On the Wallaby

[A Tasmanian pademelon, aka a rufous wallaby] 

Australia's a big country

An' Freedom's humping bluey,

An' Freedom's on the wallaby

Oh! don't you hear 'er cooey?

Henry Lawson’s 1891 poem, “Freedom on the Wallaby”, made famous an Australian saying that had already been around for half a century. It was the shearers’ strike of the 1890s that made going “on the wallaby” a commonplace. It meant travelling around the bush, carrying only your essential gear (“humping bluey”), looking for work.

It’s a notion that exerts a romantic pull on today’s overwhelmingly urban populace. While the original possibility of starvation might have been forgotten, the rest of the fantasy retains a strong hold on grey nomads and many other Australians. The freedom of the road; the ability to move on to wherever the weather or your fancy leads, has huge appeal.

But what about the actual wallaby from which the saying derives? Is there anything about the smaller relation of the kangaroo that we ought emulate or admire? For starters there’s its wonderfully warm, weather-proof coat. See one fluffed and hunched against the rain or snow of the Tasmanian highlands, and you see a creature perfectly adapted to its surroundings. Add its efficient mode of travel, its ability to find food and shelter almost anywhere, and its in-built load carrying pouch, and there’s much to envy.

[Bennetts wallabies in snow, Walls of Jerusalem National Park] 

Over the last few years our garden and local bush have given me ample opportunity to observe our two local wallaby species: the Bennetts wallaby (Macropus rufogriseus) and the Tasmanian pademelon (Thylogale billardierii). Both are abundant to the extent that we hear their foot-thumping and territorial coughing/growling during the night.

There’s joy enough in sharing our space with such wonderful creatures, but we also gain their services as grass removers. I could say lawnmowers, but that would imply that our bit of grass is lawn-like. They even re-process said grass in a pelletised form of manure. On the debit side we do lose the unprotected foliage of any tasty plants in our garden. They have even developed a taste for bay leaves and lemons. Still, overall we’re happy with the balance sheet between us.

[A tell-tale wallaby scat in the garden] 

Beyond our fence the bush is criss-crossed with wallaby tracks. They intersect with human bush tracks at various points, and reveal an instructive contrast. Where the human tracks tend to be linear, grid-like, the wallaby tracks (also called “pads”) at first appear rather random. But follow the pads for a while and you’ll often find they have a clever efficiency about them.

Where there is water to be found, the pads move neatly across the slope – diagonally where necessary – from shelter or food to the water source. Rarely are the tracks steeply straight up or down the slope. Often they are through, or close to, any sheltering foliage.

[A wallaby pad crosses a slope in our local bush] 

Bushwalking is my preferred form of going “on the wallaby”. My “bluey” is a backpack; my swag a sleeping bag and tent; my “toil” is to struggle up a mountain, around a lake or through a canyon. These places pay me back in a currency that can’t be counted.

In more remote parts of Tasmania I'll confess I've occasionally become confused between human tracks and animal pads, and have found myself literally on the wallaby (tracks). Given the multi-generational nature of animal movements, such animal pads can be a well-worn and efficient means of getting from one place to another. 

But there are a couple of caveats for following pads. Firstly I’ll want to know that the wallaby (or wombat, or whatever) was wanting to go the same way as I am. And secondly I’ll want to be sure I can actually, physically, follow their track. Wombats and pademelons in particular are very good at finding their way beneath and through thick bush. I’ve found to my cost that I’m next-to-useless at doing the same while wearing a large backpack. As Lawson could have told me, it's not always easy being on the wallaby.

Abel Tasman Coast Track 3: Win Some, Lose Some

What a difference sun and warmth make! An afternoon of exposure to sun and a wood heater lifts our spirits and dries our gear. I hope it's doing the same to my camera. We share a pleasant night in Bark Bay Hut with three others, a young Malaysian man and a Spanish couple. In the morning they walk north to Awaroa, while we are going south to The Anchorage.

[Coastal Glimpses, Sandfly Bay: photo Lynne Grant] 

By now we’ve settled into the Abel Tasman pattern. You stay at a seaside hut, walk uphill in the morning, undulate a bit throughout the day, sneak a few views of the ever-varying coastline, pass through forests that change from wet and deep green to dry and straggly, before dropping down to the next coastal hut. None of the days is long.

But variations to the pattern are part of this walk’s charm. Today, towards the end of one of the undulations, we glimpse our destination in the distance. The Anchorage is at the far end of a convoluted embayment that we can only reach by crossing Torrent Bay.

[Above Torrent Bay, with The Anchorage in far left background]

Our first surprise is the settlement around the bay. Private land has been excised from the park, and more than a dozen “baches” are nestled into the forest around the bay. Quite a few are noticeably grander than the traditional weekend bach. There’s an exclusive lodge here too, made all the more desirable no doubt by being accessible only by boat. There are no roads anywhere near this beautifully tranquil bay.

We sticky-beak at a few houses, dream fleeting sea-change dreams, before finding the tidal flat we have to cross. We’ve aimed for low tide, to avoid the long detour we’d otherwise have to take. It’s a small moment of triumph when we see that we’ve almost exactly hit low tide. We hope this might mean we can walk right across dry-booted. This looks possible for the first couple of hundred metres, but then we reach a stream. It’s the Torrent River, one of the “torrents” after which the bay was named. At low tide it is a small sinuous creature winding a slow and shiny path across the flats. It’s only calf deep and a few metres wide, so we take off our boots, don crocs and wade across.

[Wading across Torrent River & tidal flats: photo Lynne Grant]

At the far end we climb over a short bushy isthmus then drop down to the beach that leads to Anchorage Hut. The beach is steeply sloped, golden-sanded, and busy. We’ve heard a few references to “The Anchorage Hilton”, built large because of the popularity of this beautiful bay. Opened just a year ago, it certainly is impressively spacious and comfortable. But it is still a hut, with the usual shared dining and bunk rooms and other typical DoC hut facilities.

[Anchorage Hut, aka the "Anchorage Hilton"]

Solar powered lights are probably the main novelty, unless you count the wryly humorous hut warden. Bill (not his real name) entertains the fifteen or so in the hut with droll Kiwi-style stories, variously tricking the naïve; bating the Aussies (us!); and generally teasing everyone else.

He helps to create a convivial atmosphere, and we’re soon exchanging stories with Danes, Poms, Swedes and Germans; the United Nations of hikers that typically peoples these Great Walks Huts. Happily my camera has started working again, so I snap a group shot before getting into a fun teasing chat with “Bill”.

 [Inside Anchorage Hut]

Australians and New Zealanders have a sibling affection that is strongly tinged with sibling rivalry. We exchange professional stories (I too work for a national park agency) and good-humouredly try to catch each other out. But eventually he pulls out his trump card. In the just completed rugby test New Zealand’s All Blacks have beaten Australia’s Wallabies by 29 to 28. That’s enough to shut me up. Lynne and I slink off to our bunk room, which we’re sharing with Brad. He happens to be the only New Zealander walker we meet on the track. We’re thankful he’s a non-gloating one!