Winter Overland

UNSWOC acknowledges that our journey took place on Palawa/Pakana Country. We pay our respects to the Traditional Custodians and recognise their ongoing connection to the land and waters of lutruwita. Sovereignty was never ceded. 

Author: Gabe Naylor

The Overland Track
Pencil Pine to Waterfall Valley

Before the sun even had the chance to rise in Launceston we were all packed into our shuttle and headed up to the mountains where our journey would begin proper. We erupted from the van in matching UNSWOC beanies into a light misting of snow to discover taps dispensing both still and sparkling water in the Cradle Mountain Visitor Center - our first indicator of the luxury that so defines the modern Overland Track.

After one spilt coffee we hopped on the shuttle towards the trailhead at Ronny Creek, but were kicked off 6km short of the start due to road closures and began walking at 11am from Pencil Pine. As the 17 kilos of gear that would be my life for the next week settled onto my back, we travelled along Cradle Valley where snow covered buttongrass meadows, sturdy bridges across the rumbling Dove River and glimpses of Cradle Mountain made it all suddenly very real. We got a group photo at the official start and walked away from the valley towards the alluring snow covered peaks that begged us to chase them. We briefly dropped into a rainforest gully with moody lighting and lush greens that felt surreal juxtaposed to the stark white of the surrounding landscape, then made our way uphill to Crater Lake. A small boatshed sits on the rugged waters edge and we were hit with the sheer scale of the rock; steep, unforgiving and the only way forward. We climbed to Marions Lookout. I say climbed instead of walked as the track was more of a low grade rock scramble with the ice and heavy packs. At the top we were met with sweeping views of Cradle Mountain and an icy cold wind that rinsed away all of our hard earned body heat. Bringing up the back, Linna, Alfie, Stephen and I had a brief Samosa break then made our way across the high plateau, a relatively flat stretch flanked by the cheekily shrouded Cradle Mountain, that introduced us to the hard packed ice ‘track’ we would become well acquainted with. 

Now, during our planning we had to make some decisions about footwear. Should we bring snowshoes? Microspikes? Just hiking boots? The consensus was that waterproof boots and microspikes offered the best flexibility and safety for our forecasted trip and so that was what most of us brought. Alfie Jones, master bushwalker and engineer, went for a more low-cost, ultra-light arrangement of 7 screws in the sole of each shoe, pointy side up. In a very predictable turn of events, they did not work for anything other than providing entertainment. 

At 2pm we rolled into Kitchen Hut, a two story wooden structure reminiscent of a child's drawing of a house, and decided to skip the Cradle Mountain summit as the weather was changing and sunset was only 3 hours away. Another time. We continued on as the distinctly alpine weather change brought enveloping clouds and a snow flurry that put a little more hustle into our step. We traversed along the base of Cradle Mountain and stopped for an all important snowball fight against a backdrop of iconically Tasmanian dolerite cliffs and scree slopes buried deep. 

We poked our heads into another emergency shelter, this one uncomfortably round and funky smelling, before risking our knees and ankles on the icy descent down to Waterfall Valley Hut. The newly built huts are a level of luxury well above anything I’ve encountered before, equipped with gas heaters, 35 beds, double glazed windows and a modern architectural aesthetic that begs you to question the invasion of human development into natural areas and the commodification of National Parks. Despite our moralistic objections we accepted the comfort the hut had to offer us and ate dinner in the lively common area, stripping down to just t-shirts as the gas heater won the battle against the sub-zero wilderness outside. After Dan nearly emptied his pot-rinsing water onto a spotted quoll and Pat gave a mesmerising LED poi show in the snowy dark, tomorrow's plans were made and lights were out.

BBB (Backtrack Barn Bluff)
Waterfall Valley to Windermere Hut

I’ve long held the opinion that Australia has no mountains, and that our alpine regions are small and a bit underwhelming. Barn Bluff forced me to reconsider this harsh stance as we watched the prominent rocky summit glow in the peachy morning sunlight some 500m above us. Leaving 2 friends behind for sore knees we set off to backtrack 10 km around to the peak we had skipped the day before. Daniel, Amelia and Anna took off ahead in impatient excitement and broke trail along the snow buried duckboard under the crisp morning sky towards the outcrop that was growing menacingly steeper and steeper with every step. 

You wind your way through a boulder field, carefully testing any step that lacked prior footprints as the snow sneakily hides the ankle-breaking gaps between the rock. As you get closer to the towers of mottled dolerite, splashes of orange, grey and black covering the brown rock distract you from your increasing heart rate as the tiny hut below gets harder to pick out. Someone jokes that you’re basically low grade mountaineers but you’re too focused to reply, carefully kicking your cold toes into the snow and patting down the rock for a handhold to stop you from falling your way into an embarrassing helicopter rescue. Bar a few trickier moves it’s a fun 20 minute scramble and you’re on top, 1,559m above the Bass Strait, which can be seen shining intensely yellow in the distance. 

We took some photos, posted a mandatory Instagram story and did our daily affirmations from a copy of the ‘Overland Track Trek Guide for Young Adventurers’ we read in the hut. 

I am cool.
I am strong.
I AM awesome.

A thin haze of cloud settled in as we carefully retraced our footsteps down, passing a couple of trail runners who would lap us before the hour was up. We briefly passed via the hut to pick up our bags and our injured companions and continued on towards Windermere Hut. The walk was leisurely, revelling in the afternoon light as the warm sunset hues battled the sharpness of winter above an unfamiliar landscape. Patrick discovered a small iced over pond that in fact, could not support his weight and Lucas threw a large rock that cracked through the icy shell with a splintering sound reminiscent of some sci-fi film you watched too long again. A game of lawn bowls? Pond bowls? Ice bowls? played out on our icy rink before we ran off to catch up to the rest of the group. We found them standing waist deep in a frozen lake, breaking through the ice with karate chops to get deeper into the uninviting water. A few more joined the skinny dip then we moved on to our second overly heated hut for dinner, lateral thinking puzzles and another cosy night. 

Globular Icicles 
Windermere Hut to Pelion Hut

Today the sickness began. Stephen and Pat had a rough night’s sleep and woke up with a sickness that prompted the redistribution of weight from their packs. The combination of bad knees and illness that plagued our group meant we skipped the day's side trips, walking across the frost covered flats towards the distant Mt Pelion West with no intention of climbing the wide bluff that rested above us. The landscape dropped out to below knee shrubs interspersed with puddles of ice giving us perspective of both the peaks surrounding us and the River Forth running in the deep forested valley below. Over breakfast we met Chris Sewell, the very enthusiastic leader of a walking group from the Victorian Mountain Tramping Club who was completing his 8th run of the Overland Track and liked us enough to share the location of a secret waterfall just a short detour from the trail. In the lush underside of Mt Pelion West we dropped our packs and wandered off upstream to find what we were promised and more. A tiered waterfall, lit by the sharp morning sunlight to a backdrop of fresh green and clear sky blue, surrounded by thick globular icicles growing on every grass, branch, moss and rock close enough to catch the cool spray of the falls. We played around amongst the abstract spray of reflected light and water, narrowly avoiding the chunks of ice that fell with irregular consistency until the cold wormed its way back into our cores. 

Back on the track we continued down around the east side of Mt Pelion West to Frog Flats and encountered our first stretch of the infamous Overland mud. Muddy puddles widened by every consecutive hiker trying their luck to avoid the shin deep slop, only to contribute to the degradation of the trail and ending up mud covered anyway. Luckily for us, the freezing temperatures meant that some sections of the mud were frozen solid and could be easily passed with no further dirtying of our boots. The advanced party took a detour to visit Old Pelion Hut and sing in the surprisingly tuned acoustics of the accompanying copper mine cut straight into a riverbank “like Minecraft” to quote Amelia. 

All of the waste from the toilets along the Overland is flown out of the park by helicopters for treatment and each toilet has a sign telling you all about the marvels of their ‘Sputnik Bucket’ system. They also include a fun fact, popular saying or poem about poop. My personal favourite was the followed poem found at Pelion Hut by Dennis Alexander from The Tasmanian Tramp:

As you splash along the track
Eyes alert and ears pinned back,
You might have seen those queer square turds
And thought, if not expressed with words,
The stress of such a defecation
Baffles one’s imagination.
But it’s not done to entertain us-
The WOMBAT has an oblong anus.
So if your slumber is disturbed
By cries and screams, don’t be perturbed.
Eye’s closed, teeth clenches and racked with pain -
A wombat’s gone and crapped again.

New Pelion Hut sits on the edge of a river flat, its veranda facing north-west to the looming jagged profile of Mt Oakleigh and the sunset silhouettes of Cradle Mountain and Barn Bluff on the far horizon. We had a relaxed afternoon taking in the last of the day's toasted warmth before huddling around a cold metal table for a romantic candle-lit dinner. With a broken gas heater and no fireplace to heat the large building we had our coldest sleep of the trip. 

The Gang Summit Mt Ossa
Pelion Hut to Kia Ora Hut

Another frosty cold soaked oats morning led us through the shadowy protected valley under Mt Pelion East, passing by a slabby waterfall and thick sheets of ice with suspiciously shoe shaped holes littered across. As we walked uphill the snow on the trees grew thicker, weighing down the thin branches with carefully stacked piles of intricate crystals until we reached Pelion Gap and were returned to the winter wonderland we had dropped out of the day prior. Pat and Stephen were still sick and decided to skip the day’s side trip and keep moving straight to Kia Ora Hut for a relaxed afternoon.

For the rest of us the day's mission was to summit Mt Ossa (1617m), Tasmania’s highest peak. We left our bird-proofed packs at the junction and set off along a raised platform that quickly disappeared and left us on yet another slippery icy incline of a track where microspikes felt right at home. The snow deepened as we rounded the side of Mt Doris and stared up at the side of Mt Ossa trying to make out our friends on the side of the mountain and wondered how they’d got up there. Shedding layers, we climbed up rocks, delicately navigated icy boulders and trudged through snow up to the summit for a group picture staring directly into the sun. Alfie and Lucas had a titanic moment by a sheer drop, Amelia, Anna and Dan scrambled to the true summit and Kiera directed me for a ‘dirtbag mullet’ photoshoot. 

We learnt a lot about glissading on the descent. You get less snow up your shirt if you tuck it in. Your tailbone will hurt if you slide over rocks. Your hiking pole is not as effective for self arrest as you think. Your phone will come out of unzipped pockets. You can stop before that big drop if you really try. You should not roll sideways. You should succumb to peer pressure. 

The triumphant feeling upon arriving back at Pelion Gap quickly left when I saw the entire contents of the brain of my bag strewn across the snow. I got Currawonged. Despite the many warnings we had received it was still a shock that the birds had undone my zipper, methodically removed every item from the top and hip pockets of my bag and eaten all my snacks before having a go at Dan’s chlorine tablets AND chewing through the mesh of Lucas’ and my packs looking for even more snacks. Carnage.

By this time the sun was starting to drop. Lucas, Alfie, Linna and I stayed back for a late lunch and walked, or more accurately slid, in relative silence down the icey trench of a path towards the hut. Meanwhile the sunset drew a stark comparison between the north-facing dry rock of Falling Mountain that sat flushed in orange light ahead of us with the shadowed, snow dusted south-face of Mt Ossa behind us. Kia Ora was another ultra-modern hut perched near a creek of the same name. A contingent of our group, who I will refer to as the stargazers, consisting of Amelia, Anna, Pat and Dan found the helipad at each hut to be an ideal spot for nightly star appreciating. They dragged sleeping bags out into the darkness and lay on the waffle grid platform as the frost settled onto them. The milky way stretched out above, uninterrupted by the burden of human civilization or the bothersome moon. Shooting stars came out to play in abundance. 

Helipad birthday
Kia Ora Hut to Bert Nicholls Hut

Breakfast took place under Cathedral Mountain framed by the giant insulated windows of our hut. Most of the group, including Pat who was feeling better, were out the door by 8am while I stayed behind for a slow breakfast with Stephen and Kiera who was now feeling the sickness too. Soon they too were gone and I was left alone in the hut where I lingered for a nap in the morning sun that filled my artificially warm bubble. The dining room wall of Kia Ora hut has been decorated with excerpts of notes from the guest book which create a sense of being part of some larger human experience, a reminder that I am just one more person passing through this land which was here before me and will remain beyond me. My wet toes and muddy boots are only one pair in a long line. 

I eventually built up the bravery to leave and was rewarded with a friendly encounter with a similarly brave wallaby with whom I sat for a good 15 minutes. I said my goodbyes and moved on through the dense forest, picking footsteps carefully through the thick roots that encased the ground in their writhing mossy mass. I was spat out of the dark at Du Cane Hut which was built in 1910 and now exists as a Ship of Theseus style mishmash of repairs and rotting timber, holding court over its little corner of the world. 

The track continues along above the Mersey River (the very same river that runs through the beautiful Mole Creek caves) and I am treated to glimpses of snow covered peaks through the trees and the ambient sounds of the water rushing below. A short detour leads down to D’alton and Fergusson Falls where the roaring static buzz of the huge volume of water lures me towards the edge of the slippery lookout rock, begging me to take one more step. From a safe distance I appreciate the thrashing white water and now familiar icicle-covered greenery that catches the spray as beams of afternoon yellow light come shooting through the canopy to highlight whatever unsuspecting plant takes their fancy. I’m later told that Alfie and Dan were quite excited by the canyoning potential of the area.

The path then diverts from the Mersey and climbs up to Du Cane Gap then down to Bert Nichols Hut which sits in a natural amphitheatre cobbled together from the jagged rocky peaks of the Acropolis, Mt Geryon, Mt Massif and Falling Mountain. This hut is older than the modern ones, a combination of wood and corrugated iron with very high ceilings and poorly sealed doors as to make retaining heat virtually impossible despite the hard work of the gas heater and the 20 bodies shivering inside. When I arrived the rest of the group were set up on the helipad with sleeping mats and bags, relaxed and giggling as they waited for the sun to set. As the day's warmth was carried away, it was time for Pat’s grand reveal. Despite his illness, he had been secretly carrying an entire cake in his pack for 5 days for Amelia’s birthday which had held up better than expected and was very well received by the group of hungry hikers. The stargazers remained out under the stars while the cold drove the rest of us to search for warmth inside the old hut, finding only the warm spirit of Chris and his group who gifted upon us 4 bags of dehydrated hummus. 

Lake St Clair Dreaming
Bert Nicholls Hut to Echo Point Hut

Setting out from Bert Nicholls Hut we were finally leaving the snow behind for good as we cruised through eucalypt forest with a great efficiency that arose from the flat ground and light packs. We said a jealous goodbye to Chris and his group who were headed up for an overnight side trip to The Acropolis and began scheming our return for a climbing trip at Mt Geryon. A whimsical suspension bridge across the Narcissus River brought us to Narcissus Hut for lunch where we watched a group of hikers leaving to catch the ferry to the end of the trail at Cynthia Bay - thereby skipping the final 17 km around Lake St Clair/leeawuleena. Too dedicated to the trail for the ferry, or perhaps just too poor, we continued on around the side of the lake where a grandiose pine forest of wet mossy wood, tangled roots and vast mud puddles ushered us towards a small pebbly beach. There was a brief skinny dip in Australia’s deepest freshwater lake as the sun moved hastily towards the hills, hinting for us to move on. 

Arriving at Echo Point we found a small wooden hut with a coal heater, metal boxes to protect our food from rats and 4 men already set up across the 8 bunk spaces. It’s nicer to sleep outside anyway, so the Stargazers set up on the beach with just their sleeping mats and bags while the rest of us pitched tents around the scenic point. Stephen and Kiera disappeared into their tent early, still struggling with their sickness. Our evening was spent on the beach, sitting in a circle on logs and thermal blankets around a burning trangia, our substitute campfire that pretended to keep us warm as we rehydrated dinner for the last time. Another LED poi show threw rainbow lights across the looming pines and gently lapping water, a harsh but pretty violation of the serenity that had befallen the landscape. Packs were locked away in the rat proof bins and Anna finally got to use her homemade rat-proof bottle to hang her food from a tree.

Where’s my certificate
Echo Point Hut to Lake St Clair

“It was almost warm enough” Patrick said when asked how he slept. We had a slow morning, drying out gear inside the toasty hut and really taking our time to savour the oats as the sun rose from behind Mt Ida, burning off the cloud that clung to the lake. The final leg was 10km skirting the lake along the base of Mt Othrys through more closed forest and some final mud for our boots. A short detour took us to Platypus Bay where Stephen and Kiera rudely doubted my identification of a platypus that was playing out in the water before crossing the Hugel River and ending our journey at Cynthia Bay. 

When we arrived the others were already feasting on burgers and pizza from the restaurant, but Linna had other priorities. Every day on the hike Linna talked about the completion certificate for those who finish the Overland that was promised to her by the Overland Guide for Young Adventurers book we had read on the first night. It may be the only reason she finished the walk at all. So when the guide at the gift shop told us it was $6 for a laminated certificate it was far too late to say no. I promptly spilt my entire lunch into Pat’s open bag then we all loaded up into the bus for the 2 hour drive back to Launceston for ten hot showers and a pub feed to celebrate Daniel’s birthday. 

Overlanders: