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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.

PNG Remote Church

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As the MV Chertan pulls up at the Kwato Island jetty, a group of curious kids jostle for the best view of our back deck. The deck contains rows of wetsuits and tanks, an underwater camera table, and ten divers from the Nautilus Scuba Club whose chatter is noisier than that of the kids.

The open, innocent faces of the curly mopped kids watch our every movement. Later they dive-bomb off the jetty, a favourite activity for children in remote PNG coastal communities.

After our first critter filled dive, we tuck into yet another hearty breakfast. To occupy the surface interval between dives, my dive buddy and I take a walk through the small settlement toward the church. Our grassy track ascends between old jacarandas and giant fig trees to a high point overlooking the village. Along the way, we catch glimpses of a sunlit ocean through gaps in the canopy. A five-corner tree and the enormous figs remind me of the vegetation back home in tropical Queensland, but everything seems grander here. So many of our ancient trees have been quietly felled by local councils in Australia, one by one, the not so slow attrition of nature as we hurtle toward our cemented cityscapes. 

The A framed church looks modern, but the plaque says missionaries built it in 1941.

“They were keen to get this built during the war,” says Pete.

But they did, and it looks as new and polished as it probably was on the day they finished it. Sensibly, the sides are open and partly louvred so that the worshippers can gaze across expansive ocean views and luxuriant forest canopies — a reminder of the beauty laid out by God. Its high blue roof and hand-built stone walls seem at odds with the wooden thatch-roofed houses on the beachfront some way below us, but it’s gorgeous never-the-less.

When we return, the kids have relocated to seats on top of a world-war engine that’s half rusted-away by the waterfront. Old and overtaken by nature, it’s become part of the landscape. Two of the children hold paddles as if they plan to paddle their craft across the deep green ocean only metres away. I wonder if the kids ever swim down to the motor sitting on the seafloor by their jetty, only partly disguised by coral and sponges.

We do another incredible dive, this time under and along from the jetty: ornate ghost pipefish, stonefish, and my first toadfish. Also, a range of cute blennies – from tiny ones with their faces stuck out of holes to fat rockhoppers that munch seaweed off rocks. Naturally, we’re delighted. Akiko gives the dive two stars, her highest rating. Heaps of other stuff too, and so many critters we lose track. It would take all day to try and classify them all.

Where is Fakarava Atoll?

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Our research group splits today, one group to count birds on the atoll rim, and the other on an island within the lagoon. I’m in the latter group of lowlier researchers, who score the less exciting jobs. After a month of bird counts in the Tuamoto Islands of French Polynesia, our group is nicely zoned-out and not in a hurry. I’m in the habit of snorkelling between counts. The moment they’re done, I hit the water, where the visibility is fantastic. Today, I decide to snorkel alone ahead of my group across to the rainforest-clad island that’s reasonably close to where we’re anchored.

The sky is blue, and rays of light twist and turn through the water below me as I set off. Even through the crystal-clear water, I can’t begin to see the bottom. Swirling light beams vanish into deep black down there. For a while, I’m fine with this, but the swim is long enough for anxieties to surface. I begin to wonder about what might lurk in the depths. As a diver, who regularly sees sharks, I’m supposedly not so easily spooked. But it’s lonely out here and the dingy to bring my workmates across, still waits empty by the rusty boat that’s our temporary home. I tell myself not to be wimpy, a habit left-over from the days of my mother telling me not to be so stupid. And I continue, partly because I’m almost halfway across, so it’s now as risky to bail out as to continue to the island.

At last, a sandy slope emerges from the gloom below, and I’m less worried about being a target for a shark attack from below. At least I’ll be able to see danger now, unless it comes from behind as it usually does! In the shallower water, I slow and search for fish and turtles along the shoreline. It’s then I see fins twirling out toward the end of the island. My gut lurches and I swim quickly toward the shore, not splashing the water too much, to avoid unwanted attention.

My heart is pounding when I stop in 4 foot of water, and crouch under the surface to look out to where dangers lies. And I understand it’s all in my mind again. There’s a manta ray swimming loops out there as it filters plankton, its wings masquerading as shark fins. Now my chest is tight from excitement rather fear, as I push off from the bottom and swim hard toward the manta. It’s not alone!

For twenty minutes, I have 3 mantas all to myself as they swirl around in the shallows. I can hardly believe my luck. My colleagues arrive in the dingy and immediately flop over its edge into the water. They saw mantas from the surface on their way over. All thoughts of the bird count gone, we spend another surreal hour in the water while the mantas fly circles around us, so close we can almost touch them.

Muck Dives

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For those of you not yet initiated, muck diving involves swimming exceptionally slowly along the ocean floor. Spectacular fans, gorgeous corals and brightly coloured fish are not an integral part of the scenery.

Having said that, our muck dive at Lawadi, North Milne Bay this morning ended with a long swim back around an underwater headland over acres of pristine coral, as the boat was parked on Deakins Reef around the corner.

The first half hour was a familiar Muck Dive, a brown rubble-strewn slope, apparently devoid of life. That’s until my focus came down to the really small stuff. Not far along the slope, Alex is shouting underwater, not an easy feat, but he practises a lot and is an expert. Several divers respond instantly and swim toward the nondescript patch of slope in front of his large camera. With a metal pointer, he indicates a minuscule dot in the mud, our first nudibranch. With my brand-new bifocal mask, I can actually see it for once. I make a mental note to ask to see the massively enlarged image on his computer screen later, so I can truly appreciate what I saw.

One by one the divers disperse away from the nudibranch. We spread ourselves out, so five of us hang parallel to the slope, faces a few cms above the rubble. Alex is the nearest to me, his wetsuit encompassing a hood, giving him the appearance of being in underwater stealth mode. His country of birth gives us leeway to rib him about being a Russian spy.

We are lucky enough to eventually discover a seahorse, drifting across the slope, moving like a piece of floating debris, so as to not draw attention to itself, a common ploy of critters found in muck sites. After a while, as often happens on these dives, I spot dead leaves mimicking leafy scorpionfish, halameda seaweed posing as halameda ghost pipefish and numerous other shapes protruding from the slope pretending to be something interesting.

To break such excitement, I’m lucky enough to discover a mimic octopus on the hunt. I watch it sitting on the spot with the ends of its tentacles probing invisible channels in the sand. It moves along a few cms and tries again, its body rearranged into the head and a surrounding shirt. This octopus when threatened will flee, its tentacles re-shaped to resemble a flounder.

The muck dive deteriorates into pristine reef for the swim back, though the water is murky from run-off and the visibility is poor. The reef scenery unfolds, emerging out of the inky water, like mountain scenery on a misty day. I’m not joking when I say – it’s stunning.   

Boat Vendors

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Boat vendors often peddle their wares on lakes or rivers in busy places. Bangkok floating markets for instance, or in Srinagar, Kashmir, where I stayed on Dal Lake in an old-style houseboat for a week. Our boat came with traditionally carved furniture and Indian rugs. It was 1989 and we got a special deal because the unrest in Kashmir had scared sensible tourists away. We were too young to know better and survived our stupidity splendidly.  Local visitors paddled their boats over, loaded with food or local art, and we’d hang over the railings and bargain our hardest.   

Because of the apparent remoteness of many PNG dive sites, I never expected to see so many similar boats paddled across to us. Their industrious owners were determined to make contact. Sometimes they’re just curious villagers from near-by islands. But there are vendors almost everywhere the MV Chertan pulls up anywhere near to land, and occasionally way out to sea.

Before the first dive, there rarely a person in sight, just miles of rainforest clad coastline down to shoreline.  The location seems amazing and remote, a true wilderness perhaps. An hour or so later, as we swim back along the underside of the boat to the ladder, there are wooden canoe undersides, babies to the MV Chertan, huddled behind the dive deck. Paddles dip below the surface as they jostle for position and silhouettes of people lean over to watch us on our safety stop.

Anyone nearby with anything to sell has mobilised. An old man with jewellery arranged across a wooden railing and nautilus shells grins as I surface next to him. His untraditional cap says BOY. Bobbing a couple of metres behind him are 2 kids, possibly brother and younger sister with only their curiosity on board. Later when I’m dry and dressed, the old man is still waiting, his goods perfectly balanced considering the swell. It’s hard to believe they haven’t slid into the ocean. He gives me a thumbs up and I do the same, but he has nothing I want to buy.  

The MV Chertan has parked at Michelle’s dive site for the first time in ages, and she’s casually tied up to a tree. There’s been a fight between a couple of local tribes over who really owns this beach. For a while, both tribes demanded money to anchor here. A man, dressed in shorts and stand-out, bright yellow shirt gesticulates wildly at our canoe vendors. I wish I understood their sign language, as then I’d know whether he’s saying – this is our territory, leave before I cut your head off, or – hey grand-dad, I’ve not seen you for ages and you just missed New Years celebrations.

Alaskan Inland Passage

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Around me, tired, grumpy people fill the ferry terminal, and my enthusiasm is waning, though I’ve wanted to make this trip for ages. The ferry from Juneau to Bellingham is delayed until midday. The man next to me has been here half the night, and I could have slept in rather than leave my comfy bed before daylight. I’ve just visited my friend Stephanie, who lives in Juneau on the Alaskan coast, a place that suits her free spirit. She hikes and canoes, and regularly goes on cycling trips that may last for 2 months. I’m inadequate in comparison, and I feel guilty she woke up unnecessarily early to give me a lift.

On Stephanie’s advice, I’ve not taken a room on the ferry. Not only will I save money, but also the best view is from the solarium on the top deck. All I need to do is to find my way there, select a deckchair and set up my outdoor bed. I’ve just been on a hiking trip and have my sleeping mat and bag. I’m allowed to erect my tent just outside the solarium on the top deck should the weather pack up or if I decide I need more privacy.

After the initial delay, the 3-day, 3-night trip goes smoothly, with shorter stops at several small Alaskan towns. There’s a canteen and my left-over hiking rations as back-up. The showers and theatre are downstairs. Though for people who’ve not made this trip before, a movie seems a poor substitute for the gorgeous scenery – perhaps at other times of year when the daylight doesn’t last so long.

As well as snow-capped mountains and craggy peaks, I glimpse a black bear crossing a pebbly beach on my first day. The lush forest covered slopes are a constant, though the mountains shrink from windswept giants to rolling hillslopes as the days pass. The passage narrows further south and the forest comes closer. Humpbacks spout into the cold air, their rounded backs breaking the calm surface. A day later the whales are breaching, and I watch through binoculars, grateful for such a treat.

I could sit on my chair for days. I read a little and write a lot, the scenery unfolding all around me. The wild landscape is a constant and the other passengers are friendly. A couple with their two young kids join us in the solarium for the last section of the ride. No-one is noisy at night, and I’m toasty warm under the lamps. Two hikers cook up their own food on a camping stove.  Another couple relocating from Alaska’s cold climate to Arizona’s sun have both their cars on the bottom deck. I jump at their offer of a lift to Seattle as my original plan was to find my way to Bellingham bus station and wait there for several hours.

I’d do it again in a heartbeat, though a flight would be cheaper and take a fraction of the time.