Day 35 – Louisa Bay to Little Deadmans Bay

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The forecast suggests some light drizzle to keep me cool during this morning’s climb, then nothing until the day after I finish. There are lots of things that can end a walk; bushfires, floods, shelter-shredding hail storms, soaking wet down insulation, hypothermia… How have I been this extraordinarily lucky with the weather? It’s enough to make me suspicious. Did one of you sacrifice something really impressive to the weather gods?

[stage-whisper: thank you]

I have sand in places I didn’t know existed.

I put my gaiters on. Apparently when I took them off yesterday I managed to rip the press studs out of both of them without noticing. I guess I’ll find out how important those are. Probably should have rinsed the grit out of them. Oh well, they only have to last another five days.

I hear news from home that with the war in Iran, people are making a run on the petrol stations. I’m so incredibly looking forward to wading back into the festering quagmire of civilised society. Give me a Dead Marsh or a Swamp of Eternal Sorrow over that bullshit any day.

Back up to the track junction. Louisa Bay was alright, but if you’ve got the time I’d skip it and go out to Hidden Bay, or at least New Harbour.

No longer content to merely talk to myself, I’ve been singing. Any song I’m decently confident of knowing all the words to. This morning I’m working my way through Rocky Horror.

Down to Louisa River. Louisa really got around out here, huh? I manage the crossing without taking my boots off or getting wet feet. Gaiters can keep water from overtopping your boots, even to calf depth, if you’re quick about it.

It’s a kilometre to the start of the climb. I cram a nut butter bar and salami stick down my gullet, chased with a squeeze of peanut butter, and cram the rest in my hip pocket. I put electrolyte mix in my second water bottle.

Let’s climb a fucking mountain, eh?

One foot in front of the other. Up. Always up.

Some people will try to tell you that the reward for climbing a mountain is the sense of achievement you get. I’ve long felt that this is nice, but it really can’t hold a candle to the feeling of wonder when you finally make a summit and you’re greeted by a magnificent, expansive view.

When I turn my phone off airplane mode at what I think is the highest point, there’s no signal. And besides, it’s blowing sideways drizzle. No blog uploads today.

The descent is described as scrubby and muddy. I don’t think this is accurate. The scrub for the most part is well clear of the track. It’s more like a muddy unending clamber-scramble down rocks and roots and branches. But not as bad as I imagined, which was a sort of sub-alpine Kokoda track mud-slog. (I mean when the Kokoda was first walked. I don’t know what it’s like now. It might be lovely). There are no views, even below the cloud level. Only jungle.

The final walk into Little Deadman’s Bay passes a number of magical little coves, one of which has space for a tent and a creek not far past it.

It has been a day. I have heaved my protesting carcass up one side of the mountain and down the other. The Ironbounds are a significant lump of rock to walk over, and adding the walk from Louisa Bay didn’t make it any easier. I don’t mind the effort, but being robbed of the chance of a view to the east from the top feels a bit rude. Still, you can’t have everything.

There are three walkers at Little Deadman’s when I get in. Anne-Marie, Andrew and Debbie. I join them for dinner where we talk about thigh cramps and mud. I am treated to a row of chocolate and a splash of wine. They cannot know what paroxysms of delight these unexpected pleasures provide.

Four days left. The distances don’t add up. I’m going to have a couple of quite short days with time to bum around on the beach. What a tragedy.