Foreword to the 2020 edition:
The inclusion of this foreword may kill a bit of the suspense of the story, I guess. Since I'm here almost eleven years later writing an introduction, that means I did not actually die on that mountain in Tasmania. Though, the fact that I'd written it at all solidified that particular cat-in-a-box anyway.
Little did I realize how much this particular week of my life would influence everything that came after. I do not wish to explore any philosophical discussion about how every decision one makes irreversibly influences all future outcomes. This is the second reference to philosophical quantum physics in as many paragraphs. I'll try to reduce this from here on out.
This whole ordeal started a continuing trend of starting, but not finishing some of the greatest hikes of the Southern Hemisphere. For a month, I drove around New Zealand, parked in the trail heads and walked for a couple hours in, then out. The winter and my continued lack of proper gear prevented any deeper venture into kiwi wilderness, a place I hope to return someday.
This disaster did not kill my love for hiking, it further spiked it. I began scanning Lonely Planets for other excursions I could probably fail at. I tried numerous overnight excursions in the BWCA. I started to slowly build up acceptable gear, and some muscle mass. No, I never morphed into some super hiker, but I read A Walk in the Woods. Also, I learned to respect the trail, not to take mountains so lightly. I had developed a thirst and it was the inspiration for my second year-long world travelling experience. Ever since I was a kid, I'd always wanted to hike in the Himalaya and my failure in Tasmania pushed me to not fail again. And I didn't. I trained, trained hard. I rugged up, for real this time. And the result is that I finished a 24-day, 300 km hike high in mountains of Nepal. Then another two-week hike in another region of the country.
Now, I live in on the west coast of Norway, in a climate very similar to what I faced in Tasmania. Reading back over my adventure has been almost laughable at how naive and frankly wimpy I was then. If I were to do that hike now, I doubt it would pose much a challenge. It's ironic that even though I'm stronger now than I ever was then, I'd be less likely to attempt anything so mental. I know I'm not invincible and this was instrumental in showing me this.
This hike also had one more major impact on my life. This series yielded my first ever publication. A hiking website (that no longer exists, sadly) used my writing as the basis for a "what to expect" when doing this trail. Yes, my stupidity was (not-so)immortally preserved in a reference of the things you should NOT do when hiking in the wilderness of Tasmania.
This helped bring a lot more traffic to my blog, and thus praise. It was the first moment I actually thought that there may be value to the things I write. Still, it took me another four years to start submitting writing for publication and another two to get my creative work published. I've since taken a hiatus from my literature career, but I still write. I'll never stop writing.
So, sit back and enjoy the adventures of a 26-year old me as I risk my life in mountains of Tasmania.
It started with a simple sale. Friday Frenzy at Jetstar, flights for ridiculous prices, every Friday 4-8PM. I checked it out last December. A particular flight jumped out at me, Sydney to Tasmania, May 12th, $59 each way. It was so cheap, how could I pass it up? At the time $144 after taxes and fees seemed like a steal. Little did I know that a simple mouse click would change my life and bank account forever.
This was back in the days when I feared traveling alone, so I held my week long Tasmanian experience as a simple place holder, a guarantee that I wouldn't freak out and give up on my travels until May. It was a harmless enough thought. I know myself; unless I have some skeleton, even a cheap flight, I would have potentially cowered away back to Broken Hill, declaring traveling was too expensive, too tiring, too unstructured, too lonely. I've mastered the art of using rationalization to back away from challenges. This Tasmania trip was to be the courage I needed to stick it out.
It wasn't until I was in the natural splendor of North Queensland that the Tasmania trip became something completely different, something real. My original plan was to simply meet a couple of like-minded travelers in Launceston, rent a car, and tour the island for a week. This was until I picked up my Lonely Planet after a North Queensland waterfall hike. Being surrounded by rain forests that dwarf a man forces one to see how small we are. I was in just the right frame of mind for what jumped out on page 694: the Overland Track, five days, 80km, some of the most amazing scenery in the world.
I've always been an outdoorsy person at heart, definitely the product of my heredity. The idea of roughing it, being out there alone with nature has always held a very specific place in my soul. In practice however, his has been a different story. I may be an Eagle Scout. I may love to camp, hike, fish. I may have joined the BSA for this very reason, but really, I'm not a fanatic. My adult life has bred me into a city boy who merely takes a couple overnight excursions on weekends, a few times a year. I really do love nature, I just prefer a hot shower more. The waterfalls of North Queensland helped me rediscover this nature loving part of me again.
It all made sense: Hiking. I was to become a true hiker, not some day tripper. It would be me alone with only my backpack full of food. The stories of my father, Uncle John and Steve, and Carlos came to mind. Why live such experiences vicariously? Page 694 lit my path. I was to do my first multi-day hike for the duration of my Tasmania trip.
There existed one major obstacle to this seemingly easy task: I was completely unprepared. Believe it or not, and I must say I was on the latter end of this, but Australia does experience winter, especially in the South. Now, by "winter", I mean that Australia has the laughably cold daytime temperature of 60 degrees Fahrenheit and at night, drops to the Jack Londonesque 35 degrees. "That's cold enough to see your breath, mate!" This shouldn't be too daunting for a hearty native Minnesotan such as myself, but eight months in Australia's perfect weather has me grabbing my jacket when it drops below seventy. Although the temperatures are mild, I'd still need to "rug up" as the Aussies say. I had to start from scratch since I was only equipped with beach clothing. I also needed essential camping gear.
I started by making a simple mental list: tent, stove, cotton long johns, winter jacket, hat, gloves, and a cheap oversized raincoat. It was fortunate I was in Sydney. Word on the street, or the nearest travel agent, was that Kent St. was riddled with camping and hiking stores. This proved to be more than a rumor. There were more camping stores on Kent St. than whores and junkies at King's Cross.
I walked into the first one, wearing my patented, "I'm not ignorant" face.
"Can I help you?" the friendly Indian clerk asked.
"Well, yes sir, yes you can. I'm doing the Overland Track this week and I need to get rugged up and outfitted."
"Ok mate. So what do you need specifically, shoes, tent, jacket?"
"Yes."
"Ok, um...let's start with tents." He led me to the fabled land of fancy tents. "This here is a great one-man tent, completely waterproof, wind proof, good to temperatures of minus 15 degrees Celsius, aluminum poles (he said alumin-um, just like an American). Feel this." He handed me the tent. It weighed as little as a small package of pork chops; it almost fit in my pocket. "One kilo. Lifetime warranty."
"Wow!"
"Wow indeed. And this is a steal! Oh, and it is my last one as well. $400" He noticed my not-ignorant face failing.
"You won't find a tent like this with a lifetime warranty, for that price anywhere else." (And this proved to be true. Most similar tents were up to $1000) "Shop around mate. I'll set this aside for you when you come back." $400! My budget only allowed me $50-100.
Without hesitation, he led me to a corner that was a forest of hangers with only rainjackets. "It rains a lot in Tasmania, so you'll need a good shell layer. This jacket here is 100% rain and wind proof. Feel it. Real gortex."
Mmmm gortex. I felt the smooth, yet rubbery sleeve and subtly turned the affixed price tag to my direction. $800.
"So will this keep me warm as well?" I asked.
"Oh no, sir!" The finality of his answer jabbed a hole right through what was left of my not-ignorant face. "This is just a shell layer. You'll need a good fleece jacket, coat, and of course (chuckle) thermals. I mean you at least have thermals right?"
"Of course!" I began nodding my head incessantly as I backed out of the store, directly into the next one only one meter away. What the hell is a thermal?
The woman at the next store looked much less threatening, though it may have been her pretty brown eyes. She did not seemed shock to see me walking backwards into her store.
"I'm doing the Overland Track this week; are these shoes going to cut it?" I pointed to my sneakers.
She turned her brown eyes to me with a sympathetic smile. "No, it is muddy, rainy, cold. The last thing you want is to spend a week walking with wet feet." Simple enough logic. She directed me to the giant wall of $300 shoes.
Out of the side of my eyes, in a far off corner, obscured by freeze dried lasagna and cooking stoves smaller than my fist, I saw my favorite word: Clearance.
"What about these over here; are these any good?" I asked.
"Well...they're ok. They're not gortex though."
"Will they keep my feet dry?"
"You might want to waterproof them first."
"I'm a size 9."
"I'll see what I have." She came back, handed me the shoes and gave me a bit of look over. She could see that I was quite green. "So you're going to Tasmania? You do have a good pair of thermals right?"
I couldn't fool the granola goddess. "No. Do you have any in gortex?"
"They don't make thermals out of gortex. We have two main kinds, thermalux and polypro."
I stared back at her blankly.
"Thermalux is warmer, won't stink as bad when you're done." They were also $70 a pair. Given the constant mentioning of thermals by these hiking store proprietors, I knew they'd be necessary. I bought a polypro top and bottom for $40 in a buy one get one sale.
I knew that to miraculously become Super Backpacker Man, it was going to blow my budget. Already I had spent nearly $200 and all I had to show for it were non-gortex boots and the sub-par, polypro long johns. To do this on a budget, I'd need to improvise. First off, I didn't need a fancy tent; hell, I probably didn't need a tent at all, considering the heated huts scattered every seven miles or so. A simple thirty dollar tent would suffice. Gaiters? What's wrong with some garbage bags and rubber bands?
I found a cheap rain jacket for sale at a random Sydney shop for $40. When I got to Launceston, I bought my stove, fleece coat, fleece gloves, tent and some wool socks at the local K-mart. I wasn't a Super Backpacker Man, but I think I was alright. My trip hadn't even started and I was craving a hot shower.
The inclusion of this foreword may kill a bit of the suspense of the story, I guess. Since I'm here almost eleven years later writing an introduction, that means I did not actually die on that mountain in Tasmania. Though, the fact that I'd written it at all solidified that particular cat-in-a-box anyway.
Little did I realize how much this particular week of my life would influence everything that came after. I do not wish to explore any philosophical discussion about how every decision one makes irreversibly influences all future outcomes. This is the second reference to philosophical quantum physics in as many paragraphs. I'll try to reduce this from here on out.
This whole ordeal started a continuing trend of starting, but not finishing some of the greatest hikes of the Southern Hemisphere. For a month, I drove around New Zealand, parked in the trail heads and walked for a couple hours in, then out. The winter and my continued lack of proper gear prevented any deeper venture into kiwi wilderness, a place I hope to return someday.
This disaster did not kill my love for hiking, it further spiked it. I began scanning Lonely Planets for other excursions I could probably fail at. I tried numerous overnight excursions in the BWCA. I started to slowly build up acceptable gear, and some muscle mass. No, I never morphed into some super hiker, but I read A Walk in the Woods. Also, I learned to respect the trail, not to take mountains so lightly. I had developed a thirst and it was the inspiration for my second year-long world travelling experience. Ever since I was a kid, I'd always wanted to hike in the Himalaya and my failure in Tasmania pushed me to not fail again. And I didn't. I trained, trained hard. I rugged up, for real this time. And the result is that I finished a 24-day, 300 km hike high in mountains of Nepal. Then another two-week hike in another region of the country.
Now, I live in on the west coast of Norway, in a climate very similar to what I faced in Tasmania. Reading back over my adventure has been almost laughable at how naive and frankly wimpy I was then. If I were to do that hike now, I doubt it would pose much a challenge. It's ironic that even though I'm stronger now than I ever was then, I'd be less likely to attempt anything so mental. I know I'm not invincible and this was instrumental in showing me this.
This hike also had one more major impact on my life. This series yielded my first ever publication. A hiking website (that no longer exists, sadly) used my writing as the basis for a "what to expect" when doing this trail. Yes, my stupidity was (not-so)immortally preserved in a reference of the things you should NOT do when hiking in the wilderness of Tasmania.
This helped bring a lot more traffic to my blog, and thus praise. It was the first moment I actually thought that there may be value to the things I write. Still, it took me another four years to start submitting writing for publication and another two to get my creative work published. I've since taken a hiatus from my literature career, but I still write. I'll never stop writing.
So, sit back and enjoy the adventures of a 26-year old me as I risk my life in mountains of Tasmania.
Overland Track Chronicles Part One: Ruggin' Up
It started with a simple sale. Friday Frenzy at Jetstar, flights for ridiculous prices, every Friday 4-8PM. I checked it out last December. A particular flight jumped out at me, Sydney to Tasmania, May 12th, $59 each way. It was so cheap, how could I pass it up? At the time $144 after taxes and fees seemed like a steal. Little did I know that a simple mouse click would change my life and bank account forever.
This was back in the days when I feared traveling alone, so I held my week long Tasmanian experience as a simple place holder, a guarantee that I wouldn't freak out and give up on my travels until May. It was a harmless enough thought. I know myself; unless I have some skeleton, even a cheap flight, I would have potentially cowered away back to Broken Hill, declaring traveling was too expensive, too tiring, too unstructured, too lonely. I've mastered the art of using rationalization to back away from challenges. This Tasmania trip was to be the courage I needed to stick it out.
It wasn't until I was in the natural splendor of North Queensland that the Tasmania trip became something completely different, something real. My original plan was to simply meet a couple of like-minded travelers in Launceston, rent a car, and tour the island for a week. This was until I picked up my Lonely Planet after a North Queensland waterfall hike. Being surrounded by rain forests that dwarf a man forces one to see how small we are. I was in just the right frame of mind for what jumped out on page 694: the Overland Track, five days, 80km, some of the most amazing scenery in the world.
I've always been an outdoorsy person at heart, definitely the product of my heredity. The idea of roughing it, being out there alone with nature has always held a very specific place in my soul. In practice however, his has been a different story. I may be an Eagle Scout. I may love to camp, hike, fish. I may have joined the BSA for this very reason, but really, I'm not a fanatic. My adult life has bred me into a city boy who merely takes a couple overnight excursions on weekends, a few times a year. I really do love nature, I just prefer a hot shower more. The waterfalls of North Queensland helped me rediscover this nature loving part of me again.
It all made sense: Hiking. I was to become a true hiker, not some day tripper. It would be me alone with only my backpack full of food. The stories of my father, Uncle John and Steve, and Carlos came to mind. Why live such experiences vicariously? Page 694 lit my path. I was to do my first multi-day hike for the duration of my Tasmania trip.
There existed one major obstacle to this seemingly easy task: I was completely unprepared. Believe it or not, and I must say I was on the latter end of this, but Australia does experience winter, especially in the South. Now, by "winter", I mean that Australia has the laughably cold daytime temperature of 60 degrees Fahrenheit and at night, drops to the Jack Londonesque 35 degrees. "That's cold enough to see your breath, mate!" This shouldn't be too daunting for a hearty native Minnesotan such as myself, but eight months in Australia's perfect weather has me grabbing my jacket when it drops below seventy. Although the temperatures are mild, I'd still need to "rug up" as the Aussies say. I had to start from scratch since I was only equipped with beach clothing. I also needed essential camping gear.
I started by making a simple mental list: tent, stove, cotton long johns, winter jacket, hat, gloves, and a cheap oversized raincoat. It was fortunate I was in Sydney. Word on the street, or the nearest travel agent, was that Kent St. was riddled with camping and hiking stores. This proved to be more than a rumor. There were more camping stores on Kent St. than whores and junkies at King's Cross.
I walked into the first one, wearing my patented, "I'm not ignorant" face.
"Can I help you?" the friendly Indian clerk asked.
"Well, yes sir, yes you can. I'm doing the Overland Track this week and I need to get rugged up and outfitted."
"Ok mate. So what do you need specifically, shoes, tent, jacket?"
"Yes."
"Ok, um...let's start with tents." He led me to the fabled land of fancy tents. "This here is a great one-man tent, completely waterproof, wind proof, good to temperatures of minus 15 degrees Celsius, aluminum poles (he said alumin-um, just like an American). Feel this." He handed me the tent. It weighed as little as a small package of pork chops; it almost fit in my pocket. "One kilo. Lifetime warranty."
"Wow!"
"Wow indeed. And this is a steal! Oh, and it is my last one as well. $400" He noticed my not-ignorant face failing.
"You won't find a tent like this with a lifetime warranty, for that price anywhere else." (And this proved to be true. Most similar tents were up to $1000) "Shop around mate. I'll set this aside for you when you come back." $400! My budget only allowed me $50-100.
Without hesitation, he led me to a corner that was a forest of hangers with only rainjackets. "It rains a lot in Tasmania, so you'll need a good shell layer. This jacket here is 100% rain and wind proof. Feel it. Real gortex."
Mmmm gortex. I felt the smooth, yet rubbery sleeve and subtly turned the affixed price tag to my direction. $800.
"So will this keep me warm as well?" I asked.
"Oh no, sir!" The finality of his answer jabbed a hole right through what was left of my not-ignorant face. "This is just a shell layer. You'll need a good fleece jacket, coat, and of course (chuckle) thermals. I mean you at least have thermals right?"
"Of course!" I began nodding my head incessantly as I backed out of the store, directly into the next one only one meter away. What the hell is a thermal?
The woman at the next store looked much less threatening, though it may have been her pretty brown eyes. She did not seemed shock to see me walking backwards into her store.
"I'm doing the Overland Track this week; are these shoes going to cut it?" I pointed to my sneakers.
She turned her brown eyes to me with a sympathetic smile. "No, it is muddy, rainy, cold. The last thing you want is to spend a week walking with wet feet." Simple enough logic. She directed me to the giant wall of $300 shoes.
Out of the side of my eyes, in a far off corner, obscured by freeze dried lasagna and cooking stoves smaller than my fist, I saw my favorite word: Clearance.
"What about these over here; are these any good?" I asked.
"Well...they're ok. They're not gortex though."
"Will they keep my feet dry?"
"You might want to waterproof them first."
"I'm a size 9."
"I'll see what I have." She came back, handed me the shoes and gave me a bit of look over. She could see that I was quite green. "So you're going to Tasmania? You do have a good pair of thermals right?"
I couldn't fool the granola goddess. "No. Do you have any in gortex?"
"They don't make thermals out of gortex. We have two main kinds, thermalux and polypro."
I stared back at her blankly.
"Thermalux is warmer, won't stink as bad when you're done." They were also $70 a pair. Given the constant mentioning of thermals by these hiking store proprietors, I knew they'd be necessary. I bought a polypro top and bottom for $40 in a buy one get one sale.
I knew that to miraculously become Super Backpacker Man, it was going to blow my budget. Already I had spent nearly $200 and all I had to show for it were non-gortex boots and the sub-par, polypro long johns. To do this on a budget, I'd need to improvise. First off, I didn't need a fancy tent; hell, I probably didn't need a tent at all, considering the heated huts scattered every seven miles or so. A simple thirty dollar tent would suffice. Gaiters? What's wrong with some garbage bags and rubber bands?
I found a cheap rain jacket for sale at a random Sydney shop for $40. When I got to Launceston, I bought my stove, fleece coat, fleece gloves, tent and some wool socks at the local K-mart. I wasn't a Super Backpacker Man, but I think I was alright. My trip hadn't even started and I was craving a hot shower.
Overland Track Chronicles Part 2: Freaking Out
As the hike approached, I was starting to get a little freaked out. It was the little things that began pushing me over the edge: the sad dopey smiles when I mentioned the hike to locals or off-hand comments such as "Brave man, this time of year." "For your poor mother's sake, be sure to register the hike and tell lots of people you are going!"
By the time I reached Launceston, my anxiety level was at a valium prescription levels. I checked into my room at the hostel, room 13 (dunh dunh duh), and started packing all the food and gear I would need for six days in the mountains. After trying on my bag, I knew it was going to be too heavy. I looked through everything I had, but I couldn't find anything I could imagine leaving behind. I just had to sleep on it.
That night though, I didn't sleep, not even for a minute. I tossed, turned and froze to death under my pile of blankets in the heated Tasmanian room. Launceston isn't even in the mountains. I already knew my light summer sleeping bag would not be enough, even when fully clothed. I thought of my gear, my garbage bag gaiters, my lack of sleeping mat. Why did I buy potatoes?
I rolled out of bed at 5:59, yelling at my 6:00 alarm to wake up. I saw that it was the morning of May 13th (duhn duhn duh!!!!). I repacked my bag, cut back on some of the food, tossed out my potatoes. I removed the one pair of comfort clothing I saved for my first night off the mountain and cut back on a few other odds and ends. The bag was still too heavy, but it was at least manageable.
I still wasn't content. I threw on my hiking boots and headed to the 24hour Kmart for a camping mat. Freezing to death from no ground insulation was not the way I wanted to kick it. I walked a half block before I hit another obstacle to my coming hike: my ankles were in intense pain.
Since I purchased the boots only two days before the hike, I wanted to make sure they were broken in, therefore, I wore them all through my afternoon with Joe and Diane, then again the morning of the flight for my 10km whirlwind tour of Sydney. In the end, all this walking did little to break in my boots and left me feet and ankles incredibly sore, just in time for the hike.
I got lost on the way to the bus station and arrived just 10 minutes before departure. Just the mere 1km of walking left me limping. I was scared and in pain; I cancelled my bus.
It took a mere moment to realize I wasn't happy with this decision. I needed guidance, so I called my father. It is unclear what advice I was hoping to receive that morning, be it "a just go for it!"or a "Son, it is ok to give up when it is a dangerous situation." I received the most level-headed wise advice only a father can give, "You're just not used to the high backing of the boots. Your feet will probably feel better after a day or so. Take it one day at a time. If after a day, it seems too risky, just turn back." He finished with the ultimate John White: Father line that has echoed through my head for 26 years of my life, "Just keep yourself out of situations of unnecessary risk." I knew he'd say that.
It was sound advice. I rebooked my bus with a minute to spare and set up a back up plan if I needed to turn back; the next bus back to Launceston from the start of the trail was Monday.
Three hours later, I arrived and Cradle Mountain National Park, ready to go, pain or not. I caved in a bought some actual rain pants at the inflated middle-of-nowhere price of $60. It was raining a little at the trail head, but I was well prepared. I took a deep breath and went forward on my first step of the Overland Track.
Overland Track Chronicles Interlude: The Overland Track
I've talked around the Overland Track, but I never took the time to explain what it is. The Overland Track is one of the world's most famous hikes, up there with the Inca Trail in Peru and the Milford Track in New Zealand. It lies within the Cradle Mountain-Lake St. Clair National Park in Tasmania, stretching 75km between the two natural landmarks. Most of the trail is in the mountains, exposed to the elements. Since the trail is so popular (8000 or so walkers a year), it is very well maintained, with lots of boardwalks and heated huts placed about every 10km. The scenery is much like that of New Zealand's South Island, rugged, sculpted mountains, hidden crystal clear glacial lakes, and waterfalls everywhere.
Most people hike during the summer when the daylight hours stretch a bit longer and there is less chance of snow, though it can snow any time of year. Tasmania's mountains are famous for being sunny one second and blizzard the next. Many hikers leave on a sunny day, unprepared, without raingear or warm clothing and die when trapped in a snowstorm. I was undertaking it in mid-May, when you don't have to pay the $150 fee, but have to deal with less desirable weather and very short days. Some mountaineers only undertake the trail in the middle of winter, when snow is inevitable, just to avoid the traffic.
Despite the weather and dangers, the trail remains a constant draw for tourists. It holds some the most unique and beautiful scenery in the world and stands as the essential way to experience the natural wonders of Tasmania. How could I pass that up?
Overland Track Chronicles Part Three: Day One
My embarkation was greeted with gentle rain, which quickly subsided as I moved further onto the trail. The traditional starting point for the trail is Ronnie Creek, but I'm a non-traditional type guy, so I started at Dove Lake. They are both the same distance, but Dove Lakes's trail is much steeper. I didn't realize this when I chose the route.
The trail twisted further up the mountain until it wound round to the other side. Then the wind hit, gusty, cold mountain wind, strong enough to knock a child off its feet. A couple hundred meters further and it was raining again. By the time I reached Marion's Lookout, highlight of the park's day trips, it was impossible to see a thing. I didn't even bother to look, especially since I didn't want to get blown off the mountain. At least since I was at the top, I didn't have to climb anymore.
"Oh boy, how about that weather." I said to the man.
The trail descended into a eucalyptus forest below. The trees blocked much of the wind and the rain had finally stopped. Everything was foggy, but occasionally, I caught a quick glimpse of the craggy mountain peaks to my left. The Tasmanian vegetation was quite unique; it almost seemed like a different planet. It was mostly green with rusty-orange scrub popping up everywhere, moss and peat covering all the rocks between. Spirofix and eucalyptus dotted the landscape all the way down into the valley below.
Though my ankles still hurt, once I started moving a bit, the rush of the whole thing killed a lot of the pain. That and paracetamol.
Within an hour, I was exhausted. Hiking typically never tires me, but I quickly realized that I had underestimated the weight of a 50lb backpack, especially when climbing continuously uphill. I sat for a moment and looked down at the amazing blue waters of the many glacial lakes below. The view was stunning. This was going to be an unforgettable experience for sure!
Within an hour, I was exhausted. Hiking typically never tires me, but I quickly realized that I had underestimated the weight of a 50lb backpack, especially when climbing continuously uphill. I sat for a moment and looked down at the amazing blue waters of the many glacial lakes below. The view was stunning. This was going to be an unforgettable experience for sure!
The trail twisted further up the mountain until it wound round to the other side. Then the wind hit, gusty, cold mountain wind, strong enough to knock a child off its feet. A couple hundred meters further and it was raining again. By the time I reached Marion's Lookout, highlight of the park's day trips, it was impossible to see a thing. I didn't even bother to look, especially since I didn't want to get blown off the mountain. At least since I was at the top, I didn't have to climb anymore.
Over the next 2km, the weather got increasingly worse. The rain went from small drops, to big drops, to sleet, until it finally decided to peak at BB sized hail. I overtook a fellow hiker who had done the trail a couple of times before. He informed me that a shelter was only 15 minutes walk away. 35 minutes later, we finally reached the shelter and escaped the pelting hail.
"Oh boy, how about that weather." I said to the man.
"Oh boy is right, mate." He removed his hood to reveal he was an elderly man in his seventies. "I think I'll eat a quick warm lunch and move on."
"Continue on? Isn't this the hut?"
"Oh no, this is just Kitchen Hut, an emergency shelter. The first overnight hut is another two hours further on."
That put me at just more than halfway done with the day. I was already exhausted: my back hurt, my ankles hurt, and one layer of face had been not so carefully removed by unhindered, blowing precipitation. There was thankfully only 30 minutes left on the open mountain face. The trail was well maintained at this point; it was nothing but continuous boardwalk above the creeks and rocks, a trail marker jutted up every ten feet. This seemed a bit obsessive: I can't imagine a person getting lost on top of a boardwalk.
The trail descended into a eucalyptus forest below. The trees blocked much of the wind and the rain had finally stopped. Everything was foggy, but occasionally, I caught a quick glimpse of the craggy mountain peaks to my left. The Tasmanian vegetation was quite unique; it almost seemed like a different planet. It was mostly green with rusty-orange scrub popping up everywhere, moss and peat covering all the rocks between. Spirofix and eucalyptus dotted the landscape all the way down into the valley below.
The trail twisted around the mountain and finally descended into the aptly named Waterfall Valley. The valley was nestled by high cliffs to all sides, each with waterfalls gushing the rain and meltwater into the creek beds at the bottom. The fog was too thick to see this, but it didn't obscure the most beautiful sight of the day, the first hut! With darkness swiftly approaching, it was four in the afternoon after all, it could not have come any sooner.
I collapsed upon opening the door. I just wasn't in enough shape for this first day of climbing, but a good night's sleep would hopefully give me the strength for the next. The hut was quite nice, with wooden bunks to sleep 25 and a gas heater to dry off all of our gear. Even with a rain jacket, rain pants, fleece coat, hooded sweatshirt, t-shirt, and jeans, I was soaked all the way down to my thermals. I had a backpack cover over my water resistant backpack, but this proved useless: everything in my pack was wet. That day, even the super backpackers, with their $1000 dollar backpacks and special waterproof covers learned the lesson that "waterproof" is a myth.
There were about seventeen of us that first night, all with similar dilemmas, so the heater space for drying gear was quite full. After a bit of talking, we all hit the sack around 7:30. My sleeping bag did in fact prove to too thin for the conditions; even with a dry pair of jeans, stocking cap, polypro thermals (shoulda got thermalux), winter coat and four pairs of socks, I was absolutely freezing. The heater, although adequate for drying clothes, did little for making the hut warmer. It also turned off 45 minutes to save gas. Since I didn't sleep, I gave myself the responsibility of turning it back on whenever it died. Eventually, curled in a little ball, I finally slept for an hour. I dreamed of being in Jack London story with wet matches.
Overland Track Chronicles Part Four: Day Two
This was to be the big day. The park system planned the huts quite oddly for the second leg of the hike. For the most part, there lies a hut every 10km, but the second hut is a easy-grade 7.5km from the first. The third hut, however, is 17.5km further. In order for me to successfully complete the hike in five days and catch my bus at the other end, I would need to reach the third hut on the second day, a wicked 25km trek. Not a challenge unladen, but with a 50lb pack, this is quite a push.
My ankles still ached, but there was little I could but take more painkillers and deal with it. I got an early start and headed out on the simple 2 hour hike to Windermere Hut. I was allowed no grace period of weather like on the previous day; it rained from the second I left the door. A mere five minutes down the track, the trail was flooded by a swift creek. I walked to the right and found no crossing that proved narrower than the trail. To the left, I found a seven food jump across some rapids five feet below. It was a completely doable jump, but not worth the probable broken leg from jumping in such wet, slippery conditions. The trail was the only reasonable option. It didn't look too deep anyway. One foot in and I realized it was deceptively knee deep.
I jumped out of the creek, gave it the finger, and stomped through the pouring rain back to the hut and threw my fifty pound pack in the corner.
"I'm done! It's cold, rainy, everything is wet, it's too f**king foggy to see anything, and there is a f**king knee deep creek right at the start of this horrible day. Now, I'm going to have to walk with wet feet for the next 25km. I paid $1000 to do this piece of s#$t walk and it has been nothing but one... big...f**king...disappointment. I'm not putting up with this. I'm going back. That's it. F%$k this s*&t!"
The others at the hut were not really expecting such a tirade, especially minutes into the second day of the hike. It was clear I was weak. Everyone just kept on eating the breakfast in uncomfortable silence, until a young German woman finally asked the one question on everyone's mind. "Is there any way around this knee deep creek?"
"No!"
Five minutes later, I had my socks wrung out, I had my clothes put back on and was ready to move on.
"Good luck dude. Sorry you don't want to go on. It's supposed to clear up in a couple of days."
"Oh, I'm not turning back; I'm going on. I just needed to swear a lot. I'm not letting a bloody creek keep me from doing this stupid hike." This was greeted back with confused looks. They must have thought I was bipolar. But I wasn't going to be defeated, I just needed to let off some steam. So, I instantly threw myself back into the rain and built myself up to face the stupid creek.
I started chanting to myself. "Just a creek. Just some rain. Just some fog...it's gonna get nicer. Only 17 miles to go today."
I stood at the symbolic creek and thought of a plan of action. I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my hems and waded barefoot through the icy cold water. Seconds after putting my boots and wool socks back on, my feet were warm again. It really wasn't worth the spastic reaction I gave it.
I can't say as I remember seeing anything at all for the next 7km. After the creek, the trail went back up to the top of the valley and back into the wind for a 5km marathon of constant wind, rain, and sleet. All I could see was the ground as I marched forward, my hood pulled constantly over my face. Every time I dared to look up, all I could make out through the rain and fog was maybe the possibility of what could potentially be something that had a chance of being pretty. I did learn a great new skill that day: maneuvering rocks using only monocular depth perception cues. This was essential since half my face needed to be covered from the horizontal rain and sleet at all times.
 |
| The day's view |
The creek proved to be among the better patches of the trail that day. The 36 hours of continuous rain had flooded the entire thing. The line between trail/puddle/creek/raging waterfall became quite blurry after a point. The highlight was the unavoidable 100 meter slog through knee deep water.
The trail eventually went down into another valley, finally sheltering me from the wind, but it did little to prevent the rain. The horrible weather made the estimated 1.5-2 hour section last over three hours. By the time I reached the Windermere Hut, there wasn't enough time to make it to the next hut before dark. I was so wet, cold, and tired anyway, I doubt I would have gone on, even if I did have the time.
About five people did continue, despite the time. The next leg was estimated at five hours; with the weather though, it was sure to be inflated to six or seven. That put their arrival time well past dark. I hope they made it.
I removed my completely wet gear and went into my backpack for my dry change of clothing. Even after repacking everything in garbage bags, my clothes were still damp. The left me with no dry clothes and the temperature was quickly dropping.
Within minutes, I was shivering uncontrollably and started feeling a bit faint. I could tell I was showing the early symptoms of hypothermia. I threw on my fleece coat even though it was wet. That is one thing I love about polar fleece, it is the amazing fabric that maintains warmth, even when wet. To the person who invented polar fleece: if male, give me your hand in an extension of fraternal brotherhood and love. If female, please give me your hand in eternal matrimony: you may have kept me alive that die. Nobody else in the hut had any spare dry clothing themselves but they helped me move a bench to get close to the heater. I ate some dried fruit, drank some water and cooked some hot soup. By the time I sipped the last drop, my thermals were dry and I had gotten back to a safe homeostasis.
I looked at the map, did some revised math and realized that unless I walked the 20km for the next two days straight, I would never make it to my bus on time. There was a Tuesday bus back to Launceston from the end, but this would leave me with too little time to shower and pack before my evening flight to Sydney. I had no other choice but to turn back.
That night, I played a bit of cards with some fellow walkers. After a while, we were yawning and ready for bed. We did a round of guessing the time.
"9:00?" "I'd say 8:15." "9:30" I seconded the guess of 9:00. It was 6:45. I crawled into bed to enjoy my first good sleep in three days. It was a warm night.
The Overland Track Chronicles Part Five: Day Three
I awoke the next morning to the heaviest rain we'd had the whole hike. All but three were continuing on with the 18km day ahead of them. They didn't have the luxury of waiting out the downpour. Nobody was burning to go out there.
I bid them all farewell and had a relaxing warm breakfast with Brian the 72-year-old I'd met a couple days prior and another older bloke who was walking the opposite direction. He had walked the trail twelve times already in his life.
The snow changed the landscape completely. The morning was clear, crisp, and the wind was barely blowing. I stepped outside to see my first snow in over a year and breathed the long forgotten, yet always familiar smell of winter. The fog had lifted and I made the startling realization, "Hey, there's a mountain right there!" It was the jagged Barn Bluff, one of the two treacherous climbs I could have taken that day, had there not been snow.
I wasn't the only person who had a cold night. A young British bloke spent the night with merely a blanket. His one pair of socks was soaked from the previous day's walk. The sneakers he brought were still wet and he had no rain coat. The temperature was below freezing that day. Despite this, he pushed on. This is how people die.
Inside the Kitchen Hut, I found an Aussie family from Brisbane, with a twelve year old child. They started the previous day, but got trapped from the excessive winds. I was actually quite glad to see them safe and alive; other hikers the previous night had told me of this family.
The trail was sheet of frozen snow. I slowly duck-walked my way forward, occasionally curling into a ball when the gusts were too strong to allow me to stand. I found the strength to go on by screaming at the top of my lungs while I pushing into the wind and snow, ten feet at a time. There was nobody to see me walking at a 45 degree angle, screaming "AGHHHHHHHHH!!!!" at the top of my lungs. I could not even see a few feet in front of me, but I still recognized where I was; I was upon that wooden boardwalk with the excessive trail markers I noted days earlier. The purpose was now relevant. There was no boardwalk, just endless drifts of snow.
I made decent time considering, hiking those treacherous two miles in just one hour. I may have complained earlier about the cost of all the winter gear, but it was worth every dollar; they very possibly saved my life that day. The Overland Track continued on the windward side for its steep descent off the side of the mountain. I started on the track, but when a gust almost tumbled me off a cliff into the glacial lake below, I composed myself, got up and chose a more sheltered route. As I walked only ten feet off the famous Overland Track, the wind stopped, the snow stopped; all was calm. The sun was shining and I was greeted by blue skies. It was surreal.
As I hiked 20km of random trails around the park the next day, unladen, clean, without pressure, I had lots of time to digest the last four days. This was a new experience for me; going out, setting a goal, taking steps to complete it, and failing. I've led quite a charmed, successful life. If I ever wanted to do anything, I just did it, no problems. It has taken me a while to realize that it isn't that I am particularly good at completing goals, I'm just good at choosing goals that I know I can complete.
Becoming an Eagle Scout, graduating from college with honors, successfully running a business, these are not small feats, but not really challenges for me. We all have strengths and weaknesses and the things with which I've had success play on my strengths. Other things, such as simply playing bass guitar for fun, compiling writing just to submit for publication, even jogging for ten minutes a day are difficult for me. My general strategy for dealing with potential challenges is not trying.
That is why this trip has been a success for me, because I started the hike.
In the past, I would have just stayed at that bus station, with no hit to my ego...."eh, the weather is too bad. I wasn't prepared enough. Going on that hike would have been a stupid move. People die up there!" And those thoughts would have been justified; they're all true statements. (I should also thank my father for the push as well.)
So no, I didn't finish the hike. Could I have finished and still caught my flight home? Maybe. I'm sure I could have finished the trip in six days and hitchhiked back to Launceston in time, but that's a stupid move. True be told, I was not prepared enough, especially once the snow fell. My sleeping bag was a death trap. I packed stupidly. Most of all, I learned that just because I'm the most fit out of all my friends does not actually make me fit. Especially not enough to complete a five-day mountain trek.
I'm not happy that I'm just doing day hikes around Cradle Mountain, instead of kicking back, admiring Lake St. Clair, but I'm much happier than I would have been sitting on a pile of expensive gear, watching the bus pull away.
I bid them all farewell and had a relaxing warm breakfast with Brian the 72-year-old I'd met a couple days prior and another older bloke who was walking the opposite direction. He had walked the trail twelve times already in his life.
"So, do you normally go during this time of year?"
"Oh yeah," He said. "This is the best time to go; nobody's on the trail."
"So, is the weather typically this bad?"I asked.
"Oh god no! No. Nah, it's usually much much worse than this, this time of year. Nah. Normally we'd have had some snow."
It scared me to think that the conditions tossed at me thus far were actually a blessing. The faces of all those people I excitedly told my hiking plans suddenly made sense. The horror, shock, or sympathy, all didn't seem so extreme anymore. Brian was also knocked down by the hiker's news. The previous night, Brian had slept in a tent in the rain, instead of the hut. Everything he owned, including sleeping back was soaked. His body was not forgiving him for the prior two days' punishment. He was cramping, worn-down, cold. Instead of pushing on that day, he decided to rest another day. This was an option I chose to wave, despite the inconceivably worse weather that day. Since I was not going forward, I wanted to head back and see all the various side trails along the way I had passed up. One of the beauties of the Overland Track is the myriad of summit climbs, lake tracks, and other extra bits to help make everyone's experience a little different. To do them all, it would take weeks.
I left the hut around nine, during a semi-dry spell. I even had the bravery to take out my camera for some photos of Windermere Lake. It was another short day, so I decided to walk the extra kilometer to Lake Will. These plans were all until the continuous two-and-a-half hour downpour that hit without warning. The rain was accompanied by even stronger winds than I'd seen the previous two days. By the time I reached the trail to Lake Will, I was determined to get back to Waterfall Valley as quickly as possible.
Despite even worse weather, the walk back was much more pleasant without the dread of knowing I had to walk 25km in a day. The fog was clearer and I was able to see a bit more of the countryside. It was almost a completely different walk. It was still a head-down ordeal; the first landmark I recognized was the hole in the chicken wire gripping upon the boardwalk.
The rain saturated my boots so much, I didn't even hesitate walking through the even deeper creeks that gave me such anger the previous days. The view from the bluff above the Waterfall Valley was stunning. I was blessed with about one minute of no rain, so I was able to snap another quick photo.
I arrived back at Waterfall Valley hut slightly after noon. Within an hour, the weather turned even worse, with the rain and wind getting continuously stronger throughout the afternoon until that evening's blizzard.
My feet were so cold that night, I started experimenting with various numbers and configurations of socks. In the process, I stumbled across the Sock Paradox©: any pair of socks over two makes your feet colder, because lack of circulation causes the feet to sweat, thus making the socks damp and more cold eventually. I worked through the physics of this until I fell asleep.
I awoke in the middle of the night with the startling discovery that the Socks Paradox was in fact a myth. Once I donned my fifth pair of socks, wrapped my feet in a sweater, put the bottom of my sleeping bag in a canvas shopping bag, I was able to make my feet merely cold. It was a long, blustery night. The pummeling wind tested the structural integrity of the cabin.
Overland Track Chronicles Part Six: Day Four
The snow changed the landscape completely. The morning was clear, crisp, and the wind was barely blowing. I stepped outside to see my first snow in over a year and breathed the long forgotten, yet always familiar smell of winter. The fog had lifted and I made the startling realization, "Hey, there's a mountain right there!" It was the jagged Barn Bluff, one of the two treacherous climbs I could have taken that day, had there not been snow.
I wasn't the only person who had a cold night. A young British bloke spent the night with merely a blanket. His one pair of socks was soaked from the previous day's walk. The sneakers he brought were still wet and he had no rain coat. The temperature was below freezing that day. Despite this, he pushed on. This is how people die.
There was a young couple watching me eat my breakfast agape. "Are you drinking coffee out of a ceramic mug?" Theirs' were made of lightweight plastic.
"Yeah. It's the only one I have."
"And you just have a regular stainless steel saucepan?" They were eating some sort of just-add-water concoction out of an aluminum mess kit.
"Yep. Gotta cook out of something."
"So last night, I noticed you had three fresh tomatoes in your bag."
"Vitamin C!"
"HOW HEAVY IS YOUR PACK?!"
I sipped my coffee as shamelessly as I could sham. "Way too heavy my friend. Way...too...heavy." At least I wasn't the Dutch guy with a backpack full of canned soup.
I headed out early into what was the easiest day of the trip. The previous day's rain was testing and wet. The wind could blow the soul out of the body. But snow? I'm Minnesotan, damn it! I may not have 52 different names for the stuff, but if there is anything I know, its snow. I spotted patches of ice meters away. I dodged every sink hole and bypassed every buried creek. I was in my element, until I reached the top of the mountain.
Suddenly, I found myself in North Dakota mid-blizzard or maybe on top of mountain mid-blizzard, same difference. I pushed forward through knee-deep snow, which was good, because it stabilized me from being toppled by the wind. I was glad it was only a couple of miles back to Kitchen Hut.
Inside the Kitchen Hut, I found an Aussie family from Brisbane, with a twelve year old child. They started the previous day, but got trapped from the excessive winds. I was actually quite glad to see them safe and alive; other hikers the previous night had told me of this family.
They decided to head back to the park with me, so we headed out into the blizzard. At first it wasn't too bad, but after fifteen meters, the wind came back with a vengeance, the strongest I've faced on the trail. Being from Queensland, the boy had never seen snow before, now he was stuck in Antarctica.
They wisely turned back for the hut. I, however, had a mission. I was to get off this mountain and nothing was going to stop me. Mountain top blizzard? I don't care...I've faced worse getting the mail in Clara City.
They wisely turned back for the hut. I, however, had a mission. I was to get off this mountain and nothing was going to stop me. Mountain top blizzard? I don't care...I've faced worse getting the mail in Clara City.
The trail was sheet of frozen snow. I slowly duck-walked my way forward, occasionally curling into a ball when the gusts were too strong to allow me to stand. I found the strength to go on by screaming at the top of my lungs while I pushing into the wind and snow, ten feet at a time. There was nobody to see me walking at a 45 degree angle, screaming "AGHHHHHHHHH!!!!" at the top of my lungs. I could not even see a few feet in front of me, but I still recognized where I was; I was upon that wooden boardwalk with the excessive trail markers I noted days earlier. The purpose was now relevant. There was no boardwalk, just endless drifts of snow.
I made decent time considering, hiking those treacherous two miles in just one hour. I may have complained earlier about the cost of all the winter gear, but it was worth every dollar; they very possibly saved my life that day. The Overland Track continued on the windward side for its steep descent off the side of the mountain. I started on the track, but when a gust almost tumbled me off a cliff into the glacial lake below, I composed myself, got up and chose a more sheltered route. As I walked only ten feet off the famous Overland Track, the wind stopped, the snow stopped; all was calm. The sun was shining and I was greeted by blue skies. It was surreal.
Every step further down the mountain brought me closer to spring. The snow was melting off the needles, dripping into puddles and creeks of meltwater. The trail was flooded of course, the only fitting way to end my horrible hike. I joyfully squished my way through the trail, merely laughing at the lake in my boots. It didn't matter, I was going to have a warm shower anyway.
By the time I reached the caravan park, I could barely walk. My pack pushing me down, I literally crawled to my dorm room. That night, drifting off to sleep in my much too hot room, I closed my eyes and wished myself back into the mountains, experimenting with sock combinations, listening to the wind outside, glad I was inside the freezing hut. There is just no winning. At the same time, it was awfully nice to sleep in a bed.
(Afterward to this part: That family I passed in the Kitchen Hut actually found this blog and reached out to tell me that even though the the blizzard had trapped them in the hut for two days, they eventually managed to turn back and safely get home. This did not kill their love for hiking.)
The Overland Track Chronicles Part Seven: Success, Failure, Rationalization, or Acceptance?
As I hiked 20km of random trails around the park the next day, unladen, clean, without pressure, I had lots of time to digest the last four days. This was a new experience for me; going out, setting a goal, taking steps to complete it, and failing. I've led quite a charmed, successful life. If I ever wanted to do anything, I just did it, no problems. It has taken me a while to realize that it isn't that I am particularly good at completing goals, I'm just good at choosing goals that I know I can complete.
Becoming an Eagle Scout, graduating from college with honors, successfully running a business, these are not small feats, but not really challenges for me. We all have strengths and weaknesses and the things with which I've had success play on my strengths. Other things, such as simply playing bass guitar for fun, compiling writing just to submit for publication, even jogging for ten minutes a day are difficult for me. My general strategy for dealing with potential challenges is not trying.
That is why this trip has been a success for me, because I started the hike.
In the past, I would have just stayed at that bus station, with no hit to my ego...."eh, the weather is too bad. I wasn't prepared enough. Going on that hike would have been a stupid move. People die up there!" And those thoughts would have been justified; they're all true statements. (I should also thank my father for the push as well.)
So no, I didn't finish the hike. Could I have finished and still caught my flight home? Maybe. I'm sure I could have finished the trip in six days and hitchhiked back to Launceston in time, but that's a stupid move. True be told, I was not prepared enough, especially once the snow fell. My sleeping bag was a death trap. I packed stupidly. Most of all, I learned that just because I'm the most fit out of all my friends does not actually make me fit. Especially not enough to complete a five-day mountain trek.
I'm not happy that I'm just doing day hikes around Cradle Mountain, instead of kicking back, admiring Lake St. Clair, but I'm much happier than I would have been sitting on a pile of expensive gear, watching the bus pull away.
I failed!
I went out there, attempted something I knew was hard, and got knocked on my ass. But guess what, at least for once in my life, I attempted something difficult for me. This is why I booked the trip to Tasmania in the first place. That's growth...right? Or is this just rationalization? Either way, I'll take it.
