Long-Distance Hiking – Making Tracks

Nightly Reflections – South Coast Track III

Longer Form (Est. Reading Time 12 Minutes)

For six nights along the South Coast Track I jotted down vibes from the trail. Nothing really here about the track conditions or distances between camps, mostly focused on how I was feeling returning to this wilderness coastline. Some short, some lengthy, all sweet. Here they are.

Day One.

Today I feel comfortable returning to the south west, my third time on the trail in as many years.

The track is familiar, and I feel that I’m becoming seasoned in traversing the region. I think that there’s no reason I couldn’t do this every year, spending a week (or more) and adding on new side trips each time, revisiting but embellishing my knowledge and bringing others along for the journey.

I’m alert and excited about the year ahead of me and the personal challenges involved. I’m well rested from summer, now into my third week, time spent mostly eating and laying about. So I’m ready for bush time and especially eager if the weather is going to be good…

Day Two.

Today I hardly thought about anything. My mind could get stuck on a song (never a good song I’ll add), or be on repeat for a moment from the past, usually within the past week, the upcoming house move and subsequent search for our new place. Then after a while and a few dozen steps, something else would be on rotation. Classic day two vibes, when the city speeds and expectations are slowing down to a more fitting pace, one that is closer to the rhythm of heavy footsteps and the rustle of a backpack as it slowly reduces in weight with each meal.

The sun continued to beat down solid, and we can’t believe we forgot sunscreen. Mostly the exposed skin is alright, save my neck. It’s pretty red, hammered from hanging out too long on the beach over summer already. Eventually it sets into the ocean out west, a bulk of cloud fragmenting the light into oranges, yellows and pinks. It can’t penetrate through it all, and a mass of grey hovers slowly above the Ironbounds, the ranges tumbling into the Louisa valley below. Tomorrows ascent.

I fell asleep for an hour on the beach, head on my runners, mini hiking towel flung over my legs fending of the March flies. I dreamt deeply into the soft sand, flashes of a memory reel reflecting in my mind. Pub hangs, silent strolls in town, or leaving the house to go to the shops. Simple everyday events that aren’t necessarily spectacular yet all add up. When I role from my snooze, I dig my toes in deeply to find the harder compressed sand, and massaged their tired ends into submission for another days hiking, tomorrow sending it steeply up and down in what will be my biggest trail day (in kilometres) on the south coast track yet.

Last year on day two I was reflecting on returning, being back in this place with a swathe of new experiences. That’s still the case, and I’m still chipping away at trail time and wilderness readings. It’s part of our backyard that I want to see protected and adored. But I’m really not thinking about it. I just am. I feel like I’m home, and content…

Day Three.

Today was another perfect patch of hiking on the south coast track. Full blue skies and minimal wind, the ranges to the west, north and east squeezed in together, only separated in the faintest changes of silhouetted blue. Truely fantastic and beyond impressive. Catching our eyes was the massif of the Arthurs and the prominent Federation Peak, the plateau of Mt.Bobs, and those out west towards the harbour that sit lower than Able height and avoid my knowledge, for now. While up is an exposed tramp, down to Deadman’s Bay is a secluded steep send through my favourite forest of dense green. Here the forest is warm, the canopy alight with brilliant blue. Hidden in its density are the birds calling, the insects beating their wings en mass, and the frogs calling back and forth.

Sun disappears and my mind vacates the scene. I’m spent, heel aching, hips rubbed raw, fatigued for sleep. Tomorrow I might find the time to reflect on the roots and branches on the push down hill, avoiding the falls and trips, occasionally pushing myself a little too quickly and slipping into tree trunks.

Sleep tight whenever we are hey…

Day Four.

Today was divine, a near perfect day for hiking, pushing us on for a double day. There was a chance we could lag behind, or take the effort of yesterday to meaning today would just happen. Yet alarms rang and sleeping bags rustled early. Bacon and eggs danced in the last of the butter. Tea brewed on the cliff edge, a little dusting of powdered milk sat on the cup handle.

The infamous Precipitous Bluff appeared from the grotto on Prion Beach and joined us intermittently throughout the day. A fantastic mass of dolerite rock, nestled up against the major fault line that divides the states dolerite and quartz, it soaked up the sun from its 1100m+ in height a seeming stones throw from the ocean. As we rowed across the New River Lagoon, with a slight breeze from the east, the bluff loomed behind ultra impressive, making a classy crossing photo opportunity.

The near permanent un-cross-ability of the lagoon means there’s a shuttle system of row boats on either side of the water body, that’s a few hundred meters wide. Naturally you can’t cross and leave a row boat behind as well, so in the case there’s only one boat on your bank, you need to do three trips – row across, hitch up a second boat, row back to where you came, drop it off, then row back across. In doing the crossing we risked taking all three boats back across as we knew there was a big mob of hikers coming down the beach just behind us, and sure enough as we were readying to leave they rounded the sand dunes, stoked with the extra boat! Given the heavy bias for people travelling west to east, you usually have to do the triple trip from this direction. What’s ace is the next group did the same thing, and paying it forward happened for a few successive hiking groups.

Retiring for a session in a fishing net hammock, I resisted the flies somewhat to get in a little rest and reading, delve into some deeper down time beyond cooking and making camp. The book I’m reading teaches teachers about teaching – by exploring the learning cycle and how we sense information, give it context in our lives, and (to complete the cycle) churn it into action. For a while I floated in the hammock, reflecting on how this applied to my hiking, either on this trip or over the years. There’s things sensed – maybe the tightening of skin being burnt, or a certain hunger in your gut longing for the flavour of fat/sugar. It could also be the sensation of being lost, being afraid, being fatigued. Each experience layers itself in your mind, allowing comparison of how and why each happened, and naturally how one would approach the situation into the future. With hiking, the resulting actions (or inactions) usually take form after the trip back at home. To try ensure minimal fuss before the next trip, I store and pre pack my gear once I get home. To try avoid confusion over meals, I have a pre-written shopping list of food.

We kick off again, out of the hammock and on to the warm, dry trail, undulating across the old sand dunes and under some difficult to negotiate wattle tree carcasses impeding the trail. It’s a challenge, squeezing under a branch or three, pushing uphill on a slope made of sand, as your pack inevitably catches a rouge piece of branch, dragging what minimal momentum you had to a halt. Fortunately (as I’m not the biggest fan of this wattle stretch), it’s not long before we’re across the Rocky Plains and into my favourite patch on the trail. Truly ginormous gum trees, stunted in height like most coastal trees owing to the relentless barrage of winds of the Southern Ocean, for what they lack in height they make up in girth – with diameters at your chest height of five humans arm spans end to end: huge!

It’s right now I get to be so glad we pushed through to make it to Surprise beach, and to see this forest and the evening, golden sunlight filtering through the canopy.

We arrive. Set up. Find water and guzzle it down. We’re parched as. A fantastic days hiking along the premiere wilderness track in the land. No place like it, facing away south across spectacular cliffs and beaches that have felt the barrage of time like few others. Curtains for the day were burning red and pink, a sunset for a lifetime, jagged rock enveloped in ocean and silhouetted on a pink-blood January sky…

Day Five.

Today I’m in love with our surroundings. Well, I am every other day, but today’s a special day for all the right, simple reasons. Woke up late without an alarm, body clock delayed in calling the shots, ended up just catching the end of the morning feeding session of the local birdlife. Made a cuppa in the vestibule, the sunlight warming my tent through the slowly moving tea tree. Gazed into the middle distance as the tea brewed, waking up to a gorgeous coastal morning, cracking a massive smile across my face. It’s a different vibe waking up next to the coast – everything has reset itself according to the waves relentless frequency, wiping away our footsteps on a high tide in the process.

Eventually we packed up, and after a cruisey breakie, remembered it was time to walk. I laughed straight into a hill, immediately burning the energy through my calves, and draining my water supply. Still, while the light washed out the landscape above the trees in overcast white, below a few rays managed to penetrate the forest and parried with the understory of ferns. Ferns grow in the most stunning soft greens, delicate yet hardy, controlling and covering the landscape from below.

We got through to Granite Bay in no time, dodging a basking snake on the final ascent to the campsite. At this time it was empty bar one other hiker, and we set up shop and yarned about hiking along the eastern seaboard, following our verbal trails as we listed hikes from Cairns to Cradle to Canterbury over the ditch, and how Covid changed our hopes for so many more. I love sharing our trail stories, carefully crafted and chockers with chance occurrences we use to share values and connect – conversations and kindness of those on trail or offering a ride, the mental hurdle of solo wilderness hiking, and more.

After a waterfall shower, located under the stream that falls onto the beach below camp, my body feels stiff and sore, time to rest it and not stretch it, a sage recovery session for tomorrow’s send over the South Cape Range. So I retired to tent bed for an arvo kip and to finish my book. I’ve been chipping away at The art of changing the brain for a couple of months now, made easier by the short and punchy paragraphs and blend of advice, research, and personal experience. I’ve relished reading and learning about learning.

It’s all part of perfect afternoon in, jogging the mind and resting my overloaded muscles.

Later, I woke up to a near howling wind and a packed campsite, maybe the potential rain on the horizon has accordion-ed everyone to this camp either side of the range, prepping ourselves for the up and over tomorrow.

Again I find myself reflecting on the special loving nature of our surroundings today. I love it’s quiet, even in the howling wind. I love how it welcomes us to the landscape, even when offering up impenetrable three-metre high vegetation across the trail. I love the sensation of coming across a snake, and love even more the distance we keep from each other…

Day Six.

Today is our second last day on the south coast track. Many kilometres, views, and beads of sweat later, we’re almost there. Woke up to a rapidly emptying campsite and a superheavy seabreeze slowly clearing at Granite Bay. Waves were pumping hard, the white caps and the deep blue water surfing in together.

Straight into sending it up and over the South Cape Range, into the mud mission, featuring the sloppiest and most consistent stretch of mud for the trip. I took a few falls, ended up with mud up to the ankle, and came so close to mud near to the waist. Elliott wasn’t as lucky. Super slippery navigating across delicate and exposed branches offering minimal purchase. The mud demands your focus, keeps you heavily in tune with your footsteps, draining all your energy as it is directed to ensuring you don’t slip. Every footprint is important, because a lapse could mean mud up to your knee, could mean falling face first into the mud, or of course for a more serious injury.

But it makes for a very entertaining hiking especially under the gorgeous canopy. Stunning eucalypt woodlands, some areas with amazingly huge leatherwoods, sassafrass, or places where a tree’s come down and the resulting exposure to the sun creates an amazing fern grove of green against the encroaching shadows. And of course the open areas of swampy heathland, where the scrub is at eye level as your meandering through the flowering landscape.

The stretch down into South Cape Bay is divine. From Trackcutters camp it’s mostly down hill with just a couple little elevation gains. Amazing views span out across the cliffs, down in to the wonderfully perfect opening up onto the sandy beach and rivulet to wrap up the days hiking.

Now that I’m here I’m ready to go home. I can sense it’s just a day away now. A bed, sleep and familiar smiles is that which I’ve been missing. I think on every second last day there’s a blend of reflection of the time spent on trail blended with the possibility of tomorrow and returning to friends and family.

I have loved this trip incredibly. The lucky weather will be in the records forever, so too gawking at the unbelievable views and summiting the challenge of starting with 28kg condensed into my backpack. Layering of experiences over the years, even the ability to give expertise to hikers, and reflect on three years running. The noticeable changes and the seasonal shifts – for example water availability or condition of the campsites.

It’s exciting be in a position where I am learning about this beautiful part of the world. I’m familiar with it, and excited to think that over the many years to come how well I’ll get to know it as 3 trips becomes 10, maybe 20 or even 30.

It’s exciting to know that tomorrow the adventure continues, and that means beginning to find a new place to live and begin building more settled and longer term future with in this beautiful island wilderness I love that I get to call home.

Happy trails my friends,

Jimmy Nails

During the week I study wilderness at University of Tasmania, I campaign with the Wilderness Society, and on days off I hike in the Tassie Wilderness World Heritage Area. You could say I’m a wilderness tragic. Outside of wilderness I’m a sucker for melody, cook a mean pasta, and need a third dot point.

Follow Making Tracks on Instagram, here, or on Facebook, here.

The South Coast Track – where these photos were taken – is the traditional lands of the Lyluequonny & Needwonnee people. I respectfully acknowledge the Traditional Owners of these lands and waters on which I was able to traverse, learn, and appreciate – and pay respect to the First Nations Peoples and their elders, past, present and future.

Bibliography / Suggested reads:

James Zull ‘The Art of Changing the Brain’
Daniel Kahneman ‘Thinking, Fast and Slow’

February 3, 2022February 3, 2022 by Jimmy Nails Categories: Benefits of Nature, Long-Distance Hiking, Uncategorized, WildernessTags: Long-Distance Hiking, Tasmania, Wilderness Leave a comment

Back Home.. An Expected Connection

Longer Form (Est. Reading Time 6.5 Minutes)

Something grand, right out your back door.

Gonna be bold and start with a few hypotheticals: Imagine every mountain peak has a bitumen pathway to the top and helicopter access. Every valley has a bitumen road carved into it to the waterfall at the top of the valley. Every river has a bridge over it, and better yet each river is channeled into concrete canals. At the top of every peak is a cafe. And a hotel. And from each peak you can look around to all the others from the comfort of your car, every other high point covered in roadways and hotels and cars. At night, the stars are out competed by high beams.

Imagine this at your favourite piece of scenery – or to the top of Uluru, Cradle Mountain, or Wollumbin.

It’s a totally gross hypothetical. Most can imagine it easy enough, as most people in the world are surrounded by some/all of these elements in the urban environment. It’s straight up unacceptable that where we spend most of our time we can’t drink from creeks or rivers and don’t breath the cleanest air, and to do so have to travel to areas to ‘refresh’ and seek respite from the hectic nature of our urban life.

One of the beautiful elements of wilderness is the opportunity we are each granted to reflect, experiencing the sheer contrast urban areas have with the wilder ones. What elements of the wilderness would you like to see at home? Clean water? Clean soil? Strong biodiversity? Quiet, or the near silence of wind caught in the tree tops?

To complement the wilder places, I’ve been reminding myself to see the bush closer to home. Or the greener grass on this side of the range, I guess.

It’s mid-morning and a wallaby is startled out of the shade of a she-oak, hopping off through the sedges, taking pause to look back in my direction and check out what disturbed it now its intimidation levels have dropped. Day long on this aspect of the hill the bush is gorgeous when the sun’s out; it gets a real rich yellow colour from the ageing sedges that merges with the scattered crisp green canopies and shade of the eucalypts. Staring up the hill the curve meets the open blue skies, uninterrupted. The gulls down on the shoreline are always making a racket. Or when coming back here in the evening, you’ll have a couple yellow-thoated honeyeaters chasing every bird away, or a heap of swallows feasting on the wing.

I really dig my local patch of bushland, it’s delightful. During winter and spring I was out amongst it most days of the week, walking through the sedge and sitting in the shade of the Amigdalina gums. Studying or working away at home, I’d break up my lectures and readings with time in the bush, in some ways reinforcing what I’d just been learning but in other ways just pacing or running around, resting my mind. These days, after work I get home, drop my bags and keys inside, don my runners and go for a run through the same area.

From a purely human-focused perspective, this area ticks all the boxes, even though it’s entirely surrounded by houses. It’s close to home, can host walking/running recreation, I don’t need a heavy pack, native species and solid bird watching are on offer, and my mates are close by to join. It’s an all round winner!

These days words like pristine are essentially hollow, given the global changes to climate. Our species fingerprints are all over the scene. And much like our surroundings, the depth of our understanding of nature evolves over time.

I’ve just wrapped up reading two fantastic books that I highly recommend picking up/borrowing – the first is ‘Rambunctious Garden’ by Emma Marris. Through a swathe of angles Emma pulls apart some of the history of environmental and wilderness conservation, and casts her thinking into the future, into the myriad of ways we could protect and reimagine our backyards with wild values at heart. The second is Second Nature by Michael Pollan. He explores nature through the eyes of a budding gardener, and how the attitude of growing vegetables and establishing a garden have changed over time, and whilst complicated and nuanced, are an important interpretation of nature.

Emma, and most folk with an interest/obsession with land ethics or deep ecology, frequently refer to Aldo Leopold. An amazing writer, he brilliantly wrote about his interactions with his local patch of nature – open grasslands in central northern America – and helped redefine how many people thought about their surroundings.

Aldo wrote that ‘One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds‘. I agree in that once you see an issue of any kind you’re destined to forever see it (that’s confirmation bias for you). Although what’s more pressing than the frequency of observation, is being reminded that we are not alone. Knowing that there’s an ever growing number of people concerned with the health of their surroundings.

I do feel that if we’re able to see an issue, then we must do whatever we can to help it. People know and want to see the state of the environment improve for themselves and following generations of life, and rightly deserve to be able to live in homes surrounded by clean air, water and soil.

Given that we spend most of our times at home, one flow on from wilderness inspiration is, as Marris puts it, knowing that ‘there is nature in more humble settings’. Wilderness is just one element. We can’t be in the wilder places all the time. I dwell on wilderness much but I’ve relished in seeing the benefits and values of nature closer to home over the years. Because of the local bushland, I know our air is clearer, the hum of the city dulled, animals closer, and the water that runs into our backyard filtered. Without this patch of quiet and access to others like it, our baseline of expectations for ‘home’ would be different.

Our local patches of bush close to home are incredibly important to us. They need care and smart management given the close proximity to high densities of people. If we’re spending most of our lives in urban environments, these areas just have to be healthy, strong, and enjoyable places that don’t sacrifice clean water, air and biodiversity.

A favourite line from Rambunctious Garden is: ‘We’ve forever altered the earth, and so now we cannot abandon it to a random fate. It is our duty to mange it. Luckily it can be a pleasant, even joyful task if we embrace it in the right spirit.‘

I’m inspired by the wilderness but wilderness alone will not save us.

We need to protect our local patches too.

This piece (finally) wraps up my ‘Back Home..‘ series. I spent the summer months delving into what wilderness means to me. I wrote about being on the top of Frenchman’s Cap, on some of the challenges of being out bush, about lengthy multi-month hikes, and about the need to chip in with a changed attitude to protection for our backyards.

If wilderness is ‘out there’, then what’s here at home? What does our future of wilderness look like? How do we protect wilderness areas at threat from human activity? Does a true wilderness include people, or not? There’s so many questions, and given the number of trails there’s always plenty of time to mull over the topic in more refined nature.

Heading into winter I’m working on a physical print book, and excited to hopefully release it in coming months. Follow me on Instagram here for updates and where/how to pick up a copy.

I always want to hear what you think – what does wilderness mean to you?? Comment below!

Happy trails my friends,

Jimmy Nails

The inspiration for this piece is right outside my backdoor in nipaluna/Hobart, on the traditional lands of the muwinina people. I respectfully acknowledge the Traditional Owners of these lands and waters on which I was able to traverse, learn, and appreciate – and pay respect to the First Nations Peoples and their elders, past, present and future.

Bibliography / Suggested reads:

Emma Marris ‘Rambunctious Garden‘
Aldo Leopold ‘Sand Country Alminac’
Micheal Pollan ‘Second Nature‘

May 20, 2021July 3, 2021 by Jimmy Nails Categories: Benefits of Nature, Natural Stewardship, UncategorizedTags: Long-Distance Hiking, Natural Stewardship, Tasmania, wildernss Leave a comment

Back Home… Challenging Elements

Longer Form (Est. Reading Time 8 Minutes)

Fourteen Remote Days Out Bush

The sun is setting behind the coastal mountains, each brimmed with a line of clouds waiting for the days final event, a last hurrah of sunburst. Sooty oystercatchers call from across the bay, tiny fish leap out of the ankle high deep water as it recedes. A seagull forages for food rather than beg me for hot chips. Currawongs clanker, honeyeaters hustle. The breeze shifts. I hear it first from the north, pushing through the tea-tree forest.

Unhurriedly taking in the changing surroundings and slow lap of water against the shoreline is one of the principle pleasures of remote hiking. It’s cheesy, but it’s one of those occasions you don’t want to pass by. It’s so peaceful. Totally chockers with peace! Like the mountains in the distance, the quiet reflects my calm, my content. I haven’t felt this solo peacefulness in a while. I have with others, somewhat, but not on my own. And not this remote, well into the Tassie wilderness.

For the first eighteen days of the year I hiked, incorporating the Port Davey, South West Cape, and South Coast Tracks. Here is a selection of diary entries from the trail that capture the wild and remote vibes of this beautiful slice of earth.

The southwest region is spectacular and the hiking world-class. And it’s challenging. The vegetation can wall up to impenetrable scrub in an instant. It’s renowned for its fast moving and unpredictable weather, of relentless rain and punishing winds. You’re seriously remote, days and days from any human structure or transport. The paths, where they exist, are slow going – including river crossings, mud, and more scrub.

Walking on my own on trail, for day one I found myself overthinking and planning. Then on day two my thoughts fizzled to straight out head-in-the-clouds daydreaming. Day three and my mind ticked over restlessly, taking in my surrounds details as I moved further south. Come day four, despite my running thoughts on trail, I forgave my thinking. It’s hard to sometimes, to cut myself some slack.

Steering away from Scott’s Peak Road, the dust of my ride settling as they headed back to Hobart, I caught my last glimpse of motorised transport for four days. The last car I’d see for two weeks. With the exception of the time tested path and the well rusted star pickets that line it, the landscape before me is shaped by time only. Crossing the Lost World Plateau, I follow narrow benched tracks with my eyes as they contour away into the distance. Mountains capped in white quartz, locked in the mist for morning tea, now appear clearly to the east north south and west. A coastal breeze pushes up the valley, the thicker, enthusiastic air pumping its way off the coast as far as it can. It fills my ears as I round another twist in the path.

Apparently people have a love/hate relationship with the Port Davey trail. I loved it – the huge sweeping views of the Spring Valley, ace tracks surrounded by wicked peaks, and crossing the Bathurst Narrows by boat. Conditions were fortunate for me, and in crappy/sodden weather the mud, exposure and patches of confronting vege could definitely have potential to test ones resolve.

The relentless crashing against the Wilson Bay rocks pumps over the dunes and into the forest. It’s calming us, reminding us to rest after yesterday’s epic 11+ hour traverse of the South West Cape Range. This range juts 600+ metres straight out of the ocean, a spectacular zig zag of peaks, saddles and misleading gullyies mostly above the tree line. It’s an area battered by wind and weather for eternity. From all angles – northerlies push across from the mainland, easterlies across from the Pacific, west and southerlies straight off the 40’s and Antarctica.

Nearing the end of the beach we were treated to five minutes of blue sky, and the split in the clouds let in enough sunlight to create a stunner rainbow. One so low and squashed the New Harbour Range loomed up behind it. Between the highs and lows of being out bush on trail – part of the trick is hanging onto these moments through the mud, rain and pain. The same way your body forgets it all when you’re deep into a fantastic yarn with your hiking mates. But really the rain is just as beautiful as the sunlight. The cold just as special as the warmth. The expanses of button grass just as grand as the towering mountain peaks beyond.

There’s a few more distractions for us when at home, but when out bush we’re clearly surrounded by the best opportunity to be reminded of the importance of a healthy backyard. One that it’s simultaneously resilient and fragile. That we’re part of this intensely interconnected world, in such wonderful ways far beyond our wildest understandings.

Last night a thunderstorm hit the coast above our camp. My tent lit up brighter than day with each strike of lightning, and I’ve never heard a noise so loud in my life. It was exhilarating.

On the South Coast Track, again, and it’s raining, again. It feels so familiar, this 80 odd kilometre stretch traveling lutruwita’s wild and remote southern coast. I’m recognising things constantly. Even non-view related things, like certain broken boardwalk planks or piles of timber stacked neatly off to the side of the trail. I’m recognising the terrain. I sense a growing familiarity with the area. Each experience hiking is naturally shaped by company and the weather. This feels like a layering of experience – sometimes shock and awe, and a week of rain. Others comfort and familiarity, and a week of rain. Did I mention the rain?

I wonder what it’s going to look like next year?

I like to believe that this trail and terrain will be here relatively unchanged into the future. That the wild and cultural elements of the place are retained and nurtured, so that each layer of experience we lay down is comparable to the quality of past experiences – not a reflection on what’s no longer here.

Now I’m at camp, nestled into the eastern pocket of Surprise Bay, perched on a limb of our campsite banksia. If you’ve been here, it’s the gnarled specimen in the lower level of camping pads, that’s warped into a verticle standing spiral, creating a perfect seat in the diffused setting sun. I’m treating myself to a little music, subtle tunes as I type whilst my hiking pal reads and stirs dinner into action. Today was a wet, wet day. Solid rain from the west smashing into our backs as we plodded towards Prion Beach and the testing three boat crossings of New River Lagoon.

It was also our penultimate full day of hiking. I know it’s a daydream, but I still wish it would go on forever. That the trail didn’t wrap up in forty k’s and turn into a bitumen road back to nipaluna/Hobart. That it journeyed through the southern ranges and forests, linked through to kunanyi, and wound its way back north – to the east coast, to the Bens and wukalina/Mount William. Maybe one day it will – a continual hiking loop around the state. Months of traversing the many and varied landscapes of this special, much loved island almost swallowed by the southern ocean.

My tent broke last night as well, after a challenging crossing and with tired body. Today, my body is tired but oddly I feel I could go on hiking for hours. ‘It’s not that I don’t feel the pain, it’s that I’m not afraid of hurting anymore’.

After twelve straight days of hiking over two hundred kilometres, heading over the South Cape Range was unreal. A mental brick wall to be overcome. We decided against a rest day, and I’m glad to have done so. On the other side I felt revitalised, pumping with excitement and new energy. To be in the weather all day every day. To watch it pulling towards the coast, at a rate much faster than you can walk, all the while you’re mentally adding up the ks to decipher where you might be once the weather hits, and how drenched you’ll be come camp.

The challenges the remoteness of the southwest throws at us (or we throw ourselves at) are intangible, and are the thoughts needed to overcome a storm, a muddy path and flooded river, or overwhelming chill/heat. I, like many, are drawn to the element of challenge that the wilder places on earth provide. The weather, the terrain, and the physical and mental levels one reaches through the journey.

I was so impressed with my fitness today. Powering up hills like they were flats and setting some serious pace. Breathing is solid and fitness clearly pumping after so many days hauling 15+ kilos over the summer terrain. It’s been a long time, years, and many hurdles since I’ve had this level of up hill fitness. But I’m over the heavy boots! This landscape is divine, totally humbling under the giant gums, dense south facing beech and horizontal, and the continual tea tree heath. And mud. And hard water ferns for entirety or forested areas. I love it so much!

Reflecting with people who I met on trail – some for who the SCT was their first ever multi-day hike (quite the achievement): I feel that our take on the nature of our experiences is how the hiker adapts to the trail. We can revel in the depth of wilderness, grow our skills and ability to conceptualise the challenge effectively, or even up things to pack in heavier weights and live a comfier trail life with tarps, snorkels, and changes of clothes. Or we could be shitty. Either way, the challenges of the trail are a reminder of the importance of allowing ourselves and future hikers the chance to gain and grow from these experiences.

Though ‘Back Home..‘ I’m going to delve into what wilderness is a little more.

If wilderness is ‘out there’, then what’s here at home? What does our future of wilderness look like? How do we protect wilderness areas at threat from human activity? Does a true wilderness include people, or not? There’s so many questions, and given the number of trails and making up for lost time we’re teeing up for 2021, plenty of time to mull over the topic in more refined nature.

So, here’s to turning a bit of home thinking time into home writing time, and looking forward to sharing this over the coming summer with you all.

And I want to hear what you think. Comment below or join me on Instagram!

Happy summer trails my friends,

Jimmy Nails

The Port Davey, South West Cape, and South Coast Track traverses, and the Southwest National Park – the inspiration for this piece and where these photos were taken – is the traditional lands of the Toogee. I respectfully acknowledge the Traditional Owners of these lands and waters on which I was able to traverse, learn, and appreciate – and pay respect to the First Nations Peoples and their elders, past, present and future.

February 4, 2021July 3, 2021 by Jimmy Nails Categories: Long-Distance Hiking, UncategorizedTags: Long-Distance Hiking, Wilderness 2 Comments