Traversing Tasmania
This article first appeared in Wild Magazine, Issue 92
What made us decide to walk the length of Tasmania? What's the fascination with getting from here to there, A to B, top to bottom? Goal, challenge and achievement; start, middle and end. It's why businesses are started, marathons run, and people are people. James and I decided to walk through the bush- others might study for a degree or lower their handicap at golf, lead huge corporations or train for the Olympics. The motivation to succeed comes in many forms. Some are admirable, some seemingly insignificant and others shameless. Our walk was designed to be neither momentous nor commendable to anyone but ourselves. It was a walk conceived in selfishness, fostered with vanity and executed deliberately. All decent adventures are, but it wasn't meant to start this way...
Relaxing at Lake Rhona, Denison Range, after a week of tough walking south of the Lyell Highway.
In two days our plans had been turned upside down and I walked alone down a fire-break road into the Dial Range. James was supposed to be with me; we should have been embarking on our most ambitious walk from Tasmania's north coast to the distant south together. Instead I had just visited him in hospital. Pale and drowsy from his overnight operation, I couldn't tell whether the pain in his face was from having his appendix removed or from the awful disappointment of missed opportunity. I couldn't say much to him; nothing that would make a difference.
'See you down the track somewhere?' I probed.
'Maybe... don't count on it for a while.' He replied.
Standing astride the diminutive Mt Duncan later that day I could see back to my house, safe and warm. Bleak cloud drifted around my head, invading already grey thoughts. Turning south I pondered the way ahead; it seemed such a long way. There are a lot of things to think about in preparation for a long walk, from the simple logistics of food and itinerary to the furry 'what if's'? Not surprisingly, 'what if James goes down with acute appendicitis the day before we are due to depart' was not on the list.
The first few nights on the Penguin-Cradle Track were lonely. There was an indefinable disquiet in my gut, a vague but unsettling feeling that this situation was wrong. I wasn't supposed to be alone. My mind raced from one thought to the next, never grasping any. The terrain, literally on my back doorstep, was new. Deep, ferny gullies flowed into the Leven River and soft tracks coiled through silent eucalypt forests. Wrenched from a life of constant babble and background chatter, the quiet was unnerving. I needed to slow down, find a gentler rhythm and relax. When you're bushwalking nothing happens in a hurry. I could ponder just one topic, without distraction, for an entire day if I wished. It sounds like pure boredom but by the time I'd reached the Black Bluff Range I was beginning to enjoy it. All the artificial pressures had evaporated and with the simplicity came a wonderful sense of freedom. Every single decision, from where to camp to how long I stopped for a rest, was mine. No compromise, no consultation, absolute release.
The food drop was stashed beside the link road just north of Cradle Mt- Lake St Clair National Park. As the box was packed with supplies for two people, I feasted on the high energy surplus and restocked the essentials. The empty containers would be collected within days so I left James a note with my present and forecast progress. In the weeks before the walk I'd placed food caches down the length of Tasmania. There were six in total: four where the route crossed roads, one had been walked into the Denison Range and the last was to be flown into Melaleuca Inlet.
The exposed rim of Lake Gordon doesn't always make for easy camping.
Four days later and with the Overland Track behind me, I camped beside the Rufus Canal Road. Crouched in the vestibule of the tent, I massaged the balls of my feet as the drizzle gradually turned up the volume. The hardened Overland Track had pummeled my feet and the hordes of other walkers had exposed my antisocial tendencies. I'd chosen isolated nooks far away from others rather than near the huts. Maybe it was an attempt to preserve the illusion of wilderness and adventure, maybe I was intimidated- or perhaps the stench from my socks was too unbearable to share? Thoughts turned south of the Lyell Highway. Big question marks smudged down the map with my route following off-track country over the King William Range to the Denison Range.
On the top of Mt King William One the cloud descended rapidly, engulfing me in another world of rain and wind. Like a heavy sponge being relentlessly squeezed, water oozed from every crack and pore in the range, thoroughly content in its Sunday bath. I stumbled around not far below the summit looking for the main spine of the range leading south. Coming to yet another dead end I retreated to the familiarity of the tent. The cloud lifted for the next couple of days, allowing steady progress. From Mt King William Three I could see the remnants of two airstrips bulldozed through the thick scrub three decades ago to aid mineral exploration. Surrounded by such complete and uncompromising wilds they were, to be honest, comforting. Two little smears on the landscape to prove that I wasn't walking into oblivion.
I discovered the first airstrip quickly using the GPS and then found the overgrown bombardier track leading to the second. Bauera and other assorted saplings are fast reclaiming their stolen land, making future passage in the same steps more difficult. Clouds from the north-west massed as I set up camp in the evening. Stuck in the tent the following day my diary records:
'Strange feeling; safe in here, plenty of food, out of the flood zone, utterly self sufficient, and vulnerable, exposed, cringing, only a few sheets between me and the storm. And anxious to keep moving, to see what troubles lay ahead, nervous, expectant. And lonely and alone.'
Lake Pedder at sunrise from the Frankland Range.
My first sight of the Gell River confirmed what I already knew; it was flooded. Dark waters of unknown depth raced past, tugging branches into the tannin stained void. Scrambling down the bank, looking for a place to camp rather than to cross, I spied a single log spanning the divide. Slick from the rain and tapering to a branchy point, I considered it with apprehension. Not wanting to spend another day in the dreary tent I shambled to safety in a mantis-like position and walked onward to the Denison Range.
Surveying the surrounds from a solid sitting position. Coronation Peak on the Frankland Range in background.
After a rest day at Lake Rhona spent cleaning, and sorting through the food drop, I waited. I'd made tentative arrangements with friends to rendezvous for a couple of days at the precious mountain lake. After more than a week without human contact, I was impatient to see familiar faces and share some stories. Waiting for the sun to set, I'd given up on them for the day- the Gordon River, which they had to cross, would be flooded... maybe tomorrow. In the dying light I glimpsed a tiny figure coming up the moraine, then two, then three. A smile stole across my face. Not deterred by the turbulent Gordon, Matt, Sarah, Neil and Ces had stripped down and dived into the strong current. They brought news that James was recovering fast and planned to meet me at Lake Gordon with a canoe.
He found me four days later camped the bridge of a forestry road beside Lake Gordon. It had been 22 days since I'd last seen him, sallow and dejected in the hospital. It seemed longer than that.
The canoe, named 'AI (Artificially Inseminated) Cow'- or more affectionately 'The Cow'- was on the trailer. It had been constructed by friends of ours, who tried to paddle, drag and kick it down the length of Tassie, in a fit of madness. Eight years earlier it had been abandoned on the banks of the upper Gordon River, bowed but not broken. There it had lain, peaceful and unmolested through many savage winters until we mounted a 'Save the Cow' rescue bid in the weeks before the walk. The challenge in its eventful life was to convey us across Lake Gordon to the food drop at the dam wall.
Taking a bellyful of the tannin stained water on the Port Davey Track.
We launched mid-afternoon into light slop. The wind from the west blew directly in our faces and grew stronger. The slop turned into menacing little waves and sloshed over the open bow. Wet knuckles gripping the paddles absorbed the slicing cold. This was supposed to be a pleasant diversion from the grind of walking. Through the Junction Narrows we entered the more peaceful Pleiades Basin and scouted the banks for a suitable camping area. The vegetation and soil above the present lake level are stripped to the original high tide mark of the lake after damming, leaving a ring of exposed rock and conglomerate of white pebble. We eventually found a flat spot on the barren surface and moored the canoe to one of the many dead tree stumps that also ring the lake. Showers skidded through, occasionally penetrated by shafts of late, orange sunlight that seemed to be searching for actors on the big stage. We lit a small fire to defrost our fingers. To mark our first day on the track together we hunched around the smoky fire with a flask of whisky, contemplating the surreal place in which we'd landed and wondering about the way ahead.
It marked the start of a second walk for me. The difference between the experience I'd just been through, alone, and what was to come, with James, was already obvious. The fact that we were now heading into the more difficult terrain of the South-west also highlighted the transition. I was ready in an instant to trade the benefits of solo walking, most notably the time for reflection and sense of freedom, for conversation and companionship. To be able to share the experiences, even with only one other person, was important.
After crossing the New River Lagoon in row boats we waded up to the foot of Precipitous Bluff (background).
We collected our food drop from the cleaner's cupboard at the Gordon Dam Visitor's Centre and camped in preparation for the next leg, the Wilmot- and Frankland Range. Although named separately, they form a continuous curving spine around the western edge of Lake Pedder. A good track leads up the first peak, Mt Sprent, but from there it's choose-your-own-adventure. Progress along the range was spectacular but uneventful until the final hurdle below Frankland Peak. The westerly roared in, bringing not lashing rain but slashing bullets. Cold took the place of warmth as calm surrendered to turmoil. The sheer and sudden violence caught us off guard as we struggled to erect the tent on a sloping patch of button-grass. It was a timely reminder that we were mere whimsical intruders in these mountains, curious little things who didn't really belong.
We fought to leave the range by Right Angle Peak and the Giblin Range. During the descent through rasping, head-high scrub James stretched the fresh scar on his abdomen. Following the shore line of Lake Pedder to our next food cache at the end of the Scotts Peak Road we discussed the leg to come. Our plan was to follow a track to Federation Peak on the Eastern Arthur Range and continue south to Melaleuca Inlet by the Old River. With James' injury this route was looking doubtful. The alternative, which we eventually chose, was down the dirty old Port Davey Track. The decision suited me too. The hills were becoming increasingly difficult to think about, a new lethargy had invaded my legs. Diary entry 8 April:
'With Old River bash out of my mind the end seems teasingly close. In many ways it is a relief to have a straightforward few days and let the head and body relax... the simpler it is for now the better.'
The grandstand view of the south coast is difficult to match from Precipitous Bluff.
We summoned the energy to climb a few peaks on the way to Melaleuca Inlet but the blinkers were firmly positioned in the forward direction. The last food drop had been flown into Melaleuca Inlet ahead of our arrival. We loaded up with ten days' supplies to finish the walk down the South Coast Track and over the Southern Ranges. From the top of the Ironbound Ranges a few days later, '...we took the side trip to the summit for a look at PB (Precipitous Bluff) and range. Awesome. Could see our route for most of the way home. Big surge of expectation... well knackered at lunch, fell asleep on duckboard.'
We were surrounded by the wild beauty of this unique part of the world yet absorbed by the insistent call to finish. All the things we missed, so carefully tucked in the back of the brain, began to resurface. The culmination of months of planning and weeks of walking was close. These were days to savour but they were also days to endure, 'lollies gone, choccy the same, muesli perilously low, lunch inadequate... energy levels plummeted to all-time lows today, tripped and stumbled along in near stupor this afternoon.'
With only a few days to go I begin to smell a lot. Mt LaPerouse, Southern Ranges.
The last morning we awoke with only a couple of hours walk to our rendezvous. Scrummaging through the food bags I found half a bag of instant potato and a few crushed crisp bread biscuits for breakfast. It didn't matter; finally it was the day. Nearly two months of walking distilled into a moment of relief, satisfaction and bliss. Feet floated through waist deep bogs and a nagging back complaint unraveled. Forget other motivations, the feeling when you finish is reason enough.