How to climb a mountain with a baby
a story from the archives | one year of wild and wonderful | new publishing schedule
Dear wild and wonderfuls,
Its a cold, crisp day here. The clouds huddle on the mountain tops. A thick fog snakes its way down the River to the sea. And my children and I jostle for a spot in front of the fire.
How’s your day beginning?
At least the first of the spring bulbs are poking up through the ground, their thin green necks propogating a little cheer.1
Yesterday, I found a group of snowflakes2 quivering and glistening under the lemon tree. I dropped down in my dressing gown, the frost beneath my knees melting, to marvel at the small white flowers, dangling like church bells.
In Europe, snowflakes flower after the last snow melts. Here, in Tasmania, a cool climate island at the bottom of the world, they bloom just after the winter solstice, in early July.
This is the month that I published my first Substack newsletter in 2023. Has it really been one whole year since I launched Wild and Wonderful?
Oh how I have loved sharing my words with you. Thank you for being here, for reading my non-fiction stories, taking the time to comment, and for your support. I am so grateful.
Writing this newsletter has been a joy. A sweet, and if I’m honest, sometimes exhausting ritual. A little like tending a garden. There is always something to do. But sometimes you can sit and enjoy the space you have created, and share it with a friend or two.
*
These past few weeks, I’ve been working on some changes to this newsletter. So while I’m tinkering with the About Page and planning ahead, please enjoy a story from the archives.
Scroll to the bottom for all the information on Wild and Wonderful’s new publishing schedule.
With love and kindness,
Kate xx
This story was published in June 2019 in Travel Play Live Magazine. Baby Arthur, who features in this story, is now six-years-old and walks in the wild mountains of Tasmania on his own two feet.
Home was brimming with children.
Washing cascaded, love enveloped, and the chaos consumed.
We yearned to ramble in the mountains and weave wild adventures into our lives. And so, we began planning our escape.
My husband, Anders, suggested a bushwalk to a wild mountain in Tasmania named Frenchmans Cap with Arthur, the baby of our brood. My heart leapt, Yes.
‘Frenchmans’, as it’s affectionately known by Tasmanian bushwalkers, is a 1446 metre quartzite mountain in Tasmania’s Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers National Park. Walking the 46 kilometre return track is a serious undertaking. The track is muddy and sections are rocky and exposed.
Walkers are also vulnerable to the notorious ‘westerlies’ which can bring snow storms year round. It would be my first time walking to Frenchmans. Though it had been a dream for years.
Carrying a five-month-old baby on a three-day bushwalk raised more than a few eyebrows. As a friend wished us well, she confided, I hope he doesn’t cry all night.
There were many things that worried me: being five months post C-section, Arthur’s extra weight, and the enormity of caring for a baby in the wilderness. But in my heart I knew that a family bushwalking adventure was just what we needed.
*
Slowly the trip began to take shape. Grandma’s babysitting service was arranged. Weather outlook patterns were scouted for windows of calm conditions, and family bushwalks were embarked upon in Hobart’s surrounds.
I started a packing list, though it was difficult to decide what to include. With an extra ten kilograms of baby to carry, Anders and I would be leaving the novels and spare clothes behind.
In the evening, after the older children were asleep, I agonised over how many nappies3 to carry and how to dress Arthur for his first big adventure.
Anders kindly offered to organise the food after sensing my growing anxiety. Thankfully, this time he left out the whole pumpkin and bottle of wine. I took a deep breath and stuffed it all into two walking packs.
*
After two aborted attempts because of poor weather and sick children, we were finally on our way to Frenchmans.
Almost.
An unsettled afternoon with Arthur had meant a trip to the chemist. As I dashed to the counter with my basket of wonders, the chemist smiled politely and said, Dear, you are a mother in need. I hoped it was only a bout of teething.
We arrived bleary-eyed at the township of Derwent Bridge just before midnight. We had booked a hotel for the night so we could enjoy a complimentary hot breakfast and get an early start as the trailhead was just up the road.
As if anything with babies goes to plan.
Arthur woke before daybreak and we made the bittersweet decision to skip breakfast and make tracks.
*
A fine drizzle fell as we followed the winding path from the car park down to the Franklin River. We’d agreed I would hold Arthur on my front in a baby carrier and have a light pack on my back. Anders would carry the heavier items. If I had timed it right Arthur would be ready for a sleep and we could get a few kilometres under our feet.
Arthur shaped our days on the track. We trudged while he slept and rested our legs when he grew hungry. Our arsenal, if the weather turned nasty, included walking underneath an umbrella, zipping Arthur inside my extra-large jacket, and as a last resort pitching our tent.
Teething rings were replaced with sticks, sensory cubes with rocks, books with a parent’s imagination, white noise with the rush of a river, and lullabies with the gentle rhythm of our walking.
Out in the wilderness, we relaxed knowing that babies need little but love, food, and warmth.
After lunch, we walked together along the Lodden Plains, Arthur beaming on top of Anders’ shoulders, his sunhat tied underneath his squishy double chin.
I watched my feet make tracks in the sun-burnt mud. I listened to familiar calls of the Black Currawong4 and the rustling of the buttongrass heath. I felt alive and full of love for our little family and our island home. Suddenly, it seemed like all the hours of preparation had been worth it.
As we started our ascent of Phillips Lead, we delighted in curious walkers exclaiming, There was a baby!
Navigating the steep and slippery terrain with Arthur strapped onto my front was challenging. When my legs crumpled under the weight, walking became more like acro-yoga — a delicate play of strength, balance and trust.
At the top of the range I stopped to give Arthur a breastfeed. I was so pleasantly exhausted I didn’t notice I was tandem feeding a leech.
*
We arrived at Lake Vera Hut as the sun was setting. Arthur explored the hut on his tummy, delighting many new arrivals when they found a baby under foot. After dinner, we walked along the duckboards in socked feet to find our tent, pitched alone, with nothing but the stars and the distant mountains for company.
Warm and snuggly under wool and down, we savoured our decision to move outside and avoid the snoring inside the hut. Arthur did wake more than usual, but it wasn’t too difficult to settle him next to us.
As the sun rose, we unzipped the tent fly to watch the day’s first light erupt on the surrounding mountains.
A few hours later we were standing atop Barron Pass — faces smiling, chests heaving with exhaustion, legs groaning, and voices laughing. The clouds parted and there was Frenchmans, the mountain we were chasing, its marbled peak glistening in the sun.
Arthur snuggled against my cheek as we attempted a family self-portrait. King Billy pines fell away steeply in all directions. The rocky peaks surrounding us stood like guardians to the Tasmanian wilderness.
My thoughts drifted.
Five years ago, I had almost lost everything. Aged 27, I was diagnosed with a life-threatening brain tumour. With time, the turmoil of surgery and treatment faded, and were replaced with the joys and responsibilities of motherhood. I knew I had been lucky to survive and to give birth to three precious children. But it was here, in the mountains, with my husband and our youngest, that I finally felt whole again.
Once Arthur was settled, I followed Anders as he danced across the boulders on the track. We were on our way to Lake Tahune hut. Tucked beneath Frenchmans’ east face, it provided the perfect base for those wishing to summit.
We planned to have lunch at Lake Tahune before climbing the final few kilometres to the top and returning to our camp at Lake Vera. It was to be a long day but the next few hours went by quickly. Arthur slept soundly in the carrier, enjoying being held close.
It was a glorious day in the mountains, not a flutter of wind and a crisp autumn sky.
Excitement bubbled as I opened the door of the newly built Lake Tahune hut. The sheer cliffs of Frenchmans loomed above. We were almost there.
I found a sunny spot to breastfeed Arthur and wished that we had more time to stay overnight. The view of the forested valley below from the windows, the proximity to the summit, and the hydro-electric heating were very inviting.
Another trip perhaps.
We unpacked lunch and despite not having any teeth, Arthur was enthusiastic. We had tried our best to cater for a baby in the wilderness: avocados, bananas, and squeeze tubes of pureed food. But alas, what goes in must come out and so there was nappy changing to be done in the wilderness.
We double-bagged the dirty nappies which helped to contain the aromas as we carried them. Unfortunately, we missed out on the joys of a lighter pack at the end of our walk. While the weight of our food progressively dropped, the weight of the bag of nappies grew.
*
Outside, Frenchmans beckoned, the weather was sublime, but in my heart I felt it was just a little too far. We were a long way from our camp at Lake Vera, deep in the wilderness with a baby. Perhaps, the summit could wait.
Besides, Anders had summited before and I was grateful to have made it safely this far. We needed to let go of expectations. It’s the journey rather than the destination that’s important.
We giggled as we posed for a photo with a visiting photographer before returning to Lake Vera. Arthur cried and grizzled for much of our descent despite our valiant attempts to comfort him.
After walking for five hours and arriving at nightfall, we felt we had made the right decision to turn around. That evening, I was certain that Arthur would cut his first tooth.
*
When we were home, I reflected on the three glorious days we’d shared. What an adventure it was. I’ll never know if Arthur knew of his trip into the Tasmanian wilderness. I’m sure his new surroundings fascinated him and he would have loved listening to our cheerful voices as we walked along the track.
Frenchmans had stirred something within me: a quiet confidence, gratitude for life and love, a rediscovery of the wild adventurous woman I thought I’d lost.
A year on, I try to make time for the things that matter the most to me: love, family, the mountains. And when all is still, I dream of our next wild adventure. A family traverse of the Tasmanian Arthur Ranges, perhaps.
What have you been up to?
I’d love to hear about your adventures.
New publishing schedule
A wonderfully wild letter will arrive in your inbox on the first and third Sunday of every month, at 9am AEST (with a little wriggle room). There will be more wonderful non-fiction stories, photo essays, poetry, notes on wild places, and interviews with wild and wonderful people that I think you’ll love. Lots to enjoy. I hope you’ll join me.
Wishing you warmth and love,
and a little wild adventure or two.
Kate xx
In more temperate parts of Tasmania, spring bulbs like jonquils and daffodils have been flowering for a few weeks.
Snowflake (Leucojum vernum). Not to be confused with Snowdrop (Galanthus nivalis). Often called “harbingers of spring,” both are bulb plants and have nodding white flowers. The snowflake has shorter petals and a green dot on the end of each petal. The snowdrop has propellor shaped petals and a green marking on the inside of a few of its petals. Both are common in churchyards, parks, damp woodlands, and roadsides, and need a cold winter in order to flower.
A nappy is called a diaper in North America and Canada.
The black currawong, is a large bird endemic to Tasmania and the nearby islands within Bass Strait. It has a heavy black bill, black body and white tips on its flight-feathers and tail. It has a bright yellow eye.
Well Kate I was impressed with you as a human being (and a writer of course) before reading this now my admiration has skyrocketed. I know something of lugging children around our own bush block in the foothills of the Brisbane Ranges, (a couple of decades ago now) but to undertake your hike is next level. Bush raised children are the best !!!:)
Diane D
Wonderful adventure! I admire your cheerful determination and what a gift to your family, to model delight in the outdoors.