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reveries of an amateur long-distance hiker

In Tasmania Day 12 Hobart

January 27th, 2020

In Tasmania Day 12 Hobart

Always familiar, a rest day involves slow catching up with messages, requests, etc. still trying to maintain that hard-fought distance from bureaucratic triviality. Wandered to the Retro Cafe for a flat white and to update (this) blog. It’s Australia Day, so the locals have a long weekend. Many are back where I was yesterday—Cockle Creek campground— with their tents, boats, generators, and beer. Here the sidewalks are a little busier than last time I was in town. The most exciting part was a march and demonstration in front of the government building. Australia Day brings yearly protests from the indigenous population and their supporters requesting the government to “change the date.” They see the moment of English arrival as Invasion Day, a time that implemented harsh policies, displacement, and genocide. The request is not to get rid of a National day of celebration, just to change the date so all the inhabitants can come together. The speeches were stirring, most digging deep into environmental history, linking colonialism to environmental despoliation.

After the rally, I did a resupply run, getting a new sea-to-summit fast pack (to replace the one the Pademelons ruined—it was on its last legs anyway) some fuel and a new spork. I doctored my feet then made my way to the harbor-side for an evening pint to work on an essay and watch some of the drunken celebrants. Still adjusting to the climate. In the bright sun, it gets very hot, but a breeze and shade brings on a chill. On my wander back I stopped at the Lark Distillery for a 1/2 nip of their product. A low ceilinged brick building with over-stuffed chairs and calm people (not the harbor celebrants) quietly sipping whiskey (which is a touch raw) with David Bowie playing in the background. I wonder if they use any of the West Coast tannin peat water.

T. Hugh Crawford

In Tasmania Day 12 Rivulet Camp to Cockle Creek 10km (and on to Hobart).

January 25th, 2020

In Tasmania Day 12 Rivulet Camp to Cockle Creek 10km (and on to Hobart).

Every schoolchild in the English-speaking world at some point reads Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach.” A beautiful and generally easy to understand poem, perfect for angsty individuals struggling with meaning between the tattoo parlor and the second-hand shop. Having grown up on the sandy beaches of the US, these lines always intrigued me, not because they were difficult to imagine, but just that it was a sound I’d never really heard:

Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,

Listen! you hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling

I’ve been on shingle beaches before and probably have heard that “grating roar” but today is the first time I lingered to listen. The rush of these beaches, probably amplified by their sheer extremity—water and wind rushing to shore from Antarctica—and the size of the shingles (more football than pebble) makes for a resonance that is arresting. I lingered on those wobbly “shingles” to capture the roar. It’s not a constant, nor temporally rhythmic, but when the right cycles coincide, the armies of the night rumble.

Today was the end of a trek at the end of the world. It was not apocalyptic, instead reflective. The last kilometers were mediated by encounters with day hikers on their way to the beach or the birds on the way. The unusual smell of shampoo was in the air, and us proud bush hikers looked a bit shabby in comparison (one couple asked me if the crew in front of me was ok— they were, just suffering from serious exhaustion). Apart from the beach roar, the most arresting moment was an encounter with a large (at least 5 ft.) tiger snake. Im sure over the last days I’ve passed many, but this is the first that caught my eye and of course brought shivers as a bite requires fairly quick evacuation via helicopter.

As it was near the entry point, the last 7 km were designed for day hikers, so I took the opportunity to stroll, examining the trees, the plants, the bugs. Near the end I once again crossed paths with the hardcore crew who had booked with the same transport group I was booked for the next day (I got ahead on that long day from Surprise Bay). They invited me to join them and after some careful negotiations with a Kevin, the driver, I found myself heading back to Hobart a day early, scrounged a place in the hostel, did laundry, took long shower, grappled with a wall of email, and drifted next door for what I think was a well-deserved pint at Tom McHugos, the neighborhood joint, followed by a long deep sleep.

T. Hugh Crawford

In Tasmania Day 11 Surprise Bay to Rivulet Camp

January 25th, 2020

In Tasmania Day 11 Surprise Bay to Rivulet camp

Surprise Bay is the right name for the start of this part. Thus far, the map times and distances have been spot on for me, so when the notes predicted up to 10 hours to cross a 9 km trek, I felt a little anxious, particularly since I would be starting about 2 hours short of Granite Beach, the calibrated starting point. You always have to take what the trail gives you, and today didn’t promise much—very little beach, no duck boards, an old fashioned slog just like the Port Davey Track. Since most of the campsites are near ocean level, usually just upstream from the beach, the first part of the day is often a steep climb, and today it did not let up until nearly noon— steep climb over root-buttresses slippery with recent rain, and paths with mud holes every 6 inches. It was a true Tassie experience. In keeping with that experience, I also picked up a leech (quite common in the swamps)—it bled all over my watch, not a pretty sight. I blew through Granite Beach campsite in an hour or so, seeing some familiar faces but continued to push hard, probably beyond my overall strength and ability, but sometimes you have to make the best of it. At noon I crossed paths with a young man from Perth who swore it had only taken him 4 hours to get where we were, significantly quicker than my map’s estimate. Taking that as inspiration, I plowed forward and by 4 or so I found myself in camper’s paradise. A broad beach with a fast flowing river (a little touchy to cross and a little brackish to taste), a long dead tree on the sand offering bench and drying hooks, a bright sun and smart breeze. I arrived and the hardcores soon followed by Alex the German and two young dryads he accompanied (they soon disrobed for a nearly nude swim). We all rinsed, dried and absorbed the vital energy a clear sky and good sun provide. By evening Daniel arrived, so we were all well-positioned for the hike to the end point.

The only blemish on the day was the local fauna. Specifically several Pademelons scouting for food. They kept me awake by chewing the food they had stolen from the other trekkers during the night, and in the morning one chewed a small hole in my tent (those who know me know how much I love that tent) and my food bag (bad choice on my part). An unusual day as it was both disheartening and uplifting.

T. Hugh Crawford

In Tasmania Day 10 Deadman’s Cove to Surprise Bay

January 25th, 2020

In Tasmania Day 10 Deadman’s Cove to Surprise Bay

This was a day of Tassie walking—rained all night, packed up in a drizzle, and set off fairly early (nearly every day I’ve started within 10 minutes of 7). The South Coast track follows the coast and often drops onto spectacular beaches —mesmerizing waves, broad sand, but usually cold and windy. Reminds me of the descriptions of the early seafaring explorers who approach but do not often land. The track dips down on the sand for a half kilometer or so of easy walking (unless it is a stone granite beach, then it’s slow and laborious). But a stretch on the sand involves always a steep climb up and ramble through the ridge dividing the bays. There were some river crossings and as usual for this area, a whole lotta mud. At one point I was passed by a nice German hiker who slogged better than I. Immediately after I thought I had caught back up but it turned about to be an Aussie named Daniel with whom I camped with for the duration.

Fascinating man: 2 years ago he had never been on an overnight camping trip. In the space between he has learned to hike long distance and on this trip had followed mostly the track I did with one significant difference. Through Port Davey he carried a folding pack boat (I can’t imagine hiking Port Davey with that much weight). When he got to Bathurst harbor, he assembled his boat and spent almost a week paddling about that area— brilliant. He then packed it out to Melaleuca and shipped it back to Hobart via Par Avion.

When I caught up with him, he was suffering from the sheer brutality of what he had done, but a positive, thoughtful man, he continued on to the end (we hiked out together). After a lot of mud and roots, we arrived at Surprise bay which was much further than my originally planned end-point (the weather was bad so instead of stopping at a beach I had pushed on). Ideally I should have gotten to Granite Beach to be able to make the next day (a strenuous one), but weather and exhaustion brought me to Surprise Bay and an early night. The hard-core crew rolled in a little later, set up camp and had dinner in the rain. For the rest of the trek we all shadowed each other.

T. Hugh Crawford

In Tasmania Day 9 Louisa River to Deadman’s Cove 13 km

January 25th, 2020

In Tasmania Day 9 Louisa River to Deadman’s Cove 13 km

This was billed as the most difficult day of the track and lived up to it. A simple hike, up and over the Ironbound Range and down to the sea again—the mountain tops are windy, the beaches are as well, funneling in Antarctic air. Started nearly sea level, climbed to over 900 meters in a couple of hours on a very well-benched track. In anticipation of bad weather late in the day, everyone who ended up at the campsite got off early. Three groups— 5 Aussies, a mother daughter pair, and three uni student (2 French, 1 English). My solitary tramp has become much more social. The initial climb was very much like going up stairs. We were soon strung out over the slope and after a bit I pushed ahead, never looking back. A wonderful crew, but this was a day to see alone. Quick temperature swings as the sun would blast down on the thin vegetation and exposed quartzite, then clouds and high winds with the occasional sprinkle. Have to say, I’m pleased (as always) with my new ZPacks gear—in this case my rain pants and coat, super light, tough and high performance which was necessary on a rough day like today. The peak was a bit socked in, but still impressive. It was good to finally be at some real elevation on a trek that has more often than not involved floundering about in a low-lying jungle. The descent was difficult. The track was not well-formed, the rain came in, and it was a very long way to the water’s edge. Apart from the views at the top, some of the best parts of the day was actually the descent (before fatigue set in). It dropped through a nothafagus forest where a bird with a varying 2 and 3 note calls and I traded whistles for the better part of the afternoon. The end was through a eucalyptus rain forest with many old growth trees still standing. More impressive were the fallen ones. Seeing them provide habitat for so many plants, insects, and animals makes me wonder why humans insist on “improving” the forest.

The descent also brought contact with tiny toads and some salamanders (no tiger snakes today), and when I finally got to camp, I was greeted by a strange animal looking like a large cat with a more vicious snout and white polka dots on its side. I later learned it was an Eastern Quoll, just one of the unusual creatures Tasmania has to offer. Eventually the crew arrived, set camp made dinner and some built a fire in one of the pits. Given fire conditions everywhere that seemed presumptuous, but we were coated in rain, and the ground was saturated. No way that fire was going anywhere. It was good to have built it as very late three exhausted trekkers arrived having hiked all the way from Cox Bight. They were a fit crew—triathlon, rock climbing, tough mudder types (one a quite famous wild adventure person)—but the day had done them in. Some quiet time and stories by the fire was good medicine for all.

T. Hugh Crawford

In Tasmania Day 8 Cox Bight to Louisa River 17km

January 25th, 2020

In Tasmania Day 8 Cox Bight to Louisa River 17km

Off early on a misty walk down the beach for an easy day’s trek to Louisa River. The difference between this area and Port Davey is astounding. The trail is much drier due to climate and surface, but mostly it’s been duckboarded and bridged almost the entire distance. I only dodged a dozen mud holes and for the first time finished well under the posted time. Had a few stream wades including the last at Louisa— several had stairs taking you to the water’s edge. Feeling a little pampered here. Arrived at a wonderful campsite right by the river, my tent site someone had made comfortable with a wooden chair (such luxury). I took the sunny skies as an opportunity to lie out in the sun and warm my jungle rotted bones. Early to bed as tomorrow is the toughest day—a lot of steep climbing up and over the Ironbound Range (what a great name).

T. Hugh Crawford

In Tasmania Day 7 Melaleuca to Cox Bight 12km

January 25th, 2020

In Tasmania Day 7 Melaleuca to Cox Bight 12km

Felt much better after a day’s rest and a good wander around Melaleuca. The caretakers at Melaleuca were so kind and had been on many adventures in their time. Also Kendron, the psychologist, was good for a number of long conversations over coffee. The hike to Cox Bight was the first labeled easy, and since it was mostly duck boards, it was. The first day I didn’t get my feet wet (nice as I had on fresh socks—one of trekking’s little pleasures). It’s not surprising the walk to Cox Bight is smooth since the tin miners worked both sites and transported ore to Melaleuca to be either smelted there or shipped up a navigable creek to Bathurst harbor. This point is very much the edge of the world since, apart from a few rocky isles there is nothing between here and Antarctica. The wind off the water is cold. Got out warm clothes and pitched my tent near a dense grass wind break, but expect a cold night. The beaches are pristine—no human debris at all, just seaweed and shells. On a warm sunny day it must be lovely.

T. Hugh Crawford

In Tasmania Day 6 Melaleuca

January 25th, 2020

In Tasmania Day 6 Melaleuca

Always listen to your knees—they have much to tell you, and mine said “take some time, learn about this spot of the world and rest today. Joint wisdom. The hikers huts are like old Quonset huts, curved correlated metal with some semi-transparent fiberglass panels for windows. I woke to some rustling outside and watched out the window at what I first took to be a chicken in the brush. Then, miracle, the chicken moving up the side of a bush, revealed itself as a head, a good sized Wallaby (actually a pademelon) grazing on the flowers of a native bush a wallaby delicacy—confirming the wisdom of taking a zero day here. I met a young woman who had been living here in a tent for a stretch studying the Orange Bellied Parrot. Nearly extinct, they migrate here in the spring to mate and raise their young. There are nesting boxes (occupied) in the trees around my hut though I have yet to see one (will listen tonight for their ascending call). Ken, Sheryl’s partner pointed out a path designed to educate people about the Needwannee people who lived here for thousands of years before the arrival of Europeans which brought their subsequent decimation and relocation. Little is known about them today, though a book by the French naturalist Francois Peron (early 1800s) is as close to an anthropological study as is available. Mentioned by Nicholas Shakespeare in his book In Tasmania, I had a chance to download it before starting this trek and so spent part of the day reading— such a joy after the brutality of the Port Davey Trail.

Today I also learned a bit more about that trail, which has quite a reputation in Tasmania. Generally unimproved (except in a few short sections), it is meant to give trekkers a true sense of the Tasmanian bush. This of course accounts for why I saw only two people in the depths of the trail—it is notorious and punishing— I have done my penance. I guess I, glad I didn’t know that prior to commencing. This history of the trail is fascinating. This area has many inlets and harbors and so was visited by ships—whaling, logging, etc.—though there were few settlements apart from some mining operations (which is why Melaleuca is here—the King family mined tin here and built the airstrip. Deny King became famous as an ornithologist, and documented the plight of the Orange Bellied Parrot). The Port Davey trail was laid out so that sailors who because of shipwreck or mishap found themselves marooned on the west coast could find their way to the interior (around Scott’s Peak) and then make their way downriver to Hobart. A walk like that must have been desperate.

Today Melaleuca is a jumping off point for trekkers (most going south, the direction I take tomorrow) or flying in for the day to take a boat tour of this area which is part of the World Heritage conservation site (the reason I saw almost no sign of human occupation apart from the trail I walked). That designation results first from the simple fact that the area which is dominated by peat soils does not support agriculture and has been sparsely occupied at least since the colonial period (except for miners and Huon pine loggers). More immediately, the large scale environment protests in the 80s over old growth logging, the construction of the Pedder Lake Dam (which turned Scott’s Peak into an island), and the vociferous protests around the proposed Franklin Dam apparently galvanized the Tasmanian conservation community so large tracts of land in the area became protected by World Heritage status. Now they are frequented primarily by people wealthy enough to afford the air flight here and the subsequent guided boat tour.

T. Hugh Crawford

In Tasmania Day 5 Spring River Crossing to Melaleuca 21km

January 25th, 2020

In Tasmania Day 5 Spring River Crossing to Melaleuca 21km

Spring River must have had a flood on the last few months— many down trees making the pass all but unpassable. In my “campsite”, a space just large enough to put up my single tent, I could see low growing ferns, dead about one foot up covered in a gray film, but at their tops, new green was sprouting. I made short work striking camp and was soon out crossing what was initially a fairly dry track. Today’s walk to the boat crossing at Joan point—the entrance into Bathurst Harbor. There was a lot more up and down hiking. I’d climb up a ridge and sometimes have a long dry stretch which, with the sun and clear air, gave a chance to see the terrain, particularly the winding of the Spring River down in the valley—a distant reminder of the winding Shenandoah River of my childhood. The 10km to Farrell Point was uneventful, still a lot of mud and jungle trekking it the Bush was more brambley as my arms were really scratched up (later in the trek I met another Port Davey tramper whose arms were a mass of scars). The logic of the path is unclear as it will strike up a slope and then for no apparent reason dive back into a jungle. I’m learning that the intermediate areas, just lightly covered with scrub can be the most difficult as the really deep mud can go on for kilometers, making it impossible to make decent time. Around noon I made it down the last slope and stared out on the Farrell peninsula which was bare clear hiking with good views of both Bathurst and ocean bays out by Port Davey.

Bathurst is a fascinating body of water. Well inland and connected to the ocean by the narrowest of channels, it is a huge tidal body and would be an ideal harbor, but there are no towns. Since the World Heritage declaration, there never will be. Apparently the poor soils made agriculture nearly impossible, so the only industries were logging and fishing (and some tin mining a little further south). The geology is dominated here by quartzite blanketed by heath, so the soil is mostly moist peat, which explains why the water is reddish brown, though perfect.y safe to drink. I’m not even treating it. It reminds me of Scottish burns and I wonder that some enterprising Tasmanian didn’t start a distillery.

The crossing from Farrell Point to Joan is by rowboat. The park service has three fine metal boats and an old plastic tub. The rules are that at least one of the metal boats should be docked on either side, but as luck would have it, the north dock only had the old tub which I awkwardly rowed across. There I launched one of the metal boats, tied to tub to the back and rowed back north to return it. As luck would have it, the first humans I encountered in the last two days came motoring up in a boat designed to transport hikers to various points on the southwest coast. Mick and his crew kindly helped me land and secure both boats, then motored me back across to Joan Point—this entire trip I’ve been met with nothing but kindness and good cheer. My initial plan had been to stay on the point, but since it was before 2:00 and there was no water within a km, I decided to press on to Melaleuca, another 12km which I calculated would put me in camp before 8:00—a long day but the weather was good and I felt fine. The trail from Joan Point to Melaleuca is more travelled, better marked, and still muddy as hell. At one point I slipped and fell (again), this time my trekking pole handle snapped back giving me a fat lip—something new to occupy my mind while trudging on. I crossed paths with some too-proud walkers heading north who assured me the time to Melaleuca was three hours (they were off an hour). Wearing shorts and what looked like Kevlar industrial gaiters, the leader of the crew (I only assume that as he was the only one to speak and the others barely made eye contact—strange encounter) sat resting covered with flies without making the slightest effort to wave them away. It seemed somehow a test of his manhood, as I’m guessing the trip up Port Davey is as well.

I staggered into Melaleuca around seven—an old airstrip (originally built by hand by Denys King, tin miner and ornithologist) with a few shipping containers along the edge, and a hut housing among other things, the food box I had sent via Par Avion for resupply (I have entirely too much food and am not sure how to carry it on). There I met Kendron, a fascinating Aussie who is studying Jungian psychology, and was later met by Sheryl, one of the volunteer caretakers who checked in to see if I was all right. She took one look at me and strongly suggested I enjoy the hut (which is very nice) and stay on for another day. My mind was reluctant to give up a hard-hiked gained day, but my calfs over-ruled and I settled in with a zero day tomorrow.

T. Hugh Crawford

In Tasmania Day 4 Watershed Camp to Spring River Crossing 14 km

January 25th, 2020

In Tasmania Day 4 Watershed Camp to Spring River Crossing 14 km

I’m starting to think the Mercator Projection (which preserves latitude and longitude by drastically increasing the size of far northern and southern land masses—think Greenland) actually applies to distance measurement here. Almost as far south as you can get without traveling to Antarctica, Tasmanian kilometers must be twice as along as Atlanta kilometers. Today was supposed to be an easy 14 and it still took me 7 hours—something is amiss. At least today there was sunshine and even though there was plenty of jungle slogging and miles of mud holes, much of today was up slope on a benched track so when clear it was possible to see distance. It’s hard to get a feel for the mountains— they don’t seem exactly to be ranges in the way they are in North America— instead a jumble of different short ranges at different angles, so getting oriented is difficult. In addition, there are a number of major rivers, all fed from this area, so the trail crosses from one watershed to another—further confounding my sense of direction as the water flow shifts. The stories of fleeing convicts or marooned sailors struggling through this terrain make sense. It always feels a little disorienting. Today up on a range in the sun, it all made more sense for at least a moment. In the bog flats slogging through overgrown ferns and thick understory, all you can do is follow what seems to be a path, experiencing that flash of relief when a human footprint appears—somewhere out there, Friday must be walking ahead.

The best comparison I can make for this track is part of the South Island of New Zealand’s Te Araroa. There too you cross long open bog land following angle iron fence posts. New Zealand’s are topped with bright red cylinders, these are just dull rust and often when the way is unsure, there are nowhere to be seen. What is striking here though, unlike most places I’ve walked is the complete lack of evidence of human occupation. That there is no trace of aboriginal habitation is not surprising, but I would have suspected more remnants of settler colonial occupation. Apart from the long benches track I walked today, the occasional wooden erosion control frames on that path, the fence post markers, and a fancy new bridge across the Spring river, there was really no obvious trace of human activity—no old #8 wire like in NZ, or the foundation of an old hut, nothing to be seen. I’m sure an experienced eye could mark areas of ecological transformation because of logging and I can see the devastation of the last big fires which, like this year’s fires in New South Wales, charred the entire landscape. It must have killed much of the fauna as well because I’ve only seen a few birds and some salamanders—the rest is silence broken only by the buzzing of flies.

T. Hugh Crawford