#194
SUMMER 2024
SURVEYING TASSIE'S SOUTHWEST SKY COUNTRY
ADVENTURE ON NZ'S FIVE PASSES • TRACK NOTES: JAGUNGAL CIRCUIT • FIVE BLUE MOUNTAINS CANYONS BC SEA KAYAKING • TASSIE'S SW CAPE • PHOTO ESSAY: CLIMBING EUROPE'S 4000-ERS • PROFILE: YA REEVES Q + A WITH TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE • TASMANIA'S NO-PROTEST LAWS • TIBET'S AMNE MACHIN
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BUNGLE BUNGLES IN THE WET PACKRAFTING THE MITCHELL RIVER 19 DAYS IN THE MACLEAY GORGES
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CONTENTS ISSUE #194 SUMMER 2024
62 Timing It Right:
Wet Season in the Bungle Bungles
72 REGULARS
CONSERVATION
NONE OF THE ABOVE FEATURES
Photo Essay: Europe’s 4,000m Peaks
The Cover Shot 14 Readers’ Letters 16 Editor’s Letter 20 Gallery 24 Columns 28 Getting Started: Climbing Fiascos 48 WILD Shot 146 Green Pages 36 Opinion: No-Protest Laws 40 Southwest Tassie’s Sky Country 56 First Aussie Everest Summit 40 Years On: Q + A with Tim Macartney-Snape 44 Profile: Ya Reeves 50 Wet Season in the Bungle Bungles 62 Photo Essay: Europe’s 4,000m Peaks 72 Packrafting the Mitchell River 80 19 Days in the Macleay River Gorges 88 Tasmania’s South West Cape 96 Sea Kayaking in British Columbia 104 Circling Tibet’s Amne Machin 112 NZ’s Five Passes 118
WILD BUNCH
Blue Mountains Canyoning 126
TRACK NOTES
Jagungal Circuit 128
GEAR
Talk and Tests 136 Support Our Supporters 140
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104
Paddling BC’s Broken Group
56 Surveying Tassie’s
Southwest Sky Country
Renowned for its challenging walking, Tasmania’s South Coast Track is an ecological sanctuary and a place of precious darkness. But a proposal to build a string of private lodges along it threatens its delicate balance.
88 Wild Rivers. Wild Times
19 days. 150 kilometres. 52 river crossings. 7 topo maps. 2 food caches. And one amazing national park: An edge-to-edge crossing of Oxley Wild Rivers NP.
118 Adventure & Misadventure
Treks are sometimes described as ‘once -in-a-lifetime’ experiences. This can mean various things. It can signify the walk is so rare and special it could never truly be repeated. It can also mean it is an experience that you could not, for any amount of money, be induced to repeat. The Five Passes trek on NZ’s South Island is, perhaps, both.
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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: Matt Crompton, Craig Pearce, Grant Dixon, Anja Fuechtbauer, Gary Annett, Jenny Weber, Chris Armstrong, Craig Fardell, Joe Bean, Luke Tscharke, Ross Hanan, Ben Tibbetts, Megan Holbeck, Michael Blowers, Dan Slater, Nathan McNeil, Tom Brennan
THE
COVER
SHOT By Luke Tscharke
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There are those rare nights where everything just lines up, and this was one of them. We headed to Lion Rock—nine kilometres from the eastern terminus of the 85km South Coast Track at Cockle Creek—with a decent chance of catching an aurora with the western fall of the Milky Way; it was already an exciting combination. But what we did not see coming was the magic in the water: bioluminescence. That made it a photographer’s perfect ‘hat trick’: aurora, Milky Way, and bioluminescence all in one frame. You cannot plan for nights like these; they just happen, and when they do, you have to be ready. I stayed up most of the night, completely immersed in capturing every angle, every detail of the scene. The sky was perfectly clear: No light pollution, just the stars, the southernmost point of Australia, and me. The three-hour walk in was straightforward, but the reward at the end was unforgettable. There is a great campground nearby, though I barely used it. Evenings like these make all of the hard effort and sleepless nights worthwhile. You can read more about the South Coast Track and the threats to the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area in the accompanying feature story ‘Surveying Tassie’s Southwest Sky Country’ starting on p56.
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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.
LETTERS
[ Letter of the Issue ]
MAIN RANGE CANYONING Hello James, In October 2023, on a combined canyoning and ski weekend to Tuross Falls in Wadbilliga National Park followed by some chutes at Club Lake in Kosciuszko NP, Kev said to Ned: “I’ve got a brilliant idea. Let’s canyon Lady Northcotes Falls ... it’ll take three days ... we can stay at Opera House Hut ... easy weekend trip.” So in March 2024, our packs loaded with wetsuits, ropes, food and gear for three days, seven of us set off from Charlotte Pass for what would be more bush-bashing, more spectacular views and less hydration than we could imagine. “Let’s make our approach via the Sentinel” suggested Rosie in the week preceding. The western face proved to be quite the bash, and was made worse when we ran out of water halfway down. At some points, we only made half a kilometre per hour as we were repeatedly cliffed out and struggled through the blackberries and bull ants. Wrecked and severely dehydrated, we finally reached the old dirt
A WILD HONEYMOON (Re: ‘Are Boardwalks Disconnecting Us From Wild Places?’ and ‘Appropriate Development’ in Wild #191.) Dear Wild, We find excessive boardwalk construction a blot on the landscape, encouraging over-visitation by, dare I say, hmm, those that spoil the experience, with their noise, litter and ... selfies! Many have no interest or understanding at all of any significance of place, flora or fauna, let alone respect. We disagree with Georgia’s assumption (she must be young?) that boardwalks are more ‘comfortable’ to walk on. Not in our experience! We find hard surfaces very hard on joints and feet, and the constant hard pounding leaves us stiff and sore. We much prefer rough natural tracks. Boardwalks are as bad as walking on concrete or bitumen for us, still hiking and backpacking at 70 and 76. While boardwalks are necessary and appreciated in some areas, there is too
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QUICK THOUGHT road and stumbled to Opera House Hut. After we doused ourselves in some much-needed water from Lady Northcotes Creek, we set up camp and got to bed early in preparation for canyon day. A crisp sunny morning awaited us. We made our way through some granite rock-hopping and short rappels before reaching the epic final pitch. It was magical, peering out over the 50m billowing Canyon Falls with Watsons Crags around 1,000m above us in the background—a unique Australian location. We rappelled through the freezing, intimidating alpine water of Canyon Falls into the pools below. The last 5m included a large overhang into a dark concavity behind the spray. Our elated crew gathered at the bottom after the last successful descent to celebrate briefly before the boulder-hop back to camp. The following morning, we got up dark and early, returning to the thick of the gums and hoping to get back to Charlotte Pass with plenty of light. We ascended Lady Northcotes Creek, opting against the reverse of our arduous approach via the Sentinel. It was rock-hopping heaven! We passed Little Austria, then followed the Main Range track back to the cars and a well-deserved beer. Kevin Weeks Coombs, ACT
much so called ‘softening, making safer’ and intrusion of wildness happening across many national parks. We need to have wild places to enjoy, appreciate and keep our fitness, strength and skills of self reliance alive. Joyce Batchelor Sandfly, TAS
(Ed: Dear Readers, and this isn’t disagreeing with Joyce’s opinions at all, just to clarify in case you missed Georgia’s opinion piece, she definitely was not in favour of boardwalks, quite the opposite; she was arguing that even if you find them comfortable to walk on, that doesn’t mean they should be built everywhere.)
SEND US YOUR LETTERS TO WIN! Each Letter of the Issue wins a piece of quality outdoor kit. They’ll also, like Kevin in this issue, receive A FREE ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION TO WILD. To be in the running, send your 40-400 word letters to: editor@wild.com.au
On Ryan Hansen’s ‘Times of Change’ story in Wild #193, where he laments that not everything is once as it was in the Warrumbungles: “A really good article, sad in many many ways but a good article nevertheless. Having grown up in the Blue Mtns in the 60s-80s I can strongly relate to Ryan’s reminiscing on how things once were.” JH
EVERY published letter will receive a pair of Smartwool PhD crew hike socks. Smartwool’s merino clothing is itch- and odour-free, and their technical PhD socks have seamless toes and are mesh-panelled for comfort. Kevin’s Letter of the Issue gets something special: Firstly, a Smartwool sock drawer. It’ll include hiking, running and lifestyle socks, enough for anyone to throw out all their old raggedy, holey socks. Kevin will also get a pair of awesome Leki Legacy hiking poles, valued at $199.99. Their Speed Lock+ system lets you quickly adjust from 110 to 145cm, and they offer robust, amazing stability on mountain adventures.
FROM THE EDITOR
ON TRAILS
O
ne of my very favourite books over the last decade has been Robert Moor’s On Trails. My copy is beaten up and dog-eared and almost floppy and soft after having been taken out on so many walks as my reading material. Moor is a fabulous, thoughtful, erudite writer whose flowy prose makes reading the deep topics he tackles—natural history, science, philosophy—an effortless joy. As I said, the book is dog-eared, made worse by the fact that whenever I hit an interesting point, I’ve folded the page corner to mark it. There are many folded corners. And one of them is to mark a passage I’ve been thinking a lot about in the last two weeks, a passage about modern trail-building philosophy, at least as it relates to the US. I’ll quote a few snippets: On a wilderness trail like the AT, the goal of trail-building is, somewhat paradoxically, to artificially create something natural. ... [T] he ultimate aim of trail-building: meticulous construction, artfully concealed. ... One famous trail-builder in Maine built his stairs in such a fashion that hikers “could be fooled into thinking some benevolent god had simply dropped the rocks in that arrangement.” ... “The ultimate compliment paid to a trail crew,” wrote Woody Hesselbarth, “is to say, ‘It doesn’t look like you had to do much work to get through here.’” Why this passage in particular? And why lately? Well, a couple of weeks back I was looking for walks in my area, NSW’s northern Illawarra, where I’m literally surrounded by national parks and reserves. You’d think I’d be spoilt for choice. Unfortunately, most trails in my area, at least those close to the coast, are closed. The Wodi Wodi Track, Sublime Point Track, Lookout Track, Woodward Track, the iconic Coast Track—all are shut … and most have been for years. Yes, that is literal years, not figurative ones. Look further afield to, say, the Blue Mountains, and they’re dealing with loads of closures too. Now, I know this issue has been
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raised before in the mag, such as by Matthew Crompton’s ‘Letter to the Editor’ in Issue #191, which in turn was written in response to Mick Ripon’s opinion piece ‘Great Neglected Walks’ in Issue #190. But the problem in my neck of the woods with trails being closed isn’t necessarily neglect; in fact, it’s almost the opposite. At issue is the high- and often over-engineering of trails. Every trail undergoing maintenance in my area seems as if they’ve listened to what the American best practice is in terms of a light touch to trails … and then gone as far as possible in the other direction. The engineering—and quite frankly, the craftsmanship—is incredible, sometimes seemingly ostentatiously so. Literally thousands of heavy-duty stone stairs have been placed, along with kilometre after kilometre of raised boardwalk. Now I know that the NPWS has been dealing with land instability in my area. Trail erosion due to poor design and heavy use is common, too; many sections required remedial work. But not all. And here’s the thing: Right next to the hundreds of stone steps being placed and chiselled into the Wodi Wodi Track in the Illawarra Escarpment State Conservation Area, literally dozens and dozens of hectares of forest are being smothered by lantana. Couldn’t just a fraction of the funds allocated for these incredibly engineered trails be diverted for noxious weed control? And yes, the funds are massive. NSW is currently undergoing a $450-million spend in national-park infrastructure, including 750km of new and upgraded trails. This investment is to be commended. Highly commended. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t at least scrutinise how those funds are being allocated. Nor that we shouldn’t think about how we could get more bang for buck. I can say that not once in the last decade have I been on a recently constructed trail in NSW that I’d call low-key (although I would say the Murramarang South Coast Walk is better than most), or that might meet
the ultimate trail-building goal that Moor mentioned: “meticulous construction, artfully concealed.” These highly engineered trails have their pitfalls. Georgia Doherty wrote in Wild #191 how they disconnect us from the country we walk through; her words were eloquent, and there’s no need for me to retrace them. What I want to add here are simply some nuts-and-bolts considerations. Firstly, re-building older trails to such incredible standards—notwithstanding that it’s sometimes necessary, especially in high-use areas—means they are closed for rehabilitation for much, much longer periods. Secondly, the high cost per kilometre of new trail construction ultimately means fewer kilometres of trail. The day after I snuck up a couple of weeks ago to see how one of the local trail projects was progressing, I was in the Blueys down by Glenbrook Creek. The trail there, an old one, really did fall into that light-touch category, despite being ‘official’. It was a pleasure to walk on, but yes, it had obstacles and steep sections where you needed to watch your step. And as I walked, I tried to think of the last time I was on a newly constructed trail in NSW that had similarly minimal engineering; none came to mind. But how many more kilometres of trail could we have if more were built like this? It’s hard not to believe that you’d get ten or more times the length for any given amount of funds as opposed to those highly engineered trails. Which do you want: 40km of Three Capes-style track? Or 400km of less engineered track? Look, I imagine low-key trails have recently been constructed somewhere around the state, let alone elsewhere around the country (in fact, I’d be surprised if the latter isn’t true). But nationwide, there is no denying the trend towards expensive, highly engineered mega-trails. Occasionally this is good; often it’s bad. Let’s hope national parks around the country can eliminate the latter. JAMES MCCORMACK
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GALLERY
After our descent of the Crossing and Davey Rivers in Southwest Tasmania, the most logical onward route back towards civilisation was to continue using our aquatic transport across the open waters of Port Davey. Packrafts aren’t ideal for seafaring, however, and are very susceptible to wind and waves. Where possible, near-shore paddling felt safer, and was certainly more scenic, but swell rebound and surf occasionally proved a bit exciting. Here, David Bowman is caught by an unexpected wave.
by GRANT DIXON
Sony A6600, 16-55mm f2.8 G, f10, 1/400, ISO 200
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SUMMER 2024
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GALLERY
Simon Sharples about to drop into Danae Brook’s ‘chockstone’ abseil. The chockstone isn’t actually the huge one at the top of the image; it’s another one halfway down the abseil, and it’s infamous for catching ropes. Danae is certainly a place that makes it worthwhile to bring the fisheye lens along
by JAMES MCCORMACK
Canon 5D MkIV, 15mm fisheye f2.8, 1/125, f5.6, ISO 2000
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Ewan Barry maxing out his reach on Endorphine (26) at Lost World on kunanyi. A wonderful yet somewhat esoteric, technical compression climb on perfect dolerite.
by MICHAEL BLOWERS
Nikon Z5, Canon 16-35mm f/4, 1/250, f6.3, ISO 640
SUMMER 2024
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Columns: WILD THINGS meganholbeck.substack.com
[MEGAN HOLBECK]
meganholbeck.com @meganholbeck
TO THE LIGHTHOUSE The wonderful Wilsons Promontory walk was well worth the wait.
T
here’s something in the air at lighthouses. It seems lighter, clearer somehow. I’m sure it’s because of their location—by definition lighthouses are isolated, unobstructed, surrounded by ocean. But the feeling is mystical, almost monastic, with a yearning loneliness and undertone of sacrifice. Or maybe that’s all in my mind, formed from a mist of romance and remoteness absorbed from picture books and tales of tragic shipwrecks and gallant rescues. Regardless of the reasons, I love a good lighthouse, the more remote the better, flavoured with tales of bravery and hardship and shining beacons in dark times. I’ve wanted to visit the one at Wilsons Promontory for decades. It shines out over some of Victoria’s most stunning coastline, and you can stay there as part of a classic four-day bushwalk, breaking up camping with a stay in a lighthouse keeper’s cottage with hot showers, beds and a kitchen. (Ed: See Wild #193’s track notes outlining precisely this walk.) This spring we went, our family and the Schultz’s, doing our first four-day pack-carrying walks together, working out how to make it fun rather than a slog. The ‘night at the light’ was the treat at the end, the lollipop after the dentist of camping. When you’ve wanted to go somewhere for a long time, there’s a danger the reality won’t measure up. As soon as I saw the peninsula of land sticking out into the ocean, the white of the stone tower’s crown bright in the spring sun, I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed. And I wasn’t: not by the cluster of historic white buildings that awaited after the last huff up the hill, nor by the cavorting whales timing their leaps for when we were out on the lighthouse balcony. We watched wombats stroll around the green velvet lawns, sat
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on rough granite boulders and watched the sun set behind the Prom, before eating dinner gathered around the long kitchen table. The weather was perfect. Ranger Bailey told us of fog so thick you couldn’t see the lighthouse from twenty metres away, but instead we lay in the sun admiring the islands strung out towards Tasmania, bemoaning the fact that Bailey hadn’t started a sideline in gin and tonics to supplement his official duties. Bailey told us all about the light, from the early days when it burnt oil, its running overseen by a team of four, their
WHEN YOU’VE WANTED TO GO
SOMEWHERE FOR A LONG TIME, THERE’S A
DANGER THE REALITY WON’T MEASURE UP.” families forming the community. (Now it’s automated, lit by LEDs, with automatic bulb-changing and remote notifications.) The museum at its base told us the rest, with wooden cabinets full of neatly folded semaphore flags, walls adorned with old newspaper articles with hand-drawn illustrations of terrified women being hoisted ashore from the (twice yearly!) supply ship. There were photos of unsmiling boys wearing cork lifejackets, looking like barrels with humans grown inside; and of a group of nurses who’d spent a month at the Prom in the 1950s, lounging in glamourous swimsuits on empty beaches of white, squeaky sand and brilliant blue water. Two stories stuck out. One from 1942, when a Japanese submarine surfaced somewhere between King Island and the
Prom, a dismantled float plane strapped to its front. Once assembled, the plane set off on a three-hour fact-finding mission to Melbourne and back, before both submarine and plane disappeared again. Incidents like this led to the setting up of coastal radar stations, including one operating next to the Wilsons Prom lighthouse. The other story was from Helen Nice, the lighthouse keeper’s daughter back in the 1870s. The family (of eight!) were new to living here, and times were tough: Their six-monthly supply vessel was months overdue. The little community was running out of food, forced to eat grain meant for animals, scraping together what was left to make meals. And Christmas was approaching: All feasting supplies (and presents) were on the next boat. Finally a schooner was sighted, signalling it would return the next day. Then the weather turned, and the sea stayed rough for weeks; landing the ship was impossible. Finally, it was Christmas Eve, and still no food, treats or presents. Then in burst one of Helen’s brothers, “scratched, bleeding, clothes in tatters, but with a beaming smile on his face” carrying a Christmas goose! The nine-year-old had stumbled upon a Cape Barren goose trapped in low scrub, given chase and had “literally fallen on it”. You’ll have to imagine the rest: How a small boy saved Christmas by wrestling a massive goose, and somehow killed it and carried it back to the grateful families as the best gift ever. It’s a story of the magic of both lighthouses and the festive season. The only way my nine-year-old would wrestle a goose is out of a freezer bag, but he and the other kids walked the 25km from the lighthouse back to Tidal River without complaint. The trip lacked both romance and drama, but was truly wonderful, a beacon in the long haul of parenting.
Columns: OUTSIDE WITH TIM [TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE]
COVER VERSIONS Just because you’ve already done a particular trip or adventure before doesn’t mean there’s no value in doing a repeat.
A
s time moves on, my playlist of tunes has a growing number of cover songs, something that would never have happened without digital music apps, or I guess, getting along in life—the years piling on means more versions of any given song get made. Of course, personal taste dictates that there are some covers of songs or tunes that I warm to (gold), some I am indifferent to (most), and some that are just unfathomable noise to my ears. The good covers range from complete makeovers to accurate copies of the original with nuanced changes. For me, the binding element is commonly the lyrics; of less importance is the theme of the tune. A good tune can be sullied by banal lyrics or a voice that grates, but great lyrics can carry a song despite a relatively banal tune. And they can be a great lead-in to a completely different tune, especially ones that demand an acquired taste. These thoughts, leading to the following somewhat tenuous analogy, occupied my mind as I happily worked my way up a hill (many in Australia would call it a mountain, but on a planetary scale, it’s a hill) that in recent years I’ve taken to travelling up and down quite often. For a long time, I was averse to repeating adventures, but I’ve gradually come around to realising that the good ones are well worth repeating. Repeated acquaintance uncovers deeper layers of appreciation and nuances previously unnoticed. Like a favourite tune, favourite places bring on a pleasing familiarity, with different weather and seasons delivering a multitude of enjoyable ‘covers’. In summer, there’s a footpad I know that leads up a particular hill in Kosciuszko NP. It
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meanders up through the snow gums, and mainly is distinct enough to easily follow but is in places overgrown, enough to keep you guessing where it leads. It has no straight lines, no even grades or steps, and is broken and soft under foot; it is just joyfully natural. In winter, if I’m here at this hill on skis, and lucky enough to be the first sliding up after a storm, making my own skin tracks is always a game worth engaging in. My challenge is always to make it as efficient
FOR A LONG TIME, I WAS AVERSE TO REPEATING ADVENTURES, BUT I’VE GRADUALLY COME AROUND TO REALISING THAT THE GOOD ONES
ARE WELL WORTH REPEATING.” as possible, striking a balance between ease and circuitousness. Coming down, I’ve had many a ‘gold cover’, where creamy powder makes narrow, awkwardseeming gaps between unyielding trees a breeze to swoop down through. But I’ve also had times where I’ve had to endure conditions that create the most discordant ‘cover’ versions ever—namely, when there is breakable crust. This is a snowpack with an icy crust that’s hard enough to carry your weight … until halfway through a turn, it gives way and sets your skis on a straight, sub-surface course to the next tree while your shins get shredded by the bastard crust. It’s
as bad a ‘cover’ tune as you can get, and what’s worse, you can’t turn it off; it can only be made a little more bearable by removing your skis and walking—the greatest indignity to a committed skier. Another ‘cover’ version of this hill came relatively recently with the devastating, but sadly predictable, bushfires that torched most of the forest within view. Nature is more resilient than we typically think, so after the initial shock and acceptance—like developing an acquired taste for a radically different cover—my senses recalibrated; I began to see beauty in the white, wind-bent, skeletal forest of dead trees. Snow gums had turned to ghost gums. The outlines of ridges and gullies were etched more clearly, making it easier to discern the lie of the land. Catastrophic fires such as those that passed through here are major disruptors to nature’s homeostasis, and it’s fascinating to see the system inexorably readjusting. Despite opportunism from some species, there are glimpses of a slow and gradual return to what was once there, but it’s a process that will take many human lifespans. Of course, repeating a favourite piece of music again and again can lead to overload, the only cure for which is giving it a rest to let time restore the magic. But thankfully this isn’t true when applied to adventures, partly because there’s nothing constant about a natural landscape— it is always changing. And if repetition is turning an adventure banal, a guaranteed way of rediscovering the original delight and excitement is to introduce others. Seeing it through their eyes can bring back the original shine with the added timbre of familiarity.
MADE FOR ADVENTURE
Photo: Harrison Candlin
E S T. 1 9 7 5
B O R N O F T H E M O U N TA I N S
Columns: OF MOUTHS & MONIES [DAN SLATER]
DWR UPDATE: PART II Back in 2017, in his very first column, Dan wrote about the use of PFCs within the outdoor-equipment industry. In this second instalment of a twopart column, he’s checking back in to see what progress has been made.
L
ast issue, I began a two-part update of the very first topic I tackled for this column back in 2017—the harmful chemicals used in the DWR coatings of our waterproof and water-resistant clothing and footwear. I went down a science rabbit hole to map out the differences between too many acronyms—PFC, PFOA, ePTFE, ePE—and reprise their detrimental effects on our environment and our bodies, and it may have been a bit of a challenging read. This issue, I’ll be doing my best to leave the science aside and to directly investigate the progress made by the brands we know by name and use on our adventures. Based on a 2024 report by Ethical Consumer in the UK, there is currently a huge disparity in the levels of commitment between the major outdoor brands in ridding their products of fluoropolymers and long-chain carbon molecules. They scrutinised the current levels of PFC and ePTFE usage in clothing, footwear and tents, combined with brands’ stated projected phase-out dates (it’s worth noting, however, that many brands available in Australia weren’t included in the study, and many brands in the study aren’t available in Australia). Only five brands scored 100% across all parameters, having phased out PFCs completely. Three of those are widely available in Australia; could I get a round of applause please for Lowe Alpine, prAna and Fjällraven. Patagonia and Rab and Mammut also scored well. A special mention should also go out to Keen footwear, who have been PFC-free since 2018. In their words: “PFCs are effective at resisting stains, grease, and motor oil. But we just needed something that was effective at repelling water and dirt.
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In essence, a DWR with PFCs is over-engineered for hiking shoes.” Keen estimate they spent about 10,000 hours removing the so-called ‘forever chemicals’ from their supply chain, and far from keeping their methods to themselves, they’ve produced a step-by-step guide for other brands wishing to follow in their, ahem, footsteps. In the US, the move away from carbon-based formulae has been driven in part by an upcoming PFAS ban in a few key states—including California and New York—by the beginning of 2025. These laws, which will inevitably roll out across all the US and then Europe, stipulate that anything sold in those states must be free
YOU NAME IT— IF IT’S
WATER REPELLENT, HISTORICALLY IT LIKELY
CONTAINED PFAS.”
of ‘intentionally added’ PFAS. And it’s amazing how far these long-chain carbon molecules have penetrated into global manufacturing processes. They’re found in carpets, furniture, paints, cookware, paper and cardboard, and in our industry—laces, webbing, packing material, swing tags. You name it—if it’s water repellent, historically it likely contained PFAS. (Interestingly, the California prohibition has been delayed for three years for ‘outdoor apparel for severe wet conditions’. This exception, however, is effectively restricted to Personal Protective Equipment for mountain guides and rescue teams etc. The law also specifically excludes US military apparel.)
Understandably, outdoor-gear manufacturers needed to accelerate their (in some cases, hitherto lackadaisical) hunt for alternatives, or their stylish and protective clothing would become illegal. So what natural treatments are now being used? Some brands remain tight lipped, but Keen name two specific products: 3M’s #3705 (made from hydrocarbon resins), and Ecoplus by Rudolph Chemie (made from nonfood, plant-based, dendritic compounds). The big recent advancement seems to be from Nikwax, best known for their home-application reproofing solutions. For nearly fifty years, their products have been PFC/PFAS-free. While home-reproofing has always been noticeably inferior to the factory treatment on new garments, in 2024, in collaboration with Outdoor Research (who are due to go completely PFAS-free by the time you read this piece), Nikwax launched Direct Dry, a carbon-free DWR treatment that will be applied to OR garments during manufacture. The water-based formula has a high wash-durability, scoring 100/100 on the globally recognised AATCC (American Association of Textile Chemists and Colorists) scale of water repellency. The fabric remains at 100 after 5 washes, dropping to 80 after 20 washes, but can be rejuvenated to 100 with Nikwax’s regular treatments, eg TX Direct. While an all-natural water-repellent coating proving on par with carbon-based ones is a win for the environment, in reality these rulings represent a paradigm shift: Outdoor enthusiasts will have to learn to care for their clothing and gear better. We’ll have to wash it and reproof it more often, and not grumble about ‘the old days’ when DWR lasted forever. That was exactly the problem with it.
REST BETTER. PLAY BETTER.
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SUMMER 2024
35
CONSERVATION
GREEN PAGES
A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country. EDITED BY MAYA DARBY
IF AN EARTHQUAKE WERE TO OCCUR, THE DAMS COULD FAIL,
TRIGGERING A CATASTROPHIC FLOOD THAT WOULD DEVASTATE DOWNSTREAM COMMUNITIES.”
DAMN THE DAM WORKS
Lake Pedder as it once was, and should now be. Credit: David Neilson
lutruwita
With Lake Pedder sited on an active fault line, the Tasmanian Government is about to spend $150 million strengthening the dam. A better solution would be removing the dam entirely.
L
ake Pedder is currently held by three ageing dams classified as “high risk” due to their location on an active fault line. After years of resistance, Hydro Tasmania has finally released flood-risk mapping data through a freedom of information inquiry. The results are alarming: If an earthquake were to occur, the dams could fail, triggering a catastrophic flood that would devastate downstream communities. While the chance of this happening in any given year is 1 in 10,000, this risk is not insignificant in today’s world of increasing natural disasters. The question is not if but when a “once-in-a-lifetime” event might strike. The potential threat looms large over the communities in the Huon Valley and beyond. Hydro Tasmania has responded by planning expensive dam-strengthening operations, projected to cost over $150 million—money the already financially strained state of Tasmania can ill afford. While these measures may reduce the risk of failure, they cannot eliminate it entirely. The Restore Pedder campaign is calling for a more decisive solution: decommission the dams and fully remove the flood risk, while simultaneously restoring the iconic Lake Pedder to its natural state. This bold move would not only protect the communities at risk but would also revive one of Australia’s most treasured ecosystems.
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In the context of increasing calls from the Federal government to try and reverse Australia’s trajectory of environmental decline and to have any hope of achieving a Nature Positive future, the restoration of Lake Pedder and surrounding environments offers an opportunity for one of the country’s largest ever restoration projects; the site would make up the equivalent of one fifth of all of the land which has been financed for restoration with biodiversity credits this decade. The campaign is intensifying as dam works, originally set for October, have been delayed until late November, providing a brief window of opportunity to reconsider. Protestors have taken to the streets, with demonstrations outside Tasmanian Premier Rockliff’s office demanding action. Greens MPs have taken up the cause in parliament, urging the Liberal government to listen to the public and make the rational choice for restoration. With dam works on the horizon, the campaign is escalating, and there are more actions and demonstrations planned to push back against this reckless development. Time is running out, but the fight isn’t over. To support the movement and to help ensure a safer, more sustainable future for Tasmania by making restoration a reality, visit Restore Pedder at lakepedder.org MADDIE MCSHANE Restore Pedder
LAKE PEDDER BY THE NUMBERS: Year submerged: 1972 Original area: 10km2 Current area: 242km2 Original beach dimensions: 1km wide x 3km long Gordon Power Station max output: 432MW Gordon Power Station average output: 140MW Percentage of Tasmania’s entire energy demand: 3.2% (roughly the equivalent of one large windfarm like the one currently beCredit: M Hrkac ing built at Cattle Hill) Cost of proposed dam-strengthening works: $150 million
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CONSERVATION
GREEN PAGES DEMISE OF THE FALLS TO HOTHAM ALPINE CROSSING?
SAVING NINU FROM THE SKY
GunaiKurnai and Taungurung Country
On the Kiwirrkurra Indigenous Protected Area in a remote part of Western Australia, Kiwirrkurra rangers have been caring for bilbies (ninu) by hunting cats and conducting right-way fire. Recently, as part of a three-year trial, rangers conducted aerial baiting for the first time, deploying 20,000 baits to control feral predators. The area they chose for baiting was too far from the community to manage cats with traditional hunting, and has few dingoes due to the lack of permanent water. Three-thousand baits are loaded into the chopper for each flight, and are then thrown from the back seat, while a bilby spotter sits up front mapping bilby diggings and burrows. Kiwirrkurra rangers are expert trackers and can easily pick up signs of bilbies from the air. Using this survey method— combined with bilby-scat DNA results, and with predator information gained via camera traps in baited and unbaited areas—rangers can see how the bilby population changes over the life of the project. Learn more at indigenousdeser talliance.com/
After years of long-standing community opposition, Parks Victoria is perhaps retreating from its $40-million development of the Falls to Hotham Alpine Crossing. The proposal includes 36 buildings spread over four exclusive lodges on the Credit: Cam Walker Bogong Plains. Ecologists, however, have identified concerns for 137 threatened plants and 73 native animals, ten of which are threatened and five critically endangered. After being caught falsifying the results of early ‘consultations’, the original budget for the crossing has not been allocated, and the route has been truncated. In June, the Minister for Environment told parliament that Parks Vic has yet to determine the project’s final scope, design and operating model. And the Strategic Advisory Committee hasn’t met since 2023. We now don’t know the development’s scope, environmental impact, cost, or even the route, despite an apparent spend of about $15 million. Has this project died a slow and expensive death in the bowels of Parks Victoria? GERARD MCPHEE
TASMANIA’S POOR REPORT CARD lutruwita
For fifteen years, Tasmanians have been kept in the dark about the true state of their environment. But in September, the decade-long-delayed State of the Environment (SoE) Report was finally tabled in parliament. The report paints an Credit: Matt Palmer alarming picture of an environment under significant strain and facing multiple threats. Of the 29 environmental categories this report assessed, 16 were found to be getting worse and 11 were in poor condition. The list of threatened plants and animals in Tasmania is growing fast, and sensitive ecosystems unique to the island state are being decimated by climate change, vegetation loss and invasive species. You can read more at the Environmental Defenders Office website: edo.org.au/2024/
Kiwirrkurra Country
stories/protecting-ninu-from-thesky-aerial-baiting-in-kiwirrkurra or
go to facebook.com/kiwirrkurra INDIGENOUS DESERT ALLIANCE
09/25/tasmanian-report-paints-a-startling-picture-of-an-environment-under-pressure ENVIRONMENTAL DEFENDERS OFFICE
MACHINES PUSHED OUT Gumbaynggirr Country
The Bellingen Activist Network is dedicated to community-led organising and direct action to protect lands and waters across Gumbaynggirr homelands on NSW’s Mid-North Coast. One of our current battles aims at halting native-forest logging by Forestry Corporation NSW. Our collective efforts—including camps, blockades, and court cases—are pushing back hard against this rampant ecological destruction in some of east-coast Australia’s most biodiverse forests. Two recent camps, Camp Nunguu and Credit: Bellingen Activist Network Pine Creek, have seen hundreds of people pass through, and we have successfully pushed out machines in two actively logged forests so far. We’re building a movement that isn’t just about saving trees; it’s about challenging a system that puts profit before people. Find us on FaceBook, Instagram and X. RUBY OLIVER-KING, Bellingen Activist Network
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Credit: IDA/Kiwirrkurra IPA
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
Join the Wilderness Society’s Nature Walk Challenge in March 2025! Sign up today: naturewalkchallenge.org.au
OPINION
ANTI-PROTEST LAWS ARE IRRESPONSIBLE, RECKLESS ... AND THEY NEED TO GO Words JENNY WEBER (Campaign manager at the Bob Brown Foundation) (All images courtesy of the BBF)
A
s Australians face the disruption and decline of their natural environment, as they suffer the consequences of the climate and biodiversity crises, as they pay heed to the alarm rung by UN Secretary-General António Guterres (who has called on world leaders to change course and end a “senseless and suicidal war against nature”), as the state of the planet rapidly deteriorates due to human destruction, and as legislators refuse to take action while greenhouse-gas emissions climb to record highs, citizens around the country have continued the long tradition of protesting to defend the environment. In response, Liberal and Labor state governments across Australia have—instead of taking real action to save us and our fellow species in this time of planetary crisis—passed and enacted draconian anti-protest laws. This is an irresponsible and reckless abuse of legislative power in favour of polluters and environmental wreckers. Anti-protest laws are bad in principle, and like the old political parties, they serve corporations before people. I experienced first-hand where the loyalties of these elected members of parliament lie. In 2022, when Tasmania’s government was considering implementing anti-protest laws, I gave a presentation to parliament, going into their board room after the logging industry had a closed-to-the-public session. I spoke directly to the people who would later vote for draconian anti-protest laws, and said to them that there is a great disruption due to global heating upon us, and that it is deadly serious. I said to them that life on Earth is at stake, and that the parliamentarians’ actions worldwide are appallingly slow and short of the mark. I said to them that this existential crisis surpasses all others in human history. But while I was presenting my evidence, what I didn’t know, nor did some parliamentarians, was that the Chinese state-owned mining company MMG had been allowed to surreptitiously electronically listen in. Conversely, when mining and forestry representatives gave evidence in rebuttal to my words, and the words of other environmentalists, they did so confidentially and with the room cleared. Ultimately, my words that day to the legislators in Tasmania’s parliament largely fell on deaf ears; the majority of them were more concerned with protecting multinational corporations instead of the state’s citizens and the environment. They passed harsh anti-protest laws in 2022, allowing a handful of people and corporations to continue profiting off the destruction
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THE ANTI-PROTEST ATTACK HAS NOT WORKED. IT HAS NOT CRUSHED US. THESE LAWS ARE FAILING.” of Tasmania’s stunning, rare and critically important natural environment, including destroying Australia’s largest temperate rainforest in takayna/Tarkine, and, with toxic salmon factories, the island’s oceans and rivers. The legislation that involved amending Tasmania’s Police Offences Act was aimed at crushing peaceful protests against mining, industrial fish farms or the logging of native forests, aimed at penalising protesters who stand up to defend the planet and the species we share Earth with. Now, standing in front of a logging machine that’s about to cut down an ancient tree full of endangered species, is regarded in Tasmania as a crime equal to aggravated burglary or to invading a neighbour’s house brandishing a shotgun. But the anti-protest attack has not worked. It has not crushed us. These laws are failing. At the time of writing, in Tasmania’s courts there are roughly one-hundred forest defenders facing penalties. Our protests have continued: We still stand in the ancient forests, stand in masked-owl and swift-parrot habitat, stand and say this destruction must end. Meanwhile, the government is attempting to use different ways to crush our dissent. Confusingly, despite the anti-protest laws being passed, we are being sprung with infringement and prohibition notices. It started in February 2024 when, for the first time, infringement notices were used in protests by police, sending
Himalayan guides can be tremendous assets in the hills, but swapping mountain solitude for so-called safety is a dubious trade
We will not give in
Protest in takayna / Tarkine, June 2024
administrative notices in the mail to target us with instant convictions for defending native forests on public land. But forest defenders who have willingly ‘moved on’ from a protest at the request of police officers are not accepting these instant convictions; we are electing to go to court and challenge the charges. And when Forestry Tasmania, the government logging agency, recently attempted to ban protesters from huge areas of public forests using draconian prohibition notices, the nineteen defenders hit with these notices took the agency to the Supreme Court. And on the eve of this challenge, Forestry Tasmania suddenly announced they were rescinding the notices, effective immediately. This eleventh-hour backdown was an admission that Forestry Tasmania had overstepped in their clumsy and heavy-handed orders. But even when convictions have occurred, we have not given in. We are still defending the forests. Although more than ninety-nine per cent of convictions of Tasmania’s protesters end in fines rather than prison sentences, earlier this year, forest defender Ali Alishah became the first citizen to be sentenced to prison under these draconian new anti-protest laws. In February, he was arrested twice for defending the ancient forests of the Styx Valley of the Giants. After he would not comply with bail conditions that restricted his ability to protest logging activities, he was refused bail and was held in prison for two months. Ultimately, Alishah became the first person jailed in Tasmania under the new anti-protest laws, and just the second forest activist to serve time in a Tasmanian prison in the past decade. When Ali went to prison, it proved that—along with the salmon companies and mining industry—the logging industry runs the state of Tasmania. But Ali was not daunted. “I was undeterred by the passing of the anti-protest laws in parliament. There is simply no reason to be logging Tasmania’s native forests anymore.
Colette Harmsen before going to jail
Ali Alishah
DR COLETTE HARMSEN SPENT THREE MONTHS IN PRISON FOR DEFENDING TASMANIA’S WILD FORESTS AND WILDLIFE. HERE ARE HER REFLECTIONS ON THE NEW ANTI-PROTEST LAWS: My name is Colette Harmsen. I am a wildlife defender, veterinarian and peaceful forest activist. I believe I can be most effective at protecting our environment by protesting against the industries that are destroying it such as native-forest logging, mining and fish farms. After being arrested over twenty times under the old trespass laws for peaceful forest protesting, last year I spent 3 months in the Mary Hutchinsons Women’s Prison at Risdon. The magistrate was confident that I would learn my lesson and not reoffend. But my conviction to stop the senseless logging of wildlife habitat and the systematic fragmentation of native forest compels me to reoffend. I am also interested in how the legal system intends to reform and rehabilitate me by sending me to jail. Now that the new Tassie protest laws are being pursued by the state’s legal system, peaceful forest activists continue to stop work in native forests. We are not deterred. We will not go away. Our actions speak louder than the punishments dished out to us by a legal system which is not equipped to deal with the climate emergency. I will likely go to jail again soon for reoffending. But if that is how the legal system chooses to deal with planet protectors, then that is what we must endure. Non-violent direct action works. We know that because of the amount of spin that the forestry industry publishes to negate our actions. But jail time is not a deterrant for those who want to act for a better planet for everyone. Prison is the new normal. Environmental protesters all around the world are being jailed. And we will keep challenging the protest laws until the legal system, the government and industry catch up and start changing for the better.
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Thanks to the Everest revolt, guidefree trekkers can still set their sights on the world’s most famous mountain
Forest defender Mae
This forest in takayna is threatened by logging in the coming months
So any laws that are put in place that try to deter people from protecting Tasmania’s forests won’t work. It’s a waste of taxpayer resources and it’s a burden on the correctional system.” In this urgent time of the climate and extinction crises, what’s left of the natural forests around the planet should be protected— all of it. But lawmakers are wasting our time and money, passing draconian laws to attempt to silence and deter those citizens who are taking a stand for Earth. Where are the laws that stop the biggest greenhouse-gas polluters, or stop native-forest logging, or protect habitat of threatened species? We know what to do. And, increasingly, we have the tools to do it. But we still lack leadership and cooperation from people in parliament. Instead of increasing environmental protection, we have laws that do the reverse—laws which foster the self-made environmental tragedy of this planet. If planning to block a city street becomes a worse crime than putting another million tonnes of carbon into the atmosphere, or worse than flattening and burning another thousand hectares of koala or masked-owl public forests, something is rotten with governance, not protesting. As Earth’s defenders, we are not waiting around for government action; instead we are holding back the bulldozers. In Tasmania, there are ancient forests still standing in takayna because people took part in protests in the past ten years with our foundation. But every time citizens defend forests on the front line and the government subsequently sends in police to evict the forest defenders, it is a missed opportunity for leaders to instead save precious forests and to transfer the loggers into plantation forestry. We will keep returning to the forests to defend them. Ongoing taxpayer-subsidised native-forest logging and the continued arrests of forest defenders is a waste of taxpayers’ funds. Australians have been betrayed by their governments, who have put profit for plunderers before people. But Earth’s defenders will continue their non-violent protests to hold back the Earth-destroying machines. We are driven by reminders such as the one by
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Bob Brown arrest
Swift-parrot blockade over the 2023/4 summer
famous physicist and climate scientist Bill Hare, the lead author for the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change’s Fourth Assessment Report—for which the IPCC was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize—who said that the inconvenience occasioned by “protest is not comparable to [the] catastrophic risk to [the] environment and serious damage to our way of life caused by fossil fuel emissions.” Bob Brown, our patron at Bob Brown Foundation (Ed: And Wild columnist for many years), has an eternal conviction to stand up for planet Earth: “We’re a hope-giving organisation in a sea of destruction. The message is, we’re getting stronger, come with us.” As we face a federal election next year, Bob reminds us that, notwithstanding the laws, it would be foolish to bet on a decline in environmental protest, given the climate predicament confronting the globe. But these laws will only continue to get worse if people don’t vote for the environment and climate. Anti-protest laws are a hallmark of dictatorships. The Australian High Court has ruled that there is an implied right to peaceful protest in the Australian Constitution. These laws, now in every state and ratcheting up, are being dictated by powerful resource-extraction companies who want the citizenry dumbed down on the climate and extinction crises. And so governments refuse to take real action. They attack environmentalists instead of protecting the environment. In a time when we face a brief, rapidly closing window of opportunity to secure a liveable future for all, Earth’s defenders are going to continue to participate in non-violent resistance. But there is a solution to these protests in Tasmania’s forests, these protests at Newcastle’s coal port, these protests in the habitats of endangered koalas, greater gliders and masked owls: Rather than penalising the people who point out the failures of governments that continue to harm the environment and climate, fix the problems people are protesting about. W CONTRIBUTOR: Jenny Weber is a campaign manager at the Bob Brown Foundation.
HISTORY
EVEREST: 40 YEARS ON
Q + A WITH TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE Forty years ago, on October 3, 1984, two Australians were doing something that no other Aussies had done before—standing on top of Everest. It was a remarkable achievement, especially given it was one of the first alpine-style attempts on the peak, and given that none of the team—Lincoln Hall, Geof Bartram, Andy Henderson, Greg Mortimer and Tim Macartney-Snape—had climbed an 8,000m peak prior. In the end, only Tim and Greg made it to the summit, but they did so without supplemental oxygen, and on a new (and to this day, yet-to-be-repeated) route. Wild’s editor James McCormack recently spoke about this audacious climb with the magazine’s esteemed columnist, Tim Macartney-Snape.
WILD: Let’s start with this: Can you describe that feeling of when you actually reached the summit? Tim M-S: Relief was probably the first emotion. Slight surprise, too, because it’s really an unknown outcome right until the end. You’re climbing up a steep side of a hill, and you can’t see the summit—Everest rounds off at the top so you’re not exactly sure where you are if you don’t have a tracking device, which didn’t exist back then—and you are looking at the sun sinking to the horizon thinking: Well, you’ve already made up your mind that you’ve gotta turn back before it gets dark. And you’re frantically trying to memorise a descent route, thinking, “Are we gonna make it or not?” And then finally to step onto the summit literally on sunset was an incredible relief. Not just because it’d been uncertain for that day, but it’d been uncertain for the past six weeks, mainly due to the avalanche threat but also, of course, because of the altitude—none of us had been above 8,000 metres before. And just the relief to have no more up was massive. OK, so I’m gonna backtrack a bit now. Was climbing always in your blood? And at what stage in your life did you realise Everest was beckoning? Like any idealistic, maybe slightly arrogant young climber, I didn’t think Everest was on my radar. In fact, I was determined against having it on my radar because it was a mountain which, up until that point, had only been climbed with large expeditions. Well, Reinhold Messner had done his remarkable solo ascent from the north, but I didn’t put myself in that sort of league at all. But my ambition was to do good routes on mountains. If I was to do anything like [Everest], I wanted to do it alpine style, with no oxygen, and none of that traditional stuff like Sherpas and fixed ropes. But that was just a daydream. Then [in 1981], I was in Kathmandu trying to get a permit for Annapurna II. Anyway, I got talking to this Japanese guy, not long after [he’d] come back from a large Japanese expedition to the North Face of Everest. “Can you show me some photos?” I asked. And [he showed me] the first good photos I’d seen of the whole North Face. He said, “Very direct, the North Face, very direct.” I was thinking, “Yeah, it is very direct.” There’s no ice fall. It’s just one sweep of mountain from the bottom to the top.
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Wild’s cover for issue #15 (Jan-Mar 1985) celebrated the achievement
Later that year, I was on the northeastern edge of the Tibetan Plateau climbing a mountain called Amne Machin (Ed: there’s a story on Amne Machin in this very issue of Wild, starting P112), which had been just opened up again to foreigners. Anyway, at base camp, our liaison officer slash interpreter asked us what else we’d like to climb. And so idly, I asked, “What about the North Face of Everest? Are there any permits available?” And he said, “I’ll ask Beijing.” The reply came back that a French expedition had just cancelled their booking for the North Face for the autumn of 1984. And they said if you want, we’ll just pencil it in, and when you get back to Beijing, you can pay a deposit. And so that was that. But you know, we had very little experience at high altitude, and no money. So it [was] gonna be a big task. How did you decide on the eventual crew? Lincoln and I were climbing partners, and had been [since] university. Andy came with us to Ama Dablam in 1981. Geof, another guide, was someone we’d worked with at Australian Himalayan Expeditions, and he’d done a lot of climbing in South America, and we invited him to Amne Machin. And Greg was someone Lincoln had climbed with in New Zealand and he eventually came to Annapurna II with us. How important was sponsorship to you, or were you able to do most of the fundraising on your own? No, sponsorship was a critical factor because the Chinese were charging top dollar. For instance, to get from base camp to advanced base, [we] were encouraged to use yaks from down the valley. The Chinese were charging fifty US dollars per yak, but giving the local yak owners two dollars. And each town we went through held a huge banquet at our expense, inviting all the local dignitaries. It was absurd, a rort. They quoted us in the end $150,000 just for the permit; that’s not including food or gear. So we needed sponsorship, and we struggled. We got small amounts from the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, the Australia-China Council … But nothing big until I realised that probably the best way of funding it was to make a documentary. We were introduced to Sam Chisholm, the MD of Channel Nine,
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Looking down from White Limbo as the route was eventually dubbed Tim’s story on the successful climb ran in Wild’s Issue #15, and it was perhaps the biggest story to date in the then-young magazine. The image on the opening spread shows Greg Mortimer with prayer flags on the summit Waiting around outside Camp Two (All images in this story, including the ones scanned from Wild Issue #15, are courtesy of the Tim Macartney-Snape collection)
and somehow we convinced him that we could make a good story out of it. So eventually, at the last minute, Channel Nine came on board and paid for the whole thing. Wow! I know Wild was one of the sponsors, too. But I don’t imagine we were throwing the big bucks at you. What did Wild’s sponsorship involve? It was a thousand bucks. It was token, but we appreciated it. Had any other teams from Australia even attempted Everest before yours? No. Was there ever any consideration given to a route that had been climbed before? No, not at all. We’d never been interested in that. It takes an enormous amount of effort and money to climb a mountain, so if you’re going to climb, then my philosophy was always “Well, you may as well do something worthwhile.” And a new route is always more exciting than a known route. So it wasn’t even on our radar. Was the decision to not use supplemental oxygen made in a similar vein? I know that, prior to your summitting, only ten climbers, and that includes Sherpas, had successfully summitted Everest without it.
Supplemental oxygen wasn’t an option. The issue with it is that it becomes a logistical problem because of the extra weight. It’s really nigh on impossible to do an alpine-style ascent using oxygen; it’s too much stuff. So even though [Everest] had been climbed, it had been on known routes or using fixed ropes. What we were doing—not just a new route, but alpine style with no oxygen—was a considerable extra step. That’s what made it exciting. Looking back now, does the team’s audacity seem surprising? No. I think one of the factors was that we were Australian, and we didn’t know any better. But no, I don’t think it was surprising. I think it was definitely audacious, but that’s what it takes to do something big. Can you talk a little about the nuts and bolts of the actual climbing and the route? So the big issue was safety, really. Post monsoon (Ed: The monsoon season around Everest typically runs from June to September) the mountains are loaded with snow. Now, we were never given any choice as to what season we could climb the mountain in. And it turned out it was a lucky thing that we got autumn, because the climbing was probably a bit easier. But on the flip side, it was a lot more dangerous, because of the avalanche danger. For instance, our climbing base on the glacier
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FIRST AUSSIE EVEREST ASCENT
was three kilometres from the foot of the face; that was the closest we dared camp to the mountain because of the avalanche danger. So going up to the face for the first time, it was done with a lot of trepidation. Looking up at the face, trying to work out a safe route, it became obvious that really there was only one option that would give us a reasonable chance. We could have gone directly up the North Face from the middle, but there’s a lot of rock on that route, and we figured it would probably be beyond our capabilities if we were to do it alpine style. But there seemed to be a bit of a spur jutting out from the lower part of the face that, if we could get to it, would give us access to the Great Couloir above the large serac. I’d also realised that [because of our experience on Annapurna II] that you’ve got to sleep up high for quite a few nights to get well acclimatised so you can go up higher. And the top of the spur seemed the only place we found that was a safe spot to put a camp. Subsequent experience proved that to be correct. The storms ended up being relentless from what I understand, and there were quite a few avalanches. Are you able to talk about the avalanche that took your gear away? You get snowfalls every afternoon towards the end of the monsoon. But we didn’t get big snowfalls ... until there was one. We’d only started on the face, and had done 11/2 days of rope fixing when the weather came in. So we left a stash of gear at the top of the fixed rope, and a stash of gear at the foot of the face in a bergschrund, and then retreated to advanced base camp. It was quite a big storm that lasted a couple of days, and probably dumped over a metre of snow. When we [returned] to the bergschrund and started digging for our gear—which was basically all our climbing gear: boots, harnesses, ice axes, hardware, helmets, all the necessities for climbing, basically—we dug and we dug and we dug, for two days with no result. When you were digging, did you think, “Well, this is over if we can’t find the gear”? Or was it always, “OK, we’re going to come up with a way of making this work”? The mood was depressed, but no, I definitely didn’t think I was gonna give up. And I was in the worst situation. Everyone’s boots were gone, but most people had spare boots or could get some from the film crew. But I couldn’t. I had the biggest feet on the expedition, so I couldn’t fit into anyone else’s. I [ended up] using my cross-country ski boots. But the film crew had been equipped well, and we used some of their gear, or had spares of our own. I ended up sewing my own harness out of webbing, though. So how long did you end up spending on the mountain? Two months.
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THAT WAS THE SURPRISING THING, JUST HOW THE WORLD
OPENED UP AS YOU WENT UP HIGH,
AND YOU LOOKED DOWN ON EVERYTHING. INCREDIBLE!” And what was the hardest aspect to being there that long? Well, we weren’t on the route all that time. Base camp is twenty kays from the mountain, so you spend time getting all your stuff up to the climbing base seventeen kays up the valley. And then we were ferrying climbing gear, food, fuel and tents up to the base of the route. And we ended up fixing ropes up the first eight- or nine-hundred metres. And then we were waiting for the weather. You can’t go there when it’s snowing, or immediately after it’s snowed, because you get clobbered by an avalanche. So it was probably four or five climbing days getting up to and establishing Camp Two, and then we’d spend a few nights there, and then come back down, and wait for the weather. We had a couple of false starts. What was the most frustrating thing with those delays? Knowing that the clock was ticking. Winter’s coming, and it’s gonna get windier and colder. And also, the expedition had a timeline. People had to get back home. That was the hardest thing: waiting for the conditions, because we didn’t have any weather forecasts really of any use. The route ended up being called White Limbo. Has it ever been repeated? It’s been attempted a few times. But no, not repeated.
Gerhard and Jakob pause to marvel at the towering spires of the Karakoram
If you had to sum up the climbing—as opposed to being on the summit—in three adjectives, what would they be? That’s a tough one. Tedious. Hot. And cold. Lower down, it was fucking hot. Unbelievably hot. Then, usually around midday, the clouds would come in. Boom—the temperature plummeted below freezing. But it was exciting. It was incredible. That was the surprising thing, just how the world opened up as you went up high, and you looked down on everything. Incredible! If you were able to swap out a piece of equipment that you had back then for something that’s available today, what would it be? In other words, what technological gear innovation since 1984 do you think would have made the biggest difference? Footwear, without a doubt. Although plastic boots were in use by then—they weren’t when I started climbing—they were still pretty heavy. These days, [boots] are so much lighter. And the weight on your feet is critical. You know the old saying of “A pound on your foot is worth four on your back”? It’s really true, especially at altitude. So footwear is the main thing. But everything else really has gotten lighter. Fabrics have gotten lighter. The shells are lighter. And while the main insulation is still the same—down—it’s just a better quality now and is high loft, so you don’t need as much of it. Himalayan climbing has changed greatly since then. Are you able to share some views on the current state of alpinism there? People are doing some incredible ascents now, things you never dreamt possible forty years ago. [Some of that is the result] of the improvement in technique. There are a lot of professional climbers around now who spend all their time climbing. There weren’t back then. The gear is much lighter, and much better, too. It’s good to see alpinism in good health. On the other hand, climbing above 7,000m without supplemental oxygen has recently been banned on the Tibetan side, which smacks of a typical totalitarian imposition. Also, commercial climbing has sullied the high peaks. There is this fanaticism about peak bagging, which is not mountaineering at all. I don’t know what you call it; alpine tourism, I guess. That’s what Messner called it. And it has despoiled the bases of all the 8,000m peaks, and it’s starting to despoil some of the others. There needs to be better control. The Grand Canyon in the US is a great example of something which is really popular, but is well managed. The numbers are [controlled], and the environment is taken care of. That’s not the case in the Himalaya. And you have to put the blame squarely at the feet of the governments who issue permits. W (This conversation was edited for length and clarity.)
IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Lincoln and Greg resting at advanced base camp, which is pictured in the image underneath it Map of the route scanned from Tim’s story in Wild Issue #15. Here’s the caption in full that ran with the image: The North Face of Mt Everest beyond Changtse, left, and above the upper Rongbuk Glacier. The route taken and camps are marked. The pre-World War Two British attempts, the 1960 Chinese ascent, and the more recent solo ascent by Reinhold Messner were based on the North/Northeast Ridge, frequently on its west side. British climbers Peter Boardman and Joe Tasker disappeared recently on the, as yet, unclimbed Northeast Ridge, which joins the North Ridge. A large Japanese expedition has climbed the North Face somewhat right of the Australian route. The West Ridge, first climbed by an American expedition in 1963, was the scene of an Australian tragedy described [elsewhere in Wild Issue #15] Greg above one of the climb’s more technical sections
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GETTING STARTED
AVOIDING CLIMBING FIASCOS with Nathan McNeil
Climbing can be loads of fun, but things can quickly, and catastrophically, go wrong. Wild Earth Ambassador Nathan McNeil shares some tips to keep you safe at the crags.
“J
ust be careful, we don’t want any accidents.”
These were the last words Sam Cujes said to me before I did exactly the opposite, rapping off the end of my rope four metres off the deck and fracturing my sacrum in two places. We were developing new routes and a were mile from anywhere; if it wasn’t for the knowledge and experience of those around me, it could’ve ended in a worse result. It just goes to show that shit can happen, anywhere, anytime. While I consider myself more often than not to be one of the safer members in most groups, I've found that in certain instances, especially involving rope safety, more can meet the eye and extra precaution is required. The problem is that it takes experience and time in those particular zones (ie fatigue, or high-risk, unusual rope jiggery-pokery, or so on) to be able to see the warning signs or to avoid misreading situations that can lead to an accident. What’s more, while not all mishaps have dire consequences, even seemingly minor ones, if stacked on top of each other, they can lead to the scales of risk and safety being tipped to the wrong side, a situation that could have been averted had the alarm bells rung earlier. So, with that said—and having been inspired by all the fiasco stories in Wild’s last issue—here are a few tips to help you avoid a climbing fiasco of your own, tips that one day might just save your arse … literally!
1. TIE YOUR STOPPER KNOTS
Stopper knots are a staple in climbing, and for good reason. It’s the most basic form of rope safety; a simple knot can 100% save your life, or at least from injury. Here’s my tip on stopper knots, no matter the situation, no matter the rappel, no matter your confidence: Tie. A. Stopper. If it becomes blind practice, you won’t even have to think about it for that time when it might save your life.
2. TAKE A MOMENT
Before putting yourself into a situation dependant on safety and accuracy, take a moment to check your systems. Are your biners locked? Is your PAS (Personal Anchor System) connected? Are you through both rings? Have you tied a stopper? All the basics of personal rope safety play a pivotal role in a safe and successful day out.
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Nathan at the end of his rope ... this time with a stopper knot. Credit: Alex Mougenot
3. DOUBLE CHECK
Now that you’ve tied your knots and checked your systems, it’s time to double check everything to make sure you didn’t miss a crucial safety item. When I do my double checking, I usually do it verbally out loud so that my partner not only feels that I am keeping us both safe, they can also be involved in checking the system. It gives them the opportunity to chime in, too, if they see something wrong or to point out anything missing. If I’m by myself, I will still do this out loud anyway; it helps to clarify what I’m doing. It’s kind of like when meeting someone new; if you say their name out loud, you’re twice as likely to remember it when you bump into them at the bar ten minutes later.
4. HONEST COMMUNICATION
Whether using ropes or not, always air concerns with your partner when you feel unsafe or at an increased risk. Everyone’s level of acceptable risk is different, and it’s best not to remain silent and push past your own. Having an open line of communication with your partner/s is beneficial in that you may alert them to a risk they hadn’t considered, or you can talk over the risks and break them down to decide if the risk is acceptable or not. I’ve been in situations where I wasn’t feeling my best and my acceptable risk level at the time was below that of the group, so an extra measure of safety was included to keep me feeling comfortable and willing to press on. Don’t let ego or pressure get in the way of your judgement.
5. BE PREPARED
There’s nothing worse than someone being underprepared for the adventure they are undertaking. Be it weather, equipment, experience or skills, the quickest way to failure or accident is not being prepared. There’s an old saying that always rings true in a time of need: “You’d rather be tripping over it than looking for it.” That’s especially true when you’re up against Mother Nature, or the forces of gravity. Know your gear, study the forecast, work on your skills, and do the work that it takes to up your game in order to navigate the outdoors successfully and without incident. W CONTRIBUTOR: Adventure photographer and filmmaker Nathan McNeil can usually be found camera-in-hand at the crags around SE Queensland. He is an Ambassador for WildEarth.com.au
PROFILE
YA
REEVES Novelist, outdoor educator, sage of serendipity.
Words Megan Holbeck
I
t’s a Tuesday in April when I meet Ya at Sydney’s Circular Quay. She’s dressed as described in her message: cream work shorts, grey/brown striped shirt, a green messenger bag slung over one shoulder. “Looks like I’m from the country!” is the final detail in her text, and she does, in all those subtle ways. She strides rather than walks. There’s a broad generosity in how she smiles and laughs. She exudes friendliness, capability and action. Her four days in Sydney are crammed: She’s renewed her passport at the German consulate; gone on long coastal runs with mates; and had a job interview with the Australian Antarctic Division (AAD). After our interview, she’s meeting with her publisher, Ultimo Press, to pitch her second novel. The next nine days won’t ease off, either. Tomorrow, she’ll fly to Hobart for another AAD interview (this one a two-day interview for a Field Training Officer position), then a flight/ train/drive combo will get her home to Mt Beauty via Melbourne and Albury. A quick jaunt to Ballarat to lecture at Federation University on Monday follows, before driving to Mansfield for a regular few days of outdoor education work at Geelong Grammar School’s Timbertop campus, and then returning home on Friday night. It’s a hectic fortnight, giving an excellent overview of the disparate but related components of Ya’s life: friends and connections, teaching, adventures in nature, writing. It’s also a period with a lot riding on it. Ya says: “I might be rejected by every single thing that I do this week … maybe Ultimo doesn’t want the book, maybe I don’t get into Antarctica. But that’s OK, because the other things are just as good.”
ADVENTURE, CURIOSITY, INSPIRATION: STORIES OF CHILDHOOD Welcome to Ya’s world, full of amazing opportunities, serendipity, and glass-half-fullness. It’s a lovely place, inhabited by a lovely woman, whose rounded sense of self and deep curiosity has been nurtured since birth. It doesn’t take long to discover the
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foundations of her attitude, buried in a storybook upbringing of independence, encouragement and adventure. Her parents are Mark Reeves and Alice Hesse, lifelong legends of outdoor ed—she was literally born and raised in the field. She spent the first two years of her life living at the Marshmead Campus of the Methodist Ladies’ College near Mallacoota, before her family moved to Victoria’s Dinner Plain in 1999 to set up the innovative Alpine School. Her dad was the founding principal, and her mum the lead teacher, at the school, which runs termlong residential programs for Year Nine government school students from across the state, focusing on leadership, outdoor education and personal growth. There were only two other kids in Dinner Plain, but 45 teenagers on campus and a whole world of nature to explore. She says, “There were amazing role models who wanted to have fun and teach you stuff; plenty of time outside and time to escape.” Her parents were her cheerleaders, encouraging questions and learning, exploring and curiosity. Ya and brother Tom got the bus down to Omeo for primary school three terms a year, and in winter skied to a tiny seasonal school down the road. (Tom’s only fifteen months older and is the one who christened her Ya; Christiane was too hard.) Inspirational folk—explorers, writers, artists—used to come up to talk at the Alpine School or nearby Mittagundi Outdoor Centre, and the Reeves kids often went along to listen. Some of the visitors stayed with the family, like children’s author Alison Lester, who read Ya and Tom her storybooks before bed. This was a formative time for Ya, when she developed her love of nature, the mountains, and outdoor adventures, as well as her passion for reading, and for writing her own stories. She sold them every year at her parents’ Christmas party, and knew without question she’d be a writer one day. Like any good story, it wasn’t without its trauma and change. Both parents were in the CFA (Country Fire Authority), and in 2003 her dad and crew were trapped in a fire-truck burnover. “[They] hunkered in the cab—mud-flaps melting, wheels on fire, the works,” Ya says, “but followed protocol and procedure, helped
Hiking in the Italian Alps in August 2024. Credit: Sophie Robbins. Inset image: Ya at work on the Bogong High Plains, 2024. Credit: Caroline Fulton SUMMER 2024
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Profile: YA REEVES
one another, and all made it out alive.” Afterwards, Ya’s parents began planning to start a coastal campus. When embers began falling in 2006, the family moved to Marlo to start the Snowy River Campus. It was good timing, as Tom was in his second-last year of primary school. Marlo is tiny, but the high school was fifteen minutes away rather than ninety. Both Reeves kids went all the way through at Orbost Secondary College, with Ya skipping Year Seven to join Tom’s year of 40-odd kids. The highlight was the music program, run by the amazing John Smith (middle name Algernon—a detail that still delights Ya). He was so wonderful at his job that two-thirds of the school were enrolled in music, including Ya on trumpet and Tom on trombone. This was even more extraordinary considering it’s one of the lowest socio-economic areas in the state: In her award-winning short story ‘Pub Raffle’ (more on that later), Ya describes a fictionalised version of Marlo as “a town torn between logging and teaching, coastal retirement and dealing crack next to the milking sheds.” Ya has never been a linear thinker, realising in high school that she sees herself differently to most people. Rather than trying to fit into a coherent (but restrictive) identity, she sees herself as a “weird conglomerate of colourful blobs”, with each blob representing a different facet of herself, experience or skill set, each of which could extend in any direction at any time. Her sense of self is never all pulling in one direction, but instead continually spreading outwards. “My family always instilled in me the need to be an all-round person and have all my fingers in lots of pies,” says Ya. “Then if you lose something, you’ve always got a passion.” It’s not just Ya whose fingers were busy. As she puts it, her family have “multiple strange talents and weird interests across lots of different things.” Tom is a mechanical engineer, an amazing mountain biker and musician who can draw like no one else she knows. Her parents have endless skills and knowledge (both general and specific) that has taken Ya years to appreciate. “I thought everybody’s dad was a mechanic that could build a car. I honestly thought that until not that long ago!” By the time Ya graduated as dux in 2014, having just turned seventeen, there were a lot of colourful blobs on her palette: Outdoors, nature and adventure; reading and writing; music and academics, and many others. She wasn’t sure what to do next, eventually deciding on a literature and music degree at Monash University. It was a choice motivated by proving John (her music teacher) wrong and getting in, as well as distancing herself from the lure of outdoor education, which she saw then as too easy—a cop out. (Some kids rebel with sex and drugs, others with a trumpet.) But first, she promised herself a gap year working at Mittagundi, the legendary outdoor centre and working farm in the Omeo Valley.
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YA HAS NEVER BEEN A LINEAR THINKER,
REALISING IN HIGH SCHOOL THAT SHE
SEES HERSELF DIFFERENTLY TO MOST PEOPLE.”
A COMING-OF-AGE TALE, SET IN THE MOUNTAINS Ya’s story changes genres here, from a beautiful picture book to a coming-of-age tale of confusion, soul-searching, and adventure, similar to that told in her first novel Over This Backbone. Ya wryly calls it “thinly veiled auto fiction”: She and the novel’s protagonist, Peta, share a lot. Both spent a year at Mittagundi, struggling to navigate relationships and belonging; both lost their sense of self and purpose in the confusion of university in Melbourne and toxic romantic relationships; both then ran away to the South Australian desert, ending the year with solo trips along the 650+km Australian Alps Walking Track (AAWT). The Sydney Morning Herald called the book “an impressive debut that takes readers on a physical and mental journey, shoulder-to-shoulder with this lovable protagonist.” It’s a wonderful read, with a deep sense of place and connection to nature. It’s hard to separate Ya and Peta’s experiences, and to remember that although events are planted in real experience, they’ve bloomed into fiction. It’s not just the broad strokes that Peta and her creator share,
but the details as well. Both have an anaphylactic reaction to jumping-jack ant bites, since cured through immunotherapy in real life. Between the ages of 17 and 24, Ya had “a grand total of 18 EpiPens, and many very bad reactions,” with the first one a “classic Ya moment”. She was lying on a stretcher, acting as the unconscious patient for first-aid training at Mittagundi when she was bitten, the scenario quickly becoming a real event. It wasn’t just tiny, life-threatening insects that made Mittagundi one of the biggest and most challenging periods of Ya’s life. It was a year of waking up with utter purpose, making friends who became family, but also navigating difficult work and personal relationships in an incredibly small, tight community with inherent power imbalances while working out what she wanted to do and who she wanted to be. The pressure and conflict was internal, too: Ya stubbornly resisted the ‘easy’ path of outdoor ed, even though she knew it was what she wanted to do. Instead she was determined to prove she could “go down the path I’d already set for myself; to go into music and study what I’d set out to study.” Which she did for a term, growing increasingly lost and conflicted, before moving to South Australia mid-year for a job as a hiking guide. At the end of 2016, she walked the AAWT, before beginning the Outdoor Environmental Education (OEE) course at Bendigo’s La Trobe University. Just as the events of the book and Ya’s life merge, so do its lessons. While acknowledging that different readers get different meaning from the novel, key themes emerged for Ya as she wrote it: What it means to be strong, particularly as a young woman; that battling alone doesn’t equal strength. A passage towards the end of both the book and the walk summarises it for Ya, when a shattered, exhausted Peta has just drunk (and vomited) creek water full of putrid pig: “What even is it to be strong and brave? Just to be calloused and unpuncturable? No. Strong is to be willingly permeable, willing to let the world seep in, to react. I’m done with this fight for a backbone.” This knowledge that it’s OK to relinquish control and rely on others, that pushing through is not always the best approach, is something Ya’s learnt repeatedly. It’s something she continually reminds herself of now, along with her faith in serendipity and her expanding blobs of interests.
IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Ya (aged 7) on a hike at Mt Buffalo. Credit: Alice Hesse Ya’s father Mark in a snow cave near Mt Kosciuszko, circa 1992. Credit: Peter Brandon Racing gates at Mt Hotham, aged 4. Credit: Mark Reeves Snow play with brother Tom at Dinner Plain in 2001. Credit: Alice Hesse Parents Mark and Alice arriving via sea kayak for their wedding in 1995. Credit: Andrea Hicks Ya and Tom evacuating from Mt Hotham with the 2003 bushfires burning in the background. Credit: Alice Hesse
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SUCCESSFUL ADULTING, AN ALTERNATIVE TALE At university, she found both her place and her feet again. The course was “unbelievably good”—in the classrooms Monday to Wednesday, and out on trips for the rest. She describes it as a time of “making family”, in and out of friends’ houses in the regional city of Bendigo. She graduated in 2019 and moved to Mt Beauty in 2020, where steady work at Timbertop gave structure to three terms a year, supplemented by other guiding and lecturing work. Since then, these borders of work and home have formed a broad frame around which she’s fitted a complex, changing jigsaw of interests and priorities. Ya completed her honours in OEE in 2020, winning La Trobe University’s DM Meyers Medal (an academic achievement award for honours students). In May 2023, Over This Backbone was published. Her time off continues to revolve around friends and family, catching up on jobs and washing, fun and rest. There’s lots of mountain running and small adventures, as well as some larger ones: Six days running from Mt Beauty to Marlo in 2023; 2017’s walk along the Larapinta Trail. For the last couple of years, she’s escaped the outdoor-ed deadzone of June-July by taking off on European treks. In 2023 she walked Spain’s GR11, following the Pyrenees for 800km from the Atlantic coast to the Mediterranean. This year she began with a lap of Menorca, then two weeks through the Cordillera Cantabrica, “a romantic walk across Spain with my Catalan boy
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I’M HANGING OUT IN MY FAVOURITE PLACE WITH SOME
OF MY BEST FRIENDS IN THE WORLD, TALKING ABOUT ALL THE THINGS
THAT I WANT TO TALK ABOUT.” that turned out to be quite a drama”. Five-hundred kilometres of Italy’s Grande Traversata delle Alpi followed, full of climbs up outrageous passes. “I loved it: It was the dumbest, most stupid and unnecessary physical strain—you could just go ten kilometres north and you’d be on the top of the range for the whole way.” By learning to pay attention to what she’s doing and why, Ya’s built a life to suit herself. She believes in “the passionate pursuit of short-term goals”, as well as the benefits of being a long-term thinker but not a long-term planner. (She borrowed both concepts from Australian comedian/musician/writer Tim Minchin, who she loves.) Even after a decade working in the field, Ya reminds herself of how fortunate she is. She recounts a frequent conversation she has with kids who are grinding up hills, having a terrible time, and ask her why she would ever choose to do this. “Right now,” she replies to the kids, “I’m hanging out in my favourite place with some of my best friends in the world, talking about all the things that I want to talk about. I’m moving my
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT On the trail in Andorra, 2023. Credit: Duncan Fisher At work on the summit of Mt Buller, March 2024. Credit: Beks Green On the Larapinta Trail in 2017. Credit: Duncan Fisher With (brother) Tom and (mum) Alice after winning the 2021 La Trobe University Medal for academic achievement. Credit: Mark Reeves At the head of the Snowy River while walking the 650+km AAWT in 2017. Credit: Ya Reeves
body, which is my favourite thing to do. I’m hanging out with young people who are the future of this world. I feel like I’m having an impact. I get my food provided. This job makes me fit and it makes me happy. And I’m getting paid. This is unbelievable— can you get much better?” As well as gratitude, expanding blobs, and ‘classic Ya’ tales, her life is based on trust. That things will come; that it will all work out. Ya loves synchronicity and it loves her right back. The story of how she got her publishing contract is a wonderful example, far removed from the usual rejection-fest. It began with ‘Pub Raffle’, a short story written to process the experience of being in Marlo during the 2019/20 bushfires, and the first fiction she’d written in years. Not long after it was finished, a friend sent her a link to the Furphy Literary Award competition: The theme was ‘Australian life’ and the word count spot on. Her story was highly commended in the 2021 competition, and was included in the published Furphy Anthology, with Ya invited to speak at the launch. Getting there was a nightmare. She drove with her parents and grandmother and they got lost on the way, arriving stressed and late. Ya took both proffered beers and drank them quickly. A little tipsy, she ducked to the loo before her reading, where the zip on her tight jeans disintegrated, teeth pinging off cubicle walls. She climbed on stage, her crotch at audience eye level, a cropped top showcasing her gaping fly. She lightened the staid, literary atmosphere with her tale of wardrobe malfunction, got the audience to
love her before they even heard her story. “What’s next?” was the first question from the waiting crowd. Her response? “I’ve always wanted to write a book. Who thinks I should write a book?” There were cheers and whoops, and she left the stage with a flippant: “If there are any publishers here, you know where to find me!” Minutes later they did; she had a contract within a month. WHERE NEXT FOR YA? SHE’S SIGNED a contract for her next novel, with publication scheduled for mid-2026. She’d love to do a PhD at some stage—maybe in Tassie?—and there are lots of running loops in the mountains she hasn’t got to yet. A full-time outdoor-ed position is on the table, and she’s passed all the steps in the AAD application process. And there are surely other opportunities floating around, waiting for a serendipitous moment to land. Ya’s not sure where she’ll end up, or which of the blobs of her curious self will expand next. What’s certain is that her life won’t be predictable or boring. Instead, it’ll be deep with connections, play, synchronicity and insight. In other words, it’ll be classic Ya. 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
SURVEYING
TASSIE’S
SKY COUNTRY SOUTHWEST
Renowned for its challenging walking, Tasmania’s South Coast Track is an ecological sanctuary and a place of precious darkness. But a proposal to build a string of private lodges along it threatens its delicate balance; a BioBlitz survery shows what’s at stake. Words JOE BEAN Photography JOE BEAN + LUKE TSCHARKE + THE BIOBLITZ TEAM
T
he South Coast Track, like so many areas in lutruwita/ Tasmania, is a precious place of wilderness. It is an
ancient Aboriginal route, a place of rich First Nations’ heritage that reverberates through the sea, the rocks and the sky. It is a jewel of the Southwest, and part of the iconic Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area (TWWHA). It remains a rite of passage to patiently stumble through this wonderful realm with only a tent between yourself and the whip of Southern Ocean weather events. You move from ancient quartzite in the west to younger dolerite in the east, you cross lagoons and rivulets, and you make friends with mud. The journey transforms, is always transforming, and is transformative. It’s a truly special walk, a truly special week. My friends and I had one of those special weeks on the South Coast Track recently. We had been brought together by the Tasmanian Wilderness Society and by our shared respect for the South Coast, both for the track and the broader region. Working together, we carried out a BioBlitz. We were a ‘walks into a bar’ joke—there was an entomologist, a mathematician, a photographer, an architect, three geographers and a planner/retired hiking guide. I signed up because I thought a BioBlitz was a smoothie, but I was out of luck. A BioBlitz involves a week spent on Country recording species and natural values, sharing stories and blisters along the way. These blitzes are about gathering a repository of what is precious. By keeping eyes peeled, recording the sounds of the night, and flicking through identification books while waist deep in sword-sedge, we started to
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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Nuyina (the Aurora Australis), the Milky Way and bioluminescence at Lion Rock, South Cape Bay The BioBlitz team, wild and free on the South Cape Range. Along with Joe (author of this piece), the team members included Jimmy Cordwell, Marlee Hurn, Tobias Burrows, Georgie Cummings, Steph Horwood, Luke Cooper, Will Mackay and Louise Jolly Jimmy recording a native laurel (Anopterus glandulosus) at the proposed development site at Louisa River
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F
or the Tasmanian Wilderness Society and anyone who values the South Coast, this blitz was an important one—the area is threatened by a proposal from Wild Bush Luxury Pty Ltd (a subsidiary of stock-exchange-listed Experience Co Ltd) for six luxury lodges and associated infrastructure. (Ed: Wild has written about the proposal in our twopart series ‘Luxury Lodges = Wilderness Lost’ in Issues #178 and #179; head to wild.com.au to read the pieces online.) The impact of this proposal would not be limited to the lodges and their immediate construction and direct pollution (think grey water, plastics, light and sound); ongoing impacts could include helicopter flights for food and utility drops, waste removal and laundry services plus the construction of bridges, toilets, helipads, an upgraded track and more. This would all permanently threaten and/or degrade the natural values and the cultural heritage sites embedded in this internationally unique wilderness. The blitz was a success, despite a quoll making off with our audio recorder in the night; while locating each of the proposed development sites—already marked out by developers with pink flagging tape—we surveyed a baffling diversity of ecosystems and species. Our group, over the week, recorded 162 species of flora and fauna. I hadn’t walked and camped with such purpose before. With our esoteric knowledge bases and a common sense of curiosity, the group re-framed the landscape we were passing through,
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ON THE SOUTH COAST, DARK SKY AND
THE ABSENCE OF LIGHT POLLUTION
IS CRUCIAL AND PROFOUND.” making it a completely different experience to the last time I walked this track. Beyond the Type-2 fun and the delicious scroggin, I saw the track this time as a web of myriad relationships, as a stronghold for declining habitat ranges, as being both vulnerable and immutable. I saw the track as a homeland. Taking the time to see the South Coast through the eyes/echolocators/stomata/floating-egg sacs of its inhabitants is stirring. The South Coast is considered a precious place of wilderness for bushwalkers because it offers an escape from busy lives, a journey into wonder. (Ed’s note: See sidebar on right for some thoughts on ‘wilderness’.) To Sharnie Read—a palawa woman who runs the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre’s rrala milaythina-ti (Strong in Country) project—this South Coast wilderness provides rich opportunities for immersive trips that allow Aboriginal Community members to continue to connect with cultural heritage, language, land, sea and sky Country. It’s a reminder that all these things are woven together and cannot be separated. With Sharnie’s perspective in mind, when
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT A break for a milko chew and a scribble in field guides at Red Point Hills All-weather plant identification in the sub-alpine heath Long beach stretches are always a treat for the feet—Surprise Bay A ground parrot feather (Pezoporus wallicus) Deny King survival wisdom Surveying notes on pink-flagging marking out a proposed development site Cousin of the audiorecorder thief, looking suspicious
I reflect on standing on the Ironbound Range looking south, watching short-tailed shearwaters soar out to the Maatsuyker Islands—land, sea and sky—it’s clear that the South Coast is truly precious because of those 162+ species that flourish there. At this stage, they do so almost entirely on their terms. And this is important, because this is increasingly rare. Wilderness matters more than ecosystem services and carbon sinks and other ways we try to calculate its value in our confused systems. It has intrinsic natural and cultural values that cannot be overstated. Wildlife and ecological systems deserve wilderness—a life undisturbed by industrial society and all of its impositions on sensory worlds. There are just some things that an orange bellied parrot should not have to deal with. They deserve to transcend us. They deserve to be free of our industrial disturbances and our cacophony. To consider how this works on the South Coast, we need a straightforward, compelling litmus test for human intrusion on the more-than-human experience of wild places. A good one to play with is how we meddle with light. Darkness. Day and night. Simple stuff. On the South Coast, dark sky and the absence of light pollution is crucial and profound. The place is a sanctuary for ecosystems running truly to night and day—the circadian rhythm as old as time. This seems a given, but this cycle is under threat across the world, because light pollution is the fastest growing form of pollution on the planet. In many parts of the world, night never truly comes; artificial lighting means the night is always brighter than a full moon. This is OK for us humans—we are diurnal, creatures of the day—so while this constant light isn’t ideal for our health in numerous ways, we can handle it. But imagine if the shoe was on the other foot. If day never came. We’d get headaches all the time from straining our eyes and our toes would be stubbed. We would lose ourselves and each other in
ED’S NOTE:
SOME THOUGHTS ON THE WORD ‘WILDERNESS’ The term ‘wilderness’, in the sense of being untouched by humanity, has of course long been problematic, since all of lutruwita, and indeed all of Australia, was and is still being cared for by First Nations people. That meaning, however, is gradually being superseded to now mean wild country that has no development or modern technologically based farming or land clearing, but that allows for sustainable use via traditional indigenous practices; this is the sense that Joe uses it here. Grant Dixon and Martin Hawes wrote well on the topic in Wild #181’s must-read piece ‘What Do We Mean When We Talk About Wilderness?’; you can read it online at wild.com.au/conservation/what-wilderness-means. But I also like to think about wilderness in its very original meaning: ‘wild’ + ‘deer’ (deer coming from the old English ‘deor’, which meant not just deer but any wild beast or quadruped). In essence, wilderness originally meant ‘a place of wild animals’, a formulation that seems particularly apt in reference to Joe’s piece here.
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South Coast Track, TASMANIA
the dark. We would all end up terribly depressed. We would not flourish. In contrast, many of the creatures of the South Coast flourish at night. Attempting to comprehend, appreciate and preserve the sensory world of critters that are extremely different to us—to allow them to be—is an ultimate lesson in humility. You and I didn’t evolve to do much in the darkness. I tested this on walks after sundown every night on the track. An hour out and an hour back each night. It’s incredibly humbling to switch off the headtorch and walk in deep, dark, moonless rainforest at night and to realise that my vision is almost completely useless, to sit with that discomfort, to fumble through an unknown world. To get completely and utterly spooked. It reinforces the sense that there are things at play that we don’t understand, and that our senses can’t perceive. But the more time I sat with the darkness, the more I began to see. With patience and restraint, we can appreciate the full moon rising over kripikara/Cox’s Bight, even howl at it. We can dance under nuyina—the Aurora Australis. And we can hold our breath as the silhouette of a quoll pads softly around a calm cove. These moments of reverence are special and rare because collectively— in our towns, homes, office blocks and factories, with every light we install and then celebrate the resultant increased productivity and perceived safety—we are making them rarer. But as the only species on this planet to work out what the moon and the stars are, shouldn’t we be clever enough to recognise our responsibility to not ruin them as navigational tools and seasonal triggers for everyone—and everything—else? It should be celebrated that at night, the South Coast forest is a dark, wild space existing on the terms of the myrtle, the quoll and the devil. We should rejoice that marsupial breeding seasons on the South Coast aren’t confused and interrupted by artificial light, as has been recorded on mainland Australia. The sabotage that light pollution plays almost everywhere on the predatory dance between owl, bat and bug is not felt here. Plant, fungi and microbe and all of their myriad relationships aren’t thrown out of whack in ways we don’t comprehend. Migratory birds might be thrown off course by the lights of Geelong or a blue light disco in Huonville, and more generally by our rapidly expanding urban environments, but once they are here in the southern wilderness, things are almost as they have always been. A rhythm of night and day that species evolved to flourish with. The Southwest National Park is a sanctuary to hold gently the darkness that is being obliterated all over the world. Which brings us back to the proposed South Coast Track development, brought about through the controversial ‘Expression of Interest’ process for tourism developments implemented by the Tasmanian State Government. Private developers often have, as it is called in developer-speak, a vision for national parks and World Heritage wildernesses like the South Coast. But what matters most to them? I hazard a guess that it isn’t the
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IT SHOULD BE CELEBRATED THAT AT NIGHT, THE SOUTH COAST FOREST IS A DARK, WILD SPACE
EXISTING ON THE TERMS OF THE MYRTLE, THE QUOLL AND THE DEVIL.”
finely tuned sensory world of the masked owl, nor the access and experience of the non-paying customer. The ‘Parks Privatisation Policy’ has allowed this inappropriate proposal that would privatise public lands to be tabled with the state government without genuine public consultation, and this is a huge worry. The 2016 TWWHA Management Plan has a wonderful foreword from the Aboriginal Heritage Council, written by palawa man Rocky Sainty. Rocky references the stars and creatures and how they strengthen identity, since the creation of the first black person, palawa, and since the creation of the landscape: rivers, mountains, sea and sky. He refers to cultural landscapes in lutruwita/Tasmania that have remained almost as they were generations ago, and others that have been severely affected by the invasion. After Rocky’s foreword, the management plan goes on for another 240 pages and discusses rivers, mountains and sea, but no consideration is given to how we might protect milaythina wurangkili/Sky Country from the invasion of light pollution. The
story of that first black person, who came from the stars, is held at kripikara/Cox’s Bight along this special track, and it should be preserved as part of the living, breathing cultural landscape. As a foundational text, the night sky, the darkness and the creatures that relate to it clearly matter to palawa/Tasmanian Aboriginal People, and together, we need to make the necessary steps to protect it. In contrast to the proposed inappropriate development, thoughtful management of sensory worlds and cultural landscapes might look something like a Sanctuary for Southwest Sky Country—a designated area where we commit to managing artificial light pollution and its negative impacts on the natural night. Working with Dark Sky International to certify and protect this dark place for humans and wildlife alike makes sense in the Southwest National Park, where land tenure is straightforward, and land managers and advocacy groups like Dark Sky Tasmania can work together to make simple changes to protect a large area. Once we’ve made that positive start, we could then work to expand these protections across the TWWHA and broader wilderness areas across the island. As human settlements continue to grow, wilderness can offer a reprieve for the sensory worlds of everyone—penguins, tiger snakes and bushwalkers—but only if we carefully manage them to do so. As a generator hums, the southern boobook owl loses its ability to hear its prey. As a hut light flickers, a moth forgets to pollinate. As we put a roof between people and the stars, we subtly close a book on the story of the creation of the first palawa man. It’s all so delicate. I might be acting a bit precious, but it is precious. In lutruwita/Tasmania, the creeping death-by-a-thousand developments in and around wilderness areas threatens cultural landscapes and species that cling to a life and rhythm that is already shuddering under the weight of our decisions. We need to continue to learn that these places aren’t just for us; we must squint into the darkness, listen hard, and care more. W
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Little Deadmans Bay camp looking out to the Ile du Golfe—a mother and child ringtail possum and a boobook owl kept watch through the evening Two burly blokes and a burly eucalypt Tall bird orchid (Chiloglottis gunnii) Looking for needles in a buttongrass haystack
LEARN MORE Contact the Tasmanian Wilderness Society (hobart@wilderness.org.au) to help keep the south coast wild and free, and visit wilderness.org.au/southwest-sky-country to learn more about a Sanctuary for Southwest Sky Country.
CONTRIBUTOR: Joe Bean is a landscape designer and part-time dark sky campaigner who learns something new every day; he is currently learning he might be scared of the dark.
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THE KIMBERLEY
TIMING IT RIGHT It is the stuff of dreams: A rare opportunity to venture into the Kimberley’s iconic Bungle Bungles in the height of the wet season.
By GARY ANNETT + REBECCA HARVEY
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Relief and excitement as we reach Piccaninny Gorge. There are limited options for pitching our tent though!
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Purnululu NP, WESTERN AUSTRALIA
Purnululu NP
Alice Springs Perth
T
here’s a monsoonal low hanging over the East Kimberley as we set off for Piccaninny Gorge, nestled deep within the Bungle Bungle Range in Western Australia’s World Heritage-listed Purnululu National Park. Torrential rain has been soaking this secluded corner of the East Kimberley for the past week and it has been bucketing down overnight. The Bungle Bungle Range itself is shrouded in a blanket of low-lying cloud, the highest peaks of the massif disappearing up into the clouds. It’s the kind of weather that makes most people hunker down at home and binge-watch Netflix, but we know now is the time to get out of our comfort zones and experience something most people never get an opportunity to see: the iconic Bungle Bungle Range during the Kimberley’s dramatic wet season. Along with the low-lying cloud rolling in from the east, ribbons of cascading water follow the curves of these unique sandstone formations. It’s reminiscent in some ways of Uluru in the wet season—white water tracing lines along the curves of these unusual, banded, beehive-shaped domes. Many walking trails in the park follow natural creek lines and are currently under water. Getting to the gorge and back in this weather will be a three-day slog with lots of unknowns. With rising creeks and further flooding forecast for the area, at least a couple of friends have suggested sitting tight and waiting a day or two for the storm to pass; the challenge, however, excites us. Purnululu is famed for its distinctive cone-karst sandstone formations, which attract people from all over the world. But
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they don’t just come for the unique geology; the formations are mind-blowingly beautiful. Normally, the domes—stretching as far as the eye can see—glow orange and gold in the early morning light, and red at sunset, but today they are silvery-grey and black almost, like the wet season has leached them of their bold colours. It is a striking contrast to the typical dry-season conditions, and is stunning in its own way. Few people see Purnululu like this; the park is closed between December and March due to seasonal flooding, extreme heat and stifling humidity, with daytime temperatures sometimes in the high 40s. The creeks can rise and fall quickly, and the tracks can be boggy; the unsealed access track is often impassable. We have been living and working in the park since early November,
THE GORGE IS HUMBLING;
IT ENCOURAGES PEOPLE TO SLOW DOWN, TO TALK IN HUSHED TONES, AND TO BE MOVED BY THE SCALE OF
THE PLACE.”
watching the Kimberley being transformed by wet-season storms, the landscape slowly being enveloped in a cloak of lush, green grass. It gets wetter by the day, a far cry from conditions during the tourist season. During those busier months, between April and October, daytime temperatures are generally pleasant, and the area receives little—or no—rainfall; many creeks are reduced to fine white sand and rounded river rocks. But in the wet season, the place is alive. Following our initial trail through the domes, our nervous excitement is palpable. Ex-tropical Cyclone Blake is tracking west over the park, and we’re expecting heavy rain and flooding today and tomorrow. The area is thick with billowing spinifex grass and spindly wattles blowing in the wind, with every shade of green contrasting with the wet orange sandstone. We’re not sure how far we’ll make it along Piccaninny Creek. And we can’t help but wonder if we’ll find ourselves cut off by rising waters, forced to wait for the creek to fall. Our first breathtaking attraction is the awe-inspiring Cathedral Gorge. Wading through waist-deep water where the trail used to be, we are filled with both excitement and trepidation, blown away by the volume of water in what is normally an incredibly dry landscape. With its vaulted sandstone ceiling and natural amphitheatre, the gorge is humbling; it encourages people to slow down, to talk in hushed tones, and to be moved by the scale of the place. It is simply magical. The waterfall here only flows after heavy rain—usually during the wet season when the park is closed—so it’s seen only by a
privileged few. Today it is a sight to behold—the waterfall is framed by golden sandstone, the soft sand at our feet is untouched, and heavy rain falls through the opening above. The crashing water, falling 120m or more as it runs off the plateau, disappears into cracks and crevices before reappearing as an almost-deafening thunderous waterfall. There is spray in the air. The place feels alive. We swim. We take photos. We take time to soak it up and appreciate just how lucky we are to have access at this time of the year. It is the kind of access people dream of, and we’re keen to make the most of the opportunity. We have been imagining this experience for years; now that we’re seeing it first-hand, it feels like a dream. Anxious to see what lies ahead, we drag ourselves away from Cathedral Gorge, and start following Piccaninny Creek upstream. The creek itself is 20-30m wide, and with rain beating down, the creek is, in places, chest deep and fast flowing as it carves its way through the Bungle Bungle Range. The water we’re walking through is on an almost-400km journey. It’s on its way to the mighty Ord River—the Kimberley’s second-biggest river—before it flows into Lake Argyle, and then further north past Kununurra, and ultimately into the Cambridge Gulf near Wyndham—the most northerly town in WA. And it all starts here, in Piccaninny Creek and Cathedral Gorge. As we follow Piccaninny Creek upstream, we find ourselves forced to cross it, and cross it again, as the banks of the creek give way to towering cliff faces. Shuffling our feet cautiously, feeling for potholes and washouts in the creek bed, the water is deep enough that we carry our packs above
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP The orange sandstone of the Bungle Bungle massif shrouded in low-lying cloud Thickets of spinifex grass, almost head-high, sway gently in the wind Raindrops beading on native gossypium Piccaninny Creek meanders through the Bungle Bungle’s iconic beehive-shaped domes
IMAGE - OPPOSITE PAGE Enjoying the cool spray of Cathedral Gorge in full flow
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Purnululu NP, WESTERN AUSTRALIA
our heads. There’s enough force in the water to not only make us unsteady on our feet; it’s strong enough to reinforce what we already know—if the creek rises higher, we might have to sit tight and wait for it to fall again before proceeding or retreating. At one crossing, the water’s force makes us lose our footing, and we grab for the nearest tree to steady ourselves. It’s exciting, but a little nerve wrecking, too. Because of the volume of water in the creek, we talk about the merits—and risks—of going further. Maybe we’ve bitten off more than we can chew? Feeling a little defeated by the questionable creek crossings and the force of the water, we break left off Piccaninny Creek, and follow the walking track towards Whip Snake Gorge. All around us, water cascades off the domes. Small waterfalls form where domes join, like mythological gods leaning shoulder to shoulder, surveying their domain. Like Cathedral Gorge, the Whip Snake Gorge waterfall is thundering. This gorge is a lesser-known attraction in the park—usually it’s dry in the tourist season—but today it’s as impressive as any waterfall in the Kimberley. The water’s sheer force makes it clear how these gorges and rounded domes were created—millions of years of seasonal flooding and erosion washing away one grain of sand at a time. Comprehending this timescale is hard. It’s now late afternoon. After hours of being wet, we’re cold. We find a sheltered corner among the domes and spinifex grass, and pitch our tent for the night, enjoying the slurp of our instant noodles and the warmth of hot tea, before drying off and crawling into bed. Ordinarily, few people have a reason to camp here. The designated campgrounds and lodges in the park offer a lot more convenience, but not the same sense of adventure, nor the special feeling of knowing you’ve got the place all for yourself. We crawl into our tent—cold and a little weary—happy to be out of the rain for the first time in nine hours. It’s cosy inside the tent, but it turns out there’s little sleep; the wind and the rain batter us through the night; the weather gods are reminding us of who’s in charge. The ground is so soft we expect the tent pegs to get ripped out at any moment, and it feels we’re only one gust of wind away from watching the fly being vacuumed up into the air, exposing us to the relentless rain once again. I can see why most people stay at home in weather like this. But where’s the fun in that.
THE MORNING BRINGS A WELCOME BREAK from the rain; it’s still, however, grey and ominous. Is it just a temporary reprieve? We enjoy a quick breakfast and coffee as we look out over the domes. It feels otherworldly, the rounded beehive shapes stretching as far as the eye can see in every direction. The place is lush and green; raindrops bead on the vegetation. And it’s obvious Piccaninny Creek has risen overnight; the creek is full. We’ll have a slog ahead to reach Piccaninny Gorge and Black Rock Falls.
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Stopping to take it all in. Humbled by the power of the Cathedral Gorge waterfall after a week of heavy rain
As we follow Piccaninny Creek upstream, the domes become larger and more imposing, as if they’re from the dinosaur movie The Land That Time Forgot. We find ourselves torn between trudging through the creek itself—where the freshly deposited sediment almost sucks our hiking boots off our feet—or braving the needle-sharp spinifex grass lining either side of the creek. No great options, but spectacular views in every direction. The poet Edgar A. Guest once wrote: Life is strange with its twists and turns. As every one of us sometimes learns. Having grown up in Belfast, Northern Ireland, it’s in moments like this that I find myself wondering how I ended up in such a magnificent place, a place that challenges and excites in equal measure. A place that quietens the mind and settles the soul. It is a place far removed from the hustle and bustle of the modern world, and we can’t help but feel that we’re better off for it. Finally, after a slow, unforgiving four or five kilometres, we round the Elbow, where the domes give way to spectacular
Piccaninny Gorge. The gorge itself, sweeping off into the distance, stretches for three kilometres before branching off into five side gorges known as the Five Fingers. Vertical walls of sandstone tower up to 120m on either side, and orange rock—stained black by successive rainfall—tells the story of a much larger range that has been carved up and deeply incised. As the water makes its way east then west around the Elbow, the gorge it leaves behind is a thing of rugged beauty. This is not a dormant relic, but an evolving landscape, still being shaped one wet season at a time. Undoubtedly, it is a bushwalker’s—and nature lover’s—wonderland, a place seen by very few who visit the park. It is without doubt a place of unspoiled nature, a place far removed from the 21st Century, a place to lose yourself in a timeless landscape. At the start of Piccaninny Gorge, we follow a smaller creek towards the range and discover another hidden oasis. There is yet another cascading waterfall, smaller this time, initially hidden from view, and dappled sun breaks through for just a moment. It feels like a fairy tale. We find ourselves thinking of those who have called Purnululu home for thousands of years—the local Kija and Jaru Traditional Owners. For them, the Bungle Bungle Range and Piccaninny Gorge are evidence of the Wandjina—ancestral beings who carved up the landscape and are now an inseparable part of what we see here today. For visitors and locals alike, it is a spiritual place. In a nutshell, this is what the Kimberley is about. You never know what’s around the next corner:
THERE IS YET ANOTHER CASCADING WATERFALL ...
AND DAPPLED SUN BREAKS THROUGH FOR JUST A MOMENT. IT
FEELS LIKE A FAIRY TALE.”
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A dead end? Or a hidden gem? It is a place that rewards those who take the time to get out and explore, and those who take the time to slow down. A little further along Piccaninny Gorge, we reach our destination—towering Black Rock Falls. It is a giant in a land of giants. And if water is life, this place is alive. The waterfall booms as it falls off the plateau above. There is spray in the air. And like many of the gorges in Purnululu National Park, tropical livistona palm trees frame the scene in front of us, the palms buffeted by falling water and the updraft that it creates. It is picture-perfect in every way. Despite living in the Kimberley for almost eleven years, this is another Kimberley first for me, a new Kimberley highlight. And being another ephemeral waterfall that only flows after heavy rain, it is remote enough that only a handful of people have ever seen it from ground level. During the dry season, there is no swimming in Black Rock Pool, as it’s the only reliable source of clean drinking water for those doing multi-day hikes. But today, with the waterfall crashing, and the pool in flood, we make the most of the opportunity
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IT IS A GIANT IN A LAND OF GIANTS. AND
IF WATER IS LIFE, THIS PLACE IS ALIVE.”
and savour every moment. Lying motionless, our backs in the water, our muscles aching, our feet sore, we gaze upwards as droplets of water fall almost in slow motion towards us, dancing on the surface of the water around us. We are tired and sore, but our cup is full, so to speak. It’s moments like this that make all the hard work worthwhile. By late afternoon, the heavy rain from Ex-tropical Cyclone Blake has returned; we decide to backtrack to set up camp. It’s difficult to find flat ground—and higher ground—inside the gorge itself, and with the risk of rising water levels overnight, we decide it’s best to return downstream. It may only be Day Two, but we are exhausted; dragging our feet through waist-deep water and chest-high grass has taken its toll. We opt for convenience, and choose a nice, sandy area next to the creek to pitch our tent.
If the heavy rain persists, we might need to relocate to higher ground, but right now, with my boots and socks full of sand and pebbles, it’s a relief to dump our heavy packs and collapse into the creek—this feeling of weightlessness a welcome reprieve from lugging our packs all day. We barely stay awake long enough for dinner, and are relieved to settle for the night under clear skies and twinkling stars. The lack of cloud cover lulls us into a false sense of security, and we take the fly off the tent before going to bed, keen to maximise air flow in the hot and humid conditions. Anyone who has visited the Kimberley will agree on this: It’s impossible to look at the Kimberley’s night sky and not be moved by it, not be humbled. The complete absence of light pollution lends itself to kicking back and falling asleep under the biggest and clearest skies you will ever see, like a wraparound high-resolution image from the Hubble Space Telescope arching overhead. But if you roll the dice and leave the fly off your tent in the wet season, lo and behold, it will almost certainly start raining. By 9PM, a gentle sprinkle wakes us from our slumber. By 10PM, the rain is heavy; a small waterfall has formed directly opposite the tent. By midnight, the creek is lapping at the tent, and we are forced to scramble to higher ground. Yep, we gambled, and we lost. Rarely is the easy option the best option. Lesson learned. We retrace our steps the next morning, and slowly follow the creek downstream as it snakes its way through the domes. With clear skies, the sun has returned, it is hot and humid, so our walk is interrupted by hard-earned swims and rehydration breaks. Along with the sun’s intense heat, the Kimberley’s bold colours have reappeared—perfect blue skies and golden sandstone. Meanwhile, nankeen kestrels glide overhead, purple-backed
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Sandstone breakaways and persistent rain Slow going through freshly deposited sediment in Piccaninny Creek The sinuous curves of the beehive domes from above Not everything water-related on the trip was torrential; beading over a veined leaf offered a delicate and beautiful counterpoint Taking a battering at Whip Snake Gorge Camping under the stars before a forced move to higher ground
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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP The Bungle Bungle Range, stretching 25km east-west and 27km north-south Resting our weary bones in Piccaninny Creek after a hard day’s slog Livistona palm trees dwarfed by Black Rock Falls A labyrinth of banded cone-karst formations
CONTRIBUTOR: Broome-based photographer Gary Annett, with his Northern Irish brogue and round head, is oftentimes confused with the comedian Jimeoin. He is, however, much less witty and is better suited to taking photos.
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fairywrens chatter in the long grass, a double-barred finch builds its nest next to the creek. These brief moments of overlap with Kimberley wildlife reinforce the fact that the domes, and the greater massif itself, are not dormant geological relics but living, breathing ecosystems for the Kimberley’s often-elusive wildlife—a labyrinth of unspoiled natural habitat. As our trek comes to a close, we realise we’ve timed the whole thing perfectly. Had we set off any later, we would have missed the heavy rain and the biggest waterfalls. The experience reminds me of something I learned when I first arrived in the Kimberley. All the good stuff—the beautiful swims, the pristine waterfalls, the big starry skies—comes at a price: the price of having to work a little bit, or a lot, for those rewards. We’ve also been reminded of why getting out of your comfort zone and trying new things is not only important, but necessary. Like life, every new experience brings highs and lows. Good bits and bad bits. Easy bits and tough bits. Moments of getting it right and moments of knowing you’ve clearly gotten it wrong. And at the end of each day, you go to bed tired and sore and satisfied, knowing it is all worth it—every last bit of it. The questionable creek crossings. The soggy boots. The lack of sleep. It’s all worth it. Because along the way you saw some amazing stuff and you felt something—you felt alive. Back at the car, we drain the water from our boots one last time and offload our soggy backpacks. Tomorrow we’ll be back to cutting grass, pulling weeds and staining timber decking. This is the life of a wet-season caretaker—months of repetitive, hot, physical work, punctuated by unforgettable experiences like this one. It may have only been a three-day hike, but we feel like we climbed Everest and survived. And we got to experience something that for most people remains only the stuff of dreams: the Bungle Bungles at their wet season best. W
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Cordillera Blanca, Peru
Photo Credit: Neil Blundy
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PHOTO ESSAY
ALPENGLOW CLIMBING EUROPE’S 4,000M PEAKS Photographer and alpine guide Ben Tibbetts grew up in Wales but, drawn by the lure of the mountains, eventually based himself in the birthplace of alpinism—the French town of Chamonix. In this stunning photo essay, he shares images from his book Alpenglow: The Finest Climbs on the 4000m Peaks of the Alps.
By BEN TIBBETTS
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Valentine Fabre at dawn on the lower South Ridge of Dent Blanche (4,357m) with the Matterhorn behind. Among the giants of the Alps, the Dent Blanche is one of the most beautiful and isolated mountains
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4,000ers in the Alps, EUROPE
C
LIMBING THE 4,000M PEAKS of the European Alps is one of the great and enduring challenges in mountaineering. These summits are no doubt some of the most accessible in the world, with an unrivalled network of lifts, paths and refuges that
provide simple logistics, at least to reach the base of the mountain. However, many of the standard routes to these summits remain serious and technical endeavours, requiring stamina, courage, skill, and humility. As a photographer in these mountains, the higher you are, the better the light seems to get. The 4,000m peaks are the first things to catch the morning rays, and for me, that gives the most sumptuous light to work with. But that often means getting up exceptionally early. While most people start early in the mountains, perhaps at three or four in the morning—because the colder temperatures generally mean less chance of rockfall, and thus increased safety—when hunting for the best light, we’ll frequently be up a couple of hours earlier still. This allows us to be moving along the summit ridges at sunrise, rather than just reaching the bases of the routes. But while setting out so early seems almost reliably grim, it’s balanced by the intense sensations of moving higher in the blue light of dawn, by the crisp snow underfoot, and by the spectacular sunrises. Yet the mountain beauty is not all there is; just as important are the partnerships I’ve formed and the shared moments of inspiration or adversity that have allowed me to create profound bonds of trust and friendships that have nourished the whole tapestry of my life.
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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Valentine on the summit ridge of the Lauteraarhorn (4,042m). The journey to the Aar bivouac, at the base of the mountain, is one of the most dramatic in the Alps and the most arduous approach of any of the 4,000m peaks Krishna Magar and Jamie Morton at dawn on the Kuffner Ridge of Mont Maudit (4,465m). The ridge has everything one looks for in a great route: an elegant, varied and logical line with wild exposure and beautiful surroundings Patrick and Phil at our bivouac between Punta Baretti and Mont Brouillard on the Brouillard Integral route up Mont Blanc (4,808m). The slow, breathless trudge to the summit of Mont Blanc marked the end of one of the longest routes of my life, and a deeply felt adventure shared with two great friends
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4,000ers in the Alps, EUROPE
IMAGES THIS PAGE - TOP TO BOTTOM Aiguille du Tour, Aiguille du Chardonnet and Aiguille Verte catching the last rays of sun, photographed from the Brévent above Chamonix. The Aiguille Verte (4,122m) is one of the most beautiful and highly coveted peaks in the Alps Valentine Fabre skiing the West Face of Pollux (4,092m). This 45° line makes a great introduction to steep, high mountain skiing Maciek climbing the Pointe Médiane on Arête du Diable (the Devil’s Needles), five prominent spires on one of the most spectacular ridges on the Mont Blanc massif
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Bertrand Gentou and Olivier Vandenbergh TASMANIA on theOverland iconic snowTrack, crest of the Innominata Ridge of Mont Blanc (4,808m)
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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4,000ers in the Alps, EUROPE
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Valentine Fabre climbing the Rasoir on the North Ridge Traverse of Zinalrothorn (4,221m) Valentine on the Cresta Signal route on Signalkuppe (4,553m). The peak is perhaps best known for accommodating the highest building in Europe, the Margherita Hut, which opened in 1893 A pencil drawing of Mont Blanc at sunset from the north. I enjoy drawing in stark black and white, either with graphite or charcoal. I find drawing in tone rather than colour allows me to examine the form and shape of the terrain. Moreover, it makes a stark counterpoint to my colour photography Sunrise from our bivouac on Pointe Whymper on the traverse of Dôme de Rochefort (4,015m) and Grandes Jorasses (4,208m) Descending the west couloir of the South-West Ridge of the Allalinhorn (4,027m) at sunset
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CONTRIBUTOR: Photographer and alpine guide Ben Tibbetts is based in Chamonix, France. His most recent book The 4000m Peaks of the Alps, Volume 1: West doesn’t only come with beautiful imagery; it is a 320-page comprehensive climbing and ski-mountaineering guidebook including route descriptions and diagrams. You can see more of his work at bentibbetts.com SUMMER 2024
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Martine putting her skills to the test on the Amphitheatre rapid
THE
SPICE OF
LIFE
Variety in your outdoor pursuits lets you see the world through different lenses, both literally and metaphorically.
Words & Photography RYAN HANSEN
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Mitchell River NP, VICTORIA
Melbourne
“We have enough hobbies!” That’s what my wife, Martine, tells me when I say I’d like to try bikepacking. It’s an attempted excuse, but I see straight through it; I know the real reason she objects is that the last time she rode a bike—in Germany, while she was on exchange there—she crashed into a traffic-light pole. She’s very talented, my wife. The second reason she provides is that—unlike our mortgage, unfortunately—our house’s remaining storage space is rapidly evaporating. The spare rooms (yes, rooms plural) are already stacked, neatly at least, with all types of adventurous clothing and gear. The way it should be. So too, the shed. “We’ll have to do an extension, then,” I propose. I’m only semi-joking. Martine hadn’t disagreed, however, when I’d suggested previously that we dabble in packrafting. To the contrary, she’d glowed with excitement. Sensibly, I’d resisted the temptation to point out that—what with rivers being full of boulders and stoppers and eddies and so on—packrafting inherently requires, well … the ability to avoid things. It seems a skill she lacks, given her affinity for steering into stationary objects. Instead, we’d dived (or should I say, floated?) right in, and purchased two new pretty packrafts. But after a couple of easy overnight trips, on which we’d both avoided calamitous collisions, they’d since been laying idly under our bed, patiently waiting for their next outing. This wasn’t because we hadn’t enjoyed our packrafting experience. Rather, it’s that our primary outdoor pursuit is bushwalking. It’s what we know. It’s what we’re good at. It’s what we love. As a result, some of our other adventurous pastimes have slipped by the wayside a little. But now, with a month of hiking in Tassie just round the corner—which should, for the time being, sufficiently sate our bushwalking appetite—and with five days before our family Xmas celebrations begin, we’ve got a prime opportunity to do something a little out of our ordinary. It’s time to de-dust the rafts! +++++ A lil lizard friend!
Mitchell River NP
“ROAD CLOSED. NO VEHICLE ACCESS.” Damnit. That sign’s not supposed to be here. “I’m sure I checked before we left …” I protest. Hadn’t I rung Parks? Didn’t I ask if we could park at Angusvale, despite the upgrades to the campground? Hadn’t they said, “No, but you can still access the Mitchell at Rock Creek?” Martine doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to. I know what she’s thinking. I’m thinking it too. Did we just drive five hours, in two separate vehicles—for the car shuffle—merely to be thwarted by a road closure? A road closure that shouldn’t exist. There’s no phone reception here, at the entrance to Victoria’s Mitchell River National Park. Deliberating, we eventually decide to drive further along the main road in search of a blip of reception. We’re in luck. On one hand, anyway: The park alerts confirm I haven’t lost the plot; it’s just Angusvale that’s out of action. Maybe the signage is old?
WE’RE NOW AT THE MERCY OF THE RIVER; OUR
DIRECTIONS, TRAJECTORIES, AND PACE FROM HERE ON ARE SUBJECT TO
THE WILL OF THE WATER.”
I ring Parks to see what the go is. Susie answers. She’s confused, too. “The road shouldn’t be closed. But the contractors are due to wrap up today. They might be bringing their machinery back out along the road.” She calls the head dude, Jeff, but there’s no answer. So she brainstorms alternatives with us, and provides Jeff’s number to try for ourselves, before signing off: “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, hopefully you still have a wonderful trip somewhere!” The world needs more Susies. Still, we have no better luck contacting Jeff, so Billy Goat Bend Road it is. Our Toyota Rav ain’t no billy goat, though, and it comes off second best. Regretfully U-turning, reluctantly accepting our initial plans are likely going to be severely compromised, my phone rings. It’s Jeff. “G’day, Ryan. It’s only the last section, just before Angusvale, that’s barricaded. You’re fine to get into Rock Creek. Go for it, mate!” Champion. We could do with a few more Jeffs, too.
THROUGHOUT MY BUSHWALKING LIFE, I’ve spent considerable time near water. Lakes, rivers, tarns, creeks. Occasionally, the ocean. Sometimes, on multi-day trips, it’s been through necessity: to gather the fresh liquid that will support and sustain our continued time in the bush. Other times it’s
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After navigating the Amphitheatre rapid, this majestic pool, encircled by towering cliffs, was an apt reward
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Mitchell River NP, VICTORIA
been purely for the aesthetic appeal of the location. But rarely— actually, only on a handful of occasions—have I visited a body of water for this purpose: to provide passage from A to B. The next morning, after the drizzle clears, Martine and I walk the length of the Slalom Rapid—our initiation to the Mitchell— scoping hazards and potential lines, attempting to predict where the water will take us. As our rafts then follow the flow, we successfully steer and navigate these first obstacles. Ultimately, though, we’re now at the mercy of the river; our directions, trajectories, and pace from here on are subject to the will of the water. As the Mitchell transports us forwards, we become passengers in its endless quest—the eternal journey of all waterways—to reach its final destination: the sea. We quickly acknowledge the compatibility of our paddling skill and the water level, which had just dipped below one metre at the Glenaladale Bridge prior to our departure: The gravel races have just enough spice, without being overpowering. Continuing to amble downriver, weaving our way among the vibrant green landscape, a sheer, blackened bluff appears. On the river’s far side, a sizeable boulder sits anchored in the waterway. I wonder what its origins are. Did it, in aeons past, when its time had come, tumble down the hillside to its current resting place? I struggle to fathom the forces of nature. By mid-afternoon, settled into a comfortable groove, we discover a picturesque, pebbly beach. Opposite, Sandy Creek gently trickles into a calm, deep pool with mesmerising shimmering reflections. Pulling the rafts ashore, we follow the footpad in search of Jurgensons Point campsite. The waterside vegetation opens out into a magnificently open, grassy expanse. Magical. Dusk descends, and sipping a soothing cuppa after a late sprinkling of droplets, Martine ponders aloud: “Whaddya reckon our chances are of seeing a wombat?” For all our time spent in the bush, we’ve rarely encountered these furry friends. “Well, there’s plenty of holes around.” “I’m going for a wander,” she declares, equipped with Crocs, a tea and a handful of Scotch Fingers. Moments later, I kid you not, I hear a triumphant sing-song call from the shrubbery. She’s found one. Half-an-hour of sneaky wombat spotting ensues, with more success: We sight another two of the inquisitive marsupials. A random but awesome way to finish our first day of paddling.
WHEN DAY TWO ON THE WATER dawns, with the quickfire events of the last three days having settled, I find myself contemplating. Lying here in the tent as I do now—gazing out at Martine boiling us a morning brew and then beyond her at the damp, vivid greens of our surrounds, the ever-present gurgle of the river audible in the distance—it strikes me that this moment nearly didn’t happen.
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THIS LANDSCAPE, AS IT UNFOLDS AROUND US, IS UNLIKE ANYTHING I’VE FELT OR SEEN BEFORE.” Three days ago, my world as I knew it unexpectedly turned to tatters. Among the range of emotions I was experiencing back then, uncertainty dominated; getting to the point we’re at today couldn’t have felt further away. But, together, we’d persisted with the plan, knowing that nature is always the best antidote. The near debacle with the road closure almost derailed it a second time. I think of Claire, one of our close friends. What would she say? “Ryan, it’s meant to be. It’s happened for a reason.” It hasn’t clicked yet, though, what that reason is. Packed up, we shoulder an end of the inflated packraft each,
the contents inside the T-Zip sliding and slipping around as we carefully dodge the spiky bushes on the return to the river. Rinse and repeat for the second raft, and we’re soon away. After one of the next mini rapids, I ease in to the riverbank and photograph Martine as she drifts past a sand island. The serene scene before me deserves more than a mental picture. This experience, this landscape, as it unfolds around us, is unlike anything I’ve felt or seen before. A long, straight stretch of flat water follows. I find myself in the middle of the steady flow, my paddle resting across my waist. I relinquish control and let the current take me where it pleases. As the raft continues ever onwards, it gradually twists and skews, veering off towards the drooping limbs arching over the water’s edge. I calmly re-orient myself, and repeat the process. The outcome is the same. Is this not a metaphor for life? External forces will inevitably, from time to time, stray us from the course. The question is: What must we do to re-centre? The looming, raucous roar of the next rapid, Amphitheatre, breaks my reverie. The bluffs, which were mostly obscured from afar, now tower above. Mooring our vessels, a boulder-hopping scout uncovers an unsettling hazard: a sharp, submerged object—either a log or a rock—which would be particularly nasty to acquaint ourselves with. A tongue of water seems to provide safe passage to the right, but at our skill level, could we navigate the preceding obstacles to accurately position ourselves there?
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Flatwater paddling on Day Two The smile says it all: This is the real deal! Fun times on a perfectly spicy mini-rapid The classic gorge scenery of the Mitchell River An afternoon ritual: gear-drying!
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Martine running a final line on the Weir rapid
THIS RIVER ... IS MORE THAN SOMETHING NICE TO LOOK AT; LIKE ALL WATERWAYS, IT IS A SOURCE OF LIFE FOR OTHER BEINGS. AND IT TOO IS A DYNAMIC,
LIVING THING IN ITS OWN RIGHT.”
CONTRIBUTOR: Educator, photographer and outdoor enthusiast Ryan Hansen relishes any opportunity to get out bush, even if it means slogging litres of water up a mountain just for the sunrise.
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A nervous piddle later, we find ourselves safely wading the first stretch of the rapid to enter below the hazard. Knee straps tightened, the fun begins. Yahoo and wowee! Having negotiated it with much more prowess than me, I applaud Martine: “Who said you couldn’t avoid obstacles? Not me!” But the epicness hasn’t finished with yet. After the main rapid, the Mitchell fans out into a large, wide pool. Sitting on the rocks across the way, looking back as a dwarfed Martine paddles the vast waterscape, I realise I’m growing to value this river on a different level than I’d imagined. While I’m not indigenous, and I don’t claim to fully understand or equivalently experience the rich spiritual connections the Gunaikurnai people feel to the Mitchell, I’m appreciating this river deeply. It is more than something nice to look at; like all waterways, it is a source of life for other beings. And it too is a dynamic, living thing in its own right.
THE FIRST DAY OF A TRIP, for us at least, is always the toughest: travel, logistics, the heaviest weights, time pressures, et cetera et cetera. Day Two is normally about continued physical conditioning, but we’re in a clearer mental space. By the third day, all the pieces fit: equilibrium. And Day Three on the mighty Mitchell is true to form. The tender morning light affords the country a soft, welcoming glow, and as we paddle the calm sections of extended flatwater, I feel like I’m travelling through one of my grandmother’s watercolour paintings. Savouring these final delicate moments, it all starts to make sense, the reason why we’re here: to remind ourselves the importance of different outdoor pursuits. Variety is key. While bushwalking will probably always remain our go-to adventurous activity, these three days packrafting the Mitchell have reiterated that different outdoor pursuits allow us to not only see more of the natural world—we may not have even come here if it weren’t for these packrafts—but to view it through a new lens, literally and metaphorically. We can never have too many hobbies, especially outdoor ones. “So, whaddya say?” I ask Martine. “Bikepacking next?” W
Packraft in Tasmania Experience fun rapids, stunning gorge campsites, wildlife and great food on a three-day, all inclusive river trip with the adventure professionals Cradle Mountain Canyons
WILD RIVERS, WILD TIMES Nineteen days. 150 kilometres. 52 river crossings. 7 topo maps. 2 food caches. And one amazing national park: An edge to edge crossing of Oxley Wild Rivers NP.
Words Chris Armstrong Photography Craig Fardell
Oxley Wild Rivers NP
Sydney
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An unnamed rocky peak on our route delivers the goods with spectacular views of the Apsley River wilderness
T
he end of our 19-day walk is literally in sight,
the final deep valley of Salisbury Waters stretches westwards. Up there, in the darkness of its towering, rugged headwaters, is a small walking track that threads its way out of this gorge and onto the plateau above. To reach the track, however, we must negotiate the swollen river at our feet. Crossings— five so far today and 51 on the trip to date—are becoming increasingly difficult. Several times, the riverside cliffs force us towards uncrossable rapids, and so we clamber up and over bluffs and knolls, crawl through trees and over slippery boulders in an effort to continue our journey upstream. Now, an unsurpassable cliff forces us to backtrack to our lunch spot where fatigue makes our choice of crossing point less than perfect. I watch Craig as he wades out slowly below a long rapid. The water reaches his hips. As I enter the river, its strong current tugs at my backpack. My feet search for purchase among the large boulders on the riverbed. I use two sticks for balance and put all my strength into their placement, desperate for their support. Craig makes it to the other side. He stands knee deep, clutching a strong watergum, arm outstretched for me as the river rises above my waist. Over the roar of the water, I yell to him: “Remind me why we are doing this?” But an answer doesn’t matter, because I’m yelling to him again,
“I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”
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Oxley Wild Rivers NP, NEW SOUTH WALES
SEVEN TOPOGRAPHIC MAPS SHOW OUR planned route. Marked with pencilled dots, dashes and triangles, the route stretches from one end of Oxley Wild Rivers National Park to the other, starting at Tia Falls, outside Walcha, and ending 150km away at Dangars Falls outside Armidale: Nineteen days through the heart of the Macleay Gorges Wilderness Area, the third-largest wilderness zone in NSW. The first European to record impressions of this area was Colonial Surveyor-General, John Oxley. He arrived here, from the west, in the spring of 1818 and stumbled to the brink of this gorge country, where the many tributaries of the Macleay River have carved deep valleys, cliff-lined gorges and sheer waterfalls. The abruptness of these drops, their vast length and breadth, forced him far south as he sought a route eastwards to the coast. Oxley later wrote how the rugged country “considerably embarrassed and impeded” him. And here we are, two-hundred-and-a-few years later, being embarrassed and impeded in those very same gorges as we try, like Oxley, to stick to our planned route. And like Oxley, what brought us here was simple curiosity. A desire to see corners and places, to open ourselves to chance encounters with rare wildlife, to immerse ourselves in this wild patch of country and see what wonders it might hold. The famous Italian mountaineer, Walter Bonatti, wrote that curiosity is the most important attribute for people wanting to reach the world’s wild open spaces. “I dare suggest,” he said, “that curiosity created man. Perhaps adventure started the day monkeys first came down from the trees—through curiosity.”
PRIOR TO THE START OF THE WALK, Craig and I spend months poring over the maps to select our route. To look at a topographic map, spread out on the lounge-room floor, it feels as if all ideas are feasible and all journeys possible. That cliff line can be avoided or sidled around. That ridge looks like it will offer great views. What about that unnamed peak? This is where this 19-day trip really begins. Then, there are the two weeks spent visiting farmers to ask permission to cross properties, tasking a friend to be our shuttle bunny, and the days walking in, and out, hiding two food caches at strategic points. Finally, we set off through the open woodlands of Oxley Wild Rivers NP. We jump the dingo fence, and navigate our first farmer’s rolling paddocks to pinpoint a narrow descent ridge into the vast Apsley River valley and the wilderness it cuts through. When we finally hit the Apsley River, we’re more than a little surprised to find a 4WD track winding its way downstream. The reason for the road is soon obvious, as we pass the first of many pig traps (baited with corn) and stockyards (baited with salt licks). Feral pigs, cattle and brumbies are a majorthe manageInspecting snowpackcountry. on the lower ment issue in this lightly wooded, well-watered But the climb of Mt Green road also sparks more curiosity because, wow, a mountain bike
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LIKE MONKEYS IN A TREE, WONDERING WHAT IT’S LIKE DOWN ON THE GROUND AND HOW WE ARE GOING TO GET THERE.” could ride this. We wonder how far the road goes. Where does it descend off the tablelands? How would we get access? While looking at maps always sparks our curiosity, nothing beats stumbling through a landscape, standing on a high point, seeing a deep fold of mountain or an intriguing outcrop, discovering a new access route, checking out the promise of a throughwalk or a paddle. Like monkeys in a tree, wondering what it’s like down on the ground and how we are going to get there. The 4WD road makes for quick walking, and it allows us to abdicate decisions about river crossings; four on the first day; twelve on the second. But, on Day Five, we leave the road behind, climbing an open ridge towards Tooth Rocks, chasing encounters with this park’s most elusive and rarest wildlife: endangered brush-tailed rock wallabies. The haul to Tooth Rocks is steep. We tackle 500m in elevation over just 1.3km, then track along a ridge to the base of the rocks, where we dump our packs and scramble to the summit. It’s a tight climb through tangled fig trees, grass and rocky ledges. Tooth Rocks was deliberately included in our route for
two reasons. Firstly, to find those rock wallabies, and, sure enough, their urine stains and poo are on every flat, sunny ledge and in protected nooks beneath the figs. Little rock-wallaby faces peer at us from around each bend, wary and curious in equal measure. We shuffle through gaps in the trees and by the time we reach the summit, my hands are covered in the remnants of both their piss and poo. I stink, my clothes stink, but I have probably seen more rock wallabies in this half-hour climb than most people will see in a lifetime. I can also now enjoy the second reason for our detour to Tooth Rocks. From on top, the views are stupendous. To our left is the massif of Paradise Rocks, a bulky, bluff-faced peak we have visited previously (Ed: see Wild #136). To our right are hints of the Green Gully Track, but the views north, and east, and south, are dominated by steep-sided, forest-clad hills, scored with dark-shadowed gullies. Through the centre of our view runs the Apsley River, twisting and looping and flowing to a distant horizon where it disappears between crumpled ridges.
ON DAY SEVEN WE REACH THE FIRST of our two food drops. It is a chance for a rest day, but also a chance for the trip to completely turn on its head. This is the day rain arrives. As we sort through our new maps and food (it’s another seven days to our next cache), we dodge intermittent showers. At this stage, they don’t dampen our excitement. Winter is this area’s driest season, and we guess the rain will pass through in a day, maybe two. We continue following the Apsley River downstream. There have been twenty river crossings in our first week. We manage to keep our boots dry by changing each time into river sandals. It’s time consuming but worth it, these moments sitting quietly drying our feet and listening to the breeze through towering river oaks. Eastern whipbirds call in the wet forest of nearby gullies and creeks. Each day, a white-breasted sea eagle cruises the long, still pools. But each day it rains more steadily. Afternoons are tent-bound. We are forced to cook in the vestibule and to eat dinner on our beds. And breakfast. Lunch is just a snack on the go.
IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Descending steeply into the Apsley River valley on Day Two The rugged beauty of the Tia River valley below Tia Falls One of our seven topo maps necessary for the trip, this one showing the ‘heart’ of the Macleay Gorges Wilderness (see river bends on the right of the image) Tia Falls disappearing into the abyss Brush-tailed rock wallaby hideout Cloud engulfs the lichen-covered forest
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On Day Eleven, our route finally tracks away from the Apsley River and heads up and over an isolated plateau, before descending to the Macleay River on the other side. More country we have never seen before; more ridgelines to find and follow that, until now, were abstract markings on a paper map. The night before we leave, it rains and rains and rains. I lay awake and hear a small herd of brumbies running around the river flats. Masked lapwings squawk. Distant feral cattle bellow. When we wake at 5:30AM, the full moon is glowing in the west like a golden orb behind shifting clouds. We are walking by 7AM, and not long into the climb it starts to drizzle. Once up on the plateau, we stop to put on rain jackets and overpants, as it’s bitterly cold with the extra altitude. We have climbed from 200m to 900m above sea level through rare sections of rainforest strewn with massive clumps of king orchids and hanging lichens, with a lyrebird calling from a deep, wet gully. At 9:30AM, we stop to take our first compass bearing. Then comes two hours in a constant rhythm of walk, check compass, check map, walk, check compass, check map. The scrub is dense at times, and it’s rocky underfoot, too. But it’s too cold to stop; the clouds are thick and the rain is heavy, so heavy that the trees are foaming with water coursing down their shaggy bark. Despite protecting our feet at every river crossing, it has all been in vain. Our socks, our boots, our shorts, shirts, jackets, overpants, everything, is soaked through. The one day with no river crossings, and it feels like we have swum into camp. We stand here drenched, on a cliff top, fifty metres above the mighty Macleay. The scene looks benign. Mist hangs in patches above the river, which flows serenely through long pools and over shallow gravel banks. Broad flats are dotted with the yellow crowns of winter-leafing white cedar. The road is gone, and our isolation is complete.
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CURIOSITY MAY BE ... THE GREATEST TRAIT IN THE
ADVANCEMENT OF HUMANITY, BUT IT
IS WORTHLESS WITHOUT A BIT OF FORTITUDE.”
THE NEXT MORNING, DAY TWELVE, we wake and it is still raining. At our first river crossing, we simply wade into the water, boots and all. After the seventh crossing for the day, we end up on a tight lip of rock following a brumby trail along a ledge between the river and a towering wall of shale. The sheer smoothness and grandeur of the 80m-high wall, angled away from the river, is one of many moments of awe as we push further along the Macleay into its rugged upper reaches. But accompanying these wonders is constant rain. We never stop for a proper lunch. We remain confined to the tent each afternoon. Every morning, we dress in our wet clothes and boots. It is psychologically tough, the lack of sunshine, and the physical demands of living in the wet, in the crouched confines of our small tent. By the time we reach our final food drop, we have walked 100km, completed 34 river crossings, and for the sixth night in a row cooked dinner in the tent vestibule. For four days now, Craig has been saying, “Tomorrow, it will clear.” Our last food cache is high on the plateau, so up we go again, climbing 600m in elevation. The rain is more intermittent and, promisingly, there are patches of blue sky. As we repack our food, it rains. Again. Dark clouds drift in from the east. For the first time, I question the importance of curiosity and our need to quench it. What is the purpose, the reward, the need, for such an arbitrary adventure to satisfy a personal whim and a
IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM River crossing number 27 after a wet day crossing the high plateau. No more dry boots Forest fungi Scarlet robin Watching the Macleay River rise from our clifftop camp on Day 13 Enjoying the stupendous views and the last of the good weather from atop Tooth Rocks
self-serving curiosity? There is even a moment when I glance at the satellite phone and consider making a call, to walk out to the nearest road, to go home, to get dry. But I don’t. Curiosity may be considered by many as the greatest trait in the advancement of humanity, but I am learning that it is worthless without a bit of fortitude. I stash the satellite phone at the bottom of my pack and continue on.
THE DAY AFTER OUR RESUPPLY, and another night of heavy rain, the river looks like it is carrying more colour. But when we wake at about 5AM, it is quiet—only the occasional drip from the river oaks are audible—and the stars are visible. It is a joy to stand outside and drink our morning cuppa in warm sunshine. Finally, Craig is right. It is clearing. But the first crossing of the day makes it obvious that we’re in for a new challenge. Our river has grown into three fast moving channels and the current is strong. When we sit to enjoy our first proper lunch in a week, I put a stick at the water’s edge. It shows the river rising an inch in half an hour. On Day 13, we camp short of our original planned location; the river is too deep to ford. We climb onto a cliff to camp. It’s easy to console ourselves with the stunning views upstream, where dark fins of steep mountain ridges emerge out of a shifting flow of fallen clouds. The next morning, our hardest day of walking unfurls before us. At the ‘heart’ of the Macleay—a big heart-shaped bend in the river, visible on satellite imagery—we shortcut over a low saddle, and on the other side discover the river is narrower, faster and more rugged. All side creeks and gullies are gushing with water. We try staying on one side to avoid crossing the now brown, noisy river.
The day blurs into an exhausting physicality, until we are finally forced to backtrack and, fatigued, choose that terrible crossing point where you found me at this story’s start, reaching for Craig’s outstretched hand as the current tugs at my big pack and my feet scrabble for purchase. I make one final push through the deep water as it rises to my chest. I feel Craig’s hand around my wrist. Curiosity killed the cat goes the old proverb. And while that’s unlikely here, for us, the other lesson I learn is that curiosity’s bedmate must be optimism. After surviving the wild river crossing, we make camp. Every kilometre has been hard won, but the landscape is stunning, and sunset turns the valley an eerie, glowing orange. The air itself is purple. I discover a tiny, jewelled cocoon hanging from a small tree; more rock wallabies emerge on the nearby cliffs; wedge-tailed eagles drift across the sky above.
“WE FIND OUR SOULS ARE IN OUR LAPS, when we open a map,” wrote the Australian poet Kevin Brophy. But there is a trick to maps, and souls, and curiosity. They may make all journeys look possible; not all journeys, however, are. None of them can predict the weather, or pinpoint every bouldered rapid or deep uncrossable pool; they do not illustrate the tangled limbs of bent trees that prove impassable, nor do they show the sheer slate wall of a small cliff that needs to be negotiated. Maps, books, research. Blogs, anecdotes, satellite imagery, gpx files. All these resources at our fingertips and still, like the explorers from centuries earlier, the landscape can stymie the most curious of minds. How great is that, that still we can be embarrassed and impeded by this rugged country. The morning after our wild river crossing, Craig scouts upstream to inspect options. He returns looking less than optimistic. Our next crossing is at the top of a long, pumping,
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Oxley Wild Rivers NP, NEW SOUTH WALES
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Clouds obscure the Macleay River valley and the route ahead Topo map in hand, planning another adventure Dangars Falls: mission complete
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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Grade-3 rapid; we find ourselves with our map open in our laps. It tells us much of what we already know, that from here on, the Macleay River narrows considerably, becomes more rugged and steep-sided as it turns into Salisbury Waters and pushes onwards to Dangars Falls. The only obvious exit ridge, to take us up onto the plateau, is on the other side of the river. There is nothing for it but to retrace our steps to the previous, difficult crossing point. The water still gives my undies a good wash, but we are less fatigued, and we make it across without drama. It is our last crossing for the trip—number 52. Then our climb begins, and we zig zag steeply upwards to the tablelands above. We have mixed feelings about leaving the river behind, losing one beauty but gaining another. Once up top, we veer out to the edge of the plateau and take in the epic views across to Gara Gorge and down to Salisbury Waters; along kilometres of cliff edge, every ephemeral creek is cascading off the tablelands in a string of thin waterfalls. Low cloud swirls around and down and through the valleys and forests. Up here, we have views of waterfalls dropping 95m. We are spoilt for scenic campsites with grand views of this living landscape. Reluctant to leave, we find ourselves loitering. On our second-last day, it is only 11:30AM when we set up camp. I wander out to the edge of the cliffs with a cuppa and my topographic map in hand. Tomorrow we will make our way out over the final few kilometres of country, climb the dingo fence once more, and stroll anonymously into the busy car park at Dangars Falls before heading out to retrieve food barrels and then going home. For now, though, I have these expansive views to inspect. Over there is Gara Gorge. I’ve never been in there. And that must be Spring Camp Creek? Definitely a canyon trip. I decide we should stop and check that out tomorrow as we walk past. I twist the map this way and that—looking, wondering, trying to work out where we next want to climb out of the trees, curious about what’s down there on the ground. “Adventure is gone when man loses his ingenuity, imagination and sense of responsibility; when the unknown and the unexpected are demolished or trivialised,” Walter Bonatti wrote. “Nor can adventure survive if we alter or destroy uncertainty, risk, courage, exaltation, solitude and isolation. We must preserve the sense of exploration and discovery, of the impossible, of improvisation.” W
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Whippa Skimo 45 and 55
in search of
ATARAXIA
Tasmania’s rugged South West Cape circuit is both challenging and home to some truly tempestuous weather. It is also a place to find something that sits seemingly at odds with both those elements: tranquillity.
Words & Photography CRAIG N PEARCE
South West Cape
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y mission was to find ataraxia. It is not a planet or a solar system, or a spot
on a map; ataraxia—a key component of Ancient Greek philosophy—is a place of peace, a mental state of equanimity and tranquillity you carry inside you. But despite any quest for ataraxia being essentially internal, physical locations matter too, and I suspected the south-west extremity of Tasmania—beaches, bites and the Southern Ocean’s tempestuousness—could well be cradling what I desired. You see, ataraxia, like all things precious, tends to be of greater magnitude when hurdles need to be overcome before claiming it. One of those obstacles, ironically enough in this case, being anxiety. On Mt Karamu, close to SW Tassie’s tippiest tip, on Day Four of my circumnavigation of the South West Cape circuit, ataraxia seemed a long way away. Unease, on the other hand, was at close quarters. Clouds—a tumultuous topography of them—were alternately enveloping and releasing me. At speed. The problem with this was that on the circuit’s route beyond Karamu, it was 100% untracked to the South West Cape Range’s spine. And even then, what the supposed rough pad along the range entailed —sometimes a hoax, sometimes a help—was close to a mystery as well. The route itself would be OK, or at least manageable, I thought. As long as, that is, I could see where I was going. Or where I’d been. Or where—damn it—I was. Which is where, Houston, we had a problem. On this #navcruxday1 of two anticipated crux days (my ineptitude managed to concoct a third, too) the weather decided to wage war. A battalion of clouds were the troops dispatched. A fair fight it wasn’t. How are you meant to pin down vapour? This was high above Wilson Bight. Self-managed nav was a non-negotiable part of the circuit’s deal. It was pass or fail. No middle ground. And a nav fail up here would not end well. It was a long way from anywhere. A rescue chopper would be the only viable transport, and even then, the weather would have to be accommodating. Which wasn’t the case right now. If I couldn’t see where I was going, nothing to take a reliable bearing on, no trail to hold onto, I wasn’t comfortable with proceeding.
But a decision needed to be made.
First viewing up the Southwest’s coast: guaranteed to jolt your heart (in a happy way)
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South West Cape, TASMANIA
Alice Springs
TWO TRAILS (AND A BIT) While my walk, for the most part, was tethered to an unfurling ribbon of inland trail, its overriding characteristic was the coast, and, getting even more micro, the intertidal zone—the “in-between”, as Adam Nicolson wrote in The Sea is Not Made of Water. In coves and rockpools, on headlands and beaches, these unpeopled idylls were day-end spas of rejuvenation and rebirth. And another source of mystery, one of this walk’s many. The more the ribbon revealed, the more the ocean and its intertidal child became my habitat, the more time became elastic, and the more my mind became loosey goosey in that time honoured wilderness immersion MO. “The sea is a metaphor for the unconscious mind,” wrote Wyl Menmuir in The Draw of the Sea. The linearity of the route became barely there, a shadow to the coast’s all-encompassing presence, and its intertidal zone’s ambiguity. The wilderness of the sea is likely the wildest nature of all on this planet, most of it unexplored and unknown. Yet it is also right there in front of us, touchable and immerse-able (albeit a tactile immersion like no other). We are all, of course, evolved from the sea, but that wasn’t the only reason this felt like a homecoming. I’d walked the South Coast Track (SCT) a few years earlier; it was equal to my favourite walking experiences. It seemed a logical extension, therefore, to walk on parts of what was initially scoped out to be included in it. I saw why the scoping occurred, and I saw reasons why it was probably rejected. One of these reasons was the traverse over the SW Cape Range, where the unpredictability of the cloud and wind would likely necessitate an unacceptable number of rescues. A benefit of this is that the SW Cape has significantly less traffic than the SCT. On my six-day experience here, I came across five people. Close to 100% of my time was spent alone (never gonna happen on a SCT New Year-period walk). There are commonalities between the two walks, but each has its own distinct character and challenges. The circuit is comprised of three parts: a formal, sort-of maintained track from Melaleuca to Wilson Bight, mainly following the southern coast; a collection of pure off-track and informal pads (mainly the western coast) to Horseshoe Inlet; then the ‘formal’ Port Davey Track. In other words, speaking technically, known knowns and known unknowns. The latter required controls in place for the risks I was taking. Plan Bs. More than anything, though, I needed confidence and capabilities. In the latter category, I knew I needed to be prepared to get lost, then un-lost. And that’s precisely what occurred.
THE CALM BEFORE THE QUANDARY The day before my Karamu quandary—The Battle of the Clouds—I meditated on the pellucid art galleries of Wilson
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Bight’s rockpools. They were places of virgin beauty, operating to their own lunar-influenced rhythms. The bight was scored by razor-rocked promontories, and its eastern cliffs, a stunning architecture, reached for the sky, seemingly seeking intimacy with it. The briny air—probably about as close to pure on this Earth as you can get—filled my lungs. I melted into a calm, liquid temper, a parallel realm. As Nicolson wrote, my consciousness was being amended, in a place where the “unending claims of self” were set aside. This being a layover day, I had the time to lazily explore the intertidal bounties; like the sunbaking seal I saw yesterday, I lolled (NB: Old-school definition, not shorthand digital definition) through the day. An ill-defined collage of deliberate thought and imagining ebbed and flowed through me, and I enjoyed what Menmuir terms beaches’ “analogue qualities.” The sky arced high and clear. Ataraxia had, no doubt, found me. It had been coming since Day One, when I was advancing towards New Harbour, from the moment of the Southern Ocean’s first salty assault on my olfactory senses. Pendulous cloud glowed underneath, as if Earth was emanating light, a sun beneath my feet. Then the mossy George Creek, an emerald idyll, paraded at the harbour’s eastern end. Closing the deal was a grassy platform at the back of the scimitar beach, where I settled for the afternoon and evening. A royal-box view of the harbour—sea steaming; the light pixelated and haptic—spread before me. Time was syrup. A pair of sheltering fishing boats had, like me, dropped
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT An offering from a local art gallery Wilsons Bight rockpools— mesmerised by the intertidal zone I got lucky on AirBnB
THE WILDERNESS OF THE SEA IS LIKELY THE
WILDEST NATURE OF ALL ON THIS PLANET, MOST OF IT UNEXPLORED
AND UNKNOWN.”
anchor. No humans visible. This was the first of this trip’s SW Tassie bays, a necklace of fascinations, each telling a different story. The ocean-accelerated wind, and the waves’ blend of sonic booms and whispers cast their mesmerising spells. I could feel, again, what Barry Lopez has described as an “irrational allegiance” to nature. Hidden and Ketchem Bays had beaches and campsites on the way to Wilson, with Hidden the more scenic of the two. A trademark of the walk were the small forests—more like jungles on the western coast—guarding the beaches. On the southern coast, for the most part, navigation was straightforward. Vegetation thinned as I climbed the beach-separating crests; views across the coast and hinterland opened up. The exception to this was over the Amy Range between Ketchem and Wilson. Here, in the thickest jungle of the entire route, was irrefutable evidence that the circuit (even on this formally ‘there’ southern aspect) is low on Tasmania Parks and Wildlife Service’s priorities. It was obliterated by treefall, much of it years old. This, and throngs of head-high grass, kept me
wary as to where the track was (periodically, it simply wasn’t visible). It had taken on a life of its own, cut more by hikers than Parks, as walkers had dealt with nature’s determination to ‘disappear’ it. Crawling and vaulting were strategies for progression as common as walking. A couple I met here were overwhelmed by exasperation, and had turned tail. Once at Wilson, the steps to one of the two campsites (camp-clearing might be a better term than camp-sites on this walk; any ‘facilities’ are all walker-wrought) were half wrecked. There is zero signage on the entire walk.
WILD WEND ON THE RANGE The beach on #navcruxday1 was a post-apocalyptic scene from Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Non-forecast squalls (signature SW Tassie) had come in. Rain drilled on my tent, waking me in the night. I delayed departure in the hope the weather would clear. If the day was to be done, however, there was little room for error in timeliness, weather or navigation. Ataraxia was not in evidence, but the show had to go on. The day began with the up-grunt ascent of Karamu. This start of the known unknown was, like all beach entry/exit points, marked by a collection of fishing-industry detritus. A frayed rope was present, helping me negotiate an initially precipitous climb. I was soon saturated from rain, sweat and sodden bushes, and battered by ocean-whipped wind; even with the cardio
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pumping, I was frigid and not inclined to dwell and admire the dramatic outlook over Wilson and beyond. Between Karamu and the range’s ridge, there were three get-out-of-jail cards I gave myself. If visibility was good enough, I’d continue. If not, I’d just pull the pin and go back the way I’d come. Ultimately, I proceeded, but not until after numerous games of cloud hide and seek. Eventually, the leviathan spine of the Amy Range—cloud-shadow birthmarks speed-morphing across it—came into view. Once reached, the SW Cape Range’s ridgeline provided a reasonably reliable geographic guide by which to progress. The track was mostly there, but also often not, requiring bush logic and intuition to ‘re-find’ it. As the day lengthened, a turbo-charged blue sky vaulted above me; meanwhile, the range offered the most heart-jolting views of the walk. I literally held my breath when I first saw them, looking north up the West Coast. Part of a family of bays and off-shore islands, Window Pane Bay snuck into the bottom of the frame, and Noyhener Beach stretched around to Stephens Bay. The ocean beyond was a dark, cruel blue (“the sea represents terror as well as beauty,” said Menmuir), melding into the horizon’s Wedgewood blue. In this wild and inspirational panorama, every element seemed to have a ‘beyond’; I was spacewalking, weightless, a small gathering of atoms in this extraordinary universe. Window Pane’s campsite was reached after a knee-crunching descent off the range, then a slippery slide down a sand dune that would be a nightmare to ascend with a fully laden multi-day pack (there is an easier option, I ruefully discovered later). The
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THERE WAS ONE SINGLE
OVERRIDING OBJECTIVE: DON’T LOSE THE TRAIL! AND I DIDN’T. NOT FOR AN HOUR AT LEAST.”
campsite had benches and washing lines, along with pathways bordered by smooth rocks. It was walker ingenuity (and irony) at its finest, a slice of rustic faux suburbia. While there was no bush TV (fire) to watch, there was beach TV (the relentless ocean) instead; its ceaseless flowing movement—conjured by the swells and the weather, the tides and the moon—compels you to not just look at it, but to be slack-jaw enthralled by it.
THE GREAT UN-LOST If the sight of coast-hugging scrub hadn’t filled me with terror prior to Window Pane, then what I encountered on the approach to Noyhener altered that perception. On what was meant to be a straightforward day, I got battered by two melaleuca maelstroms. The first involved trails which, despite the prolific false leads in the forest, should have been clear. The second, however, was unavoidable, as it needed to be navigated to get to Noyhener, which in turn led to the campsite. But even though kind walkers had marked the route with—now fading—pink tape, I still managed to lose the trail and do a full comical WTF loop-de-loop. I was in equal parts dumbstruck and appalled
when coming across the same croc-on-a-stake which marked my entry into the conflagration. Frazzled, it was time for a feast of Sour Patch Kids, deep breaths, and refreshing my determination to defeat the melaleuca beast. So infrequent is the forest trail traversed, so (conversely) frequent is its camouflaging by leaf and branch, and so subtle is the zigging and zagging, I doubt even a GPS route would be of much use. Finding your way is a true test of mettle. An aside: There are different schools of thought on the ‘signposting’ of tracks in wilderness areas. At one end is the ‘don’t tape it and don’t cairn it’ perspective. And then there is the laissez-faire view of don’t stress, why not help everyone? I am somewhere in a messily inconsistent middle. I’d prefer there to be no tape or cairns, but in a bush imbroglio like these forests, I appreciated the tape. It also helps minimise the environmental damage that comes with bush bashing. But I don’t want it to be a formal track, either. Yes, this is a thoroughly inconsistent position. The sanctuary of the Noyhener campsite—like Window Pane next to a healthy freshwater creek and adorned by detritus turned into suburban comforts such as seats and tables—was a relief. Much to my shock, I was greeted there by another walker. He would have thought me a right maniac, as I blabbed like a fool after no human contact for four days. His daughter was with him and, sadly, they declined my invitation for an early start the following final day: A big one, over the northern end of the SW Cape Range, then the Pascoe Range, skirting Horseshoe Inlet—including its renowned creek-swim crossing—and on to Melaleuca. There was one single overriding objective for this day: Don’t lose the trail! And I didn’t. Not for an hour at least. Then, coming to the crest of low coastal hills, it went AWOL. Or I went AWOL. From my position, overlooking the valley to the base of the SW Cape Range, I took a ‘strategic’ off-track crossing of the plain to minimise bog and chest-high-scrub interaction, with a strong sense that if I wended my way SE-ish, I’d come across whatever constituted the trail again. On my target spur was a pad, so at this point, I was thinking nice work, son. Up I climbed. All good. I reached the top of the spur. Um, all not so good. Pad gone. Okay. So I went cross country again, keeping an eye out for anything resembling a pad, let alone an actual track. Lo and behold, I spied a scar through the heath that revealed itself to be an actual track, a track that stayed visible and reliable nearly all the way to the inlet.
IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM A local chilling out at Wilson Bight First encounter of the South Coast—beachside lagoons and creeks were common Is that Antarctica in the distance? The massive spread of Noyhener Beach—with towering sand dunes shouldering it—reaches out to Chatfield Point
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Waking up to ataraxia: a South Coast dawn
THE LACTIC ACID AND THE MOANING JOINTS OF MY RUINED BODY WERE A MORBID CHOIR; THEY SANG
UNRELENTING, OFF-KEY, SICK SONGS ALL NIGHT LONG.”
But a desolate mood nonetheless pervaded the badlands from Noyhener to the inlet. Its bleak, backwoods magnificence held humans paddling through its chop in utter disdain. Yet high on the two ranges, and descending towards Horseshoe Inlet, the views were astounding. Coast receding; Port Davey, Bathurst Harbour, Erskine and Rugby Ranges; a sprawling topographical drama. It was only on reaching the disaster of the Port Davey Track that the romance (think Wuthering Heights for a non-Tassie analogy) of the landscape’s bleakness faded, due to the degenerated state of both the track and my body. I thought I’d be in dreamland that night. But after falling into a hiker’s hut at Melaleuca, the lactic acid and the moaning joints of my ruined body were a morbid choir; they sang unrelenting, off-key, sick songs all night long, wreaking revenge on me for what I’d put them through. Yet—after 21km and 12 hours, two mountain ranges, creek and swamp crossings, and that evil Port Davey Track (salt in an oozing wound, an exercise in nihilism if there ever was one)—I could see my body’s point.
A WILD CHILD
CONTRIBUTOR:
Sydney-based
Craig
Pearce escapes, whenever possible, the wilderness of the corporate canyons for the non-anthropocentric society of snakes, snow gums and wallabies.
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The South West Cape circuit was a wild child, particularly from Ketchem onwards. It is likely one of Australia’s tougher multi-day, semi-tracked treks. Certainly, you’d be ill-advised doing it without significant nav, off-track and ‘tight-spot’ experience. Confidence, composure and the know-how to go with the flow, and to extract yourself from problem scenarios, are necessary qualifications. The walk lives and breathes the mantra of no matter how good the advice is you get from track notes, when you dive into wildness of this degree, you can only understand its rigours, rewards and subtleties by doing the thing. But while anxiety stalked me here, I departed strengthened by ataraxia. Some of this sense of tranquillity is still there, deep in my memory and imagination, elusive but knowable. And it is enlivened not merely by the lyricism of the sea—its sounds, smells and sights—but by the walk’s physical demands, its kinaesthetic dimensions. It was a cocktail of sensations, one that activated, placated and healed. And even now, it is as tangible as if I was standing there at this very moment, land-living, yet longing for the sea-womb from which I came. W
LEKI.COM
C R E S S I DA
GUIDE YOUR WAY.
CALM WATERS A four-day sea kayak off the coast of British Columbia’s Vancouver Island through the Broken Islands Group reminded Anja Fuechtbauer that the sum of a trip can be more than its parts. Words & Photography ANJA FUECHTBAUER
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rom the big-wall granite-climbing mecca of Squamish—a now bustling but until recently sleepy pulp milling town on Howe Sound an hour north of Vancouver, British Columbia—with our harnesses and ropes now stashed in the car, it took a ferry, another ferry, and then yet another ferry, followed by a three-hour drive, a left turn before Tofino, and lastly a one-hour water taxi before we landed at the edge of Pacific Rim National Park on the west coast of Vancouver Island. In front of us lay the Broken Group, which comprises over 100 rock- and tree-covered islands, islets, and rocky outcrops in Barkley Sound. Rich in wildlife on land and sea, it will offer chances to encounter eagles, seals, sea otters, bears, whales, and maybe even the fabled sea wolves of Vancouver Island or—hold your breath—orcas.
When looking for an ocean-based adventure in British Columbia, we initially struggled to find a suitable spot, one that would accommodate adventurers skilled in whitewater kayaking but not so much in the open ocean. Well, except for my friend Jack, who crossed the Bass Strait from Victoria to Tasmania via kayak five years earlier (Ed: Check out Wild #173 for his story on the crossing). We looked at the map; with Vancouver Island stretching over 450km from north to south just off the coast of British Columbia, you’d think the waterways between the island and the mainland to the east—the ‘inside’, so to speak; the section between Vancouver Island and the mainland forms roughly a quarter of the famed Inside Passage that stretches 1,600km all the way deep into Alaska— would be a sheltered backdrop for many a relaxed sea-kayak adventure. That, however, is not the case. The big tidal movements of the ocean sweeping through the passage create serious whirlpools, currents and standing waves; all are paired with the potential for big wind and rain events. This makes kayaking within the inside of Vancouver Island only for experienced ocean paddlers, to the extent that no rental kayaks are available for anyone paddling here without a Level II certificate in sea kayaking.
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Vancouver Island, BRITISH COLUMBIA
ALASKA
BRITISH COLUMBIA
Vancouver Island
W
e had experienced the big tidal currents on the inside already at Skookumchuck Narrows where, at the right times, a massive tidal wave forms. Whitewater kayakers and surfers alike make pilgrimages to Skooks when the tides are right, when the sheer amount of water moving through the narrow land gap is mind-boggling. Counterintuitively, it’s on the western side of Vancouver Island—in other words, the ocean side—that a little pocket of sea-kayaking paradise is hidden away for semi-confident and skilled paddlers. It’s calm enough to allow a local kayak-hire and guide company to rent out gear to paddlers who don’t have the Level II cert in sea kayaking. In the midst of that little western pocket of sea kayaking paradise lies the Broken Group. The opportunities for exploration by sea kayak here are only limited by your available time and your skill level. While the inner parts of the island group are relatively sheltered, the outer islands are exposed to the ocean, and even in summer, the water is just a touch above ten degrees Celsius ‘warm’. And depending on where in the island group you are, afternoon breezes usually whip up waves. But those are minor quibbles; there is glorious paddling here. Anna, Jack, Johannes and I packed food and water for four days, plus the obligatory emergency food—because you never know— turned the bows of the kayaks southwest, and headed off.
The giant cedar tree on Turret Island
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With logistics taking up most of the morning, our first day on the water was short, just a paddle of seven kilometres as the eagle flies to our campsite on Dodd Island. We soon glided alongside our first rock-rimmed island. The tidal line was visible a metre or so up on the rocks, with layers of barnacles, mussels, and moss decorating the rock from bottom to top. The branches of the fir trees jutted out over the water, almost touching the lapping waves at high tide. Meanwhile, bald eagles soared overhead, scouting for fish. We soon learned to pick them out by their call,
WE FELT LIKE ALICE IN WONDERLAND FALLING DOWN
THE RABBIT HOLE. SUNLIGHT FILTERED INTO THE FOREST, THE AIR SEEMED
SOFT, AND THE COLOURS WERE A SPRING GREEN.” which, by the way, is not the iconic “screeee” you know from movies (that’s actually a red-tailed hawk call); bald eagles sound more like chattering lorikeets. We cruised across to Dodd Island, settling into the landscape and soaking up the sights and sounds. The landing beach at Dodd, tucked away in a cove, had big driftwood logs piled up along the high-tide mark—a good indicator of where to tie up our kayaks as we landed on the tide’s low side. Incidentally, low tide in the Broken Group is a fantastic time to explore the myriads of rock pools left behind. We discovered purple and orange leather starfish, bright-green anemones, and squadrons of hermit crabs. With the tents nestled underneath the trees and standing on a carpet of pine needles, we found a great spot on the driftwood logs to cook dinner and to watch the evening sun bathe Vancouver Island’s distant Sawtooth Mountains in a warm light. The next morning was a lazy one. Sea kayaking is such a luxurious way of travelling (at least for week-long trips) in that—compared to packing everything in your backpack—you can take a lot of gear for little effort. But more gear means more luxuries, which in turn means more faffing to get ready and thus later departure times. Eventually though, in glassy conditions, we set off from Dodd and chose to paddle around Turtle Island—aptly named for its shape as seen from an eagle’s view. From there we headed to Turret Island. The staff at the kayak lodge had pointed their finger at a spot on the map worth an exploration to find a legendary big tree, and we kept our eyes peeled on the coastline for a path leading to the forest, or a promising landing spot, or anything that would show us the way. But it all looked the same. We eventually got lucky. We were about to pull out for lunch when we bumped into fellow sea kayakers on the southern side
of Turret who pointed us in the right direction. We landed the boats and headed up the beach, ducked under the low-hanging tree branches, and then stepped into the forest. It was such a different world; we felt like Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole. Sunlight filtered into the forest, the air seemed soft, and the colours were a spring green rather than the dark green-blue wall the hemlock trees seemed to be from the water. We headed up the pathway, welcomed by a North American local—a banana slug. Soon we were peeking between the trees at the bulbous and gnarled branches of the biggest tree of the Broken Group. The western red cedar towering before us was about twelve metres in circumference, and estimates circulate of its age being perhaps 1,000 years. But as much as we were awestruck by this beautiful ancient, we later found out that Vancouver Island is home to the world’s largest-known Douglas fir—a tree called the Red Creek Fir—as well as the largest living red cedar—called the Cheewhat Giant—which is roughly 500m3 in volume. There’s even a BC Big Tree Registry map where many of the giants of British Columbia are listed. Next time I am over there, those big fellas will have to be visited. (Ed: Sadly, much like some areas in Australia, British Columbia’s old-growth giants are even in 2024 being frequently cut by loggers. Check out ancientforestalliance.org) By the time we’d returned to the boat, the wind had increased; we buckled down into the waves and wind to get across to Clarke Island. The waves splashed over the bow and crusted our faces
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Looking back to the mainland (Vancouver Island) and the Sawtooth Range Interesting marine treasures everywhere Dodd Island evenings Details, details. Limpets covering the rocks
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in a layer of salt. Clarke is one of the most westerly islands of the group, and is therefore more exposed to the winds and swells of the Pacific Ocean. It also has turquoise water and a pretty white beach to land your kayaks on, with golden giant sea kelp drifting just off the rocks. If it hadn’t been for the wind and the cold water, we may have been fooled into thinking we were at a more tropical location. We carried our kayaks all the way up to the driftwood logs to ensure nothing floated away with the tide, and set up underneath a row of towering Douglas firs. Clarke Island stayed windy for the rest of the day. While this kept the mozzies and sandflies at bay, the wind didn’t inspire further water-based activities in the freezing water. Instead, we explored the island by foot, visiting several ruins from previous settlements that now serve as viewing spots to watch seals play near the shore. The deer on the island weren’t bothered by us, and happily grazed away nearby. We also spotted what we thought to be a mink hop off a rock into the water and then swim across the channel to the next island. As the evening wore on and the light started to turn golden and soft—it was July and the days were gloriously long—word among campers spread about a party of two that had set out from Clarke in the morning for a day trip but that hadn’t returned yet. We spent the evening exploring the tide pools and checking the horizon nervously, hoping they’d come back soon. The wind slowly settled as daylight faded. While everyone
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ANNA YELLED OUT AND POINTED:
A SEA OTTER, BOBBING IN THE WAVES. I WAS DELIGHTED.”
was concerned about the paddlers, the general consensus was that they may have just waited out the windy afternoon before returning. And true to form, we saw two paddlers with headlamps paddle into the cove in the last light; they were hungry from their paddle and ready for warm clothing. But the afternoon of worrying about the kayakers reminded me that—even though distances between the islands are reasonably short—my friend’s sea-kayaking advice was valuable: Never leave camp behind; pack up, in case you don’t make it back. In a location known to produce truly foul weather, it’s good advice to follow. I would have loved to stay at Clarke for much longer than one night, but there was more to explore. With the long days come early sunrises, and setting the alarm at 5AM rewarded me with an hour of tranquil sitting on a rock, sketching and observing the birds in their morning hustle. We attempted to faff a little less and get on the water early to take advantage of the calm, mirror-like conditions, and to give us a leg up for our 20km paddle day. We headed southeast, looping around Wouwer Island’s southern side, which is exposed to the open ocean. The morning
was plain glorious. Mist hung over the water in the distance, and we paddled past a patch of giant sea kelp with golden and burnt-orange leaves curling along the water surface. Pink sea urchins sat exposed above the water, a little reminder that in this environment, the hungry sea urchins that munch away on sea kelp forests are kept in check by sea otters. Back in Australia, in contrast, sea urchins lack predators, and they devastate the kelp forests around Tasmania. But our prime reason to head around Wouwer was to increase our chances of whale and orca encounters, and to see more seals. But as the swell increased, our group split in two when sea sickness reared its nauseating head. And while we spotted a colony of seals with pups that curiously approached us to see what we were up to, no whales were spotted. We turned our bows back north to duck between the islands, and made quick progress toward Effingham Island on the group’s eastern side. There, we found high cliffs, caves carved into the rock, and rock arches you could paddle under. The Traditional Owners of the island group are the Nuu-chah-nulth First Nations, and they have a reserve on Effingham Island, for which a permit is required to visit. Across the island group are two other traditional reserves with restricted access, but there are also many sites of spiritual and cultural significance for the Tseshaht and Hupacasath First Nations. If you’ve got the time, relics from First Nations can be found scattered across the islands. We, however, had to keep moving, and as we emerged from the wind-protected side of Effingham, we noticed the wind had picked up again. We kept our lunch short before a longer paddle north to Gibraltar Island. It was a head-down-and-paddle sort of situation, so it was surprising when Anna yelled out and pointed: a sea otter, bobbing in the waves. I was delighted. At long last! What’s not to like about an animal that floats on its back, that also floats in rafts holding hands with other otters in order to rest, and that keeps a favourite rock under its armpit, and uses the said stone to open up clams? The Broken Group has everything a budding sea otter could want: Giant kelp forests for shelter
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Giant sea kelp offering habitat; now where is that otter? Golden sunset magic on Clarke Island while waiting for the missing kayakers Exploring the arches on Effingham Island Seals aplenty in the Broken Group Leaving Dodd Island Mozzie nets for the win!
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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP RIGHT Trying not to sink my camera for a long exposure of the night sky Ruby-throated hummingbirds flitting about at the lodge Nautical chart in the cabin of the sea taxi on the way home
CONTRIBUTOR: While Anja has had her share of Type-2 adventures in the past, she’s definitely not one to say no to epic Type-1 fun in beautiful places.
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and to wrap their babies in while they hunt, sea urchins and clams in abundance, and relative shelter from the elements. But sea otters have the densest fur of all mammals on the planet, and for many years, especially during the 1800s, they were hunted here, right to the point of local extinction. The last documented sighting in British Columbia occurred in the 1920s. But then about 90 otters were reintroduced from Alaska, and it’s estimated that today there are about 2,000 otters populating the waters of BC. Heading on to Gibraltar Island, the campsite was sheltered from the wind—a blessing and a curse, as the mosquitoes and sandflies returned ferociously. Anna and Jack escaped into the water in their wetsuits, re-enacting the earlier otter encounter for all our delight. This being our last night out in this beautiful place, I stumbled down the beach in the evening to watch the stars, and to take long exposures on the camera with the hemlocks creating the classic Pacific Northwest fir-tree silhouette against the stars. I agitated the freezing water, and the whirls lit up; bioluminescence was present. I spent the next hour sploshing up and down the beach to make it glow and sparkle, happy as a clam with frozen legs. The next morning, kayakers from the other group noted how they thought they heard a seal splashing on the beach last night … After three days of partly cloudy and sunny skies, our last morning broke cold and overcast. We pushed off and hugged the western side of Nettle Island. It was low tide, and some of the channels between the islands were covered with barely enough water to let us float over them. The trees were a good metre and then some above us. A little scuttle on the rocks turned into the swishing tail of a racoon, huddling off after securing a little seafood snack from the rocks. Our water taxi back across the channel was booked for the early afternoon, and we made it back to the lodge in time to shower, change and repack our gear. Hummingbirds darted in and out of the flowers, chasing each other around and away, fiercely defending their preferred patches; it rounded off a trip rich in wildlife and stunning scenery. As much as a benighting on a river, or an unexpected gear failure, or really bad weather can all make for a good story, a good old Type-1 adventure shouldn’t be taken off your list just yet. It’s a balm for the soul to spend uninterrupted time in nature, simply observing and enjoying what’s on offer. W
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READER’S ADVENTURE
CIRCLE
LIFE OF
A pilgrimage in Tibet sets Ross Hanan on a path to thinking very differently about adventures in the mountains.
Words & Photography ROSS HANAN
G
oing up mountains is something I’ve always done.
I’d pore over a map deciding which peak to choose and by setting my sights on a particular peak, I would be selecting the country I’d visit and the region within that country I’d travel to. This process meant that it wasn’t just about reaching the summit; it was about being immersed in the landscape and culture that the area around the mountain had to offer. The climb facilitated the adventure. Each mountain has its own stories, and I left with new ones—new terrain explored, new people met, and new insights into the world. But recently I’ve become a little disillusioned with where mountain climbing seems to be going. The images of the long summit queues on Everest (and increasingly others) are unsettling; I can’t stand a queue at the supermarket, so the idea of one in the mountains fills me with dread. Recently, Kristin Harila climbed the fourteen 8,000m peaks in 92 days, beating the previous record by 97 days; the mountains as a racetrack are about as far away from my outdoor motivations as I can imagine. I find seven different lists where people have climbed to the highest summit on each of the Earth’s continents, and where the lists differ is in just what defines a continent—does anyone really care? Then there are the climbing styles I struggle with: The commercial expeditions taking inexperienced folk to get their conquering fix, and the new kid on the block—the logistically unlimited ascents (think helicopters). Really, helicopters? Is climbing losing its soul? So I ask myself:
Are there places where we might recalibrate the way we think about and interact with mountains? 112
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The ‘standard’ pilgrimage circling the holy peak Mt Kailash is 53km; many pilgrims prostrate themselves the entire way
Beijing Amne Machin Mt Kailash Mt Everest
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Amne Machin, TIBET
T
here are a few countries that are internationally renowned for their mountain culture. Switzerland’s mountain fortress has a modern legacy of great international climbs and climbers. The kingdom of Nepal has a rich mountain tradition and many of the world’s highest peaks, and is a mecca for ‘big mountain’ climbers. But I decide to look to the roof of the world, Tibet, to see what I can learn about their mountain culture. Tibet has mountains, lots and lots of mountains. And out of this multitude, the monks of times past chose a select few to worship. Zhara Lhatse, Kawa Karpo, Mt Kailash and Amne Machin are four of the most holy mountains to Tibetan Buddhists and Böns. (Bön is the indigenous religion of Tibet that predates Buddhism’s arrival.) Pilgrims come from far and wide to circle these mountain deities, performing what is called a kora—the circumambulation of a sacred site or object. Two of these mountains remain unclimbed and are off limits to climbers. The most famous of these unclimbed mountains, and indeed of all the Tibetan pilgrimages, is Mt Kailash. I plan on doing a three-day circuit of the 6,638m peak. But as excellent as that eventually proves to be, my primary focus for coming to Tibet is to walk around 6,282m Amne Machin* because it has had a setback. The peak has never been even remotely as popular as Kailash for pilgrimages—Kailash is visited by throngs of Hindus, Buddhists, Bons and Jains, whereas Amne Machin is mainly visited only by Tibetans from the Amdo region (which, coincidentally, is where the Dalai Lama hails from). But ten years ago, the pilgrims’ walking route around Amne Machin suffered when the Chinese government built an impressive twolane highway, complete with long viaducts and many significant tunnels. No mountains were too big to drill through, no ravine too wide to bridge. But this has come at a cost. The highway cuts a swathe through the eastern side of the Amne Machin massif, and it follows the same line as the pilgrim’s spiritual path. For a week of the twelve-day trek, this new highway is now visible. Pilgrims still come—their quest for spiritual enrichment won’t be put off by a road—but the curious western trekker has all but vanished. Servicing these trekkers was a marginal business at the best of times, and locals have tried to adapt to this disruption, with some guides offering a ‘western kora’—a trek that only tracks down the western (relatively unspoilt) side of the mountain. Trekkers aren’t stupid and know that this obviously isn’t a kora, as it doesn’t make the full ellipse; consequently, uptake has been nearly non-existent.
* Just a note on spelling. Many of the names used in this article
have multiple spellings as well as both Chinese and Tibetan variants. For example, Amne Machin can also be spelt Amne Maqin, Amnye Machen, A’nyemaqen Shan, Amnye Maqen, Anyi Machen, Anyê Maqên, Dradullungshog, 阿尼瑪卿, ཨ་མྱེ་རྨ་ཆེན། …
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But here in Sydney, 8,000km away and in the comfort of my study, I think I can see a new path that might avoid the worst of the highway. Finding good information on the area proves difficult. An old map of the area from the 1980’s (thank you, Jon Aldridge) shows a possible weakness. There’s a pass on the eastern side that looks heavily glaciated, with some steep contour lines. But I figure forty years of climate change will have pushed those glaciers back, and a way through might be found. My online search for a guide proves fruitless. No one seems to get what I want to do. Finally, after many emails, I send an image with the route I want to explore, and I get a response: “Blue line is also paved. Can drive.” I know there isn’t a road there, but I’m desperate, so I sign up and cross my fingers. That blue line is what I’ll bargain my way into walking with a “But you said we could go this way—look at the line!” It’s a dirty play, I know. If they decide not to take me when I get there, I will try and find a local guide who will. Failing that, I’ll just do it myself. The visa process is slow and administrative, but my request for two months of travel is granted, and I begin hopping my way to Xining in Northwestern China. It’s one of those cities that you’ll
IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM The Amne Machin massif One of the viaducts of the recently constructed highway flanking Amne Machin If pilgrims need extra spiritual enlightenment while on the Amne Machin trail, there are temples on the way Prayer flags, smothering the mountain with love Visitors strolling on fake grass at Everest Base Camp Everest herself Evening traffic at Everest Base Camp A prefab town has been built at Everest Base Camp
I DECIDE TO LOOK TO THE ROOF OF THE WORLD,
TIBET, TO SEE WHAT I CAN LEARN ABOUT THEIR MOUNTAIN CULTURE.” have never heard of but that houses over two-million people, and has been there for a couple of thousand years. It surprises me with how developed it is. Also, surprising in terms of development—in fact it is beyond surprising, it is shocking—is Everest Base Camp on the Chinese side. I visit it on my way between the Amne Machin and the Kailash Koras, and you can literally drive right to it, despite it being at 5,400m asl. Mass tourism has overrun it; tourist buses disgorge crowds into a virtual village of prefab housing, replete with fake-grass streets, shops, groups of youth singing hard rock, and a—ubiquitous for China—grand town square. Still, there are views of Everest as a salve. As a climber, I’ve always been attracted to mountains, but strangely not Everest; nonetheless, the sight of the highest peak on Earth was glorious.
But before all that there is Amne Machin to circumambulate. I meet my guide Tenzin in Xining, and then spend two days driving to the trek’s start. On the way with Tenzin, I do my best to explain what I want to do. It takes some work, but I can be relentless at times. It’s raining when we arrive at the Tsang Khamdo campsite, the traditional start of the kora, so we drive on to a small village called Gagri, and stay in a local guesthouse which will be our base for the next four nights. The next day we head up Halong Valley. The first three hours are in the 4WD being tossed around like a pea in a whistle. It’s slow going. There are several bridges built by the local nomads that, if I had my time again, I might not do. Finally, we break out onto a wide, flat, alluvial outwash plain where we park the vehicle. We begin walking, unsure about what lies ahead, our anxiety rising when we spot bear tracks in the silt. But as it transpires, crossing an urgent glacial stream is the only potential barrier that day. The hike to the top is straightforward; the pass is delineated by a circle of prayer flags. We certainly aren’t the first. At that point, Tenzin gets it—an inner kora. The circle is back! We descend following some yak tracks back down to the 4WD, and decamp to the local village full of excitement. Over the next
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few days, we explore the connecting valleys to make sure the track connects. It does. The inner kora is born. The twelve-day trek is now eight days. And instead of eight days’ walking with the highway in sight, we are now down to eight or nine hours; six on one day, two hours the next. It’s a major win. This new section has the most wilderness-y feel of the whole kora. A thousand years of pilgrims tends to do that to a track. It also looks like a perfect section for using yaks. The following days are spent completing the kora in the Bön fashion, anticlockwise. We bump into groups of Buddhist pilgrims circling the opposite way, spinning their prayer wheels. One couple is hooning around on a motorbike aiming for ten circuits, one circuit a day. They stop and chat every time our paths cross. I get handed drinks from 4WDs all doing the round, occasionally sporting passengers dressed in full traditional clothing. (The western side of the trek is a gravel track with a challenging 4WD section). Initially, I was hung up on the idea that driving or riding bikes was cheating. But even if you walk the full circuit, there are other pilgrims that prostrate themselves the entire way, bowing and stepping between laying themselves outstretched on the earth. Do they sneer at the walkers? Who is the arbiter—those most devout? Our guesthouse owner had circled Amne Machin over twenty times, once in a 500km circle, by motorbike. On Mt Kailash—which is where I saw many, many prostrating pilgrims, perhaps forty or fifty a day—there are outer and inner koras, a nun’s kora, the secret Dakini path, an emerald kora, and others. I learn to relax my judgement and see that it is the rondure that matters, the completing of a circle, all of us attached to the pull of the mountain. As we walk, we find many areas of importance delineated by
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stupas, flags, stones, solar-run prayer recordings, prayer tablets, pictures, and various other objects of worship, with each location having a different story to tell. To set a scene: Amne Machin is the home of the deity Machen Pomra, who resides on the main peak, Machen Kangri, where he lives in a crystal palace with foundations that reach deep into the earth. The sons and daughters of Amne Machin live on eighteen of the glaciated peaks, and another 300 divine entities hang out on the mountain. The horse Droshur carries the god Machen Pomra to all corners of the world with the speed of the wind. Machen Pomra fights demons, destroys bad spirits, and subdues beasts. Thanks
I LEARN TO RELAX MY JUDGEMENT AND SEE THAT
IT IS THE RONDURE THAT MATTERS,
THE COMPLETING OF A CIRCLE.” to his intervention, local people live in peace and harmony. To be honest, I struggle to understand the many stories and subplots associated with the massif—I’m into mountains, not gods—but I do get the reverence associated with the mountain. I find parallels to this mountain reverence in our part of the world. In Australia, the Anangu people have stopped people climbing up Uluru. They were asking for a long time, but we didn’t want to listen; meanwhile we stomped all over this, their natural church (guilty). In New Zealand, the summit of Aoraki is regarded as the head of an ancestor. The Ngāi Tahu, the principal Māori iwi of the South Island, ask that climbers not stand
on Aoraki’s head (guilty), as they regard everyone’s head as sacred. If I think about it, I wouldn’t want anyone to stand on my ancestors’ head either. Māori also have a saying: Tahu Kia tuohu koe me he mauka teitei, ko Aoraki anake—If you must bow your head, then let it be to a lofty mountain. That seems a sweet and fitting sentiment I can get on board with. Initially, when I heard of boundaries being placed on mountains, people being banned from climbing, I started from an indignant position. My need to go wherever my whim took me was strong, no limits on where. Although our acceptance of borders starts early, I had a casual disdain for political borders as well as land ownership, (climbing across mountains into other countries sans visas, sneaking into areas deemed private property). My eyes are often drawn to the mountains that surround. Many of these ranges and valleys are places that only farmers can walk. We are pushed to the national parks, state conservation areas and nature reserves. We are lucky to have so many. But my eyes get drawn to the unprotected areas, and I ask myself this: How anyone can claim that beauty and all that space for themselves? (Ed: I am often jealous of Europe’s enlightened attitudes to “right to roam” traditions and laws, none of which sadly ever found their way to Australia.) And I was keen on getting to the top of, well, any high point. The top of a mountain is a nice simple target. Reach the highest point. No real story, just a simple data point with a nice view. George Mallory’s oft-quoted reason for attempting to climb to the top of Everest—because it is there—suggests some of that simplicity. I paddled a wild river “because it is there.” I walked through the jungle “because it is there”. Frankly, it just doesn’t seem very sophisticated. Perhaps I, too, was just not that thoughtful. Maybe our cultural heritage is more about domination and conquest, science and not spirit, with a modicum of disregard for other ways of thinking. Now I try to understand the story, enriching my experience as I hike. I find greater joy in circling Uluru than climbing it now. If I can explore a mountain from multiple sides, ride some ridges, hide in the ravines, and see the approaches from its multitude of faces, I feel richer for the experience. And of course I’ll still climb those mountains that don’t have any particular covenants—there are lots of them. If there are stories to tell, then bring them on. I’m unlikely to believe them, but I’ll enjoy the richness of the tales, and I’ll add my own personal stories to the mountain—those little epics, those moments of sublime beauty and tranquillity, and the camaraderie of good people enjoying our natural world. W
IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Approaching Halong Valley from the south Mt Kailash standing tall Bears are still active in Tibet A yak dressed to impress Machen Pomra, the deity that lives on Amne Machin Where shall I sleep tonight: airy rainbow teepee or a sturdy dome tent? Satisfaction at seeing a plan come together. Me on the inner Halong Kora
CONTRIBUTOR: Ross Hanan was lost for three days in New Zealand’s Silver Peaks when in Year 6. He managed to find his way out, and has been losing and finding himself ever since.
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Sugarloaf Pass
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A moment appreciating the rocky peaks seen from Sugarloaf Pass
ADVENTURE
&
MISADVENTURE Treks are sometimes described as ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ experiences. This can mean various things. It can signify the walk is so rare and special it could never truly be repeated. It can also mean it is an experience that you could not, for any amount of money, be induced to repeat. The Five Passes trek on NZ’s South Island is, perhaps, both.
Words & Photography Matthew Crompton
T
he mountainsides beyond the Routeburn Shelter course
with clear water. It cascades down in threads and rivulets and torrents, flowing white against the dark grey face of the mountains. New Zealand’s South Island is what I imagine much of Earth felt like before we paved and overpopulated it, pursuing our suicidal dream of endless growth. It is Edenic, virginal, almost perfect. The water flowing off the mountains’ flanks is so pure that you can dip your lips to it and drink, unworried about the poisons of progress. This is the draw of the Five Passes trek, five days of off-trail backcountry hiking existing—for a time—outside of what the poet Wallace Stevens called “this hacked-up world of tools”. Yet it is also true that I’ve been drawn here by the siren song of adventure. Adventure: that utterly spurious and yet strangely compelling concept. The etymology of the word is instructive, first appearing in the English language circa 1200 AD, and meaning “that which happens by chance, fortune, luck”. That is the outset of any adventure, then: a zone of pure possibility. I set off from the Routeburn Shelter, following a well-trodden gravel path that soon breaks off onto a narrow track through dense, mossy forest. The track notes I have for the walk are from several years ago; in the meantime, the landscape has changed for the worse. Storms have downed countless trees, creating an obstacle course where once was a path. Worse, copious deadfall often obscures the trail, which was never especially prominent in the first place.
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Five Passes, NEW ZEALAND
D
espite my solid walking pace, already I find myself running hours behind what my track notes have estimated. I claw up steep, mossy, muddy hillsides past dashing rivulets, summit the grassy rise of Sugarloaf Pass, and then am down into the trees again, seeking the trail through tangles of underbrush and bogs and hip-deep creeks. I walk, and for the whole of the day I am alone. Finally in the late afternoon, Theatre Flat appears, the boggy track emerging from the trees into a wide grassy valley beside a river. Fearing the storied winds of the Roaring Forties, I pitch my tent in the shelter of a cluster of trees; soon after nightfall, I am asleep. Yet hours later I find that I have chosen my tent site badly. Rain comes in the night, and at 2AM the wind shifts, blowing violently from a direction I had not anticipated. The heavy blows flatten the tent again and again against my body and I am losing coverage against the rain. Shit. This evolution of the word adventure (circa 1300 AD) tells us that at its heart lie twin daggers: “danger” and “risk”. And dangerous it is. The night is 8°C outside, the wind is screaming, and my sleeping bag is slowly but surely soaking through. Shivering, I stuff everything but the tent itself into my pack, and armour myself in my rain gear. I stumble out into the howling night and stagger in my thongs across the hummocky grass, blinded by the rain. In the darkness, in the light of my headlamp, everything looks alien. I am lost in the blackness of space. Ahead of me a copse of trees looms; I flump the tent into a small lumpy depression in their midst and dive inside the rainfly. And though my sleeping bag and mat and the interior of the tent are wet, it is enough to stave off the threat of hypothermia. In the morning—relief. Sunlight casts speckled shadows on the rain-dotted fly, and I crawl from my damp cocoon and lay all my things in the wind and intermittent sunshine to dry.
IF YOU HAVE SPENT ANY TIME at all in the great backpacker belt that girds the planet roughly in line with the tropics, then you have probably seen the signs: JUNGLE TREKKING. At first glance, the proposition seems attractive: a walk in a lush tropical forest, alive with native flora and fauna. This is a mistake. Jungle trekking is, and has always been, a simple barroom brawl against mud, gravity, insects and vegetation. You will not enjoy it and you are not meant to enjoy it. It is a contest that, at best, you can fight to a stalemate. By the end of this trek, I will have spent days harrowed by this grasping and ravenous jungle, the high treeless passes a respite despite my burning legs and lungs. The mossy forests that connect and intersperse the Five Passes are primeval, the most pristine example ofInspecting the ancient of theflora snowpack on the lower Gondwanaland, and a dead ringer for Peter Jackson’s Rivenclimb of Mt Green dell. To walk through them is both atavistic and intoxicating.
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YOU WILL NOT ENJOY IT AND
YOU ARE NOT MEANT TO ENJOY IT. IT IS A CONTEST THAT, AT BEST, YOU
CAN FIGHT TO A STALEMATE.”
Yet the fact is that they also bring with them another thing at the very heart of adventure: the potential for “ill-luck” or “calamity”. And it is here that adventure meets its intrinsic pair, its dark doppelganger, its sine qua non: misadventure. I leave the labyrinthine forest and ascend in spitting rain among giant rocks to the bare grassy saddle at Park Pass, 1,176m above sea level. A cold keening wind cuts like a knife through my sweat-soaked clothes. Half lost, I check my GPS coordinates on an offline map, then pick my way down the steep grassy slope. A short distance below, the treeline begins again, the presumptive path just a gap in the trees marked by a small rock cairn. That path—with the trees closing in above me—feels foreboding, a menacing and ambiguous portent as the sky above vanishes. I descend alone into the dense forest, following a narrow and often faint footpath downwards through the trees. Down and down the cliff-like slope the path goes, dropping 500 vertical metres in only a single kilometre. It is more ladder than staircase, the rungs formed of roots and rocks slick with moss and mud; I will lose toenails because of it. (Ed: Check out the pic above!)
As I near the roar of Hidden Falls Creek in the valley below, the path abruptly peters out to nothing, lost in a maze of tall ferns. For ten minutes, I search for the trail in a widening circle, but it is gone. All at once, I am alone in a trackless wilderness on the far edge of the world. The fear rises, thrumming in my chest like a bad acid trip coming on. Willing myself to breathe, I tamp it down. Not for the first time in my life, I wonder: Why would I do this to myself? My blood is infected with pure animal fear, and all of my thoughts are of calamity. Yet somehow, in the midst of this, I am awake and alive in a way utterly without parallel in human life. Tim Cahill knew exactly this feeling when he wrote: “When you’ve managed to stumble directly into the heart of the unknown—either through the misdirection of others, or better yet, through your own creative ineptitude—there is no one there to hold your hand or tell you what to do. In those bad lost moments, in the times when we are advised not to panic, we own the unknown, and the world belongs to us. The child within has full reign. Few of us are ever so free.” For the next three hours, my pace is slowed to less than a kilometre an hour. I push through dense bush and duck through tight tangled thickets and slosh my way across more side streams than I can count. From time to time, a cairn or small section of path appears—offering the hope of salvation—and then vanishes once again, snatching my hope away with it. By the time the deep, swift river is safe to ford—the opposite bank a tumble of talus blessedly free of tree cover—I am exhausted and covered in scratches and mud. It is late in the day by the time I make camp. New Year’s Eve passes without fanfare, and I am asleep in my tent before the light is gone from the sky. And yet, pure endocrine relief flushes through my nervous system as I drift off, and I realise that this day of fear was somehow right at the heart of the adventure I had sought. From the banks of the Beans Burn, looking up at the hillside rising in a towering wall hundreds of metres above me, I cannot believe that this is what I have just descended. It is 9PM on New Year’s Day, 2024, and I have been walking for more than ten hours. The day before, this hillside had been beautiful and tiring, but—if you can say this of ten hours
IMAGE - THIS PAGE Cacading waterfalls above the Routeburn Shelter
IMAGES - OPPOSITE PAGE, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Crossing the bridge at the start of the adventure Tented up at Theatre Flat before a change in the weather Looking back on the first day of the hike Foot-based aftermath of the Five Passes Another day, another stream to cross
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of off-trail trekking—mostly straightforward. Cow Saddle, then Fiery Col, then Fohn Saddle. A solid 1,400 vertical metres of climbing. Hour after hour of walking through cloud and spitting rain and chilling wind. Scrambling up tumbled scree and past dirty rags of snow. Descending from Fohn Saddle, I catch sight of the Beans Burn far below me and begin to trace the cairns down the hill towards it. The way is a lightly trodden dirt footpath that grows fainter and fainter and then peters out entirely. The hillside—falling down down down—is stabilised by grass roots but tested by gravity to its utmost limit. I fix a point in the valley and start slipping downhill through the huge open space towards it. Descending the hill, space opens from my body like the unfolding of a magic box. The braids of the Beans Burn hang in the deep-blue distance below, and gold twilight gently bathes the hillside opposite. In the foreground, the endless grass slope sweeps madly, majestically downwards. Above the valley, high up, the mountains are a broken sawtooth frame thinly capped in snow and ice. Normally, of course, space is a concept. We say, “from A to B.” We say, “X is fifty metres away.” But we do not feel space. And yet proprioception—the sense that orients us to the movement of our bodies in space—is a sense as essential as sight or taste. It is the felt sense that dancers or gymnasts have, pirouetting or tumbling across a balance beam. And descending towards the valley far below, I can feel all of it. Not as a concept or as an imagined thing, but as part of the substance that makes me, the greater substance of which I am a shard.
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I AM MAKING IT UP AS I GO ALONG, AND TRUTH BE TOLD, I AM
MAKING IT UP QUITE BADLY.” This too is a thing at the heart of adventure: this sublimity, this beauty. I find myself reflecting on a previous meaning of the word, dating back to the 13th Century. It defined adventure not as a thing of danger or risk, but as “a wonder, a miracle, an account of marvellous things”. This is nothing if not that. Nonetheless, it is also a real bastard of a slope, and I am struggling. My career as an international writer and photographer of adventure travel stories may lead you to believe that, in situations such as this, I know what I am doing. This is incorrect. I am making it up as I go along, and truth be told, I am making it up quite badly. I take a step downslope, and my foot goes out from under me on the long slippery grass. I reflexively thrust my trekking pole down to catch myself, and it instantly sinks 15cm into the muddy earth and snaps clean off; just like that, I fall hard onto my arse and am off sliding at speed down the hill. The next hour is not something to write reams about. Endlessly slipping and sliding and fumbling, and yet every time I look down to fix my place, the valley seems no closer. The feelings of space and wonderment have fled, my pants are torn, and my bum is bruised. When I finally reach the banks of the river, I can find nowhere amid the hummocky grass to pitch my tent. I stalk downstream
IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Trekking through the stream valley below Cow Saddle Wildflowers bloom beyond Fiery Col A suspension footbridge spans a rushing river on Day One Morning view from the tent near Cow Saddle A cheeky robin posing for a cheeky photo Looking back from the approach to Park Pass
on my jellied legs, and a half hour later, pitch up on a small patch of gravel significantly smaller than the tent’s footprint and only centimetres from the water’s edge.
MY BOOTS ARE WET. TO SAY THIS, however, is to significantly understate the case. Like the Inuit’s proverbial hundred words for snow, I have long since exhausted descriptors for their sogginess. They are soaked, sodden, saturated: This is not news. Yet as I trek down alongside the Beans Burn, my way gradually tending back in the direction of civilisation, I broach new and unimaginable frontiers of wetness. The skin of my toes and soles is deeply white and wrinkled, macerated and soft. It could be spread on toast. Simply put, I have corpse feet. The choice in proceeding downstream is between walking on the bank and walking in the river itself. As a terrestrial mammal, the preferred mode seems obvious. Yet the banks are treacherous, a mix of high hummocky grasses and impenetrable brush that effectively conceal the ground itself from sight. I step into a deep hidden hole up to my hip, and the impact jars me violently. My back is tweaked, and for the rest of the day it is impossible to draw a deep breath without a sharp pain between my ribs. Chastened, I opt to walk in the river. No part of this trek has been less than challenging, but this day-long aquatic foray underlines it: Adventure, above all, is difficult. Ease is a luxury not just alien to an adventure, but actually fatal to it—despite what brochures try to sell you. At points, the water grows too deep or the current too swift, and I am forced
to scramble from boulder to boulder along the bank, hopping and climbing high above the churning pools. It is—to match a meaning of adventure from the late 14th Century—“a perilous undertaking”, and I test my hand and footholds carefully as I go. The peril, however, is exactly the point. Trudging the stream itself, my mind drifts and wanders; I am distracted. Yet bouldering my way above these high drops, I am alive to the world—to each nuance of the rock, to the susurrus of the river, to my ragged breath, to the beating of my heart. Experience is focused and enlarged, the world refreshed and made new. In the penumbra of possible injury or death—their spectre strangely pleasurable— the animal heart of us wakes and throws off the tedious habits of human thought. When I finally arrive at the confluence of the Beans Burn with the Dart River, endless sandflies rise from the banks in vast vampiric clouds. In the night, I wake inside my tent with my bladder bursting and opt to pee in a waterbottle, unwilling to make more of a meal of myself than I already have. There is a relentlessness to an adventure, I think, and it does not stop, even when you sleep.
ADVENTURE, AND MISADVENTURE: IN THE END, it is the second of these things that makes the first. And what makes the second possible, above all, is the unknown. As I tread the banks of the Dart River, a tourist jet boat unloads its cargo of passengers to stalk up and down the shingle beach, taking pictures. Some hours downstream, as I leave
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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT A peak looms out of the jungle A well-deserved rest beside a waterfall after the climb of Fiery Col River rafters finishing their trip down the Dart River
CONTRIBUTOR: Matthew Crompton is a Sydney-based writer, photographer and educational-policy wonk. US-born, he migrated to Oz over a decade ago, found its wide-open spaces and endless pouched animals to his liking, and decided to stay.
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the Dart River behind, I see a tour group of river rafters putting ashore, being directed by their guides. Their experience, while no doubt rousing, cannot be meaningfully unknown; if it were, no insurer would underwrite it. Adventure, of course, is the concept used to sell the outdoors more than any other. All sorts of things are asserted to be adventures: a bungy jump; a jet-boat ride; a visit to a theme park. Yet barring an absolute catastrophe, at no point is the end result actually unknown. Whatever route the experience may take, your life or your safety is never truly “at venture”. And yet, to fully realise the promise at the heart of adventure, it ultimately must be. I’ve been helicoptered out of the backcountry twice in my life: Once with high-altitude pulmonary oedema in eastern Nepal; and once lost in the hinterlands of the Blue Mountains, where the appearing chopper seemed like an angel of deliverance in the midst of 32-degree heat that, despite our best planning, had drained us to nothing. In neither case could I have anticipated the events that led to that dire pass, a place where I could very possibly have died. The history of adventure—as a verb dating to the 13th Century—records this meaning. “To adventure” is fundamentally “to risk the loss of”. And that is the thing that, above all, makes adventure most precious: to have ventured, and to have come back whole. By the time I make the trailhead at Lake Sylvan, the paths are once again flat and graded and gravelled, and nary a fallen tree blocks the way. The adventure, at last, is at its end. By the 1560s, a contemporary definition of adventure had emerged, the one perhaps most appropriate to my experience in the Southern Alps. It defined adventure as “a novel or exciting incident, a remarkable occurrence in one’s life”. I say that I would not repeat this experience, and part of me means it. Yet long familiarity has also taught me the true value of the remembered and the remarkable, perhaps the only currencies besides love that we’ll spend at life’s end. And so I say, slyly, that I would not repeat this experience, knowing full well that I am wrong. “Adventure is gone when man loses his ingenuity, imagination and sense of responsibility; when the unknown and the unexpected are demolished or trivialised,” Walter Bonatti wrote. “Nor can adventure survive if we alter or destroy uncertainty, risk, courage, exaltation, solitude and isolation. We must preserve the sense of exploration and discovery, of the impossible, of improvisation.” W
FIND YOUR INNER BREW TM
www.aeropress.com.au
5 THE
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A quick lowdown on
Blue Mountains NP
Sydney
CANYONS IN THE
BLUE MOUNTAINS Words Tom Brennan Photography Tom Brennan THE BLUE MOUNTAINS, A COUPLE OF HOURS drive west of Sydney, contains the highest concentration of easily accessible slot canyons anywhere in Australia. These narrow gorges have been carved out by water over hundreds of thousands of years, cutting through the sandstone of the uplifted plateau to form amazing sculpted formations, with scalloped walls curving up to the sky. In the middle of the day, sunbeams light up the canyon walls. While the Blue Mountains receives over four-million visitors a year, few of them venture into the canyons. Of those that get close, most will be watching abseilers descend Empress Falls, or will be wandering the Grand Canyon Track, which follows the rim of the canyon for hundreds of metres, with the occasional glimpse into the chasm below. Getting into the canyons themselves often requires technical gear to descend—abseiling ropes, harnesses, descenders. Others require wetsuits or other protection from cold water. Nevertheless, the rewards are worth it.
THE EASY
DRY CANYON
1-2 HOURS, EASY If you’re looking for an impressive slot canyon that can be done at any time of the year, and that doesn’t require ropes, wetsuits or any specialist gear, and that is accessible to almost everybody, you can’t do better than the Dry Canyon. The hardest parts are finding the spot to start, just off the Glowworm Tunnel Road on the way to the Glowworm Tunnel, and following the rough track that leads to the narrow slot. There are a couple of easy scrambles, but otherwise it’s all flat walking down a dry sandy creek. The Dry Canyon has two main slot sections, with the second one much deeper, darker and longer than the first. The final constriction is long and impressive, and pops you out onto cliffs above the Wolgan Valley, with views of Donkey Mountain and Mt Wolgan. THE AESTHETIC
GRAND CANYON
3-5 HOURS, EASY-MEDIUM Many Blue Mountains tourists know the Grand Canyon at Blackheath from the impressive track that runs along the rim. However, hidden below the rim is one of the longest and most picturesque slots anywhere in the Blue Mountains. The canyon starts with a 20m overhanging abseil, and then makes its way through a number of sinuous turns, finishing with an unavoidable and chilly 30m swim—as well as a few other possible swims along the way. A few scrambles, mostly not too difficult, round out the challenges. The water-carved walls in places are covered with
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moss and ferns, and if you’re bold enough to visit at night, you can see a galaxy of glowworms lighting the rock faces. For those without abseiling gear, visiting the canyon is still possible: From the tourist track, simply walk up the canyon from the bottom; just be prepared to swim the pools—twice! On the plus side, you get double the beauty! THE CLASSIC
CLAUSTRAL CANYON
8-12 HOURS, MEDIUM-HARD No list of Blue Mountains canyons would be complete without mentioning Claustral Canyon, not far from Mt Tomah and Mt Bell on Bells Line of Road. There are three abseils in quick succession through a narrow, deep slot known as the Black Hole of Calcutta, with the final one being through an arch—the Keyhole. A short swim and walk brings you to a 700m long corridor and a deep, dark canyon of the highest quality, a peaceful respite from the thundering roar of the water in the Black Hole. At the right time of day, sunbeams squeeze through the narrow ceiling in a natural light show. After an interlude along more open rainforest creek, the canyon starts again with some tricky climb downs through boulders, leading to an abseil, and the chilly 50m Tunnel Swim. A few more swims and scrambles get you to the exit of the canyon. However, the end of the canyon is a long way from the end of the day. Several challenging scrambles up the exit canyon known as Rainbow Ravine are just the start. Most parties will require a solid three-to-four-hour walk out. An awesome day of adventure, but not one for the unfit or unprepared!
THE WILD BUNCH
THE ADVENTUROUS
MT HAY CANYON (BUTTERBOX CANYON) 5-8 HOURS, MEDIUM-HARD
Butterbox Canyon—at the end of Mt Hay Road north of Leura—is an adrenaline junkie’s dream. A short walk in, a short walk out (at least for Blue Mountains canyons), with many abseils, jumps, and an airy ledge and exposed rock climb. The canyon’s actual slot is only around 100m long, but it’s an awesome 60m-deep chasm. Two abseils will get you to the bottom, the first leaving you perched on a huge chockstone, with the water rushing beneath you. Either side of the slot there are several possible spots for jumps, as high as 8m—send someone down to check the depth first. The exit will test out your comfort with heights. An increasingly narrow ledge above an increasingly high drop-off leads to a Grade-10 rock climb, mostly climbed in wet canyoning shoes. The climb is seriously exposed, perched halfway up the 200m-high cliffs of the Grose Valley—don’t look down!
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Negotiating a log jam in Surefire Canyon One of the Grand Canyon’s swims Mt Hay (Butterbox) Canyon is an adrenaline junkie’s dream Dry Canyon; no wetsuits required! Claustral Canyon has many impressive chambers
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THE RARELY TRAVELLED
SUREFIRE CANYON
8-12 HOURS, MEDIUM-HARD Despite its beauty and technical challenges, Surefire Canyon is a rarely visited beast. A good way out along the Deanes Lookout Track in the lower regions of Rocky Creek in Wollemi NP, the 9km walk in and 10km walk out both do their part to deter lazy canyoners! The canyon itself is magnificent, with twisting and turning narrows in the upper section, and a long, deep, sustained slot in the lower section. It is tricky to negotiate, with several awkward drops, and one abseil through a large—and less-than-solid—log jam. The route out is up a side canyon, for extra bang for your buck. The exit involves several exposed climbing moves using slings and trees to get up a series of ledges. There are a number of other canyons nearby, too; given the long (and scrubby!) walk in and out, consider taking overnight camping gear to allow time for further exploration.
CONTRIBUTOR: Sydney-based canyoner and bushwalker Tom Brennan wishes he had gotten into photography years earlier when he could have physically carried all the gear that he’d like to lug around. You can check out his websites at ozultimate.com/canyoning and bushwalkingnsw.com
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TRACK NOTES
JAGUNGAL CIRCUIT FROM ROUND MOUNTAIN (+ THREE OTHER APPROACHES)
Words & Photography Dan Slater
Sydney Kosciuszko NP
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QUICK FACTS Activity: Multi-day hiking Location: Kosciuszko NP, NSW When to go: October-May (dependent on snow) Duration: Three days Difficulty: Moderate Permits required: No Fees: Yes, for vehicle entry ($17/day or $190 annual pass) Maps: NSW 1:25K series: 8525-1N Toolong Range, 8525-1S Jagungal More info: nationalparks.nsw.gov.au/ visit-a-park/parks/kosciuszko-national-park
Rainfall (mm)
CLIMATE: CABRAMURRA (1,482M ASL) Temperature (°C)
THERE ARE NO TWO WAYS ABOUT IT—Jagungal is a stone-cold Aussie-bushwalking classic. It’s not the most difficult, nor is it uniquely picturesque, and the wildlife can be shy, but it offers the quintessential Snowy Mountains experience. Expect rolling alpine plains, deep river valleys, skeletal snow gums, bubbling creeks and charismatic huts. Evidence of the Ngarigo people’s presence in the Snowy Mountains, including in the Jagungal Wilderness, dates back many thousands of years, with estimates varying from 7,000 to over 20,000. They came during the summer months to harvest Bogong moths, when it was easy to scrape them from the rocks onto which the moths had settled for their aestivation phase (a summer version of hibernation). They could then be roasted in a fire or ground into a paste to be preserved for later. Caucasian settlers first reached the region in the 1830s, but incursions were small until the Kiandra gold rush of the 1860s, when the area was flooded with hopeful diggers. It was a short-lived boom, and while most miners moved on, some stayed and bought grazing leases. The grazing period lasted until the 1940s, during which time many of the high-country huts were built. Around this time, tourists first started discovering the Alps, with skiers, bushwalkers and horse riders arriving in larger numbers, a pattern that has continued to the present day. The track notes to follow detail a three-day, 41.5km loop around Jagungal that requires little organisation and is easy on the pocket. The distances are forgiving and the company good. It’s a great candidate for a first multi-day hike, and has been just that for many a young Australian adventurer. In the words of W. Axl Rose: Welcome to Jagungal, baby!
It’s shoes off for the final crossing, the Tumut River Trig happy at the summit
Welcome to Jagungal, baby!
FLORA & FAUNA Snow gums, paper daisies, billy buttons … ? Being hopeless at plant identification myself, I turned to the Australian Alps NP website, which states that “Although most … Australian Alps [plants] are recognisably similar to those growing in other areas of Australia, the species that grow here have evolved special characteristics in response to this harsh environment.” The sub-alpine woodlands of the plateau contain species of flora found nowhere else in the world. The same website insists there are “more than forty species of native mammals, two-hundred bird species, thirty reptile species, fifteen amphibian types, fourteen native-fish species and many species of invertebrates.” All your regular marsupials are present and correct, but of particular interest are the mountain pygmy possum (thought to be extinct until 1966) and the eye-catchingly mottled yellow and black southern corroboree frog. A sphagnum bog to the west of Derschko’s Hut was considered a habitat for this critically endangered fella, but unfortunately they were deemed to have disappeared from the area by 1998.
GEOLOGY In a landscape of rolling hills and small knolls, Mt Jagungal stands proud above the rest of the plateau, its crumpled and lofty summit the most distinctive landmark for miles around. This isn’t just geologic arrogance; while most of the plateau is gentle Silurian granite, the biggest bogong (Jagungal is also known as Big Bogong) is capped by amphibolite, a darker, denser igneous rock from the Middle Ordovician, rich in iron and magnesium.
Nothing beats a good stride up a gentle incline
The peak’s stature lends itself to the title ‘Mother of the Waters’, claiming direct origin of some impressive waterways—the Tumut, Tooma and Geehi Rivers. These lead in turn to such mighty rivers as the Murray and Murrumbidgee. Mother of the Waters, indeed.
WHEN TO GO Jagungal is a multi-seasonal adventure; each offers a different experience. For the purposes of these track notes, hiking is usually any time between October and May, or whenever it starts/stops snowing that year. Be aware Tooma Road is closed for the winter between the June and October long weekends.
GETTING THERE The starting point of this route is a small car park off the Tooma Road between Cabramurra and Jagumba. If you’re coming from the east, you’ll have turned off the Snowy Mountains Highway B72, approaching from either Tumut (north) or Cooma (south). In the other direction, the Alpine Way runs up from Geehi, Thredbo and Jindabyne, a very scenic drive, or down from a web of small towns east of Albury/Wodonga. Either way, if you’re navigating via Google, input ‘Round Mountain Hut Walking Track’ and you’ll be right. There is no public transport.
FEES/COSTS/PERMITS No permits are required for this adventure. And the only cost involved is that of a NSW Parks pass for your vehicle, either $17/ day or an annual pass for $190 ($152 for seniors). If you already have an annual pass, make sure it includes Kosciuszko NP, as
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JAGUNGAL CIRCUIT the $65 pass doesn’t. If you enter by bike, foot, or skateboard, you don’t need a vehicle pass, although the car park is 35.2km from the closest gate on Swampy Plains Creek Rd.
EQUIPMENT Bring along the usual gear necessary for a multi-day hike, remembering that it can get cold, or even snow, here in summer. There’s usually plenty of water in the creeks, but don’t forget water purification, and it’s useful to bring a small summit pack for the run up and down Jagungal. Snake-proof gaiters are also a good idea, and consider bringing a personal locator beacon; even when the hut camping areas are at capacity, you can go a surprisingly long time without meeting anyone on the track.
DIFFICULTY & NAVIGATION This is a walk of moderate difficulty. There are some hills, yes, but they are far from punishing. And as long as the plateau isn’t snow-covered, it’s easy to find your way. The loop follows signposted management-vehicle tracks, except for a foot trail up to the summit. The latter can get spectacularly overgrown not far from the junction, with scrub literally head high, but keep an eye on the worn path at your feet and you shouldn’t go wrong. You should, of course, still carry a compass and maps, in this case 8525-1N Toolong Range and 8525-1S Jagungal, in the NSW
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1:25,000 series. They’re also available to download on Avenza (as an additional navigation aid, not an alternative) and the track is shown on Gaia GPS, and presumably many of the other major GPS mapping apps. Clockwise or anticlockwise? The popular choice is anticlockwise as it avoids a huge climb out of the Tumut River valley on the first day. It still needs to be done, in the other direction, but hopefully by Day Three you’ll be ready for it.
DON’T LIKE HIKING? The area around Jagungal is a popular bikepacking destination, and we were passed by a few cyclists whistling along the fire trails. Wild’s own editor described one hectic 277km option back in Issue #182, but there is a shorter version which starts from Denison Campground just off the Snowy Mountains Highway. It heads south along Tolbar Rd until it hits the Grey Mare Trail, which is where the loop proper starts. Going clockwise around the massif is a challenging undertaking. The route covers around 115km and can be done comfortably in four days, depending on fitness, with accommodation at Mackay’s, O’Keefe’s, and Derschko’s Huts. There are gnarly hills galore, river crossings and stacks of hike-a-bike. Approach with caution. Probably Australia’s most famous ski-touring route, the Kiandra to Kosciuszko, or K2K, was first conceived and completed
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP The mighty Jagungal, in all her glory Some of O’Keefe’s Hut’s unique wallpaper. Literally dozens, if not a hundred, archival pages from newspapers dating back eighty years or more line the walls O’Keefe’s Hut basking in the day’s last light
in 1927. The actual route will depend on snow cover, weather forecasts, and whimsy, but can take around ten days to cover the roughly 130km distance. Traditionally, the end point was the old Kosciuszko Hotel at Diggers Rest in Perisher Valley (now called Sponars Chalet), but modern participants usually aim for Thredbo or Guthega for ease of exit. There are too many variables to go into here, but most routes will cross the Jagungal Wilderness from NE to SW, passing either east or west of the mountain and usually taking a day out from O’Keeke’s or Cesjack’s hut to summit. Needless to say, this is a very serious undertaking.
OTHER NOTEWORTHY ELEMENTS The plateau has a number of high country heritage alpine huts in strategic locations for adventurers. Two are perfectly located for this loop—O’Keefe’s Hut and Derschko’s Hut. While they’re both large enough to accommodate some horizontal bodies, this should only happen in extreme weather emergencies. Sleeping should be restricted to your own tent, pitched in the surrounding grassy areas, with everyday hut usage limited to cooking and socialising. If it’s a busy weekend, ie Easter, and you’re late getting in, you may have to put up with a non-ideal (read: sloping) site. The Mountain Hut Code (see image on P134) should be followed at all times.
Derschko’s Hut (1,620m): Dating from the 1950s, this tidy little building was constructed by the Snowy Mountains Authority for the use of scientists surveying the region’s major watersheds. The genesis for the project was an incident when Czech hydrologist George Derschko and a colleague were trapped in their vehicle for three days by a blizzard, and were lucky to survive. Ownership passed to the NPWS in 1991 as recreational use increased and the hydrological-survey methods became more automated. The three rooms are heated by a pot-belly stove, and snow-clearing equipment hangs around the walls. A firewood chest sits outside, full when we visited, but with a stern warning that it was only for use in winter. A standalone long-drop toilet sits just up the hill. O’Keefe’s Hut (1,629m): This is in remarkably good condition for a hut originating in 1934, probably because it burnt down completely in 2003 and was rebuilt 20m away. Its standout feature is that the two rooms are decorated with old newspaper pages from the early 20th Century, now behind perspex to protect them from damage. Highlights include the front page of the The Herald from January 29th, 1936, which reports on the funeral of King George V, and a yellowing advert for Lux soap flakes advocating ladies to take the (apparently) radical step of changing their underwear every day! The hut was built by the sons of Andrew O’Keefe, a local cattleman.
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THE TRIP IN SECTIONS DAY 1
Tooma Rd Car Park to Derschko’s Hut 14.1km; approx 4 hours
From the car park, set off past the barrier, and a second one a few hundred metres later, as the fire trail heads over a hillock then down to a T-junction (1.4km). The ruins of Round Mountain Hut are about 500m down the road to the left, and are a convenient place to set up camp if you’re arriving late at night. This is also the trail on which you’ll return; see you in a couple of days! Round Mountain itself lies to the right, and the eponymous trail curves around between it and the Tumut River valley, leading gently downhill to a small creek (1.9km). Round Mountain looms above your right shoulder while views of Jagungal dominate the southern aspect. It’s not possible to see a trail going up Round Mountain but the side trip is 2.5km according to the map. It’s uphill again to a second junction with Theiss Village Trail (2.5km); take the left fork. Dry and exposed, the route follows a featureless jeep track as it undulates along Toolong Ridge. Spoiler alert—it’s too long! Although many of the surrounding trees are dead, burnt or showing signs of dieback, it’s possible to find the occasional patch of shade in which to rest/eat lunch about halfway (roughly 7km) to Derschko’s Hut. More of the same scenery follows until the excitement of the Hell Hole Creek Trail junction (11.6km)— left again. After a couple of slightly bigger creeks, their lifeblood sparkling in the sunlight (13km), it’s only a little further to Derschko’s Hut (14.1km), lying in a hollow around a mini-loop which leads back to the main trail. While there are a couple of flat sites next to the hut, most people climb the short hill behind it to the ridge, where plenty of spaces in between the trees and boulders beckon, and great views too. DAY 2
Derschko’s Hut to O’Keefe’s Hut 12.4km; approx 4.5 hours
Today is summit day, and Jagungal looks a lot closer than yesterday! After packing up camp, rejoin the Round Mountain Trail and follow it down the other side of the ridge into a wide valley, where it meets the Grey Mare Trail (1.4km). Fork left onto said trail (signposted) and before you know it you’ll be swapping your heavy backpack for a small day pack at the summit-trail junction (2.1km). Take snacks, waterproofs and a warm layer (no matter the weather), and fill up with water at the perennial stream just down the hill (actually the nascent Tumut River). Stash your packs in the bushes (unless doing a traverse) and gird your loins—this is where it gets steep.
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After a squishy couple of hundred metres around the Tumut River’s headwaters at 1,650m, the bush sprouts up to chin height (on me, anyway) but the footpad is worn enough to be easy to follow. The tall vegetation only lasts until the ridge is gained (3.1km), after which the going is fairly casual all the way to the summit tor at 2,061m (4.8km). After photos at the trig point (Instagram will have to wait for those summit selfies as phone reception is scarce, even here) and admiring the views in all directions, pick a likely boulder to protect your sandwiches from the wind and hunker down. It’s a short day, so feel free to take a summit nap before reversing your steps back to the Grey Mare Fire Trail (7.4km). Having re-shouldered your load, continue along Grey Mare Trail. There is noticeably more vegetation this side of the mountain, which lifts spirits and calms the soul. Enjoy a relaxed section of easy contouring as far as the rain gauge (10.2km), where the trail plunges steeply down to a reliable creek. A bit further on, Hut Creek (11.8km) is the last water before O’Keefe’s Hut (12.4km), although there is one shortly after it as well. There are fewer flat camping spots here and no view of Jagungal, but it’s still a lovely spot.
DAY 3
O’Keefe’s Hut to Tooma Rd Car Park 15km; approx 4.5 hours
Set off downhill before getting the blood flowing with a significant incline up to a wide, exposed ridge. Enjoy this relative flatness while it lasts, until the trail turns off the ridge and steeply down to cross the perennial Bogong Creek (2.0km). If the area around O’Keefe’s is busy, this is an alternative place to camp, but it can get frigid here; the creek is a cold sink. The hill that erupts rudely from the other side of the creek is the trail’s biggest challenge so far. Stomp up it for 750m, before arriving at the junction with the Farm Ridge Trail (2.8km). Turn left here; it’s only 250m more until it levels out and contours around to the right. The next section may be the most pleasant walking of the whole circuit—varied, picturesque and not too strenuous, at least until you crest a hump to be faced with a major downhill to the now fully formed Tumut River. Trees thin out to nothing and it’s back to the scenery of Day One. The river (11.2km) is easily forded and a lovely place to take lunch and to soak in either the beauty or, if you’re so inclined, the bracing river water itself. You might want to be moist when you tackle the ‘notorious’ final hill—the reason some people walk the route clockwise. It’s really not that bad, flattening out after the first corner, but don’t get complacent—there’s a sting in the tail. The hills thereafter are gentle, passing the aforementioned ruins of Round Mountain Hut (13.1km), the history of which reads like a Monty Python sketch (built 1930s, burned down 1940s, rebuilt 1940s, reburned down 2020). From there, the junction familiar from Day One (13.6km) leads back to the car park (15km).
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT The camping plateau above Derschko’s Hut Gerda cools off in the Tumut Showing no fear on the final climb back to the car park Chest-high heath on the spur track to Jagungal’s summit Same mountain, different flank Derschko’s Hut is charming and well protected
SUMMER 2024
133
Kosciuszko NP, NEW SOUTH WALES
IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Taking a break on the way up— what a view! Be a responsible hiker An example of people following one of the most important points of the code above: Keep the hut clean and tidy
OTHER APPROACHES TO JAGUNGAL NORTH FROM GEEHI RIVER Starting at Geehi Flats Campground, hitch up the Alpine Way a short distance to Olsens Road and follow it to the end as it gradually climbs about 500m over the course of 6.2km. After crossing Grass Flat Creek, hang a left on the Pinnacle Trail for a 13.2km slog, albeit with only 600m of vertical. This brings you to a crossroads, one arm of which is the Grey Mare Trail. Keep slogging another 13.2km (with no aggregate elevation gain) until you collapse at Grey Mare Hut (32.6km). From there, it’s only 8km to the junction with the Round Mountain Trail as described in the notes previously. I once attempted to ‘do’ Jagungal in two days from Geehi Flats, but it took the entire first day to hike to Grey Mare Hut, from where I could see the summit laughing at me. The next morning I had to turn my back on my goal and hike straight back, lest my wife call Search and Rescue on me.
EAST FROM BRADNEYS GAP From Bradneys Gap Picnic Area on Swampy Plains Creek Road, walk east along Everards Flat Fire Trail for 11.6km. The climb alternates between steep and gentle, with the steepest section waiting for you at the end. Once on the plateau, turn north on Dargals Fire Trail. After 1.9km, you have an option: Continue north on Dargals Fire trail until you hit Hell Hole Creek Trail, where you then turn east. Or you can take a 4km longer option but with some nice open almost off-track walking by branching south on Grantite Knob Trail (not shown on most maps) for nearly 2km until it swings east. After 2.9km you hit Bulls Head Creek; follow it 5.2km north until you hit the Hell Hole Creek Fire Trail, and turn east. Hell Hole Creek Trail meanders east and south until it joins the Round Mountain trail a couple of kilometres north of Derschko’s Hut, where you can follow the main directions.
WEST FROM CESJACK’S HUT CONTRIBUTOR: Dan Slater, a lifelong bushwalker, is a ten-year veteran in the retail sector. He keeps forgetting, losing, breaking or drowning headlamps, and is thinking instead of mounting a candle on his head.
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If you fancy the challenge of 15km off-track bush-bashing, this is your route. Cesjack’s Hut (built 1944) lies a couple of kays from the Snowy Plains Fire Trail (4WD only), and is an ideal place to sleep before setting off for Jagungal in the morning. (Note: The walk requires good navigation and map-reading skills, and these directions shouldn’t be taken as an adequate guide.) Heading west will bring you down to and across Doubtful Creek before you’ll settle into an open, undulating landscape of knolls and streams. Water bottles can be refilled at Bogong Creek before tackling the scramble to Jagungal’s summit. It’s 7.5km one way, and if you’re lucky there may be a footpad to guide you. W
GEAR REVIEW
LEKI
MAKALU FX
CARBON TREKKING POLES Comfortable. Sturdy. Light.
A SELF-CONFESSED, hiking-pole convert. I used to The Makalus I’M hate the damn things, would actively scorn them, and took swore black and blue I’d never be seen wielding them. everything But my knees had other ideas, and eventually forced me to backflip. If only I’d become acquainted with the Leki I threw at Makalu FX Carbon poles earlier, I would’ve switched allethem in their giances much sooner. And BTW, my knees are great now,
stride.”
and I still use the poles, because I’ve learnt how useful it is to have four points of stibility, bung knees or not. Straight out of the plastic, the slick design of the Leki Makalus oozes quality. All for show, though? To answer
NEED TO KNOW
this question, I set out on a 70km walk traversing some of
on the padded grip extension presented additional han-
Intended use: Hiking
Victoria’s most rugged terrain—in the form of Mts Cob-
dling options when surging—read, struggling—uphill.
Shaft material: Carbon fibre
bler, Speculation, Howitt and Magdala, not to mention the
While they’re not the absolute lightest on the market,
Crosscut Saw. I’m pleased to say that the Makalus didn’t
the weight of the Makalus, being carbon fibre versus
take a backwards step; they took everything I threw at
heavier aluminium, is still meagre—just 250g per pole.
them in their stride.
This didn’t, however, come at the expense of sturdiness.
Adjustable length: 110-130cm Packed length: 40cm
Overly complicated set-up instructions aside, it’s sim-
And while I kept my Makalus set up at all times, had I
Construction: Five-section; folding
ple enough to click the five sections (some of which fit
wanted to be hands-free, the ELD system (which has a
inside one another) into place, cleverly held together by
quick-release button) enables a speedy pack down into
Weight (as tested): 501g
the External Locking Device (ELD) system and the Speed
a compact, three-section package. When folded up into
RRP: $439.95
Lock 2 Plus clamp. The Aergon Air provides an ergo-
the provided storage bag, at 40cm in length, the poles
nomic and padded grip, and I particularly appreciated
can be stashed away into small spaces, making them
the angled, rubberised grip head, which made bracing
ideal for those travelling abroad or if, on a walk, you want
on downhill sections easy and comfortable. The 1K foam
to store them in your pack until the going gets tough.
More info: leki.com
REVIEW
OFFGRID
HEAT + EAT MEALS Eat well outdoors.
F
OOD JUST TASTES BETTER out bush. As I wrote in my Ed’s Letter a few issues back, even bland meals seem like culinary delights once you’re tired
and hungry after a long day on the trail. Heck, I even think dehydrated and freeze-dried meals taste great. I’m not joking. Now, I know not everyone is with me on enjoying freeze-dried meals. I also know that part of their attraction is that they’re super easy to prep, and most importantly, that they’re, well, dehydrated; the weight savings almost seem to add to the flavour. But the thing is, you don’t always need to be skimping on weight (especially on short trips like overnighters or three or four day-ers), so why then skimp on flavour? If it’s solely because dehydrated meals are easy to prep, then here’s an alternative that genuinely tastes great: Offgrid Provisions. The Aussie company cooks proper meals, seals them in a long-life pouch (no freeze-drying involved, no preservatives either, nor gluten for that matter), which you can then chuck in the cupboard until you’re ready to take them out on an adventure. And once you’re out there, just boil the pouch in some water for five minutes—just be aware that you’re going to need a pot large enough to do this in—and you’re good to go. (You actually don’t even need to do this; you can eat the meals cold if necessary.) I’ll admit I was genuinely dubious as to whether they’d taste much better than dehy or freeze-dried meals (remember, I actually like them),
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WILD
NEWS
MSR
HUBBA HUBBA BIKEPACKING TENT A new twist on an old classic.
T
HERE ARE FEW TENTS MORE ICONIC than MSR’s venerable Hubba Hubba. I think I bought my first (yes,
I’ve bought more than one) back in 2004. They were lightweight (sub 2kg), but more importantly, thanks to their innovative pole design, they had absolutely loads of liveable space and headroom, and roomy vestibules too. It truly
The length/height of the Leki Makalus can be varied between 110cm
says something about just how groundbreaking the design
and 130cm, and while everyone has their own pole-length preference, I
was that—not only are these tents still around twenty years
wouldn’t want the Makalus’ minimum height of 110cm to be any higher
on—the key aspects of their design remain unchanged.
(for reference, I’m 169cm tall); shorter adventurers may prefer more flex-
But not everything remains the same. New materials
ibility in this department. It’s worth noting that Leki has the Cressida FX
allowed the NX series of the Hubba Hubba (introduced in
Carbon pole as well, with a height of 100-120cm. It’s also worth noting
2014) to shave weight further still. And this
that, longevity wise, due to the design of the ELD system, if the trigger
year, 2024, has seen a new iteration: the
fails, the pole sections cannot be kept in place, but this is inherent with all
Hubba Hubba Bikepack. The regular ver-
folding walking poles. (BTW, if a pole section breaks, Leki has individual
sion of the Hubba Hubba has always been
replacement sections available.) At over $400 a pair, the Leki Makalus
popular with bikepackers, myself included,
aren’t the most wallet-friendly option out there either, but you pay for
but recognising this, MSR decided to create
quality and for the energy-saving lightness of carbon fibre.
a bikepacking-specific version, with shorter
Comfortable. Sturdy. Light. There’s no nonsense about the Leki Makalus. RYAN HANSEN
poles to make it easier to fit into panniers or a frame bag or on your handlebars. Speaking of which, it also comes with a waterproof stuff sack that’s also a handlebar bag, replete with the necessary spacers, meaning you don’t have to fork out a different
but literally within seconds of opening a pouch of ‘Not Butter Chicken’
handlebar luggage option. And here’s how
during a three-day trip in the Blueys, I could smell, and then see, this was
we know MSR have genuinely been think-
different. The sauce was rich and thick, a genuine curry, like nothing I’d
ing about bikepackers, and about getting
eaten on the trail before. With me on that trip was my son—who is 11 years
their feedback: The fly colour was changed
old but has started cooking amazing butter chicken from scratch, no
to stealth green. Anyone who’s bikepacked much knows
sauces involved—and he was impressed. So was I. This was in a different
how important it is on occasion to fly under the radar; this
league to usual camp meals.
tent helps you remain surreptitious.
We had four different types of Offgrid dinners on that trip, as well as
Left: Hubba Hubba 2 bikepack poles (31cm) Right: Regular Hubba Hubba 2 poles (45cm)
Minimum weight for the two-person version is 1.4kg; for
pouches of rice and of saltbush potatoes (the latter are really good; I pre-
the 1P, it’s a scant 900g. That’s despite having strong DAC
sume they’re meant to go with other sauce-based meals, but honestly, you
poles. These poles, at 31cm, are seriously short, BTW, barely
can eat them on their own), plus some of their energy bars too, which we
longer than the height of a page of Wild, and holding the
both loved. We also ate a braised-goat curry (delicious), a venison stroganoff
tent in your hands, it’s hard not to be impressed by its com-
(I liked it, but my son, who hates mushrooms, was not a fan) and a wagyu
pactness. Those shorter pole sections aren’t just advanta-
bolognaise. The last of these was exceptional. I’ve definitely eaten worse
geous for bikepackers; kayakers and packrafters will appre-
bolognaises at dinner with friends at their homes. I’ve since eaten their frank
ciate them too. You can learn more at msrgear.com
and beans (this was the first miss for me, although I’ve heard other people
JAMES MCCORMACK
say they like it), and their outback-lamb curry cooked in spices—coriander, ginger, cardamom, cumin, turmeric, star anise, cinnamon. It was delicious. Look, I’m not saying I’ll never eat freeze-dried again. It definitely still has its place, especially for me because I like it. And there are loads of trips when weight-saving trumps all other considerations. But for shorter trips when I want a bit more flavour and authenticity, or for anyone who wants convenience but just is not into freeze-dried meals, Offgrid’s meals are definitely a great option. Go to offgridprovisions.com.au to learn more. JAMES MCCORMACK
SUMMER 2024
137
GEAR
REVIEW
WHIPPA
WOLLEMI
ULTRALIGHT 90 PACK
Big on volume, light on weight.
A
FEW ISSUES BACK, I did a review of a pack I’ve quickly come to rave about: the Whippa Overland
60 Ultralight. Made by Summit Gear—a small but thriving company that have been making packs up in NSW’s Blue Mountains since 1981, yes, the very year Wild Mag launched—the Overland is an extremely well-thought-out
I have taken it out loaded up with supplies for six days, and it
handled that with ease.”
ultralight pack that, despite its featherweightness at just 942g, is nonetheless almost preposterously robust. But in that review, one thing I said is that although the Overland isn’t flimsy, “If you’re carrying heavy loads on big trips, you’ll want something burlier.” Enter the Wollemi. This 90L pack is the Overland’s big For a pack of its size, the Wollemi—at 1,221g as tested—is
removable. In fact, stock standard, the Wollemi doesn’t
incredibly lightweight, which isn’t surprising, given it
include the pockets, but honestly, you’d be crazy not to
and the Overland share largely the same materials and
add at least one. They’re light, too, just 52g (as tested).
design. Both packs’ bodies are constucted from abra-
Fun fact: The hip-belt pockets and the side pockets are
sion-, UV- and tear-resistant Ultra 200X; their bases use
made from UltraStretch—a 4-way stretch mesh woven
Ultra 800X UHMWPE (non-branded Dyneema), which has
with UHMWPE fibers so tough that Summitgear’s
double the abrasion resistance of 1000D Cordura; and
auto-cutting machine cannot cut the fabric; hand cutting
their backs employ tear-resistant UltraGrid, which uses
with carbon shears is needed.
210D recycled yarn interwoven with Dyneema. All this
NEED TO KNOW Intended use: Ultralightweight multiday hiking Volume: 90L Weight (as tested): 1,221g Materials: Body— U200X; base—U800X UHMWPE; frame—alloy bar with 1mm HDPE Removable hip belt pockets: Yes, 52g (as tested), sold separately Extendable/removable lid: Yes, 10L, sold separately Waterproof: Yes RRP: $679 More info: summitgear.com.au
138
WILD
The stretch hip-belt and side pockets have loads of capacity
brother, capable of handling trips of an extended nature.
So, how does the Wollemi carry a load? I’ll be honest
makes for an incredibly tough, robust pack. I know some
(well, I’m always honest, but you know what I mean), I
doubters will think that no ultralight pack could stand
haven’t taken the pack out on a properly big multi-week
up to the rigours of, say, off-track walking in Tasmania.
trip yet. But I have taken it out loaded up with supplies for
These two packs, however, challenge those preconcep-
six days, and it handled that with ease. The pack is rated
tions, and I’d take them off-track in Tas in a heartbeat.
to carry loads up to 30kg; that seems pretty much spot
One other thing: The materials just mentioned are either
on to me. For bigger loads than that, I’ll continue taking
waterproof or have had a waterproof backing applied;
out my trusty 100L Wilderness Equipment Mountain
thanks to all seams being tape-sealed, both packs are
Expedition, which handles massive loads with aplomb.
essentially waterproof.
But at 3.32kg, it weighs exactly two kilograms more than
Design-wise, the Wollemi, like the Overland, has a roll-
the Wollemi. That’s a big difference.
top enclosure and a large, waterproof front stash pocket.
Now, here’s a question that’s absolutely fair to ask:
In fact, of the 90L, only 82 are within the main body; the
Do I really need a pack this big? Obviously, the answer
stash pocket adds an extra eight. If that’s still not enough,
depends on the type of trips you’re doing. And yes, 90L is
like the Overland, the Wollemi has an optional hood to
huge. But consider this: At 1.22kg, this is still a light pack
extend the capacity.
stacked up against most 60L packs, with the thing being
One difference between the two siblings is that the
that because of the roll-top enclosure, if you’re not filling
foam thickness for the hip belt and back padding has
the Wollemi, you simply give it a few more rolls to bring
been upped from 10 to 20mm for the Wollemi, reflective
it down to a 60L capacity. Oh, and there are four g-hook
of the heavier loads it’s likely to carry. Its hip belt also
compression straps as well to help with this. And then
has stabilisers, and has been reinforced with HDPE to
when the time comes for a big trip, boom, you’ve got 90L
add more structure. Not all differences between the two
available if necessary.
packs have to do with increased load weight, however.
There will be loads of people for who the capacity of
The hip belt on the Wollemi is interchangeable, and
the Wollemi will be overkill, but for those who need the
can be sized independently of back length. The Wol-
capability, even if just very occasionally, this ultralight-
lemi’s stretch side pockets are bigger and deeper. And
weight but bomber pack is one of the very best out there.
its hip-belt pockets—which are huge; I love them—are
JAMES MCCORMACK
MESCALITO TRK PLANET GTX
THE ECO EXPLORER.
Comfortable and reliable trekking boot, designed for those who want to experience nature and make conscious choices. 45% of the upper is made from recycled yarn, the Gore-Tex Bluesign membrane contains 98% recycled fabrics and the Vibram Ecostep Evo outsole uses up to 30% recycled rubber.
To locate your nearest stockist www.outdooragencies.com.au
I T: 1300 784 266
GEAR
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ROADIE HARD COOLER Meet the most compact hard cooler in our lineup. This small but mighty version of the classic Roadie® Family still
options when it comes to choosing what gear you purchase. But if you’re
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YACURI 55 PACK
Fully featured without weighing you down, the Yacuri 55 is a highly
THE NORTH FACE:
versatile pack. The adjustable
SUMMIT SERIES HIGH TRAIL RUN SHORT SLEEVE T-SHIRT
V-TRAX™ carry system, and
The Summit Series High Trail Run Short Sleeve T-shirt is made to
of foam harness, ensures full
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The FlashDry-Pro™ materials actively pull moisture away from the
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MOUNTAIN DESIGNS:
ENDEAVOUR 60L + 10L TRAVEL PACK
thermoformed dual density
ARCTERYX: SYLAN SHOE
Make backpacking adventures or travel more effi-
Athlete-inspired and built for speed, this is the shoe
cient with the new Endeavour 60 + 10 travel pack
for mountain runners looking to move faster
from Mountain Designs. The 2-in-1 hybrid design is
on technical trails. The midsole’s rocker
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able day pack, multiple storage compartments
from InFuse, a light, highly responsive EVA and Polyolefin composition
(main with internal divider to separate dirty gear, shoes or a sleeping
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deliver a confident bite. RRP: $280 ARCTERYX.COM.AU
MAMMUT:
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A lightweight and high-quality
Outdoor adventures are made better with the
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ible and grippy Vibram® sole for optimum sure-footedness on day
protection and a collar extension. PFAS-free DWR
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yoke with ventilation and chest pockets with hidden stash pocket.
fort. High-quality Terracare® nubuck leather gives the Mercury IV Mid
100% carbon neutral and more than that XTM is a certified B Corp.
GTX stability and durability. RRP: $379.95 MAMMUT1862.COM.AU
RRP: $100 XTM.COM.AU
MERCURY IV MID GTX SHOE
140
LOWE ALPINE:
WILD
CUMBERLAND SHIRT
GEAR
An XMAS gear guide from our advertisers
BLACKWOLF:
OSPREY:
HIKER EXTREME SLEEPING BAG -13
TEMPEST PRO 30L WOMENS PACK
If you want a technical pack that can do it all, reach for the Tempest Pro.
Filled with responsibly sourced
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or bikepacking solo, this pack is faster, stronger and lighter than ever.
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A new torso adjustment and premium injection-molded framesheet
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tion provide optimal warmth in cooler months, and the lightweight compression bag allows for easy storage when you’re back on the trails. RRP: $699.99 BLACKWOLF.COM.AU
SUMMIT GEAR:
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AEROPRESS:
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The AeroPress Go travel coffee maker is engineered to fuel an
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HYDRAULIC PACKING CUBE SET
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laminated 70D ripstop nylon with a translucent window panel for easy visibility of contents. The low-profile Hypalon grab handles allow for convenient handling and lashing, ensuring you can easily manage your gear on any adventure. Stay organised and
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COMPRESSIBLE PILLOW CINCH
KIWI ULTRALIGHT: FITTED SHEETS
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WILD EARTH:
CHACO Z/1 CLASSIC ADJUSTABLE STRAP SANDALS Created by a Colorado River guide in the 80s, Chaco Z/1 Classic Adjustable Strap Sandals are the ultimate outdoor sandals. The iconic strap design is fully adjustable and allows for a custom and secure fit for every adventurer. The grippy outer soles feature 3mm lugs for traction on any terrain and the podiatrist-approved arch provides support and comfort all summer long. RRP: $195.95 WILDEARTH.COM.AU * We also wouldn’t exist without our amazingly talented and tireless contributors, either. One of the best ways you can help reward them is simply to subscribe to Wild. The more subscribers we have, the more we can pay our contributors. wild.com.au/subscribe
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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 an Ultralight Six Person Tipi (UL6T), a versatile, all-season shelter ideal for winter adventures that can be heated with a titanium wood stove. The Ultralight Six Person Tipi (UL6T) is a versatile, all-season shelter ideal for winter adventures in NZ and Australia. 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
BOGONG EQUIPMENT WE USE THE GEAR WE SELL
Since 1989, Bogong Equipment—Australia’s leading outdoor equipment store—has provided our fellow outdoor adventurers with the latest gear. With our long history and expert staff members, we strive to make your buying experience as smooth as possible. Whether it is bushwalking, climbing, trail running, or exploring the world’s great mountain ranges, we are out there doing it, and we can’t wait to help you choose the right products for your next adventure. BOGONG.COM.AU
LARAPINTA TRAIL TREK SUPPORT
YOUR TREK STARTS HERE Larapinta Trail Trek Support (LTTS) provides top tier trek, trail and field support services for independent and self-guided hikers and trekkers taking on extended-day treks on the Larapinta Trail or off-track, cross-country treks across not just Central Australia, but right around the entire country, including now in the Victorian High Country. TREKSUPPORT.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 skin to help relieve painful or aching muscles. It can be used on the go or when you’re resting.
CRADLE MOUNTAIN CANYONS
Ideal for:Symptomatic relief
SERIOUSLY ADVENTUROUS
from muscle injury, sprains and
Cradle Mountain Canyons have been exploring the secret
strains, muscle inflammation
side of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area
and post-exercise recovery.
for over a decade, taking adventure lovers canyoning,
Always read the label and follow
packrafting and kayaking. Ranging from adrenaline-filled
the directions for use.
days of waterfall jumps and slides, running rapids
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
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suited to everyone’s comfort zone and beyond. Call 1300 032 384 or visit CRADLECANYONS.COM
ULTRALIGHT PRESSURE REGULATED
BACKPACKING STOVE
®
POCKETROCKET® DELUXE STOVE PUSH START, FAST BOIL ®
Packed with premium features for an excellent cooking experience, ideal for fast and light trips. • Pressure regulated for consistently fast boil times • Integrated Piezo push start igniter for fast, easy lighting • 83 g spelean.com.au
02 9966 9800
© Caleb Smith
WILD194_MSR_HP_SUM24.indd 1
For 20 years, Reel Rock has captured the most exciting climbing adventures, celebrating the human spirit behind each achievement. Founded in 2005, it's now the go-to platform for award-winning films. Each year, Reel Rock tours the world, bringing fresh, inspiring stories to audiences everywhere.
Stay up-to-date on when Reel Rock 19 returns to Australia and New Zealand in 2025! VISIT THE REELROCK19 ANZ WEBSITE OR SCAN THE QR CODE ABOVE
www.reelrockfilmtour.com
31/10/2024 2:08 PM
ERE
TH t i s t s u j
with the NEW Crazy Creek
PACK TABLE
spelean.com.au 02 9966 9800
spelean.co.nz 03 434 9535
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
World class quality made right next door! Complete Big 3, < 1.5kg KiwiUltralight.co.nz
Contact pip@adventureentertainment.com to get your spot in the Wild Classifieds
IMAGE: TOM DO
Explore the Blue Mountains like never before. LIGHTWEIGHT, COMFORTABLE, DEPENDABLE, BUSHWALKING PACKS AUSTRALIAN DESIGNED AND MADE
EXPLORE LIGHTWEIGHT PACKS
great food
ADVENTURE BEGINS WITH
100% RECYCLED RAINWEAR MAKE THE SWITCH TO SUSTAINABLE ADVENTURNG
outdoorestore.com.au
Two Brand New Guidebooks Out Now. lostmtns.com
Your local eStore
for all your outdoor gear needs © Scott Rinckenberger
service@outdoorestore.com.au
WILD SHOT
This boot started to fall apart within twenty minutes of landing in the Carr Boyd Ranges in the East Kimberley, necessitating many, many repair stops where it was sewn (breaking two sailcloth needles), cable-tied, and accessory-corded over the length of several days.
Here’s a shot of the boot in action. Credit: Kaz Waller
STEVE WATERS Fitzroy North, VIC (Ed: This boot looks like it’s seen a helluva lot of good times! And that you’ve got a helluva lot of knot-tying ingenuity!)
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Steve wins an awesome Nemo Equipment MOONLITE reclining camp chair valued at $249.95. The chair brings comfort to the backcountry, and is barely noticeable in your pack. A unique pulley system allows you to adjust your sitting position on the fly, and oversized tubes create exceptional strength and stability despite the chair’s light weight. nemoequipment.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
Exos | Eja
A DV E N T U R E , M A N I F E S T Tried, trued and proven on some of the most iconic end-to-end hikes in the world, Exos/Eja is a performance ultralight backpack through and thru. Lightweight construction eases every mile while a remarkably comfortable, stable and ventilated suspension system adds joy every step of the way.
Photo: Lachlan Gardiner