tasmania. Oskar and myself were two young guys, equally intrigued by wild places and the elusive and vast mountainous areas of Southwest Tasmania.

When you think of the way school is set out, you spend a term learning the information, then right at the end of that term they throw you in a room with a pencil and see if you have been listening. Well, the three years after finishing school was that term, the Frankland Range was that piece of paper and you guessed it … Oskar and myself were the two sticks of graphite right alongside.

We were two pencils sitting in a toasty warm car parked on the side of the road in Strathgordon, the outlook rainy, cloudy, and intimidating. There lay the daunting challenge ahead.

This was a long-awaited moment, brought about through much logistical planning and learning. This place would hold all the ingredients and obstacles for challenging times, and it was all ahead of us at this point. Sounds fun, right? Let’s set the scene and break it down.

Southwest Tasmania is the bottom of the world, the end of the world, and one of the more exciting wild playgrounds on this planet. All you have to do is look at a map of Tasmania and your eyes will dart straight to this intriguing corner as if to pose a series of questions. Where are the roads? What lies down there? How the heck do you get in there? These are all excellent questions, and that’s what makes this area so exciting.

During a glowing sunset, Oskar looks towards Double Peak in the distance

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Frankland Range, TASMANIA

Frankland Range

T

he Frankland Range runs along the southwestern edge of Lake Pedder. It’s an untracked range, predominantly formed of glacier-carved quartzite, and it runs ruggedly for kilometres, sandwiched between the Wilmot and Giblins Ranges which act as entry and exit. And our starting point of this trip? That would be the last stop in the Southwest—the end of the only road leading to Strathgordon.

We had scoured the internet, looking for any notes to work with for this trip. The consensus from the extreme lack of resources was straightforward yet promptly demeaning: Good luck finding water and good luck doing it in less than eight days.

We had a five-day window.

It was an inviting challenge. I remember Oskar’s words: “Let’s go light and let’s go fast.”

I must have smiled and agreed, as if to avoid the fact that this area had been belittling people like us for decades. We were all set for a five-day hustle and a Southwest bustle.

AS THE RAIN STOPPED, the car doors opened. Mt Sprent loomed, our gateway to the Wilmot Range. It was a quick 800m climb to what marked the end of the human-paved terrain.

From here, the tracks of Sprent vanished, and it became a game of choose your own adventure.

Navigating our way through the exposed Wilmots led to us being blasted by the Roaring Forties ripping through from the west. We were straight into it. Heads down. Slog on. After a big day, we dropped down a scrubby embankment on the side of Koruna Peak. Our legs, drained and weak, encouraged us to make camp in the unappealing buttongrass on the edge of Islet Lake.

Saddling the dragon

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It was a classic example of moving into the worst house on the best street. We knew this to be true as we fell asleep on a spiky off-camber perch, surrounded by an amphitheatre of quartzite structures which towered in all formations above an idyllic and precious lake. The comfort of the urban world was gone. We were in the mountains now.

It’s times like these when you reflect on the worst nights of sleep you’ve had out in the wild. I often think back to one of my first nights camping in the mountains in the early days. I’d just bought a tent, and had headed up to camp on a high peak out on the West Coast. A horrendous snowstorm ensued, and I endured a terrifying night, with not a moment’s sleep, and I awoke to a snow-covered tent. It was a real wake-up call, but I always think back to it knowing it could always be worse.

“Well, that was a hectic intro, wasn’t it …” I said to Oskar as we drifted off.

“Yup,” he replied, rolling over onto a slightly less bulging knoll below his sleeping mat. “And we‘re not even in the Franklands yet.”

“So, see you at first light?” I asked. I don’t even know why I asked it; I already knew the answer.

The following morning, we awoke re-energised, ready to charge for the Franklands. Making tracks out of Islet Lake, the country transitioned into cave-like formations of quartzite amazement; before long, we were engulfed in the belly of the beast, a conglomerate of twisted metamorphic rocks. It was a game of trial and error. Eventually, we deciphered a route through these formations that led to an exit towards the open plateau.

Demoralising clouds hung around, making navigation more difficult. Wandering the open plateau, we were forced to check in constantly to ensure we were heading in the right direction.

I don’t really like this kind of weather. In fact, it downright sucks. It crushes your enthusiasm towards the journey. Whenever days like this come around, I ask myself what I’m doing here, and I imagine laying out a towel on a beach on a sunny day, thinking of where I’d rather be. It’s strange though; at the same time, I respect this feeling. It’s so raw, being in a wild place at the mercy of the weather.

Many hours later, we reached what was essentially the Bridge to Terabithia, or the Gates to Mordor, or in this case, the Tribulation to the Frankland. Cloud ripped across Tribulation Range, whistling loudly as though warning us to stay back. The ridge stood tall enough that parts of it emerged from the cloud, presenting the pathway to what we had come for.

A vast overhanging quartz ledge appeared. It was cantilevered into a bulge resembling a dragon’s head, so I decided to climb it and sit on the end of a daunting drop. It felt very much like a symbolic moment of the trip—the dragon was saddled, and we were ready to rip through the Frankland.

So on we pushed. Over Madonna Ridge. Onwards over the impressive Double Peak. Momentum was gaining, and progress

The elusive Coronation Peak catching the last light

OSKAR AND I FELT THE PRESENCE OF THIS PLACE. GLACIAL LAKES WERE

AMONGST US, HIDDEN SHYLY BENEATH TOWERING CLIFFS, ELEGANTLY CREATING THE

PEARLS IN THE CLAM SHELLS OF THESE OMINOUS MOUNTAINS.”

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Frankland Range, TASMANIA

was efficient. Clouds lifted, and Oskar and I felt the presence of this place. Glacial lakes were amongst us, hidden shyly beneath towering cliffs, elegantly creating the pearls in the clam shells of these ominous mountains.

The weather was changing rapidly now. Coronation Peak teased us as we toyed with the idea of squeezing in a summit before making camp or before searching for drinking water. But the weather gods said no, there would be no summit. Instead, camp was made in an open alpine bowl-shaped meadow on Mt Cupola. By this time, however, the sun had re-emerged; our camp seemed dreamlike. A babbling brook of the crispest mountain water cut a thin path through the meadow, a magic setting we’d been longing for. This stream was a kitchen, a bath, and drinking water … I mean, it’s all the same out here really, isn’t it?

This was topped off with an exploding sunset; seeing rolling ridges afar brought out a clarity in terms of the days we’d already walked. We sat. We enjoyed ourselves. Few words were spoken. This rare, peaceful, and perfectly still summit was enjoyed almost as much as the soft mattress it provided to sleep on. A big day, brought to an end. A day that brought substantial progress to this journey, proving we deserved to be out here.

UNFORTUNATELY, WHEN AMBITIOUS FIVE-DAY plans are made, a big day alone isn’t sufficient; you have to back up big day after big day. Laying in the meadow at breakfast, we studied our map and planned notes.

“Alright,” I said to Oskar. “Let’s be real here. We have three days left. We need a day to walk around Pedder, leaving us two days to finish the Franklands, and to drop off the Giblins.” As I watched, his finger moved toward Frankland Peak.

“You’re not thinking …”

“What?”

“That we push for Frankland Peak today …?”

Frankland Peak was the last peak on the range. Given what was beyond it, it would be fantastic to push for it and gain some breathing room. And breathing room would be nice, since we had little info on the Giblins, and had also heard shocking stories of walking along Pedder’s lake edge in waist-deep mud.

Well, it had always been our plan to move quickly. We’d done it for two days, so we could do it again, right? Or was that naivety in this part of the world?

The sun was beating down as a new day was born. What we didn’t know was that a heatwave was upon us; almost no water would be seen for days. We continued to follow the range, surrounded by a playground of peaks now. Lakes loomed beneath.

It was stunning.

We walked past the Citadel, a pointed peak with a striking similarity to the iconic Federation Peak. It was an aesthetic dart of quartzite extruding from the earth beneath, holding its own

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THEN IT HAPPENED. FROM

A GREAT HEIGHT, I SLIPPED THROUGH A GAP … AND BEGAN FALLING.

I WAS AIRBORNE.”

among many. We admired these beautiful mountains, and made a side trip up Murphys Bluff to gain better views. It’s nice to stop and take it in from high points, seeing your progress.

The heat was really upon us now, and we were conscious of our rapidly deteriorating water rations. We had been walking for eight hours, out of water for some time and no signs of any more.

Meanwhile, temperatures pushed towards 30°C. There were, however, lakes about, but they lay guarded by thick embankments of vegetation. They were essentially inaccessible.

It was time … time to try our luck in the dry SW plateau.

“We really need to find some water … Let’s get the tubes out here, I reckon.”

You may be wondering what the tubes are. Well, before this trip, we’d purchased lengths of clear tube from Bunnings, hoping to siphon water that had collected in yabby holes during past rainfalls. Yabbies are about all that live up in these lands.

But it hadn’t rained for a while, and we had to be careful not to stir the clear water and contaminate it; only the best and deepest deposits would serve any use. We spent a lot of time having little luck. The heat was still brutal.

Finally, I noticed the earth was a little damper. Following the scent of water, I uncovered the best yabby hole yet. Lowering the tube carefully produced crisp, clean drinking water. It was

unbelievable. We sat there inhaling from the range’s most appreciated water supply, then filled our bottles from a couple more deposits nearby. It wasn’t a lot, but these alpine crustaceans had produced more than enough to keep us going and push up Frankland Peak.

It’s funny what you can survive on out here. I’m reminded of a time years ago, when we lugged an abandoned baby currawong through the Southwest for four days, feeding it grasshoppers as it sat in the top of our packs. For us, now, it was these yabby holes; for the bird, it was alpine grasshoppers. Each were seemingly nothing, but everything you could need.

One more climb appeared in our sights, and with thirst quenched, we decided to go for it—a final climb for the day. The heat was still intense. We struggled upwards. When we found a small cave, we rolled into it to rest, to feel the coolness of quartzite against our skin, and to lay atop a shaded slab and peer through a window to the rolling ranges.

In the cooler back end of the day, we continued to the summit. At the top of the range, we pitched our home, enjoying what was possibly the best sunset either of us had ever witnessed. Light-kissed, endless ranges in all directions, and craggy quartz monuments coated by a golden-red glow. It had been a testing day; these wild vistas made it worth it.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Tribulation Ridge—gateway to the Frankland Range—looms Looking back at sunset over our journey of the first two days Our tent was that tiny bright speck perched in the middle of a small plateau off Frankland Peak Open, buttongrass plains—a nice change of scenery

JUST LIKE THAT, THE WAVE DUMPED ME …

We’d been surfing (figuratively) the Southwest for a while now, and the swell had been gruesome. The worst tea tree scrub imaginable had forced me and Oskar apart, and we were compelled to try anything we could to tame this scrub. At times, we were metres above the ground, as if high on the face of a wave—hence the surfing analogy. And then it happened.

From a great height, I slipped through a gap … and began falling.

I was airborne.

Earlier, the day had started simply enough, or at least our plans had seemed simple enough on paper. Make it to Lake Pedder, and get out of this lingering heatwave. We knew, however, it wouldn’t be entirely easy. Getting to Pedder involved hopping off the Frankland Range and joining the Giblin; from there we’d move along what we hoped to be an open buttongrass ridgeline leading to Pedder. And if yesterday had tested us with heat and water collection, today would be all that, plus the addition of the worst scrub of the trip.

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The Giblin, Folded and Arthur Ranges working front to back, with precious unnamed lakes glowing beneath

We’d become used to early starts and long days; today was no different. A glorious morning of walking was upon us as the sun rose. The open ridges of the Frankland’s tail end looked appealing, and in the distance, the Giblin glistened in the morning sun. We bit the bullet, and began maneuvering downwards through tangled myrtle, rustling pandanus and spiky scoparia.

It’s always a contrast walking this terrain: It appears so lush and enchanting, but it also takes, at times, a demoralising toll.

It’s a metaphor for this whole part of the world, really. No place this special comes without negatives.

As we neared the valley floor, the vegetation transformed into tea tree, bauera and melaleuca shrub. At times, we were forced to stop, backtrack, and push in new directions. Eventually, we were in the valley staring at the new rise to the Giblin Range. By midday, we were on top; after some nice, open walking we were soon eating lunch on Mt Giblin.

All that now stood between us and Pedder was the short length of the Giblin Range. Giblin’s summit is—as a local orange-bellied parrot might fly, were it not on the brink of extinction—just three kilometres away from Mt Jim Brown, which stands at the range’s eastern terminus. We polished off our lunchtime salami, grinning as if the mission was complete. We were cruising.

We didn’t know the curveball ahead. We didn’t know that we would soon be clambering on the tea trees, high above the ground. We didn’t know that we’d be surfing the Southwest wave. We didn’t know that it would happen so suddenly.

And now we’re back to point where I was airborne. When the fall began, it was the first point in the trip I thought I was in real trouble. I was ready for bones to be snapped. But then, before I even hit the ground, I felt myself stop. I was still in the air, suspended. My pack had snagged on a tree.

I lowered myself and continued on, emerging eventually from the scrub. When Oskar and I reunited, we looked at one another covered in leaf litter. There was no need to exchange words.

It reminded me of a similar situation where we became separated on a packrafting trip coming down Descension Gorge on the Franklin River. We’d been split up in a rapid, but eventually were spat out at the same spot. In this instance, we’d been spat

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out at the same clump of tea tree, looking at each other as if to say, “Gee I’m glad to see you.”

We used what energy we had left to make it to Jim Brown’s summit. But from there, we charged down the hill to Lake Pedder; meanwhile, two wedge-tailed eagles circled closely above, as if to celebrate us nearing our goal. It was a special moment.

When we reached the water, we let it absorb us, clothes and all.

Exhausted, we fell asleep on the lake edge for a while. But there were no decent-sized trees, and that meant no shade … anywhere.

IT WAS THE FIRST POINT IN THE TRIP I THOUGHT I WAS IN REAL TROUBLE. I WAS READY FOR

BONES TO BE SNAPPED.”

We looked at each other as we woke up. This mission had been going at a crazy pace, and it was always going to end that way.

“Do we try to lap Pedder and get out today?”

We went for it.

Walking around Lake Pedder is often noted as a muddy, scrubby, river crossing-infested mission that takes multiple days.

But after walking for a while, we noticed the insane heat had—for all the setbacks it had thrown at us so far—finally gifted us something in our favour. The warmth had dried up the lake edges, and the river and lake levels were lower. We could move quickly.

We motored onwards through mud, quartz beaches and a couple of river crossings. Hours later—I’m not sure how many—we popped out onto Scotts Peak Dam Road. This marked our mission’s end. In four days, we’d surprised ourselves, and we shared a proud feeling as the sun went down. Days in the wilderness will always stay with you, even as you dive back to so-called civilisation and reality. But what really is reality? These past four days seemed as real as ever. Our inauguration was complete. W CONTRIBUTOR: Hamish Lockett is an outdoor photographer and tour guide. He once played a game of footy and climbed two Abels in a day, but struggled to complete the last 500 words of his uni essay due that night.

stanley1913.com.au

GIITU , *

SAREK *Giitu means ‘Thank you’ in the local Sámi language

A story of love, gratitude and endless possibility from the wilds of Sweden’s far north.

Words Evelina Nilsson Photography Thomas Vialletet

Evelina flows through deep, untouched snow in Låddebákte

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A

pril 2021. I’m standing on a glacier in Stora Sjöfallet National Park, Sweden, crying with awe. I am—after skiing one of the best runs of my life, after spending ten days here working on a film called Longing for Àhkká—now looking out over a canvas I cannot describe with words. It’s a place of never-ending beauty, a place that feels eternal; mountain tops run as far as the eye can see, deep into Sarek National Park. I already know I want to come back to explore this area more.

In the months to follow, Sarek whispered my name. The memory of that vast beauty was imprinted in my very soul, and Sarek’s call felt strong. But there are so many possibilities in the park, it’s almost hard to pick one objective, so I called one of my best friends, Albert—a lover of mountains who has had a special connection with Sarek for quite some time—to ask him what we should ski. He simply said, “Låddebákte.”

“You have to ski the couloir,” he continued. “It´s the coolest run in Sweden in my opinion. But with Sarek, you have to expect crazy weather, howling winds and cold temps.”

And so the seed was planted. But it was not until the following spring that we could set off. We planned to be out for twelve days, with the aim to make our way to a Låddebákte couloir called ‘Lådderännan’, roughly 30km in and three days away. If we saw something that caught our eye, something in our flow, we would ski that too. We wanted to take another route on our way back to have more options to ski and see more of the terrain. Beyond wanting to make a film about our trip, we had almost zero expectations for this expedition, perhaps simply because none of us had been out there except for our cameraman, Martin. Often, when we don´t know what we have gotten ourselves into, we keep a positive mindset. We remain in an innocence that keeps faith as its greatest ally.

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Sarek NP, SWEDEN

Sarek NP

Stockholm

I

grew up in a family with a core belief: “Anything is possible”. To now witness a world in turmoil, I realise it goes both ways. Whatever we put our belief in is also experienced through the lens of our own perception. On an individual level, this pandemic has taught us unique lessons and reflections.

Dreams and projects outside of our country’s borders have been pushed into a future unknown, though I guess we are always in the unknown. You don’t know anything; you just think you know.

As a Swede, I personally learned I have a country so beautiful and diverse, wild and pure. It’s something I have always known, but perhaps not given the focus it truly deserves. You probably learnt the same about Australia, or New Zealand, if that’s where you’re from, during your periods of lockdown. Not being able to travel encouraged me to dream about the wilderness of Sweden and its many gems to find.

Before the pandemic, I had been planning a project with my Kiwi partner in exploration, and fellow team athlete with The North Face, Janina Kuzma. Janina (Ed: who wrote ‘The Trap’, the fine piece on mountain heuristics and safety in the last issue of Wild) and I met back in 2016. We were both filming for Shades of Winter, and were lucky enough to do a trip together in Canada.

It was love at first sight, and since that first trip we have done many missions together worldwide. From skiing Mt Taranaki in New Zealand to Mt Hermon in the Middle East, our goal has always been to unify through the expression of skiing, and to learn more about how we, as a people, can connect through our unique qualities.

It was a true honour and delight to be able to finally invite Janina to my home and ski the sacred lands of my country.

Lucky enough to call myself a Swede during these craziest of times, I was able to roam free here in Sweden. For Janina, so

The great spirit of the Northern Lights dancing above us

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used to back-to-back winters, it was not as easy. She is passionate about travelling and learning about different cultures, about what unites us despite our different backgrounds.

Why are we driven into such wild places far from the comforts of home? What about these places is so enticing? I’ve always been drawn to the Sámi, the Indigenous people of Sweden. They seem so connected to nature and the wild places I love. When Janina and I were researching ahead of our trip, we started looking at maps and reading about the Sámi people, particularly those who live in the area we call Sápmi. Our curiosity grew daily. The Sámi are the only people allowed to use snowmobiles in Sarek and Stora Sjöfallet National Parks, which are pasture grounds for their reindeer, and throughout the parks they have small huts for shelter which they use as they drive their reindeer herd along.

This is part of what makes the area so special. The people here are dedicated and passionate about nature. They are willing to pull their gear through any conditions. I strongly believe that when we connect to these sacred places on Earth, when we are truly one with nature, we also reignite and recognise the part of ourselves that is always at peace. The constant part of ourselves that has been with us through all of our experiences, the unwavering stability that is our true self. When everything in life comes and goes, this remains. You remain.

APRIL 2ND, 2022. ROUGHLY A YEAR after I looked out onto that view of Sarek, I was back, part of a crew of five, ready to dive deep into the wilds of Sweden on a journey we will always cherish. Besides Janina, I was with my sister Julia Nilsson, our filmmaker Martin Olson from Sweden, and our guide/ photographer Thomas Vialletet—French-born but who now, like Janina, lives in Wanaka, New Zealand.

Gale-force winds and Arctic temps greeted us, but on that first day, it felt like anything was possible. Striding along on crosscountry skis, we each pulled beautiful, old wooden pulkas— traditional sleds laden with gear, some 80 years old and refurbished to last a hundred more. Step by step, the mountains rose even higher; it was truly the greatest feeling. No circumstance could bring us down. Not even putting up our first base camp in a blizzard dampened our enthusiasm; if anything, we looked on it as preparation for the days to come. My sister Julia and I payed close attention to the more experienced winter campers, gleaning tips from them on how to stay comfy in the storm.

That first night, we were welcomed by the most extraordinary northern lights. The wind dropped as green and purple lights danced above our heads. It seems when one accepts the challenge and walks into the unknown, there is always a reward, some kind of confirmation or sign to encourage you to keep going. All the struggles drop away, and you are left grateful to be alive to experience something beautiful and pure.

Janina, Julia and Evelina walking into the majestic landscape of Sarek

WHEN ONE ACCEPTS THE CHALLENGE AND WALKS INTO THE UNKNOWN, THERE IS ALWAYS A REWARD. ALL THE STRUGGLES DROP

AWAY, AND YOU ARE LEFT GRATEFUL TO BE ALIVE TO EXPERIENCE SOMETHING

BEAUTIFUL AND PURE.”

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BEFORE OUR TRIP, A HEATWAVE had passed through the Swedish mountains. Everything froze, so I didn’t expect any good snow out here at all. But that didn’t matter. I was happy just being here, here with people I love to share a journey with.

But it turned out my expectations were wrong, because the blasting, stormy weather that accompanied us from Day One was also coupled with heavy snowfall. Instead of ice or slush, we had deep snow. Perfect powder. Our first day of tree skiing was an absolute joy. Before coming here I thought we would mainly be skiing open faces and big lines, but with the hard winds, the avalanche danger pushed us to ski in old birch trees. To go from cross-country skis to downhill was incredible, feeling free of the heavy weight of the pulkas.

Dancing through the forest together, down to Rapadalen (Rapa Valley), was so beautiful. It felt special to us all, because the night before our trip started, we met some people at Stora Sjöfallet Mountain Lodge. They had just come back after days in Sarek’s wilds, where they’d gone past Låddebákte and had skied the trees down to Rapadalen. They could barely contain their excitement.

“You have to ski Rapan,” they told us. “The snow is incredible!”

When they said this, I don´t think any of us understood at the time how good the conditions really were; luckily enough, a few days later, we got to experience the same amazing snow.

WE CONTINUED TO MOVE SLOWLY through Sarek, pulling our pulkas in silence, soaking in our surroundings. Open, vast, tranquil. It was sometimes challenging, though. Most of the time, the temps sat around -10 to -15 degrees Celsius, and they were accompanied by strong, Arctic winds. Often, we could

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WE WERE ON THE RIGHT PATH. WE JUST MIGHT GET TO SKI THE MOST EXTRAORDINARY RUN IN SWEDEN. MAY THE FORCE BE WITH US.” barely see one step ahead of ourselves. But then a sudden parting of the clouds would permit us to see the sky, letting us witness the majestic mountain peaks with their mysterious essences.

Being in Sarek is like moving through the most beautiful painting, but seeing and experiencing all of its dimensions. With no cell reception, you can completely disconnect to reconnect. It makes it easier to shed the distracting layers that no longer serve us, to feel the clarity of true joy, and to experience our natural state of being.

And the crew, despite the weather difficulties, was stellar. We laughed at our struggles, laughed at our falls towing such heavy gear, and laughed at our skinny cross-country skis. Never have I been on a mission with so much ease and balance in the crew.

Nobody complained. When we couldn’t ski due to the storm, we embraced spending tent time together, learning new card games and games of dice.

After some extreme storm days at our Låddebákte base camp—even with the crazy wind gusts, our tents stayed strong— we finally had a weather window to try and ski the couloir. Our initial plan was to boot straight up it, but we couldn’t quite see the top, so instead we skinned around the mountain to enter from above. Three ptarmigans flew right in front of us as we

gained altitude, mine and Julia’s spirit animal gifting us a sign. We were on the right path.

We just might get to ski the most extraordinary run in Sweden. May the force be with us.

Tom checked the snowpack, and gave us the green light. Dropping into the couloir, we were granted the biggest surprise: bottomless, light, perfect powder. Totally effortless. We took turns going first, each section like unwrapping the best Christmas present ever. It was one of the deepest runs I have ever skied. Seeing Janina and Julia´s faces brought me tears of joy.

On the last section, a falcon soared into the couloir to join us. To us, the falcon is a representation of Matilda Rapaport’s essence. Our deceased friend had come to say hello. Matilda was a close friend of ours, another pro skier who we got to know through filming and competing. Sadly, she passed away in an avalanche in Chile in 2016. Matilda was one of those people who aimed high, living a truly lived life, one full of excitement and inspiration. She always held the crew together through her love and compassion, and was always there for us whenever we needed her. She still is. We still hear her wise words whenever in doubt.

Her warm embrace still comforts us through any challenge. The unique essence we gift the world ripples long after our human deaths. Seeing Matilda in the mountains, in the form of a bird or a soft whisper of the winds, reminds us that we are on the right path. A deep remembrance to live life fully from the heart. Back at base camp, we all felt so lucky and grateful.

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Evelina changing ski binding modes in a storm The party shredding though the Rapan Forest Taking shelter from the storm, playing a game of Ten Thousand Janina enjoying the Scandinavian powder in the couloir Janina and her pulka, which she’d named Ragnar

THE NEXT FEW DAYS, WE AGAIN TOOK COVER from the storm and celebrated Julia´s birthday. I had totally forgotten to make a cake, but we did have some Hershey’s cookies and cream. We waited out the weather for another day, before starting our five-day march back to civilisation. Our route back was different to our way in, so we were not sure how long precisely our return would take, or even sure of the best route exactly. What we did know, though, was that we had nearly 60km in front of us. And thanks to the deep snow, we had a really tough time pulling the pulkas; we often ground out just 1km/h.

Every day was a new challenge, but we rose to the occasion. If someone needed help, our fatigue vanished. As with any significant challenge, surrendering to the process always brought a reward, a kind of confirmation that we were on the right path once we allowed everything to be exactly as it was or is. An eagle soared by. We found other people’s tracks to

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THE ONLY TASK IS TO MEET

EVERYTHING WITH PRESENCE AND EQUANIMITY. BEING WITH WHAT IS. WE ARE REMINDED THAT LIFE IS SIMPLE AND BEAUTIFUL WHEN WE LET GO OF THE STORY. AND WITH THAT COMES FREEDOM.”

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This image of (right to left) Evelina, Julia and Janina was taken on the third day, about one hour after leaving the previous night’s camp. It was a magical moment. There wasn’t much wind, and it was almost clear, but lots of levitating snow flakes, tiny floating crystals, gave the appearance of haze.

At the beginning of the trip, temperatures averaged around -15ºC during the day and -25ºC at night. On the first evening, when the team witnessed the Aurora Borealis, it dropped to -27ºC. And that’s before windchill. Temperatures were, to say the least, a bit chilly.

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Sarek NP, SWEDEN

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Moving slowly back to civilisation through the fresh snow Despite the difficulties of dragging the pulkas through deep snow, the crew remains happy The pyramid-shaped mountain Slugga

CONTRIBUTOR: Evelina Nilsson is a pro skier and yoga teacher based in Åre, Sweden. Photographer and IFMGA-qualified mountain and ski guide Tom Vialletet is from France originally, but now calls Wanaka, New Zealand, home.

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follow, making the deep snow ploughing so much easier. Moving across the frozen lake and timing the only bus ride between Gällivare and Kebnats, making the last part of our journey tremendously smoother. Faith in the unknown is what leaves room for miracles. I felt so grateful to be sharing this experience in one of the coolest places on Earth together with my sister and Janina, and for them to finally meet and, what’s more, to do so in a place like this.

Being out in the wild for such a long time with no input from the outside world is like a great meditation retreat. The only task is to meet everything with presence and equanimity.

Being with what is. We are reminded that life is simple and beautiful when we let go of the story. And with that comes freedom.

Sometimes when we experience a big journey, it usually takes time to reflect on the insights and to integrate all the lessons learned. This trip was different. I could feel the appreciation as the journey was unfolding, as it was happening right there and then.

AS THE MONTHS HAVE PASSED BY since the end of the trip, and a film from the journey has been made, I am constantly reminded of the pure aliveness we all experienced through our journey. Seeing a photo from the trip, or watching the first draft of the movie, I am realigned with the gratitude, love and freedom that emanated from all of us during the expedition. Whatever factors brought us to this feeling of peace and this sense of completion, these are our permission slips to come back to our natural state of being.

And when I look back now, my heart sings. There was flow. Love. Deep belly laughs.

Pulkas flipped over. The birds. The snow. The sky. The silence. Thank you to everything. I feel like myself again, like I did as a child when everything was easy, before all the stories and concepts. I feel free. The beautiful thing is that I can bring this feeling into any experience. It’s my choice. My biggest thank you is to skiing, which shows me unity every day.

Union with myself, the people around me and nature. Thanks to the best crew. Thanks to the land Sápmi, to the Sámi, to the mountains and to everyone who is so in love with this magical place. See you again soon. W

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

En route to Cho La Pass, Gokyo Valley, Nepal.

Photo Simon Alsop

trekandtravel.com.au 447 Kent St. Sydney 02 9261 3435

BUSH SAFETY

ANATOMY OF A

SE ARCH Search and Rescue is a service we hope we never need. Caro Ryan, who has worked for two decades as a land-search volunteer, gives us a fictional account of how a search effort might typically unfold.

Words Caro Ryan This story is a work of fiction, but based on Caro’s 19 years of actual search jobs.

S

ATURDAY 8:38 AM The headlights of the Subaru Forester work hard to cut through the mountain mist as Dave turns off the bitumen. Dropping his speed to avoid kangaroos and potholes, the moment brings back memories of long-past adventures, before the claustrophobia of pandemic restrictions and bushfires had forced him inside. This is it—it’s time to get out.

Pushing further away from the city in his mind, he passes through the patchwork quilt of radiata pine, making several turns along logging trails, before crossing the invisible boundary into the national park. It’s years since he’s been here, and although things don’t exactly reflect his memory, he puts it down to newer or re-routed roads, along with the fog of years.

Forty minutes along the dirt, he comes to a barrier, standing proud in an attempt to stop 4WD weekend warriors chewing up the park. “It’s no wonder the trip took longer than I remember given the state of the road,” he thinks to himself. He doesn’t remember the barrier being here, but hey, a lot can happen in five years.

He peels himself out of his car, body stiff from the long drive, and breathes deeply. Turning to face the light, he closes his eyes and feels the rising sun’s warmth on his face. A kookaburra’s call breaks the silence.

This is going to be an epic weekend.

A braided section of Martuwarra in Nyikina Country as it approaches the King Sound, Western Australia

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PolAir flying low and slow over the Grose Valley, Blue Mountains, NSW. Credit: Nicole Bordes

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ANOTOMY OF A SEARCH

WHAT MOST DON’T REALISE IS THAT

THERE’S A TEAM OF PEOPLE BEHIND THE SCENES, SUCH AS

DETECTIVES, FORENSIC INVESTIGATORS, RESEARCHERS AND ANALYSTS WORKING

TO HELP FIND SOMEONE.”

WEDNESDAY 6:45 AM I know it’s bad to check my phone first thing in the morning, but I can’t help it—it’s a habit borne from nineteen years as a volunteer in land search in NSW’s Blue Mountains. And given that I’m now responsible for 45 volunteers between the Nepean River and the South Australian border in Bush Search and Rescue (BSAR), a specialist unit within the NSW State Emergency Service, checking my phone first thing is important.

Oh, and it’s a Wednesday. Most of our call-outs come on Tuesdays or Wednesdays.

Sure enough, there’s a missed call from Sergeant Dallas Atkinson, Coordinator of Police Rescue in NSW’s Blue Mountains, a man who has been wearing the white overalls for sixteen years.

My heart quickens as my waking eyes struggle to focus. An early-morning call from Dal means one thing: There’s a job on.

In an instant, my plans for the day disappear. I sigh. Here we go again.

A million thoughts run through my mind: a priority list of questions and logistics, procedures and policies. Behind each one, the shadow of humanity, a name, a story and a family I’m yet to be introduced to.

Quickly scrolling through my notifications, I find what I’m looking for: an SMS from the rostered BSAR Duty Officer sent via SES software called Beacon. This web-based app registers all jobs that come through the SES call centre in State HQ, along with direct messages from other emergency services via ICEMS (Inter-CAD Electronic Messaging System).

The message reads: “BSAR STANDBY BLUE MTS and GREATER SYDNEY, search for missing bushwalker Blue Mts. Reply if available next 3 days to Duty Officer. Overnight SOPs, day search also available. Standby for activation.”

SATURDAY 9:50AM Dave steps away from his car and pushes into the scrub—it’s thicker than he expected.

Before the chorus of his ear-worm song, Queen’s Under Pressure, has finished, he finds what he thinks is the spur leading down into the exit of the canyon he’d done with Matt and Phil five years ago. That was the trip they’d found a huge island slab of sandstone that glowed orange under the setting sun. It was here they sat, shared a joint and watched Venus appear. The three talked about their hopes, dreams and everything that was to come after their upcoming uni graduation. It’s a spot Dave has long said he wanted to return to and bivvy for a night.

Now, at last, he is on his way back.

He continues for what feels like a couple of hours; without a watch, it’s hard to tell. Surely, that rock slab is somewhere around here? He presses on, regardless of the rising, niggling doubt starting to lurk in his stomach. Pushing it away, he focuses instead on the joy of being in the bush. Then he hears

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the sound of singing water below, and—keen to fill his water bottle—he pauses in a saddle before heading down into the gully.

“Maybe after a break,” he thinks, “things will be clearer. I’ll be able to work out where I am.”

As his eyes adjust to the dense canopy, Dave is struck by the beauty of this hidden world: The transition from classic dry sclerophyll forest to coachwood-topped rainforest, laden with a rich green filter. He grabs hold of a tree to steady his descent.

A few drips from the previous night’s rain hit his face. Then he takes a step, avoiding the moss-covered rock, and treads instead on a wet, grey boulder.

The boulder moves, then dislodges.

Dave is instantly propelled, pinball-style, down the narrow, steep gully. Spurred on by gravity, he tumbles and bounces the way bones and flesh aren’t designed to, and he registers the sound of snapping as being that of broken branches—not the broken bones that they actually are. Ragdoll limbs try in vain to arrest his fall, only managing to nudge more rocks and vegetation along for the wild ride. Meanwhile, the soundtrack of Queen never stops. Under pressure …

Suddenly, there are no more rocks. Dave is free-falling, and he sails past the life-giving waterfall he was seeking out.

MONDAY 3:46PM The phone rings at Katoomba Police Station.

“Umm, I’m a bit worried about one of my employees, Dave Gill.

He hasn’t shown up for work today and I’ve tried to call him three times. The thing is, this just isn’t like Dave. He’s super reliable, always on time. He told us he was heading up to the Blueys, and I can see some shots on his Instagram account from Saturday morning, but now I haven’t heard from him. I thought I’d contact you guys to see if you’d heard anything.”

Dal and the team at Katoomba Police get to work. But there’s no point in activating a search yet without a Last Known Position (LKP). The Blue Mountains are represented on Google Earth by a massive, brooding slab of dark green. Sending volunteers out now would be a search for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Besides, they haven’t yet determined if Dave is even missing.

So instead, they start by contacting Dave’s next of kin from his HR records. Unfortunately, his mum hasn’t spoken to him in over a week, and didn’t even know he’d gone to the mountains. She gives them a name of a mate he’d been canyoning with back in his uni days.

SATURDAY 11:10AM Dave hits the deck. Oomph.

Lying crumpled on a small beach at the base of a waterfall, Dave blinks away grit and dirt, struggling to open his eyes. He turns his head slowly to see an image of intense beauty: a lost mountain cascade, tumbling humbly over a four-metre waterfall. Is this life, or is this heaven?

An all-female BSAR search team moves through steep terrain assigned to search an Aboriginal Women’s sacred area. Credit: Justine Murphy

Then the intense pain begins crushing him. Each breath is searing. His stomach has gone rock hard. The taste of blood is in his mouth. But realising all this means some level of cognitive awareness. “I’m alive,” he tells himself.

Willing himself on to the question of what next, he tries to move. Agony grips his body, sending waves of nausea washing over him. His right leg and shoulder seem to be the source of the pain, along with every breath. He can’t bear to move. The cold from wet sand starts to push through his clothes.

And then it dawns on Dave: No one knows where he is.

“Fuck. What a fucking idiot,” he thinks to himself as the cold fingers of despair take hold, removing the initial relief of survival. A tear of realisation forms in the corner of his eye.

Regret is a bitter, bile-tasting cocktail, and Dave drinks it in.

He envisions his backpack—up in the saddle at the top of the gully above him—along with the non-existent PLB his mum had offered to buy him (which he’d refused). He mentally writes the simple text—the one he didn’t actually write—to let someone know where in the Blueys he was headed this weekend.

The warm tear on his cold cheek gives no comfort.

WEDNESDAY 6:50AM Despite not knowing yet where to start searching, the SMS alert I’ve received serves a critical purpose: All positions within SES Bush Search and Rescue are voluntary, and the alert gives us volunteers time to get ready, to seek permission from employers, postpone meetings, check our gear, arrange school pick-ups—all the things we need to plan so we can step away from everyday life and try to bring a missing person home, hopefully unharmed.

But volunteers aren’t the only people involved. Over the years,

I’ve come to appreciate the two sides of a search: the seen (the search base or forward command post) and the unseen (investigation, planning, logistics). While everyone is familiar with media images of uniformed volunteers from SES and RFS, and police and ambulance officers fronting the cameras at press conferences—clips like these first drew me to become a volunteer— what most don’t realise is that there’s a team of people behind the scenes, such as detectives, forensic investigators, researchers and analysts working to help find someone.

Those unseen elements are critical. The better they are, the quicker the actual search. And because the first 48 hours in a missing-person case are the most crucial, everything is a race against time.

MONDAY EVENING AND TUESDAY Dal’s team look into Dave’s social media accounts to find only generic shots of scrub tagged simply as ‘Blue Mountains National Park’. Perhaps the vegetation types will point somewhere? They contact NPWS to ask the question and to alert their field staff to be on the lookout for his car.

In Sydney’s Inner West, detectives visit his flat and find an empty La Sportiva shoebox with a recent shop receipt. Telstra is also contacted to help with phone data, Westpac to check for recent transactions, and Transport NSW to see if his Suburu has passed the cameras on the Great Western Highway. All this investigation takes time, and could have been avoided if Dave had left details of where he was going with someone he trusted.

Photos of Dave and a white Forester are posted on the Blue Mountains Police Facebook and a geo-located SMS has been sent to all mobile phones between Lithgow, Richmond and Glenbrook.

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THE SAD REALITY IS THAT THE

SCALES ARE TIPPED IN FAVOUR OF THE DEAD. WE CAN GO YEARS WITHOUT FINDING A LIVE ONE.”

Among it all, big questions are asked long before conspiracy theorists and keyboard warriors do. Is he even lost? Is he a criminal? Is he the victim of crime? Does he want to disappear? Does he even want to be found?

TUESDAY 4:35 PM Dave awakes from a dream. During this rare moment of sleep, pain was suspended, and he was with Matt and Phil, soaking up rays on the rock slab and riffing about life. Now that Dave is awake, though, the earworm returns. The bass line of Queen’s Under Pressure becomes louder, rhythmic, like the beating blades of a helicopter.

A helicopter. A helicopter! He urges himself further away from the water’s flow, higher up to dry sand, where the leaching contact of damp won’t draw his life away.

TUESDAY 4:37PM

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM BSAR volunteers training for vertical-rescue accreditation. Credit: NSW SES BSAR Police Rescue officers brief volunteers from SES, Rural Fire Service, NSW Ambulance Special Operations team (SOT) prior to deployment on a SAREX (Search And Rescue EXercise). Credit: Unknown BSAR search locations, such as canyons, require specialist radio-communication techniques. Credit: Nina Gallo.

A land search forward command post is typically awash in white, blue, orange, red and yellow. Credit: Nicole Bordes

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From the vantage of a Bell 412 chopper, the aircrewman from PolAir—the commonly used name for the Aviation Command unit that provides aerial support to the NSW police—spots a white car at the end of a fire trail. Through a high-powered nosemounted camera, he verifies the rego plate: It’s Dave’s Forester.

Luck has played a part here. Dave bought fuel in North Richmond, and detectives verified it was him in the CCTV. It meant that during the tiny window of clear skies, PolAir could focus its airtime to several passes around the Newnes Plateau—areas that his old canyoning mates had told Dal’s colleagues about. Sure enough, minutes after spotting Dave’s car, low cloud rolls in again; the Bell 412 needs to return to Bankstown. Boots on the ground are needed to find him now.

Within 45 minutes, two constables from Katoomba Police Rescue arrive at his car and begin searching. They push into the scrub, following fresh La Sportiva tracks for 300m before they disappear. At last, we now have his LKP. But with these short days of late autumn, darkness now cloaks everything; the actual search must wait until the morning.

TUESDAY 5:35PM It’s starting to get dark again. “Please, not a fourth night,” Dave weeps, longing for dreams, delirium, death, or rescue. The aching cold, the searing pain, yet another torturous cramp—it’s too much to bear. Meanwhile, the relentless taunts of the waterfall’s optimistic, life-filled sounds fill the air. Dave’s fingernails dig into the coarse sand, trying to hold on to the present. He hears a groan; it takes a while for him to register it as his own.

ANATOMY OF A SEARCH

WEDNESDAY 7:10 AM As I throw the last things into my backpack, I check out of my life. It feels like I’m shutting down a computer; my work, my family, my friends are all shunted aside once I put on my SES uniform. With blinkered focus, for the next few hours or days, who knows, I’ll serve only Dave, his family and the NSW Police.

In one of two BSAR Hiluxes, I drive down the fire trail to the search location which will act as our staging area and forward command post. The vehicle is crammed with gear essential for any bush adventure, plus a few extra things: packs, rain jackets, SES radios, HF radios, InReaches, GPS units, PLBs, hand lines and meal ration packs.

Approaching the command post, I slow down—like clockwork my heart quickens. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve done this, knowing this is the worst day in someone’s life makes me uneasy. How can I conceive what his family is going through?

His mates? Himself, if he is even still alive for such thoughts?

We’re lucky at this location—we have patchy 4G coverage.

It’s not uncommon to have to request communications support from an SES CoW (Cell on Wheels) or SES500 (GRN ‘Government Radio Network) radio repeater.

When I pull up, I’m greeted by the familiar blue, red, orange and white of a command post, and our Duty Officer (DO) confirms we have twelve field-team volunteers (three teams of four people) and two base members to assist for the day.

There’s a term: Command and Control. It’s the foundation of any emergency services (or military) work. Like an organisation chart, this pyramid-shaped structure helps the effective flow of information and delegation, sets the expectations of everyone involved and, when dealing with crisis and operational situations, is essential for an effective process.

On the scene, each organisation has a Commander—an operational role that isn’t necessarily the most senior ranked person— who represents their agency, bringing their unique voice and

skills to the planning and execution of the job. They report to the Police Search Coordinator, who is in charge of the operation.

I smile as I walk to greet familiar faces. We’re an odd bunch who can convey a thousand words with the raise of an eyebrow, or engage in a piss-take which translates as deep respect and a strange kind of love. We each understand this unusual world we inhabit, which for us volunteers, is one we step into and out of about once a month … we wish it was less.

I enter the Police command post to learn that Dallas (Sergeant Atkinson) has several likely scenarios and a list of search taskings, broken down by difficulty, to assign to each agency. Taskings are usually areas bounded by geographical features, like a spur between two gullies, a particular creek or cliff line, allocated to teams with appropriate skill, expertise and fitness.

There is science to this, layered with local knowledge and a slab of gut instinct. Missing Person Behaviour is an area of academic research that fascinates me; search strategy is one of the tasks I relish the most. Topo maps are laid out, background from the detectives is shared, and likely scenarios and risks are discussed. These include if Dave was ‘despondent’, meaning there’s a chance he may have headed into the bush to take his own life.

As volunteers, this can be troubling. We need to ask ourselves, “Will I be OK if this is not a good outcome?” Because our unit works in NSW’s most rugged and remote areas, the sad reality is that the scales are tipped in favour of the dead. We can go years without finding a live one.

WEDNESDAY 9:30 AM Dave awakes to the waterfall’s unforgiving sing-song. Then he hears it … the sound of distant voices. Then silence. “Did I imagine that?” he asks. He doesn’t know what to believe anymore. What is real? What is imagined? How can he have been so cold but is now burning so hot? His good arm claws to remove his layers.

What Dave doesn’t know is that the final stages of hypothermia are often accompanied by feelings of extreme heat. The muscles responsible for keeping more blood around the inner core shut down, and warm blood rushes to the extremities, giving the sense of a hot flush.

Dave thinks this feeling of heat gives him hope; instead, it means he is hanging on by a thread.

WEDNESDAY 9:42 AM We move outside to brief all the search teams following a SMEAC (Situation, Mission, Execution, Administration, Command and Communications) template. We also discuss details of our planned SITREPs (Situation Reports)—including location, a description of the terrain, percentage of the tasked area covered, team welfare and intentions—which each team will radio in every hour.

By mid-morning, one team has made it all the way down the

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ANATOMY OF A SEARCH

An RFS helicopter provides transport for BSAR volunteers to the Blue Gum Forest during a search.

Credit: Brendan Conneely

THINK BEFORE YOU

TREK:

THINK BEFORE YOU TREK IS A CAMPAIGN DEVELOPED BY NSW POLICE RESCUE AND NPWS TO REMIND US OF SAFE BUSHWALK PLANNING.

T R E K

ake enough water, food, equipment and first aid supplies egister your trip (tell someone exactly where you’re going)

mergency Personal Locator Beacon (if you don’t own one, they can be hired)

eep to your planned route (and have a map, compass and GPS, and know how to use them)

CONTRIBUTOR: Caro Ryan is the author of How to Navigate—The Art of Traditional Map and Compass Navigation in an Australian Context and teaches navigation in the Blue Mountains, NSW.

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canyon’s exit route, passing the rock platform Dave’s mates had told the Police about.

There is no sign that anyone has been through recently; no footprints in the sand, no broken branches on the way, no response to voice calls. That box is ticked.

Meanwhile, six kilometres away on a ridgeline south, the other six teams concentrate on areas from the LKP, where the silent Subaru is an ominous reminder of Dave’s unseen presence.

WEDNESDAY 11:52 AM The radio operator walks towards me. She has a look that says, “We have something.”

My heart quickens. Could it really be over so quickly? History tells us that searches go on for days, weeks even, only coming to conclusions when medical experts say there is no hope. Even still, we add a few more days for the family or maybe our own conscience. That is a task I don’t wish on anyone: telling a family—a mother, a father—that all things considered, a search for their child is to be suspended.

I slow my steps to the Police Sprinter van, aware of media hungry for a scoop. I don’t serve them; I serve the family and the missing person. The last thing we want is for news to reach the millions before it reaches them.

“Dal, I think we have something.”

With measured steps and voices low, Dal joins me at the SES radio as we hear the voice of Amir, one of the BSAR field team members. “... we found more footprints and then a backpack in the saddle. The prints lead down into the gully. Sue and Sam have gone to investigate; Jim and I have stayed up top for radio relay as the GRN coverage drops out down below. Standby …”

The backpack matches the images from Dave’s Facebook.

The SES caravan is silent as we locate the saddle on the topo from the 8-digit grid reference the team have given. We stare at the radio, hoping for news, wishing it to be good. Just for once, dear God, let it be good.

The minutes stretch out as we wait.

“Base, this is BSAR Team Two.” “Go ahead Team Two,” our operator says.

“Secure all radios.”

It’s the phrase none of us wanted to hear. It means sensitive information is about to be shared. Yet again, a family, colleagues, loved ones—and, indeed, ourselves—will feel the overwhelming tidal wave of grief that comes from the news that someone isn’t coming back from a walk in the bush.

“Base, Sue has located the missing person at the base of a small waterfall. He’s deceased, there are no signs of life.”

No signs of life. Such a cold, clinical phrase, at odds with a landscape so full of life.

We all know what to do—we’ve done it too many times before.

Two hours later, the Police Rescue and Ambulance Special Operations (SOT) team wrap Dave’s lifeless form in a protective cocoon such as he hasn’t felt for days, taking away his cold, his pain and his loneliness. Then they gently shoulder the weight of his death to a tiny gap in the trees from where his corpse can be airlifted. Had they arrived a few hours earlier, they would have found Dave alive. A simple note to let others know where he was going, let alone a PLB, would have changed everything.

As Dave’s body rises above it all, into the thundering embrace of PolAir’s Bell 412, there’s a silent acknowledgement of how these wild places we all love can be both gentle and savage; a recognition of the fragile veil between breathing and not. W

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CONSERVATION The Jones family enjoying sunset in the fields on Bruny Island. Credit: Jo Smith

THE

TASMANIAN WILDERNESS WORLD HERITAGE AREA

TURNS

40 Words GEOFF LAW

Four decades ago, UNESCO declared Tasmania’s Southwest to be an area of global significance. Geoff Law looks at the history leading up to the declaration, and at the fights since then to further protect this stunning area.

O

n December 14, 1982, the Franklin blockade began. Fifty-three people were arrested on the banks of the Franklin and Gordon rivers, attempting to stop construction of a huge dam that threatened mile after mile of rainforests, limestone caves, gorges and Aboriginal heritage in Tasmania’s wilderness.

That night, the headquarters of the Tasmanian Wilderness Society (TWS) in Strahan was a hive of activity. Blockade organisers, volunteers and journalists milled around. Suddenly, an American accent boomed out above the hubbub. Norm Sanders, holding a phone in one hand, announced ‘south-west Tasmania is now World Heritage’. A mighty cheer broke out.

Seventeen thousand kilometres away, in Paris, the chair of UNESCO’s World Heritage Committee had just brought down the gavel on the committee’s decision to inscribe the Franklin River on the World Heritage List. It did so despite the protestations of the Tasmanian delegation, sent along by premier Robin Gray to thwart the listing at the last moment. The committee shrugged off these objections and, in an unusual move, also warned that the impacts of dam-building warranted consideration of an ‘in danger’ listing for the new World Heritage property.

The listing vindicated the stand taken by protesters in Southwest Tasmania. Forty years and several extensions later, the Tasmanian Wilderness WHA now occupies 1.58 million hectares, almost a quarter of the state. It is one of the world’s most diverse World Heritage properties, satisfying seven of the ten criteria for World Heritage value. (Only one other property matches this—Mt Taishan in China.)

World Heritage recognition indicates that the international community understands the value to the world of Tasmania’s landscapes—its jagged mountains, sculpted by glaciers; the pristine beaches, cliffs, islands and lagoons of the Southwest’s coast; and the ancient lineage of unique

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Tasmanian Wilderness WHA

The iconic fang of Federation Peak lies at the heart of the area protected by the initial 1982 World Heritage Area declaration. Credit: Grant Dixon

This image: The 2013 extension of the TWWHA’s boundaries protected the beautiful forests of the Florentine Valley.

Credit: Grant Dixon Left: The fight to save the Franklin River was a constant in Wild’s early days. Pictured is a clipping from Issue #8, 1983

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TASMANIAN WILDERNESS WHA

Tasmanian life forms such as Huon pines, many of which are over 2,000 years old. Also affirmed is the importance of wilderness—large expanses of country remote from the disturbances of industrialised society. Indeed, the Tasmanian Wilderness WHA is the only World Heritage property with the word ‘wilderness’ in its official name.

The listing also recognises the property’s cultural heritage. The Tasmanian Aboriginal people inhabited caves along the Franklin and other rivers at the height of the last Ice Age, between 21,000 and 10,000 years ago, when they were the most southerly people on the face of the Earth. Artefacts, bones and rock art embody the Aboriginal inhabitation of what was then a very different landscape. Middens created by the heaping of countless shells along today’s coastline are a more recent manifestation of that occupation.

But that initial inscription, the one announced by Norm Sanders to his fellow blockaders that night in 1982, did not end the battle over the Franklin River. The Tasmanian Hydro-Electric Commission (HEC), cheered on by the Gray government, ignored the listing and continued its destructive works.

And so the blockade continued until March the following year, during which time 1,272 people were arrested. Night after night, the conflict between conservation and development was dramatised on TV screens across Australia, with the rainforests of the wild rivers as the backdrop. This coincided with a federal election that saw Labor’s Bob Hawke oust the coalition’s Malcolm Fraser as prime minister. Some of Hawke’s first words as prime minister-elect on March 5, 1983 were “the dam will not be built.”

When the Federal Government, true to Hawke’s promise, passed new legislation to stop the dam, it was challenged by Tasmania. A High Court hearing that debated abstruse constitutional issues was followed by a tense wait for the verdict. All the while, the machinery of the HEC was hard at work, flattening rainforests for a construction camp and forging a highway to the dam site.

The bulldozers were finally brought to a halt on July 1, 1983 when the High Court ruled that the dam could not proceed.

A wild river had been saved.

But the significance of the High Court’s decision extended well beyond Tasmania. Its confirmation of the power of Australia’s national government to protect our heritage led to campaigns to achieve World Heritage protection of Australia’s other natural wonders. A whole generation of campaigners was empowered to tackle destructive projects. Enormous strides in conservation have subsequently been made using the government’s World Heritage powers, from Queensland’s Wet Tropics, Fraser Island and Lamington Plateau, to the Blue Mountains and Wollemi in NSW, to WA’s Shark Bay and Ningaloo, and all the way to the sub-Antarctic islands.

But all this has been the result of literally decades of hard and often risky work on the part of conservationists all over

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ALL THIS HAS BEEN THE RESULT

OF DECADES OF HARD AND OFTEN RISKY WORK ON THE PART OF CONSERVATIONISTS.”

Australia and internationally. In fact, in many ways, the struggles that followed to expand the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area proved in many ways more difficult than gaining the area’s initial inscription. And what’s more, the fight for its integrity continues to this day.

BACK IN THE 1970S, THE CONCEPT of World Heritage was new and obscure. The Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Natural and Cultural Heritage was inaugurated by UNESCO in 1972. It grew out of global dismay at the carnage of two world wars and growing unease at the impact of modern humanity on the natural world.

This coincided with the inundation of Tasmania’s Lake Pedder for hydro-electric development. Australia’s new Federal Government, under Gough Whitlam, belatedly tried to save the lake but had been forcefully rebuffed by the Tasmanian Government. In

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Parts of the Southern Forests as well as additional mountain country, including Lake Rhona in the Denison Range (pictured), were added to the TWWHA in the major 1989 extension. Credit: Grant Dixon Front page of The Herald [Melbourne] on July 1, 1983 ‘No Dams’ march in Sydney, as pictured in Wild Issue #7, 1983.

Photo by Geoff Lambert

the aftermath of this defeat, two progressive Labor politicians, Tom Uren and Moss Cass, came to Tasmania. They met with prominent Pedder campaigner, Kevin Kiernan, and canvassed the prospects of the federal government overturning Tasmania’s pro-dam policies using an international treaty—namely, the World Heritage Convention. The federal government would be bound to honour the treaty, which would bring into play constitutional powers enabling the wild rivers to be saved from new dams. Kiernan took up the idea and promoted it in his role as director of the newly formed Tasmanian Wilderness Society during the late 1970s.

The director of the Australian Conservation Foundation (ACF), Geoff Mosley, also recognised the potential of the World Heritage concept. By the time Australia had ratified the new treaty, in 1974, ACF was pressing for five areas to be nominated to the list, including Southwest Tasmania.

The concept of World Heritage for Southwest Tasmania struck a chord in the community, which had been sensitised to the beauty of the area by media coverage of Lake Pedder. Politicians on both sides took up the cause, creating formidable political momentum. The 1981 nomination of three Tasmanian national parks was made by a federal Coalition government under Prime Minister Malcolm Fraser and supported by the Tasmanian Labor Government of Doug Lowe. This was the same year that

Kakadu and the Great Barrier Reef were inscribed as Australia’s first World Heritage properties.

Following the Franklin victory, conservationists looked to extend the Tasmanian World Heritage Area, whose boundaries excluded many important attributes. This was seen as the most powerful means of tackling the logging industry, whose new roads were pushing ever deeper into the primeval valleys of the Southwest, destroying majestic eucalypts towering over verdant rainforests. Conservationists didn’t know at the time that this long, bruising roller-coaster ride would last for decades.

An early breakthrough occurred in 1986, at a confrontation in the Picton valley, adjacent to the walking track to Federation Peak. Independent MP and hero of the Franklin campaign, Bob Brown, was brutally assaulted in front of the cameras of the media. The ensuing front-page coverage prompted a visit to the forests by ALP power-broker Senator Graham Richardson in April 1986. After helicoptering into Lake Sydney with conservationists, including Bob Brown and myself, Richardson mused aloud about “extending the World Heritage Area” while warning that “you won’t get everything you want.” Back at The Wilderness Society headquarters in Hobart, he rang Prime Minister Hawke and declared himself a “born-again greenie”.

The advent of such an influential government member led to a formal federal inquiry into the threatened forests, a process

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that didn’t go as initially expected. The inquiry’s majority report found that only a small proportion of the area in question would qualify for World Heritage listing (which nevertheless included the hotly contested Lemonthyme forest—the forested spurs and gullies that bushwalkers can admire from Pine Forest Moor lookout on the Overland Track).

An alternative was provided in the minority report by Peter Hitchcock, who recommended a substantial World Heritage extension from Cockle Creek in the far south to the Walls of Jerusalem National Park in the north. The battle lines were drawn.

After an intense period of rallies, advertisements, media debate and feature articles, Richardson won the day with a World Heritage nomination incorporating major tracts of the tallest hardwood trees on Earth. Caves and rainforests in the winding valley of the Weld River were at the heart of the nomination.

It was a win for the Tasmanian Wilderness WHA, but a flawed one. Not only were critical forests left out; it also excluded a large central part of the wilderness that included the Gordon Splits, the Denison River and the Spires. Because it was completely encircled by the nomination, this area became known colloquially as the ‘hole in the doughnut’.

The Tasmanian election of May 1989 created an opportunity to rectify the situation. Robin Gray lost his majority, five independents led by Bob Brown were elected, and a minority government appeared to be in the offing. A nail-biting period ensued, with Gray (foreshadowing the efforts of Donald Trump 31 years later) desperately clinging to power by stirring up his support base. He was eventually ousted following revelations that a local media magnate, Edmund Rouse (who was also chairman of a company called Gunns), had tried to bribe a member of the Labor Party to cross the floor.

The government duly changed hands, with the foundation

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being the Labor-Green Accord. This document was negotiated by Bob Brown and his fellow MPs with the help of conservationists from TWS and ACF. The Accord extended the World Heritage nomination to include ‘the hole in the doughnut’ (Denison-Spires area), the Hartz Mountains and Walls of Jerusalem National Parks, most of the glacial lakes that adorn the Central Plateau, the remote and imposing Eldon Range, and scenic features such as Meander Falls, Liffey Falls, Marakoopa Cave and Drys Bluff.

Negotiations between the forestry industry on one side and TWS and ACF on the other led to further extensions. In return

THIS WAS A GRIM PERIOD FOR CONSERVATIONISTS, [BUT] THE

TASMANIAN WILDERNESS CONTINUALLY PROVIDED NEW INSPIRATION.” for logging in some contested areas, industry and unions agreed to World Heritage status for more areas of threatened forest.

The final say rested with Richardson, and just before the September 1989 deadline, he agreed to still more areas put forward

by Brown to be added to the nomination.

It was a highly significant moment when the extended World Heritage property was listed in December 1989. The extent of the property had been increased by 78%. The number of attributes formally recognised had been increased to include the pristine cave systems of the Southwest (including Exit Cave near the walking track to Precipitous Bluff) and the area’s awe-inspiring giant eucalypts. The name of the property was simplified from its previously clunky one of ‘Western Tasmanian Wilderness National Parks WHA’ to the ‘Tasmanian Wilderness WHA’.

This was a high-water mark for World Heritage in Tasmania. The appetite of the Federal Government for new World Heritage battles was exhausted. The Hawke era was drawing to a close. In 1992, an anti-conservation Liberal government came to power in Tasmania. It was the beginning of a long and seemingly fruitless period of battling for the natural world.

Nevertheless, new World Heritage proposals were developed. The takayna/Tarkine contained Australia’s greatest tract of cool-temperate rainforest, as well as wild rivers and a coastline rich in Aboriginal heritage. Tasmanian Liberal MPs scoffed at the idea of a Tarkine World Heritage extension, but the concept gradually gained traction. And the forest battles went on, with the focus shifting from one threatened valley to another.

Despite occasional moratoriums, new roads were built and the forests fell. The Liberals lost office in Tasmania and Labor took over, but both parties were dedicated to the logging and mining industries. Although this was a grim period for conservationists, the Tasmanian wilderness continually provided new inspiration. Exploratory weekend trips into the threatened forests revealed the presence of giant trees (including trees more than 90m tall in the Styx valley), caves, eagles’ nests, and Aboriginal heritage.

Such discoveries frequently halted the chainsaws at the micro level, while work proceeded to achieve a larger scale breakthrough.

Ironically, it took the Tasmanian Government’s obsession with establishing a pulp mill to deliver that breakthrough. In 2004, the giant hardwood company, Gunns—hard on the heels of instigating a lawsuit against a group of conservationists who became known as the ‘Gunns 20’ (I happened to be one of them)—launched its proposal for a huge new pulp mill near Launceston. The twists and turns of the battle exposed a corrupt relationship between industry and government, leading to the downfall of key industry advocates. Gunns’ markets and share price collapsed.

This implosion of Tasmania’s biggest logging company led to negotiations between the industry and conservationists. With the Greens in power-sharing relationships at both the federal and state levels, the time was ripe for the World Heritage Area to be extended to include the most contentious forests. In 2011, Bob Brown devoted some of his senatorial resources into developing a World Heritage proposal that would fit within the constraints imposed by both politics and time. The result was a proposed ‘minor boundary modification’ to the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage property.

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM View across Southwest NP from the Western Arthurs. Credit: James McCormack Senator Graham Richardson visiting Tasmania’s Southwest in April 1986.

Credit: David Heatley Rally for the Tasmanian forests in Melbourne in 2004. Credit: Eli Greig A protest against the ‘gagging’ of conservationists by Gunns’ lawsuit, December 2004.

Geoff Law, one of the defendants, at left.

Credit: The Wilderness Society Collection Image taken by Mercury photographer Fred Kohl of Bob Brown being assaulted that ran on the front pages of newspapers in 1986.

The image, and the controversy that ensued, prompted a visit to the area by Senator Graham Richardson (see image to left) that later proved instrumental in expanding the TWWHA boundaries

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TASMANIAN WILDERNESS WHA

EVEN AMONGST WORLD HERITAGE PROPERTIES, THE TASMANIAN WILDERNESS WHA IS EXCEEDINGLY SPECIAL. BUT THE

AREA IS STILL NOT FULLY PROTECTED.”

The areas concerned were relatively small, but they included the approved the modification. And not a minute too soon; within three most densely forested valleys—places where the most intense months, Tony Abbott was prime minister. In 2014, his government battles had been fought; places such as the Styx valley, with its attempted to have part of the World Heritage Area rescinded. The giant trees, and the Weld and Florentine valleys, with their priWorld Heritage Committee took less than seven minutes to conmeval forests, caves and tannin-stained rivers. sign this proposal to the dustbin of history. The following year, the In November 2012, an agreement between conservationists and state government of Will Hodgman attempted to remove the word industry was finally hammered out. It included the ‘minor modifi‘wilderness’ from the name of the property (as a prelude to more cation’ as proposed by Brown. Because the forest areas had been exploitation) but public outcry forced him to back down. approved in this industry/conservation ‘peace deal’, the World Heritage listing of what had previously been Tasmania’s most contested forests was no longer opposed by the forestry unions and THE TASMANIAN WILDERNESS WORLD HERIcompanies. The proposal was duly submitted to UNESCO by the TAGE AREA PROTECTS a place that, even amongst World government of Julia Gillard in Heritage properties, is exceedTasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area over time January 2013. ingly special. But the area is still Nevertheless, things seemed not fully protected. Proposals 1982-1989 Western Tasmanian Wilderness National Parks WHA 1989-2010 Tasmanian Wilderness WHA precarious. There was a feeling for helicopter-serviced tourist 2010, 2012 & 2013 extensions of Tasmanian Wilderness WHA that the Gillard government was accommodation (such as the living on borrowed time. The plans for Lake Malbena and the Liberals at the state level, under South Coast Track) threaten its the command of Will Hodgman wilderness values and cultural and Peter Gutwein, were doing heritage. The management plan all they could to wreck the forfor the property is flawed. The est agreement. All was not plain area’s Aboriginal heritage is yet sailing at the international level to be fully documented. Fires, either. One of UNESCO’s adviwhose impacts have intensified sory bodies wanted more time due to climate change, constito assess the proposal. UNEStute an existential threat to the CO’s draft advice to the World property’s ancient life forms.

Heritage Committee called for The arguments for restoring a one-year delay in the process Lake Pedder, in the submerged so that this assessment could be heart of the World Heritage carried out.

Area, are compelling. And But the Tasmanian wildermany areas that exemplify the ness could not afford one year. attributes of the Tasmanian It was clear that the Coalition Wilderness WHA have yet to be under Tony Abbott would win incorporated into the property, the forthcoming election. If including takayna/Tarkine, the the World Heritage Committee Tyndall Range, Reynolds Falls, didn’t approve the modification and the sprawling moorlands, Credit: Stephen Mattingley at its June 2013 meeting in Camrainforests and coastline south bodia, the proposal would be of Macquarie Harbour. torpedoed and logging would resume.

Organisations such as the Bob Brown Foundation and the A major effort was undertaken by conservation groups, Wilderness Society are taking on these challenges. Their work experts and the Australian Government to win over the World is aided by the thousands of people all over Australia who feel Heritage Committee. Critically, an Indigenous representative inspired to take action by the haunting beauty of the Tasmanian attended the meeting in Phnom Penh, speaking in favour of the wilderness. W minor modification. Committee members realised that this was a last-gasp opportunity to resolve what had been a long-running, CONTRIBUTOR: Geoff Law AM has played a leading role in defending intractable dispute over forests of obvious World Heritage value. the Tasmanian wilderness from the 1980s to the present. His work has On 26 June 2013, the World Heritage Committee unanimously included campaign strategy, field trips, research, media and protest.

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Here for nature.

For now and the future.

For communities to thrive.

For the life that supports us all.

To protect, restore and sustain

wilderness.org.au Image: Matt Tomkins

PHOTO ESSAY

CHASING THE MOUNTAIN

LIGHT Melbourne photographer David Neilson has engaged in a lifelong quest to photograph wild places and to seek the perfect light. This collection, chosen from his book Chasing the Mountain Light and grouped in no particular order, is just a small sample of the stunning images David has captured on his trips and adventures to the furthest corners of the planet.

By DAVID NEILSON

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Cerro Fitz Roy and its associated satellite peaks form the most impressive mountain massif in the entire Patagonian Andes. An early start was necessary to be in position to get this dramatic view taken not long after sunrise AUTUMN 2023

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David Neilson, CHASING THE MOUNTAIN LIGHT

M

Y INITIAL INTEREST IN PHOTOGRAPHY grew out of my early rock climbing and mountaineering activities. From the very beginning, I was drawn to black and white photography, and it has remained

my favourite medium. The stripping away of colour can reveal shape and form with significant and timeless clarity. Many snow and ice scenes look their finest in black and white.

I stopped climbing in my late thirties, but I retained my love of mountains and other wild places and similarly held onto my desire to photograph them to the best of my creative abilities.

Since the mid-1990s, I have used a large-format camera. This has provided exceptional image quality, but it takes more time to set up and use, and shortage of time is often a problem. In remote areas, particularly in Antarctica, one is often dependent on other people for transport, and the windows of opportunity for photographing can be brief. In addition to this, my natural working rhythm is quite slow. My solution to these challenges has been to take, as quickly as I can, a wide range of photos, and several of each at different exposures. This in turn places greater emphasis on the subsequent pictorial editing.

With much of my photography, I have wanted to use it to tell a story. My first serious photographic project aimed to portray the beauty of the Lake Pedder area in Southwest Tasmania in the hope that it might help stop the lake being flooded. With my last major project, I wanted to illustrate the grandeur of Antarctica and its wildlife in the face of significant environmental threats.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Onboard the yacht Eloisa in 1977 exploring Hyatt Sound at the western end of the Cordillera Darwin in Tierra del Fuego.

I was a member of a Scottish mountaineering expedition, and we eventually climbed several of the peaks just visible at the head of the glacier Federation Peak, in left of the image, is the most dramatic mountain in Southwest Tasmania. It was the scene for some of my early rock climbing adventures, including making the first ascent of Blade Ridge, which is just visible in the shadows on the right side of the peak In 2016, with a group of five friends, we travelled from La Paz in Bolivia south across the Altiplano looking for salt lakes and flamingos. Eventually we reached the vast Salar de Uyuni shown here. It is 130km across, and is the largest salt flat on the planet

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David Neilson, CHASING THE MOUNTAIN LIGHT

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Climbers returning to the Aiguille du Midi, with Grandes Jorasses (top left) and Arêtes de Rochefort (top centre and right), French Alps. The left side of the Grandes Jorasses in shadow is the north face, one of the six great north faces of the European Alps This king penguin colony is at Salisbury Plain on the island of South Georgia. Photographing wildlife with a large format camera is a challenge because the ‘decisive moment’ is a drawn-out ¼- or ½-second, and with my equipment I could only take six images before I had to change the film.

You have to anticipate what the penguins might do, and work as quickly as the camera will allow Wandering albatross on nest, Prion Island, South Georgia Great Trango Tower with summit just visible. Taken from Urdukas camp above the Baltoro Glacier, Pakistan AUTUMN 2023

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David Neilson, CHASING THE MOUNTAIN LIGHT

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Elephant seals, Ocean Harbour, South Georgia Andean condor above Lago Grey, Torres del Paine, Chile The 23m motor-yacht Australis travelling north across Flandres Bay with peaks of Danco Coast beyond, Antarctic Peninsula. Between 2002 and 2008, we chartered skipper and yacht-owner Roger Wallis to take us on three expeditions to the Antarctic Peninsula and South Georgia David Griffith took this photo of me photographing the king penguin colony at Salisbury Plain shown on the previous page The southern faces of K2, from the junction of the Baltoro and Godwin-Austen Glaciers. The summit is 3,500m above the foreground glacier. The right skyline ridge is the Abruzzi Spur. Much that is written about K2 is to do with how difficult a peak it is to climb; I was not prepared for what an impressive and beautiful mountain it is. Within its realm it has no peer

CONTRIBUTOR: David Neilson is a Melbourne-based photographer and has been the author of five books, with his most recent being Chasing the Mountain Light. He has received two Antarctic Arts Fellowships, and in 2021 was one of four Antarctic Arts Fellows to be featured on a set of Australia Post stamps.

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KEEPING COMPANY UNRIDDEN

KANGAROO THE WITH

VALLEY VIKING 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 The Razor-Viking Circuit is widely regarded as one of the finest walks in Australia. But that wasn’t quite enough for Craig Pearce, who decided to add to this iconic loop, but in the process, almost bit off more than he could chew.

By Craig Pearce

The Viking Melbourne

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Dusk on the Viking

B

eginning at the end. I hoped not my end. It’s been the end of

at least one other, this middle rock band of Helicopter Spur, the final barb in the trident of rockfaces I’d clambered, clung to and kissed on my extended version of one of Australia’s most revered bushwalks—the Razor-Viking Circuit.

Some have been smart enough to examine Helicopter’s forbidding battleship prow and decline the opportunity. Too wet, too exposed, too vertical—it takes bravery to pull the pin, recalibrate and backtrack. Not many people are smart or agile enough to do this. Including me.

Fortunately, I don’t mind a clamber. So, in a painstakingly careful descent, I brought my inner frog to life. Fingers and feet suckered to barely there rock notches.

These moments of grip, kiss and hug—ie handholds doing as much as footholds to progress, intimacy with rockface to keep a backpack-encumbered centre of gravity as far away from tilt and topple as possible—are wince and worse avoidance strategies. Last time I looked, while PLBs and suchlike are great, they don’t activate themselves. A downside for the solo (ad)venturer.

There had been previous rockface confrontations, too: on the Thorn Range’s igneous metamorphosis into Crosscut Saw; and on the Viking’s rope-pull that mocked my airborne flailings as I corkscrewed my way up its renowned chimney.

All three were circuit cruxes. But they were also beacons that high country bushwalking moths are compelled by.

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Razor-Viking Circuit, VICTORIA

RIVER AND RIDGE The Razor-Viking Circuit, it is claimed, takes in perhaps Victoria’s finest alpine scenery. Combining sections of formed tracks, fire trails, unmarked foot pads, and off-track bush bashing, the circuit is roughly 40km in length, and is located towards the southern taper of Victoria’s sprawling Alpine National Park, not far from Mt Buller (as the crow flies, anyway). Logistically speaking, this is only true if you opt for the non-traditional extended version I executed, and which thought about executing me.

The circuit—some of which forms part of the Australian Alps Walking Track (AAWT)—usually takes four days to complete, and commonly starts with an eastern approach drive to the Mt Howitt car park. From there, it’s a loop that passes through Macalister Springs (where the iconic Vallejo Gantner Hut grandly resides), and then climbs over a string of glorious peaks, spines and high points—including the Crosscut Saw, Mt Buggery, Mt Speculation, the Razor, and the Viking—before then looping back to your starting point at the Mt Howitt car park.

My ultra-version circuit added a top and tail to this. I began instead from the Upper Howqua Campground, and then traced the Howqua River upstream before veering off onto the Queen Spur Road (actually a track, sort of …) and then onto the Thorn Range walking track. Then I fell up to the Crosscut Saw and met the 101 version of the circuit.

From there, I did the standard circuit’s clockwise loop (minus the access section to and from Mt Howitt car park). Well, I nearly did the standard loop. Just 1.5km before arriving back at the Crosscut Saw, I branched off to take the AAWT southwest, over Mt Howitt and Mt Magdala. And then, diverging from the AAWT, I took the Helicopter Spur track to plunge back down to the Upper Howqua. All up, it was about 60+km and 4.5 days— more fun and adventurous than the trad circuit and, without getting too purist about it … oh stuff it, let’s get purist; rather than taking the cop-out short-cut version from Mt Howitt car park, it was satisfying climbing from Upper Howqua to Crosscut Saw, plus returning via the meadow-carpeted peak of Howitt itself, which presides at the heart of four river valleys: Macalister, Wonnangatta, Howqua and King. It is—understatedly— quite the perch from which to soak in the wild.

GO TO BUGGERY Approaching Upper Howqua there was a silken sea of cloud— glacier-like, its stream of water particles mid-air motionless— pouring over a mountainous brow whose furrows I was to become acquainted with in days to come.

Off and running along the Howqua’s banks, the dense forest’s powerful peppermint aromas did their druggy thing on me.

Rosellas rocketed around and contributed to the healthy birdsong banter. But the Stanley Range Road’s blackberry snarl— ravenous for flesh–had me wishing for a full-body gaiter. Near

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THE WISE WALKER WOULD’VE

MOVED TO A MORE PROTECTED LOCATION. THAT WASN’T ME.”

the junction of the road and the Stanley Name Spur Track, a clearing allowed scrutiny of the Crosscut’s beehive-shaped hips.

Meanwhile, a society of trees creaked covert whispers among themselves. It was an augury. I was to be belted with a booming wind that night.

And before I knew it, first hours of the walk, I was attached to one of those hips, on the crumbling stairway to Crosscut Saw’s heaven.

Looking up. Looking down. Looking sideways and skyways.

This is where, and not for the last time either, the pad-cometrack-come-pad-come-nope-nothing-here-but-bush had me mystified. I did the same thing going down Viking and Helicopter.

The consistent element of this veering and careering was singular: the navigator. It’s easier to lose a trail going down than up, but I am a man for all seasons, adept at losing it either way.

The Crosscut welcome included a fierce chill wind, but wow, what a vista. East, the maws of Terrible Hollow and Devils Staircase were eager to devour (they had been just about devoured themselves by loggers not that long ago); northeast, in the Razor-Viking Wilderness Zone, the Viking stood resolute over its geological minions. Raw mountains muscled up from the valleys. And then there was the 13-peaked ridgeline of the Crosscut Saw itself. Its causeway was a high-wire wonder wander (approach with caution on a gale-afflicted day. It’s excitement aplenty even when wind is barely there).

This is the Australian Alps. These mountains have been conjured up out of ancient continental drift and global tectonic shifting. “Some of the most common rock types,” writes Deidre Slattery in her book Australian Alps, “are among the oldest—those formed by the ooze at the bottom of that nameless ocean of Ordovician times [roughly 445-485 million years ago]. These are sedimentary rocks—sandstones, mudstones and shales, their layers crumpled and twisted ... In places they are broken and tilted upwards into striking lines of cliffs, such as the Crosscut Saw, the Viking and the Razor and the ridge that runs from Mount Howitt to the Bluff.”

I was now at about 1,700m. Most plant diversity at these higher elevations—above the snow gums with their restless, twisted elongations—is in shrubs, grasses and herbs.

It is still unclear just how many non-vascular species—such as mosses, hornworts and liverworts—there are. “Lots,” is the scientific answer.

While taking in the 360° views, the chiming started. I have this ‘thing’—a(nother) symptom of my madness —where, typically in sunny, breezy weather a tinkling of gentle bells, clear and soft, finds its way to me. Leprechauns’ chatter? A musical concatenation of birdsong, ricocheting among the gossip of restlessly rubbing tree branches?

Maybe it’s my diminishing hearing capacity in fantasy mode, patching together sounds present and sounds past, a subconscious confection? Or a cognitive auditory mapping, an unconscious way of connecting to the land? It’s comforting, however—an old friend, although more than once, it’s spooked me when I thought it meant people being unexpectedly present in remote bushland. Whatever the source, I was conscious of it in clearings that morning, but on the Crosscut, it was in full song.

Late afternoon on High Camp Buggery, the breeze was stiff, but nothing outrageous.

I scoped out the options, settling on the prettier if more exposed site. As the wind strengthened, the wise walker would have moved their tent to a more protected location. That wasn’t me. Instead, I was nearly plucked and flung by the gusts that stampeded through the heights that night. Carnage greeted dawn: Monster branches carpeted the place. My non-impacted tent had clearly been blessed by the leprechauns.

But while I’d gotten away with my tent location, it had only just been the case.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT One of the AAWT’s disinctive yellow markers The unusually shaped Vallejo Gantner Hut was designed by architect David McGlashen.

It was completed in 1971, and is on the Victorian Heritage Register From the Crosscut, thar blows the Viking Easy does it on the Upper Howqua

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Razor-Viking Circuit, VICTORIA

However one reason for diving into adventures like this one is to engage with uncertainty. In other words, take risks. Living life, not watching it. When doing this, each of us engages with a quandary: What is our appetite for risk? For every choice, there is a potential upside and a potential downside. What controls— GPS navigation device, SOS beacon, first aid kit, gaiters, route research etc—have you put in place to mitigate the risk?

The main risks I determined on this walk were: addressing rockfaces, and what the weather might be like for my planned camps on the exposed Buggery and Viking. Second-tier risks were water availability and managing the off-track sections. Others included walking solo and snakebite.

In hindsight, I was correct in my risk assessment. Hindsight is important as it gives me more knowledge when I’m approaching future walks. I don’t think this should be underestimated. The biggest risk of all is complacency. And perhaps attempting to push through a situation (eg bad weather, a river in spate) when the odds for success don’t warrant it.

On this walk, two situations caused by human foolishness presented obvious risks.

The first was on Mt Buggery. An ingénue group turned up late in the day. The wind was howling. One of them asked me to help him start a campfire. My response was, “Listen mate, start a fire now and sparks will go everywhere, and the risk of bushfire is significant so, no, I won’t help, and you shouldn’t do it.” Fuel stoves should be used for cooking up this high, no question. Both for safety reasons and because the wood is useful to the ecosystem. Enjoy your campsite’s local beauty, don’t consume it.

The second was snake protection. Or lack thereof. I’ve seen this many times before but, in this case, it shook me more than usual. At Mac Springs, I cringed as numerous gaiter-less and trouser-less legs walked real estate recently inhabited by a not easily intimidated tiger snake.

With no risk, the thrill is gone. So we don’t want to remove risk; we just want to manage it in a way that works best for us individually, and that doesn’t negatively impact the environment or others.

NOT THE DEAD ZONE Day Two, the 14km from Buggery to the Viking was, despite being ‘on-track’, as physically demanding as the often off-track day to follow. It was also the drama-charged heart of the walk, taking me into the Razor-Viking Wilderness and its Barry Mountains.

The morning ascent of Mt Speculation was the day’s bodily wake-up call. It had more false summits than Henry the VIII had wives. No beheadings, but a psychological torment nevertheless, full of peak-to-come-but-no-not-yet betrayals.

From Catherine Saddle, and over Mt Despair, the way forward was crowded with surly seas of bitter bush pea; it was like going through a scratchy, waterless car wash. A good reason for long sleeves and trousers. But that was child’s play compared to the

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MT SPECULATION HAD MORE

FALSE SUMMITS THAN HENRY THE VIII HAD WIVES.” NW approach to Viking Saddle. Here, the difficulty level went stupid. A disaster (yup, that’s the collective noun I’m searching for) of bushfire-victim fallen trees lay adamantly across the track. No point protesting. Just shut up and suck it up. Over, under, through, traversing and rarely around, they were the Devil’s work. Reaching the paradisical saddle was a relief. But the respite was fleeting. It was a bush-choked struggle to find water, and then there was the day’s final challenge—scaling the Viking.

Somewhat paradoxically, then, it was a day where Zen bloomed. Not so much in the journey’s rare interludes of pause, breathe, examine, but in its near-ceaseless motion and physical strain: The exquisite pleasure-pain of twanging muscles and ligaments on fire; the nearly always up or down; the heave-ho of body and its 18kg of tortoise-shell pack through barricades of trees. There wasn’t much flatness on this walk; quad busting and knee crunching were the order of the days.

This masochism required a whole of brain and body rewiring into a flow state. It was transformational. But that’s what nature’s company can deliver. Streaming through the treefall, I was liquid, atoms dispersed then reforming, an apparition among apparitions.

Flow, however, is not how I would describe the Viking’s cruel climb. Colouring blue the agony were the four kay-gees of water

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Beheadings be damned, finally on Mt Spec The Viking chimney —not ideal after a 10hour day Yellow everlasting daisies Calm before the storm on Mt Buggery Dusty daisy bush

I was freshly encumbered with, a close-call footfall on an alpine copperhead (right of way duly given), and yet more poleaxed tree trunks. The final indignities flung my way were the shoulder-shredding, five-metre rope-pull required to ascend the chimney, then the ego-sapping rock hole you’re required to somehow squirm through.

But there were rewards for these devotions: sunset’s soothing pastels; dawn’s chiaroscuro. Panoramas of untamed mountains, valleys; wilderness scrub vestments and rock ornamentation.

Nothing human-sullied. Faint birdcall, a barely-there breeze.

Country stilled. The gentlest, yet deepest possible, revelation. In the morning, darkness divulged clear, cathedral-vaulted skies.

These were elevated moments, worth any effort where the surroundings foster a sense of communion—with the natural world, and maybe also a reckoning with who we are and our impact on all life on Earth.

MYSTERY ROAD Everyone has their own approach to researching a walk before doing it, how much to leave to chance or, to put it another way, how much to discover for yourself. I fall (often, actually) into the mixed camp of doing a lot of research, then adapting to what transpires. This is code for inadvertently not heeding sage advice. Inevitably, it gives you ‘situations’ to resolve, where navigation, observational skills, physical conditioning and common sense all come into play. Day Three was one of those days.

I found myself re-covering the route from the very beginning, deviating off a Viking ridgeline, following some semblance

of track that led me to one of this walk’s trademark rockfaces which I, again, lumbered up. South Viking’s spine took me down to the Wonnangatta River on a relatively easy-to-follow (less obstructed than some of the trip’s formal ‘tracks’) pad, where The Cairn Gang had put in a good shift. Windows in the scrub permitted views over Wonnangatta Valley.

It was, regretfully, pad-AWOL time when the South Viking spur met the river perimeter’s feral blackberry bastardry. The river itself wasn’t bothered. It was in rude health. Frogs roared a ragged chorus. They and a squadron of dragonflies were glad tidings. Insect populations are suffering what has been described as, due to climate change and deforestation, an Armageddon.

“Climate change is to be the nail in the coffin for quite a lot of creatures which are already in much reduced numbers,” said Dave Goulson, a University of Sussex ecologist. It is not rose-coloured glasses I wear when I observe that I see so few dragonflies compared to my youth. It was a comfort, then, to watch the dragonflies’ furious hovering here, and the way they iced themselves into immobility on wet riverside pebbles.

I woke the next day feeling like I’d been hit by a truck, buried under ten hangovers. The previous days’ efforts had hit home.

I’d figured as much might occur, so my fourth day had a relatively relaxed agenda, with two siestas scheduled in. Before I got to these, I had four more entanglement-extraction off-track kms to negotiate. In an early warning, my pliable water bottle was plucked by branch from my pack then speared (duct tape to the rescue). Sticks: literal thorns in the side. I got a good spiking even when on-track out here.

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A last look at The Viking, before crossing the meadows of Mt Howitt

A feisty tiger

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DON’T FORGET WHO OWNS THIS TRACK, THIS COUNTRY— AND, GRASSHOPPER, IT’S NOT A CITY-BOY INTERLOPER LIKE YOU.”

After lolling about for a couple of hours, I made my refreshingly unimpeded way to Magdala Saddle. The openness of Mt Howitt contrasted with the bush-thick ups and downs to Magdala. The saddle itself makes for a gorgeous, expansive, protected campsite, its dappled light seemingly visible in a late afternoon slumber. It cossetted and cradled me, flotsam in nature’s drift.

Then there was what the map showed as a walking track from the Zeka Spur Track (a fire trail) to the Mt Howitt Walking Track.

It is a conundrum. Let me put it like this: A lot of ‘discovering’ occurred on the way. Certainly, the park’s rangers know nothing about this Mystery Road. And—apart from a 500m pad I discovered and clung to as a drowning man would to a life raft in a churning sea—it was unadulterated, off-track, scrub-haggling.

I was hurled into the vortex as spectator, protagonist and victim. The topo was telling me one thing, terrain another. As majestic and diverse as the bush was, it was a willing party to the fracas, cracking me with kicks, trips and uppercuts. Those three would be at it all day. And as for trees, was it really necessary for so many of them to have toppled? Branches big and small, cluttered and clutching. It was a three-part calamity: approaching Viking Saddle; here on Mystery Road; then the following day down Helicopter Spur. If there was a test for maintaining the flow, I suspect this was it. Had the flow failed me?

More likely I failed the flow.

The day’s first siesta was at Mac Springs, the grassy expanse, a toilet with a view and the snow gums’ restful, wind-rustled shade making it a five-star resort in the context of the circuit.

Fresh running creek water, too, as much as you could drink! And there was also—oh—a feisty tiger. The sleek, three-metre snake and I met just by the creek. It raised its head, but, alas, gave no ground. We eyed each other warily. As soon as I stepped back it decided, “Yeah, smart move; I’ll leave now but don’t forget who owns this track, this country—and, grasshopper, it’s not a cityboy interloper like you.”

BACKWARDS BAPTISM

WILD

It was a wrench to leave the calm of Magdala Saddle. But there was recompense in the ridgeline walking to come with its riveting views. The notch of Hells Window—a frame for beauty if ever there was one—came and went before the crux plummet down Helicopter Spur. I carefully negotiated my way—less an upright mammal than a crouching, side-walking crab—around the latter’s heights to find the pad.

The deeper down the spur I dropped, the more its pad was disguised by flurries of smashed trees. Eventually it morphed into an ancient, overgrown fire trail. The closer to the river (and my car at Upper Howqua River Campground) I went, the slower I became. As usual, I held on to the moments, keeping my ill-disciplined meditation on the theology of nature as real and kinaesthetic as I could. The invaluable qualities of nature bathing don’t abate the more they occur. If anything, they enlarge, in tandem with an increased understanding of, and empathy towards, nature itself.

The river engulfed me, cleansing some of the sweat and odour I’d been accumulating. An inverse baptism, occurring at the walk’s end, not its birth. But just as I didn’t want to lose those views—now ingrained not just into my memory, but my entire presence—I was unsure if I wanted even these stinky souvenirs to be cast away. W CONTRIBUTOR: Sydney-based Craig Pearce escapes, whenever possible, the wilderness of the corporate canyons for the non-anthropocentric society of snakes, snow gums and wallabies.

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READER’S ADVENTURE

Whom Shall I

Send?

When Tasmania’s rarely paddled Lagoon River asked who was up for the challenge, Geoff Macqueen had a simple answer: Call me.

By GEOFF MACQUEEN

“A

whoop of joy means it’s high, and a cry of despair means it’s low,” I announced to Pete and Tyrone as I bounded off down the hill to find the river, leaving them to finish setting up the tents. As I pushed through the last bit of dense scrub fringing the river, a small stream came into view at my feet. My optimism evaporated. Packrafting this ‘river’ for 30km to the ocean was about as appealing as crawling it. I was so dismayed that I didn’t have the will to do the cry of despair.

A short while later, Tyrone pushed through the scrub and joined me in a pall of gloom. We contemplated the possibilities. The river rising overnight seemed unlikely, as two days of supposed rain didn’t seem to have had any significant effect, and anyway, the rain was forecast to fizzle out during the evening. Our options were a slow arse-drag down a grungy creek, or a walk back out—not an enticing prospect, either, as there was no car waiting for us on Norfolk Road, meaning we’d have to walk an additional 40km back to Corinna. Pete arrived and joined the gloom. We chewed over those two unappealing options some more, only deciding to delay our decision until the morning. +++++

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Lagoon River

Pete and Geoff wait in an eddy as Tyrone paddles through a rapid. Credit: Peter Sebbage

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Lagoon River, TASMANIA

Blue Lake, NEW SOUTH WALES

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT The first night’s wet and windy camp on a gravelly ridge above the Lagoon River.

Credit: Tyrone Blyth Geoff gets a run-up for a waterwall drop.

Credit: Tyrone Blyth Tyrone pauses for a quick bubble bath.

Credit: Peter Sebbage Just what the doctor ordered; Geoff paddles through good flows on the upper Lagoon.

Credit: Tyrone Blyth

Originating high on the eastern slopes of Tasmania’s Norfolk Range, the Lagoon River flows about 37km through broad open Tarkine valleys and narrow rocky gorges, finally discharging its water across a remote beach on the island’s west coast. Our research—which was confined to studying online maps and aerial photography—showed the river had good packrafting potential: A five-kilometre walk over open buttongrass ridges to the river; a 31km packraft of the river itself, descending 310m through what looked to be (mostly) clear sections of water; and, lastly, a 20km walk south along the coast to the Pieman Heads, from where we could catch a charter boat back to Corinna.

We needed rain to paddle the river, though. Lots of it. There are no rain gauges in the vicinity of the Lagoon River, and I wondered whether the Norfolk Range to the west might cast a rain shadow over the catchment. The best we could do was to time our departure for the tail end of a wet few days. We’d felt optimistic as we departed Launceston that morning, but now, above that feeble creek, as we sheltered in our tents from the wind and spitting rain, our optimism lay in ruins.

We settled in for the night, listening to the light patter of drizzle on the tents. When the drizzle increased to rain, we initially dismissed it as a passing shower. But as the precip became heavier, we allowed some optimism to seep back in. Soon we were cheering on the rain from our sleeping bags, which appeared to work, as heavy squalls began raking the tents. The rain came and went throughout the evening, and we fell asleep with renewed hopes.

At first light, we rushed down to the river. It had risen from

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a one-metrewide, ankle-deep-trickle to a two-metre-wide, kneedeep, fast-flowing creek. Some whoops of joy and a couple of highfives followed as our nervous optimism gave way to relief and elation. We rushed back up the hill to decamp and pack the rafts. An hour later we were back at the river, sliding the loaded packrafts into the water. “It’s already dropping,” observed Tyrone, who had jammed a stick in the bank earlier to mark the water level. So, without delay, we hopped into the rafts and were happily whisked off into the Tarkine wilderness on strong flows.

Easy kilometres passed. We paddled past open areas of low scrub and through dense tunnels of overhanging trees. Apart from one quick portage around a sharp rock, we remained in our packrafts; the river was thankfully clear of obstacles.

Tributaries converged, the river swelled, and soon we started to encounter occasional logs across the river. This marked the beginnings of a diabolical 500m log-jammed section that on aerial photography resembled the flattened forests of Tunguska.

After Pete entertained us with a couple of botched log crossings, we decided it was time to hatch our detour plan. We squeezed through dense tea trees on the left bank to enter clear fields of buttongrass. Twenty minutes of arduous hauling work ensued as we dragged the packrafts sledge-style over the grass; meanwhile, Pete and I regularly assured Tyrone (who hadn’t seen the aerial photography and was dubious about the need to walk so far) that the log jam was indeed large and terrible, and that we had to drag further. Finally, we pushed back through the scrub at the river’s edge to find a wide and clear river. With a sceptical

[CAN] ADVENTURE WITHOUT HARDSHIP STILL BE CALLED ADVENTURE? IN THESE EASY WATERS, IT FELT MORE

LIKE LOUNGING IN A BEAN BAG.”

Tyrone goading us that he still saw no evidence of a logjam, we seal-launched over dense scrub back into the river.

We bobbed down the river at a leisurely pace as the river turned us west into a steep-sided valley. Between us, we had about 45 years of whitewater-kayaking experience, but it was only in the last two years that we’d started packrafting. Our short experience with packrafts was enough to make us enthusiastic fans. Packrafts are light, tough, and fun to paddle. They’re also easy to carry in a pack, and this has opened up new paddling horizons for us, and led us to seek remote and interesting rivers, like the Lagoon.

We floated easily past alternating landscapes of dense forest and bare, burnt-out hillsides, wondering out loud whether adventure without hardship can still be called adventure. In these easy waters, it felt more like lounging in a bean bag.

Just as we were contemplating the underwhelming prospect of bean bagging it all the way to the ocean, outcrops of bedrock (an ingredient of most quality rapids) appeared in the riverbed, and several nice Grade Three rapids followed. We buzzed as the valley sides steepened and the river descended into a shallow ravine.

Around another corner, the river dropped out of sight. Above the

drop, flurries of foam were ominously blowing around the ravine.

We leap-frogged our way down the ravine, moving eddy to eddy, cautiously approaching the drop, before pulling out on the left bank to scout.

An inspection of the drop revealed the rapid was less treacherous than we’d imagined. There were two drops, with the exit of the first (and smaller drop) pushing the water forcefully against the right wall before pouring over a larger second drop that formed a nasty stopper at the bottom. The challenge was going to be breaking out of the powerful flow along the right wall, and running a chicken chute drop further to the left to avoid the nasty stopper. A Grade Three rapid, but there were potentially nasty consequences for mucking it up.

“Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” asked Pete, who had not only remembered a bible quote from the Brad Pitt movie Fury that we’d been discussing the previous day, but had also found a choice moment to use it. I don’t know about the biblical context, but in Fury, the quote precedes a terrible scene of carnage. “Here I am. Send me,” I volunteered boldly, raising my hand and completing the quote. We had a laugh, but chuffed as we were to be quoting bible passages, I now needed to get down to business and paddle the rapid.

I hopped back into my packraft and paddled into the flow. I headed right towards the wall to dodge an initial stopper, then veered hard back to the left to break out of the main flow and to head for the chicken chute. Plans for a soaring boof evaporated as I grazed a shallow rock, slowing the packraft at the lip. My

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Lagoon River, TASMANIA

desperate boof stroke failed to prevent the packraft from dipping into a vertical dive and plunging into the stopper. I popped out unscathed though, encouraging the others to have a shot.

Tyrone and Pete both employed different strategies, but everyone plugged the chicken chute equally abysmally.

Our glee at finding good rapids was now mixed with mild apprehension as to what the Lagoon would serve up next. We were, however, elated at the turn towards exciting paddling, and we eagerly followed each bend around the river to see what it would offer. We weren’t disappointed. Quality rapid followed quality rapid, including a chunky Grade 4 that we bombed through without mishap. A broad three-metre waterfall, intimidating at first glance, provided a centre line with a nice little ramp at the crest which projected each of us cleanly over the stopper below.

It wasn’t much further before the steep valley sides receded.

There were still occasional rapids to keep things lively, but it was late in the day, and we were on the lookout for a campsite.

“There should be some beaches coming up soon,” I said, my aerial-photo research coming to the fore again. Tyrone pointed out that the beaches could be under water, and confirmed this possibility by pointing out that there was, at that moment, a beach visible beneath his packraft. I was sceptical, but he’d put a dent in my hopes for a nice beach camp, so we took the first option that Pete spotted—a small driftwood-strewn clearing on the right bank.

After some vigorous timber dragging, we pitched the tents and, while Pete experimented with a new curry for our dinner, we reflected on what a fantastic day of paddling it had been. But for some un-forecast squalls of rain last night, we could have been camping on the road to Corinna that evening.

As we spooned down Pete’s experimental curry (which was actually acceptable), we discussed the likelihood of anyone else having descended this river before. Tyrone said he’d be surprised if some hardy bushwalkers equipped with lilos hadn’t come down here in decades past. In any any case, liloers aside, we discovered several weeks after we returned home that a group had paddled the river in 8ft rafts about twenty years before us.

We woke the next day to find the river level had dropped overnight; the flow was about half of yesterday’s. Five minutes into the day’s paddling, we rounded a right bend to reveal a gorgeous scene. A white, cobbled beach fronted a wide and deep, dark pool, with a pretty waterfall from a tributary creek tumbling in from the opposite side. Eucalypts fringed the pool before the rolling treeless hills beyond. Vindicated, I gave the others an I-toldyou-so speech. We’d bungled our choice of campsite. We enjoyed a brief stay in the little Eden, but with the water level still dropping, we were soon heading off downstream again.

The river served us up a few more grungy rapids, and we were glad we’d descended most of the river the previous day. By late morning, we could smell salt in the air, and a little later we could

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PETE JOKED HE MAY AS WELL SELL HIS PACKRAFT BECAUSE HE

COULDN’T SEE ANOTHER TRIP MEASURING UP TO THIS ONE.” hear the muffled sounds of the ocean. Bush gave way to large sand dunes sloping steeply down to the water. We rounded a final left bend, revealing a wide and windy beachscape, the river a dark, tannin-stained ribbon winding its way across the beach to the booming surf.

The previous evening, we’d contemplated the possibility of paddling into the ocean and turning south for the Pieman Heads.

Given the huge rows of swell crashing along the coast, that idea was now clearly ludicrous. Instead, we got off the river at a cluster of rocks halfway down the beach. We unpacked the rafts and re-packed everything into our rucksacks, along with half a kilo of fine wind-blown sand that found its way into our gear, shoes, clothes, and my digestive tract via a sandwich-wrap lunch.

One by one, we shouldered our packs and headed south along the beach, following the firmer sand at the water’s edge. The wide expanse of sand and ocean was such a contrast from packrafting through a green river valley that we were all absorbed in our own experiences for a while as we spread out along the beach and settled into our own paces.

After ten kilometres, the coast transitioned from beach to rocky headland. Here we came across an Aboriginal midden. The midden was collapsing, with the wind eroding and undercutting its sand foundation, scattering shell and bone debris around the beach. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago, a vastly different group of people had gathered around this place, nibbling

on molluscs and casting shells on the heap. There’s a small thrill in contemplating that.

Tyrone had passed through this area a couple of years ago and assured us that this midden, which was about a metre thick, was just a baby. “There are middens further north the size of houses,” he told us.

Our pre-booked boat to pick us up at the Pieman Heads and take us to Corinna wasn’t due for two days. So we spent two slow and enjoyable sunny days covering the last ten kilometres to the Pieman Heads, walking the partially overgrown vehicle tracks that meandered through the scrub and camping on grassy patches overlooking the rugged rocky coastline.

Controversially, vehicle access along these beaches and tracks was banned several years ago because of environmental concerns and the potential for damage to Aboriginal heritage sites. It’s a hot enough topic that reports of clandestine incursions by quad bikers have made the Tasmanian news. We didn’t see any recent signs of vehicles, and the bush was encroaching on the tracks in most places. The incumbent state government hopes to re-open vehicle access to this area, but in the meantime, increasing numbers of bushwalkers are passing through, unmolested by off-road vehicles and unbothered by the bad loud music that most of the Tasmanian 4x4 fraternity agrees provides an optimal camping experience. “You can see why they’re upset, though,” said Tyrone as we sat watching the sun set over the ocean on the last evening. “They practically had this place to themselves for decades.”

The distant drone of a motor from up the Pieman River signalled that our ride back to Corinna was approaching. We gobbled down the last of our lunch and stuffed gear back into our packs in time to jump aboard the boat as it nosed into the shore.

“How’s it going?” asked a chipper Pete.

“Oh, same shit, different day,” replied the skipper. I’m not sure if he meant it ironically, but in the guy’s defence, living and working in remote and secluded Corinna was sure to involve a lot of ‘same shit’. I sat back on the vinyl seat, totally satiated. As the boat wove its way back upriver to Corinna, I reflected on the last five days and what had made this trip so good.

We’d passed through amazing and varied landscapes, experienced salvation from a night of unforecast rain, and enjoyed quality paddling and good company. Later, sitting back more comfortably on the restaurant porch at Corinna, Pete joked he may as well sell his packraft because he couldn’t see another trip measuring up to this one.

“We could just do the Lagoon again,” suggested Tyrone.

Yeah, definitely. Let’s do it again. W

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT The last of the Lagoon River as it winds its way across the beach to the ocean.

Credit: Tyrone Blyth A gorgeous evening above the rocky Tarkine coast. Credit: Peter Sebbage The final triumph as our ride back to Corinna arrives on time.

Credit: Tyrone Blyth Geoff and Pete amble south along the Tarkine coast, leaving the beach for the rocky headland. Credit: Tyrone Blyth

CONTRIBUTOR: Eight years ago, at age 38, Geoff was introduced to whitewater paddling. His biggest regret in life is the years before paddling (BP) that he frittered away climbing and sailing.

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ADVENTURE ETHICS

YOU

DON’T

KNOW WHAT YOU DON’T

KNOW Reconsidering canyoning ethics

Good ethics has long been a part of responsible canyoning. And with more people than ever getting into the sport, it’s important we do the right thing by these sensitive environments. Ryan Hansen speaks with four legends of NSW’s Blue Mountains canyoning community to hear their takes on canyoning ethics, and on how new techniques can reduce our impacts.

Words & Photography RYAN HANSEN (unless otherwise credited)

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Martine abseils into Claustral Canyon, one of the Blue Mountains’ most spectacular canyons. Beauty aside, these canyons are also sensitive, and potentially dangerous, environments.

Sustainable and safe canyoning approaches ensure that we, and future generations of canyoners, can continue to experience their brilliance

Responsible Canyoning

C

anyoning is my favourite outdoor pursuit. They’re exquisite places, canyons. But

they’re also incredibly sensitive environments. And with more people—not just in Australia, but internationally—discovering canyoning’s rewards, it’s imperative—possibly now more than ever—that we revisit the discourse around how to canyon ethically, both in terms of environmental protection and personal safety.

But it’s not just the number of people canyoning that, for me, has brought to the fore the question of what’s considered ethical; on a personal level, a canyoning experience—while in a relatively remote part of the Blue Mountains—led me to re-evaluate the approach to canyoning that my wife and I take. At the time, we’d been canyoning regularly for a number of years, usually in more popular and easily accessible canyons, but gradually transitioning into more remote trips. This particular trip was to an infrequently visited canyon system, where—after making our own route to the canyon’s head—we were soon overlooking, from a ledge fifteen metres above, an upper constriction. In the interest of safety, we set up a bomber new sling with a rap ring off a sturdy tree, with a clear line down to the canyon floor. Sweet as! Down into the canyon we went, and we didn’t think any more of it.

Until later. Upon reflection, I wondered: Was that the best decision we could’ve made? Safe? Yes. Ethical? Probably not.

The chances of another party—of which there’d probably only be a handful each year—finding that same tree and using the same anchor were slim. Yet we’d left a big lump of plastic and metal there just so we could feel safer abseiling. Was our personal safety more important than minimising our environmental footprint?

While canyoning definitions and experiences vary depending on context, in the area we most frequently visit—NSW’s Greater Blue Mountains—canyoning most often involves traversing narrow, deep and dark slot-like chasms, commonly (but not always) requiring abseiling. Even within this region—without looking elsewhere in Australia, let alone overseas—there are many distinct canyoning areas (some within declared wilderness zones), where canyons have different geologies, features, obstacles, and appearances. But it’s not just canyon features that vary; so too do the ethics—the approaches to canyoning believed to be appropriate. Sometimes there might be a written code; at other times it might be an unspoken and informal—but still applicable—set of ethical principles.

Some time ago, the NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service began promoting a Canyoners Code of Ethics. It was split into two sections: “Don’t wear the canyons down” (environmental sustainability); and “Don’t let the canyons wear you down” (personal safety). While it contains Blue Mountains-specific advice, it also recommends general ethical practices, with a backbone of Leave No Trace. These practices are transferrable not only to various canyoning contexts but also to many other outdoor activities, most obviously bushwalking.

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Taking in the beauty in Serendipity canyon

To discuss its relevance and continued application—and to also, myself, develop a more informed and considered approach to canyoning—I caught up with four of the Blue Mountains canyoning Brains Trust: Tom Brennan, Rachel Grindlay, Tim Vollmer, and Craig Flynn. Amongst the wealth of canyoning wisdom they shared with me, there was one common phrase that really hit home: “You don’t know what you don’t know.”

You don’t know what you don’t know. A true but incredibly complex statement. How can you identify what it is that you don’t already know? How can you learn what you don’t know you need to know? I don’t have all the answers to these questions, but my hope is that the following discussion of canyoning ethics enables you to critically reflect on what you already know and, ideally, what you don’t know yet that you want to learn more about.

PART 1: ENVIRONMENTAL SUSTAINABILITY Tom Brennan and his wife, Rachel Grindlay, have been bushwalking and canyoning—including exploratory canyoning—in the Blue Mountains for the best part of two decades. Tom’s website (ozultimate.com) and Rachel’s blog (grindlay.org) together provide a wealth of information, photos, detailed notes, maps, trip reports and anecdotes to inspire a lifetime of bushwalks and canyons (hell, they’ve certainly been two of my biggest sources of inspiration and information!). They also organise and facilitate regular trips with their outdoor club, Sydney Bushwalkers (SBW). (Ed: And Tom also wrote the track notes for the Lower Colo Gorge Loop in this very issue; see page 130) For Tom—who fondly recalls an exploration-rich period from 2010-14 when he and a friend would pore over aerial photos and map out what they thought would be canyons and passes worthy of exploration—a major point of contention, in an ethical sense,

Proficiency in abseiling is essential for canyoning safely. Martine abseils into a remarkably sculpted canyon in Wollemi NP

has been the publishing of notes for canyons in wilderness areas. As a publisher himself of track notes, it’s a subject he’s particularly conscious of. The Wollemi Wilderness— home to many hundreds of canyons—is NSW’s largest gazetted wilderness area; Tom says that keeping little-known canyons unpublicised, without explicit direction and notes, not only minimises damage to these sensitive environments but also preserves “some wilderness and some sense of adventure.” It also fosters more of a willingness to do the “leg work” and develop the self-sufficiency and aptitudes to explore them ourselves.

When it comes to promoting environmentally sustainable canyoning, Rachel says it fundamentally comes down to developing a conservation-based mindset: “Is the bush there for us humans to have a playground, or is it there for the creatures that live in it, the things that grow there, the sense of the untouched? If your premise is coming from that nature should be protected, it’s much easier to position ethics about not placing unnecessary stuff and not leaving impacts.”

On the subject of “leaving stuff”—specifically, anchor materials like rope, webbing, maillons, and, sometimes, bolts (which, by the way, are contentiously becoming increasingly widespread despite their installation being illegal in Blue Mountains canyons)—Tim Vollmer says the answer to what’s the best way to do things is almost always, “It depends.”

Tim, another prominent figure in the Blueys’ canyoning fraternity—you can read about many of Tim’s exploits at fatcanyoners.org—advocates that different canyons require different solutions: “If you’re in a wilderness area, you should be looking to have as little of an impact as possible, and ideally no impact. If you’re somewhere that’s a trade route with commercial groups going through, then what you have there will be different.”

Remote canyoning is also nothing new to Craig Flynn, the blogger behind Sleep When We Are Dead (the title alone indicates how much time Craig spends outdoors). Craig explains that when you go to a wilderness canyon without slings, bolts, or obvious signs of prior visitation—meaning you must problem-solve your own anchor solutions—it feels like you’re exploring the canyon for yourself. These senses of discovery and self-reliance are what wilderness areas are prized for, and a liberty that Tim argues shouldn’t be taken for granted: “I think people don’t realise how lucky we are to have those [practically untouched wilderness areas] and how quickly they can be modified and lost.

Once they’re lost and modified, we can’t get that back.”

Portraits, top to bottom: Craig Flynn; Rachel Grindlay; Tom Brennan; Tim Vollmer

DON’T WEAR THE CANYONS DOWN: - Keep your group to a small and manageable size (4 to 8 people).

- Don’t place bolts, or alter rock surfaces in any way.

- Avoid leaving unnecessary slings and remove old slings.

- Keep to creek channels, avoid sensitive creek banks and soft vegetation.

- Avoid establishing new abseil routes or footpads – keep to existing paths, or spread out in trackless terrain.

- Walk carefully in rocky pagoda areas – flaky rocks and thin ledges can break easily.

- Avoid marking tracks (signs, cairns, broken branches). Each group should have at least one competent navigator.

- Don’t publicise ‘new’ canyons or those in wilderness areas, to preserve opportunities for discovery and to minimise impacts.

- Use fuel stoves – fires scars are unsightly, attract rubbish and encourage vegetation damage.

- Avoid camping in canyon environments.

-Dispose of human waste away from canyons.

- Leave the crayfish and other wildlife alone.

- Carry out any rubbish.

FIRST SECTION OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS CANYONERS CODE OF ETHICS

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DON’T LET THE CANYONS WEAR YOU DOWN: - Take responsibility for your own safety.

- Be self-reliant – know the route, and have adequate food, water, safety and first aid gear, maps and clothing.

- Know how to swim and self-rescue on ropes.

- Hypothermia is a real risk – wetsuits and spare warm clothes are advisable.

- Teach beginner abseilers prior to canyon trips, rather than in canyons.

- Give way to faster groups.

- Avoid peak use times in well-known canyons if possible as overcrowding can cause delays and safety problems.

- Leave details of your group, route and expected return time with a responsible person.

- Ring 000 in case of emergency.

SECOND SECTION OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS CANYONERS CODE OF ETHICS

Rachel also emphasises that canyoners in other parts of the world—like the US, where natural anchors are comparably much harder to find than in the Blue Mountains—have demonstrated that anchors can still be constructed while leaving minimal or no impacts. Despite some of these overseas anchor-building techniques, like sand and water traps, not necessarily being applicable in Australia, she says what it’s founded on is a creative mindset. And that’s certainly relevant here.

Tim, Craig, Rachel and Tom all advocate that some non-invasive canyoning techniques widely used overseas could become more integrated in Australia. Notably, fiddlesticking—which involves wrapping your rope around a natural anchor like a tree or chockstone, securing it with a stone knot fitted with a retrievable plastic device (the fiddlestick), and then releasing it via a pullcord once the last person has abseiled—is widely used in the US, and could be used in wilderness canyoning settings in Australia. Fiddlesticking not only enables more creative anchors but, in true Leave No Trace fashion, means that no permanent anchor materials or waste are left behind. (To learn more about fiddlesticking and its application, check out Tim’s blog: fatcanyoners.org/2018/08/29/ fiddlestick-retrievable-anchor. Tim also facilitates fiddlesticking workshops.)

Also, despite their suspect name, the use of meat anchors—where a person uses their bodyweight as an anchor to assist others hand-over-handing or abseiling down a drop, and then downclimbs the same drop with possible assistance from their group below— is also a useful and sustainable canyoning practice, when implemented carefully.

To further eliminate environmental damage in canyons, there’s one factor—it’s bleedingly obvious to me now—that Tim says can be the single biggest protective measure: avoiding a rescue. In just one canyon rescue, explains Tim, “You have bunches of emergency personnel coming in, you’ve got choppers overhead, you get erosion, you get trees down, you get all sorts of damage. You’ll do more environmental damage in that scenario than in all the other canyons you do the rest of the time.”

So, setting aside unavoidable accidents, what’s the best way to prevent a rescue?

Proper preparation. It’s the perfect segue into Part 2.

PART 2: PERSONAL SAFETY Most of us have had, at some point, a dodgy outdoor experience; if we haven’t, we usually know of someone who has. Tim tells of a time when—with only four or five canyons under his belt—he attempted, with an equivalently inexperienced mate, Hole in

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Responsible Canyoning

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM The point of reflection: Martine rigs an unsustainable anchor in a wilderness canyon. Where’s that fiddlestick?

A fiddlestick-style (smooth operator) anchor setup. The LAMAR removes the two safety ‘biners and, once down, pulls the pullcord (blue line), releasing the smooth operator; the knot unfolds, and the rope can be retrieved.

Credit: Tim Vollmer Tom acting as a meat anchor, enabling Rachel to hand-over-hand down a short drop. Credit: Jon Bell Leaving anchor tat behind is far from ethical. We hauled this rubbish out of two remote Wollemi canyons A fiddlestick in action. No permanent anchor was left behind. Credit: Craig Flynn Good scrambling skills are highly beneficial, and can be the determining factor for getting into and out of a canyon system

THE SINGLE BIGGEST MEASURE [TO PROTECT CANYONS IS] AVOIDING A RESCUE.” the Wall and Banks canyons on the Newnes Plateau in one day.

Neither canyoner had knowledge of catchment sizes or alternate exits. There’d been buckets of rain the week prior; dramatically higher water levels meant they very nearly couldn’t reverse a necessary creek section. They were forced to lasso an upstream boulder to assist themselves up a usually gentle cascade, but which was then a pounding waterfall. “It’s only as I’ve gotten older and more experienced that I look back on that trip and realise how fine we cut it.”

In short, even the best of us have had close shaves. As Craig puts it, “There’s always going to be inherent risk with canyoning.” But the bottom line, as Tim highlights, is that we need to know what we’re getting in for and, more importantly, how to get ourselves out of it. We need to be prepared. And two major components of good preparation are: 1) Having quality gear and 2) Having the right skills. Speaking of good gear, Tim set up his Canyon Gear store (canyongear.com.au) four years ago to give locals a source of high-quality, canyoning-specific equipment; he stocks all manner of ropes, descenders, and accessories particularly suited to Blue Mountains’ canyons. Other important gear to carry includes a topographic map, a canyoning first aid kit—equipped for dealing with hypothermia—and a PLB or emergency-communication device.

In terms of skills, Craig—an experienced canyon guide and workplace trainer—has been at the forefront of helping Blue Mountains canyoners upskill. During lockdown, he was the main face behind a series of forty Workshop Wednesday

videos—available on the Australian Canyoning Association’s YouTube channel—aimed at raising awareness of different canyoning skills and techniques. While the videos aren’t substitutes for professional instruction, they address anchor rigging, canyoning first aid, basic through to advanced ropework skills, and practically everything in between. These videos have been a major impetus for my own ongoing skill development.

Rachel, Craig, Tim and Tom advocate that there’s two main types of canyoning skills required: ‘bush skills’ and ‘technical skills’. Bush skills, in particular, refer to the ability to navigate both on and off track (and not just using your phone; what will you do if it drowns because of leaky ‘waterproof’ bags or if its battery dies while you’re in the middle of nowhere?), and to find passes through clifflines. General bushwalking experience here is highly beneficial. Similarly, outdoor skills like scrambling, downclimbing and partner assisting are invaluable for navigating tricky sections within canyons as well as exiting them; downclimbing and partner assisting can be used to avoid optional abseils, improving efficiency and sustainability by negating the need for anchor materials. (And vice versa: These skills, if gained via canyoning, are highly applicable to broader outdoor settings.)

In contrast, technical skills include, but aren’t limited to, anchor building, abseiling, ascending, rescuing, making sound judgements, and communicating effectively, whether that’s using hand, whistle, or voice signals; these look different for canyons with low water flows versus those with high flows. In the context of remote canyoning, Rachel says tech skills can be subtle; things like not committing yourself beyond your means—for example, checking there’s a suitable option for the next anchor before pulling your ropes, or that the next section is even passable—and being able to construct creative anchor solutions while leaving no trace (the valuable skill we were sadly lacking).

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Craig maintains that having these various skills practised and refined so they’re “second-nature”—meaning you don’t have to stop and actively think about them while possibly making mistakes in the process—is critical to avoiding (or, at worst, escaping) an emergency: “You might think you know how to do something, but if you haven’t practised it, that doesn’t mean you can do it. You need to first practise it in a safe environment. And keep that training up.” (Unfortunately for Craig, he found this out the hard way; when he needed to prusik back up their rope in an emergency, it was harder and slower than he would’ve liked.)

Further, being equipped with an array of skills, and knowing when and why they’re applicable, is the key to problem solving.

“Have a range of tools in your toolbox,” Tim suggests, “that can allow you to deal with different situations depending on your group, the style of canyon, and where you are.”

But our conversation about personal safety, to this point, may have glossed over an important piece in the puzzle of canyoning dangers. Tim’s spent a significant time analysing causes of canyoning-related incidents and fatalities in the Blue Mountains, and his resounding advice is: “Start early. Keep your group small. Move efficiently.” He says that most accidents come from large, inexperienced groups taking too long to get through a canyon and then—cold, fatigued, and with the pressure of getting out before dark—making associated poor judgements. All of which can be minimised, if not entirely mitigated, with good planning and preparation.

I’M LEFT PONDERING SOME QUESTIONS. Firstly, with all this chat about canyoning skills, what if you feel you don’t have enough, or the right, canyoning skills? Does that mean you shouldn’t go canyoning? Not necessarily. It’s generally recommended that at least one, preferably two, people in a group have the requisite knowledge and skills to safely navigate a canyon’s challenges, including emergencies. In practical terms, this can mean canyoning with people you know are experienced and skilled. Alternately, join a bushwalking club (they often run canyoning trips, and sometimes skill-development days too), or consider professional instruction (some guiding companies run skill building trips rather than simply walking you through a

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IN A THOUSAND YEARS’ TIME [YOU] SHOULD BE ABLE

TO GO INTO THESE PLACES AND HAVE

THE SAME FEELING OF AWE.”

canyon), and for the old-timers among us, you can read up on these skills in dedicated canyoning guidebooks and manuals (which can generally be found online too).

Secondly, is having diverse canyoning ethics a good thing, or should we be trying to make canyoning the same in all areas?

Rachel stresses that, just like with rock climbing, this diversity should be respected and preserved; she says that canyoners, including those in Australia, can sometimes try to replicate approaches used in other contexts even though they may not be considered geographically appropriate or necessary; in doing so, the same much-loved canyoning diversity becomes threatened.

Thirdly, what’s the most important thing here? I’d argue it’s mindset. Tim summed it up perfectly when he said the most useful attributes for becoming an ethical, skilled canyoner are to have humility, a critical outlook, and a ready-to-learn mentality: “Canyoning is a never-ending apprenticeship … The best canyoners, who’ve been doing stuff for decades, are still learning new techniques, they’re still thinking about what they’re doing, they’re still watching other people, they’re still going: “How can I do this better?””

And, lastly, why? Why should we want to be ethical canyoners? Craig stressed that, “You’re trying to look after the environment, you’re not trying to ruin it. The reason we go out to these places is because they’re wild and beautiful and you wouldn’t want to ruin that for the next person.” Similarly, Tim, a father of five, said, “Our kids and grandkids and people in a thousand years’ time should be able to go into these places and have the same feeling of awe and wonder at how beautiful they are.”

So, what is it that you don’t know? W CONTRIBUTOR: Educator, photographer and outdoor enthusiast Ryan Hansen relishes any opportunity to get in a canyon, even if it means kissing a few snakes and battling extreme chafe.

5 THE

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BUNCH

A quick lowdown on CAPE RANGE NP

KARIJINI NP

KENNEDY RANGE NP FRANCOIS PERON NP KALBARRI NP

ADVENTURES ON

Perth

WA’S CORAL COAST Words Catherine Lawson Photography David Bristow BEST KNOWN FOR ITS WATERY ADVENTURES on Ningaloo—Australia’s largest fringing reef—the Coral Coast is a surprising place to tackle a bushwalk. From the Kennedy Range and Karijini National Parks, to Kalbarri, Cape Range and Francois Peron in Shark Bay World Heritage Area, this collection leads you to remote river gorges for wild, wet walks and rockhopping adventures, and along ridges and sea cliffs to spot petroglyphs and marine life at play. Trails on the arid Coral Coast are characteristically short, so walkers can avoid the worst of the searing midday heat, but at its lowest latitudes in Kalbarri National Park, cool winter conditions allow for one classic multi-day wander.

THE EASY

WANAMALU TRAIL

FRANCOIS PERON NP 3.6KM; 1-1.5HRS - EASY At the very tip of the Peron Peninsula, on the edge of Shark Bay’s vast, tricoloured World Heritage Area, this easy wander rates for its stellar ocean views. The national park’s only formed track, the gentle Wanamalu Trail winds between Cape Peron and Skipjack Point along a knife edge of striking, 250,000-year-old Peron sandstone. Lookouts at either end of the trail overhang white-sand shorelines where cormorants, terns and gulls move in a restless dance between crumbling red cliffs and an aquamarine sea. If you’re lucky, you’ll spot eagle rays and bottlenose dolphins hunting sea mullet in the shallows below. The soft, sandy trail that links the lookouts offers the only real challenge. Arrive in spring when a blaze of wildflowers colours the dunes, and start walking early in the day to catch wild creatures at play.

THE CLASSIC

MURCHISON RIVER GORGE KALBARRI NP 38KM; 4 DAYS – HARD

Deep inside the Murchison River Gorge, on a cavernous stretch of crumbling Tumblagooda sandstone, adventurers rock-hop, climb and shimmy their way downstream through country the Nanda people call Wutumalu. It’s more scrambling than hiking, which is precisely what attracts off-trail adventurers to squeeze through rock crevices, skirt deep pools, wade and swim, and gather drinking water hidden in lofty rock pools. It takes four days to navigate from Ross Graham Lookout onto the Loop Trail at Natures Window, but some extend an already rugged wander by beginning 10km further upstream at Hardabutt Pool.

Head to Ross Graham Lookout for easy access into the gorge,

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then allow two days (18hrs of walking) to reach Z-Bend. Between here and Four-Ways, significant wintertime rains can flood deep, sheer-sided pools, making passage difficult. To stay dry, many walkers detour around it, avoiding the long swim by climbing the Z-Bend access track to the gorge rim, and looping back down again to Four-Ways. Others stash a packraft at Z-Bend and use it to paddle and portage the route to Natures Window before climbing back to the gorge rim via the Loop Trail. The winter rains that replenish drinking-water sources in the gorge bring cooler temperatures and possible flash flooding. Register your hike with Kalbarri National Park rangers (phone 08 9937 1140).

THE AESTHETIC

DRAPERS, TEMPLE & HONEYCOMB GORGE TRAILS KENNEDY RANGE NP 11km; 5.5 HRS – MODERATE-HARD

Scoured into the base of the little-visited Kennedy Range, three gorges—all accessible in steep, hour-long climbs—are best combined into one seriously good rock-hopping adventure. From the park campground, head for Drapers Gorge, where a trail climbs gently past rock canvases etched with Indigenous petroglyphs.

From the waterhole at the head of the gorge, retrace your steps thirty minutes back down, admiring the expansive, mulga plain vistas en route. Turn north and follow the trail into Temple Gorge, named for the prominent rock formation that towers overhead.

Boulder-hop back, and then follow the Escarpment Base Trail north, dwarfed beneath the Kennedy Range’s 75km-long plateau of rust-red sandstone. Steep, precipitous cliffs tower above the entrance to Honeycomb Gorge and its intriguing rock amphitheatre of rosy, pitted walls. Cool your heels with a dip in the rock pool, then complete the 11km-long loop by returning to camp before the midday heat kicks in. Arrive after winter rains when wildflowers colour the plains and the days are cooler (July to September).

THE WILD BUNCH

THE CHALLENGING

BADJIRRAJIRRA TRAIL CAPE RANGE NP 6.8KM; 2-3HRS - MODERATE-HARD

On the other side of Cape Range, gazing inland over the Exmouth Gulf, this challenging trail pulls only the hardiest of adventurers away from their watery fun on Ningaloo Reef.

Crossing vast spinifex-covered ridges and dropping through rocky gullies, the trail finally reaches the steep, crumbling edge of Shothole Canyon. It’s a rugged, rubbly wander and the vistas are as staggering as the midday heat, and this is what earns it a Class 4 rating (hard). In December 2012, as the temperature soared to 48˚C, a 14-year-old boy died on the trail. Save this loop trail for the cool winter months, and shake yourself awake long before dawn to make an early start. You’ll find the trailhead 1km from the Thomas Carter Lookout turnoff.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT The clifftop Wanamalu Trail rates for its stellar Shark Bay views Kalbarri’s rugged Murchison River Gorge lures multi-day adventurers off track Rockhop in search of petroglyphs and pools on the Kennedy Range Away from the sea, the Badjirrajirra Trail showcases thirstier scenes of Cape Range NP

THE RARELY TRAVELLED

KNOX GORGE WET WALK KARIJINI NP 2KM; 1.5-2HRS – HARD

Of all the canyons carved into the high plateau of Karijini’s Hamersley Range, Knox invites the least traffic thanks to some off-route boulder hopping and a seriously steep talus slope.

Scramble down this to the bottom of the gorge where sheer walls soar and smooth river slabs edge a watery trail ebbing swiftly away downstream.

Wet-walk and wade through shallow pools shaded by paperbark trees, and shimmy along narrow rock ledges to avoid the deepest of pools. There’s no real trail here, so simply find your own way, switching from one bank to the other. After about thirty minutes in the gorge, the walls close to just a few feet and a breathtakingly steep canyoning dropoff marks the turn-around point for walkers. Retrace your steps and pause to take in lookout vistas over the junction where Knox and Wittenoom Gorges meet.

CONTRIBUTORS: Inspired by adventures into unpopulated places, author Catherine Lawson and photographer David Bristow are hikers, bikers, paddlers and sailors, who advocate simple, sustainable, self-sufficient living. And they don’t just know about adventuring on the Coral Coast; they literally wrote the book on it; 100 Things To See On Australia’s Coral Coast is available at wildtravelstory.com

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DESTINATION

SIERRA NEVADA Hiking California’s

A Grand Traverse along the Range of Light

John Chapman gives an overview of the amazing hiking opportunities in California’s Sierra Nevada, and outlines a new route he’s conceived of through these fabulous mountains: The Sierra Grand Traverse.

Words & Photography John & Monica Chapman

JOHN MUIR, WHO WAS INSTRUMENTAL in the creation of Yosemite and other national parks in America, called California’s Sierra Nevada mountains ‘The Range of Light’.

With clear, cobalt-blue skies during the day, the sun has ample opportunity to create patterns of shimmering light across lakes, and to generate a warm glow at sunset and sunrise that illuminates peaks and crags. This alpenglow is indeed often colourful and a major highlight, especially when orange cliffs and spires are reflected in the tranquil lakes that are a dominant feature of the Sierra Nevada’s high regions. Over one thousand lakes stud the range.

Remnants of recent glaciation, these lakes and their associated basins are often tucked up close to the many granite cliffs, crags and dagger-sharp pinnacles that crown these magnificent mountains.

The range is a walker’s paradise, a wonderland of ragged peaks, pristine lakes, small glaciers and alpine meadows.

It is regarded by many American backpackers (as the US calls its bushwalkers or trampers) as the country’s most scenic mountain range. Comparing it to ranges in other countries we’ve walked, we’d go so far as to rank it as one of the world’s most scenic. Imagine a merger of the centre of Tasmania (with its many lakes), and the alpine scenery of New Zealand’s South Island, but with an added dose of elevation. Augment that with the often-fine Californian summer weather plus the regular alpenglow, and it makes the Sierras a mountain lover’s nirvana.

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Descending from Cartridge Pass to Lake 10855.

Many lakes are unofficially named by their elevation, which being the US is in feet

Sunrise on Kearsarge Pinnacles

Walking on the John Muir Trail in Le Conte Canyon

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Sierra Nevada, CALIFORNIA

The Sierra Nevada Range is vast. Running for over 640km in length and up to 130km wide, its above-tree-line section alone is roughly 350km long, and 25-40km in width. Meanwhile, the height of its crest ranges from 12,000 feet (3,660m) to well over 14,000 feet (4,270m). At 14,500 feet (4,421m), Mt Whitney is not only the range’s highest peak, it’s the highest peak in the contiguous USA (AKA the Lower 48 states). The entire range is protected in a series of national parks and national forests, with some of the national parks being the most famous in the country, like Sequoia, Kings Canyon, and most notably, Yosemite. Most of the range is declared wilderness, meaning no vehicular or even wheeled access of any kind. Access by horse, however, is allowed, and some walkers use the pack station services for resupply on long trips.

PERMITS While each park or forest has its own office and local rules, the range is considered to be a single unit and is managed as such.

Due to the range’s popularity, wilderness permits are required for all trips involving overnight camping. The good news about the permit system is that you only need a single permit for your entry point and can then pass through any of the Sierra’s other national parks and forests without obtaining a new permit. Your permit is valid until you leave the area. If you wish to re-enter the range, then a new permit is required. (Note that the John Muir Trail has a separate permit system; see next page.)

The permit system might seem restrictive, but many permits are issued. For example, Inyo National Forest—which manages most of the range’s eastern side—has 66 access trails with a total daily entry quota of 963 people. And that’s only one side of the range! It sounds like a lot, but in this large area, if you get away from the popular destinations you’ll see few people. Each access trail has its own quota; some are as low as eight, with popular ones as high as 60. Normally—depending on which park or forest the access point is in; each has its own rules—60% of the permits can be booked either 24 weeks or six months in advance of your trip’s start date. The other 40% are issued just before a trip. This was originally for ‘walk-ups’ (walkers arriving a day before wanting to start), but during the pandemic, an online booking system of two weeks in advance was introduced. A California Campfire Permit is also required for campfires, which includes using a fuel stove. The permit is free and available online. All that’s needed is to watch a short video and answer some questions.

Entry points into the Sierra Nevada are good, with multiple roads and trail heads. As most of the range is wilderness, these roads do not extend onto the crest of the range. The exception is an east-to-west road that crosses Tioga Pass, providing access to Tuolumne Meadows. Regardless of entry point, there are some uniform rules applicable to the entire range. Campfires are banned above the tree line, and it is recommended to use fuel

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stoves for all cooking; gas is the most popular. It is compulsory to carry a bear canister to store all food, rubbish and anything with a scent—like toothpaste or sunscreen—that a bear might find tasty. While barrels are bulky and weigh around one kilogram, they are effective at stopping bears stealing food. Canisters have proved so successful that most bears now ignore walkers’ camps in wilderness areas. The barrels can be hired, but if doing more than ten days’ walking, it is usually cheaper to purchase them.

Campsites must be at least 100 feet (about 40 paces) away from water. And while it’s not a regulation, carry some means of treating water, as there are no toilets in the range and you should regard all water sources as being contaminated. Water filters are popular; we use a Steripen which has been effective.

TRAILS A maze of trails criss-crosses the range, providing good access for walkers to most parts of the Sierras. The paths vary from being heavily constructed, over-used, dusty trails to minor foot pads with only a few markers. Most trails follow natural routes through the range, such as along valleys and across saddles and over easy passes. Tracks have also been built over a couple of very steep passes to provide links between areas. Some spectacular track work has been achieved on these passes using explosives to blast away rock and enable track construction into sheer cliff faces.

Tuolumne Meadows

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THE SIERRA GRAND TRAVERSE Note: the Sierra Nevada range extends considerably north of this map

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Sierra Grand Traverse John Muir Trail (JMT)

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Sunset at Pika Lake

The most famous trail in the range is the 321km-long John Muir Trail (JMT). Starting in Yosemite Valley, the trail climbs to Tuolumne Meadows then passes southward through the range to end at the highest peak, Mt Whitney. The JMT generally follows valleys, and crosses twelve passes. Most of the John Muir Trail is below the tree line, and, for many, its most famous features are where it rises above the trees and passes alpine lakes.

A different permit system applies for walking the John Muir Trail. It is a daily lottery held about six months before your preferred starting date. The Parks Service states that 97% of walkers applying for JMT permits miss out. It is that popular, and that’s despite there being between 100 and 200 walkers each day on the trail (although this number varies as some shorter sections can be followed with normal wilderness permits for other access points).

A quota applies for crossing Donohue Pass, the pass from Yosemite National Park into Inyo National Forest, so you cannot walk all of the JMT just by entering the trail at a different access point.

But while the John Muir Trail is beautiful, if you’re seeking a wilderness experience, you should, in our opinion, avoid it; it’s wide, dusty, used by pack-horse companies, and you will meet and camp daily with plenty of others. For our original visit in 2015, Monica and I considered the JMT, but concluded it was far too popular for our liking, and there were more scenic options to be explored.

There are other recognised trails in the range. The lesser known, 116km High Sierra Trail crosses the range’s southern

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end from west to east, passing Mt Whitney. A permit for this sixday trip is easier to obtain. The other major trail passing through the range is the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). Starting at the Mexican border, the PCT continues all the way to Canada; it also has quotas on numbers. Much of it follows the John Muir Trail from the Mt Whitney area through to Tuolumne Meadows before continuing north. If you plan to walk more than 500 miles (800km) of the Pacific Crest Trail, then a different permit is required from the PCT Association.

With the maze of trails that cross the range, a wide variety of walks of varying lengths are possible. One popular trip is to start at North Lake, climb to Piute Pass, then head west to join the John Muir Trail. Following the John Muir Trail over Muir Pass then down into Le Conte Canyon, you leave the JMT by a long climb into the scenic Dusy Basin and exit over Bishop Pass down to South Lake. This is an excellent circuit of around a week following one of the most scenic sections of the JMT. It’s all on tracks, and is a great introduction to the range. Access is good as North Lake and South Lake are close to each other plus, during summer, a scheduled shuttle bus operates to the small town of Bishop. There are many other similar one-week circuits that can be undertaken. (Ed: I’ve done multiple walks in the Sierras north of the areas John has talked about, such as in northern Yosemite and the Hoover Wilderness, that have been fabulous, and where I’ve seen not one other person in a week.)

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Sierra Nevada, CALIFORNIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Walking in Miter Basin Paintbrush flower Descending to Lake Basin Climbing to Russell Pass through huge suncups in a high-snow year Daisies are just one of the abundant wildflowers you’ll see in the meadows Mule deer Marmots are a common sight above the treeline Kearsage Pass. 11,760 feet = 3,584m, meaning the pass’s height is only 140m lower than Aoraki/Mt Cook’s summit!

THE SIERRA HIGH ROUTE In our opinion, the most scenic areas of the Sierra Nevada— which is a high bar indeed—are the numerous lake basins located generally on or above the tree line. Tracks provide direct access to many lakes, but some of the most pristine basins can only be seen by leaving the track system.

In the 1970s, Steve Roper, who wrote a climbing guide for Yosemite Valley, created the 314km Sierra High Route (SHR).

It is not a trail as such, with the majority of the route being off-track. While infrequently walked in its entirety, it’s famous among backpackers for its scenery and for being known as the most difficult walk in the Lower 48.

Steve Roper designed the SHR to follow the tree line where possible, while keeping track walking to a minimum. He also decided to start further north of Mt Whitney, in the belief that most of those who would follow his route had already walked the JMT and had climbed the peak. The SHR starts at Roads End, climbs 5,000 feet (1,600m) onto the range, then continues northward past Tuolumne Meadows to Twin Lakes. It is very scenic, passing through seventeen lake basins and crossing 35 passes, but it avoids some high sections of the range by following less used trails.

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With the knowledge of the range available in the ‘70s, it was indeed a great route, and one we followed on our first visit to the Sierra Nevada in 2015. Over 41 days, we walked most of the SHR, but wildfires prevented us from completing the northernmost section; instead we returned from Tuolumne Meadows to Mammoth Lakes by a different route. It was a wonderful trip, and the SHR was well worth walking. Some of the steep, screefilled passes weren’t easy, but the scenery lived up to our expectations. Nonetheless, when we descended onto trails, we looked up towards the crest and wondered if it was possible to pass through those high sections that the SHR bypassed. It led us to begin researching, and eventually conceiving of, a new route through the Sierras: the Sierra Grand Traverse.

THE SIERRA GRAND TRAVERSE The Sierra Nevada is a rugged range containing a number of small glaciers, some of which are in passes that require the use of ice axes and mountaineering skills to cross. We wanted to avoid technical climbing, and to cross only passes that required no more than off-track walking ability. However, despite modern technology and the abundance of information available on the internet, finding routes suited to walkers was still not easy

in some parts of the range, and studying maps was not that helpful, as many saddles and passes had promising-looking contours, but were in fact blocked by impassable cliffs or glaciers. Nonetheless, after much research, we pieced together a route that we believed faithfully fulfilled Roper’s original vision. Starting at Tuolumne Meadows, we would head south, staying close to the crest of the range to pass Mt Whitney, before descending to Cottonwood Lakes and ending at Horseshoe Meadows. About a third of our route included the best parts of the SHR with the rest being both higher and extending further south past Mt Whitney. However, a few small gaps remained where we had no information. From photos taken on our 2015 trip, these sections looked feasible, so we decided they were worth further investigation.

In 2019, we returned to the Sierras to traverse ‘our’ route, and the unknown pieces in our puzzle proved to be suitable for experienced walkers. What’s more, the route was spectacular—similar to the SHR, but even more scenic, as it passes through an additional ten lake basins. The hardest walking is about the same standard as the SHR with many steep, scree-filled passes to cross. We expect some walkers will rate our route as being a bit more difficult than the SHR. In reality, it is not harder; it just has six more untracked high passes to negotiate. Upon completion, we realised we’d created a really grand route. It is possibly the best walk we have ever done, and we’ve done a few!

From our earlier research, we knew that no US backpacker had written up details for such a route, and we decided to put in the extra effort to create a guide. Having made a route plan for ourselves to walk was a good start, but much more work was required to get it into print. We named our route the ‘Sierra Grand Traverse’ as it passes through

WEATHER California is blessed with fine summer weather; rainfall and storms are rare events.

But while the Sierra Nevada is renowned for consecutive weeks of fine weather, it is still a high mountain range, and in summer it can get the odd period of poor weather.

Most commonly, it will be just a few afternoon thunderstorms. Starting and camping early, and avoid climbing peaks and other high points after midday, reduces the risk from lightning strikes. While extended rain periods are rare, we had one week of rain on our third visit, so take wet-weather gear.

Generally, the best period for walking is from mid-July through to mid-September.

Snowfalls in winter can be huge (Sierra Nevada literally means ‘Snowy Mountains’), and in some years, there is still four metres of snow on Mammoth Mountain at the start of summer in early June. The snow melts quickly, however, and with streams running at flood levels, walking in early summer is not recommended. After mid-September, autumn strikes quickly, with cold days and freezing nights.

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Bishop Lake from Bishop Pass

GOING OFF TRAIL IN THE SIERRAS What is off-trail walking like in the Sierra Nevada? Anyone with experience in Southwest Tasmania or on the harder tramps of New Zealand should have few problems. Below the tree line, there is no real scrub. Pine forests have open floors with few understorey plants, and are easy to walk through. Above the tree line, it is a sea of rock, small areas of grassy meadows, and rocky lake-basins which are easily traversed. Climbing and descending the many scree-filled passes can be slow and tedious, but is technically not difficult. The main bedrock is granite and, unlike New Zealand, most of the scree is stable and does not move much when disturbed. Navigation is easy as you are usually above the tree line; most peaks are easy to identify, and finding the next pass is often obvious.

CONTRIBUTORS: John Chapman has been contributing to Wild ever since its first issue back in 1981. Together with his wife Monica, they have written numerous guidebooks over the years. Unlike their other books, however, the Sierra Grand Traverse is being published by The Mountaineers, a not-forprofit publishing company based in Seattle, and is due for release around April, 2023.

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the most spectacular section of the range. We wanted a title that both described our route but would not be confused with or detract from other routes which have ‘High’ in their titles.

Compared to the other recognised trails and routes, the Sierra Grand Traverse crosses more passes, visits more alpine lake-basins and spends more time above the tree line.

It is 200 miles long (321km) and we suggest allowing between 25 and 45 days to walk it. We finished exploring the new route in 45 days, which included side trips along with multiple resupply days, so it is likely others will take less time. Really fast walkers who move from dawn to dusk might do it in less, but then they will not be leaving much time to savour the spectacular scenery. It is a truly impressive route, and is ideal for experienced off-track walkers. The majority of the traverse is through remote country and when it does follow short sections of trail, it can be a culture shock to meet so many people. While the goal for many will be to do the entire traverse, it can be just as enjoyable to do shorter sections.

After a delay of two years imposed by the pandemic, we returned in 2022, and instead of doing a single 40-day plus thru-trip, we undertook a series of six one-week walks with a night or two break between each. We needed multiple permits, but as we were flexible in terms of where we went, they were fairly easy to obtain. This trip was just as enjoyable as our previous thru-walks.

We repeated some parts of the Sierra Grand Traverse, but also walked through other lake basins that were just as pretty. One of these recent walks was to complete the missing northern section of the Sierra High Route. There is attractive scenery above Saddlebag Lake, but it is also a very popular day-walking area. It is not remote, so it lacks the wilderness feel of the rest of the Sierra High Route; for this reason, the Sierra Grand Traverse doesn’t include that section. Another of our weeks started with a long climb from Pine Creek. We walked through the very scenic Granite Park, then Bear Lakes Basin, which is on the Sierra Grand Traverse, and exited via the beautiful Royce Lakes.

While the traverse passes through many lake basins, there are many more to explore on shorter trips that are equally stunning. The range contains more than 100 lake basins with over a thousand lakes, most of them without names. You could spend a lifetime walking here exploring the range, and many US backpackers do just that.

So, go and experience the Sierra Nevada for yourself, walk the Grand Traverse or make up your own shorter adventure. Magnificent sunrises and sunsets with glowing rock faces reflected in calm lakes are just some of the many highlights. You’ll have daily views of craggy peaks and serrated ridges, pristine lake basins and alpine meadows, the latter often filled with an abundance of colourful wildflowers. If you are in luck, you’ll see a black bear, but you’re more likely to come across ground squirrels, pika, mule deer or even the Chapmans! Your adventure awaits in this spectacular range of light. W

Photo by C. Ziegler

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TRACK NOTES

LOWER COLO GORGE LOOP WOLLEMI NATIONAL PARK’s

Words & Photography Tom Brennan Wollemi NP Sydney

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QUICK FACTS Activity: Multi-day hking Location: Greater Sydney Region, NSW Distance: 28km circuit Duration: 2-3 days When to go: Oct-Apr Difficulty: Medium Permits required: No Car shuttle required: No Maps: NSW Topo Mountain Lagoon 1:25,000

Rainfall (mm)

CLIMATE: RICHMOND (RAAF BASE) Temperature (C)

LESS THAN SIXTY KILOMETRES TO THE NORTHWEST of Sydney lies Wollemi National Park, which at over half a million hectares is the second largest in NSW. Seventy per cent of the park is officially declared wilderness, and much of the park’s interior is a rugged and dissected sandstone landscape of gorges, cliffs and canyons.

The Colo River has carved a deep gorge along the eastern side of Wollemi NP, from its starting point at the junction of the Wolgan and Capertee Rivers. For over 70km, it winds through the sandstone plateau, in a canyon that’s often around 300m deep, and not much wider.

The area around the Colo River offers some of the wildest country remaining in NSW, making it a major attraction to bushwalkers.

While there are a number of fire trails and tracks on the east side of the gorge, the west is almost untouched. However, access to the gorge is difficult and often requires strenuous climbs and exposed rock scrambling.

For those beginning to explore the Colo region, this loop walk in the lower Colo River gives an excellent introduction to the area.

There is a good mix of ridge and river walking, and the routes in and out of the gorge are easier and more accessible than those further north. Swimming opportunities abound in the warmer months, there are great views from cliff-top lookouts, and, in the depths of the gorge, it feels so remote that it is hard to believe you’re so close to Australia’s largest city.

The cliffs of Mailes Ridge offer sweeping views of the first day’s route

Colo reflections One of several rapids that need to be bypassed

HISTORY & CULTURAL HERITAGE

FLORA & FAUNA

Despite its rugged nature, Aboriginal peoples have been crossing Wollemi for thousands of years. The park lies at the junction of the lands of the Darkinung, Dharug, Wonnarua and Wiradjuri peoples, and major art sites such as Eagle’s Reach, Dingo’s Lair and Gallery Rock have been found within a few kilometres of the Colo River.

European colonists first ventured up the Colo in the early 1800s, and farmed the wide river flats below the gorge. However, the gorge had its own defences. Surveyor Frederick D’Arcy spent a number of years in the early 1830s surveying much of what is now Wollemi NP, but was unable to fully connect up the Colo Gorge. In the 1870s, George Townsend successfully made it through to Rylstone, and proposed a railway up the Colo Gorge to replace the Lithgow Zig Zag. However, this ambitious scheme came to naught.

Major Clews wrote about “The Bad Bit Across the River”—the western side of the Colo River—in his memoir about surveying the Colo in the 1920s and 1930s. Even at that time, many of the streams were still incorrectly mapped, and some of these errors persisted on maps into the 1980s.

In the 1970s, a major dam to supply water to a giant power station on the Newnes Plateau was proposed for the Colo. The dam plan was defeated, and Wollemi NP was declared in 1979.

The Wollemi Wilderness, covering about 70% of the park, was declared in 1999.

The poor soil on the sandstone tops supports an open forest dominated by eucalypts, particularly Sydney red gums, ironbark and turpentine, with a scrubby understorey. Towering blue gums grow on the narrow slopes of the gorge below the cliffline, and water gums abound on the rocky banks of the river. While you won’t see it on this walk, the Wollemi pine was discovered only in 1994 in a canyon in Northern Wollemi.

In the gorge, you’ll hear lyrebirds in the rainforest gullies, and bellbirds chiming in the early morning.

The Mountain Lagoon area does have a small colony of koalas, and you may hear their disturbing calls during the night!

WHEN TO GO As the route involves considerable wading and possible swimming in the river, the warmer months are the best time to do the walk. Any time from around October to April is feasible. However, the climb out involves a 500m ascent on the afternoon of the second day, and thus very hot days should be avoided for the exit. Ideal times are usually late spring and early autumn.

The water temperature drops quickly as it comes into winter, and extended wading will be uncomfortable, if not dangerous.

GETTING THERE The walk starts at the T3 Trail junction on Sams Way, in the small hamlet of Mountain Lagoon, off Bells Line of Road. Driving time

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TRACK NOTES

LOWER COLO GORGE LOOP

LO CO

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Mt Townsend

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LO CO

T3 Track end

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Colo Meroo Campground

R VE RI

i Toot

Cabba g

e Tree

MAILES

RIDGE

Lookout L

Creek

L Lookout LO CO ack

Suggested campsite

GOSPERS RIDG

E

Mail

es Rid

Toot ie

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E

k (T3

ID G

C re e

GR

) Tra

ck

R VE RI

N LO

L Lookout

sR er sp

E

Go

GOSPERS RIDG

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id

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Mailes Ridge Track junction

B To

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START FINISH

in

1

2

3

4KM

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OO L AG A IN UN T

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Map data © OpenStreetMap

from Sydney’s CBD is around 1h 45min, and less if coming from Sydney’s west or northwest. Parts of the route are unsealed, but the road is normally maintained to 2WD standard.

From Richmond, take Kurrajong Rd, following signs to Lithgow. Kurrajong Rd turns into Bells Line of Road at North Richmond. Take the signposted turnoff on the right to Mountain Lagoon at Bilpin after about 28km. Follow Mountain Lagoon Rd for 12km to a turnoff to the left to Bean Lane—the last few kilometres are unsealed. Continue along Mountain Lagoon Rd for another 500m and turn left onto Sams Way. Follow Sams Way for 1.2km to where a fire trail branches off north, and there is a sign saying, “Walking Tracks—Colo Meroo and Tootie Creek”.

Park your car here.

However, the foot tracks have limited markings, and some scouting may be needed to determine the right route. Both days require a solid level of fitness, with around 500m of elevation change.

Depending on water levels, the going in the river can be quite slow. Assume 1-2km per hour. Ideally, the water level as measured by the Upper Colo gauge (bom.gov.au/fwo/IDN60233/ IDN60233.563033.tbl.shtml or, if that’s too long a string of characters to search for, try tinyurl.com/2ss2e9za) should be under 1.00m. If the water level is above 1.30m, walking upstream in the river will be very difficult, and it is worth considering reversing the route. If the water level is above 1.80m, there will probably be a considerable amount of swimming, and it may be best to postpone a trip at this level.

FEES/COSTS/PERMITS

EQUIPMENT

No fees or permits are required for the walk.

Depending on the water level, and your choice of route, deep wades or short swims may be encountered in the river. All of your gear should be waterproofed using either double garbage bags or waterproof dry bags. Also, wear shoes that you are happy walking with in the water, or take a pair of sandshoes— such as Dunlop Volleys—that you can change into at the start of

DIFFICULTY & NAVIGATION The walk is a mix of fire trail, rough foot track and off-track walking, the latter mainly in the Colo River. The route largely follows ridges and the river, so navigation is relatively straightforward.

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k ree rs C

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the wading. Another useful item for walking in the river is a walking pole. There is plenty of ‘Colo quicksand’—the type of deep sand where your foot goes in 30cm more than you expect and you tip over into the water aided by the weight of your pack. A walking pole or even a stick can help prevent this. Lastly, a free-standing tent is handy for camping on sand banks.

ACCESS TO WATER You will be in the Colo River, which is always flowing, from around lunchtime on the first day to lunchtime on the second day. Many walkers are happy to drink this water untreated, but you may wish to treat it. There is no water prior to reaching the river, or once you leave the river; if it’s a warm day on the walk out, make sure you’ve got enough!

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Walkers dwarfed by the Colo Gorge’s cliffs Lone boulder in a river of sand Macrozamia seed cone There is often the choice between scrubby banks and a deep wade—and possibly both!

Flannel flower (Actinotus helianthi)

OPTIONS The walk is described going upstream, but can be done in either direction. The main advantages of the direction described are: Finding a route out of Tootie Creek is easier from the bottom if you can’t locate the T3 Track; the T3 fire trail is, if it’s a hot day, shadier than Gospers Ridge; if your first day is slow and you need to reverse out, it will be easier going with the current. The main disadvantage is that you are walking against the current, which at higher levels is very difficult.

While the walk is described as a two-day trip, an easier three-day version can be done by camping at Colo Meroo on the first night, and on the large sandbank at the Tootie Creek junction on the second night.

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TRACK NOTES

THE WALK IN SECTIONS DAY 1

Mountain Lagoon to Colo River 17km; 110m ascent/590m descent; approx 7-10 hours

From Sams Way, walk north along the fire trail for 400m to a fork in the trail and a locked gate. The left-hand branch is the Tootie Creek (T3) Track, which you will return on. The righthand branch is the Gospers Ridge Track, signposted to Colo Meroo. Take the right-hand branch and follow it. After a short steep uphill, the fire trail swings roughly east for about 2km, and then roughly northeast for about 1.5km. After another 1.5km heading roughly east, you should reach a track junction at about GR848985. By this stage the fire trail is more like a wide foot track. The right branch continues down Gospers Ridge to Upper Colo, so take the left branch which swings north onto Mailes Ridge.

Continue north on a foot track along Mailes Ridge. After a couple of kilometres, the ridge starts to narrow, and there are great views of the sandbanks in the Colo River several hundred metres below from numerous vantage points. From the first of these lookouts, you can see your intended campsite less than a kilometre away, and 300m below you—but still 10km away by foot!

The track is vague in places, and while it has very occasional track markers, for the most part, it is unmarked. In general, the track keeps to the ridge, or just below the ridge on the east side.

From the final high point above the river at GR827047, the track heads down the ridge to the ENE. The descent stays mostly near the nose of the ridge with the exception of one section where it drops off the right-hand side to negotiate some small cliffs. Some easy scrambling is involved in this section.

Return to the nose of the ridge as soon as possible.

Near the bottom, the track descends steeply to a 4WD trail, and a signpost. Turn left and a short walk brings you to the pleasant Colo Meroo Camping Area. There is a large shelter and a pit toilet.

While it is possible to camp here, it makes for a long second day; it’s advisable instead to get some distance along the river.

Head down to the river along the marked track that leaves from near the toilets, and wade up the river. If you don’t want to walk in your bushwalking shoes, Dunlop Volleys or light sandshoes will come in handy here, although they’ll fill up with sand regularly. It is also possible to walk in bare feet, but this risks punctures from sticks buried in the sand.

For the first 5km south to the big bend (Townsend Bend), the Colo is mostly shallow and sandy. The river is dotted with large sandbanks, and deep pools are uncommon and easily avoided.

The occasional foray onto the bank is required. As is common

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WILD

on this river, there is plenty of ‘Colo quicksand’ here. There is typically an excellent sandbank for camping opposite the creek junction on the big bend, at GR840000.

DAY 2

Colo River to Mountain Lagoon 12km; 500m ascent; approx 6-9 hours

The next day, continue walking upstream along the river. As you round the big bend and swing north, the river gets deeper. There are still numerous sandbanks, but the pools between them are more frequent, and often chest deep or more. There are three sets of rapids to bypass, adjacent to three successive creeks that enter the Colo from the west. The first is at GR833008, about 1km upstream from the big bend. The water is usually deep near the rapids, and excursions onto the banks may be required to avoid swimming. The banks around the rapids are scrubby with dense water gums, and these sections can be slow. For the last kilometre to Tootie Creek, the going is often easier keeping to the west bank.

Colo River, NEW SOUTH WALES

The fourth set of rapids marks the Tootie Creek junction. This is where you will leave the river. Enjoy a cool swim in the river before the start of the steep climb out! Locate the rough track that leaves from the big sandbank, just below the junction. It climbs steeply up a small gully before cresting the ridge. After the first steep pitch there is a saddle, not visible on the map, at GR822027, and a good lookout back to the cliffs and the river.

If you are unable to find the start of the track, the best alternative is to head up Tootie Creek around 50m and climb the obvious ridge to the southwest. The track should become clear around the saddle noted above.

The next section is the steepest, climbing up under the cliffs to the west, before cutting back east on a higher, narrow ledge to a particularly spectacular lookout. There are superb views both up and down the Colo River, and across to the cliffs below Mt Townsend.

From there, continue up the ridge, over a number of unmarked knolls. Around 2km of steep climbing brings you to the fire trail. About 100m before the fire trail, there are excellent views to the west over the Wollemi Wilderness, with the ridges and creeks stretching off into the distance. From the end of the fire trail, it’s about 5km of easy walking back to your car. Be sure to stop in at one of the many pie shops that line the Bells Line of Road on your way home; you’ve earned it! W

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Ripples begin to disturb the morning reflections in the Colo River Nearing the cars on the T3 fire trail Colo views from the cliffs on the T3 Track Waist-deep wading upstream of the campsite Sandbank camping at its best near Townsend Bend

CONTRIBUTOR: Sydney-based canyoner and bushwalker Tom Brennan wishes he had gotten into photography years earlier when he could have physically carried all the gear that he’d like to lug around.

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GEAR

REVIEW

NEMO EQUIPMENT

HORNET ELITE OSMO

2P TENT

A marvel in ultralightweight engineering.

W We received 170mm of rain in 90 minutes; there

were no leaks.”

HEN IT COMES TO GEAR, I’m a bit of a weight weenie. Partly that comes from my background

as a professional adventure photographer, when to counteract the weight of all the heavy photographic equipment I’d lug around, I’d shave grams where possible so that my pack’s weight wasn’t too out of control.

(Don’t worry, though; I’ve carried my share of 40+kg packs.) Equally, however, my weight-weenie tendencies stem from the more recent realisation of just how much more pleasant it is to head out with a sub-10kg pack, or even a sub-5 one. Seriously, it changes everything.

NEED TO KNOW

Mahal, nor to have superfluous bells and whistles.

but with the advent of ultralightweight tents like Nemo

This is a lean, mean, fighting machine. Personally, I

Equipment’s Hornet Elite OSMO 2P, I’m not sure I have

wouldn’t want it any other way.

to. In fact, I flat out don’t. The two-person version of the

I want to be clear, though: While the Hornet Elite’s

tent, on my scales at least, weighs a scant 976g. That’s

light weight makes it likely to become my go-to shel-

not to say you make no compromises, albeit far, far less

ter for the bulk of my trips to more benign locales, I’d

than if you were using a tarp to shave grams. In many

be unlikely to take it to, say, Tassie’s Western Arthurs.

Weight (2P, as tested): 976g

ways, the Hornet Elite is like a sports car—stripped

The tent is, for instance, only semi-freestanding;

down and lean, a leader in its field, but nonetheless

nonetheless, I found that on hard rock platforms, four

Doors & Vestibules: 2

not the burly vehicle you’d want to take 4WD-ing. You

well-placed rocks sufficed. The poles, too, are feath-

Floor Area: 2.5m

simply can’t have a sub-1kg tent and expect it to be

erweight; well, DAC—the world leader in tent poles—

as robust or as spacious as something weighing three

technically calls the poles “Featherlite NFL Green”.

times that weight. This is a tent that’s designed to

Pick them up in your hand and you wonder how they

be light and fast, and it makes a few compromises in

can weigh so little. And then there are the fly and

Waterhead (Fly & Floor): 1,200mm

achieving that goal. The interior height, for instance, is

floor. Both have 1,200mm waterheads, and they feel

94cm; not lofty, for sure. And the cross-beam measures

so gossamer thin you wonder how they can keep

RRP: $899.85

just 22cm; again, it doesn’t make for a spacious interior.

water out. But keep out water they do. I happened to

But it’s nonetheless adequate, and far from a coffin.

have the tent set up during a recent thumping of rain,

TEST

and I unboxed the Tiny Pump 2X (plus its accompany-

Product class: Two-person, ultralightweight, semi-freestanding 3-season tent

2

Vestibule Area: 0.6m2 (x2) Interior height: 94cm

FLEXTAIL

TINY PUMP 2X

Surprisingly useful.

T

of one of those tiny tins of tomato paste—that I figured it’d be lucky to inflate a Thermarest on a single charge, so I tested it first on that. It did that so quickly, I thought I may as well try my packraft. I still expected it to fail, though; this thing is tiny. But when it did that, too, I

I’d review: a rechargeable air pump. In

moved onto the airbed, and—while still on that first

fact, when first asked to review the Flextail

charge—managed to inflate it two-and-a half times. 2.5

Tiny Pump 2X, I reflexively said no. But then I

times! And that’s after the packraft and Thermarest.

thought I should learn a little about it before

But that’s not all I did on that first charge; it also

dismissing it entirely, and when I saw that it

has a deflate function. Who of us hasn’t struggled to

weighed just 96g, and that it doubled as a lan-

squeeze—by folding, squishing, sitting, or kneeling on

tern, I relented. Still, it seemed gimmicky. Seri-

them—air out of our mattresses before stashing them

ously, who needs a pump to inflate a Thermarest?

in our packs? With the Flextail, it took just seconds for

use a Thermarest when camping. This includes back-

WILD

ing range of nozzles), it was so small— about the size

HIS WAS A PRODUCT I never expected

Then I remembered that my wife refuses to

136

Just don’t expect the Hornet Elite to be a roomy Taj

In the past, I’ve used tarps to shave serious grams,

my Thermarest to be completely devoid of air.

But there’s one more thing I did on that first charge;

packing. Instead we lug around a 15cm-high double air

I ran the lantern for a few hours. Honestly, this is the

bed. Yeah, it’s huge. Anyway, when the package arrived

feature that will see it getting the most use, at least for

GEAR

LONG-TERM TEST

BESTARD

CANYON GUIDE LADY BOOTS Transform your canyoning. when—and this is not a typo—we received 170mm in 90 minutes, and there were no leaks. It’s actually made me rethink doubts I have about 1,200mm tent flies.

The floor, though, for durability reasons, probably does need some extra protection in the form of a footprint.

F

OUR YEARS AGO, I was introduced to canyoning with your typical firsttimer’s trip to Twister/Rocky Creek Canyon. Along with the excitement of

the ferns and the goodness of the beams, it was during this trip that I became

You could DIY a superlight Tyvek one yourself, but

acutely aware of my lacking ‘rock-hopping’ skills. Lacking, as in they were com-

Nemo sells one specifically for the tent. They also, BTW,

pletely non-existent.

sell an even lighter 1P version of the tent.

I soon realised there was a contributing factor to my lack of skills, and conse-

Just a few other random things: The floor space’s

quently my slowness: my shoes. My $10 Big W shoes just weren’t up to scratch.

highly tapered design, wide at the head, narrow at the

And so, three years ago, I invested in a pair of Bestard Canyon Guide Lady boots.

feet, efficiently reduces weight. The U-shaped doors

They’ve since transformed my canyoning trips, making them so much more

are a pleasure to operate; a single smooth motion

enjoyable. The grippy sole, made from non-marking Vibram Best Idrogrip, has

takes you effortlessly from zip’s end to end. The all-

turned me into a rock-hopping wizard—well, half a wizard, anyway! It’s the only

mesh interior saves weight and is great for warmer

canyoning boot specifically made for women (I’ll take that as a win ladies), with

conditions, but obviously less so in cooler months.

the equivalent male version being slightly wider and more voluminous.

In sum, while not a tent for every outing, the sub-1-

Comfortable? You bet. The tough sole means entry and exit tracks somehow

kilo Hornet Elite is an impressive achievement in ultra-

seem less painful (and I swear I can walk faster now). The lace-locking system

lightweight design. Weight weenies, rejoice!

allows you to choose a flexible or firm fit—which I love for added ankle-hugging

JAMES MCCORMACK

stability—and it’s potentially the reason they give you a spare set of laces (I do work those laces hard).

The money piece for this boot, though, is the inbuilt gaiter system that prevents sand and debris getting any-

me. Not only does it have a handle for hanging off your

where near your precious tootsies—ideal for notoriously

tent’s ceiling, it’s got a magnetised base, so it’s perfect

silty Blue Mountains’ canyons. Its low-weight design and

for all kinds of odd jobs around the house. You get an

drainage holes for efficient water-evacuation means I can

hour at 400 lumens, and 10 hours at 40 lumens. There’s

now focus on ‘enjoying’ the canyoning, rather than worry-

a soft-rubber light-diffusing lampshade for it as well,

ing about the weight of my boots or what’s stuck in them.

but it’s kinda useless; I wouldn’t bother with it.

And so, after three years of use, with roughly 10-15 can-

By the time the Tiny Pump 2X finally ran out of

yons a year, how have my Bestard Canyon Guide Ladies

juice, I was asking myself what it couldn’t do. Was

held up? Amazingly! That said, they’re now showing signs

there a kitchen sink hidden in there too? Perhaps

of wear, including rusted eyelets, and the first set of laces

that‘s what we’ve got to look forward to when the

are set for the bin. And despite careful material selection

Tiny Pump 3X gets released.

to ensure maximum resistance to wear and tear, both

JAMES MCCORMACK

from mechanical abrasion and permanent contact with water, the Cordura lining has become sun-damaged over time. The tread, however, has held up a treat.

Battery capacity: 1300mAh

Lamp run times: 1 hour @ 400 lumens 2.5 hours @ 160 lumens 10 hours @ 40 lumens

Flow (claimed) : 180L/min

Price: $39.99USD

low-weight comfort, grip to last an age, and a gaiter sys-

Waterproofness: IP44

More info: flextail.com

tem that keeps sand where it belongs—in the canyon.

NEED TO KNOW Weight, as tested: 96g

The Bestard Canyon Guide Lady transforms you into an elegant rock warrior (at least that’s how I feel), with

MARTINE HANSEN

The Canyon Guide Lady transforms you into an elegant rock warrior.”

NEED TO KNOW Upper: H2O Microtech and Cordura/Rubber Lining: Hidro-Mesh Sole: Vibram Idrogrip Weight, as tested: 1,090g RRP: $299.95 More info: bestard.com

AUTUMN 2023

137

GEAR

REVIEW

SEA TO SUMMIT

DOUBLE EMBER 1

QUILT

A versatile lightweight double quilt that can change opinions.

W

HEN IT COMES TO SLEEPING SNUGLY, the

the shoulders and feet—enabling a foot box to be

debate of quilts vs sleeping bags is a divisive

created—prevents heat from escaping. (Alternately,

one. Most people seem to either despise sleeping bags

in warmer conditions, you can unclip some or all of

and every feather of their existence, or they think they’re

the press studs to open out the quilt partially or fully,

the bomb.com; there don’t seem to be many people in

making it truly versatile.) The four-strap system also

the ‘meh’ camp. Admittedly, having exclusively owned

enables you to turn over without having to hold down

sleeping bags, I haven’t felt strongly one way or the

the sides of the quilt or adjust it afterwards, improv-

other; sleeping bags are just what I’ve always had. Until

ing comfort. And on the subject of warmth, while

I got my hands—well, my feet and arms and everything

the sewn-through construction—which separates

else—under the new Sea to Summit Double Ember 1

the down into small rectangular boxes—is designed

quilt. Ooph, let me tell you, I no longer sit on the fence.

to minimise weight and packed size (which, by the

Where most couples have their own sleeping bags

way, it achieves; it is remarkably compressible), in my

(or, for that matter, quilts), for the last three years or so— mainly in the interest of saving weight and space—my wife and I have been sharing a stock-standard down sleeping bag that we’ve unzipped and spread out like a doona. Besides, I’m a relatively warm sleeper, and we’ve

It’s light, compact, and deceptively warm when used cleverly.

Two thumbs up from me.”

used it predominantly for bushwalking in temperatures down to about -4°C. At these chillier temps, we’ve rug-

opinion it also ensures consistent warmth, as the down

ged up with the thermals and trackpants and down

can’t move freely and clump at one end of a baffle. To be

jackets we were carrying anyway. No biggie. Except for

honest, I’d comfortably use this quilt in the minuses and

the occasions where someone (alright, it was I) would

not be concerned about being cold.

hog the bag and leave my wife more than a little frosty.

NEED TO KNOW Product class: Two-person ultralightweight down quilt

1 is, after all, designed as an ultralight quilt, and the

decent two-person quilt that would not only keep us

850 loft means that, for its warmth, its weight is mini-

warm but would also prevent our marriage from coming

mal—our quilt weighs in at 650g. Despite being super

to a cold and bitter end.

light, it’s surprisingly spacious; even with the four-strap

The thing is, compared to single-person bushwalk-

system in use, our movement hasn’t been restricted

Season rating: 1.5

ing quilts, there aren’t that many affordable options for

whatsoever. While the quilt is marketed as having a 90%

Temp. rating: 10°C

lightweight double quilts. Recently, though, Sea to Sum-

down fill, the provided IDFL report indicates that our

Weight (as tested): 650g

mit added the Double Ember 1 to their highly regarded

quilt actually comprises 97% Responsible Down Stan-

Ember series of quilts. Although it’s designed for

dard (RDS) certified goose down. The Double Ember 1

Down Loft Rating: 850+

warmer weather (the estimated ‘Lowest Comfort Tem-

quilt also features the PFC-free, Sea to Summit Ultra-Dry

Down Fill Weight: 650g

perature’ rating is technically 10°C), we’ve regularly had

treatment, improving its water resistance. And, if you’re

it down to low single digits, and it’s been super toasty!

a Sea to Summit aficionado, the Quiltlock system makes

We’ve found that using the adjustable four-strap system

it compatible with other S2S gear.

RRP: $799 More info: seatosummit.com.au

138

But it’s not all about the warmth. The Double Ember

Understandably, the pressure was on to try and find a

WILD

(which passes under your sleeping mats and pulls the

It’s light, compact, and deceptively warm when used

quilt down at the sides, and also cleverly keeps your

cleverly. Two thumbs up from me.

mats from separating), together with the drawcords at

RYAN HANSEN

GEAR TEST

ICEBREAKER

ZONEKNIT TEE & SHORTS Natural comfort.

O

NE OF MY FAVOURITE trail running T-shirts has a

anecdote: My wife, being the long-suffering

problem. Yes, it’s comfortable on the trail. Yes, it fits

spouse of the editor of Wild, simply cares so

me well. Yes, it looks half-decent, too, with a colour that, if

little about—or is rather so tired of hearing

I don’t say so myself, actually suits me. But hoh boy! Does

about—gear, that I almost never bother

it ever stink! At least half the time that I pull it out of the

mentioning anything I’m reviewing for the

drawer, I put it straight back in simply because I can’t deal

mag to her. Not this time, though. After

with the potential stench. And that’s the problem with

taking the ZoneKnit Tee and Shorts out for

synthetic garments. They can reek. Not all of them, mind

its first trail-running outing, I came home saying to her, “I

you, but enough do that I’m always trigger shy when it

know how little you care about this, but I’ve just gotta say

comes to buying one.

it: This stuff is really, really comfortable.”

But that’s where Icebreaker’s ZoneKnit garments shine.

NEED TO KNOW

Seriously, I’ve been impressed by Icebreaker’s latest

I’m sure by now that you’re well aware of merino wool’s

ZoneKnit offerings. They feel soooo nice against your skin.

antimicrobial properties, and hence its lack of, well, stinki-

They don’t stink. They’re comfortable even when wet with

ness. But even Icebreaker previously used a synthetic com-

sweat. They’re super lightweight. And the shorts are even

ponent, albeit a small one, in their ZoneKnit gear. With

a little bit retro-styley, too—remember King Gee Scoops?!

its latest 2023 collection, however, Icebreaker’s ZoneKnit

Perhaps the only thing I’d change is to give the shorts

garments use only natural merino and plant-based fibres.

(which have built-in briefs, BTW) proper pockets over and

Now look, I could blab on with something lifted from a

above the small, zippered key pocket that sits in the back

PR blurb about how the body-mapped zones in the shorts

of the shorts. I know that for actual running, proper pock-

and tee regulate temperature, or how their articulated fits

ets are meaningless, but if these shorts had them, mainly

offer freedom of movement, but I won’t. It’s not that that

so I could chuck my phone in them, I’d wear them all day.

stuff isn’t important, but I’m instead going to share this

JAMES MCCORMACK

Intended use: Running; high-intensity activity Material: Merino-wool and plant-based fibres Weight, as tested (M): (Tee) 145g; (Shorts) 162g RRP: (Tee) $119.99; (Shorts) $149.99 More info: icebreaker.com

HUNTSMAN

FACE THE OUTDOORS WITH FUNCTIONALITY IN YOUR POCKET When it’s time to go offline, take your Huntsman with you.

Offering 15 practical functions to cut, saw, screw and pick, it’s the ultimate all-rounder.

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

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

THE NORTH FACE:

in a situation where you have a few cool options to choose from, and one

SUMMIT BREITHORN FUTURELIGHT BOOTS

of them happens to be from one of our advertisers, then show them their

The North Face has introduced footwear into

support means something by choosing their product. No-one’s asking for handouts, here; we genuinely believe that everyone who advertises in the mag offers something great. But if everything else is equal, please support those who support us. Here’s a selection of new and interesting gear that our advertisers think Wild readers should know about.

its Summit Series™ offering, with a breathable-waterproof boot that thrives in variety of conditions. These boots are light and protective, allowing for comfortable and confident movement on both rock and snow. They feature a grip sole with rubber compounds for traction and durability on wet and dry surfaces and are designed using heel-positioning tech-

MOUNTAIN DESIGNS:

nology for stability on uneven terrain.

ADVANCE II 600 DOWN JACKET

RRP: $450 THENORTHFACE.COM.AU

The streamlined styling and lightweight warmth of the Advance II 600 down jacket makes it the perfect outer layer

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HYDRAULIC PRO DRY BAG

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Tough and intelligent,

updated with a PFC-free Durable Water Repellent (DWR) fin-

our fully submers-

ish and internal zippered chest pocket, which it packs away

ible duffle style

into when not in use. The Ascend II 600 style is the women’s

dry bag is up to

equivalent. RRP: $229.99 MOUNTAINDESIGNS.COM

the challenge of any journey. The

STANLEY:

Hydraulic Pro lets you enjoy

H2.0 Quencher is the latest addition to the timeless range of Stanley

conditions, while keeping your personal items

drinkware. Made from 100% recycled steel and backed by a lifetime

accessible and dry. Features include a submers-

warranty, it is a sustainable choice. Its design and quality keep the drink

ibility rating of IPX 8; an airtight, waterproof

iced for up to two days, cold for up to eleven hours, and hot for up to

zipper; 1000D construction for extreme durabil-

seven hours. The drinkware has a versatile screw-on three-position lid,

ity; a large opening for easy access to gear; and

comfort grip handle, and reusable straw, making it ideal for any adven-

an ergonomic carrying and lashing system.

your favourite outdoor activity in extreme

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ture.RRP: $79.95 STANLEY1913.COM.AU

ZIPPO:

MAG STRIKE OUTDOOR FIRE STARTER

140

RRP: From $599 SEATOSUMMIT.COM.AU

XTM:

TARKINE RAIN JACKET The Tarkine Rain Jacket is a highly technical, super

Unleash a spark like no other. The ferro-

lightweight 2.5 layer rain shell with a PFC-Free

cerium rod and striker deliver a shower

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of sparks to light your fire wherever and

tion insures a 15k waterproof rating and a 10k

whenever. Its textured grip, solid trian-

breathability rating. It sports all the features you’d

gular body and the ultra-sharp blade

expect from a premium rain jacket including a

allow you to strike with more precision

double storm flap, fully adjustable hood and easily

and firepower to ignite every adventure.

stows into its own front pocket. All profits from the

RRP: $43 ZIPPO.COM.AU

jacket go to the Save The Tarkine Foundation. RRP: $179.99 XTM.COM.AU

WILD

GEAR

A gear guide from our advertisers

OSPREY:

MUTANT NIMSDAI

PATAGONIA:

NETPLUS DOWN SWEATER

Created for Nepalese mountaineer and Osprey Ambassador Nimsdai Purja’s historic 2020 winter ascent of

The perfect warmth for just about everything, Patagonia’s classic, newly rede-

K2, this pro-level pack is built to deliver superior load

signed Down Sweater is lightweight

carry and exceptional stability for the planet’s most

and windproof. It features a shell of

demanding alpine objectives. Our commitment to performance doesn’t compromise on sustainability—

NetPlus® 100% postconsumer recy-

this pack is constructed with Bluesign® approved

cled nylon ripstop, made from recycled

recycled fabrics, delivering excellent durability in a

fishing nets to help reduce ocean plastic

low-impact package. RRP: $449.95 OSPREY.COM/AU/EN

pollution, and is insulated with 800-fill-power 100% Responsible Down Standard down. Available in men’s and women’s and a range of colours. RRP: $399.95 PATAGONIA.COM.AU

LA SPORTIVA:

TX HIKE MID GTX BOOTS

GARMIN:

Made with eco-compatible components such

INREACH MESSENGER

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Home is closer than you think

Vibram® Eco Step tread, Bluesign® GORE-TEX

with the Garmin inReach Mes-

for 100% waterproofness and an upper made of

senger. The small, rugged sat-

recycled fabrics. Add in a large volume to allow

ellite communicator that pairs

for comfort on the trail and the recycled EVA

with your phone for two-way messaging beyond the limits of mobile phone coverage. $469

midsole for stability and cushioning, it combines La Sportiva Mountain DNA into a perfect package for multipurpose hiking. $319.95 LASPORTIVA.COM.AU

GARMIN.COM.AU

YETI:

YONDER BOTTLE

WILD COUNTRY:

The Yonder™ 1L Water Bottle, made from BPA-free material, was

MOSQUITO HARNESS

engineered to be lightweight and shatter resistant. But a bottle is

Superlight, superfly—Wild Coun-

only as good as its cap; that’s why the 100% leakproof Yonder™ Cap

try’s Mosquito is an extremely

features our intuitive two-part system. Spin the top off when you

lightweight, premium sport

need a drink from the controlled spout, twist off the bottom when

climbing harness with remark-

you’re ready to refill or wash it. RRP: $37.95-$42.95 AU.YETI.COM

able comfort, agility and freedom of movement. Weighing only 220 grams, the Mosquito is a full feature harness with a fast-drying, abrasion-resistant ripstop waist belt, seamless stitching for next to skin comfort, supportive internal webbing distributing load evenly for comfort, five gear loops, and premium safety features including wear indicator and reinforced tie points. RRP: $179.95 CLIMBINGANCHORS.COM.AU

VICTORINOX:

2023 LIMITED EDITION SWISS ARMY KNIFE ALOX COLLECTION Totally conspicuous, energized, and optimistic, the new Alox Limited Edition 2023 makes its appearance.

In the stimulating color of electric yellow, the collection is a powerful

BIG AGNES:

COPPER SPUR 2P TENT Big Agnes’s Copper Spur 2-Person Tent is a lightweight dream. With a dual-entry, spacious interior and a super fast set up, all within 1.42kg packed weight, this free-standing tent is a best-seller for good reason. Featuring strong DAC Featherlite poles and a 1200mm waterproof fly, it will keep you safe and dry no matter the weather. RRP: $870, but it’s $769.95 at WILDEARTH.COM.AU

THERMOS:

VACUUM INSULATED 1.5L SPORTS BOTTLE This 1.5L Thermos® Sports bottle is vacuum insulated to keep your drinks cold and fresh for up to 24 hours. Made from durable stainless steel with a lockable flip-lid, the bottle comes with a protective carry pouch, making it the ideal companion for any adventure. RRP: $94.99 THERMOS.COM.AU

combination of functionality, style and vibrant

* We also wouldn’t exist without our amazingly talented and tireless contributors, either.

design featuring the signatory Alox scales.

One of the best ways you can help reward them is simply to subscribe to Wild. The more

RRP: From $99.95 VICTORINOX.COM.AU

subscribers we have, the more we can pay our contributors. wild.com.au/subscribe

AUTUMN 2023

141

NONE OF THE ABOVE

SUPPORT OUR

SUPPORTERS

Not all of our supporters make gear, and they deserve our support, too. Please check out what they’ve got to offer.

ADRENALINE: GIVE THE GIFT OF ADVENTURE Adventurers like you live the part, not just look it. So this Christmas, you can make sure your loved ones do too. Adrenaline’s adventure range has been designed for all levels of activity, from mountain biking and horse riding, to canyoning and hiking. The easiest way to share your passion with your crew is by giving adventure.

Learn more at ADRENALINE.COM.AU

FLIP

ON-DEMAND INJURY INSURANCE Flip is Australia’s first on-demand injury insurance for accidents, so you can flip it on or off to be covered for injuries that happen on the days or weeks you want it. Only $6/day or $9/week.

Simple. Use code FLIPMAG22 when buying your first Day Pass to save 50%. Flip is issued by HCF Life. Read the promo terms, PDS and TMD at GETFLIP.COM.AU

CRADLE MOUNTAIN CANYONS ALUM CLIFFS PACKRAFTING

Join the adventure professionals, Cradle Mountain Canyons, in a Tasmanian river

FISIOCREM:

this summer! Cool water, wildlife and fun rapids make packrafting the Alum Cliffs

DESIGNED TO KEEP YOU MOVING

an unforgettable three-day adventure. Navigate the Mersey River in packrafts:

From restricted movement to numbing pain,

paddling through a spectacular gorge by day and camping under the stars at

there’s nothing worse than sore and achy muscles.

night. No previous experience required, all on-river gear provided, delicious food

That’s why thousands of Australians choose fisio-

and amazing campsites. Call 1300 032 384. or visit CRADLECANYONS.COM

crem Solugel to recover. It provides temporary pain relief, enables faster recovery, and uses naturally

ALSO, PLEASE CHECK OUT OUR CLASSIFIEDS PAGES OVERLEAF, AND SHOW OUR SMALLER COMMUNITY SUPPORTERS YOUR LOVE

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WILD

sourced ingredients. Always read the label and follow the directions for use. FISIOCREM.COM.AU

Subscribe to

for 4 issues of your favourite For 40 adventure years now, Wild has been and get magazines bringing the community stories like no other magazine. Stories of adventure.

Stories amazing free gifts of conservation. Stories of wilderness.

CELEBRATING SKI CULTURE

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JAKARA ANTHONY

Australia’s Olympic and World Cup Champion

ICONIC LINES

The go-to runs in your resort

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

New Zealand, Chamonix, Alaska, Canada’s Powder Hwy, Switzerland, Jackson Hole

HOKKAIDO HOME GROWN Meet Niseko’s real locals

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Wild CLASSIFIEDS

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Ultralight tipis, hiking, camping and expedition equipment.

pastoutdoors.com

LIVE WITH CONFIDENCE

Big Mountain Climbs and Treks with SummitClimb

Discount 5% for WILD READERS

June - July - Aug ‘23 - Gasherbrum 1 and 2, K2 Summit, 8000m Training , Broad Peak, K2 Base Camp Trek, Pastore Trekking Peak (near K2). 3 time K2 Leader Dan Mazur Leader: 3 time K2, 2x Broad Peak, 1x Gasherbrum and Sherpas!

September ‘23 – Manaslu, Cho Oyu, Shishapangma October / November ‘23 - Baruntse - Mera Peak, Ama Dablam, Lobuche, Island Peak, Everest Base Camp and Remote Service Trek December ‘23, January, February ‘24 - Christmas Trek, Island Peak, Aconcagua & Ojos Del Salado or Kilimanjaro April - May ‘24 - Everest Summit Climbs: Nepal or Tibet, Everest Camp 3 Training Climbs, North Col Tibet, Mount Lhotse, Everest’s Sister. Also, Everest Glacier School, EBC Nepal Trek, or ABC Tibet Trek with leader Dan Mazur 12 Successful Everest expeditions.

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Life is better outside.

Explore the Blue Mountains like never before.

O N EPL AN E T. AU

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u wil o y e c en

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E X P E DIT ION DAT ES Rafting Drysdale River NP: 26 March to 8 April 2023 5 Fingers of Purnululu NP: 23 to 29 April | 30 April to 6 May 2023 Carr Boyd Ranges: 9 to 22 April | 14 to 27 May 2023

notraces-bushwalking-australia.com | Ph: +61 457 726 525

Two Brand New Guidebooks Out Now. lostmtns.com

WILD SHOT

No stopping Sara on this family bushwalk along the Overland Track in Tasmania. At seven years old, Sara walked 77km over seven days, and as far as Sara is aware, it does not rain in the mountains of Tasmania (lucky for her and her family). Here, she pauses to take in the view of Lake Windermere while waiting for her mum and threeyear-old brother to catch up.”

ANDREW DAVISON Dederang, VIC

146

WILD

Andrew wins an awesome Osprey MUTANT 22 climbing pack. It features integrated rope carry, a wide-mouth zippered opening, customizable options for carrying crampons/other items on the front of the pack, a secure and easy-touse ice tool carry system, and the webbing hipbelt won’t get in the way whether worn, buckled behind you, or removed. osprey.com

SEND US YOUR WILD SHOT TO WIN GREAT GEAR! For a chance to win some quality outdoor kit, send your WILD SHOT and a 50-100 word caption to contributor@wild.com.au

Atmos | Aura A DV E N T U R E , M A N I F E S T

Explore novel trails and storied peaks with the new Atmos/Aura, updated with enhanced AntiGravity suspension, a fine-tuned Fit-on-the-Fly ® harness and hipbelt, and an exceptional dual-access main compartment for ease of organisation.