South Coast Trek in Tasmania !

This adventure takes place in Tasmania in 2002, after my Franklin River trip on the last blog. On January 11th I awoke to rain, it was a dark and gloomy day for Hobart’s Regatta. Hobart is the southern most city in Tasmania and has the distinction of being the capital. The Regatta is held every year to celebrate Tassie’s love of the sea. Sail boats races will take place where the Derwent River empties her contents into the Tasman Sea. From locals I found out that the Queens’ Domain Gardens, will give me a prestigious viewing point of sails bellowing below my perch. Later that day the Australian Royal Air force jets shadows were streaking across the freshly mowed lawns of the Queens’s Gardens as I strolled into the entrance. My objective was to find a terrific viewing point of all the festivities and a place that had a back and leg support in the way of a park bench.

Two older women were gracious enough to let me share their grand viewing spot. Sunlight began to reflect off the tall masts of the sailboats as the black heavy clouds slowly turned a gravel grey then a snowy white. Holding my travel book, I carefully used it’s edge to wipe the rain water off the bench. All my actions where being observed by my new costumed companions. Attached from their antique hats were long shiny ribbons that waved in the gentle wind, that read Hobart Regatta. Consuming energy from the wind, the thin ribbons were like serpents gently responding to a snake charmers commands, coiling slowly at first around the puffy sleeves and then around the waist of the women’s vintage white dresses. An embroidery of blue sail boats had been sown on the hem line of the decorative dresses, that folded over their silver sequin decorated Nike running shoes. The reflection of the emerging sun off the highly decorated shoes was bouncing off my sunglasses as one women broke the silence. “Local women in vogue, nor my departed husband would approve of our foot ware, but they can all go to the devil, we need comfort dammit!” Mrs Osborn introduced herself and her sister while their sailboat cuff links clicked as their hands caressed each other like a pair of cats on a sunny morning.

I remarked that the sailors on their boat seemed to be doing a great job with the weather conditions not being ideal. As soon as my comment left my mouth, dark stormy clouds formed on Mrs Osborn’s brow. “My son Mad Max, I mean Max, could do a better job of sailing by mistake then these wimps could do on purpose!” Mrs Osborn said. “Just because of a little misunderstanding Max is banished from the Regatta!” she explained. The sister slowly started to tell the story about Mad Max and the banishing. It seems Max and his father were very interested in building a fast yet strong sailing boat. The hours just in the planning not to mention the building of the vessel cut into Max’s time with his new wife. The wife got tired of playing second fiddle to a wooden ship and left for a another sailor that had a bigger boat. During their short time together, Max’s exwife always wanted something a little better then anybody else in town and had ordered a iron figure that resembled herself that would fit on the bow of Max’s new boat. Max had forgotten all about the figure until it was delivered to his boat yard one morning. Being a thoughtful man Max decided to delivery the figure to the his ex and her lover in person. Max carefully tied the figure on the front of his finished sailing boat and with a strong wind behind him headed straight out into the bay. The fifty foot sailboat that held his exwife and her new love was not hard to spot as it bobbed with the waves. Max with the wind as his power source made a sharp turn and with a sickening sound of snapping wood plowed straight into the love birds boat. The iron figure attached to the bow saved Max’s boat from much damage and the figure stayed on his exwive’s boat as he backed away. Max claimed it was all a innocent accident and only meant to deliver the figure, but he as banned from the Regatta none the less besides getting the name Mad Max. “Where is Max hanging his sailor hat now?” I asked. “He should be in Hawaii with a girl on each arm!”said Mrs Osborn.

After some more conversation I found out that Max was really walking the South Coast Track, in Tasmania with a group of friends, since he likes to be out of town during the Regatta. I told of my plans on walking that trek starting next week, as I opened my travel book to that section. “What you need to know about the South Coast isn’t in any fancy travel book sonny boy!” explained Mrs Osborn “My late husband and I use to take Max on long trips into the South Coast, when we where all younger.” she said. With great excitement she explain about some of the unpleasant situations I might encounter. It’s a 82 kilometers hike from Cockle Bay to a small airfield at Melaleuca, which was made for servicing an old tin mine. Along the way I would crawl through mud bogs, that had poisonous Tiger snakes guarding the path. The cold windy weather on the Ironbound Mountain can be darn right dangerous, if you’re caught out in it. I also found out that Max had flown into Melaleuca and was walking back towards Cockle Bay. I had plans on walking in the opposite direction, so maybe I would meet this famous pirate of Hobart. “Mrs Osborn if I happen to meet Max on the trail do you have any messages.” I asked. Without hesitation she gave me a message for her misunderstood son.

The morning sun was beginning to illuminate Macquarie Street, as I sat with my back against the Metro Bus building. In my back pocket I had a ticket for Cockle Bay on the 7:15 a.m. bus. I had heard so many unsolicited plights about the South Coast that they were ricocheting around my brain. The most common theme of these stories were poisonous snakes. Three types of snakes on Tassie are hazardous to your health. A hiker last year tried to kill a Tiger Snake and ended up finding out why they call them Tigers. Another great story going around was about a hiker that got turned around in the thick bush and was lost for a month or two. Last but not least was the story about the trail being so muddy. Some of the mud holes are so deep, while your wading through them all that is sticking out of the mud is your hat.

*The anticipation of the destination is only escalated by the adventure of the journey! After boarding the bus I noticed an older gentleman with a wind burnt complexion was tapping his walking stick on the metal floor of our bus to the tempo of a Irish jig. A small leather knapsack breaching with books was his only companion on the seat. This leprechaun of a man noticed me in the reflection of the bus window, as my eyes looked into his. “Your pack has the look of an extended holiday.” he said. “Yes I said, I’ll be trekking for eight days along the South Coast.” “My needs are very small, they resemble my pack.” said the man. Holding a book the fella explained. “I just popped on to Tassie for a couple months from Ireland to entertain the church members with a few songs at assorted Catholic churches.” “These hymn books are all that I need to carry, from them I can produce food, drink and shelter from the kind church patrons. “This proves that the book is mightier than the back pack.” he laughed. Our bus turned into Hunonville as my friend had turned his head that was decorated with a big smile and pointed to the church steeple, which would be his meal ticket. “Lets have a Guinness on me, then sing a few songs and chuck your pack for the night!” he explained. “Thanks for the offer but I bought a ticket to Cockle Creek.” I explained. As a closing remark I exclaimed that it was nice that the Irish seemed to be living together in peace. At that suggestion his bushy eyebrows rose up and down like caterpillars doing the hookie pokie. “For the life of me I can’t figure why God made mosquito, Satan and Protestants!” he exclaimed as the bus doors closed.* In our travels thru life we are never really alone, we pick up little pieces of our friends souls that travel with us.

At the next stop Tony our bus driver announced a fifteen minute break as the station master set a small Styrofoam container next to his seat. Due to the island’s small size or just by chance, Tony had been my bus driver on a few of my trips around the island, so I got to know him. He had the unnerving habit of turning his head to talk to a passenger sitting behind him, as the bus barreled down the narrow winding roads. It would just about take your breath away as we had more then just a few close calls with sheep, bicycles and on coming buses. The Styrofoam container made a squeaking noise as Tony pulled it towards himself. “Did one of your girlfriends make you lunch?” I asked. “This would be a grand lunch for a vampire!” Tony said as he held up a small container of blood. Tony explained that a local scientist was studying the breeding habits of the Tasmania Devil. Tony would deliver the blood to Hobart where a scientist would study the DNA of the South Coast Devil. The woman scientist in this area with the help of DNA, found out that a female devil will be impregnated by as many as five males in one night. Some of the males will travel as far as ten miles for this one night stand.

After our fifteen minute break Tony fired up the bus with puff of black smoke as the signal for everyone to come aboard. An older woman with the looks of being a feral hippy came running up to the open bus door and asked Tony if this bus went to Cockle Bay. Her long hair and sun baked complexion gave some indication about the amount of time spent walking a beach figuring out the universe. All the passengers on the bus where looking out the windows at this poor woman struggling with her large back pack. So with compassion in my heart I jumped from the bus and grabbed hold of her belongs and was going to help her with the burden. She immediately pulled her back pack from hand and yelled “Who died and put you in charge!” as she stormed towards the bus. I think this woman did spend some time on the beach but it was at Camp Pendleton Marine base learning to kill with a sharp tongue! “This bloody woman could make Tasmania Devil’s seem like lap dogs!” Tony said with a smirk as I passed by him. The smirk soon disappeared from his face when the woman from hell, zeroed in on his world. “Why in everything that is holy, didn’t the three other busses that zoomed by me this morning didn’t stop?” yelled the hippy girl. “Because I am the only bus scheduled to stop here.” Tony explained. “Likely story, likely story, well what are we waiting for now, lets get going so we can get there today!” she said with a sigh.

The next stop was Dover and a back packer was waving his arm like a windmill and yelling for Tony to stop. Tony pulled up and immediately the young hiker jumped on board.
“I am so glad you stopped three busses have passed me by this morning!” said the young fella. The hippy lady jumped right into the conversation. “What did I say, what did I say, the buses passed us by like we where trash along the road!” she said. I heard Tony say under his breath, “It a good thing that the company doesn’t let us drink on the job, I could use a pint or two!” Tony shifted the bus into high gear and off we went, I had a feeling we were all going to pay for these two jokers that we just picked up.

The young back packer had a Australia accent but looked Chinese. As we hung onto anything nailed down as the bus turned into a sky rocket as it hit every pot hole and rough road it could, my traveling companion told of his life. He was born in China but was adopted by a English couple staying in Australia in the northern part of that country. The new baby didn’t fit in to the country club scene of the English couple’s life style. As a consequence this poor fella ended up spending more time with the Aboriginal servants that managed the home, then his adopted parents. The last straw was when the English couple got transferred back to Jolly Old England. They took the family pets but he was left with the cook’s family and was brought up in a Aboriginal household. “ I can’t eat with chopsticks but I can play a mean didjeridu mate!” he explained. * True love has all the energy, understanding and tolerance is the fuel!

As we entered the last twenty miles before Cockle Creek the bus was followed by a thick plume of dust from the dirt road. A heavy timbered wooden bridge was our last obstacle was we came to a stop at the ranger station at Cockle Creek. “End of the line boys and girls, it’s not the end of the world but you can see it from here!” said Tony. The Aussie Chinese hiker and the devil woman couldn’t get off the bus fast enough. Both of them tried to go through the bus door opening at the same time wearing their packs. I wanted to laugh but I didn’t want to have the hippy woman turn her wrath towards me again. As I sat down next to Cockle Creek and got ready to eat my lunch I heard the ranger station screen door slam twice and then again when my two traveling companions left the station with their permits. Tony at the same time was doing his best get the hell out of here by shifting through all four gears as he rolled down the dirt road. I had taken off my shoes and was enjoying the cool water of the creek caressing my toes when the two hikers doing a imitation of Grouch Marx all bent over and their little legs pumping came flying by me heading towards the trail.

While the ranger stamped my pass, I noticed the afternoon sun beaming down on artifacts, found along the South Coast. As I picked up each item the ranger would explain it’s meaning, either from boredom or wanting someone to talk to in this out of the way place. A large transparent snake skin that had been shed from a reptile was the topic of conversation. “Do you think I’ll see many snakes?” I asked. “Just when you least expect it, that’s when the buggers will be laying on your path or theirs according to their point of view!” he explained. “The most common snake you’ll encounter in the bush is the King Snake and the best thing to do is absolutely nothing!” the ranger explained.
“All three snakes in Tassie are venomous but Mr. King is the most aggressive especially during mating season!” said the ranger of doom.
“Let me guess, it’s mating season now?” I asked. “What did you hear the heavy breathing in the brush as you ate lunch?” asked the ranger. Between Tasmania Devils and the King Snake doing it in the grass all this place needs a drive in movie screen, I thought! “I found out in Hobart that besides the killer snakes there are large bogs to cross, if I don’t get lost first, is that correct?” I asked. “You’re first mistake was staying in Hobart but your information is correct.” the ranger said. “I was born in Hobart but since I have this job I stay clear of that town.” said the ranger. “My whole family lived in Hobart and my dad worked at the hospital.” said the ranger. “Was he a doctor?” I asked.
“My brother and myself always wondered what poor old dad did at the hospital so one day we sneaked into the hospital.” said the ranger. “My dad must have got wind of our plot because when we entered his office he had his head bent over his desk, with a tooth pick in one hand.” reply the ranger. “My older brother got the courage to get up close to dad and just stared down at the desk blotter covered with black pepper.” said the ranger. “Bloody hell dad what are doing” asked the brother. “ I am doing my usual job of separating the pepper from the fly shit, I am in public relations!” said my dad.

As I left the office the ranger warned again about not playing with the snakes, “They are twice as fast as you ever thought of being.”
*Don’t let possible storms in the future, cloud your dreams in the present!”

The trail began like most trails do when there is a lot of local foot traffic. Wide trails with numerous signs and manicured forests beside the paths, that would lead deeper into the unknown. As I left the forest, a kangaroo with a roo on board hopped ahead of me and what nice welcoming party it was. It made a deep thud sounds each time the critters paws hit and bounced along the ground. As both of us entered the marsh, the kangaroo had the option of turning back and hiding in the forest. A moor like setting that reminded me of Scotland, seemed to carry on for miles across the landscape in front of me. Two parallel boards had been laid down on top of the swampy marsh to keep the hiker from sinking up to their elbows. The boards went on for miles, until the rangers ran out of lumber or energy or both. Then the famous muddy bogs started, I couldn’t find much relief if I tried to walk over the brush beside the trail. It was tough like barb wire covered with leaves and just as sharp. Relief came when I came to a rise and it was a sand dune covered with grass lead to a large beach that when on for miles . The waves where coming onto the beach in three foot high breakers and then would disappear into the sand.

I came to the South Cape Rivulet just about the same time that I was needing a place to camp. The water was a deep brown from all the tannins in the water. I couple of people where camped out on this side of the river but I didn’t want to have to cross it tomorrow so it would be easier to get it over with now. I had been wearing rubber sandals so all I had to do was cross the river very carefully so I wouldn’t become part of it. I made it across and found some level spots that had several inches of mulch that would make a soft bedding for my tent. After eating dinner a couple came to the far rivers edge and ask if I wanted to come over for a night cap. I asked if they were the activity directors for the beach, with a laugh. The drinks where nice and the conversation went on into the night. I spent to much time looking at the bottom of a tipped beer bottle and forgot that I had to cross back over the black river at night. A couple of times as I crossed I would walk into a hole that put the water level close to waist line. There was a few hairy moments but I made it back and after looking inside my tents for snakes I fell asleep.

This morning I started the section that everyone and his dog had warned me about from Rivulet to Granite Beach that was covered with muddy swimming pools and decorated with King Snakes. I have hiked around the world enough that sometimes people embellish the hardships a bit beyond the real world. But in this case it was all correct besides a few extra treats. I had just kept my Teva’s sandals on since I didn’t want to completely ruin my hiking boots with the mud, hopefully the snakes would cut me some slack. My first muddy bog was actually a giant mud puddle that was going up hill, so it was combination climbing and swimming in mud. As a added attraction at no extra cost except for me losing my religion, where marsh flies. These pest where the size of your thumb nail but flew as fast as a HMO paying for your wife’s breast enlargement. They just buzzed around your head or exposed legs waiting for the right time to come in for a snack. If your lucky enough to catch one in your hand, it sounds like your squeezing a piece of popcorn. I found a log running up beside the bog and decided to walk and crawl along the log. I should have stayed with the crawl because when I stood up my sandals where covered with mud and my legs kicked out and I came down straddling the log with full force. Now I know how Pee Wee Herman got that high pitched voice. I made it to the top of the mountain and was just ready to celebrate when I glanced down to a sunny spot on the trail that was covered in King Snake. I have seen a lot of snakes in the states and they are usually very motivated to get the hell out of your way. Not Mr. King, I guess it’s good to be king, I’ll move when I jolly well feel like moving and not before. I stamped my feet and he looked over his shoulder if he had one and slowly slide into the brush off the trail. Well I thought at least I didn’t get bit and die a horrible death, that could ruin your day!

After lunch and thinking that maybe I was through the worse of the mud traps, I got a little snap in my step. Then ahead lay miles of mud puddles, maybe thirty feet long and deep as the bottom of my back pack. Each one was exactly like the last, there was a muddy ramp that you walked down into a waist deep watery muddy hole. The water was so dark and deep if I would have walk across Jimmy Hoffa, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Branches along these traps had been snapped off from past hikers trying to hold onto anything that was stable.

After ten hours of walking and crawling I came to a camp spot that had a few campers already spread out. The campers made me feel at home which was nice since my temper from fighting mud and flies needed it’s temperature lowered. The campers told me of a waterfall that was below the camp. “I don’t think there are any ladies there now, so it’s safe to bath!” said the one camper. I didn’t care at this point if Queen Elizabeth herself was there I was headed to the waterfall shower. I was covered with mud, so I just stepped into the shower with all my muddy cloths and sandals on. Now I know what a corn dog feels like, being covered with batter. Then I stripped naked and stood under the waterfall for another fifteen minutes, what a relief!

When I made it back to camp another group had come from Melaleuca. I started to unload my backpack and set up my site, when I noticed one of the hikers. He started to swat at real marsh flies and imaginary marsh flies that had been buzzing around his head for hours. He fell to the ground with a thud and just started to moan and hid under his pack from the pesky critters. We all stood around in a little bit of disbelieve but also wondering if this is how we would end up.

After dinner I walked to another part of the camping area and asked if anybody knew Max Osborn. “Over here!” yelled a camper. I went on to explain about meeting his mother and aunt at the Regatta. “By the way I have a message from dear old mom.” I said. “Don’t wipe your snotty nose on your sleeve!” I relayed to Max. At the same time Max wiped his nose and said “You mean like this!” Standing beside Max was his girlfriend which said. “We can’t get away from that woman!” she said with a sigh.

This morning I would head to Surprise Beach, which in everybody’s description was the next best thing to heaven. The marsh flies had the job of guarding the sandy beaches as I walked across them. After I disturbed their slumber on the beach the flies would fly pattern around my body, like a airplane circling a airport. I had a extra shirt in my hand and would swipe it back and forth like I was a cow with a two foot long tail, to keep the pests from feasting on my flesh. The trail was suppose to be a 10 hour hike over and through large and messy mud bogs. With a large supply of snakes guarding their sunny spots on the trail.

By dinner time I could hear the ocean pounding against Surprise Bay, my home for a couple days. It was picture perfect with a lush jungle and fast moving river pouring into the beach. The beach must have been a half of mile long with a rocky out cropping starting and stopping the beach line. The trail that lead down to the beach was very steep with a rope attached at the top for a secure hold. Log steps had been anchored into the trail as a extra support. The thought of staying on this beach for two days without having to fight mud and snakes made for a almost religious moment. The sunset on the beach was the icing on the cake for my coast trek.

The next day I woke to a clear and sunny day with warm winds from the jungle meeting cold winds from the ocean breezes and making small wind cyclones of loose sand. The ocean was so inviting but I knew that it could have a seductive spirit. The ocean currents had been cooled by icebergs from the Antarctica only moments ago. I decided to take my chances in the river, I felt like a penguin when I made my leap of faith and hit the water. I half expected there to be a layer of ice on the surface, judging from the water temperature. As soon as I got my breath back I swam back to shore like a Olympic swimmer. I felt like a lizard in sun as I tried to get warmth back into my body, as I lay on the beach.

As I lay on the beach a couple of Eco rangers girls came walking by looking for a campsite down by the river. They where also looking for Phytophthora cinnamomi which turned out to be foot rot, which I thought I might have after walking through muddy water. The disease affects plants that grow in wet conditions, which is everywhere one looks. The fungi attacks the roots and kills the plant. Anyway, they where on the lookout for this killer of young and innocent plants, plus it was a excuse to get out and camp. After setting up their camp one of the women walked along the beach to the rocky point as the ocean watched her every move. Just as she turned her back a big wave engulfed her and threw down on the rocks. She came back to camp with the bloody elbows to prove it. As we sat around and watched the one woman bandage up her arm, I was told the story of the South Coast Trail. In the 1800's so many ships floundered off the Tassie cost because of the crazy ass weather off Antarctic that a path was cut in the territory to help stranded sailors walk to freedom.

After dinner I walked down to the beach to watch the sun go down on another day of beach combing. As the day light started to fade I noticed a group of five hikers come out of the forest on the far side of the beach. They seemed to be wondering around aimlessly. I had a flash light and shined it in their direction and turned it off and on as a signal. I noticed the group had regrouped and started to walk towards me. There was a big smiles on all their faces, they had been hiking for twelve hours and had missed a trail turn off to Osmiridium Beach. One fella that was so completely worn down to a nub that he just dropped to the beach and feel asleep. The rest of the group walked up the trail to the camp sites and set up their tents and then fell asleep.

The next morning I again would be on the muddy trail to Osmiridium Beach. I had heard stories about the difficulty in finding the trail down to the beach off the main trail. After several hours of fighting my way through the bush I came to a large flat area covered with the barb wire bushes. The turn off to the beach was easy to find because two younger hikers where laying along the trail head acting like markers. First I heard the moaning and gut wrenching noises way before I saw the victims. These poor fellas had been desperate for water this morning and had drank water out of a watering hole used by kangaroos and wombats that didn’t have the best bathroom manners. As a result these back country adventures had their trip into paradise turn into a hospital trip. Thankfully for me as we talked I saw a trickle of water coming out of the hillside that ran down to the water hole from hell. I filled up my water container here for my two days that I was going to spend on the beach. I didn’t have a helicopter in back pack so there wasn’t much more I could do for these poor victims except step over them.

The trail down to the beach was faint and gnarly, with a few side trail that lead to no wheresville. I eventually found a group of trees and a few old campsites. I thought this must be the promised land so I set up camp and walked down to the mile long beach. I had the beach all to myself for two days. I would walk the beach and search the little inlets and rock out cropping for discarded trash from the sea. I had quite the collection which I turned into beach art, to bad their wasn’t anybody to enjoy it, or maybe it was better no critics showed up. I felt like Robinson Crusoe as some of my art work had turned into a giant mobiles on top of a few sand dunes and blew around in the wind.

After lunch I was sitting along a dry river bed that was a hundred feet from the crashing ocean. I had been reading a Stephen King and really getting into the blood and gore when I looked up and sat a wall of water coming towards me from the ocean. The ranger at the check in point warned me about not keeping my eye on the unpredictable ocean breakers and here it came. I grabbed all my belongings and headed to high ground just in time. Then the water retreated never to show it force again. The surge had been so strong that it had gone all the way to the pond where my dead and dying hiking companions had drank from. So beside drinking kangaroo ka ka they drank salt water mixed with it like a chaser.

Before I left the beach I arranged a pile of large flat stones to spell welcome in the beach, but it should have said don’t drink the water!

The next morning was going to be more of the mud puppy walking and snake dodging. The map informed me my next stop would be Deadman’s Bay which sounded encouraging. I thought my last place should be called Deadman’s Pond. The snakes on this part of the trail where on the right of me and on the left. I knew the encounters where going to happen you just didn’t knew when. Typically I would be day dreaming about little or nothing when there would be a speck of sunlight on the trail like a spot light. The King Snake would be curled up in the beam of light. I would think, I hope he got all his mating duties out of his system and he is mellow yellow. Sometimes I would stamp my feet so that the snake would open it’s one eye and then the other one. You could tell the snake was thinking, I am in charge and don’t rush me off the path, or I am going to change your life. I met a doctor that did a lot of fishing along the rivers in Tassie and he always wore high gater to protect is legs from the venomous snakes. He also whistled or sang out load, just to make himself feel better, since he knew snakes can’t hear.

After lunch the trail disappeared into a river that ran into the raging ocean waves. The trail was in the middle of the river with poles sunk into the river bottom and marked with orange plastic tags. Every once in a while the ocean would make itself noticed and come rushing up the river. The green thick algae that was floating on the river would then be lifted and cover your legs and bottom of your pack with green slim. Then I entered the New River delta which was a ½ mile across. A genius had figured this river crossing puzzle out. There was two boats, one on each side of the river bank. I would have to row across the river and drop my pack but then hook up the other boat and bring it back to where I started. I would drop this boat and then go back over to where my pack was. That way there would always be a boat on each side. Have you payed attention there’s a test at the end. A couple that where doing the same hike where studying the whole situation when I walked up. We decided to do our portage together. Lori was from Quebec Canada and Trent was from Australia. They had met in school and where doing a trip together. The portage went off without a hitch and we where all on our way.

By dinner time I had reached Deadman’s Bay without finding anything in the way of a corpse. Except when I was eating dinner a hiker came out of the jungle covered with scratches and mud. “Is this trail someone’s idea of sick joke!” he yelled. He had been walking for 10 hours and was hungry and thirsty besides being dead tired. He described the hike over the Ironbound Mountains and it didn’t sound like loads of fun with what he related as five hours of stair master with a side order of mud bogs.

Tomorrow is another day according to Scarlett O’hara and it came as a clear morning, after it had rained all night. Trent, Lori and I started off to make our way over the 2,700 feet in elevation gain of the Ironbound Mountains, that was covered with tree roots and mud. Since they where half my age, they wanted to go ahead of me a so I wouldn’t hold them up. Half way up the mountain I found both of them along the trail rubbing and holding their knees with a sick look on their faces from the continuous steps. I continued on and turned to take a picture of the beach below. Within a matter of seconds the weather turned faster then you can snap your fingers. You can’t see Antarctic from here but we got it’s fury! There was big sign at the beginning of the trail “This is the most dangerous spot in Tasmania when the weather changes, you can die in several different ways, all of them not good!” when I passed the sign the temperature was nice with a cool breeze in my hair, now it was hurricane force with thick fog. My two hike companions had just caught up with me when the sound of thunder could be heard. I had just said we had better find some shelter, when lightning hit on the hill above us. Just the moment before that they had said, “Don’t worry!” Now all of us fighting our way into the cave shelter I found. After about twenty minutes of steady rain it then turned into drizzle with heavy fog. We climbed out of our shelter and I heard talking ahead of us. A small group of hikers where standing on the trail, looking around in a dazed state. It was so foggy I stood up close and couldn’t make out one person’s face, I could just hear questions. I found out that the weather had been bad in the direction that we where heading, for several days. After exchanging advice we said our good byes and worked our way down to Louisa River.

After clearing the summit thunder could be heard off in the distance but because of the fog I couldn’t see the lightning. Then within thirty minutes the skies cleared and we could see the whole river system and it looked like it was in flood stage. I kept walking with the idea of getting to camp before the next storm came and really ruined my day. I was able to set up my camp within a eye shot of the river which was kicking up a ruckus as it rambled down the river bed. I noticed a lean-to type shelter and two fella’s outside of it, just starring at the river. I walked into their camp and found out these two friends Mick and John where from Melbourne Australia. Mick was on vacation from the police force and John was on permanent vacation after buying the right lottery ticket. They also had two other friend with them named Johnny Walker Red and Jack Daniels which they truly seem to love. Mick’s plan of action was to mix the two liquors that then resembled a mixture that you might put in your car gas tank. This afternoon and most of the night called for them to consume as much of the mixture as possible, so they wouldn’t have to carry the extra weight over the mountain. They tried to get me to join in the fools game but I had no plans to have my head explode tomorrow morning, thank you very much. As I told them about the muddy trail that lay ahead of them as the walk towards Cockle Bay the more they drank. Then John brought up the subject of joke telling and by this time they where pretty well hammered. John then stood up and made the announcement that he was going to show and tell us the correct way of telling a joke. I can’t remember the joke but the body language was the funniest thing I had every seen and the more that Mick and I laughed, the more John did more twists and bends with his lubricated body. By the end of his story he lost his balance and when over backwards and slid down to the rivers edge and the top of his head was in the river. I thought I was going to wet my pants, especially as Mick and I tried to bring John rubbery body back up the hill.

The next morning the skies didn’t show a lot of promise in the way of a dry crossing to the next beach campsite. Mick and John’s party site was very quiet as I walked by, I could only hear their throbbing heads! Right away I came to the Louisa River and I had to cross the river, that was in flood stage. Someone had strung a thick rope across the river for support as you waded across the river. Trent and Lori where already at the river crossing. Trent had his arms and legs wrapped around the rope while wearing his pack and he was trying to slide along the rope. There was a raging river going over giant boulders below this plan of attack. Trent hung about two feet above rocks of death and this seemed like a good way to break your back if the rope broke. I told them it didn’t seem like the way to solve this problem as I took off my boots and slipped on my sandals. I slowly made my way through the slippery boulders while holding onto the rope. On the far side the jungle was soaked from the rain storm that lasted all night long. I thought I was walking through a car wash as long stemmed plants dripping with water slapped me along the sides of my body. At the first sign of rain I put on a cover over my pack and then I put on a rain coat and then I covered everything with a orange tarp, I looked like a giant pumpkin walking over the moors. The famous Roaring Forties wind storm was beginning to make itself known. This is a weather pattern that comes of the Tasman Sea that is hurricane force. When ever I came to the top of a hill I had to lay flat on the ground not to be blown over by the micro burst of wind. Then to add to the fun I came to a river that luckily someone with a axe had cut down a tree that spanned the river. The tree still had all it’s thousand and one branches on and I had to crawl through the branches without falling into the roaring river below. Within fifteen minutes I came to another river crossing with the same type of tree bridge. I felt like Daniel Boone all I needed was waterproof coon skin cap.

I could see the bay at Cox Bight and I could hear the breaker smashing against the rock wall that made up the shore line. At the crossing stood another sign”Wait at least fifteen minutes before crossing next to the rock wall incase the tide is coming in and it sweeps you out into the ocean!” Five minutes seemed like fifteen minutes with a hurricane force wind while a driving rain is trying to rearrange my cloths. It looked like the beach was about 1/8 of mile long so I guess it’s time for the Great Pumpkin to turn into Jesse Owens. I took a deep breath and made a mad dash for the distance beach and freedom. I made the beach just as the high water was lapping my knees. I had planned on camping here but the cold rain with the wind changed my mind, I couldn’t have set up my tent if my life depended on it.

The airfield at Melaleuca with a dry shelter in the way of steel huts seemed like the way to escape this torture. It would be a four hour walk and it was already four o’clock, but I had everything to gain if I could reach the huts. I had already been walking eight hours so what was few more hours. The trail again turned into muddy bogs and wooden planks had been laid on the swampy bogs for miles on end but the water still was ankle deep. By eight o’clock I could see the huts. The first hut I stopped at was full of hikers and they explained there was another shelter in the next grove of trees as they closed the door. I walked into the next hut and seven fellas sat at a long table eating steaming food and didn’t hardly look up even though my outfit looked like I had survived a atomic bomb. They didn’t ask about the weather or my walk, I thought it was a monk convention. I asked about the schedule of the next airplane and this hit a nerve. “We have been waiting two days for a plane and we get it first!” came the response from the crowd. Now I figured out what had upset my bunk mates they thought I was going to steal their plane. “I have two day of food so don’t worry your pretty little heads, I’ll wait my turn!” I exclaimed. Then all was right with the world, cheese, pasta and beer was brought forth and questions were asked and answered.


Someone asked me if I ever got lonely on any of these trips, and this was the only time I felt lonely when I was with people but they wouldn’t talk!

When I started to unload my pack, I noticed rain had been driven through the pack cover and through the tarp that I had covering the whole thing. Luckily for me I had my sleeping bag and cloths in a plastic bag so all was dry. Within a hour Trent and Lori showed up and where glad to find a dry bed. I was short on gas for my stove and there must have been fifty gas canisters since airplane passengers can’t carry gas on a plane so hikers drop them here. We all made dinner and talked about the day.


The next morning we where all up and the skies actually looked clear. A French hiker that had twisted both ankles was wobbling around the hut. The all of a sudden everybody stopped talking and started to listen to the sound of a small plane flying towards the air field. Everybody had the look of being rescued from a dangerous place after months of being stranded rather then just two days. The French men found new strength as he grabbed his back pack and items where falling out of it as he scrambled towards the field. As I ate my breakfast I just looked out the window as these poor men ran towards the air field. As I walked down the same path I found shoes, sleeping bags and clothing that had dropped from open packs in the mad dash to freedom. I use to run a hunting and fishing camp in Quebec Canada and use to help pack bush plane. I just walked up to the plane as everybody else just stood back and watched. I started to hand the pilot some gear as he packed with it’s weight in mind. “You’ll be back in few hours right?” I asked. “You bet I will and you can have a front seat.” he said. With in few minutes the plane took off and I walked back to the hut and got all my gear ready. Trent, Lori and I walked down to the fielded when we could hear the plane coming back. I picked up a small stick to act like a make believe microphone as I starred at the plane and like out of a movie I started to yell,”PULL UP-PULL UP!” just joking around. Then I looked around and Trent was snow white. “That would really funny if I wasn’t deathly afraid to fly!” he said.

The pilot looked at me and said I guess you weigh about 190 pounds so it should be OK with all our gear. I weighed 190 in junior high now it’s closer to 250 but I didn’t want to say anything incase I would have to walk all the way back to Hobart.

The eight days of walking through mud and snakes was reduced to a hour plane ride back to Hobart. I had great time and wonderful thoughts of the South Coast Trek, but I realize it maybe isn’t for everybody!