Up The Wombat Track: Bent Bluff

We woke in Fingal to drizzly rain, a blustery south wind that felt like it blew right from Antartica and heavy grey skies. I feared we were back into the "waiting on the weather" game. When your whole life is about being outdoors, getting stuck indoors even for a single day is virtually intolerable - at least it is for me. I went off and wandered around town for a while, but, a clearing weather trend sent me scurrying back to find Doug. The rain had stopped, the clouds had lifted and we could almost see the dolerite columns and high country of Ben Lomond National Park from the valley bottom. 

 Doug arriving on the alpine plateau

Highway B54 climbs to about 600 metres from Fingal passing through a couple of small villages (a few houses really), and, at a hairpin bend in the road, about 21 km from Fingal, an old wood sign proclaims Ben Lomond. We parked about 50 metres down this very minor road and began walking. 

The first third of the walk is on a very old road which basically goes fairly straight up. Abruptly, the road ends, and a flagged track begins. I say track, but, like many Tasmanian tracks this one is more akin to a vertical wombat tunnel lined with razor wire than a track. Some track notes we had found online noted the track was "currently overgrown with prickly pink mountain berry native shrubs, making the climb unsuitable for children." I would probably concur with that. 

 Doug overlooking Stacks Bluff

The bluffs, a series of dolerite columns that appear to hold back the high alpine plateau, soon appear through the trees and look a long way away. The track head sign indicated two hours to the top and I thought we would never get all the way to the bluffs in that time, but, we were on top of Bent Bluff looking out over Stacks Bluff in well under two hours. It was howling on the plateau and very cold. We soaked in as much of the view as we could without turning to ice cubes before finding a semi-sheltered spot for a bit of hot tea. Stacks Bluff and Denison Crag are both impressive from the plateau and there is also an access track to that end of the plateau. 

Getting down was quick as all the vegetation was sloping down hill and we had gloves on so could grab hold of the occasional prickly bush to help our descent. I felt amazingly better for what amounted to under four hours exercise.

Stacks Bluff and Denison Crag

Homeless

In the Derwent Valley, a warm autumn sun is shining, the wind is calm, and all our wet and muddy gear from our three day traverse on ridge lines above Lake Judd is clean and drying. It is almost possible, except for the dark storm clouds massing on the periphery of the sky, to think we are not in Tasmania any more. 

 Doug on The Acropolis, 

hard to believe this is Tasmania

It is almost exactly two months since we arrived in the "holiday" isle. We left Victoria with a long list of trips we wanted to do, that, once we realized there is never more than two consecutive days of good weather in a row, we edited to come up with a short list of "premier" trips. With the exception of the 6 to 8 day traverse of the Western Arthurs (on my premier list but not Doug's) we have now completed all the trips on our premier list, and, a whole host of others. It has, however, been an extraordinarily busy two months. We have been rushing from one multi-day trip to the next, from one corner of the state to another, in a desperate and largely successful attempt to miss none of the good weather. 

 Sunrise over the Western Arthur Range

I don't have trouble maintaining interest (stoke/psyche, or whatever term the hipsters are using) for doing trips. I don't need to watch videos, follow the latest "athletes" social media feed or surround myself with "fitspo" to want to go out everyday. In fact, I generally have too much enthusiasm, and, the inevitable down days when you are cleaning up from the last trip or preparing for the next, often seem dull and anti-climatic. Those are the days when I wonder if I can ever live in one place any more or if, I'll travel for ever simply becoming an older, skinnier (perhaps hungrier) nomad. 

 About to take a dip in a mountain tarn

Other times, I wish I go home for just a while, to the home I no longer own. Generally, I have this feeling late in the day when we have just arrived back at the car after a multi-day adventure and our gear is wet, sandy, muddy, dirty, and generally in serious need of repair. At those times, going back to the caravan, washing in a cold mountain stream or lake, or simply by pouring a bucket of water over our heads is a poor substitute for a hot shower, a comfortable chair and soft bed. Late in the day when the fridge is empty it would be nice to abandon either our dirt-bagways (harder than you might imagine) or our ulra-pure diet and just go buy dinner in a restaurant, cafe, even a bar, instead of scratching together some dinner from camping left-overs and maintaining our frugal habits.

How you look at the end of a typical Tasmanian walk

Like all of life, a life adventuring is all about trade-offs. We trade the comforts that first world people take for granted (hot showers, dry accommodation, clean clothes, even highly palatable food) for the days and nights that we spend outdoors travelling through wild places, eating only what is nutritious (not necessarily very palatable), sleeping out, getting filthy, walking, paddling or climbing from days start to days end. We get to watch the sun rise and set, to see mountain peaks floating suspended in an ocean of cloud, to paddle past curious seals, to listen to whale song on a deserted beach, but, we have no community (we are about as different from the standard "grey nomad" travelling around Australia as you can get while still being part of the animal kingdom), no place where we belong, no home. 

 Southern Ocean sunrise

Paradise Found: Around Maria Island By Sea Kayak

Rheban Beach to Darlington, Bishop and Clerk: 

 

With the light breeze gently dropping, Doug and I paddled east from Rheban Beach, past tiny Lachlan Island with its resident population of sea birds, to a small half-moon of white sand backed by turquoise water on the very tip of Return Point on Maria Island. We jumped out of the kayaks and rambled back behind the beach onto a grassy plain where a dozen wombats grazed lazily and pairs of Cape Barren Geese rested. At almost 20 kilometres long, 10 kilometres wide and made up of two lobes separated by a narrow isthmus, Maria Island is a National Park where, most importantly, no vehicles are allowed. A daily ferry service runs from nearby Spring Bay, but, once on the island, you must walk, bicycle or kayak. 

 One of the many wombats at Point Return

Disallowing vehicles is a small barrier - there are many good easy walking tracks on the island and the old roads are easy to bicycle (you can even hire bicycles from the Rangers Station on the island), but it has a big effect. Even on a sunny weekend in late March, there were not that many visitors, and, the lack of humans has allowed the island to return to a more natural state where kangaroos, pademelons, Tasmanian devils, Cape Barren geese, possums, parrots, finches, scrub fowls, and more wander about the island with impunity. Maria Island is truly paradise found.

 "Wombat Bay" at Return Point

As beautiful as Return Point is, we were anxious to get up to Darlington, the site of an old penal settlement so that we could hike to the top of two prominent dolerite columns - Bishop and Clerk - that look out over the mainland and the Tasman Sea. It was a gloriously sunny day, one of those that make you think you are no longer in Tasmania, but have somehow been translocated to Queensland, and, as we paddled north, the light wind dropped away to nothing and we glided silently north drifting over huge beds of sea weed swaying in a rippling current, watching fish darting for cover in the immense stands of kelp as our boats cast a shadow. 

 Ruby's Cottage on the hill above the campground

Darlington has a jetty, a Ranger Station, and the remains of the old penal settlement now converted to museums, bunkhouses, toilets, and, a mess hall. The hills are rolling but windswept, grass kept low by all the grazing animals, small stands of tea tree and further back larger eucalpyts march up to the denser inland forests. We gobbled a late lunch and at 3.15 pm, set off along an old dirt road that leads up a grassy vale to Skipping Ridge. Skipping Ridge is a broad grassy ridge where you can walk along the top of the 100 metre high limestone cliffs of Fossil Bay. As you gain elevation, the view gets more spectacular as you look north over Maria Island to Ile Du Nord, Ile Des Phoques and the Freycinet Peninsula. The track enters large stands of eucalypt and climbs more steeply to arrive at the precipitous summit of Clerk, where you gaze over the nearby dolerite column of Bishop and dizzyingly down to the blue ocean below. We walked down as the evening light was painting Skipping Ridge golden yellow leaving the Fossil Cliffs in dark shade. 

Doug ambling up Skipping Ridge

Nights are a raucous affair at Darlington. The resident possum population is rambunctious and, as soon as the sun sets, a half dozen of the most brazen emerge and begin climbing the rafters of the picnic shelter where the tables, counters and barbeques are situated. One particularly cheeky fellow fell from the tall ceiling down to the floor before shaking himself (herself?) and scurrying off. The geese begin to squabble, and the Tasmanian swamp hens angrily pursue each other across the grassy meadow, all seeming to grow fractious as night deepens. 

 On the Bishop looking north to Freycinet Peninsula

Ile Du Nord and Mount Maria:

After our whirlwind tour of Freycinet National Park (a trip too long for the available weather window) we were hoping to have the weather conditions to allow us to spend a full day at Darlington before we continued paddling around the island. I checked the marine weather forecast before I got out of my warm sleeping bag the next morning and noted that while this day was forecast to be windy, the next two days had light winds and were favourable for paddling the exposed east side of Maria Island. 

 Glassy waters in Mercury Passage

I squeezed out of the tent before sunrise to have a hot cup of tea as streaks of red cloud streamed across the island. There was a rising northerly wind blowing choppy waves onto the beach and it was cold wading into the water to launch my kayak but I wanted to paddle around Ile Du Nord and Bird Rock in the early morning. Ile Du Nord is about a kilometre off Cape Boulanger and has less bird life than Lachlan Island but it was fun to paddle around, bouncing in the sharp chop before slipping into more sheltered waters. Doug had wandered over to the Fossil Cliffs but came down to Cape Boulanger as I paddled past. 

 The Fossil Cliffs at the north end of Maria Island

After breakfast, I headed out to hike up Mount Maria, at 717 metres, the highest peak on the island that offers a tremendous view of McRaes Isthmus, the southern lobe of Maria Island, and the Tasman Peninsular. This track is one of those delightful rambles that is impossible not to enjoy. Passing Ruby Hunt's old cottage, the old road wanders through stands of large eucalpyts to cross Counsel Creek passing wetlands where water birds nest to Hopground Beach and then turns east to follow Counsel Creek as it tumbles through the forest up to a pass near Marra Hill. The old road continues south down to Frenchs Farm and Encampment Cove, while the Mount Maria track branches off and follows a densely wooded ridge up to scree slopes below Mount Maria. The track is a little narrow here as the trees meet overhead and even I, at a diminutive 158 cm, had to walk this section half hunched over. 

 Looking south from Mount Maria

The final scramble up scree slopes might be challenging for some but is well marked with orange arrows. It does pay, however, to look around a little for the best way up the steeper sections. On top, there is the standard Aussie trig and the view! Cape Lesueur and Point Mauge shelter the wide curve of Shoal Bay, while Cape Maurouard spreads broadly into the Tasman Sea. To the south, showers were darkening the hills of the Forestier Peninsula. On my way down, I met Doug minutes from the top. On the walk back, I had a dunk in Counsel Creek and wandered past the ruins of the Oast House. As I strolled the final 100 metres back to the campground, the showers moved up from the south, and, just as it began to rain, I sidled under the shelter for a late lunch. Doug arrived back, somewhat wet having been caught out, a half hour later. In between rain showers, I wandered around the ruins, museums and buildings of Darlington, and finally out to the forlorn cemetery overlooking a now grey Tasman Sea. 

 Lonely cemetery near Darlington

Darlington to Riedle Bay:

Once again, I checked the marine weather from my snug sleeping bag. Two more days of light winds before the next cold front and trough swooped across the state. In the dim light of predawn, we packed our gear and made breakfast under the shelter. The tent was soaked by rain and heavy dew, but I had learnt early in our Tasmanian adventures to bring a few plastic bags to put the tent in to save wetting all our other gear. Gradually the sun cleared the hills and by the time we were packing the boats on the beach, we were getting the first tickles of warmth. 

 Cape Barren Goose at Darlington

From Darlington, it is about 28 kilometres around the east coast to Trigonia Corner where we planned to camp. There is no where reliable to land until you reach Whalers Cove after 23 kilometres as the entire east coast of Maria Island is wrapped with steep limestone and granite cliffs. Under certain conditions, you can land, with difficulty in Beaching Bay which faces due east and is barely sheltered by a couple of small rocks in the mouth of the bay.

 Granite cliffs on the east side of Maria Island

There are two things worrying about these long passages with no opportunity to pull ashore. One is whether your bladder can hold out (easier for men who can carry a pee bottle), the other, and infinitely more pressing is what would happen should sea conditions become difficult to manage in a kayak. Even with the best forecasts and sea conditions, one sets off on these journeys with some trepidation. Generally, I seem to spend the first 10 to 20 minutes of the journey imaging all the things that could go wrong in my head and brainstorming various mitigation strategies. But, such unproductive worrying is hard to keep up for long, particularly when the paddling is as interesting as it is on the east coast of Maria Island. 

Doug looking small under the granite cliffs

Rounding Cape Boullanger, we passed the white streaked Bird Rock and followed along under the limestone cliffs of Fossil Bay. There are big roofs, caves and even stalagmites (or is it stalactites?) dripping down from these cliffs. Above us, we could see the dolerite columns of Bishop and Clerk. All the way down to Beaching Bay, the paddling was absolutely stunning. The coastline is pocketed with sea cliffs and arches, rocky islets, and clean granite slabs. A half dozen waterfalls cascade over cliffs into the sea, the most beautiful one had a tiny green pool at the base sheltered from the swell by rocky islets. At Beaching Bay, I managed to scramble ashore for a bladder break (why do I drink a half litre of coffee before these long paddles?) on big rocky boulders that rolled in the swell. Mistaken Cape protrudes out into the Tasman Sea and here the coastline turns east as you paddle past Little Raggedy Head under the shadow of Perpendicular Mountain. We had such calm sea conditions that we could paddle right along side the cliffs, weaving into the passages between the cliffs and small rocky islets, and dipping our kayaks into sea caves. 

 Doug near Cape Maurouard

Just past Cape Des Tombeaux we paddled into narrow Whalers Cove for lunch. Montgomerys Creek runs into the cove and although shallow, the cove seems to provide a sheltered anchorage for yachts and fishing boats. Emerging after lunch, we paddled through a narrow passage over a bed of kelp at The Keyhole and weaved through big red boulders at Red Rocks Point. Heading east into Riedle Bay, one of those winds that spring from nowhere and quickly blow themselves out, came up from the east and we had a stiff paddle into Riedle Bay. I was determined not to be blown back the way we had come as I was ready for an afternoon cup of tea and concentrated on steady strokes to make headway against the wind. 

 Doug weaving between rocks and cliffs

We landed in Trigonia Corner where tiny periwinkle shells sprinkle the beach. The water is inviting to swim, clear, teal blue and calm, but, cold. The typical Tasmanian swim is to get in as swiftly as possible - no need to prolong any agony - and stroke vigorously to try to generate some heat, admit quickly that the water is freezing, jump out, look back longingly and think "maybe I should have stayed in longer," then, counter that almost immediately with "no, that's enough." With beaches on either side, and a track down the middle, McRaes Isthmus provides a few hours of enjoyable beach meandering. On his rambles, Doug saw seals on one side of the isthmus and dolphins on the other. 

 Rheban Beach launch site and Maria Island

Riedle Bay to Rheban Beach via Point Peron and Cape Leseuer:

We had no mobile telephone reception from Riedle Bay, but, Doug had got the marine forecast the night before and conditions were favourable for the final exposed paddle past Cape Maurouard and Cape Peron, so we had no excuse to lie in our sleeping bags in the morning. It had been a cold night and I didn't think it would be much colder out of the tent than in. Doug and I were using overbags not full sleeping bags but this would have to be the last trip for that as they were not nearly warm enough in single digit temperatures.

We had breakfast, packed the wet tent away, and I, yet again, drank a half litre of coffee. I made it stronger than usual for some poorly thought out reason and felt uncomfortably jittery for a few hours afterward. The southern half of Maria Island is slightly less rugged than the northern half, although there are cliffs and crags all the way around to Cape Peron, a distance of about 14 kilometres. It is possible under certain conditions to land in Haunted Bay but this adds 2.5 kilometres of paddling. 

 Chilly breakfast on the beach at Riedle Bay

Paddling out of Trigonia Corner I again began to ruminate on all that might go wrong, but my usual cogitations were interrupted by a curious fur seal who swam along side our kayaks for a time popping up every few seconds to inspect us curiously.  Shelving granite rock platforms give way to orange granite cliffs near John Bulls Rock. We had a light northerly tail wind pushing us down the coast and seemed to quickly reach Cape Maurouard and Lesser Pyramidal Rock. Again, sea conditions were such that we could weave our way between cliffs and rocks, past No Good Bay, Greater Pyramidal Rock, and across the entrance to Haunted Bay. We paddled under the crumbling Glenoth Cliffs to Cape Peron where I was able to paddle the dark and narrow passage between Cape Peron and Perons Pyramid. Abruptly, we turned north up the west side of Maria Island and immediately the topography changed from vertiginous cliffs to gentle hill sides. 

 Cape Peron and Perons Pyramid

We were now paddling directly into a 15 knot northerly wind and so we slowly pulled along the western coastline. Although we were mostly sheltered from this wind at the south end of Maria Island we knew it was there and that we would eventually have to paddle in to it. In a kayak, with 30 centimetres of freeboard, your relationship with the ocean is intimate and you always know the direction and strength of the wind.

A rocky beach near Green Bluff allowed us to pull in for our first break - my bladder had held out admirably well. We stretched, snacked, wandered about, and then continued north. 

 Waterfalls on the east coast

Doug B photo

From Green Bluff to Point Mauge the coastline is low rocky pebble beaches backed by dense forest. Robeys Farm is some where here but from the ocean we could see no clearing in the forest. By the time we got to Point Mauge, the wind had dropped to about eight knots and we paddled directly north to a small beach just west of Point Lesueur. The inevitable high cloud was beginning to cover over the sky, but we still had sun for lunch and we took the time to dig out our stove and make tea. I had the typical Tasmanian swim off the beach which felt wonderful once it was over and we wandered on the bracken of the headland after lunch. 

 Nursing joey at Darlington,

Doug B photo

We were torn between making camp on any one of several pretty beaches nearby and paddling back across Mercury Passage before the next frontal system. In the end, we decided to paddle back, as, while it was delightful now, we knew that the 20 knot head wind we would face next morning would be decidedly less fun. It was a bit bumpy paddling across Mercury Passage to Lachlan Island as the channel shallows up north of Lachlan Island. Shelter is gained, however, a half kilometre out from Lachlan Island and the final four kilometres into Rheban Beach is easy. 

 Possum hiding out in the picnic shelter,

Doug B photo

After four days, 90 kilometres of paddling, 25 kilometres of walking, and the joy of finding paradise lost, it was hard to come back to combustion engines and the general craziness that is modern life. If you ever need to slip away for a few days, or even a few hours, to a place where nature still roams wild, take the ferry or a kayak and visit Maria Island. You may find your lost soul again in this wonderful wild place. 

 Paddling near Cape Bouganville,

Doug B photo

Details For Kayakers:

Launch sites are available at Rheban Beach and Earlham. At Rheban Beach, the launch site is a sandy beach accessed through private land. The land owner is accommodating and asks only that the gate be securely closed, garbage be collected, and no camping is allowed. We left both our car and caravan parked there with no problems. The crossing to Maria Island is between 5 and 8 kilometres depending on exact route. Mercury Passage is protected from the dominant southwest swell so you'll only get wind chop (which can be worse). 

There are National Park campsites at Darlington ($13), Encampment Cove and Frenchs Farm (free with park pass). At Darlington there is also a bunkhouse and mess hall (tables, stoves, lighting, etc.). The campsite at Darlington has a covered shelter with picnic tables, barbeques and a couple of propane burners (no lights). Hot showers cost $1. Drinking water is available, but the fastidious may feel the need to treat it (we did not). There is no garbage collection on the island so don't be like the arseholes who surreptitiously slipped their garbage into our food storage bin, take it out with you. At the official campsites, possums can be a nuisance. Behind the Ranger Station at Darlington there are a stock of metal garbage cans that can be used to store food. I would not store food in my tent unless you'd like it ventilated with a few holes bearing the marks of possum teeth.

The west coast of the island is protected and suitable for beginners. Tides are not large and ebb is to the south. There are many beaches to land on. Darlington is well worth staying a day so you can walk up Mount Maria and Bishop and Clerk, or simply wander around the shorter trails and the historic buildings. The east coast is spectacular but probably best left to more experienced kayakers, although you might have incredibly calm conditions as we did. Between Darlington and Whalers Cove, there are no reliable landing sites. In good conditions you might get in at Beaching Bay, but in good conditions you likely don't need to land (unless, like me, you drink too much coffee in the morning). There are a couple of campsites at Whalers Cove but it is a narrow, closed in feeling bay and much nicer to camp on the beach at Riedle Bay. There are many creeks on the island but we found it simple enough to just carry all our water - if nothing else fresh water makes both good ballast and a handy rinse with the left-over at the end of any trip. 

Trigonia Corner, at the south end of Riedle Bay is the most sheltered spot to land and camp. The yachties seem to prefer anchoring on the other side of McRaes Isthmus at Shoal Bay so you may have the beach to yourself. In poor conditions, you could easily portage across the isthmus, there is a track about midway on Riedle Bay, from the exposed east side to the sheltered west side. 

Haunted Bay is a potential landing site as you round the very southern end of Maria Island. Once you turn Cape Peron, there are multiple landing sites although the first few beaches are pebbly. As you go further north there are many sand beaches. The island is a National Park so you need a park pass.

I Do Not Want To Go Back: Round The Freycinet Peninsula By Sea Kayak

Wineglass Bay to Crocketts Bay on Schouten Island:

As we paddled southwest along the small granite cliffs of Thouin Bay towards the promontory of Cape Forestier and Lemon Rock, I made note of the tiny half-sheltered rocky coves in which, should it be absolutely necessary, a kayaker might make a rough landing. There were two, and both would be desperate landings. Soon after, we rounded Lemon Rock and our boats began to rise and fall on the rolling southwest swell. The ocean was deepest blue, the tall cliffs of Cape Forestier golden orange, and the sea surface rising and swelling in unpredictable haystacks as the current moved swiftly past. A seal dived beneath the front of my boat and a large Pacific Gull flew overhead. It was an exhilarating place out here on the Tasman Sea knowing we had 16 kilometres to paddle before we could hope to land. 

Early that morning we had got up, packed the caravan, driven south to park in Freycinet National Park, hitch-hiked south to the Wineglass Bay trail head, walked into Wineglass Bay over the Hazards, retrieved our boats from the campsite, repacked them with a few days supplies, and, finally, at 11 am, with the wind still too strong for comfort but ourselves too nervous and anxious to wait, launched from Wineglass Bay and begun the 22 km exposed paddle to Crocketts Bay on Schouten Island. 

 Doug approaches Lemon Rock

Our progress slowed between Lemon Rock and Half Lemon Rock. It took 40 minutes of hard paddling to cover three kilometres. Our boats were riding the swells easily, but we were both taking some of the wind and current chop across our chests. Doug called out "we need to watch our time." I did not want to go back and began to paddle stronger. 

Sometimes, I should go back, but sometimes, that strong urge to "not do that again" is what has got me to the summit of the mountain, up, down or across the dodgy snow-slope, enabled me to lead the final pitch of the climb, and now, to paddle the wild east coast of Freycinet Peninsula. The trick is to know when to embrace "I don't want to go back" and when going back is the only real option.

 Near Cape Degerando

It was probably another hour to pass Gates Bluff and paddle by Gates Gulch where wave strewn rocks guarded the entrance to an exposed bay.

I felt small paddling this dark blue sea, the tiniest speck of matter on this great heaving ocean. Initially, as I pulled hard between Lemon Rock and Half Lemon Rock I thought "this paddle will not be enjoyable but it will be an achievement." The further south we paddled, the lighter the wind became, and even the seas began to reduce until, by the the time we reached Baldy Bluff, another giant orange granite cliff, the paddling was pure joy. We paddled past broad Slaughterhouse Bay, and, around Cape Degerando, we saw the sheltered waters of Schouten Passage and Schouten Island, with more huge orange granite cliffs and slabs to the south. We were three hours from Wineglass Bay and we had essentially paddled the east coast of Freycinet Peninsula. 

Passing Telegraph Point, another seal flipped in the water, some more Pacific Gulls soared past, low enough that I could clearly see their striking orange tipped peaks, we crossed Schouten Passage to Passage Point, and paddled on water the clearest green over swaying kelp forests into the tiny cove backed with white sand, tea trees and huge orange domes. 

 Beautiful Crockets Bay

We ate a late lunch on the beach, giddy with success, relief, accomplishment - all the ingredients of joy. Then, in the late afternoon, we climbed a steep track up orange and white streaked granite slabs to an amazing view point on Bare Hill. South was tiny Ile Des Phoques and Maria Island, north the convoluted Freycinet Peninsula with all its bays and coves, cliffs and islets, sheltered sandy beaches on the west and wave sculpted eastern slabs. As night fell, we cooked dinner on the beach, some small birds (perhaps little penguins) making noise in deep burrows behind our chairs. The possums, of course, came out at night, running about camp and fighting with each other over food scraps left by other campers. 

 Schouten Passage

Crocketts Bay to Richardsons Beach:

Northerly winds were forecast to increase over the day with another messy Tasmanian wind and rain event to arrive early the following morning. We would have loved to linger. Perhaps to paddle around the rugged wave swept southern cliffs of Schouten Island, or to walk to the top of Mount Freycinet from Cooks Corner, but, the weather door was fast closing, and, once again, we did not want our fingers caught when it slammed.

Accordingly, we got up early and paddled out of Crocketts Bay and back across to the mainland. A fishing boat was visiting the cray pots in Schouten Passage as a bright stream of silvery light shone down on the still grey early morning sea. South of Passage Beach, the current was running past the point and a seal was fishing in the spiky waters. We had a short sharp wind chop abeam as we paddled into the only sheltered landing site at Bryans Corner. 

 Part way up Bear Hill

From Bryans Corner we paddled north around low rocky headlands to Weatherhead Point where the current abruptly eased. We took 1.5 hours for breakfast on the sandy beach at Cooks Corner, wandering up the beach to an old stone hut set amongst gracious trees. The water became calm and smooth as we paddled north past more low rocky coves to long Hazards Beach. There is a popular loop walking track that crosses the isthmus here and returns to the trail head along the coast and there were many walkers on the beach. 

We had lunch in the smallest sandy cove at the north end of the beach and, just as we were ready to depart some hikers arrived and gave our boats a push out into the water saving us a bit of work. Around Fleurieu Point we got into the northerly wind but it was much lighter than forecast and we made reasonable time past the final few scattered rocks and coves to Richardsons Beach and the end of our trip. 

 Morning at Crocketts Bay

Style Points:

Friendly Beaches to Richardsons Beach is about 70 km, with over half that distance on the exposed east coast where landing sites are few. Without doubt, it is one of the most spectacular paddles I have done in Australia, the experience made more intense by cold water, rolling swells, confused seas, and the ever present wind. As long as wind and sea conditions do not deteriorate, the paddling is exhilarating, and, for reasonably competent paddlers, quite safe. But, always, at the back of your conscious mind is the notion that everything could change in an instant and you'd be in that situation, familiar to all alpinists and mountaineers when "everything was fine until it wasn't." 

Our trip felt strangely easy. By walking out to the road and our caravan during the two days of storms following our paddle from Friendly Beaches to Wineglass Bay we had avoided both the angst of being stuck in camp without an updated weather forecast fretting about conditions and the inevitable wet, cold and cramped camp as we huddled in our small tent. We walked back in when the forecast was favorable, paddled south in improving conditions and escaped again before the weather deteriorated. During the early morning hours of the day we paddled out, the forecast storm came in with wind, rain, lightening and thunder - we were snug in our beds. If I didn't know better, I might be inclined to think that adventure can be free. 

 Morning Friendly Beaches

The Beginning Of An Epic: Friendly Beaches To Wineglass Bay By Sea Kayak

After escaping the next trough, cold front, deep cyclonic low, whatever the f**k the BOM (Bureau of Meteorology) was calling the next system of wind, rain and general shitty weather moving across Tasmania when we hustled our butts out of Pelion Plains, we drove east to the very popular (and scenic) Freycinet Peninsular about midway down the east coast of Tasmania. Apparently, this is the part of Tasmania that has the "good" weather. Less rain, warmer temperatures, and, could we hope for less wind? 

We arrived around midday on Thursday, in the middle of yet another northerly blow, and spent the afternoon getting maps organised for our next planned trip - a sea kayak circumnavigation (as much as one can circumnavigate a peninsular) down the exposed east coast of the Freycinet Peninsular and back up the more sheltered west side. Our obsessive weather forecast checking was somewhat hampered by lack of mobile telephone reception, but we did manage to get some sketchy forecasts and tentatively planned to begin paddling on Saturday. Friday would be spent hiking up Mount Amos, packing gear, and locating launch and landing sites. 

 Looking down on Wine Glass Bay

On Friday we packed gear and food for five days before heading out to hike to the top of Mount Amos, an easy 1.5 to 2 hour return trip, where we had a wonderful view of the gorgeous Wine Glass Bay. After that we began to check out details of the kayak trip. We could launch from the boat ramp in Coles Bay, but there was no where to park our car and caravan for multiple days, so we struck that off. Next, we checked out Muirs Beach where there is a nice sheltered sand beach to launch from but again scant parking. It could work, but was not ideal. Then we drove into Freycinet National Park and asked the Rangers where to park. They suggested the overflow parking, so we trundled down to check that out. It would work, but there was a disconcertingly longish carry to get all our boats and gear to the water - possible, but longer than ideal. 

Finally, over to Sleepy Bay where we anticipated pulling out at the end of the trip. From Sleepy Bay, we figured we could walk three kilometres back along the road to retrieve our car. Sleepy Bay, however, is not the nice little sand bay with easy access that you imagine. Instead, it is a half kilometre narrow windy track with many steep stairs to a tiny pebbly beach where the surge sucks in and out. Carrying our boats and gear back to the car park would be very unpleasant. 

 Cape Forestier and Lemon Rock

We were feeling the effects of decision fatigue as we sat on some boulders in Sandy Bay and looked at the map to find another pull-out spot from which we could retrieve the vehicle. The only possibility seemed to be either Bluestone Bay (which has a reputation for "ripping the guts" out of 2WD cars) or Friendly Beaches. Bluestone Bay was within (long) walking distance of the overflow parking, but Friendly Beaches was not (20 to 30 kilometres). One of my Canadian friends, has always said "you never know until you ask" so, we decided to drive back to Coles Bay (again) and ask the local sea kayak tour operator if he could shuttle us back to our vehicle at the end of the trip.

We found Nathan, who owns FreycinetAdventures, working on a new patio in his yard and he was so helpful giving us some local tips and agreeing to shuttle us and our boats out to Bluestone Bay in his 4WD. Our greatest difficulty was deciding which day to start paddling as, the usual Tasmanian weather scenario was prevailing. We had planned a four day trip, but had only a one day weather window. The next day was forecast to be sunny with light winds, but then there were three days with strong wind warnings forecast, a fourth day when the weather might be okay (BOM only forecasts three days), then another deterioration in the weather. 

For some reason, I suspect decision fatigue, we allowed ourselves to be convinced that Monday (when a 30 knot wind was forecast) was a good day to begin paddling down the exposed east coast from Bluestone Bay to Wine Glass Bay. We would then likely have to sit out Tuesday (strong winds from the south forecast) and might get a break on Wednesday to paddle the remaining 24 km along the east side of Freycinet Peninsular. Planning any trip on the ocean in Australia is hampered by the fact that the BOM never forecasts more than 72 hours in advance. 

 Getting ready to launch from Friendly Beaches

On Saturday, I got up early and wandered along the beach for an hour struck by how calm it was. For the first time in days the sun was shining and there was only a light wind. We had planned a day paddle around Bicheno, and, at 10 am, were up at Bicheno about to launch the boats when Doug came up with another seemingly audacious plan - drive back to Friendly Beaches, launch the kayaks with all our food and gear for 5 days, paddle from Friendly Beaches to Wineglass Bay and camp the night. Leave our kayaks and gear at the campsite, walk out the next day to Coles Bay and (hopefully) get Nathan to shuttle us back to our caravan (at Friendly Beaches), wait out the two days of strong winds on land, then walk back in to start the kayak trip on Monday or Tuesday (depending on the BOM forecast). 

It took us all of five minutes to decide that this strangely round about, but, possibly highly sensible solution to the problem of weather windows that are too short for planned trips, could work. By noon, we were on the water at Friendly Beaches after launching through a small swell. 

 Paddling past Boot Rock in ideal conditions

The 20 km paddle south down the east side of Freycinet National Park has to rank of one of my best days paddling ever. The first half hour, was along the white sand Friendly Beach on aquamarine water that is some of the clearest anywhere. At Friendly Point, the coastline becomes rocky and steep granite slabs, rocky islets, sea caves and wave washed slabs covered with waving forests of kelp provide a backdrop as you paddle south. A seal swam under Doug's boat near Boot Rock as we paddled between this tiny rocky islet and the cliff-lined shore. 

Just north of Cape Tourville, we paddled through the Nuggets, another cluster of rocky islets and into the currents racing past Carp Bay. We shot through a small passage between some tiny rocks off the prominent point south of Carp Bay on a tidal overfall, crossed the head of Sleepy Bay to the orange slabs of Mount Parsons, and, as the wind was rising behind us, paddled into Wine Glass Bay and a sheltered landing site tucked into the eastern corner of the bay. 

 Near Carp Bay

That evening, I wandered along the white sand beach where sea birds were resting for the night, and watched as a fishing boat bobbed at anchor waiting for morning. The northerly wind was blowing strongly again, and the ocean was full of white-caps and waves. A tenacious possum spent much of the night trying to gain entry to our tent (and ripped a hole in the mesh) and would not desist until Doug punched it between the eyes where upon it slunk off, but returned with a half dozen mates and assaulted our kayaks which were covered with black possum prints the next morning. 

On Sunday morning, we ate a sturdy breakfast anticipating a long day ahead which might (if we were lucky) include a lift out to our car at the Friendly Beaches with Nathan, but, could just as easily turn into a long tedious road walk. We wandered along the beach to the Wine Glass Bay track, and hiked over The Hazards and down to the car park. We were unable to raise Nathan on the telephone so began to walk out to Coles Bay. We had only gone about 10 minutes when a very kind lady gave us a ride into town where we found Nathan once again working on his patio and happy enough to shuttle us out to Friendly Beaches. By noon, we were drinking tea, scavenging lunch from our rather empty fridge and fighting decision fatigue as we pored over inadequate weather forecasts trying to either predict the future, or at least make a reasonable decision (or two, three, or dozen). 

Sunset at Wine Glass Bay

Note:  All pictures courtesy Doug

Ode To The Overland Walkers: Mounts Ossa, Oakleigh and Pelion East from the Arm River Track

There once were some Overland walkers

Who really were terrible squawkers

Whenever it rained

They grew very pained

Those squawking Overland walkers.

Preamble: Mount Ossa at 1617 metres is the highest peak in Tasmania. With the highest peaks in Queensland (Mount Bartle Frere), the Northern Territory (Mount Zeil), Victoria (Mount Bogong), and NSW (Mount Kosciuszko) under our proverbial peak bagging belts, climbing Mount Ossa was just a matter of waiting for a weather window. 

The great thing about Tasmania is there are so many things to do (climbing, walking, peak bagging, kayaking) in a small area. The terrible thing about Tasmania is the weather. It always seems as if you have a one day weather window for a three day trip, or perhaps a two day weather window for a six day trip, or any other similar ratio of good weather days to time required to do the trip. The exact ratio may vary but is virtually never one for one.

Mount Ossa from Mount Oakleigh

After hiking up Cradle Mountain on a gloriously sunny day, we had another wet and rainy day, and then the forecast was for one sunny day, one cloudy day, and followed by several days of rain. Our plan was to hike into Pelion Plains and camp near the new Pelion Hut on the sunny day, climb Mount Oakleigh in the afternoon, hike up Mounts Ossa and Pelion East on the cloudy day, and get up early in the morning on the third day to hike back out, hopefully before the weather window slammed shut and it began to rain - again. Amazingly, everything pretty much went to plan.

Day One: Arm River Track to New Pelion Hut, Mount Oakleigh:

There is a bridge out on the Arm River Road so the access to the Arm River Track is via Maggs Road about an hours drive south of Gowrie Park on windy minor roads. The only signage you will see is at the junction of the Arm River Road and Maggs Road. The last 18 (or so) kilometres is unsealed but well graded. 

The Arm River track is in excellent and improving shape thanks to a hard working track crew who are putting switchbacks up the only significant climb on the track to the February Plains. It was quite a surprise to encounter switchbacks here in Tasmania where we have quickly got used to tracks that go straight up. 

 Lake Ayr and Mount Oakleigh

In any case, the track climbs up on the north side of the Arm River to tiny Lake Price and a view of Mount Pillinger to the south, before ambling through low heath lands and descending gently to Lake Ayr. At Lake Ayr, Mount Pelion West and Mount Oakleigh come into view and we had a pleasant half hour lunch break on a big boulder overlooking Lake Ayr. A few black swans, with chicks, make an unlikely home at Lake Ayr. 

Lake Ayr is two kilometres long and a significant amount of the track is on boardwalk. Mount Ossa begins to come into view across Pelion Plains and, just before the new Pelion Hut, you pass the track to Mount Oakleigh and cross a suspension bridge. The hut and surrounding campsites were deserted when we arrived (3.5 hour walk in) which was a bit surprising as we were now on the Overland Track. We found a tent site, had tea, and then I set off up Mount Oakleigh. Doug read the signage in the hut which indicated the track to Mount Oakleigh was boggy (imagine that) and decided to stay behind. 

It was 3.15 pm when I set off so I was going as fast as I could which, actually turned out to be quite slow until I worked out how to deal with the submerged track. The first one kilometre of track is across flooded button grass plains and I was struggling to sink only ankle deep. After faffing around quite a bit, I simply decided to take my boots off and walk/wade barefoot along the "track."

This was all going swimmingly well (foreshadowing) until I got to a particularly deep looking flooded section. In fact, the path ahead seemed to go directly through a river. However, in one section, the bottom looked to be only about 30 cm deep (knee depth) so I confidently strode in expecting to touch down on the weedy bottom I could see below. 

 Cathedral Mountain from Pelion Gap

There was, however, no touchdown as my foot punched through a mat of weeds cleverly disguised as a river bed, I was crotch deep before my wits woke up enough for me to fling my self onto the submerged bank before I went any deeper (I still had not touched bottom). Now I was soaked almost to the waist and the most sensible course seemed to be to carry on so my body heat would dry my clothes out. 

After some scouting, I found a less deep channel, waded through and carried on. Eventually, I felt confident enough to put my boots back on but that does not mean the track is dry. There is, in fact, only about 100 metres of track that is not wet. The track climbs gradually at first through dark rainforest then starts up more steeply and pushes through thick pandani forest eventually emerging onto the Oakley plateau where the track is once more very wet. The plateau is a pretty place of dolerite boulders, tarns, streams and low heath lands. The actual summit is at the far northwestern end of the mountain and I did not have time to go that far so stopped atop some dolerite columns with a stunning view south to Pelion Gap, Mounts Ossa and Pelion East, and north to Barn Bluff and Cradle Mountain.

I managed to avoid a dunking on the way back down but still made use of the barefoot walking technique which netted me some fairly muddy legs and a few new leech bites but, at least my clothing was dry. Back at the Pelion Hut, the days Overland walkers had arrived most looking quite weary after a 17 km day. 

 Mount Pelion East and Mount Ossa from Mount Oakleigh

Day Two: Mounts Ossa And Pelion East:

It was a quiet night as there were only about 13 Overland walkers and most slept in the hut. Doug and I slept out in our tent which was soaked with dew in the morning. I got up before dawn, as I usually do, and crept around the hut making a cup of tea. Soon after, Doug emerged, we had breakfast and wandered up the Overland track to Pelion Gap where the mud bog was somewhat improved from my recollection of it in the mid 1980's when I walked the track in winter. 

The Ossa track climbs steeply and wetly at first (there was a trail crew at work when we were coming down so no doubt this track will get better) until it is about 100 metres below the summit of Mount Doris when it sidles around Mount Doris on the south side. 

 The Ducane Range from Mount Ossa

There are lovely views of Pinestone Valley and the Ducane Range. Past Mount Doris the track climbs up a rocky hillside between two "gates of dolerite." There is a very short descent, then a final gradual climb to the summit plateau which is surprisingly expansive and even has a couple of pretty tarns. 

The real summit is the top of a dolerite column, easiest to ascend/descend from the moister west side. I'm not sure how many walkers tag the real top as it is a bit of an exposed scramble (class 4 YDS). Doug and I took it in turns to stand on the tiny summit and then retired to a more comfortable flat boulder for a break. 

 Doug on the summit of Mount Ossa

The first of the Overland walkers were coming up as we went down and, by the time we got back to Pelion Gap, we had seen all but two who staggered up looking somewhat fatigued while we were having a quick break at Pelion Gap. Ironically, the only packs that the Currawongs had managed to breech (these clever birds have learned to open zippers) were the packs of the guided group staying at the private huts. There were various things strewn about Pelion Gap when we arrived which we stuffed back into various pockets. When we came back after climbing Pelion East, the birds had pulled out a whole different selection of items. 

It is only 300 metres elevation up Pelion East on another boggy to start track. About a third of the way up the track enters talus fields and dries out as it gradually heads north around the dolerite gap and climbs steeply up the final somewhat loose gully to the top. This time, the views include Cathedral Mountain and Lees Paddocks. 

 Looking back at Mount Ossa as we head up Mount Pelion East

I was by this time dying for a cup of tea so after surveying the view we hurried down passing the last two Overland walkers who were on their way up Pelion East instead of Ossa. Doug ambled back but I fairly galloped and was shocked (horrified) to emerge at the new Pelion Hut where there were 17 tents (!) and a slew of people also in the hut. Our small tent felt fairly surrounded and we ended up deciding to sleep in the hut as it was quieter and seemed less embattled than our tent. 

All the Overland walkers were, however friendly, mostly quiet exhausted and also very sick of the rain (more of that to come). The hut was very quiet as people went to bed at 8.30 pm! So early, in fact, that I was not tired and lay on my bunk for a couple of hours before finally dozing off. 

 

Day Three: The Door Slams Shut:

I woke up at 5.30 am the next morning and got Doug up soon after. We brewed up, had a quick breakfast and were away at 7.15 am into misty cool wet weather. Off and on during our walk out it rained in a light desultory fashion but never enough to need a jacket (we were under dense trees much of the way). It took us just over three hours to get out to the car and we had no sooner got in and buckled up than the rain began and continued for the remainder of the day. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.