Chapter IX: Mt Hotham Luxury Resort

It is almost too good to be real, such a magnificent mountain mansion, sitting, waiting up here to be utilised at the travelers leisure.

I was camped in a sheltered saddle; underneath the ominous bluff of the Viking. The oppressive, humid weather that’s been building towards a precipitous release had just about reached breaking point. I was listening to the howling of the wind as it collided with the escarpments hundreds of metres above, creating a violent hum that made me glad I was in a more sheltered location.

I was not entirely surprised to have around 4-5 friendly visitors in my tent after leaving the door open for only a couple of minutes. The bugs, caterpillar and beautiful green spider were all doing their best to escape the imminent rain. I placed them outside gently, underneath the shelter of my vestibule, but away from my sleeping space, where they could crawl into my ear while I slept.

When the sky eventually broke, I was satisfied to listen to the sound of the downpour from the comfort of my tent. Although I was in the wild, I was protected and safe. While the mountain peaks were massaged by the soaking rain, I sat inside my tent, warm, dry and comfortable. It was only a little victory, but one that filled me with appreciation and a childish sense of wonder.

At this stage I’ve walked a tough 34 days, but I was only 3 days away from one of the key milestones of my journey: Mt Hotham. Reaching this alpine village would not only be the first pocket of civilisation I would encounter during my traverse of the Australian Alps but also represent the end of the most challenging section of the Australian Alps Walking Track (AAWT). From here onwards, the average daily elevation change would decrease slightly, and the quality of the walking tracks would improve as well. In many ways, reaching Mt Hotham would be the first real confirmation that I had a strong chance of success in completing my 11 week walk as intended.

Having walked with a 35kg backpack every day for over a month, my body had changed considerably. I had become fitter, leaner and stronger, but my appetite had gone into overdrive. I could not seem to eat enough food to sate my constant hunger.

Yet, my focus was gradually shifting, from centering on the physical challenge and the practical routine towards taking advantage of the mental stillness and freedom that accompanies solo wilderness travel. I realised that by being able to stroll through the woods and observing nature, and all her inhabitants at my leisure, I could learn secrets that are much older than any ideas conceived by humans. Through understanding nature, we have a chance to glimpse the eternal, the timeless and universal.

Day by day, my thoughts began to focus on my present reality. Cravings of the world outside of a civilised life awaiting me upon my return from the wilderness were slowly fading away. Hot showers, comfortable beds and clean fingernails suddenly seemed a lot less important. Like morning mist that rises from the valley after dawn, so my mind had begun to clear, the fog clearing from my thoughts, sharpening my mind with intent.

Nevertheless, the daily challenges of my walk would always bring me back to the practical matters.

The Barry Mountains, with their lack of water and endless series of hills, represented a worthy mental challenge. During this unmaintained section of the AAWT, there was always a branch or two hundred that required ducking under, pushing aside or simply ploughing through, aided by the momentum given to me by the weight of my pack. Every now and then, this ploughing manoeuvre would backfire and I’d find myself snagged on a cheeky branch that has hooked itself into my pack in such a devious way that I would have to reverse in order to gain freedom, feeling every bit as cumbersome as an obese elephant. Through all my wrestling with the undergrowth, I tried to remind myself that an overgrown track is exactly that; an overgrown track. Who was I to blame nature for taking back what’s rightfully hers?

Besides the overgrown tracks and the scrambling over fallen logs, the element of the ‘Dry Barries’ that tested my resolve most was the endless series of wooded knolls, none of which were distinct enough to feel any sense of accomplishment after having reached the top, and yet, infuriatingly, the track seemed to insist on climbing every single one of these unmemorable hills. I felt like Sisyphus, attempting to complete a task that was not only infinite, but also quite tedious.

Then, quite an amazing thing happened. I reached a knoll where there was a small clearing of trees to one side, giving me a small window of a view towards the surrounding hills. As I was looking out over the endless ridges of wooded hills, coloured blue by distance and haze, the sun broke through the clouds, despite a fine drizzle; and low and behold, a faint rainbow appeared over the closest valley I was looking out over. The sudden appearance of beauty caught my breath and I looked on in wonder. Before I could fully appreciate this unexpected arch of colour in the sky, in a flash it was gone, and I was left wondering whether it had been really there at all.

Eventually, as I neared Mt Hotham, the stark beauty of this recently burnt landscape dawned on me. The skeleton trees made the hills appear as if a great curse has befallen the land; the trunks having all been turned to stone, their twisted limbs frozen for eternity. The dead snowgums gave these hills a tragically beautiful and sombre tone, and at no time was this more noticeable than during the stillness of the night, when even the breeze seemed gentler. As the moon illuminated rolling ridge after rolling ridge blanketed with the white skeletons of trees, I felt as if I’ve stepped into the afterlife, where all is eternal and nothing ever stirs.

Then the morning came, as it always does and life resumed once again in all its glory. The birds were awake, singing how wonderful it is to be alive and all the ants scurried across the grass, gathering, gathering, and gathering. With the vastness of this mountain landscape and the vibrancy of its life, how could one’s mind not be at peace? Yet, change is inevitable.

Eventually the new generation of saplings will take over and the old remnants of trees fall, one by one to the ground where they will rot and become one with the soil, providing nourishment for their offspring. This process is already well under way; I heard a mighty crash of what would have surely been an impressive tree while still alive; its fall lasted barely more than a moment, and yet it was the tree’s final farewell gesture, as its rotten roots gave way on the steep slope, its massive trunk surrendering to gravity. The death of a tree barely goes unnoticed.

From the ashes, however, life is always born; the green understorey shooting up beneath; a new generation of saplings vying for the light. Dense and full of fight, these saplings will compete with one another until only the tallest and fittest survive, founding the basis for the next phase in the forest’s life.

When I eventually glimpsed Mt Hotham, it stood solemnly, its bare ridges scarred by roads. Despite the lack of wilderness, it was an imposing view. When I finally rolled in to the General Store, a pub, post office and shop all in one, I was jubilant. Despite already possessing everything I really needed, I bought myself a warm meal, and stocked up on some ‘essentials’ from their grocery store: lollies, butter, bacon, chocolate, fresh bread and some blue cheese. I nearly buckled underneath the extra load, combined with ten days of provisions that I picked up just previously, but I couldn’t have been happier. I made for Derrick’s Hut in a state of bliss, belly full of steak, beer and chocolate cake.

Although jubilant, I was also contemplative. Dealing with the ongoing challenges of the nomadic routine, I came to understand that my elevated mood would pass, like all things pass with time. In general, the things we perceive as bad or unpleasant are in fact neither of those. They could just as easily be seen as good or pleasant by another mind. Life is a series of cycles, mainly unaffected by our humble presence. Whether we label in our own minds subjective sections of these cycles with adjectives is irrelevant, the Earth will keep turning and the sun will keep shining even when the night obscures our view. It’s worth remembering that sunrise is only a victory because it follows the night.

Chapter VIII: Steaks and a bottle of beer...

Good company means a shared mindset and common values.

-A.S. 2013

Every solo adventure needs an intermission, a break in the routine of self discovery; often it’s in the form of shared company that so often leads to the creation of new stories.

The intermission in my journey through the Australian Alps was brought to me by my friend Jimmy Harris, who is a keen alpine walker and photographer himself. Along with his good spirits and easy-going attitude, he brought with him two premium rump steaks and a bottle of single malt scotch.

We were sitting around the campfire we conjured from the bountiful scatterings of dead snowgum branches. It was the end of winter, and the lack of visitors to the Mt Speculation campsite meant that firewood was plentiful. Sitting near the roaring fire, we toasted with the scotch to our good fortune. We were out in the mountains, away from the noise and hassles of the city.

We choose a large and mostly flat rock as a hot plate, cooking our steaks to perfection, complete with a smoky flame grilled taste. After three weeks of dehydrated meals, the first bite into the juicy steak was a mouth-watering moment of pure joy. We washed it down with another cup of scotch, and after many good yarns, went to sleep relatively early in anticipation of our upcoming Viking-Wonongatta Circuit, which would take us the next four days to complete.

I had met Jimmy on one of my work trips on the Overland Track in Tasmania. I guided him and his wife along with an adventurous group of punters only the previous summer, where Jimmy and I agreed to undertake a walk together in the Victorian Alps, if we got the chance. As it turned out, the dates happened to line up to suit both of us, and he agreed to join me for the challenging Viking-Wonongatta Circuit during my Australian Alps Traverse, which involved going off-track in some very remote country.

“How do you know we’re going the right way?”-he asked during a particularly steep section of the descent from the rocky summit of the Viking, towards the Wonongatta River.

As I began rattling off various techniques about how to follow a heavily wooded ridge, when visibility is reduced to a less than a hundred metres, I suddenly realised we were no longer on it. Amidst all my confidence in my navigational ability, I had lost our lifeline-ridge through the dense forest. Although we picked up the correct ridge shortly afterwards by sidling the slope, it was a wake-up call to both of us not to be overly complacent.

“I don’t know if I would have had the confidence to undertake this circuit on my own.” Jimmy said shortly afterwards.

“I don’t know if I would’ve been comfortable doing this solo either” I replied.

We both laughed and from that point on Jimmy undertook the role of co-navigator, with GPS in hand. He fulfilled his navigational role with great prudence for the rest of the trip, correcting my lead where it was necessary. I wonder whether he saw his role as a matter of pure survival, as I continued to drag him further and further into dense undergrowth, days away from any chance of rescue.

The beauty of walking in the Victorian High Country in spring is that most of the access tracks which are often overrun by vehicles in summer, are still closed, leaving the walker to enjoy the surroundings in serenity.

The Viking-Razor area (the two most prominent peaks in the area) is a declared wilderness zone, meaning that there is minimum track maintenance and signage, adding to the sense of adventure. The ruggedness of the terrain also makes for a sense of isolation and immersion into Nature that is so hard to come by these ‘modern’ days. During my three weeks spent in the region between the Bluff and Mt Hotham, I only met three other people, besides my friend Jimmy. It is remote country and any traveller needs to be completely self sufficient.

The hills here are also much more prominent than most other parts of the Victorian High Country, which are often characterised by densely vegetated forests and have a gentle, rolling nature. Here, the dominant peaks of the Viking, Mt Howitt and the Crosscut Saw rise well above the tree line. The alpine grasses become the primary vegetation and many wildflowers bloom in summer. Some of the mountains also have steep escarpments, which again set this area apart from many of their smaller and less spectacular cousins. This section of the high country has been and will be a mecca for bushwalkers, not only for the awe inspiring views and challenging terrain but also due to its lack of vehicular access. In Victoria, this is as close as you can get to true wilderness.

Of course, even in wilderness one may find traces of civilization. During our ascent out of the Wonongatta Valley towards Macalister Springs, we picked up numerous tins of beer cans, crushed and broken under countless tyres of four wheel drivers that drive through here in summer. While these access roads allow appreciation of this area for a wider audience, vehicular access often invites those who do not respect the pristine beauty of these hills. Entering wild places should be a sacred privilege, not an entitlement to hoon, destroy and not give a damn.

Then again, we were glad to find one particular item during our walk. Lying in front of us on the track was a full bottle of unopened beer, pre chilled in the brisk spring air. Jimmy picked it up just as we were nearing Vallejo Gartner Hut near Macalister Springs. We’ve had a long day of climbing and some very bleak clouds were approaching. We were puzzled by the unopened bottle and wondered about the story of how it got there. Did someone leave it there on purpose, hoping that a thirsty hiker may quench their thirst or did it simply fall out of someone’s pack? Either case, we picked it up and took it with us to the hut.

Just as the clouds opened up and frozen snowflakes started plummeting from the sky, we reached the hut and quickly set a fire inside. We cracked the beer open with a satisfying twist of the cap. It was a surreal experience, being in total comfort and bliss while the sky caved in outside.

We stayed up late that night, swapping stories of our respective journeys that have brought us to that particular point in time. As is always the case when we open up to others, common ground was found and the foundation for a strong friendship was laid.

As for me, the temptation to experience the storm outside was simply too great to resist. Just as Jimmy got ready for bed, I strapped on my boots and with all the relevant safety gear in my day pack, left the hut to climb to the nearby summit of Mt Howitt.

The storm has abated and a dense fog sat in the air as I ascended. It was still, quiet and freezing cold as I reached the summit. I stood up there, staring out into the darkness. I didn’t particularly mind that I couldn’t see much. Some things are invisible to the naked eye.

Chapter VII: The Heart of the Victorian Alps

Dawn awoke me with a kiss of frost

The mountains around me stood silent watch

White crowned peaks, swift rivers below,

The secrets of the wind shall never be known.

The sun was setting on my left, casting shadow into the valley on my right. I was moving along Mt Eadley Stone’s ridgeline, picking my footing quickly but precisely along the rocky track. Hiking high up on the summit ridge with a blue sky, a fresh breeze and mountains all around, I felt life pulsate through my veins with great force. Camera slung across my shoulder, I was aiming to beat the sun to the summit of the Bluff to take some photos. It would be my first sunset from a mountaintop during my 74 day Australian Alps adventure.

The double peak of the Bluff-Mt Eadley Stone massif is situated in the heart of the Victorian Alps. Here, the usually mellow Great Dividing Range shoots up from wild river valleys to form dramatically steep hills. The Bluff as such is surrounded by some of Australia’s most impressive mountains: Mt Buller, Mt Howitt, Mt Speculation, Mt Cobbler, Mt McDonald, Mt Clear, and the undulating knife blade ridge of the Crosscut Saw. The vista from the top of the Bluff creates the effect of being surrounded by a titanic amphitheatre formed by the spine of the Great Dividing Range. The remote wilderness of the area means that even by taking in an immense vista with a 50km radius, signs of the human world are minimal. The only obvious signs of civilization are the upper slopes of Mt Buller, where the ski village can be discerned by the keen eye.

In such a setting, the mind is set free, and the surroundings can be appreciated with a calm disposition. Dominating the scenery along the track were the twisted figures of an incredibly tough tree: the Snowgum (Eucalyptus Pauciflora). The pain of living in harsh alpine conditions is written into every woody fibre of these plants. The age of any individual tree can be estimated by the girth of their trunk, for most of these trees stand at a uniform height. It is a rare case where gaining extra height would prove a disadvantage, for it would leave the taller plant exposed to the howling, icy winds. Tormented by wind and cold, they have twisted their trunks into all kinds of fantastic shapes, as if pleading for their suffering to end.

As I got closer to the summit I caught sight of an immense wedge tail eagle. He was hovering barely ten metres above the summit, trying to make way in the headwind, its wings spread out completely motionless as if he was levitating. He was so close I could see individual feathers being ruffled by the wind surging past. My trance of staring at the eagle didn’t last long, the wind changed and suddenly he was lifted up and started circling, rising quickly and soon disappearing from sight.

‘I feel pretty good for day 17’ I remember thinking to myself.

Although I was still less than a quarter of the way through my traverse of the Australian Alps, the nomadic routine has begun to establish itself. With each passing day, my body felt a little stronger and a little fitter. Rather than stressing about the weight of my pack or the discomforts of the weather, I was beginning to pay more attention to my surroundings. An ability to shift my focus away from my own being and extend my attention to other things around me was a key step in truly enjoying my journey through the Alps.

Standing there, on the summit of the Bluff, as the sun sank a bit closer to the horizon, and a golden glow was cast across the landscape, a deep sense of calm came. I was amazed at the transformation that took place, as the mountains draped themselves in their night cloaks of twilight.

Eventually, my mind became free of thought, ready to accept whatever was going to fall my way. Time became irrelevant and my mind became, for those brief moments at least, unbound and truly free. It was a rare moment, one I will always remember, for in that moment, I felt complete.

Chapter VI: An Unexpected Error

The helicopter flew overhead, high and fast. The possibility that it was looking for me never occurred to me.

I was 6 days into my 74 day solo trip across the Australian Alps and was traversing the catchment area of the Thompson River in the Victorian Alps. This section of the Australian Alps Walking Track (AAWT) was characterised by unexciting forestry roads, 4WD tracks and plenty of elevation change.

It didn’t take me long to realise that I underestimated the difficulty that the hills would present to me due to the bulk of my pack.  The climbs were proving grueling and I was covering less ground than I anticipated. I knew the walking would get easier as my body adapted to the weight of my pack, but I wondered how long that process would take. After six days on the track, I was only getting wearier, not stronger.

When I reached the first road after I crossed the Baw Baw plateau, I decided to leave a few items stashed by the side of this road, in a dry bag. I would return to collect these items about three months later. The parcel contained my tripod, and a whole bunch of spare kit that I realised I was much better not lugging around. But even after having eaten six days of food, and getting rid of about 3kgs of gear, my pack still weighed well over 30kg! It took me a long time to learn how to go lightweight, and that is not something that I mastered on this trip. I hope that all of you my dear readers are a bit smarter than me and learn how to leave the non essentials home without having to carry an oversized pack across Australia’s tallest mountain range. It did take me stronger, but it took my body about three weeks to really wake up to the challenge. Those first three weeks were difficult, but I persevered. The pack didn’t break me in the end, it simply made me stronger.

I was anticipating reaching the location of my first food drop. Inside a sealed tub, waiting for me at Rumpff Saddle were all the supplies required for the next leg of my walk. I could only hope that the tubs I placed four months previously would still be exactly where I’ve left them. I made sure to hide and seal the tubs, but there were certainly doubts playing in the back of my mind. The idea of having to abandon my walk due to a compromised food drop weighed almost as heavily on my shoulders as my oversized pack.

The hills in this section of the AAWT were remote; it’s been four days since I’ve seen another person. My phone has been out of range for three days and I was relying on my satellite Spot messenger to keep in touch with my emergency contacts, including my mum. I’ve been sending an OK message through my satellite device every evening upon reaching my campsite.

We had a meticulous plan in case something should happen to me. If my contacts haven’t heard from me via my satellite messenger in two consecutive days, they were to assume something was wrong and alert emergency services. I figured my device was reliable and would send the messages through as anticipated. I was wrong.

The man on the motorbike rolling down the hill had a rifle slung across his shoulder. He was riding an old Honda with a well worn sheepskin draped over the seat. As he came to a halt next to me I wondered which one was older, the man or the motorbike. He squinted at me through his glasses and said:

‘You’re not the fellow they’re looking for, are ya?’

Suddenly, there was a cold pit where my stomach was only a moment before.

“Who are they looking for?” I asked intently.

“Young fellow, walking the alpine trail. They haven’t heard from him in two days. The police were asking about him yesterday in town, that’s how I know.”

I haven’t seen any other hikers in days. I knew it had to be me.

It took me another two hours to reach the summit of Mt Victor and receive service on my phone. In a frantic sequence, my phone buzzed and beeped for a solid minute as all the missed calls and messages showed up from the last couple of days. That’s when it clicked. The helicopter that flew overhead the previous day was looking for me.

In the end, it was a matter of making a couple of phone calls. By this time, the search has been called off as my message on the previous night had gone through, letting everyone know that I was all right. This still left my family and friends wondering for 24 hours whether I was in danger and emergency services looking for me, including a helicopter, the police and volunteers.

I felt guilty, for I should have accounted for the failure of technology in the emergency plan I drew up at the start of the trip. In hindsight, it’s always easy to see what the best course of action would have been. After this incident, we changed our plan from two days to seven days of no contact before alerting emergency services. While this was far from an ideal scenario, I couldn’t risk triggering a false alarm twice. I was lucky not to be billed in the end.

I reached my food drop three days later at Rumpff Saddle. It was dark by the time I went hunting for my food tub in the woods. For the better part of half an hour I believed my supplies have disappeared; that someone has found it and knocked it off. Then, to my elation, I found it, intact and undisturbed. My first checkpoint has been reached.

As I cracked my pre-chilled beers open, I felt a sense of accomplishment for I have completed the first leg of my journey. As I sat there on the grass in the dark, tasting the crisp taste of beer, I knew anything was possible. Now, with ten days behind me, I only had 64 days left to go...

Chapter V: The land of wind and ice

Twisted and bent out of shape

The trees waved me on

Plodding, tripping,

The soft white snow watched on.

I was making my way across the frozen realm of the Baw Baw Plateau with a sense of unease.

The lush valley I left behind only the day before seemed a distant memory as I placed one foot in front of the other, sinking into the snow with every step. The mist swirled around the twisted trunks of the snowgums, reducing the visibility to less than a hundred metres. The wind was a howling beast that jostled the canopy incessantly, intimidating me with its overpowering sound. I was layered up against the elements and yet I could not stop to rest for too long, for I would start feeling the chill within minutes. I did my best to plod on at a sustainable pace throughout the day, with as few breaks as possible, despite my body reminding me of a constant need to rest.

The path I was following was indistinct, well hidden underneath the white blanket of snow, only discernible by a slight depression. The rolling hills of the plateau I was traversing were evenly populated with a dense snow gum forest, making every direction look rather uniform. The track markers would appear at unpredictable intervals, bright yellow diamonds nailed to the trees. They were my lifeline through these inhospitable surroundings. Every time I spotted one, my spirits were elevated a little. Traversing the plateau in this way was slow and exhausting work, but I was kept rather alert by the threat of losing the path in these conditions. It would not do to suffer any more delays.

It was only day four and I was already two days behind schedule. Underneath the weight of my pack and hindered by the unexpected depth of the snow, I was moving at half the speed predicted by my guidebook. Running out of food before reaching my next food drop seemed suddenly a very real possibility. With thoughts of short rations on my mind, I did my best to focus on my objective with every step. I knew that my primary aim was to complete the traverse of the Baw Baw Plateau as quickly as I could. Once I descended into the Thompson River’s Valley, conditions would improve and I could start covering ground a bit quicker. It was easy in theory, draining in practise. I was helped by the beauty of my surroundings.

Scattered across the plateau were immense granite boulders, which at first, would appear only as a dark silhouette through the trees. Their size would vary between that of a small car and that of a small house. Amazingly, most of these boulders seemed to house a wealthy variety of life, from colourful green mosses to strange lichens and grotesque fungal forms. Each boulder, in this way appeared to house a miniature city upon it that was unique. To see life growing out of the harsh surface of granite was truly astonishing. Seeing these plant communities would cheer me up with a feeling of optimism every time. How insignificant the pain in my shoulders and lower back appeared in the face of the harshness of the life of these beautiful realms, growing on rock and battered by wind and ice, subsisting only on a bit of sunshine!

That night I set up camp underneath a thick canopy of snowgums. I was near the northern end of the plateau, already below the snowline. I had made good progress that day and was looking forward to descending to the lowlands the next morning. I quickly cooked my dinner, looking forward to tucking myself into my cosy sleeping bag and having a restful sleep. However, Mother Nature had other plans for me.

As the sky darkened with the setting sun, the wind picked up, swaying the trees violently. The fine drizzle of sleet that’s been massaging the mountains most of the afternoon turned into heavier drops of rain. I was inside my tent, comfortable in the cocoon of my sleeping bag, satisfied with the dry state of things. I was grateful to be out of the elements, but try as I might, I couldn’t ignore the buffeting wind as it rattled my tent back and forth.

The storm continued to intensify, and sleep continued to elude me. Around 10pm, I heard the first rumbling of thunder. It sounded like a dormant beast had woken up in a bottomless cave, and was rather unhappy about it. Soon, the rain became torrential and the thunder was accompanied by bright flashes of lightning, clearly visible through the thin fabric of my tent. The lightning and the thunder became inseparable, each flash accompanied by an ear splitting crash. It sounded like the mountain was about to collapse around me. For a few minutes during the crux of the storm, I was terrified, as any animal should be terrified, in the close presence of lightning.

Then, the crashes slowly subsided as the storm rolled on. However, my tent was sitting in a rather large puddle, so I crawled out of my sleeping bag, and with chattering teeth, put on my raincoat to move my tent to a more suitable location. When I finally re-entered my tent I was saturated, and cold. I remember thinking,

‘4 days down, 70 days to go...”

The thought made me even wearier, if that was possible. It was time to close my eyes and sleep.

That night, I dreamt of blue skies and green meadows.

Chapter IV: The first mountain

To rise then to fall,

Every day has its night;

To be or not to be,

Every hero is in plight...

-A.S. 2014

Climbing a mountain is like baking a really good cake. It requires completing a certain number of steps, tackled with patience and perseverance. Sometimes, it appears to be almost too much effort to be worth the result. Yet somehow, the outcome always makes the undertaking worthwhile. A number of factors influence the difficulty of any ascent, including the terrain, weather conditions and the weight carried.

While I ascended hundreds of peaks during my trek, none were as difficult as the climb up to the summit of Mt Erica. This mountain, was not only my first peak, but also marked the beginning of the sub-alpine Baw Baw Plateau, where I would experience my first taste of winter on my journey.

Perhaps it was unfortunate that the single biggest climb of the AAWT happened to fall on my second day of walking, when my body was still unaccustomed to my monstrous pack, and weighed well in excess of half my body weight. As I hit the lower slopes of the mountain, I did my best to tackle the challenge at a steady pace, for I knew it would last many hours.

As with any long climb, I knew the secret lay in taking little steps. Just like a cyclist shifts back to the lowest gear on a steep slope, I changed my gait, from long strides to a slow shuffle that saw me covering less than a kilometre per hour. I was sweating hard, my breath sucked in with short inhalations. The weight of my pack was forcing me to stop for a rest every half an hour. Each time I started out, the pack got a little harder to swing back on. It was during this ascent that I began to realise the extent of the challenge I have taken on.

As I continued my ascent, I entered a land of giants. The forest around me became dominated by a eucalypt species that stands taller than any other flowering plant in the world. Mountain Ash, or Eucalyptus Regnans, is characterised by a smooth, white trunk, with ribbons of bark often hanging loosely around the base. They shoot straight to the sky, standing aloof from their smaller cousins. Historical records show that the oldest Mountain Ash reached heights in excess of 100m. These ancient giants would have started growing well before first Europeans have landed on the shores of Australia in the 18th century. Sadly, they soon became the victims to the saws of the early loggers, who would cut down the tallest trees to maximise yield for their labour.

The sun climbed past its zenith, and I continued my trudge up the hill. Slowly, a transformation around me began to take place. The temperature cooled as I gained elevation and I soon entered the sub- alpine zone, marked by the appearance of the hardy Snowgums (Eucalyptus Pauciflora). These trees are true survivors, existing where no other trees grow, above the winter snowline. At this elevation, they need to survive fearsome blizzards, sub zero temperatures and minimal sunlight, their trunks often twisted into fantastical shapes by the bitter winds.

It wasn’t long after the snowgums appeared that I spotted my first patches of snow, at around 1200m. The snow surprised me. I did not expect to encounter it till I was at a higher elevation. Having left the snowshoes out of my kit, I could only hope that the snow wouldn’t get too deep higher up. As I continued my ascent, the patches become larger and thicker, until the ground was evenly blanketed in white.

In the deepest drifts, I was sinking up to my knees with every step. Every now and then, I would be able to take a couple of steps on the slightly frozen and compacted surface of the snow before sinking in suddenly and without warning. My progress slowed to a crawl. Underneath the load on my back, I was breathing hard. My shoulders were sore and the muscles in my calves and my lower back were burning from exhaustion. I kept plodding through the snow, losing my balance in the deeper drifts occasionally. Every time I fell, I stayed on the ground for a few seconds to rest before attempting to get back up. I was getting close to the top, but I was spent.

Eventually, the slope started to ease and the wind picked up, indicating that the summit was close. The sound of the wind soon became overpowering. It swayed millions of branches in unison, creating a menacing choir, complimented by the ceaseless scratching of loose bark against tree trunks. A fine mist swirled around the twisted trunks of the snowgums, creating an inhospitable atmosphere. It felt as if I’ve stepped into a different world, a world of wind and ice, where survival was earnt, not a given.

After ten hours of climbing, I finally reached a rustic wooden sign that stated: Mt Erica, 1509m. The views were obscured by the fog and the thicket of snowgums that grew even on the very top. After a celebratory cup of hot tea from my thermos and a few squares of chocolate, I plodded on towards my campsite, feeling every bit like an overweight tortoise.

Chapter III: An unexpected encounter

The rocks were bliss,

Scales glistened in the sun

Heavy stomps came from afar

A lesson was certainly learnt.

-A.S. 2014

Ferns on the bank of the Thomson River.

“Are ya the bloke who’s going to walk all the way to Canberra?”

The voice had a strong undertone of the nasal Australian tang. It belonged to an overweight lady whose expression was laden with incredulity.

“Yup.” I replied.

“Well you know there’s such a thing as a car!”

Being quite impressed with her own wit, the lady roared a laugh, and before I had a chance to respond again, walked off to her car and drove off.

We were sitting in the shade outside the general store in the relic town of Walhalla; once rich with gold, now rich with day trippers from Melbourne. My friend Joel and I were enjoying a hamburger with the lot, chips and a cold beer. I figured I would make the most of the last commercial kitchen before switching to my dehydrated meals.

It was the 6th of September, and a perfect spring day. I could not have asked for better weather to begin my walk; the air was cool, but the sun was warm enough to allow for T-shirt and shorts.

Being a model friend, Joel agreed to accompany me for the first day of my walk.

My friend, Joel on one of the the first hills of the AAWT.

Our packs were leaning against our wooden table, his being a reasonable overnight bag, mine a monster, made from the heaviest canvas available. It took two of us to simply lift it out of the car. My pack’s contents weren’t just limited to essential gear, but also a number of luxury items that would help me pass spare time; an electronic book reader, camera gear, as well as a solar panel and battery to allow me to recharge all my electronic devices along the track.

When the meal came to an end, we said our goodbyes to the friendly owner of the general store, who waved us off with a smile on her face. She informed me that if I was successful I would receive a certificate on the other end at the National Parks visitor centre. It sounded wonderful.

With much effort, we loaded the pack onto my back, and with a final glance back at the pretty village, we struck out towards the staircase that led up to the official start of the AAWT.

Some of the Australian Alps Walking Track (AAWT) markers are a bit aged.

I will always remember walking up those steps. It was the first time that I’ve ever taken any steps with my fully loaded pack. While I felt jubilant that my adventure has truly begun, I was also concerned. We had barely gone 50 steps before I was out of breath and feeling faint. The weight was crushing me into the ground and I was walking slower than an overweight sloth. Still, there was nothing in my pack that I was willing to take out, so there was nothing for it, but to take another step, and then another, and then another...

As we took to the meandering path, I was reflecting on the words of my brother, who gave me some ‘older-sibling’ advice just the previous day.

“The best thing about your trip is that you cannot prepare for everything that will happen.”

While very poetical, his words did not do much to reassure me. Anticipating all the possibilities was exactly why I’ve spent a year planning my trip! The idea that something could go wrong and there was nothing I could do about it was a nagging thought in the back of my head.

However, I don’t think that even my brother would have expected his words to come true on the first day.

We were walking in a single file on the narrow path that was cut into the hillside. On my left was a steep drop off to the valley of the Thompson River, and on my right was a vertical cliff face, rising high above us. Following the path was effortless, for there was nowhere else to go.

I was leading the way, enjoying the afternoon sun and the scenery. It would be fair to say that I wasn’t paying much attention to where I was putting my feet. My friend Joel was closely behind, and we were walking in a companionable silence. Unseen to me and lying on the path, was a beautiful and rather large snake.

I saw movement before I saw the snake. It must have been basking in the sun, for it wasn’t sluggish at all, as they so often are. Its head was raised, ready to strike. My leg seemed a viable candidate for a target, easily within striking distance.

At this point, instinct took over. In one movement, which was neither graceful, nor measured, I turned around, ready to retreat, and raised my hiking poles as a defensive weapon and yelled, in case Joel hadn’t caught on to the situation,

“Go, go, go!”

The urgency of my tone must have conveyed my message better than the words actually did. By the time my body has turned around, Joel was already sprinting back down the track, as fast as his legs would carry him. I did my best to join him in the hasty retreat, while keeping my eyes fixed on the snake.

This is a tiger snake I photographed in Tasmania, years after I wrote the Australian Alps story.

What a beautiful snake it was! Its scales glistened in the sun and displayed impressive hues of yellow and green. A healthy specimen, its length must have been over two metres. I just wished it wasn’t quite so angry at me for having disturbed its afternoon nap!

As I was moving away, the snake slid after me, its head raised ever so threateningly. I had my hiking poles raised, just in case it was to strike.

The chase did not last long. The snake, upon deciding that we were neither an imminent threat nor a digestible meal, stopped, then slid off the track and disappeared into the undergrowth.

Afterwards, we laughed, and congratulated each other on the successful evasion of the grumpy snake. We walked on with elevated heart rates.

When we eventually reached our campsite for the night at O’Sheas camping ground, we were both ready to curl up right there on the ground and go to sleep. Instead, we set up our tents, cooked our meal, then iced my shoulders, which were red and throbbing from the weight that’s been sitting on them during the day. My hips were also purple and bruised from the excessive weight loaded onto them from my waist belt. I went to bed trying not to think about putting my pack on the next day.

In the morning, after an elongated breakfast, we said our farewells. I waved to Joel as he started heading back on the track, returning to his life in the city. When he disappeared, I was alone in the wilderness.

The walking boots on the yellow diamond mark the AAWT.

Chapter II: The long and winding road... to the start

What is that sound?

It’s carried by the wind,

I know it,

I hear it, yet

Describe it, I cannot,

Rising, then falling,

It is the question,

The unknown.

The engine of my car was straining against the gradient, as I took one sharp corner after another, my hands sweating slightly against the wheel. I wasn’t scared, just focused. The drop off on my left wasn’t a threat, only a possibility. A possibility I was hoping to avoid.

The bitumen stretched out in front of me like an endless snake as I climbed ever so slowly towards the crest of the next ridge. I patted my dashboard and promised my car a very thorough clean when all this was done. The windows were covered in dust and the rear bumper bar was hanging loose on one side. She may have been an all wheel drive, but these minor dirt roads have certainly taken their toll.

After nearly a week of driving through the Australian Alps, I was beginning to comprehend the enormity of the challenge I have decided to undertake. My aim was to traverse the full length of Australia’s snow country on foot, from just outside Melbourne to Canberra, covering a total distance of over 800km, roughly following the route of the Australian Alps Walking Track (AAWT) along exposed ridgelines, expansive forests and wild river valleys. The remoteness of these mountains required me to be completely self sufficient during my 74 day trek.

The purpose of my week long road trip was to place the necessary provisions along the route, spaced roughly a week’s walk apart. The plastic tubs contained neatly packaged parcels of dehydrated and long life foods that would supply me with not only fuel but also great pleasure during my walk. Along with the essentials, I placed a few luxury items in each drop; cans of beer, tins of plum pudding and blocks of chocolate. The simple things become divine in the mountains.

After eight hours of mountain roads, I was running on autopilot. My eyes were getting lazy as the sun sank low on the horizon. Clutch, brakes, turn wheel, accelerate. Another corner tackled successfully.

I spotted the turnoff to my night’s campsite with relief. Indicate, clutch, brakes, turn.

I rolled in to the campground just past sun down. The Snowy River was dark and flowing fast. I set up my tent on its banks, built a fire and opened a beer with satisfaction. Two more food drops placed was a good day’s work done. I could finally rest.

It was late May 2014 when I finished placing my provisions, just a couple of weeks before seasonal road closures shut off access to the mountains for the winter. My walk was set to commence in September. It was not without some anxiety that I thought about my plastic tubs containing all my food sitting up in the woods throughout the winter. Would they be intact when I reached them on my trek? There was no way for me to know; all I could do was hope that I’ve hidden and sealed the containers adequately to prevent stray hermits and hungry wombats from helping themselves to my supplies.

My winter was spent in preparation.

Possessing a fairly good level of fitness already, my primary concern was accumulating the equipment required to face the rugged wilderness of the Australian Alps in early spring, when the mountains can still be snow bound. Lacking winter experience, I turned to the online bushwalking forums to seek advice. I soon became immersed in the world of technical outdoor gear; four season tents, liquid fuel stoves, and gore-tex.

The gear I was looking for had to be strong, durable, reliable, comfortable and perhaps most importantly, since it was all going on my back, light. One piece at a time, I accumulated everything that was required. I wrote lists, crossed them off, and then wrote new lists, which I crossed off, only to write new lists again... I acquired the most important items, such as my tent, sleeping bag, boots and pack, well in advance in order to test them out and wear them in. However, it wasn’t until the day of my departure that I actually had everything packed into my pack for the first time. It weighed 42 kgs.

Having always been tall and lanky, I did my best to put on some weight in the lead up to my trip. I figured it’ll be handy to have some reserves that I will no doubt burn through during my walk. I gave it my best effort, eating enormous meals of porridge, pizza and pasta and a nightly dessert of ice cream. I continued this training diet with difficulty for a week, being quite different from my usually much healthier routine. In the end, all my efforts were to no avail. After 7 days I have lost 1kg and felt relatively unwell. That was the end of my dieting. After that, I went back to my usual, balanced diet, and soon regained the spring in my step.

I also figured that a bit of strength training will be beneficial before my trip, so I developed a unique training method, which proved much more successful than my dieting. I started doing the weekly grocery shopping for our household with my 100L+ pack. I simply used to stroll over to the supermarket, which was about a 30 minute walk from our house and load up my pack with anything from 20-50kgs of goods, then walk back home. These brief walks with the excessive weight did much to strengthen the correct muscle groups in my frame and I believe greatly helped in preparing my body for the shock that was to come to it when I embarked upon my adventure.

The quiet winter days slowly ticked over. Near the end, the wait became almost unbearable. It seemed that all I could think about was my upcoming walk. There was no nervousness, only anticipation and excitement.

Eventually, the day arrived, and with the help of my friend Joel, who was to accompany me for the first day of my walk, we slid my oversized pack into the boot of his car.

Then, we drove off and left the city behind.

Introducing: The Australian Alps Story

“Although the task may appear overbearing at first, every adventure has a starting point. Tackled by putting one foot in front of the other, even the longest journey becomes a series of manageable steps.”

Now that’s a loaded pack! 2014, Australian Alps. Olympus Em-1.

This is a story that I wrote about eight years ago. Some of you have read it. Most of you haven’t.

It is a story about my first long solo bushwalk, which I undertook in 2014. It' was a 74 day trip where I walked along the spine of the highest section of Australia’s Great Dividing Range, from the relic gold mining town of Walhalla in Victoria, to Tharwa in the Australian Capital Territory, along the Australian Alps Walking Track.

During my journey, I kept a journal, and this formed the backbone of a story I wrote and which I shared on a website titled Mountains of Australia. This website is no longer online, as I pulled it down when I started writing my weekly posts about three years ago. But it is a story that is very central to my development as a storyteller. It is also the longest story I have ever written. So I thought it was time to revisit it.

My trip across the Australian Alps was a formative experience that taught me a lot, not only about Australia’s mountains, but also about myself and my place in the world.

A quote from my journal will do much to introduce the theme of this particular story.

“Away from technology and jacked up pleasures, the illusions of our thoughts are left behind and we begin to marvel at the simple beauty in life. We are struck blind by the rising sun, we are soothed by the breeze on a warm day and we marvel at the landscape that fills us with a deep sense of peace. In nature we find our redemption. The longer our stint in the wilderness, the more our awareness grows and we are able to adopt our true form, as a consciousness that is free and awake to make its own original decisions. Finally free of thought, we are free to start living.”

Bon Voyage my fellow adventurers.

-A.S. 10/02/2023, Lenah Valley

The author, looking about ten years younger than he does now. 2014. Olympus Em-1.

The Australian Alps Story

Chapter I: A Leap of Faith

“That looks like a massive stash of drugs.”

My housemate was looking at the neatly laid out plastic packages. They covered the entire carpet in the lounge room of our sharehouse. It was a big carpet.

“It’s food. 74 days of food” I said.

“That’s a lot of food.”

“I only hope it will be enough” I replied.

It was mid May in 2014 and preparations for my Australian Alps walk were in full swing.

“How long do you have to walk again?” she asked.

“800kms, with side trips” I replied.

“And you can’t buy food along the way?”

“No towns. Only mountains.”

My housemate looked at me confounded and paused before asking her next question.

“You’ve done something like this before, right?” she asked eventually.

“Kind of...” I didn’t want to tell her the truth.

One of the trail markers on the AAWT. 2014. Olympus Em-1.

I remember the day my maps were delivered in the mail. All 27 of them.

I laid them out neatly on the floor, and highlighted the Australian Alps Walking Track (AAWT), then pinned them on my wall. At least I managed to pin half of them, the other half wouldn’t fit. I stared at that highlighted line marking the track as it wound its way across my wall, shrunk down by 50 thousand times compared to real life. It still seemed too long.

“I’m going to have to walk a bloody long way.” I thought to myself then.

As I continued my research, each new revelation added to the number of my friends who were concerned about my mental well being.

“You’re going to do it alone?”

“Aren’t you going to get lonely?”

“What if you get lost?”

I even had a friend message me just before I left, wishing me luck and that she was hoping I’d still be able to hold a conversation when I returned.

That’s when it hit me.

Most people have no idea what it’s like being alone in the mountains for 74 days.

To be away from our comfortable lifestyle that we have grown accustomed to can be truly terrifying. To abandon all that is known for the unknown takes a leap of faith.

Yet, it is only by taking the leap that any rewards in life may be gained.

To be continued…

Snowgum silhouette. 2014. Olympus Em-1.

Welcome to The Melting Billy

Amidst the struggle to come up with decent weekly content, the author decides to change the name of his blog. Once again.

The author, Andy Szollosi, sitting on a boulder. 2019, Pentax MX. Photograph taken by Tim Kirkby.

When I originally conceived the idea for this blog, I called it Mountains of Tasmania. This was in early 2020, and I proceeded to release a new post every Sunday morning. But after about a year, I discovered that a facebook group existed of the same name but had way more followers than my humble readership. So I changed the name to The Boiling Billy in February 2021. But when I discovered that a publisher existed in Australia with the same name, I felt obliged to change the title once again, to the name of my very first blog, which I started in Melbourne in the early 2010s and which never really took off. Scribbleton. A place where scribbles are not only accepted, they are the preferred form of currency. I was resurrecting an old ghost, one which I thought would give me a bit more freedom to explore new ideas.

And what I’ve realised recently is that perhaps the content of my blog since the last name change has lost its direction a little, and has been looking for a way to find itself again. And while I’ve been releasing new photographs with my posts each and every week, I’ve been digging hard to come up with words to go with every post. Scribbleton is a place for scribbles, and it removed the responsibility of writing anything particularly presentable.

Pencil pine on island. 2019 Pentax MX.

Recently, I was having a conversation with a friend, Pauly, whom I visited in Bright on my road trip from Noosa to Hobart. He told me that he really enjoyed the post titled ‘That’s the way the billy boils’, which I wrote about a year ago. It was a piece that talked about the shifting attitudes of bushwalkers in Tasmania, and around the world.

My conversation with Pauly made me want to change the name of the blog back to The Boiling Billy. But I knew I couldn’t. Once a name has been discarded, it can never be reinstated. But I liked the idea of a billy, because to me, it is a uniquely Australian reference to spending time in the bush.

A billy, is a small, lightweight pot that’s usually hung over the fire to heat water in. If we put water in it, and we manage not to spill it, we get boiling water. When the water boils, it is ready to use, to cook, to wash, to do whatever we may please with it. A boiling billy is one that’s achieved its purpose.

BW Panorama. 2020, Pentax MX.

But if we leave the billy over the fire for some time, and all the water boils away, and we still leave it over the fire, well that’s when we get a melting billy. This is the kind of billy we wish to never have. But it is a billy that gets a story told about it. A billy that’s melted is a billy that’s remembered. Well, at least for some time.

So this is a blog about trips out to the bush, to the wilderness, where not everything goes to plan and some kind of learning takes place. Trips that are worth remembering. The slow accumulation of wisdom prepares us better for our next visit to the bush. Next time we go out, we will watch as our water boils and we won’t let our billy run dry.

But a melting billy also represents a vessel in which different ingredients may be melted down and combined. It’s a mixing pot, where various ideas can encounter each other and interact. A melting billy is what we use to make a concoction, a potion, a remedy.

Welcome my dear readers, to The Melting Billy.

Tim Kirkby stands on the edge in the fading light over leawuleena. 2019 Pentax MX.

-A.S. 3/2/2023, Lenah Valley.