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reveries of an amateur long-distance hiker

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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