Postcards from the Wild

Tales from the Overland Track part two | a love affair with the mountains

Walking the Overland Track

In the March edition of Wild and Wonderful, I wrote about our family adventure walking the Overland Track, an iconic 65 kilometre walk through the heart of the wulinantikala \ Cradle Mountain — leeawulenna \ Lake St Clair Wilderness World Heritage Area, in Tasmania.

Walking here feels like glitter running through my veins, like lemonade popping in my stomach, like jelly snakes slithering on my tongue. If only the jelly snakes would slide all the way down to Arthur’s weary legs.

If you missed it, you can read it here.

In this edition, I am sharing the second part of Tales from the Overland Track — little snippets of experience, postcards from the wild. I hope you enjoy reading.

River bathing

The air fills with the sound of falling water. It is a large and sensuous sound, like the rumble of dark clouds, the howl of a wild dog, the vibrato of a violin.

Hurry up, Mum, Lottie calls.

She is standing knee-deep in the weak-tea water of the Mersey River. A tangle of trees and shrubs line each bank — the classic Christmas tree outline of the Pencil pine, Deciduous beech with its small crinkle cut leaves, the circling skirts of the Pandani, and the creeping roots of Alpine tea-tree.

Water gushes around her legs. Little ripples sweeping backwards from her knees. There is an invisible power at work here — the swift rush of gravity. And I remember that Hartnett Falls is just around the bend.

All the muscles in my body tense as I bend my knees and push my body under. It’s cold. I have to remind myself to let go of the air in my lungs. There are other people in the water too. Some ride the rapids into the deep eddy. Duck their head below the surface and come out gasping. Others sit in the water, let it rise up their back, lift their arms and massage the water into their skin and through their hair.

My sons are standing on the opposite bank, feet in the water, drying in a horizontal strip of sunlight. They are throwing stones. Their hands always up to something. This morning my eldest son had picked a sprig of Lemon-scented boronia and dropped it into my palm. Smell this, Mum, he had shouted as he bolted ahead on the track.

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At the edge of the River, I reach inside the pocket of my shorts. The sprig of Boronia is tucked inside. I lift it out, roll the long emerald leaves between my fingers, rub the sweet citrus perfume into my skin. And underneath hot blood rushes, like falling water.

Cradle Mountain Plateau

As we climb higher the rain begins to freeze. I do not bother looking up for a view of the mountains and lakes that I know are just beyond the swirling grey. We pull neck warmers over our cheeks, shiver into our jackets, and carry on.

By now my fingers are beginning to tingle with cold. And I worry about the children. Up here we are small and vulnerable, like spider webs strung between branches, tethered by something only a little more than luck — the thin skin of our Gortex rain jackets? But it's exhilarating walking on the top of a mountain, in an ocean of dark clouds, on the edge of the world. It’s so sharp, it hurts.

Arthur on the Cradle Mountain Plateau

The subtle art of drying things

There are two ways to dry things in the bush.

1. Peel your wet clothes from your skin and leave them to cool in the moist evening air, believe the sky will clear and that the moonlight will evaporate the moisture in your socks.

2. Leave your wet clothes on and put warm layers over the top — a beanie, your polar fleece jacket. Move a little. Drink a steaming cup of tea. Play cards, listen to stories of the track, and laugh so hard you cheeks blush. Later in the evening, stuff your damp socks and shirt under your head and use as a pillow. Remember to breathe through your mouth.

Tackling the bog

You can smell the bush toilet before you see her. It’s warm and eggy, like algae ripening in a pond, seaweed rotting on a beach, milk split on a wool carpet.

Sid gulps at the air, opens the door, and lurches forward. His eyes bulge. I can’t do it, Mum, he stammers, as he makes a run for the trees. I catch him up.

Did you bring the snorkel?, he whispers through tight lips, leaning forward on his knees, his face as white as the clouds overhead. I laugh, because it’s not a bad idea and we are running out of options.

Just imagine — pulling the plastic strap over your hair, fitting the mask to your face, walking backwards up the steps, and diving straight in.

Japanese garden

There is a Japanese garden on the flanks of Mount Ossa, the highest mountain in Tasmania. The shrubs are stunted from the wind, like a Japanese bonsai — thick trunks, short branches, heads bowed in prayer to the elements. It is green and bright. Little white and yellow daisies poke their necks out in the most unlikely places — a crack in a rock, the centre of a cushion plant. It is a strange and lovely beauty in this place of extremes. And I think to myself, there are more flowers here than in my garden.

Alpine yellow daisies, Mount Ossa.

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A few other wild and wonderful things

Wild adventures, just the two of us

Anders and I escaped for a weekend and went bushwalking (thanks Mum for looking after the kids). How wonderful it was to pack gear for two rather than six. We walked into the Snowy Ranges, climbed Nevada Peak 1378m (a Tasmanian Abel, more on this below) and camped right on top to watch the last light of the day falling over the mountain ranges to the west. It was windy (tent groaned and flapped) but the views were magical. I had hoped to see the sunrise but the mist rolled in and we retreated in the morning to explore Woolleys Tarn.

From my journal —

It has been a long time since the day has been this quiet - one place to be and only three goals. The day began when the sun popped its head above the mountains and ended with a book in the dark. And there was all the time in the world to watch the sun walk down the sky and the world close in around us.

Here’s a short clip of the summit view at dusk, wind included —

Fiery ten

Our eldest daughter, Lottie, celebrated her tenth birthday in April. And what does a wild girl with nature in her heart choose to do? Spend a night in a mountain hut with 9 of her friends (and a parent each), and go hiking of course! Giggles, a midnight chocolate feast, and a walk to Tarn Shelf in the Mount Field National Park to see the turning of the Fagus (Australia’s only cold climate deciduous tree) — here glittering alpine lakes are rimmed with a blaze of red, yellow, and orange. You can read a lovely story about a family adventure to see the turning of the Fagus written by my talented friend Grace Heathcote, here.

And I’ve been thinking about numbers and celebrations. What is it about the number ten that strikes at the heart? Brings memories to the flesh — a firework of goosebumps, a scent in your nostrils? The number ten has a long history with human thought. Is it because we have 10 little fingers and ten little toes. What do you think?

The turning of the Fagus (Nothofagus gunnii), Mount Field National Park

Children’s books

The school holidays have just finished so I will mention a few books we have been enjoying as a family. We loved Katherine Rundell’s Impossible Creatures. We were sad to leave her magical archipelago where mythical creatures — including dragons, unicorns, and a baby griffin — still dwell.

Now we have dived into her 2017 novel, The Wolf Wilder. It’s a gripping story set in the mountains of Russia. I read this article about the author’s love of tight-rope and roof walking — the inspiration for her novel, Roof Toppers. Inspiring.

My own reading has been more sporadic. But I did see the the brilliant

Bri Lee

in conversation at the Hobart Town Hall to promote her new book, The Work. Art and love, money and power, plus lots of steamy sex — I have a copy next to my bed ready to go. You can listen to Bri talk about her new book and the events that propelled her into a writing life here.

A love affair with the mountains

In preparation for our bushwalk, I pulled our copies of The Abels Volume 1 and 2 from the bookshelf. Years ago Bill Wilkinson embarked on a project to describe the walking routes for Tasmanian Mountains above 1100 metres.

Tasmania’s Abels are named for Abel Tasman, the Dutch explorer who, in 1642, was the first European to sight Tasmania.

The mountains in Tasmania — a small island at the bottom of the world — aren’t well known but they are magnificent; attracting hikers, climbers, and mountaineers from around the world.

There are 158 Abels in Tasmania, and hiking to the summit of all of them is an impressive achievement. Most of us dream of visiting just a handful in our lifetime. This blog by Tracey Orr, who is one of a handful of women who has climbed all 158, is inspiring.

Yesterday, I found Lottie, curled up on the window seat, the Abels Vol. 1 in her lap, writing a list of those she has climbed and ones she would like to next.

As Bill Wilkinson writes, the Abels is a love affair with the mountains. And, like all love affairs, it can be as intense as you desire.

And you?

What is it that you desire?

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Wishing you —

a quiet walk in the wild and

a cool river to dip your toes in.

Kate xx