The Rain Against My Window

I can’t stand the rain, against my window, bring back sweet memories.

As it never seems to stop raining long enough for anything but the shortest of bouldering sessions, I decided I may as well test my aerobic threshold (AeT) and lactate threshold (LT). Technically, you need to pay many dollars for this and go into a laboratory and get hooked up to gas exchange machines, but as I am not now, and never will be, a world class athlete that seems like overkill.

It is possible to do it yourself (DIY) lactate threshold and aerobic threshold testing. The beauty of DIY testing, apart from being outdoors in nature and costing no money at all (as long as you have a heart rate monitor) is that you can retest multiple times to track your progress.

In all likelihood, I thought I would have aerobic deficiency syndrome (ADS) - defined by Johnston, House and Jornet in their book “Training For The Uphill Athlete” as a greater than 10% spread between AeT and LT - but, heck, you never, know. Perhaps like the greatest in the world, my AeT would bump right up against my LT.

In truth, it is a long time since I have done any threshold training and was not sure how well I would be able to judge pace, but, it was no problem and after 30 minutes of threshold training I worked out why people so often train at threshold almost all the time. Threshold is a pace that feels good and leaves you with a pleasant buzz afterwards. Much more fulfilling than the long slow aerobic shuffle that builds a base.

And then the wind came. Close to 50 knots out at Montague Island and the wave rider buoy off north head peaked at a dizzying 10 metres. Funny to think we have paddled out to the buoy a couple of times and laid our hands on the side.

A Namadgi Wilderness Circuit: Mount Gudgenby and Sentry Box Mountain

It was a bit of a rude shock getting the legs working again on an overnight bushwalk. As usual, I started off with a plan that was far too ambitious for the time, energy and power endurance available but, after a little tweaking, we came up with a good circuit walk involving a couple of ACT summits, some bushwacking (to keep us honest) and some easy track walking.

Yankee Hat from trailhead

The recent rain meant that the two fords at Hospital Creek were higher than normal so we opted to park before them and walk an extra two kilometres to the trail head. Then southwest along the Old Boboyan Road to a maze of old tracks. Taking the first to the north, we walked north to Bogong Creek and then followed another vague track southwest beside Bogong Creek until we hit the wilderness boundary and the bushwacking began.

Mount Gudgenby from Naas Valley

John Evans, the guru on ACT bushwalking, mentions some flagging, cairns and even a vague footpad up to Gudgenby saddle but we found nothing. The area was all burnt in the 2019/2020 fires and, like so many other places, old footpads and tracks have disappeared under regrowth. The regrowth in the ACT, however, is much less verdant than that further east.

Walking up Sentry Box Mountain

We got to Gudgenby saddle feeling a bit scuffed about from the bushwacking but dropped our overnight packs under a large boulder, and with a small backpack containing a few essentials we hiked up the southern slopes of Gudgenby. There are rock boulders and some large low angle granite slabs which are grippy underfoot as long as you stay off the wet areas. We wrapped around to the west a little to walk up some clean slabs and then one final very thick bushy scramble led to the large summit cairn and lovely views over the surrounding ridges and valleys.

Trig on Mount Gudgenby

Time, however, was getting on so it was a very short stop on top, not even sitting down, just snapping a couple of pictures and then working our way back down, stumbling through the scrubby bush and finally arriving back at Gudgenby saddle after 5.00 pm.

Low angle slabs on Mount Gudgenby

Our initial plan had been to walk down to Nass Creek to camp, but it was really feeling like time for a cup of tea and a longer than 10 minute break so we decided to camp at the saddle, which, owing to our wet summer, had plenty of water nearby. Plenty of mosquitoes too.

View over Naas Valley from Mount Gudgenby

Next morning, we packed up a tent wet with heavy dew and walked through relatively open bush to Sams Creek fire trail. Or at least where Sams Creek fire trail used to be. In places, there is a vague old road bed, that fades in and out and we followed this as best we could to the major junction with Maurice Luton fire trail. There is a good campsite here, with water from the stream. We, however, walked a kilometre up Maurice Luton to a saddle near a confluence of many creeks and found a fine campsite in open forest beside a lovely fresh stream.

Forest camp

Feeling the work of the last day and a half, we had a longer break with a cup of tea and then with day packs, worked our way up steep boulder strewn slopes to where Sentry Box Rock sits atop a slabby ridge. This is not only part of the Scabby Range but the NSW/ACT border runs along the ridge top. The summit plateau is relatively clear right now, much scrub having been burnt in the fires, so we wandered along with lovely views until we could scramble up the final “sentry box” on Sentry Box Mountain. Here we took a pleasantly long half hour break before descending the way we had come.

On the plateau of Sentry Box Mountain

A second night camped out with a super bright moon was much more enjoyable as we had a stream to wash the days sweat off, and very few mosquitoes. Next morning, we walked back down Maurice Luton firetrail and then turned south down Sams Creek fire trail walking down Nass Creek as misty light floated around the open plains of the Nass valley. Finally, turning north again and walking back to the car on the Old Boboyan fire trail under big spreading gums.

Morning mist Naas Valley

Mid November

 Build Back Better is always my mantra when I return from endurance trips like our recent crossing of eastern Bass Strait. Frustratingly, during the training phase for Bass Strait I was so knackered after long days in the kayak, that I let my strength training – which I have been doing faithfully for about 40 years (except for the six years spent travelling in our caravan) – slide. It’s not that I did not train at all, my training was just too inconsistent to be very effective.

On top of that, I have not been rock climbing since mid November. Mid November, that is just shocking, and no wonder I could not struggle up any routes at one of our climbing areas today. Sure, the situation wasn’t helped by wet rock and moss growing over the routes because we haven’t been climbing since Mid November and it has been so wet and humid for months; but, holy s**t, I have some serious work to do.

My strength program is simple: the well tested 5 x 5 strength program. This leaves plenty of mental (if not physical) bandwidth for training for climbing. It has been years, literally, since I did a standard 5 x 5 program, but for simplicity and utility it is hard to beat this old standard.

What has caught my attention:

• Nonprophet the best articles are by Mark Twight

• Malcolm Kendrick labelled by the MSM as a “cholesterol denier” as if such a thing was a thing.

• I still listen to Endurance Planet, not because the podcast is any good (it is spectacularly bad), but more, because - like driving past a train crash - you just can’t help but stare.

The Low Hanging Fruit or Don't Complicate Things

 Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away. Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

Perhaps it is human nature, the allure of complexity, or even our innate tendency to conflate credentials and confidence with competence, but as a species we seem to consistently fall prey to adding increasing complexity to problems with simple solutions. Not necessarily easy solutions, but simple solutions.

Take frailty in the elderly, a project my niece is working on with a handful of “experts.” Frailty, sadly, is no longer limited to the elderly in modern populations but is increasingly being seen in younger and younger individuals and is inevitably a product of life in the modern age. I could quote endless studies on the prevalence of sarcopenia and its corollary sarcopenic obesity but none of that is actually necessary if you have eyes in your head. Simply look around you in any public place and observe the flaccid bodies across a spectrum of age groups and you will observe high levels of sarcopenia and sarcopenic obesity. We don't need fancy dexa scans or full body imaging to note that the last few decades have wrought frightening changes on the human physique. Even the youth in the modern world have no visible muscle mass, a situation which is simply not normal; average maybe, but normal no.

The solution to frailty in the elderly is elegantly simple:

• Eat more high quality animal protein (we know that older individuals have poorer absorption of protein rendering current RDA's too low):

• Perform some kind of progressive resistance training focusing on the five fundamental human movements: (squat, push, pull, hinge, carry);

• Move as often as possible, preferably walking (the other fundamental human movement).

And there, in three bullet points is the solution to frailty in the elderly; elegantly simple in theory, exceptionally difficult in practice. Therein lies the problem of increasing complexity. A task force cannot be convened and kept functioning for months on end with a solution that is so simple and basic. Instead, we must add unnecessary and ultimately unhelpful complexity.

Enter 1 RM testing and training at 80% of 1 RM. In theory, 1 RM is relatively easily tested but in practice every strength coach and gym rat knows that not only is 1 RM testing difficult in untrained populations, but also that there is nothing magical about training at 80% of 1 RM. If you want to get stronger (strength is defined as “the application of force against an external resistance") all that is necessary is an increase in load over time. Which is why the other name for strength training is “progressive resistance training”.

But strength in humans is not only a product of hypertrophy, strength is also influenced by neurological factors, primarily the wiring together of neurones that coordinate working muscle. This is the reason why, on a boulder problem that requires strength and power to climb, I can work the problem a few times in one session and ultimately send the boulder in that session. There has been no hypertrophy or strength gains over that time, in fact, my muscles have fatigued, but I have learnt how to move my current musculature in a way that enables me to improve my performance. And all of life is about performance; even frailty in the elderly is best visualised as a performance outcome: don't fall down and break a hip.

It follows therefore, that if you test one RM in untrained populations, such as the frail elderly (any older person that knows their one RM is highly unlikely to be frail) today, that one RM will be markedly different when tested in a few days time after the individual has practised the exercise. Ergo, any program based on training at 80% of one RM has perhaps a week time frame before it is outdated. This is complexity added for the sake of complexity. If you want to train the frail elderly for strength start somewhere, anywhere, and increase resistance in a progressive fashion. Anything works for a while, and in untrained populations, that while can be a long time.

Those who want empirical data to support this theory are going to be sadly disappointed. Perhaps it is my contrarian nature, or perhaps I am simply more realistic than many, but I think there are very, very few things that we can be certain about in the modern world and while we might pretend we have both accurate and precise information about all manner of things, “50% of what we know is false and we don't know which 50%.” John Ionnidis goes so far as to say that “most published research findings are false,” a position which people who unthinkingly accept the word of experts should definitely read and heed.

Climbing Spew: The Magazine By Climbers For Climbers

 For immediate release:

Veteran climber, DB, appeared unexpectedly at Fowler crag on March 11, and, to the astonishment of local climbers proceeded to flash all the hardest boulder problems despite wet conditions. Local climber, SM said, “like, this skinny, unassuming guy, like, just showed up with, like, a pair of shoes, no chalk, no boulder pad, nothing and, like, sent all the hardest problems, after, like, barely even, warming up.” “It took me about 10 tries to send Beer Bottle Traverse, and, he like, just smashed it,” the rueful SM added.

Also sent on the same day was the route Crumbling Roof which had never had a complete ascent. DB also sent another bold test piece climb, Roof Of Lichen, on his first try after a quick inspection of the holds. Previously only climbed by Don’t Call Me Thrutch Mitchell, Roof Of Lichen had repelled attempts by seasoned Fowler Crag locals for almost 2 years.

Climbing Spew tried to contact DB after his record breaking day, but the reclusive climber disappeared from the scene as quickly and silently as he had arrived. Local climbers speculated that DB had left to pursue his other passion – ocean kayaking. DB’s astonishing list of hard sends is even more impressive as he is just off a long hiatus from climbing after a completely unsupported crossing of Bass Strait in a Mirage 580 sea kayak.

More to follow.

Reflections On Bass Strait

All photos courtesy of DB.

“How are the post-trip blues?” a friend asked me. I had to think, did I have post-trip blues? There was a kind of poignant sadness as we paddled into Port Welshpool on our last day. The hectic weeks of planning, preparation and training and the trip was over, seemingly so quickly and, almost effortlessly. Perhaps that is the mark of a well planned and prepared trip, something which seems almost overwhelmingly difficult when you start thinking about it, and yet, at its end, has been a wonderful experience, the challenges easily managed.

Another friend emailed “the direction change was inspired.” Most mainland paddlers crossing eastern Bass Strait travel north to south but we travelled south to north. The Havu, who had been watching high pressure systems consistently track south of Tasmania over our preparatory weeks is the genius behind this decision, although the forecast easterlies were not as strong nor as consistent as expected.

In truth, I think we lucked out with very favourable weather. We had no long periods of sustained heavy weather, and, had we been inclined, we could have finished the trip a week earlier than we did if we had used all our good weather days to make progress. That, however, would have been very unsatisfying. As it was we covered the distance from mainland Tasmania to the north end of Flinders in just 3.5 days, mostly paddling off shore with a determination to get from one camp site to the next. Had we not spent three weeks paddling the Furneaux Group of islands in 2019 this would have been a major disappointment as there is much to see around this group of islands.

My initial thought on finishing the trip was “I will never do this again.” To be fair, most of my mountaineering trips in Canada ended with that thought. There is something about multi-day approaches through untracked bush with vertical miles of elevation gain, sketchy climbing, crevasses, cornice falls, avalanches, and loose rock all to be negotiated while carrying a heavy pack that means that if the summit was reached, any impetus to return is attenuated.

On the Bass Strait trip it is simply the hassle of trying to sort transport for people and kayaks across the Strait on the return trip, the long hours at sea between islands, and the idea, possibly seldom realised, that you could be stuck for weeks by weather on a dry island with little shelter from the weather. Were I 20 years younger, I think the ideal trip would be to cross the Strait by kayak in both directions, once on the eastern route and once on the western route linking both by paddling the northern coast of Tasmania. A real bad-ass could do what Jason Beechcroft did, cross western Bass Strait, paddle around Tasmania and then cross eastern Bass Strait.

The western crossing of Bass Strait, however, is a much more serious undertaking than the eastern route with more challenging weather and sea conditions and a much longer crossings. From the northern tip of King Island to Apollo Bay is 100 kilometres, and Hunter Island to King Island is over 70 kilometres. These challenges notwithstanding, western Bass Strait has been crossed by multiple solo and group kayakers. In fact, The Havu has paddled western Bass Strait solo, as has my friend Rae (whose comment who I referenced above). I am in awe of both these achievements and consider myself incredibly privileged to call these talented and courageous folk friends.

So, while I am very satisfied with our achievement, I am unable to rest comfortably on those laurels for too long; after all, there are many trips (such as western Bass Strait) that are considerably more difficult. But, the trip was a bit of a stretch for me and I am pleased with the style and speed with which we completed the trip.

I learnt three big lessons:

• One. “The mind is primary.” If you’re training is adequate, then it really is all about what you believe you can do. Looking back at my training logs, it was January before I started training in earnest for Bass Strait, prior to that I was doing mostly skills and surfing in preparation for Sea Skills assessment. That means I had one month to progress from paddling about 20 km once a week in an unloaded boat to paddling marathon and ultra marathon distances everyday with a loaded boat. Ouch. All I managed to do was base training, no speed or intensity work at all. Leaving for Bass Strait I felt like I had done just enough but no more. I did, however, believe I could paddle the required distances in the expected conditions.

• Two. As a self-described catastrophic thinker I tend to be uncertain of my abilities even when my skill level is adequate for the task at hand. I need to have more confidence in my ability. See point number one, the mind is primary.

• Three: The idea that we should surround ourselves with people who are better than us has been around for decades and happens to be a truism that is actually true with the caveat that you have to want to be challenged and improve. If your greatest desire is lauding your significance/prowess/intelligence over others, look for the lowest common denominator and settle in.

The Story Is The Journey: Eastern Bass Strait By Kayak

Preamble:

Tomahawk is a small seaside town, mostly holiday homes and a caravan park, deep in Ringarooma Bay on the north coast of Tasmania and the location where our driver, Keiran is dropping the three of us off for our south to north crossing of eastern Bass Strait. Keiran is a local Launceston lad, an enterprising young fellow, working in the digital age and, after weeks of trying to procure transport for three people, three kayaks, and three weeks worth of food and water, The Havu managed to solve the problem in an afternoon by posting a request on Air Tasker. Prior to that I had contacted a dozen tour companies, investigated moving trucks, trailers, hire cars, and friends of friends of friends and come up with exactly nothing. And The Havu nailed the solution in a few words of text and about 15 minutes. I can’t help but wonder if this is a harbinger of things to come.

The first hurdle on such a trip is getting three kayaks on the ferry from Melbourne to Devonport, which despite capacious amounts of space and three or four luggage trolleys each of which can accommodate three or four kayaks is surprisingly difficult, and, a problem that can only be solved in the hours or even minutes leading up to a sailing. Such is dealing with a large bureaucratic company that lumbers along much like the ferries themselves.

PC: DB

We knew from friends that four kayaks can fit on top of the standard luggage trolley if loaded side-ways and padded with pool noodles or other soft furnishings. But, when you book the ferry the absolute limit of “over-size luggage” that can be taken is two items. Two items and apparently the entire ferry is full. However, if you turn up in person to the ferry terminal and breathlessly explain your conundrum - that is, you need to transport more than two kayaks - with appropriate gravitas and subservience, in all likelihood, someone with the power to accede to this request will agree in principle, charge you a few bucks for the extra over-size luggage and leave you to sort out for yourself loading up the trolley and securing the kayaks.

PC: DB

And so it was. We managed to get The Havu booked onto the same sailing as us and, after cooling our heels for about three hours stuffed into a dingy corner of the loading area with our kayaks and gear slowly being poisoned by toxic exhaust fumes, the ferry people suddenly discovered that we three were somehow impeding the entire business of getting the ferry out of Port Phillip Bay and THE GATE was finally opened, the kayaks loaded and tied down, our luggage stored, and we were hustled up stairs and down ramps listening as various radio operators tag teamed each other that “they are on their way now.”

PC: DB

It was an exhausting start to the trip and I collapsed onto the narrow bunk in our inside cabin while Doug and The Havu went out to stroll on deck. The absolute best way to cross Bass Strait is the night ferry as you can sleep away the mostly tedious, queasy journey as the boat yaws and heaves through the night. I woke occasionally when the ferry rolled with extravagant gusto and thought to myself “Is paddling a sea kayak across Bass Strait really a good idea?” Without a clear answer, I fell back to sleep.

Day 1: Tomahawk to Petal Point, 18 km

It is 2.30 pm before we get in our hastily loaded and very heavy boats at Tomahawk and push off to paddle across Ringarooma Bay. A brisk 17 to 20 knot easterly is blowing and the seas have stood up in sharp curling waves. Rather than following the shore, we decide to paddle straight across the bay directly into the wind and then follow the shore north towards Petal Point. We want to be in a position to cross Banks Strait the following day as the forecast is for calm weather.

PC: DB

It takes four hours to get to the end of Boobyalla Beach during which it is impossible to stop to take so much as a sip of water to avoid being blown a kilometre backwards. Near the end of Boobyalla Beach we get some shelter from the wind, at least the sea chop, and paddling is easier, but I am feeling dizzy with hunger by the time we near Petal Point having had no dinner, breakfast or lunch and accordingly call a halt to the day at 6.30 pm.

Doug is wet through and cold, but we can’t find his puff jacket, nor can we find the tent fly, or the fuel bottle, or the extra bottles of Shellite. Setting up camp takes much longer than normal as we dig in boats, bags, behind foot rails before finding all the “lost” items. The wind slowly calms, the sun sets, we crawl into bed for our first night out planning to be more organised next day.

Day 2: Petal Point to Spike Cove, 33 km.

Banks Strait is the most notorious of the crossings on any Bass Strait trip as the currents can run at 3 to 4 knots during spring tides and any wind whips the strait into a place of dangerously rough seas. There have been serious epic crossings of Banks Strait, including this must read account, which makes long, somewhat confusing but strangely compelling reading.

However, as on our last two crossings of Banks Strait, we had a pleasant paddle due to calm winds and good planning. It was a nice start to the morning to paddle past Cape Portland, a place I have often wanted to visit, and then head off on a bearing (appropriately adjusted for currents) to Spike Cove.

Prior to this trip, gadget head Doug, had constructed a spreadsheet containing, at least to my mathematically challenged eye, a complex series of equations – Doug claims “basic trigonometry” - that would calculate our heading when the expected currents (from IMOS models) were entered into the individual cells. It worked a charm, and after about four hours of paddling we were paddling past Spike Island, through boulders and passages into Spike Cove.

At this point, Doug, who had been flagging, fell ill and almost immediately we landed he curled up in a ball under some She Oaks and remained prostrated for the rest of the day and much of the following day. It could have been the bacon which I had dried for the trip, and, out of an abundance of caution, that particular food item was henceforth declared inedible.

The Havu and I had the afternoon to roam around Spike Cove which is a pretty place, two very small sand beaches separated by a granite headland, and backed by granite tors up the hill side behind. Rather foolishly we put our tent up on the sand at the top of the beach which meant that when the westerly gale blew in the next day our tent filled with beach sand.

Day 3: Spike Cove.

The next day brought moderate to strong westerly winds. The Havu gazed longingly out of Spike Cove, obviously thinking it would be a grand day to paddle, but Doug was still prostrate and had not eaten or drunk in 24 hours so we declared a rest day. I had a great time rambling along the rock platforms and scrambling up boulders both north and south of Spike Bay, and climbing up behind the shore onto large granite tors to gain expansive views. I found a tunnel carved by the sea right through one small headland and, had the passage way not been jammed by a dead log, I could have crawled right through. Doug cautiously began eating later in the day and The Havu found an old vehicle track and walked inland up onto the hills and granite slabs east of camp.

Sometime in the night there was a brief interruption in the overnight sand-blasting as the strong westerly eased before a strong easterly blew in and we got shellacked by blowing sand from the opposite direction.

Day 4: Spike Cove to Trousers Point, 45 km.

On my last trip through the Furneaux Islands our group had somewhat obsessively discussed weather forecasts, tides, times to leave and stop, distances to travel etc., etc., to such an extent that the planning meetings often seemed to eclipse the time spent paddling. On this trip, The Havu would suggest some far distant location, we would agree – why not, after all – and a departure time that may or may not take into account tidal currents would be agreed upon and off we would go. Accordingly, the destination for the day was Trousers Point some 45 km to the north.

PC: DB

In my mind, this simple approach was much better than worrying over minutia and saved a devilish amount of time. This is The Havu approach and while I applaud it, I was a bit gobsmacked when I suggested we have a short stop for lunch at Old Township Cove on Cape Barren Island and The Havu said, unable to keep both horror and astonishment out of his voice “You don’t mean off the water?” I did in fact, mean off the water.

The southeasterly wind was so rollicking that at Foam Point I pulled my sail down to avoid a capsize. Previous to this the kayak had tipped so far over that the top of my sail had grazed the water. This may have been providential as at this point, the bolt holding the boom to the mast on Doug’s sail flew off and he also had to put his sail down. We paddled in interesting conditions (wind against tide) to Preservation Island where we repaired Doug’s sail. Heading off again, I thought my rudder felt a bit odd, but it was not until we were hoisting our sails to head straight for Cape St John on Cape Barren Island that Doug noticed that my rudder had come adrift. Back into land and with some rigging we also fixed my rudder, although I noticed The Havu giving us distrustful looks as he also dug his tow kit out.

PC: DB

We roared along the coast to Cape St John and then were in more sheltered waters paddling along the western side of Cape Barren Island to Old Township Cove where we had a very short lunch break. The March flies attacked us as soon as we got out of the boats so it was a brief break to stuff in some food and then head off paddling through Long Island Passage and then beating into the easterly wind for a short distance to set ourselves up for a good angle to sail across to Trousers Point.

PC: DB

We had beam on wind and chop across Armstrong Passage and had to aim off a distance to avoid getting pushed to far west by wind and current and it was with some degree of fatigue that we finally landed at Trousers Point and carried our gear up to the campsite.

PC: DB

Day 5: Trousers Point to Royden Island, 44 km.

All night the southeasterly wind howled in the trees but we had a lovely sheltered site up amongst the She Oaks. By morning, the wind had lessened and we headed off getting some minimal push from the sails for Settlement Point where, to The Havu’s chagrin, I had requested yet another lunch stop. Settlement Point seemed to be a long time coming, but we eventually paddled past Wybalenna Island and found a small beach tucked into bouldery bays on the north side. It was another brief lunch as we wanted to get to Roydon Island before the current changed.

After lunch, the wind seemed to pick up a little and we had a good push along to Royden Island, the northern most of the Pasco Group of Islands. There is a small hut above the beach in dense shrub and some tent sites tucked into the trees and it was nice to have a rough hewn table to cook at.

PC: DB

Day 6: Royden Island.

Northeasterly winds kept us on Royden Island for a day. The island is small enough to walk completely around, which I did twice, once in either direction. The entire way is on big granite rock platforms so very pleasant and I also walked up the 77 metre hill to look out over the islands to the south. I had hoped to see the Kent Group of islands, but could only see Craggy Island, an appropriately named craggy rock island about 20 kilometres northwest of Killiecrankie.

Day 7: Royden Island to Killiecrankie, 14 km.

Our shortest paddle day of the trip to Killiecrankie, a tiny cluster of (mostly) holiday homes situated in a beautiful curving sand bay and overlooked by Mount Killiecrankie which rises just over 300 metres almost straight from the sea. It was a delightful paddle with time to potter along the coast. At Cape Franklin, I did some reverse paddling and turns watched by The Havu and finally finished off the last of my Sea Skills assessment.

PC: DB

We had picnic tables, water and a flush toilet at Killiecrankie, all the modern conveniences, and a barbeque, if only we had some meat to roast. I wandered along the rock platforms south of the town, while Doug walked the long beach to Stacks Bluff at the far north end and swam in briny Killiecrankie Creek. It would have been nice to walk up Mount Killiecrankie but it was a hot day and I was conscious of the long crossing planned for the following day and did not want to get completely flayed by bushwacking about in the hot sun.

Day 8: Killiecrankie to Winter Cove on Deal Island, 62 km.

It is eerie and disconcerting paddling out of Killiecrankie Bay at 5 am. The moon has disappeared behind a dense bank of sea fog and the darkness is satiny black. We can hear waves breaking on the various reefs and islets that shelter the bay and pick our way through cautiously.

PC: DB

Following a compass bearing in the dark is tricky, but The Havu paddles ahead confidently. I am leery of getting sea-sick on this long crossing and appreciate having something ahead of me – The Havu – to focus my gaze on. The sun rises behind us, slanting yellow rays over the water, but it is three hours before we see any land – Craggy Island – still looking distant, and six hours before we see the Kent Islands.

PC: DB

Slowly Deal Island gets closer, the lighthouse on South Bluff is visible, Squally Cove comes into view, and, a few kilometres out we change course slightly and head straight for Winter Cove. Jagged cliffs rise along the south side of Winter Cove and the bay itself is surprisingly deep, over a kilometre into a small sandy beach with a half metre swell rolling in. I land without much fanfare just happy to be out of the boat after almost ten hours.

PC: DB

There is a lovely sheltered campsite in She Oak at the south side of the beach, home to dozens of wallabies who quickly become accustomed to our presence, a view over Winter Cove, rock slabs on either side of the bay and trails all over the island.

PC: DB

Tired but extremely happy, we settle into camp, and, as dusk gathers, I walk through the open She Oak forest scattering wallabies and finding Little Penguins tucked into nests in unexpected places.

Days 9 to 11: Winter Cove, Deal Island.

We spend three days on Deal Island. Day nine has good paddling weather, calm and sunny but, although I would love to paddle around the islands, I am tired of sitting in my boat and eager to walk. Days 10 and 11 are marked by strong westerlies culminated in gale winds on day 11. We walk all over the island on the tracks that the caretakers maintain. Over to Pegleg Cove where there are views of stunning sea stacks, down to Garden Cove, sheltered in westerlies but poor camping with little shade, up the long shady track to the old lighthouse, in a gale up on Barn Hill where there are tremendous views over Dover and Erith Islands. We visit the museum, chat with the caretakers, walk up the hill numerous times to fill water bladders and enjoy fresh garden greens with our dried dinners courtesy of the island garden.

Day 12: Winter Cove, Deal Island to Hogan Island, 45 km.

The westerly gale eased in the early hours and by launch time the sea was calm and the sky clear. At 7 am we paddled out of Winter Cove and around the north end of Deal Island enjoying the marvellous sea cliffs, islets and granite slabs until we were near Garden Cove and then headed off on our bearing for the Hogan Group.

PC: DB

Within an hour of starting the crossing we can see Hogan Island which is quite cheering and paddle on over increasingly calm seas. A few kilometres out from the tiny beach on the east side of Hogan Island – the only landing site – I say to The Havu, “What do you reckon, another hour?” I am quickly stuffing an energy bar in my mouth as we have had no scheduled stops on this seven hour crossing. “It would be 45 minutes,” replies The Havu, “if we weren’t lolling about out here.” I laugh heartily and we paddle into the small very sheltered cove, which has a rocky reef naturally positioned as a break-wall around the tiny sand beach.

PC: DB

Days 13 and 14: Hogan Island

Hogan Island is very different to the Deal Island. There are no trees, just dense matted grasses covering the islands. The most interesting fauna on the islands are the Little or Fairy Penguins which come ashore at dusk and somehow manage to hop and waddle their way up through boulder fields to burrows high on the hillside. It was fascinating to sit on the boulders at night and watch them come ashore and then listen to the loud mewling cries as parents located young.

One night, as we sat watching for the penguins, a seal hauled out on the rocks and waited until the penguins began arriving whereupon the seal easily picked one off and then flung the penguin about for fully ten minutes in a violent display. Pacific gulls flew in to clean up the scraps. A stark reminder that everything eats something else.

PC: DB

Doug circumnavigated the Hogan Island group but I was strangely tired and spent a full day mostly resting taking only short walks. We all walked up the dense grass to the lighthouse and also enjoyed long walks on huge slabs and boulders around the shoreline.

PC: DB

Day 15: Hogan Island to Refuge Cove, 52 km.

After a westerly gale, we had moderate seas leaving Hogan Island at 7 am on our 15^th day out. As the day progressed, the seas gradually abated, and a light southeasterly wind arose. There was a strong wind warning forecast, but we never got above about 15 knots of wind.

PC: DB

Wilsons Promontory is visible throughout the entire crossing and the lighthouse at Southeast Point can also be seen from a long way out. The tail wind really helped our speed and we arrived at Refuge Cove seven hours after leaving Hogan Island. We had paused for about 20 minutes while a very slowly moving cargo ship went by as we appeared to be on a collision course, and, in kayak meets container ship there is only one winner.

The southerly current along Wilsons Promontory was stronger than expected and the last few kilometres to Refuge Cove felt like a bit of a battle, although our speed was still a respectable 7 km/hour.

Day 16: Refuge Cove to Port Welshpool, 41 km.

Our last day on the water had sea fog in the morning and a rolling easterly swell which was with us almost all the way to Entrance Point where we picked up both a tail wind and the incoming tide and sailed all the way into Port Welshpool. The Havu, after paddling like a demon for two weeks, sat back with his feet on the deck and sailed the entire way in to Port Welshpool with nary a paddle stroke.

PC: DB

And, just like that, we had paddled across Bass Strait. I am indebted to my companions, The Havu and Doug for fantastic company on an unforgettable adventure.