A Long-Awaited Reunion: Part 1

Walks can take a little time to organise. Who’s coming? Where are we going, and when? And then there’s transport, food, tents, weather, contingencies. The list tends to go on. But for eleven years? That does seem excessive! Strange but true, this walk had its genesis back in 2009. Five of us – Tim O, Jim, Mick, Lynne and me – were on an extended tramping trip in New Zealand. 

[In the Beginning: (L to R) Mick, Peter, Lynne, TimO and Jim, 2009] 

That trip went down in legend as the start of the “pirate captain/cabin boy” nonsense that we’ve maintained to this day. While that’s another story, its relevance for the February 2020 walk was that in March 2009, we met an Austrian backpacker named Brita. At the time we were walking the Routeburn Track. While Brita was much younger than all of us, we got on very well. Importantly she was quite tolerant of our pirate accents and general silliness while walking … or resting, or cooking, or eating!

[1st Meeting, Routeburn Track 2009. L to R: Jim, Brita and Ranger John] 

This was in the early days of Facebook, and that plus email enabled us to keep in touch. Our on-going contacts confirmed that Brita was a keen traveller, and an adventurous soul. So we weren’t surprised when, having qualified as an osteopath in 2018, she decided to work in New Zealand. For a European that felt like just next door to Tasmania, and she expressed interest in “popping over”. So for the next year or so, Jim sold Brita the concept of a reunion walk in Tassie with us. We’d be able to offer free accommodation, sight-seeing and socialising on a grand scale. I’m not entirely sure Jim didn’t also promise steak knives.

Skip forward to February 2020. Most of our original 2009 group could make the reunion walk, although Mick had followed his heart to Darwin, and couldn’t join us. But our group did expand to include our regular walking friends Libby, Tim D and Merran. The question then became: where would we be taking Brita? She was keen to walk the Overland Track, having succumbed to illness on a previous attempt. Most of us had done that trip multiple times, and thought we should go somewhere a little more adventurous.

Two years earlier we’d had a brilliant off-track adventure, walking from Lake Mackenzie through the Blue Peaks and overland to the Walls of Jerusalem. (You can read more here, then here, and finally here.) A variation on that walk firmed as the early favourite before logistic issues, the need for some early departures, and Jim’s fondness for huts led to a rethink. And given that the trip was Jim’s baby more than anyone else’s, we caved in to his suggestion. And that was that we walk in to Pelion Hut (bending towards Brita’s Overland Track wish, and Jim’s love of a hut), via a new-to-us side track (bending towards Tim D’s adventurous navigator impulse, and Tim O’s love of new routes), and base ourselves in the heart of the highest part of Tasmania, with many mountains to climb, and some beautiful ancient forests to "bathe" in (a plus for everyone).

[... And beautiful mossy forest] 

You’ll see now that we do try to accommodate as many preferences as we can. But you’ll also guess that there can be a certain amount of cat-herding involved. Once the miaowing had died down, we met for a very early departure one Friday in early February. The plan was to meet our northern-based friends, Tim D and Merran, at the turn-off to the Arm River Track. This provides a well accepted way into the middle of the Overland Track at the Pelion Plains. But we weren’t going via the Arm River. Instead Tim had found another way into the same destination, which he assured us was less steep and probably easier. (According to Jim “he lied!”, but more of that later.) Certainly it’s fair to say we were innocent as lambs as we drove up the long dirt road to the start of our walk.

[At the start of our 2020 walk to Pelion] 

The weather was warm and sunny, and the march flies had found us well before we’d slapped on sunscreen and laced up our boots. We snapped the obligatory departure photo, and hoisted our too-heavy packs. We were keen to leave the march flies behind, although soon enough that keenness receded as the climbing began. We’d started at the edge of an old logging coupe, which soon graded into forest. Our ascent was a steep, diagonal sidle, following a route rather than a clear track. Regularly we were clambering over fallen logs and up mossy banks, which was energy sapping work. As some of us hadn’t eaten lunch, we signalled to the front walkers to look out for a good shady spot near water. We soon regretted being too prescriptive, as Lynne and I were already sore and sorry after only an hour of ascent.

[Will this do for a lunch stop?]

Half an hour later the perfectionists up front finally stopped. To their credit their choice of lunch stop was excellent. In the cool, mossy shade of a beautiful myrtle beech forest we drank and ate and rested. As we chatted with Brita we learned a bit more about the mysteries of osteopathy, and also heard her confession that she hadn’t done overnight full-pack style walking for some years. In short, she wasn’t finding the going much easier than we were.

[Will Tim fall in the mud?] 

The good news for all was that we weren’t too far from the top of the main climb. After lunch the track duly levelled out, and the optimist in me started to feel we were over the worst. I was wrong, of course. We still had to get to the junction with the Arm River Track. And that was well short of half way to Pelion. What made this realisation harder was that Lynne was limping, struggling with knee pain.

[Lynne and Tim O in forest before Lake Ayr] 

The two of us adjusted our speed, as did Tim O, out of sympathy rather than his own need. We walked slowly, rested frequently, and kept hydrated. Lynne also practised stretches that Brita had suggested, and they seemed to help a little. So the afternoon wore on, the miles went slowly by. It remained very warm but the sky had grown hazy with smoke from the horrific Victorian bushfires. 

["I die here!" Lynne rests near Lake Ayr] 

The route now trended downhill through forest towards Lake Ayr. We rested in sight of the lake, a milestone that made us feel we were in the Pelion neighbourhood at least. An hour later we finally plodded into Pelion Hut. It was after 7pm, and we’d been walking for more than 6 hours. 

[Nearly at Pelion, with Mt Pelion West behind] 

To our surprise the fastest of our party had been at the hut for only half an hour. Everyone had found the going tough, particularly because of the hot weather and the very early start. Our hut champion, Jim, had managed to sequester a few bunks for us in the hut. We had planned to put up tents nearby, and leave the hut bunks for Overland Track walkers (who had paid for the walk). Jim’s argument that we too were fee paying park pass holders held some sway. But sheer tiredness was an even more powerful argument to leave the tent in the pack.

And so, after a quick meal, and a slower cup of wine, Lynne and I joined Jim and Brita in one of Pelion Hut’s bunkrooms. “Tim D. lied, you know” said Jim as we settled into our sleeping bags. “That was a lot worse than I remember the Arm River Track being.” Tim D and the others were safely ensconced in tents, so there was no comeback from them. And, despite our experiences of the day, Lynne and I were more inclined to invoke a pilgrim saying we’d learned: “It is what it is.” Although on this occasion, I’d have been glad to say “It was what it was”, and hope that the return journey would be another story altogether.

Feral Peril

[a stoat trap along NZ's Kepler Track. Click on the image and see if you can see the deceased stoat inside!]


[A cautionary tale from across the Tasman Sea]

It is not an altogether pleasant experience to be woken by mice scurrying over your face. The unpleasantness increases when the wider implications of a mouse plague in remote New Zealand are understood.

It’s spring 2006, and we are on our first serious tramp in the South Island of New Zealand. Our overnight stay in Aspiring Hut is very early in the season, just days after the hut has been fully opened.

2006 is a beech mast year – meaning that the various species of southern beech that dominate the forests of New Zealand are seeding prolifically. That’s good for the future of these beautiful forests, so reminiscent of Tasmania’s myrtle forests (to which they are related). But it’s also good for anything that will eat the seeds, and this year that’s conjured up a vast multitude of mice.

In, under and around Aspiring Hut hordes of mice have seen out the winter. With the thaw and the longer days they’re breeding and feeding at a frantic rate. Hence the early morning tip-toeing across my beard. Later, when we walk the Routeburn Track, the forest floor is alive with mice. In my peripheral vision the forest floor seems to undulate as mice scurry to hide from the passing bipedal “giants”. Afterwards they will return to the beech feast.

I used to count Australia the world champion in the field of introduced pest species. Eric Rolls’ 1969 classic book They All Ran Wild examines the lamentable record of our inadvertant rape and pillage of the environment via introduced furry, hard-hoofed, leafy and prickly living things.

“Inadvertant” may be too kind, given that Australia had acclimatisation societies in the 19^th century that aimed specifically and deliberately to introduce and establish plants and animals in this country. Their goal was partly economic, but they were also trying to make this “new world” look and feel more like the old. The founder of the Victorian Acclimatisation Society, Edward Wilson, went so far as to state “if it lives, we want it”.

But after my 2006 experience, and bearing in mind the spirit of trans-Tasman rivalry, I have to concede that New Zealand may be even more over-run by feral species than we are. And not just by mice. The food chain doesn’t end with the small rodents. Rats eat mice, and when mice are scarce then birds and bird eggs will do fine. In turn well-fed rats are fine food for mustelid predators such as stoats.

And when stoats can’t get rat? Well, while walking the Kepler Track in the mountains west of Te Anau, I found the sad answer. At the time I was struggling to find my walking rhythm. At such times I resort to tricks that help distract my mind and body. On the Kepler I used a series of pink triangles nailed at intervals along the track as both a distraction and a crude tally of my progress.

Of course the tags also piqued my curiosity. Hitler had sewn pink triangles onto the clothes of male homosexual prisoners. In this case the tags marked the location of stoat traps. And I learned that what stoats turn to when rats become scarce is birds. And what better than the fat and flightless takahe.

So the intensive trapping effort along the Kepler Track was aimed specifically at giving the dwindling population of takahe in the nearby Murchison Mountains a chance at increasing its perilous grip on what was once its stronghold.

The takahe (Porphyrio hochstetteri) is a large, strikingly-coloured bird believed to be descended from wind-blown Australian birds (similar to swamp-hens). Several million years in isolation has left them flightless and large - they weigh around 3kg. That’s fine in an environment virtually free of carnivorous predators, but disastrous when killing machines such as stoats are added to the mix.

By the end of the 19^th century, takahe were believed extinct. Then in 1948 a small number was found in the mountains across the lake from where we were walking. After huge breeding and trapping efforts, the total population is currently around 220 individual birds.

By the end of the 3 day walk I had counted over 120 trap markers. The traps themselves were mostly well hidden. However near the end of the walk I wandered off track near a marker to see what a trap looked like. Built to be accessible to mustelids rather than men, getting close to the wood and mesh box was difficult.

I lined my camera up near the cage and shot off a speculative photo – without actually being able to see through the view finder. To my surprise, weeks later, I discovered that I had photographed a dead stoat inside the trap? It was only after zooming in on the image that I made out the twisted and grisled stoat corpse (see image above).

On learning from Department of Conservation (DoC) rangers a little more of the story, my curiosity about stoats soon turned to anger. They were introduced to New Zealand in the 1880s in an attempt to keep rabbit numbers low. At the time there was strong scientific and political opposition, as even then the likely effects on non-target species was predicted. However the powerful farming lobby won the day, and New Zealand’s fauna – and its tax payers – have been paying a high price ever since.

Despite a number of similarly sad New Zealand stories, a Tasmanian like myself steers well clear of the high horse. The extinction of the thylacine here is tragedy enough; the “export” of Tasmanian possums to New Zealand terrible. But the deliberate 21^st century introduction of the European fox into the world’s only stronghold of carnivorous marsupials? Take me to the hair shirt and flagellation whip!

Nice Weather For Ducks

[an excerpt from "the walking book"]



[a break in the weather?? Hollyford Face, Routeburn Track NZ]


“Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody ever does anything about it.” - Charles Dudley Warner

Keeping the rain off while walking has been a puzzle for humans for a very long time. Tasmania’s Palawa people used to smear their bodies with whale or seal fat. It offered protection from both weather and insects. Mixed with ochre or charcoal it doubled as personal decoration. New Zealand’s Maori made a water resistant cloak called a pākē, using plant materials. Strands of raw flax were buried in the ground for some months to season, then woven very closely onto a plaited-fibre support. Alaska’s native peoples discovered long ago that seal guts could be expanded by pumping them full of air. Once dried, this membrane could be sown into garments that were remarkably good at keeping out rain and snow. Some even had hidden seams to prevent leaks – the original waterproof parka.

In my earliest bushwalking days a japara coat smeared with oil (the so-called oilskin) was the vaguely higher-tech version of those indigenous rain protectors. Oilskins were developed in the 19th century when sailors discovered that their sails could be waterproofed using a mixture of whale oil and linseed oil. Wave a jar of the 1970s oil under my nose and I am instantly transported back to my early bushwalking days. Like most bushwalkers of the time I was outfitted at the nearest army surplus store. Fashionable outdoor gear was an oxymoron back then. I covered my legs with oversized khaki woollen trousers, and in very cold conditions even wore woollen long-johns underneath. On top I wore a drab woollen jumper over a checked woollen shirt. Footwear comprised ex-army boots, woollen socks and canvas gaiters. I often added a hand-knitted woollen beanie, replaced later by a genuine Scottish tam-o-shanter (woollen, of course). By the late 1970s I had graduated from a khaki canvas A-frame haversack to a khaki canvas H-frame haversack. It still hangs in my garage, just in case.

Amazingly japaras are still around – in shops, not just in garages – although the new ones don’t require oiling. I gave mine up years ago and graduated to the “miracle fibres”. I got my first Gore-tex lined jacket in 1990. It took faith to believe that an invisible film of Mr Gore’s material – sandwiched between the outer and inner layers – would repel water droplets while allowing vapour to pass away from the body. I only dimly understood how it was supposed to work, but I did love to hear the salesman talk. I parted with more money than I could afford for that first generation Gore-tex jacket. Within a few years the same salesman pooh-hooed first generation jackets (“they had problems” he confided), and tried to sell me the second-generation version. I put up with the “problems” (you got wet when it rained) for a few more years. But when the third generation came along, I again parted with a week’s wages to try and stay dry while walking.

With about 40 years of bushwalking behind me, and poised somewhere between an H-frame and a zimmer frame, I have come to a slow-dawning realisation. The Holy Grail of rain jackets – one that is both waterproof and breathable – has yet to be found. If you simply stand out in rain for an hour or two, most rain jackets will keep you dry. Those with poor seam sealing will eventually let in water, but most will keep it out. That’s fine is you want to stand still, but put a full pack on your back, and strain and sweat uphill in driving wind and rain for a few hours, and the story will be different. No matter how waterproof the jacket; no matter how breathable the material, your perspiration, particularly where your straining back rubs against the pack, will eventually condense and start to get you wet. And then all you’ll be able to do is envy ducks until you reach shelter.

A walk on New Zealand’s Routeburn Track one spring, wearing an ageing 3rd generation Gore-tex jacket, provided ample support for my theory. The first day’s walk was actually a blissfully dry stroll, and the rainjacket remained stowed. We wandered up the uncannily blue, glacier fed Route Burn, through forests the spitting image of Tasmania’s myrtle forests. Our day ended at the spectacularly situated and rather palatial Routeburn Falls Hut, with balconies hanging over a steep and beautiful valley surrounded by sharp mountains and waterfalls. That evening, while taking in those breathtaking surroundings, I didn’t immediately make the connection between high stream flow, gushing waterfalls and the kind of weather needed to supply them.

But the next morning as we woke to the sound of wind and rain, and the sloosh of soggy snow sliding from the roof, we knew we were going to find out the hard way. From the falls the track takes you up over Harris Saddle (1255m) and into the truly alpine section of the walk. But on this day we could only guess at the height of the mountains around us, although having to walk in snow through an avalanche zone hinted at the precipitous nature of the slopes. The cloud lifted enough that we could at least see the delightfully dark Lake Harris, and swirling mists occasionally parted to reveal snow-dappled peaks. But for much of that day, all we knew was that somewhere out there through the rain, sleet and snow were the wonderful Darran Mountains, a beautiful woman veiled, where only the occasional flash of her eyes insinuated the whole.

We passed a guided group, guessed their leader by his gear and confident air, and I asked him to tell us what we were missing. He smiled through the rain and pointed to where Mt Tuteko should be, laconically adding “she’s beautiful, that one. Nearly 2800 metres.” I took his word for it and retreated under our hoods. After half a day of this I had begun to feel like a Gore-tex felafel. I plodded and sloshed, and puffed and strained, with water underfoot, water in my boots, and eventually, miracle membranes notwithstanding, water down my back. Waterproof and breathable proved to be relative terms out here.

Yet somehow I found this perversely enjoyable. We were out in pretty adverse conditions, but we weren’t keeling over. Despite all of those motherly and grandmotherly warnings to come in out of the rain, I was reaffirming that the stuff doesn’t actually kill you. Having been wet in four continents, having worn everything from a cheap plastic ponchos to the latest hi-tech coats, I was finding out afresh what ducks, our ancestors and Christopher Robin have known all along. Splashing about in water can be quite good fun. Of course finding a hut, putting on a set of dry clothes, and imbibing a hot drink help to keep it that way.