Great Expectations: Mount Anne Circuit, Part III

Mount Anne, The Notch, Lightening Ridge, Lonely Tarns

In the loft, the women were still sleeping when Doug and I got up in the dark, made breakfast and packed up. We were just finishing our breakfast coffee when they scrambled down the ladder, somewhat shame faced at us having woken them instead of the other way round. When Doug and I left the little hut, the gold light of dawn was just touching the Western Arthur Range and the valley below was an ocean of white cloud. "We'll see you when you pass us," Doug quipped as we left. The women smirked thinking that would be sooner than we might imagine. Expectations.

We scrambled back up the boulders we had started up the day before, still being careful as they were slickly wet. The track climbs another 250 metres in half a kilometre to the summit of Mount Eliza and much of the way is up large blocks of dolerite the size of small cars. To save time, we tried to follow the cairns assiduously rather than waste time finding the best route, but we still had to backtrack a few times to climb onto or off of particularly large boulders. 

Once on Mount Eliza, an open alpine plateau leads north to Mount Anne and we got our first glimpse of the talus slopes and stacked columns of Mount Anne. It would have been nice to linger on this plateau where sea green cushion plants surround tiny tarns that reflect the surrounding mountains and the oblique morning sun was casting golden shadows across the boiling valley cloud, but we were too concerned with the terrain we needed to cover that day to do more than snap a few pictures and keep walking. Expectations.

 Doug on the Mount Eliza plateau

Before you reach the track junction at the saddle where the route to Mount Anne splits off the circuit route, another boulder field must be crossed. We teetered warily across this one. A broken bone or even twisted ankle here would have serious consequences. From the saddle, we could see multi-coloured tents spread about a high flat platform at the Shelf Camp, and the ridge the circuit route traverses jagged as a dragons back above. "Slow travel" we said to each other. Expectations.

We left our packs at a large cairn and took with us our waterproof jackets (despite the clear skies we had no confidence the valley cloud would not rise up and rain) and cameras. The route to the summit is relatively well cairned, first up boulders to a bit of track over a subsidiary summit, then up more boulders and talus to the base of the dolerite columns. The twenty somethings from the day before were on their way back down, but they had not made the summit. The final steps up the dolerite columns had been too difficult and exposed for them. Expectations.

 A few moments only on top of Mount Anne,

Doug B. photo

The last section of the route weaves up steps interspersed with ledges and wraps around the mountain to traverse another slabby ledge where there is one final step up to the surprisingly flat topped summit. Rock climbers will find it neither difficult nor exposed (it is around YDS class four), but hikers will find it both, and, dripping with water the scrambling certainly warranted caution. Within an hour, we were crouched on the summit block. Our stay was all of three minutes long, as we felt we still had a long way to go. I have lost count of the number of mountains I have climbed and subsequently spent less than ten minutes on the summit before beginning to reverse the route. Expectations. 

We quickly reversed the route down to our packs. Near the track junction, we met a party of two, day walkers, one of whom asked "Is it worth it?" Doug and I were literally gob-smacked. I'm used to this kind of question from tourists huffing and puffing along a wide well maintained trail, but not from people who have just hiked up 1000 metres and scrambled across teetering stacks of slick boulders. Generally, if you have to ask, the answer is no. We mumbled something about scrambling up wet slippery rocks and got the reply that "things are better when they are wet." With that attitude you really can't go wrong in Tasmania but it did lead me to question the experience of the two walkers. Expectations. 

We snacked while we changed clothes and then sped off along a rough track down to Shelf Camp. I was surprised to see a number of tents still standing and people lounging about. The weather, I thought, was anything but stable, and I would be making good use of this time when it was neither clouded in nor rainy to move on. Expectations.

 Two walkers on Lightening Ridge above Lonely Tarns,

Doug B. photo

A maze of tracks lead out from Shelf Camp, and we had the misfortune to get on the wrong one which climbed high under the jagged ridge above while the cairned route was on the plateau below. We struggled along forced to scramble up and down ledges when the track disappeared then reappeared above or below us. There were several awkward manoeuvres and a lot of tenacious bush. Below us, we saw two people seeming to stroll along easily but we could not see that they were on a track and I dislike following others for fear they do not actually know where they are going. We stopped, pulled out our mobile phone to check the map and track notes (useless). I thought we should go down, Doug thought up as we were nearly on the ridge crest again, but, "it's your trip," he said, "just make a decision and lets go, I don't want to be benighted." Expectations. 

I chose down, and we thrashed through unpleasant scratchy bush down slick rock bands to a rough track on the plateau below. It's hard to remember exactly how the route progressed from this point. We scrambled up to the ridge proper numerous times, followed cairns across huge boulders on the ridge crest, some times backtracking when we were stuck on a particularly tall boulder to find a route we could climb down, descended steeply down the north side and followed beaten in tracks across surprisingly steep terrain before climbing back to the ridge proper again. 

After what seemed a long time, we turned a shallow buttress on the ridge, scrambled back up again, and were looking down into The Notch, the crux of the route. The Notch is a narrow gap between dolerite columns on the ridge crest and generally requires pack hauling to surmount, and, in some cases a belay. Looking down into The Notch we saw the party of twenty somethings just setting up to haul their packs up the five metre step. Another party of two were waiting and Doug and I quickly descended to the breezy Notch. 

 Looking down into The Notch,

Doug B. photo

It was obvious we would be here a little while so Doug and I put on another layer and had a quick snack. The old habits of alpine climbers, you eat when you have a chance, not necessarily when you want, linger long. We began to make silly jokes about the Hilary Step and "continuing with style" (you have to be either an Enormocast fan or an aficionado of The Eiger Sanction to appreciate the latter) but no-one else seemed to find anything to laugh at. A general suggestion was made to haul every ones pack at once rather than each separate party getting their individual haul ropes out, which the twenty something fellow kindly did. It speeded us all up, but undoubtedly slowed his party down. 

The climb out of The Notch is again, easy for a climber, but difficult for a walker, but everyone managed it (even with style). Now, however, we were stuck in a conga line of slow walkers struggling with the terrain which still requires scrambling and boulder hopping. We were, of course, eager to keep pressing on, a desire made more keen by the cloud that had now risen up from the valley to embrace us all in a wet fog. 

 Mount Eliza, Mount Anne, Lightening Ridge

At another step along the route, Doug and I managed to duck around everyone in front of us by climbing up a face instead of a corner. We literally stepped over the belay sling set up by the twenty something where there was now a bottleneck of seven people variously waiting for a belay or to have their pack hauled. We were surprised to see the two women with whom we had shared the cabin as they had almost two hours start on us (the time it had taken us to climb Mount Anne). As we dashed past, they seemed surprised that we had climbed Mount Anne. Expectations. 

There is a 1262 metre high point at the north end of the serrated Lightening Ridge, and here the route begins a steep descent down boulders, ledges, and steps to a thickly vegetated saddle. The track was fairly well defined here and the benefit of such a steep track became evident in the speed with which we were able to descend. Once at the saddle, the track plunges into dense forest of pandani and myrtle and it is again a steep and slippery descent, but the many trees encroaching on the track make useful hand holds. Down near 1000 metres, the track emerges onto a minor ridge between two tarns in low but wet vegetation. We had a fabulous view back up to Lightening Ridge and were astonished at how easy the ridge was to traverse given its saw-toothed appearance. Expectations.

 The ridge the route traverses,

Doug B. photo

Our track notes had mentioned "many good campsites" but, despite walking all the way to where the track begins to climb again, we could not find any campsites that were not quite marginal. The vegetation while low is hugely hummocky and water seeps out with every step. At the last possible place where we could camp with water available, we found a semi-level site right by an unnamed lake and set up camp. Almost two hours later, the twenty somethings wandered by looking for a campsite and I could swear they looked at us with more respect than before. It had taken us about 3.5 hours to walk from Shelf Camp to Lonely Tarns. We had covered the most distance, done the most elevation gain, and passed every other party on the route, even those who had a couple of hours start on us. Expectations. 

Before setting up camp we debated simply having a drink and snack before walking out. It was, after all, only about 4.30 pm, and we estimated we could walk the remaining distance (we underestimated the distance by two kilometres) in 2.5 hours, or perhaps three at the most. In the end, we decided it would be silly to end the trip walking out in the dark when we might be able to beat the next days forecast rain if we started early. Expectations. 

Part Four. 

Great Expectations: Mount Anne Circuit, Part II

High Camp Memorial Hut:

Driving west on the Gordon River Road, lichened green signs point to various high points in the surrounding ranges, The Needles, Mount Mueller, Tim Shea, none of which were visible through the dense fog. We parked at Condominium Creek where a party of three twenty somethings were fussing around with packs and gear. In our usual alpine climbing mode, we were all packed and ready to go as soon as we arrived so with a quick "hello" we were off up the track. The track climbs 800 metres in 3.5 kilometres but it is an easy climb as this trail has been constructed (or at least worked on) not merely formed by the osmotic passage of many walkers, so there are steps and, although the track is running with water (as are most tracks in Tasmania), the water drains off a firm bed so walking is easy. 

We were just shy of two hours reaching High Camp Memorial Hut, a rather rustic stone building with a tiny sleeping loft and two windows looking out of the Western Arthur Range, although all we could see was fog. Ducking inside for a break to escape the light but insidious rain that had begun, we found the interior chilly and damp. A party of four, on the way down after an aborted attempt to climb Mount Anne as a day trip arrived. One member of the party had got very cold and was still shivering violently. Strangely, they did not seem to have waterproof pants which I assumed were standard wear in Tasmania's wet high country. 

There was lots of chatter as these folks were interested in where we had been, were going and also about living in a caravan and traveling all the time. It turns out that one fellow runs the post office in Natimuk where we had spent many weeks (months possibly, but I can't remember) camping when we were climbing at Mount Arapiles. 

Morning at Mount Arapiles, 

a warmer drier place 

After about half an hour, we figured we should keep moving so putting on warmer waterproof clothes we headed out just as the three twenty somethings arrived. They pulled a large spread of mostly zero calorie lunch food out of their packs. Tiny cherry tomatoes still in their bulky plastic packaging, alfalfa sprouts (also in bulky plastic packaging), and some other assorted condiments. In other circumstances I would call this a great lunch, but, when you are out walking in the mountains carrying zero calorie, nutrient light (for weight) food just does not make sense. 

Beyond the hut, the track deteriorates immediately and is bushy and bouldery. The rocks were slick with rain so we went carefully. After about 15 minutes, as the wind increased and began to blow streamers of rain across the ridge I began to wonder if camping at Shelf Camp, in our (now) somewhat leaky tent was really a good idea. 

 Sunrise on the way up Mount Eliza

Doug deferred to me, "It's your trip," and I decided unaccountably quickly - I am generally given to prolonged periods of indecision - to return to the hut and see how the weather progressed. If the weather didn't clear we would not be climbing Mount Anne and struggling up over huge boulders in a steady rain to a high alpine camp seemed pointless. At this stage in our outdoor careers we have no need to seek out uncomfortable positions, we have camped on high ridges in terrible storms enough times in the past to not relish the experience. 

Back at the cabin, I asked the twenty somethings who were just preparing to leave about the camping at Shelf Camp (the young man had done the trip before), "yes, it is exposed," he said, "no, there is no toilet," and finally, "there may be no water, you might have to carry it." This last struck me as completely ludicrous as the entire Southwest National Park is awash with water. You could gather a litre in less than sixty seconds just off the track. I could not help but think he thought me a useless, old fogey who needed a toilet to camp (actually, I was concerned about contamination of the water sources with so many people camping in a place with no established toilet facilities), and had no business on any track least of all one with the fierce reputation that the Mount Anne circuit has. Expectations.

 Lots Wife seen on the way up Mount Anne

Settling in for what might be a long afternoon, Doug and I made tea and put on virtually all our clothes, the damp air was very cold. If the weather cleared, we would continue on, otherwise, we would stay the night and see how the next day turned out. Within half an hour, two more thirty something women walkers arrived. They came streaming in, cold tendrils of air swirling around them dressed, improbably, in light cotton shorts and white barbeque shirts (as my friend Robin Tivy calls all casual wear). They too were bound for Shelf Camp, and, after a short break started out, only to return minutes later to add more layers of clothing. 

Back out again, they had not left the porch when a day walker came down the track. He had passed 11 people (in total) heading to Shelf Camp and the women began to get worried that they would be late arriving and there might be no where to camp. This might seem crazy to Canadian climbers and hikers as camping up in the alpine in Canada is generally easy. In fact, it's often hard to choose the very best campsite among the dozen merely good ones available. In Australia, however, the bush, even in the alpine, is dense and impenetrable. If there are no established camps where the vegetation has been cleared there can be quite literally not one place to pitch a tent. 

 Lonely Tarns sunrise,

Doug B. photo

The women came back in and, after some discussion decided to settle in for the evening. Doug and I were glad of company, we have so few other people to talk to generally, and were soon engaging the women in conversation. Both women were scientists and so very interesting to talk to, but, I found conversation quite difficult as one woman was extremely opinionated (a trait I recognise in myself) and no matter what the topic, she would talk over everyone else, even her own walking companion. Real conversation requires some discussion of ideas, and, the best conversations are often those where the parties do not agree but can still share viewpoints. Nothing kills a discussion more than emphatic declarations that brook no discourse, which is where most of the evenings talk seemed to end. Expectations.

The women had track notes (these are very popular in Australia) and read off the suggested times for the various sections of the walk. Two to three hours to Shelf Camp, four to six hours to Lonely Tarns. They were confident they could complete both sections of the walk in the short end times if not even quicker. There was lots of talk of getting up early, skipping breakfast and having it at Shelf Camp (not really a time saver if you have to unpack your pack to retrieve stove, fuel, food etc.), moving rapidly and easily completing the walk to Lonely Tarns in five to six hours. They offered to sleep downstairs so they did not wake us in the morning and looked at me strangely when I told them we were always up before dawn and were not really tired the day having been so easy anyway. Expectations.

Doug on the summit of Mount Anne

"Are you going to the very tippy top of Mount Anne?" one asked. When we replied that we hoped to, weather permitting, she looked at us dubiously. "There is a very scary traverse on a narrow ledge near the top, it's very difficult" she told us seriously. She had done the trip before but had not made the summit of Mount Anne. I could see her thinking, "surely these old fogies, with their pants hanging off their skinny frames can not be thinking of climbing Mount Anne." Expectations. 

I had trouble sleeping that night as I was not at all tired and the bench we were sleeping on felt hard to my increasingly lean frame. I listened to podcasts long into the night and watched a huge moon drop down and hang in the sky illuminating the little hut with cold silvery light. I went back and forth in my mind whether we should attempt the traverse - perhaps we had lost too much time camping early - merely try to summit Mount Anne from the hut, or, if the weather was bad simply turn around. Expectations.

 Blood Moon from High Camp Memorial Hut,
Doug B. photo

Part Three

Great Expectations: Mount Anne Circuit, Part I

Preamble:

This is a story of expectations, mine of what this trip would be like, and others, of what I would be like. It begins in the small town of Triabunna. Doug and I were just back from a fabulous four day walking and sea kayaking trip around Maria Island. The inevitable weather window had closed again, the wind was blowing 25 to 30 knots and rain showers hung around the edges of the sky. The long Easter weekend (five days in Tasmania) would soon be upon us necessitating an escape from any where the infernal combustion engine could take people. The penultimate trip on my "premier trip list" for Tasmania was just over 100 km away and would take us into the mountains where only people willing to walk - almost always more tolerable to a couple of semi-hermits such as Doug and I- would go. 

On the ridge to Mount Eliza

Mount Anne (1423 metres) is the highest peak in Tasmania's massive Southwest National Park and also the first mountain of any size you reach as you travel south from Maydena. To the south, is the jagged crest of the Arthur Range, with its myriad peaks, tarns, cols and crests, while close to the west is the massive Lake Pedder, full, so rumours say, of drowned Huon Pine. The Mount Anne circuit is an iconic walk encompassing all that is classic in Tasmanian bushwalking - steep climbs and descents on tracks that are nothing more than a minor gash in tenacious forest where hundreds of hikers have pushed through, scrambling over piles of refrigerator sized boulders, generally slicked with rain and fog, tracks running with water across flooded plateaus where water squelches only to your ankles if you are lucky, and bogs, classic Tasmanian mud bogs that can suck the boots off your feet, perhaps even your feet from your legs. 

 Mount Anne

The forecast was less than ideal, cloudy with about 50% chance of showers on the first day, cloudy the second, and cloudy with 80% chance of rain on the last day. Like many walkers, we planned to camp at Shelf Camp, a tiny alpine plateau perched below dolerite columns and fully exposed to Tasmania's famous winds, on the first day. Weather permitting, we would climb Mount Anne on the way past, but, we would get one more chance the next day. Our second night would be at the Lonely Tarns after traversing the high jagged ridge that surrounds Lake Judd, and finally, on the last day, we would do our usual dash out to the road to try to beat the afternoon rain. 

 Shelf Camp

Doug B photo

 Part Two

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.