Jo Squire Writes

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Hiking

Kosciusko to Kiandra

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When I bought my wonderful warm sleeping bag called the Kiandra, I’d no idea it was named after a real place, neither did I imagine I would one-day hike 135 km from Thredbo to get to there.

Anya, James, and I were the only takers for this hike after Covid killed a NZ trip planned by a larger group of us.  Our most spectacular scenery came within the first 2 days around Mount Kosciusko and the Rolling Plains. The latter is an area where it’s easy to lose oneself, and I don’t just mean in a spiritual sense. We spent hours getting lost and found and lost and found before we finally descended to Schlink hut where we spent the night. We felt slightly less incompetent when some cross-country cyclists described how they’d got lost there the year before and had to abandon their bikes. They managed to walk to safety and used the GPS marked point to retrieve their bikes a couple of days later.

Despite this, the bolder shrewd landscape with its panoramic views and mossy tarns took our breath away. We wouldn’t have asked to be anywhere else, and the first campsite on a ridge provided a million-dollar view which I enjoyed through my open tent door.

After Valentines hut, newly-painted bright red, the scenery evolved into open grassy plains and snow gum country. We took 4 days to cross this lower section of the Snowy Mountains. The area was less lovely than usual due to the 2013 and 2020 fires, which ravaged the region. The skeletons of the once vibrant snow guns have a sad sort of beauty, but I found it heartbreaking to walk through their vast graveyards. Their recently blackened trunks or the bleached white limbs of older victims were starkly silhouetted against a huge blue sky. I felt sickened by the thought of the wild creatures that perished here so brutally. It’s surprising how little has been done to help resurrect such a damaged ecosystem. Even a few nesting boxes would not cost us so much.

The wildlife was sparse apart from a couple of black snakes that slithered quickly out of my way—as frightened of me as I was of them. A few observant crows watched as we passed below, and occasionally parrots screeched from high above. We were excited to find a couple of wombat holes.  It will take so long for this area to recover properly–if it ever does. The big old trees will certainly not regrow in my lifetime.

Our last night is at O’Keefe’s hut.  The area around it was newly mowed, presumably by the wonderful woman who maintains this hut. We met her and her son doing maintenance on Valentines hut a few days previously.

The last morning we walked out to Kiandra, a ghost town from the gold rush days. The road past it was busy with trucks and travellers on their way through the mountains. Only briefly, did it occur to me that we could have saved ourselves the long walk and just driven there.

Whitsunday Paradise

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The weather forecast for our five-day Whitsunday kayak was bad enough to generate a discussion of postponing the whole trip. Fortunately, no one wanted to pull out, and the forecast proved to be wrong.

After much organization to ensure we had enough food and water to last 5 days, we were picked up with our kayaks by a ferry for a scenic ride around the bottom of Whitsunday Island. An hour later we unloaded onto the white powdered sands of Whitehaven beach, world-famous for good reasons, where we set up camp. Then, eager to make the most of our time, we paddled across to a nearby island to spend the late afternoon snorkeling around a headland.

It quickly became obvious why the Whitsundays are so popular. In between kayaking, we had plenty of opportunities to do short hikes and snorkels, each viewpoint and beach with its own unique beauty.

Only on one morning did it pour down in the predawn hours. The rain stopped just long enough for us to semi-dry, eat breakfast, and pack. It then pelted on us once we were out at sea in our double kayaks. A delightful experience. Our waterscape was shrouded in mist. Pale luminescent spheres pinged off the olive-green water around us, the heavy drops seeming to bounce off the ocean’s skin.

Although the view from the northern lookout over Whitehaven beach is to die for, our most spectacular walk was from Crayfish Beach up to a viewpoint on the third evening. One of our group, a fit determined engineer, was pregnant, but undaunted by the 1-hour hike to the top, as she climbed steeply over rocks and tree roots, wearing thongs.

At the top were interrupted 360 views of Whitsunday and Hook Island, and we were treated to a spectacular sunset. The whoop-whoop-woos of several peasant coucals echoed across the tops of the forest canopy. With the sun below the horizon, we descended along the craggy backbone of Whitsunday Island almost in the dark, the sky streaked orange and red all around.

On our final morning, we had a spare couple of hours before pick up from our campsite, a sheltered sandy cove. To kill time, we paddled to revisit a nearby beach and filled our now-empty food bags with rubbish. It was sad to see a couple of these smaller more windswept beaches covered in plastic.

After our pickup arrived to return us to Airlie beach, we were reminded of what the Whitsundays means to so many. We shared our small barge with 3 scantily clad Brazilian couples. Already tipsy at 9 AM, they’d missed their assigned collection time and our barge was forced to do a repeat trip. Crates of alcohol and empty bottles were loaded. The gorgeous girls gave everyone an eye-full, with their tiny bikini tops, and their slim G string bottoms openly displayed as the breeze fluttered tiny skirts upward, Marilyn Monroe style. With our salt impregnated hair, clothes, and our zinced faces, we looked worse than poor cousins, even though that was not how we felt.

Our captain dashes our self-satisfaction at leaving the beaches cleaner than we found them when he tells us that the big freighters from overseas dump much of their rubbish overboard in the nearby shipping channel to avoid some of the hefty disposal fees due on docking.

‘Another couple of weeks it will all be back there again,’ he says, ‘But good work anyhow!’

Boots and All

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As camping spots for the Jatbula hike in the Northern Territory were booked out within an hour of their release, we felt fortunate to get a last spot, despite it being the end of season September heat. On the day before we left, our reconnaissance paddle in kayaks along the Katherine Gorge in 40 degrees centigrade had us concerned about how we’d manage the 5-day hike.

Advice about not hiking in the hottest part of the day and that we should consume a lot of electrolytes came thick and fast. Only the temptation of swimming holes and waterfalls near camp sites kept us motivated. It didn’t take long before Jen developed a boots-and-all approach to swimming holes along the way. To be honest, many of them were merely water puddles. Jen concluded they weren’t worth the effort of undressing for.

However, the campsites were gorgeous. Our first night above Biddlecombe Cascades won the award for scenic beauty with crystal clear ponds at the top and a cool, deep rock pool between the high and low sections of the waterfall.

It was amazing how fast even those of us who are not early risers adapted to packing up camp in the dark to avoid hiking in blistering afternoon temperatures. Each morning, at daybreak, our 6 humpbacked silhouettes climbed away from the relative cool of the water source. Any murky pond along the way was invitation us to dip our shirts, hats, or bodies into it. Without them we’d have been sad vegemites; with them, we were chirpy hikers on a mission. Our destination campsites were along water-holey sections of the Edith river, lined with lily pads and lotus flowers.

On our third evening, a gorgeous gang of red-tailed black cockatoos kept us company, their melodious calls filling the air and drowning out the cawing of the crows, who waited patiently for opportunities to raid the campsite. None of us lost any food, but Darcy’s gear gained a few extra holes.

We must have swum with freshwater crocodiles, although none of us were lucky enough to see one. The rangers assured us that their scarier saltwater relatives were absent from all but one waterhole along the way, where we’d been warned not to swim. Strangely enough, none of us had any inclination to do so. Etched in my mind is the memory of a news article, where a Kakadu tour guide took 2 of his female travellers for a swim across a lily-pond lagoon. The girl at the back felt the water displacement below her before the crocodile surfaced just ahead to pull her friend under. I’ve always thought it’d have been fairer had the croc chosen the guide instead.

There was no stopping our intrepid crew on our last day of the hike, when temperatures dropped to an icy 36 degrees centigrade for the hike past Sweetwater to Edith falls. I was sad to return to the concrete carpark for our pickup to take us to Katherine’s city-lights. Anyone who has been there will understand my meaning.

The Green Gulley Track @ Oxley Wild Rivers

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If you enjoy multiple creek crossings, with the water occasionally at waist level, then the Green Gulley Track is definitely for you. On our first day, my friends and I walk the first 17 km of our 65 km hike along a forest track with views across the Apsley Gorge, until the trail began to descend toward our first hiking shelter. From here it descends steeply down to the Green Gulley Creek and the first few crossings before a second shelter. We stay wet the entire 3rd day and wade back and forth across the creek over 30 times, following the fern lined Green Gulley Canyon. The water is crystal clear and we’re surrounded by rocky outcrops. The sky remains clear and sunny, but temperatures go below freezing at night due to a mid May cold snap.

On the third night, Cass, Lidia, Jen and I choose to sleep outside under a shelter and find it no colder than the tin lined shacks, though we layer up with layers of thermals before squeezing into our down sleeping bags. I keep my beanie on and it makes all the difference.

The same evening, Penelope the possum steals a plate off the table in full view of everyone, but fails to make it up the nearest tree with her prize, which is empty anyhow. More of a problem at nights is the plague of cute melomys mice. Our packs are hung from convenient hooks and our food stowed in safes, but the mice determinedly scamper along their miniature highways following beams along the tin walls. Other hopeful mice scurry across the floor searching our boots for food. They settle down fairly quickly though and allow us to sleep peacefully.

The Oxley River Park was originally cattle country sold to National Parks, and it has some interesting history as well as remnants of old stockyards near the heritage huts that we used. Life on the land in this remote location would not have been for the faint hearted. The terrain is steep and the creek unpredictable. We saw 2 large red bellied black snakes, so I imagine similar creatures would have added to the perils of the settlers’ lives.

A couple of us get a glimpse of the rare brush tailed rock wallabies that still survive in this area. Apparently 90,000 pelts were traded in a single year back in the day. It’s no wonder everything has become rare! Only when I hear figures like this can I truly grapple with how much has been lost.

On our last day, we are feeling fit and do a steep 600m ascent to meet the ridge-line without missing a beat. It’s frosty cold and our packs much lighter so we don’t even break a sweat. Back at Cedar Creek Hut, our spirits sink. A rat has eaten its way into the back of the car in search of food and done considerable damage to the back seats. But at least we’re not in North America and it was not a bear.

Frazer Island Great Hike

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Grey clouds hang over Frazer Island, unleashing mini tornados of rain. The outlook ahead puts a damper on our high spirits as we watch from the ferry on our way to Kingfisher Bay. The scenery bears little resemblance to the sun-drenched, whale-inhabited paradise I’d envisaged when planning our 6-day hike.

Our walk will take us past a chain of lakes running along the backbone of this 120 km long island north of Brisbane. Although best known for its long sandy beaches and pristine lakes, Frazer Island is predominantly covered with luxuriant rainforest. It’s an hour’s drive to the start of the walk. We pass through the central forest and then along the wide beach along the eastern edge of the island.  This seaward side seems especially wild and spectacular. Swathes of light penetrate the clouds and fall across the rough seas in ethereal hues of emerald and gold. 

Our 4-wheel taxi-driver, Steven, cheerily tells us that last week’s hikers came out looking like drowned rats, as he drops us by the sandy roadside at the start of the hike. We walk past acres of saplings springing up under the burnt skeletons of lost trees. A year ago, forest fires caused the island to be closed for a while.

As we cross the end of our first lake, a rain squall looms on the far bank. It closes in and drenches us. We leap-frog over rivulets draining into the lake until our feet are soaked. When defeated by their increasing size, we surrender to the elements and tromp through gullies of shin-deep water. But apart from this and a downpour on our first night, we stay dry for the rest of the hike. You win some; you lose some. We’ve had our share of being drowned rats in the past.

Most days we swim in one of the crystal-clear lakes that the path leads us past. Between swims, we hoist 20 kg packs through ever-changing forest. In the early stages, we joke that we should sit down and eat all our food to lighten the load. It’s been a while since we did a hike and neither of us has done any training to get fit for this.

Kookaburras wake us up early every morning, and as we hike, we hear them laughing in the distance.  I catch glimpses of red-tailed black cockatoos and a couple of king parrots flitting through high branches. Over our heads, giant trees reach toward the sky, and in their shadows, lush ferns and palms populate the leafy forest floor.

Our best sea-views are from viewpoints over Frazer Island’s famous sandblows. Trapped at the bottom of the stunning Hammerstone blow are the olive-green waters of Lake Wabby that are unfortunately being eaten slowly by the migrating dunes. We follow the forest trail down through the forest and onto the dunes. The lake water is refreshingly cold and patrolled by huge catfish.

A couple of days later, our hike ends at Happy valley, where 4-wheel drives congregate and patrol. We are sad to have left the peaceful wilderness behind.

Inclement Weather @ Cradle Mountain

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On the day before we began The Overland Trail in Tasmania, a sudden snow-storm caught a couple of day-hikers out. The morning had started bright and sunny, and they’d not been kitted out for the unpredictable weather. Members of a well-prepared overland group spotted the delirious day-hikers wandering around in the blizzard and made them shelter in an old hut. They fed the men and warmed them up in sleeping bags. One was not even aware he’d lost a shoe and had been staggering around bare-footed. His foot and lower leg were frost-bitten.

Our first day out was one of those rare blue-sky days. A white carpet covered the high plains. On our approach toward the jagged peaks of Cradle Mountain, we breathed in the fresh mountain air and walked past pools sheeted over with crinkled ice. The mountain landscape was remote and surreal. It was one of those days that justifies the frequent trudges through rain and sleet that often go with hiking.

Post Igloo

My tent became an igloo that first night. But I’d saved myself from a noisy night in the hiking hut. The rustlings and footsteps – as fellow hikers make nocturnal toilet visits – wake us lighter sleepers up. Further disturbance comes from the regular crinkle of certain brands of sleeping mats whenever their owners roll in their sleep. I was toasty warm in my down expedition sleeping bag purchased years ago from a second-hand shop in Katmandu. My first inkling of the snowfall was when I put my hand out the tent flap to find my jetboil stove to make coffee. The ground surface felt soft. In my early morning stupor, I thought – that’s strange, didn’t I set up camp on a wood platform? Then I registered the cold and realised the platform was inches deep in fresh powder.

I shook most of the snow off my tent and only then remembered to take a photo. The snow continued to fall during my pack-up, definitely preferable to rain but my fingers froze. In the shelter of the forest, it came down soft and light. Later, it blew hard sideways as we hiked across the open plains. We followed the track through the deep snow blazed by yesterday’s hikers. Warm inside our protective clothing, we laughed and joked whenever we were forced to stop to re-find the trail. Everyone fell over, mostly into soft snowdrifts, but nobody was seriously injured. The knowledge of a hut to shelter in up ahead was enough to keep us motivated.

Any time of year, conditions on the Overland Trail can turn severe. We took the risk of a week of bleak weather when we chose to hike in September before the official season opened. This time, luck was with us. The snow blizzard only lasted a day, enough to give us a taste of how severe conditions can be. After that, the sky cleared and a dry, sunny day awaited us every morning. On the last day as we hiked along the edge of Lake St Clair, a massive storm developed in the valley behind us, the thunderclaps reverberating along the lake shores. By the time it broke, we’d arrived at park headquarters and were seated at the bar with our beers already poured.