Outer Edge Magazine

Escaping the rat race for a bush bashing off-track experience on Flinders Island, two intrepid explorers discover that when you’re trekking completely off-piste, a seemingly short walk can take you to very the end of earth itself… STORY: Simon Madden IMAGES: Chris Ord

Experience is mediated through expectation. So too is suffering. Chris, aka ‘el Editor’, had visions of an easy romp up and down, and home in time for lunch. My expectations were markedly different. Mostly I envisioned a horrific shitefight through dense scrub so impenetrable it would seem to consciously repel our advances. That’s why, when the walls of sword grass loomed up two feet above our heads, he was inventing new compound swear words, while I felt things weren’t too bad. This was proper untracked Tassie tramping.

  Inspired by The Three Peaks sail-and-trek challenge (see feature on page 64 of the current Outer Edge magazine), one leg of which sees teams sail from Launceston to Flinders Island, where runners dash up Mt Strzelecki, Chris and I squeezed into a twin-prop bug smasher at Essendon Airport and bumped our way south. The smaller the plane the more real the experience seems and this one felt like we needed to thrust our arms out and flap. As we lurched through the initial altitude gain my finely tuned constitution squealed a little and I shuffled the sick bag to the front of the seat pocket. Fortunately the air at cruising altitude was baby-bum smooth and we touched down 40 minutes later, stomach contents and dignity intact.

  Flinders is the main island in the 54-strong, ship-sinking Furneaux Group, which sits in Bass Strait off the northeast coast of Tasmania. The island’s southwest tip is dominated by Strzelecki National Park.

  Flinders and Strzelecki. Not the most original of names, I grant you – these two ye olde explorers have more Aussie real estate named after them than just about anyone else – but names echo the impact people have had on a place. Matthew Flinders saved us from the ignominy of being New Holland when he fought for the name Australia, and vastly improved our self-awareness when he circumnavigated both Australia and Van Diemen’s Land. And as for the self-proclaimed Polish count, Paul Edmund Strzelecki, not only did he completely incorrectly identify present-day Mt Townsend as Australia’s highest peak and name it after his hero Tadeusz Ko?ciuszko (Mts Townsend and Kosciuszko had their names swapped in 1910, when some realised the error), he also went on to climb a couple of the mountain peaks on Flinders Island in 1842. Good on him.

  The land was designated a national park in 1967, but only named in honour of the great Pole in 1972. It’s a rugged granite landscape that rises up from beautiful coastal lowlands, harbouring varied ecosystems where flora and fauna found both on the mainland and Tassie overlap. And standing proudly above the landscape are three peaks: Mt Strzelecki (756 metres), Mt Belstead (705 metres), and Mt Razorback (615 metres).

LOCAL EXPLORER-AT-LARGE David Heap smiled knowingly as we outlined our plan to bag the three main peaks in a single traverse. It was the night before we set out, and David had joined us to huddle over maps. David confirmed the linkup had not been done before.

  “You could try the ridgelines,” he said, scratching his head. “If that doesn’t work, you can always head into the water courses.”

  The understatement in his subtly coded language was that of a man who knew adventure and was not in the business of spoiling it for others. “As for camping, there’s a grassy spot in a saddle just below Belstead. I reckon that’s your best bet.”

  While this seemed to confirm my fears about the terrain it only served to stoke the fire in el Editor’s belly. “Up, one, ridgeline, two, ridgeline, three, down. Done.” The years have weathered an ingrained hierarchy that has editor (master) above writer (servant), so I kept my more dire predictions to myself.

TROUSERS POINT WAS our hilariously monikered starting place. The well-manicured track eased us into the undertaking even though it climbed steeply through wooded slopes and fern gullies to the peak of Mt Strzelecki. One peak. Tick.

  The wind was angry that day. It whipped around us tugging at jackets and threatening to blow us in to the void. It was a wind that demanded manners and el Editor learnt the wet way that discretion was not enough to escape its wrath. Maybe it was a primal, territory-marking thing, or perhaps he just needed to go, but his attempt to heed the call of nature behind a boulder during a perfect storm whirlwind was never going to end happily. Soggy-trousered we – okay, mostly me – chuckled at the perils of pissing on windswept peaks and surveyed the country before us.

  From the vantage of the summit David’s words were writ large across the landscape. Belstead and the Razorback might not be far for crows, but it was bloody obvious the ridges would not provide a path for bipeds. The broken high ground of the granite massifs looked as inviting as a prostate exam. The valleys it was.

  Immediately the scrub became clingy. It closed in and tore at our clothes. We bashed our way in to the gully that skirted the backside of Strzelecki, heading for an imposing boulder field. Progress through the rocks, some as big as cars, was slow.

  The surrounding bush looked ominous, but the creek was taking us the wrong way (stupid creek). To reach the next valley, we’d have to leave this liquid safety line and make a beeline over a ridge. With a deep breath we charged in. And by ‘charge’, I mean ‘crawl’.

  Sword grass is the worst. Walls of the stuff fenced us in every direction. Progress was by inches and even then only possible through the adoption of a classic Pythonesque, goose stepping, Ministry of Silly Walks–style of gait. Kick, kick, kick, turn around, jump backwards to squash sword grass with pack, repeat and change fatigued leader every five minutes.

  Freed of the ‘restrictions’ of compass or GPS (left safely back in Outer Edge Towers, where they couldn’t be lost or damaged), we used the features of the topo and the Bruce Lee–inspired feeeel model of navigation. Barely visible over the sword grass we could just make out distant treetops, and slogged from one to the next. It was the kind of walking that’s hard enough to force the most trite platitudes from your lips:

  “Mate, you can’t change your circumstances, only your mindset!” Inane pop psychology via Me!

  “When you hit a wall of sword grass you just have to go from tree to tree – like marriage. Sort of.” Marriage counselling a la el Editor!

  “Well I guess I’ve gotta learn not to trust Google Earth.” El Editor.
  “Yeah, maybe, or you could learn how to read it properly.” Me.

  Fine cracks were appearing in our team spirit.

AT THE RIDGE, THINGS IMPROVED. SLIGHTLY. We took a good bearing then surfed the sword grass downhill, bravely risking death by a thousand floral cuts in the name of exploration. The land’s contours pushed us farther right than we would have liked and the passage was half-battle, half-acceptance of the line it wanted us to take. With bloodied hands we made it to a damp creek lined by huge man ferns. It was about 5.30, rain was falling, mist was gathering.

  Visions of the mythical ‘green grass patch’ steeled tired legs and, after some map consultation and associated beard stroking, we chose the stream we thought would deliver us to the saddle. Twenty minutes uphill and the seeds of doubt bloomed in to full-blown ‘I-don’t-think-we-are-where-we-think-we-are’ flowers. It seemed we were up the wrong creek (without a paddle). Shit. We decided to back track and check the features on the valley floor to make sure.

  A quick scout confirmed we had in fact been on course, so off we set, back up the same stream. This yo-yo manoeuvrer cost time but with the promise of grass to spread the tent on we made a final, exhausting push. Given the lay of the land – which lay neither flat, open nor grassy anywhere else – it seemed like a unicorn hunt. Thoughts come in snippets: ‘tired’, ‘trudged for 11 hours’, ‘fought tearing scrub’, ‘fog rolling in’, ‘visibility disappearing’, ‘where are we?’ And then: ‘Is that a cave?’

  El Editor spied it. A big rock propped up so that the sloping ground underneath was as dry as Elliot Goblet. We slunk out of wet clothes, removed all the feasting, fat leeches, slipped into something more comfortable and put water to boiling. There is a bond that builds between two men who huddle under a cold rock in the rain and check each other’s arses for leeches. Not quite a Brokeback Mountain bond…but a bond nonetheless.

  The rain was persistent but our cave was perfect and food makes everything better (except obesity). With bellies full of sweet carbs we entertained each other with tall tales and true of adventures and days gone by, then hunkered down.

  The weather had closed in fully by dawn, and there was nothing to do but lounge in the cave experimenting with various methods for brewing coffee. At 11 the fog lifted enough for us to take in our surroundings. We stood atop of our rocky cave and spied the incongruous grassy knoll – wide, flat and grassy – 20 metres above us, the summit of Belstead just behind it. Oh the hilarity. At least we knew where we were.

OUR GREAT RAZORBACK TRAVERSE plan was dashed. We knew it now. The Razorback looked a long, long way off. Thoughts of making it and getting out in half a day were folly. Seldom have I have considered the philosophies of Meatloaf either sage or relevant, but when I found myself humming Two out of Three Ain’t Bad, it was time to accept facts. We recalibrated the notions of success and failure and made a bolt for the summit of Belstead.

  In keeping with the trip’s theme, although it was no more than a couple of hundred metres to the top, it was no gimme. We wound around the summit looking for a way to breach the steep, boulder-strewn scrub. Giddy like little kids, primed with caffeine and racing the weather, we hurried. Not once did I think to stop and take stock of our path. Idiot. Teased by a couple of false summits we eventually cracked it and had a few seconds of clearish air to take just a hint of what is claimed to be the ‘best coastal view in Australia’ before visibility was again swallowed by grey soup.

  Getting up wasn’t too bad; getting off, though, that made me nervous. We squeezed between rocks, grappled trees and slid down gullies, all the while paranoid about dropping off a precipice. A tiny porthole in the cloud allowed us to reorient against the grassy saddle and head for the ridgeline.

  Back at our packs we had a choice: both sides of the saddle held a watercourse that led out of the park. One side had been travelled by others, one hadn’t. We settled on the unknown quantity. According to the map, the only obstacle was a very steep section right at the park’s edge, which apparently held some kind of waterfall, or something.

  Buoyed by getting Belstead we broke our cave-camp and slid, fell, and tripped our way down to the valley floor. The walking along the creek was stunning. Huge man ferns stretched up towards the light from between mossy boulders, and the forest litter was soft under foot. As the ground flattened, the foliage thickened and the creek grew wider. We hopped from side to side, following the barer patches of destruction brought by wild pigs. If ever there was a justification for ‘pigging’, the shredded state of the ground round here was it. Damn you swine!

  Gradually the creek began to tumble over small falls and part of me thought these were it. After all, how big could this waterfall really be? Last words are always famous, and the more stupid the more famous. All of a sudden we broke dramatically out of the thick scrub right on the edge of a cliff – an impressive cliff that stretched out in both directions.

  We had to backtrack and head for a more hospitable ridgeline. Still there were a few cliff bands to skirt and the park made us work right to the last step. Finally free of the steeps the tee tree was so thick that at times I couldn’t squeeze between the trunks and plopped to the ground in despair. Eventually we prised ourselves out of its clutches and staggered right into The Last Place on Earth.

  We were on the property of Dave Tresemer, who firmly believes the Mayans were right and we have about a year left before the Universe reaches its expiry date. And, according to his calculations, Flinders Island will be the last place on Earth to succumb to whatever disaster will herald End Times. It seemed fitting that this was where we emerged, stinking and filthy, back into civilisation.

  Unwinding that night in the convivial environs of our accommodation, we partook a few celebratory ales with the proprietors Ken and Carolyn. Island people are a fascinating breed, and sitting with any of the Flindonians for five minutes is enough to fire your imagination into overdrive as their life stories unravel. Ken – master chef, skier extraordinaire, pilot, world record–holding fisherman – was in Lima sometime in the 1970s and was supposed to board a plane bound for Cuzco. There was a bit of a fracas over some carpets he had with him and in the hullabaloo he missed the plane. That plane fell out of the air, killing everyone on board as it ploughed into the Andes.

  Now, every day when his eyes open, he has the same beautiful realisation: “I’m not dead.” Blessed with a second life he did what we all would probably do: as clichéd as it is, he vowed to make the most out of every day.

  Looking back at Strzelecki National Park – while picking the most persistent leeches from my nether regions – I figure this isn’t a bad place to do just that.

FLINDERS ISLAND FORAY
General info: visitflindersisland.com.au
Get there: flights direct from Launceston and Melbourne (Essendon Airport) on Sharp Airlines /  1300 55 66 94 / sharpairlines.com.au
Get around: there is no public transport. Hire a car from Justin and Rowena Nicholls at Flinders Island Car Rentals. 03 6359 2168 / flindersisrental@dragnet.com.au / visitflindersisland.com.au
Stay: Vistas on Trousers Point (including Chapell’s Fine Dining Restaurant). Sensational hospitality, views to die for and some of the best culinary treats in Australia, let alone on Flinders Island. Try the wallaby. Trust us.
03 6359 4586 / kenstockton@bigpond.com.au / vistasontrouserspoint.com.au
Maps: For Strzelecki , Loccata 5754 and Fisher 5954 (1:25,000).
For a rest-of-island overview, Flinders Island 8517 (1:100,000).

TOP 5 FLINDERS ISLAND ADVENTURES

Mountain Biking
Flinders Island could, with a bit of route finding, be a mountain biking goldmine with its mix of coastal, scrub, firetrail and high mountain paths ripe for the riding. We scouted a few high lines along the island’s mountain spine, which on the topo map is snaked with appealing trails, mostly rarely used dirt roads but also intermittent stretches of the Flinders Trail, an unofficial walking route that alternates between single track, roads and pure beach and cliff navigation along the water’s edge. Local motorcyclists know some hidden gems – buy a few rounds in the Interstate Pub in Whitemark and you may hear some secrets. Otherwise, grab some maps and go exploring. Best areas are around the Mt Leventhorpe, Walkers Lookout, Lucks Hill and Badger Hill peaks. Cape Frankland – taking in The Paps, Mount Tanner and around to Killiecrankie – has potential, and further north around Palana and Qoin Hill is worth a shot.
NB: mountain biking is not allowed in Strzelecki NP. It would, on our judgement, be impossible anyway.

Climbing
Outer Edge was lucky enough to be hosted by Deputy Mayor and chief water taxi captain, Michael Grimshaw, who zipped us aboard his Ferrai-esque red boat from the magical Killiecrankie Bay to explore the “world class” climbing on offer around Old Man’s Head and the Docks. The climbing here is, as online oracle Chockstone.org describes it: “Similar to Arapiles in its feel. The cliffs are over 100 metres high and set back a few hundred metres from the sea, and the rock is perfect polished granite providing every conceivable type of climbing, mainly on natural gear.” The climbing is well known known enough to be included in Bob McMahon and Gerry Narkowicz’s guide Climb Northern Tasmania, and legendary tales of local climber’s feats abound (rumour has it that the diehards who love this spot have actually buried their gear in barrels somewhere, so whenever they visit for a session, they don’t have to lug it all in). There’s a great climber’s camp at the base of the Main Wall (BYO water). With local sci-fi author and climber David Freer up for guiding us (he opened many routes near Morgan’s Bay in the Eastern Cape of South Africa), we took on a leisurely grade 17 called Armageddon, beginning in Don’t Knock the Rock cave. Surrounding us was a looming wall over 100 metres high, pitted with routes of varying difficulties. Around the headland there are plenty more on offer, too. You could, as David says, climb here for the rest of your life. Which is exactly what he intends to do. Mick’s mayoral duties may keep him from ferrying you over when you get there, but there is a walking track in from Killiecrankie.

Trekking
There is a broken route, the Flinders Trail, which traces both coastal and inland mountain spine sections from the north to the south, although at present it seems a bit ad hoc. With some waymarking this could develop into one of Australia’s key multiday routes, especially for walkers who appreciate the knowledge that although it may feel like you’re miles from anywhere, you’re actually never far from civilisation. But until the trail gets some signage, you’ll have to enjoy the freedom of freelancing it a bit, linking up your own sections. You could also just traipse the entire west coast (see ‘Walking the Straight and Narrow’, Wild magazine, Edition 119), a multiday adventure that takes in Flinders’ most diverse coastline. Or, get right off the beaten track and make the hop across to Lady Barren Island, which features mountains just as impressive – if not as high – as Strzelecki, and has a patchwork of trails in the east and north of the island. Or go off piste and make up your route as you go, but first get permission from the traditional owners through the local Aboriginal association in Whitemark. Rumour has it that the Crystal Lagoon in the southeast – which is untracked country – is a killer camping spot.

Sea Kayaking
Flinders and the Furneaux archipelago are, of course, well known to Bass Strait paddlers, but if you’re not up for that massive undertaking, you could just make your way to Flinders Island with a kayak and explore. On offer are some of the best beaches in the world, bum-clenching cliff stretches, transparent bays and “damn, I never want to leave” sunsets. The west coast is the preferred option with all its contrasts (the east being one long surf beach and not as interesting to paddle down). Having said that, no one has ever circumnavigated the island in one go. Watch the weather, but also keep a close eye on the tidal charts as this is big-tide territory (as former Tasmania Premier Michael Field learnt in 2009, when he had to be rescued late at night, capsized, off Flinders, when tides swept him out into open ocean). There are plenty of safe harbours to wait out bad weather, and you can always hitch into Whitemark for a beer at the Interstate. Beginners will need a guide; more skilled paddlers can explore Flinders’ many smaller islands. Watch the tiger snakes on Mt Chappell Island – they are reputedly the biggest in the world

Scuba
Yes it’s a mite colder than Ningaloo or the Barrier Reef, but it’s just as good in its own southerly way. There’s a plethora of wrecks dotted around Flinders Islands’ waters – over 100 in fact, some yet to be ‘discovered’. There are also reef, cave, scenic, drift, cray and abalone dives (the last two strictly seasonal), all benefiting from little or no commercial pressures. Water temperature is around 20ºC in summer, with excellent visibility (12–30 metres) and depths up to 35 metres plus. Historic shipwrecks such as the Sydney Cove and the Cambridgeshire are popular – a relative term, given the few divers who actually venture here. One of Australia’s oldest shipwrecks, the Sydney Cove was lost off Preservation Island in 1797 and is a shallow dive at only four metres on a sandy bottom. It’s rarely dived and a permit is required, but over the years maritime archaeologists have recovered interesting artefacts from the wreck – a lot still remains scattered on the seabed. The Cambridgeshire, lost off Preservation Island in 1875 and now laying in 10 metres, can only be dived in calm seas. The best time to dive is between January and April, after which time it gets rather cool.

WIN AN ADVENTURE WEEKEND ON FLINDERS!
These are our top five Flinders moments for island hopping adrenaline hounds. What are yours? Tell us, in 100 words or under, what your top weekend on Australia’s most adventurous island would involve, and you will go in the running to win a three-day trip for two adults over to Flinders Island. For inspiration and more information about what this awesome island has to offer, go to: visitflindersisland.com.au.
This fantastic Prize includes: Return flights from Essendon (or Launceston) airport to Flinders Island, accommodation and an explorer 4WD day tour with Flinders Island Adventures.
Your weekend might involve elements of activities we’ve already touched on here, or you could take it to a whole new level. Let your imagination loose and get those creative juices flowing.
Email entries to competition@outer-edge.com.au before 31 January 2011 to be eligible. See outer-edge.com.au for more details and the terms and conditions.