Before I headed into Tasmania's Southwest Wilderness, (one of the last few true wilderness areas left in the world), I spent a few days in Hobart, capital of Tasmania, gearing up for the trip. This included constructing a 10-day supply of "primo" trail mix, and a bomb-proof ukulele case out of cardboard, bubble-wrap and duct tape.
Yet again, my plan was to catch a bus to the town (Geeveston) nearest the trailhead (Farmhouse Creek) as I could get. Problem was, there was still a full 2 day's walk from Geeveston to Farmhouse Creek... but yet again, I placed my faith unswervingly in Tasmanian goodness and, yet again, I was rewarded. After walking for about an hour with my thumb stuck out, I started to realize just how remote the location I was hitching in really was. But after a cherry farmer passed me for the second time, he pulled over and asked me where I was trying to get to. When I told him, Farmhouse Creek he registered surprise, "really? nobody goes down there! you'll be waiting for days - I've got the day off, so I'll just take you down myself." Once again, I continue to be amazed by the Tassies.
As we wound through old forestry roads, many overgrown through years of disuse, Steve (my benefactor's name) detailed the storied history of Tasmania's forestry industry and the resulting conservation movement. Many of the trees in the area were old growth Huon Pine, (the oldest trees in the world actually), and were being logged and sent to China for chipping. Now whilst I'm no hippy per se (not full blooded anyway), simply being surrounded by the majesty of those old growth forests made it pretty easy to echo the sentiment of the conservationists. Also- wood chipping? Seriously? From where Steve dropped me off, the next 2 days of hiking were largely a wet and muddy slog. There's nothing quite as disheartening as getting up in the rain and pulling on your cold and wet socks and boots :( The wet conditions also made for some rather interesting flora, including the funky fungi pictured (don't worry, I didn't sample it).
My views were largely obscured by clouds and high brush, but I finally broke through to my first clear view of Federation Peak, and the gateway to the Eastern Arthurs mountain range. Unfortunately, the only access via my eastern approach was via a route called Moss Ridge.
The pic hardly does it justice- but imagine climbing through a muddy, wet, moss covered jungle gym with a 45lb pack on your back. My body was barely capable of the contortions it required and it elicited plenty of frustrations and breaking of the third commandment... The recent rains also left some pretty treacherous log-crossing points - one of which placed me ass-end up. I have no idea how, but my $25 ukulele survived unscathed while my kindle - wrapped in clothing and placed in the middle of my pack - snapped cleanly in half.
This was a more dire loss than it initially appeared, as my kindle contained detailed track notes for the Arthur's crossing. You see, the Eastern Arthurs contain some extremely tricky track junctions marked only by a ribbon here and there, or a distant cairn (rock marker), and my lack of proper guidance proved to be near deadly. As I crossed the first major plateau and reached a track junction, I incorrectly chose the wrong route (a climbers path instead of the packer's route - there was often very little distinguishable difference).
As I descended backward down the near-vertical face, the small ledge upon which I was perched gave way, sending me into a free-slide for about 20ft down the rocky face. There was very little I could do but drag my hands and body across the rock until I came to a sudden (and frankly surprising) stop. {At that moment - I could almost feel His noodly appendages wrapped safely around my ;) } All I needed was a simple shifting of my weight, and my heavy pack would have sent us both snowballing down the cliffs hundreds of feet below. Fortunately, somehow all I sustained was a series of cuts on my hands and chest and decent bruise where my face struck the cliff. After spending a few shaky moments pulling myself back together, I realized I was likely following the wrong route, and backtracked to the junction where I spotted a cairn I had missed earlier. Once I scrambled along the seemingly impossible ridgeline, following the cairns, the payoff was incredible. I had an amazing view of the part of the range I had just crossed, and a panorama of what I had remaining (including the Western end of the Arthur's range). The clear sky cast some fantastic dusky hues over the range at sunset also.
Exiting the Eastern Arthurs proved to be just as tricky as getting into them. There were times where, had I a partner and some rope, pack hauling would have been very handy. Otherwise, it mostly made for some exhausting days filled with teeth and sphincter clenching moments. You'll notice a pic of me eating Nutella straight out of the jar with a spork. Ha! That's right, I laugh at your recommendations of a 2,000 calorie diet! There were many days I was tearing through somewhere between 6 and 8,000 - so I was eating just about anything I could get my hands on.
After coming down from the Eastern Arthurs, I connected to the Western Arthurs range via a plains track. While it was nice to be back on flat ground even if only for a short while, it did present its own unique set of challenges. Maybe it's because it was particularly good weather, or because the conditions were conducive to bugs, but I've never seen a more "spidery" place in my life.
The guy (or gal) you see in the pic is a pretty good representation of the size and type that spun webs with almost supernatural frequency across the trail. I stopped counting, but I feel I'm not exaggerating in the slightest when I say I either walked through or cut down at least 200 massive webs (with at least half as many carrying spiders). I never really had any qualms with spiders before - but if I did, I was quickly forced to reconcile both of our places in the world. From the plains it was another steep ascent back onto the Western Arthur's range where the topography was similar to the east end, albeit much more lake filled. Considering my rainy beginnings, and the fact that the Arthurs are known largely for their consistently foul weather, I'd gotten extremely lucky with a stretch of unnaturally good weather. Even with the good weather, I rarely ran into people, and ended up camping Christmas eve by myself about midway through the mountain range.
As you can see from my pics, I even hung my smelly Christmas stockings "with care" in my tent - only to be sorely disappointed on Christmas morning. [And that's the year I stopped believing in Santa...]
On my final day on the Western Arthurs, I took in some of the best scenery. The range is heavily glaciated, which not only made for some extremely difficult hiking, but some spectacular jagged cliffs and rock formations. As I was climbing the highest peak on the Western Arthurs, "Mt Hersperus," to descend back down to the plains, the FSM decided to remind me how truly lucky I had been with the weather and unleashed a fury of gale force winds full of freezing rain and sleet. The force was so intense I could barely stay upright. I took shelter for a little while against a rocky outcropping at first before I realized I wasn't going to be able to just wait it out. So armed with my high octane trail mix (which I had to retrieve with my teeth because my frozen hands couldn't open the zipper on my pack), and the ipod set on 5-star shuffle (thanks Todd), I made one final push over the top to reach the plains soaked and utterly exhausted. (So in a dark turn of events, the "high point" of my trip had actually become the "low point.") Here at least my journey transitioned to a much more easy-going one.
The next 3 days would be spent on the "Port Davey Track," which was originally created for sailors shipwrecked on the west coast to get back to the mainland. While I no longer had extreme elevation gains and losses to deal with, I had plenty of ticks and leeches as my constant companions.
At least when I reached the salty waters of Port Davey Harbour, I was able to change up my boring pasta routine with some fresh mussels! (see pic). Also, a bit further than halfway through my hiking circuit I reached a small airstrip with two backpacker huts called "Melaleuca." Used mainly as a starting point for the "South Coast Track," the majority of hikers fly in and then walk out on the track. For me however, this was my oasis in the desert. I had arranged for a food drop to be made here prior to my departure from Hobart, which also contained a very nice bottle of 12yr old single malt scotch :) Happy New Years to me!
Melaleuca was a pretty quiet little place, and because nobody hung around - I got a walker's hut to myself for a few days. I also got to know the volunteer parks staff couple, Graeme and Anne, quite well. I usually had coffee in the morning with them and they made me dinner a couple of times also. They even told me to stay in their empty house once I got back to Hobart! (yet again- that amazing Tassie hospitality). I was enjoying the slower paced in Melaleuca, but ultimately had to leave before I ate through all my food supplies...
Coastward bound! The next 6 days I would spend hiking along the southwest coast back to civilization. The weather wasn't quite as good to me as it had been earlier, but the scenery was still spectacular. Sandy beaches (often sunny), a friendly spotted quoll (the weasel-looking fellow), and more friendly Tassie hikers. The couple pictured on the beach (Dave and Chameeko), were so impressed with my hiking journey, that Dave insisted I stay and chat a bit and even loaded me up with all sorts of fresh goods - cheese, veggies, sundried tomatoes, etc. - since they were flying out the next day. I offered him some scotch before we parted ways, both quite happy at this point :) His food contributed nicely to what was one of the best meals I've had.
There was one particularly taxing point on the track that included a boat crossing and was quite difficult on your own. It involved rowing one boat across, returning with both boats, and then returning to the other side. It was low tide so I had to do a lot of extra boat-dragging along the beach.
Once I left the beaches and entered back into the rainforest, there were times I felt I'd entered a prehistoric realm, with tree ferns towering high above me. I emerged at last to at least some signs of civilization (if boats count). The end of the South Coast Track is pretty limited in access also, so I faced some more potential problems in hitchhiking out as well. But after a couple of hours of waiting, a lovely little family picked me up (see pic) and insisted on taking me to dinner and having a few pints! (I can't really figure out why - I must have looked a hairy, dirty, smelly mess. My mind is continually blown by the people I meet here.)
On my way back to Hobart I stopped by a quaint little coastal town called "Cygnet" to check out a folk festival that was going on. Upon returning to Hobart I was also able to find a wildlife rescue sanctuary where I could check out some Tasmanian devils. I was hoping to spot one in the wild, but it turns out a facial tumor disease has decimated their population, reducing it by close to 80%.
I'm quite sad to be leaving Tasmania. I know New Zealand is and amazing country, but I've fallen so completely in love with this place ant the people that New Zealand has simply got some big shoes to fill. I'll check back in in a few weeks with some more updates from Kiwi country - Cheers!
