Mount Stronach and Mount Arthur

Two short but very good walks. There are two ways up Mount Arthur, one comes in from the north, the other from the south yet they join at around 1000 metres and travel east then south to the summit. We took the north trail because it’s less distance driving on gravel roads. There is a very small pull-off available on Mountain Road and the trail is well marked and in really good shape all the way. Around 1100 metres the trail breaks out of the trees onto the plateau where the track heads south to the big cairn on the summit.

Mount Stronach has rock slabs at the top that are visible from the nearby town of Scottsdale. There is a really good trail to the top which leaves from Buckneys Road and is well signed.

Furneaux Islands Redux: Around the Outside

Preamble:

In 2019, Doug and I paddled around the western islands of the FurneauxGroup in a party of eight. While there is safety in numbers, and with eight paddlers, someone is always nearby if you need a rescue, I came away with the conviction that eight people is too many for a cohesive trip. Splinter groups form and eight people can seldom agree on anything, least of all where they want to paddle! We had astoundingly good weather on that trip - if anything it was too hot and sunny – and early on, as in the first day out, Doug and I thought we should use the good weather to circumnavigate both Clarke Island and Cape Barren Island. The east side of Flinders Island is just one long sandy beach so that held less interest for us, but the east sides of Cape Barren and Clarke Islands were very appealing. After all, who doesn’t want to paddle through a 500 metre wide passage called Sea Lion Narrows?

The chart, however, is full of ominous words and symbols: tidal rapids, three knot currents, Pot Boil Point, Stern Choppers and Vanisttart Shoals: Breaks Heavily, Washy Rock: Breaks Heavily, Moriarty Shoals: Breaks Heavily. In 2019 no-one was interested in visiting the more remote east sides of the islands. Some friends had attempted a circumnavigation the year before but had only got around Clarke Island and had spent days camped on small islands on the west side sitting out weather. Another trip report included multiple capsizes as paddlers attempted to launch off the beach on the east side of Flinders Island and yet another report details multiple members of the paddling party capsizing in tidal rapids off Moriarty Point. And, of course, there are two crossing of Banks Strait.

Despite all this, it still seemed like a good idea. There was a vague hope that we might get to the Sisters Islands, off the north end of Flinders Island, and a circuit route of an island group is always aesthetically preferable to an “out and back” as we had done in 2019. In the month before the trip, Mark had to drop out due to a long standing shoulder injury (getting old sucks but you can save your shoulders by hanging every day), which left myself, Doug and Harry. There were no really long distances to paddle, the longest day would be around 45 kilometres which is 20 kilometres (or an average kayakers day out) shorter than the crossing from Royden Island or Killiecrankie to Deal Island, but it would be a short statured post menopausal woman (me) against two blokes, one of whom is a big bloke who paddles fast.

I trained. Not as religiously or with as much fervour or even enjoyment as two years previous when we paddled southwest Tasmania, but I did train. There are two good things about training and one is when it stops. The other is feeling fit on the trip. I got the first but not the second. On the second day out, my hip blew up and I never recovered. I missed the entire east side of Flinders Island and had to severely limit my walking and exploring after paddle days. Getting old sucks, and it’s hard to hang from your toes.

Little Musselroe Bay to Spike Bay

Apart from a tussle with Lookout Rock we had an uneventful crossing arriving at Spike Bay at 5:00 pm. The tide was ripping north along the west coast as we approached Clarke Island and the friendly easterly wind had turned into a headwind. At Lookout Rock, Doug and I spent 10 to 12 minutes paddling all out to try and get around the southern end, a fruitless and also foolish thing to do. We were both perhaps a little confused perhaps thinking Lookout Rock was Spike Island or perhaps just confused. I know that I was paddling so hard I couldn’t think about anything else. My Garmin track for that section shows my heart-rate red-lining while my speed was zero. When we gave up and floated around the north side of Lookout Rock, we were doing about 12 kilometres an hour. Crossing Banks Strait is always an event even when it is uneventful. The currents dictate paddling on bearings that feel anything from very off, to slightly off and never quite right.

The next day we had very calm conditions and sunny weather but a westerly blow was forecast for the following day so our aim was to find a campsite that would be good for two days, one of which would require shelter. Paddling past Foam Point, there was no foam, conditions were so calm and we ambled along the west side of Preservation Island and across to Cape St John, also very calm. The western side of Cape Barren Island has lovely paddling with little sandy beaches and a plethora of granite boulders and rocks. At Old Township Cove we stopped for lunch and a swim, and then, on a compass bearing, paddled across to Badger Island. We had permission from the land owners to camp, and set up our tents under the shelter of some tea trees on nice flat grassy ground. The white sand beach, granite boulders and backdrop of the Strzelecki Range made for a beautiful camp. Unfortunately, my hip had gone completely buggar up and I discovered that my carefully packed medication supply had been left behind at Little Musselroe Bay. Harry had a half dozen anti-inflammatories but I felt guilty using up his supply so only took one which had as much effect as eating a piece of penguin dung.

It blew hard all the next day, and I hobbled around the island gently with a large branch as a walking stick, feeling both bored (I dislike doing nothing much) and sorry for myself. Heavy rain in the evening as a cold front swept through.

Badger Island to Cave Beach

It was hard to be miserable the next day however, when we had a light tail wind and sunny weather to paddle north to Cave Beach near Wybalenna. We had been past all these islands before in 2019, but it was nice to revisit Mount Chappell Island, East Kangaroo Island, Little Chalky Island and Chalky Island where we stopped for lunch and another swim, past Wybalenna Island and Settlement Point and around a rocky coastline to Cave Beach. Cave Beach has soft limestone with arches and caves and I managed to ease my kayak right through an arch before the tide dropped and it was much too dry to paddle.

Cave Beach to Roydon Island

Despite the northerly wind forecast for the next day, the trip must go on. Roydon Island is only 15 kilometres north-north-east of Cave Beach but the paddle took us over three hours. We had expected only minor currents in large Marshall Bay but, when our speeds hit lows of 4 kilometres an hour it was clear we were against both wind and tide.

At Roydon Island the hut is well tended and there is a new toilet – a hole in the ground with a seat and planks to cover it when not in use. Two young men were in-situ on a crossing from south to north, and they had been in-situ for some days. I think in the end they spent over a week at Royden Island. I’m not sure what their plan was but they seemed to be waiting for several perfect paddle days in a row to begin the long crossings to Deal, Hogan, and the Victorian mainland. This is folly in Tasmania. If you get a good day you take it.

Doug and I found a good campsite in the trees with some shade while Harry squeezed in near the hut. There are good campsites to be found, but mostly they are tucked away in the bush and require reasonably long carries from the beach. My hip was good enough that afternoon that I managed to limp my way right around Roydon Island, but then it was terrible the next day so this was probably a mistake. It was glorious, though, to walk around and explore as I normally do.

Roydon Island to Killiecrankie

The tidal currents dictate everything in the Furneaux Group as paddling against them is either difficult or impossible. That meant we couldn’t leave Roydon Island for Killiecrankie until 2:30 pm when the current should sweep us along the coast past Cape Frankland to Killiecrankie Bay. Perhaps because of yesterdays walk, my hip was a problem, and the only position I could manage was to slump down with my leg on stacked up dry bags. It was a long morning, but finally it was time to leave.

The current still seemed to be against us as we paddled north along Roydon Island. Harry and I were in the middle of the narrow passage between Roydon Island and Flinders Island while Doug hugged the Flinders Island coast. We met in an eddy by a rock reef off the north side of Roydon Island and paddled out into open water. By the time we reached Twelve Hour Point a couple of kilometres south of Cape Franklin the wind had abated and the tide was running north. We covered the 14 kilometres to Killiecrankie in two hours. This was a really nice and familiar paddle past granite boulders and steep hillsides, Sentinel Island and tiny Boat Harbour, finally through the gap between Nobbys Rock and Killiecrankie.

We decided to stay with Jude who runs both an olive plantation and a rustic camping area. There is another westerly blow forecast for the next day and we are hoping Doug can hitch-hike into Whitemark to secure some anti-inflammatories. Jude’s property has a rope hanging down from a tree to assist with the steep climb up a soft sand bank to the camping area. So much of the Furneaux Group is just sand deposited against granite hillsides. There are two toilets, some rustic cabins (which will prove beneficial later on), drinking water supplies (rain-water) and a cold shower of creek water. Jude is very helpful and used to welcoming kayakers on Bass Strait journeys. There are jack-jumper ants everywhere! I am supremely cautious as people with tick, bee, wasp anaphylaxis often cross react to jack-jumper ants. Doug gets two bites, but I wore shoes and socks everywhere and managed to avoid that particular hazard.

Dark Times at Killiecrankie

Doug had a busy day, Harry and I, not so much. I sat about with my leg elevated while Harry sat about studying charts and weather and working out a plan! I should really do more of that! I did manage a couple of short walks and looked longingly at Mount Killiecrankie, which I had really wanted to climb on this trip. Poor Doug was up and away early to walk the six kilometres out to the main road to try and hitch-hike to Whitemark. He got lucky with rides in both directions but the trip still consumed the better part of the day for him. When he got back, I gobbled down two ibuprofen and got myself on a regular regime.

We had a BBQ dinner at the picnic area and boat ramp and made plans for the next three days which, at this point, I did not realise would not include me. Moderate westerlies were still expected for the next day, but after that, there was two days of easterlies before the wind switched southerly. That meant we had two days to cover 80 kilometres along the east coast of Flinders Island. In order to be in position for this, we would also need to paddle 20 kilometres the following day to camp at Northeast River. That, if you are counting, is 100 kilometres in three days. With two good legs, it would be long, but I could make it, but my leg and hip was such that I was unable to get much leg drive as I paddled so I sat like a floppy doll in the kayak with a much less effective and efficient stroke than normal. On top of that are the tidal currents which meant we could not leave Killicrankie until the afternoon when the westerly wind would be blowing at around 20 knots. Conditions would be interesting, particularly around Blyth Point.

Still, I was keen to go, and began a regular three times a day dosing regime with our now bounteous (Doug had bought 200 tablets) anti-inflammatory supplies. The next morning, the wind rose as predicted and I hobbled around camp getting increasingly worried. These pills didn’t seem to be doing much at all, and I was not convinced I could make it all the way down the east coast of Flinders Island without complete incapacitation.

Harry thought that if I did not feel 100% confident that I could paddle the east coast then I should not go. While this makes intuitive sense it belies the fact that I’ve spent most of my life doing things I’m not sure I can do. Often, I feel reasonably sure, but I mostly there is always some doubt. That is the spirit of adventure, giving things a go where the outcome is, despite all your preparation, not completely guaranteed. Life would be drab, boring and predictable without this.

And yet, if I crashed out on the east coast of Flinders Island we would be in trouble because there are no settlements and no readily available help. Doug suggested I wait at Killicrankie while he and Harry paddled the east coast and we meet up again at Lady Barren. I went through in my head various permutations of me paddling the west coast solo, while Harry and Doug paddled the east coast but I would still be prey to the tidal currents, and would be paddling almost the same distance, with the added disadvantage that if my hip did blow up, I would be alone.

It was with profound sadness that I waved Harry and Doug off from Killiecrankie that afternoon. Doug took the tent, first aid kit, our stove, while I stayed in one of Jude’s cabins and used our back up stove. Doug took just the food and water he needed. I had two further nights at Killicrankie, while Doug and Harry spent one night at Northeast River and one night at Cat Island. Doug sent me a text photo of the beach at Cat Island and I could have cried. I became convinced I had made the biggest mistake of my life, which, in hindsight, I can see is a little over-emotional.

On my fourth day at Killiecrankie, Sam, a young bloke on a working visa, arrived with Jude’s trailer, some padding and straps and we strapped my kayak onto the trailer, loaded in all the gear, and Sam drove me to Lady Barron. I arrived perhaps an hour or so after the lads who had really cranked out the kilometres over the last 2.5 days – there is no way I could have kept up with them – and had arrived at Lady Barron in the early afternoon. It was raining heavily and continued all evening so the big barn like shelter at Lady Barron was very welcome. I couldn’t believe I was back with the lads and could barely stop smiling. I was so keen to get paddling again that I could have been convinced to go that evening. Maybe.

Lady Barron to Harleys Point

We were off before 8 am the next morning with topped up water supplies as we had no guarantee of water before the end of the trip at Little Musselroe Bay. I thought I would recognise the paddle out of Lady Barron as we had spent a long time in this vicinity in 2019, but it was only vaguely familiar. The morning fog did not help. There were eddy lines and currents as we paddled out of Franklin Sound towards Ross Point on Vansittart Island. I did clearly remember this section with Rae and Doug in 2019 as the current was against us and we had to paddle like the clappers to get around Ross Point. No problems with that this time although at the Farsund wreck there were standing waves which made approaching the wreck more challenging.

Then it was a long, slow paddle down the east side of Cape Barren Island against the wind and current. We stopped at Harleys Point where there is a big granite islet accessible from the shore with either minor wading or dry ground depending on the tide that made a great kitchen. Thirsty Lagoon was well and truly closed and the water, while appealing to birds, was not so appealing to humans. Doug and I walked around Harleys Point to a couple of lovely little sandy bays tucked in between granite slabs. It was delightful to lie in the tent, fully drugged up on anti-inflammatories after a day of paddling and even a bit of walking, and watch the sunset, and equally delightful the next morning to wake at dawn as thousands of shearwaters streamed overhead. The shearwater exodus at sunrise is an amazing experience.

Harleys Point to Petticoat Bay

More windy weather was on the way so our aim was to find a good sheltered campsite to sit out a couple of days of bad weather. An added bonus would be some good walks to do while we were onshore. We settled on Petticoat Bay, a small south facing bay divided in two by a flat rock buttress. It was beautiful and had good walking in both directions from camp. The only negative was that mobile signal was sporadic so catching the latest weather forecast was hit and miss and involved walking about on some big granite slabs above the bay hoping to pick up a bar of signal.

It was a great day of paddling with the current and wind both in our favour. We paddled south to Thirsty Point, another possible landing and campsite on the east side, then down to Cape Barren where there was some clapotis from the currents, but nothing too serious. Harry went east around Gull Island and tried, unsuccessfully, to catch some fish while Doug and I rounded the corner and slipped into Tinkers Gut, a narrow bay backed by sand with big granite boulders on each side. It was a very sheltered location but a bit closed in feeling for a multi-day camp, plus, we wanted to position ourselves to paddle through Sea Lion Narrows with the tidal current.

From Tinkers Gut it was ten kilometres of magical paddling past a couple of sandy bays – Jamiesons and Christmas Beaches – carved between granite boulders, rocks and islets. At Cone Point, there were tidal rapids and I dropped my sail for a few minutes, and then hoisted it back up to paddle into the prettiest bay imaginable. Big granite slabs sink down into clear water, a sandy beach is backed by forest and further back, rocky ridge-lines lead up to Mount Kererd at almost 500 metres high; the top of which was shrouded in cloud while we were there. Even better, a granite shelf ran along the west side of the beach with good shade for sitting and shelter from the westerly wind.

We had two days at Petticoat Bay as first strong northerlies blew followed by strong westerlies. On our first day we walked along Crows Beach to Passage Point overlooking Sea Lion Narrows. Initially, we walked up the big granite slabs behind camp for a view, then descended to the other Petticoat Bay on the west side of some slabs. There were trickles of water which could possibly be harvested in an emergency. On the west side of this second bay there are more granite slabs and rock platforms that lead out onto the soft, steep sand of Crows Beach. Tucked in tea trees was the perfect camp site with some log furniture, plenty of flat tent sites, and good shelter from the wind. The carry from kayaks, however, would be long.

There are a number of shallow water tarns behind Crows Beach. At Passage Point, we had to scramble up some slabs to get onto a big flat granite platform overlooking Sea Lion Narrows. Taking pictures however, required a sitting position to avoid blurred images as you were buffeted by the wind. Sea Lion Narrows had tidal rapids in the deepest water, but either side would provide safe passage if conditions were too rough.

Next day I pioneered a route up point 124 (see the topo map) a big granite slab on the ridge that divides Petticoat Bay from Christmas Beach. This ridge leads eventually to Mount Kerferd. Ironically, I was the only one that didn’t get quite to the top of the granite slab as I had been wandering around for a while on this peninsular and was leery of going any further and setting back any progress on my hip.

Petticoat Bay to Moriarty Bay

There was a window to cross back across Banks Strait coming up and if we missed it, we would likely be grounded again due to the wind. The tides were not exactly conducive but they were manageable. It was, however, another day paddling into wind and tide and by the time we get to Moriarty Bay, the southwesterly wind was blowing at about 20 knots again.

We left Petticoat Bay and paddled past Crows Beach, a lot easier to paddle than walk, and entered Sea Lion Narrows – the passage I have thought about paddling through for seven years. The current helped us through and we passed Passage Island and then paddled south a little down Forsyth Island. Then it was a long slow paddle into a sharp and steep chop against both wind and current to Clarke Island. We were aiming, we think, for Black Point, but ended up reaching Clarke Island closer to the next little point to the south. Doug and I stopped for a break but Harry kept going. We caught up with him at Moriarty Bay. 

This was our least favourite camp of the trip. The wind blew in making it hard to cook, there was no shade, and no way to get the tents off the sand as the dunes behind were thick with sea splurge, a nasty invasive weed. We all walked around the talus rocks to rock platforms and finally to Moriarty Point. Off Moriarty Point there were standing waves as the tidal currents raced past but we would have no trouble avoiding Moriarty Banks, an area of off-shore shoals that break heavily. Around the corner, South Head Beach looked like a far better place to camp but it may have been a surf landing.

Moriarty Point to Little Musselroe Bay

Crossing Banks Strait is always an exercise in trusting the process after first making sure that you have the process right. Doug and I are keen to leave at 2:00 pm but Harry wants to wait until 3:00 pm. We end up splitting the difference and leave at 2:30 pm. It is a long morning at Moriarty Bay. My hip is still bad so I am resting for the trip back but it is baking in the sun. Doug and I put Harry’s tarp up for shade using the masts on the kayaks for rigging and we sit under that but Harry sits out in the sun all morning.

Finally, when I think I can wait no longer, it is time to leave. The tidal current is running fast past Moriarty Point – we could have left at 2:00 pm – IMOS has been off by an hour this entire trip. Bouncing around in clapotis, we are doing around 10 kilometres an hour and barely paddling. Doug and I put our sails up and are zooming along with Harry behind. It’s hard to turn around to make sure Harry is still there as there are big waves washing across and we have to stop paddling and turn the kayaks. Soon enough, Harry also has his sail up and is cruising along beside us barely paddling as he has a large sail.

For the first 10 kilometres we were travelling virtually due south from Moriarty Point and Swan Island appeared too far to our west to be reasonable. But, about seven kilometres out from Swan Island we hit the ramping westerly current and as we travelled south we were dragged inexorably west until we passed within 200 metres of Ladys Bay on Swan Island. There were a lot of tidal rapids and washing waves at Swan Island but as we continued south reaching mainland Tasmania near Tree Point, the conditions eased. We were about four kilometres east of Little Musselroe Bay and at this distance it was hard to pick it out – at least with my old eyeballs - but, the kayaks rip along at somewhere between 8 and 10 kilometres an hour and very soon we are paddling into the channel and back to where we launched 16 days previously. It might have taken seven years, but I have finally – almost – circumnavigated the Furneaux Group.

All photos except one, courtesy of Doug Brown.

Getting Off Easy: Mount Pillinger

Mount Pillinger on the eastern edge of Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park has tremendous views! There are two main approaches to the summit track, one from the north via the Arm River Track and one via a narrower valley to the south. Both approaches converge near a small tarn and the foot pad climbs Mount Pillinger from the east. The Arm River route involves 200 to 300 metres more elevation gain but the trail might be better. I can’t really say as it is 10 years since I was on the Arm River track. It was in very good shape then.

We took the Maggs Road approach and immediately after leaving an old cut block, the track enters dense scratchy scrub and skinny trees. Many Tasmanian approaches are through old growth forest and can be pleasantly soft underfoot and not all that scrubby. There is some of that further on, but initially the track is scratchy and scrubby climbing beside a creek for a hundred metres or so and then becoming much better walking through more open forest and even open grassy terrain. The Arm River branch joins in as the track crosses open grasslands and then, further west, another fork is reached with the left hand branch (south) beginning a steady climb to Mount Pillinger. There are some rocky sections, but the track is easy to follow with diversionary branches blocked off by old timber, and, after about 150 metres of elevation gain, the track passes through a scrubby saddle and then begins to climb more steeply to the top of Mount Pillinger at 1269 metres.  

The west face is sheer and the view is excellent with all the familiar peaks – Barn Bluff, Cradle, Ossa, the Pelions, Oakleigh, etc. laid out to the west. You can also see some of the Ducane Range peaks, although I am less adept at picking those out without a map! It was quite a pleasure to make the top in under three hours after our, in excess, of eight hour day the previous day.

Blue Derby

Blue Derby is arguably the benchmark to which every other riding destination in Australia is measured. With 125km of singletrack designed and constructed by World Trail, the mountain bike network saved the town, and has since attracted the EWS three times, since opening in 2016.

With massive rock features, fauna that looks straight out of the Jurassic Period, and some of the most magical dirt on earth, Blue Derby has trails to suit riders from seasoned gravity pros to families and beginners — and even a few one-of-a-kind oddities like the Derby Tunnel.

Derby on the whole, doesn’t require shuttles, but uplifts open up easy access to some of the network’s best trails.

From Flow Mountain bike site.

Blue Derby is a scene. There are cafe’s, pubs, distilleries, body-work providers (massage, dry needling, etc.), rental cottages and Air BnB’s as well as two camp-grounds which offer basic facilities and $5 showers (the showers were awesome). We arrived on a Saturday around lunch time and found a site beside the Ringarooma River for our van, and, after lunch, cycled along the green (easiest) trail – Riverside – which runs west to east and connects the western most side of town to the main trail hub.

What you soon learn about Blue Derby is that there is only one way to ride to the top of the main trail network. This isn’t strictly true, as there are some blue loop tracks, for example Wotchya Upta, which ascend and then descend, but the main track network is reached by riding up, in sequence: Axehead, Long Shadows, Long Shadows Upper. If you ride all these trails you’ll eventually arrive at the Black Stump where the shuttles arrive every few minutes and many of the downhill trails emanate from. The overall elevation change isn’t that large, under 300 metres, so it should be a pretty easy ride up, but, it’s not. Bear in mind that I am almost 63, on an analog bike (never give in) and not a great rider, but even Doug, who is about a thousand times better and fitter rider than me, found the uptracks difficult. Despite being an old lady, I can generally easily ride 300 metres uphill.

The first time I rode Axehead I thought “that was fun and unique.” Giant tree ferns arch over the track forming tunnels of greenery and the track passes Tasty Trout Falls on the Cascade River. The sixth time I rode, I was way less enamoured of this track that climbs a mere 50 metres and has at least two dozen switchbacks many of them very tight, steep and loose. At least three of those switchbacks I missed every single time I rode up!

Long Shadows gains another 100 metres and I could almost ride the entire trail. There’s a steep hill to start and then some more rocky switchbacks, one or two of which I missed every time (again). Finally, Long Shadows Upper. I only saw three other riders on this track ever and they were all on E-bikes. But, then again, hardly anyone rides uphill at Blue Derby. Despite the “doesn’t require shuttles” the majority of riders shuttle, even the E-bike riders. In fact, we met a family that rode Blue Derby all the time and they had never ridden a single uptrack! Long Shadows Upper gains a hard 100 metres. It’s very rocky and has at least a dozen tight switchbacks. Ironically, if you jump off Long Shadows and ride up the shuttle road instead (Cascade Dam Road) the ride is a cruise and does not even require the lowest gear. It was only on my last time up – I beat Doug up by a good margin because he came up Long Shadows Upper – that I realised hardly anyone rides Long Shadows upper or lower or any of the uptracks! Even the guided groups were riding up the access road if they weren’t shuttling! On our final day at Blue Derby, Doug performed an experiment, riding up the Axehead, Long Shadows, Long Shadows Upper route versus the Cascade Dam Road. The uptracks took three times as long and were much more fatiguing!

Unfortunately, on our first full day at Derby while riding Long Shadows Upper, Doug busted his derailleur. I continued on my own, while Doug managed to coast down Hazy Days – the bike was functional as long as no peddling was required – and spent the afternoon visiting bike shops! I continued and came down the same way inadvertently dropping onto the black track, Airyagarn, near the end and thinking “wow, this is steep for a green route!”

If Doug likes a track he will do it again while I always want to do something new so afternoons we would split up and I would ride off doing blue loops that were new to me. Some of these, like Rattler, were rocky and technical, while others, like Wochya Upta, were grippy dirt but had a lot – as in 25 to 30 – switchbacks!

We did one shuttle: the big one, the Bay of Fires trail which runs east from the Blue Tiers out to the Tasman Sea at Swimcart Beach. The statistics vary but my Garmin recorded just shy of 43 kilometres, 688 metres of elevation gain and 1450 metres of descent. I found the initial few kilometres a bit off-putting as there is a constant stream of shuttle buses bringing riders up to start the trail and everyone is jostling to go fast and get ahead. It is, apparently, quite popular to do the first 13 kilometres (mostly downhill) only and get picked up by another shuttle where the trail crosses a fire road. 

Part of the trail is on a fire road and that is where my derailleur blew up. Somehow, I managed to get my chain looped back on itself and the only way we could release the chain was to remove the derailleur. Doug, who is awfully clever at this stuff, managed to get the bike operational again with only two tools, but he was only able to restore a few of the lower gears so on the flatter sections my legs were whirling about and the derailleur rubbed on the chain the entire way! Luckily, by the time this happened, the crowds had thinned out. It’s a brilliant track and rideable even by old granny ladies on analogue bicycles. There is terrific scenery, beautiful forest, swooping descents, interesting climbs past big boulders and along ridge lines. Doug and I considered it well worth abandoning our purist principles and catching a ride to the top!

The Problem of the Longhouse

Before you read any further you need to watch this video of comedian Tyler Fischer parodying every NPR show ever. If you find the skit offensive, don’t read any further. If you find the skit hysterically funny and frighteningly accurate, you may read on. NPR, of course, is the American equivalent of our very own ABC, and what Fischer satirises in his two minute skit transfers exactly to our ABC. The relevance of this, is, of course, that the host of the Rescued Podcast is ex-ABC Caro R who spends virtually the entire hour of the podcast talking about Olga’s feelings. At no point does Caro talk about anything useful like having a paper map and compass, knowing how to use both of these essential implements (despite the fact that Caro teaches navigation), or being honest about your abilities. Instead, Caro, in typical ABC/NPR fashion emotionally vomits about “super powerful” moments and talks about “well thought out decisions.”

This most recent episode details the events behind a 38 year old solo female walker who became lost on a circuit walk in the Blue Mountains. The introduction to this episode reads:

“She's sharing her story today with real courage and gratitude, having received a bit of unhelpful judgement after the event. So in the spirit of the Rescued Podcast, I ask that we receive her story with kindness and see what we can all learn from her experience.”

The problem with this attitude is that if we are prohibited from forming any opinions we are unable to learn. In fact, you can listen to the entire episode of the podcast (almost one hour) and NOT learn a single thing because, apparently, judgements are emotionally unsafe. The reality, of course, is that Olga went out for a bushwalk with no map (she had AllTrails on her phone but did not know how to get the map with GPS location to work with no mobile phone signal), no compass, and, frankly, no clue. She had very little back up gear (no first aid kit, very little food, no paper map, very little extra clothing) and was, in the famous words of Accidents in North American Mountaineering, suffering from “inexperience, poor judgement, and exceeding abilities.”

Very soon after descending through the cliffs on the Devils Hole track (a route used by hundreds of hikers and climbers), Olga is lost. Initially, she attempts to use AllTrails to locate her position but when this does not work, she switches to Google Maps! A preliminary attempt to retrace her steps to where she had last definitively been on the track results in her being lost in a different direction. Her mobile phone died early on in her experience, but, luckily for Olga, not before she managed to get one text message out to her boyfriend who called SES and reported her lost. Eventually, Olga climbs a ladder and settles into a cave to await rescue. Ironically, during the entire 24 hour episode, Olga is less than a kilometre from the suburban streets of Katoomba.

Both Olga and Caro are opposed to “judgements” which they say are unhelpful. What is unhelpful is pretending that there is anything edifying coming out of this podcast despite Caro’s gushing about “gold nuggets” and “really good stuff.” In fact, if you listened to this podcast without judgement you would come away thinking that there is no amount of preparation, equipment, knowledge or even basic common sense that would change the outcome.

But, of course that is not true. After even a cursory glance at a map, an experienced and competent navigator would know that to “get found” all Olga had to do was walk downhill. Had she done this, she would have intercepted the Six Foot Track – an unmistakable fire trail at this location – which she could then follow back to Katoomba.  Of course, there is also a climbers track that runs from the base of Devils Hole all the way to the old waterboard (Dicksons) ladders 400 metres south of Devils Hole.  This could be followed back north to regain Devils Hole track and back up to Katoomba.  

This the epitome of the Longhouse in action. An obsessive focus on feelings and safetyism, to the detriment of all else. The Longhouse leaves us stuck in a place where we cannot learn anything, cannot course correct, cannot change because our feelings are too tender to be assaulted by any kind of comment, no matter how carefully worded or obvious in actuality. The sad reality of the problem of the Longhouse comes at the end of the podcast where Olga reports that she never walks in the Blue Mountains alone any more. Left unsaid is the obvious assumption that Olga is too anxious/nervous to walk by herself because she lacks basic navigational skills. So an opportunity to learn a new skill and expand horizons is put aside in favour of the elusive comfort of avoiding any disquieting emotions.