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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.

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.

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.