Wild #188

#188

WINTER 2023

CHASING AUSTRALIA'S BEST BACKCOUNTRY LINES

PROFILE: TYTO THE TREESITTER • FIRES OF THE FUTURE • WINTER SHELTER: A COMPARISON • MONTE ROSA MOUNTAINEERING • FIVE DAYWALKS IN THE RED CENTRE • PHOTO ESSAY: GIRRAWEEN NP • TRACK NOTES: MURRAMARANG SOUTH COAST WALK • LEAVING NO ONLINE TRACE • ALLIE PEPPER Q + A

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QUEENSLAND'S MISTY MOUNTAINS TACKLING THE AAWT IN WINTER TOM O'HALLORAN GETS SCHOOLED NT'S LARAPINTA TRAIL PADDLEBOARDING IN GREENLAND

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CONTENTS ISSUE #188 WINTER 2023

64 Know Where You Are Exploring Greenland’s wild coastline by stand up paddleboard 102

94 REGULARS

CONSERVATION

Photo Essay: Rock and Roll

Readers’ Letters 12 Editor’s Letter 18 Gallery 22 Columns 30 Getting Started: Kimberley Photography 46 WILD Shot 146 Green Pages 36 Tyto the Treesitter 40 Fires of the Future 52

NONE OF THE ABOVE

Opinion: No Online Trace 42 Q+A with Allie Pepper 44 Mtn Safety Collective: Last Year’s Lessons 48

FEATURES

Tom O’ Halloran Heads to the Mountains 56 Stand Up Paddleboarding in Greenland 64 Walking in FNQ’s Misty Mountains 76 Chasing Oz’s Steepest Backcountry 84 Photo Essay: Girraween NP 94 Getting Thoughtful on the Larapinta 102 Climbing Europe’s Monte Rosa 112 Walking the AAWT in Winter 118

WILD BUNCH

Daywalks in the Red Centre 124

TRACK NOTES

Murramarang South Coast Walk 126

GEAR

Winter Shelter Comparison 134 Talk and Tests 136 Support Our Supporters 140

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Unboxed: A Return to the Natural World

52 Fires of the Future

Australia has always had fires. But in this extract from a new book, Adventures in Climate Science, Philip Zylstra argues that everything has changed.

56 Getting Schooled Climber Tom O’Halloran represented Oz at the Tokyo Olympic Games. In 2022, he was given the opportunity to join an ‘Introduction to Mountaineering’ course in the Australian Alps. It was the second time Tom had seen snow in his life.

126 Track Notes: Murramarang NSW’s newest ‘Great Walk’ opened in late April, and it’s spectacular, with a seemingly endless string of jewelled beaches studded by rocky headlands and beautiful forest. We give you the lowdown on everything you need to know about this fabulous walk that’s destined to become one of the state’s favourites.

LETTERS

[ Letter of the Issue ]

ATTACK OF THE FRANKLAND! (Re: Wild #187’s cover story on Tasmania’s wild Frankland Range) Dear James, In February 2013, Paul (left) and myself (right) plus Shaw did an epic trip doing both the Frankland Range and the Mt Anne Circuit. This picture was taken after completing our second trip—the Mt Anne Circuit. I ripped my only pair of shorts just two days into doing the Frankland Range. Looks like Paul’s jacket and shirt were also victims of our tough walk.

Thanks, Desmond Norman Mena Creek, QLD

A HARD TRUTH

QUICK THOUGHTS

Dear Wild, I really value the increasing space in the pages of Wild that is being given to climate change reporting and analysis. Clearly, to achieve the emissions reductions required will necessitate some material changes to our comfortable lifestyles. Of course, this is a truth that is very hard to accept and choosing not to fly appears to be a particular bugbear. And yet the emissions of a single long-haul flight—plus the climate impacts due to the contrails, induced cloudiness and nitrous oxide derivatives produced– can equate to up to 15 tonnes of CO2 equivalent in warming (the planet can probably cope with about 1.5-3 tonnes per person per year). Every flight you take leaves a cruel debt of climate damage that will resonate for generations. As hard a truth as it may be to accept, we simply must stop flying so much.

On the building of infrastructure in national parks on NSW’s South Coast:

Patrick Hockey Clunes, VIC

TRESPASSERS WELCOME Hi James, I’m sorry to read the last of Bob Brown’s pages in Wild. I’ve not met Bob but a decade or so ago a Tasmanian friend was driving me to Western Creek to begin a walk on the Central Plateau. We were on a back road close to the Tiers when he stopped the car outside a farm gate. Beyond the gate, a dirt road led to a weatherboard cottage but it was the gate that he stopped to show me, or rather, the sign on the gate.

It read ‘Trespassers Welcome’. He told me that it was Bob’s place and to me, that says as much about the man that I need to know. That sign must be a rare thing and I’m both surprised and sorry that I didn’t think to take a photograph of it.

Kind regards, Michael Round Adelaide, SA

KIND WORDS

(Ed: I’m glad you survived. But I bet the others didn’t let you do much walking up front, Desmond. That hind cheek would be a sorry sight to follow for the remainder of the walk.)

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

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Hi Wild, I was flicking through your Autumn issue again at lunchtime—it was a good one. I wanted to say that I thought ‘Anatomy of a Search’ was really good. I particularly liked that our hero died—stupid hurts. But I enjoyed the Scandi skiing piece and the Tassie packrafting, and I empathised with Dan’s attachment to good gear. I also sympathised with Megan breaking herself before a planned trip and lots more. Like I said, a good issue.

Thank you, Brian Farrelly Canberra, ACT

(Ed: Flattery will get you everywhere!)

“Commodifying the “wild” is not done for the best interests of the people who choose wild.” KH “Building unnecessary extensive hard roofed infrastructure in wild areas of OUR national parks will negatively impact the amenity for all users and it will degrade the remote and wild characteristics of the park; ultimately, it will diminish the value of Beowa National Park - the last wild corner of NSW.” MR

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

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

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FOUNDER: Chris Baxter OAM CONTRIBUTORS: Matthew Crompton, Rachel Schmidt, Simone Talfourd, Tom O’Halloran, Reid Marshall, Fiona Howie, Tim van der Krogt, Wendy Bruere, James Tugwell, Philip Zylstra, Alistair Paton, Shaun Mittwollen, Simon Bischoff, Adam Flower, Lachlan Gardiner, Ben Broady, Martine Hansen, Alex Parsons

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WARNING:

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

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

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

THE

COVER

SHOT

By Aaron Dickfos

“Ok Chris, you need to pull back to wait for Tim and Divya.”

“Copy.”

Chris Wills eats vert for breakfast. That posed a problem for this shot lining up perfectly; I was unable to get Chris on the radio for a while, and with his unbelievable tendency to move faster uphill than most move on the way down, the group weren’t climbing as a trio, and the balance of this shot was being thrown out. But having made contact with Chris, the team thankfully pulled together; it probably wouldn’t have made the cover of Wild otherwise (Ed: He’s right!)

To get the big mountain perspective that Mt Feathertop deserves, and to cover all the zones the guys were planning to ride, I had to split from the group, make my way a few kms along the Razorback ridge line, head east down Diamantina Spur, find a perch and then set up the cameras. We worked out later that I was about two kays line-of-sight away from the action, with the UHF radio as my only companion. Just another winter’s day in backcountry photography.

Read more about Aaron’s team’s quest to sample Australia’s steepest backcountry in ‘The Chase’, starting on P84.

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FROM THE EDITOR

THE DUNNINGKRUGER EFFECT A year or two back—OK, two decades ago—in the Japan Alps

B

ack in the 1990s, two psychology professors at Cornell University in the US gave a cohort of undergrad students a logic test. Their aim was to analyse whether intelligence, or lack thereof, influenced self-awareness.

And what they—one being David Dunning and the other being Justin Kruger—discovered was that indeed there is a correlation. Well, a negative correlation anyway.

In what has since become known as the Dunning-Kruger effect, the pair summed up their findings like this: “It is one of the essential features of incompetence that the person so inflicted is incapable of knowing that they are incompetent.” Or, as John Cleese eloquently put it, “If you are really, really stupid, then it’s impossible for you to know you are really, really stupid.”

Recently, however, there has been some pushback against the theory. In an article in The Conversation titled ‘Debunking the Dunning-Kruger effect’, Eric Gaze, a mathematics lecturer, argued that Dunning’s and Kruger’s analysis was misleading. “The reality,” says Gaze, “is that people have an innate ability to gauge their competence and knowledge.”

Clearly, Eric Gaze has not spent much time outdoors. Nor has he met me. At the least, the younger me—ahh, OK, perhaps sometimes still the older me, too— because I would have been Exhibit A for the Dunning-Kruger effect. Young me in the outdoors was chock full of incompetence masquerading as knowledge.

It probably started when I was on my first overnight-bushwalking trip without an adult. I was twelve years old, but nonetheless the eldest of the six of us heading out. But I knew what I was doing, I was sure of it, and when it came time to cook our tins of spaghetti for dinner, I confidently assured the other kids (some were as young as eight) that the way to do so was simply to throw the tins on the fire.

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“Shouldn’t we open the cans first?” one of them asked.

“No, it’ll be fine,” I assured him. Then I added, “C’mon, I know about camping.”

It wasn’t long until we had a canned spaghetti explosion, and—because we were too afraid of more explosions to approach the fire close enough to get the remaining tins out—the spaghetti bombs continued detonating. Pop! Bang! Blam!

A long series of equally regrettable incidents took place over the decades to come. All too often in the outdoors I had a confidence only the clueless can possess, and I charged into situations that, had I actually been competent, I would never have contemplated. Some of these situations were more serious than others.

I paddled rivers in flood I never should have, got caught in avalanches, nearly drowned, fell off cliffs, broke bones.

More frequently, however, if things went wrong because of my ignorance, the results were merely uncomfortable, not dangerous. A couple of decades ago, midway through a 50-day hike across the Japan Alps, I saw a sign warning not to drink the water from a mountain hut.

I’m sure it’s fine, I told myself as I gulped it down untreated; the virulent diarrhoea that ensued saw me lose 18kg over the remainder of the journey. I could almost have handled that, though; it was the weeks of sulphurous farts that really hurt.

But in my youth, for the most part I simply got away with my incompetence, and trotted off none the wiser that I’d even been flirting with danger.

I suspect most people when they’re young do the same, especially if they’re young men; women tend to be waaaay smarter and far more sensible. But here’s the thing: I learnt from those mistakes.

That’s how I gained experience.

The reasons I’m talking about this are threefold. Firstly, it’s to remind

experienced outdoors folk that they shouldn’t look too judgementally on young—let’s be blunt—idiots. Chances are you once walked in their shoes. So instead of offering only criticism, mentor them instead. And remember, be humble; shit happens even to experienced outdoors people.

Secondly, use your judgement. Granted, this is hard when you’re clueless, incompetent, or simply inexperienced. But use what little judgement you have to consider where your cluelessness might take you. What are the consequences as a backcountry skier of not knowing about snowpack stability? Or as a canyoner to not having considered rescue options if there’s an injury? Or as a walker to heading off with minimal water and no ability to navigate? Or as a trad climber only being half sure of how to place gear? In many of these situations, the outcomes of inept bumbling will be benign, but not always. So think about situations where the stakes are high; if you don’t know what you are doing, back off.

Thirdly, though, in complete contradiction to my last point, I want to encourage people, both young and old, to sometimes just jump into an activity. Back yourself.

Dive in. Convince yourself that you know enough about something, or have the ability—even when you don’t—to have a crack.

Within reason, of course. Don’t become a statistic. As I said in the previous paragraph, use judgement. But also be aware that there are few quicker ways to learn and gain experience than simply by making mistakes; if you wait only until you have a complete understanding to attempt something, chances are you’ll never progress far, nor learn to gauge your abilities.

Sometimes, the only way to escape the Dunning-Kruger effect is to, at least a little, channel the Dunning-Kruger effect.

JAMES MCCORMACK

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GALLERY

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Mt Anne—Queen of the Southwest. As with most of Tasmania, conditions here are fickle; part of the adventure is not knowing what to expect. Midwinter 2022 was certainly low tide; nevertheless, it was an adventurous multi-sport day out, combining trail running, skiing and easy mountaineering. This image was a tripod selfie, shot on a timed release. I just had to hope the tripod didn’t blow off the cliff in the wind.

by SHAUN MITTWOLLEN

NIKON Z7, NIKKOR Z 14-30mm F/4, f8, 1/1000, ISO 320

WINTER 2023

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Painfully crawling, weaving and slashing through dense gympie gympie stinging trees, I kept telling myself this: The sunset will be worth it. It has to be. Hours passed by, off-track and steeply uphill in the green clutches of evil— post-bushfire regrowth of the most unwanted kind—my penance for following a GPS route that no longer existed. Fortunately, the track was eventually found and oh boy, the views delivered big time! This is a 24-frame stitched drone panorama, capturing a place that had gained mythical status in my mind: the Steamers in Main Range National Park, South-East Queensland.

by LACHLAN GARDINER

DJI MAVIC 2 PRO, 10.26mm F/2.8, 1/30s, ISO 100

WINTER 2023

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Simon Bischoff on Tjuringa (25) at Mt Arapiles, Victoria. First climbed by Tobin Sorenson (US) and John Allen (UK) in 1979—who established both pitches on-sight—the route is still the Mount’s most revered traditional climb. Rehearsing the route with a top rope never crossed Simon’s mind, and he resolved to climb it in the style of the first ascent—from the ground up, and with joy and curiosity.

by ALEX HARTSHORNE

Sony A7III, FE 16-35mm F/2.8, f3.2, 1/5000, ISO 250

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Ted Bannister-Sutton squeezing through the second crux on an M4 route called Sgian Dubh (pronounced ‘ski’en doo’) on the Remarkables West Face, New Zealand.

by ADAM FLOWER

Sony A7IV, FE 14mm F/1.8, f1.8, 1/1250, ISO 100

WINTER 2023

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Columns: WILD THINGS @meganholbeck

[MEGAN HOLBECK]

www.meganholbeck.com

GIVE IT A CRACK The magic of saying yes.

F

riends of mine have turned fifty and taken up bushwalking.

Frank and Julie did the research, bought all the shiny, lightweight kit, and in January did an overnight return hike along part of the Blue Mountains’ Six Foot Track, from Katoomba to Cox’s Valley. It was the first overnight, pack-carrying trip for both of them, and in March they backed it up with a three-day walk in Tassie’s Cradle Mountain NP. I’m cheering their efforts, excited about potential new walking buddies, but I’m also curious. They’re active, outdoorsy people—sailing and paddling, surfing and camping—but they’ve never tried overnight walking before. Why? What brought on the sudden yearning for extended time in the outdoors, for selfsufficiency and adventure?

Part of it is where they’re at in life. Both love a good day walk, but now that their kids are older (thirteen and fifteen), it’s easier to get a weekend away. Their oldest starting Duke of Edinburgh was another trigger—she loves the hiking. A few years ago a nasty tackle left Frank with a broken ankle and he’s since given up soccer, so his weekends are clearer and he’s looking for exercise. Julie’s conscious of staying fit and active, of the truth in ‘use it or lose it’, and keen to swap a weekend of wine and food for something different, more active.

But the other reasons? I’m putting words in their mouths, but a big part of it is the openness and possibilities. Bushwalking offers another way of looking at the world, a deeper, richer, more connected one. It gives an underlying reason to find beautiful places, and then go there and immerse yourself in the experience. Frank and Julie are doing this together, for themselves.

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But trying new things is daunting.

Jules talks about putting up their pristine tent, filling it with new mats and sleeping bags, cooking in a shiny pan, very aware of the ‘newbie wanker’ judgement (even if just internal). Turning up and trying something new while feeling like you’re wearing a flashing ‘imposter’ label is hard, even without the difficulty of the actual thing.

When you’re younger, it seems easier: There are camps and outdoor ed

TRYING NEW THINGS IS LIFECHANGING BECAUSE WHAT YOU LEARN MORPHS AND GROWS

AND TRANSLATES INTO OTHER SPHERES AND INTERESTS.” programs, school holidays, more time and playmates. Gaining new partners and friends or moving to new areas (all less common in your thirties and beyond) can also jolt you out of your routine, exposing you to more opportunities to say yes to new things.

Because that’s really what it comes down to: saying yes. Whether it’s to someone else’s suggestions or the harder work of initiating the thing yourself (first realising what you want, then step-by-step making it happen), saying yes comes first.

And why should you? Because trying new stuff gives you energy and interest, a fresh appreciation of your own skills, strengths and interests, and it blows up

self-imposed limits. All of this happens in waves, and in layers, and it builds.

Ocean swimming gave me the confidence to surf, but I’d already spent decades mucking around in the water, and had the balance, coordination and experience gained from a whole range of sports, from skating to hiking.

This ‘levelling up’ is why I’m not letting my kids stop swimming lessons until they’re confident and capable, able to swim a kilometre or so in the ocean. I want them to be comfortable in the water, because otherwise a whole world of water-based fun is likely to be unappealing. If you’re not a strong swimmer, surfing, paddling, sailing and diving become things best watched from shore.

Trying new things is life-changing because what you learn morphs and grows and translates into other spheres and interests. Bushwalking and sea kayaking both need navigation, risk assessment and camping skills. Photography classes make people more aware of light, background and framing, also useful for other creative pursuits including writing.

You don’t know where the new leads will go, don’t know what joys or insights you’ll discover. Or the tribes you’ll meet, with their own habits and passions, and where these will take you next, slowly transforming until you can’t remember the you that existed before.

So learn how to shit in the woods. Enjoy being dirty, sweaty and sore. Swim better. Go to life-drawing lessons and realise how it makes you look—really properly look—at the human body, and see it in ways you don’t usually. Do whatever it is that appeals, particularly if it involves nature. And just keep saying yes.

Who do you run with?

Photo: Brendan Davis © 2023 Patagonia, Inc.

We run with our local communities and a shared history. With our mentors, the next generation, and perspectives.

Community is something we construct; out of shared ambitions and common ground, out of a desire to take on difficult things and to change the way things are done. We run with others to finish what we started, and to share the view.

Columns: OUTSIDE WITH TIM [TIM MACARTNEY-SNAPE]

FEAR CAN BE YOUR FRIEND Risk can be intimidating, but the fear it engenders— if appropriately harnessed—can lead to great rewards.

I

t’s not my day. I can’t do it. I haven’t got it in me. These and similar thoughts of capitulation occasionally occur in my head when I’m faced with what, at the time, can seem like a task that is a ‘bridge too far’.

Sometimes it’ll be a job such as sitting at my desk having to create a narrative that’s capable of engaging readers’ attention. Writing this column often starts like that. Sometimes in the beginning—a few moments ago being a case in point—I have no idea what I’ll write.

More often, however, this situation relates to the physical realm. It could be when I’m planning on going up something exciting and intimidating—such as a big hill or climbing pitch. Or when I’m on skis, psyching myself up to drop into a steep slope that looks icy and dicey.

Or if I’m paddling, peering nervously from the low vantage of my boat over the smooth edge of the river flow as it drops down into the roaring white turbulence of a big rapid.

At my desk, the cause is usually laziness, which in turn dulls inspiration, but this is something I can usually punch through by pulling myself together. In the outdoors, however, it’s more complicated.

In addition to laziness or a lack of gumption to commit, there’s also that pesky thing called risk. Of course, some risks are obvious and avoiding them is ingrained in us, if not by instinct, then by early experience. But there are many circumstances, especially in the outdoors, where the complexity of risk factors is vaguely known and

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accepted, and we rely on a ‘gut feeling’ to inform us if everything will be OK or not.

In my view, gut feeling or intuition is a sense synthesised from knowledge and experience (or lack of it!) mixed up with emotion. I’ve always known that it’s not a great idea just to push it aside, but I’ve also come to realise that the best way to evaluate it is to try to step outside myself, and to try to analyse the feeling objectively by quizzing myself. My questions run something like this: Do I want to do

FEAR CAN BE THE MOTIVATOR

FOR SWITCHING ON OUR SENSES TO A HIGHER

STATE OF SENSITIVITY.” this because it will be an amazing experience, rich with a suffering-induced perception of beauty and aliveness? Or is it mostly to be able to say to myself and others that I’ve done it? If it’s more due to the latter, that’s a definite red flag. The former, however, will ignite excitement, producing a positive and optimistic frame of mind which is a significant factor in achieving a safe outcome. This then leads to the questions of what, and how real, the risks are and how to best avoid them.

I can’t imagine being even a moderately successful operator in the outdoors without having an ability to push discomfort aside, but fear induced by

a gut feeling deserves analysis, and it shouldn’t be merely shunted away. Outof-control fear may well be legitimate, but it’s unhelpful because it easily leads to nervousness, negativity and bad decisions, and is often the result of poor knowledge and planning, factors that most commonly will have led to the panicked situation in the first place! On the other hand, it’s my firm conviction that well-managed fear is your friend.

Awareness—and wariness—of potential risks because you know of their nature, causes and consequences are best absorbed through a gradual process of pushing your limits through practical experience. Most of us, on occasion, will have pushed ourselves beyond what might be reasonably called a gradual increment, and have experienced a gut feeling that we may be getting too close to the edge. Pulling back at this stage is sensible if confidence is lacking, but if we have cultivated a deep curiosity of a particular environment and the risks associated with what we’re doing there, fear can be the motivator for switching on our senses to a higher state of sensitivity. It can be a stimulant to more accurately recognise potential risks and ways of minimising them, and it can spark the imagination to run through potential pitfalls and how they’re best avoided. Successfully running this gamut of perceived risk, however, can offer great rewards. In fact, it can offer the most memorable gems of any adventure, not because we merely survive, but because in these moments, life sparkles with aliveness.

SUUNTO VERTICAL

Some people choose a five-star hotel

Adventure starts here.

Columns: OF MOUTHS & MONIES [DAN SLATER]

DOUBLE DUTY Remembering that your outdoor gear can often serve not one but multiple activities can help your wallet and the environment.

W

hen I first started this column back in 2016, it was to discuss the ethics and responsibilities of outdoor-gear manufacturers, and the ways in which they could lead the way in environmental practises. In effect, how they should put their money where their mouths were, hence the column’s title. Having exhausted my planned list of topics after about three years, I moved onto more general gear-related chit-chat. It’s been fun, but this month’s subject is a bit of a throwback to those mouths and moneys days.

A few years ago I went snowboarding in Japan. (If you haven’t been—yes, it’s as amazing as everyone says.) It had been a couple of seasons since my last trip, on which my ancient skiwear, purchased for my first-ever ski holiday twenty years previously, had finally given up the ghost.

Without any ski-specific clothing, I was basically starting from scratch.

Now the conventional approach to taking up a snow hobby is to purchase a specific waterproof, insulated ski jacket and pants, and if you’re otherwise not an outdoorsy person that may certainly be the best way to go. If, however, you’re a dedicated lover of all things hiking, and you have a couple of grand’s worth of bushwalking gear, it seems silly not to make use of it.

In essence, skiing or boarding requires almost exactly the same clothing systems as trekking: insulation, breathability, weather protection and comfort. In fact, a well thought-out layering system is superior to all-in-one skiwear in one very important respect—flexibility. Adjusting your temperature based on a change

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in activity or weather is far easier with a series of layers than with a single bulky item. The basic components are a nextto-skin base layer, one or more insulation layers, and a shell layer. Sunny day? Just wear a light insulated jacket and leave the waterproofs at home. Warm but windy?

Reverse the system and go with hard shell only. Arctic blizzard? Throw the lot on and dive in.

No, I didn’t fancy dropping a couple of grand on some new puffy threads when I had a closet full of winter-hiking and

SO RATHER THAN GO ON A SPLURGE WHEN TRYING OUT A NEW DISCIPLINE, HAVE

A LOOK AT WHAT YOU ALREADY HAVE.” mountaineering apparel sitting at home.

So, I press-ganged my regular outdoor gear into service. Base layer: merino thermals and boxer shorts. Socks: thin toe-socks with thick hiking socks. Torso: lightweight polyester wicking t-shirt with a breathable synthetic jacket. Legs: hard-wearing softshell pants. Waterproof layer: hard shell jacket and pants.

Gloves: down mittens with waterproof shell mittens. Head: ‘Buff’ neck gaiter and woollen beanie. Goggles: my mountaineering ones. Pack: 20-litre daypack.

Safety: lightweight PLB rescue beacon.

On my trip, I enjoyed a range of conditions from bluebird days to rain to frozen ice to deep powder to puking snow, and I

survived. I was never cold, never wet and never uncomfortable (except when sliding head first down black mogul runs and crashing into trees).

This is just one example of using what you already own to do the same job for which society, and marketing agencies, are telling you to buy new, specific equipment. It may seem obvious, but not to some. That includes me, because in the past, I too have been guilty of pigeonholing my clothing and equipment. If I buy, say, a dry bag that’s designed and marketed for kayaking, it slots into my headspace as a kayaking accessory. I’ll store it with my kayak gear and use it exclusively for kayak trips. Then, if my hiking dry bag has delaminated, or somebody wants to borrow one, I won’t even think of my kayaking dry bag. It’s just not on my radar; that’s the way my brain works.

So I’ll use an old, non-waterproof one and all my clothes will get wet and my head torch will drown and I’m suddenly $80 down.

So rather than go on a splurge when trying out a new discipline, be it bike packing, trail running, canyoning or snowboarding, have a look at what you already have. My canyoning wardrobe (save the important safety equipment) consists entirely of old, on-its-last-legs bushwalking clothing. I think of it as a reward for particularly well-loved pieces, a chance to enjoy a last hurrah before passing on to gear heaven. Pivot, reuse, upcycle, call it what you will. Save money and resources, plus enjoy that little flash of pleasure that comes with identifying an object’s dual purpose. A spork with a bottle opener? Winning!

TIM MARKLOWSKI MOUNTAIN GUIDE

JOURNEY 1884

TACKLE THE ALTITUDE WITH ATTITUDE AND APTITUDE Embodying the spirit of mountains and trails but just as happy on urban adventures, this watch takes you wherever you want to go.

FROM THE MAKERS OF THE ORIGINAL SWISS ARMY KNIFE™ ESTABLISHED 1884

CONSERVATION

GREEN PAGES

A selection of environmental news briefs from around the country.

EDITED BY MAYA DARBY

VALUABLE TIMBERBEARING FORESTS OF ALPINE ASH WERE

LARGELY EXCLUDED FROM THE PARK.”

MOUNTAIN FORESTS AT RISK

Participants in a FoE field trip near Mt Wills, heading to four planned logging coupes

Victoria’s Alpine National Park only partially protects the forests of the state’s High Country.

Ceasing native-forest logging in the areas around the park needs to begin now.

M

any Wild readers were part of the long and ultimately successful campaign in the 1970s and 80s that saw much of the Victorian high country protected in the Alpine National Park. What younger readers may not know, however, is that many important forests were excluded from the park. In effect, it has an ‘economic’ boundary—that is, the valuable timber-bearing forests of alpine ash were largely excluded from the park, while the commercially useless snow gums and higher alpine zones were included. Some areas of the proposed park were even subjected to ‘once only’ logging before being included.

The Alpine NP sits within a wild landscape that’s predominantly public land still open to logging.

While there’s a state government commitment to end native-forest logging in Victoria by 2030, the damage done across the Alps by the Black Summer fires has made it clear that this deadline is far too late.

Sadly, key areas of ecological value are now at risk of logging. Friends of the Earth (FoE) is campaigning to have particular forests—selected on the basis of their ecological values and proximity to the park— protected from logging.

These include Mt Stirling, a popular spot for XC skiing, walking, mountain bike riding and trail

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running. It has up to eleven areas of forest scheduled to be logged. Logging will have dramatic impacts on recreation, as well as fragmenting the high-elevation forests that circle the summit area.

The Little Dargo, just south of Mt Hotham, is a special, unroaded headwater area that contains old forests of mountain gum and recovering alpine ash.

Unlike much of the surrounding area, it has only been lightly burnt in recent decades. Logging is likely to yield mostly low-value products like pulp.

Mt Wills is an ‘island in the sky’—a small plateau which supports old-growth snow gum woodlands.

It is connected by Long Spur to Victoria’s highest mountain—Bogong (Warkwoolowler). There are impressive, older alpine ash forests on Long Spur, below the Mt Wills summit, which are scheduled for logging. Dense, flammable regrowth from logging operations would pose a direct risk of intense fire to the uphill old forests of Mt Wills.

You can find out more about these areas by heading here: melbournefoe.org.au/foe_s_work_in_the_ vic_high_country. And to learn about the many threats to the Victorian high country, you can read FoE’s Icon at Risk report here: melbournefoe.org. au/an_icon_at_risk.

CAM WALKER, Friends of the Earth (Melbourne)

LEARN MORE: The Icon at Risk report outlines the many threats to the Victorian high country, which include: - Climate change, including out-ofcontrol wild fires, dieback of snowgums and loss of alpine ash, plus loss of snow pack - Invasive species, including deer and horses - Logging - Commercial development FoE also runs regular ‘citizen science’ field trips to the high country to map both loss and resilience.

More details here: melbournefoe.org. au/snow_gums_ and_citizen_science

Sloping Main Extension. Photo: Rob Blakers.

Vital to migratory birds, saltmarsh wetlands are among the most vulnerable habitats in Tasmania.

HELP PROTECT A BEAUTIFUL HOME FOR BIRDS.

At Sloping Main on the Tasman Peninsula, the Tasmanian Land Conservancy is creating a 660 hectare nature reserve, home to shorebirds, endangered eucalypts, and disease-free Tasmanian Devils.

Help us protect this incredible habitat against the challenges of the future by making a donation:

tasland.org.au/donate

CONSERVATION

PROTECT SLOPING MAIN FOREVER Many people don’t know how precious saltmarsh wetlands are. Sanctuaries for birdlife, a home for invertebrates and a hunting ground for small marsupials, saltmarshes are threatened by rising sea levels, housing development and the spread of weeds.

In southern Tasmania, the Tasmanian Land Conservancy has the chance to turn a vibrant saltmarsh into a permanent nature reserve. This 116ha wetland Credit: Rob Blakers at Sloping Main sits between critically endangered black gum forest and beautiful coastal sand dunes.

At the Tasmanian Land Conservancy, we already care for nature on more than 18,000ha of reserves across the state. We monitor and manage these important reserves so that threatened species and their habitats flourish forever. Help us protect Sloping Main at tasland.org.au/donate

VULNERABLE STATUS FOR FAT-TAILED DUNNARTS

The Channel Country floodplains in Queensland are among the last healthy, free-flowing, desert-river ecosystems left on Earth. These rivers and wetlands are home to millions of birds, endangered fish species, and other wildlife found nowhere else.

But fossil-fuel giant Santos and other big polluters want to mine the area for dirty oil and gas using dangerous fracking, which poses enormous risks to the land and waters.

Channel Country is a popular place to wet Alongside Traditional Owners, locals, graziers, your whistle. Credit: Glenn Walker environmentalists, scientists and thousands of Queenslanders, we’re calling for no new oil and gas in Channel Country, and asking the QLD Labor government to come good on its longstanding promise to protect these rivers and floodplains for future generations. Learn more at wilderness.org.au/channel-country

The last small marsupial of Victoria’s grasslands—the ferocious fat-tailed dunnart—will be listed as ‘Vulnerable’ on Victoria’s threatened species list. This listing is important; populations of this mighty but small predator have crashed in recent decades, and its grassland habitat is critically endangered, with less than 2% of its original extent remaining. An Action Plan will detail next steps for recovery: think research on population strongholds; programs helping farmers foster biodiversity; and hopefully money for implementation. Proposals to clear native vegetation should now have to consider fattailed dunnarts, saving grassland habitat as well. This listing has been a complex journey, from researcher Emily Scicluna’s PhD work, to the Scientific Advisory Committee, to the environment and agriculture ministers. We are hopeful one day ‘Dunnies’ will again thrive in our grassy meadows. You can read about Emily’s work at tinyurl.com/

MEG BAUER, The Wilderness Society

vnpa-how-i-got-dunnarts-listed

JANE RAWSON, Tasmanian Land Conservancy

FRACKING THE CHANNEL COUNTRY

ADRIAN MARSHALL,

GARDENS OF STONE UPDATE (In the Green Pages of Wild Autumn 2023, Keith Muir wrote that NSW’s Gardens of Stone is threatened by commercial tourism. There’s been a new development.)

During the Christmas period of 2022, lease notices for privately operated accommodation within the Gardens of Stone State Conservation Area (accompanied by just five lines of information) were exhibited. But following public outcry and subsequent legal action, the Credit: Henry Gold NSW National Parks Service has agreed to restart the public-review process for the reserve’s adventure theme park and accommodation leases. Conservation groups are now calling for the Minns government to drop these developments and re-exhibit the plan of management.

Priorities for this new park should be basic visitor facilities, restoring damaged areas and controlling pest species, not gold-plated facilities for commercial interests.

Write to Penny Sharpe, Minister for the Environment and Heritage, at nsw.gov.au/nswgovernment/ministers/minister-environment-heritage to let her know your views.

KEITH MUIR

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Victorian National Parks Assn

Tiny, but ferocious—the fat-tailed dunnart. Credit: Caleb McElrea

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

5mm bleed

GREEN PAGES

How resource extraction in the Channel Country should look.

Right now, fossil fuel giants have their eagle eye on the spectacular rivers and floodplains of the Channel Country in the Lake Eyre Basin to explore for dirty oil and gas.

It’ll never fly.

Unearth the wonders of this unique region and see how it can have a living future

Image: Glenn Walker

wilderness.org.au/channelcountry

CONSERVATION

Credit: Bob Brown Foundation

TYTO, THE TREESITTER What’s it like spending months at a time up in a tree in order to save it from destruction?

Words FIONA HOWIE

W

hen I meet Tyto, she has been living in a myrtle tree in takayna/Tarkine for 71 days. That’s over 1,700 hours. During that time, she has been bored exactly once. “I was complaining, like, “Olive, I am feeling bored!” Tyto jokes. “That happened somewhere near the beginning, for three hours, and it didn’t appear again.” takayna/Tarkine is a vast wild area, a rarity in a world where nature has increasingly been diminished and fragmented into remnant pockets. Gleaming white shores punctuated by dark jagged rocks are buffeted by the Roaring Forties (next landfall is Argentina). Rivers, darkened by tannin, wind gently through primeval forest. Cultural living sites, rock carvings and buttongrass plains mark the palawa people’s long custodianship of these lands. It’s a place that makes you feel small in space and time. Despite all this, it is not a protected area. Which explains why Tyto is in a tree.

Tyto, or Viola Barnes, has a kind face framed by greying curls, and a warm and frequent smile. She wears round spectacles. It’s a sunny summer’s day (in a place which averages around 211 rain days a year), and while I wear a T-shirt down below, Viola is rugged up in many layers. “Ernie! Just saying the name makes me smile,” she exclaims after I introduce my newborn, snuggled into his carrier.

This is a woman who has sold her home, leaving behind her

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much loved community in North Queensland, to make a stand for these ancient forests. The myrtle she sits in is centuries old– perhaps a sapling in the time of the Scientific Revolution.

“You think probably I’m a little off the planet. Before I climbed up the first time, I was like “Hey, is it alright if I climb up?” And I asked, “Look, could you reveal your name to me?” And this name, Staghorn—vroom!–stuck in my head. I’m very drawn to Staghorn. He is very much like a friend to me.”

Tyto was no stranger to treesitting before this vigil, with the odd stint here and there. “Did you plan to come up for so long?”

I ask. “No way! I thought, let’s see how it goes.” A former tree sit occurred in a giant eucalypt at a nearby clearfell. “They were fierce–very much like, yep, ready to defend! This feels very different, like being embraced and welcomed and part of it. It is very, very special.”

Tyto first arrived in takayna/Tarkine four years ago, after hearing about it at the Cygnet Folk Festival. She was immediately hooked. After three years of flying backwards and forwards to the forest, Tyto decided to trust her instincts, leaving behind her friends and home. “It [flying] was not good for the environment either. I had to follow my heart.” She even lived in her car for eight months, driving from action to action.

On my last visit, this still-threatened area was inaccessible, barred by a boom gate owned by the mining company MMG. At

THIS IS ONE OF THE LAST WILD PLACES IN THE WORLD. IF WE DON’T

HAVE THESE PLACES BRINGING US BACK DOWN TO OUR ROOTS,

LIFE IS JUST WHOLLY SUPERFICIAL.”

that time, over seventy people from all walks of life—tourism operators, teachers, doctors, social workers, retirees and university students, among others—had been arrested for crossing the gate and refusing to leave, protesting against a planned tailings dam which would destroy these forests.

The dam would result in the destruction of swathes of fairytale forest. Gnarled, towering myrtles that predate colonisation by many hundreds of years would be obliterated, as would tree ferns as high as ceilings, logs covered in moss and lichen.

HOLDING A TREE VIGIL IS MORE SOCIAL than you’d think. People sometimes stay the night down below, or in a separate treetop, close enough for a chat. Or pop up for a cup of tea. At one point, two visitors joined Tyto for an arboreal game of five hundred (“a highlight”). Another time, folk musicians played at Staghorn’s base. Tyto is a talented watercolourist who draws inspiration from her scenery, painting real and mythical creatures onto natural backgrounds. On the day we visit, the nearby base camp is quiet—Bob Brown Foundation campaigner Charley Gros is the only one around. The weekend before, it was bustling with over fifty visitors.

Tyto’s neighbours include a nesting family of black cockatoos.

Other avian regulars include Tasmanian thornbills (“Just love them, they are such friendly critters. I can even communicate with them,” Tyto says, demonstrating their call), grey fantails, shrike thrushes, silvereyes and honeyeaters. There have also been green-blue and golden-brown dragonflies, caterpillars, and a lone tree skink.

It is only because of the discovery of the presence of one special bird, and some extremely dedicated campaigning, that this Tolkienesque forest has not yet been destroyed to make way for the tailings dam. One night, BBF campaigner Charley heard an odd, screeching noise, which he recorded on his phone. He later discovered it to be the call of the mysterious masked owl, Tyto novaehollandiae castanops—a rare bird previously thought not to live in rainforest.

Proving the masked owl’s presence was a long shot, which involved leaving five acoustic recorders in different areas of the mining lease to record every night between dusk and dawn for five months. A catch was that batteries had to be changed every week. This meant walking into remote forest seven kilometres behind a locked boom gate—not knowing whether any masked owls would be recorded. The gambit paid off, with over 470 masked owl calls collected—a remarkably high number, quite possibly the largest Tasmanian masked owl dataset that has ever been collected. Without the more than seventy protesters arrested defending takayna/Tarkine, Charley says it wouldn’t have been possible to gather so much data. Preliminary works

by MMG that had been carried out were consequently ruled

illegal in a court challenge, with more adequate environmental assessment a condition of continuing works.

If the federal government approves the new tailings dam, up to 285ha will be cleared. MMG says the dam is needed to operate the mine and support local jobs. Environmentalists believe this is a cheap option; alternative technologies could instead be used, such as paste-filling, which would avoid the need to clear old-growth forest.

From the vantage point of Tullah, nearby mining Cap, town, Viewthe towards Frenchmans the forests look abundant. From theCentral point Highlands, of view ofTasmania. industry, Ektar 100, September 2020 perhaps, it might seem like aPentax small MX, slice out of a large wild area.

Whether the site is inside or outside the boundary of takayna/ Tarkine is also disputed by some. For Charley and Tyto, who grew up in Europe, where forests like this don’t exist anymore— certainly not on this scale–the balance looks quite different.

“I’d say the most special thing about the Tarkine is that it’s still there,” says Tyto, pausing. “If there were still old-growth forest in Germany—the old oaks and birches and beeches—I probably would still be there. There is hardly anything like this left in the world anymore. I have travelled quite a lot in my life, and this is one of the most special places I have witnessed. I don’t want to see this go.”

Late last year, Federal Environment Minister Tanya Plibersek visited Tullah, but declined Bob Brown’s invitation to see the forests. (In 1986, another environment minister, Graham Richardson, described himself as a ‘convert’ after taking up Bob Brown and Geoff Law’s invitation to see the old-growth forests in lutruwita/Tasmania). Plibersek was instead sighted dining with mining executives at Tullah’s Lakeside Lodge. Trying to picture how her visit might have otherwise unfolded, I ask which part of the site she would have been taken to. “Well, that’s the thing … anywhere you go in the forest is special,” says Charley. “It’s full of wonders, dotted with myrtles well over 500 years old.

It’s home to a wealth of animals and plants … some rare, some widespread, all with intrinsic value.”

As I write these words, Plibersek’s final decision is yet to be handed down.

It is hard to articulate the value of nature. Scientific language (conservation value, endangered species) isn’t quite adequate.

Without these places, we lose something of our own humanity, believes Tyto. “This is one of the last wild places in the world. If we don’t have these places bringing us back down to our roots, life is just wholly superficial. There’s not much left for human beings that is real. We have to protect it.”

(Ed’s note: Tyto ended her courageous treesit on March 23 just after Fiona met her, having spent 72 days in Staghorn’s branches).

Beyond Cradle Mountain, Tasmania’s Overland Track winds duce her newborn baby Ernie to nature, while generally failing in south, providing public huts for all walkers, attempts to induce him to sleep. without sky-high fees

CONTRIBUTOR: Taswegian Fiona Howie is a mum who tries to intro-

WINTER 2023

41

OPINION

LEAVE NO [ONLINE] TRACE We’re all familiar with leave-no-trace camping. There are times we need to have the same mindset for the digital impact our outdoor activities can have.

Words & Photography JAMES TUGWELL

I

t was a single line on the bottom of a page in the only English We hailed a cab, paying a large sum (even after we bartered book in the common room of the Spanish-speaking hostel I down the ‘gringo tax’) to be driven one way to a random town “in was visiting. the mountains.” The taxi driver seemed to know the direction; I I would have overlooked it, had my thumb not caught on the was thankful he didn’t Google it. page as I flicked through.

He drove his 2WD Kia along dirt roads designed for Land A town name and this quote: “Ruins atop a waterfall.”

Rovers, flinging us from side to side. Traffic disappeared as we A bygone traveller had pencilled a faint tick beside the sentence left the town, replaced by the occasional villager with a bundle of as affirmation—the trace of a past adventure. I was intrigued. produce on their head.

I flipped to the next page, hoping for more. Nothing.

After forty minutes in the taxi, the dirt trail we were on ended I whipped out my phone and Googled the town name. Nothing. abruptly. Our driver pulled up beside a decrepit brick building that I Googled the entire sentence. Nothing. looked like it was once painted yellow and appeared to be a school, Did this place even exist? I double checked the spelling. No with a caged-in dirt basketball area with broken backboards. error. What was going on?

“Here,” the taxi driver said. “Waterfall is that way. I won’t stay When my travel buddy also found no Google results, my advenfor you.” ture senses began tingling. A myth? A lost kingdom? Or maybe a We paid, and he sped down the dirt road back to town. We stood yarn for gullible travellers. I asked the hostel receptionist. there with backpacks on, completely alone. We were really at the She looked at me quizzically—probably because I slaughtered end of the road. every single Spanish syllable with my It was clear why my Google searches had Aussie accent—but the look continued yielded so few results: The town wasn’t on OUR ADVENTURE WAS Google maps. Our blue dot hovered aimeven when I pointed out the town name.

“Not many people go,” she said in brolessly in the middle of nowhere. There was ken English. “No gringos know about it. no town name on my screen.

You take taxi.”

Following our driver’s directions, we I asked her where it was. found a foot trail twisting up a valley. As “In mountains,” was all she’d say. we lumbered along beside the river, we I asked to see a picture; she didn’t have one. I probed for more came upon a village. Locals in traditional dress were hacking the information, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell me anything else. ground with mattocks in what appeared to be a communal working bee. We waved. They didn’t speak English. It makes sense, really, when their address doesn’t exist on Google. I wondered if IN ISSUE #183, WILD’S EDITOR James McCormack they even knew of Google. talked about keeping secrets in the outdoors. In a world of InsWe lugged ourselves up away from the village, the track gettagram and Google, it is hard to be surprised. We’ve seen thouting ever steeper. After two hours, doubt crept in. Just how far sands of images of destinations before we arrive—heck, we even were we going to labour along this track because of that guide plan itineraries around the pictures we’ve scrolled through. book? Was the tick a prank by a mischievous, bored traveller?

But these “ruins atop a waterfall” seemed to be one of those Maybe there’s a reason no one comes here. Maybe there is no precious few secrets. And now, here on our final day in this little waterfall. Maybe it is exceptionally ordinary. At what point do town in South America, we were faced with a choice: Do a beautiwe accept this place just doesn’t want to be found, if it even exists ful hiking route we already knew about, which came with strong at all? recommendations, or chase these potential “ruins atop a waterI couldn’t shake the receptionist’s quizzical look. Maybe we fall”—recommended by a faint tick and a vague receptionist. really were crazy. No words of the sort were spoken. A silent look In hindsight, the decision should have been easy. But in that between the two of us shouted our doubts. We needed to find moment, the dilemma was anything but. Time is precious while something soon; our faith was faltering. travelling, and one doesn’t want to waste a day chasing some The river beside us was growing faster, and louder. Was that make-believe story. rapids, or maybe a waterfall? Could it be the waterfall?

ALL THE BETTER BECAUSE I COULDN’T FIND IT ON GOOGLE.”

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No, this is not the valley I‘ve written about, which I’m keeping a secret (a photo of it might give the game away), but instead another valley I went to later that month

One last switchback, and there it was. A pounding, gracious fifty-metre, two-tiered waterfall slicing through the rock above us. It was stunning, like a flowing seam of quartz slicing through the red sandstone cliff face. The crevice it ran through was cloaked in green, and a tropical rainforest surrounded the lagoon at the bottom. It really was the lifeblood of the barren land, the countryside and the village. Like a desert oasis, it was all the more beautiful because we’d just about given up belief it existed. A trickle of hope for our parched faith.

The guidebook promised two things: a waterfall, and ancient ruins. Spray and the thick rainforest canopy blocked our view of the top of the waterfall, but with one item ticked off the list, our hopes were rising. It couldn’t be … could it? If there were ruins up there, it was going to be glorious.

The path spun off into what felt like a hundred more switchbacks, zig-zagging up the hill. We passed a teenage shepherd stewarding a small herd of sheep around the steep slope—sheep that seemed to live on a permanent 45-degree angle. On one of these switchbacks, as we pirouetted, we could finally see the top of the waterfall, where ancient ruins stood proudly, like a jewel in the crown of the waterfall, or as the guidebook put it, “ruins atop a waterfall.”

The moment is forged in my mind forever: standing atop a waterfall that didn’t exist, in the remnants of a room built centuries ago. We spent the afternoon exploring the ruins, overlooking the entire valley the internet didn’t know existed. We had the place to ourselves, if you exclude the local villager we could just make out driving his cow through the valley below us. We were rulers of an ancient empire, conquerors of an antiquated fortress.

Did the waterfall have a name? The ruins? The valley? Were we the first gringos to ever see them? We knew our pencil-wielding traveller had gone before us, but in our imaginations we scored second. Our fantasised kingship was all the greater because of it.

When we left, we fortuitously ran into a local driving a Toyota ute. He pulled over before we even asked; it seemed to be a right of passage that any vehicle picked up walkers, because before long the ute tray was crowded with villagers, a goat and a few chickens. We were thankful to make it out alive, and yet we had done so much more. We never did the walk we’d been recommended on Google. I don’t think it could compare.

Yes, it helped the site wasn’t teeming with tourists like so many popular ‘grammable’ sites, but there is something in seeking out the unknown, in finding an unseen treasure, that cannot be replicated with the digital. Our adventure was all the better because I couldn’t find it on Google, and because a small part of my brain always doubted whether it ever truly existed.

The experience led me to adopt a ‘leave no online trace’ policy. As a Wild reader you probably already leave no trace when camping, but what about in the ethersphere? Now that I’m back in Australia, I’ve decided to only post online what already exists online, like walking along a well-marked trail, and leave any secrets I find offline where they are—offline. It’s not that I want no one else to visit them, I would love others to experience the thrill I did, but that thrill comes through the hunt, the doubt, the euphoria of discovery. Through thinking you might just be the first person in the world to find your new treasure. I want to reignite the exhilaration of adventure, the ecstasy of exploration, the delight of discovery. Sometimes the algorithm doesn’t know the best places.

So, no, I am not going to tell you where this hike is, or even what country it’s in; instead, I’ll challenge you to follow the clues, like a single line in a guidebook. Consider this your faint tick.

Cradle CONTRIBUTOR: James tried to get his family to love hikingBeyond by taking

Mountain, Tasmania’s them on a trek. He forgot the matches; they ate raw pumpkin in the Overland Track winds cold. His family still don’t like the outdoors, so now south, he writes about itpublic providing huts for all walkers, to try convince them. without sky-high fees

WINTER 2023

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NONE OF THE ABOVE

Q+A

with mountaineer Allie Pepper Aussie mountaineer Allie Pepper is about to embark on her most ambitious project yet: 'Above the Clouds'. In April, as she prepped for it in Kathmandu, Wild's editor James McCormack caught up with Allie via Zoom to ask her about the project, and about what draws her to the world's highest places.

Allie climbing towards High Camp on Annapurna, April 2022

AP: The off-mountain stuff makes up 90% of the project’s challenges. Ten per cent is the climbing; that's the easiest part for me.

WILD: How many of the 8000ers have you done so far?

AP: Four. But [not as part] of this project. I’m starting from scratch.

WILD: And when you say 'true summits', what do you mean?

Four years of research was completed to determine which climbers had evidence to prove they'd reached the summits of all fourteen peaks. It was found that on some peaks—like Manaslu, Dhaulagiri and Annapurna—many climbers hadn't actually reached the true summit points. This is due to a number of factors, one being that

IF I DON'T HAVE SOMETHING THAT I

FEEL MOTIVATED & EXCITED

BY, I'M NOT GOING TO PUT IN 100%."

without GPS technology it's difficult to know where the summit ridge's highest point is. Even Reinhold Messner never made the true summit of Annapurna. He's kind of excused, though. He summitted in a white out, and didn’t have GPS, so he went to the closest high point on the summit ridge. But it’s a ridge with lots of high points, and he didn’t make the true summit. Only three people in the world have done it to the true summits of all fourteen 8000ers.

And the current record to do it [without oxygen] is roughly sixteen years [Ed Viesturs: 15 years, 11 months and 24 days].

WILD: And how quickly do you plan to climb all fourteen?

AP: The plan is to finish by 2025.

WILD: Why is it important to you to not use oxygen?

AP: Because I know I can do it without oxygen. But I don't think I'm any better than someone who does use oxygen, because I believe mountains are for everyone. If you have to use ten Sherpas and fifteen bottles of oxygen, I don't care. I have no opinion on that. But I do want something that is a challenge for me. If I don't have something that I feel motivated and excited by, I'm not going to put in 100%.

WILD: What put the fire in your belly to climb high peaks?

AP: I guess I'm addicted to thin air.

WILD: The headspace that engenders?

AP: Everything about it. Everything. You have to step outside your comfort zone. You have to completely be in the moment.

It takes a lot of preparation, mentally, physically, spiritually.

There's so much involved in this type of expedition. And it's what I love. And when I'm up there, I know 120% that is where I'm meant to be. I don't feel I should be anywhere else.

Learn more about Allie at: alliepepper.com

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Annapurna image credit: Dawa Tenzing Sherpa/Allie Pepper Collection

WILD: Can you tell us what your project is?

AP: To climb all fourteen of the world's 8,000m mountains without additional oxygen, to the true summits, in the world's fastest time.

WILD: What got you interested in mountaineering? Aussies live in a pretty flat country, and alpinism isn't widely spread.

AP: When I came back to Australia in 1999, after travelling around the world and going on a spiritual journey in India, I wanted to have a career. I walked into the TAFE, and picked a brochure that said 'Outdoor Recreation'. Because I was a hippie, and I liked the outdoors, and I wanted to recreate myself, I joined that course. And I loved it. And then one of the instructors at the Australian School of Mountaineering said, “Do you want to go to New Zealand and do a technical mountaineering course?” And I said, “Yes.” And that was when I found my passion. I just loved it.

WILD: What year was that?

AP: 1999.

WILD: And when did you set your sights on this current project of 'Above the Clouds'?

AP: After I did Cho Oyu without oxygen, alone, in 2007. At the time, I wasn't thinking about setting a world record, but I did decide I wanted to do all fourteen 8000ers without oxygen. I was a guide, though, one of the lowest-paid jobs in Australia, and I had no corporate connections, no idea how to form partnerships, nor how to make this amount of money to pay for this project. I didn't believe I was able to, to be honest. Over the years, I've just been [preparing] for this project very slowly. And mostly saving up the money myself. I have the connections now. And [while] I've always had the belief in myself for the climbing, now I have the belief that I'm good enough to be paid as a professional athlete.

WILD: Have those off-mountain elements been some of the most challenging aspects?

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GETTING STARTED

PHOTOGRAPHING THE EAST KIMBERLEY (AND NOT GETTING EATEN BY A CROC) with Ben Broady

Few people have captured the East Kimberley's stunning beauty better than local photographer and Wild Earth Ambassador Ben Broady. Here are his tips for doing the scenery there justice.

I

nstead of shivering away in the southern states all winter, there's an amazing way to beat the chill: escaping to the Top End’s East Kimberley. It’s vast, it’s rugged, it's warm, and you only have to drive ten minutes from the nearest township and you can be totally alone in the bush. What’s more, the photographic opportunities are phenomenal. Here are ten tips that will help you prepare for your outback journey to one of the world’s best landscapes.

MAD DOG OUT THERE."

6.

Leave your command and concur attitude at home. The local Indigenous people have a saying: “Respect the land and the land will look after you.”

1.

7.

2.

8.

We experience extreme weather (45°C days) from September to April; my advice is simply to give this joint a wide berth at that time of year. Even us locals struggle with the heat.

May 'til August, however, is dry as a chip and heaven on earth, with daytime temps averaging 28ºC and nights around 12°C. The East Kimberley is best viewed from the air, so if you can, bring a drone. Being so remote and rugged, accessibility can be an issue; sending dronie on her mission to open up the vast expanses and jagged ranges of this magnificent country. There are still plenty of bangers to be captured from a DSLR or mirrorless camera, though, so don’t leave all your highend gear at home.

3.

While I’m a big fan of some of our iconic landscapes— like Purnululu National Park (Bungle Bungles), El Questro and Lake Argyle—make sure to check out some of the lesserknown places like Parry Creek Farm, King River Road and Diggers Rest. And some of my favourite locations to shoot are out around Wyndham.

4.

There are plenty of gazetted hikes at places like El Questro, but most of the gold is out in the bush proper.

Most of the hiking I do is in little-known places like the Cockburn Ranges. Be prepared to hike off-piste, straight through the bush and up the side of mountains.

5.

Be respectful of the Traditional Owners of the land; seek permission if you are going to the lesser-known places.

Kununurra and Lake Argyle are Miriuwung Gajerrong Country, Wyndham and the North Kimberley is Balangarra, and south of Warmup to Purnululu National Park is Gija.

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YOU’LL LIKELY BE THE ONLY

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If you find yourself at an epic lookout with a hundred other people, wait 'til the sun goes down and watch them all rejoice like they’ve accomplished something for the day and then watch them bugger right off. I find the best light conditions in the Kimberley are about thirty minutes after sunset 'til it gets dark. You’ll likely be the only mad dog out there, so enjoy.

We experience some of the darkest skies in the world, so if astro photography is your thing, or you want to try your hand at it, this place is like Disneyland. You don’t have to travel far from Kununurra to find an ancient boab tree or a rocky escarpment that you can set the stars against.

9.

Having absolutely zero light pollution is a pro and a con.

The pro: it’s dark, and the stars are blinging. The con: foregrounds can be completely black with no detail. My favourite time to shoot astro is not at nighttime at all, it’s just before, in a small window called astronomical twilight (roughly 6-7PM).

10.

We have dinosaurs lurking in some of the waters.

It’s actually pretty obvious where the saltwater crocodiles reside—anywhere in the ocean, anywhere that’s tidal, and in a part of the river in Kununurra called the Lower Ord. But there are some areas, like the Upper Ord, Lake Kununurra and Lake Argyle that are very safe to swim in. You’ll be sharing the water with about 50,000 freshwater crocodiles though, so if you’re lucky keep an eye out and you might share a special moment with one of our friendly smiling locals.

CONTRIBUTOR: Wild Earth Ambassador Ben Broady has been living in the Kimberley since he was one. He hopes his photography raises awareness about this majestic and ancient, albeit fragile, part of the world. Check out his work at BenBroady.com

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ALPINE SAFETY

LAST YEAR’S LESSONS

June 2022 slide in the Sentinel Ridge area. Credit: Rohan Kennedy

The Aussie backcountry saw unusually high avalanche activity last year. But avalanches aren’t the only risks out there, says Mountain Safety Collective Ambassador Alex Parsons as she reflects on the year that was.

T

he Australian mountains have seen their first handful of snowstorms. Today I was pelted by hail up at Charlotte Pass; meanwhile, there was slush at my feet and the snow gums collected an icy armour. Winter is nearly here, and as our fingers get colder each morning, our minds move to backcountry adventures. This is a time to reflect on lessons learned from the 2022 season. Did you discover the perfect backcountry snack? A faster way to transition? Have you finally got your layering right? Weather is paramount in Australian touring, and it pays to be prepared for quickly changing conditions. Crucially, what did you learn about safety?

THE RISK OF AUSTRALIAN AVALANCHES We’re starting to see climate change affect our snowpack, with inconsistent storms, rain at higher elevations, and fluctuating temps. Last year, Aussie mountains saw an above average number of avalanches in the backcountry. In fact, I’ve been in the industry, either training or working as a backcountry guide, for five years, and I’ve never seen anything like it.

Mountain Safety Collective is lucky to have highly qualified snow science experts, like Program Manager Craig Sheppard, who has completed the Canadian Avalanche Association’s highest-level course.

“Last season,” says Craig, “there were a couple of interesting avalanche cycles. The first was in June, when several glide crack avalanches were reported in both Victoria and NSW. The Sentinel Peak area had notable avalanches, some up to size three. The second cycle was a series of avalanches, again in both Victoria and NSW, that were failing on a persistent weak layer (PWL) that was buried in the snowpack earlier in the season. The Australian Alps are not often plagued by PWLs. It leaves me wondering: Will PWLs be something we see more regularly due to climate change?”

So, how can we best avoid or manage this hazard?

Well, heading to MSC’s website for both mountain

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safety tips and reports on daily conditions is a great start. Perhaps it’s time to do an Avalanche Skills Training refresher, or to practise your beacon skills. It doesn’t take long to bury some beacons for friends to dig up. Those at Hotham can practise these skills at the Avalanche Training Centre, and MSC is in the process of rolling out more of these at other resorts.

AVALANCHES AREN’T THE ONLY RISK MSC’s conditions reports cover surface conditions, too. Craig explains why the reports don’t solely focus on avalanche hazards: “Other hazards are often more prominent in these mountains, such as adverse surface conditions (ie icy slopes), and rapid changes in weather leading to a lack of visibility in the alpine. Icy surface conditions pose a real risk particularly when travelling on steep slopes. When there is a ‘Localised Ice’ hazard or a ‘Widespread Ice’ hazard in the Australian Alps, specialised tools such as crampons (for both skis and boots) and ice axes are often necessary to enable safe travel. If you’re not comfortable with these implements, avoiding steep slopes in these conditions is key.”

MOUNTAIN SAFETY COLLECTIVE BY THE NUMBERS: - Approx 1,000 members - 13,000 individuals accessed conditions reports in 2022 - Inviduals averaged 5-15 reports each through the season

THE SEASON AHEAD As we break out winter gear and consider tuning our edges, we can’t help wondering whether it’ll be the powder-filled season of our dreams. Some climate models are predicting a warmer and drier winter this year, with El Niño and a positive IOD looking likely. This is a double-edged sword for backcountry lovers: We enjoy clear skies and views for days, but it’s likely these will also bring crusty mornings.

While no one knows what the season will really hold, it’s safe to say ice will be a frequent hazard in the Australian backcountry.

ALEX PARSONS is an MSC Ambassador, and Head Guide at Thredbo’s Backcountry Tours.

MORE RESOURCES Want to see a gallery of images of Australia’s unusally high avie activity last year?Go to wild.com.au/news/ 2022-avalanches To learn more about MSC, and to access conditions reports, safety tips and much more, visit: MountainSafety Collective.org

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CONSERVATION

OF THE

FIRES

FUTURE Australia has always had fires. But in this extract from a new book, Adventures in Climate Science, Philip Zylstra argues that everything has changed.

Words PHILIP ZYLSTRA

Dr Philip Zylstra is a fire scientist and forest ecologist who looks at how plant species interact with weather and the terrain to affect fire behaviour, and how this in turn affects the survival of flora and fauna. His work has led to groundbreaking advances in firebehaviour modelling and landscape analysis. Phil believes that the questions we most need answered are often the ones that challenge paradigms and policies, but that the scale of our impact on the Earth means we no longer have the luxury of avoiding controversy. His current focus is on understanding how fire management can be adapted to work with the ‘ecological controls’ that have enabled forests to persist over evolutionary timescales.

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NSW’s Blue Mountains’ beloved Mt Solitary engulfed by flames

O

ne of the things about being lowered on a long cable under a helicopter is that the downdraft can start you spinning, which makes you dizzy and can play havoc with the stability of the aircraft. If that goes badly enough as they’re lowering you through the gap in a tall forest canopy somewhere, you could theoretically swing into a treetop which could theoretically get the helicopter tied to the tree by your cable, in which case (theoretically), they need to cut the cable. That’s never happened to me or any other Remote Area Fire Trained (RAFT) crew that I’ve heard of. To my knowledge, the NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service have not lost a RAFT crew member since they pioneered the approach in Australia; they’re just very careful and train their crews well.

When people think of firefighting, they often picture people standing by a truck, armed with nothing more than a hose but with every fibre of their being shouting, “You shall not pass!” to the flames that tower over them and blacken the bright day with the fumes of hell.

That wasn’t us; we didn’t necessarily have hoses. RAFT crews get sent into the country that you can’t reach from the road, which means that we only have what we can carry with us, and we’re almost always carrying it through the steepest country there is. For that reason, they don’t send us in on the wild days; instead, RAFT go in straight after the storm passes and put out the lightning strike, or spend weeks wandering the fire edge that looks dead. We feel the hot ground for hotter patches, touch the base of every tree or log that looks like it could be smouldering inside, then break it open, scrape out the coals, and if one is available, we call in a chopper with a ‘Bambi Bucket’ to make sure it’s dead.

WINTER 2023

53

FIRE ECOLOGY

IF WE HOLD ONTO THE OLD COLONIAL THINKING THAT WE NEED TO BASH THE BUSH INTO SUBMISSION, THEN WE HAVE SIDED WITH THE CHANGING CLIMATE TO BREAK THE FOREST’S DEFENCES.

NOW IS THE TIME TO COME OF AGE AND CHOOSE A SIDE.”

THERE IS A PARTICULAR PERSPECTIVE you gain after enough time on foot with an experienced crew, watching what a fire does in different conditions or reading its behaviour from burn patterns with the eyes of someone who is in the wild with it, with no quick escape. It becomes important to pay attention. I had paid attention to fire from the time I first started working with it. Those were the days I spent alone in the high Monaro grasslands, burning snowgrass for the graziers in late winter to give them fresh growth for stock. To begin with, I walked from tussock to tussock lighting each with the drip torch.

We didn’t want a running fire in that country; all these old men had seen one some years before and remembered it too well. One had been trapped and didn’t like to talk about it. The speed it could cross the grasslands with a gale behind it was terrifying, as were the burning pellets of sheep shit that flew in the wind across roads and firebreaks. I kept it small. I had a lot of country they wanted burned though, and that meant that I started to look for the exact situation where fire would spread from one tussock to the next, and where it wouldn’t; conditions that would let me burn very small runs. That particular insight shaped the way I look at fire.

An important and weirdly controversial part of that insight was that what changes flames from little things into big things is all about the plants. There is a big difference between a flame from one burning tussock and a flame from a patch of tussock burning together. Or, for that matter, a flame from a burning tree. Closely packed tussocks give much bigger, faster flames.

Burning trees give much, much larger flames. Crown fires release so much energy that if the atmospheric conditions are right, they can create storms with lightning, rain, and even tornadoes. The question though is whether they will burn—can flames make it up there? To get from the ground into a tree, small flames have to light bigger things like shrubs and climb their way up, so a crown fire can only happen when there is a ladder of plants beneath it. If it doesn’t have that, then the tree not only doesn’t burn, it actually slows the wind beneath it and calms the flames. Without wind, one burning tussock doesn’t set its neighbour on fire, because to do that the flame needs wind or a slope to tilt it over toward its neighbour. So plants close to the ground make fires bigger; plants high above the ground make fires smaller.

This is where it gets controversial. Back in the ‘60s, a CSIRO fella by the name of Alan McArthur suggested that what makes fire more or less severe is the weight of dead leaves, bark and twigs on the ground—something he called the fuel load. He was quite clear at the time that this was a first guess and may be proved “drastically wrong” with some more investigation, but it was a starting point. It turns out it was a stopping point, too. As is the way of things, an industry was built around this, policies were written, governments developed Key Performance Indicators, and talkback radio hosts harnessed the power of angry old men.

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We then knew who to blame for the houses and lives lost to bushfires: the bush. Unless we stepped in and burned it, the bush would keep accumulating that fuel load until it was like a bomb waiting to go off. It needed a firm hand to save it from itself, it needed hardened men not afraid to do what must be done. The problem was that even when they burnt, the bushfires kept coming. Every time the answer was the same: More burning was needed.

As a fire manager, I had to conduct a lot of these burns, then I had to go back later and fight the fires that burnt through the country we had already burnt to stop them. What bothered me when I did that was that the places where we had burnt now had a nice ladder of plants because fire does something to the bush. Yes, it burns away the leaf litter, which then stays sparse for a couple of years, but it also germinates the shrubs, and those shrubs put a lot of dense, close foliage near the ground where it can easily ignite and turn little flames into big ones. We had reduced the ‘fuel load’ for a couple of years, but we had made fires worse for decades. If those forests get left for decades, though, the shrubs thin again and the forests create the safe environment that they need for long-term survival. It turns out that the forests didn’t need us to save them from themselves, they needed us to sit down and learn.

I didn’t realise this early on. The day I sat in the shearing shed at smoko and told the others that I was going to Uni to study science, all I knew was that I was curious about the way the world worked and I wanted to know more. I certainly didn’t want to work for National Parks because as everyone knew, they were responsible for every fire, weed and dead sheep there was. And yet less than a decade later in 2003, I was there in a National Parks’ office as more than 100 fires raged across the Snowy Mountains and Victorian Alps, all lit by a single storm front that passed through without a drop of rain. When the smoke finally settled and my RAFT crew patrolled the remote fire edges looking for smouldering remains that might start a new fire, 1.5 million hectares of the Alps had burned.

Fires of that size had happened more than sixty years before, but something critical was different this time. In the old days, the hundred ignitions all came from fires that people had lit; this time they came from lightning. There have always been lightning fires in the Snowies, but there are rarely more than a handful of ignitions at once because the storms are smaller and bring rain, and the landscape has natural controls in wet gullies and country that doesn’t burn well. That year, ignitions bathed the mountains and immediately became monsters because the storms held no rain.

I remember the day well, the eerie haze in the air. Seasoned firetower observers reported lightning from a blue sky. This was something broken in the climate, but it wasn’t just the storms.

The cold air over Antarctica circles the pole in a vortex, confining strong, dry winds to the far south. In 2002, air from our warming atmosphere gathered over the pole, collapsing the

vortex completely for the first time that we know of. Dry air pushed northward, heating up as it passed over the deserts, baking the forests, changing snow country into a drought-dry landscape ready for a spark. This is the thing with climate change: We watch the temperature climb each decade in fractions of a degree and it feels like change is incremental. We’re wrong.

Our changing climate oscillates around currents and massive cycles, but every now and then, everything bad comes together at once and the world we know falls to pieces.

That happened again in 2019. Again, hot air gathered over Antarctica, and again, the vortex began to fall apart. This time, the effects dwarfed those of 2003.

There are places in the tropics and sub-tropics of Australia where the same bird calls heard today were also heard by the dinosaurs. The same trees grow and the same flowers bloom that once covered the magnificent land of Gondwana, of which Australia was a small part. Fire had no part in that world, except for the volcanoes like the one which formed the massive caldera behind Tweed Heads on the Queensland border. It may be that no fire has entered those forests since the lava dried and the forests of Nightcap and the Border Ranges grew.

These islands of ancient Gondwana held out against the drying continent. That changed in 2019. The nightcap of cloud stopped covering the plateau because the air was dry. So dry that fire was able to spread there and kill trees like those in the only living stand of Nightcap oak on Earth. Dry Antarctic air could not reach tropical Queensland, but something else did: The number of severe cyclones has more than doubled since Cyclone Tracy levelled Darwin. That was a Category Four, but Cat Five cyclones are so frequent now that Tracy seems small. The tropical air is charged with heat and moisture, and that means power. Enough power to level the ancient Gondwanan remnants of Kutini-Payamu, the Iron Range in North Queensland. Those trees had maintained a wet microclimate for aeons, but when they were broken, so was the power of the forest to withstand fire. It dried just as the southern forests dried, and when lightning arrived, even Kutini-Payamu burned. All the bad things at once, all compounding each other.

We’re not powerless though, not if we’re prepared to learn. Fire burned those Gondwanan remnants, but it trickled through that ancient forest with small flames. Flames small enough that a RAFT crew like the ones I worked in could contain them with rake hoes, and without the need for huge back-burns or massive planes. We didn’t do that, but we could. We need to learn to understand our forests. We need to know where the old stands still remain, and to nurture others to restore their range. These places where the forests have rebuilt from devastation are our hope; when fire comes, as it certainly will, we can cooperate with and reinforce the controls that forests have exerted over fire since the shape of the world was changed. Our changing climate is a tsunami of a magnitude that we may not yet comprehend, but there are other forces in our ancient land. If we hold onto the old colonial thinking that we need to bash the bush into submission, then we have sided with the changing climate to break the forest’s defences. Now is the time to come of age and choose a side. W

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Supercharged by logging regrowth, the 2019 Dunns Rd Fire bears down on Phil’s hiking party in the Jagungal Wilderness Two generations of dead snowgums forbode a fiery future after the 2003 fires The 2019 Mt Nardi Fire ripped through logging regrowth but stopped dead at the edge of Gondwana rainforest

ADVENTURES IN CLIMATE SCIENCE: SCIENTISTS’ TALES FROM THE FRONTIERS OF CLIMATE CHANGE is available from June, 2023. With a foreward

by Karl Kruszelnicki, the book is full of tales of adventure from fourteen scientists who have travelled to the ends of the Earth—and along the way, fallen into crevasses, faced sharks, survived cyclones, chased pirates, and more—all to understand why the planet warming matters to us all.

WINTER 2023

55

ALPINE EDUCATION

GET TING

SCHOOLED Tom O’Halloran represented Australia as a rockclimber at the Tokyo 2020 Olympic Games. In 2022, he was given the opportunity to join an ‘Introduction to Mountaineering’ course in the Australian Alps. It was the second time Tom had seen snow in his life.

Words Tom O’Halloran Photography Mark Watson

Practicing self arrest skills. One of those times where practice is the fun part.

Doing it for real would be terrifying

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“T

his is fucked,” I think for the third time in ten seconds.

The snow seems to be coming in faster than we can get rid of it. At this point, having lost my gloves in the snow twenty minutes earlier, my hands can’t feel the shovel; the numbness is an infuriating contrast to my stinking, roasting-hot body.

It has been an hour of digging, sawing and hacking at snow, and the area still looks no closer to somewhere I’d pitch a tent—setting camp being the objective now, after several km of snowshoeing earlier today. And just prior to losing my gloves, I had hit the ‘hangry zone’. Then, to put icing on the cake—god I’d smash a cake right now, BTW—the bloke next to me seems to be enjoying himself.

“Ahhh,” he says. “Where else would you rather be.”

It’s a statement more than a question. I continue to wish ill things on the snow. I wonder if it would be OK to just bail, somehow find my own way back to the car, and then just drive the seven hours home.

Why, I think to myself, do people put themselves in these situations?

WINTER 2023

57

Kosciuszko NP, NEW SOUTH WALES

Sydney Mt Kosciuszko

S

EVEN HOURS EARLIER, life had been a heck of a lot more cheerful. I was driving up to Guthega in the Snowy Mountains to meet the guides and other clients of Climbing the Seven Summits (CTSS) Australian Alpine Academy’s ‘Introduction to Mountaineering’ course. Winding up the dirt road, seeing gum trees in a blanket of white for the first time, my tiny mind was exploding with froth.

As a kid in Brisbane, I’d been fascinated by the big snowy mountains and the crazy people who played in them. I did school assignments on Ernest Shackleton and early Himalayan climbers. When I read South—Shackleton’s diary of the twoyear epic of shipwreck, hunger and, somehow, hope—the overriding thought was, “I want to do that!” It seemed like the most awesome thing you could do with your time. “That’s adventure!”

To this day, I am still so impressed by those stories that, to get more into character, I grew a little beard especially for this trip.

I think I was also secretly hoping for that frozen beard look, too.

But as I now help dig out our campsite, the snow blowing hard, doing its best to mess with me, the absurdity of spending time in the snow hits me. Why would you come out here? We’re doing all this work to just survive. To not die. We willingly walk in here, to camp for a few days, then walk back out? We could just go camping elsewhere. The romance of adventure is shattered. Shackleton survived his ordeal; I’m not so sure of my own fate.

That night, we tuck into a yummy and filling meal cooked by the guides, which does wonders to raise my spirits. But as I lay in my tent, heading off to sleep, I’m still not sold on this whole snow thing.

Just before things felt not awesome on Day One

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UNZIPPING THE TENT THE NEXT MORNING feels like stepping out of a portal. There are clear blue skies and not a breath of wind. An untouched blanket of white, under the gum trees, stretches far off to distant, mountainous horizons. The scene can’t have been more different to twelve hours earlier, and I apologise to Mother Nature for all of yesterday’s moaning. I am overwhelmed by a mix of dumbfounded awe, love and gratefulness. There are very few times in my life a landscape has left me feeling this way. Far out, I think, the world is a beautiful place.

THE ABSURDITY OF SPENDING TIME IN THE SNOW HITS ME. WHY WOULD

YOU COME OUT HERE? WE’RE DOING

ALL THIS WORK TO JUST SURVIVE. TO NOT DIE.”

That morning, we learn a few self-arrest and ‘moving through the mountains’ skills. The whole group lines up on the side of a snowy hill and we’re told to pretend we’re in a ‘falling to your death’ scenario. It’s easy to feel a bit silly, to not shout ‘FALLING’ loudly, and to not fully commit to the move. Then you look around at the landscape, and it’s easy to see how you could get into strife quickly. I realise it’s probably worth committing 100% to the skill practice. Suddenly it feels really cool to dive into the snow face first, shouting at the top of my lungs, forty metres from the tent on this beautifully still, sunny day.

After lunch, we trek out to Blue Lake for ice climbing, the part of the trip I’ve been totally frothing for. However, prior to the walk, while getting my gear together in the tent, I notice a puddle of water. Damn. Likely the snow I’d accidently dragged in with my boots earlier. I get a little annoyed at Past Tom. He’d been fairly confident he could make it in and out of the tent without taking off his big boots and making a mess. It’s not the first time I’ve been frustrated at Past Tom. He’s a carefree bugger, more often than I’d like to admit. Despite feeling a little more comfortable out here, clearly there are some subtleties to snow life I’m yet to learn.

Blue Lake does not disappoint. A big horseshoe of snowy mountains sits above the frozen lake. I’m not a skier or snowboarder, but far out, I can imagine how cool it would be going 1000km/h down those gullies and faces. One hundred metres of insanity. But we’re here to go up the walls, not down them.

Ice climbing turns out to be everything I’d hoped for. It is familiar, unnerving and heroic. I’m so used to rock climbing and having the feeling of fingers on rock, my toes feeling every little crystal through the sensitive 4mm of rubber on my shoe. I

Ice climbing—a beautiful cocktail of fear and froth

CAN I REALLY TRUST THIS?

I SNEAK MY WEIGHT ONTO THAT ARM, TRUSTING EVERYTHING. “JUST STAY THERE, LITTLE BUDDY,” I SAY TO THE AXE. “YOU CAN DO IT. THERE’S NOTHING MORE YOU COULD WANT TO DO IN THE WORLD THAN JUST

STAY SNUGGLED INTO THAT ICE.” WINTER 2023

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can make tiny adjustments as I feel my way up the face, making sure I have the best possible contact I can. There are, however, no such luxuries with ice climbing.

Whack, whack, thunk go the ice axes. Kick, kick, clunk go the crampons. “It looks like I have a hold of something,” I think. Two inches of the tip of the axe have disappeared, but who knows what that means. I give a few little test pulls. It seems OK. Can I really trust this? I sneak my weight onto that arm, trusting everything. “Just stay there, little buddy,” I say to the axe. “You can do it. There’s nothing more you could want to do in the world than just stay snuggled into that ice.” It does. I’ve successfully made my third ice climbing move. Rad! Now just another fifteen metres to the top.

THE CLEAR SKIES CONTINUE ALL DAY, and then it’s the stars’ turn to put on a show. The light of the sky illuminates the snowy faces surrounding the lake as we pack up and start walking the few kilometres back to camp. Headtorches stay in pockets. I love that, the moon and the stars being all you need to get home. I pretend I’m in the ye olde times with Shackleton.

None of the modern bits and pieces getting in the way. Just the simplicity and calm of nature. These moments, surrounded by night in the real world, always make me beautifully and painfully aware of just how small I am.

To compound that feeling, as we near the lake’s mouth, we see

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ROB, THE LEAD GUIDE, SAYS,

“WE’LL PROBABLY GET A GOOD LITTLE STORM IN TWO HOURS.” IT TURNS OUT WE COULD HAVE SET OUR WATCHES TO IT.”

the main event: one of the biggest, clearest and badass full moons I’ve ever seen. I feel even smaller and more grateful for life.

THE FOLLOWING DAY IS THE BIG ONE—a 23km round trip to the summit of Kosciuszko. I am nervous. That’s a lot of walking in snow. That’s a lot of walking in brand new boots. That’s a lot of walking if you haven’t brought enough food or clothing or water. Imagine being thirsty out there, surrounded by water. It would be the pits.

We start before sunrise, the moon still lighting the way, but it’s on its home run to bed. Soon the sun takes over, and we’re met by another moment that makes me feel utterly small in this landscape. The colours reflecting around the mountain range are almost psychedelic, and for over twenty minutes, the snow turns blue, pink, red and orange. We all trip over ourselves trying to capture the moment on camera. As is often the way, the photos don’t do the scene justice. You have to be here.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Please don’t break, bridge.

This water looks cold I still don’t understand how ice climbing works. There’s nothing holding on!

It doesn’t get much better: sunshine, good people and new experiences.

(Credit: Tom O’Halloran) Couldn’t wipe the smile off my face…or the snow This was every bit of cool

The day becomes another bluebird classic, almost warm. By this point in the trip, we’ve all got comfortable with each other, and it’s nice to have the hours of walking to chill out and chat.

I never feel comfortable in group environments; I don’t know that many do. But the new faces are the added bonus to these trips. Sign up for the experience, stay for the company.

Soon we are having a final break in the sun at the base of the Kosci summit ridgeline. Reapply sunscreen, eat some food, drink water, check feet for pressure points, take some more photos. Everyone is buzzing—we are about to climb to the top of Australia and see everything. We set off.

Within fifteen minutes, though, clouds roll in. Just some misty wispy bits to start, but then the real stuff comes to play.

We quickly set our packs down and add warmth and shell layers. It then gets a bit uncomfortable; conditions are similar to the first evening at camp when I was ready to go home. However, having experienced the gloriousness of what this world can be, I can’t help but smile. This is a bit more like it. This is real. It even feels a little adventurous—questing for the top, the team staying together with one shared goal. Our collective hopes rise as we see a rocky mountain top appear out of the cloud in front of us, only to realise it’s another false summit.

It’s the fourth so far.

For close to ninety minutes, we blindly walk into nothingness, knowing the destination, but not how far. It’s a small lesson in

managing emotions and expectations in this environment. I guess it’s a lesson equally applicable in life.

Suddenly, through the mist and cloud, the summit plaque is ten metres ahead of us, sitting atop an unassuming rise. It’s not quite the final heroic scramble I’d, for some reason, expected.

Well, wanted. But nonetheless, we’ve made it. Just like that.

Twenty-metre visibility, for 360 degrees. I’m not sure if this is a journey- or a destination-type victory. Or neither. I have a strange flat feeling. This is the top of Australia?

Then, on my final few paces to the top, as if by some miracle, the clouds lift and unveil the world. I am in the middle of the most extreme landscape of my life. Mountains, valleys and snow extend in every direction, with hardly a sign of human construction and interference. The sun slices through gaps of cloud, illuminating sections of snowy faces. The harsh light only underscores the steep ruggedness here and the raw awesomeness of Nature.

Soon it’s time to head back to camp. This is when the fun begins; we’re about to get a real taste of what Australia can do.

The CTSS guides have been watching the clouds all day, assessing conditions and making calculations. When we leave the summit, Rob, the lead guide, says, “Keep warm clothes and shell layers at the top of your pack and get ready. We’ll probably get a pretty good little storm in two hours.” It turns out we could have set our watches to it.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Heads down, hoods up. Just keep going Tell me you don’t want to be there Setting up camp on Night One, in a small snow storm, hangry and wondering if my shoe phone could call in an extraction The snow was awesome, but I did keep peeking around corners looking for some rock climbing to come back for

CONTRIBUTOR: Tom O’Halloran thinks the only downside to adventure is that he usually needs to leave his first love at home: a massive sandwich. He’ll generally pack fruit cake instead.

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Snow unrelentingly smashes me. The wind howls like nothing else; staying upright takes all my concentration and power. We’re in single file, thirteen of us, not more than a metre apart. You can’t, for fear of losing the whole group, lose sight of the person in front. And the people behind you trust you with their life as well. We march and march, not able to stop until it’s over. Up and down the snowy mountain faces, one foot in front of the other. Hoods up, heads down.

I find myself in an odd headspace. An empty nothingness, but in a good way. All I can do is put the discomfort aside and get through it. We’re still a few hours from camp, though; the end point. Wanting this situation to be over gets me nowhere. That said, I really did feel like a cup of tea and a fire, though. And maybe an Anzac biscuit. Or some of mum’s fruit cake, warmed up with ice cream on the side. “Not helping, Tom!’ I wonder, then, what Shackleton and his Endurance crew really went through. Two years out on the ice, the team relying on each other to stay alive and march forwards in the direction of an uncertain rescue. I can’t imagine the level of hope you’d need to stay positive through all that, to push away the thoughts of dying, there at the frozen bottom of the world.

The meat of the snowstorm lasts 45 minutes, and I am grateful to see it go. When we sit down to refuel, the landscape is new again. Where our tracks had been earlier that day, there is now nothing. Just clean, untouched snow. The storms were an etch-a-sketch eraser, wiping the board clean. It feels like we’re heading off on our own little adventure to explore a whole new world, one that’s totally serene and wild and unknown. To return to my earlier question: This is the top of Australia? It certainly is.

And it’s incredible. W

KNOW

WHERE YOU

ARE A team of stand up paddleboarders sets off to explore Greenland’s wild coastline.

Words Simone Talfourd Photography PlanetVisible

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I

stare up at the never-ending slope of ice looming large in front of us, trying to discern if I have a good or bad gut feeling. No feelings at all. As we tie the figure-8 loops into our harnesses, I find myself rubbing the tiny brown toy-horse keepsake I’m carrying in my pocket that belongs to my nephew. I am used to assessing risk, especially out on the water; I am not, however, familiar with assessing risk on ice. The uncertainty is daunting. We are remote, very remote, with a real risk of both crevasses and moulins; there is no room for error.

The ground crunches beneath our crampons as we begin the climb, one step at a time. At the crest of this hill, I stop to scan the horizon and take in what is in front of me. A plateau of white, of only ice and snow as far as the eye can see. Vast, pure, and unlike anything I have ever seen.

When we reach the lake, it is breathtaking. We stop. We are really here. After years of planning and hoping, it now lies in front of us, magnificent in its azure tranquility. Here for maybe only a moment, this moment.

Being so remote allowed for weeks of isolation. Hearing the paddle slice the water became our meditation song WINTER 2023

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Upernavik, GREENLAND

Kullorsuaq Upernavik

W

E ARE OVER HALFWAY THROUGH our Greenland adventure, paddleboarding 450km self-supported from Upernavik to Kullorsuaq.

The goal is to document and share what we find, but to also pack up the inflatable SUPs and trek up onto the ice sheet in search of elusive supraglacial lakes, ponds of water that sit atop glacial ice.

For the guys, this trip has been three years in the making. It’s a dream that had long been on the horizon for both Jean-Luc Grossman and Justin Hession—an Aussie photographer now based in Switzerland. The pair are members of PlanetVisible, a photography collective whose ambition is to venture to remote places and to explore, record, and share what they experience and learn. Pascal Richard, long-term friend of Jean-Luc and Justin, joins as the third photographer.

As for me, I’d never responded to a personal advert before, let alone one from three male photographers looking for a woman to join them in a tent for a month-long excursion in a far-flung country. I didn’t really think I stood a chance, but by March I had been selected as the fourth member, acting as the journo.

May marked our first in-person meeting, a weekend spent paddling and completing glacier-rescue training. And then it was July, and we were in Copenhagen Airport awaiting our second of four flights to get us to the starting point.

Where the polar bear reigns supreme

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Greenland, the world’s largest island (sorry, Australia is a continent, not an island), is 2.16 million km2 with a population of 56,000 people. There are no roads or railway systems here; it’s the land of the dog sled and the kayak, of snowmobiles and fishing boats. A land where the polar bear still reigns supreme.

Funny how within 24 hours you can go from standing in a hot shower in a cosmopolitan capital city to being stood in a small kiosk situated at the 72nd parallel discussing which gun to buy with three blokes you’ve met precisely once.

THERE ARE NO ROADS OR RAILWAYS HERE; IT’S THE LAND

OF THE DOG SLED AND THE KAYAK, OF SNOWMOBILES AND FISHING BOATS. A

LAND WHERE THE POLAR BEAR STILL REIGNS SUPREME.”

We depart without incident, using only our SUPs to carry all of our kit, all 230+kg of it, along with our newly purchased gun. The first fourteen days pass by as we travel north, weaving our way through the almost entirely uninhabited Upernavik Archipelago, camping as we go. Loading up and unpacking the boards takes longer than any of us anticipated, but we quickly fall into a routine. One evening, early on in the trip, we have a rifle-firing practice session. BANG! We aim and shoot our torpedo-like bullets into a nearby iceberg. As fun as this is, it’s unsettling to imagine encountering a polar bear out here, let alone on the water. Would we have time to get the rifle out of its dry bag? It’s unlikely we’ll see one here at this time of year, but it’s not unheard of. After all, this land is constantly changing, and the bears’ habitat is dissolving fast.

WE PADDLE CONSISTENTLY, NEEDING ONLY one rest day to hide from aggressive thirty-knot winds. Each day we cover between 20-30km over seven-to-ten-hour periods, only stopping to take pictures (for the guys) and to munch on snacks (mostly me). The camaraderie is strong, and I start to build a bond with each of them. Conditions can be intense, however.

The water temperature is just above zero degrees; falling in is a worrying prospect. Even a small injury out here could carry serious consequences. The wind is variable, too, and, with frustrating regularity, is not on our side.

And the paddling at times is a real struggle. I won’t forget how, on our very first afternoon rounding Upernavik, we trudged through treacle-like water for over three hours into an aggressive headwind. As I dug my blade into the choppy

The aqua blue of a supraglacial lake.

There seems to always be danger hidden in the beauty of the Arctic

IT IS HARD TO DO ANYTHING OTHER THAN ENJOY THE MAGNITUDE OF WHERE WE ARE. AND WHERE WE

ARE FEELS OUT OF THIS WORLD. THE ICE TAKES CENTRE STAGE IN THIS TOLKEINIAN PLAY OF LIFE.”

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blue-grey waves with all my might, feet wide and fighting to not be spun left or right, I cursed and wondered how on earth I was going to get through a month of this. In fact, I wondered why I was on a paddleboard at all and why I needed to do these ridiculous things to feel good about myself. But some freshly caught cod and a good night’s sleep under the remarkable midnight sun did much to rectify this, and by morning, I was ready for another round. It is hard to do anything other than enjoy the magnitude of where we are.

And where we are feels out of this world. The ice takes centre stage in this Tolkeinian play of life. Each day brings a new kingdom of frozen shapes to marvel at. Crumpled towers and gnarled spears rise out of the dark blue depths, dwarfing us.

Huge slabs larger than stadiums surround us. Paddling between them becomes akin to a game of Grandma’s footsteps, wanting to get ever closer to fully appreciate their scale and proportions

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EACH DAY BRINGS A NEW

KINGDOM OF FROZEN SHAPES TO MARVEL AT. CRUMPLED TOWERS AND GNARLED SPEARS RISE OUT OF THE DARK BLUE DEPTHS.

HUGE SLABS LARGER THAN STADIUMS SURROUND US.”

but never too close to witness the effects of their thunderous sudden demise.

For me, the sounds the glaciers make are unforgettable.

They breathe, they drip, they yawn and groan. Booming, thunder-like rumbles echo between the landmasses, warning you that nature’s greatest shapeshifters are collapsing nearby.

Staccato ‘cracks’ announce almighty chunks are plunging into the water below, causing metres-high waves that mercifully disperse quickly. When this happens often, the shards of debris fizz and crackle like rice bubbles at breakfast.

The icebergs, too, are unpredictable beasts. They lean and lurch, tipping and turning at a moment’s notice. But not all icebergs on our route are ferocious giants. We cross a number of seven-kilometre-plus wide fjords entirely full of shattered ice, solid meaty lumps of every frozen shape and size that we must push our way through to get to the other side, always trying to avoid the ones that look likely to tip, dip, roll or fall over. At times like this, polar bear jokes are made with more regularity as we nervously scan the sea of drifting ice, mush, mush.

And then we are standing at 600m above sea level, alongside a supraglacial lake on the Greenland ice sheet. We are full of awe, excitement, and wonder. This is the other half of the dream—to trek up onto the ice sheet and find one of the largely unknown meltwater lakes, elusive because they can drain in a matter of hours but can also last for months. In summer, they appear on the surface, reaching kilometres in diameter and several metres in depth. Their formation is driven by temperature, topography and

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Dream paddling conditions in a calm sea When the sea was full of ice, it was good for the team to stay close in case a board suddenly sprung a leak Taking care of hygiene in the meltwater straight off the icesheets. It was good for the senses, too Traditional Inuit house in Kullorsuaq Every day supplied luxury camping sites with a sea view

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Upernavik, GREENLAND

elevation, and they can store vast amounts of fresh water. Unsurprisingly, their increased presence is linked with climate change.

This particular lake sits nestled in the snow, with only a small ripple-like stream at one end snaking its way out, searching for an exit to the depths below. We stand— at what we had decided was a safe distance from the edge—looking at it, analysing what appears to be a large, ominous, dark-blue speech bubble-shaped circle sitting in the middle of the lake.

“Does anyone want to try and go out onto the lake?” Jean-Luc asks tentatively.

“I’ll go,” I say.

It is instinctive. I’m not a photographer; it makes sense for it to be me so that the others have someone to capture. It is their dream. I stride towards the lake carrying the board, sinking comedically with every giant pantomime step into the slush

THE SUN BREAKS THROUGH THE CLOUDS, AND I AM STRUCK

BY WHAT FEELS LIKE ELECTRIC ENERGY SURGING THROUGH ME. I MUST BE THE LUCKIEST PERSON IN THE WORLD. IT’S A SPIRITUAL MOMENT, ONE THAT I KNOW WILL SHAPE MY LIFE.”

and ice, thigh-deep in places. Meanwhile, I keep my eye on this curious cobalt porthole resting at the bottom of the lake like a cavernous sinkhole.

I reach the edge, clamber onto the board, and push off. Slowly, I draw my blade through the serene water. The sun breaks through the clouds, and I am struck by what feels like electric energy surging through me. I must be the luckiest person in the world. It’s a spiritual moment, one that I know will shape my life.

We descend back, jubilant. The terrain is tough going and challenging—there’s a river to cross, giant boulders to scramble over, soggy moss to sink into, and loose rocks under our feet.

It’s a constant battle to not stumble, skid, slip, or roll an ankle. I look forward to getting back to the paddling.

DURING THE FINAL WEEK, WE JOURNEY NORTH through more ice and rocky islands; the latter are now getting snowier and steeper. Our days have a routine. Eat breakfast.

Pack up camp. Wriggle into sodden booties and banana-coloured drysuits. Fill up water bottles. Access snacks. Load up the boards. Strap everything down firmly. And then push out into the unknown for another spectacular day.

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Not many people ever get to paddle on a supraglacial lake. It came with dangers, of course, but we thought it was worth the risk. It was only a metre deep, and was so clear it was hard to distinguish the water. It felt like floating on a magic carpet. The darker middle section was a little unknown. We hadn’t seen anything like this in our research. It didn’t seem to be draining, which was a good sign, but it looked menacing

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Twice we have our paths blocked by the sheer volume of pack ice, and we’re forced to re-route around peninsulas. This adds more kilometres, and it means we have to face the open ocean on one side. The terrain—a mixture of lichen-licked rock and now snow-capped peaks—is barren and unforgiving. It’s impossible not to be humbled by the sheer remoteness of where we are.

Disappointingly, we see no whales. We do, however, see (and occasionally startle) many ducks and ducklings. Other birds we see include the northern fulmar, and, towards the end of our trip, Arctic terns. They resemble beautiful, big, white swallows, ducking and diving around us. One memorable interaction is with a sleeping seal. Jean-Luc and I paddle right up against him, believing he is dead. But then we see a couple of bubbles emerge. He looks up at us wide-eyed and in shock, and then dramatically shoots to the sanctuary of deeper water.

The only people we encounter on the water are fishermen in

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IN OUR DAILY LIVES, WE ARE USED TO HAVING CONTROL;

HERE, THOUGH, YOU ARE SECOND TO NATURE. THE LANDSCAPE AND THE ELEMENTS DICTATE AND SHAPE YOUR LIFE. YOU ARE SMALL AND

INSIGNIFICANT.”

search of a seal to shoot or to fish for halibut, often on lines up to half a kilometre long. Earlier on in the trip, we came across some young fishermen from Nuussuaq, a small town of less than 200 inhabitants we would later visit after twenty days out on the water. Impressed by their English in a land where it isn’t always spoken widely, we asked where they learned it.

“From YouTube and movies,” said one.

“I love Dark Knight,” said another.

It’s another amazing way of how the internet has changed—and continues to change—the world.

WE PADDLE INTO KULLORSUAQ, OUR ENDPOINT, subdued and happy.

Founded in 1928, and with roughly 450 inhabitants, Kullorsuaq is the Upernavik Archipelago’s northernmost settlement, and is one of Greenland’s most traditional hunting and fishing villages. As we stand at the heliport, all packed up, awaiting our flight back to Upernavik, we’re told the helicopter isn’t coming anymore. Later, we learn that the pilot was a mere ten kays away, however thick fog meant landing was impossible. We stay four more days, waiting to begin our journey home, never with any certainty when our trip will be over. It is an exercise in patience for all of us, and a lesson in control for me. In our daily lives, we are used to having control; here, though, you are second to nature. The landscape and the elements dictate and shape your life. You are small and insignificant.

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Avoiding the crevasses and moulins, we were roped up the whole time on the ice sheet The most common wildlife that followed us daily A perfectly preserved urchin shell It looks very different from above as we negotiate our way through the bergs The morning packing: It took 2 hours every day from waking up to pushing off Incredible iceberg sculptures entertained us the whole trip

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Upernavik, GREENLAND

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP The PlanetVisible team along with Simone Talfourd (left) Despite it being summer, when the sun dropped to the horizon, it got cold quickly What a dream it was to spend four weeks paddling through icebergs, especially when they were fantastically shaped like this one When it was calm and the waters were mirrored, paddling here was simply unreal

Greenland is a place of extremes. Of either endless daylight or months of darkness.

Of ice and snow, cold and even colder. The great paradox of being out here in this frozen wilderness is that what could kill you is also what keeps you alive. Environments like this sharpen your synapses, and remind you that our brains are hardwired to help us survive. You’re forced to constantly measure risk versus reward. This hostile land keeps us alert and ignites that fire in our bellies. It’s the addictive side of getting out of your comfort zone, the true thrill of enduring the elements while being able to experience one of the most remote places on earth. We learn to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. We choose to do this.

And that’s why I replied to the advert, and why I need the challenge of a trip like this: to allow myself to feel that my energy is being completely used. To quieten the deafening clamour of everyday life, to find stillness, to switch off the noise we don’t need.

Early on in our trip, Jean-Luc mentioned a proverb his father used to say: “It’s better to know where you are without knowing where you’re going than to know where you’re going without knowing where you are.” W CONTRIBUTORS: Simone Talfourd is a writer, podcast producer, and host, and is currently working on a memoir about her record non-stop row around the UK. Justin, Jean-Luc and Pascal are members of PlanetVisible—a small, like-minded and flexible photography collective based in Zurich working on creating positive, powerful visual stories. Check out their work at planetvisible.com

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READER’S ADVENTURE

THE WAY BACK HOME Reflections on solo hiking through Far North Queensland’s Misty Mountains.

By Rachel Schmidt

I

f you look after this place, this place will look after you. The words of the Ma:Mu, whispering its Jujaba (creation) stories along the contour lines of rainforest country in Queensland’s Far North. Firefly studded understories, grumbling skies, lightning sheets, crystal creeks, old-growth forests, walls of rain. The place of the Jirrbal, Gulngay, and Ma:Mu. Welcome to the Gambil Yalgay—the Misty Mountains—the last remaining connection of the juboonbarra to the gambilbarra, of the coastal plains to the rocky country of the tablelands.

From the lowlands of the eastern tropical borders of Tully, to the upper reaches of the sub-tropical rainforests and dry woodlands of Ravenshoe, this expanse of land becomes grounded in lessons of focus under heavy rainforest canopies and a history buried under lawyer vine.

Encompassing the Djilgarrin, Cannabullen, Koolmoon, Cardwell Range, Gorrell, and Bally Knob Tracks, the Misty Mountains wilderness trail network brings you into the terrain of Tully Falls and Tully Gorge National Parks, alongside the southern section of Wooroonooran National Park—the wettest place in Australia, now protected under the legislative label of World Heritage Area.

But this story doesn’t start there. Instead, eighty kilometres southeast as the crow flies, you drive under the notorious overhang of loaded clouds into the early hours of the morning in your tenth year as a paramedic.

The night dumps its own uncertainty across those far northern hills that drop into the upper reaches of the Murray River. Home to Guyurru (Murray Falls), and the small community of Jumbun. The place where the words of one man stop you in your tracks.

Bordering on the traditional boundaries of the Gulngay and the Girramay, you make your way down into the lower floodplains where little history remains of its brutal history of colonial Australia. You cross the Henry Bridge and she stares at you. A look of vacancy as tears well. She is young, vibrant, smiling behind the torn story of the land and its people. It wasn’t that long ago, she says, my grandfather ... this is his place.

Hardly any of us mob left, it has changed, we have changed. She waves her hand off into the hills of the Misties as the windscreen wipers pelt full speed. Hours later, the sun beams through the morning deluge, waking up the forested slopes of Bulleroo/Mt Tyson.

Back in Tully, an Elder stands at the ward door and tells you this: “You better share those stories of this place girl, because nobody else will.”

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Misty Mountains

En route to Rhyolite Pinnacle in Tully Falls NP WINTER 2023

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Misty Mountains, QUEENSLAND

GORRELL TRACK Large rainforest trees are down. Emerald-green doves hip-hop through the understorey looking for their next meal. As they take flight, fluorescent-green feathers flicker through light. Patches of broken canopy are littered with red belly blacks banking their next dose of sunshine. Humidity is edging on unbearable.

Exposed and prone to the cyclic nature of the tropics, the old fire trail brings you through the Ma:Mu speaking clan of Wabubarra Country. Bring the coffee, you’ve been told, I will

SOMETHING IS CRAWLING AROUND IN YOUR EYE, BUT

YOU CAN’T SEE THE PROBLEM. TWO LEECHES ROLL OUT OF THEIR OWN ACCORD, FULL AND LETHARGIC.” bring the cake. The senior officer heads up by vehicle; you head down by foot. Walking solo has always been your way of connecting, but today is a little different. With a percolator in one hand and high expectations in the other, you begin from the higher elevation trailhead. If somebody says they are bringing cake, it better happen.

Descending into the valley of Downey Creek, you pass the red mud-clay patch of flat that’s covered in ten years’ worth of leaf litter—the designated campsite of the Downey Plateau. Facilities: none. On the border of the Military Area, there is a rusty, half-standing sign: “Scientific Area,” it proclaims. “...[For] bona fide scientific study only.” You haven’t seen a human, and you ponder the point of its existence. It’s well past the halfway mark, with four hours of daylight pending. He isn’t coming; the troopie mustn’t be able to get through. Now covered in over-it feelings, you make the brew and head back up the range. Cake-free.

RHYOLITE PINNACLE & KOOLMOON TRACK The gayambula flies overheard, screeching anxious warnings to his mates of your presence. You glare into the canopy and tell him to calm down—just passing through. Now you’re talking to cockatoos, mitigating reality without an app and minus the ticks of tocks. The camera is full of plant life and obscure-looking bugs. If you walk any slower, your Garmin will stop.

Granite and rhyolite outcrops peek through the vegetation, offering expansive views of the park. That’s on a good day. The place of yabulmbara, of traditional tree markings, follows the old Jirrbal route that crosses the Koolmoon—an option of multiple trailheads infested with leeches and overgrowth.

You reach the pinnacle during the height of garrimal—the wet season. Midnight hits. Somewhere up there sits the waning

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crescent moon as a rainforest scorpion stares into your face questioning your life goals. You haven’t seen one of these since you were a kid, when you were addicted to Home and Away, when one crawled up your arm from the pile of firewood straight onto your childhood-sized rissole. Leeches start to infiltrate the tent, gaining access without permission. It’s going to be a long night.

DJILGARRIN TRACK (& BACK INTO THE KOOLMOON) As you catch your reflection, 110mm fall. Six hours prior, you considered this a good idea. You ignore the silent calls to turn back. The rain jacket has been forgotten. The forecast wasn’t revised. Enthusiasm is waning. Seven kilometres in, and the vine is tearing at skin, entangled in hair.

The pack is dumped. You treat it like a dirtbag and pretend this is going to be easy.

Something is crawling around in your eye, but you can’t see the problem. Two leeches roll out of their own accord, full and lethargic from life-is-good feelings. Too difficult to grasp, one remains.

Of all the things you should carry, normal saline comes to mind. A piece of fifty-cent first aid that would save an eyesore of a problem. Sclera fills with blood. Hopeful thoughts consume your mind to beat time back before the swelling starts. It’s four hours to the front door, and at least two of those are by foot.

Geez, what beat you up? And where are your clothes? Dressed in linen without the soggy attire, you reconsider the definition of fun as your sister gawks at your face, as colleagues gift you with a set of leech goggles, and as a pharmacist questions you with not one but two raised eyebrows while she pumps out antihistamines and three days of maybestay-at-home advice.

But you don’t do maybes.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Taking in the view of Elizabeth Grant Falls Decaying leaf litter Black Jezebel butterfly A king fern frond about to unfurl Foliage growing over fig tree roots on the Gorrell Track Jungle python

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When one functional eye becomes two, you head to the eastern trailhead. The ranger tells you it’s too wild, too overgrown, too time consuming: Look lady, five people probably walk that track per year; we can’t maintain it anymore. Lady?

The old Jirrbal trade and migration route from the Balan Jaban (Tully River) to the tablelands crosses a ridgeline of traditional tree-lines, unmarked camps, and unheard-of massacre sites. A place that teaches you to walk in the right direction in order to respect Law. It’s rough going. A kind of bootcamp short of unnecessary yelling and screaming with nobody to high five. Koolmoon Creek is waist deep and flowing steadily. Elizabeth Grant Falls blasts its 300m presence over the cliffs. A lone boar bolts through the scrub at the last second.

The place has been assaulted by multiple tropical lows and cyclones. The sign still stands. Just. Triangular markers are few and far between, most of them consumed by hungry tree trunks.

It’s an overwhelming maze of finding your way flagged with pink tape. Two hours for every kilometre. Dismal but rewarding. Not even the march flies are interested in the buzz.

Things are going well. Until they aren’t. Something doesn’t feel right. The view of tree roots and mud becomes interrupted by a face-to-face experience that isn’t in any brochure. The sighting of the lone heavyweight champion of the forest. The silent wanderer.

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THINGS ARE GOING WELL. UNTIL THEY AREN’T.

SOMETHING DOESN’T FEEL RIGHT. THE VIEW OF TREE ROOTS AND MUD BECOMES INTERRUPTED BY A FACE-

TO-FACE EXPERIENCE THAT ISN’T IN ANY BROCHURE.”

The stand-out feature. The great southern cassowary.

Time stops. This is not a good scenario. Danger couldn’t be any more obvious. The cassowary is the world’s third-largest bird, compensating for its incredibly short wings by being gifted with an impressive casque and two nasty-looking foot claws capable of disembowelment. At 75kg and 170cm tall, this shaggy animal that loves a good walk in the rainforest can be unpredictable, moody, daunting, and just plain old bloody scary.

Adrenaline and fear have abandoned you. You’re now left with a strange sense of calm, one where the fight-or-flight response has somehow evaporated into a dysfunctional stand-thereand-do-nothing.

You swear into the humid air and reverse, climb a few metres up a vine-engulfed tree and hope he walks away. He doesn’t.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Quandong berries with forest flowers, Gorrell Track on the Downey Creek Plateau At McNamee Creek Southern cassowary on the Koolmoon Track A trail marker being consumed by a hungry tree Forest fungi Take care: The world’s most dangerous bird is prowling nearby

If you could offer the bloke a fruit salad, you would. It’s a long twenty minutes while your backside moulds into a branch, daydreaming of more padding and ten beers.

It’s 16:30hrs and sunlight is fading, with another three kilometres to the car. You’re disappointed the camera is too hard to reach, and quietly wish you could go hide in an eight-metrehigh golden gumboot away from this reality. Yeah, the gumboot.

Tully’s totem. Back in the ‘70s, ABC rural reporter David Howard coined the term ‘Golden Gumboot’ to signify which of three neighbouring towns up here—Tully, Innisfail or Babinda—won the annual bragging rights to being the wettest town of the year.

But the wettest of wet years came all the way back in 1950, when 7,900mm hit the ground. To celebrate that record drenching, in 2003 Tully built a 7.9m golden gumboot in the middle of town.

But the ginormous gumboot is miles away, so instead you sit there, close your eyes, and learn to listen. The cassowary remains a standing statue below you, waiting for your undivided attention. You quietly ask him to let you pass. He cocks his helmet head up, blinks twice, and walks away. Pretending the last half hour of your existence didn’t exist. Then you sit there for even longer, wondering if that was just a weird coincidence in timing.

You’ve aged ten years in ten hours. Worse than the face of a night shift. But better than any zoo visit.

CARDWELL RANGE, CANNABULLEN CREEK AND BALLY KNOB TRACKS Oh, it’s raining. Who’d have thought? Here’s ya sanga, luv. She passes you breakfast while the local cop spots you, taking a cheap shot at your bushies arm. He’s wearing a wry smile. I’ve been up that track, he says. Bloody awful. Got smashed by that lawyer cane looking for a lost mountain biker. Silly bugger got choppered out.

You swallow your salad and pretend you don’t know what he’s talking about.

Pack your prunes and hommus, we’re going on an adventure.

Eco friendly with a day spa. Basaltic soils. Top-of-the-range rainforest species. Notophyll and microphyll vine forests. Bush tucker and toxic nuts. Birds and bugs that deserve a place on any Aussie coin face.

The Cannabullen Plateau—the superlative phenomena currently graded as ‘A Bit Hairy’. Home to over forty delicate ecosystems, with nineteen of them endangered. When they say tread lightly, tread so lightly your existence isn’t felt.

Wispy Falls is suited for fit kids and workmates who hate hiking. Further on, it’s more for the bored and the breathless, where tourists are obsolete and tropical butterflies break the monotony.

It’s 16km before the track reaches the junction to the granite spur that forms the 70m waterfall. Cannabullen Falls.

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IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM My trusty percolator Finding a discarded bit of clothing on the trail - the skin of a red belly black Cannabullen Falls Look carefully, and you’ll see it; an orange marker. This is what passes for a trail in the Misty Mountains Descending into Wispy Falls

CONTRIBUTOR: Rachel is a senior paramedic who works on the Cassowary Coast. She goes hiking sometimes and functions off too much coffee, and can’t see the forest for the trees.

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I. Was. A. Bit. Of An. Idiot. These are the first words you hear from the first human you’ve seen out here in a while. No plan. No contact. No beacon. No map. No water. No food. This guy is nuts. You smile awkwardly and agree with the title of his story while you dish out morning tea. Well, morning coffee—as usual, you are carrying your mini hiking percolator.

In the world of instant, coffee should never be a part of it. The beans you carry cost $44 a kilo, no Blend 43 for you. No way. And this stuff will get you through anything. Even for I Was A Bit Of An Idiot Guy. Later, you decide his story would be better called ‘Mountain Men and Short Blacks’.

It’s a steep slippery side down into Cannabullen Creek. The ridge is dodgy. It’s easier to slide down, and with undies now full of rocks, you realise the hardest part isn’t over.

Look up. It’s here. Everywhere. Right above your head as you wade along the creek’s edge: gympie-gympie (AKA stinging tree). One of the world’s most poisonous plants, it packs a painful punch of tiny silicon hairs that, when touched, fill your skin with a neurotoxin you quickly regret making contact with. And while the pain can last months, out here it takes just a split-second lack of concentration to brush up against it. And it grows wild with fury.

You head onto the Cardwell Range Track. The temperatures here will overheat your engine during any season. The welcome sight of a creek is hard to describe as you lounge around in the stagnant water while the local towns hit Level 3 water restrictions. It’s a scary change when one of Australia’s largest water supplies hits super low.

Transforming from dense rainforest to dry overgrown fern gullies and eucalypt ridges, this track is an old forestry trail that leads you straight onto the Bally Knob Ridge. Snake country.

The place is scattered with pythons and eastern browns. Equipped with gaiters and a lacklustre mindset, you walk slowly through knee-high grass. As you head up over the ridge, this is what you wanted to call home. And your way back to it. W

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C H A S E

A Canadian and Aussie team of skiers and snowboarders sets off on a fifteen-day quest to ride Australia’s steepest backcountry lines.

Words Tim van der Kroght Photography Aaron Dickfos

Mt Feathertop

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Mt Carruthers Mt Bogong

Chris Wills picking up pace on the Western Faces of the Main Range, Kosciuszko NP

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his isn’t it.” I was getting saturated, huddling under a rock with two other sweaty dudes, and in a total whiteout at the top of the continent. The winds were howling.

“What?” yelled Chris.

“I don’t know much about survival,” I shouted back. “But this isn’t it.”

The three of us were hiding under the rock avoiding a lightning storm we found ourselves not under, but in. The big metal rod that made up the bones of our shelter, conveniently placed in the highest point around, didn’t seem like the safest place to be. Now, however, we were getting soaked to the bone.

If lightning doesn’t get us, hypothermia will. What are we doing here? I thought to myself not for the first time this trip. So, what were we doing here? Well, we were chasing the steepest lines Australia has on offer.

The plan was simple: Hit up three of Australia’s steepest backcountry zones, with five days camping at each location, with perfect weather all the time and plenty of time to scope lines, get warmed up and bag rad footage showcasing the Australian backcountry’s untapped potential. That was the plan, anyway. But the thing about adventure filming is that, no matter how much you prepare, Mother Nature always has the final say.

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Australian Alps, VIC + NSW

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his journey started two years earlier, when my friend Chris Wills and I were in Revelstoke, BC, Canada. We were barely employed and living in a temple of ski bummery—a double-width trailer passed down through multiple generations of ski bums. No two pieces of furniture matched, and the walls were plastered with photos from some of snowboarding and skiing’s greatest moments. We spent most of our time either riding or skiing, or talking about riding or skiing.

It had been a long spring, and we’d achieved a lot of our goals.

We’d also learnt a lot about how we operated in the mountains, and our skills both uphill and downhill had come a long way.

One afternoon, as I was doom scrolling social media, I saw a post from Mt Hotham. In the background was Mt Feathertop.

The image took me back to my time doing seasons at Hotham, and I remembered early mornings at work watching the sun rise over the mountain. I was always impressed by it, and always dreamed of riding it, but I lacked the skills, the experience and the right people to do it with. Now, however, I was looking at a mountain I knew I was capable of.

“Ever heard of Mt Feathertop?” I asked Chris, as he prepared his fifth cup of coffee for the day.

“Yeah man,” he said, as his eyes lit up.

“It’s crazy that there’s terrain like that in Australia,” I replied.

“It looks siiiick.”

“And that’s just one zone, you should google Watsons Crags.

Bogong is sick too.”

And as I did, I started finding more incredible zones I knew I wanted to ride. I’d stare at these pictures and mind shred them, putting down imaginary lines all over the faces. I knew people rode these lines, but why weren’t they more often spoken of? I now know that Wild Mag has been speaking of these places for decades, but back then, two years ago, the more I researched these areas, the more I wondered how it was that most Australians didn’t even know these playgrounds exist. I decided to find out for myself.

Two years later, I’d be in a tent for three weeks, holed up with two stinky guys and a breakaway city girl. I’d be living off bagged food, hiding from lightning storms and sharing my sleeping bag with soggy boot liners, all in an effort to ride, document, and eventually make a film about chasing elusive lines at three locations that offer some of Australia’s steepest terrain: Mt Bogong; the Main Range’s Western Faces; and, of course, Mt Feathertop.

But before that, we needed to con some sponsors into funding our adventure. Then we needed to con some local photographers into filming it. We assembled a rag-tag team of stragglers and hooligans. There was Chris, my ex-roommate, a man I trust wholeheartedly in the mountains, who is not only a great skier but also a vert-crushing beast; Aaron Dickfos, a Jindabyne local with a camera and a passion for pointing it at things; Divya Gordon, an incredibly talented filmmaker with a thirst

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THE COMMUNITY WE SHARED THE HUT WITH WAS DOWN

TO EARTH AND GRASSROOTS, FULL OF

SMILING PEOPLE PASSIONATE ABOUT THE MOUNTAINS.”

for adventure, who would soon wonder how she got roped into our circus; and myself, a classic example of someone whose life has been utterly derailed by snowboarding.

PHASE ONE: MT BOGONG Victoria’s highest peak was the perfect place to kick things off.

The three-kilometre hike into Michell Refuge provided easy access to some luxurious camping, and the faces of Bogong— while beautiful and steep—are nonetheless less technical than the terrain we’d be facing later in the trip, and would ease us into the challenges to come.

And so we set off, slogging up the Eskdale Spur Track, suffering under packs laden with riding gear, cameras, drones, spare batteries, camping equipment and a slab of Bridge Road beers.

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Michell Hut tucked away just below the treeline, not far from Mt Bogong Tim laying down some turns on a firm but fun Cairn Gully, a classic Bogong line Having a hut and crackling fire to dry your gear at the end of the day is like heaven compared to the tent life we’d soon be experiencing on the Main Range Getting the gear up top is only half the fun

The years of dreaming about this trip and the hours of work that had gone into this project had resulted in high levels of anticipation. Emails, Zoom call meetings, putting together a crew, finding a time that worked for everyone’s work schedules—it all built up. That night, however, as I lay in my sleeping bag, anticipation turned to excitement. We were here. Finally, we were going to spend the next five days on snow. We would soon find out, however, that that would not be the case.

We woke to foul weather, but being of the belief that you have to be in the park to play ball, we headed up the summit ridge regardless. As we pushed on, the weather worsened, and the trail markers we followed—placed roughly every fifty metres— became harder to see. Group members got cold. Tempers got heated. We decided to cut our losses and head back to camp.

We realised we were dealing with a waiting game, and until the sun shone, we’d have to find other ways to spend our time.

Fortunately, Michell Refuge was a bustling little ecosystem; multiple groups used the hut, from ski tourers to hikers to pattern-based XC skiers. We were all there for different reasons but were all limited by the same factors, and so we found ourselves becoming friends, playing cards, chopping wood, telling stories, and making jokes. It was my first taste of a community we’d see more of. And let me say, the Aussie backcountry scene

is thriving. It didn’t seem to matter what you were doing, how good you were, or how long you’d been doing it; everyone was there to enjoy the mountains, to get outside and to get offline.

Far too often, the backcountry community can feel toxic; inflated egos are often found lurking around trailheads or in huts, sharing opinions and giving tips you neither asked for nor needed. Instead, the community we shared the hut with was down to earth and grassroots, full of smiling people passionate about the mountains and excited to be around others who share their love for them.

Nonetheless, angst grew as the days ticked by. The weather never changed. Frustration set in. We’d all taken swathes of time off to do this trip, and sponsors had expectations we needed to meet; as the days passed, we started worrying that we might never get the sunny day we needed. But with just one day left, we woke up to sparkling skies. We rushed out of bed, crammed food down our gullets, and bolted for the alpine.

As soon as we made our first turns, it all paid off. The waiting game, the mandatory patience…they made us appreciate every little turn and every foot of vert. But while the day was awesome, the mountain and conditions would soon humble us once more. By us, I mean me. After dropping into a line ready to cut a big heel-side turn, I lost my edge and began slipping down

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the chute. I fought with gravity, tried to get my edge in the snow.

The edge bounced and chattered and fought back; eventually, I came to a stop. But I realised I’d found another challenge to overcome—Aussie snow. Riding here isn’t easy. Snow conditions can change so fast; while one turn is slushy, the next could be icy. You need to be able to account for that and ride reactively.

By day’s end, we’d put down five runs. As we went down the ridge back to camp, the sky lit up in a jaw-dropping sunset.

Blazing orange sunbeams shone down on luscious green farmlands deep in the valley below. When the alpenglow set in, the snow turned a deep pink. We had been tested, and we had been patient. Now we had been rewarded.

PHASE TWO: THE WESTERN FACES I knew my best friend was dead. Minutes earlier, Thomas had dropped over a roller in the couloir and was out of sight. But when I followed suit, an avalanche ripped from wall to wall, with Tom in the firing line. I started freaking out. A paralysing anguish overcame me. It was an anguish I’ll never forget.

I especially couldn’t forget it now—despite it being years on since that day—as we headed to the Sentinel after nailing our first lap on Carruthers. Having crossed the deep valley between the two, we were confronted by a face that lay bare with rock; the whole snowpack had failed right down to the dirt. Living in

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I NEVER THOUGHT THAT IT’D BE IN AUSTRALIA THAT I SAW

ONE OF THE LARGEST, MOST DESTRUCTIVE AVALANCHES I’VE EVER SEEN.” Revelstoke, I never thought that it’d be in Australia that I saw one of the largest, most destructive avalanches I’ve ever seen. Massive chunks of snow had scoured the valley, bringing trees with it, and leaving the slope scarred like it had been stripped clean by a raging river. An ominous feeling filtered through the crew.

That day with Thomas flooded back. It was in my early years of splitboarding in British Columbia, when he and I were part of a group aiming for a descent called Dogleg Couloir. The backcountry community often talks about trusting gut feelings; later, each of us would later share that their gut was sending signals, but not wanting to be that person in the group, we bit our tongues. The resultant poor communication—and overlooking obvious warning signs—led to bad decision making.

Dogleg Couloir itself was mellow, but accessing it meant traversing below a convex roller (a feature that creates a weak point in the snowpack) and above a large cliff, large enough that

you could confidently assume it was an unsurvivable fall. Thomas dropped in first, and jumped around on the roller to see if any snow moved. It held. So he dropped over the roller and out of sight. Feeling confident in his assessment, I followed, made one turn, then another, and then: CRACK. The whole face let loose.

I was lucky; the crown broke at my feet, sparing me from an unsolicited cliff ride.

But Thomas, while out of sight, was directly below me. My stomach dropped, and my mind flashed with images of his body—battered, bruised, lifeless. I started yelling for him. No reply.

I started trying to process Thomas’s death, but then I realised where I was. I was out of sight from the group, who wouldn’t have known what had happened. Above me, there was hangfire—snow that could be released at any time, especially if another group member decided to follow. I had to get out of there, but I couldn’t move. Then I heard a voice yelling back. Tom was safely tucked under a rock.

Despite his survival, I still vividly remember that anguish. And I learnt a lot that day, and ever since I’ve been hyper aware of what’s below me. For this reason—especially if I see something like the debris in this valley between Carruthers and the Sentinel—avalanches in Australia scare me, but I’ll get to that soon.

But first, let me backtrack a few days, to when—after packing up the travelling circus and crossing the border into New South Wales—we’d detonated a gear bomb in the living room of Aaron’s shoebox two-bedroom apartment. He’d naively agreed to host us in Jindabyne, which is where we’d decided, mostly because of the weather, to head next.

We arrived at his place at 9PM, exhausted, hungry and, having not showered for five days, stinky. Aaron’s partner, Sarah, greeted us. And not only did she tolerate our garbage banter and in-jokes, she—angelically—cooked us a warm meal.

Around this time, we learned that local backcountry etiquette meant packing

IMAGE - THIS PAGE Parking the tents up top provided phenomenal views of the Sentinel and Main Range once the weather cleared IMAGES - OPPOSITE PAGE; CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT You stop and think twice when you see an avalanche that’s taken out the entire snowpack down to grass Dropping into Watsons Crags Where to next, boss?

Rime-coated leaves sparkle like crystals in the sun Lewis Foster in beast mode hauling five nights of (mostly unnecessary) gear out to the Main Range A scary amount of snow and debris from the Sentinel avalanche

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WE CONVINCED AARON TO SHARE ONE BIG DRY BAG. IT WAS A BAD IDEA. THREE ADULTS OVER FIVE DAYS PRODUCE A LARGE AMOUNT OF, WELL, SURPLUS:

HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHO CARRIES THAT?”

out everything we brought in. And I mean everything. This includes human waste. I only knew the Canadian backcountry’s dig-and-bury method, so Aaron began offering instructions.

“So, you’re gonna need parchment paper, some plastic dog bags, and a dry bag each.”

“That seems like a lot,” I replied. “I’m not baking cookies; I’m taking a shit. What do I need parchment paper for?”

Aaron explained the four-step process that went parchment paper, into a bag, into another bag, into a dry bag.

“Do we really need a dry bag each?” asked Chris. “Can’t we just get one big one and share?”

In the end, we convinced Aaron to share one big dry bag. It was a bad idea. I won’t delve into it deeply, but let’s just say that three adults over five days produce a large amount of, well, surplus. How do you decide who carries that?

My other advice: Don’t cheap out on a dry bag; find one that won’t get a hole in it at the least convenient moment.

We regrouped with Divya and her partner Lew, a local shredder with much experience recreating in the range. The weather seemed to be on board with our plans for at least one day in the next five, so we headed out to the Western Faces, ready to roll cameras when the sun shone.

Across flats and over bridges and then into a whiteout we went, with Chris and I following our crew blindly through thick clouds. When we finally reached the Western Faces, where the Main Range abruptly ends and disappears into the valley below, we looked out across the landscape and Mt Feathertop saw…nothing—nothing but the inside of a dense, white cloud.

The next morning, we were gifted with one of the most beautiful wakeups I’ve ever experienced. I’m not a morning person, but as we unzipped the tent fly, I laid eyes on the view we’d been denied the previous day. There was not a cloud in the sky; Carruthers’ north face had lit up. To our right, at the end of a knifeedge ridge, lay the jutted peak of the Sentinel. I was stoked.

Knowing we may have just one day of good weather, we followed Lew as he led us on a traverse which allowed us to hit Curruthers, the Sentinel and Watsons Crags one after another.

On the way, we saw the chilling avalanche debris I mentioned earlier. But after an epic day, we made it back to the tent safely, where we celebrated our success with shots of whisky and lowgrade freestyle rap battles.

For the remaining few days, we were weathered out, forced to hunker down in our tents. Eventually we pulled the pin, bailing in the same fashion we’d arrived—navigating through a whiteout.

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PHASE 3: MT FEATHERTOP I often tell people the coldest I’ve ever been was during my Hotham seasons in Australia. My father was an Arctic bush pilot, so I’ve experienced temperatures cold enough for boiling water to freeze instantly, for your nose hairs to stick together on every inhale. Still, snowy winters in Australia feel colder. The moisture in the air cuts through your clothing to your bone.

I remember living in a small flat in Dinner Plain, paying way too much rent. Our house was so cold that we could never get warm; we cooked with balaclavas on and huddled on a small couch. One housemate never showered at home—who knows how long he went between showers. Now, however, I have been colder than that.

It was on the hike up to Feathertop. We found ourselves drenched to the bone, fully separated from each other, too cold to stop moving.

I was so wet I had to change right down to my base layers twice. It was the closest I’ve ever come to hypothermia; the only thing going for us was that we had the comforts of Federation Hut, where we could light a fire and get warm. If this had happened on the Main Range, we’d have been toast.

Our gamble paid off, though, and we woke to 40cm of fresh snow. We’d actually done a reccy out here a month ago to check out conditions. They were not good; the mountain was falling apart. But now it seemed Feathertop had been given a facelift. The old glide cracks had filled in, and blue-tinted rime clung heavily to the rocks. It was like we’d been teleported from late September to mid-winter.

But that didn’t mean we were riding and skiing yet. Given we wanted to drop into some of Australia’s most consequential lines, which were layered with 40cm of new snow, we gave it a day for the new snow to bond. As I said, avalanches in Oz scare me. They may be less likely than in Canada or Europe, but when they do go, they go big. A low-risk, high-consequence situation.

To make things worse, the layout of the terrain here increases those consequences. In Canada, backcountry terrain might be tight and technical up high, but then it deposits you into large open bowls; the snow, if it does avalanche, generally fans out. In Australia, we found the opposite. Terrain traps abound. Often large open faces are high on top, then funnel down into ever narrowing creeks. With nowhere for the snow to go, even small avalanches can result in very deep burials, and even if your friends get to you, there’s no guarantee you’d survive after getting tossed through tight rocky chutes or over snow gums.

Stars aligning with a true dream run for Tim from the peak of Mt Feathertop

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Chris Wills with the Razorback illuminated during a short weather break The steep, complex, committing terrain of Feathertop’s southeast face; they call it Avalanche Gully for a reason Point your axe over there—it will make for a cool shot

CONTRIBUTORS: Tim van der Krogt is a Canadian big mountain snowboarder; everything else he has tried to be has been derailed by an unhealthy obsession with mountains. Aaron Dickfos is a permanently stoked photographer based in Jindabyne, NSW. Tim and the crew’s movie 36° South will be available to Australian viewers towards the end of June.

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As I get more experienced and reflect on that day with Thomas, I find myself worrying about what lies beneath me for more reasons than just slides. A ribbon of enormous cornice lined Feathertop, and the terrain’s funnelling nature ensured that if it collapsed, wherever you were in the area, the cornice would find you. Conditions also changed drastically; a slushy face in the sunshine with plenty of grip could turn to a sheet of ice in minutes simply by having a cloud roll over. If you lost an edge, you’d go for a long slide, most likely ending by slamming into some pretty hard things. It would be nasty, and I found myself riding with ice axe in hand more times than expected.

We were once again, however, graced with luck; a melt-freeze cycle bonded the fresh snow firmly to the old stuff. When perfect blue skies eventually appeared, we cut three laps on the southeast face. We moved around like clockwork, found our groove, and now we ticked off a succession of bucket-list lines. It was a blast.

As I strapped into my snowboard on top of Feathertop, I thought of my 18-year-old self staring across the valley, dreaming of this line. It seemed unachievable. But eight years of progression brought me here. The thing was though, I hadn’t been noticing how every little step I took added up to one big leap. It’s not often you get to compare yourself through time.

But getting here didn’t come easily, and it didn’t come without challenges.

Backcountry riding in Australia is similar; it has its own challenges: testing snow conditions, difficult access, bad weather—it still blows my mind that our trip came down to just three perfect days, with only one in each location. So yes, the Aussie backcountry is not easy. Many experienced backcountry enthusiasts in Canada and Europe would struggle. But if you push through, you’re rewarded with incredible experiences in one of the most beautiful and unique mountain ranges on Earth. W

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GIRRAWEEN NATIONAL PARK’S AMAZING GRANITE WALKING

Not far from the NSW border, Southeast Queensland’s Girraween National Park offers walkers and adventurers a distinctive landscape to explore.

By RYAN HANSEN

Martine taking in the sunset from a high point along Mallee Ridge, the Pyramids in the not-toodistant background. Many of Girraween’s rounded peaks feature impressive stain-like patterns like these that glow brightly at dawn and dusk

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Girraween NP

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Granite Walking, GIRRAWEEN NP

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ALFWAY BETWEEN STANTHORPE AND TENTERFIELD, nestling against the NSW border, lies one of Queensland’s most spectacular reserves: Girraween National Park. Roughly 120,000 annual visitors come to experience the 12,000ha

park’s vast expanses of impressive granite formations, which include football-field-length slabs, living-room-sized boulders and distinctively dome-shaped mountains.

The granite was formed roughly 250 million years ago, when a major geological-compression event caused vast bodies of molten magma to rise through the Earth’s crust.

While some broke the surface and erupted from volcanoes, much of the magma remained under the Earth’s surface, slowly cooling and solidifying to create granite intrusions. Erosive forces—which have worn away kilometres-thick upper layers of rock—and upwards expansion has since produced swathes of granite peaks. Complex forces associated with this expansion also caused vertical fractures in the granite, and continued erosion has resulted in large, rounded boulders, characteristic of Girraween’s mountains.

These granite formations aren’t just picturesque, though; they provide outstanding bushwalking opportunities. While most visitors frequent hotspots like the Pyramids, Castle Rock, the Sphinx and Turtle Rock, if you expend a little more energy, equally spectacular (if not more so) destinations lay in wait. West and South Bald Rocks, Middle Rock, the Twin Peaks and Billy Goat Hill are just some of the less visited peaks that are just as deserving of attention. A quick perusal of satellite imagery also reveals a wealth of unnamed ridges and mountains begging for exploration too.

In 2022, my wife and I explored Girraween across two four-day bushwalks. This is our testament to the exhilarating granite bushwalking that Girraween National Park has to offer.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Sunset over Wallangarra Ridge, a granite wonderland Wandering through a collection of monstrous granite boulders, many of which are precariously balanced. Some, like the high one to Martine’s right—with a bit of imagination—resemble dinosaur eggs Martine on the most exposed part of the climb to the true summit of Mt Norman. While the scrambling isn’t technically difficult, there’s a good dose of exposure (in bushwalking terms) and some people will prefer the use of a rope. While the walking track contours below the true summit for this reason, the views from the summit are incredible and well worth the effort

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At the base of some of Girraween’s peaks, boulders have rolled down the mountains and become chockstones in large cracks, like the giant one above Martine’s head. For those willing to explore beneath, a cave-like world awaits

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Granite Walking, GIRRAWEEN NP

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP On the next bit of the scramble up Mt Norman First-class sunsets were a feature of our second walk.

We paused here to enjoy the last rays from South Bald Rock, next to yet another balancing boulder Emerging from a maze of boulders near Mallee Ridge.

In this particular area, there are a profusion of aplite intrusions (the raised white bands noticeable to Martine’s left), which were formed from dregs of liquid when the magma was cooling. Feldspar and quartz are the constituents Late-afternoon light on cascades near Underground Creek, before the water goes, well, underground

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Granite Walking, GIRRAWEEN NP

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT A striking red-triangle slug (Triboniophorus graeffei) popping out for a visit after rain Girraween is an Aboriginal word translating to “Place of flowers”. This pretty orange and yellow plant is a globe pea (Sphaerolobium sp.)

A beautiful native iris, most likely Patersonia fragilis Martine scoping potential routes to the summit of Middle Rock, another of Girraween’s impressive mountain domes, at sunrise from West Bald Rock. Later that day, we’d attempt to summit Middle Rock Granite camping atop West Bald Rock. We managed to find a site sheltered from the westerly winds that was flat enough to make do with. It was a special place to witness the start of a new day Martine halfway up the final scramble to Middle Rock’s summit. It doesn’t look like much from this angle, but it was a mentally challenging climb of about 20m. The start wasn’t too bad, but the higher we went, it got steeper and the gap wider, though a nice crack provided great handholds. To the right of Martine was a deep cleft that we preferred not to look at

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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LARAPINTA TRAIL

UNBOXED A return to the natural world

For millennia, stints in the desert have been associated with thoughtful introspection. So after the confinements of the COVID lockdowns, Matthew Crompton set off to the Red Centre’s iconic Larapinta Trail, where he could, as much as anything, do this: free his mind.

Words & Photography MATTHEW CROMPTON

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Looking out in the dawn from the ridgeline at Reveal Saddle. Below, a long dry creek bed leads back in the direction of Standley Chasm. Much of the Larapinta is spent gradually ascending or descending these dry watercourses, in long stints that become a form of walking meditation

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Larapinta Trail, NORTHERN TERRITORY

Alice Springs

I

n 2021, at the height of Australia’s COVID lockdowns, I took to stealth camping in a city park. This wasn’t ideal, but sleeping outside has long been a psychological pressure-relief valve for me, and I was going crazy without it. The grove that I hung my hammock in was tiny, and the park one of Sydney’s busiest. But it was within the permitted five-kilometre radius of my house, and provided I both got in and got out when it was still dark, I figured I’d be a-okay.

This resulted, predictably, in an embarrassing episode in which I was forced to flee from park security in the middle of the night, running through trees and across dewy fields at midnight with my hammock billowing behind me like a parachute. It was extremely undignified. But it got me through: After a few months of illegal park campouts, the vaccines arrived, and we were out of the lockdown box.

Nonetheless, confinement is as much a psychological state as it is a physical one. I was reminded of this as I stood, a year later, in the dawn at Simpsons Gap, twenty minutes outside of Alice Springs. The light was pewter in the sky, and warming. From orbit, this place—all of Central Australia, really—looked indistinguishable, the crust of an old planet, corrugations and red-black rust. But being here, as the clear shallow water that filled the sandy floor of the gap exhaled its cool sweet breath, the place was vividly alive.

I was here to walk, and so I walked. I took my photos and my fractured attention and shouldered my pack and set off west, into the rolling yellow grassy hills of the West MacDonnell Ranges.

The Arrernte, the Traditional Custodians of this area, called it Tjoritja. It had variously, over deep geologic time, been both sea floor and towering mountain alp. Now, it consisted mainly of two low broken ranges—the rugged Chewings in the north and the Heavitree in the south—and the various valleys between and among them.

Stars wheel above a waterhole campsite

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It was 26km that day west to Jay Creek: hours of rocks and acacia scrub, sweat and blisters, the sun a blinding desert orb radiating heat and light like a primal god. As I walked, I thought about the last two years spent living inside of rectangles inside of rooms—catch-ups with friends and family inside of online chat windows, collaborating with colleagues over Teams, and bingeing endless shows on Netflix to pass the time. Until, at length, a boxed-in world became the default.

At its worst it was doomscrolling, but even as I happily met up with friends for our regular Wednesday night trivia over Zoom, I could never escape the certainty that all of this—this world of virtual substitutes—wasn’t quite life. I was both endlessly bored and endlessly distracted, and I wasn’t the only one. A close friend, an avid reader, told me that she hadn’t been able to pick up a new book in two years; rereading old favourites being all that she could focus on.

Life loses a horizon, and in losing it, there’s no easy way to get it back. In camp at Jay Creek that night, I lay in my tent as the Milky Way rose in the deepening indigo of the southern sky. I’d fallen in love with the night sky over the last two years, taking trips from my home in Sydney three hours west across the Blue Mountains, to where the light of civilisation fell off into blackness. I’d learned the stars and constellations of the southern winter night—Spica and the Crow and the red supergiant star Antares, burning rubybright at the heart of the Scorpion. Lying there at Jay Creek in my tent, gauzy with tiredness, I thought that if there was an opposite to the boundedness of screens and rooms, it was this: the night sky, bottomless. And then I slept.

The following day was harder than the last, but more beautiful, and so perhaps easier in the end. The Chewings Range swallowed me as I climbed into a landscape of dry stony creekbeds, of rocky ridges and gullies where I scrambled up and down steeply for hours, surrounded by bone-white ghost gums and palm-like cycads—relics of Gondwanaland, growing out of the ochre cliffs.

In the waning light, I followed a dry creekbed upstream, then climbed at length to a high rocky saddle. There I laid out my mat on a sheet of Tyvek in the open air. Looking back in the dusk over the long red-green valley below, I lanced my blisters with the tip of a pocketknife, expressing the fluid in pressurised jets, then lay back on my mat in the spectral twilight, just breathing.

Exhausted, my mind was quiet, and I found that I was more body than ever. My awareness beat vividly alive inside me like a small bird held in the palm of the hand.

Somehow, as my attention had fractured over the long course of the pandemic, it had become a labour simply existing without recourse to distraction. Then again, I’d been on that course for years. I recalled a day back when I had lived in Seoul in the late 2000s, on the bus between work and my home, a journey of no more than ten minutes. Some wondering had come upon me—the tallest mountain on the continent of Antarctica, or when the next

Midday light kisses the cliffs of Ellery Gap, throwing reflections into the water of the Big Hole

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Larapinta Trail, NORTHERN TERRITORY

series of Breaking Bad was due out—and my mind had instantly reached for that data, only to be stifled by the temporary lack of internet access that was the basic condition of existence in the pre-smartphone era. Yet I realised that somehow it was the first time in my life that that momentary lack of access, that momentary disconnection, had felt like an amputation. And that, from there, my hunger to exist always in something other than my own consciousness of the present moment would only grow.

When the sun rose the next morning, the stars having wheeled in their arc around the southern pole, the day was hot. I walked, and the sun blazed. The day reached 25 degrees. I trod ridges and crested saddles and trudged through the deep sand of a dry riverbed and came to Birthday Waterhole at two in the afternoon, hungry and footsore. I dropped my pack and minced in flip-flops to the waterhole and plunged myself in my stiff sweaty clothes into the shockingly cold water. I emerged, spluttering and baptised and shivering. Soon, it was night again.

I lay beneath the sky as Arcturus, the bright ruddy twin of Antares, rose in the constellation Boötes to the north. There was no mobile signal in this place, and that meant no screen to reach for, the boxed-in impulse to self-stimulate arrested before it could arise.

Living in the box these past two years, habitually removed from the natural world and from normal human company, I was like everyone else, having built up endless substitutes to compensate. These ersatz fulfilments came in the form of exercise and caffeine and alcohol, true. But mostly they were distractions— things built of loops and screens, exploited for dopamine again and again. They were endlessly absorbing, yes. But it was all bad product, and went sludgy in the veins like a sugar high, leaving the body overstimulated and the mind dissatisfied and wanting more.

The next day, I passed into the canyonlands of an ancient red eroded Himalaya. The gorges of the Chewings Range were time capsules, remnants from when this desert continent had been cool and wet—a time fifty million years gone, preserved in the hidden cracks of the Earth itself. I spent all morning leaping from boulder to boulder, scrambling up and down dry streambeds and waterfalls. I danced from step to step, letting my momentum carry me. Balanced on the point of one rock, I sighted the next a short hop away and let myself fall, carried by gravity towards it. It was a physical and psychological flow state, and the narrow gorges slurred into shadow and colour and motion as the time melted by.

I’d become increasingly obsessed with the concept of flow over the past several years, accosting strangers at bars and acquaintances at parties to ask them when, in the course of daily life, they found themselves to be truly happy. Content in activity itself, without thought to culmination or reward. Hungarian-American psychologist Mihály Csíkszentmihályi had studied the experience, and found it to be a period of absorption characterised

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by a sense of total immersion and involvement in the present moment, a state of pleasurable unbroken focus. And while the compulsive exploitation of digital dopamine loops superficially resembled a flow state in its capacity to wholly absorb and enrapture attention, it was not built on experiencing deeply, but on experiencing shallowly, again and again and again.

In the coming months, I would find myself drawn to water, taking surfing lessons and returning to my practice of freediving after a long absence. The natural association of these activities with flow, with depth, was thematically appropriate, but what I would find in them more than anything else was a sense of unbrokenness. The way that anticipating, catching, standing up on and riding a wave all formed a single long natural moment; or how a dive into cobalt depths—the water growing cold on my skin as I descended, the fish fleeing down the current into waving beds of sea grass and my diaphragm spasming as I turned to sight the surface once again far above me—created a unified elastic reality in which my attention would look nowhere else.

Walking on, I reached Windy Saddle and climbed onto the high broken spine of Razorback Ridge, traversing its shattered stegosaurus strata. I hiked down off the ridge into another dry creek bed that I followed west, gradually climbing to another saddle. It had been a wet year in Central Australia, one of the wettest ever,

The long narrow spine of Razorback Ridge stretches away to the west beneath a hot cloudless sky

THE IMPOSITION OF THIS HARD

GEOGRAPHIC LIMITATION HAD LIBERATED ME FROM THE STULTIFYING EFFECT OF ENDLESS CHOICE.”

and the valleys were carpeted in lushness, in green spinifex and kangaroo grasses. In a year or two, our altered climate will flip its switch to extreme heat and drought, and all of this will burn. I descended from the saddle towards the mouth of Hugh Gorge, a huge Half Dome the colour of fired brick rising massively above it to the north in a towering bluff.

A few hundred metres into the gorge, its orange-vermilion cliffs exhausting all the words for redness, I ran into Vivian. A power hiker from Melbourne, she set a blistering pace to match my own, and we had been bumping into each other off and on all day. Now, I found her perched on a rock ledge, stalled as she attempted to navigate around a deep pool of cold water contained between the cliffs.

Human beings are animals defined by our capacity for cooperation, and Vivian and I took turns to scramble down off the high ledge onto a narrow sandbar, barely submerged on the right side of the waterhole, handing the packs down to each other to avoid

a swim. A group of older hikers behind us, who came to the pool just as we were getting back into our boots, had no such luck.

Many splashed off the low edge of the ledge directly into the deep pool, thrashing and spluttering.

A 60-something woman from the group came trudging up the sandbar behind us in her wet bathers. Stripping off her bikini top, she slipped on a dry t-shirt. “Guess we’re free-balling it to camp, hey?!” she cackled to her sexagenarian friend, who was also gleefully getting her kit off in the cool air of the gorge. God, I love Australians so much sometimes.

That night I camped at a wide spot in the canyon, a river of wind pouring down the gorge from the north. Overhead, the Pointer and the Cross rose and wheeled as the bright giant star Canopus set behind the rocky ridgeline to the southwest. Twice as I lay tired in the dusk, my inflatable pillow was blown away by a sudden strong gust to float on the surface of a nearby waterhole. Chastened, I built a small wall of stones to shelter me on the windward side. The wall of stones built, the wind grew faint, and soon ceased to blow entirely. Typical.

I was deep into the hike now, into the timeless physical aspect of it. There was no schedule to follow, and no immediate avenue available into any place or experience but the one that I was now absorbed in. I was both totally locked in and simultaneously

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totally free, as if the imposition of this hard geographic limitation had liberated me from the stultifying effect of endless choice.

Laying there, the spectra draining toward the horizon from an indigo wellspring at the top of the sky, I thought about the dopamine loops, about the structure of empty reward. The finest example of it, I thought, had to be the ‘unboxing’ video: that strangely ritualistic reveal where a purchased product, fresh from a factory floor somewhere in the so-called ‘developing’ world, was undressed on-camera before your very eyes. It was the hunter-gathered thrill of the get, of a serendipitous find, stripped of both effort and process and thereby left hollow. A painted cake, as the Buddhists say, that did not satisfy hunger.

And yet the truly insidious twist lay not in how the unboxed thing did not satisfy our hunger, but in how the act of seeking that momentary thrill sharpened and intensified the hungering itself.

For the dopamine system was one fundamentally concerned with wanting, not getting. With the itching anticipation of reward rather than the reward itself. And the more we fed it, the hungrier it became, until pursuit of the hunger rose to obscure our full awareness of the world.

In the morning, I packed up and hiked out of Hugh Gorge and into the Alice Valley, the straw-coloured sun blazing high above a landscape of low ridges and dry grass. Mica and quartz glittered in the ancient soil as I trudged a long undulating ridgeline. The Chewings Range rose up rugged and red and purple and green to the northwest, looking soft and ethereal in the distance.

The day was a meditation, and thoughts circulated in my head like visitants, coming and going all day long while my boots crunched the dry dust. Are my problems only problems because I keep trying to solve them? I wondered. And: The things that I

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ALL AT ONCE A KNOWING INSIDE ME UNDERSTOOD. IT

SAW THE TRUTH OF SPACE AND TIME

AND SAID A SINGLE WORD: WAIT.” become anxious or angry about; aren’t they like worries or misfortunes in a dream that vanish the moment I stop giving reality to them? Again and again, families of red-faced zebra finches roosting in the scrubby acacias raised an alarm and took wing as I approached, rocketing off down the wind like bullets.

By mid-afternoon I reached Rocky Creek, shadeless and sunblasted but for a small patch in the lee of some rocks in the dry sandy creekbed, where I pitched my tent. I washed the dirt and sweat from my face and lay shirtless in the tent, reading until the purple dusk had come and gone and the sky was once again black and astral and luminous.

I thought about my last trip to the Northern Territory, up in the Top End around Darwin. It was a great melting pot and crossroads of Aboriginal languages and cultures. There, at night beneath the open sky, with a clear mind and a quiet heart, the subtle space swarmed with presence, with an endless Dreamtime layering. Here, in the remote desert centre of the continent, the subtle vibration was different: quiet and deep and old.

I looked up at the night sky, at the worlds unfathomably far away across the unbridgeable gulf of space, and all at once a knowing inside me understood. Grasping and inhabiting the endless chain of lives stretching away into the dark, pre-human past, into the obscure post-human future, it saw the truth of space and time and said a single word: “Wait.”

So much of our present predicament, I thought, a world accelerating itself as fast as it would go towards ecological and social collapse, emerged from a derangement of perspective. When I was a teenager, I lived in Ohio, and I would sit alone in the woods and try to feel the reality of the place before it had been colonised by my ancestors. Those woods were part of the great hardwood forest covering the eastern United States and Canada, and had been the home of the Erie people, a powerful and influential tribe known for their skilled diplomacy and ability to forge alliances.

A rich, complex, and highly organised society, they had lived for thousands of years among the bounty of the great hardwood forest, building a culture that would indefinitely enjoy but not exhaust its riches. By the 1650s they were gone, having run afoul of the neighbouring Iroquois Confederacy, who wished to monopolise the fur trade with newly arrived Europeans, and who triumphed in this aim with the aid of guns that those Europeans provided. In little more than 200 years, much of the forest that they could have occupied for millennia more had been settled and stripped bare for farmland.

I hiked one more day across the Alice Valley, drawing nearer and nearer to the shattered ochre wall of the Heavitree Range to the south. I hadn’t looked at or even thought about a screen in days, and the richness of the world, its limitless and bottomless facets, were so full in me that I felt I could not humanly hold any more. My mind barely served any longer to separate me from the world that I walked through, only to mediate its reality into consciousness.

I walked into the deserted campsite at Ellery Creek north and stripped down and waded into the large permanent waterhole in the gap that locals call the ‘Big Hole’. Even in the blazing midday desert sun, the first cold bite of the water shocked my breath away.

I lay floating on my back in the gap’s oasis waters. From here, you could look 500m across the waterhole to the south and see the daytrippers gathered there. Many sat near the water’s edge, looking of course at their phones. It was no wonder, I thought, that our absorption in virtualities, in manufactured environments increasingly positioned to substitute for the richness of a living world, and with our concomitant estrangement from other beings, all coincide with the ever-direr diminishment of the natural environment.

A shopping mall explodes with stimuli, for example. It holds an endless array of bright and colourful things whose very purpose is to attract and hold attention, compelling the

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Hikers wade up a narrow sandbar beside a deep pool in Hugh Gorge Larapinta constants: grasses and broken rock Dingo tracks in wet sand near a transient creekbed waterhole A ghost gum tgrows out of the ochre cliffs Even in the era of smartphones, a good paper map still delights Trail markers in the sunrise beyond Simpson Gap The large, permanent Birthday Waterhole is bracingly cold, even in the heat of late afternoon

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The Milky Way rises behind a rocky hill as the desert night is drowned in stars

HOW DO WE LIVE WITH INTENTION AND ATTENTION? HOW, IN

THE WAYS THAT WE ARE BOXED IN—THE WAYS THAT WE BOX OURSELVES IN—DO WE NOT ALSO

LOSE THE WORLD?”

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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hunter-gatherer thrill of the get to arise in us. And yet, like the screen-based loops, its offered rewards are vanishingly shallow and short-lived, its fulfilments hollow. We cannot find lasting satisfaction in consumerism any more than we can in bingeing TikToks.

Yet we continue to bulldoze bushland for another Bunnings, enacting the economic ideology of a cancer cell and calling it prosperity.

Here is the fact that I was finding walking on the Country of Tjoritja, and sleeping beneath its skies: that to be stimulated was not the same thing as to be fulfilled. After this trip was over, I would return to Sydney and buy myself a Nokia 6300 dumbphone. It was a small block of cheap grey plastic with no touchscreen. The battery lasted for days and it came with Snake preloaded, and to compose a single text message on the keypad would routinely take minutes. Yet it was possible, too, to stand in the supermarket checkout line without reaching for it, and to kill that impulse felt like an unfettering, like a kind of waking up.

There on the evening of that day on the Larapinta, I did something dangerous. In the day’s last light, I donned my boots and scrambled up onto the red rock ledges above where I had pitched my tent on a bench of sand north of the gap. It was cool as I set off in the winter sunset, but by the time I had mounted the first pitch of the stepped and broken rock face, I was sweating, and had stripped out of my fleece.

The pitches were full of hard spiky spinifex that pricked me through my trousers and left a sticky resinous perfume on my hands as I climbed. I scrambled higher, traversing a ledge to a small gully wedged with great rounds of broken stone. The ledge was exposed, and I sought out and tested holds before I placed my weight on them, knowing that I must not slip or fall. I looked down at my tiny tent far below, knowing that I was doing the thing our outdoor culture so often moralises you never to do: to knowingly put yourself at risk.

Yet risk is at the heart of life. Knowingly, and unknowingly. And failing to be present or awake to life, though immaterial, is a risk of great consequence as well. I stripped off my sweaty t-shirt and in the dying plum-red light took in the whole wide valley before me, its expanses of sand and mallees and acacias. The Chewings Range in the purple distance to the north. Already the stars were glittering into existence, the tail of the Scorpion an inverted question mark shaping itself out of the twilight. It asked: How do we live with intention and attention? How, in the ways that we are boxed in—the ways that we box ourselves in—do we not also lose the world?

I began to downclimb to my camp in the empty valley. A hawk passed in silhouette against the sky, and in the shadows of the gap, I heard the trill of night birds waking. W

R ECON N ECT W ITH N ATU R E Relax. De-stress. All over the world, we venture out into nature to reconnect with ourselves. So get out there with the Mammut Hiking collection. Slow down and experience

M A M M U T18 6 2.c o m . a u @ M A M M U TA U S N Z

Monte Rosa, ITALY + SWITZERLAND

THE

SPAGHETTI TOUR

Jumping crevasses and conquering fear in Europe’s Alps

Words WENDY BRUERE Photography WILLIAM SKEA

Monte Rosa

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Approaching the summit of Castor— it didn’t look this steep from below

W

e were only six hours into what was meant to be an easy five-day tour when we saved a man’s life. By ‘we’, I don’t mean ‘me’. Nor do I mean Peter,

my partner in both life and on this climb.

By ‘we’, I mean Will.

Peter and I are alpine amateurs; our friend Will, conversely, is a mountain maestro. In exchange for a donation to his cat-rescue charity, he was guiding us on the ‘Spaghetti Tour’, a classic route through the Monte Rosa Massif—a collection of connected peaks spilling between Italy and Switzerland that culminates in the Dufourspitze, which at 4,634m is Western Europe’s second-highest peak. The route takes in many of the massif’s 4,000+m peaks, and is done—usually—over five days, with you staying at high-altitude mountain huts on the Italian side; the final hut, Margherita Hut, clings improbably to the very summit of the 4,554m Signalkuppe. From there you descend the Grenz Glacier towards Zermatt, Switzerland.

A friend who had done it several years ago made it sound like a picturesque stroll across the top of the Alps, with easy summits giving panoramic views of soaring mountains. But a heatwave meant conditions were different in 2022. As the permafrost melted, there was increased rockfall; as glaciers deteriorated, more crevasses appeared. And due to the lack of snowfall the previous winter, not only were conditions steeper and icier than usual, the glaciers were left with little protection from the heat of the summer to come, which, as it turned out, would be the hottest on record. Prior to 2022, the Swiss Academy of Sciences defined an annual loss of Switzerland’s glacial-ice volume of two per cent as ‘extreme’. In 2022, it lost an unprecedented six per cent.

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Monte Rosa, ITALY + SWITZERLAND

Blue Lake, NEW SOUTH WALES

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM On the cable car from Zermatt to 3,883m, watching the landscape turn to ice Ready for adventure— Peter and I excited as we prepare to begin Following the ridge to the summit of Castor We spent our second day in the mountains revising crevasse rescue The unmistakable Matterhorn rises in the distance

BEFORE WE’D COMMENCED OUR TOUR, Peter and I had revised crevasse-rescue techniques at our campsite in Zermatt. But that was before Will had actually seen the on-mountain conditions; once he’d seen them, he suggested we take an extra day to polish our skills. And so we did, practising anchors and haul systems in the lacerated ice near the hut. As the uncharacteristically aggressive sun grew bolder in the afternoon, the snow turned to slush. Shallow puddles formed. Avalanches crashed in the distance. Only once Peter and I had demonstrated our skills—taking turns being lowered into a silent, white crevasse to be then ‘rescued’—did Will seem confident in our abilities. Fair enough; if Will was the one to fall, his life would depend on us.

On the first day, we had taken the first gondola up from Zermatt. We summited the Breithorn (4,163m, and my first 4,000er) in the morning, walking up a snow slope that became steadily steeper and icier, before—in the thinning air, gasping for breath—creeping along the knife-edged, otherworldly ridge.

The crevasses were so plentiful as we returned to the glacier, it was like navigating swathes of ancient fabric, ripped and torn.

We didn’t pause before jumping across each rent. As is standard practice for glacier travel, we were roped together, so a fall was unlikely to be dangerous. I was at the end of our group of three, so I often didn’t have time to think before I jumped—if the others were moving, pausing on the edge would risk me being yanked forward. For wider crevasses, we tiptoed across on snow bridges, hoping they’d hold. Occasionally one of my legs would punch through a weakness in a snow bridge, and I’d gently transfer my weight to my other leg, hoping that one didn’t go too.

Then two men overtook us. They were moving fast but— strangely—unroped across the glacier, and we registered the danger. Fifteen minutes later, we caught up with them. One had

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broken through the snow, and was dangling above a ten-metre crevasse. In a stroke of luck, though, his pack had caught on the crevasse’s lip, and his friend had grabbed his arm in a monkey grip to stop him falling further. Still, he teetered on the edge of death. The pair were helpless to do anything but wait.

Then we arrived. In a second, Will assessed the situation and morphed into James Bond on ice. In two minutes, he built an anchor, secured himself, got the man on a rope, and hauled him out by his pack. Peter and I followed Will’s instructions to stay high on the slope and to build a backup anchor, which—probably luckily—was not put to the test.

The rescued man didn’t speak much English, but he patted Will’s shoulder and said a heartfelt, “Thank you!”

NON-MOUNTAINEERS MIGHT BE BLISSFULLY unfamiliar with something called a ‘V-thread’. I was, however, about to discover that two joined holes in ice—and here’s the salient bit—and nothing more, are apparently considered perfectly acceptable to rappel from.

I discovered this as Will trailblazed a direct route to our first night’s hut, the Ayas Guides Hut. It was perched by the end of the glacier, and our new line down the ice became uncomfortably sharply angled. Sleet chilled our bodies and obscured our vision. Will later happily declared, “It looked like we could’ve been on K2!” Then, while we traversed along a steep slope using ice screws for protection, we sighted the track below: It was clear the quickest way to reach it was to abseil.

Will used an ice screw to drill two angled holes that met in the middle, like a V, to thread the rope through. The first people to go down can use ice screws as a backup in case the V suddenly

TO ME, WHO HAD NEVER ICE-CLIMBED IN MY LIFE, IT

LOOKED LIKE THE WALL IN GAME OF THRONES.” shatters in an explosion of icy doom, but the last person (inevitably me) had to remove the screws, and trust the V-thread entirely. The theory being that if the V-thread survives the heaviest people first, the lightest one should be fine without backup.

It took four anxious pitches to reach the bottom. Will and Peter proclaimed it the best part of the day.

We stayed the first two nights at the Ayas Guides Hut. Chatting to other mountaineers there, we realised most had hiked up from the valley on the Italian side—guides from Zermatt were no longer prepared to take clients the way we had come. Even the famously easy Breithorn was off the cards. I was both reassured by this (if we’d already done something guides wouldn’t take clients on, then surely it’d be easier from here?) and concerned (what exactly did we think we were doing on these disintegrating glaciers?).

Our next 4000-er was Castor. We started back up the glacier by the light of our head torches at 4:30AM. The mountain was like a sleeping snow leopard. From a distance it looked like a soft mound of pillowy white; the closer we got, the more danger became apparent. The easy start metamorphosed into stark edges and hard surfaces; one misplaced foot could send you hurtling back down the slope. Will switched us to short-roping, assuring us that if someone slipped, the others would catch them immediately and we wouldn’t all, for example, be dragged down together in a screaming, spiky mass of crampons and ice axes.

Around 25m below the summit ridge, the route transformed into a straight up ice climb. Will led it easily, as I belayed. He glided over the icy bergschrund and disappeared up the nearvertical slope. It was the kind of climb he could have happily soloed. To me, who had never ice climbed in my life, it looked like The Wall in Game of Thrones.

Peter and I each carried one ice tool. Will climbed with two; he would lower them back down after he set the anchor. Meanwhile, Peter and I waited, balancing on the footholds we’d kicked into the slope, wriggling our toes to keep warm. Suddenly one axe shot down the rope, attached by a carabiner, quickly followed by the second. It was time for me to learn to ice climb.

The first few metres were solid, featured ice. It cut away at the base and I struggled to find footholds. But eventually I got started, and I discovered that even my shaky crampon and axe placements held. I flailed my way up, moving as fast as I could, desperate to get the ordeal over with.

I shouted up to Will, hopeful for some reassurance.

“Does it flatten out at the top? It gets easier after this, right?”

“Mmm,” Will replied. “It’s quite a narrow ridgeline. You might not like it.”

Will assured me the ridge was safe. If one person slipped, the other two could just jump over the other side to catch them on the rope. Easy peasy.

At the summit the wind was bitter, but the sky was forget-menot blue. Lightheaded with adrenaline in the oxygen-sparse air, the peaks unfolded below us in peaks and dips like the skirt of an overly extravagant wedding dress, fading into the valleys below.

The trail widened a little on the other side of the mountaintop, and for one perfect hour we stayed high, following the ridge gently down through the ethereal landscape.

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Monte Rosa, ITALY + SWITZERLAND

DAY FOUR. I WOKE UP FEELING NAUSEOUS with anxiety. The route ahead looked to be a draining slog up the glacier, then rock and ice climbing with unknown conditions. I was physically and mentally tired. I could have faced either the psychological challenge of fear, or the physical challenge of pushing through. But both together seemed too much. The alternative was to hike down into the valley, and catch a gondola up from the village to meet Peter and Will at Gnifetti Hut. Still, I hauled myself out of bed at 3:30AM with the others. I told myself I didn’t have to go, but that it was worthwhile keeping the option open for a moment longer. So I had breakfast, put my harness and boots on. But then I turned to the others to explain. I immediately regretted my choice, disappointed in myself for giving up so soon on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Deep down, though, I knew my mind was made up.

“You go into the mountains to push yourself, to learn about yourself,” Will had said.

I wasn’t so sure. Many mountaineers believe that the act of conquering a summit is one worth dying for, or at least risking death for. No disrespect to these people, but I just … don’t.

I mean, I love the alpine environment. And with Europe’s glaciers losing mass every year, and widely predicted to all but disappear by the end of the century, there’s a sense of urgency to see these shrinking natural wonders. A few weeks earlier, Peter and I had been in the Dolomites, admiring the Marmolada Glacier, just days before it collapsed. It brought home how fast and unpredictably the Alps are changing. Recreation in the mountains becomes more dangerous every year.

Before I bailed, I had quizzed Will about safety. He was reassuring, explaining how we’d able to manage and minimise the dangers. But he was also realistic, reminding me that mountains always have hazards that can’t be avoided.

I wondered if I had gone with Will and Peter and died that day, would the risk have been worth it? I didn’t have to think about the answer. Nope. Not a chance.

There’s an expression: “There are old mountaineers and there are bold mountaineers. But there aren’t many mountaineers who get to be both.” My mother will be relieved to hear no one is ever likely to accuse me of being a bold mountaineer.

THE NEXT MORNING, BACK ON TRACK with reassurances that the day’s route was straightforward, we moved slowly and steadily up an immense ice sheet. The snow blushed pink as dawn broke. We veered around the edges of vast crevasses, and watched the ice turn translucent sapphire as the sun inched higher.

It was the kind of extreme, heart-rending beauty that makes you want to stare at it so hard it’s locked into your memory forever.

No wonder Europeans were quicker to recognise the danger of climate change than Australians, I thought. Proximity to the

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IT WAS THE KIND OF EXTREME,

HEART-RENDING BEAUTY

THAT MAKES YOU WANT TO STARE AT IT SO HARD IT’S LOCKED INTO YOUR

MEMORY FOREVER.”

mountains means they see global warming in real time as glaciers melt, making it a personal issue, not just an academic one.

Witnessing something so majestic and powerful wither away before your eyes would leave one grief-stricken.

Our destination was Europe’s highest hut, Margherita Hut. Perched at 4,554m on the rocky summit of the Signalkuppe, it was built in the 1800s as a base for scientific research. The focus back then was on altitude physiology; these days the research mostly relates to climate change. In 2021, scientists used the hut as a base to extract ice cores from nearby Colle Gnifetti, where the ice is up to 80m thick at the start of the Gorner Glacier. The ice cores contain tiny pockets of air which hold information about conditions on Earth thousands of years ago. The cores are stored in Antarctica; extracting them sooner rather than later is vital, because as the glaciers melt (see images on opposite page), the information within them is lost forever.

Looking towards Italy from the hut’s balcony, the cliff dropped sharply down for hundreds of metres. Regular rockfall saw boulders bouncing down the distant slopes. Looking towards Switzerland was the Monte Rosa Masiff, with the Matterhorn rising unmistakably in the distance.

Will and I had started to feel the effects of the altitude: headaches; mild dizziness. An Austrian guide with a deeply lined face and the sort of muscular build that meant you’d trust a body

1930

2022

belay from him, insisted the best cure for altitude sickness was genepi, a local herbal spirit.

He said red wine worked too, and that he always carried a bottle up the mountain with him.

He also assured us it would be an easy walk down the glacier the next day. In retrospect, after his claims about the healing powers of genepi—which Will and I eventually tried, and immediately regretted—we probably shouldn’t have believed him about the glacier.

Our descent began as the pink alpine glow crept down the silent mountaintops. We passed towering, intricate ice sculptures in the bergschrund as we made our way down the Grenz Glacier. Before long we saw evidence of rockfall around us, so we moved fast before the sun hit and loosened more rock. On a slope far to our left, a huge avalanche thundered down only moments after the sun’s golden rays arrived. I must have watched in awe for a full minute as tonne upon tonne of frozen debris crashed towards the glacier with heart-stopping force.

The further down the glacier we went, the wilder the crevasses became—we seemed to spend more time jumping crevasses than simply walking. But then we came to a widerthan-usual jump. I hesitated, knowing there wasn’t much chance I’d make it across.

Will grinned from the other side, as he took the excess rope in, ready to catch me.

“It’ll be fun!” he insisted.

He was lying, of course. But there were no other options. I jumped.

My hands reached the other side, and a crampon managed to find purchase on some ice below the lip. Will pulled me in hard on the rope as I slipped, and then he dragged me over the edge by my pack as I scrabbled to safety on all fours.

“See, wasn’t that fun?” Will grinned.

We were soon back on rock, then on a dirt track, then descending fast to Zermatt.

Will was right: You learn about yourself in the mountains. I hadn’t gone for the personal inner journey, but it happened all the same. I learnt that even when I was tired—really tired, out of breath with the altitude, muscles straining—I could keep moving. When I was terrified on an ice climb, I could keep climbing. When we faced objective dangers like rockfall, I didn’t panic. When tripping over could be dangerous, my focus sharpened. And if the only way across a gaping chasm was to jump, I could at least try.

The applicability to day-to-day life is yet to be seen. But maybe, just maybe, if the glaciers last a little longer, one day I’ll be back to test myself in these mountains again. If all the beauty and wonder I saw is to be condemned to history, I want to gather all the fragments I can and hold them tight in my memory. W

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT Wendy trying not to trip as she inches along the ridge line A poster of Rifugio Margherita (aka Margherita Hut). Clinging to the summit of the Signalkuppe, the hut is the highest in Europe The Gorner Glacier in 1930 and as it is today (well, 2022). Ice cores taken from the glacier are being used to research Earth’s atmospheric conditions thousands of years ago. Credit: Swisstopo and VAW / ETH Zurich

CONTRIBUTOR: Wendy climbs, hikes, writes and eats cheese, but not necessarily in that (or any) order. She’s published several anthologies that her mum thinks are brilliant.

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WINTER EPIC

No

Turning

Back The 650km Australian Alpine Walking Track is one of Australia’s greatest hiking challenges. But a Queenslander and a South Australian, neither coming from a state noted for snowy weather, decided they needed a greater test still, so they set off to do it in winter. On the way, they dealt with avalanches, frostbite, swollen rivers, whiteouts, ice bullets, dangerous tumbles and the theft of gear…by a rat.

By REID MARSHALL

W

e were in over our heads. Here we were, on the final climb to Magdala’s summit, and two options presented themselves: Either go directly over the massive cornice, or traverse around and ascend the southern (and wind-slab avalanche-prone) aspect.

It was a daunting choice, one that could mean our lives.

Despite the risk, we chose the latter.

Not a single step felt secure. One misplaced kick of a boot, or one crack of the ice underneath, could spell the end of me. Or us. We thought the real danger would be at the Crosscut Saw, not here. But now here I was, torn between scurrying to the summit to minimise my time in the danger zone, or taking my time and being surefooted. I chose the latter. In any case, I had gone too far to turn back.

After reaching the summit, a wave of relief washed over me. But it was short lived. I looked back at Chippy, who’d begun following in my footsteps. And that’s when it started, a rumble so deep it shook my very being: an avalanche. +++++ 118

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Tharwa T W AA

Walhalla

Reid (AKA Wombat) in whiteout conditions along the Falls to Hotham Alpine Crossing

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AAWT, VIC + NSW + ACT

THE AUSTRALIAN ALPS WALKING TRACK (AAWT) is a long-distance walking trail through the alpine areas of Victoria, NSW, and the ACT. This 650km journey starts in Walhalla, Victoria and finishes in Tharwa, ACT, just south of Canberra.

Ascending Australia’s tallest peaks, the AAWT is a popular thru- or section hike in warmer months. But having hiked significantly longer trails—Chippy had done the US’s Continental Divide Trail and I’d done the Appalachian Trail—we didn’t think a summer thru-hike would be enough of a challenge. So, with me (AKA Wombat) being a Queenslander used to July warmth, and with Chippy being from snowless South Australia, we decided to up the ante: We would do the traverse in winter.

The first sign we were woefully unprepared came before we’d even set foot on the trail. We’d decided to first undertake an avalanche-awareness course at Jindabyne. The fun part of the course involved rescuing fake people buried under the snow using our beacons, probes, and shovels. The less fun bit was learning that the risks posed by avalanches and exposure in the Australian High Country were far greater than we thought.

We set off regardless, spending the next couple of days dropping off buckets of food and supplies at predetermined points along the trail. Without a slew of funds, most of my meals consisted of noodles, peanut butter wraps, and instant oats. Chippy, on the other hand, had a dehydrator, and went all out with curries, stews, and even hummus.

With months of planning, and huge time and money invested into gear, the avalanche course, and food drops, we were all agog to start trekking.

WE WEREN’T EVEN FIFTEEN MINUTES into our month-long journey when the sound of bagpipes flooded the valley alongside the morning light. The ‘Walhalla Bagpiper’ had just started playing his melancholic tunes atop the cliffs overlooking the town, and he sent us off on our traverse with a smile and a wink. Everything seemed to fit into place, and all sense of civilisation and human existence faded rapidly. I felt on top of the world. Neither of us, however, had ever carried such elephantine packs. Not only did a winter trip demand heavier and more technical gear (like a four-season tent, snow shovel, etc), but a winter road closure forced us to haul enough food for the first nine days.

Our joints were already beginning to strain.

By Day Two, we were completely alone, and verdant forests had given way to snowy mountaintops. With snowshoes on, we began trudging up and down mountains from sunrise to sunset.

But the window between the two (sunrise and sunset, that is) was limited: 7:30AM to 5:00PM. The lack of daylight, coupled with our new aches and pains, saw us falling behind our anticipated pace. We didn’t know whether we had enough food to make it to our first resupply point at Mt Hotham.

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DO WE TRAVERSE THE CROSSCUT SAW WITH HIGH AVALANCHE DANGER, OR DO WE TURN AROUND

BEFORE WE RUN OUT OF FOOD? ” On our sixth day, we made a desperate push to ascend Mt Clear after sunset. The snow-covered peak had loomed in the distance all day; climbing it now under torchlight seemed surreal. The sky was ablaze with the lights from billions of stars, and the lights from Mt Buller Ski Resort shone in the distance. Although the AAWT doesn’t pass through Buller, knowing that people and help weren’t far away was reassuring.

Descending Mt Clear was a different story. With each downward step, unbearable pain began radiating outwards from my right knee. I couldn’t take a step without succumbing to tears.

Too exposed to set up camp, I tried sliding down the mountain on my butt instead. I was moderately successful in this, and we finally reached a flat, snow-covered road. I started setting up the tent; Chippy went off in the dark to find water.

After what seemed to me like an hour, I heard them yelling in the distance. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Were they lost?

When they made it back to the tent, we melted snow instead, and I now realised that my insulated bottle was missing—it must have fallen out of my pack when I was sliding down the mountain.

The next morning was one of the most picturesque and perilous days of our lives. We woke at 4AM, knowing we’d need as much daylight as possible to safely traverse the Crosscut Saw. We started snowshoeing along snowy 4WD roads, and then descended to the base of Mt Magdala. The snow a few days prior had dumped here. Even in snowshoes, we sunk knee-deep with

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Sunrise after leaving Edmonson Hut near Falls Creek Wombat and Chippy atop Mt McDonald Where’s the next trail marker?

Wombat with nine days worth of food Taking in morning rays at Vallejo Gantner Hut

every step. The ascent was toilsome. Meanwhile, the terrain became ever icier, and crampons became necessary.

Then my ears perked up: the low frequencies of an avalanche.

It was distant but alarming. My heart was in my throat. The recent sunny weather following a colossal snow dump had made southern aspects here prone to wind-slab avalanches. Behind schedule and already rationing food, we had a question to answer: Do we continue up Mt Magdala and traverse the Crosscut Saw with high avalanche danger, or do we turn around and try to make it back to civilisation before we run out of food?

We had no choice but to push on. But Chippy and I were terrified. Even when we were both safely at Magdala’s summit, the ongoing rumbles of crashing ice and snow on the slopes nearby was unnerving. We needed a backup plan fast. There was a hut before the Crosscut Saw, but we’d still need to traverse more avalanche-prone terrain to get there. Setting up our four-season tent on the summit wouldn’t be ideal, either. And there was no way we were going back the way we came.

After consulting backcountry condition reports, and after trying to take in the spectacular scenery, we made a decision. On the map, it appeared the approach to Mt Howitt was low-angle enough to avoid a wind-slab avalanche, and so we decided to head to the Vallejo Gantner Hut just beyond.

The hut was a godsend. The fire kept us warm and dried our sodden gear, and we escaped the elements for the first time in a week. That afternoon, we planned alternate routes to bypass the avalanche-prone terrain. The limiting factor was the amount of food we had left; waiting out the high avalanche danger for more than two days wasn’t an option.

It wasn’t until the stars illuminated the sky again that I remembered what we’d seen from atop Mt Clear—the lights of

Mt Buller Resort. And after scouring our topo maps, we discovered a route that could get us there. We trod carefully down from the stark ridgeline, following snow-covered trails that were immensely overgrown and taxing, but it was far preferable to being buried in the snow. It took two days to reach the resort, which was in peak ski season. Seeing so many people was overwhelming, but comforting too.

AFTER WAITING OUT THE HORRENDOUS CONDITIONS, resupplying our food, and getting a replacement water bottle, we were back on trail. The alpine crossing from Hotham to Falls Creek was up next, and it was breathtaking. Mt Feathertop dominated the immediate landscape, with rolling snowcloaked mountains and ridgelines fading into the distance. With minimal avalanche danger and low-angle snowshoeing, we could finally enjoy the scenery.

On our first night back on trail, I lost my headlamp at Dibbins Hut. I could have sworn that I had it right next to my sleeping mat when I drifted off to sleep. I searched my sleeping bag. No luck.

So I asked Chippy to do the same. We were already getting on each other’s nerves, and they didn’t want to go through their stuff (again!) to find something that wasn’t there. Then I noticed we weren’t the only creatures seeking shelter here; rat droppings littered the hut floor. But even if a rat could physically drag a headlamp, why would it? (Ed: You’re right; I can’t see the point in a rat stealing one. The strap wouldn’t fit its tiny head, for starters.) But after a 30-minute search, Chippy found a hole in the very corner of the hut just wide enough for a rat. And lodged in this hole, with bite marks all over it, was the headlamp. It must have been too wide. Fortunately, it was just reachable with a human arm.

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IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Chippy XC skiing through the Jagungal Wilderness Everyone has to get a photo at Valentine Hut Seamans Hut saved our lives Oldfields Hut on a snow-less day near the finish line This Alpine Track marker needs a haircut

After Falls Creek, we encountered our first major water crossing—Big River. Knowing how cold the water would be, we’d brought along water booties. Well, one pair of them, the idea being that, after crossing, one of us would throw them back to the other. But the rivers were often too wide to risk throwing them, so—having carried them all this way—Chippy wore the booties.

Later, I would learn that this would take a toll on me, potentially with lifelong effects. In the Jagungal Wilderness, after reaching Valentine Hut on skis, we would need to cross the wide and deep Valentine Creek, followed shortly after by the Geehi River, and then two more subsequent creeks. Trying to balance a full winter pack through belly-deep water—clad in just undies but with skis submerged in the river, causing immense drag— made each crossing slow. Each one felt like an agonising eternity, with water so cold it felt like searing hotness branded my skin.

My feet were discoloured, and this time, the numbness didn’t fade away like it had before. I was frostbitten.

That was all in the future, though. Before then, there were more huts, rats, and icy rivers to cross, but Chippy and I were getting stronger daily. Our aches and pains faded, and we adapted to the cold and to our snowshoes. Speaking of which, we’d made the right decision to use them instead of skis so far; we’d barely been able to make it 100m in most places without having to heave ourselves over a fallen branch or traverse a patch of boulders jutting out of the snow. Nevertheless, from Dead Horse Gap, we planned to cross-country ski as far as we could. The terrain was supposedly ideal for skiing.

Impeccable timing had us hitching into Jindabyne just before an onslaught of 100mm of rain. We waited out the worst of it before picking up our skis and then skinning up to South Rams

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I KEPT GAINING SPEED, HURTLING TOWARDS MY INEVITABLE DEATH. MEANWHILE,

ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT WAS HOW I COULDN’T FEEL MY TOES.” Head. No one else was out that day, and for good reason. The rain had soaked through the snow and subsequently frozen. Chippy and I fell over more times than I could count. And that was before the blizzard set in. Full whiteout conditions. One-hundred-kayan-hour winds. Bullets of ice, belting into us so hard we were left with bruises. It took us six hours to reach Mt Kosciuszko, having to either shelter or dig our feet in every time a big gust came through. We had no choice but to bail to Seamans Hut. Then it happened: a misplaced step. I began tumbling down Etheridge Ridge. Nothing I jammed into the ice would stick. I kept gaining speed, hurtling towards my inevitable death. Meanwhile, all I could think about was how I couldn’t feel my toes.

A hundred metres went by in an instant. I hurtled towards a ledge with seemingly terminal velocity, and I braced myself.

Death seemed inevitable. But then, fortunately, those same icy pellets that had left me bruised had accumulated here, and the air between all the pellets made the collision akin to landing on a feathery bed. I got up, dusted myself off, and made my way back up to the ridgeline towering overhead. Chippy was waiting. “I looked up,” they said, “and you weren’t there anymore. At first I thought you’d boosted ahead.” It took us another hour to make the final kilometre to the hut.

That wasn’t the last of our falling, though, nor the last of our

AAWT, VIC + NSW + ACT

bruises. Skiing through the Jagungal Wilderness, the frigid mornings hardened the snow, and we tumbled frequently. It gradually became easier and more painless to just use our snowshoes on the slick ice. As we inched ever closer to Tharwa, the snow receded; we ditched the skis, and returned to regular old hiking shoes for the first time since beginning our journey.

Despite still not being able to feel my toes, the snowless terrain—and our desire to both finish and to gorge ourselves on enormous amounts of junk food—allowed us to hike huge distances; we knocked off multiple fifty-kay days in a row. On our last few days, we chanced upon dozens of brumbies, upon bridges inundated due to snowmelt, and upon an interminable amount of macropods.

As we hobbled down the final mountain to the Namadgi Visitor Centre at Tharwa, just south of Canberra, heavy rain obscured my tears. The near-death experiences, the extreme cold, the booming of avalanches, the numb toes, the bruised hips, the unusable knee—these were all forgotten. Instead, the tears came forth from Chippy’s motivating words, from the hardships we’d overcome, from the unforgettable landscapes, the pure joy of just being in nature, and, most importantly, from the connection I’d built to the trail and our Australian Alps. W

CONTRIBUTOR: Queensland-based guidebook author and obscene optimist Reid ‘Wombat’ Marshall can’t get rid of the mountains or the rats.

5 THE

Wild

BUNCH

A quick lowdown on

DAY WALKS IN THE NT’S

RED CENTRE

Alice Springs

Words & Photography Alistair Paton A NATIONAL PARKS’ BROCHURE DESCRIBING the walk to Mutitjulu Waterhole, one of the few reliable water sources at the base of Uluru, advises visitors to “sit quietly and listen to the sounds of the beginning of time.” It’s a sentiment that could be applied to the entire Red Centre, a large expanse of baking desert that is remote and forbidding and, at the same time, full of interesting and rare plants and animals, and breathtaking geological formations.

Many of the locations here are sacred to First Nations people who have inhabited this land for thousands of generations, and walking through the spinifex or along a rocky creek bed for those of us who have arrived much more recently can get a sense of why. The area’s most famous walking track is the 223km Larapinta Trail (Note: In this issue of Wild, there’s a feature on the trail starting on P111), but you don’t have to disappear for two weeks to experience the special pull of this place or to feel its spiritual connection; many excellent half and full-day adventures are available where you can explore gorges, rocky summits and world-famous landmarks. Here are my favourites.

THE BUCKET LIST

ULURU BASE WALK

ULURU-KATA TJUTA NP 10.6KM, 3.5 HOURS – EASY No matter how many postcards you’ve seen, nothing prepares you for the immense majesty and sheer size of Uluru. From a distance, it appears as the classic calendar view, but as you approach it gets larger and larger, until you find yourself under a rock face taller than the Eiffel Tower. You can’t climb to the top anymore (thankfully) but a circumnavigation at ground level allows you to explore details you never knew existed including caves, gorges, rock art and waterholes, plus multiple sacred sites to the Anangu people. Every morning a free ranger-guided tour leaves the Mala car park—this is a great place to start and get an expert First Nations perspective on a short section of the walk before continuing on the full circuit. The track is flat but there isn’t much shade, so take a hat, sunscreen and plenty of water (advice that applies to any walk in the Red Centre).

THE SECRET

VALLEY OF THE WINDS ULURU-KATA TJUTA NP 7.4KM, 3-4 HOURS – HARD

One of Australia’s best day walks navigates some of the 36 giant domes that make up Kata Tjuta/the Olgas, which is a 45-minute drive from Uluru and equally awe inspiring (Kata Tjuta is a Pitjantjatjara word meaning ‘many heads’ and the domes here rise as high as 500m). The full walk involves steep ascents and descents and is listed as Grade Four, with two taxing climbs to high points at Karu and Karingana Lookouts. The first comes

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early in the walk and can be a turn-around point if it’s too hot— the track beyond here is closed if the mercury hits 36 degrees.

The second lookout is the walk’s highlight, offering spellbinding views from a saddle between the giant domes; it’s an experience that won’t soon be forgotten.

THE DAY OUT

ORMISTON POUND

TJORITJA/WEST MACDONNELL NP 8.5KM, 3-4 HOURS – MEDIUM The West MacDonnell Range stretches 161km west from Alice Springs, with a series of wonderful sightseeing attractions along the way. Ormiston Gorge is one of the most popular stops, either for a look at the gorge and a swim at the waterhole, or to make a day of it by undertaking the walk through the gorge and the wider Ormiston Pound, a desert plain surrounded by hills and orange cliffs. This is the recommended option. The walk is a big wobbly circle which is followed anti-clockwise. Start by crossing the dry creek bed and climbing the other side to follow a ridge east, then swing northwest and drop into the pound itself, crossing wide, flat spinifex country. The route back is simple—follow the track west to enter Ormiston Gorge, where the creek cuts through a 300m-high ridge formed (along with the rest of the range) in a cataclysmic ‘folding event’ that started about one billion years ago. The gorge then curves south to return to the visitor centre (look for black-footed rock wallabies high in the cliffs). However, there is one complication—entering the eastern end of the gorge involves navigating a series of waterholes, some of which can only be crossed by wading in the freezing-cold water. It’s a good idea to ask at the visitor centre how deep the water is before heading out (or, in the dry season, if there’s even water at all).

THE WILD BUNCH

THE BREATHTAKER

KINGS CANYON RIM WATARRKA NP 6KM, 3-4 HOURS – MEDIUM

Another contender for the title of Australia’s best day walk, this circuit follows both sides of the mighty canyon, located midway between Uluru and Alice Springs. It’s a strenuous walk with steep rough sections, but the reward is sensational 360-degree views of an incredible arid wilderness. The hike’s toughest test is at the very start, as the track immediately ascends 500 steps up a dry rocky slope. After a rest and a swig from your drink bottle, the path flattens out, visiting a series of spectacular sights including Priscilla’s Crack (named for its starring role in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert), and the Lost City—a maze of sandstone domes that looks like a miniature Purnululu (Bungle Bungles)—and crosses the hair-raising Cotterill’s Bridge before rounding the gorge’s eastern end. A short detour is required here to visit the Garden of Eden, a cool oasis flanked by orange cliffs, palms and cycads. Return to the start via the canyon’s southern side, which has constant views of the immense cliffs of the north wall. Signs offer regular reminders not to venture too close to the edge!

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT It doesn’t get more iconically Australian than Uluru Rutjupma/Mt Sonder at sunrise.

The peak is the western terminus of the famed Larapinta Trail, but getting to its summit is also a classic day walk in its own right Taking a rest in Ormiston Gorge Walking on the south rim of Kings Canyon

THE EARLY START

RUTJUPMA/MT SONDER TJORITJA/WEST MACDONNELL NP 15.8KM, 6 HOURS – HARD

Watching the sun come up from the top of the NT’s fourth-highest mountain (which is also the western terminus of the Larapinta Trail) is an unforgettable experience, and something of a pilgrimage for many Red Centre hikers. It requires an early alarm—early enough to reach the trailhead at Redbank Gorge car park (156km west of Alice Springs) at least three hours before sunrise.

But it’s worth it. Start by climbing steadily to a saddle 2.3km away; from there it’s another 5.6km to the top, following a spine of 850-million-year-old Heavitree quartzite. The walk ends at the highest point on the trail. It’s technically not the mountain’s highest point— which is on the other side of a deep ravine and is about 20m higher. But that doesn’t detract from the experience, or the view. If you’ve timed it right, the sun will be just peeking over the horizon and lighting up the mountain’s twin summits, with the rest of the West MacDonnell Range and the surrounding desert bathing in a beautiful golden glow. In winter, temperatures here can drop below freezing, so pack a warm jacket and a thermos. After a well-earned break, follow the same route back to the car park.

CONTRIBUTOR: Alistair Paton started overnight hiking in his university days. He tries to get away from his home in Melbourne to somewhere amazing at least once a year.

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SOUTH COAST WALK THE MURRAMARANG

Words James McCormack Photography James McCormack & Quincy McCormack Sydney Murramarang NP

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QUICK FACTS Activity: Multi-day hiking Location: NSW South Coast Distance: 34km one way Duration: 3 days (as described, but can be done in less) When to go: Year-round Difficulty: Medium (Grade 4) Permits required: Necessary if staying in NPWS campgrounds Car shuttle required: Yes Navigation: Best done by the NPWS phone app

Rainfall (mm)

CLIMATE: BATEMANS BAY Temperature (C)

THE SOUTH COAST OF NEW SOUTH WALES offers some of Australia’s finest coastal scenery. Few sections are better, however, than that along the route of NSW’s newest ‘Great Walk’, which opened only in April 2023: The Murramarang South Coast Walk (SCW). It’s a fabulous hike of 34km through Yuin Country down a stunning section of crinkle-cut coastline, with a seemingly endless string of jewelled, secluded beaches studded by rocky headlands. In fine weather, there are more shades of blue here than there are shades of green in Ireland.

It’s not only the coastline that’s beautiful, though; impressive forests of tall spotted gum with thick understoreys of burrawang cycads lie along the route. And the fauna is a major attraction. It’s almost guaranteed you’ll see hundreds of ‘roos, but sightings of wallabies, pademelons, possums, sea eagles, lyrebirds, wonga pigeons, seals and dolphins are all common, plus whales at the right time of year.

Another beauty of the Murramarang SCW is its many options.

Although the walk will largely be promoted as being a north-to-south three-dayer, alternatives abound. With the numerous villages and campgrounds along the way, you can stay in tents, cabins or AirBnbs; coupled with the walk’s many access points, you can choose an itinerary that best suits you. The walk is far from entirely new, though; bushwalkers (and indeed the Yuin People) have long walked this stretch of coast. But large sections of old track have been upgraded, and in some areas, entirely new track has been constructed. By formalising these tracks into a ‘Great Walk’, the NPWS has created a route that will surely become one of the state’s favourite walks.

Honeysuckle Beach

Pebbly Beach and Tranqillity Bay

Sign welcoming you to the walk

WHEN TO GO With its mild climate, the Murramarang South Coast Walk is suitable year round. That said, there are some advantages to doing it between April and November, when the campgrounds aren’t as full, and the coast in general is quieter.

GETTING THERE Cars are the only realistic option for getting to either end of the track, either to Pretty Beach in the north, or, if you’re starting from the track’s southern end, Maloneys Beach. Whichever end you start at, given the walk isn’t a loop, you’ll also need to find a way back to your vehicle. The NPWS offers a shuttle (see ‘Fees’).

OPTIONS The walk is described here as a 34km three-day, north-to-south trip, starting at Pretty Beach and ending at Maloneys Beach, camping at Depot Beach and Oaky Beach along the way; this is also the way the NPWS promotes it. But one of the beauties of the Murramarang SCW is the sheer number of variants available to you. For starters, it can be done in either direction. But another really good option is to do what we did, which is to do the walk in both directions over three days, starting from the southern end and base camping each night at Depot Beach, the big advantage being that you don’t have to worry about doing a shuffle to get back to your car. You walk 24km north from Maloneys Beach to Depot Beach on Day One; 22km from Depot Beach to Pretty Beach, then back to Depot on Day Two; then 24km back

to Maloneys on Day Three. As your overnight gear is at Depot Beach, you’ll only be carrying a daypack, making these distances all the more achievable. For some people, given the short daily distances of the ‘official’ route, the longer days of this option are a plus. Others, though, will want to linger and take their time.

But there are many other options. You can do the walk in two days, camping at South Durras in one of the caravan parks (Lakesea, Big4, and NRMA Murramarang). There are NPWS campgrounds at Pebbly Beach and North Head, too. And according to the NPWS’s Murramarang Plan of Management, bush camping is permitted as long as it’s at least 100m from a track, road or coastline, or 500m from villages, picnic grounds or camping areas, so it’s possible to create a bespoke itinerary. You could also, if you’re a sufficiently fit trail runner, polish off the whole track in a day.

There’s even the option of extending the walk up to Kioloa, Bawley Point, or, if you’re super keen, all the way to Ulladulla.

Lastly, you don’t even need to camp at all; the NPWS offers a cabin-based itinerary. You can also—given there’s private accommodation at Pebbly Beach, Depot Beach, North Durras and South Durras—organise your own ‘luxury’ digs along the way.

FEES/COSTS/PERMITS If you do the walk as the NPWS promotes it, it’s $55 to camp if you do it independently, or $929 to stay in cabins. There’s also a $230 option available on weekends where they’ll shuttle you back to your car at the start: nationalparks.nsw.gov.au/ things-to-do/experiences/murramarang-south-coast-walk

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sH

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y

To Ulladulla

Kioloa

Pr in

MURRAMARANG SOUTH COAST WALK

Pretty Beach Campground

START

Pretty Beach Singing Stones Beach Dawsons Beach

Clyde River

Durras Mtn

Snake Bay

Pebbly Beach Campground

Pebbly Beach Depot Beach Depot Beach Campground

North Durras Durras Lake

North Durras Beach

Lakesea Park

South Durras Beach

Big4 South Durras

South Durras sH

w

y

NRMA Murramarang

Cookies Beach Mill Beach

Pr in

ce

Emily Miller Beach Dark Beach Myrtle Beach Oaky Beach Campground

North Head Maloneys Beach Campground

Batemans Bay

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2.5

5

7.5

Ye Q llo ui w rrig Ro a N or ck Be th B ac H ea eac h d h Be ac h

FINISH

Richmond Beach Oaky Beach Honeysuckle Beach

L Lookout

NORTH HEAD

10KM

Map data © OpenStreetMap

DIFFICULTY & NAVIGATION

CROSSING DURRAS LAKE

For the most part, walking the Murramarang SCW is pleasantly easy. High tides, however, can change everything, making some parts—notably Durras Lake (see next section), some bits south of Pebbly Beach, and sometimes Myrtle Beach, too—unpleasant, or difficult, or even impossible. It’s really important, therefore, that you download or print a tide chart before setting off.

Despite the NPWS touting the walk as being well signposted, there was virtually no signposting in the walk’s bottom third at the time of its opening (April 2023). The top two-thirds, however, were adequately marked, and it’s likely the bottom section will catch up soon. Nonetheless, be aware that if you do the walk not long after this issue goes to print, signposting may not be completed. As a result, it’s highly recommended that you download to your phone both the NPWS app and the Murramarang walk info (ensure the latter is available offline). While the app is sometimes clunky, its ability to use your phone’s GPS to display exactly where you are in those unsignposted sections is really useful.

It’s also recommended that you contact the NPWS office at Depot Beach Campground to find out about the Durras Lake crossing and conditions in general: (02) 4478 6582; 9AM-4PM.

The crux of the entire Murramarang South Coast Walk is crossing Durras Lake. The lake is what’s known as an ICOLL, an Intermittently Closed and Open Lake and Lagoon. When closed, the crossing is not even the slightest bit difficult; it’s as dry as crossing the sands of the Sahara, I’ve been told. But when open, the waters can be ankle/thigh/chest-deep or more, and there’ll be times (although this is rare) when even at low tide you’ll either be pack floating and swimming or arranging transport. Waiting until low or mid-tide can help, but this is not guaranteed. (One of my crossings of the lake was thwarted at mid-tide). Also, be aware that there can be up to an hour or so’s lag between the coastal tides and the inlet tides.

But here’s an important tip, one gleaned from locals: If the waters seem too deep, head inland to where the entrance broadens. Depending on the tide, you may find 50m in is sufficient, but it gets less deep still if you go 200-300m in, around to a spot where there’s a grassy flat and a few houses. If you can’t make your way across, there’s the option of contacting Bay and Beyond Tours (there’s a section on their website about offering assistance to walkers with the crossing: bayandbeyond.com.au).

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View from North Head Trig

EQUIPMENT The walk doesn’t require much specific equipment, but dry bags will allow more flexibility when it comes to crossing Durras Lake. And if you can waterproof all your gear, you’ll have the option of pack swimming across the entrance, presuming you’re comfortable with it.

ACCESS TO WATER There are no permanent creeks along the route, but tank-water options exist in a few locations: Pretty Beach Campground, Depot Beach Campground, and Lakesea Park (near the amenities block). Be aware the amenities block at NRMA Murramarang Resort only has bore water, and there is no water at all at Oaky Beach Campground; you’ll need to carry sufficient water to get you through the night and whatever walking you’re doing the next day.

SUPPLIES For supermarket supplies, the nearby large towns of Ulladulla to the north (35km drive from Pretty Beach) and Batemans Bay to the south (16km drive from Maloneys Beach) will have everything you need. Bawley Point, just 7km north of Pretty Beach, has an IGA. Along the walk itself, all the caravan parks in South Durras have a limited range of supplies. The NRMA Murramarang Resort has a restaurant, bar and café as well.

Besides that, there are no shops/restaurants in South Durras (the takeaway pizza joint closed some years ago). North Durras has a café, but it’s a bit away from the track. And Pretty Beach has a café as well, but it has limited hours: 10AM-3PM Friday-Sunday.

A SHINING EXAMPLE Around Australia, there has been a regrettable push to develop luxury, hard-roofed accommodation within our national parks. Such developments compromise our parks’ ecological integrity, their wilderness values, and their ability to offer equal access to all.

But the Murramarang SCW, the newest of NSW’s ‘Great Walks’, shows that there is an alternative model. If people wish to walk it in so-called ‘luxury’, there are accommodation options all along the route in existing villages; effectively privatising sections of the park to create ‘luxury lodges’ is unnecessary. Not only is it a great example for other parks, it also shows that the contentious development of the Light to Light Walk in nearby Beowa NP is not needed, when those who desire hard-roofed accommodation already have the Murramarang SCW as an alternative.

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TRACK NOTES

THE WALK IN SECTIONS DAY 1

Pretty Beach to Depot Beach 11km; 261m ascent/descent; approx 3-6 hours

The walk starts at Pretty Beach. Head towards the sand, past the impressive new sign announcing ‘Murramarang South Coast Walk’. As you head towards the beach, there are great views down the coast that extend not only as far as the stretch of coastline you’ll be walking, but all the way down to hulking Gulaga/ Mt Dromedary, more than 80km away as the sea eagle flies.

Pretty Beach lives up to its name. Blue waters and foaming surf meets a beautiful stretch of broad, white sand. The beach is short though, and after just a few hundred metres you cross a wide, flat wave-cut rock platform under a headland that may be covered at high tide. Island Beach quickly follows. It’s longer than Pretty Beach, and is roughly 500m to cross.

At the southern end of Island Beach, there’s a low, rocky headland, which you cross for 130m before looking for a sign that indicates the trail branches off to the right (the turnoff is just before the rocks narrow). You’re now following a track for a while, first on dirt, but then plastic boardwalk. Mercifully, the boardwalk in not just this section, but on the track in general, is rare, generally placed only where it’s needed. You soon pass the Singing Stones, a

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very small, semicircular cove where—when seas are big or the tides are right—the rounded, crystalline beach stones crash together and sing (or as my son remarked, play rock music), with the sound resonating off the amphitheatre-like cliffs.

After 400m of track, winding stairs deposit you on yet another beach, this one unnamed. Follow it, but stay high and to the right once you’re on the rock platform. You then climb into the hills, through low, fire-scarred heath. After roughly 400m, you descend to Dawsons Beach, broad and beautiful, with Dawson Island sitting just off its southern end. Another 400m of beach walking later, just before the rock platform, keep your eyes out for an exit; it’s all too easy on this walk to be so distracted by gorgeous views that, despite the signposting, you miss a beach exit.

You then head into forest for the first time, and trace around Snake Bay, through a section of rainforest—a lovely, shaded glade thick with cabbage tree palms. Then you’re back into the open, above a rocky promontory before soon finding yourself down near the water.

A short rock hop follows, after which you ascend a beautifully constructed, aesthetically serpentine set of stairs. You’re now 4.5km into the walk. Some wonderful views down the coast ensue, after which you enter forest; from this point on, most of—but not all of—the way to Pebbly Beach is in forest. Although you encounter the odd rainforest gully on the way, the forest is largely spotted gums, and you begin hitting sections where the understorey is

Murramarang SCW, NEW SOUTH WALES

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT The broad, empty sands of Dawsons Beach The Murramarang SCW’s distinctive signposting You may be sharing the stairs on your way up to Depot Beach Campground While Pebbly Beach is in actuality nothing but sand, just south of it you can find beaches that are nothing but pebbles. Well, nearly nothing but pebbles

thick with burrawangs, a cycad variety you’ll encounter increasingly as you head further south on the Murramarang SCW. After 2.6km of forest walking, you’ll pass a turnoff down to nearby Stoneys Bay. Continue ahead, it’s another kilometre to Pebbly Beach. Pebbly Beach, unlike Pretty Beach, does not live up to its name at all. The beautiful beach is one of white sands, with not a pebble in sight, unlike many of the nearby purely pebbled beaches you’ll encounter. There’s a campground here at Pebbly (which also has drinking/tank water if you’re running low), and a few low-key cabins. There’s also, if you’re passing through between Friday and Sunday, a café if you need a caffeine fix.

Before continuing from Pebbly Beach to Depot Beach, you’ll want to check the tides. The entire route is by the water’s edge, and at high tide, there are a few spots where the water comes right up to the cliffs and you’re guaranteed to get wet. There is an alternative inland route via fire roads, but it’s a shame to take it when the coastal route—which has you rock hopping on lovely wave-cut platforms, and skipping across polished stone beaches—is so beautiful. We were able to get through without getting our feet wet right at high tide (albeit needing to occasionally time dashes between the waves), but at a high high tide, or a spring or king tide, you may want to wait until the water lowers before attempting the crossing.

Roughly 1.5km after leaving Pebbly Beach, you reach the start of Depot Beach. Walk most of its length until you see an impressive set of stone stairs that takes you up to the campground,

where you can take a shower in the fantastic new amenities block, or set up camp under the spotted gums and then head back to the beach for a swim. (Pro tip: There’s a small lagoon just before the stairs that often requires getting your feet wet. If this is the case, head a little further down the beach; you can often get through with dry feet.)

DAY 2

Depot Beach to Oaky Beach 17km; 475m ascent/descent; approx 5-9 hours

Head uphill on the road out of the campground and take the first right (Carr St). You climb steeply for 200m before the road curves left; a short walk later finds you at the (signposted) trailhead of the Burrawang Track. Sure enough, the track immediately begins snaking up through a forest whose understorey is nothing but burrawangs. It’s the biggest climb of the entire walk, but it’s lovely and well-graded, and the vertical isn’t too great. One kilometre after starting the track, there’s a junction with a short side-track that leads to a lookout offering great views down the coast.

The descent to Durras Beach soon follows. The serpentine track offers increasingly beautiful views through the trees to the baby-blue waters of North Durras Beach, and the track’s meandering nature reminds you that the whole point of this walk is not simply to get from A to B, but instead to enjoy the journey.

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Murramarang SCW, NEW SOUTH WALES

After 1.7km of walking from the track’s start, you reach the beach. Walk along the sands, trying to resist the temptation to duck in for a swim. You have about a kay of beach walking here until you reach Durras Lake’s entrance.

Negotiate the crossing (see ‘Crossing Durras Lake’ section), then continue along beautiful South Durras Beach, potentially making a side trip to Lakesea Caravan Park to either get fresh water (see ‘Access to Water’ section), or a drink and snack from their shop. Be aware that, despite its size and proximity, you can’t actually see the caravan park from the beach; there are a couple of unmarked tracks through the dunes about 800-900m after the lake entrance crossing that will take you to it.

South Durras Beach is the longest beach of the walk, so enjoy its sandy expanses. Keep your eyes out for dolphins and seals (we saw both here). Roughly 40m before the beach’s end, and just before Durras Creek, look for a small, unmarked track through the dunes. Take it, and head up to the road before turning left.

Walk along the road for a few hundred metres. Then, 50m after passing the T-intersection with Allambie St, look for an unmarked track down to Cookies Beach. Walk for about 500m to a low, rocky headland, and then round it to get onto Mill Beach. The NRMA Murramarang Resort runs almost the length of the beach; if you feel like a meal, a coffee, or a beer, you can get one here.

At the end of Mill Beach, there are some stone stairs that take you up into a casuarina forest. The track meanders through it vaguely east-north-easterly, until 400m in you come to a lookout to Wasp Island. You now swing SW, and after another 400m, arrive at a car park, where there is a prominent sign for the Emily Miller Beach Walking Trail. That’s the track you want. (Be aware that, at the time of writing, there are no Murramarang SCW signs in this area). There are a few junctions on the Emily Miller Beach Trail, but they’re either clearly signposted or the correct track is obvious.

After a few hundred metres, you hit Emily Miller Beach, but you’re only on the sand for 60m before you head up a series of old stairs. Another 150m after leaving the beach, you reach a car park; take the clearly signposted track to the left that takes you down to Dark Beach. The forest here is beautiful, writhing angophora with a burrawang understorey; it’s an ecosystem you’ll become increasingly familiar with over the next two days.

Roughly 1.2km after leaving the last car park, you reach a turnoff to Dark Beach which is, unsurprisingly, dark. You access the beach via a side track, and it’s up to you whether you head down to this pretty cove nestled into a section of wave-lashed, crinkle-cut coastline. Soon after, you reach the car park for Dark Beach; take the clearly signposted route to Myrtle Beach. It’s 400m down to the beach, which is bisected (depending on the tide) by a headland. At very high and king tides, you’re likely going to have to bush bash inland around the headland. If you have to do so, don’t aim to get straight back on the beach; there are cliffs blocking the way. Instead, stay inland, and aim for the

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southern tip of Myrtle Beach; you’ll either hit the track or the Myrtle Beach Road. Presuming you stay on the beach the whole way, look for the exit track about 50m before the end of the sand.

Just 30m along that track, turn left, taking the clearly signposted track to Richmond Beach. You climb gently on a winding track through forest, then onto a headland where there are views through the trees to the beach and beautiful coastline. It’s a pattern that repeats almost all the way down to North Head, which you’ll reach tomorrow: beach; gentle, meandering climb through spotted gum and burrawang forest; headland; view through the trees of the bright blue coast; descent to a beach; then repeat.

And repeat. And repeat. It’s absolutely fantastic.

After two kays, you reach a dirt road; turn left, walk 100m to the car park, then walk down to Richmond Beach, with the final section of track to the beach being indistinct. (If you’re doing the walk south to north, this is an exit to be careful of, as there’s no real track; look for a small creek about 60m before the end of Richmond Beach, then wade through the dune grasses for 30-40m on the north side of the creek until you see some stairs).

After exiting Richmond Beach, you enter some of the most beautiful forest of the walk, and trace some headlands as well. Nearly 2.5km after leaving Richmond Beach, you reach some boardwalk, indicating Oaky Beach is nearby. Once you hit the sand, walk 50m down the beach before turning inland. The campground is a short distance away, with the walkers’ tent platforms—which are separated from the car-camping area—being up the hill to the right.

DAY 3

Oaky Beach to Maloneys Beach 7.9km; 258m ascent/descent; approx 2-4 hours

Head back down towards Oaky Beach, but at the junction before it, veer right. As with yesterday, you walk on pleasantly winding

track through forest with views through the trees to the ocean. After 1.9km, you reach the black sands of Honeysuckle Beach. You’re only on it briefly, though, just 20m or so, before you head inland and soon reach a car park. Turn left here. After one kilometre, you reach a junction where there’s a short walk to a lookout platform. The views here are impressive, but they’re better yet still if you continue on just a little further to the trig point at North Head (see image on P129). To get there, walk 100m past the lookout junction to where the track seems to do a hard 90-degree right; the SCW actually heads left instead here. At the time of writing, however, this junction was unsignposted. (In fact, much of the route from this point until the end at Maloneys Beach was devoid of signs). Head east then southeast for 100m up some indistinct tracks near an area being revegetated, before the land drops away and you’re presented with one of the finest views of the walk. Behind you should be the North Head trig point.

You now continue south towards North Head proper. The forest here is a bit scrubby compared to before, but after looping around, it’s only 650m until you exit onto a dirt road that accesses the North Head Campground. Turn left, then left again, before making your way down to North Head Beach. Make your way down the beach before exiting via some stone stairs. While there’s been no arduous walking on the track thus far, it becomes even more mellow still; the hills are really gentle from here until the walk’s end.

After 1.3km, you reach some open flats, with two NPWS cabins nearby (Judges House and Yellow Rock Beach House; they’re both available for booking). Head past them down to Yellow Rock Beach and walk its length. About 150m up the exit track, you hit an unmarked T-intersection. Turn right. You then curl around the headland, and after 500m come to a confluence of tracks; take the one which has a grassy understorey through the trees, down to Quirriga Beach. You have a choice here: Either walk along the sand, or take an inland track that’s about 10m into the dunes. Either way, at the end of the beach, you hit a lovely, curved set of stone steps.

You quickly hit another unmarked junction; turn left. Two hundred meters later, you hit some unsignposted crossroads; turn right. Basically, you’re roughly paralleling the coast, and avoiding tracks that clearly look like they’ll take you to a point. The track is now flat and easy. About 900m after leaving Quirriga Beach, you reach a long, elevated 140-step staircase. Descend it to the trailhead at Maloneys Beach, where there should be dozens, if not hundreds, of kangaroos waiting to congratulate you on the walk you’ve just completed. W

IMAGES - LEFT TO RIGHT, TOP TO BOTTOM Much of the walk sees you travelling through beautiful spotted gum and burrawang forest Pack ya cozzies! Or not Sometimes the views make it hard to keep walking There’s often a sizeable party of roos waiting to congratulate you at the walk’s end at Maloneys Beach Starting off on the crossing of Durras Lake’s sometimes open/sometimes closed entrance

CONTRIBUTORS: James McCormack is the editor of Wild. Quincy McCormack is his 9yo long-suffering son who was glad to get revenge on his father on this walk by forcing him to pose endlessly for photos.

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GEAR

WINTER TENTS A COMPARISON

By SHAUN MITTWOLLEN TO WINTER CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS is to experience their truest form. They are raw.

Wild. Inhospitable. The peaks are alive as spindrift wafts from knife-edged ridges, as idyllic lakes fill in and become powdery bowls, and as avalanches transport frozen slopes like frenzied rivers. They are places where pleasantries are exchanged for excitement, challenges and the great unknown—the elements that ultimately drive us to explore. When camping in the winter mountains, we are temporary visitors to inhospitable environments; to explore them, we need a space to exist—a tiny home. Inuit peoples addressed the challenges of life in the snow by designing the igloo. Alpinists introduced their own special designations of suffering in the forms of the snow cave and the bivy.

And then there is the tent. I am a self-professed tent nerd. For me, tents are the most interesting items of gear; over the years I’ve accumulated a quiver of them, each with its own purpose. Differences in design create key specialities, and the more you experiment, the more you realise there is no single perfect tent. Each has its place in the mountains, each is a compromise of weight, strength and comfort. I own tents that cover three of the main winter-tent designs: the dependable dome, the pliable tunnel and the space-age pyramid. Note that one tent type I don’t own is that of a lightweight, single-skin, breathable tent like The North Face’s Futurelight Assault. But in this piece, I want to share my personal experiences, so I’ll restrict what I say to being about only those winter-tent styles that I actually own.

QUICK TAKES

MOUNTAINEERING DOMES

MOUNTAINEERING DOMES:

showering us with semi-frozen water. The path is obscured and a howling

- Heavy, suiting shorter approaches or longer expeditions

gale shrieks among the rocky pinnacles above our intended base camp. We

with an established base camp

are soaked through and chilling rapidly but so close that we must push on.

- Multiple crossing poles are effective against high wind and

At this stage, any shelter will do as blowing snow circulates quartzite crags

heavy snow loading

before instantly freezing to our outer shells. We move forward knowing our

- Warm and comfortable inside

packs are weighed down by four kilos of tent, The North Face’s Mountain 25, a

- Ideal for mid-winter expeditions in the alpine or with

geodesic dome and a veritable fortress. A mountaineering staple. The dome

extreme weather expected

will keep us safe from the storm at our base camp for almost a week, during

Dense snow clags the scrub as we bury our way upwards, bending limbs and

which almost a metre of wet, heavy snow will accumulate and winds will gust PYRAMID SHELTERS:

over 90km/h. Despite its crushing weight, on the approach at this point in

- Low weight suits fast and light expeditions or big distances

time I’d rather nothing more than that four kilos of tent in my pack.

- Can be time consuming to setup

This is the quintessential space for such a tent: An exposed multi-night

- Handles wind and snow loading moderately well when

base camp where high winds and heavy snowfalls are expected. Warm, its

perfectly set up

double layers will guard us from Tasmania’s lowest recorded temperatures,

- Cold but spacious inside

and its plethora of crossing poles will create a rigid structure to protect us

- Best uses are for spring tours with light winds

from the snow accumulation and battering winds which would collapse a weaker tent within an hour. All of this boosts our morale. While a long and

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TUNNEL TENTS:

arduous approach lugging a heavy mountaineering dome can be a suf-

- Moderate weight suits both shorter and longer expeditions

fer-fest, but sometimes it’s a necessary evil. In an isolated area that is particu-

- Excels in high wind if positioned correctly

larly weather prone, your survival is dependent on your shelter’s survival. And

- Collapses with significant snow loading

here the dome is, from my experience, the strongest and most comfortable

- Warm and comfortable inside without wind changes

option, despite the increase in weight. After a rough and rowdy storm day

- Best uses are for mid-winter expeditions without big dumps

chasing forgotten couloirs and rime-coated ridges, the classic dome is the

or high wind spring tours

tent I most look forward to returning to.

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Dependable dome: The North Face Mountain 25 braving an ice storm in the Du Cane Range

Space age pyramid: Hyperlite Mountain Gear UltraMid 2 on Mt Ossa

Pliable tunnel: Hilleberg Akto 1P in the Western Arthurs

PYRAMID SHELTERS

TUNNEL TENTS

The pyramid shelter is the techiest of the three shelter types. It

Lastly, like anything in life, there are compromises, and this is no

excites gear nerds like myself with its sheer lack of weight. Gener-

more apt than with the tunnel-tent design. The tunnel tent has

ally under a kilo even for four people, repurposed materials such

been frequenting high-wind, low-snow environments for decades,

as Dyneema have created some incredible possibilities for the

and is the go-to for polar expeditions where huge overnight dumps

ultralight hiking community. For example, my Hyperlite Mountain

are rare but the winds are frequently extreme. Instead of fighting

Gear UltraMid is about 500g; an eighth of the weight of our moun-

the wind, a tunnel tent, such as my Hilleberg Akto, learns to live

taineering dome. Pyramids are floorless meaning you can dig

with it. Positioned with the narrow end into the breeze, the tent

out bed platforms, kitchen benches and even create full standing

is aerodynamically stable and limpets onto the snow as waves

height inside. Instead of carrying separate tent poles, a pyramid is

of air crash overhead. When hit by a side gust, the tent deforms

set up with your ski poles, a clever multi-purposing tactic. But before

before springing back to its original shape, albeit with a bit of a

we start gushing too much, let’s take a closer look at some of the

slap in the face for the occupants. Most tunnel tents are in the

drawbacks. Setup of the pyramid shelter must be highly precise. The

vicinity of half the weight of a four-season dome, so therefore it

pyramid shape in itself is highly resistant to wind from all directions

can be thought of as trading off some of the extra strength of a

when, and only when, perfectly set up. All corners must be tensioned

dome for a decrease in weight. So yes, lighter weight and a faster

evenly and on level ground to create tautness in each panel. This all

approach, but on the downside, the tunnel tent is like living across

takes time, effort and experience, which you may or may not have. A

from a salty seabreeze; it’s a high maintenance kinda home. A wind

corner slightly higher than the other creates annoying and potentially

change during the night can make for an uncomfortable experi-

structurally unstable flapping in moderate to strong breezes. Failure

ence and may necessitate a reposition. Heavy snowfalls can load

of one corner stakeout point may result in a swift collapse in the

unsupported panels and seek to collapse your shelter, and periodic

middle of the night. And lastly, being only a single wall, the pyramid

wake ups are necessary to bump off the excess snow buildup. But

is significantly colder than a double-wall counterpart. Nevertheless,

these trade-offs are often worth it for light and fast missions after a

these drawbacks are often worth it for the incredible lack of weight.

storm, or during spring tours when high winds are forecast. W

Fast and light to the extreme, the pyramid is the first shelter I look to when there are glorious high-pressure conditions in the mountains

CONTRIBUTOR: Shaun Mittwollen is a permanently stoked adventur-

with light winds and little snow.

ist and photographer who gets far too excited about remote ski lines.

WINTER 2023

135

GEAR TEST

LOWE ALPINE

MANASLU ND50:65L

WOMEN’S BACKPACK Versatility and comfort.

T

HINKING BACK TO MY FIRST pack-buying experience, I was quite clueless. I walked away

with a big, blue and boofy 80L canvas pack, and I was thrilled. And while it’s still a good pack, if you fast forward four years, I’ve come to realise that I usually just don’t need something that big. Enter Lowe Alpine’s Manaslu ND50:65. (There’s also a men’s 55-70L version of the pack, but I had the women’s-specific ND50:65L.) Although its ability to increase its capacity to 65L makes it still sound like a ‘biggish’ pack, it also compresses down to a neat 50L when the hood isn’t extended. Com-

gear—and the standard top entry. The options are really

bined with the narrow-dimension frame—hence the

in your hands.

ND—this pack is a versatile option if you just want to buy

NEED TO KNOW Intended use: Multi-day hiking Materials: Mini ripstop fabric and 500D nylon base Extendable lid: Yes Compartments: 3, plus a lid Weight (as tested): 2.38kg RRP: $459.95 More info: rab.equipment

The Manaslu also has one of the most spacious hood

one pack that does it all. Swift little overnighter? You bet-

compartments I’ve used on a pack. There’s no faffing

cha. Seven-dayer, with extra room for puffy jackets, ther-

about to manoeuvre your items into the space available.

mals and trackies to stay warm in the snow? Easy done!

The zip on the hood provides access to a large, roomy

Weighing in a tad over 2kg, this pack isn’t as heavy or

opening in which you can store what you need for the

as robust as that first canvas pack, but nor is it a flimsy,

day. Kitted out with YKK zips—which Wild’s Editor James

featherweight one either. It’s a happy medium. It has

insists are top notch—(Ed: they absolutely are!) all with

lumbar support, padding in all the right places, an easily

large grabbable toggles, you won’t have to worry about

adjustable back harness, and a thick and secure hip belt.

them breaking on you. Sure, the zips add a few grams, but

And with its extendable 15L lid, packing for a longer trip

that’s the trade off with having so much choice.

isn’t a chore. To test its limits, we loaded up the Manaslu

I’m a big fan of the front grab handle. It offers an easy

with an array of items (including fresh vegetables and

solution for your hiking buddies to help hoist your pack

naan for our curries) for a seven-day walk in Kosciuszko

onto your back, or for you to swiftly shimmy your pack

NP. Despite bailing on Day Five due to weather, this pack

around camp as needed. It’s not essential, but neither

was comfortable and carried the load really well.

are hip pockets—and it has those too! Just don’t try to

Apart from comfort, this pack exceeds in the way of

add too many snacks; a couple of muesli bars and the

‘extras’. It has three separate compartments, and three

pockets are close to their limit. Conversely, the stretchy

separate entry points: zipped front entry, separate

mesh side pockets are exactly that—super stretchy,

bottom entry—which leads you to an internal zipped

and huge too; stashing away water bottles of any size

divider if you want to separate your wet tent from other

is really easy. I do wish that the front stash pocket had

REVIEW

THE NORTH FACE

THERMOBALL TRACTION V MULES Like walking on a cloud.

Recently, I scored a pair of The North Face’s Thermoball

the outdoors than to get out of the shoes or boots

Traction V Mules. I’ve worn them most days since (even in

that have been imprisoning your feet for hours. In sum-

May, my house is like an icebox). Now, I’m going to steal a

mer, around camp, it’s easy to slip into thongs or even

line from a review I read online, and full disclosure, it’s one

Lining: Fleece

tramp around in bare feet. But in winter, when your feet

from TNF’s own website, but it’s a line I wish I’d written

RRP: $130

still need a bit of warmth, many people simply stay in

myself because it’s so true. Titled ‘It feels like I am walking

More info: thenorthface.com.au

their shoes or boots. Crazy! That’s why I’ve long been a

on a cloud’, Miles writes, “These are the most comfortable

fan of insulated booties, and why I can’t, for the life of me,

shoes I have ever worn. It’s like wearing a puffer jacket on

understand why more people don’t take them on trips.

your feet.” Man, is that ever spot on! I just would have added

Weight (Men’s US 11): 236g (each)

136

T

HERE’S NOTHING BETTER AFTER a long day in

NEED TO KNOW

WILD

GEAR

TEST similarly stretchy fabric, or a larger opening, rather than its sewn-in design with two smaller side-entry points. I’m used to shoving my rain jacket down the front of my pack when not in use, but it’s a bit too bulky to easily stow away here. It would be perfect for stashing a map, a light wind jacket, or even rubbish you might find on the trail (like the shiny helium balloon that we traipsed upon thinking we’d found some mystical berries).

One thing to be aware of is that the sternum strap uses a T-bar toggle held in place by tension; on Day Two, as I took my

MOUNTAIN DESIGNS

PEAK 700

DOWN JACKET

Affordable, reliable warmth.

O

NCE AGAIN, WE’RE APPROACHING that time of year when every man and his dog is wearing a puffer jacket. (Did you know,

BTW, that you can actually buy down jackets for dogs? My mind is

pack off, the sternum strap dropped off. Luckily, it was found

blown.) But what if, like me, you don’t care as much for keeping up

after a quick search around camp. I didn’t have this problem

with the latest fashions, and you just want a no-nonsense down jacket

again, but it’s something to be cognisant of. (Unless you’re the

that does the basics well? The Peak 700 from Mountain Designs offers

rare person who doesn’t like using chest straps, in which case

exactly that: everything you need, and nothing you don’t.

you can easily remove it entirely.)

Let’s start with the most important feature—warmth. When, at the

All in all, though, I really love this pack. It’s comfortable

start of April, I found myself snow camping in the Jagungal Wilderness

with a great amount of padding, ideal for a range of trip types

in -4°C conditions, this jacket provided me with the cosy, reassuring,

with its extendable lid, and it has a large top-hood pocket to

comforting embrace of a loved one. (And when my sleeping bag

stash any goodies you may desire. Oh, and there are the trek-

packed it in, it came to the rescue too.) Aiding this is the tricot lining

king-pole and ice-axe attachment points for winter enthusiasts

in the collar and pockets, the sewn-through

as well. In short, if versatility is what you’re looking for, then the

baffles which keep the down well positioned,

Manaslu could be a winner for you, too.

and the adjustable hem and elastane cuff and

MARTINE HANSEN

hood bindings that provide an extra snug fit.

The scuba-style hood also makes a big difference when the mercury drops, while the DWR finish ensures it holds its own in windy and

that they’re super toasty and warm, too. Oh, and grippy as well.

drizzly weather.

Everything you need, and

nothing you don’t.”

Not only are they comfortable, the backs are collapsible, mean-

At a bit over 500g, the Peak isn’t an ultra-

ing you can slip into and out of them like a pair of regular slippers.

light jacket, but it sure is lightweight for its rel-

Or you can pull them up when you need a more secure fit. Speak-

ative warmth. Similarly, with 700 loft, it’s not the

ing of times when you want a secure fit, that’s precisely when

most compressible jacket you’ll come across,

you’ll appreciate the rubber soles, as they provide far more grip

but it does a remarkable job of squeezing

NEED TO KNOW

than many other hut booties. Yes, the soles come with a weight

into the internal, chest-pocket stuff sack.

penalty; I have other booties that weigh less. But they also don’t

However, if you want to maintain a function-

Intended use: Winter hiking/camping

have grippy, durable soles that can be worn on damp surfaces.

ing zipper in the long run, I’d suggest using a

Speaking of which, the Thermoball insulation works even in the

separate compression sack.

wet. That’s if they even get wet, mind you; the Traction V Mules

The Peak 700 cuts the BS and pro-

are treated with a non-PFC DWR finish. One last thing to note

vides an affordable, reliable option for the

is that if you need something that extends a little higher, say for

impending cold weather. And hey, it’s still

apres-ski touring, you can get Thermoball Traction Booties as

good for that bit of pizazz if you want to

well. Now I just need to score a pair of them too.

wear it out for a coffee, too.

JAMES MCCORMACK

RYAN HANSEN

Fill: Vibram 90% goose down; 10% feather Loft: 700 Weight (as tested): 545g (M) RRP: $399.99 More info: mountaindesigns.com

WINTER 2023

137

GEAR REVIEW

NEBO

TRANSCEND 1500 HEADLAMP

Dazzlingly bright.

W

AY, WAY BACK IN THE OLDEN DAYS (yes, it was the 1990s), I got my first ever headlamp.

It was a Petzl Zoom, and it was wondrous. I no longer had to walk around holding a torch in my mouth when

NEED TO KNOW Weight (as tested): 156g (incl. battery) Battery: Rechargeable 18650, 3.7V, 3200mAh Burn times (claimed): Turbo (1,500L): 30sec High (750L): 4hrs Med (300L): 5hrs30min Low (30L): 28hrs Strobe (1,500L): 4hrs Distances in metres (claimed): Turbo (1,500L): 129m High (750L): 91m Med (300L): 58m Low (30L): 18m Strobe (1,500L): 91m

I needed both hands free to do stuff around camp, and

Of course, you don’t always need 750 lumens,

I could even wear it (on my head, that is) if I was caught

either. A quick rotation of the mode selector (which,

out backcountry skiing and had to make my way home

incidentally, is super easy to operate), lets you dial it

in the darkness. The thing was, though, it was—so I’ve

down to either 300 lumens or to 30, the latter being

been told—about 25 lumens; wouldn’t it be awesome, I

perfect for around camp.

thought at the time, if it was just a bit brighter?

I’ve since owned headlamps that were 80 lumens, 100

With its housing made of aircraft-grade aluminium, the Transcend 1500 feels incredibly solidly built. Yes,

lumens, 200 lumens, 350 lumens and 400 lumens, and

that does increase the weight, to the extent that it

every time, I’ve rejoiced in the increased brightness. But

won’t be perfect for everyone, nor for fast and light

I’ve also every time still had that exact same thought:

trips where you’re counting every gram. I wouldn’t

Wouldn’t it be awesome if it was just a bit brighter?

take it trail running, either; it’d bob around too much.

Recently, however, I got myself a Nebo Transcend 1500 headlamp. For the first time, I’m not asking that ques-

But it’s still light enough that I’ve worn it for hours at a stretch and simply forgotten I was wearing it.

tion. Wow, how bright is 1,500 lumens! It’s like walking

A few other things about the Transcend 1500: It’s

around with car headlights attached to your forehead.

waterproof (IPX7); the battery is not only recharge-

Honestly, I quickly realised I won’t often need 1,500

able, but replaceable, meaning you can carry spares

lumens. Perhaps that’s just as well, because to avoid

if you need longer burn time on a trip; and with the

overheating, the Transcend (in what Nebo calls Turbo

headlamp strap being easily removable, plus with

mode) offers 1,500 lumens only in short bursts of 30

its magnetised base, it doubles as a mini work lamp.

seconds before it reverts to just—just!—750 lumens. But

Honestly, it’s really handy in this respect.

RRP: $158.95

750 still feels incredibly bright, and it still turns, pardon

So will headlamps get any brighter from here?

More info: nebotools.com.au

the cliché, day into night. I’d honestly be excited to go

Knowing the outdoor industry, they likely will. But

backcountry skiing after dark if only for the sheer joy of

if so, it’ll be a progression that’s likely unnecessary.

experiencing the Transcend 1500’s output on snow.

JAMES MCCORMACK

LAUNCH

OSPREY

EXTENDED FIT SERIES

Making the outdoors more inclusive.

W

E LIKE TO THINK THAT THE OUTDOORS are for everyone. But if you’re larger-bod-

ied, getting gear that both fits and is comfortable is sometimes far from easy. In fact,

it’s often impossible. To counter that, Osprey has been working with a diverse range of product testers to redesign four of its core range of backpacks, with the result being its Extended Fit Program, which is coming this winter to Australia. The Aether/Ariel 65, Volt/Viva 65, the Talon 22/Tempest 20 and the Sportlite 25 packs will all be part of the EF Series, with all packs having redesigned elements that help make the outdoors more inclusive. Features include hip belts that are not just longer (accommodating up to 177cm/70-inch hips) but which also have substantially more padding; extended shoulder and sternum straps; and hip-belt pockets repositioned further to the front to allow wearers to access them more easily.

The new packs will have the same torso ranges and prices as standard-fit packs, and they will have women’s-specific options, too. For more info, go to osprey.com. But you can also, if you head here, read an interesting blog by size-inclusion advocate and consultant Marley Blonsky (pictured left), who partnered with Osprey to develop the range: osprey.com/stories/osprey-extended-fit-behind-the-scenes-with-marley-blonsky JAMES MCCORMACK

138

WILD

www.mountainrunning.com.au

DISCOVER THE MOUNTAIN RUNNING COLLECTION

WWW.LASPORTIVA.COM.AU

GEAR

SUPPORT OUR

SUPPORTERS We get it; we know ads aren’t the primary reason you read Wild. But without our supporters, Wild simply wouldn’t exist*. If you love what we’re on about here at Wild, if you’re passionate about both adventure and protecting our natural heritage, if having a magazine that’s full of well-written, crafted stories means something to you, a magazine that fights hard for our environment, then support our supporters; without them, Wild wouldn’t exist.

We know that our advertising supporters aren’t, of course, your only options when it comes to choosing what gear you purchase. But if you’re in a situation where you have a few cool options to choose from, and one of them happens to be from one of our advertisers, then show them their support means something by choosing their product. No-one’s asking for handouts, here; we genuinely believe that everyone who advertises in the mag offers something great. But if everything else is equal, please support those who support us. Here’s a selection of new and interesting gear that our advertisers think Wild readers should know about.

YETI:

LOADOUT GOBOX30 GEAR CASE As the Goldilocks of our cargo family, the LoadOut GoBox 30 Gear Case is sized for every river, hunting, or overlanding trip. We’ve seen it used as a camp pantry, camera equipment case, first-aid kit, and tackle box — but that’s just scratching the surfac e. Dustproof, waterproof, and virtually indestructible, it’s built to be packed up, hauled out,

THE NORTH FACE:

and hold up to whatever you throw at it.

STIMSON FUTURELIGHT PANTS

RRP: $349.95 AU.YETI.COM

These pants are designed to provide maximum comfort and performance during backcountry tours and long days on the mountain. They feature a breathable-waterproof, seam-sealed FUTURELIGHT™ 3L shell

SEA TO SUMMIT:

and Spectra® ripstop reinforced knee panels for increased durability.

ASCENT SLEEPING BAG

Their hyperarticulated fit allows for a full range of motion and the zippered thigh pockets, which include a gear loop and beacon clip, pro-

The Ascent down mummy

vide storage for your essentials. RRP: $800 THENORTHFACE.COM.AU

sleeping bag redefines the meaning of versatile. Complex

MOUNTAIN DESIGNS:

it’s cold outside, while the tri-

The Peak down jacket from Mountain Designs is the quint-

ple-zipper Free-Flow Zip sys-

essential adventurer’s winter jacket. Stuffed with 700 loft

tem ensures you stay cool and

goose down insulation in a streamlined, V-shaped baffle

ventilated when the weather

design, it provides superior warmth without the weight

warms. Shaped to allow a nat-

from trail to town. Elastane binding around the scuba-style

ural sleeping position for com-

hood and wrist cuffs further traps warmth, and for easy

fort, while light and compact

storage and transport, it compacts into the internal chest

enough to go anywhere. RRP:

pocket.RRP: $399.99 MOUNTAINDESIGNS.COM

$599 SEATOSUMMIT.COM.AU

BETA AR JACKET

Designed to be the last rain jacket you’ll ever buy. Made from GORE-TEX PRO with Most Rugged Technology – developed specifically for Arc’teryx – the Beta AR is a storm fortress built to perform when all else fails. The new 2023 model features Bluesign approved materials and an improved fit for comfort. Available in Men’s and Women’s.

RRP: $900 ARCTERYX.COM.AU

WILD

down keep you warm when

PEAK 700 DOWN JACKET

ARC’TERYX:

140

construction and high-quality

LA SPORTIVA:

LA SPORTIVA ULTRA RAPTOR LEATHER MID Modelled off the tough design of the Ultra Raptor running shoe, these waterproof hiking boots offer the same adaptability, while offering the protection and stability of boots for hiking.

All in a lightweight package.. $349.95 LASPORTIVA.COM.AU

GEAR

A gear guide from our advertisers

OSPREY:

PATAGONIA:

POCO LT CHILD CARRIER

TORRENTSHELL JACKET

Share everyday adventures with the Poco LT. Small

Simple and unpretentious, it uses 3-layer H2No® Performance

and safe, this lightweight child carrier is ideal for

Standard technology for excep-

tight stores, busy sidewalks and shorter hikes. Our

tional waterproof/breathable

patent-pending frame folds flat to store small and

performance, all-day comfort,

out of the way. Featuring ventilated AirScape sus-

and long-lasting durability. It’s

pension, adjustability to fit a variety of body shapes

Fair Trade Certified™ sewn

and a built-in UPF 50 sunshade. TUV-certified and

and all Torrentshell products

made sustainably with bluesign-approved materi-

have now been redesigned to

als and PFC-free DWR. RRP: $529.95 OSPREY.COM

be fully PFC-free with a durable water repellent coating that does not contain perfluorinated chemicals. RRP: $229.00 PATAGONIA.COM.AU

VICTORINOX:

JOURNEY 1884 WATCH A mountain guide knows they need to read the signs in the natural world around them. They respond to the terrain and changes in weather, and spot potential

GME:

MT610G GPS PERSONAL LOCATOR BEACON Featuring an integrated 72 channel GPS receiver, zero warm-up time, high-intensity LEDs, IP68 Ingress Protection, a seven-year battery life, and an inherently buoyant design, the compact size of the MT610G has not compromised the safety features included. $397.95 GME.NET.AU

problems before they happen. The Journey 1884 with quartz movement

MARKER:

embodies this pioneering spirit. Its

KINGPIN BINDING

antimagnetic protection guards against

The legendary Kingpin combines the light-

inaccuracy caused by electropollution.

weight ISI pin toe piece with an alpine heel

This, combined with its built-in shock

piece including 0°/7°/13° climbing aid. For

resistance and high-quality rubber strap

2023, the Kingpin has been updated with

for versatile, comfortable wearing, makes it an ideal partner

a new generation toe mechanism that has

in time. RRP: $1295 VICTORINOX.COM.AU

much great ease of use. The updated features include a wider step in platform that improves the ease

XTM PERFORMANCE:

of stepping into the binding, and a rubber stop pad that ensures the boot tip is aligned and stopped in the correct position to step in. RRP: $1049 SPORTRADE.COM.AU

BACKCOUNTRY JACKET

Enjoy performance and breathability without sacrificing warmth in the Back Country insulated jacket. This jacket is made from an Australian Merino wool blend and a nylon ripstop front panel with quilted MerinoLite® insulation and 100% free of PFCs. Wear this lightweight jacket all day long to keep your optimum body temperature. A mid-layer made for on-piste but also ideal for exploring

WILD EARTH:

THE NORTH FACE 1996 RETRO NUPTSE JACKET The iconic 1996 Retro Nuptse Jacket from The North Face is a staple in any winter wardrobe. It’s way more than just a city jacket with its 100% recycled nylon ripstop shell and DWR coating made to withstand harsh, outdoor environments. Exclusive offer! Get a FREE Salty Dog Beanie from The North Face worth $50 RRP when you purchase a Black 1996 Retro Nuptse Jacket! RRP: $500 WILDEARTH.COM.AU

beyond boundaries. The XTM Performance backcountry jacket is a certified carbon neu-

* We also wouldn’t exist without our amazingly talented and tireless contributors, either.

tral product and available in men’s and wom-

One of the best ways you can help reward them is simply to subscribe to Wild. The more

en’s sizes.RRP: $239.99 XTM.COM.AU

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WINTER 2023

141

NONE OF THE ABOVE

SUPPORT OUR

SUPPORTERS

Not all of our supporters make gear, and they deserve our support, too. Please check out what they’ve got to offer.

PAST OUTDOORS:

A PASSION FOR THE OUTDOORS, CONSERVATION AND CREATIVITY PAST Outdoors offers a carefully selected range of hiking, camping and expedition equipment tailored to meet the needs of your next adventure. They also manufacture a range of ultralight shelters that can be heated with a titanium wood stove. When you visit the retail store south of the Royal National Park in Helensburgh NSW, you can expect personal, expert advice from Dave and the team. Drop in to the store or shop online at PASTOUTDOORS.COM

WILD & CO

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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 that assists with all things

CRADLE MOUNTAIN CANYONS

muscle pain relief. Fisio-

ALUM CLIFFS PACKRAFTING

crem Solugel helps in the

Join the adventure professionals, Cradle Mountain Can-

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life and fun rapids make packrafting the Alum Cliffs an

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by day and camping under the stars at night. No previous experience required, all on-river gear provided, deli-

ALSO, PLEASE CHECK OUT OUR CLASSIFIEDS PAGES OVERLEAF, AND SHOW OUR SMALLER COMMUNITY SUPPORTERS YOUR LOVE

142

WILD

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RUSH TRK GTX

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To locate your nearest stockist I T: 1300 784 266 sales@outdooragencies.com.au I www.outdooragencies.com.au

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Two Brand New Guidebooks Out Now. lostmtns.com

WILD SHOT

As my legs grew heavy, snow started falling in earnest and the visibility narrowed; I wondered why we enjoy this special kind of suffering. That morning, we’d loaded up with six days’ worth of food and gear, and set off to explore some ‘new to us’ terrain near Kosciuszko NP’s Mt Carruthers.

We settled on skiing a beautiful ramp with 5-10cm of fresh snow that made us hoot and holler the whole way down. As we toured back up, the sun dipped in the sky and the colours started popping, rewarding us for pushing through the storm.”

LAUREN JONES Watsonia, VIC 146

WILD

Lauren wins an awesome Osprey MUTANT 22 climbing pack. It features integrated rope carry, a wide-mouth zippered opening, customisable options for carrying crampons/other items on the front of the pack, a secure and easy-to-use ice tool carry system, and the webbing hip belt won’t get in the way whether worn, buckled behind you, or removed. osprey.com

SEND US YOUR WILD SHOT TO WIN GREAT GEAR! For a chance to win some quality outdoor kit, send your WILD SHOT and a 50-100 word caption to contributor@wild.com.au

The New Exos | Eja Pro W H E N E V E RY. S I N G L E . G R A M . CO U N T S .

Taking the ultralight platform we’ve built with our Exos/Eja hiking backpacks and going even lighter, the new Exos/Eja Pro relies on featherweight NanoFly™ fabric and an essentialist approach to features to deliver a remarkably comfortable, durable and capable pack that weighs in just under one kilogram.

Satisfy your wanderlust with the all-new Sirac, built for self-sufficient quests to Satisfy your wanderlust with the all-new remote corners of the world.

With Sirac, built for self-sufficient quests to its lightweight and ventilated Air With Contour™ X carry remote corners of the world. its lightsystem, stable, Air strong, and moves with weight and it’s ventilated Contour™ X carry you over all terrain.

Ideal backpacking system, it’s stable, strong, andfor moves with youand overmountain all terrain.treks, Idealthe for Sirac’s backpacking fuss-free anddesign mountain treks, the Sirac’syou fuss-free carries everything need. design carries everything you need.

lowealpine.com.au | 02 9417 5755 lowealpine.com.au | 02 9417 5755

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