I can’t dwell on this marvel; I’m clinging for dear life as five Alaskan huskies drag me across a frozen Arctic lake on what looks like a body bag strapped to a makeshift billycart on flimsy skis. Everything’s fine on the flat, but we’re approaching a forest, and threading a sled through dense spruce trees is an expert-level activity best left to experienced Arctic adventurers, not myself, on day two of my newfound mushing career. We speed towards the trees, and my anxiety spikes and I recall our lead musher’s golden rule: “Whatever you do, never let go. You’ll be left behind.”

As we whip past branches, I practice my ‘bum-wiggle’ manoeuvre to steer my sled. The craft, loaded with gear, refuses to budge. My dogs turn left, and so does my sled, but there’s a solid-looking trunk between me and them. I wiggle again, pressing my outside foot on the brake. The runners shift, but not enough. At the last second, I throw my weight into a desperate ‘twerk’ that would make Miley Cyrus proud and brush past the tree. I grin, imagining myself as the smoothest dad on the dance floor. My smugness doesn’t last long when I realise I can only twerk to the right, and the next tree demands a ‘lefty’. I do the only thing I’ve been instructed to do when all else fails – I hold on tight. I clip the tree, and then my face hits the snow, but importantly,  I take the sled with me. We slide to a halt, and my panting husky team look back at me with apparent disdain. I suspect their barking translates to, “What is a middle-aged, twerking, Aussie doing in our Swedish Lapland home?” And my canine friends have a point.

Extreme inspiration

In truth, it’s all the fault of a pair of khaki trousers and a global pandemic. During the 2020 lockdown, my adventures were put on hold. Stuck at home, I wrote gear reviews for brands I couldn’t pronounce and gear I couldn’t use outside of my bubble. That’s when I discovered Fjällräven. Established in 1960, the Swedish brand still promotes waxing their apparel with paraffin and beeswax to increase wind and water resistance and durability; my Fjällräven Vidda-Pro trousers (read the review, here) became my go-to for everything. I also accidentally became ‘hip’. I noticed that royals and celebrities were sporting the same Arctic fox logo as my trousers, and Fjällräven Kånken backpacks adorned nearly every hipster south of the North Pole. I wondered if there might be more to the Arctic fox beyond just cool gear.

Fast forward, and I find myself only a stone’s throw (albeit a rather long hurl) north of the Arctic Circle for a taste of the Fjällräven Polar Challenge, a brainchild of Fjällräven’s founder Åke Nordin. Starting as a gruelling dog-sled race in 1997, the Polar Challenge evolved into a blend of social experiment and Arctic expedition. Fjällräven aims to inspire people to enjoy nature by demonstrating that anybody can become an Arctic adventurer with the right knowledge, equipment and support. In 2024, 20 people from over 31,000 applicants were selected for a five-day, 300km dog-sledding expedition across the Scandinavian Arctic. Participants endured brutal minus 30-degree temperatures but were rewarded with the Aurora Borealis dancing above tents at night.

Intrigued by the idea of an apparel brand throwing novices into the Arctic, I eagerly accepted an invitation for a compressed three-day version of the Fjällräven Polar Challenge. 

A new member of the team

I arrive in Kiruna, Sweden’s northernmost city, expecting frostbite, but instead, spring has sprung, and the frigid temperatures have given way to an almost balmy zero degrees Celsius. Thankfully, the waterways are still frozen, and it is with a mix of relief and trepidation that I layer up in thermals and waterproof gear at Fjellborg Kennels, ready to mush a team of excited huskies into the Arctic wilds.

Musher-instructor Melanie Sommerfeldt, a 2019 Polar Challenge participant, shows me the ropes, literally. She explains the essentials: gang lines, tug lines, and the all-important snow hook to prevent eager huskies from taking off without their musher – me.

My five-dog team, bred for endurance, can run 40km/h and cover up to 80km a day. Some wear booties to protect their feet; others have an ointment to keep their pads supple. “A musher must be in tune with the dogs,” Melanie tells me before we launch into our three-day journey. Soon enough, I am face planting snowdrifts and playing pine tree pinball 200km north of the Arctic Circle. It seems that whatever instrument I’m playing, I am out of tune. 

Our first night is spent camping in the snow and eating army rations of dehydrated spaghetti bolognese. Despite the short distance covered throughout the day, it was a good training ground. The weather is milder than expected, and our sleeping bags are warm.

Day two is the real deal, with 50km of mixed trail offering ample opportunity to test my newfound twerking skills. Importantly, I am becoming a real musher. I check my dogs before myself, all before breakfast, and I am beginning to understand my team’s individual personalities. Each morning, they yelp and jump with excitement and given the chance, ‘Cosmos’ will lick me to death.

Amid the cacophony of other sled teams preparing to depart, I struggle to harness my team. But once we hit the trail, all grows quiet.

Close to poetry in motion

My lead dogs, Enya and Edith, are the smallest of my team, but they are intelligent and nimble and confidently lead the gang line. They regularly glance back to check in and ensure I’m still there. My point dog is the ever-loving Cosmos, who loves to cuddle but tends to straddle the gang line, causing no end of grief, whilst my burly wheel dogs are Cooper and Enzo. Coops is strong, and has a great rhythm, but I rename Enzo ‘Sidewinder’ for his slight crabbing stride.

On the move, the dogs settle into a rhythm. I watch over them, occasionally offering encouragement that they seem to appreciate with a quick glance back. They regulate their body temperature by panting and, every so often, scooping up snow with their tongues to rehydrate and cool. Together, my motley sled crew offer immense ‘poodle power’ and happily hauls my kit and my 90kg frame across an Arctic landscape.

Soon, I skirt pine, spruce and willow with the best of them. Throughout my entire journey I only hit the ground once and I swear Enya and Edith’s disdainful look slowly evolves into that of understanding and even acceptance by day’s end.

A long 50km day sees us loop back to Lake Väkkärä for our second night, swapping tents for the warmth of Väkkärä Lodge’s wood-fired sauna and log cabins. The luxury comes with a catch: an invigorating ice plunge in near-freezing lake water. A hole is cut in the solid ice, and expecting the worst, I am pleasantly surprised when the revitalising dip reignites childhood memories of surfing Australia’s south coast in winter with only a leaky wetsuit and second-hand surfboard.

A short time but a lifelong memory

Our final evening sees us feast on high-calorie dinners. For the dogs, it is raw meat, fat and kibble; I settle on sautéed reindeer and freshly caught Arctic char accompanied by potatoes and lingonberries. 

My Norwegian dogsledding counterpart, Anton, sleeps under the stars, hoping for the Northern Lights. I spend an hour on the lake ice, searching the sky, but the Aurora remains elusive. I retreat to the warmth of our cabin to sleep soundly until the barking of dogs wakes me.

Harnessing up for my final day is bittersweet. I marvel at the bond formed between my dogs and myself in only a few short days and feel sad to leave as we are just hitting our stride. Back at the kennels that same afternoon, I say goodbye to my new furry friends, accepting their affectionate licks. There is no doubt we have learned from one another. I taught them that an Aussie always carries board shorts for those unexpected dips, and they taught me to twerk like a pro. I never mastered the ice-skating poo-on-the-move, but maybe that’s a good thing. It’s not quite as appreciated among humans as in the sled dog world.

The post Fast dogs and a frozen land: The Fjällräven Polar Challenge appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Like-minded souls

There’s a cluster of women milling around in the sun at Cowan Train Station, wearing daypacks, hats and sensible footwear. We’re not catching the train to Brooklyn but walking there, crossing the tracks and heading down towards the stunning Jerusalem Bay. 

This Saturday stroll is a trip run by Women Want Adventure (WWA), a Sydney-based company that aims to impact women’s lives by taking them on incredible adventures. Alice is guiding our group of ten – half are solo, with nine WWA first-timers – ranging from 30+ to 60-odd. The initial nerves disperse as we settle into a rhythm of walking and talking, made easier (and possibly more annoying) by my endless questions. The reasons for coming are variations on the same themes: an easy way to get out and explore new areas; fitness; confidence; outdoor mates. 

All the reasons why

This 13-kilometre jaunt answers all of these. The walking is lovely, following Cowan Creek down past sandstone overhangs until Jerusalem Bay appears suddenly, a narrow finger of water contained by sandstone cliffs and steep slopes lined with gum trees, a lone palm tree in the perfect frame. It’s easy, too: we were told where to meet and what to bring, and the rest of the logistics – food, route, car shuttles, companions – was arranged for us. It’s perfect walking for developing both fitness and confidence: there are steep sections up and down ridges and little rock steps, and the last section is on a wide access track. It’s challenging enough for a great day trip, but very doable.

Being in a women-only group feels good: safe and supportive, encouraging rather than competitive. Despite the diversity in age and ability, there isn’t any posturing for position, mansplaining or hierarchy. The day feels tantalisingly like the start of something bigger, for some of the women at least. Because the other thing linking these women is that they’re all yearning to get out more, but missing a piece that makes it makes it feel easy and possible. The reasons are varied: some people have just moved to Sydney and lack a network; others have lost their crew as they navigate motherhood, careers and life; age has made their companions too frail (or cranky!) to walk with. I don’t know whether lasting connections were made that day, but I’m sure it sparked other adventures. (The average WWA walker goes on four trips, with the record being 22!)

A connection that counts

Women Want Adventure is part of the growing market for women-only experiences in the outdoors: female surf schools, sailing trips around the Whitsundays, climbing groups, trekking companies and way more. So, what’s driving this explosion?

For Monique Farmer, starting WWA was a way to connect with others and herself, feel ‘a sense of belonging to community, and then to help other women find that too’. Adventure was always part of her lifestyle – she grew up canoeing to school, was very active in the outdoors, then studied outdoor education at university. After moving to the country, she felt lonely and disconnected. In 2016, she founded WWA and led her first trip.

Farmer uses the word ‘connection’ a lot, because she believes that’s what we’re missing: connection to nature, to ourselves and what we want, to a like-minded community, and to physical challenges. Her company arranges everything from social nights – a fun, non-scary way to get people to jump in – to kayaking trips to WA’s Ningaloo Reef, to ten-day trekking trips in Nepal. Each trip is designed to be comfortable and accessible: the food is good, there’s time for tea, lots of effort is spent ensuring people feel safe and supported. And the goal? To build confidence, empower women with information, insight and self-belief. She wants women to have a lightning bolt moment – ‘I forgot how much I love this’ – so that they take the next step to getting more adventure in their lives.

Lost, then found

Farmer isn’t working alone. In 2018 Nell Gow finally went climbing again, five years after she had her first child. That night at the climbing wall she felt amazing – it was her ‘lightning bolt moment’. Six months later she started Mum’s Gone Climbing (MGC), which has evolved into ‘a community that supports and inspires mothers to find balance in parenthood through climbing, and outdoor adventure’. It’s a varied thing: there are articles and a documentary, a fabulous podcast, and it’s the springboard for meetups around the country, and the world.

Gow has the zeal of someone who’s lost their thing and found it again and wants to help others do the same. (Or better yet, stop them from losing it in the first place.) So, what exactly is it that climbing gives, and why do mums need it? Gow’s answer to the first question can be summarised in a list: community, connection and support; physical fitness; confidence in your body and yourself; a break from the minutia of parenting; permission to prioritise your own needs.

Mums need a like-minded climbing community for the same reason we all need adventure groups, but more specific and concentrated: to gain skills, knowledge and competence; to find companions and support that fit around life (in this case, naps, school, mothering; pregnancy, babies, bored kids), and allow adventure to be part of their life. And, Gow emphasises, for what it teaches our kids: ‘That we still make time for ourselves to do the things that fill our cup. It’s teaching them the importance of these outdoor spaces, and how wonderful they are for our mental health and wellbeing.’

It’s a girl thing, and an inspirational one at that

You will find it’s not just on the tracks, cliffs, waves and mountains where women are becoming more visible, but also on our screens. In 2016, after years producing the iconic Banff Mountain Film Festival, Jemima Robinson decided there were enough women adventurers – and filmmakers – to launch the Gutsy Girls Adventure Film Tour. As well as entertainment, the tour’s main aim is to build a community of supportive adventurous women, to bridge the gap between the people in the audience and those in the films. The 2023 program showcased everything from hard-climbing young Australian Angie Scarth-Johnson to a horde of nude skiers, and ultrarunner Erika Lori doing the fastest known time on WA’s 1000km Bibbulmun Track. As Robinson says, ‘the films normalise and showcase a woman’s experience, women’s bodies, and the female experience of being outdoors’.

According to Robinson, the biggest barrier preventing women getting into the outdoors is taking that first step. The explosion in female-centred experiences, and communities, films and organisations, is making it easier for women to gain companions and confidence, inspiration and skills so they don’t miss out on the joy, connections and perspective that outdoor adventures bring.

The post Girl power: why more women than ever are seeking adventure appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Upper Shoalhaven River Gorge, NSW

The little historic village of Kangaroo Valley, two hours south of Sydney, is a stunning travel destination in its own right but it also serves as the gateway to arguably the most scenic flatwater paddling destination in the state: The Upper Shoalhaven River Gorge.

The mighty Shoalhaven River flows 327kms from the Great Dividing Range, east of Cooma, dropping 865m to the ocean at Shoalhaven Heads. Toward the end of the river’s journey, its waters are impounded by Tallowa Dam just below its confluence point with the Kangaroo River. The resulting backwater is called Lake Yarrunga, which provides over 50kms of flatwater paddling with myriad campsite options along its shores. The Upper Shoalhaven River Gorge is in the western-most part of the lake.

After a few hundred metres the dam is no longer visible, and the true beauty of the Shoalhaven Gorge lies before you. Multiple layers of towering sandstone cliffs sit atop impossibly steep hillsides leaving you feeling very small and insignificant compared to the landforms standing 600 metres above. The vegetation changes in each little gully revealing pockets of temperate rainforest species that thrive in the watercourses. Every slight bend in the river reveals a new cliff face to admire and, in periods following good rainfall, countless waterfalls streaming from the hillsides.

Wildlife abounds: Water dragons, goannas and superb lyrebirds are commonly seen, azure kingfishers regularly dart along the bank, and both wedge-tailed eagles and white-bellied sea eagles are almost a guaranteed sight as you glide along the waterway. More recently, dingoes have been spotted in the upper reaches of this waterway and koalas have been heard grunting at sundown. Laying on the floor of your canoe at night-time as you gaze up at the stars might be the most serene paddling experience you’ll ever have.

A night or two away on a canoeing trip in the Upper Shoalhaven River Gorge will leave you feeling awe-struck, probably exhausted, but totally refreshed and re-centred. The famous “Father of National Parks”, John Muir, said: “The rivers flow not past but through us.” This trip will remain etched into your memory the same way the river has etched its path through the sandstone.

Best time: All year round.

Guided option: Valley Outdoors and Kangaroo Valley Adventure Company both offer guided journeys on the river, as well as other outdoor adventures in the Kangaroo Valley/Shoalhaven River area.

The Franklin River, TAS

The “world’s best river trip” according to esteemed US publication, Outside, and you will get little argument from AGA after Editor Justin Walker journeyed down the river in early 2013 – he hasn’t shut up about it since. Picture this: Nine days on one of the world’s most exciting rafting rivers; beautiful and pristine terrain surrounding you every day; sublime campsites that tempt you to stay forever; and some of the wildest, fun rapids you will encounter. 

The Franklin River can be paddled independently, either by raft or kayak. If you opt for the kayak, you must be a highly experienced paddler. Smart people opt for a guided rafting trip (see below), where they can take advantage of experienced guides and rafts packed full of all the gear – and food – you will need.

For the paddling fanatic, the Franklin just offers so much. It is a real journey, both in terms of how both the landscape and the river change character along the way, moving from benign flatwater sections to incredibly powerful rapids. It is here that the river reminds paddlers, through its sheer power, just how untamed nature still is, even in this sanitised modern world. 

From the benign start point on the Collingwood River, through to the savagery that is the unraftable Class VI Churn rapids, the Franklin never disappoints. The campsites are remarkably different – some nights you are sheltering under an eons-old rock overhang, on others you rely on just a tarp, dossed down beside your fellow rafters – but each one is right next to the river and allow you to listen to the sound of the river as it moves inexorably on. It’s the ultimate lullaby. 

The Franklin requires decent fitness, with at least a modicum of paddling experience. Besides the fantastic rapids-running, you will also get the chance to explore some canyons along the way and visit the magical Lost World. 

Best time: Summer is the best for this Apple Isle epic.

Guided option: World Expeditions offers a guided nine-day Franklin River rafting trip.

Nitmiluk Gorge, NT

Paddling through Nitmiluk National Park’s pristine gorge system is a fantastic one- or multi-day Top End canoeing experience in the Dry Season (May-September). This water-borne journey can comprise a single day or a couple of nights camping further into the gorge system (you can bring your own canoe or hire one). There are many highlights, including towering gorge walls, swimming at one of the gorges’ pretty beaches, and the chance to spot some of the area’s native wildlife, including turtles, water monitors and the shy freshwater crocodiles (don’t approach a ‘freshy’; observe from a distance if you spot one). Park rangers survey the gorge system for saltwater crocodiles that have made their way into the gorges during the Wet Season and remove them before the gorges are opened to the public.

Canoeing is permitted from the second gorge onwards. The paddling is not too strenuous – it will only be the short portages (carrying your canoe between gorges) that require effort. If you get too hot or tired, pull in at one of the many sandy beaches and take a dip in the refreshing water. NT Parks recommends the fifth gorge as the limit if you’re up for a day-paddle, but you can paddle further and camp at the fourth, sixth or ninth gorge (with the appropriate permit).

Day paddle highlights include Butterfly Gorge in the second gorge, with its short walk, and the nearby hanging gardens. The third gorge includes pretty Lily Ponds, a short walk to a swimming hole below a waterfall (usually still running in June). See www.nt.gov.au/parks/find-a-park/nitmiluk-national-park for more info on the park, canoe hire and camping permits.

Best time: April-September

Guided option: Nitmiluk Tours offers self-guided one- and two-day canoe adventures.

Snowy River, NSW/VIC

An iconic paddle adventure, the Snowy is a brilliant – and challenging – canoe trip. Most paddlers put in below McKillops Bridge, in the northern section of Snowy River National Park, around an hour south-east of Jindabyne. Here, it is worth pausing to contemplate just how powerful the Snowy can be; it has reached the base of this towering bridge a few times when in flood. For canoeists, the McKillops to Buchan River confluence is one of the more popular, but we’d recommend (if you have the time) following the Snowy all the way to the ocean at Marlo, in Victoria. 

A true epic, this trip will see you encounter the full gamut of paddling conditions: the Snowy shifts from calm flat water to Class II, III and IV rapids throughout its length. The reward for these challenges is the chance to camp right beside the river each night, in one of Australia’s most pristine wilderness areas. Little River Gorge (Victoria’s deepest), the scarily powerful Tulloch Ard Gorge (where you will need to portage the gnarly rapids) and Campbells Knob are just a few standouts on this journey. 

For those with less time, there’s a brilliant, guided option, through the Byadbo Wilderness, which is one of the river’s most remote sections. Travelling with Alpine River Adventures, you not only get to experience 70km of this amazing river, but learn about the area’s Indigenous heritage, all while spotting plenty of wildlife, such as platypus, sea eagles, and echidna. Oh, and the campsites – beside the Snowy’s sandy banks – mean an end-of-day swim is an absolute must. No matter which way you paddle it, for canoeists and kayakers, the Snowy is near the top of the list when it comes to must-paddle rivers.

Best time: All year for canoe/kayak (but can be dependent on water-flow levels); Winter and spring for rafting.

Guided option: Alpine River Adventures offers the excellent six-day Byadbo Wilderness adventure. If we could only paddle one part of the Snowy, this would be it.

North Johnstone River, QLD

Remote, steep, and technical, with consistent Class IV-V rapids – all bearing names such as Mordor, Mineshaft and Misjudgement, that hint at the challenges – over four to six days, deep in a canyon, surrounded by dense World Heritage-listed rainforest. Yep, this foaming behemoth, beginning high up in Palmerston National Park – and with your put-in point only accessible via helicopter – is the river-runner’s Everest. 

It is easy to see how the ‘NJ’ consistently rates as one of the world’s top 10 rafting trips. The landscape is rugged to the extreme; the river’s powerful flow cuts through incredibly dense rainforest, with dark cliffs looming over hardy paddlers. On top of the paddling challenge itself, there’s the potential to spot everything from indigenous burial sites and 50m waterfalls, to bird spiders and, yep, saltwater crocs. 

AGA contributor, Matt Newton, has kayaked (in accompaniment with rafts) the North Johnstone and reckons there isn’t much that compares on the adrenalin scale, with multiple rapids each day needing careful scouting before being attempted (or portaged), along with having to keep an eye out for salties – especially if in the perhaps more croc-palatable kayak…

As well as the incredible physical challenge, the river offers the chance to step back in time, with the ancient landscape surrounding the river relatively unspoiled (some of the trees near the river are estimated to be more than 3000 years old), and the campsites are perfectly located to soak it all up after a hard day on the water. 

The North Johnstone’s remoteness also means there are hardly any other craft on the river at one time; if you’re lucky, you may well have the mighty NJ to yourself. It’ll be a lifelong memory, for sure.

Best time: April-June (rainfall dependent). 

Guided options: Currently, there are no guided trips down the North Johnstone River.

The post Go with the flow: Five of Australia’s best river journeys appeared first on Australian Geographic.

This proud First Nations man, with heritage from Wonnarua Gamilaroi living on Dharawal country, is also one of the stars of the inaugural season of the popular SBS series, Alone Australia, available to view now on SBS On Demand.

Duane was one of 10 participants in Alone Australia season one, an unscripted reality TV show which transported bush-survival experts to a remote part of Tasmania and left them there, in separate locations, to fend for themselves. They were allowed to take 10 items of their own choosing with them, and they only had their camera gear for company. 

The incentive to take on this brutal challenge in a bitterly cold climate and having to source your own food, water, and shelter? A $250,000 cash prize for the person who stays ‘Alone’ for the longest time. 

That’s a tough ask for anyone, but early in the 11-part series, Duane established himself as a participant to watch: he set up an impressive camp and seemed to be well in control, but he was also candid in his on-the-spot descriptions of just how mentally and emotionally difficult the entire survival experiment was – something we armchair experts fail to understand.

Spoiler alert: What’s even more revealing about the character of the man is the classy way in which he chooses to end his time on the show – after 10 days alone in the wilderness.

Duane handled his exit from the show with dignity – citing his need to be with his family and to experience social interaction – and he departed the experiment having gained the respect of an enthralled nation. Duane kindly took time out of his hectic schedule to answer some of Australian Geographic Adventure’s questions.

Tell our readers a bit about yourself.
I like to think I’m a common kind of guy in this community. I’m a proud father of two who enjoys a wide variety of sports and is passionate about the environment, particularly native bushland restoration and Invasive species management. I would say this passion is also driven from my Indigenous descent where I feel we as humans are not separate from the environment, instead we are a part of it and it’s our responsibility to look after her. I’ve previously played for several soccer clubs across the region, but it’s only been over the last four years where I have more involvement with communities. 

I’m currently one of the Under-7s coaches for Thirroul Butchers (Illawarra), I play a role in the organisation for the Appin Massacre Memorial service each year and in my current leadership role with WaterNSW I engage with Local Aboriginal Land Councils and other agencies across a variety of spaces including cultural heritage, bushfire management and biosecurity.

How was your time on the first season of Alone Australia?
It’s a hard one to explain but it truly was a special time in that I think I will draw upon certain aspects from it for the rest of my life. In short, I felt physically fine in my capabilities to keep going, even if that meant eating fish raw (it was so tasty!). I knew the kind of driven people I was up against and there’s only one winner, right? Mentally, I felt like I didn’t have it in me to try and go the distance of what it would take to win, regardless of money. So instead, I created good memories and left when I wanted to.

What was the most difficult aspect of your time on Alone Australia?
To be really honest, I love a competition and am fairly driven myself so I would say I went into the show quiet egocentric so when I started to break down mentally it was challenging for me to accept that I simply just couldn’t go on and that life-changing prize wasn’t mine. It made me appreciate so much more about life and my Aboriginal heritage but to give you the most difficult aspect was solely the mental state that loneliness gives you. I was simply craving to be with someone, anyone! To share the experience with, physical presence, talking, learning, love, just all-round humanity is what I think I undervalued a little before I went into that experience but appreciate so so much more coming out of the show, so what was my most difficult aspect was actually my most life changing so I just love that!

Do you go out bush with your family?
We do so much but we don’t always plan our adventures, they can be so spontaneous which is so cool. We can be driving somewhere and my wife can be observing a map and picking out possible places to go and visit so we will just make it work and get there, even if that means us being a little under prepared and with next to no essential items, kind of like Alone now I think of it – ha-ha. There’s so many beautiful places to visit across this country of ours but standouts would be the Blue Mountains, Tasmania/lutruwita, mid north coast, NSW but truly you can find something special about every place you visit.

What vehicle are you driving on your family’s outdoor adventures these days?
I’m currently driving a 2017 long-wheelbase (LWB) Renault Master. It’s kitted out for all we need to get away in. It’s not 4×4, but it still goes pretty good on the dirt roads here and there. I chose this vehicle for a few reasons.

We wanted more space than what we previously owned which was a Mazda BT-50 ute*; we didn’t want to tow our caravan around with us and we also still wanted to use our little tinnie, so the ‘van-life’ seemed like the way to go and, so far, no regrets at all. It’s so functional and spacious. (*At time of writing Duane had owned the 2012 3.2-litre turbo-diesel Mazda BT-50 you see in the accompanying image for seven years. The ute had been a show car for a Penrith 4WD shop so it was already fitted with a bullbar, snorkel and rock sliders when he bought it but Duane added a vinyl wrap, the rear canopy (with fridge and cooktop), as well as a rooftop boat and slide bar. In it, he’d travelled to the Snowy Mountains, the far south coast, Dubbo, the back of the Blue Mountains, and “the mid north coast which we love”.)

Duane’s top three tips for family adventures

1. Just go. Look for a spot on a map or on social media or word of mouth from a friend. The old saying: you never know, if you never go. And when you do go, take a minute or two to stop and soak in where you are. We have such a privilege living in this sacred, ancient landscape of ours. Appreciate it and look after it like many people have long, long before us. Do that and you’ll have the best adventures ever. 

2. This might sound a little too cautious but remember we do actually have some dangerous fauna, slippery rocks, large trees with limbs can snap, that we live along with. If there’s signs, obey them and get a lesson with the kiddies on how to treat a snake bite. After all, it might just save your lives so you can keep on adventuring. 

3. Pack light but pack smart. You don’t need every piece of clothing from yours or the kids’ cupboard, you’ll find yourself wearing the same items a fair bit, so just wash and rotate them. Instead, use the space to pack items that are more useful like decent raincoats, one toasty jacket that you know is very warm, and pack things like sunscreen, insect repellents if you choose to use them and a GPS if you really want to go off the beaten track. They are great at logging where you have started and to trace your tracks for if you ever do get lost – just backtrack along the route you started.

Three Indigenous bush-survival skills everyone should know

1. Get to know a few common plants that you would find in each vegetation community across the country. Understand their uses but make sure you can correctly identify them before you eat them and only harvest what you need, make sure not to harm the plant. 

2.  Avid fishermen and -women would understand this; us mob call it reading water country. Different species of fish live in different parts of a body of water and in different water columns, they even become more active to eat at different barometric pressures. Learn to understand this and you will have more success at fishing.  

3. This is not so much a survival tip for the way the majority of us live today, but it’s something I like to do when I do go bush and that’s to go slow, see and hear more. Don’t rush to get to the end of a track where a pretty waterfall might be, take it easy, walk slower and get yourself and the kids to listen. If you look and listen deeply enough, you will see more. 

The post Alone Australia’s Duane Byrnes talks adventure and environment appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Dressed in a khaki uniform and bearing a striking resemblance to Smokey Bear, Maggie was the epitome of the US National Parks Service. A strong woman used to dealing with fools. It was obvious that Maggie spent much of her time driving around the park enforcing the myriad rules. She made it clear that she was a woman just as happy to sleep out under the stars as she was to taser anyone who stepped “outta line”.

“Folks aren’t scared of my gun because they think I won’t shoot. But they know I will happily taser ’em,” she warned.

We had met Maggie the day before. We were rigging our rafts in the specially designated area for private groups that were due to launch the following day. She informed us that our permit would be revoked if we didn’t remove our two plastic Pelican cases and a cap from a bench that was for reserved for “day visitors only”.

She was also polite enough, though, to inform us that if our buoyancy vests were not “US Coast Guard Approved” we would not be getting on the river. She then enquired about a host of paperwork that we did not have. It had not started well with Maggie.

Finally, the answer: “Do not ADVANCE TOWARDS the condor, do not FEED the condor, do not ENGAGE WITH the condor, in ANY WAY!”

A canyon grand in every way

The Grand Canyon is 446km long and sinks to a depth of 1600m. A trip through it along the Colorado River is one of the world’s great river trips. Commercial tours run from April to October. There is a weighted, lottery system for private permits and one private trip leaves each day.

We chose to do our trip in autumn so there would be no motorised, commercial trips on the river with us and, being slightly out of prime season, our odds in the lottery would be higher.

Organising a 21-day river trip is a bit like organising a wedding in another country, and then kicking on for the honeymoon, for another three weeks with 14 of your mates. Thankfully, there are many outfitting companies that are set up to sort out all the issues and supply everything you need. Yes, everything.

Our outfitters supplied all the rafts and associated gear, and all food and cooking equipment. The menu alone stretched to over one hundred pages. The company picked us up at our hotel and drove us, and all our gear, to the river in a semi-trailer. Best of all, they provided a concierge service to help us navigate through the ocean of questions from Ranger Maggie.

Against the seemingly impossible khaki-clad odds we made it onto the river, leaving Lees Ferry only a few hours late and drifting quietly but excitedly towards three weeks of adventure. Within the first hour we floated into the immense canyon. What we didn’t know was that we would not emerge again until only a short time before the end of our trip. Our world was to be dominated by vertical walls and slot canyons for the next 21 days.

Everything about the Grand Canyon is big to a point of being almost overwhelming. The canyon walls change colour as you progress down the river, as the water cuts through an array of geology. The guidebook to the river has 50 pages of maps showing all the features and campsites ahead and you can even download a PDF that shows sunrise and sunset times for every campsite for every day of the year.

It’s mind-boggling trying to come to grips with all this information and how much awaits further downstream. Thankfully, our outfitters supplied us with deckchairs and snacks each evening, which we washed down with a variety of adult beverages whilst sitting on the sandy beaches, coming to grips with everything.

The campsites on the river are something to behold; all but one on our trip was a sandy beach. Many are located near some type of off-river feature, whether it be a slot canyon or ruins from the Anasazi people. There are usually trails leading out of the campsites and up onto the cactus-covered terraces allowing sweeping views and endless opportunities for photography.

Paddling the Grand Canyon rapids

Our flotilla consisted of four oar boats – the river equivalent of a large 4WD – a paddleboat – let’s just call it a Suzuki Swift – and five kayaks. No one on the trip had rowed an oar boat before. They were large and heavy. Each one had and Esky large enough to hide a body in and a couple of 9kg gas bottles to power our stoves, along with food and personal gear. We estimated each weighed around a tonne.

It turned out that driving an oar boat down a large rapid was not unlike driving a 4WD. The technique was to line up at the top of the rapid, keep the boat straight and plough through anything that got in the way. The paddleboat however was a completely different story. Paddleboats are rarely used on the canyon and the little Suzuki was not quite up to the task. It was dwarfed by many of the rapids and was often on the verge of flipping.

The Grand Canyon is known for its large volume – but not overly technical – rapids. In short, the lines down the rapids are not difficult, but if you do make a mistake you will most likely end up in a house-sized hole that will eat you and your raft alive. It will then spit you out looking something like a re-use shop. You, your friends and all your worldly belonging then usually face a long swim in the fast, freezing water.

It is the temperature of the water that is the biggest risk and the cause of many of the deaths on the river. The water is released from the bottom of Glen Canyon Dam and averages a temperature of around 5 degrees year round. The shock of falling into water this cold, and the fast onset of hypothermia, is a real danger.

The idea of blowing my dry-suit up so I resembled a Michelin Man had never really occurred to me but, when my friend and guide of our paddle boat, Marcus, suggested it, it seemed perfectly reasonable. I pulled on the rubber gasket around my neck and blew down into my suit until I was red in the race and my arms and legs were swollen to absurd proportions.

There was no question in our minds what was about to happen. The Suzuki Swift was going to be eaten alive. We were at the top of the famed Lava Falls rapid – the river’s largest rapid – and we were about to get a pasting in our little boat. The decision to paddle the rapid was based solely on the idea that 20 seconds of sheer terror was better than one hour lugging the raft along a portage track.

Lava Falls had surprised us, as it was considerably larger than all the other rapids on the river and at the current river level, there was no obvious or easy line through it. It was a messy rapid of large, exploding waves and even larger holes. If you google “Lava Falls” you can spend quite a while on Youtube watching the many hapless fools who have ended up in the “white room” halfway down. We were about to join those ranks. So certain of our fate, we had determined that only two people should be in the raft – fewer people to rescue.

I had almost doubled in size by inflating my dry suit, but I was feeling smaller than ever as we headed out into the main current. We had a plan: paddle hard into the first large wave, crash through it and repeat, until the inevitable, then swim for our lives. We went up the face of the wave looking something like the fishing boat in The Perfect Storm. We were in a great position and we hit the exploding top of the wave with all we had. In a nanosecond it became crystal clear that all we had was nowhere near enough. Our little raft was thrown sideways through the air about four meters. In heroic fashion I fell backwards into the middle of the raft. I may have squealed.

We still had around 100m of rapids to go. Marcus yelled at me; I yelled back. It seems men like yelling when they think the worst is coming. For the next 20 seconds our raft pulled more moves than an aerial ski jumper. We yelled and yelled, but somehow, against the odds, stayed upright. One of the truly great things about big whitewater is that no one can hear you screaming, and acts of mediocrity and sheer stupidity can sometimes be confused with skill and bravery.

Life on the Colorado River

Three weeks allows plenty of time to get into the rhythm of river life. It’s a simple life, and after the first few days, the anxiety and trepidation flows away. The days are spent floating along in awe of the surroundings. The afternoons are set aside for exploring the side canyons and Native American ruins. The canyon is a place where you often feel small, really small, but in a good way.

Trips down the canyon vary greatly. In summer, the temperatures soar and the river level rises and falls as the water is used to power the air conditioners of Las Vegas. In winter, it’s a battle to find sun, which only reaches the canyon floor for a short time each day.

Despite the volume of people who raft the river each year (approximately 30,000) it is impressively clean and, I guess, we have Maggie and the US Parks Service to thank for that. Sometimes all those rules have a purpose. I would, however, love to rub a condor’s tummy, just once.

The essentials

Getting there: Trips on the Grand Canyon leave from two places: Flagstaff, Arizona and Las Vegas, Nevada. Flagstaff is a great mountain town with lots of other outdoor activities nearby. Vegas has casinos.

Access: National Park Service

Gear hire: We used Canyon REO. The service was exceptional and very reasonably priced. 

Guide book: The RiverMaps Guide to the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon is a must-have guidebook. It’s durable and waterproof with USGS topo maps and excellent descriptions of river features.

Time out: The number of activities and destinations within a few hours drive of Flagstaff are amazing. The mountain biking at Sedona is especially good.

The post Big water, fun times: 21 days on the Colorado River appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Thorsborne Trail, QLD

Thorsborne Trail on Hinchinbrook Island is one of Australia’s great multi-day walks, providing walkers with a real wilderness experience. Only 40 people are permitted on the track at a time so you can enjoy the solitude of a relatively untouched landscape. There are few traces of human interference here. Apart from track markers, fixed to trees at eye height in the scrubland and rainforest sections, there is very little signage. Walkers must camp and be entirely self-sufficient.

Hinchinbrook Island, 53km long and 10km wide, located about 6km off the northern Queensland coast, is part of the Great Barrier Reef World Heritage Area. Water is a defining feature of the landscape on the island – its rugged 400sq.km landmass has been shaped by the seasonal rains and tidal swells of the Wet Tropics. An intricate network of creeks and waterways threads across the island; swollen with monsoon rainwater during the humid summer months, they give birth to falls that thunder through the island’s rock country. During winter the waterways gradually drain and evaporate, leaving many creeks dry. 

The Thorsborne stretches 32km along the eastern coast of the island, from Ramsay Bay in the north to George Point on the south-eastern tip and can be walked in either direction. The trail passes through incredibly diverse landscapes, traversing mangrove swamps, sweeping beaches and rocky headlands on the Coral Sea, heath-covered mountains, melaleuca and palm wetlands, eucalypt and casuarina woodlands, and lush, tropical rainforests. Although daily distances are short, it’s a challenging walk thanks to the humidity, the need to carry your own gear and water, tidal creek crossings and the danger of saltwater crocodiles and marine stingers. Nevertheless, the island’s wild and pristine beauty is hard to resist, and you’ll soon see why people come from all over the world for the Thorsborne. Camping permits must be obtained from QPWS. Plan well ahead as this is a popular walk.

kunanyi/Mt Wellington Circuit, TAS

The imposing bluff of kunanyi/Mt Wellington(1271m) looms above Hobart, often with its tip dusted with snow or swirling with mist. In fine weather this walk promises you breathtaking views of Hobart and its environs. You will pass through some beautiful vegetation communities and have the chance to see Mt Wellington’s dolerite cap, with its natural rock sculptures, up close. Combining several existing tracks, this walk begins at the Springs car park and takes the Pinnacle Track to start with. Panoramic views of Hobart begin to open up as you ascend to a junction with the Zig Zag track, marking the start of a stiff climb up to the summit. This steep and rocky path is protected by guideposts and chains, with fine stone walls and steps close to the top. In November and December, you will see the red Tasmanian waratah flowering in profusion. You will also see alpine plants, such as pineapple grass growing along the track. The snow gums become sparser and shorter as you approach the tree line. Soon you’ll catch your first sight of the Organ Pipes and the summit ahead, where you’re likely to be blasted with chilly winds while you admire the views of Hobart, the Derwent River and southern Tasmania. 

The route descends via the less defined South Wellington track leading across alpine heathland that is strewn with well-weathered dolerite tors and boulders of truly sculptural quality. The mountain’s numerous springs have always provided abundant, clear drinking water, and even ice in the days before home refrigeration, as evidenced by the 19th-century huts on the Ice House Track, before returning to your start point. Weather on Mt Wellington can change rapidly; make sure you are prepared for all conditions.

Wonderland Loop, VIC

Grampians National Park, almost 300km west of Melbourne, is one of Victoria’s most beautiful parks. Its grey bluffs rise steeply above the western plains like a breaking wave and within its vast 1680sq.km, the Grampians’ sandstone landscape is home to more than 900 native plants and varied ecosystems. 

The Wonderland Loop is found right in the centre of the park, starting from the small township of Halls Gap. True to its name, this walk is a wonderland of waterfalls, canyons, creeks, and forests, with panoramic views along the way. 

The track takes in the Grand Canyon, the Pinnacle, and the Silent Staircase, among the best known and most popular features of the Wonderland Range. Most people walk this one anti-clockwise because it ends with a 400m descent along the ridge but there are distracting views and plenty of benches if you want to go clockwise and save the breathtaking Grand Canyon until last. You can pick up a detailed map at Brambuk, the park visitor centre, near Halls Gap. Dress in layers as there can be a cold wind up on the ridges. 

For the full story – and loads more outdoor inspiration – grab your copy of Issue 11 of Australian Geographic ADVENTURE, on sale now!

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Seconds up

At 5199m, Mt Kenya is Africa’s second-highest mountain and, unusually, is comprised of many separate peaks, rather than a single summit. This is the result of the erosion of Mt Kenya’s original ice cap during two glacial periods. For scientists, its past is of great interest; for today’s adventurers, it represents a goldmine of opportunity. Trekkers can tackle Point Lenana via eight different routes, but the Chogoria, says our guide Eddie, allows for the best chance of acclimatisation and summit success. Climbers can attempt any number of the other peaks – the true summit of Batian (5199m) is their main goal. The various peaks comprise a plethora of vertical tests, from day scrambles to ice climbing.

For our group – a mix of Australians, Kiwis, two Canadians and a Californian – the trekkers’ peak of Point Lenana is the goal. This Mt Kenya climb promises varying scenery and excitement, which we get from the very start. From the village of Chogoria to the trek’s start-point, we are treated to one of the wildest four-wheel drive journeys I have ever undertaken (in my past life, I was a 4WD magazine editor). The two Land Rovers we’re in are pushing 50 years of age, smell like they may still be running their original clutches and – as we bounce up as much as move forward – I can confirm are still on their original suspension. When we’re not bouncing up and down, we are leaning precariously to one side or the other as the Landies scrabble their way up a muddy, deeply rutted track surrounded by dense forest while the (admirably skilled) drivers swap gears furiously to maintain forward momentum. It’s an absolute hoot and when we climb out my large exhalation of breath is more because of a slight sadness that the mini adventure is finished than relief at being in one piece. Well, mostly…

A whole new world

There’s always a settling-in period on a multi-day trek – the first day is usually pretty cruisey and you have the chance to get to know your fellow trekkers and tent mates (I am shacked up with a fellow Aussie, Marcus, in a generous three-man tent) before the invariable grunt-fest starts in the following days. Mt Kenya proves no different – we follow a vehicle track up most of today, through a mix of forest and open fields. We are on our way to what will be our first – and only – taste of semi-luxurious digs: cottages just inside the Chogoria gate entrance to Mt Kenya National Park. The cottage site has great views of the distant summits and also provides some entertainment early the next morning when we watch a couple of monkeys search for – and steal – some food.

One of this trek’s big attractions is the varying terrain and this morning provides our first taste of it as Eddie leads us through forest, then higher and out into the vast, open grasslands en route to our next camp at Lake Ellis. The track is quite wide – and it is bloody hot – but the walking is great, and we soon forget the heat. It is also along this section that we first witness our porters’ impressive qualities: large dining tables, massive kitchen/dining tents, chairs and a couple of eskies are just some of the gear the porters carry using basic rope-harness systems – all at a pace appreciably faster than us with our daypacks.

The gradually increasing altitude slows us up somewhat but Eddie has our acclimatisation well controlled – we are ascending about 500m each day – with quick jaunts fractionally higher before dropping down to our camp sites. Today, we undertake a quick ascent of Mugi Hill (at 3600m) for lunch, before descending 100m to Lake Ellis. Atop Mugi Hill we first appreciate the national park’s vastness, and that of Mt Kenya itself. Peaks surround us, including the main three that are our ultimate goal. From our high vantage point, we watch as a large herd of zebra cruises around below, oblivious to us. The vastness of the landscape and its four-legged inhabitants’ ignorance of us are a great reality check, reminding us of our small place in this huge world.

During the final hour to Lake Ellis we leave the main track and follow a narrow track through grasslands, crossing small creeks along the way. (The valleys below the high peaks are full of creeks and rivers, created by the glacial- and snowmelt, providing the farms far below with regular irrigation.)

Lake Ellis is impressive – as is our already set-up camp site. The porters are kicking back as if they’ve been here for hours and we’re lucky enough to have it all to ourselves. Over-indulged? Maybe, but we make the most of it, gathering around our dinner table for pre-dinner aperitifs and taking the chance to put our feet up and rehydrate before a massive dinner and a quick yarn with Eddie about the next day’s trekking.

A gorge-ous surprise

We strike high moorlands the following morning, continuing our steady climb –and continuing to be accompanied by the sun. We’re on our way to a high ridge that joins the main Chogoria route, and the terrain is getting progressively rugged – rocky escarpments are visible on the horizon – and the vegetation is also changing, with giant rosetta plants (Dendrosenecio keniodendron) now prevalent among the flowering lobelias. The size and shape of these rosetta plants, when seen silhouetted against the craggy mountains, suit the landscape’s prehistoric appearance. We are now in the mighty Gorges Valley.

Our biggest surprise comes when we top out on a ridge (at about 4000m) close to our camp at Lake Michaelson. The craggy spires above dwarf us, but even more amazing is the massive view below and all around us in the Gorges Valley – it seems to go on forever and is spectacular, with Vivienne Falls in the distance and our camp site below. The camp site is beautiful, nestled against the bottom of the immense cliffs we’re about to descend, with the expanse of Lake Michaelson beside it. As we descend a narrow, muddy track to the camp, I’m distracted by the sublime scene below and struggle to concentrate on where my feet are going. The lake is big, but dwarfed by the rock amphitheatre that surrounds all but its far shore. I have camped in some epic locations, but this one ranks very high, even more so when we realise it is all ours. We share this unique location only with birds and hyrax – small, furry (and fat) mammals that look like a large rat but are, amazingly, more closely related to elephants.

The mood at camp is tinged with nervous energy – we are only one more camp away from our summit attempt on Point Lenana – as well as amazement at this beautifully unexpected change in terrain. Looking back at our first day, and the trail up to the cottages through rolling forest and hills, this massive cliff-surrounded location really does seem a world away. A small track winding back up the cliffs behind us is a teaser for the big ascent ahead but, thankfully, none of us have – so far – copped any altitude sickness symptoms, thanks to Eddie’s steady pacesetting up front. It would be easy to race off but none of us wants to jeopardise our chances of standing atop Lenana in two days’ time.

All time high

The scramble past rushing waterfalls to the ridge above Lake Michaelson is a great reminder of just how high up we are. Even only slightly rushing steps reward me with a shortage of breath. Breath that is further taken away when we reach the top of this muddy track and witness the grandeur of the path ahead. With the many surrounding peaks (each one a climber’s dream with their spire-like appearance) and more barren terrain underfoot, we have truly entered the alpine zone. I am trying to get a glimpse of the ever-shrinking glaciers still found on Mt Kenya when I nearly trip over leopard scat – full of hyrax fur – smack-bang in the middle of the track. Suddenly those rocks and caves above us take on a more menacing appearance…

In alpine terrain, things often look a hell of a lot closer than they are and this definitely proves the case as we start the slog up to Simba Tarn, our high camp; only the teasing – but fast disappearing – views of the porter-borne esky and dinner table offer any indication of just how much further we have. Taking the last step over the edge and onto the flat basin of Simba Tarn camp site is a relief, accompanied by a sense of achievement as I look back down the valley. Lakes, knife-edge ridges and jagged peaks are below us, with only a small cliff surrounding our camp site – and some large boulders on the far side – hinting at what is above.

The weather so far has been fantastic, with loads of sun each day and zero precipitation. This is all turned on its head within a couple of hours of our arrival, however, when a hail and sleet storm batters camp. It is hard to believe my eyes as the clouds gather quickly above us, then the storm punches down. The bare, rocky camp is soon covered in a white blanket and the temperature drops sharply, causing a mad scramble for extra layers. It doesn’t bode well for our 4am start to the summit the next morning, but Eddie is unfazed, promising a clear day with a sunrise summit.

Alpine starts are never fun: getting up way too early, fumbling around under head-torchlight getting dressed, unpacking and repacking the backpack you know you loaded properly the night before, and actually taking that first cold step outside your warm tent. As with many uncomfortable endeavours, though, the result is worth the discomfort, and the trek up to Point Lenana proves this theory yet again. It takes us about two hours, and we arrive just in time for the pre-dawn light to help us find our way for the final scramble to the top. To say the view is spectacular is a serious understatement: the impressive Batian stands what seems like only an arms-length away, with the rising sun slowly lighting it up, forcing your mind to trace imaginary climbing routes up its flanks. Across the flat African landscape below, Mt Kilimanjaro’s distinctive curved shape can be seen on the far horizon, more than 300km away. And the Gorges Valley’s myriad spires, lakes and mountains fan out below us. The 360-degree view is immeasurable in its majesty – I snap what seems like a hundred photos but know that no image will do the vista justice.

The return

The descent is fast. The sun soon bathes the mountain in bright light, and we take this as our cue to head back down to high camp, at last able to see properly the track we ascended hours before in the dark. Breakfast awaits, and after it has been bolted down a hurried pack-up of all our gear ensues before the long walk begins. The trek down is steep and slippery – due to the mix of loose dirt and muddy, half-melted snow and hail – but I still allow myself time to pause and turn around to look back at Lenana and Batian towering above us.

We pause briefly at Shipton’s Camp (named after Eric Shipton, a British mountaineer and explorer who climbed Nelion and Batian in the 1930s). At 4200m, this is often the last night before summit attempts for those using the Sirimon route. Guides are lugging rock-climbing gear at this camp, indicating a possible attempt at Batian is underway. It would be a grand feat – and a difficult one considering the challenge of rock climbing for more than 20 pitches up the mountain in the thin air. Still, I tag it mentally as another potential for the bucket list – the peak’s beautiful lines beg to be climbed and, as we noticed up on Lenana, there’s even the option of an overnight stay in Batian’s tiny climbers’ shelter as an added attraction. That will have to wait for another day, however, as all our efforts are focused on continuing the (mostly) downhill trek to Old Moses Camp, which, at 3000m, represents a near-2000m drop from our heady morning at the top of Point Lenana. 

By the time we reach Old Moses Camp, we’re fairly spent. It’s been a massive day, with the early morning highlight followed by hours of trekking down through still more amazing terrain. 

The last day of any adventure is bittersweet and the final walk down the Sirimon Valley to the Mt Kenya NP gates is no exception. We spot baboons and monkeys, as well as copious amounts of elephant dung but miss out on seeing any of these giant forest dwellers. Instead, we have to be satisfied with the huge piles of manure and telltale slide marks down forest banks where the elephants have crossed the road. We also pause briefly on the equator, taking the chance to, figuratively, straddle the world, before the final hour leads us to the park entrance.

Sitting outside the national park office, with Mt Kenya just visible on the far horizon, I can now appreciate the “why” behind Benuzzi’s crazy escape and climb. Mt Kenya encapsulates what adventure is all about: taking you through the heart of a wild country and topping it all off with a magnificent mountain summit. Even Benuzzi’s captors understood – the British POW camp commander the trio returned to reduced their punishment to seven days of solitary confinement (rather than 28) and lauded their escape and climb as a “sporting effort”. I have to agree: if there’s anything that makes you lose any vestige of common sense and head out chasing adventure, it is the trek up Mt Kenya.

The Essentials

The adventure: The World Expeditions Mt Kenya Ascent trip is seven days and is via the Chogoria and Sirimon routes, respectively. You need to be fit and an experienced trekker. 

Getting there: You will need a visa for Kenya. Kenya Airways does a codeshare arrangement with Thai Airways, so you can book your luggage all the way through to Nairobi from your start point. The flight is long but the service from both airlines is fantastic.

More info: For Kenya Airways’ flights to Nairobi – check www.kenya-airways.com. For travel to Kenya, check www.magicalkenya.com.

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The Narooma trail hub, built by Dirt Art, is located in Bodalla State Forest (thanks to a partnership with Forestry Corp). The trails are the result of the government’s Bushfire Local Economic Recovery Fund, designed to assist in developing more year-round (as opposed to summer-focused) tourism opportunities for the far south coast NSW towns devastated by the 2019/20 bushfires. (This grant also funded the Eden trails.)

The expanded Narooma trails opened just in time for the busy Christmas/New Year holiday period, when vehicles arrived in this region with mountain bikes added to surfboards on their roof racks; visiting riders super keen to check out the 55km of new trails (on top of the 30km that was already established). 

The Narooma triple treat 

There are three trail zones at Narooma, including the Playground (for skills development and intermediate riders and including some of the most amazing berms in Oz), with the ability to self-shuttle available (or you can ride up the climbing trails). 

The Gravity Zone provides some elevation and longer descents, with flow and jump trails rated Green through to Double Black, including such favourites as Goodbye Gravity (which has been compared to A Line in Whistler) and the beautiful flow trail, I Love Steve, which has fast become everybody’s favourite. There are paid shuttles available for the Gravity Zone, too, which is brilliant.

The Wilderness Zone lives up to its moniker, taking riders through heavily forested gullies and across small creeks, along ridgelines and over rocky terrain. It has a mix of Green, Blue, Black and Double Black trails.

The original 30km of trails are included in the Wilderness zone (AG Adventure rode these original trails in 2020 and reckon they are brilliant) built by Georgie Staley (Club President) and her husband Dave. For that immersive riding experience, this zone’s trails are hard to beat. And when you do get down there, make sure you ride The Tunnel, a great mix of what made Narooma originally famous (read: hand-built trails with a mix of rock and flow) with a particularly unique trail feature thrown in. Yep, the clue is in the name…

Time to enjoy some southern comfort

The Narooma network’s trails cater for all riders, from beginner shredders to those who want a more leisurely two-wheeled cruise through some beautiful terrain. The hard work of all involved, from Georgie, Dave, and Narooma’s passionate MTB club members to Forestry Corporation’s strong support, Dirt Art, the local Aboriginal Land Council, and plenty more, is already paying off with Georgie recounting how many vehicles she now sees in town, loaded up with MTBs, ready to hit the trails. 

For the NSW far south coast, the Narooma and Eden trail networks are an absolute boon for lifting off-season tourist visitation numbers. As a former local boy, this writer can attest to just how beautiful the region is year-round, and with the opening of the Narooma and Eden trails (and with Mogo coming soon), great accommodation options, brilliant eateries and epic pubs, there’s now no excuse not to head south for that ultimate MTB road trip.

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Driving to our starting point at Round Mountain car park, we passed through the Kiandra Goldfields along the Snowy Mountains Highway. This is a spectacular drive in its own right; the ribbon of black bitumen winds through open plains, past historic huts (two of which have recently been rebuilt by the Kosciuszko Huts Association) and up into Australia’s high country. Just before reaching the car park, the road drops down a spectacular descent to Tooma Pond Reservoir and Dam before climbing back out and among the snow gums. 

We’d experienced suitably mountainous weather during the drive, with alternating rain and sunshine, but as we pulled into the Car Park at the start of our cycling adventure, the clouds parted, and we were afforded a patch of sunshine. Our plan for the weekend was simple – ride our bikes towards Mount Jagungal, camp near a historic hut, summit the mountain by foot, camp beside a different hut, and ride back out again. 

We were trying to keep our plan fluid and open because our efforts to lock in a more developed plan during the preceding weeks had been hampered by several park closures, impassable river crossings and road works. Our final change had occurred just 24 hours earlier when a new trail closure had been updated on the NSW Parks website. Speaking of which, it is always worth checking NSW NPWS for park closures before heading to the mountains, otherwise you may be in for a nasty surprise, and the need for an even nastier detour! 

So it was, we’d settled upon a forked tongue route, entering, and exiting the wilderness via the Round Mountain Trail, before spearing off along Grey Mare Trail to both the north and the south over our three-day ride. 

A special place in the wilderness

Packing your camping equipment onto a bicycle always takes a bit longer than you think (see here for more tips and advice on bikepacking) and coupled with the long drive, it was 4pm by the time we were ready to start riding. Within a few hundred metres of the car park, ascending a short rise, we were afforded our first spectacular view of the ride. With the trail winding downwards, our eyes were directed beyond the trail, over forests of snow gums and grassy hills towards our first sight of Mount Jagungal.  

The following descent, one of the longest of the weekend, had Jon and I grinning from ear to ear, hooting and hollering as our bikepacking rigs flew along the smooth gravel trail. We had descended 100 vertical metres over just a couple of kilometres, and these sharp changes in elevation were to be a regular occurrence. Crossing a small river, the trail continued, with a few longer stretches of flat trail mixed in with undulations. 

During the next 10km we continued to enjoy views of Mount Jagungal as it grew closer, and larger each time the trail turned in its direction. We also had three seasons of weather as a short sharp rainstorm turned to hail, before quickly blowing over and revealing the late summer sun again. 

An hour or so from the start, we rounded a corner and caught sight of a signpost for Derschkos Hut. This cute little historic hut is a particular favourite of mine, and I’d last visited it while riding the Hunt 1000 last year. Nestled in its own tiny valley, we’d planned to have a look and then push on towards O’Keefes Hut a further hour or so along the trail.

There was a small group of hikers camping beside the hut, having spent the day walking the trail we’d just come along; after a quick chat we walked our bikes away from the hut and out of Derschkos Valley. Cresting the small rise, we were immediately struck by the stunning view of Mount Jagungal in the evening sunlight. There was a small clearing to our left that shared the view, and we quickly came to a decision – this would be our campsite for the night. 

With a few hours of sunlight remaining, we could have easily pushed on, but it was such a special spot that we were happy to take our time pitching our tents, distracted all the while by the constantly changing light on the mountain behind us. Camp made, we settled ourselves on a nearby rock for cups of tea and dinner. Campers often talk about the fire being a bush TV, but with our Jagungal view, we were perfectly content. 

We stayed on our rock until the light had well and truly faded, before retiring to our tents to rest for the day ahead where we hoped to view a few more huts and summit the mountain.  

To the top of the mountain

After a few downpours overnight, we awoke to a cool morning and cloud-filled sky. Mount Jagungal was still visible, but with ominous clouds in all directions we were prepared for the worst. Following coffee and breakfast, our tents were still visibly wet from the night’s rainfall. So rather than pack away our wet tents and camp somewhere new that night, we decided that it made more sense to leave our camp intact, and spend the day riding and hiking, returning to sleep in the same spot. 

I’ll happily admit that this was an easy decision with many benefits. Firstly, our tents would have the chance to dry, without being stuffed into soggy bags. Secondly, we’d be able to ride around with significantly less weight attached to our bikes, a plus in this environment. And finally, for me at least, I was very happy to be returning to such a stunning camping spot. I’ve camped in a few different spots in this part of Kosciuszko NP, and our current location was up there with the best of them. 

Decision made, we packed rain jackets, gaiters for our hike, snacks, lunch, and our cameras and headed down the trail towards Grey Mare Trail. Arriving at the trail junction, we turned our bikes left and towards the north, in search of O’Keefes Hut.

Where yesterday’s trail had been mostly smooth, hard packed dirt and gravel, Grey Mare Trail was immediately different. Soft loamy mud and tussocky grass dominated the trail, making progress somewhat slower as we traversed the hillside. We passed the Mount Jagungal hiking trail and, noting its location and nearby stream, continued along. We met more hikers, enjoying the Round Mountain walking trail, if not enjoying the now drizzly weather quite so much. 

An hour or so from beginning, we emerged upon a clearing along the trail and the site of O’Keefes Hut. This hut has a great vantage point, looking east along a valley in one direction, back towards Mount Jagungal in the other. Another set of hikers were just departing the hut, coincidentally a couple of friends from Canberra. We proceeded to enjoy a quiet and relaxed early lunch at the hut, before saddling up for the return to the hiking trail and our main mission for the day. 

The hiking trail is quite hard to spot, being barely less than a footpad and without any signage. We parked our bikes to the side of the trail and transferred rain jackets, first aid kits and some snacks to our hip-packs. We also donned our well-travelled gaiters that we’d brought especially for this hiking section. I’d summited the mountain once before – about five years ago – and I’d remembered the trail being heavily overgrown and quite prickly. So, we’d added gaiters to our bikepacking pack-list partly for this reason and as some small measure of snake protection. 

Within the first few hundred metres of hiking the summit trail, my memories proved true, and the gaiters were called into action as the trail became totally covered in bushes. While the trail is well worn, you are mostly walking it by feel as you push your way through waist and chest deep bushes. This continues throughout the first third of the route, which is also the steepest part of the trail. Before long we emerged from the bushes onto the saddle of the mountain, a totally different and more sparse landscape of low scrub, wildflowers, and snow gums.

Atop the saddle we faced a severe wind, which had been barely noticeable at bike level. No surprise as the summit trail climbs over 400m of elevation. After passing through the gum trees on the saddle, the trail turned upwards and over a more barren section, towards the rocky summit. Here we passed our hiking friends from Derschkos, on their way down the trail. They were fully covered in rain jackets and long pants, a sight different to our shorts and t-shirts and evidence of the more severe winds that we were to encounter at the very top. 

Related: Through the hall of the mountain king: cycling Lithgow to Newnes, NSW

As we were about to climb the final push, a rocky section to the summit, we encountered our first snake of the trip. It slithered away off the rock it had been sunbaking upon as we drew near, and before we were able to fully identify it. But it served as a good reminder for us to be extra vigilant as we continued. After clambering the final metres to the summit marker, we were met with a savage wind that quite literally blew my hat off. Jackets were quickly put on as the wind strived to rob us of all our body heat. It was so strong that we decided not to hang around for long before making our descent. 

The summit hike is around 5km and well worth doing. Despite the wind, we could appreciate magic 360-degree views. We tried to do some peak spotting, but our knowledge was severely lacking in this area.  Returning the way we’d come; it was some relief to be back in the bushes and out of the wind. It was also nice to stop for second lunch beside the bikes and warm up for a moment. 

With the afternoon ahead of us, we decided to visit one more historic hut, in the opposite direction of where we’d been before. Heading back along Grey Mare Trail, we continued south towards the aptly named Grey Mare Hut. This section continues to provide stunning views of the high country, but it also proved to be the most challenging section of trail that we’d ridden so far. Alongside a couple of very steep hike-a-bike sections, and a few more trailside snake spottings, the trail itself can only be described as rough. Regular bumps, grass tussocks, rocks and undulations made it very difficult to maintain any sort of rhythm and made even the flat sections more tiring to pass through. 

Arriving at Grey Mare Hut, atop its own slightly challenging hilltop, I could see why many of my bikepacking friends spoke so highly of it. With views across a valley to Mount Jagungal, the site would make an excellent camping spot – that we’d have to experience another time. Satisfied with our day’s endeavours and with thoughts turning to our own camp, we pointed our bicycles back in the direction of Derschkos and retraced our steps.

It was a real pleasure returning to a ready-made camp, with dry camping gear and an easy dinner waiting to be rehydrated. Once again, we sat on our rock of choice until the last light faded before returning to our tents. 

The last day

We’d experienced a variety of weather conditions over our Jagungal long weekend, but luckily the worst of the weather had been saved for our last night. There’s nothing quite like sleeping in a tent to elevate a storm’s intensity and that final night camping in the Jagungal Wilderness was no exception. Thunder, lightning, lashing rain and winds could be heard throughout the night and we were grateful to be in the relative shelter of the trees and hillside behind our tent and nowhere near the mountain summit we’d hiked yesterday. 

Thankfully, by morning the rains had eased to less than a drizzle. Opening my tent door, Mount Jagungal was hidden behind some wispy white clouds and the landscape felt much changed for the night of rain. It was our last morning, so we didn’t hang around too long beyond a morning camp coffee and packed away our wet tents to be dried at home. 

We made our way leisurely back towards the car, with views of Round Mountain dominating our vision, signalling an end to our weekend dominated by Mount Jagungal. Our leisurely ride wasn’t without hills, especially the final climb that we’d enjoyed descending just a few days ago. We’d only been away in the wilderness for a couple of nights, but it felt like much longer. Taking our time, camping for two nights in the same spot, and filling our days with a variety of adventure and wonder left us feeling refreshed, satisfied, and filled with just the right amount of wanderlust to spend the drive home readily cooking up the next adventure.

The post Two bikes, one hike, and a very big mountain: bikepacking the Jagungal Wilderness, NSW appeared first on Australian Geographic.

“Adventure.” Chris says. “I wanted to see Australia and meet people, see the sights and explore, then at the same time I was interested in seeing how fast I can do it. It was all about the experience, really.”

And fast he was! The previous record for a Perth to Sydney run was 43 days, set by German runner Achim Heukemes in 2005. Chris completed his epic run in just 39 days.

But beating Heukemes’ record was never Chris’s primary objective. 

“My goal was to finish, number one, and the second priority was to have the best time I could while doing it, and then the third was the icing on the cake if I managed to break that record,” he says.

Chris’s run was by no means a solo effort – he had a team of 16 people working behind the scenes to help him achieve his goal, from logistics and planning to medical support. This included a rotation of four people on the road with him for the duration of the run.

“We had an RV and a hatchback – a redundancy to make sure I could keep running if one of them broke down, or one could go off and get supplies from nearby towns.”

A day on the road…

Of course, staying on target was imperative if Chris was to complete the run in the time he had allocated himself.

“I wanted to target 100km a day, and for about 10 days or so I hit about 105km in a day, so I was really trying to get most out of every 24-hour cycle as possible,” he says. 

“On average I woke up at 4:30 in the morning and I rushed to get on the road and running in an hour, and then I’d run on average for 13 hours, an average of 100km, and then that left me three hours, really two hours in the evening on average, to get to the camping spot or roadhouse, wash up, clean myself up, eat a couple of dinners, do a little bit of planning for the next day, write a couple of messages or a quick call with my family, and hit the sack.”

That cycle would begin again the following day, and Chris would push on with barely a break for the next 13 hours. “The only things I would stop for were to put sunscreen on my legs, answer the call of nature or if there were any emergencies, otherwise it was non-stop.”

Chris is a seasoned ultra-marathon runner, but he says nothing was as challenging as this transcontinental effort. 

“Nothing was even in the realm of what this was,” he says. “The toughest thing I found in the end was 39 days of just that time pressure, from waking up in the morning at 4:30, rushing to get on the road, running as hard as I could all day… it felt like I had my foot on the accelerator pushing myself as hard as I could all day, and then cleaning up and getting to bed as fast as I could, and then not sleeping very well, just rolling around in in real pain for a lot of the night, and then getting up the next morning and do it all again.”

Fuelling the fire

Although Chris and his team had mapped out accommodation options along the route, some nights he would finish running at a point that was too far from the nearest roadhouse, in which case he and his team would camp where they stopped, so he would sometimes have forgo the luxury of having a shower.

This was the case early on in the trip thanks to road conditions and weather, which at one point slowed Chris’s progress considerably.

“One of the wildest parts of the trip was Hyden-Norseman Road, which is about 300km long and largely gravel, I think it’s about 250km of gravel, which means mud in the wet,” Chris laments. “It was initially closed when we got to it, which delayed us, then we got special permission from council to proceed on it, but it was very slippery.

“We had to pull up stumps at one point because it was so muddy, and lost half a day… we couldn’t get the RV through, because it was so muddy, which meant it had to drive the long way around via Esperance, going an extra 600km, so it was just the hatchback – with Jack the filmmaker and another ultra-endurance athlete, a mate called Mounty (Richard Mountstephens) – it was the two of them in the hatchback and myself running. But the RV was the only way we could cook meals, and while we transferred a few things over to the hatchback, we forgot cutlery… so I ran for three days there, and the crew was in a similar boat, without having a shower and without having any cooked meals, so was basically sandwiches with dozens of pre-boiled eggs, mayo and peanut butter, for three full days of running.

“Running for a full day with multiple layers of sun cream on you, and sweat, and then be completely exhausted in the dark setting up a tent and climbing into – or sticking into – a sleeping bag, while eating sandwiches… another five sandwiches for dinner after eating them all day, like 20 during the day, and then waking up in the morning and just looking at the bowl next to me in the tent and just getting my hand in there and eating what I didn’t eat for dinner, more sandwiches… The biggest challenge was the mental side of it, but this was probably one of the real extraordinary experiences.”

The energy expended running an average of 100km a day meant Chris’s body needed a lot of fuel, and his diet was carefully aimed at ensuring he could maintain his pace and endurance. So what did he consume?

“Water and Hydralite, and lots of carbs during the day, and then more protein and fat in the evening. 

“During the day lots of sandwiches, lots of porridge – I’d make that a bit watery and drink it down fairly quickly so I could get running faster, sooner again.” 

But it wasn’t all healthy eating: “Baked goods – I’d have all the treats from the local country town bakeries; it was fantastic, lamingtons and apple pies were my favourites but also muffins and donuts and finger buns… and whatever they had that was carby.”

Some of the physical challenges faced by Chris were from what he describes as ‘seasonal injuries’. 

“Lots of over-use injuries like muscle strains and swelling,” he says. “My left knee doubled in size in the first two weeks… I call them seasonal injuries or pains because across all the different muscles and tendons and ligaments, they just seemed to keep coming and going at different times, and so at any time I might have four different ones, some of them coming, some of those going.”

One small bump in the road

There was only one serious injury that hampered Chis progress and that was when his Achilles tendon “blew up” while on the Nullarbor Plain.

“I tried taping it, that didn’t work to provide enough support, so I started walking and then it just got worse, more and more painful walking, until I really couldn’t walk, I was just in agony. Disappointingly I pulled up stumps for the day, early in the afternoon after lots of very slow walking. I went to the roadhouse, just rested it up, it was my first early knock-off day.”

Chris says he took Nurofen, got the best rest he could and got up again at 4:30am the next morning and headed back to the start line. “I just took it really slowly, eased into it, and it worked again the next day, which just seemed incredible that it healed so much overnight,” he says. “I could still tell it was injured but it wasn’t stopping me from running, and so I managed to get 100km done that day, and I never ran less than 100km again until I finished.”

The mental pressure was a constant for Chris throughout his transcontinental run, and he says to didn’t let up until the finish line at Manly was in sight.

“There was just huge pressure like I never felt in my life before,” he says. “Five minutes before I crossed the line, halfway down the final hill where I could roll to the finish line, that was the first time I actually felt confident, that I knew I was going to finish, because before that I always thought there was a small chance of one of these injuries might blow up…”

“I actually sat down for a moment and all the emotion came out of me over about 60 seconds, it was the first time in my life I teared up since being a kid and it came right out of me, my nose was running full stream and I was making involuntary sounds, everything, on these apartment steps on Sydney Road, and after about 60 seconds it just passed over me, and I just felt completely relaxed.”

While the mental anguish was over quickly, Chris says the physical recovery would take a lot longer. He also says he wants to spend more time on pursuits that involve his family and his work life, although adventures will always be calling.

“I’ve got a 40th birthday coming up next year so I want to do something less solo and drag a couple of buddies into some of the wild mountains in southwest Tassie so that would be a fun one to do, something with some good mates.”

Chris’s mate Jack Bullen is making a film about this incredible transcontinental run, but in the meantime, you can read more about this amazing achievement, and Chris’s other pursuits, on his website, turnbulladventures.com. And don’t be surprised if this incredible Aussie’s adventures inspires you to set your own outdoor challenge!

The post On the record: Adventurer Chris Turnbull sets fastest-ever time for Perth-Sydney run appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Tasmania’s Walls of Jerusalem National Park is one of the world’s most overqualified World Heritage sites and forms part of the larger Tasmania Wilderness World Heritage area. This area encompasses 1.38 million hectares and includes Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair, Franklin-Gordon, Southwest and Hartz Mountain national parks, as well as Adamsfield Conservation Area and the Central Plateau Conservation and Protected Area, with numerous hikes found inside this immense area.

As well as its natural highlights – glacial-carved valleys, ancient pencil pine forests, alpine lakes and dolerite peaks – Walls of Jerusalem NP is a famous bushwalking destination, with the park’s 518,000 hectares offering hikes ranging from day-long, to overnight, to a six-day (or longer) circuit, exploring the park from north to south and back again. To appreciate the wonder that is “the Walls”, a six-day circuit of the park is a must, albeit one for experienced walkers. Ideally, you will have completed other full-pack multi-day treks and be comfortable carrying your food and a day’s water (there are ample places to refill) plus all your gear. You will also need to think in terms of time, rather than distance, owing to the terrain encountered during this circuit and its side-trips.

The Walls of Jerusalem circuit is far from subtle in its introduction to the park’s landscapes. The initial ascent begins straight from the Fish River car park (around three hours’ drive southwest of Launceston, via Deloraine and Mole Creek); following the rock-strewn track upwards immerses you immediately in dense forest, with towering eucalypts and lush tree ferns bordering the track. You will ascend 500m to the park’s boundary line, which is just above Trappers Hut, one of the area’s historic huts.

Once you reach the park boundary you will come to the junction of Walls of Jerusalem Track and Junction Lake Track. This junction point is where you start and finish the circuit. You can opt to go south on Junction Lake Track and complete the circuit anticlockwise, but we’d recommend turning southeast onto Walls of Jerusalem Track first – you want your intro to the park’s many natural highlights to happen on the first day. 

You are now at around 900m altitude and soon move from the dense timber onto the Central Plateau and the first of the circuit’s highlights. Solomons Jewels is an area dotted with small alpine lakes bordered by native pine trees. The traverse of Solomons Jewels is straightforward and followed by a short ascent to Wild Dog Creek campsite, perched at the base of King Davids Peak (1499m and Tassie’s tenth highest). The campsite has raised tent platforms and there’s a self-composting toilet 50 metres further up. There is also water here (boil before use). It’s a three- to four-hour journey from Fish River car park to Wild Dog Creek campsite and once there you can relax and enjoy the sunset over the lumpy peaks of Howells Bluff and Clumner Bluff.

Related: Top 7 tips for a successful multi-day walk

The area of the park that encapsulates the actual Walls of Jerusalem is worthy of a full day’s exploration, and is deserving of its “The Amphitheatre” moniker. You enter this natural arena via Herods Gate, a 20-minute climb from camp. Once through you are immediately confronted with the area’s immense scale; towering dolerite cliffs of the West Wall shadow walkers as they traverse slightly undulating terrain, following Walls of Jerusalem Track. Highlights include Lake Salome and the pristine Pool of Bethesda. It’s a 1.5-hour traverse before ascending Damascus Gate and reaching the trailhead of two side-trips: an ascent of Solomons Throne, at the junction of the West Wall and Wailing Wall, and/or The Temple, to the east. We’d opt for Solomons Throne; scrambling up a scree field, then climbing through a square-edged notch cut out of the West Wall sees you at the summit of Solomons Throne, with 360-degree views over the park. Take in the Great Pine Tier and Bernes Valley to the southeast, Mt Jerusalem to the east, Chinamans Plains to the south and Lake Adelaide to the southwest. Return to Damascus Gate junction and continue southeast to your next camp at Dixons Kingdom Hut. This is reached after an hour of walking along an undulating track that leads through an emerald-green wonderland of grass and native pine trees before entering a clearing beside the hut. 

Dixons Kingdom Hut is where the track to 1459m Mt Jerusalem is accessed. This steady ascent is about an hour (one way), and takes you over plenty of the rocks and boulders synonymous with the park, past alpine tarns, and over false summits before you reach the cairn marking the true summit. The views – especially the myriad lakes to the east – are outstanding.

Our circuit loops south then east, then south again over the next two days; the walk southwest through Jaffa Vale from Dixons Kingdom Hut is brilliant, with the chance to spot wallabies and birdlife hiding in button grass, before you turn east and follow Lake Ball’s shoreline. You then join Junction Lake Track at the head of Lake Adelaide. You can camp here or turn south to follow Lake Adelaide’s eastern shore to a campsite halfway down. This is recommended as it brings you closer to the following day’s objective: camping at Lake Meston and ascending Mt Ragoona (1350m). To reach Lake Meston from here it is two hours walking through what is claimed to be one of the world’s best examples of a glacial valley – Adelaide Plain – to camp at the head of the lake. Accessing the Mt Ragoona ascent is a via a side-track near Meston Hut (midway along the lake’s western side). The three-hour return trip (from the hut) is awesome fun, negotiating scrubby, then progressively rockier terrain to Mt Ragoona Plateau. The plateau is dotted with boulders and alpine tarns for the last hour to the summit and views of Cradle Mountain and the rugged ramparts of the Western Arthur Range. 

From Lake Meston campsite it’s a full day to final camp at Stretcher Lake. Backtrack north along Junction Lake Track, past Lake Adelaide and then through more valleys to Stretcher Lake (via a 15-minute side-track). A short walk around the lake before sitting back to enjoy sunset makes a brilliant last night. It is three hours from camp to the car park. Rejoin Junction Lake Track, follow it to Trappers Hut, and descend to Fish River car park. Time it right and you’ll be enjoying lunch and a celebratory beverage at the Mole Creek Hotel – the perfect finish to six days in Walls of Jerusalem NP.

Cape to Cape Track, WA

The 135km Cape to Cape Track, linking Cape Naturaliste to Cape Leeuwin in WA’s southwestern corner, runs alongside the pristine Leeuwin-Naturaliste National Park, and is one of Australia’s most popular multi-day hikes.

The landscape walkers travel through is incredible: wind- and ocean-blasted headlands and sea cliffs, towering karri forests and beaches where, often, you will find no-one else on them. In short, it’s the perfect mix of coast and hinterland, with enough fauna and flora to keep the most specific nature-lover more than happy. Rock pools full of marine life, distant pods of dolphin and (in whale watching season) larger marine mammals frolicking in the waters of Ngari Capes Marine Park, (if you’re there at that time) the crazy colour-fest that is WA’s wildflower season, no matter the time of year, you’ll be spending more time looking off the track than watching where you are walking. 

For experienced hikers, the track can be walked comfortably in a week or, if you have less time (or not the experience of fitness level needed), you can sample a few sections of it as day walks, with several roads providing access to different parts of this coastal adventure. If it was us, though, we’d take the full week; seven days on this track, admiring all its natural wonders, will take you far, far away from any stress and worries of your everyday life. 

Even though the Cape to Cape hike is not as well-known as it probably should be, it is very popular with WA residents. This is not just because it is a cracking adventure, but also because Leeuwin-Naturaliste NP cops the most visitors of any national park in WA. To this end, we’d suggest starting that week-long trek from the northern end, so you get the busy tourist hub of Margaret River and surrounds out of the way first, and then focus on just enjoying this undulating route’s abundance of nature as you follow it along one of the world’s most magical sections of coastline.

Dusky Track, NZ

New Zealand is chock-full of any number of multi-day treks that would sit comfortably on a walker’s bucket list – it just boils down to how much of a (rewarding) challenge you want. Enter the mighty Dusky Track…

Deep, deep down in the wild southern section of Fiordland National Park, the 84km-long Dusky Track is one of Australasia’s most challenging hikes – and is for experienced, independent walkers only; there’s no cushy guided option here, folks, it is an epic undertaking. It is also one that pays massive dividends: you will be transported to one of the world’s most remote regions – most likely by float plane or boat – to tackle the journey from Lake Hauroko in the south, to the track’s northern finish point of Lake Manapouri. You will traverse some absolutely crazy terrain, ranging from low boggy floodplains to high ridges and mountains, while negotiating 21 three-wire bridges across creeks and rivers, and – most likely – slogging for at least one day through deep, boot-destroying mud along a rough, barely formed track. In other words, it is a real adventure!

The Dusky Track will, at an absolute minimum, take you eight days. But make sure you pencil in another two days at least to allow for any weather delays; high rainfall means flooded track sections, which in turn means extended stopovers at huts. Then, add another two for the not-to-be-missed optional side trip to Supper Cove, on Dusky Sound. Yep, that’s 12 days. And you’ll need to be fit and strong as you will have to carry all your food, clothing, sleeping and cooking gear in your pack – there are no food drops here. Like we said, it’s an epic undertaking. 

The Department of Conservation (DOC) huts are relatively basic but offer the required shelter and are a welcome sight after a day on the track. The days are long, but time is forgotten here as you focus on negotiating the terrain, checking out the incredible views and, most importantly, soaking up the entire enriching experience. Not all who venture south to attempt the Dusky tackle the side trip to Supper Cove but, the way we see it, if you’re going to be heading to a place that is so remote, and you’ve seen some of the brilliant photographs of the cove itself, you will put your head down and just do it. 

For all this ruggedness and long distance, the Dusky has earned its place on this list for one simple reason: there’s nothing else quite like it in our part of the world. And if you ask anyone who has done it what their opinion is, you will probably be surprised at both their passionate recollection of their experience, and their comment of, “It was tough and challenging, but I’d do it again tomorrow if I could.” It’s amazing how venturing into a true wilderness can affect people…

Note: You will need to book transport to the start of the track and organise being picked up at the end. Plus, you will need to purchase DOC Hut tickets. For info on all of these and more, see the NZ Department of Conservation at www.doc.govt.nz).

South Coast Track, TAS

A truly remote experience, the South Coast Track, down at the bottom of Tassie, is one of Australia’s best multi-day walks. Access is via plane, landing at Melaleuca, and then it is six-eight days – and 85km – in the wilds as you follow the SCT from Melaleuca through some of southwest Tassie’s most spectacular terrain, to Cockle Creek. 

The weather this far south is volatile and unpredictable – you will need to be fully prepared for all conditions. No matter what time of year, you need to be ready for everything from wild storms and six-degree Celsius daytime temps, to warm, sunny days. The track is (in)famous for its muddy sections, some of which will see the unwary walker sink down to near-waist level, so be prepared for wet, muddy gear (especially boots/socks). 

The first few days are a great intro; walkers experience deserted beaches, thick rainforest, river crossings (and a boat crossing) and sublime campsites. Then, midway, it is the big one: the crossing of the Ironbound Range, a full day climbing from sea level, up to over 1000m, and then back down to the beautiful Deadmans Bay campsite overlooking the Southern Ocean (a perfect base for an optional rest day). This day will test your trekking fitness but reward you with either amazing vistas (on a clear day) or a memorably wild buffeting from wind or rain up on the exposed top if the weather is not cooperating. Either way, it is a memorable experience. And the South Cape Range (around half as high as the Ironbounds) is nearly as much fun. 

Tasmanian Expeditions runs guided walks on the SCT but that still requires walkers with experience in remote multi-day treks. There are no huts on the SCT – you need to carry all your gear and food the whole way – and the track is challenging, but all this effort is more than worth it. The SCT has earned its reputation as a top trek for a very good reason: it is simply brilliant.

Routeburn Track, NZ

Yes, the well-known Milford Track is right next door, but for those looking to jam in the most of NZ’s Southern Alps landscape – mountains, fast-flowing alpine rivers, or beautiful beech forests of multiple shades of green – then the 32km, three- to four-day, Routeburn Track, traversing two of the Shaky Isles’ most famous national parks, is the best of NZ Depaertment of Conservation’s (DOC) 10 NZ Great Walks.

The Routeburn can be walked in either direction: from Routeburn Road end, in the east (accessed via the mountain town of Wanaka), to The Divide or vice-verse. Either way, you’ll be gobsmacked by the landscape within minutes of hitting the track. At 32km, you could, theoretically, complete the Routeburn Track in two days, but that would be a disservice to the track and yourself; it’s a truly wild part of NZ and well worth savouring.

Our preference would be to start from the eastern point at Routeburn Road, inside Mt Aspiring National Park, and get the big climb up to Routeburn Falls Hut out of the way on day one. The Falls Hut is probably one of the most dramatically situated of the DOC backcountry huts, perched high overlooking the river valley (and Mt Somnus) below, with a waterfall running down one side of its location.

The second day on the Routeburn Track is spectacular: you continue climbing to Harris Saddle (passing Lake Harris along the way), before winding your way along the (near) top of the Serpentine Range, with views of the Hollyford River valley, before descending to Lake Mackenzie Hut, another beautifully located hut.

The final day involves an initial climb, passing Earland Falls on the way, before descending to Howden Hut and then climbing up again to The Divide 9the Routeburn’s end-point and where you meet your track transport). One side track not to miss is the one to Key Summit. The turnoff is 15 minutes climb up from Howden Hut and when you arrive at Key Summit (1.5-hr return walk) you get awesome views of the Darran Mountains. The track is well graded throughout with only a few short rocky sections, and the Great Walks huts (for independent walkers) are brilliant (gas stoves and wood heating, plus bunk rooms).

As long as you’re well prepared for the region’s oft-changing weather (and remember to book your hut tickets well in advance; Great Walks booking season opens July 1), the Routeburn Track is perfect for those just getting started on multi-day treks, and adventurous families; children from 10 years of age upwards easily handle this walk. If there’s one world-class track we’d recommend for introduce the family to the joys of multi-day trekking, it’s the Routeburn Track.

The post Boots ’n’ all! Five amazing multi-day hikes in Australia and New Zealand appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Fast forward to the twilight days of 2019. That young lad has since fulfilled his dream and much more besides. Having moved to Australia at the age of twelve, his fascination with the mountains continued. In 1984 he was part of the first Aussie expedition to Mt. Everest, which he climbed via a new route. Six years later he returned to the Himalaya on foot from the Bay of Bengal, the first and still the only person to self-propel himself from sea level to the top of Sagarmartha [Mt Everest]. Soon afterwards he co-founded his company Sea to Summit, which became a global powerhouse in the outdoor gear market. Having sold up a couple of years ago, Tim Macartney-Snape now contents himself leading small groups to remote parts of the globe for adventure travel company World Expeditions. The trip on which I join him, The Triple Peaks of the Rwenzori, has been brewing for over 50 years.

Let’s get this out of the way first – the Rwenzori massif is muddy. Uncontrollably, relentlessly muddy. On the first morning, every trekker is issued a pair of gumboots (along with an umbrella and a hot water bottle) which sees way more action than their hiking boots. For days on end, the trail is drowned under a foot of uncircumventable liquid slime. This is the kind of schizophrenic sucking swamp that has more and stronger personalities than our group of nine hardened trekkers combined. There are probably as-yet uncatalogued species of mud here that are found nowhere else on earth. Sometimes a stretch of boardwalk or tree branches laid lengthways aid us in avoiding those hidden voids which have become known as the Portal to the Underbog, or the Franklin Hole of Death. 

The unlucky Franklin is a reporter from the Daily Monitor, one of Uganda’s most prestigious newspapers, who falls prey early on to the classic stepping-out-of-his-boot-and-straight-up-to-the-knee-in-his-stockinged-foot manoeuvre. Thanks to the cunning machinations of World Ex’s local agent, the Ugandan media is in love with Tim and has positioned him at the centre of a press whirlwind, and Franklin has been despatched to cover the expedition. The CEO of Uganda Tourism Board has come from Kampala, nearly 400km away, to wave us goodbye at the small trailhead village of Kilembe, which itself throws us an all-singing, all-dancing send-off. Tim bears it all with genial stoicism, making speeches, gladhanding and befriending all and sundry, but inside he’s champing at the bit, as are we all, and it is with unrestrained glee that we finally break away from the circus and into the foothills. 

Relatively young at only 3,000,000 years old, the Rwenzoris are the product of the same plate interaction that formed and continues to shape the landscape of Africa’s Great Rift Valley. While they lie on the border with the turbulent Democratic Republic of the Congo, it is fortunately too cold and unpleasant for any of that country’s ample supply of rebel groups to bother making the journey across to kidnap us. Just in case, armed Uganda Wildlife Authority guards make regular patrols up and down the frontier, thus preventing my journal entries from reaching Day 102 (‘Finally released by Mai-Mai militia. Made a lot of new friends. Could do with a shower’).

The evocatively-titled Mountains of the Moon (mistranslated from the indigenous name ‘White Mountains’), were first scaled by European peak bagger the Duke of Abruzzi in 1906 via what is now called the Central Circuit. Mt Stanley has multiple summits, with the 5109m Margherita Peak currently winning the slow race towards the sky. The route World Ex uses was pioneered ten years ago and now boasts a far superior trail system with professional guides and a series of custom-built and well-appointed huts with wood-burning stoves and electricity. Together the two routes bring around 3500 trekkers per year, with less than 500 eyeing-up Margherita as their final goal.

That snow-capped celebration is still far from our minds as we haul our limbs up something resembling the Kokoda Trail on the first afternoon, i.e. steep, slippy and embraced by jungle. “No forest can be grimmer or stranger than this,” wrote the Duke of Abruzzi, but he clearly hadn’t been to Papua New Guinea. As well as four regular guides – a handsome ratio ¬– we have a couple of highly-trained birding-specific guides. Stephen and Narcissi have an impressive ability to identify every feathered friend that flits past, by sight, call and seemingly sense of smell. The Rwenzoris are a birder’s paradise, and while I don’t personally twitch, I can’t help being caught up in the excitement of ticking off endemic species; the Rwenzori double-collared sunbird, Rwenzori turaco and the breasted tit amongst others.

We make headway despite the mud, and in Tim’s case the headway is considerable; our leader has only one speed – Warp Factor Tim. Despite being almost the oldest member of the group (he turns 64 on the final day), he’s constantly snapping at the heels of Basaaja, our front man. Lofty and laconic, and with a more impressive six-pack than I’ve ever had, he strides across the landscape bearing an uncanny resemblance to Roald Dahl’s BFG. His energy is boundless – he does pull-ups whenever possible and stares intently at every rock face picking out possible climbing routes – and after a few days I seriously contemplate hiding a boulder in his daypack to slow him down. At the same time, he is quiet and introverted, almost shy. It takes four full days before he comes out of his shell, but then he is great company. A trove of anecdotes and quick to insert a witticism here and there, he also shares his extensive knowledge of geology, botany and Australiana. 

Day-by-day, and blessed with an unusual amount of sun, we rise through the various vegetation zones – tropical rainforest, bamboo, heather, and afro-montane. The latter is a striking landscape of mossy boulders, serene lakes, and giant species of heather, lobelias and groundsels older than Uganda’s independence. We gain altitude at a well-scheduled rate aimed at maximising our acclimatisation, although by the time we scale Observation Peak (4328m) on day three we’re feeling the thinness of the air (Tim included, to my relief). Our enjoyment of the summit is interrupted by a hailstorm which appears out of nowhere and forces us back to Bugata Camp over a field of ankle-punishing hummocks. Rwenzori weather can be politely described as ‘changeable’.

By New Year’s Eve we’re so toasted we’re ready to retire to our bunks at 9pm, settling for celebrating midnight in Kazakhstan instead. Seeing our exhausted state, our guides hastily pull out a couple of bottles of wine that have been lugged all the way up here for the occasion. It’s heartening to see a strong female contingent among the porters’ ranks, although there has been strong opposition to their employment as the men believe (or say they believe) that women on the mountain bring bad luck. Any major problem is blamed on their presence, as is demonstrated a few days later when the head guide from another group collapses with pulmonary oedema, having resisted all calls to descend. He has to be carried down and tragically dies in hospital while we are still on the mountain. 

It’s only when we crest Bamwanjara Pass, named after the Munyoro man who guided the Duke’s expedition, that we see our final objective rising above us. Tall, craggy, and with a sprinkling of white atop a worn face, Tim is blocking my view, but behind him sits Mt. Stanley, flanked by her twin underlings, Mt. Baker and Mt. Speke. Their grey and frigid walls look worlds away from the fecundity that now surrounds us, but the final zone transition to Alpine occurs the following day, when we bid a sad farewell to verdant, plunging valleys, cute-as-a-button creeks and swathes of harmless-looking but elephant-swallowing marshland. In truth, when the country was recovering from the devastation of Idi Amin’s despotic 1970s reign, the African forest elephant was poached out of this area altogether, another victim of man’s inhumanity to man. We do spot hyrax and duiker but, unsurprisingly, the near-extinct Rwenzori leopard, which no-one has ever successfully photographed, remains elusive.

The day finishes with a shock ending – the hiking equivalent of the final hand-thrusting scene from Carrie – in the form of a hidden and stupidly steep climb up to Margherita Camp. We arrive to a hut wreathed in mist. Steep rock walls rise above us, parted by the white wedge of a glacier peeking through the cloud. Now pushing 4500m, this is serious country. Four years ago, a porter was making his way down alone and lost his way. He was never found. Solo walking is now strictly prohibited. The hut is alive with eager speculation, and also ripe with steaming apparel after the weather gods finally forsook us. After a warming cup of tea, we spend two hours running through the skills we will require early the next morning. We practice tying together for the glacier traverse, using a jumar (ascending device) to haul ourselves up a vertical rope and a prussik to descend. It’s also time for Tim to make a difficult but necessary decision – three clients and Franklin are judged not strong enough to attempt the summit. They will instead try for a lower objective, Stanley Lookout at just under 5000m.

For the remainder of us, the twinkling stars that greet our first steps at 2am are soon snuffed out under a blanket of cloud. The smooth, sloped rock is a joy to scamper up but would be treacherous to descend in the wet. Deep scratches, the spoor of crampon-clad winter teams, betray a much lower snowline at times. We work swiftly and silently, despatching the fixed rope sections and traverse of the Elena glacier without issue. When we reach the 150m face of the Margherita glacier, we exhale excitement alongside the warm breath that condenses in the light of our head torches, adding to the blurriness of the reflected fog. While we mortals struggle with the jumar, Tim pulls out twin ice tools and executes a textbook climb alongside the ropes. Show-off!

Our guides display flawless technical skills in setting the anchors and we never feel remotely unsafe. Once the gradient lessens we revert to hind legs and plod to an ice cave below the summit. The dawn light begins to penetrate the thick cloud, leaving us in no doubt as to the quality of the view we can expect at the top – only the finest shades of white will be visible. No matter, we traverse the curtain of icicles and scramble the final minutes to the top of Uganda, smiles undimmed.

Within minutes of our warm celebration we’re engulfed by a blizzard and are forced to head down. Its inconvenience is mostly limited to coating all those smooth, sloped boulders with a thin layer of snow, turning them into the hard, cold equivalent of a giant sheet of bubble-wrap. No client’s arse remains unbruised, although watching Basaaja skip along, hands in pockets, makes me wonder. Since 80 per cent of his hiking is on surfaces with the friction of a banana skin, how would he fare in a totally dry environment? Is he so adapted to the slippage that his feet would stick to the ground like glue? Poor Franklin has no such issues; the following day he slips over in a river and sprains his ankle. He is hoisted aloft in a wicker stretcher and surfs down the mountain on a rotating wave of 30 hollering and singing porters. Their boisterous voices are the perfect soundtrack to our triumphant return.

At the periphery of any large gathering in Africa is a fringe of children, staring silently at the proceedings. During the commotion of the Kilembe send-off, after the singing and speechifying, I noticed Tim discretely shaking hands with a small boy and exchanging a few words. Compared to the media commotion and self-important politicians, this child was insignificant, yet Tim took the time to personally introduce himself. Did he see something in this boy? Or was it just a hunch that those few seconds might change a life, inspire a mountaineer as little Timu was inspired by Mt. Meru half a century ago? The future first Ugandan to climb Everest? Only time will tell.

FACT FILE
World Expeditions is the only Australian company to run trips to the Rwenzori. Its Triple Peaks 8-day itinerary included Mt. Baker and Weisman’s Peak, although our group declined to pursue the latter two after Margherita due to the worsening of the weather and subsequent lack of views. While previous experience at altitude and with climbing equipment is useful, it is not considered essential. A reasonable level of fitness is. This from Tim: 
“This is definitely one of the toughest regular treks that one can do, because there are big ascents; they are steep and the trail is rough. Even though it’s been well-researched and well-routed, it’s one of the most rugged mountain ranges I’ve ever been in. It’s a really tough trip.”

High season in the Rwenzori is December to March, although intrepid climbers can attempt the summit all year round. Independent trekkers can book the Central Circuit directly with the UWA, although a guide is still mandatory.
See www.worldexpeditions.com for more info.

The post Under the light of the moon: Trekking Uganda’s Rwenzori Mountains appeared first on Australian Geographic.

In the beginning

For the week leading up to this ride, the weather forecast had been persistent. And when I say persistent, I mean persistently rubbish. I called Mike two days out hoping he would make the call to postpone, as I didn’t want to be the party-pooper myself. But Mike, ever positive, said it would just make for better images and a better story if we had to suffer through the weather. I reluctantly agreed. 

This saw us leaving Sydney bright and early for the two and a half-hour drive through ominous clouds and rain towards Lithgow on a Saturday morning, aiming to be on the bikes around 8:30am. That, folks, is when the fun really began.

Towards the tunnels

Once we reach Lithgow, it’s go-time. We pack the bikes, make a quick phone call to our partners before hitting the road and losing reception as we enter the mountains.

The legs are barely warm, and we’ve only covered a few kilometres of cycling on back roads of Lithgow, before the road turns to gravel and we go up. I can see the treetops are covered in fog as we settle into the very steep climb and Mike leaves me to find my own rhythm (or drops me, however you want to put it). 

This isn’t the first time I’ve ridden this bike with a bit of weight onboard and cursed my gearing. I swear I’ll sort something out for next time. 

Once we summit, we’re well and truly into the fog and cycle along wide, smooth-gravel fire-trails, maintaining a decent pace thanks to our fresh legs. We traverse a landscape that varies from some open logging grounds to tall fire-damaged woodlands, before being surrounded by lush greenery.  

The bright green regrowth on the charred black columns of the tree stumps really stand out against the backdrop of the fog. It’s amazing to see nature recover as it does, but also a pretty severe reminder of how bad the fires were to see such an altered landscape more than a year later. 

We start seeing signs for the area’s famous ‘glow worm tunnels’, which builds a little excitement as this is what this ride is all about. The tunnels aren’t just a landmark to see along the way; we have to pass through over 500m of tunnels, to continue on our way to Newnes. 

We’ve seen a few four-wheel drives by this stage but the roads are really quiet, and we start dropping downhill toward the trailhead. The road winds down through huge carved rock faces, with huge ferns shadowing us at the edges of the dirt road we follow. 

This is the point the terrain changes, and it’s the last we’ll see of smooth gravel roads today. The track becomes rocky and narrow; some of my bags rattle off my bike and require refitting. 

Related: Gritty stuff: The ultimate guide to gravel cycling

Soon after, the track seems to come to an end; we dismount and walk down some stairs with our bikes to a small footbridge that seems to go nowhere. As we cross, it appears to aim directly at a large rock wall. 

We discover the walkway turns left through a small cleft with a narrow, steep, stone staircase climbing out of the gully. It’s quite narrow to walk through, never mind trying to lug an awkward and heavy bike through. A few groans, complaints and grazed knuckles later, we’re through. These stairs are the last hurdle before the long-awaited tunnels. 

Cycling through the darkness

The entrance to the tunnel is a black hole in a ring of greenery and giant prehistoric ferns, and a trickle of water streaming down the rocks on the side and into the tunnel itself. I, unfortunately, forgot I would be needing my head torch halfway through the day and packed it with all my camping gear, so I had to unpack my entire front roll and re-pack before we ventured in. We also used the opportunity to grab a little bit of lunch while I had everything out. 

It doesn’t take long before it’s pitch black and we’re relying on our torches to illuminate our path. The surface is very rough and certainly not rideable. The water flowing through becomes a little more substantial and requires some careful tiptoeing around to keep your feet dry. 

About 100m into the abyss Mike spots an Australian red claw crayfish (Cherax quadricarinatus I think). I didn’t think we would find anything like it in here, so it was definitely a nice surprise. I managed to pick it up without losing a finger for a closer look.  

We stop at what we guess is halfway so we can turn our torches off and look for the famous glow worms. As soon as our torches are off we can see hundreds of tiny green specs all over the walls, and literally nothing else. I think it may have been around this point that Mike’s sunglasses decided to leave us; we went in with them and came out without them. 

When we emerge from the darkness on the other side, there is a stunning trail that crosses a little creek a few times as we make our way out of the rock formations. This section requires a little time off the bike, having to jump over the creek and up and over some boulders here and there, so it’s slow going. 

Once we leave the crevasse we’re back in the sun on the side of the mountain with a smoother trail, only to come an obstacle every time we manage to crack a bit of pace. Some of it is rideable, with a few nifty bike skills, some are fallen trees, others are massive rock slides that require lifting our bikes up and down to one another before moving on. We’re definitely not winning any land-speed records here. It’s also at this point that I realise rigid carbon-soled clip-in cycling shoes are not ideal for rock climbing…

We come to the end of that trail and have to pass through a gate with a sign identifying the trail to Newnes that, excitingly, signals the final stretch. Well, maybe…

Here for a moment, we get some speed, enjoy the wind on our faces, before the trail seems to disappear again. It seems to have fallen away and there is only a vertical drop to rubble below. We backtrack a little before finding the overgrown route around the fallen track. Then, it’s off the bikes again and up the other – very steep – side.. And I don’t mean steep to ride – I mean it’s more of an actual climb on rocks with your arms and hands, while manhandling your bike as well. It’s at this point I ask Mike how he’s going? And get the expected – “I want to RIDE my bike!” – answer.

After a little more hike-a-bike we’re onto a nice grassy trail. The smell of summer, fresh new sprouts and flower buds only enhance the wonderful free feeling of fulfilling Mike’s wishes and actually riding our bikes.

It’s the last 10km or so – winding smooth trail, the odd creek crossing or fallen tree – but smooth sailing, with the river our left, into Newnes. And then we spot a most welcome sight: the Newnes Hotel, on the other side of the river. 

We take our shoes off and wade across, gently rolling onto the lawn of the hotel. 

Newnes

The Newnes Hotel is a remarkable place, built-in 1907 amongst the spectacular sheer cliff faces of the Wolgan Valley, the hotel is the only remaining building of the former mining town of Newnes.

Unfortunately, for this pair of trail-weary travellers, the bar no longer serves beers, or even hot meals. The hotel is, in fact, a living museum, dedicated to the history of the area and the hotel itself. The owners Thomas and Helen Ebersole opened their first cabin here in 2004 after discovering the Wolgan Valley on a camping trip and have opened several more cabins over the years since. The museum is effectively a time capsule, seemingly not updated for a few decades – and in need of a bit of dusting – but this only adds to the character. The front bar seems just as it was, with plenty of old bottles and antiques, posters and even the old piano. Plus, there’s a bloody nice view.

The cliffs surrounding the hotel catch the afternoon light, while the rest of the valley is in shade, they come alive with a fluorescent orange glow and make for a magnificent backdrop to set up camp. 

Today’s ride is enough to get the legs going, and the arms, but not too big to have to rush to make camp. We arrive mid-afternoon and take our time setting up camp. There’s no reception here and we just make the most of not having any phones to distract or bother us for a few hours; instead, just sitting and soaking up the serenity.

Misty mornings and big climbs

I wake to Mike calling out, “Oi Bob”.

I’ve slept in. I assure him this is highly unusual for me, but he knows not to believe me. Mike’s half-packed his Grove R.A.D. (see our review of this Aussie gravel bike here) by the time I’m out of the tent… 

Today we’re looking at a day of riding and only riding. Just one major hurdle as far as we can tell from the profile: a 6km climb, half of which is on tarmac. It looks easy.

The valley is covered completely in mist. We head out the same direction we came in, but on the other side of the river, via a gravel road. This road hasn’t been graded in some time, and the corrugations are relentless. No line is smooth; we’re both moving from left to right, in the middle, in between, and still no smoothness can be found. I have a feeling that we were missing some beautiful countryside because of the fog as well. This is turning into a red mist. 

When we hit the tarmac, things pick up a little until we get to the foot of the climb. We know we are there thanks to the oversized sign that says, “Very steep climb next 3km”. This is only the first half, though, and we grind it out to the top of the road and take a moment to take in the landscape looking back over the mountains and over the road and climb we’ve just conquered. 

At Blackfellows Hand Trail we make a left and start the dirt part of the climb. The sun is just cracking over the top of the rocky outcrops, and the conversation is nil at this point. I’m struggling, and Mike has again left me to ride to my own rhythm. 

If nothing, this leisurely pace gives us the chance to check out some intriguing rock formations in the early part of the dirt climb, but we eventually hit the top and we find ourselves back on smooth gravel fire trails across a ridgeline heading back towards Lithgow. 

We meet the road we rode yesterday, for the final run into town, and have the pleasure of descending the climb we battled up yesterday. This relatively short day in the saddle also means we have the perfect excuse to indulge in lunch at the Lithgow Tin Shed and celebrate the accomplishment of this awesome mini-epic. The Tin Shed itself provides a further excuse to simply take our time over lunch, before resigning ourselves to the return journey back to the hustle and bustle of Sydney.

Bikepacking reflections

This two-day ride isn’t for the faint of heart. Despite wrapping up both days relatively early, it was a good hustle on the bikes to complete it. If you’re considering it, be ready to hike-a-bike for a few hours on the first day. It helps if you know that’s coming, and it’s not actually so bad once it is finished.

This is the second time I’ve tackled this route, each time bringing a Glow Worm first-timer along with me. It’s a brilliant route to test your legs and set-up for some rough terrain if you ever plan on going long and off the beaten track.

The post Through the hall of the mountain king: cycling Lithgow to Newnes, NSW appeared first on Australian Geographic.

South Australian-based Kiwi rider, Kurt Standen, took out first place – crossing the finish line after seven days, 6 hours and 10 minutes. That made him the first of 16 (out of the 30 starters) who managed to complete the journey.

The event was Standen’s first time in Tassie – and he doesn’t mince words when commenting on the gruelling nature of the race, including the “unrelenting climbs”, lots of washed out bridges, and “underwhelming resupply options”. But he also called it “one of the most enjoyable weeks I’ve spent on the bike”. 

“The Tassie Gift started off in my mind as a race, but soon turned into a game of survival once the reality of the course became apparent and the body niggles surfaced, which are inevitable on a course this difficult,” he said.

“I’m generally of the opinion that any event is as difficult as you make it, however I believe the Gift is unique in that just completing the course is a serious undertaking and achievement.”

Race founder battles illness

The Gift was the brainchild of Hobart local Emma Flukes, who launched the race back in 2019 with the aim of highlighting the best of Tassie’s off-road bike tracks. The route follows a figure-eight that starts and finishes in Hobart – scaling kunanyi/Mt Wellington, then traversing the central and cradle plateaus to Arthur River, heading back down the west coast through takayna/The Tarkine, before an almost mirrored loop on the eastern half of the state, taking in Derby, St Helens and Orford.

Flukes, a former winner, had to bow out early for the first time this year after being hit with a nasty bug about 300km from home. This latest misadventure followed a rough 2022 race when she battled through to the finish line despite a debilitating bout of Shermer’s neck.

Red tape threatens race’s proudly ‘unsupported and unsanctioned’ soul

Bikepackers clearly love the ‘gift’ Flukes has given them in the form of this event, which has garnered increasing attention since its inception – this year pulling in riders from across Australia and New Zealand, as well as Europe and Singapore.

Aussie rider Nick Langman, who finished in fourth place, said the Gift was “easily the hardest and most magical ride I’ve ever done”. 

Kiwi competitor Brian Alder – a 2023 DNF (Did Not Finish) due to mechanical issues – said “the Tassie Gift is full of wonderful quirks, but don’t mistake its oddities for it being a casual undertaking. It’s huge, it’s hard with seemingly endless hills, stunning scenes and challenging logistics – an expedition.”

However, Emma says she’s concerned the proudly “unsupported and unsanctioned” event could risk becoming a victim of its own success, with the inevitable spectre of increasing red tape forcing a rethink of how the race might look in the future.

“What makes the Gift so attractive is how simple it is to pack a bike, turn on a tracker, and away you go,” she said. “I don’t want to gate-keep people’s participation in the event or put any administrative hurdles in front of participants. I have a bit to work through over the coming months to find a happy medium we can settle on, but there’s so much community support for the event now, I feel like I can’t just switch that off!”

The 2023 route and rider places are available to view online at tassiegift2023.maprogress.com.

The post Kiwi cyclist conquers “scenic trip to Hell” in Tassie Gift race appeared first on Australian Geographic.

My alarm is set for 2am, but I knew I’d wake before; this could be due to not sleeping in my bed or the cold silence of our eco-comfort camp. Maybe the invisible shadow of Mt Sonder, the fourth-highest peak in the Northern Territory, looming south of my tent, wakes me at 1:15? Ahead of us is a group attempt on the 16km-return hike to the top of Mt Sonder, Section 12 (the last) of the Larapinta Trail. Traditionally, this is attempted through the night to get to the summit at sunrise, and hopefully, coming off the mountain and returning to the carpark – all going well – at around 10:30-11am. All this means we leave Sonder’s base at 3:15am. 

I’ve several concerns and the first is with my head torch; it’s the rechargeable USB kind, so there is no swapping out double As if it fails on me. I’ve also never attempted anything like this before, walking through the night to a mountain summit. Today is not an endurance event, but I am conscious that I want to be at the highest point, selfishly for photographic reasons, just before sunrise, and there’s a real possibility we won’t even see the summit. 

There are seven of us in the group, and two (I am happy to say) are experienced Larapinta Trail World Expeditions guides. As with all our adventures over the last week, the night before has been a time for briefing and questions about the challenge ahead. Abby points out that it’s always safety first. Her last two group attempts on the summit were cut short and turned around due to rain and a potential thunderstorm. Pete, who has guided the Larapinta for approximately 10 years, has seen it all and tells us that after checking the weather, it looks like we’ll have light cloud cover and no rain. What can’t be accounted for, however, is the wind. Sonder, he points out, seems to have its own weather system, and in Pete’s calm composure, he reminds us to enjoy the climb and whatever happens; just being here and attempting this mountain means something and is memorable enough.

Stepping off the bus, we are prepared for the challenge, water bags filled, and I’m carrying plenty of banana bread and energy bars. Annoyingly, I have a slight pain in my left knee, which I keep to myself; it’s a reminder of the ups and downs of the last few days. Rocky terrain is finally catching up with me, but I know I’ve got this section’s 16km in me; I’ve been told the first two kays are the steepest, and then it’s a steady assent to its summit.

Leaving the car park, I now understand there are different degrees of darkness; most of us experience the night surrounded by some level of light pollution created by Australian cities. At 3:15 in the morning, Mt Sonder is in a completely black darkness. There’s a little cloud cover, so the stars make an appearance now and again, but for a significant amount of time, all I can see is the light from mine and Abby’s head torch who’s ahead of me as we slowly climb the stairs and follow the path on Sonder’s first few kilometres. Well into the climb, we pause to regroup and refuel, and it’s around this time that I genuinely feel like I’m climbing a mountain. However, visibility around me is practically zero; looking back, I see several bobbing head torches lighting the path and making their way up. Then, another line of lights pierces the night even further in the distance. It looks like we won’t be alone on this summit.

I remember Pete’s early advice: eat more than you think you will need at the beginning. You may not want it, this will help and give you the energy required for the final summit push. We make good progress, and although the wind starts to pick up as we close in on the top, it’s apparent it won’t be enough to halt our progress. Mt Sonder’s draw comes from the safety in its route, meaning there’s little risk in the walk from bottom to top; you must be fit enough to return climb a mountain, but there are no unnerving edges or narrow paths to worry about or even fall off. 

I see the marker to my left, a simple white square, and the 1km to-go indicator in black. I must be honest. This last kilometre never felt so long. Rachel, my fellow climber, and I both joke about where’s the top, and the answer soon comes as I look to my left and see a bright red line cut horizontally through the horizon. First light; the sun is rising.

At the summit, there’s enough room for the multiple groups to rest. I try to relax but know this is a perfect opportunity for photography; after all, how often are you on a mountaintop at first light? With a 360-degree view, I see the length of the MacDonnell Ranges on my right and look down ridges and lines I’ve walked the days before. It’s an unforgettable visual reminder of the walk’s beauty and what it takes to complete it. I turn and read the mountains trig plate. Even though I’ve only tackled part of this walk today, this still feels like a tremendous accomplishment.

The Larapinta highlights package

Over the last five days, I’ve been guided on what I guess you could call a highlights reel of the Larapinta Trial hosted by World Expeditions. Instead of what’s known as the complete trail – the end-to-end trek – I’m experiencing five days of walking different sections along the route, which adds up to approximately 45km. At this point, I must confess; this is my first time in the NT, and in my naivety, I thought central Australia was a hot desert. I had no idea of the rocky MacDonnell Ranges that form a unique half-pipe of parallel ridges running east and west through Alice Springs. On my first day out of Alice, I was surprised by the view that unfolded before me; on arriving on the trail, I’d seen this distinctive rock formation, dry sandy riverbed, single tree, and water hole. I knew it from the many photographs given to me for past magazine layouts; this is Simpsons Gap. A photo is one thing, but being here and learning about this spiritual site cannot be replaced. For example, the right-hand rock formation dips down and touches the water hole at its base; it’s pointed out to me that from a distance, this rock formation looks and mimics a lizard stopping for a drink, a sure sign to the local Indigenous community that this is much-needed water supply.

I’m secretly excited and pleased to experience some home comforts heading to camp. World Ex has three non-identical Eco canvas tent campsites at different points along the Larapinta. Okay, so we are not doing the hard yards and carrying significant packs and solo camping; I know this would take much organising with food drops and the potential lack of the basics is an issue for me. But with the amazingly designed camps, I am somewhat spoilt with hot water and hot meals every night. It’s all straightforward and well thought out; I’ve been told that most people pull their canvas swags out of their tents to sleep under the stars, getting that once-in-a-lifetime experience even for one night. After a healthy hot meal with fresh air and an unforgettable NT sunset, I fall asleep quickly, knowing tomorrow will be a test on the legs; Section 8 on the trail and just over 16km of walking.

Into the heat

Usually, I’m confident in walking 16km, especially if I have the whole day to complete the distance. But at the start of Section 8 (graded hard), it’s apparent that a few things could throw me more than a few challenges. First off, it’s hot, even though we are in the middle of winter. The mercury feels like it’s playing around the mid-20s. Throw into this our remote location and what’s looking like a complete walk that’s vertically up, then down. I know that the food and water that has been packed, is all we have for the day. Thankfully, we are being guided by Ruth (World Ex), and once again, I’m in complete awe by how much she’s carrying on her back. I know in that bag is one, my lunch and two, any medical supplies needed in the unlikely event we come unstuck. Also, her knowledge of today’s walk is invaluable; her experience on when to rest and her understanding of how far we are from camp is a comfort, knowing we want to get there before sundown. After taking in the beautiful Serpentine Gorge at the start of the section, we slowly follow the well-trodden trail that steadily climbs onto one of the ridge lines.

Passing a simple sign that indicates a food drop, I realised how much of a personal undertaking this whole trail would be if you were to tackle it alone or in a small group, given the surroundings’ remote beauty. Almost straight away, due to the heat, our little group starts shedding clothing layers. The initial part of today’s walk is the hardest and the steepest. The climb up to the ridge top is a good 4km, sometimes taking on challenging steps and switchbacks; luckily, the morning temp is just right for this extended effort. The texture underfoot has this constant feel of loose rock, not in an unsafe way because you always feel like you are on solid ground, but a constant reminder of this harsh landscape. Ruth tells me the most common problem she has guiding is the threat of blisters and warns us to speak up if we feel any hot spots on our feet. 

Naturally, our group of seven finds its rhythm as we make the top and walk along the ridgeline. Even though we are in the height of the Larapinta walking season, we see no other walkers all day; I’m constantly looking at the views with the ranges of rock formation ripples falling away and disappearing as far as the eye can see. At the highest point of the day, you’ll find Counts Point; looking at the spectacular view, it’s difficult to imagine a better one on the whole Larapinta Trail. It is named Counts Point simply because you can count all the mountain peaks on either side of the MacDonnell Ranges. The exceptional view is a classic keepsake from the trail, with Mt Sonder showing itself in the distance, a reminder of the space left to travel if you are attempting the complete walk.

Turning and heading back onto the trail, I notice a manufactured horseshoe-shaped low wall of rocks, “Cowboy camping”, explains Ruth. “Just roll out your swag and sleep under the stars; my parents have camped in this spot”. Instantly I’m jealous and feel this is one of those bucket-list moments I need to return to and tick off. After a late lunch, it’s the last section of the day’s walk and the final push to get to camp. The day’s effort is starting to take its toll on my legs, and it’s easy to see why this section is graded hard. I’m beginning to feel the repetition in my left knee of the constant going downhill. With an hour of sunlight left to spare, our group makes camp, welcomed by Abby, holding soft damp hand towels, and freshly cut watermelon after a full day of hot, dusty, and challenging hike. These simple offerings have never felt or tasted so good.

Looping the Pound

Towards the end of Section 9, you walk along part of Ormiston Gorge; if you stick to the traditional Larapinta trail, you naturally carry on to Section 10; Ormiston Gorge to Finke River. After completing the 16km of Section 8 the day before, I’m happy to avoid Section 9, which Ruth tells me is a very long, strenuous day with potentially over 12 hours of walking as you undertake the 28.9km. Today is one of the World Expeditions highlights – the 10km loop of Ormiston Pound, which is, for a good reason, a very popular day excursion of the main trail. A steady start to the walk gently rises to one of the Pound’s lookouts; a perfect huge geological bowl formed in the MacDonnell Ranges presents itself. It feels wholly untouched and Jurassic, looking like a scene from a sci-fi movie where you imagine a herd of dinosaurs walking through this barren landscape. Dropping down from the ridge lookout, we continue towards the flat centre of the walk. We pause, with Ruth advising us that we should all walk silently and at least 50m apart to take in the natural surroundings at our own pace. Around this time, I began to understand the draw of the Larapinta; committing to this walk, either in part or whole, results in an unpredictable adventure where you are withdrawn from your daily grind, and placed into a true wilderness. 

Of course, with my trip, so much of the stress, food and organising are sorted for me, but I still must get through each day with basically what’s on my back. Walking through this Pound, although I know this is a popular destination, the vastness, natural beauty, and clear headspace makes me feel like I am the first to walk this part of the Northern Territory. As we complete the final third of the 10km, it could not feel more picturesque, as we skip our way over large stone boulders on dry riverbeds surrounded by deep red cliff walls.

All day there are two words that we’ve been wary of as a group: ‘water crossing’. Although only a few 100m in length, the permanent water placed towards the end of the walk is something, we all must navigate. At the start of the day, we were warned that the water was only belly button deep, but we would need to be sure-footed to avoid going completely under. I’m prepared and bought along my swimmers, meaning I could finish the walk-in comfortably in dry clothing once out of the water. We gingerly wade across the freezing water, bags and walking boots raised above our heads. Thankfully, we all make the crossing with dignity intact and with no accidental dunking of camera equipment. With the water behind us, it’s less than one kilometre of walking between banked, red rock walls dotted with ghost gums back to the visitor’s centre and the end of the day’s walk. 

A parting gift from the Larapinta

Packing up camp on our final day, there’s a sombre feeling floating through our group; we all know what we have witnessed and learned from this land over the last five days has been a rare and unforgettable experience. None of us wants to return to city life, but in true Larapinta fashion, the walk gives us one final gift. It drizzles at sunrise in Sonder’s shadow, a substantial perfect rainbow appearing across the camp. “I’ve never seen anything like that here, so early in the morning,” Abby remarks. With red dirt in hand, I take in this moment, seen for the first time, like so many walking firsts over the last five days.

Walking an icon

World Expeditions has multiple awards-winning guided Larapinta Trips on offer.
I joined and completed most of the Classic Larapinta Trek in Comfort, although longer and shorter trip options are available.
Check out the dedicated Larapinta Trail walks website for more info on this and other Larapinta Trail experiences.

The post In the land of the desert rose: Walking the NT’s Larapinta Trail appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Distance: 8.5km one-way  Time: 3 hours

From its source high in the Australian Alps, the Murrumbidgee River winds through the alpine regions of Kosciuszko National Park and the Monaro High Plains, and then through the Australian Capital Territory before joining the Murray River near Balranald, NSW. This wide, brown river – one of Australia’s longest at 1600km – is beloved by Canberrans for swimming, picnicking, fishing, day walks (and longer journeys).

Kambah Pool to Pine Island is one of the best sections of the 27km Murrumbidgee Discovery Track. Much of the walk takes place high above the Murrumbidgee, with glimpses of the river below, through a variety of landscapes. As you near Pine Island the path draws close to the river and this is a good place for a swim. It is hard to believe that a large town centre and major government offices exist only a short distance across the fields. About halfway along this route there is a lookout over Red Rocks Gorge. 

A jumble of rocks in the river below the cliffs have created a number of rapids, enjoyed by canoeists and rafters who have given them nicknames such as Junkyard and Shredder. After crossing Tuggeranong Creek look out for large holes in the river bank – these are wombat holes but as they are nocturnal you’re unlikely to see anything but their distinctive cube-shaped poo. 

Next, you’ll walk for about 50m alongside a dry-stone wall originally built by convicts between 1867 and 1875 to mark the boundaries of two large rural properties in the area, Yarralumla and Lanyon/Tuggeranong. The walk finishes at Pine Island Reserve where you’ll need to arrange a pick-up or retrace your steps to the start. The first section has some shade but most of the walk is in the open, so can be hot in summer. While rewarding at all times of the year, the walk is particularly lovely in spring when the different varieties of wattle are in bloom.  

Gloucester Tops Circuit, NSW

Distance: 8km circuit  Time: 3 hours

This wonderful rainforest walk is graded medium and combines three day walks in Barrington Tops National Park in north-eastern New South Wales. Clad with ancient forests and home to roaring waterfalls and brimming creeks, this park is a naturalist’s and bushwalker’s haven little altered by time. Centred on the Barrington massif – a series of crests forming part of the Mount Royal Range – Barrington Tops National Park is dominated by a 22km plateau that falls away steeply to the east, west and south. The high country, covered in snow-gum woodland and subalpine swamps, extends away in narrow ridgelines that drop suddenly into rugged escarpment country and numerous steep river valleys. 

From Gloucester Falls picnic area, follow the Gloucester Falls track to the Andrew Laurie and Gloucester Falls lookouts where you can take in the endless scale of this park. On River walking track there is a good chance of seeing red-necked wallabies, wombats and grey kangaroos – and masses of wildflowers in spring. The most special section is the Antarctic beech track, a section of cool temperate Gondwanan rainforest.

Under the dense canopy, mosses, lichens and ferns carpet nearly every surface. This beech (Nothofagus moorei) dates back 90 million years and has relatives in South America, New Zealand, New Caledonia and New Guinea. Growing 25–50m tall with 1m-wide trunks, the Antarctic beech is extremely vulnerable to fire so has only survived in wet high-altitude areas. If you’re lucky you might spot the rufous scrub-bird, one of Australia’s rarest birds, or hear the vocal theatrics of a superb lyrebird.  

Namadgi Settlers Track, ACT

Distance: 9km circuit  Time: 3–4 hours

Namadgi was the name used by the local Aboriginal people for the mountain range south-west of Canberra. Gazetted in 1984, Namadgi National Park occupies almost half of the area of the ACT and encompasses spectacular views from its many mountain peaks. There are more than 160km of walking tracks in the park but this one (one of the park’s many day walks) explores the cultural heritage of the Australian Alps with a look at the lives of late 19th-century settlers. This lovely (easy grade) loop walk meanders through forest, then open grassland and finally grassy woodland to see three pastoralists’ huts, restored by community group, Kosciuszko Huts Association (KHA), who have also researched the stories and photographs of the settlers, workers and their families seen on information boards along the walk. 

William and Flora Brayshaw settled here in 1844 and Thomas and Mary Jane Westerman in 1882. Several generations were born and buried in this isolated and unforgiving landscape. The walk starts at Brayshaw’s Homestead, built in 1903 from timber slabs with a stone chimney. This rudimentary two-room cottage housed a bachelor for 28 years. It had no stove, just a camp oven, and it wasn’t until a family bought it in the 1930s that the walls were papered with newspaper in an attempt to keep out icy draughts. The next hut, Waterhole, is even more rudimentary – built of corrugated iron in the 1930s to shelter stockmen who worked in the area, land-clearing and sheep drenching in the nearby stockyards. Westerman’s Homestead was built in 1916, the family’s third dwelling on this spot. There is a small graveyard and remnants of a garden with exotic trees.  

Mermaids Pool and Tahmoor Canyon, NSW

Distance: 8.5km circuit  Time: 5 hours 

From the south-western outskirts of Sydney, the sandstone Nepean Ramp rises gently to the plateau. Named for the river that is now dammed at Warragamba, this upland Wollondilly district is an area well worth the attention of walkers. This spectacular circuit is one of the best day walks in Wollondilly, and is graded medium difficulty. It is best saved for a warm, sunny day. Just before the Bargo River nears the Nepean River, it has carved a sandstone chasm up to 110m deep to form beautiful Tahmoor Canyon with a succession of swimming holes and cascades. Tracks above it and a route along the canyon floor have been unofficially tagged and marked to form a canyon circuit that doesn’t require specialised gear or even waterproof packs. The first section to Mermaids Pool is relatively easy.

There is a choice of routes – the upper track is easier but the lower takes you to Bargo Falls and the delightful swimming hole just below known as See Through Pool. After Mermaids Pool turn right at the next junction, this is a loop route via Tahmoor Canyon. Competent rock-hoppers should have no problem, but the river ledges can be slippery after rain and you might get your feet wet if the river level is high. The walk starts under Rockford Bridge and can be hard to follow – the way is marked by metal tags and paint markers.  

Main Range Walk, NSW

Distance: 22km circuit  Time: 9 hours  

This big bopper is for experienced walkers and is one of Australia’s greatest day walks, exploring some of the greatest alpine country on offer in NSW. The walk yields views of Blue, Club and Albina Lakes, climbs to the top of Mt Kosciuszko (2228m) and crosses the Snowy River twice. The views in clear weather extend over the vast mountainous landscape to the distant horizon. Suffice to say that the Main Range circuit is truly one of the classic day walks of New South Wales. If you want to stay overnight, there is a good campsite at Wilkinsons Creek (800m west of the trail).

Setting out from Charlotte Pass, it’s about 4.5km to Blue Lake, the deepest and largest cirque lake in mainland Australia. At 28m deep, this lake was formed when glaciers, flowing from the Great Dividing Range, converged and carved out a basin in the rock. 

Related: Best foot forward: A guide to hiking

Returning to the Main Range track, the route continues uphill. Not long after a three-way intersection, the track winds up the ridge to Carruthers Peak, with views of Club Lake and across the valley to Charlotte Pass. Now the route heads south-west, high up along the rugged Main Range, to Mount Kosciuszko’s peak. The summit track is relatively short and easy – thousands of people walk up each year. (You can bike from Charlotte Pass to Rawson Pass and then walk the 1.4km to the summit). On a clear day, the views are naturally magnificent from this, the highest point on the continent.

Head downhill via Rawson Pass (linking route to Thredbo) and Seaman’s Hut, an emergency shelter erected in 1929 and named for a young skier named Laurie Seaman who died in a blizzard when he was separated from his group. After leaving the hut, the return to Charlotte Pass is a steady descent along the Old Kosciuszko Road. When you get to a glorious grove of snow gums, you’re just 2km from the end of the walk.

Alpine weather can be extreme and unpredictable. You must be prepared for all conditions and be sure to advise a family member or friend of your plans.

The post Steppin’ out: Five day walks in NSW and the ACT appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Stan Soroka, Eden Mountain Bike Club President, is understandably excited to see the trails open, after lots of work and collaboration between the Eden MBC, Forestry Corporation of NSW and the Eden Community Access Centre. There are 20 trails in the new network, with 16 of these open now (the other four need some more rain to bed-in properly).

The trails at Gravity Eden MTB Park were built by the experienced team at Contour Works (Nature Trails and Blue Sky Trails were the Project Managers) and are of the expected high standard from this renowned team. The trails offer an amazing riding experience for all skill levels, taking riders through terrain ranging from exposed ridges and rock shelves, to lush, fern-covered valleys and creek crossings, with a mix of Easy, Intermediate and Expert grade trails. There are also smooth scenic trails, and a fantastic Skills Park, with a dirt jump park and premium asphalt pump track, all located at the trailhead. 

The trails actually had a big pre-opening test in September, with the running of a round of the Quad Crown MTB Series, according to Soroka.

“The club seized the opportunity to host the Quad Crown MTB series in September as a chance to assess the trail conditions,” he says. “Not only did the trails pass the test, riders from all over Australia praised the quality of our trails, filling us with joy. The local community has wholeheartedly supported the project from the beginning and is now reaping the social benefits that have exceeded our expectations.”

Build it, and they will come

Mountain bike based tourism is booming in Australia, and Soroka and the team at Eden MTB Club, along with the Eden Community Access Centre, saw huge tourism potential in creating this trail network; the local terrain suits mountain biking perfectly. It all came down to costs, which were, perhaps ironically, covered thanks to the government response to the devastating 2019-2020 bushfires in the region, in the form of a grant from the Bushfire Local Economic Recovery (BLEF) Fund Package (part of the $4.5 billion bushfire support program, co-funded by the Australian and NSW governments for bushfire recovery, response, and preparedness in NSW.

The funding was designed to support social and economic recovery in bushfire-affected communities such as Eden and surrounds. This funding was warmly welcomed by the team behind the trails’ development, as Julian Webb, from Eden Community Access Centre, explains.

“ECAC and the Eden Trails Group, comprising members of the Eden Mountain Bike Club, were excited about having reached such a significant milestone in the project. We are extremely grateful to have received the funding.”  

Juilan further elaborates on how Gravity Eden MTB Park will be a welcome boost to all-year tourism in the town and surrounding region.

“This multi-million dollar project is now ready to deliver a critical contribution to the area’s social and economic development and resilience. Eden is a true mountain biking destination, providing opportunities to attract tourists and investment to the region. The hub will also be an important community asset, contributing to employment opportunities and positive health and wellbeing outcomes,” said Julian.

It’s time to ride Gravity Eden

The local community in Eden is pumped for the trail network’s opening. Local businesses and cafes (Editor’s note: the coffee and breakfasts you will find are brilliant. Just sayin’…) are gearing up to cater to the influx of riders, and additional developments, such as revamped hotels and new bike shops (you can hire bikes from Creative Lines), are adding to the excitement.

The Sapphire Coast’s catchcry to visitors is “Wonderfully Wild” and it is already a favourite outdoor and adventure destination, with its abundant paddling, hiking and camping opportunities. The opening of Gravity Eden MTB Park further adds to the attraction for adventurous travellers. Indeed, the team at Aus Geo ADVENTURE cannot wait to get down there and experience what looks like being one of Australia’s premier mountain bike riding experiences, in one of the most naturally spectacular regions of NSW. 

See Gravity Eden for more info on the trails, a full trail network map, and links to all info (accommodation, travel, etc.) on how to make your visit as awesome as possible. See Sapphire Coast Tourism for info on Eden and the rest of this beautiful part of the NSW far south coast.

The post Gravity Eden: A new mountain biking paradise opens in Eden, NSW appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The Overland Track, Tasmania

We could be accused of taking the easy way out by choosing Tassie’s famous Overland Track as one of our top eight treks. After all, the Apple Isle is jam-packed with awesome multiday walking options – all of which could easily be included in this list. So what separates the Overland from its neighbours? There are tougher challenges (think: Western Arthurs Traverse; South Coast Track) and there are more remote ones (Mt Anne Circuit, anyone?) but simply put, it is the variety of ways you can travel the Overland that see it make this list. Whether you opt for the popular summer season, less-crowded shoulder season, winter (yes, bring your snow shoes), guided, independent, camping in tents or enjoying the hut-to-hut experience, the Overland can cater for any walker’s preferences, and deliver a grand adventure in this still-wild island state.

The 65km one-way Overland is rated as a moderate walk, and starts at beautiful Cradle Mountain and traverses the sub-alpine landscape of the Tassie high country, taking in glacier-wrought valleys, rainforests, buttongrass-clad moorlands and lunar-esque high meadows. If you are averse to crowds, we recommend either going in the shoulder season (autumn or spring) or, if you’re keen and want a truly unique Overland trek, go in winter. Summer means lots of people (although numbers are now controlled thanks to a permit system) crammed into campsites and huts, whereas the quieter times of year allow for a more relaxed, contemplative time in this World Heritage-listed region. The huts on the Overland are reminiscent of those on the NZ Great Walks across the ditch, so are great for shelter from the oft-volatile Tasmanian weather. The Overland is hugely popular, so you will need to book campsites/huts well ahead if you’re walking independently. Guided treks are offered by World Expeditions and are a brilliant way to take the stress/hassle out of planning a trek such as this (see Fact File at the end of this story for more info).

You will need to bring all your gear – and clothing for all seasons, regardless of the season. Yes, the weather can be that crazy and if you’re stuck out on the track with a few hours to go until the next hut, and the temperature has dropped to single digits, you’ll be glad you packed that down jacket – even if it is February. 

As well as the main track, there are plenty of sidetracks to explore, often leading to some amazing viewpoints, so if you have extra days on hand, make sure you factor these extra excursions into your planning (and your hut bookings). Some of the many highlights along the track are the side-trips to the top of Mt Ossa and Cradle Mountain itself. We can joke about spotting the Tassie Tiger during your hike, but you can see a lot of wildlife on this walk; wombats, snakes and a ton of birdlife will – sort of – make up for the undoubted no-show of the Apple Isle’s most famous former resident. Add to this the comfortable mix of easy through to slightly challenging walking, and you’ll be delaying your return to “the mainland” from this wild region for as long as you can.

The West Coast Trail, British Columbia

Studying the West Coast Trail (WCT) on a map, you might think it is a straightforward, seven-day hike following the western coastline of British Columbia’s Vancouver Island, but this would be a serious mistake – not because the trail is tough, but because it offers everything you could wish for in seven days in the wild. The WCT experience includes whales and orca splashing about in the Pacific Ocean; cougar, black bear and wolf roaming the dense forest; and an undulating path over a multitude of tree roots, plenty of mud (especially after rain), some old (and some new) timber boarding, more than 100 bridges and 70-plus ladders that provide access to the mainly beach-based campsites. If there’s another weeklong walk that packs in as much excitement and adventure, we’d be very surprised.

Hikers can tackle the WCT either north to south or south to north. We’d opt for the tougher south to north version, as the southern section of the WCT includes more rugged track sections, water/creek crossings and steeper terrain – and you will be carrying a heavier pack – but it’s worth the effort as you’ll experience some of the best beach campsites you can imagine, each with clean toilets and bear boxes, where all food is stored to lessen the attraction of the bruin kind.

This walk is one that always appears on “best of” lists and, as a result, booking a place on it means planning well ahead – especially if you’re keen to tackle it as an independent hiker via a WCT Overnight Use Permit, rather than as part of a guided group. Aussies who are keen to experience this iconic walk as a guided trip can book with World Expeditions (see Fact File for more info). 

Whatever your poison in regards to the WCT, you will need to be fit: at a minimum your pack (whether guided or independent; you have to lug not only your own clothing, tent and sleeping gear, but also food for the seven days) will weigh at least 20kg, and you will have to be capable of negotiating tricky, occasionally technical ground, as well as crossing those few waterways that aren’t bridged (or have a cable car) and getting used to climbing ladders. It sounds challenging but if you’re fit and have walked multi-day routes before, the WCT will, over the course of its seven days, ingrain itself permanently in your memory as an epic adventure.

Mt Kenya, Kenya

Mt Kenya is the African continent’s second highest mountain (Kilimanjaro is numero uno) and, put simply, it is a cracking multiday trekking adventure. There is a mix of route options to the top of the trekking summit of Point Lenana, along which you will encounter some seriously dramatic landscape and plenty of wildlife. Plus, there are far fewer trekkers here compared to Kili…

Mt Kenya is best tackled in a guided group (such as World Expeditions) as this takes away all the hassles of logistics and permits. The adventure starts well before the walk; you will be transported via 4WD along a rough, slippery, bumpy track for a few hours before you start the track and walk to the cottages near the Chogoria gate entrance to Mt Kenya National Park. When this writer trekked here with World Expeditions along the Chogoria/Sirimon route, we travelled in some old but still capable Series III Land Rovers. At this very early stage, you are already 3017m above sea level, so the rest of the afternoon is spent relaxing in the cottages and getting ready for your next day of walking.

The first day is through forest before moving higher and into an alpine moorland region. Keep an eye out for wildlife ranging from elephant and buffalo to antelope and monkeys along the way to camp at Lake Ellis. This is a beautiful first camp but is trumped by the brilliant campsite at Lake Michaelson on the second night of the trek. After climbing up to 4000m, you suddenly drop down 200m into the famous Gorges Valley, a part of which encompasses the campsite itself. 

The landscape changes again the following day as you trek even higher; moorland grasses drop away as you enter the high alpine zone and are replaced by rock and scree, with the jagged spires of the nearby peaks adding to the lunar-esque terrain. From high camp at Simba Tarn (at a lofty 4560m) the final push – via an early 3.30am start – will take you to the summit of Point Lenana (at 4985m), with the most amazing 360-degree views of the African plains below and, amazingly, the dome-shaped silhouette of Mt Kilimanjaro, roughly 260km in the distance. Mt Kenya is made up of three separate peaks, with Lenana the highest trekking summit. For those with climbing skills (and more time) the pyramid-shaped Batian is the true high peak of Mt Kenya, and a serious alpine/rock climbing goal. 

The return from the summit is long but downhill; you will pass Shipton’s Camp, with its buildings and other trek groups camped around them, on the way down to Moses Camp for a well-earned rest before the last descent down the Sirimon Valley to the national park gate. For a five-day trek, Mt Kenya packs in everything you could wish for: wildlife, amazing scenery, great guides and porters, and what this writer rates as one of the world’s most amazing sunrises. 

The Dusky Track, New Zealand

New Zealand is chock-full of any number of multiday treks that would sit comfortably on a walker’s bucket list – it just boils down to how much of a (rewarding) challenge you want. Enter the Dusky Track. Deep, deep down in the wild southern section of Fiordland National Park, the Dusky is one of Australasia’s most challenging walks – and is for experienced, independent walkers only; there’s no cushy guided option here, folks, it is an epic undertaking. It is also one that pays massive dividends: you will be transported to one of the world’s most remote regions – most likely by float plane or boat – to tackle the journey from Lake Hauroko in the south, to the track’s northern finish point of Lake Manapouri. You will traverse some absolutely crazy terrain, ranging from low boggy floodplains to high ridges and mountains, while negotiating 21 three-wire bridges across creeks and rivers, and – most likely – slogging for at least one day through deep, boot-destroying mud along a rough, barely formed track. In other words, it is a real adventure!

The Dusky Track will, at a minimum, take you eight days. But make sure you pencil in another two days at least to allow for any weather delays; high rainfall means flooded track sections, which in turn means extended stopovers at huts. Then, add another two for the not-to-be-missed optional side trip to Supper Cove, on Dusky Sound. Yep, that’s 12 days. And you’ll need to be fit and strong as you will have to carry all your food, clothing, sleeping and cooking gear in your pack – there are no food drops here. Like we said, it’s an epic undertaking. 

The huts are relatively basic but offer the required shelter and are a welcome sight after a day on the track. The days are long, but time is forgotten here as you focus on negotiating the terrain, checking out the incredible views and, most importantly, soaking up the entire enriching experience. Not all who venture south to attempt the Dusky tackle the side trip to Supper Cove but, the way we see it, if you’re going to be heading to a place that is so remote, and you’ve seen some of the brilliant photographs of the cove itself, you will put your head down and just do it. 

For all this ruggedness and long distance, the Dusky has earned its place on this list for one simple reason: there’s nothing else quite like it in our part of the world. And if you ask anyone who has done it what their opinion is, you will probably be surprised at both their passionate recollection of their experience, and also their comment of, “It was tough and challenging, but I’d do it again tomorrow if I could”. It’s amazing how venturing into a true wilderness can affect people…

John Muir Trail, USA

Connecting Yosemite National Park’s Happy Isles with the summit of Mt Whitney, via Seqouia National Park, the 340km John Muir Trail (JMT) takes you up high, and then higher again (around the 2400m mark), as you traverse the rugged Sierra Nevada Range. Alpine lakes, jagged mountaintops, steep alpine passes and designated wilderness areas – as well as oodles of wildlife – all combine to make this long-haul journey a cracker.

Like most treks in this list, you can walk the JMT in both directions – north-south or the other way. Due to the rugged (and, in winter, snow-covered) alpine terrain the best time of year is the northern hemisphere summer (July-September). If you decide to walk the JMT north-south, you get to finish on a figurative highpoint: hiking to the summit of Mt Whitney which is, at 4418m, the tallest peak in the USA’s lower 48 states. As well, by kicking off in Yosemite NP, you’re near instantly surrounded by world-famous landmarks, including Nevada Falls, Half Dome and Cathedral Peak, with the latter two bucket-list destinations for rock climbers around the world.

Leave Yosemite NP and you’re soon in the spectacular Ansel Adams Wilderness, named in honour of the famous landscape photographer, with its steep, rugged terrain. Then, once you cross over Donohue Pass, you’ll enjoy commanding views of the epic Sierra Nevada Range. The Ansel Adams Wilderness section is incredible and leads on to even more spectacular vistas in Kings Canyon NP before coming to the last portion of the JMT that starts in Sequoia NP, and encompasses the haul to the Mt Whitney summit. 

As with any global bucket-list trek – and especially as it resides in such a populous country – you will have to plan well ahead for your JMT adventure. Aim to book your permit at least six months in advance and make sure you don’t forget to organise food drops – unlike the Larapinta Trail, the JMT is well away from civilisation, roads and access points. Of course, the sheer size of the JMT means that, even though it is popular and might seem like it should be busy, it won’t be. It’s a huge slab of one of the world’s wild regions, so there’s plenty of space for anyone keen to take a few weeks or more to explore it.

Fact File

Overland Track
Guided: World Expeditions runs excellent guided treks on the Overland Track.

West Coast Trail
North America Active offers an eight-day guided experience on the WCT.

Mt Kenya
World Expeditions offers a guided experience along the Chogoria/Sirimon route included in this story.

The John Muir Trail
North America Active offers a number of guided options of various lengths along this famous walk.

Dusky Track
This is one of NZ’s more challenging walks and is not currently offered as a guided walk. However, for the experienced walker, it is a brilliant challenge. See the New Zealand Department of Conservation (DOC) for info on booking DOC huts and campsites, plus links to track transport operators.

The post Best in class: Five of the greatest walks in the world appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Starting its journey high up in the alpine country of New South Wales and finishing it by spilling into the Pacific Ocean at Marlo, near Orbost, just over the border in Victoria, the Snowy River is revered for its awesome paddling and the fact it – and its surrounds – are rich in indigenous history and culture.

It also resonates in this country’s modern history; it is the integral part of one of this country’s largest engineering feats – the Snowy Hydro Scheme – albeit at a hefty cost to the river’s natural flow-rate. 

Ask any canoeist, kayaker or rafter about ‘the Snowy’ and you’ll nearly always cop a reverential “Ooohhh” or “Aaaah” as part of the reply; even at its far lower post-Snowy Hydro water levels the river sits high on Aussie paddlers’ bucket-lists.

For these water-borne adventurers, the most popular journey down a section of the Snowy River starts at the (relatively) easily accessed put-in at McKillops Bridge (in Victoria’s Snowy River National Park) and finishes at the Buchan confluence in East Gippsland.

Venture further upriver, however, deep into steep and rugged gorge country, and you will discover a lesser known and more wild section of this famous river. Paddled by very few, for those who do, it offers a purer experience of what it is to paddle a remote waterway rich in wildlife and culture…

Something secret this way is

The Byadbo Wilderness (along with nearby Pilot Wilderness) is in Kosciuszko National Park’s southeast corner and is around 350,000 hectares in size. The Snowy River winds through this wilderness for roughly 70km and is littered with rarely seen – and thus relatively unspoiled or damaged – indigenous cultural sites of the Ngarigo people.

It is part of a bigger something that I have come to experience; the chance to spend five days paddling the river itself, along with the opportunity to learn more about the eons-old indigenous occupation in this remote part of Australia and, last but not least for this former south coast boy, to escape the craziness that is living in this country’s largest capital city. 

Richard Swain (who, along with wife Alison, is the owner of Alpine River Adventures, the only guiding company permitted to run trips in this section of the Snowy) and fellow guide Chris Cahill are leading myself and four other paddlers on this water-borne adventure and it doesn’t take very long at all to be imbued with the laid-back attitude that Richard and Chris possess once we all meet up at the small alpine town of Dalgety.

A few coffees and bacon and egg rolls, followed by sorting of gear, kayaks, and food, and it begins. Well, in a way…

Arriving at the put-in point for five days on the Snowy is an adventure itself. It’s a couple of hours’ driving through the vast Monaro region of southeastern NSW, before reaching the township of Delegate, by which runs the river of the same name.

From here, continuing northwest, we start to get a real sense of remoteness; a narrow bitumen road soon transforms, firstly, into a dirt road, then into a rougher track as we weave between pine plantations (while keeping an eye out for kangaroos, red-tailed black cockatoos and emus – we do spot a male and some chicks) on the way to the gate that leads to Duncans Fire Trail.

This literal gateway takes us into Kosciuszko NP proper and comprises an early highlight of this adventure: the steep descent to the river is a test of 4WD driver skills, with the narrow, off-camber and rough dirt track that, after about 15 minutes of careful negotiation deposits us beside a small beach abutting the Snowy’s calm waters.

With the flow

You don’t just jump in kayaks and head off downriver on a five-day paddle adventure – and especially not this culturally significant one.

We firstly pack our gear, food and water, then pause while Richard ‘introduces’ us to the Snowy. He lets the river know we are about to jump in by spreading sand gathered on the riverbank across the water as an introduction – a courtesy call, if you like – from us to the Snowy. It is also a signal to the river’s native residents, such as the platypus, echidna, fish, white-bellied sea eagle and the ubiquitous black swan, that we are about to enter their home. Richard doesn’t pressure us to do the same, but nevertheless we all do. Somehow, it just seems so right.

The put-in point – a very calm body of water –emits that sense of ‘country’ that Richard mentions occasionally throughout the five days; down here, surrounded by steep cliffs and house-sized rocks jutting out of the water, there is a definite feeling of taking a step into a simpler, far more peaceful world than the one we left very early that same morning. Here, the river’s flow governs life and time.

The time before

Floating on the Snowy River today, you would never think that you’re only experiencing around 10 to 11 per cent of its previous natural flow (the targets from the early 2000s Snowy Watery Inquiry of staged flow targets – dependent on water savings elsewhere in the Snowy Hydro Scheme’s catchment areas, and weather – of 15 per cent by 2009 and 21 per cent by 2012 have never been achieved).

My father, among others, remembers the pre-dam Snowy from childhood rabbit-hunting trips in the region; camping beside parts of the river that were ‘as wide as the length of a football field’, and flowing far faster, with far more volume and yep, far louder, too.

Floating through this narrow valley on the first day, though, with the original watermarks higher up the shoreline and cliffs, allows my mind to envisage how powerful the Snowy must have been running at full throttle.

Sitting in seemingly robust inflatable single kayaks, the only thought that came to mind in terms of what it would have been like to paddle the river back then was: fast and furious –no doubt accompanied by a healthy dose of barely controlled fear. 

That fear is something that Arthur Hunt and Stanley Hanson would have no doubt felt in 1937 during the two months they spent completing the first canoe descent of the Snowy, from Jindabyne to Marlo, in – of all things – a diminutive 11.5-foot pine canoe.

It is stating the bleeding obvious to say it must have been an incredible experience, and probably best summed up in a quote from Hunt (courtesy of Landprints: Reflections on Place and Landscape, by George Seddon) when he writes: “The banks were masses of boulders, with the sides of the gorge rising sheer in some places for hundreds of feet. Our hands cracked and bled, Stan’s back was worse, the canoe was leaking again – altogether we had a pretty rough time.”

An early headline act 

The Snowy puts on a show from the get-go; we’re not more than around 30 minutes downriver when we spot platypus. Day one and I am already fully stoked. This magical experience was repeated daily, with the third day on the river – once we were out of the steeper gorge country – the big one; we counted more than thirty on this day alone; a heartening sight for any fan of the famous monotreme.

It wasn’t only all-action on the water, either; two white-bellied sea eagles shadowed us nearly every day, scouting for young cygnets on the river. These little’uns managed (in the main) to stay out of sight of those majestic birds of prey. Considering all that the river, its surrounds and its inhabitants have copped over the decades, it was heartening to see native wildlife thriving. 

The first day’s paddle was relatively short, allowing us plenty of time to figure out our own, often unique, way of manoeuvring the kayaks while still managing to take in the surrounding rugged landscape which was, in the first few days, dominated by steep, rugged cliffs and narrow sections of river. 

Our first day saw the running of rapids with our fully laden kayaks. And by ‘fully laden’ I am talking around 150-170kg, comprising food, gear, the occupant and additional water. Richard and Chris’s kayaks are carrying even more, as well as our unique ‘fridges’ – basically large drybags filled with bottles of frozen water that worked incredibly well. These fridges kept the food fresh the entire time, which was itself impressive, and only topped by the fact this also meant we didn’t have to consume (or should that be ‘suffer’?) dehydrated meals – each night was fresh food cooked over a fire. Yep, it sure was tough…

The river runs free

Between the trip to the put-in, mastering our kayaks and the actual act of paddling, pulling into our first campsite seemed to take only a few minutes.

Each campsite Richard uses along the river is high on the banks to avoid any chance of being swept away by a flash flood, and – coincidentally – to provide expansive views of the river.

The first camp is pristine but still just an early tease; as we would find out, each camp along this route would be more spectacular than the last – no easy achievement

The second day dawned quiet and calm, with no hint of what lay ahead. That soon became apparent, though, with us arriving at the beginning of the Grade III Snowy Falls rapids.

Depending on conditions – and skill-levels – paddlers may get the chance to run the these rapids. That comes with a heavy emphasis on ‘chance’, due to the fact that, depending on water levels (and confidence), these rapids can be incredibly fast, and if you miss the turn into the eddy pool’s calm waters you will become very closely acquainted with the rapids’ namesake waterfall: the seven-metre high Snowy Falls.

It is at the lip of the waterfall that the river’s flow is split by a large boulder, with a narrower channel to the left, and the more voluminous wall of water to the right. It’d be a hairy ride, to say the least. 

Richard gives us the option to run the rapids, but one at a time so he and Chris can be ready, if needed, to throw a rescue line. The guides show us the chutes and drops we need to aim for (and those to avoid) and then it’s on and – incredibly quickly – it is over.

It’s only when you’re in a fast-moving body of water that you get an appreciation of its true power and the furious passage through this set of rapids enforces just how potent the river can be. It was a blur of frantic paddling, fast balance and directional corrections, along with an overload of adrenalin. In short, it was an absolute hoot. 

After collecting ourselves in the eddy, laughing with both relief and excitement, we exit our craft and scramble over the rocky shelf to the left of the waterfall, pausing to take in another reminder of nature’s absolute power.

A previous flood had left a large mass of dead trees brutally shoved to the left side of the falls, the stark grey-white trunks covering the rocky terrain, testament to the immense grunt of a high-running Snowy River. It is along here that paddlers need to often walk; to get below Snowy Falls it is necessary to portage the kayaks. This involves dragging each kayak to a rocky side-channel, then lowering them one-by-one, down to the pool below the waterfall. Depending on how long this takes Richard then decides on which of two campsites the group will stop at.

Thankfully, with a bunch of burly blokes on call, the portage down the face of the rock chute is quick, which makes the decision to head to the farthest of the two campsites a given.

It is well worth the extra hours on the water, which quickly went by thanks to rapids to run and getting to spend time paddling beside Richard as he fills me in on the indigenous links and stories that are so tightly entwined with this river. The quieter sections mean learning about different song lines we are following, as well as indigenous names of the native fauna. It is unique in every way, and a precursor to an even richer one the following day. 

Those before us

A shorter day allows plenty of time for exploration of the river and its cultural significance to the Ngarigo people of the Monaro region, with a men’s business place located not far from the river’s edge after an hour or so of paddling.

Following a small ‘cleansing ceremony’ (lighting of some fungus by Richard before entering), there’s the chance to explore this very sacred site. On the ground there are a number of cutting tools (Richard explains how they were made, what type of rock was used) still present, along with canoe trees bearing the tell-tale shape where past aboriginal people carved out their watercraft.

Also evident are smaller scars on the trees where coolamons (small dishes or baskets) were carved out. We find remnant yams, growing under and against the rocks in this area. It’s rugged, dry country here but was not always so; big fires over the past decades, plus equally sizable rains, combined with erosion have washed most of the topsoil away, evident in the fact we can see the root section of a lot of the trees.

Richard believes this area was an initiation site, where young indigenous males became men. The whole site retains a sense of spirituality; unless you know the exact location, you’d never find it, allowing it to remain relatively undisturbed. Add in the fact we move through different song-lines during our journey – from female to male (interestingly, you do seem to notice a change in the landscape, wind, and river when this occurs), and it’s a brilliant enrichment of cultural knowledge.

As much as it is very remote, the landscape itself is not totally undisturbed. Feral animals are a clear menace; hard-hoofed animals, such as deer, pigs and horses have had a notable impact on the landscape, with vegetation close to the river reduced to non-existent.

Horses, especially, have left their mark. This feral intruder’s size, weight and the sheer numbers found in this region (even in the steepest areas, but more so once the river valley widens; we saw a number of large groups on the last two days), make for a damaging combo in this fragile environment. Surprisingly, even though deer and pigs are part of a culling program, horses are not. It’s a decision that, regardless of admiration for the animal, is simply crazy in this circumstance, once you see the damage first-hand.

A cheeky reminder of nature’s power

It is easy on the Snowy to be lulled into the relaxed tempo of the river – especially as we are blessed with glorious weather for four of the five days. Richard  is a firm believer in there being no rush –I couldn’t agree more; I am in no panic to leave this place – so each morning’s breakfast and breaking of camp is at a nicely sensible time and pace; rarely are we on the water before 9.30.

The first four days blur into this nomadic routine, with a few hours on the water followed by morning tea, a few more hours paddling followed by lunch, then another hour or so before reaching camp.

In between we continue to build our rapid-running skills, have a laugh at less fortunate party members who cop an occasional dunking, and float along with the current, keeping pace with mottled-grey cygnets who join our kayak convoy for a few minutes. It’s a steady and satisfying immersion into Snowy River life. 

Completing that immersive feeling is a simple task, too; swimming in the river is a must-do. Surprisingly, the water is not cold. This is due, in some part, to the fact that unlike most dam-release-controlled rivers, the released (Jindabyne) dam water is drawn from the top of the dam, not the (colder) bottom, which is more common in dam-fed waterways.

The campsite on day three offers the most sublime river-swimming experience you’ll have on the Snowy, with the river splitting into two braided channels below camp, for the perfect place to swim. 

Maybe a tad less refreshing (but way more exhilarating) is this five-day epic’s finale. Our final morning dawns dark and grey – the first time in the whole trip we haven’t seen the sun – and the wind has come up, quite strongly. As in, it soon transforms into a full-throttle headwind, smashing down the wide river valley into our faces – and the bulky fronts of the kayaks.

Then, the rain starts. It’s epic, with forward progress reduced to less than walking pace. Still, everyone stays smiling; after all, where else would we rather be? Here, in the alpine wilderness on one of the country’s iconic rivers, or in an office, listening to the drone of inane conversation? Yeah, me too.

The rain punches over us most of the day – as does the wind – but it is just, really, a precursor to the Snowy’s ‘fond’ farewell to our crew. For that, the river has left the best til last…

There’s never been a set of rapids with a more apt name. Indeed, Wet Cheeks – a Grade III rapid – promises all in its name. For us, it’s the ultimate opportunity to apply all our paddle skills garnered over the previous four days. Wet Cheeks does, indeed, succeed in splashing both sets of – ahem – cheeks as each of us drop down its small chutes, and then twist and turn around, over and past the sizeable rocks strewn haphazardly along the river. Impressively, we all stay upright – and smiling.

After this final adrenaline rush, we have a chance to solidify the memories of our past five days of awesome paddling, cultural enrichment and wildlife spotting, as we float slowly through a rock-bordered channel of the river before pulling in at a small beach adjacent to Halfway Flat campground.

With the Snowy River sprawling out and then bending around the beach before disappearing out of sight, continuing its journey to the coast, this location provides an endpoint that also offers enticement of more – especially for this writer. After all, there’s still plenty more of the Snowy just around that bend – or back up in the mountains…

Fact File

Alpine River Adventures runs a six-day adventure through the Byadbo Wilderness section of the Snowy River. Places are limited to six people per trip. Anyone with an average level of fitness and above 12 years of age is welcome. Paddling experience is handy but not essential.

The post Tale of a river: paddling the mighty Snowy appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Falls Creek to Hotham Crossing trek

The first time I walked this ski-field to ski-field summer crossing, its challenges were made clear when I read an entry in a visitor logbook in Derrick Hut: “Nearly there. Thank f….”. From Falls Creek, the Crossing dips all the way to the Cobungra River before making the long haul back out and up to Hotham, but it’s one of those walks where the effort is secondary to the reward.

Atop the Bogong High Plain, the three-day, 37km crossing makes a beautiful approach from Falls Creek to Wallaces Hut, one of the most evocative and photographed of all the High Country huts, before ending the day at a campsite beside Cope Hut, 14km from Falls Creek. It’s a short sharp descent the next day to another campsite at Dibbins Hut (another 14km from Cope Hut), in a snow clearing beside the Cobungra River. Both camps have tent platforms. It’s then a 400m ascent on Swindler’s Spur to Derrick Hut and the finish at Mt Hotham Village.

7 Peaks

When road cyclists eye off mountain climbs, they typically look to the High Country first. And with good reason. A collection of the best High Country road rides has been gathered together as the 7 Peaks, creating Australia’s truest Alpine-style cycling challenge. Completing the seven – Mt Buller, Mt Hotham, Falls Creek, Mt Buffalo, Mt Baw Baw, Lake Mountain and Dinner Plain – is a choose you own adventure that can be completed over any timeframe, from a week to a few leisurely summers. Lake Mountain is the closest peak to Melbourne and a good starting point to any 7 Peaks mission, setting out up Robley Spur – the steepest part of the climb – on a 21km ascent from Marysville.

The most inviting of the mountains, for its manageable gradients and distracting views, is Mt Buffalo, with its summit road ascending 1000m over 20km to the front steps of the mountaintop Chalet. It’s a climb blessed with beauty, be it the imposing cliffs of Buffalo’s Gorge above, or the bare rock faces of Eurobin Falls. In contrast, the Mt Baw Baw ride ascends 740m in just 6.5km, earning it notoriety as one of Australia’s toughest road climbs – the average gradient is more than 11%, ramping up to 20% at times.

Pedal all 7 Peaks and the climbs total more than 7000m over 160km. 

Family fun

The High Country’s outdoor thrills have no age requirement, with plenty on offer for families. Hot summer days call for a few hours at Bright’s Splash Park beside the confluence of Morses Creek and the Ovens River, where the kids can fire water cannons at each other (or you) and get drenched by an old gold dredge bucket as it tips water over the park. Immediately beside the park is a patrolled river beach with a calm pool above a dam wall in the Ovens River, with the Rotary Waterslide into the river just upstream.

Feed the fish or catch one at Mountain Fresh Trout and Salmon Farm near Harrietville, and settle in among the critters – from white lions to bison and wombats – with a night of camping at Mansfield Zoo. There’s space for 25 campers dotted through the zoo, promising an evening in which the lullabies might be a lion’s roar or a dingo’s howl.

Paddling in the High Country

Peer into the folds and high plains of the mountains and you’ll find water, be it rushing rapids or placid lakes, providing plenty of paddling opportunities. The Ovens River is one of the arteries of the region, flowing down from the slopes of Mt Hotham through Bright, and also one its finest natural water parks. In a kayak, packraft or sports raft, you can ride the river’s grade I and II rapids around Bright or Myrtleford – it’s a leisurely float when water levels are low in summer, and more foamy and furious in winter. Hire a kayak or stand-up paddleboard (SUP) from beside the Bright Splash Park, or join a white-water kayak tour with Adventure Guides Australia or Bright Adventure Company that are suitable even to beginners.

Kayaking highs come at Rocky Valley Lake and Lake Catani. Set 1600m above sea level beside Falls Creek Village, Rocky Valley Lake is one of the highest significant bodies of water in the country, making it a unique spot to paddle, while Lake Catani is pooled among snow gum and alpine ash forest atop Mt Buffalo, creating another distinctive backdrop to a kayak or SUP outing.

The High Country’s Epic MTB trails

It takes a lot to get into the good books of the International Mountain Bicycling Association (IMBA). Only one place in Australia has been designated as an IMBA Ride Centre, placing it at the pinnacle of the world’s mountain biking communities. That place is Mt Buller.

Similarly, and until very recently (more on this later), only one trail in the country had the distinction of being classified as an ‘Epic’ by the IMBA, recognising it as among the world’s best backcountry rides, demanding, predominantly on singletrack and at least 32km in length. That trail is on Mt Buller.

Even under the weight of such kudos, the Alpine Epic doesn’t disappoint. The ride begins at the heights of Mt Buller Village, squeezing between lodges and setting out on a 46km journey to the base of the mountain, connecting a string of trails as it goes.

At its top, it’s a gentle ride through colourful groves of snow gums before it crosses Howqua Gap and switches onto the slopes of Mt Stirling, ascending in dizzyingly tight switchbacks on Stonefly, a classic trail in its own right.

Where the Epic gets truly epic is over its final 7km, where it descends 500m through swooping berms and flowing straight through tall forest to the banks of the Delatite River. It’s one of the best descents in Australia. Blue Dirt Mountain Biking runs a shuttle bus to get you back to the top of the mountain.

Proving the Vic High Country really is the home of ‘epic’ riding in Australia, the recently announced second IMBA Epic Trail in Oz is also found in the Vic High Country. The Indigo Epic Trail is a new 56km MTB trail connecting the historic towns of Beechworth and Yackandandah, taking riders through some incredible High Country landscapes. And thanks to its location, the Indigo Epic Trail can be ridden all season. Get pedalling, folks!

Camping in the Wonnangatta Valley

Remote camp sites abound through the High Country, as do challenging and secluded 4WD tracks. Combine the two with a stay in the Wonnangatta Valley, hidden deep inside the mountains. The valley is part of the 222km Wonnangatta Icon Drive loop, and can be reached from multiple points: Mansfield, Dargo, Licola, Porepunkah. 

The Homestead Flat camping area, surrounded by peaks, is on the bank of the Wonnangatta River as it flows through Wonnangatta Station, best known as the site of two unsolved murders – the station manager and cook – in 1917. The ruins of the homestead, which burnt down in 1957, remain, as does a cemetery containing the graves of early settlers. There are other nearby campsites at Howitt Hut (beside one of the oldest huts in the area), Eaglevale and Talbotville, a goldfields service town turned ghost town.

Mystic Mountain Bike Park

You’re spoiled for choice for mountain bike parks throughout the High Country. Beechworth, Falls Creek, Mansfield, Dinner Plain and Mt Beauty all sport trails, while there’s love in the loam at Bright’s Mystic Mountain Bike Park, with its 50km of trails through a working pine plantation largely hand-built by the local Alpine Cycling Club.

The hero trail at Mystic is, literally, Hero Trail. Modelled on one of the world’s most famous mountain bike trails, Whistler’s A-Line, and rebuilt at the end of last year, Hero descends 120m over 1.9km. With its tabletops, gap jumps and ramps, it’s an intimidating trail on sight, but it can be just as easily trundled as torn apart, rolling gently over the jumps and curling slowly through the berms.

On the bank of Morses Creek are Mystic’s flatter, family-friendly pump track and the flowy Hot Wheels, a 2km green trail that’s a great introduction to singletrack riding (with a few more technical features on alternative lines). From here, it’s just a couple of kilometres back into Bright for a restorative beer at Bright Brewery, or dinner at the town’s wide selection of quality restaurants.

Note that a membership is now required to ride at Mystic Park; purchase it through the Hivepass app.

Rail Trails

If you wearied just reading about the 7 Peaks, consider instead the ease of one of the High Country’s trio of rail trails. These former railway lines, converted into cycling trails, bring with them the promise of gentle gradients (trains disliked climbs almost as much as most cyclists) and regular towns and stops.

The Murray to Mountains Rail Trail, stretching for almost 100km from Wangaratta to Bright, is arguably Australia’s most famous bike path, travelling almost entirely in sight of the High Country mountains, but never quite in them. Instead of climbs, you get cellar doors, walnut farms, berry farms, craft brewers, cafes and Australia’s only pumpkin seed producer, along with old tobacco kilns, hops fields and natural bushland. Continue along any of Murray to Mountains’ side trails to the likes of Beechworth, the Milawa Gourmet Region and Rutherglen, and you can add even more goodness to the journey.

The Great Victorian Rail Trail is Victoria’s longest rail trail, stretching for 120km from Mansfield to Tallarook, with a 13km side trail to Alexandra. Conversely, the highlight of this trail, which skirts Lake Eildon, is in its largest climb as it cuts through a 200m-long railway tunnel that is the longest rail-trail tunnel in the state.

The High Country Rail Trail sets out from Wodonga and finishes 80km later at the site of what was once Victoria’s highest railway station. Much of the ride is along the shores of Lake Hume, past the long-flooded old town of Tallangatta and, at one point, across a 600m-long bridge over the lake.  

Cliff hangers in the High Country

Mt Buffalo is the Swiss Army knife of outdoor destinations, offering a vast array of adventure possibilities, many of them framed around the gaping Gorge. With some of the tallest cliffs in the country, it’s the perfect vertical venue for abseiling tours that range from 25m-high descents for the family, to day-long 300m epics from top to toe of the Gorge.

Climbers gravitate to the likes of Ozymandias, one of Australia’s most challenging big-wall rock climbs, but even rock mortals can experience life on a portaledge, with Bright Adventure Company offering cliff picnics suspended from the cliffs, and Unleashed-Unlimited running the country’s only commercial portaledge camping experience – a night hanging off the cliffs.

Prefer to be in the mountain rather than on it? Then join an underground river caving trip with Bright Adventure Company, wading, climbing and splashing through waterfalls and over boulders inside a 350m cave that sparkles with glow worms. You can also stay dry on a canyoning trip run by Adventure Guides Australia that’s suitable for children as young as five.

The Razorback Walk

Ridge walks get little more dramatic than the well-named Razorback, a narrow ridge strung between Mt Hotham and Victoria’s second-highest (but arguably most spectacular) peak, Mt Feathertop. This high-level traverse, more than 1600m above sea level the entire way, has a couple of hiking options.

As a day walk, it’s a 22km out-and-back route, taking up to seven hours, from Diamantina Hut on the slopes of Mt Hotham. The hike along the ridge is relatively flat, with the rugged eastern face of Mt Feathertop beckoning ahead. Through a run of false summits, the trail ascends to the 1922m mountaintop, which is sometimes described as Australia’s only true Alpine peak, with glorious views across the High Country.

Feathertop and the Razorback have also long been a favourite overnight outing for hikers. From Harrietville, a trail ascends Bungalow Spur, relentlessly ascending around 1400m to the summit of Feathertop. From here, the walk crosses the Razorback, turning down Bon Accord Spur for a knee-crunching descent back to Harrietville.

Fact File

For more info on these (and many more) High Country adventures, go to:

www.victoriashighcountry.com.au

www.ridehighcountry.com.au 

The post Ten amazing adventures in Victoria’s High Country appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Watch Erika Lori run 1000km along the Bibbulmun Track in Western Australia, witness Canberran Angie Scarth-Johnson conquer incredible climbs in Spain, see gold-medal olympian Carina Edlinger ski 80kmph down snow-laden mountains with only two per cent vision, and cheer on Samantha Gash and Jessie Ling as they embark on a 50-day journey raising funds for a women’s charity.

Screening at Australian cinemas through the month of August – get tickets to a cinema near you!

Related: A camel odyssey complete

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You could be forgiven for not being familiar with the Scenic Rim Trail since it only opened in 2020. A joint ecotourism initiative between the Queensland government and Spicer’s Retreats, a chain of luxury lodges, the four-day hike runs along the spine of the northern half of the park. Beginning on the private Thornton View Nature Refuge, about 90 minutes’ drive southwest of Brisbane, it ends at the thundering A15 highway which slices the park in two at Cunningham’s Gap.

Thus, the track has a split personality: it’s used on the one hand by Spicer’s clients, who stay in a string of purpose-built huts hidden away behind cliffs and trees, and then there are people like us, the Jekyll to their Hyde, the humble bushwalkers with full packs and an arduous car shuffle at either end. We encountered exactly neither of these subgroups during our own journey. Our four bemused and dripping faces were the only ones to grace the trail that wet week.

If there’s a hero to this story, it’s the Wilderness Equipment Overhang Tarp, or more accurately, it’s my wife Gerda for suggesting we take it with us. We hardly ever bother carrying it, but with the daunting forecast ahead of us this time, sense thankfully prevailed. Without that thin sheet of fabric, most of every evening would have seen all four of us huddled in the admittedly spacious long drop toilet blocks with which each campsite is furnished. And that’s no-one’s idea of a good time.

Looks can be deceiving

Truth be told, the first day was suspiciously dry. From the trailhead shelter, we scuffed through the phytophthora station and immediately into a long, slow ascent. In between deep breaths, Gerda took pains to assure us we had nothing to worry about with regards to the weather, and that we should stop being a bunch of pansies (or words to that effect). But then she is packed with more positivity than a uranium atom. Half her gear was already wet from the drive out thanks to a leaky reservoir, including her pillow. “I’ll sleep it dry!” she announced, displaying world class optimism.

Even from this far below (and keeping one eye on the ground for the eastern browns and red-bellied blacks that inhabit the park) we could make out The Ladder, a rock hugging, hooped construction clamped onto the cliff face below the escarpment like a tick (of which more later). Prominent in much of the track’s marketing, I was highly anticipating watching the vertigo-prone members of the group squirm as I coaxed them up its rungs. Disappointingly, the ladder turned out to be for the exclusive use of Spicer’s Lodge guests, and my sadism remained unsated.

Snakes and ladders notwithstanding, the track proved quite achievable, despite being graded 5 on the Australian Walking Track Grading System, the most severe grade possible. I was initially baffled as to the reason; sure, the first day features roughly 600m of ascent, but it’s so long and winding that it seems almost level except for the hairpin bends. There’s the occasional rock step where you might have to use your hands, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call it scrambling. It was only when I read that the grade is based on the most difficult of the five criteria rather than an average that it clicked, for one of them is ‘track signage’.

For such a new project, and one aimed at the flashpacker crowd, trail markers sure were few and far between. We went hours without a glimpse of signage, the only exceptions being the odd orange arrow splashed on a tree trunk, like a shaft of sunlight filtering through the canopy. Even trail junctions didn’t guarantee a way marker, unless a red triangle slug balancing helpfully on a low cairn of rocks counted. With its glistening white body decorated with what looked like a child’s attempt at applying lipstick, Australia’s largest native land slug was by far the queerest fauna we encountered.

And the only fauna, pretty much. The incessant rain discouraged all forms of animal life save ticks and leeches, the former keeping our professional nurse Natalie on a busman’s holiday. A whiz with the tick tweezers, it seemed like she always had her face in someone or others’ crotch, for that’s where the vampiric arachnids like to snuggle, warm and dark like a human sleeping bag. At least that was her excuse.

More impressive was the flora, particularly the giant spear lilies (Doryanthes palmeri) that greeted us as we crossed from private land to national park in stile (pun intended). With stalks growing up to 5m tall, and sword-shaped leaves half as long, ‘giant’ is right, although they still struggled under the weight of their enormous blooms. Rosettes comprised of hundreds of blood-coloured blossoms flowed down from each lily’s receptacle like gargantuan, headless tongues trying to lick us off the path (and at over a metre long, that’s going to be a damn good licking). It was like some crazed botanist had spliced together a Triffid with Audrey from The Little Shop of Horrors.

We scampered through the slobbering gauntlet and collapsed atop the escarpment; our climbing mostly done for the day. Mount Mistake loomed to our right, a rock and soil effigy of our decision to stick to our plan in the face of a weather forecast that resembled a Jackson Pollock during his blue period. We still had time to reach the first evening’s camp, a delightful clearing in the forest, during which semi-occasional drizzle lulled us into a false sense of security. It was the last time we would be dry.

Where the wild things are

The sounds of rain pattering, and then hammering, on the flysheet during the night made our sleeping bags doubly cosy. However, our appreciation of the vast variety of nature’s precipitation gave way somewhat to gloomy-browed contemplation when we were forced to confront it without the protection of sil-nylon. Packed up and wrapped in Gore-Tex, we set off south, a little dismayed to discover we’d be following an old logging track the entire day.

The churned mud funnelled rainwater into a slippery mire, designed to guide our boots seamlessly into its murky depths. At least we were now fully surrounded by forest. We marvelled at confusions of gothic branches dripping with moss, platelets of bright fungus spilled across the leaf litter, and muscular vines writhing hither and thither, wrestling each other for the right to strangle a stately old gentleman of the woods. And behind everything was cloud, seeping through the boughs, creeping closer and closer, yet hovering just beyond the mass of foliage – a fence holding back the abominable monsters that hid within.

Proof of said monsters came in the form of trackside feral pig traps, worryingly devoid of feral pigs. If not caught in this fragile wire cage, the wild boars, all bristling razorback and slavering tusks, must be still out here … with us. Our eyes peered into the whiteout, conjuring up menacing movement and low growls out of branches dipping and soughing in the wind. Instead, out of the mist came The Winder, a mass of lichen-spotted cogs large enough to grind an unwary hiker to pulp. With a name straight out of a bad horror movie, this perennial map waypoint was formerly a steel cable winder, logging detritus now left to rust in peace.

Castle View Camp was a lumpy bog. While the toilet and water tank were of the familiar impressive design and size, there was barely anywhere to pitch a tent. The few level sites could have doubled as water polo fields for scarlet-sided pobblebonks (Limnodynastes terraereginae – a frog), and anywhere remotely dry was only that way because all the water had run off it. In the end we threw up and tied down our three tents on a sloping grassy patch and slept in a crumpled heap.

Despite the weather, the parasitic locals, and the gradient (of the campsite), we persevered, and on the third day we could finally pretend we were creeping through the primordial forests of Pangea, or possibly the Green Hell of north Vietnam, depending on the creeper. This was where we left the uniform brown logging track and plunged into a hundred shattered shades of green. Stepping into the backdrop, we followed narrow foot pads winding between behemoths. We pushed through wet curtains of leaves, trying to avoid high-fiving the large, circular palm of the Gympie-Gympie, the dreaded stinging tree. We climbed root ladders up slick slopes, arms outstretched grasping for balance. Sometimes, we lost it.

Still, at least this was real. It was a jungle out there. The main river crossing we’d been fretting over, Dalrymple Creek, turned out to be a delightful brook only one step wide. To celebrate our safe crossing the rain stopped long enough for us to enjoy lunch on the rocks while picking leeches out of our ears. The good vibes held a tad longer as we crossed side creeks and little tumbling cascades, until eventually we began the climb back up to the ridge. There was one more sweet surprise though, before the wringing wet cloud re-enveloped us – a tall waterfall in full flow, ending in a pool that would be delightful on a sunny day. The two ladies, queens of hygiene itching after a couple of wet wipe washes, performed an admirably gymnastic dunking of their nether regions. The relief was palpable.

Related: Best foot forward: A guide to hiking

The last camp, Banshee Junction, was a solid improvement on the previous night’s hummock patch. There were actually camp platforms, and shaded by a grove of Chinese elm trees, no less. Pretty they may be; waterproof, they were not. Now, I’m proud to say I’ve started some fires in some hopeless situations. After days of rain and armed only with a lighter and some candle wax, I’ve lovingly kindled a blaze big enough to melt my socks using only sodden twigs, half burnt logs, and fallen bark from the lee side of nearby trees. Yeah, I’m a firestarter, but even this punkin’ instigator couldn’t tease the red flower from the oyster beds of the Screaming Banshee.

Run through the jungle

The final day was another glorious riot of greenery, rushing in from all sides to cuddle us in its soggy embrace. ‘You are entering a remote area’, warned the official signage, courtesy of the Parks Queensland Scaremongering Department. ‘The formed track ends here’. That was a formed track? You could’a fooled me. But the escarpment must be retaken, so we forged ahead. Around mid-morning, we realised the moistness of the atmosphere had so far been, but a mild inconvenience compared to the deluge that duly commenced. Hood-deafening, eyelid-stinging, phone-destroying, four-dimensional rain. Our Gore-Tex broke down in tears. The puddles were flash flooding. Even Natalie’s bread-bag socks gave out.

In this environment we reached Bare Rock, the highest and most exposed point on the Scenic Rim Trail. It’s all we could do to stand still long enough for a group shot. Touted as an idyllic lunch spot, it paled beside our eventual dining room – the grubby, dilapidated toilet block at Cunningham’s Gap, a building sacrificed to the bathroom habits of long-distance families and depraved truck drivers. Yet to us it was a mansion, where we huddled, cooked, changed into dry clothes, de-ticked and generally presented a frightening vision to passing motorists, the tables turned.

But to reach that shonky paradise we had to race down from Bare Rock, along a zig-zagging descent that broke into a thousand waterfalls. We prayed for our survival, not from Pan or Demeter, but from Poseidon, for it was surely he who commanded this realm now. With the hillside below Mt. Cordeaux liquefying under our boots, and angry red lily tongues slurping on all sides, we descended as boldly as we dared through the modest Rainforest Circuit, a leg stretcher for soporific motorists, to the car park and our salvation.

The Scenic Rim? I’ll have to take your word for it.

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In the beginning

Duncan’s climbing journey started a long time ago, when he wasn’t much older than some of the kids training in his gym. “I started climbing in the ’90s,” he says. “I was exposed to climbing through school, but I never realised it was something you could do as a sport… it’s super fun but I didn’t realise it was like a sport that people did.”

After finishing school Duncan hooked up with a climber that he’d met at the Canberra Institute of Technology, and then he really caught the climbing bug. “He showed me the gear and the shoes and all the things and I was like, ‘Oh, yeah, this is really cool’ and I sort of got suckered it into it that way, and the next minute I was at the gym every day and I was climbing outdoors and I locked on to some really good mentors at the time that I could get outside with every weekend and, yeah, I was obsessed from the moment I realised I could do it every weekend.”

That obsession started with traditional climbing on the granite around Canberra, but Duncan soon fell in with a crowd who was into sport climbing the sandstone cliffs not far from Nowra, NSW. Duncan says these experienced climbers pushed him and accelerated his climbing capability, describing that period of his climbing journey as a baptism of fire.

“It was a hobby [at the start],” Duncan says. “I started working in the local climbing gym and I didn’t really realise at first that you could earn a living in climbing, it just wasn’t heard of, so I worked at a local climbing gym and I did other jobs and became a swimming coach and stuff during those early years, and it wasn’t till a bit later that I became an actual climbing coach, and I started earning a living from that…”

By the time Duncan was in his late-20s, he decided a change was in order and he left Australia and “hit the road climbing around the world”. Eventually he would find himself living in China, initially working for a guiding company that provided adventure programs for predominantly international schools, working for a couple of weeks at a time and then heading off climbing whenever he got the chance. He then scored a job with a Chinese adventure company that flew him around the country to develop rock climbing.

“I’d fly to different parts of China for a month at a time to develop rock climbing… sometimes there was a local small climbing community that had started to develop the cliffs in the area, but there was just an unbelievable amount of virgin climbing terrain, cliffs and boulders and stuff, China has this amazing, diverse landscape…”

When he was working in China, Duncan also started developing an online training program for climbers. “I wasn’t limited to the people just in my local area, I started delivering coaching remotely, I was one of the first people in the world to do that with climbing,” he says. “That side of my business grew into a full-time workload, being able to actually be a professional coach.”

Duncan lived and worked in China for four and a half years, but he knew his time there was limited; having to do cross-border trips to renew his visa every few months and not being able to buy property there meant that it was never realistically a long-term proposition. “I was coaching full time at that point, as well as remotely, and I was trying to come back to Australia and think about what was next… and I wanted to grow my business and open my own gym and all that stuff.”

The plan was always to return to Canberra because Duncan wanted somewhere that felt like home, and somewhere that also offered the right sort of landscape for the type of business that he wanted to run. Returning to Australia in 2013, Duncan continued with his coaching and climbing, as well as helping to opena climbing gym.

Mountain strong

In 2019 Duncan contemplated turning 40 the following year, and he set himself some goals to mark that momentous occasion. After having travelled and climbed all over the world he was keen to further explore his local area, wondering why most Australians would always look overseas for big challenges when there are so many right here on their doorstep.

“In 2019, Sarah from The North Face and I started talking about this idea where I wanted to set myself a series of challenges to celebrate turning 40 and celebrate my own backyard… to promote that concept especially to our Canberra community, you know, look at how much cool stuff we have right here in our backyard.

“Canberra is this amazing outdoor sports location, you’re living in a space where within a short drive you can do almost anything, you can ski, you can surf, you can mountain bike, you can climb, you can cave, you can do all these things within a two-hour drive of anywhere in town… so I came up with this series of things to do and then as I was developing it, the whole east coast burnt down.

“My birthday is in February, and I was going to kick off in February, and the whole country is on fire. And then we went straight from being on fire to being locked down in Covid.”

Of course, like many others, Covid affected Duncan’s plans in a big way, but the impact of the pandemic wasn’t as great in the ACT as many other parts of Australia, and with only a few cases the national capital wasn’t subject to the strict lockdowns that were enforced in many other parts of the country. 

“We could exercise every day so long as we didn’t leave the ACT,” he says, “So we were able to go climbing every day.”

Rather than crawl into a shell and self-isolate, Duncan and his business partner saw the Covid period as a great time to consolidate their business and work on a plan to open Mountain Strong, which recently celebrated its second anniversary. Duncan describes the gym as the type of facility that he’d been working towards for a long time, a bouldering gym, a climbing gym, and a strength and conditioning facility.

“It is a fun place for people to have a climb, but it also provides a platform for people to train for the outdoors to whatever level their goals are set at, and we work with climbers, skiers, mountaineers, paddlers, people that are outdoor sports people rather than just recreational indoor climbers,” he says.

Facilities at Mountain Strong include a bouldering space, climbing walls, weight training and cardio equipment, what Duncan describes as “a proper gym as well as a climbing gym”. But Duncan says there’s much more to the gym than just what it houses: “We’ve tried to create a community hub for people who are psyched on training for the outdoors, so we have a strong community mindset where people regardless of whether you’re a rock climber, paddler or whatever, you’ll feel at home.”

Backyard backcountry

With Mountain Strong up and running, Duncan returned his thoughts to exploring his own backyard. “I kept revising, what are the key challenges you can do here in our backyard that would be things that I enjoy doing that also highlight the types of environments we’ve got around here,” he says.

“What we came up with first was a backcountry climbing trip in Namadgi NP, in the Bimberi Wilderness, a hike through Bimberi and then first ascents of remote mountains. The second was to do the 10 tallest peaks in the country in winter, so down on the main range, do backcountry snowboarding, a split boarding trip, to link up the 10 tallest mountains in a loop. And then the third one was to paddle the Murrumbidgee, because it runs through Canberra, so paddle from way up near the source all the way down to Canberra.”

But the 2019 bushfires had wreaked havoc and many national parks were still closed throughout 2021, so Duncan turned his attention to another project down in Victoria (see Ozymandias: the wall of dreams, at the end of this story) until the parks finally reopened in 2022.

“We got permission to go out to the Bimberi, and that was a huge success, and we climbed these amazing new routes, and just being out in this beautiful landscape, and you can’t see a single road, and you can’t see a single human-made structure, it’s just a beautiful wilderness… and if there was just one hill out of your way you’d be able to see Canberra.

But 2022 was not to be without its challenges for Duncan, having got bronchitis and then shingles prior to the Bimberi adventure in May. “Then in June I got the flu, and we were going to do the 10 peaks in late winter, in August or September, but in July I then got Covid, and getting it off the back of bronchitis and the flu, it was my third respiratory illness, and it completely ruined me, and then it became long-Covid.”

The long-COVID developed into chronic fatigue and the 10-peaks plan was shelved, so Duncan began to hatch a plan to replace it with a trip between two famous local crags; Mount Coree and Booroomba Rocks. “We would ride a bike between them, so climb one crag in the morning, cycle across to the other, about 70km, and climb the other one in the afternoon… I’m not a cyclist, but I’m not unfit, and I thought 70 kays and a couple of climbs, it would be fine. I thought I was getting better, this was November last year, so we went to try and do it and it nearly killed me… we had to pull the pin.”

Duncan says that attempted climb and ride made his health worse, so he set about focusing on incremental steps to rebuild his strength, and by January this year he felt as though he was legitimately starting to turn a corner, so he started working on logistics for the Murrumbidgee packrafting trip in February. The initial plan was to start at Tantangara, but the bushfires had left the upper part of the river in a poor state with fallen trees making long sections impassable.

“We ended up starting at Bredbo and then we planned to climb at Red Rocks in Canberra when we arrived, and then head home, and we did that trip in early February, over three days, and it was awesome backcountry paddling. I was amazed at how good a trip like that could be right here in our own backyard, with beautiful landscapes and white water and camping on the side of the river… just gorgeous.”

On the last stretch of the river approaching Red Rocks, Duncan took an “unplanned tumble” on a set of rapids and banged his leg up, but he thought little of it other than having to hobble out at the end of the trip.

The injury seemed relatively minor, and Duncan went back to work, but 11 days later a sizeable lump on his leg became infected, and five hours later he was in hospital. “I went to hospital, and it was like a comedy of errors; I turned up and it was super painful, and they sent me home, and then I came back, and I was waiting in the ED for quite a while but the pain… it was unbelievable pain.

“When they finally got around to checking it out, they said ‘alright, this guy needs pain meds’, so they gave me morphine, and I had this one in a million rare reaction to morphine that nearly killed me in the ED – pancreatic sphincter spasms – it stopped me breathing for a minute, I nearly kicked the bucket, I had two attacks…

Duncan’s prognosis was Acute Compartment Syndrome, and I advise you only Google it if you have a strong stomach. But there was more to come…

“I had surgery the next morning and they kept it [the leg] open and packed it full of gauze to drain it, and then it reinfected with hospital staph… it was oozing yellow stuff out of my leg, and they were worried if they couldn’t stop it, they would have to cut my leg off.”

Four days later Duncan underwent a second surgery to clean out his leg and remove the subcutaneous tissue, and after another five days he was out of hospital and recovering at home. He’s off antibiotics now and is back to exercising, with full range of motion in his leg, and he reckons his body has now undergone a total reset and he’s starting to feel normal again, with no more long-Covid symptoms.

What’s next?

“My goal now is to re-establish my health and my climbing ability. I’ve got a couple of locally focused climbing goals that will help me to get back to normal, and then I can look at those couple of bigger things that I’d still like to achieve while I can, so for now it’s re-establishing myself and my health, and then I can focus on the bigger things.”

Bigger, higher, harder, we bet.

Ozymandias: the wall of dreams

Another project Duncan undertook at the start of 2022, just prior to catching Covid, was to free climb Ozymandias, making him only the fifth climber to have achieved the feat. Free climbing involves the use of safety equipment, but essentially the climber must make the climb under their own steam.

“Ozymandias is a 300m granite wall with an iconic aid climb, where you’re using all this gear, and there’s a lot of skill that goes into that, but physically you’re not having to do the climbing, you’re using mechanical stuff to get you up, you’re putting in gear and clipping into it and using the ropes and equipment to get you up the wall. It’s probably Australia’s main, go-to, big-wall aid climb,” says Duncan.

“It got freed in the ’80s by Steve Monks, and even though it’s this iconic wall, it’s our Yosemite, right, it’s out big granite wall with routes on it, it’s amazing… it’s one of the best free routes ever, and it’s in our backyard…

“As I kept being maturing as a climber, it became more and more of an attractive proposition, like am I good enough for something like that? Can I engage in something like that? And because Australians don’t engage with stuff on their own soil as much, it had only been climbed a handful of times, and it had only been climbed by people who are much better rock climbers than me. 

“You know, I’m not rubbish, but you know I’m not the best in the world either, and there are peers of mine, friends of mine, that I know just how good they are, and I was like well if they’re the only ones who have done it, it’s probably just out of my out of my capacity, but I was just drawn, I went and had a look, a stickybeak at it, and I was like this is accessible, this is something I can do.

“That turned into a six-year love affair with this piece of wall, to learn it and gain some extra skills and strengths that I needed to be able to get it done.

“Six years and 27 days later, I managed to get it done last year.”

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There’s nothing like an epic traverse for a big dose of challenge, an escape, and the thrill of discovery. The string of mountains that make up the Grampians (Gariwerd) have long made a favourite outdoor playground but the new 164km Grampians Peaks Trail (GPT) offers a deep dive into its spectacular and varied terrain. I headed out to walk it solo on the first day it opened. Here’s what I learned.

Excitement levels were high when I stood on top of Mt Zero at the trail’s northern end, contemplating the 13-day adventure ahead that would lead me to the little town of Dunkeld. Though well familiar with a few justly popular areas of the national park, I was about to see the ranges in their entirety, including 100km of new track. Formed from sandstone, the Grampians have been tilted and uplifted, creating a string of mountains with sheer cliffs on one side and sloping into the Wimmera Plains on the other. With the route drizzling over all its highest peaks, it’s regularly above the tree line making for a spectacular hike.

If you look at the daily distances on this trail (8-16km per day) you’d be forgiven for thinking it’s a cruisy ramble – at least that’s what I was did. I was wrong. For starters, you’re climbing nearly the height of Everest (elevation gain is over 8,000m) and the undulations feel relentless at times. I soon came to be audibly appreciating any flat ground I encountered, and though I was sure I’d packed far too many snacks, I shoveled in every calorie. Add in a few side trips to waterfalls or lookouts, and days might take longer than anticipated. Two kilometres an hour is about the average pace; my slowest day was eight hours for 13km – due not only to the 700 metres of climbing and getting distracted by views, but the terrain itself.

While there’s been a lot of talk about the fancy architecturally designed campsites, the track itself is another story. This is no cake walk (read this in flashing neon lights). Proper benched track is rare; more common are slabs of sloping rock, rock hopping and the odd scramble. Add water – like the rain and hail I copped on a few days – and things fast get slippery and slow. 

Most of the trail is classified as Grade 4, with one Grade 5 section over the Seven Dials Escarpment to Redman Bluff. As a solo walker I was really challenged on a bit of this section that required me to remove my pack, drag it through a crack and up some boulders. For the most part, signage is pretty good but there are a few sections where you need to pay attention, thanks to the rocky terrain which gives no clues as to trafficked routes.  It’s challenging, but these factors also make for an interesting and exciting walk.

The North, Central and South sections are all impressive in their own way; all undulate over the mountains, offering consistent great views. If you can only spare four days, the North offers a great snapshot of the Grampians with interesting rock-hopping, expansive views from high ridgelines, vast valleys, waterfalls and bracken fern-filled forest. 

There’s a real sense of wildness in the Central section once you get past The Wonderland Range – the most famous and heavily visited part of the Grampians. After passing Mt William and the Major Mitchell Plateau, you’re far from day-trippers and the views here are some of the best, especially across to the long and serrated Serra Range running parallel. It’s also the toughest bit of the trail. The South is easiest and where most of the new trail is. Climbs are shorter, the trail is more defined, and inclines are made easier by stone steps. I passed more wildflowers and wildlife (kangaroos, echidnas, emus) in this section than others. 

What really elevates this walk is the awesome campsites waiting at day’s end. Whatever the elements throw at you, it’s nice to have somewhere to retreat to and the GPT has super cool fully sealed communal shelters at all but three campsites (naturally they were the ones that, for me, coincided with 70kph winds and a mega thunder storm). They’re not for sleeping in – carry all the usual camping/cooking equipment – but they do have tables and bench seats, USB charging points, water tanks and usually an epic view. Tents are pitched on either timber platforms or packed-earth tent pads. Gar camp, in the northern section, is a standout, perched on the rim of a cliff along with a few wooden sun lounges. Both it and Werdug camp also have three cute little 4-bed huts, bookable only by guided walking companies. 

I love a thru-hike but 13 days non-stop is a long time in this kind of terrain. If you want to break it up there are a multitude of access points enabling stints of one, two, three days and upwards. Campsites need to be booked through Parks Victoria and there’s no doubling up of sections in one day permitted. (Being the first guinea pig on the trail, I got an exemption to combine a couple of days and then regretted it deeply!) 

It’s a one-way adventure so you’re looking at a car shuffle (1.5hrs each way), or enlisting the services of Grampians Peaks Walking Company, to move between trailheads. I also utilised its food drop service, so I didn’t have to carry more than four t- five days’ worth at once. One night is spent in the town of Halls Gap, convenient for a shower, a hearty feed, and a resupply.  

With all that huffing and puffing you can really guzzle through some water and while tanks at campsites occasionally run low, there are additional ones sprinkled near road access points that are kept topped up. 

The GPT promises a real adventure and is set to become an Aussie classic. – Laura Waters

Inca Rivers Trek, Peru

For those keen to avoid the crowds of the Inca Trail, while still enjoying some amazing Inca ruins and Peruvian history and culture, the nine-day, 104km Inca Rivers trek is a must-do. Starting at a heady 2600 metres at Cachora, the track soon heads further up – and then down; each day you can expect to ascend and then descend anywhere from 500 to 1000m in altitude – over the course of the nine days, before reaching the final destination of Macchu Picchu itself. 

The track’s final destination is, of course, well worth the nine days’ effort, but it is the daily highlights of this trek that make it a worthy Top 10 inclusion. Most notably, on the third day, hikers reach the ruins of Choquequirao, estimated to be only 30 percent uncovered by archaeologists but, once fully cleared, it is claimed this site will be both more complete and larger than Macchu Picchu itself. 

Other highlights over the nine days include first descending, then crossing and ascending, two massive river valleys – the Apurimac and the Rio Blanco, where you can camp by the river. The condor is prevalent in these high mountains so there’s a good chance of spotting both juveniles and adults soaring above on the thermal air currents. The reclusive spectacled bear makes its home here in the high peaks as well, as do jaguar at the lower elevations.

Due to its proximity to the equator, even at high altitudes (the trek reaches a high point of 4660m), the track is often shrouded in lush jungle and rainforest. The campsites along the way are near very small villages/settlements, and you’ll also become used to seeing Inca stonework daily along the track. 

The Inca Rivers Trail can be walked independently, but the best option is to book a guided trek with an operator such as World Expeditions. The company includes the necessary amount of acclimatisation days pre-trek on their Inca River adventure, and the guides are exceptional in regard to both their experience at high-altitude trekking and knowledge of Peru’s culture and history. 

The Inca Rivers Trail offers the best of all worlds: a final destination recognised as one of the world’s wonders; the relatively unknown, but amazing, archaeological discovery that is Choquequirao; the strong Peruvian culture; and the fact that you will rarely see anyone but your own group trekking the trail. – Justin Walker

Rafting the Colorado River, USA

It’s a true paddling icon. The mighty Colorado River winds its way through a number of US states over its 2330km length. One of the most popular rafting sections of this river is the 362km path it has cut through Arizona’s Grand Canyon. Other states, such as Utah, also offer some brilliant rafting on the Colorado River (more on these later). 

The Grand Canyon trip starts at Lees Ferry and – if you do the full 362km of this trip – finishes at Diamond Creek. Along the way, there are 42 sets of huge rapids to negotiate, ancient cliff walls hiding indigenous ruins to explore, numerous opportunities for day hikes and brilliant beach camping to experience.

In short, for anyone who loves running rivers, the Colorado River is up near the top of their bucket list. To tackle it as an independent paddler (with a crew) can mean years of waiting for permits to become available, but there are around 16 companies that offer guided rafting trips down the river, and this can range from a one day literal ‘dip in the water’ taste of the Colorado, through to two-week (or a touch longer) expeditions. You have a wide range of choices when it comes to watercraft, too, with the big oar rafts popular (you don’t have to paddle on these) but also the option of a powered raft, a paddle raft (where you do have to paddle, along with four others and the guide) and – for us, anyway – the unforgettable experience of punching down this powerful river in a wooden dory, where all you have to do is hang on as an boatman steers you through. 

Up to 24,000 people run the river each year, with half opting for the powered-raft option, due to time constraints and/or physical impediment. These big-boppers are only allowed on the river for around five months but due to the speed with which they travel the river, they do open up more side-trip options, in the form of hikes and exploration. Be aware that the water is very cold, not moving much above 8°C, so bring your warm/waterproof gear.

The journey begins with sections of rapids from the get-go, with the Marble Canyon section having slightly smaller rapids (rated between two and six; the rapids on the Colorado River are rated on a scale of 10, which differs from most other rivers globally), before they grow bigger and bigger, the further into the Grand Canyon you go.  

If you haven’t got your heart set on the Grand Canyon section of the Colorado River, a brilliant option for rafters chasing a few days on the river is Utah’s Cataract Canyon. Claimed to offer the biggest spring run-off of whitewater, a three-day (guided) trip down this canyon is packed with a total of 22.5km of intense rapids, including the famous Big Drop and Satan’s Gut, among others. This Colorado River experience has a memorable start, with a jetboat trip downriver before swapping over to rafts at The Confluence, where the Green River meets the Colorado, just south of Utah’s adventure capital of Moab. The result is loads of Class III-V rapids as the river rolls through Canyonlands National Park. Beautiful rock formations and more fabulous beach camping are a feature of this trip along with – again – a number of side-trips to archaeological sites. 

A full- or two-day challenge for more experienced rafters (you can go guided or unguided) is Westwater Canyon, in Utah. Often compared to the Grand Canyon, this trip takes rafters through the narrow walls of Black Granite Gorge and through 11 Class III-IV rapids, including the aptly-named Sock-It-To-Me and Last Chance. This trip has a nice mix of flatwater and rapids as well as the chance to check out historic buildings, such as miner’s cabins, and ancient petroglyphs as well. Even though a one-day trip is possible, we’d recommend two days on this part of the Colorado River, just to make the most of where you are; it is, after all, one of the world’s greatest outdoor escapes!

And don’t think the Colorado River is only limited to adults: a popular stretch of the river (just north of Moab) can be rafted as a half- or full-day adventure and its rapids are limited to Class I and Class II – ideal for kids and families to enjoy this famous waterway. – Justin Walker

Island escape: Kingfisher Bay Resort, K’gari

It is the world’s largest sand island, and one that contains a number of simply spectacular sights – and outdoor experiences. Best of all, K’gari (Fraser Island) is easily accessible to adventurous travellers, keen to explore this renowned natural wonder. To make that exploration more enjoyable, base yourself at Kingfisher Bay Resort and utilise this as your island basecamp from which to enjoy its many ranger-guided activities and island tours available each day. These tours range from single to multi-day and are operated by K’gari Explorer Tours. These brilliant experriences allow you to discover a number of the island’s highlights while enjoying a stay at the resort. 

Lake McKenzie (Boorangoora), in the heart of the island, is its most popular natural site, and a brilliant family escape on the island – and it is easy to see why, with this freshwater lake sitting 100 metres above sea level, and receiving its water from the clouds, rather than the surrounding ocean. Its temperate water also means you can swim all year round. 

For the vehicle-borne island explorers, there is pristine 75 Mile Beach (a gazetted highway) which provides great driving along the eastern coastline. While you’re watching the fishing folks cast for their meals in the sea, keep an eye above; this beach is also one of only two locations around the world where planes are allowed to take off and land. 

A historic landmark of a different kind along this beach is the wreck of the SS Maheno. Built in 1905 and once used as a Trans-Tasman liner, it was later commissioned for work as a hospital ship during World War I. So how did it end up on K’gari? Well, in 1935 it was run aground during a cyclone and has, since then, become an integral part of K’gari’s age-old, with the hull a nice stop-over on the drive along 75 Mile Beach. 

For a more immersive escape, Eli Creek is a must-visit. Located on the island’s eastern beach (it is the largest creek at that location), you will witness an estimated four million litres of freshwater flowing into the ocean each hour. Not only is it worth just sitting on the sand and watching nature work its magic, but you can also float down this creek, passing pandanus trees crowding its banks, before either chilling out on the beach, or exploring further via the nearby boardwalk. Also found on the eastern beach are the Pinnacles Coloured Sands. With more than 72 shades of yellows, oranges and reds (thanks to the sand and clay’s iron-dense minerals), these formations are best visited at sunrise, which lights up the cliff faces, revealing a rich display of natural colours. 

Central Station, in the island’s centre, is a significant Indigenous cultural site and home to a rich diversity of plant life, including satinay trees (once logged and actually used to rebuild London’s Docklands after World War II, owing to that timber from those trees being some of the world’s most hardy), along with kauri pine, oodles of ferns, and much more. This part of the island is protected under the Commonwealth Canopy Initiative. 

We love camping but enjoying more relaxation and comfort by returning after a day out to your accommodation at Kingfisher Bay Resort makes staying here a no-brainer. Its location is spectacular, and with the all-inclusive packages – plus the knowledge you garner from its ranger-led tours – it qualifies as one of the ultimate island escapes. 

Family escape: Kakadu National Park, NT

Kakadu NP: southern

Ignore the grumblings of “Kakadu, Kaka-don’t”; this globally famous 20,000-square-kilometre national park can fill half a year’s worth of adventures – and you’ll need all that time to do this huge world wonder some kind of justice.
Our northern Kakadu adventure kicks off with a leisurely 1.5-hour run from Darwin via the Arnhem Highway before you reach the park entrance. The temptation here is to punch through to the main tourist hub of Jabiru in the park, but to do so means you’ll miss one of Kakadu’s less visited highlights: the Waldak Irrmbal (West Alligator Head) track heads north to Pococks Beach, located on the park’s northern coastline, abutting Van Diemen Gulf. This drive is a cracker and if you have a spare day, with two waterholes – Two Mile Hole and Four Mile Hole – worth checking out.

To the heads
Four Mile Hole is great for fishing and is reached after backtracking four kilometres south from Two Mile to the Two Mile/Four Mile junction. Four Mile is, itself, reached via another junction; turning left and driving for about 15 minutes will see you at the Four Mile camping area, which has no facilities so if you’re looking to doss down here, be prepared. Returning to the main Waldak Irrmbal track and continuing north for a further 50km is challenging in parts but a great experience overall; the near-flat Manassi Floodplain that dominates this part of the park is only occasionally interrupted by stands of savannah forest, which increases in density (and is joined by huge palms) as you near Waldak Irrmbal and Pococks Beach itself. The facilities at Waldak Irrmbal are relatively basic but both Jungle Camp and Pococks Beach campsite offer a far more remote camping experience than you’ll find at one of Kakadu’s more easily accessed (and thus popular) campsites. You can explore Pococks Beach (be croc-aware; saltwater crocs often bask on the beach here) by foot and be sure to explore east of the campsites as well; the rocky outcrops and mangroves near the mouth of the West Alligator River are full of things to check out. It’s also worth keeping an eye out for the native orange-footed scrub fowl – or easier – its nest; this ground dwelling bird builds what is more appropriately dubbed a huge mound (they can be up to 4.5m tall and 9m in diameter) that is quite a sight.

Take the shortcut
The next day is the 80km return south via Waldak Irrmbal track, before reaching the Arnhem Highway and turning left. However, instead of following the highway all the way to Jabiru, follow it until you see a signposted 4X4-only track that leads south. This is a great ‘shortcut’ that, again, takes you away from the heaving dry season crowds on the bitumen roads and passes by some beautiful waterholes – Bucket, Alligator and Red Lily billabongs – before you ford the southern ‘tail’ of the Alligator River and join Old Jim Jim Road, another 4X4-only route.

Cruising and culture
Eventually, and a bit sadly, you will have to rejoin the bitumen at the Kakadu Highway, the park’s other main thoroughfare. For this second night, we’d highly recommend camping at Yellow Water (located slightly north just after you rejoin the Kakadu Highway) and partaking in the next morning’s sunrise cruise on this huge waterhole; birdlife, saltwater crocs and turtles can all be easily seen here. For the final day, you can then continue north back along the Kakadu Highway to the Nourlangie turn-off. Nourlangie contains some brilliant rock art and some short walks that take you to all the main sites. Next stop is Jabiru for the excellent cultural centre before (hopefully) timing your drive right and reaching Ubirr – another globally lauded rock-art site – where, after perusing the eons-old artwork, you walk to a vantage point that looks over the park’s northern floodplains for sunset. It’s brilliant.

Kakadu NP: southern section

This southern adventure in our famous national park begins with a straight bitumen run down the Stuart Highway to Pine Creek, and then turning left and following the Kakadu Highway into the park itself. Just inside the southern border is the excellent Goymarr Tourist Park. Tracking north from here you soon reach the turn-off to one of Kakadu’s most famous waterfalls – Gunlom. Unfortunately, this beautiful part of Kakadu NP is, at the time of writing, closed to visitors. Fingers crossed it will open again in the future as it is truly one of the national park’s jewels.

Going remote
For that remote bush camping experience in this busy park, we’d suggest driving further south-east to Jarrangbarnmi Campground (Koolpin Gorge). This campsite requires a permit (be sure to book well ahead; it can book out a year in advance) but the effort is worthwhile as it is simply sublime; the campsites are nestled beside Koolpin Creek and short walks (2km return) take you to remote plunge pools and waterfalls. It will be hard to return to camp…
Leaving this heaven-on-earth behind the next day, you will backtrack to the Kakadu Highway and continue north to the turn-off to the 4X4-only track to Maguk (Barramundi Gorge). This is yet another beautiful location – some short walks take you to one of the park’s best swimming holes.

A one-kilometre level walk from camp sees you reach a beautiful long plunge pool, with the waterfall at its eastern end (and easily reached by swimming). There’s also a separate walking track that takes you directly to the top of the waterfall itself where you can take a dip in the plunge pools above the falls themselves. From Maguk, it’s a short return to the highway and then a further drive north to the Graveside Gorge turn-off. This (very) remote campsite needs to be booked ahead and the drive in will take around three hours along the 44km of rocky, tricky terrain. It’s worth it of course if you wish to see another spectacular part of the park.

A fitting finish to the great escape
Further north from here – and, again, back on the Kakadu Highway for access – is Jim Jim Falls, one of Kakadu’s most famous visitor destinations. The drive in here is 4X4-only and is slow-going until you reach Garamarr campground. This campground is sizeable (it can handle 200 people) and has excellent facilities. From here, the access track to Jim Falls (and its beautiful plunge pool) continues, and you can also turn right to tackle the extra 10km to pretty Twin Falls too (there’s a water crossing here – a snorkel is advised for your vehicle) Twin Falls Gorge is accessed via a boat shuttle these days (you used to be able to float in there with a lilo) but as with everything in this park, it’s well worth the time and effort. For both Jim Jim and Twin Falls you can also gain access to the plateau above them, but both are steep and challenging walks (four hours for Twin Falls; six hours for Jim Jim). Speaking of which, the many walks in this area take you to some fantastic locations and it makes a fitting final night in Kakadu National Park.

Equally fitting is the last day’s journey out of the park. Rather than taking the bitumen Kakadu and Arnhem highways, we’d recommend backtracking south slightly from Jim Jim Falls and taking the 4X4-only Old Jim Jim Road as this tracks west through some fantastic floodplains and waterways and is, again, less crowded with visitors and vehicles. There is plenty of wildlife to spot along this route, as well.
A great morning tea/lunch spot is Giyamungkurr (Black Jungle Springs) camping area. From here it’s a straightforward run northwest to the Arnhem Highway and, after a few days in what seems like a totally untamed land, a return to ‘civilisation’.

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As well as its many natural highlights – glacial-carved valleys, ancient pencil pine forests, pristine alpine lakes and ancient dolerite peaks – Walls of Jerusalem NP is also a famous bushwalking destination, with the park’s 518,000 hectares offering walks ranging from day-long, to overnight, to a six-day (or longer) circuit (guided or independent), exploring the park from north to south and back again. The variety of walk lengths means Walls of Jerusalem NP has a walk suited to bushwalkers of all skill and fitness levels, with the walking season generally running from September to May. It also provides the perfect location for taking that next booted step in their walking careers, while offering a fantastic – and rewarding – challenge for the more experienced walkers. 

The park’s northern access point is located roughly three hours’ drive southwest of Launceston, passing through the township of Deloraine (the final chance to grab last-minutes supplies) and then Mole Creek (home to a fine example of Tassie’s character-filled pubs), before the turnoff from Myall Creek Road to Fish River car park. Then, it’s just a matter of signing the Parks Tasmania walker registration book, and the real adventure begins. 

The long way round

To fully appreciate the wonder that is “the Walls”, a six-day circuit of the national park is a must, albeit one for experienced walkers. Ideally, you will have completed other unsupported/independent multiday treks (or even guided full-pack treks), be walking in well-worn hiking boots, and be comfortable carrying all your food and water, as well as appropriate clothing and camping gear (see our comprehensive guide to hiking, here). You will also need to think in terms of time, rather than distance, owing to the terrain encountered during this circuit and its side-trips, and the amount of ascending and descending. 

Even though the tracks in the park are easy to follow and the majority are signposted, you should be adept at basic navigation and carry (preferably) topographic paper maps of the park and a compass, plus an emergency beacon. Why no GPS? A handheld GPS is fantastic but these can sometimes fail or simply run out of power (if you do take one, don’t forget spare batteries) so are not a good idea as the sole navigation aid (this writer takes paper maps, compass and GPS on all treks. This all sounds daunting but for experienced walkers, this equipment will be always in their packs and with proper preparation and all the essential gear, you can just focus on why you’re really here: to experience one of Australia’s premier multiday bushwalks. 

The Walls of Jerusalem circuit is far from subtle in its introduction for walkers to the majestic landscape found in the park; the initial ascent begins straight from the Fish River car park; following the rock-strewn track upwards immerses you immediately in dense forest, with towering eucalypts shadowing you and lush tree ferns bordering the track. You will ascend 500m to the park’s boundary line, which is just above what will be the first of the area’s historic huts you will encounter. Trappers Hut was, as the name suggests, used by wallaby trappers initially, and later by bushwalkers (although nowadays you are not allowed to stay in the hut unless in an emergency situation). Following the rock-strewn track upwards immerses you immediately in dense forest, with towering eucalypts shadowing you and lush tree ferns bordering the track. Even allowing for the steepness of the ascent, the first section is cracking good fun, and hints at what lies ahead over the next six days as you explore this wild land. 

Above it all

Once you reach the park boundary you will come to the junction of Walls of Jerusalem Track and Junction Lake Track. This junction point is where you start and finish the circuit itself. You can opt to go south on Junction Lake Track and complete the circuit anticlockwise, but we’d recommend turning southeast onto Walls of Jerusalem Track first – you want your introduction to the park’s many natural highlights to happen on the first day – plus it’s a fitting reward for that hour-long lung-busting climb. 

You are now at 900m and soon move out of the dense timber and onto the Central Plateau and the first of the circuit’s highlights. Solomons Jewels is a landscape of small alpine lakes surrounded by native pine trees – and the second (after the park title itself) of what will become regular encounters with the park’s rather unique naming convention. The park’s title is thanks to 19th-century surveyor James Scott. In the 1920s, Launceston solicitor Reg Hall (a regular visitor) continued this biblical theme when naming natural features, so landmarks are tagged with titles such as Zions Gate, King Davids Peak, Herods Gate, Wailing Wall, Pool (and Vale) of Bethesda, Lake Salome, and The Temple. All epic names, but then, this is an epic landscape. 

The traverse of Solomons Jewels is relatively quick and then there is a final, but short, ascent to Wild Dog Creek campsite, perched at the base of King Davids Peak (1499m and Tassie’s tenth highest). This will be your base for one night. The campsite has tent platforms raised up above the ground to protect the fragile vegetation below, and there’s a self-composting toilet about 50 metres further up. There is also water here (boil before use). It’s a roughly three- to four-hour journey from Fish River car park to Wild Dog Creek campsite and once there – and after setting up camp – you can relax and enjoy the spectacle of sunset over the lumpy peaks of Howells Bluff and Clumner Bluff. Oh, one important note: keep an eye out for the oversized possums that will try and raid your food bags here; keeping all your food stored and your tent zipped up will help discourage these opportunistic characters.

Entering the amphitheatre

The area of the national park that encapsulates the actual Walls of Jerusalem themselves is worthy of a full day’s exploration, and is deserving of its “The Amphitheatre” moniker. You enter this natural arena via Herods Gate, a 20-minute climb from camp and then once through are immediately confronted with the immense scale of this area; the towering dolerite cliffs of the West Wall shadow walkers as they move southeast on the second day of the circuit, along slightly undulating terrain. Highlights here include Lake Salome to your east, and the pristine Pool of Bethesda. It’s an hour traverse (with a quick sidetrip to the Pool) before you ascend Damascus Gate and have the choice of two sidetrips: a scramble up Solomons Throne, at the junction of the West Wall and the Wailing Wall, and/or The Temple, to the east.

We’d opt for Solomons Throne; scrambling up a scree field, then climbing through a square-edged notch cut out of the West Wall sees you soon at the summit of Solomons Throne, with 360-degree views across the park. Take in the Great Pine Tier and Bernes Valley to the southeast, Mt Jerusalem to the east, Chinamans Plains to the south and your day four destination of Lake Adelaide to the southwest before returning to the Damascus Gate junction and continuing southeast to your next camp at Dixons Kingdom Hut. This historic hut is reached after an hour of walking along a rocky, undulating track that takes you through an emerald-green wonderland of lush grass and native pine trees before coming out into a clearing beside the hut. 

As well as sublime camping, Dixons Kingdom Hut is also where the track to the 1459m summit of Mt Jerusalem is accessed. This steady ascent takes about an hour, with the track taking you over plenty of the rocks and boulders synonymous with the park, past some more pristine alpine lakes, and over some false summits before you reach the cairn that marks the true summit. The views over the park – and especially over the myriad lakes to the east – are outstanding.

The end game

Our circuit loops south then east, then south again over the next two days; the walk southwest through Jaffa Vale from Dixons Kingdom Hut is brilliant, with the chance to spot wallabies and birdlife hiding in the button grass, before you turn east and follow the shoreline of pretty Lake Ball (passing the hut of the same name) before joining Junction Lake Track at the head of Lake Adelaide.

The options here including camping near this track junction, or turning south to follow the eastern shore of Lake Adelaide to a campsite halfway along this immense waterway. This is highly recommended as it brings you closer to the following day’s objective: camping at Lake Meston and tackling the ascent of Mt Ragoona (1350m). To reach Lake Meston from this point it is two hours walking through what is claimed to be one of the world’s best examples of a glacial valley – Adelaide Plain – to camp at the head of Lake Meston.

Here, you’ll find not only one of the circuit’s prettiest campsites, overlooking the lake, but you gain access to the track up Mt Ragoona (1350m). By this point you’ve walked many kilometres but this ascent is a must-do; from Meston Hut (midway along the lake’s western side), the climb up is slightly challenging but awesome fun, negotiating scrubby, then progressively rockier terrain on the way to the Mt Ragoona Plateau. The plateau is covered in rocks and boulders, dotted with beautiful, clear mountain lakes and leads into the final hour of walking to the summit and yep, more unforgettable views, this time with Cradle Mountain and the rugged ramparts of the Western Arthur Range clearly visible.

From the campsite at Lake Meston you will backtrack north on Junction Lake Track, past Lake Adelaide and then through more valleys on the way to the final (optional) night’s campsite at pretty Stretcher Lake. It will be a six-hour walk but one that is well worthwhile. The lake is reached via a mix of off-track and track walking and is, in this writer’s opinion, one of the best ways to finish this circuit. Doing a short walk around the lake itself, then sitting back at camp as the sun sets makes a brilliant sign-off, with only a return to Junction Lake Track, then on to Trappers Hut and the final descent down to Fish River car park. Leave early enough from Stretcher Lake (it’s about three hours to the car park) and you’ll time it perfectly for lunch at the Mole Creek Hotel restaurant and a celebratory beverage at its iconic Tassie Tiger bar. Not a bad way to finish six days in Walls of Jerusalem National Park.

Fact File

Getting there: Walls of Jerusalem National Park is most easily accessed via the northern entry point of Fish River car park, around three hours’ drive southwest of Launceston. There are daily flights to Launceston from most capital cities.

Best time to go: September to May.

Guided trek options: For those who would prefer a guided full-pack trek, Tasmanian Expeditions (a subsidiary of World Expeditions) offers a number of treks in the park, including a six-day circuit, as well as a winter trek and a self-guided option.

The post Ultimate Aussie walks: The Walls of Jerusalem Circuit, Tasmania appeared first on Australian Geographic.

There’s nothing like an epic traverse for a big dose of challenge and the thrill of discovery. The string of mountains that make up the Grampians (Gariwerd) have long made a favourite outdoor playground but the new 164km Grampians Peaks Trail (GPT) offers a deep dive into its spectacular and varied terrain. I headed out to walk it solo on the first day it opened. Here’s what I learned about one of Australia’s newest treks.

Excitement levels were high when I stood on top of Mt Zero at the trail’s northern end, contemplating the 13-day adventure ahead that would lead me to the little town of Dunkeld. Though well familiar with a few justly popular areas of the national park, I was about to see the ranges in their entirety, including 100km of new track. Formed from sandstone, the Grampians have been tilted and uplifted, creating a string of mountains with sheer cliffs on one side and sloping into the Wimmera Plains on the other. With the route drizzling over all its highest peaks, it’s regularly above the tree line making for a spectacular hike.

If you look at the daily distances on this trail (8-16km per day) you’d be forgiven for thinking it’s a cruisy ramble – at least that’s what I was did. I was wrong. For starters, you’re climbing nearly the height of Everest (elevation gain is over 8,000m) and the undulations feel relentless at times. I soon came to be audibly appreciating any flat ground I encountered, and though I was sure I’d packed far too many snacks, I shoveled in every calorie. Add in a few side trips to waterfalls or lookouts, and days might take longer than anticipated. Two kilometres an hour is about the average pace; my slowest day was eight hours for 13km – due not only to the 700 metres of climbing and getting distracted by views, but the terrain itself.

While there’s been a lot of talk about the fancy architecturally designed campsites, the track itself is another story. This is no cake walk (read this in flashing neon lights). Proper benched track is rare; more common are slabs of sloping rock, rock hopping and the odd scramble. Add water – like the rain and hail I copped on a few days – and things fast get slippery and slow. 

Most of the trail is classified as Grade 4, with one Grade 5 section over the Seven Dials Escarpment to Redman Bluff. As a solo walker I was really challenged on a bit of this section that required me to remove my pack, drag it through a crack and up some boulders. For the most part, signage is pretty good but there are a few sections where you need to pay attention, thanks to the rocky terrain which gives no clues as to trafficked routes. It’s challenging, but these factors also make for an interesting and exciting walk.

The North, Central and South sections are all impressive in their own way; all undulate over the mountains, offering consistent great views. If you can only spare four days, the North offers a great snapshot of the Grampians with interesting rock-hopping, expansive views from high ridgelines, vast valleys, waterfalls and bracken fern-filled forest. There’s a real sense of wildness in the Central section once you get past The Wonderland Range – the most famous and heavily visited part of the Grampians. After passing Mt William and the Major Mitchell Plateau, you’re far from day-trippers and the views here are some of the best, especially across to the long and serrated Serra Range running parallel. It’s also the toughest bit of the trail. The South is easiest and where most of the new trail is. Climbs are shorter, the trail is more defined, and inclines are made easier by stone steps. I passed more wildflowers and wildlife (kangaroos, echidnas, emus) in this section than others. 

What really elevates this walk is the awesome campsites waiting at day’s end. Whatever the elements throw at you, it’s nice to have somewhere to retreat to and the GPT has super cool fully sealed communal shelters at all but three campsites (naturally they were the ones that, for me, coincided with 70kph winds and a mega thunder storm). They’re not for sleeping in – carry all the usual camping/cooking equipment – but they do have tables and bench seats, USB charging points, water tanks and usually an epic view. Tents are pitched on either timber platforms or packed-earth tent pads. Gar camp, in the northern section, is a standout, perched on the rim of a cliff along with a few wooden sun lounges. Both it and Werdug camp also have three cute little 4-bed huts, bookable only by guided walking companies. 

I love a thru-hike but 13 days non-stop is a long time in this kind of terrain. If you want to break it up there are a multitude of access points enabling stints of 1, 2, 3 days and upwards. Campsites need to be booked through Parks Victoria ($47 per site per night) and there’s no doubling up of sections in one day permitted. (Being the first guinea pig on the trail, I got an exemption to combine a couple of days and then regretted it deeply!) 

It’s a one-way adventure so you’re looking at a car shuffle (1.5hrs each way), or enlisting the services of Grampians Peaks Walking Company, to move between trailheads. I also utilised its food drop service, so I didn’t have to carry more than 4-5 days’ worth at once. One night is spent in the town of Halls Gap, convenient for a shower, a hearty feed, and a resupply.  

With all that huffing and puffing you can really guzzle through some water and while tanks at campsites occasionally run low, there are additional ones sprinkled near road access points that are kept topped up. The GPT promises a real adventure and is set to become an Aussie classic. – Laura Waters

Walls of Jerusalem National Park, TAS

This amazing national park sits in Tassie’s wild and remote southwest and is the Apple Isle’s only alpine national park. “The Walls”, as it is colloquially known, offers a number of trekking options, from day-hikes, to overnighters, through to seven-day circuits that take you deep into the national park’s southern section, with the opportunity to ascend a number of peaks. 

For those with limited time, a day-walk (7-8 hours return) up toward the national parks’ campground at Wild Dog Creek, traversing dense native forest (passing an old trapper’s hut in this section) before reaching the Central Plateau and then on to the campground. From here, you ascend for another half-hour and pass through the Golden Gate to reach the beautiful Damascus Vale (the ideal lunch stop), where the park’s namesake cliffs tower over you. The descent back to the track-head is quicker, meaning you have the perfect excuse to stop off at Mole Creek Hotel for a coldie (and dinner) to celebrate.

For the super-keen hikers, a full six days in Walls of Jerusalem NP is a must. There are a few ways to do a circuit walk through here, so it’s worth consulting a map of the park or, if you’d rather, opt for a guided trek, such as the Walls of Jerusalem Circuit offered by Tasmanian Expeditions. This takes away the logistical hassles and allows you to soak up this magnificent part of Tassie over seven days. During that time, you’ll camp in some absolutely magic locations (including beside a couple of lakes), ascend a number of the mountains in the park, such as Mt Jerusalem and the West Wall Traverse, and traverse what is claimed to be one of the world’s best examples of a glacial valley (the Adelaide Valley). 

Other Walls of Jerusalem hiking highlights include the section through Damascus Vale where you are dwarfed by the West Walls, and also the chance for a side-trip (conditions permitting) up on to the Mt Ragoona Plateau, where you can score views right across southwest Tassie to Cradle Mountain. It’s a busy six days – and you will need a decent level of multiday trek fitness – but you’ll be well rewarded. Walking “The Walls” is close to a full week of wonder, that’s for sure.

Mt Kenya, Kenya

Sitting in the shadow of Mt Kilimanjaro, Mt Kenya is the African continent’s second highest mountain, but to view the week-long journey up to its peak as “easier” would be doing it a huge disservice. Put simply, it is a cracking multiday trekking adventure, with a mix of route options to the top of the trekking summit of Point Lenana, along which you will encounter some seriously dramatic landscape and plenty of wildlife. Plus, there are far fewer hikers here compared to Kili…

Mt Kenya is best tackled in a guided group as this takes away all the hassles of logistics and permits (read about our guided trek up Mt Kenya, here). The adventure starts well before the walk; you will be transported via 4WD along a rough, slippery, bumpy track for a few hours before you start the track and walk to the cottages near the Chogoria gate entrance to Mt Kenya National Park. At this very early stage, you are already 3017m above sea level, so the rest of the afternoon is spent relaxing in the cottages and getting ready for your next day of walking.

The first day is through forest before moving higher and into an alpine moorland region. Keep an eye out for wildlife ranging from elephant and buffalo to antelope and monkeys along the way to camp at Lake Ellis. This is a beautiful first camp but is trumped by the campsite at Lake Michaelson on the second night. After climbing high up to 4000m, you suddenly drop down 200m into the famous Gorges Valley, a part of which encompasses the campsite itself. 

The landscape changes again the following day as you trek even higher; moorland grasses drop away as you enter the high alpine zone and are replaced by rock and scree, with the jagged spires of the nearby peaks adding to the lunar-esque terrain. From high camp at Simba Tarn (a lofty 4560m) the final push – via an early 3.30am start – will take you to the summit of Point Lenana (4985m), with 360-degree views of the plains below and, amazingly, the dome-shaped silhouette of Mt Kilimanjaro, roughly 260km in the distance. Mt Kenya is made up of three separate peaks, with Lenana the highest trekking summit. For those with climbing skills (and more time) the pyramid-shaped Batian is the true high peak of Mt Kenya, and a serious alpine/rock climbing goal. 

The return from the summit is long but downhill; passing Shipton’s Camp, with its buildings and other trek groups camped around them, you will make your way down to Moses Camp for a well-earned rest before the last descent down the Sirimon Valley to the national park gate. For a five-day trek, Mt Kenya packs in everything you could wish for: wildlife, amazing scenery, great guides and porters, and what rates as one of the world’s most amazing sunrises.

Inca Rivers Trek, Peru

For those keen to avoid the crowds of the Inca Trail, while still enjoying some amazing Inca ruins and Peruvian history and culture, the nine-day, 104km Inca Rivers trek is perfect. Starting at a heady 2600 metres at Cachora, the track soon continues higher – and then down; each day you can expect to ascend and then descend anywhere from 500m to 1000m in altitude – over the course of the nine days, before reaching the final destination of Macchu Picchu itself. 

The track’s final destination is, of course, well worth the nine days’ effort, but it is the daily highlights of this trek that make it a worthy inclusion in this list. Most notably, on the third day, hikers reach the ruins of Choquequirao, estimated to be only 30 per cent uncovered by archaeologists but, once fully cleared, it is claimed this site will be both more complete and larger than Macchu Picchu itself. 

Other highlights over the nine days include first descending, then crossing and ascending, two massive river valleys – the Apurimac and the Rio Blanco – where you can camp by the river. The condor is prevalent in these high mountains so there’s a good chance of spotting juveniles and adults soaring above on the thermal air currents. The reclusive spectacled bear makes its home here in the high peaks as well, as do jaguar at lower elevations.

Due to its proximity to the equator, even at high altitudes (the trek reaches a high point of 4660m), the track is often shrouded in lush jungle and rainforest. The campsites along the way are near very small villages/settlements, and you’ll also become used to seeing Inca stonework daily along the track. 

The Inca Rivers Trail can be walked independently, but the best option is to book a guided trek with an operator such as World Expeditions. The company includes the necessary amount of acclimatisation days pre-trek on their Inca River adventure, and the guides are exceptional in regard to both their experience at high-altitude trekking and knowledge of Peru’s culture and history. 

The Inca Rivers Trail offers the best of all worlds: a final destination recognised as one of the world’s wonders; the relatively unknown, but amazing, archaeological discovery that is Choquequirao; the strong Peruvian culture; and the fact that you will rarely see anyone but your own group on this trail.

The Great Himalaya Trail

Yep, there’s little doubt that the Great Himalaya Trail (GHT) – all 1700km and 152 days of it – is the Big One of multi-day treks. There are other uber-long distance treks – the Appalachian and Pacific Crest trails in the USA are just two to mind – but the GHT offers probably the most complete experience when it comes to not only trekking itself, but in terms of the variety of terrain you traverse, and the myriad cultural experiences along the way as you cross Nepal’s mountainous spine. 

The appeal of doing the “full GHT” is obvious, but for those with less time, the fact that the GHT can be walked in sections as well, ups its appeal considerably. You can do the full-length GHT and the various sections independently, but for those who like most of the planning and logistics taken care of, Aussie adventure travel experts World Expeditions offer both the full monty traverse and the choice to do one, two, three or – eventually – all seven of the GHT sections.

For those (mad?) keen to do the full GHT in one hit, experience and preparation are crucial – as is the ability to pay for it (it sure ain’t cheap) and have an employer who, hopefully, understands your dreams and will allow you to take off what is nearly half a year from you job. Get all those variables to align and you are off on one of the world’s biggest trekking adventures.

The highlights are myriad on this journey – getting up close to Nepal’s high peaks, walking in terrain ranging from humid lowlands to snow-draped alpine areas, and the multiple cultural experiences from each region are just a few – as is the personal satisfaction of simply completing such an adventure. The GHT experience offered by World Expeditions starts in the east of Nepal, in the Kanchenjunga region, and ends in the west at the border with Tibet, in the town of Hilsa.

If time is an issue, then one or more of the seven separate sections in no way lessens either the challenge or the appeal (and it is a lot more feasible budget-wise). In fact, spending seven separate years joining up sections of one of the world’s best treks isn’t a bad way to spend your time! 

The post Ultimate bucket-list treks: Five of the world’s best appeared first on Australian Geographic.

A dream begins

I spent my childhood mucking around in canoes on the slow-moving rivers and creeks of south coast NSW. The whitewater of Australia’s big rivers seemed a world away and it took a child’s vivid imagination to compensate for the placid character of our local waterways.

I first discovered the Franklin River in the early ’80s. Like many others, my knowledge came courtesy of the numerous news stories centred around the potential damming of one of Australia’s last wild rivers. I was in high school but can still recall the television footage showing the flotilla of protestors’ rafts, kayaks and canoes, cluttering up the Franklin’s lower sections. My interest was also piqued by Peter Dombrovskis’ famous photo of Island Bend and old reel film of the Franklin’s epic rapids.

Eventually, passion and enthusiasm (with a bit of help from a political party and the High Court) triumphed over energy and money. The Franklin River would not be dammed. More importantly – for my 13-year-old self, at least – a paddling dream stayed alive.

The wild side of the Franklin River

More than thirty years is a long time to wait. But, as the next nine days were about to prove, the rewards for great patience can be immense. Satisfaction was the governing emotion as I helped pack a pair of bright yellow World Expeditions rafts, moored on the rocky banks of the Collingwood River, in advance of setting off on a guided journey with World Expeditions, to fulfil that dream. Guides Oscar, Victor and Dan were directing our group of seven paddlers (Rob and Saffron, Peter, Dave and Gina, Phil and myself) as we loaded the two rafts and divvied ourselves into two rafting crews. We’d have a guide in each raft, plus a third guide would act as a forward scout in a kayak. This guided journey down the Franklin is

The weather was perfect, and the river was calling. Or the Collingwood River, at least – we had about an hour or so of paddling this waterway before we reached the confluence with the Franklin. The introduction was gentle, with the river at an average flow-height – perfect for paddle-stroke and rafting tuition.

We soon mastered the commands of “back paddle”, “forward” and most importantly, “get down”. What we hadn’t mastered was the negotiation of some of the trickier, shallow rapids we encountered very early on. These required much pushing and shoving from Oscar, our guide (I was in a raft with Rob, Saffron and Dave), along with the crew shifting our weight from side to side, as we tried to shift the raft off the rocks – not an easy task considering its size and weight.

These incredibly bright, yellow watercraft were the marine equivalent of a Land Rover 4WD – able to take a surprisingly heavy load of crew and equipment (esky, food boxes, sleeping gear, cooking gear, etc., all secured with tie-downs). Victor estimated each raft weighed, all up, about 700kg. It wasn’t hard to believe. With five adults on board, plus all the equipment, it was amazing that these things could move at all. But they did and when surfing down some of the faster rapids – Sticks and Stones was a standout – the rafts reached impressive speeds. This meant paddle strokes, and paddlers’ positions, had to be adjusted very quickly for a successful run.

More than just paddling

One of the Franklin River’s many attractions is its camp sites and, even on the first day, I was seriously impressed. Angel Rain Cavern was our aptly named first camp site – we slept on air mats, perched in a cliff under a large overhang, while the river flowed below.

We left Angel Rain Cavern early the next morning, but 10 minutes later we were back on land at our first big portage. The Log Jam was a series of massive logs shoved up against a series of huge boulders, with no way through. The guides tackled this portage; us punters sat perched on a slippery rock face. Water teemed over us from an overhang and rushed through a series of man-sized gaps between the logs below us.

Once the guides had dragged and dropped each raft over the huge logs, we had to tightrope walk along a log then lower ourselves (mainly falling ungainly) into our raft. At that point, it looked like we’d have a fairly easy time, watching the guides portage any difficult sections, while we kept out of the way. A foolish assumption, as it turned out.

After a series of shallow rapids, some flat water, and pauses to admire big, beautiful Huon pine trees, we reached Nasty Notch and the grunt work started. Manhandling the rafts over a series of rock ledges, even when emptied of rafters, was no easy task. The rocks underfoot were slippery (although you’d never know it, watching the guides dance lightly over them) and the rotund sides of a raft don’t make the best handholds, but it is amazing how fear aids concentration. The portage was hard but fun. We managed to get the rafts – and ourselves – to the other side, incident-free, and felt a satisfying sense of achievement.

From here we paddled through a large pool before putting all our rafting skills to the test in Descension Gorge, a series of Class 3 rapids. It was high-adrenaline stuff that ended in the Irenabyss, a large, calm, open section of water and our camp site for the night. As the main camp site was taken, we had to settle for a smaller site on the opposite bank, but our open-air kitchen was right down by the river.

In the Franklin River’s shadow

Over the next couple of days, we settled into a familiar routine: wake up, breakfast, pack up, inflate rafts, pack rafts, don helmets and PFDs, start paddling to the next beautiful campsite. Victor and Oscar alternated daily between paddling the kayak or guiding our raft. Rob, Saffron and I had confidently dubbed our raft “The Unsinkable”, on account of Peter and Phil taking some unplanned dips out of Dan’s raft.

Our campsite at The Beach was beautiful and only matched by that day’s paddling. With no portaging, plenty of sunshine, a mix of awesome rapids and tranquil sections, we were starting to feel a million miles from civilisation and enjoying every second. We were moving closer to the Great Ravine, the Franklin River’s narrowest section, with towering cliffs either side. But there were still big rapids to negotiate before we reached Coruscades, the entry point to the ravine. This was where I copped the winding from hell. Our 700kg raft turned into a waterborne spinning top after we misjudged a rock’s location. We whipped around amazingly fast and I fell face-first in the raft, swallowing a bit more of the Franklin on the raft floor. It all happened super quick but, thankfully I only ended up a bit sore and was okay to keep paddling.

Soon after, we stopped to see a small riverside waterfall and then stopped, rather more abruptly, at the head of The Churn, a Class 6 monster series of rapids. Here the guides used ropes to lower the rafts down. We rejoined them to run the Class 4 Coruscades – which were brilliant fun – and then watched Oscar tackle the whitewater in the kayak. The camp site at Coruscades was a welcome sight. From here, the Great Ravine beckoned.

An increasingly narrow world 

Portages are one of the less fun aspects of river-running, as I was reminded when our day ay started with the toughest portage so far – from our camp site over a slippery, steep and narrow track to the bottom of the Coruscades rapid. We dragged, carried and swore at the eskies and other heavy pieces of equipment. It took a couple of hours to get it all done, then finally we were paddling. Well, for a short while, anyway.

It was a big day for portaging, and we repeated the morning’s procedure several times as we negotiated Sidewinder and then Thunderrush, where Rob, Peter, Phil and I helped drag the two rafts over huge boulders and into a fast-boiling rapid, where we got to do the “Wild Thing”. It really was like a kid’s adventure dream come true. Dan and his raft were first to do the dance. A slipknot secured the raft to a sunken log, the crew jumped in and, while being buffeted by the power of the rapid, unhitched the knot and shot out at speed into the river’s main channel. It was brilliant. Our raft also had Victor and his kayak on board. The extra weight and imbalance dragged the raft’s rear left corner down, threatening to capsize us before Oscar could release the rope. I am sure the crew’s screams had nothing to do with Oscar completing the uncoupling at record speed.

Rafting through the Great Ravine was like travelling through mythical lands: the knife-edge ridges and steep cliff walls were shrouded in mist and that atmosphere, plus some of the trip’s largest rapids, etched it in my memory as the best day on the river.

The Franklin was at its wildest at The Cauldron. The guides (with Rob assisting) had to portage this rapid, which is one of the river’s most dangerous. The last person to die on the Franklin drowned here after being trapped under the rocks. The two gear-laden rafts were inched through the pounding rapids, around huge boulders, then went into freefall over a rapid so tall it could be more accurately described as a waterfall. It was incredible to watch from the high bank on the opposite side of the river. The rafts – and the guides – were dwarfed by the immensity of the river; it was powerful stuff.

Later that day, on our way to Rafter’s Basin camp site, we passed through The Biscuit, the remnants of an ancient wall the river had broken through. The two ends, minus the middle section, really did look like a half-eaten bicky. Interestingly, The Biscuit was also earmarked as a potential location for a dam wall; the hydro dam plans included using the sidewalls to form the basis of the dam wall. 

The reality of an iconic image

It was just a photograph. But it was a photograph that brought home to everyday Australians what was at risk. ‘Morning Mist, Rock Island Bend’, by Peter Dombrovskis, ran in The Age newspaper as a double-page colour spread (colour spreads in newspapers were exceedingly rare in the early ’80s). It appeared during the campaign to save the Franklin and has since been cited as one of its most influential moments. In the photo, Rock Island is shrouded in mist, with the Franklin’s waters swirling smoothly by. It’s a beautiful image that captures the essence of the river. This made it a powerful tool for the anti-dam campaigners, who were desperate to ensure every Australian realised what the Franklin River represented – something rare, wild and free.

We reached Rock Island Bend on our second day in the Great Ravine. Bright sunshine gave us a totally different view of this location. It was still spectacular, but possessed a harder, wilder edge than the softly lit Dombrovskis image. We loitered here for a while, ambling up to explore a nearby waterfall, then jumped back in the rafts and passed The Pig Trough before arriving at the Franklin’s longest runnable rapids – Newland Cascades – and our camp site of the same name.

The rapids were an epic event, only outdone by the camp site and a brilliant lunch of sushi (suddenly, those heavy eskies didn’t seem quite so bad). We had our own choice of camp sites spread over a huge rock platform, sheltered by a massive overhang. My chosen digs (a perfectly sized slab of rock) provided me with a 180-degree view of the river below. Each night’s camp had been different to the last – but all were equally memorable. However, snuggling down in my sleeping bag, listening to the roar of the Cascades from my lofty, open-air perch was my ultimate “night out”.

Slowly, slowly on the Franklin River

Rafts are designed to go over rapids, but when it comes to long distances, of flat water, it’s a different story. And, on our last two days, that’s exactly what we found.

As we moved out of the Great Ravine, the tall cliffs on either side shrank, the river widened and maintaining forward momentum became a lot harder. Some sections of river were dead flat and we also copped the odd headwind, so our progress was slow. We explored Aboriginal caves along the way and, on our last night in the wild, camped at yet another beautiful location: a sandy beachhead on a bend in the river.

Our last day was even slower, as we portaged the gnarly Big Falls before continuing downriver to the opening of a slot canyon, which our guides dubbed “The Lost World”. Once again, the moniker was apt. Scrambling through the canyon’s entrance led us to an emerald-green wonder world, with everything covered in lustrous moss. We explored up the canyon for quite a way, splashing through deeper water and sidling along narrow, smooth-walled niches, before coming out higher up on drier land. It was spectacular, a brilliant sign-off.

From The Lost World, we soon reached the confluence of the Franklin and Gordon rivers. The Gordon was running fast, so we rafted-up the two rafts, Oscar threw some Bob Marley on our raft’s cassette player and we flailed away into a headwind that wasn’t quite strong enough to match our paddle strokes and the rivers’ flow.

That last hour was, besides the perfectly suited tones of Bob, spent in near-silence. It seemed like everyone was trying to retain as much of the exhilarating experience we’d had over the 125km and eight days on the river as they could. The Jetty, our final camp, was empty when we arrived, but its steel-bound frame and national parks info board seemed like modern-day intrusions after our immersion in pure wilderness.

The Franklin River dream flows to an end

I waited a bloody long time to fulfil my dream of paddling the Franklin. For once, a dream was surpassed by the awesome reality, thanks to the river, the rapids, the landscape, the history and the all-encompassing sense of pure, unspoiled wilderness. It’s amazing to think this remains only thanks to a passionate, never-say-die group of people who believed the Franklin was worth fighting for.

When Victor first mentioned that drinking from the river over the course of the trip would, in effect, transform you into the Franklin, I laughed – but his words also fostered a dreamy hope. At least, if some sense of the Franklin was retained inside me, it might tide me over until the next time I run the river. And there will be a next time…

The post Ultimate Aussie adventures: Rafting the Franklin River appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The new Mountain Designs Stratus outer shell uses well-proved Pertex® Shield fabric to offer plenty of breathability as well as optimum protection from the elements when you’re out on the tracks. The lightweight 2.5-layer construction uses a lightweight and robust outer fabric in combination with a wind- and waterproof breathable membrane. There is plenty of ventilation on offer, including handy pit zips, as well as a two-way zipper. Mountain Designs draws on its decades of apparel design to make sure the jacket doesn’t inhibit you in the outdoors, with articulated elbows, an adjustable hem, hood (also with a peak stiffener) and wrist cuffs. Add in a waterproof chest pocket and excellent build quality and this jacket is an enticing buy for those looking for a top-end outer shell for their adventures. 
RRP: $350

Reclaim Tee

As the name suggests, this new tee for men is sustainably produced, with an eco-friendly blend of 60 per cent organic cotton and 40 per cent recycled polyester. This fabric mix ensures a nice soft feel for excellent comfort. Keeping those sweaty smells to a minimum is the use of Polygiene® anti-odour technology that is designed to minimise odour-causing bacteria from forming on the fabric, allowing you to wear it more than a few times if you need to when outdoors. Plus, the mix of fabrics also means the tee dries faster than a regular full-cotton equivalent. Winning! RRP: $80

Aventurine shorts

Another eco-friendly piece of apparel, the Aventurine shorts for women combines recycled polyester and elastane, to provide a super comfortable soft and stretchy fabric when worn, which does not inhibit movement. Further aiding freedom of movement is the side-split hem, making these shorts ideal for everything from hiking to camping to rock climbing, while comfort is enhanced by the ribbed waist band. The shorts are very quick-drying and, like the Reclaim Tee, feature the effective Polygiene® anti-odour tech to minimise odour-causing bacteria for multi-day use. An internal drawstring for fine-tuning the fit, and multiple pockets make these shorts not only comfortable but versatile and convenient as well. RRP: $90

X-Country 65L hiking pack

We are huge fans of Mountain Designs backpacks, and the new X-Country 65L (also available in 55 and 75L capacity), a technical hiking pack, shows why. With enhanced padding for optimum support for the wearer when lugging big loads, through to the robust harness system, this pack is built for big and tough outdoor missions. The pack includes a large main compartment with a handy three-way entry system for ease of access and more efficient packing of your gear. The internal divider is brilliant for keeping mucky gear away from your cleaner clothes, there are robust hiking pole loops and an excellent daisy chain attachment setup on the outside for stowing bulkier gear. We’re keen to get our hands on one of these for a gear test, so keep an eye out for our thoughts on this exciting new backpack. RRP: $300

See Mountain Designs for more info on these new products and the brand’s other outdoor gear.

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Get ready for captivating cinematography and heart-stopping action in this year’s tour, which features daring footage of some of the most accomplished climbers, slack liners, BASE jumpers, skiers and snowboarders. From the powdery slopes of Switzerland to the treacherous peaks of Pakistan, these dynamic clips are sure to elicit maximum excitement.

The Radical Reels tour will keep you on the edge of your seat, as you observe 10 of the most exciting, high-energy films from the latest Banff Mountain Festival. Touring cinemas around the country this October and November.

To view locations and book tickets, visit www.radicalreels.com.au

Related: Where in the world: Bucket-list global adventures for 2022

The post The Banff Mountain Festival’s Radical Reels tour is here appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Featuring a unique selection of films and an array of the gutsiest girls you can imagine, this year’s Gutsy Girls Adventure Film Tour is unmissable. The footage in these action-packed films is sourced from independent filmmakers working around the globe and showcases inspiring female adventurers.

Gutsy Girls aims to connect and inspire like-minded female adventurers by shining a light on the incredible achievements of these explorers.

This year’s films include Australian adventurer Lucy Clark, who has long dreamed of setting the speed record for running the Te Araroa, New Zealand’s long-distance tramping route, stretching 3000km along the length of the country’s two main islands from Cape Reinga to Bluff. Watch the intense footage of her negotiating dangerous river crossings and braving lonely solo nights in remote backcountry.

From the verdant valleys of New Zealand to the snowy terrain of Mount Everest, this collection of awe-inspiring and heartwarming films will inspire you to book your next audacious trip and test your limits!

Touring Australia in July and August – find a session near you!

Related: Where in the world: Bucket-list global adventures for 2022

The post Get your dose of adventure inspiration at the Gutsy Girls Adventure Film Tour appeared first on Australian Geographic.

When I eventually got a hold of Sam later that day, he apologised profusely, explaining that when he left home for the beach it was a typical misty New Zealand South Island morning, but by the time he got there the sun was out. Gazing at the surf, he had forgotten to turn off his headlights and by the time he got out of the water to head back home his battery was flat.

While surfing is a passion of Sam’s, it’s certainly not the sport in which he’s made a name for himself. No, Sam Smoothy is known the world over for his exploits on snow, competing successfully for many years on the Freeride World Tour and starring in several ski movies.

A mountain town childhood

Sam grew up in Wanaka, known as the gateway to New Zealand’s Southern Alps, and with mountaineering parents it’s little wonder he learnt from the
age of two.

“I basically grew up skiing at Treble Cone ski resort,” Sam says. “I was really just pottering around the mountain with my little buddies and then we all got into ski racing.”

“I ski raced giant slalom and slalom until I was 17, and by that stage freeskiing had come along and I thought that looked like a good lark. We were sneaking off from race training to go do jumps and stuff anyway… so I moved into freeskiing and started doing a lot of Slopestyle, Halfpipe, Big Airs and things, just trying anything, a whole new style of skiing, and I had an absolute ball.”

By the time Sam was in his early 20s, he realised his talents lay in freeskiing, so he spent a few years competing in qualifier events for the Freeride World Tour. These were tough, self-funded years, and although there was one qualifier event in NZ, Sam had to pay his way to events in Europe and North America.

“I had small amounts of sponsorship then, I was lucky to have what I had, but still, it didn’t really cover much of the costs so in the off-season I’d be working my arse off at anything to raise funds for heading overseas… there were definitely quite a few years of grind before I managed to break through.”

That breakthrough came in 2010 when Sam was ranked in the top three on the qualifying circuit, which meant he would be on the Freeride World Tour the following year.

“My first year wasn’t very successful, I’d sustained some injuries on the qualifying circuit and those hampered me. You have to re-qualify at the end of each year for the World Tour as well, your results from the tour… and I didn’t actually make it.” Sam says. “I was pretty much like ‘Wow, you’ve tried, and you failed [laughs] and you’ve got a mountain of debt, maybe it’s time to give it up.”

Fortunately for Sam, a couple of his competitors injured themselves, and he was given a wildcard to compete in 2012. He won his first event that year and was leading the tour before the final round. There was to be no fairy-tale ending, however. “I didn’t actually manage to win the tour that year, I fell at the last event, but that was enough to have big companies like The North Face come knocking at my door and sign me up to contract, so I finally sort of made it as a professional skier that actually has, you know, made some money as opposed to just getting a pile of skis,” Sam laughs.

Celluloid hero

In addition to fighting for wins on the world tour, over the next couple of years Sam started doing some film work with a couple of European ski movie companies, then his big break came.

“In 2015 I won this competition, one of the world’s top ones, in Andorra (Spain) and the whole thing went pretty viral,” Sam says. “It was a pretty cool line, and TGR (Teton Gravity Research) picked up the phone and asked if I wanted to go and ski in Alaska with some of their big names for the next movie, so off I went and had an absolutely insane trip in Alaska, going heliskiing with some incredible skiers, and that’s pretty much what has become my main focus now, making ski movies.”

Of course, freeskiing is not without its risks, and one of the pieces of freeskiing footage Sam is most famous for is also one he’d probably rather forget, when he suffered a massive crash in Austria in 2019 that almost ended his life.

“Yeah, that was a solid beating,” Sam says of the crash. “It was really big. There was the obvious physical trauma, but also the fact that I’d had a seizure, it became quite an issue to overcome mentally.”

After the crash Sam started to feel the pressure of performing to a high global standard, and it led him to question why he was doing it. “It was a really big wake-up call, to be really honest with myself about how I was approaching things, and really trying to improve that margin of safety,” Sam says. 

“It’s something I still really try and work on; it’s an ever-evolving process when you’re dealing with such
a high amount of variables that you have in a
mountainous environment, so it’s something you’ve got to be hyper-vigilant on.

“I’m definitely more inclined to err on the side of caution now. I still have big goals that I want to ski and achieve, but there’s more to life now than just skiing… you need to be honest with what the conditions and what the mountain is telling you, and really listen to that and make sure you’re making smart decisions and working with people that also feel the same way.”

It’s this attitude Sam took with him on his recent ski descent of Mount Cook’s Caroline Face, which he describes as “one of the biggest if not the baddest faces of New Zealand’s Southern Alps”. Sam admits he’d been looking at this descent for close to 10 years.

“I’ve been looking at how I would ski it for many, many years, and then just talking with people who have climbed it, trying to work out when the good conditions are, what kind of storms might produce the conditions that you need, what kind of seasons even, because the ice cliffs change year to year depending on snowfall and a variety of factors, and sometimes it doesn’t come into condition at all, all the ice cliffs are formed poorly, so I’ve just been monitoring it while I build my skillset up,” Sam says.  

“I also had to find new people to ski with because a lot of the people I have been skiing with for a long time in New Zealand are incredible skiers but it’s really a mountaineering objective; I needed people that have even stronger
mountaineering skills than my own, so I went about that as part of the process and met some incredible guys, Will [Rowntree] and Joe [Collinson], and was finally convinced that we had the conditions, and we had the team and the skills. We flew in there and had a look at it and even then we still probably talked for two hours in the hut, and came around to the fact that yeah, we’re going to give it a go.”

And give it a go they did, completing the ski descent on 21 October, 2021. The footage from the descent is stunning, and you can watch it here.

A winter affair

Sam has recently featured in a new film called A Winter Affair which is about an attempt to climb Mount Tasman, New Zealand’s second highest peak.  

“A Winter Affair is basically a project led by my friend Janina Kuzma who’s another The North Face professional skier from Wanaka,” Sam explains. “She set up a few objectives for her winter and I was involved in one of them where we tried to climb Mount Tasman, New Zealand’s second highest peak, from the West Coast, and ski the Stevenson-Dick Couloir, and it was a really great trip.

Unfortunately, the team didn’t quite make the summit, but they got close. “We got some pretty horrific conditions, as does happen in New Zealand – it can get pretty wild up there… we didn’t quite make the summit thanks to some gale-force winds on the top, we got to within 250m of the summit or something, heinously close… so we turned around but I managed to ski the Couloir in horrific conditions. It was just full ice, but I’ve gotten pretty used to skiing crap snow and it was like back to racing days, just short turns on icy hardpack, so it was a great mission with a lot of laughs, we had a lot of fun doing it and it’s just such an incredibly beautiful place to spend four days camping in the glacier and just being completely isolated from the rest of the world, and just there with some great friends.”

Always looking to improve

Despite his immense experience in the mountains, Sam is never one to stop learning, and is currently upskilling to become a NZGMA (New Zealand Mountain Guides Association) guide. When asked of his motivation to behind this new challenge, he laughs, “Because I’m an unqualified ski bum and I need a job!”

On a more serious note, he adds, “I think it’s smart, I’ve come this far with my skills, but I should get an accreditation that would enable me to work in doing something that I love after pro skiing has had its way with me. I think even if I never work as a guide, I think it’s just a great way to really improve my safety skillset, learn a whole bunch of new ways of doing things, and just make me a better operator in the mountains altogether… I’ll have a better understanding of how to keep others safe as well as myself, so it just seems like a natural progression to me and time well spent, just continuing to develop and learn.”

After competing as a pro in the Freeride World Tour, making a name for himself in ski movies, and conquering the descent of Caroline Face, what’s next for Sam? How about climbing all 24 of NZ’s 3000m-plus peaks. “Very few people have climbed all 24 peaks… and nobody has skied them all. I don’t actually think you could ski all of them, but I’d be really interested to see how many I could ski…”

Sam says he’s not putting a timeframe on his 24-peaks quest, and is well aware that he might have to wait several years until conditions are just right, especially if he wants to ski the peaks. “I’d rather do the ones I can in good style and safely than try and force the issue by putting a time limit on it,” he says.

One of those peaks is the 3033m Mount Aspiring, up which Sam recently took a ‘shortcut’ When he describes this climb there’s no hiding the excitement in his voice. “When we did Aspiring, I climbed a route on the right side, the shortest piece of the south face up to the Coxcomb Ridge on Aspiring, with good friend and mentor Gavin Lang, who is an incredible mountaineering guide… 

“I mean that was just a beautiful day out… I’ve climbed Aspiring two other times, and both times got cloud at the summit, and I really wanted to see the full view of my homeland as I’ve always dreamed of from the top of the mountain, and we finally got there and it was a really magical day out, and I never really felt anything but just trying to have the best time, so that was a really special one.”

“Sorry, I just stood in paint,” Sam suddenly laughs. “I’m renovating a house and I stood in a massive puddle of paint.” It seems even mountaineers have to come back down to earth sometimes.

The post Adventure athlete profile: Sam Smoothy appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Sitting in a sea kayak measuring around five metres in length and knowing one of the world’s largest mammals – a humpback whale – was fishing nearby, with little concern or regard for the nearby kayakers, should have imbued me with a sense of fragility. It didn’t. Instead, it was a sense of feeling like I had become a very small part of this marine giant’s world, Haida Gwaii, an archipelago roughly 100km off British Columbia’s (BC) northern coast that is saturated in wildlife, a unique rugged beauty, and Haida Nation culture and history. 

Marine wonderland

Haida Gwaii comprises more than 200 mostly uninhabited islands of various sizes around 50km south of Alaska, and 100km off the BC coast, and it cops the brunt of the powerful Pacific Ocean’s tumultuous weather and tides. Inhabiting the islands and their surrounding waters is a plethora of wildlife, including whales, orca, dolphins and myriad fish species, including the ubiquitous salmon. Onshore you will find a huge number of seabird colonies, plenty of bald eagles and other raptors, and, yep, bears. In fact, the biggest black bears recorded reside here. 

There are a number of theories as to why the island bears are so big, including the fact there are no competitors (read: no grizzly bears). Another suggests because the islands don’t cop a “real winter”, the bears do not need to hibernate, thus don’t lose weight over winter. And there’s ample food for them, ranging from shellfish and seaweed washed ashore, through to deer, berries and seasonal salmon. 

The islands are also the homeland of the Haida people and contain a number of historical sites, including the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Ninstints (SGang Gwaay Linagaay) that was part of our Kingfisher Wilderness Adventures Burnaby to Ninstints expedition, and something I was really pumped to explore. Add in the fact the islands are also known as Canada’s Galapagos, owing to their isolation from the mainland and the resultant abundance of unique wildlife (an estimated 39 subspecies of animals and plants found nowhere else in the world), and it’s easy to see why a trip here had been near the top of my paddling bucket list for quite a few years.

An unexpected history lesson

I never envisaged starting a sea kayak expedition drifting in a Zodiac in howling wind and rain. For me, and the rest of the group tackling this eight-day tour, it was something that just never crossed our minds. Even though the situation could have been perceived as dire, we were all very calm while waiting for our Zodiac pilot, Grace, to return with a new engine. She had earlier picked us up from Sandspit for the trip down to Kat Island camp. The upside for our group – a mix of Canadians (Gary, Sue and Anne, plus one of our two guides, Silke), South Africans (Andy and Corinna) and one Australian (that’d be me) – was a visit to nearby Tanu Island and the Haida Watchmen’s hut as we awaited Grace’s return. 

T’aanu Llnagaay (Tanu) is one of Haida Gwaii’s main historical sites, containing the remains of a Haida village. Originally, this village comprised more than 25 long houses, but now there are only some posts, beams and rectangular pits to remind us of what had stood long before. The two Haida on Watchmen duty, Mary and Walter, were gracious enough to provide us with an impromptu tour of the village site on our way to their hut. On top of that, they fed and entertained us for the couple of hours it took for Grace to return. They were more than happy to explain some of their duties as Watchmen, and to recount stories of when they were growing up in the region. It was a brilliant diversion from our original planned route. Unsurprisingly, it was hard to leave their warm hut – and the awesome hospitality – after Grace returned. 

The first of the extraordinary

Returning to the Zodiac we were met with more inclement weather and choppier seas, and we bounced our way south to Kat Island and our first camp. It was wet and cold but great fun, and before we knew it Kat Island camp appeared through the rain. As soon as we landed, and met Beth Anne, our second guide, we set about unpacking the numerous boxes of food and supplies for our eight days on the water. It seemed there was a truckload of “stuff”, but both our guides assured us it’d all fit in. Waiting for us were our kayaks (a mix of singles and doubles; Gary and Sue had brought their own custom Kevlar jobbie, of which we were all jealous) and a well-sheltered kitchen area. It had been an exhilarating day; my Therm-a-Rest had never felt so comfortable as when I went to bed that night. It was still raining outside my tent, but in this remote campsite I felt a world away from the everyday – a feeling that would grow on a daily basis…

It took no more than five minutes. After a morning of packing food and gear into kayaks (yes, all that “stuff” did indeed fit) we hit the water at around 11am, only to stop the aforementioned five minutes later when we spotted a black bear fossicking on the far shore of the bay. The clarity of air here made it difficult to judge how far away it was but Anne and I, long zoom lenses at the ready, paddled slowly towards it. We sat their firing away on our cameras for a good 10 minutes before the bear bothered to notice us and move back up into the forest. Its seeming disregard for our presence would become a theme of our wildlife encounters on the trip; I don’t know if I was dreaming it, but there are so few human visitors to the area that local wildlife pretty much ignore bipedal visitors. 

We spotted plenty of salmon as we paddled through the Burnaby Narrows later that morning; Gary was champing at the bit to throw in a line (he and Sue had brought fishing gear) but had to wait until we cleared the Narrows (fishing is not permitted there) before he could chance his luck. As it turned out, patience was a virtue. Gary only had his line in for about 10 minutes before snaring his first salmon – a huge (at least 4kg, I reckon) one that was actually too big to get into the kayak, so he let it go. It was amazing – that fish could have been a meal for all of us for the second night – but it was still nice to see it swim off to continue its migratory journey up one of the islands’ many salmon streams. Gary’s virtuous release was repaid later that same evening: as we rounded the bottom of Burnaby Island and turned north to our Swan Bay campsite, he caught another fish. 

There’s nothing quite like relaxing after a day’s paddling and enjoying fresh fish cooked over a campfire that sits right on a beach, looking out over the sea. I was only two days in and Haida Gwaii had already become my new definition of “paddler’s heaven”. 

A long way away

I have visited British Columbia on a number of occasions and love the place, but am always braced for its volatile weather, even in summer. So, I was more than stoked to experience two days of sublime, sunny conditions as we continued our journey south. After leaving Swan Bay and crossing the glassy, flat waters of Skincuttle Inlet, we cut through a gap in the Bolkus Islands before rounding Deluge Point and moving into more open water past nearby Ikeda Point on the eastern side of the island group. The paddling was brilliant, with a steady pace only interrupted when we were mock-dived by a bald eagle. We’d seen the adult and juvenile eagles on a rocky outcrop just inland from the point and were guessing the adult was either showing the juvenile how to fish or was, just like the bear, not bothered about us being there – until our kayaks got in the way. Either way, it was a spectacular sight as the eagle flew in, tucked in its wings and bombed the water right in front of Gary and Sue’s kayak. 

We had a jarring reality check not long after watching the eagles; we’d gotten quite used to being the only people in the islands when we spotted, far in the distance, another group of kayakers. They seemed pretty intent on getting wherever they were going quickly though – we waved but they just ignored us – and Silke and Beth Anne mentioned they might actually beat us to our planned campsite of Iron Point, which would mean, for us, more paddling around to the southern side of Carpenter Bay where our guides had camped before. At 18.5 nautical miles it was to be our longest paddle, but it was great. The varying conditions, from flat water to more exposed and windier on the eastern side of the islands, made for the perfect paddling challenge, which would be topped the following day as we continued south to (hopefully) our main goal of SGang Gwaay.

In the shadow of giants

As we paddled further into the southern section of the islands, I thought just how easy it would be to lose oneself in Haida Gwaii. And I wasn’t even having a problem with the concept of sharing this watery utopia – mainly due to the fact that those I would be sharing with were, er, considerably larger or, in the case of the wind and tides, insurmountable.

It was day four and five that really emphasised just how strong nature’s rule is here. Over the course of these two days, we’d moved a fair distance south, following, firstly, the Moresby Island coastline with its distant views of the mountains of Kunghit Island at our bows. Just off Point Langford, near the Langford Shoals, we’d rafted up to watch four humpbacks feed, around 100 to 150 metres away. It was mesmerising; we stayed there for over an hour as these marine leviathans worked their way around the bay chasing food. From here we moved on to our Raspberry Cove campsite, on Moresby’s southeast coast, while being shadowed by a pair of sea lions and further delayed by watching two fishing bald eagles. 

Raspberry Cove itself was surreal. Our campsite was in a sea of green moss and huge trees, just back from the beach, while offshore, the giants of the sea continued to feed and frolic. This enhanced reality continued the next morning when we left early to attempt the Houston Stewart Channel crossing to reach SGgang Gwaay. Our early start got blown out of the water, literally, by the sight of a humpback fishing off Cape Fanny, quite close to our kayaks. It was more than an hour later before Silke cajoled us into leaving the whale. The old adage that time and tide wait for no man proved true; Silke had gone ahead to check the crossing and soon returned with the disappointing news that it was just too rough to attempt. Looking out over the channel we could easily spot the whitecaps growing larger and more numerous and knew that any crossing attempt at this point would be far too taxing – and too dangerous.

The disappointment was soon forgotten, however, when we landed at Fanny Bay for camp. We were all so intent on going through the correct landing and unloading procedure that it took us at least a minute to notice the huge black bear watching us from the top of the beach. It was very big and looked well fed with a shiny black coat of fur, and like every other native resident of these islands, the bear was not in the least concerned with the kayakers that were suddenly doing their best statue impressions. It soon ambled away to the side of the beach and disappeared into the forest. Another group of kayakers was camped on the western side of the beach and one of them told us the bear had been up and down the beach a few times, eating seaweed and shellfish. All I could think was, “I hope he is full.” But even with the large island bear theory confirmed, I still thought I could live here… as long as I had a solid hut with a very strong front door. 

A never forgotten world

Our second attempt at heading south to SGang Gwaay was more successful. We left early and were soon welcomed by (what we presumed was) the humpback from yesterday, still fishing off Fanny Point. We were at Louscoome Point soon after and geared up for our southwest crossing of the Houston Stewart Channel, watching the conditions earnestly. It was still flat, with only a bit of wind blowing up from the south resulting in minimal chop. I was seriously pumped; I had been focused on reaching – and exploring – SGgang Gwaay since I had been confirmed on the trip and it was now oh, so close. But I knew that reaching the World Heritage site was not always possible, due to the difficulty of the crossing. When Silke and Beth Anne gave the okay, I shot off at some speed, only to be calmly called back by Silke to paddle with the rest of the group. By sticking close together, we had the best chance of minimising the stalling effects of the headwind, and thus the best chance of actually making it to the island. 

It was only when, an hour later, we reached one of the island’s sheltered bays that I relaxed. We’d made it, but it had been tough. The winds and sea had both risen dramatically in that hour, so much so that even the sight of a humpback mother and calf had not been enough to stop us.

SGang Gwaay (or Ninstints as it is also known) was the last village to be occupied by the Haida people on a full-time basis during the first-contact history. The island contains a number of memorial posts and mortuary poles, all of which are carved with the crest of the deceased. There is also a Watchmen’s hut here and, as a rule, people are not permitted to camp here. 

Once we’d landed and secured our kayaks, we made our way through lush forest to the Watchmen’s hut, where James William and some Haida teenagers, who were getting their first experience of the Watchmen program, greeted us. James has spent many years looking after the island and the historical village each season and was a fount of knowledge on the history of the site as he showed us around. Listening to his explanation of the mortuary poles – how they were constructed and how the funeral box containing the remains would sit atop the carved pole – and how the now ruined long houses would have been constructed, was enthralling and provided a great insight to the Haida way of life before the devastation of first contact with Europeans. The arrival of Europeans and diseases such as smallpox decimated the Haida Nation’s population and, as the numbers dwindled, so did the settlements. SGang Gwaay was the last village to be deserted – in 1880 – but, thanks to the dedication of the Haida people of today, visitors can still get a sense of what life was like many hundreds of years before Europeans arrived. It’s a sad story, repeated worldwide, but seeing the pride on James’s face as he recounted the many stories around each memorial pole was all the reassurance needed to know the Haida people and their culture aren’t going anywhere.

A final surprise

Our visit to SGang Gwaay had taken a wee bit longer than we thought (we also did a short exploratory hike to a Haida habitation cave) and in that time, the winds and sea had risen dramatically. After our tour, we were all girding ourselves for the return paddle to Fanny Bay, and then the next day’s paddle to Raspberry Cove for our Zodiac pickup. Even thinking about the end of our adventure was enough to put a dampener on the day. Until, that is, Beth Anne told us we’d been given the rare privilege of permission to camp on the island, rather than risk the return crossing. Being able to actually reach the island had been a great achievement; being allowed to camp here was the new highlight. 

I wrote in my notebook the next morning: “I have just had the best night’s sleep outdoors in my life.” I don’t know whether it was the spiritual ambience of the island itself, or that combined with exhaustion after a big previous day. Either way, it was hard to leave SGang Gwaay behind and point our kayaks towards “home” which, in our case, would be Raspberry Cove. It was another long-ish day, but it did not seem at all tiring. Interspersed with the sites and wonders of more whales feeding was another view of our friend, the rather large black bear. It was up on a high cliff, planted on hits haunches just looking out to sea when we spotted it. I am not sure if we even registered in its mind at all – it was just like us, captivated by the crashing of the waves against the cliff wall. 

Later that day we detoured to Rose Harbour, across the other side of the bay from Raspberry Cove campsite, to meet up with an eccentric German gentleman who ran a B&B there, out of the old whaling station. The station itself was interesting, but even more so were the remains of a Haida canoe in the forest about a 10-minute walk from his abode. The canoe had been nearly completed before being abandoned and left for the forest to reclaim. Its moss-covered shape proved that no matter how much humanity alters the land during its tenure, nature always wins in the end.

The return

The last day of any adventure is usually pretty chilled and ours at Raspberry Cove was no exception. Sleeping in was a luxury, as was the copious amount of coffee brewed up by Beth Anne and Silke from our mobile camp kitchen. I also did, for the very last time, the big walk/scramble over rocks and across creeks to our au naturel tidal outhouse, only to find out that there was actually a “proper” outhouse at this campsite, only five minutes from our tents. Apparently Silke and Beth-Anne had forgotten… 

The return Zodiac trip was fast, but not too fast for me not to flick back over the myriad highlights of my eight days in Haida Gwaii. Every day offered more, cementing this expedition as one of my most memorable. Whether it was watching the whales feed right near our kayaks, or laughing at the bald eagle’s mock-dive, each day contained a unique highlight. The most vivid memory, however, was the day and night at SGang Gwaay. Watching whales feed near us as we paddled across to a magical, culturally infused island – and then being allowed to camp there – will forever stay with me when I think of Haida Gwaii.

See Kingfisher Wilderness Adventures for info on this and many more guided kayaking adventures.

The post Kayaking Haida Gwaii, Canada’s marine wonderland appeared first on Australian Geographic.

For 2022, there are a number of exciting bikes on the way, from e-bikes, to kids’ models, to mountain and gravel bikes, along with some exciting component developments, in the form of wireless drivetrains and suspension, plus the usual (and always improving) accessories, such as helmets and bike carriers. In short, it’s a great time to be riding a bike; even allowing for the fact demand has outstripped supply (with the secondhand bike market also now booming as a result) there are some very exciting cycling products on the way in 2022. Here are some of our favourites…

Mountain and gravel bikes

Rocky Mountain Element

The famous Canadian MTB brand turned 40 in 2021 and celebrated with the release of its fully revised cross-country MTB, the Element, both aluminium and carbon-fibre frames. The MY22 model reflects the trend in XC to move toward more aggressive geometry, with the new Element now straddling XC/Trail duties and joining the ‘new’ class of bike known as ‘downcountry’.

The Element fits the new description perfectly across its range of two alloy and three carbon-fibre models (for Oz), reflecting the brand’s gnarly North Shore roots with its slack 65-degree head angle, longer travel front and rear (now 130mm front; 120mm rear) and beefier fork. The Element is ideal for those after a bike to enter events that range from short XC courses through to multi-day marathon type events, or for just razzing your local trails. Pricing starts at $3999 for the alloy Element A10, and tops out at $8999 for the carbon C70. See www.bikes.com for more info.

Yeti ARC

Yeti’s ARC nameplate is an integral part of mountain biking’s history, so when the famous Colorado brand launched the ‘new’ ARC last year, it was with plenty of pressure to produce something special. And the Yeti designers nailed it, with the end result a bike that provides what we reckon is the ‘pure’ hardtail experience; being able to blast along cross-country trails one day, tackle a weekend’s bikepacking, and rumble down challenging trails on any other day. 

All models share the same Turq-series frame, with pricing kicking off at $3400 for the frame-only, to $7690 for the SRAM GX-equipped model, through to a heady $12,290 for the SRAM XX1 AXS (wireless) model. Not cheap, but if you thought hardtails were old-school, this incredible bike will disabuse you of that notion; don’t be surprised if your dual-suspension trail rig starts gathering dust in the shed… See www.rowneysports.com for more info.

Marin Headlands 2

This well-priced ($3999), well spec’d carbon-fibre gravel bike from iconic US bike brand, Marin, has the perfect combo of relaxed geometry, the option of running either 700Cx45mm or 650Bx50mm tyres (there are thru-axles front and rear also), and runs Shimano’s highly-regarded GRX800 1x drivetrain and brakes. There’s also internal dropper post routing (it comes with a 105mm TranzX dropper), it has a handy removable seatstay brace so you can add fenders in when conditions are muddy (or for your commute), and thru-axles front and rear.

The frame’s unidirectional carbon-fibre means the comfort levels are high on this gravel grinder. The long, low and slack (for a gravel bike) geometry and its short 420mm chainstays aid manoeuvrability. Also included are numerous eyelets for fitment of bags and gear.  See www.bicyclesonline.com.au for more info. 

Curve GRX aka Kevin

Aussie brand Curve’s titanium gravel bike, GXR aka Kevin, has been tested heavily on adventures worldwide. Paired with the Ride 400 carbon fork, this allows extra clearance for wheel options based on your riding style. Choose either 700c wheels and 32–45 mm tyres, best suited for commuting, gravel, and cyclocross. Or, if you’re looking to tackle some rougher terrain with more traction, use 650b (27.5”) wheels fitted with 1.8–2.2” tyres.

The RIDE 400 fork has three M5 mounting points on each side, with a recommended load capacity of 3kg across three mount points. In addition, the GXR frame is equipped with rear rack mounts, fender mounts, and three bidon mounts; and can run either a 1x or 2x drivetrain. See www.curvecycling.com.au for pricing and info.

Curve GMX+

Curve describes the GMX+ as its ultimate titanium bikepacking bike. Built for any off-road adventure, the GMX+ paired with the SEEK 430 carbon fork can accommodate up to 3.0″ tyres. A bigger tyre means more traction and less rolling resistance, letting you ride efficiently across more tricky terrain such as sand, rocks, and snow. The SEEK 430 fork has six M5 mounting points on each side, with a recommended load capacity of 3kg across three mount points.

In addition, the GMX+ frame includes mounting points on all rear stays and offset on the downtube, allowing riders to run a full-size frame bag plus 1L bottles on either side. You can use either a drop bar, such as Curve’s WALMER Bar, together with a short stem, or Curve’s flat bar, the REMLAW. This replicates the same reach position as a drop bar, meaning there is no need for a longer stem like many other flat bar options. See www.curvecycling.com.au for pricing and info.

Kids’ bikes

Merida Matts J20 & J24

These two bikes from Merida cover off on- and off-road riding for the youngsters. Both bikes utilise a lightweight alloy frame and HL Suspension forks, along with Shimano’s well-proved RevoShift 7 (7-speed) shifter and TX derailleur. The brakes are strong linear V-brakes while the alloy wheels are shod with MTB 20×2.0-inch tyres for the J20 and MTB 24×1.95-inch for the larger size model.

The geometry is ideal for aiding confidence, being not too steep (or too slack) and the standover height is nice and low. The J24 is suited to a height range of 130-150cm, while the J20 is ideal for 115-140cm. Priced at $469 (J20) and $479, these are great value. See www.merida-bikes.com for more info.

Norco Storm 4.3

Young riders don’t just need small adult bikes; Norco’s Youth MTBs are built for real rides with tuned componentry and an eye for progression. Getting kids on bikes early sets them up with healthy habits, gives them a little extra mobility and paves the way for a lifetime of riding. The Norco Storm 4.3 is the perfect proof of this philosophy from the famous Canadian brand. The alloy frame of the bike combines with the rigid fork to offer an incredibly light weight rig, making it easy to handle for young kids.

This frame combines with Shimano’s 7-speed Altus Rapidfire shifter and Tourney rear derailleur to make it super easy to shift when needed. The front and rear linear pull-brakes are incredibly reliable, and the levers have reach-adjust for those small hands. An awesome first or second bike, at a competitive price of $549. See www.norco.com for more info.

Marin San Quentin 20 & 24

These hardcore hardtails for kids feature a robust 6061 aluminium frame, with IS brake mounts, a tapered head-tube, nice and slack geometry (a 65-degree head angle, with a nice steep seat-angle for those big climbs) and plenty of standover clearance. These models are great value in their market segment, with the 24 priced at $1699 and the 20 at $1099.

The San Quentin 24 has Shimano hydraulic disc brakes, a RockShox Judy 100mm front fork, and Shimano MicroSHIFT Advent 9-speed drivetrain (with trigger-shifters). The San Quentin 20 doesn’t skimp on specs, either: an 8-speed Shimano MicroSHIFT Acolyte drivetrain, Tektro hydraulic brakes and an 80mm SR Suntour XCM suspension fork up front. For the mini hardcore riders, these two bikes are brilliant options. See www.bicyclesonline.com.au for the full Marin bike range and more info.

Polygon Premier 20 & 24

Perfect for riders aged seven to 12, the Premier 24 is brilliant bang for your bike bucks ($449). The frame is very light (10.6kg for the Premier 24, thanks to its rigid front fork; 11.6kg for the Premier 24 XC variant, with its 50mm Suntour suspension fork), making it easy to handle for the small folks. Alloy cranks, bars, stems and wheelset help to keep that weight down, too. The Shimano seven-speed Revoshift gearing means shifting between gears is also easy for smaller hands, while the alloy V-brakes will pull them up to a stop quickly and assuredly every time. With fast-rolling 1.75-inch tyres, the Premier 24 is a blast for kids (you can fit up to 2.1-inch tyres for rougher tracks if need be). 

For the smaller shredders (ages five to eight), there is the Premier 20 (prices start at $429 for the standard, with the XC variant $479) as well, with a similar spec level in terms of the same Revoshift gearing and alloy V-brakes, plus tyres, along with kid-specific alloy brake levers (with a shorter reach). See www.bicyclesonline.com.au for more info.

E-bikes

Specialized Turbo Levo

The giant US bike brand has continued to stay at the head of the game in the e-MTB scene, wth the release of its updated Levo earlier in 2021. This 150mm rear/160mm front-travel rig reflects the latest in e-MTB tech, with a focus on increasing the power and battery range (with a more robust belt in the motor for increased longevity), as well as improving overall ride and handling. One of the notable ways Specialized has tackled the ride and handling question is opting for a mixed-wheel (27.5 rear; 29 front) setup on the Levo that, in turn, allowed designers to shorten the rear chainstays for snappier, more playful handling, while lengthening the front centre, steepening the seat tube and slackening the head-tube angle.

With six geometry settings (three headtube angles, and the bottom bracket height can be adjusted up or down 7mm via a flip-chip) a suspension tune designed to take into consideration the additional forces a pedal-assisted bike generates, and a claimed five hour riding range (with the highest capacity 700Wh battery fitted), it’s easy to see how the Levo has become one of the most popular e-MTBs in Australia. Pricing starts at a market-competitive $9400 for the Turbo Levo (alloy) and goes up from there through a wide model range before topping out at $24,200 for the mega-tough S-Works Turbo Levo. See www.specialized.com for stockists and more info on this and the rest of the Specialized e-MTB range.

Yeti 160e

When one of the world’s most iconic and highly regarded mountain bike brands takes its time to join the burgeoning e-MTB market, you know it’s because there’s something special coming and the Yeti 160e proves the theory that good things come to those who wait. This all-new Enduro World Series e-MTB monster is touted by Yeti as the world’s first race-specific e-MTB. And ‘all-new’ is accurate: Yeti started from scratch when designing the 160e, to the point of creating a new Sixfinity suspension design – a six-bar linkage exclusive to this model that imitates the action of the company’s famous Switch Infinity design, where a lower link switches direction as the bike’s shock moves through its travel. This allows kinematic tuning that results in a suspension platform that provides loads of stability, even allowing for the additional heft of an e-MTB. 

Add in Shimano’s well-proved EP8 motor (with 630W battery and three ride modes) plus top-flight components (including custom-tuned FOX suspension) and spec-levels, and it’s an appealing package for the e-MTB rider after a bike that is up for any trail – or race. The 160e is available in two carbon-fibre frames: the C-Series (starting at $15,990) and the lighter but equally strong T-Series, from $19,990. See www.rowneysports.com.au for stockists and more info.

Parts and stuff

SRAM XPLR

US bike component giant, SRAM, has expanded into the gravel and bikepacking market in a comprehensive way, with the release of its XPLR range of wireless drivetrains, suspension and dropper post. The XPLR wireless drivetrain is available in three spec levels – RED, Force and Rival – and features an XDR driver body-compatible 10-44T rear cassette that is available at SRAM’s XG-1271 and XG-1251 levels, plus eTap AXS rear derailleurs (these have larger X-SYNC pulleys for better durability) and new direct mount 1x cranksets, in sizing 38-46T. The cranksets also feature carbon arms and SRAM’s X-SYNC narrow-wide chainring tech. As well, there is a Wide Crankset, at Force 1 and Rival 1 level. 

XPLR does not stop at drivetrains, either, adding in suspension, courtesy of its renowned RockShox brand, with a new gravel-specific fork, dubbed the Rudy Ultimate XPLR (with enough space for tyres up to 700x50mm and utilising RockShox’s excellent Solo Air spring). This new fork has 30mm upper stanchions and offers a choice of 30mm or 40mm travel. 

The wireless Reverb AXS XPLR dropper post (27.2mm diameter) includes a new feature called ActiveRide, which allows for some inbuilt compliance and the choice of 50mm or 75mm of travel. Seatpost lengths are 400mm or 350mm (for the 50mm-drop post only). The dropper post uses the same battery as all other AXS components.

Add in the 101 XPLR wheelset (by ZIPP), available in 700c or 650b sizing and 27mm internal width, the G40 XPLR tyre (700c size; 40mm width) and the Zipp Service Course SL-70 XPLR handlebar and SRAM definitely has the gravel and bikepacking scene well covered. See www.sram.com for more info.

And there’s more…

Entity RH30 helmet

The Entity RH30 is the company’s flagship helmet, with a raft of features designed to keep you safe and comfortable when you’re on your pusy. There are 25 optimised high-flow air vents to ensure plenty of ventilation as well as keeping the helmet light in weight as well (the size Medium weighs just 250g). The dual in-mould construction offers a low-profile design that delivers strength, while the dial-fit system makes a snug and safe fit to your head easy to achieve, plus you can adjust it with one hand on the move if need be. The RH30 exceeds Australian Helmet Standards, rated the toughest in the world, and is available in two sizes: Medium (head diameter 55-59cm) and Large (diameter 58-61cm). There are four colours: Matte/Gloss Black, Matte/Gloss Slate, Gloss White or Hi-Vis Lime. See www.bicyclesonline.com.au for more info.

Hiplok JAW+ bike storage

This compact wall-mounted bike rack makes storing your two-wheel adventure machines super-easy. It can hold bikes in either a horizontal or vertical position, allowing you to optimise storage space. The unique design is fully adjustable and can fit all bicycle types and frame sizes. In terms of tyre sizes, it can fit a tyre width of 20mm to 75mm. The Hiplock JAW+ is very easy to fit, attaching to a wall via four bolts and you can set them to whatever height you need for the particular bikes you have. The unit comes with an included Z LOCK COMBO lock system. This lightweight locking strap is of an adjustable zip-tie design that includes a three-digit combination mechanism for additional security.

See www.hiplok.com for info on this and other Hiplok products.

[subhead]Brooks Scape Frame Bag

The Brooks brand is famous for its decades-long reputation as one of the best bike saddle manufacturers on the planet. The UK icon has since branched into making bike bags for adventure cycling (touring; bikepacking; gravel riding) and bike commuting. This frame bag shows the brand’s commitment to detail and high quality. It is of entirely welded construction, ensuring it is fully waterproof, with two full-length zips (with ergonomic pullers) and will fit on most standard size bike frames. Features include two lateral pockets, one of which (the larger) has a coated YKK zip and protection flap, along with an internal organiser and cable exit for smartphones/GPS units. There is also a KCC waterproof zip for smaller accessories. The Hypalon Velcro straps make for easy attachment to your bike frame. The capacity is 3L, and it measures 460mm wide, 120mm high and 60mm deep, and it has a maximum load capacity of 3kg. As well as this bag, Brooks make a top tube bag, a handlebar roll, a saddle roll bag for attachment ot your seatpost, and much more. See www.brooksengland.com for the comprehensive range.

The post New bicycles and accessories for 2022 appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Once you get over the feeling of being continually watched, night walking reveals its own pleasures: the silence; the noise; the eerie floating light that never gets any closer or further away. We bivvied near Baal Bone Gap picnic area shortly after midnight, reasoning the mantle of darkness would render this section, through Ben Bullen State Forest, entirely new and different on the return journey, making it less of a slog back to the car. We were wrong, of course.

Into another land

Our first view of the Gardens of Stone was enough to stop us in our tracks. Well, that and the looming cliff edge. Beyond the precipice was a vast green bowl, girt by vertiginous cliffs and split by Crown Creek. The tangled horizon of buttes, escarpments, and scooped valleys was smudged by an early morning haze, the varying shades of which aided our depth perception by outlining the delicate tracery of each geological feature.
Having absorbed this panorama until we were guaranteed to dream of jigsaw pieces, Paul Mk. II and I picked our way along the edge of the abyss, clambering over logs, through bushes, into tree limbs, and around the pagodas for which the park is famous. Bulging, stepped, beehives of sandstone sculpted over thousands of years by the action of wind and rain, the pagodas’ distinct shapes are created by bands of ironstone, hardened sandstone laden with minerals, which don’t erode as fast as the regular sandstone does. The result is stacked ‘plates’ and tongues of ironstone licking out into space, flowing shapes that look more at home in clouds or swirls of spilt paint than solid rock. A globally significant geoheritage, the formations are unique to an area of roughly 55,000 ha northeast of Lithgow.
It wasn’t long before the park’s main attraction took centre stage: the freestanding plateau/mesa/butte – call it what you will – of Pantoney’s Crown. A flat topped mountain surrounded by cliffs, Pantoney’s was formed as creeks and rivers eroded the sandstone surrounding a 500 million-year-old limestone outcrop, leaving it standing proud of the valley like a tree stump. William Lee Pantoney, the son of two ex-convicts, established sheep grazing in this area in 1823, raising a family here. Looking out over the vista, I tried to imagine this being my childhood backyard. No world heritage listing, no park status, just a remote property on the fringes of the colony. Life may have been hard back then, but what a place to live!
With the Crown hogging the limelight, I was surprised to note some other picturesque inselbergs. Mt. Canobla and Mt. Gundangaroo, 15km to the NE, were equally beautiful, and I immediately earmarked them for a future trip. Walkers are welcome to roam anywhere within the Gardens of Stone NP, although there is no signage and little in the way of paths or tracks. The weekend was to be an exercise in navigation, as well as scrambling and water rationing. The Capertee Valley lies in a rain shadow, and we’d each begun walking with around six litres of the wet stuff.
A couple of hours of cliff edge yomping brought us to Baal Bone Point. This wasn’t a witch-doctor’s curse, but a precariously balanced pile of boulders forming a promontory projecting northeast into the valley, part of the rocky spine that arches through the valley like a fossilised sea monster. Baal is a Wiradjuri word for ‘water’ or ‘drink’, referring to the creek running down from the Gap, and Bone was added as a directional aid.
It was from here we were supposed to descend, but how, exactly? The only way was a steepening rivulet of stone, down which we gingerly slid until aided by a well-placed log at the final vertical drop. From there, a faint footpad guided us down to the saddle, where it blithely abandoned us. The ironbark and box woodland here, and the coachwood and sassafras further up, was dry as a dirty martini. Dead limbs crackled under our boots like burning witches, a macabre premonition of the bushfire devastation that would sweep through the area a few months from now. By the first day of 2020, 65 per cent of the park had burnt.

Now directly beneath Pantoney’s nose, we were able to navigate up the philtrum by sight. Once at the columella, the route plunged deep into one of the nostrils. This was the part of the hike I’d been most nervous about, navigating this treacherous scramble, but fortunately the way was marked by cairns and worn rock. It was a simple matter to clamber up the cleft, aided by generous handholds, although the exposure was not inconsiderable and we hauled our packs up separately rather than risk them peeling us off the rock face on the gnarly corners.
Having scaled the final chimney, we were met with a revelation – the plateau that looked flat from a distance was actually anything but. What confronted us was a maze of towering pinnacles, thick scrub and piled deadfall. I was reminded of Roraima in Venezuela, the flat-topped mountain that inspired Conan-Doyle’s The Lost World, and Pixar’s Up. This was Australia’s own mini tepui! The final kilometre to the summit cairn was guarded by a dozen rearing pagodas which we scaled with care; their intricate formations vulnerable to damage beneath the boots of careless hikers.

What lies beneath

Neither fire nor recreational activities are the Gardens’ greatest danger. The current National Park spans 11,780 hectares, gazetted in 1994. A further 3,600 ha were added to Wollemi NP the following year, but the rest remains unprotected, and it’s these areas which face more nefarious threats, with by far the most worrisome being mining.
Ever since the late 1800s, the area had been used for shale mining – extracting shale oil from oil shale (yes, a tad confusing). The oil shale was distilled above ground, but the process was prohibitively expensive and the refineries didn’t last long. Coal mining, however, which started around the same time, has been, and continues to be, much more destructive. With the area resting within the extensive Western Coalfield, the industry has continued to thrive well into the 21st century.
Today there are three mines operating in the Lithgow area, with a handful more under Care & Maintenance, i.e. operations temporarily suspended. All three are longwall mines, a process that follows the coal seam underground. As deposits are extracted, the rock above naturally collapses to fill the void, causing subsidence, surface erosion and, in this area, the collapse of precious pagodas. Water is another issue: the mines currently take approximately 25 megalitres per day from the Newnes Plateau to rinse the coal, leaving its swamps parched and dying. The washeries pump the used fluid, sometimes still contaminated with salt and heavy metals, back into the water catchment. Apart from anything else, the redirection of natural flow paths from groundwater seeping into the disrupted bedrock can have a hugely negative impact on plant and animal species.
Local environment groups are campaigning to protect the 39,000 hectares of ‘Destination Pagoda’ as it is being marketed. Known as the Stage 2 Reserve Proposal, the goal is two State Conservation Areas, the Gardens of Stone and the Western Escarpment, centred on Newnes Plateau. According to NSW National Parks, “State Conservation Areas are lands reserved to protect and conserve significant or representative ecosystems, landforms, natural phenomena or places of cultural significance.”
In this case, responsible underground mining would be allowed to continue in the area, but the new status would promote best practice environmental protection, such as adequate water effluent treatment and subsidence management planning, which would protect the most spectacular pagoda formations. It’s not perfect, but until fossil fuels become economically unviable, it’s the most protection the area will get.

A part of the Gardens of Stone

In the time it took to turn slowly through 360 degrees, in order to fully absorb the view from the summit cairn, Paul v2.0 had slipped into a coma from which he wouldn’t awaken for twelve hours. So much for the draw of globally significant geo-heritage! “Original Paul would never have done this,” I muttered at the man’s prone doppelgänger before setting off to watch the day die. The sinking sun ignited the horizon as I seated myself between bunches of frail pagoda daisies. Only a few patches of artificial light glowed in the valley, and the silence was absolute. Despite this being an internationally recognised bird watching area, with local stars including the regent honey-eater and powerful owl, we’d made no feathered friends today. In the backyard of koalas, quolls and yellow bellied gliders, we’d seen no animal larger than an ant (although those bull ants can be quite hefty!).

Tomorrow would be a long day, descending the northeast spur of Pantoney’s and down to Crown Creek Fire Trail, part of the Bicentennial National Trail. This track runs steeply up to Baal Bone Gap, from where we’d retrace our steps to the car. For the moment though, I sat and bathed in the absolute stillness. It’s not easy to feel completely alone in this overcrowded world, especially as a resident of the country’s biggest city with only a weekend to play with, but that evening, perched atop a pagoda, 300m above the valley floor, I truly felt alone.
“Gardens … of Stone,” I whispered, as the sky caught fire. The breath of my exhalation brushed the sandstone, colliding atoms contributing infinitesimally to its continued sculpting. And with that, I became part of the landscape, forever.

The post Exploring the Gardens of Stone, NSW appeared first on Australian Geographic.

A very pleasant surprise

Given the ‘relaxed’ attitude I’d taken into this adventure, I’d fully expected we’d spend four days walking through volcanic badlands; all greys and browns and sulphuric stinks. But, genuinely, until we walked through a small stand of temperate rainforest on the descent to an actual waterfall, I was still expecting it to be dull. Instead, we spent four days traversing some of the most diverse country I’ve ever walked.
The walk starts behind Whakapapa Village, a ski resort town south of Tūrangi. Even in February, the surrounding mountains were topped with snow, indicating the overnight temps we could expect for the next three nights. As we reorganise our packs in the carpark on day one, we replaced some lighter garments with heavier ones. Although the forecast was perfect for the next four days, the walk has a reputation for rapid weather changes and ferocious winds. We got lucky.

Joining the trailhead, hundreds of day walkers clog the way, initially headed in the same direction, either for Taranaki Falls or Tama Lakes. In our exuberance, we outpace most of them (except for the woman who jogged past us in jeans!) as we traverse the graded, largely flat trail for the first couple of hours. We dip down to Taranaki for morning tea, a short, sharp descent through dense beech forest which opens up onto the 20-metre fall. Then we pay for the picture ops as we lug our packs back up 100 or so uneven steps.
The crowds thin, back on the main track to Tama Lakes and Waihohonu Hut, and we start to pick out the people who’re likely to be our hiking companions for the next few days. The Northern Circuit is so popular through summer that the huts and campsites book out with walkers from all parts of the world. (The NZ hut system is the envy of the hiking world. The NZ Department of Conservation manages over 950 huts in NZ.)
The track gets more interesting for the next few kilometres to Tama Saddle as it falls and rises gently with the terrain. We cross a few creeks and settle into our strides, packs and the altitude (1300 metres is high for us coastal Aussies), but relish the chance to take a lunch of cheese and bickies looking over Lower Tama Lake, a 15-minute detour from the main trail. Sitting at Lower Tama Lake, one of two water-filled volcanic craters, we decide to exert ourselves on the climb, 130m of elevation, to the Upper Tama viewpoint, which overlooks the upper lake and takes in the most spectacular view of Mt Ngauruhoe. Most people, it turns out, hide their packs in the scrub at the bottom. Not us, though. We stupidly keep them on our backs and fight for every inch of elevation as the crumbling, volcanic shale track shifts under every step until we hit the top. It’s worth it. We’re only at lunch on day one, but we’re looking over a volcanic explosion crater straight at Mount Doom!

The rest of the day, we drop elevation from a peak of 1440m to 1100m at Waihohonu Hut as we follow a babbling brook through unexpected fields of native (and introduced heather) wildflowers. It’s pleasant, except for the part where I proclaim we’re nearly there, but we clearly aren’t. We stop a few times, filling our water from the stream and generally loving life.
Waihohonu is the largest of the three huts with 28 bunks, a great camp kitchen and a sprawling deck that captures the last of the afternoon sun. After setting up our tent in the nearby campground, we join the throng on the balconies to swap tales of the day and get insights about the next stage. After a 19km, 550m day, we both sleep well.

Short, but oh, so steep

From Waihohonu to Oturere Hut is the circuit’s shortest day, but in just under 9km, we’ll climb another 550m. Before we load our packs, though, we grab water bottles and bladders for the 4km stroll to Ohinepango Springs. This is a beautiful spot. The water here is icy cold and as pure as it gets, although I decline to take a dip. On the way back, we detour slightly to the Historic Waihohonu Hut, which was built in 1904 and used by pioneering skiers and hikers until it was replaced in 1968.
Packs packed and back on, we start the hike in earnest. There’s no easing into day two, as from Waihohonu campsite beside the stream of the same name, we gain 150m of elevation in the first kilometre before losing it all again a kilometre later. It’s brutal but spectacular as we tramp through lush beech forest over root steps before following a ridge of volcanic scree to the first highpoint. The drop winds through more incredible forest before emerging at a swiftly flowing stream in country that feels worlds away from volcanic badlands.
From here, we climb and climb The next 7km is almost always up, and we quickly leave the lush forest and streams behind to trudge along exposed, rocky ridges following a track marked by poles and relentlessness. At times Chris and I walk in step; at others, 100 or so metres separate us as we deal differently with the climbs. I take a lot of photos of his back. The few hikers coming the other way always tell us it’s not much farther, but they’re coming downhill, so can’t be trusted.
With about a kilometre to go, the contour lines on our map combine into one thick stripe, and all we can see in front of us is sheer cliff. All we can do is follow the poles and trust they wind a safe path up because it looks unscalable from our perspectives. It certainly feels like an achievement at the top.
Despite the elevation, we’d only walked three hours this day, so we get into camp at Oturere early in the afternoon. Already the benches and balcony out the front are filled with walkers enjoying early dinners in the sun. We set up camp and settle in for the arvo, relishing the ‘early mark’ as we downplay how we feel about the past 9km of walking with new campmates.

I’m surprised to learn that a giant valley opens up just over the rise, which hosts Oturere Falls. Its gentle drops create near-perfect pools, which we wander down to for a welcome dip in the sun-warmed water. Again, I’m amazed by the diversity of the landscape as we look over a green valley sitting in a waterfall, a volcano behind us.
Interestingly, over its 2500-year history, Mt Ngauruhoe has erupted, on average, every nine years, but not since 1975, a fact we try to ignore that night as we settled into our tent within the theoretical debris zone of the active volcano.

The sting in the tail of the Northern Circuit

We wake early to another perfect day. From Oturere to Mangatepopo Hut is set to be the most demanding day of our hike. Although we pack up in the dark, half the campsite has emptied before us. After a quick brekky and coffee, we set out, initially revelling in the flat walking along the floor of Oturere Valley for the first hour or so. Then things get serious, quickly.
We’re met at the head of the valley by a sulphuric stink and a narrow, steep ridge that climbs nearly 300m in about a kilometre. I’m not sure how heavy my pack is, but I resent every gram of it as we scramble, climb, and trudge up the spine to Emerald Lakes. It takes nearly an hour.
The climbing isn’t done, though. The stunning Emerald Lakes sit at about 1700m elevation, but our highpoint, less than 1km away, is 1868m. There’s no track, either. So while school groups, tour groups and international tourists in Tommy Hilfiger shorts (and not much else) slip and slide down the steep, loose scree, we, with unknown kilograms on our backs, wend our way up it. Like walking up a sand dune, but harder, each step slips backwards, so Strava doesn’t do justice to the distance we’ve climbed.
It’s all worth it, though. At the top, we literally look deep into the heart of volcanic Red Crater (no lava, though, disappointingly) and get some of the best views of Mt Ngauruhoe and its perfectly volcanic cone. Plus, we know that this is the high point, and apart from one short, easy climb later on, we don’t walk uphill again that day.
Although maybe we underestimated how difficult the descent would be. From 1868 metres, we drop 600 metres of elevation over about 8km. From Red Crater, it’s a scramble down the side of the mountain on a busy track against the traffic. We get a slight reprieve crossing the flat South Crater, although it crosses our mind the volcano hasn’t erupted in a while, and we’re walking on where the lava would go if it did.

After South Crater, we start our climb down the Devils Staircase, and even going down, it deserves the name. It’s relentless as it winds down the valley. Tantalisingly, we can see Mangatepopo Hut in the distance, but it never seems to get any closer. I’m glad we’re not walking up it. Knees, thighs, and shoulders protesting, we finally get to the bottom. It’s with sheer relief we finally stumble into camp, our last of the walk, and emotionally, the finish line.
Tomorrow’s hike out is short – just 8.5km with a general loss of elevation. And although it winds prettily through the purple-green fields of heather (stunning, but a pest the DOC is trying to eradicate), it’s only a two-hour stroll. We’re done before breakfast and buy coffee and pies from the food van at Whakapapa Village. Tonight though, we pass around the bottle of Scotch we’ve carried for 40km or so (pre-COVID, when passing around a bottle was socially acceptable), eat all our remaining food and swap social handles with our hiking companions as we sit on the hill watching the sun set.

The post In the shadow of Mount Doom: Hiking New Zealand’s Tongariro Northern Circuit appeared first on Australian Geographic.

“Achieving a grade 35 was like a fantasy,” explains the 17-year-old climbing sensation from the Blue Mountains. “I vividly remember in my first year of climbing as a nine-year-old, I pondered one day achieving a grade 35. Not because I thought I’d ever achieve such a thing, but because in my mind it crossed the line of humanly possible.”

Angie began 2021 with the stated goal of climbing a grade 35, after narrowly missing Olympic qualification in 2020. 

“This year, it was all I wanted to focus on, and I told myself I had to get it done and I was capable of it. It took me one full season and the first week of the second season to achieve it.”

Victimas del Futur held immediate appeal.

“No other 35 stood out to me like this one,” she says. “The climbing style of this area is incredible. The route is set in a 30-metre cave at 45 degrees. Victimas del Futur sits right in the middle of the wall, long and proud. In the beginning I found it slightly intimidating, but after a few attempts I accepted the challenge, and I just knew it was the one.”

Completing this climb required a transition from hugely talented child prodigy to mature world-class rock climber.

“I failed 1000+ times to succeed once,” she recalls. “Persistence was the key to my success. I’ll admit it wasn’t easy, there were times I was really close to walking away for good. The moment I relaxed and accepted the process I believed in my physical ability. I realised, in order to achieve this dream of mine, I needed to accept all circumstances and make peace with the frustration I held with myself with all the times I had failed. I was holding myself back from success. The moment I could release that from my mind was the moment I could climb free of thought, and as a result I could finally send.”

Released and free, she battled more than physical exhaustion during the successful climb.

“The process took a toll on me mentally,” she recounts. “Anything at your limit will do that to you. My physical capacity was often affected by a negative mindset towards my abilities. There were days my fingers would hurt so badly from the cuts on my skin, but I would try again. I fell off the top over 100 times. I would scream or sometimes even cry in frustration. But that’s the process, in climbing you have to accept that process for what it is. I held onto the good moments of progress and used these moments for motivation in my lower times. I’m proud of the physical level I reached, but more than anything I’m proud I held it together. 

“It’s impossible to describe the overwhelming emotions that run through my head in the moments of clipping those chains and reaching the top. I had put so much of my time and work into this project. It all felt so worth it in the end, like a relief of tension. I questioned what else I am capable of.”

This is when she scoped another victim – and another 35. Victimas de Futur will hopefully help her to scale Victimas Perez, also in Margalef. And then there’s the future…

“Attempting grade 36 is definitely not out of the question.”

The post Angie Scarth-Johnson goes where no Aussie female climber has ever gone before appeared first on Australian Geographic.

After all, back in 2019 the then 18-year-old became Australian Geographic’s Young Adventurer of the Year after cycling around the world – a journey of almost 40,000km across 32 countries and four continents.
You might think that after such an epic two-wheeled adventure that a bloke would take it easy for a while, but not Jimmy. After a brief taste of Central Asia on his around-the-world ride, Jimmy was keen to get back over there to further explore the region and its culture… and he had hatched a plan to return.
“I had plans to get to spend three months in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, but then Covid came in and that all got canned, so I had to look local, and that’s been a blessing in disguise,” Adelaide-based Jimmy says.
Although Jimmy has already seen more of the world than many thrice his age, he still hasn’t seen a lot of his own backyard, so he and his riding buddy Chad Freak started poring over maps and searching the web for domestic cycling challenges.
In 2019 Jimmy and Chad did a ‘short’ 2000km ride through South Oz from Adelaide, taking in Port Augusta, Kingoonya, Mount Eba Station, Roxby Downs, Marree and back to Adelaide. This was followed a year later when Jimmy headed north on a ride up through the spectacular Flinders Ranges and along the Birdsville Track to Innamincka, but he still sought something more remote… and significantly more challenging. That’s how he and Chad ended up tackling the Anne Beadell Highway that runs through the Great Victoria Desert.
A few years prior, when Chad was riding the Great Central Road through Laverton, he spotted a sign for the Anne Beadell Highway, which led him to research it when he got back home. According to Jimmy, Chad’s way of thinking was “it’s a line on a map, why wouldn’t you want to ride it?”, and it was this rhetorical question that would eventually lead to the pair taking on one of their toughest challenges to date.

The plan

The Anne Beadell Highway stretches 1350km from Laverton in the Northern Goldfields region of Western Australia through to Coober Pedy in South Australia’s outback. Although called a highway, this outback track was built between 1950s to the early ’60s by legendary Australian surveyor Len Beadell to support the Woomera rocket range, Australia’s first atomic test site. Len named the track after his wife Anne.
“The more you research, the more you learn about it,” Jimmy explained. “We read Len Beadell’s books, and we just became absorbed and in awe of this remote part of the world, of Australia. Very few people travel here compared to other roads like the Oodnadatta or the Birdsville Track.”

Once Jimmy and Chad decided to tackle the Anne Beadell Highway, they set about planning. They would cover a massive 3000km in total, between Perth and Alice Springs, but it was to be the 1325km Anne Beadell Highway section that would present the big challenge, especially the last 625km or so on the South Oz side of the border where there are no services or supplies, and the track runs through soft desert dunes.
There are many things to consider when planning a trip like this, and the duo spent a fair bit of time online.
“Google satellite images is probably one of the big tools we use,” Jimmy explains. “You can zoom right in and that gives you the quality of roads… and you can see the sand dunes.
“And four-wheel drivers are awesome at reporting things online to their blogs, which is perfect, so we’d scour the Internet, go to blogs, look at maps, read books… planning for it was different… it was like a proper expedition, those eight days out on the Anne Beadell. We would be remote and alone and we knew if we didn’t plan it to a tee that things were going to go wrong supply-wise.”
The supplies list is long for any outback expedition, but the problem cyclists face is carrying that gear – food, water, camping equipment, spares, tools – without overloading the bikes.
“It’s a fine line, because the more you carry the slower you go, but the less you carry the faster you go, so that was kind of our approach to it,” Jimmy says. “We’ve both done a lot of endurance racing and Chad’s done a lot of adventure racing… we kind of looked at it like a race… we went for light and fast.
“We knew we could put big days in on the saddle and it just meant we would be carrying less, so the big thing was knowing our capabilities through previous trips together, or personal expeditions; we’ve learnt how little we can get by with, food or water or even camping-wise.”

The ride

The ride started in Perth and the pair spent a week covering the 1100km to Laverton, part of which was through some challenging mud along the Holland Track. They tracked beside the Kalgoorlie-Perth pipeline before riding through station country to Laverton and the start of the Anne Beadell Highway.
Jimmy says from here the crossing was basically split into two halves; the initial Western Australia half predominantly spinifex country, with a reasonable road surface that had been serviced three years prior, and the second South Australia half mostly dune country, on an overgrown track that had never been serviced since Len Beadell forged it 60 years ago.

“We kind of went into it looking to do about 200km a day for the seven to eight days that it would take us, and we were fortunate to have tail winds the first few days, so that just blew us along, but then the roads just turned to hell, they just became awful, and our progress just slowed big time,” Jimmy explains.
“For that first few days up until the WA/SA border, there were a few tanks [along the route], so water-wise we weren’t having to carry the 25 litres we had to for the final stretch, so we actually had lighter bikes at the start.
“It was from the SA border where we then had 620km of nothing, and our bikes got loaded up with 25 litres of water, and that’s when the roads became their worst and things got pretty tough out there.
“It hit us pretty hard. I think our bikes were close to 55kg. We were riding sand dunes, up and down, and corrugations…”
To cope with soft sand, Jimmy and Chad ran wide three-inch tyres at low pressures. “You run them until you’re just about to rim out on the ground, like a four-wheel drive tyre, just giving you that extra grip… either that or a placebo effect.”
Of course, running such low pressures makes the tyres more susceptible to damage on rough and overgrown tracks, and it was this that almost brought the duo undone.
“Out there, there are a lot of thorns and three-corner jacks that took us by surprise, and at the end we had probably 500 prickles in each of our [tubeless] tyres, and were constantly pumping them up and putting new sealant in. We were out of spare sealant come the end of the trip, and that could have been a ride-ender… it was a scary moment. We felt like Len Beadell, constantly pumping up tyres every 10km; we thought it was great,” Jimmy jokes.
Most of the other mechanical problems on the trip were caused by corrugations. “All our bottle cages just rattled loose, I had a front axle just fall out at one point…”

The pain

It wasn’t just the bikes and the gear that copped a pounding though; this trip was hell on the riders, too: “Physically, we were both in a pretty beaten way by the time we got to Coober Pedy,” he explains. “I had nerve damage through my hands, from the carpal tunnel and the nerve going through the hands, because of the corrugations. For 15 hours a day you’re just whacking on your hands, the pressure is immense, so I came out with my hands not really working. Chad was also in a pretty similar way, just fatigued, tired, sore and shaken.”
The challenges presented by this remote-area trip weren’t limited to life on the bikes. At the end of each day the boys had little to look forward to than a cold meal and a cold night’s sleep.
“As cyclists, we run on food as cars run on petrol or diesel,” Jimmy says. “We didn’t carry a stove simply for that lightweight aspect, as a stove is quite bulky. Chad and I are both fascinated by running on fats, and the keto system, so eating a lot of nuts, a lot of peanut butter, just taking some real fatty foods… and for dinner we’d have cold microwave rice; we weren’t living gourmet, that’s for sure.”
Their camping kit was a lightweight bivvy, a thin sleeping bag, warm jacket, and a pair of thermals; it was tough.
“We’d often have low moments where we’d just look at each other and start laughing, thinking, ‘what the f*** are we doing?’, that subconscious thought of maybe we’ve bitten off a bit more than we can chew, and just having a bit of a laugh about it,” Jimmy says. “Or waking up covered in frost and just some grim mornings, but, in a way, we found humour in that… It’s like, ‘well who else is coming out here on a bike?’”

The highs

While there were certainly moments of self-doubt, Jimmy says there was never a moment when the pair thought they were not going to make it. “There were points where it was pretty hard to keep going, but I think Chad and I both know through experience that it does get better, it’s knowing that if you just keep going it always improves, it always gets better, so having that faith that it will improve, then that sun sets, or we see this beautiful camel, or something changes, and you go from that deep low to suddenly having one of those euphoric moments.”
Despite the inherent dangers of remote-area travel, particularly on a bicycle, it is often the desert solitude that can amplify those euphoric moments. “Chad and I spoke quite a lot of what is our why? Why are we here? And it came down to a love of being in such a remote area.

“There were several moments where we just stopped and looked at each other and just thought, ‘yeah we’re out here’. We were so far from anyone and that challenge that it brought, spurred us further, trying to find what could be our limits, where is our breaking point, trying to understand ourselves a bit more and find it in a place of such beauty.”

How do you top that?

Like any adventurer near trip’s end, Jimmy and Chad asked themselves how to top what they had just achieved… and decided they couldn’t. But they aren’t resting on their laurels.
“Chad and I chatted a lot about how to keep going up from here,” Jimmy admits. “How can you go every year and keep topping it? Or the next adventure, how do you make it better?
“Look at the Anne Beadell; how do you get bigger than that? It’s one of the most remote roads in Australia, unless you go do the Canning Stock Route, so we both spoke about how you become content with not topping it, with just taking it easy, or doing something that’s not as extreme, and finding peace at being out there and not pushing yourself to the limit like we pushed ourselves on the Anne Beadell.
“In terms of what’s next, we’re not actually too sure. We joked about a knitting class, or visiting a wine region and just sitting inside a nice cottage and drinking wine and knitting…”
We all know that isn’t going to happen, and Jimmy admits he still has Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan on his radar. “Absolutely! I’ve got an itch to see Central Asia and the world again that isn’t going to be scratched for a long time.”
“Chad and I are both looking international, we’re really excited for the world to open up, and the adventures that we can look at around the world; it’s definitely quite a big list.”

On his bike: Jimmy’s Curve GMX+

We sat down with Jimmy to discuss his latest ride – a Curve GMX+ – and how having a bike that is designed specifically for long journeys in all conditions is the one bike to rule them all.

You’ve been riding a Curve Belgie Spirit on your many cycling adventures for a while now, what made you swap over to the Curve GMX+?
The Belgie Spirit and the GMX+ are such different bikes. It’s like comparing a Ferrari to a 4WD Troopie. The bikes have their own personalities and are built for different missions. While I love my Belgie Spirit, and it is the perfect bike for my road riding and touring, it just isn’t capable of taking on the remote desert roads. If I wanted to venture out into the unknown then I needed a bike like the GMX+.

The GMX+ has its own unique fork and this model also comes with Curve’s new Walmer bars. How have you found these on your recent outback rides?
The fork on the GMX + is unique and is essentially what the bike has been designed around. These days you see many MTBs with their suspension fork swapped out with a full rigid one to adapt it to gravel riding. Instead of adapting the fork to the frame, CURVE created the GMX+ around the fork, a 29” full rigid fork allowing for 3” tyres. The bike still rides like a drop bar gravel bike but is so much more capable. The Walmer bars are W I D E, the width makes the drop bars have the control of a MTB handlebar, the room for a large handlebar bag, and so many hand positions for comfort.

The bike has seven cage mounts and a rear rack mount. Plus, you can add numerous other bags to it – have you had it absolutely fully loaded?
It’s always a game trying to fit your life onto a bike and even more so when heading into the desert when you’re going to need days worth of food and water. CURVE has looked at the frame and put as many mounting points on it as it can, allowing for every spare bit of space to be used.

Do you run tubeless tyres and, if so, how do you deal with punctures? Plus what tyres are you running?
I do run tubeless. I use tubeless on every bike I own and wouldn’t have it any other way. The sealant in the tyres has saved me countless times from three-corner jacks, thorns and other road debris. Without it, I would be replacing the tube again and again. I do carry spare tubes for worst-case scenario as well as more sealant and tyre boots. I’m currently running the Maxxis Rekon 2.8”.

The GMX+ has a sweet titanium frame and carbon forks. How have you found it in terms of comfort?
The carbon fork and Ti combination creates such a smooth and enjoyable ride. Being comfortable on the bike is a crucial part of bike touring and having these two things underneath me really does make a difference. Once the 2.8” Tyres are added at a low pressure this is one of the comfiest rides I’ve ever been on, even on the deep, rough corrugations in the desert.

What drivetrain are you running on the bike (gearing, dérailleur, rear cassette, front chain ring, etc.)?
I’m running a SRAM FORCE 1x drivetrain with hydraulic brakes. I’ve had great experience with the SRAM off-road components so it was the clear decision when building this bike up. I have a 10 – 36 Cassette on the back, matched with a 36 on the front allowing for an easy gear to get up the hills! I also have a dynamo hub in my front wheel to power my lights and change up my phone and camera during the day.

How long does it take to load your bike up?
It depends on how quick I need to get out of there! Each morning it takes around 30-45minutes to pack up camp and get moving.

The post On the limit: Around-the-world cyclist Jimmy Ashby tackles an iconic outback track appeared first on Australian Geographic.

As you stepped from the air-conditioned bus into the heat, and then started up a spur that was exposed to a searing sun seemingly hell-bent on frying you alive, you’d have thought you’d entered a grim, alternate world. For this repeat visitor, the hot and dry start to Tasmanian Expeditions’ four-day Mount Anne Summit trek was not unexpected – and nothing to be feared. Like the weather (more on that later), the terrain in this region changes unexpectedly, keeping you, literally, on your toes all the time. 

Waxing lyrical about the charms of Tassie’s volatile weather doesn’t make climbing 750m in the heat any more fun. But as my companions (Daniel, Duncan, Roger, John and Antony, plus our two guides, Simon and Jake) and I made our way up the spur to our first-night digs at High Camp, any distraction would suffice.

And there were plenty; as we climbed, we could see more and more of rock-covered Mt Eliza, looming high above the ridgeline that housed High Camp. Below sprawled the huge expanse of Lake Pedder; its cold waters an enticing tease as we sweated uphill in the heat.

It’s an abrupt and testing introduction to the circuit. But not abrupt enough, apparently, for Simon – or me, John, Daniel and Duncan, who all pipe up with a big “yes” when he suggests a scramble to the top of Mt Eliza, sans packs.

We must have been suffering severe short-term memory loss in regards to the just-completed climb, or perhaps it was the timing of Simon’s question, right after the euphoric feeling of removing our 25+kg packs from our backs and dropping them to the ground.

The scramble itself was brilliant; the boulders dotting the side of Mt Eliza are immense in size but extremely tractive underfoot, allowing steady progress up the side of the mountain. It was only an hour before we topped-out and were rewarded with both exhilarating views across most of the southwest of Tasmania, including the jagged spires of the Western Arthurs, and a preview of the next day’s track.

The Mt Eliza Plateau spread out to the east, with the track winding through and around alpine tarns and a multitude of rocks and boulders, on its way to Mt Anne in the far distance. It was a true alpine wonderland that ramped up our collective enthusiasm for the days to come – enthusiasm that was slightly dented on our return to High Camp.

Roger and Antony had stayed behind at High Camp with Jake while the rest of us had done the Mt Eliza scramble; both had been a bit slower up the mountain but, as it was not a race, I had thought nothing of it until we got back to camp, where we found out things were slightly more serious. Both men had previously suffered pretty serious lower back complaints and this first day’s strenuous start – and the heavy packs – had aggravated these injuries. They were both tender on their feet and were mulling over whether to continue or not. It was not an easy call to make so both decided to sleep on it, hoping the rest would help reduce the pain.

To the top of the world on the Mt Anne Circuit

The decision to turn back is never easy. Unless it concerns your immediate health in a very remote area, and you know the potential hazards that lay ahead. Then the decision you make has to be the right one. Which is what Roger and Antony did the following morning. Neither of them felt any better so they decided to return to the track starting point (with Jake accompanying them) to rendezvous with the Tas Ex bus (Simon had used a satphone to contact head office).

For the group, it was a bummer start to the day, but an understandable one. Having suffered serious lower back complaints in the past, I could sympathise with the pair’s decision and understood that it was the correct one.

So it was a slightly subdued group that made its way up Mt Eliza for the second time. Not only because of having to leave Roger and Antony but, with the extra weight of our packs on our backs – and the resulting change in balance and speed – it was looking like being a slower climb than the previous. Oddly, it ended up taking us pretty much the same time.

I guess familiarity with the route – and the fact we were moving quicker as a group – made the difference. After another brief stop on the summit, we started the traverse of the plateau, winding our way across undulating terrain with the track changing from sandy and gravel-filled, to muddy and boardwalk-covered, and passing a number of pretty, mirror-still alpine tarns, before traversing the first of what would be many boulder scree fields. And that’s when we really slowed down.

Taking a chance in Tasmania’s southwest

When you’re trekking in southwest Tassie, its notorious weather is always the governing factor. For us, the sun was hot but also much more fun to walk in than rain, wind or snow. So it was that, once we reached the junction of the main track and the side track to Mt Anne, we took our chance at the summit. And what a chance it was.

The boulder scree at the base of Mt Anne is slow-going but only the taster before the real challenge of scrambling and climbing – ropes and ascenders were used at one point – up often exposed sheer cliff sections before the final heave up to the flat-topped summit. It took us about an hour or so to get there and was drama-free. The return, however, was a little more exciting.

It was during the descent that Duncan proved that old adage that it’s always the quiet ones that surprise you. We had just watched Simon scramble on all fours across a flat rock that angled away to a rather long drop, doing this to avoid having to lean back and around an overhanging rock and potentially lose balance and take a big drop.

Duncan thought it might be better to try and hug said overhanging rock while sidling around it. His tiny, microsecond “dance”, as he momentarily lost his balance and leaned ominously back to the drop-off before collecting himself, definitely ranked as the trip’s, er, most unique moment. I have done a couple of trips with Simon as guide and never seen him quite so pale.

Dances and the descent over and done with – and Duncan as calm and collected as ever – we collected our packs and continued on to Shelf Camp, which would have to rate as one of Tasmania’s premier campsites. Impressively, Jake was already there – he’d dropped off Antony and Roger and then hightailed it back to get ahead of us –- and had the stove already boiling when we finally arrived at camp. The talk among the group (guides aside) was all about how “big” the day had been. How little we knew.

Time loses meaning on the Mt Anne Circuit

You could spend a week at Shelf Camp and not be bored. True to its name the campsite sits on a huge shelf, with panoramic views to Mt Anne in the east, Mt Lot and The Notch to the south, and a deep, deep valley right off the edge of the shelf. When we’d arrived the night before it was to be welcomed by not only a hot coffee from Jake, but also a sublime sunset, the day’s last rays adding a soft glow to some low clouds over The Notch.

The morning was no less entrancing and, again, foreshadowed another hot day ahead as we scoffed breakfast, packed up camp and starting moving toward a massive boulder scree field. The rocks of the scree field are immense – most would be the size of five adults combined at a minimum – and made for slow progress. We also had a fair bit of pack-hauling to do, lowering our packs down a few vertical drops before sliding down the ropes ourselves, and progress was measured in inches over the first part of the morning.

It is only when we cleared the boulder field, scrambling up a narrow track to look over the beginnings of The Notch, that we realised we’d only covered roughly 1km – and it had taken around two-and-a-half hours. Far from being disheartening, the feeling of achievement among us was pronounced; we’d all worked as a team when needed, following Simon and his huge backpack like a beacon through the cluttered boulder field, and enjoyed the experience of being in a unique and amazing landscape.

The Notch is just that – a near-perfect notch cut out of Mt Lot’s left side. We had to shimmy down a narrow, tight, slippery track to the base of The Notch itself, where we waited for Jake and Simon to free-climb the 15m wall on the opposite side to anchor some rope for us to climb up.

They added in an ascender for anyone not keen on the exposure (I took up that option without hesitation) then we hauled up all the packs and followed them up ourselves. It was a short climb, but the sense of all that empty space below was prominent with each hand- and foothold.

Back in the (un)real world

Viewed from afar, Mt Lot and Lightning Ridge look just like a jumbled series of steps. The rock pillars that make up Mt Lot – and the huge jumble of boulders that comprise Lightning Ridge – look sharp and impossible to negotiate when viewed from the side, in silhouette. It’s only when you’re up there – way, way up there – that you realise the knife-edge silhouette is relatively wide on top and, although steep and still quite exposed in areas, a challenging but not impossible traverse.

It all comes down to route finding, with small cairns dotted down the side of Lightning Ridge to assist in this. And then it is just a matter of scrambling, sliding and jumping your way from one boulder to another to reach each cairn – and then repeating the process slowly, all the way down to where the ridge meets the treeline. With high levels of concentration needed, it was easy to forget what lay below: a beautiful view of Judds Charm (our next camp) nestled next to a small lake to the left; and the large rich blue of Lake Judd spread out to our right.

It was a number of hours before we reached lower ground, where we were immediately to be engulfed by what looked and felt like prehistoric rainforest. Huge pandanus palms were everywhere, as were vines, low branches, massive ferns and a barely discernible track – it was like rediscovering a land long lost.

Finally breaking out from the dense rainforest onto the open ground of the moorlands near Judds Charm was surreal – especially when we stopped to look back at our previous hours’ efforts. From our low-down viewpoint, Mt Lot and Lightning Ridge once again looked insurmountable, but we’d nailed it; many hours and loads of effort over an incredibly huge day but with all of us in one piece and strangely energised.

Tassie stays true to form

Whenever anyone asks me how I handle trekking in Tasmania’s often wild conditions, where summer can be belting hot one minute and freezing cold and wet the next, I just answer with a “that’s what you have to expect, and that’s what I love the most about it”. So, I knew it had to happen at some point, and even though it was late to the party, the crazy Tassie weather arrived in all its fury just in time for our last full day.

Cold winds, black clouds, a heavy mist and freezing temperatures dogged us as we climbed to Sarah Jane Plateau. The plateau contained a few surprises, too: Simon found a pincer from a freshwater/alpine crayfish and we also nearly all stepped on a (small) venomous whip-tailed snake dozing on the track. Thankfully the cold weather had rendered it a bit sluggish, so it was just a case of a small sidestep to avoid any drama.

Small sidesteps were also much in vogue as we descended from the plateau to the Anne River plains. The thick vegetation we had to push through meant most of the two-hour downhill was done by feel only; we couldn’t see our feet at all as the vegetation was that dense, relying on our trek poles to retain both balance and direction. When we eventually arrived at the bottom, it was to be greeted with the ubiquitous button grass plains surrounding the Anne River.

Much mud plugging – and hilarity – ensued as we slogged through, around and sometimes under the muddy track. Simon’s right leg nearly disappeared completely down one deep hole at one point, with that spectacular effort outdone minutes later by Jake who, after being sent ahead to set up a sheltered lunch spot, took off like a man possessed, only to nearly disappear entirely into the mud a few steps later.

It was impressive stuff and bloody funny. Not so funny, however, was lunch. Jake had done a brilliant job of setting up a tarp to keep us dry, but the cold winds and our exhaustion saw us shiver our way through about five courses of lunch, donning multiple layers to stave off the cold. Trail food had never tasted so good.

When we reached improved track sections (read: not so muddy) it felt like walking on a city footpath and, with the rain also stopping, we enjoyed the last couple of hours ambling to track’s end. It was a big day –- nine hours of trekking through crazy weather – but none of us were complaining.

The Mt Anne Circuit delivered exactly what was promised: a short, punchy adventure that jams in numerous challenges, combined with a true sense of the word “epic” as it takes you deep into one of the world’s wild, spectacular and remote areas –- mud, sun, rain, mountains and all.

The Essentials

Getting there: Qantas and Virgin Australia offer flights to Hobart, Tasmania from most capital cities.

The adventure: Tasmanian Expeditions offers the four-day Mt Anne Summit from November 1, 2021, through to March 15, 2022. For exact trip details, see here. The Mt Anne Summit is rated 6 (moderate to challenging) and is suited to experienced, fit bushwalkers. If you’re fit and prepared, you will have a blast.

Climate: It is Tasmania, so expect every extreme of weather in the five days and pack accordingly. A robust pair of trekking boots, a waterproof/breathable outer shell jacket and plenty of layers are all essential. Tasmanian Expeditions supplies a full pre-trip equipment list for all participants.

The post Mt Anne Circuit: Tassie’s epic four-day trek appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Few dare venture into the mountain’s shadows during the winter months, where high winds and wet snowfalls predominate. The first ascent in true alpine conditions was completed well back in September 1954 by Faye Kerr and Max Cutcliff using primitive alpine gear. Since then only reattempted a handful of times, stories of fingers and toes lost to frostbite only add to the legend. Sir Edmund Hillary famously labelled Federation Peak as ‘Australia’s only real mountain’, a compliment to its dramatic stature as it rises as a spire over half a kilometre out of the wilderness below. Australia’s answer to Cerro Torre.

Ben Armstrong and I long wondered about ski lines on this peak. Aerial photos depicted a couloir that twisted downwards off the NW face, entombed within the Blade Ridge and a near-vertical slab. Accessed above via the Southern Traverse; a piercing ridgeline where horizontal ground is almost unheard of and a proper mountaineering assault in snow and ice. Since we found Rob Blaker’s photograph showing the crack filled with snow it’s been in our minds. After years of planning and a fortuitous adventure grant from The North Face, 2020 would be our year. We would attempt to ski the Federation Couloir. 

Into the wild

Southbound. Into the most ludicrous winter front we had seen – it was almost perfect. A deep low would bullseye Tasmania, drawing up freezing air from the south. Cold with snow to sea level, it was sustained over several days. A few hours driving and we were at the trailhead masked by the eerie pre-dawn glow. We walked into the wilderness with heavy packs, skis and eleven days’ worth of supplies. With no idea what to expect, we were stepping into the void in the truest sense of exploration.

The first three kilometres were optimistically easy. A few fallen trees and small streams but nothing outrageous. Bursts of sun filtered through the canopy illuminating a scene of green. Moss grew on every spare surface and fallen limbs crisscrossed the line of sight. It was calm and peaceful. After a while the jungle became exponentially denser with fallen logs and thick vines. Occasional stands of cutting grass and bauera to bash through were an almost pleasant change from the constant clambering over fallen trees or, in some cases, crawling under on hands and knees. Resigned to our shoes being impossible to keep dry, we plunged headlong into deep pools of mud that sucked energy with each step forward. Our horizontal ski carry technique worked wonders to push through the dense forest. 

By lunch we were on the unruly descent to South Cracroft River. A constant procession of fallen trees tangled with wayward limbs made every ten steps forward a victory. We pushed through swift icy river crossings and into the burnt zone, devastated by the 2019 fires. The track vanished immediately; we resorted to bearings much like early explorers charting the landscape as dark clouds loomed to our west.

That night the rain became heavy, dumping snow a half kilometre above the plains, signalling massive incoming snowfalls. By the time we broke camp the next morning snow flurries filtered down to the valley floors. Ahead of us was Moss Ridge; the only way to reach the high elevations east of Federation and one of our most significant obstacles. Covering only 2.5km in distance and 600m of vertical gain, climbing Moss Ridge takes the better part of a day. It’s a route where every metre is fought against a bitter tangle of vertical jungle. The words jungle gym came to mind as we ascended the ridge. Over, under, around and through. Up, then down, then back up again. Slippery logs and deep pools of bog. Skis dangle aside steep climbs of gravity-defying mud steps. Overhanging land held in place only by roots and branches. The climb was fun at first. Then we reached the snow line.

Still about an hour or two from our base camp at Bechervaise Plateau snow caked the trees which bent over the track necessitating a delicate scramble in which each foul movement meant a shower of wet snow from above. Colder and wetter by the minute, we pushed up against the mountains’ resistance before at last we burst onto the plateau cloaked in 20-30cm of fresh snow. Freezing cold, hypothermia a real threat; it couldn’t have come soon enough. Our base camp set and we were ready for the most ferocious storm the Southern Ocean could throw at us. Dumping snow greeted the night but the winds were calm and kind.

Closer and closer

Woken by a blanket of stars what greeted us the next morning was nothing short of astounding. Runnels of cloud traversed hillocks to the south but we were in clear air. Snow festooned every possible surface. Below us, the Cracroft Plains were blanketed in settled snow. Above, Federation Peak loomed as an almost vertical wall, clustered thick with rime ice. The forecast was calling for a clear morning two days before however we simply didn’t believe it. Snow to sea level and clear air was an ultra-rare occurrence. Tired and wet from the approach we set about drying every possible piece of gear. Anything even slightly wet went on the clothesline strung between trees. 

By midday, the clouds were back, and snow was falling thick and fast. A southerly airstream continued to build as the low moved eastwards. High winds rocked the side of the tent as half a meter of snow lay on the decks outside. The couloir would be ready as soon as the storm broke and after three days tent-bound and novelty laps skiing the plateau it was nearly time. Our weather forecasts were calling for rapidly rising pressure and dropping humidity. Good weather was imminent.

A few hundred kilometres north at the small hamlet of Liawenee the mercury dipped to the coldest temperature ever recorded in Tasmania, -14.2°C. The air was clear. It was time to go. We climbed above camp to the Southern Traverse, dawn light striking the summit tower rising steeply above the valley fog. Above 1000m elevation rime ice caked every surface and floating ice crystals glistened jewel-like in the sun. There was no wind and conditions were right out of our wildest dreams. 

Across the spine of the world

The Southern Traverse was essentially a giant V that passed directly under the summit tower. At first, a descent down Geeves Gully, then a climb up Chockstone Gully, before a final traverse over a hanging snowfield. As we prepared to descend small fillets of ice rained down on us. The day was warming fast; we needed to move quickly to avoid the overhead danger of falling ice. Ben scrambled down the narrow chasm and out of view, yelling once he’d reached the safe point. I followed suit, descending backwards, ice axe and crampons clawing for any semblance of purchase. The exposure was enormous. A fall here would be disastrous; next stop Lake Geeves, 800m below. 

Reaching a pandani ledge we decided to rope up for the final pitch. Ben set the anchor and he abseiled into the abyss yelling once he reached safety with only metres of rope to spare. I leaned back trusting the gear entirely, sliding a prussic safety down with one hand and controlling the rope through the belay device with the other. Stepping gingerly down the face Lake Geeves hung far below my legs. The 30m rope began to flex more and more signifying the end of the descent and my feet touched down on a small snowy notch in the cliff face. To our right Chockstone Gully hung above us; a huge fallen boulder wedged in a narrow chasm giving the chute its name. 

Ben set off up the first pitch and I fed line through the belay device anchored by a few nuts in a slim crack. The rope grew taught at the end of its tether as he was directly under the hanging rock. Climbing, the snow crunched under my crampons. It was firm but not bulletproof; perfect for climbing. From under the chockstone we weaved around hidden holes and small cliffy features that were buried under about a metre of snow, testing the security of each hold before committing, all the while remembering three points of contact at all times. 

Soon enough we topped out from the enclosed gully and in front of us stood one of the grandest vistas I’d ever laid eyes on. Huge rocky towers and knife-edged ridges rose from below in all directions, caked thick with ice. Above us the summit tower was literally a straight vertical wall that rose into the sky, festooned with hanging icicles. Wild forests stretched far below all the way to the southern coastline, dark lakes glinting back at us with not a sign of human existence. A view that so few have witnessed, it was a privilege to be there, climbing through the snow and ice. To climb on Federation Peak in deep snow and perfect weather was completely unheard of in perhaps all of history. In a place that’s awash with cloud almost every day of the year, these conditions were nothing short of astounding. 

The endgame

We could see the notch marking the start of our ski line. A hundred metre traverse across the hanging snowfield and we would have our first view of the couloir. Taking turns to walk between safe points we gained the notch casting our eyes with wonder on what lay beyond. The couloir was most certainly on; metre-tall pandani plants poking just out of the icy snow, the slope funnelled downwards and quickly out of view. Blade Ridge towering over our heads, we clicked into our skis ready to make the first turns for 2020 on the gnarliest line of our lives. Ben was first to drop, allowing me to photograph his descent into the couloir, and he cut turns cautiously down to a small safe bench above the crux of the line. I followed suit placing ungainly turns in the awkward ice-crusted snowpack down towards the bench. 

The morning was wearing on and the sun was quickly coming around the corner of the summit tower, warming the iced-up left-hand wall, peeling frozen debris from the cliff. As we peered down the crux the icefall began to assault the lower couloir, raining solid chunks violently against the opposing wall. We set up an anchor to descend through the steep crux that rolled over a small cliff band getting a better view of the lower couloir. Sidling further downwards, skis still attached to our feet, what we saw was beyond our acceptable level of risk. The couloir was littered like a marble field with appropriately named ‘death cookies’; bouldery chunks of ice that had fallen into the chasm from the cliffs above. Skiable but barely so. More of a concern was the icefall. We watched as the sun crept swiftly around the corner, increasing the now constant icefall. A direct hit with any of the larger ice bombs would certainly break bones or at least seriously injury us enough to require rescue. The lower ski line was quite simply beyond our limits of safety and we made the tough but necessary call to climb back the way we came, leaving a good deal of the lower couloir uncompleted. Our consolation; the mountains will be there another day.

While it was a blow to our main goal we both felt only minor disappointment. What we had achieved – the challenging approach through myriad ecosystems, camping out for days in the snowstorm, alpine mountaineering along the Southern Traverse in perfect weather as well as skiing the top portions of the couloir, we felt entirely satisfied. What we had embarked on was the biggest adventure of our lives yet so close to home. A goal that no one else had even attempted before. Who knew possibilities like this still exist right in our very own backyards, right under our noses. We may dream of the grandest mountains overseas, those that are certainly higher and more renowned. We may overlook what’s around our own homes in favour of a place of greater exposure. But I think it’s entirely possible to have these same raw and unruly adventures in our own locales. And in a strange time with limited travel opportunities, this is never more important than before.

The post Off the edge: A ski descent of Tassie’s Federation Peak appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The mighty Larapinta – all 223km of it – is one of Australia’s most famous multi-day walks. It takes foot-borne explorers through a microcosm of the Northern Territory’s Red Centre landscape of rich-red rocky terrain, deep gorges with cool waterholes beneath, and ethereal ghost gums. It is a world-rated multiday trek that is a regular listing on any global trek hit list. 

The Larapinta is nothing if not a versatile walk; there are a number of ways you can “do” the trek, including independently over 10-14 days (with one or two food drops along the way), you can join a guided group (still carrying all your food and gear), or you can take sample bites out of its 223km by tackling a shorter seven-day journey, via World Expeditions, or even a three-day luxury sampler, where you head out on day walks to the choicest highlights of the track, then are back in your swag (by a campfire complete with bush chef) by nightfall, just in time to admire the famous star-filled outback night skies.

The funny thing is, even allowing for its near-permanent appearance on every half-keen walker’s must-do list, the Larapinta Trail is far from crowded. This, of course, has a fair bit to do with its sheer size, as well as some people just not having the time to complete the full trek. So, what they do instead is bite off three- and four-day sections over the course of a couple of years to complete the walk. 

Related: Best foot forward: A guide to hiking

You can walk the Larapinta in either direction: east to west, starting from Alice Springs’ historic Telegraph Station; or west to east, starting at the top of Mt Sonder, and making your way back into town. Either way, each day on the track brings with it a new and amazing highlight, whether it is the swimming hole at Ormiston Gorge, or the view across more rugged ridges of the West MacDonnell Ranges from the lookout above Standley Chasm. 

Independent walkers will need to be fit (see our guide to being fit for adventures, here) – your pack will be full of food, tent, gear, clothing, etc. – and food drops will need to be properly organised through local operators in Alice Springs before you depart. The designated campsites all have water tanks and are, roughly, a day’s walk apart. The longest section is the 31km stretch from Hugh Gorge to Ellery Creek, but is flat going and, if you head off early, it’s a long-ish but not unbearable day. 

There are numerous access points along the walk, with the track moving in and out of popular tourist spots along the way. Go guided and a lot of the planning is taken out of your hands. World Expeditions is the most experienced company when it comes to the Larapinta Trail, and it also offers a number of options, from the full-monty 223km, to a six-day experience and others. Whichever way you choose to walk the Larapinta, you will not be disappointed, but you will be amazed; this world-class walk is a great showcase for the Aussie outback. And you’ve gotta be proud of that…
FACT FILE
West MacDonnell NP and walk info: Parks & Wildlife NT
Guided walk options: World Expeditions

Thorsborne Trail, QLD

Hinchinbrook Island sits 8km off Queensland’s Cardwell coast (the small town of Cardwell is roughly midway between Cairns and Townsville) and is the physical embodiment of a Hollywood tropical island. Hinchinbrook is one of Australia’s largest island national parks – it covers 39.3sq.km – and it is on this wonderland that 40 hikers a day get to experience true tropical Queensland conditions when they tackle the four-day, 32km Thorsborne Trail.

This world-rated multi-day hike starts at Nina Bay in the north of the island, with walkers winding their way south to trail’s end at George Point. Over the course of the four days of moderate to challenging walking, following a rugged, rough track, you will move through everything from mountainous areas and long, deserted beaches, to eucalypt forest and lush tropical rainforest, with a number of pristine waterfalls along the way.

The trailhead is reached via a 40-minute boat trip from the coastal town of Cardwell, crossing the narrow Hinchinbrook Channel that separates island from the mainland. During this journey you will see an abundance of mangrove. This plant thrives here; the channel is claimed to be one of the largest mangrove habitats in the tropical north. Marine animals, such as dugongs and green sea turtles, are often seen here, with saltwater crocs also present.

Walkers can expect tropical forests, golden, sandy beaches, rocky headlands and bubbling creeks. The track itself is not graded and can be quite rough in parts so a good sense of balance, some multiday trek experience, and decent trekking fitness are essentials for optimum enjoyment. The depth of the waterways will depend on the season; a big Wet Season dump of rain can cause creeks to rise dramatically, with the potential of leaving you stranded for a day or more, unable to cross. It doesn’t hurt to allow for an extra day just in case, especially if walking the Thorsborne out of season.

As well as the main track, there are plenty of side-tracks, with the one-hour-return Nina Peak side-track worth the effort; you will nab great views of the island’s highest mountain – 1121m Mt Bowen – from this viewpoint.

The Thorsborne has seven campsites, with six of these near beaches. The standout is the campsite at Mulligan Falls, toward the track’s southern section, where you camp under the rainforest canopy right near the waterfall.

Peak walks time is April to September, owing to cooler conditions. You must also be self-sufficient, carrying all food/supplies/equipment, and even though there are creeks on the island, they can run dry, so take a minimum of 4L of water per person as a backup. Also pack water purification tablets (or a filter). It’s a great trek and, at four to five days, makes for brilliant hiking bang for your bucks in terms of time and scenic rewards.
FACT FILE
Track info and bookings: Queensland Parks & Forests

Jatbula Trail, NT

If the Larapinta Trail is the perfect NT Red Centre experience, then the 62km Jatbula Trail more than qualifies as its Top End equivalent; this multi-day walk is moderate in level but takes you through some of the most vibrant and engaging terrain in this country. It can be walked independently (you need to book well ahead for park camping/passes) or you can jump on board a guided adventure with tour operators such as World Expeditions.

The Jatbula is located in Nitmiluk National Park and winds north (you can only walk it in this one direction) from Nitmiluk (Katherine Gorge – well worth a few days exploration itself) to Leliyn (Edith Falls). The route takes walkers on a tropical walking adventure along the western edges of the Arnhem Land Escarpment, experiencing savannah grasslands, rocky quartzite cliffs, creek-crossings, and exploring monsoon forests, with each day ending at the perfect campsite: right beside a cooling waterfall. This is Jawoyn country, and you’ll get the chance to spot brilliant rock art in a number of caves and rocky overhangs and outcrops as you trek an average of 10km each day (the longest stretch is 16km on Day 3, from 17 Mile Falls to Sandy Camp Pool) between campsites.

The first few days are spectacular as walkers traverse what is known as “stone country” before entering some pockets of monsoonal rainforest that are characteristic of the region. After a few days you’ll follow a gentler track as you walk beside the pretty Edith River to Sandy Camp Pool, where you’ll camp for the night, and then through paperbark forests and past more waterholes to Sweetwater Pool. 

The hike is brilliant and can be done at a nice leisurely pace but start early each morning so you can take full advantage of the campsites’ locations right next to waterholes where you can swim and cool off during the afternoons. The trekking season is July to September up here, so as well as warm days and cool-ish nights, you should see plenty of stars in the clear NT skies.

In addition to the brilliant overall walking experience, the fantastic campsites and the rich indigenous history, the Jatbula’s start- and end-points are ideal if you’d like to spend more time here doing day walks through Nitmiluk National Park or canoeing up the gorge or down Katherine River. Or you can simply keep that waterfall spirit alive and spend a few days lolling about at Leliyn at the end of your tropical trekking adventure.
FACT FILE
Walk info and bookings: NT Parks & Wildlife
Guided options: World Expeditions

The post Three of Australia’s best winter walks appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Climbing big peaks is probably the world’s most demanding physical and mental challenge, and one that, for many alpinists, consumes their lives as they follow their dreams. For Nirmal “Nims” Purja, this dream began after his first big climb, where he realised that, although humans are strong, resilient and seemingly able to bend the natural world to our will, the mountains don’t always agree.

“What I realised was, specifically coming from a Special Forces background – a Ghurkha background – having served 10 years in the Special Boat Service (UK; he was the first Ghurka to make the rank, in 2009), you think you’re invincible,” he says. “However, when I went to the mountains it was pretty simple; the mountains made me feel so small and put things into perspective for me…”

The Bremont Project Possible was based around the challenge of summiting the world’s 14 highest mountains – all above 8000m, –in less than seven months. This was considered by most in the alpine climbing community as physically and mentally impossible, but in 2017 Nims (a Bremont-sponsored athlete) had other ideas – and confidence – thanks to his own personal experience from a recent world record climb (one of three he held at the time).

“…I managed to climb, Mount Everest, Lhotse and Makalu – the world’s fourth and fifth highest mountains – in five days,” he recalls. “At the end I was supposed to get picked up by helicopter, however due to the weather the helicopter never came, and I had to run from base camp – after summiting – directly all the way to Num.”

Num was eight days’ trekking away from where Nims had finished the climb, but he covered that distance in 18 hours, running (and climbing peaks) the whole way and, when finished, felt physically okay. The idea of Project Possible began… 

All work, no train

Big mountain climbing incredibly tough (see here for our story on tackling a mountaineering class) and is an expensive business, so it was to this that Nims focused the next year and more, forgoing physical training simply due to the fact that fundraising took so much time. Sponsorship is hard to come by for relatively ‘unknown’ climbers – Nims was still serving with the SBS and many potential supporters had no idea he held three climbing world records. Instead, he drew on his considerable mental fortitude, something he was born with – and was further boosted with serving in the stressful environment of a Special Forces regiment – to keep himself focused on the end-game.

Related: Ice Climbing: The Ultimate Guide

The fact that Nims had set himself a timeframe of seven months meant this planning, fundraising and logistics phase was far more complicated and also compressed, with it continuing even during the climbing phase. 

“It was all next level,” Nims says. “Having no funding and having to raise the funds whilst climbing the mountain and having to deal with so many rescues, politics, etc., at the same time as climbing makes it even tougher.”

And the climbing itself was going to be tough enough…

The reality

There was no picking and choosing of ‘easier’ peaks before more challenging ones. Nims focused on the geographical locations of all the 8000m peaks, to minimise time in between ascents. Ironically, this meant the most challenging one, was first.

“Annapurna is the hardest one and that’s the one I started first,” he says. “For many [climbers] they would think it would be hugely demoralising. On Annapurna one in every three climbers die. That is the sad reality.”

Nims summited Annapurna on April 23, 2019. Nearby Dhaulagiri was next, on May 12, before Kanchenjunga and then Everest on May 22 (plus Lhotse on the same day). It was on the upper slopes of Everest that Nims took the now famous photo of a ‘traffic jam’ of climbers showing the world how overcrowded the world’s highest mountain had become.  

 Shishapangma, the last peak, was summited on October 29. It was an epic achievement; all of the world’s 8000m peaks had been climbed in six months and six days. Asked if he ever thought if Project Possible actually wasn’t, Nims replies with confidence.

“No, not really,” he says. “I never thought or doubted really that I would not be able to make it. On a mammoth project like this if there is a doubt and you’re doubting your ability – or not sure about what you’re doing – I don’t think you’d be able to do it. 

“So, you climb one mountain, you come down, you’ll be tired ,and if you think you can’t do it when you’re so tired… if you’ve got any doubts it will divert you and your energy towards failure.” 

The winter savage

So what do you do after setting an incredible climbing world record? You join a team of your fellow countrymen to claim one of the last great prizes in alpinism: a winter ascent of K2, – also referred to as “the savage mountain” – and the last of the 8000m peaks to be summited in winter. K2 is the world’s second-highest mountain but far more dangerous than Everest. There had been 46 previous attempts on a K2 winter summit, and it wasn’t until January 2021 that Nims and his fellow Nepalese climbers accepted that challenge – and succeeded.

“All 13 out of 14 8000m peaks were climbed by international friends,” he says. “There was nothing in the name of the Nepalese mountaineering community and that’s one of the reasons why I was there to make the impossible, possible.”

Future is bright

The Big Mountain Cleanup is Nims’ latest project. Run through the Nims Dai Foundation (www.nimsdai.com), Nims and fellow climbers intend to clean up as much deposited rubbish on the world’s big peaks as possible – and raise money via recycling.

““Bringing the Earth’s biodiversity back and making it more sustainable is not one man’s job,” he says. This is where we all have to unite we all have to work together.”

If anyone can make this a success, it’s the climber who summited all of the world’s 8000m peaks in just over six months.

Keeping time on the world’s highest peaks

Befitting the Bremont sponsored athlete, Nims wore a Bremont S300 White timepiece (from the Supermarine range) during Project Possible. Hand-built in the UK, the S300 White has a unidirectional bezel, a tough 40mm stainless steel case, an automatic BE-92AE chrono (including a Gludydur balance an Anachron balance spring) with 38-hour power reserve and is water-resistant to 300m. 

Bremont has since released a commemorative Limited Edition Bremont Project Possible timepiece. Built using bronze (the first time Bremont has utilised this material) and titanium, the watch includes a dark blue dial combined with a bronze bezel (and hands) and blue ceramic insert. Turn it over and the open case shows a roto depicting the 14 peaks (and their heights), numbered in the order in which Nims climbed them. Impressively, the timepiece is water-resistant to 500 metres. The cool thing with the implementation of bronze in the build is it recognises the historical use of this metal in military instruments (think: exposed parts on naval boats to ensure corrosion-resistance, and also in compasses) and also relates nicely to Nims’ own time in the Special Boat Service and Gurkhas. 

It’s one impressive – and seriously bombproof – timepiece that would be brilliant for keeping time on any adventure. Go to Bremont to see the entire range.

The post Nirmal “Nims” Purja: Climbing earth’s 14 highest mountains in world-record time appeared first on Australian Geographic.

This is one of Aus Geo Adventure’s favourite paddling adventures – we’d happily do it every year. Alpine River Adventures is the only kayak guiding company allowed to take paddlers through this particularly remote part of the Snowy. The company’s five-day trip is simply brilliant and suited to anyone above 12 years of age with an adventurous spirit (previous paddling experience is not essential). 

The Byadbo Wilderness (along with the nearby Pilot Wilderness), located in Kosciuszko NP’s southeast corner, is around 350,000 hectares in size. The Snowy River winds through this wilderness for roughly 70km and contains some rarely seen – and thus unspoiled or damaged – indigenous cultural sites of the Ngarigo people. 

The paddling itself is a mix of flatwater up to the occasional Class III rapid, and there’s usually only one portage (around Snowy Falls), so it’s a chilled-out journey overall, with days on the water spotting wildlife, such as platypus, echidna and sea eagles, mixed with nights at some of the most pristine riverside campsites in the world. 

Believe us when we say that by the time you reach the end-point of this river journey, at pretty Halfway Flat, you’ll just want to keep on paddling further down this magic river. 

2. Ride Atherton Forest Mountain Bike Park, QLD

Tropical North Queensland might seem like an unlikely mountain bike hotspot but it is, in fact, rated one of Australia’s best MTB destinations. Atherton is about an hour away from Cairns, inland up on the tablelands at a lofty 800 metres above sea level. Atherton f has none of the glitz of Cairns – its population is around 7000 – but that quiet exterior hides the fact that this town has one of Australia’s most sensational trail networks: the Atherton Forest Mountain Bike Park.

Atherton meets all the ‘successful mountain bike town’ criteria: a great climate, awesome terrain, and the chance to ride to the trail network directly from town. Indeed, the trailhead (with change rooms and bike wash facilities) is right on the main street, with the link trail out to the network, for easy trail access/return.

A mix of trail builders, including two of Australia’s most reputable – World Trail and Dirt Art – have contributed to Atherton’s trail network, which sprawls over Baldy Mountain Forest Reserve and Herberton Range State Forest. Most of the riding is flow trail, best suited to cross-country or trail bikes. There’s nothing too technical, although the ease with which you gather speed should be enough to keep you focused. 

You will find the easier trails in the lowlands, while the intermediate trails cloverleaf off, taking you out into the hills. It’s a smart layout that’s ideal for groups of mixed abilities; in short, everyone has an awesome time riding, regardless of mismatched skill levels. The official trail maps are numbered; highlights include the bobsled descent of Trail 9 and the epic Trail 12, which loops off onto a life-changing descent and a scenic, gradual climb that takes you to the park’s highest point. For shorter loops, climb up to The Roundabout, and link up Trails 6 and 7.

This all adds up to a potential week of epic riding, followed by the chance to recount your thrills and spills at one of Atherton’s excellent pubs each evening. Yeah, we know, it sounds bloody brilliant!

3. Gum Swamp Wetland, NSW

An adventure of the more relaxing kind, but one that is exciting for nature-lovers and visitors to the central west NSW town of Forbes. The Gum Swamp Wetland is an ephemeral wetland that offers a habitat for numerous native wildlife and vegetation. It’s only four kilometres south-west of the centre of Forbes, just off the Newell Highway (entry is via Greens Road) and you will be transported into a birdwatcher’s wonderland. 

The swamp is a national significant ornithology site (that’s the study of birds, to you and me) and there have been more than 150 species observed at the reserve. As well as the chance to spot some of Australia’s waterbirds and other species, the swamp and its ghostly drowned gum trees lends itself to brilliant sunrise and sunset photography.

And speaking of photography and taking it easy in pristine natural surrounds, this area has just been redeveloped to include three new double-storey bird hides, right on the edge of the swamp. As well, the original bird hide (actually built in 1992 with support from Australian Geographic and its founder, Dick Smith) has copped a refurb. 

In addition, there is now 1.5km of accessible boardwalk and pathways, wayfinding signage, concrete seating and handrails in the Wetland. This will not only assist the less physically able to tick off their own unique bucket-list item and visit this calm, tranquil location, but also bring adventurous families with little’uns to the wetlands for their own bucket-list adventure of some short walks and the chance to spot – and hopefully learn more about – the swamp’s prolific birdlife. They will also view ‘Varanus’ a 20-metre steel goanna (Gum Swamp is part of the Sculpture Down The Lachlan public art trail), with another four smaller sculptures at each of the bird hides expected to be installed very soon. 

This pristine natural hideaway is a must-add to your ‘outdoor exploration and relaxation’ bucket-list.

4. Sea kayak the Broken Group Islands, British Columbia, Canada

Yep, another paddling adventure, but this one is further afield – and we still have to wait patiently for international travel to ramp up again. But, believe us, it will be well worth waiting (and planning for). 

Wild Root Journeys offers a four day kayaking adventure that takes paddlers around the Broken Group Islands, part of the Pacific Rim National Park Reserve, on the west coast of Vancouver Island. It’s a brilliant way to experience what kayaking in BC is all about, with the islands’ sheltered nature, combined with the variety of wildlife and marine life spotted, means this paddling trip will appeal to all kayaking skill levels. (All equipment is supplied, from kayaks to paddle jackets to tents, sleeping gear and more.)

The islands themselves are much of the appeal, with their mix of sand and/or shell-covered beaches, rich-green temperature rainforest and life-rich intertidal zones. Really, the awesomeness begins from the get-go, thanks to the Lady Rose Ferry ride out to the start where you may spot whales and coastal black bears foraging for food on the island shores. Other marine life you may see includes orcas, sea otters, stellar sea lions and bald eagles. There’s also the chance to meet the First Nations bee keepers and learn about this rich culture that thrives here.

Wild Root Journeys’ owner, Silke Hockemeyer is incredibly experienced and knowledgeable, plus she’s a qualified Sea Kayak Alliance of BC guide, and never gets sick of this incredible experience. “This is truly one of my favourite places to paddle,” she says. “To see waves crash in the distance against the first rocks, after moving an unknown distance across the Pacific Ocean, seems like such a stunning collide of nature. I love feeling relatively protected in where we paddle but also knowing that we are as far west as it comes and the seemingly endless ocean is just right past a few sets of buffering rocks.” 

Yep, we’re convinced, too. And just in case you weren’t, think of the fresh food on offer each night, ranging from wild sock-eye salmon to warm curries to vegan options and much more. 

The post Bucket List Adventures appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Māia is a Māori adjective that means to “be brave, bold, capable, confident” – really the perfect name for an amazing woman. 

What’s the story behind your hashtag #adaptdefy?

#adaptdefy has been something I write on my mirror at times to remind myself to keep adapting to every challenge and to defy my own expectations. Growing into that mindset has filtered into every part of my life as a mother, as an amputee, as a climber, as a speaker. In particular as a mother we can box ourself in and feel like our dreams and goals are not valid or possible. I’m a single mum of two active boys (10 and 13) and a super-powered daughter (15, with autism and ADHD). Life is pretty colourful and messy, and I don’t have a climbing wall in my city. If we looked at the odds on their own, becoming world no. 1 feels out of reach. The idea of defying expectations is a lot about staying true to my goals and dreams, amidst giving my children my all, and reminding myself that with hard work and community I can have it all!

What decisive moment set you on a new path?

When one of my sons said: “Mum, you don’t like food, do you, you just eat pills and drink coffee.” It made me take a look in the mirror at how I deal with pain and acknowledge I was allowing it to make my world smaller. This was the point I decided I would go back to climbing, 18 years after my accident, and learn to do it without the use of my left leg. Wanting to model strength to my kids is such big motivation.

Your proudest climbing moment?

My first World Championships, in 2018, in Austria – I remember every emotion. Standing at the bottom of the wall for my first climb on the world stage and breathing it all in raised my expectations of myself – I made history for my country as NZ’s first International Paraclimber. I topped my first climb, and qualified for the finals, which was a NZ record for able or para climbers. I placed 4th, which blew my mind. I had worked hard, but  underestimated my potential. Achievements like that keep me aiming high.

When did you become an ambassador for Macpac? 

I was approached by Macpac in 2019. Being a Macpac ambassador has given me space to have a voice, to gently challenge people and remind us all we are worthy and our dreams are valid no matter who we are. Reliable gear as I start to venture more outdoors, when my leg is so unreliable, is huge! 

Behind the scenes in Back to Real Rock – what was it like sharing a personal challenge with the world?

I won’t lie, there is an anxiety there that your story will become a kind of cheesy inspirational piece that over-dramatises loss and challenges. But Nick, my climbing partner on the day, is a friend, so it really did feel like I was simply arriving to have a good time, irrespective of cameras and drones!

When I have opportunities to share my story, it’s forefront on my mind to be as real, honest and true to myself as I would in any other space without cameras. Letting our guard down, letting people see that we struggle, is an important way of building community and empowering all of us; our world doesn’t need to be ‘Insta perfect’… Our deepest connections with people, adventure and community will be when we come as we are, show up and be fully in the moment.

What gives you strength?

Internal self-talk is grounding for me. I have had to learn to turn up the volume on positivity, on truths that are worth repeating to our self over and over until they feel real. I am capable. I am resilient. I can make good, informed choices about who I am and what I want. I am māia (brave, bold). I have survived 100% of my worst days. I can do hard things.

Community is my external strength, but it requires vulnerability. You can’t shut yourself off from the world when you’re in a tough place. Find your tribe who you can be around when you’re not at you best. Where you can just, be. Climbing does that for me. I can arrive, as I am, and climb or belay or just sit and be around people who have a common love. I climbed in Austria with two men in their 70s. They didn’t speak English. I didn’t speak German. We knew nothing about each other. But it felt like home. Climbing gives a sense of belonging no matter where I am.

What are you looking forward to?

Now that I have made my way back to real rock, I want it all! The cold nights in a tent, camp stove coffee in the mornings, scratches, bruises and views from the top. But I am having to pace myself and that’s challenging! At the moment mobility is very low and pain is very high. I am working on my lead skills and I’d like to go back and do those climbs from “Back to Real Rock” again as lead projects. I still want to be World Number one when travel opens back up for competing. The competitive climber in me isn’t done yet!

Rachel’s favourite gear

Macpac Eyre Tank Top
Climbing comfortably is all about body temperature regulation and wearing apparel that doesn’t impede your movement. To this end, Rachel wears a Macpac Eyre Tank Top, made from a bluesign®-
approved polyester/elastane mesh fabric. This combo is treated with Polygiene® odour-control tech designed to minimise bacteria in the fabric. The elastane is ideal for a climbing garment as it allows that bit of stretch that an athlete often needs. RRP: $50

Macpac Pursuit 40L AzTec® Alpine Pack
For the approach to a crag, and then for those multi-pitch climbing epics, a lightweight pack that is durable and weather resistant is an essential – especially in the often wild NZ mountains. The Pursuit AzTec® Alpine Pack is iconic in the climbing scene. It uses Macpac’s well proved Eco AzTec® 8oz canvas and robust Cordura base fabric, to ensure it is up to the rugged treatment dished out by climbers in the hills. The ActiveX™ alpine harness features a moulded and laminated closed-cell foam back-panel that helps minimise moisture absorption. The main compartment is very easy to access (and includes a top compression strap with tension hook for securing your rope), the lightly padded hip-belt offers excellent comfort, and there are numerous attachment points for trek poles and/or ice-axes, plus a top (zipped) pocket for smaller items. And all this in a pack weighing just on 1kg. RRP: $300

Macpac C3 Hiking Poles
Strong and light (240g per pole), these carbon-fibre hiking poles are ideal for added stability when traversing uneven tracks on the way to the climb or campsite. The three pole sections are 18mm, 16mm and 14mm in thickness meaning plenty of strength and durability. The Lever Lock system allows easy adjustment of length, while the extended EVA grips are comfortable and robust. The included rubber pole tips are ideal for additional grip on slippery surfaces, while the tungsten titanium tips will last forever. RRP: $200

For info on all Macpac equipment, see Macpac

The post Rachel Māia: A Profile of an Inspirational Climber and Mother appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The combination of world-class singletrack riding and incredible scenery was enough to attract a capacity 300-rider field, but the challenge they were set is what establishes the Dragon Trail as something special.

Over three days the field raced for 155km and climbed 4570 metres. Just for reference, the queen of MTB stage races, the BC Bike Race in Canada, travels about 300km and 10,000m over seven days, so on a daily basis the effort is similar.

Speaking of effort, gut-busting extended climbs on both day one and day two were defining features of the Dragon Trail experience – day three wasn’t a walk in the park either, come to think of it. “Brutal” was the  description commonly used afterwards.

It’s this combination of pleasure and pain that defines mountain bike endurance racing and lures riders from around the country and even the world. The Dragon Trail delivers heaps of both. Completing the hike-a-bike haul that started day two and then attacking 14km of groomed downhill Bay of Fires singletrack from the top of the Blue Tier just about sums it up. From exhaustion to elation in seconds.  

A usual, the elite riders made it all look easy. Newly-crowned under 23s champion Sam Fox was on course for just six and a half hours to take the overall win in his first stage race, pipping Cam Ivory by only 45 seconds! Karen Hill was the first woman home in just under eight hours, beating Izzy Flint by 14 minutes.

All up, 262 riders finished the race, the slowest of them taking more than 20 hours to complete the daunting task.

“For anyone thinking of giving it a go I’d say to ride some old-school fire trail and back country, and be prepared to get your feet wet and have some fun,” Fox said.  “I’d say anyone can do it, there is nothing too technical, just be ready for some tough days out, bring your mates and have a go.”

Look for the full story on Bruce’s three-day experience of the inaugural Dragon Trail in Issue 6, out later this year.

The post The Dragon Trail: Tassie’s epic new mountain bike event appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The new height of the world’s highest peak is 8848.86 metres (29,031.7 feet), which is slightly more than Nepal’s previous measurement and about four metres higher than China’s.

Chinese Foreign Minister Wang Yi and his Nepalese counterpart, Pradeep Gyawali, simultaneously pressed buttons during a virtual conference on Tuesday and the new height flashed on the screen.

The height of Everest, which is on the border between China and Nepal, was agreed on after surveyors from Nepal scaled the peak in 2019 and a Chinese team did the same in 2020.

There had been debate over the actual height of the peak and concern that it might have shrunk after a major earthquake in 2015. The quake killed 9000 people, damaged about 1 million structures in Nepal and triggered an avalanche on Everest that killed 19 people at the base camp.

There was no doubt that Everest would remain the highest peak because the second highest, Mount K2, is only 8611 metres (28,244 feet) tall.
Everest’s height was first determined by a British team around 1856 as 8842 metres (29,002) feet. But the most accepted height has been 8848 metres (29,028 feet), which was determined by the Survey of India in 1954.

In 1999, a National Geographic Society team using GPS technology came up with a height of 8850 metres (29,035 feet). A Chinese team in 2005 said it was 8844.43 metres (29,009 feet) because it did not include the snow cap.
A Nepal government team of climbers and surveyors scaled Everest in May 2019 and installed GPS and satellite equipment to measure the peak and snow depth on the summit.

Chinese President Xi Jinping visited Nepal later that year and the leaders of the two countries decided that they should agree on a height. A survey team from China then conducted measurements in the spring of 2020 while all other expeditions were cancelled due to the coronavirus pandemic.

Nepal’s climbing community welcomed the end of confusion over the mountain’s height.

“This is a milestone in mountaineering history which will finally end the debate over the height and now the world will have one number,” said Santa Bir Lama, president of the Nepal Mountaineering Association.

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Since the ‘original’ Defender was discontinued in 2016, it’s been a long four-year wait to see what Land Rover could come up with that would live up to the legend that was the original. And the other big question for adventurous travellers is: does this all-new Defender have the ability to be the ultimate all-rounder; combining more ‘civility’ and ease of use around town, but also be still up to the job of loading up the family and all their gear, and heading off on that around Australia road trip – where no track is off the agenda? Well, after our exclusive first drive of the new Land Rover Defender in Namibia early in 2020, Australian Geographic ADVENTURE was lucky enough to score an invite to the official Defender 110 launch in NSW recently to see how the new Landy handled Australian conditions both on- and off-road. We found eight reasons why it makes a great adventure vehicle.

01. All-new design

Land Rover was always going to be caught between keeping the rusted-on Landy-philes happy and also building a new vehicle that would appeal to a much wider audience and, with this new Defender’s appearance, we reckon they’ve pretty much nailed it.

Of course, it’s far more than just a new ‘look’; its smoothed-out angular lines still hint at the iconic Land Rover silhouette the most obvious external difference, but even this radical change doesn’t come close to what’s happened both underneath and inside the new Defender, which is, at launch, available in 110 (five-door) format, with the short-wheelbase 90 model expected early in 2021. 

Contrasting to the old model, which was of ‘traditional’ 4WD construction (a separate chassis and solid beam axles with coil springs at the front and the rear), the new Defender features Land Rover’s first use of its D7x monocoque (no separate chassis) platform. The company claims this construction means the new vehicle is three times more rigid than what could be achieved via separate chassis construction. So, what does that all mean? Well, it means that even though its exterior may look ‘softer’ and more rounded/less square, this new Defender is considerably more robust than before. The new version features independent suspension (rather than those solid beam axles of the older rig), and air-springs (rather than steel coils) that are height-adjustable (you can raise it up to a maximum ground clearance of 291mm), which also allows for excellent approach (38 degrees) and departure (40 degrees) angles, allowing the vehicle to clamber over not so insignificant track obstacles when off-road. Oh, and it also boasts a 900mm maximum wading depth, so most water crossings (as long as checked first and driven cautiously) will not be the concern they could be. 

As befitting a 2020 vehicle, the Defender is packed with all the usual safety tech features as well, including AEB, speed limiter, adaptive speed limiter, tyre pressure monitor and loads more. It has no ANCAP safety rating as yet as it has not been tested, but that will soon happen.

Size-wise, it’s more svelte than its predecessor, measuring 5018mm in length, 1967mm high and 2008mm wide and it has wheel-size options running from 18- to 22-inch rims. There’s even a nod to the original with the base 110 Defender coming spec’d with 18-inch steel rims – in white.

02. Off-road capability

The original Land Rover Defender (and, indeed, all the way back to the early Series 1) had incredible off-road capability. When it came to negotiating difficult terrain, the ‘old’ model’s excellent wheel travel and low-range gearing – plus a driver with the necessary skillset – made short work of most tracks or routes that 99.9 per cent of drivers would consider tackling.

At the launch for this new Defender, the three-hour-long off-road course jammed in as much difficult, traction-challenging terrain as possible and the new incarnation walked right on through, up and down it all – and it did so thanks to the latest incarnation of Land Rover’s excellent Terrain Response 2. This off-road tech has been an integral part of Land Rover vehicles since the launch of the Discovery 3, way back at the end of 2004. Basically, to simplify it, TR2 utilises electronic tech to provide a number of tailored off-road modes that apply to different driving conditions, such as Mud & Ruts, Rock Crawl, Sand, and others. In the new Defender you can even customise your own TR2 setup, and it is all done via the 10-inch touchscreen mounted in the centre of the dash (along with other driver aid tweaks, such as Hill Descent Control (adjusted via steering wheel-mounted controls), shifting in/out of low-range, and more). Selecting which off-road mode is relatively straightforward, too; after selecting the TR icon, you can shuffle through the different modes, or dive into the custom setup, where you can adjust things like how much wheelspin you want on slippery surfaces before traction control cuts in, whether you wish to utilise both the centre and rear locking differentials, and plenty more. The end result is, literally, making a cruisy molehill out of a slippery, steep, rocky mountain. It really is that effective.

Add in the aforementioned excellent approach/departure angles, the impressive maximum wading depth, and a reasonably tight turning circle, and you’ve got a vehicle that will make even the most complete off-road novice confident when behind the wheel. Oh, and you also have access to nifty external cameras that show where your vehicle is in relation to its surrounds.

03. Engine choices

The Land Rover Defender has three engine options at this stage – two 2.0-litre four-cylinder twin-turbo diesel and one 30-litre inline six-cylinder turbocharged petrol, all matched to an eight-speed automatic transmission (there are rumours of a PHEV – Plug-in Hybrid Electric Vehicle – version in the very near future). Interestingly (but not surprisingly) the Australian allocation of diesel engines had already been sold-out before the official launch, so we only had the 3.0-litre turbocharged six-cylinder petrol 48Volt Mild-Hybrid Electric Vehicle (MHEV) variant to drive. For any long-distance adventures, we’d definitely opt for one of the two diesel engines; the ‘base’ spec D200 2.0-litre diesel offers 147kW of power, 430Nm of torque and a claimed combined fuel consumption figure of just 7.6L/100km. Jump up to the 177kw/430Nm D240 diesel and you get more grunt but the same fuel consumption, which is impressive. For keen adventurers – especially those remote outback travellers – either of these diesel engines would be our choice. (Note: the 2020 diesel models have all sold out in Australia; those keen on a diesel should put their order in for 2021 asap.)

However, that is not to discount that 294kW/550Nm 3.0-litre petrol engine. The petrol engine option is more expensive (see 08. Pricing) but is glorious to drive, both on-road and off it. And, impressively, it isn’t too savage in its thirst for fuel, with a combined fuel consumption figure of 9.9L/100km which, in conjunction with the 90-litre fuel tank, gives it a relatively decent touring range. For those not intending to travel too far out of the way, and who are more aligned with the ‘performance’ side of motoring, this powerplant is a great option. During testing it was nice and responsive during the slow-crawl of off-roading in low-range and brutally efficient (read: fast, and awesome fun) on the highway. 

04. The interior

It is when you climb inside the new Defender that you realise that, although the exterior and body construction are both huge contrasts to the original model, the interior is a level yet again above those. In the past, driving a Defender meant squeezing yourself into a small driver’s seat, with minimal fore/aft adjustment, then winding down the window so you could put your elbow out – and that was just so you would fit inside comfortably! Add in the fact the old model’s steering wheel was fixed (no adjustment up/down or in/out) and it was, shall we say, a ‘unique’ experience – although still fun. Passengers had little leg-room in the second row of the old rig, either, with most space rear of the front two seats focused on optimum cargo space, rather than occupant comfort.

In this new Defender, the (hose-out) interior is close to opulent in comparison, with ample width in the front row. The dash design is a nod to the old-gen Defender but is nearly rendered invisible by the massive Pivi Pro 10-inch touchscreen (Apple CarPlay/Android Auto are standard) protruding from the centre of it. Gone are the old ‘analogue’ instruments, too; the panel is digital and can be customised to suit. 

The steering wheel offers height and telescopic reach adjustment, while the seating (model dependent) is semi- or fully-electronic adjustable, all of which is a far, far cry from the original rig. All your driving controls (including the ones located in that huge 10-inch info-screen in the dash) are easy to reach.  

There’s plenty of space in the second row (three adults could sit there in relative comfort; three teenage/younger kids would be a doddle), with a number of power charging outlets included, and the third-row fold-down seats fit passengers of up to the 85^th percentile in height. Yep, any new Defender owners will soon become the favourite for their kids’ soccer team members when it comes to transport to games. With the third-row seats folded flat, the Defender promises a touch over 1070 litres of cargo volume. The second row seats also fold flat if you need even more storage space. What may seem a novelty is the fact that, instead of opting for a centre console, new Defender owners can specify to have a middle ‘jump seat’ fitted in the front row – or even no console and a walk-through section between the two front seats. Ticking the jump-seat option box does, however mean you cannot have the third-row seating fitted. 

05. Towing and load capacity

It was incredible just how much gear you could carry in the original Defender. It really was a magic expedition vehicle, able to lug anything and everything you needed to wherever you were going. The new model doesn’t shirk its workhorse heritage, either; towing capacity across the entire Defender range is 3500kg and, notably, that’s with a down-ball rating of 350kg as well. This makes it ideal for those who tow, whether it is a boat, camper-trailer or a big off-road caravan. There’s even an optional Advanced Tow Assist Pack, that helps guide you during the dreaded reversing of the caravan into a site.

A notable adventure-friendly feature of the new Defender is its static and dynamic maximum roof-load ratings, of 300kg and 100kg respectively. Most people would be surprised just how little most vehicles are legally able to carry up on their roof; we’ve lost count of the 4WDs, station wagons and sedans with heavy rooftop tents, fuel and other gear all loaded up top on a roof-rack, and no doubt over the manufacturer’s specified load limit. The Defender’s high roof-load rating means you can load a fairly hefty amount of gear up on top if you need to (we’d still recommend only light bulky equipment; more weight on the roof can adversely affect a vehicle’s handling). 

Inside, as stated earlier, there’s around 1070 litres of cargo volume in the rear when the first and second row of seats are occupied. Handily, the rear-view mirror converts to a camera if your gear inside obscures the mirror’s view (tip: be sure to tie down all gear in the back of the vehicle, whether below the seat level or not). 

06. On-road performance

If you’d told this writer – or, indeed any previous-generation Defender owner – that you’d be listing one of a Defender’s big positives as its on-road performance, they’d be still laughing days later. It’s not to be too unfair to say that the original model was never ‘comfortable’ on sealed surfaces. Indeed, driving one of those models on bitumen – much less contemplating manoeuvring the big bus in a city carpark – was something that was just not entertained. And if it was, it was only because it was essential, say, like in terms of having to drive a bitumen road to get to the dirt track that led to that favourite campsite. It really wasn’t an enjoyable experience. 

Land Rover has tipped that on its head with the new Defender; the road loop organised for the official launch combined a mix of wide freeway/motorway driving with winding (sometimes narrow) sealed country roads, and the big Brit nailed it. The combo of a modern, strong monocoque chassis, smooth air suspension, effective driver tech and efficient engine/gearbox combination transformed this 2300kg large 4WD into a pseudo sports wagon that offered a dynamic and entertaining drive – easily one of the best in the large 4WD wagon market segment. 

It is this, probably more so than its off-road capability, that really stamp this Defender as a more than viable option for those looking for that true all-rounder that is equally at home trundling to the shops and back during the week as it is thundering across the tracks of Australia’s central deserts or tropical north.

7. Land Rover Defender accessories

Land Rover has launched the Defender with an impressive array of ‘Packs’ that comprise a number of accessories suited to a particular style or objective of the owner. The Explorer Pack is one example, and it includes a raised air intake, an expedition roof rack (with side-ladder), and an exterior side-mounted gear carrier – this is designed to carry your wet gear, i.e. diving equipment, wet towels, etc. The Adventure Pack differs, with its inclusion of an inbuilt air compressor (ideal for lowering/raising tyre pressures according to what surfaces you’re driving on), a portable rinse system and other goodies. The Country Pack is another (with the standout accessory a full-height cargo space partition to stop unsecured gear flying through into the passenger area), along with the Urban Pack. There’s also a separate Warn winch option, along with an Australian-designed bulbar, a rooftop tent and other accessories.

08. Price

The Land Rover Defender is available across six trim levels and nine derivatives, with the two diesel and one petrol engines the power options for now (there are whispers of a Plug-in Hybrid Electric Vehicle (PHEV) version on the horizon). It comes with a five-year, unlimited kilometre warranty. The five-year service plan is $1950 for diesel engines and $2650 for the petrol variant. This also includes five-year roadside assist.

Diesel model pricing starts at $69,626 for the Defender 110 D200 (the D240 110 is $75,536) and tops out at $90,936 for the SE version of the D240 (the D240 S is $83,435). The petrol models kick off with the S (the trim-level we drove on- and off-road) at $93,335, with the SE $102,736 and the HSE at $112,535. There’s also a First Edition D240 diesel at $102,135 and a X Edition P400 petrol at $136,736.

Yep, formidable off- and on-road performance don’t come cheap, although these prices are within the range of competitor vehicles, such as the Toyota LandCruiser 200 Series and the Toyota Prado. Compared to these two vehicles, the biggest differentiation is definitely the on-road performance; the Defender streets both of them (this tester has driven both Toyotas over a number of years, in a previous life as a 4WD magazine editor). 

One thing worth noting, however, is that a number of driver-aid features for the Defender are part of ‘Packs’, such as the Off Road Pack, which adds a number of driver-aid tech, an Advanced Off-Road Capability Pack that adds even more, a Driver Assist Pack (including adaptive cruise control and blind-spot assist), a Comfort and Convenience Pack (front centre console fridge and other goodies included here), all add cost, with each of these packs listed costing above $2000 (there are a number of other, cheaper, packs available as well). 

So, is the new Land Rover Defender ready for adventure?

It is obviously very early days with the new Defender in terms of how it would perform as the ‘adventure rig’ of the household. This launch event did go a long way to answering the question of whether it has the capability – off the showroom floor – to confidently tackle any type of terrain, whether on- or off-road. That, in itself (especially the on-road) allows us to be relatively confident in saying that, as it presents now as a new vehicle, it’d be a definite addition to our potential purchase list. Of course, we do not know how robust all that technology that forms the foundation of the Defender’s robust performance is, nor do we know how durable the vehicle will be after, say, a few years of heavy use. On first impressions – and after seeing how many years and kilometres of testing have gone into this vehicle before its launch – we’d be pretty confident in saying that Land Rover has responded to what must have been huge pressure to produce a new Defender that looks to have potential to be a more than worthy successor to the world’s first adventure vehicle. And yeah, we’ve already got a few expedition plans in place to make sure it is!

For more info, see Land Rover Australia.

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This is the basis for the awesome new film, Western Faces, from filmmakers Lachlan Humphreys (Clean Line Productions) and Rob Norman (Knack Studios), and which the idea for started innocuously on the other side of the world.

“I was living in Chamonix, France, a mecca for climbing and freeride skiing, when I started to get into freeride snowboarding,” Lachlan explains. “The accessibility of steep runs means you very quickly learn how to manage fast, difficult descents, and before you know it you are climbing up with ice axes to get into more technical terrain.”

The last thing Lachlan expected was to find similar challenging terrain back in Australia, but he was happy to be surprised at the quality of backcountry skiing that the Snowy Mountains offered.

“During my time overseas, some Australian friends were on their own missions in our backyard Down Under,” he says. “I first heard about the Western Faces from them, and started searching for information. When I returned to Australia, I did a few backcountry trips with my uncles, one who wears leather boots with toe clamps and another who lives for the winter and loves a tour. My expectations for powder and steep terrain were low and at first it was a novelty – more about having a good time with family.”

This soon changed when he saw the Western Faces for the first time. 

“… I was gobsmacked. It’s a view you don’t expect to see in Australia. There is some crazy looking terrain out there; not only are the runs steep, but when you peer over the edge you often can’t see the bottom, let alone the next three metres that lays ahead. While it obviously can’t be compared to France or Canada, having terrain like this at home in Australia was a complete surprise. It was something special and right away, I knew I wanted to capture it on film.”

This led Lachlan to spend around five years “chasing Watson’s Crags” and dreaming of tackling those zones himself before finally doing so with a friend – and becoming even more pumped to tell the story of this relatively unknown (globally) area. This, plus memories of his father’s stories of the area and a connection to Australia’ hidden backcountry saw him draft a film pitch and approach supporters. The North Face jumped on board straight away, and then Lachlan was joined by Rob Norman and the ‘big idea’ started to take shape, with the goal of educating visitors – and Australians – to the amazing winter adventures on tap in the world’s second-driest continent.

“Australia is known for its beautiful beaches, deserts and idyllic summer conditions, with blue skies and vivid marine life,” Lachlan says. “Most people don’t travel to Australia for the skiing, however many people in the snow sports industry, chasing endless winters, come here to work as it is the off-season to the Northern Hemisphere winter. 

“To these people, the beauty and the rugged terrain of the Australian backcountry will not be foreign. However, the Western Faces are hard to reach and require good preparation and a certain skill set. The film therefore hopes to amaze even those more familiar with Australian skiing, as it showcases a perspective not often seen to those visiting Australian ski resorts.”

To do full justice to the story they wished to create, the duo called on The North Face’s stable of athletes and Aussie mountaineering/ski legend, Tim Macartney-Snape, to make their vision a reality. As well as Tim, the skiing talent captured on film includes free-skier Anna Segal and Freeride World Tour rookie, Michaela Davis-Meehan. Joining them from across the ditch were NZ free-skiers Fraser McDougall and Hank Bilous. 

For the Aussie skiers, it was the perfect chance to show their Kiwi mates that the Snowy Mountains Main Range – and its Western Faces – offered just as amazing a backcountry ski adventure as the NZ Southern Alps. Tim Macartney-Snape was, initially, brought in for consultation, but his involvement soon escalated.

“Lachlan and Rob had been wanting to do a doco on skiing backcountry on the Western Faces of the Main Range and pitched the idea to The North Face,” says Macartney-Snape. “Sarah Hunt [Marketing Manager, The North Face] then asked me if I’d like to be involved and I said I would be happy to help with the planning and logistics… Then I just got sucked into the story as well!” he laughs.

For Macartney-Snape, it was also a great chance to show off his ‘backyard’.

“When you know a place well and love it, it’s always very satisfying to show it off to people who can appreciate and make the most of it,” he says. “It was so good to ski out there with world-class skiers – I learned heaps from them! It will always strike me as a miracle that we have good skiing in Australia.”

To see just how awesome the the backcountry skiing in Oz can be, check the Facebook premiere of Western Faces tonight at 6pm

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From May until November, the NSW coastline is the place to be to spot whales. Nothing beats watching these majestic mammals as they make their way up (and down) the NSW coast on their migratory path. For Sydney-siders, it’s just a matter of jumping on a whale watching cruise out of the city to see whales cruising past North and South heads – and if you’re really lucky, you may even spot some in the harbour itself, either from the shore or even from the famous Manly Ferry.

Venture further south to Eden’s Twofold Bay and you will get the chance to see whales feeding here, either from shore or on a boat-based tour – it is one of the only parts of the Australian coast where whales do so during migration. And, again if you’re in luck, you might also spot pods of orca.

Byron Bay, in the state’s north, is another whale-watching hot-spot, with some fantastic land-based viewpoints (including from Cape Byron State Conservation Area), as well as plenty of boat-based tours.

The NSW coastline is huge but making easy work of all this is the NSW National Parks & Wildlife (NPWS) Wild About Whales app, which constantly records and updates whale sighting locations, and allows you to do the same.

Related: Top 5 whale watching spots in Sydney

Victoria: Surf like a pro

Bells Beach, on Victoria’s Surf Coast is lauded as one of the world’s best surf breaks, and with good reason; its geographical location sees clean waves swirl in from around the Otways and, combined with a sloping reef below, can produce waves up to seven metres in height. Surprisingly, considering its ‘big’ reputation, Bells Beach is relatively small, at only 300m in length, boxed in by headlands at its eastern and western ends.

This doesn’t mean beginners/intermediate riders cannot have a crack; update your skills with a few surf lessons at neighbouring Torquay (also considered a surfing mecca) and then duck around the headland to Bells. If you’re more of a surfing fan, then make the most of those lofty headland viewing locations to check out the local surfers. To see the pros turn a wave, lock in Easter next year, when the Rip Curl Pro Bells Beach event takes place. And then cross your fingers for a big swell – when Bells is pumping, it’s a truly spectacular sight.

Related: The Australian Geographic Adventure guide to surfing

TAS: The perfect paddle mix

As you’d expect from an island, Tassie is jampacked with a wide range of sea kayaking opportunities; from the cruisy and family-friendly, to the truly wild and remote – and even the chance to paddle around a smaller island – the Apple Isle is one of Australia’s premier ocean paddling destinations. You could even arrive in Tassie via sea kayak! Of course, this suggestion is open only to very experienced ocean paddlers who are up for the multi-day, island-hopping epic that is the Bass Strait crossing from Apollo Bay, in Victoria’s Wilsons Promontory, to Tasmania’s northeast.

For most visitors to the Apple Isle, Hobart is the first port of call (excuse the pun) and thankfully for paddlers it is also a great way to explore the city and nearby historical sites from a totally different perspective. For calm coastal waters, head to the Freycinet Peninsula and its long, near-empty beaches, while those looking for a bit more excitement it’s well worth joining a guided paddle around Bruny Island. If you do want to get a bit more wild (without crossing Bass Strait) Port Davey in the remote southwest of the state is simply brilliant. The good thing is, with a week – and the shorter travel distances required in Tassie – you could combine a number of the aforementioned paddles!

SA: Dive with danger

South Australia’s Port Lincoln is famous for a number of sizeable ‘locals’, including Olympic gold medal winning weightlifter, tuna fisherman Dean Lucan, and – speaking of fish – as being one of the best locations to view the formidable great white shark in its natural habitat; from inside (thankfully) a cage. The cool water, a large population of sea lions and plenty of fish all make for ideal conditions for these impressive predators.

Ironically, cage diving came about through a near-fatal shark attack on one of Australia’s (and the world’s) highly regarded shark experts – Rodney Fox, in 1963. It was this brush with death that led Fox to want to know more about these ‘perfect killing machines’ and led to him designing a protective cage for divers so he could get closer to the sharks and try and understand their behaviour. Fox’s cage diving led to documentaries (by Ron and Val Taylor) and a brush with Hollywood (footage for JAWS was filmed here).

Today, keen (or brave?) divers can immerse themselves safely in the great white’s world while also (in the case of Rodney Fox Shark Expeditions, one of a number of cage diving companies) contributing to continued shark research. Surface cage diving is the most popular (available to ages 8 and above), but Fox’s company also runs the world’s only ocean floor shark cage tour (20 metres down; you must have PADI OW or equivalent). Whichever way you do it, getting up very close and personal with this oceanic apex predator will be close to your ultimate diving experience.

NT: The perfect catch and croc combo

Ask any fishing fanatic – whether river or ocean focused – and they will nearly all agree that the chance to test their skills against Australia’s famous barramundi is on their bucket-list. For this, you need to head to the Top End, with the Northern Territory’s many tidal rivers and estuaries the stomping ground of this wild game-fish. For most, it’s about the simple challenge of catching a ‘barra’ (it is a very popular catch-and-release species) but as well as the sporting side of it, wild barramundi is also a beautiful fish to eat – just remember to only keep what you will use to feed you and your family, and release the rest.

Of course, you won’t be alone in your pursuit of this crafty Top End denizen; this part of Australia is the domain of one of the world’s great predators – the saltwater (estuarine) crocodile. And yes, if you do get lucky and hook a barra, be sure to keep an eye out as ‘salties’ are renowned for taking fish off hooks. Fish theft aside, jumping aboard a barramundi fishing tour allows you to not only practice your fishing skills (and hopefully land dinner) but to also spot this amazing reptile lazing on the riverbank or lurking in a mangrove swap, along with the rest of the Top End’s coastal wildlife. Hot tip: for the best chance to both catch a barra and see saltwater crocs at the same time, head to either the Daly or Mary rivers.

WA: In the world of giants

Ningaloo Reef, off the West Australian coast, is one of the best locations in the world to see – and swim near – the gentle giants of the sea, the whale shark. The largest of all fishes, the whale shark is also one of the most reclusive, and even here in the Indian Ocean waters off the town of Exmouth, there is only a short timeframe in which to view the plankton-eating behemoths, which can reach lengths of up to 10 metres.

Whale sharks only frequent Ningaloo Reef from around March to early July (there are numerous ‘dive with the whale sharks’ tour operators), aligned with the time coral spawning takes place on the reef, which also results in an increase in plankton to the area. Divorce the scary connotations behind the word ‘shark, too; the whale shark is strictly a plankton fan, hoovering up its favourite food by filtering it through its (toothless) jaws. Their gentle nature means they take little notice of humans swimming/diving nearby (you are required to stay a minimum of 3m from the fish) offering a fantastic marine experience.

QLD: Paddling the tropics

The northern Queensland coast offers some of the best sea kayaking in Australia. Whether you wish to paddle along the coastline for a half- or full day, or want to circumnavigate (and camp on) one of the many islands in this part of the Sunshine State, there are numerous locations in which to do so, either by hiring (or bringing your own) kayaks, or joining a guided paddling tour. This would be our advice; exploring this magical part of Australia with a knowledgeable guide (and not having to worry about all the logistical planning!) is well worth the expense.

The Great Barrier Reef Marine Park’s Family Island and Barnard Island groups offer brilliant paddling, as either day-trip destinations (the Family Island Group of 11 islands is close to Mission Beach, just south of Cairns) or combined as a multi-day adventure. For the more experience oceanic tourer, there’s the seven-day circumnavigation of Hinchinbrook Island – it’s a belter. Move slightly south to the Whitsunday Islands and you’ll find another multiday gem, in the form of the Whitsunday Ngaro Sea trail, a kayaking adventure that encompasses Whitsunday, Hook and South Molle Islands. It’s another classic.

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A mountain biker spins past me with ease over the off-road track – he looks like he’s riding on air – and with envy in my eyes I labour forward with my racing road bike, which is fully loaded for my trip. Embarrassingly, I find myself on foot, sweating in the summer heat and making slow progress in my socks. I’m carrying my carbon-soled cycling shoes and pushing my bike, its slick 25mm tyres no match for the trail’s mixed surface of soft sand and sharp rock. Neither are my feet, which are screaming with pain, maybe even bleeding. At this rate I’m not even sure they’ll be able to pedal me home tomorrow. 

The last 900m are a steep descent into the campsite. I bounce downhill, shoes on handlebars, hopping from foot to foot. Finally, I walk into camp. Four young uni students (I was to learn this later) simultaneously turn and stare, one gently raises a half-hearted wave from her hip, a welcome that kind of says, “Are you okay?” I reply with the biggest smile I can muster and go about finding my spot for the night. While setting up camp I’m overcome by a victorious feeling – of completing the first leg of my trip and discovering this gem of a place. It’s difficult to believe this slice of beachside paradise and near-deserted campsite has been, until now, unknown to me yet practically on my doorstep.

Packing a punch

Truth be told, bikepacking is an area of cycling that has never appealed to me. Why? Perhaps because life is busy at best and frantic at worst to even think about it, or maybe it’s the not-so-glamorous side of the sport that’s kept me away. But with bikepacking exploding on social media, there’s a wealth of first-timers’ videos and people’s experiences out there to watch – the seed was planted. I wanted in. I wanted to push myself; not in a how far you can cycle way, but by creating my own adventure, having some downtime and getting away from Sydney with its ‘everything now’ culture. Secretly, like many of us, I’d found myself on a treadmill – the same thing repeatedly – and things had become way too comfortable. I relished the challenge of heading out on my trusty steed with just three bike bags carrying all I needed to get me through the night.

When I put the idea to AGA’s editor that I was thinking of throwing myself into this, his positive ‘go for it’ attitude meant it went from talk to reality very quickly. The tipping point came when I arrived at work to find the world’s smallest sleeping bag, and inflatable sleeping mat, on my desk. This kicked off the planning process. I had so many questions and doubts, the main one being I knew I had the wrong bike. Who’s to say what’s right, but I’m confident if you asked the endurance community, they’d advise against an expensive carbon road bike for this trip. I justified my decision by telling myself I’m sticking to the roads (famous last words), and surely there were heavier riders bikepacking. Added to this was the fact that I wasn’t riding across Australia. If I came undone a train station was never too far away.

From the start I wanted this trip to be self-sufficient. I was more than happy to throw myself into camping and bring everything needed for a comfortable night’s sleep. Importantly, I didn’t want the luxury, amenities and crowds associated with large campsites. Tallow Beach hit the mark – 115 clicks from home – far enough away to test both my legs and bike setup and small enough to just offer a single toilet with no running water. The NSW NPWS website recommended, “Carry everything into camp you need for the duration of your stay.”

On the road

Saddled up, I start my journey along Sydney’s busy Military Road, fully loaded with hopefully everything needed for the night away. Call it beginner’s luck, but the bike handles amazing well, a testament to well-packed bags whose weight was evenly distributed across the bike.

After an hour on the road, my trusty road bike and I make our way out of Sydney and onto the old Pacific Highway, which snakes its way north towards Gosford. It’s then that I slowly begin to understand bikepacking’s attraction; you don’t have to ride fast or be super-human to get to where you’re going. As a regular road rider, a typical Saturday morning for me would be to maybe cycle 70km with a few friends in 2.5 hours. We would eye each other up, battle it out on climbs, fighting to take the week’s frustrations out on the road. I begin to enjoy this pace and the day’s ride ahead. I even stop from time to time to take in the surroundings.

After I unpack and set up my tent for the night, I have time to ponder. Two things hit home. One, it’s amazing how little you need to survive the night – especially in the height of summer. And two, it’s amazing how much three bags can store and carry. After the bumpy, gravel track end to the day, everything has worked out; I’m already thinking about little adjustments and what I’ll do differently next time around.

And then, something else strikes me. While I’m comfortable with my food situation, my water supply isn’t looking as good. I thought I’d packed plenty, but because I’d basically walked the last few kays in 35-degree heat, I’m feeling more than a little dehydrated. Sheepishly and with pride slightly dented, I cross the campsite with water bottle in hand. Thankfully, the youngsters I’d met on arrival are happy to help and part with some of their precious water.

For the rest of the afternoon and evening I find the solitude I’ve been craving. I wander the beach, wonder at the beauty of the surrounding bush, eat and then fall into an easy slumber that’s equal parts weariness from the 100km ride and contentedness with a day well spent. 

Homeward bound

In my initial planning for this overnighter, day two was just day one in reverse – follow the road back the way I came. But when I’d stopped for lunch on day one, I’d looked on Google maps and discovered a quicker and easier way home. There’s a sneaky ferry across the Hawkesbury River to Palm Beach, Sydney’s northern tip. This detour would bypass a lot of vertical climbing and cut the ride home from 100km to roughly 40!

I wake early (around 5am), then pack up camp and retrace my steps, slowly walking up the gravel track out of the national park. It’s at this point, sharp rocks pressing dents into my feet, that I choose the easier option and decide the ferry’s the way to go. In no time at all I’m sluicing across the ocean and then spinning my wheels through the northern beaches of Sydney, weaving my way back into the city life and traffic. 

I arrive home on a Monday morning around 10am to a quiet house; the quicker route landing me at home much earlier than expected. Studying my overnighter on a map, it’s pleasing to see a neat loop leaving Sydney, skipping across the Hawkesbury river and back home again – it kind of looked like I knew what I was doing. 

While unpacking my bike and kit I conclude that I couldn’t be happier with my micro-adventure. Naturally, there were a few small errors that maybe should have been avoided, but as they say, it’s the grit that makes the pearl.

And then I fire up my Mac, hungry to find my next adventure. I’m thinking I want to push myself further next time with a multi-day trip. But before I get ahead of myself, I open a Google window and start my research, simply entering the words “gravel and endurance bikes”.

The post One night only: A Sydney-Central Coast bikepacking journey appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The Aussie backyard
Yeah, weird hey? And something that few of us would ever think of as an adventure destination, even though it is by far the cheapest and most convenient. But then, not all of us are young enough to have a vivid imagination and still know how to make fun from the most basic elements. 

For anyone with little’uns – say, from around one year of age through to seven-ish (or even older) – the suburban backyard and nearby parks, nature reserves and/or beaches can be an effective substitute for destinations further afield – especially when it is not easy to travel, or you want an ‘adventure’ at home (i.e., you don’t want to pack the car and suffer peak-hour Friday arvo traffic).

For anyone who is in this group of parents, there are myriad possibilities for an ‘adventure’ in the backyard. It could be as simple as getting your kids to do an ‘explorer’s search’ around your backyard, trying to find any resident bugs, frogs, birds that visit regularly (think: kookaburras), and lizards. Or, you could go ‘big adventure’ style and set up a tent for them to spend a day and night in, and pack them a small backpack, water bottles and food. You’ll be surprised at how much your kids love having a new adventure at home with these ideas and any others, such as designing a mini bicycle track (if space and terrain allows; our kids had a bike track in their backyard for a month while our house was renovated) or helping them build a cubby-house. 

Often, we forget about what ‘adventure’ meant for us when we were kids, so not only does this all-new (but actually very old) adventure ensure they have a cracking time, it might well reinvigorate parents and prompt them to start planning for future adventures on a larger scale.

Tassie trails
Mountain biking tourism continues to boom in the Apple Isle. Initially, it was the former mining town of Derby that was the star destination for Aussie MTBers looking to ride some of the world’s best trails (as rated by the Enduro World Series each time it has been one of the rounds of this global event). Now, there is even more to check out, with the late 219 opening of the St Helens Mountain Bike Trails, on Tassie’s east coast. This network is unique in not only offering kilometres of trails just outside the township of St Helens, but by the fact it is also linked to Derby’s magic trail network via the Bay of Fires Trail, a 42km epic that starts way up in the mountains at Derby, and takes you through ancient gum forest and fern-filled valleys, as well as past some immense granite outcrops before it finishes at one of Australia’s most picturesque coastal areas, the Bay of Fires. 

The St Helens trail network includes eight loops, with grades running from green (beginner) to blue (intermediate). You can even get there via the excellent Townlink, a multi-use track that takes riders from St Helens township to the trailhead at Flagstaff. Nice!

For intermediate to more advanced riders, there is also the awesome Maydena Bike Park in the Derwent Valley, in the centre of Tasmania. This gravity-oriented park has more than 60 trails and has a vertical elevation of 820 metres, with the total trail network (ranging from beginner green-grade trails through blue intermediate to black expert) adding up to 120km. 

Start planning now for that spring two-wheeled escape to the Apple Isle – and bank on at least a week to really make the most of this amazing MTB destination.
See www.discovertasmania.com.au

Be an Antarctic explorer in 2021
Wanna see the white continent? And want to more than just ‘see’ it? As in, have the chance to camp on the ice, paddle sea kayaks, climb some Antarctic peaks, trek through the snow-covered valleys? As a bonus, you’ll also get to listen to acclaimed Aussie writer, Peter Fitzsimons, regale you with tales from the world of the early polar adventurers – including many Australians – who ventured to the deep south. 

Sounds great? Then you’d better start saving as World Expeditions’ Antarctic Cruise with Peter Fitzsimons starting November 11, 2021 is bound to be a popular trip.

The adventure runs over 13 days and is aboard the vessel, Plancius (this writer has explored Antarctica aboard this ship – it’s an absolute belter), which has a capacity of 108 people. This is a nice small number allowing you to have the opportunity to chat to Peter in person, while still enjoying all the activities on offer, starting with that epic crossing of the Drake Passage, one of – if not the – world’s wildest sections of ocean. 

During the 13 days you’ll get the chance to spot penguins (in abundance!), seals, sea birds and whales. Oh, and if you’re lucky, you may even spot the odd pod of orca as they scour the waters for prey.

With not only plenty of wildlife to spot, but also those exciting off-ship activities (the sea kayaking is a must-do; you don’t have to be a super skilled paddler either, just confident in the water), as is – of course – the chance to actually camp on Antarctica. Add in the chance to climb remote Antarctic peaks and snow-shoe exploration, and this big adventure is worth the wait. 
See www.worldexpeditions.com

Thredo Valley Trail grows
NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service (NPWS) has extended the popular Thredbo Valley Track (TVT) with a further 18.4 kilometres of new track on offer for visiting riders. This now extends TVT to a total distance of 35.1km, with the original upper part of the track offering a mix of easy sections, and the new extension ramping up the challenge for more experienced riders.

Switchback bends, a mix of climbing and descending, and spectacular terrain all feature in this extension. The new track links Bullocks Flat to Gaden Trout Hatchery and is more remote than the upper part of the TVT. It is also slightly more challenging with a number of climbs and descents, some tight switchback bends and plenty of open fast sections to enjoy.

As well as the awesome riding experience, Thredbo Valley Trail (TVT) offers brilliant alpine views as riders follow the route, with parts of the track traversing open grasslands mixed with sections that take riders through dense snow gum woodlands and past towering mountain gums. This new extension means there is something for every rider, with the original upper TVT – at 16.7km – providing some fantastic riding for kids, families and the less experienced riders, while this new section is ideal for those looking for more – plus, more experienced riders can, of course, ride the whole thing.

Thredbo Valley Track opens up one of Australia’s most iconic national parks to even more visitors, keen to not only try their hand at this new track, but all the other outdoor activities come spring and summer that are available.
See www.nationalparks.nsw.gov.au

Ausangate and Rainbow Mountain trek
Peru is on the bucket list of most keen walkers and now World Expeditions has come up with a Peruvian trekking adventure that not only caters for those lovers of high-altitude walking, but who are time-poor.

The five-day Ausangate and Rainbow Mountain Trek squeezes in some of the country’s spectacular and remote walking, beginning and ending in the awesome city of Cusco. The iconic Rainbow Mountain, with its multi-hued colours befitting its name at an altitude of 5000 metres, is the literal and physical highlight of a week that is actually full of them. During the five days of trekking you will get straight into the higher altitudes from the get-go, with an early start from Cusco to Cojahuri, before a day walking for around two hours at 4000 metres, before the first campsite at Ranrapata.  From here, it is up and up; day two includes a crossing of 5000m Puca Rumi Pass, which offers a brilliant view of Ausangate, Peru’s highest sacred peak, and ascend 5180m Palomani Pass. 

Other highlights are on day three, when you ascend Rainbow Mountain, then continue on to Quirillacocha and Surini lakes, before another pass – 4980m Huasacocha – on your way to camp for in the Anantapata Valley. 

The trek is rarely walked making it ideal for those wishing to avoid crowds associated with the trek to Machu Picchu, and it offers the chance to spend nearly the entire week high in the alpine zone. The caveat is you have to have spent a minimum of two nights above 3000 metres before you start. Cusco (3399m) is ideal.
See www.worldexpeditions.com  

Darien Gap trek
One of the most (in)famous locations on planet Earth, the Darien Gap links North to South America, but is near impenetrable due to dense rainforests, jungle, swamp-like terrain and mist-shrouded mountains. It’s the only ‘gap’ in the 48,280km Pan-American Highway, which begins in Alaska and finishes at the bottom of South America. Only a few expeditions have traversed it, with adventure travel and expedition company, Secret Compass (SC), one of the most successful, completing the traverse in 2018 on foot. 

This new SC expedition, hosted by renowned naturalist Rick Morales, offers the chance to experience this still-totally wild part of the planet, with the trek starting in Puerto Quimba and finishing at Jicaralito, on the Pacific Coast. 

The challenges will be immense, both physically and mentally, as you make your way through the humid landscape, cross a number of wild rivers and scramble up steep, slippery terrain. The rewards for this effort are just as immense: you will get to see something few have – 5000-year-old petroglyphs (‘pecked rock’) carvings on huge boulders in the depths of the jungle – as well as spending time with the local Embera Indians, an autonomous indigenous group that ekes out a living along the shores of the Chucunaque, Sambu and Tuira rivers. Camping will be in hammocks and the campsites will be mostly located near remote villages. On top of the cultural experiences, there will be plenty of opportunity for wildlife spotting. The region is home to monkeys, iguana, snakes, jaguars, frogs, cayman and more.

If you think it sounds like something from a 19th century explorer’s diary, you’d be right!    
See www.secretcompass.com

The post Best new adventures appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Western Arthurs Traverse, Tasmania

Distance: 75km (8-12 days)

Spoken about in hushed, reverential tones by hard-core Aussie bushwalkers, the Western Arthurs Traverse is an epic that more than holds its own on the global top trek scale and a no-brainer for inclusion on any serious adventure bucket-list. 

The mix of unforgiving, unpredictable weather (the trek is situated deep in Tassie’s wild southwest) that can (quickly) hit any time of year – combined with the crazy-tough terrain (steep, slippery muddy tracks, time-sapping scree fields, scramble-only rock sections, and dense Australian vegetation) make this eight-to-12-day circuit (over 75km) one for the super-experienced trekker.

For all that effort – even getting to the start point is a challenge due to its remoteness – this wild adventure offers one of the world’s last remaining true wilderness experiences. 

Owing to both the overall difficulty and its end-of-the-earth location, the Western Arthurs Traverse is only attempted by a small number of independent walkers each season.

You will definitely find that lusted-for sense of isolation, and be rewarded (on clear days) with views of some of Australia’s most rugged country – especially once you get up high on the ridges and peaks and can see way, way down to the many lakes in the immediate area. 

To attempt the Traverse, you must be fully prepared, very fit (able to carry a pack of at least 30kg) and experienced at remote-area trekking. Expect every type of challenge you can think of – weather, terrain, fitness – and prepare accordingly.

It sounds grim, but it’s not. Build up to this adventure with some of Tassie’s other treks – the South Coast Track; Port Davey Track; Walls of Jerusalem Circuit – and then set your sights on this big bopper. The Western Arthurs Traverse crosses one of the world’s last remaining wilderness areas, and if you’re prepared, experiencing it on foot will firmly qualify this trek as the trip of a lifetime.

More info: www.park.tas.gov.au  

Routeburn Track, New Zealand

Distance: 32km (3-4 days)

Yes, the well-known Milford Track is right next door, but for those looking to jam in the most of NZ’s Southern Alps landscape – mountains, fast-flowing alpine rivers or beautiful beech forests of multiple shades of green – then the Routeburn Track is the best of the nine NZ Great Walk.

The Routeburn can be walked in either direction: from Routeburn Road end, in the east, to The Divide or vice-verse. Either way, you’ll be gobsmacked by the landscape within minutes of hitting the track. At 32km, you could even, theoretically, complete the Routeburn Track in two days, but that would be a disservice to the track and yourself.

Our preference would be to start from the eastern point at Routeburn Road and get the big climb up to Routeburn Falls Hut out of the way on day one. The Falls Hut is probably one of the most dramatically situated of NZ’s Department of Conservation (DOC) backcountry huts, perched high overlooking the river valley (and Mt Somnus) below, with a waterfall running down one side of its location.

The second day on the Routeburn is spectacular: you continue climbing to Harris Saddle (and Lake Harris along the way), before winding your way along the (near) top of the Serpentine Range, with views of the Hollyford River valley, before descending to Lake Mackenzie Hut, another beautifully located hut.

The final day involves an initial climb, passing Routeburn Falls on the way, before descending to Howden Hut and then climbing up again to The Divide. One side track not to miss is the one to The Divide. The turnoff is 15 minutes from Howden Hut and when you arrive at The Divide (1.5-hr return walk) you get awesome views of the Darran Mountains.

The track is well graded throughout with only a few short rocky sections, and the Great Walks huts (for independent walkers) are brilliant (gas stoves and wood heating, plus bunk rooms).

As long as you’re well prepared for the region’s oft-changing weather (and remember to book your hut tickets well in advance; Great Walks booking season opens July 1), the Routeburn Track is perfect for those just getting started on multi-day treks, and adventurous families; children from 10 years of age upwards easily handle this walk.

If there’s one world-class track we’d recommend for introduce the family to the joys of multi-day trekking, it’s the Routeburn.

More info: www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/tracks-and-walks/great-walks/  

Kepler Track, New Zealand

Distance: 60km (3-4 days)

Built to take some of the “tramper load” off the nearby Milford and Routeburn tracks, the 60km (three- to four-days) Kepler, in NZ’s Fiordland National Park, has become a sought-after trek in its own right.

Dense forests, alpine vegetation, exposed mountain ridges and steep climbs and descents make it very popular. Its other appeal is you can start directly from the township of Te Anau, as it circuits back there at the end.

The Kepler can be walked in either direction, starting at Lake Te Anau Control Gates or, if you wish to walk clockwise, from Rainbow Reach (accessed via shuttle). Most walkers will complete the Kepler in three days, staying at two of the three huts (or two camp sites) on the track. 

Starting at Rainbow Reach, the first day can be either a flat, two-hour stroll through beech forest to Moturau Hut, on the shores of Lake Manapouri, or a 22km journey to Iris Burn Hut. If you stay at Iris Burn Hut, there’s a chance you may – if lucky – hear kiwis at night in the surrounding valley.

From Iris Burn Hut, it is a steep, zigzagging climb of about 890m up through sub-alpine forest to Hanging Valley Emergency Shelter (1390m) on the exposed – but breathtaking – ridge line.

This is a great spot for an early lunch – and for also spotting NZ’s cheeky alpine parrot, the kea. In adverse conditions (it can snow here any time of year), this exposed section can be dangerous, but the two emergency shelters (Hanging Valley and Forest Burn) provide protection. The track follows the ridge line from here, to Luxmore Hut (overlooking Lake Te Anau), via the side trip to 1472m Mt Luxmore if the weather is clear. 

The final day from Luxmore Hut is a descent through mixed vegetation – and past a massive, 200m-long, 60m-high limestone “wave” rock formation – to either Brod Bay, for a water-taxi trip across Lake Te Anau, or around to the Control Gates and on to Te Anau itself.

More info: www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/tracks-and-walks/great-walks/  

Larapinta Trail, Northern Territory

Distance: 223km (10-14 days)

The Larapinta’s 223km (allow 10-14 days) encapsulates all that is spectacular about Central Australia: massive star-crowded nights, ancient red rock ridges and cliffs, beautiful gorges (and waterholes), myriad dry creeks, a surprising number of waterholes, and sublime sunrises and sunsets.

For any trekker – whether Australian or from overseas – the Larapinta represents one of the best methods of experiencing the true Australian outback, at your own pace.

You can walk the Larapinta east-west or west-east, following the track as it winds its way through the West MacDonnell Ranges, just west of Alice Springs.

For those starting from the east, you set off from the historic Old Telegraph Station and set your sights to the west and the end-goal of summiting Mount Sonder for the last morning’s sunrise. 

Each day on the Larapinta throws up a different spectacle, ranging from the view atop the ridges surrounding Ormiston Gorge, and a relaxing swim in the cooling waters of Ellery Creek Big Hole, through to the sunrise from Mount Sonder and the random wildlife encounters throughout the trek.

The Larapinta crosses two parallel mountain ranges: the Heavitree and the Chewings and the myriad gorges, valleys and waterholes these ranges contain. Three standouts are Simpsons Gap, Standley Chasm and Glen Helen.

For independent walkers, you will need to be fit and strong (you’ll be lugging a full pack of around 15-25kg) and have to organise a food drop or two.

There are designated campsites (with water tanks) on the Larapinta (these are spaced roughly a day’s walk apart, although one section – Hugh Gorge to Ellery Creek is, at 31km, quite long but relatively flat going), as well as a number of access points along the way for both food drops or if you decide to walk only a few sections of the track. 

For guided walkers, World Expeditions offers three-day and seven-day Larapinta experiences, as well as the full-length Larapinta Trail, and all you have to worry about is being fit enough and enthusiastic.

The best time of year is the Australian autumn and winter (April to September) and the amount of time you dedicate this fantastic trek is up to you. What we can say is that, once you set your first foot on the Larapinta, you will want to stay on the track for as long as possible, to soak up this awesome experience.

More info: www.parksandwildlife.nt.gov.au www.worldexpeditions.com.au  

South Coast Track, Tasmania

Distance: 85km (6-8 days)

A truly remote experience – and one of Australia’s best multi-day walks. Access is via plane, landing at Melaleuca, and then it is six-to-eight days – and 85km – in the southern wilderness as you follow the South Coast Track from Melaleuca through some of southwest Tassie’s spectacular terrain, to Cockle Creek, and what will be the best burger and chips you’ll ever eat.

The weather this far south is volatile – you will need to be fully prepared for all conditions, with a mix of cold-weather and hot-weather gear, plus a robust three-season tent and warm sleeping bag.

This writer walked the SCT in February and experienced everything from wild storms and 6-degree Celsius daytime temps, to warm, sunny days. The track is (in)famous for its muddy sections, some of which will see unwary walkers sink to near-waist level, so be prepared for wet, muddy gear. 

The first few days offer a brilliant introduction; walkers experience everything from deserted beaches, thick rainforest, river crossings (and a boat crossing at New River Lagoon) and sublime campsites. 

Then, midway through the SCT, it is the big one: the traverse of the rugged Ironbound Range, a full day climbing from sea level, up to over 1000m, and then back down to the beautiful Deadmans Bay campsite overlooking the Southern Ocean (a perfect base for an optional rest day).

The descent to the bay is tough on the knees and can be very slippery, so take your time. This day will test your trekking fitness but reward you with either amazing vistas (on a clear day) or a memorably wild buffeting from wind or rain up on the exposed top if the weather is not cooperating. Either way, it is a memorable experience. And the South Cape Range (around half as high as the Ironbounds), later in the trek, is nearly as much fun.

The SCT has earned its reputation as a top trek for a very good reason: it is simply brilliant.

More info: www.parks.tas.gov.au

The post The best multi-day walks in Australasia appeared first on Australian Geographic.

It is the first ‘complete’ ascent of Everest, from sea-level at India’s Bay of Bengal, to the 8848-metre summit of the world’s tallest peak. This documentary, filmed by acclaimed Australian filmmaker Michael Dillon, follows legendary Aussie mountaineer, Tim Macartney-Snape, as he achieves what no-one else had. During the epic 1200km-plus expedition, Tim trekked across countries, ran the equivalent of a marathon a day for five days (to beat a soon-to-close border into Nepal) and then summited the mighty mountain itself. It’s an amazing story, captured exceptionally well by Dillon (it has garnered numerous awards). 

Meru

More than a climbing film, this epic tells the story of three climbers – Conrad Anker, Jimmy Chin and Renan Ozturk – and their battle to climb the Shark’s Fin, on Meru Peak, in the Indian Himalaya. The peak is the most technically complicated and dangerous in the Himalaya and has never been climbed before; it took this team of experienced climbers and good mates two attempts – an unsuccessful one in 2008; the second in 2011 – to do the seemingly impossible. A great story about climbing but also about friendship and how its strength in the most demanding of situations can mean the difference between life and death.

Wheels Across A Wilderness 

In 1966, brothers Mike and Mal Leyland became the first to successfully cross Australia west-to-east, starting in Steep Point, WA and finishing at Cape Byron in NSW. The film of this epic journey showcases not only the amazing five-month adventure itself, but the brothers’ ‘light and fast’ approach to the expedition, with minimal filmmaking equipment, camping gear and supplies, all packed in two Land Rovers and a trailer. The resultant footage brought the ‘real’ Outback into Australian households for the first time and has since inspired generations of desert travellers. 

Nobody’s River
A four-woman team of kayakers (including acclaimed Aussie adventure photographer, Krystle Wright, her pic above) paddle one of the last wild rivers – the Amur; the world’s eighth-longest – which flows through Mongola, Siberia, Russia and China, on its way to the Sea of Okhotsk. The Chinese refer to it as the Black Dragon; the Russians, simply the Black River, but the allure for the team was that the the Amur is the third-longest free-flowing (not dammed) waterway in the world. What follows is a jaw-dropping journey, combining the huge physical challenge with cultural adventures and more personal discoveries. 

Into the Wild

A dramatised account of the short life of Christopher McCandless, based on the bestselling book of the same name (written by Jon Krakaeur of Into Thin Air fame), and directed by Sean Penn. The film captures the slightly naïve character that was McCandless as the young man leaves behind all his worldly possessions to try and forge a simple uncomplicated life in the wilds of Alaska’s Denali National Park and Preserve. The film uses a flashback/flash forward narrative to reveal McCandless’s backstory and his eventual demise; a combo of naivety, ignorance and one simple, but fatal, mistake.

The post Your guide to the best adventure documentaries: Part 1 appeared first on Australian Geographic.

If your favourite childhood memories involve crawling through couch pillow fortresses and spending your Friday nights in your backyard in a tent with your portable DVD player, rainbow popcorn and creaming soda, you know there’s a formula to the perfect home camping set up. 

The first and most important element is a ridiculous amount of junk food that would otherwise be unacceptable in everyday life. I’m talking pink everything, with visible sugar crystals and tubs of ice cream (and don’t even think about getting bowls out – spoons only) and for hygiene reasons that means everyone gets their own tub.

Related: Now is the perfect time to enjoy the night sky from the comfort of your home

Camping indoors

Now that we’ve got that sorted, let’s move to your indoor set up. If you want to reduce the labour, you can always just set up a small tent and decorate accordingly. Alternatively, grab a volley of chairs, pegs, string and your mother’s most prized sheets and get to work. Spooky entrances are key and are easy to construct with two chairs and a dark coloured sheet (head torch optional).  

That entrance then needs to lead to your communal area, where you can sleep, watch Harry Potter and eat. Now, this needs a bit of light, but not too much, so fairy lights are ideal, but Christmas lights are also acceptable. For optimal enjoyment, pack this space out with the softest pillows and cuddliest toys.

Quick tip: If you can build your fort close to a window, it means you’ll also get to stargaze, after binge-watching movies. If you have a telescope, try to make room for it in your fort, but there’s also lots to see with the naked eye. With the planets shining brightly at this time of year, and meteor showers and comets expected in the next few months, this will make your indoor camping experience one of a kind. 

Outdoor camping

Now there’s really simple ways to do outdoor camping; for example, sleeping on your trampoline in your warmest sleeping bag is always fun, and then there’s the tent option, which means the mozzies won’t get in the way of your plans. And you don’t need an extravagant tent either. Remember if something goes wrong, the weather for example, you can retreat indoors.

Choosing to camp outdoors means you have an unlimited choice of activities. You can go backyard birdwatching, stargaze, have a big BBQ, and my personal favourite, set up an outdoor cinema! All you need is a projector, some rope and a white sheet, and you can position your tent so you’re directly facing the ‘screen’.  

A few key things you’ll need to survive the night camping in your backyard includes a torch or a mini lantern, an overshade (or just make sure your tent isn’t directly in the sun), and of course water and snacks (best kept in a small esky).

The better prepared you are the more authentic your experience will be. It’s also a good idea to use your backyard camping adventure to ‘turn off’, that is, leave your phones and computers indoors and try to pretend that your house isn’t there. Make sure you have everything you need and let the fun begin.

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First impressions don’t count
To get to this unremarkable dirt road, we’d spent five days acclimatising to the higher altitudes in the Andes via a series of cultural adventures in Cusco, the Chinchero Plateau, the Sacred Valley of the Incas, and the historical site of Ollantaytambo. This had been nothing short of amazing, but I’m restless now to get moving; keen to step foot on the first part of the Inca Rivers Trek and make the most of what it promised.

Unsurprisingly, the Inca Rivers Trek only takes, oh, around 30 minutes to quash my foolishly pre-emptive negative opinion. The trek’s innocuous beginning is banished from my mind once we round the first long-arcing bend. In the distance, the immensity of the snow-capped Padreyoc mountain range looms high as we trundle along the dirt road, listening to our guide, Josmar ‘Chema’ Valer, as he regales us with stories of Peru’s amazing history.

Plans are made to change
Our original itinerary saw us walk for less than an hour before setting up camp just outside the town of Cachora (where the bus had dropped us) but Chema is keen to get a head start on what promised to be an epic trek. And we’re all fresh and raring to go, so Adrian decides to push on to Chiquisca. Along the way we meet our first team of muleskinners, who are tasked with transporting all our camping gear, plus the food and – most importantly – the kitchen. Yep, this would be a trek in true expedition style, with high comfort levels and plenty of nosh to fuel us all for the upcoming steep ascents.

The route to Chiquisca is a brilliant introduction to Peru’s high country. AS well as the amazing mountain ranges surrounding us as we walk, we are also fortunate enough to spot a couple of condor – an adult in the distance and a juvenile quite close at near eye-level – as they float on thermal currents pushing up from the valley below. The track becomes progressively more rugged, but we aren’t in any rush, so the descent is easily negotiated. Camp is close to 600m below our start point and our only real concern is getting there before nightfall, which we do. Upon arrival we’re greeted by a buzzing campsite with our group of walkers, guides, mules and muleskinners all bustling around between tents. The full moon shining overhead finishes off an easy but spectacular first day.

What comes down must go up
My preference on any trek, walk or hike is to go up, rather than down. Our descent the next day – to the pulley-car crossing of the beautiful Rio Apurimac – starts early and is quick. The pulley-car ride itself is also fun, only dampened slightly by the fact we’re saying goodbye to our first team of muleskinners. The next team, who would accompany us for the remainder of the trek, is waiting for us on the opposite bank. Once across the river, we make our way steadily uphill, following a series of switchbacks that offer both brilliant views back across to the ridgeline where we started, and also show how hardy the Peruvian people are. Dotted up and down the extremely steep mountainsides back across the valley is a patchwork of fields, worked by local villagers. It’s incredibly steep terrain and all the work here is mostly reliant on human power, putting any grunts or groans at the angle of our ascent into perspective.

The campsite at Santa Rosa is brilliant: our tents are neatly aligned on a couple of grassed terraces, with the always-important dining tent at one end. Not only is this tent the obvious place to feed our faces, it’s also a great place to download our experiences at the end of each day’s walking. On this second day the conversations are about the heat as well as what’s just over the hill: Choquequirao.

A more than pleasant surprise
Whenever people think of Peru, invariably Machu Picchu is mentioned. This site was first ‘rediscovered’ in 1911 by archaeologist Harim Bingham, who was actually searching for the famed “Lost City” of Vilcabamba, which was the last to be overcome by the invading Spanish. (Bingham, for many years after, maintained – incorrectly – that Machu Picchu was Vilcabamba). Since then, the ancient city has become one of the world’s most famous landmarks and tourist hotspots. Small wonder, then, that when Incan ruins are mentioned, the first words out of most people’s mouths are “Machu Picchu”.

This, however, is slowly starting to change, and leading this change is the historical site of Choquequirao. This site is harder to reach than its famous counterpart but the rewards – no crowds, plenty to explore – are many. It takes us around two hours of uphill slog from our camp the next morning before reaching a small plateau – and a tiny village – that leads us on to a track that hugs the cliffs overlooking the ancient site.

From our lofty viewpoint we can see cleared terraces marching up what looks to be a sheer, jungle-smothered cliff. Above this, a just-discernible path weaves upwards again to our upcoming campsite. And, most impressively, above this campsite we get our first glimpse of Choquequirao. It is an incredible sight – even from where we are, still a couple of hours away. The cleared parts of the Inca city seem to cling to the side of a steep tree-covered cliff, with the main house, outbuildings and a number of walls all visible from our high vantage point. Being able to see the ruins – and our campsite – puts some speed into our steps and it isn’t too long before we’re at camp dragging our large bags (they’ve already arrived via the mules) into our tents. Yes, we’re doing it tough.

The trek up to the main cleared section of the city takes about an hour; the terrain here is exceptionally steep and it has you wondering how the Inca managed to lug the huge stones used in the city’s construction up here, let alone place them so precisely into position. Walking out into the main cleared area brings with it a real sense of just how magnificent the city must have been in its heyday; walking around what seems like a plaza area, with the huge main house (still mainly intact, save for the lack of a roof), walls and outbuildings below us, it’s hard to think just what else lies, still uncovered, beneath the lush, dense green canopy of the cloud forest. 

The next big thing
According to Chema and Louis, only around 30 per cent of Choquequirao has actually been uncovered since archaeologists started work in the mid-1990s. They also claim that, once (or more to the point, when) the entire city is freed from its green-clad prison, it will be larger than Machu Picchu. Mentally, I tick off a date 10 years from the moment I hear this to return and see just how much more is underneath the jungle.

So far, what the archaeologists have uncovered is amazing. As well as the aforementioned buildings and walls, the city’s aqueduct system has been largely revealed above the main square. There’s also a number of walls on the western side, below the main plaza area and reached via a steep dirt track, that feature Incan rock art in the form of white stones placed in geometrical patterns – and also some “stone Llama” rock art further down the steep western valley side. It’s enough to bring out the latent Indiana Jones in all of us, but even more amazing is the fact that we have the entire city pretty much to ourselves.

It’s an incredible privilege to hear Chema and Louis recount the history of the city (it was also settled by pre-Inca civilisations; the key to identifying this is by the buildings that use mortar. Inca construction did not use mortar, instead relying on close-fitting rocks to fit snugly together). As we sit around soaking up the historical atmosphere this site resonates, it’s hard to see how the trek can get any better. But of course, it does…

The height of excitement
We are lucky enough – the next morning – to retrace our steps to Choquequirao and we follow one of the city’s cleared aqueducts as we ascend to a high pass on the way to our riverside campsite at Rio Blanco. Throughout this trek, we’ve been amazed by the heat at such high altitudes, but also the dense rainforest that threatens to swamp the track hewn out of it. We see a number of jungle palms and myriad other tropical plants – a result of Peru’s proximity to the equator. It’s pretty amazing stuff, but hot humid work as we trudge higher. The humidity is more than matched by the temperature once we crest the pass above Choquequirao though: my watch records 38 degrees Celsius as we descend steeply – and quickly, often sliding or glissading along the dusty track – down to the shores of the Rio Blanco. The water here is freezing, but a welcome respite from the stifling heat. It is also our first chance to give our bodies a thorough wash, and I reckon I shed about 10kg of dirt and dust during my very quick dip in the glacial-cold water. It is sweet relief, only tempered by the fact we have another big climb up to Maizal the following day.

The climb is a case of head down and one foot in front of the other – a real slog that also includes some comedic relief from a wandering camp dog that adopts our group. After lunch and a siesta at a high plateau that, again, provides fantastic views back down the valley, there’s more climbing. The humidity on this side of the valley is really noticeable but it’s more than offset by the magnificent surrounds.

Topping out twice
Over the next two days there are plenty more ascents, but we are rewarded with a great lunch at the top of San Juan Pass which, at 3900m, is our highest point to date. We then drop down 500m to the village of Yanama. The views along this section of track are something else; the vegetation changes dramatically once we crest San Juan Pass, with low alpine tussocks, small trees and plenty of rocks dominating the higher sections, replaced far lower down by more cultivated grassy slopes as we near Yanama village.

At the end of each day on the trek, I have been writing notes on the day’s walk, both in terms of what we see and in terms of the challenges we face. Words like “huge” and “big” feature prominently, and the day we cross over San Juan Pass my notepad is peppered with both these words. It has, indeed, been a huge day, but is about to be relegated as a precursor for the main event: the crossing of 4660m Abra Yanama.

Funnily enough, the “biggest” of days starts off quite innocuously. For the first few hours we follow parts of the new road to Yanama, which is a gradual ascent. Chema opts to ride a mule for the initial section, before we head off-road, back onto the track itself. The grassy hills and lack of tall vegetation are – along with our headaches and shortness of breath – the main indication that we are gaining altitude, and the group soon becomes spread out as everyone takes on the climb at their own comfortable (and sensible) pace. The pass itself is actually part of the new road but rather than being an anticlimax, it is actually pretty amazing: being able to stand up at the sign proclaiming the altitude – and cop a near-360-degree view of the Yanama Valley and, still slightly obscured, our day’s destination of Hornopampa way down below, is awesome.

The big push
Our night’s camp at Hornopampa, around 1500m below Abra Yanama, is a return to more humidity and a few mosquitoes, but is a beautiful place to lay down our heads nonetheless, with the rushing Rio Yanama lulling us to sleep.

And sleep we do, as we know that the next day will be another demanding one. We have fallen a little behind the official itinerary but Chema points out that even though the next day’s walk will be around 30km, it will be relatively easy going as we’ll be mostly following the dirt road. Of course, there will be a few off-road shortcuts with the obligatory amazing mountain scenery, waterfalls and thundering rivers as we make our way to Lucmabamba. This town will be our last night camping out in the wild, but the biggest incentive – okay, perhaps in my mind only – to get there as fast as possible is that the campsite is part of a coffee plantation. Thirty kilometres? The distance doesn’t even register; those fresh coffee beans are a clarion call…

Reality bites
Is it possible for one particular moment to stand above all others on any adventure? Following the ancient Inca road from Lucmabamba up to the ruins of Paltallacta (2655m) on that last morning, catching glimpses of Machu Picchu’s rarely seen “other side” in between clouds barrelling through the valley between us and it, I have found that moment. Perhaps it’s because, in my mind, that’s how I envisage Bingham first seeing his “Lost City” back in 1911, or perhaps I am just a dreamer. Either way, it is an amazing sight; and one that still resonates as a moment of undiluted “true adventure”, even after the following day’s exploration of Machu Picchu among the tourist throngs.

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Sweating and exhausted I peer through a fading head-torch beam and discern a hunched figure at a standstill in my path. Kicking slowly closer, I recognise the green jacket and heavily loaded pack of Janina Kuzma. The former Olympic skier turned The North Face athlete is leaning on her poles. 

I immediately worry. Janina doesn’t stop to catch breath; she doesn’t know how to go slow. ‘G’ as she’s known to mates, is strong as an ox. Something’s wrong!

I catch just enough breath to pant, “G! What’s going on?” But the face that turns to me is not the usual grin of the woman I know. It is somebody else, paler with glazed eyes; a face of pure exhaustion. 

“I can’t put my ski crampons on Watto,” she stammers. “I’m too rooted.”

I stare blankly until my fatigued mind registers what she is telling me. Emotion begins to return to my weary brain. First, it’s a smirk, then a grin, and eventually a chuckle. I know her world of hurt all too well, when everything becomes just too hard, too steep, too big, too cold. But I never thought I’d see G show a hint of fragility. I always thought she was impervious to such a state of emotion.

G stares back at me and I realise too late I will suffer the consequences of my impromptu chuckle somewhere down the line. We both know she’s a 9/10 in the mountains and I hover at a measly five, maybe six on a good day. The only reason I’m able to laugh is because I can see the silhouette of Kelman Hut, the finish line for today’s epic race, less than 100m ahead.

As I help with her crampons, cloud roll over Mt Elie de Beaumont and the wind intensifies, tell-tale signs of the impending Pacific storm we have been racing the last 12 hours to beat. We skin the last hundred metres to Kelman Hut in single file, as the storm hits in earnest.

The fridge on the ridge
By the time we close the doors to Kelman Hut and shed our packs, harnesses and boots, snow is swirling sideways and upwards, propelled by the roaring winds from the valleys below. Mother nature screams and howls, and tears at New Zealand’s Southern Alps, seemingly trying to rip all foreign matter, including us, from the flanks of the exposed ridge on which we now lie. 

I’m grateful for the industrial girth metal cables I notice ominously bolting the shelter to the surrounding rock and ice, but throughout the night I lay awake while hurricane-force winds roar up the valley like a jet engine and smash into our rickety abode, shaking it to its foundations. My mind subconsciously regurgitates a historic news article about a severe storm that tore Three Johns Hut from Barron Saddle above the Mueller Glacier, killing all inside. I lie wide-eyed in the dark until the roar abates and eventually fall asleep dreaming of the Wizard of Oz.

Stumbling down from the loft ladder in the morning I’m relieved to find the hut in one piece and a pot of freshly brewed coffee on the stove. Our eastern flank teeters on the edge of the near-sheer cliffs of the Murchison Valley and so I glance out the window hoping to glimpse the heavily crevassed Murchison Headwall we’d boot-packed the previous evening. I’m partially glad we ascended the avalanche-prone ramp in the dark – you can’t be afraid of what you can’t see right? But outside all I see is white. 

Sudden movement catches the corner of my eye and I note Japanese free-skier Ayako Kuroda and local Wanaka steep-skiing charger Anna Smoothy shovelling two feet of snow from the doorway of our hut aptly named ‘The fridge on the ridge’. They re-enter from the white-out with frozen hair and frozen digits.

“We won’t be going anywhere today,” Ayako confirms.

“Bugger!” I reply, but I’m secretly relieved. I pour some coffee, climb back inside my sleeping bag and take stock of the previous day’s marathon.

Getting here
We’d begun in the Liebig Range, where coincidentally, I first met G on a ski-mountaineering mission years ago when we’d been forced to evacuate the mountains on foot, racing a storm. Eight years later we are again racing a storm in the Liebig, this time bearing into the alpine. 

Our modernised plan involved initially traversing the Liebig to descend into the lower Murchison valley where we would bivouac below the snowline prior to ascending the Murchison Glacier to the Aida Glacier. Here we would ski and photograph Mt Sydney King, Mt Acland and Mt Phyllis before camping on the glacial flats, eventually making our way to the shelter of Kelman Hut on day three.

 But only this morning, sitting exposed in the roaring forties atop Mt Hutton Ridge, with the largest storm of the season bearing down on us, we found ourselves condensing three days into a single-day sprint to Kelman Hut.

It didn’t take long for me, as the only split-boarder, to begin cursing every long traverse we encountered on our descent to the Murchison, but I soon got my own back. The boulder field of the moraine delivered hours of punishing rock hopping: a soft-booted split-boarder’s paradise as opposed to the hard-boot nightmare suffered in ski touring boots.

Ayako was copping a battering. Her feet were swollen, cramping and eventually blistering to the point of considering a humiliating day-one evacuation, however a Leatherman, painkillers, copious strapping tape and a never-say-die attitude got us back to the frozen ground of the snowline, and soon we were skinning north, albeit three hours behind schedule.

From the map, the Murchison looked like a pleasant ascent up a gradual incline, but on deadline it rapidly became a quad-burning sweat-fest. We moved at a reasonable pace having ditched our bivy bags in favour of light-weight travel, but as we passed our bivouac coordinates, the reality of a three-day storm bearing down on us has us wondering whether we’d made the right call. 

The Aida glacier tributary offered a glimpse into a secluded nirvana but we were forced to deem the playground off limits and instead veered westward toward the neve of the Murchison Glacier.

With the sun already sinking behind the peaks of the Multe Brun Range, we came to a blunt and despondent realisation that if we didn’t make Kelman Hut, we’d have to ration food and dig a snow cave ahead of the storm. 

We hid behind a mini-bus-sized fallen serac to hastily warm and scoff freeze-dried meals, and a collective decision was made to push on and try to beat the weather. With renewed vigour, down jackets were donned, shell-layers zipped and we forged ahead in the dark toward the Murchison Headwall. 

Using what little energy remained from a mammoth day, Mike kicked toeholds up the steep headwall trying to avoid the barely visible crevasses. We followed one by one, heads down, single file and in slow motion until eventually the incline eased.

Reaching the top, a communal sigh of relief was exhaled, and we limped into the ‘Fridge on the Ridge’, bodies shattered but spirits unbroken. 

It would be two more days before we would see the sun again.

The Westlands
The Darwin Icefall on the Tasman Glacier is a sight to behold. The surreal realm of blue ice caverns, ice grottos, caves and seracs as tall as multi-story buildings deliver such scale and majesty that our insignificance in this world is magnified tenfold.

 Having left Kelman Hut in a thick fog before sunrise, our first glimpse of this majestic playground comes rather abruptly when the sun pierces the mist to deliver a blue sky.

Ben, Anna, Janina and Ayako waste no time getting up close with the majestic ice formations and their grins reflect a possibility of days, skiing the icefall and nearby canyonlands. Our distant objective, however, is the West Coast, and between us and the Westlands lies the tallest mountain range in New Zealand – and the infamous Rudolf Glacier.

Two scribbled observations in my pre-trip notebook warn: a) “The Rudolf is expert ski mountaineering terrain suitable only for strong skiers with mountaineering equipment and experience.”; b) “Stay to the middle of the glacier to avoid avalanches and rock fall before climbing the steep couloirs on the south of the Rudolf icefall to Graham Saddle.”

I admit my personal Watto rating of 6/10 forces me to question how I might fare at this crux point, and so it is with trepidation I turn the De La Beche Corner where the Rudolph meets the Tasman and begin a long and arduous climb. 

Ben, Anna, Janina and Ayako team up to break trail while Mike, Ross and I veer off on occasion to search for picturesque vantage points in a bid to document the journey. Five hours later, our photo and cine intentions are placed on the backburner, replaced with a bid to summit Graham Saddle in good time. 

It is climbing the Rudolph where the trio of girls display strength and stamina that has elevated them to elite competition and beyond, and why they not only raised their hands for this arduous ski traverse but instigated it. Having travelled this route previously, Ben is at the pointy end, but there’s no waiting for the girls; they nip at his heels.

I ponder how fortunate I am to share this adventure with such high-calibre athletes of both sexes. In a world where the celebration of individual gender achievement can inadvertently drive wedges where they shouldn’t exist, here in the mountains we are all humbled equally. The mountains don’t care about gender, age, nor race… you either have the personal strength and aptitude to coexist with this harsh environment, or you don’t. It is a nice simplicity and a change from the divisive world we seem to have created outside of this alpine haven.

Summiting Graham Saddle proves the vast experience of those I am surrounded by when we transition from skins to skis (or in my case, split-board) quickly, and the forward party drops into the Chamberlin Snowfield, carving deep sweeping lines en route to Centennial Hut.

We make our refuge in good time and are rewarded with views of a shimmering Tasman Sea, while a spectacular sunset transforms our alpine world into a sea of golden ice crystals. 

Decision Time
Nestled inside Centennial Hut we again play weatherman as another low-pressure system builds off the West Coast. A sole day of guaranteed visibility forces a decision.

First prize is to ski the upper neve of the Fox Glacier using Pioneer Hut as a base, but if the oncoming storm strengthens the extra day skiing might jeopardise our primary goal of traversing the entire east-west route. This leaves us with two escape routes: a descent of either the Franz Joseph or the Fox Glacier toward the West Coast.

With limited intel on the condition of the Franz Joseph, our plan to ski as low as possible to navigate the icefall to the terminus on foot is risky. We might find the icefall unpassable, forcing a retrace to high ground for a heli-rescue. We are left with one choice: The Fox. We all pray the Fox Glacier icefall offers a negotiable route out.

The Fox
I look on in nervousness as Anna-Banana, as I’ve come to know her, expertly navigates the bergschrunds of Explorer Glacier and the upper Fox Glacier. Anna is now in complete contrast to the laid-back radiologist I met in Wanaka. 

Her freeride world-qualifying results should have been a giveaway, or maybe the fact her brother is one of the biggest hitting freeride world tour chargers on the planet. Whatever the case, I am again put in my place as I tentatively pick my way around the gaping crevasses the girls carve through at speed. 

Below the bergschrunds, we happen across the best snow of the tour. I snap off photos of the team carving steep spring corn faces with an imposing Fox Glacier dominating the backdrop. Little do we know this is the last skiing we will do.

Nearly 18 hours after these last turns are had we find ourselves down-climbing near impenetrable heath, having overnighted in Chancellor Hut. The goat-track we’re on is occasionally severed by avalanche debris and rockslides. The going is slow and teeming rain does not help progress, nor does the fact that pack-bound skis catch on every branch, root or rock within arm length, but we’re all in the same miserable boat and to top it off Ayako is now ill.

Eventually our mud-stained crew find ourselves confronted with a frozen world again. But this time a 300m-deep warzone of broken and upheaved ice. Starting high in the Southern Alps and falling 2600m over its 13km length, the Fox Glacier (Te Moeka o Tuawe) is a powerful sight to behold, especially up close. Our expedition goal, to negotiate the eastern flanks of the Southern Alps to the temperate rainforest at the Fox terminal under human-powered steam is ambitious; the glacier has retreated notably in the past decade.

We swap skis for crampons and kick steps into the heavily crevassed ice. Black holes and cracks fall away at our feet to unknown depths and we move at snail’s pace, ice axe in one hand, ski pole in the other. Ten minutes in, Ayako doubles over and vomits. The accumulation of arduous days, an all or nothing diet, dehydration and the intensity of our penultimate challenge has reached tipping point for the Japanese skier.

There’s no way back, so Ayako ties into a safety line and pushes toward the distant whirring blades of the commercial heli-tours we now see operating on the glacier below. An hour later she is flown to hospital, all within sight of our end goal.

With gritted determination our remaining team re-don packs and doggedly push toward the finish line. We negotiate ‘the bowling alley’ of the Fox Moraine as swiftly as is safe to avoid being in the firing line of the car-sized boulders that crash down from the unstable slopes above. 

Filthy, bruised, bloody and muddy, we eventually reach a well-worn path, then a fence, and then a tourist-filled car park. It dawns on our dishevelled crew that we have reached our goal just as news filters through that Ayako is fine.

Embracing amongst a sea of friends, and strangers, we glance back toward the retreating glacier and realise global warming might soon render this epic traverse unachievable. We are glad to have achieved our goal but saddened we may be one of the last teams to have an opportunity to experience the ice amongst the rainforest. 

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As well as the awesome riding experience, Thredbo Valley Trail (TVT) offers brilliant alpine views as riders follow the route, with parts of the track traversing open grasslands mixed with sections that take riders through dense snow gum woodlands and past towering mountain gums. This new extension means there is something for every rider, with the original upper TVT – at 16.7km – providing some fantastic riding for kids, families and the less experienced riders, while this new section is ideal for those looking for more – plus, more experienced riders can, of course, ride the whole thing.

Thredbo Valley Track is open from November to May (subject to weather conditions), and opens up one of Australia’s most iconic national parks to even more visitors, keen to not only try their hand at this new mountain biking track, but also check out the many hiking opportunities there, as well as the fishing and paddling. Plus, with the option of either staying at the NPWS’s Creel Lodge, or camping right near the track at either Ngarigo or Thredbo Diggings campgrounds, it’s a no-brainer to add Kosciuszko National Park to your adventure bucket list.

For more info, see Thredbo Valley Track.

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“I felt like I was knitting… under, over, under, over,” one woman tells me in camp, describing the hours of acrobatics required to navigate the slippery slopes, rocks, tree roots and logs on the descent from the range. At times it’s less a bushwalk than a gymnastics routine with a backpack.

The South Coast Track has long been Tasmania’s premier multi-day coastal trail, though it’s been overshadowed in recent years by the emergence and hype of the Three Capes Track. For a pure, grounding coastal walk without the excess trimmings, however, it remains unsurpassed. There are no beaches like these on the Three Capes Track; no end-of-day swims this restorative, and no challenge quite like the Ironbounds.

I’ve come to the South Coast Track with my two teenage children, Kiri and Cooper, brought here by a years-old promise that we’d walk the track together when Kiri turned 15.

As the name on the tin suggests, the track stretches across Tasmania’s southernmost coast. It’s an 85-kilometre walk, ideally spread across seven days, and it presents two options – hike from Cockle Creek and fly back to Hobart from Melaleuca, or fly into Melaleuca and hike back to the road end at Cockle Creek. With southwest Tasmanian weather conditions fluky at best, we’ve chosen the latter, so that if we’re stranded by weather it will be in Hobart, not Melaleuca.

On cue, strong winds delay our flight, but after a few idle hours we’re in the air, the small plane blowing about like paper in the wind before skidding down onto the dirt airstrip at Melaleuca.

Other than Everest Base Camp, I can think of no other hike that starts directly from an airstrip. As we cross the runway, the kids swirl about with their arms spread wide as wings. We’re cleared for take-off.

It’s a gentle journey out to the coast, following a wide valley in classically Tasmanian button grass terrain. Bald quartzite mountains frame the way, and soon the muffled murmur of the Southern Ocean is announcing the proximity of the coast at Cox Bight.

The deepest of the incisions along the south coast, Cox Bight is a spectacular way to be introduced to these shores. Its sands are so wide and firm that planes used to drop bushwalkers off right here. The rocks at the water’s edge are as polished as marble, and it’s a beach and a walk split in two by a tongue of rock named Point Eric.

At the base of the point, we set up camp for the first night, just steps from the sand and a grandstand view of a sunset that rages through a firestorm of colours before dulling to darkness.

Re-packing on the first morning of a weeklong bushwalk is always a puzzle (what went where in which packs?) and we’re suitably slow getting away from camp. The tide is slowly rising, and by the time we hit the base of Black Cliff at Cox Bight’s end, there’s no dry way through. We can remove our boots and wade through the sea around the cliffs, or we can attempt a rock-hop worthy of a hopscotch world championship. I’m walking with teenagers, so the choice is never in doubt. Rock-hopping it is.

The South Coast Track connects nine beaches, but also includes several protracted inland sections, the longest of which begins from the eastern end of Cox Bight, where the trail turns up and over the Red Point Hills before approaching the Ironbounds across the Louisa Plains.

On a hot day, the plains are interminable. For every 10 steps we take, the campsite at their end, on the banks of the Louisa River, seems to take nine steps away from us. It’s like kayaking to an island – it just never seems to get any closer.

But there’s relief along the way, in the form of two cooling creek crossings. At Faraway Creek, we dump our packs and wade upstream to a deep pool, where the cold water is like anaesthetic. In the busy Louisa River campsite there are more swims. It’s a campsite idyll, but one with an ominous shadow; it’s here that the climb begins onto the Ironbound Range.

The campsite is full this night, with walkers heading in one direction interspersed with those heading in the other, creating a contrasting atmosphere that’s part pleasurable relief (those who’ve just crossed the Ironbounds) and part anxiety (those who must cross them the next day).

The Ironbounds are a 900m-high speed bump, so there are far bigger mountain climbs in Tasmania, but few have a reputation this large. The thing about the Ironbounds is that when you think the hard work is done, it’s just beginning. The climb is tough, but it’s the descent that’s brutal.

The crossing to Deadmans Bay, just 12km away, can take up to 10 hours, so at Louisa River the campsite stirs early. We’re almost last out of camp, and still we’re low on the slopes of the Ironbounds by the time the sun has risen.

I’ve loaded up my pack to reduce the burden on the kids, only to watch them disappear up the mountain. Even walkers I overtake are mocking me for being left behind by my children.

Hours grind by on the climb, which has three sections – a steep ascent to a ridge, a flatter path along the crest of the ridge, and then the steepest bit of all. By the final section, people are taking a few steps, stopping to suck in breaths and reluctantly continuing. It’s like walking at altitude, and yet the ocean is just a few hundred metres below us.

The climb’s top is met with relief, mingled with hope that the descent won’t be as bad as foreboding stories suggest. From the summit, it looks hopeful; the track appears to curl gently around the slopes before into scrub. But the view tells lies.

Beyond that scrub line, we step into a primeval and punishing place. In this damp rainforest, slippery tree roots and limbs grope over the trail, which itself is slippery, muddy and steep. We climb under trees, over trees and through trees. We slide through mud, down rock slopes and into each other. I’m the literal dead man walking as we shuffle into Deadmans Bay, where we wash off mud and blood in a calm cove below camp, while several habituated quolls watch us go about our business.

The mountains are now behind us, and most of the beaches are still ahead. From Deadmans Bay a string of beaches roll out east, and for two days the South Coast Track is truly the south coast track.

Behind Prion Beach there’s brief relief from the walking, with rowboats tied up to the shores of New River Lagoon for hikers to cross the whiskey-coloured waters beneath one of Tasmania’s most prominent mountains, Precipitous Bluff.

Each beach now is a macabre artwork of washed-up bluebottle jellyfish – a sight that promptly brings an end to our ocean swims – and as we near camp behind Osmiridium Beach, the run of hot days has conjures up the blackest of storms.

Lightning flashes behind us, and we sprint for camp, but the clouds bring no rain, just stunning sparks of dry lightning. Within two hours we’re sitting on Osmiridium Beach enjoying the calmest and most colourful of sunsets. It’s three days later, when we finish the walk, that we learn the storm has set much of southern Tasmania ablaze. Ignorance is indeed bliss.

Our shortest walking day comes out of Osmiridium Beach – a freshener ahead of the second of the big climbing days across the South Cape Range. We stroll through the sandy beauty of Surprise Bay and over a headland to Granite Beach, where the track scales the cliffs to reach an elevated campsite.

Immediately below the camp, a stream pours off the cliffs, and beside this waterfall we set up lunch, watching for hours as the Southern Ocean relentlessly hurls itself against the coast. It’s like a seaside holiday in the midst of a big bushwalk, but it’s nothing compared to South Cape Rivulet at the end of the next day’s walk across the South Cape Range.

This final range is only half as high as the Ironbounds, but has its own notoriety. The crossing is infamously muddy – deep pits of typically Tasmanian slop – but in the middle of a dry summer, most of the ground has hardened. The gaiters we carry are nothing more than ballast.

With the way across the range easier than expected, we arrive at South Cape Rivulet by mid-afternoon. The sun is blazing, the sand is white, and the southern tip of Tasmania –South East Cape – stretches out across the sea to the east.

The mood in camp is festive – it’s almost everybody’s final night on the track – and the rivulet inviting. We swim and soak through the afternoon. It feels as though we’re cleaning and grooming ourselves for the pending return to civilisation. The kids bury themselves up to their necks in the sand, and by evening the rivulet lies as still as a puddle.

The final morning brings also a final and beautiful stretch of coastal walking. Within a couple of hours we’re turning off the coast and heading overland towards the finish at Cockle Creek, but not before one final treat.

At the very moment that we’re about to climb off the beach, I glance behind us, where waves curl ashore like great weights rolling to a stop. Inside the waves, I see shadows, and then suddenly the shadows are leaping. A pod of dolphins surfs towards the beach, returns to the waves and surfs in again. Under, over, under, over. It’s a knitting pattern in nature again, but one that’s infinitely more graceful than our own memorable day across the Ironbound Range.

The post The South Coast Track is a bushwalker’s dream appeared first on Australian Geographic.

I could blame the frozen Arctic Ocean under my feet but my boots are specialist minus 100 degree Celsius Endurance boots. Maybe I should blame the minus 20 degree Celcius air temperature outside of my tent, but with a forewarning of potential minus 50 degree Celsius night-time temps, I’m layered up to handle the conditions.

I even have specialist Polar Mitts designed for the Austrian Military to allow me to operate my camera without getting frostbite.

And so really, I am out of excuses.

Our setting up of camp within the territory of one of the most imposing predators on the planet, the nanuq (polar bear) simply has me shit-scared!

My pre-trip notes suggest the mighty meat-eater can swim for hundreds of kilometres, run blazingly fast, has an incredible sense of smell, exceptional eyesight and is a naturally curious creature. It also happens to be the largest living carnivore on Earth and, most worryingly, will hunt and prey on humans if hungry. Fortunately, us mere homo sapiens are offered a slim fighting chance through deterrents such as electric fences, capsicum spray, ‘bear banger’ explosive charges and firearms. However, as I crouch 100 metres from a small cluster of tents attempting to photograph a glimmering Aurora Borealis (Northern Lights) on day one of our Crossing the Divide expedition, I realise I have none of these. Most bear deterrents are considered dangerous goods and thus not transportable, and only indigenous Qikiqtaaluk are allowed to carry firearms.

I recall the “Safety in Polar Bear Country” pamphlet firmly suggesting to travel in groups during the day and stay together to increase safety. But my sole purpose for being here is to document our expedition, often from afar, sometimes at night. I am listed on the expedition notes as “filmer/photographer”, but it is beginning to dawn on me my title might translate better to “bait”. Fortunately, I have an Ace up my sleeve in the form of fellow documentarian Jase Hancox. But Jase admits he’s been training under the “fasterthanwatto” hashtag, claiming if we have an encounter, he simply needs to be faster than me. With the rest of the team cocooning themselves in polar sleeping bags, I choose to crunch my way back over a frozen ocean to the relative safety of my tent. My Aurora photo can wait for another day, when we are off the sea ice and there’s less chance of encounters with the great white hunter of the north.

An ulterior motive

It took an entire day huddled in a qamutik (traditional rawhide-lashed sledge with wooden crossbars and runners) hauled behind a skidoo to reach our starting point of the North Pangnirtung Fjord on the eastern flanks of Baffin Island, the fifth largest island in the world. From here our team objective is to each haul a 35-45kg sled and pack for six hours per day for seven to 10 days in a bid to undertake a winter traverse of the majestic but imposing Akshayuk Pass in Auyuittuq National Park. The word Auyuittuq is an Inuktitut word meaning “Land that Never Melts” and sets a scene of snow and ice defining an Arctic landscape, sculpted by glaciers with sheer granite walls towering taller than any on the planet. Here we will find the flat topped peaks of Mt Asgard, the circling glaciers of The Bridesmaid and the sheer 1250m cliffs of Mt Thor, the earth’s greatest vertical drop.

This expedition is not a world first, nor is it a natural-history documentary. This expedition is part personal challenge and part social exercise. Our intent is to undertake a gruelling life-changing experience whilst simultaneously assessing team dynamics in an extreme environment where the wrong decision may have life-threatening consequences. This ‘expedition with a difference’ brings together a varied crew of twelve with deliberate intent to generate real-life team dynamics rather than an entire party of experts. Polar expert Kevin Vallely leads the team but we find ourselves in a melting pot of experience and personalities, from skiers and mountaineers to pilots and CEOs all the way to Amanda, the most cheerful of the team who also happens to have never been camping before, let alone in a frigid and frozen Arctic landscape. The sponsor and brainchild of such a project is the AIP group; in simple terms, we are guinea pigs for high-end corporate training simulations. But the truth be told, climbing into my tent under the Northern Lights in one of the most pristine landscapes on our planet has me grinning foolishly. I’ll put my hand up for guinea pig duty any-day. It’s the next morning when I notice a young polar bear footprint only metres from our camp that it dawns on me guinea pigs are quite a long way down the food chain.

Mates don’t let mates snowshoe

“Mates don’t let mate’s snowshoe,” was the running joke as we packed sleds 100km back over the sea-ice in the tiny 600-strong Inuit Settlement of Qikiqtarjuaq. The majority of our team had vast experience in snowsports or mountain terrain and preferred the speed of skis over the plodding of snowshoes. However a need for skis on the solid river-ice we expected to encounter was near zero, so snowshoes are strapped to sleds alongside ice-spikes purely as an emergency.

We travel south and inland, away from the coastal sea-ice, and the weather is perfect. Daytime temperatures hover around minus ten degrees Celsius, the fjordlands are beginning to close up and there is little to no wind. Our first night’s camp provided a glimmering Aurora Borealis and thankfully a predator free night. Travelling away from the sea-ice means my polar bear fear begins to abate and we are making good time to our next camp when conditions begin to change. First, the windblown sastrugit grows softer underfoot, and then boots begin to break the crust. Only kilometres later we find ourselves calf-deep in a riverbed of snow, breaking through to ankle-snapping rocks. Our progress slows to a crawl and our overnight camp begins to look a long, long way away. Tom smashes his knee on the ice but we are hesitant to stop; we need to reach a suitable campsite. He reluctantly allows his gear to be redistributed and painfully limps on.

It is midday on day two when we eat our words and strap on snowshoes. Nobody is laughing now. We encounter snowshoe conditions for the next two days while Tom’s knee begins to swell and Amanda’s blisters grow to become excruciating. Our expedition is starting to prove it’s no walk in a park and cracks are beginning to show.

We settle into a daily rhythm: wake up, layer up (in full-down insulation), boil water, eat food, break camp, walk for 10 minutes, remove layers, walk for two hours, layer up, eat, de-layer, walk, layer up, eat, de-layer, walk… . Finally we set camp, boil more water, eat and sleep. I learn the luxury of running water is never quite as craved as when you are forced to de-glove in minus thirty-degree temperatures to light a fuel stove.

An unexpected daily dilemma comes in the form of body temperature regulation. We learn when we’re not cold, we are hot, but the phrase, “You sweat, you die!” is not far off the truth in such a harsh environment. Damp clothes mean frozen clothes and lead to potential hypothermia… we maintain a strict “stay dry, stay warm,” routine. Calorie intake is boosted dramatically from our everyday diet as keeping warm burns calories and we find the constant sub-zero temperatures lead to an inability to overcome a daily calorie deficit. In essence, we cannot help but lose weight. We are not suited to this environment but surrounding us, hidden from sight, life exists in a far more suitable package. Arctic hares survive the frigid winters eating woody plants and mosses, while the Arctic fox is the only canid whose foot pads are covered in fur. Hidden in the tundra caribou still roam, wolves and wolverine prey on weasels and lemmings and on the sea ice polar bears hunt for walrus, leopard and harp seal while narwhal, orca, and beluga whale swim below.

Whilst we are not adapted to this ice-bound world in which we find ourselves,  the good news however is we are making good time, the weather is spectacular, the landscape breathtaking and most importantly the team is gelling and working together. That is, until day four…

Conflict

Sweating and staggering at last light on day four, we’ve broken our own rules. It was midday when the wind began to howl and pace was quickened to avoid being caught out by an incoming storm; however, I was not present at the time. I’d dropped back to photograph the team against an awe-inspiring Mount Asgard. It was only when I noticed the crew moving fast and I realised I couldn’t catch them that I began to curse. My UHF radio had frozen and without communication I couldn’t ask the team to wait. Kevin was concentrating on keeping the team warm by moving at a fast pace. He had confidence my previous alpine expedition experience would keep me making sensible decisions. I had less faith in myself than he did.

I was soon sweating in my efforts to catch the shrinking figures of our expedition, breaking the cardinal rule of keeping dry. With the phrase “you sweat, you die” looping my brain, I spent the remainder of the day looking over my shoulder for any signs of a half-tonne predator chasing me down for a midday snack all the while trying the UHF to ask the team to slow, but to no avail. When I finally reached camp I was fuming. I stormed past an exhausted Tom, still lying in the snow from the final push against the growing gale and angrily questioned, “What the f#*k was that all about?”.

I was pissed and it appears I lit a fire. Tom’s knee was swollen blue,  Amanda’s blisters were weeping and bleeding and I was generally just pissed at the decision to break the crew up. The next 20 minutes saw a good solid team argument; some siding with me, others with Kev’s decision to push on. In an effort to vent my frustration and stay warm I grabbed my shovel and furiously dug a kitchen platform and two long bench seats. Sculpting a final stove platform with my shovel it finally dawned on me that our heated ‘barney’ was a blessing in disguise. We’d previously been eating in individual tents but this evening we could all sit as a group (for the first time) on seats in the shared warmth in our new ‘mess tent’ to eat our freeze-dried delight.

As spiced rum was shared around, tempers calmed and we remembered why we were here; to learn to work together as a team. We felt a little like being in a twisted reality-TV show, albeit one with a spectacular view though our tent door. A game of ‘killer’ (an elaborate variation of wink-murder) is introduced to the fray and soon even the howling winds outside  couldn’t dampen spirits. Killer rapidly escalated to a cunning game of poker-face and convoluted lies and subsequently became our go-to game for time-killing and much needed laughs.

A land of Norse Gods

Two days on and spirits are high as days grow longer. We were gaining an extra 10 minutes per day, and yesterday had proved so unseasonably warm some of us stripped even thermal shirts on the climb up Akshayuk Pass. Kev asked what I thought the temperature was? My reply was, “definitely above zero.” Kev checked his watch, “Nope; minus eight degrees.” All I could do was laugh. It seems the body is getting used to the cold.

Last night we were treated  to a spectacular display of the Northern Lights. A brilliant green snake shimmered and twisted its way through the night sky, silhouetting the imposing granite peaks and glaciers of the 2000m Penny Ice Cap. I will remember this moment for as long as I live. Today is different, however. The mercury has dropped again and clouds have rolled in to deliver an apt drama for our entry into the lands of the Norse gods. The twin flat-topped peaks of Mount Asgard shrink behind us as we descend the valley of thunder and wisdom, home to Thor Peak and Mount Odin. Our descent from Akshayuk Pass is where Thor makes his presence known.

Through the parting clouds an immense granite tooth tears from the frozen tundra to reach to the sky. Swirling clouds and snow flurries intermittently hide the monster but there is no doubt Thor is present. Hovering over us, his 1675m silhouette dominates the Cumberland Peninsula and looks over the 6000 square kilometres of the Penny Ice Cap. It is here amongst such a formidable landscape of rock and ice that we witness dramatic changes caused by global warming. Our previous two days bypassed the Highway, Turner, Rundle, Norman and Caribou glaciers, all of which are rapidly receding. On review of previous expedition photos it is hard to imagine a time when these rivers of ice flowed deep into this valley. To the north of Thor Peak lies Fork Beard Glacier, named for its shape, but nowadays the fork is no longer apparent. This grand landscape humbles us, reminding us how small we really are but in this moment we realise how much impact we have, and it is frightening.

We make camp in the shadow of Thor as the northern winds begin to tear into the valley and the storm hits in earnest.

For two days and two nights we are ravaged by howling Arctic winds from the north and choose to stay hunkered in our camp. We’re jovial though; we’ve become accustomed to the disposition of our Arctic home and a storm day means a rest day – and a rest day is a good day.

The Germanic Gods of old appear to choose to let us pass and under clearing skies we traipse to the Arctic Circle. At 66 degrees and 30 minutes of latitude we celebrate as a team. The hard yards are behind us; we’ve literally weathered the storm. All too soon we find ourselves exiting the southern reaches of the Akshayuk corridor into a frozen Cumberland Sound. Sore, blistered and bruised we’ve achieved what we set out to do.

For me, the vision of Asgard, Thor and Odin will be etched in my mind for as long as I live. Not only did we traverse the breadth of Baffin Island but we melded as a team. We emerged in good spirits, without frostbite, and rather importantly without becoming ‘Nanuq nibbles’ to a hungry polar bear.

The post In the Shadow of Thor: welcome to Baffin island appeared first on Australian Geographic.

There is the Kokoda Track, of course but there is also much more, with the Papua New Guinea highlands synonymous with excellent trekking. Rugged hillsides covered in dense rainforest, wild waterways and mountains topping out above 4000 metres in height are – excuse the pun – highlights of this region. The best thing for Aussies is that Papua New Guinea is so close – and its adventures so unique.

Above the clouds

At 4509m, Mt Wilhelm is Papua New Guinea’s tallest mountain, surrounded by glacial valleys, dense forest, steep cliffs and a number of rivers. The trek to the summit takes three days, with PNG Highlands Adventures offering a five-day adventure that includes transfers to and from Port Moresby. Once clear of the city, you reach Simbu province before travelling through mountain valleys to your first night at the village of Kegusuglo and Betty’s Lodge. From here you start trekking, gaining altitude as you head toward your ‘basecamp’ at Pinude Yaundo Lake. A midnight start from here should see you and your guides reach the summit at around 6am. It’s no stroll but your efforts are rewarded with amazing views over a large part of Papua New Guinea. The descent back to Betty’s Lodge at Kegusuglo take most of the day before an early transfer the next morning sees you back at Goroka, and then on to Port Moresby the following morning. For those keen to immerse themselves more deeply in Papua New Guinea’s culture, PNG Highlands Adventures also offers an eight-day variant of the summit trek, adding in cultural tours.

Mount Giluwe is the country’s second highest peak, at 4367m, and loses nothing to its taller sibling in regards to trekking. Both PNG Highlands Adventures and Trans Niugini Tours offer five-day treks to the summit. The peak is part of a volcanic massif that offers high alpine trekking and sees you travel through forests of oak, karuka, pine and beech before entering the higher alpine zone, with its vast grassland dotted with clear tarns and lava boulders.

Birds and culture

Of course, the highlands region is famous for more than trekking; it is rich in birdlife and equally so in culture. This is where the benefits of exploring with an experienced guiding company come to the fore. Trans Niugini Tours offers an eight-day adventure for ‘twitchers’ (birdwatchers), with an initial half day spent at Rondon Ridge and the remainder of the trip at two of Papua New Guinea’s best wilderness lodges: Karawari and Rondon Ridge. You have the chance to spot everything from hornbills, frogmouths and parrots, through to the ‘big one’ – the colourful bird of paradise. Karawari Lodge, in Papua New Guinea’s Sepik region, reached via charter flight, river-boat transfer and four-wheel drive. The lodge sits on a ridge above the Karawari River and is ideal for those looking to spot one or more of the 225 bird species (including bird of paradise variants) recorded in this area.

Anyone exploring Papua New Guinea must experience some of this country’s varied culture. Trans Niugini Tours offers an excellent eight-day village adventure. From a visit to a remote elementary school deep in the highlands, to the differences between women’s and men’s traditions throughout the region, each day provides insight into the highlands’ rich cultures. A highlight is staying overnight in a Karawari village where houses are built on stilts and life is centred the Karawari River; dugout canoes are the only mode of transport here.

So it’s no exaggeration to say that the Papua New Guinea highlands offer not only one of the world’s best treks (the Kokoda Track) but many more exciting foot-borne adventures. Lump in the vibrant culture – and even more vibrant birdlife – and it’s easy to be thankful that this outdoor wonderland is so close to Australia.

Fact File

For all things Papua New Guinea, see Papua New Guinea Travel

For information on guided adventures in Papua New Guinea: Trans Niugini Tours, PNG Highlands Adventures.

Getting there: Air Niugini offers regular connections from Sydney, Brisbane and Cairns up to Port Moresby, and an extensive domestic route network throughout Papua New Guinea. See Air Niugini.

The post Adventure Island appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Modern 4×4 utes not only offer load-carrying capability far greater than a sedan or wagon, but they can venture far off the beaten track while still providing car-like ride and handling, all while cosseting occupants in a comfortable and well-equipped cabin… and providing the latest in passive and active safety technologies.

What is D-Max?
Isuzu has built a solid reputation in Australia for building tough, reliable, economical and capable 4×4 utes, and the latest iteration of the D-Max is no exception. The D-Max is a traditional one-tonne 4×4 ute that follows a now well-established and proven formula for the class: separate body on chassis construction; independent double wishbone front suspension; live axle rear with leaf springs; large capacity turbo-diesel engine; auto transmission; two-speed part-time 4×4 system; and disc brakes up front and drums at the rear.
While many competitor utes have smaller capacity high-tech diesel engines, Isuzu has stuck with a larger 3.0-litre four-cylinder turbo-diesel engine that produces a handy 130kW of power at 3600rpm and 430Nm of torque at 2000-2200rpm.

How does it drive?
Despite the modest peak power and torque claims, the engine delivers impressive performance both around town and on the open road. It makes plenty of torque from low in the rev range and doesn’t need a lot of throttle input to deliver good acceleration, and the engine is well-mated to the D-Max’s optional six-speed automatic transmission. Tall fifth and sixth gear ratios result in relaxed highway touring and contribute to the economical nature of the D-Max, and you can expect real-world average fuel consumption of around 8.9/L100km. With a 76-litre fuel tank, this results in a safe touring range in excess of 800km.
On-road ride is comfortable and controlled, and the D-Max carries a load well, exhibiting minimal rear-end sag when loaded up. The power-assisted steering is on the heavy side, but it offers good feel and the D-Max corners with confidence and not too much body roll.

Off-road
A short front overhang gives the D-Max a good approach angle for off-road driving although a long rear overhang means care needs to be taken when exiting gullies and dropping off rock shelves (as is the case with most 4×4 utes). Shifting between 2WD, 4WD high-range and 4WD low-range is via a large console-mounted dial, and the D-Max offers decent low-range reduction. An effective electronic traction control system, good wheel travel, ample ground clearance and a claimed 600mm wading depth combine to provide strong off-road capability, although there’s no rear diff lock as fitted to some class competitors – those after better off-road performance can always fit aftermarket locking differentials.

Cabin comfort
No matter what model grade, the D-Max offers plenty of space for front seat occupants and class-average rear-seat comfort. The driver’s seat offers a generous base and comfortable backrest, with plenty of fore and aft adjustment and lumbar adjustment and, despite the steering wheel being adjustable for rake only, it’s easy to find a comfortable seating position. The back seat offers reasonable width and good legroom, and all rear seat positions have three-point safety belts and adjustable headrests. There are three child seat anchor points and a storage bin under the seat.

Higher-spec models are anything but agricultural and the top-of-the-range LS-T is packed with equipment such as electrically adjustable driver’s seat, leather trim, climate control air conditioning, 8-inch touchscreen with satnav, premium audio and keyless entry and start. There are plenty of storage options including a double glovebox, a dash-top bin, a centre console bin, various cup holders and generous door pockets. There are also several 12V power outlets and USB ports for charging/powering devices.

Load carrying
Depending on grade, the 4×4 D-Max offers a load capacity of around one tonne, making it well suited to carrying several people and loads of gear. In other words, for those adventures in faraway places, the D-Max is ideal.
You can throw plenty of gear in the generous tub (1552mm long; 1530mm wide; 465mm high) and load accessories include a tub liner, soft and hard tonneau covers and a canopy. There are plenty of item specific load-carrying options available for D-Max, including bike carriers, roof-rack systems, tub racks, cargo tie-downs and more, so no matter what your adventure leaning, there will be a tailor-made load carrying solution to suit your needs.

Towing and safety
The D-Max has a class-standard braked-trailer towing capacity of 3500kg and it’s one of the better-performing utes when hauling a camper trailer. It comes standard with trailer sway control, as well as other active safety features including ABS, traction control, electronic stability control, emergency brake assist, and hill start assist. It also has dual front, curtain and side air bags.
There are currently four D-Max Crew Cab 4×4 models on offer starting with the SX at $44,600 ranging through to the LS-T at $54,700 (plus on-road costs).

D-Max range
D-Max Crew Cab 4X4
D-Max Crew Cab 4X4 SX Ute $44,600
D-Max Crew Cab 4X4 LS-M Ute $46,900
D-Max Crew Cab 4X4 LS-U Ute $48,800
D-Max Crew Cab 4X4 LS-T Ute $54,700

Isuzu D-Max Crew Cab 4X4
Engine: 3.0-litre four-cylinder turbo-diesel (130kW at 3600rpm/430Nm at 2000-2200rpm)
Transmission: six-speed auto (optional)
Drive: part-time 4×4; two-speed transfer case
Dimensions: 5295mm (L); 1860mm (W); 1855mm (H)
Turning Circle: 12.6m
Ground Clearance: 225-235mm
Kerb Weight: 2001-2026kg
GVM: 3050kg
Payload: 1024-1049kg
GCM: 5950kg
Cargo bed: 1552mm (L); 1530mm (w);
465mm (H)
Towing Capacity: 750kg/3500kg
Tyres: 245/70R16; 255/65R17; or 255/60R18
Spare: Full-size
Fuel Tank: 76L
Thirst (combined): 7.9L/100km (claimed); 8.9L/100km (tested)

For more on the D-Max, head to Isuzu.

The post Max adventure appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Nestled inside a purpose-built deep-submergence vehicle (DSV) called Limiting Factor, he dived to the bottom of the deepest ocean trench, reaching 16m further than anyone before.

The previous record for a solo dive was 10,908m, set by filmmaker and explorer James Cameron in the Deepsea Challenger in 2012.

Victor’s record-breaking dive took him deeper than Mt Everest is high, to a cold, lightless, high-pressure place as inaccessible as outer space.

It was the fourth successful leg of his Five Deeps Expedition, which was designed to send a human to the very bottom of each of the world’s five oceans: the Puerto Rico Trench in the Atlantic, South Sandwich Trench in the Southern Ocean, Java Trench in the Indian Ocean, Challenger Deep in the Pacific and Molloy Deep in the Arctic.

The latter was the last left to reach at the time of going to press. A five-part documentary series filmed by Atlantic Productions is due to be shown on the Discovery Channel at the end of this year.

More: Purchase your award tickets! This year’s guest is ocean explorer Victor Vescovo

Launching the Limiting Factor submersible into the wild and frigid Southern ocean from the stern of DSSV Pressure Drop was like a finely choreographed ballet for humans and heavy machinery.

The decision to embark on the Five Deeps Expedition was made by Victor in 2015 while undertaking The Explorers Grand Slam – climbing the highest mountain on each of the seven continents and skiing to both the north and south poles.

After exploring Earth’s highest peaks it seemed natural he should seek its lowest depths. But he’d been mulling over the concept well before that and already knew there was a huge problem: he’d need a submersible craft capable of repeated dives to some of Earth’s most inhospitable places and such a thing didn’t yet exist.

And so Victor partnered with Triton Submarines, based in Florida, to design, build and test the next generation of deep ocean research and adventure vehicles.

The result was a submersible that resembled a white-bread sandwich. It was officially dubbed Triton 36,000/2 (for 36,000-foot capable, with two persons) or FOD Triton (Full Ocean Depth). Victor, however, christened it Limiting Factor after the name of a spaceship in a book authored by the late science fiction writer Iain M. Banks.

Limiting Factor is a revolutionary craft but to explain why, it’s necessary to recap some deep sea history and marine physics.
Earth’s deep ocean trenches have been, and are still being, formed as the planet’s tectonic plates crash into each other: one slipping beneath another during a process known as subduction. Trenches are the deep furrows formed at the boundaries between subducting and overriding plates.

The deepest is the Mariana Trench, near Guam in the North Pacific and its deepest part is known as the Challenger Deep, nearly a gobsmacking 11km below the surface.

The pressure at this depth, due to the massive weight of the overlying water, is 1100 times that at sea level: about 16,000psi (pounds per square inch) compared with 14.7psi at the surface.

It’s like the weight of a locomotive engine stacked onto your fingernail. Extraordinary engineering is therefore required to construct a vehicle that can reach the so-called hadal depths and return in one piece.

The first of the three piloted vehicles to visit the Challenger Deep was the bathyscaphe Trieste, in 1960, piloted by Swiss engineer Jacques Piccard and US Navy Lieutenant Don Walsh.

To the astonishment of the world, the ground-breaking expedition reached 10,911m down – the deepest any vessel, crewed or uncrewed had reached.

Trieste was a large steel sphere attached to a gasoline-filled ‘steel balloon’. Because gasoline is lighter than sea water, it provided sufficient lift to bring the bathyscaphe back to the surface.

Trieste was designed and built by Jacques and his father, Auguste, a fellow explorer, and was bought by the US Navy.

It took five hours to reach its destination and a further three to return to the surface.

Trieste didn’t carry any scientific research equipment or external cameras that could withstand the pressure.

When it touched down on the bottom it raised a silt cloud so dense it was impossible to see out. Trieste spent less than 30 minutes on the bottom, but proved it could be done.

The US Navy persisted with the Nekton program, featuring further Trieste dives, for another six months before winding it down.

For the next 50 years, deep ocean science was the domain of ‘landers’ – unpiloted robot vehicles that can collect biological and geological samples and record video.

The next piloted DSV capable of reaching such depths was the James Cameron-designed Deepsea Challenger, built by Australian engineer Ron Allum and his team (see Legend of the deep, AG 110).

Technologically, it was a quantum leap from Trieste.

The core of both vehicles was a steel sphere to protect the occupant from the crushing pressure, but that’s where the similarities ended.

Unlike Trieste, Deepsea Challenger could hold only a single pilot, in somewhat cramped conditions, but the technology was remarkable.

Allum had developed and patented a form of syntactic foam called Isofloat to provide buoyancy for the 12-tonne vehicle.

Isofloat contains millions of tiny air-filled glass spheres embedded in an epoxy resin – as strong as steel, yet it still floats.

Deepsea Challenger was orientated vertically to descend more easily through the water column. And it was decked out in lights and 3D cameras so James could record his historic dive in vivid detail.

The vessel was designed to make repeated dives, but, after completing just one mission to the Challenger Deep and suffering some damage, Cameron donated it to the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, in Massachusetts in the USA.

In 2018 the Australian National Maritime Museum in Sydney hosted a collection of objects from the Deepsea Challenger project, which recognised Australia’s significant involvement in deep ocean research.

While the technological change from Trieste to Deepsea Challenger took 52 years, the next leap, to Limiting Factor, came in only six. Its pressure sphere is made from titanium, not steel, and it’s large enough to seat two people in relative comfort.

Designed and manufactured to be fully reusable, it’s the only submersible to gain Full Ocean Depth (FOD) commercial certification. This means it can safely carry passengers, scientists and crew to any part of any ocean.

It’s why Limiting Factor is perfectly suited to reaching the bottom of the world’s oceans like no vessel ever before.

A moderately sized mother ship, plus a launch-and-recovery system and support team are needed, but the science and adventure possibilities are endless. The unexplored territory in deep ocean trenches is estimated to be about the size of Australia.

THE First of the Five Deeps to be achieved was the Atlantic Ocean’s 8376m Puerto Rico Trench, which Victor reached on 20 December last year.

This was swiftly followed by the Southern Ocean’s 7434m South Sandwich Trench on 3 February 2019.

The third was the Indian Ocean’s 7192m Java Trench on 10 April this year.

Victor and Glenn.

The Challenger Deep in the Mariana Trench was the fourth. And the final and fifth record was to be broken as we went to press, when
Limiting Factor was expected to head to the bottom of the Arctic Ocean’s 5670m Molloy Deep.

The Southern Ocean expedition was the most challenging in terms of remoteness and weather.

The South Sandwich Trench is about 850km south-east of South Georgia, which is itself 1390km from the Falkland Islands.

Most of the South Sandwich Trench has never been sonar-mapped, so the goal was to thoroughly map the trench before diving to its deepest points.

The expedition’s mother ship is a 68m ex-US Navy Stalwart class Cold War submarine hunter now called DSSV Pressure Drop.

Its quiet diesel electric motors permit communication between the surface and Limiting Factor by using high-tech underwater acoustic communications systems.

The wild card in any Southern Ocean expedition was always going to be the weather. Compounding already sub-zero air temperatures, the high-speed westerlies of the Screaming Sixties whip up monster swells and a vicious wind-chill.

Massive icebergs up to 20km across dotted the ocean, while humpback whales breached, chinstrap penguins screeched and albatross lazily swooped around the ship.

The crew complement included marine engineers, electronics and communication specialists, scientists, filmmakers, sonar operators, submarine life support engineers, an ice pilot and a doctor (myself).

Launching a submersible into the Southern Ocean is not for the faint-hearted. To be prepared, the team practised the launch-recovery system in the relative safety of Cumberland Inlet on South Georgia.

With practice, a complex manoeuvre involving the ship, the tenders, the cranes, the crew, the communications systems and the film crew was fine-tuned.

Mt Paget (2934m) and the other mountains of the Allardyce Range towered over the team as they worked in the calm waters of the inlet.

Like most visitors to South Georgia, the crew paid their respects at the grave of the great 20th-century polar explorer Ernest Shackleton near the ruins of the Grytviken whaling station.

The Southern Ocean is home to Earth’s highest waves, strongest currents and most powerful winds.

The expedition plan was to sonar-map the South Sandwich Trench while waiting for a weather window to dive.

As it happened, the weather window came sooner than expected. Almost as soon as the deepest point in the Southern Ocean was mapped, Victor decided to dive.

The launch sequence was repeated flawlessly in open ocean and at 1.15pm on 3 February, Limiting Factor was on its way down to the 7433m bottom.

The very cold water created some problems – a large thermocline at 4000m prevented acoustic communications – and the deck crew suffered in the bitter cold. But after a three-hour descent, Victor reached the bottom, becoming the first human to visit the deepest point of the Southern Ocean.

Dr Alan Jamieson holds amphipods retrieved from the science landers that supported Limiting Factor in the South Sandwich Trench. (Image credit: Glenn Singleman)

YOU MIGHT THINK there would only be emptiness and desolation here, but patience and careful observation revealed life-a-plenty to Victor, as has been the case in the other trenches too.

On video, amphipods – a type of crustacean – can be seen darting around Limiting Factor, and one of the landers filmed three new species of snailfish.

Worldwide more than 9950 species of amphipod have been described and Dr Alan Jamieson, Five Deeps Expedition chief scientist, is confident more were discovered in the South Sandwich Trench.

Alan is concerned about the human pollutants such as PCBs, micro plastics and lead that have been found in deep-sea fauna in other trenches. He and his colleagues are analysing the samples obtained from the South Sandwich Trench.

When Victor returned to the surface, he had to be careful not to come up under an iceberg. Fortunately, communications were re-established when the submersible was above 4000m and he was given the all clear to surface. Like the record-breaking Mariana Trench dive that would follow nearly three months later, the Southern Ocean dive was a spectacular success.

The post ‘Deeper than Mt Everest is high’: Diving the Mariana Trench appeared first on Australian Geographic.

In one attack I was taking my children to a matinee performance of Wind In The Willows at a Hobart theatre. My lurching gait attracted the attention of a man who, unprovoked, punched me in the ear from behind, knocking me to the ground. My head hit the pavement. The man ran off, and a passer-by helped me to my feet. I’m just grateful my kids were already in the theatre and didn’t see what happened.

That is why I volunteer for the Hobart Human Library program where I feel I am making a real difference for empathy building, social inclusion and the breaking down of stereotypes. A Danish concept, the Human Library uses the art of storytelling to break down barriers and lessen the harmful effects of prejudice and discrimination. This ‘living’ library was first developed in 2000 and has since spread to more than 45 countries. There are currently 32 human libraries around Australia.

It is an unbelievably powerful and yet simple concept. The ‘books’, people who have experienced prejudice or discrimination first hand, visit schools and workplaces and tell their stories. The Hobart Human Library has people who have experienced the negative effects of stereotyping due to their culture or religion, their gender or sexual orientation, or in my case their physical appearance and perceived ability. The library provides a comfortable space for the ‘reader’ to speak informally with a living ‘book’.

My experience of prejudice and discrimination has made me less confident. Now I am wary of unpredictable people and try and stay away from them. Obviously I had bags of confidence when I was climbing mountains.

With 57% unemployment nationally for people with disabilities I feel I have to constantly prove my worth to society by pushing myself to every greater goals. Since my accident I have cycled from the lowest point to the highest point in Australia and cycled to Mount Everest, rafted The Franklin River, completed a university degree and I am writing my fourth book. Also, I finally climbed the Totem Pole. All while raising a family.

The Hobart Human Library is supported by A Fairer World, a social justice hub that empowers schools and the wider community to take action for social justice, peace and a sustainable world future.

Paul was the 2018 Australian Geographic Spirit of Adventure award winner. Read all about his award-winning adventure exploits and hear from Paul himself here.

Learn more about the Australian Geographic Society Awards here.

To attend the 2019 Australian Geographic Awards, on 1 November at the Shangri-La Hotel in Sydney, and be inspired by this year’s awardees, book your tickets here.

The post Don’t judge a book by its cover appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Showcasing a 2.5-hour program of the most heartfelt, inspiring and entertaining films celebrating adventurous women from independent film makers around the globe.

Featuring a unique selection of films of varying lengths and styles, covering topics relevant to women in the outdoors, the Gutsy Girls Adventure Film Tour will connect with both the avid and the armchair adventurer alike.

The 2019 tour showcases Samantha Gash on her quest to run across India, a committed paddler who doesn’t let size get in the way of her passions, big wave surfing champion Paige Alms, rock climber Hazel Findlay, and a crew of rad Alaskan fat-tyre snow bikers who know how to dream big and more.

By celebrating the female adventurous spirit, we aim to make women in the outdoors more visible. But Gutsy Girls screenings are not just for women – they are for all of us to celebrate diversity and inclusion and the rad ladies of the adventure world.

Book your tickets here.

The post Gutsy girls going for it appeared first on Australian Geographic.

It was early morning along the banks of the Mitta Mitta River next to the Omeo Highway in Victoria, and I had been on the road almost four weeks. I’d set out from near the mouth of the Snowy River and was fresh out of the High Country heading west, hoping to make it to Margaret River in Western Australia with my two horses.

Most people are curious when they meet us on the road, and this farmer was the only person I’d met so far who seemed unimpressed by the notion of trans-continental horse travel. But, I’m kind of thankful to him, because his question forced me to articulate WHY I would want to ride across Australia on horseback. The reasons seem pretty obvious to me, but often baffle the people I meet and chat with along the way.

Riding from the east coast of Australia to the west isn’t an easy journey, no matter your means of transport, and choosing to travel with horses is not a super fast way to progress, but I honestly can’t think of better travel companions for a 4000km, nine-month journey. I have always wanted to cross a continent on horseback, and with sections of the Bicentennial National Trail closed due to drought, I thought well, why not cross a desert then? I’ve always loved travelling, and I feel more at home on some kind of expedition, sleeping in a tent and embracing the mild discomforts and often indeterminable rewards of life on the road.

So far, we are about 1500km and nearly three months into this particular expedition. And by “us”, I mean myself and my two horses, Mr Richard, 17 years, and Micky, 3. I think I often confuse people when I use the royal we, but this is definitely a team effort, and I often feel like my boys do all the work and I’m just an on-board GPS system in charge of logistics and finance.

Horse travel has its own particular set of challenges and rewards. Worrying about my horses’ welfare takes up much of my time, keeping them fed and watered and secure at night often requires a bit of creativity, but in return I get to spend so much quality time with them, learning their funny little foibles and being thoroughly entertained – because horses are nothing if not a crack-up! Whether it’s riding into a supermarket parking lot and getting many curious stares, or chasing hoof prints through the frosty grass of an orange orchard under the light of a full moon when the horses have somehow escaped at 3am, horse life keeps you on your toes.

I guess at the end of the day, that’s one of the main reasons I’m out here: just to embrace the privilege of this opportunity, to share such experiences with my horses and connect to the country I am travelling through at a far more fundamental level than one can when travelling in a car.

Whether or not this is something a normal person would do… well, I really can’t say!

You can follow Stef’s journey here.

The post Horsing around across Australia appeared first on Australian Geographic.

How did you get into adventure guiding and why did you choose to settle in the Antarctic?

Sophie’s direction in life pointed towards guiding from the moment a school careers adviser identified it as a potential career path. I on the other hand, started a little differently. After a professional career in a totally non-related industry (a desk-job!), I fell into outdoor guiding rather unexpectedly and without meaning to! We have both guided in many parts of the world but keep being drawn to the Antarctic because it is so special and so unique.

Antarctica itself is an incredible destination to be able to explore. Where else have you kayaked, together or separately, and how do they compare to the Antarctic?

We have kayaked in many places around the world, from the rugged coasts of Tasmania, to the untouched fjords of New Zealand and the tropical islands of the Coral Sea. It’s difficult to compare them to each other because they’re all so different. But by embracing what each of them has to offer, you can see their uniqueness and why each one is so special.

You’re both obviously inspired by the outdoors. What in particular inspires you about the exploring?

We both seek solace and connection in the outdoors – it’s our temple. Regardless of the environment, as long as it is wild land, we feel at home. And exploration of these lands satisfies our curious minds.

What does it mean to you, to be out on the water, in such an incredible place as the Antarctic every day?

It means we have perhaps the best office in the world. Though, sometimes it feels like there are some problems with the air-conditioning! We return to Antarctica because of the place. Because of what it means to give people the gift of experiencing a place otherwise mostly off-limits. The outdoors is our temple, it’s our place of belonging and exploration of the outdoors satisfies our curious minds.

About Sophie and Ewan

Ewan has travelled widely for work and pleasure, leading expeditions in Vietnam, summiting peaks in Ecuador and leading extended sea kayaking trips in the rugged South West of Tasmania. Sophie has led countless multi-day sea kayaking adventures in the rugged fjords of her native New Zealand, as well as along Canada’s famed BC coast. Together, they formed an expert kayak guiding partnership in the Antarctic after having met on a tourist vessel in Antarctica eight years ago. Working with companies such as Polar Latitudes and One Ocean Expeditions, they take their clients from Ushuaia or Punta Arenas in Southern Argentina to the Antarctic Peninsula by ship. Here they explore the peninsula by kayak, visiting places such as the South Shetland Islands, the picturesque Neko Harbor, the humpback whale favoured Whilhelmina Bay and the wildlife filled Penola Channel. Expeditions can last up to two weeks and give people a chance to experience the beauty of the Antarctic Peninsula.

Head here for the full story on Ewan and Sophie, and their incredible adventures.

The post Navigating the white continent appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Cavers from the Hobart-based club Southern Tasmanian Caverneers (STC) spent four days camping underground in Mount Field National Park, in an effort to connect the Niggly Cave and Growling Swallet cave systems – Australia’s deepest and fourth-deepest caves.

Expedition organiser and cave diver, Stephen Fordyce, was nominated to dive through more than 200 metres of unmapped, flooded cave passages to break the record.

“Caves are unpredictable, underground obstacle courses – you have little idea what’s coming next and you need to have the skills to handle whatever they throw at you,” says, Mr Fordyce.

The caves are part of the Junee-Florentine system, which is home to a labyrinth of more than 600 caves and more than 50 kilometres of explored underground passages to date. Explorers have spent decades searching for the ‘master cave’ – a link between the two cave systems.

“Exploration of these caves is far from complete and much more of this complex and extraordinary puzzle remains to be discovered and mapped by speleologists and cave divers for years to come,” says Mr Fordyce.

Dr Stefan Eberhard, STC Vice President and cave scientist, said that besides the pursuit of scientific knowledge, the ongoing exploration aimed to secure better environmental protection in the region.

“The Junee-Florentine caves contain features of great cultural, scientific and conservation value, including archaeological heritage sites, unique species of cave-adapted fauna, bones of extinct megafauna and ancient sediments deposited during glacial periods.”

The years-long cave connection project has been the subject of a documentary, Tartarus: The Search for the Junee Master Cave, which is yet to be released.

The post AG-sponsored explorers break record for Australia’s deepest cave appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Founded in 2009 by James Freeman after he lost both of his parents to cancer (just 12 months apart), the rally is now the largest independent fundraiser for the Cancer Council nationally, and in 2018 broke fundraising records reaching $1.974 million in donations. This year the bar has been set higher – $2 million.

“This being the 10th Shitbox Rally in Australia I felt celebrating it with a day for each year was appropriate,” says James. “Also, spanning the width of this magnificent country is a great celebration of the outback, its communities and the fundraising teams in the rally. It will indeed be a celebration of achievement for the last decade.”

On Wednesday 8 May 2019 a convoy of 275 cars and 550 participants left Optus Stadium in Perth. They, and their shitboxes, are due to arrive in Centennial Park, Sydney between 1pm and 3pm on 17 May.

Throughout the journey the shitboxers travel through wild and untamed parts of the country’s heart, stopping in at small towns and Indigenous communities. They watch the sun rise over the desert and mulga, and race emus along dirt tracks. Shingleback lizards on said tracks can bring the impressive convoy to a stop, and sunsets are soaked up like the red dirt is into the shitboxers’ skin.

“It’s an exhilarating and exhausting 10 days,” says rally participant Tania Pettitt, who played bride to her fiance’s groom during the event. “We’re getting married later in the year but it was suggested we share ‘fake nuptials’ with our shitbox family, and it was a privilege to be celebrated by so many people who over the years have grown to mean the world to us.”

The 550 participants were also treated to dinner under the stars at Uluru, and the incredible Field of Lights installation by the internationally celebrated artist Bruce Munro. Overwhelming in size, covering more than seven football fields, it invites immersion in its fantasy garden of 50,000 spindles of light, the stems breathing and swaying through a sympathetic desert spectrum of ochre, deep violet, blue and gentle white.

For more on the rally and how you can get involved, head to Shitbox Rally HQ.

The post Keeping your shit together appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Dombrovskis and fellow wilderness photographer Olegas Truchanas were the inspiration that had led AGS-sponsored adventurers Ro Privett, Dave Matters and Dan Kozaris to find themselves precariously balanced on the banks of the Gordon River in early 2016, ready to set off on an epic white- water kayaking expedition.

The team were about to paddle down the Gordon River Splits in the Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers National Park, part of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area. Thankfully the outflow from the upstream Gordon Dam was turned off, transforming the normally thundering perilous rapids into something more manageable, or so they hoped.

They had abseiled down to the river with their kayaks in torrential rain, but nevertheless were “presented with an awe-inspiring gorge that had us speechless,” Ro says. “The forces of nature were well and truly on show.” The channel was packed with huge glistening boulders, some the size of houses.

The kayaking was tough going and they were cautious in their approach to paddling as the bounced through many boulder-strewn rapids. Flanking them far above on the high banks were unmistakable Huon pines, among the oldest living trees in Australia.

A few hectic days of alternately paddling and scrambling by foot over boulders along the river banks later, they rounded a bend in the river and were presented with the final split or gorge – the narrowest of them all. “It was a mass of boulders, old wise and patient, lying at the foot of vertical cliffs… There was a stunned silence between us,” Ro says.

To get into the water here, the crew had to abseil once more into the water carrying their kayaks, as there were no rock ledges to speak of on either side of the river. Once in “I could see both the boys just below me in an eddy – with grins from ear to ear,” he says. “I helplessly followed suit as I floated through. We were there. We had made it… It was one of those moments where our hearts and souls agreed; we hadn’t lived many a better day.”

Once back at home and able to reflect on their time in the wilderness, Ro adds: “We were more fulfilled. We had a clearer understanding of our lives and a better connection to both family and friends. We felt whole and had re-discovered our passion.”
As Dombrovkis says of Tasmania: “It is a wild land and I think that there is a certain wildness, a certain wild element in man’s nature that is essential to the humanness of man. If man becomes contained, too docile, programmed, then he becomes less human. And this wildness in the wilderness allows the wildness in man an expression.”

The trio are working on a full-length documentary, called It’s Only Natural. Here’s a preview. We’ll keep you posted on it’s release date.

The post Kayaking the Gordon River in Tasmania appeared first on Australian Geographic.

This is the question most asked of Andrew Lock, Australia’s king of high-altitude mountaineering. Andrew is part of an elite group of alpinists who have climbed all 14 of the world’s 8000-metre peaks.  Having completed this immense challenge, and without the use of supplemental oxygen, it’s fair to wonder what adventure could compare?

The answer – Antarctica.  Andrew’s favourite adventure destination. There are countless remote and unclimbed peaks to satisfy his need for isolation and his desire to be totally self-reliant even in the most challenging environments.

So, in January, Andrew and a small group of friends set sail from Ushuaia in Argentina aboard a 66-foot (20m) aluminium yacht bound for the Antarctic Peninsula. They hoped to sail as far south as the ocean, and the relatively fragile ship, permitted before going ashore to ski inland in search of first ascents.

The Drake Passage is notoriously rough, but they made the crossing safely only to have an unpredicted storm toss them onto rocks near the coast, damaging the propeller and starter motor. The delay while they made repairs necessitated a change in plan. They settled on a range of smaller, more accessible peaks on Anvers Island. None had been climbed before. All required technical skill and self-sufficiency.

Over 10 days the small team of four skied inland. What they couldn’t carry in backpacks, they dragged behind them in sleds. They kept their equipment simple, using lightweight propane butane stoves to melt water and freeze-dried food and high-calorie energy bars for meals. They packed out all their waste.

They successfully climbed Mt Nestor and Mt Achilles in the Palmer range of mountains and new routes on other peaks including Mt Helen and Mt Menelaus. They also established a major new route and traverse of the two highest summits in the range, Mt Francais, 2760m, and Mt Agamemnon, 2577m.  Where possible they climbed up and skied down.

Andrew said the “new route up the Zeus Ridge of Mt Francais followed by the traverse to and descent of Mt Agamemnon was the highlight.  These peaks rise straight out of the sea, so we had an ascent of 2800m followed by a mostly ski descent.”

They used kites to return, a relatively new but thrilling experience for Andrew. Reaching speeds of more than 20km/h they were able to make their rendezvous deadline with the yacht. They sailed back into Ushuaia early in March, keen for a hot shower and a good meal.

Check out footage of their incredible adventure here:

Andrew is a popular keynote speaker– addressing corporate and community audiences on his adventures and the lessons inherent for any successful enterprise – setting goals, staying motivated, dealing with setbacks, building resilience and self-sufficiency, leadership and more. For more information about Andrew’s presentations head to Australian Geographic Presents.

The post Sailing, climbing and kite skiing in Antarctica appeared first on Australian Geographic.

For the first time, waterproof no longer means loud, crunchy, muggy and unpackable. FutureLight is aimed at setting a new standard in the fabric creation process so T-shirts can be waterproof and denim can be comfortable. The North Face has developed nanospinning technology for its FutureLight range whereby nano-sized fibres allow superior air permeability while maintaining waterproofness. The unique lamination process is then used to attach the fibres to the fabric without sacrificing breathability, waterproofness or durability. The result is an innovative fabric that can be adapted to meet the needs of any athlete.

Expected to hit Australian stores this spring, the FutureLight range will be incorporated into Summit and Steep series outerwear at no extra cost to the consumer. “This is the biggest technical innovation in The North Face’s history!” says Paul Karis, General Manager of The North Face Australia. This is a bold call considering The North Face has been an industry leader for more than half a century, inventing iconic equipment including the dome tent and frameless backpacks.

“With our unique Australian environment, Futurelight’s breathability is going to offer a massive advantage over pre-existing fabrics,” explains Paul. “Imagine being able to regulate body temperature efficiently without having to constantly don and remove layers. By using nanospinning technology, we offer the same denier of weave and durability but at a reduced weight and superior packability. “In the future, FutureLight will wrap it’s arms around every product category in The North Face brand.”

FutureLight has been tested by top athletes around the globe including ski mountaineers Hilaree Nelson and Jim Morrison when they summited Lhotse, the fourth-highest mountain in the world, in September last year. The pair then made the 2100m vertical descent, becoming the first people in history to ski down Lhotse Couloir.

“There really is nothing like FutureLight on the market,” says Paul. “The North Face has worked with the world’s very best athletes to make sure it is fit for purpose. Our athletes need active wear that is stretchy, breathable, durable and constructed with texture to match their activity or environment.”

FutureLight has also introduced more sustainable practices in the fabric-creation process for The North Face, enabling the brand to responsibly create three-layer garments through use of recycled fabrics, and production that cuts chemical consumption, all while being produced in a cleaner, solar-powered factory.

Futurelight will be available in The North Face stores from October 2019.  

For the full story on ski mountaineers Hilaree Nelson’s and Jim Morrison’s summit and ski descent of Lhotse, grab your copy of Australian Geographic Adventure magazine, in newsagents and leading grocery stores from 22 April.

The post The future is light appeared first on Australian Geographic.

A lot of people say that cycling around the world was just in my blood. I take nearly all my inspiration from my mum Anne and dad Gary. They met while cycling around Tasmania and then together took on expeditions across Europe, Asia & all over, so growing up as a boy I always heard their tales and woes from the road. And to this day, in their fifties they’re both still doing incredible bike trips!

I was really into my outdoor education through school and did a lot of rock climbing, sea kayaking and bush walking, and have always had the want for adventure inside me! Once I finished school I worked hard for one-and-a-half years in the outdoor guiding industry and worked out pretty quickly I was searching for more. I had the original plan to do a trans Europe bike ride, south to north. Then while discussing it with my friend while out climbing he joked “Mate, just go around the world”. Little did he know that had flicked a switch and then the ride snowballed into something massive!

When did you first start your trip, how far have you come and what direction are you going in?

I began my trip on 21 April 2018, so it’s coming up 12 months since leaving home!

I’ve covered 31,000km across 29 countries and four continents!

The majority of my trip has been done west-east, however due to weather and seasons I flew from Washington DC [USA] to Kyrgyzstan and cycled westward across Central Asia, Turkey and Europe. I did this because the section through Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, along the Pamir Highway was the section I was most excited for and with passes being above 4600m it had to be done in the right season, which if I cycled Europe first, I would have missed.

Once I reached Lisbon, Portugal, I flew to New Delhi and am now continuing eastward!

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My Pride & Joy, my best mate. A curve Kevin/GXR, or to me, GRACE! She gives back 100% of what I put in. There’s no motor, no assistance, I spin the pedals and she goes forwards. Simple as that! I can’t think of anything more fun!

A post shared by Around the World by Bike (@jimmy_ashby) on Jan 4, 2019 at 9:37pm PST

How did you prepare for the epic trip?

Looking back now you could say I’ve been leading up to this for years! At 14 years old I spent one week cycling around Kangaroo Island, SA, with my dad. At 16 I cycled 900km solo down the coast of Tasmania, and straight after finishing year 12 at age 17 I spent three weeks riding solo on the South Island of New Zealand! Once I had finished school my cycling took on a whole new level, really pushing the endurance side of it, seeing how far/long I could go, completing hill climb challenges, ‘Everesting’ and riding from Adelaide to Geelong in two days.

Three months before I departed Adelaide I went on what I called the ‘Training Ride’ (just an excuse to go for a ride really…) I cycled from Melbourne to Canberra, crisscrossing the Victorian Alps all on sealed roads. I then turned around and went back to Melbourne via dirt tracks along a route called the ‘Hunt 1000’, which I sadly crashed out on, with 200km to go. I wasn’t hurt, however the bike was unrideable, creating quite the adventure to get back to civilisation!

Mentally there was a lot of planning that went with working out visas/routes and to be honest most of that quickly got thrown out the window when I hit the road… there’s been a lot of planning along the way!

Jimmy in Lisbon.

What has been the biggest challenge so far?

My biggest challenge? That’s a tough one, real tough.

To me cycling is my ‘happy place’, it’s where I feel complete and is what I love to do, so while getting up to ride 150+km every day to some may be the challenge, for me it’s a blessing. Of course there are times where it’s hot, cold, windy or I’m hungry (that happens a lot), which makes the riding tougher or less enjoyable but I’m still riding and that’s what I love. Sometimes I have to stop and breathe for a minute to remember that.

So for me, the toughest moments, the times that have brought me to tears, are when I wasn’t able to ride and I lost my ‘happy place’. These times came when I had mechanical problems I couldn’t fix or was stuck waiting for new parts to be posted to me, twiddling my thumbs spending money I didn’t have and just waiting. The one other moment that I’ll never let go of is when I was in Tajikistan. Six weeks before I cycled the road on the Afghan border, four cyclists were killed in an act of terror by Islamic State. I arrived at the location and found a memorial for them… instantly it broke me, the fear it could have been me but also the fear, the stress and the worry I was putting my friends and family through.

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I haven’t cried like this before. These tears brought me to my knees. For people I’ve never known. On July 29th, 2018, 7 cyclists were attacked in Tajikistan. A car drove into them, turned around and came back with a knife. 4 of them were killed. This is their memorial. . Maybe you knew about this attack, you might have found it online or the news. Many people even brought it up with me before I flew over here. I so nearly didn’t come. I stand by my belief that it wasn’t the Tajik people, not the people I’ve come across. It’s clear to see that they are mourning and regret this as a country. Police, army soldiers, the average person have all stepped above their usual kindness to ensure I’m ok, pulling over to offer me food & water. They’ve even apologised to me personally. It was a rash attack by the IS towards the government. I feel safer in Tajikistan than I did though many parts of America. It breaks my heart. . This could have so easily been me, or one of the other incredible cyclists I’ve met. . Just like me, I bet all they wanted to do was see the world, see it on a bike. Be a world traveler. To the Mother, Father, Family & Friends of these cyclist’s. I am so sorry. My heart goes out to you. May they Ride in Peace forever on.

A post shared by Around the World by Bike (@jimmy_ashby) on Sep 9, 2018 at 7:15pm PDT

What has been one of the biggest lessons for you?

My biggest lesson? Again, a tough one.

When I left Adelaide I definitely had a huge ego in tow. I wanted to tell everyone what I was doing, where I was going, feeling indestructible. “I’m Jimmy, I’m 18, I will cycle around the world.” I didn’t have an appreciation for where I was going or the places I’d get to see. I had this ‘go go go, faster is better, I can do anything’ frame of mind until half way across the USA when one of my best mates, Chad Freak, joined me for a week while crossing the Rockies in Colorado. He’s a guy I’ve always looked up to and has done some incredible things on a bike in his own right! He definitely picked up on the mind frame I had and he made me really ask myself why am I doing this? Is it to say I’ve cycled the world or is it for me, and the love of adventure & cycling?

Once he left I made the effort, I learnt to be humble, I made the simple switch from telling people ‘I’m cycling around the world’ to ‘Just travelling through’ when asked, I learnt if they were actually interested in my story then they would want to chat. My entire mind frame and schedule changed, I became less stressed and started to feel that happiness I was searching for. If it wasn’t for Chad and making that change then through the tougher countries, the challenges and conditions would have torn me apart! I learnt that the macho mind frame I had was going to prevent me from achieving what I wanted to.

What has been your favourite place?

I can look at any country and tell you that it’s my favourite place, often when asked this question it’s where I’ve been the previous couple weeks because it’s fresh in my mind. To give you an answer though, it would be Nepal. The entire time through Nepal I just felt calm and happy, the roads were so gnarly and wild, I couldn’t find more remote back roads if I wanted to. These roads took me over, down, through the most incredible valleys and mountain tops all while having the Himalayan skyline in the background, just incredible scenery.

Nepal also inspired a pretty crazy idea for the future, a complete off-road mountain bike adventure crossing the Himalayas all the way though Nepal, India, Pakistan and Kyrgyzstan. I like to dream about the next adventure quite a bit!

What bike are you using and has it served you well?

I rode the CURVE Cycling GXR, for the first 23,000km. I was on the titanium model and then switched to the steel model to test it out for the rest of my journey. The bike has served me incredibly, not only that but the support from the company, CURVE has been pivotal in my trip. They have aided in getting new parts sent all over the globe and setting me up with contacts and help worldwide.

What are you looking forward to the most when you get home?

I’m only a matter of months away from arriving back home so the thought of my friends and family, a bed or fridge full of food is very exciting and motivating.

Of course seeing everybody and having those things is going to be great but I’m most looking forward to being able to develop who I’ve become. I haven’t become a different person but I’ve certainly worked out what my morals are and who ‘Jimmy’ is. I’m also very excited to be able to share that with everyone and then put it all into motion for projects and the next expedition. Riding around the world is only the beginning!

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I’m on my way home. With roughly 8000 – 10 000km left, it’s becoming a matter of weeks before I roll back into Adelaide. But it’s not just about the ride. Along with this journey I’m raising funds for Motor Neurone Disease (MND). My goal from day one has been to raise $1 per kilometre, however when I left home I only planned to do 29 000km… it’s now become a 40 000km mission. Which means not only will I be riding another 11 000km, we need to raise another $11 000! As of 18/03/2019 we have an incredible, $22 542.14 raised… Wow! But it’s time we kick it to the next level, there’s still $17 457.16 to get together. Let’s step it up. Companies have contacted me saying they will match every donation their employees make, @westminster.school school are putting on an entire school fundraiser, the local pubs back home even have jars collecting change! So what can you do to help? Donations can be made via my @everydayhero page in my bio, but you could even go further, share with friends, family, colleagues, set up a jar in your cafe or pub, does your school do fundraisers? Or do you work for a company/organisation that’s willing to support people like me? Each day I sit on the bike seat for 8-10 hours, if I can do that, what can you do? If I can be any assistance in helping support fundraisers with a video, message or photo please let me know, send me a message or flick me an email: ashbyjimmy@gmail.com! Let’s tackle MND together.

A post shared by Around the World by Bike (@jimmy_ashby) on Mar 17, 2019 at 8:26pm PDT

What advice would you have for others who want to attempt an epic journey like yours?

I could talk for days about advice… but I think just ride the highs and lows and roll with whatever comes! If at the core of it you just love riding your bike and being out on an adventure then whatever happens you’re going to have a good time (mostly)!

You can plan and plan and plan for it but at the end of the day the only way you will learn and grow is by taking that step and messing up a few times. I still mess up all the time, even after 31,000km I’m far from the cyclist I want to be!

The post Meet the Adelaide boy bicycling around the world appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Prior to his accident, Steve had spent some time researching the seven summits, but had always put it off to pursue goals in his professional career as an engineer instead. Steve’s passion for high-altitude mountaineering came from his time in scouts, most memorably, when he climbed to Everest Base Camp when he was sixteen years old. But he hadn’t attempted an ambitious climb since.

Steve anticipated that the reaction of his family to his intention to climb the seven summits might be less than enthusiastic. “I had a good mate from high school who climbed Everest back in 2012 and he came and visited me in hospital. I told him what my plans were but he was the only person I told. I didn’t want to tell anyone else because I just thought they might tell me how stupid I was,” he tells Australian Geographic.

Steve recovering from his injuries. 

But they eventually caught on to his grand plans when he climbed Mount Aspiring in New Zealand, telling his family this was “practice number one” and his mountain climbing in Peru “practice number two”. It wasn’t until he returned from “practice number three”, a climb of Ama Dablam, a mountain in the Himalayas, when he finally told his family of his intention to climb the seven summits. “Coming from a family that’s had no exposure to mountaineering and climbing it’s perceived as high risk. My parents were worried but so supportive,” he says.

Steve officially kicked off Project 7in4 in January this year, beginning with Mt Vernon in Antarctica, then Aconcagua in Argentina, Mt Kilimanjaro in Tanzania and Carstensz Pyramid in Indonesia, all completed by March. “The first half in the Southern Hemisphere during the summer time was relatively easy. The hardest part was the second half in the Northern Hemisphere,” he says.

On 13 March, he began climbing Mt Elbrus in Russia, then Denali in the United States, which he says was the most challenging climb of all. “This was purely because we had to climb it out of season. We were the only team on the mountain the whole time, fully self-supported, facing minus 45 degree temperatures. We got hit by a storm and couldn’t get out of a tent for three days,” Steve recalls. After conquering Denali, however, there was no time for rest and it was time to take on Everest.

Steve at Everest Base Camp.

The Everest expedition took Steve and his team four weeks, which included trekking to base camp, acclimatising and waiting for a weather window. Steve says that his team was able to short-cut some of the normal acclimatisation as they were partially acclimatised having come straight off Denali. The final summit took five days, meaning Steve completed the seven summits in a record 117 days – nine days quicker than the previous record.

Steve says reaching the summit was a bittersweet moment. “People think that when you reach Everest you’re over the moon but for me it was nice to reach the summit, but it also marked the end of what was an incredible journey and I’d soon have to go home and get back to reality,” he says. “For me, it hasn’t just been about breaking the record and Everest, it was the journey the whole way through. I love having a challenge and having something to work towards.”

Steve’s camp setup on Everest.

Having goals like Project 7in4 was critical to Steve’s recovery. At the beginning of his rehabilitation, Steve was told he may be wheelchair bound for the rest of his life. Struggling with this thought, he says having something to focus on that was long-term, no matter how ridiculous it seemed to other people, motivated him to get better. “Having gone through all that rehabilitation, I learnt that with perseverance and patience, I could work through some of the tough situations that I came up against, many of which we faced on the climbs. I always had the confidence to keep moving forward.”

Steve has wasted no time in planning his next big adventure. In fact, Steve and one of his fellow climbers began talking about future record-breaking climbs while summiting Everest. Ultimately, Steve’s accident has made him more aware of how quickly life can change and is now working towards balancing his work life with a life of adventure. “You never know what you’re going to wake up to tomorrow so if you have a dream out there, it doesn’t necessarily have to be climbing, but whatever your passion is, don’t put it off. Give it a crack!

“No matter how absurd it may seem, with patience and perseverance, break it down to small bite-size chunks. The seven summits took three years to work towards and achieve and it was all about taking those small attainable steps.”

The post Steve Plain: the seven summits after near-fatal injury appeared first on Australian Geographic.

“The brakes are smoking!” I shouted to Duncan over the noise of screaming disc brakes as I tried to control a 75km/h speed wobble on the Alpine Way above Khancoban, near the New South Wales–Victoria border. I was doing my best to hold the tandem-trike steady with my one functioning hand while trying to let my blind stoker (the rear cyclist on a tandem bike) know what was going on. I was his eyes, he was my legs and we were more than 2000km into an adaptive human-powered journey that would take us from the continent’s lowest point to its highest.

I WAS PART of a five-person team, each with a heap of disabilities, attempting to be the first to cycle between Kati Thanda–Lake Eyre and Mt Kosciuszko, on the Lowest to Highest expedition. The team was Walter Van Praag with cystic fibrosis and only 38 per cent lung function; paraplegic Daniel Kojta who pedalled with his hands; Conrad Wansborough who lives with chronic pain after a spinal injury; legally blind Duncan Meerding; and my hemiplegic-epileptic-aphasic-self.

This ride would be the culmination of years of planning and the development of a philosophy of empowerment for people with disabilities. We were all very interested in moving away from the charity model, where people are largely pitied, to the more inclusive social model, whereby people are disabled by barriers in society not by their impairment or difference.

I have used a recumbent trike ever since being released from hospital in Liverpool in the UK in 1998 after spending an entire year there. My then girlfriend, Celia Bull, and I were climbing Tasmania’s infamous Totem Pole, a slender dolerite column at Cape Hauy, when the climbing rope dislodged a block that scythed 25m through the air smashing my skull. This traumatic brain injury resulted in hemiplegia, which is the loss of movement on one side of the body, and aphasia, an inability to comprehend or formulate language.

(Image credit: Matthew Newton)

The rescue was something else. I was hanging upside-down, 1m above the sea, on a 4m-wide by 65m-high needle of rock in a very narrow cleft. Blood was gushing from my head and I was drifting in and out of consciousness. I remember Celia beside me. She got me upright in an arrangement of slings and then climbed back up a rope to a ledge 30m up the Totem Pole. She then proceeded to haul me up to the ledge, which took three hours – her hands had deep gouges caused by the rope. I can only put her effort down to the adrenaline rush one hears about whereby a mother, say, lifts a car off her trapped child. She made me safe on the ledge and then climbed a rope to the pole’s summit, which perceptibly sways in the wind. She then crossed a rope traverse to the cliff edge of the mainland and proceeded to run 8km to Fortescue Bay where there was a telephone – it was in the days before mobile phones.

I was on that ledge for a further seven hours before paramedic Neale Smith abseiled down to me. By the profusion of blood on the ledge, Neale thought it was going to be a corpse recovery. When he saw I was still breathing he knew there was no time to lose. He clipped me to his harness and descended the stack towards a waiting tinnie. But the tinnie was surging against the column of dolerite a full 2m on the swell. So, waiting for the upsurge, Neale cut the rope and we both fell into the boat – quite exciting really.

Paul’s scar. (Supplied)

THUS BEGAN MY YEAR in hospital where I wrote my book The Totem Pole with one finger. It was either that or go down to the day-room with the other patients to watch re-runs of The Bold and the Beautiful. I was now in a wheelchair, the doctors were struggling to get my fits under control, I was unable to talk and unable to recall the most simple of facts but, paradoxically, just as intelligent as I ever was – so not very! It was akin to being a baby again.

I began to get very depressed at the prospect of never climbing again – so depressed I needed medication. I put all my expedition gear up for sale: I had a room full of ropes, tents, ice-axes and crampons. I remember breaking down in tears when one person came to buy my ski-mountaineering equipment.

However, it was during neurological rehabilitation that I began to realise I’d had a good teacher in the mountains and, having come so close to death, I learnt how to accept the fact that I was now paralysed. With this acceptance came the necessary strength to overcome my misfortune. I had learnt to let life’s inevitable knocks wash over me and was about to embark on the longest expedition I would ever go on – my second life.

Paul in hospital. (Supplied)

When I walked 100m around the rehab centre I realised that, with perseverance, I might be able to claw back some tiny semblance of the life I had before.

I slowly got back to the mountains again. First hill-walking in Wales, then three trips to Africa – climbing 1000m higher each time and culminating in an all-disabled expedition to Mt Kilimanjaro in Tanzania seven years after the accident.

Then, a few years ago it became clear to me that it was important to finish what I had started almost 20 years earlier.

By this time I had made Tasmania my home. The tower that had caused me so much pain needed to be revisited. But first there were the technicalities to consider.

I had long thought it impossible to climb a 65m rope with only one hand and one foot. But a friend suggested a system that might work and together we set about developing a rope-ascending rig.

As soon as I revealed my plans to friends everybody got on board, and in 2016 ten people helped carry water, ropes and climbing equipment out to Cape Hauy. We bivouacked under the stars, and the next morning, after some gluey porridge, descended to the abseil point. All my nervousness disappeared as I clipped onto that rope; my mountaineer’s brain, what was left of it, knew how to act.

I made the exact same swing that I made 18 years earlier. I even caressed the rock scar, the hole where the rock had fallen from. All the while, I had the best support from Steve Monks, my leader.

About three-quarters of the way up the Totem Pole my shoulder was starting to hurt and I needed to rest it and shake the fatigue out of my arm. Then, after 126 one-armed pull-ups, I collapsed onto the summit and an 18-year circle was finally closed.

The route.

I CONTINUE TO CLIMB but it is painful and I often come back down all gashed and covered in blood, because I have to drag my spastic leg and arm up the rock. So, over the years I have taken to expeditioning by trike because it is much more bearable.

The first time I undertook a serious adventure by trike was cycling to Everest Base Camp from Lhasa in Tibet.

I rediscovered that sense of freedom that I’d had in my past life as a big-wall climber.

After that trip I pondered other human-powered vehicle possibilities in the vastness of outback Australia. This country is perfect for long trike journeys, and about four years ago I had a light-bulb moment: “Wouldn’t it be great to cycle between the extremities of the Australian continent?”

It took years of planning, however, finding the right team, doing route reconnaissance missions and finding the right sponsor. Luckily, World Expeditions came on board – we could not have achieved the Lowest to Highest expedition without them.

As we sat atop Kosciuszko after 43 days in the saddle from Lake Eyre we pondered what we’d achieved. Through our ride we had delivered a message: people with disabilities are capable of world firsts, not just ‘first disabled challenges’.

What is more, we challenged commonly held misconceptions about what disabled people can and can’t do. For people with a disability it is a powerful message: that we can have agency in our own lives.

The post The Paul Pritchard story appeared first on Australian Geographic.

In order from biggest to smallest, the Seven Summits include Carstensz Pyramid in Oceania, Vinson Massif in Antarctica, Elbrus in Europe, Kilimanjaro in Africa, Denali in North America, Aconcagua in South America and, of course, Mount Everest in Asia.

Australian Geographic recognised the magnitude of their record breaking adventure by awarding the Sydney-based mother and daughter team the Australian Geographic Spirit of Adventure Award in 2008. Ten years on, with their record still unmatched, Nikki and Cheryl reflect on the powerful bond between mother and daughter, with a new set of mountains to climb in their sights.

The “Forrest Gumps” of mountaineering

Nikki and Cheryl describe themselves as the “Forest Gumps” of mountaineering. It wasn’t something they’d always dreamed of – they weren’t even sure it was something they could do at all.

“We climbed one and thought ‘that went well! I guess we can climb the next!’” says Nikki.

Nikki, now 33, remembers her first encounters with mountaineering, at the iconic Mount Everest.

“I was 16 when we first went hiking to Everest base camp, and it was actually the first time that Mum had been in a tent since she was eight years old,” she says. “Naturally, it was a very steep learning curve for the both of us.”

“I remember sitting at Everest base camp and looking up and thinking about what it would take to climb Mount Everest. And if you’d have told me then, that it was something that was going to be possible for me in the future, I would have laughed at you!”

It was this initial climb that gave them a taste for life on the mountain, and so they found themselves taking on more and more challenging ascents. It wasn’t until their climb of Mount Cho Oyu in Tibet, at just over 8000m above sea level, that they realised that the Seven Summits might be within their reach.

From there, the pair set out to climb the world’s highest peaks, one by one, taking them all around the world. It took eight years to make their way through the list, and in 2008, when they finally reached the summit at Mount Everest, they became the first mother-daughter team to complete the Seven Summits.

Lessons learned on the mountain

Both Nikki and Cheryl took away far more from their climbs than a couple of records and awards. For Nikki, it was the unforgettable memories she made with her mum, being able to navigate extreme situations, both mentally and physically, whilst supporting one another.

“A lot of my friends say they probably couldn’t go for coffee for a couple hours with their mums,” Nikki says. “But mum and I, we were such a good team, and it took a lot to be able to learn each other’s strengths and weaknesses to be able to achieve what we did. I think that was a really important lesson for the both us.”

Cheryl agreed, saying “to have this opportunity was special, but to share this with my daughter was an absolute privilege.”

Aside from their strengthened bond both on and off the mountain, the pair says they also learned a lot about living in the moment and making the most of what they’ve got, while they have it.

“When you’re on a mountain you’ve got no phone reception, you’ve got no internet, you have to boil snow to make your own drinking water, you’ve got to carry all of your own food on your back, and so you really learn a lot about being in the moment,” says Nikki.

More mountains to climb

As far as they know, no other mother daughter duo has attempted the Seven Summits since Nikki and Cheryl did 10 years ago. And the pair is contemplating new records to add to their list of achievements, with talks of attempting the Seven Volcanic Summits next. The Seven Volcanic Summits are the tallest volcanic peaks on each of the seven continents.

In January 2018, they climbed the tallest volcano in Antarctica, Mount Sidley, which was one of the most remote climbs they’ve ever done.

“Less than 50 people in the world have ever climbed this volcano before, so we feel pretty lucky to have been able to do it,” Nikki says.

Mount Sidley is one of the Seven Volcanic Summits, of which Nikki and Cheryl have already climbed three. “The Seven Volcanic Summits are definitely something we’re thinking about. Watch this space.”

The post Meet the mother-daughter duo who climbed Everest together appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Rolling thunder and hammering rain disturbed our sleep during the night and went on into the morning, making us reluctant to forsake the snug comfort of our sleeping bags. “It sounds terrible out there,” Damon muttered. I opened an eye. “Why don’t we have a rest day?” I asked. Damon agreed, and so it was that we spent the day in our tent at the foot of Innes Peak, about 12 km north-east of our but in south-west Tasmania.

It was June 1993, mid-winter and halfway through the year we’d volunteered to spend isolated in one of Australia’s most rugged regions as Australian Geographic’s second Wilderness Couple. We were continuing an experiment devised by AG publisher Dick Smith to see if ordinary city couples could survive in the bush as the pioneers had done. As we lay there, we compared the suburban life we’d left behind in Brisbane with the freedom and flexibility that had become an integral part of our wilderness experience. This set us reminiscing about how our adventure had begun. I’d been reading the January—March 1992 issue of AG when an article caught my eye. “Hey, Damon, listen to this!” I called out.

“‘Adventurous couples, where are you?”‘ I read aloud. “‘How would you like to escape the urban rat-race and spend a year in a remote spot … ?'”

It sounded fantastic, and although we thought we had as much chance of being chosen as we had of winning Lotto, we applied.

Damon and I had known each other for two and a half years and been engaged for seven months. He had an office job with the Army and I was a registered nurse. We were due to marry in April 1992 and saw the AG adventure as a great opportunity to break out of suburbia. Most important, we believed it would make a unique and strong foundation for our marriage.

The months rolled by and we were soon caught up in the excitement of planning our wedding. Then one night soon after our honeymoon the telephone rang. “Hello, this is Dick Smith,” the voice at the other end said. I had a feeling our lives were about to lift off into a totally new dimension.

And that’s how it turned out. Dick invited us to a formal interview at Terrey Hills in July, and a week after that he phoned to ask us if we’d be the next AG Wilderness Couple. It took us a week to come back to earth.

By then we had only three months to get everything organised and we often thought we’d never manage it. For weeks we passed like ships in the night and, looking back, it seems strange that we spent so little time together while making preparations for 12 months with no one but each other.

This is an extract from Issue 36 of Australian Geographic.

The post Our year in the Tasmanian Wilderness appeared first on Australian Geographic.

It was nerve-racking setting off on this four-week solo expedition into the West Australian wilderness, to place myself in the same situation as two German aviators – Hans Bertram and Adolf Klausmann – who had been stranded in the Kimberley in 1932. I wanted to see if I could survive my way out of their historic predicament, with only the materials that had been available to them 85 years earlier.

After running out of fuel on their flight from Europe to Australia, these pioneering aviators made a raft using one of their seaplane floats and attempted to sail back to civilisation. After five weeks of hell – lost, with little food and water – they’d given up, but were rescued, on the brink of death, by local Balanggarra people.

I wondered if they might have had more success if they’d used two floats, instead of one, and roped them together to make a catamaran. To test this idea, I welded up mock seaplane floats out of 44-gallon (200L) drums, with bush logs lashed across the top, and attached an outboard engine so I could motor around to the remote bay where the seaplane had been stranded, near Cape Bernier.

I didn’t want to diminish what Bertram and Klausmann had achieved in 1932. They did an excellent job with their knowledge at the time. But I had a distinct advantage as a former military survival instructor with NORFORCE, an Australian Army Reserve unit mostly made up of Aboriginal people that patrols the Top End. I’d also been a military pilot with extensive survival training and tested my skills on many private expeditions.

So, on 7 June 2017, after 11 days of full-time raft construction, I set off from Wyndham for the ocean via the turbulent, croc-filled Cambridge Gulf. It took me eight days to motor the raft just 200km north-west to my journey’s starting point. It wasn’t easy. Strong trade winds created large waves that threatened to smash me up against exposed cliffs, and my shiny new engine began to quit and splutter.

I camped ashore each night amid the spectacular Kimberley surrounds to troubleshoot the problems. A complete strip and reassembly of various parts – mostly at night on beaches with plenty of hungry crocs lurking – eventually saw an improvement in my engine’s performance. After eight days, I finally motored into Seaplane Bay, named after the aviators. I can’t think of a more remote stretch of coastline anywhere in Australia.

From here on, I began to survive solely on bush tucker, with only the materials available to the aviators. I knew precisely what items they’d had because Bertram wrote a book in 1936 about the ordeal called Flight Into Hell.

This extract is from the story Surviving the Kimberley from Issue 145 of Australian Geographic.

The post Surviving the Kimberley appeared first on Australian Geographic.

“[Olivia] reached out when I was looking for women speakers to run mini-workshops for Women Uprising. All I was looking for were people to contribute their skills for the event, but after chatting with her for about five minutes we realised, with our powers combined, that we could actually organise a women’s outdoor climbing festival,” said Joanne.

Like Joanne, Olivia has spent most of her life in the outdoors rock climbing and she’s about to set out on an all-female expedition in the Fiordlands in New Zealand, so this isn’t her first time organising an all-female rock climbing event.

The event would be set in Victoria’s idyllic Grampians region – a well-known rock climbing destination – and would feature workshops, climbing guides and clinics, mirroring the same type of women-only climbing festivals that currently take place in the UK and USA.

The duo have just had their submission for the Victorian Government’s new Pick My Project grant initiative shortlisted, and the next stage is the voting process. Given the positive response to the project already, they’re hopeful. “It’s amazing to see that people are so supportive of the event and most of them have offered help in some way or another,” Joanne said.

Female-only rock climbing events on the rise

Joanne explained that you get a “different vibe” when rock climbing with females. “I reflect on my personal experiences with my best girl-climbing-friend Kate and we’ve had the best time together.

“You banter, spur each other on, get yourself really psyched before a climb and the motivation that you get when with another female is something that can’t be replicated when climbing with a male counterpart. And then there’s the girl-talk!”

It’s important to have a platform where women feel safe to talk about their climbing experiences without being intimidated, said Joanne. “The worst I’ve seen is a guy telling a girl how to climb and showing off moves on a boulder wall even though she is more than capable of solving a problem, but I’ve also heard stories where their male climbing partners will verbally shout at them and bring them down with non-affirmative words.”

Olivia and Joanne are determined to make sure the event is inclusive of all abilities, and with the help of industry professionals, they hope the festival will create a supportive environment that encourages learning and sharing, and also inspire the next generation of adventurous female climbers.  

Rock climber Gwen Lancashire on Serpentine, Taipan Wall in the Grampians. (Image credit: Olivia Page)

Rock climbing, more popular than ever

Joanne said she has witnessed first-hand the influx of new climbers to the gym where she works in Brunswick, with more and more people falling in love with the sport and becoming regulars. Often, bouldering gyms in Melbourne are totally packed out, she added.

But the popularity hasn’t really penetrated the outdoor climbing scene. “[Outdoor climbing] is still really lacking as people either don’t have the resources or knowledge that they need to climb safely outside,” Joanne said.

This is where the Women’s Outdoor Climbing Festival comes in. “I’m hoping that we can keep running women’s climbing festivals year after year. And to have more workshops, more training to up-skill and equip women with climbing knowledge, regardless of indoors or outdoors, throughout the year.

“Hopefully this project will enable women to connect with other women to share their passion, have healthy discussions and encourage more women to climb outdoors.”

If you live in Victoria and would like to support this project, head to the Pick My Project website and vote for the ‘Women’s Outdoor Climbing Festival’.

The post Melbourne women to create Australia’s first female-only rock climbing festival appeared first on Australian Geographic.

I stood in wonder with my wife Debbie and our three children Damian, 12, Emily, 8, and Joshua, 7, the red cliffs towering above us. We were alone, captivated by the majesty of our discovery in the far north-west of Western Australia.

It was day 74 of a 30,600 km driving adventure that would span 23 weeks and take us from our home in suburban Melbourne, around the perimeter of Australia, and deep into its red heart.

The mystique of the land and the joy of exploring new places was something we would experience many times — walking among seals at sunset on Kangaroo Island, sitting in silence on the shimmering white crust of Lake Eyre and playing like dolphins in the sparkling rock pools of Litchfield National Park.

Having travelled overseas, Debbie and I had agreed early in our marriage to explore our own vast continent, but for years it had remained a dream. Job security, finances, family and house considerations and a multitude of unknowns chained us to our suburban routine. But drawn by the challenge, we finally dared to make the break.

For more than a year we read books, studied maps, worked on getting our four-wheel-drive and camper trailer mechanically sound and gathered all the equipment we’d need. Our budget of $15,000 for 23 weeks travelling allowed for about $650 a week.

Our aim was simply to see as much of the country as we could and not be deterred by dirt roads, dust or bad weather.

And so we headed west one April day last year, determined that our pace would be set not by the clock but by our hearts.

We prepared all our meals and didn’t spend long in towns, stopping only in the larger ones to stock up on food and supplies at shops where we could take advantage of specials. Bush camps and national park visits helped us save money that would otherwise have been spent on caravan park fees.

What we saved by taking advantage of free camping — often in rest areas, beside rivers or on beaches —enabled us to enjoy special treats like boat tours, a helicopter flight over Purnululu (Bungle Bungle) National Park and a day out on the Great Barrier Reef.

Carrying tarps and tents meant we weren’t restricted to our camper trailer. By parking it, we could explore places like Kangaroo Island and the Oodnadatta Track, where rough, corrugated roads might otherwise have denied access.

For the children, travelling was an education in itself. Their teachers at home had been reluctant to give them too much work, encouraging them instead to keep diaries, to relate maths to the trip and to learn about the places they visited.

Mind you, keeping diaries focused wasn’t always easy. After a fantastic day climbing Uluru, Joshua devoted an entire entry to the special dinner we ate that evening and Damian wrote: “I can’t tell if we were happy or sad that we were back on the ground, but we were very tired.” Their diaries are a real treasure.

We wanted our children to experience new things, and to learn about themselves, their relationships and their country. But we were all enriched by the experience and in the process, developed a better understanding of Australia, its history, geography and geology, and the weather that shapes it.

We have particularly fond memories of Windjana Gorge National Park (WA), the Devils Marbles and Ormiston Gorge (Northern Territory), and Noah Beach (Queensland) —of flickering campfires and the aroma of camp-oven damper. A glass of red or a good cuppa provided the opportunity for fostering new friendships, swapping travel tips or just having fun.

The children were often “adopted” by elderly couples they befriended, and the didgeridoo Joshua bought in Darwin became a feature of many camps. We wanted to share our experience with other AG members in the hope that they might be inspired to give it a go too. It’s brought our family closer together. We’re also more confident, buoyed by the fact that we have overcome obstacles and achieved what for many will always remain a dream. And we came in under budget —spending just $12,600, or $550 a week.

Towards the end of our six-month adventure, Joshua asked me: “Dad, when you grow old, can I have your car so I can travel around Australia?” “Sorry Josh, the car’s already booked,” came my reply.

This story was published in Issue 40 of Australian Geographic (1995).

The post From the archive: around Australia in 23 weeks appeared first on Australian Geographic.

That meeting at her home in the tree-lined suburb of Wahroonga, on Sydney’s North Shore, where many of the gardens are grand and formal, befitting the residences. But when I turned into her driveway I was confronted with a blaze of native plants – flannel flowers, eriostemon and grevillea under a canopy of Sydney blue gums. Not a clipped lawn in sight!

Dot appeared, nut-brown, barefoot, wearing shorts and wielding a spade. She was preparing her vegetable gardens for the spring sowing, as I found when I followed her to a huge mound of compost, which she spaded into a wheelbarrow and vigorously began to dig into the soil while we talked. We were already surrounded by her giant and luxuriant winter vegetables, exploding with vitality – just like Dot.

When I got to know this fountain of wisdom, generosity and positive energy better I doubted if she had ever in her lifetime rested as long as a month! She has a confident spirit born of a deep harmony with life, a radiant smile and a beautiful face, lives simply – working for or sending money to good causes, feeding her ducks, walking with old mates from the Sydney Bush Walkers. She rides her bike to the shops. And why not? Dot has never taken much notice of what society might expect of her.

Dot Butler climbing Crater Bluff in 1936.

“Eccentricity is just being ahead of your time,” she laughed while sitting on her veranda, her bare legs tanned and muscular. At 5 a.m the next day she would be driving herself to Brisbane to celebrate her 77th birthday with her daughter Rona and grandchildren and help build their mudbrick house. En route she would call on her son Wade and drop off some secondhand doors and windows. Accidents claimed the lives of her other son and daughter (Wendy drowned while cascading with university friends in the Blue Mountains, and Norman from a taipan bite). Dot’s husband died in 1972.

Born Dorothy English in Sydney, one of five children, Dot recalls that “all our childhood entertainment was climbing – brick kilns, chimneys, telegraph poles – anything off the horizontal, and always barefoot of course”.

So Dot the fearless child became the fearless adult who delighted in walking and climbing. While doing a Sydney University course to qualify as a physiotherapist, she would run to her classes from Circular Quay, taking well under an hour.

But her main passion was bushwalking and as an early member of the Sydney Bush Walkers she became a member of “The Tigers”, one of only two women among a select group of gung-ho walkers who loved marathon weekend walks, often covering 150 kilometres. Dot walked barefoot, of course! Her physiotherapy experience convinced her that shoes can ruin women’s posture – and she abandons them at every opportunity.

“I always felt at one with the rock,” she told me. “Rocks are my friends and I caressed them as I climbed. They told me what I could and couldn’t do. People who climb in boots and overalls are cutting themselves off from that contact.”

In 1936 Dot and the late Dr Eric Dark, leading climber and bushwalker, made the first ascent of the difficult Crater Bluff in Warrumbungle National Park. As was her habit, Dot climbed in the lead, taking up the rope and finding something to tie it to: they had no pitons, or rock bolts. In re-creating this famous climb for a film, Dot was played by her daughter Rona and Dr Dark by Wade, both experienced climbers. Dot climbed up with the film crew – nimble and sure. I was left far be-low, somewhat shaken.

CJack Debert & Dot Butler eating icecream on the Kowmung River. (Image Credit: Alex Colley/SBW)

From 1939 Dot spent almost three years in New Zealand, where her work as a guide in the Mt Cook National Park was an important influence on her later activities. (She recalls with wry amusement one keen young visitor who provoked the condemnation of the head guide by climbing in his sandshoes. “He’ll come to no good,” the guide predicted of the young Edmund Hillary!)

“There was also a guide there who used to take tourist parties up the Franz Josef Glacier,” Dot recalled. “He would give them a regular spiel to the effect that … ‘This glacier comes down from 9000 feet to sea-level, it has 3672 crevasses and there’s an Australian down every one of them!’

“Unfortunately it was true that Australians would get into trouble, because they had no experience of crevasse country. But I felt ashamed, and dreamed of the day I’d go back to Australia and start a mountaineering school to teach Australian climbers about safety.”

After the war, Dot began her school by founding the Australian section of the New Zealand Alpine Club. Crack climbers from the New Zealand club offered their services, and crevasse rescue was part of the course. For nearly 30 years Dot took parties of young climbers to New Zealand each Christmas. “Today when I look at all the young people who are climbing the Andes and the Himalayas, and even in Antarctica, I can often say, ‘Well, some of those are my boys’,” Dot said. Mt Dot in New Zealand’s Southland National Park is named after her.

Dot married Ira Butler, a fellow bushwalker, in Australia during the war. He had been posted to Melbourne and proposed by letter. Unable to get a seat on an inter-state train, Dot rode her bike to Melbourne to marry him. On her return journey she rode from Melbourne to Albury on the NSW border before she could get a seat. She estimates she cycled 32,000 km during the war.

In 1968 Dot took a crash course in Spanish and be-came organiser and a member of the nine-strong Australian Andean Expedition, which in 1969 made 27 different ascents (13 of them firsts) of 19 mountains in Peru’s Cordillera Vilcabamba.

Ira’s work with the Reserve Bank took him overseas, and Dot accompanied him when she could, shedding hats, gloves and sometimes shoes to climb at every opportunity. She has climbed in the Himalayas and the Alps, canoed 640 km down the Yukon River in Canada, and cycled through Ireland, Spain and Cambodia. She says she would like to cycle through China. Her least-documented (for obvious reasons) climbs have been over the arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge – as a member of a high-spirited group calling themselves the “Night Climbers of Sydney”, who set themselves late-night challenges such as scaling city buildings or finding their way through the underground sewers.

When Dot began bushwalking nearly 60 years ago it was in its infancy as an organised pursuit – usually thought of as exercise for eccentrics.

“There were empty spaces on the map,” Dot said, “and we would fill them in. I’d write them up in the Sydney Bushwalker and this encouraged many others to take up the adventurous life. Now I think the future for Australians will be in regeneration. We have to try to repair the damage we’ve done to the country.”

Dot Butler passed away in 2008. The Butler Family have continued on Dot’s legacy of barefoot bushwalking. 

The post Do it like a girl: The story of Dot Butler appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Climbing steadily under torchlight, we clip into any ropes we find, regardless of how thin and frayed they look. I’m fully focused on climbing up the rock slabs and cracks, although it’s hard to see my feet over the oxygen mask. The night is still, and, because of the warming weather, there’s little snow on the steep rocks, making it easier to find hand and footholds.

Travelling about 50 m behind two other climbers in our group, we reach the ridge and then traverse tiny ledges with a 2 km fall below. I’m sort of glad I’m climbing in the dark, as I might be overwhelmed by the sight of the drop.

Still in the dark, we reach something called the Chinese Ladder, a rickety aluminium ladder about 3 m high, leading up to a bulge in the rock. At the bulge I carefully move sideways onto a thin ledge, then haul myself up.

Sue Fear and other mountaineers at the Mt Everest Summit.

Ahead is the final summit dome, and I have a rush of excitement. “This is it,” I think. “I’m actually going to do it. I’m going to reach the top of Mt Everest.” Early morning light streams across from the east, lighting Lhotse and Makalu to my left, and Cho Oyu and Pumori on the other side. But I barely look at the scene, each step requiring my full concentration.

I stop briefly to change oxygen tanks with Dawa’s help, and find that my energy bars and borrowed water bottle have frozen solid. I’ll just have to eat snow and run on adrenaline.

The route doesn’t let up until the final few steps, testing me to the very end. Finally I’m there.

It’s 7.15 a.m. on 31 May, with a cloudless sky and just a light breeze. Few climbers who make the summit get such an incredible, clear view. Before me are hundreds and hundreds of peaks, a true 360-degree panorama, and tears well up as I look around, taking in my past climbs. After years and years of dreaming, climbing and trekking, I’d finally reached Everest’s summit.

I look down the ridge of the South Col and don’t see climbers approaching from the Nepalese side. We take some photos, and enjoy the view for a few brief minutes. I dedicate the climb to my dad, who died suddenly last year.

Within a week, I’m back in Aus-tralia. Having climbed Everest, I feel as though I can deal with almost any-thing the world throws my way.

Sue Fear was named Australian Geographic’s Adventurer of the Year in 2003. She passed away in 2006 while descending the summit of Manaslu in Nepal.

The post Everest and I: Sue Fear’s treacherous ascent of Mt Everest appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Prior to his accident, Steve had spent some time researching the seven summits, but had always put it off to pursue goals in his professional career as an engineer instead. Steve’s passion for high-altitude mountaineering came from his time in scouts, most memorably, when he climbed to Everest Base Camp when he was sixteen years old. But he hadn’t attempted an ambitious climb since.

Steve anticipated that the reaction of his family to his intention to climb the seven summits might be less than enthusiastic. “I had a good mate from high school who climbed Everest back in 2012 and he came and visited me in hospital. I told him what my plans were but he was the only person I told. I didn’t want to tell anyone else because I just thought they might tell me how stupid I was,” he tells Australian Geographic.

Steve recovering from his injuries. 

But they eventually caught on to his grand plans when he climbed Mount Aspiring in New Zealand, telling his family this was “practice number one” and his mountain climbing in Peru “practice number two”. It wasn’t until he returned from “practice number three”, a climb of Ama Dablam, a mountain in the Himalayas, when he finally told his family of his intention to climb the seven summits. “Coming from a family that’s had no exposure to mountaineering and climbing it’s perceived as high risk. My parents were worried but so supportive,” he says.

Steve officially kicked off Project 7in4 in January this year, beginning with Mt Vernon in Antarctica, then Aconcagua in Argentina, Mt Kilimanjaro in Tanzania and Carstensz Pyramid in Indonesia, all completed by March. “The first half in the Southern Hemisphere during the summer time was relatively easy. The hardest part was the second half in the Northern Hemisphere,” he says.

On 13 March, he began climbing Mt Elbrus in Russia, then Denali in the United States, which he says was the most challenging climb of all. “This was purely because we had to climb it out of season. We were the only team on the mountain the whole time, fully self-supported, facing minus 45 degree temperatures. We got hit by a storm and couldn’t get out of a tent for three days,” Steve recalls. After conquering Denali, however, there was no time for rest and it was time to take on Everest.

Steve at Everest Base Camp.

The Everest expedition took Steve and his team four weeks, which included trekking to base camp, acclimatising and waiting for a weather window. Steve says that his team was able to short-cut some of the normal acclimatisation as they were partially acclimatised having come straight off Denali. The final summit took five days, meaning Steve completed the seven summits in a record 117 days – nine days quicker than the previous record.

Steve says reaching the summit was a bittersweet moment. “People think that when you reach Everest you’re over the moon but for me it was nice to reach the summit, but it also marked the end of what was an incredible journey and I’d soon have to go home and get back to reality,” he says. “For me, it hasn’t just been about breaking the record and Everest, it was the journey the whole way through. I love having a challenge and having something to work towards.”

Steve’s camp setup on Everest.

Having goals like Project 7in4 was critical to Steve’s recovery. At the beginning of his rehabilitation, Steve was told he may be wheelchair bound for the rest of his life. Struggling with this thought, he says having something to focus on that was long-term, no matter how ridiculous it seemed to other people, motivated him to get better. “Having gone through all that rehabilitation, I learnt that with perseverance and patience, I could work through some of the tough situations that I came up against, many of which we faced on the climbs. I always had the confidence to keep moving forward.”

Steve has wasted no time in planning his next big adventure. In fact, Steve and one of his fellow climbers began talking about future record-breaking climbs while summiting Everest. Ultimately, Steve’s accident has made him more aware of how quickly life can change and is now working towards balancing his work life with a life of adventure. “You never know what you’re going to wake up to tomorrow so if you have a dream out there, it doesn’t necessarily have to be climbing, but whatever your passion is, don’t put it off. Give it a crack!

“No matter how absurd it may seem, with patience and perseverance, break it down to small bite-size chunks. The seven summits took three years to work towards and achieve and it was all about taking those small attainable steps.”

The post 7 summits in 117 days: The story of Steve Plain appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The main challenge for all climbers is the decrease in barometric pressure and thus reduction in oxygen availability as altitude increases. The severity of altitude is defined as low (500 to 2,000m), moderate (2,000 to 3,000m), high (3,000 to 5,500m), or extreme (above 5,500m).

Remaining at high altitudes severely affects our physical capacity, cognitive function, body mass and composition, and ability to ward off illness.

See more: Cradle Mountain: past and present

If we don’t acclimatise or stagger our ascent, we’re at greater risk of acute mountain sickness, high altitude pulmonary oedema (excess fluid in the lungs) and cerebral oedema (fluid on the brain). These illnesses are all commonly characterised by symptoms such as headache, loss of appetite, nausea, weakness, light-headedness, and sleep disturbance. The presentation of these illnesses often requires retreat to lower altitudes and in severe cases, evacuation via airlift from camp.

These conditions are among the greatest obstacles to successful summit attempts, particularly when ascending quickly.

Acclimatising

Being fitter does not protect against altitude-related illness, nor does it ensure tolerance of the physiological challenges associated with high altitude exposure.

So acclimatisation is the more important factor. Acclimatisation is the process your body follows to adapt to the drop in oxygen availability. This is the best non-pharmaceutical strategy to prevent altitude sickness.

Mountaineers and trekkers can achieve acclimatisation by staying at moderate altitude (2,000-3,000m) for a few extra nights, then implementing a staggered ascent to higher altitudes. Gains in altitude should be between 300 and 600m of vertical elevation per day.

While many commercial trek schedules include rest days and acclimatisation days, some involving less technical climbing often ascend quite quickly. Some groups will ascend Kilimanjaro in four to five days (5,895 m).

See more: Meet the first woman to walk around the whole of Australia solo and unassisted

To prepare for more rapid ascents, mountaineers may include some pre-trek acclimatisation, using natural or artificial environments to encourage their bodies to adapt.

Acclimatisation using artificial environments is known as “acclimation”. It can be achieved by either hypobaric hypoxia (normal oxygen concentration, lower barometric pressure), or more commonly via normobaric hypoxia (normal barometric pressure, lower oxygen concentration) using altitude tents or environmental chambers.

Technical experience, fitness and acclimatisation are equally important.

Of the two approaches, hypobaric hypoxia appears to be better for acclimation, though it relies on access to a hypobaric chamber or an ability to live at moderate/high natural altitude.

Although still relying on specialised equipment and expertise, more environmental chambers available mimic normobaric hypoxia. In some instances, you can even use tent or mask systems in your own home.

Acclimatisation can also mitigate the effects high altitude will likely have on exercise performance.

Training

Although fitness is not related to incidence rates of altitude sickness, trek schedules typically require many hours of hiking, often carrying a loaded pack, over at least four to five days. When combined with the gain in elevation, this means seven to eight hours per day of hiking at a moderate intensity, often over varied terrain.

So a program of targeted training will ensure trek participants are able to meet the strenuous demands of high altitude hiking and mountaineering. Evidence suggests fitter hikers report a lower sense of effort and lower levels of fatigue during high or extreme altitude trekking.

Studies have also found experienced mountaineers don’t need to expend as much oxygen, which is valuable when there’s less of it available. So to further prepare for high altitude expeditions, trek participants should focus on building fitness over several months by trekking at lower altitudes and carrying loads of 20-30kg for several hours over varied terrain.

This can be extended to higher altitudes (3,000m to 4,000m) and several consecutive days and weeks to allow for developing the strength required to tolerate the rigours of extreme mountain climbing. This is especially important as muscle mass and body fat losses occur during the expedition.

See more: One whole year in the Aussie wilderness

For ascents above 8,000m such as Mount Everest, the trekking company will usually have specialised training approaches. This may involve at least one year of training in which trekking time, distance and altitude are increased progressively, as summit day can take up to 20 hours. Experience in high altitude climbing and sumitting peaks between 6,000m and 8,000m is also required before attempting peaks of this altitude.

Staged ascents and considered approaches to acclimatisation are most likely to protect against altitude illness and ensure trek success. This involves using a planned approached to climbing with altitude targets allowing for acclimatisation.

Improving overall fitness and gaining mountaineering experience will prepare trekkers for the physical, psychological and technical challenges presented by high and extreme altitude adventures.

Julien Periard is a Associate Professor at the University of Canberra and Brad Clark is a Researcher at the University of Canberra.

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

READ MORE:

• Earth’s underwater mega mountains
• GALLERY: climbing Mount Everest

The post How fit do you have to be to climb Everest or Kilimanjaro? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Her commitment to this walk was born out of her struggles with mental illness following a walk across south-west Western Australia.

“In 2010 I bit off more than I could chew during a 1,400km solo unsupported shark conservation awareness walk.

“The violence, stalking and death threats forced me to bail and hide which led to hospitalisation after attempting to take my own life three times.

“In 2011, my therapist pointed out I had been using adventure and nature as therapy since I was a kid and the best thing I could do was start walking again.”

Terra’s custom alloy barrow ‘Dory’.

17,000km around Australia

Beginning with a 1,250km lap of Tasmania, which featured dazzling auroras and mostly perfectly sunny days, it wasn’t until her clockwise walk around the mainland that the challenges started to set in.

The scorching heat of the Pilbara and the countless weather extremes such as cyclones and floods plagued her 4,100km slog across the west coast. And then came the leg from Darwin to Brisbane— the most challenging yet.

“Panic attacks, post-traumatic stress disorder and depression kept slowing me down and the physical injuries were so painful I was beginning to lose consciousness trying to walk.”

While completing a walk through a Queensland national park Terra fell and dislocated her ankle, yet another major blow to her dream.

But six months after surgery, Terra set out once again to complete the parts of the east coast that she had left. Her arrival in Newcastle will officially complete her 17,000km walk around Australia.

“It might be the furthest walk around Australia, it is not the quickest but it is definitely the most beautiful.”

The solitary walk

A woman walking home late at night unaccompanied could send someone into a panic, which is why the epic adventures of women like Terra have a major cultural impact.

“Most people assume I am a man unless they get close enough to notice I am not. It disturbed me how many people were shocked when they pulled over for a chat to discover I am a woman.

“I had a walkie talkie and sometimes listened into truckie and caravan chatter. Hundreds of times they commented on the bloke walking beside the road, never the sheila.”

Like many young Australian women, Terra’s adventurous spirit was ignited by Robyn Davidson’s harrowing 2,700km journey across the deserts of west Australia.

Back in 2007, at 30-years-old Esther Nunn, another female adventurer, recreated Davidson’s legendary walk from Alice Springs to Shark Bay across a monumental 162 days, yearning for the same solitude and freedom described in Davidson’s book Tracks.

“Robyn’s resilience, determination and honesty were traits I wanted. Her descriptions of solitude, nurturing an intuitive connection with nature and self-awareness encouraged me to seek these experiences for myself,” Terra said.

“I may have been too young to understand everything in her book Tracks but many themes resonated with my developing mind and growing passion for adventure.”

But it was also her adventurous grandmother that stoked this passion.

“Ooma was a wild spirit and a feminist pioneer. In 1982 her and her best friend fitted out a Kombi and toured around Australia.

“Now, at 98, the memories of her adventures are some of her most vivid, long lasting recollections. For me, her life reinforces the importance of dreaming and living big.”

Terra and her grandmother.

Women in adventure are still undervalued

Back in 2016, Terra became the first woman to walk the length and breadth of WA solo and unsupported, a feat she thought would be worthy of recognition. 

“It was completely ignored. I especially noticed the silence in adventure circles.

“This encouraged me to more actively promote and support the achievements and projects of other incredible women in adventure.

“The best way to fight an injustice is to stop it from happening to others,” she said.

One of the biggest challenges for Terra wasn’t the walk itself but getting the funding.

“Ninety-eight per cent of my requests for support, donations and sponsorship were refused and ignored because they didn’t believe it was possible for a woman or they thought I was a fraud. That was demoralising.”

Even now that she’s close to completing the walk, she’s found that people are still hesitant.

“I have trekked more than 22,000kms solo in Australia and overseas, through the wilderness and along some of the most remote highways.

“I have achieved firsts for women in adventure yet so many people still don’t believe me and ask why they have never heard of me before. What can I say?”

Terra hopes that her walk across Australia will hold the same inspirational lessons that she cherished while reading about the journeys of Robyn Davidson.

“I want women to dream big! Do not let the fears of others hold you back. You can do anything you set your mind to and our mind is a very powerful tool,” she said.

“Reach out and seek the advice of other women, write to us, ask questions, read our books. We want to help and cheer you on. We’re a team.”.

READ MORE:

• The most heroic Aussie female adventurers
• In her words: inspiring quotes from Australia’s ground-breaking women
• From Alice Spring to Shark Bay: A camel odyssey

The post Meet the first woman to walk around the whole of Australia solo and unassisted appeared first on Australian Geographic.

READ MORE:

• Scientists spot rare white lemuroid possum during AG sponsored expedition.

The post AG Expedition: Three Peaks in Three Weeks appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Community

The desert extremes demanded a social order giving security. In such challenging terrain self-reliance had limits. Survival involved sharing country, knowledge and resources. You had to connect with neighbours. The desert was- and still is- a surprisingly communal place.

Water

Locating and conserving water was the key to desert life. As well as permanent waterholes and soaks, people moved to exploit the erratic and seasonal fillings of swamps, clay pans and salt lakes. Water supplies in rock holes and soaks were cleared and often covered to limit evaporation. many were ruined by European explorers.

Roots

Ste,s and roots of certain mallee and wattles could yield water. Long, lateral roots were dug up, cut and upended so moisture within would drain into a dish or bag. Other water sources included animals, such as species of water-holding frogs that were unearthed and emptied. 

Seeds

Exploiting all manner of plant food- from nectars and fruits, to flowers, gum and tubers- made our lands habitable. The expert use of grindstones to prepare grass seeds was widespread among arid-land communities. Once ground, the seeds were baked as solid cakes in an open fire.

Hunting

Although spinifex country is relatively abundant in kangaroos and emus, in Western Desert areas further north, large game is a more seasonal food source following summer rains. As well as hunting with spears and boomerangs, animals were also caught with elaborate nets strategically placed in feeding and watering habitats. other favoured animal foods included lizards and some snakes.

Insects

Insects, especially witchety grubs (the larvae of wood-boring beetles and cossid moths), were a valuable source of protein. Honey ants and the honey of stingless bees were sought after for sweetness.

Seasonal Rhythms

Desert life unfolded in response to seasonal rhythms and bursts of life after rain. Nomadism and the use of fire to manage country were crucial. 

READ MORE:

• Gallery: Australia’s desert landscapes.
• Desert channels: heart of Australia.
• Simpson Desert bursts with life.
• Gallery: The Simpson Desert.

The post Surviving in the desert appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Multi-day hiking opens up a world of adventure opportunities, unlocking parts of Australia’s wilderness often accessible by no other means. 

So lace up your boots, strap on your pack and don’t forget to pack the bandaids – here’s our list of 10 of Australia’s best long-distance hiking trails. 

1. Larapinta Trail, NT

Image: Tourism NT

Location: West MacDonnell Range, Northern Territory

Length: 16–20 days (including rest days)

Distance: 223 km

Difficulty: Hard

Access: One-way walk; good road access along track, including at ends

Info: Walking during the cooler months, from April–September, is recommended. Food drops required.

Read more.

2. Thorsborne Trail, QLD

Image: Tourism Queensland

Location: Hinchinbrook Island, Far North Queensland

Length: 4–5 days

Distance: 32 km

Difficulty: Moderate

Access: One-way; boat transport required at both ends

Info: Walking during the cooler months, from April–September, recommended Permits required; need to be booked well in advance

Read more.

3. Australian Alps walking track, VIC/NSW/ACT

Location: High Country of ACT, NSW and Victoria

Length: 45–60 days (including rest days)

Distance: 655 km

Difficulty: Hard

Access: One-way; road access at both ends.

Info: Best done in the warmer months. Food drops required.

Read more.

4. Fraser Island Great Walk, QLD

Lake McKenzie (Boorangoora). One of Fraser’s most popular drawcards. (Image: Andrew Gregory)

Location: Queensland

Length: 5–7 days

Distance: 84 km

Difficulty: Easy

Access: One-way; boat transport required to island; both ends of the walk accessible by vehicle

Info: Walking during the cooler months, from April–September is recommended. Campsite bookings and permits required.

Read more.

5. Wilderness Coast Walk, VIC/NSW

Image: Joanna Egan

Location: South coast of NSW and Victoria

Length: 4–5 days

Distance: 61 km

Difficulty: Medium

Access: One-way; boat transport required at one end, road access at other

Info: Permit required, book in advance 

Read more. 

6. Overland Track, TAS

Location: Tasmanian highlands

Length: 5–8 days

Distance: 74 km, plus many side trips

Difficulty: Medium

Access: One-way; road access and public transport links at both ends

Info: Permits required from November to May; walk must be completed north to south during this time

Read more. 

7. Eastern Arthur Range, TAS

Location: Southwest Tasmania

Length: 7–9 days

Distance: 89 km

Difficulty: Hard

Access: Return walk; Trackhead accessible by road, with public transport links in summer

Info: Steep and dangerous climbing required; summer walking recommended

8. Western Arthur Range Traverse, TAS

Image: Dave Cauldwell

Location: Southwest Tasmania

Length: 8–11 days

Distance: 75 km

Difficulty: Hard

Access: Circuit walk; road access and public transport links in summer

Info: Follows a steep and tricky skyline traverse; summer walking recommended

Read more.

9. Cape to Cape Track, WA

Image: Andrew Gregory

Location: Southwest Western Australia

Length: 6–8 days

Distance: 135 km

Difficulty: Easy

Access: One-way; road access at both ends

Info: Spring wildflowers are a highlight; water may be hard to find

Read more. 

10. South Coast Track, TAS

Image: Justin Walker

Location: Southwest Tasmania

Length: 6–9 days

Distance: 85 km

Difficulty: Medium

Access: One-way; charter flight or extra 70 km walk to one end, road access with public transport links at other

Info: Walking in the warmer months is recommended

The post 10 best Australian multi-day hikes appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The air from each exhalation is stirring up a haze of orange silt in the water, which makes it impossible to see. I try to comfort myself by running my hand gently along the thin string that is my only lifeline to the surface, careful not to risk it cutting on the sharp limestone rock.

The sound is deafening as the bubbles from my regulator come faster with the effort, and the twin steel air cylinders clang off the rocks above and below that I am trapped between. I try to push forward, but I bang my head, forcing me to take a gulp of the murky 14ºC water.

I’ve trained for this, and for far worse, which means I remain calm, but I am frustrated at wasting my air supply. I close my eyes, relax in the comforting grip of the rock, and systematically grope behind me until I find the hidden rocky protuberance my diving suit is snagged against.

The Speleological Society crew carries heavy equipment through the bush before reaching the cave entrance. Cave entrances at Jenolan range from claustrophobic tubes to cavernous openings. (Image: Alan Pryke)

THE JENOLAN CAVES are nestled high in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales, 175km west of Sydney. They have been a magnet for tourists ever since a cluster of large, interlinked caverns was found here by Europeans in 1838.

Aboriginal people had already used these caves for many thousands of years, apparently referring to them as binoomea, meaning ‘dark places’. They travelled great distances across the mountains to visit the blue pools nestled within what is now the tourist cave complex. Local lore told of how mineral-rich waters had restorative properties.

From the outside there is little indication of the vast mysteries lying beneath the earth. But here are hidden tunnels and chambers – ‘wild’ caves that have been explored by members of caving clubs such as our Sydney University Speleological Society for nearly 70 years.

The aptly named Mammoth Cave is one still revealing its secrets to those willing to work hard to find them. Our current map of it (see page 100) took more than a decade to create, with nearly 9km of surveyed passages, and much yet left to find. On this 2016–17 expedition, supported by the Australian Geographic ­Society, we are attempting to explore and map this cave under water, including a tunnel that we believe will be Australia’s deepest cave dive. Our team of two primary cave divers and two backup divers is supported by the skilled dry cavers of the ­Speleological Society. In 2016 more than 50 arduous exploration dives were made over monthly trips.

There is only one known entrance to this vast system, which – like the other entrances to caves here – is protected by a heavy locked gate. Only those with a NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service permit are able to access the caves.

After entering Mammoth Cave it takes several minutes for our eyes to adjust to the total blackness. The only illumination here is from the battery-powered lights worn on our helmets. From there we descend into the cave, carefully negotiating slippery and uneven surfaces and helping each other down tricky sudden drops, and around dark pits in the floor that are seemingly ­bottomless.

A gigantic vertical pile of boulders blocks the path in one section. Sometimes we use a rolled-up wire ladder dangled through a narrow hole to climb down a 12m drop to the level below. A quicker option is to descend directly through the guts of the rock pile, contorting and twisting around tight corners, ‘posting’ the body through very tight gaps called ‘squeezes’, and hopefully coming out the other side of the vertical maze.

After a short reprieve, the passage narrows to the point where we must lie flat on our stomachs and push forward with our toes. Many cavers don’t fit on their first go, and must breathe out fully to compress their bodies enough to fit between the solid rock pressing in from all sides. The physical challenge often creates fear, anxiety and claustrophobia, even in those who don’t usually suffer from it.

All of this is a noisy affair with the constant rustle of heavy-duty waterproof suits, squelching of mud under gumboots, and moans and groans from complaining ­bodies being bumped and contorted beyond comfortable limits.

At one point, if you look up, there appears to be a solid roof – but careful climbers can wriggle into a round ­opening and slide upwards through a tube. Eventually you reach an immense chamber sparkling with massive sheets of glittering white and orange crystal. Here we remove our dirty gloves, clothes, and shoes to preserve the white crystal floor. Upwards further, those brave enough to tackle difficult climbs can reach chambers even more magnificent. These are not yet fully explored and we still have questions about what may lie beyond them.

Dry cavers Dean (front) and Greg Ryan sometimes wait for hours for the divers to return. The group wears protective equipment, including safety helmets, waterproof gumboots, thermal undersuits and strong kneepads. (Image: Alan Pryke)

CAVING HAS TRADITIONALLY been a male domain, but Australia has produced several high-profile, female, dry-cave and cave-diving explorers who have become expedition leaders. Gender and job count for little once our helmet-clad groups are underground, with everyone treated equally regardless of the wide range of ages and professions.

Hypothermia is an ever-present risk and there are no navigational aids in these underground mazes, so local knowledge is essential to avoid becoming lost. Cavers must be entirely self-sufficient in these areas of no natural light, and ensure that they have the equipment required to stay underground for up to two days in an emergency.

“There are a lot of caves where it would be almost, if not absolutely, impossible to get you out of if you were badly injured,” says caving legend Alan Warild, captain of the NSW Cave Rescue Squad and an 2016 Australian Geographic Trailblazer. “Cave rescues in the past have taken two weeks or more.”

Jenolan is one of the most complex cave systems in the world, having undergone many distinct formation and destruction events across a brutal geological history. ­Scientists have determined these caves are at least 340 million years old, which means they predate dinosaurs by more than 100 million years. When the limestone was laid down 420 million years ago, the area was a coastal shelf teeming with prehistoric sea life, including coral and crinoids, today seen as fossils ­frozen into the limestone walls.

Cave divers such as Deborah (above) use the latest techniques to maximise depth, distance and safety. Experienced volunteer dry cavers such as David Reuda (above, behind) are integral to the success of these projects. (Image: Alan Pryke)

AFTER TRAVELLING FOR an exhausting hour into the system, we begin to hear a rumbling in the distance. Eventually our conversation is drowned out by the noise of an underground river violently bursting from a hole in the wall the size of a car tyre. The crystal clear water gushes along a rocky streambed and through a chasm before disappearing again through the floor. Speleologists have shown chemically that the underground water courses of these caves are interlinked, but most routes and destinations are mysteries that we are still slowly unravelling.

It is intense curiosity about that unseen world that motivates our cave divers to pack up to 80kg of scuba equipment into protective caving bags, which they push, drag and lower through the tunnels, relying on the help of others to reach each site.

Special care must be taken not to damage the ­equipment, because even small malfunctions could prove fatal. Although they are exceedingly beautiful, the delicate crystals of the caves become an obstacle that slows divers down, because we must take extra care not to damage them.

At the water’s edge, our divers struggle into ragged and torn diving suits and specialised scuba equipment modified to suit harsh cave environments. It is configured so that air tanks can be removed under water to pass through small holes called restrictions and redundancy is added by taking multiple tanks and lights.

Diving upstream here is only possible for strong and streamlined divers, because the water erupting from the pressure tube is constantly forcing the diver back out. With no point large enough to turn around, divers must back in feet first, finding protrusions on the rock to grip, ­pushing and pulling themselves deeper down the submerged ­passage.

With each body length, they reach ahead to pull closer the two cylinders of breathing gas being dragged along unattached. It is so tight in some places that one diver emerged with cuts on her face, while another had his mask smashed off when he tried to turn around to face the flow.

The furthest point of our upstream exploration is 55m below the water level, and about 150m below the surface above. We could see that the passage continued deeper still, but decided not to continue on when we reached an unstable sandy slope, which threatened to bury us alive.

Deborah is dwarfed by Mammoth Cave’s crystal formations, deposited by mineral-rich rainwater that has seeped deep underground over hundreds of thousands of years. (Image: Alan Pryke)

THE FIRST AUSTRALIAN cave divers were hardy Sydney University cavers in the early 1950s, who ventured under water in the tourist system using homemade gear including garden hoses, waterproofed car headlights and hand-pumped bellows.

Success then was restricted by the lack of equipment and knowledge, but advances in technology and ­specialised training today allows divers to remain under water for many hours at depths previously thought to be impossible. We dive here to appreciate its beauty but also to answer questions about the cave geology, hydrology and biology.

There is another way to reach the waterway our divers have explored. The alternative entrance is an extra hour deeper into Mammoth Cave at the unfortunately named ‘Slug Lake’. From here, in 1998, Ron Allum, a diving legend and the AG Society’s 2016 Lifetime of Adventure winner, explored a passage to a staggering 96m below the surface before finishing in the roof of a chamber where it was too deep to see the bottom. His bright lights showed that the passage continued deeper out of sight, to what is possibly the deepest chamber in Australia. This is ­something we are continuing to explore.

Hydrogeologist Ian Lewis, based in Adelaide, did ­pioneering exploration dives at Jenolan in the 1970s. He explained to me why the caves here are so deep. “The Jenolan limestone layer has been tilted from horizontal, to near vertical, during the mountain building of the Great Dividing Range, with water filling old caves deeper down in the limestone,” he says. “The way the rock has been flipped means Slug Lake could potentially be several ­kilometres deep…this dive may intersect with an immense underwater aquifer, which is, of course, extremely ­exciting”.

Traditionally the goal of cave diving is to go furthest and deepest, but our team has spent much of 2016 ­exploring a new dry vertical cave found after diving down a tight tube to 30m and then surfacing in a subterranean lake further along the underground river known as ­Gargle Chamber.

In mid-2016 the divers broke into a previously unseen level of dry cave after reaching the top of a difficult climb 30m above the lake. This discovery revealed new dives even deeper into the cave system. It is hoped that further climbing will reveal a new pathway to the surface that will allow easier transportation of diving equipment. Once these new levels are fully mapped, the divers will return to the water, seeking the bottom of the so-called bottomless pit.

“It’s the only item on my bucket list,” says Sydney-based David Apperley, an award-winning expedition diver who has been integral in pushing the limits of our exploration of these caves. “I simply have to know where it goes.”

Returning to the surface after each exploration trip is difficult, because we must navigate a huge underwater void with limited visibility. Here, the only navigational marker is the thin orange string placed as a guideline to the ­surface at the entrance pool peppered with occasional plastic arrows that point the fastest way to air. There is a tight restriction to pass at the deepest point of this dive, where you have to wriggle through with difficulty. This is where I got stuck, but with a good grope in the dark for the rock snagging my suit, I was able to free myself.

There’s no space for ego on these exploration projects. The best results are gained through us working ­collaboratively. Success is rewarded in small doses and requires the repeated, methodical fortnightly or monthly trips, sometimes for years at a stretch. Cave-diving progress is often incremental with many setbacks before we begin to understand each cave system. Physical fitness and ­mental calm is essential to survive, but patience and passion is also necessary to last the distance.

Some say the desire to explore is innate but it is hard to articulate what continually draws us back. For some it is often a deeply personal feeling of satisfaction, for others, it is the combination of overcoming physical challenges and satisfying scientific curiosity. For those who have succumbed to ‘virgin cave fever’, it is the thrilling feeling of being the first to discover new caverns and seeing something no human has ever seen before – all here at the Jenolan Caves, just a couple of hours from Sydney’s CBD.

The post Heart of darkness: exploring the far reaches of the Jenolan Caves appeared first on Australian Geographic.

In the beginning

This ambitious off-road tourism project had taken years to be completed (in 2008). The track is named in honour of Bill Binns, a former NT Parks Ranger who eventually became the Executive Director of Parks NT during a 32-year career. The track officially starts on the ‘other side’ of the border, at the Mt Dare Hotel in South Australia, before turning north, crossing into the NT, and following the Old Andado Road to Alice Springs, via Santa Teresa. After Alice, the track ventures east, through the spectacular East MacDonnell Ranges, traversing N’Dhala Gorge and the historical mining settlement of Arltunga, to Ruby Gap, before turning north once again to Davenport Range National Park (NP). From this national park you return to the Stuart Highway for a short detour to the Devils Marbles, just south of Tennant Creek, before following the bitumen north to Glenmarra. From Glenmarra, the Binns Track turns west to Gregory NP where it follows the Humbert River Track north through the park to Timber Creek. During the trip you cover a variety of landscapes, from arid desert country, the Red Centre’s gorges, the flat Barkly tablelands and the subtropical around Gregory NP.

There’s escaping the distance needed to travel before you reach the start of the Binns – especially for tourers coming from the eastern seaboard. A steady four days is what we’d recommend before you start tracking north on the Stuart Highway through South Oz and then on to the dirt-road turn-off point at Kulgera, in the NT.

From Kulgera you drive east, toward Finke, with the magic Newland Ranges shadowing you on your left. This part of the track is renowned for containing large sections of bulldust – a talcum-power-like dusty sand that billows around your vehicle and can hide deep potholes, so be careful negotiating it. 

A lengthy water crossing in Gregory NP is negotiated easily by the Pajero.

During this section you have the opportunity to physically stand in the geographical centre of Australia, at Lambert’s Centre of Australia. This continental midpoint is just off the Kulgera-Finke Road and well worth the diversion. The Centre was a Bicentennial project, initiated by the Royal Geographical Society of Australasia, and was named in honour of Dr Bruce Lambert, a former Director of the Division of National Mapping. The exact centre-point was calculated using 24,500 points at the high water mark of Australia’s coastline as reference. The simple memorial includes a flagpole that is a near-identical replica of that sitting on top of Parliament House in Canberra. From the Centre you continue toward Mt Dare, travelling through more bulldust patches, corrugations and potholes. Staying the night at this famous desert hotel is a must, but we’d also recommend a desert camp along this track section. This part of Australia offers loads of sites where you can sleep under the million or so stars and enjoy a campfire dinner. In terms of bush camping this part of the country is tough to beat.

The Mt Dare Hotel sits on the Simpson Desert’s western edge, just inside the Witjira NP boundary, and offers travellers all the necessary services (and an awesome bar) to ensure a safe journey through this isolated region. The Binns Track officially starts right near the hotel, with Alice Springs 421km north, via the Old Andado Track, the next refuel/restock point. The landscape on this first section changes from the previous flat and sparse to a combination of dry creek crossings, more bulldust and river red gums as you near the Finke River. The sheer size of the Finke River’s ancient path is amazing. This vast, flat, vista is only broken by impressive sand dunes on the floodway’s outskirts, along with the occasional rocky hill. These flatlands make for fast travel before reaching Old Andado Station, another must-visit attraction along the Binns Track.

The homestead was originally home to the McDill family and built around the mid-1920s, before becoming Mac and Molly Clark’s residence from 1955. It is now looked after by caretakers and kept in original condition. It must have been a tough life out here back in the day.

Leaving Old Andado you continue north, traversing more sandy tracks toward the Aboriginal community of Santa Teresa before reaching the overnight stop at Alice Springs. The landscape continually evolves along the Binns, with the initial wide, open expanses of the Simpson Desert making way to more mountainous terrain with, firstly, the Train Hills and then the Deep Well Range’s taller, rich-red hills. Not far north of Santa Teresa you rejoin bitumen (albeit single-lane) road and follow it into the Red Centre capital, with the majestic East Macdonnell Ranges teasing you on the northern horizon.

Looking over a gorge just outside Davenport Range NP.

Middle of the road

The rugged gorges and sandy tracks of the East Macdonnell Ranges, along with the grassy savannah of the Barkly Tablelands, are the big attractions of the “middle” of the Binns Track. Leaving Alice and striking east along Numery Road, you pass the beautiful Emily and Jessie Gaps Nature Park, two break-throughs in the Heavitree Range. About 12km past Jesse Gap there’s a left turn onto Numery Road. Fifty kilometres from here, you arrive at N’dhala Gorge Nature Park (the location of thousands of petroglyphs; ‘pecked’ rock carvings).

This track is fantastic as you travel along dry, sandy riverbeds part of the way, with ghost gums surrounding you and huge red cliffs in the background. Once you reach the Arltunga Tourist Drive turn-off, the track leads past Trephina Gorge on the way to the Arltunga Historical Reserve, the ruins of which are all that remains of what is claimed to be central Australia’s first town. Arltunga was established after alluvial gold was discovered in the region in 1887. Now, all that remains are a few stone buildings, such as the old police station.

For those keen on some sublime bush camping, backtrack slightly and join the main road to Ruby Gap Nature Park, where you’ll find some sublime camping spots. For those with a less time, you can continue on from Arltunga, tracking northwest through the Georgina Range, before turning right onto Pinnacle Road. The gorge-covered country of the East MacDonnells is replaced by flat, stark plains, only interrupted occasionally by dry creek crossings and majestic gums. The track becomes less distinct as you enter more hilly country with the surrounding landscape turning a much richer, ochre red. Pinnacle Road is rougher, slower, and more undulating than the bitumen and graded dirt around Arltunga, so it’s nice to reach the Plenty Highway and take the turn-off to Gemtree and drive the 8km west to the powered or unpowered campsites and a hot shower at day’s end.

The Plenty Highway is a nice, smooth start to the following day’s 422km drive to the Barkly Region’s Davenport Ranges National Park. The terrain is open and flat, with only the large “humps” of the giant Harts Range to break the monotony. The track itself is well graded in this section and provided you don’t run out of fuel (don’t ask – it was close!) you will enjoy a relaxing day of driving. As you get closer to Davenport Range NP, you will notice the changes in the landscape that signal entry into savannah country, typical of the southern part of the Barkly Region, with yellow grass and large red rocks covering the track, and gorges and riverbeds predominant.

It had been a fairly poor Wet Season. The park’s landscape is brilliant. Our recommended campsite is at Old Police Station Waterhole, which on my two separate visits to the park has been either full to the brim with awesome swimming or nearly bone-dry. The Frew River Track, a 17km 4X4-only alternative route to Policeman’s Waterhole, is the best/most enjoyable route to the campsite. It can take a couple of hours but is time very well spent. In between crawling over near-wheel-sized rocks, and traversing narrow ridges with beautiful gorges to each side, you’ll have a spare few minutes to marvel at the absolute isolation this place offers. The campground is excellent, with a toilet, raised timber platforms for swags/tents and oodles of space. It’s a fantastic place to spend a couple of nights – especially if the waterhole is full. But, the road goes ever on, as one short, hairy fantasy character liked to say…

End game

The Binns Track changes character again after Davenport Ranges NP; moving through the savannah country, via Epenarra, you make your way back to the bitumen of the Stuart Highway (don’t forget to nip south for 20 minutes to check out the amazing Devils Marbles) before continuing north to the Barkly region’s main centre of Tennant Creek.

For those with a bit of time, there are some top attractions at Tennant Creek. Battery Hill Mining Centre offers an excellent interpretive mine tour and is a must-see, as is the brilliant Nyinkka Nyunyu Art and Culture Centre. It also provides the opportunity to refuel and restock camp supplies before the push north to the tropical wonderland of Gregory NP. It is at the town of Dunmarra, 358km north of Tennant Creek, where you thankfully leave the Stuart Highway and jump back on to dirt roads as you follow the dusty Buchanan Highway west to Top Springs and then on to the eastern entrance to Gregory NP. Dunmarra’s balmy weather is the first sign you are entering the NT’s subtropical region, with its vast cattle stations (Victoria River Downs Station is located here) and sparse vegetation marrying with numerous creek beds (often traversed by concrete causeways) before the green mass of Gregory NP’s 13,000 square kilometres looms.

The Binns Track follows the Humbert River Track – one of Gregory NP’s main 4X4 routes – north before finishing up at Timber Creek. There are some great campsites nestled beside the Humbert River (be croc-aware though; Gregory NP has plenty of salties in its waterways). We’d read the crocodile warning signs at the park entrance (much to photographer Mick Ellem’s disbelief, the park does have plenty of them) so made sure we kept six eyes out for any reptilian residents as we checked out the waterway.

Continuing north, leaving the river behind, you will cross a series of creek beds and the track becomes progressively rockier. There are also deeper waterways in the park’s northern section that need to be crossed so make sure you are confident in your water-crossing skills and your vehicle is prepared for them. One of Gregory NP’s more famous residents (and the park’s symbol) is the boab tree and, as you reach the park’s northern section, you will start to spot these age-old giants everywhere; they will dwarf even the biggest 4WD and are magnificent.

Other campsites worth checking out are near Bullita Homestead and also near Limestone Gorge, in the park’s northern extremity, which is reached via a very pretty route running beside the Baines River.

Timber Creek is the end point of the Binns Track and, after all the various landscapes you’ve driven through – and the days it has taken to do so – it can seem like a bit of an anti-climax. But, setting up your tent, swag or camper-trailer on that last night, sitting around a campfire sipping a beverage in this still-wild tropical wonderland, it does offer that unique chance to reflect with a fresh memory on what you have just achieved: completing one of the world’s great 4WD camping adventures.

The essentials

When to go: June through to September are the best months to tackle the Binns Track. The Wet Season means plenty of track closures up in the tropical regions and the numbing heat in the summer means the desert areas are out as well.

Getting there: For adventurers on the eastern seaboard, a decent four-day trip will see you at the start of the Binns. South Oz residents have it much easier, of course.

Time needed: If you plan on doing the Binns Track in one hit, we’d recommend a minimum of 10 days (excluding travel to the track and back home). For a more relaxed experience, take 14 days and really soak it up. If you plan on doing it piecemeal, we reckon the southern and central sections could be done in three days each, with the northern section a two-day affair.

Vehicle: You will need a 4WD with low-rang gearing and – preferably – one that has a diesel engine, which will offer nearly twice the touring range of a petrol-powered equivalent. Make sure your vehicle has been inspected before the big adventure, and also make sure you have two spare wheels/tyres, plus a tyre repair kit. We’d recommend fitment of light-truck all-terrain (at a minimum) or mud-terrain tyres for a trip like this; the sharp rocks of the NT’s dirt roads are notoriously unforgiving on tyres.

Essentials: Paper maps (The Hema Maps range of touring maps are best by far) backed up by a GPS unit (either handheld or dash-mounted, such as Hema’s HX-1). A satphone; emergencies in the remote parts of Australia can quickly escalate and a satphone is the most reliable form of communication. Also pack plenty of water, food, etc. for remote travel (minimum 5L per day, per person) and be very familiar with your vehicle – and pack any spares that you are confident you can fit if need be. Finally, pack a sense of adventure; the Binns Track sounds immense in terms of a challenge and time needed but, as we stated earlier, you can always chop it into sections and do the southern, central and northern parts over a couple of years.

More info: http://northernterritory.com/things-to-do/self-drive-touring/binns-track

The post Road trip: Binns Track, NT appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Swainy contemplates his surrounds while quietly collecting some river sand in his hand. He gently scatters the fine white grains into a slow swirling eddy before him. It is a part of ‘welcome to country,’ a respectful gesture asking the creatures of the river if they mind us joining them on this natural pathway, and in a practical sense it offers the galgun (eels) and djamala (platypus) time to find a quiet pool well away from our kayak launch point.

It is a connection and respect for ‘nadgan’ (Mother Earth) he explains to me. We are about to enter a very special part of Australia, a remote region rarely visited by non-indigenous… or anybody for that matter. We will discover artifacts last handled thousands of years ago, bivy alongside ancient Monaro campsites and, if we tune in to the environment around us, we will once again learn to breathe and experience ‘Mother Earth’ of which we are all a part but all too often forget.

But it is the breathing I’m finding difficult; we’ve cinched up PFDs, ratcheted helmets and are now practicing our paddling skills after experienced kayaker and river guide Jase has given us a whitewater rundown. It appears The Snowy may not be a serene experience after all…

Local Cooma resident Bob is on a personal journey to reconnect with the land he calls ‘home’. (Image: Mark Watson / inciteimages)

Ancient songline

The ancient Byadbo immediately takes hold of all who enter and it only takes two paddle strokes before the swift current sweeps my craft toward a week of wilderness camping.

The snow is still melting on the main range but the microclimate within the Snowy River Valley is vastly different to the cold plains high above. On the water the air is warm, and native animals are unafraid. We’ve already been stopped in our tracks by an albino gungwaun (emu) only moments after Swainy’s mention of the creature being his native totem… maybe a coincidence, maybe something more.

The Koora Koorai (wind spirit) is calm and peaceful as we set off and a large dhurrawarri (water dragon) looks on from a warm river rock as our group of seven glides by. Even the djamala (platypus) bob to the surface to welcome us to their home. “Can you feel it?” asks Swainy. “The country sings!”

“On the right track, along a songline, the birds sing, the wind is calm and the air feels positive. If you veer off track the hairs on your neck stand up and things just don’t feel right until you reorganise and get back on track,” he elaborates.

There is something tangible in what Swainy describes, something that makes sense. As I glide amongst the mighty house-sized granite boulders of the upper Snowy, with only the sound of the river to accompany me, there is little doubt this land holds something more than what my mere five senses offer me.

As I wend downstream I appreciate that for the Monaro this connection to Mother Earth, these songlines, have been a part of life and lore for thousands of years. I wonder if this same appreciation was recognisable to a determined Angus McMillan, a Scottish settler in the 1830s who battled the Byadbo and surrounding mountains to the Victorian coast in a search for pastoral land. Or was it acknowledged by Strzelecki as he explored the region in the 1840s, or by surveyors McCabe and later Townsend, and more… nearly all who were turned back by the wildness.

Jase and Swainy carefully lower kayaks laden with all our supplies off a ‘gentler’ chute of Snowy Falls, the gateway to the Byadbo Wilderness. (Image: Mark Watson / inciteimages)

The merciless terrain and river’s reputation continually arrested those who dared venture too far and thus much of the Snowy remained relatively uncharted territory for nearly 100 years after European settlement.

In 1937, however, Arthur Hunt and Stanley Hanson tackled the river from Jindabyne to the coast in an 11ft 6in pine canoe. Their objective was described by a local bushman as “a complicated form of suicide”. An extract from The 1939 River Canoe Club Of NSW on the Hunt and Hansen trip reads: “… when I first thought of doing a canoe trip down the Snowy, I mentioned it to Mick O’Malley. Mick was born and bred on the Monaro. He’s 6ft 4in, weighs between 16 and 17 stone and if he tells you something you can take it as being fairly correct. He went straight to the point: “Don’t be an adjectival fool, Arthur; If you go down there you’ll never come back. Why there are places there the blacks have never seen.”

Whilst the modern day dammed Snowy is far from the untamed river it once was, this remote region certainly sounds like no ‘paddle in the park’. At camp that night, I muse over what the coming days might bring. Fortunately I am able to contemplate such musings with a white wine in hand, a brilliant moon overhead and while reading Hunt and Hansen extracts by a warming campfire.

Swainy recounts the djamala dreaming as the moon continues to rise, and it is not long before I climb into my tent, all the while wondering what will be delivered beyond the Byadbo gateway. I eventually fall asleep to the rumbling of the river and images of a mythical platypus looking down from the hills above.

Wilderness time capsule

I rise the next morning to the sound of Swainy’s clapsticks and smile when I see Jase boiling the billy for coffee. Over breakfast we revisit last night’s djamala dreaming when a subtle realisation dawns on me that I am now privy to possibly one of the oldest fables in existence; such stories have been passed from generation to generation for millennia. Sat under a warming sun it is easy to accept the Snowy for all its apparent peacefulness and forget its rather tumultuous history. But even the dreamtime tale of djamala ends with our monotreme friend being speared by the dingo people right near this very spot. The Snowy was deeply impacted by European settlement and the Monaro population was decimated through disease. Then came the introduction of sheep and cattle, the damming of the alpine rivers, an inundation of weeds, habitat destruction by feral animals and a political battle for environmental flows.

Swainy expertly negotiates the bottom stage of the Snowy Falls to avoid a long portage bypassing this striking landmark. (Image: Mark Watson / inciteimages)

Fortuitously the remoteness of the Byadbo Wilderness allowed a time capsule to remain amongst the turmoil of the surrounding lands. There is little doubt feral animals, super fires and a near-ceased (one per cent) natural water flow affected even the remotest river valleys over the past century, however the return of up to 15 per cent of the Snowy’s flow over recent years has improved the health of this area considerably. The gateway to this pristine part of south eastern Australia is the Snowy Falls and as the mist continues to rise off the water we set off towards a distant rumble on our second day on the river. Two black swans lift off from the water in front of us and glide side by side down the valley just as I settle in beside Swainy for a chinwag.

“I’ve always had a link to the Snowy,” he reveals. “I have a photo when I was a baby from the first time they let the spillway go, back in 1970 I think.

“I began guiding The Pinch back in the ’90s but for 40 years they let less than one per cent back into the river. I remember looking upstream and wondering what was there. I always wanted to go but there was never enough water. It wasn’t until 2012 when they (Snowy Hydro) let water out that paddling upstream became possible, but there was no information, nothing in the guidebook. Even the NSW Canoe Guide stated: “If you go down there can ya let us know?” It was really weird; all the animals just stood and watched us. The platypus came to look at us… we saw 10-12 platypus at once.”

Our conversation fades as the roar of the falls grows louder but it is clearly evident Swainy’s passion for the river, combined with his indigenous heritage and 25 years river guiding, means it would be hard to find a better soul to lead our team into the Byadbo. I look back to see Pauline, Sandra and Ella, three Sydney nurses who have a yearning for the unexplored. Behind them is Cooma resident Bob, who’s on a journey to reconnect with the land he grew up in, and at the rear is our tail guide Jase. It’s a good crew.

Uncharted waters

The Snowy Falls is sight to behold. Jagged rocks jut from the river and water cascades 30m to the river below. To the right are the thundering main falls and to the left are two chutes that redirect the flow around a gnarled central island. The upward swirling mist in the air is a daunting sight and as we approach, we eddy out well in advance of the fast flowing water. A safety line set across the river sees a nervous ferry of the boats one by one before Jase and Swainy lower them down the least scary chute.

We could have battled a long portage of a rock-strewn creek to avoid the falls altogether but lowering the kayaks off the falls seems truer to the river, more direct, less hassle and definitely more adventurous. Nearly four hours later we realise maybe we should have chosen ‘option B’ but finally Jase lowers the last of our vast rubber vessels to Swainy who rides the chute out to where we are all able to join the river once again.

Ella gets the adrenaline flowing as she negotiates one of the few grade three rapids en route to our daily campsite. (Image: Mark Watson / inciteimages)

A number of further portages and grade two and three rapids keep us on our toes throughout the day. As the sun sinks the terrain steepens to gorge-like and we find ourselves in the remotest part of our journey. We drift on calm waters and eventually drag our craft up a steep rock shelf to settle in a picturesque camp surrounded by brilliant yellow Snowy River Wattles, iconic Kurrajong and enormous mingarl (grass trees). Small water dragons scurry from the rocks as I manage a breathtaking swim in the icy waters before another night under the stars.

With Snowy Falls behind us we are in little rush to depart camp and find time to absorb this unique country. It is here in the shadow of Mt Talbingo, 150 years ago, that surveyor Thomas Scott Townsend noted: “It is impossible to proceed along the banks of the river at this point, and appears to continue so for miles.”

We are now in uncharted waters and the peacefulness is mesmerising.

At river’s edge ripples from a djamala (platypus) bounce against tall bulrushes whose sweet stem is a tasty treat I discovered en route to camp yesterday. Opposite our rocky plateau steep scree slopes bulldoze their way to waters edge leaving a scar amongst the white trunks of the scribbly gums and dark branches of native cypress. The lush green foliage of the Kurrajong trees stands out against the more subdued khakis of the surrounding eucalypts, and occasionally a flash of brilliance appears; an azure kingfisher swoops down on unsuspecting prey.

Prior to European settlement, the Monaro people lived here for more than 20,000 years, trading with the Bidawal or Gunaikurnai of the lower Snowy and coastal regions for food and items not available to upstream populations. It’s easy to understand why: this ribbon of water was a gateway to the high country where rivers teemed with galgun (eel); fat and oil rich bogong moths hid in abundance in the rock crevices of the subalpine plains; and yams were harvested and cultivated.

Coming of age

Beyond the striated granite, peregrine eyries and red cliffs of the gorge, we follow our now constant companions, two great black swans. In a quiet unnamed creek, we make our way past a lazy red-bellied black snake waiting for frogs to gather on the riverbank where Swainy stops. Without fuss he lights some fungus and uses the smouldering candle to perform a cleansing ceremony, for we are about to enter a special place.

Quietly walking on, I take note of sharp edged artifacts strewn on the ground. The creek meanders through lush glades until coming to a partial clearing abundant with wombat holes. Here I take time to imagine life thousands of years ago… before us lays a large grindstone as clear as day as though it was left when somebody simply upped and walked away. Axe heads and cutting stones rest under trees and a rise gives way to what appears to be a landscaped rock garden.

Swainy snacks on native yams as we discover a hidden yam garden amongst the banks of a tumbling tributary. (Image: Mark Watson / inciteimages)

“This is men’s camp,” Swainy reveals. “You can see what it must have been like for the Ngarigo. I was drawn to this place on my first time in Byadbo… I had no idea why. I have since spoken to the elders and I believe this is not just a campsite, but is a historic ceremony place where boys came to become men. This is a special place and quite possibly not visited since the last Monaro walked away many years ago.”

Our crew each respond with a respectful quiet interest and as we gaze over the pristine glade in which we now sit, we take the opportunity enjoy lunch in this far off distant patch of the world that has so much history but seems so untouched by humankind.

That night we camp at Budjan Bend (birdlife bend) where the great sea eagle soars overhead and the gunjug (swans) and moonbah (ducks) reside under Wildwoman Ridge. From the glowing embers of our campfire we keep watch for the siren-like maleema who lure men away, never to be seen again. Fortunately they do not appear.

Connection to country

After four days on the river our crew has changed. The banter of the first day has been replaced with a respectful silence and we tackle each rapid with more confidence, and possibly even more grace. On occasion, when the river gradient allows, I lay back on my dry-bag and let the water carry me downstream. I stare at the nothingness overhead and allow the warming sun and sounds of the Byadbo reboot my psyche. On one such occasion, I’m interrupted by a thrashing in the water and I look up to see two brumbies fording the stream up ahead. It is hard not to be impressed by such powerful creatures but the past days have highlighted the damage they are causing, along with the goats and deer we have also seen since exiting the gorge.

My notebook from our last camp reads: “It appears self evident the final step in rejuvenating this ancient pocket of land must be not only be the doubling of the present environmental flow to at least the promised 28 per cent, but also the removal of both destructive flora and fauna – including the mighty brumby.”

The region’s wild brumbies are a majestic and powerful creature but shrouded in controversy owing to their damaging effect on this fragile environment. (Image: Mark Watson / inciteimages)

Our final night at Reedy Creek offers the luxury of a cascading brook with a chilly spa amongst smooth granite rocks. I lie in the cold water and briefly forget the issues the present day Snowy still needs to deal with. Beside the creek, yam gardens hide on the steep rocks paralleling the cascade and a spotted quoll scat sits atop a rock on the far bank. Fifty metres away I’m sure there must be another historic Monaro camp… it’s just too perfect here. Or maybe it’s 100m away, who knows, for this land still holds many secrets.

Our closing day on the river means crossing the biddi, an ancient songline where we will pass into Moyangal (Pinch Mountain) country. Immediately on doing so the wind swings against us. Koora Koorai (wind spirit) is talking to us, pointing us back to Mother Earth’s Garden of Eden, and asking us to turn around. It is tempting to give in to Koora Koorai’s will, but we have friends and family waiting for us in what now feels like a faraway land. Koora Koorai’s eventually abates and Swainy glances over to me. “Can you feel it? There’s a different light to the day, another vibration, we are in new country,” he says. As we drift past Jacobs Creek and toward Wet Cheeks, our final grade three rapid for the journey, I trail a hand in the smooth flowing waters and close my eyes for a moment. I breathe in nadgan (Mother Earth) and listen to the wind, the birds, the water and the trees.

Finally I turn back to Swainy and offer a knowing nod. I am beginning to understand this connection to country, this spirituality that is inseparable from our being. It is a part of us all. If only we can quiet our minds and open our eyes, it all begins to make sense. I think back to welcome to country, the sand on the water, and the clapsticks. “It gets me every time,” Swainy offers. I need say nothing… this time round I know exactly what he means.

The essentials

World Expeditions in conjunction with Alpine River Adventures runs a 5-6 day 70km Snowy River & Byadbo Wilderness Expedition. Places are limited to six people per trip and it’s suitable to all age levels from 12 years up with average level of fitness. Paddling experience is beneficial but not essential. The journey departs from and finishes in Cooma, NSW.

REX Airlines flies multiple times a week in and out of Cooma (Snowy Mountains) Airport, or there are daily flights to and from Canberra from all Australian Capital cities. 

Cooma is a 115km drive (1h 30m) from Canberra Airport.

We stayed at the Nebula Motel in Cooma.

The post Paddling into the past: Byadbo Wilderness, NSW appeared first on Australian Geographic.

It was the fourth day of a five-day bikepacking trip we’d started from Cairns. Climbing through jungle to the drier tablelands, we’d linked the mountain bike parks of Smithfield, Davies Creek and Atherton, and also traced a stage of the Croc Trophy, the world’s oldest MTB stage race. Now, via the Misty Mountains – where pristine high altitude rainforest tumbled down to thundering rivers – we were returning to sea level at Innisfail.

It had been a grab bag of flowing singletrack, rutted bush tracks, fire trails and quiet gravel roads. There had been jungle, yes, but also dusty savannah, rolling farmland, and plantations of banana and sugar cane, avocadoes and mangoes. And there had been water; dams, rivers, waterfalls and far, far too many creeks to count. They’d flowed crystal clear through the jungle, slipping through boulders and sliding with limpid clarity over shoaled beds of gravel. And it was this water that had been the source of our problems, when we were tempted by its beauty, its siren song of refreshment, and by our stupidity to drink it untreated…

Even loaded with gear, Atherton’s playful Link Track is a blast; working on skills at the Atherton MTB Park; artwork at Bare Hill; Ravenshoe Hotel puts a new twist on bar service. (Image: James McCormack)

Regret borne of foolishness

Few places in Australian mountain biking are as storied as Cairns. It hosted our first World Cup in 1994 and our first World Champs in 1996. In 2014, then 2016, the World Cup returned, as will the World Champs this September. The focus for these events is the Smithfield MTB Park, an area that – with just 25km of official singletrack – has exerted an outsized influence on our country’s MTB scene. In fact, the park’s mere existence is groundbreaking, for it was Australia’s first.

It seemed apt then that we began our trip at Smithfield. And fitting, too, we were to be shown around by legendary Cairns-based trailbuilder Glen Jacobs – the only Australian ever inducted into the MTB Hall of Fame – since it was here he cut his teeth. But sadly, Smithfield was appropriate in one last way, in that we started our trip here much like we finished it: with regret borne of foolishness. Just as stupidly as drinking untreated water, we didn’t allow ourselves enough time in Cairns.

The plan was to fly in, ride Smithfield for half a day, then set off that afternoon. Instead we sat like spellbound school kids as Jacobs – a welcoming man of boundless enthusiasm in both deeds and, as we discovered, words – told us of building trails as a 10-year old in the 60s, of filming MTB heli-drops and bungee stunts in the 90s, and of his seven years building World Cup race courses. He spoke of sustainability, recreational versus race trails, economic recovery, E-bikes, the philosophy of momentum and… Oh no. What?! 1pm? Already?

We jumped on our bikes. Jacobs lived just a few hundred metres from the trailhead; within minutes we were in the blaring jungle. We made our way to Black Snake, a climbing trail that Glen said held special meaning. At its crux, it twisted up a razorback ridgeline where the earth dropped away sharply to a waterfall on one side and an abandoned quarry on the other. Building a trail here looked almost impossible. In fact, exactly how to do so had initially stumped Glen, until another rider, looking at the contemplated route, scoffed, “I’ll bet my house you’re not getting a trail up that.” It was the spur Jacobs needed. That evening, he knocked on his door and said, “Keys, bitch.”

The descent that followed, Pines – with its buffed and cavernous berms – only emphasised the regret we felt for barely tasting even a morsel from Smithfield’s smorgasbord of trails. At least our time riding with Glen wasn’t quite done. We were heading west to Copperlode Dam, and while the sealed ascent is Cairns’ signature climb for roadies, it also serves MTB-ers well; a half-dozen ripping downhills plunge off it, one of which Jacobs was meeting with a small crew to ride. Together, we curled up through extravagantly jungle-smeared hills, with grades so mild that – even laden with overnight gear – the climb could be described as pleasant. So pleasant in fact that, in an act of uncharacteristic charity, I decided not to ruin Dave’s afternoon by mentioning what lay ahead.

Which was? Well, I couldn’t be sure, but knowing the climb beyond Copperlode was called Heartbreak Hill wasn’t reassuring. And when I’d mentioned our route over the phone to Mark Knowles, president of Atherton’s MTB club, I’m sure he’d snickered. “Oh, it’s all rideable,” he’d added between stifled chuckles. “You just need a big enough ticker.” He then said to be ready to jam our saddles’ noses up our bums if we wanted our front wheels kept grounded.

My body may have let me down, but the Norco Optic 9.2 and Revelate Design bags never did. (Image: James McCormack)

Having split from Glen, Copperlode Dam looked beautiful when we reached it; sedate and sheened, with crinkle-cut coves and rainforest plunging to the shoreline. But there the beauty ended; at least I think it did. I couldn’t be sure. The road – now restricted-access – shot skywards at such eye-poppingly steep grades I couldn’t afford to waste energy farting around looking at scenery. Calling this Heartbreak Hill, I realised, comically undersold it. This didn’t merely break your heart; instead – after raising it to 300bpm – it reached in and ripped it out whole, threw it on the ground, then stamped and mashed it into the dirt. And then spat on it for good measure.

Had I possessed any intelligence, I would have dismounted and walked, saving my quads for the days ahead. Instead, I rode the whole damn way, tough enough unloaded but near-lunacy when laden with gear. That said, I was riding light enough. I had a 400g sleeping bag, a featherweight tarp, a 180g sleeping mat and an old Fancy Feast tin I’d fashioned into a 6g metho stove. At least I thought all this was light, until I mentioned it to Dave halfway up.

“You’re not travelling light at all,” he said. He was right; for all my gram counting, I still lugged around nearly 7kg of photographic equipment; I was shooting this for Outdoor, after all.

“I guess my camera gear weighs a ton,” I replied. “But that comes with the gig.”

“Not your camera gear; your clothes. Look what you’re wearing.”

I did. A T-shirt and shorts didn’t seem particularly remarkable.

“You need to meet G-string Rik,” Dave continued.

“G-string Rik?”

“Yeah, Huddo’s mate. (Huddo being a mutual friend). You have no idea about travelling light until you meet Rik. Once he’s out bush, he’s in a G-string.”

“Instead of undies?”

“No, that’s all he wears, a G-string.”

“Yer joking.”

“Nup. Probably also plucks out half the stitches to save the grams.”

Dave’s trip preparation primarily involved getting his teeth capped the day before we left, and he flashed me a pearly white smile worth several grand. Meanwhile, I began digesting his words. I pictured G-string Rik, and then, worse yet, imagined my own G-strung buttocks after five days’ bikepacking. It was not – and I cannot emphasise this strongly enough – pretty.

More ghastly still, I’d not expunged the image hours later. We’d plunged down in dim light to the Bridle Creek Road junction, where we set up camp under blazing stars. Fireflies swirled lazily in the trees. On any other night, they might have sung me a visual lullaby. Tonight, however, the brightness I saw upon closing my eyes was not of glowing fireflies; it was of my damned alabaster white butt, jiggling through the rainforest.

On course The following morning we awoke to a chorus of birdsong like no other I’ve heard. There were gorgles and warbles, krauks and cracks, twittles and giggles, whips, shrieks, wockles and waaacks. There were sounds melodious and sounds discordant. Tucked in there was a screeching feline. “It’s a catbird,” said Dave, who unlike me has at least rudimentary ornithological knowledge. “It’s probably looking enviously at your cat-can stove.”

Sensing the faraway look in my eyes as I pictured a furry whiskered thing gliding through the jungle he added, “They actually exist. They look like bower birds.” He gave that same expensive smile he gave last night. It seemed a little too smooth. Doubts bubbled up.

“Hmmm. Does G-string Rik really wear a G-string?” I asked.

“His pack is tiny. Just an amazing bushman.

Incredibly efficient. Brilliant to watch.”

“Yeah, but the G-string?”

Dave paused.

“No,” he finally admitted, “he’s a stubbies and volleys man.”

“Is he even called G-string Rik?”

“No.”

I was about to press him for truth on catbirds when a 4WD pulled up. Out bounded a khaki-clad man who struck me, despite the broad smile, as being tough as nails. It was Gerhard Schönbacher, organiser of the Croc Trophy. I’d been expecting to meet; the route we were following was Stage Two of this year’s race, which happened to be starting in three days’ time. Gerhard was out marking the course.

An ex-pro cyclist, Gerhard raced the Tour de France in the 80s. The following decade, as mountain biking became more popular, he wondered why no MTB equivalent of the Tour existed, so he decided to create one. Although Austrian, he looked to Australia, which he remembered fondly from his racing days. He plotted a 2600km course from Darwin to Cairns, figuring on similar daily distances to the Tour. “But I’d never sat on a mountain bike before,” he said. “I had no idea how hard 200km on dirt was.” Nonetheless, 68 riders participated in that first 1995 event. Most were European; two had been cyclo-cross world champs. “I’d never seen world champions cry before,” Gerhard said, before laughing.

Another in the endless succession of climbing switchbacks in Atherton MTB Park. (Image: James McCormack)

Nowadays the Croc has trimmed to just 770km, and starts each year from Cairns. “It’s no longer the world’s toughest race,” Gerhard admitted, “but it’s still certainly one of the harder ones. But it’s the riders who make it hard. If they went slow, it wouldn’t be hard.” I would soon beg to differ, because once we departed, Lord knows I tried going slow. It didn’t help. With 107km and 2600m of climbing, this second stage would be tough at any pace, and that’s having knocked over the worst of it last night. Well, I’d assumed we had, until the National Parks guy unlocking gates for Gerhard said what lay ahead was, if anything, worse. “Really?” I replied. “Yesterday was pretty freaking steep.” Frankly, I didn’t believe him. Frankly, I was wrong.

Whereas yesterday I’d ridden everything, today was too much; I resorted to walking. At least, though, this let me admire the jungle. Huge tree ferns punched upwards, vines spun webs everywhere, and the forest arced overhead into an interlocking canopy. And the track itself – closed to traffic – was impressive. Despite the tremendous rainfall, it had been constructed so beautifully there was barely a hint of erosion, and thick leaf litter obscured the gravel. It felt not like a road at all but a carpet, smooth and silent and soft.

And then we were out of the jungle. Just like that. There was nothing gradual about this. One minute towering greenery surrounded us; the next, drab olive scrub. And by the time we reached the aboriginal rock art site of Bare Hill, less than 10 klicks on, we’d entered essentially savannah. Coming through as we were at the dry season’s tail-end, the land felt bleached and tired.

But the dryness is not without its advantages. A little further on, we reached Davies Creek MTB Park, and while not a huge network – with just 25km of trails – its rain-shadow location is half its popularity. “We have 300 sunny days a year here,” Megan Harris of the Mareeba Mountain Goats told me earlier via phone. “When it’s wet and the trails are closed in Cairns, riders come here.”

The first trail builders at Davies Creek weren’t MTB-ers but cattle, Megan said. Most trails were originally cow pads, which were later realigned as necessary. But not all; a few years ago they constructed 4km of machine-built singletrack which, naturally, we were keen to sample. We peeled off the Croc Trophy route to head up Balboa (it’s rocky) and then onto Tank track, the one real ascent Davies Creek has on offer. Up we weaved through termite mounds and stands of cycads, on a switchbacking trail baked hard and white. It fluttered like a ribbon, ever upwards before a buffed descent of berms and flowy sweepers returned us to the main trails.

On we continued, south now, on a dusty farm track of constant undulations with never a flat moment to spin and relax. The temperature had ratcheted up, in the mid-30s or more, and the country seemed harder and drier than ever. When we reached Emerald Creek, verdant and lush, it seemed like a surreal oasis.

It also seemed like a thief. Well, of time anyway. We took photos, swam, ate lunch, swam, took more photos, and then suddenly realised we’d played far too long; making Atherton tonight via the Croc’s Stage 2 was impossible. We rode instead to the Barron River, down through plantations before waging a 20km battle with stiff headwinds on the highway. Even then, we only snuck into town under cover of darkness. At least, I thought we’d snuck in. Yet again, unsurprisingly, I was wrong.

Sublime singletrack

“That was you then,” said Mark Knowles. “I was wondering who’d be that stupid.”

“Yes,” I admitted to Atherton’s MTB club president, “that would be us.”

It was just after 6am, and I’d met Knowlesy along with Nick Bowman for a 16km spin around the MTB park. Dave had stayed in bed. In truth, he sorely needed beauty sleep, but instead I explained his no-show by mentioning our late arrival. It had not gone unnoticed. Although Atherton, an agricultural town of roughly 7000, owed its location to being where the rainforest broke – for the old-timers, clearing timber was a right royal butt-ache – pockets of jungle still existed. One of them was the Tolga Scrub, and hitting it at dusk thrust us abruptly and unexpectedly into a darkness to make black holes seem rather bright and cheery. Barely able to see us, motorists showed their appreciation, some by beeping, others by yelling. One passing driver happened to be Knowlesy.

Our ride this morning commenced by leaping immediately into another rainforest pocket. The trails – 60km of purpose-built singletrack – begin literally 100m from Atherton’s town centre, and while usually you expect anything called ‘Link Trail’ to be ho-hum, this was anything but. We swooped across watery crossings and ricked and rolled and dipped and ducked on flowing singletrack that had Glen Jacobs’ signature all over of it.

After the flatter, more open trails of Knowles Nard, Two Tooth and Forty Stitches, we climbed Beady Eye to a ridgeline col known as the Roundabout. From here the real extent of Atherton’s trails became apparent. Singletrack spilt off in every direction; four different trails, each looping back to make eight paths spreading out like spider’s legs across the landscape. Quite honestly, I’d never seen anything like it. Some ran bench-cut under ridgelines; others cascaded down out of sight. Across the valley climbed Stairway to Heaven, as impressive a sequence of switchbacks as I’ve seen anywhere.

Back down in Atherton – after descending Ridgey-Didge, a pedalling optional 2km berm-fest – Knowlesy admitted the trails hadn’t come cheap; roughly a million dollars had been injected a few years ago. Not that construction had ceased; our final trail into town, Penny Lane – another swooping rainforest delight – was just weeks old. And over coffee – something Dave deigned to show up for – Knowlesy outlined plans for more: a DH track, extending the rail trail and more rainforest singletrack.

When we pushed off, it was back into the park. This time we took Rocky Python to Top Deck to Stairway to Heaven, a succession of trails that carried us to the network’s highpoint. I say “carried” specifically; for 5km the singletrack climbed, but an almost preposterous succession of uphill berms made it seem half the work was done for us. We powered into each uphill corner without washing speed, knowing a berm would catch us. As we ascended, it began greening. Like Davies Creek, Atherton lies in the rain-shadow of coastal ranges. But the Great Dividing Range actually runs through the MTB park, catching secondary moisture. The grasses changed from brown to lime to green; by the time we’d summited the trail network we’d re-entered the rainforest. There were palms and vines and ferns and towering trees. The air was thick with birdsong. Butterflies danced. Best of all was a deliciously cool breeze.

We swung south now onto a forest road. For more than 15km we traced the Great Divide’s spine, remaining in jungle for the first half before it turned into scrub, thirsty and hard. We peeled off onto an unmaintained fire road where the surface became a sketchy mixture of sand, kitty-litter pebbles and baby head rocks. Our descents became barely controlled freefalls.

Neurotoxins and lawyers

Little more than a kilometre off the Divide, the town of Herberton is Queensland’s second highest. We swooped down to refuel before taking 35km of quiet back roads to arrive at Ravenshoe, population 860, the only town higher. But there’s not much in it. “I think we’re something like two and a half inches higher,” said Wayne Edwards, who with Wendy Stanford owns the Ravenshoe Hotel. The state’s highest pub is also the town’s crowning jewel. A huge, verandahed establishment in the traditional Queenslander-style, it possesses barely a straight angle, and polished wooden floors dip and roll in waves. Wendy’s grandfather actually built it back in 1927, entirely of local timbers. The staircase is silky oak; the dance floor uses black bean and maple; the fireplace surrounds are red cedar; so too the doorways.

Red cedar was once so prolific here that prior to 1911 Ravenshoe was called Cedartown. “Huge cedars came right up to town,” Wendy told me. “People spoke of being in awe as they approached Ravenshoe.” With logging, the cedars went. When the Wet Tropics World Heritage Area was declared in the 90s, so too did the logging. More recently, Ravenshoe’s other main industry, dairying, also crashed. “It’s been hard,” said Wendy. “People hoped for more tourists, but they never came.” That said, Ravenshoe still draws some, one prime attraction being Millstream Falls, Australia’s widest.

Another draw is precisely the reason we were here: the Misty Mountains. Spread over three national parks – Tully Gorge, Tully Falls and Wooroonooran – Ravenshoe is a gateway to this 130km network of trails, half of which are open to mountain bikes. The paths weren’t purpose-built; most were old logging tracks. Some in turn were old aboriginal paths connecting the ‘gambilbara’ (the rocky tablelands country) to the ‘yabulmbara’ (the coastal plain).

The name Misty Mountains is another of the region’s euphemisms; Catsndogs-Pissingdown-Bucketing-Rain Mountains would be surely more apt, given Wooroonooran National Park receives Australia’s highest rainfall. Nearby Mt Bellenden Ker has received nearly 1000mm in just one day, 5000mm in just one month and 12000mm in a year. Also in Wooroonooran is 1622m Mt Bartle Frere, the state’s highest peak. The combination of precipitation and rugged mountains means the area has Australia’s finest and most pristine high altitude rainforest.

And perhaps also the country’s most prolific blood suckers. Whenever I mentioned Misty Mountains to a local, invariably they warned of leeches. Wendy’s tale was the worst: a few years back, some mountain bikers rocked up to the Ravenshoe Hotel. They’d just traversed the Mistys, not long after the monsoon, and it was wet. Leeches dangled out of their noses. Their ears. Their eyes. It was, she said, a bloodbath.

As it turned out – spoiler alert – neither Dave nor I got a single bite. But discovering the Misty Mountains had other ways to extract blood didn’t take long. Just a few hundred metres into the Cardwell Range Track, a crimson rivulet streamed from my arm courtesy of Calamus muelleri, a barbed vine that hangs like tentacles though the jungle. Most locals call it wait-a-while; that’s what you yell to your partners as you detach yourself from it. Given its bloodletting tendencies, however, I prefer its alternate name: lawyer vine.

A little further on, though, there was a small trackside sign, one to make even lawyer vine seem friendly: STINGING TREES, it announced. I knew they were around, but until now I’d dismissed them as a threat. Hah! A sting. Big deal! I’ve messed with a bee. But as the sign’s words jumped out – neurotoxins… extremely painful… symptoms last for months – a reassessment seemed in order.

Especially since stinging trees – and lawyer vines too – grow well in disturbed areas of forest, say, like tree blow-downs. Or, more pertinently, along old logging tracks like the one we were on. Relaxation became a zero-sum game; while the track had impressively long coasting descents needing neither pedal nor brake, offsetting this was the concentration required to slalom wait-a-while and stinging trees.

The darkness didn’t help. Dense walls of vegetation gave the feeling we rode through a shadowy green tunnel that – save for the creek crossings – was almost without end. There was a sense of complete immersion, as if the jungle had swallowed us whole. Meanwhile, the thick sounds of insects and birds blared. There was growling as well; not by catbirds now but rather our guts. Approaching the trailhead, Dave announced his stomach wasn’t good; within half an hour, mine, too, was howling in distress. But in this time Dave had further deteriorated. Despite the scant pedalling, by early afternoon when we reached Hinson Creek campsite, he flopped down and sprawled across the grass. Ninety minutes later, he’d barely moved.

A few days ago, I’d asked Dave about his most epic epic, the outing where things had gone most painfully awry. I’d never asked anyone that question before, let alone while on a trip. Now I could see why; it was ludicrously courting fate. “We’ve gotta go,” I finally announced. Dave moaned. Fifteen minutes later, I said it again. Really, I added.When he roused himself a few minutes later, he took one look at me lying on the ground and announced, “You look as bad as I feel.”

But from here our trajectories diverged. Once back on the bike, I began improving. Dave went the other way. After we emerged onto a forest road and began climbing, he began puking. Then dry-retching. Then shivering. Summiting one of the hills Dave announced, “I can’t do it. I just cannot do another climb like that.”

Good over bad

You know what? When I said earlier it seemed wrong talking of sickness when I should be talking of beauty, I’ve decided forthwith to stick by that, except to say the following morning Dave awoke and said simply, “Worst. Night. Ever.” But I’m not going to dwell on these details. I’d rather finish by talking of only the good. Of the fact there were no more “climbs like that”. Of the magnificence of the South Johnstone River, where next to our campsite ran dark, polished waters slipping through smooth boulders. I will talk instead of the four-storey high ferns. The 10-storey high trees. The cloaking vines, woven so densely they draped like sheets over everything.

No, I won’t dwell on the bad. I will talk of waterfalls. Of slashing white ribbons leaping through the jungle. Of the long gentle descent down the Palmerston Highway. Of the views over farmland. Of the lush rolling hills. Of the remnant rainforest left in the folds of otherwise cleared paddocks. Of the red earth. The fat cattle. The sugar and tea plantations. The unmanned honesty-boxed fruit stalls, with juicy papaya and melons and passionfruit. I will talk of blue sky. Fluffy cumulus. Of the lord of it all, Bartle Frere, whose jungle-smeared flanks rose to a cloud-cloaked summit. I will talk of beer at the pub in Innisfail. Of flopping down at Innisfail Station for the train back to Cairns. And lastly, and most importantly, I will talk of relief. Because relief, as an element of adventure, is underrated. Sometimes, on even great trips, the most delicious, most satisfying, most indelible emotion of all is that of relief.

The essentials

How long: Give yourself enough time for the trip. We had five days; seven would have allowed us to really explore Smithfield and Atherton MTB Parks to the extent they deserve. But if it’s possible, give yourself more still; Cairns has loads of other cool things

To do: the train to Kuranda, Tully River rafting, hot air ballooning at Mareeba, heading out to Dunk Island, climbing Bartle Frere, swimming in the natural spa pools at Cardwell.

Seriously, the list goes on. Be aware if you’re taking the train from Innisfail to Cairns that places for bikes are available but limited to two per train. Book early.

Hot tip: Make sure you stay at the Ravenshoe Hotel; owners Wendy and Wayne are truly hospitable and it’s a great pub.

Always treat water taken from waterways.

More info: tropicalnorthqueensland.org.au

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Last year I was trekking at 5000m above sea level in the majestic Andes so it was easy to impudently write off Kokoda as an occasional war story, a celebrity trail and quite possibly an over-exaggerated jungle trek, presumably offering a few muddy challenges, but nothing too crippling. Or so I anticipated.

And so it wasn’t until my flight took off from Cairns that I gazed out at the expanse of ocean below and realised that in the same time it takes to fly from Sydney to Melbourne, I would now cross into an entire new world, a foreign culture, and by all accounts, including a travellers warning by the Oz Travel Advisory, a world far from the stability, safety and comforts of my northern beaches coffee shops.

My research bordered on nil, my PNG language skills non-existent and my war history, inexcusable. My intention to trek the infamous Kokoda Trail originated with the skewed view to try and absorb the amazing natural history, allowing the wartime aspect only as an afterthought. My plan was to walk into the PNG jungle with little more than a fading high school history lesson echoing in the back of my mind. There would be no preconceived ideas but rather an open mind and a clean slate – I would be a sponge. But supposedly I needed to be a fit sponge.

Philip NcNamara negotiates a rare ‘flat’ section of one of Charlie Lynn’s infamous original wartime trails between Templeton’s crossing and Abuari. (Image: Mark Watson)

My first hint that the Kokoda Trail might truly be as brutal as its reputation was when I noted I must supply an Electrocardiograph (ECG) graph signed by my GP to prove I might at least survive the first ascent. My second clue is perceived somewhere over the Gulf of Carpentaria when I finally peruse all the unopened paperwork that arrived a few weeks back. It appears I should have been undergoing an extensive exercise program for the entire past month. “If you haven’t made enough deposits into your fitness account then you will go into debt on the trail – from my experience this is not a pretty sight,” 20-year veteran of the trail, and the bloke who happens to be my guide, Charlie Lynn writes bluntly.

“Bugger!”

My trekking boots are less than two days old and my pack is overweight by too many kilograms, but my aim is simple: Just go with the flow… For I am about to step into a brutal right of passage and pilgrimage for many Australians and to walk in the footsteps of our Aussie diggers.

Preparations

I meet Charlie Lynn for the first time at Port Moresby airport. Among the throng, a tall khaki-clad figure with an impressive silver handlebar moustache strolls up to me, thrusts his hand in mine and exclaims, “I didn’t bloody know whether you were gonna make it or not, mate!” Obviously he’d already heard of my very-last-minute travel plans.

If you threw Chuck Norris and Indiana Jones into a blender and added a few Anzac badges (not biscuits) for good measure, most likely it would be Charlie who would emerge. He carries a distinct air of confidence, a hard as nails approach but with a hint of larrikin in his eyes. I liked him already.

Relics of the war lie scattered only metres off the trail. At this site, helmets reveal hidden bunkers while other sites are littered with unexploded mortars and hand grenades. (Image: Mark Watson)

We head straight out of Port Moresby, a city that still appears as an unruly frontier town contrasting extreme poverty with the gated, razor-wired communities of the mining companies. Unfortunately, this mix breeds some rather dangerous grounds for the wandering traveller adorned with camera, watch and GPS unit – all worth a year’s wage to the first rascal bold enough to confront you.

Into the hills the diesel-fume-throwing bus carries the small crew of trekkers who almost all hail from Orbost, Charlie’s former hometown in eastern Victoria. Most appear related, however I am embraced into what seems an odd family reunion, albeit in PNG. The bus finally stops at Sogeri Lodge. Our last luxury before setting out on the trail.

There is enough time for a quiet ale before Charlie gathers us once more to scare the crap out of those still bold enough to consider themselves a hiking hero. “If your pack weighs more than 12kg then you need to start throwing things out,” Charlie states. “If you aren’t on your anti-malarial tablets yet then you better bloody hope you don’t have any reaction to them and for Christ’s sake, if you have any illusion that you want to ’do it like the Diggers’ then speak up now so I can issue you with a pair of hobnail leather boots, a canvas backpack, half a blanket and rifle and ammunition… Oh, and leave your tent, underwear and toiletries here at the lodge.”

I try to hide behind my beer acknowledging that I had only begun my anti-malarials a few days ago and, with my camera gear, I was well over the 12kg limit. I go straight to my room and start squeezing excess toothpaste from the tube and my three pairs of socks now become two. It is 2am when I finally ration my last piece of liquorice into one of 10 tiny zip lock bags and collapse into bed.

On the plains of Myola a five-star bridge replaces the usual ford or log crossings found at the majority of waterways on the Kokoda Trail. (Image: Mark Watson)

The trail

The initial outing from Owers Corner is fairly mellow in terms of Kokoda brutality and the descent to the Goldie River stretches the legs while eyes are drawn to the endless expanse of sheer rainforest clad inclines that form the Owen Stanley Range and our route over the coming week. It doesn’t take long before the sweat begins to drip rather than evaporate, and the realisation soon hits that these are only the foothills. The real stuff is yet to come.

I look forward to straying from what appears to be the trekkers-highway as I have never been one for follow-the-leader adventures. Charlie has promised to get off the Eco-Trail (most visited and shortest route to Kokoda) and onto the original ‘wartime trail’.

My only uncertainty with this plan lies with the glint in Charlie’s eyes when he suggests he isn’t sure of the condition of some of the tracks or even whether they still exist or not. Of course this spurs on my inner explorer and I begin to wonder, “How hard will it really get?”

We notch up a miniscule three hours on day one and my diary reads, “Presumably it will get a lot harder?” At 5am the next day, “Coooeee” echoes throughout the camp. Apparently this is what the trek notes refer to as ‘reveille’. Until now I didn’t know what reveille was except to expect it at 5am. I was hoping it might mean “chai latte” but instead I realise it is just a trendy word for “rude awakening”.

Yet another steep climb; this time among a sea of green on the way up to Bombers Camp, via the Kagi and Naduri villages on Day 6 of the trek. The Kagi Gap climb was one of the more brutal sweat-fests of the trek. (Image: Mark Watson)

A few hours later and I am halfway up the infamous golden staircase, gasping for breath and cursing myself for the jinx of that single phrase written in last night’s diary. It was here in 1942 the 39th Militia Battalion forged their way up a gruelling slope of makeshift stairs amid a quagmire of sludge towards a rapidly advancing Japanese army. A few became heros… too many became martyrs. Today the staircase exists only as a sticky, muddy, tree-root strewn climb.

My sweating and panting has been worthwhile however as it allows me to stretch out a gap on the main group so I can photograph the iconic climb towards Imita Ridge which overlooks Ioribaiwa Ridge… the closest the Japanese got to Port Moresby before turning back in WWII.

I rest for a moment and close my eyes to the pounding of blood vessels in my temples where faded images of muddy, exhausted soldiers stare back at me, perhaps subconscious images from documentaries and articles seen in recent years.

As I sit in silence enveloped by the New Guinea rainforest, wartime Kokoda encroaches on my open slate. Waiting for the rest of the team, I sit motionless in the bush like a sniper so as not to attract attention to my lens… I want to capture the sweat, mud and exhaustion of Kokoda.

But my life as a sniper evaporates before it has even begun. I feel a tingling on my neck, then another and suddenly I become conscious of the tiny green ants scurrying all over me. My camouflage dissolves as I dance from the undergrowth swiping at the biting buggers. The ants carry only a small sting but my golden staircase photos are solely of trees, tree roots and mud. In hindsight probably a true reflection of what this brutal ascent appears to most who tackle it… a muddy, sweaty and unyielding climb, welcoming you to the real Kokoda Trail.

The gentle Koiairi and Orokaiava porters (descendants of the famous Fuzzy-Wuzzy Angles) form a human chain only meters above a sheer waterfall. (Image: Mark Watson)

Routine

Life on the track settles into a rhythm. The 5am reveille becomes the norm and dressing in cold, damp clothes in the dark is not so daunting anymore. Fellow trekkers become comrades and bet on whose trekking pole will be the next to bend or snap.

Fast-flowing rivers are crossed on sketchy bamboo bridges fastened with liana vines or if the water is shallow enough to wade, we plunge in fully clad and booted. Our boots are as wet from sweat as they are from river water. Each night we bathe in crystal-clear streams that flow beside every camp. Some even brave the icy waters when temperatures fall to single digits in the mountains before down jackets are quickly donned.

Each day offers up to 600-plus metres of vertical ascent over 10 hours, among greasy footholds of sodden earthen steps held together by a vast array of spider-web like tree roots more akin to a trip wire than any form of natural flora. A number of 45° inclines force us to grasp at roots and branches to pull up to the next easement. The going is tough.

My morning routine becomes more and more complex with the rinsing, bathing, powdering, antiseptic swabbing and taping of feet and toes to avoid fungal foot. The painful condition is synonymous with trekking the Kokoda Trail and, together with blisters, is a sure way to stop you in your tracks.

However, the blisters and chafing are all worth it for sights like Myola.Deep in the high mountains of the Owen Stanley Ranges, Myola appears as a prairie of perfect grassland surrounded by impenetrable forest. The amazing natural depression is an ancient volcanic crater, but now the long grasses ebb and flow with the cool breezes at 2000m. Myola means ‘break of day’ but it is taboo to linger here for many of the local indigenous population who believe in witchcraft and sorcery. Other than the sound of the wind, perfect silence hangs in the air of this isolated plateau where a rusting Kittyhawk fighter plane lies to rest, the last remaining remnant of a battle that raged in the vicinity in the not too distant past.

Another brutal tree-root-strewn section designed perfectly by Mother Nature to snap expensive trekking poles. (Image: Mark Watson)

As we climb out of Myola I manage my daily dose of alone time. A time to trek, absorb and reflect without the distraction of others. On this occasion however, I pull alongside Charlie to take in his enthusiasm and listen to his tales.

It doesn’t take long to learn the former Army Major now tour operator has more than 50 outings on Kokoda. He has been there, done that and seen it all. He discovered many of the battle sites we now visit. Charlie is Kokoda and Kokoda is Charlie… He is welcomed with outstretched arms by the village elders while the grinning coffee-coloured faces of joyous children swarm to meet him as his personal porters, who have been his carriers for decades, look on with a smile.

Charlie may be about as passionate as they come, but he is also the inflictor of pain with the tell-tale call, “It’s a bit of an arse-buster but its f#*king beautiful!” Often announced on the cusp of what will become a two-hour arduous ascent of mud, stinging foliage and dense undergrowth to reach a deserted clearing of nil significance to the eye. That is until a grinning Charlie appears, sweat dripping from his classic silver moustache before directing novice eyes to hidden gun-pits and corroding mortars. He then recites a poem of suffering and sacrifice on this very patch of dirt that brings tears to the eyes of even the most hardened traveller.

A balancing act

Sitting atop Brigade Hill, I am totally drained but content, having just inhaled an entire pineapple I purchased from a village woman who had walked half a day just to sell her wares. It is evident that the growing popularity of the Kokoda Trail is slowly influencing those who call the Owen Stanley Ranges their home.

The open slate I began with is filling with experiences, but also with questions and a newfound appreciation for the confronting war history that accompanies this iconic trek. On this exact position where I now sit, men fought and died less than a lifetime ago. Today’s Trail is about the people, the places, the history and the beauty. But in 1942 it was about beliefs, hardships, comradeship, and the hell of surviving one of the most unforgiving environments on the planet.

Kokoda’s beauty and brutal past are inseparable. The two contrasting features of this unique pilgrimage come hand in hand and one cannot ignore the respect owed to those whose graves adorn the beautiful, but haunting, Bomana War Cemetery in Port Moresby. Surprisingly, all this dawned upon me in what exists as an unyielding 10-day sweat-fest of 45° inclines, tree-root strewn jungle paths, muddy swamps, bamboo bridges and raging torrents.

But in between the gasping, sweating and dripping, brilliant blue Ulysses butterflies as large as birds fly by, pristine untouched moss forests reveal themselves and hidden waterfalls thunder into deep tropical pools. These immense pleasures are a constant reminder of what Mother Nature has to offer those willing enough to push themselves that little bit extra. And then, of course, there are the people of PNG.

Village life

The fierce warlike reputations of the highlanders melt into the brilliant smiles of the Koiari village children. Trekkers are greeted with big grins and glinting brown eyes peering from Hendrix-sized afros, while the village women offer fresh bananas, sweet, musky papaya and juicy passionfruit to those in need of sustenance. The men continue to hunt and farm just as their ancestors had, however the recent influx of trekkers now offers a regular income for village men as personal porters.

The Koiairi and the Orokaiva tribes are the inhabitants of the small villages that scatter themselves among the rugged peaks and dense forest where the Kokoda Trail snakes its way. Western civilisation’s influence is noticeable but still relatively new to the Papuans and each greets the other with a hint of caution. But it only takes a kick of the village soccer ball to draw masses of energetic giggling kids and in turn the smiles of parents… the ambience is a far cry from the border town atmosphere of Port Moresby. Here in the mountains, once the sun has set, the villagers come together to sing. Traditional songs have been replaced with church hymns following Seventh Day Adventist and Anglican missionary influence from both before and after the war. Whether it a native song of the highlands or a gospel hymn, my occasional trail-humming is put to shame as the entire village perfectly harmonises in flawless unison.

The smiles, the singing, the immaculate villages, the pristine rivers and cascading falls. The history of both the indigenous inhabitants of this land blended with that of those who fought and fell on this trail.

It is the same fragile, but incredibly spectacular, environment that grabbed me on day one that leaves me looking back in reverence from the Kokoda airfield. The ridges are knife-edge, the rainforest damned near impenetrable and the gradients ridiculous. How could anyone be expected to trek such contours, let alone fight a war within these precipitous peaks and deep valleys? But both have been accomplished.

The essentials

Getting there: There are flights from most major cities in Australia to Port Moresby. Buses are available to transfer hikers to the start of the Kokoda Trail at Owers Corner. Tours must be organised in advance.

Time to go: Expect plenty of mud on Kokoda. It’s best to walk during the dry season – from April to October – although the track is still wet in the early months of the Dry. If you really keen to walk in the rain, it is possible, but ensure you and your fellow hikers are equipped with proper gear.

Walking there: You must have a trek permit, purchased from the Kokoda Track Authority (KTA). It is possible to organise an independent crossing, it is advised to walk with a KTA-licensed trek operator. When picking your tour operator, make sure they: a) have a license with the KTA; b) adhere to the voluntary code of conduct (which promotes sustainable tourism, duty of care, and support for local communities; c) has first-aid training and equipment; d) carries satellite phone and gear; e) has public liability insurance.

More info: Visit www.kokodatrackauthority.org to see their list of operators. Also check out www.kokodatrackfoundation.org and www.pngtourism.org.pg.

The post Walking among ghosts appeared first on Australian Geographic.

At just 12 years old, Angie has been climbing for five years and continues to push herself and the boundaries of the sport. She has accomplished incredible feats in the climbing world, becoming the youngest person to climb a grade 31 at age nine. Since then, in a steady progression, she has climbed grade 32 at age 10 and grade 33 at age 11.

She balances her life of travel, training and climbing with school and friends, but says she often learns more through travel and the outdoors than she does in a classroom.

The post VIDEO: Climbing Her Way appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Untangling myself from my machine, I look up to see the dramatic Jotunheimen range on the horizon. According to local folklore, these moody mountains are home to trolls. Not the cute roly-poly ones in Frozen, but the tear-you-limb-from-limb kind that populated Norwegian mythology long before Disney hijacked and sprinkled them with sugar.

Both my body and my bike are beginning to resemble something a troll has been chewing on. I promise myself and my steed a day of total rest and relaxation tomorrow – after 122km of this, we’ll both have earned it.

It demands total concentration, this kind of riding. Get distracted for a second and you bite the trail. I’ve just discovered that, but besides losing a bit of bark from my knee I’m not hurt, and now I can relax for a minute and contemplate my situation.

I’m on the summit of hill – a steep and stone-strewn rise that I’d managed to pedal all the way up before meeting the rogue rock that had been waiting for millennia just to throw me off my mount. Raw Norwegian wilderness surrounds me entirely. The only sign of humanity is the roughly scribbled line of singletrack that I’ve been clinging onto with white-knuckles and knitted brow for hours.

I’m perhaps halfway through the most extraordinary bike race I’ve ever taken part in. So far the course has led me through dense clumps of Norwegian pine forest and across primeval plateaus and barren peaks. The trail is a faint scar on an otherwise virgin landscape and, adding to the thrills and spills of the race, is the knowledge that it’s not just rough riders who howl through this ultra-wild terrain.

Climbing out of a Norwegian wood during the UltraBirken. (Image: Henry Iddon)

Packs of wolves tear through these trees too, taking down a moose a day according to one farmer I spoke to. Bears are known to roam here as well. This is not a face of Europe I’m familiar with. It’s one that I barely knew existed – but I’m not likely to forget it after this introduction.

The Birkebeinerrittet transcends what most people think of when they conceptualise a bike race. It’s more of a two-wheeled tradition in Norway. Some 20,000 people come to compete in this fat-tyre festival every year, easily making it the largest mountain-bike event on the planet, but few outside of Scandinavia have heard of it. And it’s not just the staggering size of the field that makes the Birken unique either.

Like its winter equivalent, the Birkebeinerrennet ski race, the event commemorates a moment in Norwegian history when, way back in 1206, a royal infant – Prince Haakon – was smuggled through these mountains by two skiers who were protecting him from assassins.

In a truly eccentric twist, the number one race rule is this: all competitors, even the elites, have to carry an extra 3.5kg of bulk (over and above any food or drink they might consume during the race) to symbolically represent the weight of the baby.

Rows of weighing scales surround the starting line, with riders nervously queuing to make sure they’re carrying enough bulk, with some adding hefty stones to their backpacks to make up the difference. I’m warned there’ll be spot checks at the end, to ensure that people are still lugging their fair share of baby weight.

The Saturday race is the big one – with 17,000 riders taking on a 92km course that rolls along dirt roads and double track from Rena to Lillehammer. The field is so huge that riders begin in waves, each containing 250 bikes, with five minutes space between each one. The first wave starts at 6am and the last one leaves around 2pm. Unusually, the slowest riders are released first and the elites last, so there’s lots of exciting overtaking. Spectators line the course, cheering riders on, cooking on barbecues, drinking beer and generally having a massive party.

Supporters watch the main Birkebeinerrittet. (Image: Henry Iddon)

But that’s tomorrow. Today, together with 600 other fools, I’m doing the UltraBirken, a 120km version of the race. We’re released with the first wave of another 4000 riders (overspill from the Saturday race, who do the 92km course a day early), but after about 50km, the Ultra route veers away from the main track to lead us along a much tougher and more technical course, which wends through the mountains along tight, twisty trails.
In Norway, backcountry trails like this – enjoyed by cross-country skiers during the winter and used by hikers and bikers once the snow retreats – are called trolløype, literally meaning troll trails. They take their mythical monsters very seriously here. Almost as seriously as they take their racing.

I’ve never observed so many mountain bikes in one place as I see this weekend, but there’s barely a dodgy one amongst them. Everyone’s kit is top shelf. Many are eyeing a much-coveted merket – medals awarded to those who finish within a certain time (calculated by averaging the times of the first five riders across the line in a competitor’s class, and then adding 25 per cent). Those who nail it, I’m told, often mention merket results in their professional CVs.

The only medal I’m after is a finishers’ pin. And, after 120-odd-kilometres of incredibly varied riding – which includes a section that sees us do a whooping descent of the Hafjell World Cup downhill course – Lillehammer looms into sight.

One last super-steep gravelly descent delivers me into the arms of the Winter Olympic stadium, where a beaming Birken volunteer presents me with my hard-earned pin. “Well done,” she enthuses. “Now you can have a beer!”

But adrenaline is racing dangerously through my veins. Serendipity sees me bump into one of the race organisers, and stupidity makes me open my mouth to ask whether there’s still time to enter the Saturday race too.

Behind excited white eyes, I’m all sorts of muddy and bloody. “I can arrange that,” he grins, looking me up and down. “If you’re really sure you want to cycle another 92km tomorrow…”

Of course I’m sure. How often you find yourself armed with a bike and presented with the opportunity to ride in the world’s biggest MTB race, through a trolls’ tortured-but-beautiful backyard? Beer, rest and relaxation can wait one more day.

A rider negotiates one of many sections of rock garden on the long, technical UltraBirken course. (Image: Henry Iddon)

Doing the double

Grappling for the alarm at 5am the next morning, I roll out of bed and stumble to my feet, trying to ignore my legs, which are shrieking in indignation. In the corner of the room my still-mud-splattered bike looks mournfully at me. What, really? We’re doing all that again?

My steed is actually in for a much easier ride this time around. All but a few kilometres of the main race is on fast double-track and unsealed gravel roads. Which means the field is going to attack it like a bunch of rampaging Vikings right from the off – bad news for my weary pins.

First, though, I jump on one of the buses convoying thousands of riders to Rena. There I join the long queue to check my backpack is heavy enough to tip the scales – cruelly, the rudimentary weighing devices don’t tell how much your pack weighs, they just confirm that it’s over 3.5kg. Full of camera gear, mine emphatically drops the arm.

I’m released in a wave at 8am. My muscles are really not happy, but they warm up during the stiff climb out of Rena, and I manage to work my way through the slower waves until I find a group going at a speed I’m happy with. Then it’s a matter of hanging on.

The sun is out and the tracks are lined with spectators and party people. The atmosphere is intoxicating, and any regrets at doing the double have long-since evaporated. I’ve never experienced anything like this on a bike before – I have no idea what all these people are shouting and screaming at me from the sidelines, but they look happy and I feel like I’m riding le knobbly-tyred Tour.

The one piece of technical track we encounter takes a bite out of the pack, with numerous riders hitting the deck in a series of wipeouts. Although they’re all on good bikes and look to be in good shape, with a field this enormous, there are inevitably some very inexperienced mountain bikers around me, and it gets messy for a section.

With a mixture of luck and judgment I manage to avoid getting tangled in the worst of the carnage and jump on the back of another train charging towards the finish. The approach to that final sketchy descent into the stadium is familiar now, and the bike seems to feel the lines magnetic pull.

Weirdly, the volunteer that presents me with my second Birkebeinerrittet finisher’s pin in as many days is the same woman as yesterday and, even more improbably, she remembers me. “You again!” she laughs. “Now you’ve really earned that beer.”

No argument from me on that point. I head to the bar, but first an official grabs my bag and weighs it. Turns out I’ve been lugging 7kg of baby weight. Twins! Great. Something else to celebrate.

This article was originally published in the Nov-Dec 2016 issue of Australian Geographic Adventure magazine. 

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