The 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

Every 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.

The 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.

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

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.” 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 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.

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.

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

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 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.

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.