The only way

“He who knows only his own side of the case knows little of that. His reasons may be good, and no one may have been able to refute them. But if he is equally unable to refute the reasons on the opposite side, if he does not so much as know what they are, he has no ground for preferring either opinion...” J.S. Mill

Afternoon light, Brushy Creek Trees. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, April 2023.

Have you ever had a conversation that went like this?

A: I was hoping we could have a conversation about anthropogenic climate change.

B: About what kind of climate change?

A: Anthropogenic. It means climate change that is induced by humans.

B: Well sure, we can have a conversation. But climate change is due to natural variations in the Earth’s atmosphere. Humanity has nothing to do with it.

A: So 97% of scientists who claim anthropogenic climate change is real and happening are all wrong then?

B: Yes, they are all wrong.

A: What would it take for you to change your mind?

B: No matter what you say to me, I am not going to change my mind.

A: But I thought you said you were open to having a conversation? If you have already made up your mind, what’s the point of having this conservation?

B: The point is that I am right.

A: And what is your proof?

B: I don’t need any proof, because I know I am right.

A: You realise you are using a circular argument that makes no sense whatsoever?

B: It makes perfect sense to me. The fact that you can’t understand my way of thinking is not my problem.

A: So nothing I can say to you will change your mind?

B: Yes, that is right. You are finally starting to understand.

A: Well, in that case I would say you are not ready to have this conversation.

B: What do you mean? We just had it, and we both know I am right!

A: …

Taller than the rest. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, April 2023.

Most people in Europe before the Renaissance used to believe that the Sun revolved around the Earth, and that the Earth was flat. This was believed for a great many years. Humanity was the centre of the Universe. Then something changed. People’s perception shifted, and the centre of our world changed. It turned out that it was actually the Earth orbiting the Sun. And that the Earth was a sphere.

But today, despite thousands of satellites orbiting the Earth, allowing for our everyday communications to take place, some people still believe the Earth is flat. I imagine a conversation with a flat earther would go something along the lines of the conversation above. No matter what we say, we won’t be able to change their mind. They remain resolute in the conviction that their world view is correct.

Pencil pines and moss. Living in sustained harmony. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, April 2023.

But the truth is, even when we are convinced that we are right, we can still be wrong. And the only way we can find out is if we are willing to hear the other side of the argument and maintain a willingness to change our mind.

"There is no such thing as bad weather...

… only bad equipment.”

Teetering Stack. Pentax MX, April 2023.

This is a cliche that’s about as overused as plastic bags in the supermarket. And while cliches are well used for a reason, and they do point towards a universal truth, they are also terribly limited in their meanings.

Thanks to the quality of clothing and equipment available to the intrepid adventurer in the 21st century, it is true that most weather conditions can be tolerated. If you prepare for the conditions appropriately, chances are, you won’t have to suffer too much.

The sun lounge. Pentax MX, April 2023.

But to claim there is no such thing as bad weather is bollocks. It’s a sensationalist statement that downplays the reality of the conditions that one may experience in the mountains. There IS such a thing as bad weather.

Weather is not bad in its own right. But given that we view the world through our human lens, with our human limitations, there IS such thing as objectively bad weather, for a human. Conditions that pose a threat to the ongoing existence of human life for example. If you can’t stay still for more than 30 minutes without freezing to death, I’d say you are experiencing bad weather.

I guess we could take a devious tangent here and discuss whether an event that causes the end of human existence is bad or good, but given that most people seem to prefer an ongoing existence to an ongoing death, I am going to run with the consensus and leave a purely philosophical (but worthwhile) discussion for another time.

Friendly Obelisk. Pentax MX, April 2023.

If you can’t pitch a tent because it’s too windy, I’d say the weather is bad. When you are wearing all your daytime layers, including thermals, mid layers, hard shell pants and jacket, mittens, balaclava, and have your hood cinched around your face, moving as fast as you can with a 20+kg pack on your back, and you can still feel your core temperature dropping, I’d say the weather is bad.

There was this time a few years ago when we were traversing the Eliza plateau with my friend Rob Holbrook in what I would say was bad weather. We had started early that day, somewhere on the North-East Ridge, and I say somewhere because I am actually not quite sure where we were, having lost the track up to Pandanni-Shelf the previous day. We had navigated our way past the sinkholes and cave entrances of the North-East Ridge earlier that morning, gotten completely saturated in the rainforest while it gently snowed around us and sidled around the peak of Mt Anne through the frozen boulderfield in poor visibility. Once we hit the track, we thought we would be on the home stretch. But it was late in the afternoon and we were walking in fog and a steady headwind, the temperature just hovering around zero, which meant we remained saturated to our skin in the drizzle.

About halfway across the plateau, I realised I should stop and put an extra mid layer on. But the effort of stopping, taking the mittens off, taking the pack off, taking the jacket off and putting on an additional layer seemed so overwhelmingly difficult that I decided to trudge on. And trudge on.

The plateau seemed endless. At one point, there was a short step in front of me. I went to step up, but my foot slipped off. I tried again, and my foot slipped off again. On my third attempt, I was finally able to step up. But the alarm went off in my head. “Put a layer on now”. So I called to Rob, we found a bit of shelter out of the wind behind a boulder, we stopped and I put that layer on. Even then I must have been borderline hypothermic by the time we reached the point where the track drops off the plateau towards High Camp Hut. Within fifteen minutes of being out of the wind, I was warm again. I wonder how Rob would have reacted that day if I turned to him and said:

Flaking Boulder. Pentax MX, April 2023.

“There is no such thing as bad weather…”

Asturias, Spain

A photo essay depicting Asturias, Spain along the route of the Camino Primitivo.

The Camino is often referred to as ‘The Way of St James’. Here is the holy man, frozen in stone. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, May 2023.

These old stone walls lined a lot of the backroads in the countryside. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, May 2023.

The fog in this part of northern Spain would often persist well past midday. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, May 2023.

The ridgelines of the mountains were often lined with a series of windmills. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, May 2023.

Along with the windmills came the powerlines. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, May 2023.

Cattle often roamed free in the hills along ‘The Way’. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, May 2023.

Characteristic ‘panera’ or storage house in Asturias. These ‘floating’ cottages are always propped up on blocks of wood and stone in a way that makes them rodent proof. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, May 2023.

Refugio, or mountain shelter along the route of the Camino Primitivo. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, May 2023.

Little pyramid. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, May 2023.

The holy pilgrim. Pentax MX, Ektar 100, May 2023.

Just a piece of canvas...

I’ve always been intrigued by old equipment. My favourite pack is an old swiss army pack that weighs a ton, is made of leather, canvas and steel. It is indestructible and I love it for the fact that this pack is likely to outlive me.

One of the key directions of the outdoor industry in the last five decades has been to move away from natural materials to synthetic ones. Gear has gotten progressively lighter, more functional and mostly, less durable. While there are good reasons we have moved away from using certain materials, and I appreciate a light pack as much as anyone else, I do have a soft spot for historic outdoor equipment.

Blending in. Hasselblad 500C/M, Portra 800, April 2023.

Earlier this year, one of our customers at Paddy Pallin donated his father’s old ‘Paddy Made’ Golden Tan tent. The tent originally belonged to Ian Boss-Walker, who used this tent on his trips to the ‘Reserve’ from the 1960s onward. Ian wrote the first guide to Cradle Mt-Lake St Clair National Park, (known as ‘The Reserve’ then), titled ‘Peaks and High Places’, published in 1950 by the Scenery Preservation Board, Hobart.

Here was a tent with a bit of history and I could not resist but to take it out on a trip to a place that this tent knew so well and had not seen in a number of years!

It was certainly well used, the canvas had been worn thin and had a few minor holes in it. I didn’t mind. I knew I would use it as my shelter of choice for my second attempt to cross Fury Gorge near Cradle Mountain. The first attempt ended in a hasty retreat from Pencil Pine Bluff in a severe blizzard. What would happen this time and how would the old tent hold up?

Sunrise on the bluff. Hasselblad 500C/M, Portra 800, April 2023.

I started by airing out the 50+ year old tent for a few days so it didn’t smell like moth balls any more. Then I took the tent to my local repair man, Dave Ross in South Hobart and he patched the main rip on the door in no time at all. I set up the tent in my backyard and was impressed to see it had no less than 22 attachment points to the ground! Bombproof! Most of the peg loops were missing so I added some 2 mm chord. I also sprayed the tent with Atsko silicon, further adding to the metamorphosis of this museum piece towards a trustworthy shelter. I ran out of silicon spray near the end and used a bit of Snowseal beeswax to finish the job. While the silicon dried to an imperceptible finish, the wax left a patchy mark on the material and added more weight. It also took longer to apply. It was to be an interesting experiment on whether the traditional method (beeswax) or the modern method (silicon) would be more effective in the wet. The conclusion would be the latter. The silicon coating not only weighed less, it also made the fabric absorb less water overall. Two 300g cans would have been needed to cover the tent completely. I was surprised at how effectively the silicon waterproofed the canvas.

With the Golden Tan repaired, waterproofed and kitted out with guy lines, pegs and two walking poles, I had my shelter for my attempt on Fury Gorge. But April is a fickle month in Tasmania’s highlands and I didn’t quite trust the forecast when it said there was to be no rain for the four days I was to be up there.

The Bottom of the Abyss. Hasselblad 500C/M, Portra 800, April 2023.

The details of how my trip turned out shall be told in an upcoming article in Wild Magazine, although the photographs here will give some insight. What I wish to focus on here was how the old tent performed.

Much to my surprise, the weather held fair and there was barely a breath of wind. One could say the conditions were ideal for a positive experience in the canvas shelter. And I did fall in love with this piece of old gear. There was so much to love about it!

It was a spacious fit for one, and while feeling sheltered once inside, I never felt completely separated from my environment. It was a totally different experience to being in a two layer sil-nylon tent. A piece of canvas is the definition of breathable, and the doors could be opened up on both sides of the A-frame on the good nights, making me feel so much more connected to the places I was spending my nights in.

Sure, the tent was not the quickest thing to put up with 22 pegs required for a taut pitch. And for the first time I realised the true convenience of zips, through being deprived of them. The tent doors had to be tied closed with the cotton laces which took about a minute each time I had to exit the tent. I could also see how in a high wind scenario the ends of the tent near the doors would inevitably let a bit of water in.

Looking back. Hasselblad 500C/M, Ektar 100, April 2023.

Much to my surprise, I had a great time in this tent over the three nights that I spent in it! Perhaps if there was a blizzard, it would have been a different story. But given the conditions, I fell in love with this old piece of canvas, and decided to rename it to the ‘Paddy’s Palace’. I would have no hesitation to take this as my primary shelter on fair weather trips from now on!

And if you or someone you know has one of these old tents tucked away in a shed somewhere and it hasn’t gone mouldy, don’t throw it away! Get it out, fix it up, and for no cost at all, you’ve got yourself a decent two person shelter. Oh and for the gram gremlins out there, the total weight of the (dry) tent, including my trekking poles was roughly 2kg! Not bad for a tent that’s nearly as old as the Rolling Stones!

Homeward bound. Hasselblad 500C/M, Ektar 100, April, 2023.

A brief interlude

There you have it my dear followers, with the Australian Alps story all wrapped up, it is time to take a little break. I know I have promised you one post per week, but over the next six weeks I shall be on a different continent to the one where I usually reside so there won’t be any posts till July I’m afraid. And even once July comes around, I fear that I may not be able to continue the weekly posts.

It comes down to being able to generate quality content you see. I am slowly accepting that perhaps I am not capable of writing one quality post every week. So what you may find, is that the Melting Billy Posts will continue, but on a more sporadic basis. I will write posts when I have something to say, not simply because it is Sunday. This way, I hope to uphold the quality of the posts.

If you are curious as to where I am headed over the next six weeks, it is to Europe, to Budapest, my place of birth, where family awaits, but also to the north coast of Spain to sample the Camino, and to the Fagaras mountains in Romania, where bears and wolves still roam in the wild.

All the best in the meantime and good luck with those shortening days as we approach the solstice.

Take care my friends, adios for now!

-Andy

Ps: and here are some photographs from my recent trip to one of the least attractive walking destinations in Tasmania. Fury Gorge. It’s simply a perfectly terrible place to visit. I can’t recommend it highly enough. ;)

Homecoming

“Would you like your certificate laminated?”

The birds woke me, one last time. The drawn out cackle of the kookaburras made me open my eyes to narrow slits; the promise of first light diffused through my tent’s fabric. The job ahead of me was simple, yet difficult. My day’s walk would only take five hours, but with it, I would complete my 10 week journey through the Australian Alps. I felt victorious, but vulnerable, unwilling to close the book on a gripping chapter.

I struck out 73 days previously from Walhalla in Victoria, and walked nearly 800kms to end up where I was, sipping a strong coffee from the comfort of my sleeping bag at Honeysuckle Creek Campground, only a day’s walk from Tharwa, the official end of the AAWT. I had walked 35kms the previous day to set myself up for an early afternoon finish; I expected an easy day’s hike and a timely arrival to the visitor centre. I should have figured that the AAWT would throw one last challenge as a farewell present.

I packed up quickly that morning, keen to get going; it was going to be a scorcher of a day. I checked my map; there were plenty of creek crossings, so I took less than a litre of water in my bladder from the rainwater tank. I’d collect the rest later, I figured. The sun climbed higher in the sky.

Rolling up my tent, I remembered the first week of my walk, ten weeks past, when I climbed to the Baw Baw Plateau and encountered snow that came above my knees. I remembered staggering along in the heavy drifts with my 40kg pack, wishing for warmer climate. Since then, I had watched the snow melt and the landscape transform with the anticipation of summer. Right then, as I took the first steps of my final day in the Australian Alps, I wished for winter back. Then I remembered that it’s silly to make wishes for things that are impossible.

The water in the creeks had dried up. It was barely the beginning of summer, and the beds were bone dry. If I had done my research, I would have known to expect this. The eastern section of the Great Dividing Range is in rain shadow; the prevailing westerly winds mean that the clouds loose most of their moisture by the time they reach these hills. I had minimal water left in my bottle and I knew it had to last a long way. I kept plodding, trying to find my rhythm, pretending my mouth wasn’t as dry as the leaf litter underneath my feet.

I wasn’t just grappling with my mounting thirst, but also the inevitable realisation that my nomadic routine would be over tomorrow. I had to say goodbye to the simplicity of waking to bird call each morning, brewing the perfect cup of coffee at my leisure, even hauling my monstrous pack over the endlessly undulating landscape; tomorrow they would all be memories.

In the mountains, my existence became aligned with the cycles of Nature; the passing of the moon, the daily gift of the sun and the shifting of the seasons. After ten weeks on the trail, I was feeling the benefits of having adjusted to Nature’s clock; I was stronger, fitter and happier than I have ever been in my life. My mind was steady, unwilling to give in to the fluctuating moods of my flitting thoughts; in short I was centred, and able to enjoy every single moment, exactly the way it was, rather than the way I wished it would be.

There wasn’t a drop left in my bottle. I turned it upside down, just to make sure. My head was aching, and my throat had been dry for hours. My only option was to keep plodding. I reduced my pace to maximise efficiency; going too fast now would only wear me out. The staircase leading me down Mt Tenant appeared endless; I kept stepping, and the stairs kept going. In my mind’s eye, I was frolicking in cool, calm waters. My reality was very different. I just had to put one foot in front of the other. Swat the flies. Bloody flies. More steps. Keep. Going.

I arrived at the Namadgi Visitor Centre unceremoniously. As I plopped my sweat soaked canvas rucksack onto the picnic bench, a dark swarm of flies lifted up, then shortly attempted to land on me instead. I barely had energy left to shoo them away. I only had one thing left to do. I grabbed my water bottle, walked over to the water tank, unscrewed the lid and opened the tap. The delicious water cascaded in. I lifted the bottle to my mouth, closed my eyes and drank...The life force travelled down my throat and within minutes, I could feel it becoming part of me. I mused about how many times I have drunk water, and had taken it for granted; then figured, to truly appreciate what we have, first it must be taken away.

“Would you like your certificate laminated?” The lady behind the counter delivered the question with a smile.

I was standing in an air conditioned Namadgi Visitor Centre, at the end of the 650km Australian Alps Walking Track. I was struggling to cope with the reality of having arrived at my destination after 74 days of walking through mountainous wilderness. The ranger’s question caught me by surprise; it all felt so surreal. A piece of paper, coated in plastic, seemed meaningless, but also, strangely satisfying.

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” My words came out as a croak.

I felt like a king, riding on the bus into Canberra. It sure was an extraordinary ride back to the ordinary world. For the first time in 10 weeks, I was sitting down, and moving at the same time. It felt wonderful. The world outside flitted past, impossibly fast. The faces of my fellow humans on the bus were withdrawn, their minds absorbed in their own worlds. My eyes on the other hand, were popping out of my head. Everything felt like a miracle. Every moment was cosmic justice, and I felt amazed at simply being alive.

Arriving to the hostel was the real beginning of my internal celebration that would last many days. I dumped my giant pack in the dorm room, much to the amusement of my roommate, who exclaimed: “Where did you come from, man, Antarctica?” I laughed at his reaction, and shared the quick version of my story. He wanted to hear more, so we decided to head down to the pub, conveniently located in the basement of the hostel.

My newfound friend knew how to work a pub. Before long, he was introducing me to everyone sitting within earshot. “This guy has just walked 74 days through the mountains to get here!” I felt almost like a celebrity, answering questions and accepting genuine handshakes and congratulations. Slowly, the accomplishment of my trek began to sink in. So I bought another beer, and then another and shared the story of my adventure with everyone who was willing to listen.

I stumbled to my bed with a heavy stomach but a light heart. The novelty of crisp, clean sheets was lost on me as I passed out, and entered a deep and peaceful sleep.

The Final Mountain: Mt Jagungal

“Love all that surrounds you and the world will fall at your feet in gratitude; try and exert your will over it and the world will kick back with vengeance.”

The sun was setting a blood orange in the west and the Jagungal Wilderness lay ahead of me as an open expanse, inviting.

I was on the undulating alpine plateau of the Kerries, the continuation of the Main Range to the north, and I was letting my feet guide me towards the lone summit of a majestic Mt Jagungal, as it hovered above the rolling landscape.

The gentle curves of these hills made for marvelous walking; untracked and untamed; they allowed me to pick my own route, imperfect, yet satisfying. The river valleys were clear of scrub and trees, a result of severe frosts and saturated soils. I used these valleys as my guide to bring me ever closer to my destination. The mountain stood, waiting.

The skeleton trees watched on. Twisted, gnarled, their limbs contorted in agony from drought, fire and frost, their suffering written into every wooded fibre. Survival up here requires more than pleasure. My diary details my impression of one tree in particular that was killed by the fires that swept through the high country in 2003-2006:

“The snowgum was bleached white, leaves stripped; leaving a grotesquely twisted skeletal form that was perched on top of a huge granite boulder. From a distance it appeared to be growing out of the rock itself. Its trunk was wide, perhaps a metre in diameter, though its height was no more than 3-4 metres. It was the skeleton of an ancient being, hundreds of years old whose torso was completely warped with a pattern like a corkscrew.
However, with death, new life begins: around the boulder, saplings were springing up; no doubt the offspring of this older tree, whose seeds, having lain dormant in the soil for many years, were finally allowed to germinate when the fire swept through.”- Day 67 of my AAWT Diary

Yes, it was day 67 of my walk and the memory of my departure was in the distant past. Remembering the trials of my first week, the depth of the snow; the magnitude of the challenge I have taken on, the weight of my pack, the finger numbing cold; they were all an endless series of dreams of a life I once knew.

From snowstorms, to the oppressing heat, I watched the transition of Australia’s Alps from the chill of winter to the oppressive heat of summer. I saw the spring snow melt, day by day, and the flowers spring up as the days lengthened and the temperatures warmed. Through this process, I was peering through a window not only into the heart of the high country, but also into my own heart as well.

One of the things that I noticed as the days got longer was that my mood seemed to share an inverse relationship with the temperature. The misery of my existence on these warmer days could be summed up with a single word: flies. My diary once again gives insight.

“The flies like to hitch a ride on my pack and take turns harassing me before settling down, to rest up for another bombardment when their turn comes. In this way, I carry with me my own, constantly shifting cloud of flies, which only grow thicker as the day passes and their numbers accumulate, well into the hundreds. The potent poison of deet seems to keep them out of my nostrils, eyes and ears. Without the repellent, life would be unbearable. The unpleasantness of the whole affair dawns on me occasionally, about once every 20 seconds.”

Another aspect of walking in the heat was the loss of water and salt from my own body, requiring me to carry up to three litres of water per day. I also carried with me a small bag of salt, which I nibbled on the hotter days, to replace the salt I sweated through my skin. The accumulation of body odours was also inevitable:

“My feet smell like a good blue cheese, my socks like a bad one.”

Yes, it was day 67 and I plodded on towards the elevated figure of Mt Jagungal.

This mountain’s attractive stature draws the eye from a distance. Towering well above the surrounding countryside, its prominence creates a sense of regality. As I drew closer to its slopes, it got taller and taller, promising a gruelling climb to a high saddle where I intended to camp.

I filled up my water bladder for the night from a creek which I judged to be the last running water before reaching my campsite. The sun was now low on the horizon, only a couple of hours were left before it sank for good, giving way to the moon.

Eventually, I reached the exposed high saddle I have been aiming for and pitched my tent. I was tired, but not exhausted. My position gave me views to both the journey that lay behind as well as ahead of me. To the south, the impressive peaks of the Main Range were becoming barely more than a silhouette, while in the far distance I could just make out the dark shape of Mt Bogong, which lay a month’s walk behind me. With the satisfaction of the accomplishment slowly sinking in, my mind wondered, contemplating the previous ten weeks on the trail.

The horizon was a transition of colour, from a deep orange to a hazy pink and finally a dark blue, above. I saw the white streak of airliner jets leaving their mark, too far for the sound of their engines to be heard. I wondered about all those lives, sitting comfortably in the passenger seats, bored and oblivious to the wonder of flight. For a minute I wished I was the pilot, looking out over the continents from the powerful seat in the cockpit, making the world my highway, then contended myself with where I was, on a mountaintop, enjoying the solitude and an immense view.

The sun had barely sunk below the horizon when I was privy to an unusual occurrence. My ears pricked up as I heard the hum of a green bug flying nearby. Soon there were hundreds, then thousands. They must have been biding their time, waiting for the cruel sun to disappear before rising up from the grass where they must have been hiding in the heat of the day. Soon, their numbers were in the millions. To heighten the chaos, swarms of moths appeared shortly, joining in the cavalcade, all flying erratically, joyous that their time of day has finally come. Later in the night I heard the sharp calls of the bats, no doubt feasting upon this extravagant swarm.

As I sat there, near the summit of Mt Jagungal, I wondered; is there anything more mysterious than a wild setting, with a myriad different animals and plants somehow existing, in tumultuous harmony?

Chapter XII: Australia's Giants

“Up here the eye is attracted to the horizon that is far and distant. It’s this sense of openness that I love about walking in the mountains; the wide horizons that appear as an endless chain. It creates a place of perspective, where one may observe the world objectively, without influence. A place to weigh up one’s existence against all that is eternal. Herein lies the power of mountains.”

The top of the hill I’ve been climbing towards laboriously, knees creaking, back groaning, appeared to be getting closer; and through the opening of the canopy, a view began to reveal itself. I plopped my pack on the ground, with the familiar motion that I’ve been practising daily for the past eight weeks, and peered out over the treetops, towards the white glow of Australia’s giants. There they stood, towering above, still capped in snow then, in late spring, barely a few hours walk away!

Australia’s tallest mountain range, the Main Range, is elevated two kilometres above sea level and is colloquially known as the Snowy Mountains. Its sprawling alpine plateau is the climax of Australia’s greatest mountain range, the Great Divide, and is also the birthplace of one of our great rivers, the Snowy. The unpredictable and often severe climate on these high peaks has sculpted a unique and fragile alpine environment that contains some of Australia’s rarest ‘feldmark’ plant communities.

It also stands as a place rich in history, having provided a meeting place for the local Aboriginal tribes for hundreds of generations, and having served as roaming ground for the early mountain cattlemen whose culture has since become an integral part of our national identity. These mountains are also home to one of our country’s greatest engineering marvels: the Snowy-Hydro Scheme, built by nearly 100 000 workers post WWII. More recently, since the protective hand of national park status has been extended over the ‘Snowies’, it’s become a playground for outdoor enthusiasts, both in winter as well as summer.

As for me, it was a real relief to finally reach them, after 8 weeks of trekking along the Australian Alps Walking Track (AAWT). The vehicular tracks that I have been following leading up to the Snowies were about to be replaced by untracked country that offered marvellous walking. Furthermore, my good friend, Robert Vandali was to join me for this section of my journey. After nearly 8 weeks of solitude and dehydrated meals, my stomach and I were looking forward to the rendezvous at Dead Horse Gap.

Rob, in his reliable fashion, turned up to our meeting point with a car full of food. Looking at the bounty in his boot, I felt ravenous. He offered me an endless selection of treats; sticks of salami, blocks of chocolate, fresh fruit, but I think his crowning achievement was the preparation of bacon and eggs that day for breakfast. If my eyes didn’t water, it was only because I was too busy eating.

Loaded up with a week’s worth of food, our packs felt heavy on our climb up to Australia’s highest alpine plateau. On our way towards the Rams Head Range, we spotted two wild horses, grazing peacefully on the grass that had lain underneath snow until only a few weeks previously. Having survived the winter, these brumbies must have been overjoyed with the sun and the freshly revealed grass. Chomping, stomping, they eventually trotted away when I got too close with my camera.

As we gained elevation, we emerged from the scruffy snowgum forests onto a barren, alpine landscape; dominated by yellow grass, scoured boulders and large snowdrifts loitering on the southerly slopes. The scale of the landscape made us feel like we have entered a land of giants, where the eye may see for an awful long distance, and the legs have much trouble keeping up with the imagination.

From a natural high point, standing on a particularly prominent boulder, we spotted our night’s accommodation: the bright red Cootapatamba Hut. Nestled in a river valley just south of Mt Kosciuszko, this hut serves as a vital emergency shelter for those that get caught out in ferocious weather. Although we were lucky enough to get mostly clear days for our days high up on the range, temperatures were crisp; the windchill contributing to an apparent temperature of -10 C. We were grateful we wouldn’t have to pitch our tents that night with icy fingers, and instead could sleep in the womb-like nest that was the hut.

From Cootapatamba hut, we continued in a northerly direction, towards Mt Kosciuszko. When we picked up the steel walkway that formed the main track, we also met an endless line of day walkers and tourists, all heading to the top of Australia. I received some odd looks from passers-by, no doubt wondering why I was choosing to carry such a hefty load of supplies when the ski-village was only a quick cable-car ride away. Further ahead, a motorised crane was clearing the snow off the track, wiping away with it memories of winter.

The ‘road’ to the summit of Mt Kosciuszko spirals gently around the peak; my footsteps were equally unhurried. The scale of the journey I have undertaken to arrive at the climax of Australia’s greatest mountain range was beginning to dawn on me. As we drew close to the summit cairn, I could clearly see the distant but unmistakable shape of Mt Bogong to the south west, over 100km away, where I had stood three weeks previously. Far, far beyond Mt Bogong stood the Cross Cut Saw, Mt Howitt, Mt Clear, Mt Selwyn and eventually, near the start of the AAWT, the Baw Baw Plateau. Nearly two months worth of walking had brought me to this point. Although the objective at first seemed unfathomable, I was finally here. In the end, the words that escaped me were spoken like a true Australian:

“I have walked a bloody long way!”

Our next day on the Snowies gave us a real taste for mountain weather; a relentless wind dried out our lips till they were cracked with blood, forcing us to hide our heads underneath the hoods of our jackets. As we followed the track across the climactic ridge of the Great Divide, our boots tread upon the path lined by ‘feldmark’ communities, the hardiest of the alpine flora. These highly adapted survivors live on the most exposed ridges, where the wind whips away the protective cover of snow during the winter storms. Yet, life triumphs through hardship, and as we strode past, we saw that quite a few of these plants were flowering, bringing with them the promise of a warm summer and sunshine.

The landscape rolled by underneath our feet, a relatively barren plateau dotted with the occasional wildflower. The undulating terrain had great boulders strewn across it, like a bad tempered giant has had a tantrum and scattered dinosaur eggs everywhere. The power of the landscape dwarfed our tiny footsteps, freeing us to observe our surroundings with neutrality.

White’s River Hut became our next night’s haven. Nestled in the valley of the Munyang River, the hut was more like a house inside, with insulated walls and sheets of board inside that were painted white. The focus of the main room was a large, cylindrical and very stocky wood fire heater set in a stone lined, semi circular fire place. Two glass windows brightened the room that was both clean and spacious. A side room contained a bunk bed where we set up our mats and sleeping bags. Being early afternoon, I made the most of the opportunity and promptly took a refreshing nap after lunch. The bed sagged and the wire springs creaked when you moved, but it was mid afternoon and I was napping in a bed! Unimagined luxury!

We played cards after an oversized dinner. The loser’s punishment was sitting on a rather uncomfortable wooden stump that served as a rudimentary chair. It was a strong motivator to play well. It was a jovial evening, wiping away any sense of hardship of the last couple of months while we laughed and munched on chocolate, the full moon shining over the serene valley outside our hut.

As I closed my eyes that night, the creaky springs of the bed playing a gentle chime, I couldn’t help but feel that I was close on the home stretch of my journey. A quiet satisfaction was growing in me, as a successful completion of my walk was appearing more likely with every passing day.

Meanwhile, further north, the lone figure of Mt Jagungal waited for me, patiently, quietly...

Welcome to the Wild Wild East

The sun was setting herself up for another showdown, her rays dancing a spectrum of colours with her cousins, the cumulus clouds, promising a sunset to remember. I was labouring up Mt Bogong’s alpine plateau, the summit cairn taunting me from only a hundred steps away. The only sounds on these grassy plains nearly two kilometres above sea level were the stroking hand of the wind flattening grass, and the mournful craws of the white eyed ravens, letting each other know that a traveller on two legs was passing through.

Reaching the top of Victoria was a tipping point for my journey through the Australian Alps. The circular view from here allowed me to survey the route of my walk that lay both behind and ahead. Far to the south, I made out the mammoth shape of Mt Hotham, and the forbidding Crosscut Saw, whose sharp ridge I traversed three weeks prior; and to the north-east my breath was caught in my throat as I beheld the white giants of Australia, the Snowy Mountains.

Tied to the journey behind me were some of the greatest challenges I had overcome: slogging through the winter snow and some of the most notoriously overgrown tracks; while ahead lay the promise of easy going fire trails and warmer weather. Far to the north, I could just make out the sacred stature of Mt Jagungal, its call undeniable, representing the most memorable mountain I would climb before reaching Canberra. Thus seeing a key landmark on the horizon that signaled my journey’s end, I gathered strength and courage that would sustain me for the remaining month of my walking trip along the AAWT.

Standing on the summit of Mt Bogong, I was also able to observe the next immediate section of my hike, the far-eastern hills of Victoria. Following the dark blue shadows of the setting sun, I saw an endless series of heavily forested hills stretching far into the distance, towards the Snowy Mountains, and with them, the awaited border of New South Wales.

It would take me two weeks to journey through these undulating hills, challenging me in unexpected ways, as the track took me across some truly remote regions, where mountain settlements are sparse and the local’s lifestyle is dictated by the bush. When I was having a rest day near the Mitta Mitta River, at Taylor’s Crossing, I met a local hunter who was also doing a solo stint in the wild. Upon learning of my endeavour to walk across the Australian Alps, he handed me two cold cans of beer as a wish-you-well. With a broad grin across his sun tanned face, he welcomed me to the ‘Wild Wild East’.

As I descended from Mt Bogong, I found lush woodland at the height of spring. Opposed to the heart of winter, when all life slows and hunkers down against the storms, all the forests’ inhabitants were out and about, hustling and bustling about their business. I saw a myriad bugs flying through the green undergrowth, butterflies displaying their brightly dotted wings, fish chasing one another in the mountain streams, with the croak of the frogs giving a mournful backdrop to their play. I even woke a sleepy eastern grey kangaroo from a blissful nap with my tramping boot falls. Unhappy, he bounded away lazily, annoyed at the inconvenience.

During my journey through the ‘Wild Wild East’, I encountered not only native Australian animals, but also a number of introduced species, whose existence within these wild and delicate eco-systems pose a serious threat to the High Country’s natural diversity. The tragic sight of a fox whose hind leg was caught in a steel-jaw trap, struggling to break free to no avail; a wild dog carcass hung on a fence post to deter his cousins from poaching livestock, and wild horses that were starving due to booming populations were only some of the natural struggles that I witnessed first-hand. With ample time to consider the consequences of what I observed in my surroundings, my mind wondered into the realm of ideas that are often flagged as taboo in ‘polite’ society.

Inevitable questions with elusive answers plagued me for a large portion of my journey through the Australian Alps. Why do we ravage our planet, when our livelihood depends on it? When the destruction of our natural environment brings with it the disappearance of our own values of equality, justice and humanity, why do we continue as if nothing was wrong? We work our jobs and celebrate on our weekends, drink to the demise of a lesser existence, with each passing day we fail to own up to our failings as individuals and as a global community. Forgetting that our roots lie in the wilderness, we are beginning to lose ourselves in a fast moving world of gadgets, promotions and mortgages.

One lonely night, camping deep in a river valley, I awoke to the sound of a wild dog howling. It wasn’t a proud, fearless howl like that of a wolf, but rather, a gaunt and unhappy howl of a hound that has lost his pack. I closed my eyes and imagined a time when the proud call of humans echoed through this valley, deep with mystery; when we were still wild, and somehow, more alive. Eventually, I nodded off, into a dream where the wild dogs were sniffing around my tent, and I was clutching my knife in white knuckled hands.

After seven weeks on the trail, my walking routine had become an effortless way of life. Each day I would rise and fall with the sun, adapting to the cycles of Nature and listening to my own body and moods to determine the outcomes of each day. Some days it would take me three or four hours, and multiple cups of strong, black coffee just to get out of my tent, knees creaking, back groaning. Other days, I would pack up camp efficiently, quickly and with haste, unable to contain my excitement for the day’s walk ahead.

I remember getting to my sixth food drop, by the Omeo Highway, near Mt Wills. I ripped the lid off my plastic bucket with shaking hands, but was relieved when I found the parcel’s contents intact. To celebrate my good luck, I sat by the edge of the highway, drinking the beer I placed in my tubs four months previously, waving to the endless chain of motorcyclists riding past. The block of chocolate I provisioned for the following 10 days also disappeared in a matter of minutes. My dinner that night was crowned with a delicious serve of Christmas pudding, from a tin, served with instant custard. To complete the ritual, I bathed in the creek, and felt that I had received a new skin. The simple things of comfort become divine in the mountains.

One of my highly awaited side trips was the walk to the summit of the Cobberras, Victoria’s tallest untracked wild peaks, overlooking the headwaters of the Murray River, just south of the Snowy Mountains. While the regeneration of eucalypt saplings made for some arduous walking through some heavy undergrowth (despite the assurances of my guide book that the ‘forest is clear of scrub’), reaching these wild peaks was a sacred moment in my journey.

The appreciation that the surrounding landscape is the entirety of my present reality; that the sun is a blinding plethora of colours, and the rivers far below are roaring with fury, and that the clouds threaten, even as they yield; all contribute to an acceptance of reality as it is, rather than as we would like it to be. To observe the serenity of Nature, through the powerful vista of a mountain top view, is to peer inside our own Nature, and see the resemblance to every single thing surrounding us. In acceptance of the common link lies our redemption.

I reached the Murray River later that day, a trickling stream with an ugly sign next to it declaring the state borders. With one leg on each bank of the mighty river, I snapped a photo, to record the milestone moment. I had made it to New South Wales, the land of easy going vehicular tracks, fire trails and open walking. No more overgrown, scrubby tracks, or indistinct pads to follow. From here, my greatest obstacles would eventually become the hardness of the walking surface and the approaching summer heat.

The sprawling, grassy plains of Cowombat Flats stretched for hundreds of metres around me, a herd of wild horses gracing peacefully as the sun sank low in the sky over their heads. Being flight animals, they raised their heads and watched me intently as I drew closer and closer. When I was about a hundred steps away, one of them bolted and the others followed quickly. The thundering of their hooves would have been enough to wake the mountain trolls, had they not been turned into stone many, many years ago. I watched as they galloped as a unit towards the safety of the trees. When they were gone, I stood, firmly rooted in the same spot, until the sun disappeared from the sky and the chill of evening reminded me that I was in the wilderness.

Blizzard on the Bogong High Plains

Snow, snow, snow. So much Snow!

I spent half the night awake, being kept from a deep slumber by the gusting wind rattling my tent’s fabric. I could barely contain my excitement at the fresh snow, as it came down slowly but steadily throughout the night. Every time a sudden gust woke me, I would feel with my hands through the fabric of my tent the depth of the drift outside. The snow got deeper and the temperature got colder as the hand of my watch ticked a bit closer to dawn.

When I finally rose from my tent that morning, there was about 20cm of fresh snow on the ground. As I broke through the layer of ice that has formed in my water bottle overnight, I decided that this has definitely been the coldest morning of my trip so far. The wind was still howling and I utilised the luxury of Derrick’s Hut to stay warm during breakfast.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Upon arrival to this campsite only the day before, I wondered how this landscape would look under fresh snow. I even felt a little cheated that I wasn’t going to experience this section of the high country with a cover of snow. Secretly I wished for it to be winter. I never thought I’d get my wish. It was a happy coincidence that the worst weather I’ve had on my trip so far would happen to coincide with the most exposed section of the walk so far: the Bogong High Plains.

The snow poles across this uniform plateau have saved many lives over the years, by guiding the traveller in poor weather. The three metre tall treated pine posts stand as guardians when the track is buried under heavy snow, creating a lifeline that is easy to follow, even in the worst conditions. Without the safety of these poles, a white out up here would be completely disorienting. The homogeneity of these plains means that when visibility is poor, the country looks similar in all directions, making it difficult to navigate with map and compass. A number of cross country skiers have lost their lives on these plains in poor weather.

The wind was ripping across the plains as I left the safety of the tree line, carrying with it fine, frozen flakes of snow; stinging pellets of ice that made me tuck my chin down and focus on the next step. I was geared up, with no flesh exposed at all, and despite the effort required to make headway in the wind with my behemoth pack, I was barely keeping warm enough. I was doing my best to blitz my way across the blizzard blasted plains and arrive to the relative shelter of Tawonga Huts, a campsite often used by school groups, with open tin huts for shelter. I was thinking of a cup of hot chocolate and the warmth of my sleeping bag, as I took one step at a time, the wind pushing at me from my right, often nearly knocking me down to the ground.

When I eventually arrived to my destination for the night, I was less than impressed at the state of the hut that was to be my accommodation. It was literally a creaking tin box held together by some rusty bolts; the fireplace long ago removed, the opening for the chimney pipe a gaping hole in the wall, leaving a wicked draft to circulate in the single room. I did my best to hang a tarp over the doorway to block at least some of the chill.

I was surprised to hear that the wind was still increasing in intensity. As I took refuge inside, the wind had become an angry beast awaken from its long slumber and was set on wrecking havoc with savage howls. The roar was constant, and my flimsy tin hut sang with it in harmony, creaking bolts and rattling roof tiles all contributing to the crude orchestra. I felt as if any moment, one of the wind gusts could lift the roof right off, and I may be sucked through a wormhole to a place of frozen wonders. I knew how Dorothy would have felt the moment before the tornado picked up her house and carried her away from Kansas to the magical world of Oz. In the end, I decided to pitch my free standing tent in the middle of the floor inside the hut, in case the roof did lift off in the middle of the night.

In the morning, I woke to a calm, frozen wonderland. The remnant clouds from the storm were still hovering around, but would occasionally clear to reveal snippets of a blue sky overhead. It was bitterly cold, with inches of hoarfrost on the boulders outside, but the day held promise. Everywhere I looked; there was a titanic magnificence at play; a bright orange cloud here, a rainbow there, a dark raincloud hovering over there. It was incredible, watching the raw beauty in Nature’s power displayed in such a grand setting.

As I struck out to ascend Mt Jaithmatung, I marveled at the toughness and adaptability of the flora that exist on these plains. For much of the winter, the leaves of trees become frozen solid, and anything living on the ground is compressed under metres of stifling snow. Then in summer, the blistering heat sets in and the plants must survive with barely any water at all. A hardy and rugged life these beings lead. Much tougher than us, puny humans who with even all our gear and warm clothing always complain about the cold and the heat, although we spend barely a few days up here at a time, after which we return to our comfortable homes and routine lives.

The High Plains still held a surprise for me that day. I was taking my steps carefully through the snow, doing my best to follow the track hidden underneath. The transformation that has taken place in the previous 24 hours was remarkable. From the promise and warmth of spring, to the cold heart of winter; the transition was sudden and complete. It was because of the stillness of the landscape that I was surprised to see movement between the trees.

They were large, dark shapes, with four legs. As I got closer, they lifted their heads and watched me with suspicion. I was amused at how concerned these animals were about me, when they were many times my size.

The two wild horses turned out to be a mare and her foal, grazing peacefully. I decided not to approach too closely for an intrusive photo; their lives were already difficult enough without the extra hassle. They watched me till I was a safer distance away, then meandered on to look for some more suitable, less snowy grass. I continued on my journey, elevated and warmer with every step.