It’s a bit more expensive, but it’s a hell of a lot easier than walking.
What was the question again?
– George Mallory
I jump onto one last club hike before leaving; a lap around Black Mountain at sunset with Sal and Jen. The colours are phenomenal. South East Australia is sweltering through a heat wave. Melbourne has seen its highest recorded temperature. I’m looking at the forecasts in Tassie, and everything is teens to mid twenties. Garry reminds me how cold it can get down there and worries whether I’ve packed enough warm gear.
I pack bags, unpack them, and pack them again. I weigh things and adjust them. I finally bought a set of bathroom scales for the purpose of weighing my airline luggage. I didn’t trust my hanging scales not to spazz out under the strain of the 23kg limit. Apparently I weigh about 75kg. We’ll see how much of that has been exhaled into the mountain air when I return. My pack ends up weighing about 9.5kg. I was aiming for 8kg, but this endeavour has certain minimum requirements for safety. My rain gear alone weighs about 1.2kg.
I spend the afternoon of my last day sewing, despite feeling headachy and rough from a Covid shot the day before. Are you really a MYOGer if you’re not sewing at the last possible minute before a trip? Now I’ve got a nice new pack cover with integrated rain cape made out of the same burly stuff as my new tarp. It makes me look like a hobbit.
Some might question the wisdom of venturing into the Tasmanian wilderness with untested gear.
When I set out on the AAWT I gave myself a number of minor quests alongside the primary goal of walking the whole way without my feet falling off. I hoped to walk in light snow, forage and eat wild morel mushrooms, catch and cook a trout, find an antler, and summit the highest peak in each of the three states. I succeeded in each of these quests. On the strength of this unbroken run, I have now set myself a series of goals for this walk. I would like to see a quoll, but not as it runs away with my food. I’d like to see and smell a Huon pine tree, which is one of the slowest and oldest growing trees in the world, with specimens reaching 3,000 years, and possessed of an oil that makes it impervious to rot and insect attack. They apparently have an unmistakeable warm, spicy fragrance. I’d like to pull off the trifecta of Mount Anne, the Western Arthurs, and the South West Cape (all of which are technically optional to this trek). All of that complete, I think seeing a Tasmanian Tiger would round things out nicely.
I’ve been growing increasingly anxious. This is rapidly turning from a prospective line on the map to a serious reality. What if I’ve underestimated the conditions? What if I’ve overestimated my own ability? What if the trained gorillas in baggage handling lose or damage something? I watch Wild, the film adaptation of the novelisation of Cheryl Strayed’s hike on the Pacific Crest Trail. It makes me feel better about the whole thing.
I go to sleep absent the familiar weight of my two cats on top of me. I’ve sent them to stay with Shelle while I’m away. It’s a tiny taste of some of the solitude I’m about to step into.
I catch a 4:45am taxi to the airport. The 10 frequent flier points in my digital wallet sneer mockingly at my inexperience with air travel. I’ve got the things that aren’t allowed in carry-on in my checked luggage, and vice versa. I wrangle 62kg of luggage to the check-in counter.
Then it’s through the Security Theatre and Bullshit Authoritarianism detector, (where the full-body gamma-ray scanner detects something mighty suspicious about my right ankle) and into the Highway Robbery Snacks and Extortionate Coffee lounge.
The first flight is delayed. That’s fine. Just as long as nothing else goes wrong. I go back to the check-in counter to make sure I’ll be moved to an appropriate connecting flight, then back through the Gates of Make-Believe where my right ankle once again has the agents nervously fingering their side-arms, and back to waiting. I’m so glad I woke up at 3am to get frisked and sit around in airports.
As I’m sitting in my window seat, I look out and see them take one of my bags off the plane, then whisk it away.
Somewhat consternated, I check with the stewardess. She disappears for a minute before returning to inform me that it was in fact an identical bag belonging to somebody who didn’t make the flight.
I’m well aware that the flight path goes over Coolamine Plain, since I’ve watched the con trails cut a swathe across the big blue sky there the last three years. I find with surprise that I can recognise a decent amount of the terrain from above.
At Melbourne airport I watch them unload all three bags, including the black one with the tiny bit of fluoro green cord I put on there for easy ID on the carousel. That just gives me an hour and a half until my connection to sit around and remind myself that driving is always better than flying.
In the terminal I finish watching Wild on my phone. Cheryl crosses that final bridge at the end of her trek, and takes one more step into the rest of her life. I hope I can channel some of that tenacity.
After all that worrying, my bags get through biosecurity without a hiccup, and my cousin Toby who has lived in Hobart for the last couple of years whisks me away for a whirlwind tour of the Cambridge Park industrial area. I quickly buy gas bottles and we load them into food drops and take them out to Par Avion and Tasmanian Wilderness Experiences, who will see them the rest of the way. Relinquishing the drops that will sustain me is absolutely nerve-wracking. Hobart seems lovely, at least what little I saw from the car.
One of three things is about to happen. Either I complete the walk, I tap out along the way, or I die. Knowing when to let go of the first in favour of the second is a big part of keeping the third from happening. I’ve prepared myself as much as is possible, but I also need to take seriously all the warnings about what a capricious and murderous bitch Tasmanian conditions can be. I’ve chosen the time of year that will give me the best chance, but that’s far from a guarantee.
On the bus from Hobart I sit next to a lady named Lyn who’s heading home from looking after the grandkids. When she finds out what I’m attempting she asks for my phone number, just so she can check up on me later and be sure I’m okay. Her concern does not help the butterflies practising their rope work in my stomach.
The highway winds through farms and fields that would look perfectly at home near Yass or Braidwood, but the horizon is an unending procession of mountains that would give any on the mainland a run for their money, and quietly echo hints of New Zealand. I keep looking for comparisons, but I’m beginning to suspect this island is a flavour all its own.
When we reach Devonport where I’m supposed to transfer to the last bus, Lyn and her friend Susie offer me a lift to Penguin, which is just down the road from their home town of Ulverstone. They laugh and carry on in the front while pointing out landmarks, the local poppy plantations, and always the conversation comes back to the weather.
They confer, then decide they’re going to make a detour up to Braddon’s Lookout. We get out of the car and look out across a jagged mountain range. On the far right, its feet trailing in the ocean, is Mount Montgomery, followed by the sheer drop of Gnomon; that’s my tomorrow, and the first of many. Further south, Black Bluff, and in the distant sunset haze, Cradle Mountain.
They drop me at the Neptune with a promise to let them know when I’m safely back in Hobart, and disappear laughing into the night. I’m keen to find out what $40 a night gets you out here.
I know I should be enjoying a significant last meal (well, kinda. There are a couple more cafes and restaurants over the next couple of weeks) but after a long day and shitty travel food, all I want is a beer and a salad.
To murder Lenin; there are days when weeks happen. This has been a day
The hostel is full of backpacking fruit pickers from Italy and other assorted young people out living their best lives. I sit alone on the balcony and look out at the full moon rising in the Bass Strait. There’s a cool-warm breeze with salt on it. I’ve been planning for a year and a half to be right here.
Fuck.
