Wild Magazine #192

#192

WINTER 2024

XXIV: SKIING NZ'S 3000M PEAKS

MENTAL-HEALTH INCIDENTS IN THE OUTDOORS • PROFILE: LOUISE SHEPHERD • GETTING CREATIVE IN WINTER • HIKING IN BRITISH COLUMBIA • LESSONS FOR THE BACKCOUNTRY • FIVE WALKS IN THE KIMBERLEY • PHOTO ESSAY: TASSIE'S PALEO-ENDEMIC TREES • TRACK NOTES: HIKING & PACKRAFTING IN NITMILUK NP

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TASMANIAN AERIAL ACTIVISM BACK O' KOSSIE SNOWSHOEING EXPLORING HINCHINBROOK ISLAND GROWING AS AN ICE CLIMBER

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CONTENTS ISSUE #192 WINTER 2024

72 Progression:

Growing as an Ice Climber

114 REGULARS

Destination: Hinchinbrook Island

The Cover Shot 12 Readers’ Letters 18 Editor’s Letter 20 Gallery 22 Columns 28 Getting Started: Winter Photography 48 WILD Shot 146

CONSERVATION

Green Pages 36 Tasmanian Aerial-Activism History 56 Photo Essay: Tassie’s Paleo-endemic Trees 82

NONE OF THE ABOVE

Mental-Health Incidents in the Outdoors 40 Snowsports Volunteering 46 Lessons in the Backcountry 64

FEATURES

Profile: Louise Shepherd 50 Ice-Climbing Progession 72 Skiing NZ’s 3,000m Peaks 88 Hiking around Nelson, British Columbia 98 Snowshoeing in Kosciuszko NP 106 Destination: QLD’s Hinchinbrook Island 114

WILD BUNCH

Walking in the Kimberley, WA 126

TRACK NOTES

Hiking/packrafting in NT’s Nitmiluk NP 128

GEAR

Talk and Tests 136 Support Our Supporters 140

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128

Katherine Gorge Paddle Notes

40 When Panic Hits After dealing with an ongoing series of panic attacks herself in the outdoors, Brooke Nolan set out to learn what she could from experts, and from others who’ve shared similar experiences, as to the best methods to deal with mentalhealth crises when you’re out adventuring.

50 Profile: Louise Shepherd

For 45 years, climbing has been at the heart of Louise Shepherd’s life.

It’s there in her hardcore, dirtbagging youth; her decades of guiding at Arapiles; and her place deeply embedded in the Natimuk community.

56 Tasmanian Aerial Blockades: A Selected History

Tasmania has been at the forefront of forest aerial activism since it was incorporated into non-violent direct action back in the 80s. John Middendorf traces the technique’s evolution in Tassie.

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THE

COVER

SHOT

By Sam Smoothy High on the heady exposure of Malte Brun’s East Face—and perched on an eagle’s eyrie, my ski tips hanging over thousands of feet of cold air—I snapped this over-the-shoulder shot of the ever-graceful Jim Ryan as he laced turns down a hanging panel above the first crux on our descent, a short rock choke.

Having only picked up a camera in the six months prior to this descent (as one aspect of a desire to expand my methods of self expression and creativity), I find it rather amusing to have already landed a cover shot—and surprisingly, it’s Jim’s first as well—especially considering my precarious position and a lack of any photographic technique or style; absolutely zero thought went into shooting it. It was the very definition of being in the right place with the right people at the right time.

I sure wish my actual camera hadn’t died in the dark hours before this glorious moment though; I had to shoot it on my iPhone instead.

You can read the accompanying feature story in ‘XXIV’ starting on p88.

(Ed: Check out the image to the right; that’s the position Sam shot the cover from, just looking the other way.

When he said his ski tips were hanging over thousands of feet of air, he wasn’t joking!)

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EDITOR: James McCormack EDITOR-AT-LARGE: Ryan Hansen GREEN PAGES EDITOR: Maya Darby PRODUCTION ASSISTANT: Caitlin Schokker PROOFING & FACT CHECKING: Martine Hansen, Ryan Hansen DESIGN: James McCormack FOUNDER: Chris Baxter OAM COLUMNISTS: Megan Holbeck, Tim Macartney-Snape, Dan Slater CONTRIBUTORS: Catherine Lawson, David Bristow, Rob Blakers, Chris Armstrong, Craig Fardell, Anja Fuechtbauer, Johannes Hendricks, Brooke Nolan, Adam Flower, Janina Kuzma, Camilla Rutherford, Jack Schmidt, John Middendorf, Hamish Macphee, Megan Holbeck, Jamie Parker, Grant Dixon, Aaron Dickfos, Sam Smoothy, Jasper Gibson

PUBLISHER Toby Ryston-Pratt Adventure Entertainment Pty Ltd ABN 79 612 294 569 ADVERTISING AND SALES Toby Ryston-Pratt 0413 183 804 toby@adventureentertainment.com CONTRIBUTIONS & QUERIES Want to contribute to Wild? Please email contributor@wild.com.au Send general, non-subscription queries to contact@wild.com.au

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Get Wild at wild.com.au/subscribe or call 02 8227 6486. Send subscription correspondence to: magazines@adventureentertainment.com or via snail mail to: Wild Magazine PO Box 161, Hornsby, NSW 2077 This magazine is printed on UPM Star silk paper, which is made under ISO 14001 Environmental management, ISO 5001 Energy Management, 9001 Quality Management systems. It meets both FSC and PEFC certifications.

WILD IS A REGISTERED TRADE MARK; 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.

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 ACKNOWLEDGES AND SHOWS RESPECT to the Traditional Custodians of Australia and Aotearoa, and Elders past, present and emerging.

WE’RE MADE FOR THE MOUNTAINS Photo: Matt Horspool

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LETTERS

[ Letter of the Issue ]

BROTHERLY LOVE (Re: Georgia Doherty’s article in Wild #191 ‘Are Boardwalks Disconnecting Us from Wild Places?)

Dear Editor, While I agree that the little nip and tucks on our national parks may result in death by a thousand cuts, largely infrastructure in our national parks is a direct result of conservation efforts. Royal National Park is going to have a lot more infrastructure than the Budawangs, because more people use it.

Boardwalks and infrastructure do keep our national parks wild. It’s just that people want to visit our most beautiful spaces, and it comes with an impact. Environmental checklists are written in line with legislation to address any potential risks to our parks including threatened species, European and Aboriginal heritage, migratory routes, visitation, construction methods and the list goes on. NPWS staff plan and move with the slow wheels of government to achieve these difficult, unique and oftenremote construction projects.

If you’re going to take time off, wander through the bush and complain about pathways designed to enhance peoples’ experience of an area, while balancing conservation objectives, I’d suggest you take a longer walk—off-track—and challenge yourself, connect and have a good hard think about it. Here are some suggestions: Bogong High Plains, Brogo Wilderness, Southwest Tassie, or Jagungal Wilderness.

As for FRP decking? Would you rather hardwood decking from foreign countries with more relaxed environmental laws? I, too, once lived in an idealistic world where hippies could roam free through the Garden of Eden, but the truth is, this landscape is highly manipulated. It’s been logged; burn regimes have been changed; there are freeways, agriculture, housing ... us humans constantly change our environment to suite our needs.

With 60% of Australians voting NO to a Voice to parliament, do you think 60% of Australians share your values for a connection to Country. No, they want to be corralled and not get their Adidases dirty while using their selfie sticks at the Grampians. The zeitgeist is leaning towards comfort and accessibility, with boomers making up the majority of users in our national parks.

I’m all for keeping it raw and untamed; these days you’ll just have to try a little harder for it.

Cheers, Sam Doherty Kalaru, NSW PS I’m Georgia Doherty’s brother; I just have a different perspective.

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BLACK TIE EVENT Hello James, I write in relation to the article ‘Festivities on Fedders’, Wild #191, Autumn 2024.

An entertaining article, but I feel sure there was another, perhaps even earlier, staging of such a crazy finedining experience at high altitude than the 1993 photo referred to in the article. I seem to recall the photo was staged by a party including one or several of Australia’s mountaineering legends. It may have been described as “Social Climbing” or some such? Did it also appear in an early Wild magazine? Thanks for the great mag.

Regards, Jon Gray

QUICK THOUGHTS On Wild’s conversation with ecologist Mark Graham that was published in Wild #191 and that discussed the destruction that’s currently taking place in NSW’s Mid-North Coast forests: “Mark’s been such an amazing advocate for the unique flora and fauna of the Mid-North Coast.

Fights the good fight.

Passionate and so knowledgeable!” CA “Mark is an amazing advocate for biodiversity, protection and education.” AW

West Ryde, NSW

(Ed: Jon, you’re right. Back in Wild #33 in 1989, there was an image of the Social Climbers (including Tim Macartney-Snape) suspended off Sydney’s North Head in preparation for a black-tie event on 6,890m Huascuran. I don’t know that anything from Huascuran itself ever made it into the mag, though.)

INVESTMENT PRIORITIES Dear Wild, I just read Mick Ripon’s article (Wild #190) and was motivated to reach out. I have spent the last 40 years bushwalking in Australia, and whilst I first lost confidence in the NSW national park administration during the 1990s, things have been getting steadily worse.

For example, my local park, Georges River NP in southwest Sydney, was granted $2 million from the government. “Wooohooooo!” we said; it would be the largest investment in the park in my living memory. The park was full of weeds, deeply eroded and impassable tracks, zero signage, and home to constructed mountainbike tracks and dogs walking off-lead daily. Well, what did we get? Two upgraded toilet blocks (the previous were perfectly functional) and all the car parks which were gravel were sealed with bitumen.

So I support what you are trying to achieve. Well done and keep up the good work, (Name Withheld) Sydney, NSW

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FROM THE EDITOR

HUNGER IS THE BEST SAUCE Me, chowing down on tinned beef from the blade of my machete while walking from Papua New Guinea’s north coast to its south

“T

hat’s it?”

“What’s it?”

“That.”

“What do you mean, that?”

“That’s all you’re having for dinner?”

“It’s no less than what I have at home.”

Jared had a point here; he was not exaggerating. We were both living in Japan at the time, and Jared was my regular hiking, ice-climbing and mountain-biking buddy, and we’d become best friends. Anyway, we were on an overnight trip, just a single night, and what he’d brought for dinner was this: Rice. Literally nothing else.

This was not a result of him trying to pack as light as possible, nor was it because he was broke. He wasn’t. But he’d told me on another occasion that at home he often just ate plain rice for dinner. I tried—compassionately, I felt—to convince him to at least put soy sauce on it. “It’ll taste soooo much better.” And knowing that he, like I, was a massive tightarse, I assured him that a dash or two wouldn’t cost that much. But no, Jared wasn’t having a bar of it. “I don’t need it,” he said flatly.

Now, if he was talking only about outdoors’ meals, I’d almost get it. When you’re ravenous after a day of burning off calories walking or climbing or backcountry skiing in the mountains, how awesome do things taste! I know what you’re thinking; it’s simply that, as the saying goes, hunger is the best sauce. And I agree. Absolutely. Hunger does indeed make food taste better.

But there’s more to it than that. Last month, I went down the coast car camping with my family. One morning, my wife—an often-reluctant camper—made a proclamation. “I don’t see the point,” she said. “It’s so much work, camping. But the views at home are better. (We look directly onto a beautiful, forested valley). The beds are more comfortable. It’s more peaceful.

(The night before, a group of sauced-up, musically-challenged young men had ‘entertained’ the campground by belting

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out—well, let’s be frank, by massacring— renditions of Barnesy’s worst ballads). And at home,” she said, “the food is better.”

I’ll grant her the first three. But the food? We had a simple pasta one night, snags another, chicken curry the third, but gee they all tasted good. Better than at home. And it wasn’t simply that we were hungry; it was because we were camping.

Admittedly, some might question my tastes. I’ve long regarded any freeze-dried meal as a delectable, heaven-sent luxury.

Luxury! It likely stems from the love affair I had with them during a 52-day solo walk in the Canadian Rockies some years back.

I was a penniless ski bum at the time, and forking out for two months’ worth of expensive freeze-dried food seemed as unattainable as home ownership is for millennials today. So instead, for dinners, I took out 47 packets of instant ramen, 42 boxes of mac and cheese, 4kg of packet rice, and 1kg of dehydrated potato flakes (Remember Deb! Oh, it’s still around; I just checked online then. I thought it surely would have fizzled out as a brand years ago).

Potato flakes seemed to me at the time to be the stuff of miracles. Sure, they’re bland. And they’re cheap. But they make even Weet-Bix—which also happen to be bland and cheap—look like an also-ran in the soaking-up-a-lot-of-water department.

In short, potato flakes are a godsend for cheapskate campers trying to make a little food seem like a lot. It’s kind of crazy. You fill up a third of a 500ml cup with potato flakes, then pour in two litres of boiling water—yeah, you heard me, two litres— and still the flakes look dry and claggy, and the 500ml cup remains barely half full. As I said, the stuff of miracles.

Anyway, the thing is, at home, I fricken hate potato flakes. They’re goddamn-orful.

But out on that Rockies’ walk, not only were they edible, I confess there were days I actually enjoyed them. Unlike Jared with his rice though, I did add condiments,

courtesy of the black pepper and five jars of cajun spices I brought along. I also had (and I’ll sorrowfully admit I didn’t pay for these) 25 sachets of McDonald’s ketchup; it made the potato flakes taste almost good.

But then, twice a week, I ate a freezedried meal. Whoah! These were next level delish. Especially ‘Sweet and Sour Oriental’. It seemed like a culinary masterpiece, the flavours at once subtle and exquisite and robust and piquant. After eating it, I’d loll about like a fat groundhog in a state of bliss. Then I’d wake the next morning, and start the process of counting the hours down until I could have my next freezedried meal in three or four days’ time.

Now look, I know there are people who take genuinely good food out bush with them. Recently, I was hiking with my mate Dave, who at lunch on Day Three was still pulling out hummus and fresh tomatoes and cheese and all manner of other delicious goodies. For all I know, he probably had tucked away in his backpack a pavlova with fresh cream and passionfruit and mint leaves that he scoffed down for an after-lunch dessert once I had my back turned.

But the real point I want to get to with all of this is that meals largely taste so good when I’m out bush because I’m reminded of some things easily forgotten at home, where I can simply go to the cupboard, or the supermarket, and get whatever morsel takes my fancy. And those things I’m reminded of? The critical importance of food. And shelter. And warmth.

Life, when you’re out bush, is stripped to its essentials, and every time I go camping, I am reminded of how lucky most of us are to be dry and warm and fed. More importantly, I am reminded that sadly, and in fact unforgivably, not all of us are.

And I am reminded that we, as a society, should do better for those who do not have these utmost basics. Especially in winter.

JAMES MCCORMACK

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GALLERY

After two days of intense blizzard conditions, along with some seriously low visibility on NSW’s Main Range, the sun was back.

I was making the most of it, out getting photos with another crew, and then, as if from thin air, Steve Leeder appeared above the cliff line and, recognising me from a distance (with my camera in hand), pointed at this zone in the gully and yelled, “Dude, get this shot!”

BY AARON DICKFOS

Olympus EM1-X, M12-100mm F4.0, f4, 1/1250, ISO 200

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WINTER 2024

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GALLERY

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Winter high camps are a personal favourite. And this pearler of a spot, peering down into the depths of Wollemi NP’s Colo Gorge, is one of our best. But don’t let those warming rays fool you; once they abated, we hunkered down for a frigid, blustery evening.

BY RYAN HANSEN Sony A7RII, 16-35mm f/4, f11, 1/160, ISO 320

WINTER 2024

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GALLERY

It was pushing 40°C when we threw our packs down at ‘base camp’, deep inside Piccaninny Gorge at the chasm known as the ‘First Finger’. Our late-winter adventure in Purnululu NP guaranteed us solitude to watch the setting sun ignite towering rock cliffs which then slowly stole their glow back as the night-time chorus of frogs and cicadas began. (You can read about visiting Piccaninny Gorge in this issue’s Wild Bunch starting p126.)

BY DAVID BRISTOW Nikon D200, 19-35mm, f5, 1/160, ISO 200

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Around midnight on the clear, still and frigid first night of a winter traverse of Southwest Tasmania’s Anne Range, a call of nature brought my companion Mark Oates’ attention to a looming Aurora Australis. That was the end of sleep for both of us for the next couple of hours, and we watched the light show wax and wane over the range until numb extremities dictated a return to our sleeping bags.

BY GRANT DIXON Sony A7RIII, 20mm 1.8G, f5, 15s, ISO 2500

WINTER 2024

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Columns: WILD THINGS meganholbeck.substack.com meganholbeck.com

[MEGAN HOLBECK]

@meganholbeck

SUCH A PERFECT DAY And not just in hindsight.

S

chool holidays approach, and they’re packed full of type-two family fun: Experiences that range from uncomfortable to miserable while you’re doing them, but leave you with good memories (and lessons) for life.

It starts tomorrow when I drop my 14-year-old off for a ten-day program at Mittagundi. This Victorian outdooreducation centre has been operating for more than forty years, plonking groups of young people in the mountains; giving them time, challenges and purposeful work; then seeing what happens. There will be multiday walks, rafting, abseiling, farm jobs—ten days without devices or the world beyond. I am unreasonably excited for her.

Two days later, a friend and I are heading up to NSW’s Blue Mountains, taking our 12-year-olds for their first overnight, pack-carrying bushwalk. We’ll camp by a river, take cards and plenty of chocolate. The forecast is for fun with a lot of whinging.

These sorts of adventures are the perfect setting for developing what psychologists call an ‘anti-fragile mindset’, based on the idea that certain systems grow stronger when exposed to stress. (The immune system and bones are two examples.) This is more than resilience and bouncing back from setbacks (although that’s a key component): Anti-fragility involves using challenges as opportunities to grow, and it entails being resourceful and optimistic, taking risks and opportunities, focusing on the present and releasing the past. All of which sound like standard coping mechanisms for your average outdoor trip.

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I’ve had so many perfect experiences in the outdoors, times that (now that they’re over), I’d never want to change.

Days of sunshine and blue skies, with amazing walking among mountains spreading to the horizon. Hours of threading paths along exposed ridges, scrambling up rock steps above drops into valleys. Climbing massive walls in the sun, each pitch leading seamlessly into the next, the movements fluid and challenging. There has been running and skiing, surfing and swimming, paddling and playing.

EVEN THE BAD BITS, THE BITS I’D

NEVER, EVER WANT TO DO AGAIN, ARE KIND

OF GREAT.”

And the campsites! I’ve slept in tents tucked into snowgums, with soft grass, crisp air and views of the sun setting gently into its peach and yellow nest.

Pitched my tent at remote beaches and run yelling into the ocean, then later sitting by a fire and feeling the world turn, falling asleep to the sound of waves. I’ve woken to the quiet of overnight snow, to howling wind, to turtles and dolphins swimming by.

These memories span more than three decades, at so many ages and stages.

With my family growing up: trips up Kosciuszko; exploring the sand dunes of Fraser Island (K’gari); around Canberra and further afield. As a teenager with

friends, many of whom are still firmly embedded in my life. With groups of randoms, some of whom became close mates, others I’ve never seen again.

With boyfriends and my husband, with babies and toddlers and kids and teenagers. And so many of those trips, those times, have been perfect.

Part of this is hindsight and memory, letting the bad bits fade and the good shine. Because there has been plenty of pain: the hills that never ended and the awful blisters. Getting lost and thirsty and scratched and exhausted, arriving by torchlight and falling into bed. The friend who was so slow, who kept whinging, then ate all the chocolate while I set up the tent. Being scared shitless; the cold, the heat, the soreness; the hours spent lying in the tent in the dark, busting for a pee, waiting for it to get light so I could get up and continue plodding in the rain.

But even the bad bits, the bits I’d never, ever want to do again, are kind of great. They’re why the food always tastes amazing (even if it’s just pasta), and why it feels like luxury to snuggle into a sleeping bag at the end of the day.

It’s why those friends are embedded for life, and why I’ll plan more trips with them, because I know we’ll get through those bad bits, and they’ll be awesome, eventually. Because adventures let you test limits, let you feel alive and let you connect with all the living and nature that continues even when you’re too distracted with ‘real life’ to notice.

These holidays, I hope my kids have perfect trips, and that there are many more to come.

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Columns: OUTSIDE WITH TIM [TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE]

SHARE THE WEALTH Forcing those who wish to climb Nepal’s 8,000m peaks to first ascend less-visited areas of the country would not only economically assist poorer regions, it would help visitors experience the rich reality of the Himalaya.

H

ere down under, the volatile days of summer are a receding memory, and the gentle mildness of autumn is settling in. The first frosts are crisping the high country, gardens are splashed with the warm tints of turning leaves, and fireplace smoke hangs in the valleys. Meanwhile, over in the Nepal Himalaya, the spring climbing season is well underway. Multiple guided expeditions have crowded into the 8,000m peak base camps. For lucrative wages (relatively speaking), hard-working teams of locals are risking their lives to fix lines and camps while their clients have begun jostling on their upward plod to add famous summits to their tick lists.

While numbers this year are down, perhaps due to inflationary pressures, there’s little doubt that the attraction of bagging 8,000-ers will continue to see numbers rise in the long term. This is especially true when it comes to Everest. Adding to the absurdity of conga lines of hundreds inching up the fixed lines under the guise of mountaineering, there’s the arms race between operators trying to outdo their competitors by offering ever greater base camp amenities. Larger private tents with beds, en-suite bathrooms (sans wastetreatment facilities!), heated ‘lounge rooms’ with wooden floors, bean bags, wifi and gourmet food composed of fresh supplies regularly brought in by helicopter.

In the past, when there were only a handful of climbers at any given base camp at any time, the environment coped reasonably well with the odd toilet pit dug into the ground. But not once dozens, then hundreds, of people started arriving to spend six to eight weeks on the mountain.

New regulations attempting to curb these extravagances offer a flicker of hope

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that authorities are starting to take the burden these masses impose on the highmountain environment seriously. Most sensibly, however, if there are to be any rules at all, one of these new rules requiring any aspiring Everester to first have at least climbed a 7,000m peak should seem to be a given.

Along with the almost exponential growth in numbers of these tourists, the money they spend on employing servants and guides, and buying food, accommodation, transport and other services, has brought comparatively great wealth to

THOSE AREAS NOT EN-ROUTE TO EVEREST OR THE

OTHER SIX 8,000M PEAKS CLIMBED FROM NEPAL ...

COMPLETELY MISS OUT ON THIS TOURISM BONANZA.” local communities. But those people in areas not en-route to Everest or the other six 8,000m peaks climbed from Nepal, they completely miss out on this tourism bonanza. This is despite many of these other regions having fantastic mountaineering and trekking objectives in their backyards.

The proportion of dwellings with glass in windows is a good indicator of wealth in Nepal. As an economic indicator, I’ve coined a ‘glass window index’. In the Everest region, the score is ten, with most dwellings sporting a full complement of glass paned windows. On the approaches to the other 8,000-ers, the score ranges

from six to ten. In the far west, away from the foreign-aid-funded roads that are inexorably threading their way deeper and deeper into the hills, all you will see are wooden shutters. The glass index is zero.

I have long proposed that a fairer distribution of tourism dollars across the country—and a better way to curb the numbers on Everest and the other 8,000m peaks—would be achieved by requiring all these climbing aspirants to have achieved a progression of successful summits within the less-visited mountain areas of Nepal. This would mean areas not in the Everest region nor within the vicinity of the other 8000-ers.

Instead, those lucky (and rich) enough to end up on an 8000-er and eventually the ‘big E’ ought first to be required to climb a 6,000m peak and then a 7,000m peak within those other areas of Nepal. This would ensure they have at least some experience and appreciation not only of the rigours of extreme altitude, but also of the people that inhabit the valleys below them.

And speaking of interacting with locals in the valleys, using helicopters as taxis to base camps (and higher!) has suddenly, and unfortunately, become common.

Except for emergencies, they should not be allowed. It’s a practice that robs local transport operators and villagers along the way of customers, and it destroys the remote ambience of the mountains. In my opinion, like many modern technological innovations, it’s feeding a desire for instant gratification. In fact, it is anti-adventure, robbing those who fall to this temptation the opportunity of authentically experiencing the full, rich reality of the Himalaya, and meanwhile denying the people they fly over of a life-changing source of income.

Columns: OF MOUTHS & MONIES [DAN SLATER]

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT Requesting a warranty replacement for faulty outdoors gear involves courtesy, common sense, and reasonable expectations.

A

t some point or other, I’m sure all of us have had an issue with a piece of outdoor gear and had to take it back to the store. To set up a hypothetical situation, a keen bushwalker, let’s call him Rodney, purchases a pair of hiking boots from his local outdoor store. (Not online though, because he needed expert advice before trying on a range of boots to find the correct model and fit). A month later, he returns with the boots and asks a staff member, let’s call her Leticia, to replace them under warranty. For the purposes of this exercise, the actual issue doesn’t matter.

Rodney isn’t happy with his boots. It’s at this point the timeline can split into multiple alternate realities.

Let’s assume that Rodney is telling the truth, which isn’t always the case. Probably the most common lie Leticia hears from returnees is “I haven’t used them.”

When it comes to a change-of-mind claim, it’s amazing what some people think they can get away with. I once had a customer try to swap a pair of Exped sleeping mats for the wider model. He looked me dead in the eye and said they’d never been used except for a brief test at home. I could see from across the room that the lettering had worn off the stuff sacks, and when I unrolled them, blades of grass fell into my lap. Needless to say, I sent him packing. RULE #1: Don’t lie.

Now, it would be understandable if Rodney was a little frustrated at having to come back to the store. What’s more, he was excited about his new boots and a

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poor experience has tarnished that feeling. He’s entitled to be annoyed, yes, but not to be a dick to Leticia. Rodney wants to come in all guns blazing, thinking that being indignant and making a scene will get him results. He could relive his bad experience to the unlucky Leticia in excruciating detail, demand to see the manager, and generally act like an

DEAL WITH THE RETURN CALMLY

AND POLITELY, AND YOU’RE FAR MORE LIKELY

TO GET THE RESULT YOU’RE AFTER.” entitled yob. But Rodney is clever. He knows that being friendly and polite, even if you don’t feel like it, is much more likely to win Leticia’s sympathy. She will then do all she can to help. It’s common sense.

RULE #2: Don’t lose your temper.

Having had a bad hike, Rodney hates his new boots, and when he got home on Sunday he tossed them in the corner in anger. Then on Monday morning, when he bagged them up to take them into town, he noticed they were still muddy.

“Why should I clean them?” he asked himself. “They should go straight in the bin anyway. It’s up to them to sort it out.” No, Rodney. If you bring in filthy boots, they will not be accepted. It’s a health and safety issue. Plus it’s common

respect. Do yourself a favour, because if you were angry before, having to come back a third time will make you furious.

RULE #3: Clean your gear first.

By now, Rodney is getting the hang of things. While he may think the boot issue is an obvious warranty, and he really wants a new pair for his hike the following weekend, he knows that an on-the-spot replacement is unlikely. He’s not one of those lemons who comes in quoting fair trade clauses at the bemused Leticia, thinking this will scare her into an immediate replacement. Most warranties have to be referred to the brand distributor. They’ll test the waterproofness if you claimed they were leaking.

They’ll know what to look for when examining wear on the tread. They’ll decide whether to repair or replace, or if neither of those are possible, to refund.

Leticia can’t make those decisions on the spot, so give her a break. She didn’t make the boots. RULE #4: Have reasonable expectations.

Remember, problems will occur with any mass-produced item, and if you happen to buy the dodgy one, that’s unfortunate, but it’s not the end of the world. And it’s completely possible to wear something out within the warranty period if it’s been very heavily used, but that doesn’t constitute a warranty. Deal with the return calmly and politely, and you’re far more likely to get the result you’re after in the earliest possible timeframe. Rodney is happy. Leticia is happy.

Ideal result.

ANYTIME. ANYWHERE.

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#192

WINTER 2024

XXIV: SKIING NZ'S 3000M PEAKS

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It is not about being pampered while experiencing the outdoors. Wild does not speak down to experienced adventurers.

And Wild does not look on conservation as a mere marketing tool. For over four decades, Wild has actively and fiercely fought for the environment. Campaigning to protect our wild places is part of our DNA. Show that you care about stories that matter by subscribing to Wild.

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WINTER 2024

35

CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES

A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country.

EDITED BY MAYA DARBY

MILILMA MAY DESCRIBES BINYBARA AS “A

MASSACRE SITE—A VICTIM OF ECOCIDE.”

BINYBARA BULLDOZED

Ongoing destruction at Binybara/ Lee Point, as photographed in May 2024. Credit: Elliot Hughes

Kulumbirigin Danggalaba Country, Larrakia Nation

Tanya Plibersek has the power to save this important site. The question is: Will she?

L

ast month, Federal Environment Minister Tanya Plibersek made a decision to refuse Walker Corporation’s proposed $1.4 billion development at Toondah Harbour, and the application was withdrawn. This came after decades of tireless campaigning to save the Ramsar-listed wetland, which supports vital shorebird habitat and species like the critically endangered eastern curlew.

Less than ten days later, on the other side of the country in NT’s Larrakia/Darwin, Australian Government-owned Defence Housing Australia continued its destruction of the culturally and ecologically important Binybara/Lee Point. The site is a place of cultural significance for the Kulumbirigin Danggalaba Peoples, who have continually managed and nurtured this Country for millennia. It is also an internationally important migratory location for birds, and like Toondah, supports the critically endangered eastern curlew. Moreover, the area is an essential biodiversity corridor, species like the endangered Gouldian finch and the endangered black-footed tree rat rely on hollows in Binybara’s 300-plus-year-old remnant gum trees.

As at Toondah, Minister Plibersek has the power to save Binybara—yet tireless campaigning from organisations like Danggalaba Kulumbirigin-owned and Credit: Friends of Lee Point led Uprising of The People

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have been ignored. For months, clearing was halted while Plibersek reviewed an emergency cultural heritage application, but at the end of April 2024, she rejected the application. Days later, bulldozers returned to flatten bushland at Binybara. Destruction here has been supported by NT Police, who have made multiple arrests of peaceful protestors, and there have been community reports of them disregarding the rights and wellbeing of activists on the ground.

Australia’s weak environmental laws have been under attack recently; campaigners are fed up with the decades-long lobbying efforts required to protect threatened and vulnerable ecosystems. First Nations Peoples and their allies will no longer tolerate the environmental catastrophes being supported by the Australian Government, as colonisation plays out in front of us through the destruction of Country and the disregard of First Nations’ wishes. The CEO of Uprising of The People, Mililma May, describes Binybara as “a massacre site—a victim of ecocide. Her injury and death, her felled trees raked into piles of lifeless limbs, have been caused by three things: ongoing colonialism, detrimental ministerial decisions, and flawed cultural-heritage and environmental legislation.”

You can help save Binybara/Lee Point. Head to uprisingofthepeople.org and saveleepoint.org.au to sign petitions, email law makers, donate, and get involved on the ground and across Australia.

MAYA DARBY

IN THE PATH OF THE BULLDOZERS: Habitats and ecological communities at Binybara/Lee Point include reefs, beaches, mangroves, open eucalypt forests, rainforests, paperbark forests, and stands of cycads.

It also includes internationally significant shorebird sites.

Threatened species here include the black-footed tree rat, yellow-spotted monitor, flatback sea turtle, Gouldian Credit: Mfinch Hrkac and a number of migratory shorebirds such as the eastern curlew.

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Photo: DREW SMITH © 2024 Patagonia, Inc.

Great

CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES TORCHING THE TINGLES

NOT-SO-PLAINS WANDERER

Noongar Country

Adnyamathanha and Wilyakali

Old-growth tingle forests in Walpole-Nornalup NP are under threat from the Department of Biodiversity, Conservation and Attraction’s (DBCA) prescribed-burn program, with two blocks set to be torched this year. The areas of old-growth and long-unburnt forests are home to a numCredit: Luke Gaches ber of critically endangered species like Baudin’s black cockatoo and the western ringtail possum. Prescribed and hazard-reduction burns aim to decrease fuel loads and mitigate wildfire risk, yet often overlook the adverse effects of a one-size-fits-all approach. Frequent burning is making some ecosystems more flammable, while also having a profoundly negative impact on biodiversity, climate and people’s health. To learn more about the tingles, the impacts of prescribed burns and what can be done, head to wafa.org.au/better-fire-management

Country

JASON FOWLER, WA Forest Alliance

ZOMBIE D.A. TO PAVE WALLUM Minjungbal & Arakwal Country, Bundjalung Nation

Clarence Property’s luxury housing development is exploiting ‘zombie DAs’ to destroy the last remaining Wallum heathland in Byron Shire. A zombie DA (Development Application) is a loophole used by developers, where historically approved development proposals can proceed even though Credit: Mac Maderski they would fail contemporary ecological and cultural-heritage-assessment requirements. Wallum Brunswick Heads contains three endangered ecological communities including coastal swamp sclerophyll, and boasts a deep First Nations cultural history. Several old-growth trees pre-date colonisation, and many bear Aboriginal cultural scars. The remnant vegetation and 400-year-old gums are key habitat for 24 threatened species like the koala, glossy black cockatoo, grey-headed flying fox, rainbow bee-eater, little bent-wing bat, common planigale and the Wallum sedge frog. Your help is needed; learn more at savewallum.com

The plains-wanderer is unique to Australia. These birds were once common throughout the country’s east, but are now limited to about 1,000 individuals found across a few fragmented populations. Plains-wanderers are evolutionary distinct and phylogenetically unique, being the only extant representative from the family Pedionomidae. As a result of its 40 million years of evolutionary history and its IUCN listing as being critically endangered, the species has been ranked in the topfive most important birds to conserve globally. Research from Bush Heritage Australia, from the lands of the Adnyamathanha and Wilyakali people in South Australia, is suggesting these birds could be more abundant than once thought in the region. PhD candidate Saskia Gerhardy has detected over 200 birds in the area, challenging much of what we know about plains-wanderer ecology and distribution. Most excitingly of all, she has recorded successful breeding of plains-wanderers throughout the region. Stay up to date with Saskia’s research by following her on Instagram @saskiagerhardy SASKIA GERHARDY, The University of Adelaide

HOLLY GALBRAITH, Save Wallum

A WIN BIGGER THAN YOSEMITE! Maiawali Country

An enormous $21 million anonymous donation to The Nature Conservancy has supported the purchase of more than 300,000ha of Channel Country in western Queensland for the national park estate. Dr James Fitzsimons, The Nature Conservancy’s Global Protection Senior AdviCredit: Ian Wilkinson sor, explains that the new park is “bigger than Yosemite and will create a conservation corridor of about 1.4 million hectares, including key habitat for the endangered night parrot and highly restricted Opalton grasswren, and protects the headwaters of the Lake Eyre Basin, the source of one of the last remaining free-flowing arid-river systems in the world.” To learn more, or to make a donation of your own, go to natureaustralia.org.au ALLY CATTERICK, The Nature Conservancy

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Credit: Saskia Gerhardy

GOT ANY GREEN NEWS? Engaging in an environmental campaign that Wild readers should know about? Send a paragraph explaining what’s happening and why it’s important to editor@wild.com.au

In the Jarrah forests, this is called a quokka-two.

The forests on Perth’s doorstep are home to the only population of quokkas you’ll find on the mainland. But 80% of the species in the Jarrah can’t be found anywhere else on Earth.

Help save these special forests from being destroyed by mining companies. Donate now.

Image: Russotwins

wilderness.org.au/jarrah

HEALTH IN THE OUTDOORS

WHEN PANIC HITS Dealing with mental health crises in outdoor and adventure situations.

Words BROOKE NOLAN

A

s I slid down the snow-covered slope, my backpack strap tightened around my neck, and I felt the familiar catch of panic in my throat. I came to a stop and tried desperately to pull off my gloves, unstrap my backpack, and get more air into my tightening windpipe. My chest hurt. My breathing was erratic. My vision was starting to blur. I’d felt it coming; now it was too late.

I’ve had panic attacks for a decade now, mainly triggered by noisy places and crowds. Before this moment, though, I’d only ever had one in the outdoors, when I took part in a far-too-busyfor-me adventure race. The outdoors had historically been my safe place, yet here I was on my first-ever backcountry ski trip, a crumpled mess.

As my friend Ed looked desperately at me, asking how he could help, I felt the weight of irresponsibility on my shoulders.

Unlike the stereotype, my panic attacks have evolved since COVID. In addition to the familiar shortness of breath and racing heart, I now get temporary loss of speech, drooping of the right side of my face, and the inability to use my right arm.

Unless you know what’s happening, it looks like a stroke.

Fortunately, Ed knew about my panic and how it manifested, but we hadn’t discussed pre-trip what to do if it hit. And he’d never seen it in person before. That moment was a turning point for me, and I realised that even though the likelihood of something happening on an adventure was slim, I had to start disclosing my condition. It was the only way to keep myself and others safe—and to avoid any unnecessary panic.

But I was terrified. Would I be perceived as being less capable? Too much of a risk? Would I be judged for having a mentalhealth issue?

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MEET AUSTRALIA’S EXPERT IN WILDERNESS MENTAL HEALTH It turns out that Australia’s expert in dealing with mental health and psychological stress in outdoors situations lives just down the road from me in Blackheath in NSW’s Blue Mountains.

Clinical psychologist Dr Kate Baecher has spent a decade working with the Australian Army, has been the team psychologist for the NRL, worked on reality survival TV shows, and with the Australian special forces. She’s also a mountaineer, rock climber, canyoner and all-around impressive human being.

The first time Baecher realised there was a gap in mentalhealth first aid in the outdoors was on a guided trip to Mont Blanc in France. “There was a group in front of us, and someone fell and literally rag-dolled down the mountain,” she recalls.

“My guide—a hardcore Frenchman—called in a rescue, and we watched the body be flown away by helicopter. Then, we were expected just to carry on.”

But carrying on wasn’t easy, as the other person in Kate’s group had gone into complete shock. He stopped speaking, stopped moving and appeared completely disassociated.

Despite being a paying guest herself, the guide asked Baecher to step in and help.

“I wasn’t angry that he did that, but it highlighted to me that many outdoor guides and athletes lacked the knowledge of how to address mental-health challenges in the field,” she says.

Using a series of breathing and distraction techniques, Baecher calmed the situation and helped her distressed teammate figure out a plan of action, which in this case was descending the mountain the next day.

Drawing from her expertise in extreme environments, Baecher

has since created the ACCE model to assess individuals facing mental-health challenges in the wilderness. The model utilises a four-category scale, spanning from green (safe to remain) to yellow (stay calm and in place) to orange (keep calm but consider evacuation) to red (immediate evacuation). Standing for Assess, Communicate, Calm, and Evaluate to Evacuate, the ACCE model offers a structured approach to addressing mental-health crises in remote locations.

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT Outdoors educator Hayden Goldstraw was guiding near Annapurna in Nepal when his group experienced multiple mentalhealth incidents Clinical psychologist Dr Kate Baecher

HOW TO ASSESS THE SITUATION “Whether it’s a pre-existing condition or a response to trauma, in the same way you would with a physical injury, you have to make the decision whether to evacuate someone if the risk is too high, or you keep them in place and monitor,” Baecher explains.

The assessment part of the model involves three quick evaluations: of the individual, of the environment, and of the group. With a series of questions and the sliding scale of green to red, it enables you to develop a general idea of the situation and what steps should be taken.

“Think of the primary person who perhaps has fallen or been injured—they’re at the centre,” says Baecher. “They’re your patient, but who witnessed it or was otherwise involved?

For example, if it’s a climbing accident, what about the belayer? They may be more distressed than the person who fell.”

Even witnessing something from afar, like Baecher’s teammate on Mont Blanc, can have a major impact on someone’s mental state. Environmental factors such as remoteness, terrain, and the collective skillset within the group also influence the actions that should be taken.

Someone who had to facilitate an evacuation due to mental distress was Jannice Banks, who lives in Canberra. Now primarily a canyoning guide, during one of her first outdoor-ed trips she had a young person lock themselves in their tent, threatening self-harm.

“It turns out that they had just spent six months in a mental-health institution and had only been discharged two weeks before,” explained Banks. “It was not in any of the paperwork and had not been disclosed.”

Banks had received no training on how to deal with this kind of situation, so she followed her instincts to calm the situation as best she could before liaising directly with her employer to organise an evacuation (luckily, they were close to a road). But what

A.C.C.E.

An approach to assessing individuals facing mental-health challenges in the outdoors, the ACCE model involves four key elements: Assess Communicate Calm Evaluate to Evacuate Here are some questions to ask as part of the assess step: - What happened?

- How does the patient appear to be feeling?

- How do you rate the patient’s distress level?

- How far are you from help?

- What resources do you have?

- What are the conditions like?

- What is the level of exposure and relationship other group members have to the patient or incident?

- What requirements do the group have?

- Do the total group requirements outweigh your resources?

WINTER 2024

41

Health in the Outdoors

concerned her most, alongside the lack of transparency, was that it felt the situation wasn’t taken seriously.

“The next day, I had a call like nothing had happened, and was expected to just be back in the field.” The incident played into Banks’ later decision to leave outdoor education.

The types of psychological distress and mental-health issues that can occur in wilderness situations are varied; fortunately, depression, self-harm and suicidal ideation are among the less common, according to Baecher.

The most common are panic and/or anxiety caused by being pushed out of the comfort zone or as a fear response to something traumatic happening. Decompensation and PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) flashbacks are also potential issues.

Hayden Goldstraw has worked in outdoor education for over a decade. He started his career with Outward Bound, has worked in adventure therapy, as an adventure-based youth worker, and now works with Klepper Training Academy on the Sunshine Coast. He’s noticed a shift in terms of training around mental health in the outdoors, and is confident for the future.

“Previously, it’s been more ‘You’re a guide, you need to be tough’, but that’s changing,” he says. “The Wilderness First Aid skillset … now includes a curriculum around recognising the impacts of psychological trauma … and about seeking help and support services to deal with mental-health issues like PTSD, depression, burnout, anxiety, etc.”

Many organisations, he says, now have standard operating procedures that address these issues if they appear in the field.

Just weeks before we spoke, he’d experienced two incidents on one trip, with one person experiencing anxiety at Annapurna Base Camp and another experiencing suicidal ideation.

“It’s about treating these issues in the same way you would any other first aid,” Goldstraw explains. “We’re not expecting anyone to be a medical professional or to diagnose. Just to assess what’s presented, help them in the short term, and ultimately get them to a higher level of professional care.”

COMMUNICATE AND CALM The second and third elements of Baecher’s ACCE model refer to Communicate and Calm. Communication involves reassuring the person or persons impacted, being careful not to invalidate feelings, and keeping messages simple and concise. It’s also important to consider physical communication, but be aware that while one person may appreciate a hug or physical comfort, others might not respond well or could even become aggressive.

“In cases of imminent danger like avalanches, tough love may be necessary initially,” says Baecher. “However, emotional support should follow once the danger has passed.”

For individuals experiencing anxiety, panic or disassociation, there are various evidence-based techniques that can help: - Breathing: Encourage the person experiencing symptoms to

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breathe in to the count of four and exhale to the count of four, until breathing has returned to normal.

- Grounding: Ask them to identify three things they can see, hear, and feel (tactile), then two, and then one.

- Distraction: To divert attention, engage in conversation about interests, family, pets, or anything else. Ask them to engage in a simple physical task like coiling a rope or rolling up bandages to occupy the mind.

EVALUATE TO EVACUATE The final part of the ACCE model is Evaluate to Evacuate.

Whether it’s a guided trip or a recreational adventure, it’s important to consider requirements versus resources alongside what’s referred to in the model as the Three T’s—triggers, treatment, and tomorrow.

“If the decision is made to keep them in place, you put together an action plan to do every day,” explains Baecher. “That could be breathwork, talking things through, taking some alone time.

Write down the plan, stick to it and continually assess.”

Perhaps one of the most important considerations is the need for continual assessment and monitoring post-adventure.

It turns out that there’s a four-week window after a traumatic event in which PTSD is most likely to develop.

Because of this, the ACCE model extends beyond the immediate event, addressing post-trauma strategies. “You might notice changes in your cognitive function for a few weeks after a traumatic event—forgetfulness, decreased patience, that sort of thing,” Baecher explains. “This is a normal response as your brain processes the experience, but after four weeks, they can be signs of PTSD.” Baecher herself is no stranger to the long-term impact of a traumatic event in the outdoors on mental health. Six years after the Mont Blanc incident, she was mountaineering in

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Kate Baecher descending the Eiger in 2018 After a trip to Pakistan where another group member was injured, Kate Baecher a long-term mental health impact After being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, Bailey Seamer walked the length of Australia’s east coast to raise awareness of mental health. Credit: Sean Fox Hayden Goldstraw in Nepal

TALKING ABOUT [AN EXISTING

MENTAL HEALTH CONDITION] UPFRONT BEFORE AN ADVENTURE

COULD PROVE A GAME-CHANGER.” Pakistan when a group member fell 40m into a crevasse, becoming severely injured. The guides were unable to help, but luckily, a nearby French group could assist.

“If it hadn’t been for the French group, I believe they would have left him there,” recalls Baecher. “They wanted money upfront for the rescue, and in the aftermath, we had months of harassment waiting for the insurance money to come through.”

Although on the face of it, it seemed as though Baecher was dealing with the situation, in private, she developed maladaptive and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Eventually, she recognised the signs, and sought help.

Someone else who knows the long-term impacts of untreated trauma is Scott (name changed), an Australian rafting guide, who almost a decade ago was guiding a whitewater-rafting trip in New Zealand when the boat tipped, someone got breached against a rock and drowned. In the moment, all training took over, and he got everyone to safety, ensuring everyone else remained calm.

“For years, I blamed myself,” he told me via a Zoom call. “And no one told me anything else. It was just ‘Get straight back on the river.’” Which is exactly what he did, going on to lead Grade Five rivers and expedition trips abroad. But all wasn’t as it seemed.

“My everyday life was a mess,” he explained. “I drank too much, partied too much, was intolerant of any mistakes made by myself or others, and was constantly stressed. It took many years to realise I was depressed and hadn’t dealt with what had happened.”

IT’S TIME TO TALK ABOUT IT In terms of what can help, one key action seems simple; in reality, it’s often hard to do.

“What really, really would have helped me was to be able to talk about it with my mentors and other people,” said Scott. “But when you’re in that dark little space, you’re not going to start that conversation. Someone else has to.”

Whether you’re a guide or a recreational adventurer, if you’ve experienced trauma outdoors, talking about it afterwards can help with managing long-term impacts.

“In the immediate aftermath talking about it can help, but not if you’re forced to,” says Baecher. “It has to be with someone you trust … a friend, a family member, a professional, or a colleague.

It sounds silly, but even your dog. You have to do what feels right.”

This comes with the caveat of ensuring you’re assessing your behaviour for that key four-week period post-trauma.

When it comes to risk management of an existing mentalhealth condition, talking about it upfront before an adventure could prove a game-changer if something happens.

“I always talk about ‘knowing your complete ugly’,” says Baecher. “Know what you’re like in your absolute worst moment. Do you cry? Are you short with people? Do you need to be alone?

Need to have people around you? Need people to give you a hug?

Do you need them to not come near you in your space?”

But no matter how open-minded and welcoming those you adventure with are, disclosing such personal issues can be intimidating due to the stigma surrounding mental health.

Bailey Seamer knows this only too well. She was diagnosed with bipolar disorder six years ago at age nineteen; the diagnosis eventually led her to complete a 14-month, 5,000km hike along Australia’s east coast, from Wilsons Promontory to Cape York Peninsula, to raise awareness of mental health and to show that it needn’t limit what you can achieve in life.

WINTER 2024

43

Carmen Harji on NZ’s 3,000km Te Araroa Trail. On reflection, she wishes she’d articulated her needs better to her hiking partner. Credit: David Lemaire

TIPS FOR DEALING WITH PSYCHOLOGICAL DISTRESS IN THE OUTDOORS

Whether you’re a recreational adventurer, a professional guide, or an athlete, there are some common tips that can help if you or a team member experiences a mental-health issue on an adventure.

1. KNOW YOUR OWN UGLY: If you have a

condition such as anxiety or panic, think about worst-case scenarios and articulate to your teammates what you’d need if the situation arose

2. COMMUNICATE OPENLY: In the same way that you’d discuss managing a physical injury or limitation, incorporate mental-health planning into risk management and strategies

3. THINK HOLISTICALLY: If mental-health

issues emerge due to trauma on a trip, always assess everyone who could be impacted—it’s not always the person at the centre who’s most at risk

4. FAMILIARISE YOURSELF with basic

calming techniques: breathing, grounding and distraction all work well

5. REFLECT AND CHECK IN: If something

happens on a trip, consider engaging in checkins with someone you trust (friend, family, professional) for at least four weeks afterwards. This is the window when PTSD can develop

6. REFER TO A PROFESSIONAL: Beyond

Blue aims to increase awareness of depression and anxiety and reduce stigma. Call 1300 224 636, 24 hours/7 days; chat online (beyondblue.org.au); or email for help

CONTRIBUTOR: Brooke Nolan is a writer from the UK who’s made NSW’s Blue Mountains her home.

She’s happiest sleeping on a mountain under the stars, and can never say no to a wild swim.

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Her ‘Wandering Minds Walk’ raised over $90,000 for the Black Dog Institute (blackdoginstitute.org.au) while spreading awareness about mental health. “I always say I ‘manage’ bipolar disorder,” Seamer explains. “I don’t like to say I ‘have’ bipolar disorder or ‘I am bipolar’. It’s all about the phrasing.”

KNOWING YOUR OWN COPING MECHANISMS Seamer experienced various bipolar episodes during her hike but knew exactly how to deal with them. “If things got tough, I’d take a little time off social media,” she says. “Get into a comfy space, maybe hire an Airbnb for a couple of days and check in via telehealth with my psychologist.”

Seamer’s approach extends beyond self-care; she recommends seeking support from others and being honest about what’s needed. “I like to say to my friends and family, ‘Can you balance me out?’” she explains. “If I’m really depressed, the people around me can be lighter, happier, to help me balance a little bit.”

Carmen Harji has a history of depression, and she employed similar coping strategies when she hiked the 3,000km Te Araroa Trail across her home country of New Zealand five years ago.

“It was all about getting myself to somewhere that I felt safer,” she said. “For me, it was away from people, someplace where I didn’t feel observed, and that felt physically safe and more comfortable. Though this is difficult when sharing a tent and on a trail like the TA where it can be quite busy.”

Like others featured in this article, communication played a crucial role for Harji. Reflecting on her experience, she wishes she’d articulated her needs better to her hiking partner during moments of distress.

“I think what would have helped a lot is just for someone to ask what was needed,” she says. “Often for me, just a hug could help, but people can sometimes be a little unsure about how best to help.”

When my panic hits, a hug is the last thing I want. It’s taken me a few years to figure out that what I need most is personal space and the shock of something cold—cold water on my face, snow down my back. I also wear elastic bands on my wrist to literally ‘snap’ myself out of it. And I monitor for warning signs as well, and usually have a pre-attack window of time.

If one thing is clear, it’s that approaches to handling mental-health crises in the outdoors are as diverse as the crises themselves. But we should start with a conversation.

“I’d love,” says Baecher, “for more people to have an understanding of how to manage mental-health symptoms or distress, or just human behaviour, in outdoor environments because it’s so normal. For many, there’s fear of saying or doing the wrong thing, which can shut them down in situations where managing is often quite simple.”

Here’s hoping that mental-health discussions become as open as those about physical health. Just as we talk about taking things slower or delegating tasks like carrying heavy gear after a knee or back injury, let’s approach mental health the same way. Let’s lay it all on the table, and support each other effectively. W

GIVING BACK

VOLUNTARY

HIGH

Backcountry-snowsports volunteers explain why they do what they do.

Intro and interviews HAMISH MACPHEE

Kelly Van Den Berg, looking resplendent in a Mountain Safety Collective jacket

W

ith the rising costs of lift passes and the call of the wild beckoning, people are looking outside resort boundaries for a taste of winter adventure, and the numbers of ski tourers, splitboarders, and snowshoers are growing steadily. But getting all these new participants out there safely becomes a mammoth task. Enter the volunteers.

Over recent years, Wild Mag has done stories on two volunteer organisations that have made a tangible difference in terms of safety in the Australian backcountry: the Victorian Backcountry Festival (VBCF)—run entirely by volunteers—and Mountain Safety Collective (MSC)—primarily run by volunteers.

The Victorian Backcountry Festival—a three-day event offering participants not only the chance to meet other backcountry enthusiasts, but also to learn skills and to ski terrain outside the resort boundary—has been hosted at Mt Hotham since 2019.

The festival is entirely volunteer-run. From the long hours of planning, safety protocols and insurance hoop-jumping, to tour leaders and experts giving talks, it’s people giving time that makes the event happen. In 2023, the festival had over forty volunteers working hard to lend a hand.

The camaraderie fostered by such events helps grow the industry. The expertise shared strengthens it. And often, a good number of those participating in events and tours one year will themselves put their hands up to take on some roles for the next year.

As for Mountain Safety Collective, it’s a not-for-profit association supporting the Australian backcountry community. One of their key services is producing—throughout the Australian snow season—daily Backcountry Conditions Reports. They also provide other information and educational backcountry snowsafety resources and facilities. There’s a mix of punters, frothers, avy pros and patrollers volunteering on the committee and helping to maintain MSC’s essential services.

Let’s hear some perspectives on volunteering from two of those who have helped out these organisations over recent years.

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TOM WAINWRIGHT:

Volunteered at VBCF in 2022, 2023

Occupation: Climate Change & Sustainability Advisor

I started volunteering because ... I’ve always got a lot of satisfaction out of people development, and volunteering is an incredible way to share knowledge and to mentor others. It also aligns with my values, as I’ve shifted my career to something more purposeful and environmentally focused. It’s an important time to raise [awareness about] the value and fragility of our ski terrain.

Volunteering has let me ... apply my skills in a way that helps others to have a great time outdoors and hopefully kickstart their own journey. I have been a backcountry tour guide, both a leader and tail, for beginner and intermediate groups, and am always happy to share learnings from my climatesolutions work. I now have a group of friends united by our love of the backcountry.

For me, the rationale for volunteering ... at the BC Fest is three-fold: Firstly, there’s the desire to give something back and to help others, which helps keep people safe and supports their growth. Secondly, by encouraging people to care about our wild places, this work supports an industry that is highly vulnerable to climate change. Thirdly, I’ve genuinely gained a lot myself from this festival in terms of my own skills and self-sufficiency, and also in terms of ongoing friendships and community.

I was nervous volunteering ... at the festival for the first time, particularly when I had to step up from being a tail guide to a lead guide at short notice. The organisers did an amazing job preparing us through induction weekends, so we were well equipped to take groups out on trips and to deal with unexpected challenges.

IMAGES - THIS PAGE, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Tom Wainwright while guiding for the VBCF Kelly undertaking observations in the Hotham backcountry Tom (middle) and friends at the VBCF “What are you doing?”

Bystanders are always interested to see what Kelly is up to. On this occasion, she was digging a snow-inspection pit off Machinery Spur in the Hotham backcountry.

Credit: Lilian Duthie

My favourite part of volunteering is … getting to

My volunteering led to ... an opportunity to do the first-

the end of a day and hearing the group stoke. Most people are hugely respectful of, and appreciate, the volunteer effort. Even some really experienced skiers who have skied all over the world have been super grateful to be shown intermediate [backcountry] areas around Hotham, as that has equipped them to venture further afield on their home mountain.

ever, invite-only [Canadian Avalanche Association] Operations Level 1 course in Australia. (Ed: Ops 1 is the pathway for professionals entering avalanche risk management.) It happened just through me being involved with MSC, and then they saw how keen I was and how interested I was in furthering myself in that area.

I’m keen to continue my learning ... in this area KELLY VAN DEN BERG:

Volunteered at MSC from 2018 onwards Volunteered at VBCF in 2019, 2020, 2023

Occupation: Professional Guide, Coach & Adventurer

I originally had this idea ... to run some splitboarding tours for women and volunteering at the Victorian Backcountry Festival helped me proof that product. Through the people I met doing that, I ended up working as a guide running ‘Intro to Backcountry’ tours, which has continued to this day in various forms. My interest grew in snow science and backcountry safety, and in 2022 I completed an Operations Level 1 professional qualification with Canadian Avalanche Association and started as a field observer for Mountain Safety Collective.

I’ve helped MSC with ... a little bit of everything. I’ve run some backcountry nights for them at Hotham and some get-togethers and community-group meetings. I’ve also helped with weather observations, forecasting and a little bit with their membership base. Although I do a lot of MSC stuff like field observations on my own, I still get to connect with the people on the mountain. Sometimes I’ll be out in the backcountry digging a pit, and people will come and go, “Hey, what are you doing?”

And when I explain, they’ll say, “Oh, we’re members of MSC. We check out the backcountry conditions reports all the time.”

It’s always really good to hear that. And I’ve heard it quite a bit.

and eventually hope to become a professional educator for recreational backcountry education. This has been so awesome and exciting. Being able to work doing what you love and sharing it with others is the holy grail, but to be honest, that’s really the least important benefit that I’ve received from volunteering.

For me, volunteering has been ... the heartbeat of my passion. Being able to give back, to have purpose with meaning, and to share my passion with like-minded people—it has been tremendous and the best benefit of all.

There are so many people who helped ... me along the way, and still do. It’s such an awesome community. Giving back is a privilege. It’s also a great way to meet new like-minded friends and interesting people. Volunteering has been, and continues to be, an incredible journey.

People should consider becoming volunteers ... because it opens up a whole other layer of community. People help each other out. People support each other. And there are so many opportunities to learn from people that have been out there doing things for many, many years. It leads to doing different things that you might not have initially been exposed to. W MORE INFO: backcountryfestival.com.au & mountainsafetycollective.org

WINTER 2024

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GETTING STARTED

GETTING CREATIVE OUTDOORS IN WINTER with Jamie Parker

One of the best things about getting outdoors in winter is getting great imagery or footage to capture the beauty. Wild Earth Ambassador Jamie Parker gives some tips on how to deal with the wet and cold.

E

arly in 2022, as Australia basked in summer warmth, winter—as ever—was unleashing itself for another year in British Columbia. Many found themselves retreating indoors, seeking a comfortable refuge from the biting cold. For me, however, it was a little different. I was at the beginning of what has been my biggest adventure yet.

Pursuing a career as a visual creative, I’d just moved to Canada … from Queensland. Working in a cold, wet climate like this—a snow- and mountain-chaser’s paradise—presented vastly different challenges compared to where I’d come from, and I’ve had to adapt to many new obstacles. In the process, I’ve learned a lot. And after spending now three years here, base-layered up like a can of pringles and armed with a camera, I’m going to share with you some tips that I’ve learned during that time that may help you back in Oz when you’re wanting to get outdoors to get good images or footage in winter.

KEEP YOURSELF DRY, AND GET GOOD GEAR Be it snow-capped mountains, large redwoods, the Canadian coastline—it seems wherever I point my camera I am continuously mesmerised by every little ounce of winter. But with that comes one of the most palpable aspects of working in the outdoor industry in cold climates—the constant struggle with nature’s elements. But winter in Oz, depending on where you are, can be cold and wet, too, and if you're out chasing images, you'll still need to keep yourself warm and dry, so gear up. Do your research. Pay a little extra for the good stuff. Not only will this allow you to be comfortable in harsh environments, good gear can last a lifetime, and it can save you in the long run. If your Facebook Marketplace shell wasn’t as waterproof as you’d hoped, you’ll have not only wasted money on it, but you’ll soon find yourself heading out to get something decent. There’s that old saying, the poor man buys twice! Similarly, don’t buy more than you need; save your funds to invest in better quality. Slowly, you’ll be able to build up your arsenal of essentials, you’ll stay dry yourself, and you’ll have far more enjoyable winter photography and videography experiences.

BECOME FRIENDS WITH WET WEATHER I learned very quickly that I wasn’t going to make any progress in my career if I didn’t get used to the rain and the cold in Vancouver and its surrounding mountains. Besides, I soon found the miserable conditions were alluring in their own way, fostering an intimate connection with the environment. But unlike the predictable routines of urban life, or the expected warm weather of the Gold Coast, battling with the rain required

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DO NOT FEAR UNORTHODOX APPROACHES TO MAKING YOUR

EXPERIENCE MORE COMFORTABLE."

a newfound adaptability and resourcefulness. So, how do you master photography and videography in unpredictable weather?

Practise, practise, practise. Get out into it in all conditions, and as regularly as possible. If you’re adventuring only on the days the sun is joining you, when the unplanned strikes, your lack of preparation and familiarity with crappy conditions will completely ruin your experience.

TIPS FOR YOUR EQUIPMENT Winter is full of amazing natural sights, and many of you will likely be armed with tools to capture your surroundings. Here are some tips for your equipment in cold and soggy conditions: To keep everything in working order, become used to unorthodox adaptations to your gear, whether they feel professional or not. In really freezing conditions, tape camera batteries to your chest under your base layers to keep them warm. Learn to shoot in gloves. Wrap your gear in plastic bags. Do whatever it takes to keep your equipment (and yourself) warm and dry.

If the sun is out and you’re on snow, you’ll want to have invested in an ND (Neutral-Density) filter for your lenses. Think of them as sunglasses for your camera; they let you maintain a shallow depth of field without overexposing the image.

And if you’ve returned home from a shoot in the biting cold, give your equipment time to rest and slowly return to room temperature. Think of it like depressurising. If you take the camera from extreme cold to the warmest part of your home, you’ll have camera sensors fogging up left, right and centre. Instead, keep the camera in a cooler part of the house before allowing it to join you in the warmth.

+++++ These days, the colder, wetter months have become more approachable for me. If you’re planning on getting out there and getting visually creative yourself, remember to gear up wisely, do your research, purchase the good stuff, and practise in the rain.

Do not fear unorthodox approaches to making your experience more comfortable, and enjoy winter in all its wonderful glory. W CONTRIBUTOR: Content marketing specialist and Wild Earth Ambassador Jamie Parker moved from the warmth of Queensland to the cold of Vancouver, BC three years ago to dive deeper into the great outdoors.

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PROFILE

LOUISE

SHEPHERD For 45 years, climbing has been at the heart of Louise Shepherd’s life. It’s there in her hardcore, dirtbagging youth; her decades of guiding at Arapiles; and her place deeply embedded in the Natimuk community.

Words Megan Holbeck

“S

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she was “arguably the world’s top female climber”). Whole seasons were spent at Arapiles’ Pines campsite, interspersed with year-long trips to overseas climbing hotspots and jaunts to cliffs around the country, as well as seasonal work to save for it all.

Climbing is more than a sport and a passion for Louise: It’s been her work, too. As co-owner of Natimuk’s The Climbing Company for 21 years, she’s introduced thousands of people to both climbing and Arapiles, and still guides today. She’s been involved with the Australian Climbing Instructors’ Association (ACIA) since its inception, helping to bring a new era of professionalism and safety to the industry.

Her love life has also revolved around climbing, with all of Louise’s long-term relationships being with climbers. (She remembers a fling with a nonclimber in the 80s, and the horror: So much flab!)

And then there’s the environmental work, her guidebook, her deep connections across both the Natimuk and climbing communities.

CULT Louise’s life of flow, freedom and friendship sprung from a very different childhood. Her parents were members of the Exclusive Brethren, an ultra-conservative religious sect, leaving when she was four. They were excommunicated, cut off by friends and family. “When you leave the cult, they will turn their backs on you, they will never speak to you again.” There were no dinners with grandparents; nobody dropping around with muffins; visitors to the house were rare.

The family (Lou and younger brothers Chris and Lincoln, both talented climbers in their day) grew up in an Adelaide beachside suburb in a self-sufficient, contained bubble. “In some ways, it was really conventional. But in other ways, it was totally warped.”

Their mum didn’t work, while their dad, Scoresby Shepherd OA, was a lawyer who got interested in scuba diving, back when it was new. Despite having no formal scientific background, he ended up as a marine biologist—“that was all possible in the 60s”—running the world’s longest abalone-research project on a remote West Island, off the coast of Victor Harbour.

Inset image credit: Trevor Robertson

he was coming off underneath the roof and taking these monster swings—in harem pants and topless, as you do in the 70s. I’d just never seen anything like it. I was from Adelaide, from a really middle-class, conservative background. My eyes were just bulging.”

Louise Shepherd is recounting her introduction to Mt Arapiles, Victoria, a place that’s been at the centre of her life for more than 45 years. This sandstone monolith rises from the flat plains of the Wimmera about 13km from where we sit in her lounge room in Natimuk. The story, full of delight, is interrupted by bursts of her awesome laughter as she relishes the tales she’s got to tell, and still sounds amazed that it all happened. It’s also interrupted by a neighbour dropping round walnut and carrot muffins; by anecdotes about the amazing community she’s part of, by stories about her friends, trips and passions; and by all the signs of a life that’s connected and meaningful.

But back to the topless climber, and the long weekend that started it all. It was the spring of 1978 and Louise was 20, and had only been climbing (top-roping) for a few months. She was watching a group attempting Procol Harum (26), a route that was soon to become the hardest in Australia. One climber was Kim Carrigan—also 20, and already a legend, on his way to becoming Australia’s first sponsored climber. But it was the flying breasts and long blonde hair of his girlfriend Natalie she remembers more.

She speaks about the whole trip with wonder: How little her and her mates knew; that they managed to get up things safely with their rudimentary skills, knowledge and gear. And that awesome sense of a beginning, an unfolding where a piece clicks into your life and changes it forever, suddenly altering everything and making it so much more.

And that trip was the piece. Within a year Louise was hitching up to Arapiles every weekend, leading hard; her and Carrigan were now a couple. Eight years spent mostly climbing followed, and she is widely considered today as one of the 1980s strongest female climbers (Ed: Andy Pollitt in ukclimbing.com says

Now in her mid-60s, Louise is ageing gracefully by continuing to crank out beautiful climbs. Here she is ascending Tannin (19) at Arapiles in January 2024.

Credit: Clive Curson WINTER 2024

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Profile: LOUISE SHEPHERD

Once a month or so, he’d take the kids out there, and leave them to run around amusing themselves on granite rocks surrounded by the Southern Ocean while he went diving. Louise remembers kids being washed into the water, with the alarm somehow being raised and boats dispatched to the rescue. She credits these adventures with the siblings’ close (but sometimes fractious) relationship: “We were thrust into this position of being self-reliant and looking after each other.”

By 1978, this independent, adventurous spirit had taken her and then boyfriend Kim Smyth cycle touring, flying light aircraft and hang gliding. (She was terrible, and kept crashing.)

Following their first attempt at climbing, which involved trailing a yellow nylon marine rope up the Grampians’ Elephants Hide, they found someone to sell them proper gear and show them how to top rope. Then: Arapiles. And a life that flowed, guided by climbing, by community, developing in a slow, connected way.

CAMPSITES Looking at old photos of Louise, she hasn’t changed much. She’s older, sure, and her close-cropped hair is now grey, but her build is similarly slight and strong. It’s her eyes you notice, and her smile, and they’re the same: big brown eyes that are warm, smart and sparky, with a massive smile waiting to join in. She’s a glass-half-full kind of person, who sees joy and opportunity rather than problems.

In her telling, Arapiles in the 1980s sounds like a magical place. The decade’s high unemployment was coupled with easier access to social services and a different attitude to work. “It was the beginning of an era where young people could be unemployed, get some benefits and just go climbing if they chose to …

I was just getting started in that era when things were socially a lot more free.”

A close-knit but constantly changing community of climbers lived off the dole at the Pines. Camping was free and living was cheap, while the development of new gear allowed more difficult climbing with greater safety, leading to an explosion of new climbs and harder grades. The second wave of feminism was also expanding the choices and roles available to women.

Her stories are full of one-liners that capture this different time and spirit. Like her dad encouraging her to do what she wanted—climb and live off the dole—saying, “I’m glad my taxes are going to a good purpose.” Or how she used Arapiles as a base around trips abroad or interstate: “So I went overseas for a year and a half or something, as you did back then …” (That trip was to the USA for 18 months in 1980-81.)

It wasn’t all multipitches in the sun (although she did climb most days). Life was basic, living in a tent in the dirt, hitching into Horsham once a week for a shower and supplies. There were mice plagues and egos, communal cook-ups on the fire, and at least a couple of Pines’ inhabitants got scurvy. (Not Louise though—she

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was the first climber to work at O’Connor’s organic farm nearby, exchanging a few hours’ work for a box of fresh produce, something she continued until the farm shut in 2013.)

Louise didn’t have a plan; instead she had a passion. And life just unfolded.

All this freedom, all that climbing, had results. She was possibly the first woman to lead Grade 26 onsight (no one really kept track in the 80s), and her overseas trips shook up the climbing world. She climbed bold testpieces and wondered what the fuss was, before discovering she’d made the first female ascent.

Climbs like her 1986 onsight of Lord of the Flies (26) in Wales: She wondered why cars were tooting from the valley floor, before realising they were congratulatory honks. Or the first ever onsight ascent of Trojan (25) at Arapiles, with a reaction from the men she describes as a little bit huffy!

Despite her reputation as a bold climber, she didn’t consider herself one. “Even though I did bold routes, I would somehow rationalise that I wasn’t a bold climber. And there were certain climbs that I never would do … So I was selective, I guess, about what I chose.”

In terms of how life unfolded, here’s a sketch: Until April 1980, she lived in Adelaide, hitching to Arapiles every weekend to climb. She used the Pines campsite as a base from 1981 until 1983, then moved to Nati. That’s only when she wasn’t travelling, and she was … a lot. The USA in 1980-81 (Yosemite, Colorado, the Gunks and more); to Europe for six months in 1983 (France, Germany, the UK); a trip to New Zealand, the USA and Europe in 1985. There were mountaineering trips to NZ and the Himalayas

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Louise in 1983 at Arapiles.

Credit: Glenn Tempest Leading Spring Offensive (23), circa 1982. Photographer unknown Louise with Nyrie Dodd, as pictured in the 1987 article Louise wrote for Wild about Dodd’s historic first ascent of Passport to Insanity. Credit: Steve Monks Louise graced the cover of Wild way back in Issue #4, 1982.

The caption declared her to be “Australia’s top woman rockclimber”. And the image, of her climbing Trojan (25), was shot

by Kim Carrigan and was the winner of Wild’s first (Ed: and only, I think) cover photo competition. It was also the mag’s first-ever climbing cover

SHE CLIMBED BOLD TESTPIECES AND WONDERED

WHAT THE FUSS WAS, BEFORE

DISCOVERING SHE’D MADE THE FIRST FEMALE ASCENT.” in 1986, each with massive epics. (No more mountaineering after that—winters were spent climbing or off-track bushwalking in nice, warm, remote areas like Kakadu and the Kimberley.)

And lots of other trips overseas and within Australia, including Queensland’s Frog Buttress, NSW’s Blue Mountains and the Warrumbungles, Tasmania and South Australia’s Moonarie.

In 1983, the campsite era came to an end when Kim Carrigan bought a house at 117 Main Street. It was the third house bought by a climber in Natimuk, but the first one actually bought to live in. (Wild founder Chris Baxter bought the first for $5,000, on his credit card!) It was an old, rambling place, with lots of rooms. Jon and Brigette Muir rented a room for years, painted the ceiling blue, and decorated it with stars. At first it was a dosshouse, somewhere for Louise to dump her pack, but in the end it became home.

And Louise’s home at that, for almost thirty years. She and Carrigan split up in 1983, and a couple of years later she bought half, with then partner Chris Peisker buying the other later. It was a base for business, too. In 1988, Shepherd, Peisker, Heather Phillips and Phil Wilkins opened The Climbing Company and Arapiles Mountain Shop, and the retail of boots, cams and ropes took over the front room.

COMMUNITY Opening businesses on Natimuk’s main street signified two things: That Louise was going to stay for a while; and that climbing was becoming part of the town’s makeup. Both have proven true. Louise lived on Main Street until 2012, when she moved around the corner. Climbing (and climbers) have increasingly become part of the fabric of the tiny town, with approximately half of Nati’s five-hundred inhabitants now climbers.

Thirty-odd years later, both businesses are still going strong, each only sold to new owners last year. They sprung from the government’s New Enterprise Initiative Scheme (NEIS), designed to help people start new small businesses. Louise remembers qualifying for NEIS and receiving grant money in autumn 1989.

The partners reasoned they wouldn’t have many customers until spring, so they may as well go climbing, and promptly deposited the money in the Pyramid Building Society. (All that lovely high interest!) They returned home in September and withdrew the money, six months before Pyramid collapsed with massive losses.

The businesses soon split, with the shop being run by Phillips and Wilkins. Louise and Chris’s relationship ended soon after, but the two continued to run The Climbing Company (with varying levels of harmony) until 2009, when Louise sold Chris her share.

The guiding business allowed plenty of flexibility and freedom. Spring and autumn were busy, the rest of the year quiet, and Louise guesses it provided 90% of her modest income. Chris took care of the accounting and admin, Louise managed the coordination with schools and other clients, and both guided (and were crap at marketing!).

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Louise still guides for The Climbing Company, as well as others.

Having a world-class, beginner-friendly crag a ten-minute drive away has let her lead a normal life and avoid burn-out—instead of camping with kids for weeks of every month, she can be home every night, sleep in her own bed and have dinner with mates.

There are many things she loves about the work: The satisfaction of taking novices up a 120m cliff and seeing their joy, their sense of achievement, and the way it expands their idea of what is possible. Another highlight is the relationships built with fellow guides, the collegial atmosphere of running great programs, and hanging out at the end of a good day. These days Louise takes the easier clients, those after a more relaxed day. As she says, “It’s good being a role model for these kids: I’m as old as their grandmothers!”

Even after all these words, there’s so much more to Louise’s life.

In 1990, after a horror year in Victoria resulting in five rockclimbing deaths, the Climbing Instructors’ Association was formed.

(This was the Victorian forerunner of the ACIA, the body that now runs training and assessment courses nationally.) Louise was heavily involved from the beginning, only stepping down from the committee this year, and has been working with the organisation—instructing the instructors—since 1991 when it began running courses. Then there’s her 1994 guidebook, A Rock Climbers’ Guide To Arapiles/Djurite, which created some controversy: apparently there were too many photos of women climbers?!

She’s also been active in environmental protection, involved with the Friends of Arapiles group for thirty years. There are

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THERE’S PLENTY SHE DOESN’T CARE ABOUT, TOO: CLIMBING

GRADES; OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS;

HOW SHE APPEARS TO OTHERS.” other organisations involved, and she’s just one of the many volunteers—she is (as always) quick to spread both the love and the credit. But over the decades, the dry, dusty, overgrazed base of Arapiles has transformed into a different place. Revegetated with native plants—and with beautifully crafted, stone access tracks to reduce erosion—the vegetation, wildlife and magic have returned.

Natimuk has been made arty and interesting through the diverse influences brought by climbers. Louise describes it as an excellent place to live—constantly surprising, stimulating and evolving. She gives me one example: the Women’s Outdoor Wellness (WOW) weekend held in March. There were workshops on silks, yoga and slacklining; Louise ran a slideshow and Landcare talk. It was all free, too—not bad for a tiny town four hours from Melbourne!

Her Natimuk base has allowed her to live slowly and locally.

Louise is vegetarian, gets a bag of organic wheat from a nearby farmer every year and grinds it to make sourdough. She buys sacks of local lentils and chickpeas, grows her own produce and swaps with neighbours. (And still mourns the end of the O’Connor’s organic farm with its bountiful boxes of produce, fresh scones and lovely people.)

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM The original members of The Climbing Company, as photographed in 1989. (L to R): Louise Shepherd, Phil Wilkins, Chris Peisker and Heather Phillips. Credit: Paul Carracher (Image courtesy of The Wimmera Mail-Times) At a Friends of Arapiles working bee, late 2020. The group engages in various environmental projects to restore the area and ameliorate the effects of climbers. Credit: Keiran Loughran Backpacking in Tasmania recently. Credit: Trevor Robertson

Conversations with Lou are as interesting, wide-ranging and interconnected as her life. A question about significant relationships leads to her talking about meeting Clive Curson on a 1996 climbing trip to South Africa. Then how he moved to Nati, and how the Millennial Drought lasted for the whole thirteen years of their relationship. There are asides about water usage, the conversion of the outside toilet into a composting one, and plenty of stories (and bursts of that laugh) along the way. Dates and details are loose, but her attitude is generous, spacious and curious.

There’s plenty Louise is concerned about: The environment; climbing access; and recognition of culture. Our society’s increasing wealth, consumerism and inequality; the crap left at Arapiles at the end of each weekend. She worries about climate change, about what it will do to a region that already has regular days above 40°C. There’s plenty she doesn’t care about, too: Climbing grades; other people’s business; how she appears to others. She’s comfortable in her own space. As long-time friend (and housemate) Simon Mentz puts it: “She’s very much her own person and couldn’t care less about how she presents. She just doesn’t give a rat’s arse.”

She’s comfortable with ageing as well, although not necessarily delighted. In 2018, a sarcoma on her right arm led to radiation therapy and surgery (she was back climbing seven weeks later); a hip replacement is on the cards. She supports her 91-year-old mother in Adelaide, and aims not to follow her model of constant whinging about her health.

If Louise’s childhood was cloistered, without the usual outside ties—extended family, old friends, connections with the wider community—her adult life has been the opposite. Those who know her talk about her generosity, her loyalty and genuine friendship. She’s tied into everything she cares about, with a regular week including guiding work, climbing, yoga, walking, gardening, personal and community projects, and plenty of mates.

When I suggest that she’s found a community to fill her childhood gap, stuffing that empty spot with people and connections and passions, she agrees. Somewhat. There’s truth to that, she says, but it’s not really down to her. Instead, she’s been fortunate: She started climbing at the right time, and is well known in the community, which opened doors to inclusion and opportunity. She’s also been single for thirteen years, something that has forced her to make an effort. As for environmental and community projects, she only does a bit; others do way more.

All of which may be true, but again only partially. Because a lot of that luck she describes is fortune she’s created rather than found. And she’s used it to build a life that’s deep and networked and textured and well-lived. It’s also inspiring: For women; for climbers; for guides. For adventurous folk interested in living a life of flow and passion, of connection and comradery. W CONTRIBUTOR: Megan Holbeck is a Sydney-based 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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CONSERVATION The Jones family enjoying sunset in the fields on Bruny Island. Credit: Jo Smith

TASMANIAN

AERIAL BLOCKADES

A SELECTED HISTORY Words JOHN MIDDENDORF

Tasmania has been at the forefront of forest aerial activism since the technique was incorporated into nonviolent direct action back in the 80s. The movement has, since its inception, saved literally thousands of hectares of grand Tasmanian forest; in this piece, John Middendorf traces the technique’s evolution.

(Note that due to space, but not importance, much has not been covered, and there are gaps in this history that deserve filling.)

T

ASMANIA, THE MID-1980S. Environmental activists were celebrating the victory of the No Dams campaign, a massive blockade which led to the preservation of one of the world's greatest wild and scenic natural rivers: the Franklin. But it soon became clear further actions would be needed to protect Tasmania’s wild lands. An upsurge in the market for woodchips meant the state’s native wet and dry eucalypt forests were being shredded into chips, with increasingly remote areas being logged using newly imported large industrial tractors, cable towers and other advanced means to denude a forest quickly. And there were plans afoot for native-forest clearfells within the future extensions to the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area; for Tasmanian environmental activists, saving these forests became their next target.

In the decade following the saving of the Franklin, clever, non-violent direct action (NVDA) blockade tactics bloomed all over Australia—many targeted at preventing roads entering into wilderness—including cementing vehicles into the road, tripods, and other simple-to-construct but hard-to-dismantle human blockades, engineered and installed often in severe conditions by small advance teams. But it was in Tasmania's tall trees in particular that, of the many developments in blockading forest decimation, aerial activism in the form of tree-sitting would evolve as a standard blockading tool. And in terms of peaceful protest, what could be more peaceful than sitting in the canopy of dense mature native forests, temporarily thwarting the march of machines far below?

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Tasmanian Aerial Activism

Maraika Smit suspended in a BBF Activist Sit, a weatherproof hanging tent, on the edge of wilderness in the Meunna forest in northwest takayna, 2023. The line is anchored to logging machinery below.

Credit: Ramji Ambrosiussen

Tripod blockade at Mother Cummings, 1998.

Credit: Brian O’Byrne

This February 1987 photo of Alex Marr in his sit at Farmhouse Creek reading The Mercury ended up appearing in The Mercury itself

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Tasmanian Aerial Activism

1986-1987: FARMHOUSE CREEK, SOUTHWEST FORESTS Safety is a paramount objective of NVDA protesting. As a result, not all activists initially endorsed the idea of ascending, rigging, and occupying trees far off the ground, as elevated platforms involved elevated personal risk. Specialist skills and experience were essential, but—according to Alec Marr—few in the Tasmanian Wilderness Society (TWS) had any understanding of rope safety-systems. Alec, an experienced caver and climber, moved to Tasmania in 1983 for the Franklin River campaign, and stayed to train for big-wall climbing on Tasmania’s tall challenging cliffs. In 1985, with the old growth woodchip industry on the rise, Alec went all-in to help protect the forests. In February 1986, when conflicts between loggers and environmentalists were at an apex, he announced he was preparing to set a new world tree-sitting record near Farmhouse Creek in Southwest Tasmania. The creek approximately formed the boundary where untouched wild forests abutted the accessible and denuded logged forests to the east, and the accelerating importation of heavy machinery since the 1970s was making further incursions into the wilderness viable.

Alec at the time believed the record to be 425 days, though the longest environmental tree-sit to date had likely only (Ed: only!) been a month-long sit by Ron Huber in Oregon’s Willamette National Forest in 1985. Bob Brown told Alec about the Oregon tree-sits, to which Alec responded, “I could set that up easily.”

Alec chose a threatened tall eucalypt in the path of the bulldozers for his act of resistance. With an organised support team of over a dozen people, a bow-and-arrow was used to shoot the initial line over a high branch. A free-hanging climbing rope was then secured 25m above the forest floor, which Alec ascended using his mechanical caving system. At the desired height, he installed a hanging 1m x 2m framed-masonite platform. A UHF radio on the elevated platform was used to provide a vital link in communication between the onsite protestors and The Wilderness Society, along a line-of-sight relay from the protestors to the platform to Hartz Peak and then to the town of Cygnet.

Alec spent sixteen days and nights on his platform, including a day when an angry logger began to cut the tree down, a process luckily halted by law enforcement. On March 14, 1986, over sixty police arrested more than thirty blockaders, and arrived below Alec’s last stand. Ironically, Alec had previously climbed with members of the Tasmanian Police search and rescue team who had been assigned to arrest him, and he provided a safety-belay for his arresting officer, on the condition that he climb the tree by his own means and without the aid of Alec’s safety rope.

Alec’s hollow tree, with its plentiful native habitat, was later cut down. But a month on, the protestors were back, establishing more tree-sits, and the pattern of blockades, arrests, and

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ALEC ANNOUNCED HE WAS PREPARING TO SET A NEW WORLD TREE-SITTING RECORD ... [AND] CHOSE A THREATENED TALL EUCALYPT

FOR HIS ACT OF RESISTANCE.” more blockades would continue well into the following year. In March 1987, Alec was again retrieved—along with Ted Mead and other tree-sitters—after a nine-day sit which included terrifying windstorms. He was arrested by his same friends from the police search and rescue team, which by then had become a familiar sight at these forest gatherings. After the Farmhouse Creek protests, Alec writes that tree-sits then “became fairly standard practice” in Australian environmentalism.

1998: MOTHER CUMMINGS, WESTERN TIERS Globally in the 1990s, aerial activism in the form of tree-sits was becoming more widespread. Complex, inter-connected treehouse villages had even been established in some threatened forest canopies. Aerial blockades had begun making international news, such as those occurring in northern California’s redwood forests—including Julia Hill’s long-term occupation of over two years in a 60m redwood called ‘Luna’. Meanwhile, contentious forest protests using tripods and tree-sits raged in New South Wales, Victoria and Western Australia. And in Tasmania, the Tarkine Tigers used aerial activism to both hinder logging activities and to raise awareness of the threat to the vast temperate rainforests in the Northwest.

For many sits, framed plywood, steel bed frames salvaged from the tip, and even old doors were rigged as suspended tree platforms for a protestor to live and sleep on for extended periods high in the canopy, with a makeshift tarp rigged as protection from the elements.

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT Ben Morrow in a mesh triangular sit in 2007, suspended over the Weld River to blockade a road.

Ben’s partner, Alana Beltran, the Weld Angel, was also blockading a road at the time. Credit: Matt Newton Plans for Neil ‘Hector’ Smith’s tree platform in the Mother Cummings blockade in 1998 The story in The Mercury on March 7, 1998 about Hector’s tree-sit was, by the contexts of modern mainstream media, surprisingly positive and warm

Towards the end of the decade, the Tasmanian Regional Forest Agreement (RFA) of 1997 (the TWS said that RFA stood for ‘Robbery, Fraud, and Arson’) watered down national biodiversity legislative requirements for the logging industry; native-forest woodchip operations subsequently expanded. In response, a determined local group begun by Tim Cadman mounted a large NVDA campaign to protest the imminent destruction of the Mother Cummings Forest in the Western Tiers of Tasmania.

Initially, campaign plans did not include tree-sits, but then Neil Smith—an engineer and accomplished rock climber and caver— decided to join.

Neil (who soon became known as ‘Hector the Protector’) imagined a roomy tree-fortress for long-term occupation. He cleverly designed a large, pre-fab hexagonal platform—accessible only by a lockable trap door—that he could efficiently set up in the actively logged forest. Suspended with chains to a high branch, and with six radial support arms fixed to an oversized steel collar, six platform sections were quickly installed onto the frame thirty metres above the forest floor. “I wanted it to be comfortable,” recalls Neil, “[with] plenty of room for a flat bed, food storage, exercise bike (doubling as the battery charger), solar panel and 12V car battery, and a tent to collect water and keep rain off me.” Despite this, the structure and his initial ascent (using two slings girthed around the tree’s huge trunk to shimmy to the high first branch) were designed to have zero impact on the tree.

He also devised a portable digital communications system, in the process creating perhaps the first internet-connected environmental tree-sit. Using a Toshiba 100CS laptop and dial-up modem, he began sending emails to politicians and the media, as well as receiving messages of support from other tree-sitters and environmentalists from around the world.

After thirteen days, the police search and rescue arrived and, using a drill provided by the loggers, began ascending the tree by installing 30cm spikes (per Alec’s advice, Neil also provided a safety belay). Attempts to breach the horizontal walls of Neil’s fortress with chainsaws and drills failed until Neil was ‘tricked’

by the hanging search and rescue officer, who screamed that his fingers were caught in the trap door. Neil finally relented. He opened the door and said, “Come on up, Shane.” He was soon shaking hands with his arresting officer. The tree was felled the next day. Neil was later charged with seven counts, including “interfering with the operation of a vehicle”, for which he was fined $7,000 after several years of court hearings.

2000s: THE ARBORISTS A huge surge of aerial activism began in 2002 in Tasmania with the direct actions of the Huon Valley Environmental Centre and Still Wild, Still Threatened. The two groups organised volunteers, and often broadcasted shocking news of the continuing devastation behind the locked gates of Tasmania’s southern native forests. In addition to a large community of passionate local activists, “hundreds of people [came] from all over Australia to help,” says Jasmine Wills, who helped organise the aerial actions and often worked as the police and contractor liaison for what was to become a decade of unrelenting and targeted blockades.

Among the blockading strategies, dragons, old cars cemented into the road, ten-metre tripods with a protestor perched on its apex, and often a complicated network of ropes and pulleys resembling Rube Goldberg inventions were designed and installed. A tight group of climbers and budding arborists—first using bow and arrow and fishing gear (known as ‘tree fishing’), and later professional tree-climbing sling shots to launch the initial lines—established increasingly intricate and interconnected aerial blockades.

‘Sits’, by now the generic term for any aerial platform, were anchored to cantilevers and machinery on the ground, so that any movement would jeopardise the lives of suspended protestors, a form of obstructive direct action sometimes known as ‘manufactured vulnerability’. Access to many of the protest sites required hours on foot travel to access the coupes past

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Tyto (AKA Viola Barnes) in 2022 during her 72-day treesit in takayna. Read Wild #188’s story ‘Tyto the Treesitter’ to learn more about Viola and her incredible effort. Credit: BBF Miranda Gibson (and her team) spent 15 months between 2011 and 2013 up a 60m stringybark. Credit: Rob Blakers Author John Middendorf in 2009 visiting Camp Floz in the Florentine Valley. Note the intricate web of tensegrity structures blockading the road and anchoring a sit high above.

Credit: Jeni Middendorf Alana Beltran, AKA the Weld Angel, in 2007 engaging in what must surely be one of the most aesthetically beautiful moments in blockading history. Credit: Matt Newton A forest ‘Action Pack’, a complete tree-climb-and-camp kit that includes John Middendorf’s portaledge design. While the kits have since been updated (this pic was taken in 2018), it illustrates the growing trend of fast and light forest activism.

Credit: Erik Hayward

THERE WAS A CONTINUOUS AND RELENTLESS PURSUIT OF BLOCKADES.

ANYWHERE THE LOGGERS MOVED IN, WE WERE THERE.” 60

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locked gates, so a simple structural wood triangle big enough to sleep on was crafted in the field from onsite branches, with a mesh bed tensioned within the triangle. These were quickly lashed and suspended high.

In addition to obstructing logging coupes, protestors hindered new roads being carved into the wilderness. There were ground blockades, people suspended in outlying trees, lines tied to cantilevered blockades and machinery, and all this was often established in just a few hours by expert teams rigging in the dark of night. Some of the aerial protests (some being actual blockades, others being events to raise awareness) during this period were spectacular, including TWS’s World’s Tallest Christmas Tree and Star of Hope (1999-2006), and the joint TWS/Greenpeace Global Rescue Station (GRS) in the Styx valley (2003-4), which had national and international media attention, saving the coupe (SX 013C) where it was situated. Pirate Ship (2006), and the Weld Angel (2007) were also spectacular.

The story of these wild times—which feature a host of diverse characters, including some colourful rock climbers—has not yet been fully documented. What is certain, however, is that, as Adam Burling of the Bob Brown Foundation recalls, “For years, there was a continuous and relentless pursuit of blockades. It was difficult to predict the next logging coupe, but anywhere the loggers moved in, we were there.”

But the creation of these effective blockades involved tireless activism, which in turn meant living and working in the forests for months at a time, often in severe conditions.

Nish Datt for example, who rigged hundreds of aerial tree-sits, remembers surviving for ten days in the middle tree-sit at Camp Floz in the Florentine Forest, enduring both wild weather—some days had over 100km/h winds—and nights where his perch was flooded by a myriad of police spotlights. And then there was ‘Peck’ Firth, who around this time set a new Tassie tree-sit record by blockading in the Styx Valley for over fifty days in winter conditions high on a giant old-growth eucalyptus regnans nicknamed ‘John Howard’s Promise’. He was finally extracted by helicopter-suspended police.

2010s: THE BOB BROWN FOUNDATION & TAKAYNA In the early 2010s, the Tasmanian energy for native-forest direct action entered a comparative lull. Negotiations for a forest peace agreement were advancing. Gunns Limited (a major native-forest woodchipping company which had aggressively targeted peaceful protestors) collapsed. And activists, says Adam Burling, had been burned out from years of actions; most evaporated from the scene. One notable exception, however, was Miranda Gibson (and her team), who spent fifteen months between 2011 and 2013 in a (continued P62)

ERIK HAYWARD WORDS FROM ONE OF AUSTRALIA'S MOST ENGAGED AERIAL ACTIVISTS

Credit: Alex Buisse

Aerial activism in our tall and magnificent forests in lutruwita/Tasmania has afforded us a unique platform from which to tell the brutal and incessant story of the demise of our forests. From the canopies and above, we have occupied these wild spaces for decades, and now there are intergenerational stories and experiences from defending our wilderness areas from the high and growing perches of our treesits.

My first aerial defence for activism was in the 2006 blockade of the Upper Florentine with our group Still Wild, Still Threatened. We had a handful of treesits high up in the skies along a road and through the forest along proposed logging pathways, all connected up to structures on the roadline so that if the structures were to be pushed over, the treesitter platform would fall out of the tree. There were tripods, bipods, floating monopoles, cars concreted into the road with treesits connected to the cable wrapped around them, tunnels with people chained inside them, there was a couch up a tree for training climbers and hanging out in, a treesit hanging on a traverse line dangling in the middle of the roadline, we even during events rigged a hanging trapeze. This was my time to practise, learn, explore and conjure.

THE RAGE I FELT INCITED IN ME AN ANGRY DEFIANCE,

One of my most memorable experiences was in the Styx where a logging operation was occurring. Deep behind locked gates, after spending hours [trying] to get a line into the tree with a compound bow, nails gaffa taped to the top for weight, fishing line and misty rain. I climbed up a sheer branchless wall face with 100% exposure and with no way of knowing what I’d find at my anchor. Two-thirds of the way up I sat down on a burl the size of a small car protruding from the barrel of the trunk. The silence of nature growing was deafening.

The next time I went back to that tree, I found it among a wreckage of crushed debris, a landscape decimated and pushed into the dirt. The silence now was hollow and dead. That same burl was face down in a dark pool of clay churned by industrial machines. The rage I felt then incited in me an angry defiance, a passion that has been uncompromising ever since.

That inspired action. Every day. And still does.

INSPIRED ACTION. EVERY DAY. AND STILL DOES.”

A PASSION THAT HAS BEEN UNCOMPROMISING EVER SINCE. THAT

For the first five years or so, I never rigged during the day. Under the comfort and cover of darkness, we climbed into the dark sky and looming dark shadows of enormous limbs, head torches flickering in misty rain. There was the warmth of haste in wet, dark, cool-temperate rainforests, but we knew anything could happen. We waited for the distant rumble of a late-night skeleton truck hungry to load dead giant trees and haul them out, a truck charging through the darkness only to find a dead end—an occupation in its inception.

We would climb higher, waiting for the spider to make its web on the ground to then connect a sit to its wet, greasy, defiant lines from the ground up to a single eye. This is the eye that holds up the sky for the treesitter ‘Possum’. If they move the machines on the ground, the tree platform feels its every quiver.

If the spider’s web is torn, the platform tears out of the eye, and it plunges out of the canopy. Don’t touch the lines.

The Activist Sit [designed by John Middendorf] is a total game changer; it's like the difference between a marquee in a sandstorm and one of those pop-up tents you throw in the air and it deploys. In the past, we would have to go into the bush and find a pole of specific length and diameter, cut and rig it, get a tarp. Attach it, coil it all up, walk a bed frame in, rig it to the plywood, then haul 40kg of wood and iron into the windy stars. Now we can walk in through the bush with everything we need on our backs. We pop the sit, hand-over-hand haul and clip, bounce around to adjust, and then zip it up for a complete weatherproof solution.

Credit: Ramji Ambrosiussen

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Tasmanian Aerial Activism

AS GEOFF LAW POINTS OUT,

“IT’S JUST A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE LOGGING

OF NATIVE FORESTS COMES TO AN END IN TASMANIA ...

IN THE MEANTIME, OUR

TASK IS TO SAVE AS MUCH AS WE CAN.”

Lisa Searle in the Pieman forest in takayna, 2021. Credit: BBF CONTRIBUTOR: John Middendorf is a big-

60m stringybark, finally coming down due to an encroaching bushfire. Shortly after, ABC News confirmed the fire was deliberately lit. No culprit was ever identified.

The eventual 2013 Tasmanian Forest Agreement (TFA) was short-lived, however, when only a year later, the expected 400,000 hectares of native forest to be reserved from logging were legislatively reclassified as Future Potential Production Forest (FPPF). Bob Brown, recently retired from the Australian Senate as leader of the Greens party, formed the new ‘fiesty’ Bob Brown Foundation, legally defending NVDA protesting as a free-speech right and responsibility, and among the efforts of the organisation to sensibly preserve Tasmania’s greatest assets, began supporting direct-action activists in the wilds of Tasmania.

A new phase of aerial activism kicked into gear, with many actions targeted at what is now known as takayna (AKA the Tarkine), the vast native rainforest in Tasmania’s Northwest, a rugged and primitive landscape where only the most advanced industrial equipment has provided access for logging and mining.

It was in takayna that I personally became entwined with ‘sitting’. It followed from having my first encounter with committed Tasmanian aerial activists Lisa Searle and Erik Hayward, who have spent decades defending native forests. The pair were blockading a logging road into takayna’s roadless Sumac area, directly protecting the giant trees on the proposed route. A much larger group of activists had recently been disbanded by police on charges of trespass, and now they were re-establishing the blockade.

There was a high degree of engineering in their rigging, not only of several tree camps that had been established, but also of other structures and tripods blocking the road. But the materials used were mostly items saved from the tip, which led to a discussion about portable sits, which in turn led to me working on creating the most weatherproof and efficient sits for Tasmania’s wet and wild conditions. (Ed: FYI, John is famed globally within the climbing community for his development of portaledge technology.) I developed what are now known as ‘Activist Sits’ (Ed: you can read Erik Hayward’s comments on them on the page prior); these easily portable systems were first used in 2018 in Tasmania’s remote Rapid River wilderness. Since then, many more have been built by activists, often following on from learning the techniques of establishing lightweight tree camps at a BBF skillshare.

wall climber, designer, writer and activist, and is based with his family in Tasmania.

John would like to thank Geoff Law, Bob Brown, Bob Burton, Jenny Weber, Adam Burling, Alec Marr, Neil Smith, Nishant Datt, Jasmine Wills, Erik Hayward, Lisa Searle, Ramji, and Matt Newton for help with this article.

WATCH + LEARN: If you want to check out a short YouTube video where activist Lisa Searle explains the intricate rigging of an aerial blockade in takayna in Jan 2024, head to tinyurl.com/525hvdde SEE WHAT’S BEEN SAVED: To see some of the very trees that have been literally saved by the campaigns referred to in this article, head to P82 of this issue of Wild to see Rob Blaker’s photo essay on Tasmania’s paleo-endemic trees.

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THE CURRENT CHAPTER OF AERIAL ACTIVISM IN TASMANIA cannot yet be written in toto, as it is in progress. Each preservationist era lists both wins and losses, and each presents a pattern of increasing public resistance and awareness of senseless environmental destruction, duly leading to the preservation of another nugget of precious natural landscape. Broad public awareness of the true value of Tasmania’s vast, natural climate buffer in the temperate rainforests of takayna, and of the many endangered-species habitats in the tall trees in the Southwest, has not yet reached critical mass. But as Geoff Law says, “It’s just a matter of time before logging of native forests comes to an end in Tasmania as it has in other states. In the meantime, our task is to save as much as we can.” According to Scott Jordan, over 2,500ha has remained intact in the past few years just in takayna, thanks to the tireless efforts of activists blockading commercial logging behind locked gates on public lands.

Many who object to senseless destruction of wilderness are joining targeted NVDA campaigns that combine a myriad of tactics including aerial activism with established safetytraining methods and protocols. Innovative actions in defence of the forests are constantly evolving, and with decades of experience and shared knowledge, aerial activism in Tasmania’s tall trees will remain a standard tool in the activist’s toolbox, and will continue to progress until the decimation of native forests ends. Victoria and Western Australia have already committed to native-forest protection: It is time for all of the Australian states to follow this sensible environmental policy for Australia’s long-term heritage. W

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BACKCOUNTRY SAFETY

LESSONS LEARNT

Last winter, Janina Kuzma led a camp for The North Face in the NZ backcountry.

But the lessons the crew learnt aren’t only applicable to high-end athletes; they apply to us all.

Words JANINA KUZMA Photography CAMILLA RUTHERFORD

I

n the intricate dance of life, a poetic symmetry often leads us full circle, returning us to where we first set foot. In the tapestry of my professional skiing experiences, one vivid thread connects me to the starting point of my first The North Face backcountrywinter camping expedition in 2010. Departing from Aoraki/Mt Cook Airport, our adventure led us to the Liebig Range with Aussie and NZ teammates, where we set up camp on Ridge Glacier. The elements were unpredictable, and as the weather patterns closed in, a frenzied urgency enveloped us. We hastily changed our plans and set a new route through the Cass Valley, racing against an impending storm that compelled us to seek refuge at Memorial Hut. That first backcountry escapade remains etched in my memory, a lasting marker and the foundational cornerstone for all subsequent adventures.

Much like a three-sixty-degree circle, life weaves a narrative that brings us back to where my journey began.

Fast forward thirteen years to July, 2023, and there I was, leading a new crew of The North Face athletes hailing from both sides of the Tasman on their first backcountry mission through the Gammick Range and the Cass Valley on what could be described as a sufferfest.

And while the crew I led out were all high-end athletes, there ended up being loads of lessons we all either learnt or had reinforced in the course of the mission that are applicable to anyone at any stage in their backcountry career.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Janina Kuzma leading the group into terrain from O’Leary’s Hut Andy James finding the light on a toe-side turn Janina Kuzma and Jessie Violet scoping lines from Falcon’s Nest Hut

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Lessons in the backcountry

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t wasn’t just myself and the The North Face athletes heading out though. Along for the ride was a familiar face, photographer Camilla Rutherford, an old friend who I’ve worked with many times. As she joined us once again, her return symbolised more than just a reunion. It marked a new chapter in our shared story. After a hiatus spent nurturing her growing family, Camilla’s passion for skiing and adventure is still there, infusing our expedition with a renewed sense of purpose.

And also with us was my colleague and IFMGA guide Tom Vialletet. Originally from France, Tom has since moved to Wānaka, where he’s become an integral part of the outdoor community, and has established his own guiding company, Summit Explorers. (Ed: Tom is not only a seasoned guide, he’s an excellent photographer, too, whose work has graced not only Wild’s gallery pages, but featured in Wild #187’s beautiful story ‘Giitu, Sarek’. He’s also written in Wild #189 about spring ski tours around Wānaka).

In the lead up to our trip, I sat down with him to strategise and discuss our route and logistics. And this was Lesson #1: Plan meticulously. Before you even set out into the hills, it’s important to learn to plan your routes. Familiarise yourself with the area and carry essential navigation tools such as a map and compass, ensuring proficiency in their use. Identify potential hazards like cliffs, cornices, and crevasses along the way. Assess weather conditions and the time of day, as these factors significantly impact terrain safety. Always inform someone of your intended route and expected return time for added safety.

Tom and I chatted about potential skiing lines, weather, avalanche conditions—the typical discussions when organising such an adventure. Among the options, one particular route stood out, presenting us with a challenging ten-kilometre hike from the last hut back to our initial starting point where our vehicles would be parked. Tom expressed his reservations, describing the trek through the valley as less than ideal to conclude our journey. In response, I reassured him that the athletes needed to undertake the hike, emphasising that it mirrored my experience thirteen years prior when we completed a similar journey on foot to end our trip. +++++ How did this journey come to fruition? As a guide and an athlete, I’ve always desired to pay it forward, especially to our new athletes. My aim for this particular trip, though, was to immerse them in the desire for exploration in New Zealand, to expose them to the richness of our backyard terrain, and to instil the skills needed to navigate it confidently. With a snowpack that posed unprecedented dangers, last season presented a unique opportunity for our athletes to learn firsthand about the hidden perils of the backcountry.

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Snowpack stability is at the very core of Lesson #2: Avalanche safety is paramount. Avalanches, in both New Zealand and Australia, pose a real and present danger in the backcountry. Before embarking on any adventure, always check the avalanche forecast for the specific area you intend to ski or snowboard in, and fully comprehend the forecasted conditions. Always carry appropriate avalanche safety equipment, including a beacon, shovel, probe, and personal locator beacon (PLB), and be proficient in their use. Consider undertaking an avalanche safety course if you’re unfamiliar with these lifesaving rescue techniques. Our athletes completed their Avalanche Skills Course Level 1 (ASC1), a condensed two-day course run through the Mountain Safety Council, and it taught them essential backcountry travel and avalanche rescue skills such as deciphering terrain, identifying avalanche hazards, and effectively responding in emergencies.

The course was especially important given the persistent weak layer around Aoraki/Mt Cook and the Two Thumbs Range where the Cass Valley is situated. A persistent weak layer is a layer in the snowpack that resists forming a strong bond to neighbouring grains in the snowpack over an extended time period. This hazard kept us vigilant, and ultimately led to the decision to backtrack along our touring route. Additionally, this persistent weak layer prompted one of our snowboarders to use verts (a kind of modified snowshoe ideal for bootpacking) instead of a splitboard, necessitating a laborious ascent along our skin track. While not the most efficient method, it ensured our group’s safety.

The ASC1 course also taught the athletes Lesson #3: Know your limits. Heading out into the backcountry requires a different skill set than just hitting the slopes in the resort. With our athletes, we threw them right into a sufferfest, which we knew they could complete. But if you’re new to backcountry travel, start with a shorter, less challenging ski tour

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Ben Barclay and Janina Kuzma walking along the ridge up from Waterfall Hut A quick stop to dig a snow pit before making our way up to Bad Decision Hut Bad decision hut AKA Whisky Hut—established in 2020, is said to be the highest whisky hut in the world Ben Barclay all smiles

IT WAS A STARK REMINDER OF BACKCOUNTRY SKIING’S

INHERENT RISKS, UNDERSCORING

THE IMPORTANCE OF CONSTANT CAUTION AND VIGILANCE.” before progressing to more difficult terrain; the slackcountry just outside ski-resort boundaries is an excellent place to start (Ed: Just be aware that slackcountry is still backcountry; avalanches can kill you just as easily 100m from a resort boundary as 100km from one). If you do this, checking in with the ski patrol before you head out is always nice.

Our trip was slated to traverse a lesser-known route through the Cass Valley, commencing from Waterfall Hut, with our first night’s stop at O’Leary’s Hut, approximately a three-to-fourhour hike away. These huts on private land offer a touch of luxury uncommon in NZ’s traditional DOC huts. O’Leary’s Hut—which is recently built and boasts a fireplace, gas cookers, comfortable mattresses and cooking utensils—is perched at an altitude of 1,700m atop a median moraine.

Our original plan was to spend a few nights at O’Leary’s before continuing to Falcon’s Nest. However, our journey encountered obstacles due to unfavourable snow conditions and the persistent weak layer mentioned earlier. This forced us to embrace

Lesson #4: Adapt and revise plans as necessary. Despite the less-than-ideal snow conditions, we seized the opportunity. We redirected our route to Falcon’s Nest Hut after only one night at O’Leary’s.

Rising early, we toured a little zone above the hut to make the most of the morning before returning for lunch, repacking, and commencing our journey to Falcon’s Nest Hut. En route, we tackled our ski tour’s most daunting section, a precarious ridge

with no margin for error, made even more challenging by icy, breakable crust conditions. A single misstep could spell disaster, with a four-hundred-vertical-metre slide a possibility. This points to a crucial consideration in any mountainous terrain— Lesson #5: Beware of terrain traps. Features such as trees, cliffs or gullies can amplify the consequences of getting caught in an avalanche either by increasing the burial depth or by causing traumatic injuries. Deadly terrain includes features such as icy slopes, which can pose significant dangers to backcountry travellers (especially in Australia). Pay close attention to the condition of the snow, noting its hardness and potential for long, icy slides. Evaluate the slope angle to determine the distance and severity of a potential slide. Additionally, consider what lies beneath you: Are there cliffs or other hazards that could amplify the consequences of a fall or avalanche? By remaining vigilant and assessing the terrain for potential traps, you can mitigate risks and ensure a safer backcountry experience.

As the sun descended, we reached Falcon’s Nest Hut, grappling with heavy packs, flat light, and a nasty ice crust. A single misstep in these conditions could lead to a devastating fall, potentially resulting in severe injury such as a blown ACL. It was a stark reminder of backcountry skiing’s inherent risks, underscoring the importance of constant caution and vigilance.

Located at an elevation of 1,500m, Falcon’s Nest Hut is perched at the head of Tin Hut Stream. The hut was an ideal destination for our trip, as it’s renowned for its excellent access to diverse skiable terrain, including epic runs beneath Bad Decision, the challenging saddle into Fork Stream, and the scenic head of Tin Hut Stream. The Needles in Fork Stream have incredible, steep descents, while the Scorpion route is a great loop.

After arriving at Falcon’s Nest, we settled in, engaged in further learning sessions, and enjoyed a game of Monopoly Deal before calling it a night. The next morning, we embarked on a

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IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT Andy James making the most of the good snow we had Our walk out of Tin Hut Stream along the Cass Valley back to our starting point. Janina Kuzma, Jessie Violet, Roland Mortley-Brown, Ben Barclay, Andy James

JANINA’S BACKCOUNTRY LESSONS - Plan meticulously - Avalanche safety is paramount - Know your limits - Adapt and revise plans as necessary - Beware of terrain traps - Maintain a safe distance - Have fun

CONTRIBUTOR: Wānaka-based pro skier, filmmaker, and NZGMA Ski Guide Janina Kuzma hates goggles and refuses to wear them, even though she’s on snow most of the year.

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tour towards Bad Decision Hut to explore the terrain beneath it. Given the uncertain snowpack conditions, the ascent felt tense, prompting us to apply Lesson #6: Maintain a safe distance from one another. Safe travel techniques are essential for backcountry skiing in various conditions. A successful day of touring hinges on several key factors: Maintaining a suitable pace; establishing an appropriate skin-track angle; and maintaining safe distance between each member of the group.

This last element is particularly important. By spreading out, backcountry travellers create a safety buffer zone, allowing for safer travel. And in avalanche terrain, spacing provides each member of the group with a margin of safety, and it reduces not only the weight loading on the slope, but it also reduces the risk of multiple individuals being caught in an avalanche (Ed: Importantly, even if you have transceivers, if you’re in a group where all members get buried in a slide because they were too close, there’ll be no one there to dig you out.) Maintaining safe distances from each other will also help where there are unforeseen hazards such as rock, ice fall and/or crevasse falls.

Upon reaching Bad Decisions Hut, aka Whisky Hut, we dug a snow pit. The results were concerning enough to warrant a moment of reflection—appropriately enough—on a shot of whisky in the confines of the hut. Ultimately, we decided to exit cautiously, and we descended back on our skin trail. While not the ideal outcome, it was a valuable reminder of the importance of prioritising safety and making informed decisions as a group. In the end, we decided to end our trip early as the conditions were unfavourable.

(Remember Lesson #4? Adapt and revise plans as necessary.)

While huddled in the hut, Tom, Camilla and I concocted a mischievous plan for our exit strategy. As a prank, we teased our lone Aussie athlete, Andy James, warning him to be on the lookout for the Cass Viper, the most dangerous snake in the valley. With exaggerated seriousness, we instructed him to make a racket, stomping his feet to ward off the elusive creature supposedly lurking in the tussocks. To make it even more believable, we were visited by our local keas, who we said were on the lookout to eat the Cass Viper.

Andy fell for our ruse hook, line, and sinker. His wide-eyed belief in the Cass Viper’s existence left us struggling to contain our laughter as we made our way down Tin Hut Stream. It was a prank for the books, reminding us that a bit of mischief can add fun to even the most challenging situations. In fact, it was a great example of something that can enhance any backcountry trip—Lesson #7: Have fun.

As the trip drew to a close, it served as a poignant reminder of the paramount importance of preparation and safety in the backcountry. While venturing into these wild landscapes can be immensely rewarding, it’s crucial to prioritise safety above all else.

This means staying informed by checking avalanche bulletins and forecasts, understanding and respecting your personal limits, meticulously planning your route, and ensuring you have the appropriate gear for the journey. By adhering to these fundamental principles, and by applying the lessons I’ve discussed, you’ll enhance your enjoyment of the backcountry and safeguard yourself and your fellow adventurers. W

RISE ABOVE MAKING EVERY ADVENTURE A THRILLING JOURNEY.

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MULTILAYER WOODCORE

3 D RADIUS

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The Rise Above 88 stands out as the pinnacle of versatility within our touring lineup. It excels both in the ascent and descent, boasting an impressive fusion of minimal weight (1,186 g @ 170 cm), stability, and seamless maneuverability. Thanks to its 3D radius sidecut, the ski features a resilient tip, proving invaluable when tackling wind-blown snow conditions. Its agile sidecut geometry effortlessly navigates through narrow passages, while the full sidewall construction ensures exceptional stability and resilience. With a narrower waist under the boot and moderate shaping in the tip and tail, skiers experience heightened control with reduced exertion, making every adventure an thrilling journey.

FREE YOUR MIND Ski Touring is the best way of discovering the mountains on your own terms away from the ski resorts. In unspoiled natural surroundings you can recover from the stresses of day-to-day life and recharge your batteries.

Our new Alpinist FREE binding is perfectly tailored to what demanding tours require. So you can be entirely in the moment.

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Experience the mountains of Urabandai at EN RESORT Grandeco.

Learn more at resort.en-hotel.com/grandeco/snow

PROGRESSION A little over five years ago, Adam Flower had never climbed rock, let alone ice. But an introductory mountaineering course changed everything, and he soon gave up his corporate career and dedicated himself to evolving as a climber.

Words & Photography Adam Flower

W

ith fumbling frozen fingers, I tug hard on the second shaky cam.

My lifeline. Placed precariously into a partially frozen deck of chossy granite cards behind, it rips violently from the mountain, casting a chunk of Alaskan granite into the swirling abyss beneath my feet. I suppose the one cam will have to do.

Peering out through the void to the gleaming glaciers almost a kilometre below, my view is obstructed by an usually formed hanging dagger of ice that has rendered the route considerably more technical this winter. It cleaves the vista with malice and mockery, taunting me. This is more than a simple block of frozen water. It’s a hurdle. A test. A commitment. After stepping out from this cramped, uncomfortable perch under the roof and onto the dagger, there is no turning back. This will be the most technical, most physical, most engaging movement on ice I will have ever done. And it’s hundreds of kilometres from civilisation, in -30°C, on a route yet to be completed this season.

Yet in this moment I am calm, not scared. I’m here as a result of years of organically acquired experience, knowledge, perseverance and mistakes. I have to believe in that journey. As sparkling spindrift dances up through the granite mountain runnel and stings my eyes, I stare out to the multitude of peaks across the glacier and catch myself in reflection.

How did I get here? Why am I here? Am I lost, or am I home?

I reach out and swing my tool with confident precision into the dagger. It thuds, accepting my challenge. On my outstretched right foot, my crampon scratches delicately at the thin chandeliers of ice, attempting to find purchase. I gather my focus, calm my breath, and swing out

into the void.

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Anton Korsun pulls through one of the many bulges on the thin ribbon of ice of Shaken, Not Stirred—Mooses Tooth, Alaska

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Growing as a climber

I

am climbing Shaken, Not Stirred (AI5, M5, V) and

the journey for me to reach for this Alaskan classic spans multiple years, friendships and experiences. It’s a path that follows a plethora of frozen forms of water, but the same lessons apply to progression across the outdoors, indiscriminate of the style, sport, or timespan through which you may choose to experience it.

But let’s cut back to five years prior. I am a workaholic in a cyclic corporate grind in Melbourne and have never climbed rock, let alone ice. My weekday world is a monotonous drag of metrics, tests, reports and bureaucracy, but on weekends I find freedom in the outdoors.

However, on a week-long sufferfest through Tassie’s wild and wet Western Arthurs, my friend James Oakes suggests we do a Technical Mountaineering Course (TMC) in New Zealand. I have no idea what that means or what it entails, but I jump on it and buy climbing shoes, not knowing I’ve started down a path that will literally change my life.

Few first endeavours in the mountains could go as poorly as mine. Fresh off that introductory TMC, Conor Yemm and I quest up the unassuming Sebastopol Ridge (NZ 2+, II) above Mt Cook Village. Perhaps the only positives are our grit and determination; the list of negatives, however, is comedically long. Horrendous blisters from oversized boots are just the start. Perhaps most foolishly, we run out of gas—despite lugging around a ludicrous 70kg of combined weight between us—because of the need to melt snow. The ensuing 48 hours pass without food or water.

After three days, we eventually make the plateau; it should take a casual afternoon. Exhausted mentally and physically, totally overwhelmed and underprepared, we pull our emergency beacon only a horizontal stone’s throw from the Search and Rescue base in the village below. As we await our rescue, thoughts surface amid the swell of headaches, fatigue and embarrassment: Where did things go wrong? What can I do differently? +++++

“By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest.” Confucius may not have been a mountaineer, but his wisdom applies acutely to progression in the outdoors.

While the mountains are a dangerous playground, fraught with objective hazards, far more dangerous are the subjective hazards, the heuristic factors that cloud our judgement and mar our capacity to critically think in these environments. Australians are, sadly but accurately, frequently known for a careless, ignorant attitude to risk. We are proud of our nonchalant and

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I BUY CLIMBING SHOES, NOT KNOWING I’VE STARTED

DOWN A PATH THAT WILL

LITERALLY CHANGE MY LIFE.” light-hearted culture, but these qualities have no place in the mountains. Everyone will make mistakes during their time in the outdoors; it is whether you are willing to reflect on those mistakes that will truly define your progression.

Jump ahead a few months. The heavy weight of an overloaded pulk drags on my hips as I slog towards Blue Lake with Hugh Newall through the Kosciuszko mountains. Bitter winds rip at my exposed cheeks as my skis crunch against the windswept rime. I would smile, but the piercing cold on my gums is too much. The two of us are on a similar journey, both yearning for exploration and challenge, and we’re preparing to conquer—by ourselves—NZ’s Mt Aspiring together.

That training starts here at Blue Lake, Australia’s premier (and only) regular ice-climbing destination. In its current condition, only one (low angle) route exists. I excitedly strap horizontal front-point crampons to my cumbersome alpine ski boots.

Borrowing Hugh’s tools, I swing clumsily at the ice, asserting myself to the mountain. I vividly remember this moment, a poignant marker in time where purpose and joy are intertwined.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT My first time swinging tools at Blue Lake, Australia, complete with ski helmet, resort boots and no idea what I’m doing. Credit: Hugh Newall Rob Hofman descending the summit cap of Aoraki, with the Grand Plateau visible below Hugh Newall motoring up the Ramp of Aspiring on our inaugural alpine mission together Falling in love with the mountains halfway through my TMC on the Tasman Glacier Mistakes were made.

Awaiting evacuation from the Annette Plateau after our attempt on Sebastopol Ridge. Credit: Conor Yemm

A few months pass; it’s Christmas Eve, and we are ascending Tititea/Mt Aspiring’s notorious Ramp (NZ 3, II). The sun is rising, bathing the Matukituki Valley in glorious golden light. Beneath me, there’s nothing but exposed cliffs. Multiple fatalities have occurred here. The weight of such consequence bears on me, but I find comfort in the focus it provides. Glancing over my shoulder, Hugh is daggering away just behind me. We’re barely halfway up the mountain, but the reality hits me; we are making this happen. I expected noise, grandeur and fear, but the mountain is quiet. All I can hear is the sound of Hugh’s tools and crampons ticking at the mountain.

I pull out my camera, and the click of its shutter pierces the silence.

For several years, I continue in Australia’s corporate world.

That’s not to say I don’t enjoy my job (I do), but my life is missing a crucial piece of its puzzle. It’s ironic that perhaps the most difficult and terrifying decision on my alpine journey will be made in a stale office, but I am willing to sacrifice a glowing career and financial safety in the wake of pursuing my dreams. My heart pounds harder than it ever will on any lofty mountain as I sit down with my supervisor to break the news.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. While still working in that job, I return from Aspiring feeling like I’ve conquered the world.

We’d taken one of the easiest routes up that mountain but, in my corporate realm, I tell stories that (without intention) have implications of fearless grandeur. The experiences on that mountain are unattainable to many in my office.

When I move to New Zealand, however, my accomplishments are met with shrugs. Locals will climb Tititea/Aspiring on a standard weekend out. Parents might drag their teenage kids up it. In summer, ‘Aspiring in a day’ is a common feat for accomplished mountaineers; sometimes it’s done in running shoes. (Ed: FYI, Aspiring has snow on it year-round!) In some ways, this knocks me back—the progression I’ve made seems futile. But with introspection, it dawns on me that progression is relative to the circles in which you swim; I decide to harness this realisation.

Kiwi mountaineers are a tough crowd to crack, but after finding a few foolish enough to take me under their wing, I do my best to learn from them. It isn’t long before I am yearning for Aspiring’s more technical routes on the South Face. In the end, though, on our multi-day trip to the mountain we downgrade our choice to the South West Ridge (NZ 3+, III), a classic route that only a year before seemed outright impossible. I cruise comfortably up the route’s knife edge arête realising that my comfort zone has shifted; my tolerance for suffering, emboldened.

But my progression in NZ sometimes takes different routes.

Occasionally it comes from extended efforts; other times from single moments of intense fear … and focus. Ascending the East Ridge of Aoraki/Mt Cook (NZ 3+, V) falls into the former category for me. The climb has remained a burning milestone in my mind since my TMC, but for me and my partner Rob Hofman, the knowledge that far more experienced alpinists than us

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Growing as a climber

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Andy Sperling demonstrating his Canadian confidence on the Fantini/ Dignan route of Rakiroa/ Mt Dampier Rob Hofman clears the bulge on Mt Dixon with Aoraki’s summit ridge from the day before visible behind A celebratory fist-bump with Rob atop Mt Dixon

have fallen on this route is piercing; I sleep uneasily before our midnight start. As we plod out onto the Grand Plateau, moonlit Aoraki towering above us, my feet seem heavy, my shoulders hunched; the task ahead seems daunting. But with each tool strike and crampon kick, the flow returns. We chase our headlamp circles up the knife-edge arête, occasionally glancing down to the sharktooth abyss of the Caroline Face below (Ed: The face Sam Smoothy skied; see the story ‘XXIV’ in this issue on P88). Before we know it, we attain the summit ridge, crab our way across the seemingly endless mile of bullet-rime ice, and descend the summit rocks back to the hut in a smidge over twelve hours. It’s by no means a record, but it feels like I’ve been awarded a metaphorical medal for consistent effort.

But days later on Mt Dixon’s South West Ridge (NZ 3+, III), Rob and I face the latter example: a flashing moment of pure focus. Compared to Aoraki, Dixon is supposed to be simpler, and so, for efficiency’s sake, we charge up the névé unroped, brimming with success-inspired confidence. That is until a steep, slightly overhung ice step blocks our path. We have no feasible way to protect the move—it has to be done unroped. One committing move is all it will take, but glancing down to the glaring glacier below, it’s a dance with the devil. Time slows as I test my tool in the ice far above my head. I retest, then retest again. My life, I know, is utterly dependent on the frozen water hugging the dulled pick of my tool, blindly placed above the step. I sit with that fear, acknowledge it, and then with bated breath, haul my weight through the step. Relieved and rewarded, I collect myself as Rob follows through. Aoraki stands tall behind us.

NEW ZEALAND PROVIDES A VISION for me: a destination in the hills where raw adventures and complex challenges fill my soul. But the path to get there feels unclear, and I am unsure how to continue.

But then a chance encounter provides some clarity. At a Wānaka barbeque, I meet a lost Canadian, Andy Sperling, who

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ONE COMMITTING MOVE IS ALL IT WILL TAKE, BUT

GLANCING DOWN TO THE GLARING GLACIER BELOW, IT’S A DANCE

WITH THE DEVIL.”

I end up climbing Rakiroa/Mt Dampier’s Fantini/Dignan Route (NZ 4+, V) with soon after. It’s a trip of searing snow-blindness, of mountain-induced incontinence and of sketchy rappels from singing Russian pitons. But watching Andy’s confidence on steep ice changes my perspective, because while New Zealand has untapped alpine adventure potential, its water-ice options are slim. It isn’t hard for Andy to convince me to move to a place where that isn’t the case—his homeland: Canada.

That Northern Hemisphere winter, I commit to freezing vanlife on the Canadian Rockies’ famous Icefields Parkway. After a few intense weeks of eating poutine, profusely apologising and casually adapting to Arctic conditions, water-ice techniques are finally forming part of my muscle memory. And the ice here is on another level. It’s incredibly accessible for novices; and an ultimate testing ground for aspiring alpinists. I find myself progressing faster than I could have ever hoped for in New Zealand.

What’s more, the Canadian ice-climbing culture is truly one of inclusion and fostered experiences, and community-based condition reporting and avalanche warnings are woven into the fabric of the outdoors. Within weeks, I have plenty of budding partnerships, and am learning from some incredible mentors.

Early in the season, I meet Doug Hollinger, a veteran of Rockies’ ice and a wizard on the tools. His unabated aggressive mentorship (read: tactical bullying) is matched by my desire to learn. Then there is Ben Aulby whose comical desire to sandbag me (ie put me in sketchy and sometimes undesirable circumstances) pushes my limits. And there is my Wānaka friend Andy, whose relentless positivity and humour reduces the hardest battles and scariest moments to a well-belayed comedy show.

Flo Guinnefollau moving through a mixed line Bear Spirit, Gerhard and Jakob pause toatmarvel at themy first crag in the Rockies towering spires of Canadian the Karakoram

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I meet up with Andy again towards the end of winter. Amped to show him my progress since our time in NZ, and to be an equal contributor this time around, we choose the Canadian classic Hydrophobia (WI5+), a pure, vertical wall of aesthetic ice deep in the Ghost Wilderness. My first view of Hydrophobia sends conflicting shivers through my body: nervousness, excitement, fear—the usual suspects. Unexpectedly, however, Andy isn’t feeling it this particular day; I will have to lead the whole thing. The significance of the challenge deepens as my initial swings are met with bullet-hard ice; my tools feel like futile toothpicks pinging off the surface. When they finally bite, the ice fractures, tears and explodes from the wall. Andy calls up from the belay, “I’m so glad that’s not me!” This will be a battle like nothing I’ve experienced.

Swing after swing, kick after kick. Progress is painfully slow.

Tools recoil, kicks bounce, forearms sear. Gradually, the challenge succumbs to persistence. I awkwardly pull the bulge, relieved and exultant. Leading Hydrophobia cements a sense of achievement for that season. +++++

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SUCH SELF-SUFFICIENCY IS BOTH DAUNTING AND VITALISING. ALL

DECISIONS HERE ARE YOUR OWN.

BE SURE THEY’RE GOOD ONES.” SITTING IN MY VAN THE DAY AFTER Hydrophobia, brewing in a state of dishevelled exhaustion and calm euphoria, my phone vibrates. It’s an American friend I’d last climbed with in NZ some four years prior—Cole Thompson. He cuts to the chase without hesitation: “I’ve had a friend pull out of a climbing trip to Alaska in a few weeks …” He hasn’t finished the question, but I know the answer. Four weeks later, my stomach lurches as our single-prop-engine aircraft banks hard around the Incisor and then skids across the snow of the Root Canal Glacier.

Alaska is a different beast, steeped in history, triumph and tragedy. Its climate brings extreme conditions, often with little-to-no warning. Gone are the safety nets of Canada’s avalanche forecasts and condition reports. And if you want out, you’re

either at the mercy of the pilots’ willingness to brave the weather or your masochism to brave a four-week slog on foot. In short, in Alaska you’re on your own. Route conditions pass by word of mouth, and avalanche conditions stem from your own observations. Such self-sufficiency is both daunting and vitalising. All decisions here are your own. Be sure they’re good ones.

From the Root Canal Glacier, Cole and I are set to do two classic trade routes of the area: Ham and Eggs (5.9, AI4, V), and the route I talked about in the opening, Shaken, Not Stirred (AI5, M5, V). Both are just shy of a kilometre long, blending all aspects of alpinism—alpine ice, névé, deep snow and mixed climbing. But while I thought I came to Alaska to truly test myself and my technical abilities, I quickly realise that although these routes are technically challenging, they are going to teach me far more about my capacity as a climbing partner, as a friend, and as a person.

We are the second party of the year to attempt Ham and Eggs and nobody has yet summitted. Deep snow facets have filled in the route’s benches; waves of spindrift so thick you feel you might drown in them cascade down the granite runnel that cleaves the mountain. It is both soul crushing and borderline terrifying. This is a different game, and we’ll have to learn quickly how to play it. And the rules? Push yourself when the tank has long run dry; maintain positivity when your friend is struggling; remain efficient even after the twenty-fourth rappel. Keep an open mind, remain humble, forgo the ego. We often head into the hills fuelled by self-importance, but entering the hills for the right reasons is pivotal in determining what you learn.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Approaching the 200m-tall wall of Hydrophobia, which cleaves the Devils Head amphitheatre Lauren Jones cruising up the Canadian classic Moonlight Anton Korsun takes a spicy exit of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly in the Ghost Wilderness Area The Mooses Tooth—home to the Alaskan classics of Ham and Eggs and Shaken, Not Stirred, both visible here in shaded gullies of the mountain Ben Aulby awaits his exit flight, celebratory beer and first shower in four weeks after our time in Alaska 3AM on the Root Canal Glacier; the Northern Lights put on a show above Denali

+++++

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Sharing stories, precious whisky and blunts with newfound friends in the middle of nowhere Head down and grind—Cole Thompson slogging through the deep-facetted snow pitches of Shaken, Not Stirred Me after eighteen hours on the grind, frozen hands and feet, drowning in spindrift and loving my life. Credit: Cole Thompson Ben Aulby takes point up the early pitches of Bacon and Eggs, Alaska

CONTRIBUTOR:

Alaska

wasn’t

the

final destination in Adam’s alpine and waterfall-ice-climbing journey, and he returned to Canada for the subsequent 2023/24 winter. He still hasn’t recovered from that Alaskan bar crawl, though.

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FOR A BITTERLY COLD AND REMOTE AREA of the world, Alaska’s glaciers are remarkably social. Daily responsibilities boil down to the bare essentials, and with no external distractions, glacier camps become communal. We bond over shared experiences, old stories, strange connections and intimate friendships, all over warm drinks while shivering in blustery storms. This deepens my friendship with Ben, and opens another with Chris Cameron. After testing the waters together on a simple route up the Kahiltna Valley, we are left with a single day of clear conditions and decide to throw ourselves at the notorious Moonflower Buttress (AI6, M5, A2, 5.8, VI)—the north flank of Mt Hunter.

We have no hope of finishing this route in the time remaining; the 35-pitch route of some of the region’s most technical climbing require multiple days—and gear—we simply do not have.

Less than twenty parties have successfully reached the top of the buttress, and far fewer have made the true summit; to even tickle the toes of this historic route would be an achievement in itself. The three of us meander up fickle veins of ice, scratching at the granite, following in the footsteps of great climbers from the past. To overcome the same challenges they’ve faced, to solve the same puzzles, it feels akin to assimilated mentorship from these alpine legends.

These four weeks of alpine climbing on Alaskan glaciers are gruelling. There is the physical challenge. The objective hazards of avalanches and icefall. The daily grind in -30°C. Sleeping with boots in your sleeping bag so your toes survive the next day. Peeing in Nalgene bottles that will freeze by the morning.

But Alaska sparks a fire in my soul, a renewed desire to push myself. Without a doubt, however, the gnarliest part of my experience is the bar crawl in Talkeetna once we return to civilisation. Spinning yarns to a local climber under the stuffed head of a grizzly bear, he asks why Australians are so ballsy. I don’t exactly enjoy the presumption, but as I ponder the question looking into the beady eyes of the stuffed moose on the opposite wall, I figure it’s likely a reflection of the small selection of Australians who make it to this cold corner of the world. Those who do have brought with them their conviction, their consistency and their commitment. But you don’t have to suffer in Alaska to possess that blend of attributes. Anyone who is compelled to achieve goals, to progress in the hills, can possess them. And if they do, they will continue to grow. Progression is simply a product of a journey rooted in well-founded desires, for the person who loves walking will walk further than the person who loves the destination. W

CONSERVATION/PHOTO ESSAY

TASMANIA’S

BOTANICAL

DINOSAURS Tasmania’s ancient paleo-endemic trees are unique and precious. And they’re under threat. We need action now to save some of the planet’s most extraordinary flora.

By ROB BLAKERS

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Winter in Tasmania’s cool temperate rainforest, Walls of Jerusalem NP

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Paleo-endemics, TASMANIA

T

ASMANIA IS A GLOBAL HOTSPOT for ancient, long-lived paleo-endemics. King Billy and pencil pines, dwarf pines, deciduous beech, Huon pines and celery-top pines survive in mostly montane, cool, wet areas, not infrequently forming clonal

communities that may live for millennia. Some individual trees can live for 1,500 years and more. Along with the Gondwanan-derived cool-temperate rainforests, they are at the core of the identity of wild Tasmania.

But Tasmania’s native pine forests are a shadow of their former selves. Huon pines have been decimated by historic logging, and vast swathes of the fire-sensitive highland woodlands have been burnt. Fire kills native pines outright and destroys their seed. It also burns the deep organic peat soils, accumulated over centuries, that they rely on. The Tasmanian highlands are littered with the haunting skeletal remains of ancient trees, killed in deliberatelylit fires that were set to promote green pick for grazing.

Today, bizarrely, the Tasmanian Government intends further assault on nature, with plans to log 90% of the rainforests that grow outside of national parks —including Australia’s largest rainforest wilderness in takayna/Tarkine.

This sanctioned assault upon the Gondwanan forests contributes to, but pales into insignificance against, the accelerating impacts of human-induced climate change.

Globally, ancient paleo-endemics are rare and diminishing. They have been around for 65 million years, but they face ever increasing threats from fire and heat stress. Unprecedented dieback of deciduous beech is now being seen at heat-exposed highland sites. In a warming and drying climate, once gone, these relict forests are effectively lost forever. Burnt and dying pine forests are akin to bleached coral reefs, retreating glaciers, and melting ice sheets.

The Tasmanian paleo-endemics are our own botanical dinosaurs, still roaming the highlands. But this time, it’s human-induced climate catastrophe, not an asteroid, that threatens their demise. Only action on climate change, and dramatically ramped-up direct fire protection, will stave off catastrophic loss in our lifetime.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Rainforest at McKimmie Creek, takayna. Proposed for a tailings dam by mining giant MMG, this site would be buried beneath 30m of toxic mine waste Autumn in western Tasmania. Morning light casts a warm glow across a dwarf forest of King Billy pine and fagus—one of Australia’s few winter-deciduous tree species Ancient pencil pine and deciduous beech forest in the Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers National Park. World Heritage status of the region is partly due to it being a hotspot for paleoendemism

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Paleo-endemics, TASMANIA

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Snow cloaks 1,500-year-old pencil pines and deciduous beech in a remote glade of the Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park Ancient myrtle forest at the site of a proposed tin mine at Mt Lindsay in takayna Autumn deciduous beech and a personable pandani, Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park An ancient tree at its upper altitudinal range, in a rarely visited part of the largest pencil pine forest that remains on the planet A mossy cascade in southern takayna. This area, agreed as future reserve in the 2012 Tasmanian Forest Agreement, was re-zoned as Future Potential Production Forest (FPPF) in 2014.

The FPPF is now endorsed for logging by the Tasmanian Liberal and Labor parties The 2019 wildfires in southern Tasmania burnt into the most extensive ancient King Billy pine forest that remains, at Mt Bobs. With fire simultaneously threatening forestry plantations and nearby towns, no fire-fighting resources were deployed to this forest

CONTRIBUTOR: Rob Blakers has worked as a landscape photographer for upwards of forty years, primarily using photography to represent wild places for conservation. At this time of escalating global climate and biodiversity crises his interest lies in bringing the best of experience and technology to make a positive difference for the planet.

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Overland Track, TASMANIA

Subject to horrendous weather, the flora in Tasmania’s alpine region is impressively rugged.

The shapes that these trees form due to the constant battering of wind is nothing short of art

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Sam Smoothy ripping through the deeply corrugated final spine section on Malte Brun

XXIV For decades, Kiwi Sam Smoothy has lived life as a pro skier. But a couple of years ago, at a high point in his career, he began questioning everything. In this thoughtful and deeply personal story, Sam looks at how he came to embark on his project to ski all 24 of NZ’s 3,000m peaks, and examines how meaning can be found in the mountains.

Words Sam Smoothy Photography Jasper Gibson (unless otherwise credited)

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Skiing 3000-ers, NEW ZEALAND

I

t all began with Caroline. Once one of the

last great mountaineering challenges in New Zealand’s Kā Tiritiri-o-te-Moana/Southern Alps, the Caroline Face of Aoraki/Mt Cook had haunted me for a decade. Despite eighteen years travelling the world’s mountains, Aoraki the cloud piercer, Aoraki the god, Aoraki the architecturally sculpted massif had become the centre of my universe. Years had been spent upskilling and new partnerships forged, all towards a goal I could barely admit out loud.

Then on October 21, 2021, William Rowntree, Joe Collinson and I climbed Aoraki’s East Ridge and completed the secondever ski descent of the Caroline. In twelve pulsing hours, it was all over, yet this self-proclaimed highwater mark set a precedential tremor through my life. This is an attempt to examine those ongoing effects.

The day had gone almost perfectly, yet our vulnerability to death from above gnawed at me, like a rat with a bone. The upper seracs had thrown a brutal warning shot; a 300m wide broom that swept a section of the face clean while we watched, grim faced, from the relative safety of the East Ridge. An honest and protracted discussion from the drop point resulted in a unanimous decision to rappel in. We had a detailed plan with distinct roles, but once in the firing line, all we could control was our movement and pace.

Two long and profound hours later, my reaction at the bottom startled me. As the boys hooted and hollered, a regular response to such an occasion, quiet tears slid down my cheeks.

Relief it was over ran through me, a knee-trembling relief to simply be alive. This sharp contrast to the largely joyous climbing and skiing we had experienced increased my confusion.

This mythic line I had worked towards for years had been skied, and skied well, so why was I crying?

I HUNG UP MY SKIS FOR THE YEAR and fled to the coast, burying myself in the distracting intricacies of renovating a house. Skiing anything else seemed redundant. Recently, however, while reworking this article, I discovered that my ski descent of the Stevenson-Dick Couloir on Horokoau/Mt Tasman, was actually ten days after Aoraki. I had inverted the timeline of my own narrative—a surreptitious flaw in my recollections—but to what purpose?

High doses of adrenaline and intense tunnel-vision focus selectively blurs my memories. Some moments stand crystalline, while others flounder in the mist or vanish altogether. These distortions—which are not necessarily tainted but altered—seem to spin the memory into its own entity, detached from a dissolving reality. This process is amplified via the shared retelling of the day’s story and the memories retreat into the past. Once-vivid moments recede in importance as others grow in stature.

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THIS MYTHIC LINE I’D WORKED TOWARDS FOR YEARS HAD BEEN SKIED, AND SKIED WELL,

SO WHY WAS I CRYING?” The creation of stories or imagery around such events distorts them even further. They assume aspects of these recreations as gospel, and your now omniscient overview includes unseen angles of yourself in action. The song remains the same, but the notes have changed.

The shadow of Caroline grew long as I attempted to wash myself clean in the Pacific Ocean, just another tiny particle among the millions flushed out to sea. My mountaineering parents knew all too well the dangerous game I was playing.

Their blunt response to news of our descent had been a fuzzy picture of my father at the bookshelf, thumbing pages to count the dead they knew on Aoraki. Removing an extraneous bathroom wall, I guiltily picked holes in my decision making and the obvious effect it was having on my family. We had mitigated the risks as best we could, but I felt our assumed level of control was a mirage. The last months of 2021 drifted by in a disturbed haze.

Despite the fermenting disquiet, a threshold had been crossed, and with it a monumental shift in how I viewed the mountains. My eyes now focused solely on the highest of peaks and the boldest lines, as interest in anything lesser fell away. I no longer wanted to repeat what had been done; I wanted to discover what I was truly capable of in that blurry arena between skiing and alpinism, but to do so with a renewed focus on an increased margin of safety and control. +++++

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Joe Collinson and Will Rowntree high on Aoraki’s East Ridge at dawn, enroute to the Caroline Skinning home across Grand Plateau after a successful ski of Malaspina, the sunstreaked center peaklet A full commitment moment: Sam on the first of two rappels from Porters Col into the Caroline Face

“Two Kiwi mountaineers [Alastair McDowell and Hamish Fleming] have cracked what they thought previously impossible and climbed New Zealand’s twenty-four highest peaks in a month.”

NZ Herald 15-12-2021 Alastair’s and Hamish’s achievements lit a fire within me. The XXIV project was born. The end was now the beginning. Skiing, however, the twenty-four would certainly take longer than a month. And like the Caroline, the list was too grandiose to examine in its entirety; it had to be broken into processable bites. I scoured the internet. Studied guidebooks. Harangued climbers for beta on potentially skiable alpine routes. Most peaks seemed possible, despite exacting and often diametrically opposed conditions of climbable and skiable snow. Though a rebellious pair have repelled all attempts at finding an appealing ski line to this day.

I already had seven descents of the twenty-four. I’d decided not to include Aoraki’s High Peak East Face/Zurbriggen’s Ridge.

That day, with incoming cloud and good light required for filming, we had skipped the last easy metres to the summit; it couldn’t be counted. But then, who exactly was setting the rules here? And what value, if any, did I see in them?

From the outset, I have noted a stark difference in ethics between skiers and climbers. The latter seem more engaged in debates on the credibility of climbs and the quality of their style, with a higher importance placed upon the summit itself. For skiers, it’s largely all about the line. Looking for answers, I reread a previous article of mine, dubiously dubbed ‘Save the Last Dance for Caroline.’ An unsettling sense of hypocrisy crawled in on the back of the story’s last line: “Progression doesn’t have to be linear.”

Would there be a point of longer lasting satisfaction? Or would this cycle of continually resetting my standards carry me away? +++++

SEPTEMBER 25, 2023. Back in the coliseum that is Grand Plateau, Jasper, Jim and I set out for Malaspina (3,042m) through the diesel-blue pre-dawn and onto the Linda Glacier.

I’d first met Idahoan photographer Jasper Gibson in 2019 on a summer shoot for The North Face. In August 2023, on his return to NZ, we set out on a training run up the SW Ridge of Tititea/Mt Aspiring. My home hill seemed the perfect place to figure each other out. After a night in French Ridge Hut, we cruised across the Bonar Glacier and started up the aesthetic ridge. Rime crunched under steel points. We meandered further into the sky, moving methodically as the West Face ski line reluctantly slunk into view. A sedate, late-lunch discussion below the crux ice-pitch saw us content to keep things simple and descend from there. The summit, while so close, would happily remain for another day. It was an entertainingly mixed-bag ski, with windboard hopping and chalky duff rail turns between seracs back down to the slumbering glacier, back down to serenely empty mid-winter air and a peaceful nap under the sun.

Jackson Hole skier Jim Ryan I’d met back in April, when I’d spent twelve delightful days stuck in an Alaskan tent with him.

Storms raged. Tents were submerged. Avalanches encircled our camp. We built walls against the wind and watched them crumble. We skied once. Jim’s cheerful resilience and well-rounded abilities made inviting him to NZ easy.

I try to never retreat before dawn, when the coming of the light banishes the unseen terrors of the night. But today the light fell across the fey Mt Graham icefall, where a cathedral-sized serac—cut three-storeys deep across the back—loomed above us. I have never skinned so fast in my life; adrenaline is a wonderful form of performance-enhancing self-medication.

A short punch up pink-lit flutes left a rock chimney of mixed climbing to gain the pyramidal summit. A quick piece of thrash and dangle had me on top, pulling in the boys on the line while

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I stared out to sea. Wide-eyed chatter flowed as we perched united on the divide between east and west.

After a short rappel back to our skis, I gleefully tore into the first section, sluff billowing either side of me. Pulling up for a break on the mid bench, I was stunned. Promises of fifty-degree ice had been made and broken; here we were, ripping Alaskan-style powder spines. Jim dropped into the steepening second pitch; his quiet, compact style was glorious against the cinematic glacial background. Following on, we fired through the broken maze of Linda’s chaotic crevasses and out from under the Cathedral’s lethal long-range bombardment.

The next morning, we slunk back out into the black air, shuffling along in our own worlds towards 3,184m Mt Graham.

Steering clear of the guardian at Linda’s gate, we swapped leads while Jasper happily snapped away. A haze of high cloud drew dense blues from deep in the ice stacks, even more enjoyable from our snaking island of safety. A pitch of leisurely ice led to a simple but careful summit-ridge tightrope stroll. On our return, two heinous ice-patch skids blotted an otherwise bloody fun ski.

We’d skied two brilliant peaks in two days, but what was equally gratifying was witnessing Jim and Jasper’s appreciation of this stadium of steep skiing. Our communication was honest and clear; vibes were mostly high. We had quickly become a tight team. +++++

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IF AORAKI WAS THE CENTRE OF MY UNIVERSE, THEN XXIV WOULD BECOME MY HOMAGE TO IT.” SKI MOUNTAINEERING IS NEITHER. I love this simple, contrarian statement. A hybrid bastard of complex alpine movement, ski mountaineering is neither climbing nor skiing but contains both. When I pondered the sport’s definition, which is contested and amorphous, it kickstarted a chain of thought.

I attempted to formulate a standard for myself and the project, but I found it constantly in flux as further complex situations arose in my mind. Is it even skiing if you use multiple rappels?

What if you must lower yourself on axes through ice sections?

If we were to ski all twenty-four in a manner so as to avoid all criticism of our descents’ validities, the project’s difficulty would be exacerbated. The armchair assassin’s opinion on what is a legitimate descent is more varied than the sport’s own definition.

There were my own motivations to consider as well. I couldn’t, in honesty, ignore the fact that part of the allure was being the first to descend all twenty-four peaks on skis. The benefits of securing further years of financial security as an ageing professional athlete only complicated things more.

Further reflection stripped it right back to the bed surface: What was the point of this entire, ridiculous enterprise?

These thoughts occupied my mind over the spring of 2022, when some answers finally began to crystalise. With Janina

Gerhard and Jakob pause to marvel at the towering spires of the Karakoram

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Jim Ryan and Sam crunching rime ice on the final summit push on Mt Graham Sam enjoying good turns above serac fall debris on Mt Graham’s East Spur Sam and Jim booting up Malaspina, in front of Mt Graham’s unstable serac cathedral. The debris would triple before their return pass underneath the hanging monstrosity Fist bumps and high vibes as Aoraki looms over the Linda Glacier

Kuzma, I skied Mt Dixon, which was in reasonable condition, and then I hunkered down solo through a three-day storm to await the next window. Eventually the clouds cleared, and Will Rowntree joined me on beautiful, complex descents of Silberhorn’s East Face and the Syme Ridge of Horokoau/Mt Tasman.

Our experiences and discussions began to clarify what I was starting to understand.

I decided I would go after the full bag, but not as the ultimate physical challenge. The project had become a rejection of linear progression with an affirmation of connection-based experiences with high-value people. If Aoraki was the centre of my universe, then XXIV would become my homage to it, to the relationships made there and to their combined effects on my life.

It seemed imperative for this project to be an authentic exploration of ski mountaineering and the peaks themselves, but it also needed equal emphasis on quality storytelling.

With two seizures and concussions innumerable, I am morbidly afraid of forgetting all that has occurred and all those who have gone before. Maybe that’s why I feel such a need to document these experiences in a style beyond a self-aggrandising summit photo, such a need to record and hopefully understand this brief stretch of time and space.

As the film project progressed, it grew into an attempt to understand who I am becoming outside of the mountains. I wanted to pull back the curated façade and discuss with those closest to me how I got here, to experiment with new directions.

To create another connective thread between us all. Memory is,

distortions and mythologised moments all, the cornerstone of who we are and where we are going.

The painter Euan Macleod once said, “Landscapes are populated by our memories of the place; we remember ourselves and others there, even when they are no longer. You’re looking at a landscape, but through our intervention or memory of it.”

Now when I look at Silberhorn’s East Face, I no longer just see a beautiful yet remote and static peak. Instead, it hums with vibrant colour, imbued with all the dynamic emotion, and viscerally remembered interactions of Silberhorn, Will, and myself.

I can feel the solo stormy doubts; the comforting calm of Will’s arrival; and the pure ecstasy of brilliant steep skiing on a newfound modern classic. We three are joined even when separated.

These peaks provide the structure to create memories that value the entire, shared experience above mere athletic achievements. The summits or the completion of this project are no longer my main priorities. In turn, this holistic approach increases my ability to turn from unfavourable conditions, and instead to return time and again to this special landscape.

It is here, high on the crest of my homeland, in the swirling confluence of fluid and solid states, where I can walk the line between two realms, earth and sky. And it’s right where that border blurs most that I find single-minded clarity, a fulfilling sense of purpose in something so inherently pointless, and a fleeting truth that, upon returning to earth, I have struggled to explain to those unfamiliar. Conversely, with those who know, there can be an almost instantaneous bond.

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Skiing 3000-ers, NEW ZEALAND

+++++ OCTOBER 18, 2023. Out of the nylon cocoon we three crept, William, Jim and I, toward the still-darkened South Face of Malte Brun. We slapped our way over the awkward, open bergschrund and went to work. Axes bit ice with ease as we kicked higher into the Zig-Zag route, the only previous ski descent by the same Chamonix team that opened the Caroline.

But we were here to push past the known.

There is a distinct similarity between the tunnel vision found soloing in exposure and my previous single-minded focus on skiing. Necessary at the time, you zero in on only what is absolutely crucial to success. But in doing so, you risk losing sight of the wider view. Moving into the end of my thirties, I find myself confronted by an internal revolution; a building desire

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TIME—MY MOST VALUED

OF COMMODITIES—IS BEING STRETCHED IN NUMEROUS DIRECTIONS, AND MYSELF WITH IT.” for different forms of self-expression and a refinement of my original raison d’ětre. There are parts of me long neglected to rediscover, and new paths of creativity to follow. My periphery is wide open once again. I want to create, to write, to transform.

Time—my most valued of commodities—is being stretched in numerous directions, and myself with it. I find I need to ski less frequently, but when I do there is a greater emphasis on high-quality experiences. Experiences like Malte Brun.

Topped out on the peak’s South Face, we layered up; wind

whipped golden-lit needles into every crevice. Cold-bonded powder and good light on our planned descent had hopes high as we stepped through the sky along the dawn-gilded crown of Malte Brun, completely encircled by a seductive void. We were happy and humbled, yet feeling ever so slightly heroic.

On skis, we traversed left across the fall-away East Face, the first real turn outrageous on a hanging panel above the serac-guarded couloir we would dogleg back into. We pitched down ridge sections, flow-state movements through exquisite exposure, the line unfolding beneath us as planned.

Regrouped on the Baker Glacier flats, there were no tears this time, just unadulterated screams of passion realised and amplified by each other.

Hell yeah, brother!

I fucking love you, dawg!

There was a tight, three-man embrace, and more outlandish shouting. It had been a more technical ski than the Caroline, having two axe-gripped ice chokes, and numerous steep, corrugated panels of deep but skinny spines that ran hard with sluff. And we skied

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Stepping through the sky on the summit ridge of Malte Brun Easy, tiger! Jim dropping towards the Malte Brun crux, a technical traverse on 50-degree ice with axe-in-hand hop turns The line of descent on Malte Brun, as posted on Sam’s Instagram account

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT The Caroline Face of Aoraki/Mt Cook mirrored in the steadily growing Tasman Glacier Lake Sam spine dancing on the upper third of Malte Brun Will, Sam and Jim elated after their successful first descent of the East Face of Malte Brun

CONTRIBUTOR: After a long spring of ski mountaineering in Aotearoa, Sam normally reaches his annual salami saturation point around mid-November.

Walk softly, walk far, and carry a big meat stick.

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it clean, with zero rope trickery and minimal exposure to uncontrollable seracs. The clean style and control of our descent meant more to me than merely ticking a first descent of another crux line of the project. +++++ THROUGH HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF TINY STEPS, scattered over five weeks, I had summited and skied six 3,000m peaks: Malaspina, Mt Graham, Mt Sefton, Mt Hamilton and Malte Brun with a mix of Jasper, Jim and William. A second descent of Elie De Beaumont with my mother Ellen, the lifelong skier and climber who, along with my father, first led me into these mountains decades ago. To share the last trip of the season with the person whose adventures and attitudes have been so influential to me, was truly special. And I appreciated moving a little slower, decompressing, and letting all that magic just soak in.

The project total now stands at fifteen peaks skied, with only Sefton pegged for a second attempt. Any concerns with outside opinions on our descents had melted away; quality is intrinsically woven through these cherished memories and does not need to be quantified.

Our team had fired as a unit, connected on a level far deeper than a standard assessment of time shared would assume. Those shining hours together, through chosen discomforts and hard-won triumphs, had stripped all pretence away. Our momentum had run hot, but on some intuitive level it felt time to step back. A rampage, by definition, should only last so long. A quintessentially succinct statement from Will settled it: “Fuck it, dude. Let’s go cragging.”

The XXIV film process now stands apart, and has evolved far beyond its initial concept to become its own creative pursuit. It is as important to me as the twenty-four peaks themselves. A publicised internal debate, the film is an existential transformation outside the childhood dream I gratefully continue to exist in, a memorial bridge of celluloid exploration from a single-minded past toward many potential future selves.

This is not the end, only another beginning. W

LOOKING FOR A BEAR[ING] The pandemic forced many of us to put plans for adventure on hold. But the beautiful mountains surrounding Nelson in British Columbia proved the perfect place for Anja Fuechtbauer to get back in the swing of things.

Words ANJA FUECHTBAUER Photography JOHANNES HENDRICKS & ANJA FUECHTBAUER

A

n image a friend shared of a foggy mountain landscape with an imposing ridgeline poking out of the fog wasn’t all that alluring, but the location’s name was another matter: “Valhalla Ranges”. Any place named after the mystic hall where Nordic warriors feast in the afterlife must be nothing short of spectacular, right? So when it comes time to plan a trip to Canada to explore British Columbia, the Valhalla Ranges’ name resurfaces, as if out of another fog, this time the metaphorical fog that’s everyday life.

When I say, however, plan a trip to Canada, this should be qualified. As always for us, holiday preparation turns out to be limited to booking flights and making a hire-car reservation, and little more. Tent, shoes and a summer sleeping bag into the pack equals ready for Canada in July. Besides, we have eight hours on our drive from Vancouver Airport to Nelson—a town of 10,000 people smack-bang in the middle of a landscape with high mountains and lakes—to scour over maps and fill our week with the promise of adventure.

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Walking toward Kaslo Lake in Kokanee Glacier Provincial Park. Around every turn, trees offer potential hiding spots for bears

ALASKA

BRITISH COLUMBIA

Nelson

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Nelson, BRITISH COLUMBIA

Alice Springs

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e settle on two multi-day hikes—one in the Valhallas, the other in the nearby Kokanee Range—that don’t require campsite bookings. Instead, the only mandatory requirement as we see it is to stop in town to buy bear spray and chicken wire before heading off. The bear spray is self-explanatory in grizzly country, but the chicken wire?

Well, it’s porcupine protection. Apparently, those cute-yetspiky critters have a taste for rubber, and at night, they chew away at all rubber parts of your car. (Ed: They actually have a taste for toilet seats in backcountry dunnies, too!) Still, we aren’t sure if porcupines eating car parts is a joke for visitors, a bit like drop bears in Oz. When we arrive at the trailhead at 1,600m for our walk to Gwillim Lakes in the Valhallas, we laugh at the varying degrees of effort hikers have taken to implement the porcupine advice.

Some haven’t cared. Others have wrapped wire loosely around the bottom half of their car. Others again have reinforced the wire with sticks and heavy rocks. But it is Parks BC that takes the cake, with pool noodles stuffed in the corners to protect their car from scratches. Anyway, we wrap our car, now having one thing less to worry about as we set off into the dark-green pine forest, bear spray at the ready dangling off the pack.

For many, including myself, COVID has meant years without venturing beyond familiar landscapes within a weekend’s drive from home that were visited repeatedly. Plans had been made, and tickets booked, only for all of it just to go up in flames over and over again. My inner compass—which is steadied by adventure and the outdoors—has been flailing since COVID, and I haven’t quite been able to find my way.

We ascend the trail through a forest of douglas firs, and the sight of untouched wilds, and of majestic peaks with pockets of snow still clinging on, rekindles my sense of adventure. And these are stunning peaks. I can’t help but feel that the Australian mountains, weathered and dressed in olive greens and sandy oranges, pale in comparison to the grandeur of the Valhalla Ranges.

With only 600m of altitude for the afternoon to gain, we aren’t in a rush. We pass cold, crystal-clear streams in a forested and rocky landscape. Big boulders around a bend in the trail look like bears, so we keep up conversation and making noise. The bear spray sits in a holster that’s attached to my pack with a carabiner, in easy reach of my hand, and I reassuringly pat the holster every so often. Not all the creatures we see are imaginary, though; when we stop to swim in a chilly mountain lake, curious little chipmunks and ground squirrels come to check us out. We watch the ground squirrels go into alarm mode, standing up like meerkats, and then giving high-pitched warning shrieks that bounce across the valley. Meanwhile, we’ve also encountered a swathe of less-welcome creatures. An onslaught of mosquitos have commenced hitchhiking and feasting on our

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MY INNER COMPASS—WHICH

IS STEADIED BY ADVENTURE AND THE OUTDOORS—HAS BEEN FLAILING SINCE COVID, AND I HAVEN’T QUITE

BEEN ABLE TO FIND MY WAY.”

backs. Clearly the altitude doesn’t bother them, and the many freshwater alpine lakes and puddles seem to be a perfect breeding ground for the buggers.

Slowly, the trees get smaller. A steep section later, and we reach a wide basin rimmed by mountains. Ponds scatter the landscape, and we head toward Lucifer Peak, which sits on a throne above Gwillim Lakes’ far end. We reach the camp, which

consists of little platforms to set your tent up on, and—this being Canadian bear country—a cooking area a couple hundred metres away with lockers to stash your food and anything remotely ‘scented’, such as toiletries. Yes, toothpaste and soap are ‘bear food’.

The afternoon sun bathes the mountains around us in a warm glow. The jagged edges of Lucifer Peak loom above the pine trees, which are lit up in a soft gold-green. And everything is reflected in the mirror-like surface of Gwillim Lake. But we quickly realise, now that we’re in the alpine zone, that bringing a summer sleeping bag from Australia to 2,200m in Canada won’t be sufficient to stay warm this evening. We shiver through the night and are grateful for the sun to return. +++++ AFTER REFUELLING IN NELSON THE NEXT DAY, we then head to Kokanee Glacier Provincial Park. The hike up the Valhallas was an amazing intro to the region, but Kokanee promises a high base camp with several days’ worth of trails to explore. We pack food for three nights,

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Alpine lakes are for icy dips and resetting the system View over Gwillim Lakes basin in the Valhallas Amateur chicken wire job!

There are raspberries aplenty at lower altitude Curious ground squirrels were everywhere Mountain tarns emerging between the trees as we ascend

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wrap the car in chicken wire again, and set off. In classic Canadian Disney-movie fashion, we barely make it to the first switchback when a marmot pops out on the trail, stands on its hind legs to reach up to a flower, then pulls it down and starts to munch away at it without a care in the world. Soon, however, like the marmot, we are foraging ourselves. While raspberries, salmonberries and—my favourite—thimbleberries were around at lower altitudes, here we pick black-blue huckleberries and blueberries at the side of the trail.

It’s afternoon, and we have left day hikers behind as we ascend toward Kokanee Lake. Alarm calls in varying pitches give away the seemingly plentiful wildlife that’s hiding out of sight. Skirting along the lake on a high path through rockfall, we spot our first pika—a hamster-sized cousin of a rabbit— scurrying off with a bunch of flowers in its tiny mouth to add

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I CAN’T BELIEVE NO OTHER PERSON IS HERE.

THE BIG-TICKET CANADIAN NATIONAL PARKS—GLACIER AND BANFF—

ARE BARELY AN HOUR AWAY.”

to its winter stash. Calling it ‘cute’ is the understatement of the year. I instantly fall for the little thing, and I make it my mission to try and capture an image of one during the trip. We then enter a meadow covered in what I call ‘mop head’ flowers (they are commonly known as white pasqueflowers) and the red flowers of the Indian paintbrush. Sticking to the theme, marmots sit on rocky outcrops in the meadow. I keep scanning the

mountainsides, hoping to glimpse a bear up on the slopes. The mozzies are back, and my shoulders are black with the sucky little hitchhikers. I am yet to meet an Australian mosquito with such resistence to being shushed away.

When we arrive at our campsite at Kaslo Lake, we are alone, and are pleasantly surprised to find a shelter fully enclosed with big windows—three nights out in this mosquito hell wouldn’t be pleasant. It’s time to kick back, make tea and get my Nalgene bottles ready to turn into hot-water bottles ready for the cold night ahead. I stash the stove next to the tent so that I can, in the middle of the night, pour water into the pot, reheat it, then return it into my water bottle and then back into my sleeping bag. Cosy!

In the morning, I crawl out of the tent, sit on the platform wrapped in my sleeping bag and sketch the mountains around me. I enjoy the tranquility, and can’t believe no other person is here.

The big-ticket Canadian national parks—Glacier and Banff—are barely an hour away. And while pictures of those parks promise beautiful landscapes, nothing can beat this peace and quiet. We empty our packs, leave our food in the hut’s bear-safe stashes, and hike up to Sapphire Lakes.

Beyond the lakes is Glory Basin, which is barren but has mountain streams and more small lakes

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT The local marmot enjoying a lunch-time flower snack Spruce grouse Sunrise tent views over Kaslo Lake Johannes enjoying the view on the walk to Sapphire Lakes Huckleberries and blueberries just coming into season The start of the walk at Kokanee Glacier Provincial Park Indian paintbrushes carpet the mountainsides

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Finishing up a watercolour painting from the walk to Kokanee Glacier (Ed: Wow, Anja, you’re good!)

View over Kaslo Lake Swimming at Sapphire Lakes—this was the coldest lake we found The historic Slocan Chief Cabin

CONTRIBUTOR: Now with the compass set straight again, you can find Anja planning the next adventure with the proper cold-weather gear at hand this time.

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scattered than anyone could count. We eat and we swim and we drink in the landscape. My senses are waking up from a three-year hibernation, and my brain is busy making new connections and memories, and finding words to describe this beautiful place.

I am still on the lookout for bears, preferably black ones and not brown ones—grizzlies.

A recent trip report mentioned eleven black bears up here, so there is a chance I’ll spot one. And up here in the mountains, we can see far and wide; compared to a narrow, windy trail through the forest, we’re less likely here to bump unexpectedly into a bear. (Sudden encounters when you unexpectedly enter a bear’s personal space are the prime reason for most bear-related incidents.)

On Day Three, we head to the park’s namesake: Kokanee Glacier. We pass historic Slocan Chief Cabin, which is packed with photos and stories of volunteers who’ve flocked up here to ski in winters past. The trail passes through the type of rocky terrain loved by pikas, who— as ever—sound alarms as we progress. Then … a rustle to my left. I freeze in place. A bear? A cougar? The bush shakes, and a spruce grouse with little chicks pops out and scurries away.

It scared the bejeezes out of me. Give me Australian venomous animals any time; the possibility of close encounters with Canadian predators is giving me near heart attacks.

It seems hard to believe this place could get more stunning. And then it does. We turn a corner to see the mountainside transformed by wildflowers that carpet the landscape red, purple and yellow. Creeks coming down from the glacier lace the meadows. I am in awe and could stay all day. But there’s no rest for the wicked; we ascend to the terminus of the glacier, where a feature called the Battleship guides the tongue of the glacier downward.

Like most glaciers, the landscape tells the story of climate change and glacial retreat. What is currently a frozen water reservoir that throughout summer feeds the streams and lakes below may one day be gone.

On the last morning, before we have to head out, I take another dip in Kaslo Lake. Submersing myself in the icy water, I hit the reset button one last time before drying off in the sun. Back when we started walking nearly a week ago, my inner compass felt out of whack, spinning and pivoting, unsure of where to point next. After our time here, though, it firmly points me back to where it should: adventure. W

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PROPERLY

IN IT Heading out snowshoeing for the first time ever, Ryan Hansen and his wife Martine wonder if they’ve, well, to use the cliché, bitten off more than they can chew.

Words & Photography Ryan Hansen

Sublime snowshoeing conditions on Day Two, en route to Tin Hut

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“I

’ve never seen snowshoers out this far before.”

We were at Kosciuszko NP’s Mawson Hut, and we’d just made, or were in the process of making, a new friend—a backcountry skier. It was Day Four of our trip, for both her and us, and she appeared if not amazed, then more than slightly confused.

“Really?” was all I could manage in response.

“Snowshoers normally stick to the easier trails, closer to town. It’s normally only skiers out here in the backcountry.”

There wasn’t a whiff of a gatekeeping, you-shouldn’t-be-here-this-is-for-skiers-ONLY mentality. We all got on well, and in fact, later that day, we’d meet again, and would share stories, snacks, cups of tea, and firewood-gathering duties at the cosy, welcoming delight that is Valentine Hut. No, she admired us for what we were attempting: something different.

For Martine and I, ‘different’ is what we do well; our norm, in terms of adventures, is often a unique blend of a thinking-outside-the-box mentality and a laid-back approach. Which, come to think of it, was this trip to a T: a planned seven-day, hut-crawling, snowshoeing circuit from Guthega Power Station. Unusual though, theoretically at least, semi-relaxed.

But here are the clinchers: We hadn’t camped in the snow before or, for that matter, even used snowshoes.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t until that comment on Day Four—I’ve never seen snowshoers out this far before—that doubt began to simmer away. Were we being reckless? Alpine environments, Oz’s included, are well versed in tragedy, including for expert alpinists; yet there we were, in the midst of a week-long snowshoeing mission with next-to-no snow experience.

Had we naively taken ‘different’ to an unachievable, careless, arrogant level?

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Kosciuszko NP, NEW SOUTH WALES

Sydney Kosciuszko NP

O

utdoor pursuits are inherently, though to differing extents, dangerous and potentially life-threatening.

Freak accidents happen to even the most prepared and skilled. To wish for a risk-free outdoors would be like asking nature to be less natural. I continue to learn, however, that the key is to be humble. Be confident in your abilities and decisive in your actions, but all-the-while respect nature’s power and variability. Just because it worked out this time, doesn’t mean it always will.

But sometimes, you’ve gotta take a chance. A snow trip had been in our periphery for a few months, but for one reason or another, a proper practice snow sesh hadn’t eventuated. (Unless, that is, you consider being snowed on at Easter.) Then it was July, and with a week-ish up our sleeves, our two main options were to avoid the snow entirely, and do a more standard bushwalk elsewhere, or take the plunge, literally, into the wintery depths of the Kossie alps. There was no contest. We opted for the latter.

From what we could discern—what, with our extensive repository of snow-related knowledge and all—gear wouldn’t be an issue. We had a four-season tent; a fresh whiz-bang winter sleeping bag, along with an old faithful; insulated mattresses plus closed-cell foamies; a consortium of shells, middle and base layers, with spares; enough food to keep us, and anyone else we met, nourished for an eternity; and even a snow shovel.

If nothing else, we looked like we knew what we were doing.

In my mind, there would be two major obstacles to the trip’s success. The first was the weather; it was forecast to be nearideal, but who knew what the mountains would conjure? I wasn’t convinced we’d be able to withstand a full-scale blizzard.

The second obstacle? Our snowshoes. Would we be a) coordinated enough to use them? and b) if so, efficient enough to cover the planned distances?

Horse Camp Hut

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It would take some days to know the answer to b), but as for a) the answer to it became resoundingly apparent within the first half hour along the road to Schlink Pass: No! I spiked my inside calf with snowshoe teeth, then tripped myself up on the plastic decks, a surefire way to acquaint myself with icy snow. A hybrid waddle-walk ensued, with increased success.

“Geez these things are loud!” we both remarked, having safely negotiated the first up and down. No more slips or tumbles for the time being, though.

When we reached Horse Camp Hut at the end of Day One, it was pumping hard, in a festival-vibe sort of way. Mountaineers, skiers, and fellow snowshoers alike were squished like sardines inside, the air a pungent concoction of sweat, smoke, and liquor.

The din of clanging pots, energetic greetings, and laughter

AT LEAST IT WASN’T AS BAD AS THE GUY THERE WHO SLICED

A HOLE IN HIS TENT FLOOR WITH AN ICE AXE.”

proved electrifying. So distracted we were by all the goings on that Martine, after frying our evening veggies, haphazardly placed the pan on her leg, burning a hole in her pants. It could have been worse; at least it wasn’t as bad as the guy there who sliced a hole in his tent floor with an ice axe.

THE NIGHT WAS PREDICTED to reach -4°C, and when we woke in the morning, my finely tuned body thermometer confirmed the forecast. Buoyed by an unexpectedly snug and undisturbed slumber in the tent—our first night camped on snow— along with unfrozen boots (thanks to a handy tip to wrap them in garbage bags and keep them warm inside the tent), confidence in our abilities skyrocketed. I know what you’re thinking: Ease up Turbo, it’s only been one day; anything could happen from here!

I’d been surprised that not all parties had a snow shovel, but when it came to removing the tent pegs, I was sure glad we had one. And later, I learned it was super handy for creating level campsites, too. The second lesson of the day, though, came earlier, and was prompted by the overnight re-freeze: Frozen hard snow was far preferable for snowshoeing than the soft slush we’d encountered the previous afternoon. We productively crunched our way up the road, reaching the pass in time for a well-deserved lunch.

The day was a corker: warm and bluebird, with only a smattering of faint wispy clouds. Bolstered by the knowledge that we could bail to a choice of nearby huts if conditions weren’t as mint, we stuck to our original—though possibly ambitious—target of Tin Hut for Camp Two.

OUR TWO MAIN OPTIONS WERE TO AVOID THE SNOW ENTIRELY, OR TAKE THE PLUNGE, LITERALLY, INTO THE WINTERY DEPTHS OF THE KOSCI ALPS.

THERE WAS NO CONTEST. WE OPTED FOR THE LATTER.”

Martine crunching her way along the icy expanses of Valentine Creek, the Kerries dominating the skyline WINTER 2024

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Reassuringly, the snow remained crisp and crusty, and once the first uneasy steps across untrodden expanses were behind us, the nervousness steadily subsided. Until, that was, we reached the first snow-covered creek to ford; visions of punching through into freezing water brought us to a rapid halt. If our route ahead was to succeed, we’d need to negotiate many more of these crossings. Martine bravely took the first strides.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The snow held firm. No dramas, yet.

The tops were soon gained, and by golly, it felt like we were on a different planet. While this specific section of the alps was new to us, we weren’t unfamiliar with Kossie’s spring, summer, and even autumn, vistas: open, rolling, grassy-green expanses mingled with bouldery, granite-clad peaks. But now, carpeted in a thick bluey-white blanket, the landscape assumed a vastly unique, near-monochromic, lunar-like appeal; I envisaged myself walking along the surface of the moon. Smoothed out was the roughness in the topography, granting a gentle façade.

There was a soothing sameness about it all.

Reaching an elevated saddle, our next major navigational decision posed itself: Stay high along the ridge, or descend into the valley and follow the creekline? A rookie comment I’d made earlier at Horse Camp, when discussing route options onto the range, immediately sprung to mind: “What’s the scrub like?”

Faces contorted quizzically, trying to discern if I was taking the mickey. When they soon awkwardly realised I was serious, someone responded, with the calm patience of a parent teaching a

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I PLUNGED WAIST-DEEP INTO THE ICY SLOSH, [THEN] I WENT

IN UP TO MY ELBOWS. IF WE

DIDN’T LAUGH, WE’D CRY.

SO WE LAUGHED.”

child how to do something for the first time: “There is none, mate; it’s covered in snow.” Embarrassed doesn’t begin to describe it.

With this newfound wisdom, we chose to tackle the tops.

What we failed to account for was the effect of the blazing sun; these north-facing slopes had been exposed to warmth for days, and even with our snowshoes, we busted through into the underlying thick vegetation and rock with frustrating regularity. Ankles twisted. Knees buckled. Faceplants multiplied.

Remind me, whose idea was this?

IT WASN’T UNTIL THE NEXT MORNING, when we realised our food bags on Tin Hut’s indoor table were soggy, that we noticed the warning note taped to the roof above: “Leak here.” I still maintain we’d been so blinded by last night’s eye-watering deluge of fireplace smoke—which had effectively converted the hut’s interior into a smokehouse—that we couldn’t possibly have seen anything. At least we’d been warm.

Yesterday, we’d eventually arrived, in typical Ryan-and-Martine fashion, under moonlight after finally linking up with a skier’s recent tracks. The night, and now the morning, had again been so perfectly wonderful that we were questioning if the weather could’ve been any more ideal. It was sunny. Quiet. Wind-less.

Day Three firmed as the trip’s psychological threshold: Beyond here, we’d be fully committed. No more playful faffing about, we’d be properly in it. And if something went wrong, we’d be more than a day’s trudge from the car. Perhaps foolishly reassured by the lack of disasters to date, we proceeded, comforted by the fact we could—should the weather turn south—shelter in huts for days, given our copious rations of remaining food.

With the snow-sinking saga of the previous afternoon branded into memory, we shelved the high-line traverse of the Kerries in favour of an easier, icier passage along the Valentine. Nothing short of sensational were the snowshoeing and the views. The landscape’s supreme vastness wasn’t lost to us either.

“Hard to believe we’re in Australia!”

“Right? And that there’s no one else around. Where is everybody?”

“Maybe they know something we don’t.”

Perhaps they did. Because Days Four, Five and Six blended into one giant soggy mess. Milder temperatures meant that each night’s re-freezes became short-lived, and precipitation fell as drizzle rather than snow, turning the previously perfect playpark into a supermassive slushy machine. Leaving Mawsons, I pressed through into a sloppy, boggy mire. Aside from the obvious annoyance of now being wet, muddy and slimy, it was also frustratingly difficult to get myself out of the literal hole; my snowshoes were weighed down by snow, and I was submerged in a boghole.

On another occasion, I plunged waist-deep into the icy slosh, and the snow was so unstable that when I attempted to push myself out, I went in up to my elbows. Such was the trend of the next 72 hours: half a solid step, then a tumble, and repeat. If we didn’t laugh, we’d cry. So we laughed.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Wavy snow patterns outside Tin Hut Martine brewing a morning cuppa inside Tin Hut, after spotting the ‘Leak here’ label Enjoying the beaut afternoon light on Day One, nearing Horse Camp Hut The endless fine-weather views that greeted us upon reaching the tops Bleak conditions heading towards Valentine Hut Day Four’s deepest tumble. Trying to free myself, I sunk in further, up to my elbows. Fun! Not bad for a first snowshoeing foray: bluebird weather and crisp, crusty snow

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Drying out, warming up, and signing the logbook in Schlink Hut Martine on the last leg, with one final surprise in store If we didn’t laugh, we’d cry The best kind of refuge: Valentine Hut

CONTRIBUTOR: Outdoors fanatic Ryan Hansen has an unwavering ability to put his foot in it. He always finds a way out though, even if he falls deeper in the process.

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BUT THEN THERE WAS THAT COMMENT on Day Four about never seeing snowshoers this far out, and it set me questioning. Had we—by approaching a risky scenario inexperienced, though with confidence—been reckless? Not that we met anyone who outwardly called us brash or urged us to re-think our plans, but at various times, I felt irresponsible. Truthfully, however, that was probably just my inexperience, and that I was in an environment hitherto foreign to me. But yes, it would have been possible for something to have gone disastrously wrong, in which case we could’ve not only endangered our own lives but others’ too. The headline wasn’t impossible: Duo rescued from Kosciuszko amid brutal snowstorm.

I’ve since wondered: Were we just lucky? Maybe. But probably not. Having subsequently spoken to experienced backcountry skiers, the realist in me says we stacked the odds in our favour. Even though we were lacking prior dedicated snow experience, snowshoeing is essentially bushwalking on snow, and we’re well-established bushwalkers. We had multiple contingencies: surplus food and warm clothing and nearby emergency shelter in the form of huts. We weren’t all or nothing; we were prepared to retreat or change plans if it got too hectic. I honestly believe that, when confronted with a critical decision—of which there were many —we made the safest choice at the time with what we had. In my mind at least, that’s being careful, not careless.

DESPITE UNFAVOURABLE SNOWSHOEING CONDITIONS during the back half of the trip—conditions which only deteriorated—our spirits remained high. We revelled in the delightful company of our new friend at Valentine Hut, backed up by two more kind fellows at Schlink who were skiing the K to K. Our cups were well and truly full.

And the surprises had been numerous. There was the weather. The relative lack of people.

Our comfort levels. For the most part it had been unexpectedly easier and, thus, far more enjoyable than expected. And that seemed as good a point as any to wrap up the adventure, especially given the predicted one metre of snow for Day Seven.

But there was still time for one more surprise. On the final day, at Schlink Pass, we had mobile reception. It meant we could FaceTime Martine’s sister, which gave us the chance to welcome to the world our new baby niece. In a trip full of surprises, this was perhaps best of all. W

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DESTINATION

HINCHINBROOK ISLAND Australia's Jurassic Park

North Queensland local adventurer and photographer Jack Schmidt gives us the lowdown on this wild, epic, and stunningly beautiful adventure playground.

Words & Photography Jack Schmidt

HINCHINBROOK ISLAND WILL QUICKLY MAKE you realise Australia is more than just beaches and red dirt. Just off the coast from Cardwell in Tropical North Queensland, the island offers a unique and diverse combination of landscapes: Tropical rainforests; crystal-clear swimming holes; huge waterfalls; rugged mountain peaks; pristine beaches; and intricate mangrove estuaries. It’s one of Australia’s wildest places.

Hinchinbrook is separated from the mainland by a narrow channel, and the complex tidal inlets that lace the island’s west coast are lined by mangrove forests known to be some of the country’s richest and most varied. These mangroves provide a crucial breeding ground for a diverse range of species, from juvenile fish to saltwater crocodiles. In contrast, the east coast is made up of vast beaches and rocky headlands.

There is a truly wild, land-out-of-time presence here. It’s less than 10km from the mainland, but it feels like worlds away. And if you’re on the island’s east—where all the hiking trails and campgrounds are located—the towering mountain peaks of up to 1,100m above sea level block phone service to the mainland; you feel totally isolated from the modern world as soon as you set foot on the island.

But this feeling of isolation in an untouched, wild landscape forces you to disconnect from the overstimulation of modern living and tap into a more primitive mental state. You can feel grounded here. With hardly a soul around—just the sounds of waves crashing, mountain streams and birds chirping—the distractions of our modern society are stripped away so you're forced to just be present and live in the moment. There’s nowhere else in Australia where you can be isolated on a tropical island and separated from the ‘real world’ by 1,000m+ mountain ranges and crocodile-inhabited waters.

Welcome to Australia’s Jurassic Park!

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A crisp sunrise from the top of Mt Diamantina. This shot is looking north, with views of the island’s rugged ranges and the channel to the west (ie the image's upper left)

Hinchinbrook Island

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THE THORSBORNE TRAIL RECOMMENDATIONS FROM A LOCAL

Internationally regarded as one of the ‘Top 10 walks on the planet’, Hinchinbrook Island is well known for the Thorsborne Trail. It’s a 32km-long, multi-day journey running almost the entire length of the island’s east coast, and it offers an incredible wilderness experience and spectacular diversity in terrain: Rainforests; stunning coastal beaches; rocky headlands; swamplands; and eucalyptus bushlands.

Around every corner, you’ll traverse through a different environment with more breathtaking views. One moment you're on a ridgeline; the next you're crossing a creek. Before you know it, you're out on a beach with stunning views up to rugged mountain peaks. And each night you’ll arrive at secluded campsites surrounded by amazing scenery along with epic waterfalls and pristine swimming holes to freshen up after a big day on the trail.

The Thorsborne Trail is graded as a difficult hike with rough and steep sections. It is, however, doable for most people with a basic level of fitness; the most challenging part of the hike is simply carrying a heavy pack. Some bushwalking knowledge is beneficial, of course, and signage is limited, although there’s a Thorsborne Trail app which can help guide you.

General information on the trail is readily available online, but what follows are some suggestions that you’re less likely to find. Firstly, while the trail is typically done over four days and

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EACH NIGHT YOU’LL ARRIVE AT SECLUDED CAMPSITES ... AMAZING SCENERY, EPIC WATERFALLS AND

PRISTINE SWIMMING HOLES.” can be done in either direction, I’d recommend going from north to south, purely because of the spectacular views from the boat as you approach the starting point. You’ll wind up through complex mangrove estuaries with breathtaking views of the tallest peak and most rugged section of the island—Mt Bowen. That said, the views are amazing regardless of the direction. But if you are going north to south, the campsites are usually as follows— Little Ramsay Bay, Zoe Bay and Mulligans Creek.

But I’d suggest adding an extra stop at Nina Bay. Most hikers pass through it on their first day, so if you spend your first night here, you’ll likely have this secluded spot to yourself or be sharing with very few. It also, from out on the water's edge, offers insane views of Mt Bowen.

Secondly, I’d highly recommend staying two nights at Zoe Bay, arguably the Thorsborne’s most scenic spot. In my opinion, one night here isn't enough to take it all in; a second night will give you one full day to relax and explore. Your campsite will be on the edge of a huge pristine beach with incredible mountain views.

Just a 15-minute walk from the beach are Zoe Falls, an amazing waterfall and swimming hole with some of the purest, cleanest

HINCHINBROOK ISLAND Missionary Bay Ramsay Bay

Th

Mt Bowen (1,121m)

Little Ramsay Bay

ne or

sb or

Nina Bay

Zoe Bay

0

5

mountain water you’ll find in Australia. Atop the falls is a natural infinity pool with stunning views overlooking Zoe Bay; hiking up there for sunrise is absolutely worth it.

Permits for the Thorsborne Trail are restricted to only forty people at a time, so you’ll need to book well in advance. This can make getting those extra nights I’ve recommended difficult, but be aware that if all you can book is the standard three-night trip, it will still be an incredible experience.

My key piece of advice, however, is to pick the right time of year to do the trail. I’d highly recommend booking your walk between May and September; it’s when we generally have cooler—and clearer—weather, and plenty of fresh flowing water. Outside these months, it’s either too hot to be enjoyable, too dry for water in the creeks, or you’re in the monsoonal rain and cyclone season. If you can get permits in July-August, go for it; this is when the weather is at its best.

If you're visiting North Queensland and don’t have the time to do the Thorsborne, or cannot obtain permits for it, there are still other amazing options for you. Two companies, operating out of the nearby towns of Cardwell and Lucinda, offer transfers to and from the island not just for Thorsborne hikers but for day trippers, too. My day-trip recommendation would be to get a cruise around the entire island with a stop at Zoe Bay. This experience alone will be epic, and definitely worth your time.

One piece of good news concerning permits is that some campgrounds are considered separate to the Thorsborne Trail, and permits are much easier to obtain. It means even if you're unable to walk the Thorsborne, you can still camp overnight on Hinchinbrook at one of these campgrounds. My overnight-camping recommendation would be a circumnavigation of the island, and to get dropped off at Zoe Bay for 2-3 nights. Trust me, this would be an epic experience! Zoe Bay is about 2.5km long and you can walk from one end to the other, giving you stunning views of the island’s impressive mountain ranges. Camping here also means you can do day walks up to Zoe Falls and the infinity pool above.

10KM

l

(955m)

ai Tr

Mt Diamantina

Map data © OpenStreetMap

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Mulligan Bay—the Thorsborne Trail's start/finish point at its southern end Sunset scenes from the infinity pool above Zoe Falls, overlooking Zoe Bay A fiery sunset over the northern end of the Hinchinbrook Channel (Both fern images) The ferns in the dense rainforest of the island's southern end are majestic First light illuminating the peaks of Mt Bowen, as seen from Ramsay Bay Cooling off in the pristine swimming hole at Zoe Falls

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Hinchinbrook Island, QUEENSLAND

MT BOWEN [Note: Be aware that I've held back on some details in the following trail notes; I don’t want to spoil the raw wilderness experience and navigational challenge of hiking off-track on Hinchinbrook Island.]

The Thorsborne Trail is incredible, but in truth, it barely scratches the surface of Hinchinbrook’s raw beauty. Most notably, at the island’s heart lies its tallest and most rugged peak, 1,121m Mt Bowen. To summit this mountain is one of the most incredible off-track hiking experiences in Australia.

This hike is not for beginners or even intermediate ‘weekend warriors’. You need to be fit, competent with off-track navigation, and appropriately equipped. Mt Bowen is considered an overnight hike; attempting to do it in a day is not doable for most people. Nor would I ever recommend it; even if you don’t run out of light, you’ll spend the whole day rushed, and miss out on stopping and appreciating the scenery.

The window of ideal conditions for off-track mountain hikes in the area is typically June through to September, and for Mt Bowen specifically, this four-month window is decreased further; the peak is a cloud magnet. Some years, heavy cloud

YOU’LL FEEL DWARFED BY

BOWEN’S TOWERING PEAKS, AND THE SOUND OF WAVES CRASHING BEHIND YOU WILL BE A REMINDER THAT YOU'RE

STARTING FROM TRUE SEA LEVEL.”

cover and rainy weather persist up until July. Typically, optimal conditions are from July to early September. This is when the boulders in the creeks are dry for rock hopping; there's still fresh flowing water for drinking; the weather is cooler; and the skies are generally clearer. You can get lucky outside of this timeframe, but you'll drastically increase your chances of very unpleasant, difficult or dangerous conditions.

But your first challenge starts before even stepping onto the island—getting permits! You must acquire a Thorsborne Trail permit first, and then email QPWS (Queensland Parks & Wildlife Service) to apply for an off-track hiking permit for Mt Bowen. As Thorsborne Trail permits book up well in advance, it becomes difficult to secure the spot within the ideal timeframe.

Mt Bowen has a few different routes from the island’s east side that lead to the summit. All are off-track, unmarked hikes that will test you physically and, even more so, mentally. The simplest, however, and most common route is via a creek at the northern end of Little Ramsay Bay.

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The final push to Mt Bowen

Looking SW from the summit with glimpses of the channel

As soon as you step onto the beach at Little Ramsay Bay, you’ll feel dwarfed by Bowen’s towering peaks, and the sound of waves crashing behind you will be a reminder that you're starting from true sea level; you’ll have to work for every metre of elevation this mountain has. What’s more, there are no exposed ridgelines that visually reveal the most traversable route ahead; from the moment you leave the beach, dense bush will prevent you from seeing any obvious route to the top. This is definitely one of those 'how the hell are we going to get up there' moments. It’s absolutely critical to be well prepared to attempt this hike.

Luckily, for the first section, you won’t need to worry about thick bush impeding navigation; instead, you’ll be following a creek. But this comes with a different set of challenges, notably 5-7 hours of tedious rock hopping over mid-sized boulders with some light scrambling. If you pick the right time of year, though, the boulders should be dry and grippy, with crystal-clear fresh flowing water underneath. That’s one thing that’s unique about Hinchinbrook— the creeks have incredible water colour and clarity. Arguably, these are Australia’s most pristine mountain waters.

As you progress, you'll meet several tributaries that flow into the main creek; it’s critical to make the right turn at each confluence. Be aware that some junctions are very deceiving, so you’ll need to do your homework. Taking the wrong turn can quickly end in a failed mission, either by running into an impassable rock wall, or by burning way too much time to backtrack to the correct route. Keep in mind you’ll be on an island with no services; there’s no walking back down to your car and driving home!

This creek is a slow burner, only gaining 450m elevation over 4.5km. After many hours of rock hopping, the physical fatigue will accumulate. But mental fatigue is the real issue, since you'll have little perspective of how far you’ve come or still have left to go. Occasionally, you’ll get breaks through the trees which reveal impressive views of giant granite slabs near Bowen’s summit, leaving you both in awe and intimidated by its sheer size.

Pure serenity. Soaking up the golden morning light with breathtaking views overlooking Ramsay Bay and the huge granite cliffs adjacent to Mt Bowen

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Overlooking Black Sand Beach, with Mt Bowen towering behind it. You’ll pass through this small beach on the Thorsborne Trail

Eventually, the creek’s flow reduces to a trickle and the vegetation transitions into dense rainforest. There is a critical junction in the creek here; it’s also your last guaranteed water source for the trip. Make sure you fill up on water here before progressing further. How much water you’ll need depends on where you’ll camp and for how many nights, but remember, even in winter, it’s still hot in North Queensland. You need huge amounts of water compared to popular hiking destinations with cooler climates. I recommend a minimum of 6-8 litres per night.

The next step is the hike’s hardest section—the brutal ascent to the saddle. The rock hopping turns into tedious scrambling as the boulders get bigger and steeper while you climb, now with extra water weight on your back. And while the rainforest is a truly majestic place, it’s cruel when trying to navigate through it without a track. Sometimes there can be a worn path through this section, plus flagging tape from recent hikers you can follow. However, you'll need to be certain you’re sufficiently competent to navigate your way completely off-track through this section; there’s no guarantee you’ll find a worn path.

After another 2-3 hours of hard work, you'll arrive at the saddle. Finally, you'll have a reward for your efforts, with incredible views of Bowen’s summit, its adjacent ridgelines and the sweeping bays along the island’s east coast. One of the most humbling things about hiking Mt Bowen is the fact you have to put in 7-8 hours of hard work before you even see a nice view.

The saddle is the most popular spot to camp when climbing Bowen, and there's enough room for two or possibly three

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ultra-compact one-person tents. Most people will camp here so they can drop their heavy packs and take a light/day pack to the summit, with another reason being lack of water near the summit.

Depending on your fitness level and how long getting to the saddle takes, you may be able to continue to the summit the same day. Alternatively, you can set up camp in the saddle, rest up for the afternoon and do the final push the next morning.

This would be my recommendation for most people; it’s the simplest process for those not familiar with the mountain, and it’s the least physically demanding option. How much water you're willing to carry will determine whether you can stay a second night at the saddle, but trying to carry enough water for more than one night won’t be manageable for most people. There’s another option, however, but you’ve got to be strong: taking the heavy pack with the extra water all the way to the top. I’d highly recommend this if your fitness allows you, but this will make your ascent of Bowen very physically demanding.

From the saddle, the hard work and scrambling will continue, as the taller vegetation slowly thins to a semi-exposed ridgeline.

The views from here will get increasingly better as you look out to some of Australia’s wildest scenery; hopefully, this will be enough to keep you motivated while you continue pushing through thick, shrubby vegetation ranging in height from knee to chest.

After ten or so long hours, you'll finally reach the top. Looking NNW, you’ll see Missionary Bay and its complex mangrove estuary systems. Closer to the NNE lies the 9km-long perfectly curved beach of Ramsay Bay, plus the rocky outcrops along the

Hinchinbrook Island, QUEENSLAND

ridges that lead up to Mt Bowen. As you swing towards the south, you’ll see more beaches along the east coast, along with the rest of the rugged ranges on the island, and you’ll catch glimpses of the channel that separates the island from the mainland. On a clear day, you'll even see parts of the Great Barrier Reef.

The views from the top are unique in Australia. As a photographer, the natural framing in the surrounding landscape here is the stuff of dreams. All the natural curves in the creek systems and beaches below create incredibly artistic lines. And the surrounding rugged ridges and granite cliffs contrast beautifully against the lush greens and vibrant blues from the ocean. It’s almost hard to believe what you're seeing, it’s so picture-perfect. Golden hour amplifies these features and takes the views to another level, so if you're willing to put in the extra work to camp up here, it’s worth it.

Be aware, though, that camping options on top are limited because of the thick and shrubby vegetation. Note that this vegetation is fragile, so please avoid destroying it to make a campsite; part of the fun of these wild hikes is the thrill of having to find naturally clear and flat pieces of ground. There’s a spot on one of the false peaks north of the summit that makes for a next-level camp spot. It has two very small clearings for ultra-compact one-person tents (BTW, I wouldn't recommend bringing anything here other than compact one-person tents, or you won't find enough room to camp). Within five metres of the tent sites, there’s a sheer cliff that makes for an insane viewing platform and one of those dramatic ‘on top of the world’ kind of photos. This is my vote for the most epic campsite in all of Australia!

Climbing Mt Bowen is a humbling experience that will scratch the itch for a wild, offtrack adventure. Whether you haul heavy packs all the way and camp at the top, or day hike from the saddle, you’ll be left with memories to last a lifetime. Make sure you take it slow, though: Soak up the serenity, take in the amazing views, and capture plenty of photos, because before you know it, you’ll be back at Little Ramsay Bay wishing you were still up at the peak.

WHETHER YOU HAUL HEAVY PACKS ALL THE WAY AND CAMP AT THE TOP, OR DAY HIKE FROM THE SADDLE, YOU’LL

BE LEFT WITH

MEMORIES TO LAST A LIFETIME.” IMAGES THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP

A surreal moment. It feels like you're being enveloped by clouds of fairy floss as they burn vibrant orange at sunset Brewing a morning coffee while totally engulfed in clouds, hoping it will clear Lush rainforest flora on the ascent to the saddle Sunset views from our epic camp spot on one of Bowen’s peaks

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AS A PHOTOGRAPHER, THE NATURAL FRAMING IN THE

SURROUNDING LANDSCAPE HERE IS THE STUFF OF DREAMS.”

The view from the top of Mt Bowen looking NW. The mangrove estuaries of Missionary Bay sweep into the back of the beautiful arc of 9km-long Ramsay Bay

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OTHER OFF-TRACK OPTIONS IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT The impressive cleft boulders atop Mt Diamantina Hinchinbrook has loads of unnamed waterfalls with plenty of flow in the wet season. The waterhole at this one is about three metres deep Ascending one of Hinchinbrook's creeks, chasing an unnamed waterfall

CONTRIBUTOR: Jack Schmidt is an adventure/travel content creator based in North Queensland. He’s still figuring out if he actually enjoys hiking or just loves epic views with no people around.

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Mt Bowen is arguably the pinnacle of Hinchinbrook’s off-track hiking, but there are other thrilling adventures to be had. While the prime time for overnight hiking is winter, during the wet season (January–March) the island comes alive with waterfalls. Seasonal cascades plunge down every possible mountain crevice at this time of year, and it opens up exciting possibilities for off-track day hikes to waterfalls.

There are a few unnamed, huge, prominent drops hidden on the island; some are my favourite waterfalls in the entire region. You really need to do your homework on topo/satellite maps to find them though, and then find your own route to them. On one crazy mission, we were dropped off straight into thick mangroves, and had to traverse through mangrove trees so big that we were climbing on the roots sitting 1-2m above the ground.

Located at the island’s southern end, 955m Mt Diamantina is, after Mt Bowen, Hinchinbrook’s second-most prominent peak. Two humongous square-shaped boulders sit at its summit; when viewed from afar, they appear as one. It’s an iconic feature of the region, recognisable from far away. Diamantina is also of spiritual significance to local Indigenous people. It was the traditional dreaming place and a source of thunder for the local rainmaker Gungunu, who would be called upon to break a drought.

The route up Diamantina is typically done from the island’s southeast corner. Like Bowen, you'll follow a creek up, spending several hours rock hopping and scrambling. Eventually, the creek becomes no longer traversable, and you'll branch off onto a ridge leading to the summit. This ridge is very steep in sections and extremely dense with vegetation, even worse than Mt Bowen due to consistent heavier rainfall on this part of the island. You’ll have to wrestle your way through shrubby vegetation over head height in sections with no visibility of where you'll be putting your feet. But gaining the summit of Mt Diamantina is extremely rewarding, with 360-degree views of the island and its surrounding landscapes. Looking north, you’ll see the rest of the island’s rugged peaks, including Mt Bowen. To the east, you’ll see impressive views of the complex creek systems that make up the Hinchinbrook Channel and the mountain ranges on the mainland behind it. Then to the south, you’ll see views over Lucinda and its jetty; at 5.76km long, it’s the Southern Hemisphere’s longest service jetty.

Almost any creek, peak and summit on this island is worthwhile exploring. It all comes down to your experience, looking at maps and how much work you're willing to put in to explore the places that have seen very few footsteps. I’ve been lucky enough to have many awe-inspiring moments exploring this island, yet it feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface. W

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5 THE

Wild

BUNCH

The Kimberley

A quick lowdown on

Perth

WALKS IN

THE KIMBERLEY Words Catherine Lawson Photography David Bristow ONE OF AUSTRALIA’S LAST BASTIONS OF TRUE WILDNESS, the Kimberley’s red-rock playground is distinct in every way: raw, rugged and undeniably remote. A harsh and frequently testing environment, the Kimberley attracts around two million visitors every dry season, but few find their way onto its toughest trails to discover the five fingers of Piccaninny Gorge or to stand atop Wunggurr’s sacred falls.

It’s not all sweat and spinifex though. Some of the Kimberley’s best wanders are short ones, leading you through chasms full of rock art and plunging you into palm-fringed rock pools and on daring wet walks too. In fact, the biggest challenge the Kimberley throws up is actually getting there. Arrive after April, when park borders reopen, with a loose itinerary. Most trails (even the short ones) are graded Classes 4 to 5, primarily because pathways are rarely groomed and handrails are absent, and the stifling heat and remoteness ramp up the need for experience and self-reliance. Pack good footwear and waterhole-friendly sunscreen.

THE EASY

DERBE-GERRING BANAN TRAIL, MIRIMA NP 1.2KM; 1 HOUR – CLASS 4

Mirima National Park’s glowing red-sandstone walls and flattopped outcrops resemble the Bungle Bungle Range in miniature, but—towering on the edge of Kununurra, and an easy 2km bike ride from town—are far easier to explore. In the golden hours when the light waxes and wanes, the park is utterly captivating, and the Derbe-gerring Banan Trail elevates you above woollybutts and flowering yellow kapoks for breathless views of some equally stunning tiger-striped knolls.

From the trailhead, the easy ground ends at a series of steep staircases that climb through sandstone outcrops to lookouts offering increasingly good vistas over deep gorges and the distant Ord Valley. Mirima NP’s boundaries protect a tiny, albeit spectacular, 2068ha wilderness. There are no lengthy wanders here and, at just 600m each way, this easy climb won’t push any limits. Team it with a crack-of-dawn bike ride from town to catch a superb Kimberley sunrise (parks.dpaw.wa.gov.au).

THE CHALLENGING

PICCANINNY GORGE, PURNULULU NP 30KM (MIN); 2-7 DAYS – CLASS 5

Scoured deep into the head of the Bungle Bungle Range, five wild sandstone chasms—the ‘five fingers’—await off-trail explorers in remote Piccaninny Gorge. Hot and exposed, with limited water sources and no facilities at all, this adventure begins innocently

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along the fluted bedrock channels of Piccaninny Creek. Within 3-4 hours you’ll reach ‘The Elbow’, where the Bungle Bungle Range’s distinctive karst domes begin to merge and where slippery pebble stones, sand and stagnant pools slow the pace.

An hour later, top up your water supply at Black Rock Pool (if viable) and push on to pitch your tent at base camp, a seasonal pool at the entrance to Piccaninny’s first finger at the 15km mark. Over the next two-to-five days, wade, walk and shimmy your way deep into the gorge and its five fingers of slender, little-visited rock. Hike from June to August for cool nights and more abundant water. PLBs (personal locator beacons) and hiker registration are compulsory (parks.dpaw.wa.gov.au).

THE NATURE LOVER

DALMANYI FALLS TRAIL (BELL GORGE),

WUNAAMIN-MILIWUNDI RANGES CONSERVATION PARK

3KM; 1.5-2 HOURS – CLASS 4

Nestled amid bewitching pink quartzite escarpments and flattopped mesas, Dalmanyi’s dazzling five-tier waterfall is an easy walk gone wild. From the trailhead, follow the well-marked trail for one kilometre (thirty minutes) to the upper pools of Bell Creek Gorge, where most hikers are happy to bob about.

But what gives this adventure its Class 4 rating is the steep, downhill scramble required to reach the deep pools far below.

Allow twenty minutes to wade across the usually knee-deep upper pools and to skirt around the waterfall, lowering yourself over boulders and shimmying to the rock slabs below that tilt and dip back into Bell Gorge’s dazzling pool (parks.dpaw.wa.gov.au).

THE WILD BUNCH

THE SURPRISING

DIMALURRU WET WALK, DIMALURRU (TUNNEL CREEK) NP 2KM; 1.5 HOURS – CLASS 4

Carved deep into WA’s oldest cave system, and adorned with glistening stalactites and curtains of flowstones, Tunnel Creek is the Kimberley’s most accessible wet walk. It’s also the once-secret hideout of the legendary freedom fighter Jandamarra, who in 1884 staged the first-ever gun attack against police and colonial settlers in defence of Bunuba homelands. Today, faded ochre rock art marks Jandamarra’s lofty lookout at Dimalurru’s entrance.

Step into the tunnel’s chilly darkness, turn on your torch, and wade 750m until you break into the sunlight at the tunnel’s end. Overhead, little red flying foxes cling restlessly to stalactites, and cherubin (freshwater crayfish) tickle your toes. The water level varies with the seasons from kneeto waist-deep, so wear waterproof, grippy shoes and prepare to get wet. Torches are required; there’s no light inside the tunnel (parks.dpaw.wa.gov.au).

THE SURPR

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Rock overhangs protect Punamii-uunpuu’s ancient art Wade, walk and shimmy your way into Piccaninny Gorge’s littlevisited rock chasms Scoured deep into the Bungle Bungle Range, the ‘five fingers’ await off-trail explorers in remote Piccaninny Gorge The once-secret hideout of Jandamarra, Tunnel Creek provides the Kimberley’s most-accessible wet walk

8.6KM; 4-5 HOURS – CLASS 5

Carved through pink quartzite escarpments and flat-topped mesas, Dalmanyi’s dazzling five-tier waterfall is an easy walk gone wild

This unforgettable hike fills five of the best hours you can spend in the Kimberley, leading past 16,000-year-old rock art to Punamii-uunpuu’s outstanding, four-tiered falls. To the Wunambal people, this is the dwelling place of the creator Wunggurr and of all living things waiting to be born, and the sacred journey begins at the Mitchell River National Park campground.

Follow an easy path (15 minutes) to the lofty rock pools atop Mertens Falls, then drop below to discover hidden Gwion-Gwion rock art behind its shimmering, sheer-drop falls. A rainforested riverside trail ebbs away downstream past a 30,000-year-old ochre battle scene and a vividly painted thylacine. Walk on and cross Mertens Creek, climbing to boulders on the far side to watch it plunge swiftly away into its deep, namesake gorge.

A rocky, spinifex-fringed trail leads around a bend where white posts mark the shallowest river crossing. Veer right past the helicopter landing pad and along the gorge’s edge until Punamiiuunpuu comes into view. You can downclimb to the sacred pools below the first tier, but save your swim for the top of the falls. Retrace your steps back to camp, watching for rare monjons—Australia’s smallest rock wallaby—en route (wunambalgaambera.org.au).

CONTRIBUTORS: Inspired by adventures into unpopulated places, author Catherine Lawson & photographer David Bristow are hikers, bikers, paddlers and sailors who advocate simple, sustainable, self-sufficient living. Check out their adventure books at wildtravelstory.com

THE CLASSIC

PUNAMII-UUNPUU (MITCHELL FALLS), MITCHELL RIVER NP

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TRACK + PADDLE NOTES

WALKING + PACKRAFTING THE NORTHERN TERRITORY’S

KATHERINE GORGE

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QUICK FACTS Activity: Hiking + packrafting Location: Nitmiluk NP, Katherine, NT When to go: June-September Duration: Four days Difficulty: Walking: Moderate-Hard (Grade 4-5); Paddling: Easy (Grade 1-2) Permits required: Yes Maps: Nitmiluk NP Southern Walks Information Sheet & Nitmiluk NP Canoeing Guide, both available online as PDFs Contact info: Parks and Wildlife Commission of the NT, Katherine office Ph: 08 8973 8888 or online at nt.gov.au/parks

CLIMATE: KATHERINE Temperature (°C)

A WINTER ADVENTURE DOESN’T GET MORE SUBLIME than this: Easy walking through open woodland; an epic gorge with towering cliffs and stunning scenery; followed by serene flat-water paddling, exploratory walks and refreshing swims each balmy, warm afternoon; then pitching camps on deserted sandy beaches as sunsets turn the world golden and glowing.

Katherine Gorge in Nitmiluk National Park is one of the Northern Territory’s top natural destinations and for good reason. It is incredibly scenic, easy to access and has world-class visitor facilities. Managed by the local Traditional Owners, the Jawoyn people, Nitmiluk’s central feature is the mighty Katherine River, where she slices through sandstone country carving out a series of thirteen huge, connected gorges. And the park is rich with cultural heritage sites. It remains a living landscape for the Jawoyn people; many of the tour guides, rangers and field staff are Traditional Owners.

Despite its international reputation as a sightseeing hotspot, it is so easy to escape the crowds and experience the remote beauty of this ancient landscape. Simply head upstream, past the reach of the motorised tourist boats and day trippers. We discovered this trick years ago when we completed a three-day hike along the southern rim of the gorge system (see Wild Issue #161) and were amazed at how few people we encountered.

Inspired by that first experience, we knew we had to return and go one better, combining hiking and packrafting for an even more immersive and unforgettable experience of this most grand and gorgeous of gorges.

Nitmiluk NP

Rainfall (mm)

Words Chris Armstrong Photography Craig Fardell

Big boulders on the approach to Mt Anne

The golden hour above Fourth Gorge

Paddling out of Fifth Gorge towards Smitt Rock

HISTORY Located on the lands of the Jawoyn people, Nitmiluk NP protects 295,000ha of spectacular sandstone country in the southern part of the Arnhem Land Plateau. It has been managed as a protected area since the early 1960s, but in 1978, the Jawoyn Traditional Owners lodged a claim over the area. After a lengthy process of hearings, the land was ‘handed back’ to the Jawoyn people in 1989. At the same time, the Jawoyn Traditional Owners signed an agreement to lease the land back to the government to be managed as a national park in partnership with the NT’s Parks and Wildlife Commission. The park now offers accommodation, boat, helicopter and paddling tours, hiking and mountain bike trails, and it is the start point for the five-day, 62km-long Jatbula Trail.

In the park’s plan of management, which is due for renewal this year, there are several quotes from Traditional Owners, voicing the significance of having their land returned.

“I was a kid when that Park hand-back happened. I was too excited, it was more than words. It was like we’d lost something and then someone found it again. We were all celebrating, us kids were dancing. I had goosebumps!”

FLORA & FAUNA The thing you really need to know here is the difference between ‘freshies’ and ‘salties’—freshwater and saltwater (or estuarine) crocodiles. The former are shy and harmless with long, narrow snouts; the latter have wider snouts, bigger teeth, and are apex predators (AKA man-eaters). They are the largest of all living reptiles and they know it.

The end of the Yambi walk at Eighth Gorge

But also expect to be amazed by the unique flora and smaller, rarer wildlife of the Top End. In winter, you should see flowers of boronia grandisepala, turkey bush, an array of grevilleas, and the stunning blossoms of scarlet gum (Eucalyptus phoenicea).

Also keep an eye out for the gorgeous Leichhardt grasshopper, the Gouldian finch—both are endangered—and the critically endangered northern quoll. You never know your luck.

WHEN TO GO The best time to visit Nitmiluk is in late autumn, winter or early spring—the dry season. But for this trip, you’ll need to wait until all thirteen gorges are open to paddling. This is usually declared midto-late June, but the date varies and is dependent on the success of the park’s saltwater crocodile monitoring and removal program.

Each summer, saltwater (estuarine) crocodiles migrate up Katherine Gorge when it’s in full flow and flood from summer monsoonal rains. Once the floodwaters recede, any remaining saltwater crocodiles in the gorge system are trapped and removed to make it safe for tourists to swim, camp and paddle.

Note: Gorge Number One (First Gorge), the closest to the visitors’ centre, is never open to paddling or swimming due to the presence of saltwater crocodiles. These track notes take this into account, with the trip’s final leg being a 4km walk from Second Gorge (the end of the paddle leg) back to your start point.

GETTING THERE Nitmiluk National Park (Katherine Gorge) is located 30km east of the town of Katherine on the sealed Gorge Road. Katherine is

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Nitmiluk NP: NORTHERN TERRITORY

PACKRAFTING NITMILUK NP’S

KATHERINE GORGE

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314km south of Darwin or 1,182km north of Alice Springs. If you self-drive, there’s a long-term walkers’ car park near the ranger’s station. There is no public transport from the town of Katherine to the park and gorge. During the winter tourist season, several tour companies offer day tours to the gorge; they could possibly be approached for a transport-only option.

FEES/COSTS/PERMITS You must book and pay online for overnight walks and camping in Nitmiluk. Do this before you go as you can’t pay at the park. All campsites you’ll use for this trip are Category B with basic-to-moderate camping facilities. Overnight fees are $10/ adult or $5/child (5-17 years) or $25/family (2 adults, 4 kids).

As of April 2023, visitors to most national parks and reserves in the Northern Territory (including Nitmiluk) need a Parks Pass. Your best bet is the two-week pass which costs $30 per adult. These can be purchased online before arrival.

DIFFICULTY & NAVIGATION The trails on this trip are officially rated as either Grade 3 or 4 and moderate to difficult. The off-track section is optional, and while the terrain is open, it can be a bewildering maze of eroded gullies and rocky high points, with the gorge itself surprisingly invisible at times. Experience with navigation and route finding is recommended if choosing this option.

In each gorge, the paddling is easy, with long, still pools and few in-water obstacles. However, each pool and gorge is separated by rockbars, a block-up or boulder race, and sometimes rapids. All rapids and bars can be portaged with varying degrees of ease. Some of the portages high in the gorge system, especially above Ninth Gorge, are challenging and involve negotiating large boulder block-ups with drops and much clambering.

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EQUIPMENT You will have little need for wet-weather gear while walking in the NT in winter. It is, after all, the ‘dry’ season. But unusual weather isn’t unknown, and we copped steady rain for an hour on our second night. The tent inner we’d brought for insect protection (essential) wasn’t waterproof, but a tiny void tucked among sandstone boulders was. The choice of what to take is yours.

In terms of packrafting, you won’t need a spray deck. PFDs and helmets are also optional (or unnecessary) as the rapids are rarely run-able by the time they open all gorges to paddlers. You will be paddling flatwater. Sun protection is essential, but the water temperature is pleasant, so wetsuits aren’t needed. Some kind of river sandal or shoe is essential, as there are many portages and wet feet are unavoidable.

Nitmiluk NP allows fuel stoves only. No wood fires are permitted.

OTHER TIPS & TRICKS Want a packrafting adventure with more whitewater than these trip notes offer? Here’s some food for thought: A video on waterwaysguide.org.au by Peter Curtis shows an amazing April 2015 trip paddling a full-flow Katherine River. Peter and friends were dropped by helicopter 30km above the gorge system, before they exited at Smitt Rock and walked their packrafts out at the end.

And if you like your walking with more challenge, you can opt to use the Waleka Walk on Day One to access Eighth Gorge. In these track notes we’ve detailed access to Eighth Gorge via the Yambi Walk, the quickest, easiest route to Eighth Gorge when carrying a heavy backpack loaded with rafts and food. The Waleka Walk is longer and slower, but does take you out to the rim of the gorge at regular intervals. There is no track underfoot to follow. Instead, walkers are guided by arrows hung from trees every 50-100m.

THE TRIP IN SECTIONS DAY 1

Ranger Station to Eighth Gorge Campsite via Dunlop Swamp and the Yambi Walk 17km; approx 5-6 hours

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Although these tracknotes outline accessing Eighth Gorge via the Yambi Walk, you can also use the longer Waleka Walk—which takes you past Smitt Rock (pictured)—if you prefer a more challenging hike (see ‘Other Tips and Tricks’ section) Easy walking through the open woodlands

From the long-term walkers’ car park, next to the Ranger Station, take the Baruwei Loop Walk anti-clockwise back along Gorge Road to where it climbs onto the escarpment.

Approximately 1.5km from the car park, there is a major track junction and a map of all the walking trails on this southern side of the gorge.

Take the right-hand fork, following the Yambi Walk signage. Continue following the Yambi Walk for 7.1km, taking all right-hand forks, to Dunlop Swamp. En route, ignore all the sidetracks to your left; these take you to points of interest in the gorge, which you’ll see on the return paddle leg.

As the Yambi Walk is essentially a service road, this is the least exciting of all your days, but the woodlands you cut through are filled with unique and colourful flowers and birdlife. At Dunlops Swamp there is a designated campsite with an emergency contact point, water tank and logbook.

From here, continue southeasterly on the Yambi Walk until you reach the next track intersection, 5km further on. This time a trail heads right. This is the 5.6km Jawoyn Valley Walk. It’s a loop, but it rejoins the Yambi Walk another 800m up the track towards Eighth Gorge. The valley walk includes small pockets of rock art, but given you have to take your full pack with you, we recommend skipping this sidetrip and continuing on to Eighth Gorge.

From the Jawoyn Valley sidetrack to Eighth Gorge campsite is another 3km, with the last kilometre becoming more of a foot track as it leads down a gentle slope into a dense grove of palm trees. The campsite is shady and idyllic, with a big swimming hole and large sandy beach. While it has no gorge views, these are easily found by following the small creek downstream of the swimming hole where it opens to truly amazing views over the gorge proper. From the campsite, there’s also a tagged track down to the floor of Katherine Gorge.

Flowering kapok Rapid below Eighth Gorge

JATBULA TRAIL

Don’t want to paddle and just want to walk? Nitmiluk NP’s famed 5-day, 62km Jatbula Trail is culturally compelling and wildly beautiful, with stunning cliffs, waterfalls, and swimming holes galore.

The track—named after Peter Jatbula, a Jawoyn Traditional Owner—traces the western edge of Arnhem Land’s escarpment, and takes you through a range of ecosystems, including savannah woodlands, monsoon forests, and riverine landscapes. You’ll have to book early, though; numbers are strictly limited, and places book out quickly.

You can read Ross Hanan’s lyrical account of his Jatbula journey in Wild #184, Winter 2022.

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DAY 2

Eighth Gorge to Thirteenth Gorge and Ninth Gorge OPTION ONE: 800m walk, 8.5km paddle; approx 5-6 hours OPTION TWO: 4km walk, 4km paddle; approx 5-6 hours

There are two options for today’s adventure.

Option One: Take the marked trail from the campsite into Katherine Gorge, inflate your packraft, load all your gear, and paddle upstream for half an hour to the Ninth Gorge campsite, which is on river left atop a large sandy beach. There are no facilities at this campsite, but it is signposted. Ninth Gorge is one of the most scenic in the whole gorge system, with plenty of opportunities for exploratory climbs and excursions. To continue paddling upstream of Ninth Gorge, you need to negotiate a large boulder block-up. Once above this, there’s nice paddling and several small portages. It is possible to push all the way up to Thirteenth Gorge, but allow a full, physical day up and back.

Option Two: Load your pack and walk cross country to Thirteenth Gorge and paddle downstream to Ninth Gorge campsite.

Allow 2-3 hours to walk to Thirteenth Gorge, and another 2-3 to paddle back down to Ninth Gorge.

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From Eighth Gorge campsite head northeast, keeping a couple of hundred metres back from the gorge edge for easier going. The river tracks a consistent NNE to Thirteenth Gorge.

As a guide, look for a distinct rocky outcrop to the northeast. At times, it looks like one big formation, but it is in fact two narrow rock towers. Aim north (left) of the rock formation. While it sits level with Thirteenth Gorge, it is several hundred metres south of the river.

This fun walk includes climbing up and over many low, rocky ridges. The terrain is relatively open and easy. Look for where the river ahead lacks any noticeable walls or gradient drop and where it first drops from the plateau into a narrow, shallow gorge filled with many dark boulders. The sides of the river here are polished and reminiscent of Swiss cheese, with epic, deep potholes carved into the dark rock. This marks the start of the gorge system. Access the gorge below this boulder section, then begin paddling downstream.

The paddle to the Ninth Gorge campsite includes several portages and, depending on river levels, there may even be one or two small rapids to run. The last and most physical obstacle before reaching camp is the large boulder block-up, mentioned

in Option One. After breaching the block-up, the river does a 90-degree right turn, then turns left again; the campsite is on river left.

Ninth Gorge is your only campsite without toilets, and it’s essential that campers make their way up onto the plateau for toileting or preferably use a poo-tube and carry their waste out. Plan ahead for this.

DAY 3

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Exploring around camp on Day Three Afterglow in Fifth Gorge Entering the spectacular Ninth Gorge Portaging above Twelfth Gorge

Ninth Gorge to Smitt Rock (Forth Gorge) Campsite

A friendly freshwater croc (Ed: Not so friendly that I’d want to wrestle one!)

4.6km; approx 5 hours

Relaxing and scenic paddling

Ninth Gorge and Eighth Gorge are short, easy and scenic paddles, but the portages become more regular once you enter Seventh Gorge, where there are roughly five portages of varying physicality in a fairly short distance. From here, you emerge into the truly spectacular Sixth Gorge. There is, on river left, a paddlers’-only campsite in this gorge.

Fifth Gorge, once again, has several portages, but it ends with a long and spectacular paddle below towering cliffs and into Fourth Gorge, where Smitt Rock sits mid-river like a massive ship trying to push its way upstream.

The paddlers’-only campsite is on river right, just upstream of Smitt Rock. This stunning campsite is the best in the gorge system. A bushwalkers’ campsite is located on the opposite side (river left), on top of the cliffs.

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DAY 4

Fourth Gorge to Nitmiluk Visitors’ Centre 4.5km; approx 3-5 hours IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Campsite at Ninth Gorge Feeling small as we paddle Sixth Gorge, hemmed in by cliffs Sublime sunset above Day Three’s camp About as technical as the paddling gets

CONTRIBUTORS: Chris and Craig are vagabonds and seekers; pursuing adventures in Australia’s wild places between contract work in the outdoor industry.

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We recommend getting a really early start on this day to ensure you have some of the main tourist sites, and most spectacular gorge paddling, to yourself as you are now approaching sections of gorge accessible to day trippers.

After leaving camp, just beyond Smitt Rock is an abandoned campsite that can be seen on river left. Half a kilometre after this, you reach the day’s first, and longest, portage, known as the Dry Rapids. Beyond this, you enter one-kilometre-long Third Gorge. Halfway along, on river left, are the Lily Ponds. A short walk leads to a deep swimming hole surrounded by tall cliffs. It’s a stunning spot, but also a major destination for day trippers. The first day-hire kayakers arrive about 9AM, and boat tours by 10AM. At the end of Third Gorge is another rocky bar. Portage of this barrier must be on river left. You then enter the spectacular 2.4km-long Second Gorge. The sheer walls here are huge, and if you time it right, you’ll have it to yourself. You should reach Butterfly Gorge, at its western end, just as the hordes of day paddlers and tour boats come swarming around the corner like a flotilla of drunk ducks in drag. Most of these paddlers continue heading upstream due to their time constraints, so it’s a good time to stop and explore Butterfly Gorge. The river is 30m deep at this point, and according to the Jawoyn, this is where Bolung, the Rainbow Serpent, lives. Butterfly Gorge is home to a pocket of monsoon rainforest, which is habitat for swarms of crow butterflies.

From Butterfly Gorge, the Katherine River makes a 90-degree bend to the right, and in 300m turns 90 degrees again to the left. It’s then only a short paddle to the end of Second Gorge, where there is a large pontoon for the kayak-hire business. Disembark here.

Downstream of the pontoon is the Bamjon Track. This shared walking and mountain biking trail weaves up the cliff face to Pat’s Lookout. From the lookout, it’s 4km back to your car following the Windolf Trail then Baruwei Loop or 6km if you choose to return via the Baruwei Lookout and Visitors’ Centre. W

GEAR REVIEW

SUMMIT GEAR/WHIPPA

OVERLAND 60 ULTRALIGHT PACK Lighter. Stronger. Better.

Lighter.

Stronger.

Better. It’s

hard to argue the Overland 60 hasn’t achieved that and then some.”

O

VER IN THE US, largely influenced by its substantial thru-hiking community, the trend to ultralight

gear has been going strong for some years now. Australia has been slow to follow suit, in part due to gear conservatism here, and in part due to our spiky, hard vegetation that can rip insubstantial gear to shreds. Tassie, especially, can be brutal, but it’s not alone; there are shrubberies at walking height all over Oz that just love to tear and puncture and generally just give gear a very hard time.

But up in NSW’s Blue Mountains, Summit Gear—which has been constructing packs locally since 1981, yes, the

NEED TO KNOW

very year Wild first launched—has quietly been going

Intended use: Ultralightweight multiday hiking

about making ultralight packs designed to deal with

resistance of 1000D Cordura; and for the pack’s back—

Aussie brutality, with the Blueys being a perfect testing

UltraGrid, which uses 210D recycled yarn interwoven with

ground. But I had a different testing ground in mind once

Dyneema, making it incredibly tear-resistant. These mate-

I got my mitts on Summit Gear’s Overland 60L pack: An at

rials are all either waterproof or have had a waterproof

times brutal three-day, entirely off-track outing in NSW’s

backing applied; thanks to all seams being tape-sealed,

New England region, where the pack would be dragged

the pack is essentially waterproof. Even when I took the

over rocks and through mud, be taken on swims, be

pack on a 50m swim, the interior stayed nearly dry.

Materials: Body—DCF 99gsm; base—U 800X UHMWPE; frame—alloy bar with 1mm HDPE Weight (as tested): 942g with frame Removable frame: Yes Extendable/removable lid: Yes, sold separately Waterproof: Yes

prodded and poked, be forced to deal with blackberries

But just because the Overland is incredibly light, that

and thorned vines, and be pushed through vegetation so

doesn’t mean it’s flimsy. This isn’t to say you should load it

dense it sometimes took minutes to move just metres.

up with 30kg+ for a ten-day outing, but three days’ gear,

Spoiler alert: It dealt with the lot with ease.

plus nearly 5kg of camera equipment, was well within its

Compartments: 1

Given the pack weighs just 942g (as tested), this was

capacity. Speaking of loading up the pack, you can pur-

Hip-belt pockets: 2

quite the feat. But the materials have been well chosen:

chase separately a detachable lid (102g) that sits atop the

RRP: $619

For the pack’s body—Dyneema Composite Fabric (which

pack and that adds a further 8L capacity. The lid is not the

More info: summitgear.com.au

is abrasion-, UV- and tear-resistant, with a tensile strength

only optional element, either; the pack’s supporting frame

fifteen times that of steel); for its base—Ultra 800X UHMWPE

sheet (which, unlike the lid, comes standard with the pack)

(non-branded Dyneema), which has double the abrasion

is actually removable if you want to save a further 190g.

Airstream Pump—it took about 3.5 sacks of air to fill the

REVIEW

SEA TO SUMMIT

SLEEP SYSTEM

Warmth, comfort and portability.

I

WILD

air doesn’t escape during inflation. (The valve also has a rapid-dump option for quick and hassle-free deflation).

The mat also has Thermolite insulation, which reduces heat loss, and boosts its R-value to 3.5.

On the first night, the forecasted low was 9ºC. Despite

GENERALLY RUN COLD and have strug-

the 850+ down fill Spark Sleeping Bag having a -1ºC com-

gled to find a good sleep system that

fort rating (NB: the Spark also has 7ºC and -9ºC versions),

provides the trifecta of warmth, comfort and

because I feel the cold, I slipped the Silk Blend Liner inside

portability. The Sea to Summit Sleep Sys-

it, gaining a little extra warmth (approx 8% apparently),

tem—a modular system that includes the

with a bonus being that the liner keeps the bag clean.

Spark Down Sleeping Bag ( -1ºC), the Aeros

136

mat—its multi-function valve has a one-way option so that

Being 168cm tall, I was close to the regular (170cm)

Ultralight Pillow, the Ether Light XT Insulated

bag’s size limit; nonetheless, I had enough wiggle room for

Sleeping Mat, the Silk Blend Liner, and the

extra layers and movement. I still had to shuffle a little to

Reactor Extreme Liner—proved itself under

get into the liner and bag, with its shorter half zipper, but

the starlit chill of Arapiles in autumn.

once in position, I was impressively cozy. The surprisingly

Let’s start with the Ether Light XT. At

quiet sleeping mat allowed me to shift positions without

10cm thick, it’s a plush sleeping mat, and

falling off it, while the Aeros Ultralight Pillow—which can

good for both back and side sleeping, but

also be inflated with the pumpsack—stayed in place on

despite its high volume, inflation was a

the mat thanks to Sea to Summit’s Pillow Lock System.

breeze. The mat not only comes with an

And I didn’t need to worry about condensation on the tent

REVIEW

OUTDOOR RESEARCH

HELIUM ASCENTSHELL JACKET

Yes, I know; I forgot to do up the roll-top closure

Ultralight toughness.

A few other elements are worth mentioning: It has two well-sized stretch pouches on the hip belt; two more stretch pouches on the side of the pack, large enough to fit 1L water bottles in; a back pocket suitable for stashing

I

’ve read too many of Dan Slater’s columns. I’ve become a UL convert. Well, almost; there are some things I refuse

to compromise on. Like a decent shell jacket, one that’ll

rain gear in; the mouth of the pack has a roll-top closure; and there plenty of

reliably shelter me regardless of the conditions. Normally,

lashing/attachment points.

this means carrying a heavier, bulkier product. But now I

The pack won’t be for everyone, however. If you’re carrying heavy

don’t need to, thanks to the Outdoor Research (OR) Helium

loads on big trips, you’ll want something burlier. It has no zips for easy

AscentShell, which at 326g (men’s medium) offers a tanta-

access (they add weight and compromise strength), nor does it have

lisingly lightweight build without sacrificing quality.

internal compartments for organisation (weight, or lack thereof, again

Over the last five months, the Helium AscentShell has

being the priority). And while the pack is very reasonably-priced given its

become a mainstay in my bushwalking kit. Between

feature set, not everyone needs this level of quality or lightweightness.

walking in the notoriously cold and rainy mountains of

But for those that do need these qualities, the pack is a winner. So much

Tasmania, Kosciuszko and the Victorian Alps, it’s copped a

so, Summit Gear has actually decided to take the Yanks on at their own

battering. It’s held its own, however, thanks to three main

game, and is launching the pack in the US—and in fact globally—under its

technologies. The first is OR’s proprietary AscentShell fabric

Whippa brand. The tagline? Lighter. Stronger. Better. It’s hard to argue the

and the second is Pertex’s Shield Air membrane, which

Overland 60 hasn’t achieved that and then some.

are both made using an electrospinning process, and yield

JAMES MCCORMACK

improved waterproof/windproof/breathable qualities.

(Being a sweaty human, I’ve appreciated this breathability when clambering over Tassie’s awkward boulder fields, and up exposed knolls in Kossie’s Main Range.) Thirdly, there’s

walls getting the bag wet; its hood and

the Pertex Diamond Fuse, which achieves greater abrasion

footbox are water-resistant. It was the best

NEED TO KNOW

resistance by using interlocking diamond-shaped yarns.

camp sleep I’ve had in a while.

Intended use: Ultralight backpacking

(No tears or holes yet, despite busting through fields of

The next night’s temps dropped to 3ºC, so I turned to the Reactor Extreme Liner for even more warmth. The drawcord footbox made it easy to wear as an extra layer while getting ready for bed, and the soft, stretchknit fabric added extra comfort.

While these items can be purchased individually—all are great on their own, though—what really impressed me was the way they worked together as a complete sleep system. The liners add loads of versatility for colder nights. The pillow and mat, which use the same pumpsack, lock together well. And the 850+ loft down of the Spark bag, and the Thermolite insulation of the Ether Light XT Sleeping Mat offer great warmth for the weight. That trifecta I talked about at the start; I finally felt like I’d won it.

WENDY LAW

Product: Weight (as tested)/RRP/Packed Size - Spark Down -1ºC Sleeping Bag (Women’s Regular): 610g/$649.99/16x16x28cm - Ether Light XT Sleeping Mat (Women’s Long): 650g/$379.99/12x12x28cm

scoparia and scraping against rough dolerite.)

And it’s got loads of other clever features: Spacious external pockets (designed to be accessible when wearing packs and harnesses), as well as internal stash pockets; waterproof YKK zips; a helmet-compatible hood; and adjustable drawcords to ensure a snug fit. It’s super compact and packable too.

Two things to note, though: the

NEED TO KNOW Intended use: Lightweight alpine adventures

- Reactor Extreme Sleeping Bag Liner (Compact Mummy): 380g/$134.99/7x12x15cm

sizing (I’m usually a medium, but a

- Silk Blend Sleeping Bag Liner (Compact Mummy): 150g/$179.99/6x8x12cm

from the hem and cuffs. Because it’s

Waterproof/ breathable: Yes

right from the very edges, though,

Layers: 3

this in no way affects waterproofness.

Weight (as tested): 301g (Men’s small)

- Aeros Ultralight Pillow (Regular): 60g/$54.99/5.5x5.5x7.5cm More info: seatosummit.com.au

small for this jacket); and recently, I’ve noticed fine microfibres extending

It’s not quite as light as helium, but it’s close. And it’s robust enough that I’m one step nearer to being completely converted to Dan’s UL ethos.

RYAN HANSEN

RRP: $699.95 More info: outdoorresearch. com.au

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137

[ WINTER ] GEAR

REVIEW

OSPREY

SOELDEN 42

BACKCOUNTRY TOURING PACK Roomy but technical.

A

When you’re backcountry ski or snowboard touring

... staying organised really counts.”

LL TOO OFTEN WHEN I head into the backcountry, I tend to be struggling to cram everything in. Partly, well, mainly in fact, it’s because I often lug out a DSLR camera

body, two or three lenses (one of which alone weighs about 1.5kg), batteries etc. And partly, it’s because I usually carry a few redundancies safety-wise. Even for short tours, this means not only the standard avvy gear, skins and so on, but also a down jacket plus a survival bag, headlamp, etc. Basically, I want to know that if I have to spend an enforced night out that I’ll make it through it, even if uncomfortably.

Enter Osprey’s Soelden 42. It’s the largest in the Soelden/Sopris line (the Sopris being the women’s version), a backcountry-specific snowsports pack that has 22L, 32L and 42L versions. (For the Sopris, it’s 20, 30 and 40). The 42 is actually designed for overnight hut touring, and despite my best efforts, on day tours, I’ve never quite filled it, even with all my camera gear. And despite that camera gear not being light (nor for that matter, my regular touring rig; I frequently ski with Marker Duke 16 bindings, which weigh a ton), I’ve found that for a 42L yet relatively lightweight pack, the Soelden 42 can carry a load well, even under movement while skiing.

And although there’s a strong case to be made for packs with few compartments for organ-

NEED TO KNOW Intended use: Backcountry snowsports, hut-touring Materials: 210D nylon, with PFAS-free DWR Weight (as tested): 1.51kg Extendable lid: Yes Carry modes: Ski— diagonal and vertical; snowboard—horizontal and vertical Avalanche gear storage: Yes, in separate front compartment Hip-belt pockets: 1 RRP: $399.95 More info: osprey.com/au/en

isation (see the Summit Gear Overland 60 review in this issue), there’s also a strong case for the opposite. Especially when you’re backcountry ski or snowboard touring. Staying organised really counts. No element is more critical, however, than being able to access avalanche-rescue gear quickly and efficiently. If there’s been a slide, and someone’s trapped, every second counts—you don’t want to be rummaging around. The Soelden’s separate front-panel pocket allows you to access all your avvy gear instantly. Meanwhile, an oyster-shell back-panel full zip lets you access everything else in the separate main compartment effortlessly, which BTW, keeps everything dry. (You can also enter from the top.) The lid (which is removable if you decide you really don’t need all that space) has multiple compartments, ideal for stashing goggles separately. There are actually loads of other compartments; there’s not space to list them all, but when I counted all the pockets, sleeves and compartments I could find, I got to ten. Perhaps, however, there are more.

Here are a few more relevant features: It has either A-frame or diagonal ski carrying. Vertical or horizontal snowboard carrying. Massive, glove-friendly zipper toggles. Sled-carry attachment loops. Dual-position helmet carry. An adjustable strap for easy under-the-lid rope carrying. Iceaxe loops and a hip-belt gear loop. This is a feature-heavy pack.

Not every ski or snowboard tourer will need a pack this large (although it’s worthwhile considering that for travel involving flights, it allows you to maximise your carry-on luggage capacity), but for those that do, the backcountry-specific Soelden 42 is one of the best options out there.

JAMES MCCORMACK

Oyster-shell design lets you access gear easily

REVIEW

BLACK DIAMOND

NEVE PRO CRAMPONS Light and compact.

I

WAS LAUGHING THE OTHER DAY with Sam Smoothy (who’s written this issue’s cover story about skiing NZ’s 3,000m peaks) about how there’s no ski mountaineer-

ing in Australia. And yes, while he’s right, that doesn’t mean there’s no place in Oz for ski-mountaineering-oriented ice axes or lightweight crampons. It takes just one sketchy boot-pack up hard, high-angled snow—and there’s plenty of this in Oz if you head into the right terrain—for you to be crying out for both. The thing is, or at least was, I’d largely stopped taking out crampons with me because my old steel ice-climbing ones were just too heavy. But Black Diamond’s updated Neve Pro crampons are—despite being heavier than their claimed weight of 394g; mine weigh in at 466g—just so light that I brought a pair along for a four-day outing on the Western Faces last spring.

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REVIEW

THE NORTH FACE

BREITHORN DOWN HOODIE

Silky soft and warm.

I

LOVE DOWN HOODIES. They’re super light, super warm, super breathable. I’ve owned a half-dozen of

them in my life, with various levels of insulating warmth, and I’ve loved them all. Down jackets, for me are a bit like your kids (if you happen to have any). You love them all, and you’re not supposed to have favourites. But last year, I got my hands on The North Face’s Summit Series Breit-

course, windchill only really matters if the wind is get-

horn Hoodie, and well, it’s now hard to maintain my policy

ting through to your skin, which with the Breithorn,

of not having favourites. It’s not merely that at 461g the

it wasn’t. The jacket has excellent wind-resistance,

Breithorn is relatively light, thanks to its 800-fill down and

thanks in part to its thicker-than-average baffles.

20D 38gsm material (yes, there are lighter down hoodies

One last thing about temperatures, when it does

out there, but they don’t offer similar levels of insulation).

get warmer, it tends to get damper. Snow turns to

It’s that the Breithorn just feels nice. Really nice. In fact, it’s

slush or even to rain. But the Breithorn does well with

a bit hard to put my finger on it exactly, but I almost feel

water repellency. Not only does its ripstop nylon outer

like breaking into a smile every time I put it on. I think it’s

have a non-PFC DWR finish, its insulating fill is TNF’s

the softness of the lining material; it feels almost silky.

ProDown, a hydrophobic down that doesn’t clump

It is warm though. When I arrived in Idaho earlier this

easily when damp.

year to go skiing, my first day on the hill had a maximum

But despite its warmth, the Breithorn wasn’t so

temp of -27°C. Yeah, the max, and that’s before windchill.

warm that I couldn’t wear it above freezing, although

Brrr! Actually, not quite as brrr as I might have expected,

I wouldn’t take it out at warmer temps like 15°C. But

because after one run wearing the Breithorn, I realised I

from single digits down, it felt just right. Speaking of

had to lose a layer; I was too warm. I ended up being able

just right, the Breithorn has a goldilocks cut, with a

to ski in those temps with just a thermal top, a Summit

slim fit that’s not too tight, not too loose. And the hood

Series Futurefleece (which is incredibly thin and light-

was able to slide easily over my helmet too.

weight) and the Breithorn. And that’s it, despite the cold.

In many ways, the Breithorn is super simple,

Admittedly, I don’t feel the cold as much as most, and

without loads of bells and whistles. But by golly, it’s

YMMV—your mileage may vary. One other thing, though,

comfortable. It’s like being enveloped in a soft cloud

is that when I mentioned windchill, with the speeds you

of warmth.

pick up on skis, temps dropped to around -50°C. But of

JAMES MCCORMACK

The Breithorn’s non-PFC DWR beads up well

NEED TO KNOW Fill: 800-loft ProDown DWR: Yes (non-PFC) Weight (as tested): 461g RRP: $600 More info: thenorthface.com.au

I’m glad I did. The Neve Pros ended up seeing more use than my axe. On many steep climbs in terrain that, if you slipped, you likely wouldn’t stop for hundreds of

NEED TO KNOW

metres, I felt the Neve Pros, with their ten points, gave me enough traction that I left

Intended use: Backcountry skiing, ski mountaineering

the ice axe firmly affixed to my pack, and climbed with poles alone. Not only that, the Neve Pros packed up small. Really small. While the cable construction means you won’t be using them for waterfall ice, it means you can fold them in two; they really

Material: Aluminium

take up very little space.

They were quick to get on and off, too, and the attachment system was intuitive and easy. The toe bail is nice and wide, so it accommodates ski boots. And they come stock with anti-ball plates; if you’ve ever had a ball of sticky spring snow weighing what feels like a kilo or more stuck to your crampons, you’ll know why this is important.

In short, if you’re the type of backcountry skier who seeks out steeps in Oz or elsewhere, the Neve Pros will make you feel a lot more confident on sketchy bootpacks.

They really have only one downside: They’re not super easy to source in Australia, and it may require some internet sleuthing to track down a pair.

Foldable: Yes The Neve Pros are really compact

Weight (claimed): 394g Weight (as tested): 466g Points: 10 More info: blackdiamondequipment.com

JAMES MCCORMACK

WINTER 2024

139

GEAR

SUPPORT OUR

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THE NORTH FACE:

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140

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WILD

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Featuring a host of benefits, our Seawool® fleece is quick-drying, anti-bacterial, odourless and thermoregulating. Pair with our recycled hiking pants for a sustainable set-up that will redefine your outdoor adventures. RRP: $99.99 XTM.COM.AU

GEAR

A gear guide from our advertisers

OSPREY:

PATAGONIA:

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MICRO PUFF JACKET

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best warmth-to-weight ratio of

tials handy, like belay gloves, ATCs and GPS/tracker units, while com-

any jacket we’ve ever created and

pression straps help secure the load. RRP: $319.95 OSPREY.COM

the highest compressibility of any of our synthetic jackets. It is your go-to insulation piece for mixed (and possibly miserable) cold conditions. RRP: $449.95 PATAGONIA.COM.AU

SUMMIT GEAR:

WHIPPA OVERLAND 60 We have combined 43 years of pack making experience with the

VÖLKL:

most advanced materials from around the world to create the ulti-

BLAZE 94 SKIS

mate hiking pack. Named after one of the most iconic hikes in Aus-

The new highly versatile Blaze series

tralia, the Overland 60 combines the trifecta of ultralight, durability,

adds a new dimension for skiers who

and comfort. Weighing only 940g, all seams have been taped sealed

like performance but appreciate a

to make the ultimate purpose-built hiking pack. Made and designed

playful, agile feel. An elasticated,

in the Blue Mountains Australia. RRP: $619 WHIPPA.COM.AU

rubbery material on the tip and tail acts like a bumper, especially in wind-blown and

SEA TO SUMMIT:

tracked conditions, making the ski more settled

FRONTIER ULTRALIGHT COOKSET

and providing fantastic flotation. The Blaze 94 is popular for freeride touring too, thanks to its light weight (1,566g @ 179 cm). That’s why Völkl also offers Smart Glue skins tailored to each Blaze model. RRP: $1299 SPORTRADE.COM.AU

GME:

XRS-660 CB RADIO

Sea to Summit pioneered collapsible cookware and dinnerware. This set elevates camp kitchen gear with EU food-grade silicone and hard-anodized aluminium for rapid heat transfer.

The 2.2L Frontier Collapsible Pot has a secure Click-Safe handle and nests tableware inside. Frontier Bowls and Cups are ergonomically functional, with glass-reinforced nylon rims for easy holding and silicone rubber sidewalls for compatibility.

Ideal for those with large appetites and limited storage. RRP: $224.99 SEATOSUMMIT.COM.AU

Introducing the next generation in UHF CB Radios, the XRS-660. Built with a suite of

PLATYPUS: QUICKDRAW FILTER

new features including a Colour TFT LCD

Customise your water filter system with this fast, squeeze reservoir

screen, Bluetooth® audio connectivity

compatible, ultralight water filter. With its compact size, weigh-

and built-in GPS functionality inside a

ing in at 69g, this filter can fit in your pants pocket, making it

rugged IP67 Ingress Protection and MIL-

ideal for backpacking and other outdoor adventures. The

STD810G rated chassis, the XRS-660 is

updated range of new colours ensures there is a filter for everyone. RRP: $99.95 SPELEAN.COM.AU

our toughest and most advanced Handheld UHF CB Radio yet. RRP: $549 GME.NET.AU

WILD EARTH: RAB:

MUON 50 Minimising weight so you can maximise your time on the trail, the Rab Muon is the ideal companion for long distance hiking. The ultralight, ultratough fabric and lightweight back system keep excess weight down and are exceptionally strong, capable of supporting heavy loads with superb stability. Versatile and

SEA TO SUMMIT SPARK -1ºC SLEEPING BAG Calling all the gram counters! Sea to Summit’s lightweight and packable Spark Sleeping Bag gets an update. Packed with RDS-certified, 850+ fill power goose down and made with ultralight, breathable 10D nylon liner and a 10D shell with PFC-free DWR, which keeps the hood and footbox highly water resistant. This sleeping bag is great for hikers, with a temperature rating of -1ºC all the while weighing in at only 639g. RRP: $649.99 WILDEARTH.COM.AU * We also wouldn’t exist without our amazingly talented and tireless contributors, either. One of the

streamlined, this pack adapts to your needs, whether

best ways you can help reward them is simply to subscribe to Wild. The more subscribers we have, the

you’re looking to pack more gear, pick up the pace, or

more we can pay our contributors. wild.com.au/subscribe

clock more miles. $399.95 INTERTREK.COM.AU WINTER 2024

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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.

PAST OUTDOORS:

A PASSION FOR THE OUTDOORS, CONSERVATION AND CREATIVITY PAST Outdoors offers a carefully selected range of hiking, camping and expedition equipment tailored to meet the needs of your next adventure. They also manufacture a range of ultralight shelters that can be heated with a titanium wood stove. They also have exclusive distribution of the innovative Hardside Hydration Swig Rig (pictured), which turns any Nalgene or PET bottle into a hydration system. Get personal, expert advice from Dave and the team by visiting the retail store south of the Royal National Park in Helensburgh NSW, or shop online at PASTOUTDOORS.COM

WILD & CO

GEOQUEST ADVENTURE RACE

LARAPINTA TRAIL TREK SUPPORT

Mountain Designs GeoQuest 48hr Adven-

YOUR TREK STARTS HERE

ture Race is the ultimate test of your physi-

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top tier trek, trail and field support services

the race is tough and it is real adventure.

for independent and self-guided hikers and

Your body will be totally exhausted, your

trekkers taking on extended-day treks on

brain will be begging you to stop and you’ll

the Larapinta Trail or off-track, cross-coun-

have had little or no sleep for 48 hours. This

try treks across not just Central Australia,

is certainly not your average weekend!

but right around the entire country, includ-

Why do it? Because for anyone who crosses

ing now in the Victorian High Country.

the finish line, will come an elation and

TREKSUPPORT.COM.AU

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You will have taken your body and mind past anywhere you have been before. You will have shared incomparable experiences with your team mates. Ultimately you will have found that your limits are just an illusion.

Register for the experience of a lifetime at GEOQUEST.COM.AU

FISIOCREM:

DESIGNED TO KEEP YOU MOVING fisiocrem solugel is for the temporary relief of muscular aches and pains. fisiocrem Solugel is a topical anti-inflammatory gel that can be applied to the

CRADLE MOUNTAIN CANYONS

skin to help relieve painful

SERIOUSLY ADVENTUROUS

or aching muscles. It can

Cradle Mountain Canyons have been exploring the secret

be used on the go or when

side of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area

you’re resting. Ideal for:

for over a decade, taking adventure lovers canyoning,

Symptomatic relief from muscle injury, sprains and strains, muscle inflamma-

packrafting and kayaking. Ranging from adrenaline-filled

tion and post-exercise recovery. Always read the label and follow the direc-

days of waterfall jumps and slides, running rapids

tions for use.. FISIOCREM.COM.AU

through remote gorges, to the most tranquil of paddles on Tasmania’s iconic Dove Lake - there’s an experience

ALSO, PLEASE CHECK OUT OUR CLASSIFIEDS PAGES OVERLEAF, AND SHOW OUR SMALLER COMMUNITY SUPPORTERS YOUR LOVE

142

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suited to everyone’s comfort zone and beyond.

Call 1300 032 384 or visit CRADLECANYONS.COM

BRING ON TOMORROW’S ADVENTURE

Wild CLASSIFIEDS

Show our smaller supporters some love

Ultralight tipis, hiking, camping and expedition equipment.

pastoutdoors.com 1800 727 847

Superstrand LT Shop the trusted year-round insulator hoodie & vest

Quilts, Packs, Tarps and More!

KiwiUltralight.co.nz

Contact toby@adventureentertainment.com to get your spot in the Wild Classifieds

Lightweight, Comfortable, Dependable, Bushwalking packs Australian designed and made EXPLORE LIGHTWEIGHT PACKS

100% RECYCLED RAINWEAR MAKE THE SWITCH TO SUSTAINABLE ADVENTURNG

IMAGE: PAT CORDEN

An experience you will never forget

© 2023-Petzl Distribution - Marc Daviet

great food

ADVENTURE BEGINS WITH

SPECIAL $5.500

www.outdoorestore.com.au www.outdoorestore.co.nz

Your local e Store

For all your winter outdoor gear needs

Drysdale River Bushwalking ort pp Su ocal L Expedition date

9 to 22 June 2024 notraces-bushwalking-australia.com Ph: +61 457 726 525

Email us: service@outdoorestore.com.au service@outdoorestore.co.nz

WILD SHOT

A self-portrait of me riding in the backcountry in the very deep snow of Madarao Kogen in northern Nagano, Japan.

It was one of those kind of regular epic days, where a metre of snow fell overnight halfway through a 3+ metre storm. Days and days of fresh lines were to be had by those who wanted a bit of adventure, and wanted to quench their thirst for pow.”

DAN SOLO Castlemaine, VIC

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WILD

Dan wins an awesome Osprey MUTANT 22 climbing pack. It features integrated rope carry, a wide-mouth zippered opening, customisable options for carrying crampons/other items on the front of the pack, a secure and easy-to-use ice tool carry system, and the webbing hip belt 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

M O V E M O U N TA I N S W I T H A E T H E R ™ | A R I E L P R O

Hardcore. Capable. Customisable.

Through type II expeditions and unforgiving conditions, the perfect fitting Aether/Ariel Pro overcomes every obstacle. Whether you’re on a wilderness expedition or backcountry adventures, custom-fit suspension and strippable features lighten even the most gear-intensive loads— so you can be at your most capable in the backcountry.